Someday, some fuckin' day, I'm gonna catch a break.

Spike swore under his breath-an' the boy needs to stop askin' fuckin' questions about me breathin'. I do, deal, move the bloody hell on. Glancing through the leafy canopy, he searched for the telltale sound of Initiative soldiers clumping around.

They'd been almost home. Another hundred yards, hell, they could see the lights on in the house. He'd been turning to try and soothe the blast of fear coming from his boy, when the fear had turned into a different kind all together. "Spike, run!" Xander had hissed, pushing him with newly acquired strength into the hedges.

Spike had had a few precious seconds to feel a complicated of mixture of pride and offended rage-before he'd realized just why Xander had pushed him. Just fuckin' perfect, he'd thought before slipping away just as four heavily camouflaged men appeared on the street.

Two hours they'd been after him. He didn't think that they knew he was Hostile 17, they weren't being too fanatical about hunting him, but apparently it was a slow night and they wanted to meet their quota. Fucking wankers! I need to be home!

How pathetic was it that William the Bloody thought of the Harris basement as 'home'? But it was, at the moment. More importantly, it would have Xander in it, and he needed to be with Xander more than anything right now.

He had no idea what was prompting the feeling, but he knew that for some reason tonight was going to be bad. He needed to be there, not playing sodding cat and mouse with retarded government boys!

An' just what the hell are you gonna do? a tiny voice came from the back of his mind. He tried damned hard to ignore that voice, usually, but his fear and worry made it stronger. Can't fight humans, remember? An' the boy won't fight his parents, you know that. Spike did know that. The boy wouldn't fight, but he wouldn't leave, either, and Spike had yet to find a situation when he could force it. So what exactly can you do, besides what you've done? Gettin' there faster won't make it stop, and might get you caught by these soldier gits. That will surely do somethin', you bloody twit. Save your hide, then the boy's.

Spike growled to himself, cutting off abruptly when the bushes rustled a little closer than he'd thought they would. The soldiers were idiots, one and all. They had all the hi-tech gizmos a nerd could want, but since they didn't believe they didn't really know how to use them. So they were scanning their body-heat scanners through a forest, looking no higher than their own cotton-full heads.

Yeah, cause vamps, like white men, can't jump. Durin' the day we stay low cause there's the bloody sun above us. Hello, night, no sun! Oh, bloody hell. I'm talkin' like him. I need to hang out with Rupert a bit more, if only to get rid of this damned teenage Slayerette-speak.

He pressed closer to the tree, concentrating on showing up as merely a weird branch should one of the soldiers grow a brain and scan the tree-tops. They were being quite methodical, and they would have found him if they weren't so incredibly dense. How the hell the Slayer can date one of-no, wait, can see that just fine. After my rocks-for-brains Sire, soldier-boy'd be just about her speed, then, wouldn't he?

He didn't laugh, knowing that the sound might give him away. Total inability to understand the supernatural aside, these were competent soldiers and being cocky would give his position away. God, he needed a cigarette. He'd been smoking less and less. Couldn't let the horrible carcinogens near his boy, now could he? Gotta get that room set up. Later. Fuck this. I need to get soddin' home!

But there was nothing he could do, except sit and fume and wait and mentally urge the soldiers to give up and go away. They didn't. He was forced to change hiding places three more times before they finally caught a blip that wasn't him. Then he had to be very, very careful on his way back to the house, so they didn't notice him again and start the bloody-damned thing all over again.

Sod the Slayer for bein' so bloody diligent at her job. Couldn't she leave one or two beasties about for the government to play with?

He was a wreck, working himself up into a frenzy because he couldn't be where he needed to be. Normally, he'd be waiting in the basement, pacing to the sound of the telly until the boy finally came back downstairs. Then he'd usually suggest a massage or a movie, just so he could run his hands all over that golden skin and make sure that none of the injuries were too severe.

