Spike turned the key in the door to his crypt, found it already unlocked, and swore. Wonderful. It would be the perfect ending to the night if someone had robbed him while he was out. Not to mention a sign of how the chip had ruined his reputation. Who would have dared, before?
If his things were missing, he'd really make Giles sorry. The nerve of the man, standing him up. When Spike was the most interesting thing in his twitchy, stammering, tea-drinking life, and undoubtedly the best shag he'd ever had. He ought to be grateful. He ought to damn well be at home when he said he would be. He ought not to be out at eight, and still out at midnight when Spike checked back, and still out at two. Not on a night when Spike's plans had included handcuffs, a blindfold, and slow, wonderful torment.
Fuming as he was, it took Spike a while to notice that his things were not missing. His TV, stereo, and DVD player were all in their places. And there, distinctly out of place, was Giles, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the sofa.
"Why Rupert, what brings you to my humble crypt? I didn't know they trained Watchers to pick locks. Did we have a date or something?"
Instead of answering, Giles just stared, his eyes sunken in a pale, strained face. "Joyce Summers died today."
Spike froze in shock. "The Slayer's mum?" He'd met her once or twice, and liked her. A tolerant lady, not the sort to treat him like a freak.
Giles nodded. Spike could see him shivering, despite the blanket.
"What happened?" Spike asked, searching for the bottle of cheap brandy he knew was around somewhere. Giles looked as though he needed it. "Was it . . ." Spike couldn't quite finish the sentence.
"It appears to have been completely natural." Giles was taking refuge in formality. He must be at the end of his tether. "She had surgery for a brain tumor not long ago. That may have caused an aneurysm, the doctor said."
Spike found the quarter-full bottle under a pile of old clothes in a corner. There were no glasses to be seen. He wasn't sure he owned any. "I remember she was in hospital a while back," he said, sitting down beside Giles and handing him the bottle. Giles frowned at it for a moment, then unscrewed the cap and took several long swallows.
"That's awful," Giles said with a grimace. "It tastes like petrol and wood shavings." Nevertheless, he drank again.
"Not everyone's purse runs to cognac and single malt scotch," Spike said. "So you were with the Slayer tonight?"
"Yes. She rang me right after she found . . . I didn't understand what was going on. Buffy was too upset to be clear. I thought Glory was causing trouble again. And when I got to the house, there was Joyce lying dead." He gulped more of the brandy, then gave the bottle, now mostly empty, back to Spike. Giles was right, Spike realized as he swallowed the rest, it tasted exactly like petrol. But a drink was a drink.
"I went to the morgue with them," Giles continued. "We had to wait a long time for the postmortem results. And Christ, the paperwork. Buffy's in no state to do it, so I'm handling it all. Tomorrow--well, in a few hours--I have to start making funeral arrangements."
Spike found his way under the blanket and put his arms around Giles, who shivered at the cold touch. He smelled of sorrow--like concrete, wet leaves, and tar. After a moment he leaned into the embrace with a sigh.
"I'm sorry," Spike said. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He wasn't used to grief, not having mourned since his little sister died of diphtheria, well over a century ago. He'd been a boy of eleven.
"Paperwork," Giles said bitterly. "That was all I could do."
"If you spared the girls a mountain of forms, that's something." Spike wondered how Dawn was taking it. She was a lovely girl, miles pleasanter than her bitch of a sister. A lot more human, even if she wasn't, really. Poor little Niblet. "How are they?" he asked.
"As you'd expect," Giles said, voice slurred with brandy and fatigue. "Willow's staying with them tonight. Xander too, I think."
"That's good." Spike was beginning to remember, now, about grief. It meant saying pointless things to the grieving, and hoping one's good intentions counted for something. It meant helplessness. Giles must have felt helpless, ten times as helpless as Spike did now, with Buffy and Dawn.
"I liked Joyce," Giles said suddenly. "She was a friend." He rested his head on Spike's shoulder. "I can hardly believe she's dead. And I can't grieve for her. Not around the girls. They need me to be strong. Because . . . because I realized something today. I'm the only adult they've got." He sighed again. "I think I could have lived without that particular burden." Then he made a little sound of disgust. "God, what an appalling thing to have said. Feeling sorry for myself, when Buffy's lost her mother."
