Three pairs of equally wide eyes are on me now. I'm not sure at first who to focus on, but decide in the end for Spike, because he's the first to say anything.

"Pet?" He prompts, turning fully toward me.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," I explain, searching his face. "The tracker in your shoulder, not sending anyone out after us. Giving me a wonky version of the prophecy to show you."

Across the table, out of the corner of my eye, I see Giles nod. "And them knowing you would come here, looking for my father."

I shift my eyes away from Spike, back toward him. "Exactly."

My dad exhales slowly, looking back and forth between Giles and myself. Beside me, Spike shifts, folding his arms over his chest. When I look back at him, he has a strange expression on his face. Head tilted, eyes narrowed.

Bordering on something that feels suspicious, but not quite. More wary.

I get that feeling again, like there's something going on that everyone else knows about except for me. It's a feeling you'd think I'd be used to by now.

It isn't. And I'm not.

"But why would these sods let us out just so we could find you?" Spike asks, his eyes never leaving Giles's face.

He says it so intentionally, and when Giles chances a glance in the direction of my vampire, there's definitely something there. Some meaningful look that's passing between them. I can feel the tension there.

It doesn't last long, barely long enough for me to even register that it's happened, before Giles drops his eyes back down to the table.

"I'm quite certain they have their reasons," He says quietly, cryptically.

It sets my teeth on edge, and I'm instantly torn between the overwhelming desire to ask what the hell is going on here and knowing that now probably isn't the best time to dig into it. Who knows how much time we have, if that tracker had been active, if Holland could be sending people after us even now.

Logically, I understand it isn't the time to ask.

I do anyway.

"Which would be what?" I ask, mimicking Spike's pose beside me, folding my arms.

Giles turns steely blue eyes on me, studying the planes of my face. So intently, for a moment I'd swear he was trying to read some microscopic words etched into my forehead. The moment feels like it lasts forever, but can't be more than maybe a long second.

It's all with the big uncomfortable.

Then, without a word to any of us, Dad picks up Spike's empty tumbler of scotch and slams the edge of it down as hard as he can on top of the tracker, smashing it, sending tiny little sparks shooting out over the wood table.

The sound makes me jump.

"That's not important right now," he says, eyes trained on the still sparking remains of the device. I stare at it, too, wondering dimly why we hadn't just done that in the first place. "We need to move. We have no idea how long that tracking device was transmitting a signal." Dad looks up, turning toward Giles. "For all we know they could be on their way here right now."

Giles nods knowingly, seeming to snap out of whatever intense concentration he'd been subjecting me to before.

"Even so," he's saying now, "The spell should keep us hidden, buy us a little time."

He reaches down, picking the crumpled pseudo prophecy pages up off the table and gathers them together. "Buffy, can you tell me," I watch him fold the papers up, hand them back over to me. I take them. "Did anything strange happen while you were inside Wolfram and Hart? Anything, besides the escape, that felt…" he trails off, thinking about the words, "out of the ordinary?"

I look back at him, frowning. Out of the ordinary. Wolfram and Hart. God, I wouldn't even know where to begin. Nothing that happened in any of the time we'd been held in that building could be described as ordinary. Still, I rack my brain, trying to focus.

But it's Spike who's the first to speak.

"They took my blood," he murmurs, looking over at me, then back to Giles. "Made a big deal about needin' it, too."

I'd almost completely forgotten about that. I guess my head hadn't exactly been all present and accounted for when it was happening. I'd just come back from Holland's office, more than a little on information overload.

But that had been weird. How insistent Lindsey had been, that they weren't leaving the room until they got what they'd come for.

I nod absently, eyes focused somewhere just beyond Spike's shoulder.

"That's right," I say, forcing my eyes back to Giles. "They said they needed a sample of Spike's blood, and they were way pushy about it."

Giles frowns, like he'd been expecting to hear something and this wasn't it. He looks toward Dad, who looks just as lost as the rest of us, then back to me.

"Did they take a sample of yours as well?"

"No," I respond immediately, without thinking, "they never…" but then I trail off, thinking back over the time spent in that basement room, even before that. The plane. The hotel room. They'd knocked me out cold twice. Two separate times when they'd had the chance to do anything, take anything, and I have no way of knowing.

My eyes find Spike's first. I can see it on his face that he's realized the same thing I have.

He'd been out, too.

"I don't know," I murmur now, not sure why I feel like it's so significant that I don't. "They could have. I don't…" I shake my head, turning my gaze back to Giles. "I don't know."

"Well, that is...odd." He frowns, considering. "Can you tell me-"

"Ripper," Dad says warningly, cutting him off. "We don't have time for this."

