Well, this was awkward.

Cathy had taken care of her business in the kitchen, some little purification ritual with the sharpest knife Buffy was able to find; said something friendly about getting back to work, and had gone her merry way. That left Buffy alone in the house with Spike, which would have been great, only she had no idea what to say to him now that he was awake and, you know, alert. Not out of his mind with hunger, or delirious or whatever.

He was sitting up on the cot, leaning against some kind of stadium seat that he said Xander had gotten out for him earlier that morning. He seemed comfortable enough. Maybe. She guessed.

Buffy found herself looking anywhere except at him, like some kind of… of middle-schooler with a crush, or something. If she had a three-ring binder, she was almost positive she'd be clutching it to her chest and blushing, or something just as ridiculous. It didn't help that Spike wouldn't look at her, either, just kept glancing up and away, or picking at the skin around his thumbnail, studying his hands like they held the answer to all the world's mysteries.

And it really, really didn't help that Xander wouldn't be home for hours.

Oh, God. Say something, Buffy.

"So," she said. Idiot, she thought.

"Er – yes?" Spike looked up. Looked away. Damn it.

"Um," said Buffy. Because she was just a genius like that. "I, uh. Your thermos. Um. I'll just – let me refill that. For you."

"Right," said Spike. "Uh – thanks. That'd be – yes."

So Buffy picked up the thermos and fled to the kitchen like the absolute coward she was, and once she was around the corner, she leaned up against the fridge and pounded her forehead with the heel of her hand. Contemplated smacking herself with the thermos, instead.

Why was this so hard?

Well, let's see, Buffy thought as rinsed the thermos out in the sink. There was someone out in the garage, naked under his blanket, who'd been missing for a year; someone Buffy had mourned as dead. Someone who turned out to be alive after all – which she found out about a day before rescuing him from almost dying again – someone with whom she had major, major history… she sighed. Someone with whom she may or may not be in love. Someone who may or may not still have any feelings for her or even want to be around her, as reference the whole missing for a year thing…

Oh, and soon she would have to hurt him some more, take a knife to his already injured flesh, just to get rid of the last of the spell that had nearly killed him.

Well, gosh, Buffy, why not just ask him about the weather?

She smiled to herself as she reached for the towel. Sarcasm – always a good defense against nerves.

Puttering in the kitchen. Pouring blood out of the bag, heating it, pouring it back in the thermos. Chewing on her lip the whole time.

Deep breath, Buffy. You can do this.

---

Spike was an idiot. A first-class ponce. A complete and utter fool.

Buffy was making an effort to tolerate him, he could tell, taking pains to be courteous to him after he'd inflicted himself on her like this. Cut up, injured, naked, and taking up space in Harris's garage like so much furniture, and Buffy was at least trying to hold a conversation with him, now that he was awake.

And what did he do? Stutter and stammer as if… as if he were in the parlor of some London socialite at her debutante party, somewhere he didn't really belong. As if she were Cecily and he were still the complete loser that William had been in life, pining after someone he could never have.

Well, but those were the operative terms, weren't they? Somewhere he didn't belong. Someone he could never have.

Story of his unlife.

Spike couldn't blame Buffy for fleeing the room. He was certain that if he'd had a pair of glasses to hand he'd be pushing them up his nose, or else polishing them frantically like Buffy's pillock of a Watcher. Instead he picked at the gauze wrapped around one wrist and fought a sigh. Ow. Sodding ribs. Stupid thing to do when one didn't need to breathe.

He could hear her puttering about in the kitchen, could faintly smell the aroma of blood being warmed. His stomach growled and he marveled that he could still be so hungry. Had to have put back a couple gallons of the stuff in the past day or so, yeah? He hadn't drunk like that even back when he was still on human, fresh from the jugular. Well, not without an excuse, anyway.

Focus, idiot.

Buffy would be back soon. Perhaps they'd talk about this whole business with the knifeplay. It was obvious from her expression, from what she'd said to the witch, that he'd need to reassure her about that. The inscriptions on his skin still burned. Cutting them to cancel their magic couldn't hurt more than they already did.

Or maybe they'd talk about where he'd been hiding this past year. Why he was too much of a coward to go to her without bleedin' mystical interventions kicking him that way first.

Or perhaps they'd just discuss how much longer he'd be allowed to stay, before he needed to get his own digs to finish recuperating in. Least now he had the funds to afford something nicer than a crypt – and he'd been smart, back in LA, didn't keep his dosh where Wolfram & Sodding Hart could get at it without a little effort. Swiss banks, offshore accounts, that sort of thing. He should be set for a good while, once he…

…once Buffy kicked him out. She'd probably at least be polite about it, but still. Matter of time, that.

