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By the next morning, Spike was feeling strong enough to come downstairs again – although only with Buffy’s repeated reassurance that the house was empty except for Dawn and the two of them. Even then, he kept glancing around anxiously for any sign that someone might have slipped into the house while she wasn’t looking.

He was getting better, much more quickly than Buffy had expected him to – at least, physically. It seemed that the relatively small amount of blood he had had in the last few days had done wonders. But the speed with which a normal, steady diet had accelerated his healing, only served to emphasize how terribly starved he had been in the first place; and emotionally, mentally, Spike was still clearly very far from okay.

He was very nervous most of the time, panicking at the odd unexpected sound or movement near him, and though he clung to both girls – but especially Buffy – with a desperate need for reassurance and affection, there still seemed to be a deeply ingrained fear in him, an expectation that if he did not do just what they wanted, just as they wanted him to do it, at all times – eventually, he would be punished again.

Buffy knew better than to think that telling him a single time that that could never happen would be enough to completely allay his fears. He had been in those caves for months, with nothing but torment and abuse to define his re-developing sense of himself, and the world, and what he could expect from those around him.

Certainly, she could expect it to take at least as long to tear down those damaging ideas as it had taken to place them in his mind in the first place.

Of course, Buffy really had no way of knowing exactly how long he had been kept there in the Initiative caves, but she had a feeling that it had been a *very* long time – certainly almost as long as he had been gone at all. Before she had known what had happened to him, she had assumed that Spike had simply taken off, unable to deal with the situation involving himself and Anya.

Now that she had him back, albeit a vague semblance of the vampire he had once been, Buffy remembered – running away had never been his style.

*No,* she reminded herself a bit harshly. *That was always *your* thing, Buffy.*

*Not anymore,* she firmly told herself, as she took a freshly warmed mug of blood from the microwave and took it to the island, where Spike was perched a bit awkwardly on one of the barstool style seats that surrounded it. *This time, you’re staying put, woman – for as long as he needs you.*

Spike had been gazing around the dimly shaded kitchen with wide eyes, taking in surroundings that should have been familiar to him -- but had been forgotten, like everything else he had ever known – with a sort of awe in his wide, impossibly innocent blue eyes.

When Buffy set the mug down beside him, automatically brushing her fingertips against his shoulder in a casual gesture of affection as she did – he startled violently with a frightened yelp, and would have fallen right off the back of the stool, had she not swiftly moved in behind him, steadying him with gentle hands at his sides.

“Shhh,” she murmured, as she felt him lean back against her, turning his head to nuzzle his face against her shoulder in obvious relief, seeking the comfort of her nearness. “It’s all right – just me…”

She had time to think that, although he was understandably still very nervous, the time between freaking out and calming down was getting less and less with each small scare – before suddenly, rational thought was momentarily stolen away from her, with the familiar touch of his cool, slightly roughened hands covering hers at his sides, in a touch that was nothing more than an instinctive need for reassurance and security.

Buffy’s body seemed to feel differently about that touch.

The electric tingles of sensation seemed to flow out from the place where their hands touched, flowing through her entire body, and reawakening within her a need that she had long since forcefully repressed – thinking that she would never have occasion to have that need fulfilled again.

She had told herself that she would never *allow* herself to fill that need again, even if he *did* come back…

But now – he *was* back – and all she could think of in that moment was…

*No!* she sharply reprimanded herself, stunned and horrified at the direction her thoughts were taking. *That’s the last thing he needs to worry about right now! God, Buffy, he’s like a *child*!*

She fought the impulse to snatch her hands away from his – to abruptly end the disturbing sensations caused by his cool hands on hers – and instead very slowly, gently, took his hands in hers and guided them to close around either side of the warm mug on the table.

She could not allow herself to even be tempted to take advantage of his vulnerability, his need – but she knew that if she pulled away from him suddenly, the rejection and loss would be too much for him, especially just now when he seemed to need connection with her so desperately.

