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Spike couldn’t sleep. A fact glaringly obvious by the amount of times he’d looked at the clock. Going on two hours now.

Buffy had shown him the house, including her phone that had a TV attached it, that flashed red to alert her she had an incoming call– pretty high tech, she was right about that, and she had someone right there for her to sign. She showed him the pager she used and the machine it was connected to. It was all intricate and all quite fascinating. It made him realize how people, who had all their senses, took it all for granted. People without handicaps took plenty for granted, and those without had to rely on inventions such as the pager to make it through. He was struck that as high – tech it all was, it wasn’t a guarantee that she’d feel the vibrations if there was a fire, or intruder, and any number of the things could go wrong. It was frightening to think of.

After checking out the TV phone, he asked her to sign for him, curious and wanting to learn more about how to communicate with her. He was really fascinated, and hearing her laugh while he tried to copy some signs was an added bonus, along with having her hands on him when she was moving his hands into position for him.

The house was homey and comfortable, if not entirely too large for one person. She even had a special ‘movie room’; with the biggest flat screen TV he’d ever seen his life, a popcorn maker and a few easy chairs and love seats. It even held a fridge. It was pretty amazing to him. She admitted to not spending a lot of time in any other room aside from her bedroom, the study where she worked, the library where she read, the kitchen (naturally) and the living room.

Parker, she told him, always wanted to throw extravagant parties and have movie nights in her home. And she’d go along with it, she said. Spike was gathering the impression Buffy’s relationship with Parker hadn’t been the best. To him it sounded as if Parker was using her; a fact that seemed obvious to him when she informed him that she had helped fund his bar when he was just starting out. When she spoke of him, it was with an edge to her voice, almost of distaste, and she barely mentioned Gwen. Not that he could blame her. It had to be hard to muddle through not only seeing your boyfriend and so-called best friend getting shot right in front of you, but then knowing that they had been carrying on in an affair as well.

Maybe Buffy did do it. Maybe she knew all along of their affair and only said she didn’t to make her not look suspicious.

He shook his head. That route had already been explored. Especially if he knew his uncle, the man trusted no one. Spike had been around enough murderers and criminals to pick up on the vibe they gave off: even when they were feigning innocence and ignorance. Many times Spike had had to follow his gut on a suspect in the face of evidence that pointed another way. Inevitably, his gut was always right.

So, why? Why were they murdered? He was kicking himself for not studying up on the case before taking Buffy out of the precinct, but he felt rushed. Buffy was in need of sanctuary, and he wanted to provide for her. He wondered if Buffy had any ideas. He also wondered if she was up as he got up and went in search of her. Chances were, she was asleep, but if she wasn’t, they could maybe talk, and if she was, he could walk around the house and hopefully tucker himself out.

Walking by her room, he heard her TV going and pressed his ear to the door for any sign of movement. Nothing. “Buffy?”

No answer. He rolled his eyes at himself. Like she was going to hear him. And knocking on the door, yeah, that was out too.

Taking a deep breath, and hoping not to frighten her, he pushed her door open slowly. She was up, as was indicated by her sitting up and turning to look at him. For a second, she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She sat up in bed, in pink and white striped capri pajama bottoms and a pink tank top, her legs stretched out before her, her toes, he noticed, painted pink.

“William, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said, and meant it. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. In the center of her room was her king sized bed, her sheets cotton and colored lavender with a matching flowered comforter. Her carpet was gray, and her walls had just the hint of a lavender hue. Her TV sat across from her on a small entertainment system, and an oak desk was shoved up against the wall across the room, against her full sized windows, her gauzy white curtains billowing in front of them. Her phone system was just to the right of TV. Her bathroom, he noted was just to the right of her bed. All things considered, her room was pretty sparse and not that large.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, “Can’t sleep?

He nodded in her direction, “You can’t either.” Glancing over at the TV, he was momentarily distracted by watching the close captioned at the bottom of the screen.

She sighed heavily, letting the air out slowly between her teeth. “No, I can’t. It’s hard because I can’t hear anything...” her eyes welled up in tears. “So I can’t hear if someone could have hurt you and is coming after me. And I keep looking at the TV in the corner to see if someone is at the door, but it’s broken now because of them.”

Spike all but lunged at her, settling himself next to her and gathering her straight up in his arms. He was getting better at this comfort thing. Mainly, he realized, because he hated seeing Buffy cry. It broke his heart. She was not someone who let her handicap rule her, she ruled it, as he’d witnessed through being around her, but this was a time when she felt her handicap was harmful to her. It frightened her, and he could understand why. To an extent anyway. He’d never had a handicap, never even broke anything in life, knock on wood. The only thing he’d had to overcome was his father’s death and his mother’s betrayal.

But here Buffy was, deaf, and locked up in the fortress of the house built especially for her and her needs, and someone, rather a bunch of someone’s had come in and shattered her sense of security; they’d penetrated her fortress. That had to be nerve-wracking.

She cried into his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. It took a minute, but soon, she had her arms wrapped fully around him, holding him tightly to her. He could feel her clothed breasts pressed up against his bare chest and he tried to ignore the light-headedness he felt. She was so soft, so warm, so tiny and so upset. He wanted to chase away all her fears and obliterate all that had happened to her. Someone like Buffy did not deserve to have to deal with all this shit. She was someone that deserved to be treated like a Princess, taken care of and loved – and most certainly not cheated on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back and furiously wiping at her tears. “I keep crying on you.”

Reaching over to her nightstand, he grabbed a handful of tissues from her tissue box and handed them to her. “Hush, now,” he said, tilting her face up so she could read his lips. “You have every right to feel as you do, Buffy. Anyone would. You’re not a robot.”

“It took me a long time to get to a place where I didn’t feel as though being deaf was the end of my life. I accepted it, and learned to live with it. But right now, I hate it.”

Brushing her hair from her face while she wiped her tears and blew her nose, he found himself staring at her tenderly.

“What?” she questioned him.

Her lips were so pink, and she looked so sweet and so innocent. All he wanted to do was taste her, just once, just to see what her lips felt like under his...

He jerked back when he found himself leaning in. Buffy looked up at him trusting and wide-eyed. “Spike?”

“Pet, I’ll grab my blankets and pillows and sleep in here on the floor, all right?” he said, releasing her and getting up from the bed.

She nodded mutely. He knew she could tell the change in him and was wondering what had happened. He just couldn’t get involved. He didn’t wan the complication, didn’t need it. If he did, he’d go to Anya and finally give her what she wanted. Besides, Buffy was an angel. She was far too good for him. She didn’t need his cynicism and cold heart, his constant irritability and jadedness. She might have been through tough times, she might have been hurt, but she was still somehow, an innocent. He didn’t want to sully her by getting too close.

As he looked over his shoulder and found her watching him intently, her expression confused, he felt the pull of her, the urge to go back and gather her back up in his arms, soothe her and kiss her.

But that was dangerous, and so he forced himself out the door. Professional, he repeated to himself over and over.





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