Spike stared at the Slayer in shock, hardly able to believe that she had not left him as he had feared, that she was still right here, with him, looking at him with the compassionate but expectant expression on her face.

*Talk to me,* she had said -- and he tried to wrap his mind around the concept.

During the long years of his slavery, the idea had been driven home again and again that what he felt and thought did not matter. He was nothing but a possession to be used, and he *had* been, more times than he could count. He had been beaten, tortured, raped, abused in every way he could imagine, and many times he had been driven to tears, to breakdowns such as this.

But never had any of his masters -- not once -- shown the slightest concern, asked him what was wrong, how he felt -- asked him to say anything at all beyond, "Yes, Master."

And here was this perfect, beautiful vision, destined to be the killer of his kind, yet on her knees on the floor, her eyes full of concern and affection, her face streaked with tears -- tears she had shed for *him* -- and she was asking him to open up to her, to talk to her about the pain that had been building up inside him for so long.

He had tried to push it back -- and had succeeded for a very long time. He had done what he had to do to survive one hellish nightmare of servitude after another, submitting where he had to submit, resisting in what small ways he could, and all the while trying to pretend that it did not affect him, that he was strong enough to take whatever the human monsters who owned him threw his way, and not break under the weight of it.

But he *had* broken -- a little at a time, as tiny pieces of his dignity and self-worth were slowly chipped away on the inside, until he began to believe that he never had been and never would be anything more than the slave that he was now. He had kept up the facade to a point, on the outside, managing to maintain a bit of his old reputation among his fellow slaves, and even to keep a bit of his pride around some humans -- though certainly not the ones who owned him.

Until Buffy.

From the very start, there had been a difference in the way she treated him, compared to his past masters. She had actually seemed to care about his well-being, his safety, and had even treated him like a friend -- a *person*, not just a *thing* to be bent to her whims. Gradually, he had begun to think that maybe he could trust her -- that just maybe, things could get better for him. Maybe -- someday -- she might even be able to...

No. He had never *really* believed that -- could not even find the courage to put the thought to words now.

But, he argued with himself, with a wistful sort of sadness, he *had* believed it -- for a few brief moments in her arms. Right before he had dared to speak words a slave should never have spoken to his mistress, and dashed his own dream to pieces. Right before she had struck him down, a look of cold anger in her eyes, for trying to make it right.

The look in her eyes now was nothing like the look she had worn that day.

There was such tenderness and affection in her eyes now, that he found himself daring to hope again. She had not said the word. Not out right. But the things she *had* said led him to believe that maybe -- just maybe there was a chance.

"Come on," she gently urged him, her voice soft and coaxing, as she gave his hand in hers a gentle squeeze. "I want you to tell me what this is all about."

"What..." he began, stopping when he realized that he did not even really know exactly what to ask. What *what* was about? There were simply so many different feelings and fears, so much confusion in his heart and mind right now, that he had no idea what to tell her.

"I -- I don't even know where to begin, pet," he gave up with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the counter, harder than he meant to, and with a soft little growl of frustration. "Ow," he added a moment later.

The slightly pouty frown on his face made her smile in spite of everything, and she found her attention being drawn, against her will, to those oh-so-tempting lips, wanting to just lean in and...

*No. Be good, Buffy!* she snapped at herself, forcing her focus back up to his eyes, open again and looking at her with so much emotion, so much vulnerability, that it was suddenly very easy to place her attention back where it needed to be.

She looked down for a moment, carefully formulating exactly what she wanted to say in her mind, wanting to make it as easy for him as possible, and not wanting to pressure him. Finally she looked back up at him and asked quietly, "How about starting with telling me exactly what you're sorry for? Why you suddenly started apologizing and trying to get as far away from me as possible?"

His eyes shot up to hers suddenly, an expression of surprised confusion on his face, unable to believe that she did not already know -- followed by an uncomfortable look, as he realized that that meant he would have to tell her.

"I -- I -- was completely out of line, pet. You -- you didn't want to -- to...I was -- pushing it, and..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words, shaking his head slightly, as he tried to sum up what he was trying to say. "I stepped out of my place, love." He paused. "I'm sorry."

Buffy's expression was calm, thoughtful, as she regarded him for a moment before speaking. "What exactly would you say that 'your place' is, Spike?"

He gave her a blank look for a moment, caught off guard by the question. "I -- well..." he began, unsure of how to respond, looking away. Suddenly, piercing blue eyes met hers with an intensity that took her breath away, as he asked softly, "What *is* my place, Buffy?"

