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A/N Thanks to April as always she get the chapters turned around quickity quick.

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She knows that she was crying when his lips met hers, that her tears turned the kiss salty and bitter. She was crying too when he'd laid her down with heartbreaking care on his narrow hospital bed and trailed reverent kisses over her throat.

She hadn't stopped crying, couldn't stem the tears even as she'd parted her legs in invitation and held his eyes with hers as he'd entered her. He'd hushed her and tried to kiss away the relentless flow of tears but she hadn't been able to stop, all she'd been able to do was smile sadly at him and whisper that she loved him.

She'd had a right to cry; her heart was breaking, after all. Not the clean, painful break that should accompany their parting, but an aching, bittersweet agony as it crumbled in his oh-so-gentle hands. He'd told her he had to go and she'd know it was the truth. He'd told her there was no place for her at his side when he left, and even as she understood his reasons, it had felt so much like rejection that she'd turned away from him to catch her pain in her open hands as she'd slumped down on the bed.

He'd moved to go then, her own tears mirrored in his azure eyes, and she hadn't looked up until his voice, hoarse from damage and tears, had broken through her dejection. "Take care, luv," he'd whispered, and somehow it had been far more than any eloquent declaration of love or regret.

She'd caught him at the door, her hands grasping his arm, eyes wide and pleading. "Stay," she'd begged, and his eyes had burned with sorrow even as he shook his head to deny her. "No. Tonight," she'd explained, guiding him unresisting back into the room. "Just stay tonight."

He'd acquiesced, of course, had pulled her to him and peppered kisses on the salty wetness of her face as she'd begun her whispered litany of "I love you"s.

"God, Buffy," he'd murmured against her skin. "Still love you so bloody much." His words had cemented certainty to the intuitive knowledge, and she wasn't sure if it had made it better or a thousand times worse.

He'd kissed her with a sort of desperate tenderness. He'd studied her face as he moved above her, and she'd known he was committing every detail to memory, marking each new laughter line and blemish onto his mental photograph of her. It was then that she had known he wasn't planning on coming back, and she'd cried a little harder and dug her nails into his arms until she'd created little crescent moons of red that she'd wished more than anything would leave scars on his flawless skin.

She'd sobbed as she came, calling out his name just as he'd grunted hers into her neck, and he'd rocked her until the tears had turned sluggish and she'd finally fallen asleep cradled against his chest.

It had been dark when she'd woken and instinct had told her that dawn was still many hours away. She hadn't said anything, had just watched him with silent resentment as he'd slipped on his duster in the low light seeping in under the door. He hadn't kissed her goodbye, and for that she was grateful. It would have been too much and she hadn't wanted to cry again. He'd just nodded and forced a grimace of a smile she couldn't match and then he'd been gone, and for all her good intentions, she had cried again.

That's how Dawn had found her, huddled against the iron headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest and fat silent tears rolling unimpeded down her blotchy face. Mercifully, her sister hadn't asked her anything, had just seemed to understand without the need for explanation and she had been proud of her little Dawnie, all grown up and full of compassion.

"You okay?" Dawn asks gently, and she nods against her baby sister's chest, snuggling deeper into the warm nest of sympathy she finds there.

It's nice. It's nice to just let Dawn take care of her. They both took Comfort 101 at the Joyce Summers School of Mothering, but she thinks it's Dawn who will graduate with honours. "Ready for some cocoa?" Dawn asks, rubbing her back with a little vigorous burst.

She pulls back with a sniffle and wipes her runny nose along her sleeve, ignoring Dawn's appalled, "Gross, Buffy!"

"Hot chocolate," she demands with a tiny wavering smile. "Now, please."

……………………………….

He has no idea where he's going. She could have gone anywhere; she has a two-day start and is infinitely quicker and stronger than he is. And he desperately wants to turn back around crawl back into bed with Buffy and never get up again.

It's all her fault anyway. Her fault he grew this bloody conscience in the first place, without which he could cut Carlotta loose and leave her to whatever fate has in store for her. But no, his own personal inner Buffy Summers tells him that's wrong, that the only right thing to do is turn his back on all her elysian promises and do what little he can for his poor and tortured daughter. Looks like her martyr complex is bloody contagious.

