Chapter XVII

When Buffy finally came around, she was lying on a kind of bed in the corner of a dilapidated cabin.  Light came from a camping lantern that stood on a scarred wooden table, in front of the remains of a small stone fireplace.  The only other furniture she saw was a wooden bench near the door.  She could not only hear rain falling, but saw it dripping in through the age-worn roof.

She searched her mind for where she was and how she'd gotten there. All she could remember was opening her front door and something sweet and cloying being shoved in her face then … nothing.

She pulled back, startled, when a face suddenly loomed above her and a pair of icy blue eyes stared down.  “Enjoy your nap?” the blonde man asked as he bent closer.  She caught the smell of whiskey before he bobbed and weaved away from her.

“Spike,” Buffy said, trying to clear the cobwebs despite the dull pain in her head.

“No need for formal introductions, I see,” he said.  He brought his hands from behind his back to show her the ropes he held in them.  “I thought I’d wait until you were awake.”  He really didn’t know why he hadn’t tied her up before now.  He should have.

“Of course.  You wouldn’t want to take advantage of me,” she spat at him sarcastically.

“I plan on doing exactly that,” he informed her with a triumphant, yet oddly grim smile.

Buffy tried to stay calm and docile.  All she needed was one small chance to get away from him ... and it wasn't long in coming.  As an inebriated Spike bent over to slide the twisted hemp around her arms he lost his balance and pitched forward.  Not wasting the opportunity, Buffy pushed him away with her feet.  She tried to stand and get the upper hand over her captor, but the effects of the chloroform hadn't worn off, making her unexpectedly woozy.

Spike swore as he twisted around and barely caught her before she succeeded.  Grabbing her roughly, he held her arms behind her back and pushed her facedown on the cot.  He held his knee on the small of her back with painful pressure while winding the rope around her wrists.

He knew then why he had hesitated – all he could think of was Dru.  The kidnappers had tied her up, that much he had known.  His mother had cried the whole time she looked for a burial dress with long sleeves to cover her baby's wrists.

He tried to keep his mind off what he was doing.  What was he doing?  No, this wasn’t the same thing, he told himself.  Dru was a little girl and Angel should have protected her.  All of this was his fault, it had always been Angel’s fault.  He was the one who had been with Dru.  Spike pushed the thought from his mind for the millionth time that her own brother hadn't been there.

Buffy's head throbbed as she tried to suppress the prickle of fear his words had caused.  She knew Spike was very drunk and he seemed to be having a silent monologue with himself.  She forced herself to remain still while he tied her hands.  She was afraid any movement on her part would only make him cinch the ropes tighter.  Or make good on his threat.

Once he finished he moved back a step to look down at her.  “I doubt it will take long for Angelus to find us.  I’m sure Angel is tearing up the countryside looking for you right now.”  At her slightly confused look he added, “You talk in your sleep, darlin’.  But I was surprised to hear you call him that.  I thought he gave that up a long time ago.”

Her heart twisted at the thought of what Angel must be going through at that very moment.  All she could think of was the nightmare her lover had finally revealed to her.  He must be going crazy.  She knew how she would feel if he were the one who disappeared.  Why had she been so stupid?  Why hadn’t she used her head before she bounded over to the door and just opened it without thinking?  Look where her thoughtlessness had gotten her.  And she had thought, what seemed a lifetime ago, that she could be an agent?  The reality of the situation made her think fleetingly of how dangerous that job really must be.  And Angel had been one of the best.  She knew he would find her, she only prayed it would be soon enough.

*****

“You’re looking for Miss Summers?” Angel heard a timid voice ask behind him as he stood with his back to the open front door.

He spun around to see a neighbor of Buffy’s he had glimpsed once when they had stopped by to pick up some of Buffy’s things.  “Where is she?” he demanded without preamble.

“A friend of hers took her to the hospital –” the man started to tell him.

Advancing the few steps into the hall, Angel grabbed the shorter man by the shoulders, shaking him, nearly shouting, “What was wrong with her?”

“T-the man who took her said she fainted, he was carrying her out the door as I walked in,” he managed to get out.  Although Angel only saw the man next door once, the smaller man had seen Angel with Buffy a few times.  Unbeknownst to the couple, he had witnessed the fight with Riley through his window several weeks before.  He saw firsthand how dangerous the furious man in front of him could be.  And that was why he had thought it very odd when the strange blonde-haired man had appeared at the entry door with the petite, young neighbor in his arms.  “I never saw him before.  That’s why I asked him what happened to her.”

Angel was beside himself, his heartbeat was so loud it thundered in his chest.  “What did this ‘friend’ look like?” he barked at him.

“He was very blonde, not as big as you.  He was wearing a black duster and black leather pants,” the neighbor replied.  He could feel the tension rolling off the tall man, see the frenetic expression on his face.  “I-I touched her,” he offered softly, “she was warm and she wasn’t pale.  I didn’t notice until he had put her in the car and driven away that I could smell something sweet.”