Suddenly, she was the one who was on the spot, not knowing the answer to the question he had turned around on her. She looked down for a moment, her mouth opening to speak long before any words actually came out.

“I – I don’t know, Spike,” she admitted in a quiet voice of controlled emotion. “I – I know I have feelings for you.” She looked up to meet his eyes again honestly. “I just – don’t know for sure if – if they’re what you want them to be.”

He searched her eyes for a moment, and she could see a strange mixture of hope and disappointment in his. It was *not* what he had wanted – but it was more than he had expected.

“But I do know,” she went on, her voice stronger, “That your place is *not* behind me, or beneath me, or in any way -- *less* than mine, Spike. If you want me to tell you what this is – what we have here – I can’t,” she admitted, meeting his eyes firmly. “But I know that you are *not* a slave to me. Not anymore. You are nothing less than – my very best friend.”

Her words stunned him, and he felt the emotions building up inside him again, vying for release against his determination to get through this conversation without any further breakdowns. A warm, secure feeling enveloped him at the comforting words, and a small, hopeful smile crossed his lips.

“But,” she went on, her own eyes searching now, her expression serious. “I kind of thought – we’d already covered that, Spike. And in case you didn’t notice, *I’m* the one who kissed *you* tonight, Honey…so even if there was some line to cross…I crossed it, not you. So – why are you thinking that I’m gonna all of a sudden reject you…again…”

Her voice trailed off, the last word of her statement answering the question for her, as a sense of guilt came over her, remembering how she had treated him before. She couldn’t blame him for not being sure that she was not going to change her mind at any second and take back the tentative promises she had made him.

But they both knew that it was more than that.

“I – I don’t deserve you, Buffy,” he said after a long pause, his voice barely over a whisper, his eyes focused on the tile floor between them. “I – I can’t fight…I can’t…can’t even keep from…I…” He stopped talking, looking up at the ceiling with a repressed sigh of frustration at his own betraying emotions, determined not to give in to them again.

“Can’t fight?” she echoed in disbelief. “How can you say that? Did you *see* yourself tonight?” She paused, frowning. “Well, obviously you didn’t, but – but you were amazing! Spike – you saved my life tonight.”

“G.I. Git kicked my bleedin’ arse,” Spike muttered with equal parts resentment and shame. “Guess I’ve no right to call him that, do I? I’m the soddin’ ponce that couldn’t do anything but just sit there like a coward…”

She cut off his unconscious echoing of the words Riley had used to demean him, with a hand held up in interruption, shaking her head as she said, “Don’t even go there, Spike. We both know that Riley has an unfair advantage in all this. If it wasn’t for the chip, you could take him like *that*!” She snapped her fingers.

“But we don’t know that, do we?” he pointed out matter-of-factly. “Because I do have the chip. And he kicked. My. Arse.”

“Well,” Buffy went on with a sad little smile at his vicious self-deprecation, with which she completely disagreed. “judging by the way you took out nearly a dozen vamps all by yourself…since I was unconscious on the floor for a good part of that time…I’d say you could have taken Riley easy if not for the chip.”

Spike shrugged, knowing deep down that she was right, but unwilling to let himself slide just yet on what he still saw as a pathetic display of weakness. After a moment he went on softly, “I fell apart in there, love. I let him play his soddin’ mind games and – and take me right back to – to that…*place*…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the floor – and it was clear that he was going there again.

“Spike,” Buffy said firmly, the slightly sharp note in her voice drawing his attention, as she leaned forward to take his shoulders in her hands, turning him to face her. “You are *not* in that place anymore. And you never will be again. I promise.”

“Love,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly, and the pain in his eyes when he looked up at her again sent a stab through her heart with his words. “I never left.”

She was speechless, not knowing how to respond to that. The look in his eyes made it clear that in a very real sense, he was right. The pain and torment of that place had followed him everywhere he had gone since. She felt a deep longing to help him, to make things right for him, though she hadn’t the first clue how to go about it.

“I – I want to – I want to help you through this, Spike. I – I care – so much, and – and it kills me to see you like this…if I can do anything to help you – anything to – to take the hurt away…” She struggled for words, her eyes welling and her throat aching with the tears she tried to hold back.

He just stared at her for a long moment, trying to read her expression, knowing what it was that he needed from her – not knowing if she could give it.

