Author's Notes: Thanks to my sis, Dorothy, for the beta (again). Also, last chapter, Dontia asked about what was happening with Dawn & Connor (yay! Somebody cares!), and there's a short and a long answer to that question. Short one is: that's another story (literally) that I'd planned to write concurrently, and then realized that was the quick way to a nervous breakdown. So, although it's partially written now, "Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch, starring Dawn and Connor" isn't likely to be posted until after this fic. :-) P.S. This chapter didn't turn out the way I expected it to. Buffy and Spike don't always respect my plot outlines.

Disclaiming again: BTVS doesn't belong to me, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement intended.

Chapter 11 : Coming Apart

Things became confusing.

Maybe it was the portal – maybe it scrambled her brain just a little bit – maybe Illyria did that to her on purpose. Or maybe it was just that she was so tired, not a moment to catch her breath, and Spike had her knotted so tightly in those stale-smelling robes that she could hardly breathe.

They came stumbling through to somewhere else. On the outskirts of... some kind of a settlement. People? How could there be other people here?

It was hot. Steamy hot, riotous undergrowth.

All of a sudden, Buffy realized she was sweltering underneath her many layers of cloth. "Let me go. Let go of me," she growled insistently, pushing Spike away from her as she started to pull the dusty fabric away.

Spike caught her arm, held tight. "Not here." A distorted grimace on the mask he'd pulled down over his face. He looked strange. Unfriendly. Like a gargoyle or a devil, and it made her think of the Nigerian mask her mother had once hung upon the wall – a demonic mask that had worn people, possessed them and made them into puppets… "Too many locals about," Spike said, "and not many of 'em friendly. Wait a bit. There's a place we're headed to, not far—"

"Let go of me!" Slipped free of his grasp and caught his wrist instead, tried to twist it back, break it, tried to force him away, because it was cruel to keep her like this, wound up in this awful suffocating shroud and dying of heat—

"Buffy!" He'd never been faster than her before, never been stronger, but now he was both. Caught her up in front of him and held her arms folded tight against her, and his voice softened, "Buffy," gentler, low and soothing. The way he'd used to speak her name, and she couldn't help but stop to listen to it now. "It's not far, Buffy, I promise you. Calm down now, pet. I'm right here with you, okay?"

"We must continue," Illyria said, traces of impatience colouring her otherwise toneless voice.

"So go on, then," Spike replied, his anger unmistakable and all but sizzling through the overheated air. "We'll be right behind you." Voice lowering again, coaxing, "Come on, Buffy, let's go. It'll be all right." His words continuing on in a consoling hum, and Buffy stumbled alongside him, caught up in his arms and going where he lead her, while he kept on murmuring steady reassurances to her.

"Shouldn't have," she moaned when she caught a brief breath of sanity. Felt like she was floating in and out. "I mean me. I can't – there's something I… I don't know what's wrong with me, Spike. I didn't mean to… I didn't."

"Shush. It's okay, luv; it's all right. We're almost there. Don't worry; I've got you."

"But – but why…" The question she'd wanted to ask flitted away from her, leaving her empty and confused. "It's… so hot."

"I know." His hand brushed a sticky tendril of hair off her forehead. The coolness of his touch a tiny reprieve. "Can't be helped."

She thought she was vaguely aware of a hillside, that they were following a path that darted in and out of the overgrown greenery. Aware that he was following Illyria, who stalked along as fearlessly as if she owned everywhere she stepped, her head uncovered and her face unhidden. Unrestrained blue like the brilliant blue sky reeling overhead.

But where were they going? It didn't make sense. Why were they even here at all? She didn't want to go anymore, wondered if maybe she should try to tell Spike that. Wondered if he would listen. He was making her walk with him, but she didn't want to be here. Back home. Home. He could come with her, and everything would be better there. But it was so hard to concentrate – if only it weren't so hot – how could his voice sound so kind when he was keeping her captive like this?

They came to a place. Surreal. There was a horsey-faced creature, with a bad haircut and limbs that bent the wrong way. Tending a garden…? Not right. Couldn't be real.

Spike was saying something – not to Buffy now, he was speaking loudly, but it made no sense – it had that disjointed sound that demon languages sometimes had – and the peculiar creature started with surprise, then smiled at them.

