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."

Two - Getting Along

"Good morning!" Buffy sang as she entered Spike's bedroom promptly at 9 AM the next day.

Spike groaned, one hand reaching blindly out and grabbing a pillow, then covering his head with it.

"I don't have to yank off the covers again, do I?" she threatened as she placed a tray of food on the nightstand.

The paraplegic heaved a sigh, pulling the pillow off his face and opening his eyes a crack. "You're a nightmare. I'm gonna close my eyes, and when I open them again, you're gonna be elsewhere." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a few moments, then opened them again. "Bloody hell," he grumbled.

Buffy smiled amusedly. "Want some breakfast?" She popped a strawberry into her mouth, biting into the firm, red flesh. A drop of its juice trickled from the side of her mouth and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

"You're never gonna let me be, are you?" Spike whined.

"Let me think about that one..." Buffy said, cocking her head and pausing dramatically. "Nope. Can't say as I am."

"Give me the soddin' food..." he ordered grumpily.

"Ooh, someone's not a morning person," she chided. "You gonna eat lying down?"

"Not like I can move m'self, is it?" he asked. "Guess you're gonna have to handle my hot, tight little body and... oomph!" he wheezed as Buffy took him by the armpits and hauled him up into a sitting position, again propping him back on a pillow. "Thanks ever so."

"No problem," she replied as she poured milk over a bowl of Lucky Charms. She stuck a spoon into the cereal and handed it to him. "Eat up, you're gonna need the energy."

"You plannin' on makin' me run a marathon, luv?" Spike asked sardonically between mouthfuls.

"Not yet." She bit into another strawberry, chewing the sweet fruit slowly, then swallowed. "Today, you get your first massage."

"Um... not to burst your bubble or anythin', pet, but I've 'ad massages before." He scooped another spoonful of Lucky Charms into his mouth.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Therapeutic massage. Not quite the same thing."

"I'll believe it when I see it..."

"I'm sure you will."

~*~*~*~*~

"Ow! Where the buggerin' 'ell did you learn to massage, you bint? Madame Desdemona's House o' Pain?" the mountain climber ground out ten minutes later.

"Not my fault," Buffy reasoned. "If you'd been getting therapy all along, your back wouldn't feel like a badly-knitted scarf. Now lie still." She squirted more lotion into her palms, then slapped her hands together and rubbed to warm it up, then worked on him some more. "You wearing underwear today?" she asked, reaching for the sheet that hadn't as of yet gone lower than his waist.

"No," he said, wincing in discomfort as she attacked a knot at the small of his back. "Ow!" He squirmed slightly.

"Ever get a butt massage?" she asked, right before her lotion-slick hands lowered to his glutes.

"Not really my thing, Summers," he replied, turning his head and burying his face in the pillow as she massaged his buttocks.

"Bedsores look better this morning."

He turned his head once more, resting his cheek on the bed. "Yeah, an' they don't hurt like 'ell anymore either."

Buffy's capable hands began to massage his thighs. "You feel this?" she asked.

"Little pressure," he said. "I can feel you pressin' in, but not much else."

"How 'bout here?" she asked as her hands travelled to his calves.

"Don't feel anythin' from the knees down."

"We'll work on that." She finished up quickly, then moved back. "Can you flip yourself over this morning?"

"Yeah," he said, grunting softly as he rolled himself over using his arms and abdominal muscles. His hands once again cupped his groin. "Listen, Summers, you mind goin' over to my dresser an' gettin' a pair of briefs?"

"Sure," she said, walking over to the large, mahogany structure and opening the top drawer. "Which drawer?" she called over her shoulder.

"Middle," he responded.

She opened up the middle drawer and from the heap of multi-styled underwear, pulled out a pair of dark blue briefs. She was about to close the dresser again when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She plucked a garment from the drawer, holding it between her thumb and forefinger, then held it up on display. "Never pictured you as the lacy thong type," she teased.

