“Get out of my house! Get out!”

Eight year old Buffy watched in silence from the stairs, a lone tear coursing down her pale cheek. Her mother slammed the door as the sound of her father gunning the engine on the car roared with brutal finality. Joyce Summers collapsed against the door, arms wrapped around herself as she cried; great, heaving sobs shook her willowy body so hard that her teeth rattled.

“It’s all your fault, you stupid bitch! If you weren’t so useless, Daddy would never have left!”

Her elder sister Drusilla sneered down at her from the hallway. Her beautiful, pixie-like face was made ugly by her malice, her hypnotically dark eyes narrow and seething with hatred. Charging down, she lifted a delicate hand and slapped her sister across the cheek. The ringing crack made Joyce’s head jerk up as Buffy screamed and burst into violent sobs. Her mother, however, merely sunk back down to the floor with a groan. Buffy looked up, a hand to her stinging cheek, Dru’s shrill laughter echoing in her ears.

Eight years later, Buffy jerked awake with a muted cry. She sat up, gasping for breath. Mousey brown hair that hung to just above her waist was snarled after a restless night of fidgeting. Her wide green eyes felt dry and sore; she raised a trembling hand to the cheek that still seemed to throb with the remembered pain, bringing it away in time to watch the glittering tears shatter against her fingers. Just like dreams she thought bitterly.

Despite the fact that she’d had a four year old child to raise, Joyce Summers had gone into a sharp decline soon after her husband of ten years had left her. In an attempt to numb the agony, she’d immersed herself in alcohol. Eight years on, she was a hopeless alcoholic, her mind permanently blurred by the burn of her addiction. Drusilla had become cold and unreachable when her precious Daddy abandoned them. Buffy, still a child herself, had been left to bring up Dawn as best she could.

After her father’s sudden departure, she’d learned quickly that asking either her mother or her sister for help resulted in a screaming fit or, in the case of the latter, a cruel put-down and a slap. Becoming independent so early on hadn’t prepared her for the nightmare that would be growing up and trying to guide Dawn into adulthood at the same time. Now sixteen, she was the sole shoulder on which her twelve year old sister could cry. Her father had left them with enough money that she could buy the little things Dawn required; for larger payments she usually shoved a pen into her mother’s hand and guided it to the paper, where Joyce would scribble a shaky signature.

Buffy rose at six o’clock every morning in order to prepare for the day. The bubbly, bright eight year old child was gone. Now, she was thin to the point of being emaciated, and she’d learned that questioning Drusilla or asking for her help resulted in her being the receiver of a painful beating. She kept her eyes downcast and her voice soft; maybe if she pretended to be invisible, Dru wouldn’t hurt her. The only time she felt safe enough to open up was when she was with Dawn, who she’d managed to shield from their sibling’s more vicious side. The only time the youngest Summers had been struck had been before Buffy had time to throw herself between the two.

Her alarm clock shrilled impatiently, and she hurriedly reached out a hand and slapped the ‘off’ switch. She wouldn’t want to wake Dru or Dawn. Rising with a weary groan, she braced her hand against the wall as her head span and the room blurred. She dimly remembered the last time she’d eaten a proper meal. It was days ago. Waiting for her head to clear, she breathed deeply before rushing over to the closet. Throwing on old, worn jeans and a long-sleeved top despite the fact that it was summer, she winced as it caught on the newest scab.

Looking down at her arm, she closed her eyes as the familiar rush of guilt and shame washed over her. Her forearm was littered with scars and cuts. She’d been self-harming for three years now; fortunately, the only one who had noticed was her best friend Willow. After a half hour of pleading and ordering by turns, Buffy had convinced her to keep quiet, though she could tell the redhead was worried about her. Yanking the sleeve down over where it had caught, she barely flinched as the wound was ripped open again and warm blood trickled sluggishly down her arm. After all, today was just another day in the life of Buffy Summers.

Dressed, she pulled her hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way. Padding silently down the hall, she cringed as a floorboard creaked right outside Drusilla’s closed door. She froze, endless seconds passing by without any hint of movement from inside the room. She gave a soundless sigh of relief; she’d been lucky this time. Going downstairs as quietly as she could, she began the mindless routine she revisited every day, cooking Dru’s omelette and Dawn’s pancakes.

When the food was ready, she put it in the warm grill-oven to keep warm while she set about making Dawn’s lunch. By the time she was finished, she could hear the first signs of life from upstairs as Dru showered and Dawn dressed. Neatly setting out their breakfasts, she grabbed a glass of orange juice and a banana, settling down in the corner of the room nearest her young sister’s chair; if there was a problem, she wanted to be able to get in front of Dawn in time to protect her.

Moments later, Dru sauntered into the kitchen. Her hair was blow dried, held in a sophisticated knot at the back of her head. Her pretty face, made harder and colder by age and power over her household, was heavily made-up, her mesmerizing, darkly beautiful eyes lined with thick black strokes done by a skilled hand. Her pale skin was made whiter by the bright red lipstick she wore; Buffy shuddered at the similarity it had to blood. As usual, her sister was dressed in black, a tight dress with gauzy material to cover her arms and upper chest.

Dawn arrived shortly afterwards, the two younger Summers children tuning out their sibling’s tuneless humming. When Dru had finished eating, she shoved the chair back and rose gracefully, directing a contempt-laden stare at a silent Dawn before turning a poisonous smile of Buffy. She rose, padding warily to stand between her sisters, ready to block a move made in the young girl’s direction. Drusilla merely smiled, leaning forwards and running a sharp nail down Buffy’s cheek, the smile widening when her victim flinched.

“My Spike is coming over tomorrow. Everything will be perfect, and we shall dance with the stars together. Everything must be prefect for my prince. Do you understand?”

Buffy nodded numbly, shuddering as Dru backed away, the cruel gleam in her eyes remaining locked in her sister’s memory. The teenager had to suppress a sob of despair. Tomorrow was the first day of the Christmas holiday; if Dru’s new boy toy was coming to stay, he would probably be there for the whole month. She’d have to get up earlier in order to make sure everything was perfect for the couple; Dru would beat her senseless if there was anything wrong.

As she began mechanically clearing away the plates, she kept up the silent chant in her head. Two more years. Just two more years. Then you can get out of this hell-hole, and take Dawnie with you. Suddenly, the promise she'd made herself remember seemed cold and hollow.

Spike Reynolds, at only 22 years of age, was on of the best psychologists in the business. Ever since his parents had died when he was younger, he’d had a strong desire to help other people suffering the emotional trauma he’d been through. Studying at Oxford University in England had earned him great kudos when he’d moved out to California to start up his own practice.

A specialist degree in child psychology had made him popular with the locals in Los Angeles, where he’d set up his private clinic. Soon business had been booming, his special knack for connecting with people making him successful with almost every patient he treated, no matter how badly troubled they were.

He’d met Drusilla Summers a little over two months ago at a club in LA. Although he never tired of helping people, he longed for something special in his life. When he’d seen the beautiful girl, her lush body illuminated by the strobe lights flashing overhead, he thought he’d found it. With Dru, there was always an edge of uncertainty, of the danger that came with leaving her in public unaccompanied.

To say that he was surprised that she’d invited him back to her house for the Christmas holiday was an understatement. It implied a level of commitment on her part that made him slightly uneasy; though he was at first infatuated with her, he had no illusions that their relationship was permanent. She was far too unpredictable for that. Although some part of him hated the way she monopolised him whenever they were together, he let it boost his ego and kept quiet.

When he rolled up in front of the house Dru had given him directions to, he was surprised to see a light on downstairs. He’d had a last, unexpected appointment with a boy of twelve called Matthew. Although he was usually strict about his working hours, the child had been so distressed he’d taken some of his own time to just sit and talk with the poor kid. However, it was almost midnight and he’d have bet that the household would be asleep.

