*****

Looking at Spike... I don't even see the real Spike, anymore. Not our Spike. Smug, irritating, deadly Spike. It's like I'm looking at his evil twin... well, no, better make that his good twin.

Since when did he turn into a good guy? Since when did he decide to hop over to our side of the fence?

I don't know and I don't really care anymore. He did the best he could. Fought as hard as he could. He scrambled up that platform to save Dawn and wound up plunging 200 feet, head first into the dirt, for his troubles.

He looks like hell... but then again, right now, we all do.

Giles keeps polishing his glasses, staring off into space, his brows creased and knitted. He looks so much older, now... skin turned to leather, or wood, like a wooden Indian you see in those cigar shops. Knotted and gnarled and pained... stoic and eerily silent.

He won't speak. None of us will.

Willow finally stopped crying; she curled up in Tara's arms as soon as we got back from the hospital and fell fast asleep. It's the safest place for her to be right now. Tara keeps watch over Willow. She sleeps, but not soundly. The grief still twists her face out of shape.

We had to take Dawn, Willow and Ahn to the hospital. Willow had a sprained ankle. Dawn had some few superficial cuts on her stomach and arms, a couple were a bit deeper, though. Had to hold her hand while the doctor gave her stitches. Twenty three, in all. Poor kid. She was brave, though... I held her hand while they put the stitches in. She wasn't scared. After all she's been through... if it was me, I wouldn't be scared, either. Anya had a mild concussion... pretty amazing, really, seeing as how a building fell on her. Well, maybe just part of a building. They released Willow, but Anya and Dawn had to stay the night for observation.

Spike cried. After.

I didn't think he could cry, that vamps could cry. I guess I just never paid much attention to the ones I dusted; didn't bother to look in their eyes and check for tears.

He's hurt, but he won't let anyone come near him. He's got burns on the side of his face from the sunlight and, I'm pretty sure, more than a few broken bones from that fall. Every time one of us tries, he just growls and backs away, arms folded around himself, head down as he stuffs himself into the corner.

Funny... all of us actually *worried* about him, wondering if he's got any serious injuries that need to be taken care of. Before, we would have just left him lying on the ground, right where he was.

We tried talking to him, all of us did, once we realized the whole touching thing was getting us nowhere... but it was like he'd gone blind, deaf and dumb. His eyes are still open, but he's just staring out at nothing... like when you're sitting across from someone and thinking about something... and the person you're sitting across from asks you what you're staring at. You don't have an answer, not one that makes any sense - if you say 'nothing,' they think you're crazy.

I wanna ask Spike what he's staring at... I really do. I wanna know what he's seeing. If he's seeing anything at all.

Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Buffy... and that graceful swan dive... this huge ball of electricity floating just beneath her... seething... hungry... alive...

Waiting.

I still see it... even when my eyes are open.

He just sits there on the stairs, one leg stretched out down along the steps, the other foot planted a step down from the one he's sitting on. His left arm rests on his knee and the cigarette dangles between his fingers, milky smoke coiling up from the end of it.

He moves, still... lights a cigarette every so often and takes a couple drags, but then he goes back to that place, wherever it is he goes... and the cigarette just burns down between his fingers.

I was tempted to get up and snatch the damned things out of his hands more than once... but stopped myself before I could even get out of my chair. Not quite sure why I did that.

Maybe I just don't want him to hurt, anymore... even just a little bit, even if it's just a tiny burn on the backs of his fingers from his stupid cigarette.

We've all taken some really hard hits tonight... not a single one of us got away without some kind of wound or injury. I've had plenty of hurt and suffering and agony today... we all have... we don't need anymore. Not today. Not after all that's happened.

Spike digs into his pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, wedges another one between his lips and lights it. I can see his hands shake, even all the way over here on the other side of the room. Takes maybe one drag and then his hand is resting on his knee again, the cigarette just ashing away... forgotten.

When it burns half-way down, I stand up and go over to him. I move slowly, so I won't startle him... and pull the cigarette out from between his first and middle fingers. The ones he always uses to flip that weird British bird thing at us. I've seen some people smoke their cigarettes holding them between their middle finger and their ring finger, though, too.

Spike finally comes out of it, comes back from that place and looks up... looks right into my eyes, as though he knew I was there all the time... as though he wasn't just coming out of a waking coma. His eyes look... hollow, somehow. There's no smug asshole in there, now... no Big Bad to give me shit... or give anyone else shit, for that matter. There's just... nothing...

...but that only lasts for a second... and then his eyes blink and he's really back, now. There's the pain that I was expecting to see... almost hoping to see...

I crush the cigarette out on the heel of my boot and toss it into the trash.

I sit down next to him on the steps, work boots flat on the step below me... solid and reassuring, hands laced together in front of me... and we're quiet.

Giles is still where he was two hours ago: the wooden Indian, leaning against the bookcase, polishing his glasses. Willow and Tara are curled up in the chair by the Scooby roundtable, still dozing. Spike and I are sitting on the stairs.

I can feel it more than I can see it... the moment I realize he's turned his head and has started looking at me. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something. What it could be, I don't know... as long as he says something.

I've just realized how fucking sick I am of the quiet in this place.

Turning my head, I look right into his eyes... the hurt's still there... and the burns. They're starting to heal up a little, but it'll take blood for them to heal right... but we don't have any here at the shop. Before, the idea of keeping blood for Spike in the mini-fridge would have been hilarious. Now, it just makes me angry. He's here, he needs blood and we don't have any to give him... and, again, I'm wondering why the hell I even care.

I wrap my arm around his shoulders and pull him against me, gently press his head down until it rests on my shoulder. I'm careful; I make sure I don't touch the burns on the right side of his face. I don't really know what I'm doing or why I'm doing it... it just feels like the right thing to do, I guess. The amazing thing is, he lets me do it.

Ahn's in the hospital, she's being taken care of... she doesn't need me right now. Same goes for Dawny. Giles would thank me for offering, but turn me down... and Willow... she has Tara.

I need someone, though... need to do something for somebody, take care of somebody right now. I couldn't do anything for Buffy... didn't... none of us could

Spike and I are the odd ducks out... Spike needs somebody... needs this, needs me... I think.

I rest my head on top of his and let my eyes close.

Nobody says a word.

*End*