"That's Dru's," he replied. "She must've left it 'ere the last time she visited."

"She's the figure skater, right?" Buffy inquired. "Dawn told me about her."

"Yeah..."

Buffy tossed the thong back into the dresser, closing the drawer with her knee, then returned to Spike's bedside. "How do we want to do this?" she asked, holding up the briefs.

"Usually feet first," he stated dryly.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," she retorted, walking to the foot of the bed. She worked the briefs over his feet and up his legs. "Think you can lift up?" she asked.

"Not likely," he replied.

"Oh well," she said, tugging the briefs as they passed beneath his buttocks. She soon had his groin and hands encased in the cotton fabric, and stood back, turning around as Spike arranged himself within the briefs, then pulled his hands away. She turned back to him. "Ready for stage two?" she asked.

He nodded, and she squirted lotion into her hands, ready to begin loosening up his quads. Once the lotion had warmed between her palms, she lowered them to his left thigh, rubbing firmly up and down from the edge of the blue fabric to his knee, then back up.

"So 'ow long you been doin' this?" he asked, his cerulean eyes on her as she worked at his thigh.

"Five years this May," she replied. "Why the curiosity?"

"Bloke likes to know who's workin' on 'im is all." His eyes followed her hands as they slowly travelled up and down his leg.

"Right." Buffy began to massage the tendons around his kneecap. "Anything else you want to know?"

"Why're you doin' this for me, Buffy?" His voice had suddenly softened, taking on the same vulnerable tone that it'd been laced with the previous night.

Her hands paused in their descent down his leg. "I told you," she said, stepping back and reaching for the lotion, "I owed Dawn a big favor, and she's considering this it."

"What kind o' favor?"

"The kind that makes me work on a guy who asks too many questions," she replied sarcastically.

Spike raised his left eyebrow, and Buffy took that opportunity to change the subject. "So, when do you get the stitches out of your eyebrow?" she asked, climbing onto the bed at the foot to massage his ankle.

He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. "No avoidin' the question, pet."

"You really want to know?"

"I really wanna know." Spike lifted his head, stacking his hands behind it. "Tell me."

"My sophomore year of high school, I met a guy." She massaged his foot as she talked. "His name was Angel, and - "

Spike snorted. "What kind of a name is Angel?" he asked.

"What kind of a name is Spike?" Buffy asked pointedly. "Are you going to let me share my deep, dark secret or not?"

"Carry on, luv."

"His name was Angel, and he was in college. We fell in love, or at least I did. On the night of my seventeenth birthday, we went back to his apartment, and we slept together. The next morning..." she trailed off.

"Wanker was gone, eh?"

"Yeah. I went home, unlocked Mom's liquor cabinet, and drank enough to last for days. Mom had left on a business trip, so it wasn't until Dawnie came home from school that she found me, sitting on the couch with three empty bottles on the coffee table in front of me and a fourth, half-empty, in my hand. She dragged me up to the shower, turned the water on cold, and pushed me in. Sobered me right up. For a fourteen-year-old, she was a pretty smart kid. She promised not to tell Mom, but told me that I'd owe her. Hence - " she broke off, gesturing to him. "Here I am."

"Touchin' story," he said as she began on his right thigh. The vulnerability in his tone had dissolved. "Why do I think that the favor you owed Dawn wasn't the only reason you came out 'ere to try your hand at gettin' me on my feet again?"

"Because it isn't...?" she hedged.

"Oh, do tell," he said.

"Let's just say that Dawn is very good at persuading people," she said. "My argument was that we wouldn't get along."

"Looks to me like we're gettin' along just fine..."

"I also have you completely at my mercy right now. You wouldn't like it if we weren't getting along." She paused. "After she told me that you'd scared away five therapists, she also reminded me of a Hell's Angel that I had to work on my first year. She told me I could handle you - at least until you got back on your feet."

The massage moved toward said feet, and Buffy lightly scratched her nails against his right sole. "Tickle?" she asked, smirking.