Giles clears his throat.

"Right, well...first thing's first." He starts to move, walking quickly around the table and heading for what looks like a small closet. He yanks open the door, pulls out a bag and starts shoving various books into it. "We need to get our hands on the original prophecy text." He drops the bag onto the table with a dull thud, takes off in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. "At this point, I'm extremely hesitant to trust anything Holland Manners has told either of you."

I turn to look at Spike just as he turns to look at me. He raises an eyebrow, glancing back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, the direction Giles has just disappeared in.

"And how are we supposed to do that, mate?" He calls after him, voice tense, a little incredulous. "If Holland's tellin' the truth, then this 'original text' is somewhere inside the belly of the beast."

Giles emerges from the kitchen, hands full of what look like several little bottles of some kind of ishy looking liquid and three long stick-like things. He's opening his mouth to respond to Spike, I can see the words forming even as I beat him to it.

"We have to go back in."

I hear myself say it, somehow managing to sound all at once more firm and much braver than I feel. I say we.

But I think it's more than obvious to everyone that what I'm really saying is I, because there's barely a beat before all three of them start speaking at once.

Giles. "Now, wait-"

Dad. "Buffy-"

And the loudest of all three is Spike. "What?"

It's his voice that I'm drawn to, instantly, a moth to a flame. Something in the tone of his voice, the deep growl. It feels like it commands me, pulls me to him above all the others.

He leans down toward me, coming into my personal space so he can drop his voice to a low whisper and still know I can hear him.

"Bloody hell, Buffy," he hisses, and I stare up into two raging eyes, watching the muscle in his jaw tic. "No. We just got you out of there." I can tell how much, how badly he wants to reach out and grab me. Put his hands on my shoulders, make sure I'm really hearing what it is he's saying. But he doesn't, and I'm grateful. I don't know if it's because he can read me, feel that it isn't the right time, or place. Still, the tone of his voice tells me everything. "There's no sodding way I'm lettin' you go back in."

Part of me warms instinctively to the possessive way he's speaking, the fierceness in his gaze as he looks at me. Something in me reacts so instantly, so viscerally to it.

But the other part of me feels the heat of hot and immediate frustration burning in my chest, rising up my neck, into my cheeks.

I narrow my eyes at him, dropping my voice down so low I'm certain only he can hear it.

"I'm not asking your permission."

His eyes flash, and I can see the muscles tensing in his shoulders, around his neck. "I know that." He steps a little closer to me, effectively blocking my view of anything other than his face. "If you were, you wouldn't get it."

My shoulders sag just the slightest bit, not defeated, but tired. Suddenly so, so tired. I take a deep, shaky breath in and exhale, the air blowing a piece of hair off my forehead.

"These guys have been three steps ahead of us this entire time," I tell him, voice still low but not as tense. "They still might be. We can't afford to sit around and wait for them to make their move, Spike."

He just stares at me for a long moment, and I watch as the hard lines around his eyes slowly start to soften. He blinks at me several times, and then the corner of his lips twitch like he's fighting the beginnings of a smile.

He steps even closer to me, raising his hand up between us to cup my chin.

"You're one stubborn chit, you know that."

My own lips twitch, but neither of us are actually smiling. "I think you've told me that before."

From somewhere behind Spike's shoulder, someone clears their throat. I can't tell from where I'm standing if it's Giles or Dad, until they speak.

"As much as I...hate to interrupt." It's Giles. "We have one small problem."

Spike drops his hand away from me and rolls his eyes, turning to face the two older men. "Oh, good," he quips sarcastically, "another one."

Giles is looking at both of us, unamused. He's dumped the bottles and the sticks on top of the table and is in the process of packing them in the bag now, along with what looks like several wooden crucifixes and a couple stakes.

It looks like we're going into battle.

"As I was trying to say before," Giles says, sounding a little annoyed as he zips the bag up with a practiced flourish. "Wolfram and Hart's archive department isn't here."

This makes me pause. I frown, confused, looking first at Giles, then Dad, then finally over to Spike.

None of them look as surprised as I feel.

Actually, none of them look all that surprised at all.

I frown deeper, shifting wary eyes back to Giles. "What do you mean, it isn't here. Holland said-"

"That this is special projects division," Dad cuts me off this time, not looking at me. "Yeah, it is." His eyes meet mine. "One of them."

I blink at him, repeating the phrase numbly. "One of them."

"Wolfram and Hart is a rather large operation, Buffy," Giles explains, repeating a shorter version of what Holland had begun to explain to me in his office. "This is only one, rather small, branch. The main archive department is separate."

