Take Heart, part 2, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R; warning: character deaths, squick and fluff
Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21
Author's note: Originally written for The Deadly Hook, Apocalypse Ficathon. I had to write a continuation…
Big hugs to my wonderful beta spikejones, who whipped this into shape with her cat o’nine tails
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
Spike lugs the sack up Kingman’s Bluff. Gas, ammo, axes… enough weaponry to make Attila blush and he starts to feel like he's carrying Angel on his back, possibly with Darla and Dru included. He doesn't get it. Sure, it’s a steep climb. But, he's eaten a great big wholesome meal of three people yesterday, it won’t be dawn for hours yet, so there's no good reason to feel this bloody tired. The only thing that keeps him going is the superior smirk he doesn’t want to see on the Slayer's face.
So he’s surprised to find he’s the first to get back from the provisioning raid. He dumps the weapons at the back of the shallow cave they've holed-up in and decides to have a lie-down. After a quarter of an hour of gradually feeling worse, his muscles start to tingle and he perks up a little bit. His strength builds steadily until it takes a sudden leap when the Slayer pops a weary, bedraggled head into the cave.
"Hey," she says and drops a blanket full of cans and crackling plastic food packets. "God, I feel like the Buffy the cat dragged in. Must be from yesterday. I could sleep for a week." She curls up on the spot and sinks into an instant doze.
Spike watches her fade and remembers her disgusting perkiness from earlier this evening when she woke up. Makes a bloke think a spot of Slayercide might go down well right about now, just so he’d never have to live through it again. He gets up on his hands and knees and crawls over to her. His head keeps getting clearer and he notes the pallor of her face and the violet shadows under her eyes with interest. He has a theory and tests it by grabbing hold of the Slayer’s thighs. He could have taken her hands, of course, but why be boring?
Her eyes snap open. "Get your hands off me, Spike! You’re too close. Canada would be too cl…”
Her voice trails off and a look of wonder grows on her pinched face, which is slowly suffusing with healthier color.
"Spike….what?"
Spike doesn’t know either, but he does know it feels good, it feels just right to be touching her, complete. He lifts his hands briefly to see if it’s really true, and is immediately overwhelmed by waves of despair and futility. Hastily he puts his hands back. The jangling discord his body has been dancing to calms and smoothes into harmony and peace. What common sense he's got left grasps at his unease as it tries to leave quietly through the backdoor. He needs that feeling.
"Magic, Slayer, consequences, always," he says bitterly. "Great. We'll be like Chang and Eng, Just what I’ve always dreamed of. Slayer?"
The Slayer sighs, a happy floaty sound, staring off into the distance.
"Please pay attention. Buffy,” he begins. “Item the first: We're not all right when we're apart. Check?"
"Check,” she agrees.
"Second: That situation is unacceptable. Check?"
"Check. You really are channeling Giles. It would be cute if he hadn’t died."
The Slayer takes in her own words with an expression of disbelief and the fragile cheer slides off her face. She turns her head aside and pretends he can’t see her tearing up. Spike waits impatiently. Crying won’t bring back the dead. Lots of things will, but not crying. He decides not to mention those options.
"Three: we need to end that situation. Check?"
"Well….sure. After I find Riley. Believe me, I really don't want to be stuck to you with the tractor beams from hell, but for now, we're pretty powerful like this. We need that power to free Riley and destroy the Initiative."
“Great. So I’m, what?,’ he says. “Your undead Ma Bell? I ring up the spirits of Scoobies Past and help out while you’re looking for Mr. Goodbore? Not seeing what’s in it for me.”
“How about not getting staked?” She pauses, cools down. “Look,” she says. “I don’t expect you to understand this.” Her voice drops. “Riley is all I’ve got left.”
“Oh, and I’m chopped liver, am I?”
Spike wonders uncomfortably when he started giving a rat’s bollocks what she thinks of him. After a bit, he realizes they're still lying on the uncomfortable floor of the cave, hand in hand, staring at the ceiling. The making and executing of clever plans isn’t working, so far.
"Slayer, get up. You need to eat. We sleep during the day and do a recce when it gets dark."
“I could do one of those now," she says petulantly, but she's not moving and still holding his left hand in that death grip.
"Sure, Slayer, sure. You’d last half an hour before blacking out, I reckon."
