Spike turned his anguished blue eyes to Lorne, who was looking at Buffy with an expression that mirrored what he felt inside. Spike looked back at her blank face and asked, “How long has she been like this?”

Lorne had busied himself with tiding up the bar after it had closed. He didn’t want to see the emptiness in her eyes, and he thought the chores would help to distract him. They didn’t. With a tone that revealed just how weary he was, he loved them both but this kind of emotional upheaval was pure Hell on an empath demon’s nerves, he told him, “She’s been like that since the little sugar lump went missing. She hasn’t slept since you left her here,” the cutting glance that was shot his way made Lorne draw back from its heat and put his hands up as if to ward off a blow, “I tried to make her eat. I did,” he shook his head in resignation, “But, she hasn’t done that either. At first I thought it was just shock. But, it may be something more than that.”

As Spike looked deep into her eyes, he felt something in him drop. He’d seen that look before. Her eyes were hollow, like they were the night Glory took Dawn. He had sworn to himself that night that he would do whatever he had to, to keep that look of loss out of her eyes.

But, here it was again. He’d failed her. Again.

He needed her to be his center, his anchor, in more ways than one.

Giles had told him that Hans Kraus had returned to Council headquarters. His Slayer, Astrid Hoffmann, was dead. And, it wasn’t a demon attack. It wasn’t an accidental or natural death, if the death of a nineteen-year-old girl could be called natural.

No, her death wasn’t natural. Her death seemed to have been caused by the same virus that, apparently, caused the death of Jonina Dustin on his wedding night, with one glaring exception. According to Giles, when Astrid died her body looked like it was covered in red lace because her body had, essentially, exploded.

His nightmares were coming true. He needed Buffy. He needed her as a sounding board. His little girl was gone. Slayers were dying. He needed her to stop the world from spinning long enough for him to keep his world from ending. He needed her. God curse him for being so weak, but he needed her. And now she was gone. Just like on that horrible night.

He looked into her eyes and he realized they were empty. Not insane empty, like Drusilla’s had been. With Dru, if you looked hard enough, you could see something to hold on to. It didn’t always make sense, but there was something there.

Buffy’s gaze held none of that hope. And that made him angry. So angry that he’d placed his hope in her, and been disappointed. Again.

How dare she be this selfish, to leave him alone again, “Damn,” he breathed, his voice a strangled, weary mix of hurt and anger, “Buffy I need you here,” he shook her shoulders a little, trying to elicit a response. Any response would do, even if she punched him in the nose for his trouble, “Don’t you dare cut and run on me now!” he could feel the despair spiraling quickly out of his conscious control, “Don’t do that,” he begged her, “Not again! Don’t you dare leave me alone again!” Spike could feel the anger welling up inside him. He wasn’t going to fall apart. He couldn’t. She had seen to that.

The anger kept building. It built to such a fury that he had to strike out. Some part of him understood that he shouldn’t, but that didn’t matter. That didn’t matter when his whole world, a world he’d fought, and died, to protect, and might well again, was falling apart and she had gone missing and yet hadn’t moved at all.

It was selfish, and it hurt. How many times had she called him a monster? He’d stopped counting long ago. Yet, was he the real monster here, or was she? Was his beautiful sunbeam, his Goddess, the real monster?

It just wasn’t fair. It hurt so much. He had to strike out against the pain. So, he did strike.

The crack of fist against jaw jarred Lorne. But not as much as the sight of Buffy recoiling from Spike’s fist. His eyes widened in horror, not just at the violence he had resorted to, but at her lack of response. Aside from her head moving to one side, from physically being forced to by Spike’s blow, she gave no response. It was as if he’d never touched her.

Lorne saw Spike’s fist pull back, like the hammer on a gun, to render another blow. He let out a shout as he rushed to the end of the bar, “Spike no! Don’t do it!”

Spike teetered on the edge, ready to let the hammer fall where it may, when something stopped him. Something in the distance was telling him to stop. Don’t they understand that I can’t? If I stop the world ends. And, she dies. I can’t stop. Help me. I can’t stop.

A powerful green hand covered the fist that was ready to deliver another blow. Spike blinked, not comprehending why Lorne felt it necessary to touch him.

His gaze followed the green arm that was still straining under the effort of staying the fist still waiting to strike, down to the beautifully placid face that stood in front of it.

Her face.

His eyes widened as the blur in his vision began to take the shape of her face. His vision cleared then blurred again as her swelling, reddened lip became his sole focus point.

It all became clear. The horror of what he’d nearly done made him a jumble of limbs in his haste to put distance between him and the object of his unbridled fury. Stopping only when he felt the cool plaster that made up the opposite wall of the club.

Clear, horror darkened eyes begged Lorne to tell him it was all just a brilliantly sharp nightmare. In a voiceless whisper, he pleaded with his friend, “ Oh God, what have I done?”

Lorne looked at him with sympathetic eyes even as he shook his head, “Not saying it’s right. But, I do understand it. Everyone has their breaking point. Come on,” Lorne sighed as he moved to extend his hand to help his visibly shaken friend to his feet, “we’ve got work to do before Willow gets here,” he said as the two friends walked back over to Buffy.

