A heavy silence fell over the room as the door shut behind Xander’s retreating form, and Buffy slowly returned her attention to the assembled group in the living room. Everyone was looking at her, with varying degrees of myriad emotions -- expectancy – shame – confusion.

Some had tears in their eyes.

But in every last one of their expressions, there was an unmistakable sense of renewed respect – and not only for the Slayer, but for the vampire that stood at her side as well.

Buffy’s heated words had rung true.

With the possible exceptions of the few relative strangers among the group tonight – and not even them, if they were to consider the apocalypses that Spike had helped to avert -- they all owed their lives, in one way or another, to the blonde vampire who was standing there, looking so uncertain, his eyes downcast, his expression solemn – trying so hard to seem as if what they thought of him did not matter to him…when in truth, it *really* did.

And even after all he had done for them, they had despised him – treated him like less than garbage.

No one had the first idea what to say – except Buffy.

“Anya will know what to do about the spell,” she told them all in a soft voice of clear authority. “Until Xander finds her and they get back, I think it’d be best if everyone just sort of – stayed put for the moment. I don’t know if we’ll all *have* to be here in order to undo the spell, but there’s no sense in taking chances with this. Besides – it’s probably -- safer, anyway.”

She paused before adding in a dubious tone, “But I understand if some of you would rather be alone until we can find a way to stop this – this rampant truth telling. There’s a lot of rooms in this house – and there’s the basement – just…just don’t go too far,” she instructed.

They all glanced around at each other speculatively. The funny thing was, for most of them, now that the truth of their dark secrets had come out – it did not seem so horrible, after all. It was clear in almost every face, the simple relief it was just to *not* have to hide.

Willow and Tara silently slipped back into the kitchen to continue their conversation, while Sophie and her new friend sat down on the stairs, talking quietly. Clem took one look at his best friend, his hand still clasped in the Slayer’s as if neither of them ever wanted to let go, and knew that his “supportive friend” services were no longer needed, at least for the moment – and the best thing he could do right then was to keep himself busy and allow Spike and Buffy to talk.

He grabbed the television remote control from the end table beside him and flipped on the set, reaching for the bowl of chips on the coffee table with his free hand.

“Wanna see if there’s anything good on, Dawnie?” he asked the girl sitting beside him and looking a bit uncomfortable, with a hopeful, reassuring smile on his face.

Dawn was not uncomfortable to be with Clem – she was just uncomfortable *being* here at all, having her secrets so vulnerable and out in the open. So far, only Buffy and Spike knew the truth about her recent activities – but that could change in a moment if someone asked the wrong question.

“No, thanks,” she said in a quiet, distant kind of voice, as she rose from the couch and made her way up the stairs past the couple sitting there.

Unaware of her dilemma, Clem just shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, turning his attention to the television, and the channel to TV Land to catch his favorite show.

Buffy and Spike were unaware of any of the others, too caught up in their own private drama to notice what they were doing. Spike’s eyes were still cautiously averted, as the Slayer’s wide, pleading green eyes looked up at him, seeking, searching for some response to her heartfelt confession.

“Spike?” she ventured finally, her voice trembling and hesitant. “Please – can we…?”

Abruptly he broke contact, turning away from her, pulling his hand gently out of hers and heading toward the door in silence. Buffy felt her heart sink as she watched him walk quietly out the front door, closing it behind him without a sound.

She stood there for a long moment, stunned – and yet somehow, not surprised – by his actions. She could not blame him, really – in spite of the dramatically powerful scene she had just played out in her living room.

*What did you think?* she asked herself wearily, angry at herself for her own disappointment. *Did you think you could just make one great big grand gesture, and undo the months of emotional abuse and mind games you put him through? So you said you love him! Great, Buffy. But it takes a little longer than a few moments to actually prove it.*

She stood there for a few moments longer, deliberately giving him time to get as far away as he needed to get. She did not have the right to go after him – to try to chase him down and emotionally bully him into accepting her acts of apology, granting her the forgiveness and trust that she craved.

