Removing the sigils for earth turned out to be a bit of a surprise for them both.

Spike still hadn't let go of the cot frame above his head, not only to make the marks easier for Buffy to reach but also because, as he explained, moving his arms even a little strained his ribs painfully. Buffy figured he was already in enough pain without adding that to the mix.

Since she was already sitting near his legs, Buffy drew her first line through the shin of Spike's bad leg. She was expecting to brace his leg in case he flinched. If she had to guess, he was probably expecting a sting and some blood. Pretty sure neither of them were expecting Spike to kick Buffy in the chest, broken kneecap and all, nor for the sigils to flare red as she sliced through them to negate their magic.

Spike shouted in shock and pain as the knife first went into his skin, screamed when he kicked out from reflex, then groaned in agony as his leg flopped back onto the cot, bent awkwardly, the tape across his knee starting to come loose along one edge.

Buffy picked herself up from the floor, eyes wide. "Spike? God, Spike, I'm so sorry!"

When he could speak again, shaking with pain, all he said was, "Not your fault, love." Swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes shut. Buffy could see tears leaking out the corners of his eyes when he blinked them open. "Not your fault."

"The marks – they glowed red for a second. Like, they flashed or something," said Buffy. "And I think they did that for the soul, too."

"Had to guess –" Spike stopped, eyes open wide and unfocused, "If I had to guess – beginning and ending – extra energy." His belly heaved for more air to speak, and he swallowed again. "Hurts the same as the soul did – the water – too."

"I hate doing this to you," said Buffy, tears burning in her own eyes as she watched him struggle.

"Can't be helped," he rasped. "Earth is – body – physical, touch – stubborn, determination – nng. Gonna feel it either way."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, chewing her lip.

"Straighten my knee out?" he asked. Shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, lips pressed together in a thin white line.

"We've established I'm no doctor," she murmured. Gently, cautiously, Buffy rotated his thigh to face up, bracing his knee the entire time. Little by little she lifted his foot until the joint was straightened out, then she lowered the whole leg back down until it was resting completely on the cot once more.

"Better?" she asked.

Spike didn't speak, but he nodded his head once she was done.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. Gulped back tears. "Is there anything else? Should we take a break?"

"No," Spike said. "No break. Not yet. Just – maybe distract me."

"I can't kiss you and cut you at the same time," said Buffy.

Spike grinned. "I could teach you something about that," he said.

Buffy choked. "Moving on," she said, "here – get ready for the next one." This time she put her weight against him and drew the knife as quickly as she dared from knee to ankle. Spike shouted again as the runes flared red, tried to writhe and squirm away from her, but she got the cut drawn and watched as the glow dimmed and went out. Her cut oozed more dark blood – Spike was smeared with it from the neck down – but as she watched, she thought the cuts from the writing may have closed up a little.

Spike's face was contorted in pain, clearly trying to hold in another shout. Right, she thought. Distractions.

"Did I hear you right?" she asked him. "When we were finishing air. That you got those messages too – go to her, et cetera?"

Spike exhaled sharply, breath hitching. "Yeah," he said. "For about – month, while I was – getting out of LA and then later – in Chicago."

Buffy stilled. "I… only got messages for a few days," she said. She gestured at his injuries, at him stretched out on the cot, too-thin face lined with pain. "And it's pretty obvious why you needed me to come get you. But… I mean… a month? I only found out you were still around, like, two weeks ago."

"Dunno, pet," he said. "Wanted to ask why you thought you needed me."

Buffy didn't say anything at first. "Well," she started. Stopped.

"Go on," he said softly. Worked one hand free of the cot frame to touch her knee.

"With you gone," she said, "and with all the other Slayers around… it's like." She sighed. "Like I didn't have a point, anymore. I'm not The One and Only Slayer, so what do I do? This past year, training the other Slayers we've found, has felt like, like make-work, or something. Like I'm just taking up space. And before, when I had doubts like that, I had you." She looked up at him, a half-smile on her face. "Even when we were enemies I still had you for that. Hard to question what I'm doing and why when I've got the Big Bad threatening everyone I care about."

"Sweet of you," said Spike.

