He dragged a weary hand across his face.
"'M not ready yet."
A put-upon sigh sounded from his side.
"You have to be."
Warm hands dragged him from the cot. He struggled, but he had no energy left, no fight.
A mug of micro-waved blood was pressed to his lips; the scent churned his stomach.
"No -"
But it was forced down his throat, burning him, healing him. Saving him.
Stronger now, Spike glared up at his saviour.
"Should've let me rot," he spat. "After what I've done…"
"Dawn still needs you," Giles reasoned. "And the world needs a warrior."