"I won't tell," Spike said. Privately, he thought Giles had the right to a bit of self-pity. "Piss and moan all you want. Or grieve."
"Thank you," Giles said. Spike stroked his hair, noticing how many gray strands there were among the brown.
"I slept with her once, you know," Giles said, in the confiding mood that alcohol often brought on.
"With Joyce?" Spike asked, surprised. Giles and Joyce made the least likely couple he could imagine. Except maybe Giles and himself.
"We were under a spell at the time." He chuckled painfully. "We had sex on the bonnet of a police car. Oh, God, I shouldn't laugh."
"Why not? It sounds bloody ridiculous."
"Always tactful, Spike," Giles said.
Spike decided not to answer that. A few minutes passed in silence. Giles slowly relaxed against him, and the sorrow-smell was muted by a rich, loamy odor that Spike had learned to recognize as contentment. He inhaled deeply, exploring it. Smell was a kind of secret language. Fear, anger, and lust were primal, always the same. But the scents of complex emotions varied from person to person, and had to be learned. Giles had lots of complex emotions. He always smelled interesting, though sometimes Spike wished for a dictionary.
Spike inhaled again, and then yawned. Giles' body heat under the blanket was beginning to make him feel sleepy. "Let's lie down," he said.
"I can't. I'll have to go soon. So much to do. Have to call . . . " He yawned.
"Then you should get a little sleep. There's time. Come on, I'm not taking no for an answer."
"You never do," Giles said with a crooked half-smile.
"And a good thing too," Spike answered.
* * * * *
In the difficult days that followed, Giles found himself more and more glad of Spike's presence. Spike took on many hours of patrolling, both with Giles and on his own. He caught Dawn in the middle of a dangerous attempt to resurrect her mother, and talked her out of it. And he let Giles, burdened with grief and responsibility, lean on him.
Giles gave him a key to the flat, and Spike was there most evenings when he came home. On his best behavior, too. Spike was reliable, and gentle, and reassuring, and as unlike his normal self as Giles could have imagined. He was having to revise his image of Spike yet again: he wasn't composed entirely of sex appeal and sarcasm, just as he wasn't entirely a bloodthirsty demon.
With Spike's help, Giles muddled through with less misery and more sleep than he'd expected. Once he began to feel less overwhelmed, Spike's playfulness re-emerged, and his usual arch temperamentality. So it wasn't much of a shock to arrive home one evening and find Spike busy sorting all Giles' records and CDs into two large piles.
"Oh fuck, you're early," Spike said, looking first startled and then sly. "I wanted it to be a surprise."
Giles tried to smile, without much success. He was tenser than he'd been since Joyce's funeral, though he told himself he shouldn't be. What he'd discovered about Glory was good news, really. Yet his nerves were raw. He wasn't sure he wanted one of Spike's surprises. On the other hand, it would give him something else to think about. And he couldn't expect Spike to cosset him forever. "Wanted what to be a surprise?" he asked.
"My helping you sort out your music," Spike said in a voice resonant with false innocence. "Getting rid of all this rubbish I'm sure you don't listen to anymore."
Somehow Giles didn't resent this little liberty as much as he ought to. Provided nothing had actually been thrown out yet. "If it's in my collection, I listen to it."
"Are you taking the piss? You can't possibly. There are frightening things in there. Gary Glitter. Jethro Tull. The Bay City Rollers. I ask you, The Bay City Rollers?"
"I know," Giles said, deciding that playing along was the path of least resistance. "But I was young then. Young enough to like mindless pop and a good-looking lead singer." Spike raised his eyebrows, but mercifully said nothing. "Listening to that album now reminds me of being young. There must be groups that you--sorry, I forgot you grew up before pop culture."
"I'm not as old as all that." Ignoring his protests, Spike pulled him down to sit on the floor. Giles envied him his never-aging bones. "I just had nineteenth-century pop culture. Gilbert and Sullivan. Music hall. Oscar Wilde." He smiled wickedly. "I almost bit Oscar Wilde once, as it happens."
"You're joking." One of Spike's very unlikely stories might be just the thing after a day of nagging worries and uneasy conscience. Giles needed to forget what was coming. What he was going to have to do, soon.
