#freys asks

“You could say that,” she said, holding her arm. He frowned as she swayed slightly.

“Well come in before I have unwanted guests at my door.”

He stepped aside and she entered the dark crypt. He did a quick scan of her. She had a blackening eye which would probably be fully healed in a couple days, a cut above said black eye, and another cut on the arm she was cradling. She walked with a limp and he saw some dirt on her right knee along with some blood seeping through the jean material. 

“Come on, Luv, lets get you cleaned up.”

Buffy didn’t argue. Which let Spike know she was pretty hurt. He went down into the lower level of his crypt and he followed. She sat at the end of his bed, slowly lowering onto it as he rummaged for the First Aid kit. One he’d procured when he’d taken up hunting with her friends after she’d died the second time. It’d been used before, mostly on Xander, the nitwit always getting himself into a bind.

“All right, Slayer, Dr. Spike to your rescue.” She scoffed at that and his scarred eyebrow rose. “What?”

“Dr. Spike?”

“Would you prefer Nurse Spike? I could work with that, too,” he said, tongue pressing against his teeth as he took in her disheveled look. She again scoffed and rolled her eyes. 

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she said, ready to stand again. 

“Oh, what? You gunna go back out there now in the middle of the night with all the nasties out there looking to find themselves a tasty midnight snack?” 

“Better than being here.”

“Oi. I didn’t ask you to come here,” he said, tossing the medical kit onto the bed. “I was perfectly fine watching the telly the rest of the night.”

“Let me guess. Passions?”

“Perhaps!”

Buffy stood and went to the ladder. He watched her struggle before slowly going up a rung at a time. When her ankle was level with his eyes he grabbed it and halted her movements. 

“Slayer, Buffy, just... Please come down. Let me look you over.”

He was worried about her. He cared too bloody much. If she’d have said no he’d have followed her home and risked the sun to make sure she stayed safe. Instead she slowly came back down. Which let him know it was bad. He guided her to the bed and they said nothing as he started cleaning her up. First her face, ridding it of the blood and dirt. He bandaged the cut then went to the fridge where he kept his beer and blood cold. He handed her a cold can and instructed her to press it against her eye. Her shirt was in the way so he ripped it off her. She protested, loudly, but he ignored it. 

“Spike! What the hell?!”

“I need to see your whole arm.”

“Then ask me to take the shirt off, don’t just rip it!”

“I have a shirt for you to wear.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Fine. Next time I’ll ask. Now hold still.”

She hissed in a breath as he moved her arm at the elbow. He used her torn shirt to make a sling for her. Best he could really do. And boy did she look a sight, one arm in a sling with the other holding a can to her face. 

“What happened here?” he asked, hands cradling her knee, making her hiss in a breath. 

“Group of vamps caught me off guard. I dusted three of them, one tackled me and my knee slammed into a gravestone. As I finished the last of them two demons came out. They’d been waiting. My black eye is from a wheelbarrow they threw at me.”

“The mighty Slayer, taken down by a gardening tool,” he said with a smirk. 

“Hey!” She pouted. “It was a big wheelbarrow.”

“I bet it was. Poor kitten.”

“And my knee really hurts.”

“Let us have a look, shall we?”

“Don’t rip off my pants, I need to wear them home.”

Carefully, Spike got her pants unbuttoned. He pulled them and her boots off, making her shiver each time his cooler hands touched her heated skin. The knee was purple all around the knee but nothing felt broken. 

“Sprained it good, Luv, it needs ice. Sadly I have none.” He straightened up, grabbing his duster off the back of the chair. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you...”

“Gunna get you some ice.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Need some smokes anyway.” He nodded toward the bed. “Relax till I get back.”

He climbed up the ladder, leaving her alone. She didn’t want to lay around in just her bra and panties so she dug around and found a black shirt that didn’t smell like smoke. She just managed to get the sling back on the right way when he came back with a bag of ice. He pulled out a couple plastic bags from his pocket and filled them both with ice. He motioned for her to lay on the bed and she did. He placed one bag on her knee and handed her the other for her face. 

“Ohhhh cold,” she complained, but it felt so good. 

“Don’t be a baby,” he said, tossing the leftover ice in the fridge. It would melt eventually, but he wanted to try and keep it as solid as possible if she needed more. He reached for a bottle of whiskey and took a long drink before offering it to her. She took it, drank about two shots worth, and made a face before handing it back. 

“Sun will be up in a couple hours. Rest until then.”

“Spike?” Buffy paused before continuing. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you,” he said before going up the ladder. Leaving her alone. She almost, almost called out for him to stay. Instead, she lay back on the sheets, pulled the blanket over herself, and let herself sleep.

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“I need your help.”

Laurel looked over at her visitor. She’d just been stabbed by Damien Darhk. She felt awful. Standing above her bed was someone she didn’t know, but she felt like she’d seen his face before. A slight wave of panic hit her. Was he here to finish the job Darhk started?

“W-Who are you?”

“Name’s Mick. I’m a friend of Sara’s. And I need you to come help me find her.”

“Find her?” Laurel sat up in her hospital bed, wincing at the feel of her stitches pulling. She was so weak, that just this movement had a sheen of sweat forming on her brow. “What do you mean?”

“I ain’t got long. The window is small. Let me spell it out for you. You’re supposed to die today. I’m changing that so that you can help me save Sara.”

Laurel was confused. But she remembered everything Sara told her. So all Laurel could do was nod. Mick looked relieved, as if he’d been expecting her to fight him. But this was Sara. She needed to help him. It wasn’t until he had her loaded in a wheelchair that she noticed a body laying on the floor. And when she saw her face staring back at her she fought the urge to pass out.

“Put this on,” he said, handing her a wig with red hair. “I gotta sneak you out.”

“Who… Who is that?” asked Laurel.

“Not you. Not no one. A clone. A dead clone. Something I borrowed and modified from Toronto.”

“I… Toronto?”

“Just put on the wig and I’ll tell you everything once we get the hell outta here.”

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“So where to we start?” asked Laurel. They were on a ship that he said used to be his a long time ago. It was all so foreign to her. He brought her up to date on everything. He left nothing out. Was quite blunt, actually. She was supposed to be dead. Now, she was a ghost. A ghost who needed to go find her sister.

“Mount Vesuvius, 70 A.D.”

“Pompeii?” asked Laurel.

“It’s where I last saw your sister alive. Time is already fragile there. One bad mistake and we’re fucked.”

“Got it,” said Laurel, crossing her arms over her chest. She had on a suit, similar to her Black Canary one but slightly different. More cloth and less leather. She had to admit she could move around in it a lot better. Mick had told her there was still light armor plating in it, to protect her if she were to get injured. That thought had her hand going back to her still tender stomach despite the healing of the ship’s A.I.

“Strap in,” ordered Mick and Laurel followed his orders. She’d put two and two together on who he was. He admitted to her that things happened where he wasn’t the same person. Things that still haunted him. Things he didn’t want to talk about. But he knew his stuff here. So she took her seat, strapped in, and within seconds they were gone.

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“They’re coming for me… For us. I feel it.” 

“I feel it, too, Assassin.”