This was it. She was done. Shredded, frayed little Buffy-scraps all over the bottom of the bathtub.

Yep.

Buffy couldn't seem to make herself stop crying. Her memory kept taking her back to London when she'd first learned of Giles' betrayal, when she'd stuck her face in a pillow and just howled, helpless to do anything else in the face of the hurt, the anger, and the grief overwhelming her all at once. And then for fun it would throw in images of Spike, not dead after all but more wrecked than she'd ever seen him. On the inside she felt every bit as raw now as she had then. On the outside, she felt like she'd gone a few rounds with an uber-vamp. Only, you know, add in a sore throat, aching stomach, and tear-stuffed nose to the usual pummeling and head-bashing.

Tears were still rolling down Buffy's cheeks when she climbed out of the shower, only turning off the water because she'd used up all the hot and what was left was giving her goosebumps. She could barely see out of swollen eyes, but the clock on the counter said something like It's Really Late Why Are You Still Up O'Clock.

And she still hadn't eaten.

Didn't want to go back out there. Didn't want to face Xander looking like this. Didn't want to face… oh, God. Spike.

It was too much. She'd been yo-yoed around for about two weeks straight and she just couldn't take anymore. She'd lost one of the most important people in her life when she'd walked away from Giles, and no longer had him to lean on, to go to for advice or comfort. Then she'd gained back another of the most important people in her life when she'd found Spike, still alive. Undead. Ugh – whatever. But Spike was in no shape to handle anything she might inflict on him right now, to say the very, very least.

Xander had been a rock so far, but Buffy couldn't bring herself to ask him for any more than he'd already given. She just had to figure out how to handle this on her own. Like, really on her own and not "on her own while surrounded by busybodies" the way she was used to.

It didn't help that she still had that lingering Scooby-distrust thing going on, and just didn't know how much she could lean on Xander before he'd get sick of her and tell her to take a hike. It wouldn't be all that unreasonable of him if he did, really. He had a life, after all. She was still trying to rebuild hers, and in the meantime she was a walking train wreck. She was pretty sure she was sick of herself – it only made sense that anyone around her would be tired of the weeping-damsel routine by now.

Too bad she couldn't seem to make that part of her give up and go away.

Eventually, timidly, she poked her head out of the bathroom. There was a lamp on in the living room, but no sign of Xander – oh, hello. No sign of him apart from this note on her door:

Buffy,
Sorry I have an early meeting tomarow (sp?) so I need to get some sleep.
I left some stuff out in the kitchen for you. EAT IT.
Also pls keep an ear out for Bleach Boy if you can. He didn't eat much and might wake up hungry again.
Dont freak out but I thought it would be a good idea to restrain him just in case he vamps out again.
Get some rest and EAT SOMETHING.
Good night –
Xan

Restrain?

Buffy skipped the kitchen and headed to the garage, heart pounding, and almost collapsed against the door frame when she saw that Xander had done nothing more than tape Spike's wrists and forearms to the frame of the camp cot. She just hoped he'd thought to put some gauze over all that bare skin first. When Spike woke up, assuming he was coherent, he'd be annoyed, but if he was still out of it, at least this way he wouldn't hurt them and didn't seem likely to hurt himself either.

As if in response to her thoughts, Spike stirred, his head twitching fretfully. Buffy snagged a bag of blood from the cooler and tiptoed back to the kitchen to warm it up. By the time she made it back to the garage, Spike was awake, game face on and growling weakly as he tried to work his arms free of the tape.

"Spike?" she called softly.

He froze. As she approached, she saw his nostrils flare and his head jerk toward her. He bared his fangs and began to snarl. Carefully, she brought the bag of blood within reach, doing what she could to keep out of his range herself.

He wasn't strong enough to lift his head, although he tried. Buffy's lip trembled as he snapped feebly at the bottom edge of the bag. At least his fangs were able to pierce the plastic, she thought, even if they probably still couldn't break through actual skin.

