Made for fun, not for profit. The Buffyverse belongs to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon, I just like to play there.

Spoilers for 5x07 'Fool For Love'. All dialogue quoted from that episode belongs to Doug Petrie.

The title for this chapter comes from a Spike-centric comic set during 'Angel', season 5, written by Scott Tipton.

"Poetry is not only dream and vision;

It is the skeleton architecture of our lives.

It lays the foundations for a future of change,

A bridge across our fears of what has never been before."

~ Audre Lorde

11 – Old Wounds

Neither of them said anything else as they neared the couch, but the silence was comfortable. When they got there, Spike sat but Sam stayed on her feet. He looked up at her curiously. "Pet?"

She nodded in the direction of the study. "I'm just gonna put away the first aid kit and dump out that bowl of water." Her voice was a stage whisper, and he cocked his head, giving her a puzzled look.

"Why so quiet all of a sudden?" For all his demony-rebelliousness, he still matched her low tone.

She stepped closer to the fireplace but still faced the couch and focused on the ceiling, nodding that Spike should do the same. "Because Giles' bedroom is right above us and he doesn't really have a wall on this side, so sound carries, and I still don't want to confront him 'till the morning."

Spike leaned forward slightly and followed her gaze. She was right. Instead of a proper drywall-and-paint situation, the side of Giles' bedroom which faced the downstairs fireplace consisted of a four-foot-tall wrought iron railing which would do nothing to muffle sound. In fact, now that he was paying attention, Spike realized that not only could he hear the ex-watcher softly snoring, but he could also make out the man's steady heartbeat.

"Okay, pet. He a heavy sleeper, though? 'Cause I don't plan on talkin' like this for too much longer."

No reply. Spike sat back against the cushions and looked around but didn't see her. There was really no point in calling out to find her, since raising his voice enough to be heard would mean waking their genial host, and he wasn't too keen on doing that. Not only would it make Sam cross, but nothing good would come from making the ex-watcher cranky. Of course, there were always exceptions to the rule; like that one time when a maddened, grief-fueled Rupes had beaten Angelus about the head and torso with a flaming baseball bat for killing the gypsy teacher. Now that had been fun to watch. So much fun, in fact, that Spike hadn't let Dru jump into the fray to rescue her sire, since he was hoping that Giles might finish the job, or at least soften Captain Forehead up enough so the slayer could dust him. No such luck, but a fella could dream.

Spike closed his eyes and listened, trying to pin down where Sam was. Good thing he had vamp senses, because he could hear her moving from the study to the bathroom. A moment later it sounded like she was dumping water down the bathroom sink, and then he heard a cabinet open and close before her footsteps headed towards the kitchen. She was carrying something that clanked slightly, probably the shackles. A quick look confirmed that she was in the kitchen and had left the shackles on the breakfast bar while she put the now-empty bowl in the sink.

Sam side-stepped to the fridge and looked inside, making a happy noise at whatever it was she saw. "Looks like the blood fairy stopped by." She looked back over her shoulder with a smile and caught his eye. "You want me to heat up a couple mugs?"

He nodded, "Ta, pet. Glad Rupes actually stocked up an' all, but that soddin' stuff is pretty foul tasting."

"Does pig's blood taste much different than human?" She took a gallon jug of ruby red out of the fridge and snagged two coffee mugs out of the drying rack.

He watched her set up the mugs for a second, puzzled by the randomness of the question, and then he shrugged. Girl must have lots of questions about vamps, and he reasoned that this was probably one of them. "Bit more sour, acidic like, and kind of fatty."

She smiled shakily. "So, more like liver than a T-bone?"

"Somethin' like that."

"Want me to try doctoring it with spices or something? I could try to make it less acidic and sweeter, or maybe kind of spicy."

Spike let his eyes close and listened as she moved around the kitchen. "Don't really care, luv. I'm just bleedin' starved."

"It won't take long. I just figure, you should at least get to enjoy what you're eating instead of having to choke it down." He opened his eyes at that and smiled over at her. She really didn't do things halfway, did she? "It'll just be an extra minute or two. That quick enough for ya?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah." He'd have to be a bloody fool to refuse her offer, especially after everything she had already done for him, so instead he turned to face the fireplace and, much more importantly, the TV. He had the remote in hand when his unanswered question from before came up again. "Rupes a heavy sleeper? We aren't whispering anymore an' I can still hear 'im snorin' away up there. Think the telly'd wake 'im?"

