For a long moment they both just stayed there in silence, Spike not daring to hope that she might refute his statement – and Buffy not daring to do so. She could not quite find the words to absolve him of his guilt for his actions months earlier, and yet her heart broke with Spike’s despairing words, the desolate sound of his voice as he accepted his rejection at her hands – and the fact that he deserved it.

But – did he?

*You did every bit as much damage, in your own way,* she reminded herself, as she wordlessly reached down to brush a disheveled lock of blond hair back into its proper array, in a pitifully weak gesture of comfort. *He might have tried, but you took and took and took again, until there was nothing left to take…and then you threw him away. So in the long run…which is worse?*

*Is there even any reason to compare? Would it accomplish anything? Would it help?*

She was fairly certain that it wouldn’t.

She was afraid that maybe nothing would.

She quietly shushed him in a mildly stern tone of voice as she continued tending to his injuries, trying to put his troubling words out of her mind; but as hard as she tried to forget about it, she still found that she could not bring herself to meet those haunted blue eyes again as she worked gently over the numerous severe injuries that covered his battered body.

It wasn’t long before she had every last wound treated and bandaged. His clothes were far too filthy to be put back on him again; Buffy laid them aside in a pile to be laundered – or perhaps burned – later, and covered the trembling, tearful vampire with a couple of soft, clean blankets.

And for Spike to be trembling and tearful – it was almost unfathomable.

Once he was covered, Buffy sat down cautiously on the edge of the sofa again, running her fingers through his hair in a gesture that was tender, in spite of herself. When they were sleeping together, she had rarely allowed him the privilege of touching her in such a soft, affectionate manner; and now, it seemed that she couldn’t stop fingering the loose, disheveled curls, a quiet evidence of the tremendous changes that had taken place in her vampire since he had left.

And just when along the way had she started to think of him as “her vampire”?

Spike flinched away from her hand, though she got the impression it was more out of shame than fear. His lips twisted into a grimace as he turned his head away, shaking it in refusal. His next words confirmed her suspicions.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t…don’t hardly deserve…”

Feeling frustration rising up within her, Buffy declared in a voice that shook with mingled anger and pain, “Spike, what you didn’t deserve was…”

“Is it safe to come downstairs yet? Is he decent again?” Dawn’s nervous voice called from the top of the stairs.

Buffy released the breath she was holding with a heavy sigh of defeat. She was fairly certain she wasn’t going to be getting through to him anytime soon, anyway.

“Yeah,” she called softly. “It’s safe.”

A moment later Dawn’s quiet footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the girl hesitantly stepped into the living room, nervously watching the vampire lying on the couch as she cautiously approached. Spike glanced up at her for just an instant before looking away again, swallowing back a sob as his eyes closed and he shook his head pleadingly.

“No,” he whispered. “Please…don’t look….don’t…don’t look…”

Dawn’s eyes went wide, as she was struck once more with the disturbing fact that Spike was not at all himself at the moment. “Buffy,” she whispered, her gaze locked onto Spike, despite his pleading words. “Buffy, what’s wrong with him?”

“He…he’s been through a lot, Dawnie,” Buffy hedged, not sure yet how much she should tell her little sister about the vampire’s condition. “He’ll be fine, he just needs…needs some rest.”

Dawn raised a single eyebrow as she took in the unusually pale, trembling, frail form of the once powerful vampire. “He looks like he needs a lot more than that. He doesn’t look like he’s been feeding at all, Buffy. And…and those bites…” Both girls found their eyes unwillingly drawn to the numerous puncture wounds that covered the white skin of his throat. “…they nearly drained him, Buffy.”

The Slayer’s eyes went wide with realization, and she drew in a sharp breath of alarm. “Oh, no. Blood.”

Spike winced at the word, shaking his head in denial as he whimpered, “Sorry…so sorry…” Much to Buffy’s dismay, he seemed to be slipping back into the private world that was causing him so much torment, and in his confusion, misinterpreted her words.

