"This is completely unnecessary, Slayer! How can you not get it by now, I'm not going to try anything!" Spike was still objecting -- a little too loudly for Buffy's comfort, considering her sleeping friends upstairs who still had no idea about this most recent decision-they-were-going-to-hate -- as Buffy fastened the manacles she had used the other day around his wrists.

"Right," she said dryly, raising her eyebrows speculatively. "This from the one who not two days ago tried to eat my friend. If you think I am letting you run loose all night in my house with my sister and my friends, you're insane, Spike! Just cause I don't want Faith to kill you doesn't mean I trust you."

"I think *I'm* in more bloody danger from your *friend* than she is from..." Spike stopped short, giving her a curious look. "You don't want Faith to kill me?"

Buffy looked a bit put on the spot, as she answered with a defensive note in her voice, "Well...I kind of need you. For now. Because...you...know stuff. About Faith." She quickly changed the subject as she ran the chain through the links of the manacles and ran it around the top right post of her bed.

"If you *have* to chain me up, don't see why you couldn't do it in the living room. At least there's a soddin' couch to sleep on there!" he grumbled.

"Hey. I'm being nice giving you all those blankets and pillows and stuff anyway," Buffy informed him, a little huffily. "I could have just made you sleep on the floor with nothing. It's not like you get cold, anyway."

"I just don't see the point, love." Spike just wouldn't let it go.

Struggling with her irritation, fighting not to just hit the infuriating vampire chained to her bed -- and that was *so* not something she was comfortable with! -- Buffy explained, slowly and clearly, as if to a small, stupid child.

"One more time, Spike," she said in a too-patient voice. "I want you close to me." She deliberately ignored his raised eyebrows and the suggestive smirk on his face as she went on. "So that if you *do* try something...I'll be right there to stop you. There's no way you're gonna get out of those chains without waking me up, with them attached right to my bed."

"You're too bloody paranoid, love. I couldn't take a soddin' six-year-old, the way I feel right now!" he informed her, startling her with his honesty. "Don't see why there's a perfectly good couch going to waste. I don't fancy waking up with an aching neck and back -- anymore than I've already got, that is."

"Well, do you *fancy* waking up a big pile of dust, if Willow happens to wake up in the middle of the night and decide to stake first, ask questions later? Cause I *sure* don't wanna have to clean your dust out of my upholstery," Buffy snapped.

"Oh, right, then," Spike shot back sarcastically. "In that case, now that I can see that your concern is only for my well-being, I don't mind at all sleeping on the bloody floor chained to your bed when there's a perfectly good couch going to waste!"

Actually, if not for the floor part, Spike would not really have minded all that much. In fact, the sight of the pretty blonde Slayer in her thin cotton pajamas was almost worth the discomfort of sleeping chained up on the floor. And the fiery anger in her sparkling green eyes was, if he was honest with himself, quite a turn on, actually.

"If you don't like it," Buffy smiled insincerely. "You can always go back and sleep in Faith's bed."

Okay...not so much with the turn on.

He did not really have an answer for that comment, so he just heaved an exagerrated sigh of annoyance and lay down, trying to relax as much as he could on the hard floor with his hands chained above his head to the base of the bedpost.

He tried not to stare as Buffy finished getting ready for bed in stony silence, seemingly determined to ignore his presence completely for the rest of the night, now that she had had her say. That was probably a good thing, he thought. If she was ignoring him she could not notice the way he could not stop looking at her, or the desire rising in his eyes -- and other places -- at the sight of her.

He knew that this particular situation, while considerably safer than being anywhere near Faith (due to Buffy's being *not* psychotic) was still a precarious one. He did not want to give the Slayer any reason to stake him, especially while he was in such a vulnerable position.

A part of him was surprised that Buffy had not decided to stake him already, in spite of the alliance they had made. After all, he had already told her everything he knew about Faith's plans. What reason did she have to let him live now?


Buffy was asking herself the same question.

After all, regardless of the arrangement she had made with Spike, he *was* a vicious, soulless killer. She had only made the agreement in the first place so that she could find out who had killed her mother. Now that Faith had turned on him completely, Spike was not likely to be able to gain any more useful information for her. She was the Slayer, and her instincts were telling her that this creature should be dusted.

