"Spike— Oh my God. What is that?"

Xander hated that she could look that way—so frightened and defeated—over Spike. She who, however altered by death, was the dearest and most deserving of women, she deserved to be loved and looked after by someone as good, as full of heart, as she was. Xander had once thought that might be him, but that was so long ago now, the notion evoked only amusement. Buffy needed someone so much better than he could ever be. She needed to hold out for that man, who had to be out there somewhere, who would find her in time. If she didn't throw herself away first, on ....

"It was me, beginning to burn."

"Wha-at? No, no that doesn't happen again! Spike—you were supposed to be waiting for me."

"Thought I'd better not."

"Xander was telling you a lie. You didn't rape me."

"Remember doin' it."

"You—what?" She'd been fluttering over him, but when he said that, Buffy stood back. "What do you remember?"

He looked up at her, still with that blanched inexpressive look, like he was a million years old. All passion spent.

Unlike him, really. Xander noticed that much.

"Want to know why you don't remember it too."

"Because it never happened."

He frowned. "In the hospital loo, came to me. How I forced you. Hideous it was."

"You tried to. That's all."

"Was in a loo that it happened, wasn't it? An' that's why you got so upset, back at that house, when I followed you into—"

"No!" She rounded on him then, getting up into his face. "Xander, how could you do this? How could you lie?"

"Didn't think I was."

Her gaze was harrowing. A kind of disappointment that could disembowel. "Really? Then I guess ... I guess I don't know you as well as I thought."

"Buff, c'mon. Even if, that time in your house, he didn't complete ... didn't he force you, over and over—against your will. It had to have been. You wouldn't consent to ...."

"Xander, I don't deny that our affair at the time was ugly. But it was consensual. I thought you had that clear, but I see you don't, so hear it now. It was consensual then, and it's consensual now."

"How can it be, when he's practically a vegetable?"

The old Spike wouldn't have let that pass without at least a loud exclamation, but there was nothing from him, just a strangled squeak from Buffy.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you so determined to interfere with my happiness? Is it really just because you have none of your own? Is that the kind of person you've turned into?"

Behind her, Spike lurched to his feet. Paused for a heartbeat, swaying a little, then darted, swift and silent, towards the kitchen. Xander knew where he was going. And all he'd have to do was keep Buffy distracted for another minute while Spike got up the tower stairs, and then they'd have all the time in the world to hash out their attitudes to the return and self-inflicted dusting of William The Bloody Fuck.

Just another moment, and he'd be gone for good.

"Awww, Christ. Spike, don't—!" In trying to vault over the back of his chair like some football tackler, Xander overturned it, going down hard on his knees. As he scrambled up he heard Buffy cry out, the sound echoing off the narrow battlement stairwell, followed by a crash as she and Spike tussled to the bottom.

When he reached the kitchen himself, Spike was on the floor, and Buffy was sitting on him.

"Xander, tell him you lied."

"I ... yeah. Okay. You didn't rape her. But only because Buffy is the slayer, and she kicked your—"

"Xander."

"It was a lie. I lied. Buffy told me at the time that there was no rape. She'd told me since that she forgave you for the whole thing."

Spike craned his head to look at him. "Then why do I remember it?"

Buffy said, "We fought that night, it was bad, and yes, you tried, and I resisted. But you stopped. You stopped and left. Why can't you remember that?"

"Just get ... flashes an' bits ... but know what they mean."

"You don't know what they mean."

"Makes no sense, you wantin' me. Let me up, will you?"

"Not until you stop talking crazy. Xander, help me."

Help you with Spike. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but Christ Almighty, there she was, Buffy, at her wits' end.

"Spike, think you've lost your window on burning. Now Buffy's back. Anyway, suicide is what cowards do. You ... you're a lot of things, but a coward was never one of them."

The vampire stared at him. Didn't struggle. The stare unspooled, unbroken, but less and less specific as Xander forced himself not to writhe beneath it. Until it was as if some switch inside Spike had flipped; he was far far away, lost in his own depths; the stare might've been the glassy unseeing eyes of a dead man. They waited; Buffy leaned in, her face above his, hair dangling to brush Spike's cheek. She gave Xander a glance, What is this?

Who knew? No point checking his breathing.

Then Spike's body rattled, as if in a wind gust. He fanged out, straining.

Xander darted forward. "Buff—"

She was already braced on him, holding him down at the shoulders. She made no other move, neither offensive nor defensive. Spike was breathing now, the air whistling through his fangs.

Lifted his arm a little. "Hurts like a bloody bitch—"

Buffy got to her feet. "Let us bandage it then."

Spike sat up slowly. Xander thought: Us?

"I should really go."

"Not until you help me fix up Spike's arm."

"Willow's better at—"

"You are the one who's here."

So he found himself, once again, following Buffy Summers' orders. Getting out the first aid kit. Removing dressings from their sealed packets while Buffy led Spike to the kitchen sink, washing the blackened hand. None of this really necessary for a vampire. He'd heal. Spike always fucking healed.

