The Summers’ house started to settle around 2:30 a.m., creaking and sighing like an old woman in tight stays.  They listened from separate floors, Buffy in her bed and Spike in the basement.  They were both too wired to sleep.  Sitting cross-legged on the rollaway, Spike could hear every shift of the floorboards.  The house had seen a bit of hard living, he thought, not the least of it in the past 24 hours.  The entire structure, or what was left of it, sounded tired.

Gradually, footsteps stopped clomping up and down the stairs but Spike didn’t stir.  He heard the Slayer’s bedsprings squeak as she squirmed.  She was restless, worried and trying to be strong.  In the past, she would have come to him.  She’d have set aside her troubles for an hour or six. He would have helped her work off the tension.

Nothing like a little rough and tumble to help a body relax…eventually.

Frustrated by the physical and emotional distance between them, Spike sighed.  He thought about the last time he had her and realized, with a start, it was exactly one year to the day.  He had never gone so long without a woman.  It seemed like forever. He remembered taking her gently on the top of the sarcophagus.  He had pierced her slowly, stroking in and out.  She had answered his murmurs of love and need and fulfillment with pretty words of her own. 

None of them real, o’course.

But, surprisingly, knowing that didn’t change anything.  Nothing changed how he felt, not even the burning inrush of soulful shame.  He still wanted her, dreamed of her, lithe and slick and willing.  The brief fantasy caused a tightening in his loins. 

He stretched, arching his back, and shifted to a less constricting position.  The constant squealing on the first floor slacked off to a smattering of high-pitched giggles and then faded into occasional snuffling.  The vampire waited, patient as the grave, for all signs of burgeoning life to die away. 

Another hour passed before he was ready to move.  By then, the only noise was Xander’s heavy snoring from the living room sofa and a few dream-induced mumbles from the girls.  Spike stood, rotating his shoulders to ease the kinks out.  He ached from the demon battering.  His knuckles were bloody.  It was lovely.

As he found his feet, Spike's duster flared and brushed against a coil of chain beneath the bed.  An iron manacle clinked over onto concrete.  The vampire glanced down, attracted by the noise, and smiled.  Looking up, his eyes sought the ring-shaped bolt in the wall. 

No more shackles. 

Spike’s hands drifted to his chest.  He absently caressed his black leather lapels, lifting them and savoring the familiar weight.  The coat felt like a part of him.  A part he had set aside and only now realized he'd missed.  He hadn't longed for the duster, but he had longed for the symbolic power. 

Mixed symbolism, he thought. 

I am the Killer of Slayers. 

The most powerful being in the demon world had fallen before him.  And that made him evil.  But it also made him her equal. Her partner.  Her match. 

They fit together like the dark and the light. 

I need the Spike who's dangerous! The one who tried to kill me when we met.

She was fierce and she pushed him, shoving his buttons down hard.  No one else would have dared speak to him that way.

"Weepy … whaled on … what I want … what I need …” With a few well-chosen words, Buffy had set him free. Her eyes flashed and her tongue cut and her shoulder crowded him as she strode to the stairs.

Anger opened his cage but it was the fear of losing her that finally shoved him out. 

No chip … no chains …

There was nothing holding him but her.  He was what she wanted, what she needed.  She could rely on him.

Spike gloried in the thought. 

Relearning the feel of the coat, he moved effortlessly through a series of tai chi postures.  The duster shadowed him.  It billowed out like a cape before whipping back to wrap around his legs.  It was dramatic … erotic … Vampyric.  Spike smiled at the Andrewism and stopped posing. 

He dropped his head to the right, cracking his neck vertebrae.  One hand searched his pockets.  Retrieving his cigarettes, he mouthed a smoke from the pack and returned the pack to his coat.  He hesitated before lighting up. 

Would she mind?

"Part of me," he rumbled around the filter.  His soft growl echoed back off the block walls, too authoritative for the small space. 

Holding the cigarette with his teeth, Spike fished out a match.  His nail flicked the sulfurous head and it swooshed into charcoal.  Cradling the flame in the curve of his palm, he lit up.  He took in a lungful of smoke.  After savoring the rush, for a moment, Spike exhaled a bluish cloud to put out the match.  He tossed the charred stick to the ground.  Then, with the sweet scent of burning tobacco wafting around him, he climbed the basement stairs.

