Spike was pacing in the living room when Willow and Tara came home.
 
“You’re late.”
 
“Sorry,” Tara said. “Class ran over. Dawnie in bed already?”
 
Spike nodded. “’M off, then.” He moved towards the door.
 
“Oh, hey, Spike!” Willow called. “Take the Buffy-bot out with you tonight?”
 
Spike flinched. “Already?”
 
“She only got a little broken last time. It’s been two weeks.”
 
Two weeks of bloody heaven.
 
“Fine,” he sighed and stomped upstairs, sounding remarkably like Dawn.
 
He opened the door to Buffy’s room, where the bot lay on the bed. As he leaned over to unplug her from the charger, she reached up and caressed his face. “Hi Spike! I missed you.”
 
He jerked away, bellowing “She’s not fuckin’ fixed, Willow!”
 
“What? Is she doing that twitchy stutter-y thing again?”
 
Spike sighed as the bot trailed him downstairs. “You said you got all … that … out of her programming,” he said softly.
 
Willow cringed. “Sorry? I’ll take a look tomorrow.”
 
“Thank you,” Spike growled.
 
“Try not to let her get electrocuted again!” Tara called out after them as they left.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“You’re telling me there’s no Slayer in Sunnydale?”
 
“Nowhere like the Hellmouth for a party.”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Willow whispered the incantation over Dawn’s sleeping form. Her eyes fluttered open, but remained blank and unfocussed.
 
“Okay, Dawnie, put on your shoes and a coat. We’re gonna go for a little walk.”
 
Dawn did as she was told, and followed Willow out of her room and downstairs.
 
“Are you sure this is safe, Will?”
 
“Oh yeah, safe as – safe things. Besides, what other choice do we have? Spike’s out patrolling. He’d be suspicious if we asked him to stay in, and we can’t leave her alone at night. We have to bring her with us.”
 
“I guess.”
 
“She’ll be doing everything we’re doing. Only sleeping.”
 
“You don’t think she should be awake for this?”
 
“We agreed not to tell her, what with the whole almost-raising-Joyce-from-the-dead-thing. Too traumatic.”
 
“I remember! It just seems … wrong.”
 
“Bringing Buffy back is wrong! It’s against all the laws of nature and practically impossible, but it’s what we agreed to do. No turning back now.” Willow looked away and shivered a little.
 
“You didn’t have to … do anything, did you Sweetie? To make this work?”
 
“Oh no, Baby, of course not,” Willow lied.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“Let’s ride.”
 
And the hellions saddled up, and headed for Sunnydale.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
At the stroke of midnight, the Scoobies and Dawn were seated in a circle at the foot of the tower, each holding a burning candle.
 
“Osiris, keeper of the gate, master of all fate, hear us.” Willow dipped a finger in the urn where it lay to her side, and stroked the mixture over her forehead and cheeks. Dipping in again, she traced a symbol on the ground then poured the contents of the urn over the symbol. “Before time and after, before knowing and nothing. Accept our offering.” Deep slashes appeared along Willow’s arms and her blood dropped onto the already wet ground. The Scoobies gasped. “Know our prayer.” It came out of Willow’s mouth, but it wasn’t her voice anymore.
 
“It’s okay,” Tara whispered. “She warned me this would happen. She’s being tested.”
 
“Osiris! Let her cross over!”
 
The Scoobies could hear chittering all around them, like a bad ‘80s horror film, only … actually frightening instead of funny. Willow’s eyes were glowing green, and there were things crawling under her skin. She started shaking, then spasming. She rocked forward onto all fours and started making choking, retching sounds.
 
Had they not all been completely focussed on Willow’s obvious distress, they would have heard motorcycles revving in the distance.
 
Three scarab beetles crawled out of her mouth, scurrying over her face until they came to the marks she’d made. They dug into her skin, and more of Willow’s blood fell.
 
Suddenly, with a great diesel roar, a hellion on a motorcycle drove straight through their circle, smashing the urn, and blowing out most of the candles.
 
There was a pop of total silence, and all of the magic that had been building suddenly disappeared. “No!” screamed Willow. Then, as if someone cut her strings, she dropped unconscious to the ground.
 
As Willow fell, Dawn woke up. Disoriented and confused, she was also inches away from a hellion drawing back to punch her.
 
“Dawnie!” Xander shouted, and shoved her out of the way, catching a hit that dislocated his shoulder.
 
