Buffy did not let go of Spike's hand until they had safely reached the minivan that Willow usually drove, and had bravely, or foolishly, depending on one's perspective, allowed Buffy to drive for this little mission. She unlocked the passenger side door for him before hurrying around to the driver's side and climbing in, turning the key in the ignition before he had even closed the door.

Neither of them had spoken a word since leaving Riley's office.

At first, it had been a matter of practicality; they needed to escape the house as quickly as possible, without drawing any attention to themselves, so keeping quiet had simply been the wisest choice. But somewhere along the way, the silence had taken on a heavy, uncomfortable air, and it followed them throughout the drive home.

Buffy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, wincing inwardly at the sight of his bruised, bloodied face, evidence of the brutal pistol-whipping Riley had dealt him. She pressed a bit harder on the gas pedal, wanting to get them to safety as quickly as possible so that she could care for his injuries.

Not that he would want her to touch him, she thought with self-disgust. Not after she had failed him like she had. She had promised him that she would never let Riley hurt him, *touch* him, again -- no matter what -- and she had broken that promise, not managing to stop the vicious abuses Riley had committed that night. In spite of her well-intentioned words, she had allowed Spike to be beaten and terrorized -- while she stood looking on.

She had let him down.

Spike kept his eyes averted, his head turned toward the window, still struggling for control of his ravaged emotions, still taut and on edge from the psychological torment Riley had inflicted on him. The tears that he had to fight back even now only reminded him of how pathetic and weak he really was. The soldier was right, he thought. Buffy would never want a useless creature like him -- not like he wanted her.

And he had dared to even consider the idea of claiming her!

He was bloody lucky in the first place that she had not staked him on the spot for *that* little mistake. And then to top it all off, his reactions to Riley's treatment -- pleading and flinching and crying like a pitiful child -- had proven to her once and for all that he was not the strong, powerful man she would need, and never would be -- he was simply not worthy of even the affection she had barely begun to show him.

He had let her down.

When they reached Willow and Tara's house, Buffy finally spoke, her voice quiet and controlled, obviously struggling with her own emotions. "I'm not sure if we'll be able to stay here. We can't risk putting everyone in danger."

In his shame and turmoil, Spike did not want to say anything. He wanted to disappear rather than argue with her at the moment, but his concern for the others in the house made him speak up, cautiously, still keeping his eyes averted. "If he knows to look for us here -- they're already in danger, pet. Seems to me they'd be safer with the Slayer around."

She was quiet, realizing that he had a point. "We'll see," she said softly. "I need to talk to Giles, see what he thinks we should do." She paused before adding in a soft voice of regret, "And you're hurt. We need to get you taken care of."

He read the sorrow in her voice as disappointment rather than guilt, and bowed his head in shame, swallowing hard to keep from giving in to his tears again.

She read his averted gaze, the tight set line of his mouth, as anger and hurt at her failure, and fought back tears of her own as she got out of the car and closed the door, a bit harder than she had meant to -- an action that was also immediately misinterpreted by the broken-hearted vampire in the passenger seat. In silent misery, he opened the door and got out, following her to the front door of the house.

"Oh my God," Tara said softly as she opened the door, and saw Spike's battered face. "What happened?"

"Riley happened," Buffy muttered as she strode past the girl into the house, Spike following behind her.

They were both immediately beset by the whole group, who had been gathered in the living room and now gathered around them, asking a million questions all at once. Buffy did her best to answer the questions, as quickly as possible, her main concern lying with her injured vampire, who was still standing near the door, apparently trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

His very subdued manner made Tara frown with concern, and a little suspicion. "Let me see," she murmured, approaching him while the others kept questioning Buffy. As she did, she automatically reached toward him – and her frown and her concerns both deepened when he flinched away from her.

"Don't," he said in a low voice, barely over a whisper, taking a step back away from her and refusing to meet her eyes.

"Spike, that looks really bad," the blonde witch argued, a trace of anger showing in her gentle voice, though it was not directed at him. "We need to take care of that..."

As she spoke she stepped toward him again, and the traumatized, shaken vampire drew back away from her, repeating softly, "No, Tara...don't..."

Even as she tried to deflect the well-meaning interrogation of her friends, Buffy’s attention was still focused mostly on Spike. She was trying to get enough of a word in edgewise to tell them all that this conversation would have to wait until Spike had been cared for, when she heard his timid, trembling plea to the blonde witch.

Buffy knew that Spike trusted Tara, that he was not afraid of her; she could easily understand how he felt right about now, remembering times when she had been injured or afraid. She knew that he was not afraid that Tara might hurt him, but simply feeling vulnerable, and not wanting to be touched at the moment.