"'S true. I swear. I was hunting in London, pretending to be a rent boy, and he picked me up. I recognized him, he was famous. Scandalous. And I liked his plays, so I let him live." Spike resumed his music sorting. "Even though he was terrible in bed," he added, darting a glance at Giles under his lashes.
Giles snorted with helpless laughter. "You had sex with Oscar Wilde?" It was equally funny whether it was true or not.
"My own little brush with greatness." Spike hesitated before adding some Richard Thompson albums to what was probably the "keep" pile, as it was considerably the smaller of the two. "Had to keep it a secret from Dru, or she'd have killed him. Though the poor bugger went to jail not long after that anyway." Pete Townshend went into the discard pile.
"Spike." Giles caught his wrists firmly. "Leave my records alone. I'm not letting you edit me to your own taste, much though I like you."
Spike looked up with a smirk, twisting away effortlessly from Giles' grasp. "You like me now? Fickle, fickle you," he said, dropping his voice to a familiar low, teasing murmur. He reached for a CD, and Giles caught him again and kissed his palm.
"How many times am I going to have to take it back, about not liking you?"
"I'll let you know when it's enough." Spike scooted over to sit beside him. "If you really liked me, you'd let me chuck out the Bay City Rollers."
"Don't press your luck." Giles sighed, suddenly tired again.
Spike shifted and put his arms around him. "Long day?"
"Very. I'd just as soon not talk about it." He wasn't ready to tell Spike what he'd found out. Not yet.
"Fine with me," Spike said, rubbing the back of Giles' neck in a way that managed to be both soothing and vaguely arousing. "I don't want to talk about the Almighty Bitch Goddess Glory tonight. Not unless she turns up on the doorstep."
"God, Spike, don't say that or she will." Giles stood, wincing at a twinge in his back. "I'm going to order some food and then have a shower. And you," he added, fixing Spike with what he hoped was a determined glare, "are going to put all this lot back where you found it."
Forty minutes later Giles sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by white paper cartons and little packets of soy sauce and hot mustard. Spike kept him company as he ate, drinking a beer and occasionally filching morsels of Hunan chicken off his plate. "Would you like a plate of your own?" Giles asked after the fourth time.
"No thanks. Isn't really that good." Spike licked the sauce off his fingers in a gesture that was unconsciously erotic. At least, Giles thought it was unconscious. It was hard to tell, with Spike. Giles wondered how much of his seductiveness was practiced and how much was natural. While Giles enjoyed being seduced, he sensed deeper things under Spike's beautiful surface, moods and emotions that seduced him rather more.
Spike wandered back into the living room, and Giles finished his meal. As he washed the dishes, he heard the hiss of a needle on a record, then music. Not music he'd have expected Spike to choose. It was an old album of Scottish folk songs that Giles had bought years ago, when he'd just returned to the Watchers. He couldn't bear pop music then. It reminded him of his time as Ripper.
Puzzled, Giles poured two more beers and went into the living room. Spike was curled up against the arm of the sofa, listening with rapt attention. The song was one Giles quite liked, about a girl wooed by a selkie, a shapechanging seal-man, and the terrible fate that destroys them both.
Giles stood watching Spike until the song ended. Noticing him at last, Spike smiled faintly and said, "I remember that song. I heard it in Scotland, must have been ninety years ago. A woman was singing it to her kids as a lullaby."
All Giles could think of to say was, "Did you kill them?" He sat down and gave Spike one of the beers.
"No. I'd already fed, I was just passing. But I liked old folk songs--well, William did--so I stopped to listen."
"Do you think of William and Spike as different people?" Giles asked. He thought about William sometimes, and wondered how much of the long-ago man remained within the demon. He occasionally thought he could see traces of him. Maybe Spike had stopped hiding him so carefully.
Spike stared into space for a minute, thinking. "Well, yeah. Sort of. William died, his soul went away, the demon moved in. But all William's memories and feelings were still there. And the demon's been living inside William's head for a damn long time now. Spike's sort of them both, we're all mixed together. There's the demon part that mostly wants to kill and feed and fuck, and there's the human part that thinks and feels." He chewed at his lower lip. "A demon once told me I was tainted with humanity. But I think most vamps, older vamps anyway, are like me. Rather than like Angelus, who was always a pretty hard case."
"Tell me about William."
"You wouldn't have liked him. He was a sad little tosser who wrote really bad poetry. No life in him at all. Spike's a big improvement on William."