Most times, there wasn't. Bruises, yeah, but no serious amounts of bleeding-hell, most of the injuries wouldn't even scar. There were scars on his body, but the boy explained most of them away as Slayer-related-damages. Anya may have believed that, but strips across the back sure as hell didn't come from vampires.

Thin, though, an' I wouldn't have seen 'em if I didn't like touchin' him so much. Even feelin' 'em's hard sometimes. Which meant one of two things. Either it happened a lot time ago, or they weren't too bad to begin with. Spike wished like hell it was the latter.

He put all of his energy into stealthily keeping to the shadows, pausing every few minutes to listen and scent the air for sign of solider-boys. That got him fifty yards from the house, coming in the back way so he'd be able to see the boy's parent's precious barroom. It was where the two of them practically lived and that's where tonight's little event would be taking place. He paused against the trees that ringed the backyard, feeling jumpy and not understanding why. This isn't normal must-not-get-caught bollocks this is. . .

Blood.

He howled, shifting to demon-face so quickly it hurt, his body throwing itself to where the scent of his boy's blood was coming, thick and sweet.

And he hit the door, barrier firmly in place. No. Nooooo! Let me in, dammit, let me in! It's the same fucking house! Somebody invite me the fuck in! He's mine, you don't get to hurt him! Let-oh, fuck, Xander. . .

The door was open. They hadn't even heard him, it seemed like, and he had enough presence of mind to hide himself in the shadows. So he could watch. Just like he'd watched, unable to do anything, while Angelus had tortured Drusilla until she screamed for the pleasure-pain of it.

"His kidneys," a cool, collected voice was saying. Followed by a thump and a wheeze. "Face again, he's still too pretty. Not enough black." This time there was a crack with the thump, and Spike knew that at least the nose was broken. "Now cut his legs. More blood."

The father, drunk, shirtless, his pants undone and hanging loose around his beer gut, lumbered over to the wall and picked up a six inch long knife. He held it up for approval before going back to Xander, who was lying naked and spread-eagle on the pool table, and traced a thin line from hip to knee.

Then he turned back to the sofa and waited for approval. Spike felt the overwhelming urge to be sick-until he saw it.

It wasn't him, Spike thought numbly. That's why it was never that bad, before. It wasn't him.

It was her.

She was dressed in an elegant red floor-length dress, legs crossed primly and correctly as she reclined against the sofa, drink in hand. Her hair as obviously henna-dyed red, pancake makeup done too thick and too bright, with enough mascara and eyeliner to give her two black eyes in her overly pale face. She was trying for classy, elegant and sophisticated. The result was cheap, unattractive, and utterly pathetic.

"Tony, he's not hard anymore. He has to be hard, otherwise, I don't get to play." She pouted at her husband, batting heavily encrusted eyelids coquettishly.

Spike threw up for the first time in over a hundred years.

"Of course, Jessica," her husband mumbled, going back over to Xander. Constantly glancing back to the couch for approval, Tony hauled his unconscious son up by a choking grip on his neck and backhanded him. The pattern of bruises on his cheeks indicated this was not the first time this had happened.

"Wake up, y'little fag!" Tony spat. Spike could smell the alcohol from the doorway. "Come on. Wakey wakey. Mommy wants t'play!"

Oh, god. Oh, Xander, luv- His back was a mass of red and black strips. Traces of a whip, but other things too, like a belt or a pool cue, or hell, even the crowbar he saw propped against the wall. Where there wasn't blood, there was black, and overlaying it all was puss from skin ruptured beyond a simple break. It went down, over his buttocks, along his thighs to mid calf. His left leg was broken, the skin distended from the pressure of the bone against it. His right arm was dislocated, hanging uselessly.

There were no knife marks on the back, but as Tony moved around Spike caught a glimpse of-

Drusilla loved knives. She loved the feel of them, pressing into her skin, the white hot pain flaring along the path it traced. She used to take the knife and try and draw pretty pictures with her skin as the canvas and her blood as the ink. It had taken years to convince her that no, Angelus didn't like that little habit of hers, and she could stop now. Really, Spike wouldn't mind one bit. If she wanted to draw, he was more than happy to find real parchment and ink for her. She could even use blood, he didn't give a damn so long as it wasn't her own.

