Unaware that Wesley was awake, Spike was standing in one of the beams of sunlight, watching his skin not smoke and burn as he tilted his hand directly in one of the beams. He was fascinated by the warm golden light and the heat it brought with it, remembering lazy afternoons sitting in the garden, trying to come up with poetry to describe the clouds. A yawn crept up on him, a product of his largely sleepless night, and he stifled it with the hand not in the sun.