"Ha bloody ha, Summers."

~*~*~*~*~

Spike's bedroom door swung open. "Beep beep!" Buffy exclaimed as she entered the room in a wheelchair. "Got you a present, Spikey..."

Spike took one look at the wheelchair and bristled. "I am not gettin' in that thing."

"Have it your way. I just thought you might want to get out of your bedroom, but if you're sure you want to spend such a beautiful day alone in your room..." she trailed off. "Plus, if you know how to get in and out of the wheelchair, you'll be able to go pretty much anywhere you want in the house. Change of scenery would be pretty nice right about now, wouldn't it?"

Spike was silent for a moment. "Show me how to get in the soddin' chair, Summers..."

"Until you can do it yourself, I'm gonna have to help you get in and out. We need to move you to the edge of the bed - " she pulled back the sheets. "Good grief! Do you never wear clothing?!"

"Sorry pet. Habit." He smirked at her. "If my nudity offends you so much, you could get me a pair of knickers from the drawer. Maybe a pair of shorts too."

Within minutes, Spike was dressed in a long pair of Umbro shorts.

"Now," Buffy said. "Let's get you to the edge of the bed. You can sit up, right?"

The tendons in his throat stood out as he slowly sat up. "Huh. Guess so."

"Alright, then. We have to swing you around," she said, taking hold of his ankles. "Brace yourself." She pulled his legs to the side so they were hanging off the edge of the mattress. "Scoot forward?"

Spike reached backwards and pushed, propelling his lower body closer to Buffy.

"Good," she said as she brought the wheelchair forward and locked the wheels. "You're gonna have to rely on your upper-arm strength for this next step, because even though I'm good at hauling you while you're in bed, but I don't think I can pick up all 158 pounds of you."

"163," he corrected.

"I'm figuring for the at least five pounds of muscle that atrophied off you in the time that you weren't having therapy."

"Right then. How's this next step work?"

"Reach over, grab the armrests of the chair, and swing your body into it," she said, stepping back to allow him space.

"That's it?" he asked.

"Should be, unless there's a step I'm missing... oh yeah. Don't fall."

Spike reached for the armrests, then hefted his body up. The muscles in his arms trembled with exertion as he lifted himself, and he was soon panting, but he managed relatively quickly to seat himself in the chair.

Buffy arranged his legs, putting his feet on the rests. "Nice job," she complimented. "Most of my patients fall at least twice before they get into the chair for the first time."

"Never been one to follow the rules, luv," Spike said, looking up at her from his seated position. "So, where are we going?"

"First, we're going to my room, where you'll wait outside while I change out of this," she said, motioning at her light gray workout pants and pink tee-shirt. She unlocked the wheels on the chair. "Ready?"

Spike nodded. "Roll away," he said in a mock-commanding tone.

She took hold of the handles at the rear of the chair, pushing it forward. She rolled the chair through the doorway and down the hall, stopping outside her door. "Wait here," she said, disappearing into her room.

Spike looked around boredly, drumming his fingers on the armrests of the chair. The hallway looked bigger from the new prospective, he noted as he sat by Buffy's door.

She emerged, dressed in a black tanktop, brief, frayed cutoffs, and a pair of black flip-flops. "Let's go," she said, reaching down and unlocking the wheels. She didn't, however, resume her position behind the chair. Instead, she began walking down the hall by herself. When she noticed that Spike wasn't rolling next to her, she turned and planted her hands on her hips.

"Well?" she asked. "It's not that hard... roll them forward and the chair goes forward..."

"Yeah," he grunted, rolling the chair toward her. They progressed down the hall, stopping at the elevator that Buffy'd discovered in her search for the kitchen when she'd arrived.

She pressed the button with a slender finger, and the elevator whirred to life, the car riding up the cables in the shaft. The doors opened and she entered it, Spike rolling in behind her. They rode the elevator down to the ground floor, where they got out and turned toward the pool.

