It was the strange beeping sound that woke Buffy up. She opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh neon lights. A hand reached for hers.

"Buffy? Honey?"

Buffy jerked, attempting to sit up. She was restrained, tied to the bed with straps. She struggled against them, expecting them to break under her slayer strength, but they remained firm. The pressure on her hand increased.

"Buffy, sweetheart, it's ok. Calm down. It's just me."

Buffy knew that voice as well as she knew her own name; she'd never expected to hear it again.

"Mom?" she whispered.

Joyce smiled, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from Buffy's face.

"Hi honey," she said. "We're so glad you're awake. Your father's just gone for the doctor."

Buffy blinked.

"My father? Mom, where am I?"

"You're in the hospital. You're very sick."

Buffy frowned.

"I don't get sick. Mom, where's Dawn? And Connor, is Willow looking after him?"

Joyce's face fell.

"No, honey. Those people aren't real."

"What do you mean they're not real? Course they're real," Buffy began to struggle against her restraints again. "Mom, help me! I need to go back and protect them. I need to make sure Dawn and Connor are safe."

Joyce had backed up to the wall, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh Buffy," she said brokenly.

The doctor swept through the door at that moment, followed closely by a person Buffy hadn't seen in years: Hank Summers.

"Daddy?" Buffy whispered.

Hank's face lit up instantly. He rushed to her side and grasped her hand.

"Buffy. You're awake," He turned to the doctor. "She's lucid."

The doctor, a grave man in a white coat with salt and pepper hair, nodded and consulted the clipboard he was carrying.

"This is her first in months," he agreed. He turned to Buffy and smiled.

"How are you feeling, Ms Summers?"

"Where am I?" Buffy asked. "What's going on?"

The doctor nodded.

"It's understandable that you be a little confused. You've been very sick, Buffy. You've been having delusions that you have some sort of destiny to protect the world, that you have super powers."

Buffy recoiled from him. This man knew she was the slayer!

"This is some sort of trick," she said slowly.

The doctor shook his head.

"You've been here for six years, Ms Summers. The delusions started with you sneaking out of your house to prowl graveyards, and descended from there. You've created a whole world for yourself there, a whole new identity as a 'vampire slayer' with a whole cast of friends; even a sister."

There was a noise in the background, persistantly pulling at her consciousness. Buffy tried to ignore it.

"What do you mean I created them? They're real," she turned to her mother. "Mom? Dawnie's real, isn't she? Where is she?"

Joyce shook her head.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. You don't have a sister."

"And Connor. I need to get back to Connor."

"Ah yes," the doctor jumped in. "He's a recent character. A natural outcropping of your desire to grow up and achieve adult rites of passage."

Buffy shook her head, tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm not crazy," she whispered. "I'm not." There was that noise again, hovering in the corners of her consciousness, tugging at her.

"Of course you're not, sweetie," Joyce jumped in. "You've just had some... problems. But they're going to get better now."

"You just need to stay here with us, and not go back into your delusions," said Hank.

The noise was getting louder now. It was beginning to sound familiar. Buffy had been woken up by this noise every day for the past six months. It was Connor crying.

"He's crying," she murmured. "I have to get up."

The doctor started forward.

"She's slipping into her delisions again. Nurse, four miligrams of anaprovaline."

Hank and Joyce held each other, with frightened expressions on their faces.

"Don't leave us, baby girl," Hank said.

Buffy looked at them. Would this world be so bad, with her parents both alive and still together? She could stay here, stay with them, not have any of the responsibilities that came with being the slayer. She could be normal.

Connor's cry once again pierced her consciousness, and Buffy's decision was made.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "He needs me. They all do." Then she surrendering herself to the pull of her mind.

Buffy's eyes shot open. She was in her own bed in her own room at her house in Sunnydale, and Connor was crying. In the early dawn light, she could just make out his form as he struggled against the bars of his crib. Pushing back the covers, Buffy hauled herself out of bed and made her way to his side. Connor was sitting in front of the bars, his face screwed up in protest as he wailed.

"Hey now," Buffy said, scooping him up and cradling him to her. "What's with the wake up call, baby?"

Connor's sobs quieted, and his small hands grasped the fabric of her tank top.