It had once been hers – all the love and trust and openness she could have desired, hers for the taking, with no need even to ask -- but she had willingly thrown it back in his face.

Now, it was only his to give as he would.

Once she was certain that Spike would be no where near her house – would be halfway back to his crypt by now, in fact – she slowly walked out the front door and onto the porch, intent on finding the only trace of privacy that existed around this house tonight, and enjoying the sweet, comforting agony of a good cry.

Alone.

Hence her surprise when she stepped out onto the porch – and saw Spike sitting there, on the top step, his back turned to her, his arms crossed on his knees, staring off into the night.

She knew that he knew she was there, but somehow she could not bring herself to speak for a long moment. Finally, she forced herself to break the silence.

“I thought you’d gone.”

Spike was silent for a long moment, not turning to face her, not moving. “Yeah, well,” he answered finally, his voice calm and even, sarcastic without being harsh or angry, “I never seem to get very far, do I?”

Buffy just stood there for a moment longer, before asking in a soft, timid voice that she barely recognized, “Can I – can I sit with you?”

Spike laughed quietly, shaking his head, “Your bloody house, Buffy – I’d say you can do as you like.”

Buffy steeled herself against the hurt at the thought that he really didn’t want her there, and turned slowly to go back into the house. Her hand was on the doorknob, but had not opened it yet, when Spike’s low, rich voice stopped her, his tone quiet and full of restrained emotion.

“Stay.”

Hesitantly, Buffy made her way to the step and sat down beside him, not looking at him, her eyes gazing solemnly into the night that seemed to have his attention so thoroughly. For a moment, neither of them seemed to know what to say – but the silence seemed to be bothering him a lot less than it bothered her.

Partly wanting to break the silence, and partly wanting to clear the air, Buffy spoke quietly, haltingly, “I – I’m sorry if I – if I embarrassed you, Spike…I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t,” he cut her off simply. He waited a moment, considering, before he went on slowly, his voice much softer than she had expected, and with a note of awed emotion in it that surprised her, “What you said in there – it was – I mean – no one’s ever…” He gave up before his emotions could overcome him completely, lowering his head and turning it slightly away before she could see him blinking back the tears that rose in his eyes.

But she knew him well enough to know.

His words troubled her.

“No one’s ever what, Spike?” she asked him, frowning in confusion. “No one’s ever…?”

Any other night, he could have dismissed her questions, waved them away as unimportant, or made up some halfway convincing answer that would serve to distract her.

Any other night, when he was not under a soddin’ truth spell.

“Took up for me like that,” he replied softly, his voice hushed and heavy with emotion. “Told off their nearest and dearest – over *me*…” He shook his head slowly. “Never seemed to matter that much to anyone before.”

“What didn’t matter?” Buffy asked gently, turning slightly toward him, earnest eyes seeking his, though he would not look at her. “Spike,” she said softly, daring to reach out a gentle hand to touch his face, to turn it toward her. “What didn’t matter?”

The fact that he did not pull away from her, did not reject her affection, her touch, was a good sign, she thought – but he did not seem willing to answer her. His eyes were closed, and he was biting the inside of his lip seemingly in determination not to respond to the question.

It didn’t matter.

Suddenly – she understood.

“*You* didn’t matter enough?” she guessed in a hushed, horrified voice, seeking his gaze, which he would not yield to her.

His silence, his refusal to look at her, was all the answer she needed.

A wave of remorse washed over her, for the part she had played in making him feel the way he did right now. She wondered if in his life as a human, he had ever once been made to feel worthy and valuable and – and *lovable*. From what she had heard of his past, in the few and fleeting unguarded moments in which he had opened up to her – though she had never reciprocated – he hadn’t.

And she knew enough of Angelus and Darla, and even his own sire, mad though she was, to know that life with them could only have served to reinforce the painful lesson that he was worthless, useless, except for the amusement and pleasure of those who sought to take what they wanted from him – emotionally or physically.