"Thought we were going outside," he commented as the chair rolled to a stop on the hand-laid stone floor that surrounded the swimming pool.

"This counts as outside, doesn't it?" she asked, kicking off her flip-flops. She walked over to a large shelf stocked with fluffy beachtowels and grabbed one, tossing it over her shoulder. "I'm going to swim," she declared.

"And I'm goin' to do what, exactly?"

"Watch?" she suggested, grasping the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head, revealing a dark green bikini top. She unbuttoned the cutoffs and shimmied slightly. The little motion allowed them to fall to her feet, and she stood before him in a tiny bikini that left little to the imagination. She turned toward the pool and walked toward the deep end, then dove in.

Spike's eyes willingly took in her form as her body sluiced through the warm pool water. She did a few laps before slowing down and flipping over onto her back, floating. "The water feels great," she called to Spike. "We're gonna have to get you in the pool for therapy sometime."

"... yeah..." he replied, his mind elsewhere as he gazed at her. He shook his head and tore his eyes from her lithe figure, staring outside through one of the glass walls.

A little water splashed over the edge onto the stone tiles as Buffy hefted herself out of the pool. She towelled herself off and dropped the towel to the side of a lounge chair, then lay down on the chair. Spike rolled the wheelchair over to her.

"Have a good swim, Summers?" he asked, gazing down at her as she situated herself comfortably on the lounger.

"Yeah," she replied, suddenly sitting up. "Is there sunscreen around here somewhere?"

"Should be with the towels."

She stood and padded barefoot over to the shelf where she'd retrieved her towel, plucking a bottle of sunscreen and another towel up. These she carried back toward the lounger, spreading the towel out atop the chair before she lay back down. She then uncapped the bottle of sunscreen and began to rub it into her skin.

Spike's gaze followed her hands once more, this time as they travelled over her own flesh. He felt a stirring in his groin and looked away, attempting to will away a potentially embarrassing situation.

"You have a beautiful home," Buffy said as she rubbed sunscreen into the flesh of her abdomen. "I didn't really picture you in a place like this."

He chuckled. "What type of place did you have pictured for me then, luv?"

"Um... more bachelor pad-ish and less gorgeous mansion-ish?" she admitted. "But hey, when you've only talked to someone a few times in passing over the course of five years without getting into a fistfight with them, I guess that's expected."

"You only like me because of my house," Spike said in mock offense.

"Well yeah. That and the salary that you're paying me."

"Which is how much?" he asked.

She glanced up at him, noticing that he was pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Hasn't been negotiated yet."

~*~*~*~*~

"What the bloody 'ell is all this?" Spike asked Buffy as she opened the door of his bedroom.

"A tilt table," she said, pointing at the object that looked much like a medieval implement of torture, "parallel bars, and a trapeze." She indicated the bar hanging from the ceiling above his bed with the last word. "For your therapy."

"So that's why you wanted me to go to the pool with you?"

"Partly. Also, I wanted you to get up out of bed for awhile. We won't be using the tilt table until the end of the week, but I had to get it here before then so I could have it set up. The trapeze is so you can move yourself around in bed easily, and we won't use the parallel bars until you've regained feeling in your legs." She pulled back the covers of the bed. "Hop in."

Spike rolled toward the bed, and Buffy locked the wheels of the chair. He grasped the armrests firmly, lifting himself up, then heaved his weight toward the bed. The motion resulted with him lying face-down on the bed with his legs dangling off the edge. "A little help would be great right about now, Summers," he said, his voice muffled by the bedding.

Buffy's hands found purchase on his right side, and she turned him over so he lay on his back. "I can tell that getting out of the chair is going to be a little trickier for you than getting in." She took hold of his shorts by the bottom hem, tugging them off, then positioned the boxer-briefs clad man in the middle of the bed on his back. "Up for a little workout?" she asked.

Spike shrugged. "Might as well, now that we 'ave all this nifty equipment in 'ere."

