"Win, love, if you ain't gone down the drain in there, could you lend me an ear? Flip a coin for us: the catacombs under the Stanford mausoleum or the caves near Half Moon Bay? You listening, Fred? Fred?"

Fred clicked her phone shut. For the better part of the morning, she had been able to convince Spike that she wanted to take a long, hot bath, followed by an even longer shower. To shave her legs, paint her toenails and her fingernails, too, for good measure (even though she had only one bottle of clear nail polish to her name, she figured that guys- even undead ones - never noticed that stuff). Plus, she'd told him through the door, she decided to treat herself a home facial and a deep hair conditioning treatment. She thought she'd been pretty thorough, running water and letting it down the drain at realistic intervals. She'd even opened up that bottle of nail polish to let the fumes mingle in the air, although the smell sent her careening back to where she'd really been the entire time: headfirst in the toilet, retching up what felt like every meal she'd consumed in the past week.

Spike, though, could hardly be kept at bay for long, as his insistent knocking on the bathroom door showed. And now she'd promised them to Lorne for the evening. Better get this day started. She heaved herself up to standing.

"Be right out!" she trilled weakly, except she ducked into the shower, not toward the door. She still hadn't washed herself; honestly, she hadn't felt up for doing even that, but she had no choice now. "I can do this," she asserted quietly. A quick shampoo and sponge over, no biggie. Except…

"Oh God," she whimpered and turned the shower spray on full blast to mask the sound of her vomiting once again. Unable to leap out toward the toilet, she turned her head into the water and watched even more bitter, tea-colored bile spew from her mouth and splash onto the shower floor.

"Gross, oh, gross" she muttered. "Well, I guess there's no better place for it." She hurriedly scrubbed herself down, squeezing some extra coconut shower gel over the shower drain and swishing it around with her foot, hopefully washing the last of her sickness down with it.

Facing herself in the mirror would be an even bigger challenge. For although she had never figured herself for beauty pageant material, "rough" didn't even begin to cover the image she saw there.

The shadows under her eyes were so dark and deep, not even the best Cordelia-approved concealer could hide them, yet Fred would try. Circles this profound begged the question: when had Fred's sleepless nights actually started? She spun backwards in her mind to Buffy showing up, but it had begun way earlier. Shooting Leah and dealing with the emotional turmoil mixed with the anti-anxiety medications had impacted Fred profoundly, still, she could go further back. Living with Spike-as-a-spirit had caused a sleeplessness of a more pleasant, yet still anxious sort. But no. She hadn't truly slept peacefully since she'd become the reluctant laboratory head at Wolfram & Hart. Whatever had they done to her?

No - she checked herself. "What did I do?" To herself, to any of them?

Brushing her teeth hurriedly, she met her own sunken eyes and forced herself to assess the rest of the damage. Her complexion had gone to the sick extreme of pale, so milky, even translucent in its starkness that her veins seemed to stand out with an even starker contrast, crisscrossing over her chest and breasts in blue-tinged tattoos.

Hastily, she smeared the lightest of her foundations into her face and dotted her cheeks with apples of cream blush. Not to look painted, she persevered stubbornly, but to look, well, healthy. To resemble a fraction of the Fred that Spike had fallen in love with. Her eyes darted down to the rest of her body - knees knobbier, hips sharper, ribs beginning to assert themselves with more prominence. Her lack of appetite and all the vomiting had clearly taken its toll here as well.

"It can't be helped," she mumbled, and twisted a thick, white terrycloth bathrobe around herself with a shiver. She couldn't look herself anymore. And if she couldn't, however could Spike?

A surge of hopelessness and frustration overtook her then, and Fred hung her head with the weight of it. Fat, hot tears blurred her vision and threatened to wash away her careful makeup job so she managed a shaking breath and struggled to gain control. What a sweet luxury it would be to open the door right now and allow herself to utterly fall apart into the arms of the man she loved! To tell him, finally, how acutely, painfully ill she felt almost always, how concerned she had become about her nightmares, how frazzled she felt by her lack of restful sleep, how terrified to see the changes suddenly erupting all over her body. How deeply worried she felt about everything and nothing in particular, her indefinable fear like a constant beating pulse that had no source point.

