It was the deadest portion of the night when her bladder woke her. She lay crushed against him, his skin still almost cool against hers, and dry, like the cotton sheet, though bonier. She had to slip free of him to get out of bed, and doing so made her momentarily sad. She thought of those final two nights, the cot in the basement, when she'd let him hold her and tried to tell herself that that was appropriate, and enough for both of them, no conversation or gestures necessary.

When she came back, his eyes were open, glimmering in the dark.

"Woke up an' feared it was all a dream. Didn't know where I was."

"And then you heard the toilet flush and you knew you were in an old jerry-built Scots castle." She felt around on the bedside table for the lighter, and sparked a candle. It gave off a comforting aroma of figs.

Spike gathered her in again, encircling her with an arm, legs tangling. "Doesn't irk you, does it, havin' a cuddle?"

He thought he was the only one who was needy. She shifted, settled herself against him, kissed the mouth she found near hers. In the glow, his skin was like white velvet. In this bed, with the quilt pulled up over them, nude and relaxed, she felt safe, and young. Younger than she'd felt in a long time.

"D'you know, you scared me at the beginnin', there was such a tumult round you, like putting a hand to a fire. Thought you'd do me harm. All that power. It crackles inside you. It sings through me when I'm near you."

"Do you feel that around the other slayers? I guess you don't remember the ones in L.A., but earlier, outside, did you feel it then?"

He considered. "Was tense out there. An' then you spoke, and all there was was you. So ... hard to say."

"Well ... we've never really been afraid of each other." She meant to reassure him, but the statement, echoing back, meant more than it had in her head.

"That so? Why is that?"

"You were—" She stopped. How could she say You disgusted me but somehow but you were always more of a pest to me than a threat?

"I was too stupid to be afraid? That it?" He smiled. "Could believe that."

"Fear wasn't part of your persona."

"I had a persona."

"Yeah ... you know."

He smiled, as if she'd made a silly joke. "Don't, actually."

"You must notice it. There's these two personalities in you. Spike. Who holds the Nobel Prize in talking dirty. And then once in a while, this other one. William Pratt. Who tells me I'm a lady, and knows lots of poetry."

"Know you're a lady. An' I know plenty of poetry."

"But he's the one who— Look, maybe we should go back to sleep. We're going to have another big day in a few hours."

"You like him better? This other 'persona'?"

She knew the right answer to this. "I am in love with you. Who are large, and contain multitudes."

"That's Walt Whitman, that is, though you don't have it quite right. Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

"Well see, there you go, Walt knew all about you. Spike and William are both you, or maybe it's more elegant to say you are both Spike and William—like matter is both particle and wave—see, I'm smart—and maybe they—you— are a little contradict-y, but it's all good."

His eyes narrowed, and his lip took on this teasing curl. "On account of I'm compelling. An' have a pretty cock. An' can fuck longer than a live fellow, an' satisfy you better."

"On account of those, yes. Among lots of others."

"You're a girl likes her fucking and can stand a deal of it. Ever lay a vamp before?"

"You know I slay plenty."

Fingers pinched her nipple. "Laid. An' you heard me right the first time. Coaxin' me to fang out while I was boning you. That what makes me compelling?"

"No. Well, maybe just a teensy-weensy part."

"Wait a bit—you said your first lover was a member of the undead tribe. Did you fuck him?"

"I can't believe you'd want me to talk about this now."

"Did you fuck him, Buffy? Did he bite you while he fucked you? Is that how you got your other scar?"

"No Spike, it isn't."

He was quiet then, for so long that, if he wasn't still caressing her hair with idle fingers, she'd have thought he was asleep. "Don't be cross with me, pet. Gropin' in the dark, I am. At such a disadvantage, it gets heavy, not knowin' even the simplest things about you, myself, the past. Over a century an' a half of blank. Would I know the answer if I was in my right mind?"

"Spike, I want to be in bed with you right now. Just you."

"Ah. Quite. Sorry." She could feel him thinking. "What's so bloody odd, lyin' with you, know this isn't the beginnin' of me getting my end off. Know all the ways to go about it, to please an' be pleased."

"Very pleased," Buffy said, hoping he'd take the compliment and not go on to what she feared was next.

"Can think of all the ways I've ever fucked. But there's nothin' in my mind where the other person's supposed to be."

