Buffy stepped out of her room into the hallway and listened carefully for a moment. She could hear nothing from the living room, but there had been no sign of Anya. Hadn’t she said she would come upstairs and get them when she and Spike were finished with their conversation?

*That’s turning into one long conversation,* she thought irritably. Then in the next moment, she felt guilty for her irritation. *You dumped him, Buffy. He’s got the right to talk to anyone he wants for as long as he wants. You made the bed so you might just have to lie in it…alone.* she reminded herself.

She walked across the hall and knocked on Dawn’s door, then opened it a little without waiting for a response. Dawn was standing by her desk, and jumped when she opened the door, whirling around. “Don’t you *knock*?” she snapped defensively.

“Um…I did,” Buffy pointed out, frowning. Dawn had her guilt-face on. She glanced around the room, but nothing seemed out of place or suspicious in any way.

“What’s the point of knocking if you don’t wait for an answer,” Dawn demanded testily.

“Sorry, I was just wondering if Anya’s been up here yet.”

Dawn seemed startled by the question. “Oh, yeah! She was. But she left. I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

Irritated again, Buffy headed back for the stairs to go down and check on Spike. When she reached the top of the staircase, she was surprised to see him standing on the fourth stair up.

He had stopped for a rest, breathing hard with exertion.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gently reproved him, immediately going down to help him.

To her surprise, he shook her hand off his arm. “No, Buffy, I can do it,” he insisted, with just a hint of something in his voice that she used to hear all the time, but had not heard since they had found him.

Annoyance.

It was a tremendous relief to her to hear it.

Of course, it was immediately followed by an anxious look as he said in a much more timid tone, “I’m sorry, I just…I mean…I…” It was obvious that he was afraid that he might have angered her.

“Spike…it’s okay if I’m getting on your nerves with the whole Florence Nightengale routine,” Buffy assured him with a soft laugh. “I’m just wanting to help you, but I’m probably taking it too far, and you don’t have to like it!” She paused when he gave her an uncertain look, remembering that anger or any sort of negative feelings on his part had been consistently punished, until yesterday. She added, softer, being sure to catch his eye, “You’re allowed to get mad at me, you know. You have a right to your own feelings.”

He looked down, swallowing hard, and she carefully advanced and put her hands on his arms, steadying him. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” he repeated. “I’m just so bloody sick of being helpless, love. I ought to be able to at least make it up a soddin’ flight of stairs without needing help.”

Buffy felt a wave of sadness wash over her; his pitiful physical condition was of concern to her, too. “You will,” she assured him. “Just give it a little time.” But even as she spoke, a little anxious feeling came over her.

How long would it take him to heal? Months of mistreatment and starvation had done more damage to him that she had ever seen done to anyone before. Even with accelerated vampire healing, it could take a while, even if he were to get human blood – which he was not getting. All that she had access to was what she could get at the local butchers.

And the problem with his legs – that was not something that even time would heal. The bones had healed already, only wrong. The only thing Buffy could think of to keep him from being permanently crippled was to have them rebroken, and set properly. And she couldn’t bear the thought of putting him through that much pain, after all he had been through already. She simply saw no way around it, eventually.

Unless…

A sudden idea occurred to her, and she considered it as he gave in and allowed her to help him up the stairs. When they reached the top, Buffy gave his arm a little squeeze before letting go.

“I need to go back down and make a phone call,” she told him as she turned back toward the stairs.

“All right. I’ll go see what Dawnie’s up to,” he said with a little shrug, and Buffy felt a little bad for leaving him. He wasn’t much for being alone lately, and understandably so.

But this was important. And it was for him.

Once in the kitchen, she picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number she had come to know by heart recently, and waited while it rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Tara? Hey, this is Buffy. No, that’s okay, I don’t need Will. I was actually calling to talk to you.”


Spike could tell immediately that something was on Dawn’s mind. From the moment he entered the room, she seemed oddly distant.

And just his bloody luck, it had to be at the first time since he’d been back that he actually felt the desire to talk!

The conversation with Anya had had an odd effect on him. On the one hand, it was painful and humiliating to go over the most degrading of the events of the past few months again. Just knowing that she knew about it flooded his heart with shame.

But something about her visit had brought to his memory with painful clarity the way he used to be, before all this. Perhaps it was her startled, dismayed reaction to seeing him so broken, not the “big bad” he used to be; or perhaps it was her offer of actual power over his enemy, after so long of feeling so utterly powerless.

But whatever it was, it had left him with the desire to go back – to be what he was before, before every vestige of control over his own life had been brutally stripped from him. He was growing increasingly frustrated with his own weakness, though he had no idea how to change it.

