Feels like she's spent the whole night falling.

But she can't think of that right now, she has to focus on taking every step correctly. Seems like she's spent her life doing that, and all it's got her is being dropped into a Tomb Raider movie with enough drugs in her system to get herself drummed out of Langley. That and a love life that's even more of a mess than it was when she left LA. But thinking about that sends her back into herself and the warm inviting pillows of the drug haze, so she sticks to placing her feet on each step and to asking Spike, "About that mummy?"

She hear him shaking his head in his voice. "Guardian, I reckon, of something. Idiots got themselves a Chosen One and used her like that. Crying shame, I reckon. Poor little cow, didn't even get to go down fighting."

It's all too foreign a world and she's too stoned to try and decipher his words right now, so she concentrates on what's important - getting the Intel on the situation they're in now. "She was guarding this?"

"Think so. Must be going somewhere, all these bloody stairs, and must be fucking important too, since they took all that trouble guarding it like. The Lost Gold of the Incas; you reckon, pet?"

"They used that ransoming the last Inca." She never expected to get this much use out of Latin American History 101.

"Dumb idea, I bet." The cynicism in his voice burns in her ear.

"They strangled him anyway." And now she's seeing Sloane as a Conquistador, and it fits scarily well.

"Always the way," he sighs.

"There was very little gold in the rooms we were in, though it must have been part of the palace the Jesuits built the church on." She must remember to thank Marshall for his exhaustive mission briefings - if they get out of here.

"So all the more for us then, pet?"

"They'll be something. But I doubt it's gold."

There's snakes writhing and twisting on the walls.

He thinks there are anyway. Each glancing blaze of the torch makes them slither across the stone. He's pretty sure it's the drugs. There's no scent from them and he can't hear the rasping of scales over stone. Almost certainly it is all part of the trip, as they're not launching themselves at Syd, let alone him. But he's not sure if stone snakes have scent, even if he can't smell it, and he's seen too much over lifetimes in the darkness not to rule it out.

Syd's gone silent. Into concentrating on not breaking her neck on the steep stone stairs, or back into the trip, he can't tell. But the quiet's pulling him back into the warm embrace of the drugs and the post-shag, post-fight desperate need for a ciggie, and to snuggle up to the girl and fall into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. But instead he's taken the pill, so to speak; he's certainly inside some kind of Matrix - though he still reckons he's got a better coat than that Keanu berk. And Syd would rock in a Trinity outfit; she's already got the gun part of it sorted after all.

But he could still really do without the snakes.

Which get more and more numerous as they descend further into the stygian depths. He can't help saying, "Never expected going to Hell to be this literal, pet. You'd think Ol' Nick'd lay on a handy portal or something."

She swallows a laugh. "You're seeing things too?"

"Oh, yeah, big time. Snakes, all over the walls. And they're starting to hiss. Hope you're not seeing them too, or I'm really going to have to worry."

He can hear her smile. "No snakes. We are under the Palace of the Serpents, so the carvings make sense. My flashlight looks like a daffodil though."

He tries to mask his own nerves. "You know what we need for all this, love? A soundtrack."

"REM?" The girl has many, many positives, but it seems her taste in music isn't one of them.

"God, no! Sacrilege! Nah - 'Golden Brown'. Of course, that's all about heroin, but right ballpark, yeah?"

Syd's snort is half lost in the sound of boots against the stone. "I don't think we need any more drugs."

"Could be worse, Syd. I could be doing the whole cliché thing and going for some Led Zep. Only we're doing 'Stairway to Heaven' in reverse, I guess."

She laughs, and completely incompatible tastes in music pulls them back from the depths of the trip, as the stairs take them deeper and deeper into the earth, and the snakes solidify into carvings on the walls by the time he hears the sound of running water.

Which is roaring by the time the stairs flatten into a tunnel.

Spike takes the flashlight. She lights a wood torch from one of the niches in the wall. She can't help grinning. "Always be prepared." She blames the drugs for the giggle that sneaks out.

He grins, "Mummies Beware!"

There are bones in the tunnel alcoves with stone tipped clubs still resting on their former owners, but no mummies. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Spike pouts. "Was at least expecting a big rolling rock, collapsing roof, stakes through the floor, or something! I want my money back."