Dawn nodded in grim agreement, swallowing hard as she tried to ignore his troubling words. “He’s lost a lot of it. He…he’s probably not going to get any better without it.”

“Right.” Buffy drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly as she raised a hand to her lowered head. “Okay…um…it’s too late to go anywhere tonight. Anyplace I could get blood would be closed by now.” She glanced at the clock on the wall, shaking her head. “Even Willie’s, by now. It’s four-thirty.” She sighed, looking back toward Spike with regret in her eyes. “He’s gonna have to wait until morning. I hate for him to have to suffer anymore, but…but we haven’t really got much of a choice.”

Dawn was quiet for a moment longer, as she edged closer until she stood at her sister’s side, staring down at Spike through solemn blue eyes. “Maybe he’s supposed to suffer,” she suggested after a moment, though her soft, uncertain voice left much doubt as to whether or not she really believed her words. “After…what he did. Maybe he deserves it.”

Spike flinched, and Dawn winced, surprised that he was still lucid enough to have heard her words. The blond vampire turned his head slowly toward her, opening anguished eyes to lock onto hers, and Dawn gasped, taking an apprehensive step backward, startled by the intensity in his gaze.

“You’re right,” he whispered, tears sparkling in his sorrowful blue eyes. “Do deserve it. Deserve to die. Deserve…worse. I’m a bad man, Nibblet. I’m a bad, wicked man, and I deserve to be punished…”

Dawn shook her head desperately, her own face streaked with tears, as she backed further away in a subconscious attempt to escape the pain in his voice, his eyes.

“Spike,” Buffy reached out a gentle hand to touch his face, leading his gaze away from her frightened little sister and back toward her. She cleared her throat, finding it difficult to speak through the tears that nearly choked her. “Spike…stop it. You don’t…”

“I hurt you, Buffy!” he objected, his voice trembling with sorrow and regret as his eyes met hers. “I hurt you! I hurt you, and now I must pay for what I’ve done!”

“You saved Dawn, Spike,” Buffy reminded him, struggling to keep her voice steady as her tears fell unheeded down her face. “You risked your life and nearly died to protect her from those vampires. That is nothing that deserves to be punished.”

“Well, had to, didn’t I, love?” Spike countered. “Promised, didn’t I? Gotta protect her…no matter what. ‘Cause I told you I would.” He turned his head away again, trying to evade her gentle touch, a mercy he felt he did not deserve. “Always will, Buffy. Always…but that doesn’t change the…the other things I’ve done…the things I’ve done…to you…”

Silence filled the room for a long moment, each of them drowning in their own pain, their own swirling tumult of confused emotions, while Buffy wrestled with the words that wanted to spill from her lips…and lost.

“What about the things I’ve done to you?” she asked in a stark, aching whisper, her voice hoarse with fresh tears.

Spike looked up at her again, momentary confusion in his eyes. “Buffy…you didn’t…”

“But I did, Spike.” Buffy cut him off with a sad nod. “I did. I hurt you…so many times.” She hesitated, considering her words for a moment before stating, “You didn’t do anything…any worse than…than the things I did, Spike.” She wondered belatedly what Dawn might think of her words, considering how very many things about the past painful year she had not revealed to her sister, and glanced anxiously in Dawn’s direction.

But Dawn had left, presumably going back upstairs to her room, to leave them in privacy for what was clearly a very personal conversation. Buffy smiled in spite of herself at the rare display of maturity and consideration from her sister; but when she turned her eyes back toward the trembling, suffering vampire beside her, her expression sobered again.

“Spike…you can’t blame yourself for all of this.”

“So much to blame me for,” he disagreed, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his head bowed and turned away in an attempt to hide his face from her, born of his shame. “So much suffering…pain…death…so bloody much, Buffy…and it *is* all my fault! I did it, Buffy! I killed, and destroyed, and…and hurt…hurt you…”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, Spike,” Buffy insisted. “It’s all in the past…gone…”

Spike’s manic giggle seemed quite inappropriate given the mood that had descended over the room. “Gone,” he echoed incredulously. “Gone…maybe. Not forgotten, though. Not forgotten or forgiven…not ever, love…not ever…”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, willing herself to speak the words he needed so badly to hear, to express the forgiveness she had granted him long ago, even in his absence, even before his hard-earned soul. But as she did, her mind flew back to that night in her bathroom, the terror and shock of what Spike had nearly done to her, the sense of betrayal she had felt; because despite her repeated and emphatic insistence that he did not love her, that she could never trust him…she had.

