A/N: WARNING! This fic contains rape for the purposes of character development. If you have a dislike of such things, please don't continue.

Also, this fic is complete. I'm going to post a chapter a day until it's all up... Enjoy!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His world was a scheme of black and white, colors as absent as his ability to feel remorse. But unlike the remorse, he missed the color, missed the satisfaction he’d felt when he’d held it in his arms. Since his return he’d learned that color, flashes of something more, they came only when he was with her.

He thought maybe that was why he hated her so much.

He watched her trying to laugh with her friends, trying to shrug off the impending danger, the threat that was him. It made him smile, a cold, calculated expression. She thought that he was going to play like he had before, that she could dance this dance, just be strong and deflect his efforts before they could land. They all knew his game, how he terrorized, how he tortured by killing until his victim was entirely alone. Slow, methodical isolation.

He thought maybe... maybe it was time for something new. Up front, heart to heart, blow to blow, soul to… well, maybe not soul to soul.

She went patrolling later that night, wearing a pink sweater he could remember his good self running hands over, over perked nipples hidden three layers deep. Such a tantalizing picture, he saw it inside his head, every moment of stripping her innocence raging in his mind.

The sweater was just a façade now, where it had been a symbol of untouched fruit before. She was almost past a large marble mausoleum with cherub angels when he came around and stepped directly in front of her.

"Angel."

"The stars say otherwise, Lover."

The way she said his name, urgent like, it was like the sweetest blood to him. Watching the pain fill her eyes every time he broke her softest hope about his soul-filled alias returning.

"You should’ve staked me, Buffy… You’re gonna regret not doing it."

His fist connected solidly to flesh, his knuckles cracking against her cheekbone. He watched her head snap back, but she didn’t cry out. She was completely silent, backing herself up against the crypt wall.

"Really, Lover, you should know better. Being by yourself at a time like this."

He watched as the despair left, as angry resolved filled her, and she came off the wall quickly, kicking out at him. He grabbed her foot, twisted, flipping her back so that her face and shoulder slammed into the crypt. Stunned, she let out a yelp, rolling over onto her back and staring up at him. Her left cheek was bleeding from the abrasive stonewall, her right purplish from his fist.

"Your heart’s just not in this, Lover." He leaned down, using her shirt to lift her to her feet.

"Maybe I should have done something to piss you off first, like kill off some of your dear friends."

Buffy spat in his face, bringing her fist to connect with the side of his head. His head twisted sideways and he dropped her, allowing her to scramble backwards and away from the wall.

"Touch them and I will more than kill you."

"See, that’s what I used to love about you. All guts and fire in the face of impending death."

He grinned, knowing it was a terrible sight of fangs and wrinkled forehead, and then rushed her.

"Let’s save this violence for a bit later, what do you say?"

His voice was a chilling whisper in here ear, a second before she felt the needle slip into her skin like a sting. There was a rush, when all the blood from her body felt like it was being forced into her brain.

She watched the earth rise in slow motion and felt the arm that caught her seconds before she slammed into it.

"Gotcha, Lover."

Buffy stared up at him with glazed eyes as he turned her towards him, her head rolling back on his arm; the stars above his head glittered eerily, casting him as a demon with a halo.

Bending over, he lifted her up into his arms and delighted in how light she was.Beautiful, mosaic contradiction… Such a tiny, graceful package to know such violence.

Angelus grinned as he stared down at the bruises spreading over her face; he recognized color when he saw it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buffy woke to cold. It was all around and inside her, goose-pimpled flesh and pounding heart.

"Well, you woke sooner than I expected. Must be that Slayer constitution. That’s good."

His mouth was in her hair, near her ear, tickling. He had the lower half of her body pinned with his.

"You’d better pray it holds up now."

She felt metal around her wrists and ankles, heavy and clanking as she shifted, then pulled. But the manacles held tight.

He ran his hands down her bare stomach, smiled as her flesh quivered beneath him. His lips traced a rough path down her throat, coolly wet, until his mouth was directly over her pulse.

"So sweet," he murmured, flicking her skin with his tongue, scraping with his teeth. Then he let his teeth go deep. Buffy screamed, jerking harder at the chains. He pulled back quickly, too quickly, and laughed at her.

"Slow down, Lover. We’ve got all night."

Buffy spat in his face, and he connected his fist to her mouth. She kept silent, but licked the blood defiantly from her bottom lip. From there it was slaps, scratches, bleeding wrists and ankles from straining against her bonds. Shallow rips from his teeth that stung like agony.