He hated the fear that threatened to overtake him any time he spoke without being spoken to, or did some little thing that, here, was perfectly safe, but in Warren’s hands, would have surely resulted in vicious punishment.

He hated being physically weak and incapable of caring for himself, having to rely on the kindness of others for his very survival.

He hated it.

He didn’t know how he was going to be able to overcome the ghosts of his slavery that surrounded him, whispering continuously in his mind of his utter hopelessness, unworthiness, his complete inability to ever return to what he had been. He wasn’t even really sure that he could.

But he knew that he wanted to – desperately.

Suddenly, as he sat there on the couch waiting for Dawn and Buffy to return, he did not want to be alone anymore, and it was not simply due to the gripping fear that seemed to take hold of him since he had escaped, any time that he was alone.

He didn’t know if he could even find the words at all, and he knew that there were some things he would never tell Buffy or Dawn, but something deep inside him yearned just for someone to understand his pain, to really understand it, and still be able to tell him that it was all going to be all right.

He didn’t really know if he would even be able to bring himself to talk about it with anyone. All he knew was that at the moment, he didn’t want to be alone – and he wanted to try.


“Hey, Niblet,” Spike’s unusually soft voice spoke from the doorway to Dawn’s room. Well, not so unusual anymore, she remembered with a mixture of sadness and anger – and triumph. Soon he would be avenged.

“Hey,” she greeted him warmly, smiling for his sake. “Come on in.”

He obeyed, standing awkwardly just inside the room.

Dawn went to close the door, realizing immediately that something was troubling him, and having a better idea of what it was then she should have had.

“Wanna sit down?” she asked him, her eyes searching his, though they were guarded and would not quite meet hers.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and sat down on the edge of her bed, quickly, before she could reach him to help him.

Too quickly. He winced at the pain in his ribs as he took in a sharp, pained breath.

“Spike, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, and he gave her an odd look, reminded again of how much like Buffy she could be sometimes, even to using the very words the Slayer had used with him only minutes before.

Difference was, Dawn was usually a little more straightforward with him than Buffy was.

“That wasn’t very bright,” she pointed out flatly, as she sat down on the bed beside him and began gently rubbing his back, trying to help him recover from the self-induced pain. “You know, the macho act goes off a little better without the cringing in pain,” she suggested dryly.

“You know,” he countered, with just a hint of a self-deprecating smile, “it’s a good thing I haven’t any dignity left, because if I did you’d be crushing it, Bit.”

She smiled, pleased that he was at least able to joke about something in his terrible situation. It was a good sign. “Really, what are you trying to prove?” she asked him, shaking her head reprovingly. “You’re gonna get better, but not if you hurt yourself again by trying too much too soon.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m just so tired of this, Bit. I’m tired of having to have you and Buffy help me with every little thing, like I’m a bloody child! I ought to be able to do things as simple as sitting down by myself.”

“You can’t help what he did to you, Spike. It’s not like you asked for this to happen to you,” she pointed out. This time the defensive anger in her voice made him feel a little less uncomfortable, and a little more protected and loved.

Still, he did not feel as if he deserved her concern. He did not respond, just sat there, looking at the floor in front of him.

“Quit blaming yourself,” she ordered with childish simplicity.

He turned a sarcastic smile on her and replied, “Right, then. Right this second, I’ll get right on that, Niblet!”

Dawn was not the slightest bit offended; rather she was delighted. His sarcasm meant that he at least felt safe with *her*. If there was no one else he felt safe with yet, at least it was a start.

“I know it’s not easy,” she admitted, putting her arm around him and leaning her head on his shoulder. “But it’ll get easier, I promise.”

“I know, you’re right, Bit,” he sighed softly, leaning his head down to rest on the top of hers, and his next words warmed her heart. “You’re making it easier.”


That night, Buffy once again slipped quietly into Spike’s room. Once again, she could tell that he was still awake, though this time he was lying down on his side with his back to her, and he didn’t turn around when she entered.

As she drew closer she could see that he was trembling; he still didn’t feel safe, she realized sadly, and in that moment decided that until he did she would come here every night – as long as he needed her.

She hesitated for a moment to do what felt like the natural thing, wondering if it would be more help or hindrance. But then she decided to follow her instincts, and slowly approached the bed. She laid silently down behind him on the bed, wrapping her arm gently around him, laying her head lightly on his shoulder.

When she felt his body relax back against her a little, snuggling closer to her warmth, she knew she had made the right decision. They just lay there in silence for a few moments, a weighted, meaningful silence.

