.

The dream ends the way it always does.

A wordless command to stay where I am. Impulsive, possibly an accident, but there. Loud and throbbing and inescapable as it lodges in my head and stays there, immoveable. Locking me in place. Our eyes meet, and there's a silent thread through the connective bridge between us. An inaudible I love you. And then I watch it happen. The stake, or the cross bow, or the arrow. Whatever it is, whatever sharp, pointed weapon that's featuring in my nightmares that night. I watch as the pointed piece of wood finds its way through Spike's chest. Watch as he vanishes before my eyes, explodes into dust right in front of me. And always, always, just before I can get to him. My legs lock, muscles frozen in place, swirling flecks of dust floating all around me blinding me, choking my lungs.

The dream ends the way it always does again tonight.

And again tonight, I scream myself awake.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, hands shaking just a little where they grip the fluffy down comforter. My body uncomfortably sore, aching, like I've been physically fighting with someone or something in the night. My shoulders are pinched, held tight with tension left over that I can't ever seem to shake right away. There are wet streaks tracking down my cheeks.

It's the same way I've woken up every time I've had the nightmare.

Every night for the last month.

And just like every night for the last month, I reach for him immediately. Unclench my hand from the comforter and slide it almost blindly out along the sheets toward the left side of the bed. I feel for a moment, expecting to feel the cool, smooth expanse of my husband's bare chest or the curve of his elbow beneath my hand. Like usual. Like I have every night for the last month.

But there's nothing.

And I mean literally, nothing. Because I don't feel him physically beside me, but as the haze of sleep starts to fade, I realize I don't feel him anywhere. Not the steady thrum, the constant low buzzing from the ever present connection or the distant knowing that he's here, even if not right here, somewhere else in the house.

I don't feel him at all.

In a sudden, full blown panic, I whip my head to the side, eyes scanning the space in the bed beside me frantically. Looking for dust particles maybe, I don't know. There's an indention beside me where he had been, where he must have been sleeping maybe only minutes before, but he's not there now. He's gone. Chest tightening painfully, alarm turning icy as it threads down through my veins, I turn my eyes back up and blink into the familiar darkness of my bedroom.

But it isn't my bedroom. It isn't. It's too big, too open. Overstuffed chairs and a large hanging mirror and an ornately carved armoire sit on one side of the room, looking beautiful but cold. Standardized. And the bed I'm lying in is too big, too. Too soft to be my bed from home. And for a moment my dread heightens. Cold and blurry, that weird sort of fuzzy confusion that only happens after you've been jarred awake by something, the tiniest hint of a ringing in my ears, like static.

"Spike," I call out for him, maybe a little too loudly, but I don't care. I'll wake everybody in…well, wherever it is I am if I have to. "Spike!"

There's no immediate response, so my senses instantly flash to red alert.

I throw the heavy duvet covers off and wrap the white sheet below it tightly around me, about to scramble out of the bed to go search for him, when the creak of a door sounds and suddenly opens. Golden light spills into the darkened bedroom, highlighting the diamond pattern of the thick carpet of the room as Spike steps out. Standing in the doorway I somehow hadn't noticed, facing me. Unashamedly naked. The marble like outline of his body is silhouetted against the bright yellow light behind him as he stares across at me.

And as soon as I see him, I relax a little. Can feel the gentle pulsation of the connective link between us pumping to life again, like somehow the door he'd been standing behind had been blocking it out before. I relax a little, and I remember. Remember where we are, why we're here, why nothing in this room seems familiar.

Because it's a hotel room. A hotel room in Long Beach, at the resort Mom had found for us. We'd arrived late in the night and exhausted, I'd fallen asleep almost immediately. We're here for the weekend. For our honeymoon.

Right.

"What is it?" Spike asks me before I can get another word out, before I can explain to him that it had been a false alarm. He crosses quickly and soundlessly from the bathroom toward the bed. And it's only now that I notice it—the book clutched in his hand. The big, yellow one that I recognize through the haze of quickly fading sleep. The book of Tennyson's poems that he's carried with him since he was turned, over one hundred years ago. I frown down at it, blink a few times, then turn my eyes back to Spike's. His brow is furrowed, concern rippling off his corded muscles in waves. "What's wrong?"

This feels weird. Something…feels weird. Maybe it's just because we're not at home. I'd expected to wake up at home, and we're here in Long Beach instead.

That has to be it.

"Nothing," I tell him weakly, shaking my head, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. "Sorry, I think I just got a little...confused."

"This about the dream again?" he asks quietly, navy blue eyes glittering at me in the moonlight streaming in through the open balcony doors. A breeze blows in, ruffling my hair across my face, sending the thin white sheet fluttering over my bare legs.

Feeling silly, especially because it's obviously so obvious to him what had happened, I bite down on the inside of my cheek and nod.

My vampire appraises me thoughtfully, tipping his head back to look down at me over the line of his nose, through his lashes. "Buffy."

And I recognize the tone. It's this weird, unmixy mix of scolding and comforting. There's a soft hint of something coming toward me now. Not concern anymore, but something that feels a little closer to disappointment. I know he'd been kind of hoping we wouldn't have to deal with this here. Not here, away from Sunnydale, on our honeymoon of all things. Not here, when it's just the two of us.