How did he do it? What was there to continue for, Xander wondered, when you knew you were just bad?

"Xander, please heat up some blood. It's in the freezer."

While his back was turned, she spoke to the vampire, in a gentle murmur, as if he was a small child. "Your bumpies are up ... is that because it hurts less that way?"

"... I ... reckon. Try to—"

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to smooth some stuff on your hand, it'll feel better in a few minutes."

"Buffy—"

"It's going to hurt but I'll be as gentle as I can."

"No, wait a bit."

Xander stared into the freezer, the frigid air bathing his face, which he hadn't realized had gotten so hot. It felt like intruding now, to turn back into the room, but like eavesdropping to listen in on what they were saying, though they were all together in the one place.

Spike said, "I need you to tell me, why. Can't suss it for myself—either you're some way twisted ... don't want to believe that. But I don't know why else you'd go in for a foul thing like me."

Xander didn't have to gaze around to see Buffy bridle, to picture her anguish, her stubborn protest. "You're not ... you're not a foul thing, Spike. I love you."

"Everythin' I know about myself is—"

Xander slammed the freezer door. "You don't know everything." He stepped closer. "What you don't know is, you changed."

Buffy was still holding his arm over the sink. Spike craned around to regard him, frowning.

"Hardly anybody does that," Xander said. "Change. We talk about it all the damn time, but we just clang along doing the same dumbhead stuff year in and year out. But not you. Yeah, you were as foul as they come. But being around Buffy for a couple of years, altered you. She's got that effect on people, she shines on them and they get a little less ... full of shit. Just a little. But with you, it turned out to be a lot. After you tried to ... after that low point, you left town. And when you came back, you had a soul."

Buffy was looking at him now too, but he avoided her eyes; stuck to Spike, so he could get through this. "You traveled half way around the world, and fought some kind of to-the-death contest, to get your soul restored—at least that's what you told her, and she told us, but it's deeds that matter, and you did the deeds. You came back to Buffy, and you made amends. And I still don't like you, and I still wish she'd never laid eyes on you, much less let you touch her. But you're It for her, you're The Guy. You won her, and now you'd better be man enough to stick around and love her, because the one thing Buffy doesn't need any more of is getting her heart broken." He tossed the frozen blood bag on the counter. "You can believe that, because you know I wouldn't say a positive word to you if I wasn't on my honor in front of Buffy to tell the goddamn truth. I'll get out of here now. Work to do."

Until he was out her door and down the tower steps, Xander was half sure Buffy would pursue him, knock his head against the stones. That parting admission wasn't going to undo the damage with her. He'd probably lost her now for good.

Shit damn stupid irony. If he'd been less conscientious about taking a look at that broken table, this morning of all mornings ...

But then, losing Spike again, after this short unexpected return, would've gutted her.

The idea of Buffy gutted, well, he hated that too.

He hated that worse.

Veering through the dining room, Xander sought out Mrs Ambler. "Your vampire scullery boy's on the sick roster today. But I've got a little time. Load me up."



Xander's departure left them in silence. Buffy turned off the running water. Wrapped a clean dish towel around Spike's hand. He winced, but made no sound. "The most important thing is for you to feed. I'll heat a cup for you, then I can wrap your hand while you're drinking it."

He nodded. She couldn't quite get a full view of his face, he kept turning himself so she couldn't see his eyes. He seemed transfixed, far off again like when he was splayed beneath her on the floor.

"I'll wrap your hand, and then I'll fill in the details on what Xander just said. I'll answer anything you want me to. I don't know which is the worse mistake, keeping thngs from you or not keeping them, but somehow secrets never really work out too well, do they? I should've known that by now."

He let her lead him to a chair. She kissed his brow. The urge to take him in her arms, to hug him and rock him like he was her child just snatched out of traffic, was so strong she knew she had to ignore it. Busy her hands with the tasks before her; microwaving the blood bag, snipping it open, pouring it into a tall mug. She was afraid he'd refuse it, but he took the cup and drank.

"I was able to come back sooner than I thought. I'm glad I did." She slipped into a chair beside him. "Listen now. You were a notorious vampire, some hundred and fifty years old, when you and Drusilla came looking for me. You two were ... a big problem for me, for a while. I thought I'd slain you both—I brought a flaming church organ down on top of you—but you both survived. This was over seven years ago. You were foul, Spike. The stuff you saw in those books back at the house, most of it was accurate, more or less. But like Xander just told you, you underwent a change that ... that no other vampire in history has ever done, and you did it of your own free will."

He raised his head then, met her eyes. He looked so weary.

