He's not Vaughn, his aren't the lips she's craving, but there's escape, there's warmth in still chilled lips that she can't explain but can't pull away from either. In a minute, in a minute, she will; she's Syd, she has a mission to accomplish. She has to get them both out of this trap, get the Pieta back to the CIA - but the feel of his tongue against hers, his arms holding her - an embrace she can have without betraying everything she is - she'd have to be a saint to stop now. And she's not one of the plastic and plaster saints lying crumbled in the ruins above them; she might be broken, but she's not frozen for eternity or shattered. Not anymore, not for now. She can have him and the fire; she can warm herself on both, and share it with her partner, if only for now.

She can feel the same need in him as he pulls her closer. The same pain in arms that hold her like she's his only lifeline in the abyss, the same desperate passion. He's not stopped kissing her and it doesn't feel like they'll ever stop kissing. He's devouring her mouth and she doesn't want him to stop. She never wants this to stop.

If it stops, she has to start feeling the pain of loving someone who's married and she can't have, and it hurts too much. Kissing Spike, pouring that pain into him and bearing his: that she can have, that she can do for him. And the guy can kiss. He kisses like they've eternity, like they won't die from lack of oxygen if they don't start thinking about escape again. But that's the ruthlessly practical little voice she inherited from her parents and a hard life - and right now, right now it's the last thing she does want to listen to.

But it's always there, and it's what saves her, them.

The sword holding the arm into the fire's fallen back onto the heap of mummies, uncovering a foot. The feel of the toes gripping her leg shakes her out of immersing herself in kissing Spike. Spike uncoils from her, going for the sword as she pulls at the foot, throwing it into the fire moments before Spike spears it, pinning it to the fire. The blanket's still wrapped around his waist, but diving across the fire to reach the sword shrugs the blanket from his shoulders, exposing his back to her.

It's beautiful. He's beautiful. Smooth creamy skin and lean muscle in flickering firelight. The salt's dried his hair into the solid waves of a Greek statue. He's a living embodiment of the masterpiece she ran past raiding the Louvre for Lucretia's sister-in-law's papers three months ago, except he's whole, complete, and alive.

Though she doubts a Greek kouros would swear like a longshoreman, stomp on a heap of mummy parts, and instinctively pat down a blanket for a cigarette. Or lope off to the other room for more swords, returning to impale some legs and a torso onto the fire, or spear another foot onto the last sword before sitting down next to her and saying, "Can't offer any marshmallows, pet, sorry. But at least we can toast these little buggers, right?"

No, her life isn't like other people's. Her love life certainly isn't.

The mummy's kick up the backside's buggered up the mood well and good.

Which is both typical of his luck and probably a Very Good Thing. If his love life gets any more complicated he's going to need one of the whiteboards in Fred's lab to work out the diagram, and one of the interns from MIT to draw it for him. He's tried to understand all the science gobbledegook that Fred loves so much, but a classical education over a century past and the entire history of daytime telly can only do so much. He reckons he's doing pretty bloody well to have mastered his mobile phone, e-mail, the net and the finer points of first person shooter computer games. It's certainly better than Peaches who has to have a secretary work his Palm Pilot for him.

But Syd feels so good, tastes so good, and his arms feel empty without her, someone, in them. His hands want to play in with her hair, stiffening up with dried brine though it is. The Victorian in him loves long hair on women, and looking at Syd shining in the flickering light he could almost be back in a gas-lit room when he was alive, when he was warm, when the fires couldn't get him. That is, if they weren't trapped like rats in a dead end under half of Cusco's worth of rubble, and she weren't clad only in a couple of blankets and a cloak of feathers that make her look like a goddess right out of a Rider-Haggard book. It'd take so little to brush those blankets aside, feel more of her, take refuge in her and he wants to so badly. But if he does, it's bound to be another howling disaster like finding some solace with Anya all that time back. With his luck the moment he'd find a bit of solace, Fred'd come tunnelling through the roof to rescue him, backed up by half of Wolfram and Hart, and, no doubt, Peaches.

Spike really, really needs a drink.

