ATTENTION: This story is going to be rather taboo, and I am not trying to glorify stalking or call it romantic. I was merely inspired to write something where Spike's "lurking" habits are highly present in an AU fic. This is all human, will probably include violence at some point which is why I included it in the warnings, but it won't be between Buffy and Spike. If you are easily squicked out by the whole stalker thing/someone watching someone else without their knowledge, this may not be the fic for you. Spike is absolutely harmless here and is not the traditional definition of a stalker, but I am fully aware that his character in this is going to be behaving super inappropriately. If you don't like character ambiguity, then you probably shouldn't read this. I'm not trying to sound mean or put anyone off, I simply don't want anyone to say that I didn't warn them. For people who give this fic a shot, I hope you enjoy it. Also, I am writing as I go.

Side notes: There is some heavy talk of Buffy/Angel love at the beginning, but that's all it is, talk. There will NOT be any sex between them in this fic, and Angel will probably not show up twice. As for the crossover category label, it is there because I'm going to add in a VERY tiny bit of action between a couple of side characters who are my OTP in another TV show, but I don't know how I'm going to do it yet and I don't want to give them away. They really won't have a too involved story though, so you don't need to worry. This is a Spuffy fic all the way.

_____________________________________

Buffy remembered that night, it was crystal clear in her mind's eye. She remembered the wind, cooling tears on her cheeks, words she said while he stood silent. She could still hear that angry beat of a broken heart, like wild horses in her chest. An unmitigated sense of fractured reality, the "This can't be happening" rockslide and every bruise on the way down. She remembered it all so well, and looking into Angel's eyes now, she might even be able to imagine they were ten years younger standing beside his idling car. One more time, another chance to relive a bitter memory.

That car was gone, though, and in place of a beaten up black Toyota was a shiny black coupe, new and gassed with as much money as stellar importance. It looked so out of place alongside her little red mailbox and lily dotted pond.

Angel was the ex love of Buffy's life, wearing a suit and for once, his heart on his brand name sleeve. It appeared the venture to New York had paid off. He was offering himself on a silver, security laden platter. A ring and a wedding gown might be waiting for her outside a condo hundreds of miles away.

His aged heart was part of the bargain.

Buffy could feel an unsteady pounding in her head, like the blood flow ceased, prohibiting actual thought while her chest fought to catapult her heart into another lifetime. There were warm, tingly sensations crawling along her skin. But it wasn't the same. Nothing was the way she had pictured it.

It was as if Angel dropped the mask, or bent to pick up his fallen disguise. A peeling back of layers; a realization. Old hurts were suddenly so filled up, stuffed to the brim with scars long since healed. She almost wanted to cry.

"Buffy," he said, big hands lying open from his wrists. He would like it if she reached out to hold them. "You're... We've always had each other. Always. We're forever, remember?"

"I remember," because what else could she say? They had promised each other exactly that so many times in unvoiced heart whispers, and sorrowful proclamations.

He wanted to step closer but didn't. "We can have that. Nothing is keeping us from being together," he said. "We're able to do anything we want. I control my life now... We can be happy."

Wind blew passed and she rubbed her arms. An old wool sweater was suddenly more comfort than Angel being here, hanging around, coming back, had ever been. "I don't think..." She inhaled deeply. "It's too late, Angel."

"Exactly!" he sounded thrilled, happiness pulling at whispered words like bubble gum. "It isn't too late. We can have everything we couldn't before. I'm settled in now. It's safe. I can be what you need." He finally moved closer, but she stepped away.

Meeting those questioning brown eyes, Buffy let her hands fist. "No. I meant, it's too late."

He was instantly confused. "What- Buffy-" A frown and shake of the head. "I thought this is what you wanted. I thought you wanted... us."

So had she. Once, she had known. She used to want him with every hurdle and every fall, but now... the road was gone, washed away by time. Buffy was without a map showing her how to get back, and if there were one, she didn't think she could open it. "I wanted you and me- us -a long time ago."

The words seemed to permeate the stillness. He fiddled with a gold cufflink, not meeting her eyes as hurt burrowed into lines edging his face. Angel was still handsome, always had been, whether sad or discouraged, it didn't matter. "But things change," he supplied morosely in her stead.

Buffy swallowed. "Things change." So many things. Things neither of them could control; but leaving, that he could have controlled.

Two teenagers, so in love they swore it was star born, slipping away to make out in cars and graveyards afterhours. A relationship supported on nothing but feelings and desperation neither could understand. A love that died when one half left the other behind.

Angel had left her. He had good reasons, of course, but they never took the hurt away, or explained why they were good enough to just... give up.

Funny how those two words didn't hurt as much as they once had.

Angel frowned and looked up, sadness swallowing her in a glance. "I want what we never had, Buffy. I wanted..." He smiled warmly, recollection brimming his teeth. "Always my girl, remember?"

She looked at the dirt beneath her boots and sidestepped, an old flame finally burnt out. "Yeah. I remember." Time to meet those eyes she used to swear housed the world; in this minute, they only held rusty mirrors that were new ten years ago. "We don't belong to each other anymore, Angel. We... I'm not her," she spoke softly, "and you're not the same guy who left after graduation."

He looked miserable, but nodded in reply. Not his girl. It was a daunting realization. A pothole caving in. He finally took a step back, narrowly avoiding a hopping toad as he hedged towards his parked car. "I'll always love you, Buffy."

"I know." She swallowed thickly again. "But not like that."

He didn't say anything, and perhaps Angel was still in love, maybe he just wanted her to want him forever and a day. Buffy couldn't be sure. She couldn't play a guessing game either. Smiling a fond, nostalgic curve, Angel backed sadly away with his hands in his pockets. She returned the expression, but there were no promises in it. She let him go, and then turned towards the house.

For once, and for the last time, he watched Buffy leave him. Not the other way around.

***

Stepping through the front door, Buffy removed her shoes before checking the mail at the kitchen table. Bills, an ad for the new pizza place in town, and a letter from England- that would be Giles, sending his love.

Paper stuffed hands made for useless fingers, so she managed to nudge the refrigerator open with her toes. Buffy finally tossed the mail on the counter after choosing to reach for a yogurt.

She hadn't eaten yet, and so dove into the vanilla treat with gusto. Angel's appearance on her front porch hadn't allowed for casual niceties, let alone a shared breakfast.

She paused, taking only three bites before setting the plastic container down. Nothing simple ever happened between her and Angel. Nothing everyday or ordinary. At one time, Buffy had been very willing to throw simplicity away for passion, and she probably still was, but not entirely.

Angel was her first love, her only love if she were to measure the other few against that measuring stick. He was sweeter than any dream she could come up with, and always more devastating.

When they were together, Buffy truly believed their love would last forever; when he left, she was forced to see the errors in that sentiment. After high school graduation the sweetheart fantasy fell apart. Angel told her things needed to end before he headed off to school in California.

He was going to make it big, he said, and long distance just wouldn't work. Because it wasn't fair, because she deserved more than that, because he couldn't string her along while he searched for a career in books and a big city. Those arguments felt stale now. At the time, Buffy had understood, for the most part, despite bitterness and a breaking heart.

Not long after, Angel was gone. He'd gotten as far away from her as possible. *For my own good,* she thought palely. He never said goodbye. Part of Buffy believed he couldn't, due to pain and a mutual disbelief that they were really through; the other part thought he simply didn't want to say it, make it permanent. Neither had she, but he left and people were supposed to move on after breakups.

Fat chance in this scenario. Their remained an unspoken bond between them. They shared letters on occasion, and when her mother died he flew in from Los Angeles to attend the funeral. He always seemed to show up when Buffy needed him, or could use a little help, but he never stayed. She stopped asking him to after a while.

She had been tethered, like a boat to a dock. Images and daydreams filtered into Buffy's day to day life, thoughts of Angel returning, falling to his knees, fighting for everything she used to wish he would. Apologies, vows against giving up. But he just stayed away, because he was needed in L.A., choosing his future over one they could have shared every day.

Buffy never perceived herself as demanding, or unfairly bitter even, until realizing the concept of Angel moving on brought out the shrew in her. They had relationships with other people, but the first ones to follow were the hardest, the eye openers.

She had loved him more than she would ever love anything in this life. Buffy knew it, but she hadn't realized the truth so many years ago, when other men tried their best.

Others that never quite made the cut, never quite broke through her hardened chest with enough gall, tenderness, brash intensity, or devotion. None of them filled the space. She should have let them, but there were too many variables.

Now, as Buffy sat in her drafty kitchen, alone and surprisingly unmoved but for sad realization, she could hear old dreams falling away in the silence. Like baby teeth or a smoky cloud, they lost their shine, and dropped sincerity.

A welcome distraction walked up and rubbed against her ankle. Buffy looked down, moist eyes catching on the sight of her little tabby, purring and nuzzling her leg. She smiled and scooped the cat into her arms, while a strange lineup of thoughts continued in her mind.

It couldn't be more surreal, considering everything in this foreign light; or perhaps it was merely brighter. Angel's love had always been a shadow, a constant memory that never fully shifted from present to past. Like a water spot, something that evaporates but still leaves a mark. She never could quite scrub herself clean, and chuck the possibility of being with her soul mate away.

Today, in a moment she'd dreamt up at least a thousand times before, Buffy discovered the past had stayed where it belonged. She just told the man she once believed would always hold her heart, that it was too late, because he wasn't what she needed anymore. The first time he really wanted to stay, could actually make good on promises the both of them had silently sworn to keep, and she pushed him out the door. Without hope or vows. Without possibility. Without an unwritten future to share one day, like they used to share secrets. Angel was gone in ways he had never been until today.

