Getting Spike’s injuries treated and bandaged was a slow, painstaking process, simply because there were so *many* injuries. Buffy carefully wrapped his shattered ribcage with soft but strong bandages, and then helped him get into the soft black sleep-pants and t-shirt that Xander had wisely picked out.

She then gently took his arm and led him toward the stairs. He was able to walk on his own now, but he was still weak and a little unsteady on his feet, and the odd limp with which he walked made Buffy feel a little sick, and very sad, remembering the confident grace with which he had always moved in the past.

He felt foolish and weak and very self-conscious about the fact that he couldn’t do something as simple as making it down the stairs on his own. A memory flashed into his mind – leaving the upstairs bedroom at Warren’s house for the first time, on his battered, still painful legs – Warren’s anger and impatience at the slow pace that had been the best he could do. In sharp contrast to such cruelty, Buffy was being so patient, so gentle with him as they made their way slowly down the stairs, that it brought tears to his eyes again.

*Shut up you blubbering nancy-boy,* he berated himself silently. *All you ever do is whine!*

Xander was sitting in the armchair in the living room, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, Dawn appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a steaming mug in her hand. The warm, rich smell of blood made him suddenly feel the ravenous ache of hunger that he had almost ceased to notice, it had become such a constant part of his life.

Dawn’s smile was radiant as her green eyes fell on him. “You’re walking!” she exclaimed as she reached him and put her arm around his waist on the opposite side from Buffy.

“Appears so,” he replied quietly, still self-conscious as he tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it. The two sisters led him to the couch and helped him to sit down.

Dawn immediately sat down beside him, and held out the mug for him to take. With both trembling hands he hesitantly took the mug from her, careful not to spill any on Buffy’s couch. He raised the mug to his lips and drained it in seconds. Dawn laughed in approving surprise and stood up, taking the mug.

“I’ll go get you some more,” she offered, starting toward the kitchen. She paused for a moment, raising her eyebrows, as she added teasingly, “I think I’m gonna need a bigger mug.”

“No, you don’t have to…” he began to object, partly because he felt uncomfortable with her waiting on him…he was the one who was supposed to do that, right?...and partly because he just felt so much safer with her there. Not physically safer, necessarily, but things were just still so uncertain between him and Buffy, and he could feel Xander’s barely concealed hostility a mile away.

As soon as Dawn had vacated the seat, Buffy sat awkwardly beside him and placed a small, soft hand on his arm, drawing his gaze with hers, as she asked, “How long since you’ve eaten?”

He could see the sorrow in her eyes when he had to think about the answer. “Coupla days?” he guessed, his voice low and uncertain. “Not rightly sure.”

Dawn returned with an entire thermos of blood, looking very pleased with herself at his wide-eyed look of surprise. His eyes darted to Buffy’s in a hesitant question, and it hurt her heart that he felt he had to ask her.

“It’s here for *you*, Spike,” she reassured him quietly, her fingers tracing a slow, delicate pattern on his arm. “It’s not like you have to save any for someone else!” She wrinkled her nose in mild distaste. Her eyes grew more serious as she added softly, “You can have all you want.”

The relief and gratitude in those brilliant, shining blue eyes was heart-breaking to her, as he took the thermos from Dawn. Unwilling to be separated from him even slightly, when she saw that Buffy had taken her seat, Dawn simply sat on the floor by his feet, casually resting her arm across his knees.

Buffy noticed with a feeling of warmth and gratitude toward her sister that even that light, easy contact seemed to have a calming effect on the uneasy, insecure vampire. But joining the warmth and gratitude was just a little bit of…jealousy, she realized. She wanted him to rely on her, to trust her like that.

*It’s your own fault he doesn’t,* she reminded herself. *What has trusting you ever gotten him besides pain?*

Looking into her sister’s eyes, Buffy saw a troubled expression. Beneath the easy smile and comfortable chatter that was for Spike’s benefit, there was a smoldering rage, just below the surface. Buffy recognized it because it was how she felt. Seeing Spike like this, so vulnerable and hurting, having been denied even his most basic needs to the point that he was afraid to accept them when they were offered – made Buffy want to hurt something…a specific someone, but that was no longer an option, she remembered ruefully.

Abruptly Xander stood up. “I’m gonna go,” he said flatly, but Buffy could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in his voice. “My work here is done. I’ll come by tomorrow,” he added, and he started toward the door.

“Xander,” Buffy said softly, not looking up, and he stopped where he stood, waiting, hoping – he wasn’t really sure for what.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” There was no anger in her voice as she spoke. It was a simple statement of fact.

