Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Written for the Elysian Fields' Artistic Anniversary Challenge. Based on the Banner 40 Artwork by Wonder and Ashes (which can be seen on the EF site). The rules were: Must Have Buffy getting kidnapped, Spike coming to her rescue, happy Spuffy. Can Have snark and banter, road trip craziness, and evil council/Initiative. Can Not Have Scooby bashing, Bangel, or Biley.

The bald lightbulb above her head is buzzing. Buffy stares down at the solid wooden table in front of her, willing her face to stone.

"Interview date: March 3, 1999. Subject: Slayer Buffy Anne Summers. Called in 1996 and previously stationed on the Sunnydale, California Hellmouth until February of 1999…" the voice drones on.

A single tapered column supports the table before her, rather than four legs. The wood grain is the same color as the floor and that bugs her more than it should.

Ever hear of contrasting colors?

Okay, in all honesty, the Council of Kidnappers' sucky interior decorating skills aren't the issue. She's just trying to distract herself from the sad reality that is now her life. Well, the sadder reality that is now her life.

Buffy considers her options. She doesn't have many. Only a few weeks ago, she could've picked up this heavy old piece of furniture and swung it at her "interviewer" like a baseball bat, then easily made her escape.

"Miss Summers was not discovered until after her calling, much later than the current recommended standard. As is well-documented, most slayers are now located while they still possess the potential to be called."

Unfortunately, her slay-strength? Kind of unavailable.

Reuben Hayward's shiny black shoes tap in annoyingly precise beats. He circles behind her again, slowly pacing as he as recites her rap sheet to the stenographer in the corner.

"...and therefore, in the Council's opinion, Miss Summers has not received adequate education to function as an active slayer."

Buffy glares up through her eyelashes at the man speaking.

Reuben is a balding man with a curtain of dark hair that falls from the back of his head down to brush his shoulders.

Blech.

Most of these guys seem to be losing hair. Must be the stress of the job. Buffy's mouth twists. Fighting evil all on their lonesome. Poor, poor Watcher's Council.

"...most fortunate to be able to fill the vacant position with Slayer Faith Lehane. See Historic Records: Precedents Set in the Twentieth Century for more information concerning the second and current slayer…"

Buffy lifts her chin so she can get a bead on Reuben. He's too focused on the dutiful stenographer and, probably, the sound of his own voice to notice. Buffy closes one eye, tongue between her teeth, and pictures herself winding up to bat with the table. Reuben's sweat-slick head almost seems like a spinning baseball in the yellowish light. Aaaand-

"...a strict physical, mental, and medical regimen to streamline Miss Summers' productivity…"

Wham! Buffy clicks her tongue and catches Reuben's eye. She grins at his puzzled brow. She'd just mentally knocked one out of the park, as Xander would put it.

"Can I help you, Miss Summers?"

"I seriously doubt that," Buffy says.

He frowns quellingly at her, before resuming his circuit around the interrogation room. Buffy blows out her bangs. Her hair is at that stupid stage between cute bangs and all the way grown out. They should be clipped back into side bangs, but these London-based Watchers aren't anything like Giles. Hair care is obviously low on the totem pole for them and so, for her as well.

God, she misses Giles.

Gritting her teeth, Buffy listens in again. There's a teensy chance Reuben may say something that the other tweeds haven't yet. Something that might give her an advantage.

"We are cautiously optimistic that Miss Summers' reeducation can be completed in no less than three, and no greater than twelve months' time."

Boy howdy, does she need every advantage she can get.

Reuben faces her with a thin smile. "Miss Summers, for the record, can you summarize the extent of your slaying education under Merrick Jamison-Smythe and Rupert Giles?"

Buffy slow-blinks, a sure signal Giles would've picked up on immediately. Caution. Slow down. Try a new angle.

Reuben folds his hands together in front of his neatly pressed jacket, thumbs and forefingers extended together, like a downward pointing gun. "Chronologically, if you please."

"I can't," Buffy says.

His eyebrows jerk a little. "Excuse me? You can't what?"

"Summarize my slaying education. You asked if I could. I can't."

"Why can't you?"

Buffy widens her eyes. "No one taught me how to correctly summarize my slaying education. So I guess I can't."

Reuben isn't smiling now.

"I think I must be incapable," Buffy confides to him in an exaggerated stage whisper.

The clacking from the typist in the corner peters out. Her interrogator's cheeks are flushing pink as he glances over to the other witness in the room.

