A/N: Thanks to my betas, Sass and Emma.

*****

            When the night sky gave way to a blue haze of pre-dawn, Buffy pulled the Honda off the freeway and into the parking lot of a motel. Its paint was peeling and gray, but it was open, brightly lit. and according to her map, the only place to stay within fifty miles. As tired as she was, she barely remember to unhook herself from the hand cuffs before leaving Spike in the car to pay for a room. She didn't bother reattaching them when she returned. He wouldn't run from her while they were in the middle of nowhere. Confident of that and, more so, that he wouldn't wake up anytime soon, she lifted him out of the car and into their room. 

            It wasn't much, just a full size bed, a wooden desk, and a bathroom she knew would have a tub, thanks to the extra twenty dollars she'd given the manager. "And that's where you're going first," she told Spike as she brought him through the doorway and kicked it shut behind them. "I've been killing demons for a lot of years now, and you smell more rank than all of them rotting together in the sun."

            Letting his blanket fall to the floor, she laid him on top of it while she ran the water, making it as hot as she could stand. There were complimentary bottles of shampoo, but she overlooked them in favor of the soap Giles had given her. "It's for farmers, I think," she said, pulling it out of her backpack and reading the label. "Giles thought you'd need the heavy duty stuff."

            She folded a towel and placed it beside the tub to kneel on, then lowered him into the water, catching the back of his head in her hands. "I think we'll wait on the hair for a minute and start by getting some of these layers of dirt off you. Then a shampoo and maybe, when you're feeling better, a cut. I didn't bring any bleach along, sorry 'bout that. If you want some, later, we can stop and buy it. Along with a razor. Giles didn't have a spare, and we've gotta get this scruff off your chin before it sits up and eats you for dinner."

            Dipping a washcloth into the water, she started to scrub, touching his skin as little as possible. The soap made bubbles on the water's surface that offered him a degree of privacy, though it wasn't necessary. Hard enough to bring herself to handle even his arm. "Don't worry. Your chastity's safe with me."

 She concentrated on his shoulders first, then his neck and the upper part of his chest. Taking his body a segment at a time helped her focus on the task at hand and avoid dwelling on the way his skin stretched over his collarbone to the point of translucence. She did not want to question how long it had been since he was last strong enough to catch a rat, or wonder if the twitches beneath his eyelids were signs of consciousness or merely a random firing of neurons. All she wanted was to get him washed, get him fed, and put him to bed. The rest could come later.

Washing down his withered biceps to his hands, she noticed his nails were shorn off. She glanced down at his toes and the rest of his nails missing as well. I don't want to know. I so do not want to know. She let his hands fall into the water, pasted a smile on her face, and said, "There. That's better."

            His arms clean, she moved to his legs, picking up one foot and it out of the water. "You have nice feet," she said, dunking the cloth under the water and running it between his toes. "I always thought so. Funny, isn't it, the memories people keep? It's hard to call up much about the first time we kissed, you and I, but then there was that whole love spell thing to take into consideration. I guess that's kind of like being drunk and waking up the next morning with a headache and a stranger in your lap. At least with the love spell, we got cookies. Anyway, don't remember much about the first kiss, but I do remember the first time I noticed you barefoot." Finishing his toes, she rested his heel on her knee and watched his face. "I was on patrol. Not surprising. It was the night before Christmas, walking through your cemetery, alone. And no, I was not coming to see you. Not really. Just… walking."

            Studying his face, she waited for a reaction, but continued without missing a beat. "So, there I was, walking, looking for dangerous undead, when you came out of your crypt and stepped right in front of me. Not dangerous in an 'I have to stake you' sense, but with there was this light in your eyes, a-a heat. It was like you knew I'd be coming by at that exact moment, like you were watching for me. Maybe you were. I know I checked my bedroom window a hundred times over the last year, hoping to see you by the tree. You were never there. I mean, of course you weren't. I knew you wouldn't be there. You had your Sanctuary, after all. Giles and Dawn told me I was insane. But… I still looked."

