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Closing the door firmly behind Xander and Angel – only after watching to be sure that Xander got to his car unhindered by the angry vampire – Buffy sighed wearily, closing her eyes and resting her head against the door for a moment. Again and again, Xander’s explanation played over in her head, as she tried to reassure herself with the simple reason of his words.

*He was telling the truth…he would never…he *had* to be telling the truth…*

If there were questions in her subconscious about Xander’s disturbingly convenient explanation for what Angel had smelled on him – she did not allow them to surface. She *couldn’t*. She simply could not allow herself to consider the possibility that her best friend could have committed the horrors that had been done to Spike.

*Spike!*

Her eyes widened with startled memory. Feeling suddenly ashamed of her momentarily lapse – becoming too caught up in her own troublesome thoughts to even remember the traumatized vampire upstairs – Buffy turned and headed quickly up the stairs. If Spike had had some sort of nightmare, and neither she or Dawn had been available to comfort him, it was possible that he was sill awake upstairs – alone, afraid…waiting for he.

Quietly, she edged the door open, peering inside – not wanting to wake Spike if he had fallen asleep.

Much to her relief, he was perfectly still, appearing to be sound asleep next to her sleeping little sister.

Closing the door again, Buffy made her way down the hall to the bathroom, more than ready to take a long, hot shower, and wash away the tension and confusion and heartsick feeling that would not seem to leave her, even now that her suspicions about her friend had been laid to rest by his explanation.

They *had* been laid to rest – hadn’t they?

She stayed under the hot water, waiting for the tension to ease out of her sore, weary body.

She stayed until the water was cold – but the tension remained.

**********************************

Spike heard her on the stairs before she ever reached the door – and immediately, with an effort, ceased the rapid, panicked breaths he had been taking in, closing his eyes and feigning sleep, waiting fearfully for her to either come in, or go away.

Fearfully – because he knew that if she walked in that room at that moment, there would be no way that he could hope to keep the secret.

Once Buffy closed the door, Spike struggled to genuinely compose himself – aware that eventually, she *would* come in to go to bed, and that when she did, he had to convince her that he was all right…or he would be putting her and Dawn in terrible danger, as well as himself.

He forced himself to focus on taking slow, steady breaths – somehow remembering that this would help to calm himself down – and forced the terrifying images that filled his thoughts away, to the back of his mind, to be taken out at another time, a time when he was alone with his fears.

If only he could keep them at bay that lon.

By the time Buffy returned to the room, filling it with light from the doorway, and a sweet fragrance of floral body wash and vanilla shampoo and the fresh, steamy heat of her shower-warmed body – Spike was calm.

At least – he thought he was.

He lay there, listening to her movements as she dressed herself in her pajamas, but not daring to open his eyes or do anything to give her any idea that he was still awake. He did not see the frown of concern on her face as she stopped at the side of the bed – was not even aware that he was still visibly shaking.

Dawn was sleeping on the far end of the bed, and Spike was as close as he could get to her without actually touching her (which seemed more than a little odd to Buffy in itself; why *wasn’t* he touching her, nestled close in his usual quest for reassurance?), so there was plenty of room for her to slide into the bed beside him.

Spike’s back was turned to her as she lay down, pulling the covers over them both again – enveloping him in the combined warmth of he body and her sister’s – and almost in spite of himself, Spike felt the tension in the taut muscles of his back begin to ease a bit.

Until she touched him.

Spike’s raw, violated nerves could not handle the unexpected touch of her soft, warm hand on his arm, or the cautious closeness of her body as she pressed in close behind him. Without meaning to, he flinched, his body going rigid under her hand, as he quickly suppressed a soft, panicked cry.

“Shhh,” Buffy whispered, not moving her hand from his arm, just gently stroking up and down in a soothing motion. “It’s okay – just me, Spike…it’s all right…”

He hesitated, his stomach roiling with the sickness of terror and confusion, trembling violently with fear of the consequences of allowing her to see his fear – and yet…he just could not help it.