Shrugging mentally, he parked his beloved car, a newly-restored 1959 DeSoto, outside the house. Shutting the door as quietly as he could, he grabbed his duffel bag of clothes and winced when the boot clanged shut loudly. Shaking his head, he strode up the narrow path. Arriving on the porch of the house, he reached out and knocked quietly on the door, not really expecting anybody to hear him, despite the fact that there was a light on downstairs.

So it was to his surprise that the door swung silently open, revealing to his gaze a teenage girl who looked very different from what he would have imagined Dru’s sister to look like. If, of course, Dru had told him she’d had a sister. He smiled and stepped through the door, extending a hand ready to shake hers. She cringed away from him, looking at him from huge eyes before finally finding her voice. She didn’t touch the proffered hand.

“I’ll show you to your room. Dru’s gone to bed.”

****

Buffy gulped as she turned and climbed the stairs with the same cautious silence she always moved with. She heard him shut the door and begin following, wincing at the loud thuds his boots made on the floor. Leading him past Drusilla’s door, she flinched again when he stepped on the creaky floorboard. As she’d expected, her sister’s door flew open and a scantily clad Dru emerged, her face twisted by fury. She opened her mouth to shriek, only to catch sight of a hovering Spike.

Her face instantly melted into a seductive mask. “Spike! You can stay in my room tonight.” Her voice, previously a husky purr, became harder and colder. “She will take your things into the guest room, my sweet.”

Spike frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but she had already tugged him into her room and slammed the door in Buffy’s face. Sighing, she hefted the heavy bag and trudged to the spare room, which she’d spent most of the afternoon cleaning and preparing; Dru had wanted crimson satin sheets Spike had bought her to be set out on the bed. Dumping his stuff, she tiredly moved into her own room and collapsed on the bed, her eyes wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

She’d expected Spike to be like Dru’s other boyfriends: Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned and equally as cruel. So when she’d heard him arrive, she’d steeled herself against the rush of nausea that being leered at by her sister’s lovers always brought. Opening the door only to see the most beautiful man she’d ever seen was the most unexpected thing, and she’d had to fight not to stare.

His hair, obviously bleached, was almost white, gelled so that it was smooth and sleek. He was taller than her, but not much taller than Dru, with a lean body that was still undoubtedly well-muscled. He was dressed in tight black jeans that left very little to the imagination, black boots, a black t-shirt and a red button-down shirt over the top. Looking up into his face made her heart flutter. He had the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen, his pale skin stretched taut over cheekbones you could cut glass on.

The brief illusion of his perfection was shattered when he raised a hand, and she flinched away to avoid the imminent blow. When it didn’t come, she peeked at him, only to find him looking at her in confusion. Embarrassed, she led him to his room in silence, only to find Dru ready and waiting to snatch him away. Watching her sister possessively run her hands over his body had made her feel like she was going to vomit; why was it that Dru, cruel and uncaring Drusilla, got the most gorgeous men?

When she finally drifted off to sleep, her dreams were filled with kind blue eyes and flashed of platinum-blonde hair. The shrill scream of the alarm clock woke her, and for once she wasn’t instantly aware of everything. She took a moment to relish the drowsy contentment her dreams had left her with, though she couldn’t remember what, exactly, she’d dreamed. Hearing someone stirring in Dru’s room, she shot up in bed and slapped the ‘off’ button on the clock, eyes wide with fear. If she disturbed Dru on her first morning with Spike, she would be in for a serious beating.

****

Spike swam towards consciousness slowly, a muffled ringing waking him. Groaning, he rolled over in the large, comfortable bed and was faintly surprised to find a warm body next to him. His eyes blinked sleepily open, and for a moment he frowned when he saw dark hair spread across the pillow beside him. Then his head cleared. Dru. Wondering what had disturbed him, he reached for his watch on the bedside table, finally registering that the dim shrilling he could hear was an alarm clock.

Checking the face of his watch, he groaned again. Quarter to six, on a Saturday morning, and he was awake. Christ. Suddenly realising that he needed to relieve himself, he rose as carefully as possible, sighing to himself when Dru remained asleep. Padding into the hall, he looked for the door to the bathroom he’d noticed last night. Still dazed and half-asleep, he opened the door. It took a long minute for the running shower to register, and he automatically turned towards the unexpected sound.

The glass was foggy with steam, and he could only dimly see the murky figure on the other side. He was about to look away when he noticed that something was odd about that figure. Looking closer, he traced the lines of her body with his eyes (he’d figured out that it was the girl he’d met briefly last night). Confused, he noticed the way the bottom of her ribcage seemed to hang over thin air. Then she turned her back to him, and he couldn’t see anything at all. Frowning, he backed quietly out the door and shut it gently behind him.

Wandering into the guest room, or the only room that had an open door, he smiled when he saw the crimson sheets. He’d given them to Dru after their first night together; she must have remembered and put them on the bed for him. Going to his bag, he dressed quickly and went to stand outside the bathroom door, just as it opened to reveal a fully-dressed teenage girl. He smiled at her, but she just ducked her head and rushed down the stairs, leaving a perplexed Spike behind her.

****

Buffy cursed Drusilla all the way to the kitchen. Couldn’t she have at least mentioned that her boyfriend was an early riser? Now she had to rush to get his breakfast ready before he came downstairs. Grabbing the pancake batter she’d prepared last night, she began ladling it out into small discs, leaving them to cook as she turned on the grill and shoved bacon and sausages under it. Dashing to the coffee maker, she switched it on and reached the pancakes just in time to flip them.

Stuffing two slices of bread in the toaster, she set out three plates, knives and forks, as well as mugs. The toast popped up and she changed the cooked slices for fresh ones, putting the two pieces of toast on the table and grabbing the butter and numerous spreads to put beside it. Shifting the pancakes onto a plate, she set them on the table. Turning the bacon and the sausages, she snatched a glass pitcher from the cupboard overhead and filled it with cold orange juice from the fridge.

Setting out glasses, she groaned as the coffee maker began to hiss. Turning off the grill, she piled the meat onto a plate and slammed it down in the middle of the table, running to the gurgling machine. Carefully, she poured the ready coffee into two mugs, making sure to keep the frothy part thick enough to please Dru. She carried the mugs to the table and put them next to the places she’d mentally assigned to Spike and Dru. Just as she put them down and leaned weakly against the counter, the pale-skinned man wandered into the kitchen.

Seeing the food all set out, he blinked and looked at Buffy, who had turned her back to him. As she busied herself preparing a breakfast tray for her mother, Spike sat down and began to eat. He watched her move around the kitchen with practiced ease, as though the route was familiar. About to speak, he frowned when she lifted down a packet of bright pink pills and popped two out onto her hand. Surely she wasn’t on some kind of medication? He gave a relieved sigh when she put the two little capsules gently down next to the glass of orange juice on the tray.

As she passed, he held out a hand to stop her. Not meeting his eyes, she halted and waited, every muscle suddenly tense. He cleared his throat, shooting her a warm smile. “Thanks for doing all this, pet. I’m Spike Reynolds. Nice to meet you.”

Her answer was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. “Buffy.”

Nodding, he let his hand drop and she passed him with the same eerily silent walk she’d used last night. He continued to eat, savouring the rich flavours of the vast assortment of food she’d set out. He heard soft voices upstairs as she woke and fed her mother, who, he had realised, was some kind of invalid. However, he was surprised when she came downstairs a few minutes later followed by a pretty girl of about twelve years of age, with a cherubic face and sea-green eyes.

Another flicker of unease darted through him when, instead of introducing herself like most children would do, she looked away and shuffled to the chair furthest from him. It was only then that he realised that Buffy had set out three places, not four. Giving her a smile, he patted the chair beside him, only to find that she shook her head and backed away, lowering herself onto a stool in the corner of the room.

“Buffy, aren’t you hungry?” His deep, smooth voice made Dawn jump slightly, the accent causing the briefest flicker of amusement to cross her face.

