A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

River's eyes flick to the doorway, to Spike, and back to the end of the hallway.

And then again, to the wall between herself and the room Spike's just entered.

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The room's an unused office, apparently doing temporary duty as a storage closet: there are cardboard file boxes all along one wall and on the otherwise bare desk. The desk itself has a pronounced list to one side, and is the only piece of furniture in the room. Dust hangs heavy in the air, as though recently disturbed.

The very tips of a pair of sneakers are protruding from under the desk.

It would take supernatural senses to hear the rapid heartbeat, but only rather good hearing -- and careful attention -- to catch the ragged breathing, like a series of stifled sobs.

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Spike stands in the doorway for several seconds, unmoving.

Right, then.

He takes a slow step back, and another, and turns away. "False alarm," he says over his shoulder to River. "Nothing in there."

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River's eyes settle on his face for a long moment. Her eyes are dark and intent, in a face smudged with sweat and blood.

(Most of the blood's not hers. Some of it is.)

"Okay," she says, and slips past him into the room.

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"No, wait --"

"Bugger."

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River's boots are nearly silent on the thick carpet.

Unless you're listening very closely, anyway.

Slow steps; one hand rests on the butt of a gun, fingers trailing lightly over the gleaming wood. There's a snake inlaid, and she traces its curves slowly.

"Nobody's here," she says to the empty air, distant and dreamy. "Don't worry."

Another step, a second, a third; she rounds the corner of the desk, and drops abruptly to a crouch in front of it.

With a tiny, sweet smile, "I can see you."

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The face that looks out from under the desk, from behind a pair of drawn-up knees, is white and terrified and streaked with tears.

"Oh god." It's a whimper. "Oh god -- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I never -- "

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Never meant this to happen, he finishes the sentence silently. Course she didn't.

Spike steps back into the room, and moves forward until he's standing a little behind River, looking down at her and at Beth.

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"Shhhh," River murmurs.

That smile is still there, gentle and sweet and somehow not reassuring in the slightest.

"Yes you did."

"Run scared. Don't worry. That's what they say. We'll help you make it all okay. Just find the dead-end."

"We're doing such good work."

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"I didn't know!" Beth's arms, wrapped around her knees, tighten convulsively. "I swear, I didn't know, please...."

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River's head cocks to one side.

"What do you know now?"

It's incongruously compassionate.

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"Something not very nice," he says quietly, "isn't it, pet."

He remembers a conversation with this one, over too-hot french fries; remembers her vehemence when she said I don't kill vampires. I don't kill anybody.

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"What she wanted it for. What she's doing --"

Beth brings up one hand to wipe her eyes.

"I didn't know."

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"Just facts," River murmurs.

"Took off the mask. See the lies in the truth."

"Now," she says very gently, looking directly into Beth's eyes (for too long for comfort, too long for courtesy), "you know who killed you. Time to listen hard."

And she stands up, and turns away.

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River's bloody unnerving, sometimes. He likes that.

Beth doesn't seem to appreciate it, though: the smell of terror is thick in the room, and it's all hers. River is cold and serene like she was once in a circle of dying vampires, and he can smell the blood crusting on her arm.

It's a frisson at the base of his spine, blood and fear still the same sodding strong cocktail, soul or no. But --

"Places to be, demons to kill," he says -- a diversion for River, he hopes; a not-quite-apology to Beth. There's not time to crouch down by her shaking shoulders and tell her everyone sells out the world once in a while, life goes on if you duck fast enough.

"Live through this," he tells her instead, "and I'll buy you a drink."

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