Giles was startled by the contempt in Spike's voice. "He can't have been that bad. He's part of you. And I don't think I'd like you much if you were all demon."
"Yeah, but you haven't heard William's sonnets." Spike leaned back, staring up at the ceiling and scowling. "And as if that's not enough, there's the fucking chip as well. So the demon can't do what he wants. Not the feeding and killing parts, anyway," he said with a sudden grin. "Things get a bit . . . tense . . . in my head sometimes. Demon wants to kill, chip won't let him, demon howls, William whinges and lectures, and Spike's caught in the middle." He frowned again. "I'm not really crazy, it just sounds that way."
He got up and switched off the record player. With his back to Giles, he took his time putting the record into its sleeve and replacing it on the shelf. When he finally turned, his face was a smiling mask. "So, what'll we do tonight?" he asked brightly, teasingly. "Rollerblading? Heavy metal concert?"
Clearly, the discussion was over. "Scrabble?" Giles suggested, echoing Spike's tone. "Bridge?"
"Monster truck rally?"
Giles laughed and nearly spilled beer all over the sofa. "Never again, for as long as I live."
"You've been to one?" Spike's face was as disbelieving as his own had probably been about Oscar Wilde.
"It's a long story," Giles said. Spike waited. "I was on a date."
"I hope you got sex afterwards. Whoever he was."
"She. And no comment."
"Secretive bugger. Right then, no monster truck rallies," Spike said. "How about a film and a shag?"
"You're on," Giles said. They hadn't gone anywhere except patrolling since Joyce died. He certainly owed Spike something resembling a night out, after the way Spike had taken care of him. He probably owed Spike a Caribbean cruise, or whatever the vampire equivalent was.
"I want to see one with explosions," Spike said, coming close and tracing a finger down Giles' jaw to his chin.
"What about subtitles instead?" Giles wasn't sure it was actually possible to see a foreign film in Sunnydale, but he liked these little games.
"Not a chance. I want explosions." Spike knelt over him on the sofa and licked at his earlobe, then ran a circling tongue up and into his ear.
"Believe it or not," Giles said, hearing the hoarseness of arousal in his voice, "that's not a foolproof method of bending me to your will."
Spike nibbled. "'S always worked so far." He pulled Giles' head back by the hair and licked his exposed throat.
"All right, all right," Giles gasped. Spike grinned smugly. "The things I put up with for you."
"I'm worth it," Spike said, proving himself right with a long kiss. "Now get your coat. I hate missing the previews. And wear the leather one, not that polarfleece thing."
"I live to obey," Giles said. Making it a joke meant not having to worry that it might be true, that letting Spike seduce and bully him might be the only pleasure he had.
After the film, complete with explosions and a car chase, Spike continued exercising his powers of persuasion. He coaxed Giles to a dive bar at the edge of town, where blaring music made conversation almost impossible, and trounced him at darts and then at pool. They played more pool as a team, against two drunk, flirtatious women. Spike let the women win. "Sorry, love," he said when the younger one tried to give him her phone number. "I'm a married man, see. My cousin Rupert's single, though."
Giles tried the determined glare again. Spike ignored him. To his acute embarrassment, Giles ended up with both women's phone numbers.
After the women left, Spike took the slips of paper from him and tore them up. He did it with a flourish and a grin, and a hint of real, perversely flattering possessiveness. As if Giles might have the energy to spare for sexual adventures. As if Spike wasn't satisfaction and exhaustion and trouble enough, all by himself.
In the car on the way back, Spike lit what must have been his twentieth cigarette of the night. He'd chain-smoked in the bar, though the air was so full of smoke already that it hardly seemed necessary. Although Giles tried to detest cigarettes--it seemed like an ex-smoker's obligation--he loved watching Spike smoke. Such utter absorption, eyelids half-mast as he inhaled, an expression that seemed to want all the pleasure in the world, all at once. The only other time Spike made that face was in bed. And the way he held the cigarette, the faint stain of nicotine on his fingers, the bitter taste of it when Giles licked-
"That light was red," Spike said suddenly.
"What?"
"Traffic light. The one we just went through." Spike took a last, greedy drag and threw the cigarette out the window. "Must keep your eyes on the road. Concentrate." His hand glided over to Giles' thigh and began to rub lightly. Giles obediently tried to recall what red and yellow and green might signify. Spike's hand moved to his crotch.