“Buffy,” he whispered, unable to look at her as he said his next words. “You – you know I love you. I’ve made no secret of it. You know that – you’re – you’re the reason I – I even try to keep on going. You know that, right?”

When he heard no response, he looked up at her with a painful vulnerability in his eyes. He was putting his heart out on display, for her to do with as she would. Her own head was lowered, tears streaking her face, but she nodded slowly.

She knew.

“If – if I thought that…that there was even a chance…that maybe…someday…you might…” His words came out choked and halting, as he struggled against the tears that rose to his eyes. He was losing ground, unable to go on.

There was a long silence before Buffy looked up at him through tearful eyes and whispered in a voice of sorrow and regret, “Spike…I – I don’t know if I can give you that. I don’t – after Riley…and…and Angel…” She paused for a moment, shaking her head. “God, Spike, I’m so confused!” she admitted. “I have feelings for you. I know that. I just -- I don’t even – I’m not sure I even know what love is anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment. He knew she was being completely honest with him, and that alone gave him reason to hope. If she did not love him – she *wanted* to…and she cared enough not to say it if she wasn’t sure that she meant it.

“I know what love is,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, even in the stillness that had fallen over them.

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke he was startled by her words. “Tell me.”

He blinked, a bit taken aback, but then he looked down, pensive. After a moment he spoke softly. “When – when you care about someone so much – that if they’re hurting, or sick, or – or in danger – you’d rather it was you than them…you’d give your own life, just to make it right again for them…” The tone of his voice, the look in his eyes made it clear that he was speaking from experience – very recent experience.

When his voice trailed off for a moment, she looked up at him with a weak little smile. “Check,” she said softly. “What else?”

He felt hope rising up in him again at the intense gaze she was giving him, waiting breathlessly for his next words. “If – if they’re the most important thing in your world. If you had to choose between your food – your next breath – your very life’s blood, and them – you’d choose them…”

Buffy was quiet for a moment, before she gave a slow, decisive little nod, meeting his eyes as she stated matter-of-factly. “Yep. That too. Anything else?”

He could hardly find the strength to speak, stunned and amazed by her words, by the affection for him shining in her eyes as she moved slightly closer to him, focused completely on what he would say.

“If – you can think of – spending every moment of every day – for the rest of eternity – with them – and it doesn’t scare you…doesn’t make you worry if you’d regret it – just makes you happier than anything else you can think of doing for the rest of your life…” His eyes were focused on hers intently, and she knew that he was telling her exactly how he felt for her, speaking his heart aloud for her to hear.

He was speaking hers, too.

The uncertainty, the vulnerability in his expression, wide hopeful, fearful sapphire eyes searching her face, made it impossible for her to hold back anymore. She leaned forward, sliding her arms around his waist again, gazing into his eyes with a sober, searching look. He scarcely seemed aware of her touch; he was too focused on her eyes, her mouth, his very future hanging on what she would say.

A soft smile came over her lips, now inches from his, as she whispered, “Guess what?” with a little quirk of her mouth, before leaning in to tenderly, gently kiss his lips, expressing the emotion, the intensity, of this encounter with a single kiss.

He knew what her words had meant – knew that she had finally realized, after all this time, that she *did* love him – and he returned her kiss with a fervor born of his relief, his joy, at the revelation, turning them slightly and pushing her back against the base of the counter, urgently plundering her mouth with his own, his hands on either side of her head, pulling her in deeper with a desperate intensity.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, they were both gasping for breath. His eyes closed, breathing hard, he whispered softly, “Say it.”

She looked up at him through desire-darkened forest green eyes, taking a moment to process what he was asking – no, demanding.

Then, in an instant, the demand faded from his voice, replaced by a pleading note as he whispered, the raw emotion in his voice going straight to her heart, “Please…if you meant it…” he gasped. “I – I need to hear it. Please…”

She raised her hands to pull his head back away from hers, so that she could meet his eyes, her own full of the feeling she had yet to put into words. She had not wanted to take a chance, not wanted to say it until she was absolutely sure that she meant it. Now, there was no longer any doubt in her mind. She knew it.

She was sure.

“Spike,” she whispered, holding his gaze unflinchingly. “I do mean it. I do.” She paused, the words, but not the feeling, still coming hard for her after all the times she had been burned by it in the past.

Somehow, in her heart, she knew that this was different, as she spoke the words his heart ached to hear.

“I love you.”