Tara waited until Spike had been asleep for a good solid thirty minutes before gently, carefully extracting her arms from around him, and slipping out of the bed to perform the cloaking spell to protect them from Buffy's attempts to track Spike down.

Hopefully, she thought, biting her lip anxiously, there would be no such attempts -- not yet.

Once the ritual was complete and she was content that they would be reasonably safe, she had left the hotel room and gone across the street to the Wal-Mart there, to gather some necessary supplies. New clothes for Spike and Dawn, some food and drinks, among other things, and she was more than ready to return to the room and get some sleep of her own.

Tara climbed carefully back into bed behind Spike, wrapping her arms lightly around him and pulling him gently close to her. She heard him gasp softly in alarm, his body tensing at her touch, and she leaned in close behind him, her voice soft and calm and reassuring in his ear.

"Shhh...it's okay, Spike. It's just me -- just Tara. You're okay..."

At the sound of her voice, Tara felt the tension slowly ease from his body, as he nestled back against her, now seeking rather than avoiding the warmth and comfort of her touch -- all without ever fully waking at all.

As for Tara, the tensions and fears of being responsible for the safety of not only Spike but Dawn as well, while not having a single inkling of an idea of what to do or where to go, were starting to overwhelm her, and she began to feel her own exhaustion creeping over her, lulling her to sleep. Some part of her, still wired and trembling and frantic, tried to resist sleep, insisting that she had to keep watch over the others, had to do her best to protect them.

*But you've got to sleep,* she reminded herself, as her mind began to drift away into the gray haze between sleep and wakefulness. *If you don't sleep you won't be able to drive later -- and you have to be alert and thinking clearly -- and the spell's in place, no one can find us here...*

The argument of sleep proved to be much more persuasive than the argument of caution.

*********************************

It was a dream.

She knew it was a dream -- and yet the terror, the helplessness of it felt so horribly real.

Buffy was there, and she had Spike pinned to the floor -- naked, helpless, covered in his own blood and terrified. He could see Tara nearby, watching in horror, and cried out to her to help him, pleading with her with a broken desperation in his hoarse, sobbing voice.

But she could not move.

All she could do was stand there, held to her spot by some invisible, unnamed force, crying out with tears streaking her face as she begged Buffy to stop, to let him go, not to hurt him anymore. She felt like a coward and a fool and the worst kind of friend for doing nothing -- although some part of her knew that the whole thing was beyond her power.

*Just a dream...just a dream...not real...* she told herself desperately, even as her mouth screamed out much less rationally, panicked at what was taking place right before her eyes.

"Stop it! Buffy, stop it, please! *Please*, just let him go!"

Then, Buffy looked up at her from where she sat, eyes narrowed in cruel triumph -- as her face slowly shifted, changing before Tara's eyes into the face of another, more familiar and terrifying to her than Buffy could ever be. It was the face of one who had victimized her over and over again throughout her childhood -- the face of her nightmares, as Buffy now was to Spike.

"Come on over here and stop me, if you can, baby girl," the leering young man taunted her, smirking up at her with raised eyebrows as he continued to hold the struggling vampire down to the floor.

Spike did not seem to have noticed the change in his attacker.

"Do you hear me talking to you, Tara?" the young man demanded, rising up off of Spike and taking a menacing step toward her, his expression darkening with rising fury.

Tara's feet were still frozen, though now her reaction was to flee, rather than to fight. She shook her head, feeling a sick sensation of panic rising up in her chest as the young man approached her, towering over her, much taller than he had ever been in reality.

"You'll answer me when I talk to you, girl!" the young man snarled, drawing back his hand to backhand her across the face, and Tara braced herself for the blow, which would surely knock her to the ground...

*********************************

She awakened abruptly in the stillness of the darkened motel room, sitting up quickly, her breath coming hard and rapid as she stared wide-eyed around her, searching for any sign to tell her where she was, how she had come to be here -- and most importantly, that the things she had just seen had been nothing more than a dream.

And then -- she remembered.

It all came rushing back into her mind in a flood of memory, and she drew in several deep breaths, calming herself with an effort. As she remembered, she reached a hand out instinctively to the side, reaching for Spike to be sure he was all right. She frowned when her hand touched only the empty bedding, looking at the spot where Spike had been, and then glancing around the darkened room, the only light the slight rays filtering through the tiny crack in the curtains.

