I.

“How are you feeling?”

The words didn’t fit the blurry image that swam in front of his good eye.  Delirious, no doubt.  Couldn’t really be Giles asking after him.

“Spike, can you hear me?”

He sighed, closed his eye.  “Could swear you inquired as to my health, so something must be wrong with my hearing.”

“I wanted to see that you were all right.”

“Why, Rupert, I’m touched.”  He tried to smirk but his frozen facial muscles wouldn’t cooperate.

“Buffy wanted you to have these.”  Giles produced a bottle of painkillers.  “Shall I help you with one?”

Must be dreaming.

II.

A pair of voices disturbed his sleep.  “Now what?” he asked irritably.

“Look what you did, Xander,” Anya hissed.  “Now that he’s awake we’ll have to make pointless small talk about how he’s feeling, despite the obvious physical evidence he’s a wreck, a sad and broken shell of his former self.”  She raised her voice.  “You’re looking very well, Spike!”

Maybe if he pretended to pass out, they’d leave.

He heard the heavy clink of glass on stone, the shuffle of feet, and a door closing.  Success!  He peered at the bottle of Glenfiddich they left behind, stunned.

Definitely dreaming.

III.

“Spike, it’s me, Tara.”  He blinked, saw her contrite face hovering over his.  “Sorry to wake you.  Just wanted to know if there’s anything you need.”

“Why are you here?”

“Willow and I thought a protection spell might make this place a little safer until you get back on your feet.  She’s working on it right now.  And I brought you cigarettes.  Thought you might want some close when you’re feeling a little better.”  A smile tugged at her lips.  “Think of it as a punch in the nose.  One good turn deserves another.”

He managed a half-smile in return.

IV.

It took him a few seconds to separate the knocking from the pounding of his head.  “All right, you lot.  Appreciate the tea and sympathy, but I just want to rest for a while.”

“It’s me, Spike.  Okay if I come in?”

Dismay chased away his initial feeling of astonishment.  She needed a warrior, not an invalid.  At least he’d been semi-mobile when she stopped by for her little robot ruse.  Now he felt as ungainly as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. 

Plus, he was nowhere close to figuring out how to deal with her in the post-kiss era.

“Spike?”

“Okay.”

V.

He decided staying on his back would be less humiliating than attempting to propel himself into some pathetic semblance of a seated position. 

“Feeling any better?”

“I’ll be up and not killing any minute now.”  Probably would have been convincing if he’d managed to open his eye.  “How’s Dawn?”

“She’s with the others, safe.  She’s sure she’ll be fine.  That I’ll take care of her.”

“Well, that makes all of us, then.”

She sighed.  “You should rest,” she said abruptly.

“And what are you gonna do?”

“Brought a magazine, some other stuff.”

“You’re gonna babysit?”

“Just sleep, Spike.”

He did.

VI.

He woke to the sound of sweeping.  “What’s that on your head, Slayer?”

“It’s called a scarf.  I don’t want to accidentally walk into God knows what while I clean up.”  She indicated silky threads clinging to the bristles of her broom.  “You may not care if that mess winds up in your hair, but I don’t want it in mine.”

“The spider and I liked that cobweb where it was, thanks,” he replied sulkily.  “Who told you to tidy up anyway?  It’s a crypt, Buffy.”

“I don’t know how else to help,” she said softly.

He felt ashamed.  “Sorry.”

VII.

He spent the day drifting in and out of consciousness, catching her staring at him when she thought he was still asleep.  It was obvious there was something on her mind, but he couldn’t quite make out what.  She seemed always to be on the verge of saying something, even taking the occasional pause in her one woman cleaning frenzy before changing her mind and hastily beginning again.  Maybe she was feeling uncertain about what he’d said before, about keeping Dawn a secret.  Would’ve been nice to think she trusted him, but he supposed that was too much to ask.

VIII.

“What exactly did she do to you?”

Ah, so that was it.

“Various and sundry things.  Worst was probably the finger in the chest.”

Buffy exhaled.  “Spike, I need to know what I’m in for.  What my friends are in for.  Don’t tell me the worst was a poke to the chest, okay?”

“Not a poke, Buffy.  She dug a finger into my chest.”  He jabbed out a finger and curled it over.  “Said something about wanting to see what was on the inside.”

Her eyes widened.  “Must have made you feel like telling her.”

“Not even for a second.”

IX.

“Might not seem like much of a consolation right now, but at least she didn’t do that brain sucky thing on you.”

His bitter laughter ended in a fit of coughing.  “She talked about it.  Said you can’t brain suck a vampire.  Told me I was totally useless.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“I should probably go.  Get back to Dawn.”

He nodded, and she turned to leave.

Her face averted, she said, “You’re not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“Useless.  Not to me.”