Buffy breathed heavily as tears leaked from her eyes. Tabitha- Original, right? -left a couple licks on her chin, shaking her furry head when she tasted saltwater before climbing onto Buffy's shoulder. She let the feline remain perched there, as something heavy floated off. Light finally brightened, filling her in ways it hadn't since before she fell in love at the age of seventeen. Old scars were faded, and barely discernible across tougher skin, stronger muscle.

Her hand stroked Tabitha's back. Questions followed liberation, peace drenched quickly in the emptiness all around. Buffy felt alive, on the inside; every breath was hers to take for herself alone. Except amongst the freedom came an awareness, several things standing out like black streaks across a white wall. The lack of footsteps, creaks under their weight, a stillness to the air, and quiet inside her home. Dead quiet, but for the gentle purring beside her left ear.

A deep frown settled on her face, marring the pale skin along her forehead. Despair was gone, waving itself away with every inhale, yet she breathed in cold solitude. Loneliness like she had never felt before, an invisible road sign with her name printed in faded block letters. A path that she could no longer take, and a broken compass.

A close call at a dead end.

Buffy gulped down fresh tears and pulled Tabitha closer.

One thing she knew for certain, and that was cats made excellent companions.

***

A cigarette fell outside the cabin, meeting with wet leaves and a black boot. Spike, William Pratt to his dead mother and a nutty ex girlfriend, was standing in one of his three favored positions. Today he was beneath the large maple tree, leaning into its trunk as if a stiff wind had bent him that way. Eyes bluer than the sky overhead and lined charcoal on the bottom, resolutely fixed as Spike tucked another cigarette between his lips.

He didn't have a lot in his life. A job on the graveyard watch, another at the local high school as janitor, a beautiful house on the edge of town, beaten up DeSoto, Zippo lighter, and her.

He had her from a distance, anyhow. In his mind, in his heart she resided quite well. That was the only way.

Buffy Summers. The woman who occupied his nearly every waking thought. Spike only realized she existed two years ago, and it was never his intention to end up following her. Stalking her, honestly, but here he was for possibly the thousandth time, staring at a familiar cabin like a bat does a lake at twilight.

There was never hope in resisting, though he surely tried. Of course it wasn't right to stand outside, to watch her like some crazed lunatic day in and day out. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to make him stop; he was thoroughly besotted. A man obsessed. Walking slave sewn to her shadow. Hours spent accompanied by mindless television or nameless women in motel rooms, only distracted for so long.

For every bottle Spike drowned his consciousness in, there was a bleary evening of drawings made with unsteady fingers, poems that should never grace paper, and equally dour hangovers to follow. Drunken art lined up beside sober sketches, a painting or two, and real photographs taken from a distance, all of her. Spike knew he would never get the girl, never feel the grace of her hand touching his, so he took what he could get and let his imagination do the rest.

In reality, this bordering on sick obsession- All right, maybe we were passed bordering -had taken months to cement. Things started off slow, all beginning with spotting her outside a gas station once or twice, noticing Buffy's smile and her walk, a fluff of gorgeous blonde hair. Before he knew it, he was dreaming about her. Then, subconscious hopes bled into the daylight hours, and his fantasies ran away like a flying kite. Spike found himself beside windows, searching for Buffy at the gas station across the street every day.

He soon figured ways to run into her, without actually running into her. She never noticed him, but he treasured every glimpse he could steal of those smiles. He loved the sound of her laughter, but heard it rarely. He saw the kind of comfort she brought to the teenagers in town, those who sought it anyway. They came into her store just to talk, as if they could confide in Buffy like a mother. She seemed to enjoy the trust they exhibited. Fortunately for Spike, her little shop had large windows and the library across the way did not.

His watchful habits did nothing to affect her, and harm was the last thing Spike would ever bring. More often than not, he was the one getting hurt, but he couldn't give her up. Watching her, like a man does that which is most important to him, but similarly out of reach; it was all he had.

Spike threw the second half burnt cigarette to the ground and snuffed it, exhaling a stream of smoke. All he could have. All he would ever get, and still not because any of this was freely given. None of the facts meant it wasn't hard watching her talk to an ex, of course.

That's what he surmised the overgrown Neanderthal had been to her; a boyfriend. A lover, and judging by the emotion in her eyes when they talked, a serious pursuit. One who probably used to be Buffy's everything, if she didn't still feel that way about the git.

Spike remained on his feet, still tense as an ironing board, not crashing to the ground in sickening pain only because she had told the tosser to hit the road. He saw it all, and thankfully, neither girl nor Captain Forehead saw him. Sadness glistened in Buffy's eyes and Spike felt that familiar, overwhelming urge to comfort, to make it stop, along with the desire to hurt the man who'd encouraged those tears.

Instead, he remained far away. Far from even developing a right to help. He refused to scare her, to hurt Buffy in any way, let alone get close.

Spike sighed, gritting his teeth. Bloody stupid heart. Could never focus on something attainable, could it? Always had to fall for the magical ones, the soft and sweet. Yet as unreachable as Buffy was, it had absolutely nothing to do with his feelings, this blood fueled, bone deep sensation that filled him to the brim. A desire to see her happy and joyful, alive with it, covered in it. To watch her and the things she did, the way she treated people, friends and young kids that sought her advice, watch her eyes brighten. Even if Spike could make his own dreams come true, even if it were doable, nothing would change.

He would still love her, a woman he barely knew but for the curve of her smile.
_____________________________

END NOTES: Please let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading. :)

Given the choice, Buffy didn't think she would have opened an antique shop.

Squeaky hinges spoke for attention as people ambled in, fanny packs and cameras as good as TOURIST labels on their bodies. "Hello," she chimed, and they responded in kind. "Let me know if I can help you with anything." The strangers nodded in unison and headed off to wander.

Buffy sighed, looking back down at her catalog spread over the glass countertop. As a storeowner, she couldn't really complain. People moved in, refurbished their new homes, but liked to stay inside the lines of old fashioned style. Travelers, particularly little old ladies, were partial to antiques. Men bought their wives anniversary gifts daily, it seemed. Cornfields unfortunately got mowed down and bought by developers, then before you knew it there were thirty identical houses all bunched together like some ugly rosebush. Their occupants also liked dining room sets circa 1940, despite the tedium of those 21st century homes.

There was always stuff to sell, and even more to buy in this business, and Buffy had grown to appreciate life's old treasures. However, she couldn't say this was the kind of store she herself would have founded seven years ago.

At age 20, Buffy was more concerned with whether she should switch her major and what to wear to the party next Friday night, than good business sense. She hardly even thought about that kitschy stuff her mom sold unless Buffy was working at the shop to earn some extra cash.

Then, things changed rather rapidly. Her mom had been sick months before it happened, almost a full year prior. No doctors warned them, nobody said it was a risk, yet somehow a brain aneurysm snuck in, killing her silently.

Buffy shivered. She still remembered that day like it was a telephone number or some weird dream she couldn't shake. Except these things didn't end when you woke up, and for weeks she tangled herself in sheets and cold sweats, a familiar dead body appearing inside her nightmares. The sound of cracking ribs echoing around when she tried to revive Joyce over and over again. It made Buffy feel crazy sometimes, and seven years later, she still couldn't think of her mom without pain leaking in.

A happy, bumpy song played softly overhead, pulling Buffy out from under the swamp-like recollections. The radio helped lend an air of tranquility to the store, always left on to speak before dark wood tables and gilded mirrors. Joyce Summers had loved antiques. She felt they were art in their own right, especially the desks and paintings, things that held emotions inside drawers and brushstrokes. It was up to Buffy to keep this beloved little shop alive after her mother passed away.

She could have sold, but she also... just couldn't. Rupert Giles, Buffy's cousin and retired high school librarian, had helped in the ways he could. He supported the decision to manage her mother's store, even worked with her and taught Buffy some rules of business. Moved her out of the dorms once she dropped classes, three or four round trips in his small car, stuffed to the ceiling with boxes and miniature household appliances.

It had been one full year since Giles moved back to England, and while she missed him dearly, Buffy knew he was happy. Besides, she could make it on her own. She'd been doing quite well so far, mental turnabouts and missing her mom asides.

Another creak of the door's hinges announced a new customer. *Really need to ask Xander to make that stop.* She looked up and found familiar eyes with heavy lashes staring at her, and Buffy smiled. "Hi, Penny."

The girl rushed to the counter. Her face was pink from the wind, and her brown hair fluffed in different directions for the same reason. Wringing her hands and carrying a large backpack that dropped unceremoniously from her shoulders to the floor, Buffy didn't need to ask whether the teenager was upset. "What's wrong?"

Penny set her arms on the glass top, and Buffy noticed tearstains streaking her cheeks for the first time. "It didn't work," she complained wetly.

The overwhelming sensation that told her she shouldn't have to ask this next question, made Buffy softly quest, "What didn't work?"

The girl's morose expression doubled in misery. "Paul! I asked him to the dance, just like you told me to, and he turned me down!"

Buffy's mouth fell open as she was immediately hit with disappointment and guilt. "Oh... Wh-When did you ask him?"

"Just now!" The girl cried. "After school." A sniffle of athletic proportions. Buffy handed over a tissue from the Kleenex box beside them.

Penny was one of many young adults who came by the store these days. Trading anecdotes and hopeful questions for Buffy's advice, sympathy, or just kind words the woman might be able to provide regarding any situation. The kids enjoyed her insight and found a place to dump their insecurities. Every one of them prayed for understanding to shine from someone else's eyes besides the mirror's; Buffy delivered, and did so happily.