Three - Memory and Fantasy

Buffy sniffled, her eyes on the television. The protagonist female and antagonist male had just professed their doomed love, and were now fighting to the death.

"I can't believe you watch that," Spike commented, wheeling into the room and settling next to her on the couch. "I mean, who believes in vampires, anyway?"

Buffy raised her hand, turning and glaring at him. "You don't have to watch if you don't want to," she said, her attention once again focussed on the screen.

"I can't kill you," the male lead said finally, facing the female lead in a fighting stance. "It'd be like killing myself."

A single tear slipped down Buffy's cheek. She wiped it away quickly.

"Luv, it's only television," Spike reminded her.

"It's sad," she mumbled self-consciously as another tear threatened to escape from her eye. She glanced over at Spike, who was looking at her slightly incredulously. "What? Imagine how you'd feel if you were an evil, soulless vampire that was in love with the one person sworn to kill you."

"Good thing bloodsuckers don't exist, then, innit? Because I'm upset enough as it is that my physical therapist is livin' in my home an' eatin' my food." He laughed gleefully, ducking as Buffy grabbed a throw pillow with one hand and swung it at his head. "Oi!" he shouted, proffering his own cushion. "You wouldn't beat on a crippled man, would you?"

Buffy grinned evilly. "Wanna bet?" she giggled, getting off the couch and holding the fluffy weapon above her head. "I'll give you a ten-second head start."

~*~*~*~*~

"How much feeling do you have in your legs now?" Buffy asked as she massaged Spike's shoulders.

There was no response for a moment, and when Buffy was about to poke Spike awake, he asked "... wha...?" lethargically. "Mmm... little to the left... only place I can't feel anythin' is," he groaned, "My feet... so 'm wonderin' why I still can't move my... gnoooh right there... legs."

"You realize that if you drool on your pillow, poor Gina is gonna have to wash all your sheets," Buffy teased. "We'll work on getting you moving after your rubdown this morning."

"By all means, pet," Spike said, his body seeming to melt into the mattress below him, "Take as long as you want."

"Na-ah..." the blonde straddling his butt chided. "Therapy is more than bone-liquefying massages. There's a whole bunch of exercises we haven't tried yet." Her hands moved down his spine, finding a stiff place and pressing down, then smiling when it popped with a resounding crack.

"Been tryin' to get that kink out of my back for weeks..." Spike commented. "Thanks, luv."

"That's what I'm here for," she returned, pressing deeply into the muscles of his lower back. "Sheet's moving. Don't worry, though. I won't leave you lying here naked and helpless."

"When do I get another spongebath, speakin' of...?" the bleach-blonde hinted strongly. "I think I might be startin' to stink again."

"You got one last night," Buffy replied. "I think you just like my spongebaths because I'm less scary than the nurses you had in the hospital."

"Somethin' like that," Spike murmured, arching his hips into the bed as Buffy's hands massaged his backside.

"Hey," Buffy reprimanded. "No mattress-humping!"

"Nobody's humpin' anythin' around 'ere," Spike said. "Just tryin' to stretch a little bit, if you don't mind."

"That was definitely a hump that I just saw, Mr. Broad..." she argued.

He turned his head as far as it would go, tucking his tongue between his teeth. "Trust me, Summers, if I were humpin', you'd know." He smirked cockily at her.

Buffy's face reddened. She cleared her throat. "Um... okay. Feel this?" she asked, lightly pinching the flesh on the back of his thigh.

"Oi! No pinching!" he commanded.

"Guess you feel that," she said. "How about this?" She poked him in the right calf.

"Told you already," he said. "The only part I don't feel is m' feet."

"Weird," she murmured, her hands working further down his legs. "Guess I'll have to work on them more." She bent one of his legs at the knee. "This might pull a little," she warned, stretching his Achilles' tendon.

Spike grunted in reply, as the tendon stretched slightly painfully.