She screamed until she lost her voice. She tried tossing him, biting him, but he only laughed and made the blows harder. He was everywhere, and Buffy felt as if she were suffocating.

When finally he topped her, she wasn’t ready, prepared. But she said his name in a cry when he ripped into her. That was her weakness, her failure, and from that moment she ceased to struggle.

She turned her face into her shoulder, tasting salty tears, feeling emptiness even as he relentlessly jack hammered into her. When he bit her deep vein again, she came. Came in blood and passion so hard that she nearly tossed her demon lover. But he growled and kept his teeth in as her back bowed upward and had her straining towards the ceiling.

I hafta let go. She felt one of the chains snap, and with her free hand, her traitorous free hand, she pressed the back of his head towards her and urged him on. Tightened on him in other places, screamed with everything in her.

"Take it all! Please, end this, oh god, please end this." She was sobbing again, and it seemed he would do it, the demon whose hair felt silky beneath her fingers, whose fangs shifted slightly to further rip her throat.

Buffy’s hand felt heavy, and it slid, trailed down cold sweaty flesh. She heard Angelus growling softly as he drained her, but it was distant.

Let me never wake up…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Angelus forced himself to finally stop drinking as Buffy’s body grew cold beneath his, as the blood grew to only a fragile, salty flow in his mouth. He licked the edges clean, tongued the wound roughly, then pulled back to survey his work.

He hissed, staring at the array of color before him. All that multicolored, swollen flesh, like an artist’s palate of a thousand shades and hues.

"Exquisite," he whispered as he stood. Buffy’s arm slid deadly to her stomach, landing there with a wet plop that sent blood droplets flying up into his face. It lay curled amongst all the beautiful colors, a single free limb to the other chained ones; it took his breath away.

As Angelus stared down at his masterpiece, body buzzing with the blood of a Slayer, his Slayer, the world was colorful once more. She had bled color back into his undead world. He laughed, threw his head back and howled like the devil he was.

He turned as he heard the slight rustling of lace and silk, the soft sound of slippers moving over marble. He grinned, showing a wicked display of fangs, and turned around to gloat.

"Isn’t she a marvel, Dru? Just look at her!"

"Miss Edith is being naughty, Angelus. She says you want to play only with your Slayer pet now and will forget all about your Dru."

She held the doll out to him, a stern expression on her face. He ignored it and kissed her roughly. The doll dropped between them as she kissed back, pressing its porcelain into his naked stomach.

"I knew Miss Edith lies. I taste Slayer blood, smell it all over you." She eagerly cleaned his fangs with her tongue, vamping out as she nicked herself.

Enflamed with passion and its mistress hatred, Angelus felt a sudden flash of impulsivity.

"Let’s leave, Dru. Let’s travel the world and burn it down around us like we used to."

"Mmmm… Chaos and death like a pretty picture puzzle." She rubbed her hand over her stomach and thrust her hips at his.

"The world on a blood-coated platter, darling."

"But what about my Spike?" She pouted, and with the fanged face it seemed all the more horrific. He couldn’t resist licking her mouth just once more.

"We’ll be back for him."

And, he thought in grim satisfaction as he looked at Buffy, prone and violently disarrayed, We’ll be back for what’s left of her…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spike rolled himself quickly into the courtyard of the mansion, feeling with some satisfaction the bone and muscles reknitting beneath his skin.

Is only a matter of time now, only a matter of time before I’ll take back what’s mine… Hey, what’s this?

He didn’t recognize the woman on the wall at first. Naked body covered in bruises, scratches and patches of dry blood, at first glance she appeared dead.

At second glance, he realized her chest was quivering slightly with each breath, causing a slight tremulous quality to effect her breasts and blood-encrusted nipples. Her hair was matted to her head with the same said blood, making its color indeterminable, her throat torn cruelly from a vicious bite.

What clued him in to her identity finally was, oddly enough, her feet. Her toes sported the chipped remnants of rather distinct pink nail polish that he remembered vividly from his last fight with the girl in question. All that was before a falling ceiling beam had introduced him to his dear friend the wheelchair.

"Slayer?" He watched her closely as he wheeled nearer, checking for movement, any sign that she heard his voice.

Buffy woke to silence so thick she felt like she was choking on it. And there a was a smell accompanying that silence, a stale, decaying smell, like the flesh of some animal gone sour and rotten.