"I don’t like you when you’re right, Spike. In fact, I never like you."
Spike doesn’t bother answering that one. He sits up, and Buffy has to follow if she wants to retain her hold on his hand. He randomly picks up one of the cans she's gathered and thrusts it into her hand.
"Here. Eat up. And please, no need to wait until I can have a proper dinner. I'll just gaze hungrily at you."
The Slayer stares at the can with an embarrassed grimace. "I forgot to bring an opener," she says.
Spike sighs, vamps out and tears off the lid with one of his fangs.
“Ew," she says. "You don’t think I'm gonna eat this after you've had your icky fang in there? Who knows where it’s been?"
Spike rolls his eyes. He's remembering why he dislikes her so much. The one moment of shared purpose he recalls from yesterday was definitely a spell-induced folie-à-deux, but he can still see what she's thinking and the disgust is only a thin layer of desperate denial over panic and hunger. He doesn't want to know that, even if he can make good use of that vulnerability later. He prefers his arch-enemies on a pedestal, to make the victory taste the sweeter.
"Suit yourself,” he answers curtly and stalks off to the darker part of the cave.
Letting go of the Slayer is like taking off an artificial limb; it makes him feel lopsided and incomplete. He can take it though; it isn't half as bad as when they'd been separated for hours. Let the spoilt little bitch stew in her own loneliness. He rolls himself in his duster and firmly closes his eyes. Sleep now.
But sleep is impossible when he can feel every movement the Slayer makes in his gut. She mutters to herself, eats the contents of the can, roots around a bit, pees around the corner and finally crawls to his end of the cavern. She picks the opposite wall for bedding down, and that’s fine by him. He just wishes he could stop breathing along with her and feeling cold and empty where she isn’t touching him, meaning everywhere. At last he gets up, plunks himself down next to her and spoons against her back. His missing limb slots neatly back into place and he falls toward sleep immediately. The Slayer, to his surprise, doesn’t say a word and is asleep before he is.
Spike dreams his wedding tackle is hanging over the edge of a big cauldron, slowly being cooked. Buffy is going to eat it and she looks on avidly, knife and fork at the ready.
"Just a few more minutes, pet," Spike says proudly, and slides a plate and some salad under his reddening member. The green makes a very pretty contrast.
It’s well-done soon enough and Buffy starts sawing away with the knife. At first the pain is bearable, even pleasant, but then it gets really bad. He spurts red blood all over her and yowls in anguish, waking himself up.
A man could wish his dreams were a little less indicative of his waking situation; which is with his cock against a searing hot Slayer bum and her hand squeezing his balls so hard he’s sure they’re going to explode.
"What? What? Let go of me, you bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing!"
Buffy lets up slightly.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she bites back. "I woke up and we were…I mean you were humping me. Without my consent."
"Yeah, right," Spike sneers. ”You were only too happy when I crawled in with you last night, weren't you?"
Strangely enough, he’s feeling very sharp and with-it, even though he's about to come. And that in spite of the strangulation grip she has on him.
"Let go then, Slayer, and I’ll move away. Wouldn’t that be the first thing you'd want?"
“Of course,” Buffy snaps.
She lets go and he can't help himself, he bucks his hips against her again and then he does come in his pants like an overexcited teenager. When his eyes uncross, he checks out her face, steeling himself for a flood of disgust and derision, but instead it’s flushed and her eyes glazed. Someone is interested, alright.
Their thighs are still smushed together and if he concentrates, he can feel her interest straight through the two layers of denim. He wiggles his knee closer to her crotch, as an experiment, and she turns blood red, shudders hard, digs her hands in his thigh hard enough to bruise, and faints.
Spike can’t suppress a triumphant guffaw and that snaps her out of it instantly. Her eyes pop open, he sees the realization, the shame, the checking if he knows what went on, the rush into anger. It’s delicious.
The Slayer is biting her lip, and for once she has no quip. Her finger points at him, quivering with rage, and he can guess at the feelings about to burst out, but she keeps them in and stalks away. Chalk one up for him. Of course, now his jeans are soiled, which is uncomfortable and smelly, but it’s a small price to pay for her humiliation. Getting off on an evil undead knee is not something you can brag about to your friends, is it? Oh, wait, they’re all dead. There’s a fly buzzing in his ear. No, there isn’t. Spike shakes his head, trying to dislodge the feeling. Weird. Why is he thinking of Harris?