Buffy moved the chair again, up near his head. Took his hand in her own. "I try," she said. "Brace yourself." Gripped his hand hard and drew the next line along his forearm.

The sigils flared, and Spike yelped in surprise and pain. "Son of a bitch!" Tried to jerk away, but Buffy was stronger, and held him fast. "Damn it, woman!"

"Tell me about your dreams," she said quickly.

"Dreams," he gasped. "Ah. Hurts. In my dreams – it's the battle. In Los Angeles." He shuddered, gulped, caught his breath. "Only sometimes they change to the nightmare. Sometimes not."

"What's the nightmare?" asked Buffy.

"The void," he said quietly, after a pause. "Nothing. No one around. No fighting, nothing trying to kill me. I'm alone." Opened his eyes, looked up at her. "Don't say anything," he said. "Not to Harris. Not to anyone. All right?"

Buffy nodded.

"That's my nightmare," he said softly. "That's my hell. To be alone. Useless… pointless." He turned his head away, looked at the wall for a moment. "You know why I survived that battle when no one else made it?" he asked.

"Tell me," she murmured. Squeezed his hand, gently this time.

"Wasn't important enough for the Senior Partners to chase down," he said. Looked back at her, searching her face as he told his story. "That's what I was, all last year. The annoying hanger-on, the relative who comes to visit and won't go back home. Not worthy of you – let me finish," he said when she started to shake her head. "Not necessary enough to keep around, not useful enough to send somewhere, except to get me out of their hair."

He closed his eyes. "I carried a soddin' clipboard, Buffy. They threw me at Illyria when she first showed up, told me it was to test her powers. Thought I wouldn't figure out it was because they didn't want anyone they cared about to get hurt." Opened his eyes, gazing off into memory, sad. "I was the expendable one. That's my nightmare. I'm surrounded by fog with nothing to do, no reason to be, and no one even knows I'm gone, or cares, or comes looking."

Buffy rubbed her thumb across his knuckles, waited till he came back from his thoughts and looked at her again. "I came looking," she said.

Spike blinked back tears, looked away again. Said nothing.

She brought his hand up to her lips, kissed the back of it, rubbed the knuckles along her cheek. Said, "As soon as I knew that my messages weren't just wishful thinking? That you were alive – undead, whatever – that you needed help? Spike – William – I want you to know, I dropped everything. Not that I have a lot to drop right now, but still."

He shivered, and Buffy couldn't tell if it was pain, cold, or emotion that shook him. Tremors ran down his frame. One tear out of the corner of his eye.

"You can ask Xander," she went on. "These past two weeks – finding out you hadn't been gone after all, hearing from Giles that you'd only really died about a month ago – I was a wreck, Spike. I couldn't stop thinking that if I'd known, if I could have gone to you before, maybe you…" Her turn to look at her lap, blink back tears. "Maybe I wouldn't have lost you a second time. And it was," she insisted, "it was exactly like losing you the first time. Like going through all of that all over again. I couldn't just go, 'oh well, already dealt with this, my timing was off was all, no big' – it was like those first days after Sunnydale, all over again."

"I'm sorry, love," said Spike. "That you had to go through all that." Shivered again.

Buffy shrugged, sniffed. "You're here now," she said. Spread the blanket out, pulled it up to cover his waist. "Anyway, the worst part was that I'd trusted people who screwed me over, again. Already told you about that, though."

"Is that why you're not talking to anyone?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Xander mentioned something, didn't give details."

Buffy sighed, fidgeted with the hem of the blanket. "Let me do your other arm and I'll tell you," she said.

"All right, yeah," he said. "Best get it over with, I s'pose."

Buffy kissed his fingers and set his hand down to rest on his stomach. Shifted her chair once more, up and around the head of the cot. Spike was still hanging onto the frame, so she gripped his hand firmly, and drew the final cut with the purified blade.

Every sigil on his body and arms flared red at once, and Spike screamed, arching his back in pain. When the glow winked out, he sagged back, visibly exhausted. Moaned a little.