She made a thoughtful noise. "I guess he could sleep through it. As long as you don't turn it up too loud and keep an ear out to make sure he's not waking up, it should be okay."

"Works for me, luv." He clicked on the set and started flipping channels. Infomercial… infomercial… crappy movie… off-air signal… infomercial… "Ugh. Know if there's anything good on? Not used to watchin' stuff at this hour. M' usually… out."

Spike censored himself at the last second, realizing how deeply stupid it would have been to finish that statement with any honest specifics like 'out hunting' or 'busy killing your kind.' Being involved with someone who until recently would have only registered as a human Happy Meal meant that some topics were just bound to be tricky. It reminded him a little of the first time he'd been in the Summer's living room, a year and a half earlier, and had realized that if he was going to be working with the Slayer to stop Angelus, he'd have to look at things from a human perspective. Same thing was true now, but this time it was something he'd need to do on a more regular basis.

Sam closed the fridge and chuckled. "Don't have to ask what you were doing 'out', do I? Spike, I know what vamps usually do from sundown until dawn, so you don't have to pussyfoot around it. Just spare me the details unless I ask for 'em, okay?"

He hadn't realized that he'd tensed up until he felt his shoulders relax. "You got it, pet." Again: new territory. Sam wasn't anywhere near Buffy's level of tightly-wound or holier-than-thou, but she did have a bit of a self-righteous streak. However, that seemed to work in his favor more often than not.

After a few tell-tale beeps the microwave whirred to life, promising warmed and possibly even palatable blood before too long. Sam drummed her fingers on the countertop. "I don't remember what the channel numbers are here, but Nick at Nite and TV Land usually have good stuff around now. It's mainly sitcoms from the sixties and seventies, and sometimes the commercials are retro, too. You know: 'Mr. Whipple! Please don't squeeze the Charmin!' I like that kind of stuff." She paused. "Spike?"

He kept clicking the remote, hoping to find one of those oldies channels. "Yeah, pet. I'm lookin'. Telly's a wasteland this time of night."

Sam's footsteps moved towards the couch area and then stopped a few feet from him. "Not that. You ever get a song stuck in your head?"

"Sometimes. Why?" A slightly grainy image with faded colors came on the screen, along with vaguely familiar voices and clothes and furniture that practically screamed 'disco'. "Oh. Hang on. I know this show! Two birds and a bloke live together in the same flat, and the bloke pretends to be a poofter so the landlord won't make a fuss."

She came a little closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Sounds like you found it."

He looked up, puzzled by her mild tone. Wasn't she pleased that he'd found the right channel? Bloody hell, there he went again, seeking approval for little things and feeling put out when he didn't get it. In other words, being love's bitch. Wouldn't he ever learn? He didn't love her, which was sort of reassuring, but considering how things were going, he knew that it was only a matter of time before he was head-over-heels for her. Best part this time was he knew for a fact that it wasn't one-sided. She wanted him, had called him 'sweetheart' and 'sweetie', and then of course there was the kissing and discussions involving 'us' and 'we'. All of that gave him hope that what they had might actually… no. He didn't want to jinx it. Also, there was still Rupert and his crossbow to consider, not to mention the rest of the Scoobies and all of their assorted weapons. He grimaced. Yeah, mutual affection was fine and dandy, but that didn't mean other bollocks wouldn't get in the way of them being happy together.

Unaware of his introspection, she smiled, shaking her head and wearing an expression he couldn't read. "So, I've got something stuck in my head. But it's not a song. It's a poem." The microwave beeped, startling her enough that she jumped a tiny bit. "I'll get those for you." A nervous flash of a smile and she headed towards the kitchen, apparently not noticing that his jaw had gone slack when she said the word 'poem'.

Sam retrieved the mugs of blood and walked back to him, speaking as she moved. "So, the poem currently running around in my brain goes like this:

'Higgeldy-piggeldy
Emily Dickinson
Liked to use dashes
Instead of full stops.

Nowadays faced
With such idiosyncrasy
Critics and editors
Call for the cops.'"

