He didn’t know how it had happened. One moment everything had seemed fine – more than fine, really. Buffy was in his arms, she wanted him, she was responding to his touch, his body. It was all he had ever dreamed of, and it was coming true. How could this possibly be designed to show him Spike’s *pain*?

*If this is pain, bring it on,* he thought blissfully.

He had had a moment’s pause at the start, remembering that, as sickening as the very thought was to him, Buffy was only doing this because she thought that he was Spike. Didn’t that make all of this terribly wrong? Wasn’t he taking advantage of her in a way? But he reminded himself that this was all in his head anyway – a “recreation”, Anya had said; and the guilt had faded away in his desire to experience the fulfillment of his nearly life-long dream of being with Buffy.

Suddenly another disturbing thought occurred to him. Anya! He glanced over Buffy’s shoulder around the room for the vengeance demon, but she was nowhere in sight. No, he would not have imagined that it would have been any more comfortable for her to see this than for him to have her see it. She must have left.

He had tried to put all the disturbing implications out of his mind and focus on Buffy – and it had not been difficult. It had felt like a perfect dream, brought to reality.

Right up until the end, when he had softly declared his feelings for her – feelings that he realized suddenly had never been this intense before. Where before there had always been a worshipful adoration for this girl who was like no one else he had ever know, now, there was an intensely powerful love and devotion.

Not that he had not always truly loved Buffy – he really had. But everything felt stronger, more intense. He realized with a shock – what he was feeling was *Spike’s* feelings for Buffy, not his own.

It was as if there were two of him, in his body – the part of him that was experiencing and feeling what Spike had experienced and felt, and the part of him that was watching it take place – but the two were so closely intermingled that it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended. All the emotions and experiences melted into his own, though he knew in a part of him that they were not truly all his.

“I love you,” he had whispered tenderly, and then was surprised by the sick sense of fear that came over him. Not so much a fear for his physical safety, as an uncertainty and insecurity, an emotional bracing for some expected verbal blow.

The thought sprang to his mind, *Now you’ve done it, idiot. Here she goes.*

And that was when Buffy had frozen against him, glaring down at him in fury, and the odd sense of fear intensified. Why should he be afraid? he wondered. This was *Buffy*.

“I told you not to say that to me,” she had snapped coldly, pulling out of his arms abruptly and getting up off the bed, looking around for her pants, then pulling them quickly on, her tightly drawn lips, her every sharp motion speaking up her barely controlled fury.

“But – but Buffy,” he stammered, getting up to follow her, terribly hurt and confused. Xander couldn’t understand what was happening; he had thought for sure that she was feeling the same thing he was. After all, how could she do all those things with him, and then leave in a fury when he committed the “offense” of daring to tell her that he loved her?

As she pulled her shirt down over her head and started toward the ladder, he caught her arm, gently trying to turn her around. “Buffy – please talk to me,” he began, a desperate pleading note in his voice.

Without warning, without hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she turned on him and backhanded him hard, knocking him backwards to the ground. “Don’t touch me!” she hissed in revulsion, giving him a derisive up-and-down look. “You disgust me,” she snarled, before heading up the ladder without another word or a backward glance.

When the Slayer had disappeared completely from view, he pulled himself up off the floor and dropped down on the edge of the bed, hard, staring at the wall in shock. What had just happened here?

The pain in his bruised jaw was nothing compared to the devastating hurt, the confusion of her rejection, after the time they had just spent. It had meant so much to him, been so much more than simply physical attraction…but Buffy…

He felt a lump forming in his throat, felt the tears spring to his eyes.

“Hurts to be used, doesn’t it?” Anya’s soft voice spoke from the foot of the bed.

This time she didn’t startle him. As the tears slipped down his cheeks, he turned his head to look at her. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why did she do that? How could she just…just act like it meant nothing to her…? I *love* her!”

Anya flinched, though she knew that he was speaking of Spike’s feelings, not truly his own. This whole thing was going to be difficult and painful for Xander, but it was not going to be easy on her either. She had known that from the start. Seeing Xander desperately longing for someone else, not to mention the pain she knew he was yet to experience, was going to be terribly painful for her.

But when it was over, hopefully, Xander would understand.

“That’s why it hurt him so bad, Xander,” she explained softly. “He really did love her. *Does* love her, in spite of everything. And this didn’t happen just one time. It happened over and over. The whole time they were together. From the very start.”

“But…she *has* to love me…doesn’t she? I mean, if she keeps coming back…if she wants me that bad…” Xander had never felt such desperation, such heartache, and again he knew that this was exactly how Spike had felt.

Anya just looked at him sadly, and did not reply.

Xander was still processing the painful emotions of the scene he had just experienced, when she stepped slowly toward him, her hand outstretched. He looked up at her, wide-eyed, and a little frightened.

“There’s more?” he whispered. This little incident alone had been more than he had expected.

She nodded slowly, her green eyes serious when they met his, as she spoke in a voice just above a whisper, “We’ve only just begun.”


The first thing Spike was aware of upon coming back to consciousness was a small, soft, warm hand holding his, and another gently brushing his hair back from his forehead. He tried to open his eyes, but the light seemed terribly bright after many hours of sleep, and he shut them tight again.

“B-buffy?” he said groggily, trying again to open his eyes, able only to make out a dim, hazy shape seated at his side, as his eyes started to slowly adjust to the light.

“No, it’s me,” Dawn’s voice spoke, as her features slowly came into focus. She was smiling down at him from where she sat in the chair beside the bed. “Buffy went downstairs to get some coffee.” She paused, before she added, “It’s the first time she’s left this room since you guys did the spell.” Her little smile was sort of sad, ironic. “She wanted to be here when you woke up.”