Angel nodded and said in a tight voice more to himself than the neighbor, “Chloroform, I can still smell it.”  With that he slammed Buffy’s door shut, locking it.  Without another word or backward glance at the other man, he stormed down the hall and out the entryway door.

The next door neighbor was more relieved than offended by the powerful man’s abrupt departure.  He wanted to be anywhere the angry bruiser wasn’t.  He thought to himself, he wouldn’t want to be in the blonde man’s shoes once the dark menacing force that had just blown out of the apartment building caught up with him.

*****

Buffy twisted her wrists and felt some slack in the ropes that held them together.  She couldn’t just slide out of them, but they were loose.  She was sure it had been unintentional on the part of her abductor.  She watched Spike, who had his back to her as he sat at the table, frequently reaching for the bottle on the table.  The bottle looked more empty than full; she only hoped he would pass out from the effects.  All of his attention was on something in front of him that she couldn't see.  Grateful for whatever was distracting him, she silently she set to work on freeing her hands from her restraints.

Spike couldn’t get the pictures of Dru out of his head.  Refusing to look in the direction of the bed, he kept the bottle close by, taking a sip every few moments to blur the images.  Tying the ropes on the small form presently on the cot behind him had unnerved him more than he could have imagined.  He tried to concentrate his thoughts on Angelus and his anticipated arrival.

His gaze remained fixed upon the object in his lap.  Spike hated guns.  It was the instrument used to take his sister's life.  After her death he hadn't even been able to watch westerns or cop shows without feeling an aversion to the cold, lethal weapons.  In spite of his tough man image and rather long criminal record, guns had never been a part of it.  Now he looked at the one in front of him in morbid fascination.  Just as with the cabin, it was another prop in his little show for Angelus and a necessary one, despite his loathing of it.  Dru had died by a bullet and so would Angel ... just as he should have instead of her.  But not before he suffered, not before Spike saw Angelus watch something he cared about taken away first.

He hefted the unfamiliar weight in his hand.  He thought absently, as he took another pull from the bottle, that he should have learned more about how to use one.  But they all basically worked the same, right?  You just pulled that little trigger and the piece of lead shot out and hit its mark.  He knew he was no match for the former FBI agent, Spike knew he would need more than his own strength to overpower him.  He needed something to keep Angelus at bay while he took Buffy right in front of her lover.  Yes, it had to be a gun.

*****

Angel knew it was pointless to check out the hospital.  He slammed the car door, the sound reverberating through the quiet neighborhood.  There hadn’t been any question that this would be his next stop.  He stalked up the walkway and pounded loudly on the door while jamming his finger in the doorbell.

Daniel Holtz opened the door at once, his face showed no surprise at who he found on his doorstep.  Swinging the door wide, he admitted the tall, clearly enraged visitor inside.  “Spike left a message on the answering machine,” Holtz said in way of a greeting.  Leading Angel to the small table it sat on in the hallway, he depressed the play button.

“Angelus,” Spike’s voice floated up from the speaker,  “I won’t keep you in suspense.  And I wouldn’t miss you joining my little party for the world.  Ask good old Dad for directions to his old hunting grounds.  I hope he remembers the way.  Wouldn’t want you to get lost in the forest now, would we?  You might want to hurry, in case I start the party without you,” he ended.

“Where is he talking about?” Angel bit out tersely.  He knew Spike had taken Buffy, but to hear him confirm it made Angel all the more afraid for her.

“I’ve called Lindsey,” Holtz said in reply.

“I don’t care if you call the whole fucking agency.  Tell me where they are!” Angel thundered.

“This isn’t about you. You’re not even on the team. You can’t go alone,” Holtz protested.

Grabbing the front of Holtz’ shirt, dragging the man’s face up to his, Angel hissed, “It’s about Buffy!  Tell me now!  If he hasn’t hurt her, I might let your boy live.”

Holtz knew Angel wasn’t making an empty threat.  More though, he could see the stark terror in the younger man’s eyes.  He relented, pulling his shirt out of Angel’s grasp, unconsciously smoothing the wrinkles as he answered, “It can only be one place, I only went there a few times.  I took him with me when he was younger.”  He gave Angel the directions and tried one last time to reason with him.

*****

Buffy couldn’t help but think of Angel and the scars on his wrists as she pulled and rubbed the ropes against the bed, slowly loosening them.  How frightening must it have been for two small defenseless children?  She kept her eyes on Spike as he muttered under his breath raising the bottle to his lips time and again.  She knew Angel would find her, but not when.  Finally able to slip a hand out of the loops that held her, she sat quietly, trying to plan what to do next.

