Disclaimer: Don't own anything

A/N: - To make it clear, from now on is the completely new part. I am SO sorry it has taken me this long to complete it, for all those people who put it on alert. I just got really stuck. And I am still not entirely happy with it. Plot is the hardest part of fiction writing! But I did not want to be one of those people who leave stories unfinished on Fanfic! So here it is, for what it's worth. Thank you for sticking with it this far.

Chapter 10

Buffy pulled herself slowly up in the bed, grateful that he had the tact not to try to help her. She needed to be more on a level with him, not laying there having him look down on her. She needed to regain some sense of control, because each beat of her heart, each in and out of her lungs, was like a little voice telling her that she should throw herself into his arms and stay there forever. She dropped her gaze and gripped the bed sheet as tightly as her poor strength would allow, to stop her hands from reaching out for him. Then she risked another quick glance at his face. He looked as if he were carved out of marble, except for those eyes. And what she saw shining out of those cerulean blue depths made her clutch the sheet even harder.

She huffed out the air she did not realise that she had been holding.

'Spike.' She cleared her throat and then drank some water. She needed her voice to sound stronger than that. She took a deep breath and tried to speak in her best tough chick Slayer voice.

'Spike. I could shout at you or give you a hard time about everything. I'm as mad as hell and, when this is all over, I really think I'm going to have to kick your sorry English ass for what you did to me. But we need to solve this. I'm so over this whole lying in hospital looking pale and interesting thing. I want my life back and you need to help me.'

Spike relaxed just a little. Good, stroppy Slayer is so much easier to deal with than dying Camille Buffy.

'Ok, Slayer, enlighten me as to what exactly you're so upset about? Yeah, I didn't tell you I was back. But it's not like you didn't get on perfectly fine without me. Look at your cosy little life in Italy, all espresso, fashion, old things, and a hot new guy. Doesn't look like you were exactly pining for me.'

'Who said anything about pining? But I thought we were friends, kind of. I saved your butt more times than you can count up to, so don't you think it would have been polite to drop me a line or email me, or give me a call, whatever, to say you were back from whatever hell dimension you'd ended up in? Don't you think you have some explaining to do?' Buffy was amazed at how calm she sounded.

'Actually, Angel and I did pay you a call a while back, but you were kind of busy with Pretty Boy, so….Anyway, Slayer, but I'm not sure that this is the time or the place. We've got a demon to deal with.'

'It's not like I'm going anywhere, is it? I'm pretty much a captive audience, and I know that's something you always quite liked: people who are forced to listen to you.'

He ignored her jibe. 'Let's get on with this, then. What do you want to know?' He raised one eyebrow at her, a bored expression on his face, as if he hadn't a care in the world. She was not fooled for a second.

'Really, that's how you're going to play it? Well, let's see, we could talk about the fact that you came back from whatever hell dimension you were in and failed to let me know. Or the fact that you were the only one who could wake me up. Hmmm, that could be an interesting topic of conversation. Willow did tell me about the curse, you know, and how it had to be broken.'

He ignored the first part of her speech. He was not sure if he could explain that to her, not yet.

'Yes, well, it wasn't exactly a miracle cure we'd all been hoping for, was it? You're not quite ready to slay vamps again, are you? So let's not hold hands and plight our troth just yet.'

'To be honest, I'm not sure that any of you've got the right idea about this curse. The whole thing seems ridiculous to me.'

And she did not fail to see that she had wounded him with that comment, even if the wince of pain only lasted for a nanosecond. Inside, she felt a petty little glow of satisfaction at this tiny revenge.

As they sniped at each other, neither could resist lightning fast glances at the other, when they thought they wouldn't be noticed. The air between them was stretched thin, like a wire that could snap at any moment, with the force of their need to touch each other. A force both were not ready to bend to, not yet. But, oh, to be this close. They could smell each other's unique aroma. See the never forgotten, familiar shape of head and body. The arguing, banter, call it what you will, the old Buffy and Spike back and forth, continued for a while. But it was all such BS, they both knew that. The air crackled with the weight of all the unsaid words flying between them. They hungered for each other but neither knew how to admit to that, how to find a way to make that work.

Buffy's hand lay on the counterpane, a few inches from where Spike, seemingly unconsciously, was pulling at a thread on the cover, looking at it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. She glanced down at their two hands; hers, slender, small, delicate. His, long-fingered, white, shapely. Both as strong as death, under normal circumstances. She felt that she would not be surprised to see a small bolt of electricity streak between them, so powerful was her sense of his physical closeness.

'God knows, Slayer, I tried to tell Willow and Giles and all the rest the exact same thing, but they wouldn't listen.' He carefully kept his voice as casual as a light summer breeze. Let her think he was fine; he could, he would, control the raging torrent inside him.

'I'm pretty happy about that. 'Cos you did wake me up, didn't you?'

He looked up suddenly at the brittle tone in her voice. Her eyes were shut, she was leaning back against the pillows and her shoulders were down, set in a defeated line at odds with her falsely bright manner.

He couldn't do it anymore. Keep up the pretence. Here he was, so close to Buffy he could see the fine tracery of her eyelashes touching her cheeks as her eyes remained closed. Something he never thought he would get to experience again. What the hell was he doing, acting like such a jerk?

Tantalisingly slowly, as if he were afraid she was an incorporeal spirit conjured up to drive him mad by forever being out of reach, he moved his hand towards hers. When they were a hairs-breadth apart, she opened her eyes, seeming to sense his proximity. She looked down but did not move her hand, either closer or further away. Time was suspended, held its breath, waited.

Then she closed the tiny gap, so that her finger tips were brushing his, with the barest whisper of contact. He could hardly feel that they were touching. But they were.