He sputtered and choked a little on the first swallow of blood – too much, too fast, she figured. She pinched off the flow to let him catch up; then, when the first swallow went down, she decided to let him catch his breath before loosening her grip on the bag. Bad idea. Spike tried to lunge at her again when the blood didn't flow, a bestial whimper rumbling deep in his throat.

He was so hungry it made her heart hurt just to look at him.

Eventually they established a rhythm – he would take a mouthful of blood, and she would pause the flow so he could swallow without choking on it, releasing as soon as his jaw loosened again. It seemed like maybe his mind wasn't completely gone, or else his demon was a quick study, because it wasn't too long before he quieted and learned to trust that the blood would keep coming. His clouded gold eyes drifted half-shut, focused on nothing, and he started making contented little noises as he drank.

It was one of the most sensual things she'd ever seen him do. There was an intimacy to feeding him like this that Buffy hadn't expected, even having done it once before, when he was recovering from the First's influence on his mind. Buffy bit her lip. Yeah, she could probably find this erotic if she let herself, even with the horrible state he was in right now.

The way his lips closed around the bottom of the bag. The way his tongue worked the plump curves filling his mouth as he suckled. The way his Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. Buffy looked away suddenly with a gulp of her own.

Spike grumbled at her – she'd fallen out of rhythm and he was waiting for more to eat. Buffy rolled her eyes at her own idiocy and got back to work.

He finished the bag, barely, brow ridges fading as his eyes fell shut. He relaxed into sleep, a smear of blood at one corner of his mouth, and she wiped it away with her thumb. Stroked his cheek again with the back of her fingers, carefully, but he didn't stir. He'd stopped breathing, which she knew from experience meant he was deep under. She just sat and watched him for several minutes, memorizing the new shape of his face, relearning the sight of him, drinking him in after over a year apart.

Finally she realized she was hungry too, and went back inside to take care of her own appetite.

---

Hungry.

Starved, starving, famished, ravenous. Needed to feed, needed…

Spike's eyes opened.

He didn't know where he was. The place didn't smell like Figg's shed, like rotten vegetation and potting soil and damp concrete. Like old sheep. No, this place had a smell of wood shavings and sawdust, car exhaust, and maybe a little bit of cement mix, if he had to guess. His eyes were still not quite right, even in game face; all he could tell was that it was dark, and that there was a light somewhere behind his head. Painfully he craned his neck, trying to see. Was reminded forcibly of his cracked skull.

He remembered that the spell holding him was broken. The cords were cut off, some point recently, if he remembered right… he tested that. Bent one knee, a little – still too weak to really move much, damn. Moved the other leg, carefully, carefully. Yeah, right then, knee still messed up, but it felt like someone had tried to mend it a bit for him… Spike tried to bring his hands up, feel his head, move the blanket he could feel scratching his delicate bits.

His arms wouldn't budge.

Teeth bared, he pulled harder, trying to move. Felt his muscles tense, felt his fingers clench into fists, but something was holding his wrists in place. Immoveable, implacable, irresistible.

Sod that. He'd bloody well resist if he felt like it.

Spike snarled, writhed his shoulders, twisted his wrists as best he could, which wasn't much. The effort made his ribs ache, but he didn't care. He was hungry and he needed to feed and he needed it now, and there was no one around like there'd been before so he'd bloody well get It himself… get up off this mat or whatever it was and sink his fangs into the first body he found, human or not –

– All right, no he probably wouldn't. He smelled blood and plastic nearby, probably a stash of bags… he was pretty sure that's what he'd been fed earlier. Grab one of those, then, or two or three, glut himself till the pangs in his stomach went away and he could… he could…

Spike blinked, eyes heavy. Sodding hell… the struggle to get loose… exhausted him that badly?