God, it's never just the two of us anymore. The house is always busy, someone's always around. Not that I mind all that much normally. At first, it had been good. Nice, even, having so many people around. Someone always there to watch out for Dawn if Spike and I had to patrol, or someone to drop by and check on Mom, help me make sure she'd made it to all her doctor's appointments over those first few weeks. We'd put everything on hold for those first few weeks. Well, everything except for patrols and research. We'd put off the inevitable trip to Italy, we'd put off moving out of the house. We'd even put off this—the honeymoon. It just hadn't been a good time to leave the country, to leave the city, even if just for a few days. And staying in the house with Dawn and Mom had just felt…necessary. At least until things with Mom's health had been handled, or at least a little more squared away.

But then the Hellmouth had gotten all perky again.

Just, boom. Out of nowhere—demons, demons everywhere. Like all of a sudden they'd all gotten together and talked about it, realized they hadn't exactly been making the Slayer's life miserable as of late and had all decided to come out of hiding at once. Things had gotten so busy, and time had gotten so away from me. Between the Slaying and the Mom stuff and the constant people milling around the house, Spike and I'd been spending time together, but we hadn't been…spending time together. And having to wait well over a month to take any kind of what Spike's been referring to as a "proper" honeymoon has definitely taken its toll. On both of us.

Add these constant nightmares on top of all that, and you have a recipe for one majorly frustrated vampire. This weekend is supposed to be about just the two of us. The two of us getting some quality, much needed alone time.

Too bad my Slayery subconscious doesn't seem to care.

"I know," I murmur now, sinking back into the huge mattress, pulling the sheets down with me. "I know, it's just…"

"You can't help it," Spike supplies for me, only the slightest hint of mockery in his voice as he gazes down at me, quirking an eyebrow. I smile sheepishly up at him, and he sighs. Lifts the other side of the sheet up and slides back into the bed, exerting the softest pressure against my shoulder as he rolls me back onto my side so he can slide in behind me. The curve of his body against mine is instantly soothing.

"But it's just a dream," Spike whispers, tugging me back more firmly against him, the bare skin of his chest soft, cool and smooth against the fevered skin of my back. Icy lips feather against the back of my neck. "Just a dream."

More than likely, he's probably right. But it never feels like just a dream. It always feels bigger. More frightening. More real. Not quite…Slayer dream real, but real enough that it never fails to leave me with a solid case of the wiggins.

God, so, so real.

I sigh, looking out through the open French door to the little faux-stone pillars that make up the balcony railing. I can hear the quiet roll of waves crashing over rocks in the distance, the scent of salt water tingling my nose.

"You wanna know how many times I've had a dream that's turned out to be 'just a dream'?" I ask my vampire, a sharp flash or irritation coloring my cheeks when his immediate response is a low, rumbling chuckle. I arch back, glaring at him from over my shoulder as I say, "It's not funny."

"No," he agrees silkily, shifting up onto his elbow so he can look down at me, ungelled platinum curls twisting down loosely over his forehead. "It isn't. You know what else isn't funny? The fact that I've got you holed up here, all to myself, naked no less." He illustrates his point by slipping his hand so slowly down my stomach, dipping two insanely deft fingers between my legs. I gasp in response, my body responding instantly to his attention, arching further into him. I feel his lips curve into a smirk against my shoulder as he murmurs, "And all you've bloody done since we got here is sleep."

I whimper softly, my hips moving in a knowing, automatic rhythm to match the movements of his fingers. A tempo my body knows immediately, something simple and primitive. "We got here…late," I remind him breathily, the remnants of the nightmare quickly fading, growing fizzy around the edges with every expert pump of his hand.

"Mmmhm," he purrs, nibbling gently at the lobe of my ear, "and now it's early."

"Early," I hear myself agreeing mindlessly, my lashes fluttering shut as I press further into the heel of his hand. Seeking the friction I need, the push to fan the flames he's begun low in my belly.

I can't keep the strained little mewl of protest from escaping my lips when he suddenly pulls his hand away from me, dancing the heated, arousal-slick pads of his fingers in a little pattern back up my stomach. Then he chuckles, dropping a hurried kiss to my shoulder and leaping back out of the bed. My head and eyes follow him, narrowed in a frustrated little glare as he whirls back around to face me.

"Come here," he says, eyes glittering out at me from beneath his lashes as he holds his hand out. "I wanna show you somethin'."

I roll slowly, completely over toward him, consciously letting the white sheet slip down to my waist as I do. Enjoying the way his eyes flash hungrily as his eyes sweep down from my face, then slowly back up again.

His lips twitch up into a wicked smirk.

And for a moment, just one, something in me tightens in a different way. This moment feels…off. Different.

Wrong.

But it's gone in a flash as he extends his hand to me again, repeating himself. This time, his voice is more commanding. "Come here."

Spike says it softly, but with just enough of that coercion, with just enough of that demand in his tone that I find myself obeying blindly. Tossing the sheet the rest of the way off my body and sliding to the edge of the bed, allowing him to wrap his hand around mine and haul me to my feet. Quickly, a little more roughly than I'm expecting, and then he turns and leads me swiftly across the room and into the open bathroom door.

The change in lighting has me blinking rapidly, squinting a little up at the bright yellow vanity lights that line the long mirror in front of the marble countertop.

"What am I looking at?" I ask him, and he responds by tugging me more fully into the bathroom. Places his cool hands over my bare shoulders and spins me around to face the mirror, his presence solid, firm behind me as he presses the front of his body along the back of mine.

And I'm suddenly standing here, staring into the mirror. Staring into my own reflection.

Only my reflection.

