Author’s Note: A couple of notes on Buffy’s lack of survival skills in extreme cold weather environments—yeah, she’s from California and has NO clue what to do. Lucky her, she’s got a little magic on her side, her Slayer healing, and there may be a little PTB intervention going on since she passed all their challenges.

In other words… shhhh, I’m handwaving a few things. Pretend it makes sense.

What? It’s not like Joss never handwaved explanations on the show. ;)


Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae and Science

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Chapter 61
Burdens

Oh.

God.

He's...

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, and try to ignore the way my heart clenches tight at the vision in front of me. Tears sting at my eyes, and freeze as they start to trickle down my face. His hands are encased in a huge icicle, and the rest of his body dangles brokenly beneath, several feet off the floor. He's thin... so thin that the muscles and bones seem to be pushing against his skin. Every part of him I can see is bruised and bloody. His chest is covered in cuts and welts, and his ribs are so bruised they look as though he's been painted in shades of red, blue, green and yellow, with livid fresh purple and black all over. There doesn't seem to be an inch of unmarked flesh. Even his arms and throat are battered.

How is he not dust? How can anyone, anything, have gone through this much of a beating and survived?

A memory pops up in my head. Learn to like pain, means you're alive.

I swallow hard.

When I glance back at his face, his eyes are still focused on me. I should be invisible, though, right? I know I triggered the spell. But he tracks my movements as I approach, his golden eyes focused unwaveringly on mine.

He's in vamp face, but even so it's clear that he's been beaten. The sharp ridges of his brow and cheekbones are as black and blue as the rest of him. His lips are tattered and blood drips down his chin from the cuts and from his nose. Both eyes are slightly swollen, but not to the point where he can't see, at least. A nasty gash runs the length of one sharp cheekbone and dark blood paints that side of his face. His hair has grown out some, since I last saw him, and a good half-inch of dark roots shows under the bleached, bloody and matted curls.

His eyes narrow at the sight of me, but he doesn't speak. Instead he growls softly. There is something in his eyes nearly as feral as Angel's after he returned from hell.

"Spike," I whisper, hoping he can hear me. "Spike, I've come to take you home."

He growls again. Okay. Maybe that spell she'd put on him is still in effect and he can't talk. "I'm going to try to find something to cut you down," I tell him. Enchanted or not, I don't think my sword is going to cut through that ice. I need something long and heavy to reach.

Then I realize what else the room contains. Somehow, I'd been so riveted on seeing him again, and the extent of his injuries, that I hadn't noticed that the room was a torture chamber. Chains, manacles, whips, swords and knives of every size and description, instruments that I can't even begin to imagine what they were used for, racks and tables covered in blood... it's like a sadist's dream come true and Spike is its showpiece.

Swallowing the bile that rises up at the sight, I start to search. I talk to him softly the whole time, hoping to see some recognition in his eyes. "You wouldn't believe the journey I went through to get here," I murmur, my voice hoarse. "When we're out of here, I'll have to tell you the whole thing. We're going to get out of here, you know. Whistler—you don't know him, but he's this demon guy who works for the PTB?—anyway, he showed me how to find you and then they did this spell...and... and I came after you. I read your journal, Spike. Just like I promised...Ugh. Why is it with all this junk in here there's not anything long enough to get you down?" Frustrated, I turn back.

He's still staring at me through gold eyes, tracking my every move almost hungrily.

Okay. Feral. I've done this before.

Only Spike is a lot stronger than Angel.

Not going to think about that. Just going to focus on the problem at hand. How to get him down?

I come to stand in front of him and stare up at the ice around his fists. Maybe I could punch through it? He's dangling so that my head is level with his abdomen. This close I can count the cuts and puncture wounds that mar his skin. I look up into his face again. He's studying me with his head slightly cocked to one side, gold eyes gleaming. I peer closer.

He's biting his own lips.

His fangs are sunk through his lower lip, biting it bloody and shredding it at the corners where the canines are. The damage done to his mouth he's doing on his own.

"Spike... it's okay," I tell him. "You can talk. Stop biting yourself, please. Please. Spike, talk to me." No response. I reach out a hand and touch his stomach, as gently as I can. He doesn't even wince. "Spike..."

He growls low, warningly, and his head whips up to stare at the door.

Someone's coming.

Crap.

