Spike turned off the lights of Tara's car as he turned onto the road leading to Restfield Cemetery, allowing his vampire vision to guide him easily into the small parking lot used ordinarily by those attending funerals during daytime hours. At this late hour, the parking lot was empty, and he did not want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself.

All he wanted was to get in, get his duster, and get out.

He quietly closed the door to the car and made his way swiftly through the deserted cemetery to his own crypt. He didn't bother to light any candles on his way down to his bedroom, where he knew the duster would be laid across his bed.

Buffy had told him not to wear it to the meeting that afternoon.

"You're not the Big Bad, Spike," she had sneered. "You're pathetic. And honestly -- I don't like your attitude when you wear that thing. So take it off!"

He had been frustrated, and insulted, and furious -- but he had taken it off.

*Not again,* he thought with a grim certainty, trying to ignore the fearful fluttering in his stomach at the thought of really leaving, and not coming back. *Can't let her do it to me again...stay much longer, mate, and there won't be anything left of you...*

He picked up the coat, his fingers running lovingly over the butter-soft leather as he raised it to his face, inhaling deeply of the scent of smoke and leather and whiskey.

*This is who you are, mate,* he reminded himself. *Can't let her take it from you -- gotta go now, before it's too late -- before you change your mind...*

Deliberately he squared his shoulders, drawing in a deep breath before shrugging into the coat and readying himself to go.

It was not an easy thing to do.

There was three years of history in this town -- three years of memories, mostly bad, but memories just the same, of events that had made him who he was. And then, there was Dawn -- the girl who had been his only friend in this town for a long time, although since he had started sleeping with her sister, he had not been allowed to see her much.

Of course, there was a part of him that found it hard to walk away from Buffy, in spite of the terrible things she had done to him -- a part of him that clung to her desperately, not so much for what had been between them, but for what he had always *hoped* might someday be.

Now he knew -- it never would.

And then -- there was Tara.

Over the past few weeks, the girl had come to mean more to him than all of the other things put together. He could not remember the last time that he had been so unconditionally accepted and cared for as he was now that Tara was in his life. Even Dru had never loved him quite like he had loved her; she had been willing to abandon him at a moment's notice when her "Daddy" came back around.

And he knew now, beyond all doubt -- Buffy had never loved him.

But leaving Tara -- walking away from the sweet, unassuming friendship she had offered him -- that was going to be difficult.

*You have to go, now,* her voice echoed in his memory as he glanced toward the stairs. *If you don't go now, you might never -- and she'll kill you if you don't, Spike.*

The choked sound of her tears in his memory, the vision of the betrayal and hurt in her eyes when she had realized that he had rejected her protection, reminded him of how much the blonde witch really did care about him -- and he found his own eyes welling with tears, as he realized that as hard as it was, he had to honor her wishes in this...and walk away.

He drew in another deep breath, as he headed up the ladder and into the moonlit upper level of the crypt -- no longer "his" crypt.

He would be seeking out a new place to call his own.

His feet had barely landed on the upper level, when he realized that something was off. It took him a moment to realize what it was -- the door was open, flooding the room with bright moonlight...and he had carefully shut it behind him.

The thought barely had time to register with him, before her scent hit him, sending a sharp tremor of alarm through him.

Buffy.

And then, she was behind him, far too close -- terrifyingly close -- one arm wrapped firmly around his waist, the other trailing down his side toward the spot she had marked on his thigh, her warm mouth gently kissing his throat.

"Hey, Baby," she murmured between kisses, as she slowly maneuvered them around so that she was in front of him, and his back was to the nearest sarcophagus. "Whatcha doing here in the dark?"

Spike's mind was racing, desperately reminding him that he had to act as if all was normal, all was just as it always was -- or he could end up dead. He hadn't taken anything with him from his crypt but the duster -- which he remembered with a grimace that he was *not* supposed to be wearing -- but with any luck she might not notice it. She didn't have to know that anything was any different than any other night she came to see him.

"Vampire, love," he murmured, his voice low and husky with what he hoped sounded like desire. "I'm always in the dark."

