By the time Giles and his entourage were making their way toward Sunnydale, Spike's physical condition had improved dramatically. Buffy hardly left his side at all, taking care of him just as she had promised him. She brought him blood so frequently that he began to feel sick at the sight of it -- but he still drank it. Because he knew she wanted him to.

They did not discuss the confusing events that had taken place between them, not after that first night. Buffy did not want to bring it up, because she really had no idea how to put what she was feeling into words -- mostly because she wasn't really sure *what* she was feeling.

And Spike was too scared to bring it up again himself. Following that first night in Willow and Tara's home, Buffy had continued to treat him with that same tenderness and affection, though she did not seem to want to talk about it at all. Although he knew that she did not love him -- he was still only a slave to her -- she had made it clear to him with her actions, if not her words, that she *did* care about him.

The second night she had also spent by his side, cradling his battered body in soft, strong arms that held him close, her warm body pressed against his a protective shield from anything that would harm him, and a comfort even in his dreams. It was more than he had hoped for -- at least since her rejection the morning before had crushed what hopes he had had for more.

But he *was* her slave -- he had accepted that fact -- and, he reminded himself, the kindness and concern she was showing him was more than most slaves could ever hope to receive from their owners.

The last thing he wanted to do was anything to ruin it.

The second morning after Riley's brutal assault, he awoke to find that the lash marks from the beating he had taken were nearly completely healed, and the pain had faded from the unbearable fire it had been to a dull ache, barely there at all. He was immediately aware of the cool absence at his back, and rolled over to confirm what it told him.

Buffy was not there.

He sat up carefully in the bed, swinging his legs over the side and carefully rising to his feet. Good. His strength was returning. It would not be long before he would be able to take care of himself again; he was starting to feel like nothing but a useless burden to the woman he was supposed to be serving.

"Oh, good! You're up!" Buffy spoke from the doorway, in a voice of pleasant surprise.

Startled, Spike jumped slightly, throwing his still unsteady legs off balance, so that he ended up sitting down rather hard and quite accidentally on the bed behind him. At almost that exact moment, he realized that he was still completely naked, and jerked the bedsheet over his exposed lap, wide eyes finding hers to gauge her reaction.

He did not know why he had expected her to react negatively, not really. After all, it was not like she had not seen everything he had before. They had spent that one night together in the mansion, and she had just spent the past two nights practically wrapped around him, although for no other reason than to offer him comfort. His wounds had still been too severe and painful to tolerate any more than the light sheet that had covered him in the bed, so he had been naked since they had brought him here.

Still, for some reason, he felt self-conscious in front of her now, exposed to her scrutiny. And he hated to admit it, but there was a part of him that was still afraid of angering her by behaving in a way that was too familiar, too personal.

Total nudity was quite personal.

But Buffy just laughed softly, holding up the items in her hand, that he had failed to notice in his anxious reaction to her sudden presence. "I thought you'd probably be able to get up today. I figured you might want these," she told him, holding out a paper shopping bag to him, thoughtfully looking him in the eye and nowhere else.

He took the bag from her outstretched hand, shooting her a nervous look before opening it and taking out a brand new black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, with the tags still on them. His eyes widened slightly as the prices on the tags; but why should he be surprised, he wondered suddenly, remembering. No scrimping and penny-pinching necessary for Mrs. Riley Finn.

Only the best, even for her slaves.

“If you don’t like them, we can get you something else,” Buffy said quietly, misreading his lack of response. “I mean, I know it’s not the most original choice, but – but I thought I’d just get what you used to like. I mean, I know it’s been years, and you might not even like that stuff anymore – but – well, if you hate them, we can get you something else.”

In that moment, staring at the clothes that befit an image he had lost long ago, his mind flashed back across the years of his captivity, to a memory that was still as vivid in his mind as it had been when it had happened – his grand, bold, insufferably dramatic entrance, introducing himself to the Slayer, so many years ago.

*What happens on Saturday?*

*I kill you.*

And he had just swept away, his beloved black leather duster billowing behind him, without a backward glance. He sometimes wondered why the Slayer had not simply hurled a stake at his departing back and dusted him right then. He knew now that she certainly had had the aim for it – yet she had not.

God, he had been so confident, so downright arrogant, in those days!

That arrogance had been stolen from him, with his duster, by the first human who had captured him, and the series of masters that had followed him.

