Before the actual fic, I just want to give a brief disclaimer on my opinions about Buffy and Spike's relationship. Which is that I loved every stage of it. Not necessarily for the dynamics, because the two of them had an extremely unhealthy and mutually abusive relationship in S6. However, I felt that it was all very in-character and understandable for both of them.

I recognize that Spike is an incredibly controversial character, and there are times when I don't know how I feel about him myself. And I don't want in any way to condone sexual assault. What Spike did in Seeing Red was absolutely inexcusable. However, I have noticed a theme throughout Buffy of transgression and redemption. People have done some things that do not deserve to be forgiven. However, the show very clearly expresses that forgiveness is something done on the terms of the wronged party. I do believe that Spike has learned from what he did, and has done all he could to atone for it. And, most importantly, Buffy forgave him. He does achieve redemption, and I respect him for it. And I respect Buffy's decision to forgive and trust him. I love every stage in their relationship, but this - the sweetness in S7 - is my favorite. And I love the scene in Showtime so much that I had to write what happens next.

And on that note, to the story.

...

When he passes out, it's so subtle and silent that she almost doesn't notice.

She's been practically carrying him anyway, arm around his waist as good as holding him up, the motion of his legs more for show than anything else. It's the fact that they stop moving that clues her in. That and his head sags sideways into hers.

"Spike?" she says tentatively, but he doesn't reply.

She stops for a moment to decide what to do. Ponders waking him up, but a look at the bruises on his ribs and face, the cuts on his chest, decides her that his remaining unconscious is probably for the good right about now.

The arm slung around his waist she moves up to his shoulders; his lower body slumps and she leans down to get her right arm under his legs, pulling him up into her arms. His arm stays draped around her shoulder; she pulls it forward a little so that it won't fall away and drag on the ground.

She carries him the rest of the way to the opening in the cave – the place where she first fell in – and looks up, gauging the distance.

"Xander," she calls. "Willow. I've got him."

Their faces appear in the opening. Xander's mouth is tight; Willow's eyes wide with concern.

"Is he okay?" she whispers. "He's not" –

"Dead?" Xander interrupts. "Considering Buffy doesn't have him in a container" –

"He's in one piece," Buffy says grimly. Any other time she would snicker, but now . . . "He'll live." She looks up at them again. "I don't want to wake him up, though, and there's no way he'd be able to climb out of here even if I did. Do you think you two could reach him if I passed him up to you?"

Willow stretches her arms down into the hole, waves them around. "Can you get him high enough?"

Buffy shifts Spike's form in her arms. If she could get him above her head –

"Okay," she says. "When I lift him up, you each take an arm, okay? I'll give him a boost."

"How're you" – Willow goes silent. "Okay," she says.

Buffy kneels down, propping Spike up against her side, and then lifts one of his legs over her head, so that he's effectively sitting on her shoulders. His head lolls to one side, but she holds onto his shoulders to keep him from falling.

Grunting a little with effort, she rises to her feet. "All right," she calls up to them. "Grab his arms."

Her hands on his upper arms, she pushes them up into the air as high as she can reach, raising his hands above his head. Willow and Xander grope around in the air – and then she feels the relief of a little weight as they each catch hold of a wrist.

"Okay," she says again. "Now I'm gonna boost him up to you. Get ready to catch."

She secures her hands under his feet and slowly pushes him up off of her shoulders, until he is standing on her hands, supported in midair by Xander's and Willow's grip. They move their hands to his shoulders, and with a pull and grunts from both of them, Spike's weight is off of Buffy's shoulders and they're hauling him out of the hole.

"Got him?" she asks.

"He's out!" Willow calls. "You ready for the rope?"

"Send it down."

It hits the ground next to her, Xander and Willow holding the other end, and she shimmies quickly out of the cave. "All right," she says, brushing off her hands and turning to where Spike is lying, still unconscious, on the grass. "Let's get him into the car."

They lay him across the backseat. Xander is driving, Willow shotgun, so the only place Buffy can go is the back as well. And it may be a bench seat, but it's not big enough for a person to lie down while still leaving room for another to sit.

