Buffy reached out and touched the troubled vampire on the ankle.

Yeah, that's right, she thought. Troubled. Not "insane because of you", not"throwing himself on the nearest cross and begging for death that you,Vampire Slayer Extraordinaire, were too chicken to give him," "troubled." Ibet he's "at risk," too. Boy, almost two months in the job and you'vedefinitely got the lingo down.

It worked, though. Spike stopped whimpering and looked up at her frombetween his elbows - a weird position that came from clutching the back ofhis head like he was afraid something might fall out.

"Buffy?"

"Um, yeah."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, you said."

It took self-control not to pull her hand away, which was pathetic. It wasjust denim. Dirty black denim over a creased black leather boot top over -Buffy's mind derailed, still not sure, after everything that had happenedbetween them, whether Spike wore socks. Did vampires still get blisters?Okay, focus here. Possibly over socks, over skin that she had touched ahundred times without imploding or whatever it was she was afraid of.

"I was gonna ask you about that."

Except for the part where I was afraid to be alone with you so I bagged andblamed it on quality time with the new, improved, non-homicidal Scoobies.Not that Spike was gonna be demanding an explanation any time soon.

"There are things down here. Evil things."

"Wanna give me an example?" Her voice was too abrasive, she knew that. Andtoo loud, echoing between the big metal thing that she thought was theboiler and the other big metal thing that probably wasn't. Where did hesleep? Did he sleep at all?

"Well there's me, for starters." Spike gestured at his own chest with suchan expression of offended dignity that Buffy bit her lip to keep fromlaughing. And then bit it harder to keep from crying a second later.

He reached up to cup her face, the way he had that first time since - hecame back, saying "duck" like he'd say "love". When he used to say love.

She leaned into it, because that wasn't backing away.

"Don't, Slayer. Don't hurt yourself." For a second his expression wastender, and then he went off into a peal of bitter laughter. "That's myjob."

"Then congratulations, you're employee of the month." It just came out. Shewas supposed to be helping. Listening. Understanding. Buffy wondered ifmaybe she should bring some of those oh-so-inspiring posters from the officedown here where she really needed them. Maybe the kitten hanging on thebranch. It could remind Spike of playing poker.

Spike dropped his hand away from her as if she burned.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry god I'm so sorry, I'm pathetic, I am." Hewas mumbling, not looking at her, tearing at the skin on his chest where hisshirt hung open.

"Stop! Just stop it!" Buffy caught his wrists.

He curled protectively around himself, trying to keep her from seeing thenewest batch of scars - or maybe just him. She jerked his hands forward intothe better light. She could do this. Not his face, not yet, not with themoods blowing across it like clouds in a high wind. But she could look athis hands. He'd looked at hers. She remembered that.

The knuckles were red and raw. He'd been hitting something. Great deduction,Buffy. Violent crazy vampire hits things, film at 11. His nails were tornand ragged.

Right. That was something she could do. Buffy stood. "I'll be back," shetold him. "And I'll bring some polish and a nail file. Your cuticles are adisgrace."

For a moment Spike smiled. "Sorry pet. Been letting myself go."

Buffy put her hands on her hips. "There's nothing worse than a sloppyvampire."

"Fixed the hair, didn't I?"

"Yeah." She leaned forward and ran her fingertips through it, until she sawthe contented expression cross his face, like that was all he needed in theworld. Like Willow's old cat curled up in a sunbeam. Whatever happened toher, anyway? Buffy was afraid to ask.

She took a step back, and she knew the frightened quaver was back in hervoice.

"I guess that's something," she said, and fled, but not fast enough not tohear the litany begin again behind her.

"Shut up, Spike, god I'm so stupid always have to ruin it, anything good,broken, I'm sorry..."

She climbed the stairs with a firm click of counselorish, completelyunstudenty heels, and went straight to the library. Xander was at work onsome other site, since the high school had gone a whole week without majorstructural damage. That was probably a new record. Willow was at college,Dawn was -- Buffy checked the clock -- in French class and would probably beonly too glad to be pulled out, but that would be unprofessional.

She would have gone to Wesley first anyway. If the whole gang had been thereshe would have made some lame excuse and run to Wesley all the faster, Buffyadmitted to herself. That was okay. The key was not to admit it to him.

"You have to call him," she said accusingly. The best defense was beingoffensive, right?

Wesley looked up from his computer screen and smiled. "Funked it again, didyou?"