The passage leads into a massive cavern, where two streams join together to form a river bridged by stone slabs balancing on carved rocks. Torchlight reveals a cave with a narrow entrance between the streams.

The right hand stream has a stone coffin, lidless, but still horribly like the one upstairs on its bank. It's second nature now. They don't need to talk. She raises the flaming torch high over it, as Spike sharpens into fighting mode to take out whatever new horrors await them.

It's a solid gold bowl.

Spike grins. "Think I like this little set-up a lot better, pet."

"Me too." Resting the torch on the coffer, she's ransacking her Latin American History. "This must have been for a cleansing ritual."

"Face and hands?"

"Yeah." She dips the bowl in the stream. "And even more important, thirst quenching." Tasting the water, it's sweet, so sweet. She drinks all of it and goes back for a second draught. The cold's like a knife in the gut, but it shocks her further back out of the drug haze than she's been for what seems like hours. "I needed that."

He must too. "Know the feeling." So she fills the bowl for him and watches him drain it dry. He must have been as thirsty as her, as she hears him mumble, "'S not enough, but might help take the edge off the growlies," as he refills it for his second drink.

He looks so sad when he passes it back to her. "Was right; wish I wasn't. I'm still hungry."

His flashlight shows a small altar on the bank of the other stream. "I'll take a looksie, Syd." And he seems almost glad to take off.

She takes the chance to splash water on her face, to wake herself up more than clean what must be a hair and skin disaster area, given the stiff mess that is all she can feel of her hair. Then she walks over to him, still carrying the bowl - once again full of water they need to drink.

She finds him holding a black stone knife and licking his finger. "Salt water, pet. This one must connect with the well."

"Makes sense. Gives us intel where we are." Which her still cloudy mind tries to clear into a map. She needs the intel on everything she can get though. "The knife?"

He looks at it for what seems like eternity to still fuzzy senses. "Obsidian, Syd - for spilling blood. Been used too."

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yeah," he sighs.

She fills his silence with analysis. "Cleansing, blood shedding, a bridge, a cave. I think we have ourselves a shrine, Spike."

He looks up at her. "Cave?"

She nods.

He laughs. "Some git once told me to guard my perimeter, ok, told me repeatedly. Guess we better check we haven't got any more Killer Mummies after our backs. Tosser won't let me forget if I don't."

She takes the knife from him and puts it in the bowl. She's learned enough of this bizarro branch of field-craft to take what potential weapons she might need with her. "And there might be an exit from there."

"Hope so, pet. I really do."

Side by side, they cross the bridge and squeeze through the narrow entrance to the cave.

Revealing a squared out room with a gold door at the other end, the walls full of niches holding small golden idols, with corncobs resting on altars beneath each of them. She picks one up. It's solid gold and incredibly heavy.

Spike laughs. "Guess we're not in Raiders of the Lost Ark after all, pet. No rolling rock."

She swats him, but his attention is all on a stone coffer full of heavy silver and gold jewellery. He's a child with a dress-up box. And by the time she can say anything his fingers are full of the most garish and large rings ever, a pectoral with a sun symbol on a heavy chain is round his neck, and he's what can only be described as preening. "What do you think, love?"

She can't help grinning. "You have the worse taste in jewellery on the face of the planet."

He laughs and opens the door.

She's almost blinded by the rush of golden light.

He's pinned in place by the light.

He's right back there in the arms of Hell. He's a thousand miles away and it's a thousand times hotter. Pure golden light around him, through him, over him; it's all he can see, it's everywhere and everything he's ever been and everything he ever will be. He's blinded by it.

He can't help laughing. Looks like he's a destiny he can't escape after all.

He can hear Syd rush to him, hear her drop the torch, hear her say "Spike?" Can feel her grab his hand, clutch it to her, feel the rings dig into his flesh.

It cuts the memory anchor that's pulling him back into death. "I'm not burning?"

He can hear her voice saying, "No, you're not."

But he can't see her, and he's floundering. "Why aren't I burning?"

Her words are there; he can hear every one. They're background music. " There's no fire, Spike. The flashlight - the beam's reflecting against gold sheets over the walls. It's the light, and the drugs. Come back to me, Spike."

