“And so it begins.”

Spike stopped just outside the door from his room, closing his eyes momentarily and forcing a sarcastic smile to his lips as he tried to rein in his anger at the unwelcome voice behind him.

After taking a moment, he turned to give the girl a very obviously fake smile. “Morning, love. Was hoping I’d see *your* lovely face first thing this morning. Right refreshing, it is. Right up there with a nice, brisk holy water shower.”

She only smiled back at his sarcasm, ignoring his insults. “So. Your first day as Mrs. Finn’s personal attendant.” She gave him a slow, suggestive once-over look before adding dryly, “Wonder what she’ll find for you to help her with.”

Spike gritted his teeth behind his smile as he ground out, “It’s not like that, pet. Sorry to disappoint you, but the whole world isn’t condemned to *your* sorry fate. I know that would make you feel better, but,” he shrugged. “oh, well.”

Her eyes narrowed in anger at his words, which struck a bit too close to home for her comfort. She merely shrugged. “Maybe it’s not,” she conceded indifferently. “Maybe not right now. But the poor girl’s going through a hard time, Sweetie. Being ignored by her man. I bet she’s really lonely. Not to mention angry. Probably wishes she had someone she could take it out on.”

She paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Oh, wait…she *does*!” she sneered. “And you two are going to be spending a *lot* of time together.” She was silent for a moment, her widening smile an indication of the triumph she felt at his slowly fading smirk. “It won’t take her long to figure out what she *really* wants you to do for her.”

A part of him was sickened and a little frightened by her words, wondering if she could be right. After all, Buffy was carrying around a lot of repressed emotions of several different kinds. Sure, her intentions were to treat him well and not to harm him. But he knew from experience that good intentions were often forgotten in the midst of powerful, painful emotions like the Slayer was dealing with.

It was not that the thought of being with Buffy was even all that bad. After all, she was a very attractive girl; if he had to be a sex slave, he thought, he could be in a lot worse positions than this one.

What bothered him was the idea that he would have no choice in the matter. If Buffy *did* decide that she wanted to beat her husband at his own game, there would be no option as far as he was concerned. She owned him, and had the power to do whatever she wanted with him, regardless of how he felt about it.

And *that* was the thought that both sickened and frightened him.

Not really having a response to Velvet’s taunting, too caught up in the worries she had provoked to put the energy into a response, he simply turned away from her with a dismissive sneer and headed toward the stairs – and whatever fate awaited him in Buffy’s bedroom.


Spike stood outside the door for a long moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob uncertainly. That morning we had woken up he had been so optimistic! And here he was a bundle of nerves, terrified of walking into that room and facing the Slayer – something that had never terrified him before, when she had been much more than the subdued, weakened shell that she was now.

*Soddin’ vicious little bint,* he thought resentfully of the slave girl who had so expertly resurrected the fears that he had tentatively laid to rest after his rather encouraging meeting with Buffy the night before. The fact that she had made the attempt to make things better between them allowed him to begin to think that maybe everything would be all right.

So far, she had not been too hard on him. He had received a couple of minor blows for an offense that he was certain would have earned him a severe whipping under anyone else’s ownership. Although he had initially thought that Buffy had bought him for the sole purpose of punishing him, he was beginning to believe that she honestly did not want to hurt him.

And then Velvet had to push her way into the picture, with her suggestions and speculations, and set his mind to worrying again.

He glanced over at the clock on the wall in the hallway, and noticed with dismay that it was ten minutes after nine. *Late again,* he thought with a slight wince. *Well, she *said* she was going to be patient.* He had no time left; there was nothing for it but to just force himself to go in there, in spite of his fears.

He turned the knob and walked softly inside, surprising himself again by how terribly nervous he was. Once again, he had to fight off the surreal feeling of the situation, reminding himself, *It’s just *Buffy*!*

He had felt many things for Buffy over the course of his strange, complex relationship with the tiny blonde Slayer with the big attitude, the only one whom he had never been able to truly defeat. Her sarcasm and wit, her boldness and strength, had both infuriated him and drawn him to her from the moment he had met her.

