inmates

Dedicated to rogueslayer.

Part I

He shuddered. The rain had soaked him when he'd ventured out earlier, and now, back in the basement, his tattered black shirt and torn jeans had dried stiffly, hair a damp mess of faded platinum curls, inch-long brown roots soft and smooth from lack of bleach.

The corners of the place were a cacophony of dust, dirt, and grime, and he crouched behind a wall of boxes, arms -- newly thin, stress-emaciated -- covering the sharp planes of his tear-stained face.

Lucidity was so far out of reach now, he was barely aware of his actions as a rat experimentally nosed the toe of his boot. With one swift motion, the rodent was snatched up, neck snapped, blood drained, small limp bag of fur flung hard against the opposite wall with a distinct thud.

He began to rock back and forth, singing nonsensical bits of half-remembered English folk songs in a hoarse whisper.

Prison in here, he thought, dirt-caked fingers sweeping through his hair. Priii-sonnn.

He laughed aloud: a long, shrill giggle that, if any ears had caught it, would send chills up even the most jaded of human spines.

It was painfully clear that this creature was completely mad.

***

She picked her way through the tunnels easily. Her cellmate's blueprints had been completely accurate, thank God. Too bad Tina'd fallen down the spooky manhole-type thing a mile back. Faith blanched at the memory of her friend cracking into a twisted mess at the bottom of the pit. Her flashlight had lingered on the scene only an instant before she'd felt nauseated and pressed on.

It had been a long hard trek from LA, and Faith's clothes -- random things she'd plucked off a backyard clothesline that didn't quite fit -- were streaked with mud. Her glossy waves of hair, deep espresso, were bunched haphazardly into a messy bun, and her eyes, wide and skittish, belied the twinge of fear that she usually kept under wraps.

Right where she knew it would be, Faith finally saw the heavy iron door in front of her, and tugged hard at its rusty handle. With minimal effort, she managed to swing it open.

"Sweet," she whispered. "Back in the Dale."

***

His head jerked up when he heard the groan of metal somewhere behind him, and he scrambled to conceal himself further from whatever was surely coming for him. A small keening rattled in his throat, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to try to muffle it. He hunched over and rested his head between sharp, knobby knees, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

Noooo, his head screamed. No, not to take me away, not to take me away, not to --

Small, graceful footsteps began to echo through the basement, and a shadow presently fell across his trembling body.

"What the fuck?!" came a sharp feminine voice.

His attention darted to the source of the sound, and he shrank back against the cold concrete of the wall.

"Who -- wait..." Faith frowned as she caught something familiar in the frightened blue eyes of the slim, pale man.

"N-n-not going with you," he stammered, voice singsongy and hollow. "Got to be a good boy now."

It was the accent that did it. Faith's bravado crumbled, and her brows knit in uncharacteristic concern. William the Bloody, she realized. Goddamn, what the hell happened to him?!

"Spike?" she finally asked, kneeling down beside him. "Spike, what's going on here?" Though her tone was gentle, she instinctively sneaked a hand inside her bag, clutching at the familiar wooden stake.

He shifted at the mention of his name, and started to try to stand. His legs were unsteady, and Spike gripped the side of a box to pull himself up. "Not going with you," he repeated. "I don't care, things to do, mustn't, mustn't hurt..."

His shirt fell open a little, revealing criss-cross scars, fresh crimson claw marks, across the left side of his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Spike, what -- "

"Hurts, hurts, hurts," he mumbled, staggering against the boxes and slouching, head down.

They both remained silent, unmoving, for nearly a minute. Faith had no idea what to do, knew she should just high-tail it out of the basement, out of the school, and dash off to find Buffy, but her feet were planted as she studied Spike with sick fascination.

It was when he finally turned back to her, pinning her with his intense, icy eyes that she finally realized what had happened to him.

She'd seen that look before.

***

She dimmed the lights in the hotel room before dashing back out into the light drizzle to retrieve Spike from the backseat of the stolen Beetle. She needed no slayer strength to slide his ravaged body from the car; he was light and yielding, and she slung his left arm around her neck, propping him up against her so he wouldn't fall as they walked across the parking lot.

He said nothing once inside, just sank to the lumpy mattress of the nearer of the two twin beds and collapsed onto his back, eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling.

There was nothing she could do right now, so Faith retreated to the bathroom. She peeled off her clothes, filling the sink with warm water and shampoo and dropped the dirty garments in to soak, then stepped into the shower. The bliss of the searing spray released tension from her aching muscles, and she sank to the floor of the tub, letting the water cascade over her, erasing the dull twinges of pain. When she finally emerged -- towel snug around her head, fluffy hotel robe tied around her lithe body -- Spike had fallen asleep.

She sat up a while, stake in hand, watching him, making sure he wasn't going to spring up and attack her in a fit of insanity, but he remained still in his death-sleep, body almost visibly rigid.

A corpse who apparently now had a soul.

After an hour, Faith went back to the bathroom, rinsed out her clothes and hung them to dry over the dull metal of the shower curtain rod.

When she herself finally slept, it was fitful and full of nightmares.

***

Morning light streaming grey and cold through the curtains caused Faith's eyes to flutter open. Noting the empty bed across the room, she sat up, looking around nervously, 'til finally she spotted Spike sitting calmly in a corner, well away from the pale sunbeams that would've charred his skin.

He looked better, the ashen circles diminished from under his eyes, and, clad only in a towel, she realized he must've showered, too, while she slept.

Despite the presence of the bloody wounds on his chest and his generally sunken appearance, Faith couldn't help but gape appreciatively at him. Tight, wiry musculature, hair dried into fluffy two-tone corkscrews, long, lean legs stretched out in front of him...

She shook her head a little, freed her silky hair from its confines, and pretended to find the lint on her bedspread infinitely fascinating.

"Hey," she said quietly.

"Faith," he replied curtly. "Eh... how did we get here, then?"

She looked back at him, taken aback. He studied her with cold sanity, and now it was her turn to be confused.

After she supplied him with a brief rundown of the previous night's events, he nodded simply as if this were all perfectly reasonable, punctuating the news with a staccato "Ah."

"So you're, like, totally nuts now, is that it?" She laughed lightly, trying to make the question sound less urgent than it was.

He considered it a moment, finally replying, "I think... I think it comes and goes."

"You've got a soul now, don't you?"

Spike cringed. "Yeah," he whispered sadly. "And I don't fancy talking about it, if you don't mind."

Part II

She returned to the room with the necessary supplies: pig's blood, Pop Tarts, soda, beer, cigarettes, bandages, and a fresh set of clothes for Spike. This last he took gratefully, if shyly, and disappeared into the bathroom to change while Faith tore open one of the twin packs of cold pastry and began to eat.

To be continued...