The older girl looked at him from the shadows, her face impassive but her eyes suddenly far too old in her thin face. Dru swept into the room then, lowering herself regally into her chair and cutting off any reply her sister might have made. “She doesn’t eat breakfast, my Spike. Dawn! I want your help with something this afternoon.”

Her harsh bark made the little girl flinch, and Spike saw the first flare of something like anger in Buffy’s eyes as she rose and put herself between the two. He noticed her protective stance and was puzzled; there was something really odd happening in the Summers house, but he was damned if he could figure it out. Buffy’s voice, so soft and timid before, was suddenly cold and challenging.

“Dawn’s going to Janice’s house. I’ll help you.”

Spike watched as Dawn’s head shot up, her eyes widening with fear and… pleading? She whimpered something to her sister, who gave her a reassuring smile. The meal carried on in tense silence, the lone male deep in thought. Yes, something very strange was going on here. And he was determined to find out what.

Spike finished his meal at about the same time as Dru. He rose, beginning to gather together his plates and cutlery. He was stopped by his girlfriend’s surprisingly strong, delicate-looking hand on his arm. When he shot her a questioning look, she gave him a silky smile and shook her head, her dark hair caressing her pale cheeks, her wide eyes strangely cold.

“Buffy will take care of it, my Spike. Come now, it’s time for Mummy and her boy to play.”

Although her voice had dropped to the husky purr that usually made him rage with desire, he felt uncomfortable with her blatant display of lust in front of her sisters, one of whom was only twelve years old. Shooting a sidelong glance at Dawn, he was surprised when she just carried on eating, not even looking up at Dru’s tone. Buffy’s hollow cheeks had flushed slightly, but she was collecting the dirty plates without once raising her eyes. He frowned, but Dru tugged impatiently on his arm and he gave in, letting himself be dragged upstairs and into her room.

Downstairs, Buffy and Dawn shared a disgusted look at the faint moans already emanating from above them. The older girl’s expression softened when her sister finished her breakfast, politely putting her knife and fork together to signify that she was full. As Buffy began to stride over to the sink with the pile of plates, a sudden dizzy fit made her stumble sideways. The crockery in her grip wobbled, and then Dawn was there, carefully propping her up until she could make it to the sink.

“I wish you’d eat something, Buffy. It scares me when you’re like this.”

Her voice was strained with worry that no twelve year old girl should know, and Buffy smiled fondly and a little sadly down at her. They began cleaning up in the usual pattern, Buffy washing the dishes and then handing them to Dawn, who dried them and put them away. When the job was done, Buffy sat obediently at the table and slowly ate her way through a banana. She rose to put the skin in the trash, smiling at a relieved Dawn. Grabbing the phone, she ushered her small sister into the living room.

“I’ll call Janice and tell her you’re going over there, okay?”

Dawn’s lip trembled. “But that means you’ll be here on your own if she…” Her voice trailed off as she blinked hard.

“I’ll be fine, Dawnie. She’ll be too occupied with Captain Peroxide up there anyway.” I hope she added silently.

After calling and making arrangements for Dawn, Buffy waved as the little girl crossed the street and met her friend and her mother, who were waiting for her. The three turned and grinned at her, and she returned the smile before shutting the door. The smile faded. She couldn’t hear anything from upstairs, which either meant that Dru and Spike had quietened down (yeah, right…) or that they were no longer doing… that. She hoped that it was the latter.

Feeling a shudder of dread, she suddenly darted to the phone. Gripping it with trembling hands, she dialled the familiar number, trying to steady her breathing before a panic attack set it. “Wills?”

“Buffy?” Her best friend’s worried voice calmed her somewhat.

“Dawnie’s at Janice’s for the day, and Dru has her new boytoy over, but if he leaves… I don’t want to be alone today.” She hated the quiver of fear in her voice, holding the phone to her ear with a shoulder as she squeezed the marks on her arm. The pain cleared her head in moments like this.

“I’ll be over in a few, alright? Just- just stay out of her way, okay?” She could hear the pent-up rage in Willow’s voice; the redheaded girl was usually pleasant, but she had a stubbornly protective streak a mile wide. And a really mean shin-kick.

“Sure, just… Wills?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry.”

Her only reply was the dull buzz of the dial tone. Slowly replacing the phone on its cradle, she looked distantly down at the dark stain spreading on the sleeve of her shirt. The pain had dimmed to a dull throb, as though it were someone else’s arm. She leant against the wall for a moment, eyes closed in weariness. Feeling someone nearby, she turned and yelped when a pair of curious blue eyes met hers.

“Care to tell me what you meant, kitten?”

****

Soon after their little romp, Dru had swept into the bathroom and run a bath. He was faintly surprised when she didn’t ask him to share it, claiming that she wanted to smell like roses, and her knight shouldn’t taste of little girls. The crazy-talk she indulged in had been endearing at first, but having worked with people who genuinely suffered mental problems, it was starting to grow irritating. Shrugging, he’d let himself be banished from the bathroom.

He was too embarrassed about his girlfriend’s, and even his own, behaviour earlier to confront her sisters yet; after all, they hadn’t exactly made an effort to be quiet or discrete, had they? On the way back to the guest room, he heard a faint moan from one of the bedrooms. He paused uncertainly, but when the pained groan sounded again, his natural desire to help others forced him to enter the room quietly. Turning, he gave a muffled gasp of shock.

Lying on a large double bed was a woman. The room reeked of old sweat and the nauseating stink of alcohol. The window was firmly sealed shut, he could see from the doorway, and breakable items like the lamps were nailed tightly down. He saw the remains of the breakfast tray on the floor at the side of the bed, the food only half-eaten, though the pills were gone. Pity swelled in him as he studied the woman. Dru’s mother.

Her hair was lank and greasy, messy curls hanging just below her chin. Her nose was starting to go red from excess alcohol consumption, her face heavily lined and her skin a sickly yellow. Her body was thin, though remarkably healthy-looking, clothed in a simple cotton nightdress. When she groaned again and looked at him through glassy, unfocussed eyes, he had to back out of the room quickly. That stare was unnerving. Had Dru really been caring for an alcoholic mother her whole life? And what of when she was away, like the three-month trip she’d taken to LA?

Still thinking hard, he realised that he was starting to get the kind of headache that he usually only sorted out by driving. Hearing a muffled voice from downstairs, he figured that Buffy was on the phone. He’d seen Dawn leaving with her friend earlier. Creeping quietly downwards, he paused for a moment to try and remember which stair creaked. He really hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on Buffy’s conversation, but her almost frantic tone made him stop and pay attention.

“…her new boytoy over, but if he leaves… I don’t want to be alone today.”

He frowned. She wouldn’t be alone if he left. Dru would still be here, after all, and so would Mrs Summers. Not, of course, that he could see her being much help if there was an emergency. But surely Buffy wasn’t afraid of being left with Dru? Shaking his head at the thought, he tuned out the rest of the conversation, instead studying Buffy, though she had her back to him and obviously hadn’t noticed him yet.

This was the most he’d heard her say since he arrived, and her voice enchanted him. It was soft and smooth, soothing the nerves despite the shakiness. (Was that fear he could hear? No, it couldn’t be.) Her hair hung down her back in a long ponytail, clean but not with the shiny lustre Dru’s seemed to always have. He could see the knobs of her vertebrae when the curtain of hair shifted, which made him frown. That wasn’t healthy.

She had the phone held between shoulder and ear, and he could see her gripping her left arm tightly. He shifted, concern filling him. Had she hurt herself? When she hung up, however, he realised that she’d let go of her forearm, and deduced that she wasn’t that badly hurt. The next moment she was slumped against the wall, the dark exhaustion in every line of her body making him want to sweep her into his arms and never let her go. Then she turned to face him, eyes wide with something primal, something that bordered on sheer, blind terror. Seeing that look directed at him, he blurted out the first thing on his mind.

“Care to tell me what you meant, kitten?”