Odd, Buffy thought, odd that they smile like humans smile. Odd.

All of their nonsense prattling words bounced around in Buffy's ears, made her dizzy, made her think she might fall over, but Spike still held her confined. At least he took pity, and began unravelling the cloying, heavy fabric, lifted it away and freed her, so she felt like she could almost breathe again. So hot already, like steam, and she was burning up.

Something else bounded forward – a small, quick creature of silky-black colouring. Buffy drew a sharp breath, for a moment thinking it was the same demonic pursuer that had just chased them from the mountainside – but then realized that this figure wasn't at all alike, not menacing, but undersized and delicate, with a face like a porcelain doll's.

The creature chattered in greeting, seeming deferential towards Illyria and friendly towards Spike, and then it laughed, a high delighted sound, when it turned its chalky white eyes on Buffy. "Is that a human? A real, true human?" The voice sounded like a young girl's. "It almost looks like—"

"It—" Spike caught himself, quickly correcting himself. "She is."

"I have not seen one of those since L.A.!"

It reached out towards her, hands scuttling lightly over her arm like the brittle black branches of a tree. Buffy smacked the little fingertips away. "Hands… off…" She wanted to be menacing, or even a bit dangerous, but only sounded cranky. Petulant.

"Oh! It's nasty!" the little-girl voice exclaimed in surprise.

"She's ill," Spike replied, sounding distracted. "Is it safe for us to stay, Moringot? For a few days, at most."

The strange little demon girl trilled something to the long-faced horse creature, got a response, and replied, "But he says that you and your liege-lady are always welcome here."

Liege-lady. Illyria. How ridiculous was that.

Buffy felt something boiling over within her, beneath the fever and the illness, because she was beginning to realize that there might have been a seismic shift since she'd last seen Spike, and whatever had been between them now felt all unsettled and rearranged, and she couldn't seem to find her footing in this new landscape. But she came all this way – she did so much to get here – and it was so unfair, burning through her vision. Hit her like a heat wave, made her topple sideways.

Voices from far away.

"What is wrong with it?"

"She's injured. We had a run-in with some Grushnalks." Hands on her shoulders, beneath her knees, sweeping her up in a painful, dizzying wheel of movement.

"…need a place to lie down, let her rest."

Clucking disapproval. "Vile bred-things…"

"…with me – get – and be quick about…"

The words were breaking into choppy fragments. She couldn't tell who was talking anymore.

It crossed Buffy's mind that she wasn't just a little bit sick, but really sick, maybe even with the 'deathly ill' variety. Wouldn't that just be stupid, if she came all the way here, and died in some hot, horrible hell dimension. And who would care? Who would tell Dawn? She'd come here by herself, so boldly and so foolishly, without even knowing the way back home. What if Dawn never found out what happened, what if she waited forever for Buffy to come back, and no one ever told her?

Buffy tried to reach for the green-stoned amulet, but couldn't make her arms work right, couldn't find it, her fingers crawling clumsy and confused.

No Dawn now, just another stifling darkness. Dark room, someone settling her down on something comparatively soft.

She was too tired to think about it any more.

She woke with a shriek in her throat. Someone tried to quiet her.

Wound at her leg was biting and burning, tinged a sour and spiteful blue, like Illyria. A putrid smell, something gone rancid. Oh God, that couldn't be good. And there was no corner store, no antiseptic, no sterile bandages, nothing to dull the pain…

Heat and fire could cleanse wounds – but wounded souls would burn in flame. What was she going to do? What could she do?

Hand on her shoulder, pushing her down, and it made her head spin.

"Calm down. Stay down. We'll take care of it."

No. No, she should do it. She should—

"Damn it, Buffy. Let me."

Okay. Okay.

Too sick now anyway. Weak. Maybe too late. Infection too deep.

"This is going to hurt."

What? What's going to—?

Pain. Oh god, if she hadn't known what it was before, she did now – indescribable, cut through and agony excruciating, and screaming shrilled in her ears—

Not alone. Someone was there.

She struck out with her fists; she could still fight; she could still kill.

Caught her flailing hands and folded them back down over her chest.

"Bad dream, luv. Bad dream. Go back to sleep."

Oh. Okay.

