Who are you?

For a very, very long moment, I can't speak. Can't move. I'm still leaning over Spike; left hand still held tight in his, my right hand pressed against his cheek. His lips just slightly swollen from the kiss I'd given him a moment ago.

And those words, that question. Who are you? It echoes through my head, spinning and twisting and repeating until I'm closing my eyes and shaking my head to better understand it.

He doesn't know who I am. Doesn't…can't recognize me.

Spike doesn't recognize me.

Permanent damage. That's what Giles had said. He hadn't had any way of knowing if him removing the chip had caused any permanent damage.

Like memory loss.

It's the slightly impatient tug on my left hand that has me starting, my eyes fluttering open again. Spike's moved slightly, shifted upwards on the pillow so that his back is pressed to the headboard.

And he's looking at me. Head tilted slightly to the side, the familiar blue of his irises burning into mine.

"Are you alright?" he asks me softly, his voice still not quite his.

And it's just too…weird. Too much to see him looking at me like this. The eyes that I recognize, the expression so thoughtful and so…intense. Earnest. But there's no love there. At least, not the kind I've grown so used to seeing. It wigs me out, raising the i=tiniest goose bumps all along my bare arms as I search his eyes.

Like I'm looking at him but I'm not looking at him at the same time.

My chest tightens.

"I…I, umm…" No. The answer is no. "You don't know me?"

"Sort of get the feelin' I don't know a lot a things."

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all?"

Spike thinks it over for a minute, opening his mouth once as though he's about to speak before quickly closing it again. He shakes his head, looking sheepish.

And I think I'm going to be sick.

"Blood," I say quickly, remembering what Giles had told Mom. That without blood, Spike wouldn't be able to heal properly.

So maybe that's it. Maybe once I get some blood in him his memories will start t return.

I turn back to look at him, taking in his wide eyes, raised brows.

"You need more blood," I explain, secretly hoping he isn't going to ask me to explain that to him right this second. "You haven't eaten in days."

He seems to consider this, too, eyes narrowing slightly. They never leave my face. I get the feeling from him, the swirling rush of confusion and frustration coming from him now, that he's trying to place me. Wracking his brain for any information, any memory, that might give him insight into who I am.

"Do you…want some blood?" I ask slowly, working hard to keep my voice even, being very watchful of the emotions flickering over his face.

I still haven't let go of his hand, and he hasn't let go of mine. To my relief, he seems to at least understand this much. Or doesn't seem completely shocked by it.

And then he nods, as if understanding and agreeing all at the same time. For the first time since those three awful words left his mouth a moment ago, I relax a little. There's the softest flutter of relief that flows through me, accompanied by what I'm feeling from him. Gratitude, I think.

And this is good. So something in him, something there in the back of his mind, must still know who he is.

What he is.

"Okay," I say, offering him a thin, strained smile and nodding encouragingly. "Okay. I'll go get more."

I swivel on the mattress, putting my bare feet flat on the wooden floor and reaching for the empty mug on the nightstand with my right hand. Getting to my feet, I'm stopped short, Spike's grip tightening just slightly on my hand as he tugs me back toward the mattress.

I land with a soft bounce, a soft squeak of the coils, and turn to look at him.

I stare at him, frowning slightly, looking back and forth between the stricken expression on his face and the hand that's gripping mine.

"Don't," he says quickly, azure eyes even wider now than they'd been a moment ago. His voice is low, quiet. "Don't…leave me."He swallows, and I feel a lump growing in my own throat when the pad of his thumb brushes over the back of my hand. "Please."

"I have to," I say softly, doing my best for soothing. "You need blood, and that's downstairs—"

"Please," he says again, a little louder this time.

I reach over, gently covering his hand with mine, reluctantly, gently unlocking his fingers. As much as I want to stay up here, as much as I want to stay touching him, I know he needs blood. It's the only thing that's going to heal him, bring his memories back.

And I need Giles. I need to know if this is…normal, or…

I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the though, refusing to let it grow. I push it down violently.

He's awake. He's awake, and he'll drink some more blood, and he'll be fine.

He'll be fine.

I open my eyes again to find him still staring at me in that thoughtful way. I sigh, the air leaving my lips on a shudder.

"I'll be right back," I tell him, dropping my voice low, too. I pull his hand away from mine, smiling again. "I promise."

Spike eyes me cautiously for a moment before he nods, relinquishing his grip on my hand and allowing me to slide away from him.

Freed now, I turn and stand, moving quickly for the staircase. The hand that grips the ceramic mug is shaking. I'm just about to reach the top step and descend when I'm stopped again, Spike's gentle whisper cutting through the space between us and hitting me somewhere right between my shoulder blades.

"Miss?"

I turn my head to look at him, nearly bowled over by the amount of genuine gratitude, what almost feels like the affection I'm used to blending in with the confusion I feel coming from him.

"Yeah?" I ask, voice tight, wondering what it means.

He offers me a small, almost shy smile, raising both eyebrows expectantly.

It takes me a lot longer than it should for me to figure out what he's asking, that he's indicating that he'd like me to tell him my name.

"Oh, right," I say lamely, a cold, sinking feeling returning to my gut as I struggle to keep eye contact with him. "Buffy," I say, clearing my throat against the tightness there. The total and complete insanity that is me introducing myself to Spike. Or…reintroducing myself to Spike. Either way. "My name is Buffy."

I watch from perch at the top of the stairs as his expression changes suddenly. Something flashes in his eyes.

"Buffy," he repeats hesitantly, like he's testing it out, letting the soft sound roll over his tongue. And it's like music to me. The sound of my name on his own lips brings a flicker to his gaze, the barest glimmer of what might be recognition. But it's gone again before I've had the time to register it, to fully get a grip on the emotion that had come with it.

But the flutter of hope is back as he relaxes back into the pillows and smiles at me.

I turn and thunder down the stairs, tossing the ceramic mug up onto the countertop and moving through the hallway until I reach the guest bedroom's door.

I don't bother knocking. Just twist the knob and fling it open, not caring that I'm using way too much strength as it flies back and slams into the wall.

My Watcher jerks awake, looking around the room frantically for the source of the noise. He blinks at me, eyes hazy as he takes in my appearance.

"Buffy?" he asks, reaching immediately for the nightstand and grabbing his glasses, pushing them hurriedly onto his face. "What's the matter?"