He passes the sword and its wriggling contents to Syd, picks up the precious flask from where they'd dropped it, and drinks deep. Alcohol: the most beautiful and the most dangerous thing ever invented by humanity. It's saved and damned him more times than he can remember. The only thing that's ever done him more damage is love. But at least, if he's screwed up his life again, the booze is always there, ever faithful, ever tempting; a drop of warmth that never lies; destroys but never lies. And is best shared, so he passes her the flask.

"You're still so cold." Her fingers have warmed up toasting the mummy foot, but he's keeping back from the fire and he can see she's worried about the way he's gone in on himself.

"Been warmed up once, pet. Can't really recommend it." There's something about the fire that's wrong, something twisting and more twisted than the mummy parts still writhing on it, something he can't explain but which tears at the corners of his mind with an agonising familiarity he can't catch. It's not that he doesn't know fire; he does. He has nightmares about it. Booze, pills, marathon sessions of pouring love into Fred, none of it stops the horrors that haunt his dreams. Pains he knows he deserves, but which doesn't stop him hating it and diving into everything and anything to escape, to move faster than Hellfire.

She's far away too, in the depths of the fire. "I loved a snowman once."

"What happened, love? He melt?" He knows its the wrong thing to say when tears dance on her eyelashes.

"I had to kill him."

And he knows it's a mistake: that it'll come back to bite him, but looking at the pain in her eyes, he can't help but kiss her. And as she buries the sword into the fire, she can't seem to help pulling him closer.

She's burning -- a white-hot flicker of desire that's threatening to consume her, take her over, burn all the pain away and she wants so much to let it. Her hands, she's losing conscious control of her hands. They're not supposed to be exploring his back, or sending back reports that it's as silky smooth as advertised and twice as tempting. His hands, her hair; it shouldn't feel so good. And what the man can do with his tongue should be illegal in forty-seven states.

She's not an innocent. She's loved the men she loved, but Spike is something else. The whole situation's something else. More than she can take right now.

"Too fast," dragging her hands back from his satin skin. "Me, not you," at the deeply freaked out expression in his eyes. Pulling back from him before it's too late. "You're perfect. Too tempting." Pulling back from the need in his eyes that has to echo the emptiness in her own soul. "But I have to tell you, I can't just use you. I can't use anyone like that, not and still be me. I have to live the lies so much, but not in this. I don't do that. Not now; not ever! I think. I hope. God, I don't know." She can't help but sink her head into her hands, if just for a moment.

Until he tips her chin up so gently. "Talk to me, pet. Not going to do anything you don't want. Never!"

The, "Not again," is swallowed up in his hands going to his mouth.

She catches them. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to be honest. Be me, or at least who I was, and not use you."

His, "Used to it, pet," hurts worse than the bruises and scrapes she's picked up tonight.

She can't help pulling him back towards her, eye to eye. She can't help the tears either. "I'm making a mess of this. I don't know why. My head's a mess. Everything's a mess, too open, too raw. I don't know why I'm like this, why I'm telling you all this, everything, all about the Snowman, why I have got to tell you about me, Vaughn, about the last two years."

One of his hands escapes hers to stroke her hair. "Can tell me anything, love."

And with the anchor of his hands holding her to some kind of reality down this rabbit-hole and hand moving to brush away her tears she can. "It's like I've lost layers of skin, like the fire's burned it all away, like you have, and that's kinda scary. And I don't really do scary. If I did, I'd pretty much be dead, so, you can see why I'm freaked right now."

"I'm here, pet. Not going anywhere." The sardonic, "Be a bit hard anyway - on either count," breaks the tension and helps.

It helps a lot, and lets her tell him, "Spike, I want you. I do. I can't remember when I've wanted anything, anyone so much, and certainly not this fast." His smile's that of someone who's never heard that enough and it rips at her. "And because I want you, I have to be honest with you, even if it's all such a weird ass story it makes the fire look normal - and does it look freaky to you too?"

His, "Oh yeah," is reassuring

And being gathered into his arms - "Feels nice."

"Snuggly."

And it is. "Oh, God. I feel such a Drama Queen. I'm not a drama queen you know, I think. It's difficult to know. No, it's impossible to know."

"Know what, pet?" He's playing with the feathers round her shoulders, fingers unable to keep still though the rest of him is an incredibly tempting rock.