She shook her head and gave Spike the first mug. "I think I read that one in highschool when we were studying poetry for half a semester. Always liked how playful it was."

He took a small mouthful of blood and blinked at her, trying very hard to form a coherent thought. Aside from being pleased and surprised, and also mildly suspicious and on guard, especially considering the topic, Spike wasn't sure what he thought of this new development. The mug was nearly drained before he managed a stumbling reply, sounding so much like human William when he did speak that he nearly cringed. "Is, um… is that your favorite poem?" He had an awful feeling of being back in Cecily's drawing room, the sound of mocking laughter still ringing in his ears.

She shook her head again, settling in next to him and all but ignoring the TV. "I don't have a favorite poem because it's just so hard to choose, and also it really depends on my mood. My favorite poets are Robert Frost, Lewis Carroll and Shakespeare. Also Shel Silverstein, but he's more of a guilty pleasure, and Poe's less morbid stuff. The way he used language in 'The Raven', the rhythms and sounds he put together are just… well, it's almost hypnotic."

This topic was a conversational minefield, with far too many opportunities to foul up, humiliate himself and open old wounds. Best to change the subject. "Dunno what you did to this blood, Sam, but it tastes much better than what I had earlier today."

She gave a pleased smile. "I'm glad it helped. I put a quarter teaspoon of baking soda in both mugs to kill the acidity, and added different spices to each, just trying to see what might work. I think that one," she nodded at the one in his hand, "has half a teaspoon of paprika, and the other has a quarter teaspoon each of cinnamon and clove."

He polished off the dregs and smiled, nodding as he set the mug down on the coffee table. "'M glad you took the time to season it, 'cause the spice works a treat. I tasted the paprika in there. Gives it a nice bit of heat."

Sam handed him the other mug, all but preening at his praise. "Glad you liked it. Hope this one works out, too."

Spike took the proffered mug with a nod and sat back to drink it, feeling pleased with himself. Subject changed, face saved, girl happy and hunger satisfied. All is well.

"So, Spike, do you like poetry?"

Bloody hell.

She watched him closely enough that he fought the urge to fidget nervously. He had played enough poker to know that looking ruffled would be a dead giveaway.

He didn't see a way to avoid the question, at least, not one that would convincingly make his reluctance to answer it seem casual. Trying to change the subject a second time would only peak Sam's interest and most likely ensure that she started digging around to find out why he didn't want to talk about it. In the long run, just answering her curiosity now was a much simpler and painless plan, as long as he stayed away from too many specifics.

Well, here goes. "Yeah. Frost did that 'roads in the wood' one, right? Always liked that, the way he talked about trying to decide which way to go an' wound up goin' the way most people didn't."

She grinned at him. "That one is good, but my favorite of his is 'Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening'. There is this one stanza in 'The Raven', though, that I just love. I know the first six or so, and I think this is the third:

'And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more.'"

Sam had closed her eyes as she recited it. Now she opened them again, a beatific smile on her face. "That first line, the 'silken sad uncertain rustling' it just… I can hear it and see it. That's one thing really good poetry can do. It paints a picture using more than one of the five senses." She shifted a bit on the couch and leaned into his side.

Spike put his arm around her again and kissed the top of her head, murmuring, "You recite beautifully, darling." He still had the affected Spike accent, but those words were all William. Every syllable of them.

"Thank you." She snuggled into him, rested her head on his shoulder, and took his hand. "Is there any poetry you know by heart?"

Bollocks. Now he was well and truly screwed. Call it 'elephant in the room' syndrome, but the only poems he could think of were his own feeble efforts, and there was no dodging that question. Well, good a time as any to see how Sam would react. He had already seen her deal with a watered down version of the Big Bad. What would she think of William Pratt's 'bloody awful' poetry?

"There is one verse I remember. I'm not sure where I heard it." He gave her a look and hoped like hell that she wouldn't know he was lying. "I think the author died 'fore any of his stuff was published." The last part was true enough, except for the fact that he had never believed any of his 'scribblings' were worth publishing, and so he hadn't ever tried. He squeezed his eyes shut and tensed the arm around her shoulders. Nearly one hundred and twenty years of being a vampire, fighting demons and Slayers and his own sadistic grandsire, but he still felt as nervous as he had all those years ago in Cecily Addams' drawing room. If he were alive, his palms would have been sweating up a storm. He shook his head at himself. No need to get tied up in knots over this. Might as well get it over with. It was just a bloody poem, after all.