Otherwise, it would not have hurt so badly to have that trust violated.

*But how many times did he place his heart, his very self, at your mercy, only to have you violate it yourself?*

Her hesitation was all the answer Spike needed, and he slowly, painfully turned onto his side, away from her, his arms folded across his chest, his legs drawn up slightly in an attempt to make himself smaller, less conspicuous.

“Sorry,” he murmured, beginning to sound a bit distant again. “Sorry, love…but sorry doesn’t matter, does it?”

Buffy did not say anything, just rose from the couch and walked away, sensing that he needed a bit of space at the moment…as did she. She had been so certain that she had forgiven him, and the words should have come easily…but they didn’t. Buffy swiped at a few remaining tears as she made her way into the relative privacy of the kitchen, where she fairly collapsed across the counter, trying hard to silence the sobs that rose in her aching throat.

It was all just so confusing…so much.

And she had no idea what she was going to do.

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

Once the sounds of voices from downstairs had faded away completely, Dawn slipped down the stairs again. She had not wanted to interrupt what had clearly been a private moment between her sister and Spike, but she found that it was next to impossible for her to continue hiding upstairs while Spike was lying there injured and miserable on the sofa.

After all…at one point, he had been her very best friend.

She wondered if they could ever get to that point again.

She silently crossed the living room, wondering if he was asleep. His back was turned to her, and he was completely quiet. She stood there for a moment, the coffee table all that separated them, just watching him without saying a word.

“B-buffy’s…in the kitchen, Bit.” Spike’s voice startled her, though it was soft and humble, hoarse with tears.

Dawn considered for a moment before countering, “I didn’t come down here to talk to Buffy.”

For a moment there was no response. Then, Spike slowly, carefully turned back onto his back, wincing at the pain the movement caused him. Dawn fought back the rising sense of sympathy she felt for his suffering as the vampire focused questioning eyes, bright with tears and dull with torment, on her.

“What is it, then, pet?” Spike asked in a soft, almost penitent voice. “What…what can I…?”

“Why did you do it?”

Spike’s eyes darted downward for a moment, and he swallowed hard, struggling with his own emotions, renewed by the harsh question. “I…didn’t go there intending to…I mean…I wasn’t ever gonna…wouldn’t have…”

“Except you almost did.” Dawn relentlessly pressed him, knowing only that she needed the answers, if she was ever going to deal with this. “You said you loved her. How could you do that to her? How could you ever even think of hurting her like that and say you love her?”

Spike was quiet for a long time, just softly gasping as he visibly struggled to suppress his tears. Dawn had almost given up on Spike’s answering her at all, when he spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

“What do you expect me to say, Nibblet?”

Dawn blinked in surprise, but said nothing, unsure really what to say, as Spike stared at her through dull, despairing eyes.

“Sorry? Hardly cuts it, does it, pet? Hardly enough. Can’t…can’t say anything that makes what I did…that makes it…all right, you know? Can’t ever make it right.”

Dawn considered that for a moment in silence, her eyes downcast as she thought about it, and realized that what he said made a sad sort of sense. Finally she looked up at him again, a searching expression in her wide blue eyes as she whispered another question in a voice that was soft and trembling and vulnerable.

“Are you?”

Spike frowned in confusion, shaking his head, puzzled. “What?”

“Sorry.”