Buffy's mind travelled back to her dream of mental hospitals and doctors in white gowns and... her parents.

"You knew I was in trouble, didn't you?" she said softly to him. "You knew I needed you." She kissed the top of his downy head, and put him back in his crib.

Connor looked straight at her, grasped the bars of his crib, and pulled himself to his feet.

Buffy smiled.

"That's my boy," she said.

Buffy was beating the demon in front of her to a bloody pulp. She'd forgotten how good it felt to beat the tar out of a baddy – the wordless poetry of a body in motion, the surety of knowing there was one less evil thing lurking on the streets of Sunnydale.

The demon twisted in her grasp, its swiping claw leaving a long jagged cut down Buffy's arm. It bled sluggishly.

"Hey, I liked that skin!" Buffy complained.

She spun around, using her momentum to swing the heavy axe she carried. The demon dodged.

"Who's afraid of the big bad slayer?" the demon taunted.

"Obviously you're new in town," Buffy said. She swung the axe around over her head in a wide arch. The axe cleanly severed the demon's head from its shoulders. Its body stood upright for a moment, then collapsed forward. Buffy jumped out of the way to avoid being pinned under its weight.

"Guess in the heat of things you just lost your head," Buffy quipped, smirking at her handiwork.

A rustle behind her made Buffy pivot around, her axe immediately at the ready.

Emerging from the shadows was a familiar, leather-clad, peroxide-dyed figure.

"Oh," she sad, lowering her weapon. "It's only you."

"I heard you slayin' and came to give you this," Spike said, holding out something to her.

Buffy took it cautiously, examining what was now in her hand. It was a one dollar bill.

"It's so's you can buy yourself some new puns," Spike smirked.

Buffy snorted, but pocketed the dollar.

"That won't buy me very many," she shot back.

Spike grinned.

"We've gotta stop meetin' like this, Slayer,"

"You coming out of the shadows, me all covered in demon gore?" Buffy snarked.

"Somethin' like that," Spike said. He ran a hand over his gelled hair. "Listen, my crypt's just around the corner. You could come over and wash up 'fore you go home, if you want."

Buffy gave an inner sigh.

"Spike… I can't. I said it's over, and it is."

Spike held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Not for that. We could have a cuppa. You know, talk."

"We never talk," Buffy reminded him.

"Yeah, well, maybe we should start," said Spike, sticking his hands into his pockets. "A bloke likes conversation now and then."

Buffy sighed, this time aloud. But she couldn't deny the logic of his proposition. She was filthy and exhausted, and if she went home now she would be press-ganged into looking after Connor or doing household duties before she could even catch a quick shower.

"Ok, we can make with the friendly," she conceded. "But no funny stuff, Spike, I mean it." She pointed a finger accusingly at him.

Spike's smirk grew.

"No funny stuff," he agreed.

Buffy finished washing the last of the demon blood off her arms, and came out into the main crypt area, drying herself off with a towel. Spike was sprawled comfortably on his sofa, two steaming cups on the floor beside him.

"As advertised," he said, handing one of the cups to Buffy. She sat down beside him, cradling the warm cup in her hands.

"You're right," she admitted. "I do feel better now that I'm cleaner. Amazing what a shower can do, isn't it?"

"Amazin' what two people in a shower can do," Spike said, leering at her suggestively.

Buffy sighed.

"I came for tea, remember? Nothing else."

"Come on, luv, you know what you really came here for."

Buffy held her hand out.

"Don't make me kill you, Spike," She warned.

Spike laughed, a low, sensual chuckle.

"I've heard this song before, luv. I've got the sheet music. I've got season's tickets. We've played this duet a hundred times."

In spite of herself, Buffy felt herself grow weaker. When she was with Spike, it was easy to forget everything - how much responsibility she had, how tired she was, how there seemed like no light at the end of the tunnel. She could lose herself in him; he was offering.

He was close now, leaning over her, his hot breath on her cheek. It was so tempting.

Buffy pushed away from him. It was too hard to think when he was this close. Away from his proximity, her reasons for refusing came back to her.

"No, Spike," she said, turning from him. "Not now, not ever."

Spike stepped forward, his hands now in her hair, gently massaging her scalp.