She saw Spike stagger to his feet and turn towards her.  The blood ran from her face when she saw what he held in his hand.  Spike using a gun had never occurred to her, though she didn't know why.  It should have, she thought, after all, Angel and Dru were hunted down with them, didn't all the bad guys use guns?  She tore her eyes away from it and looked up at the man holding it.  Buffy thought she caught what looked like a trace of ... remorse?  The fleeting expression was gone once he realized she was looking at him.

"Your lover should be here in a little while," he said, emphasizing the word with a sneer as he took a few uneven steps towards her.  "Don't get all hopeful he's gonna save you though," Spike warned her, "Bet he never told you he's not very good at taking care of anyone except himself."

"Angel told me what happened to him and to your sister," Buffy answered.  "He told me everything."

Spike didn't believe her.  He knew for a fact that the kidnapping was something Angelus never talked about, ever.  William Holtz remembered his father pacing by the front window, watching the home next door.  He overheard him tell his mother about the scores of doctors, psychiatrists and therapists that Angel's parents had enlisted, but to no avail.  Some of those same professionals had talked to Spike at his father's request.  If Angel wasn't going to talk to anyone, neither was he.  Besides, he didn't need any help dealing with Dru's death, he knew who to blame.

Spike figured if Angel had told Buffy anything it was just something to make himself look good, he'd never tell her the truth.

"He told me he cut their ropes off and got them out of the cabin.  They were running away, but the kidnappers were behind them, shooting at them.  Angel was trying to keep her safe.  He didn't know Dru was wounded until later," she said in his defense.

The firm, sure way Buffy spoke, she sounded like she really did know – that Angel had actually told her.  And it was more than Spike had ever heard about exactly how his sister was shot.  His father had refused to tell him or anyone else what he knew.  Daniel Holtz had said talking about it wouldn't change it, that details would only make the memories worse.

"So he was a hero.  Is that how it went?" he said, thinking of Dru being injured and Angel being there instead of him.  His heart ached at the thought of her hurt and afraid.  Having a virtual stranger tell him part of his past she hadn't even been involved in gave it a disturbing intimacy that made him feel raw and somehow revealed.

"No, Spike, he was just a very scared little boy," she said quietly.

"I would have taken care of her!" he shouted, not even hearing her reply.  "If only I ..."  and stopped, stuck on the scene he could never banish of the van pulling away with his sister reaching out for him, screaming his name.  He let out a string of curses and started to bring his hands up as if to cover his head, but the gun in his grasp halted his movement.  The gun ... Angel ... he would be there soon.  Spike swung around keeping the gun pointed in her direction while disjointed thoughts continued to avalanche through his head.

Buffy knew she was taking a dangerous chance just talking to him.  She didn't know Spike at all, but it was obvious he was unraveling more and more by the minute.  She kept desperately hoping for some kind of opening.  With a flash of intuition, she confronted the volatile man before her.

Spike saw Buffy eye the gun with trepidation, but wasn't ready for her next words.  He was so lost in his own world of pain that it didn't register at first what she was saying.  When it did, his head snapped up at her question.

"You want me to tell you how Dru felt when you pull the trigger, Spike?" she asked softly.

He looked at her with something resembling horror in his eyes.  "Not you," he said dazedly, "Angel.  It's for Angel."  At the thought of actually using the loathsome thing on her or anyone, even on his lifelong enemy, the gun almost dropped from his hand.

Buffy grabbed the moment.  As he glanced down towards it, she jumped up from the bed and leaped towards him, kicking the gun out of his hand before he could react.  She twirled around to give him a second kick, but the space to turn in the tiny cabin was too small and she grazed her heel on the corner of the table before her foot could connect with its target.

The sudden attack jarred Spike back to where they were and why Buffy was there.  She had almost succeeded in throwing him off his game.  He lunged at her before she could counterattack, catching her arm in a painful grip.  He was instantly back to his swaggering, arrogant self.  “Oh, no, my sweet soon-to-be lover,” he laughed darkly, grasping her other arm as well, “can’t have you saving yourself.  That’s a job for your white knight.”

Buffy broke his hold by suddenly sliding her hands up his chest and shoving him away.  Catching her foot beneath both of his in a well-practiced sweep, she sent him crashing to the floor in front of the fireplace.  She didn't see his hand as it landed in the grate and he suddenly blinded her by throwing a fistful of ash in her face.

He lurched to his feet, grabbing her arms before she could wipe the soot from her eyes.  Pulling her close to his chest, he backed her up, caging her between him and the fireplace.

“He'll be here soon, we should be getting on with it," he said, giving her a lewd smile.  "Or maybe you're really looking forward to it, is that it?” he taunted, moving his mouth down close to hers.  Buffy could feel his hot breath against her cheek, smell the liquor he'd been drinking steadily.  As his lips touched hers, she shuddered with revulsion, trying desperately to get away from him.  Her spontaneous reaction to his touch infuriated him and he roughly pulled her towards him again.

