It’s 3 a.m. and downstairs in the Summers’ basement, Spike is sitting on the dryer reading a book of poems. A naked light bulb, suspended by a thin wire from the ceiling, sways to and fro as the washing machine hurtles into its final spin cycle. After seven loads of laundry, their job is almost done. Buffy is asleep on Spike’s cot. She’s lying on her back; her right hand dangles over the edge of the small bed, clutching a mate-less white sock.

She’s snoring lightly.

Spike looks over at her and smiles to himself. “Do Slayers snore? Apparently so. But she’d never admit it.” At that moment, he wishes he had a tape recorder so he could prove it to her.

Undisputable evidence.

The washing machine grinds to a halt, and Spike slips off the dryer and puts in the last load. He wonders if he should wake her up. He walks over to where she is sleeping, gently takes the sock from her hand and places it in the basket of folded clothes by the side of the cot. He decides to let her sleep. She needs it so desperately.

Earlier tonight, as they’d danced, and he’d held her in his arms, he’d noticed how tired she was. It was all there in her eyes. She was like a river just about to meet the sea, tired of the long, seemingly endless journey. Got to make it to the ocean before there’s nothing left to give.

He leans over and stares down at her hand. It’s such a small hand, a beautifully formed, but slightly grubby hand. With all the girls in the house, she’s probably had just as hard a time as he’s had trying to get in to take a bath.

He walks over to the wash basin, turns on the hot water, then takes a small, clean rag and holds it under the flow of steaming water. He moves back to the cot and sits down with his back against the edge of the bed. It’s been such a long night. He’d tried to get her to go upstairs and sleep in her own bed while he finished up. But she’d insisted on staying down here in the damp basement. With him.

She hadn’t left his side since she’d kissed him. It seems to him that there is something she wants to tell him, but can’t find the right moment. All dammed up and nowhere to go. She took her frustration out on the laundry. He’d actually never heard her use such words before.

And now here she is, exhausted, disheveled and dirty, and snoring, oh so unromantically. She’d be pretty upset if she knew he is watching over her like this, with her being in such a state, but to him, she is the most beautiful being in the universe.

Careful not to wake her, he gently takes her hand and places it, palm up, on his own. Slowly, tenderly, he washes the small, strong fingers and the soft palm. There’s a deep gash and a yellowing bruise on the top of her hand from her encounter with one of the First Evil’s vampires. Earlier, when she’d described the fight to him, she’d looked so scared.

As he gently washes away the dirt and grime, he finds himself wishing that it would be this easy to wash away the fear he feels growing inside her. A small smile crosses her face as she shifts in her sleep.

“Is she dreaming of me?” he wonders. Is she dreaming of their midnight dance and how she’d finally shown him, with her body at least, that she cared for him? She was the most non-verbal woman he’d ever known.

He hopes that she is having a sweet dream, for he’ll have to wake her up soon and send her up to her own bed. After she chains him back up, that is.

The buzzer to the dryer sounds, and he drops her hand. Wincing with pain, he struggles to his feet. His chest feels as if it were on fire. It’s just the ache from his broken ribs.

“Strange, it’s taking so long for them to heal,” he thinks.

How will they ever face what is to come?

He unloads the clothes from the dryer and places them, neatly folded into the laundry basket. Placing the basket on the long counter, he turns around to see that she’s awakened and is sitting in the bed holding her hand about six inches in front of her face.

“I fell asleep,” she says, slowly rotating her hand. “It’s clean.”

“Yeah, this was the last load. So you better take yourself off to bed.”

“My hand.”

“Excuse me?” He gives her a puzzled look. “All the laundry is done, and you’ve been snoring down here like a little freight train.”

“I don’t snore.”

He sighs, because he knows he’s not going to win this argument. “I’ve got no proof. But I swear. It’s true. It’s a sweet little snore, though.”

She gives him a strange look. “Were you holding my hand while I was sleeping?”

“Not exactly…”

“’Cause I dreamed you were touching my hand and then…” She falls silent.

“And then what, pet?”

“Uh…well, don’t laugh, but I dreamt you were licking my fingers.”

“Not bloody likely,” he smiles. “Don’t fancy a fist in my face.” His smile fades, and he turns his head away from her.

“Come here,” she says and stretches out her hand to him.

He steps reluctantly across the room and stops before the cot. “Time to chain up the demon,” he thinks. “How the mighty have fallen. Fallen. She made me fall. But I’d do it again. A thousand times.” He raises his fingers to his lips, remembering her kiss.

I’d fall a thousand times. For her. To be hers.

She takes his hand and pulls him closer. Suddenly, she lifts up his shirt to examine his chest. It’s a terrible sight—covered with scars, deep black bruises, carved and battered all over.