She was coming.

Deep breath, Spike. Ow. Or not.

Right, mate. You can do this.

---

"Hey," she said. Tapped on the door frame.

He looked up, smiled at her tentatively, and wasn't that just weird. Spike, tentative.

"It's um – it's good that you're awake," said Buffy. "Oh. I guess I said that already. Earlier, I mean."

"'S all right, love," he said softly. "Glad to be awake." He looked down at himself, at the cuts that refused to heal, the gauze on his wrists. The bones still showing a little too prominently. "I look terrible," he muttered.

"No you don't," she said quickly. "I mean – you looked worse before. When we first – when we found you. You're… a lot better now." She held up the thermos, jiggled it a little. "You want some?"

"Could go for a mug, yeah," said Spike. "How bad off was I? I don't… well. You can imagine, I don't remember much."

Whereas Buffy couldn't forget – how wrecked he was, how desperately hungry, how utterly defenseless and vulnerable he'd been when they'd found him. Spike, the Spike she knew… even at his lowest moments he'd always been able to defend himself from anything that got thrown his way, to fight back somehow, to adapt if nothing else. The kind of sheer helplessness she'd seen just didn't belong on him; it was… it was wrong, a violation, somehow, of who he was. Wrong that anyone should have been able to reduce him to that.

Buffy poured Spike a cup from the thermos, handed it to him. Pulled the camp chair back around and sat, so he wouldn't have to crane his neck to look at her. "We could see all your bones," she said finally. "We could – we could see where your ribs were broken."

Buffy looked away for a second. Her eyes were so not going to tear up. They weren't.

Spike grimaced. "Sounds nasty," he said. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Not your fault," Buffy said. He was sorry? Not going to tear up… "I just wish we'd found you sooner. Or…" Or that she'd known earlier to look for him. That she'd asked what those messages were about when she first got them. "Or something," she finished lamely.

"Was wondering about that, actually," said Spike. "How you knew where to look for me." He glanced down at his hands again. "How you knew to look at all," he said, barely above a whisper. Looked up, searching her face, and said a bit louder, "Harris said you… he said that you didn't know. About me, that is."

"I didn't," she said. Swallowed. "I thought – I thought you were d– that you were gone. After Sunnydale. And then I heard you died in LA, which was the first I ever knew you were there at all. Th-this past year." And damn it, there came the tears welling up. Buffy looked away, shut her eyes. She wouldn't let him see, wouldn't let them fall. Clenched her fists. She wouldn't ask why, either.

Wouldn't let herself.

---

Oh, Buffy.

Spike's heart hurt. He hadn't wanted to stay out of her life, but he'd been so sure that it was the right thing to do. He was terrible for her; anytime he was around her, her life went to hell and it usually had something to do with him. And besides, she'd moved on. Rome had made that clear, hadn't it?

It was starting to look like he might be wrong about that.

"Anyway," said Buffy. She swallowed, took a deep breath. Seemed to be struggling to get the words out for some reason. "After I moved here – I was," she paused, "I was in London – after I moved here I started to get these weird… messages, I guess. Dreams and things. Weird coincidences."

Well, that was certainly interesting. He wanted to ask, but she was still talking.

Buffy opened her eyes, blinked rapidly. She still wouldn't look at him; he couldn't blame her. "So, we uh, consulted a psychic that works for Xander – actually she came to us – but, um. That's how we found out you were, that you were alive again." She sniffed. "I mean, undead. Whatever."

Spike lifted his hand to touch her, uncertain. Would she want that from him, after all this time? His fingers hovered in the air for a second, then he pulled them back, lowered his hand to rest on his stomach.

He'd only wanted to spare her more pain, and it looked like he might have failed at that, too.

---

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike start to tip his head. He winced, stopped.

"How's your head?" she asked. Changing the subject. Any other subject. God, maybe she should ask him about the weather, after all.

"Nice thing about not having a pulse," he said with a half-smile, "I don't have to worry about a pounding headache – just the regular kind. But a cracked skull can still hurt like a bitch, even without that."

Buffy nodded, searching for something to say. Ask about the weather, ask about the weather, ask about –

"So, er, you mentioned… messages?" he asked. "Coincidences. What sort of things did you mean?"

Damn.

