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Weeks could have gone by, and he wouldn't have known it. He was lost in a kind of delirium, only dimly aware of things around him. He was aware of Buffy's nightly feedings. Those feedings, although meager, were the only things standing in the gap between him, and utter madness. And he knew that she was trying to help, but he also knew that the demon inside of him was railing, furious at his body for allowing itself to become so damaged.

And just how damaged was he, anyway? A few more steps into the red zone than he had been after Dana's attack, of that he was sure. Well, since no one who buzzed around him constantly, told him anything about his condition, good or bad, Spike could only assume that it was still as bad as bad could get. Although, how much worse can a vamp get then dust? He was dust once, and here he was now. One step up from dust, and from the scent of the tears Buffy thinks he doesn't know about, sliding downhill fast. Still, there was still hope, right? He could still rally, couldn't he? All he needed was time, and a little of the sweet stuff in Buffy's veins. Just hold on until Dru could find him. That is, if she was even looking for him. He'd just hold on. But, why? Why was that again? He wasn't trying to be difficult, really he wasn't, if he could just find the reason again, then he'd have the trail to follow, the breadcrumbs to find. He could do it, he was just so tired, and everything seemed so heavy. Maybe if he rested a little, it would be better.

The little refuge he did get from sleep, was interrupted by thoughts of Drusilla. Spike thought of her, because, no matter how many years, be it a hundred or a thousand, or perhaps just these next sixty minutes, he existed, when everything was tallied, it all came down to her. Drusilla was the reason William died in that livery stable. She was the reason William the Bloody had roared into existence. She was the reason he grabbed life by the throat, drained every last drop and left deep, red furrows, before dropping it, carelessly, to the ground. Drusilla was the reason he'd come to Sunnydale, the reason he'd met Buffy.

Then his world, a world he knew his place in, went topsy-turvy, and nothing was ever the same again. Up became down, and wrong became right. Everything changed so quickly that he became dizzy just trying to keep up. Just when he thought he knew where he stood, he was tossed into the sea again, grasping at Angelus's heels just to stay afloat. Surely Angelus, no matter their past, would understand and help. Angelus wouldn't throw him over into the abyss. But, it seems, he had. And now, he was back where it all began. With Drusilla.

Spike thought of that night in Prague. He'd found his dark beauty, pinned to a wooden spire, with crudely fashioned sakes driven into her delicate palms. He ripped through half the villagers, desperately trying to reach her before they could touch torch to wood. He could hear the sound of her screams as he crashed, unwillingly, into unconsciousness after one of the townspeople struck him in the head, before finally succumbing to the lethal wounds he'd received as payment for Drusilla's treatment.

Spike awoke to the smell of smoldering wood and burnt flesh. As he opened his eyes and looked around, he caught sight of Drusilla, still pinned to the spire, her head hanging limply to one side. He ignored the pain, screeching for acknowledgement, in his own body, and crawled toward her. When he reached her, with trembling hands, he touched the slippers on her feet, which were dangling, free from her prison.

That act confirmed for him that it had been no nightmare, and he got swiftly to his feet. Swaying a little from the shock, he pressed his fingertips into her blackened palms, deftly avoiding the reddened holes at the center. He reached out to her cheek, touching it lovingly. With a trembling voice, he spoke, as if the moment were made of glass, and any stray sound would shatter it, and her, into a thousand pieces, "Drusilla, baby," he ignored the wetness on his face, "can you hear me, baby?"

She gave a little mewling sound, "S...pike?"

He felt his knees go weak with joy, "Yes, it's me, baby. I've got you now. Daddy's got you," he cooed at her, trying to distract her from the pain, "I've got you now. It's going to be all right," he said that for himself, as well as for her, "Those bastards paid for what they did to you," his voice hitched, "Dru, I'm sorry," he bit his lip, trying not to whimper, "Can you sing for me, Dru?" he asked.

"It hurts, Spike."

The agony rose in his throat, "I know," his voice wobbled. He had to distract her so that he could pry her free, "Please sing. Do it for me, all right?"