He *needed* her – her arms around him, her soft, affectionate promises of protection.

He was terrified – and he needed her.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Spike suddenly turned in her arms, his head pressed to her breast, his hands at her sides, desperately clutching her to him, choking back sobs in a pitifully futile attempt to control his overwhelming emotions.

“It’s okay,” Buffy whispered, wrapping her arms around him and drawing him closer into her embrace. “I’m here, Spike – you’re safe…I’m right here…”

Her words only made him cry harder, knowing that he was *not* safe; his tormentor knew where he was – knew how to get him alone – and if he wanted to, he could hurt him again, any time he wanted.

And Buffy had no idea.

But she was holding him.

She cared about him, wanted to soothe his fears and give him the affection and care that he had desperately needed for so long – and at the moment, there was nothing he could do but to thirstily drink it in, clinging to her, his only lifeline in a terrifyingly hopeless situation.

“Spike – Baby,” she whispered, her gentle hand on his face tilting his head up to face her – though he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. “Sweetie, what is it? Did you have a bad dream?”

Raising his eyes to meet hers at last, only because he knew that she wanted him to, Spike could tell by the knowing look in her soft emerald eyes, the unquestioning tone of her question, that this was the story that Xander had told her – and he had no choice but to stick to it.

He lowered his eyes again, feeling guilty for the lie, as he nodded and whispered, “Y-yes…b-bad dream…”

Buffy’s lips gently brushed across his brow, as she shifted her body closer to him, surrounding him with her warmth, her support and compassion. She gently pressed his head back down against her chest, deliberately relieving him of the burden of making eye contact, as she whispered softly, “Wanna tell me about it?”

The tender invitation in her words, without demand or force, brought fresh tears to Spike’s eyes, and a tight ache to his chest, as he swallowed back the truth, that he was so desperate to spill out to her. He wanted to badly to tell her everything, to pour out the whole terrible story as best he could, and beg for her protection – but he knew that if he did, this sweet comfort would come to an end.

She would not believe him.

She would *hate* him.

She would give him back to *him* -- if *he* didn’t kill her first.

But – if she thought the source of his trembling and tears was some dark dream that had broken into his slumber – as long as he *kept* her thinking that – he could tell her *some* of what had happened – couldn’t he? There was no harm in that – and the secret, painful truth was ripping him to shreds inside. He simply *had* to let some of it out.

“Found me,” he whispered, his cool tears slowly soaking through her pajama top. “*Him*. He – found me. H-hurt me…” He hesitated, his trembling hands clutching at her weakly as he added in a soft, barely audible voice, “Hurt *you* -- D-dawn…”

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat at the stark pain and terror in his voice – driven by fear and desperation to speak more words at a time than she had heard from him yet. “Spike – Baby, no,” she assured him, dismayed by the content of those words, and what they revealed about his secret fears. “No, he can never find you here – never hurt you again! I’ll protect you, Sweetie, I promise!”

She had no way to know that her promise had already been broken.

But as the wounded vampire shook with a fresh tremor of fear in her arms, holding onto her for dear life, his tears still soaking through her shirt as he just shook his head slowly in silent misery – Buffy had to wonder again. She had told herself that she was through with wondering that – but she *had* to.

“Spike?” she whispered, pulling back from him a little and reaching down to tilt his face back up toward her. “Hey, look at me…”

Reluctantly he obeyed, tearful blue eyes focused on hers with apprehension.

“Spike – did something – did – anything else happen? Tonight?” she asked him cautiously, searching his gaze for any sign of some painful truth he might be trying to hide. “Did – did you see anyone – talk to anyone – besides me and Dawn?”

Spike’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly averted his gaze, shaking his head rapidly. “No,” he whispered. “N-no…”

“It’s okay if you did,” she quickly assured him, her soothing hands running slowly up and down his arms, though she did not force him to look at her again. “I mean – you had a really bad nightmare, and – and Xander and Giles were both here for a while...did you – did you see either of them tonight?”