She pulled back then, one hand resting on his hip, the other trailing lower to trace along the edges of her initial through the denim of his jeans, her jade-darkened eyes glittering with malicious pleasure as he gasped at the burning sensation her touch sent radiating through the magical mark on his thigh, all through his entire body. He raised a hand as if to ward her off, as the sensation of mingled pleasure and pain began to overwhelm him with a sort of trembling weakness that was a combination of fear and need.

A low, throaty laugh bubbled up to escape her throat, as she caught his wrist in her free hand, and slowly bent him back over the sarcophagus, twisting his wrist around behind his back and holding it there, as she pressed harder on his inner thigh, inches from his suddenly swelling member, and leaned in to whisper seductively,

"Don't think you've got the market cornered on darkness, Baby...I think I could show you a thing or two..."

Spike forced a laugh, though her words sent a tremor of fear slicing through the heady, hazy sensations created by her attentions to the brand she had placed on his body -- and was now using to further enslave him. "Reckon you could, love," he agreed softly. "Reckon you already have..."

"But Spike," Buffy whispered, her fingertips edging away from the mark to stroke over his rising erection through the thick fabric of his jeans, smiling when she drew another sharp gasp from his lips, "I'm just getting started."

Spike felt his own unnecessary breath quickening with alarm, and hoped against hope that she would think it was due to arousal -- which was, admittedly, a close second at the moment.

*Just calm down, mate,* he urged himself silently, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back as he felt her agile fingers pulling his zipper down. *Just let her do what she wants to do -- think of it as one last time for old times' sake -- and when she takes her leave -- then you can go. You just have to -- to get through the night...*

Suddenly, Buffy froze over him, the sudden stillness drawing him from his thoughts with a sick wave of apprehension. He looked up to see her glaring at him, her eyes narrowed angrily as she looked him over with an edge of disgust to her expression.

"I thought I told you I didn't like you wearing that," she said in a soft, deadly voice, eyeing his beloved duster.

Spike swallowed convulsively, his mind struggling to come up with a response that would satisfy her. "I-I'm sorry, love. I just thought -- you meant when you were here...and you weren't..." He shrugged apologetically, not able to meet her eyes as he added softly, "It's just that it's -- so much a part of me -- I didn't think it mattered when you -- you weren't here."

"Well -- I *am* here," Buffy pointed out, a sly smile spreading across her face beneath her viciously sparkling eyes. "So why don't you take it off."

As she spoke, she pulled him slightly forward by the collar, away from the sarcophagus, and slid the coat down off his shoulders. He moved as if to let it fall to the floor, but before he could, she caught hold of the leather near the bottom of the coat, and with one quick motion twisted it around his arms a couple of times, binding them behind his back -- and then shoving him back against the sarcophagus again, his arms pinned uselessly behind him.

She smiled sweetly as he looked up at her in an alarmed question, shrugging her shoulders as she said softly, "On second thought -- you can leave it on. I kind of like it on you like this."

"B-Buffy," he whispered uncertainly. "Buffy, what...?"

"Shhh," she whispered, her hand moving to grasp his erection again, her thumb stroking a slow, firm circle along the underside of it that made him bite back a moan at the sensation. "Just relax, Baby...what have you got to be worried about?"

That was when Spike realized that he had a *lot* to be worried about.

Panic seized him, and he struggled uselessly against the leather twisted around his arms, holding them behind him. Buffy's expression hardened, as she twisted the piece of the coat still in her hand so that the rest of the garment tightened around his arms, at the same time pulling him backwards until his back was parallel with the sarcophagus, until he could barely move his bound arms at all.

She raised her free hand and brought it down across his face in a breath-taking backhand, before gripping his hair and leaning down to snarl softly in his face, "Do *not* fight me, Spike. Do you understand me?"

He froze at the command, nodding quickly, his eyes closed and his breath coming quick and shallow as he fought for control of his own rising fears. "Buffy," he whispered breathlessly. "Buffy, please..."

"Shut up," she snapped, shaking him slightly by the fist that was tangled in his hair, her voice hardening with a deadly quality. "Just shut up, Baby. All I want to hear from you right now -- is the answers to my questions. Is that clear?" As she finished, a tight, cruel smile twisted her features, as she jerked his head up and down in a mockery of a nod.