That first master had been a cruel brute of a man, an ex-employee of Riley’s, dismissed because of his controlling personality that was strong enough to clash with that of his employer. He had not allowed Spike the dignity of clothes at all, taking pleasure in his humiliation. He had never use him sexually, but he had kept him naked and exposed, like nothing more than an animal with no need of clothing, to emphasize his vulnerability, his complete lack of any rights.

After that degrading period in his life, Spike had been grateful for whatever the other masters he had been sold to had given him to wear. It was without fail ragged, old cast-offs that were no longer fit for human use. Never had any of them asked him what he would prefer; it did not matter what he preferred. His very existence was to serve *their* needs, wasn’t it? So why should his personal tastes matter at all?

His mind went suddenly to when Buffy had brought the new clothes she had bought him down to the basement of Riley’s mansion, and he cringed inwardly as the memory of his rash, foolish words to Velvet, that had caused so much trouble.

That time, Buffy had been too angry with him to be concerned with anything but his apparent defiance. She had practically thrown the clothes at him, ordering him coldly to put them on and report upstairs for his punishment – a punishment that she had not been able to find the strength to mete out.

And now, here she was, treating him with compassion and kindness, amazing him by giving him an actual choice. She had always been free to choose, herself, so it must have seemed a small thing to her. But it meant more than she could ever know, just to be allowed that small respect.

“You hate them,” Buffy concluded flatly. “I should have known. I mean, nobody’s gonna stick with just basic black forever…”

“They’re perfect,” he said softly, his voice low and choked with emotion, barely over a whisper as he added, “Thank you.”

“Oh.” Buffy sounded surprised. When he chanced a tentative look up at her, she was smiling with relief. “Good. Well, you’re welcome. I mean, you have to wear *something*. It’s not like I wouldn’t get you anything, I mean, you can’t just walk around here naked…”

She realized she was babbling as she tried to play down the small consideration that seemed to be so important to him, dismayed at the way he looked down again self-consciously and clutched the sheet tighter at her words. “I mean…not that there’s a problem with your being naked, I mean, you can’t help it being hurt and all, and it’s not like there’s anything *wrong* with you…”

The slightly startled look he gave her made her cringe – the wrong words again.

“Okay,” she said aloud, abruptly, with a wide, self-mocking smile. “Stop talking now, Buffy. Just – just go ahead and get dressed and come on downstairs whenever you’re ready. Okay?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She frowned. He usually didn’t call her that anymore, but she had noticed that when he was nervous or afraid of her anger, he reverted back to the safer, less personal moniker with her. His self-consciousness over her seeing him like this, followed by her awkward, totally-unhelpful ramblings, must have made him terribly uncomfortable.

She hated it.

“Spike,” she said quietly but firmly, with a boldness back in her eyes that had fled her the moment she had walked into this room.

He did not look up or respond, so she stepped toward him, tipping his chin up to look at her. The uncertainty and desperate desire to please her in his open blue eyes, the pliant way he simply allowed her to move him, offering no resistance at all to her touch, filled her with a mingled sense of unease and affection.

Tara was right. He needed her too much.

She searched his eyes for a moment before she spoke softly, “You don’t have to call me that.”

The look in his eyes was almost guilty, as if he had been caught in some offense, as he replied quietly, “I know.”

His tone told her that did not mean he was going to stop; she was tempted to simply order him not to use the word anymore. But something in his eyes stopped her, something that told her that perhaps he was not ready for that yet; perhaps there was something in him that still needed that verbal reassurance that he was hers, that at least in some ways she claimed him – if not in the way that he wanted most.

She suddenly knew that it was very important that she allow him control over this issue.

She gave him a reassuring smile as her hand on his chin softened into a caress that ran up his cheek, her heart swelling with emotion when he unconsciously leaned into it, his intense, yearning eyes still focused on hers.

“You can call me whatever you want to call me, Spike,” she assured him gently, before pulling reluctantly away from him, trying not to notice the look of loss on his face as she did. “Just go ahead and get dressed. I’ll be downstairs.”

When he hesitantly went downstairs ten minutes later, he was surprised and a little self-conscious to see the entire Scoobie gang assembled in Willow and Tara’s living room. Xander and Anya sat on the couch, her back pressed comfortably against her husband and his arm casually around her in a warm, protective gesture. Willow sat in an armchair to the side of the sofa, Tara perched casually on the arm of the chair as Willow idly rubbed her back while she talked to Buffy.