Despite all that, despite the fact that she knew Tara only wanted to help, the broken, fearful sound of Spike’s voice was all it took to make her come undone. She had been standing with her back halfway to them, quickly filling her Watcher in on a brief version of what had happened, but she suddenly whirled on her heel and was in Tara's face in two steps, moving between her and Spike as her words came out in an angry snarl.

"He said no, Tara, now leave him alone!" she snapped, a clear threat in her dark green eyes, blazing with fury and shining with tears.

Tara was a bit taken aback by the sudden aggression, but although she knew that Buffy could break her two in an instant if she wanted, she was not about to be intimidated. "He's hurt, Buffy! Look at him!" she informed her, the hint of an accusation in her voice as she added, "*Someone* needs to take care of him..."

Her strong sense of guilt over the entire situation making her misread the comment, nearly flinching at the unintentional reminder of how she had failed to “take care of him” mere minutes before, Buffy stepped nearer to Tara angrily, her eyes welling with tears as she replied in a low, trembling voice, "I. *Tried*. He had a gun, Tara, I did all I could, and I got both of us out of there *alive*. Okay? That was the best I could do!"

The room fell silent at the sound of the powerful emotion in her voice; no one was really sure what to do to diffuse the situation that had sprung up so unexpectedly between the two women. Willow cautiously stepped toward them, wanting to be on hand in case she was needed – by either of them.

Tara’s eyes softened with realization, and she said softly, “No one’s saying you didn’t, Buffy. All I was trying to do was get him taken care of while you were explaining things to the others. I was just trying to help.”

“Well, I don’t need your help with this, okay?” Buffy snapped back, but some of the fire had gone out of her voice, which was now trembling dangerously, on the edge of tears, as the traumatic reality of all that had happened began to sink in for her.

The last thing she wanted to do was to break down in front of Tara; she had to get out of that room – now.

“Come on,” she said shortly, taking Spike’s hand and pulling him toward the stairs, missing his little wince at the sudden motion, which both startled him and sent a jolt of pain through his ravaged body.

Still, he did his best to keep up with her as he was propelled by the Slayer’s angry speed toward the bathroom and the first aid supplies kept there.

Tara’s eyes widened in alarm when she saw what Buffy did not, how badly Spike was limping, struggling to keep up with her, and started forward. Willow’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Baby…I think they need some time. Okay?” she told her gently, and Tara reluctantly backed down as Willow put her arm around her. She was silent for a moment, watching the stairs from which her friends had just disappeared. “Buffy’s trying; she really is,” she reminded her. “She just needs the chance to work out how to get it right.”

Tara let out a weary sigh as she looked at her lover with troubled eyes, concern and anger mingled in her soft voice as she turned away from the stairs to join the others again. “Let’s just hope she figures it out before she destroys him in the process.”


Buffy did not stop, did not turn around, until they reached the upstairs bathroom. Her emotions were in a dangerous state of turmoil, anger and guilt and fear and pain all mingled to form a state of confusion, so that all she had known was that she had to get out of there, *now*, before the others saw her fall apart.

When they reached the bathroom, she finally released Spike’s hand, leaning with both hands on the counter for a few moments, her eyes closed, gasping for breath as she tried to control the sobs that rose in her throat. The battle for control of her emotions was taking its toll on her, and she could feel her resolve weakening – but she had to think about Spike.

This was not going to be another time like the others, she told herself firmly, when she found herself seeking comfort from him, when he was the one who needed it so badly.

“Buffy,” he gasped out breathlessly. “Love, are you all right?”

The concern in his voice was almost her undoing again, but she swallowed back the sobs she wanted to release, and took a deep steadying breath before turning to look at him.

Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight that met her eyes. Spike was leaning on the counter too, very heavily on one violently shaking arm – and his legs didn’t seem to be doing much better. The look on his face was clearly one of pain, though he was trying not to show it, and his breathing was labored and gasping.

Since she knew he did not *have* to breathe – he had to be in a lot of pain.

Her eyes fell to where his other hand rested unconsciously over the front of his jeans, and she remembered with a sick feeling just how Riley had hurt him. He had taken several blows to his face and head with the gun – but that was not why he had been limping. Her mind flashed to moments earlier, in her haste and desperation to get away, to save her own pride, dragging him behind her up the stairs at a speed that had to have been difficult for him.

And he had not made a sound of protest, had simply done his best to obey her silent demand – and the result was the agony she saw in his eyes now.

Her eyes softened with her affection for him, and she gave him a sad little smile. “I’m okay,” she assured him. “You’re the one who’s hurt.” Her petty issues with Tara, with her own failures, could wait. Spike was the one who had faced the greater ordeal tonight, and she needed to focus her attention on him.