“I think we need to run now!” Anya screeched. We are all going to die.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy’s eyes snapped open and she shuddered through a whole body spasm. Pain screamed through her as muscles and flesh filled out and moisture returned to her papery skin. The agony of oxygen flooding her system was incandescent. Everything was straining and tearing and re-growing and So. Much. Pain. Every nerve ending was white-hot fire. She was screaming, not even aware she was doing it, and then suddenly the torture was over, leaving behind a dull ache. Her body was whole again. Resurrected.
 
And trapped in a coffin under six feet of dirt.
 
Adrenaline flooded her system. No air. Her instincts were screaming that she wasn’t safe, that she needed to escape. Survival was the only thing that mattered.
 
Crying with terror, she started punching at the coffin lid. Her movements were controlled, efficient, even while her mind continued to scream. When she finally broke through, dirt threatened to suffocate her. Scrabbling, sobbing, she pushed and pulled and grabbed and fought her way through the soil that was invading her nose and throat and lungs.
 
The Slayer took over, allowing her mind – her humanity – to retreat somewhere deep inside where there was no more pain and no more fear. Her muscle memories remained intact. Her body knew how to fight, how to survive.
 
When her head and shoulders finally broke the surface, after what felt like an eternity of struggling, she was inches away from a fledgling vampire, as fresh from the grave as she was.
 
“Slayer? It really is my birthday!”
 
Her skin remembered the feeling of wood, and she grasped a shard of coffin in her fist and plunged it into the vampire’s heart. Both her legs were still trapped.
 
She pulled herself out, coming to all fours to vomit up what she’d swallowed in her escape.
 
She felt lightheaded and shaky when she stood. For all her magical resurrection, she was in shock, oxygen-starved and dehydrated.
 
She staggered away from her disturbed grave, instinct driving her away from the cemetery and towards the town. On her way, she took out more fledglings. Still flooded with adrenaline, rage was beginning to overtake her terror.
 
Then she found the hellions.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Spike ran towards the smell of flames and the sounds of motorcycles.
 
Hellions. His heart dropped into his stomach. They know the Slayer’s dead.
 
Then he could hear screams. Guess they’ve found the soddin’ bot. As he rounded a corner, he thought he smelled something familiar. Almost like... Buffy? Shaking it off as a side effect of keeping the bot in her room, he kept running towards the fight, wishing he had brought a weapon out with him tonight. Even an extra foot of reach would make things easier against a demon on a motorcycle. He grabbed a section of drainpipe off a wall as he passed. It would bend like butter, but was better than nothing.
 
He saw her flowing effortlessly through the throng of bikers from hell, ducking and weaving through punches, kicks, and flying weapons. Blood spurted into the air as she ripped out a throat with her bare hand. She managed to avoid being soaked by throwing herself away and into a spin kick, sending another demon flying through the bloody air, past Spike and crunching into a wall.
 
She was grunting with effort as she fought, but there were no quips. Odd. The bot usually wouldn't shut up when it was fighting. Maybe Red really can change the programming. As he jumped into the fray, knocking a hellion off his bike with the drainpipe, Spike was puzzled by the bot's ... efficiency. Every movement was clean and minimal and perfect. Then the wind shifted, and he could smell her.
 
It wasn't the bot.
 
Before Spike could draw breath, something connected with his temple and everything went black.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
With supernaturally good timing, the Buffy-bot had arrived at the tower almost immediately after the hellions. Once the bikers saw her, they ignored the Scoobies for precious seconds, and they were able to run away without further injury.
 
“Magic Box?” panted Xander.
 
“There are weapons there,” answered Tara.
 
“Oh my God,” Anya whispered. “Do you think there might be looting? I couldn’t stand it if they damaged my store!”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy's whole world had narrowed to her next move. Twist. Kick. Spin. Duck. Punch. Fight. Fight. Fight. Kill. She could feel her skin getting slick from the blood, her increasingly sticky clothes just beginning to hinder movement. Her muscles were starting to complain, her movements losing their sharpness. Tired. She was favouring her left knee, and at least one finger in her right hand was broken.
 
Spike opened his eyes. He hadn't been unconscious for long, but he'd already caught at least one foot to the chest. Definitely broken somethin’. He caught her scent again. Buffy. His head ached and spots of light were appearing in his peripheral vision. He sat up, just in time to see her take down the last of the hellions. Bodies littered the road in a scene of carnage worthy of a demon. She turned, slowly, towards him. Her eyes were empty.
 
"Vampire." Her voice was rasping, animal.
 
