"So ... in the morning you might to be back." Buffy sidled into the living room, two wine glasses in one hand, the bottle and a corkscrew in the other. "The return of The Full Spikey."

He reached up from where he was sprawled at one end of the sofa, took the bottle, and set to opening it. "Hope so."

"I hope it all goes all right. Though that sounds like a kind of idiotic thing to say. I mean, it goes without saying."

She was just perceptibly—perceptible maybe only to him—trembling. Poor girl had been vibrating more or less continually since her return from Malta, but now she was repressing so hard it was difficult to watch her.

Spike took the glasses from her hand, poured the wine, then pulled her down into his lap. "Here's where you belong. Now have a drink."

"You don't have to be so nice to me."

"Where's this comin' from?"

"I don't—never mind. I don't know why I said that."

"Because you think you deserve some punishment. Why's that?"

"I don't, I ... I'm nervous. Please don't jump down my throat."

"No one's jumpin'. Look here, Buffy, as this is our last evenin' before I get the treatment—whatever that turns out to be—and as it's obvious neither of us can think of anythin' else—there's something I'd like you to tell me."

She paled; her parted lips went dry. Spike put a hand up to her face, traced the line of her cheek with the knuckles of his fingers. "Sweet. Think you might even feel a bit less bad if you just out with it."

"Out with what?"

"Say what makes you so afraid. Why is it, d'you think, that I never let you know I was alive? That's what's tormentin' you so."

"There's no big mystery there. You never believed I cared for you—certainly not remotely enough, anyway. And at the end, you'd fallen out of love with me."

"So, torch I carried for you for years, just went out?"

"I'm sure of it. Fires die for lack of fuel. I could've reached out to you that year, but I chose not to, until it was too late. Way too late. And then when it turned out that you weren't dead, you went on devoting yourself to the mission ... because that's the kind of man you'd become. But you did it far away from me, and without calling attention to yourself. Because you didn't want me to feel any obligation, or ... you'd just moved on. That's all. It happens." She sipped. "It happens."

"An' you really think, once I know my mind again, that all that's gone between us these last weeks, will count for nothing?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't assume." The whole time she'd been answering his questions, she'd been staring off across the room, affording him a view only of her hair and the line of her cheek and the tip of her nose. Now she glanced around quickly, giving him a glimpse of the full misery in her brimming eyes. "Spike, I want you to know you're free. Whatever happens, you're free."

"An' if I don't want to be free?"

"Please don't tease me. I really don't think I could take it right now."

"No, not teasin'." She was so keyed up, this strong amazing girl, she might pop like a soap bubble. "Drink up, and try to relax."

"I don't think relaxing is on the menu tonight."

"I think you're bein' too hard on yourself. Right now, an' about what happened between us back then. I don't know, of course. But I suspect I won't recall it the way you do."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She shrugged.

She sounded so lost, saying that. He took the wineglass from her, and drew her face down to kiss. Her lips barely parted. She held back, he sensed, because letting go right now would be too painful.

"I'm scared too," he offered. "But what's the point of ruining our evening over it? Might all go smooth as silk, an' you'll have the old Spike back at your side by lunchtime, ready to fight demons an' all."

"Or something else might happen." She jumped up, began to pace. "What if Willow's spell goes wrong? Believe me, she's good but nobody's perfect. What if she ends up erasing you altogether? What if—"

When he caught her, stilled her, Spike felt the wound-up potential in her quivering frame; how close she was to hitting out, or whirling into a destructive dance with the furniture.

"I've got to take the chance. You understand."

"I do. I do!"

"Get that you don't like it. Get that I can't promise you anything. But isn't it better to be hopeful?"

Her little laugh sounded desperate. "If you knew all about my life—knew what you used to know, I mean—"

"Pet. Don't want to be another disappointment to you."

Her laughter redoubled. There was a devilish point to her smile. "And how will I ever know, if you stay with me, whether it's for real, or because you don't want to disappoint?" Another shrug. "Who am I kidding? Of course I'll know."

"Seems to me you're so determined to be disappointed, it'll be that whether or no. Have a care with my heart, Buffy, as well as your own."

"Oh—" He'd struck a blow; she absorbed it.

"Come here. Need to kiss you, an' you need to be kissed." He drew her down again. Somehow her fear and agitation siphoned off his own; he felt a peculiar kind of resignation, as if he'd just inhaled ether.

"Wait a sec'," Buffy said. "I have an idea." She fished her phone from her pocket. "We can make a little video. A mnemonic for you, in case ... in case something goes wrong tomorrow. I'll hold this up, like this," she extended her arm, "and turn the camera on, and you say a little bit about what's going on, and the decision you made to let Willow spell you, and how you feel about it. Then we'll have it to play back."

His first impulse was to laugh at the idea, to take the phone from her, toss it away, drown her in kisses until she remembered what this night was supposed to be for. What was the point of a mnemonic if the witch failed? He'd likely just be left exactly as he was now. Or he'd be completely ga-ga, like they said he was when Buffy came for him.

But she was so eager, and it occurred to him that whatever she believed she wanted it for, the little video would be for her. She wanted a memento. Something she could hang onto if he got lost, if she lost him. Something to prove to herself that what they'd had these last few weeks was real.

"Turn it on then. How much time's it give me to spiel?"

"Two minutes. Okay. You can start ... now."



"Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

Her spine had turned to melted taffy, she couldn't feel her splayed legs at all. Her whole being was concentrated in the congested knot of flesh where Spike's tongue teasingly played. He'd already brought her off with his mouth, kneeling on the floor as she slumped on the sofa. They'd fucked the same way, him on his knees, her legs hooked high on his arms, a position that lent itself to long pensive kisses, to getting tangled in each other's gazes, to a tight overheated rhythm that made her grunt and curl her toes and finally come hard, her teeth sunk into his shoulder. And now he was once more between her thighs, three fingers slowly fucking her ass as he languorously licked out their combined spunk, tongued her tight swollen clit. Her own whimpering excited her.

"Thank you. Thank you for this."

He lifted his head a little. "Not exactly sufferin' for my art here, Buffy."

"I know. But ... I need so much, I know I do, and you give me ...."

"Need it just as much. Couldn't be a cunny more glorious than yours."

She pulled herself up then, curled forward to grasp his face, press kisses on his slick mouth. Slid off onto the floor, pulling him around—avoiding the legs of the coffee table—to take his cockhead between her lips. Trying to give head while getting it at the same time usually didn't work so well—something tended to get short shrift—but Spike's deep groan told her he was in his element, his nose and mouth buried in pussy while she sucked him off.

He was never more completely himself, Buffy thought, savoring him like an ice cream cone, than when he was getting laid. The essentials, despite his scrambled brains, were all there when they did this. She was the one who was essentially different, giving where in the past she'd only taken. Though Spike's greatest ecstasies, as she'd gathered early and used against him often in those days—came through submission; even when she let him do whatever he liked to her, even at their most violent, she'd often sensed that Spike was getting off on playing the role of the monster he always said she needed. He submitted to her even when it was she who wore the handcuffs.

Now he held so tight to her hips she could feel the bruises forming beneath the press of his fingers; holding her flush against his face, his tongue fucking deep into her cunt. His cock drooled across her palette, thrumming. She palmed his balls, which were tight and full though he'd come already; probed past them with wet fingers to invade his asshole. He cried out and wriggled as she worked her fingers in. The next moment his cock was pumping; filling her mouth with spunk.

She held it there for a few moments, letting herself taste it, letting herself feel the tautness of his body beneath hers, to take a mental snapshot of the moment, the raunchy grace of bestowing pleasure.

But he was already tapping at her flank, wanting her to turn around. "Give us a kiss."

"We're filthy," she whispered, smiling, bringing her face up against his.

"Nice, isn't it?" Spike said. "You know how to gratify a fellow."

"You."

"You were this good to me before, can't think why I didn't run straight back to you."

"I wasn't. I just told you. It was really complicated. Sex makes you think it's simple, but then that feeling wears off, and you realize it's never really like that."

He folded her in his arms, settled her against him. The floor was hard, the rug rather scratchy, but she didn't care. "So you say, but how reliable are you?"

"I'm telling you the truth." She wanted to just float, why did they have to talk?

"Not sayin' you're lying, just sayin' you understand things your way, maybe that's not the only way they are."

"Spike." She laid a finger on his lips. "This is so good. Can we not say things that tomorrow I won't be able to think about without crying?"



An hour before dawn, they went up to the battlements. It had been raining all night, and was still drizzling when they walked out into the air, naked and barefoot, the stones cold and slick beneath their feet. Buffy turned her face up to the veil of mist. He could feel her hesitating, wanting to say something.

Decided not to prompt her. Just leaned on the crenelations, looking out across the valley. Now the time was getting so close, his doubts were burgeoning. Would he really be better for the retrieval of his past? Willow had told him that most of his memories were probably painful ones. He needed them to be whole, but perhaps wholeness was over-rated? He had a place, useful work, the love of a splendid woman, who needed things uniquely in his gift, even if those needs made him uneasy about her and himself. Maybe he ought to seize on all that and not ask for any more. He was prone to dangerous break-outs, it was true, but where better to be kept under control than in a castle brimming with slayer-girls?

He was never going to be anything better than a vampire. There was no cure for that. So perhaps it was better for the state of his soul—ha—for the past to remain a blank? Better for the state of his love affair with Buffy, to take her, take everything, on faith?

Beside him, standing close but not touching, Buffy also looked out into the dark.

"Slayers got better night-vision than regular girls?"

"Nope."

"Huh. Would've thought—"

"It would make sense. But no. We blunder around in the dark just like everybody else."

"Suspect that's not quite true."

"I can fight in the dark. But that's not what we're talking about really, is it?"

"What are we talking about?"

She sighed. "Spike, I just want you to know, if I've done wrong by you these past few weeks, my intentions were good. I tend to have bad timing. Again, not talking about fighting. Talking about everything else. I just hope that you'll forgive me, whatever ... whatever needs forgiving."

"Likewise. Don't think there's anything on your side needs forgivin', though. Shouldn't spend the last little bit of this lovely night exchangin' apologies."

"How, then?"

"Little poetry fills the shank end of an evening—
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Full character'd with lasting memory,

Which shall above that idle rank remain

Beyond all date, even to eternity;

Or at the least, so long as brain and heart

Have faculty by nature to subsist;

Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.

That poor retention could not so much hold,

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

To trust those tables that receive thee more:

To keep an adjunct to remember thee

Were to import forgetfulness in me."

She let a couple of beats of silence go, before sighing again. "You're an amazing man, Spike."

"Not one of mine. Shakespeare."

She turned a smile on him, her eyes and teeth glinting in the dark. "I stand by my opinion."

"Tonight, I promise I'll say you off another one."

"You—"

"You remind me, if I forget."

She laid her face against his arm. "I'll remind you. If you forget."





Author's Note: The sonnet is #CXXII by Shakespeare.

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