“I told my friends about us.”

Absolutely nothing the Slayer could have said could have been more utterly astonishing to Spike than those few, simple, matter-of-factly spoken words. For months he had longed to be lifted out of the status of being her “dirty little secret” and acknowledged by her in front of the people who were most important in her life…for some unearthly reason.

And now, finally – now that he had taken the either monumentally admirable or devastatingly stupid step of actually breaking up with *her* -- *now*, she had decided to tell her friends about them?

He didn’t know whether to be frustrated and angry that she had only found the courage to tell the truth now that they were working their way slowly back toward being friends – or to be relieved and hopeful that she had managed to tell the truth at all.

Instead of either option, at least in front of her, he chose the cool veneer of indifference that he had used with her ever since that night at his crypt, when she had begged him for another chance, tearing his heart out and taking it with her when she walked out his door – not for the first time in any sense – though he had known at the time that to let her see that would be to give up everything he had gained back.

His pride, his self-respect, any chance at a truly loving, healthy relationship with her -- *everything*.

“No ‘us’ to speak of, now, is there, pet?” he reminded her calmly, not taking his eyes from the book he was reading. He was stretched out comfortably on his bed, an open classic novel in front of him – though he had no idea what the last two pages had actually said.

“I know,” Buffy replied immediately, in that carefully calm voice that let him know that his words had stung, but she was trying hard to hide it. “I mean about before. I told them that we -- *were* together – before.”

“I’d wager they’re bloody relieved to know that you’ve come to your senses, then, aren’t they?” he retorted, allowing his insecurities and past hurts to push his anger into his voice.

“Actually – they’re all kind of freaked out,” Buffy calmly informed him, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye to subtlely gauge his reaction. “They keep telling me how foolish I’m being – trying to win you back.”

Spike felt his heart leap up into his throat at her simple, honest words. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking that moment to regain his composure before he visibly lost it – and then focusing his eyes on his book again, pretending to read it – while his mind raced, trying to process her startling words.

He was not surprised – or even bothered – by the reaction of the Scoobies to Buffy’s revelation about their relationship-that-wasn’t. He *was* surprised by the fact that the revelation had taken place at all – and by the fact that she had admitted to her friends that she was actually pursuing *him* now – actually *trying* to get him back.

“Maybe they’re right,” he finally replied, his voice soft and just barely under control. “Maybe you *would* be wiser not to – to do what you’re doing. Not to – to risk the pain – for something that you may never have.”

He waited breathlessly in silence for a long moment, anxiously anticipating her response on the inside – composed and unconcerned on the outside.

“Well -- *you* did it -- risked the pain,” she replied finally, in a quiet, brave sort of voice. "I told them that it's really not their business. I'll decide what's best for me, and if they want to be a part of my life they'll just have to live with it -- because after all, it *is* *my* life.” She paused before looking him in the eye and finishing softly, “I think -- the pain might be worth it -- for something that’s that important to me.”

Spike’s eyes widened momentarily, stunned – and touched – by the simple honesty of her words. His eyes welled with tears that he refused to let fall – not in front of her. She had not seen him cry since that awful night in her bedroom when he had fallen apart in the wake of her cruel betrayal, in his confusion and pain clinging desperately to the very person that had nearly destroyed him.

Never again.

Buffy would *not* see his tears – not yet. Not until he knew that he could trust her with his pain.

He cleared his throat, sitting up and setting his book aside, rising from the bed and moving across the bedroom to stand with his back to her, pretending to busy himself with something in the battered old dresser where he kept his meager clothing.

His distracted mind could not even process what it was that he was touching.

“Well, Slayer,” he said, his voice guarded and distant. “I’m a bit tired, love…don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“I know,” Buffy smiled, a hint of sadness to the expression, though her tone was light and understanding. “Time for your lovestruck stalker to get lost.” She rose from the chair she was sitting in and headed toward the ladder leading up into the crypt and out of his haven.

“Good night,” she said softly, pausing at the base before heading up.

His pensive nod was all the response she got this particular night – and probably a good indication to her of the effect her words had had on him.

Tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind and heart were full, flooded with a swirling myriad of thoughts and feelings that desperately needed sorting.

He needed to get out.

Buffy’s evening visits were always after her patrols, so he knew that he could safely go for a walk without running into her, or any nasties requiring killing, either, since she had probably already cleared the place for the night. Shrugging into his duster, Spike climbed the ladder quickly and headed out into the night.

He had to admit, Buffy had surprised him during the last few weeks. In fact, it had been a little over a month since he had given her her “chance” – and she had definitely managed to get his attention – in a very good way.

Not that she had ever *really* lost it to begin with, he reminded himself with a weary sigh.

He still loved her as much as he ever had.

Yes, she had hurt him badly, had shattered his trust so cruelly as to leave him devastated, and his heart too sore to risk bearing any more hurt just then. As he had told her, her actions did have consequences; even love was not invulnerable. It was possible to kill it.

His love was just a bit harder to kill than most – which meant that Spike ended up suffering for his love quite often.

But even so, Buffy had honestly not done a single thing to cause him to regret the chance he had given her – not once.

The next time she had shown up at his crypt had been a few days later, after patrol. True to her word, she had knocked, instead of bashing her way in as was her usual manner. Spike had been too caught off guard by her unusual courtesy to even consider turning her away – as if he could have, anyway! – and they had spent the evening just talking quietly.

Well – mostly Buffy had talked.

Spike listened quietly as she spoke in a voice of controlled emotion, about her hurt, her confusion, at being dragged out of heaven and facing life on earth again – about the guilt and pain that had gradually built into layers of anguished secrecy, as the lies, the distance, grew and grew beyond her control – forming an impenetrable wall between her and her loved ones.

He did not say much – was not ready yet to open up to her in return, as he had done so freely before – but it meant a lot to him just to know that she was finally willing to *talk* to him – to renew the friendship that their ill-timed physical union had cut short so many months ago.

She had ended the conversation that night by softly repeating that she was sorry for hurting him, and that eventually she would earn his trust again – thanking him for being there for her, even when she had rejected his loving, supportive friendship, in favor of a shallow, physical distraction that had allowed her to feel – without *really* feeling the painful things that really mattered.

That night, she had left him speechless, but with a tiny, barely-there seed of hope in his heart.

With each late night visit that had followed, she had tended that seed, watered it, helped it to grow, as she opened herself up to him, and made herself available to him as well, should he choose to do the same.

He hadn’t, yet – could not quite bring himself to, after the way she had used his trusting confidences against him before. But he found that he began to look forward to her visits – though he never told her that.

He made a point of letting her know that her frequent visits, the tentative closeness building between them, were no guarantee of the ultimate result of this little experiment. It was a struggle for him, considering that most of the time he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms – to take her back, *now*, without the painful, awkward phase that they were working their way through at the moment.

But he knew that if he did that, it would only send her the message that the way she had treated him before was acceptable, even if only subconsciously – that she could get away with it again, if she wanted to.

And the scary thing was – she probably could have.

So he kept himself at a distance. He did not discourage her spending time with him, but he did not act as if the visits meant that much to him, either. In fact, though it had taken an extreme force of his will, he had even made a point, a time or two, of not being there when he knew she would be coming by.

It had been sheer torture, knowing that she would be knocking on the door of his crypt, and not being there to see her. He wanted to see her so badly! In spite of what he told her, in spite of the façade he had created to defend his fragile emotions, her visits were the high point of his days. He reveled in her presence, her attentions – all the while making believe to her that it did not matter to him – he was through with building his whole bloody unlife around her.

At least – she had to believe that he was.

Occasionally he would join her on patrol – when she asked him to, but not *every* time she asked him to. And *that* was harder than anything else. He kept reminding himself that she was the Slayer, that she was more than capable of defending herself, and did not need him or anyone else to protect her. Going with her every time she asked him only made him appear to be at her beck and call again, as he had always been.

Still, a very strong part of him longed to be there for her, to protect her and look out for her. He still loved her more than his own unlife, and could not stand the thought of her being hurt, or worse, because she had asked him to fight by her side and he had refused.