Amateur.

Reuben's throat bobs when he swallows. "Just-just do the best that you can."

Buffy shrugs. "I'd hate to get it wrong. I strive for perfection, you know."

He stares at her like she can't possibly be doing this to him. "The information, Miss Summers. You understand me." He sort of trails off with a suggestion of humor in his voice. Like they might laugh together at her stubbornness in a minute when she's sure to give in.

Oh, Reuben. Learn to live with disappointment.

That's what they told her when she woke up strapped to her seat in an airplane, drugged to the gills over the Atlantic. When she asked them about her mom and her friends, her school and her duty. Her real watcher.

Success is met with success. Failure with failure. Disappointment with disappointment. Quentin Travers explained this to her over a celebratory drink which he raised to her in the airplane cabin. Buffy had been unable to toast in return, what with the drugs and psych ward straps and all.

Buffy's gaze sharpens. She watches Reuben flinch back from her look, the sensitive corners of his mouth tightening in distress and she thinks, tit for tat.

"Take me with you."

Giles jumps at the sound of the voice in his open doorway. He looks over to see none other than Spike, Slayer of Slayers, standing on his doorstep.

Giles shudders. Even after all these years, the sight of a vampire outside his home strikes dread into his heart. It's almost worse, knowing in excruciating detail all the many bloody ways this encounter could end. Truly, ignorance can be bliss.

But it's his job to ask the questions, todiscover the reasons. "Why would you want to come?"

Spike's lips part over gleaming teeth. "She deserves a better end than this one. They'll ruin her."

Well. Not what he expected. "On that, we can agree."

The night is quiet, but for the chorus of cicadas in the courtyard and rummaging sounds as Giles packs his luggage.

"When do we leave?"

"We don't," Giles emphasizes as he clicks shut his travelling case. "You're a vampire, one Buffy has fought against before. One," he raises his voice, tone still cool, "known for killing slayers. No. I'm not taking you anywhere near her."

"You can't keep me away." Spike looks amused, sloe-eyed and smirking.

"I'm surprised, Spike, that you're not interested in staying here." Giles' heart pounds harder at the betrayal of his next words. "Sunnydale still has a slayer. Tell me, have you met Faith?"

Faith, murderer. Faith, the true rogue from the mission. Faith...whom Giles is willing to throw to the wolves if it'd mean sparing Buffy another dangerous complication.

Faith is more than capable of holding her own, Giles reminds himself, even against the likes of William the Bloody.

Probably.

Keeping the vampire in his peripheral, Giles moves around his flat. Spike is all lean muscle and sharp angles. He shouldn't be so unnerving. Without that duster, Giles would bet Spike would seem almost frail. Instead, he only reminds Giles of a hungry hyena. Not a lot of heft to him, but still not a creature to disregard. Or to turn one's back on.

"Little Miss Anti-Establishment? Yeah, we crossed paths. Trailed her, fought her. Not impressed. I want the real slayer."

A band of tension tightens around Giles' temples. Why Buffy? And why me? Why must it always be his charge who attracts the worst of the worst? Honestly, Spike makes his obsession with slayers sound personal in regards to Buffy. The very thought-no. It does not bear thinking on. Not now, when everything else has gone so very wrong.

Giles sets his luggage upright, and gathers all pertinent paperwork for the journey ahead. "You're a bigger fool than I imagined to think I'd give you access to Buffy. I'm off to save her, understand." He meets chill blue eyes. "This isn't a mission of mercy, some kind of...slayer euthanasia. It's a rescue. Trust me when I say you don't want to make yourself an obstacle."

Spike leans a narrow shoulder against the doorframe and Giles idly considers the effects of spraying holy water around his property. Would that deter vampires? Even after the moisture dried? An experiment for less busy times..."Not intending to be an obstacle, mate," his visitor is saying. "More like a cohort."

Giles snorts. "You want to rescue the Slayer? No harming her, no ulterior motive whatsoever-"

"Didn't say that. Come on. I have all the ulterior motives. She's the best slayer I've ever crossed. I want her fighting and free."

Giles slaps down his file. "So you can get your fight to the death!"

"Yeah, maybe. But not right away. I can wait until she's settled back here at full strength. That's what I want, Watcher. A brilliant fight. Where am I gonna get that if those puppeteers in merry 'ol make her disappear forever? I want her back as much as you do-"

Giles reaches for his loaded crossbow, disgust warring with impatience.