He hesitated at the ground floor.  After listening for any sound beyond the door, he eased it open and stepped into the darkened kitchen.  He took a deep breath, enjoying the mingled odors of home, lemon dish soap, microwave popcorn, chocolate chip cookies and warm-blooded femininity.  He loved the Summers’ house.

Skirting sleeping bags, he padded, silently, down the hall, through the living room, and up the stairs.  His deliberate stealth and the scent of young woman sleeping created a false sense of purpose.  It felt like hunting.  In a way, it was.

Hard and hungry, Spike paused at the top of the stairs.  He looked toward the Slayer’s door.  Balancing on the balls of his feet, Spike crouched, locating her signature scent among a hundred others. She was afraid and lonely and as ravenous as he was.  Her need reeled him in, as it always had.  It drew him to her threshold.  He lifted one hand, letting his fingertips caress the thin wooden portal separating him from his love. 

Let me in, Sweetheart.  It’s been too long.

Buffy couldn’t sleep. She was so horribly tired; this was like those final weeks of Glory, when she’d been terrified for Dawn and still grieving for Mom, worried whatever she did wouldn’t be good enough, wherever they ran wouldn’t be far enough.

And look how great that turned out.

Yesterday she heard Molly and Rona snickering about her in the kitchen, calling her “General Buffy” behind her back.

Buffy smiled to herself. At least it wasn’t as rude as what they called Kennedy.

These were the girls she had to protect; this was why she was lying awake at half past god-knows-what in the morning, wondering if there was anything else she could do, any other preparation she could take.

A war was coming and they weren’t all going to make it.

Yeah, this was definitely that bad old Glory feeling, but at least then she had known what she was up against: designer clothes, a bad perm, and pokey-fingers that drove people insane. Oh, and little minions that were much cuter than those totally gross Bringer guys. Carving out your eyes? That was just a world of eww.

With Glory, what you saw was what you got—that is if you didn’t count the whole sharing-a-body-with-a-hunky-medical-intern thing.  Glorificus always made it quite clear what she was after. The First Evil wasn’t being nearly as straight forward.

And that was why she had to be so hard on everyone. God, didn’t they realize?  She wasn’t being “General Buffy” because she was bored of shopping with her sister and relaxing with her friends.

Did they think she wanted to turn her house into the bunker from hell and share it with a bunch of teenaged girls?  She was twenty-two years old.  Did they really think she wanted to baby-sit them when she could be exploring this strange new feeling that welled up inside her every time she saw Spike?

Oops. Where did that last thought come from?

This wasn’t about Spike.  This was about duty.  Her duty and how she was going to embrace it…instead of embracing…NO! No embracing…ONLY DUTY.

Just for a second, diving through the portal in her living room, Buffy had flashed onto that moment on the tower, when everything else became secondary—no, nonexistent—in the face of what she knew she had to do. She could admit it to herself now: back then she had welcomed oblivion. She’d wanted the rest, the peace.  Wanted the neediness of the world to fuck off and hand its problems to some other Chosen one.  It was the death wish that Spike was always going on about; he had been right about that.

He’d been right about a lot of things.

This time had been different, though. As she had gone through the portal, all she could think about was how much she wanted to live. That’s why she risked her life—not so she could lose it.  She wanted a chance to live it. There was so much to live for…fight for: Dawn, the girls, her friends, Spike.

Spike.

There he was again. 

Buffy sighed and dragged her hands through her hair. God, she’d been so harsh to him earlier. She’d said things—Fine. Take a cell phone. That way, if I need someone to get weepy or whaled on, I can call you.  Bitter, uncaring, intemperate words had spilled out of her.  Last year’s Buffy would have tossed them off easily, brushed him aside, without a second thought.

Now, she regretted hurting him.  Because Spike was different now; she was different.  He was just so hard to read these days. Everything used to show on his face—lust, anger, love, humor, and worst of all, hope. He’d always spoken his mind, voiced his passions.  Hell, he never used to shut up.  Secretly, she’d liked that about him. Now he was quiet a lot of the time.

Spike used to listen to his heart and it sang of her. But for the first time in all the years she had known him, Buffy was no longer sure of the words to the song. 

But she’d done the right thing …unleashing on him like Patton in kicky sandals.  She’d motivated him.  Unwrapped the cotton wool and stopped coddling him.  He had killed for her, watched her back like she needed him to do. General Buffy needed soldiers, not doe-eyed poets.  It might have hurt, but no pain, no gain, right? Right?