"He doesn't remember anything, Giles," I say quickly, moving forward, beginning to pace rapidly at the foot of the bed. "Nothing. It's like…it's like it's him but it isn't, you know? And I don't know what to do. Is this normal? For coma patients, I mean? I don't…I can't–"

I'm stopped by his hands on my shoulders, spinning me back around with more force than I would have expected and forcing my eyes to his.

"Slow down," he says sternly, searching my wild eyes with his. "Who doesn't remember anything?" His brow is deeply furrowed. "What…what's not normal?"

I frown at him. Had he not just been listening?

"Spike," I hiss, frustrated. God, who else would I be talking about? "Spike's awake, but he doesn't—"

"Spike's awake?" Giles interjects, his hands falling away from my shoulders. "How long has he been awake for?"

I frown deeper, not understanding why that matters. I shake my head trying to remember. It had just struck midnight when I'd felt his hand move, and it's…I turn toward Giles's alarm clock, squinting into the dark to read the time.

12:25am.

"Twenty minutes, maybe," I say, turning back to look at him. "But, Giles, something's wrong. He doesn't—"

"Have you given him any blood?" He asks, cutting me off again, turning on his heel and moving quickly out the bedroom door and down the hall. I scramble after him, every second bringing a fresh wave of panic along with it.

By the time I reach the kitchen, he's already removing a packet of blood from the fridge and tossing it into the microwave.

"He'll need blood, if he hasn't had any already," he's saying, half to me and half to himself, and I can't help but notice the palpable sound of relief in his voice as he reaches across the counter and grabs the mug I'd set down a moment ago. "And we'll have to run some tests, once he's stronger. Make sure everything's—"

"Giles!" It's my shout that cuts him off, now. Wild and panicked and much too loud in the small galley kitchen. I wince at the echo, knowing that Spike will have heard me. "Whatever you were about to say, I'm pretty sure I can tell you that everything isn't. Spike…" I lower my voice again, leaning in close to my Watcher. "He doesn't remember anything, Giles."

This has him stopping, blinking dumbly at me. "Nothing at all?" he asks after a long moment, eyes searching mine from behind his glasses.

I slump back against the sounder top and shake my head, nibbling down on my bottom lip.

"Nothing," I say quietly, turning my stinging eyes down to the ground as I suck a deep breath in and exhale slowly. "He doesn't even know me."

There's a long beat before Giles clears his throat and speaks again.

"Has he eaten anything yet?"

I keep my eyes down, swallowing against the lump that won't go away in the back of my throat. "Yeah," I say, "I had him drink the blood that was in there from earlier today," I incline my head toward the ceramic mug beside the microwave. "But he told me he wanted more."

There's another long pause as Giles thinks this new information over, deep frown lines forming along his brow, the corners of his lips.

"So he is speaking then?" He asks finally, and I force my eyes up to meet his. Despite still looking concerned, there's a little bit of hope there now, too.

Like maybe he'd thought speech would be an issue.

Thank God for small favors, I think numbly, nodding my head in response to the question. "Speaking, sure." I sigh loudly, the air shuddering past my lips. "Just not…remembering."

The next question he asks catches me off guard.

"Did he seem violent to you?"

I shift backward, blinking at him, wondering why that's the next place his Watchery mind had jumped to.

He doesn't remember anything, it doesn't mean he's suddenly going to go all serial killery.

Again.

"Not even the eensiest," I tell him flatly, leaving zero room for more discussion on the matter. "He's confused, and frustrated, but…" I trail off, looking down again and shaking my head. "Is this normal?"

Giles inclines his head to the side thoughtfully. "Well, amnesia is something I'd been concerned about." He looks away from me, his research face firmly in place as he continues on, almost to himself. "There have been cases of it associated with coma victims before. But those were mostly retro…or anterograde." He glances toward me, and at my raised eyebrows, he sighs, shifting slightly to lean back against the counter. "If what you've said is true, and Spike can't remember anything at all, then this is something else entirely."

"Great," I mutter, turning my eyes toward the microwave and watching the blood inside the bag heat up. I think of what had happened with Spike upstairs. That weird, flickery sort of recognition he'd gotten with my name.

I look back toward Giles. "But it's weird…Like, he doesn't recognize me, but he does." The microwave dings and I step forward to take it but Giles stops me, turning and pulling it out, ripping the bag open and dumping it into the awaiting mug.

"How do you mean?" he asks, turning toward me, the now steaming blood cupped in his hands.

"When he was looking at me earlier it was like he knew me," I explain. "Or at least he knows he should know me." I snap my fingers, pointing at the mug in his hands. "A-and the blood? Totally unwigged by the whole needing to drink it thing."

Giles considers what I've told him and nods, the crease in his brow smoothing out just a little with the new news. His reaction has me relaxing a little bit, too.

"Yes," he muses finally, stepping toward me. "I'd say that's a fairly good sign. Why don't you…" he passes the mug to me, waiting for me to grip it in both hands before letting go. "Take this up to him, and I'll see if I can get in contact with Tara and Willow. They might know a way to help."

I nod, turning to go, then pause and whirl back around. "And in the mean time?" I ask, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth and chewing on it. "How…I mean, are there things I shouldn't say? Questions I shouldn't answer?"

Giles is quick in his response, shaking his head. "I don't think so, Buffy. Maybe being honest with him about things will…trigger something." He reaches toward me and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, offering me a small smile. "All it might take is one solid memory to bring back all the rest."

I nod thoughtfully, turning around again and padding through the quiet living room and back toward the stairs, sending another silent prayer to whoever heard me before that Giles is right.

I feel him before I see him, know his eyes are going to be on me when I turn on the landing and ascend the last few steps to the loft. A rush of unexpected warmth floods my system when I step toward the bed. It catches me off guard, winding its way through my stomach and spreading up toward my chest, causing my feet to falter.

I grip the mug tighter in both hands and stare at him, eyes wide. If possible, his are as wide as mine are.

I guess he hadn't expected that, either.

It has to be the connection. I hadn't even thought about that. Even if his memories of me are gone, for now, his body is still so highly attuned to mine. And there's the claim to consider, too. Even if his mind can't quite recognize me yet, his body knows me.

Distantly, I realize I haven't moved for a while. I'm still clutching the heated mug, my eyes glued to his, a low rumbling sensation starting to flood my gut.

Hunger. But not mine.

"Uh, here," I say, forcing my legs to move again, coming to rest my hip on the side of the mattress beside his. "Drink this."

I reach for his hand and press the heated ceramic into his palm, using the pressure of my own fingers to help him close his around it. I'm not sure which one of us it is that's shaking, him or me.