It’s me, she realized suddenly. I’m the one that smells like death…

She tried to open her eyes, but they were crusted over. She blinked rapidly, watching tiny, rust colored flakes fall to the cement below.

My blood, she thought. My blood drifting like miniature leaves in the fall. Finally she lifted her head, and found herself staring into the piercing blue eyes of her crippled rival.

"Spike," she tried to say, but it was a gurgle from lack of water and the gag still cutting across her mouth and down over her tongue. She felt fear: fear that Angelus couldn’t be far behind his progeny. He must have sensed it, because he shook his head.

"Shhhhh, pet. You needn’t worry; it’s just me. And my tastes never did run so dark as Angelus’." He carefully edged the gag out of her mouth; she just stared at him through half-lidded eyes.

Spike leaned down at her feet, using a knife he’d pulled from his boot to slice through the ropes that held her feet to the wall. Putting the knife in his teeth, he took a deep breath and shoved himself up from the wheelchair. Unfortunately, his momentum carried him up and into Buffy’s battered body.

Buffy let out a gurgled scream at the impact and Spike froze, feeling several of her wounds reopen and start leaking onto his clothes.

Slowly, he lifted and hooked one hand onto the rope that held her right wrist and used the other to take the knife out from between his teeth.

"I’m sorry, pet," he whispered into her ear, trembling from the effort to hold himself upright.

"But I have to get you down from here." He sliced the left rope, then paused above the right.

"When I cut this, we’re gonna fall back into my chair. It’s gonna hurt, Slayer." She nodded and closed her eyes; he cut the rope.

They fell back hard, Spike only halfway in the chair and Buffy pressing heavy down onto him. He felt her recoil, heard the suppressed scream, and grabbed at his handles desperately. It took every ounce of strength he had left in him to pull himself upright in the chair, and he was covered in icy sweat by the time he’d finally done it. Buffy was a naked, quivering package with her head on his shoulder.

It was some minutes before Spike regained the strength to move. He wheeled them slowly into the house, her added weight not so much a problem as balance. They reached the bedroom finally, and Buffy cried out as he lifted her up onto the bed and covered her shivering form with a blanket.

"I’ll be back, pet. You’re dehydrated, gotta get something for that."

She didn’t remembering sleeping, but woke to his voice saying her name, over and over. He had a bottle of Gatorade in his hand, and he brought it carefully to her lips.

Some of the liquid went down the wrong side of her swollen throat and she coughed, her body starting violently to the agonizing movements. His hands steadied her, brushed a spot on her face that was miraculously unblemished.

Then there was darkness…

Again his voice woke her, angry this time, but his hands were gentle as he washed death from her flesh.

"…Bloody sodding animal…"

I’m naked, she realized distantly as he oh-so-gently wiped at the blood. She watched him dipping the rag back into a bowl of warm water, wring out a layer of red, and begin softly wiping again.

I’m naked and Spike’s here and I don’t care...

She thought he looked like the marble angel she’d read described in a poem about death. His face was dark as he worked, muttering angry words to himself.

I must be hysterical, she thought, to see my mortal enemy as my angel.

It was her last thought before she lost consciousness again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Next Day...

The package arrived on Rupert Giles’ doorstep via UPS, in a medium size box, wrapped in brown shipping paper. He accepted a clipboard from the delivery woman, a quite nice brunette with a nametag that read Linda. Signing rather absently, he took the package and gave her a warm smile.

"Thank you much, Linda."

"You’re very welcome, Mr. Giles. Have a great afternoon."

Yes, lovely woman… Shall have to invite her tea sometime.

Giles watched her get into her delivery truck before finally closing the door. He had passed his desk, setting the package on it to attend his steaming kettle, when it dawned on him that something was a bit... off.

Returning to the desk, Giles turned the package around so that the handwriting was facing towards him. As he studied it, he flashed back on Buffy, two cards and two sketches in hand. Irritation and worse, fear, in her eyes as she told him how they’d come.

"I found them by my bed… He sent it with roses… On my pillow…"

And on all those notes, a scribbled Soon.

Mouth gone suddenly dry, Giles ripped the paper and tape off the package, carefully lifting up cardboard flaps to see what was beneath.

If only the girl who was wearing them were in such good condition. Yours, Angel

Giles sank numbly downwards into his chair. He stared blankly at the bloodied fabrics, a pink cashmere sweater that he’d seen Buffy wear a dozen times, and beneath it the coordinated khakis ripped a thousand times beyond repair.

