Over the next few weeks, the vague concerns that Tara had held about the troubling dynamic that seemed to exist between the Slayer and the chipped vampire, began to intensify, as more and more troubling bits of information seemed to surface.  

First of all, there was the ever-increasing darkness that Tara had begun to notice in the Slayer's aura.

While she still made jokes with her friends and attempted to convince them all that everything was okay, Tara could tell that not all was right in Buffy-land - and had not been, truth be told, since her resurrection.  

Beneath the cheerfulness and light-hearted manner she made such an effort to display lurked a chilling undercurrent of hostility and deception.  

And as for Spike - well, the dramatic change in him was even more disturbing.  

Tara had always been more than a little intrigued by the vast array of colors that were usually visible in his aura.

As a soulless creature of the night, she would have thought that, if he had an aura at all, it would have been dark and oppressive. But Spike's essence had always been much more complex than that, filled with vibrant reds and yellows, and a large array of soft blue tones as well - with very little darkness, really.  

Until recently.  

A dark gray cloud seemed to have descended over Spike, blotting out the brilliant hues and making them appear faded, dull, and weak. Where before Tara had always sensed an air of carefree confidence around the vampire, now there was uncertainty and a deep sadness.  

Most disturbing of all to Tara was the unmistakable thread of fear that seemed to constantly surround him lately.  

And that was just his aura.  

Physically - the poor thing was a wreck.  

Most times she ran into him - which seemed to be less and less frequently lately - Spike appeared to be anxious and exhausted, jumpy, his nerves apparently frayed nearly to the breaking point. And almost always, he seemed to bear the marks of some recent fight - bruises and other wounds easily evident, although he seemed unusually self-conscious about them, attempting to conceal the injuries when he could.  

And shouldn't a vampire be more inclined to *flaunt* his battle scars? Tara wondered. If they *were* battle scars, that was.  

There was rarely a mark on his hands - which were often shaky these days, but rarely sporting the bruised knuckles that one would have expected, judging from all the other evidence of violence his body displayed.  

Tara steeled herself again with the thoughts of the mounting evidence of her suspicions, as she made her way through town toward Restfield Cemetery, reminding herself once more that if no one else was going to notice, or care, she owed it to the vampire to at least ask him if everything was all right.  

After all - he was the one who had finally revealed the truth about her, and freed her from the family legend that had kept her a prisoner among her own family.  

Yes, she decided, her jaw setting with resolution. It was far past time to pay Spike a visit.

   ****************************  

Spike didn't know how long he had been sitting there on the floor of his crypt - just sitting there, his back to the wall, his mind an exhausted, overwhelmed blank, as he stared into space through one freshly blackened eye.   The other was swollen shut.  

Finally, as he felt the haze of sleep coming over him, Spike forced himself to his feet, aware that if he did not get up now and get himself cleaned up, he would pass out where he was - leaving himself fair game for any nasty that decided to come calling while he was unconscious.  

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Spike reached up to grasp the arm of his chair and pull himself to his feet, faltering once or twice before he managed to gain his footing. He winced as he made his way to his bathroom with a painfully pronounced limp, favoring his right leg, which he was not entirely sure was not broken.    

"I don't have to bloody put up with this, Slayer!" he cried out defiantly, shoving her back a few steps in response to the violent shove that had slammed him into the wall. "You keep treating me this way, one of these days you're gonna come looking to scratch your little itch and find me good and gone, love!"  

Her eyes narrowed in menace over a challenging smile, eyebrows raised as she shifted in closer to him, grasping his arms and slamming him back again, pinning him there with her full strength and not allowing him to push her away as he had done before.  

"You gonna leave me, Spike?" she questioned, a subtle mockery to her voice. "Is that what you're saying? You're gonna leave me?"  

His manner automatically changed, as he detected the thinly veiled threat in her words. Still, he could not quite bring himself to back down completely - not so easily...   "I - I don't want to, Buffy," he relented slightly, his eyes nervously averted, his arms straining as they tested her powerful grip - and found it unyielding. "It's just - I don't wanna leave you..."  