Looking into his eyes, saying it, admitting it to someone, makes it real. "Know anything. Know who and what I was when I was away. Know if I'm still who I was, who wouldn't be all crying, stumbling around in the darkness kissing a stranger."

"Not a stranger, love. Partner in this anyway. Kindred spirit too, I reckon."

The sincerity in his eyes draws the truth out of hers. "Maybe. Yeah, I think so." She can't help resting her forehead against his.

"This help with the talky bit?" She can feel his smile.

"Yes,"

"The stage is yours, my lady." He's smoothing the cloak like that of a queen.

"For a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?" She doesn't feel like one, not after everything she's been through in the last few years.

"Not nothing, I'd bet. And neat choice of play." Raising her hand and kissing it in Old European style.

It's good to have a man that can she can swap plays with. She'd bet money she'd missed this in the missing time. "Lots of Shakespeare rather than CPR in school?"

His head tilts. "More Homer, pet. Odyssey boy, that's me."

"Not the judgement of Paris?" God, it's so good to be able to share this. She loved hockey with Vaughn so much, but she's missed having someone to share literature with just as much since she gave up Grad School.

Looking deep into her eyes. "Always would chose Love - no question about that. Even if that Helen was a faithless trollop. Power, knowing everything there is to - nah. Love; the right Helen, the Penelope; that's me, my choice every time, pet. Or should I say, face that launched a thousand ships?"

"Mm - never seen myself as Helen. Prophecies of destruction apart."

He snorts, "Prophecies suck." With a hand flick, "Sod 'em. Bloody things never work the way you think. My experience anyway."

"Tell me about it!" Having to escape the FBI to climb a mountain to get away from one makes no sense whatsoever in the twenty-first century. Though since her life makes no sense as it is, she's learned to deal with it. And she can see in his eyes that he has too. "You've been there, haven't you?"

With a glance at the fire, "Yeah, been there, done that, burnt the T-shirt - though I got it back."

"Huh?"

He plays unfair and kisses her. "Tell Spike all about what's up, pet. Well other than the obvious, anyway." She can certainly feel that it is, both obvious and up.

His wicked grin and distraction technique works with her need to get this over and done with, though she files it away in the 'Spike File' for further investigation later. "I'm a bad bet, Spike. I'm in love with someone I can't have because he's married. Because he got married while everyone thought I was dead for two years."

The grin disappears. "Could be worse, love. Mine didn't wait 'til I was dead to start snogging the Great Poof."

"Huh?"

"I got better." He's trying to smile, but failing.

"This is one of these English Monty Python routines, right?"

"Well, Peaches can get quite repressive, and prophetic crap's certainly no basis for a system of government."

Brits are strange, there's no getting away from it. "Um... agreed, on the latter anyway. You're sure there's nothing in that flask that shouldn't be in there? Something to explain the turn this conversation's taken, and why I want to -"

"Shag me senseless?" His arms tighten around her.

"Yes. And Oh God! I can't believe I said that."

"Nothing to be ashamed of, pet. Just showing good taste." The, "Just wish some people could ever get that," is barely audible.

"I know that. In my head I know that. I've never been uptight... But there's something else. There's something inside me, someone that's writhing under my skin. Something that's screaming out that they want you now, that you're just what's required, what's right, natural, needed desperately. That's who wants you so much I'm crawling out of my own skin! Has been since we got stuck down here. I don't know who she is, what it is, and I'm scared."

Her nails are digging into his biceps, but he doesn't stop stroking her face. "Don't know what, Syd?"

"Whether it's me, my blood coming out. My parents betrayed themselves for love, for lust, for whatever this is, could be - I don't know. Or whether...whether it's who I became when I was dead to everyone for two years. But I don't know, and I can't remember who I was, what I did. And if that's the person, the thing that wants you - it petrifies me. But I still want you."

She looks up at him in time to see him doing the same to her. "Want you too, love. And know how it feels not to remember."

"You had someone take two years of your life? Do things to you that you can't remember and maybe made you do things to hurt people so you can't trust your own body?" She can hear her voice echo round the chamber.

And his voice crackle with the fire. "Yes."

"You're serious?"

"Wish I wasn't." She can't help kiss him and the way he leans into the kiss is agonising. "Couple of years ago, well... went through a lot of changes. Pretty much as much of a change as a bloke could do, I did. Blew up on me. Big Bad, got hold of me. Screwed with my head, made me see things, lose time. Not know what I was doing, not be me, not in charge of my own head."

