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Buffy shot to her feet, trembling everywhere. Her heart thumped a heavy, repetitive drum-like beat. The wall of pictures and poems shot out like a 3D film, blurring when she stared for too long. It was like that car crash metaphor; terrible, yet all you could do was gawk despite your better judgment.

She stumbled backward, and a striking thought occurred. Instinct really. With panic and confusion, Buffy turned and bolted for the door. She ran straight ahead with her pulse like a woodpecker in her neck.

She hit a wall.

Spike reached out, gripping her arms, holding her still. "Buffy!" he exclaimed. "Love, what are you doin' here-"

She wretched herself free. No words came, and she knew her eyes were as glaringly bright as streetlamps. She could feel herself shaking.

"Buffy?" Spike's voice was drenched in ready concern, pinging across her flesh like cold raindrops. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"N-No- I-" She shook her head. "I rang the doorbell."

He frowned worriedly. "It's broken."

Buffy swallowed, looking up. "What is that room, Spike?"

"What?"

She flung an arm out, going around him so she faced the space in question. Immersed in knowledge, self preservation the first and somehow last thing on her mind, Buffy went straight for answers. Pointing furiously, she repeated herself. "What. Is. That. Room?"

Spike's expression folded. It became hollow and unsure. He turned briefly, looked in the direction she indicated, and froze. "Which room?"

"The one with my face pasted all over the wall!" She suddenly felt sick. Buffy stepped back, gaining space, moving closer to the staircase she knew was some distance behind her.

Silence filled the air like oppressive smoke. He turned back, eyes sad and terrified. "I can explain," he croaked.

She found herself blinking furiously, trying to reign in undeterred emotions. Fear was quite prevalent. "Explain why you've been keeping pictures of me?! And- and drawings..." Her stomach coiled into knots. "What is all of it, Spike?"

"It isn't simple. I haven't- I haven't taken any pictures in a long time," he stuttered. Eyes of blue were now black with desperation. "I can't tell you why I... did it, but I- I never wanted you to see-"

"You took those pictures?" A hot breath of air left her lungs empty, an utterly hollow sensation in her chest. "You spied on me?"

Silence and a jaw clench. His face said it all. "Buffy, I-"

She couldn't catch her breath. Her heart dropped; she turned and ran. Pounding down unfamiliar steps, Buffy made it to the first floor in record time. Spike's voice calling out behind her fueled adrenaline like gasoline does a fire.

Gaining escape through the first door she found, Buffy ran out of the house and into the cloudy front yard. Big trees and weak sunlight trailed the path she took to her car. Upon yanking open the driver's side door, she stopped.

Spike was close again. Maybe teen feet back. Her icicle grip on the door handle tightened like a vice.

"Buffy, please," he was yelling, breathing harsh and erratic. His face was the most despairing thing she'd ever seen. "I would never hurt you!" he shouted. "You've got to believe me. Those pictures, the drawings, they're nothing! Just dreamin' on paper."

"Dreaming?" she spat. "You call that dreaming? You... You stalked me! How can you say that is nothing?!"

"I meant it's nothing compared to..." He stopped himself, tears shimmering to turn a gaze into ice pools. "None of it is anything close to being with you. It's not real, and I know that."

"You've got a shrine, Spike; that is real." She jumped in her car, but his voice stopped her again, this time from slamming the door.

"I never thought... I never wanted to hurt you, Buffy." She faced him. Her throat was closing up. "I'd never thought to have a chance outside fiction," he stressed. "I never believed you would-"

"Love you?" she cried. The stricken look he returned made her heart pound. Fiercely, she added, "Like you love me?"

He swallowed, standing taller as if preparing for a firing squad. "I do love you."

She laughed without humor. It was a sad, crackly sound, devoid of control. "An obsession isn't love, Spike. You have... a problem."

"Don't say that," he begged. "Don't tell me my feelings aren't here." His palm rose to his chest. "They're real. I feel them, every bloody day. I know what-"

"You don't know what love is, if you think this is the kind of thing people do when they love someone."

"It wasn't like that!" he shouted. His cheeks were growing wet, making them look painted.

Buffy shook her head furiously. "You have a problem," she croaked again, "and after this... there's no way I could ever feel... the way you think you do."

The world around him tipped. Scents of damp earth and snow filled his lungs. "You don't mean that."

Buffy swallowed hard, refused to meet his eyes, and closed the car door. She started the engine and sped away, muddy tire tracks the only evidence of her arrival.