He moved his hand to cover hers and then took her hand properly, fingers entwined with hers.

They did not look at each other, but sat there. Time stayed still, not daring to move.

Spike bent down and brushed his cool lips over the back of her fingers, then rested his forehead on their joined hands.

Buffy felt as if she had been underwater, where everything was suffocating and muffled and dark. Then suddenly she was lifted up to the surface, into the sunlight, where there was air and she could hear and see clearly, for the first time for many months. She huffed out the air she did not realise that she had been holding. She had thought she wanted to punish him, but enough games. She knew she was very ill and who knew how much time the two of them had? So many months, weeks, days, hours, seconds lost to them already. She would punish him sometime.

But not right now.

She rested her other hand on that over-bright head of hair and waited.

After a time, but neither could have said how long, Spike sat up. Still holding on to her hand, he cleared his throat, though his voice soundly unusually husky. 'I think I need to explain.'

He tried to tell her why he had kept away, why he had never tried to contact her. He was still not completely sure himself of his reasons but he tried to make her see that he had been so uncertain of her feelings for him, so determined not to hurt her again, so convinced that they had no future. 'But I'm not trying to make myself out to be a saint or a martyr, love. Well, not much.' He laughed sardonically; the sound was a little rusty, but it was a start.

Eventually, they had said as much on that topic as they could for now. Buffy was still not sure she had the full picture. But when had Spike ever been one to share? She would get it out of him eventually. Because she knew in her heart that there would be time, that she would find a way to make time, for there to be an 'eventually'. Once she had found the way to forgive him. Once she had had the time to forget all the pain of the last few months. As long as she could regain her strength, then she would find the way.

Something brittle and angry and sharp that had been between them, a glass wall of anger and bile, had been broken. She had no idea what would happen between them. But she knew that they would move forward, even if at a glacial pace. Because the alternative was unbearable and having him back was too precious a chance to waste.

Now they had to get her better.

'But, Spike, what about the curse? How did you manage to wake me? Why am I still sick? C'mon, we can't avoid that elephant in the room forever.'

Abruptly, he let go of her hand, which he had kept hold of possessively since he had first had the courage to touch her. Where the hell would this conversation lead?

She smiled a little and took his hand herself. 'We're going to talk this out sensibly and logically. We don't have to get all gooey and soppy about it. But we need to talk about it.'

He took in a lungful of unneeded air and said, unable to look at her as he did so, 'Well, according to what the Scoobies think, what's between us is true love. Otherwise the curse ...'

It wasn't long before the conversation petered out. They tried to talk it all out sensibly but little of it made sense, and their heads were too full of the sensation of being together once more to be able to think rationally. And Buffy's strength did not last long. In the middle of a sentence, she started coughing violently, and ended up bent double over the bedspread. Immediately, Spike leapt up, put his arm round her to help her lie back and used the other hand to pick up the glass of water and hold it to her lips. She sputtered and gasped, but the water helped and she was able to lift her head up. As she did so, she lifted her hand to take the glass from his, and her fingers brushed his. At that same moment, their gazes met. The feel of skin on skin, the dizzying meeting of bright blue and hazel, made the rest of the universe fade away. All the words could wait. They seemed unimportant right then.

Neither moved or said anything for what seemed like aeons. Then Spike, never taking his eyes off her, took the glass from her hand and put it down on the bedside table. He was working on instinct alone because his mind was empty of all words except the one that held all the meaning in the world for him. Buffy. Buffy. He slowly moved his head closer so that his forehead was resting on hers. His hands were gentle on her shoulders. Slayer and vampire were so near they could see the flecks in each other's irises. Then, at exactly the same moment, their eyes closed.

They stayed like that, completely still, not thinking, not making a sound. Their senses were filled with the long remembered, long forgotten, scent and texture of each other. His skin felt cool and firm against hers. Her skin felt warm and smooth against his. 'I missed you.'

Who actually said it? It didn't matter. They both felt the same, so who cared where the words came from?

Reluctantly, Spike lifted his head and looked back into Buffy's eyes. She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, like she had once, all those months ago, on the last night of their old lives. Wincing slightly at the effort, she scooted over in the bed to make room for him beside her.

'Will you just hold me?' She smiled very slightly, wondering if he would remember the last time she had said those words to him. She should not have doubted it. He sometimes thought he would be able to recall every word of every conversation they had ever had, so deeply ingrained in his mind and body was she.

She felt nervous, tense, scared he would refuse. Because who wanted to start all that again? I do, I do, that tiny, terrible voice of truth whispered inside her.

He looked at her with ….. what? Shock, affection, anger, fear? What was he thinking? For a few seconds he looked stony faced. Then he grinned; that wicked, outrageous, sexy Spike smile that always used to make her want to punch him and kiss him all at the same time.

Smarter than usual, he refrained from making some wisecrack. He stood up and quickly divested himself of his leather jacket. The way the taut muscles in his arms moved made Buffy, tired and weak as she was, feel that old flutter in her stomach. Boy, if she were fighting fit, then she might not have been able to be responsible for her actions. Maybe this weakness had its upside.

And then, there he was, at her side. It seemed impossible that it was happening and yet impossible that she had managed all this time without this. He put an arm around her; she laid her head on his chest, and held his other hand in hers. They did not speak, because words suddenly seemed paltry things that could not possibly convey what needed to be said. They held each other in silence. But the silent words continued to flow between them, saying what they could not. Buffy, her cheek resting on smooth cotton, and firm muscle, settled herself more comfortably, clutched his hand a little tighter, and fell into a deep, natural, peaceful sleep. Spike kissed her forehead softly, and he, too, slept. Time enough to find the solution. Now they just needed to be. Together.