She's stroking his face, whispering, "It's ok," over and over again.

The tears on his lips make it feel like a last kiss. "Made me kill - over and over again. Used me, it did. Didn't know until it tried to make me hurt the girl again. Broke free. Got flashes of memory back, but it's all a mess in my head, that time - still is. Understand it if you don't want to take on the likes of me, not after hearing that."

"It's ok." Her hands rub his back, trying to give comfort.

Not that it helps. "'S not. Can't be forgiven. Never, not for any of it, any of them. So, so many -"

But she doesn't stop holding him, doesn't stop her trying. "The man that killed my fiancé. They brainwashed him. He didn't know."

It pulls him out of himself and back to her. "They killed the man you loved? Oh, love."

"It's my mistake. I told him. I couldn't live a lie with him, so this evil man killed him. He used a good man to do it, and, and I rescued him. I saved the man that killed Danny. I helped him see colours again. He sent me a postcard."

"Oh, Syd." And it's his turn to support her.

They're locked together in a mess of pain and need against the fire. "And you heard the guy in the alley. I think they did the same to me. I just don't know. I don't remember!"

She's the one crying and he's the one peppering her face with kisses and '"It's ok, sweetheart". And the endearment is so reminiscent of her mom that it feels like she'll never stop crying.

At least until he catches her lips with his, and she dives headfirst back into kissing him. Lips, still cool, tasting of salt from tears and the well-water, tobacco and pisco. Arms like coiled springs making her feel safe. Eye-lashes flicker against her cheek as he kisses down towards her neck and further down, pushing away the cloak of feathers until they flutter to the floor. Her kissing him back, stroking his face, powerful arms, caressing up his neck back to his beautiful face.

Until she feels no pulse in that smooth neck.

If her sharp intake of breath doesn't tell him that she's spotted something rotten in the state of Denmark, the sudden loss of her lips and hand clamped over his heart certainly do. The shock in her eyes and other hand moving up to cover her mouth stab into his heart as surely as she'd put a redwood through it.

But she's not pulled free of the unclean, stood over him proclaiming him beneath her, or called him a thing to be ground him under her heel. So there's that annoying small voice of hope inside him - the thing that's caused him more pain than all the Holy Water in the world put together - and he can't help it bleeding through into, "Pet?"

"Your heart!"

"Doesn't beat. Can still break."

And her hands are back on him, forehead that's not as hot as it should be, carotid artery that doesn't thump, lips over teeth he's keeping blunt with some effort, and all the time she's talking to herself. "This is Not a Horror Movie. There has to be a rational explanation - even if it's a Rambaldi Explanation."

"Always fancied Scully, pet."

She can't help the smile before going back to holding his hand, looking for the pulse that's just not there, for all her caressing thumb and probing fingers trying to find it. "Well, Mulder, you're a medical mystery. No pulse, and I'd guess that the reason that only I showed up on the infra-red intel when you were missing from the screens is because I'm the only one with warm blood and a body temperature."

At least he hasn't totally blown the 'Don't Tell the CIA about vampires' bit. Ok, it's the only thing he hasn't blown - except for getting the statue - but since keeping the US government from digging into his head again is a bloody good idea, he keeps on lying with the truth. About the only form of lying he's even been much good at, he knows. "Sounds about right. Couldn't tell you, 'bout it, under orders, and all. You understand, I bet."

"You were never at risk of hypothermia, were you?" She sounds hurt.

"Not so much, love. But the clammy wet clothes thing wasn't much fun. Besides, wasn't worried about me, and you were going down with it. Could hear your teeth chattering."

"True." The quiet firmness of her voice gives him some hope - not much, but some is more than enough for him to live with and way more than he usually gets.

"Not told you anything that wasn't, Syd. Just kept quiet on what I had to. You know how it is sometimes, I reckon."

"I do... I wish sometimes I didn't." The sadness is back in her voice.

He hates that's he's put it there. "Wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

But she's trying to sound upbeat, cover it all back up. "Marshall will be upset. He thought that your coat was Cold Suit Technology I could steal."