He even registers her taking the torch from him, and the light dimming to a flicker. But it's too late. His mind's caught in a golden net of light and darkness that's trapped everything that was and is and ever could be. The moon, the sun, the stars, they're whirling and twisting - writhing round him in a dance tied together by a feathered serpent. And he's forever burning, forever rising from the ashes.

"Dru knows what it means. But she's named all the stars the same and she's all lost in the confusion."

Dru's not the only one that's confused. Syd doesn't have a clue how to pull Spike out from whatever depths of the trip that he's lost in. Holding his hand brought him part the way before he slipped away, so she grips it so hard his rings cut into her skin. The only light reflects from her torch in the antechamber, but the gold sheets covering the floor, ceiling and roof catch and magnify it, and mesmerise Spike.

She tries everything she can think of to pull him out of the trance. Tries to drag him out of the room, but she can't - he's locked in place. She knows he's not that heavy, that she's strong enough to move him. She's a horrible feeling that they've headed back into the Twilight Zone. She wants to blame the drugs; she knows she's still feeling them. She can smell corn, feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, and feel an impossible slither over her booted feet. But even stoned she should be able to move Spike, and she can't.

His "You lost your feathers, love," gives her hope he's coming out of it, Which is wrecked by his babbling, "The moon's swallowed the sun, and she'll choke on it."

She tries slapping it out of him, but he only laughs a laugh that chills her to the bone.

Her blood freezes when he speaks again and his voice is odd, wrong . "Entered the shrine. Used the water; didn't shed the blood."

It makes her look for the first time really where they are. Two mummies, wrapped in bundles of intricate textiles, dripping with jewellery, and crowded with gold and feathers dominate the centre of the shrine. Four massive solid gold idols glower on each of the four walls, each a mix of the recognisable and the utterly alien, bearded men with feathered serpents, something that might be the suns with a face, what might be stars and is corn - everything that seems to have trapped Spike.

She talks to him, never letting go, trying everything to get him back, get them both out of this latest trip down the rabbit-hole. "I wish I knew more on the Incas."

Spike's, "Wishing's a dangerous thing, pet - best avoided," gives her hope. His voice sounds like him again.

"It's important, I know, what you said. You did say that, right?" But I don't understand. I need help, Spike. This is your area of expertise, not mine." Great - she's babbling like Marshall. "What do I need to do?"

"The knife, Syd. It needs blood. It needs life."

Spike's sick and fed up of people, things, governments, gods messing with his head. It's bad enough to get yanked into re-running the single most painful experiences of his life, but to have something else use him as a mouthpiece, take his body for its sport - well, now it's personal. He's taken down gods and devils before; won't be the first time, won't be the last. Righteous anger gives him the power to break through the voices in his mind to tell Syd about the knife.

But it's all he can do. There's so many voices and they're deafening in their contradictions: one as cold as the tomb and twice as final; another so full of warmth and rebirth he's burned through by it, only to be frozen out under star-shine. Massive figures, so powerful that even a mind that's seen what he has can barely start to comprehend, twisting into people he knows, melting into the heavens, and all demanding his obedience - demanding his and Syd's penance for violating the last pure shrine of the gods of feathers and gold.

Syd's back with the knife and he can hear his own voice ordering her. "Get Out. Offer Life Before Entering Our Presence."

Good job that he's had over a century of practice in defiling purity. He pushes the voices back for a moment and takes his tongue back. "Here, pet. Bleed here."

He can hear her skin part, smell the blood, hear it splash on the gold floor.

He rips apart as the voices crack and leave him, tastes blindness from losing the sun, the moon, and the stars, freezes back into living death. But when the last ripples of agony work their way through him, he's himself again. He can see her, knows where they are, smell trustingly shed blood, so it's a price he's more than happy to pay.

Though he still can't move.

It's the necklace that's still holding him in place. He can feel that it's fixed on the sun-with-a-face god. He knows that it wants to burn him to a cinder like another bad choice in accessories did a lifetime - a second - ago. He gets out of this; he's giving up necklaces - they're clearly a Really Bad Idea. He's keeping the rings though; they aren't pulling him anywhere and he deserves a little payback from the latest set of gods out to make Spike's life bloody miserable.