In cases like this, things were less happy, and sometimes Buffy really hated being depended upon for A+ level words of wisdom. She had only ever been a C average student herself, but liked to think she did better in life than in school. However, no one was perfect, and sometimes she screwed up.

Penny's puffy blue eyes were just one reason Buffy's unwritten advice column came punctuated with an "I could be wrong" clause. Oftentimes she wasn't but that only made the days when she was, so much worse.

Buffy turned to get a can of pop out of the mini-fridge by her knee, the only thing under ten years old in this place asides from the computer. She pushed the cold drink against Penny's arm and asked, "Do you want to tell me what he said?"

"No!" the girl exclaimed.

Buffy waited, opening the cherry coke and letting it fizz through the quiet.

Another sniffle. "I talked to him as soon as I got out of class," Penny began. "He was at his locker, so I just walked up and- and asked him how he was, ya know? Just to start the conversation." Buffy nodded. "Th-Then, we like, talked and when I thought it was okay I asked him if he had a date to the dance next Saturday." Another nod from her avid listener. "And he said 'Yeah, I'm going with Angelina."

Buffy was silent, eyebrows slanting. "He-"

"Angelina!" she yelled. Inquisitive shoppers from the back of the store jumped, but soon went back to browsing as Buffy tried to convince Penny to stop crying.

"That wasn't him turning you down," she said sympathetically.

"Yes it was! What would you call a guy saying 'no' to being your date because he's going with somebody else?!"

Buffy swallowed her admittedly amused impatience. "I'd call it 'He already has a date.' Not him turning you down."

Penny rubbed her damp eyes and looked away, finally spotting the coke and taking a tentative sip. Wiping her lips on her sweater sleeve, she muttered, "It's not?"

Buffy couldn't hold back a smile. "No. He just had another..." *Don't say "girl."* "... commitment."

Thinking that over, calm restored itself quietly, then an abashed blush fell over Penny's smooth complexion. She looked up to Buffy hesitantly. "I didn't mean to freak out on you. S-Sorry."

A tiny snicker escaped, and at the narrowing of teenage eyes, Buffy quickly muffled it. "That's okay." The girl took another sip of her drink. "It's totally acceptable once in a while to flip out over a boy. Believe me."

Thoughts from a few days ago tried to rise to the surface, realizations she didn't want to focus on, and Buffy shoved them back down. Penny thankfully distracted her. "So, do you think if he wasn't going... with her, that he'd- he'd have said yes?"

"Yes." Buffy nodded pointedly. "And if he didn't, he's an idiot."

A smile, gaze brightening. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Her shoulders rolled back, and her hands quit clenching. Buffy saw that unrelenting teenage resolve kick in, the kind not every young person was equipped with, but Penny had in spades. She sniffled again, almost delicately this time, and reached for her discarded book bag lying on the ground. "How come you always know how to calm me down, but my own mom can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound like it just came right out of a Self Help book?"

Buffy's lips tightened. She threw a guarded glance at the wall. "She's trying. Trust me. She'll always be there for you." She bravely met those young blue eyes again. "No one cares as much as your mom does."

Frowning, Penny silently acknowledged her griping must have contained something idiotic, so after mentally filing away Buffy's quiet words, she wisely veered the subject in a different direction. The favored topic lately was boys. "Guys are stupid, right?"

Buffy smirked a bit, nudging her emotions back with a head bob. "Yeah, they can be."

"Incredibly stupid. Like, supercharged morons."

Laughter and a smile, not unnoticed by passersby looking through the windows. "I can totally agree with you on that." Unfortunately, heartache was often a two way street.

"I mean, Paul and Angelina? She's such a bit-" Penny froze, eyes wide. "I mean- She's just, she's mean. She's a stuck up cheerleader and total jerk, but he isn't. He's sweet, and funny... I just don't know what he sees in her."

Buffy rolled her eyes. Paul probably didn't see much above the plunge neckline of Angelina's cheer uniform. "He's a guy, and a teenager. He's... got some growing up to do."

Penny whined. "I'm a teenager."

"You're a girl, though. We're better."

"True." The young lady grumbled under her breath, tracing invisible designs on her coke can. "Why can't some handsome stranger just fall in love with me like in the movies?"

Buffy scowled. "Hey." Penny's head lifted. "The right man will come along, and he doesn't have to be your high school sweetheart. Life isn't all about finding some mysterious, seemingly perfect guy to whisk you off your feet. Don't wait for him, and he'll come around."

She seemed to listen, and fortunately, Buffy wasn't blindsided by the pendulum swing. Her "perfect" man had recently tried to live up to the fantasy, grant those wishes she used to make. Well, turns out the whole thing wasn't so perfect after all; she was still getting used to that.

Buffy cleared her throat and focused again. "Besides, sometimes what a girl really needs is a treat to make her feel better, and no boy will ever compare to chocolate-y baked goods." She gave Penny one of the twenty or so coupons lying on a glass tray near the register. "Show this to Madeline, and she'll cut you a free slice of cake."

Penny grinned, staring at the Nothin' Beats Sweets bakery logo in her hands before hopping away from the counter. "Thanks! Cake sounds good. Oh! Or maybe a cookie."

"Or a cookie," Buffy agreed with a nod. "Just make sure it has chocolate in it," she spoke sternly.

The mock gravity made Penny laugh. Her smile softened after she stared for a moment. Blonde hair, a face that made the men in town stop and notice, gentle heart, patience... If the conversation hadn't been so focused on dating, if Paul hadn't already found a girl to take to the dance, Penny wouldn't have said what she did next.

The courage in her own voice made her stand taller, and the earlier boy-related letdown felt sort of worthwhile now. "Buffy? This might sound..." She shook the nerves away. "I know you're going to find a great guy someday. Someone who's nice, and not a supercharged moron."

These words preceded Penny's happy exit. Standing there like a misty statue all of a sudden, Buffy watched the girl say thank you for the pop before leaving with an over the shoulder goodbye.

When the squeaking door closed, it nearly made her jump.

A weepy teenager found the way to draw emotions from the grown woman, and make her weep instead. Though it hadn't been Penny's objective, Buffy was left to plop into a chair she kept behind the counter and think. Think about hearts, and past boyfriends, but mostly loss. Things you missed out on when you were pining after someone special, someone believed to be your true love. Someone who always remained this wonderful possibility, a future unwritten, and then when you finally had them, felt them real and secure in your arms, they were short of what you needed.

Thinking about lost time was daunting. Remembering things, plans that were shortened or cut off, ideas and dreams, girlish hopes she'd had when she was ten. The thoughts came and came and played out like a disjointed movie, someone's sad story that ended with a twenty-something year old finally waking up.

She may have loved Angel, and fallen for him hard a long time ago, but it was now Buffy felt like she was just hitting the ground.

Customers from earlier approached with some dusty wineglasses and a picture frame. Buffy rung them up without thinking. She barely mumbled a word as the chatter continued on behind her. She wrapped their glasses individually with paper, then put everything in a box. The strangers said thank you and goodbye but she didn't pay attention, following them only to pull the blinds over the windows.

Buffy flipped the lock on the door. Her hip pressed into the counter, elbows poised on the solid surface as she let her face rest in open hands. The slow, timid beat of a Goo Goo Dolls song filled the silence, and in the temporarily secluded Antique shop, she let herself be weak. Fears and disappointments, her own misconceptions, all built in secret over time then leveled within days, like a wrecking ball demolishes a skyscraper.

Evidently, people outgrew many things. They even outgrew each other, and so as lonely acceptance poured the foundation for a brand new start, Buffy wept her regret onto a tray of coupons.

***

Spike ran a hand through his curls, sighing anxiously. He shut the book in his lap, the one he'd barely been reading, a cover for his snooping. She had pulled the blinds. She never did that before closing time and it was only four o'clock; Buffy wouldn't leave until six.

The plush chair squeaked beneath him as Spike sat up, scowling out the window. Clouds were gathering overhead, thick as castor oil and promising a storm. The blinds might be closed to block out the dreary weather, but she had never done it before. Those big store windows provided good advertising of the interior, showcasing expensive antiques.

Buffy tugged the shade over the entrance door pane, and Spike's heart skipped in his chest. Something wasn't right. Was she closing early then? The lights still appeared to be on, and he hadn't seen anyone else walk in besides that brunette kid and the group of four; the latter came out with a box of what he assumed to be delicate things. The girl carried only what she rushed in with, plus a can of pop. Nothing unusual there. Teenager one of the umpteenth many who requested Buffy's time on a daily basis.

Unsure of what to do, Spike got up, found a shelf and hastily shoved his book back into place. He grabbed his favored leather coat and threw it on, moving like a flying crow to the exit.

When he stood brazenly outside the library, frozen still, Spike's fingers clenched into anxious fists at his sides. Feet stalled with toes pointed in a deadly direction. Every instinct screamed "Go to her!" but he knew he couldn't heed them. Want was doused by fear and trepidation, possibly a bit of self loathing, even an insecurity or twelve. It didn't matter; he couldn't stroll through that door.

The neutral store title, written in cursive style, glowed against a blackening sky. White backdrop, brown and gold letters spelling out Antiques, an unoriginal name to stand out amongst the otherwise goofy array of stores. Tourists loved cheesy, Buffy never bought into it.

From what Spike knew, she was alone. Oh sure, she had friends, but her only blood relation- a mother -passed away about seven years ago. Left Buffy the store, and fortunately for her, this town was a tourist trap. Spike figured it had something to do with the proximity to the capital. Didn't bother him, and if they helped support Buffy's business then the more the merrier.

He eyed those windows again. Bloody irritating, not being able to see inside, check on her and try to figure why the shades had been pulled. He was in plain sight now, and people were beginning to notice the man donning black leather fixed in place like a lamppost.