Spike called her name three times, shouting into the distance, following until she was out of sight. His steps were slow. He felt like he was trying to run in a dream and molasses made up the ground.

She did not come back. He prayed to wake up.

***

Why? The question was echoing in her mind like a siren. The same one, the same reasoning behind it. An alarm to beat the tepid calm from her body like a club.

And how? 'How' was a serious contender on the top of her list. How had he followed her? How had he taken those pictures? How had he learned to draw her face and body as well as a professional? How, how, how...

How could Spike do such a thing? Why would he? Why was he claiming to be in love with her when he had a display of... Boxes of photographs...?

Buffy shivered and cut a hasty turn off the bridge. She'd been driving for an hour now. Sick waves kept churning her stomach. She rode in silence and kept trying to stop her tears from falling. Remembering Spike's own breakdown was affecting her in the oddest way. She felt violated and angry at once, sympathy whispered there might be room for it if she wasn't so damned hurt.

And disgusted. Disgust had a solid claim on something here.

She swallowed a lump. Time was wasted. On him. It was gone, like water down a drain. She had spent nights with him, evenings talking over home cooked dinners. Intimate moments... Last night was one of the most passionate encounters she'd ever experienced, and now everything about it was tainted.

He was tainted, and she was a fool. A blind fool who gave in to trust so easily, assuming meeting him and becoming so enamored so quickly was the result of previous emotional stunting, courtesy of a heartbreak never allowed to heal.

Well, now she had a new one to deal with, and Buffy had never felt so raw in her life. Vulnerable, sick, lost. Her heart was already growing armor again, and this was a new kind of closed off. A new kind of wall ascending to never before reached heights.

The concept of telling anyone was purely unappealing. She felt idiotic for allowing someone like that to get so close to her, and it would be much easier to tell Xander that things just hadn't worked out, vaguely implying Spike and her were too different to make it work. Anya would likely be more disappointed, and more nagging on the topic, but Buffy would find a way to put her off.

She rounded another curve and wiped at a stubborn tear. She felt spiders crawling up and down her arms each time she remembered what sleeping in his arms had felt like. The way Spike acted, she'd never once thought it could hint at an unhealthy obsession. She was so content, so happy... Now, she wondered if each time she let him get close, she'd only encouraged destructive attention.

The notion made her feel like throwing up. Blinking hard, glancing ironically at the storm clouds forming in the distant sky, she made a U-turn and headed for home.

All the while, a part of her, the part that was breaking, wished she had never seen the pictures to begin with.

***

Jack was walking. He was keeping his head down and his scabby hands in his pockets, avoiding the prying eyes of strangers and townsfolk with every unspoken rudeness.

The sheriff had stopped by already. Jack's ears were still ringing like church bells from his aunt's sour temper. Who knew a little fight between himself and a jackass of the same age would cause her to get so upset?

She didn't raise her voice above a terrifying mutter before the sheriff had left, but while he was calm and cool, she blew up like a volcano the moment his retiring presence tucked tail.

Not that the old guy tucked tail, really. Actually, that was more like what Jack did following his two week sentence. He would be cleaning out the ancient, crumbling garage after school for fourteen days. If he wasn't done by then, she'd tack on another seven.

The boy groaned, counting his steps as he checked his phone. He had been walking to Spike's place for half an hour now, and the longer he walked the more he dreaded getting there.

Remembering the fury he'd seen earlier this morning had Jack rethinking his plan to apologize.

A latent headache was starting to cement, too. What was the point in having a teacher teach you how fight if you got into more trouble for it than you ever did just taking the hits?

*At least I'm not walking around with a broken nose,* he thought to himself. That was definitely an upside. The lack of bruises and blood stains. However, getting grounded, into trouble with the cops, and making an enemy out of the one person he might actually be able to call a friend was the other side of the coin, the downside.

Jack kicked a gravel rock. He only knew where Spike lived because of an address on a slip of paper, something he'd ripped out of the tiny local phonebook. He was approaching the towering mansion now, glancing carefully at the darkening sky. That's all he needed, a downpour to soak his clean clothes.

Sighing loudly, Jack bit the figurative bullet and raced ahead. He had just barely knocked on the front door when it swung open with a soundless rush of wind, nearly tipping him over.

Spike was standing there, eyes wide and red, swollen. He took in Jack's presence and his shoulders fell about five inches. "Fuck."

"Well 'hi' to you too."

Spike shook his head and left the doorway. Jack ambled in carefully, quiet and wary. "Spike?"