"Why not?" he asked.

Once again, Buffy moved away from him.

"Because," she replied. "It's not fair. I'm using you, Spike."

Spike gave a bark of a laugh.

"I know. I don't care. I'd rather have half of you than none of you at all."

Buffy shook her head.

"No, that's not right. Listen to me, Spike. This isn't just about me and you any more. There's someone else in the equasion now."

Spike's face darkened, the half-light of the crypt highlighting his high, angular cheekbones.

"The brat."

"Yes. Connor. My son."

"Angel's son," Spike corrected.

"My son," Buffy insisted. "I can't do this to him. He deserves a proper father figure. I know Angel can't ever be part of his life, but that doesn't mean I can replace him with a string of deadbeat boyfriends. I'm sorry, Spike, but I need to find a good model for my son. If I'm going to raise him to be a good man, he needs good role models."

"And I just won't do, is that it?" Spike growled, his temper flaring up. "I can babysit the lad, but as soon as I'm shagging his mum I'm not qualified?"

"Spike..." Buffy said.

"No, you listen here. I don't mind being told I'm not good enough for you. I already know that," Spike began to pace angrily in front of her. "But not enough man for the spawn of Angel? That's low, even for you."

Buffy made an angry sound in the back of her throat.

"What do you want me to do, Spike? Introduce you to my son? 'Here, kiddo, this is your father figure. And oh yeah, he's a bloodsucking monster who wants to kill you, except that the nice commandos put a chip in his brain so he can't.'"

"I was never into eating babies," said Spike, turning to face her with a leer. "That was more Angelus's style."

He didn't see the punch coming. It knocked him off balance with its force, but he regained his footing quickly, taking a swing at Buffy.

"You're not all human yourself, luv," he taunted. "And lest you forget that the lad's real parents were both bloodsuckers like me. You want to know a thing or two about Darla? I could tell you more stories than you want to know. Who do you think Angelus learned his best tricks from?"

Buffy swung around, lashing out with a high kick that caught Spike in the stomach. Spike grabbed her foot and twisted, so that Buffy was thrown to the side. With lightening quick reflexes, Spike was on top of her, pinning her down to the cold stone floor of his crypt.

"Ain't this how it always starts," he leered, pressing himself down on her, her arms pinned at her sides.

Buffy struggled.

"Let me go, Spike!"

"You sure that's what you really want?" He asked, his lips hovering inches from hers. "Or is the boy just another one of your excuses? You can't face the fact that you're attracted to me, that you can't stay away. Admit it. You love me."

Buffy attempted to wrench her arms away from his hold, but his full weight on top of her was too strong for her. Fear crept into her beautiful features.

"Spike, get off me. Get off!"

Instead of doing as she asked, Spike lowered his mouth to hers, pulling her into a rough kiss. His fingers found the buttons of her shirt and began to undo them, not much caring if he tugged buttons from holes, or just ripped them off. He pulled away to push the shirt off her shoulder, and was surprised to find wetness on his cheek. Buffy was crying.

"Stop," she said, her voice soft and pleading. "Please stop."

Spike started, and scrambled off her. He backed away, until he was at the opposite end of the crypt from her, his eyes wide with what he had been about to do.

Buffy drew herself into a ball, her eyes tracking his movements. Her hair was discheveled and her clothes torn where his greedy fingers had pawed at them. Makeup ran from her wet eyes and down her pale face in dark streaks.

"Buffy..." he whispered, almost pleadingly.

Buffy stood up, pulling her shirt back over her shoulder and attempting to button it up. She walked towards the door, limping slightly. At the entranceway, she turned to him.

"And you wonder why I could never love you," she said, her voice flat, devoid of all emotion.

Then, she walked out the door, letting it clang hollowly behind her.

Buffy stumbled home, not even sure where she was going. Her feet knew the way, though, and without even realizing it she was at the door of her own house. It was almost dawn, and the house was quiet. She slipped in without hardly daring to breathe, and made it up the stairs and to the bathroom without anyone seeing.

