The Lighthouse was then a silvery, misty-looking tower with a yellow eye, that opened suddenly, and softly in the evening. Now—

James looked at the Lighthouse. He could see the white-washed rocks; the tower, stark and straight; he could see that it was barred with black and white; he could see windows in it; he could even see washing spread on the rocks to dry. So that was the Lighthouse, was it?

No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing. The other Lighthouse was true too.

~To the Lighthouse
Virginia Woolf


She’d passed out again, as she was so prone to do after several orgasms back to back.

Spike rested on his side, head propped on his hand as he watched her quietly, stroking her hair in that moment where he was suspended in silence and time with her. She had wanted to be tender that night—a first for them, and he couldn’t help but wonder why. What had changed? Why did she now wish to hear him openly profess his love to her?

He didn’t know what had changed, but was so happy at this new development, that he decided to ponder no longer what the catalyst was.

Spike sighed as he slowly lay down, still watching her. The subtlest of changes, but he knew. She had come to—she was now only feigning sleep. It was a kindness and a slight. A kindness, for when she was still was the only time he was allowed to be tender and loving. He knew that she knew of his secret caresses—she’d played possum before, catching him in the act in which he wanted to be caught. A slight as well, for she wished to look at him no further, or hear his endearments.

Spike was no fool—not completely. He knew that her tenderness tonight wasn’t about acceptance, but her need of something [but what?].

“Why won’t you hear me?” he asked her quietly, still acting under the pretense that he believed her to be asleep. She would listen now—she had no choice in the matter, unless she wished to give up her ruse.

He knew she wouldn’t.

“Why can’t you see me?” he asked, voice trembling slightly. He had a sudden case of dry mouth, and swallowed painfully. “There’s a man here, too,” he whispered, stroking her face once more softly with the back of his hand. "I'm not just..." he trailed off as he noticed her shift. The movement was so small, that no casual observer would have noticed. She had flinched just the slightest at his gentle caress. He sighed regretfully, letting his hand fall to the cold stone of the sarcophagus, not touching her sprawled form anymore. She reminded him so much of a broken doll then, hiding under the sheets.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

They lay side by side, not touching, not sleeping. Still.

Not close.

But it was moments like this when he imagined that they were, and the world—his world and hers—once two separate entities melded together successfully through his love—and dare he say it? Their love—and all was as it should be.

He could pretend too.