As her momentary disorientation faded, she became aware of the soft sound of water running in the next room -- and just barely audible past it, a sound that was yet unmistakable for its softness, and tore at her heart, bringing unbidden tears to her eyes at the very sound.

Someone was crying.

And Tara didn't have to wonder for a moment who it was.

She rose from the bed, moving slowly, cautiously toward the bathroom, not wanting to startle or embarrass her friend -- just wanting to be sure that he was okay. She was surprised and relieved to see that the bathroom door was partially open; Spike obviously had not worried too much about privacy when he'd gone in, what with the girls both being asleep and all.

He had clearly not expected anyone to awaken to the sound of his tears.

She hesitated outside the door, drawn by the heart-rending desolation in Spike's deep, heaving sobs, unable to simply leave him alone in his suffering, and yet afraid to intrude on his privacy, to violate him again where his confidence, his dignity, had already been so severely damaged.

She cautiously peeked through the narrow gap between the nearly-closed door and the wall, ready to look away just as quickly if necessary -- and saw nothing, only the clean white tiled floor, against the blue of the drawn shower curtain. The entire room was full of steam, filling the room with a thick, pale cloud, condensing and dripping down the curtain in fat droplets of hot moisture.

From beyond the opaque barrier of the curtain, she could hear the soft sobs of her friend, though she noticed that they sounded as if they were coming from -- well, *lower* than they should have been.

She walked silently into the bathroom, but then hesitated, unsure. She quickly decided that as there was no way she could simply walk in on him, the only way she would be able to reach out to him, to attempt to help him, would be to make her presence known. She opened her mouth to speak -- and then found that she couldn't. Her nerve failed her, and she silently turned to go.

It was not too late...the sound of the shower and his own tears had surely muffled any sound she might have made, and as far as she could tell, she had made none.

"Tara..."

The faint, choked word froze her in her tracks, and she looked with startled eyes at the drawn curtain. "I -- I d-didn't mean to...I mean..."

"You don't have to go," he interrupted her in a voice that was barely over a whisper, then added, softer, barely audible at all, "I'd rather you didn't...please..."

Tara was quiet for a moment, considering, feeling awkward and uncertain, both utterly separated and distanced from him, by the shower curtain between them, and far too close, invasive and too personal, to have borne witness to such intense, heartbroken emotions, without his invitation. Finally, she sat slowly down on the closed toilet seat, and simply waited for him to speak.

He didn't.

Perhaps, she considered, her heart lurching painfully within her breast -- perhaps there simply were no words.

"I'm here, Spike," she whispered after a momentary silence, sensing that the simple affirmation was what he needed. "I'm right here..."

Another moment of silence passed, before he replied in a voice that was hoarse with tears, "Thank you."

The sincerity in the simple words brought tears to her eyes, and she replied in a soft, tender voice, aching with her need to do something for him, "Spike...are you...are you okay? I mean...is there anything I can...can do, for you?"

She did not hear the shuddering sob that shook him next, only the deep intake of breath that followed it, as he laughed a harsh, bitter laugh and replied, "No, love...not sure I'll ever be okay again, truth be told..."

*You will,* Tara wanted to tell him -- but then, she wasn't quite sure that *she* was okay, even now, years after...and what she'd been through was surely nowhere near as horrible as what Spike had been through...was it?

When she said nothing, Spike spoke again, and his next soft, frighteningly calm words stunned her.

"Do you want to see?"

"W-what?" Tara stammered, her eyes wide with shock and dismay.

"What she did to me." He waited a moment, before correcting the sentence in a tone of disgusted self-hatred, "What I *let* her do to me. Do you want to see it? What I've become?"

"Spike," Tara shook her head sorrowfully, tears streaming from her eyes at the stark pain in his voice, "Spike, you don't have to..."

She dropped the gentle protest when the curtain was suddenly drawn back, just a little less than halfway, by a trembling arm near the bottom of the curtain -- a trembling arm that immediately returned to wrap with the other around his drawn up knees.

