Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. I just have them on loan.

Chapter Three

The walk to the cemetery was eerily silent. The town seemed to have died over night. Living in Sunnydale, an observation such as that is not to be overlooked. Here goes, she stepped into the dark crypt and immediately thought of him. The times they had spent together…alone, naked, and having loud, obnoxious sex. The familiar smell of whiskey, dirt, and cigarette smoke immediately billowed into her nostrils, almost drowning her with misery. God, how she missed him.

Buffy rounded the comfy chair in the center of the room, placing the duster on the arm of the beaten piece of furniture. The hours they had spent in that chair, him holding her to him as her sweat-soaked body rocked gently above his. The memory struck her hard. I was horrible to him… and what did he… what's that? A soft glow emanated from the bottom of the crypt. Has someone been here? Buffy slowly made her way to the manhole. She leaned forward to peer inside the opening. A candle flickered below, her mind wandered as to who or what could be down there.

Buffy climbed down the ladder and hopped off the last rung, landing silently in an animal-like stance. Her eyes scoped out the base of the crypt, trying to find a sign of something squatting in her ex-lover's home. The dim light allowed her to see only a few feet in front of her, she could feel someone else in the room with her, but wasn't able to see them, or it to be more precise. Buffy walked through the bottom of the crypt, trying her best to see.

She approached a heap of something in the center of the room… what is that? As she neared it, she shuddered at the stark alabaster and crimson against the elaborate Persian rug.

"Spike?" He didn't move. "Spike!" she touched his bruised shoulder, then pulled back, and whimpered at the sight of blood on her fingers. "What happened?" There was still no movement, but she knew he wasn't dead. There's still a body… thank god… she didn't dare to touch him any more; the numerous gashes, slashes, and unnameable wounds filled her with fear and remorse. What has he done? "Stay here, Spike. I'll go get Willow, she'll make it better." Her final motion was to graze her fingers across his palm, which had remained relatively unscathed. As she began to remove her hand, she felt his forefinger twitch ever so slightly. "I missed you," she whispered in his ear. She slowly stood up, casting one final glance at the broken vampire before leaving.

"Willow!" Buffy shouted, running into the house, "Willow!" There was no answer. A note lay on the table next to the door…

Buffy,

Tara, Dawn, and I are out. Be back by six.

"Crapolla."

Buffy slipped into the lower level of the crypt, her heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. He's really back…Buffy found him again, this time after lighting the dozens of candles he had around his home. She knelt at his side, a twinge of dread and anger rushed through her. What happened to you, Spike? She touched the side of his face; his jaw was swollen and bruised. He hadn't been healing and the proof was all there.

She leaned back to examine his body. Wherever he had been, it wasn't on vacation. Dark red lesions and lacerations covered his entire body. Bruises and welts decorated miscellaneous parts of him. Buffy moved an inch closer, her heart barely going now. The shock of his condition had finally settled in, leaving a deep feeling of remorse and fear for his well-being.

"Spike," Her hand touched his face. His eyes tightened briefly before returning to their paralyzed state. Come on, baby, wake up. Spike refused to regain consciousness. It was as if he was lost to this world, just gone. Buffy glanced around the room in a panic, thinking of what to do. I have to move him, he's hurt, and the floor can't be helping, She bit her bottom lip, debating on whether or not to carry him to the bed.

If she did so, would he feel anything? Buffy didn't have time to argue with herself before her arm went behind his head, the other behind his legs, which were probably broken. Why not? Everything else looks thrashed, Buffy smirked. Bracing herself for the weight…no, she lifted him with ease. She didn't strain a single muscle, nor did she have to use her Slayer strength. He was practically weightless, not a pound to him.

Buffy choked back a sob. Whomever had him was in for the wrath of the Slayer. There was no way in hell she was going to let the monster that took him get away with this! Buffy slowly walked towards the large bed across the crypt's cave, careful not to accidentally hurt him. She felt his ribs through his back, his spine, and the bones in his legs. It was killing her to see him like this. She had thought Glory's torture was monstrous, but this, this was inhumane. It was beyond evil, it was ruthless battery. He was an innocent being- well, maybe not innocent- but he had not done anything wrong. He hadn't done anything to anyone. Again, that Buffy knew of.