"No! And we're not talking about me." Buffy added belatedly. "You have tocall Angel."

Wesley didn't even have the decency to look rattled.

"I can assure you I don't." He gestured gracefully - when had it stoppedlooking swishy? - to the phone that sat peacefully next to him.

Which promptly began to ring. Buffy giggled. Wesley stood, pulled herabruptly back against him and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle thenoise as he used the other to lift the receiver.

"Wyndam-Pryce," he said after a noticeable pause. Buffy wondered if he everforgot and said "Angel Investigations."

"Yes," he continued. "Yes, quite. By Tuesday. I see. You do understand thatany further delays will be... unacceptable?"

Buffy shivered. Wesley's threat voice did that to her, which was sillybecause she could throw him across the room if she wanted. Heck, if hedidn't start eating more than half a tuna sandwich for lunch, she couldprobably throw him across the town.

She didn't feel like laughing any more, but she didn't pull away from hishand. Instead she pressed a kiss into the palm.

"Very well." Wes hung up the phone. Buffy wondered vaguely if no one said"bye" in England.

She relaxed against him and looked up over her shoulder, knowing the gesturelooked flirty. Because, well, it was. "So what was that about? Something biggoing down?"

"I'm replacing the library's Encyclopedia Britannica."

He had a good poker face, she had to give him that.

"Sure you are." She pulled away, trying to turn to face him, but he caughther arm and wrenched it up practically to her shoulder blades, yanking herback against him.

"I don't believe I gave you leave."

Buffy shivered again, and Wesley pressed his growing erection into her frombehind. She shifted her hips, teasing him.

"I could take you right now. Just slide that skirt up over your hips andbend you over the desk. No one will come in... if you're lucky."

Buffy squirmed. His fingers slid over her thigh and his breath was warm inher ear. It reminded her of ... Spike. On the balcony at the Bronze. Shepulled away from Wes abruptly, wriggling to make her short black skirt fallback down to its normal just-above-the knee.

"We can't."

For a moment, Wesley's face looked almost hurt, but his voice was icysmooth, and Buffy decided she must have been imagining it.

"Because you require the pittance this place pays? Really, Buffy, I couldeasily make up the difference for your... services."

Buffy whirled around.

"I'm not going to hit you, so you can just give up."

Wes didn't answer. She nodded, satisfied, and hoped he didn't notice thefists unclenching at her sides. Pointless, of course. Wes noticedeverything.

"We can't because it would hurt Spike."

"And you don't want to do that." His voice was warm, mocking and inviting atthe same time - just like Spike's used to be. Come on now Buffy, he seemedto be saying, we both know you better than that.

"I won't." Which, they both knew, didn't answer the question.

"Tell me again why he got the soul."

That again. God. Buffy didn't know what Wesley got out of this ritual, butshe was going to go for broke and guess it wasn't information. Not when thiswas the fourth time she'd told him the story. The third time had been inbed, before he let her come. And she had. Oh boy had she.

Just keeping track of who was using who here made her head hurt. She'd givenup on figuring out what they were using each other for.

"I'll tell you if you'll call Angel."

Wesley crossed his arms shook his head, amused. "You'll have to do betterthan that."

"I so remember why you were the most annoying watcher ever right now," Buffysaid in an aggrieved tone.

That, for some reason, made Wes laugh. The real, throaty one, not the bitterone. "I'm sure I was," he agreed cordially. "Does that mean you haven'tanother offer?"

"Fine!" Buffy puffed out an exasperated breath. "I'll tell you if you tellme why you won't call Angel."

Wesley considered it, then extended his hand to shake. "Done."

Buffy held back. "Not now. Tonight."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Trying to welsh on the bargain, or just buyingtime?"

"Neither." Buffy took a deep breath. "Come to my house. I'll show youwhere."

Wesley looked at her with something that almost looked like admiration. Ormaybe pity. "You don't have to do this," he said, but he was watching herreaction again, weighing up her answer.

"Yes," Buffy said, "I do." She pulled him in for a quick, fierce kiss thatleft both of them gasping, and then turned on her heel and left before hecould see her shaking.

Getting rid of Dawn was easy. Permission to sleep over a friend's house aslong as she pretended to do her homework first, and $10 for a movie.