"Why not?" he rasped out flatly. "'S not like I've anything left to hide, is it? Made me nothing but her whore, she did...so why should I care to show what I am to the world?"

He was sitting on the floor of the tub, the water still running from the shower head, hot and steaming, though it was directed slightly away from the outside of the shower now. As she watched, he bowed his head wearily, shaking with silent sobs that seemed to have taken over his body, coming now of their own volition, against his will.

The very sight of the devastation that had been wrought on his body took Tara's breath with horror, and a sort of visceral heart-pain that brought her own sobs forth.

There was not an inch of his body that was not marred with some livid mark -- bruises, burns, places where his skin had been viciously sliced with a sharp blade, all for the mere amusement of the woman who had believed herself his mistress. His face was the only part of him that had been spared permanent damage, and even it was bruised at the moment. He was too thin, his muscles clearly weakened by the weeks of malnutrition and lack of use.

And at the moment, his skin was pink with the heat of the water pounding down -- which, Tara suddenly realized with alarm, must have felt much hotter to him than to her -- and scrubbed nearly raw in places, evidently with the courtesy bath sponge that had been on the side of the tub. That sponge was now clutched in his pale, trembling hand, clenched into a fist as he looked up at her through lost, anguished eyes, shaking his head in despair.

"Can't get...can't get clean, Tara," he whispered by way of explanation, tearing her heart open with the stark agony in his hoarse, almost pleading whisper. "Can't...can't wash her off of me...I can still...still feel her...heard her voice in my dreams...can still...still smell her...all over me..."

Tara stared at him for a long moment, swallowing back the sob that rose in her throat, as she resolutely blinked back the tears that blinded her, mercifully obscuring the heartbreaking sight from her vision.

Because she *had* to see it.

Because if she didn't -- who was there, to help him bear the unbearable, the weight of shame and torment that she understood so much better than she wanted to?

Regaining control of her own emotions, Tara rose to her feet, not reacting as he flinched back, a flash of instinctive fear in his wide blue eyes, now staring up at her, watching her movements warily.

She didn't let it hurt her; she knew it was not her he was afraid of.

Silently, she pulled back the curtain the rest of the way, and reached down to turn off the steaming hot water. Next, she reached to firmly take the sponge from his hand, her jaw setting with determination when he tried to hold onto it.

"Spike," she said, softly but firmly, holding his shell-shocked gaze, "you don't need this. You're clean already, Sweetie. You're gonna burn yourself, staying in here like this. You've already hurt yourself."

She glanced down pointedly at the various spots on his pale flesh where he had rubbed hard enough to draw his own blood, in his desperate attempts to wash away a feeling that was far deeper than the surface of his flesh. His gaze followed hers, and then glanced at her guiltily before falling to the shower floor.

"Spike -- look at me," she instructed gently, crouching in front of him and reaching out a hand to tilt his face back up toward hers. When he obeyed, she insisted in a voice of quiet conviction, "You are not dirty, Spike. You are more than what she did to you, and you have *nothing* to be ashamed of."

He looked away, his chin wobbling dangerously even as he struggled to hold back his tears, and she graciously averted her gaze, standing up and taking his hands in hers to help him to his feet.

"Come on," she said softly, soothingly. "Let's get you out of here, Sweetie..."

Compliant, emotionally drained, Spike allowed himself to be led from the shower, allowed her to gently towel dry his battered body, taking care not to aggravate the worst of his injuries, which had all at least begun to heal up already. Tara gently inspected his burned mouth, which was still tender and swollen inside, but now at least allowed him to speak normally.

"Sit here for a second," she told him gently, wrapping the soft white towel around his waist as she helped him to sit down on the closed toilet, and walked out of the bathroom.

She returned a moment later with a new t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

She was surprised and dismayed when his face crumpled at the sight of them, his eyes welling with tears and his shoulders shaking with sobs. She moved forward quickly, putting her hands gently on his shoulders as she tried to catch his gaze.

"What is it, Spike?" she whispered, one hand rising to caress his face gently. "What's wrong?"

He just shook his head, not answering for a moment, closing his eyes, before he looked up at her, a sort of worshipful wonder in his subdued gaze. His voice was soft, awed, when he asked her slowly, "Why...w-why are you doing this for me, Tara? H-how can you be so...so bloody kind...when I...I..."