He started jiggling his leg. Damn it. Buffy hardly ever broke from routine when it came to her shop. Why was she blocking herself in? Was she okay? Why didn't he have X-ray vision?

Suddenly, now about five minutes into his inner meltdown, the door window cleared. A sigh built up in his lungs and then released like an untied balloon when the rest of the shades rose, one gentle pull at a time.

His heart returned to its normal beat, and Spike smiled gently. The air became redolent, thunder following the damp scent of rain. He didn't spare a glance to the heavy sky, but fixed his attention where it landed naturally, unthinkingly. People rushed around like flying pin balls, heading for cover in cars and shops, the restaurant across the street filled up quickly.

Buffy shifted her gaze to the clouds, looking high above him and building rooftops. Her face was easy to read, an expression that portrayed the thought maybe she shouldn't have reopened the blinds after all.

When it stormed, his girl occasionally left to grab a sweet from the bakery down the block, but she always returned and merely locked the front door rather than turn out the lights and shut down. It didn't mean she enjoyed watching the rain fall, but sometimes Spike thought she did. It was a tossup. Buffy never closed herself off from the doom and gloom, but only sometimes would she embrace it with a smile. He really thought it all depended on her mood.

Suddenly, a wave crashed into him, and the ocean held nothing on this feeling. Her eyes lowered, and in the gentle chaos of running pedestrians she spotted his unmoving form. Like a blanket torn away, suddenly wracked with cold, Spike's entire body tensed. Buffy stared as he was blatantly staring at her, before frowning and tilting her blonde head. He tried not to let fear become a showcase, but he could barely manage a smile and soon found turning towards the ground was safer than this.

He heaved great, trembling breaths into his mouth. The memory of reading about panic attacks surfaced, but he merely swallowed a gulp as thick as dry cake, choking on nerves before walking down the street. He was afraid to turn back, to meet her eyes for the second time and lose himself in undiluted hysteria. She couldn't see him. Couldn't know him ever, or look at him now.

No matter how much he wished she could.

***

*Okay, weird,* Buffy surmised. A strange guy she was positive she had never met before, dressed a lot like Billy Idol, and looking into her shop the same way she'd seen hawks gaze at grassy fields was enough to cure any girl of the blues. Or, at least, send them packing and off to wait in a nice dark corner before she tossed them away for good.

That was her conclusion, in her solitude of dusty furniture and shadows, no more locking herself up like a princess in a tower, lest she wanted to remain that way forever. Crowns were nice but hardly worth an empty heart.

She faced a pretty big emotional somersault recently, and it was better sometimes, to be alone in the dark with your tears. A little, anyway. Everyone liked having shoulders to cry on, but once in a while you needed the peace an empty old store could provide.

But the shades were lifted now, windows open to a big black sky and one strange figure dressed to match. He pushed her inner resolves and plans to the wall, and made way for curiosity to pique. Buffy studied him much harder than she ever had any book, but just as she decided that face was brand new, as well as handsome, he turned away.

Bolting down the street like a kid caught trying to steal a packet of gum, the man with bleached white hair and a long flapping coat quickly outdistanced the window frame. Buffy moved to watch him continue on his way, and was baffled when he went on like a bullet, straight down the sidewalk. Big boots created large gaps of space and before she knew it, he was gone.

Buffy rubbed the back of her neck and scowled at the floor. Odd guy. He had to be a stranger. A person that much in love with the 80's stuck out like a sore thumb around here, not including the occasional fashion challenged farmhands she ran into; they were usually partial to high neck sweaters and plaid rather than leather dusters.

She totally would have noticed this man before, but had never seen him until this very moment.

Then again, he seemed to know exactly where he was headed, and not many people hung around long enough in this town to figure out all the crossroads and dead end avenues. Maybe he was just going to where he parked his car.

She wondered who he was. She also wondered why he had been so fixated on her store window. Buffy thought little old ladies were the only people to stare like that, covetously, as if there was treasure just beyond the glass; the man in leather ogled like he'd already found it.

Buffy scowled, deciding she was thinking too much about this. The route distracted from inner monologues and emotional developments.

Then again, maybe that was a good thing. Dwelling was not one of her favorite pastimes, especially nowadays.

As a matter of fact, Buffy hated dwelling almost as much as she hated expensive shoes with heels that broke on the third or fourth wear. She was much more open to living on a budget and buying secondhand; plus, absently thinking about strangers beat endless rumination any day. So, she wondered a bit more, daydreamed even.

He might stroll into the store one day, if mystery man was in fact a local, and what might he say? "How are you?" "I always wondered what the inside of this place looked like," or, "Would you like to go out to dinner?"

Buffy balked in her own head. Where had that come from?

All right, maybe this wasn't such a good idea, letting the mind go off to play without a leash. It just goes to show what ten years of timid hoping and a punctuating revelation will do to a girl. She was leaning against a rain pattered window, daydreaming about some man she didn't even know. Nutty much?

*Why?* Buffy asked herself, *You've allowed dreams to grow and die over a decade, there's no shame in finally opening the door to someone new. Especially a fictional someone, who is probably leaving town as you dwell and process a crazy dissection of your own brain.*

That inner voice of logic encouraged her earlier musings, the female reasoning which sounded an awful lot like self preservation. Buffy tentatively reached out to her imagination. Sure enough, there were plenty of trails to explore, most of them very new, and now accompanied by a mystery man in leather.

***

Two mailboxes, a good sized tree, and a parked motorcycle were things that nearly kissed the front of his car on the drive home. The chaotic, crazy person drive home. Spike wasn’t proud to say the least.

He’d seen her, which was the norm, but she saw him back. The shock had been as jarring as your reflection blinking on its own. Spike couldn’t say that he had recovered either; consult road rookie moments one, two, and three.

With minimal idiocy, he managed to park in his driveway. Getting out of the car, amazingly graceful for the way his body was shaking, he tried unsuccessfully to forget her face. He never could, of course, but Buffy looking at him was a new occurrence. It was something he fought hard to prevent, and until now, Spike had been wildly successful.

Christ, one slip up and he was probably on the way to screwing himself over ten different ways before the week was done. Remembering Buffy's eyes, the way they latched onto him, all lack of disgust on her face in trade for curiosity; it made him damn fidgety. And Spike wasn’t a hopeful person, but he could have sworn he felt her watching him the whole way down the street. It was a hard memory to shift aside and bury.

If it was in fact a memory, and not some pathetic wishful thinking on his part, which was honestly more likely. Scrounging up the necessary courage to turn his head and check was impossible. Didn’t rightly matter, Spike figured. He trudged into the house on wobbly knees.

Plush red carpet and an empty, wood paneled foyer greeted him as always, tired silence permeating his skin. Such quiet grew bland after a while, but remained a judgeless houseguest.

Heading for the stairs, running up creaky carpeted steps one by one, Spike pounded to the second floor. A thin layer of dust coated tables and ottomans, sheet draped furniture lined the hallway like faceless soldiers. At the end stood the door to his bedroom. He shoved it open, then slammed it closed.

He dropped into his favorite chair by the only window, comfy and regal in style, a cushioned seat beneath the sill. Dark burgundy fabric depressed under his weight, and a pale hand found the solid wooden arm while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind closed eyes and worry lines, thoughts unraveled, playing a depressing tune that would never cease to amaze with its frequency.

He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from watching her. Spike had tried before, many times, all unsuccessful designs to encourage distance. He went cold turkey, tried weaning himself off her like a bad habit, and busied himself with projects. Unfortunately, similar to his beloved cigarettes, Spike always came out of the discipline attempts frustrated, covered in metaphorical patches, and frantic for a fix.

It didn’t take long to figure out what the problem was; he was in love. Spike denied it to himself for as long as possible, but never could get out from under it.

Eventually, the shoddy poet and roughened punk kneeled in supplication. Spike never had a thought to giving her up once he gave in.

He couldn’t actually say he had her, though, now could he? Months of watching did not a relationship make, not any kind. Hopelessly devoted, getting by each day with a woman as his sun and moon, Spike was not the man he had been.

He was better.

Years and years ago, he’d grown up in a near vacant town in England until he reached the age of twelve. Teased and ridiculed by everyone his age and older, Spike had been only too happy to move after his mother asked how he might feel about travelling to America. They took up residence with his aunt, but things weren’t as different as he hoped across the pond.

From one rural home to the next, Spike experienced another kind of torture; the new was almost worse than the old. He wasn’t picked on, wasn’t beaten up twice a week for being a sniveling baby, nor was he called out for writing admittedly awful poetry. No, in America, Spike experienced a different sort of cruelty for being an outsider. He was ignored.

Mutely observant from that point on, the only people who cared about him his mum and frail Aunt Beth, William Pratt watched this tiny Wisconsin town develop and change, while he hardened. The people he went to school with shed their youth like the houses and cornfields, but no one ever truly aged. Most of them left, and those who didn’t faded into the background.

William was one of those few. As a nerdy young boy, somehow only more pathetic once high school came along, he made hardly any connections as the years passed. One serious girlfriend to speak of who'd given him a new title, and a thousand or two nameless bedmates, he never felt about any of them the way he felt about Buffy. Which was certifiably insane, he realized, but Spike had never kidded himself by saying he was normal. He knew he wasn’t.

Holding on was a talent of his, though, no matter how destructive or pointless. The heart wasn’t exactly a reasonable thing, and Spike’s always craved the impossible. Wished his mother was still alive, wished he could find peace in something more than a bottle, wished for the love of a woman he would never have and didn’t rightly deserve. She needed someone special, a man good enough for her, more stable, less hateful towards the world in general. Someone bright, and decent, and devoted.