He turned a corner and watched the man throwing handfuls of paper into a roaring fireplace. The protective grate was feet away and tipped on its side, energetic flames licking the air before nearly making contact with the carpet.

Jack could hear him muttering, something about "stupid git," and "helpless sod." Undoubted insults flung at himself.

He'd known Spike was angry earlier, and with good reason Jack finally realized, but this wasn't the kind of anger you showed over some careless teenager.

This was different.

Clearing his throat, Jack reached out with a tentative word. "I think the fire's good to go by now."

Spike released a shrill laugh, startling him. Throwing more and more paper, barely sparing the unlabeled notes a glance. "Yep. Real good to go, it is. It's roarin' away, burnin' everything... ruining everything."

Jack scowled, edging nearer. "Okay, you're getting metaphorical."

Spike clenched his fists around some sentenced paper before tossing it to the flames. He spun around, eyes watery, voice unsteady. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

Jack shook his head. Right. He was here to say sorry. "I came to, uh, apologize actually. I realized I was wrong... earlier."

Spike scoffed, nodding hard. He said nothing.

"I just wanted to make sure we were cool, ya know?" Jack shrugged awkwardly. "I'm sorry I came to your home, but I wanted to talk to you in person and I wasn't-"

"You should've called."

The boy frowned. He glanced at the crispy sparks shooting from the fireplace like stars and said, "I don't really think you would have picked up."

Spike didn't respond. He turned around again, and threw the last of his notes into the fire. Stalking from the room a second later, Jack was left to follow.

Frustrated at this point, the boy chanced getting closer. "Are you like, on something? You're acting really weird."

"I'm not-!" He cut himself off. Shaking his head, running his hands through his white hair, the man shakily muttered a confession. "I screwed up."

Jack's scowl deepened. "What?"

It took a full thirty seconds for Spike to come back. From where, Jack wasn't sure, but the man's eyes were fogged and distant, and his head was obviously not clear. "I... I hurt the girl."

Jack was silent. He tilted his head. "You have a fight with Buffy or something?"

Spike shook his head again. "We- She- I hurt her. I did somethin'... Can't fix it."

"I doubt that."

"You don't know," he growled. "You have no bloody clue what happened."

Jack sighed. "You want to tell me?"

Spike's mouth soured, a pinch in his cheek and he covered his face. The man's shoulders started shaking. A sound, his whole body trembled, and Jack knew he was crying. He'd never seen Spike cry.

It got louder, but remained muffled. Spike reached out and grasped the doorframe. Jack knew, somehow, he should not reach for him; and thank God because Jack didn't know the first fucking thing about comforting another person. Much less someone he'd looked up to as a mentor for weeks now.

"Do you want me to stay?" he murmured.

Spike shook his head and sniffled. The man sniffled.

*I've gotta get out of here.*

"Go. Don't need a shoulder, I just..." Spike coughed. His hands were shaking like a kid on a sugar high, minus the sticky smile. "Just go."

"Okay." Jack nodded. "Call me if you... if you need somethin'."

Spike never replied.

Jack left with determination and a hurried pace, a new destination in his mind, and little care for the storm clouds overhead.

***

It was raining. Buffy had just gotten out of the shower. A hundred degree shower mixed with appalling tears. Her eyes were ringed by puffy skin. Her fingers were pruny, her hair as wet as the earth getting pounded outside. Tabitha was quiet once fed, and as Buffy sat on her bed in exhausted fashion, only to bolt upright again and start changing the sheets, the feline kept her company by sitting in the corner.

Buffy tore everything off her bed and threw it in an empty laundry basket. She pulled out fresh linens from the top shelf in her closet and was finishing with the pillowcases when she heard loud knocking at the front of the house.

Frowning, she left the bedroom. She tiptoed to the front door, throat tightening and tears springing to her eyes instantaneously again. She gulped, hastily locating her cell phone before asking who it was.

It wasn't him.

Buffy fought relief and sadness in one breath. A breath she used to say, "What are you doing here, Jack?"

The dripping teenager was scowling, tiny droplets gathering on his brow. "Can I come in?"

Buffy moved out of his path. He ran inside.

And the storm followed him.

"What happened?"

Shouldn't she have started with the questions? "Yeah, what happened? Why are you drenched?"

He gave her a disbelieving blink and mopped his forehead with a cold, wet sleeve. "It's pouring outside."

"I meant why did you come here to begin with?" Buffy suddenly felt a twinge of panic. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Jack nodded, stunting her concerned inspection. "Yeah, but Spike isn't."