"Well, that's good - 'cause I don't want you to," the Slayer replied in a dangerously soft voice - before drawing back her foot and delivering several vicious kicks in rapid succession to his bare legs.  

As often was the case during these little altercations, she had managed to get him undressed already, while she remained fully clothed - leaving him at a decided disadvantage.  

Spike bit back a startled cry of pain and tried to avoid the blows, but had no room to even try to move away, as she crushed his legs repeatedly between the stone wall and her sharp-heeled boot with the full impact of her Slayer-strength. She didn't stop until his legs were black and blue and most likely broken in several places, and he had nearly collapsed, her hands on his arms nearly all that was holding him up.  

"Please, Buffy - please stop," he pleaded in a voice that was nearly a sob, his eyes closed against the tears of pain that filled them.  

"Now - you won't be going anywhere for a while, will you, Sweetheart?" she taunted him softly, her cold jade eyes boring into his until he was forced to meet her gaze.  

Wide blue eyes full of fear and pain locked onto hers, as he shook his head, whispering in a trembling voice of quiet anguish, "No...no, Buffy, I'm sorry...I won't..."  

"No, you won't!" she snarled, shaking him hard against the wall. "Because you're mine, Spike! Do you get that yet? You...are...*mine*! And if you *ever* try to leave me - I'll dust you so fast you won't even get out the door! Do you understand me?"  

"Yes - yes, Buffy" he hurriedly agreed to her demand, desperate just to appease this terrifying, oppressive creature that his love had transformed into before his very eyes. "I won't leave - I'll never leave you..."    

Spike braced most of his weight against the stone slab that served as his bathroom counter, dipping one hand into the basin of water that rested on it and bringing it to his mouth. It was very cold, and felt good against the broken, bloodied flesh of his mouth; and he rinsed his mouth until the water he spat out was only faintly pink with the last traces of blood.  

He was grateful at the moment that he could not see his reflection; he was sure that he looked terrible, if the way he felt was any indication.  

With a heavy sigh of weariness, he stood up straight, attempting to leave the bathroom - and nearly collapsed, as a sudden wave of lightheadedness nearly took him to the floor. He stood there for a few minutes, trembling arms clinging to the counter as he struggled to remain upright, and regain his balance.  

The dizziness was just beginning to pass, when he heard the soft sound of his crypt door swinging open upstairs. His throat closed off with fear, his heart lurching - before he realized that it could not have been her.  

She would never have entered his home so quietly.  

*Someone - something - else...sneaking in, looking for a place to bed down for the night...or something to steal...*  

He momentarily considered going upstairs to defend what meager possessions he owned - and then laughed silently at the very thought.  

*You can barely move, mate - let alone fight...best lay low until they're gone...*  

He turned sharply toward the upstairs entrance, when he heard the soft footsteps on the upper level slowly approaching it - trying hard to focus on the sound, above the gradually intensifying roar behind his eyes...  

The next thing he knew, his legs had given out under him, and he had crumpled to the floor, his weakened, shattered legs tangled beneath him in a painful heap. He bit back a cry that would surely have drawn the intruder straight to him, as he made a pitiful effort to pull himself back to his feet again.  

When he only succeeded in nearly passing out again, Spike gave up, using his arms to draw his body back, fully into the little bathroom alcove, with no option left but just to hope that whatever was in his crypt would not find him there.  

*She may have done it to you this time,* he thought drowsily, the words fading in and out as his mind staggered along the edge between consciousness and unconsciousness. *She may have finally killed you.*  

If whatever was currently making its way down the ladder to his bedroom intended to kill him - there wasn't a bloody thin he could do about it, in the state in which she had left him.  

He was hovering on the edge of oblivion, his eyes closed, when he heard the soft gasp from just a few feet in front of him - recognized the soft, gentle voice.  

"Oh my God, *Spike*!"  

