Spike dreads the dog days of summer. The sun shines until past nine, and he has to stay inside. It's harder this year, because Xander has brought his scribblings and drawings to life, creating the promised sand and water-scape at the old Summers' house. No Summers lives there anymore. There's always someone there, but it's more command post than anything. The yard is large and it's a favorite place for the horde of children that gather, and their splashes and shrieks draw Spike to the window, wishing that he could join Xander - seal-wet and sun-bronzed.

They spend most of the time they aren't at the dojo here - the covered portico makes it safe, and summer seems to be a time to be surrounded by their raucous family. The wading pools and sandboxes are separated by a low tiered wall that makes a perfect spot for parents to sit and have a drink and watch the little ones play. Spike often sees Dawn or Jase or Willow or Oz perched out there, refereeing a water fight or kissing an injury better or just soaking up the California sunshine - peaceful amidst the cacophony of children.

The sun's not the only part of summer that Spike dreads. Every year as the days grow longer, he has to watch Xander's face change. It's not a sea change, more like a tiny tide - the washing away of carefree happiness, a washing in of wistful sadness. It's worse this year, this fifth year. It seems like a milestone of sorts, in the way that short-lived humans like to count by fives and tens. Xander rarely says anything about it, but his sadness is alive, and everyone notices. Late summer is a time when things that are Xander's special favorites start to appear - his favorite meals and desserts, his favorite DVDs and little gifts - all offered by the people who love him, from Spike all the way down to little Joey.

The sun sets and the little ones go home, trailing colorful towels and asking for just a few minutes more. Xander gathers the toys and floats and pails and shovels and secures them inside the purpose-made storage benches, then he wanders to the wall and sinks down, head tilted back, looking at the sky. Spike watches from the awning's shade, every sense on alert for the instant the last rays slip over the horizon. He knows what Xander's doing, tipping his head back to keep the tears from falling. He's seen it before, and it hurts him no less to see it again.

Finally, the sun is down, and Spike walks across the yard. Xander turns and looks at him, and, in the darkness, Spike sees the first tears fall. Xander stands, and meets Spike in the middle - the two men coming together slowly, inexorably; drawn together like they are laced that way, each pull forward intertwining them more, sealing them to one another. Spike waits as Xander sheds tears for lost loves and lost possibilities, waits for the storm to pass, waits for Xander's surface calm to return. It does - it always does. In his heart, Xander is a creature of equilibrium; he always comes back into true.

"You okay?" Spike asks, knowing it's a dumb question, handing over the handkerchief he'd carried out with him.

"Yes. No. The usual." Xander tries to grin, then wipes his face and blows his nose. He makes as if to hand the handkerchief back, laughing a little when Spike recoils.

Xander tucks the cloth into his pocket and reaches out to cup Spike's face in one warm, rough hand. He shapes his palm to Spike's sharp chin and lets his fingers hook around the hinge of his jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing the indentation in Spike's upper lip.

"Do you remember when we first talked about losing people?" Xander asks, and Spike remembers...

Xander took several more deep breaths. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with unshed tears. "When does it stop hurting so much?" he asked miserably.

Spike gently rubbed the back of Xander's neck in soothing circles. "Hell, Xan, I don't know." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'm still hurting for people dead a hundred years." He paused. "You don't ever forget, luv, not if they were important to you. But, after a while, the pain gets...tempered with all of the good memories, so it's more bittersweet." Spike leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Xander's neck, resting his chin on the warm shoulder. "You're not wrong to grieve."

He leans into Xander's hand and murmurs the word "bittersweet."

"Yeah," Xander says. "I'm still waiting for that."

"I know." Spike's voice is soft as an ocean breeze, but as strong as the tide. "I'll wait with you."