Getting rid of Willow was harder. Buffy didn't want to make her feelunwelcome or untrusted or apocalypsy or anything like that, but she wasn'tup for playing bring my not-a-boyfriend to meet the family either.Especially since she didn't really trust Wes around Willow. He had a cruelstreak sometimes, when he found a weakness to go after. Buffy found it oddlycomforting, which she wasn't kidding herself was healthy but counselor,counsel thyself didn't have much of a ring to it. But that didn't mean shewanted to turn it loose on Wills, who was pretty much all sore spots evenstill.

The problem was she didn't really have any place to go. Her folks was waytoo much acting normal - Buffy wasn't even sure they knew about the gaything, let alone the dead girlfriend thing, and the ending the world thingwas right out, considering Willow's mom had gone Salem on her just forlevitating pencils. Tara's room was probably given to some other girlalready - the university wasn't big on closure when it came with less moneyattached.

Finally Buffy threw herself on Xander's mercy, and he proposed an old-time,Xander and Willow slumber party, complete with cartoons and action figuresand goofy pajamas. Willow was so happy Buffy couldn't meet her eyes, orXander's either. A better best friend would have come up with this forWillow's sake.

But at least they weren't hurt. That was the important thing.

That and they were gone. Buffy walked through the house, picking up thescattered junk and dumping it in the appropriate room and reveling in thesilence of it, and the fact that things stayed where she put them. Shecouldn't remember the last time she'd been home alone, unless it was whenSpike had... been there.

Normally Buffy changed out of her work clothes as soon as she got home. Itmade them last longer, which was good for the still-strained budget, and itwas more comfy all around. But tonight she decided to wait. For one thing,the shower would come later.

For another, Wesley seemed to like these stockings with the back seam.

Buffy set the table and started cooking the dinner she'd shopped for on theway home. Nothing fancy for her to screw up in that comical sitcom way, butdefinitely date food. Tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil in yuppie vinegar.Chop, dump, toss, done. A steak - hard to mess up, if you owned a broilerand a meat thermometer, which thanks to mom, she did. Bread that only neededto be sliced and stuck in the oven to warm. Wine that she'd leave it to himto open, because some things were just the boy's job even if the girl hadsuperhuman powers. Plus, last time she got it on her shirt. Raspberries withchocolate sauce ready to drizzle for dessert. Buffy could think of otherplaces to drizzle chocolate sauce. If she was gonna take a shower anyway...She decided not to light candles on the table. It was movie-romantic, andWes would sneer.

Buffy wondered if Wes would sneer anyway. They weren't exactly dating. Buthe was too thin. When she fucked him it felt like he might break, and shewondered if that was the point; wondered, too, if he would tell her thetruth if she asked.

The doorbell rang and Buffy jumped.

Wesley had changed, into jeans and a shirt that clung to his arms.

"Hey," she said awkwardly, standing and looking at him. He was alreadygetting a five o' clock shadow, which at 5:30 Buffy had to admit made sense.He looked younger, and harder, somehow.

"Oh! Come in."

"I don't actually need the invitation," he pointed out, stepping inside andtaking off his coat as he looked around assessingly.

She took it and hung it up, feeling self-conscious, like she was playinghostess at one of her mom's gallery parties.

"Fine then, get out," she said.

He laughed.

"No."

Buffy pouted. "No one ever listens to me."

Wesley smiled. "And now I'm remembering why you were the most annoyingSlayer ever."

Buffy smiled back. "What do you mean, were?"

Dinner had gone, surprisingly, fine, if Buffy didn't think too hard aboutthe "how was your day dear?" surreal June Cleaver aspect. Wesley madeconversation about demon this and demon that; Buffy nodded and tried to lookas though she had something more to contribute that "killed one of those,ruined my favorite sweater." After, she'd stacked the dishes in the sink andleft them, though Wesley had caught up a towel and looked prepared to dry ifshe'd wash.

"C'mere." She caught his hand and pulled him towards the stairs, before shecould lose her nerve.

"Your sophisticated come-ons never cease to astound me." That was actuallyrather a warm smile, not a nasty one, but too late, nerve lost. Buffy spunaround to face him.

"Wes?"

"Yes?" He looked at her, the picture of mild British inquiry.

"Shut up." Buffy turned and fled up the stairs.

She could hear the creak of the treads that meant Wes was following at adeliberate pace. That would be scarier than plain old chasing her, if itwasn't, you know, the point.

As it was, it gave her time to get to her room and pull open the bottombureau drawer. She pulled out the old chenille bathrobe.