Spike’s mind raced with panic, terrified, having no idea what was the right answer to her questions – the one and only answer that would not, in the end, result in the destruction of himself and all those he cared about.

“Did – did anyone come up here?” Buffy pressed gently, seeking his downcast gaze. “I mean – while you were…dreaming?”

Spike raised his eyes back to hers, searching too, desperate for some sort of clue. Her slight leading nod – probably completely unintentional – revealed to him that this was the story she had been told, and he nodded firmly, holding her gaze.

“Who?” she asked softly.

“X-Xa…” he stumbled over the unfamiliar word, the word that represented his darkest fears.

“Xander?”

He nodded again, gratefully, with an effort suppressing the shudder that rose in him at the name.

Buffy was silent for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless, and weighted with dread.

“Did he – did he hurt you, Spike?”

Forcing himself not to look away, remembering enough of human communication to know that that would immediately give the truth away, Spike shook his head slowly. “N-no,” he whispered. “No h-hurt me.”

The relief and happiness in Buffy’s eyes at those words was almost worth the pain of keeping his secret, as she visibly relaxed, pulling him closer to her and replying softly, “I didn’t think so. I just – just wanted to be sure…”

As she spoke, she reached a tender hand up to cup the back of his head, running gently through his hair…and Spike could not hold back the startled little yelp of pain and fear, as her fingertips caught on a mat of blood that had formed not too long ago, unintentionally yanking at the freshly torn wound on the back of his head.

“Sorry!” she gasped automatically, withdrawing her hand and turning his head down in an attempt to examine the spot, though she could really see nothing in the dark. “Spike, I didn’t mean to, Sweetie…I thought that spot was almost healed!”

*It was,* he thought with an ominous feeling as she pulled away from him, rolling on her side to turn on the bedside lamp.

“Come here,” she instructed gently but firmly, as she pulled herself up to a sitting position on the bed, and pushed his shoulder so that he was leaning his head over her lap.

“P-please,” he whimpered, shaking again as the worst of his injuries was made vulnerable, exposed to her scrutiny, her touch, whatever she might choose to do to it.

“Shhh,” she soothed him gently, her eyes widening with alarm as she saw the spot where the barely healing flesh had torn open again, leaving a mat of caked blood in his soft, blonde curls. “Oh, Spike…what happened?”

Spike closed his eyes, his breath quickening with panic, as he struggled to come up with a convincing explanation.

*So stupid,* he cursed himself with vicious frustration. *If only I wasn’t so *stupid*!*

“N-nightmare,” he whispered, the words coming out without conscious thought. “Hit – hit the t-table…please…please…”

Buffy frowned for a moment, puzzled, before glancing to her side at the nightstand, and realizing that it must be what he was talking about. And it *did* make sense; if he had been in the throes of a nightmare, he very well might have knocked his head into the nightstand accidentally, and reopened his wound.

“Okay,” she said softly, being careful to keep her voice calm, since he obviously seemed to expect her to be angry, for some reason, judging by the way he was shaking, pleading, tears falling from his eyes once more. “It’s okay, Spike…you didn’t do anything wrong…it’s okay, Sweetheart…”

She pulled him gently up to face her – though he still refused to – and led him up out of the bed and to the bathroom, where she carefully and thoroughly bandaged the spot, to protect it from any further damage during the night. Washing the blood from his hair would have to wait until the morning, she decided. For now – they were both much too exhausted.

“Come on, Baby,” she murmured as she put her arm gently around him and led him back towards her room. “Let’s go back to bed…it’s been a long day…”

Relieved that she had accepted his explanations, and sheerly exhausted from the trauma and suffering of this painful night, Spike rested his aching, weary head on her shoulder, and simply accepted her gentle embrace – the only small comfort he could count on.

But he had no idea how long it would last.

He only knew that he would do anything – even keep his enemy’s secret – to hold onto it for as long as he possibly could.

*I won’t tell,* he assured himself again as he nestled down into the Slayer’s embrace in her bed, and tried to fall asleep. *No matter what, won’t -- *can’t* -- tell…*