She was already kissing him, her hands on his body, when she drew back. "You haven't accepted my apology."

"I have. I ... I do."

"For reals?" She regarded him, head on one side, assessing. "See, here's another one of those moments when you're more that other self, who I never got a peek at in the old days. The one with the modesty and the poems. He seems to be a guy who's not too sure that pleasure isn't somehow sinful, and that just letting go isn't the trapdoor to no-return. I never knew anything about the man you were before you got turned, I assumed ... you were always Spike, who'd go for whatever gusto was going, y'know? It never occurred to me you wouldn't want to feed from me if I offered it."

He put up a tentative hand to touch the puffy broken skin on her throat. "You said Spike never tried it on with you."

"Probably because he sensed that I wouldn't have merely punched his lights out ...." She went grim. "He knew the faintest suggestion would've gotten him staked. We're talking about the time when I was sick, when I was on the edge ... I couldn't have permitted ..." She cleared her throat. "I couldn't permit you to forget that we weren't equals. That what we had wasn't a love affair."

"Ah." The subject, like her blood, was over-exciting, over-activating. Made him fidgetty, filled him with unwelcome speculations. "Couldn't, mustn't, love the vampire killed two slayers before he came after you."

Buffy's eyes went wide.

"Was in those books, pet, back at the house. Bold-faced caption, under all my photos. Slayer of slayers. First thing I saw."

Her eyes closed, and she breathed. Certainly wishing he'd forgotten that. "Please don't drag all of that into bed with us. Why can't we just have the here and now, for once? Why can't you believe that I loved what we were doing, that it what I needed and thought you wanted it too?" She blushed, her voice going chokey.

It made perfect sense that she'd dread the full restoration of his memories.

She still struggled with it herself, it was plain to see. He had no trouble imagining the Spike he knew a few things about, falling in love with this girl, this pure pillar of righteous deadly power. He'd fallen in love with her afresh almost from the first minute of opening his eyes on her, weeks ago. It was the other way around he still couldn't fathom. So he'd gone off and fought for a soul, come back and fought at her side. Former enemies could become comrades, he understood that. But to choose as her lover a demon with such a history? Who'd hunted her kind for his sport? Who'd begun by hunting her? To lavish on him such tenderness, to so reflexively surrender herself, even up to her own pulsing lifeblood?

The more he experienced it, the more perplexing, perturbing, disturbing it seemed.

She could swear it up and down, but a girl meant to slay vampires, her life dedicated to cleaning away unclean monsters—for that girl to want to lie down with one every day, to give herself to him so utterly ... there was something sordid in it. You could explain it and clarify it all you liked, but there it was.
"Oh sweet." He smoothed back her hair. "This slayin' business, takes a good girl an' warps her into—"

"No—!" She jerked back. "No, you will not explain our love away! That isn't our story! That isn't what is!"

He put up his hands to cup her face. She resisted, shying back, suspicious. Her skin hot with chagrin, because like an idiot he'd told her that her desire, her affection, was deviant. That something she relished disgusted him.

Did it really? He wasn't sure, had he really been able to consent, whether he'd have refused or no. The question didn't seem all that relevant at the moment.

So much he didn't know about her, and so much, clearly, he didn't know about himself—the Spike she'd loved, the Spike she expected him to be for her again. Her emotion crackled in the air around her; it seemed to shimmer through her hair, and from her glossy eyes and quivering mouth.

"M'sorry, pet. Guess I don't know much. Inferences're all I've got." He smiled, needing to placate. It hurt, hurting her. It hurt, this conflict in his incomplete self. He wanted to stop it too. He wanted that good here and now.

Her answering smile wavered, milky as sun through clouds. "I'm sorry too. I said I didn't want to fight, and I'm being all fighty. But I need you to not believe we were just some horror-show, because that's just one little facet of our story, and not the most important. Can't you trust me when I tell you—those last few months, you were my best friend. And before you died in Sunnydale ... all that was not-enough between us, was me. Me hesitating and holding back. My fault. I lost you then and I can't make that mistake again."

"An' am I really the fellow you lost? Gettin' the sense I'm not."

