At last, Buffy was ready to take the red cords off. Xander had a good fire going in his grill and the white and black cords sizzled and popped, still wet from their recent rinse but turning to fine powdery ash easily enough. Buffy wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved that burning them hadn't seemed to cause any reaction in Spike's body, the way destroying the slivers of bone had. Maybe it was something that they would have noticed if Spike were conscious – white for soul, black for demon? Yeah, that must have been it.

She looked at Spike's face, drew a thumb across his scarred eyebrow. His hair was still filthy, but drying, and already beginning to spring up into the soft curls she loved so much. It was a pity that she'd never let herself touch them, that year they'd been sleeping together. Couldn't permit herself that tenderness. She'd only gotten to feel how soft his hair really was by accident, times when she'd touched his face – and once deliberately, the night they'd just held one another, the night before they'd faced the First.

The night before he'd died.

Now he laid there looking like a terminal cancer patient, all the bones of his face showing, eyes sunken and shadowed. Bruised-looking. And forget the hollows of his cheeks, he had hollows at his temples that she'd never seen before, and under his jaw at his throat…

But never mind. Because he also had a red cord wound around his head, not even enough to cover his eyes but Buffy guessed in magic it was the symbol that counted. Another one at his throat, and bands around his upper arms, his thumbs for some reason, upper legs and calves, and his toes. All of them too loose on his thin frame. There was another under the towel, around his waist – and around his… well… you know.

No idea what that was supposed to be about.

White, then black, then red; end at the toes, start at the head. All right then. Buffy gently slid the scissors in next to his temple, watching out for his hair, and cut the first red cord.

She actually jumped when Spike's eyes opened.

"Spike?" she called softly. "Spike, are you – can you hear me?"

"Buffy?" Xander, over by the door with the grill.

"He's," she swallowed, "I think he's awake."

"I'll go heat some blood," he answered. Lunged for the cooler, pulling out a couple of bags and disappearing into the house.

Spike's eyes looked wrong. They were covered in a thin film, like cataracts, leaving them a milky gray-blue instead of their usual intense color. From being underwater, maybe? Buffy didn't know. He blinked, eyes darting from side to side. Squinted, blinked some more. At first he didn't seem to see her, but when she moved his eyes snapped to her face. She smiled. God, she'd prayed for a chance to see him again, and here he was. Buffy blinked too, fighting back tears again, only for once they weren't painful. Tried to hold back a sob that was at least partly a laugh.

Except – he didn't react. Didn't even take a breath like he usually did.

"Spike?" She raised a hand to touch him, and his eyes jumped to that, blinking rapidly as if he was trying to clear his vision. His brows furrowed, but the rest of his face added nothing to the expression.

Slowly, carefully, she moved her hand down, letting him track the motion as best he could. Brushed her knuckles across his cheek, soft, soft. Like stroking a baby. He might still be hurt somewhere that didn't show – you needed blood to make a bruise and he didn't seem to have any to spare.

Spike closed his eyes. Opened them, looking at nothing.

Blinked again as tears fell.

---

Oh, God, it couldn't be.

He couldn't see her; everything looked as though he were peering through mist, a real London pea-soup fog. Shapes and shadows, nothing more. Sounds were watery, better than nothing, but still muffled, indistinct. He'd take what he could get after so long without, and no mistake. And he knew he'd heal if he fed, eventually. He'd get his sight back; his hearing would clear up. But right now, they couldn't tell him what he needed to know.

Drusilla had said Buffy would come for him, and he hadn't let himself believe. Hoped, and tried not to. She wouldn't want him. Why should she? Why would she drop everything, hearing he was in trouble? Trouble was the story of his life, no skin off her nose if he found more of it, yeah?

But oh, he knew that touch. Wished he could confirm with sight or hearing, or even with scent, but he was almost certain.

Buffy, is that really you?

If it was… if it was, he would be safe. At the very least she'd give him a place to recover before she threw him out. Even when they'd been enemies she'd done that.

Fingers on his eyebrow, toying with his scar. Knuckles on his cheek. He knew those touches like he knew his own hands.

Buffy.