Concentrate. Watch the road. Car accidents are bad for the sex life.
Somehow they made it back safely. Inside the flat, Giles shed coat and glasses and shoved Spike hard against the living room wall, trapping him with his body. Giles expected their usual struggle, half-play and half-serious, for control. But Spike was letting him lead, yielding, submitting. Spike twisted against him, mock resistance that asked for more. "Help, help, rape," he whispered in Giles' ear. "You monster. You beast. You bad, bad man."
His voice was so soft, his mouth so wet and open as Giles invaded him with kisses. The smell of cigarettes and leather as Giles pulled Spike out of his coat. Under his t-shirt his skin was cool and perfect as clean new silk. Almost scentless, almost inhuman, tasting like glass, like river-washed stones. Barely a hint of sweat or salt or warmth, but it drove Giles to sweat, heat, need. It tasted like forgetfulness, like the waters of Lethe.
Spike was pulling at his hair, guiding his mouth to neck and shoulder and pale brown nipple and flat, marble belly. Giles bit, and heard a moan, and moved back up again, until Spike had to tilt his face up for a kiss. It was exciting to be so much the taller. Exciting, too, to be the weaker. Spike was hard lean muscle and vampire strength, and this unexpected, overwhelming surrender. Giles pinned Spike's wrists back at either side of his head. "Monster," Spike said again, so that Giles had to silence him, forcing his mouth open to the kiss, thrusting in. Spike sucked at his tongue, pulling him deeper into a mouth like a cold lake. An undertow, pulling him down.
Giles fought the current, tore his mouth away and moved it to Spike's pinned left arm. He bit along the biceps, leaving a red trail of toothmarks that would darken to bruises. Spike struggled and arched, rubbing his cock against Giles' thigh. "You wouldn't do that if I could bite back," he said.
Giles thought of sharp fangs piercing him, a flash of pain, blood, Spike's mouth on him, sucking. "I wish you could," he heard himself answer. He wanted to bite and be bitten. To take and conquer and submit, all at once.
Spike jerked and went rigid. "Jesus. Don't say that, you'll make me come."
"Don't you dare. We've hardly started." Giles pulled away a little, trying to slow down. He released Spike's wrists and drew his palms over Spike's body, following the planes and angles, the complex geometry of bones and muscles. Proportion. There were mathematical formulas for proportion, but numbers could only hint at this beauty. It had to be touched, known in the body rather than the mind. He closed his eyes to see better with his hands.
"Where've you gone?" Spike asked after a while. "What are you thinking about?" His voice was calmer. He must be in control again.
"Mathematics."
"You would be." Spike was unbuttoning his shirt; Giles let himself be touched. Cool hands on his heated skin. Strong hands pulling him closer for another kiss. He dipped into those chill waters again, and then brushed Spike's lips with his thumb. Spike's tongue darted out, licked slowly as though he were licking Giles' cock instead, and his hands moved urgently over Giles' body.
A Ripper memory came into Giles' mind. Cottaging in a filthy public toilet, and a man whose face he couldn't recall but whose touch he could suddenly feel again. For a moment he was lost in anonymity and danger and dark, fierce joy, then he opened his eyes to look at the man with him now.
No self-possession, no wariness in Spike's face. He was an open book. Giles read lust and pleasure and a surrender that was something more than sex. Spike had let his guard down, had lain himself bare.
It was like a wound, that openness; it started a hollow aching in Giles' chest. He moved his hips against Spike, watching pleasure ripple over that perfect face. Then he slid down and knelt, kissing and unzipping. Spike drew in a breath, a sure sign of intense arousal, and then another breath as Giles pressed his face against Spike's crotch. Jeans to strip away, then--Giles stifled a laugh--union jack boxers. Giles pressed in again, coarse hair against his nose and the faintest skin-scent. He ran his mouth slowly up the shaft of Spike's cock, barely touching, blowing warm breath over him, causing shivers.
He delved down past the foreskin with his tongue, tasting salt now, licking at the tiny hole. Fingers taloning into his shoulders and a pained sound from Spike, half moan and half growl, encouragement to hurry. Too bad. Spike had given him control, and he would use it. He caught Spike's wrists, pushed them roughly back against the wall, and began to play. First a thorough licking in long, slow strokes. Some careful nibbles at the foreskin, lips drawn back over his teeth. Mouth against Spike's balls, and then a gentle tongue. Spike was definitely growling now.
