One - The Shock Treatment

"No, no, no!" The blonde physical therapist shook her head. "A thousand times no, Dawnie." She stared down her younger sister, who was looking at her pleadingly.

"But Buffy…" Dawn pleaded. "You saw the report…"

"Yes, I did," Buffy replied, remembering the breaking news on ESPN, which she sporadically watched to scout for new clients. William Broad, the world-renowned mountain climber, was involved in a serious accident this morning in Italy. He is alive but unstable. We'll report more when we get information from the Italian hospital, where they're currently evaluating him. "But that doesn't mean that I have to be his therapist. Why can't you get someone in LA to do it? I know, for instance, that Harmony Kendall would jump at the opportunity."

"Because you're the best," Dawn insisted. She looked to her fiancé for help. "Carlos, help me out here…"

"Oh, no. I'm not getting in the middle of you two," he wisely replied, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. "You're gonna have to fight this battle yourself, Dawn."

"Buffy, please…?"

"No, Dawn, and that's final."

Dawn looked crestfallen. Suddenly, an evil glint replaced the sad look in her eyes. "Remember that drinking binge that you had your junior year of high school, right after you and Angel broke up? Remember how you said that you'd do me a huge favor some other time if I didn't tell Mom?"

"Oh, you are not bringing that up now…" Buffy groaned. "Yeah, I said I'd do you a huge favor, but when I said that I didn't mean that I'd work on a man that I can barely stand to be in the same room with."

"Doesn't a little part of you wonder if you could make a paralyzed man walk again?" Dawn prodded.

"Well… maybe a little…?" Buffy admitted.

"So why won't you do it?"

"Because… I don't like him?" Buffy realized how childish that sounded and amended, "and he doesn't like me, either."

Dawn gave her sister her best puppy dog eyes. "Buffy, please. He's already scared away five therapists…"

"And that makes me want to do this how, exactly?" She walked over to the large, plate-glass window that dominated the wall behind her desk, staring down at the New York City streets below.

"Because I know that you can handle him."

"How do you know?"

"Does the name Johnny Damon spring to mind?" Dawn asked, referring to the mean-spirited Hell's Angels enthusiast who, after having been in a motorcycle accident, had been entrusted into Buffy's capable hands when she'd only been in the business for a few months. She'd endured every irritating moment of it, and he'd walked like a pro when she'd finished with him. "I mean please, if you can handle a member of a biker gang, I'm sure you can handle Spike. He's smaller, for one." Carlos snickered, and Dawn shushed him. "Plus, think of it this way. Two months in Southern California, living in a mansion… Great chance for you to work on your tan…"

Buffy's mouth watered at the prospect of her skin seeing a little sun. "It has been awhile…" she murmured, enticed. She shook her head. "What am I doing? I can't work on Spike. He's Spike, for Pete's sake!"

Ten hours later, Buffy was on a plane to Los Angeles.

Sunnydale was quaint. Mind you, "quaint" is a word that people from NYC used for a one-Starbucks town, so in this scenario the word actually meant, "boring as holy hell". The black Lincoln with tinted windows rolled through the quiet streets of the small, southern Californian town, and its passenger took this opportunity to survey the sights. Once they had passed the downtown area, Buffy silently thanked the Powers that Sunnydale was an ocean town, because that was seemingly its only asset. The car stopped for a moment, and when it drove on, the blonde's eyes widened. They drove through wrought-iron gates, and up a rather steep driveway to a colossal mansion, built in stone. The grounds were magnificent, with well-groomed tropical gardens scattered on the green lawn. She was giddy with excitement at the prospect of exploring the gargantuan residence, her sullen mood [which, if truth be told, was more than partially caused by travel-weariness] virtually forgotten.

The driver pulled up to the front of the house, then killed the engine and walked around the car to the rear, where he opened the door for Buffy. She climbed out of the Lincoln and stretched her legs, then looked around. The mansion was even more gorgeous once she was out of the car than it had been while she was still sitting.

She walked up to the front door and was reaching for the doorknob when it was flung wide open. A middle-aged woman stood before her, wearing a black maid's uniform, and she grinned widely when she saw the blonde standing out on the front steps. "Ah, you must be Buffy," she said kindly. "Come in, come in!"