Which is the only reason Buffy ends up holding his head in her lap. The only reason.

The drive home is fairly quiet. Spike doesn't wake up, but he stirs occasionally, mutters and twitches. Running her fingers through his hair, matted with remnants of gel and dried blood as it is, seems to calm him down. Him, helpless like this – it is so weird, so wrong, so unexpected, and yet it seems to be happening more and more these days.

When they round the corner to her street, Buffy realizes something.

"Willow," she says, leaning towards the front seat. "When we get there, will you get the girls into the basement? I don't want them to see." She's not sure if she doesn't want them to see Spike unconscious (not with the way she's built him up to them), or if she just doesn't want to be asked any questions yet. She settles for the easier answer. "Don't want to disrupt morale after the" –

"Epic smackdown?" Xander finishes for her. Despite the fact that she knows he doesn't like having Spike in his car, she can see his grin in the mirror. "You were amazing out there, Buff. Kick-ass and inspirational."

"You really were," Willow agrees. "Kennedy wanted to jump in to help you, but I kept telling her to wait – we knew you could do it. And now they know it too."

"Thanks, guys." She doesn't know if she feels good, exactly, after everything, but it does feel good to know that she made an impression. "Don't want to mess that up, now, though, not with the whole Spike thing. Will? Do you mind?"

"Sure," Willow assures her. "I'll get them all downstairs and then come back out for you. Should – do you want me to send Dawnie down with them?"

Buffy purses her lips. She knows the desire to protect Dawn will never really go away – but she's seen worse before. "Dawn can stay," she says. "If she wants."

"Okay. On it." As Xander pulls into the driveway, Willow unbuckles and hops out of the car. "I'll be back in a minute."

The door slams, and Buffy, Xander, and Spike are left in the car. Buffy starts to pull the latter towards her, shift him into her arms again so she can carry him to the house, and he lets out a strange gasping noise. She looks down, and his good eye is half-open.

"Wha" – He wheezes again; his voice slurs. "Whass happening?"

"Hey," she murmurs. "Don't worry. You're safe; I've got you."

"You . . . not real." He struggles to pull away from her. "Can't trick me."

"Spike." She holds her hand above his face and lets her fingers brush his cheek. "See? Real. It's me."

"You . . ." His face relaxes. "Right. Gotta get up now" –

His entire upper body tenses as he tries to rise. She puts her hands on his shoulders and holds him down. "You're hurt," she says. "We're gonna get you into the house, okay?"

The car door opens. "Coast is clear," Willow says breathlessly. "The girls are all in the basement. Dawn's down there with them; she didn't want to see – Spike! You're awake!"

Xander gets out of the car and opens the door where Spike's feet are. "You want me to take his legs, Buffy, or you got him?"

"I've got him," she reassures him. "It's fine, Xander. I can carry him."

"No . . . walk," Spike groans. "I – can walk . . ."

"You were easier to deal with when you were unconscious," Xander informs him mercilessly. "Shut up and quit making this harder."

"He's right," Buffy says. She's not sure if she agrees with the harshness or not, but at the moment they have bigger things to worry about. "I've got you, Spike."

Xander backs away as Buffy slides over across the seat, scooping Spike into her arms as she goes and spilling out of the car. She sways for a moment, her own ribs aching a bit, but she holds him steady and starts across the yard. Xander shuts the car door behind her, and Willow's already at the front door, holding it open.

Spike lets out a breathless chuckle. "If – 'f I weren' already invited . . . this'a be a bloody funny sight. Slayer carries an injured vampire into her house . . ."

"Shut up," she mutters. "You know you're invited, so it doesn't matter anyway."

Her ribs twinge again as she navigates him up the stairs, but she ignores them, elbows open the door to her bedroom, and lays him down on the bed. He groans a little, sinking into it, but his non-swollen-shut eye stays open; focuses on her. "You're hurt."

She reaches up to touch the stitched-up cut on her cheek. "It's nothing," she says. "Slayer healing. I'll be fine in no time. It's you we should be worried about."