Argh! This wasn’t good. If she started mooning over Spike again she’d be up all night.

Buffy stretched and yawned, flipping over her pillow and lowering her fevered cheek onto the cool, fresh fabric. Mmm. Better, but not quite enough. All this tossing and turning…and thinking...had made her uncomfortably hot.

She sat up.  Reached over and took the still-cold glass of water from her nightstand. Buffy ran a finger over the droplets of condensation and brushed the wetness along her lips. Taking a deep draught of water, she reveled in the coolness sliding down her throat. On impulse, she held the glass up to the back of her neck and shivered at the sensation. It reminded her of Spike and his ice cubes and the way he’d—

No! Bad Buffy! She scolded herself. No more Spike tonight. Sleep! But it was too late. She’d let her mind wander down that road, and now all she wanted to do was let her hand wander down the curves of her body, down to where the slick heat of desire was beginning to grow.

She shucked off the covers and slowly moved her fingers up to caress her breast through the thin cotton of the camisole she was wearing.  Her nipples hardened and she moaned softly, imagining pale hands touching her.  Hands larger than her own, fingers filled with consummate skill, nails decorated with scratched black varnish.

Would it really be so bad, just to let herself go for a little while, just to imagine? To help herself relax for once? Even generals took time off …

Then she froze, every muscle tensed.

She could sense him. Feel him, waiting in the hallway, feel his pull. Night after night she had gone to the basement, telling herself it was her duty to guard him, to ensure his well-being. She hadn’t been able to stop herself. He drew her.

But now he was unchained. Unleashed.  Free to come … free to go … and he was outside her door.

Her eyes measured the distance to the hall.  Six steps and she could be in his arms, again.  He could be in her bed.  It had been too long.  And god, he was a great lay. 

The thought of it made Buffy’s mouth water.  She held her breath, knowing the shaky drag of air in her tightened throat would betray her. He would already sense her blood quickening, her pulse pounding. She knew he could smell the fluid on her inner thigh.  Knew he would hear her if she moaned or shifted to accommodate the ache between her legs.  She prayed, disingenuously, for him to leave.  And finally, she heard the whisper of his footfalls move on along the hall. 

But they didn’t go far. A latch clicked and hinges protested slightly as he entered her attached bath. Buffy’s eyes widened in the dark of her bedroom. There was a shower downstairs. Spike had used it for weeks. But now, now he was free to choose. And he had chosen her. Four steps, she thought, glancing at the bathroom door. 

Gentle thumps and swishes came to her straining ears, the rustling of clothing being removed.  The realization made her gut swirl with desire.  Just four steps away.  She could walk to the door, pull it open and drink him in, quench this relentless thirst. Naked Spike, cream-colored skin luminous in the half-light.  She knew he would be lean, hard … tight. Oh god. Her fingers plucked involuntarily at the elastic of her panties. 

Lost in recollections of licking cool firm flesh, Buffy was startled by the abrupt thud of shower spray hitting the curve of the tub. 

This wasn’t working. She rolled onto her stomach and covered her head with her pillow. The hiss of the shower grew fainter, but with her eyes closed, her mind ran rampant, painting even more vivid images of Naked!Spike and everything that she could do to him.

In growing desperation she thought about the vibrator in her bedside table.  Then, she thought of the sleeping potion Willow had prepared for her. Perfect.

Oh, wait. It was in the bathroom.

Oh!

Buffy’s soft knock caught Spike off guard. He was lost in a maelstrom of self-recrimination, allowing the scalding hot water to burn away his sins. What the hell had he been thinking, coming like this into the very room where he’d—

Where she’d—

His hands pressed against the tiles.  Stiff, straight arms held him up as his head hung low under the spray. His body tensed all over when he heard the door open with a slight protesting creak. Never, in his most primitive fantasy, had he imagined she would come voluntarily into this room.  The room where he’d lost her.

"Spike?"

He swallowed hard and managed a word. "Yeah?"

"I need to get something from the medicine cabinet," she said, on a rushed breath. "Would you mind if I came in for a minute?"

"No," he said, too softly to be heard above the drone of water. He cleared his throat and repeated. "NO! I mean, I don't mind."

"I won't be long."

He heard her step over the threshold.  It was dark and Spike braced for the flood of illumination.  But Buffy didn't hit the switch.  Moonbeams spilled through the open door behind the Slayer, offering enough light for her to find her way in the familiar room.  The silvery blue brightness cast her shadow against the shower curtain.  Spike reached out and gently traced the outline of her shoulder.  He watched her silhouette as she crossed quickly to the sink and began rummaging in the cabinets.

