“Spike?”

The Slayer’s voice was unusually timid and uncertain, as she stood in the doorway of Spike’s crypt – which she had, for once, *not* violently slammed open with the full force of her Slayer strength, as if she owned the place and had the right to destroy it if she pleased.

If the meager gesture was meant to show a change of heart, it really wasn’t very effective.

Too little, too bloody late, as far as Spike was concerned.

The blonde vampire was sitting in his chair, his back turned to her, watching television. At her soft, tentative call of his name, which she *knew* he had heard, he did not turn around, did not respond in any way for a very long moment – so long in fact that Buffy was painfully sure that he meant to ignore her completely.

Not that she could blame him.

Swallowing hard to choke back a sob, she turned to go.

“You were raised by one of the most gracious, well-mannered women ever to walk the face of this earth. You’ve been trained under a proper British gentleman as your Watcher. You’ve been to hell, and to heaven, and back again. You’d think someone…somewhere along the way…would have taught you…to *knock*, Slayer.”

The words came out in a measured tone, his voice one of calm, controlled annoyance, tinged with a note of sarcasm that was flat and cold. The hard anger that was almost never present in his voice when directed at her left her with an empty, aching, desolate feeling.

*I’ve really done it. I’ve really made him hate me.*

The thought was terrifying, and devastatingly painful.

“I – I’m sorry,” she stammered, feeling awkward and self-conscious in a way she never had before – not with Spike.

She was constantly throwing her rather diminutive weight around, prancing around as if she had the right to invade his only sanctuary any time she felt like it, taking what comfort she could from him and then using her words and her fists to be sure that he remembered that that was all it was – he was too far beneath her for it to be anything more – unworthy of anything more than she should see fit to give him.

And even now, though her entrance had been less – er, assertive – than usual, she had still taken it for granted, without meaning to, that she had the right to enter the crypt, with or without Spike’s permission.

Had she ever *once* knocked on the door of Spike’s crypt? she wondered suddenly with a sense of shame.

He was right. Her mother would have been appalled.

“I’m sorry” she whispered again after a moment, when he did not respond to her first apology.

“Are you now.” The blonde vampire’s response was flat, and a bit impatient; he never took his eyes off the television screen in front of him.

“Yes,” Buffy said, struggling to make her voice firm and certain. She had to make him understand – had to make him see that this was not just lip service. Finally, Buffy had made up her mind – she *knew* what she wanted.

If she had not already managed to push it beyond her reach.

It had been nearly a week since Spike had walked out of her bedroom and out of her house, and this was the first she had seen of him since then. Her patrols had taken her nearer to his crypt than usual each night – by some odd coincidence – but still, he had not found her in the cemetery as he usually did, had not come by her house – had in no way made his presence known to her, if he had been around at all.

And yet in spite of everything, Buffy had not really accepted the fact that it was over. Maybe it was a desperate sort of denial that made her tell herself over and over – he just needed time and space to cool down, to get over it. She had hurt him badly, and he was naturally angry – he had every right to be. But he *would* calm down, and eventually come back to her.

Spike always came back to her.

Always before, she had tried to avoid him – tried to push him away, emotionally, if not physically. But this time, she found herself desperately hoping, *needing* to believe, that he would prove true to his old pattern and eventually come to her to reopen the gates of communication between them.

But as the days had slowly passed, with no sign of the vampire, and her own guilt and regret and utter fear that what she had done had driven him away forever, had slowly eaten away at her, she had finally faced the fact that he was *not* coming around – not on his own. *She* was the one who had ruined the beginnings of what could have been building between them.

She was the one who was going to have to make the effort to make it right.

That realization had come three days ago – and she had only now been able to work up the courage to make her way all the way into his crypt. Several times she had made it as far as his door, but her nerve had failed her before she could enter and attempt to ask for his forgiveness.

But desperation had finally driven her through the door – and now there she stood, facing the judgment of the one she had wronged.

Except – judgment refused to face *her*. And that was worse than anything, though she knew that she deserved it. If he had yelled, cursed her, told her how selfish and stupid and childish she had been – she could have accepted it, knowing that she deserved it all. But this refusal to acknowledge that her presence was even important enough to merit a proper response…

Well – she knew she deserved that, too.

But that was not going to keep her from trying for more.

“Spike,” she repeated his name in a slightly stronger, but still trembling voice, slowly advancing into the room on shaking legs. “Please – I just – I just need you to understand…”

“I understand, Slayer. Really,” he cut her off in a cool, carefully unconcerned voice.

“Please talk to me,” she whispered desperately.

“Nothing to say.” He gave her a careless shrug, not looking at her as she moved hesitantly around to stand within his line of vision, to the left of his television.