He's about to ask Syd to take the sodding necklace off him when she pulls it over his head, and casts it away, muttering, "Horror film's rules; don't put on the ugly necklace!"

He manages, "Thanks, Syd," before collapsing to his knees in exhaustion.

She drops the knife, which shatters black and red on the golden floor, before crouching down, hands on his shoulders, to look into his eyes. "You ok?"

"Rough trip."

She smiles. "Looked like it." He can see her put it all down in the freaky drug trip file.

Her arm's still bleeding. The shallow diagonal cut threats to stain the rolled-up sleeve of her fleece. The ritual blood calls him, rouses and soothes the hunger that's been gnawing at him. Willingly shed blood powerful enough to defy the gods - or a bunch of has-been gods anyway. He can hear each drop of blood caress her skin. He can't help kissing the wound.

It's barely more than a taste, but the blood explodes on his tongue full of power and pleasure. He can feel the power of the knife that took so much life and the blood that broke it washing through him. The hunger for her life, for her blood, that's been making his fangs itch - it's quenched; he's filled with her life. He doesn't have to fight his own need to bite her any longer.

The flood of relief takes the last drop of energy he has left, and he passes out.

She can't wake him. She tries, but nothing works. It's only his moans, as she pulls him out of the shrine, which show he's still alive at all. It's quite honestly freaky, and more than a bit scary, just how very dead he seems until he whimpers in his drugged-out sleep.

He's not the only one whimpering.

Her arm hurts. She knows she needs to clean the cut. Boy, she knows she needs to clean the cut. She's not sure which she's more freaked over - the germs that must have been on that stone knife or the drugs making Spike kiss the wound. She needs to clean him up too, if only so she doesn't have to see her blood on his lips. But she's wiped out, trapped in a world where even less makes sense than normal, and now she can't even trust her own senses to give her reliable intel. There's rational thoughts going round and round in her head - like getting dad to give her a tetanus shot so she can avoid a CIA blood test that would show the drugs her enemies would use to fire her with - but they're like Sark, so difficult to catch. She wants off the carousel but it won't stop spinning.

She's crashing.

The drugs might burn him, but she's falling ever faster into deep water, and this time she's not sure there's enough air in the tire for her to breathe. But she's Sydney Bristow, and she doesn't give up while there's breath in her body and a will of iron to back it up. Even if right now, all she wants to do is curl up and sleep off the drugs fucking up her head. So she picks up the bowl and forces herself back to the stream.

She falls over more than once, and getting there feels more like running a marathon than the short walk the sober part of her brain insists it is. But she makes it, and takes another draught of the freezing water to wake herself up enough to take her own knife from its sheath without losing fingers she's pretty sure would turn into hot-dogs. She cuts enough off her shirt to bandage the cut, washes it, and straps it up. She could really do without wearing a belly shirt in a freezing cold cave, especially with the guy too unconscious to appreciate it, but at least her fleece is warm and dry.

She's tempted to try tipping the bowl of water on Spike's face, see if that wakes him up.

But carrying it and the flashlight back to the antechamber takes up pretty much all her reserves of awake . She's just enough left to soak the left-over piece of bandage in the water and wash his face, and put the bowl and rag by the knapsack he must have taken off while playing dress-up, before she passes out on top of him.

Spike doesn't know how long he's been off in the multicoloured land of nod, but it feels like years. It feels even better to find Syd sleeping soundly, snuggled into his arms, her head resting on his chest like it belongs there. He's been lost, empty, without Fred to hold; with Syd cuddled up to him, he feels complete again.

Ok, he's also up shit creek without a paddle if Fred were the one woman to defy his lifetimes of experience that he isn't the guy that gets loved and forgiven his trespasses. Winifred Burkle might have a heart the size of the sun - hell, she'd have to, to take him on in the first place - but he knows what she wanted to do to the professor bastard that sent her to Pylea, he knows the steel in his magnolia. He won't be let off with a spanking; he's lost her. Besides, he's Spike, and Spike doesn't get a second chance. Not that he deserves one; she gave him a home and he blew it to pieces all by himself - and all over the same woman that blasted his last home to shrapnel.