"You need a light?"

"N-no, no," she muttered.  "I don’t want to distur—" There was a whisper of indistinct meaning and a soft thud.  Buffy broke off, cursing.  She bent over quickly as if grabbing at something.  Her outline disappeared in darker shadows.

"Are you okay?"

"I think I knocked your clothes on the floor, I brushed against something. Hey! Your duster."

Spike darted a quick, involuntary glance at the curtain. He couldn’t read her tone. "What about it?"

"Nothing … I just … I didn’t see it … in the dark.  It slid off the counter." She stood up, still holding the coat. “It’s hot in here.”

“Yeah. Soaking the bruises and all that rot. Demon was a tough bastard.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause before she continued, “I meant to thank you, Spike. For helping.  Making sure I got back in one piece.”

Spike’s entire body flushed with pleasure at the unaccustomed words of praise. He risked a quick glance around the shower curtain. Buffy was standing by the vanity, still clinging to the coat.  Spike nearly melted when he saw her bring it to her nose.  He heard her sniff, delicately, and sigh.  Turning the lining out, she inhaled, again, drawing the scent of him into her body.  

The duster smelled like Spike, Buffy decided.

Smoke and leather and just a hint of bourbon. 

The erotic combination made her inner muscles clench.  She tried to ignore the sensation and the slippery cotton bunching between her thighs.  But it took all of her willpower not to wrap the coat around her body the way she’d wrapped up in it all summer.  She remembered the smooth slide of the duster on her naked skin as she knelt on her bed.  The heavy leather weight of it on her bare legs.  The soft scrape of stitching against her nipples.  The scent of the turned up cuffs near her nose when, in the throes of ecstasy, she dragged her fingers through her hair, fisting and pulling in pale imitation of him.

Forcing herself to drape the garment on the vanity, she said casually.  "I think there's blood on it."

"Blood?"

"It's sticky …” Don’t think about it. “Are you hurt?"

"Barked my knuckles on Big Ugly's big uglies."

"Ouch." She paused, wondering if she should offer. No, of course not…what she should do is grab the sleeping potion and go back to bed. "You want me to clean this up? It could damage the leather."

Do you want to touch me?

Do you want me to touch you?

Through the billowing steam he could see her fingers lingering on his coat, delicately circling one of the buttons.

Spike glanced down at his bobbing erection.  It was begging for attention. But he couldn't do that … not here … not now.

He pulled back from the curtain’s edge and grabbed the soap from its little dish. Feverishly, he began to rub the soap between his hands, working up lather, frantically seeking distraction.

But it was her soap and the silken suds were redolent with her scent—freesia and citrus and everything fresh. He’d tried to drag her into the darkness, but she had always smelled like sunshine to him.

He looked at the Slayer's shadow again. Buffy had returned to searching the cabinet, standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf and leaning into the hard, curved edge of the sink.  Pink pliant heat against cool white porcelain, Spike thought.  He swept one finger along the tile beside him, his imagination considering its steam slicked surface as, less than three feet away, the Slayer's pelvis rocked ever so slightly against the countertop.

Right. None of that, William, my lad. Get your mind out of the gutter. She’s not…that is…she wouldn’t even consider…

Spike’s soap-covered hands begin to stroke firmly over his body.

Yeah, the sooner I get clean the better.

He rubbed the slippery suds over the hard planes of his chest, abrading his nipples, dipping into the hollow of his collar bone, the skin under his arms. Spike ran his fingers up his throat, through his hair and gently massaged his scalp, causing it to tingle with the contact.

He could hear Buffy’s movements as she searched for whatever it was she had come looking for. The smell of her filled his head, making him dizzy; steam blurred his vision. He couldn’t decide whether he was in Heaven or Hell.

Spike reached again for the soap.

Buffy couldn’t find the damn potion, though at this point, sleep was the farthest thing from her mind.

The moisture was clinging to her, dampening her little cotton pjs and causing them to hug her heated flesh like a second skin.

She rose onto her tippy-toes, balancing by gripping the medicine cabinet’s mirrored door. As she came back down again the motion drove her clit against the corner of the counter with just the right force and friction. Buffy’s eyes widened in surprise as the unexpected explosion of sensation tingled all the way to the soles of her feet.  She couldn’t help releasing a tiny moan.