"Coat's a coat, love. Been with me a long time. Been through a lot together. Lot of memories, good and bad I need to keep by me, but it's just a coat. Which isn't going on the fire, by the way."

"Shame. The Cold Suit I tried was a body-suit."

"Like on the birds in them crap action flicks from the little boy's comics that Lorne keeps putting together, and getting his wardrobe credits for?"

"Sounds very like it. Complete with hood that failed."

"Sorry. Bet you'd looked hot in it though, only in a cold sort of way, you know what I mean."

Her laugh's great to hear even if it fades away as quickly as it arrives. And the hand that's not still clutching his wrist is feeling his chest over his heart. "No scars."

With his free hand he strokes her hair and looks at her. "All on the inside, pet, pretty much."

And she looks straight into his eyes. "No artificial Rambaldi heart? Even though there was only one."

It's truth, nothing but, so looking straight back at her is no hardship, no hardship at all. "Just mine, Syd. Doesn't have anything to do but work out how exactly to bugger my life up, but it's all me. Nothing else."

Her forehead's wrinkled in thought. "You're genetically modified? It's the only thing that makes sense. All energy usually used to maintain the cardio-vascular system is available for use elsewhere?"

Hey, "It's one way to put it. Not a scientist, love."

"It's how you could get that horseshoe into the wall, and why that mummy couldn't strangle you." She's looking for the answers in his eyes, and Spike wishes he could give her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, but he can't, not and keep her safe. "And we're back to mummies - and the report that will finally bury my career and any chance I have of finding out about the missing years."

So he's no choice but to try to talk her into, "I'd bury that bit, pet."

"I'm planning to." Which is reassuring she's got a healthy sense of self-preservation, though the determination in her eyes is less so.

He really, really doesn't want to lose her. "Nice one, love."

"Which leaves you."

But one thing he doesn't want is her getting herself on Lilah's shit-list -- far too fatal. And her knowing about him, about the Senior Partner's spare/back-up target -- just the way to do it, and he won't risk that. Himself any day, the girl, never. "Which I'd ask you to bury too. I'm not on the side of the bad guys. Not going to hurt you; wouldn't do that. But I'm one of them things that's best kept out of paperwork, for the sake of you and me. Put it all down to the coat. Tell 'em it got fried with the wires in the salty dip. Please, Syd."

He can see her thinking it over. The fact that her thumb's still circling his wrist is encouraging.

Time to use over a hundred years of observing lunch and luring it out, only this time to save her from Lilah calling in a favour from the Washington Branch and getting rid of the Syd security leak. "Your top blokes, they know, 'bout me. 'S why I'm clean on your records. Cause, you checked me out, didn't you, love?" At her nod, "And not just the killer good looks, right?"

Her smile's back and there's so many thoughts flickering through her eyes in the firelight that he can't work out exactly what she's decided. But the, "It won't be in my report to the Director," is reassuring. "That's if we get out. We're both still stuck down in this hole in the ground. Even if you won't be taking up my air. You aren't are you?"

"Nah. Don't need the oxygen. Except for the ciggies, of course. And I'm all out." He can tell it's safe to smile at her again, so he does.

And it works. "They did enough damage."

With a nod to upstairs, "That was more your bloke up top."

"Sark's not mine. Except as a massive pain in my butt and someone who should be rotting in prison for his crimes against this country -"

"Peru?"

It works. She laughs and slaps his shoulder, lingering a little. "Smartass."

"You know it." Tilting his head and smirking gets another tap, and its great.

"Mad Englishmen. Why me?" But her look to the stone-covered heavens has a snort of humour to it that's just perfect.

"Luck?"

"Sark?"

"He wants you. Blind man can see that." He loves the feel of her hair against his fingers.

"Over my dead body! No, not even then." It's so good to hear those words from a woman melting back into him.

Their lips are so close he's practically kissing her with the words, "Can't blame a bloke for wanting you."

And she's practically kissing him back, "You still do?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And you're single? I don't know what this is, how long it might last, what happens if we get out of this, but I can't have more than one Vaughn in my life." She's pulled back enough to look him in the eye.

So he has to pay her the same compliment of openness he can share. "Couple of days ago? No." He can't help the pain cracking through into his voice. "Couple of days ago, was planning how to ask my girl's dad for her hand. Even had a solution for the whole 'can't offer any grandkiddies' issue that some people think's so bleeding important."