Maybe we both are.

When I'm sure he has it, I extract my hand and fold it down into my lap, watching him through my lowered lashes as he begins to drink. He finishes this in record time, too, and I'm already starting to see the changes on his face. His skin doesn't look quite so sallow, and the purple below his eyes is fading.

"More?" I ask softly when he hands the mug back to me, eyes raking over his face.

Spike leans back into the pillows again and nods his head. "If you don't mind."

When he speaks this time, he already sounds more like himself. His voice a little coarser, less…refined. I can practically hear the rest of the sentence in my head now. Normally, he would've ended it with a pet name. I find myself wishing for that, now. Luv, or pet. Even kitten. At this point, I don't care.

But I keep these thoughts to myself, nodding instead and hurrying back down to the kitchen for another packet of blood.

"He seems a little better already," I tell Giles as I pass him, settled down on the sofa with a pile of books spread across the table, a mug of what I'm guessing is tea in one hand and a chewed down pen in the other.

"The blood is helping then?" he asks, glancing at me as I move into the kitchen and open the fridge.

"Seems like," I say, tossing it flat into the microwave and hitting the minute button. Then I think about what I've just seen, and lean forward to open the fridge again.

These bags look different than the ones I'm used to seeing, the containers higher in quality than the ones full of pig blood I usually get from the butcher.

Maybe it's cow?

Still staring at them, I call out "Is it just pig's?"

A beat passes. No answer from Giles.

I frown, shutting the refrigerator door and leaning forward around the wall that separates the kitchen from the leaving room just as the microwave timer dings.

Momentarily distracted, I lean back in and grab it out, playing a short game of hot potato with myself as I rip it open and dump it down into the mug. I little of it spills in my haste, dribbling out and down the side of the mug, landing on the counter. Without any hesitation at all, unthinking, I scoop it up with the pad of my index finger and bring it to my lips.

My eyes go wide as I yank my hand away from my mouth, grabbing up the mug and moving back out into the living room.

"Human?" I ask, waiting for Giles to turn and look at me before I raise both eyebrows sky high. "You bought him human blood?"

Giles frowns at first, setting his pen down and eyeing me cautiously. "How do you know that?"

I scoff at him, as though it should be obvious. As thought it isn't weird at all. "I tasted it," I say simply, ignoring the way his eyes bulge when I do. "And that is beside the point. We're feeding him human blood now?"

The shock on my Watcher's face from a moment ago ebbs, replaced with a knowing sort of Watchery smugness that I think I've seen way too much of lately.

"It'll go quite a bit further in getting Spike healed properly," he explains simply, as though this is the most normal thing ever. He regards me curiously. "I thought you'd be pleased by that."

"I am," I say quickly, the snide tone of my voice belying the honest sincerity in my words. "I am so pleased by that, but I'm…color me confused, Giles."

He continues to watch me from his place on the sofa, eyes raking over my puzzled expression before he finally sighs. His résponse both surprises and warms me from the inside out.

"Seeing as how the current situation is mostly my doing," he says slowly, reaching up and removing his glasses. "I felt it only right that I provide him the best means for getting well again." Then, almost as an after thought as he places his glasses on his nose again, he adds "If it makes you feel any better, I donated some, too."

I move forward before he can say another word, leaning down and wrapping both arms around his shoulders and squeezing.

"Thank you," I say softly, being careful not to drip any of the crimson fluid down the back of his shirt. I feel his hand come up to pat my back and I pull away, smiling at him.

"Let's just not tell the others just yet? I'm not quite prepared for them to know how easily corruptible I am."

A smile tickles my lips and I nod, a silent promise, even though we all know a little more than we probably should about just how corruptible Giles might be.

"Any luck on the wicca front?" I ask instead, turning back toward the staircase.

He shakes his head, turning back toward his books. "No answer. I'll try back again at a more normal hour."

"You look better," I say softly, crossing the space between the stairs and the bed and sinking down into my spot again.

This time, Spike doesn't wait for me to hand him the mug. He reaches for it, not even bothering with the straw, simply tipping it back and draining it in what looks like three long gulps.

"Feeling better too, I'm guessing," I say, taking the empty mug from him and placing it on the nightstand. He gives me a very Spike-like look, lips curved in a knowing smirk as he nods. I feel a small smile tickling my lips in response.

"Still hungry?" I ask after a minute, laying the cloth back down and turning to face him again. "Or do you want to rest?"

He makes a face at me, one scarred eyebrow raised, and I feel the air catch in my throat. "You said I've been sleepin' for days, yeah?"

Already, after only three mugs of blood, he's starting to sound more like himself. The familiar speech patterns, the low raw silk rumble of his voice. It relaxes me a little, brings the tension I've been carrying in my neck and shoulders down. Makes me think that maybe Giles had been right—that with a little extra time, a little more blood, he'll be good as new again.

So I just nod in response to his question, not entirely sure what else to do.

"Then I think I'm all set with the resting bit," he says breezily, twisting over onto his side and propping himself up on one fist. He looks up at me almost expectantly, dark lashes fluttering against the faded bruises under his eyes. "Care to tell me who you are?"

My stomach freezes, hardens and sinks. And just like that, any measure of hope I'd been feeling is yanked away. I just told him. Less than thirty minutes ago, I stood at the top of those stairs and told him my name. And he's forgotten already?

I can't keep the look of disappointment off my face now as I gaze over at him, wondering if this is what our future will look like. Like...Groundhog Day, only worse. I don't have the comedic timing of Bill Murray to help me out here.

I glance down at his fist, where he's propping himself up. The fingers of my own hand are bunched on the comforter beside it. Spike's awake, he's here, and his body is only a matter of inches away from mine but he feels farther away now than when he'd been in the coma.

I sigh, turning my eyes back to his and say "My name's—"

"Buffy," Spike says instantly, cutting me off. His voice is neutral, but I can see the urge to smirk tickling the corners of his lips. I wonder if that's something he's remembering, or if it's just so ingrained in his body language that it happens without thinking. Either way, it freezes me to the spot. "That, I do remember. Told me your name, but that doesn't tell me who you are, does it?"

My brow furrows, thinking about what he means by that. He remembers my name from my having told him before, which I'm guessing is definitely on the end of good things. At least I won't be needing a better sense of humor for all this.

But what he's asking...that he wants to know who I am, but he doesn't mean my name.

Oh.