That was easier, anyway.

Loosening and tightening. Winding and weaving. A steady pattern of cloth and pressure. Maybe even vaguely familiar. She tried to make sense of it.

Someone was checking her wounds and binding them. It took her a very long time to recognize and understand that.

"Spike?" Voice was strange in her mouth, felt thick and unused.

"Yeah, I'm here."

Spike was there. Good…

She absorbed that thought, took a few lengthy minutes to formulate another one. "Where… am I?" She tried to sit up, didn't even manage it halfway, and fell back with a groan. Weak. Hot. Lightheaded. "And… what's wrong with me?"

"You were injured, remember? Took a few swordstokes – a particularly nasty one to the thigh."

She thought maybe she did remember, maybe she didn't. Kept quiet and listened and let small pieces of her sanity slowly trickle back to her.

Spike continued, "There was poison in the wound. Went deep." Though his voice was calm and even, she sensed an edge upon those words, a hint of tension that wasn't completely masked. "We've leached out as much of it as possible. There's not a lot more that we can do. You're almost through the worst of it now – but you're going to have to be strong for a little while longer, Buffy."

Be strong. Always strong. Always had to be.

Wait. We…? Who was 'we'…?

Oh yes. Blue girl. Unfriendly blue girl.

"'m tired," she murmured. Tired of that. Tired of being weak; tired of being strong. Tired of not knowing.

"Rest, then. I won't be far away—"

"No." Felt the rustle of movement as he stood, and she flung out her hand, clumsily catching onto him and holding tight. So hard to do. "Don't go." I'm not ready for you to be gone. "Wait. Stay with me. Please…?"

He said nothing, made no sound at all – so quiet when he wanted to be, no breath to give his presence away – but after a moment's pause, she felt him subside, slowly sitting back down beside her. Still, she didn't let go of him. Didn't trust him not to slip away.

Hot tear wandered down her cheek, felt like fever.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Buffy," he sighed, sounding so defeated. Disentangling her hand from its awkward hold, he clasped it in his own. "It's okay. It's all right, Buffy. Try to rest. I'll stay here with you. As long as you need me."

When Buffy woke again, things felt clearer. Her leg didn't ache; there was no fever; her mind felt surprisingly clear, and she was beginning to be able to rearrange her chaotic memories back into something that resembled order.

And then cringed at what little she did recall of her spectacular collapse. God, as if it weren't embarrassing enough to fall completely to pieces like that – why, of all possible times and places, did it have to happen here and now, right in front of Spike? And, not to forget, also in full view of that stuck-up, unpleasant Illyria person… Ugh. That was definitely more than enough reminiscing for now.

Sleepily, she lifted her eyes halfway open. The room's one window was shuttered against the outside, but hot daylight streamed through the cracks and gaps in the ragged wood, partially illuminating a small, tumbledown room that she recalled only distantly from fever-scarred memories. She wondered how much time had passed, how long she'd been lying here. Spike, she remembered. Spike was here with her…

Biting her lip, she shut her eyes for a moment, then gathered her courage. Lifting her head – and inordinately pleased to feel no dizziness with that movement – she turned to look over at Spike. "Oh!"

The dark, pixie-like creature that had been sitting nearby almost bounced off the wall in shocked reflex, wide white pupil-less eyes goggling at her. The barbed little porcupine-animal only briefly ruffled its needles in a clacking sound, eyeing her with beady neutrality. Except for them, the room was empty.

"Where's Spike?" Buffy creaked out in startled surprise. Some distant corner of her mind considered the fact that ever since she'd jumped into this strange hell dimension, she'd kept going back to asking that same question over and over, still having to chase after him, no matter how near he was.

"Oh, so then you are alive after all!" the girl-creature chirped in an annoyed, scolding reaction. Her all-white eyes were weirdly disturbing, like a doll's eyes rolled permanently backwards. "But why did you want to screech so? It is not nice of you to spring up so unexpectedly like that."

"Where's Spike?" Buffy repeated, more forcefully this time.

That tone, at least, got the creature to stop its scolding. "Gone," she replied, in a childlike voice. "With his Lady. To make new friends."

Buffy shook her head, not understanding. "Gone? But… what…? Lady – you mean, Illyria?"