Right. Now if only he believed that…

"It went something like:

'My heart expands,
'tis grown a bulge in 't
Inspired by your beauty
Effulgent.'"

Sam tipped her head up to look at him, wearing a confused expression. "What does 'effulgent' mean? Don't think I've heard that word before."

Spike blinked. That was all she had to say? It couldn't be. "It's, uhh… it means somethin' luminous, gleaming or glistening, lettin' off some kind of light."

She was quiet, and he tried, tried very hard not to panic or start acting defensive and give himself away.

He shrugged, hoping like hell that he sounded nonchalant. "S' just as well it never saw the light of day, really. It's rubbish." Bad move. He'd nearly given himself away that time by being so honest. If she paid close enough attention to what he just said, she'd have no problem working out who the author actually was. Spike tensed, hoping she wouldn't figure it out.

She shook her head against him, disagreeing without any hesitation. "No, it isn't. Rubbish, I mean." She looked up at him, starting to smile in a thoughtful sort of way. "I think… Well, you said it was unfinished?"

Spike nodded, wary and hoping that he was doing a good job of hiding the fact that he was hanging on her every word. "Early draft, I think."

She gave him a lop-sided smile. "Well, it… it really does sound like a first draft, but it's sweet and evocative. The idea is there, and the idea, the inspiration, the… feeling is the most important part about poetry. After that, everything else, trying to make it pretty and polished and elegant, that's all superficial. That's just the wrapping paper. It isn't the words of a love poem that you want to hold on to. It's the emotions they inspire."

Words from a century ago, spoken in a halting, hesitant voice which he hadn't used in ages, came back to him as clearly as if they had been spoken minutes ago:

"And - and, please, if they're no good, they're only words. But the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily."

Sam understood. She understood what he had been trying to say so many lifetimes ago. That the words themselves didn't matter. It was what they conveyed which was important.

He rubbed her shoulder, having no idea of how to explain why he was so happy without giving away his secret. "What tipped you off to it being unfinished?"

Sam settled against him, staring at the TV but still thinking about the poem which she didn't know was his. "A couple things. The whole 'bulge in't' thing was sort of crass, but in a high-handed way. Or classy. Classy and crass, but not in a way that's fun and subversive. It's more clumsy, I guess, but since it's an unfinished work y'can't expect perfection. I'm sure the author would have got it right eventually. Unless someone is a genius or has some seriously gifted muses, the first draft of anything that short is bound to be kind of messy. That's what first drafts are for. Also, its why I try not to write anything down until I won't be embarrassed by it."

Spike stared at her and she started to fidget, seeming uncomfortable.

She started talking again, sounding unsure and apologetic. "Sorry. It's the editor in me. When I read or hear something that needs improvement, I can't really help myself. Hazard of proof-reading too many of my friend's papers in school. Mind if I take a stab at improving it?"

He shrugged, affecting indifference. "Go right ahead, pet. I don't think the author would mind. Not sure how you're gonna fix it, though."

She gave a slight shrug. "Shouldn't be too hard." Sam frowned in concentration for a minute or so, and then, with no real warning she jumped right into it.

"'My heart expands
When I am in your presence
Your beauty is itself
Phosphorescence.'"

She cocked her head at him quizzically, blinking in a borderline annoyed sort of way. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Spike realized that he must have been staring at her. He only hoped that his mouth hadn't been hanging open too far. "Nothing, sorry. I just… I'm impressed, is all, that you came up with that so quick."

She gave a modest shrug. "It wasn't hard. Once you told me what 'effulgent' meant, all I had to do was think of a synonym for 'glowing' which also had to do with a natural light source, since an individual's beauty is a kind of a natural radiance. Radium really doesn't work for the theme, cause, side effects and that would be a mixed message, but then I thought of phosphorous, and what might rhyme with a form of that word, and with the rhyme scheme of the second and fourth lines rhyming with each other… it just sort of clicked into place." She chuckled. "Y'know, all of that seemed so much simpler in my head before I said it out loud."