Buffy was ushered into the house, and she had a few issues with holding back an expression of awe as she took in the interior of the foyer. "This is a beautiful house," Buffy said to no one in particular.

"Glad you like it. I'm Gina, the housekeeper, and the gentleman who drove you here is Michael. He's Mr. Broad's assistant." Michael rushed by them with Buffy's largest two bags, hurrying up the stairs and disappearing onto the second floor. "Allow me to show you to your room?"

Buffy nodded, and followed Gina as she scurried up the same staircase that Michael had just ascended. They entered a long hallway and Gina stopped short at a mahogany door, opening it. They walked into a spacious bedroom, and Buffy's heels sank into a lush carpet. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, which was decorated in creams and earth tones. There was a large, full bath off to the side, complete with a deep whirlpool tub. The smell of fresh paint assailed the blonde's senses as she took in the space that she'd be living for the next two months. "It's wonderful," she commented. Michael appeared with the last of Buffy's things, depositing them in a corner of the room.

"So, when will you be working on Mr. Broad?" Gina asked.

Buffy seemed not to notice the housekeeper, who was wringing her hands agitatedly as the therapist responded. "Um… I'd actually rather not jump right into things this minute. I mean, for starters, I'm incredibly grimy from all the traveling, and I haven't eaten since this mor…" she trailed off as she noticed Gina's nervous expression. "What? Does he not know I'm here?"

"Not… exactly…?" Gina hedged. "He thinks that he won't be getting anymore therapy…"

"Oh, great…" Buffy groaned. "So this means that he's not consenting? Ugh! Why do I let Dawn talk me into this kind of situation all the time?"

"We were told that you were the best, that you could… fix him."

"And I most likely can, but it's a lot easier if they're willing to have the therapy…" she squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a moment, rubbing her temples. "Alright. I'm going to take a shower, and then I'm going to try to find the kitchen. After I've eaten something, I'll see if I can talk some sense into him." She turned toward her things, hearing a quiet click as Gina closed the door behind her.

"Here, kitchen…" Buffy called quietly as she walked carefully down the hallway. So far she'd managed to find an office, a home theater room, and a lounge with a fully-stocked bar and pool table, as well as an elevator, a parking garage filled with cars she was itching to try out, and an indoor swimming pool with a hot tub on one end. She turned a corner, and found herself in a large kitchen. "Ah," she said. "Kitchen."

There was an enormous refrigerator on one wall, and she opened it curiously. Her eyes widened at the array of food stocked within, and after staring at the selection for a few minutes, she concluded that the decision was too big to make alone. She closed the refrigerator again and walked into the pantry, raiding the shelves until she'd found a can of ravioli. "Mmm… Chef Boyardee. Good for what ails ya." She opened a few drawers before she found one with a can opener in it, and she opened the ravioli up. The enticing scent of tomato-meat sauce and stuffed pasta nearly overwhelmed her, and after a moment's deliberation, she decided to forego the heating stage, opening the drawer she'd seen utensils in and pulling out a fork.

Gina walked in a few moments later, smiling as she saw the diminutive blonde sitting at the kitchen counter and eating pasta out of the can. "You know, I could've heated that up for you," she said finally.

Buffy nearly dropped her fork. She swallowed, before gasping, "You scared me! And I was too hungry to wait." She went back to happily munching on the ravioli.

"Could I get you something to drink?" the housekeeper asked.

"I think I saw bottles of water in the fridge, unless my hunger was making me see things."

Gina scuttled over to the refrigerator and got out a large water bottle, handing it to Buffy.

"Thanks," Buffy said in between mouthfuls. "Tell me, has Spike been eating?" The housekeeper's silence was enough answer for her. "Could you put together a tray for him? Nothing fancy, maybe some fruit and a sandwich?"

Gina nodded, setting to work. "Michael hasn't been able to get him to eat," she offered.

"I guarantee that by tonight I'll have gotten him to eat something," Buffy said, determinedly. She finished the ravioli off, tossing the can in a wastebasket and placing the fork in the sink. She then washed her hands, drying them on a towel that hung next to her.

Gina added a branch of grapes to the pile of food she'd placed on a large plate. "All finished, if you're ready to see him."