He thinks of a few comments he might make, but he decides he won’t even bother. She needs his help for now, and every time she looks at him she’s gonna feel the shame. It’s like a present he can open again and again. Priceless.
The Slayer comes pouncing back, cheeks still a lovely, shamed blood red, lips a-tremble, and flings herself at the disorderly heap of equipment. She retrieves whatever it is she’s looking for and stomps back outside. Spike lies back and suppresses the urge to hie himself over there by taking a drag from his fag. It’s like his private show. The small form outside, backlit by a faint glow from Sunnydale down below is doing something he can’t quite make out, but her frustration is easily visible at thirty feet away and that also dulls the pain any distance between them causes.
Spike freezes as the smoke in his lungs clears his head. He doesn’t recall getting out his lighter and smokes, or lighting the cigarette. He’s done it again, conjured up a lit fag on his lip without even being aware of it. He remembers Willow playing with a pencil in the Magic Box while he leaned against the ladder, too bored to watch something else. Cool ability, but not much you could do with a fag or a pencil, except stake a tiny little vamp, or poke someone’s eye out in a fight.
And just like that he has a pencil in his hand, gleaming yellow in the half light of the cave. He studies it, bemused and awed at himself. Float, he tells it, not really expecting a result. It rises obediently for about half an inch above his palm. He’s about to fling it away from him when the thought lights his mind with a thousand watt’s worth of idea. He inhales reflexively, the air runs head first into exiting smoke and a fight ensues. When he’s stopped coughing he lies back to turn his brilliant notion over in his mind and examine it properly from all sides. It can work, but he’ll need practice; this is one job he can’t afford to botch up.
He’s made the pencil flit about the cave, do back flips, spirals and pirouettes and is just in the process of writing a poem on the back of his duster when the Slayer calls out to him.
“Sod off, Slayer, I’m busy,” he says, but his feet are already taking him to her. He’s almost too happy about his plan to feel resentment at his automatic obedience.
Buffy’s crouching at the rim of the cliff, training her binoculars on the smoke-veiled town below. She extends her arm behind her grouchily.
“Spike. Pinky.”
Spike wishes he didn’t know what she means, but he hooks her little finger in hers. The low-level buzz of the connection asserts itself again. It’s amazing how this negates his irritation at being at her beck and call. It even feels good, which displeases him. He’s got things to do, and after that, places to go, places which are not Sunnydale.
He keeps his face in the direction of the town, but his attention is elsewhere. The pencil is lying next to their sleeping bags and he’s trying to lift it from here. Sense it, find its location and then float it gently over here, parting the air molecules with his mind so the pencil meets no resistance. He thinks he's got it. He can’t confirm it with his real eyes yet, but he’s sure it’s hovering just left of the cave entrance.
“Spike,” Buffy’s petulant voice interrupts his concentration and he feels the pencil slip from his hold.
Bugger. Can’t she just shut up for two minutes?.
“Spike, I can’t see well enough. Stand closer.”
He obeys with a sigh. He moves his hips against hers, the bulge of his cock in the cleft of her ass, and puts his hand on her shoulders. He ignores the automatic heat that flares. She’s either food, which is meant to be fucked during dinner, on the condition it’s pretty and young enough, or she’s a great warrior, whose death brings him honor. He doesn’t want to confuse the two and hump her like a dog.
“See anything?” he asks.
She nods, but keeps frowning and twiddling the binocular’s buttons. She looks back at him and bites her lip. “It’s not enough.”
Spike sighs. He’s noticed the power surge is bigger the closer they get, the more sexual the touch is. Don’t tell him she hasn’t. Can’t she just say it? He starts rubbing the front of her jeans with impatient movements and feels her growing warmer under him. A little frown forms between her eyebrows and she purses her lips in concentration. It’s not going well. Buffy’s concentrating so hard she’s practically vibrating and her hand is boring a hole in his upper arm.
“Is it working yet, pet? Feeling a yawn coming up here.”
This is not strictly speaking the truth, there’s a kind of pleasure in smelling her desperation and arousal and seeing her work so hard, but it’s not like it’s interactive.