He couldn't help it. He pulled her into a short, passionate kiss, pouring all of his joy and gratitude and everything else that he couldn't verbalize into the embrace. When their mouths parted, he cupped her cheek in his hand and lovingly ran his thumb over the corner of her lips. "You have a remarkable mind, pet."

Sam was a little breathless and surprised, but smiling up at him with a gleam in her eyes. "And you just remarked on it, which proves your point." Her expression turned curious. "What was that about? The kiss?"

Spike was terrified for a fraction of a second, thinking he'd given himself away again, but then he smiled. He didn't actually have to come up with a lie. The truth, or most of it, would work as an answer. "Like I said, Sam. You have one hell of a great mind, and that's just one of the reasons I want you."

She gave him a cocky, flirtatious little smile and tapped the end of his nose with her finger. "Well, then I guess I'll keep showing off for you. Of course, my brain might need a little encouragement if you want it to keep doing tricks."

"That so?" He grinned and kissed her forehead. "That enough of a treat for you to tell me what else you were thinking?"

"Yeah, for now, but I'll expect more of that kind of treat whenever you want part of me to do something special." She quirked one eyebrow suggestively and then settled against him. "So, the verse you recited. The only other thing about it I didn't like was the elision. Unless it's Shakespeare, slant rhyme and elision really bug me. I mean, he's the Bard, so he can get away with it, but anyone else… it just seems like a cheat to preserve meter and rhyme scheme instead of taking the time to pick a word that fits better, or like they're trying way too hard to sound like Shakespeare. Still, like I already said, it was great for an unfinished verse, and the idea was beautiful. It just needed to be polished."

Spike held her closer for a few moments, his emotions jumbled up into a confusing mess of worry, joy and regret. Everything she had said about the poem after asking what 'effulgent' meant. It had been… no, it was the most insightful and kindest critique he had ever gotten on one of his poems. His mother had only ever complimented them, which had been lovely, but to have someone who actually knew something about poetry giving, what did they call it? 'Constructive criticism'… it felt great. More than that, she was taking his work seriously, which was just... Of course, she didn't know that it was his work, and he meant to keep it that way. Let this wonderful girl find out that he had been a hack of a milk-sop poet before he was turned? Not bloody likely. Well then, back to the topic at hand. She'd said summat about… yeah, that was it.

"You polished it rather handily."

Cripes. 'Handily'? 'Rather'? Now he was sounding even more like William. Of course, it wasn't like Spike and William were two separate people. They were different pieces of him, not always distinct, often blurring into one another, but they made him who he was. Large parts of him still were and probably always would be William; the love-lorn poet and caretaker of his ailing mother, but he was also Spike; devil-may-care brawler and Slayer of Slayers. Becoming 'Spike' had helped him to survive his fledgling days and make a reputation for himself once Angelus was out of the picture, but in tender moments with Drusilla, and now with Sam, he found himself acting more like his human self.

She shrugged against him. "Easy enough when someone else has done almost all of the work."

This girl was humble, at least when it counted, kind, brilliant and attractive. He was sure that human William would have adored Samantha, had he gotten the chance to know her. His life would have been so different if they had… what? Been born in the same century? He shook his head at the idea. No use pining over 'what-ifs'. Sam was here with him now, and that was what mattered.

"So, who was the author?"

Oh no. No, she can't find out. Pretend that you don't care. Say to yourself 'Spike, I don't give a rat's arse if she finds out.' "Uhm, I don't remember, actually. Just like with that poem you rattled off. It stuck in my mind an' I don't really know why."

Sam tipped her head and regarded him thoughtfully. "But you said it was an unfinished work by an unpublished author, so how would you even know about it, and why would you have it memorized?"

Bloody rot. Too smart by half, that's what she was.

She went on, studying him as she spoke. "Also, you seemed pretty, well, invested in it and what I had to say about it."

Spike swallowed, putting on his best 'I don't give a damn' face. "Don't know what you mean, luv." The 'indifferent' act was wearing thin, and he knew it. Worse yet, he suspected that she knew it, too. Still, it was his best shot if he wanted to save face.

There was a hint of sadness in her eyes as she took his hand and laced their fingers together, still looking at him intently. "Please don't lie to me, sweetheart. Think I've earned better treatment than that."