Just a tiny one.

Sodding, bleeding, fucking hell, Spike thought.

She would! She was! 

His girl was out there, unconsciously pleasuring herself. And it was driving him insane.  He knew that each shift in movement, as she sorted through bottles and boxes, made her wetter.  Opened her a little more.  The realization had his cock thrumming.

"Tell me about the Shaman blighters," Spike said, desperate to redirect the Slayer's attention.  "Did they give you any insight on the First?"

"Zip, nada, nothing. They were full of mystical mumbo-jumbo. I got bored."

Bored. Wouldn’t that be nice? One thing about Buffy: he was never bored around her.  Though he’d tried to pretend, once or twice…in the good old, bad old days.

Ignoring his offered hand, she came down the stairs, moving as if mesmerized.  She closed on Spike, quickly, and he held his ground, letting her ambient heat envelope him.  She dipped her head, cocking it like a curious animal, as she took his measure.  Leaning in, she slithered along his body, hands braced against his chest.  She nuzzled into the curve of his neck, breath moist against his skin, and whispered, "Make me feel something."

Her eyes slid away from his …and settled on the bed behind him.  She blushed, swallowing hard.  Her tongue darted out to further wet her already glistening lips.

She rotated her hips, grinding silken moisture against the bare skin of his stomach.

“Spike?”

His cock twitched eagerly and he quickly turned his back to the curtain.

"Spike?" she repeated. "Are you sleeping in there?"

"Uh … no … just … thinking," he said, coming out of the reverie.

"Well, do you think we should move the girls to another location?”

Buffy was staring at her foggy reflection in the mirror, watching the expressions form and dissolve on her face as she ground herself against the vanity.  She darted a guilty glance around the angled cabinet door.

He won’t notice, she told herself. He’s preoccupied, thinking out strategy.  And anyway, he was in the shower. He couldn’t hear.  There was steam.  So, he shouldn’t be able to see her…clearly.

She raised a hand to the condensation covered mirror and traced a finger on its surface. She could see the reflection of the shower curtain and started when it moved, seemingly of its own volition.

Giving up all pretense of innocence, Buffy let go of the door, clicking it closed, and braced both hands on the wall.  She turned slightly to stare at the tub.  Looking directly, she could see the outline of Spike's body moving in the shower. His arms were raised and she could tell that he was soaping himself, touching that fabulous body with all its lithe power. She remembered the simple sensation of placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles had bunched underneath her fingers and she had been made vibrantly aware of the grace and beauty of the predatory male animal.

Her mouth opened and her breathing quickened. She rubbed herself a little harder against the hard porcelain.

The water would be coursing over his body, limning his sharp cheekbones with moisture.

She allowed herself to fantasize about joining him in the shower. She would keep her clothes on and let the hot jet of water plaster them to her body.  Dressed, but leaving nothing to the imagination, she would take the soap from his hands and run it along the bands of muscle on his chest, over the washboard abs of his stomach.  Eventually, she would touch him, skin to skin. She’d massage her soap slick hands against his taut belly, rub them over the soft skin of his sac …

 … then she’d wrap her hands around his throbbing erection and pull him into her willing body, yearning flesh to yielding flesh.  One of Spike’s splay-fingered hands slid down over his navel, pressing into his clenched abs in imitation of his imaginary Buffy.

Just a little lower, baby.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked loudly, hoping that she wouldn’t interpret the note of desperation he could hear in his own voice.

"Mmmnnnhhhuuh," Buffy acknowledged, obviously not really listening. 

He was so hard Spike thought he might explode if he didn’t get off soon. He leaned his cheek against the cool of the shower tiles and prayed.

God, help me.

They had been so good together, he thought. Was it any wonder his body remembered? Was it wrong of him—wanting to sink his cock into her?  Wanting to feel her aching cunny fold around his shaft?

He carried the Slayer backward, slamming her into the wooden stairs.  He ripped open her blouse, tugged down one bra strap and took her in hand, circling his thumb over her exposed nipple.  His other hand groped lower.  Applying quick friction between her legs, he kissed her once, twice, three times in heated succession.  He sucked hard against her mouth, forcing her to gasp for air.  She bowed up under him, moaning, slick fluid soaking through her jeans and he chuckled into her mouth.

