The first thing that struck Spike as he slowly came to full consciousness was the strangeness of it all.  It was strange to awake in a soft bed with a warm body pressed closely against his.  It was strange to open his eyes to golden, diffused, indirect sunlight instead of the darkness of a crypt or cellar.  And it was, most of all, strange to feel happy.

      This was the bedroom Buffy used now.  He knew that it had once been her mother’s.  From where he lay on his side he could see a picture of Joyce.  She was smiling, and he spared a moment’s hope that she would not disapprove too much of Buffy’s current companion.

     They had climbed in the window just before dawn, with him in the odd role of protestor.  “Lost the key to your own house, love?”

      “There are probably a dozen wannabe Slayers having a slumber party in the living room, all of them talking about Buffy and her vampire lover,” she had said, sounding remarkably cheerful as she pulled herself up the tree to the roof and shoved open the window.  “Do you want to listen to their gasps and giggles?  Answer their questions?  Dodge their stakes if they decide I’m making a mistake?”

      No, none of those things had been what he’d had on his mind.

      So they had tumbled on to the big bed, and made love again, slowly and with occasional attempts to avoid waking the rest of the house.  But the Scoobies and even those silly girls must have realized that he and Buffy had returned.  Bloody hell, the witch had probably sensed them come in and purposely kept the others from raising an alarm.

      Now, lying in the total stillness of one who had no need to take a breath, he took stock of world around him.  The room was cluttered, with clothes thrown everywhere. The messiness didn’t disturb him; it spoke of the realities of day-to-day living, and it seemed an echo of the Slayer’s vitality.  Death was neat and settled; life should be untidy.

      He could hear people moving around downstairs, but in this room the only noise was the faint exhalation of Buffy’s breath.  She was under the covers, lying behind him, her body curled against his back, her breasts rubbing lightly against his skin with each inhalation and exhalation.  Her breathing began to quicken almost imperceptibly, and he realized that in a moment she would wake.

      Involuntarily, his muscles began to stiffen.  Her waking had always been the worst moment.  Sometimes, when she had fallen asleep in his crypt and lain with him like this, he had convinced himself that she would open her eyes, and smile at him, and he would know that he had made her happy.  But every time she had woken, her face had closed off at the sight of him, and her expression of self-loathing had made him almost regret giving into the passion that shamed her.

      He did regret that affair now.  Regretted the blows, regretted the angry words, regretted the way he had tried to hurt and manipulate her into admitting she felt something for him.  Regretted the way he had foolishly tried to convince himself that the next kiss, the next night, the next morning would be different.  His mind still shied away from the memory of just how much he had to regret.

      But last night was different.  He moved a bit now, testing his body, and realized that while he was sore and a bit stiff, this felt like the aftermath of a good, clean fight or even a sparring session.  In the past, he had woken from a night of sex with Buffy aching as if he had lost a battle with a particularly ferocious demon. 

      Except for that involuntary little nip of hers, they hadn’t really hurt each other last night.  Not with blows and not with words.  Still, they hadn’t exactly restricted themselves to decorous coupling in the missionary position either.  They had done those things before, but this was the first time he remembered her laughing while they made love.  Bloody hell, this was the first time he could remember making love instead of just shagging. 

      But what would she think this morning?  She had done her best last night to convince him that she was no longer ashamed to be with him, but he had too much experience of being rejected by her when the cold light of day crept over the horizon.  This was the hour for regrets and second thoughts.  If it had been possible, his heart would have grown colder as he waited.

      She was stirring against him now, and he sighed at the silken softness of her pressed against his back.   She snuggled in closer as she came to full wakefulness, and he could sense the moment when her eyes opened and she took in her surroundings.

      For a long moment, she was perfectly still.  Then he felt her breath rush against the back of his neck in a long exhalation. 

      Breathless himself, he rested unmoving, waiting for her reaction.  She was quiet for so long that panic began to grip him.  Finally he felt her movement—felt the gentle touch of her lips against the side of his throat.

      Slowly, her body slid against his as soft kisses dropped on his ear, the nape of his neck, and his shoulder.  He lay, eyes closed, lost in amazement as she ran a hand along his arm, down his side, and over his hip.

      She spoke in a burble of laughter.  “I can tell you’re awake, you know.  And if you don’t turn around and look at me, I have my ways of getting your attention.”  Her hand slipped downward from his hip, reaching—

      He rolled over, grabbing her playful, straying hand and searching her face intently.

      She was startled but undismayed, gazing at him with a trace of confusion that was insufficient to chase away her glowing smile.

      “You’re happy,” he said hoarsely.

      She blinked.  “Yes,” she said, surprised. 

      “Really happy.”   His tone demanded a response.

      “Yes,” she reiterated.  Her smile faded just a little more.

      He couldn’t bear to see any diminution in her joy.  The next words stumbled out as he tried to explain, to restore that amazing smile to her face.  “It’s just—I haven’t seen that enough.”

She relaxed, that hint of stress fading away and leaving a questioning expression behind. “You said something like that once before.  About seeing me happy.  That’s important to you.”

      “Ah, pet, one of the great pleasures of being in love is seeing the object of your affections content and happy.”

      She eyed him gravely for a second, and for a terrible moment he had absolutely no clue what she was thinking.  Then she said, in an almost experimental tone, “I love you.”

      He found himself unable to respond, and just stared into her green eyes as her expression slowly returned to glowing contentment.  “Yes,” she said at last.  “I see what you mean.”

      “Ah, love,” he said after a long moment.  “I’ve so wanted to see you like this.”

      “And what else do you want?” she asked after a long, lingering kiss.

      “What else could I want?” he asked, startled.  He buried his face in her hair, lips moving down the length of her neck, his expression hidden from her. 

      “I don’t know,” she said slowly.  “But there have been times when you’ve almost told me something.  You’ve always stopped and changed the subject.  I’ve wondered about it a lot.  And I want you to have what you want.”  She tugged at his shoulders until he raised his head and looked into her eyes.  “Maybe, one day, you’ll tell me what it is.”

      He hid his face in her shoulder again, suppressing his impulse to answer her question.  He would not allow this moment of happiness to be tainted by impossible yearnings.

      Buffy gave a blissful purr as she responded to his lovemaking, and he reveled in her pleasure.  He knew that she would not press him for an answer, and he forced himself to be glad of that.

      Because, of course, he could never tell her.

Chapter Three