"Okay," I say slowly, eyes scanning the room. "So it's separate. Where is it?"

The rooms goes very still, dead silent. No one makes a move to answer me right away. When I glance around the room now, everyone's eyes are down.

This crypto routine is getting old. Fast.

"Where is it?" I ask again, more sternly this time.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike groans, looking back and forth between Giles and Dad with a frustrated expression. He turns to look at me. "It's in Los Angeles, luv."

The words register in a weird, distant way. I stare up at him, shaking my head.

Los Angeles.

Wolfram and Hart keeps their prophecy archives in L.A.?

Spike must see the distant confusion on my face, because he sighs.

"Remember when you asked me if New York was where Wolfram and Hart's headquarters were?"

It takes me less than a second to put two and two together. My mouth drops open, and I whirl away from Spike, back toward Dad and Giles.

My eyes are blazing, heat flushing my cheeks.

"You're telling me," I begin, the words gritted out through clenched teeth, "Evil Incorporated is literally less than three hours away from the place I grew up?" I look back and forth between the two of them, wild eyes searching their expressions. One sheepish, the other bordering on indignant. "That's where you geniuses thought I'd be safe?"

All this talk about keeping me hidden, trying to keep my safe. Safe from Wolfram and Hart who, apparently, were only a hop, skip and a jump away from me for the last eighteen years of my life.

If there's a reason for this, if there's a way that this makes sense, I'm not seeing it.

"Right under their noses," Spike mumbles quietly, almost under his breath. He shifts his eyes back to mine. "Sort of bloody brilliant, actually."

I toss him a scathing look, but I'm not sure if it's because I'd wanted him to agree with me or if it's because he thought of a reason I hadn't.

Maybe both.

"That was the idea," Giles grudgingly admits, eyeing Spike with a wary sort of acknowledgment. He turns his eyes to me. "As far away as we could get you from one, in the backyard of the other."

Dad looks at me seriously, his lips a tight line. "We had our reasons."

I think it's the way he says it. Like I should just accept it, shouldn't argue.

I glare at him.

"And kept me in the dark about all of them."

His brow furrows, but the line of his lips softens. "We were just trying to-"

"Keep me safe." I finish the sentence for him, waving my hand. "Yeah, I know."

I take a deep breath, turning my eyes up to the ceiling and putting my hands on my hips. I drum my fingers against the denim of my jeans.

"Okay, fine," I say, pursing my lips and leveling my gaze at Giles. "So why bring me all the way here then? It's not like they couldn't do everything they've done here right there in California…"

I trail off as I realize what I've said, who it is I'm looking at.

They could have done everything, absolutely everything, they've done to me back in the comfort of the home. Except for one.

Finding Richard, his son. They had to bring me here to do that. I think back to what Dad said to me in the sewers, about things needing to have aligned perfectly for the prophecy to come true. I think about everything that Wolfram and Hart has managed to orchestrate so far.

Even early on, when Spike had first told me about them. When I'd been frightened of them, of what they might do to me. I never imagined they'd go to such great lengths to get what they need.

I thought I was supposed to be the unstoppable one.

Beside me, Spike lets out a low, appreciative whistle. He tilts his head, eyes riveted on Giles. "You must be awfully important, mate," he says, echoing a version of the thought I've just had.

The older man nods, dropping his eyes over toward the packed bag on top of the table. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet.

"We all must be."

All four of us grow silent again, looking around the room. We're wasting time. Time we can't afford to lose.

"So this...Tiberius thingy," I say, drawing everyone's attention back to me, "with the prophecy, is somewhere in L.A."

Dad nods. "The archive department in the law office there."

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. My hands are still on my hips as I meet each pair of eyes, landing finally on the twinkling azure of Spike's.

I always come back to Spike.

"Okay," I say firmly, tone brooking no argument. "I guess we're going to L.A."

Giles reaches up and removes his glasses.

"And how do you propose we get there?" He asks, gesturing with the spectacles in my vampire's general direction. "We can't exactly travel normally." He pauses, turning his gaze expectantly on Spike. "Unless-"

The vampire growls, taking an instinctive step forward. "If you think I'm lettin' you lot go anywhere without me, you're insane."

I shoot my hand out, wrapping it tightly around Spike's upper arms and squeezing, just a little harder than I intend to. A small flicker of pain crosses his features, and I loosen my grip immediately.

It's the first time I've witnessed my new strength cause him anything that resembles true pain.

I don't like it.

I rub my thumb over slightly over the spot where I've squeezed just once before dropping my hand all together, turning back to look at Dad. "Can't we just...get a Red Eye or something?"

It seems reasonable enough.