Dru had recognized it for what it was, first, long before he had brought himself to face the truth. She had seen it, and that was why she had left him. Because she knew, in spite of his continued affection, in spite of his catering to her as he always had – his heart was no longer hers.

When they had fled Sunnydale that day in his beat up old DeSoto…he had left it behind.

As hard as he tried to deny it at the time, he had been captivated by the fiery and fierce warrior who had proven herself far more intelligent and resourceful than any other opponent he had ever faced. And when Dru had realized it and began to look elsewhere, where had he turned to find solace in his heartbreak?

Sunnydale.

Again and again, he had returned to the place where he had seen the most trouble and defeat, never admitting to himself exactly why. He could not bring himself to face the truth of what – or who – it was that continually drew him back there.

It was only after his descent into the slavery of the past few years, during his total separation from her, and under the supposed safety of believing that he would never see her again, that he had allowed his mind to process the truth of how he *really* felt about the Slayer.

His obsession with her had been about much more than killing her.

To have been bought and brought here, into her home, now that she was wealthy and powerful and held complete control over his unlife, had been infinitely confusing to him. He had accepted the fact that he had developed feelings for her, only because he had thought that he would never again have an opportunity to have to face her or those feelings.

Now, he was going to have to face her. Every day. All day.

Only, he thought as he silently observed the pensive girl, standing by the window gazing through the gap in the drawn curtains…this did not even seem to be the same person. He studied the fine lines of her face, illuminated by the glow of the sunlight on her skin. Physically, everything was the same; she was perhaps a bit thinner.

And everything else was different.

The power, the vitality that had animated her and held him fascinated with her from the moment he had first seen her, dancing in the Bronze nearly eight years before, had vanished. That happy, carefree girl, so sure of herself and her abilities, who had managed to kill two master vampires and cripple a third – namely him – seemed to have vanished.

In her place was a fading, listless creature who was quiet and submissive…and very, very sad.

He found himself once again longing for the return of the Slayer he had known, wishing that Buffy could somehow find again the confidence that had been ripped away from her, shredded to bits and stomped under the feet of her calloused, cold husband. He realized with surprise that he would actually prefer Buffy angry and violent to Buffy wounded and damaged.

The only glimpse of her former self that he had seen since he had been here was in the moments when he had thought she was about to punish him – in the moments before she had broken down.

She looked up suddenly, startled, having just realized that he was in the room with her, and he found himself feeling utterly self-conscious and nervous – and not just nervous in the sense of hoping that his powerful mistress didn’t decide to stake him in place of her cheating husband.

Nervous in the sense of hoping desperately that he looked halfway decent and didn’t do or say anything stupid because she was looking at him right then, and...

*Bloody hell,* he thought as those deep, emerald eyes met his. *She’s so bloody beautiful.*

Immediately he cursed himself for the thought. He had come to terms long ago with the fact that he had feelings for the Slayer, and in her absence had managed to push those feelings aside, understanding that they could never be fulfilled in any way, to forget them in a sense.

Now would not be a good time to remember.

“Hey,” she said softly, much more familiarity in her tone than a mistress should have held for her slave. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He shrugged slightly, holding her gaze with his piercing sapphire eyes – eyes that seemed to see so much more than she wanted anyone to know. “Vampire,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She just looked at him for a moment, her sad, serious expression not changing, and he wondered what she had been thinking about. “Shouldn’t matter. Not with me,” she pointed out, her voice low and quiet, and he knew that she was right. The Slayer should have been able to sense a vampire’s presence, without having to see or hear him.

She lowered her eyes, and he found his own gaze drawn downward to a small object she held in her hands. It was a small silver picture frame, and he was suddenly terribly curious to see the picture it held. Hesitantly, raising his eyes to hers in a question, he took a step toward her.

“Are you…are you all right, love?” he asked her gently, seeking her eyes, heedless of the impropriety of it and the pet name that he could not help but use. *Sod G.I. Git and his bloody orders!*

Buffy looked back up at him, a sort of puzzled, confused expression in her green eyes, shining with unshed tears, as if she was trying to decide something. Finally, she looked back down at the picture in her hands, and he thought that she had shut him out…until she spoke.