She made what should have been a leap forwards, but it ended up more a lurch because of her injured knee. Spike was still staring at her, utterly incapable of thought or movement.
 
"Buffy," he breathed out, just as her fist connected with his jaw. Ears ringing, he came out of his trance, and started moving to protect himself.
 
She wasn't pulling her punches. She really didn't want to kill me before, Spike thought, awed. I'd be dust righ’ now if she had a stake. No question. Even injured, she was so much stronger than him.
 
Alive. Beautiful.
 
But for all her strength and efficiency of movement, she wasn't thinking. Once Spike realised she was running on reflexes and adrenaline, it became easier to anticipate her movements and keep out of her way. They were both moving beyond human speed: Buffy attacking, Spike keeping himself a split second out of reach. She got past him a few times, though, and when he felt his cheekbone shatter, he knew he had to end the fight soon. He'd have no chance with only one working eye.
 
He twisted out of her immediate range, and concentrated on blending in with the shadows. He disappeared into vampire stillness just long enough to force her to switch from using her eyes to using her Slayer senses to find him again. That break in her concentration gave him the space to bring her to the ground in a flying tackle, pinning her body with his, wrapping his arms and legs around hers, and tucking his head under her chin to keep it safe. 
 
He couldn't hurt her like this - it was a restraining hold - so he was only a little surprised that his chip didn't fire. She bucked under him, trying to get free, but his grip was sure and certain. He'd spent too many years dealing with Dru not to have perfected the art of restraint. He could hear Buffy's heart speeding up and her breathing get ragged and haphazard.
 
"Buffy. Buffy, Love, I'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, nuzzling her skin with his uninjured cheek, wanting to roll in her scent, tantalising beneath the heavy stench of demon blood.
 
With his weight now settled on her chest, and unable to free her arms or legs, a scream started to build inside her, bubbling up through her lungs but strangled before it reached her throat. Her eyes were screwed shut, her jaw tight to keep it in. Her whole body was shaking with the effort to breathe. The bucking stopped and her whole body went rigid.
 
"No air," she ground out between clenched teeth.
 
Spike lifted his head to look at her face. Remarkably free of blood spatter, it was streaked with dirt and tears. He could only think of one reason she'd be covered with dirt ... and suffocating.
 
Oh no. No. Not that. Not ... diggin’ her way out? No.
 
Spike tamped down a sob before it could reach his throat. He tried to stroke her with his fingertips, desperate to comfort her, but knowing that if he loosened his hold now, she'd go straight back to trying to kill him.
 
"Buffy, Sweetheart, you're safe now. You can breathe. Look up, Love, stars and sky, no more coffin. You're safe." Spike started taking deep, even breaths, trying to encourage her to breathe with him.
 
After eternal seconds, Spike saw Buffy starting to unclench, her breathing falling into the rhythm he was setting. Just as he was considering letting her go, her eyes flew open and her heart rate jumped again.
 
"Vampire."
 
Spike stared at her mouth, not wanting to see his death in her eyes. "Yes, Love. 'M a vampire. But you treat me like a man. Could never harm you. Love you too much."
 
He looked up. There was a frozen moment when their eyes locked. The Slayer stared into Spike's eyes, while he searched desperately for the woman, for Buffy, silently begging her to remember him, to come back to him.
 
"Love?" The ghost of Buffy whispered through the Slayer's question.
 
"Love you, Buffy. So much. So much. God, you're alive! Never have and never will see anythin' so beautiful." He blinked back the tears he'd stopped being able to keep away, and gently caressed her with his cheek before meeting her eyes again.
 
Something glimmered there, a faint trace of recognition.
 
"Stupid vampire."
 
Spike's stomach dropped. "Buffy? Are you there, pet?"
 
She scrunched up her face in a moue of distaste and confusion, a movement so familiar it hurt to see.
 
Then she put everything she had into breaking his hold.
 
It would have worked on anyone else, but a century of dealing with Dru's crazy mood swings meant his grip didn't relax or slacken with his emotions anymore.
 
"Buffy! Please, Love. Stop struggling. You're not going to be free until I let you go."
 
Her eyes flattened, and she fought even harder. Every Slayer instinct she had was screaming at her that if she stopped fighting now she would die. Survive.
 
Spike was scrambling to think of something that might calm her. 
 
Singin'? She only likes those god-awful boy bands. But I'm sure I heard somewhere it's tone of voice tha's important.... Maybe that was coma patients.
 
Buggerin' fuck I have no idea what to do.
 