But he *was* silent, and she seemed satisfied for the moment.

"Good," she softly remarked, her hand in his hair softening into a caress, even as her other hand released the leather of his coat, and returned to his vulnerable, exposed member, tightening painfully.

Spike bit back a cry of pain that he knew would only anger her, closing his eyes, struggling for what slight vestige of control he had left -- which was not much. The fact that she was no longer holding the coat taut did not mean that he had any more freedom -- not in the least. His arms, still tangled in the leather of the coat, were pinned between his body and the sarcophagus, and Buffy's own legs were pressing in against his, leaving him no room to pull free, even if he tried.

And if he *had* tried -- she would have stopped him in a moment.

"Now," Buffy was going on, running her fingers idly through his hair in a caricature of affection, a cruel smile on her lips betraying just how much she was enjoying his helplessness. "First off..." She leaned in close to whisper, her sharp gaze locking onto his wide, terrified eyes, "...where'd you get the car?"

Spike hesitated, his heart leaping up into his throat in sudden sick fear, not only for himself, but for Tara as well. All he knew in that moment was that Buffy could not find out that it was Tara's car he had driven here, Tara who knew all their secrets and had planned with him to help him escape her.

He held her gaze for just a moment, before dropping his eyes as if in defeat. "Nicked it," he said in a soft, subdued voice of fear. "From some bloke in town...left the keys in it...'m sorry, Buffy...please..."

This time it was a powerful fist that cut off his words, slamming his head back against the stone sarcophagus again as her tight fist around the base of his erection twisted slightly, drawing a helpless sob of agony from his lips.

"I believe I was very clear with you on the rules, wasn't I, Baby?" she said in a chillingly soft, calm voice, her eyes hard and pitiless as she glared down at him. The hand she had used to strike him now rested on his shoulder, pinning him back against the stone beneath him, while her other hand did not relent its vicious, painful pressure on his most sensitive parts. "You keep your stupid...mouth...shut, unless it's to answer my questions...right?"

Spike nodded, biting his lip until his mouth filled with his own blood, in a desperate attempt to hold back the scream of pain that was rising in his throat, threatening to spill out.

"But," Buffy shrugged slightly, finally letting up a little, much to his relief, "I *will* give you points for an honest answer the first time. That was good of you. Now. I have one more question for you, and you had *better* tell me the truth. Because if you lie to me, Spike..."

Without warning she squeezed him brutally again, until he was choking on the desperate moan of anguish so severe that he could barely hold it back, and she finished in a voice barely over a whisper of menace.

"...I'll take it right off...and you know I could...I wonder if it'd grow back...?"

Spike shook his head desperately, tears of pain rolling down from his tightly closed eyes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, from the lip he had bitten nearly through in his desperation.

"Okay," Buffy said. "Here goes, the million dollar question, Sweetheart..." She leaned in close to him, grasping the hair on the top of his head and yanking his head backward, in a gesture clearly designed to expose his throat, and make him feel all the more vulnerable to her. "...just exactly how far were you planning on *taking* that car, Spike?"

A fresh wave of panic washed over Spike, as he realized that he had no answer prepared to explain what he was doing with the car -- no way to lessen or deflect her anger in any way.

He was caught.

"Buffy, I'm sorry!" he sobbed out in desperation, knowing somewhere in his mind that she already knew the answer to the question. "Please, don't...please, I'm sorry..."

Her smile widened slightly, while becoming harder, angrier, and she nodded with a false sympathy and understanding. "That's about what I thought," she concluded, and his heart sank with the realization that she knew beyond all doubt what he had been doing with the car -- the only thing he *could* have been doing with the car.

He had been about to run from her.

And she had warned him about running from her.

"Still," Buffy shrugged, shaking her head sadly. "Wrong answer."

Her hand in his hair jerked his head forward, pulling him halfway up off the sarcophagus, before slamming him down hard, harder than any of her previous blows, cracking his head brutally against the stone beneath him -- and sending his world swirling into darkness -- a darkness that would only grow deeper when he awakened.