He hadn’t meant to call her a pet name. Really he hadn’t. But she looked so much like a deer caught in the headlights one moment, eyes wide with shock and that other thing he didn’t want to think about, that when anger flared in the breathtaking green depths of her eyes, he was reminded of a harmless kitten, claws out and hissing. She didn’t answer for a long minute, the spark fading from her eyes as she ducked her head, gaze dropping to the floor. Her voice was a low murmur.

“I was talking to my friend Willow. She’s coming over.” A pause. “I don’t like to be alone.”

He replied with a charming smile. “What are friends for?”

For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, their eyes met as hers rose painstakingly slowly. All of a sudden he was drowning in her haunted stare, surrounded by a sea of green pain. He inhaled sharply when the silent communication was ended by the sound of the bathtub draining upstairs. For a moment that animalistic something flashed in her wide eyes again, before they darted to the top of the stairs as though she expected a monster to emerge at any minute. Then she looked back at him, distant once more.

“Drusilla will want you there.”

And they were back to the soft voice and the shadow-like stillness she seemed to have mastered. Cursing the untimely interruption, he nodded curtly and rose. A flash of something painful bolted through him as he turned to leave her, his heart jumping in his chest as his breath hitched. Then the feeling faded, leaving him frozen on the staircase. What the hell was that? Not looking back, he began to climb the stairs, feeling her burning eyes on him until he was out of her sight.

Buffy had never been so relieved to see Willow as she was when the bouncy redhead entered the house without knocking. She practically fell into her friend’s arms, her thin body shaking as the tension drained from her muscles, leaving her feeling dizzy and exhausted. Willow, seeing this, took charge in her typical no-nonsense fashion. When Buffy tried to protest, the Wicca gave her the ‘resolve face’. Smiling for the first time in what felt like weeks, Buffy allowed herself to be dragged into the kitchen, where a few minute’s later her friend stood over her as she ate a thick sandwich.

While she had her mouth full, Willow took advantage of her forced silence and launched into a long lecture about teenage girls who made themselves surrogate mothers, slaves to their older siblings and took care of everyone except themselves. Buffy gulped down a heavy mouthful of sandwich, waiting until her friend paused for breath before gripping her by the arms. Her stomach gurgled gratefully at the intake of the food it so desperately needed, and she waited for the growling to cease before smiling gently.

“I try Wills, you know I do. It’s just hard keeping track of what Dawn’s doing and all the stuff Dru wants me to do. But maybe now he’s here…” The end of her sentence trailed into silence.

The keen-eyed redhead noticed her slightly wistful look. Alarm bells beginning to tinkle in her head, she frowned. “What’s he like?”

Buffy, lost in thought, smiled sadly. “He’s called Spike. Spike Reynolds. I don’t know much about him, but… He’s beautiful, Wills. I know men aren’t supposed to be beautiful, but he is.”

The Wicca drew in a sharp breath. Leaning forward, she gripped Buffy hard by the arms. Noticing the sudden flinch, she yanked up the sleeve of Buffy’s top. She hissed when she saw the ragged tear, but made no comment. She just wordlessly pulled the girl forward into a hug, almost crushing her before taking a careful hold of her wrist and leading her upstairs. Noticing the sound of low voices in Drusilla’s room, Willow quietly lead Buffy into the bathroom and closed the door softly.

Following a familiar route, she sat the thin, exhausted girl down on the edge of the bathtub. Opening the bathroom cabinet, she ignored the multitudes of Drusilla’s lotions and assorted accessories, as well as the heavy glass bottle placed out of Dawn’s reach on the top shelf, containing the strong sedatives for Mrs Summers whenever she began to get too troublesome. Grabbing the cotton swabs, she dipped them carefully in a jar of antibiotic cream.

“This’ll sting.” She warned Buffy, gingerly holding the bony wrist that had been silently offered to her.

Although she was prepared for it, the blank look on her best friend’s face when she began to clean the wound scared the redhead. She didn’t react in the slightest to what Willow knew to be a sharp, stinging pain. Each time they repeated this procedure, it seemed to get worse. Each time, Buffy seemed to be sinking a little more, and the Wicca was afraid that she no longer wanted to fight the black hands of despair pulling her down. She often wondered if Buffy would even try to go on if Dawn ever left. Her little sister seemed the only reason for the broken girl to live.

That thought scared her more than anything else. If, Goddess forbid it, something ever happened to Dawnie, Willow somehow knew that Buffy wouldn’t hesitate to end her suffering. After she had thoroughly cleaned the cut and neatly stuck a plaster over it, she remembered their earlier conversation. Gripping her friend’s bony shoulders, she forced the dull green eyes to meet hers. Her voice was soft and urgent, but fiercely protective.

“You listen to me, Elizabeth Anne Summers. Dru’s new plaything might be beautiful, but he’s off limits. I don’t know what she’d do to you if she realised you were interested in him. So you put those thoughts right out of your head, do you hear me?”

Buffy nodded listlessly. Her eyes began to flutter closed as she swayed, the combination of her fatigue and the food making her suddenly sleepy. Seeing her begin to relax, Willow propped the emaciated teen up on one side, half-carrying her past her mother’s room. When they reached Buffy’s minimalist-themed room, the girl was half asleep. Willow lowered her to the bed, stripping off her shabby clothes and looking at the prominent ribs and jutting hip bones with almost clinical detachment. By the time she’d dressed her friend in sleep-appropriate wear, she’d succumbed to sleep.

With surprising ease, for Buffy weighed less than Dawn, she lifted the unconscious girl and yanked back the thin duvet. Remembering the thick quilts that had covered Dru’s bed last time she’d helped Buffy clean the girl’s room, she felt anger boil in the pit of her stomach. Laying her best friend and the bravest girl she’d ever known back on the pillow, she tucked the covers up under the pointed chin. With a final, sad glance at the sleeping young woman, Willow slipped out of the room and left the door only slightly ajar behind her.

Looking at the watch strapped to her wrist, the redhead sighed in relief. It was only ten o’clock; Buffy could sleep for the next five hours, provided she put the lasagne she’d noticed neatly packed in the fridge on to cook in time for Dru’s lunch at one. Then her friend would have to wake up, returning to serving her sister like a slave and being the sole parent of a twelve-year-old girl. Shaking her head at the unfairness of life, the Wicca trod carelessly on the creaky floorboard. She half wanted Drusilla to come out and scream at her; she was no more afraid of the cruel girl than she was of Dawnie.

Quietly settling down on the stool in the dark corner where Buffy usually hid until she was summoned, Willow tried for the hundredth time desperately to think of a way to help her fading friend. She had still come up with bitter nothing when she heard heavy footsteps in the hall. Straightening, she glared angrily at the door as a flash of peroxide-blonde hair and startling blue eyes met her gaze.

****

Spike had obediently waited for Dru until she swept into her room, clad only in a tiny towel. Striving to ignore his body’s painful reaction, he waited until she had dressed in one of her customary, outrageously daring dresses before patting the bed beside him in invitation. Slinking over to his side, his girlfriend had cooed in his ear and run her hands over his muscular torso. Spike, however, was not in the mood to be distracted. Gently pushing away her insistent little fingers, he turned to face her with a troubled frown.

“Dru honey, I think we need to talk.”

Drusilla’s beautiful face had suddenly darkened, her lip curling scornfully. Her delicate features twisted into a mask of disdain that made her seem cold and unreachable. Nevertheless, he ploughed on. “I’m worried about Buffy.”

At that, Dru’s face had smoothed out. She’d smiled silkily, nibbling his earlobe and breathing that he didn’t have to be concerned, the girl was fine. Spike, however, had frowned. How could she say that? He hadn’t even been in the house a full day and he could see that something wasn’t right with the teenager. When he’d persisted, however, Dru had just snapped that Buffy was fine; she didn’t need him interfering in her life. She then announced that she was going to meet Harmony at the mall, and that she’d see him later.