Spike was still fighting the wave of adrenaline that nearly swept him away with it as he sat on his haunches, once again, in front of Buffy. The adrenaline that was still surging through his borrowed blood made his hands shake slightly as he touched her broken lip. He hissed in empathy for the pain she did not react to, wincing at the power he’d unleashed on her. He looked imploringly at Lorne, who produced a towel for him to wipe the seeping blood from her torn lip, “I know that hurt, Love. I’m sorry,” he turned his head to question Lorne, “Do you have somewhere she can rest?”

“Yeah,” Lorne nodded, “Made her a cozy little niche in the Fallout Shelter in the back room.”

“There’s a fallout shelter here?” Spike asked, clearly surprised.

“It’s not the atom bomb type,” Lorne sighed, “Although given my past associations, that might be a wise investment. It’s for sleeping it off.”

“Oh. Could you take her there and make sure she’s safe?”

“Sure,” Lorne said as he led Buffy away, “ But,” he warned, “if you do that again, I may have to throw down. You remember what happened when I let my emotions take control, don’t you?”

“Understood,” he nodded, “If that happened again, I’d welcome the beating,” he looked shamefully at Buffy’s small form as she slowly shuffled away from him, “Believe me.”
******************

He stared at the girl he’d thought was his daughter. He’d been fooled again. She looked so real. But, it was all a lie, “No,” he’d been here so long that even to him, his voice sounded thin and brass-like, “You’re lying. I sent her back!”

The look of pure hatred that shone in her Daddy’s eyes made her breath catch in her throat, “Daddy, what are you talking about?”

His voice became a low growl, “You’re not her! I…” blue eyes closed and his fingers shot to his temple. He winced, as if he were in pain. His teeth clenched and his throat made a guttural sound as he spoke with an almost deadly growl, “I…had a girl, once. I thought I did,” his eyes glistened at her, “But no. It was a lie. No one’s Daddy,” he looked confused, as if he were trying to hold on to water and was angry at the water for slipping through his fingers, “I wanted to…I…No! Can’t be here. No,” he shook his head, his eyes wide with confusion and fear, “I’m here. So…you’re not. Joni?”

She nodded, even as the tears streamed down her face.

“Why?”

“Because Mommy couldn’t leave you alone,” Joni said simply.

He looked with horror at the door that held out the howling wind and snow, and suddenly he knew. She was out there somewhere. She was out there somewhere, and he had to find her. He had to find her. And send her back because she didn’t belong here.

He forgot everything but her. The cold didn’t matter. The years of isolation and loneliness no longer mattered. All that mattered as he rushed out the cabin door, forgetting to protect himself from the elements that whipped around the cold night sky, was her.

He went out into the night air, screaming her name.
**************************

Buffy strolled through the New England cemetery. She was grateful to Jonina for helping her through her grief. It still hurt, but at least now she could walk through this cemetery, even in late December, and not feel cold inside.

Somehow she knew she wasn’t alone here.

The snowstorm that was driving stinging snowflakes into her skin and whipping the wind until it became a comforting familiar growl didn’t scare her. Joni had said that she’d met a friend, an old gardener named Homer, and she wanted to thank him for befriending Joni, and helping her grieve, when she was not able to see beyond her own sorrow.

There was a comforting light, coming from a cabin in the distance, which drew her close. She was close enough to see the person that stood behind the glass windows. She smiled. It looked warm and inviting in that place. It was a little oasis.

Then, the howling wind became a voice, and the voice became a name. Her name.

His voice, calling to her, “Buffy!”

“Spike?” she whispered against the wind, not believing it was real until she felt his lips against hers.
*******************************

All that was left was to kiss her goodbye. Willow had opened a portal, assuring him that he would be drawn to Jonina. There was no need for a guide. She was his blood, so he would end up where she was, wherever, and whenever, that happened to be.

As he watched the vortex of light swirl to a point in the ruins of the old club, he looked at Willow with a skeptic’s eye, “You’re sure this will work, Red?”

Willow nodded. Too quickly for his liking, “Uh huh. Pretty sure.”

He raised his eyebrow, “Pretty sure?”

“Sure,” she said.

Spike sighed. He was too committed to stop now. Or maybe I should be committed, he thought. He took the ring and chain from his duster pocket and walked over to Buffy, who stared on, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. He knelt before her as he tenderly placed the silver chain around her neck, “Take care of this for me. Tell her I love her. Don’t let her forget me, all right?” he asked, as he gently kissed her, trying to take her essence with him, “Remember that I love you,” he stood and slowly turned away, not wanting her last sight of him to be his tears.

“What kind of timetable are we looking at here, Red? Tell me.”

“It’s hard to tell. Every dimension is different. You could be gone minutes, or hours…or years,” she said quietly, “There really is no way to tell.”

“Make sure Jonina comes back,” he growled, “I don’t matter. She does,” he turned to look at Buffy and realized that he was leaving his heart behind, “So does she.”

With one last look into the abyss before him, he took a cleansing breath and ran into the portal, disappearing from sight as the light swallowed him whole.

As the light dissipated, leaving once again in its wake the ruins of a nightclub, a name could be heard. Sobbed by the one he’d left, “Spike,” Buffy sobbed, “Come back, please.”
*********************