Buffy just stood there for a long moment after Tara walked away, stunned by the troubling ideas that the other girl had so emphatically introduced to her. She knew that she had treated Spike badly – very badly at times – and had taken advantage of her power over him in ways that made her ashamed to think of them now.

But never had she even considered forcing herself on him, taking him against his will. She knew very well that there were many slave owners who would think nothing of it, but the very thought was appalling to her.

The idea that Tara had brought up was startling and sobering to her. She knew beyond all doubt that Spike had definitely been a very willing party to everything that they had done together so far. But the question remained – what if he had *not* wanted it? As a slave, accustomed to being forced to obey without question, or suffer the painful consequences, would he have even dared to object if he had *not* wanted to give himself to her as she had wanted?

She shook herself out of her reverie, looking down at the steaming mug in her hands. The troubling questions circling around in her mind could wait. Right now, Spike needed the blood she carried, and the comfort she could offer, if he was going to recover from the cruel abuse that had been inflicted on him.

She quietly went up the stairs, opened the bedroom door, and slipped quietly inside. Spike could hardly move, as weakened as he was, but as she entered he turned startled blue eyes toward the door, eyes that revealed a fear that he immediately tried to conceal.

“Hey,” she said softly, approaching the bed slowly, holding the mug in front of her like a peace offering.

The smell hit his nostrils all at once, and he immediately felt a ravenous hunger. He had not noticed it before, due to the overwhelming pain that had made him feel sick to his stomach and had driven all other thoughts from his mind. Now that the pain had eased somewhat, due to Tara’s careful ministrations, the warm, rich smell of the blood in the mug alerted him to the hunger he had nearly forgotten.

It was no wonder he was hungry, he thought with some resentment. Velvet, the miserable little bint, had nearly drained him dry. He wondered suddenly what had happened to her. He was still uncertain about a lot of things, considering that he had missed most of the action, what with the being unconscious and all. He supposed that all would be revealed in due time; he was simply too exhausted to ask questions right now.

Suddenly, the questions were driven from his mind as Buffy turned slightly to close the bedroom door, and then walked around to the other side of the bed. She set the full, steaming mug on the nightstand and carefully climbed onto the bed, trying hard not to jar his sore, aching body.

An anxious feeling began to come over him, as he had absolutely no idea what to expect from her at this point. He guessed that, because they were apparently spending the night here instead of at the mansion, Buffy must have had a very big falling out with her husband. The last time that had happened, Buffy had come to him, tender and affectionate, and shared her bed with him that night.

But then, the next morning, she had completely shut him out, and made it very clear to him when he tried to pursue the matter that it had meant nothing to her. He was her slave, and she had taken the comfort she needed from him. That was all.

Now, for the past couple of hours, she had been unbelievably gentle and kind to him, holding him in his pain, murmuring soothing words to help calm his fears and give him a sense of safety. She had brought him the warm sustenance that he needed, but she had set it to the side as she climbed onto the bed.

Did she intend to make him earn it? To make him repay her for the tenderness and mercy she had been showing him all night? He thought ruefully that he was really in pitiful condition for anything of that nature at the moment.

The bottom line was, he simply had no idea *what* to expect – what her intentions were, as she leaned her back against the headboard, settling in and getting comfortable. All he knew was that whatever she was going to require of him, he would do everything in his power to do it for her.

"Okay," Buffy said softly, once she was settled, her back against the wooden headboard. "Come here." As she spoke, she reached under his arms and slowly, carefully began to pull him up toward her and into a semi-sitting position.

He bit back a moan of pain; he knew she was trying to be as gentle as possible. He could feel the hesitation in her hands at the sound that told her she was hurting him, and he gasped out, "I'm sorry...I..."

"Shhh," she interrupted firmly. "Nothing to be sorry for. *I'm* sorry I'm hurting you. But you have to eat, Spike, and you can't do it lying flat on your back." Gently, painstakingly slowly, she maneuvered him until he was right beside her, and then carefully helped him to lean back against her.