My eyes widen with understanding, the line of my brow smoothing. "Who I am…" I point toward him demonstratively. "To you, you mean?"

Spike nods.

Oh, boy.

"I…" I begin, then trail off, frowning again. Is there a good way to explain this, or should I just...dive right in? "Okay. Well, I'm…" This should not be this difficult. "I mean, we're…" What? Partners? Lovers? Boyfriend and Girlfriend? Oh, and by the way, former mortal enemies. God. This was hard enough the first time around when Spike knew who I was. "I'm your…"

"Are we together?" Spike asks suddenly, obviously getting impatient with my stammering attempt to explain what he'd just managed to explain in a simple, easy sentence.

I exhale, nodding and letting my shoulder slump in relief. "Yeah."

Spike nods, and this time I do see the smirk quirking his lips.

"Figured as much," he says simply, the gleam in his eye suddenly giving me the impression that he'd known from the beginning and had only asked to see what reaction he might get. "What with the kissin' and all." He shifts up so that he's sitting upright against the headboard and tilts his head to the side, eyes scanning my face. "Didn't peg you as the type of bird who goes round kissin' strangers."

My cheeks heat up as I remember the way I'd impulsively kissed him after he'd woken up. It had been an immediate response, grateful to see him awake, and responsive. Granted, there hadn't been any way for me to know at the time that he didn't, you know….know who I was.

But he'd kissed me back anyway.

I laugh a little in spite of myself and nod, folding my hands into my lap. "Then you'd have me pegged right."

"How long?" he asks.

My brow furrows again as I repeat the question back to him. "How long?"

"How long have we been together?"

I blink at him, trying to think. Do I go from the night I'd had that first dream, or the night of our first kiss? The night behind The Bronze or when he'd held me in my kitchen or sat with me on my front porch. Or the claim. So many different options, so many memories I have from the past few months with him. Which is the right one?

"Not that long," I finally settle on a mid-range memory, the night we'd first found out about the connection. "A couple months maybe."

There's a strong surge of confusion, or maybe it's disbelief, from the vampire resting in front of me as he blinks, suddenly looking dazed again. "Really?"

It's my turn to cock my head to the side, eyeing him through my lashes thoughtfully. "You sound surprised."

And you feel surprised, too.

"Well, yeah," he says, emphasizing the second word like it should be obvious, glancing away from me and down toward the foot of the bed. Spike pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is much quieter. "It felt like…"

My ears perk at the word, hearing him say it like this. And for some reason I know when he says it he doesn't mean it the way normal people do. Not the general "feeling" you get about someone, or something. I know he means he felt me. My emotions over him.

"Felt like what?" I press, making my own voice quiet like his.

He turns his eyes back toward me and I swear I see something...different there as he looks at me and whispers "Longer."

"I guess in some ways it has been," I explain after a moment, forcing myself to look away from him, my toe tapping a soft rhythm on the wood floor. "We met like…over four years ago, now."

Another wave of surprise rippling down my back has me turning to look at Spike again. Both eyebrows are raised skeptically, head tilted further to the side now than it had been.

"And it took us until a couple months ago to get things squared?" he asks, total disbelief coloring his voice as he stares at me. I chew down on the inside of my cheek and give him a short nod. His brows raise even higher and he tilts his head back, inviting an explanation.

I sigh, the only words I can think of to say leaving my lips on the exhale. "It's complicated."

Spike's answering chuckle is low and appreciative, his lips pursing. "Startin' to see that. Still…" And he reaches toward me. I freeze, waiting to see what he's going to do, feeling a short fluttering gasp escape when he presses his hand against my cheek, swipes the pad of his thumb below the tear stained skin below my eye.

It's the first time he's touched me first since he's woken up.

"All this for a couple months?" he asks softly, his thumb still making slow sweeps across my swollen skin. He shakes his head. "Seems like the type of reaction you save for someone—"

"You love?" I offer, finishing the sentence for him without thinking.

The hand on my face freezes.

"Somethin' like that," Spike murmurs. He pulls his hand back away from my flushed cheek as his stormy, curious eyes search mine. A beat passes. Then, softly, "Do you love me, Buffy?"

This answer, at least, comes immediately. I don't have to think about it at all before the words are out, floating in the silent air between us. "Very much."

If the answer surprises him, I don't feel it. It doesn't show. His eyes flash, and he shifts a little closer to me, his hand inching toward mine across the smooth fabric of Giles's comforter. Whether his body is just...drawn toward mine, or this is something else, I'm not sure.

But the air catches in my lungs when he asks me his next question.

"Do I love you?"

For the millionth time tonight, I don't know what to say. Don't know who I'm talking to. This vampire across from me that I love, that loves me, that's himself and not himself at the same time. That somehow recognizes or knows...something about who he is. What he is. But who doesn't recognize me.

This version of Spike I'm looking at, talking to. This isn't my Spike. But he's not not my Spike, either. He doesn't remember me, or anything, apparently, but he's still sort of...him. Acting and sounding and looking more like himself by the minute. It might be the blood, or it might be the time that's passing. Maybe this whole memory loss thing is just temporary and he'll be completely himself in another day or two?

Or maybe he'll never have his memories back, and he'll just be stuck in sort of this...pseudo Spike state for the rest of ever.

And if I think about it too much more I think my brain is going to explode.

So I take a deep breath and begin to answer him. "You do," I say, then pause, wrinkling my nose up. "Or, you did. I…" I trail off, sighing, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling before turning to look back at him. "I'm not really sure how it works now, with the whole Anna Anderson vibe you have going on."

Spike chuckles appreciatively, and the sound is deep and rumbling. It makes me feel warm all over.

"I can feel it, you know," he says quietly, leaning still closer to me. He looks down at my hand, inching his hand toward mine, stopping just before his skin touches mine. "Might not…don't recognize you. Not yet. But I know I…" He lifts his hand and places it over mine, not quite touching, but more hovering above. He sighs and looks toward me, and his eyes are torn. Frustration and confusion and even a touch of anger flowing toward me, searing me with his gaze. "I think I know I should love you. Does that make sense?"

My eyes start to burn, filling with tears that I refuse to let fall. Because the one thing I'm looking for, the one thing I'm dying to see reflected in the raging midnight blue now isn't there.

It's not what I want to hear. Not even close. But...if this memoryless version of him at least knows, or the connection is telling him to know that he should love me… Well, I guess that's better than nothing.

I sniff, blinking rapidly to clear my blurred vision. "Not really," I say, forcing what I feel like is a very falsely sweet smile onto my face. "But we were never big with the sense making to begin with."