He turned slowly to face her, an incredulous, disbelieving expression on his face. “How can you say that to me?” he demanded, raising his voice in hurt anger.

Buffy felt Spike jump under her hand, and a glance at his face revealed that Xander’s anger was frightening him.

Now, she was mad.

She stood up, advancing on her friend, as Dawn, who had also felt Spike’s physical reaction of fear, promptly took the seat beside him and put her arm around him. His eyes were on the floor, not daring to look up, to be so presumptuous as to watch the conflict.

*None of your business. Don’t look up. Don’t draw attention.*

“I just don’t think that your attitude is what we need around here right now,” Buffy snapped as she reached the foyer where Xander had stopped.

“My *attitude* is the only intelligent thought that seems to be going on around here right now, Buffy!” he retorted. “No one else seems to remember that that’s not an injured kitten or something over there. He’s capable of *doing* as bad as has been done to him!”

“Xander, he’s hurt. Bad.” Buffy’s voice was lower; she was obviously trying to regain her control, and not really succeeding. “I can’t just leave him to his own devices after everything he’s been through, after everything he’s done for me!”

“Everything he’s done *for* you?” Xander echoed with a scoff. “Interesting choice of words, Buff. I think I would have said everything he’s done *to* you!”

“Xander,” Buffy cut him off warningly.

But Spike’s eyes had shot up to Xander’s, stricken with guilt and fear, when he realized that he *knew* -- he knew what he had done. Dawn saw his reaction, though she did not understand it, and tried to comfort him, but his attention was now riveted on the scene in the foyer.

“No, Buffy!” Xander refused to be quieted. “I did not sit here for the past five months and watch you cry and hurt over what *that thing* did to you…” he declared, pointing an accusing finger at Spike, who flinched, more at the thought of Buffy’s suffering than at the accusation. “…just to watch you sit back and act like everything’s fine when he suddenly shows up again.” His voice a little calmer, he nodded in concession, “Ok, in pretty bad shape, I’ll give you that. But maybe it’s just justice, Buffy. Maybe it’s what he deserves.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide with horrified disbelief. “No, Xander,” she finally whispered, when she could speak again. “Nobody deserves that. You didn’t see what that – that *disgusting monster* did to him!”

Spike lowered his head again, ashamed, as Dawn sat there helplessly, not knowing what they were talking about, and unable to do anything to help him except just be there with him.

Buffy paused before she went on, “*Justice* is what *I* got five months ago. You didn’t see all that happened before that night, Xander. All the stuff that led up to it. I hurt him. Bad. In a lot of ways.” She looked down, fighting with her own shame, before meeting his eyes again and going on, “He’s not human, Xander. He doesn’t have a soul or a conscience to go by like we do. But he wanted to; he wanted to do good. All he had to go by was what I showed him.” She paused, and then finished in a voice choked with tears, “And what I showed him was what he did to me.”

Xander was speechless for a moment, stunned by her words – then shook his head, refusing to accept them. “You’re right, Buffy. He’s *not* human. If you’re looking for a monster…well, look no further!” he snapped, gesturing with a hand toward the couch. “But go ahead. Take your chances. I can’t stop you.” He threw up his hands in disgust as he turned and stalked out.

Buffy sighed wearily, her heart overwhelmed with the pain of the night’s events already, topped off by the unexpected conflict with her best friend. She turned to go back to the couch, to help Dawn deal with the wreckage Xander’s little tirade had left of Spike.

The door opened, and she turned to face Xander. In his hand was the control device she had left in the glove compartment. She had a moment’s irrational fear before he snarled, “Here!” and tossed it to her. “You might need this.”

Buffy caught the wretched thing quickly, and put it down on the coffee table, before turning to face her sister, and Spike, who was shaking violently at the very sight of the device.

Dawn was livid as she jumped to her feet and started to go after Xander.

Buffy caught her, stopping her with a shake of her head and a glance toward Spike.

Dawn turned back to him, distracted from her rage by the sight of her friend. He sat completely still on the couch, his wide eyes focused on his knees, visibly trembling.

Dawn’s anger evaporated, consumed by her concern for him, as she went to him and put her arms around him again. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”

“He wouldn’t have – he wasn’t going to…” Buffy’s attempts trailed off, and she dropped to her knees in front of Spike, taking his trembling hands in hers, seeking his eyes.

He wouldn’t look at her, and she could see the shame in his expression, the slump of his shoulders.