            The water was brown and sludgy. Lifting the drain, she waited for a minute before running fresh water into the tub. "That night. Christmas Eve. There was frost on the ground. You stood in front of me, wearing only your jeans. No boots, no coat. I thought you'd be cold but if you were, you didn't seem to care. All you wanted was for me to come with you, to be with you. I might have, that night. Just for a bit even though Dawn and the rest of the gang were waiting for me to get home. We were doing gifts, Santa, the whole deal. Like a real family. I didn't want to be there, with them. It was too… normal. Too claustrophobic. I couldn't breathe. But I didn't want to spent Christmas Eve in a crypt screwing a vampire, either. Some things you don't get forgiven for, even by your family. That'd be one."

            She checked his face- still no reaction- and picked up the shampoo with a sigh. Pouring some into her palm, she sat on the toilet seat and took his head between her hands. His hair was long and what wasn't matted into clumps tangled and clung to her fingers. It felt so different from the way it once had, but Buffy didn't want to think of that either. She kept talking to him, hoping to bring him back with the sound of her voice if not with her words. "So, there we were. I had to choose between you and my friends, yet again. Only that night the choice was made for me. I'd given in, just a little, and I kissed you. I still wasn't planning on staying, though. Then, all of a sudden, Willow showed up. She said she'd come to find me but really, she couldn't breathe in that house either. Not while Tara was there, not that month. They hadn't made up yet. I'm sure she thought about that later, when Tara died. They'd wasted so much of their time together fighting. Not without good reason, obviously, but still…"

            She cupped water in her hands and poured it over his scalp, rinsing away the soap, turning his head to the side to keep the suds from running into his eyes. "You might be wondering how I can talk like this. About the time before… about Tara and Xander and even about Willow, without crying, o-or screaming. Sometimes, I wonder the same thing. It doesn't seem right. Shouldn't it be harder? See, though, I can't think of Willow- my Willow- as the same person who did… what she did, that night. My mind… it just doesn't work that way. I've got them split into two separate people. The bad Willow is dead, but my Willow… she's all over the place. Sometimes I imagine she's away at school in England, at Oxford. She used to love listening to Giles talk about his time there. And sometimes, I pretend she and Tara are on a long vacation. Backpacking through Europe together, very romantic, very… together." Capping the shampoo bottle, she sat back and reached for a fresh towel. "I do a lot of pretending these days."

            "Anyway, I'm getting off track. I was telling you about Christmas Eve. Willow came up the path towards me. It was obvious she'd been crying. Blotchy skin, red eyes, the whole works. You know she could never hide her feelings, back then. Do you remember what happened next?" She folded the towel lengthwise and placed it under his neck as a pillow. "Willow stared at me. I stared back at her. I tried to say something, make up some sort of excuse, but the words wouldn't come. And you, you were watching me like a hawk, wondering what I'd tell her. My lips felt huge on my face. This sounds weird, I know, but it was like she was looking at them- my lips- instead of the rest of me, like all she could see was the part of my body that had touched you. Then…"

Standing, Buffy folded her arms across her chest. She peered down at the top of his head, taking deep breaths. Be calm. Get through this. "Then, she turned and walked away. Just like that. She didn't say a word, or ask any questions. She just… left. And that was that. She never mentioned it. I wondered, after she died, if she thought of what she'd seen… us kissing… when she made you… well. Damn. Forget what I said about this not being hard. I can talk about Willow, just not… just not about that night. Not to you. Not like this." Not until I know you have survived her. 

            Now that he was clean, the dark purple smudges under his eyes stood out in dark relief against the pale skin pulled tautly across his cheekbones. Even his lips were white. Bending down, she touched her index finger to them, half expecting him to open his mouth and take the tip inside. When he didn't, she moved away, turned on the sink and splashed cool water on her face. This can't last. I have to find a way to reach him…or at least a way to figure out if there's any him left to reach. "Spike… what am I going to do with you? C'mon. Let's get you out and dry. There's a baggie of blood in my backpack with your name on it. Giles packed a whole cooler full. Also he donated a shirt and some sweat pants. They will be pretty big on you, but you'll fit in them soon enough, now that you're out of that evil place and back to eating more substantial food than rats."