"And in the mean time?" Giles asks, placing his glasses back on his face.

I frown.

"Find a-a motel. Put up one of your cloaking spell things. Just for tomorrow, during the day…" I pause, doing the math in my head. "12 hours tops. Won't that hold?"

I watch as Dad considers my suggestion, folding his arms over his chest. He glances between me and Giles, tossing one cautious glance at Spike for good measure.

Then he sighs, nodding his head. "Between the two of us, we should be able to create something plenty strong for 12 hours."

Giles lifts the bag up off the table, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "I have supplies in here we can use."

I look at the bag, the bag he'd packed upwards of ten minutes before I'd even made the suggestion of finding a motel, putting a cloaking spell up around it.

He catches my eye. I nod at him.

He nods back.

"Okay," I say, leaning forward and snatching Spike's duster off the back of the chair behind me. "Let's go."

The four of us race are out the hidden door, racing back down the alley in a matter of mere moments. We pause for just a moment, long enough for Dad to look out and take a cursory glance around the alley, but apparently he doesn't see anything because he quickly waves us forward.

We head back the way we came, going immediately in the direction of the nearest Subway tunnel. I let Dad and Giles lead the way, staying close by Spike, keeping an eye on him as we speed our way down the now nearly empty streets.

We finally reach the subway, taking it down for several long minutes until we reach an exit that's outside the Tribeca area and considered safe by Giles.

None of us talks about the fact that we haven't spotted anyone that looks like they could be from Wolfram and Hart. I think maybe we're afraid to jinx it, like the minute one of us says something a horde of black clad men will come stumbling around the corner.

Whether we just made it out of Giles's apartment in plenty of time, or the tracking device in Spike's shoulder really had fizzled out long before we'd arrived there, I don't know. I don't care. All that matters to me is getting to a fixed location where we can wait out the next several hours.

When we finally do reach one, it isn't exactly the Waldorf, but it isn't exactly a Motel 6, either.

And it's in a different part of town, has available rooms for cheap and can get us into rooms that are side by side. So it's perfect.

What I'm not counting on, what I haven't even considered, is the fit that Dad throws once we reach our floor, standing outside the hallway in front of the two rooms.

"There's absolutely no way I'm letting you spend the night with her." He says coldly, jabbing a finger in my vampire's direction.

Spike smirks. "Technically, it'd be spendin' the day with her."

Dad's eyes flash, and I can see the muscles in his neck straining. I step between the two of them.

"It isn't like we haven't before," I say to Dad, only realizing what I've implied when both Dad's and Giles's eyes go wide. "Spent the night...err, day together." I insert quickly, hearing the words in my own ears, wincing a little.

Spike chuckles low in my ear behind me.

Way to make things worse, Buff.

"What I mean," I begin again, clarifying, "is that we've been traveling together for a while now. I'm...used to it."

It's a lame excuse, I know it. Flimsy. But the thought of not spending this extra time with Spike, the only alone time we might have for a little while, makes my skin feel too tight, my finger twitch.

It would be the first time in what feels like years that I wouldn't be in the same room with him while I sleep, and for some reason the thought just doesn't sit right with me. At all.

On top of that, there are things...things I want to tell Spike. Things I need to tell him.

"I have to agree with Hank," Giles speaks up now. "I'm not sure you two spending more alone time together can do anything to help our situation."

Spike growls. "What exactly are you implyin'?"

"I don't want to argue about this," I say quickly, voice firm. I look at Dad, making sure he sees exactly how serious I am, what it is I'm actually saying.

I'm not going to argue about this.

"I just want to put this spell up and I want to shower and get some sleep." I raise both eyebrows, widening my eyes. "Please."

Dad turns his gaze from mine to up behind my shoulder. He narrows his eyes dangerously. "If I think for one second," He hisses, "just one, that she's in any danger-"

My vampire's muscles grow tight, coiled as he leans forward toward Dad.

"I'm the last person you should be worried about hurtin' her."

"Oddly enough," Giles quips, lifting the shoulder strap off his shoulder and setting the bag down. "I'm inclined to believe him."

"Damn right you are," Spike growls.

I turn around just in time to see him whirling around, slipping the little key card into the door and storming into the room on the right, slamming the door shut.

I turn back to Giles and Dad, both of whom are looking at me with expressions that range from mildly disgusted to confused.

"He's not going to hurt me, "I say, looking back and forth between the two of them. "He wouldn't."

Dad shakes his head, exchanging another look with Giles before turning to look back at me.

"Can you blame me for not trusting him?" He asks, searching my eyes with his.