She loves him. The thought intrudes on him for the millionth time since he left her. Buffy Summers loves him. He still can't quiet believe it, even though he saw it bright and clear in the numb anger of her devastated eyes as he left her. He left her. He's got to be the biggest bloody wanker on the planet. He left Buffy.

The urge to get back on his newly-acquired motorbike and race back to her is almost irresistible. They could find Lotta together just like she said. Yeah, that's right. He could take her away from all the people who matter to her on a mission that would probably get her ripped to shreds by his other girlfriend. "Brilliant. Great plan, Spike." Several heads turn as he berates himself aloud but he doesn't give a shit. "Why don't you do that? Git!"

"What the hell are you looking at?" The menace in his sudden growl is enough to make the little demon mumble an apology and turn its eyes to its drink.

"Want some information," he tells the barman, a scarred human with cold, murderous eyes and flat, shovel-like hands. "A girl—vampire—real strong, probably scared, bit crazy. You heard anything?"

The flinty eyes study him with hard appraisal for a moment; then the man speaks in a voice surprisingly soft for such a dangerous looking man. "I heard." With a subtle tilt of his head he draws them to the quiet end of the bar and leans forward so that they can talk in whispers.

"Heard about a crazy Spanish chick got cornered by a bunch of Flavroks looking for a bit of fun." He knows Flavrok fun and the growl that escapes him stops the barman for a second. "Don't stress, man," he continues, a sudden flash of amusement in his eyes. "They didn't get their fun and they lost more than their wedding tackle for their trouble. Word is they couldn't tell which bits were which when they found them."

It's a relief, but he knew she could defend herself. It's what she might do when she gets hungry that has him worried. "Any word on victims? She been hunting?"

"Not that I've heard, man. And I hear everything so if she is she's keeping it on the down low." That must mean she's not hunting. She's nowhere near sane enough to be a subtle hunter. There's hope for her then. Hope that she's not utterly lost, that part of her remains.

"Word is she skipped town last night headed west. Don't know if it's true."

"Cheers, mate." The crumpled bills hit the counter as he rises and he's gone too quickly to hear the muttered, "Good luck," the barman throws after him.

……………………………………..

She had hoped she would never see her sister this way again. Why is it, she asks herself for the thousandth time, that when things fall apart they fall apart so damned hard?

And Buffy is not the only one hurting. Directly or indirectly, they have all been affected by Spike's fleeting return into their lives.

Angel should leave. There is nothing for him here and yet he stays and clings to a love whose time has passed. Stays and tries to convince Buffy in a multitude of ways, from quiet support to demands and tearful pleading, that with Spike gone, her place—the only place she can belong—is with him. He won't succeed. She suspects he knows that much, and yet he tortures himself and Buffy by trying.

Willow and Kennedy, too, have been affected, and Buffy's granite-hard resentment does nothing to help the witch's already heavy conscience. They are leaving tomorrow, heading early towards the Hellmouth, travelling north to continue a fight neither of them would dream of abandoning.

She and Giles suffer by virtue of Buffy's pain. Giles is so concerned and gentle, and yet always, she suspects, fighting the relief that Spike is gone. His surrogate daughter's unsuitable suitor has left, and despite the fact that he feels her pain like his own and gives her nothing but sympathy, a part of him is glad.

Poor Buffy. So often those two sorrow-ridden words flow unwelcome through her mind. So sad, so angry. She wonders whether, if Spike had not stayed with her that last night, if he had just left to find his broken child, Buffy would have been okay. Perhaps she could have coped better if she had believed his love for her was dead.

She watches Buffy snap angrily at Angel, her voice harsh and resentful as if in that moment she actually hates him. Maybe she hates him for his lies, maybe for her own bad choice, or maybe she hates him for just not being Spike. No matter, it's gone as quickly as it comes and she is exhausted and regretful. "Sorry, Angel," she mumbles as she turns away.

A day or so ago she would have followed her sister, offered whatever comfort she could, but today she can't muster the strength. Can't face her sisters angry self pity or unpredictable moods. "God, Spike," she thinks, with less bitterness than might be expected. "You really screwed things up this time."

.....................................

A/N thanks to everyone who left me a lovely review

Mellisa - Why thankyou Miss Smith. Glad you approve.

Hey Cordy kitten - Kiss for you.

Easy Vamps you licorice kink mistress you.

Yeah Songal, no need to bash Angel he's an arrogant bloke but he's not a bad guy.

Thanks Jen your compliments make me preen.





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