“How could you dance with me in this condition? I thought you’d be all healed up by now.”

“Well, I did say no, if you remember. But you got such a look in your eyes. I just couldn’t refuse you.”

“What look?”

“Oh Buffy...” he says as he pulls her up off his cot. “I’m tired. And I hurt. And you know, I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“About what?”

“Please go away. Go to bed and give me some peace. And here.” He bends over and shoves one of the chains toward her. “Better lock me up first.”

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“Why, Buffy? Tell me why it matters.”

She doesn’t answer. Fear, anger, uncertainty fill her eyes. Tears?

“Thought so,” he says and stretches out on the cot. He holds up his arms waiting for her to clamp on the shackles.

“Why do you need words? Haven’t I shown you how I feel?”

“Well, poet here. Words are important to me. They make things real.”

“And a kiss isn’t real?”

“A kiss can mean anything you want it to. Later. Words are irrefutable evidence. Anyway, doesn’t matter anymore.”

It’s too late for words.

“You’re a beast, you know,” she blurts out angrily. She picks up one of the cuffs and snaps it around his left wrist. She picks up the other cuff and swings it back and forth in front of him.

He bows his head and waits patiently for her to clasp the other cuff around his right wrist. Surprised by the harsh rasp of metal as the second cuff is snapped shut, he jerks his head up and looks at her with astonishment. She’s fastened the other cuff to her right wrist. The look in her eyes is ferocious. She pulls the key to the cuffs out of her pocket and tosses it across the floor out of their reach.

“Of all the stupid, insane things you’ve done. Are you brain dead?” he cries. “We might as well hang out a sign…Big Bad - check inside for nummy treats!”

“I don’t care.”

Spike starts to pull at the metal clamps which bolt the chains to the wall. After three desperate tugs, he rips the chains from off of the wall.

Dangling one of the chains in his hand, he gives her an exasperated look.

“Right, luv, now I’m sure you’re crazy. Not exactly my idea of secure. Could’ve ripped these out and murdered the whole bleeding household. Who put these up anyway?”

She turns her head away, with a slight pout. “I did.” She gives him a hard look. “And you didn’t.”

“Well, you were lucky, that’s all. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“I guess I’ll just have to stay down here and watch you.” She raises her chained wrist, and he realizes that they’re still bound together.

“Suit yourself,” he says, and stretches out on the cot. “I’m gonna sleep.” He rolls over on his side and faces the wall. “Do what you want, pet. Like you always do.”

She crawls onto the cot and snuggles up to the curve of his back. His body is stiff and tense as if waiting for a blow. He doesn’t want her to be this close to him again. Doesn’t want to feel her warmth and the small hand which slips over his waist and under his shirt. Doesn’t want to be touched or caressed or held.

Someday she’ll tell you…

He wants her to talk to him. He wants words. He’s desperately hungry for language, not her soft begging caresses.

He can feel the heat of her skin as she leans her face on his shoulder. She’s trembling.

Her whole body is trembling with the effort to grant him his wish. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. What’s inside her? What terrible fear is making her mute? What would happen if she told him the truth? Spoke the words. Said them out loud. What would it matter anyway? They were doomed. Tomorrow, the next day, in a month or year, their world would disappear.

What would it matter if she told him what was inside of her? What had always been inside her? What she’d tried to bury, burn, smash, and destroy. What floated beneath the surface of her every waking moment. And what haunted her dreams, so vivid and real. What she cherished most deep in her heart.

“Just say it,” he whispers. “Give me something to hold onto when you’re gone. Tell me.”

And now she’s crying because she thinks it’s too late to tell him. That the moment has passed, and she’ll be stranded forever behind this wall of fear. And no one like him will ever come again into her life. To offer her this blessing of faithful devotion, of fierce unquenchable fire.

Because she’s the Slayer, meant to die young. And he’s the Vampire with a soul who will live forever. And it’s wrong, wrong. Useless. And she’s never realized until this moment what it means to be alone. Because if she tells him now, he’ll be chained to her forever. Will have to live with the memory of her words, with the memory of all their wasted moments. And it will be her fault.

“Oh stop, please stop.” He turns over and takes her in his arms as she sniffles against his shirt. “Give a bloke a break. Now I’m gonna have to wash this shirt again. God, I hate laundry!”

“I love you,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“I love you,” she says, her voice a little louder this time.

“Care to repeat that?” he asks.

“I love you,” she shouts and starts laughing.

“Right, thought that’s what you said,” he smiles and gives her a quick kiss on the nose. “Now let’s get some sleep. And please, love. Don’t snore.”

“I never, ever…”

This time he chooses silence. His kiss is soft and deep and goes on forever. He has what he wants now. It’s enough.

Undisputable, irrevocable, irrefutable, glorious evidence.