"Spike?" I ask softly, brow furrowing as I watch myself in the mirror. The feeling of having him so close, so close, behind me but seeing nothing reflected back at me where my brain seems to know he should be is more jarring than I think I'd expected. I mean, it isn't a surprise I guess. Yeah, sure, Vampire Slayer here. I know all about the vampire's and their no reflection thing.

But this…this…

There's something so raw about it. So...out in the open. It's easy to hide normally, so easy to convince myself that we're a normal couple. That we're just like everybody else. Even when he drinks his blood, he always does it out of a mug. It isn't like I see the crimson liquid as he swallows it down. He might as well be drinking coffee every time, for as casual as he is about it. For as casual as we all are about it.

But now, standing here, face to face with myself, feeling him...feeling him all around me, but not seeing him. Watching the skin at my shoulders being invisibly kneaded by strong hands, the right lobe of my ear being tugged gently by blunt teeth.

It's wiggy. There's no getting around it.

I swallow hard when Spike gives my ear one last tender tug and his hands begin to slide down my arms, from the curve of my shoulders and down to circle around my wrists.

"Trust me?" my vampire asks me huskily, his lips at my ear, breath sending a stray strand of my hair fluttering across my cheek.

I nod almost without realizing it, suddenly mesmerized by my reflection, watching the skin at my wrists redden slightly as his grip tightens, sending a sharp, urgent jolt of desire rocketing down my spine. An equally sharp pang of pure, virulent pleasure when he grips me just a little harder. And then he shifts forward, one of those flashing, lightning fast movements and suddenly, the front of his body still molded to the back of mine, he forces my hands down onto the cold marble countertop in front of me. Bending my body to a near ninety degree angle.

"Hold on," he commands me roughly, and my fingers instinctively curl around the far edge of the counter just below where the mirror begins as my eyes search the reflection in vain for his eyes. More than half expecting to suddenly see him looking back at me.

And a moment later, another fierce wave of possessiveness hurtles through me, every muscle in my body tensing almost painfully and goose bumps rippling up all over my skin when his hands leave my wrists and dig into my hips instead.

I cry out, a throaty, desperate sounding moan when he's suddenly inside of me. Without warning, sheathed fully, my body suctioning tightly around him. Throwing my head back and closing my eyes, I exhale long and slow as I begin to move my hips in time, in rhythm with his. The same primal rhythm from before in the bed, one we both know without thinking. Something known. His hands slide away from my hips, one drifting to the small of my back to pinch it lightly, the other winding up to tangle in my hair.

"No," Spike demands after a moment, his voice low and honeyed in my ear, "don't close your eyes."

My eyes fly open again, lashes fluttering wildly like they have a mind of their own. Opening wide, gazing directly into the mirror, directed just over my shoulder where I can feel him behind me.

And it isn't possible.

It's the first thought that flickers into my muddled, lust addled brain. That it isn't possible. But it is.

It has to be.

Because his eyes are there now, suddenly there in the mirror. Riveted on mine. Gazing at me through the reflection he hadn't had a moment ago. Or, at least…they look like his eyes. They are. They have to be.

I'd recognize them anywhere.

They're his eyes, but it isn't him standing behind me. Or, it is. It's like it's him, but…not him.

William. The name comes unbidden to the tip of my tongue, where it stays. It is Spike. It is him and not him at the same time. The reflection I'm seeing mirrored back at me, its Spike's when he was human. It's William's.

The same eyes. The same sharp, angled cheeks. The same full lips. But those sparkling azure eyes are rimmed, hidden away behind the glass of rounded spectacles. And where before his skin had been alabaster white, muscles like they'd been cut from stone, his skin is a peachy color, the lines of his muscles softer somehow. The hair in soft curls, a warm, bronzy color over his forehead.

The vision lasts only an instant before it flickers and fades out. Just long enough for me to think that maybe I've just been seeing things. But when William's reflection fades out, it doesn't just disappear. Rather than leaving all together, instead of fading into nothingness like I'd more than expected it to do, it stays. Morphs, physically changes before my eyes until I'm staring into the same azure eyes set back against marble skin, tousled platinum blonde hair.

Spike's reflection.

I blink rapidly, wondering if he can see all this, too. Or if it's only me. If my eyes are just playing tricks on me.

Or if I've suddenly gone as crazy as Dru.

"Do you want it?" Spike asks suddenly, heatedly. Closing his eyes, turning his head into the side of my neck and inhaling deeply. And all the while his body is still making love to mine, hips rocking up and into me, his grip tightening more and more in my hair. Almost to the point of pain, as he steadily, fluidly pumps into me from behind. In this different, deliciously primitive way that has my demon waking up. Roaring back to life.

I have the sudden, wild, and totally unbidden urge to reach back behind me and clasp my hand over his throat. I don't know exactly why. Have no idea where the idea's come from. And because I don't know, because I'm not sure, it scares me.

Just a little.

It has to be this...the way Spike's taking me. Because that's what he's doing. The way his grip in my hair tightens a little more, forcing my body to bend down a little further, switching the angle of his thrusts and making me cry out again in deliriously pained pleasure. All the times we've been together, all the times we've been intimate, as wild and untamed and possessive as some of those times had been, none of them had been this. There hasn't been an undercurrent of violence, of blood lust, between us.

Not since that night behind The Bronze. Not since the first time.

And even then, this is different. There's violence and bloodlust here, yeah. And also a deep, burning desire. And there, always there beneath all the rest of it, there's love. Knowing. Belonging. The constant, steady drum of my pulse, the glowing warmth spreading over me, coming from him. It's always there, too.

