20 OCTOBER, 1866-

She was so still, it was hard for him to breathe, looking at her. Under the bedclothes, she looked so small. She looked even smaller than she did when he watched her slip beneath the murky waters of the pond.

Her small bedchamber had never seemed so large as he took halting steps toward her. She looked so delicate and fragile.

He stilled his breath-and prayed. * Emma, sweet Emma, I should have protected you. If I’d only been swifter…If I’d only seen…swam faster… and now… *

His recriminations were stopped short when he heard her strangled cough, and he rushed blindly to the bedside table, fumbling with the basin and pitcher. His hands were shaking so, that the water splashed out from the side of the basin and onto the floor as he poured it from one vessel to the other. He took a deep breath and took up the cloth that lie beside the water basin, carefully placing it in the water, he tried to calm himself, as he placed the moist cloth on her little forehead, “There…is that better?” he asked, his voice shaken with concern.

Emma gave a soft cry as the cool water brushed over her fiery skin, “…Hot…”she murmured deliriously, and William stifled the cry that rose up in him at her pain, “I know,” he said softly, “This should help cool you. Father has gone to fetch the doctor. And Mother…” his soothing voice trailed off. Their Mother was so beset with worry for Emma that she had taken to her bed. But there was no reason, that he could see, to trouble his dear little sister with that knowledge, “…is busy badgering cook to work her magic and bake you the most delightful sweets for when you are well again.”

Fever-bright eyes looked up at him, and the tiniest bit of breath escaped, “Will?” she squeaked wearily.

“Yes, dearest?” he whispered, his throat raw.

“Do you love me?” Emma asked as sleep took her once more.

“Oh,” William whispered raggedly, suddenly wishing his father were near, to comfort him, “Emma,” his voice shook as a dark weight settled on his shoulders. He somehow knew that the coldness that had begun two days ago, when he’d pulled her from the icy water, would be with him until the end of his days, “dear sister, you know that I do,” he said as he stroked her brow with the cool cloth, “With my whole heart.”
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The sight of Buffy lying on the small bed brought back images that were unwanted. Until now, William’s memories had been safely cocooned inside the shell, the mask that Spike wore to protect himself from Angelus’s abuse. They were always there, but they could be drowned out in the rush of blood and violence. They had to be drowned out, or he would never survive.

Except now, William had broken through, had saved him. And, even though the Nibblet had given him back the leather he used as a protection for William, Spike felt the old pain wash over him.

As the pressure built up in his chest, threatened to overtake him, he focused once again on the surprisingly kind eyes of the Watcher, “Rupert,” Spike sighed, “do you think you could see your way clear to letting us be for a moment?”

Giles opened his mouth to protest, but it was Dawn’s voice that Spike heard, “Spike, are you sure that’s…?”

His eyes shifted toward her, and he smirked, and tilted his head, regarding her softly, “Nibblet, I understand,” he nodded, his blue eyes sparkling at her, “But, this is me…understand? It’s me, yeah? Look at me,” he said tenderly, as he watched the beautiful pink rise in her as she looked away. When her eyes slowly returned to his face, he continued, “You know me, in ways big sis doesn’t. She can’t. I love you. And, I love her. You love her. You know that I would never hurt her. I think I can help her now, in a way I couldn’t before,” his eyes shifted again to Willow and Giles, “Please, let us be…and let me try.”

The room was silent for a moment, and Dawn could feel the warmth rising in her. The warmth she felt last summer, when all they had was each other to cling to. When she felt that feeling, she knew that her Aunt Darlene was right.

The love * doesn’t * go away. It’s there…I just saw it. Wow…wow.

Her mouth pulled itself into a grin, as she turned toward Willow and Giles. Just then, the sound of the doorbell drifted up the stairs, “Well,” Dawn giggled, “I guess that would be our cue to leave,” she said as they all turned toward the door.

“Expect so,” Spike said softly as he watched them file out of the little room. When the door closed quietly, he let out a heavy sigh and turned his attention to the Slayer that lie on the small bed, “All right, Slayer,” he said, as he took the parsons chair from the opposite corner of the room, “it’s just you and me now,” he planted the chair near the side of the bed, with the seat facing the door, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back of the chair, “I’m not letting you do this to me, or to us. After all we’ve both been through- all the hurt- there has to be an us. I’m a bit thick- headed,” he chuckled, “Another thing we have in common, and I’m not leaving. Didn’t leave Rupes…Won’t leave you. So you can cross that off your list. I’ve been in your skin. And apparently,” he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of her that lingered, and was stronger, newer than, the old worn leather that he’d worn for close to thirty years, “you’ve been in mine,” he smiled at the thought of her wearing his duster, and remembered what he saw, in that cave in Africa, “So you weren’t a figment, then? Should I be flattered? Or, do you want to claim it back?” he shrugged, “It did belong to a Slayer, once. I suppose it does again,” the easy tone he’d been trying to build, suddenly crashed as he looked at her still form. William was so close to the surface, and everything that he’d gone through suddenly overwhelmed Spike. Tears that came from raw emotion- emotions that were over a century old, and as new as an hour ago- rained down his face. He rested his forehead against the back of the chair. The soft upholstery grated his nerves, as he heard himself begging, “Please, Buffy…don’t do this. I’m too tired. I’m here…and I need you. I need to rest. Please…I need you,” he whispered, hopelessly, “Let me rest…”

Voices were floating somewhere in the ether, and she felt the sadness. It was heavy here. She could feel Giles and Dawn near. And, she felt something else, something old and familiar, and heartbreakingly sad.

It smelled like copper and leather, with an undercurrent of whiskey. There was dust, soil, and moonlight, and cigarette smoke.

Spike. It smelled like Spike.

And she wanted to scream.

* No! No, you’re not him! You killed him! You…I killed him…*

The head that rested heavily against the back of the chair, shot up at the smell of unshed tears. His eyes widened as he looked at her.

Had he reached her? “Love?” he whispered, as both demon and man were poised on the edge of hope.

It was then that the most beautiful sound hit his sensitive ears. It was so slight that he almost missed the precious sound. It was not even a breath, “Spike,” she keened.

Suddenly, the months of pain didn’t matter, and as he saw her emerald gaze blazing through him like an inferno, he felt as if he could fly. By some miracle, his voice became sure and strong, “I’m here. I’m here, and I’m never leaving you…it’s me.”

“Really?” she whispered as she stared disbelievingly into his face.

“Yes,” he choked, trying to hold tight control over the emotions that were flooding him, “It’s me,” he sighed, feeling a weight lift off of him, “Maybe for the first time. It really is me.”

There was a soft tapping sound at the door, and Spike growled a little at the intrusion.

“…What does that mean?” Buffy’s voice competed with the tapping for his attention.

Spike slowly got up from the chair and went to the door, his eyes never leaving hers, “I don’t know, Love,” he said as he yanked the door open.

The quiet voice from behind the door lilted, in a familiar singsong way, “Perhaps, Simba we can discover that, together.”

The tears of gratitude that had begun flowing when Buffy awoke, were now flowing for an entirely different reason.

Spike was looking at the face of one of his only true friends in the world. He was so full of gratitude that he could barely speak, “Mouse,” he whispered.