"That's your sexiest lingerie? I'm disappointed in you, Buffy."

Her heart jumped. She whirled around, still holding the robe against herchest. Wes was leaning casually in the doorway.

"It's what I was wearing that night."

"Oh, I see." And he sounded like he did, too. "Well, what are you waitingfor? Put it on."

Buffy reached for the button of her blouse with trembling hands. God knowsWes had seen her naked often enough, but that was more of a frantic grabbingtugging need you now thing. Stripping in front of him while he stood fullydressed and watched like it was the talent show, that was something else.

She tossed the robe on the bed with a show of bravado and pulled the blouseup over her head. Wesley, damn him, was looking at her breasts in theirsmooth satin cups as though he'd seen better. She reached around to undo theclasp - he made no move to help her, so she pulled it off and tossed it aswell. Her nipples hardened. Suddenly cutting her hair short seemed like areally big mistake.

She glanced at him. He still said nothing, so Buffy unfastened her skirt andslid it down to her ankles, revealing the stockings, garter belt, and heels,and nothing else. Wesley raised an eyebrow and Buffy blushed. It had seemedlike a good idea at the time. She kicked away the skirt and stepped out ofthe shoes, then popped the snaps and slid the stockings down and carefullyoff. Oddly, actual naked felt a little less naked. She picked up the robeand pulled it on, tying it tight around her waist.

For lack of any better plan, Buffy started walking past him, towards thebathroom, but Wes stopped her with an arm barring the way.

"What's that?"

He was gesturing at the still half-open drawer, at... oh.

"Spike's coat."

"Was he wearing it?"

Buffy fought down a hysterical laugh. If she said yes, was Wes gonna put iton?

"No. He just ... left it here. Downstairs."

"And you kept it."

Buffy nodded, even though it hadn't really sounded like a question. Andanyway it was obvious she had. Even in Sunnydale, leather dusters don't leapout of the garbage (Xander's idea of an appropriate resting-place) and foldthemselves in dresser drawers. Well, at least not when Willow wasn't around.

Wes had that "solved the crossword puzzle" look again. Or really more like"translated the incredibly complicated dead language," but who was counting?Buffy didn't bother asking what he'd figured out this time. It was prettymuch a sure thing that he wouldn't tell her. But why take the chance?

She started walking again, and this time he let her go. She stepped into thebathroom and started the shower running as hot as it would go, and then juststood and watched the water fall.

The steam-filled tiny room was making her dizzy, and the mirror was allfogged up, so she sensed him behind her before she saw him. Just like lasttime.

She turned, expecting him, to, what? Get possessed by the spirit of SpikesPast? Instead, he stood there, just as Wesley as ever, with an expressionthat clearly said, "now what?"

After a moment, he followed it up with actual words. "I believe you weregoing to tell me a story?" he prompted.

"He was..." Buffy stalled. Wow this was awkward.

"Tell me."

Boy, if Wes had had that commanding voice the first time he'd come toSunnydale, things would have gone a lot different. Fleetingly Buffy had avision of this new Wes fucking her on the library table back in the day.Somehow she didn't think all the Scoobies watching would stop him either.And how sick was it that this was getting her wet?

"He was talking. About us. About... me feeling something for him." Buffy wastalking in little fits and spurts, and taking deep gasping breaths betweenthem, as if she'd been running.

"I said yes. Yes but. It didn't matter. It wasn't enough, because I couldnever trust him."

Wesley flinched.

Buffy jumped. "I - I didn't mean. I didn't think. I'm sorry. I -"

"Buffy?"

She nodded.

"Shut up."

Buffy took a deep breath. "Not Buffy. Slayer. He calls... he called meSlayer. And love. And pet. He hardly ever called me by my name."

Wes nodded, as if he was committing it to memory. Probably he was. It wasn'tmuch of a feat for a guy who spoke Kwarhexzeack, or Portuguese for thatmatter.

"Slayer." Wes looked as if he were tasting the word. "Go on."

Buffy shrugged. "That's it really. I mean, for the talking."

"Slayer." That time it was a warning.

"He-" Buffy swallowed. "He pushed me down."

Wes did. Hard. Buffy wasn't expecting that - something symbolic, maybe, butnot a dead serious thrust. She caught her shin on the tub and went down - onher face, though. That was different. She rolled over. Wes was standingabove her, looking ready to hit, her, kick her, whatever she said. It was aweird kind of power.