“Then please *listen*!” she cried out in tearful frustration, stepping between him and the television, completely blocking his view.

The slight flicker of emotion that crossed the vampire’s face at her display of hurt and sorrow was so brief as to be almost completely missed by the Slayer, as he glanced up at her instantaneously, before looking back down to the spot where he should have seen his television screen, his lips slightly pursed in annoyance.

“Tryin’ to,” he retorted, gesturing past her toward the television. “Difficult, what with all the bloody drama.”

His dismissal stung, and she felt her cheeks flush with the heat of embarrassment – but she was not willing to give up – not yet.

She had abased him, humiliated him, manipulated and abused him, using his love, his emotions, as weapons against him – and that was all *before* the unparalleled cruelty she had shown a few nights before. If she had to face some embarrassment and rejection – well, it was barely a start in making up for all she had put him through.

“*Spike*!” she repeated insistently, turning around and flipping off the television before turning back around to face him.

When she did, she was startled to find him standing right behind her, inches from her and trembling with anger, his blue eyes blazing with a fury that made her blood run cold.

“You don’t have the right to do that, Slayer!’ he informed her, his words cold and accusing. “This is *my* home! You can do what you like in your own, but you think you can just waltz into whatever soddin’ part of my life you bloody well please, rearrange it to suit you, and *then* decide it’s not worth your time after all and walk away? Not anymore, Slayer! I’m…*through*.”

His final two emphatic words sent a shock of fear through her – fear that inspired anger and defiance.

“I’m not the one walking away, Spike!” she reminded him, her voice trembling with emotion.

“No,” he shot back bitterly. “Not this time. You finally managed to find a way to make *me* do that!”

“I’m *sorry*!” Buffy repeated, desperation and frustration in her voice. “I don’t know what else to say but I’m so sorry, Spike!”

She paused, wide emerald eyes focusing on his through her tears. He immediately averted his gaze, though he did not back down – did not move at all. He swallowed hard, and Buffy noticed his jaw set in stubborn determination. He wanted so badly not to give in – yet did not seem to have the will to shut her down completely – not yet.

“Spike,” she whispered softly, drawing in nearer, her hands reaching cautiously toward him. “I *love*…”

“*Don’t*!” he snarled, jerking backward away from her in anger, his sparkling blue eyes suddenly focused on her again in searing accusation – mingled with a deep sense of hurt and betrayal. “Don’t you bloody *dare* say those words to me!”

Buffy flinched, stung by the accusation in his voice, her eyes suddenly downcast, welling with fresh tears. She wanted to protest, but had no words – no right.

“You’re not going to – to *use* those words to – to get what you want, Buffy. What you’re after tonight’s not on the soddin’ menu anymore,” Spike informed her in a low, carefully controlled voice.

Buffy looked up at him sharply when she realized what he meant, shaking her head in denial and opening her mouth to speak – but he cut her off before she could.

“You knew what it meant to me, Buffy.” His voice was soft but intense, touched with a slight tremor of emotion. “You knew how much I – I wanted it to be true. And you – you used those words to – to destroy me, Buffy. You used them to – to break me…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“There’s *another* set of amazingly meaningless words, coming from you,” Spike snapped bitterly – then bit his lip, turning his head away from her, obviously immediately regretting the words, but having too much pride, too much awareness of his own status as the wronged party in this situation, to take them back.

Buffy closed her eyes, swallowing back a sob of despair and hurt at his scathing words. “I – I don’t understand,” she whispered finally, desolation and resignation in her voice. “I thought you said you forgave me.”

Spike was quiet for a long moment.

“You can forgive someone for hurting you, pet – doesn’t mean you’re gonna put the bloody weapon in their hand the second time.”

Buffy was silent, her desperate, confused mind trying to process what he was saying. “Spike, I – I don’t understand this…”

“No. You don’t,” he stated flatly.

“Then *help* me,” she pleaded in a soft, imploring voice, stepping forward and taking his hand in hers. “Please help me understand this, Spike.”

She felt an instant’s resistance, as he tried to make himself pull away from her – but the desperation, the sincere desire to understand, and make amends, that he heard in her voice, would not allow him to completely deny her.

He never *had* been able to deny her.

God help him, but he still loved her so much!

A heavy, weighted silence fell between them for a long moment, as Buffy waited breathlessly for his response – and he tried desperately to put his feelings into words in his mind instead of recklessly just spilling his heart out his lips to her.

That tactic never seemed to go too well for him.