Something (a virus, a parasite, a curse - maybe even a law liaison or, sure why not, yet another demon?) was getting its jollies rocking her to her core. Regardless of the cause, she wanted to cry her heart out to Spike, to feel the strength of his arms around her and hear him promise that he would make it all go away.

"I can't do that to him. Not again."

For that scared, trembling, sick girl had been the Fred that Spike had already lived with after she had pulled the trigger on Leah. Fred had fought against memories, emotions and drug side-effects with every scrap of force she could muster and for the past month, she and Spike had been living like a real, loving couple. With a job, a car, a home, and (blushing) a highly satisfactory private life. She'd recovered and he'd rejoiced, welcoming her health back with not a small amount of relief. So how could she bring them both back to him wringing his hands over her again?

"I have to work this," she realized with a frown. "Something could've been missed." It would mean returning to the lab at Wolfram & Hart - a place Spike hadn't wanted her to go back to at all. A place from which she'd just resigned. However could she get back there now?

Fred opened the bathroom door and a cloud of steam followed her. Spike had been pacing with a notepad in one hand and a unfolded map in the other, clearly in the far stages of "mulling." His face brightened into joy when he saw her.

"There she is! You're the cleanest kitten in town." He crossed the room to greet her and kissed her soundly on the mouth. "Mmm. Minty." He nodded toward their kitchen. "Coffee's ready."

"Uh, no," her hand brushed idly against her roiling stomach. "I think maybe I'll start with water."

"You sit. I'll fetch." He tossed down his paperwork to the coffee table and set off.

Fred eased herself into the couch, wishing that she could've gotten away with holding a cool, wet washcloth on her forehead. Spike had done that for her during her recuperation, when the meds had made her sweat. He always seemed to know what she needed before she did.

She glanced at his paperwork. "You've been busy."

"I have you to thank for that. Our talk last night made me think," he answered, striding toward her with an icy glass of water complete with seeded lemon slice. "What's tyin' us here to Los Angeles anyhow? You want to keep your eye on Connor, let's do it right. We'll go where he is."

"You wanna move away?"

He grinned and set the glass in her hand. "You look 'bout ready to go now, eh? Your pretty face all done up."

"What, I can't wear makeup and not go somewhere?" Fred retorted, feeling crankiness rise up in her like a fever.

"Sure you can," he replied patiently. "You just don't. You let me know when we're ready to leave and -"

"No Stanford today," she cut in. She took a sip of water and set it down on top of his map. "Sorry."

"No worries, this'll keep. I looked up an old mate from Sunnydale bunking near Palo Alto. He can set us up sweet wherever we fancy. Say what you will about the floppy-eared, they got a nose for real estate."

"Floppy? You mean," she swallowed. "A demon."

"A pretty benevolent sort, really. Think Lorne with less Vegas and more Pleasantville." He peered at her. "You all right?"

Fred sighed. "Do you ever get a little sick and tired of having just about every sentence come out of your mouth with the word 'demon' in it?"

Spike leaned over and squeezed her. "It's been a drain, hasn't it, always up against some nasty or another? C'mere." He pulled her onto his lap and as much as she tried to steel herself against him so she wouldn't break down, it felt so good to give in to him and be exactly where her heart knew she belonged.

"Think it's fair to say we played by the rules long enough. Now it's time to make our own. I'm a master of livin' off the grid. We did it your way, grinding down on the 9 to 5. How about we try mine?"

She held a hand up to his cheek. As much as she needed it, wanted it, something else nagged at her, something she could not ignore.

"Off the grid, huh?" she smiled at his hopeful grin. "Spike, you make it sound kinda magical. But," she traced his bottom lip with the tip of her thumb. "Somehow it feels like we're running away."

"Now you're gettin' it!" he laughed. "Got plenty to run away from here."

"You mean like Buffy?"

Spike's back tightened under her. "I got no need to run from the Slayer."

"From her investigation then, whatever that was? Spike, I heard her in Angel's office, last night. I meant to ask you about it, but then it was so nice with us at dinner, you know? I didn't want to ruin -"

"She can't ruin anything to do with us, don't you get that? Here." He nudged Fred off of his lap so he could stand before her.

Tight black shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets, bare feet wearing a path through their carpet. So beautiful was Spike in his intensity that she imagined standing up and leaving with him that instant. For Fred really wanted nothing more than to run far and fast with Spike, to forget all of them and never look back. No matter how right that felt, it also felt wrong, too. They would be leaving so much undone, so much that they were responsible for.