Spike’s eyes widened in stunned understanding…before welling with fresh tears, his face crumpling with his resolve to hold back his tears. “Bloody…Bit, I’ve never *been* so sorry…for anything I’ve done, ever!” he sobbed, his voice breaking over the words as his shoulders shook. “Can’t make it right, but I’d do *anything* to take it back, pet…*anything*…”

Halfway through his response, Dawn found herself on her knees beside the sofa, without having the faintest idea how she got there, her arms wrapped around the sobbing vampire, her face buried against his bare, bandaged chest as she cried with him. Spike’s arms went around her, his grasp weak from the pain of his injuries, yet desperate, as he clutched her to him.

“I’m so sorry, pet…so sorry…please…please…”

Dawn cried harder against him, shaking her head as she answered without lifting her eyes to his. “Y-you saved me! They would have killed me, but you saved me. Y-you’re always saving me, Spike. I missed you…s-so much…”

The soft sound of a throat clearing behind her drew Dawn’s attention, and she self-consciously straightened, turning around to face Buffy, who was standing beside the coffee table watching them with a carefully controlled expression on her face. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, and she averted her eyes as both Spike and Dawn focused on her.

“I…um…I need to talk to Spike.” She glanced apologetically up at Dawn. “Alone.”

Dawn studied her sister’s face for a long moment, before hesitantly rising to her feet. It was clear that whatever Buffy wanted to talk about was very important, and as much as she felt for Spike, as badly as his actions had hurt her, Dawn knew that this was Buffy’s situation to handle, not her own. She nodded silently and headed up the stairs, giving the Slayer and the vampire their privacy.

Buffy just stood there for a moment, feeling suddenly awkward and uncertain as to how to approach him. She knew what she had to do, how to both help him, and show him how she felt at the same time; but now that she was standing in front of him, she wasn’t sure how to go about it.

He would never agree to it of his own volition.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly, clearing her throat again as she sat down on the sofa beside him.

Spike looked away, swallowing back a sob as he whispered, “Fine, love. You’ve…you’ve done so much. Don’t…don’t rightly deserve it, you…you helpin’ me. After…don’t deserve it, ‘s all.”

Buffy could not exactly refute his words, though she didn’t quite believe them, either. “You’re not fine,” she argued gently. “Spike…you need blood.”

Spike shrugged weakly, though his body was trembling with fatigue and hunger. “Can wait.”

“No.” Buffy shook her head. “You really can’t.”

Spike looked up at her again, his attention caught by the strange tone of her voice. His eyes widened when he saw the gleaming blade in her hand, before locking onto hers in a silent question. He swallowed hard, nodding slowly in perceived understanding.

“Right, then. Do what you like, love. I…I want you to. Whatever you need to do to…to deal with this. I just hope that…hope that maybe, you might be able to…to…” Spike’s voice trailed off, as he found that he could not even dare to speak the word he longed to hear so badly.

*Forgive*.

He turned his head away again, closing his eyes, his body taut and rigid with apprehension, and Buffy realized with horror for what he was preparing himself.

The pain.

“Spike…no! Spike….God, *no*!” She shook her head, aghast, as she set the knife down on the coffee table. “I would *never*…I mean…Spike…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Spike gave her a bleak look of surprised confusion, glancing between her face and the knife on the table. “Should,” he whispered, hesitating a moment, tears streaking his face as he closed his eyes and added, “Might make us both feel better.”

Buffy watched him closely for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was slow and cautious.

“I think…I’ve got something that might make *you* feel better.”

Buffy’s eyes never left Spike’s face, still turned away from her, as she took the knife in her hand again. After a moment, the scent reached him, and Spike looked up at her sharply, his eyes wide with shock as he stared between Buffy’s eyes, and the straight, bleeding line on her arm.

“Buffy,” he gasped, shaking his head in refusal. “Buffy, love…*no*!”

She ignored his protest, leaning in closer, holding her arm closer to his mouth. “Spike, you need to. It’ll make you well. Take it.”

The powerful scent of Slayer’s blood was nearly overwhelming, but Spike still turned his head away, pressing harder against the couch in an attempt to escape the rising temptation to accept her offer.

“No,” he whimpered, tears streaming from his eyes again. “No, Buffy…I can’t…shouldn’t…don’t deserve it.”

