Dear Penthouse,

You really won't believe this one.

I'm chained to the bed, waiting for my wife to come in...

It's about that time; the twilight he can see through a small slice of hallway window is fast brightening to daybreak. This glimmer, Xander figures, is the last daylight he's ever going to see in his life.

Good a place as any to paraphrase Cordelia: Of all the stupid things you've ever done, this is the last.

Last of a long, long list.

He knows he's drifting. He's lost time. He wonders if the others are looking for them. Doesn't look like anyone's going to make it in time. Not altogether sure if he wants them to.

Brilliant fucking idea. It had to be a secret. Nobody could know what happened to Faith, could know that he was keeping her. He'd bring her blood, make sure she couldn't get free to hurt anybody. It wasn't her fault what had happened to her. There was no fucking way in hell that he'd dust her, not after all those years of letting Spike walk the earth.

He'd done it once before. Dusted her. In a vision, of course, the first one the Hand of Imhotep had slammed into his head. Sure, it was just a vision, but he'd felt every bit of it as if he'd lived it -- remembered every bit of it as if he'd lived it. This wasn't a thing he could do twice.

So he darted her and chained her in a building he rented from a man who didn't ask questions. He reasoned with her calmly as she thrashed and hurled curses at him. And he stupidly trusted her clear-eyed entreaties the fourth night he came in to feed her. He only unfettered the one wrist, but that's all she needed. She swung the still-manacled wrist into his temple, and when Xander woke up, he was the one spread-eagled on the bed.

He doesn't know how long ago this was. He's faded in and out, usually comes back in for --

-- the things she does with her mouth.

She stretches her body alongside him, her cool skin against his. He misses her wild heartbeat after a night of hunting.

Sometimes she slides downward, and though he's appalled at how eagerly his body responds, he can't stop it.

Other times she sinks her teeth into his neck and takes him to the brink of death, and it's no less erotic.

She twines her limbs with his in the afterglow of both, declaring her love, spinning stories of their future once she's turned him, her words taking on even more power as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

He wakes in the dark and she's there.

It's the last time, he thinks. Next time he drifts, he's not returning.

"We can have forever," she's saying. "Would you like that, baby?"

He would like that, but he's too weak even to form the words. He doesn't realize she's unchained him -- how long ago was that? -- until she cuts her own wrist and lets the blood run onto his cracked lips. Then with a speed and strength he can't believe he seizes her arm in both hands and greedily drinks.

Her voice murmurs to him, crooning words he can no longer make out.

He's sorry he couldn't save her.

He's sorry he couldn't save himself.

He shakes off life like a wet leaf stuck to his shoe, in a hurry to go to her.