"Do you want it?" Spike asks again, leaning closer to me, biting down into the tender skin at the nape of my neck with blunt, human teeth.

"Want what?" I ask back, the words soft, quiet and confused. A direct contrast to the raging flames coursing through me now. I shudder beneath him, lost to the sensations he's creating in me.

"Time," Spike replies, never stopping his movements, never still his hips. If anything, he gets rougher with me. His hand tightening, twisting harder in my hair again. This time, though, it's to yank me up. To pull me back against his chest, pull my head to the side to give him access to the line of my neck so he can trail open mouthed kisses over my throat.

"What?" I ask dazedly, shivering against him again as he trails kisses back down to my shoulder, laving his claim mark with the pointed tip of his tongue.

"Do you want more time?" he asks again, his voice low, practically a growl into my skin. My skin erupts in goose bumps, feeling too tight. Stretched too thin. I swear I can hear the blood rushing in my veins, pumping wildly through every artery as it travels. I close my eyes again as he nips at the pulsing, throbbing point over my jugular vein and murmurs, "Time is the only enemy."

The words ring in my ears, like I should know them. Like I've heard them before. Some distant, hollow kind of truth, known and unknown all at the same time.

Time is the only enemy.

"I don't…" I trail off, swallowing hard, biting back another loud moan when Spike slows his rhythm, swirling his hips in a slow, languid circle. "Oh, God, I don't understand."

"You don't have to," he promises me, lips still pressed to my skin, his hand winding around from my back to my hip, then down further. Teasing me, delving between my legs. I feel him smirk when my hips buck up into his hand. "Just trust me."

He's stilled his hips completely now, still buried to the hilt inside me. The soft pad of his index finger working in slow, torturous circles around every single place between my legs except where I need it most. I whimper desperately and Spike breathes, "Do you trust me, Buffy?"

The way he says my name has another wave of possessive desire coursing through me, whipping butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy, the blood rushing so loudly in my ears that I can't hear anything else.

And I nod again, helpless to do anything but. Nibbling at my ear suddenly, the pointed tip of an incisor clipping the soft flesh of the lobe and sending a sudden, warm trickle of blood spilling down the side of my neck. I gasp, my eyes flying open again.

Just in time to see him flick his long, perfect tongue out over the crimson streak.

The deepest, darkest part of my craving for him roars at the sight, my fingers itching where they grip the marble. And the urge to whirl around and suck his blood tinged tongue into my mouth is nearly unbearable. But his hands still have command over my body, playing me expertly, devastatingly well.

Inexplicably, my inner muscles clench and my mouth opens to let out what I'm expecting to be a heady moan, but what instead sounds an awful lot like a rumbling growl. For a half second, maybe less, I swear...could swear my eyes flash golden.

It happens too quickly, over before I have time to understand it.

Is this what he'd meant? Is this what he'd wanted to show me?

"There she is," Spike whispers, looking up at me again. "There's my girl." The words are just slightly distorted around his fangs, gleaming in the vanity lights as he cocks his head to the side and asks me one more time, "Do you want it?"

I still don't think I understand what he's asking me. All I know is what his body is demanding from mine, the answer he so clearly wants me to give. I don't think I could give him a different one, even if I tried. When I open my mouth to speak, the words don't sound like mine.

God, yes.

"There now," the vampire purrs, looking as pleased as he sounds. He looks up at me one more time, his eyes somehow finding my own through the impossibility of his reflection. And it's his demon's penetrating gaze locking with mine. "It only hurts for a moment."

A second later he growls, sinking his fangs down deep into his faded mark, making my entire body pulse and shudder, inner muscles spasming hard around him. Blood spills out from the wound, dark red gushing past his lips and down my bare skin...bare shoulder, bare breast, bare stomach, in glistening, perfect rivulets.

My head starts spinning, my mind flashing back to that moment with Dracula. The words he'd said, haunting words he'd told me. Just before slicing his wrist open and bidding me to drink from his vein. The vein. The vein of darkness.

"No. Your craving goes deeper than that."

Spike begins to drink from me.

"You think you know what you are…what's to come."

Really drink. Not the way he'd done during the claim. Not even the way he'd done after being de-chipped. This is different. Less controlled than the claim, but not the wild, primal pulls he'd taken for his memory. This isn't hunger, either. Or it is.

But it's a hunger of a different kind.

"You haven't even begun."

This isn't drinking to take. It's drinking to give.

I realize it as I stare into the impossible reflection in front of me, my eyes wide, hazel green and glassy as they shift down. Follow the crimson stains over my tanned skin, finally lighting on the bright glint of silver from Spike's wedding ring. His left hand is curved over my lower stomach, fingers splayed possessively across the top of my pelvic bone.

"Find it. The darkness."

Spike releases me, tearing his fangs from my shoulder with needle-like precision, nibbling, suckling lightly at the wound to close it again. To stem the flow of blood still trailing in flawless, vibrant streaks down my front. Our eyes meet in the mirror again, and my gaze drifts down to his lips. Full and swollen, stained with just a hint of red.

"Find your true nature."

I spin around in Spike's arms to brace my back against the cold marble and wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him hard down to me. Kissing him hungrily, heedless of his fangs. Not caring as the graze the corners of my mouth. His normally cool lips and tongue are hot, warmed by the coppery heat of my blood. His hands find my hips again and he pinches them, eliciting another low, throaty growl from me. He growls back lustily as I suck his tongue into my mouth, lifting me up, slamming me back hard into the mirror's shiny surface.

