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DISCLAIMER: All hail Joss Whedon, UPN, the WB, FOX , Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox Film Corporation. Theirs not mine.

Determined, Buffy strips off her clothes. After finding what she needs, she returns to him.
Pulling off the coverlet, she straddles Spike's body. Clenched in her hand is a sharp, small dagger.

She presses down on the wound in his chest, increasing the pressure steadily until blood blossoms on the white bandages. Getting no response, she slices her wrist, pressing the wound into his mouth.

At first there is nothing. Then there is a gentle, barely noticeable sucking. She feels him drawing her blood in. She knew he couldn't resist the blood of a Slayer. He nurses her wrist for several minutes, his features never changing.

Blood. With vampires, it's all about blood. She cuts a fine line across his shoulder. Buffy fastens her lips to the wound, sucking his blood into her mouth. Drinking deeply, her throat burns with the richness of it.

Images and feelings sweep over her in a torrent. Angelus embracing Drusilla, biting her neck as he fondles her breasts. Jealousy. Willow and Tara, looking lovingly into each other's eyes. Envy. Dawn talking animatedly, waving around a textbook. Tenderness.

She focuses on the images and feels a thread connecting them.She pulls hard on the connection, following it with her mind.

Suddenly, she is elsewhere. She is surrounded by darkness. A dim glow arises from a distant corner.

Buffy works her way towards it, stumbling and squinting in the dark. Feeling her way along the wall, she rounds a bend and sees a line of objects displayed on the wall, illuminated by candlelight.

A plastic box, its surface lightly traced with metal tendrils. Inside it is a pitcher, steadily pouring blood into a chalice. The stream is never ending, the chalice never overflowing.

A mirror, its surface flowing with moving images. She sees a slashing sword; a burning sun; a flaming cross.

A rack of weapons. Dried blood coats the tips of arrows, the blades of swords, the edges of knives.

A torch on the wall illuminates a display case of miniatures. Holding the torch, she bends close to see them clearly. Some of them look familiar. One looks like Willow. Several are smashed to pieces. One lies facing inward and she turns it over. It is her mother.

A flat panel of glass holds Dawn's image. It continually shifts, constantly in motion. Buffy continues to follow the light.

She knocks into a bookshelf that holds leather bound books with large gilded titles. Holding the torch close, she can make out a few. "Poetry" "Lore". "Magic." "Demons." "Music".

Rounding the last corner, she reaches her destination. She blows out the torch and tosses it aside.

She is in a chapel, a stained glass window filling the room with daylight. The walls are covered with growing vines of roses heavy with blooms, their fragrance powerful. Racks of flickering votive candles surround a low marble altar.

Lying on the altar, on a bed of thousands of rose petals, is she. Golden tendrils of hair flow over her shoulders. Clad in a pink gown, golden slippers adorn her feet, and a delicate crown tops her head. Her chest rises and falls, deep in slumber.

Kneeling in front of the altar is Spike. His head bent in supplication, his quiet sobs echo through the chamber. "I've lost you," he weeps, "I just keep losing you."

The truth of the situation hits Buffy. She is inside his fears, his desires. Somehow, she has trespassed into his mind.

"That's not me, Spike. That perfect, unattainable princess. That was never me."

He turns around to face her. Blood mars his temple and covers the right side of his face, dripping down his neck. 'How dare you?" he hisses. He stalks over to her, burning with fury.

Buffy stands her ground.

"Always barging in where you're not wanted. I want some peace, Slayer. I want to be alone," says Spike angrily/

Buffy smiles at him, and then slaps him across the face.

"Right. So you can just sit here feeling sorry for yourself, worshipping at the altar of your failure."

Spike raises his fist, swinging to hit her. She catches it, holding his hand in a steel grip.