*What if there’s a reason she asked me *tonight*?* he always asked himself. *What if she’s tired, or sick, and really needs me to help her?*

He would fiercely fight back the protective instinct for the moment and tell her, “Not tonight, Slayer. Got a bloody headache,” or some equally mocking, suggestive snark designed to cover his true feelings, while drawing attention to hers.

And then, once she had left, he would follow her at a distance, keeping her under his watchful eye, without letting her know he was there.

After all – he couldn’t let her actually get hurt, now, could he?

Gradually, little by little, she was chipping away at the defensive wall she had forced him to put up around his heart. Not once in the past month had she put him down, insulted him, mocked him in any way.

In fact, she seemed to be making every effort to be open with him, honest and sincere, telling him the things about him that she admired, the things about him that made her want him, like him -- *love* him – though she had yet to say the actual words again since that night.

He had told her in no uncertain terms that he did not want to hear those words from her – so she did not say them.

Except – he *did* want to hear them. Desperately.

She told him in every way she could without saying the actual words – or touching him.

She was careful never to overstep her bounds with him physically, either. She knew enough to know that he would only see physical affection from her now as a means of manipulating him, of getting what she wanted from him. After all, hadn’t she always used it as such before? He could not know whether she really meant the soft, tender touches that he missed so much, or if she was only using his need for that tenderness to bend him to her will.

So they both kept their distance physically, Spike not allowing her to confuse him, even accidentally, with the enticing, addictive, but devastating pleasure of her touch.

But it got harder every night to resist.

He knew how badly she wanted him – couldn’t bloody miss it, vampire senses and all. But she always restrained herself, never made a move to initiate the intimacy that he had been craving, missing, so much – which he would certainly have denied her anyway, at this point.

He *would* have. Really. He *knew* that he would have…

*Oh, sod it all – you know you’d cave the minute she touched you – she probably knows it, too – good thing she doesn’t…*

And – was that the beginnings of a cautious, fledgling trust he was beginning to feel for her again?

*Well,* he thought. * ‘S not like she’s done anything lately to prevent it.*

Buffy really had been working very hard to rebuild his trust in her. The lies, the subtle and not-so-subtle emotional and verbal abuses she had inflicted on him, the utter disrespect and derisive, belittling treatment she had given him before – all had vanished completely.

He actually felt like asking a time or two, “Who the bloody hell are you, and what have you done with the Slayer?”

But it *was* her, as difficult as it was to believe sometimes – in fact, much more so “her” than the cold front she had presented him with before had ever been. She was giving the best effort she had in her to being real, honest, opening herself up to him and making herself as vulnerable to him as she had once made him to her.

*Once? Right!* he thought with bitter sarcasm. *I was *always* at her bloody feet! Her soddin’ dark little secret, her whore, her willing slave for her to do with as she bloody well liked whenever she liked, but tucked away from the delicate eyes of the people she *really* cared about!*

And that thought brought him back to the surprising, and somewhat disconcerting, revelation she had made tonight.

He could hardly believe that it was actually true. Had she really finally told the Scoobies about their relationship, if he could even call it that? And about the fact that she genuinely wanted him still, and was pursuing *him* now, instead of the other way around as it had been for so long?

He glanced suspiciously around him for a moment.

*Might oughta look out for a stake to the back after that little bit of news,* he thought. *Her mates’ll be looking to take me out, either for touching her to begin with, or for having the nerve to reject her now!*

Again, he wondered if perhaps the time had come to let her in a little bit more. He wanted to, desperately longed to – but he had *wanted* to from the moment he had shut her out to begin with. What he had to think about was whether or not he could trust her enough to let her in again.

This “taking things slow” was sheer bloody torture. He wanted her, craved her, and every part of him shouted for joy at the signs that seemed to prove that she was finally coming around, that he could trust her enough to try again. But his wounded heart was still afraid that it might be too soon.

Yes, waiting was painful.

But he knew that if he *didn’t* wait – and she broke his trust again – it would be more than painful.

It would kill him.

“Not yet,” he told himself aloud in a firm, yet trembling whisper, as he turned around and made his way back toward his crypt.

“Not yet…”