Buffy nodded.

"His room is on the end of the hall upstairs."

The blonde plucked the plate from the countertop and made her way back up the stairs, passing her room and a library before she got to the door on the end of the hall. Juggling the plate, she knocked twice before opening the door.

"Michael, I told you to leave me alone."

"Not Michael," Buffy said as she stepped into the room. "I like the mood lighting. Very funereal," she said, casting a glance at the tightly-drawn curtains.

Spike craned his neck and looked up, a surprised expression on his face. "Would you mind tellin' me what the bloody hell you're doing here?" he asked, gritting his teeth as she set down her plate on his dresser, then bustled about the room opening the blinds. Light flooded the room.

"Dawnie did me a favor a few years back. Now I'm repaying her," she said dryly. "But first, we really need to do something about the smell in here." She opened one of the windows, allowing some fresh air in.

He sighed, his head dropping to the pillows again, mussing his already tousled hair, which stood in bleached tufts away from his scalp. "I don't need a soddin' therapist, pet, so you go ahead and go back to New York."

"Well, one of us definitely needs one, and I'm voting on the bed-ridden person who hasn't eaten in days, according to his housekeeper," she said pointedly, dragging an easy chair across the room and situating it next to the bed.

"I'm fine," he insisted again.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Prove it."

"Excuse me?"

"I told you to prove it. Get up and walk around the room." She sat down in the chair, the plate of food on her lap. "Huh. Guess you're not so fine. Can you sit up?"

Spike struggled to get into a sitting position. After a few tries, he grumbled in frustration and his arms flopped onto the bedspread.

"Let me help you," Buffy said, placing the food on a nearby nightstand. She stood and leaned over Spike, gripping him beneath his armpits, and then hauled him upwards until he was sitting. The smell of vanilla filled his mind and he inhaled sharply as she positioned a pillow behind his back and head. Satisfied, she sat back down and picked up the plate again. "So. Here's the deal," she began.

He turned his head to look at her, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not leaving this room," she said, popping a grape into her mouth, "until you eat."

"Not hungry," he said stubbornly.

Buffy's gaze drifted down Spike's torso, taking in the protruding ribs and concave abdomen. "So you want to explain to me, then, why one of the best athletes on the globe has a figure that bears a startling resemblance to Calista Flockhart's?" She popped another grape into her mouth, and noticed Spike glancing at the food ever so often, a ravenous expression on his face. "These are really good grapes," she said.

"You'll leave if I eat?" he asked hopefully.

Buffy nodded, pleased when one hand whipped out and grabbed a grape, shoving it in his mouth. He chewed purposefully, and then swallowed. "There. I ate. Now…" he trailed off, taking another grape.

Buffy applauded herself inwardly as he began to nearly inhale the food on the plate. "Guess you were hungrier than you thought?" she asked finally, when he'd downed half of the water bottle that she'd brought up for him at the last minute.

He shrugged. "You gonna go away now?"

"Yeah, yeah." She stood, and then carried the plate out of the room and down to the kitchen. "Got him to eat," she said to Gina, who was busy preparing dinner. "Now all I have to do is get him to bathe." She turned to the housekeeper. "Do you have a big, plastic bowl?" she asked. Gina procured one from a cabinet and handed it to her. "Great, thanks," she said, sprinting back up the stairs. She entered Spike's bedroom once more.

"I thought you said you were gonna leave."

"Never said I wouldn't come back," she responded. "We're gonna get you clean."

"We…" Spike began. She walked into his bathroom, and he heard the sound of running water. "What, do you expect me to stand in the shower?" he called. The water shut off.

Buffy returned, carrying the plastic bowl, which was now filled nearly to the brim with warm, sudsy water. "Ever hear of a sponge bath?" she asked, waving a washcloth at him. She set the bowl down on the nightstand and, with no further ado, whipped back the sheets.

"Oi!" Spike shouted, his hands immediately protecting his groin from her roving eyes.

"Not bad," she commented as she took in his lean form. "But unless you want crotch rot, I'm gonna have to suggest that you move your hands at some point." She bunched the flat sheet, pulling it over his genitals, and he removed his hands. "Alright. Eyes closed," she said, dipping the washcloth into the soapy water.