He may choose Buffy every time, but that’s all he had for her. Devotion. She still deserved more than him.

Spike sighed heavily, jaw an iron clench while he stared out the rainy window. This time, she had seen him, didn’t look straight through, didn’t glance and turn away, but examined his whole frame. Like a bird watcher, like he was an interesting piece of art or a good film, those extraordinary eyes fixed and gave Spike a few seconds of attention he would never forget.

It was strange, but even now he felt that undeniable urge to find her, to actually walk up to Buffy and say something. This desire was easily flattened beneath fear, and the obvious point that such ideas were ludicrous and idiotic. He could never be with her the way he wanted, and trying to get close would prove lamely treacherous. It would merely help solidify every single reason why Spike already knew he couldn't touch her.

And yet, like a candle flame fighting for its life, or a cement handprint struggling not to fade under footsteps, the man hoped.
_________________

END NOTES: Thanks for reading! Reviews are super, super appreciated and welcome! :D

"No Giles, you don't have to do that. Really. He's gone. Totally gone now."

Buffy was currently speaking to her surrogate father/actual cousin Rupert Giles. Long distance calls were never a concern, but at the moment, she was almost considering using the phone bill as an excuse to cut this conversation short.

She loved Giles. Really, she did, but his instincts occasionally got him into trouble. It wasn't always with the law or one of her boyfriends, either; sometimes it was with Buffy herself, and she hated being on the outs with him because he'd done something stupid or hurtful in the name of protecting her.

Buffy held the phone inches away from her ear. That familiar British accent groaned like whining couch springs. "The prat! Deserves a good kick in the arse-" he growled, "Perhaps a negative word with his prestigious boss in L.A. would teach him when to bugger off. Anything you'd like me to do and I'll do it straight away, Buffy, you need only say the word-"

"I don't want you to do anything!" she threw in for the fifth time.

Silence a moment, then, "I can always ring Ethan."

Buffy sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. "No Giles. Angel is long gone, and there's no need to torture him."

"He needs quite a bit of torture, if you ask me!" He yelled, then continued in a descending mutter. "Dodgy little wanker..."

"You know, you get more British sounding the longer you're over there," Buffy pointed out.

A long time had passed since Giles rallied behind Angel's good graces. The day her ex left for California was the day Giles started keeping his negative opinions to himself for Buffy's sake alone. Mostly to himself. There was never again a quest for Giles' opinions, that was for certain.

When Angel flew in to check out Buffy's new boyfriend one year later, hatred couldn't have been thicker, or Giles' disdain more vocal. When Angel sent letters in the mail, and if Buffy happened to leave one lying around, Giles made faces like he was trying not to breathe through his nose in place of giving her a lecture. The few times Angel contacted her cousin to ask about her, Buffy's ex heard the sound of a dial tone faster than he could get his questions out. There were a hundred reasons why he was far from number one on her friends' and family's "Favorite People" lists; Giles probably hadn't even taken the time to write his name down.

Angel's constant presence in Buffy's life without actually being present was a large source of such hostility. He strung her along and Buffy let him. It wasn't as if this was a one way street, but Giles still hated the guy. Reporting the latest incident concerning her ex boyfriend probably wasn't conducive to managing Giles' blood pressure levels, but Buffy thought she should tell him. He'd want to know she was finally letting go.

His support would also be considerable. It might help Buffy truly understand her own decisions, though the need to do so was dwindling. She was definitely receiving a pat on the back for her choices, including vehement desire to enact revenge on her behalf, payment for Angel's supposed "gall and utter arrogance," which was making her a tad nervous.

She always knew Giles had a dark side, it just never appeared so evident before.

"Buffy," he sighed, after calming down some, "if he so much as calls you again, please tell me you will not give the pillock the time of day."

Frowning at his straightforwardness, and confusing British lingo, the woman nodded. "I won't. Told you, Giles, I'm... I'm done."

"Yes, well..." He sighed. Many unspoken concerns hid within that weary exhale. It may be the first time Buffy had really come out and voiced such a radical final decision, but Angel was a part of the girl's history, and Giles was only too aware of how hard it could be to turn away from one's past. "Good," he said, voice clear-cut. "You deserve someone better, Buffy. Honestly, the self importance that tosser exhibits in enough to shame a cock."

She snorted. "I take it you mean a 'rooster.'" God, she hoped so.

A nervous stutter. "U-Um, yes. Quite right. I do apologize." Stuffy eloquence was seeping back into place, and for once, she was grateful. "It seems my temper ran away from me there for a moment, didn't it?"

"Schyeah." Buffy smiled pointedly, even if he couldn't see her. Rolling green eyes landed on the window frame, and Giles tried to change the subject, reasserting questions as to find out how she was faring. But her thoughts shifted unconsciously. Tuning out sound, she titled her head with an unconscious frown, spotting a shape in the distance.

Walking closer, Buffy stood beside her sleeping cat, draped lazily across the windowsill. "Yeah, I'm really okay, Giles," she replied absently. The view consisted of leafy trees just beginning their annual fade to red and gold, a portrait of color outlined by her mother's floral curtains and wooden lines. A lily filled pond surrounded by hopping frogs and green cattails, the small red mailbox, and gravel driveway poking into the wild lawn of flowers, weeds, and tall grasses. Her home was amidst forest and fields, and off in the distance, wedged between trees lining the road, there stood a shadow.

It was the size of a man, and the more she stared, the more Buffy thought that's exactly what she was seeing. A man, wearing all black and feet treading circles.

She squinted. A man and... his car. He was pacing beside a car, and none too happy about the situation, from what she could tell. "Uh, Giles? I gotta call you back."

He said something in return, but she missed it. Buffy promptly winced when the man in the distance hauled back to deliver a kick to his automobile. She wished she could tell the make and model, but Buffy was hardly a car aficionado. Didn't matter, the only discernible qualities were dark color, boxy shape, and apparent angering abilities.

"What?" Buffy shook her head, looking away. "What did you say, Giles?"

He sighed as if talking with forced patience to a child. "I asked if there was anything wrong?"

"Oh! No, nothing." She peeked out the window again. "Just gotta get going. Stuff to mark off that to do list, ya know. I'll call you later."

"All right. Remember, Buffy, if you want to talk, or need anything at all-"

"I know where to reach you. Thanks, Giles." She smiled. "Talk to you soon!" The phone clinked into place when she hung it on the wall. Buffy quickly slid back to the window, eyes fixed.

It was too much curiosity and too few explanations that urged her out of the house. Nobody had reason to travel down that road unless their goal was to pay her a visit. Joyce had always enjoyed the seclusion. Still living within town limits, but people needed to search in order to find you.

Neighbors weren't close enough to be called neighbors. Buffy could easily recognize each and every car that ambled down her driveway for one reason or another. People rarely made wrong turns on clearly labeled Dead End roads, so she couldn't guess why there was suddenly a stranger pacing around out here.

He was behind a row of tall pines and maples that separated property, many yards ahead of the house. She threw on a pair of tall clunky boots and a denim jacket, absently grabbing keys and cell phone on her way out.

"No, no, get inside. Stay." Nudging Tabitha back with her foot, Buffy shut the door and strolled down her porch steps. A familiar protest grew in sound, muffled behind the window glass as a feline meowed insistent complaints, and Buffy shook her head at the notion of telling a cat to 'stay.' Tabitha had never let go of her grudge for being relegated an Indoor Pet.

Meowing ceased eventually. Buffy walked through short green grass and violets, burrs and thistle which grew closer to the road. The man's arms were lying at his sides, punctuated by fists. Buffy moved faster and took a deep breath when she noticed his white blonde hair, and the long dark coat. Distance eaten up by her strides, it was only a matter of seconds before she found herself face to face with the mystery man from just a couple days ago...

***

The bloody buggering car wouldn't start.

Here he was, stupid, stupid pathetic git, failing miserably in the element of living, watching her house again. Only two days after she had seen him. Was he surprised? Oh, hardly. That was the kicker.

Spike tried keeping his distance, tried damn hard, but as usual, his efforts were weak compared to his yearnings. Like a bloody glue trap, or something akin to that overused metaphor about the moth and the flame. He just couldn't do it. Couldn't stay back and remain home, keep busy at work without thinking of Buffy. Pencils found their way into his palms until he was scribbling art and poems down on the nearest scraps of paper. The dreams slipped him up every time, whether they be dirty, heartfelt, or just plain painful. Spike couldn't forget her, and it pained him to remain distant as a safety measure, even if the closest he'd ever come was spying like this.

Savoring every glimpse, taking in flashes as she walked back and forth, passing windows. It was worth it, each bittersweet second. Worth the chances he took, tagged with that possibility of getting caught.

Unfortunately, now his fucking car wouldn't start!

Spike unleashed his frustrations in the form of a kick to the already dented backdoor. Christ, he couldn't catch even a minute of a break. Normally, he parked far down the road, in shadows or a clearing buried within the forest that thickened and thinned all around this area. Today, he finally broke. He had work in an hour, but Spike needed to see her. Needed it like a bad nicotine fix or some kind of junk food he hadn't allowed himself to taste. Like a boxer needs his gloves and a moon needs the stars to help alight everything in the blackness. He just needed to see her.

That was where the problems began. Today, anyhow. He rushed down this one destination road and settled in the first place that would abide a swerving park job, as close as he could, without being noticed. He'd hopped out and behind a tree, finding her body immediately, standing against a candy colored backdrop as the sun set. Her hair glowed golden, and all he saw was her back until she went in, then it was her profile. A corner of a smile. Widening eyes while she spoke on the phone to someone nameless. Each and every shadow that bounced over Buffy's frame was his, and Spike's heart filled with contentment from the mere admittance to see them.