I glance around, but the only place to hide is under one of the tables containing torture stuff. I grab the pendant as I dive under it, whispering "Hide" again just in case it didn't work the last time or wore off or something. The stone floor under the table is dusty and thick with dried bloodstains, but it's shadowy enough that hopefully no one will see me.

The door swings open silently. I wouldn't have heard it, if not for Spike's warning.

"Hello, darling," Louhi says, drifting into the room.

Spike snarls.

"Have you missed me? I've missed you terribly," she says, her voice a cold mockery of sweetness, like Cordelia trying to be nice. It doesn't suit her at all. She moves in front of him, right where I was standing a moment ago, then lays her hand on his stomach. When he doesn't react, she slashes at his side, her long nails leaving bloody gashes.

He doesn't cry out at all. Just stares at her impassively.

She pouts, disappointed. "Not even a groan, this time?" she asks. Spike growls. She sulks. "I think I taught you too well," she says. "It's very childish, giving me the silent treatment. After all I've done for you? Rescued you from that half existence you were living... You'd think you'd be a little more grateful, my darling. The least you could do is eat. You're barely healing, my love. How am I supposed to inflict more beautiful wounds on you when you refuse to heal the old ones?" She digs at a cut on his chest, but he doesn't even flinch. Frustrated, she turns away. There's a scuffling sound from the open doorway.

"I've brought you a treat," she says, then gestures at the door. Two of the ugly little elf things that Spike and I fought before, in the graveyard, come in hauling a man between them. He's no one I know, and he's not even conscious. Still, I have to check my impulse to jump out and start fighting. I can't. Not while Louhi is here, watching. Stuck, I sit on my hands and wait.

"Is that the best you could do?" she asks the evil elves.

"He was sleeping on a park bench," one of them says.

"Drunk," the other says. "You said to be quick."

She sighs. "It'll do," she says. They haul him over to a nearby table and dump him on top of it. Louhi picks up a silver cup off of another table, then approaches the homeless guy. He's bruised and bloody, but nowhere near as battered as Spike. Still, I don't think he can take much more.

Louhi moves faster than I expect. One minute the homeless man is merely unconscious, the next he's dead. She slits his throat with one of her long nails, then tilts his head so that his blood pours out into the cup she's holding. I choke back my instinct to cry out, and sit harder on my hands. I can’t fight her right now, it would be suicide and Spike’s counting on me to get him out of here.

"Not even a twinge," she says with a scowl. "I'm hungry and no one will feed me." This last is to Spike, and is practically a whine. "Do you know what it's like? Having food right there, in front of you? Delicious and sweet and all yours for the taking? But something holds you back. Something keeps you from feasting, from growing strong, from being all you can be. Do you know what that's like, my love?"

She drifts over to him, rising slightly so that they're level with one another. She holds the cup of blood just out of his reach.

"Of course, you do," she says, with a nasty grin. "But I've been so generous to you. I've removed your leash. Awful little plastic thing... it's all gone and you're free now. Free to feast as much as you'd like. I could have left it in, you know. Could have made you fight off humans all day, and fed off your pain that way. There wouldn't be any way you could stop me. But instead I gave you this wonderful gift... and what do I get in return? Nothing! Nothing but your sulking, rude, childish silence. Your refusal to beg. Your nasty, awful demon."

She slaps him. Spike just tilts his head and glares at her out of yellow eyes. She glares right back, then caresses the side of his cheek. My fists hurt, I'm clenching them so tight.

"Where's the sweet William that I fell in love with? Hmm?" she murmurs. "That sweet, gentle poet... I loved him so much."

Lying bitch.

Spike doesn't answer, so she slaps him again.

"I'll dig him out of you, eventually," she promises. "You can't hold out on me forever, you know. Maybe the next time I'll send my boys out after your stupid, silly Slayer. Make you watch while I torture her, then feed you her blood until she's nothing but a dried up husk."

Spike growls.

"You need to eat," she tells him. She holds the cup up to his face. "With your demon in control, you can't help it. You have to feed. Mmmm... still warm, if you drink up quick." She presses the cup to his mouth. Unable to help himself, Spike's mouth opens and she tilts the cup, pouring the blood in as he swallows convulsively.

Then he wrenches his head away hard enough to knock the cup out of her grasp. It hits the floor, spattering blood all over her white dress.

And Spike spits the rest of it right in her face.

She shrieks, an unholy, banshee-like wail that makes me cover my ears to keep my eardrums from shattering. When I finally uncover them, she's yelling something in another language that sounds an awful lot like swearing. The two little elf things have fled.

