He's watching me -- good at that, isn't he -- and there's this distant look in his eyes. I squirm a bit, then freeze in case he didn't want me moving, but his expression doesn't change so I give up second guessing him.

Dying for a fag, too, but he won't let me smoke inside and there's still an hour to sunset.

I sigh and cave, like always. He's been teaching me to be patient but it hasn't really stuck. You'd think taking the long view would come with immortality but it doesn't. Vampires are mostly all about instant gratification; self-denial doesn't register on the scale. "Giles? Have I got blood on my chin or something? Because you're giving me the willies."

"What?" He blinks, shakes himself, and gives me a smile. "I'm sorry, Spike." Three words I never thought I'd hear him say. They shock me more than 'I love you' sometimes. "I was just thinking..." He clears his throat and damn me if he isn't flushed just a little. "Last night. You were... um."

I frown, puzzled. "Hotter than hell and made you scream?"

"I did not --" Cue glasses, polishing of. "But, yes, in essence, I suppose so."

He gets that dreamy look on his face again and I reach across and kick him. "Oi! Right here, Giles."

"Hmm?"

I'm already sliding to my knees and reaching for his belt. "Right here, you  --" No names. He doesn't like being called a plonker or a tosser or any of the other words that mean someone who'd fantasise about me when I'm there and they can have me any way they want, any time, and they bloody well know it.

"I'm here, Giles," I say softly, and his fingers slide slowly through my hair and cup the back of my neck, pushing his head -- my mouth -- down.

"Be there instead," he suggests and it's just me he's thinking about now, the proper me, the real me.

Good. Felt like a sodding ghost with him staring through me like that... and I'll never be that. Just dust, in the end, just dust.

But with my mouth full of hot and hard and his hand tight on me, hurting just a little, just enough, I've never felt more alive.