Buffy repeated the motion with his other leg, then sat down on the mattress behind him and went to work on his feet. She pressed her thumbs into the high arch of his right foot, dragging the digits upward toward his toes, then back down to his heel. "Feel anything?" she asked.

"Pressure," he responded. "Not much else."

She manipulated each of his toes separately, wiggling them back and forth. This little piggie went to market... she thought to herself. She sat back, removing her hands when she was finished, then stood up and walked over to the dresser.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked, opening the middle drawer.

"Dark red," he replied.

Buffy plucked a dark red pair of briefs from the door, then shut it. "Roll over," she ordered, and a few moments later, she walked over to the bed again to face her nude patient. She worked the underwear onto him fairly easily, once again turning around while he made himself comfortable within the snug cotton, then turned back to him. "How's your chest?" she asked.

Spike raised his injured eyebrow. "I think you can tell for yourself," he commented.

The therapist's eyes flitted over firm pecs and chiseled abs, before settling back on her patient's face. "I meant, do I need to massage it?"

He sighed overdramatically. "If you insist..." he said, his lower lip quivering as he attempted to hold back a chuckle.

"You're gonna have the best skin of any guy I know when I'm done with you," Buffy said. She uncapped the bottle of unscented lotion and squirted a bit into her hand. She rubbed her palms together vigorously. "Normally I don't massage the chest," she commented as her hands squeezed and relaxed against his pecs rhytmically.

"You're good at it," Spike complimented. "Don't suppose you could do it every mornin'?"

Wouldn't mind that at all. "I'll think about it," she said, rubbing the pads of her thumbs just beneath the ridge of his pectoral muscles. "You ever wonder why we never used to get along?"

"All the time," he returned.

[Five Years Ago ~ NYC ~ Summer]

The party was in full-swing, formally-dressed guests milling about and socializing politely. A large banner proclaiming "Happy Birthday, Dawn" hung in the living room of the large penthouse.

"Dawn, I - " Buffy turned toward her sister, but she'd left the room again, closing the door behind her. "Oh, great," she complained. "I'm cursed."

[End Flashback]

"It was your fault," Buffy said, massaging his thigh.

Spike's eyes widened. "How the bloody 'ell was it my fault?" he asked incredulously.

"You're the one who insulted me," she reasoned.

"And you're the one who called me an arrogant prick!" he argued.

"You are an arrogant prick, Spike."

"That's beside the point." He paused. "We're doin' it again."

"Doing what?" she asked as she prodded the muscular tissue above his knee.

"Bickerin'."

"What are you talking about?" Buffy asked. "I never bicker. You're the one who bickers."

He scoffed, but then his expression became serious. "I'm not gettin' in an argument with you," he declared. "Leastwise, not when you're givin' me the best massage of my life." He sighed contentedly when her capable fingers kneaded his other thigh, and just barely kept his eyes from rolling back in his head from the sheer pleasure of the sensation.

~*~*~*~*~

Buffy toed into one of her sneakers, then bent down to tie it.

"Goin' for a run?"

She looked up to see Spike sitting in her doorway. "Yeah," she said, tying the laces of the shoe securely. "Thought I might want to burn off some of those calories that Gina's meals are chock full of before dinner."

"Oh," he said, watching her as she did a few lunges.

She straightened, flipping over the strap of her black sports bra, which had gotten twisted when she'd put it on, then walked over to her dresser and picked up a hair tie, pulling her blonde tresses tightly away from her face. "Have any plans for tonight?" she asked.

"Can't say as I do, luv," he replied, motioning to his wheelchair. "Not much fun to go out when you can't do anythin'." He cleared his throat. "Want to take a stroll around the grounds when you get back?" he asked.

"You'll have to give me fifteen minutes to shower and change," she said as she walked toward the door, flipping off the light. He wheeled backwards to allow her passage. "But I haven't really explored the grounds completely yet. I'd love to," she said as she breezed down the hallway and out of sight.