"Buffy. Buffy please, Sweetheart, you have to calm down. 'S okay. It's all okay. You're safe. You can stop fighting now."
 
She kept bucking. Then she started growling.
 
Maybe if I treat her more like a demon? Slayers are made outta demon essence....
 
Keeping his human face, Spike grabbed onto the flesh just over her pulse point with his teeth.
 
"Yield," he growled.
 
Buffy went completely still.
 
He bit down harder, desperate to avoid breaking the skin. As it was, the scent of her blood was already in the air and it was driving him crazy. He could feel every pulsing beat of her heart reverberating throughout his body.
 
"Do you yield?" Please, Sweetheart. Please just do this for me.
 
"Yes," she whispered. Then her body went limp as the adrenaline finally stopped pumping. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she passed out.
 
In his relief, Spike didn't notice his chip still hadn't fired.
 
Spike gently eased off Buffy's now-relaxed body. "C'mon, Love. Let's get you home." He picked her up in a cradle carry, her head nestled against his neck. "You're alive," he whispered, touching his cheek to her forehead and breathing in her scent in great gulps. He had to force himself to watch where he was going. All he wanted to do was look at her. But she needed to be home, and to get patched up.
 
Spike was trying very, very hard not to think about her mental state.
 
Or quite how much pain he was in. Can't have broken every bloody rib, can I?
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The Scoobies arrived at the scene of Buffy’s killing spree not long after Spike left.
 
“I’d say it’s all gone a bit apocalyptic, but … your standard Sunnydale apocalypse normally has way less property damage,” Xander quipped.
 
“Who did this?” Tara asked. “We left the Buffy-bot back there, right?”
 
“Spike, I guess,” Xander said. “He was out patrolling tonight, and the whole carnage thing, it’s kinda his deal.”
 
“Does it matter?” Anya asked. “They’re all dead and we’re all alive.”
 
“Can we rest for a minute?” Tara asked. She and Anya gently laid Willow down.
 
“Is anyone ever going to give me an explanation for how I even got here?” Dawn asked. Then, falteringly, “I mean, we’re safe now, right? I can be mad?”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy woke up when they were halfway home. But before Spike could react, she'd grabbed hold of his throat with her teeth and was growling, "Yield."
 
Spike nearly came in his jeans. What you do to me, woman! He stopped walking.
 
"That's more foreplay than threat, Love. 'Fraid I'm still in charge." He could feel his skin pulling against her teeth as he spoke. God, Buffy.
 
Buffy let go, relaxing back into his arms.
 
"Understood that, did you? Good." Spike laid his cheek against the top of her head. "I jus’ wanna help you, Love. Let me take care of you."
 
"Safe," she whispered.
 
"Tha's right, pet. Safe as houses."
 
Safe. Loved. Words were starting to come back, but it was all still muzzy. She knew she didn’t need to fight to survive right now, and that was enough.
 
Buffy stayed relaxed the rest of the way back. Once they’d negotiated the front door, he set her down on the sofa, and got the first aid box from the kitchen.
 
"Right then, let's have a look at you. Hands?"
 
When Buffy made no response, Spike gently took her hands in his, kissing them lightly before laying them palm down on her lap. Her fingernails were almost all gone, bent back and ripped out, and she had broken fingers on both hands. Spike got out the squirt bottle of distilled water he usually used and gently cleaned out the blood and dirt. Then he reached for the antiseptic that had lain unused in the box for months.
 
"This is gonna hurt, Love. I'm sorry."
 
Buffy grimaced, but didn't make a sound while he brushed the antiseptic over her raw skin and bandaged her fingertips.
 
"I need to reset your fingers now. Tha's gonna hurt more." She held his gaze as he set and wrapped her fingers. Both of them had tears in their eyes by the time he was done.
 
"Now I know somethin's up with your knee. But I reckon you'll want to be gettin' clean ‘fore we do anythin’ else. What say we get you into a bath, yeah?"
 
No longer expecting a response, Spike scooped her up off the couch and carried her upstairs. Setting her down on the closed toilet seat, he started running the bath.
 
When it was ready, he hung a set of clean pyjamas on the towel rack, and left her sitting in the bathroom, desperately hoping she knew what to do. Then he sat down with his back against the bathroom door, and listened to her moving. Heard her clothes drop to the floor, and soft splashing as she slipped into the bath.
 
He cried. With relief and agony and love. And hatred for whoever did this to his beautiful, beautiful Slayer.