His hand rises from his side, making it halfway up to her face before it starts shaking so hard that she has to reach out and lower it back down for him. "Spike," she says. "I'm okay."

The door creaks open behind her. "Buffy?"

"Will." Buffy turns around to see her friend standing in the doorway with a mug in her hand. "Oh, thank you."

"You need any help?" Willow asks. "With – with – you know?" She darts a look at the bed.

Buffy glances down at Spike, too. "Um" – His eyes are closed again, grimacing. Maybe in pain, maybe embarrassment. "Could you get some wet cloths, maybe? And, uh, bandages?"

"Sure." Willow shoots another glance at Spike, then hands the mug over to Buffy. Their fingers brush on the handle, and Willow's wrap around Buffy's, just for a moment.

Their eyes hold, and Willow gives her a little smile. "Be back in a minute."

"Thanks," Buffy mutters.

The door closes behind Willow, and Buffy turns back to Spike, mug in hand. "Can you sit up?" she asks.

"If it kills me," he grunts, forcing his hands down into the mattress in an attempt to pull himself upright. His face twists, and Buffy puts a hand behind his back to support him, leans him back against her headboard.

He reaches out to take the mug from her, but his hands shake too much to hold it. So she does it for him, and he, with little protest, sucks the blood through a straw. While he drinks, she surveys his wounds, looks closer at the symbols cut into his chest and stomach.

She almost reaches out to touch them, and then the straw starts making empty sucking noises, and he withdraws his head to collapse back against the headboard, letting out a groaning sigh as he does.

"Spike?" she asks. "Are you" –

"Fine," he exhales. "'M fine. Just – God." He looks up at her, and his eyes are filled with something that makes her want to move forward and back at the same time. "Can't believe you're real."

"In the flesh," she smiles. Sits down on the bed beside him. Part of her wants to reach out and take his hand, and the other part of her thinks the first part is insane. It's probably right, she decides, so she stays where she is and twists her hands in her lap instead.

"The thing . . ." he says. "The bad thing – it can look like you. You know that?"

"It can only look like dead people," she mutters. Which, of course, makes perfect sense. "Perks to dying twice – the Big Evil gets to take on your form. Goody for me."

"Buffy?" There's another tap on the door, and Willow pushes it open again. She comes in with a bowl of water in one hand and some rags draped over the other. "And Spike. Hi."

"Hey," he manages.

"Thanks, Will." Buffy gets up, glad for something to do with her hands. "Hey, do you know anything about" – She gestures at the cuts on Spike's chest – "those symbols?"

"Oh." Willow's face draws in on itself. "Um . . ."

"Dunno if they mean anything more," grunts Spike, "but they did that to bleed me."

"Bleed you?"

"The seal." His hands twitch at his sides. "Bled me to open it. Let out the ugly vampire."

"The Turok Han." Buffy's hand strays to her cheek again, brushes the ridged cut. She reminds herself of the feeling of its neck giving beneath her makeshift noose: resistance, and then suddenly nothing – just dust in the wind.

"Did it hurt you?" Spike's body stiffens. "God, Buffy, I'm so sorry – I" –

"It wasn't your fault," she assures him. "And it's gone, anyway. Dust, and dust." She grins. "Barbed-wire flavored."

He raises his eyebrows. "Picked up some new tricks while I was away, love?" The suave tone fails in a cough, and he holds his ribs. "Ow."

"Are you okay?" Her hands hover impotently over his torso; she glances around to see what to do.

"Okay," comes a voice from behind. Willow – Buffy forgot she was here – is edging backwards towards the door. "I'm just gonna let myself out" –

"Right." Buffy steps back as well. "Um, yeah. We can talk about the runes and stuff in the morning. For now" – She sighs. "You should get some sleep."

"You, too," says Willow. "Buffy, you need to rest. That fight" –

"I'm fine," she says, more sharply than she probably should. Then she stills herself. Willow's just trying to help. "Sorry, Will. Just – go check on the girls for me, okay, and get some sleep. I'm going to stay up here for a little longer."