He could have cried with relief.  

As the soft-spoken girl crouched down beside him, placing an arm around him from behind, under his arms, and carefully hoisting him to his feet beside her, he heard her trembling, anguished voice whisper near his face, "Oh, Spike - your beautiful face! Who would have done this to you?"  

Spike could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to him with such tender concern - let alone called him beautiful. And the simple words of genuine compassion seemed to flow from Tara like second nature.  

No - for her, he knew, it was *first* nature.  

This time - Spike *did* cry.    

"You think you're so hot, Spike, is that it? You've got girls just lining up to be with you if you decide to reject *me*? *Me*! You think you're good enough to turn *me* down?" The Slayer demanded, enraged by his attempts to resist her advances.  

"No - no, Buffy, that's not..."  

His cautious attempt at explanation was cut off by a vicious slap across his face, before Buffy leaned in very close to him, snarling, "You're not! You're a filthy, ugly *thing*, Spike! You *disgust* me!"   Each word was spoken slowly and clearly, emphasized by her hatred and fury, to cause the maximum hurt and shame.  

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he tried again in a desperate whisper, tears streaking his face despite his best efforts to keep them back.  

His tears inspired nothing but further rage from the Slayer.  

Her fist came down across his face next, with the harsh command, "*Shut up*!"   She hit him twice more before calming slightly, leaning into his face with a cruel, angry smile, her eyes glittering with cold, sadistic pleasure in the hurtful words she was inflicting, words that she knew hurt far worse than any blow she had every dealt him.  

"I *hate* you, Spike. And I hate myself for lowering myself to be with you. You are a *disgusting*...*filthy*...*monster*...and you are damn lucky to get anything I decide to give you, do you understand that?"  

Spike nodded, unable to speak for the tears that choked him, his wounded heart whispering that she was right, he didn't deserve her, had never deserved her - why had he allowed himself to ever think that she might love him?  

This was all there was - all he could ever hope to have from her.  

And the worst part was - if this was all there was, he would take it, over having her walk out of his life.  

Spike had never felt so ugly before in his entire existence.    

Spike didn't realize that he had blacked out, until he came around to the soft sounds of Tara's soothing whisper.  

"Shhh...it's okay, Spike...it's okay..."    

He looked up to see that he was lying on his own bed, and she was seated on the edge of the bed beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other carefully dabbing at the broken skin beneath his eyes with a soft cloth.  

He had also not realized that he had been crying.  

He tried to sit up, pulling weakly away from her hand, as he felt his face heat with shame. He wondered anxiously, if he had been crying even while unconscious - what might he have said during that time as well? What had Tara heard? How much had she seen?  

"I - I'm okay, love," he managed to get the words out, though they were slow and slurred, as he struggled around broken teeth and bruised lips to speak the words. "You - you don't have to..."  

"Stop it."

Tara's voice was slightly sharper than he had heard it before - a no-nonsense tone that clearly said she had little time for his clearly untrue claims to be "fine"; she was far too busy trying to help him, to deal with his obligatory male posturing at the moment.

"You are very much not okay, and I'm going to help you - and since you can't exactly do anything to stop me, you'd better just get used to the idea."  

Spike really had no answer for that unexpected statement.  

He blinked at her in surprise, wincing slightly at the pain in his swollen eye - and studied her quietly as she hurried about his bedroom, gathering supplies, and then sat on the edge of the bed, carefully, gently cleaning and bandaging his many injuries.  

"It'll take you all night, Glinda..." He tried for a weak smile that never quite made it past his bruised, trembling lips.  

"Well, good, because that's what I've got." Her own attempt at a smile was a bit more successful than his, but still full of a deep sorrow that her eyes could not hide. "And it's not like *you're* going anywhere tonight."  

When he looked away, obviously embarrassed or troubled by her words, Tara frowned.  