"Oh, I dare not presume to speak her name… but yes, she."

"Friends," Buffy echoed, still trying to chase down something substantial. "What friends?"

"New ones," the girl said simply. "But one never knows if they are truly friends until one tries to make them. For my part, I do not try; it seems too much effort by far, and by myself I do not have much charm." Pausing only long enough to take a breath, she continued, "I am Moringot. This," she gestured delicately to the bristly little ball of needles next to her, "is what they call Puffin. And you are named as Buffy?"

"Yes – yes, I'm Buffy," she replied distractedly, abruptly more concerned with the sudden realization that she was wearing a scratchy, short-hemmed shift that didn't do much more than cover the bare essentials, and only just that. "Where's my clothes?"

"I burned them."

"What?!"

"All drenched through with blood and festering, and Spike told me to put them to the fire, of course. One of the elder tapestries, too, it was ruined also. The Lady was not pleased. She said that you were like to wreak wanton waste upon everything you touch. Is that true, Buffy?"

"I – no. Don't call me that."

"Why? Is it not your name?"

"It is," she replied, completely flustered by now, "I mean, yes, it's my name – it's just, I don't— Wait. Stop." She stomped her bare foot on the hard-packed dirt floor, which felt almost as futile as it must have looked. "I am not having a conversation with you right now. I want some clothes. Now."

Puffin fluffed his quills in a leisurely, noisy flourish that she suspected was some bizarre way of laughing at her, and Moringot regarded her with flat-eyed thoughtfulness. "What kind of clothing do you have need of?"

"I don't care what kind," she started, then stopped herself. That would likely lead to disaster. "Like what Spike or Illyria wears. I want something like that. Something longer," she said, yanking the inadequate hem down as far as she could, "than this thing."

"Hmm," Moringot considered. "Hmm," she said again, turning the humming sound into a vaguely tuneful pattern, and wandered out of the room and away altogether. Whether or not she'd actually return with anything better to wear was anyone's guess, but at the moment, Buffy realized she didn't much care.

Buffy turned to glare at Puffin. "Go on," she urged, waving a hand at it, "shoo. Shoo!"

Maybe Puffin didn't understand "shoo," or maybe it simply wasn't inclined to leave just on her say-so, but Buffy was partly mollified when it at least trundled itself around, turning its back to her before hunching back down in the same spot.

Turning her back on it, she hurriedly looked herself over. Bruises on her arm were now an ashen yellow and green, already fast fading. Her back – stiff and sore, the skin pulling tightly if she stretched too far, but her fingertips could just brush against the scabbed, dry edges of the wound there, and she knew it was healing. Good.

And then the leg – that deep cut had been the worst of her injuries, and it had pained her the most. Though it didn't hurt now, she still had to see for herself. Quickly unwinding the bandage, she frowned. Where the blade had cut, there was now a long, livid mark running across her thigh, still raised and swollen, but that was to be expected – it was the drawn-out, discoloured strands that ran beneath her skin all around it that unnerved her. "What…?"

Definitely freaky-looking… but there was no pain when she prodded it. Spike – he'd spoken to her when she was sick – hadn't he said something about poison? Maybe it had been worse before; maybe this blotchiness was a big improvement. "Damn it, Spike," she hissed in frustration. He should be here. He'd said – if she was remembering things right, anyway – he'd said that he would stay.

But he'd gone. With Illyria. And left her alone here.

Okay, deep breath. Deep breath, and absolutely no freaking out, and take a quick reality-check. Of the good: abnormal skin blotches notwithstanding, her health was definitely on the upswing. Yay, for the Slayer-strength.

And of the not-so-good: she couldn't think of a way to spin her current circumstances as anything other than grim. Alone in the middle of a demon hell dimension, with no friends anywhere in sight, not to mention no weapons, and now with no decent clothes or shoes. That had to be some kind of Slayer record for going from bad to worse.

But, Buffy realized, her fingertips brushing against her neck, at least she still had the amulet Dawn had given her. Lifting it up, she examined it hopefully, but there was no spark of life in the green stone at its center. A fluttering of fear beat somewhere deep inside her, but she refused to acknowledge it.

It would work – when she needed it to. It would. She carefully tucked it back beneath her tunic, pressing a hand against it. Dawn would find her, would bring them all home. She was sure of it. She had to be.