He shut his eyes and let his head fall back, feeling like a cad. Wait, 'cad'? Did he really just use that word to describe himself? Well, there was William again, picking words for him. "I don't want to lie to you, Sam. It's just, there are some things that…"

A not-so-gentle squeeze to his hand made him open his eyes. "Don't you trust me?" The note of hurt in her tone was almost too much for him.

Spike nodded, not looking at her. "Yeah, I do trust you."

Strange, how she had found a way into his heart so quickly. Maybe that was why he hadn't tried harder to dodge her questions or change the subject, why he had wanted to hear what she thought of the last thing which he had created before he had been unmade. He didn't want to lie to her. He wanted her to know him, really know every last bit of him, and accept him, even love him for all of it. Still, with pain from past rejections on his mind, he couldn't help worrying that the same thing might happen again. Drusilla's infidelities and ultimate disdain for him was still so fresh, and although Cecily's cruel dissmissal had faded with time, the sting of her words never completely disappeared. As for how things had turned out with his mother… that really didn't bear thinking about unless there was plenty of whiskey handy. He let out a bitter chuckle. She had been right after all. He was a sentimental fool.

He put his other hand on top of their linked ones and toyed with one of her fingers, buying time until he could work out what to say. She didn't rush him, and he was grateful for that. Sam's other hand came to rest on his knee, a gentle reminder that she was waiting for him to say more. He let his eyes fall on her, idly wondering what she would do next. Just like she had done earlier that evening with convincing him to use the bendy straw, she waited him out. He didn't know if the fact that she had done the same thing both times mean that this would be the routine whenever they were at odds, but the idea of them having any kind of routine was oddly comforting. The fact that Sam could wait him out didn't exactly thrill him, particularly since he didn't like to lose, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he didn't mind losing to her.

An unnecessary breath, and then, "It's an old wound, Sam, an' after the bloody awful night I've had I just don't want to reopen it. Gimme a bit of time, an' then, maybe…"

She kept looking at him for a few moments, then pressed her lips together and nodded, her eyes turning soft and thoughtful. "Okay. I'll wait until you're ready." Her mouth relaxed, curving up into a teasing smile. "How about another topic you don't want to talk about?" She broke into a grin and gave his hand a fond squeeze when he shot her a wary look. "Don't worry, this one is less personal."

Spike narrowed his eyes at her, still deeply skeptical. "Ask away. Can't guarantee I'll answer."

"Well," she paused, "I just figure, Giles will probably wake up before me tomorrow, which means he'll find you down here before I get the chance to talk some sense into him, and that's a recipe for him to flip."

Spike looked at her curiously. "Suppose you're right 'bout that, but what does it have to do with askin' me summat I don't want to answer?"

Sam squeezed his knee. "I figure, the best way to keep him from going nuts when he finds you is if I leave him a note somewhere between his bedroom and the landing – "

He snorted at the childishness of her idea. "A note? C'mon, pet."

She rolled her eyes and lightly slapped his thigh. "I'm not done. Lemme finish, then you can mock my plan, okay?"

His snarky attitude crumbled at the light blow, playful though it had been. After all, he wanted her to be his, really his, and although he was still skeptical about the whole 'leaving a note' plan, belittling her ideas wasn't the best way to stay on her good side. He sighed. Playing nice wasn't ever going to be fun, but not having to put up with dim-wittedness or dimentia made it a good deal easier than he was used to. "Fine, pet. What's your plan?"

Her annoyance faded and she sat forward slightly, smiling gently and looking him straight in the eye. "If you tell me something about the commandos, their setup or where they kept you or something, and I write it down and put it where Giles will be sure to find it, he won't be able to squawk about you being loose. See, I figure his whole basis for keeping you restrained is a trust thing, which, to be fair to him, I can understand," she held up a finger, stalling Spike's protest. "But, if you give me some of the info he wants, and he sees that you didn't wreck his place during the night, it will pretty much destroy his argument for using the chains. Giles won't want to sound petulant, so if there's no solid reason to keep you locked up, he'll drop the subject."

Spike stared at her for a second as he thought it over. He saw the sense in her reasoning, but he was reluctant to give up his only bargaining chip, even to her. "Pet, that info is the only thing standin' between the me an' gettin' dusted by the Slayer's mates. I give it up, whats to stop 'em from offin' me?"