Tomes had been written in that beautiful, golden skin. Some of the cuts were long and loopy like classical script. Some where short and stubby. Circles, triangles, unnameable designs and doodles, he had become their notepad for them to create upon with absent interest. And those were the ones deep enough that Spike could see them. There was so much blood that it became impossible to figure out where all the individuals cuts had been made.

Oh, god. He didn't have a lot of time, if he wanted Xander to make it out of there alive. Humans had a lot of blood in them, more than most knew, but what skin he could see was pasty, with a blue-pallor underlining it that Spike recognized from his unchipped glory days.

Tony shook Xander, making the boy's head loll so that Spike could see his face. It was unmarred compared to the rest of him-black eyes, split lip, broken nose, and a shallow cut above an eyebrow. But Spike could see the dark, wet slits that were supposed to be his eyes.

Even-even if he wakes up, he won't be there. Body'll move, sounds'll come out, eyes'll blink but. . . but nobody's home.

Spike felt tears prick his eyes, suddenly understanding what he damned well should have before. All his time with Dru, and he'd never even guessed that it was more than a typical drunken father, beating up on anything convenient. This was torture.

They must-must've started when he was little. S'why whenever he's scared or upset, he-fuck, he regresses to the last time. The first time. When it wasn't safe for him no more. What had happened? How old was he, when his world got turned upside down? Gotta-gotta get him out of there. Please, oh, fuck, I'll beg, I'll owe, don't care so long as he's. . .

"Tony." The attempt at elegant nonchalance was waning under her increased impatience. And the gallons of alcohol she must have consumed. "Tony, you are thoroughly incapable of satisfying me. You have informed me that our son, our precious baby boy, is gay. Therefore, it's our job to teach him the error of his ways."

She got to her feet, stumbling over to the table. Gesturing to it, Tony instantly complied and draped Xander back over it. She reached over to gently run her hands along the only totally unmarred skin he could see, although it too was drenched in blood, right above where his public hair began. "And since you are so incapable of satisfying me, we'll fix two problems with one act."

Spike felt sick again.

"Alexander? You need to wake up a little, honey." Her voice was soothing, gentle, the way a mother's should be. "Come on, Alexander, that's right. Open your eyes for mommy. You've been very bad, haven't you? Please, Alexander, you have to try. You'll try for me, won't you? You know how much it hurts me to have to punish you. But you shouldn't make us mad like that. I can't always control your father." She gave her husband a warm, sharing look, which he returned with an unsteady smile.

Sighing, his mother climbed over the table to straddle her son. Then she rocked. Xander's eyes popped open and he gasped, trying to inhale. Jessica wasn't as skinny as she pretended to be.

"Sweetheart, there you are! You disappeared on us. Silly. Now, your father told me the strangest thing. That he saw you go into your apartment downstairs with another man. Is this true, Alexander?"

Xander just blinked at her, mouth gaping as he tried to breathe.

His mother tsked, shaking her head like he had vehemently shouted defiance in her face. "You know how your father feels about faggots, Alexander. And no son of his is going to be one. Is he." It wasn't a question. "So, we're going to play a little game with Mommy."

Eyes gone totally black with shock blinked and rolled wildly in their sockets-and Spike saw his chance. That's right, Xan. Come on. Wake up, just a little bit more. Invite me in. Please, please, invite me in. He still had no idea what he was going to do; the chip was already sending out warning bolts, triggered by the horrific deaths he was planning for Mr. and Mrs. Psycho Bitch.

But he'd do something. He had to.

"Sweety, you want to help Mommy, don't you?" Blearily, Xander nodded. It was a rote response to the tone of her voice, Spike could tell, with no awareness of what was actually being said. "Well, Mommy doesn't want to have to watch Daddy beat you anymore. He's so rough, isn't he? I sometimes wonder if he's a shirt-lifter as well."