Admittance he hadn't been given. Shoulders fell, and Spike continued to stare at his temperamental hunk of auto parts. He was starting to feel guilty about that, but the reality was simple: He couldn't help himself. He loved Buffy, and there was no way of letting go, even if he wanted to.

Keys jingled in his coat pocket, the sound rankling his nerves back to irritated. He never should have shut off the engine, but a running car was not a good way to remain hidden. Of course, if he'd simply parked the bloody thing down the road, it could have sat idling. Not that he would have left it running, of course, but-

Footsteps. Soft, crushing dry sticks. They alerted him, then the hairs on his nape rose. The quiet descent of an anvil surely would render him out cold in any moment, but nothing plummeted downward or hit his head. Soon, Spike's shoulders had risen to cage his neck.

Her voice, questioning and gentle to him, ran down his spine, across his lungs until they stopped working. He had heard Buffy's voice before, on occasion, but never addressing him. Never so clear, so close.

It was no surprise he loved it, just like the rest of her.

Clothing rustled, feet paused behind him. "Hi. You having car trouble?"

A response wouldn't come, stuck in his throat like sour gumballs when Spike opened his mouth to, presumably, speak. Hot breaths sped out instead, shaking, turning cold as his lungs fought to steady themselves. His knees refused to follow suit.

*Good job, ya wanker. Keep makin' like a bloody mime.* Spike hastened to rail against himself. He didn't want to talk, didn't have the courage to say a single word. He didn't know how to talk to many people. Perhaps just one living person now that his mum wasn't around, and she was as unstable as a rocking chair without nine out of ten necessary screws. Took the pressure off. The others didn't count. He spoke a few lines, flashed a couple grins, then had them in bed with their legs high around his waist. Barely even remembered their names, or voiced more than he had to.

No, Spike wasn't sure how to properly execute ordinary vocal communication or hold conversations, and he wasn't used to hiding his emotions, either. Talking was difficult enough.

With her... Christ, he could only imagine. But he knew acting like a scarecrow, not even whispering a hello, would surely unsettle Buffy just as much as if he tripped over his untried tongue.

He was so terrified of messing everything up. Sighing without sound, Spike let his eyelids fall. He turned very timidly around.

Gazes clashed like cymbals, a powerful clap running through them- Through Spike, at least. He couldn't say she felt it, too, though the muscle beating all his blood through his system hoped.

Always hoping, and always looked through. Buffy didn't look through him. She found his face while a heavy tremor began to take root inside his ribs, and he couldn't have guessed she'd do that. This was the second time she saw him. Really saw him, and Spike felt his fingers trembling. He knew her face, could draw every line and curve of it from unhindered memories, yet he had never once been this close, or this shocked, in all his life.

His heart kicked and shuddered, working overtime. An anxious cough rose but he pushed it back down, swallowing hard. Her green eyes blinked and she looked as if she expected him to speak; when he didn't, Buffy tried again. "I'm guessing your car broke down."

Miraculously, he managed a nod. It was jerky and hesitant but sufficed to answer.

Buffy squinted. She was trying to figure this guy out. Logically, her guard was up. Approaching a stranger in a fairly deserted area, a handsome stranger wearing all black, no less, and probably in need of a tow truck, all summed up to one bad beginning of a horror movie or crime television show. However, Buffy wasn't getting bad vibes here, and once she realized who he was, there was no maintaining distance.

Only days ago she spotted him across a rain drenched street, and he stared like a hungry wolf then. Now, he was nearly doing it again, but she was the object of his attention; not a desk or a couch or any number of things you could predict resided in an antique shop. Buffy felt a shiver curl around her jacketed shoulders, and surprisingly, it wasn't unpleasant.

She uncrossed her arms, examining him from boots to scalp again. Doc Martens, bleached head of hair, scar slashing through one dark eyebrow, guy-liner, and a black leather duster. The whole combination should have screamed Punk Reject from the 80's, like she had originally thought two days before. It appeared not all things were so easily established.

Every inch of him was right in front of her, vivid in comparison to earlier vantage points, and if you asked Buffy the middle so did not match the outline.

The man wore all black all over, sure, but this was really the extent to his wardrobe's "bad attitude" mark. Dress slacks hung from a belt with a silver buckle. They were neat and unwrinkled, but a little too big for him. His shirt was an equally ill-fitting button up, plain and faded, unblemished but for a sprinkle of cigarette ash. "Um..." Buffy gestured to his chest, indicating the gray splash of untidiness. "You have, uh- On your shirt."

*Well, that was eloquent,* she thought silently. Diminishing the self mocking eye roll to a blink, Buffy soon found she had no reason to worry, as the stranger looked to where she'd pointed and brushed wildly at the cigarette remains. His eyes shot back up in what she could only describe as near panic, like he was two seconds away from turning to dust at her hand for committing some terrible crime.

She dropped her arm. Amusement suddenly crept onto her lips like a vine, and Buffy smiled.

She smiled.

No mockery, no sigh of disdain. No laughter either, though it looked as if she wanted to giggle without scorn. Seemed a mite confused, too, but Spike was carried away for just a moment. One warm second, his insecurity turned to a ghost, and he stared carelessly ahead. Within those mossy green eyes, the courage to speak arose. "S-Sorry. Wasn'- Um. Wasn' payin' attention I s'pose."

Her whole chest felt like it lurched. Accent, British. Never seen him around before. He must have just moved here. Had to be a newcomer. It would explain a mistaken turn down her dead end road, too, and so much else. His awkward behavior? Probably shy. Her suddenly pop-bubble filled stomach? Well, maybe not everything could be blamed on a New Neighbor label. "Don't be sorry," Buffy said, shrugging her own nerves off but hiding it. "Bad habit, though."

Spike nodded jerkily again. His hands felt clammy. Damn. "Right."

"So..." she hedged, face open and waiting, "are you new in town?"

"Oh. No." *Lovely. I've gone monosyllabic.*

"Oh," she returned. So he wasn't new. Just... odd. "I thought maybe that's why you turned on my road." He looked away, head ducked and fingers scratching at his nape. *Definitely shy.* "It's okay. It's not even mine, really, I guess. It just leads to my house, and nowhere else. Sometimes if you're new to the area people miss the sign," she explained.

The stranger nodded without even glancing up. A worry frown settled. Eyes falling to the vintage, shabby car only paces away, Buffy asked, "Think you should call a tow truck?"

He shook his hanging head. Looking in the same direction, then finally back at her, Buffy noticed his Adam's apple jump. "Just needs a mo' to cool down, then it should- should be fine."

Along with shy, Buffy decided he was also completely adorable. His warm blue eyes, the color of clear lake water, shined under thick lashes and over dark smudges. She had never actually met a man who wore makeup, it was a bit different, but definitely worked for him.

Tucking her hand into her coat pocket, shaping grip around her cell phone, Buffy said, "Is there someone you can call?"

He shrugged his tight shoulders, expression fixed, and locked. He was staring boldly again. Somehow, she didn't find it unsettling. "Don' need to call anyone," he said. "Already been cooling off for a few minutes now, should revive soon 'nough."

That was true. Too bad he couldn't say the same about himself, but Spike knew what the DeSoto's problem was; vapor lock. His car's fuel line likely needed some work done, but right now there was no help for it except to let the bloody thing cool off. In short, he was stuck here, because he should really take better care of his work-in-progress ride and actually work on its mechanics.

Buffy nodded slowly, and he noticed her other hand fall into her jacket pocket. Her arms winged her body on both sides. She shrugged delicately. "Not really car-girl here, but when engines overheat, don't they usually need water, or coolant or something?"

He smiled charmingly, crookedly, and she blinked. *That smile should be brighter. More assured,* Buffy decided. Then he was talking again, quietly as if they were in a library. "S'not that. Not really."

"Huh?"

Spike smiled again, this time not capping it. She was too lovely. His heart was still beating a mile a minute, and his hands were as wet as ice, but the woman of his dreams- literally -was here talking to him, talking with him; nothing could be better or more nerve-racking. "S'called vapor lock. Doesn' happen in newer cars, usually, but mine's... not exactly new."

There, that was a full description of his problem. The problem which with each passing moment was turning into a blessing, despite every self preserving instinct that was screaming at him to run.

He should be on the way out, getting away from her before she realized what he did, who he was. How he had found her and then watched like a hawk for two years.

It was those two years of yearning and stupid, unsanctioned hope born from wishful thinking that made Spike stay right where he was. He anxiously tapped one foot against the ground, reaching into his duster pocket for lighter and smokes as if on autopilot.

Buffy watched as he plucked, lit, and took a long inhale on prepackaged nicotine. He dropped his Zippo from shaking hands, and Buffy heard the curse as he fumbled to one knee. Grabbing it, and glancing up with pale cheeks just beginning to turn pink. She smiled at him, and not because she meant to, but he was almost too darn adorable to deal with.

Maybe it was stupid, and maybe it was reckless, unsafe, naive, but she couldn't seem to ignore his unwitting charm. And that's definitely what she believed it to be, a man completely unaware of how endearing he could be. She took a risk. "How long do you think you need to wait?"

Spike stood up, his jaw tight. *Stupid, clumsy... Ever use your hands before, moron?* Her words registered, and he shook his head to clear away some of the inner putdowns. "How's that?"

"The car." She gestured to the machine in question. "Are you going to be stuck out here for a long time? It's getting dark."

Spike threw a glance to the sky. Sure enough, yellows and reds were bleeding into indigo and violet. The shine had dimmed, golden light falling away so stars and blackness could overtake. He cleared his tight throat. "Not much longer. Be fine."