Spike is laughing.

"You'll pay for this," she hisses warningly. "I've kept you intact this long, but maybe I'll start carving parts off. Skin will grow back, eventually. I can't promise the same for your legs."

"Lovitar, goddess," a voice says from the doorway. We all turn to look.

It's Jack. His voice is smooth, almost inflection-less, bored. "I found signs on patrol of a fire in one of the shacks near the west side of the tower," he says. "And tracks, coming in off of the waste. Small ones, like the huldra."

Louhi frowns. "One returns? I thought the last few had fled when the door opened."

"Perhaps this one was far out, in the woods to the south," Jack says with a shrug. "I didn't locate it, but it could be hiding."

"Find it," she says. "It's not human but it will suffice in a pinch."

"I could go above," he suggests.

"No," she says. "Not yet. This one will break, soon, and then I'll be strong enough to go with you. I don't have the energy to let you through again. Find me the huldra. And go thrash those stupid svartiflar. They begin to irritate me."

He bows. "As you command, my queen," he says, then backs out of the door.

Louhi follows him, glancing back at a still smirking Spike. "You'll break," she promises. "Everything does, eventually. In the meantime... if you're so insistent on it, you can starve. Hunger pangs feed me as well as your whimpers. Let's see how you do after a few days with only your empty, aching stomach for company."

She slams the door on her way out.

I guess even demon goddesses can have temper tantrums.

***

I stay hidden for a little longer, at least until I'm sure nobody is coming back. When I creep out from under the table, Spike's eyes focus on me again without hesitation. Stupid spell.

"Can you still hear if anyone's coming, if I get to work on that?" I ask, nodding at the ice trapping his hands. He nods. "Can you talk?" I ask.

"Yeah," he rasps, his normally deep voice sounding gravely and torn. "Hurts."

"Okay," I say, blinking back tears. "Will she... she feeds on pain, right? Your pain?" He nods. "Will she know, if I move you? If it hurts?"

He shakes his head this time. "Doesn't... work like... that."

"Okay," I say. "Good to know. Save your strength while I try to figure out how to get you down." I turn away, looking over all the stuff in the room again.

"Are you... a dream?" he asks. "Can't... hard to... focus. You... slip away."

"Oh!" I touch the pendant and end the spell. "It's... Willow did a spell. I thought it wasn't working, since you could see me."

A corner of his mouth pulls up in a gruesome kind of smile. "Always... see you... Slayer," he says. Even in vamp face, there's something in his eyes that makes my heart start to pound. I nod, jerkily, to cover, even though I know he can hear it anyway. His head tilts slightly to one side and he watches me with curiosity, though I'm not sure how he has the strength for it, considering. Guilt burns in my stomach.

I did this to him.

My mistake cost him this.

Who knows how long he's been like this and... I put him here.

So I damn well better get him out so I can start apologizing. Knowing Spike, he'll just love that; the Slayer apologizing. Only... Journal Spike wouldn't, I don't think. Not in the mocking kind of way. And... William, or Mr. Gordo... they'd never call me on it. Damn it. When did Spike get so complicated?

Or has he always been this complicated and I was just too blinded by what he was to notice?

It's going to take awhile to figure that out, I guess.

So I grab one of the tables and start pulling it toward him, hoping the noise doesn't attract any unwanted attention. It's high enough that when I get it to him he can kneel on it. "Here," I say, and help him bend his legs. He doesn't even moan when I touch him, though he's so bruised... He does sigh a little, when he can support himself on his legs. I can't imagine the pain his arms must be in from dangling like that.

Focus, Buffy.

"Axe...axe...," I mutter as I search the walls and tables. No axes, but there is a big wooden hammer. "Why would she have a hammer in here?"

"Break...bones," Spike says. I turn to stare at him. He gives an awkward shrug. "Fingers."

"She broke your fingers?"

"Not yet," he rasps. Oh, good. I need his fingers intact. I need all of him intact. I heft the hammer experimentally. It's got some weight behind it, but I'm not sure if it'll break through that icicle. But hammers...

I blink, then grin, and haul myself up on the table beside him. If I stretch, I'm just tall enough to reach. I fish the railroad spike out of my pocket, and press the tip against the icicle, just above his hands. Then I give it a solid whack with the hammer.