This brings another ripple of laughter to the vampire's lips, but it stops almost as quickly as it begins, and his expression grows serious. Like he's thinking very hard about something. Maybe what it is I've just told him. Maybe what question he wants to ask next. I'm actually a little surprised he hasn't come out and asked me why it is he needs to drink blood, but at the same time I'm glad he hasn't. I keep thinking that means that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he still knows who he is.

"So," he says thoughtfully, dropping his eyes down away from me. "What happened to me?"

There's a loaded question if I've ever heard one.

I make a face at him, leaning back onto my right hand, leaving my left hand below his and tilting my head to the side. "Which part are you talking about?"

Spike looks a little caught off guard, shifting back away from me, too. His brow furrows like he's concentrating, and then he shrugs.

"Dunno, I guess." His head tilts to mimic mine. "Any of it. All of it. Who I am?" He glances around the room. "How did I get here?" And then he stops, his eyes landing on me again. Looking a lot like he'd love to be able to read my mind about now. "Why don't I remember you?"

"Whoa there, buddy," I say breezily, dragging my legs up off the floor and tucking them beneath me. I sigh and look away from him. "That's…a really long story."

Quite possibly the understatement of the century.

But Spike seems unfazed, undaunted by the gravity in my voice as he shifts up and leans toward me. "Do we have time?" he asks, voice hopeful. His hand reaches for mine, covering it where I've placed it on top of my lap.

And I'm powerless, totally and completely, to deny him anything he wants when he looks at me like that. It isn't love I'm seeing, but it's something else that's soft and warm. Affection. Trust, maybe.

And even though I'd give just about anything to see love there instead, this will do for now. It'll have to.

"Where do you want to start?" I ask, watching as he drags the pad of his thumb over the cluster of blue veins below my wrist repeatedly. Just the slightest touch, the softest pressure, has sparks flying across my skin and goosebumps raising along my arm.

"How about the beginning?" Spike asks softly.

"I only know the beginning from my end," I tell him quickly, mesmerized by the movement of his thumb against my sensitive skin. "My…version of things." I grimace thinking about how the story might sound to someone who's basically never heard it before. "And you might not like everything you hear."

The tiniest bit of pressure against the veins, like he might be feeling for the thrum of my pulse against my wrist as he murmurs "That's alright." His grip shifts up, ghosting lightly over my forearm and raising fresh goose bumps.

Each touch feels tentative, exploratory. Like he's trying to relearn me, or something. It's kind of a heady feeling.

I don't preface the story. Don't take the time to lay the background for him, figuring it might almost be easier to explain as we go. "The first time I ever saw you was in a back alley behind a bar, and you were threatening to kill me."

His touch on my arm pauses, tightening slightly. My eyes shoot to his, and he has both brows raised. "I was what now?"

My skin feels hot beneath his cool hand, stinging and tingling where his fingers press against it. I swallow, searching his eyes with mine.

"I told you you wouldn't like everything I had to say," I remind him quietly, shifting slightly forward to offer him more of my arm to work with.

His lips twitch, and for a moment I think he's about to give me that smirk of his that I've missed so much.

"That you did," he agrees instead, and his voice is just the tiniest bit husky. His hand resumes it's exploring, gliding up over my bicep to curve around my shoulder. "Carry on, then."

The sun is just starting to come up by the time I finish the story. Granted, I think it all would have gone a lot fasted if Spiked hadn't interrupted me every other minute to ask a fresh round of questions. Not that I'd minded, either way. If the circumstances had been different, it almost could have been fun, getting to tell him my side of the story. Show him the way I'd seen him through my eyes.

And the questions he'd asked had been good ones, usually accompanied by a swell of emotion from him. Curiosity, frustration, anger, affection. Some of the questions are ones I'd had answers to.

"I wanted you dead."

"Yeah, because I'm the Slayer."

"And I'm a vampire."

"Right."

"So…how did we get here?"

"Told you it was a long story."

But a lot of the questions he comes up, with I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about answering.

"And I just left you there? To fight him by yourself?"

"I think you had other things on your mind at the time."

"Like this…Drusilla?"

"Yep."

A beat.

"Did I love her, too?"

Others had been more a question of philosophy than anything else.

"So, I'm evil then?"

"Not anymore."

"Oh, I see. Gone soft for a girl, have I?"

"Well you were always more evil lite than really…evil."

And sometime, throughout the course of the night, I'd ended up in his arms. I'm not sure how. Not sure if it had been him or I that had instigated it, which of us had shifted just slightly, just enough for me to stretch out beside him. Which of us had pushed or pulled me into his side, rested my head on the cool skin of his bicep so we could see each other's eyes as we talked.

His arms had come around me when I'd started telling him about the connection. Dracula, the ancient theory, the fact that I'd drank from the elder vampire's blood. And I'd told him then about the claim. Had pressed the heel of my hand into my mark, and shown him his in return. Tried my best to explain it all, without, you know…totally wigging him out. That the reason his body had seemed to instantly know me, respond to me, even if his brain had not has to do with the fact that we're connected on a basic, fundamental level. That the two of us are…mated, for whatever much that means to him.

And it had meant something. I'd felt it, both in the subtle shift of his body language and the feelings flowing between us.

His arms had encircled my waist and tugged me closer to him then, and they'd felt strong around me. Solid. Possessive, even.

But not loving.

Not quite.

By the time I'd gotten around to explaining about the Initiative and the chip, the emergency removal surgery, and thus the memorylessness that is him right now…the slowing of his chest's movements let me know that despite his brain being all done with the resting, his body had had other plans.

And it's only once I feel his body's rhythms slip into sleep that I let the tears come. And these are strange tears. I'm not even sure myself why I'm crying them, whether it's relief or sorrow, joy or guilt. Everything in me just feels…torn. Hollow. So incredibly grateful to have Spike awake, and to have him here with his arms around me. And on the other hand, in the same exact breath, the helplessness that comes with knowing I have him but I don't. Not really.

Not yet.

It has to be sometime late in the afternoon when I wake up again. I've shifted positions, turned around in Spike's arms so that I'm facing away from him, my head toward the window. The sun is already starting to sink lower in the sky, and the muscles in my shoulders are stiff from where they've been pressed down into the mattress.

It takes me a minute to realize that there's movement behind me. Just the slightest bit, the pressure of a chest moving in and out, but enough to remind me over everything that's happened over the last twelve hours or so.