She’d shot him one last regal stare before exiting with a dramatic sniff. For a long time he’d sat on the bed, thinking over what he’d seen and Dru’s responses. He got the feeling that he was missing something vital. But what? About to go over his conversation with Buffy on the stairs one last time, he heard a shuffling movement outside. Peering through the crack in the door, he was surprised to see a slumped Buffy being half-dragged into her room by her cute redhead friend.

About to offer his help, he noticed the protective way the girl, Willow he reminded himself, had draped an arm around Buffy’s waist. The shorter woman seemed to be only semi-conscious, and for a moment the two were lit in the doorway to her room. Spike had to swallow a gasp. From this angle, he could suddenly see the horrific thinness of Buffy’s body, the way her ribs dropped into a concave stomach, the bony prominence of her collar bones. Then the girls vanished behind the closed door.

Stunned, Spike collapsed back on the bed. He’d had patients with eating disorders before, but he’d rarely seen a young woman that desperately thin; he certainly hadn’t expected to see it on his holiday with his girlfriend. Reminded of Dru’s insistence that everything was fine, he sat up with a jolt. Anger made him shake as his face flushed red. How could she happily ignore her own sister falling into such a condition?

Remembering this morning, the frantic rushing he’d heard in the kitchen before he’d entered it, he felt further rage flare in him. Was Dru so insensitive as not to realise that Buffy was working herself to death? What was he missing? Drawn from his thoughts by the creak of a floorboard outside, he rose. Catching sight of the back of Willow’s head as she quietly wandered downstairs, he slipped out of Dru’s room and across to Buffy’s.

Opening the door a crack, he carefully peeked inside. The young woman was tucked under a thin duvet, her features relaxed in sleep in a way that he hadn’t noticed before. He took the time afforded by her unconsciousness to really study her. What he saw drove home like a sledgehammer his theory that something in the Summers household was very, very wrong.

Her hair was clean, but it looked lifeless and dank. Her face was too pale, dark circles ringing her eyes like bruises. Her cheekbones pressed against her skin, clearly visible against her sickly complexion. Dark shadows highlighted the hollows of her cheeks, making her cute chin look pointed and sharp. Her mouth, lush and full, was relaxed into a natural pout; it made him realise that when she was awake, it was almost constantly drawn taut with stress.

His face a mask of disgusted anger, he carefully backed away from the door and turned. He was determined to figure out what the hell was happening here. Striding purposefully to the stairs, he clattered down and stormed into the kitchen. About to demand an explanation, he was brought up short by the coldly furious stare being directed at him from the redhead in the corner. Recalling that Buffy had sat there, watching the three of them eat their fill, made him feel sickened that he hadn’t noticed her starved form earlier.

Willow stood slowly, stepping into the light. The tender young woman he’d seen before had vanished; in her place stood a protective mother bear, savagely furious that someone had approached her cub. The soft voice he expected from such a timid-looking girl was nowhere to be found. Her every word was quiet but loaded with warning. She met his eyes squarely.

“You listen to me. If I so much as think that you’ve caused trouble for Buffy, I’ll have the police in here faster than you can blink.”

Spike, offended, glowered back. “I’d never want to cause trouble for her.”

Willow laughed; it was a bitter, mirthless sound. “You might have done already.” Leaving him to think over her puzzling last words, she headed back up to watch over Buffy as she slept.

Willow watched in silence as Buffy frowned in her sleep, her mouth twitching down into a tight pout. The redhead laid a tender hand on the pale skin of the young woman’s forehead, murmuring soothingly under her breath until the restless teen’s bad dreams faded and she was peaceful once more. The Wicca wondered how it was that such a delicate body could hold such a strong soul. Then again, Buffy seemed like an oxymoron; sometimes she was so steely that Willow thought even a hurricane couldn’t blow her over, and sometimes she was so fragile that a puff of air would snap her in two.

Shaking her head as she looked at the clock, the redhead quietly rose. It was nearing the time that she’d have to put the lasagne on for Dru and her boyfriend. She hadn’t heard the cruel girl return from her shopping trip, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be back in time for lunch. Willow didn’t want to take a chance that could result in Buffy’s further suffering. It had been a while since she’d left Spike. Spike? She thought, where did he get that one from? A blush stained her cheeks as, unbidden, an image of him naked filled her mind. Oh, wait. Never mind.

Sighing, she stroked Buffy’s hair one last time before exiting the room. Quickly switching on the oven, she slammed the door shut; she’d learned from a disastrous attempt during a cookie-baking spree that if the door wasn’t smashed shut, it bounced back and hit the user in the knees. And it had damn sharp edges, too. Taking the lasagne from the fridge, she busied herself with the mindless task of peeling off the various layers of Clingfilm Buffy had wrapped it with, trying not to let the pieces stick together. Finally, she lifted the dish and pulled open the oven door again. Just about to slide it in, a voice came from behind her.

“Afternoon.”

The Wicca yelped, almost dropping the lasagne as she jumped. It swayed precariously in her grasp for a moment before a larger pair of hands steadied it. They slid it into the oven and reached to close the door. About to call out a warning, Willow only had time to jump back as the stubborn door leaped back and cracked into Spike’s legs. He cursed loudly, hopping away and trying to rub his knees at the same time. The redhead giggled, slamming the door shut with a satisfying bang.

When he finally stood still again, she spoke. This time, her voice was the softer, girlish tone he would have expected from her. “Sorry. I guess I should have warned you about that, huh?”

Glad to accept the olive branch she was offering him, he smiled easily. “S’ok. My fault, I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

She eyed him for a moment, then returned his smile with a somewhat less certain one of her own. She clicked the timer on the oven, remembering to set the time a little lower than she would have done at home; she also remembered the darn thing’s habit of nuking anything and everything you tried to cook in it. Settling back on Buffy’s chair, she waited. She knew Spike had seen them earlier, had felt his eyes on her back as she closed the door to Buffy’s room. She wondered how much she could tell him without giving it all away.

She was still pondering the privacy issue when he spoke. “So, you want to tell me what’s going on around here?”

She hesitated, taking a moment to listen to what her heart was telling her to do. Opening her eyes, she put on her resolve face. Getting up, she closed the back door and slid home the deadbolt, then gently shutting the door into the hallway. This wasn’t something she wanted Dru or Dawnie walking in on, though she was less bothered about the elder Summers girl. She didn’t want to scare Dawn by letting on the full extent of the stress Buffy was under. Finally satisfied, she returned to her seat. After a moment to gather her thoughts, she began to speak.

“Hank left them, abandoned his whole family, when Buffy was only eight. Joyce had always had a drinking problem, but when he left it was the final straw. It was like she died inside. She became so lost in alcohol that she couldn’t take care of the girls, so they looked out for each other.” She paused, carefully editing what she was about to say before letting the words slowly drop from her lips.

“Dru always blamed Buffy for Hank leaving. She and Buffy never got along, but that resentment opened a rift between them. They’ll never see eye to eye, they’re too different, but Dru stopped caring for anyone but herself.” She paused, remembering the bruises littering Buffy’s body after each ‘disagreement’ with her sister. Pushing away her anger, she took a deep breath before carrying on.

“That left Buffy to look after herself, her mother and Dawn, who was only four. We help out where we can, but… You saw her earlier. It’s not that she doesn’t want to eat. She just gets so tired that she forgets, or she’s so busy looking after others that she doesn’t have time. It’s not like she’s anorexic. She knows that she’s too thin, she just can’t do anything about it. Dawn does her best, but she’s too young to make time for Buffy to eat. She’s still only a kid, really.”

Closing her eyes, the redhead smiled sadly. “Buffy doesn’t sleep well, either, because she’s up all hours of the night looking after Mrs Summers. Dawnie wouldn’t stay awake at school if she had to be up sometimes during the night, too. And Dru-” Willow stopped there; she wasn’t sure she trusted Spike enough to tell him anything more. The timer shrieked, making them both jump. Willow got up to remove the lasagne, but was stopped by his gentle but firm hand on her arm.