"You are. I mean, of course—with the amnesia—but you're fundamentally you. What, you think I don't like you?"

He made a mute gesture, bewilderment, question. "Think you're a bit disappointed when I don't play quite like you expect. You're not used to Spike denyin' you anything.

"Can we agree the biting thing was an honest mistake? I had no clue you were blacked out." She flushed all over; it mortified her, that he was judging her for desiring the bite, enjoying it. Every time he came back to that, it was like touching a wound.

"Doesn't it frighten you at all? Bloody scares me. Got no clue where I was in that time."

"I get that this is serious and real. But scare me? No. It's a situation, and we'll deal. I—we—have dealt with worse before. There's always something potentially bad on the horizon. That's why I want to seize this moment."

There was no point hashing it out any further. He saw her viewpoint, and that she'd only see so far into his. "Right. I just don't want to hurt anyone, pet. Couldn't bear it, if I was to get out of control an' do that."

"You won't. I'll make sure that doesn't happen."

Her eyes were so full of pleading, she probably wasn't aware of how much, how her expression begged him to put this aside and take her in his arms.

When he did, when he laid his mouth against hers, she moaned, sharp and high, her body jerking as if he'd completed some electrical circuit. Her hands, electric too, skimmed his body, tugging him close, claiming his cock, making it hard again.

Her need. So intense. Such a great cache, stored up for so long without outlet.

She cried out when he covered her, melting back as he drew her knees up, opening her wide. The tears spilled out then, allowable in the general onrush. She moaned as he made his first entrance, pushing slowly into her drenched pussy, deliciously swollen from their earlier exertions. It gripped him like her hand, tight and hot. He started a steady rocking rhythm that worked for her, made her pinken and gasp, toss her head. Spilled beneath him, legs akimbo, her arms up around his neck, she beamed. So much gratitude in her eyes. Gratitude and relief. "Good. Oh Spike, isn't this good?"

It was. The loving potency of her surrounding him, welcoming him, made his misgivings seem tenuous. Whatever she was, whatever he didn't yet know about her, this was real. She'd been right enough, when she said how they fit.

He came with a series of hard shudders, buried in her, her voice coaxing in his ear, urging him, praising him. She held him through it, her arms strong enough to contain the convulsing force of his release.

Even after the last long tremor, he was still hard.

Her blood. Making him feel like a god.

"More," she breathed. "Please, more. Can we never stop?"

Here was another piece of this puzzle. What merely flesh and blood fellow could keep up with a girl like this?



When she opened her eyes, driven awake by a full bladder, Spike was still asleep, his bandaged hand thrown out to the side. He didn't breathe, but she could see his eyes moving beneath their lids.

He had a right to his sleep—they'd gone at it like monkeys, for hours. Buffy grimaced a little as she rose, she was so sore between the legs. Once she'd gotten going, her arousal ramped up with every climax, turning into a kind of holy ecstasy, ardent, tireless. Spike too ... empowered by what he'd fed on.

He'd said nothing, the whole time, about the source of his extraordinary stamina. Didn't gloat or boast—in that tender sexy way that Spike used to, when he'd be overwhelmed at his good luck, to actually be fucking his slayer. She'd hated hearing him talk like that ... at least, she'd hated it, or thought she did, at the time. Now she kind of missed it. She even kind of missed being called 'Slayer', which made no sense.

In the bathroom she washed her face and hands—a good shower or bath was necessary but she wanted Spike to take it with her—and inspected her neck. The bite had already scabbed over; it was a little itchy but only stung when she probed it.

The immense jolt of pleasure she'd gotten there ... nothing like she'd imagined. The only comparable time was when she'd made Angel do it, to save his life, and then her mind-set, the sensation, were entirely different. She'd never understood why people liked getting sucked on by vampires—that time she'd caught Riley ... it was just gross. But that was before. Her impulse, to invite Spike's bite, had sprung from a wild urge to give everything possible, to be possessed by him entirely. She hadn't imagined she'd like the actual sensation, let alone like it so much. The pleasure came from the bite, the pull, but it emanated from him too, from it being Spike in her arms, at her neck, his lovely prick inside her at the same time. It didn't feel dangerous, deadly. It had felt like an embodiment of their love, a perfect exchange.