He was safe. Weak almost to the point of torpor, worn, enervated and exhausted and more than half-starved… but finally safe, rescued from Figg's magics. She was here. She was real. It was finally over.

He had no strength left to hold back his tears.

---

"Hey, scoot over," said Xander. He set two large mugs on the work table, brought over a little TV-table under one arm. "Let me set this up, get you a camp chair, all that stuff." Clatter of metal legs snapping in place. "One of those mugs is for you, by the way."

"Thanks, Xan," said Buffy. She looked to his expert eye – just the one, ha ha – like she was nearly at the end of her rope. Trying to relax, trying to believe everything would be okay, and really, really needing to fall apart.

"He's really awake?" he asked. Handed her the coffee, set the pig-blood on the little table.

"Yeah," she said. "There's – there's something wrong with his eyes. But I think he can make out movement." She swallowed, voice gone wobbly again. God, he felt for her. "I think he knows it's me."

He reached over, squeezed her shoulder gently. "Hey. Hey," he said, waiting for her to look at him. "Buffy, that's great news."

"Yeah," she whispered. Covered her sniffle with a slurp of coffee. She set the mug down and picked up the scissors again. "He still hasn't said anything. I don't think he can, yet. Let me get the rest of this crap off him."

She cut the cord at his throat, and he exhaled in a rush, starting to cough and gasp and choke. They turned him on his side, facing away from them, careful of his ribs – not that it did much good. They could only watch as Spike hacked up a lungful of water, his whole body convulsing painfully, hands still bound awkwardly in front of him. The towel at his waist slipped with the force of his coughing, and Xander could see the bones at his hips jutting through too-pale skin. All the ribs along his back. All the knobs along his spine.

Jesus, was the first thought that crossed his mind.

Spike hadn't looked this bad since… ever, Xander thought. Not even when Glory beat the hell out of him that one time. And the First had wanted to punish him, not kill him, so he managed to get out of that one mostly intact. This was… wow.

Finally the fit subsided, and they gently brought him onto his back again, where he lay with his eyes tight with pain, panting shallowly and trying to clear his nose. Buffy still had some warm water left over from earlier, so she pulled a washcloth out of the bucket and wiped his face for him. He'd coughed so hard there were tears on his face, and he watched as she wiped those away too. Wiped the corners of his eyes, where the cloth came away gray with silted mud.

Eventually Buffy moved to his arms and started taking off the loops of cord there. One by one, he flexed muscles that looked like nothing more than rope strung along beneath his skin. Twitched, really. With the shape he was in, Xander figured Spike probably didn't have strength for much else. She took a pair of wire snips from Xander's hand and got to work on the barbed wire at his wrists.

Spike tried to speak. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, just a fraction, and a whisper of sound passed his cracked lips – but no words. His face was still, except for his eyes.

He tried again, with the same result.

"Spike?" Buffy leaned in, trying to listen. "Are we… does it hurt?"

"Why isn't his mouth moving?" asked Xander.

Buffy flinched. "Because I'm an idiot," she said sourly. "In my dream I saw he was wearing a gag. I saw it. How could I forget? Damn it."

"So what's the big?" he asked. "You forgot, you go back, you take it off now. No problem, right?"

"I hope so," she said, setting the snips aside. "But Drusilla – dream-Drusilla, I mean – she was pretty clear that I had to go in order from head to toe. If missing his mouth messed up the sequence…"

"One way to find out," said Xander.

"Yeah," she replied. Gently, cautiously, pried open Spike's mouth. From where he was standing Xander could see what looked like a wad of red, blocking the vampire's tongue. "Damn it. Why am I so stupid."

Using just two fingertips, she reached in and poked around until she found a loose tail in the mess of cord. She began to pull, and the whole thing unraveled and slid out of his mouth – wait, had it actually been wrapped around his tongue?

The cord came free. Spike vamped out, and lunged – at Buffy. Snarling softly, clouded yellow eyes half-shut, he simply whipped his head to the side and clamped down on the inside edge of her free hand, where she'd been holding his mouth open.

"Shit!" Xander lunged for the mug of blood.

"Oh, my God," Buffy sounded stunned. "Xander, it's – it's okay. I'm okay."

"What? How is – what?" Impossible. Spike had gone nuts and was feeding on Buffy and she was cool with that?