The sound of iron ringing though ice reverberates through the chamber. Please, god, don't let anyone come to check. The first whack makes the ice crack a little, the second one hammers it in a little deeper, the third cracks it further and sends the spike in about half way. I drop the hammer and grab the spike, yanking the end of it down as hard as I can. The crack widens, then with a sharp noise it shatters, ice spraying everywhere.

Spike's arms drop and he collapses into a heap on the table.

I stuff the spike in my pocket again and then help him into a sitting position, trying not to touch him anywhere where it might hurt. Impossible, considering how much of him is one big bruise. Now that his arms are down I can see that the right one is dislocated at the shoulder joint. And his back... oh, god, his back...

"I have to fix your arm," I tell him. He nods, then grabs my wrist with his good left hand. His fingers are black with the cold, but none of them seem in danger of falling off.

"You... heard," he says. I blink.

"Huh?"

He presses his eyelids shut, but doesn't slip out of vamp face. When he opens them, they're still gold... but wary. "Chip... the chip...you heard?" he says.

I nod. He sighs.

"Don't... if you're...gonna dust... do it now," he says. "Be... relief."

"I'm not gonna dust you, Spike," I say, his head whips up to stare at me. God... his lip.

"No chip," he says, more firmly. "Can... feed."

"We'll talk about it later," I tell him. He looks like he might argue, and his voice sounds so rough I don't want him to hurt himself more. "Shut up, Spike. Later. We'll talk later. Right now I have to fix your arm." He lets go of my wrist.

It takes some maneuvering, but eventually I get him braced enough that I can set his shoulder. I do it quick, more to try to keep the pain minimal than out of a need to hurry. So far no one has come to investigate the noises down here, which I'll take as a good thing. For now.

I step back to assess the situation.

Since he’s naked, I can see everything, all the damage she’s inflicted. Louhi was thorough. His feet are bare and bruised, the soles cut shallowly. I have a feeling that if I looked between his toes there’d be bruises there, too. His legs are striped with welts. As my gaze drifts up I’m horrified to realize that she really didn’t spare an inch of him. Even... I skip over that and move on. His torso is a mass of cuts and more bruises, one of his arms is mostly useless and his face looks like he had a go round with a majorly pissed off weed whacker. He's barely holding himself upright, and I'm not sure if he can walk.

"When was the last time you fed?" I ask.

He glares at me, defiantly. "Haven't," he says. I frown. He's sooo thin. Painfully thin.

Like those starving kids in Ethiopia. Only not as funny, memory whispers mockingly. Yeah. Definitely not funny.

"How long?" I whisper.

"Wouldn't... you... like to know?" he growls.

"Dammit, Spike, I'm rescuing you. This isn't the Spanish Imposition," say.

"In—," he coughs, chokes, then smirks. "Inquisition... pet."

"Whatever. If you're strong enough to snark at me, you're strong enough to do what we have to do to get you out of here. Now stop being a jerk and try to cooperate?" A weird look crosses his face, then he nods tersely.

I glance at the corpse of the homeless guy on the table. I could give Spike my blood. It'd be stronger, he'd heal faster. But I need my blood if we're going to get out of here. Dead Guy, unfortunately, doesn't need his anymore. My stomach protests, but... "You need blood," I say.

He follows my gaze.

"Human," he says, as if reminding me.

"No chip," I tell him. "Also, dead guy. It's not like he needs it, and you do. I'm just... it's practical, okay? I didn't exactly manage to bring Wilbur with me and there's not much here that you can feed on. It's squicky and I'm probably breaking some Slayer rule somewhere, but we don't have time for me to go grow you a pig."

He laughs, a harsh, bitter, choked sounding laugh, but there's humor in it. "I'll eat," he says.

"Think his clothes would fit you?" I ask, trying to measure the dead guy against Spike. He's lost so much weight... they'd probably hang on him, but it'd be better than me trying to hunt for Spike sized clothes.

"Gonna... need a hand," he says. I nod and move to strip the dead guy's boots off of him. When I look up, Spike is staring at me like I've grown a second head.

"What?" I ask.

"This is... real?" he asks. I stop what I'm doing and walk back over to him, stripping off my right glove. Gently I touch his scarred brow ridge, feeling the distant echo of an injury I saw him get a hundred years ago. He reaches up and grabs my hand, pressing it hard against his face.

"Your bruises," I say. "I didn't want to—"

"Fuck," he says, his eyes drifting closed. "Warm. Got to...be real." His skin is icy against mine, but still warmer than most of the stuff in this world.