He gave one last feeble tug at his bonds and felt his game face fading back to human. He was still hungry. Starving, famished, ravenous. Needed to… needed someone to help, damn it all…

Spike's eyes drifted shut against his will. Couldn't sleep yet. Needed someone to come and… and feed him… hungry… sodding useless…

He slept.

---

His hands hurt. Christ, his hands felt like someone had tried to strip the skin off them with a knife – something else he shouldn't have been familiar with but was, thank you Angelus, sodding bastard that you used to be. His feet were no better, and the sigils cut into his body still burned.

Also he had broken bones refusing to get better and was half out of his head with hunger, but la-di-da, he could breathe, and move a little, so everything was just sodding fine, wasn't it?

Footsteps, near his head. Noises that he supposed were meant to be speech, watery and far off. Spike waited with his eyes shut, suppressed a growl of anticipation. Couldn't help but twitch his hands, itching to grab something by the throat and pull it to his waiting mouth.

Smelled warm blood. Pig swill. He wanted better.

Couldn't wait any longer. Spike opened his eyes, rumbling low in his chest at the shapes moving around him. One got too close. He managed to snap the tape on his left arm and jerked it free.

Lunged and snapped and missed, sod it all, bleeding hell…

Blood. In his mouth. Pig swill, but it was warm and it was in his mouth. It would do, for now. His arm… he tried to reach up and hold on, to the bag, to the person feeding him, whatever… but his hand hurt so he let it drop limply back onto his stomach.

Fed.

Grew drowsy.

As he was drifting off, Spike thought he smelled someone familiar. Tried to place them…

Slept.

---

Buffy woke up twice during the night to check on Spike. Both times it must have been her Slayer instincts that had nudged her into alertness, because both times Spike was snarling and struggling against his restraints. Still out of his mind with hunger. Was it because she'd been out of sequence when she'd taken the red cord off his tongue? Or was it just because he had been hit so hard, almost completely used up by the spell and whoever had put it on him?

She had a hard time thinking it really could have been Figg, despite everything she'd seen at the greenhouse. Somebody's favorite grandpa and she'd had to kill him. Wished there could have been another way, any other way, to handle the situation.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Xander was at work and Spike slept in between feedings. Sitting with him in the silent garage, Buffy wondered idly if this was what it was like to have a baby – he did nothing but sleep and eat, and she did nothing but watch him, memorize his features, care for him and worry and willingly suffer the lack of sleep for his sake. Bit of a close call with him around noon when the ends of the tape holding him came unstuck from the metal frame of the cot. Looked like Xander hadn't been as thorough on that side, having to reach across him and all.

After that feeding she realized they were almost out of blood for him and went back inside, rummaging for a phone book so she could call a butcher shop and have them deliver more. At least with all the feeding he didn't look quite as bad anymore. Still too thin, but no longer quite in the concentration-camp-inmate category.

Xander's answering machine light was blinking. With her order placed, and a quick look showing Spike still sound asleep, Buffy picked up a pen and paper and decided to jot his messages down for him.

"Hey Xan, it's Dawn again, Buffy still isn't answering my emails and I was wondering if you could tell me what she's been up to. Giles still won't tell me why she left and I'm starting to worry. Call me, okay?"

Slowly, she sat down on a kitchen stool, her shoulders tense.

The next two messages sounded like they were work-related, something to do with contracts and sealed bids. Buffy had just started to relax when:

"Xander? Hi, Xander, it's Willow. Could you give me a call, or, you know, maybe send me an email or something? It's about Buffy. I heard she was maybe staying with you for awhile? I need to talk to you about something. Ooh – okay sweetie! Okay, gotta go. Send me an email, okay? Okay, um, bye."

"Hello, Mr. Harris, this is Andrew speaking. Buffy remains incommunicado so I am turning to you once again for your aid. I'm back in Rome, you should have the number, but just in case…"

Buffy pushed the button on the answering machine. Started rubbing at the tension in the back of her neck.

---