“I wonder what they’re doing right now,” she said softly, staring at the picture as a single tear slid down her cheek and landed on the glass, and she absently rubbed it away with her thumb, leaving a faint smudge in its place.

Cautiously, still fearful of overstepping his bounds, Spike drew closer to her, holding out a tentative hand toward the picture. He was rewarded when Buffy held it out to him, glancing up at him as he studied the image reflected there – an image from her history, that might as well have been from his as well, for the memories it brought back to him.

It was the Slayer, younger and happier, laughing at some then moments old joke, her eyes turned away from the camera, toward Xander, who was caught in the moment of speaking, his dark eyes dancing with some shared joke. Buffy’s arm was slung casually around her other best friend at the time, Willow, the cute little redhead who had always been so sweet and kind, even when he had been threatening her.

Well, except for that bit where she hit him with the lamp. But that was understandable.

Spike looked back up at Buffy, his eyes large and solemn. “What happened to them?” he asked softly, almost reverently, in respect for the pain she was obviously feeling. Although the Slayer had been strengthened by her friends, Spike had always thought that eventually, her choosing to have them so close to her slaying would have consequences. He only wondered what sort of evil had claimed their lives.

Buffy stared at the picture for a moment, blinking back tears, sniffling. “I don’t know,” she replied with a helpless shrug. “We – we don’t speak anymore.”

He frowned, confused, looking back at the picture. Suddenly, with a flash of realization, he looked back up at her, wide-eyed, and took an apprehensive step away from her before asking his next question.

“Was it – was it *my* fault, pet?”

“What?” Buffy looked up at him, confused herself for a moment before she understood what he was talking about. “Oh, that,” she dismissed his question with a wave of her hand, laughing a little through her tears. “No, we got over that before we stormed the Initiative. It’d take…” She paused, her shaky half-smile fading, and her lower lip trembling with the onset of more tears, “it *took* more than that to split us up.”

He was quiet for a moment, trying to decide what was his best course of action. He had clearly caught Buffy in a vulnerable moment, lonely and aching for her lost friends. It only stood to reason that she would want to talk, and he was only too willing to allow her to do it.

Provided she didn’t stake him for it later, when her emotions were back under control.

He was well aware that behaving in such a personal manner with his mistress could get him into serious trouble. Buffy was already suspicious of his motives – thanks to his brilliant little speech to Velvet in the basement. He looked back up at her, searching her eyes intently for some clue as to the best course of action.

In an instant, he made up his mind. The feelings he had grudgingly admitted years ago seemed to have returned full force, and he simply could not bear to see her pain and not attempt to do *something* about it.

“What *did*?” he asked quietly, cautiously. “Split you up?”

She looked back up at him, an odd light in her eyes, as if seeing something in him that puzzled her, and trying to figure it out. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he saw her eyes harden, and she took the picture frame back from his hand, turning away from him and straightening her shoulders as she replaced it on her dresser.

“It was a long time ago,” she said shortly, steeling her trembling voice as she swiped roughly at her tears. “I don’t really want to talk about it. And frankly, it’s none of your business.”

He was quiet, afraid to speak now, with her sudden shift in demeanor, and just stood there, waiting for her command.

She turned back toward him, her jaw set in desperate determination, as she met his eyes again, with that same odd sense of defiance, as if *he* held some power over *her* that she should defy – when reality was quite the opposite.

He was terribly torn, sensing that she had been on the verge of actually opening up to him, actually talking to him about her pain, and had shut down because of…what?

Fear?

Pride?

All he knew was that, really, the best thing for her would have been to go ahead and talk about the painful past that clearly still haunted her. Yet, fighting not to do speak up and surely get himself punished, he stood there in silence as she went on.

“Your place is not to ask me personal questions about private matters. Your place is not to sit here and pretend to care and act like some kind of shrink for me, okay?” she snapped, anger beginning in her eyes, anger that he knew stemmed from her realization of just how vulnerable she had allowed herself to be in front of him, even if only for a few moments. “Your place,” she went on firmly. “is to be here to do what I need. That’s all.”

He stood there for a moment in silence, engaged in a secret inner battle. Finally, he looked suddenly up at her, blue eyes blazing into hers as he replied in a voice of quiet surety.

“What if that *is* what you need?”