“Spike – this isn’t your fault. None of it. And – and before – that wasn’t your fault, either…”

He looked up at her suddenly in confusion and pain. “Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly. “I hurt you! I almost…”

“Shhh,” she broke in softly, not wanting him to say it in front of Dawn – not wanting him to say it at all, really – and he immediately was silent, waiting for her to speak.

“I hurt you, too, Baby,” she said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “We’ve both done things we regret. But all you need to worry about right now is getting better. Okay?”

He nodded automatically as she moved her hands up his arms to pull him into her embrace. But then unexpectedly he weakly tried to push her back, with a strangled cry that was little more than a whimper. Instantly she let go of him, not wanting him to feel controlled in any way. If he didn’t want her to touch him, she was absolutely not going to.

“No,” he argued in an anguished whisper. “No, Buffy, he’s right. I bloody well deserved it, all of it, after what I did to you!”

Seeing that he was not letting Buffy touch him, that she didn’t seem to be getting through to him, Dawn put her hand to his cheek and gently turned his face to look at her. Her wide, innocent eyes were full of love and concern as she asked softly, “What did you do, Spike? You couldn’t have done anything to deserve this!”

His impossibly blue eyes filled with such pain at the innocent trust in her eyes. She really had no idea what he was capable of, he thought with overwhelming shame – and terror that she would find out. He drew in a deep, ragged breath that was almost a sob, as he looked away, unable to face her.

“No. He didn’t,” Buffy agreed firmly. “You didn’t, Spike,” she assured him. “You didn’t deserve this.”

But he did not look up, did not respond, just slowly shook his head in despair.

Not knowing what to say to help, knowing only that she had to reach out to her desperately hurting friend, Dawn simply tightened her arms around him, holding him closer to her. “You need to get some rest,” she told him, a soft murmur in his ear as she held him. “You’re so tired after everything that’s happened…you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

As Buffy took the long since empty thermos from his hand and they helped him to his feet, a cold despair washed over him. Dawn’s optimistic prediction only spoke of her childish naivete, her innocence. This was not something that could be fixed by a meal, a hot bath, and a good night’s sleep. He was quite sure it was not something that could be fixed at all.

As Buffy’s presence only seemed to be upsetting him further at the moment, she dejectedly left Dawn in Willow’s room with Spike, to help him get settled for the night.

Once he was in the bed, settled as comfortably as possible, Dawn just sat beside him for a while, holding his hand and gently rubbing his back, as he lay on his side facing her. She chattered on for a little while, telling him about things that had happened while he had been gone. Finally she paused, giving him a brilliant smile that for him seemed to light the room, as she said sincerely, “I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you so much.”

He did not reply, his guilt-haunted eyes filling with tears again as he looked away from her.

“Spike – whatever it is – it can’t be that bad,” she assured him, her clear voice soft and even in the stillness of the room.

He longed to let himself be reassured by the warmth and certainty in her voice, but knew it was only a false hope. The child simply had no concept of just how bad it was possible for him to be.

“Bit – if you knew…” he began miserably.

“Tell me,” she urged him, squeezing his hand gently. “Spike, I’m still gonna love you, no matter what.” She spoke the words matter-of-factly. “Just tell me.”

“You’d hate me,” he whispered, tears escaping in spite of his resolve to hold them back.

She studied his face, tear-streaked and tormented in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. She knew that whatever it was had to be pretty serious; he had always seemed almost proud of his bad deeds in the past. It was as if he wanted to say, “Look, I might be chipped, but I’m still *bad*!” So why was he suddenly so ashamed of this particular crime? She wanted to help him, to be there for him, but knew that she could only come as close as he would let her.

Slowly, not wanting to startle him, she leaned down and placed a tender kiss on his cheek, pulling away to look him earnestly in the eyes and say firmly, softly, “Never.”


Buffy stood by her window, tears streaming from her eyes. Was it really too late to undo the damage she had so cruelly, thoughtlessly inflicted on this man – yes, *man*! – who had once loved her? Still did, apparently, she thought with hope, and then shame. Because the guilt he was feeling over the crime he had only almost committed, that *she* had driven him to, was destroying him. She desperately wanted to help him, but knew that she couldn’t unless he would let her.

And that did not appear to be likely at the moment.

As she sat down on the edge of her bed, covering her face with her hands, she heard her door slowly open, then close. Her first wild hope was that it was him, though she knew in her heart that the shaken, broken version of Spike in the next room would not dare to enter her bedroom uninvited.

She looked up – into the firmly set, if a bit apprehensive, face of her little sister.

Dawn regarded her for a moment, taking in the tears, the defeated stance, before crossing her arms over her chest and speaking with adamant resolve.

“We need to talk.”