So why could she not do it?

The sympathy she had tried to fight off at his injuries when he had shown up at her door was now joined by an annoying sense of guilt, because despite her denial, she knew that he was right.

He *had* been injured in trying to help *her*.

Of course, he had only been helping her in the first place to serve his own interests. All he cared about was killing Faith, avenging Drusilla's death.

And in that line of thought, she realized suddenly, lay the real reason that she could not dust him. Her mind went back again to his painful recount of what had befallen him and Drusilla upon their return to Sunnydale. She could still hear the ache of sorrow and loss in his voice, that painful emotion that so closely echoed her own.

If Spike was nothing more than an evil thing, with no true human feelings, she wondered as she slid under the covers of her bed -- then why was he still so relentless in his pursuit of vengeance on the one who had killed his former lover? Why now, months later, did he still clearly mourn for Drusilla?

Those were troubling questions, questions that challenged her entire worldview, and suddenly, Buffy was just too exhausted to think any more about them. She reminded herself that, despite the physical evidence to the contrary, Spike *was* an excellent fighter. his presence could prove to be helpful in coming up against such a strong opponent as Faith -- especially if she managed to pull off the ritual before they could stop her.

With an actual valid reason for the allowed presence of the vampire on her bedroom floor firmly in place, Buffy felt a little better about her decision, and turned her back on Spike, determined to put it all out of her mind and go to sleep -- completely unaware that the vampire in question was watching her with barely concealed desire, as she drifted off to sleep.

After a little while, the overwhelming weariness from his night's ordeal caught up with Spike, and he too drifted off into a fitful, restless sleep.


He awoke in almost total darkness, to find himself standing in a room that was both familiar and strange at the same time. The only light came from a door at the far end of the room, open only a crack to allow a thin shaft of light to stream into the room, and his eyes followed its path, widening in shock at where the light led him.

He could see her, only a few feet from where he stood, shrouded in shadow, her luminous dark eyes gleaming in the faint light from the doorway. She was in chains, bound to the wall behind her.

Drusilla.

He had the feeling that he should know where they were, what was happening, and yet he could not make his mind process it. Though he was unclear as to exactly what was going on, he had the distinct feeling that they were both in terrible danger. He tried to move forward to go to her, and found that he was chained as well. His sense of foreboding, a prickling feeling of fear at the back of his neck, increased at the realization that he could not get to her.

Drusilla, for her part, was not afraid, her dark, entrancing eyes dancing with mirth.

She was laughing.

“Dru!” he called to her, trying to get her attention, to get her to see the gravity of their situation. “Love, we have to get out of here!”

She shook her head at him, wagging a finger at him reprovingly in spite of the chains that held her wrists. “Not yet, my Spike,” she said. “You can’t leave the party yet. The guest of honor’s only just arrived.”

At that moment, the door to the room was flung open, flooding the room with blinding light. Spike could not make out the figure that swept across the room toward his Dark Princess, his eyes struggling to adjust to the painful brightness, but terror seized him at her entrance, and he knew in an instant that she was the Slayer, and that she brought with her the destruction of all that was dear to him.

And then, Dru’s maniacal laughter turned to screams of terror.

As Spike’s vision began to clear, his eyes came to focus on one thing – the deadly, wickedly sharp stake raised in the Slayer’s hand, poised over Drusilla’s chest.

“*Dru!*” he screamed, in desperate anguish, straining against the chains that held him, madly struggling to get to her, to help her – in vain.

Dru was staring into the face of her attacker, her dark eyes wide with fear – but also with rising understanding. Suddenly, her head whipped around and those piercing eyes found his, full of betrayal and accusation.

“Spike,” she whispered, and the surprised hurt in her voice sent a stab of guilt and pain through his heart. “How could you?” She paused, shaking her head a little in shocked disbelief. “Not mine,” she murmured softly, still holding his gaze – for the last time. “Not anymore.”

Those simple words smote him with a terrible sense of shame, though he was unsure of exactly what his offense was – only that it was an unspeakable betrayal of her love.

And in that instant, the Slayer brought her stake down, plunging it through the heart of the only woman he had ever loved, leaving of her nothing but precious memories and ashes that drifted to the floor.