When Moringot finally came back, she wasn't alone. The dauntingly tall creature that trailed behind Moringot had to stoop down to enter the room. It turned its long horse-head sideways, a dark eye rolling to look down at her. Opened its mouth and said… something incomprehensible.

"He says," Moringot warbled in her high, pleasant-sounding voice, "that you may make use of whatever suits you."

Buffy realized that the creature was carrying an assortment of fabric, and was holding it outstretched towards her. "Um… thank you, I guess," she said as she accepted the bundle, then looked uncertainly over to Moringot. "Tell him I said thanks."

Moringot twittered something that didn't sound at all similar to the other creature's disjointed language, but whatever she'd said seemed to have been understood. The tall creature bobbed its head several times and then withdrew from the room.

Moringot plopped herself down and watched Buffy with a bright empty stare. Puffin still sat stolidly in his corner without moving, maybe sulking or sleeping. Though Buffy certainly had no intention of getting undressed with either of those two on hand, she decided to at least look through the clothing they'd brought her. And she found herself unexpectedly glad that Moringot had returned – at the moment, she was the only living thing with whom Buffy could communicate.

It bothered her more than she cared to admit that Spike was gone again, that both he and Illyria had left her here alone. Or, alone with these strange creatures, anyway.

But she didn't ask about Spike; instead, she said, "So, you speak English…?"

"You speak English," Moringot corrected primly. "I speak many human tongues."

Buffy eyed her curiously. "But you were in L.A.?"

"I was. Until the fury of great powers fell upon us all and wrongly bore us away into this shadow-world. It has been most inconvenient." Her voice lifted into a questioning note. "But you seem scarcely one of us. How is it that you have come to be here, Buffy?"

"Mostly by my own stupidity," Buffy sighed. But that wasn't a subject she was going to discuss with some random little demon girl just because she was the only one available to talk to. "That other creature that just left here," Buffy said, shifting the focus of conversation, "does he have a name?"

"Hnablanor," Moringot replied, the cumbersome word rolling off her tongue with singsonging ease.

"Hanna-blan-er?" she tried in a halting voice.

Peals of musical laughter. "Ah ha ha, very amusing, yes, you are most comical!" After a few moments, her glee came to an abrupt halt, her white eyes blinking quick surprise. "Surely, that was intended to be mirthful, was it not, human girl?"

Buffy sighed, annoyed that the pint-sized creature seemed to have a perfect English vocabulary, even if it was overly wordy. "How about I just call him 'Hanna?'" she suggested.

Moringot gave an easy roll of her shoulders. "He is a good-natured sort and will no doubt not take offense, although I must say, your accent is very peculiar to my ears."

"I don't speak a lot of demon at home."

"Do you not?"

"Human, remember? We don't coexist with demons all that well," she said, abruptly reconsidering her words the moment she'd spoken them. Probably a topic she'd be better off not straying onto, considering her present surroundings.

She switched her attention to the clothing they'd brought her. It was an eclectic mix that didn't look much more promising than the threadbare tapestries that Spike had originally provided to Buffy: differing sizes, diverse fabrics, and some of the pieces were completely inexplicable. Seriously, what was this? – a giant five-legged dog sweater? Quickly tossing aside the flimsier pieces, she rummaged around for something more sturdy, maybe even battle-worthy, and then paused, becoming aware of a shadowy pattern splashed over more than one of them. "Where did you get these?"

"These," Moringot mused, flicking through Buffy's discarded choices, "are from the fallen."

"The fallen— what, you mean dead people?!" She dropped the piece she was holding, now clearly seeing the signs of mended tears, of repeated scrubbing to remove the odd discolourations that were likely spilled demon blood.

"They have no further need of garment or weaponry or adornment, cannot make use of any of it. If it needs be, why should we not?"

"I don't know," she mumbled cautiously, not wanting to offend, but still it made her skin crawl. "It just seems wrong."

"This is not L.A.; this is not your world," Moringot said in a chiding, singsong reminder. "There are none of your shops or boutiques anywhere in this sphere – and what mongers there are, they do not barter to your kind at all. You should be more gracious."

Gracious. She should be gracious for having her pick of the dress-like-a-dead-demon rag bin.

