***************************************

“So then Buffy’s all, ‘Step off, bitch!’ and I’m all, ‘Yeah!’ and and she and Willow totally throw down, and, um…well, then there was the being knocked unconscious, so I missed some stuff. The whole time Willow’s camcorder from Hell is going, right? And Anya’s yelling at Xander to stop, and then there was more stuff, and then – this is the best part – Giles hands his car keys over to Anya! He never let Buffy drive his car, not once.”

Spike just smiled faintly, one hand resting on the top of Dawn’s head as she knelt on the floor beside him. Her ceaseless chatter soothed him, distanced him from the pain. Bright little magpie she was, already rewriting the afternoon’s events as a rousing adventure tale. She’d already imparted what she considered to be juicy gossip – that Willow had been remanded to the authority of an esteemed coven on the Isle of Wight, and that Giles and Anya would accompany her to England and remain there for the foreseeable future. He’d let her charm him with her exaggerated description of the kiss Giles had bestowed on Anya when they returned from the hospital.

But he saw the hardness in her eyes when she mentioned Willow’s name, the way her mouth grew tight and her lips compressed when she spoke of seeing Spike’s condition.

“She’ll not forgive Willow any time soon,” he murmured when Dawn had left the room. Buffy sat next to him on the couch, quiet and reflective as night stole over the house.

“She’d barely gotten over the whole driving-under-the-magical-influence fiasco,” Buffy responded. “Willow kind of used up any goodwill she had left.”

He nodded, half-lidded gaze drifting across the room, the pendulous moon outside, the planes of her face. “Grief does funny things to the head.”

“And you?” Buffy asked. “Have you forgiven her?”

He would have killed – could kill, he amended – for a cigarette, but being loved senselessly by Buffy Summers still did not permit one to smoke in her mother’s living room. So his yearning fingers merely played over the PowerPuff Girls comforter Dawn had draped over him. “Not for me to forgive.”

Buffy’s expression went slack with shock. “Hello? She practically turned you into Spike-kabobs.”

He curved one bandaged arm around her narrow waist, bringing her closer. She raised an eyebrow. “Slayer healing powers,” he explained somberly. “Very restoring.”

“How can you just be over it?” Buffy persisted.

Spike shrugged. It hurt. Everything hurt; his flesh felt like it had been turned inside out and if Buffy and Dawn were any indication, he was none to pleasant to look at, either. “Me and her, we’ve got some history. It’s understood.”

“Xander said you threatened to reach down his throat and pull out his ribcage, then roast his testicles over a low flame for a month. What about burying that hatchet? Metaphorical hatchet,” she added hastily.

Spike blinked at her innocently. “Dr. Phil says that it’s important to embrace our emotions. ‘Sides, Xander Harris is –"

“A tool,” Buffy finished. “I know. You mentioned it a few dozen times. And I’m really starting to wish Dawn had never taught you that word.”

She subsided into what he knew would be a short-lived silence. Sure enough –

“Did you kill Kehoe?” she blurted out.

“Would you care if I did?”

“Yes. I would.”

“He’d earned his death, a hundred times over. Broke you in half, took you from Dawn – he shed Tara’s blood more than you ever did.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Oh,” Spike answered a bit snidely. “Is this where we have the ‘do the right thing’ conversation? Do us a favor, love, and hand me a few more Demerol before we get started.”

She remained where she was, watching him without reserve or rosy, infatuated ignorance. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted into game face.

“Take a good look,” he told her. “Got my bite back, I have.”

“No kidding,” she replied. “Today we had Fun Sharing Hour at the Summers house. Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Maybe,” he said defensively. “Didn’t know what you’d do. Didn’t know what I’d do.” Fumbling, he sat up straighter among the soft, enveloping cushions. “That whole bloody time you were away, Buffy – can you imagine what it was like, knowing I couldn’t protect her from any ordinary, ill-minded human that came along? From sweaty blighters at truck stops, who looked at her just a second too long? Knew what they were thinking, I did. And Kehoe – I couldn’t save you from him. Tried, but that stupid chip,” he spat the offensive word out, “kicked in so’s all I could do was curl up like a whipped puppy. If I’d had it out that night I found you –"

“If you’d had it out,” Buffy said gently, “you might not have been there in the first place.”

He looked away.

“Did you kill him?” Buffy asked again.

Spike sighed. “No. Got a few licks in, but that’s it. Kept my word; he was alive when I left him.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t suppose you’ll believe me.”

Buffy digested it for a moment. “I’ll…have faith,” she said finally. “I’ll have faith in you.”

Nothing would have surprised him more, he thought dizzily. He felt a smile break over his face, felt his demon retreat into human form again. Felt the passion and hope and fear in her declaration. I’ll have faith.

“Because you love me,” he prompted her, not caring how needy he sounded.

Warm hands on his face, smoothing out the lines on his forehead until he relaxed. “Yes. Because of that,” she whispered as his eyes closed. “Because I love you, and Dawn loves you, and I’m going to trust you – trust you to puzzle out the right thing even when you don’t want to, even when you don’t think you can. I’m going to trust you not to decapitate Xander or anybody else who annoys you.” She swallowed.

“I’m going to trust you to keep fighting on our side, even if I’m not around to fight with you.”

His eyes opened then, and when he pulled her down to him there was an urgency in his grasp. “That won’t be for a long, long time,” he promised, though there was something rough and raw behind his voice. Then he was kissing her, because she was there, in all her vibrant, death-defying glory.

“Have faith in me,” he muttered, even while she snaked her hands beneath his shirt and brushed the taut muscles of his stomach. “Make you proud, I will.”

“I know, Spike.”

“And I’ll save you, Buffy. A thousand times. I’ll have your back every night, every minute. My Slayer’s going to live forever – love you – forever – Buffy…”

Hours later, when she woke up panting and disoriented, he was there. Arms wrapped tight around her, soothing her with a lullaby of love-words and nonsense. “Hush, now. Spike’s got you. It’s all right.” He was propped up on his elbow, cradling her.

“Was…dreaming. You were there.”

He brushed damp hair back from her forehead. “Was I?”

“There was a woman. We were all tied together.”

“Shhhh. Sleep now. Tell me about it tomorrow.”

“It meant something, Spike. It was a Slayer dream. They always mean something.”

“Good. Time for our first outing as a couple, then.”

She smiled against him, let his sibilant tones lull her into oblivion. When Spike lay back down he held her just a bit closer.

***************************************

Rodger Kehoe walked the floor of the warehouse, fear fueling every circling step.

He’d done everything right. He was sure of it. Absconded with the necessary materials to this – this shack on the outskirts of Boyle Heights, where no one would think to look. Made the appropriate sacrifices, appeased the proper nether-powers. And he was certain there had been no flaw in his performance of the spell. He was nothing if not a stickler for detail.

But…it had gone off, somewhere. There’d been an interruption; a bolt of cosmic lightning that had shorted his efforts. He’d wanted his Slayer back – he was owed. All his hard work…

He jumped at the sound of movement behind him. Turning, he eyed his creation apprehensively.

Something had gone off, indeed.

***************************************

The woman stood carefully, examining herself. Ebony skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat; long, graceful limbs seemed to flaunt youth and vitality. The hands, though…the hands were coarse and calloused from her work. She studied them for a moment, remembering. Then she swiveled large almond eyes up to Kehoe’s.

“Where’s my coat?” she asked.

The End.

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