He can't help hoping he's found a new home with the woman in his arms.

He knows it's too fast, that he doesn't deserve her, that once they're out of here, all the obstacles of a life built on necessary lies over what he is and her job will rise up to knock him round the head. He knows it's a pipe-dream, but he just can't help wanting it. Can't help wanting her. He's built home after home with every woman he's loved, even if some of them have only been in his head, and lost every one. He can't help nestling Syd closer and falling into sleep dreaming of finally finding home.

Her back is killing her, her hip is bruised from the rough stone floor and her arm's gone to sleep under his. But waking up in someone's arms again after so long alone, "Feels so good." She can't help snatching maybe a last snuggle before she has to open her eyes and face whatever this is.

She feels him kiss her forehead, "Morning, Syd."

Face what they've done, what she's done. "Or night. I can't tell. The drugs, my sense of time; it's all shot to pieces. And I'm babbling; I don't babble. Must be the whole 'morning' thing."

"Morning after, and all?" He sounds like someone who has been burned too often.

Which means no more hiding. "Yes. And, believe me, this is the last position I expected to be in when I got on the plane in LA."

He's sitting up, despite her weight on him. "S all right. I got it. This is the bit where you kick me in the head and exit stage right."

"What? No!" She grips his shoulders and tries to make him look at her.

With a marked lack of success, since he tilts his head to avoid looking her in the eyes. "Ok, admittedly stage right is a dead end full of deadbeat gods -"

"Spike!" And there's merciful silence. "I am not going to kick you in the head. Who does that? Your ex?"

Which does make him look at her, with a kicked puppy face that makes her want to take him home and pet him. "Not the last one. We had tacos. Still not sure about them for brekkie food though. A bit of bacon and eggs with a nice slice of black pudding - now that's breakfast!"

"Atkins guy, huh?" She can't help her hands confirming the diet's effect across his back.

His voice is a rumble, which terminates with extreme prejudice the voice of sense telling her that if she has him again now it's real. "Pretty much, pet. Though there's this onion thing -"

She's tired of always being sensible. "You're making me hungry."

"Not the only one, love." And he's kissing her.

And it's as good now as it was under the influence.

His fingers under her fleece, cooling her belly before stoking her need for him to fever pitch. Clever fingers freeing zips and pulling them both free enough of their jeans. Strong fingers tearing her panties like tissue paper. Powerful body raising her up and down on his cock like she's weightless, while his mouth devours hers for breakfast. She comes twice before he follows her, groaning her name like a mantra.

She's still straddling him, and they're riding the aftershocks slumped into each other for what seems forever before she can speak. "I don't believe we did it again. Once, ok - circumstances. Twice, ok - substances. But three times is beginning to look like a habit."

"I'm a good bad habit, pet."

Maybe tucking the remains of her knickers in his coat pocket is a bad habit. It's one he can't resist. Resisting the temptation to bite her when he was off his head was above and beyond the call of souled-vamphood, but he doesn't do miracles. Ok, once or twice, so to speak. But resisting the siren-call of the lady and worshipping at her shrine, that he can't do.

She notices.

He puts his escape down to her attempt at breaking the speed record for getting fully dressed. She's not the winner - the Slayer's still the champion. "I broke 'em, pet. Wouldn't expect you to pick 'em up. And we can't leave a surprise like that for the archaeologist blokes when they get here."

He has to admit that gives her the opening to tell him. "The rings should be there too."

But a head-tilt and, "Evidence, Syd," gets him a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you smile and temporary custody of his sparklies. He knows he won't need Lilah's help to keep what he holds. Not this time.

Though pleading the interests of science does blow any chance of fun with flame-throwers on the shrine to Those That Fuck With Spike's head.

Picking up the knapsack, he can't help taking a looksie in the golden room. The air's burnt like there's been too much storm in too small a space. The crackle of snapped power bites at the demon in him. But the gleam of golden light's the worst of the worst and he's slipping back into the fire when he feels Syd's hand on his shoulder.

Her voice is an anchor. "I wonder who they were."