I take a deep breath, exhale through my nose. "Has he given you any real reason not to?"

Giles clears his throat, turning his eyes down toward the ground.

I know what he's thinking, can see it written all over his face. Exactly why he in particular doesn't trust Spike.

And I'm not an idiot. I know there's still something between him and Spike, something besides what I've been told, something they both feel like keeping from me.

Something I'm hoping maybe finding the original prophecy text might shed some light on. But I can't bring it up with him now, not with Dad here.

I don't want to give him any more reason to dislike my vampire. More than he already does.

"I'll just...get started on this." Giles is saying now, indicating the bag of supplies in his hand. He turns toward the motel room door on the left and vanishes inside.

"Look," I begin, reaching out and taking one of Dad's larger hands in mine. "I don't...understand everything that's happening with me. I don't think any of us will get the whole story until we can see what the original text says." I sigh, squeezing his hand once before dropping it again. "But if you would just make an effort with Spike...that would be really helpful."

Dad shakes his head, frowning at me. "He's a vampire, Buffy."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I know what he is, Dad."

I think he's about to say something else to me, I'm not sure what, when the door pops open beside us and Giles sticks his head out.

"Sorry to interrupt." He looks briefly at me, then directly to my dad. "Hank, everything's ready for you. I think it would be wise to finish the spell sooner rather than later."

Dad offers me a strained little smile, leans forward and presses a little kiss to my forehead. I have a feeling the conversation we started isn't over, but I don't think tonight's going to be the night we finish it.

Probably for the best.

He steps around Giles and into the motel room, leaving me standing alone in the hallway facing one closed door and the other still cracked open.

Giles clears his throat, drawing my attention up to his eyes. He leans further out into the hallway, speaking quietly.

"I know you have a lot on your mind, Buffy. There are so many things going on here, things we still don't know, or completely understand." There's a short pause as his eyes search my face, grey-blue burning deeply into mine. "Just...promise me you won't do anything rash."

I stand there, blinking at him.

He's clearly trying to convey something to me without saying it, but I can't quite read what it is from behind his glasses.

I'm about to say something, I'm not entirely sure what, when I hear Dad holler for Giles on the other side of the door. He gives me one last, long look, then nods as if to say goodnight and disappears back into the room, letting the door fall shut.

I stand in the hallway, feeling more than a little confused and whole lot of wigged. After several more moments, I turn toward the room Spike had disappeared into earlier, reaching up and knocking on the hollow wood veneer.

No answer.

Frustrated, feeling more than a little exposed standing in the narrow hallway by myself, I reach up and knock again.

There's a much briefer pause this time, and then Spike answers.

Dripping wet, obviously freshly showered, one towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand, drying his tousled platinum curls.

I blink at him, a little stunned.

"Sorry, pet." He steps aside, opening the door up wide enough for me to step inside. "Didn't hear you knockin' the first time."

I take a step in, passing by him, feeling the steam rolling off his cool skin as I do, the fresh scent of soap strong in the air. I hear the click of the door falling back in place and turn back to face him. He finishes drying his hair and tosses the towel over the back of a small desk chair, running one hand through the bleached locks to smooth the curls back.

My mouth goes dry.

I can't remember the last time I got so tongue tied around Spike. My God, after everything we've been through together you'd think it'd be impossible for things to feel this...awkward.

Because that's what it is. Awkward.

I'm hyper aware of his near nakedness, hyper aware of the two men in the room beside ours. Of the way my fingers itch to reach out and touch him, wipe the little droplets of beaded water off the curve of his shoulders.

But I can't do that. For lots and lots of super good reasons.

Can't.

"So," I say, cupping the back of my neck with my hand.

Spike smirks at me, raising one eyebrow. "So?"

I had something to say, something to tell him. It's right there on the tip of my tongue as I open my mouth, and then-"How's the water pressure?"

Oh, God.

I can practically feel my cheeks flooding with heat, turning red.

Spike's smirk widens. I can see the very tip of his tongue curling up behind his top teeth, barely visible.

I swallow again.

"You really want to know, pet?" He asks, giving a tiny flick of his head in the direction of the bathroom. "Shower's right over there."

"Right," I say, going for breezy but it comes out breathless instead. I clear my throat. "Right, I'll just…" I point back over my shoulder, toward the bathroom.

He nods, still smirking at me.

I turn on my heel and disappear into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I hurriedly yank the shower curtain into place, leaning down to turn the faucet on, all the way over to hot. I don't wait for it to get completely finished heating before I jump in.

Things are awkward between me and Spike. They're awkward, and I know why, and I don't want them to be.

I still haven't said it. I've thought it, wanted to say it. But it was never the right time.