It shatters on impact.

And then I wake up.

Not screaming, not crying. No sitting bolt upright. I just…wake up. Eyes fluttering open, only half way aware that I'm clutching at the burning, stinging claim mark on my throat. It throbs beneath the palm of my hand, white hot. Like someone's just re-opened an old wound, or taken a red hot poker and branded me with it. I wince, blinking, scanning the area. I'm in bed on my stomach, drenched in sweat. Sheets tangled around my legs, pillows scattered across the mattress, the breeze from the open French doors fanning across my damp brow and cooling it instantly.

Chest tightening, I roll over onto my back and sit up, wide eyes taking in the room around me. Still on our honeymoon. This is still the hotel room. But this time, there isn't anything off. There isn't anything missing. Well apart from my husband, who definitely isn't lying in bed with me right now. But unlike before in my dream, I can sense him nearby. Know he can't have gone far.

And even though I know that… Even though logically I understand that he can only be one of two places, I call out for Spike anyway, my voice hoarse, a little bit strained. I don't know why. My eyes are still compulsively scanning the room, checking for anything that might be off. Odd. And then I relax a tiny bit, more than a little relieved when he answers me, stepping into the room from the open doors leading out to the balcony rather than from the bathroom. His face is angled, pale and smooth, and clear. No sign of the spectacles I'd seen in the reflection in my dream. My eyes shoot toward his hands, noting that they're empty.

So, no poetry book. No glasses.

No naked.

The vampire is only half dressed, true, but still. Dressed. No t-shirt, but the low slung black denim is still clinging to his alabaster hips like a second skin, silhouetted, looking extra form fitted in the moonlight streaming in behind him.

His brow is deeply creased in worry, eyes sweeping me for any sign of injury as he asks instantly, "What is it?" He takes an impulsive step further into the room. "What's wrong?"

But I just shake my head. Nothing about this feels wrong.

Not this time.

"Nothing," I murmur, dropping my hand away from the stinging mark at the curve of my throat. "Nothing now."

My vampire just gazes at me, one thumb hooked through the belt loop of his dark jeans, the other braced high against the door jamb. His eyes scan my face, then down to my neck. Slowly back up again. He frowns and asks, "Are you alright?"

I don't know the answer to that question just yet, so I go with the easier one. "Yeah," I say softly. Then clear my throat, and again, a little louder. "I…yeah, I'm fine."

It might be a lie. I don't know for sure yet. I swing my legs over the side of the massive bed and stand up, wrapping the sheet around me and bringing it with me as I do.

Spike watches me approach him, warm, shining azure eyes never wavering from mine.

"The nightmare again?" he asks as I pass him, walking out onto the moonlit balcony, eyes turned out, focused on the outcropping of rocks just head. The waves strike them in off beat patters, ocean spray catching on the breeze and whipping back toward us.

I feel the vampire's presence beside me and inhale, exhaling the salt scented air through pursed lips.

"It was just a dream," I tell him, echoing his own words to me from before. From my dream. So, not his words…his dream words. Or my dream words. How does that subconscious thing work, exactly? And besides, it's not a lie. But not the whole truth either. I had had the nightmare again.

The normal nightmare.

I'd just had another equally wiggy one right afterward.

Spike's probably sensed my half-truth, because he just eyes me warily, leaning forward to brace his forearms over the balcony railing. He raises a semi-skeptical brow at me. "Yeah? Feels like a bit more than just a dream."

His eyes light on the still-stinging mark on the curve of my throat.

And as his eyes meet mine again, I realize he might be right. That maybe, ya know, it had been more than just a dream. But I don't even understand what my dream had been about, what it had meant. If it had meant anything at all. And the last thing I want to do right now is bother him, or worry him for no good reason. My Buffy brain's been known to conjure up some pretty whacky stuff before, anyway. How am I supposed to know if this dream had been something worth wigging over or if it had been that massive blue cherry slurpee from the 7-11 we'd stopped at on the way here for gas?

It's with these thoughts in mind that I step closer to him, nudging him with my shoulder and murmuring, "Scooch."

Spike's expression melts from one of casual skepticism to wry amusement, his eyes glittering and lips quirking a slightly as he obeys, stepping back a little ways from the balcony railing.

I situate myself in front of him with my back to his chest, safely tucked between his arms when he lowers his hands back down to the railing.

The breeze picks up again, and I shiver, Spike leaning a little closer to me in response. It's hardly warm out here, and the bed sheet wrapped around me isn't exactly a wind breaker. And February isn't exactly spring, even in southern California. Spike's arms tighten a little around me, squeezing me securely between the steel grip of his biceps and forearms. A moment later he leans his head forward, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. We stand like this for a little while. At some point I reach up and start fidgeting absently with the silver band on his ring finger, eyes still focused out on the rocks and the water.

It's a habit, and a bad one. Not because Spike doesn't like when I do it, because actually, I think he does. He gets all chest rumbly and purry when I toy with his ring. It's a bad habit because it's a dead giveaway. At least to him.

I only do it when I'm trying to distract myself.

And right on cue, like he realizes it as soon as I've had the thought, Spike sighs, turning his nose into the side of my neck, nuzzling against me. Then he whispers, "Are you really alright?"

I suck in a deep breath, hold it for a minute, then let it back out slowly. Really thinking about the answer this time before I give it to him.