"Spike?" Buffy leaned in close to hear him. Spoke softly, voice shaking. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

His eyes fluttered open. He seemed to have difficulty focusing on her and she moved back to make it easier for him. "No, love," he murmured. "Pain's gone. All the burning, the magic. 'S all gone." He swallowed, drew breath slowly. "Broken bones still hurt," he said, eyes drifting closed again, "but the rest of it's gone. You did it, love." He sighed softly. "Did it," he breathed again.

"Are you," Buffy began, "do you still want to talk? Or should I let you rest instead?"

Spike smiled sleepily, eyes still closed. "Both," he said. "Come lie down with me. 'M cold again. Talk to me and keep me warm." Blinked once, eyes drifting wearily across her face. Shivered. "Please?"

Buffy frowned a little. "Shouldn't you be, I dunno, stronger or something?" she asked. "Now that earth is done – I mean, you said it's related to the physical stuff, right?"

Spike finally let go of the cot frame, dragged his arm down to rest across his belly. Dark blood smeared across his torso as he reached for the blanket. "Maybe, yeah," he said. "'S just, getting rid of that burning… bloody magic… the relief is just – making me drowsy." He smiled again. "Like a hot bath."

"Which you need," muttered Buffy. Set the knife down on the side table. Finally. Turned so she didn't have to keep looking at him upside down, ran her fingernails through his hair. He sighed blissfully. "What were we talking about?"

"Your friends," he said. Slurring his words a little. "Why you're avoiding them. You mustn't do that, love," he said. "Don't take them for granted."

"I'm not," she said, "I just – I don't know how many of them were with Giles in the whole keep-Buffy-in-the-dark thing. And I've been too upset to really deal." She sighed heavily, and her breath across his skin made him shiver again.

"You're not laying next to me," he said, and she smiled. Got up, moved the chair, slid the cot carefully away from the wall so she could get to his uninjured side. Prayed she wouldn't unbalance the thing and tip it over as she settled in next to him. She'd get blood on her clothes, but that was nothing new in her line of work.

Spike shifted, turned his head toward her and inhaled. Nuzzled into her hair, burrowed his body in next to hers. Carefully reached up to trace the line of her shoulder.

Are you really that cold?"' she asked, worried.

"Nah," he said sleepily. "Just a warmth whore."

Surprised, Buffy laughed. "I'll remember that," she said. Put an arm around him, mindful of his ribs. "Be jealous of any warm body that comes along."

"Never," he smiled. "You're the one for me. Love you."

She kissed his forehead, listened to him hum contentedly. "I love you," she said softly, and he shivered again, still smiling.

"Should talk to your friends," he said after a moment.

"Maybe," she mumbled.

"Definitely," he said. "You don't know how long you'll have them." Opened his eyes, sad. "Can lose them when you least expect it, pet," he said softly. Stretched up to kiss her sweetly. "Why don't you want to talk to them, really?"

Buffy leaned into his kiss, let him put his head back down on the cot. Rested her forehead against his, careful not to put weight on him, and sighed. "Xander and I decided," she said, "that we all have this thing where we don't trust each other to make the right decisions, or to butt out of each others' decisions when we do make them." She wriggled a little, getting more comfortable. "I decided to leave Giles behind. My friends will all have opinions on that, and judgments, and questions, and I don't want to have to defend myself to them anymore."

"So don't," said Spike. Reached up, played with a lock of her hair. "Part of what I said before. They care, and that's good on them. But it doesn't give them a claim on you, love. They don't have the right to judge your choices unless you're hurting them. And you're not."

"What about Giles?" she asked him. Felt the pain in her stomach start up again, and her voice start to waver. Damn it. "He decided I didn't need to be told you weren't dust. I've got plenty of opinions on that."

"That isn't you needing to butt out of his choice," said Spike. "That's you demanding the right to make your own bloody choices. And judging him for hurting you, which he well deserves. You made the right call there, love. Long overdue, if you ask me."

Buffy didn't say anything, just kissed Spike again, slow and sweet and drowsy. Dragged fingers through his hair as he gazed at her, sleepy and still reverent, still astonished that she loved him and could admit it so easily.

She settled in to think about what he'd told her as he drifted off, face nuzzled into her hair, nose grazing her temple.

Fell asleep herself, her head on his shoulder.