“Stop it,” Buffy snapped, her own voice trembling dangerously, and Spike looked up at her to see twin tracks streaking her face as well. “Just…stop saying that! I’m the one you hurt, Spike. I’ll say whether or not you deserve it.”

Spike flinched as if he had been struck, unable to deny the impact of her words.

“I want you to take it, Spike. I want you to drink from me,” Buffy insisted, her voice gentling as she reached out her free hand to trail gently down his cheek, her thumb rubbing lightly across his trembling lips. “I never…” She faltered, swallowing back a sob, before trying again. “I never gave you…anything, Spike. And…and all you wanted…” She shook her head, unable to finish that painful thought. “Just…just please. Take it. I want you to.”

Spike hesitated, his wide, vulnerable blue eyes searching her expression as she brought her arm closer, closing the distance between the bleeding wound and Spike’s waiting, parted lips.

The first taste of her blood drew a desperate moan from his throat, as the sheer power of it overwhelmed him, flooding his senses. He could feel the pulse pounding through her as the warm fluid filled his mouth, and instinctively he drew from the wound, pulling more of it past his lips and down his throat. As he did so, however, he felt her pulse quickening, tasted the faintest tinge of fear in the flavor of her blood.

“Knew you’d do it. Knew you’d hurt her again, in time. Monster.”

Spike’s eyes flew open at the sound of the voice – his own voice – and he saw his own smirking form leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the scene. He was not unfamiliar with the strange sight, but now, it drove him into a panic, as he abruptly pushed Buffy’s arm away from him.

“No,” he whimpered. “No, can’t do it…won’t hurt you, Buffy! Please!”

“Spike…you’re not hurting me…”

“Scared you,” he insisted, troubled, anguished eyes meeting hers. “Know I did. Could…could taste it.”

Buffy’s nose wrinkled slightly at those surprising words. “You could…could *taste*…?”

Spike nodded. “Taste a lot of things in blood, love. Power…fear…anger…”

“Did you taste any anger in my blood?”

Spike did not answer, just stared up at her, a trapped expression on his face.

“Here,” Buffy prompted him gently, shifting herself in closer to him, placing one hand on the back of his head and helping him to rise up toward the wound on her arm. “Maybe you’d better…have another taste.”

“No,” Spike protested, shaking his head wildly and trying to pull away, but the Slayer’s strength held firm, holding his head in place. “Please…” His eyes darted to the side, focusing on something near the doorway, something Buffy could not see.

“Spike.” Buffy’s voice held a stern, emphatic note. “Look at *me*. Focus on *me*, okay?”

Reluctantly Spike obeyed, and the apprehension in his eyes told Buffy what he expected to see there.

Fear.

Revulsion.

Hatred.

“Don’t you see it in her eyes, mate? She’s terrified of you. Can’t look at you without remembering what you did to her.”

“I *want* you to do this,” Buffy stated softly, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “I do.” She paused, adding, “There’s nobody here but me, and you, so just look at me and listen to what I’m telling you.” As she spoke, she turned his head gently toward her, softly forcing him to face her. “This is what I *want* you to do. Some things…some things are hard to say, but…but maybe I can show you…”

Spike stared at the wound as it came closer to his mouth, his eyes large and round and fearful, as if it might somehow cause him physical harm.

“Drink,” Buffy pressed him, her voice barely over a whisper. “For me, Spike. Please.”

“Do it, Spike.”

Spike pulled away from her gently guiding hand at his cheek, turning startled eyes on the source of the unfamiliar voice, this time much closer than before. His eyes widened when he saw Warren, the boy who had built his robot, crouched beside them, his leering face inches from Spike’s own.

“Do it, Spike. Take her. You know you want to.” Warren giggled with wicked glee as he looked Buffy up and down and added, “God, who wouldn’t? You almost did it once; do it again, Spike…”

“Stop it,” Spike ground out the words between clenched teeth. “Just…just stop…please…”

Misunderstanding, Buffy firmly turned his face back toward her. “Spike. I won’t stop. You have to do this, or you’re not going to heal. Drink. Now.”