"I keep my promises," I tell him, softly. "I'm going to get you out of here. We're going home, Spike." He turns his face until my wrist presses against his nose and mouth. He inhales sharply.

"Slayer," he says, his eyes opening again to meet mine. It would be so easy, I think, for him to bite me now. To sink those sharp fangs into my wrist. I can tell the thought is going through his head, too, and I realize that I'm face to face with his demon. William, for the moment, has left the building. Still, I don't move away, not even as he nuzzles at my wrist, the sharp bones of his face a harsh reminder that he's starving and I'm way better than dead drunk guy over there as meals go.

Something flickers in the gold, and then he lets go of me. "Right," he says. "Clothes."

Trying not to think about what I'm doing, I strip the corpse of its boots, pants, coat and shirt. I leave the ratty looking boxers and stained undershirt on him. I figure he deserves some dignity for the good deed he's providing, even in death.

"Gonna get.. fleas," Spike mutters as he struggles to get the clothes on.

"Vamps can't get fleas," I remind him. "Besides, I think if there were any fleas on this guy, they froze off." I help him pull the shirt over his bad arm, then over his head, and while he props himself against the table, I help him put on the jeans. It's easy to ignore certain things, like this. He's so badly injured that it doesn't seem sexy at all. We both fumble with the boots and lacing them, his fingers are almost useless and mine aren't much better from the cold.

Still, once that's done all that's left is for Spike to eat. He stumbles over to the corpse, but the height is wrong. He can't really bend to get to the guy's neck. For a moment, I argue with my inner Slayer revulsion, but she's a practical creature and in the end the choice is easier than I would have thought. I grab the corpse and lift it so that Spike can reach, propping it up enough that when Spike looks at me, we've only got the guy's throat between us.

He watches me, as he sinks his fangs into the already open wound in the corpse's throat. Watching to see if I flinch, or make a face, or condemn him for this, I guess. I'm too worried that the blood will be too cold, or that there won't be enough. He sucks at the wound for a long time, and the body gets lighter in my arms as he does. When he finishes, I lay it back down on the table.

"Was it enough?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, his voice sounding better. "For now."

His face looks a little less gaunt, and he rolls his shoulders experimentally. It's hard to tell, under the blood that crusts his chin, but the shredded cuts on his lip look better, too.

"How do you feel about stairs?" I ask.

"Up or down?" he asks.

"Up," I tell him. "Most definitely up."

He sighs. "Give me ten? Let the blood...er...circulate."

I nod. I don't know if we have ten minutes, but I didn't know if we'd have this much time. Better to let him get up to strength as much as possible before we try to bust out of this place. I have a feeling out is going to be a lot harder than in.

While he rests, I dig through the weapons in the room, looking for anything that might be useful. Most of it is torturey stuff and I really don't want to think about what it's for, but it's better than doing what I want to be doing, which is stare at him like a complete idiot. "How long?" he says, startling me. "How long have I been... gone?"

"Um...," I say, thinking over it. "I... as soon as I woke up, I went and found your journal. It took me most of the day and the next night to read it. Then I went to the others, told them I was going after you... uh, I left that afternoon. Then...um... time got a little wonky. But, I think, you've only been gone from Sunnydale a-a couple of days, maybe?"

He laughs, a sort of hysterical giggle that breaks off into coughing. "A couple... of days," he says. "If that's not bloody brilliant."

"How long, here?" I ask, not sure I want to know.

"Longer," he says, flatly. "Much longer." I glance at the roots to his hair. Roots that weren't showing the night Louhi took him away.

"I'm sorry," I say. Whisper, really. His head jerks up in my direction, and the look on his face, even with the yellow eyes and the bumpies and the fangs... I chicken out. "Think you can carry some stuff?" I ask. I hold up some rope, and a couple of wicked looking knives in sheaths he can attach to his belt.

"You've got my coat," he says, instead.

"Yeah," I say. "That's... it's a long story. It'll have to wait until we're out of the tower and on our way back. If you want it, though..."

I don't really want to give it up. It smells like him, and it's warm. But, it'd make him look more like Spike and less like... an evil orphan wearing a homeless guy's castoffs. I shrug out of it, pulling the railroad spike out of the pocket and shoving it under the sheath on my thigh. There's a frown on his face, as he takes in the sword and the spike, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he just takes the coat from me and, wincing, pulls it on. Definitely better. More Spike.