He's so lost between the ancient gods and the light of destruction that it takes him forever to work out that she's talking about the crowned mummies in the centre of the room. "Dunno, pet. Kings, high-priests, ancestors, burnt-out gods, court jesters, who knows."

"It will be interesting to know."

He can't help a rueful smile. "Soon as we get home, there's this mate of mine, Lorne, he'll have the rights sold off to the History Channel right and quick. We'll find out who the buggers are."

Looking at them, the gold's magnificent; it'll make a great telly programme. But without the power ripping through the room, they're somehow pathetic, withered, dead shells trapped forever in denial of death itself.

It's too close to home. "But I hate mummies, Syd."

She's the noticing sort. She squeezes his shoulder. "Let's get outta here."

Which is likely to be a problem. Loving Fred is easy - not just the girl herself who draws love to her like a lodestar, but because she knows his world. Not all of it of course, and he wouldn't wish half his memories on anyone - even Angel, if the git didn't have more than his own share - let alone the girl he loves. Syd seems to have shadows of her own, on top of the crash course into World of Spike, not to mention a whole world he doesn't understand, but demons, vampires, the fighting heaven and hell that is his world, that she doesn't know. But he's never been able to not tilt at windmills. "Give it a go anyway, pet."

The torch might have burned to a cinder while they slept, but it's far colder back in the cavern and she feels the loss.

He notices her shiver. "Need another torch, pet?"

"Might be a good idea." Sends him padding across to the tunnel to fetch one.

She lights and takes it from him. "Mm... warmth. Thanks."

He smiles. "You're welcome, love."

She has to focus on the mission. Not his puppy dog eyes. "We should look for exits."

He takes the flashlight. "Now we're not all off our heads, and all?"

"Yeah."

He tilts his head to look at her. "I'll take the salt then, love?"

"You are leaving me the sweet?"

"Always." He snatches a quick kiss.

And it's too tempting to make it more, so she says, "Go, search!"

He smiles ruefully. "Always."

The freshwater stream reveals nothing, even when she takes her boots and socks off to wade closer to the walls looking for an underground channel to freedom. She takes the chance while her feet dry enough for socks to drink some water and wash her face.

Spike comes back. "Looks like a dead end, pet. You?"

"There's nothing wide enough and my feet are freezing."

"And very pretty." He pats his pocket and produces the flask.

"Flatterer." She puts her socks and boots back on.

"Call it the way I see it, Syd. Always have; always will." He offers her the flask. "Not much left now, but, need anything to warm you up?"

"No! Thanks."

He shrugs and drains it, before filling it with water and passing it to her.

"Oh, God, my dad is going to hate you." All that heart on his sleeve, unfettered emotion will do that, even without the leather and the alcohol. The liquor alone will rule him out; Jack Bristow will never want someone for her that needs the same crutch that nearly destroyed himself.

"Dads don't usually like me. Mums on the other hand -"

"You meeting my mom - that is scary. I am just not sure who it would be scariest for." The mistress of mind games against the man with truth in his eyes. The empress of enigma who reads, plays, Syd all too easily. "Ok, not mom. For us."

"Us?" His smile could power a small city.

And the us is the really scary thing, so she stands up, "The us that have to get out of here."

"Just the river left now, pet." He shrugs. "Or back to the falling rocks idea."

"The river."

"Ok."

She's the one that sees the subtle curve of the water-eroded rock wall just as they're about to give up.

He's the one that spots, "A rock-fall, Syd. I think I can see some gaps."

"You are squinting? You're far-sighted?" She can't help noticing.

"Just a bit. Don't tell anyone." His embarrassment is palpable and buried in taking off his coat, boots and socks.

"Why don't you have it fixed?" She would.

"I have, as Harm would put it, Issues about doctors cutting me up." He passes her the flashlight and knapsack.

"Harm?" Syd puts the knapsack on; it's so heavy.

"My Ex." He starts and bends over to use his hands.

"Another one?" She is going to need that list - and Marshall to run the names through the database.

"I haven't had that many!" He's shifting enough stone to rebuild the interstate.

Which causes more stones to fall down, creating a rough gap maybe a foot over the water level. She directs the beam of light through it. "Spike, I can see a space through there."

He stands up holding a big rock. "Houston we had a rock-fall, we now have a gap."