Chapter Three

It was another restless night for Buffy as she patrolled, more cautiously than last time. No Fish Men sneaking up on her now, that was for certain.

Inwardly, she was fuming. Still.

How dare he judge my friends, telling me that he's the only one here. That's ridiculous! I still have Dawn and... But she knew there was no one else. She knew that he was there for her, as twisted a love story it might make, it was true. A souless vampire was there for the Slayer. Not the Slayer...Buffy. Spike was there for Buffy. Suddenly, remorse flooded her thoughts like an exploded dam. She felt this inexplicable urge to apologize; very bizarre. Her feet found their way to his recently re-inhabited crypt and her hands found the door, pushing lightly. The old wood groaned in protest to being used, but shut fairly quietly behind her.

The tv wasn't on. Strange, but not alarming. He could still be sleeping. She padded to his large bed, the one in the back, used when he felt more like living like the living. A small smile crept to her face, one of the first genuine ones in a long time, at seeing him sleeping...

...In his clothing? This in and of itself was unusual, but could possibly be explained by some late night revelry.

As she walked closer, she realized something that she hadn't noticed before. His eyes were open. Buffy nearly jumped back until she looked again--Yes, he was definitely sleeping. The combination of things made a knot of fear twist itself in her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her.

"Spike?" she asked timidly and was goaded on by the lack of response.

"Spike!" Now she yelled. She yelled, hit, and shook the comatose vampire, becoming more apprehensive by the moment. She vainly checked for a pulse and looked for breathing until she remember with whom she was dealing. Her voice became choked with tears, the ever-present tears. Buffy leaned down, lightly brushing her lips against his cold ones, wondering if she was saying goodbye.

His eyes fluttered.

Crimminey, it was like Sleeping Beauty. Do things get any lamer?

"Mmm, luv, next time dun wait so long to..." his words were slurred by sleep or whatever had him under, but either way they were good to hear. Buffy crawled into bed next to him, wrapping her arms around a firmly muscled torso.

"Hush. You scared me and I think I finally know why. You always scare me, but not in the 'Arrgh, I'm a scary, Big-Bad' sort of way. You're so right that it chills me, always knowing how I'm feeling, even if I don't want to hear it... I never do. I..." she cut herself short, sitting up slightly, casting a questioning look at Spike. He seemed distracted, not the right emotion for someone who had been waiting to hear those words for what seemed like an eternity. Instead of attentive Spike, sweet Spike, understanding Spike, she got... What? Confused Spike? His next words stabbed at her.

"I... I can't move. I want to do so much to you right now, but I can't. Pet, could you check to see if the rest of my body is still attached to my head?" There was a note of alarm in his smooth voice. This was different for a person who was used to being practically invincible. He didn't get sick, didn't stay hurt. Hurt... Hurt... That was it, his arm hurt. He told her, asking her to take of his shirt for him. Might have been sexy if he hadn't felt like such an invalid.

"Bloody hell, girl!" he shouted, trying to lurch away as she touched the afflicted area on his right shoulder, but his body was unresponsive.

"That frickin hurts!" Buffy's eyes darted up to his face, contorted in pain.

"Spike..." she started hesitantly, "It's... um... Black."

Bloody hell, indeed.

* * *

Let me clue you in on how things work out in this world, Buffy--they don't.

Trying very hard to shake away the inner voice of doom and gloom, she focused on the black patch on Spike's shoulder, which seemed to be spreading in a barely perceptible way.

He had groaned when she gave her mini-diagnosis, but couldn't muster up enough caring to...well...care. This was the way it went. Something happened, it might hurt for a bit, and then it would eventually go away. Scratch that; quickly go away. Being undead did come with a few advantages, at least. Hell, it wasn't only that damned Wolverine from X-Men who healed quickly. Creature of the night here, yeh? All in the job description.

So why did Buffy looked so bloody worried? Hmm... Interesting point, though. She did looked concerned for his well-being. Meaning...?

He tried to reassure her.

"Look, luv, it's nothing; really. Didden mean to make such a big of it. Probably something normal, like... Oh! Pigment discoloration!" He nodded, looking pleased with himself. That sounded plausible. Of course, it didn't quite explain the red puncture dot from where the black seemed to emanate from, but hey! Can't win `em all, hm?

Her voice was sharp.

"Spike. You can't move." He struggled to upright himself, but to no avail. He was almost willing to swear that little pixies, in his sleep, had tied invisible weights to every appendage on his body. Well, it's the Hellmouth, after all.

"It's not nothing. In fact," she continued, "I believe that in the great, wide world of medicine they have a name for this--Something."

Spike scoffed.

"I'm just a bit peckish, that's all. Sometimes, I lock up when I haven't eaten in... Wait... What day is it?" Surprised that Spike doesn't wear a watch with one of those glow-in-the-dark dates on it? Don't be.

Tuesday. That would make it.... one, two, three... Six days since last Wednesday. Isn't that when he last saw Buffy?

Lessee... Blah blah blah, being hit, blah blah blah, nothing's ever free, blah blah bl--back up. There. That was it. What had happened after she had left? More importantly, what had happened between then and now?

And Spike was confused.

Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, staring inquisitively at Spike, trying to piece together his puzzle of behavior. Was he counting on his fingers?

She shook her head and stood up. Shrug. Remembering his comment about being hungry, she took the stairs to the top level and let herself into his fridge. Buffy grudgingly grabbed a bag of blood from the masses and shuddered. (Let's face it, it's gross. Sure she could stand it if it were spewing out of a slaughtered demon's abdomen, but packaged and ready to eat? It was like gogurt, for God's sake! Wonder if it tastes as good frozen...)

Figuring that Spike would rather eat now than wait for his microwave, which tended to be as haywire as the inner-workings of his mind, she trotted back down to the lower level.

The metallic, tangy scent of his meal caught his attention, derailing his train of thought. In truth, he hadn't gotten far in Buffy's absence, his mind still stubbornly refusing to recollect the past six days. The smell was heartening, though, and afforded him strength enough to grab the plastic bag from her all-too-willing-to-let-go fingers and ravenously downing the contents and lick his lip in a satisfied manner.

"Mmm, better," he practically purred, feeling the warmth course through his lifeless body. He opened and closed his right hand, testing the nerves along the arm. Wince. Yep, pretty much in order, if not sore.

The vampire's hand shot out, grabbing Buffy by the wrist and roughly pulled her onto the bed. His reward was a small gasp, the widening of her eyes.

"It's been so cold, Slayer," he murmured huskily. "But now you have no excuse to leave. No friends to rush off to, no boyfriend to run home to. Just me and," he leveled a look at her, "And you."

She leaned in close and for a moment, all seemed well. Her scent appealed to him more than the blood, so sweet, innocent and yet indescribably enigmatic. Spike's body ached for her and he believed that he would get what he had been waiting for... Right up to the point where she punched him on his blackened and already-smarting shoulder.

Hard.

"You're a pig, Spike," she spit out angrily, storming for the exit.

Who knew pigs felt so much pain?