But he didn't seem to want to know about that.

His reaction ... what a spin-around. She still couldn't quite believe it. Spike. Spike feeling objectified by that.

On the way back from the bathroom, she paused by the broken picture frame. Stupid thing to throw. She didn't like seeing these pictures, the only ones she had of her mother, lying in broken glass. Picking them up delicately, she looked around.

The whole apartment was a mess. Broken furniture, broken glass, stuff strewn everywhere, and smelling now like a bordello.

But Spike was in her bed, safe. She paused again to look at him. There couldn't be enough of looking at him.

In the kitchen she heated up a mug of blood. Returning to the bedside, trying not to hold her nose from the smell—it was a smell she was going to have to get used to, would be, please God, living with for the rest of her life—he was still out, head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted. She set the mug down on the night-stand, and caught him eyeing her.

"Could wake up to forever to sight of your pretty tits an' wouldn't complain."

"How's your hand?"

"Feels ... feels all right." He held it out for her to pull off the bandages. The skin underneath was white and smooth and whole. "That healed faster than I thought." He frowned. "Expected a longer wait, because I've been burned before. Had ..." The frown deepened. She watched the progress of the memory, breaking through on his face. "All burned down one side I was, an' my back broken. Couldn't walk." His lips parted, a kind of awe. He looked like he was watching a film. "Where was I? Was full of rage. Who at? You, I s'pose. You did it to me, didn't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Don't think it was you I was so sore at, though. Someone else."

Angel. Angelus. He seduced Drusilla away from you. She didn't want to talk about that. She'd barely had time to remember, the last few weeks, that Angel was most likely dead. And hated going over those terrible days, love's first indelible betrayal.

Spike sat up, shaking his head, and reached for the mug.

"Are you getting more? Memories, I mean?"

"Stuff comes in these narrow slices, mostly, when it comes at all." He held up his thumb and first finger, nearly touching, to demonstrate. "Like peerin' through a crack. All out of context. Glimpses. Can't situate it." He drank. "You could tell me what you know about it."

"I could ... I will. But later, okay? I thought I'd run us a bath."

"Sounds fine."

"And then I have to start straightening up around here."

"An' I've got to go see Mrs Ambler. She's probably issued a bounty for my head, me not showin' up for duty, what, two days now? She'll never let another vamp slavey for her, if she thinks they're all like me."

"That doesn't matter."

"What d'you mean? Matters to her. Work has to get done. An' it matters to me."

Shit. Can I get an instant replay? "I meant ... you're entitled to a little time off for a crisis." Don't bring up that if he'd completed his suicide, he really would've missed work. "It's just kitchen work, it's not like it's—"

Spike stared at her.

"Not like it's fightin' the demons an' savin' the world, right. Not like I once did, accordin' to you lot. Just seein' to fillin' the bellies of those that do."

She winced. "I'm really glad you like the work. I didn't mean it like it sounded. I can be sort of blurty sometimes."

"Y'know, can't be Tonto to your Lone Ranger, Buffy. Can't have your back in battle, not while I'm in this state. Couldn't even help train the girls, right? Kneadin' bread an' cleanin' up's all I'm good for, innit?"

"Don't ... don't say that."

"I don't mind it. I aim to do it regular."

"And you should. Like you said the other day. Work's important. We all need work. And hey—we also need to wash. Let me start that bath."

"Go an' do that. Leave the broken glass, I'll see to it. Don't want you to cut yourself—doesn't matter if I do."

"Okay." She bent closer to him, hovering a few inches above his mouth. "Knock knock."

"Eh?"

"You awake, my sweetheart?"

"Reckon so."

"I'm going to kiss you. That okay?"

"Try it an' see."

"I'm asking first."

He reached up then, caught her face in his hands. "You happy then, pet?"

"I'm happy. But you shouldn't ask that. It's ... it's better to be sneaky, about stuff like that."