It was just a dream.

Just a stupid, meaningless, blue slurpee fueled dream.

So I curl my fingers into his, clicking the bottom of my wedding ring against the top of his, and nod once. "I'm perfect."

Because I am. Right now, here. With him. His arms boxing me in, squeezing me gently as we look out across the moonlit ocean cove. Almost like normal people might. Just the two of us. Two whole days spread out in front of us for us to be just the two of us. No Slaying. No research. No planning. Just good old fashioned, quality, honeymoons-style alone time.

Yeah.

I'm perfect.

A beat passes between us, silent except for the crashing of the waves on the rocks. Then, "Wanna talk about it?"

I turn in Spike's arms, tipping my head back a little so I can look into his face. "If that's what I wanted we could have just stayed at home."

He smirks at me, asking, "That right?" I smile up at him and nod, a flutter of heat passing between us as his smirk widens. A low, rumbling heat starts up in my stomach again as he reaches up to gently twist a section of my hair around his index finger. Narrowing his eyes, tilting his head to the side, he asks, "What is it my wife wants, then?"

I answer him by stepping forward onto my tip toes and crushing my lips to his.

I'd been the one to call down to order the room service in the early Saturday afternoon, even though the room we're staying in is technically under Spike's…er, William's, name…courtesy of Willow. I don't know exactly how she'd managed to hack the resort's computer system but I hadn't exactly been about to question it, considering it was way nicer than I think we ever could have normally afforded. The room service alone…yeesh.

I'd ordered both of us burgers and fries off laughably extensive room service menu, even though Spike insisted he didn't need anything. He'd made sure to pack himself plenty of "snacks" before we'd left the house the night before. I'd ignored him and ordered him his own anyway, mostly because I'd known half my fries would have ended up in his stomach if I hadn't, where they'd be doing nobody any good.

And then on a whim, I'd decided to order us a bottle of wine. No, we might not be in Napa…the eight hour drive had been just a little too long for a quick weekend getaway…but that didn't mean we couldn't still do the wine thing, right?

"Not a problem," the chirpy little front desk lady had told me when I'd asked. "What kind do you want?"

"Umm, I don't…" I'd trailed off, tucking the phone against my shoulder to muffle the receiver and raising my eyebrows at Spike for help.

"Bloody hell," he'd grumbled at me good naturedly, tossing his previously discarded t-shirt at me from across the room, "do I look like I know jack about wine?"

I'd bit my tongue on that even as my mind's eye was flooded with images of the softer version of him I'd seen in my dream, thinking that he probably knows more about wine than he'd be willing to admit to, turning my attention back to the phone and telling the nice woman—Cindy—that whatever she recommended would be just fine.

She'd agreed cheerily, saying, "We'll have that up to your room right away, Mrs. Pratt."

I hadn't known exactly what to say to that, it being the first time anyone had called me that…seriously. So I'd stammered some sort of awkward reply, a mumbled thank you, and hung up. When I'd turned to glance back at Spike, he'd had this wide, goofy grin on his face. And then he'd promptly tackled me back down to the bed.

Several hours, a smashed side mirror, broken buffet table and a wrecked overstuffed chair that isn't nearly as sturdy as it looks (and which I still haven't quite figured out how we're going to pay for) and one majorly long, way needed shower later, we're back nestled in the huge king sized bed together. The sun high in the sky, its light kept well away from us by the fluttering cloth awning stretched over our small balcony.

With wet hair and deliciously drained muscles, comfortably sore everywhere you should be sore on your honeymoon, I rest back against the bed's headboard and a pile of fluffy feather pillows. A massive room service plate of slightly cold food in front of my crossed legs, one of Spike's silky button downs buttoned loosely down my front and a too full glass of whatever wine Cindy had apparently recommended in my hand.

It's red.

Not that that really means anything. I mean, it doesn't. It's wine. It's…alcoholic grape juice. But for some reason it bugs, that the wine she'd chosen for us is red wine. A deep, burgundy color that runs just a little thick, and has been sitting in my untouched glass for nearly an hour now. I haven't been able to bring myself to drink it. All it does is make me think of my dream.

Spike's right hand rests casually on my leg, tracing vague little patterns over the curve of my inner thigh as he picks at the food he doesn't actually need in front of him. His eyes are on the large TV screen across the room, nestled into a wooden armoire, the volume down much too low for my ears but apparently high enough to catch and keep my husband's attention.

Suddenly, he asks, "Still frettin' over that dream?"

My eyes shoot toward him, going wide.

"No," I say immediately, realizing only after I've said it that it's another lie. Or...a sort of lie. Not really, I guess, since technically he's asking about the other nightmare, the usual nightmare, and not the new ultra wiggy one I can't seem to stop thinking about. Chewing absently on the end of a French fry that suddenly tastes too greasy, I swallow hard and push my plate away, my appetite suddenly gone. I stare at the food, then back down into the deep crimson liquid filling my glass. Suddenly feeling a little nauseated, I reach over to set the glass down on the nightstand beside me. "I've just been thinking."

I turn back to face the vampire lounging languidly on his side next to me, his own hair damp and slicked back, scratches and faint little bite marks gracing the solid muscles of his shoulders and down to his biceps. Marks left there by me at his husky, carnal urging, gruff demands made under the pulsing stream of the rainfall shower head of the suite's bathroom.