Buffy pulled her head back, then suddenly thrust it forward, her forehead hitting him hard in the nose.  Still half-blinded, she kicked out with her leg.  Angered by the hard blow, he shoved her hard against the stones, bringing her head against the stone corner of the fireplace with an audible crack.  She slid to the floor as pain exploded in her head.  Spike snickered as he bent down and dragged her none too gently to her feet.

This time it was Buffy who held the element of surprise.  Although dazed and fighting to retain consciousness, she had enough stubborn defiance left to defend herself.  Before he realized she was still conscious, she brought her knee up into his groin as hard as she could.  He gasped in pain as they fell to the floor in a tangle.  She scrambled away from him, quickly seizing the gun that had landed a short ways from where they were struggling.  He was still writhing in agony when she brought the heavy metal butt of the pistol down on his head.  He finally lay before her, lifeless.

Bringing her hand down from the back of her own head, she saw it was covered with blood – her blood.  The sight sickened her.  She couldn’t think clearly.  She could barely stand and stagger to the door.  All she knew was that she needed as much distance between herself and Spike as she could get before he regained consciousness.  Using what little strength she could muster, she pulled the door open and stumbled into the black, wet night.  Suddenly caught in the elements, she never even noticed the gun fall from her hand to the ground in front of the cabin. The storm was picking up momentum as she careened down the pathway from the cabin.

*****

Daniel Holtz felt a deep heaviness seep into his limbs as he watched Angel’s car disappear out of sight.  He was filled with fear of what had already happened and what was to come – for his son, for Angel and for Buffy.  She was, he thought sadly, an innocent pawn, much as Angel and Dru once were.  Only this time was even worse because it was his own flesh and blood creating this living nightmare.

What if, he wondered yet again, he had taken Spike with him, as the young boy had begged him when he told his father Dru had been kidnapped.  Would that have helped his son to grieve for his sister and be able to let her go?  Would his relationship with his son have been different or changed how Spike lived his life?  Would it have made Angel’s life a bit more bearable, not having Spike’s wrath only validate how the small boy had viewed himself after he came home?  But as hardened as Agent Holtz had already become to myriad horrors he had witnessed, it hit too close to home.  The tragedy that had taken his own daughter's life had affected the then younger father just as deeply as either boy.   Any mention of it was more than he could deal with for many years.  Too many years.

The tired man couldn’t keep his thoughts from traveling back to the dreadful debacle.  Thugs had kidnapped his daughter and had mistakenly taken Angel, thinking he was Holtz' son.  Their misguided plan of revenge for the agent's role in their incarceration had backfired and left the three, only recently paroled, imprisoned for life or dead.  Holtz could still see every detail of the drafty, ramshackle cabin hideout.  He could see the bloody ropes that had held the small captives hostage as the frayed pieces were bagged for evidence.  He couldn’t imagine the terror those two innocent little children must have endured.

He was the first to find the boy and girl in the predawn hours after the two-day search since the children escaped.  Standing alone, he looked down at the pitifully huddled bodies lying beneath the tall pine trees that offered little, if any, shelter.  He thought they were both dead.  Holtz knew the mental snapshot, framed by the terrible knowledge of what men are capable of, would never dim in his memory.  The tiny girl stared from sightless eyes, her coloring so much like his own.  He saw the wound and fought to keep the bile down in his throat.  What kind of man could even point a gun at a baby?  His baby.

As he turned the other face towards him he realized the boy was alive … physically.  Angel was, not surprisingly, lost in a world of his own, his dark, stricken eyes huge and empty.  But what broke the heart of the head agent even more was the young boy still tightly holding the hand of the smaller child beside him.  His body still curved around her in protection.  The blood dried on his wrists like macabre bracelets where he’d torn skin and muscles to release himself from the ropes’ tight knots.  Holtz could see the youngster had done all he could for the little blonde girl he clung to, who was now beyond his help.  He gently lifted the dark-haired boy away from his forever silent charge, careful not to startle him.  Shrugging out of his coat, he wrapped it around Angel.  Holtz cradled him close trying to cover and warm the small shivering form.  Holtz swore then and there if he could ever do anything within his power for Liam Angelus, it would be done.

*****

Angel was out of the house and in his car in seconds, completely oblivious to the older man’s warnings.  He couldn’t afford to waste precious time while Buffy was in danger.  His knuckles turned white as his fingers clenched the steering wheel.  Pushing his foot down harder on the accelerator, he wove in and out of traffic.

After all these lonely, empty years he had only just found the one person who had ever made a difference to him.  And now his past was catching up with him once more and putting her in jeopardy because of it.  The bitter irony tore into his heart like a jagged knife.