And now…now what?

I close my eyes, leaning my head back into the spray, letting the warm water soak into my hair, down my face as I think about what to do. What I want to do, what I should do. Whether or not those are the same thing.

Whether or not it matters.

So much has happened. So many questions answered, so many more brought up. Isn't that what Giles had said to me outside, pointed out how much we still honestly don't know.

"Don't do anything rash."

Would telling Spike be considered something rash? Is that what he'd meant?

I'd been so determined, so sure when I'd been arguing with Dad out in the hallway that saying it was the best thing to do.

And we're safe now, I reason. As safe as we possibly can be, in this city at least. We've distanced ourselves from the tracker, have a plan to get to L.A. in place. Dad and Giles are putting a protection or cloaking or whatever spell on the rooms even now.

And who knows how long we will be. Safe, that is. All four of us. Once we get back to California, we'll be dealing with a whole new evil law firm type beast. Trying to find a way inside, a way to get into that archive department. Who knows how dangerous that'll be, what could happen.

Who knows when the next time is I'll get this kind of alone time with Spike.

It has to be now.

I finish scrubbing, hurriedly use the mini bottles of shampoo and conditioner to get my hair as clean as I can and turn off the shower. I jump out, grab a towel off the rack and wrap it around my body, not bothering to dry the little droplets of water still streaming off my hair, running down my back and legs as I fling open the bathroom door.

Spike is sitting on the edge of one of the queen beds when I enter the main room, towel still draped around his waist, head in his hands. As soon as he hears me enter, though, his head snaps up, indigo eyes finding mine immediately.

I don't know what he sees on my face, but it's enough to make him get to his feet, brow furrowing as he looks at me.

"What's wrong?"

I shake my head, feeling strands of heavy, damp hair whip across my bare back. Spike takes a step closer to me, tilting his head to the side.

I take a deep breath, hold it in, and then exhale.

"I love you," I say, my voice coming out as barely more than a whisper.

Spike stops, going dead still as he looks at me. His eyes are deep navy now, narrowed slightly as they search my face.

"What?"

He isn't asking because he didn't hear me.

It's my turn to take a step closer to him, keeping my eyes riveted on his. I take another breath, repeating the words a little louder this time. "I love you."

I watch Spike's Adam's Apple bob slightly as he swallows once, hard, watching me intently. He's still standing perfectly still in front of me.

"You love me."

It's the same thing I'd said to him before, in the vault room at Wolfram and Hart, when he'd first said the words to me. And he says it so softly to me now, so tentatively. Like if he says it any louder the words won't be true, won't mean anything.

I just nod, unable to keep the tiny quirk of a smile off my lips.

He crosses to me quickly then, a blur of bleached curls, alabaster skin and fluffy white towel, until he's standing directly in front of me. Both of his strong hands gently cup either side of my face, his eyes open and earnest and hopeful as they burn down into mine.

And he's so beautiful. So insanely beautiful, soft and sharp, vulnerable and strong, light and dark. Everything, all of it, all at once. An exquisite contrast.

He sweeps my cheek with the pad of his thumb, threading the fingers of his other hand into my damp hair.

"Say it again," he whispers, and the ghost of a smile curves his lips.

I press my cheek more firmly into his hand, feeling how cool and soft his skin is against mine, and inhale deeply. Even through the scent of soap, the smoky leather smell is still there. Like it's etched permanently into his skin after so many years, as much a part of him as his stormy eyes and tongue curling smirk.

"I love you, Spike," I whisper back, watching as those stormy eyes visibly brighten when the words pass my lips.

I'd say it again, as many times as he asks me to. A million and one times, if only to see him look at me the way he's looking at me now.

I open my mouth to do just that, but he moves faster than I do, covering my mouth with his and swallowing the words before I can even form them. His one hand winds deeper into my hair, the other sliding down from my cheek to my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, to the place where I've knotted the towel around my body.

As soon as I feel him tug on it my eyes snap open, my hand coming up automatically to cover his before the towel can come loose.

"What are you doing?" I ask, wide eyes whipping back and forth between him, the door to our room and the wall that separates us from Giles and Dad.

Spike catches my chin with his hand, gently turning my eyes back to his.

"What's it look like?" He asks, brushing his thumb over the curve of my bottom lip. He reaches down and unwraps the towel from around his own waist, letting it fall to the floor in a white heap at his feet.

I swallow hard, refusing to look, keeping my eyes trained on his.

"Spike, no," I hiss, dropping my voice down to a low, panicked whisper. "W-we can't have sex here." My eyes dart back to the separating wall. "Not now."