I swallow at the sight now, remembering how I'd let him make those demands of me without question, relishing in his obvious enjoyment of me taking possession of him as much as in my own. All the while, images from my dream had flashed in my head, driving me forward.

"Uh oh," Spike teases, swallowing a large bite of the grossly rare burger and leaning his head back to meet my eyes. "Dangerous past time, that." Seeing the serious look on my face, feeling the tension coiling through my muscles, the wry smirk melts off his face. He clears his throat and asks, "What about?"

I look at him thoughtfully, then look down into my lap. Watch his hand making play across my bare skin. And the answer is there. The question is there. Right there, on the tip of my tongue. The words. The small thought, the little niggle that's been at the back of my mind since early, early this morning. Since waking up. The feeling I'd gotten from my dream. It's right there, just behind my clamped lips, waiting to be asked.

Have you ever thought about turning me?

I could just ask. Just ask, get it out there. Deal with whatever consequences might come. Like the fact that he could tell me yes. Yes, he's thought about it. Yes, he wants to. Yes, and what do I think about an eternity together?

I don't think I'm ready to hear that.

Or worse, he could say no. That he hasn't thought about it.

And I don't think I'm ready to hear that either.

So I jump, tuck and roll off that Ozzy-style crazy train of thought and force my mind into other, safer, albeit possibly just as contentious waters.

"I was talking to Giles before we left. About the trip," I begin slowly, not meeting his eyes. Not needing to in order to feel him tensing beside me at the mere mention of the trek we'll be making to Europe next week. Eyes still down, I continue casually, "We're gonna be in London for a couple days, before Italy. I didn't know if maybe you wanted to—"

"No."

That has my eyes snapping over to his, a burst of frustration flashing between us both. "You didn't even let me finish."

He raises a brow at me. "Don't rightly need to."

"When was the last time you went home?" I press him, undaunted. Thinking that if I can ask him my questions quick enough he might slip up and accidentally answer instead of freezing up and shutting me out.

"We've talked about this," he sighs, exasperated, pulling his hand away from my leg and rolling over onto his back.

"Not really," I argue, watching him as he shuts his eyes like he's only half listening to me. "You won't talk about it. And every time I bring it up you do that."

"Do what?" he asks, eyes still closed, the bridge of the connection growing fuzzy as he tries to flood it, to hide how quickly his frustration and impatience is growing with me.

"You get all huffy and grr," I accuse him heatedly.

Spike's eyes fly open again, turning his head toward me. They're softer now, his brow furrowed as he scans my face. "You ask too many sodding questions, sweetheart."

The pet name only softens the sting of his words a tiny bit.

I twist my torso around so I can see him better, leaning my weight down onto the palm of my hand to ask, "Has it ever occurred to you I wouldn't need to ask so many questions if you'd just talk about it?"

He growls low in his throat, a short, impatient sound. Narrows bright blue eyes on me. "Where is all this comin' from all of a sudden? You only started askin' after we started planning' this Godforsaken trip. Why so curious about dear old William now?"

"I'm not curious about him, I'm curious about you," I counter heatedly, and it's the truth. "I just…" I let the words trail off, closing my lips around them having only halfway realized what I'd been about to say. I shift back into the pillows and clamp my lips shut, rubbing them together.

Beside me, Spike sighs. "You just what?" he asks, voice hard.

"I just want to understand you better," I admit finally, my eyes turned down toward a stray, fraying strand of fabric at the bottom of the shirt I'm wearing. I pluck at it distractedly, winding it tightly around my index finger. And I realize only as I'm saying the next words how very, very true they are. "I want to really know you."

Spike softens at that.

Immediately, like someone's snapped their fingers. Visibly, physically, the hard, clipped edge that had been flooding the connection between us before softening and growing warm instead. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and twists toward me. "You do know me, luv," he whispers, sliding the tips of his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my head up so I have no choice but to look at him. "You know me."

"No, I know…" I trail off again, sighing, pulling my chin out of his hand. "That's not what I mean."

His eyes flash.

"Bloody hell, then what do you mean?" he asks me on a sigh, another flicker of annoyance filtering through the words as he lets his hand fall to the mattress with a hollow thud.

"I mean it's not fair," I say, exasperated. "Okay? It's not fair that we're married and mated and connected and all of this stuff, and you know everything there is to know about me. But there's still this huge chunk of who you are that I pretty much know a smidgeon more than zero about." We both soften then, our eyes glued to one another's. I shake my head, suddenly wishing I hadn't said anything at all. But entirely unable to stop now. "I don't really know anything about who you were. Or about your family, or your history, or your education that's supposedly even better than Giles's."

Spike's shaking his head before I'm even finished speaking. "None of those things are hardly worth you knowin', pet."

"Shouldn't I be the one that gets to decide that?" I ask sharply, cheeks hot. I throw my hands up and half-shout, "God, Spike, I'm your wife."

"Ooo," he purrs, eyes darkening again. In a flash, he's gone from slight irritation to rumbling seduction. A distraction tactic I'm pretty sure, but still an annoying amount of effective as he starts to crawl toward me, his voice a low, sensual purr. "Say it again."

I pin him with a hard gaze, shifting just out of his easy reach and up onto my knees on the mattress. Put my hand out in front of me to stop him. "I'm your wife, which means I'm entitled to nag you."

That stops him in his tracks. Scarred eyebrow shooting sky high, he deadpans, "What?"

"Just a little," I clarify. "About the important things."

"And your incessant badgering about a bloke who's been dead for more'n a century." He blinks at me, long lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. "That's an important thing?"