She chewed on her lower lip, too busy contemplating her next words to notice his eyes zero in on her nervous habit. His nostrils flared like a lion's, heartbeat racing and mind bellowing at him to just walk home. It all died down to whispers, then eventually tumbled into silence, when Buffy focused on him again and suggested, "Why don't you come inside while you wait."

Spike gulped noisily, sure he would wake up any second now.

***

He trailed behind her like a lost puppy, like a young man going to the gallows, like the saddest human being on earth finally discovering salvation.

It was the worst contradiction. Somehow, Spike's stomach had tied itself into knots on the short walk to Buffy's front porch. His lungs were constricted by a heaving rib cage. His tongue felt heavy. This couldn't be real. He couldn't control anything, so it was like Spike handed over the reins.

He hadn't known what to say after the initial invitation. Buffy's home, the place she slept and ate and lived, was always off limits to him. Sure, Spike imagined it, and knew every corner of the front, back and sides. Knew which bedroom was hers. He similarly knew he'd never step foot inside.

On second thought, he knew what to say to the invitation, but a flat out refusal was hard to issue to the woman you loved. The woman you were certain would remain the heart of dreams and hopeless hopes. The woman you could find happiness with by simply watching her go through a daily routine. A woman like Buffy.

Following many pulse jumps and a couple fish-mouth moments, she had only smiled at him again, and that sealed his fate. Spike nodded and said, "Thank you," before his mind could catch up.

It was catching up now, and thoughts were running into the walls of his skull.

"I hope you're not allergic to cats," Buffy said as she opened the door.

Spike was saved from using dry lips to ask what she meant when a furry creature no taller than his shin came running out of the house. It meowed loudly and trained focus on him. Buffy muttered something about cats being worse than kids, and scooped her up in a one arm hold.

Spike hesitantly followed. Buffy shut the large wooden door behind them. "This is Tabitha."

He tilted his head and watched the tiny animal squirm in Buffy's arms before settling, leaning up to lick her owner's chin. Spike smirked, remembering now. He knew his girl had a cat, but in the space of recent heart-stopping minutes, he had forgotten.

Tabitha hopped onto the floor like an acrobat. She made a beeline for the man in the house and started to rub against his leg, meowing for attention, and staring up with beseeching yellow eyes.

"She does that sometimes," Buffy said, filling the silence. She had long ago realized her feline was a girly girl. Cuddly, especially when it came to males. Every time a man entered the house, she was on him quicker than squirrels on peanut butter, and while Buffy found it amusing, guests didn't always agree.

This man, however, seemed unbothered by Tabitha's vocal appreciation and incessant nuzzling. "She likes you, and probably won't stop doing that as long as you're in her sight," Buffy joked. "Do you want me to put her in another room?"

Spike just shook his head.

"You're sure?"

Tabitha jumped into his arms, and Spike used a cautious hand to stroke her back while the other held her weight. Immediately, loud purring could be heard.

Buffy smiled, her heart enjoying the sight. Something welcoming, despite his shy behavior, resonated from William like quiet music, and it called out to her. She didn't exactly know why, but you couldn't blame a girl for being curious, right? Buffy was starting to realize that. "Have a seat," she said.

Spike almost jumped. He looked around and found several places to rest. He also found he was frozen in place. A stool, a few wooden chairs outlining a small kitchen table, a blue couch with throw blankets and pillows. He could even go for that desk in the corner, but it looked old and expensive.

He tried to focus on the soft fur beneath his fingertips. Buffy's home. She had welcomed him inside, told him to have a seat. Fuck, was that his heartbeat he heard?

Gulping, glancing helplessly at the cat for assistance, Spike remained unmoving. Buffy went to the stove. "Can I get you something to drink, William?"

Distracted from anxiousness, confusion like a ruler to the hand, Spike blinked stupidly. Had he told her his name? He recalled Buffy asking; he supposed he could have answered.

He was sure she told him her name was "Buffy Summers," and Spike thought he managed to hide the fact such was old news fairly well, given the circumstances.

Buffy slid out of her denim and turned around, hanging the jacket on the back of a chair. Her shoulders were bare, framed by thin straps of cream white, smooth skin glowing. Spike felt his throat constrict again.

She blinked at the man still paying devoted attention to her cat, mute and awfully dark looking in her simple little kitchen. "You're standing."

Spike internally panicked. Her eyes were kind, his were as wide as the moon. "Um..." a quiet mutter. "Wh- Where should I sit?"

Another sliver of affection dropped upon her heart, light as a wafer but there nonetheless. "Sit wherever you like."

Spike didn't reply as she turned away, smiling. He eyed the threatening furniture; table and chairs would suit, he supposed, as long as she didn't mind him being so close.

Tabitha curled herself over his shoulder, kneading the leather of his coat and putting tiny holes in it. Spike didn't notice. He watched Buffy fill a kettle with fresh water from the tap and set it on a stove burner. Moving fluidly, gracefully even in mere inches, her hands twisted a knob and fire lit.

Legs covered by blue denim flexed on the rise. "Do you want some tea?"

He was trying valiantly hard not to stare at her ass.

"William?"

"Huh?" Spike shook his head. "Sorry, missed that."

Buffy took the fib for honest nerves, and turned around. "I was going to make tea. Do you want some?'"

A smirk came out to play, and something inside her jolted with pleasure. *Wow. He's sort of really pretty.*

"All you can think to offer a Brit, eh?" Lead dropped into his stomach like a falling elevator once those words left his mouth. *What the hell is wrong with me?*

Buffy grinned. An obvious bolt of confidence, some teasing, a smirk of deadly ability, and she was wondering just how many women William had charmed unknowingly in his days; she also wondered how she affected the grand total. "Give me a break," she said, "my cousin is English. When he visits all he drinks is tea and the occasional 'nightcap.'"

Spike paused. She was... She was laughing at his joke. He found himself smiling. His rolling stomach calmed when Tabitha laid across his knees, and Buffy watched with rosy eyes. "Tea would be great, love," he said quietly.

She raised her attention and blinked. *Love? Hmm...* Buffy believed she liked that nickname, and even more, she liked how William's face was turning as pink as a tulip right before her eyes.

A disarming chuckle echoed throughout the room, a cadence, a melody. Spike caught Buffy with happiness etched onto her lips. Fondness in the way she said, "Tea it is. God only knows what happens if you don't have a cup at least every other hour, right?"

The man in the chair with the cat on his lap sucked a bottom lip between his teeth, lips quirking at the ends. "Don' wanna know. It gets ugly."

Buffy laughed again, and Spike's whole chest warmed. He'd done that. He'd conjured glitter in her eyes and sparkles across her face. A moment here, a split second there, but it was enough.

The sensation of hitting a very soft, fluffy pillow when you expected nothing but rocks to break a fall, spiraled through him. Spike gulped another bout of nerves with plucky willpower.

Courage could be addicting.

***

Spike was taking small mouthfuls of tea brewed excellently well for an American hand. Of course, Buffy explained that. She spoke all about how her cousin, Giles she called him, had taught her how to make a decent cuppa. Thank God she figured he'd prefer a steaming mug of Earl Grey to a peachy bag blend.

Spike thanked her three times before Buffy made a joke about being awfully grateful for a simple bit of leaf water. He choked and nearly ducked his head, but she smiled again and he didn't want to miss it.

They were both sitting down, and Tabitha had hopped onto the table, sprawled out between them like a furry road map. Spike held onto his cup rigidly, desperately needing the warmth, and fought to keep his hands from shaking. Being this close to Buffy... It was like a dream- Scratch that. It was a bloody dream. A miracle, and every second they shared together meant one more second he could store in his memory bank. Moments for mental images. Memories to be, ones he was sure would look more like unreasonable fairytales weaved out of spider webs soon enough.

Not right now, though. Now it was real, and it was here. Buffy was sitting across a short kitchen table from him with her own mug. She was smiling easily, and she was talking to him.

These were the better things he dreamed about, and whether they made a turn for sex or just a first-wake heartbreak, he cherished them. There had been too many. Dirty diary entries catalogued beside home sweet home visions. Living one was...

It was more than he had ever hoped to get.

Peace in something other than a bottle. Her attention, her time. It was only going on fifteen minutes, but he'd spent it with her.

Peace in the eyes of another. Green, glittering, laughing peace. Spike grinned into his cup as she took one more sip from hers. Silence did not have a place here. Silences were far and few between anecdotes, threads of stories and conversation. He didn't know how he was managing it, all Spike knew was that if he quit talking then she would, and then he'd have to leave. For so long he had feared being this close to her, and he wasn't fool enough to hope for a repeat performance.

If he learned nothing else today, Spike could at least say he believed in miracles, but there was a limit to such things. The first astounding position of the day remained when Buffy found him outside, and instead of assuming the worst, invited him into her home while his car cooled down.

The other miracles fit between his lips like cigarettes, the words he spoke without much stuttering. Sure, there were pauses, and muted, muffled whispers when nerves took control. Times when he hadn't a clue what to say next, how to hold the conversation without boring her, and so relied on the first thing that popped into his head. Wasn't always smart, but it seemed to work for now.

Didn't mean he would ever get this chance again.

He hadn't earned a damn thing. He was playing on stolen time. Buffy was here, they were talking and nothing had ever been so sweet. No one held a candle to her, and even though his bones were still rattling from the vibrations of his nerves, even if his heart did feel like there was a vise around it, there wasn't a single thing that could pull him away from this. From being here, sitting at this table, with her.

He may have thought of running, but the truth was Spike never had a chance.

"So, can I ask where you grew up?"

He was thrown by the question. Involuntarily clasping the empty mug tighter in his hands, Spike answered, "Here."