He exhales a little sigh, using the hold he still has on my chin to draw my gaze back to his.

"I don't want to have sex, Buffy."

I blink at him, confused. "You don't?"

"No," he says, gently running his hand over the back of my head, re-tangling it in the slightly wavy strands. "Just want to love you."

I frown, still not quite understanding. And more than a little distracted by his obvious nakedness, which is getting harder and harder to avoid looking at.

Spike chuckles softly at the look on my face, then leans in, cool breath fanning delicately over my lips.

My eyes flutter closed.

"Please, sweetheart," he murmurs, rubbing the tip of his nose softly against mine. Our lips are bare millimeters away from one another's. "Let me make love to you."

I melt against him, my legs going a little shaky as I press my lips to his. I can feel the tension, the desire pouring off him, gathering me up in his arms and letting my towel fall away from my body.

The sensation is what does me in. Lengths of smooth, uninterrupted skin pressing intimately against each other. Mine hot, heated and flushed to his cool, like marble underneath my fingertips, splayed across the muscles of his chest. And it doesn't matter anymore. None of it. Not the fact that my hair is still dripping little rivulets of water down my back. Not the fact that my father is right next door. Not the fact that we're still in New York, possibly being pursued by the evil lawyer and his lackeys.

The only thing I can taste is this, right here. A stolen moment. Maybe the last one we'll see for a while.

And I want to take it. Hold onto it. Make it last.

I slide my hands up from his chest, wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer against me. He mimics me, draping his arms tightly around my back, holding me to him. And then in one swift, far too graceful movement, he spins us around and falls back onto one of the beds.

I land on top of him far less gracefully, legs splayed across his hips, cradling Spike's head between my hands and the mattress.

I laugh a little into his mouth, he's still kissing me deeply, and struggle to pull myself away from him. Not far away, just enough that I can see his gaze, tickle his nose with mine. He stares up at me with the same gentle, awed expression from before, his eyes dark with lust.

"Somethin' the matter, luv?" He asks me, voice very low. He raises an eyebrow. "Change your mind, did you?"

I look down at him, studying the planes of his face.

"I'm on top of you," I murmur softly.

Spike smirks, lifting his head off the mattress to nip at my bottom lip gently.

"So I noticed," he growls playfully, wiggling his hips underneath me.

I tilt my head to the side, being careful to keep my eyes in direct contact with his.

"You said you were going to make love to me," I whisper, my own voice low and huskier than I imagined it could be.

Spike's body stills beneath mine, and I watch his pupils visibly dilate, the azure of his irises all but disappearing as he stares headily up at me.

"That I did," he agrees hotly, then wraps his arms more tightly around me and flips us around again so I'm pinned lightly between the length of his body and the mattress.

I cradle him between my legs, fighting the instinctive urge to arch my hips up into him. I feel my inner muscles tighten in anticipation.

But he doesn't move, doesn't press forward like my body's calling out for him to do.

Instead, he stays very still. Leaning over me, both hands on either side of my head, looking down at me with this incredible, fierce mix of undiluted desire and love and I can't stop myself from reaching up, laying my palm against the razor edge of his cheekbone.

"I love you," he whispers, turning his head into my hand, kissing the tip of my thumb.

I smile up at him, feeling the exquisite, excruciating pressure of having him there, but just barely, between my legs. Knowing the promise of what comes next. Needing it, craving this physical connection with him in a way I can't remember needing it before.

"I love you, too," I whisper back.

And then he thrusts inside of me, all the way in, and the world starts to spin a little faster. I drop my hand from his cheek, gripping the curve of his shoulder, digging my nails into the skin there as I arch my back up.

When he begins to move, the pace is slow. Almost unbearably, but so sweet, so gentle.

So different than the first two times, which had been driven by white hot need, frenzied and urgent. Each time before had been presupposed by violence. Sparring in the back alley in Columbus, the fight we'd had when I'd tried to provoke him in the hotel room in Cleveland. Both times had been spurred by the violent, primal urge to possess. To own.

And so, in a way, is this.

The need, the desire is there. It's still raw.

But it somehow feels completely different, and not just because the pace is so much slower. Spike keeps our rhythm steady, deliberate. I can feel every inch of him when he leaves my heat, feel how desperately my body tries to reclaim him when he slowly pushes back inside. And each time, each luxurious movement of his hips, he strikes a chord somewhere deep inside me. The little bundle of nerves that send rolling waves of pleasure jolting through me, making me bite down on my lip to keep from crying out each time.

It's a slow burn, too. The building, familiar rising heat that starts somewhere just below my belly button and fans hotter, higher, until it's spreading to the very tips of my toes.