Being the focus of her attention made him very uncomfortable at the moment. As she carefully cleaned the dried blood from his battered face, he stood completely still, his eyes focused on the counter he was leaning, Riley’s cruel words echoing in his head.

*You’re not a man…she doesn’t feel anything for you…nothing but pity…*

He had never felt so utterly unworthy as he felt then, as her warm, gentle hands worked over the wounds he had suffered, her tenderness and compassion a sharp contrast with the cruelty of her husband. He knew he did not deserve it. He was weak, pathetic, a useless burden to her – and every careful touch of her hand seemed to burn him with the shame of that knowledge.

When the blood had been cleaned away, Buffy stepped back a bit to assess her work, her eyes welling with tears at the dark bruises that stood out in stark relief against his pale skin. “Oh, Spike,” she whispered with regret, reaching up a gentle hand toward his battered cheek.

She was not really surprised when he flinched, moving quickly to the side, so that he was no longer between her and the counter. She did not blame him, after what he had been through, if he did not want to feel closed in, or be touched at all.

“No,” he whispered softly, his eyes downcast. “Buffy, don’t.”

It was the overwhelming shame in his pleading voice that troubled her, as it began to dawn on her that maybe there was more than she had thought to the tension she had seen in him the whole time she had been tending his wounds, more than simply being skittish at being touched – though she was sure that was a part of it.

“Spike,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, seeking his downcast eyes. “What? Don’t what?”

He just shook his head as he continued to move backward away from her along the counter, his eyes focused on the floor at her feet. “Please, Buffy,” he whimpered, on the verge of tears, his emotions heightened by her tender treatment of him, to the point that he knew he was on the edge of breaking down. “Please don’t – I – I can’t – don’t…” His words broke off in an anguished sob as his back hit the corner where the counter and the wall met, and he could retreat no farther.

Buffy’s eyes were concerned and questioning as she continued her cautious movement toward him, confused by his reaction, which seemed sudden to her, although it had been building up inside him all night. As she reached him, he held his hands out in front of him slightly, as if to ward her off.

“Don’t what, Spike?” she whispered again, her hands reaching out slowly to close over his trembling ones for a moment, before moving slowly upward to rest on his arms, her touch firm enough to steady him a bit. “Don’t what?”

He stood there for a long moment, frozen by his fears, swallowing hard in an attempt to control his emotions. Finally he whispered in a voice so full of mingled fear, pain, and self-disgust that it almost hurt to hear it, “Touch me.”

The tone of his voice made it clear that his aversion to being touched was not because he was afraid of or disgusted by her. The look on his face, the tears that streamed silently from his eyes, made it obvious that he felt that he was the one who was repulsive, disgusting – unworthy.

She was not surprised that he did not want to be touched. After all, he had experienced first hand the horrors of the training center that she had only heard about. Undoubtedly he had been forced to submit to the sadistic whims of the soldiers while he was there. And she had not missed the cruel sexual implications of Riley’s threats; he had made a point of the fact that he could and would touch Spike anyway he wanted, and there was nothing he could do about it.

With the vile, horrific memories that Spike was no doubt reliving right now, Buffy didn’t wonder that he didn’t want her to touch him.

It was the other emotion in his voice that bothered her – the self-disgust and shame, at what, she had no idea. Nothing that had happened that night – or in the center – had been his fault. She wanted to comfort him, to put her arms around him and make him know that he was safe, and cared for – but she knew that he would not want anyone’s touch at the moment – even hers.

She also knew that he desperately needed it.

She kept her motions slow and even, not wanting to frighten him as she slid her hands gently around him and leaned in to embrace him. She felt his body go absolutely rigid under her touch, but she did not back off, just kept her protective arms around him firmly.

“It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s okay, Spike.”

He shook his head slowly, denying her words, and she could feel the tremors that went through his body as he fought for control of his emotions against the breaking power of her tender touch. “No,” he whispered. “no…”

She did not ease or intensify her embrace, just kept her arms around him, offering him the steady support of her strength. “*Yes*,” she said in a firm whisper. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” Realizing how empty those words probably sounded to him after what had just happened, she went on softly, “I know I let you down. I’m so sorry.”

Before he could protest, she went on emphatically, passionately, “I’m sorry I let him hurt you. But I swear to you, Spike, I would *die* before I would let him take you from me! I will *never* let him do that!”

The battle was lost – or won – with those words, as he broke down, giving in and leaning against her – a moment before he collapsed completely, sinking to the floor against the wall, sobbing.

She went down with him, her arms holding him close to her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, her own tears flowing. “I’m so sorry, Spike.” It was only a few moments before she realized that the deep, wrenching sobs that shook him were for more than the pain and fear of that single day.