He takes the knives, and after he's settled them in place, I pass him the rope. "Ready to go?" I ask. He nods, still in vamp face, which means he's probably still in major pain. Unlike my other friends, though, I know that pain won't stop Spike. He'll go until he's dust.

And it's my job to see that he doesn't dust.

I brief him, quick, on the only way I've found in or out, then the layout of the city. I also fill him in on what the necklace can do. "We're going to have to... hold hands, I think," I tell him. "For the hiding spell to work on you."

I half expect a snarky response to that. I want a snarky response. A quip. Something. Instead I just get his demon blinking at me, calmy. Then he puts out a hand that's starting to loose some of the blackness in the fingers and waits for me to take it.

I do.

***

Spike's strength has always surprised me. He makes it up five flights of stairs before I feel even the slightest tremble through our connected hands. Three more, however, and I shift so that my arm is around him, supporting some of his weight. He winces when I accidentally touch one of his injuries, but then helps me find a place to hold on where it doesn't hurt as much. He's shaking by the time we get to the top of the stairs, his legs a little unsteady.

"Give us a tick," he says at the top landing, panting a little. "Gotta..."

"It's flat from here on out," I promise.

He nods, catching his breath. I take the opportunity to peer around the archway and down the hall. Clear, so far.

This is too easy.

"Why isn't this place crawling with guards and minions?" I whisper. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Sent them out," Spike rasps. "Slowly, over the last year. Most of them are waiting in Sunnyhell. Think a lot escaped through as well. Not all of her demons liked bein'... locked up with the hell bitch."

"Why isn't she there?"

He shakes his head. "She's gathering strength. This place... the tower? It's her prison. She can't leave it for long without gettin'... yanked back. Gets strong enough, she can break free."

"And you were doing what you could to slow that down," I murmur. Spike gives me a startled look, then tilts his head questioningly.

"Well, yeah," he says. "Wasn't goin' without a fight."

His face is so close, like this. It's impulse that makes me lean up and kiss his hollow cheek. It's also pretty much the only part of his face I can kiss without causing him pain. When I draw back, his gold eyes blink at me in astonishment.

"Thanks," I say. His arm tightens around me slightly.

"This is real?" he asks again. Weird, watching a vampire try to furrow his brow in confusion. Considering it's pretty much of the furrowed to begin with. I guess it's just extra furrowy?

"It's real," I promise. I have a feeling I'm going to be reassuring him the whole way back to Sunnyhe— Sunnydale.

"You can't possibly be my Slayer," he says, more to himself than me.

"Sorry, but I am," I tell him. "I'd punch you in the nose, to prove it, but I... kinda don't want to. Not anymore, anyway. Besides, your nose is pretty much the only thing on you that's not busted."

"Thanks ever so," he says. It's harder to read his demon face than his human one, but I'm surprised to find that it's less like trying to read French and more like trying to read Xander's handwriting. There's shock there, and surprise, and a hint of something that might be ... awe? He clears his throat. "Got my legs back, if you want to get a move on, Slayer."

Right. We were escaping, weren't we?

I adjust my grip on him, and we start down the wider passageway one slow step at a time. We're about halfway down when one of the doors that was closed earlier bangs open and a handful of those evil elf things spill out into the hallway ahead of us. They don't pay us any attention, but they're standing there, arguing in their weird, garbled up language, pretty much blocking our way by.

Crap.

Then they start heading our way.

"Fuck," Spike mutters.

There's an open archway on the left, so we back up a little and duck into the dimly lit room beyond. The elves split up when they reach the arch. Most of them head down into the dungeons, but two of them linger in front of the arch, still arguing.

"Gonna notice I'm gone, if they go all the way down," Spike whispers in my ear.

"Looks like we've got a time limit," I say. Luckily the room is pretty shadowy, so I tuck him into a corner where it's dark. "Do that vampire lurky thing while I take care of our friends." He nods.

It doesn’t take long. Not with them unable to see me. When I’m done I stash the bodies under some loose cloth where I hope no one will find them for a while. Without any sunlight here, they won’t pull their flesh to stone trick.

"Slayer!" Spike's whisper is strangled sounding.

"What?" I ask.

"Did you know there was a bloody huge bear in here?"

Oh. Shit.

I'd totally forgotten that Jack being back meant that his big furry friend was back, too. There's a shuffling and a whuffing sound and Spike squeaks.