Tony's face turned blotchy with rage, but he didn't make a sound to contradict his wife.

"You aren't going to be bad anymore, are you Alexander? You aren't going to make us angry anymore? You want to be a good boy, don't you." And she shimmied a bit so that she was positioned correctly, eyes half-closing with pleasure as she began to rock again.

Fuck it all. He's mine and I bloody well want in! "Xander!"

He never like all the gypsy tricks that Dru was fascinated by, but that didn't mean he was adverse to learning a few that could help him. One was the Voice of Command or some poncy, erudite cock of a name. Basically, it meant a voice that certain people would be hard-pressed to ignore. Xander shouldn't be able to ignore it now. I'm his pack-leader, he's my bloody pack. Work, dammit. Don't fuck up on me now.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris jerked up to stare at the snarling, animal-like figure they hadn't noticed in their normally secluded backyard. The tall trees Spike had forced his way through had always acted as protection against prying eyes and sensitive ears, which meant they usually kept windows and doors open.

"Xander!" he tried again, this time resulting in the boy's eyes tracking towards the door and focusing-mostly-on Spike. "Invite me in," he commanded in his most authoritative voice.

Cracked lips moved instantly, and a hoarse, barely audible voice managed to get the words out. Barely.

It was enough.

Spike was through the door in a flash, heading towards Jessica. Tony gave an inarticulate yell when he finally got a good look at his son's boyfriend-pronounced ridges, incredibly long, sharp teeth, yellow eyes. Spike got right in his face and snarled. Tony turned tail, and ran.

Right. He was easy. Now for the-well, mebbe not. Jessica was staring after her husband, a look of stunned shock. "He left me!" she screeched suddenly, shock clearing away and leaving-

Madness.

Dru on her worst days, combined with the rage and calculated skill of Angelus. She was the most dangerous creature he'd ever met, worse than the Scooby girls when they all got their monthlies at the same time.

"He left me! Tony!!"

"Yeah, he did," Spike told her. "Too bloody bad." Steeling himself, he let fly a decent right hook that cut her right along the jaw line. She dropped like a stone.

Then he dropped, the chip overloading his brain. No, dammit. I'm tryin' t'help him, f'r chrissakes. Let me up. Gotta get him out of here, gotta get-Christ, pet, you need a doctor. You need-oh, fuck, I should've been here!

He was crying, he could feel the wetness on his face, but he didn't care. He forced himself to move despite the spasms, fighting through the pain, because he could. Xander couldn't. Using the pool-table as a lever, he got to his feet. "Xan?" he croaked out. "Xander? Xander, luv, wake up. Please wake up? You-oh, Jesus, what have they done to you. . .?"

The tears came faster now, sobs he couldn't give voice to building in his throat. Xander was unconscious. Blood still sluggishly seeped from the wounds, but Spike felt no desire to taste the fresh, hot human blood before him. His demon continued to howl in rage, but it wasn't because of the smell that hung so heavily in the air. It was directed at the prone woman who lay sprawled on the ground and the man who had run the minute something bigger and stronger had shown up.

The chip crackled every time he touched his poor, broken boy, and he knew carrying him was going to be hell. Deserve it, he thought stiltedly as he covered the hideous sight with his duster. Shoulda been here. Shoulda stopped it. Pack-leader's supposed to protect his pack an' I. . . I let the ruddy Initiative run me around town. Knew they were gonna hurt him, but just a beatin' yeah? The kind y'kin bounce back from not. . . oh, god, not this.

He sobbed as he gathered up his boy, cradling the still form against his chest. The heartbeat was so slow, so distant now. Not the pounding sound that lulled him to sleep every night, making his own dead body pulse.

Can't die. Dammit, you can't die, I haven't-don't have permission, Xander, you have t'ave that. "You hear me?" he demanded as he stumbled outside. Every twitch hurt, the chip working overtime for the pain he was inflicting on his boy. Take it from you, if I could. "You can't die on me. You're fuckin' not allowed! Hear that? You're mine Xander, and you aren't allowed. . . can't die. Please, god, don't let. . ."