"It's… not that I don't appreciate this," she tried haltingly – lying through her teeth, because, ick. Several times over. But what other choice did she have? Run around half-naked as she fought her way through demon-land? Like she couldn't find a million things wrong with that plan.

Buffy scowled unhappily down at the clothing, trying to hide her distaste. "I didn't think of it that way. I'm just… not used to this place yet."

And she had no intention of sticking around long enough to get used to it, either. Collect Spike and Angel, and head on home – that was the plan. Just as soon as she figured out how to contact Dawn. And whenever Spike came wandering back from wherever he'd gone.

"You are new." Moringot seemed all sunny disposition once more. "I am not. I must learn patience."

"When will Spike be back?" Buffy finally asked.

"When he and his Lady come back."

Buffy grit her teeth. Apparently, Moringot wasn't the only one who had to learn patience. She tried another topic. "What about Angel? Do you know him, do you know where he is?"

"No, I know nothing of any angels. Is this a secret you may tell?"

Another dead end. "Okay, then Illyria," Buffy said. "What can you tell me about Illyria?"

"The Lady? Oh, she is… She is…" Buffy was sure that this was the first time she'd seen Moringot suffer an inarticulate moment. "She is the embodiment of great age and greater power. Beautiful and terrible, like all those bygone things that were."

Exactly what did that mean? "So… you're a fan," Buffy summarized.

Moringot's head tipped back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock, in something that might have been indecision. "One knows one's place and does not argue with power," she replied ambiguously, her bone-white eyes flicking over towards Puffin, who had not moved, had not stirred. "Respect is required. But perhaps," she continued, her voice lowering almost to a whisper as she rose to her feet, leaning very close to Buffy's ear – and Buffy had to forcibly keep herself from drawing back – "perhaps it is not wise to be too near to her. But neither is it wise to set yourself against her."

That had the unmistakable sound of warning. "And Spike," Buffy couldn't help asking, "is he… close to her?"

"Oh yes," Moringot agreed, settling back onto the floor and resuming her usual singalong manner, "if he is here, then she is near. And if she is here, then he is not far. It is never one without the other; always they keep company together."

"Hmph." Her breath huffed out a little too forcefully to be noncommittal. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Moringot's head canted slowly sideways as she regarded her. "Is there some defect in my manner of speaking? It is your language I am using."

"That's not – I mean, I know. I know, okay? It's not that I don't get what you're saying – it's just that I—" She stopped herself. "It's confusing. You put your sentences together weirdly," she said defensively, too quick and too sharp, and her irritable tone probably wasn't making her any friends. She drew her hand over her eyes, trying to find a quick way out of this awkward conversation. "I just need some rest, that's all. I'm tired." Tired of talking to you. "Can you go away now?" It was rude, she knew it was rude, but she didn't care.

Buffy took little notice as Moringot agreeably bounced to her feet and went away, too absorbed in her own thoughts.

Before coming here, she'd thought long and hard about what had gone wrong between Spike and her, about mistakes made and missed opportunities and second chances. She'd believed that if she could just find her way back to him again, then she'd say all the things she should have said before, and somehow – magically – it would all be all right.

But she'd already found Spike – and they'd hardly spoken at all, and when they did, he'd been strange and standoffish – and now he was gone again. With Illyria.

She hadn't expected that she would have to catch him, or convince him. Hadn't expected to find him here partnered off so close and cozy with Illyria, and for the life of her, Buffy couldn't imagine what he saw in her. Because Illyria was a stone-cold bitch. Totally not his type.

Her preoccupation came to an abrupt end when Puffin startled her by unexpectedly whirring into motion. The small creature's sudden burst of activity came at the same moment as the sunlight streaming outside the window began to shift and sputter like a faulty, flickering light bulb well on its way to dying.

Buffy rose to her feet, some jaded, detached piece of her only exasperated and wondering, what now? But when she opened the window, she drew back in disbelief at the sight of the billowing, chaotic sky. Night and day impossibly churning together in a bizarre storm front.

An almost painful spark on her skin as, at her throat, her necklace flared a fitful green sparkling, briefly beating the same uneven tempo – Buffy caught at the talisman, breathing, "Dawn?" – and outside, daylight disappeared.