The Slayer opens agonized eyes, big and black with concentration, and claws at him. “Don’t stop, you evil monster. Faster!” She freezes completely and stares at him in shock. “Oh my God. I really just said that, didn’t I?”
That cinches it. He takes away his hand and folds his arms. “This is not working, Slayer. You know why? Supposed to be mutual, not me slaving away and not getting anything in return. I’m not your sex toy.”
“Isn’t this bad enough already you’re doing this to me, without you throwing a hissy fit?” she retorts. “We have a mission, this is urgent!”
“You have a mission, I have places to go. Places where I could be already if you hadn’t bound us together with one of these spells that keep going wrong around you.”
She gets up and almost topples over on unsteady legs. Fury makes her stutter and wave her arms. “The sooner you help me out, the quicker you’ll be out of here. You can play helplessly chipped former bloodsucker somewhere else.”
It’s so bloody easy to keep his temper now that he has prospects again. He just lifts his eyebrow and waits her out. She throws panicky looks over her shoulder as if Sunnydale is going to go away if she doesn’t hurry. It’s a trade-off kind of thing. Together, they’re powerful but too blissed out to notice anything, apart they’re with it but too jittery to act. She knows it too.
“Okay, I give,” she says. “What do you want me to do?”
Spike just sets his hands on the waist of his jeans, his fingers pointing quite clearly at the place he wants her to be.
“That is so disgusting. I have to touch your grungy vampire boy jeans? That is just a world of yuck.”
Spike waits, grinning.
The Slayer rolls her eyes at no one in particular and reluctantly brings her hips against his, her hands balled and to the side. She grinds a few times with her eyes closed, then checks his face to see if it’s enough. Well, hardly. Is this all she can do? He’s about to say something cutting when he catches the faintest whiff of insecurity in her eyes and he remembers everything he’s gotten to know about her without even trying. Angelus ditching her after one go, that college sod when she took his ring of Amarra from him. Not to mention dating Captain Cardboard, who looks like he does it with the lights off and his eyes closed, who wouldn’t have allowed her space to try things out. She really doesn’t know what to do.
The words he'd normally use to smother her in scathing derision are at the back of his throat, ready for use. He swallows them. Now is not the moment to slag her off. For one it would mean not getting off for old Spike, and it wouldn’t make getting out of here any faster. And he hasn’t exactly pulled out all the stops himself just mechanically rubbing her inseam, has he?
Well then, here goes. He steps up close against her, brings his arms around her and says huskily in her ear, "Lemme show you how it’s done, Slayer.”
She jerks reflexively, as if wrenching away from him but doesn’t actually move.
“Feel my hands on your back? They’re going to slide lower, down to your luscious little bum, very slowly, very slowly, so that by the time they get there, you’re already feeling them there, feel my hands burning on your arse , straight through your trousers…”
Her breath shudders on his neck when he pushes her against his hard-on, grinding her slowly on it, his hands lifting her up, digging his fingers in the soft flesh of her thigh, close enough to her pussy to feel the searing heat of it. The Slayer moans and hides her flaming face in his shoulder. He pretends not to notice this but files it away for later reference. Right now, he’s spinning a tale to breach her defenses. He sinks slowly down on his knees, willing her not to notice, talking her into submission. “Close your eyes, Slayer, think of the good work we can do if we’re fully recharged, think of the mission, nothing else matters. “
His finger slips under the button of her trousers and fillips it loose without jerking or alarming her. He slides down the zipper. The tiny sound makes her buck and moan. Spike can’t help getting more than just perfunctorily interested himself. The smell of her arousal salts the air, the twitching of her warm flesh against his makes him lose focus, makes him want to rip off the clothes he’s so carefully peeling away and just plunge in, ride her hard and drain her dry. That’s not going to happen, though. He needs the connection, and he needs to keep his wits about him.
Anticipation prepares the link between them, powers it up with little sparks trailing up and down his spine. The Slayer is a mass of quivering jelly on his lap and he forgives her for not participating as actively as he wanted her to a minute ago. This is not about the balance of power between them, this is about need.