            His skin was slick beneath her hands. As she lifted him, she thought of times passed when she had caused his body to fly through the air with the lightest of punches and kicks. He never was a big man but now he felt breakable, in the way a newborn is, a fragile weightlessness, his angles awkward in her arms. Water splashed over her body, soaking her jeans and tank top, but she held him close and carried him out to lie on the bed, caring about nothing except the thought that tugged on her conscience: he did this for me.

            The bed creaked under his weight, slight as he was. She pulled the sheet up to cover him, the dampness of his skin making blackish patches on the red fabric. The bag of blood had warmed in her backpack long enough to be palatable. Ripping the top, she sat beside him and lifted his head onto her knees. His mouth fell open. "I'll try not to choke you," she said, dribbling the liquid past his lips. "Spike, drink. This stuff is really, really what you need to wake up. It's human. It will make you strong again." She turned her face away, gulping. "It's also really, really gross."

            She rubbed his throat, trying to get him to swallow. Feeling his muscles contract, she smiled. "There. That's more like it. I knew you were still with me. You are, aren't you? Still in there?" Her words met a silence broken only by his soft, gulping noises. "Yeah, okay. It's not like I expected you to sit up and tell me all is forgiven and forgotten. But…" I hoped. Amazing, but true. I still have hope.  "Spike, just… rest. And heal. I'll be here when you wake up, even if you hate me for it. I should have never made that stupid promise, but things were crazed. Xander and Tara were dead. Giles and I were both bleeding. You had my blood on your mouth and Willow was…" She was on fire. The cemetery glowed with the light of her burning skin. It hurt my eyes, I could not see…

            She rested her forehead against the bed frame and closed her eyes. "Just wake up. We can deal with everything, together, once you're awake."

*****

            Just a dream, he told himself. Another dream. S'no water here. No bed. Nothing warm, nothing at all soft.

           

            But it couldn't be a dream. He never dreamed of comfort. 'Course not. Too many bad things to be dreamed of. Why waste a good sleep on comfort?

            And Buffy was not here. Not in the crypt, not in his dreams. Never. If I think that enough times, maybe it will come true. Maybe then the nightmares will stop. The memories… don't want to remember her. Don't want to think.  

            There was a pressure on his neck, soft, light. Could be another cockroach. Too small to be a rat. He tried to smack it away, but couldn't raise his hand. The pressure moved down across his collarbone to the top of his chest and stayed there. His ears buzzed with an odd sensation… a voice, talking to him after so many long months of silence. A real voice. Buffy's voice. This was no dream.

            No. Bloody bitch. She promised to leave me alone. Promised she'd stay away. Never trust her. Never could. Never did. All her words turn empty in the end.

            Something wet tickled his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn't figure out what was happening. Then the taste brought him back. Blood. Human blood. Turning his face up to the bag, he found its edges with his mouth and sucked at it. His fingers twitched with the want to grab it. Feeling his vampire ridges surface, he tried to think, tried to understand what was happening, but all he knew was the metallic taste of the blood on his tongue. I'm not dead. Don't I drink, then? Don't I taste it? Must be alive. Must be William.

            Except he wasn't, he realized as the tightly-stretched skin over his vampire lumps pulled with each gulp he took. Not a human. Not a man. Just a demon with man parts. Just another demon, swallowing human blood. No. No feeding. Bad. Evil, so evil…

            He spat the blood out as forcefully as he could but it clung to his chin and cheeks in heavy droplets. Can't get it off. Can't get away from it. Struggling again to lift his hand, he dragged it over his torso and up to his chin, rubbing clumsily. Can't get clean.