Buffy was the electric current of activity and tension that ran through the comfortable scene. In direct contrast to the others, she was pacing almost frantically across the living room, her arms crossed over her stomach in a defensive gesture. Spike hesitated on the stairs, unsure.

“Oh, God,” Buffy whimpered suddenly, putting her head in her hands for a moment before resuming her original position, still completely unaware of his presence. “How could you not tell me until now? Will, I can’t do this! I can’t face him!” she declared in a trembling voice, stopping to face her friend with wide panicked eyes, seeming on the verge of tears.

Buffy’s friends were too focused on her to notice Spike’s arrival, either. Willow met her eyes calmly and said softly, “Yes, you can, Buffy. You need to.”

“How could you do this to me, Will? How could you not let me know until *now*?” she demanded, but there was no real anger in her tone – only utter terror.

“Because I knew if I told you you’d be gone when he got here,” Willow stated flatly, meeting her friend’s eyes with determination. “And you need to do this, Buffy.”

“I can’t! He has to hate me!” Buffy declared, shaking her head slowly in denial, her eyes welling with unshed tears of guilt and pain.

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s on his way here right now, Buffy, that has to say something,” Tara pointed out, unexpected compassion in her eyes.

Actually, for the past day or so, Tara had been much more gentle and civil with Buffy, not bringing up again the issue of their conversation upon Buffy and Spike’s arrival here. Buffy was pretty sure that it was more for Willow’s sake than because Tara’s feelings had changed at all, but she was still grateful for the easing of the tension that had sprung up between them.

“That’s right,” Xander pointed out. “Buffy he *wants* to see you. That means he doesn’t hate you. He must want to make things right as much as you do.” His tone was reassuring, soothing.

Buffy tried to make herself believe his words. “Right,” she nodded hurriedly. “Right…he must want to make things right…but he can’t possibly want it as much as I do,” she admitted tearfully, sniffling. “I messed up really bad. But he wants to see me. So he must be willing to forgive me.”

Anya shrugged. “Unless he just wants to see you to *tell* you to your face he hates you. Because that would be so much more effective and satisfying retribution than just staying away,” she pointed out casually, her expression honest and frank.

Buffy let out another little whimper, sinking down onto the coffee table with her head in her hands.

“Anya,” Xander said patiently, used to his wife’s characteristic blunt honesty by now. “Not what Buffy needed to hear right now.”

“What? All those centuries in vengeance, Xander, I’ve kind of got a unique perspective on this sort of thing,” Anya reminded him. “I mean, she has to be aware of all the possibilities.”

“Anya…this is *Giles* we’re talking about,” Xander countered gently.

That was all he needed to say. “You’re right,” she replied after a moment. “That’s so *not* a possibility.” She pulled slightly away from her husband, leaning toward Buffy, who was sitting facing her on the coffee table, her head still resting in her hands.

“Buffy,” she said softly, urgently, and the uncharacteristic gentleness in her tone drew Buffy’s eyes up to look at her in surprise through her tears. “Giles loves you. You’re like a daughter to him. He could never stay angry at you for long. And even though you were the one to cut off contact and act like all he’s done for you was meaningless – it could never make it *really* meaningless to him. If he’s coming back here at all, it only means that he wants you back in his life.”

Though still tinged with the painful truth that Anya’s words always held, somehow the earnest reassurance she offered meant more than the words of her other friends, the ones she knew would always try to ease her into reality rather than breaking the truth to her as it really was. Something in her took comfort in the knowledge that if Anya said it – she could of course be wrong in her opinion, but it was honest, and real – and there was a very good chance that it was true.

“Do you really think so?” Buffy asked, her voice coming out weak and absolutely terrified.

Anya met her eyes with a reassuring smile and nodded. “I do.”

Buffy took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “Okay,” she said, verbally rallying her courage as she stood up and walked around the coffee table to pace the floor again, though slower and calmer now. “I can do this. Profuse apology, humble acceptance of I-told-you-so’s, and utter groveling. I’m on it,” she stated with a firm nod. “I’ll just…let him know how totally sorry I am, and beg for his forgiveness…and hope he doesn’t cuss me out in British and tell me to go to hell. Again.”

Feeling a surge of fresh confidence at the encouraging agreement of her friends, feeling a little more like the Slayer she had nearly forgotten that she was, Buffy took another deep breath and steeled herself for the reunion that Willow had just informed her was only minutes away.

Or not.

The doorbell rang…and all of Buffy’s courage melted away into panic as Tara rose to answer the door.

Her Watcher had returned.