She wondered if he was trying to get her to say they'd slept together before.

"Those pics of me I saw in the books, I had a bird in most of them. You know her? What was she called—Carmella?"

"Drusilla. And I really don't want to talk about her either."

"S'pose you wouldn't. Was with her a long time, wasn't I? We got up to bad bad things. Maybe you did for her."

She didn't want to say that, as far as she knew, Drusilla was extant. That would lead to more questions, and the more she had to think about Drusilla, especially in connection with Spike's sexual finesse, the more grossed-out she'd be. "Let's go to sleep."

"Could use a breath of air. Didn't you say there was a way out onto the battlements from here?"

"Yes. You want to go outside?"

"You can stay here. Just need to refresh myself on the night sky."

They both went, through a little door off the kitchen, up a narrow stone stair, and out, onto the top of the south tower. Her frequent retreat, at all hours. Two beach chairs were folded against the crenellations, and a forgotten coffee cup was filled with rain-water. Spike smiled at that, before lifting his face up to the open sky, taking deep grateful breaths. There was a sliver of moon, enough to show her the white silhouette of his nude body, leaning against the stone. All around the tower, the green sward spread out to the rolling mountains. Farther off, not visible but, at this hour, faintly tanging the air, was the sea.

"Give me some advice, pet."

"What advice?"

"Your friend, Miss Willow. Says she might be able to magic my memory back. Should I let her try?"

"She's very powerful. Very knowledgeable."

"There's a checkered history there, I gather."

"Well, there is. But if we held one another's histories against each other ... none of us would be here. You need to know that, actually. None of us has clean hands. Not Willow, not Giles, not even Xander, though he's never actually killed anybody."

"Not you. You've got no murder on you." He drew closer to her. "I'd know it, if you did. Dunno how, but I'd know it."

She shook her head. "People have died because I failed. And I have plenty of other things I regret doing. Or not doing."

He put an arm around her. His skin cool against hers, but he turned her so his body blocked the cold night breeze. "What shall I decide, sweet? Shall I ask the witch to put her enchantments on me?"

"You hate it. Being in this state."

He was silent for a moment, and she felt him considering, not the question itself, but her yearning in asking for it. The shame reared up in her, like the splash of bile in the throat. Shame at being afraid. Shame at being found out.

"Hard to be a proper man, isn't it, when you don't know what man you are."

"But you feel, don't you--I'm sure you do--your goodness, and your--"

"Don't fret, Buffy."

She stopped. He knew all about her apprehension, that she was concealing things from him, that she dreaded his restoration. That at least was clear to him, if nothing else.

She laid a cheek against his arm. "Can we wait? It really hasn't been that long. I'm hopeful you'll have a break-through all on your own. And that would be better, wouldn't it, than magic?"

"P'raps I will. True that I'm not in a big rush to be spelled. Magic's always risky."

"How do you know?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, what makes you say that? You sound pretty sure. What's the association there?"

"You're doin' it again, woman, poking at what I've lost. Don't know how I know! But I do. Feel it in my old dead bones."

"Okay. Sorry. Shall I pay another forfeit?"

"What might that be?"

"Well ..." She bounced down onto her heels, laid her face against his bare belly, breathing warm air through the curls, against his cock. "Maybe this?"

His flesh surged beneath her touch. It flattered her, his ready excitement, his passion, always had, even before when she was so certain she didn't want him to want her. He'd always made her feel it was about her, not just that he was horny and she was a live girl, or even a slayer. She was Buffy, and Spike longed for her, longed to fuck her and immerse himself in her and be seen by her. Longed for her attention. Any attention.

Her pussy was wet now too, just from having him in her mouth, bobbing her head to take him in, making him wet, moist velvet against the roof of her mouth. She closed her eyes, to feel it better. So crazy, love was, that it could encompass standing up for your man in front of a cadre of slayers, and getting on your knees to suck his cock. It was sublime. Spike's fingers spread into her hair. He murmured about how warm she was. She wrapped her hands around his balls, warming those too.

If he were to remember himself right now, while she was pleasuring him ... maybe he'd be kind to her. Maybe he'd realize he'd been wrong, in choosing so callously, so finally, to keep her in the dark.

If she was good to him every hour of every day from now on, maybe this delicate new happiness knitting itself around them like a shell, would remain intact. Never be broken.