Buffy staggered backward a couple of steps, hating the sense of panic she felt rising up in her, as the sound of heavy footsteps filled the hall just beyond the door behind which she was hiding, and she knew that Angelus was coming closer.

*Damn it, he can smell me!* she realized suddenly with dismay. *He knows I’m here, he’s gonna find me, what am I gonna do…?*

*Just stake him, you idiot! You know you can take him,* another, darker voice within her insisted. *You’re the Slayer, what is wrong with you? Start acting like it!*

Her jaw set with determination, though her chin was still trembling slightly, as she squared her shoulders and reached into the pocket of her jacket for her stake. She knew that second voice was right; why should she be afraid to face the two vampires? She was being foolish, hiding here in this room, afraid to be caught listening by Angelus and his undead lover – the undead lover that had replaced her…

Not that he’d ever really wanted her to begin with…

Buffy felt her cheeks begin to color with shame, and the hand gripping the upraised stake wavered slightly, as she swallowed back a sob of despair and humiliation.

Oh, yeah -- *that* was why she was afraid to face them.

“S-slayer…”

The soft hiss of breath behind her, barely audible even in the stark silence of the darkened room, nevertheless made Buffy nearly jump out of her skin. She raised her free hand to her own mouth in an instinctive desire to keep herself from crying out, from betraying her hiding place to her enemies, as she whirled around in place, her stake raised defensively.

Outside the door, she heard Drusilla’s lilting giggle drawing nearer to the door, softly coaxing Angelus away from it – back to their bedroom. Somehow, she found it hard to feel much of a sense of relief, when he finally seemed to relent, and go with her, and the pair of their voices gradually faded away, finally disappearing completely with the soft shutting of the door.

Buffy’s anger and hurt at the sound, and the knowledge of what it meant, seemed to fuel her senses, as she peered carefully into the darkness, her back to the door now, her feet shifting slightly as she tried to get an idea from what direction the potential threat had spoken.

“Who’s there?” she whispered tersely, the words barely a breath, as she impatiently willed her eyes to adjust to the darkness that surrounded her. “I swear, you *so* do not wanna mess with me tonight!”

There was a moment of complete silence, before a soft, ironic – and maybe just a bit crazed – laugh broke the stillness…and Buffy suddenly thought that she recognized the sound of that laugh.

“Couldn’t…not if I…if I tried…Slayer…” The voice was weak, fragile, as if it had taken the greatest effort on the part of its owner simply to gain enough volume to be heard at all.

And now – Buffy knew who was talking to her.

Through the closed door of the room, she could hear the lewd sounds of the frenetic coupling of the vampire pair – and no longer feared being found. They were clearly too caught up in each other at the moment to pay her any further attention.

Her eyes narrowed in fury, as she took a bold step further into the darkness, her stake raised and ready.

“Spike.” She practically spat his name out in anger and disgust.

*Light,* she thought urgently, her free hand touching along the wall to her right, searching for some source of something, anything to pierce the blackness surrounding her. *Gotta find a light…did they even *have* electricity when this place was actually lived in -- by actual people?*

“Just…another step…Slayer…” Spike gasped the words out, his breathing audible in the silence, labored and weary. “…candle…on the…table…”

Buffy froze, her head tilting slightly backward as she frowned in suspicion. “Yeah – I bet you’d like me to…” she murmured sarcastically, without moving any nearer. “Unfortunately for you I’m not quite that stupid.”

She immediately cringed, realizing that she had just left herself wide open for a stinging retort, once again cursing the recent failure of her usual sharp wit -- but surprisingly, there was no response at all from the vampire. In fact, all she heard was the quiet sound of his unnecessary but labored breathing, from somewhere near in front of her.

She frowned thoughtfully, considering, before trying another tactic, a taunting tone to her voice as she conceded, “Okay, so maybe you *are* for real. I guess I *did* do quite a number on you with that pipe organ, huh?”

Again, that slightly manic, giggling laugh was his response, and she could hear a slightly bitter twinge to it, before he gasped out in a voice barely over a whisper, with rests after almost every word, “Oh, Slayer…more…than you bloody well…know…”

Buffy’s frown deepened, and against her better judgment, she took another step forward, her right hand extended to feel for the table he had mentioned -- and to her surprise, she found it. As her fingers traced the tabletop, she found something smooth and cool and rectangular, and picked it up in her hand, realizing suddenly that it was a cigarette lighter -- the silver cigarette lighter she had seen in Spike’s hand, that first time she had seen him, in the alley behind the Bronze.

*Candle,* she thought, remembering his words moments earlier. *Okay, where’s the…*

Then, her hand came into contact with the metal of the candlestick -- and within moments, the darkness was chased away by the dim but warm glow of the now lighted candle, and she could finally see the vampire, and the room they were in.

Her initial reaction was a gasp of ghastly shock.

The room was very scantly furnished, mostly just containing the large bed in which Spike lay, and the tiny nightstand beside it. There was no dresser, only one chair placed at the side of his bed, and it was quite apparent to her that no one came in here often, due to the lack of attention that had been paid to this particular room -- and to the vampire lying in the bed.

Buffy had never seen a vampire in quite so terrible condition -- well, not unless they were dust at the end of her stake. Spike’s usually pale flesh was paper white, with an almost translucent quality to it, and every bone in his bare chest was painfully pronounced. Buffy did not think that a human could be so terribly thin, and still live. And besides the evidence of drastic starvation, what of his body was exposed to her was covered in bruises, cuts, and other suspicious marks, evidence of brutal torture, which had not been able to heal due to his lack of feeding.

He stared up at her coolly through wide, glassy eyes that were yet calm and piercing.

“That bad…is it?” he whispered, studying her face.