"Oh, you know," she replied. "Slayer stuff. Weird things I'd overhear in people's conversations. All saying the same thing, over and over."

"There were a lot of these messages, then?" he asked.

"Just the one," said Buffy. "Or, just two of them, I guess, if you want to be picky. 'Go to him" was one of them. 'He needs you' was the other. Arrange in whatever order you like." She rested a hand on her stomach, pressed in on the ache that was building there. "Dreams with you in them, and Giles. They made a lot more sense once we knew for sure… knew you weren't dust." Heard her voice start to waver, swallowed hard.

Why did you stay away? What did I do wrong? But she knew the answer to that.

Everything, Buffy.

She felt her face contort, fought to recover a neutral expression as best she could.

Damn it, she was not going to cry in front of him. This was her fault, she didn't need to inflict her pity party on him.

"Harris didn't give me details – said it wasn't his story to tell – but he…" Spike paused, seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "He mentioned something about Giles being part of all this. Of what's troubling you." Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand do that thing again – rise, hover, drop. "Do you… Is there anything…?"

Was there anything he could do for her? She almost laughed.

Don't die again, thought Buffy. Don't hide from me anymore. Don't tell me you don't want me.

Don't leave me.

But she couldn't bring herself to say any of that. Couldn't bear to hear the answer she knew he would give. "You could bite Giles for me," she offered instead.

"Heh," Spike said. Grunted, reached for his ribs. "Ngh. Don't do that, love, laughing hurts just now."

She smiled. Watery but there. "Sorry."

She looked at her hands while the pain faded for him. Couldn't think of anything to say, so she just waited.

"So, er… care to tell us why your Watcher needs a fangy farewell?" he asked softly.

"He's – not my Watcher anymore," she said. She was reaching for anger, trying to keep the tears back long enough for her to get out of here, but all she could seem to find was the hurt. She pressed harder on her stomach. Hated that his betrayal still made her feel like she'd been stabbed. Gutted.

"How's that, then?" Spike asked.

Buffy took a deep breath. Felt it quiver in her chest.

"Andrew knew," she said, voice wobbling despite her effort. "When I found out, he said he was sorry – for not saying anything – but he still knew. That you were alive, this wh-whole time." Why did you stay away? "But Giles, he…" closed her eyes again. Swallowed, hard. Couldn't look at him, didn't want to see his face. He was just going to look at her like she was an idiot, decide she was 'carrot-top' or 'shirty' or whatever, because she still cared after all this time when he'd moved on. "Giles wasn't sorry. H-he just said… said it was for my own good."

She clenched her teeth, hard, on the sob that tried to get out. Gripped the chair hard enough her knuckles were probably turning white. Caught herself rubbing her stomach with her other hand, as if she could push the ache away that easily.

She could feel herself starting to shake. Damn it, she didn't want to do this.

"H-he just went on," she said, "about things 'af-f-fecting my judgment' and, and, 'unhealthy obsessions' and all this, this crap… like it was totally okay to just p-pretend you w-were dead, that whole time. L-like it was okay to, to w-watch me go th-through… w-watch…" Her voice kept breaking and she couldn't make it stop. "Like e-everything you did, everything y-you gave us – gave me – like it just – like it didn't matter."

Tears fell.

Damn it.

"L-like it was better that you were d–," she started. "Like it was… I trusted him," she whispered, "and he kept th-that – kept you –"

Fingers on her chin. When she didn't yield to his touch, he reached up a little higher, to stroke the line of her jaw. It was all she could do not to lean into that touch. She was helpless to resist him as he turned her back to face him. She couldn't open her eyes.

She hated that her lip was trembling, like she was some kind of child. He wouldn't want to see this from her. He didn't want her anymore.

"Oh, Buffy," Spike breathed. "I'm so sorry."

She forced herself to look, tears streaming down her cheeks, expecting to see something like the Gentle Breakup Face. I'm so sorry we can't work out. I'm so sorry but we're over. Instead what she saw was love, and compassion, pain for her pain. Sorrow, and… she had to be imagining it… loneliness that matched her own.

"I mourned you," she said, and then she couldn't say anything else. She couldn't stop the tears from falling, and she covered her face with one hand to try and keep them away from him.

Then he was gathering her into his arms as best he could, while she shook and keened.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whimpered, "I shouldn't… you shouldn't have to…"

"Shh," he said. She felt his lips in her hair. "Shh. Hush now. Shh."

"I'm sorry…"

"So'm I, love," he murmured. "Hush now… So'm I."