He supposed he liked the way the silver light flowed around her, made her sparkle. The way she turned her face up to the moon, as if she could feel the sun in it.

So, every night, Spike pulled her chair over to the bedroom window. He sat on the floor, at her feet, back pressed against the wall. And watched her.

"Enjoying the view, Nibblet?" he asked, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

She didn't answer. Just sat there, still as a statue. Looking like a lost little girl.

Lost. He wasn't sure when he'd lost her.

Those first few days, everything was so… busy.

Well, he had to put on a show, didn't he?

"The Bit's gone missing? Bloody hell!"

And there was the search. Because Spike was always on hand when the Slayer's little sis needed looking for.

He hadn't been able to check on her often, or stay with her more than a few minutes at a time. Couldn't let the Slayer or her pals start wonderin' where he was. Askin' questions. Lookin' at him as the answer. Best they keep thinking something else was to blame for her being gone.

But he went as often as he could. With food. Candles to light the hole he'd stashed her in.

Concrete walls. Steel door. No windows. No lights.

It wasn't his fault! It wasn't like he'd planned on taking her. If he had, he would have found better.

She never looked at him, no matter how long he stayed. Never talked to him. Just sat huddled in a corner, staring at her knees.

She was giving him the silent treatment, he figured. Punishing him for his betrayal. It wouldn't last long. His Nibblet was too full of fire to keep her anger buried. Sooner or later, she'd lash out at him. And, when she did…

They were both going to burn.

Spike snatched the cigarette, still unlit, out of his mouth. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back to rest against the wall. He could almost feel it. Her tiny fists pounding against his chest. Slamming into his face. Fingernails raking across his skin. Her soft, lithe body struggling against his hard, cold one.

And the screaming…

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he reached for her. Wrapped his hand around her ankle, thumb stroking against her skin. It would have been so…perfect.

But, then, he found this house. Old. Long abandoned. A crack here and there, but still solid. Hidden by a grove of trees.

It was when he went to move her to her new home that he realized she was already gone.

"Come on, Bit," he'd said. "Time to go."

She acted like she didn't hear him. Still huddled in her corner, staring at her knees.

Spike clenched his teeth, frustration like ants crawling over his skin. He was tired of her silences. Tired of her pretending not to see him. Hear him.

Like he wasn't even there.

"Enough of this cold shoulder routine," he said, almost a growl. He stalked across the room. "Let's go!" He grabbed her arm…

And she lurched towards him. Like a marionette jerked on the end of a string.

Startled, he released her. And she sank back against the wall. Boneless. Lifeless.

Spike hunkered down in front of her. Eyes narrowed as he studied her face.

Her blank, expressionless face.

"Dawn?" he'd said, a hint of worry in his voice. Searching for a spark of life, of awareness, in her vacant stare. "Dawn!"

And, suddenly, he was shaking her, powerful hands grasping hard enough to leave bruises. Feelings coursed through him. Black ink, cold as ice, racing through his veins. Anger. Frustration. Disappointment.

Panic.

They wrapped around his dead heart like a fist. Squeezing tighter and tighter. Suffocating him.

He didn't mean to slap her. But the crack of his palm against her cheek echoed through the stillness of the room.

Her head whipped to the side, hair covering her face like a curtain. And she grunted once.

But that was all.

He took her head between his hands, hurriedly brushed the silken strands of hair away from her face.

Nothing had changed. Accept for the single drop of blood trickling from her lip, nothing had changed.

As the memory faded, Spike opened his eyes to the moonlit room. If he slapped her now, she wouldn't make a sound. She'd buried herself even deeper since then.

He looked up at her, thumb still stroking her ankle. All the bruises had faded, leaving her face a flawless mask, pale in the silver-blue moonlight. Eyes staring out the window at nothing.

He'd had her locked away, in a room with no windows. With a door not even a vampire, not even a Slayer, could break through.

And she'd still managed to run away from him.

Tossing the cigarette to the side, he stood. Taking her warm, limp hands in his, he pulled her to her feet. And she followed…like a marionette at the end of a string.

He turned her towards him, away from the window. And, as he had so many nights before, he rested his forehead against hers.

As the moonlight flowed around them, casting them in silhouette, the warmth of her breath fluttered against his cold skin.

That, at least, she couldn't take away from him.