"I was - I was hurt already. There was a demon..." she realized she wasmaking excuses, and made herself stop. "He was... on me. On top of me."

Wes got down, heavily, to his knees, and then lowered his weight on top ofher. It was hard to breathe.

"Like this?"

"Yes." Buffy whispered it.

"He was... grabbing at me, pulling the robe apart to reach me."

"Like this?" Wesley's slender fingers slid over her skin.

"Harder."

"Like this?"

"Harder."

That was it, the bruising pain. Buffy whimpered.

"No." Hands, punishing, everywhere. Not the teasing pinches and violent needshe was used to, just -- violence. Invasion.

Wes didn't stop. "Tell me."

"I - I was saying no, stop, and he was telling me I used to feel it, when hewas inside me, he'd make me feel it. His - his knees were forcing my legsapart." Buffy remembered the bruises on her thighs, after, how she'd feltthem with every step through that long, awful day.

Wesley's thighs slipped between hers and opened. She resisted just longenough to feel the pain, shifted her hips slightly to get the angle right -there. Right there.

Wesley looked down into her eyes. "And then what?"

Buffy summoned a watery smile.

"And then I kicked him back into the wall."

Wesley's erection was grinding into her clit, hard enough to hurt.

"Are you going to demonstrate?"

"N-no." Buffy looked surprised.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd hurt you! Hi, not a vampire, in case you forgot."

Wesley smiled. "I haven't forgotten anything."

His hand slipped down between them, and Buffy heard a zipper. And then, justlike that, he rammed himself into her. Wet as she was, it still hurt. Buffywhimpered again.

Wes leaned down to speak softly in her ear. "You can't trust me either."

"Oh god." A wave of - something - went through Buffy and she tightenedaround him.

Wesley looked... displeased. And stern. He pulled back and looked down ather.

"Your line is "no", he informed her.

"No," she repeated, feeling stupid and self-conscious.

Wesley thrust his cock deep inside her, hard enough to bruise.

"Wes..."

He hit her. Wesley hit her, an open-handed slap across the face. Buffystared up at him, face white except where the red print of his hand stillglowed.

"Stop..." this time she didn't feel self-conscious at all. Her handsscrabbled at his chest, trying to push him away, at least long enough tocatch her breath and figure out what she was feeling, exactly, here.

Wesley's hand closed around her throat, just about the level of his ownscar. Buffy stopped struggling abruptly.

He started fucking her, hard and fast. Buffy's legs lay limp and parted."No... no, please, wait..."

There was no way she could pretend, like she had with Spike, that maybe hejust didn't hear her. For one thing, he wasn't talking, wasn't begging herto admit anything. That and with every word his smile grew a bit broader andmore satisfied.

Tears welled up in Buffy's eyes, although she couldn't say for what. Shecould stop this. She could stop this any time she chose.

I was stronger than Spike too.

She pushed the words away, focused on the tiny tearing feeling as he enteredher, pulled out, and slammed in again over and over. The soreness in herbreasts where his crushing fingers had bruised. The heat of the tears asthey spilled down her cheeks.

She murmured "no, no" like a mantra whose meaning she'd forgotten. Wesley'sface above her was contorted with pleasure. With a strangled, wordless cry,he came.

And pulled out. Buffy made a small sound of god knows what. Relief?Frustration? Disappointment?

Wesley gently brushed the tears from her skin. He studied the wet tips ofhis fingers intently, then tasted them and nodded, once. He stood, fastenedhis pants and glanced down at her - face flushed and tearstained, robe,still uselessly tied, rucked up and pushed askew to expose mauled breastsand slack thighs sticky with his come.

"Clean yourself up, Slayer," he said coldly. "You're disgusting."

The door snicked quietly shut behind him.

Buffy sniffled. Her throat was half-closed with snot. The spray from theshower hitting her skin was cooling fast. There probably wasn't much hotwater left.

In a minute, she knew, she would haul herself to her feet, blow her nose,and stand under the cold stream until she got goosebumps. And then put onthe oldest, softest flannel shirt she could find. Maybe one Riley'd leftbehind -- something so huge you'd need a map to find her body underneath.And then she'd go downstairs and do the dishes, like a good practicallyparent, so that Dawn wouldn't worry when she came home.

In a minute. For now, Buffy closed her eyes and felt the cold tileunderneath her. Her fingers were slick in the juicy mess between her legs.They worked over her clit, quickly, frantically.