Her whole body tightened.

"What happened earlier? Does it have to do with me?" Jack asked this with dubiousness in his mouth, though he was careful not to convey it. After all, he highly doubted his actions could cause a couple like Spike and Buffy to break up, but he had to be sure. "Did he tell you what happened at the cemetery?"

Jack watched his guidance counselor cross her arms over her robed front. Her hair was wet and there was a distinct smell of fruity shampoo in the air. She'd obviously just showered but the redness spreading across her face couldn't be from that alone. "He told me," she muttered. "Are you all right?"

Jack shrugged irritably, slicking his hair back. "I'm fine. But again, Spike isn't, and now that I'm here I don't think you're okay either. What happened? You guys had a fight, that's plain, but what was it about?"

Buffy scoffed. "You're pretty nosy."

"And so are you. You're always asking me personal stuff at school. Now it's my turn." Jack cleared his throat and stood up straight. "Why is Spike acting like a Looney Tune?"

"You went to his house?"

"Then here."

Buffy rubbed her arms and looked down. "You shouldn't have gone over there."

"He's my friend." Her eyes shot up, round and unsure; Jack was nearly certain his looked the same. "He... He's been there for me," the boy mumbled, "and I needed to apologize to him about this morning. I went over there, and found him burning stuff and... It just wasn't good."

Buffy shuddered. It was a fierce looking twitch, but she tried to hide it all the same. Her voice took on a hardened quality that would make most people cower. "You should stay away from him. I know you guys have probably gotten close lately, but Spike is..."

"I'm not staying away from him." Jack shook his head like the statement was an obvious fact, and she was crazy to try and refute it.

Tone soft but shaking, she said, "Spike is... unstable."

Jack blinked. "He's my friend." He cleared his throat again, and repeated the words. "He's my friend. He's got my back." The boy simultaneously realized that he had Spike's back in return. *It's probably why I'm here, come to think of it.*

"What happened between me and him doesn't concern you. You don't have to try and fix it."

"You don't seem very happy about it, whatever it is." Jack studied Buffy's tired eyes and guarded disposition. The lady was trying hard to stay strong in front of him, to be an adult.

It wasn't working. He could tell how much the dispute with Spike had hurt her. Which bothered him.

He was getting real tired of worrying so much about other people. "So, are you happy or not?"

Buffy looked down, sad and fighting a break. "No. I'm not happy, and I don't think you should stay in contact with Spike anymore."

"Because you're not?"

She said nothing, but her eyes spoke the truth just as clear.

"Good luck getting me to listen to that advice, Ms. Summers."

She narrowed her eyes. "You know you can call me 'Buffy.'"

"And you know you're making a mistake." Her stare widened and became indignant. "Spike and you are a great couple. I've seen you guys together too much now." He sighed before his voice grew quiet. "You both care about each other. Whatever it is that's happened, you two can fix it. I know it."

Buffy's mouth pinched. "You don't know anything about it, Jack. Leave it alone."

He tried not to feel the sting of the dead-end order, and shrugged dismissively. "Fine."

Jack walked back to the door and stepped outside, cutting off Buffy's hurried yet flat offer to drive him home. "But you're making a mistake if you don't try to work things out. And no, I'll walk, the rain is just about over with."

He closed the door, unsurprised when she let him. Jack groaned as he maneuvered the porch steps in the dark, bypassing the little pond easily enough, before turning into a shortcut provided by a bike path through the woods.

He didn't know what had gone down between Buffy and Spike. He didn't know why he suddenly cared so much about it, or why seeing Spike breaking down had triggered an internal instinct to help. All that seemed to matter was that it had, and despite his own problems, or maybe because of them, Jack didn't like the idea of such a dependable duo breaking up.

He didn't like the idea of either of their hearts being shattered, or the possibility that he wouldn't sit in the same room with them again. He recalled times when Spike had come into the guidance counselor's office towards the end of a day, interrupting Buffy's probing questions. Jack liked seeing them smile at each other. It was sappy, but nice. He liked that they both talked to him, too, that they both had his best interests at heart. Them being together almost made him believe it more.

A thunderclap overhead made him look up. The raindrops were still falling, but softer now, less brutal. The lightning in the distance seemed duller. The storm had been short, but made its mark on the land. Jack's left boot got stuck in a chipmunk hole turned into hollow mud, and he paused a moment to wriggle free.