Tara frowned, concerned by the train of thought he seemed to be on. "When you what?" she prompted cautiously. "Why wouldn't I...?"

"Because I bloody well brought it on myself, that's why!" he suddenly exploded, tears streaking his face as his shoulders shook with sobs, and his self-accusing eyes rose to meet hers. "I went back! I went back after my bloody stupid soddin' *coat*, and she -- she was w-waiting for me...and...and it was my fault, Tara! I -- I'm so -- so bloody stupid, Tara, and if I hadn't been such a stupid -- stupid *ponce* and just left it -- I'd have been long gone, and you and the Bit wouldn't be here, you'd be safe, and it'd all be different, and..."

Her gentle finger on his lips stilled his trembling, rambling attack on himself, and he looked back up at her, clearly expecting the anger he felt -- but that was not what he got.

Her eyes were full of compassion, as she gently ran a hand through his hair, shaking her head in quiet denial of his words. "Spike," she assured him softly. "Spike, Sweetie -- it's not your fault. You told me already -- she can track you with that mark -- you're safer if you're not alone, Sweetie..."

"But -- but *you're* not," he pointed out in a bare whisper, his eyes downcast.

Tara's eyes slowly widened, as understanding -- and finally, anger -- dawned on her, and she reached down a firm hand to lift his chin back up, forcing him to face her. Her eyes were blazing, and he tried to look away, but she would not allow it, studying his trapped, guilty expression.

"You didn't expect to get away -- did you?" she asked him.

He did not reply, his eyes rolling to the side as he struggled to escape the piercing knowledge in her eyes.

"You thought she'd catch you, anyway, didn't you? So why did you even leave? *Were* you even going to leave?" she demanded, shaking her head in confusion, and just a hint of betrayal at his secrecy.

"I -- I didn't want you to get hurt," Spike whispered miserably, as she removed her hand and allowed him to drop his gaze. "Tara, I'm sorry, I..."

"You listen to me, Spike, and you listen good!" Tara's voice suddenly took on an air of command, as she crouched down in front of him, looking up at him to meet his gaze, her soft gray eyes fierce and intent as she declared softly but unyieldingly, "I am *not* going to let you face this alone! That's not how this works. You're *not* alone anymore, Spike, I am your *friend*, and I will not allow you to just -- just give yourself up, because you think it'll be easier on *me*!"

"I'm sorry," Spike whispered desperately again, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Don't be," she gently cut him off, one hand resting comfortingly at the back of his head. "You are not the one who needs to be sorry, Spike. You haven't done anything wrong. Just know that this is not only your problem. You're my friend -- I *love* you, Spike -- and that makes it my problem, too. So don't try to shut me out of it, to protect me, because I *promise* you I will find a way back in!"

As she spoke, Spike's expression had softened with awe and gratitude, his eyes tearful as he met hers again over just the barest hint of a smile. "I -- I think I'm beginning to see that," he whispered, his mind going back to the moment in the basement, in which he had realized that she had come for him, and had felt his heart swell with relief, even in spite of his terror.

Tara blinked in surprise -- and then laughed softly, with him. "Good. You better, Mister," she said with mock warning in her voice.

The humor faded from her eyes, shifting back to concern and warm affection, as she leaned forward and wrapped her arms gently around him, just holding him close to her for a few moments as he raised trembling arms to gratefully hold her to him, his head buried in her shoulder as the last of his tears spilled themselves into the soft fabric of her blouse.

After a few moments, she helped him to dress, and they walked back to the bed together, climbing in and lying snuggled comfortably together, holding each other and taking comfort in the warmth, the closeness of their ever-deepening friendship. They had a few hours left in which to sleep -- and Tara finally felt as if she could, without the terror of her nightmares, brought back by Spike's recent ordeal.

She marveled again silently at the similarity in his experiences, and her own -- and then smiled softly to herself, in spite of the pain of the situation, at the merciful irony of it.

Suddenly, she was sure that whatever they had to face -- whatever burdens they had to bear -- would be easier with the weight divided between two.

It occurred to her, in the soft moments before sleep, that perhaps Spike was not the only one who had just been rescued.