Carefully, Buffy laid him on the bed; his head hit the pillow gently. She sat on the edge right next to him. Her hand rested on the only part of his chest that remained unharmed. Buffy's nimble fingers ran against the skin, a tingling feeling made her heart warm with affection. She bent down to kiss his forehead, but found herself pressing her lips softly to his. It was then that she realized what exactly she felt for him. No, I don't. I can't.

Her heart rate quickened and Buffy pulled away, moving across the room and sitting in the red barber's chair. She raised her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and stared at him. Spike looked like a corpse. His chest did not rise, his eyes did not open, and there was no movement, just a body.

For the next few hours, Buffy sat in the chair and watched him intently. If he moved, she would be there at his side within moments, holding, caressing, telling him how she missed him, but he didn't.

Rollocks moved in front of the Iron Maiden. Spike had long since stopped screaming, for the weakness of his body caused him to fall forward, puncturing his lungs, putting a halt on all noise, "William," Spike's teary, bloodshot eyes opened wearily, "I've got a gift for you. I feel that you have endured so much while staying here and you never received a reward for your cooperation. I assure you that Buffy is well, alive, and if I'm not mistaken, on her way home with her witch friend."

Spike wanted to go home.

"I have given time to myself and thought of the perfect gift. It will bring you misery, despair, and oh, my personal favorite, guilt beyond comparison. It also gives you what you wanted, a chance for her to love you." Rollocks took a step closer, his pearly white teeth shone in the blackness of the chamber. A small flicker made shadows dance across the walls in the distance, "I'm quite sure that you cannot speak, so I will do the speaking for you, Mister Pratt." The older man disappeared.

When he returned, Spike had closed his eyes, "William, wake up," There was not other choice, but to obey, if he didn't, he might be taken out and tortured further. The solitude he had become so used to appeared more appealing to him. It was quiet and it hurt less when he could sleep. Close his eyes and see her face. The emerald eyes, soft, bronzed skin, silken, honey blonde hair, full pink lips. The face of an angel. One that he would never see again.

"This is my friend. Call him Mister Shaman," Rollocks stepped out of his sight and a demon creature replaced him. The glowing green eyes outlined by the dead black. Spike heard a whining noise, followed by the sound of several locks opening. The door to the Iron Maiden opened, pulling the nails out of his chest. The skin had healed around the metal rods, ripping when the door opened. He didn't bleed; he had no blood left in him to run.

"PRIOR TO THIS…YOU WERE PLANNING ON SEEKING ME?" There was no answer, just a look in Spike's eyes, "SOMEWHAT ABOUT THE SLAYER. YOU LOVING THE SLAYER. AN ABOMINATION TO THE DEMON BREED, THE VAMPIRES. YOU WISH TO BE RESTORED TO YOUR FORMER IDENTITY." Again, the look was unmistakable, "VERY WELL. I WILL RETURN YOUR SOUL," The demon's hand hit the center of Spike's torso, a light filling his eyes as he gasped for air. Unable to scream, the pain built inside of him, the pressure building in his chest.

The demon's hand dropped and he vanished. Spike tried to take in any air he could, but failed.

Rollocks' laugh hurt far worse. There was something in him that ripped through his gut, flooded his brain, and drowned his consciousness. His soul.

That was when it started. Rollocks shut the door of the Iron Maiden, the nails running into his chest again, opening new wounds. His ribs cracked in several more places as he fell towards the door involuntarily.

"Disgusting…"

"I was only a boy…"

"Please, don't hurt her, sir!"

"I have my children…"

"Spare me…"

"I plead with you…don't do this…"

"Look! It's William the Bloody Awful Poet…"

"It will only hurt for a moment…"

Spike's body writhed on the bed. Buffy's eyes snapped up and without a seconds hesitation, she was at his side, leaning over his body. His eyes never opened, but she knew that he was awake. Her hand touched his arm and his entire body stilled. The Slayer then realized that her touch soothed him. He was having a nightmare, Buffy assured herself.

"Spike, I'm here. I'm here, sweetheart, you don't have to be scared anymore. I won't let anything happen to you. Not again," She entwined her fingers with his, pulling them up to her mouth, planting soft kisses on his fingers. Buffy knelt beside the bed, holding their hands to her cheek while whispering words of comfort. Seconds later, Spike's eyes started to move as if in REM. His chest hitched. Buffy became hopeful, silently urging his consciousness to the surface. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please, wake up.