Spike sighed, turning around and rolling slowly back toward his bedroom. He entered the room, closing the door and positioning his chair in a darkened corner. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, attempting to relax. "Not bad...", Buffy's voice filled his head unbidden. The image of her teeth sinking into a juicy strawberry flashed across his closed eyelids. She moved to wipe the tiny rivulet of juice away from her lips.

"Let me," he said, grasping her wrist lightly and pulling her hand away from her face. He tugged her toward him, leaning in and flicking his tongue against the sweet liquid. He licked and nibbled, taking in all the juice until all he could taste was the salt of her skin, exploding against his taste buds. Buffy's face turned slightly, so he was licking at her lips, and she opened her mouth a bit to allow the tip of his tongue access.

The kiss deepened, and Buffy crawled closer to him, raking her nails lightly down his chest and across his nipples. Spike tore his mouth away from hers, hissing in pleasure. His lips traveled across her cheek to her ear, and he took her lobe into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth before nipping and licking his way down to the curve of her throat.

"Oh, God..." Buffy moaned, straddling one of his thighs and undulating her hips against it. His hands caught the bottom hem of her shirt and dragged it upwards, and she pulled away from him long enough to raise her arms and take the garment off the rest of the way. He pulled her to him tightly, fingers caressing her smooth, bare back, and she gasped, her entire body giving a delicious little shudder as her nipples came in contact with his hard chest.

She slid up his leg toward him, and cried out when his mouth latched onto one of her nipples, sucking furiously. A hand came up, laving attention on the neglected breast, and his other hand dipped beneath the fabric of her exercise pants, caressing her.

"Want you," Spike ground out, groaning in pleasure when Buffy tugged away the sheets and her small hand encircled his aching cock. She pumped her hand lightly, her thumb brushing across the throbbing tip. "Unhh... love you..." He thrust into her fist and his exploring fingers sifted through the wiry curls at the apex of her thighs before dipping downward, encountering hot, soaked flesh.

Buffy hummed approvingly, her mouth once again searching for his as he thrust a long finger into her tight heat. "Please..." she whispered, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline.

"Spike's got you," he said reassuringly, his other hand pulling down the grey cotton pants she still wore. She lifted up, disengaging her legs from his long enough to kick the offending garment off, then straddled him again. She rubbed against him provocatively, and he clamped his hands onto her hips, stilling her before she caused him to climax.

She dragged her tongue from his Adam's apple to his ear. "Spike," she whispered. "Spike... Spike! God, are you dead in there?"

His eyes flew open, and he groaned, staring down at his protesting erection. "I'm fine, Summers," he rasped.

"You don't sound fine," she replied through the door. "Do you still want to go out? You've been in there for over an hour."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, just give me a minute." He heard her footsteps recede. "... love you..." his words echoed. "Bugger."

~*~*~*~*~

"It's beautiful here," Buffy commented, flipping a stray strand of hair over her shoulder. She sat on a wooden bench that was seated on the cliff that overlooked the town. From above, Sunnydale was a very peaceful town. The pre-dusk sunlight framed her from behind, casting a long shadow.

"My favorite spot on the property," Spike agreed. "Used to come up 'ere all the time, before the accident."

Buffy glanced at him. "It's good that you're here now."

He pursed his lips. "Yeah. Let the healin' continue..."

They sat silently for a moment. "So what is there to do in a small town like this one?"

"Nothin'," he said. "But that's the point, innit? Gettin' away?"

"Yeah..." She watched a flock of birds as they flew by, all of them nesting in the same tree. "Dawnie's gonna call tomorrow. She said she'd call after a few days to see if you'd scared me off yet."

"What's the verdict, then?"

"I think..." she said, tucking a leg beneath her, "that I'll stay. I'd feel bad passing up the opportunity to get the best tan I've ever had, just because I didn't like my patient."

"Right," Spike said, a hint of hurt threaded through his tone. "If it makes you feel any better," I love you. "... I don't like you either."

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