And there are voices downstairs. Lots of them.

Blinking, I start to move forward, sliding my feet down to the floor and preparing to stand up. The arm wrapped tight around my waist stops me.

"There are people here," comes the low whisper in my ear, cool breath stirring my hair. "Five or six, at least."

The anxiety peeling off him is palpable. I can't hear it in his voice, but I don't need to. The same way he'd gone slightly panicky last night when he'd thought I was leaving him to get blood, that's the way he feels behind me now.

The gang must be here. Giles must have called them all when he'd gotten ahold of Willow and Tara.

"I know," I soothe, reaching up and running my hand along his forearm. "It's just our friends."

He relaxes just slightly beneath my touch, but the knots twisting up my stomach don't ease any.

"Why are they here?" He asks me as I attempt to turn in his arms, trying to see his eyes.

I stop short when I catch sight of his face, a small gasp coming through my lips on an exhale. I'm shocked by how much better he looks today. His lips are smooth again, slightly pinkish. His skin is back to it's normal alabaster white. The purpling below his eyes is all but entirely gone.

I say a silent thank you again to Giles for knowing that human blood would do more to heal him than animal.

Although I hope he doesn't get used to it, cause there's no way I'm letting someone stick me with a needle every time he needs another packet of blood.

I offer him a small smile, reaching a hand up and brushing his hair off his forehead. "Giles probably told them you were awake and they just want to see you."

Spike's eyes are focused on me, slightly narrowed. "These the people from the story last night, then?"

I frown. The way he says it makes me feel funny, like it's just a story. Whatever frustration I've just felt has the expression on Spike's face softening, his eyes bright.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, reading whatever emotion it is he's just felt from me as anger, probably.

"You didn't, " I assure him, though I'm not so sure that's true. I sigh, pulling my hand back and pushing myself up into a sitting position. "If you're not ready to see them, Spike, that's fine," I assure him softly, definitely not wanting to force him into a confrontation he isn't ready for. "But I need to go down there and get more blood for you anyway."

"No," he says quickly, hurrying to sit up, too, shifting forward until his feet are flat on the ground. "I don't want you goin' down there without me."

I frown at him, tilting my head to the side. Putting my hand down and pushing myself up to my feet, I turn to look down at him. "I'll be right back up—"

"No," he says again, his voice harder this time. I take a step back, blinking at him. He shakes his head as though he doesn't quite understand where this is coming from, either. "I don't want you…I don't know those people."

I'm still not getting it.

"You do know them," I remind him, stepping closer to the mattress until my legs brush his knees. "You just don't remember them."

When he's silent for a long minute, his eyes focused somewhere down on the ground, I find myself reaching forward and placing a hand beneath his chin, turning his eyes up to mine.

"You don't remember me, either," I say quietly.

This has the vampire's eyes flashing, his hand flying up to grab mine and twisting it around until my fingers are locked with his. "It's different."

He's right, it really is different. At least a part of him knows me, can feel me. If he goes downstairs with me now he'll be confronted full force with a room full of people who know him, some of whom don't particularly like him, and all without any of the added benefit of knowing his full history with any of them.

So, different. Yeah.

"Do you want to go down with me?" I ask, listening to the dull murmur of voices in the living room below us. They blur together slightly so I can't tell exactly who's speaking, but it wouldn't be hard to guess. "We'll heat you up some blood and you can even take a shower, if you want to."

He seems to think it over for a minute, looking down, twisting one hand into the blue cotton t-shirt while still gripping mine in the other. Then he nods, hesitantly at first, then firmer as I feel his resolve hardening.

"Wouldn't mind cleanin' up a bit," he says, dropping the cotton fabric out of his hand and bracing it on the mattress for leverage as he prepares to get to his feet.

But he's been off his feet for six days now, and I know before I see it start to happen that he won't be able to get up, get moving, without my help. Firming up my grip on his left hand, I shoot my free hand out to grab his right, stepping back and planting my feet to help tug him to a standing position. He stumbles a little, his legs unsteady, but I catch him around the waist and help to hold him up right until he can find his balance.

"Thank you," he says tightly, and when I pull away to look up into his face, his eyes are squeezed shut.

"Spike?" I question, loosening my arms from his waist when I'm sure he won't fall.

His only response is to shake his head, lips pursed, jaw ticking with what feels like an attempt to reign in whatever emotion he's feeling.

"You okay?" I ask after a minute, my voice quiet. His eyes flutter open and find me instantly, pinning me with a look I haven't seen since he'd woken up last night. It's intense, and hard, his eyes gleaming slightly in the dying sunlight.

"Fine," he says, "just…yeah, fine."

But he's not. He's frustrated, almost angry at…something. I'm not sure what. I could push it, but I won't not now. Not when he needs to eat something, and with everyone waiting downstairs. So I move toward him again, taking his hand and looping his arm around my shoulders, hooking my free arm around his waist. It's this way, awkwardly, much too slowly, that we manage to make our way down the steps without either of us falling.

We come to a halted stop at the foot of the stairs and turn our eyes out, into the awaiting sea of faces in front of us. And suddenly, as if someone's just thrown a switch, everyone stops talking at once. The room goes silent.

"Spike!" It's Dawn, breaking away from the group and running toward us, arms outstretched. I don't have time to warn her, to caution her about Spike's rising anxiety before she's closing her arms around his waist and squeezing.

Beside me, the vampire freezes, his arm tightening where it rests around my shoulders.

The flood of panic rising in my chest hits me hard.

"Dawnie," I say quickly, urgently but as kindly as I can, reaching my free hand out to her arm and pulling it away from Spike's waist. She responds instantly, releasing my vampire and stepping back, blinking at me. I smile at her, but it feels tight. "No hugs okay? Not yet." I glance at Spike, who's muscles are strained so tightly I wonder if he might pull something. "He's not…strong enough yet."

My eyes scan the room, looking for Giles. He's standing near the counter top that separates the kitchen and the main living room, leaning against it. Willow and Tara stand beside him. Xander and Anya are sitting on the sofa, and Mom's standing directly behind them.

"Giles," I begin softly, eyes scanning the room, the faces of my friends before landing back on him. "Did you—"

"Yes," he answers me quickly, his voice as quiet as mine as he nods. "I've informed everyone about the situation."

Good.

Hopefully that means Dawn won't be too hurt by either mine or Spike's reaction to her. And that also means I can take the time to sort of…reintroduce him to everyone now.