"Look at him," she said. "He doesn't have the strength… oh, my God." She'd started to shake. "He isn't even strong enough to break the skin."

Sure enough, Xander could see the tips of Spike's fangs, dimpling Buffy's skin but not piercing it. Spike worked his jaw, chewing and licking at her hand, but there was no blood anywhere for him to get at. He shook his head once, a beast worrying at prey, trying to tear the flesh and failing. He made a little noise in the back of his throat, a soft rumbling – something like a hungry tiger managing somehow to sound deadly and desperate at the same time.

Xander reached in carefully with the mug of warmed blood. Spike's nostrils twitched and he turned his head the other way. Fangs slid off the webbing between Buffy's thumb and pointer finger.

Between them, they tried to hold Spike's head and pour blood into his mouth, but he was too far gone in his hunger to cooperate. Instead of drinking he kept trying to bite at the mug, licking the edges or trying to shove his nose inside, while blood spilled down his chin. His shoulders writhed, but there was still red cord wound around his thumbs and the magic was apparently enough to hold his hands where they were on his stomach.

Thank heaven for small favors.

Spike was panting through his nose and making little whimpering sounds now, and Buffy looked like she wanted to join in. Xander decided he'd had enough.

"Buffy, I have an idea," he said. "Reach me one of those bags out of the cooler, would you?"

When she handed it to him, Xander set the mug on the TV table while Spike thrashed and snarled at them. He used the scissors to snip off one corner of the bag and then shoved that corner into Spike's mouth. He snapped once, then quieted, started… well, suckling was the only word Xander could think of. The occasional grunt or growl from deep in his throat.

Success.

"Buffy," Xander said quietly. "Buff? I got this. Why don't you go on inside, grab a shower or something. 'Kay?" He looked up, craned his neck around to see her. "Buffy?"

She was transfixed, staring at Spike as he fed. "Buffy?"

Finally she shook herself, blinked at Xander. "What? I – yeah. Okay. I'm sorry, I just – okay." She disappeared into the house, still shaking. Close enough to success. Xander hoped she'd take a good long time in the shower. Give herself a freakin' break for once.

As starved as he was, Spike was still weak enough that he only made it halfway through the bag of blood before he passed out. His vamp face faded away and his head lolled to one side as blood trickled down his cheek. Xander rummaged through the things on his workbench until he found a clothespin to hold the bag shut, then stuck it back in the cooler.

He got to work quickly, methodically clipping the rest of the cords on Spike's limbs and body and tossing them into the grill to burn. Tried not to think about handling another guy's cock, deciding that under the circumstances it didn't count anyway. He took extra care snipping and peeling the barbed wire away from Spike's ankles, wincing as the skin on Spike's feet just… slid around, probably not even really attached anymore. Tried as best he could not to touch.

Xander slowed down when it came time to reposition Spike's ribs and broken kneecap – and wasn't that just a nasty thing to have to look at, much less take care of. He shuddered, but kept up the steady pressure until everything was back where it was supposed to be. Slapped medical tape over everything and hoped for the best. Spike never even stirred.

He wrapped gauze around the worst of the injuries, on Spike's wrists and ankles where the barbed wire had chewed into him. Bit his lip for a minute, then pulled out the tape again and started strapping Spike's wrists to the edges of the cot. It sucked, but there was no way for Xander to be sure the stupid vampire would wake up in any better shape than he'd been when he passed out. The last thing they needed was him going for someone's throat when he was too far gone to realize what he was doing. Buffy would never stake him – and if he were honest with himself, Xander wouldn't either – but having to hold him down after he attacked would be a much bigger pain in the ass than taking care of the problem ahead of time.

A half-hour later, Xander headed inside. Spike was still unconscious, wrapped in a blanket. The grill was extinguished, there were tarps hung on the windows, and Xander was starving. Hopefully Buffy would eat something too.

He stopped by the guest room and listened. The shower was still running, and over the hiss of the water he could faintly hear the sound of Buffy weeping.

Xander rubbed at his eyepatch tiredly. She needed it. He was glad he'd sent her inside when he had. He just wished there was something more he could do for her.

For them both.

---