"Easy," she murmured. "That's it...nice and slow, Baby...there you go," she gave him her gentle encouragement, as she helped him to shift slowly backward, until his shoulders rested against her chest.

The exertion just of that simple movement was so great that he felt exhausted, and laid his head back on her shoulder almost automatically -- then suddenly remembered himself and raised it weakly. "I -- I'm sorry..."

"Will you quit saying that?" she scolded him, a teasing warmth in her eyes. "It's okay," and she gently pushed his head back onto her shoulder as she wrapped her arm around his waist to support him, then reached over to the nightstand for the mug. She could feel the tension in his taut muscles as he tried not to lean too heavily on her, could feel the way his body trembled with the effort to hold himself up.

“Spike,” she said softly, patiently. “Relax. It’s okay. Just lean back on me.”

“ ‘M…too heavy,” he objected weakly, and she could hear the self-conscious uncertainty in his voice.

“No, you’re not,” she assured him. “Slayer, here, remember? You’re not gonna hurt me. Just relax, Spike.”

Her voice was soft and soothing, and as he tried to obey her, he found that he really *wanted* to, wanted to just release the tension and fear and find comfort in her arms. He was nervous and confused, and had no idea what she expected from him at this point, but he wanted desperately to please her.

Her rejection that morning had hurt him deeply, reinforcing the idea that he was nothing more than a possession to her. True, at the moment, apparently a favored possession, but still, nothing more. The slap in the face she had given him for daring to attempt to act like something more than that was no more than he should have expected, he thought sadly.

Even the last words he had heard her speak, before slipping into unconsciousness in Riley’s torture chamber, said that she was angry with Velvet not for hurting him, but for touching what belonged to her.

*Velvet was right,* he thought with a deep ache of hurt and shame in his heart. *I’m nothing but her whore.*

And the kicker, the thing that told him beyond all doubt that he was well and truly buggered, was that in spite of all that, he still wanted nothing more than to make her happy.

“Come on, Spike,” her soft voice gently urged him, pulling him from his thoughts. “Just relax.” Her gentle hand at his waist rose to stroke gently through his hair, and the pleasant, comforting sensation made it easier for him to obey her request.

The tenderness, the compassion she was lavishing on him now was confusing, a sharp contrast to her behavior that morning. She was being so gentle, so concerned for his comfort. None of his previous owners had ever cared when he had been injured or in pain.

Many times he had been beaten, though never as badly as Riley had beaten him, and each time he had simply been left to his own devices to heal as best he could, without the benefit of extra blood to help; and he had often been required to resume his duties before he was actually well enough to.

But Buffy was being so careful not to cause him any more pain than she could help, making an effort to comfort him. She had promised to take care of him, to protect him – she had claimed him openly as her own, and at the time, he had thought that he had seen more than mere possession in her eyes. A part of him was certain that he had imagined it – built a false hope from his dreams and desires.

He was just so confused, and tired, and had no idea what to think. All he knew was that his mistress was holding him gently in her arms, speaking softly to him, and he desperately wanted to trust the comfort she offered.

As she felt the tension slowly ease from his back, and he allowed his body to relax against her, Buffy whispered, “That’s it. That’s my boy. Now, come on, Spike, you need to eat, okay?

The words of tenderness and compassion that came out of her mouth surprised her. The affection she had avoided showing Spike that morning now seemed so natural and easy; the barriers that had kept her from “getting too close” seemed to have all fallen away with Riley’s influence over her life.

The thought of that morning, the heartless way she had treated him, sprang to her mind with an overwhelming sense of guilt, and she unconsciously held him closer.

She had so much to make up for.

She raised the mug carefully to his lips, and he obediently drank, ravenous with hunger, draining the mug in seconds. She laughed softly in affectionate surprise, and asked him, “Want some more?”

He definitely could have drunk much more than the one mug of blood, which had only taken the edge off his hunger. But he knew that she would have to get up and leave him again to get it – and he craved her touch more than the blood.