His hands were trembling violently as he dialed Willow’s number.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buffy woke in a panic. There was no familiar voice, only silence. The memory of where she was and why filled her head in a sudden swell, and she had to stop the bile from rising.

When she had finally relearned how to breath, she found a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, comprised of black down to the boxers and socks. Buffy had tie the belt in a tight knot to keep the pants up.

Leaving the bedroom, she followed the faint sounds of the mansion to the kitchen, where Spike was wheeling his way towards the refrigerator. He looked towards her as she came in.

"So she wakes. Sorry ‘bout the clothes. Couldn’t find nothing else in the place ‘sides my things."

Buffy rubbed the worn black t-shirt between her fingers. "It's fine. Thank you."

A thought crossed her mind and the panic rose again. "Angelus and Dru…"

"They’re gone," he said grimly, cutting off the rising terror as he cut off her words.

"You’re sure?"

"Bloody positive. Dru, the bint, can’t travel much without her dollies and dresses, and Angelus isn’t much better. Both their things are gone. That means they’re far and away."

He wheeled over and set down a plate of crackers next to Buffy, noticing how tiny she looked in his clothes; even belted tight they looked like they’d drop any second.

"They left us here to rot together." He went back to the fridge and opened it.

"No," Buffy corrected quietly. "They left you here to rot. He left me here like this to shame me."

He didn't say anything to that. She looked down at the plate of crackers Spike had given her and felt queasy.

"I don’t think I can… My stomach isn’t up to it."

He stayed silent as he wheeled up beside her again, opening a bottle of Gatorade and setting it next to her. She glanced at it uncertainly, than over to him where he was watching her with serious eyes.

"Why are you helping me?" He scoffed at the question.

"Some vampires have a sense of fair play, you know." Buffy just stared at him.

"Alright, well let’s just say that I’m a hunter, and hunters don’t bring prey home to put in a cage. You should either eat it or you should let it go. If it's in your bloody home, that makes it a sodding guest, don't it?"

"I suppose." She reached out and picked up a Ritz.

Buffy had just began nibbling on the cracker when she heard a car pulling up outside the mansion. She knew the car and its owner well enough to recognize them by sound. She dropped the cracker. Spike looked at her questioningly.

"Giles is here," she whispered, raising shaking hands to her face.

"Good, he can see you to a hospital, get you taken care of right and proper." He wheeled towards the curtain separating the kitchen and the rest of the house.

"No!" He stopped at the urgency in her voice.

"No! Spike, please, they can’t see me like this. And the hospital, God, I just can’t take all the questions."

She huddled in the chair, hysteria tightening her bruised face, heart racing so fast that Spike could taste its pulse in his mouth. He ignored it.

"Alright, Buffy, alright. We’ll hide. This mansion’s got a few cubbies and the like. But we’ll have to hurry." She nodded and rose, putting the Gatorade and crackers in his lap and picking him and his wheelchair clean up off the ground.

"Where to?" She was trembling, but Spike wasn’t sure if it was more from urgency than discomfort at his weight.

He damned near drained her dry, and still she’s strong as a bloody Chilrago demon.

"Down to the dungeon." Buffy’s face paled at his words.

"Right, the basement I mean. The steps are in the back of the old pantry." He pointed to the rather decrepit looking door at the back of the kitchen.

Buffy got them into the pantry and down the steps with remarkable speed, the stairs creaking loudly from their weight. Spike pulled out his Zippo and flipped it just as they reached the bottom; the tiny light barely illuminated their faces.

"Back in the corner, there’s a part of the wall that swings out if you push it right and leads to a little room. Is where I’ve been sleeping, when I could get Dru to carry me down. "

Buffy set his chair carefully down and wheeled him to the spot. He tapped the corner of the wall, and it swung out slightly towards them. She followed him inside.

"I’d offer to light candles, but I’m not sure if they would show under the wall or not."

"No, it’s okay," she said. "The dark is okay."

"Right then. We’ll just have to wait them out."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Giles walked over to the wall, ran his fingers down dry blood and watched it flake to the ground to join its companion stain. Tugging his glasses off with his left hand, he massaged the bridge of his nose as he turned to look back at the others. They’d already made a thorough sweep of the mansion to find nothing, except this one ominous spot.

"Whoever was chained to this wall did not fair well."

Giles didn’t have to say what they were all thinking, but eventually Xander did.

"We need to find Buffy."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love it? Hate it? Let me know!