She broke into a cocky grin and held up the hand which had been resting on his knee, her index and middle fingers extended in what looked like the peace sign as she ticked off her points. "Two things; one, you won't be telling them everything you know, just enough to whet their appetite and prove that you actually have useful info."

He quirked an eyebrow. Sure, she made a good point, but he wasn't sold on the idea yet. "And two?"

Still looking at him intently, Sam leaned forward, her grin going from cocky to affectionate and determined in a matter of seconds. "If they want to dust you, they'll have to go through me." She shrugged, oozing relaxed confidence. "They won't be happy about that, but there's nothing they can do about it, either."

He faced away from her, letting his head tip back to rest on the couch cushions. Bein' protected by his girl. He wasn't crazy about the idea, Big Bad hiding behind a human… albeit a brilliant, fiesty and attractive human, but… no. He'd already been over this in the study, when she was cleaning him up. Bein' looked after and protected by his girl didn't make him less of a man. He wasn't going to be one of those tossers who had to be callin' the shots all the bloody time. Still, that didn't mean he was thrilled about the idea, and it was bound to take some gettin' used to. He frowned up at the ceiling, cringing slightly at the mental image of himself literally hiding behind Sam's skirts. Of course, he hadn't actually seen her wearing a skirt yet. Bet she'd look right fetching in one, though… He let out an unhappy, acquiescing grumble, consoling himself by picturing Sam in a slinky, form-fitting dress. "Okay, pet."

She put her hand back on his knee again, almost glowing as she smiled at him. "See, I knew you weren't just some cardboard villain. I keep trying to tell Giles, there's a lot more gray in the world than black and white, but he's pretty stubborn. Doesn't want to see it." He watched out of the corner of his eye as she traced her thumb over his kneecap. "Is it okay if I get some paper and a pen?"

He turned to face her again, the telly catching his eye for a moment before he replied. "Yeah, pet. If it'll stop Rupes from losin' his head again… Just hope you're right, is all."

"Oh, I'm right."

Sam leaned in, kissing him deeply and without warning. He sank himself into the kiss, marveling at how warm her touch was as she gently nipped at his lower lip. He was lost in the feel of her until she broke away for air. She got up from the couch and tossed him a cheeky grin over her shoulder as she hunted down paper and pen.

He shook his head at her, chuckling ruefully. "You're a bloody tease, you know?"

"Yup. And don't you forget it." She made a happy noise, unearthing a wire-bound notebook from a cardboard box next to the telly. As luck would have it, there was a pen clipped to the spiral wire binding, and she came right back to the couch, her search a success. She sat down and flipped to a blank page. "So, about the commando lab…" She trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He sighed. How the mighty had fallen… now he was a bloody informant. Still, it had been his idea to play this part in order to get the Scoobies to shelter him, and it was better than talking about his human self. Not fun, but at least it was a far less painful topic. "Right. What d'you wanna know?"

She uncapped the pen. "Just where they kept you. What kind of place was it?"

"White walls, white floors…" he shrugged. It hadn't been like any cell or dungeon he'd ever seen before. For one thing, there was no hay on the floor… or iron chains anywhere, and it was much too bright, not oppressive or medieval like dungeons ought to be. That was why he had termed it the 'commando lab', the brightness and orderliness of it, as well as the gizmos. "Almost looked like summat from Star Trek. Sterile, I guess, for the scientist types. I woke up in a cell, walls on three sides an' some kind of clear stuff at the front 'stead of bars. I put my hand on it when I went to get a look around an' got a nasty jolt."

Sam wrote quickly, getting everything down in a messy but legible hand. She frowned, glancing up from her notes when she finished jotting down a sentence. "It zapped you?"

"Yeah. Didn't think glass did that…"

She looked puzzled and shook her head, "Maybe it was Plexiglas. One of many questions about these guys. What else can you remember about the cell?"

Spike closed his eyes briefly, picturing the place. He wasn't going to forget it any time soon, much as he wanted to, but Sam wanted details so he tried to come through for her. "It was nine-foot square, with white lights in the ceiling. They opened mine with some swipe-card, key-card thing, the kind some ATMs have to lock the doors. There were two rows cells on either side of a corridor, all with demons in 'em."