Just like last time.

"Spike?" The basement appeared to be empty. Buffy's voice felt high andquavery, like it was going to wobble away to nothing. She swore to herself,as she always did, that next time she'd bring a super industrial strengthflashlight. But they were just so hard to fit in a purse.

"Spike?"

It was at least 10 degrees colder down here than it was upstairs. You'dthink, being so close to hell, it'd be hot enough to roast marshmallows. Butheat rises, she guessed. Or maybe it was just the effect of industrialmaterials, unmasked by paint and carpet and corkboard draped with felt inschool spirit colors. Any which way, she was glad for the coat, although itso didn't go with brown suede pants and the long, peasanty cream top with ahandkerchief hem.

It wasn't the first time she'd put it on. Home, alone, the door firmlyclosed and locked, so Dawn didn't come in to ask awkward questions (whydidn't I lock the door?). Late at night, after patrols that were all slayand no banter, after cool fingers caught at her from behind and there was aperceptible moment of hesitation before the shiver of revulsion, before thescream. She had to relearn fear.

The coat helped. She could imagine she was Nicki, the girl with a bit of herstyle about her, the girl who liked to dance. She could imagine Spike's gameface (ugly, she reminded herself) poised above her, and the snap of herthroat. Sometimes it felt like she could almost remember.

That and she missed him, which was nothing she could explain to Dawn orXander, or even to herself. She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't a victim. Sheknew what he'd done.

But he'd been... something hard, that she could push against and feel whatwasn't her, where she ended. Without that, she felt like pieces of herselfwere drifting in all directions, pulling away and gone like wisps of cloud,changing the shape of what was left. The coat helped keep it, keep her,together.

It stunk of smoke and beer, and Spike and blood. Sometimes she slept in ittill morning.

"Spi-" there was a noise behind her, and she whirled.

He was there, just like he was always, suddenly, there.

Buffy smiled. "Hey."

Spike looked her up and down. "Nice coat. It suits you."

Buffy glanced down. "Except for the part where it drags on the ground and Ican't see my hands," she pointed out.

"It's armor for a Slayer. It's right you should have it now." He lookedalmost relieved.

Buffy shook her head. "I brought it for you. It's yours."

Spike took a step back. "No, I can't. I killed for - I can't."

Buffy took it off, and held it out to him - slowly, like she was luring adeer to lick sugar from her hand. Or salt, she guessed. She heard they wereinto that. Not like she was really up on deer-luring techniques.

He just stood there, not making any move to take it.

"C'mon! It's cold down here." 'Cause vampires were so known for caring aboutthat. "And - it's your coat. I can barely remember ever seeing you withoutit." Except for seeing him naked, which was pretty much burned into herbrain.

"It just wouldn't be Spike without a duster. And a cigarette." Which come tothink of it she hadn't seen him with either, lately.

Spike raised his head to meet her eyes. His own were burning blue. "That'sthe point, innit? Kill him. Deserves it. Bastard. Be... someone new. Someoneyou could..." he turned away.

"Right then. Give me the bloody coat." Buffy had the weirdest feeling hemeant the adjective literally, but she proffered it again and he took it,blindly, shrugging into it with a bit of his old grace. His shouldersslumped, as if she'd loaded the pockets with stones.

Buffy wanted to stamp her feet. Why did he have to make everything so hard?This was supposed to be something nice she was doing for him, something heloved that she'd saved. Where did it take a wrong turn at The ScarletLetter?

"Need help? Girl's in trouble, must save her. Burning brand, burning bush,torches and pitchforks."

Well the beginning of that almost sounded like it made sense. Buffy decidedto go with it.

"Nope, nothing big and bad, unless you've gotten another memo from theforces of foreshadowing." She reached into the paper shopping bad that hung,forgotten, from her hand. "I brought you nail polish, like I promised. Comeinto the light."

Spike gave her a long look and then, wonder of wonders, did as he was told.Buffy sat down, Spike sat down, and she took his hand in hers, splayed itflat against the bag. 'Cause nail polish on suede is of the bad, right,nothing to do with not wanting his hand on her leg where the last, yellowingmarks of Wesley still lingered. Buffy went to work with emory board andorange stick. She tried to be gentle, and thought she was succeeding. Atleast, if she jabbed him, he didn't make a sound.

"What color did you get?"

Well that was random.

"Black. Always a classic, right?"