He wanted to run, but he was pretty sure that the chip would not understand why he was creating so much pain and melt his brain right out his ears. And he couldn't do that. He had to get Xander help.

His nightmares would forever center on the moment he stepped from the house. Streets dark and quiet, without even the normal demon population up and about on their own business. Hardly any noise at all, except Spike's unconsciously harsh breathing and the shallow, pained sounds coming from the body in his arms.

The cold white glare of street lamps confused him, making the world a frightening mix of comforting dark with cold impersonal splotches of light which blinded him as he walked. He couldn't tell where he was, or where he was going. He didn't know where he was going, he didn't know anything, except that he had to get help. He had to or his boy was going to die, and he couldn't because Spike wasn't ready to let him go yet. Not ever.

And then he was at a door, staring blankly at the place his feet had taken him without any input from the circling wreck that was his mind, still sobbing in fear and hardly able to stand from the pain. He wanted to knock on the rich red wood-Red? How can I see reds in all this damned washed out light?-but that would mean letting go and he couldn't do that, he couldn't ever do that. Xander was his and he never let go of things that were his, not unless they wanted to leave and this one didn't, he couldn't, and he wasn't going to go now because Spike wasn't going to let him and-

"William! Bring him inside. Quickly, now."

"Yes, mum," he answered, stumbling dazedly through the doorway into comfortingly dark room. "Mum, he-god, Xan-he-"

"Follow me." Cool, dry fingers rested on his elbow, guiding him through a maze he could hardly see. Even superior vampire night-vision had difficulty penetrating the inky black pools once they left the front room. Up narrow, rickety stairs and Spike struggled not to fall and bang his precious load.

He sniffled and sobbed as he followed, uncaring that someone else was seeing the Big Bad reduced to a quivering ball of terrified mush. Nothing mattered except the boy he held. Nothing.

"Here," she directed, leading him to her bathroom. A lion-footed bathtub stood proudly in the middle of the floor. "Put him in there."

No. Won't let go, can't, he'll leave, he can't leave, he'll go away and leave and-

"William." Light flared in the corner, bathing the room in a dull golden glow. Spike snarled, blinking at the sudden change, instinctively ready to defend what he could never truly protect. Song Li stood by the light, regarding him solemnly. "You came to me for help, correct?"

"Yes, mum." One day, when he could think in straight lines again, he was going to rip his jaw off before he came to see this infernal woman again. His answers felt pulled out of him, even his accent was changing, gaining more polish and less volume, just to show that much more respect. "Can-"

"If you came to me for help, young William, then you should allow me to do so. Yes? Place him here. You may remain close by. But do not interfere and do not touch him."

Not-not touch? But. . . no, I have to-the heat an' thump an' the skin an'-I have t' be there an'-

The hands were warm, this time, as they lay along his face, framing it as they forced him to look into dark bottomless wells. This, this was why people thought she was a demon. Lights pricked in the depths of those huge eyes, and he knew he could not refuse her. "Put him down, William. Please."

"Yes, mum." He eased his boy into the marble tub, trying to keep his movements slow and steady. One trailing sleeve of his duster caught on an edge, jerking the leather and making the boy convulse. "Shh," he soothed, crooning quietly while he got Xander completely within the tub's walls. Kneeling on the floor, he stroked blood-matted hair. "S'alright, luv, shhh, s'okay now. Safe now, pet. Promise it's safe." Sobs choked him and he heard his voice breaking. He didn't care, so long as Xander was okay. He had to be okay. "I'm here, Xander. I-I'm here."

"He knows." Song Li moved beside him, dark eyes flickering over what the duster revealed. "Please, allow me to do what you asked of me."