Willow turns wide, kind eyes on her; one side of her mouth quirks up. "Okay," she says. She reaches out and squeezes Buffy's hand, just for a moment. "Take care of yourself, though, 'kay?"

"I will," Buffy promises.

The door closes behind Willow, and she turns back to Spike, dips a rag in the bowl of water Willow brought. "Tell me if this hurts, okay?" she says.

"Oh, it all hurts, pet," he groans. "What were you talking about earlier? Girls?"

"Potential Slayers," she sighs. "Bunch of girls who could be the next Chosen when I – well, I guess it's Faith, now, but when the Slayer dies, one of them will be chosen."

She dabs the rag against the wound on his stomach, and he lets out a hiss through his teeth, but manages to turn it into words. "What're – why are they here now?"

"You know." She folds the rag over to the unbloodied side, presses it gently back down. "The usual. Apocalypse-y stuff."

"Course." He grimaces again, lets out another pained breath. "Sorry – about my help with that." He waves a still-trembling hand over the cuts on his torso. "Bit tied up at the time."

"None of this was your fault, Spike." She still doesn't know if she can get over the fact that he has a soul now – that just when he started himself on the path of redemption, the First decided to try to ruin it all. Try to take away his chance at being a better man.

"You – you believed in me."

"What?" She's wetting the other cloths now, draping them over the bruises where his ribs were likely broken. The cold won't heal them any faster, but it should feel good.

"You told me – you believed in me." His eyes – the one open, the other a slit – hold hers. Filled with that emotion she can't quite name. "Kept me alive down there. They told me you wouldn't – but I knew you would come."

There's a strange prickling sensation behind her eyes – not quite tears, but something close, maybe. She blinks. "Of course," she says. "Spike, you went willingly to get your soul. Of course I believe in you."

His hand lands on hers, holding it against the rag on his skin. She notices – offhandedly, even – that his touch does not make her flinch. "Thank you," he says.

She could shrug off his hand, but she leaves it there for a moment, letting his hand rest on hers on his chest. Then she twitches her fingers, and he moves away immediately.

"Shouldn't believe in me too much, though," he says suddenly. "Don't know what kind of control they still have over me. You still got those chains?"

"I'm not going to chain you up," she says firmly. It might be the smarter option, but something in her rebels against it – against holding him back, who's already so injured, who has tried so hard for something that keeps being denied him –

"You have to!" he says fiercely, jerking upwards – and then groaning as the outburst jostles his injuries. "Buffy – please. You can't let me out here; you can't let me hurt anyone else" –

"You're not going to," she promises him. "I'm not chaining you up while you're injured. I'm not going to" –

"Buffy," he says again. "Please."

She realizes then that chaining him up is more for his own peace of mind than hers. And yet, she still can't bring herself to do it. Chained as he was with the chip (though even that didn't stop him), she never had any qualms about muzzling him until now. But the soul . . .

The soul changes everything.

"No," she says. He opens his mouth to interrupt, but she shakes her head at him. "I'm not chaining you, Spike, so stop arguing. You need to get some rest. Heal up. I'll be in here, keeping an eye on you. Make sure you don't hurt anyone."

"You need to sleep, too," he protests. "Willow said."

"I will," she says.

It takes him a moment to catch on, but then his face goes slack in horror. "Not – you mean here? No, Buffy, I wouldn't make you – not after everything" –

But she's already gone to the closet for a sleeping bag and is unrolling it on the floor. "I sleep lightly," she promises. "I'll wake up if you try anything."

There's a long sigh, and then silence. She goes to her closet for pajamas, glancing over at Spike on the bed. "Close your eyes, okay?" she says.

His intake of breath is sharp, and he coughs painfully. "Buffy" –

"What?" She drapes the pajamas over the arm of her chair and turns to face him.

His face, swollen and drawn, shines with tears. "I'm sorry," is all he whispers.

After a moment, she reaches out and wraps her fingers lightly around his. "Me, too."