"Okay," I say, going for casual but not quite getting there. "Spike, this is Dawn. My little sister."

I watch as he looks down at her, acknowledging her with a nod of his head and a small, almost apologetic smile.

"And that's Xander, and his girlfriend Anya," I say, pointing toward the sofa, carefully choosing my words so I make it painfully clear who is who in relation to what little I'd told him the night before. "And behind them is Joyce, my mom. Tara, Willow, and you know Giles."

My Watcher had come upstairs to check on us about halfway through the night, bearing gifts of coffee and some kind of non-sweet cookies for me to dip in it. And that had been a beyond weird interaction, watching the two of them getting reacquainted. Seeing the guilt in Giles's gaze as he'd sort of haltingly apologized for our current predicament and explained he was looking in to fixing it.

"Uh, yeah," Spike's saying now, the fingers of his left hand curling more firmly into my shoulder, tugging me in almost imperceptibly closer to him. "Nice to see you all," he says softly, and his eyes meet mine. If his expression hadn't been so lost, I might have missed the surge of desperation swelling from him. "Again."

"Wow," Xander mutters, his eyes on me. "He really has lost it, hasn't he?"

I glare at him, narrowing my eyes.

"Xander," Mom scolds harshly, her voice quiet, too. Then she turns back toward us. "It's so good to see you up and about, Spike."

"I mean, yeah," Xander grumbles, reaching his hand up at the spot Mom's just smacked. "That too."

There's a rumble from Spike's chest, a very low growling sound, and I look up at him. He leans a little closer to me, his lips tickling my ear.

"I don't like him very much, do I?" he asks, and his voice is sure. Less like he's asking and more like he already knows.

My lips quirk up and I shake my head, turning mine toward his. "No, you really don't."

His eyes burn into mine for a moment, and I swear I see it again. That same flash of almost recognition I'd seen the night before, when he'd said my name. But just like last night, it's gone before I can really get a grip on it.

"You look a lot better today," Tara offers lightly, no doubt trying to steer the conversation back to a more pleasant territory.

Spike nods, his lips forming a line again. "'S the blood, I'd wager. Feelin' a little more myself by the mug full."

"Speaking of which," I say quickly, taking the segue way he's offered me, whether he knows it or not. "I was just about to heat up some more."

I lift Spike's hand from my shoulder and twine my fingers with his, pressing the palm of my hand more firmly into his to pull him along behind me. Mom and Willow part for us once we reach the entryway to the kitchen, Mom smiling warmly at Spike as he passes her.

The room grows eerily quiet again as I heat up the new bag of blood, grabbing for the mug Dawn had given Spike for Christmas so I can fill it. She must have brought it over with her today, it hadn't been here last night.

I wish someone would talk. Say something. Say anything, about anything. I don't care. The silence is making Spike's nerves peak, the knots in my stomach twist harder.

As soon as the microwave beeps I grab the bag and tear it open with my teeth, not stopping to care that I'll end up getting some of it in my mouth as I do, dumping it into the mug and handing it to the bleached vampire hovering beside me.

"Did you want to clean up?" I ask him quietly, highly aware that the people on the other side of the partition are listening to everything we're saying.

The look of warmth and gratitude that overwhelm's Spike's features is all the answer I need, but the flood of cool relief that flows through my stomach lets me know how right I am.

He wants out of here, away from all these people. And soon.

I just nod without having to say anything else at all, placing my hand on his arm and guiding him back out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

"I'm just gonna show him where the bathroom is," I explain quickly, casting a cursory glance out toward my family and friends. "I'll be right back."

But I find that even as I say the words I'm not sure how true they are. Whether it's my anxiety or Spike's I'm feeling, I'm not sure. The crowd had even felt overwhelming to me, and I remember them all.

His shoulders are tense as I guide him into the bathroom, the hand that grips the black and red mug shaking just slightly. I frown, looking over him as I push the door shut behind me. I should have waited another day before putting him through that. Giving him another day to rest, to heal.

"I'm sorry," I say softly, moving passed him and toward the shower, yanking the curtain into place. "I don't think I realized how overwhelming that would be."

"For you or for me?" he asks me, his voice low but surprisingly steady.

I whip my head back over my shoulder to look at him, frowning. "What?" I ask, standing up straight again and turning toward him.

He shrugs. "Felt it," he says simply. "Felt you. You were just as nervous back there as I was."

Oh.

I guess I hadn't realized how tense I'd been going into it. Worried how he'd feel, worried what the others might say. Do.

I don't know what the right answer is exactly, so I settle for something in between. "Both, I guess."

Spike nods, eyes riveted to me as I move to the other end of the tub and lean forward, reaching behind the curtain to turn the faucet on. I reach my hand under the running water, fiddling with the taps unthinkingly.

"How hot do you want it?" I ask, wincing when I twist the H knob up too high.

"Was hopin' you could tell me," comes the steady response from behind me, and the slight touch of innuendo in the rumbling timbre of his voice is just so very Spike that it has me pausing, sends a sharp shiver skittering down my spine.

I turn to glance at him, and he's set the mug of blood down on the edge of the sink, fisting both hands in the hem of his shirt preparing to yank it off. His eyes are down, gaze ducked, so I can't tell if he's said it on purpose or not.

I decide to error on the side of caution and go with not. "I don't know how warm you like your showers," I say simply, turning away from him again and back to the taps. "You usually go after me so there's always plenty of hot water for mine."

I hear the sound of cotton hitting the tile floor and twist the C knob down, still searching for the perfect middle temperature.

"You tellin' me we've never showered together?"

This has me pausing again, a surge of heat flooding my cheeks at the implication in the question. Sex. It's the topic of several questions he'd brought up last night that I hadn't known exactly how to answer, so I'd mostly avoided them, finding ways to change to subject.

I stand up and turn toward him, catching his eyes and raising an eyebrow knowingly.

"What?" he asks me, and his voice is all innocence even though the glint in his eyes is anything but. "Just a question."

There'd been a couple moments like this last night. Moments when he'd been so himself, so entirely Spike that I'd caught myself wondering if the whole thing could be an elaborate joke. Logically, I know that's not the case. That it can't be.

But when he looks at me the way he is now, it's hard not to wonder.

"Yeah," I agree, moving toward the door. "One of the loaded variety." I make it to the door and put my hand on the knob, preparing to twist it and leave the rapidly steaming bathroom before something that happens that really, really shouldn't.