He positions her with her head down on the ground and her hips on his legs. With one hand stroking her pussy, he wriggles out of his jeans as far as he needs to and positions himself. He hesitates with the tip of his cock at her entrance and checks out her face. He knew she was hot for it too, but this is bordering on ecstasy, and she hasn’t even come yet. Part of the bloody spell. He thought the handholding was bad, but how will they go about killing and maiming if they're glue together at the hip? Besides, it'll make him look silly.
"Slayer…" he croons. "How about if I did this?" He glides a finger into her pussy, then another. Works up to rough thrusting.
The Slayer yelps and twitches but takes good care to realign her legs so he has good access.
"Isn’t that nice? Do you want me to go on with this?"
"No…" she moans. "I mean, yes. But it’s wrong!"
"Maybe you like this better?" He plays his thumb over her clit.
There's only moans and shudders for an answer. Spike takes back his hand and licks off his fingers.
"Delicious," he announces.
He slides his cock in a little bit and the Slayer opens her eyes wide and tries to scoot back. Oh-oh, she's panicking.
“Get off me, this isn’t what I meant, go away, get your disgusting.. . thing out of me, I…”
He thrusts his fingers in her hot opening again and uses them to fuck her hard while she struggles to get away. She goes limp as putty again until she seizes up and comes, clenching down on his fingers so brutally they would have broken if he’d been human. The thought of those muscles gripping his dick is so unbearably hot that he unexpectedly reaches orgasm himself, shooting white gobbets all over her belly. Damn. That wasn’t the plan.
"Spike! This is the grossest thing ever! Look at me! I’ve got your…spunk all over me."
"Worse than shooting it up your hot little pussy?" Spike says automatically, thinking hard now that he has a moment of clarity. There won’t be many tonight; he has a feeling about it.
The Slayer blushes hotly in the rosy evening light and he knows that she's in the same place he is. She’s still lying over his thighs, and in spite of her angry words, not moving at all. Now what? Spike wouldn’t mind giving it another go, but he doubts that the Slayer will allow it. There’s something he’s going to try anyway. He shoves her off him and moves a foot or so away from her. She shoots upright as if galvanized and reaches for his dick with panicky hands. She doesn’t subside until she has a firm hold of it. It’s possibly the scariest and yet best sensation his dick has ever felt. She’s magic. Her face doesn’t lose its determined, angry expression and Spike wonders about what’s going on in her mind. Does she even realize what’s she holding on to?
Spike coughs. "Slayer. Take a look. Who's doing what to who?"
“Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m touching your thing. Your big fat evil thing. The last thing on earth I want my hands on, thank you. Why can’t I let go? This is not right. I’m so killing you now you’ve seen this, Spike. Soon.”
Spike grins. He couldn’t have dreamt of a more entertaining way to spend the evening. "Let go then, Summers. Or shall we just forget about patrol and recharge a bit more?"
Buffy has her head turned away and stares in the distance, thinking hard. He doesn’t think she's aware of the rhythmic kneading her hands are doing. It’s not what he normally recommends for a hand job, but her every touch makes the world shiver and shimmy. She needs the connection more than he does, he reckons, maybe because she’s alive. Her breasts wobble slightly with every movement of her hands and he suddenly can’t wait to get his hands on them. He needs to fuck her, now, and at the same time keep his head and not come all over her again. He’s got a job to do while he’s at maximum power.
He pushes her shirt and her bra away from her breasts. They’re small but plump and sweet, with tiny nipples, little candied cherries topping a rice pudding. He tweaks the one and sucks the other hard, teasing a surprised squeak out of the Slayer. Her hands clamp down on his dick and he has to wrench loose or be emasculated.
Buffy opens dazed eyes, all black pupil and quivering eyelashes. "Wh-wha?"
Spike retreats a few paces from where she's sitting. It hurts to leave her vicinity.
She squirms with a heartrending moan. "Spike! Come back here! Now! I'm going to punch your nose and stake you if you don’t come over here!"
Her utter discomfort is a joy to behold at first, but then Spike starts receiving strange twinges in his head. It’s not the deprived feeling of not touching her, it’s something different, something vaguely familiar yet completely alien. It urges him to stop torturing her. What can it be? He decides to ignore the strange compulsion. He must be a little addled from the spell.
Spike smiles expectantly at the Slayer, who's still staring pitifully at him, unable to keep still. She tries to touch herself but it's evidently not satisfactory.
