“Oh, God, Spike,” Buffy whimpered miserably, her wide green eyes terrified as she turned away from her open bedroom door to face him. “I don’t think I can do this.”

It was 11:45. She was supposed to meet Willow in fifteen minutes. And she could not seem to force herself to walk out her own door.

“You can,” he assured her, his voice soft but firm with conviction as his solemn blue eyes met her uncertain gaze. He laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re the bloody Slayer, love. Last time I saw you fight, you took on a demon robot thing ten times your size and ripped his bleedin’ heart out with your bare hands. And here you are scared silly over one little amateur witch?”

Put that way, it *did* sound a little silly, Buffy realized. But there was so much more to it than that. “I couldn’t have killed that particular demon without that ‘little witch’ – and not so much with the amateur,” she reminded him, a soft, sad smile of memory on her lips. “And the others.” Her smile faded. “And then I just turned my back on them.”

“And now you’re turning again,” he pointed out patiently. “And she hasn’t rejected you yet. That’s something, pet.”

Buffy stared at him, wondering with mild amusement how he had managed to once again work his way into her heart, in spite of her determination to shut him out. For weeks now she had been stressing her authority over him, insisting on a respectful distance, frowning on the pet names he so loved to bestow on her and demanding subservience from him.

And in a single morning, he had managed to once again break through her defenses and get her opening up to him, confiding in him, listening to his advice and allowing him to help her through a difficult decision. How had he done it?

But she knew the answer to that, really. In spite of the cold way in which she had treated him, he had still showed a genuine concern for what she was going through, being a friend to her when she needed one most. That was what had broken through the wall again – that kindness and friendship that was so sorely missing from her life lately.

Buffy thought – cautiously – that that might not be such a bad thing, after all. Spike was really quite a good listener, and appeared to have a strong intuitive perception when it came to emotional matters like the situation she found herself in now. And the whole “mistress” thing was still awkward and uncomfortable for her, anyway. She just could not get used to the idea of treating *anyone*, much less someone that she *knew*, as nothing more than a possession.

It would be much easier to get used to the idea of Spike as a *friend*.

And besides – she might find herself in *need* of a friend, if this meeting with Willow did not go as well as she hoped.

“Okay,” she said finally, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out quickly, trying to steady her nerves. “Time to go. I’m gonna do this. I *can* do this.”

Spike nodded and agreed emphatically, “Yes, you can,” as he picked up her handbag from where it lay on her bed and held it out to her.

As she reached to take it from him, her hand brushed against his in just the slightest, feather-light touch…

And suddenly, she remembered why it was a bad idea to let Spike get too close.

That tingling, electric sensation that coursed through her at the brief contact of his cool, smooth skin against hers, bringing back the memory of that night in his bedroom when she had allowed herself to give in to her desires, however briefly, the image still vivid in her mind.

She wanted him. Badly. Now.

*No, Buffy,* she told herself sternly. *One word: married. Step away from the hot-beyond-belief, sex-personified vampire. Now.*

She jerked her hand away, closed around the strap of her purse, as if his touch had burned her, and felt a little pang at his flinch, the surprised hurt in his eyes.

*Stupid, Buffy,” she berated herself, turning away from him to leave. *Very stupid. That’s exactly why you need to keep a little more distance between him and you. Because letting him in even a little bit leads to total confusing badness like this. For *both* of you.*

“I should be back before Riley gets home from work,” she informed him, her tone brisk and distant once more, just wanting to get out the door before anything else could happen.

Confusion and pain in his hesitant voice, he began, “Buffy…”

Suddenly she turned and looked at him sharply, her eyebrows raised expectantly in a no-nonsense expression that told him that she had closed herself to him once more – and he would be wise to back off.

“Yes…Mistress,” he said quietly, his eyes downcast once more, and the defeated resignation in his voice made her feel terribly guilty.

*Shouldn’t feel guilty,* she reminded herself for the hundredth time. *You are well within your rights. No reason to feel guilty.* And without another word, she hurried from the room, and from the house, to make her fateful appointment with her estranged best friend.


When Buffy walked into the chic little deli she had chosen for her reunion with Willow, at around 12:15, she glanced around anxiously for her friend, a part of her afraid that since she was late, Willow might have been there and left.

Or decided not to come at all.

But then, before her heart had time to sink in despair, she caught side of a familiar head of bouncing red hair, attached to a girl, also bouncing slightly in her seat with excitement as she waved a hand eagerly to get Buffy’s attention. She was seated at a small corner table for two, and Buffy appreciated the fact that she had secured a comfortably private corner for their long-overdue conversation, which would likely be very intense.