Pain and fear had run roughshod over Spike’s life for years – beginning on the day he got the chip.

He clung to her desperately as he sobbed out his confusion and pain in her arms, his shame at her seeing him so broken overwhelmed by his sheer need. As he released the agony of spirit he had been holding back for so long, she fell into silence, one hand gently running up and down his back, the other tangled in his damp, blonde hair.

When his tears finally began to ebb, she pressed her cheek to his as he rested his head on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear soothingly, reinforcing the words with a tender, chaste kiss to his bruised temple. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Because it felt right, she kept on talking soothingly to him, punctuating her words with gentle, feather-light kisses, intended to comfort and reassure him.

Her heart was full to bursting with such a powerful, fierce devotion and affection for the broken creature she held in her arms. Her mind barely dared to put words to the feeling, but she longed to speak the words to him. Yet she held back, unsure and afraid. She would not risk hurting him again, acting on emotions to fulfill *her* needs, and leaving *him* devastated in the aftermath.

Never again.

So she limited her words to tender reassurances that he was safe, and she would never let him be taken from her, her tone and the tender caress of her lips to his temple, his cheek, his throat, telling him what she could not yet find the courage to speak in words.

After a little while, he began to hope that maybe – maybe Riley had been wrong. Maybe she did care for him. She really did seem to, judging from the way she was lavishing her affection on him.

“Spike,” she whispered, as if reading his mind, “You know – you know you mean so much to me…” The words came haltingly, hesitantly. “I – I – care about you…so much. You know that…right?” She did not wait for a response, her eyes closed against the answer in his eyes that she was afraid to see, as she lowered her lips toward his cheek again.

But at the last moment, he turned his head, offering her his lips instead, returning her kiss, at first tentatively, barely daring to respond. The soft little sigh that escaped Buffy’s lips as they parted to allow him entrance to her mouth encouraged him, and he became bolder, turning and putting his arms around her.

Then, before he knew it, he was kissing her with a desperate, intense thirst, his hands urgently pulling her closer to him. She found herself responding, could feel her desire for him rising up inside her – but something was warning her, at the edges of her consciousness.

They had to stop – they shouldn’t – not now -- *why* not again? she wondered almost frantically, her desire for him driving rational thought from her mind for a moment. Her hand fell to the base of his spine, pulling him in closer to her – and he could not hide his little wince of pain.

And she remembered.

She pulled back with an effort, instantly feeling the loss of his soft, hungry lips on hers. “Spike,” she gasped breathlessly, her hands resting on his shoulders, pushing him gently back. “We can’t…we have to stop.”

He froze, as his mind went back to the moments before Riley had entered his office – Buffy’s imagined rejection of his advances then, which he still thought to be real. His eyes widened with a look that was almost panic, as he silently berated himself for his foolishness and weakness.

*Again!* he thought with a vicious disgust at his own actions. *You’ve done it again, you *stupid* wanker!*

Buffy watched in confused astonishment as he pulled back away from her against the base of the counter, his eyes downcast. He tried to get up once, but his injuries put up too much of a protest to allow it, and he gave up, leaning as far back against the counter as he could, his head turned away from her.

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” he whispered, his voice wretched and miserable. “I – I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry…”

She stared at him for a moment, as the same memory that had already occurred to him came back to her mind, and understanding began to dawn on her, as she understood *what* was bothering him – just now *why*.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, still looking down at him, her expression unreadable when he glanced up, in spite of his knowledge that he had messed up, surprised that she was actually getting up – leaving him. His heart sank when she *did* turn around and walk slowly toward the door, and he bowed his head, swallowing back the despairing sob that rose in his throat.

In the whole miserable existence that his life had become, he had one protector, one ally – and he had just driven her away.

He closed his eyes, his chest heaving with deep breaths as he tried not to break down again. He was surprised when a shadow fell over him again, disappearing just as quickly, and he looked up – to see Buffy, down on her knees beside him again.

He gave her a puzzled, amazed look, and she glanced back at the door – now locked.

“Can’t have someone walking in on us, now can we? This could take a while.” Her voice was soft and gentle, but matter-of-fact.

When he still looked confused, she scooted cautiously closer to him, reaching out and taking his hand in hers as she met his eyes with a reassuring smile. “You’re more important to me than you realize, Spike,” she informed him, and he felt the lump rise up in his throat again – and the hope in his heart.

“If you’re hurting – if you’re struggling – that matters to me,” she went on softly, holding his gaze, reaching one hand up to lightly caress his cheek – and he did not pull away, as she finished what she was trying to say, a determined light in her eyes.

“Talk to me.”