“But…” Spike glanced anxiously at the spot where Warren had been, though it was empty now. “Buffy, I can’t…I can’t…”

“Look at me,” Buffy instructed gently but firmly. “Spike…look into my eyes. See that I mean this. I *want* you to do this, Spike. *Please*.”

Spike glanced away again, but Buffy’s hand on his cheek blocked his view, leading his gaze relentlessly back to her own. Her voice was a hushed, intense whisper as she repeated, “Please.”

As she spoke, she pressed the wound to his lips once more. Instinct took over, and Spike gently sucked at the wound, his eyes closing and his head falling back slightly as the powerful taste overcame the rest of his senses.

“Don’t…stop…don’t stop looking at me,” Buffy gasped, her voice breathless and uneven, her chest heaving slightly as she fought to control the feelings, the emotions, that his mouth on her flesh brought back to her.

Spike’s eyes flew open again and he stared up at her, their eyes locked as he drew the precious life that she offered him from her very body. His eyes welled with tears, but he did not look away, as myriad emotions washed through him with her healing blood – and not any of the emotions he had expected to taste there, either.

Compassion.

Tenderness.

*Forgiveness*.

He might have pulled away, believing that he did not deserve those things from her; but something about her intense, wide-eyed gaze held him, refusing to allow him to pull away, to look away – holding him in the connection they were sharing. His tears flowed faster, tears of wonder, relief…love…and his shoulders shook with sobs even as he accepted the sweet gift she offered him.

His vision was too blurred to see her tears, but he felt the wet heat of them as they dropped onto his bare skin. Her hand on his face was trembling, before it rose to run through his hair, pulling slightly as she gasped at the mixture of pleasure and pain she felt at the intimate contact between them.

When he felt her collapse slightly against him, felt her trembling increase, Spike knew that he had taken more than enough from her. The last thing he wanted was to risk causing her any harm. He drew back slowly, reluctantly, laving the wound shut and savoring the last taste in his mouth, the flavor of the mercy and tenderness she had extended to him.

The taste of absolution…and the desire for it.

Stunned, Spike stared up at Buffy, blinking his tears away and shaking his head in disbelief. “Buffy…”

“Forgive me, Spike,” she whispered, her voice trembling and pleading. “Please…I’m so sorry…”

“Nothing to forgive, pet,” Spike insisted, his voice stronger than it had been, but still shaking dangerously. “You haven’t…I mean…”

“I hurt you, Spike,” Buffy declared. “I…I hurt you, and you hurt me, and…and it’s all past now and doesn’t seem very important in the light of…of what you’ve done. Of what you’ve…been through…”

“It matters, Buffy,” Spike whispered, choking back a sob. “It does matter.”

“It always will, Spike,” Buffy agreed, nodding as her fingers returned to trace his mouth, wiping a smudge of her blood from his lips. “But…but it’s over now. I just want it to…to be over, you know? I want us to…to move on.”

Spike nodded, his heart aching with his own desire for that very thing. “I love you, Buffy. I know…what I did…but…but I do. I always did.”

Buffy smiled tenderly at him, struggling with words that she was not sure she felt.

But she was no longer sure that she didn’t feel them, either – and that was something.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you do.”

Spike’s eyes widened at the unexpected validation, a validation of his feelings for her that she had never allowed him before. “Buffy…”

She silenced his soft, awed voice, her lips descending over his in a slow, thorough kiss. For a few moments Spike returned the kiss, his mouth seeking, earnest and longing, before he pulled back hesitantly, meeting her eyes in an uncertain question.

“Buffy…what…what is this?”

“Starting over?” Buffy suggested, her voice equally uncertain, her eyes vulnerable and questioning. “Will you…will you start over with me, Spike? Give us…another chance?”

Spike stared up at her for a long moment, scarcely daring to believe that she truly meant it…before his lips turned upward into a grateful smile of elation. He answered her not a word, let his actions be his response, as his hand cupped the back of her head and pulled her down to him, into a second tender, lingering kiss.