"I'm sorry," she said immediately, her voice softening slightly. "I didn't mean - I mean, I know you've probably got plenty of things you could be doing - and where you go and what you do and - who you do it with - totally not my business...I just meant that right now, y-you don't exactly s-seem up to m-moving much, a-and - and I'm - r-rambling, aren't I? I-I'm sorry..."  

Her sudden self-consciousness hardly registered with Spike, and he did not look up. His eyes remained focused on the mattress between them, as his mind replayed the beginning of this hellish night, again and again.  

It had all started because he had not been here when she had come for him.

"Where were you?"  

He had stared at her for a long moment, torn between his desire to please her, and reassure her that he had not in any way been unfaithful to the strange, painful, quasi-relationship they had; and his heart's indignant cry that it was really none of her business, if she could not be bothered to claim him as her own publicly, to treat him like an equal, a partner, then what business was it of hers if he wanted to go out and shag a different vamp bint every night of the week?  

"Not really your business, is it, love?" His voice had come out terse and sharp.  

"No...I suppose it's not," she had remarked in a voice of mild, controlled surprise, as he had turned his back on her, going to his refrigerator to get his blood.  

That had been his first and worst mistake.  

She had been behind him in an instant, one powerful hand at his throat, choking him, while her other hand had twisted his arm painfully behind his back, and she had hissed in his ear in a furious whisper.  

"Not my business, huh? When are you going to get it, Spike? You are *mine*! I'm not gonna be sleeping with you if you're out whoring around with any..."  

"I wasn't...Buffy, I didn't..."  

"Shut up!" she had snarled, slamming his face forward against the corner of his refrigerator, and breaking his nose in the process, before slinging him around and throwing him to the floor, a few feet from the entrance to his lower level bedroom.  

She had reached him before he could even begin to get up, and grabbed his hair, yanking him up only as far as his knees. He stared up at her with wide, apprehensive eyes, as she glared down at him with barely restrained rage.  

The silence extended between them, a living, consuming thing.  

In that moment, Spike knew that she was still in control -- for now. She had the choice yet to make -- to give in to her rage, or to take it back in hand, and stop this now.  

He saw it when she made her decision, drawing back her free hand to backhand him hard, at the same moment releasing her grip on him so that he fell back to the floor, losing his balance.  

Her voice was low and dark and menacing, as she commanded quietly, "Get down there."  

And Spike knew at that moment how the rest of the night would go.    

"Spike?"  

He shook his head slowly, forcing himself to focus on the blonde witch as she gently turned his face to meet her eyes.   "Sorry, love -- what?"  

"I just said -- this is r-really bad, Spike," Tara repeated patiently, her soft eyes large and serious as she searched his gaze for answers to her questions.  

He was too afraid that she might actually find them to hold her gaze for long.  

"Yeah -- been worse," he shrugged, wincing when even that slight gesture was painful.  

And he wasn't exactly sure that it actually ever *had* been worse.  

"Spike -- don't try to play this down," Tara shook her head, a sad, mildly disapproving frown creasing her pretty features. "This is serious. Somebody really worked you over -- and left you here, alive. Which kinda gives me the impression -- *not* the work of the latest big evil, you know?"  

Spike became even more intent on avoiding her gaze, swallowing convulsively as he began to become aware of what it was that she was suggesting.  

"Yeah, well -- even some demons know how to show a little mercy on a bloke who's already down..."  

*Just the Slayer -- she's the only one that doesn't...*  

"Spike."  

Tara's voice was firm, authoritative, as she once again gently tilted his head up to look at her. "Kinda psychic here. You're not fooling anyone."  

His eyes widened with the beginnings of panic, as he asked in a trembling, anxious voice, "You -- you can read my thoughts?"  

"Not exactly," she shrugged. "I'm nowhere near that powerful -- but I *can* kinda get a feel for what you're feeling -- and I *do* know when you're lying. And I also know -- it wasn't any demon that did this to you."  

Spike tried to look away again, but she did not allow it, her piercing gaze boring into his as she requested in a gentle but firm tone, "Spike -- tell me what happened tonight. Who did this to you?"