He shook his head silently against her shoulder, leaning his head back again and turning his face toward her neck. The simple gesture told her how much he needed her, how willing he was to place his life in her hands, to trust her in spite of the times she had hurt him. She felt her heart flood with warmth and a protective affection for him, and she held him close to her, putting the mug down to wrap both her arms around him.

His intimate nearness, the soft sensation of his strangely cool breath on her throat, began to awaken her desire for him again, as her mind went back to the intimate embrace of the night before. But despite her arousal, Tara’s words sprang to her mind, and she felt unsettled, wondering about the things she had said, about power and choice.

She wondered uneasily if Spike would have consented to her advances the night before, if he had thought that he had the option to refuse. At any rate, she would content herself with just holding him tonight; he was far too weak, in too much pain, to even consider anything more.

At least – she thought he was. Until she felt him raise his head from her shoulder and sit up a little to look her in the eye. The look of longing she saw in his nearly took her breath. There was a hesitant question there too, as he placed a light, tentative hand on her side, sliding up just under the hem of her shirt.

His cool touch sent a shock of pleasure through her, and she drew in a sharp breath as his thumb moved slowly downward to press slow circles low on her hip, over the jeans that suddenly felt too hot – constricting.

“Spike!” she gasped, struggling to maintain control as his hand edged lower and inward, at her encouraging response. “Spike…you’re hurt!” she reminded them both, lowering her hand to cover his and stop its movement, almost whimpering at the loss as she met his eyes, forcing herself to focus.

“ ‘S not so bad,” he murmured, with a little smile that was earnest, hopeful, and somehow a little shy. “Blood’s startin’ to work. I’m not feeling the pain like I was.”

His hand turned under hers, nimble fingers playing lightly over hers tracing the lines of her hand and sending shivers of delightful sensation through her. As she stared into his wide blue eyes, so open and vulnerable, she wondered how he could make her feel so much just by touching her hand.

When he looked her in the eye and asked her in a low, husky voice, open and sincere, “Do you want me?” it was all she could do not to grab him and take him right then. But some note of question, some hesitance in his voice, gave her pause.

“God, of *course* I want you!” she whispered intently, searching his eyes with her own. “Spike…I couldn’t not want you if I tried!”

Permission, command, whatever he had been waiting for, he took it and his hand drifted down again, daring lower than before, expert fingers making her moan with pleasure.

On the edge of losing herself completely in the sensation, she put her hand behind his head and pulled him forward, kissing him deeply, her other hand moving to pull him around by the shoulder so that he was more fully facing her, as his hand intensified its efforts to bring her the satisfaction that she craved.

It was his little involuntary wince as his body shifted toward her that made her stop, opening her eyes wide to search his face. He gave her a shaky little smile that was meant to be reassuring, but she could see the pain in his eyes.

It was a smothering blanket over her desire.

“Spike,” she said in a quiet voice, but harder than he had heard her speak to him since that morning. “This is hurting you.”

He looked away from her, his expression trapped and fearful. He had easily sensed her arousal, known that she wanted him, and only wanted to please her, to give her what she wanted. Now, it was clear that his actions had had the opposite effect of what he had wished.

“N-no,” he objected weakly. “No, I’m fine, really, love. I *want* to…”

“Damn it, Spike, do *not* lie to me!” she snapped, taking his shoulders in both hands and holding him firmly, and he flinched, but she did not back down. She could feel anger rising up in her, the same sort of anger she had felt when Spike had tried to hide the evidence of Riley’s first beating. It was a sense of protective outrage at having her attempts to defend him thwarted by the very one she was trying to defend.

“You need to tell me if you don’t want to – if this was hurting you, you should have…” She stopped, too angry to get her words out right, trying to regain control.

“I’m sorry,” Spike whispered into the silence, his voice trembling and his eyes downcast. “I thought – I thought that’s what you wanted…”

“Your *pain*?” she interrupted incredulously, her eyes shining with angry tears.