Spike's right eye opened, snapping back shut. Buffy leaned forward, dropping his hand and moving hers to his face. She cradled his jaw, gently stroking his cheek with her thumb, "Spike, come on." She realized that it must have been the light keeping him from opening his eyes only moments before. Quickly, Buffy blew out the candles next to the bed. She returned to her poised position above him and waited for a response. Spike's eyes fluttered open. They were bloodshot and had a nasty coating on the edges. He looked around in a panic, stopping after seeing her. She could see the disbelief in his hurt eyes, the uncertainty of her presence.

She stroked his cheek once more and smiled, the tears filling her eyes, occasionally falling over, "Spike?"

He didn't blink, nor did he move. Spike stared at her for the longest time. Buffy swallowed hard and a light went off in her head, he's hungry... She left him alone for a fraction of a second before turning back, "Spike, listen to me, I'll be back in a few minutes. Do you understand?" She waited for a vocal answer, but received none. She kissed his forehead, feeling his muscles tense from her touch. Maybe touching him isn't a good idea right now. Buffy whined when she pulled away. After such a long separation, Buffy wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her days alone with him, trapped in a world of their own, wasting the hours away, filling them with constant love-making, tender kisses, and sweet caresses. Showing him what she couldn't tell him with words.

Buffy climbed the ladder, hopped off the top rung and ran to the refrigerator. She opened the door in a hurry; a magnet flew off the metal door and hit the sarcophagus a few feet away. There were half a dozen packs of blood, but all had started to coagulate. She bit her lip and slammed the door, grabbing the purse she left in the top level.

Buffy ran out of the crypt and through the cemetery. She tried to get to the butcher's shop as fast as she could, but it didn't feel fast enough to her. Purchasing mass amounts of pig's blood, Buffy rushed back to Spike. Upon reaching the crypt, she noticed that the door was open. Worry consumed her. Something could be down there, hurting him, killing him, and he would not be able to stop them. The Slayer ran into the creepy cereal box of death and jumped down the manhole, the brown paper bag of blood still in hand, and landed on the balls of her feet. There was no one but Spike, semi-sitting up in the bed. His back was against the headboard. Buffy let out a small chuckle of relief when she realized she forgot to shut the door behind her.

"Spike, you should be lying down." Buffy strode to the bed and sat on the nightstand beside it. She placed the blood on the floor beneath them and leaned in to touch him. He flinched, obviously terrified of any contact. He eyed her suspiciously until she noticed the pain stricken fear in his eyes and backed away enough to let him relax. Buffy reached down and picked up a bag of the plasma. She looked around her to find something to puncture the plastic with, but found nothing, which meant that she would have to do it the old fashioned way. Closing her eyes, Buffy positioned the bag at her mouth. Her teeth clamped down, breaking the material, letting the blood flow into her mouth.

Quickly, she held it out to Spike who just looked at her strangely as she spit out the foul liquid, ridding her mouth of it's vile taste. Buffy had no choice; the blood was spilling out onto his chest, seeping into the open wounds. She grabbed him by the back of his head, pulling it back, and moved the bag over his mouth.

He hungrily latched onto the bag, his face never changing its human visage. Buffy loosened the forceful hold on his hair, stroking the back of his head as he drank. The results of this small amount of blood didn't show. Usually, small cuts and bruises healed instantly after this amount. She dropped the empty bag on the ground beside the bed, grabbed another, and repeated her previous actions. Spike finished off what she had gotten at the shop and hungered for more. She ended up going back to the butcher's shop.

When she returned, Spike was waiting for her. This time, sitting fully up and facing her as she came down the ladder.

"I thought you were supposed to be lying down!" Buffy snapped. Spike furrowed his brow.

"Are you real?"

Buffy cocked her head, "You're talking…" He looked down at his lap, which was unclothed and uncovered. He could care less. Four hundred years of nudity and you move past the shy phase. She rushed to his side. He struggled to move away from her. He hadn't healed much at all. The swelling had gone down considerably, but that was about it. She could do nothing to help him, if only she could give him some of her str—Wait, that's it. Buffy made her way to the bed, sitting on the end. She was far enough away from Spike without causing him any discomfort. Am I real? What does he mean? "Yeah, it's me. Buffy," She touched her chest, "Spike, what happened to you?"

A/N: Give me two days and a bottle of scotch. Thanks for reading. Send me a review! Damn hooligans…