There's sorrow and some pity in her eyes. "You can't have children."

"Can't do that. Can't catch or pass on anything, love. It's sad, yeah - love a little bit of my own, but we sorted that out for when she wants one, Fred and me, we did. Well, with a bit of help from Wes."

Her voice is curiosity blended with relief. "Wes?"

"Works with us. Old friend of Peaches, and Fred. They went out together a few times, 'til he worked out he loved the idea of her, not the girl herself. Daft sod. Well, actually 'til Lilah got back." And what a day that was in the office.

"Lilah?" She lets go of his wrist.

"Liaison to the... other offices. Brain like a steel bear-trap and twice as dangerous. Wes' lady. Great bird! We get on great, mostly. Got a lot in common. Most people can't stand us. She... can't have kids either. Would have made a great Auntie to the kids too, once Godfather Wes contributed a bit more than a rattle - though she'd feed anyone through the shredder rather than admit it."

"She sounds... great!" She's got the deer in headlights look she had when he suggested roasting the mummies.

"Rather have my own, of course, but a bloke's got to work with the situation he's got. I mean, Fred wasn't exactly wildly fond of the idea since it'd make Lilah pretty much Godmother, even if she wouldn't exactly have been getting her fingers wet holding the kiddie for the ceremony so much. But would have kept it all in the family, and with a lot less questions for the kid than asking Chuck."

"And this all fell apart?" The blanket covering her shoulder is so soft to the touch.

"Had the sun in the palm of my hands."

"What happened?"

He pulls back to look at his hands in the firelight. Sometimes he imagines they still burn. "I reached for the moon."

"The moon?" She grasps his hands, and they don't burn away to ash.

So he looks her in the eyes. "My ex. Love of my life. Light of my darkness. Complicated story full of love, hate, enough who loves who's to keep one of Lorne's pitches to the netlets going for years, through deepest disaster and transcendent apotheosis. Short version - I love her. She only ever loves me or wants me when I'm going, and I know that. It's why I kept away, got my head working, built a life for me. But she drops in, sees me happy with someone else, herself not the centre of the universe, but me happy, the Great Poof happy, cheerleader happy and that don't suit, so she jumps me and I blow it with my girl - who left me, not that I blame her. And great, I sound a right idiot."

"Pretty much. But who am I to judge." It doesn't stop her squeezing his hands with reassurance.

"'S my own fault. Know that. Always is. Moon's a harsh mistress, but she's so bright! Shining thing, she is. Burnt me up more than once - made me put it inside and it's never stopped burning."

She lets go of his hands to stroke his hair and face. "Weirder than this fire?"

"Lasted longer but just as strange. Put my hand out and stopped her burning once. Never even tried to stop me, just sent me on my way with pretty lies. Always nothing but lies, some not so pretty. And nothing's changed. That's the sad thing, yeah, that it hasn't and it still doesn't matter. I'd still bloody burn up, for the world and her." But the feeling of her hands on his hair is sweet as summer rain.

"I'd rather you didn't. We've got to get out of here."

She's so strong yet so soft. Blankets over warm skin he longs to sink into "Thought I knew, you know? Love. Burning terrible thing that's the most important thing in the universe. Then there's her, the sunshine. Was worried, yeah, for a long time, I was. Didn't think it was love."

"Why?" And her hands are rubbing his back, mirroring his own movements over her blanket-clad shoulders.

"Never had anything like it before. Didn't need nothing from me but me, gave not took, friends, yeah. Then friends with more, but still giving to me, not taking everything and laughing at me. Loved her, I did. But I worried, yeah?" And the rejected boy in him is terrified of more.

But she's not rejecting him. "Why, Spike?"

He stops caressing her shoulders, her arms, and just looks at her. "Love's supposed to hurt, isn't it?"

And she doesn't reject him. She gathers him in. "Feels that way sometimes. Mostly when we can't be with who we want, or they die, or he turns out to be a best-friend playing rat, an assassin, or married while you were dead, but, no - not always."

His hands on her hair, eyes to eyes, soul to soul. "Don't like it to hurt. Never bloody well have, whatever some people say, but - Never really had anything else."

"Yes, you do." And she kisses him.