"Did you just squeak?"

"No," he says, his voice a little high pitched. "Really would appreciate it if you'd come fetch me, Slayer. Not feeling up to fighting bears at the mo'."

"He's in a cage, Spike," I tell him, coming to stand next to him. He's squeezed himself back into his corner pretty tight. Unfortunately one wall of his corner is made up of the iron bars of the bear's cage. Its huge nose is pressed up against the bars, snuffling at Spike. It'd be funny, if it weren't for the bear's head being almost as big as Spike.

No, wait. It's still funny.

"Laugh it up, Slayer," Spike says. "Now I know it's bloody real. Only you'd be bitchy enough to mock a man who's being sized up by a polar bear for an entrée."

"Don't be silly," I tell him, studying the bear as best as I can in the dim light. "You're a vampire. I don't think your stringy carcass would be all that filling."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be talking, pet. You're right scrumptious smelling, so that means you'd be the main course," he says.

"Aren't entrées the main course?" I ask, confused.

"Only in bloody America," he mutters. The bear gives a soft moan and flops down with its head against the bars near Spike. It kinda looks like it's smiling.

"I think it likes you," I tell him. "See if it'll let you pet it."

"What!?" he shrieks, in a high pitch whisper. "I'm not sticking my hand in a bear's cage. What do I look like? A bleeding masochist?"

"Uh, now's probably not the time to ask that question," I tell him. "Seriously, though. See if it'll let you pet it, I've got an idea."

"You're off your trolley," he says. "I've been imprisoned, tortured, starved, frozen and now there are bloody bears! And you want me to, what? Give it a cuddle? No thanks, Slayer. Only so much a vamp can take."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Spike. You're not afraid of Pooh Bear, are you?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes. I am. Because I'm an intelligent, rational, thinking corpse, and don't you know that everything is worse with bears, Slayer? God is afraid of bears."

"No, he's not," I say. "You're making that up."

"In the soddin' bible," he says.

"When was the last time you could read a bible, Spike?" I ask.

"Sticks with you," he says, sulking a little.

"We're wasting time, you know. Would you just pet the damn bear?"

"Bossy bint. Over my dead body," he sulks some more.

"Good thing you're already dead, then," I tell him. "You pet it, I'm going to go open the cage."

"WHAT?!"

***

Getting the cage door open? Easy.

Getting the bear to come out? Even easier.

Getting Spike on the bear? Takes a lot of convincing.

"Slayer," he says, sounding strangled. "Get off of the bear."

"No," I tell him, patting the soft white fur. The bear does a moany thing again and whuffs in pleasure. It nuzzles at Spike's coat. He's glued himself to a wall and refuses to budge, even though the bear is laying on the floor like a big dog, waiting for him to get on. "It's warm and furry and weirdly comfy. Now are you going to get on the bear so we can have a cuddly ride back home or am I going to have to kick your ass to get you up here?"

"Careful, Slayer," he says, sarcastically. "You're turning me on."

"You're going to have to wrap your arms around me, once we get moving," I tell him, not above bribery. "Only way I'm sure the spell will work, and you won't fall off."

He mutters something but all I catch are the words "eaten" and "bear".

"Spike," I say seriously. "You said in your journal you'd walk to hell and back for me. We're in hell. I walked here for you. I didn't go through everything I did to give up now, and I'm not leaving you behind. Now, do we make this room our last stand and wait for Louhi to show up and torture you some more? Or will you get on the bear and ride out of here with me? Please?"

"Dirty pool, Slayer," he says, glaring.

"Please," I say again. His body is taut as a crossbow string, and he trembles, visibly, at the word. Finally, jerky as a puppet, he walks around the bear and stiffly lets me pull him up behind me. He settles in, his hands almost bruising my hips he's gripping them so tight.

"I'm gonna cop a feel, while I'm back here," he warns me.

"I still totally won," I tell him with a grin.

"I hate you," he tells me, but he pulls me tighter against him.

"I know," I tell him, and sink my fingers into the bear's thick fur. "Giddyup, bear."

"Giddyup?" Spike says. "Oh, like that's bloody going to—"

The bear lurches to its feet, clearly trained not to toss its passengers in the process. I grab my pendant and tell it to hide us, just in case it didn't get the memo just by me getting on the bear. Spike's arms wrap around my waist and he buries his head in my shoulder. It almost sounds like he's praying.