“I’ll get it. You go look after Buffy.” Startled by the fierce protectiveness that momentarily flashed in his eyes, the redhead nodded and vanished upstairs, leaving him to mull over what she’d told him. As she slipped back into Buffy’s room, she wondered about the burning anger in his eyes and what it could mean for her friend.

*****

Spike, setting aside a portion of the food for Dru, heaped his own plate full and sat at the table. He shovelled two forkfuls into his mouth, savouring the explosion of rich flavour on his tongue, before freezing. It took a lot of willpower to gulp down his mouthful, which suddenly tasted like ashes. He looked down at the steaming, deliciously succulent mass on his plate and felt a little ill. How long had Buffy taken to prepare this, knowing she wouldn’t eat any but slaving to make it as good as possible anyway? And, more importantly, why?

He knew there was something the redhead wasn’t telling him, and he had a feeling that there was a big piece of the puzzle that she could fill in. A large part of his job was going with his gut instinct; it was what made him good at figuring people out and knowing how to help them. Something still felt odd here, and though Willow had cleared up a little, the general situation still seemed a little too desperate for just the aftermath of a normal divorce. He dealt with that kind of fallout regularly, and he knew that wasn’t what was going on here.

Frustrated, he ate in silence. He was reluctant to eat something prepared by a girl who was starving to death but he knew that not eating it would be offensive to her. Sighing, he scraped his plate to get the last few scraps, (Buffy was a fantastic cook) and settled down to think hard about how he could help. There was some part of him, his ‘inner-William’, that drove him to help those in need. He couldn’t deny that it was satisfying to see the results of his work in a patient’s smile or hear it in their laughter. In the past, he’d always been able to figure out what someone needed and give it to them.

The Summers family had him stumped. He was drawn to Buffy, even more so than he was drawn to Dru, though he was loathe to admit it. Something in her made him want to spirit her away from the rest of the world, hide her tiny body in the cradle of his arms and tell her that everything would be alright. He pushed that fantasy firmly out of his head. It was impossible; she hardly knew him, and she had responsibilities here, to her family and her friends.

Feeling his temper and frustration rising rapidly, he stalked to the phone and did what he always did when he was in need of someone to help him calm down. Dialling the number he’d memorised long ago, he waited patiently. Finally, on the seventh ring, the familiar drawl impatiently filled his ear. “What?”

“Hey, pet. How are you?” He smiled when he heard her gasp delightedly.

“Hey bro, how’s it hangin’? And how’s the bangin’ down there in Sunnyhell?”

Spike groaned, grimacing. “Faith, I love you dearly but you’re my stepsister. That was a little disgusting.”

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that eased the tension in his shoulders. “Loosen up, I was only messin’ you around.”

They made idle chatter for a few minutes before she cut him off in the middle of his rambling about his plans for the DeSoto. “What’s wrong, Spike? You only call me when you’re pissed off, need help or just plain pissed. And let me tell you, that ain’t pretty.”

He sighed and smiled wryly. She knew him far too well. With a few brief words he summed up his feelings, his two short, and in one case one-sided, conversations with Buffy and what Willow had told him about the family history. She was silent for a long moment before she answered, her usually cheeky voice for once serious and thoughtful.

“It sounds to me like she’s afraid of something. You’ll have to do a little digging. But Spike, be careful. There are some things that are better left in the past, right?”

He agreed, then spent another ten minutes or so in light conversation with her. Although Faith presented the world with a hard-as-nails, tough-girl persona, she was a sensitive young woman with a kind heart. He’d first met her when his father had married her mother, and the two had formed a close, affectionate friendship that had grown into a deep and loyal love. She was the sister he’d never had, he the brother and father-figure combination she’d never been offered.

They reluctantly parted ways after he heard the front door opening and closing softly. Quiet footsteps in the hallway made him leave Faith’s conversation with a hasty promise to keep in touch during his holiday. Turning, he wandered into the kitchen, seeing the small, cherubic girl he’d met briefly earlier. She turned to him with wide, frightened eyes and he smiled reassuringly. She hesitantly smiled in return and he gave her a cheery wink.

Remembering earlier, he stressed his British accent as he spoke. “’ello Niblet. How was your morning?”

He was pleased when she giggled in response, blinking huge eyes up at him. “It was good, thank you. Why do you talk funny? What’s a Niblet, or whatever you called me. And why’s your hair white? That’s for old people.”

Spike grinned. After the stressful, more adult conversations of earlier, her childish innocence was refreshing as well as entertaining. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Just as it had before, the muffled scream of an alarm clock woke Spike at some God-awful hour. He grunted and flung an arm over his eyes to shield them from the dim glow of daylight he could feel beyond his eyelids. It wasn’t until he heard the softest murmur of sound outside the door that the previous day came back to him. His mind suddenly clear of the sleepy fog it had been shrouded in, he rose quickly and dressed, wearing tight black jeans and an equally tight black t-shirt, though this time he threw on a dark blue, silk button-down shirt over the top. He’d been told it brought out his eyes.

He settled on the edge of the bed to slip on his heavy boots, but paused for a moment as he remembered the previous evening, a small frown crinkling his brow.

Dru swept into the room, her arms held protectively around the dark red shopping bag she clutched to her chest. Spike looked up from where he’d been talking to Dawn as the girl’s voice trailed off. He watched the way his girlfriend’s eyes narrowed, flicking to rest coldly on her sister. Dawn mutely scurried out of the kitchen, flinching back as she passed Dru in the doorway. For a moment there was a tense silence, then she smiled thinly at him.

“Did the little girl bore you, my Spike? Bad girlie.”

Her voice was a low, crooning purr that usually would have turned him on no end. Now, however, he remembered Buffy’s pale, tired face and Dawn’s sudden silence and wondered. Dru swayed as she paced closer and closer, and he fought the urge to take a step back for each one she took towards him. Finally she dropped the bag, ignoring the rasping chink as its contents hit the floor. Winding her arms around his neck, she stared into his eyes and smiled. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Her lips were descending towards his when the shrill, cheerful ringing of his phone interrupted them. Relieved, and angry at himself for being so, he pulled back and tugged it out of his pocket. He pressed the call button.

“Spike Reynolds.”

The babbled words from the other end of the line made no sense to him, but it was a full five minutes before he could get a word in edgeways. He turned his back on Dru, who was looking both bored and irritated. Settling down into a chair, he spoke soothingly into the phone.

“Matt, calm down. Now, tell me what’s got you in such a tizz, yeah?” He grew more and more concerned with each sobbed statement. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning. You just hang on for me, got it?”

Waiting only for the tremulous but slightly less hysterical reply, he disconnected. Turning to face Dru, he scrubbed a hand over his face. When she didn’t speak, he looked up. She pursed her lips, gave him a cold stare that told him what she thought of his leaving, and turned to leave. He didn’t try to stop her. Instead he just put his head in his hands. Christ, what a mess.

Drawn back to the present by a muted crash from downstairs, he jumped up and left the room as quietly as he could. He didn’t think Dru would appreciate being woken at six o’clock on a Sunday morning. He rushed downstairs, expecting to find the table all set and the breakfast in the making; he’d planned to get up early enough to help Buffy out with that part. Instead, he found a broken plate on the floor, fortunately yet to be filled, and his girlfriend’s sister leaning heavily against the sink.

Thinking she’d hurt herself, he strode forwards and touched her shoulder. She gasped, spinning and flinging up an arm to shield her face. He frowned; from the speed of her reaction, having people touching her at all was considered a bad thing in her book. He waited as the arm slowly dropped, seeing some of the colour returning to her pale face. He smiled soothingly.

“Have an accident?”