His words caused Buffy to shake herself out of her horrified reverie, and she swiftly, severely reminded herself that this was not a human being, not an actual person who had been so terribly mistreated, but a vampire -- a killer -- and her mortal enemy at that.

Still, she could not hold back the soft, shocked question that slipped past her lips despite herself, “What -- what happened?”

Spike did not respond to her question, simply staring at her for a moment longer before averting his eyes self-consciously, staring down at his emaciated, battered body instead, which was mostly exposed to the Slayer’s shocked scrutiny. One fragile, thin arm reached weakly for the bed sheet, which had fallen down around his hips, before collapsing back onto the mattress, the meager effort of even that simple motion too much for him.

Without thought, in a natural reaction to the pitiable scene before her, Buffy moved forward and took the sheet in her hands, awkwardly aware of Spike’s slight flinch at her sudden nearness, as she drew it up and let it fall around his shoulders instead. Not looking at him, she stepped back again, feeling suddenly awkward under his startled, piercing gaze, now focused on her again.

It was obvious by the searching expression in his eyes that he had expected something much different than what she had done.

“W-what…?” Either he lacked the strength to finish his bewildered question, or he wasn’t even sure what it was that he was going to ask.

Shocked and troubled by her own emotional reaction to the state he was in, Buffy stepped toward him again, her face suddenly guarded and defensively angry. “Just -- just shut up,” she snapped. “You’re in no position to be asking the questions here, Spike. Looks to me like you’re pretty much at my mercy, so I think you’d better start talking…”

The look he gave her was part sad, part wearily mocking, as he shook his head slightly and replied, “Can’t…need blood…too…too weak…” The words were matter-of-fact, no pleading or self-pity in them, simply a statement of the truth that she could see quite clearly for herself.

Spike clearly wasn’t going to be doing much of anything until he fed.

But -- why *hadn’t* he been feeding?

A particularly raucous laugh from the room across the hall, followed by a squeal of pleasure or pain, or both, from Dru, caught her attention, and Buffy turned her head toward the closed door automatically -- but not before she caught the wince of hurt on Spike’s face, as he just as instinctively turned his head away from the sound.

Swallowing back her own hurt, Buffy turned back to look at the invalid vampire again, her eyes slowly widening with the beginnings of understanding.

“They -- they did this to you -- didn’t they?” she whispered.

He shrugged slightly, without turning his head back, as he mumbled, “‘S complicated.”

Buffy took that in, considering, before a further, sickening thought occurred to her. “This,” she said with clear disgust in her voice as she gestured vaguely toward the door, “this is partially for your benefit, isn’t it? On purpose?”

Spike did not respond for a long moment, did not look at her, before he finally responded in a soft, bitter whisper, trembling with his anger and humiliation at having her see him like this, having her hear the sounds that had been his private humiliation and hell for the past week. “Like you…bloody care, Slayer!…‘cept for your own…jealousy …‘cause it just…happens to be…*your* former she’s shaggin’!”

“Shut up, Spike, or I *will* stake you!” Buffy snarled, her temper rising at the barbed reminder, as she raised her stake threateningly and took a step forward -- only after she had spoken realizing the subtle implication of her words -- that at that point, she had already decided *not* to stake him.

Whether or not the weakened vampire caught her slight verbal slip, she did not know, as that bitter laugh filled her ears again, and Spike shook his head in bewilderment, as if at a loss for words. When he found them, the stark pain and utter defeat she heard in his voice made her heart lurch within her.

“Stake me,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly, looking back up at her with a pain in his dark blue eyes that nearly took her breath -- because she recognized that very pain, the pain she was feeling, listening to the constant, maddening soundtrack of the sounds coming from across the hall. “Do it…Slayer…”

A faint impression of the usual smirk she had seen on his face so many times barely graced his lips, as he added softly, between deep, labored breaths that seemed to be coming with more and more difficulty, even as his voice seemed to be fading, slipping into unconsciousness again. “Nothing you can…do…to make it…any worse…”

The anger she was feeling was not really meant for Spike, and she knew it; he just happened to be the nearest target on which she could vent it.

“Yeah,” she sneered bitterly. “I bet you wish I’d just stake you -- put you out of your misery! Well, you don’t get off that easy -- not until you tell me what you did -- how to fix this!”

Even as she spoke the words, Buffy waited, her heart hammering in her throat, for his response which would prove her worst fears true or false. His reaction would tell her, she was sure, whether or not she was right to blame Spike’s ritual for the devastating change in her lover -- or whether the blame truly lay where she feared that it did.

With her alone.

But Spike did not respond at all. It seemed that in his weakened, starved state, even the simple, brief conversation they had just had took more energy than he had to give, and he had fallen into an exhausted state of unconsciousness again.

In the silence that followed, with no words to distract her from the pain of the sounds she was still hearing, Buffy quickly found that she could not stand it any longer -- just standing there, hearing that, doing nothing -- being there at all.

She had to go.

Blinking back the tears that had filled her eyes the moment she had been forced to face the reality of Angelus’ betrayal again, with no distractions, she turned and strode swiftly toward the door, silently opening it and peering out cautiously into the empty hall. If she hurried, she could get out of here before they were -- finished. Before they even realized she was there at all.

But for some reason, she found herself stopped at the door, hesitant. She drew in a deep breath, glancing over her shoulder uncertainly at the still form of the unconscious vampire on the bed. A slow frown of frustration and confusion formed on her lips, before her jaw set decisively and she turned back toward the bed again.

Irritated at the care she was taking, unsure why she was so careful not to jar his numerous injuries -- unsure why she was even doing this at all -- Buffy wrapped the bed sheet gently around Spike’s battered body, and lifted him up into her arms. Her eyes widened, aghast at how terribly light his weight felt in her arms, as she headed back toward the open door, to make her way down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the night.