“Buffy – I don’t know how I can make you see…”

“*Try,*” she pressed him gently, moving in closer, seeking his cautiously averted eyes. “Please…I know I deserve for you to shut me out, and never let me in again. You let me in before, and I – I used it to hurt you. But…” Her voice trailed off slightly, her expression somewhat sheepish as she finished softly, “But you told me…you forgave me…and…”

She stopped, finding it difficult to press him on the issue of his forgiveness when she knew that she did not deserve it in the least. Finally she finished slowly, “What – changed your mind?”

“I didn’t. Change my mind,” Spike admitted begrudgingly, a note of agitated annoyance in his voice at being forced to admit it. “I said I forgave you, love – and I bloody well meant it. It’s not that I don’t forgive you, or even that I’m angry. You know I could never hold anything against you for long…it’s just…”

He paused for a moment, shaking his head as if lost for words – before suddenly meeting her eyes in an arresting gaze.

“You obviously don’t want me, Buffy – not like I – I want to *give* myself to you.”

Buffy was struck speechless, just staring at him, wide-eyed and stricken, as she waited for him to go on.

“I told you not to say it, Buffy – not to use those words if you weren’t – if you weren’t going to stay. And then…” His voice grew halting and cautious, and strained with emotion, and Buffy felt a sharp pang of guilt as she realized that he was feeling again the painful emotions of that night. “…then you – you weren’t there…and…”

He paused, swallowing hard as he struggled to maintain his control.

“If – if it was like all the other times – if you’d run – because you were…afraid, or confused…or…” he paused, shaking his head slightly, before going on, “I could have gotten past that. Would’ve hurt. But I could’ve understood it. But – you *were* there. You chose to stay, not go – but *still* to hurt me. Deliberately.”

He was silent for a long moment, before looking up again to meet her eyes, his gaze solemn, intense and piercing, far too perceptive for her comfort.

“You deliberately, systematically, set about trying to hurt me. To destroy…”

His voice was hushed, haunted, when he finally went on. “I *begged* you, Buffy – I told you – what it would do to me if you left. So of course, what did you decide to do? Come up with a way to make me *think* you’d left, but where you could still stick around and enjoy the bloody show…”

“No!” Buffy cried, shaking her head, horrified and sickened by that thought. “I didn’t mean…”

“I thought – if I could pass your tests – if I could prove to *you* that *you* could pass your own tests – than maybe, maybe I could get through to you. Maybe you’d – let yourself love me…” His voice broke slightly over the words, and Buffy moved in closer automatically, wanting to comfort him – momentarily forgetful that at the moment, she was the source of his pain.

“Even if you’d told me, Buffy – even if you’d broken if off, sent me packin’ – it’d have been kinder than what you tried to do.”

“Spike – please,” Buffy whispered tearfully, shaking her head in confusion as she slowly edged closer to him – and he did not withdraw from her. “I just don’t understand. What do you think I tried to do?”

“You tried to destroy my love for you!” he replied, his own tears streaming down his face as his voice shook with hurt accusation. “It wasn’t enough for you to just leave me. You couldn’t *face* me and tell me that you wanted nothing to do with me! You had to play the coward and try to manipulate *me* into doing it! It wasn’t enough for you to take away every dream I ever had of being with you -- *really* being with you, Buffy! Not just the way we’ve been for the past two months! You had to make it your goal to make me not love you anymore!”

He paused, his head bowed, swallowing hard, before he went on in a lower voice, more controlled, but still trembling with pain.

"Could you not even leave me my feelings for you, Buffy? Is there *nothing* that would stop at taking from me?"

Her eyes widened with dawning understanding, and he paused for a moment, catching his breath as he allowed his words to sink in. Buffy stepped back, stunned and taken aback by his words. She shook her head slowly in denial.

“Spike – Spike…no…”

He didn’t even seem to hear her words. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and sad, his eyes wide and downcast.

“I never wanted this, Buffy. Not – not *just* this. Not just – your body, though that's all you've ever seen fit to give me. I’ve been giving you mine – because you wouldn’t accept anything more…but it’s always been just a means to an end.” He shook his head with a sad, ironic laugh that broke Buffy’s heart. “I hoped that someday, you’d – you’d want – more…but…”

He looked up at her through tearful but much calmer eyes, as he explained softly, “That’s why I left, Buffy…why I *won’t* play this game anymore. Because if you don’t *want* anymore than just my body…if the thought of my loving you is so bleedin’ repulsive to you that you have to come up with this complex bloody plan to – to take even that away from me – my very *love* for you…if you can *do* something like that to me…”

His voice lowered as he added in a calm, desolate sort of voice of painful resignation, sending a cold ache through her chest at his words,

“You wanted to prove your point, Buffy? You wanted to make it clear that I didn’t trust you? Well – I *did* trust you. You were wrong.” He paused, a bitter, sad smile coming over his lips.

“But you’re not wrong now. Because now I *don’t* trust you, pet. Not anymore.”