“No,” he replied, his tone desperate, his own tears falling down his face. “Not – not my pain…” He was silent for a long moment, before he managed to get out in a choked, aching whisper that hurt her heart with the open need and insecurity it held. “*Me*.”

Buffy was stunned to silence, the fire of her anger quenched by his pain and his tears. Her hands slowly released their punishing grip on his shoulders, and she drew back a little, staring at him with dawning understanding.

His eyes were focused on the bedspread between them, his tears flowing unchecked, and she could feel the hurt, the feeling of rejection, flowing off him in waves. She realized with a heavy feeling of guilt that that was how he saw this – as another rejection of his love, by her.

She moved closer to him on the bed, putting her arm around his waist, her other hand gently touching his cheek, turning his head back toward her. Still he kept his eyes down, hurt and ashamed.

“Look at me,” she said softly, the words an order, but her tone a plea. When he still did not, she repeated, firmer, “Spike, look at me.”

He obeyed, and she swallowed hard, suddenly very conscious of how much rested on her words, her actions, in this moment, as she stared into the depths of open love and need that his expressive eyes could not conceal.

“Spike,” she whispered, holding his gaze firmly, willing him to see the truth in her eyes. “I *do* want you.” There was a teasing note in her voice, a little smile playing about the corners of her mouth as she added, “I want you so bad right now it’s all I can do not to throw you down on the bed and take you right now!”

He looked startled by her words, then confused by their actual meaning, as his eyes gazed into hers, waiting for her to go on.

Her expression became serious as she went on softly, “But that would hurt you, Spike. And I’m not just talking about all this,” she waved her hand up and down to indicate his bandaged body. She paused for a moment, taking him in with eyes full of tenderness and affection. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she told him sincerely, her fingers tracing the path of his tears, then lowering to take his hand in their grasp. “I don’t want us to do anything that you don’t *want* to do, Spike.”

“But…” he began, haltingly, his eyes down again. “But I *do* want…”

“Spike,” she interrupted him gently. “You can barely move. You’re hurting. You can’t tell me that you really *wanted* to…”

“I wanted you – to be happy,” he told her, his voice broken and vulnerable.

Tears flooded her eyes, as she shook her head and whispered, “That’s not enough.” She paused, before asking softly, earnestly, “What do *you* want, Spike? What do you want *me* to do?” She leaned in close, raising her hand from his waist to rest at the back of his neck and pull him in closer to her, seeking his eyes until he hesitantly met hers.

“What would make *you* happy?” she whispered, her breath stolen by the desire in those fathomless blue depths. She thought she might drown in his eyes, clear sapphire pools inches from her own eyes.

He was equally captivated, lost in her emerald eyes, his own drifting back and forth between her wide, seeking eyes and her full, parted lips, inches from his own trembling ones.

“Kiss me?” he whispered, an answer and a plea.

She complied, capturing his mouth in a tender, thorough kiss, taking her time to respond to his every move, feeling out his needs. They did not break the kiss until both were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other, gasping for breath.

His hand rose to rest on her shoulder, and the aching desire in his voice called to her when he whispered, “Buffy…stay with me? Hold me?” his voice, hands, every part of him shaking with need for her.

Immediately she pulled him into her arms, gently helping him to lower himself down onto the mattress, wrapping her arms around him from behind and nestling in as close as she could to him, her head resting at his shoulder. His back was to her, surrounded by her warm embrace, and her heart felt so full that she was beyond any more words, as she just lay there and held him close to her.

Into the darkness, the quiet, that surrounded them, he whispered, “I’m yours, Buffy. Yours.” It was not so much a statement of devotion as a quietly desperate, yearning plea for affirmation.

That protective, possessive rush of emotion came over her, as something primal within her cried out fiercely, *Yes! Mine!*

Tenderly, she whispered the reassurance he needed in his ear, just before they both drifted off into a safe, sheltered sleep in each other’s arms.

“Yes, Spike. You’re mine. Always.”