“*No!*” he sobbed out in agony, and would have collapsed to the floor, his legs unable to support him, if not for the chains that held him to the wall.

By this point, he knew who the Slayer was, who had destroyed his beloved, though he could only see her face in his mind. Dark, penetrating eyes that gleamed with pleasure at the anguish she caused, raven-black hair falling loose and wild about her face…

The darkness drifted back down around him, as the Slayer turned and slowly approached him. Overwhelmed with pain, and a sudden sense of dread at her slow advance, he turned his head away from her, refusing to look at her as she drew near enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, hear the soft sound of her heaving breaths, smell the arousal awakened in her by the slaying…or by him…

Hands that were gentle but strong as steel touched his shoulders, and he shrank back instinctively as she moved in close to whisper in his ear.

“Look at me.”

He refused, his eyes closed tight, deep sobs of grief rising in his throat.

“Look at me, Spike,” she repeated, more insistently, her voice still soft, as she leaned a fraction closer, her warm breath a gentle brush against his ear, “Move on with me.”

The cryptic words struck something deep inside of him, and he turned his head slowly toward her, his eyes still down, something in him afraid to face her, this cruel, merciless creature who had already wrought such devastation in his world, and held the power to decimate what was left of it with a single blow.

“Look,” she repeated, her voice a gentle whisper.

And he finally obeyed, looking up in surprise at the startlingly kind, tear-filled eyes that gazed at him with a soft, sympathetic smile. The vicious, heartless image in his mind had been replaced by the visage of an angel.

Shining golden hair, over sparkling emerald eyes, set in the most beautiful face he had ever seen, that seemed to shine from within with some inner light. And her eyes were not cruel and hard as he had imagined, but full of love and compassion that he had never seen – not for him – in any eyes before.

Not even Dru’s.

*Dru.*

The image of her accusing eyes, in the moment before her death, struck him suddenly, with a fresh wave of guilt. He was betraying her, with his desire for and fascination with the golden goddess before him.

“No,” he protested, his voice coming out in a soft whimper of confusion and pain, as he turned his head away again. “No…no…I can’t…I can’t betray her…I’m sorry…I’m sorry, Dru…I’m sorry…”


Buffy was roused from her light, uneasy sleep by the soft sobbing sounds of the vampire on the floor beside her. She looked up sleepily, trying to focus on him, wondering with some annoyance what was going on. *Stupid annoying vampire,* she thought. *Even when he’s sleeping he has to get on my nerves!*

“Dru…Dru, I’m sorry, love…”

Her heart skipped a beat, with a sudden pang at the words, and the heart-rending sorrow in his voice. In spite of herself, she felt her eyes well with tears of compassion for the hurting creature she had thought that she hated.

Without thinking, she got up from the bed. “Spike,” she whispered. “Spike, wake up,” she urged him gently as she crouched beside him, her hands gently shaking his shoulders. “Look at me, Spike…come on, it’s just a dream…”

He did not respond in any way, too deep in the dream and his inner torment to hear her attempts at comfort.

“Spike!” she repeated urgently, her hand instinctively reaching up for his and squeezing it gently. “Come on, Spike, wake up!”

He did not wake up.

But he did squeeze her hand back, so tightly that it would have hurt badly had she not been the Slayer. As it was, it was terribly uncomfortable. But he seemed to find some reassurance in the contact, because the pitiful sobbing whimpers began to fade away, and he seemed to find some measure of peace.

Once he had quieted, Buffy began to pull her hand away and go back to her bed.

Spike’s hand gripped hers, in his sleep, pulling her back, with a soft little pleading, wordless cry, and it stopped her in her tracks.

*This is ridiculous, Buffy,* she told herself. *He’s a vampire. Just pull away from him and go to bed. He’ll be fine. It’s not like he has any *real* feelings, anyway.*

But in her heart, she knew that was not true. She knelt there for a moment, unsure what to do. She wanted to go to bed, but she could not bring herself to pull out of his desperate grip on her hand.

In the end, Buffy reached up and over him to her bed to pull her comforter down onto the floor…where she spent the rest of the night, the hand of her vampire prisoner held firmly in her own.