"Look at you," he hissed, taking his own advice and backing off to drink in the wanton beauty of her.  He tongued his front teeth, smirking, "Wet already."

Buffy’s eyes fluttered shut as she lost herself in her movements. Swirling her hips, back and forth, up and down, unnhh, just like that…oh…yeah…he was so good at this, the right fit, the right pace...so right.  She could feel her excitement growing, feel the tension coiling in her stomach.  It made her reckless.

Her hand slipped on the damp wall, flailed out, seeking purchase, and her fingers brushed against the leather of his coat. Barely stifling a moan, Buffy pulled it closer, brought it up to her face. The essence of Spike engulfed her, again, and sent her mind reeling backwards through time …

Buffy glanced down at her disheveled condition. Her nipples were puckered into hard buttons, the naked one tingling uncomfortably.  She raised her head to lock eyes with Spike and moved, skirting around him but dragging the clawed fingers of her left hand along his skin.  Her right hand drifted up to fondle her bare breast. 

Spike pivoted, keeping her close even as he tried to work the tension out of his body.  Rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder, he shifted his weight to ease the strain in his groin.  Buffy smiled at his discomfort. She pulled him along in her wake, keeping him at arms length, until they were hard up against one of the bedposts.  She turned, then, twisting her body, and dropped one leg around the wooden pole.

"Gonna do it for yourself, are you?" He was playing it cool, but the eagerness in his lust-filled eyes gave him away.

"Yeah," Buffy breathed. She licked one finger and used the slick digit to trace over her crinkled aureola, as she rocked and rotated erotically against the post.  The sight made Spike grind his teeth together and shift up onto the balls of his feet. 

"Way you did that night," he remarked, too casually, "after we kissed at the Bronze?"

He saw the surprise skitter into her eyes and, only then, touched her, freeing her other breast and helping himself to a handful of baby soft flesh. He lifted one brow at her, asking, "You knew I was there, right?  Knew I followed you home?"

Her slight blush gave confirmation to his guess, and he nodded once. "Yeah, tha's right…you knew.  Wanted me to hear, didn't you?  And I did.  Stood outside and listened to you humping something cold and hard.  In the bathroom, shower running, quiet as a mouse you were, but I heard you, panting and moaning.”

Buffy was tempted to deny him, but then she gave a negligent little shrug.  She favored him with a sideways glance, as she asked, "Did you like it?  Hearing me?"

"Oh, God, yes!" He growled the acknowledgment, on a roughly panted breath. "Made me stand up stiff, knowing you wanted it like that …"

She shuddered.  But not in revulsion.  No, it wasn't that she hated the idea.  What she felt was far worse than shame.  It turned her on to think of him, lurking by the oak tree, listening to her pleasure herself, getting hard and maybe jacking his shot into the rose bushes. 

"But," he continued, meeting her gaze steadily, as he stepped back a pace.  "I'd much rather watch than listen."

“Unnnnhhhh!” The vivid memories pushed Buffy’s fevered body over the precipice. She bit down hard on the leather of the duster, frantically trying to stifle her groan of completion.

“Buffy?” he croaked, hand moving down to squeeze his cock, unable to hold out any longer.

There was a long pause while her breathing slowed. A rattle of bottles accompanied the soap-slicked pump of his fist.

“Found it!” she announced, too brightly. “Um, I’m going to bed now, Spike. Enjoy the rest of your shower.”

Four running steps and the door slammed shut behind her.

A few more long strokes and Spike came hard, crying out harshly as he spent.  His seed mixed with water from the shower and spiraled away down the drain.

Buffy sprawled lazily in her bed, her entire body humming with satisfaction.

That had been … wow.

She sighed, snuggling into her pillow.  Just before sleep claimed her, she wondered if, the next time he wore his duster, Spike would notice her teeth marks in the black leather.

Spike stepped out of the shower, water flowing off his body and onto the mat. He reached for a fresh towel and rubbed himself dry. He felt invigorated.  Relaxed, happy…free. 

Like that wanker in the soddin' ZestÔ commercial. 

It was still dark in Sunnydale, but in Spike-world a harmless sun was shining and disgustingly cheerful little birds were twittering like mad. 

A good hot shower could do that for a man, he thought, wryly.

There was no noise coming from the bedroom. He moved to the sink, curious to know what Buffy had been looking for. His eyes fell on the mirror and he froze in surprise.  A small smile played over his lips.

There, coated in steam and barely visible, was the outline of a heart.