She merely nodded, cringing away from him slightly. Noticing this, he stepped back slightly. As soon as he left her immediate space, she relaxed slightly. Keeping her eyes down, she scooted past him and fell to her knees, picking up the pieces of shattered crockery with deft fingers. When she was finished, she set about making breakfast. He stopped her by stepping into her path as she hurried across the room; he didn’t want to make her flee by touching her if it made her uncomfortable.

“What can I do to help, pet? Might as well if I’m down here.”

She blinked at him, her surprise written clearly on her face. For a moment her lips relaxed and curled hesitantly upwards into a small smile. Her eyes danced with grateful amusement and he returned the expression. He shifted, reaching to take the unopened packet of sausages from her fingers. Just like that, the smile vanished and she tensed again, jerking back. Her voice was quiet and cajoling, as though she wanted a favour from him.

“You don’t need to help. I’m sorry I didn’t have your breakfast ready in time. I didn’t know you were getting up early.”

He raised a brow. She was sorry because she hadn’t had the perfect breakfast laid out in front of him by six o’clock on a Sunday morning. If that wasn’t the most irrational logic he’d heard in a while, he’d be damned. He smiled to put her at ease. After all, it had gained a favourable response last time. He was pleased to see that her lips flicked up again at the corners. Encouraged, he spoke.

“S’ok, kitten. Don’t bother settin’ out lunch or dinner stuff for me, though. ‘m goin’ out for the day.”

Her head snapped up and her lips thinned, all trace of amusement gone. She cocked her head, as though curious but unsure whether to ask or not. He solved the problem for her. “I’m a psychologist. There’s a little boy, Matthew. His mum’s got a new boyfriend but… He doesn’t like kids. Got a call last night sayin’ the bloke had hit him and his mum had argued and now she’s in hospital. The poor kid’s in a right state.”

She gave a sad, sympathetic smile but the spark in her seemed to have died. He ate in silence, trying to casually watch what she ate. To his relief, she had a slice of toast and a banana. Soon after she’d cleared away his plate, he smiled a farewell and left, feeling her eyes boring into him even after he closed the front door.

****

Buffy felt numb. He was gone. Oh God, he was gone. She’d felt so relieved when she woke up this morning and remembered that Dru daren’t hit her with her boyfriend in the house. She’d even felt bold enough to smile at him when he spoke. Now though… he was gone. He’d left her and her sister to the mercy of his girlfriend.

She knew that it was stupid and irrational, but she felt hurt and betrayed. On some level she’d trusted a little of herself to him, their few brief encounters the first positive interaction she’d had outside of her friends in so long that she’d obviously blown it way out of proportion. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help the disappointment she’d felt when he announced his plans, and though she knew that someone else needed him, perhaps more than she did, she felt inexplicably jealous.

She washed, dried and put away dishes in a kind of daze. She floated upstairs, avoiding the creaky floorboard by habit, gently pushing open her mother’s door. Joyce didn’t move. It wasn’t until Buffy carefully lifted her and propped her up against the stack of pillows that the woman stirred, looking at her daughter through distant, glazed eyes. In silence child fed parent before lowering the woman back to the bed. Leaving as quietly as she had come, Buffy drifted back down to the kitchen.

For a moment her eyes lingered almost longingly on the packets in which the pink pills lurked, their whispering voices promising her the freedom she longed for. Jerking her stare away, she ignored the cold sweat that had broken out all over her body and cleaned up all traces of her mother’s breakfast. Dru disliked her mother only marginally less than Buffy and Dawn and any reminder of the divorce, such as Joyce’s dependency on her children, caused an immediate and violent reaction.

It wasn’t until she heard the telltale creak from upstairs that she realised that Dawn, too, was awake and moving. Like she knew her younger sister was doing, she waited tensely for the angry snarl of Dru’s voice as the old flooring protested the extra weight. Silence. Breathing a sigh of relief, she waited until she heard the shower running before laying out the plates of food she’d already prepared for her sisters.

Twenty minutes later both siblings were settled at the table, eating in frosty silence. Buffy gave Dru a cautious glance before her eyes slid across to Dawn, who gave a weak half-smile. She escaped upstairs, quickly changing from her comfortable sweats into faded jeans and a threadbare but long-sleeved top. A glimmer of silver light on the windowsill caught her attention. The scissors she’d left there seemed mesmerising all of a sudden, her right hand automatically beginning to roll up her opposite sleeve.

She resisted their pull until she remembered the pain of Spike’s abandoning them. Just like Dad. Hot tears scratched at her eyes but she blinked them back, blowing out a long breath. She gripped the scissors hard. Closing her eyes, she separated the two blades and, slowly letting her eyelids rise, pressed the point of one into an area of unscarred flesh on her forearm. She felt the sharp, cold bite of the steel into her flesh, watching in fascination as pale red blood rose and clung to the metal before slithering like a teardrop down her pale flesh.

Abruptly pulling the scissors away, she flung them across the room. Disgusted and ashamed, she yanked her sleeve down, ignoring the cut still weeping blood on her arm. Pulling her long her back in a ponytail, she made her way soundlessly downstairs. What she heard as she approached the kitchen made her freeze in a mixture of fury and horror. Dawn’s voice shook with fear as she talked.

“Please, Dru, I didn’t know. I won’t talk to him again, I promise.”

“Silly girl, you should have thought of that before.”

Without a second thought, Buffy raced into the kitchen. Seeing Dru with her palm upraised and Dawn cowering in front of her, her little face wet with tears, she gave a defiant snarl. She leaped in front of her sister just as Dru’s arms came swishing down. There was no time for her to raise an arm in protection, so she tensed and waited, Dawn firmly shielded behind her.

Crack! The blow struck with so much force that her head snapped around, though she didn’t as much as whimper. Her cheek felt hot and stung fiercely, but she met her sister’s eyes calmly. Dru looked back, coldly angry, until Buffy dropped her gaze. Though she was half expecting it, the second slap was harder than the first and landed on the same cheek. This time she gasped, biting back a yelp as her eyes began to water.

“And that’s for getting in the way, you stupid little bitch. Get out of my sight before I decide you’re worth missing my appointment with my stylist.”

Dru’s lip curled scornfully as Buffy ushered Dawn from her room, careful to keep her body between her two sisters at all times. It wasn’t until she had reassured Dawn that she was fine and it hadn’t even hurt that she locked herself in the bathroom and let the tears come in a hot, silent flood.

Spike pulled up in front of the Summers residence at a quarter to midnight. The car rolled smoothly to a halt and he unbuckled his seatbelt before slumping down in the chair and burying his face in his hands. He stayed like that for a moment, letting the tension of the long day leech out of his muscles sluggishly. He scrubbed his hands tiredly over his face and ran them through his hair, undoing the rigid hold of the gel so it flipped into its natural curls.

Sighing, he pushed the door open and heaved himself out, giving the DeSoto a last affectionate pat before closing the door behind him. He was unsurprised to see a lone light on downstairs, though he stopped short when Dawn opened the door for him, her face pale and her eyes downcast. She blinked tiredly at him, a deep relief seeming to drain the energy from her body so that she suddenly looked beyond exhausted. Frowning, he crouched to match her height, but she stepped back and avoided his eyes.

“‘Bit?” He saw something, some wistful trace of a smile, flicker across her lips art the name, but she didn’t reply. “C’mon pidge, tell me what’s up. Where’s Dru?”

“She’s staying the night at Harmony’s.” Her voice was little more than a whisper and she still wouldn’t look at him. He gently lifted two cool fingers underneath her chin and raised her face, noticing the sore redness of her eyes. Something cold tightened in his belly, icy tendrils of fear uncurling in his body as his gut churned. He swallowed, willing away the roughness of his voice.

“Where’s Buffy? How come you’re down here on your own?”

Fear now, dancing across her tired little face and darkening her eyes as they dipped away to look over his shoulder, anywhere but at him. “Buffy’s in bed. I had to wait up for you.”

