A/N This next chapter is a little grizzly and graphic.

Buffy quickly slid the card in and out of the slot on the front of the door handle. She waited, but the light didn't go green. Damn, she hated these things. She could never remember whether she was supposed to pull the card out right away or leave it in, and they weren't consistent. In some hotels it was in and out, in others you had to wait for the light. This was obviously one of the latter ones. It was all part of some evil scheme, she was sure.

Sighing, she slid the card back in, waited for a moment until the light turned green, then pulled it back out. Quickly she grabbed the handle. She was always sure these doors would re-lock themselves before she opened them. It had never happened, but she was sure it would. Not to mention she had to do this all one handed because she was carrying a grocery bag full of pig's blood.

As soon as the door opened the smell of burnt flesh hit her. She flung the door open to be greeted by bright sunlight streaming through the room and no Spike. She ran across the room to fling the curtains shut. It was only after the curtains had closed over the glass door that led out onto a small balcony, that she realized that there was no door. Or at least the glass was gone.

Maybe he wasn't here, she thought. Or maybe he left. But the sight she saw as she looked outside said otherwise. There on the balcony amidst the shattered glass was a pile of dust.

Buffy fell to her knees. No, no, no, no, no, NO. This could not be happening. She hadn't been gone that long. He just couldn't be gone. Not now. He'd promised. She was going to be his girl. Always he'd said. He couldn't do this, not again.

Then a breeze picked up and the dust started to blow away. "NO!" she screamed, "You can't have him!" She tried to clutch at the dust, grabbing handfuls of both it and the shattered safety glass. But that only caused more of it to blow away. The glass cut her hands and she began to bleed, her blood and the dust that had been her lover mixed.

Tears streamed down her face, she wanted to make a sound. Yell at the world for taking him away from her again, but she was choking on her own breath. She felt as though there were a gaping hole in her chest that was sucking her in. An emptiness, a black hole from which nothing could escape.

Finally she turned to go back into the room. She wanted his duster. They had brought it last night, but he hadn't been wearing it when she left, so it should still be around somewhere. She wanted to curl up in it. To breathe his scent, as if that could make it all untrue.

She looked back into the room, trying to see where she had put it, but she was blind from looking out into the sunlight. All too slowly her eyes adjusted, shadows resolved into shapes. Then, there in the doorway of the bathroom she noticed the sole of a black boot sticking out.

She tried to get up, to run over there. But her hands were slick with blood and dust and they slipped out from under her as she tried to push herself to her feet. She fell and felt the rough carpet burn her forearms. With her face now level to the ground and her vision adjusted she saw that there was a trail of blood and ash that led to the bathroom.

She scrambled on her hands and knees clumsily across the floor. She realized the closer she got to the bathroom the stronger the smell of burnt flesh became until, this far from the shattered door and fresh air, it was almost overwhelming.

In the bathroom she was greeted to a gruesome sight. Platinum hair glowed in the dim light. It was the only color on the still form that lay there. That was because from head to toe he was black. Every bit of exposed skin was as black as his t-shirt. His face, his neck, his hands, they were all black. In places the skin had bubbled, like a marshmallow left in the fire for too long. Only his forearms were different. They were dark glistening red. She realized that he must have pulled himself in here using only his arms. The ash she had seen on the carpet was the skin that had rubbed off as he pulled himself along.

He had obviously tried to lie on his right side, but he'd only been able to twist himself half way. The reason was all to obvious. Out of his left shoulder jutted a wooden stake, just above where his heart was.

Buffy never knew she could feel so sick and happy all at once. He was hurt, and horribly. But he wasn't dust. She knew that if he hadn't dusted by now, no matter how severe his injuries were, he'd survive.

She managed to get to her feet, but before she could go get him the blood she'd bought, she had something far more urgent to do. She had to throw up.

At first she was glad that she hadn't stopped to get lunch. There shouldn't have been much in her to throw up since she hadn't eaten since dinner last night. But that only meant that her dry heaving lasted longer.

Guilt washed over her. How long had she spent staring uselessly into space? All that useless crying had been time she could have spent helping him. Now she was wasting more time, uselessly bent over the toilet.

Finally it stopped. Even so, as she got up she was careful not to look at his upper body. Just focus on his jeans, she told herself. They were always black.

As she exited the bathroom, she flicked the switches until she found the fan. Hopefully that would get rid of the smell.

She ran to get the pig's blood. She was glad she'd gotten twelve whole jars. The man at the butchers had looked at her strangely, but she had wanted to be sure to have enough to last a while so she wouldn't have to go on another blood run any time soon.

She unscrewed the cap on the first jar but a new problem now presented itself. His head lay on his right arm, tilted to the side. She would have to move him to be able to pour the blood down his throat.

She carefully placed her hands on the sides of his head and turned it. She did it quickly, knowing that she could not help but hurt him, wanting to make it as brief as possible.

His eyes and mouth flew open. She could see his scream, even if she couldn't hear it. She could also see the why. Blood had caused the skin of his cheek to stick to his arm leaving a pink oozing wound on his face, and a black shell on his arm, like a broken mask.

"It's me. Buffy," she said, "I'm so sorry. It's going to be okay. It's all going to be okay, I promise. I'm not going anywhere. I promise." She didn't know if he could hear her, if her words could possibly be any comfort to him, but they comforted her. The silence had become oppressive, unnatural. Her words filled it in. So she kept them up. Rattling off a long series of comforting phrases.

She began to pour the blood down his throat. She would make him better.

Twelve jars of blood later he was conscious, Buffy wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

"Buffy?" he croaked.

"Shhhh, I'm here. I'm so sorry. I'm not going anywhere. I . . . I don't know what to do Spike. What. . . what do you need?"

"Sorry."

"No, shh, this isn't your fault. Angel sent someone didn't he? A vampire, I saw the dust outside. But-."

"No," his voice was a whisper.

"No what?"

"Angel. . . dust."

It took her a moment, then Buffy understood. Angel hadn't sent someone. He'd come himself.

It was hard to believe at first. She didn't want to believe he'd changed so much. Or maybe he hadn't changed at all, a voice in the back of her head whispered.

She could see his plan in her head. See Angel watching her. See him waiting for her to leave. Then he'd come in, quickly stake Spike, and clean up the dust. Maybe taking some of Spike's stuff so that it looked like Spike had just chosen to leave. Leaving her to think that another man had run out on her.

Still it was hard to believe that he would do all this behind her back. She knew he hated Spike, and knew that he hated the idea of her and Spike even more, but this?

Then it all clicked into place. He was doing what he'd always done. He was treating her like a child who needed to be protected. He was making the decisions for her just like he always had. He still didn't believe she was capable of deciding who should be a part of her life, or what sort of life she wanted.

She waited for the grief to hit her. For the tears to come. Angel was dead. He was never coming back. She would never see him again. But there were no tears, no grief. Maybe she was just numb, maybe it was just one shock too many, but all she felt was relief that she had one less thing to worry about.

Looking at Spike she knew she had plenty to worry about as it was.