"A little help here?"

Fred looked up from her computer, frowning. She could hear him making distressed little noises in the bathroom as she often could when he'd come back from hunting for the evening. They had a sort of silent pact between them that she didn't interfere, didn't ask what sunk its teeth in his arm or what stabbed him in the side, so that his body became a walking mystery to her. Scars and wounds appeared nightly that she never asked about. She just avoided them as she pleasured him, watched them slowly fade to nothing.

For him to call for her help... She gulped. He must've been dying.

"What is it?" she asked calmly, coolly, instinctively picking up a professional scientific manner even though her preferred science had been physics instead of medicine.

She leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, blinking at the bright light that lit up the white tile, creating a jarring glare. And it was looking at that tile that she noticed the droplets of blood.

"'m bleeding," Spike pointed out unnecessarily.

She looked at him where he sat on the closed toilet seat, clutching his side, a nasty purple bruise already forming around his left eye. And, as she looked more closely, she noticed that his black attire had fooled her for a moment, concealing the thick stickiness of his own blood.

"What happened?" she breathed in horror, stepping into the bathroom, feeling her stomach clench when she realized that something sharp and blood-soaked was sticking out of his arm. His thigh, too.

"Got in a bit 'f a scrape," he understated. "Could use some help getting the coat off, yeah?"

She nodded and didn't ask any more questions. She surveyed his wounds and concluded that if he'd been human, he'd have been long dead by now. "Is your left arm okay?"

"Right as rain," he agreed. But he still winced slightly when she pulled the leather sleeve off of that arm. There didn't seem to be any blood, though.

His right arm was an entirely different matter. She frowned at the blood and torn flesh, trying to decipher what she was seeing. "Is that an arrow?"

"Crossbow," he nodded.

She bit her lower lip. "I don't suppose you know if it was barbed?"

"Not a clue."

"OK, I'm not going to be able to pull it out until I know."

He nodded at her reasonable decision.

She pondered the problem for a moment. "I'm going to have to cut the shaft. Just a sec." She was surprised how calm she was as she dug the scissors out of the kitchen drawer. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey too, for good measure. She returned to find him half passed out, but she put the bottle in his good hand anyway. He was going to need it before the night was through...

With a quick cut, she severed the wooden shaft that protruded from his arm. The blood had completely soaked through the leather, causing it to stick to his skin in a gooey paste. He winced when she peeled it back from his flesh, but gave no other sign that he was still conscious. There was just enough give in his coat for her to slip it off his arm over the remaining portion of the arrow. Funny that she didn't think of cutting his coat any more than she would've thought of cutting his arm off.

Turning her attention back to the arrow, she frowned. It had struck at a deep angle. With a quick warning that this would hurt like hell, she tried to push it further in. The grating sound caused even her to flinch.

Spike was certainly awake now and moaning in pain.

"It looks like the bone stopped the arrow," she informed him matter-of-factly. "I'm not going to be able to push it through."

"You up for cuttin' my arm open?" he asked hesitantly.

"If I need to," she agreed. She looked down at his thigh. "That from the same crossbow?"

"Yeah," he agreed with a little grunt of pain, stretching his leg out so that she could tend to it.

"I'm gonna try this one first, then," she announced. Without asking, she cut off his pants leg.

"You wanted to get my pants off..." he began but was too weary to finish the innuendo.

She smiled slightly and examined the wound. This arrow had just barely stuck into his flesh. She had no trouble pushing it through, although Spike sure as hell swore up a storm. She was pretty sure he downed half the bottle right then. With an exclamation of triumph, she yanked the bolt from his leg, examining the tip.

"Non-barbed," she informed him gently as she washed and bandaged the wound on his leg. The bandages wouldn't help anything, of course, since he'd pretty much stopped bleeding – there were advantages to slow circulation – but they made him look that much tidier.

"Ah, good." His voice sounded tired and quite a bit more upper class than usual. "I wasn't looking forward to open surgery."

She set her lips in a grim line as she cut away the sleeve of his shirt. It was already ruined beyond repair anyway. "Take a drink and on 'three'."

He took a deep swig, finishing the bottle.

"One, two—" She yanked on two of course, and he howled in pain.

"You bloody, lyin' bitch!"

She smiled in satisfaction and dabbed at the arm wound. Felt a little sick when she thought she saw bone. "I'm going to have to stitch this up," she informed him. "I'll probably have to do your leg, too. If they don't heal right..."

"Nothing I haven't handled before," he assured her.

"If you want, I can try to find a doctor who will treat demons?" she suggested just to get that option on the table.

"Don't trust doctors. Always stickin' chips in your brain, or lyin' about takin' chips out, or bummin' off nests of Suvolte eggs on you," he grumbled.

She tried not to beam too much on the implication that he did trust her and shook off the rather strange references. She suspected he was a bit delirious by now. Probably drunk, too.

One good thing she had learned from Angel Investigations was always to have an obscenely overstocked First Aid kit around. Including thread for stitches. She'd done enough work on the boys back in LA to close up Spike's wounds quickly. Fairly small, neat stitches even. Without the danger of infection, those should heal up very nicely over the next couple of days.

She stripped him patiently, found more cuts and bruises, but all minor compared to the arrows. Whatever had gotten a hold of him to night had been nasty. She shuddered at the thought of meeting any such creature – creatures? – in a dark alley.

"'S the Schlayersh," he slurred, head rolled back against the wall as she wiped the excess blood from his body.

Kneeling on the cold, white tile, yellow sundress drenched in his blood, she looked up at him, confused.

"Ganged up on me, they did," he insisted.

A crease furrowed her brow. "Buffy and Faith...?" she began hesitantly.

He shook his head, wincing as if that motion caused him pain. "Other ones."

"Buffy and Faith are dead, then." The news was shaking even if she didn't care for either of the women enough to mourn them.

But he shook his head again. "Lots'n'lotscha schlayers now. Five of 'em jumped me. Swarmin' like antsh all over..."

Fred blinked. Now that just wasn't possible. "But there's only one...well, two..."

"Don't ask me. I just kill 'em," he grumbled.

She froze at that. Not surprising, now that she knew that something drastic had changed with the Slayer line. But still... Well, it certainly explained all the wounds he'd been receiving lately.

"So, yeah. Killed these, too. Nearly did me in, though." He gave her a challenging look as if daring her to judge him, to hate him.

She sighed softly. "Let's go to bed," she informed him softly, stroking his hair gently.

He frowned, looking incredibly puzzled by her actions. It was her words he responded to, however. "Not sure 'm gonna be of any good to you tonight," he admitted sheepishly.

She giggled. She couldn't help it. "I meant for sleep," she corrected him. "I wouldn't want you to exert yourself."

"Oh...right."

She helped him up, staggering under his weight and she half-carried him to bed. He winced and hissed with every movement, and it seemed like forever even to her before he lay on his side of the bed looking very badly beaten. She crawled in beside him, holding his good hand lightly in hers but not touching him in any other way lest she hurt him.

"I'll go to the butcher's as soon as they open in the morning."

"Appreciate that, luv."

She bit her lip, debating her next words. Finally ventured them quietly. "You didn't have to tell me, you know. I mean, about what happened...what you do at night..." She trailed off, unsure of how to express herself.

"I know," he agreed.

"Good." No words were needed, apparently.

"But I figured you deserved to know."

But words could still be so very nice...

More to come, and reviews are always appreciated. ~_^