Buffy hurried across the room to her friend, her fear of Willow’s reaction both eased by the excited light she could see in her friend’s eyes, clear across the room; and overwhelmed by her sudden yearning just to hug her, to talk to her again – to somehow regain what she had so foolishly cast aside.

Willow rose as Buffy reached her, and just stood staring at her for a moment through tear-filled eyes, a small, hesitant smile that was so familiar and warm and – and just so *Willow* -- forming on her face.

“Buffy,” she said, all her affection and acceptance clear in the single, softly spoken word.

Buffy’s resolve not to break down, not to allow this to become her own personal pity party -- *she* was the one who had blown it, after all – melted away, and she felt her lower lip begin to tremble as her eyes welled with tears…

And in the next instant she was enfolded in Willow’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Buffy whispered against her friend’s shoulder as she hugged her, conscious of her greater strength and holding her friend firmly but not too tightly, yet utterly unwilling to let her go. “I’m so sorry!”

“Forget about it, Buffy,” Willow insisted. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

When they finally ended the tearful embrace and took their seats at the table, there was a brief pause before Willow said softly, cautiously, “Is…everything okay, Buffy? Are you all right? I mean…”

She hesitated, and Buffy felt a shameful sensation at the realization that Willow assumed that something must be wrong for Buffy to contact her, since it had been so long. Well, actually the shame was because…Willow’s assumption had been right.

She had missed her friends terribly since the point when she had given in to Riley’s pressure and cast them aside so thoughtlessly. She had wanted many times to defy Riley’s wishes and break down and call. But she had only finally found the nerve to do so, now that she faced something which she could not handle without them.

Buffy drew a deep breath, wondering how to begin. In a way, Willow’s assumption was comforting, she thought ruefully. It only went to prove how very well her friend knew her.

She met Willow’s warm, compassionate eyes, and felt a rush of affection at the loyalty and affection she saw there, in spite of all she had done to destroy those sentiments. She wondered suddenly how she ever could have tossed such devotion aside in favor of a man who preferred the company of undead whores to her own, who stomped her feelings into the ground callously, and even went so far as to dare to strike out at her in his anger.

Willow’s smile faded into a little frown of concern as she noticed the dark, heavy look in Buffy’s eyes, and she asked quietly, “What is it, Buffy? Is it bad?”

“Kind of,” Buffy admitted, wondering as she spoke just how much she wanted to tell her friend. She took another deep breath before beginning slowly, “It’s a really…*really*… long story…”


Spike found that it felt a bit odd to be here at the house while Buffy was out. He had become very accustomed to being with her almost every waking hour of his day, always available to meet whatever need might arise for her. He found that he was restless, bored – and very, very eager for her to be home again.

The thought of her odd behavior in the final moments before she had left was unsettling to him. He had felt it – that instant in which they had touched, so innocently and accidentally – and the cold change in her demeanor that had followed in the wake of that moment.

Had she thought that he was *trying* to touch her? he wondered anxiously. Had she thought that he was trying to maneuver his way into a repeat of that infamous kiss? The thought was terribly troubling to him, as he was honestly trying to do everything in his power to please her, to be obedient and compliant with her commands; and though that kiss was never far from his thoughts – manipulating her into another one was very far indeed.

He was in the living room, idly straightening up a bit, just looking for something to occupy his time while his mistress was gone, when he heard the front door open. He glanced up, a bit too eagerly, thinking that perhaps it was Buffy, home already.

Home already? He frowned; that would not be good. She had only been gone about a half and hour. He expected that with all the time that had passed between them, she and Red would have hours worth of talking to catch up on.

But he was both relieved and disappointed when it was not Buffy, and he felt an unpleasant little sick feeling when he saw who *did* walk through the door.

It was none other than Mr. Finn, carrying a bouquet of twelve red roses, and a brown paper bag that smelled of take out Chinese food. Apparently, he had thought it would be a good source of brownie points to surprise his wife by coming home to share lunch with her.

Riley glanced around the room, his eyes stopping on his wife’s slave, whose eyes were carefully downcast as he busied himself about the already perfectly clean living room. His eyes narrowed in hatred – and then he frowned thoughtfully. It was odd to see Spike upstairs on the main floors of the house, without Buffy nearby.

“Where’s Buffy?” he asked sharply.

Spike hesitated just a moment, considering how much would be wise – and in Buffy’s best interest – to tell Riley. “She went out,” he finally said noncommittally.