“How long have I been out, Bit?” he asked her, his voice hoarse with sleep, as he raised his head a little and smiled up at her through tired, heavy-lidded eyes. He glanced around at his surroundings, feeling a bit disoriented.

He was in Willow’s room; the tightly drawn curtains showed tiny glimpses of daylight through the small cracks between them. The light that had seemed so impossibly bright upon waking from his long sleep was in reality just a small bedside lamp, not really very bright at all.

“Quite a while…all afternoon yesterday, and all night…it’s morning,” she replied, considering her answer for a moment before speaking.

He laid his head back against the pillow again, feeling utterly exhausted despite the extended rest he had seemingly gotten. This must have been what Tara had meant about the draining effect of the spell; he felt like he could sleep for a week longer without waking. Every movment seemed to take an extreme effort.

Suddenly in a flash of mingled fear and expectancy, the very purpose of the spell came back to his memory. Had it worked? he wondered nervously.

He raised his head again, anxious, hopeful eyes meeting Dawn’s in an unspoken question.

Her huge smile answered it before she spoke. “Let me help you sit up a little. You need to see this,” she said, her voice bubbly with excitement as she reached an arm behind him and helped him to sit up, bracing his back against the pillows. With an air of gleeful anticipation, she drew back the blanket that covered his legs, her shining eyes never leaving his face, wanting to see his reaction to her revelation.

He was absolutely, completely stunned. Through the soft, slightly clingy sleep pants that covered his legs, their new shape was clearly visible. No longer crooked and weak, they were laid out in front of him, as perfectly straight as ever, completely restored.

In appearance.

Cautiously he made the first attempt to lift them a little, first one, then the other, and though the effort cost him in strength, he found that the ever-present pain he had come to accept as simply a part of his existence was completely gone. He looked up at Dawn in stunned excitement, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Laughing, Dawn hugged him tight, barely able to contain her excitement, and he returned it, laughing too, and crying a little at the same time, though for the first time since he could remember, they were tears of joy, not pain.

Then, a soft shadow fell over them from the doorway, and they both glanced up to see Buffy standing there, smiling softly at them in delight, her emerald eyes gleaming with her own happy tears.

Spike reached out his hand to her, and she crossed the room in a moment, sitting down on the edge of the bed and putting one arm around him across his shoulders, kissing him deeply, tenderly, though she kept it brief for the sake of her sister’s comfort. She drew back from the kiss, her smile radiant as she gazed wonderingly into his eyes, scarcely able to believe herself the evidence she had just seen of their success.

“It worked, Baby,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “It really worked!”

“I know,” he whispered back, nodding.

“How do you feel?” she asked, a frown of concern that somehow co-existed with her joyous smile creasing her brow just slightly.

“Great,” he replied. “My legs don’t hurt. They’re really well.” Then he leaned his head back against the pillow again and admitted with an apologetic smile, “Bloody exhausted, though, love. Can’t say I don’t feel awfully weak.”

“It’s a side effect of the spell,” she assured him. “Tara said it would happen. You’ll be okay. She said it might kind of slow down the healing process on your other injuries a little…you know…she sort of focused all your energy on that one big, dramatic thing,” she grimaced slightly. “And kind of…used it up.”

He nodded in understanding. “Worth it,” he whispered with a slight nod, and his eyes were already drooping closed again.

“We should let you rest,” she said, trailing her hand down from his shoulder to his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let you get your strength back up.”

Dawn took her cue, and leaned in close to him, smiling, to give him a quick kiss on the cheek and another hug before leaving the room.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Buffy asked him, searching his eyes for the truth, since she knew instinctively he would answer with what he thought she wanted, rather than what he really wanted.

“You need to get your rest, love,” he said firmly. “Bit told me you’d been up here all night. Can’t have you wearing yourself out; got to keep up *your* strength, too, pet.”

“Dawn,” Buffy muttered, her lips turning down in a pout. “That girl is so grounded,” she grumbled good-naturedly, glancing toward the door. Then she looked back at him, and the soft, affectionate smile on her face nearly took his breath. “I can get my rest right here. If you want me to,” she suggested.

He smiled slowly back at her, realizing her meaning, and carefully moved over a bit on the bed to make room for her. He was weaker than he thought, he realized. Just that simple bit of exertion made him feel like he was about to pass out again.

Carefully she laid down beside him, wrapping her arms around him and nestling in close to him, letting out a contented little hum as she pulled him gently tighter against her. She stifled a yawn that would have sent a cloud of coffee-breath into his face, which was very, very near to hers.

She really was wiped out; she had anxiously waited by his bedside, all afternoon and all night, for him to awaken, worrying about whether or not the spell had gone right, how well it had worked, how long it was going to take him to recover from it. Now that her questions were mostly answered, and she could feel safe in the knowledge that he was really going to be okay, she allowed her exhaustion to catch up with her at last.

Spike had struggled to stay awake, knowing that she had been waiting all night to see him, not wanting to fall asleep on her. However, his own weariness was overwhelming by this point. But when he heard her breathing gradually slowing down, becoming deeper and more even, he knew that she was falling asleep herself, and it was okay for him to give in to the intense need for rest he was feeling. For the first time since his return, without even a thought of questioning his safety, he snuggled in closer to her and closed his eyes, letting his exhaustion carry him away.

In the security and protection of each other’s arms, they drifted off together into a peaceful sleep.