Raising his hands up in surrender, Spike laughs. "Or not. Don't get bent out of shape. Look, your chances of success are better off with me along. Strike from the unexpected angle, that's what I say."

This is an intriguing enough proposition to freeze Giles' finger on the trigger. It would be unexpected, wouldn't it? Surely Travers knows he will be storming over to London in a hurry. The Council will be prepared for that, will likely already have countermeasures in place.

Giles regards Spike with fresh eyes.

"I'm not going after her if she's at anything less than her best," Spike adds. His eyes gleam, no doubt sensing Giles' weakening resolve.

"You don't go after her at all."

"Ever again? I'm won't agree to that."

"Until she's returned to Sunnydale. With a three day grace period."

Long fingers curl against Giles' doorframe, white knuckled from the forceful grip. "Now we're talking," Spike drawls, his sharp grin filled with far too many teeth.

How does the phrase go? Sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.

Tonight holds the kind of quiet that drives Angel mad. When the world is this still and peaceful, the chaos in his head swells to unmanageable levels. He tamps down the urge to seek oblivion, or even the white noise fighting brings.

He must focus.

Hands jammed deep in his coat pockets, he tastes the air. Buffy's scent is already fading from her patrol route. Angel's eyes burn, the fresh air stale in his mouth. Gone from Sunnydale for three weeks and already, he's losing her. All of her effort, all of her passion spent on these paths around the Hellmouth...how long until there's no evidence left that Buffy Summers fought the good fight here?

Even with his advanced hearing, Angel can't pick up any sounds from the nearest airport. Not that he knows exactly which flight Giles is taking. He only knows that he isn't with him on the rescue.

In his pockets, Angel's nails bite into his palms until the skin breaks. Really, he's just a useless sack of evil. His mission, his driving purpose is to help Buffy. But the Wetworks team spirited her away from right under his nose. And now he isn't even going after her.

For the thousandth time, Angel plots his way out of Sunnydale, over to London, to Buffy's side where he belongs. Visions of door-smashing entrances and cowering councilmembers fill his imagination. Of Buffy's eyes lighting up when she sees him.

Painfully, he rejects these plans again. If he hadn't spoken to Buffy's watcher, he might not have slowed down long enough to think about what abandoning the Hellmouth for her really meant.

Would you place your affection for her above your duty to the helpless?

Yes, he would.

Angel grinds his teeth. Dammit, he's still new to this destiny thing. He's spent most of his existence either going after or denying what he wants. Having to choose like this...it didn't occur to him. In his mind, helping Buffy is his duty. He helps the helpless by helping her.

Now, it's help the helpless OR help her.

Don't you? Prioritise her? Angel had asked Giles, bitter and anxious.

Yes. My duty is to Buffy. Giles hadn't been able to meet his eyes. I thought yours was to fighting evil. Fighting for redemption.

Buffy is my redemption, Angel wanted to say. She needs me. What do you expect me to do? he'd said instead, hating himself for every word.

Because in the darkest corners of his heart, Angel missed the simplicity of being Angelus, of being certain of himself and his choices.

You're needed here, Giles told him. With Buffy gone and Faith far afield from her calling, someone must keep the Hellmouth safe. The children already plan to step up in Buffy's absence. Help them. Keep Faith out of trouble. The other man caught his gaze. Do you understand what I'm asking? I'm trusting Buffy's mission...to you, Angel.

Nothing less could keep him here and away from her. Angel scuffs the pavement with his boot, still conflicted. Giles' show of trust isn't lost on him. Particularly after the events of last year.

Down the street, a door opens and bar music spills out along with Faith and a couple of grabby guys trailing after her.

Lip curling, Angel fades back into the shadows. His experience with Buffy has taught him to keep his distance from a slayer, lest she pick up on his whereabouts with that sixth sense seemingly ingrained into her psyche.

The girl is drunk and bright with the too-hot fires of desperate living. She sashays between the men, paying each just enough attention to keep them salivating after her as she transfers her affections from one to the next.

Despite the obvious interest in keeping company, Faith brushes off all serious advances and moves off on her own. One guy doesn't take the hint and steals her wrist, trying to strong-arm her into staying.

From where he lurks, Angel can hear the snap of bone quite clearly. Extraneous concerns filter out as he stills, prepared to intervene.

Faith leaves the guy sobbing on the damp street. She doesn't look back. She doesn't see Angel position himself in the middle of the road, staring after her with a brow more serious than usual.