"Well, yeah," I mumble, sinking down onto my heels. Feeling a little too acutely now just how incredibly sore the muscles in my legs are. "With our trip coming up. I mean, we're going to be over there anyway, and with the extra-long layover and the Councily stuff, it seems like something we should at least talk about before we go. Who knows when we might be able to go back, it could be too late—"

"You know," Spike muses, cutting me off and tilting his head to the side. I get the distinct feeling he hasn't really been listening to me. "For a girl who told me not twelve hours ago that she didn't want to talk, those lips of yours are movin' an awful lot."

I frown at him, quirking a brow. "First I nag you and now you're telling me I talk too much? Boy," I mumble, affecting a slight, deliberate pout. "We really did get married."

"Which reminds me," he says, leaning around me to pick my plate up, stacking it precariously on top of his. "It's been nearly a bleeding hour, plenty of time for a spry little Slayer like you to recuperate." I watch as he lifts them both into his hands, twists around to place them on top of the nightstand on his side of the bed before turning back to me, shifting sensually up onto his hands and knees. "Your husband would like to get back to shagging you now."

Just the mention of it has my muscles tightening in anticipation. But I hold my ground, as best as I can while balanced on my shins on an ultra-fluffy mattress, anyway, and shake my head. "No," I warn him, eyes glued to his as he starts to crawl lithely toward me, every slow, predatory movement dripping with sex and promise and making the dark, primal thing in me rear up and fight to rush forward. I force it back down. "No, we are not just going to avoid every argument we ever have with sex, Spike."

My vampire pauses and affects his own faux pout. Full, perfect bottom lip begging me to take it between my teeth and nibble on it. "But it's such a nice way to avoid them."

"I'm serious," I insist, but my voice isn't as strong as it was a moment ago, already melting a little under the smoldering heat of his gaze. Just like he'd expected, more than likely. So I hold my hand out feebly in front of me, like that'll do anything to stop him.

Like I actually want to stop him.

"So am I," he agrees breezily, beginning to crawl toward me again. "There'll be plenty of time to chat all this out before we hop across the pond, pet. After the weekend is over." He comes to a stop in front of me, gently batting my hand aside with a wry twist of his lips as he continues, "After we're back at home and back to havin' zero bloody privacy."

He reaches forward and slides both his hands onto my knees on the last word, as if he'd needed the extra skin to skin contact to drive his point home. Or maybe he just wanted it to give me a little extra nudge, because I feel it instantly. Starting at the place his fingertips press against me and threading itself up, uncoiling the tense muscles in my legs, up through my belly, through my chest, until even my cheeks are flooded with the delicious, palpable heat of raw desire.

I've got to figure out how he does that, and so easily. It's like its second nature for him, controlling the connection this way. And it isn't fair.

He presses the tips of his fingers harder into me and leans forward, his mouth at my ear, and growls. A surge of white-hot lust ripples between us and my inner muscles clench in very ready, very willing, anticipation.

God, so not fair.

"I know what you're doing," I tell him, but my voice is faint, even hoarser now than before with this slightly husky edge to it that I'm pretty darn sure hadn't been there a minute ago.

"Yeah?" Spike just smirks against my skin, skimming a slow line down from my ear to my collarbone with his lips. "Is it workin'?" His fingers continue to inch upward, sliding sinuously over the tops of my thighs and up to the hem of his shirt.

"No," I say immediately, and we both know it's the biggest of big, huge lies. I can't keep the shiver from rocketing down my spine when his lips close over the bottom half of his mark and he sucks at the tender skin gently. I whimper and admit, "Maybe."

Spike pulls back from me immediately, brows up. "Maybe?" he asks, mock offended.

"Maybe," I repeat, watching his eyes flicker and darken again, biting back the gasp that catches in my throat when he returns to feathering kisses over my shoulder, reaches around and hooks strong, cool hands under the backs of my thighs. I feel his grip begin to tighten, my eyelashes begin to flutter closed. And then I snap them open again, shift slightly away from him one last time. Pulling my shoulder away from his lips and pointing a finger at him, I say, "But don't think this means you're off the hook, buddy. This argument is so far from over."

My vampire leans back and appraises me, dark eyes sparkling as they search mine.

"You really wanna argue?" He asks, shrugging casually. "Be my guest. Long as you can do it from flat on your back I'm easy."

And with that he flashes me a quick, tongue curling smirk, tightens his grip hard around the backs of my thighs and yanks up. I motion is lightning quick, leaving my head light and fuzzy, my cheeks flushed as I flip back onto the mattress and let out a hoarse half-giggle, sprawling ungracefully on the mattress beneath him, legs instinctively winding languorously around his waist.

Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

"Now then," Spike says conversationally, voice honeyed. He braces his hands on either side of my head and presses into me just slightly, just enough to make me ache for him, to make the air catch in my lungs. He cocks his head to one side and leans down until his lips are hovering a millimeter away from mine. "You were saying?"

Any and all thoughts of my dream, any slight hint of anxiety I might have been feeling about it, or about our little Eurotrip, or about Spike's avoidyness...it all just kind of melts away when he looks at me the way he's looking at me now.

I can't help the curve of my own mouth, smiling wanly against his, and I hook my heels more firmly into his sides and arch my hips up, effortlessly driving him fully inside me. My lips slightly parted and pressed to his, I catch his short gasp of surprise from my sudden movement and tell him, "It can wait."