"Hold still," Giles said, and released his wrists. Spike waited, motionless. "Good." Giles took Spike's cock slowly into his mouth, circling the base with one hand. Languid movements, up and down, flicking his tongue along the shaft. He reached up with his free hand and clawed his nails across Spike's ribs.
A cry of shocked pleasure, and hands pushing him away. "Stop. Stop, Rupert, wait. I want you to fuck me."
"Are you sure?" Giles asked, surprised. This was new. Spike had fucked him a couple of times, but mostly he seemed to want mouth-pleasures, licking and sucking. Not surprising, in a vampire.
"Course I'm bleeding well sure."
Giles gave a last lick to his cock, then bent to unlace Spike's boots and help him out of his jeans and underpants. He followed Spike up to the bedroom, undressing as he went, watching the play of muscles under Spike's skin. Such grace.
Spike on his knees by the bed, a sight to make a strong man weep, to make a saint hard. And then that beautiful mouth wrapped around Giles' cock, that blond head bobbing. Just seeing it was almost too much. And it felt like . . . like paradox, cold and hot, rough and gentle, agonizing and glorious. It hurt to pull away.
"Get on the bed," he said. The lube, where was the damn lube, why was it always in the back corner of the drawer behind a jumble of useless things?
Spike was lying facedown. So white, like marble against the blue sheets. Giles stroked his backside with one hand, lubed his own cock with the other. "Come on," Spike said. "No fingers, I don't need that. Come on."
So eager, so ready. Spike wanting him, wanting his cock to push, to glide into that cold slick delicious tightness, all the way in. Wanting him there, where he was. Wanting to writhe and moan and scream. Giles wanted to make him scream. He rocked his hips just a little, so that Spike inhaled again.
Thrusting. Instinct. The primitive brain takes over, the body moves in a rhythm it never had to learn. Spike's hands were clutching the edges of the mattress. Giles watched him, listened to his moans like a predator stalking its prey. Just a little more, a little further, just a little. He leaned forward, bit hard on Spike's shoulderblade, and Spike arched back against him. A low, desperate moan.
Giles reached for Spike's cock. The instant he touched it Spike pulled Giles' other hand up to his mouth, licked and sucked at his wrist. Giles knew what Spike needed and couldn't take. And he wanted, needed, to give it to him. He pulled his arm back, bit down where Spike had licked, ignoring the pain. Teeth tearing until his own blood ran hot into his mouth.
And then. And then. Spike sucking hard, pulling, pulling his blood from his body. And grinding against him, taking his cock deep, and a splatter of cool wetness over his fist and he was blind and deaf, lost. Eaten alive by hungry mouths. He was screaming and spilling and sucked dry.
Slowly he became aware again. He was on his back, with Spike pillowed against his shoulder. Spike was licking his wrist, gentle strokes that eased the pain. "You back now, pet?"
"Did I pass out?"
"Sort of. Only for a minute. I didn't take much blood, don't worry."
Giles looked at his wrist. It was torn and sore, but the pleasure had been like a second orgasm. Like what he'd imagined, taking and being taken all at once. A pleasure that seemed to go beyond the limits of the body. "Did you like it?" he asked, wanting to know if Spike had felt that pleasure too.
Spike laughed. "You give me blood, and you ask if I liked it?" His smile was dazzling, sated and tender. "It was perfect. All of it. Everything. You bad, bad man." He kissed Giles' injured wrist lightly.
Giles reached for a strand of blond hair and ran it between his fingers. He was full of unnameable emotions. No doubt Spike could smell them; he wondered if Spike could tell him what they were. He felt shaky and close to tears. "Spike," he said, and then couldn't find any more words.
"I know," Spike said quietly. "I know. This scares the hell out of me, too."
Giles kissed him and said nothing.
In the morning, Spike was still there beside him. Usually he left after Giles fell asleep, keeping his own vampire hours. He made a sleepy noise as Giles got out of bed, and reached out one beringed, black-nail-varnished hand towards him before sinking back into sleep. Giles pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, then smiled at his own absurd impulse to make sure Spike didn't get cold.
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