It had started raining before Angel left the Holtz house.  The storm grew in intensity the further Angel drove.  Although on some level the fierce tempest registered, he had no room for anything in his thoughts except Buffy.  Pictures of her filled his mind; tears hanging on her lashes as she told him she loved him, gazing down on her face as it filled with the ecstasy that he gave her when they made love, laughing as they cleaned the house, smiling up at him as she curled before the fire.  The overwhelming need he felt for her made his heart almost physically ache with her absence.  He would never survive without her.  There was no point in living if she wasn’t there beside him.

The rain was an almost impenetrable curtain.  Drivers pulled their cars off to the side, unable to see the road in front of them.  Angel’s only concession was to go slower to make sure he didn’t miss the road he was looking for.  The only effect the twists of lightening had on him was to illuminate his way, allowing him to speed up for those few seconds everything was visible.

Angel was so afraid for Buffy, he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest at that thought of her life being in peril.  He tried not to think of what Spike might have done – might be doing – to her, but images colored his imagination nonstop.  He had all but forgotten his half promise to Holtz.  His mind flew through the different ways he would torture Spike before he killed him for kidnapping Buffy.  If he hurt her …

He finally reached the turnoff Holtz had described.  The rain had started coming down harder, the storm swaying the trees, making it almost impossible to see on the unlit back roads.  He forced himself to slow down, not daring to take the chance of missing the cabin.  He crept the car forward as the trees of the deep forest surrounded him.  Then, almost hidden from view, he spotted the small building beyond its overgrown driveway.  He killed the engine, even though he doubted it could be heard over the wind and the steady pounding of the rain.  Making his way across the short distance to the one room shack he quickly walked around it.  The small enclosure had no windows.  Not waiting any longer, he kicked the door in to announce his presence.

Spike was sprawled on the only chair in the cabin.  Angel searched the small room quickly, but found no one else there.  His gaze took in the small cot and the lengths of rope lying on it.

“You’re too late, Angelus,” Spike sneered at him.  “You’re pathetic,” he went on, “can’t save the girl anymore now than you could back ...”

Angel grabbed him and hurled him against the wall before Spike could finish speaking.  “Where is she?” he snarled.  “What have you done with her?”

“Try and find her,” Spike told him not taking his eyes off the taller man before him.  “She’ll be a mite different than the last time you saw her,” he said daringly.

Angel pulled back the hand not holding Spike.  His fist hit Spike squarely in the nose with a satisfying crunch.  He watched the blood spurt and run down the smaller man's face.  “You don’t know how good that felt,” Angel warned him in a dangerously silken tone.  “Tell me what you did to her and where she is.”  Spike only stared at him, bloody, but defiant.  Angel didn’t hesitate to bring his fist back up, this time letting it land of Spike’s jaw.  When Spike still didn’t answer he struck him again in the same place.  This time Spike felt teeth loosened from the blow.  “If you change your mind, let me know when to stop,” Angel told him in the same smooth voice.

“You have good taste, Angelus,” Spike threw at him, his face already darkening with bruises.  “She was a nice little piece.”

Angel's roar filled the tiny cabin.  He removed the hand from Spike’s throat long enough to replace it with the other.  His right hand, now free, sank into Spike’s eye.  He wanted to kill Spike, but he needed him to find Buffy.  That didn’t mean he wouldn’t beat the peroxided blonde to a pulp until he talked, even cripple him if need be.  The longer his opponent remained silent, the more blows Angel rained down on his head and body.

Spike could taste the blood pooling in his mouth, could feel it from the many wounds running down his face and neck.  He was suddenly afraid of the strapping form that had him pinned to the wall.  “You’re one of the good guys,” he said, in spite of the pain he felt in moving his mouth.  “One of the white hats,” he yelped as Angel’s fist found his cheekbone.  Angelus' heavy Claddagh ring split the skin open, the blood spurting from it freely.

“One last time,” Angel hissed at him.

“All right!” Spike shouted, “I don’t know where she is.”

“Not good enough,” the dark-haired man answered.  His fist hit Spike in the stomach and Angel watched, unaffected, as the other man doubled over in pain.  When the smaller man didn't immediately respond, Angel keep punching him, picking him back up when he could no longer stand.

Spike's sides and stomach were clenched in pain.  “It’s the goddamn truth,” he managed to breath out.  “She hit me over the head with a bottle and ran out of here,” he finally admitted.

“How long ago?” Angel demanded.  He saw the fragments of glass lying on the table and floor and could now see blood from a wound on the side of Spike’s head that he didn't think he had caused.

“I don’t know!” Spike yelled back, “She knocked me out cold.  I don’t know how long I was out.”

Angel dragged Spike across the small space to the cot.  He picked up the ropes and tied Spike’s hands behind him swiftly and expertly, then shoved him to the floor.  He bent down long enough to tie another rope between the frame of the bed and Spike’s wrists.

“You better pray I find her and that she’s all right,” Angel told him in a chilling whisper that shivered down Spike’s spine.  “Or you’re a dead man,” he promised.  Then without warning Angel’s fist caught Spike in the temple and laid him out on the floor.