            "Spike. Can you talk?" He heard Buffy's voice as if from far away. Buffy. She's here. She came for me. But she promised. She said the words, the 'yes, I will, I promise. For you. Because…' words,  and I remember those words, remember the devastation in her voice, could hardly hear her through the screaming, couldn't touch her, not with my arms full of burning witch, but I heard those words, she said them. More empty words. Bitch. Bloody, sodding, magnificent bitch.

            "Spike, I know you can hear me. Can you feel this?" Fingers prodded his rib cage. Frowning, he tried to squirm away. "Spike, goddamn it, I know you're there. Open your eyes. I've been waiting so long. Look at me. Look!"

            Bitch. The tops of his eyelids seemed heavy with something loose and gritty, as though they'd been covered with sand. He forced them open. Blinking hard, he found Buffy's face inches from his own, her hazy eyes the first things he saw. "Bitch," he muttered, and coughed, choking a little on the leftover blood in his mouth.

            Droplets of blood flew out and slapped her across the cheek. Her eyes grew wide and wet. Then they slowly narrowed. "Welcome back," she whispered.

            "You should have kept your word. Should have left me there…" His eyelids sagged as a leaden exhaustion overtook him. Sinking his chin down onto his chest, he felt the blackness return.

            Buffy leaned over him, motionless, her gaze fixed on his blood-covered face. The last words he'd whispered before losing consciousness resonated inside of her. Should have left me there… to rot… Pressing her fists against her breast as if she could ease the tightness that grew there, she bowed her head down to him. She started to speak into his ear, but could think of nothing to say, nothing that could bring him back again.

Finally, she lay next to him, her arms crossed over her chest, and closed her eyes. She tried not to breath through her nose. Spike still smelled of ashes, of burning flesh, and the tang of blood, old and new. No, he doesn't. He can't. I bathed him. Forcing herself to inhale deeply, she focused on the scent of soap but underneath, the smells of that night lingered on, waited for her. But it's over. Done with. She's dead. With that fact held fast in her mind, she fell asleep.  

*****

            She awoke to the sound of a ringing phone. For a moment she was confused. She'd told no one where they were. Then she recognized the distinctive ring Dawn had programmed  into her cell phone. The Monster Mash, hahaha, Buffy thought, pulling herself up on her elbows and digging through her backpack for the phone. Beside her, Spike did not stir. But he was awake. He spoke to me. Okay, so he swore at me, but hey, awake is good no matter what. No matter what.

            Squinting in the thin light emitted through the curtains, she found the button and lay back down, the phone against her ear. "Hello, Giles."

            "How did you know it was me?" Her Watcher's voice sounded tired.

            "Only you would call at sunrise. What, you thought I'd forget to close the shades?"

            "Well, the last thing you need at the moment is for Spike to burst into flames. Am I right?"

            Yeah, we did the whole 'setting our friends on fire' thing last year. Must be something new we can make into this year's trend. Beheadings, maybe. Clearing her throat, she realized she'd been silent longer than normal. "Yeah. That's right. No fires."

            Giles lapsed into his own silence. Though temped, Buffy didn't tell him that she understood what he was thinking. He was the one, after all. The one with the torch. It's got to be worse for him that way.  When he spoke, his tone carefully casual. "How is he?"   

            "He woke up for a minute last night, after I fed him."

            "That's… that is encouraging news, Buffy. What did he say? Was he lucid?"

            She looked at Spike. The bloodstains remained on his chin, but the hollows of his face were shallower now, his color more normal. "Nothing important. But he was… himself. Coherent. I think he's sane. But weak, really weak."

            "If weakness is the worst of it, consider yourself lucky."

            "I do."

            Another silence fell. Buffy listened to the static on the line.

"How's Dawn?" she asked finally.

            "Asleep at the moment. But fine. She misses you, but has said she wants you to stay away as long as necessary." There was a clicking sound, and Buffy knew he was cleaning his glasses. "She told me she doesn't want you to come home until you are yourself again. With or without Spike."

            "That's the general plan. Did you make the arrangements?"

            "Of course. Mr. Fielding's phone number was right where you said it would be. I spoke with him only briefly, but he seemed a pleasant man."