A sudden strike flew across his chin, sending him backward and into an untidy pile of limbs. His feet were both high in the air and the second he noticed the first shadow move close enough, he launched out with a vicious kick.

One loud groan of pain and cracking bone. The nameless male stumbled backwards, clutching his nose. Jack sprung to his feet and quickly blocked an attempted sucker punch, retaliating with an uppercut. Another down, he turned in quick circles and surveyed his surroundings, spitting blood on the ground.

Michael O'Henry's face soon became clear as he rose from his place against a tree and glared heavily through the cold moisture. Off to the right, Jack heard Shaun Gregory's bitter muttering and swears.

A frustrated smile sprang to his face. "Sneak attack in the rain." Jack studied Michael's beefy frame from head to toe. "Galoshes? Nerdy and unfair."

"Little prick," Michael snarled, running forward. Jack quickly had him flipped on the ground, catching his own breath before landing a solid punch to his opponent's abdomen.

Michael clutched his ribs. "A little help-" he wheezed, but Shaun was still cursing.

"The asshole broke my nose!"

Jack scoffed. "Big baby." He looked up at the dark trees as he gained distance between his enemies. "I don't think we need to continue right now, guys. The weather is terrible for a brawl."

Michael sat up, breathing hard and sending a glare to his partner, who was still gingerly inspecting his face and wincing every other second. "Listen to this idiot talk. You thought you were just going to get off easy with everything, huh?"

"With what?"

"The cemetery!" he bellowed, then coughed a few hacking wails. "Fucker. You better watch your back from now on. You might've gotten better at fighting, but-"

"You have friends in low places. Yeah, I know." Jack sighed irritably. "Look, I've had a shit day. I'm gonna leave now, and let you have some time to plan your next ambush. Next time," he nodded at Shaun, sitting on the forest floor against a tree, "pick a more durable partner."

He turned around and started walking back the way he came. Jack rubbed his forehead, breathing raggedly but staying quiet. He would go back in a few minutes then make a different turn, stay on the bike path but head just a little bit out of the way of his house to throw them off.

He was nearly out of earshot from Shaun's whimpering when he heard Michael shout, "We know you've got friends!"

Something, maybe a spark of intuition, made him stop. Jack faced the shadowy figures in the distance.

"You've got people you care about... one in particular, right?" Michael was still heaving, but he sounded confident now. It was unsettling.

"I don't have friends," Jack shouted irritably. "You're out of luck if you want to punish me through someone else."

A snicker made his back tense. Shaun spoke this time, nasally and shameless. "We all have the same guidance counselor at school, don't we? Only difference is, she seems to like listening to you whine about your problems more than anyone else these days."

Jack's blood turned cold. He bolted forward and quickly grabbed for Shaun's shirt collar. He ignored Michael altogether but for making sure to stay several feet away from him. The guy in his hands gurgled an exclamation of surprise. "Ms. Summers isn't my friend," Jack lied. "She's just a woman doing her job. You hurt her, and I won't care, but you'll probably be expelled."

Suddenly, hands from nowhere grabbed Jack by the back of the coat and tugged him hard. It took a lot of effort to gain freedom while staying on his feet.

Michael glared cockily through the darkness as he stumbled. "You reacted pretty quickly for someone you don't consider a friend. And what's with the late night visit, huh?"

"She isn't my friend."

"I think he's lying," Shaun chuckled, rising from the wet ground. "She's like a second mother. Probably pays more attention to him than that crippled old aunt he lives with."

Jack bit his lip expertly hard. Michael chuckled and he spotted a nasty smile on Shaun's face.

"And what about that guy who got you out of trouble with the cops, huh?"

"He didn't," Jack snapped. "He works there and made me help him clean up. The sheriff stopped by my house later."

"Likely story," Shaun taunted.

"Either way, I'm sure the counselor had something to do with getting him off easy," Michael added.

Jack experienced a foreign sensation of relief that they were dumb enough not to know their own school janitor when they saw him up close. Still, they kept harping on the Buffy subject, and that was dangerous.

"Maybe you're just trying to find an easier target since you can't beat me up anymore," he said. "Picking on a girl has got to be simpler, and jackasses like you have to get off somehow, right?"

Michael hissed an dirty insult which went ignored.

"You're not so tough," Shaun returned.

"You want to bet?"

There was silence again, until Michael spit and stormed off, Shaun following close behind. "You'll see what happens," the former shouted. "Can't protect everyone!"

Jack waited until they were out of sight before cursing. He cursed fluidly and angrily, then took the long way home.





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