*****

The rain was washing down in torrents, stinging her face like cold, harsh shards of glass.  Buffy could hardly see more than a few feet before her, but she ran all the same.  She tripped over tree roots and uneven ground several times, bruising her arms, legs or face with each fall.  The cold started to seep into her soggy clothing, making her shiver as she pushed herself to keep moving.  Her head throbbed where she had struck it against the fireplace.  She dully realized she had no idea where she was, she had run aimlessly away from one danger into another.  She knew Angel would look for her, but she was afraid she could be lost in these deep woods forever and never be found.  The thought chilled her to the bone, as she saw Angel’s face in her mind once more recounting his nightmare about her and about the horrible fate of the little girl he had tried to protect.

“No,” she cried, “I can’t do that to him.  I can’t die on him!  I have to help him find me.”  She turned around, trying to find the way back from where she had come.  She tore pieces of cloth off the hem of her skirt and tried to tie them to bushes as she trudged on through the howling storm.  It reached gale force as it ripped around her.  Rain came down even harder, punishing her skin, the wind twisting her wet clothing around her, beating down the last bit of strength she had left.  She thought she could feel Angel – that mysteriously familiar feeling that only stirred when he was close.  It had to be because she needed him so badly, she thought despairingly.  But it was all she had.  She tried to concentrate on feeling him, hoping against hope it really was him.  One last stone in her path brought her stumbling to her knees.  Try as she did to fight it, the cold, wet swirling darkness overcame her as she sank to the floor of the forest.

*****

The storm was worse than when he arrived.  He had wasted precious moments on Spike.  Angel was terrified – Buffy was out there somewhere, but where?  The forest went on for miles.  The gale was tearing branches from trees, spinning them as if they were bits of paper.  Rain thrummed down, plastering his clothes to his body.  His only thought of the pouring rain and screeching wind was that it hampered him from finding her.  His heart caught in his throat to think of her lost in the tangle of trees he saw all around him.  He had to find her.  His terror increased as he made his way forward, afraid he would pass right by her, not knowing how close she might be.  He screamed her name, but the wind threw it back into his face and into his soul.  He took what advantage he could of the lightening as it tore rents of light in the darkness around him.  In the white-hot glare his eyes searched endlessly for her.  So adamantly focused on finding his mate, he barely heard the echoing crack of the requisite thunder in its wake.

Angel was one of the best trackers the FBI ever had, but the storm confounded all his efforts.  He felt like he was going in circles, not able to tell one stand of creaking, bending trees from another.  There was no connotation of time, as though he’d been searching for hours.  How long had she been out here?  She could be badly hurt … or worse.  He tried not to explore that thought any further.  He was desperate to find her.  In front of him, a scrap of cloth waved wildly in the wind.  He caught it off the bush it was tethered on, recognizing it was from Buffy’s skirt.  Holding it up to his face he knew she had left it there for him.  As if she had reached out an unseen hand to him, he felt her touch.

There in the middle of the vicious storm wailing and whipping around him, Angel made himself stop.  He called out to Buffy with everything in him.  Standing stock-still, he reached out with his senses, hoping to catch some hint of her.  It wasn’t his sight or his hearing he used, but his heart and soul.  He stood long, torturous moments as the rain sluiced over him, the wind screaming in his ears.  Finally he felt it, just a trace, but he knew it was her.  The welcome sensation of her being near was very, very faint, but it was there.  He started walking, letting himself be led by the feeling.

That’s how he came upon her, lying on the ground.  He was reminded so much of his horrifying dream that at first he couldn’t move.  Her slim hands were trying to cover her arms, her legs pulled up in a fetal position to stave off the cold.  She looked so small and fragile.  Angel cried her name aloud as he dropped down beside her, scooping her into his arms.  There was no response.  She stayed ominously still.  She was so cold, so pale, her hair a drenched dark golden mass framing her face, trailing down her back.  Frantically, he felt for a pulse on her neck, beneath the sodden strands of hair.  His numbed fingers were shaking so hard he couldn’t hold them still.  He couldn’t feel anything.  His breath hitched in his throat as he looked down on the closed eyelids of the only woman he ever loved, ever would love.  Gently, tenderly, he laid her back down, spooning his large body around hers protectively, his arms drawing her close to him.  His tears fell into her hair.  He couldn’t stop the shuddering sobs that racked through his body as he clung to her.

He placed his lips over hers and breathed his life into her, keeping his eyes on hers for any sign of movement.  “I won’t let you go,” he told her, “I can’t.”  He was desperate when she still didn’t respond.  “I need you so much, love.  I didn’t find you to lose you.  Not like this, please, not this.”  Trying to keep the waves of panic from overwhelming him, he kept filling her lungs with short, measured breaths, watching in between for her chest to rise and fall on its own.  “Please, love,” he begged in a ragged whisper, “Please wake up.  You can’t leave me, not now.”  He rubbed her hands and arms trying to warm her.  “Buffy, I felt you … inside,” he whispered to the pale, still face, “that’s how I found you.”  He lifted the small hand that held his ring and threaded his fingers through hers as he tried once more to push air between her lips.  “You have to hear me,” he said, “You have to find me now.  Please.”