"It should be red."

Huh? "So not picturing you with the glamour girl look."

Spike's face was unreadable, but eventually Buffy got the clue. Right. So itmatches the blood on his hands. Always important to accessorize.

Well, when in doubt, new subject. As usual, all the stuff she should say andall the stuff she wanted to met in her throat and blocked all sound fromcoming out. Buffy wasn't even sure which was which any more. She swallowed."I, um, I brought you an air mattress..."

Buffy walked through the door like she could have walked through a wall justas easily, and with the same determined expression.

"Where were you?"

Wesley glanced around where he sat, reading, in a pool of yellow light inthe corner of his motel room.

"Here, clearly."

Buffy made an exasperated noise. "Yeah, I can see you. It's Thursday, whywere you here reading a book and not back at school, picking me up so we canhave disturbing sex without me walking a mile first?"

Wesley turned a page. "Perhaps I don't want you."

Buffy twitched the book from his hands and threw it across the room. "Thenperhaps you could learn to use notepaper or other modern messaging devices."She looked at Wes; a reluctant smile was tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You know you want me." Buffy said flatly. She hoped that made it sound alittle less like something that should be followed by a stripping secretaryand synthesizer music.

Wesley's grin became a chortle. "Isn't there anything you're insecure about,you wretched girl?"

"Lots of things. But if you really didn't want me, you wouldn't be here,waiting. You'd either be gone, send me a nasty message or... send me a nastymessage. Like be with somebody else when I got here."

Wesley's eyes widened
and Buffy knew she'd scored a hit. She just couldn'tdecide if it was a good sign that she'd called it, or a bad sign that Weslooked like he was filing the idea away for future reference.

"She was feeling under the weather and had to go home."

"Oh, was it a she?" Buffy thought for someone who wasn't naturally British,she was really getting the supercilious eyebrow thing down.

Without waiting for an answer, she climbed into his lap and dangled her legsover the arm of the chair. "These boots are not made for walking thestreets. I should so make you pay for that."

A sucked-in breath from behind her and subtle movement from beneathindicated that he didn't find the idea entirely unpleasant.

"Perhaps I thought, after last time, that you wouldn't want to be here."

Buffy looked up at Wes from under her lashes. His face was impassive - shehad no idea if he was actually serious this time, or just yanking her chainagain. Assuming he hadn't been serious before. Poker face didn't begin todescribe it.

"Then you had a very short memory," Buffy said, finally. "You owe me ananswer, remember?"

"Damn. I hoped you'd forgotten." Wesley threw back the last of his whiskeyand set the glass down.

"I haven't forgotten anything." She couldn't resist throwing his words backat him.

"What was the question again?" He eyed her hopefully.

Buffy poked him in the stomach. "Why won't you call Angel?"

He looked down and away, and she didn't even try to catch and hold his eyes.

There was a long silence.

"Because I'm - it's not what he needs." Wesley finally answered.

"But you could explain, apologize, something. You did it for him. He needsto know that."

"No," said Wes abruptly. "He doesn't. It doesn't matter why, Buffy. I didit, it's done. It's over. Let it go."

"You first."

"Are we on the playground now? Surely this is a new level of immaturity,even for..."

Buffy cut across his scathing words, stifling the impulse to chant thesticks and stones rhyme. Maybe they didn't have that, where he grew up.

"You first. Let it go and I promise I'll never mention it again."

"I can't." That was the first time she'd ever heard that tone of defeat fromWesley. Not even when he talked about getting fired, or about getting histhroat cut. Buffy laced her fingers through his.

He jerked his hand away.

"Wes, I think Angel needs all the people who believe in him that he canget." Wesley's eyes darkened, but he didn't answer. Buffy pressed on. "Buteven if he doesn't" -- or even if you don't believe in him -- "you need it."

"It doesn't matter what I need. I've forfeited that right quite some timeago."

"It does to me."

Wes looked up, startled, at that. "Why?"

"Because." Everything I ever needed to know in life I learned inkindergarden, thought Buffy. Like how not to answer questions.

Wesley leaned in to brush a kiss over her lips. "I can't fault your logic, Isuppose."

Buffy settled happily back against him. "I'm glad that's settled. Becausethere's something else you owe me. Two things, actually."

"Oh, and what would those be? I don't recall making any further promises."

"A foot rub."

"That can probably be arranged," Wesley allowed.

Buffy continued. "And a story."

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