            "He is. Old Dan's a great guy. My granny told me once that even his kisses tasted sweet."

            "Ahm, well, that's… rather disgusting, actually. At any rate, I informed him you would be coming. He told me about your grandmother's farm, with many warnings of its decrepit state. I do hope you're prepared for this.'

            Memories made pictures in her mind. Granny Annie on the porch, drawing, crayons melting in the summer heat. Feeding the cats in the barn, surrounded by their sleek, soft bodies. Sun warm on her shoulders as she wiggled her toes in the mud at the edge of the pond. Dawn's laughter, hanging upside-down over Old Dan's broad shoulders. "I know it won't be the same. Granny's been dead for almost eleven years. Mom kicked Dan off to live in the caretaker's cottage but she never sent him any money for upkeep. Even when I was a kid, the place was falling apart. But it's mine now, and I'm going to fix it up."

            "Mr. Fielding also mentioned trouble with the local teen-agers. Apparently the lure of an abandoned farm is strong. They've created ghost stories to frighten themselves into a show of bravado which, he tells me, generally ends in graffiti, alcohol, and a good chasing-off by the police."

            "That'll be easy enough to deal with. They're just kids, fooling around."

            "You think Spike will be strong enough to help?"

            "Maybe. We won't get there for a few more days. With enough blood in him, and enough rest… maybe. But it's a good place to heal. Granny bought it after her husband died. She moved my mom out there thinking it'd help mom get through her grief. But then Granny met Old Dan. He moved in and mom… well, she never liked him, or the farm. But I think Granny was right, even if it didn't work out back then."

            "Let's hope so. If nothing else, your optimism is heartening."

            She heard the exhaustion that threaded his words and winced. "I'm sorry I had to leave you there with no help. Is everything still quiet, demon-wise? You sound so strange."

            "I'm worried for you. That's all."

            "Don't be. I'm fine. You know me. Survivor girl."

            "Yes, I do know you. That's why I'm worried. You want to believe that Spike will heal and become exactly who you've imagined he could be this long year."

            Spike stirred, twisting onto his side. A deep groan came from his chest. "Giles, I've gotta go. He's waking up. Tell Dawn I said hi, and that everything is going to be fine. I'll call her in a couple days. And Giles… don't worry about me. I'm doing what I have to do. This is the only way any of us will be able to move on."

            She kept the phone pressed against her ear for a moment after he hung up, its heat on her skin sealing off his final words of warning. But Buffy, there's nothing guaranteeing Spike's soul will make him into the man you want. Beside her, Spike arched his back, stretching.

"Hey, sleepy," she said, touching a fingertip to his cheek. "We should get going."

            Spike opened his eyes, startling her. "Where are you taking me?"

            She shivered at the coldness in his tone, but kept her own friendly. "Upstate. To the country."

            "Do I get a say?" His jaw tightened as he tried to sit but found himself too weak to even raise his head.

            Frustration bit at her. She couldn't hold it back. "Can you walk out of here under your own power? No. I'll get you better, get you strong again but until then, we're following my plan. If you don't agree, you can stay here. But if you do, there's a bag of blood with your name on it, and plenty more after that."

            He was hungry, so hungry. The need for sustenance was raw on his face. "Fine," he said, and closed his eyes to the sight of her. She knew he would have stalked away if he could have.

            "Before, I had handcuffs on you, to make sure you couldn't run away from me when you woke up. You can't run now. But I will put them back on you if I have to."

"What do you want from me, Slayer?"

            Willow's words from that night came back to her. You saw that he loved you, saw he'd do anything for you, and you took from him. You sucked him dry, just like you suck everyone dry. Flames burned in her eyes, the memory strong enough to overtake her. Covering her face with her hands, she reminded herself to breathe, but she could still hear Willow's voice. She ate and ate and just threw you the bones, didn't she, Spike?

            "Answer me, Slayer. What the bloody hell do you want from me?"

            To forgive. To be forgiven. To survive this. Dropping her hands to her lap, she whispered, "Nothing."