Angel felt a scant frisson of energy from the hand clutched in his grasp.  The tiny pulse made him dare to turn his head a few inches … and he found himself looking into twin pools of misty green.  His eyes widened as he felt a slight, feeble arm reach up towards his neck.  He felt that indefinable flow of energy between them growing stronger.  He was flooded with such joy at seeing a faint smile on the beloved face inches from his own that he never realized he was chanting her name over and over and over.  Oh, God, he hadn’t lost her.  She was alive.  She was soft and growing warmer, lying in his arms gazing into his eyes.

“Angel?” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her.

“I’m here, love, right here,” he whispered hoarsely, gently hugging her closer.

“I heard you calling me,” she forced out weakly, “I felt you.”

Angel could feel Buffy’s heartbeat against his own.  He had searched for her and he had been in time.  He hadn’t failed her – he had found her.  They had found each other.

The wind rose at that moment, swirling the rain-soaked leaves and debris around them.  Angel lifted his head, realizing he’d been oblivious to the weather except its role in keeping him from finding Buffy.  He saw it for all it was.  Just a storm.  The raging tempest no longer held him captive.  It no longer held any power over him.

He ran his large hands over her gently, looking for any wounds.  She stopped him, tugging his head down to reach her lips.  They opened as his slanted across them softly and tenderly.  He was starving for her and needed to taste her, to touch her.  His tongue slipped into the warmth of her mouth and tangled with hers.  He gently hugged her to himself, as near as he could bring her.  The tears that fell now were of relief and soul deep fulfillment.

“Angel,” she whispered over the sound of the rain, “please don’t cry, I’m all right.”

He hadn’t even known he was crying.  He saw her brow crease in tender concern and whispered back with a soft smile, “These are happy tears, love.”

At that she curled her arms more tightly around his neck, burrowing her face into the warmth of his chest.  She murmured from below his chin, “You’re everything to me.”  At her words his arms tightened their hold.

He pulled back quickly when he felt her wince, mindful the cuts and bruises that covered her.  “You’re hurt,” he said worriedly.  “Did Spike do this to you?” he asked, his voice filling with anger at the thought of what Spike had done, what he might have done to her.

“H-he tried … but … I got away,” she said falteringly.  “I knocked him out.  I hurt my head, but I got away,” she repeated.  Buffy heard Angel curse bitterly.  “No, Angel,” she said softly, “It doesn’t matter, I’m okay.”  But she shivered as she spoke and not from the cold.

Angel felt the small tremor run through her.  He needed to get her to shelter.  Disentangling himself from Buffy long enough to stand, he swept her into his arms in one swift movement.  He looked around a few short moments trying to get his bearings and headed in the direction he thought the cabin should be.  The storm had started to slack off by the time he finally found it.  Angel carried her inside the one room shack and set her down on the bench inside the door.  He looked over to see Spike was still out cold and whispered to Buffy that he’d be right back.  Moments later he returned with two blankets from his car.  He tried to wrap her up in both of them, but she insisted he pull one around himself.

He drew her into his lap, bringing her as close as physically possible.  Very gently, Angel ran his fingers and eyes over every inch of her under the blanket.  A hard knot had formed on the back of her head from hitting it against the fireplace.  Other than that he was relieved to find nothing more serious than small cuts and bruises which appeared to be from her flight through the forest.

So afraid of almost losing her, he buried his face in the hollow of her neck, reveling in her living warmth.  He nuzzled her damp hair, then dropped kisses on her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks.  When he got to her lips, he captured them with his own, so thankful to be able to once more savor her sweetness.  Angel was addicted to her, a need he would never satisfy.  His hands roved over her nonstop, touching and caressing her.  He kissed and soothed every small bump and aberration in his path.  Tenderly fingering the marks on her wrists where she’d freed herself, Angel eyed Spike dangerously.

As if he felt the baleful gaze, Spike stirred and struggled to sit up against the wall.  He looked over, shocked to see Angel on the bench with Buffy held fast in his arms.

As Angel sat there, pulling her closer to his chest, he stared at Spike.  He looked around the cabin so painfully familiar, looked at the small cot and at the ropes.  The last piece of the puzzle of his past finally fell into place.  And it had taken Spike’s deranged hatred to show him.

Spike had loved Dru.  They were connected in a way no one but the two of them understood, if even they did themselves.  She was integral to him, a part of him, and when she died it killed most of what was good and pure in Spike.  He had let it twist him into a bitter, loveless man.