It was all she could do to draw away after a few kisses, instead of pouncing on him for another long bout. He seemed to feel that too; reluctant to let go, his fingers threaded in her hair, tongue teasing against her lips.

"I love you, Spike, so much."



He brought her a cup of coffee into the bathroom a few minutes later, as she was stepping into the big tub. Brushed his teeth to get the blood funk out of his mouth before joining her in the water, hot almost to seering. She sighed and sank down as far as her nostrils. Beneath the surface, Spike's hand explored, gliding up her leg, slipping between her thighs. She gave out a little hiss.

"Worked you hard. Maybe I should leave you be."

"I think you could touch a little. If you're very gentle."

He smiled, and it was like the smiles she remembered, randy and knowing and a little daring. Tip of the tongue appearing for a moment between the lips. "Do I know how to be gentle?"

"You do." She tipped her head back, slid down a little further. His fingers ghosted over her mons, stirring the curls, then slipped down, tip of his index finger finding the point of her clit, barely touching. "Oh God."

He lifted her leg across his own body, to make more room. His eyes fixed on her face, as he summoned her to orgasm with whispering movements of his fingers. It didn't take long.

"You are so good at ... me."

"Seem to be, yeah."

She reached for him, but he stopped her hand. "Better have my wash, an' get down to the kitchens. You've got places to be too."

"Spike, really, no one's going to expect us to put in an appearance for a little while, they know we—"

"I need to go to my work."

"Uh ... okay. Sure. I understand." A giggle escaped her, that sounded somehow like an old woman's, echoing back to her. Making her spine stiff, despite the hot soak, the release that still vibrated inside.

"Not sure you do, pet." His expression darkened; as if there was a direct circuit between it and her own body, her heart set up a racket in her chest that made her want to cough. That he took her hands and squeezed them did nothing for her rising sense of dread. "Don't blame you, Buffy ... you've been waiting a long time to have your man an' play house with him. An' I want to play house with you. But not like this. Right now I'm not a man. Not, anyhow, the one I was, who followed you into your battles. I'm neither one thing nor t'other. An' the longer we try an' pretend that there's nothing more for me than to be of service to Mrs Ambler down in the kitchen an' to you up here ... the sadder we'll both be."

"Service—? Is that what this feels like to—? Oh!" She jumped up with a splash, skidded out of the tub—almost slipping, her instinctive grace somewhere absent, yanking the robe off the back of the door. Where was an invisibility spell when you wanted one? Where was a teleportation spell? She'd have liked to be in Borneo, stat, where she could cry the cry forcing its way through her, in secret privacy.

"Sweet—" He was up now too, the water rolling off him, that body that was the centerpiece of all her lusts and loves, free for the first time since she'd found him again of all bruises, wounds and blemishes. She couldn't look. In the mirror opposite she saw only herself, her head ducked, body shivering, before she blew out of the small room, through the bed-chamber, snatching up clothes as she went. Jumping into them in the sitting room, intent on getting out.

But he followed her. Came up slowly, saying her name, reaching a tentative hand, nothing to goose bad memories. "Sweet. Was my turn to say it wrong. Didn't mean—"

"No, I think I just heard how you really feel, and Spike, I am so sorry. This is what I was afraid of, at the beginning. Why I turned you down in the first place. Please don't!" His hand was curling around her arm; she pulled free. "Please don't—I can't be strong if you're going to touch me."

"Sweet, never meant you to think I don't adore ... that I don't want ... I need to be fixed. I need to be whole. No more waitin' for nature to take its course."

"Yes. Yes, I see that. I'm sorry I ... I was selfish, and you ... I'll tell Willow. I'll send her up to you."

"No no, not like that. Wait a bit, we'll both go see her. 'Spect she'll have to prepare anyhow. If she could've accomplished it with one abracadabra, expect she'd have done it by now."

"I'm going downstairs."

"Wait. Just wait while I put my clothes on."

"I'll tell Mrs Ambler you're on your way."

At the bottom of the stairway that led up to her tower, she paused, straightening her clothes, arranging her expression before anyone else saw it. Deep inside her, a terrified angry little girl was yowling.

But she shut the door on her, and went on to her errand.