All the while he's looking at me, glazed, black eyes shifting slightly, swirling yellow with the effort of keeping up the languorous pace.

When I start to feel it, the tell-tale spasm of my inner muscles, the tightening in my stomach, I let out a loud, involuntary moan.

Spike immediately brings his hand up, places it firmly but gently over my lips.

"Shh, pet," he whispers tensely, voice low, very strained with the effort. "Gotta be quiet."

I nod quickly, rolling my hips more urgently in time with his. He removes his hand and I return to biting down, hard, on my lip.

When my inner muscles give a sudden, quick clench, Spike gasps out a strangled, "Oh, Christ." And I come with a muffled cry, the tip of my right canine slicing through the soft flesh of my bottom lip as I throw my head back, eyes fluttering closed.

My vampire follows me over barely a moment later, smashing his mouth over mine, muffling his own cry of release.

Every muscle in my body is Jell-O as I lay beneath him, nails still digging into his shoulders, feeling his muscles twitch beneath my hands. He continues to pump his hips a few more times, still kissing me slowly. I can taste it on his tongue as it tangles with mine. The coppery, metallic flavor of my blood.

It's a little bit sweet.

"I was scared," Spike says a little while later. We're dressed now, sort of, and laying underneath the covers of the bed we'd made love on earlier.

He has one hand entwined with mine, the other tracing little patterns with his fingertip over the back of my hand. His eyes are focused on the spot where he's touching me.

I'm looking at his face, watching his profile. "When?"

He shifts his eyes briefly up to mine, then quickly back down again.

"Inside Wolfram and Hart. Every time they took you out of the room. Reading the prophecy before the escape. After. In the sewer tunnels." He shakes his head, chuckling darkly. "You name it, luv."

I frown at him. "You didn't act scared."

With the exception of the one time in the vault room, after reading the prophecy. After telling me he loved me for the first time. I'd told him if he meant that, then he'd do what I asked and kill me. He'd asked me then, about feeling sorry.

Had it been less about feeling sorry and more about feeling afraid?

"No," he says, chuckling breathily, "can't very well look it, can I? S'posed to be the Big Bad and all."

He sighs, shifting back on the bed. "But things have been...different. Since I bit you." He shakes his head, looking up at me. His lips quirk sheepishly. "You're not the only one who's been changin'."

I shift further onto the bed, too, mirroring his pose, propped up against the pillows.

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling my eyelids starting to grow heavy with sleep.

I fight to keep them open, but I'm sure Spike sees how much effort it's taking because he gives me a small, sideways grin and reaches out to brush a wavy strand of hair behind my ear.

"Dunno really," he murmurs, "just know I've been...feelin' more. Differently, since the night I bit you. Slowly at first, so slowly I don't think I bloody noticed it at all until…" He trails off, exhaling. He glances down at our hands again. "What's happenin' with us, pet, it isn't a claim. It can't be without the proper ritual involved." His eyes meet mine again, back to a stormy, glistening indigo. "But this connection we have, the thing I started in you. I think it might...go both ways."

I tilt my head to the side, fighting off a yawn. "You mean, like...I'm connected to the demon, and you're-"

"Connected to you...your humanity, maybe. Your..." He trails off, shakes his head again. "I...I dunno. But I'm wonderin' if that isn't somethin' we can't find out when we get our mitts on the genuine article."

I nod, only dimly registering what it is he's saying to me. I think it might be really important, but the haze of sleep and satiety is making it hard for me to focus.

I stifle another yawn.

"Mmhm," I murmur, "kind of hoping we can fill in a lot of these gaps when we get our mitts on that."

Spike reaches toward me, scooping his arm underneath me and lifting me up, pulling my back against his chest. "You should sleep, sweet," He murmurs softly, lips tickling my ear. "'S gonna be a long night."

I let myself yawn this time. "What time is it?"

"Just after sunrise, give or take."

"Are you going to sleep?" I ask, the words slurring just a little.

"I will," he purrs softly, breath tickling the strands of hair around my ear, "in a little while."

I nod, yawning again.

I close my eyes and shift down onto the pillow of his chest, his lips still at my ear, and I fall asleep to the quiet, low sound of his humming something that sounds a lot like a lullaby.

I dream.

In my dream I see a wild, raging river. I'm standing on one side of the river's edge, looking into the water. Spike stands on the other side, shirtless, completely still, looking back at me.

And the longer I stare into the water, the clearer it becomes.

It isn't swirling, dark water at all. It's blood.

I tear my gaze away from the river, focus on the vampire in front of me.

His eyes glow golden.

Mine glow red.