Sam was hunched over slightly, resting the notebook on one knee and quickly writing in it. "Guards patrolling?"

He leaned over slightly and saw that she had nearly filled half of a page already, writing bullet-point style. She didn't seem to notice that he was looking over her shoulder, and he let out an irritated huff. It annoyed him that he didn't have her full attention any more, but he hoped that after the questions were done, the notebook would go away and she'd be all his. "Not too often, just when they wanted to yank one of us out and play pin the tail on the demon. The cocky scientist blokes usually handled that part solo, 'less they were dealin' with a demon who was awake. Then the soldiers'd be there with their guns an' what-all."

"They didn't come by to feed you?" She didn't take her eyes off of the page.

Spike shook his head, shifting closer to her and giving her notebook an annoyed glance. "Nah, some automated system shot out packets of blood from the ceiling. I'd just come to when mine fell down, but the bloke in the next cell over told me that it was drugged. He said they waited to feed us demons till we're good an' hungry, then they send down a drugged packet, some sort 'a sedative, I guess, so they could take us for experiments."

Sam put her pen down, giving him a sympathetic look and taking his hand again. "Wankers. I'm sorry you had to go through that. It must have been awful."

He grinned at the sentiment, and even more at how strange the word sounded when it was used by an American. "Yeah. I'd already got my little prod-an-poke," he gestured vaguely at the back of his head, "while I was out from when they captured me, so I never saw the lab. Least, I don't remember seeing it." Spike shrugged. He found himself trying to shake off the oddest feeling that he actually wanted to tell her all he could about the place, and regretting that he couldn't tell her any details about the lab.

"When I was bustin' out, the lab-coats kept shouting for some serum, maybe some kinda sedative, an…"

She stopped him, resting her hand on his thigh. "Thanks, sweetie. That's more then enough for now." He watched as she tore out the page she had been writing on and folded it over. The back of it was still blank and she jotted down a quick note, muttering to herself as she wrote it.

"Giles, Spike gave me this info after I unchained him. Its just part of what he knows about the commandos. Read it before you do anything macho or impulsive."

He smiled a bit, watching her finish the note and draw an emphatic line under the words 'read it'. He hoped that this plan of hers would work. After all, the last time Rupes had found him asleep on the couch, it really hadn't gone over well.

She put the pen and notebook under the side table at the end of the couch, rooted around in the end table's drawer, fished out a tape dispenser and then got up, glancing around the room pensively. "Now I've just gotta figure out where he'll be sure to see it." Her eyes lit on a mirror which was mounted on the wall facing the main flight of stairs. "Perfect! When anyone is coming down those stairs, they can't avoid looking at the mirror."

Spike turned around in his seat, following her with his eyes as she moved across the room and taped her note to the middle of Giles' mirror. Suddenly, he had the horrible suspicion that he'd been duped, that he'd given away too much information, and that Giles wouldn't show any restraint come morning. She came back down from the landing and gave him a triumphant smile. He tried to mirror her expression, but because of his doubts he was pretty sure that it came out as more of a grimace than a grin. He wanted to trust her, and a big part of him did, but he had been around far too long to be idealistic anymore. If he was wrong about Sam and her motives, he was well and truly screwed, and he couldn't exactly tell her about his doubts, because, true or not, she would just assure him of her trustworthiness. He had feelings for her, strong ones, but accustomed as he was to following his blood, he hadn't survived for so long by putting his full trust in new friends.

Great. Now he was back to doubting her and second-guessing himself when all he really wanted to do was enjoy being with her. So where the hell did that leave them?

A/N: Photographic evidence of Giles' bedroom and its lack of wall can be found on the Buffy wiki under the entry 'Rupert Giles' Apartment'. These pictures were my guide for building a mental 'floor plan' of Giles' apartment in order to describe it more vividly. I added extra rooms, for the sake of this story, because there were rooms we never saw on screen and I took that as license to run wild with my floor plan. Which I worked on for the better part of a day, using graph paper and mapping it all out down to the square foot and determining which windows faced which compass points. OCD is a cruel mistress.

The poem Sam recites is 'Emily Dickinson' by Wendy Cope