Although she was sure to keep her movements slow and gentle, making her reasons for every motion clear to him, Spike still turned slightly on the stool, glancing up at her with uncertainty in his anxious blue eyes – an uncertainty that did not seem to be eased by the reassuring smile she gave him as she spoke gently to him.

“Go on, Spike. Drink up.”

As she spoke she casually moved away from behind him, moving to the other side of the island to busy herself with wiping a counter that she had just wiped not five minutes ago – keeping her eyes studiously averted from his the entire time, trying to give him the impression that nothing was wrong.

She failed miserably.

The first sign that alerted her to Spike’s distress was a soft, shuddering little breath from across the table – and she reluctantly looked up to see that his wide eyes were downcast, staring into the untouched mug in his hand, and his mouth was trembling slightly, as if he was on the verge of tears.

Despite her best efforts to appear natural and normal about moving away from him, the amazingly perceptive vampire had still managed to pick up on the fact that for some reason, she didn’t *want* to touch him.

“Spike – what is it?” she asked although she already knew the answer, trying to keep the note of impatience from her voice – and then flooded with guilt for that impatience, which was only there because she hated the fact that she’d accidentally hurt him by taking her hands off of him when she *had* to take her hands off of him, because if she didn’t she didn’t trust herself not to take things further than he needed them to go right now, and all she really wanted to do was to throw her arms around him and hold him close to her and make all his pain and confusion and that childlike, trusting, terrified look on his face just *go away*!

But it *wouldn’t* go away.

Not until he was really sure that he was safe, and protected, and not in danger of any further suffering for some small, imagined mistake on his part.

*And how can he be sure of that, if I won’t even touch him?* she finally gave in, swallowing hard and setting her jaw with determination as she made her way back around the island and put her arms gently around him.

*Nurturing-Buffy has to stay around,* she reminded herself firmly. *Because he needs me. Nothing else matters right now.*

As Spike turned on the barstool and gratefully leaned his head against her chest, his trembling hands coming to rest on her hips as he held her to him with near desperation, Buffy sighed in defeat.

*Nympho-Buffy will just have to exercise a little self-restraint.*

At that moment, Dawn made her way down the stairs, dressed in a thick, soft, baby blue bathrobe, her hair up in a towel, following a much-needed long, hot shower. She paused in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe, frowning in concern at the scene before her.

“What happened?” she asked quietly, not wanting to startle Spike.

It was obvious that something had happened to upset him, by the way he was clinging to her sister, and the way her usually brusque sister was gently soothing him, holding him to her with one arm around his back, her other hand playing gently through his hair.

“Nothing much,” Buffy sighed. “Just a Stupid-Buffy moment.” She looked up at her sister, her eyes glittering with unshed tears that expressed a myriad of confused emotions that she could not have put into words if she tried. “He can’t remember his own freakin’ name,” she said softly, “but he still remembers how to read me like a book.”

Dawn did not really understand what Buffy was talking about, but she got the impression that she really didn’t need to – so she just gave her sister a sympathetic smile as she went on into the kitchen to open the refrigerator.

After a couple of comfortably silent moments passed, Spike pushed lightly away from Buffy, raising his head to look at her, his own blue eyes damp with tears – but there was no mistaking the stubborn, slightly offended set of his jaw, or the determined, proud gleam in those shining eyes that was there for just a moment…

So much like the old Spike, that Buffy found herself breathless, as she gazed down at him in wonder.

“S-s…” he began, his brow furrowing with concentration as he tried to get his uncooperative mouth to form the word he wanted to say. “Sp-spike,” he finally stated emphatically, gazing up into her eyes with a brief look of elation at his success. “Spike!” And there was something in his smile in that moment that just barely hinted at the smirk that had once been second nature to him.

Dawn’s smirk was fully formed as she came to sit beside them at the counter, setting her glass of orange juice down.

“Doesn’t remember his own name, my butt!” she remarked with mild indignation to match what Buffy had seen in Spike’s eyes a few moments before. “I don’t think he liked you saying that, Buffy!”

Buffy stared at him, her mouth agape in amazement, her eyes lighting up with joy at what he had said. “Spike, that’s *wonderful*!” she told him, her voice rising in excitement.