Finally he spoke softly into the silence, a quiet desperation in his voice, husky from the tears he had shed in the lonely darkness. “When will it get easier?”

The heart-breaking question tore at her emotions; she wished she had an answer for him, but she had no idea. “I don’t know, Baby,” she admitted in a whisper, her hand tracing up and down his arm in a tender caress. “But it will.”

They were silent for a moment before she went on carefully, knowing his natural aversion to the topic she was about to bring up, “I talked to Tara tonight.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, until he realized that whatever she was beginning to say was important. “About what, love?” he asked her.

“About – about a healing spell,” she blurted out, not able to think of an easy way to say it. “For your legs.”

“No.” The answer was surprising to her in its immediacy. Then, as usual lately, he quickly backtracked, saying hesitantly, “I – I don’t want to, Buffy. No magic. Please.”

“It’s up to you,” she assured him, not liking the way he seemed to assume that she would go ahead with it whether or not he wanted to. “It would just be to straighten them out, Spike. Anything more would be too hard on Tara…and on you. She said that there shouldn’t be any negative side effects, not really. It’s just very physically taxing…like exhausting, sort of. Otherwise she’d just…you know…fix you up completely.”

“Whatever you think is best, Buffy,” he whispered, and she could hear the fear in his voice.

“Spike,” she said firmly, pulling back and gently pulling him with her, over onto his back so that she could face him. “No. This is your decision. It’s just an option. But…the thing is,” she hesitated, searching his eyes, “if we don’t do the healing spell, there’s only one other way to fix your legs. We’d have to break them again and set them right.”

He winced at the thought of the terrible pain that would involve, remembering the agony of his shattered legs after the accident.

“Or…we can do neither,” Buffy went on, looking down. She wanted it to really be his decision, so she didn’t want him to see in her eyes how very much she hated option number three. “and leave them the way they are. But they won’t heal on their own, no matter how much time we give it.”

“So I’d be a bloody cripple the rest of my unlife,” he muttered, sounding incredibly unhappy with his options.

Buffy said nothing.

“Right, then,” he sighed, resigning himself to yet another circumstance of his life that was outside his control. “Let’s do the soddin’ spell, then. If that’s what you think is best, Buffy.”

Buffy felt a little uncomfortable, sensing that he was agreeing to it mostly because he knew it was the only answer that would truly please her. But her genuine concern for what was best for him outweighed her guilty feeling at the idea that she was pushing him into it.

“It’s gonna be hard,” she warned him gently. “Tara said it could really take a lot of strength out of you…maybe make the rest of your healing take a little longer. But in the end you’ll really be good as new.”

“Not a lot of strength left to take, love,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes.

Buffy waited a moment before broaching her second unwelcome topic of discussion. “I have an idea. To make you stronger,” she said in a quiet voice, focusing her eyes on the mattress between them.

He waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, finally looked up at her eyes again. “What, Buffy? What is it?” he asked her.

“Human blood would be better for you than butcher’s blood,” she pointed out, her words coming slowly and cautiously.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes,” he replied, his voice slow as well, and a little suspicious. “It would. But – that’s not an option, love.”

“No,” Buffy agreed. “Not really. I don’t have access to human blood, anyway. But – if human blood would help…then…Slayer’s blood…”

“*No!*” The vehemence of his tone startled her; it was as adamant as she had heard him in the past couple of days. Then, softer, but with horror in his tone, shaking his head, staring at her wide-eyed, he repeated, “No, Buffy. No. I – I can’t do that to you.”

“But,” she began, a little tremble in her voice. She wanted so badly to be able to do something to help him -- *really* help him. When Tara had suggested it, it had seemed like the perfect solution. But if he wouldn’t accept it… “I want you to. You wouldn’t hurt me. You – you wouldn’t even have to do anything if you don’t want to. I could – I could just…”

“No,” he whispered, turning away, his voice choked with emotion. After a moment he added, a pleading note in his voice, “For God’s sake, Buffy, if you want anything to be my choice, please, *please* let it be this. I won’t do it. I won’t.”

The tone of his voice told her that if she chose to push it, to use the influence she had, had always had, over him, she could make him give in. But his words smote her heart, and she knew that he was right. She couldn’t run roughshod over his wishes and take the power over his life that was only his to wield; the decision had to be his.

“Okay,” she whispered simply, though her disappointment was almost a physical pain. She had so wanted to give this to him. She had thought it would be the greatest gift she had to offer him.

But she realized now she had a greater gift, something that had once been his, but had been cruelly stolen away from him. And she was going to give it to him, no matter how it went against her nature, no matter how badly she wanted to withhold it.

The gift of choice.