He stopped pacing and sat back down abruptly. He took her sweaty hands into his cool ones and bore his eyes deep into hers.

"Buffy's here because she's investigating me, love. I'm vamp with a soul suspected of killing a slayer."

"What? No!" Fred's eyes flew to his face in alarm. "Oh, you mean…" She swallowed hard and shook her head. "But you didn't. Spike," she grabbed his arm. "You can't lie, to make Buffy think you killed Leah. I'll talk to Buffy and I'll tell her the truth."

"No. Not ever. It's none of her or the Council's bloody business. I don't want any of that lot anywhere near you."

"But if it will make her go away…" she pleaded. "You do want her to go away, don't you?"

"Fred!" he gasped. "Yeah, more than anything!" He stroked her cheek. "All that with me and the Slayer got buried with Sunnydale. You gotta know that."

She leaned into his neck. "Then why? Why can't I tell her?"

"Because they won't ever be done with you," he shot back. "I can't let you do that, Fred. I can't have you rehash over and over, you putting a bullet into that murderous bint, just to satisfy their sick curiosity. Tell me it wouldn't kill you, hearing them try to make you doubt for even a second what you did or why you did it. Grilling you in their version of court not just once, but over hours…even days. Fred," he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "My sweet love. I would lose you. And I cannot ever lose you."

"You don't think I'm strong enough!" she muttered, pulling away from him. "I am not the damsel in distress! I am not some case -"

"I know that!"

"You don't, though! You won't even let me try! And in the meantime, Buffy's here! She's everywhere around us and she's not leaving until she gets exactly what she wants: the person who killed that slayer, or you." Fred shook her head. "I saw how she kissed you in the lab, remember? I'm starting to think she wants you to be the killer, just so she can take you away with her." Her eyes flew to his, feverish with frustration and panic. "And maybe you want that, too?"

"Never!" he roared, grabbing onto her shoulders. "Not since there's been you, Win, and never ever after."

"Then will you trust me to do this for both of us? Let me tell her, please. Spike," she rested her head on his chest. "You know it's really what I want the most. To tell someone."

"You're serious about this. Aren't you?"

She met his eyes. "As a heart attack. Here I thought I wanted to forget," she sobbed out a laugh. "But damn if I don't need a good confession."

He bit his lip and tried to match her attempt at a smile. "They're good for the soul, I hear. And you've got more of it than anyone I've ever known."

"Will I have to go to England? Stand trial, like she wants you to?"

Spike bowed his head. "There's a good chance of that. Yeah."

"Is there any way you could - ?"

"Try and keep me away."

And as if to put action behind the sentiment, he scooped her up easily into his arms and nuzzled her neck all the way toward their bedroom.

As he lay her on the bed, he gently eased his face up so she could look at him.

"Just, promise me, love. No gut spilling to the Slayer - of any kind - without me there, yeah? Reckon she means well enough but," he shook his head. "I won't take the chance with you."

"You can't protect me from everything, you know."

"The hell I can't."

"This needs to be over, Spike. And fast."

He flopped back on the bed and exhaled a huge sigh. "Ring her up now, then? Pack our bags and get our passports sorted - that fast enough for you?"

Fred shivered with a sick chill of intense dread. Although she couldn't wait for Buffy to be gone, Fred suddenly reeled from the thought that she could be whisked away on a jet to an immediate Watcher's Council tribunal, standing trial for murder in a matter of hours.

"Maybe that's too fast," she admitted. "How about…tomorrow?"

"Win, it's all up to you, love, can be the day after never for all I —"

"Tomorrow," she repeated, kissing him lingeringly, without a hint of chasteness. "I promised us to Lorne. He's expecting us later at Caritas."

"That so? Well, big night ahead of us, we need our rest."

She met his dancing eyes. "Definitely."

Spike brought her fingers up to his lips and kissed them. Stroking the beds of her nails, he cocked his head.

"Where'd it go?"

"What?"

"Your nails. The polish? You said —"

"Oh," she shrugged nervously. "I-I changed my mind and took it off." She leaned against him. "So you ready to tuck me in?"

"Us in," he corrected her, smiling at her for all the world as though he couldn't guess a thing was amiss. And maybe, Fred wondered wildly, if he believed it, she could, too - if only for a few precious hours.