He smiled to reassure her, giving an inner sigh of relief when she began to relax and her eyes met his again. He kept his voice soft, affectionate. “You didn’t need to stay up ‘til this time, Nibblet. I’ll take you up to bed and we’ll go check on Buffy, yeah? Make sure big sis is okay before we go to sleep.”

Spike was surprised when she suddenly tensed again, her eyes welling up as she backed up. She shook her head, looking down and twisting her little fingers together. To see her so agitated pulled at the William in him, his heart contracting painfully when a single tear ran down her face and fell onto her hands. He frowned, his instinct telling him to stay low, to stay on her level and he heeded it; it was that intuition that made him such a good psychologist.

Her voice shook as she spoke, her face calm and only her eyes showing the depths of her misery. “Buffy’s asleep. You can’t see her.”

He smiled, watching her carefully for her reaction. “We’ll be quiet as mice, pet. Promise.”

She shook her head firmly, long hair flying in all directions. When she looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes, she looked as stubborn as he’d ever seen her. “No. I won’t let you.”

He put up his hands in surrender, ignoring his protesting limbs as he rose to his feet and held out a hand in invitation. She hesitated for a moment, glancing around furtively before taking it. He smiled and bent, scooping her effortlessly into his arms. She didn’t say anything, merely snuggled into his neck and clutched his shirt. He felt a tender warmth welling in him, even as the professional part of his mind kicked in with a warning.

A twelve-year-old girl wouldn’t normally let themselves be treated like a child of eight or nine without a fuss, but Dawn had seemed to enjoy the attention, crave more of it. Was it the lack of a parental authority figure when she was growing up? Had she never been given the opportunity of being pampered and babied? He stroked a hand over her head, hearing her heavy, rhythmic breathing. Poor thing, she’s exhausted. Spike carried her into her room, gently settling her on the bed while he unfolded the pyjamas that had been neatly stowed under her pillow.

He shook her gently and she murmured in objection. With a muffled grunt, she snatched the nightclothes from him and he dutifully turned around, waiting for her to finish dressing before coming over and pulling the thick duvet up over her body. He settled it under her chin, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She smiled drowsily, her whole face lighting up with contentment so pure it was almost painful to behold.

He rose, padding quietly to the door. He turned, giving her a soft smile and a low whisper. “Night ‘Bit.”

“Night Spike.” Her voice was already heavy with sleep and as he watched, her eyes closed and her breathing evened out as she surrendered herself to sleep.

Exiting the room, he closed the door behind him and paused. Stepping over the creaky floorboard with a triumphant smirk of satisfaction, he went towards his room. He was about to pass Buffy’s bedroom when he noticed the faint light spilling from underneath the doorway. Frowning, he knocked on the door, then knocked again when it didn’t open immediately.

“Buffy?” He kept his voice low so as not to wake Dawn, but something in his tone must have gotten to the teenager, because the door opened a crack and one brilliantly green eye appeared to him. Her voice was quiet and almost fearful.

“I’m sorry, did you need something?”

He put a hand on the door and gently pushed. Buffy, surprised when the door began to swing inwards, jumped. He took advantage of the moment when the door was unguarded, stepping carefully into her room. She looked down, seeming to shrink into herself as she cringed back, turning her face away. He frowned, reaching out and gently turning her to face him. His hand fell limply to his side as he saw what she’d been hiding.

****

Buffy tried not to groan when she heard the knock on her door. She knew who it was, could almost feel him through the door, but the sting of his rejection, only worsened by Dru’s attack on them, was still strong. Momentarily defiant, she ignored the tapping on her door. When he knocked again, louder and more persistently this time, she wrapped herself in a hug, her face draining of its colour as she realised that he might tell her sister about her ignoring him. What if he needed something and complained to Dru when he didn’t get it?

Biting her lip, she rushed as silently as she could to the door and pulled it open a crack. Peering through, she tried not to catch her breath at the sight of him. He looked tired, his face pale and his eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue, but his hair formed soft curls and his lips were pulled upwards into a soothing smile. He was gorgeous. He leaned slightly to one side and, mesmerised by his beautiful eyes, she didn’t notice the movement until the door swung towards her. She jumped back, turning away, ashamed of the blatant reminder of her weakness.

She winced inwardly when her head was gently pulled around. Keeping her eyes averted, she pushed her arms behind her back and gripped the new cut hard enough to reopen it. The pain cleared her mind of the panic and shame it had been wallowing in and she looked up to meet his gaze.

He was staring at her cheek, and she knew he had a good reason. The side of her face from her eye to the corner of her mouth was a mottled bruise, blue-black in the center and slowly lightening to red around the edges. Buffy wished she could say that it looked worse than it felt, but it didn’t. The swollen skin felt tight and hot over her cheekbone and any attempt at smiling made the affected area throb painfully. Her eye was swollen half shut, limiting her visibility. She was just glad that the bruising had spread enough to cover the tell-tale finger marks she’d thought would be evident on her cheek.

Braving another look up at him, she almost whimpered in fear, shrinking back away from him and jerking her chin from his grasp. His eyes were almost black with anger, his jaw rigid as his pulse pounded, a vein in his temple writhing in response. She took a careful step back, waiting for the cutting voice, the cruel put-downs. The heated venom in his tone, however, was obviously not directed at her, and she looked up, confused.

“Who did this to you?”

She gulped. His eyes bored into her and she knew she couldn’t lie outright, but maybe she could bend the truth a little. “It’s alright. I just jumped…” in front of Dawn to stop this from happening to her “…and ran into something.” Dru’s hand. She waited a moment before trying a tiny, hesitant smile, careful not to move anything but one corner of her mouth. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

She could see the suspicion in his eyes and she straightened, brushing back a strand of hair with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. If he found out about Dru’s abuse… He’d leave again, and then we’d have nothing to protect us. She found a bitter irony in the situation. In order to shield Dawnie from the worst of her sister’s punishment, she had to suffer the torture of seeing Dru and Spike together, day in day out. It pained her that someone as cruel and twisted as her sister would end up with someone as good and benevolent as Spike, but she would do anything to save Dawn any more pain.

She was drawn from her thoughts when the platinum blonde gently traced a finger down her injured cheek, the touch so light it didn’t even twinge. She froze as heat raced from his fingertip against her skin down through her body, flooding her with the unfamiliar burn of desire. She pulled away, frantically trying to hide the flush rising to her cheeks. When she looked up again, he was giving her a strange look, a mixture of anger and lust and something more.

He nodded perfunctorily and turned his back on her, his muscles tight with tension. He began to stride from the room, stopping abruptly in the doorway. He looked back over his shoulder, catching her off guard, her defences lowered. For a moment their eyes met in silent communication, his desperately hoping to ease her pain, hers heavy and dull with the knowledge that in order to let him help, she had to shut him out.

She turned away, waiting for the soft click of the door to announce his exit before collapsing back on the bed. She remembered his soul-searching gaze and the desire to help revealed there. She tossed and turned for what felt like hours but was only minutes, his beautiful, sad eyes staying ever-present in her mind and then haunting her dreams in her fitful moments of restless peace. Sleep didn’t come easy that night.

Spike paced back and forth in his room, hearing faintly the continuous rustling from Buffy’s room next door. He remembered the fear he’d seen on her face when he’d seen her bruise, the sheer, animal terror that had flashed across her face when he realised he’d overhead her telephone conversation with Willow. It was a look that he never wanted to see on her face again, especially if it was directed at him. Fierce anger filled him, bubbling resentfully next to his festering frustration. He was missing something, but what?

Sighing, he shook his head before rolling it, cracking his neck. He was too tired to figure anything out tonight. He dimly remembered to strip down to his boxers before sliding between the cool, silky sheets. His body relaxed into a wonderfully soft mattress and he closed his eyes with a groan of relief, but his head buzzed with questions. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours but was only minutes, her beautiful, pained eyes staying ever-present in his mind and then haunting his dreams in his fitful moments of restless peace. Sleep didn’t come easy that night.