She lowered her hand from his hair to his cheek – and he flinched slightly, his eyes suddenly anxious as they darted between her hand and her eyes. As always, his emotions were all too clear in his expressive gaze.

He had been determined, intent on showing her that he *did* remember his name – but now, after the moment had passed, was realizing how much assertion and boldness he had just shown. After being forbidden to attempt to argue back, to make a sound of protest – to in any way stand up to his tormentor – for so long, the sudden realization of his own rising courage was not only surprising to him.

It was terrifying.

But Buffy was so very proud to see it.

She ignored the flinch, knowing that it would take time for him to really understand that he would not be punished simply for speaking without permission, or even arguing with her – but given enough time, that fear would no longer be such a part of him. Whether or not it would ever truly go away completely, she had no way of knowing – but this small progress was definitely encouraging.

And for now – it was enough.

“Very, very good, Spike,” she whispered as she gently caressed his cheek, smiling down into his eyes with warmth and reassurance in her gaze. “I’m so proud of you…you’re doing so good, Sweetheart…”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise at her unexpected praise – and then lit up, as that soft, shy smile that melted her heart every time she saw it appeared on his face again. He dropped his gaze for a moment before looking up at her again through worshipful dark blue eyes.

Buffy felt her heart quicken with desire, and swallowed hard, but did not look away from him or stop touching him. She knew that he needed her much too much for her to take the selfishly easy way out of this situation and run away from him as she had always done before.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp series of quick raps on the front door.

Spike jumped under her hands, his eyes flying toward the doorway that led out into the living room, in the general direction of the front door, as Dawn silently got up and went to answer it. Buffy wondered thoughtfully at the fact that he seemed to understand what the sound meant, though no one had knocked at her door, when he was around anyway, since she had found him. Could it be another memory returning to him?

As she studied his expression, she could almost see the thought process turning around in his injured mind.

Knocking sound equals person at the door…

Closed door and walls between him and the door equals *unknown* person at the door.

Unknown person at the door equals…

*Crap*.

“Spike,” she said softly, her hand at his cheek drawing his wild, panicked attention from the doorway back up to her eyes. “Sweetie, listen. You remember what I told you last night?”

He frowned slightly, looking away, and she could see his frustration, his confusion as he struggled against the panic to remember what she was talking about. His breath was coming in harsh, ragged gasps, and his body was shaken with tremors of fear as his wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between her face and the still empty doorway.

“Spike – look at me, Sweetheart – I’m not going to ever let anyone hurt you – okay?” she reminded him, keeping her voice calm and intent, trying to hold his focus.

It was starting to work.

He hesitated, uncertain, and then nodded shakily, before lowering his head to her breast again, his shaking hands fisted in the end of her untucked shirt, as he clung to her, gasping for breath as he waged his own personal war with panic. Under his breath, Buffy thought she could hear him whispering something, though she could not tell what it was.

She heard a familiar male voice in the hallway – and felt her stomach drop with a combination of relief – and a certain amount of fear…the sort of fear that a child feels when they know their parent is about to hear from someone else about something that they did, before they will get the opportunity to explain.

She turned automatically toward the doorway as the two voices – Dawn’s and the other – grew nearer; and Spike clutched at her, drawing in a sharp gasp of panic when he thought she would move away from him, his voice rising slightly so that she could hear his words – and Buffy immediately felt her heart ache at the desperate, beseeching tone of his voice as he begged her simply.

“*Please – please – please…*”

“Shhh, it’s okay…he’s safe…he won’t hurt you…he’s okay, Spike…it’s okay,” she assured him, turning back toward him and wrapping both arms around him protectively.

She knew very well that it didn’t look appropriate to the eyes of the man who was suddenly standing in the doorway to the kitchen – could tell by the startled gasp of dismay that left his lips at the sight of them, that he would not approve – but it did not really matter to her at the moment.

Spike needed her reassurance.

And Giles would just have to get over it.

What was he even doing here, anyway?