“Well, when’s she coming back?” Riley’s voice was irritated and impatient. Obviously he felt that his wife should have been grateful enough for the gesture he was making to have read his mind and been there when he got home.

Spike took pleasure in Riley’s irritation, in knowing that at least one of his little suck-up schemes had been foiled. “Won’t be home for a while,” he replied, his tone not giving anything away. “She said to expect her before you got home this evening, that’s all.”

Riley sighed in exasperation, and he tossed the roses and the food down into an armchair in disgust. Suddenly, he looked up at Spike with a slight smile, the light of an idea in his cruel, ice blue eyes.

“Really,” he said mildly. “Huh.”

The loaded tone of those two simple words made Spike’s stomach drop slightly. If he had not been chipped, had been capable of actually fighting the man, this would have been a golden opportunity for him. He would have relished the chance to get Riley Finn alone and teach him what happened to men who hit women – especially women that Spike cared about.

But he *was* chipped.

So being alone with Riley was not such a good thing.

He stood there, not really having any other choice, as Riley shrugged off his suit jacket and cast it casually over the back of the chair where he had laid the other items, advancing slowly with a measured pace on the slave who had dared to defy him.

“Looks like this might be a good time for me and you to have a little talk,” Riley smirked coldly as he reached the spot where Spike stood – just waiting.

Any attempt at escape would have been futile – not to mention shameful. He might not be able to fight this wanker like he wanted to – but that did not mean he was going to run from him.

He looked up boldly into the larger man’s eyes, unspoken defiance clear in his carriage, his expression. “You know,” he said quietly, his eyebrows raised in a challenge. “she *will* be home. Eventually.”

The implied threat, as well as the suggestion that he would bend to the whims of his wife, infuriated Riley. Still he smiled coldly, remaining calm as he reached out a huge hand to grip the vampire around the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted with a little shrug.

“But you know, all that means?” He paused, drawing back his fist to strike. “Is I better steer clear of the face. Not leave a mark. Not where she’ll see it.” And with that, he slammed his fist into Spike’s stomach brutally, and the vampire doubled over in pain, gasping for breath.

Riley did not give him time to recover before he shifted his grip to seize Spike’ throat, and slam him back forcefully against the wall behind him. “You’re gonna start showing a little respect around here, Spike,” he informed him in a voice of cold menace. “Cause I don’t care what Buffy thinks. I’m not putting up with scum like you talking back to me in my own house.”

His fist struck brutally again, this time in Spike’s chest, and the vampire was sure he both heard and felt his ribs crack with the force of the blow. Finn was much stronger than he had expected him to be.

“And another thing,” Riley went on, his voice softening in deadly rage, as he leaned in closer to him to speak quietly. “You are going to keep your filthy hands off of my wife. If you touch her again, Spike…I don’t care *what* she says…I’m gonna take you apart. You will be begging me to just let you die before I’m through. Don’t ever. Touch. Her. again,” he ordered, emphasizing his words by tightening his grip on Spike’s throat.

Spike was furious that Finn should dare to be so possessive of Buffy when he was as blatantly unfaithful to her as he was. And if he could have drawn breath at the moment, against the man’s crushing grip around his throat, he would have told him so.

It was a fortunate thing that he could not draw breath.

“And, uh,” Riley went on, his tone casual, his words an afterthought. “when Buffy *does* get home…” He paused to deliver two more brutal blows to Spike’s midsection, leaving the helpless vampire gasping and coughing, tasting his own blood in his mouth. “You’re gonna keep your mouth shut about this. Aren’t you?”

Spike did not respond, gritting his teeth to keep from giving in to the wanker and the pain he was inflicting.

Riley hit him again, harder, and snarled menacingly, “Aren’t you, Spike?”

After a brief pause, Spike nodded slowly, hating himself for giving in. But Buffy had told him to do his best to submit to the man, to keep from upsetting him. And the thought had occurred to him that telling Buffy about this incident could possibly result in *her* getting hurt, if she confronted Riley about it.

Riley seemed satisfied, smiling and releasing him roughly, taking a step back. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

Riley glanced casually at his watch, as Spike stood there, gasping for breath, doubled over with an arm across his battered ribcage.

“Well. If Buffy’s not here,” Riley shrugged. “I’ve got some time to kill.” He gave Spike a pointed, malicious smile, deliberately flaunting his power to do whatever he pleased, whenver he pleased, before turning and heading toward the stairs.

To the slave quarters.