"But-I didn't-I mean, I'm grateful, but-"

"I told you, young William." She held a jar, larger than her head, that glowed with eerie green light. Shaking it three times, she opened it and poured the goopy fluid into the tub, and then ran the water. The green fluid mixed with the water, thinning and spreading to cushion and cradle. The scent of jasmine fill the room. She dipped a cloth into a bowl on her left, carefully washing away the blood and dirt. "You are welcome here, any time. That is what I said, yes? Do not think I would have issued such an invitation if I believed you would take it lightly." She gave him a sideways look, but Spike barely noticed her. He was entranced by the sight her gentle cleaning revealed.

It was worse without the blood to cover it.

"You are fiercely proud, William the Bloody, called Spike. It pains you to ask others for help. Yet, you will force yourself to survive when odds are heavily against you. I had thought it would be you who would be carried here, near true death. While I am pleased that you are unharmed-"

"It should've been me," he interrupted in a harsh whisper. Distantly, he was aware that interrupting Song Li while she tried to impart wisdom was a bad idea. Except-"It should've been me! I can take it, hell, lived through enough of it with Angelus. But he. . . he's just a human. Just a fragile-it should've been me."

He began to rock, back and forth, on his knees as Song Li attempt to fix what he had allowed to be broken. He watched, face empty and aloof, as she finished cleaning. The green mixture in the tub seemed to aid her, sucking out blood and pus before she got to it, and acting as a buffer between the hard sides of the tub and the tender flesh of his boy.

Examining the results, she went over to a wooden cabinet and began pulling out towels, needle, thread, wooden strips, and an assortment of bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

She set the broken bones and pushed in dislocated joints, displaying a raw strength that Spike would later wonder at, using the wooden strips as splints. She scooped out a dollop of blue-colored salve and rubbed it from head to toe. She did not explain what she did, as many healers seemed to prefer, simply doing what needed to be done. Once three separate ointments had been worked into Xander's skin, she took needle and thread and began to stitch each individual wound.

It took hours.

There were hundreds of them, and each one, no matter how small or shallow, was closed with thread that shone gold in the faint light. She stitched and sewed, her face impassive as she worked. Once that was done, she took the same three unguents and mixed them, coating her hands thickly with the result. This she worked into Xander with hard movements, as if she was pushing it through the epidermis into flesh and blood and bone.

"Tilt his head back." The words made him start. Hastening to obey, Spike tilted his boy's head so that the jaw dropped down. "Keep him steady. He must drink all." She hesitated at the look in Spike's eyes. Spike wondered what it was she saw. "There is internal damage. Naught is overly serious, but his kidneys bleed. This will seal the wound. That," she gestured with her chin to yet another vial, "will help replace the blood he has lost, but I wish it to stay within his veins, and not leak out over organs that do not need it."

Song Li got to her feet and then paused, face pensive. Sinking back down onto the mats that surrounded the tub, she handed him the bottle. "He is yours," she said simply. Then she looked mischievous, "And why you have not used what I have given you, we will discuss later."

Use what she-don't know, don't care, gotta stop the bleedin'. There was blood in more than just his kidneys, but Spike suspected that she didn't tell him that for fear of driving him into a rage. He could feel it, simmering and thickening inside him, but right now it was unimportant. Right now was for his boy, his precious, lovely boy. That was all that he could concentrate on.

He stripped, uncaring if Song Li got an eyeful-although he suspected that she had turned away-and slid into the tub. Oh. That's. . . nice. Whatever this green stuff was, he wanted some of it for later. It wrapped around his whole body in a tingling warmth that was incredibly soothing. Comforting. Almost womb-like, although the part of him that remembered how to be a snarky bastard mocked him for thinking that.

Settling himself in the center of the tub, Spike pulled Xander to him, holding him the way mother's held their children to nurse. Dark head resting on his shoulder, balanced by the crook of his elbow, for a moment he cold do nothing but touch his boy's face in wonder. The nose had been set-the break had fortunately been clean-but the bruising made him look like he'd gone several rounds with a prize-fighter. Tears threatened again, but Spike pushed them away. He had to help Xander.