She washed his face quickly, the white washcloth scraping over a few days' worth of dark stubble. "You can go ahead and open up again," she said, dropping the washcloth into the basin again and wringing it. Spike's blue eyes locked on her as she moved back and forth between the water and his body. She skipped the area that the sheet covered, starting again a few inches down his thighs, scrubbing down his legs and feet and even between his toes. She put the cloth in the water again, then squeezed the excess moisture from it, placing it in his hand. "Can you finish up?" she asked. "I need to get more water, this is getting cold and it's positively filthy."

Spike nodded, and by the time she returned with a fresh basin of water, he'd covered himself again. She set the water down on the nightstand. "Think we can get you on your stomach?"

"Probably, if you manhandle me again," he replied. "Let's roll me over."

Between the two of them it was fairly easy to move him, and he was soon positioned on his front. "You're not as sensitive about me seeing your butt, are you?" she asked bluntly. "Because unless your arms are double-jointed, it's gonna be a little hard for you to wash it yourself."

"Go ahead…" Spike said resignedly.

She pulled the sheets off him, noticing a few red abrasions on his lower thighs and backside. She prodded at one and he hissed in pain. "Bloody 'ell, woman!" he ground out.

She clucked her tongue. "Bedsores," she said. "Hold on, I'll be right back."

"Hey, you can't just leave me here…" he called as she walked from the room. "Summers!" When he received no response, he tried again, this time a little more worriedly. "Buffy?"

Buffy returned to the room, a small tube of ointment in one hand. This she placed on the nightstand. "For the love of all things holy…" Spike began, "you can't just leave a bloke lyin' helpless and trussed up like a Thanksgivin' turkey…"

She didn't respond, and instead busied herself with washing his back. She started at the bottom and worked her way up, then across his shoulders and back down. The cloth wiped over his hips before curving around to his buttocks, lingering there as she thoroughly cleaned the areas where the bedsores had sprung up. Every once in a while he winced as she hit a particularly tender spot, but otherwise he was silent. The washcloth traveled down his legs and across his heels, and while she washed, she picked up each of his feet and manipulated the bones in them. By the time she was finished washing him, his skin around the bedsores had almost completely dried, so she put the washcloth down and picked up the ointment.

"This might sting a little," she commented as she unscrewed the cap and squeezed a generous amount onto a forefinger. She rubbed the cool cream into his skin, and he gritted his teeth against the stinging sensation. Buffy continued with the cream, though she became aware that he'd stopped flinching when she'd moved to the bedsores on his thighs. Finally, when she was satisfied that she'd covered all the tender spots, she screwed the cap back on the ointment. "All done," she said. "You're gonna have to help me move you onto your back."

"Hold on, I think I can do this on my own," he said determinedly. He pushed up with his arms, locking them at the elbow, then pushed hard enough with his right arm to propel him sideways, turning him over.

"Neat trick," Buffy commented as she straightened his legs and pulled the sheets over him once more. When she'd finished tucking him in, she picked up the basin and carried it into his bathroom, dumping its contents down the sink. She returned a moment later. "Tomorrow morning, I'm gonna start you on a therapy routine."

"I told you, luv, I don't need therapy."

Buffy stood back in mock-shock. "What, you think that I'm gonna let you get away with just the feeding and sponge bath? You're lucky that you even got that, buddy. Here," she said, handing him a stick of deodorant that she'd found on the counter next to his sink. "Put that on. Then maybe you won't smell quite as offensive the next time I come in here."

She picked up the basin and washcloth, pocketing the ointment, then headed for the door.

"Summers…" Spike called as she reached the doorway. She turned around and faced him. "Will I ever walk again?" His voice held a vulnerability that the maternal side of her latched onto.

"Spike, if I have my way, you'll be running by December."

Author's Note: This branched from one of those spur-of-the-moment, late-night ideas that randomly pop into my head. And hey, I even put in some Naked!Spike for all my fans. Hope you enjoyed, there'll be more as soon as I put up another chapter of I Hate You, Be Mine. And remember, feedback is what makes the world go 'round, so please, please review! ~*~ Magz

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R to NC-17