"Drusilla was gone, and you were—de-activated, as a vampire. I'll explain that later. Anyway, you fell in love with me. I don't know why. The whole concept, at the time ... well, I thought it was laughable, and ... and disgusting. But there you were, on the scene, and when Dawn arrived, with a hell-god on her tail—I'll explain that later too—you were the only one besides me who had the strength to hold her off at all. I asked you to help me protect my sister, and you stepped up. After I died, you stayed, you looked after her. Even though the others, apparently, weren't too happy about it. And then when they resurrected me—yeah, that's another sidebar for later—I was in such a bad way, still dead up here," she tapped her temple. "You were there, wanting my attention, willing to do anything, and I used you, to work off my anger on. You wanted to love me, and all I'd let you have was sex. We had some furious, thrilling, and, uh, really violent. fucked-up, self-loathing encounters. And then I decided it had to stop, and you ... with all the mixed signals I'd been giving you for weeks, you thought I could be persuaded to go on. That's when the thing in the bathroom happened. You hurt yourself, I think, more than you hurt me, really. It was a blow to your psyche. you decided you had to be really different, something new. When you came back ...." She tailed off. He was drinking the blood in small sips, showing no sign that he was really taking in what she was saying.

"Spike? Would you look at me?"

Slowly, he glanced up.

"Are you hearing what I'm telling you?"

A slow nod.

"Spike, you don't have to rehash those transgressions. In the last months of your life, I forgave you everything. I don't know if you forgave me my part, but I thought you did. You were my friend, and I believe ... I believe I was yours. As much as ... I mean, not as much as I would've wanted to be, if I wasn't up against an enemy I really didn't think I could beat, who was going to destroy the whole world. I wouldn't have beat it, if not for your part. Your sacrifice. I let you go to your death and I didn't tell you my love until it was too late. Until you were burning. You didn't believe me, or else ... maybe it just didn't matter to you anymore. You were beyond any question of loving any one person. I don't know. I left you to burn, and I thought you were dead. Somehow you were brought back, in Los Angeles. And you never contacted me, for a whole years. Andrew saw you there, and you made him promise not to tell me. So when I came to get you, a few weeks ago ... I thought any chance I'd had with you was gone altogether. Being with you, like this, with your amnesia ... that's why it seemed wrong to me, because I believed—believe—that in your right mind, you'd chosen to keep me in the past. But I couldn't stop myself, because you ... you are ...." She had to pause, to keep her voice level. "Let's just say that everything you experienced, while you loved me and I wouldn't look at you ... all of that has come back on me. Maybe double. Maybe worse. I feel it all. I belong to you, whether you want me or not. It's out of my control."

"Poor girl. All that power, an' you're laid low by a fever."

"Oh Spike, you're not a fever. You're—" She couldn't think of a word, or else there were too many words, a whole thesaurus of words, backed up in her brimming throat.

Setting the cup down, he drew her onto his lap.

"It's always some little thing, gets to the hero. Little nick at the base of the ankle undoes him. Her."

Even as he murmured so discouragingly, he pulled her close, bent her head to rest in her favorite place against his neck.

"You're not a little nick. You're my love."

"Old Nick, I am more like. Devilish thing. Everythin' that's come back to me, an' what I read about myself, is loathesome. All I've got for t'other side is the word of a few who care more, I suspect, for pleasin' you, than for the strict truth."

"You're wrong."

"I don't know, Buffy. I don't know."

"I want you to be well. If you need me to go away again, I'll go. If you don't want me, say so, and I'll go live in Rome. You'll be welcome to stay here, to be a part of this place."

He held her, and she felt him musing. Her own breath held, waiting to know her fate. Thinking of the little flat in Rome, what it would be like to live there, by herself. How she would have to steel herself, control herself, to keep going and not despair. As if despair could be controlled. It was ridiculous. She had no control over anything.

"Harris says I'm not to break your heart. You been disappointed much, before?"

"I want you to decide for what you need. Not me."

"Ah, that's a yes, then. You wear it well, pet, but I could see that, even without his say so."

She shifted, pushing her feet down towards the floor. Better to get up, to put a little distance between them, so he could say what he needed to say. So she could govern herself better, when she heard it.

But he didn't let her go. "Stay put. Did you really think I'd see you off? Suppose you know more'n me. Suppose I'd better be guided by you, 'til I'm whole again."

"Spike, if you don't—"

"Ssssh. Know my mind, what little of it I've got. Love you today, I'll take your word on those yesterdays. They're over with, anyhow."

He turned her head, brought his mouth up against hers. She only realized then that he was still fanged out, that he'd fanged out the entire time. She kissed the distended mouth, tongue licking softly in past the sharp, parted teeth. Felt his cheek alter, smooth, as she breathed against him. Pulled back to look into the blue eyes. Put a hand up to touch his cheek, his scarred brow.

"What happened to your hair?"

"Didn't like it. Got rid of it."

"So I see. I guess I'll get used to it."

"It'll grow back. Maybe my mind'll grow back with it."

"Will you let me make love to you now?"

He rose, spilling her easily onto her feet, his good arm twining around her. "Wouldn't stop you, not for anything."

Author's note: Thanks to Barb Cummings for the gut-check.