Suddenly, it all made a perfect, painful sort of sense in her mind.

“Spike” – the arrogant, dangerous, hard persona that had made up a fourth of the Scourge of Europe and wreaked such havoc as to go down in history as the second most dangerous vampire to ever exist – was nothing more than the poet William’s defensive wall.

The sensitive, affectionate, *good* man that he had been had been forced to retreat behind a façade of deadly menace that had begun as a means of defense against the abuse and belittlement that he faced every day – but had gradually become the reality.

Eventually, Spike had become every bit as real as William.

But that did not mean that William had ceased to exist.

No, she knew, as she looked at him now -- broken by his love for a woman who had, until recently, only treated him as the dirt beneath her feet – the poet William was still very much alive.

And she very much wanted to get to know him – to love him as he had loved her.

But – was it too little, too late, at this point?

“Spike,” she whispered, a deep, longing ache in her voice, as she gently tugged him around to face her, leaning in close to him, seeking his gaze. “Spike – you *do* matter to me…so much…you – you mean *everything* to me…”

He shook his head, a bitter expression of disbelief crossing his face. “No,” he whispered. “No, I don’t…”

“Spike – what I did in there…” she insisted, one hand resting at his waist and trying to draw him in closer, while the other slipped around to rest in a comforting, reassuring gesture at the back of his neck, playing slowly through his soft curls, “…I did because I *meant* it – every single word.”

A soft, tearful little laugh left her lips, as she shook her head and reminded him, “I couldn’t *not* mean it – not tonight…I said those things – because you *deserve* it…you’ve protected my sister – who is the only person in this world who means as much to me as you do…when I lost heaven – you were the one who pulled me back from the very gates of hell.”

He looked up at her suddenly, startled by those words, and that she could think to attribute such a feat to him. She held his piercing, searching gaze unflinchingly, willing him to see in her eyes how deeply she meant her words.

“You saved my life, Spike. You *did*. You don’t know how many nights I wanted to die – wanted to kill myself – and *you* -- just the thought of being with you – kept me going. I didn’t want to tell you – didn’t want to admit how much you were coming to mean to me – honestly, I probably wouldn’t have the nerve to tell you now if it wasn’t for this spell – but I’m *glad* I’m telling you, Spike.”

Her voice was passionate, certain, as she stared into his eyes honestly and openly. “I *love* you. I really do. I understand if you can’t believe that – not yet. But it’s the truth.” She paused, looking away for a moment, before meeting his gaze and going on, her voice quieter, but every bit as firm and sure.

“You loved me for years, when I wouldn’t even speak to you without putting you down – when all I could do was hurt you. If I have to go through a little of that myself – then so be it. I wasn’t ready then – but I’m ready to love you now, Spike. I’m ready to give you *me* -- whether you can give me even the slightest crumb back, or not.”

He just stared at her, his eyes wide and barely believing, his lips slightly parted, as he tried to make his mind process what he was hearing. It was almost too much for his heart to bear, after so long – it hardly seemed real.

But it was – it *was* real.

Buffy loved him.

But the beautiful dream that he had envisioned in his mind, over and over again, was marred by the painful past they had already shared. She loved him – he knew that much was true, *had* to be – but that did not mean that she loved him *enough* not to hurt him again.

He had been deeply wounded, not only by the single painful incident that had passed between them a couple of months before, but by the preceding months of consistent use and abuse that had driven him to the point of breaking, desperate emotion he was feeling now. There was no doubt in his mind, no matter how badly she had hurt him.

He still loved her.

But could he trust her, enough to place his heart in her hands again?

As if echoing the aching questions in his heart, Buffy’s soft, uncertain voice, full of mingled hope and pain and love, rang like sweet, sad music in his ears.

“I love you so much, Spike. Please – give me a chance to show you how much. Can we – can we try again?”