"Spike! Please!"
"On one condition. Spread for me like a good girl and no yanking on my dick like it's a bell rope."
"Yes, okay, but first get me off!"
She doesn’t care what she sounds like anymore, Spike notes with glee.
“I think not, Slayer."
With one brutally quick movement, he pushes her legs up and shoves in, finally. He thrusts deep and hard, changing the angle until she cries out. The heat and delicious friction almost makes him lose his head but he manages to rein himself in. He keeps up a steady pace so the Slayer won’t know he's thinking of something else. The power of their connection thrums steadily in his veins, and he knows he can do this if he can hold off long enough.
He pushes her face in the crook of his shoulder so she won't be able to see his face. He closes his eyes to concentrate better, and although that has the effect of making the sensation in his cock more urgent, his new power sharpens as well. He feels around delicately until he’s quite sure where the small object he wants to move is, and then - strand by tiny strand - loosens the minute wires in his brain. He wishes hard and feels the tiny prickly object land on his lower lip, as if it’s a cigarette. He squashes the laugh that bubbles up in him at the strange workings of his brain and lets go. He’s free now, or he will be when they dissolve the spell, and at this moment he’s absolutely sure he will.
By God, he’s William the Bloody again, doing what he’s supposed to do, fucking a quivering, mewling victim into the ground. His fangs elongate, his forehead scrunches with the delightful pain of the change, he can smell the blood thundering in her veins. He almost strikes, but the streak of hard commonsense that‘s made him a Master Vamp yanks him back from that precipice just in time. He bangs away at the girl underneath him so hard that he would have pounded her into a pulp if she hadn't been the Slayer. He lets loose his climax and falls over a precipice so steep and long that he shouts in fear and ecstasy combined.
Spike comes to with his nose against a piece of rock and his knees next to his nose. What the hell? He stops cataloguing the location of his limbs and simply uncurls onto the floor of the cave. He can sense Buffy lying still a few feet away. There is no discomfort. Weren’t they fucking at the edge of the bluff? Then he remembers what his real purpose in that fuck was and he stretches out his arms to their limit and bellows his joy to the roof. He’s back. He’s bad, he's mad and he’s gonna kick the world's ass. If he gets out of here.
He lights a little fire and then kicks the Slayer awake.
"Oi. Slayer. Wakey wakey. Time for reconnaissance."
Buffy glares at him with a baleful eye and carefully and slowly unfolds herself from her embarrassing position. She turns away to put her clothes in order, as if he hasn’t been getting several eyefuls of all her intimate bits, not to mention the sounds she makes when she's being thoroughly porked.
"You're quite a woman, Slayer," he says. "You've got more wild and greed in you than most vamps."
“Ouch.” She still knows how to find his nose with great accuracy, even in a dark cave.
"Shut up, Spike,” she says. "If you ever mention this to anyone, I will kill you."
"Hardly, Slayer, hardly. Not exactly a point in my favor to shag a Slayer instead of killing her.”
Buffy shifts around uncomfortably. "Why didn’t you?"
Spike shrugs. "Chip, Slayer. Memory getting wonky on you? Must have been some shag, eh. Spell is doing mighty funny things to us. Best get rid of it soonish."
"But Riley….Yeah. This can't go well."
She slogs over to the fire and warms her hands. “I’m hungry again, and I so don’t wanna eat more cold soup straight from the can. If I throw one in the fire, will it explode?"
Spike feels quite generous all of a sudden. "I'll feed you. Wait and see."
He opens a can, maneuvers it into the fire with a couple of sticks and stirs it with yet another piece of wood until it starts to bubble. “Slayer. One can of hot soup, courtesy of Spike."
Buffy sniffs it suspiciously. "Did you spit in it?"
"Hey! Throw a nice gesture back into a fellow’s face, that’s pleasant!"
"Sorry. It smells good."
He’s succeeded in making her feel a little guilty. It’s a first.
“Eat it, then. The night isn’t getting any younger, what with fainting spells and compulsory sex."
"Don’t say that word! It wasn’t sex! It was…something else. It was hormonomania. Of the spell-made variety.” She sounds pleased with herself. Then the red face steals back. “We will never ever bring it up again."
"Promise," Spike says. Everyone knows that promises to a good person don’t count.
TBC
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