Picking up the vial, Spike placed it at cracked, puffy lips. "Got somethin' for you, luv," he said, hoping unconscious-Xander wouldn't hear the waver in his voice. "It's good, y'see? You-you gotta drink it, okay? It'll make it better. Can you do-" Sweety, you want to help Mommy, don't you? He shuddered, and when he spoke again emotion made him rough and hoarse. "Xan, pet, will you drink this? Don't have to. Won't make you. But it'll help, make you feel-make you better. Will you drink it?"

No response, but Spike wasn't expecting one. He tilted the vial, letting a little of the liquid slid into his boy's mouth. No gagging, which was good, but no swallowing either. He shifted positions slightly, allowing Xander's head to loll back so that the liquid would be forced to move, and stroked Xander's throat.

"That's right, luv," he crooned, his voice low and rumbling in his own throat. "S'all right, precious. S'just me, just Spike. Won't hurt you, luv. Swallow now, that's right." Throat muscles worked under his fingers, and when Xander opened his mouth again there was silver on his tongue. " That's my lovely boy. Here's the rest, now."

It took a while for the first vial to go down. Spike just held him, wishing he could run his hands all over his boy the way he did every time they showered, just so he could feel whole healthy human under his hands. Knowing he couldn't now, that it would do nothing but hurt.

He didn't know when he started rocking, or crooning, humming some old lullaby under his breath, eyes never leaving his boy. Mine, he thought softly. Always mine.

A touch on his arm startled him, but he forced himself not to tense. Xander would know, can't let him worry. "Here," he was told, the second vial pressed into his hand. "All if it. I will prepare a room."

Room? The thought was dazed, most of his attention on getting that beautiful throat with it's bobbing adam's apple to swallow. Room. Gotta get that set up. Not lettin' him go back. Gotta get everythin' ready for him. Keep him safe. . . This vial finished as well, and Spike could immediately feel the heart pumping stronger, the skin warmer.

Something hard and cold uncurled in his gut.

Tears came, again. The sound of a door shutting, and then he was lost in it, consumed by it. His failure. His impotence. His fear and worry and-god, how they hurt him. Never again, luv. I swear it, as a vampire in the Line of Aurelius. I will never let you hurt like this again. He wept for the shame of what had happened and for the beautiful, sweet boy he held, who never should have felt such agony.

It must have been an hour before Spike was able to raise his head and take in his surroundings, but it didn't feel that long. He still ached inside, unshed tears still made his throat tight. But the liquid around them, while still warm, was not as warm as it had been before, and he couldn't allow Xander to become chilled.

"Mum?" he called, knowing that she would not have gone far.

He felt useless as Song Li dried the boy. Following her down the hall, he realized they were above her store, in the tiny apartment she lived in. He wanted to thank her, to worship at her feet for what she had done, even though he had no idea if his boy would even open those laughing eyes again. He couldn't, the words stuck behind a lump that would not go away.

Entering a tiny spare room, Song Li directed him to place his burden on the pallet of cushions and mats that she had created. As Spike obeyed, she busied herself by lighting what felt like hundreds of candles. Spike eyed them nervously-vampires did not enjoy having too many about, especially in a place that seemed entirely made of wood.

Then the smell hit him and he relaxed, unable to stay tense with cinnamon and jade, roses and lavender swirling around him, filling his head with peace and comfort. He sagged near the pallet, hands stealing back to hover over the steadily breathing form, afraid to touch.

Song Li placed her hand atop his head, mumbling something. "There," she said. "Join him, for he needs you to rest. You will not hurt him."

He looked up at her, amazed that she-and then he was sliding underneath heavy down covers, cuddling against the warmth and softness that shouldn't have cool, hard lines running all over it. His voice returned suddenly, abruptly, and he began humming, crooning out lullabies he'd sung to Drusilla when she became lost in the fragmented landscape of her thoughts. Then, later, he reached for older melodies, found in distant memories of cool white hands, yellow fabric, and a face he could not remember who sang and whispered that it would be all right, William, it would be all right.

*****

TBC...