As he heard her humming faintly, he gave her warning, "This might hurt a little, darling, but keep singing for me, okay?" With that, Spike reached nervous fingers around the spire, pressed his palm against the tip of the stake in her left hand, closed his eyes, and shoved as hard as he could, hearing the stake fall, softly, to the earth after her sharp yelp of pain. Waves of pain shuddered through him as he sighed, "Keep singing, baby, it's almost over. Don't worry, I've got you," he kept murmuring as he shoved the other stake out of her hand, and caught her limp body as she fell forward against him. He pressed his lips to her forehead, shifting her in his arms, "I'm taking you home," he assured her, as her head lulled in the crook of his arm.

He remembered sitting at her bedside for months. Never leaving the lair, not even to feed, and snarling at any minion who dared to suggest that it was hopeless. He beheaded one for even thinking that he should give up, and leave his princess to die.

Then, one day, one of his smarter minions, Dalton, came to him with a manuscript that mentioned that the way to help Drusilla might be found on the Hellmouth, and the rest, as they say, was history. *********************

Those who do not learn from history, are condemned to repeat it. He'd heard that somewhere once, and now he was lying here, unable to move, the pain so acute that it was hard to even think. The demon in him couldn't understand why it had been caged. It knew what it needed. It needed blood. The physical drive overrode Spike's ability to reason. Trapped, in this useless husk, he was slowly going mad.

The scent of blood seeped into his brain. And, not just any blood. Slayer blood. A Slayer was near. He could hear her breathing, her heartbeat pounding its steady rhythm against the inside of his skull. How had she gotten this close? He had to get up and fight, or he would be dust. But, the weight of his body kept him down.

"...We've tracked her to Africa. She killed a demon there who, it's rumored, grants restoration to those demons strong enough to endure the trials."

How had this annoying little gnat survived this long? Take her. Rip her throat out and drain her before she can blink, it's what you do. The demon roared, its teeth tearing the top off of his head in its fury. Run little girl, it screamed, before I tear you up!

Spike fought the nausea that welled up in him, trying to let Buffy's voice anchor him, "...Then there were some sightings in Nepal. A missionary settlement there was slaughtered. Only one little girl survived..."

Buffy stopped speaking when she felt a feral growl reverberate through her body, "Spike," she asked, alarmed, "you still with me?"
***********************

He knew that there was a little girl somewhere in the house. He could hear the rapid tap, tap, tap, of her heartbeat. He stopped for a moment, becoming still, letting the little girl's body tell him where it was she was hiding.

Then, he heard a tiny sigh, coming from the direction of the coal bin. He turned, silently, letting his human mask shift back into place, he slowly opened the little door, "Oh, hello," he said softly, "What are you doing in there?"

"Is the monster gone?" she asked, her eyes wide with fright and her face wet with tears.

Spike smiled his sweetest smile, "Do I look like a monster to you?"

She shook her head. Children are so trusting, Spike thought.

"Where are your Mummy and Daddy?"

"I think the monster ate them," she squeaked.

"Oh," Spike said, his voice concerned, "Well then we had better get you out of here, hadn't we? Before the monster comes back?"

The girl nodded.

"My name is William," he said, "What can I call you?"

"My name is Jane."

Jane was the sweetest little morsel he'd ever tasted. Just thinking about her sweet blood made him mad with need.

Buffy's body had gone tight as a bowstring, every nerve fiber in her straining to hear a response from Spike. She had been waiting, for what seemed like an eternity, with her teeth on edge, and still there was nothing. Had he slipped so far down under the pain that he couldn't find his way back to the surface? Had she lost him to it? She tried again, "Spike?" she ventured, "Are you still with me?"

The response was slow and groggy. Yes. I'm here. Demon's been tripping me down memory lane, is all. It's been a bumpy trip.

Buffy became concerned, "Is there something I can do?"

You feeling up to this, Love? I know you must be tired, but I need...

She shook her head, trying to keep the fact that she was crying, from showing itself in her voice, "Whatever you need, Spike. I'll do it."

Just feeling a bit peckish.

Buffy looked at his slowly healing body. It looked so much better than it had two months ago. The skin around his throat had repaired itself. It wouldn't be long now, until she would actually hear his voice again, and with Angel trying to atone for his actions by tracking Drusilla, it wouldn't be long until he was as perfect to everyone else as he appeared to be to her.

As she fingered the pink, raised mark across her palm, she smiled and said, " I told you, whatever you need, I want to give you."
**********





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