She was a mess. Her hair and clothes were trashed, her makeup all over the place. Buffy slipped out of her ripped and filthy clothing, leaving it in a pile on the floor as she got straight into the shower. She put the spray as hot as she could stand it, and scrubbed all over until her skin was raw and tingling. She wanted to wash him off. The feel of him against her, his scent on her skin. She felt dirty, like there was a layer of mud caking her. Except there wasn't anything that she could see. Just her own skin, getting redder and redder the harder she scrubbed. Her tears mingled with the water streaming over her as she leaned her head on the tile of the bathtub and sobbed.

It wasn't as if he had never touched her before. They had been sleeping together on and off for months now. And it always started like this - her trying to break up with him, them arguing, him grabbing her, the rough sex. But this time had been different. This time she'd said no. And he hadn't cared. Buffy let out a shuddering breath, and picked up the loofa again. She wanted to wash all traces of him off of her.

It was nearly an hour before the hot water ran out and Buffy was forced to get out of the shower. She wrapped herself in a huge fluffy bathtowel and trailed to her bedroom, changing quickly into her softest, fluffiest yummy sushi pajamas. She brushed her dripping hair out, and sat down shakily on the edge of her bed.

Connor had woken up while she was dressing, and was sitting up now, regarding her with wide, curious eyes. grasping the bars of hs crib, he pulled himself up to a standing position, and lifted his arms over his head, indicating that he wanted to be held.

"Oh, baby," Buffy said, tears flooding her eyes again. She rushed to the crib and scooped him up, cradling him to her and kissing him again and again.

"Oh Connor, baby, I'm sorry your mommy is such a basket case," she whispered to him, rocking him back and forth as she sat back down on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry I can't be stable and normal for you."

She pulled away to see his small face, which was losing its baby roundness in favour of a childish oval. Under his sandy brown hair, dark eyes regarded her curiously. He reached out a chubby hand and touched the tears on her face, feeling their wetness.

"Momma?" he said. "Momma cry?"

Buffy blinked.

"Connor? Baby? Did you just talk?"

"Momma cry?" Connor asked again.

Buffy's mind struggled with the idea of Connor's first words.

"But you're not even one yet. You're not supposed to talk."

Buffy let her eyes take in her son, realizing perhaps for the first time that her baby didn't look like a baby any more. He had grown at an accelerated rate, looking almost like a one and a half year old, even though he hadn't even had his first birthday yet.

Oh boy. The implications of this one were a doozy. Buffy dived for the phone, and practically sprinted to Willow's room.

"Wil? Wake up!"

Willow sat straight up in bed.

"Where's the apocolypse. I'm ready!" she said.

Buffy flipped her the phone.

"Call Wes," she said. "It's important."

Willow, now fully awake, regarded Buffy under hooded eyes.

"What should I say?" she asked.

Buffy held her son close to her chest, feeling calmed by his comforting weight in her arms.

"Tell him it's about Connor."

Spike stayed huddled in a corner of his crypt for a long time. One by one the candles sputtered and went out, leaving him crouched in the dark. His mind played the incident over and over again. Hadn't this been how all his encounters with Buffy had started? With her telling him it was over, and him taking her roughly against some hard surface? Hadn't that been how it always was with them? What had been different this time?

This time, Spike's brain answered cruelly, this time she had asked him to stop.

And he hadn't. Until it was almost too late.

Buffy was right. He was a monster. She hadn't had the strength to turn him away for herself. But for that kid, for Angel's son that she had taken as her own, for him she had the strength. She was right, he wasn't a fit roll model for a little lad. What kind of lessons would Connor learn from him? How to force himself on a woman?

Spike buried his face in his hands, his shame and horror to great to face the world. He had done a lot of things in his time as a vampire, and most of them the stuff of nightmares. But he had never forced himself on a woman unwilling. That was a line that even he, monster though he was, would not cross. And tonight, with the woman he had claimed to love, he had almost crossed it.

The horror of that thought propelled Spike to his feet. Blindly, without hardly knowing what he was doing, he grabbed his rucksack and shoved a few extra bottles of blood into it. He shrugged on his black duster and hurred from the dark crypt. There were still a few hours of night left, enough to get far away from Sunnydale.

"I'm sorry, luv," he whispered to the empty crypt. "I will be worthy of you. You'll see. I'll make myself worthy of you."