Why, Angel wondered, had he ever listened to Spike who had been just a little boy himself?  Monsters in the guise of men kidnapped and shot his sister, not Angel.  He wasn’t the one who had taken her from her family or harmed her.  He’d done everything he could to protect her, but he never had a chance.  He was only eight years old.  The realization was like a watershed bursting over him.  All these years he hadn’t been able to forgive himself for something he never had any control over.

The doctors, his parents, Cordelia had all tried to make him see it wasn’t his fault.  All his life Angel blamed himself for Dru’s death, refusing to listen, refusing to hear that little boy locked inside.  He let fear and guilt and Dru’s angry little brother convince him that he was the one who was wrong, the one who failed.  Buffy had told him he had to deal with that small child she glimpsed buried deep inside.  That little boy had a right to be hurt and scared, but Angel let his own misplaced blame blind him and push that small voice of truth away.

Angel finally understood he wasn’t a failure, he never had been.  The face that had looked back at him from his mirror was never the one anyone except he and Spike chose to see, each from their own warped perspectives.  He had done all he could for Dru.  And later it was his work, his brains and blood and sweat that enabled him to become an agent – a good one.  He had nothing to be ashamed of, everything he had worked for he had earned and he deserved.

Looking down at Buffy, his hold on her tightened.  He had saved her.  As a man, as someone big enough and strong enough to be able to rescue her.  Not as a helpless child, desperately afraid of the monsters and the storm, trying to protect an injured little girl.  There would be no new nightmare to taunt and torment him forever.  All those lonely, empty, dreadful years slipped away as he hugged his reason for living closer to him.

Spike sat on the floor glaring at him.

“Why don’t you fight me, Spike?” Angel asked from the bench.

“Untie these ropes and I’ll be glad to oblige,“ he snarled.

“No,” Angel told him, “I’ve already made it easy for you, there’s only you tied up.”

“What are you talking about?” Spike asked angrily. “How do you expect me to fight with these and what do you mean only me?”

“I was tied in ropes just like those and so was Dru,” Angel clarified, “You told me I should have been able to save her.  That you would have, if it had been you with her, instead of me.  So go ahead, get out of those ropes and show me.”

“That was different,” Spike shouted as he wrestled with the bonds and the truth.

Angel’s mouth formed a sad smile at his words, “You’re right, Spike.  It was very different.  I was only eight years old and there were three men who tied us up.  How could I have helped Dru or myself?  I was just a little boy.”

Spike had no quick, smart-mouth retort.  He slumped against the wall.  He’d become the monster, now he was the victim.  He knew he couldn’t break the ropes as strong as he was.  The cold veracity of Angel’s words cut through him like a blade.  He wasn’t about to admit to Angel that he’d already stumbled across that painful truth.  If he did he’d have to admit it to himself.

‘What a waste,’ Angel thought sadly.  He and Spike had both lost years of their lives.  Spike filling his own heart with hatred for blaming something on Angel when he himself could have done no better.  And Angel for believing him.

Angel felt a small tug at his arm and looked back down on Buffy.  She had tears in her eyes and a bittersweet smile of her own.

“It’s someday,” was all she said.

His smile deepened as Angel answered her by giving her a kiss deeper than the smile.

*****

Daniel Holtz and Lindsey McDonald entered the cabin expecting the worst.  They were relieved to find all three occupants alive.  Holtz exhaled an audible sigh at the sight, not realizing until that moment that he’d been holding his breath.  Angel, still sitting on the bench inside the door, cradled Buffy gently, keeping her blanket close around her.  Spike, battered and bloodied, leaned against the wall, still on the floor, his hands tied to the bed.  Lindsey signaled to his waiting team to remain where they were outside.

Holtz had never seen Spike’s bruised face show what he saw there, although it was not a new expression to the young man’s father.  Replacing its usual cocky, arrogance was a mixture of disbelief and self-loathing.  He had seen a similar look gaze back at him from his own mirror.  But the face he identified most with that look would have been Angel.  Now, however, Holtz saw no trace of it on Liam Angelus at all.  In its place was love and relief, all directed at the small bundle he held close to his chest.

Spike flinched when his father kneeled down beside him, refusing to look at him.  Once more Daniel Holtz wondered how much of all this had been his own fault, but knew the time for what could have been was over.  Now he would have to see what could be salvaged from the shreds of the past and of the present.  Without a word, he sat down next to his son and slipped an arm around his shoulders.  He waited for Spike to pull away.  Instead, Spike sat perfectly still, not moving away or towards his father.  Holtz could feel Spike’s muscles trembling under his arm and tightened it around him.  Perhaps all was not lost – perhaps.

While the team stayed behind to finish up, Holtz silently untied his son and lead him to the waiting car.  Lindsey watched them leave as he opened the door on his own car for Angel to slide into with Buffy still securely in his arms.

[end chapter 17]

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