"Leavin' so soon?" Spike asks, giving me pause. I inhale and turn to look at him again, working hard to keep my eyes up and on his face rather than on the pale skin of his chest, the muscles beneath it.

"Yes," I say, drawing the word out. "You're cleaning up, remember?"

Spike sucks his cheeks in, placing his hands behind him on the either side of the sink and leaning back against it.

Oh, no. No. I know that look.

"And what if I need help?" All that false innocence is melted out of his voice now, leaving it low and gravelly. "Wouldn't leave your patient to tend to themselves, would you?"

"Spike," I warn, but secretly I'm thrilled. This is the most himself he's been since waking up last night, and I can't help the natural reaction I'm having toward him now. My blood is heating in my veins, fingers itching to reach for him. Every cell in my body responding to his on the most basic level.

"Why, miss Buffy," he says silkily, eyeing me through his lashes, tilting his head to the side. "Are you blushing?"

I am. God, I have no idea why, after everything we've been through. Everything we've done.

But I am.

"No," I lie.

Spike smirks, seeing right through me, feeling the heat as much as I am.

"You are," he says, smirking wickedly and releasing the sink, stepping toward me. If his legs are unsteady now, he doesn't show it. And then he stops advancing suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh," he breathes. "Have we…have we not…"

My cheeks flush again, my back pressed flat into the wood of the door. "No," I say quickly, a little too loud for the cramped space. His eyes widen again, and I realize what I've just said. "No, I mean, yes. Yeah." I wince, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling. "We…have."

"But you don't want to now," Spike ventures, and I whip my head down, eyes locked with his. He's approaching me again, the predatory grace that makes him so incredibly dangerous on full display now.

I swallow hard, backing up further into the door as he comes to a stop just in front of me, looking down at me with hungry, burning eyes.

"That's not…" I trail off, the words sticking in my throat as he reaches for me. One hand pressing into my hip and the other twisting itself up in a lock of my hair. "I didn't say that."

But I should have.

I should say no. Should tell him I don't want to. Should whirl around and leave this damn steamy bathroom right now.

But I can't. I can't, and what's worse, he knows I can't. Can feel me as surely as I can feel him, even if he still doesn't know what it means.

And it's hard, so hard, to remember why it is I should be saying no when he's acting like this. So arrogant and smooth, silky and seductive. God, it has Spike written all over it.

No. Flashing in bright, neon green all over it.

"So…you do want to, then." The hand in my hair untangles itself, sliding the pads of his fingers along my exposed collar bone. His eyes are down, glued to his hand's motions. "That what I'm hearin'?"

And I do want to. It's more than a want, even. It's need. I need him, need to touch him and taste him. It's more than just wanting, it's craving.

He'd told me this once, when I'd asked him one night to tell me what it's like to crave blood. I'd asked if it was the same as when I find myself craving pizza, and he'd chuckled and kissed me and said no, not at all.

"I crave blood like I crave you," he'd said, nuzzling his nose along my collar bone. "It's not like food. You might want somethin' specific, but if you're hungry enough, you'll settle for just about anythin', yeah? When I want blood…when I want you…there's no substitute. No settlin'. I need this." And I'd gasped when he'd slid two fingers inside of me, his thumb settling into slow, lazy circles over my —, his lips finding my ear. "And only this."

"Spike." My voice is low, lazy sounding when I say his name, as much a warning as I can muster now. I lift my hands to his chest with the intent to push him away from me, but that thought vanishes as soon as my palms come in contact with the smooth skin there. I let him press further into me instead, my back bumping lightly into the door.

"Can feel it, yeah? Know that I'm meant for you." His hand finishes trailing over my collar bone and shifts down, around my rib cage, fingers anchoring themselves below my shoulder blade and pulling me harder into him. My hands slide to his shoulders, nails digging in of their own free will and eliciting a heady gasp from the vampire.

"Feel it when you touch me," he murmurs, the hand on my hip wrapping full around my waist and tugging my pelvis against his. I gasp this time, tipping my head back as he leans closer to me. "Felt it last night. 'S why I kissed you back, even without…recognizing you." He ghosts his lips over mine, feather light, but doesn't kiss me. My head is spun out, fogged over with the feel of his body against mine this way.

"Please," I hear myself whisper, and I don't know what I'm asking for. Whether for him to take me or let me go, I'm not sure.

Maybe both.

"But I do know, Buffy." My name on his lips has my inner muscles clenching, a soft involuntary murmur passing through my lips. "Know 'm yours. Feel it in the way my body responds to you."

And through the haze of desire, I catch myself doing it again. Hearing the way the sentence should end in my mind, the words that are missing. The seductive purr of the pet names and the goofy British swear words I pretend to hate but actually like because they're him. They're Spike.

And the absence of them now is enough to pull me out of the lust induced fog, to remind myself why this isn't a good idea. Not now. This is the last thing he needs. The last thing either of us needs.

"I can't," I whisper desperately, hating the words as they leave my mouth and enter into the steaming sanctuary of the bathroom. Wanting so badly to melt against him, to cover my mouth with his and pull him into me.

"Why not?" he asks huskily, his lips still grazing mine, both hands now wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

Why not? Oh, God, where do I start?

The fact that a day ago you were comatose and I didn't know if you'd ever wake up again?

The fact that you're still weak enough to need my help down the stairs?

The fact that my entire family, for all intents and purposes, are waiting outside for me?

There are so many, too many, reasons why this right here is such a bad idea. The Mount Kilamanjaro of bad. And I could give him all of them. List them out rationally, ticking them off one by one.

I don't.

Instead, I grasp on to the one I think will get through to him. The one that's echoing the loudest in my head. The one that hits me hard, square in the chest when I pull away enough to look up into his eyes and all I see there is desire. White hot, raging lust, swallowing the indigo of his irises in black.

And that's all.

And I know. I know somewhere in the back of mind that if I give in to him now, if I give into my own need for him when he's not in a place to give it all back that it'll hurt. It'll hurt me.

So I shake my head and inhale deeply, every inch of my body screaming in protest knowing what I'm about to do. I let my hands trail slowly down his arms as I step back.

"Because I love you," I say softly, my hands gliding over his forearms and grabbing his wrists, pulling them away from me and breaking the hold he has on my waist. I look up at him, willing him to see what I'm thinking. "And right now you don't remember that you love me."

And I watch him just long enough to see understanding dawn on him, something that might be pain flickering across his face, flashing in his lust darkened eyes before I turn and open the bathroom door, disappearing into the hallway.