"C'mon, that accent wasn't Wisconsin born." Buffy tilted her head. "You had to live in England at some point, right?"

The fact she wanted to know an intimate detail about his life was enough to make a bloke's head spin. Spike blinked about ten times. "I moved- moved here when I was twelve. With my mum."

"Oh. Now see, that makes sense." Buffy lifted tea to her pink lips, and murmured against the rim of her cup. "What doesn't is why I've never seen you around before."

Spike knew he might break what he was holding, so he nudged the mug away from his hands. Cold enveloped a voice sometimes, and words could freeze up in one's throat. "Doesn't- I don't- I don't know. Not much of a people person, really." The table was smooth and tinted dark, Tabitha's tale swished back and forth across the surface like a fan. "I keep to m'self."

Buffy gave a curious frown. "Well, you must really hide out," she said jokingly, unaware of the tensing in William's muscles. "I saw you outside my shop, in front of the library? Couple days ago."

Spike didn't speak a word. He couldn't, as his tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. Buffy carried on. "I thought you saw me, too, but- It doesn't really matter. I just find it weird, since this place is so small, why've we never met before."

He couldn't rightly tell her it was because he hid in the shadows. All those times he sought her out, only to be reminded that getting close was against the rules, and Buffy was never the wiser to a pair of eyes glued to her form. "M'older than you," he muttered, still staring at the tabletop. "Don' run in the same circles, I'd wager."

The lie was unpredictably effortless; likely had to do with self preservation. Buffy blinked, thinking on that as if William wasn't covering his tracks. To her the simple excuse was genuine. "You're older than me, by how much?"

Spike started, head jerking up. "What?"

"Sorry. Rude, I know. I just..." Buffy ducked shyly and bit her lower lip. He felt a tremor clash inside of him, running against the wall of his chest like a tidal wave. "I'm twenty-seven. You don't look a whole lot older than that."

A smirk came out to play of its own volition, softening the edges of Spike's face with careless truth while inside remained chaotic. "You don' look a day older n'twenty, pet."

Her eyes fairly sparkled with pleased shock. "Really?" At his nod, Buffy's cheeks became warm and rosy; Spike was too busy watching to pay attention to his own. She inhaled shortly and glanced away, shrugging, taking one more fortifying sip of tea. "If you don't want to tell me..."

He cut her off. "I'm thirty-seven."

If possible, Buffy looked thoroughly bewildered over the fact. "Seriously?"

He nodded.

"Well, then I'm not the only one who looks young for their age."

He smiled. "Thanks, love."

Buffy gulped. *Oh boy.* How come she never noticed this man before now? Spotted him in town, in a store, at a restaurant, or even at the lone barbershop? They were far apart in age- Ten years?! -but they both lived within the same miniscule zip code. If nothing else, someone could have mentioned him. She could had overheard a million different gossip-y things about this man from the way mouths ran, yet nothing. It was like he was a ghost. Surely her Angel-pining hadn't blinded her so thoroughly? Not to William's mere presence, right?

Nothing could have prepared Buffy for him, but nothing could have hidden him so well either.

Except maybe himself.

"What do you do?" she asked, before politeness could reword curiosity.

He frowned. "Meanin'?"

"For work. Anyone would go mad in this town without having something to do besides living in it, right?"

"Right." He trembled softly enough that she didn't see it, battling an instinct in his gut. Dread filled him up. "I- I-" Was he to tell her that he had two jobs? Yes, they kept the bills paid, made it so dipping into savings wasn't necessary. He didn't want to tell her about them. Couldn't. *Can't let her know just how ridiculous my life is.*

"I should get goin'." *Did I really just say that?*

Buffy stood hastily after he did, her expression surprised and confused. "Oh. Did- Did I say something-"

"No. Just... I should- Got things to, uh..." He avoided her imploring eyes, his heart clenching. "Right."

She followed him to the door. The disappointment was enough to shadow her questions. Surely she hadn't said anything to make him... But it looked like she had. Why else would he be leaving like this? Buffy didn't think her attempt to find out how he hid from the world, either in a job or behind the walls of his home, would drive William away.

"I'm sorry if-" Apparently it was her turn to stutter. "I didn't mean to upset you."

The personal statement, as if they knew each other better than they did, like twenty to thirty minutes of chitchat could equate or liken to months of association, shook Spike from the inside out. He faced her at the door, his boots on the other side of the threshold; and that fine line between them was more than adequate in reminding him exactly where he stood. "Don't be sorry," he demanded fervently, trying to be fast but needing to say this. "Please, Buffy. Being with- Talking with you was... I just gotta- The car. Figure it's cooled off by now."

She nodded, a pinched frown marring her soft face. "I liked talking to you, William. It was great- meeting you." His blue eyes had gone stormy, then paled. From intense to bland in mere seconds. She swore that if she looked down, he might be gone before she could lift her head again. "Maybe we'll run into each other soon. Hopefully without any car trouble."

Her laugh, the hope Spike couldn't imagine sitting in her eyes, and the apology in her voice for fear of speaking too plainly before, it all made him want to hold on.

Spike swallowed hard, jaw clenched. A nod, and, "Yeah... Thanks for the tea."

"You're welcome." He jogged down the steps. A porch light barely illuminated more than five feet of grass and dirt from her door. "Drive-" William's body merged with the darkness, "-safe."

Buffy's mouth filled up with silence, a hand dropping before it could say goodbye. Four hundred repetitions ran through her mind in the space of a second, every single one asked the same thing: What had she done wrong?

__________________
Thanks for reading and thanks to those who have reveiwed! :)

The DeSoto roared to life, engine blanketing a peace made of cricket chirps and windy fields. Spike's heart muffled by sound, the whipping of fresh, fresh air beating against his cheek like playful slaps kept him grounded. A lonely drive, a fast one, and his mind blessedly denied a single moment to think; no detour, no pause.

For a few minutes anyhow.

He couldn't remember a time his gut felt this tight, or the last Spike thought he might hurl without alcohol in his system. She started asking the wrong questions, trying to know his life, know what he did. The next step was clear. He'd give her one answer, then another, and another, until finally she questioned so much he lost her because of it.

Spike wouldn't get that close again. Dreams couldn't gain impact. Fairytales had to remain just that. Buffy would leave if they didn't; eventually, sooner or later. She'd go and hide. She would have earned every right to, and the girl would just be... gone.

He couldn't lose her, and God knew he could never keep her.

If he stuck with his routine, by following hers, everything would be... well, terrible, but that was better than the alternative. Better than falling to the ground with broken wishes and broken bones. It had to be. He wasn't close enough for Buffy's tea breaks and homey invites, wasn't right, wasn't good enough to entertain her for long at all. Hell, he was lucky this latest crack in his dull reality hadn't shattered the rest of it. Things had to return to normal.

Spike knew it the second he stepped through her front door, trying not to swallow his own tongue and fighting an endless war against bursting nerves. None of that heart stopping bliss and anxiety did a thing to soften the harsh edges of understanding. He had one gifted minute, one moment, and that was it.

Every bloody second was more surreal than the last. Bliss in a small kitchen between hot mugs and one friendly cat. Every heartbeat was unforgettable.

He sighed. Spike pulled up to familiar wrought iron gates. His rumbling car went silent, and he hopped out with keys in hand. This job, while only a perfunctory sort of thing, was one of two that kept him out of the house. Kept him busy, even if busy consisted of strolling through a dark cemetery, and remaining locked inside a stone guard house until daylight sliced the sky like a knife.

This cool building welcomed Spike with open arms, the sort that squeezed so tightly you could suffocate. One more lonesome space, kept company by Spike and the ghosts people said walked the cemetery. He knew the only ghosts around were his own, even if they neglected to remind him of their presence half the time. They liked to hide in his thoughts, and all he noticed were the feelings that came along, the whispers, but not the faces.

Ghosts indeed.

He threw himself into the roller chair. Hands up and over, running across his hot cheeks. The mist in the black air did nothing to calm a person, not a bloody thing to quell the angry waves in heart and head. Something synonymous with pain writhed under his skin, self inflicted yet irredeemable.

And something about the cold walls around him, they acted more like a cocoon than a cage, but Spike wasn't sure they didn't represent both. He was huddled inside this empty room just as he was in his head, securing heart to his bones so it would never again govern what he did.

Spike couldn't tell her no, but he'd never encounter the opportunity again. He also couldn't say the last half hour spent with Buffy hadn't been the best of his thirty-seven years. He was too bloody elated at the time, too grateful now. The aftermath, though... That was something else. Something equal to carving one's skin open with stars.

Frustration gathered in the form of tears, puddles lining his smudged coal eyes. He was sure his heart was about to cave in. Spike let a pale fist rest on the desk, jaw working, teeth rubbing.

What did he want to do?

*Dyin' to go back.* But he wouldn't. He would stay here until it was time to go home. He'd sleep off a bottle of JD and wake up tomorrow afternoon, go to the high school to clean the halls and bathroom stalls like usual. Then, return and do it the next day, and meet with the cemetery again later Monday night. He'd keep the routine, he'd follow his schedule.

He'd go to a bar, outside of town, if pain persisted. Oral medication; booze. Dosage; imbibe as needed. If his chest continued to feel like it was wedged underneath an anvil, this sickening sensation, then there was only one thing for it. One night, one remedy.

Spike sucked in a breath. Find a girl, take her to the nearest motel or vacant restroom, and get lost in borrowed pleasure. That's what he'd do.

That's what Spike told himself he would do. Exactly what was needed, and though he knew it was futile to stay away forever, he'd try, for as long as he could. A meaningless fuck would take the edge off. He'd lock his eyes on anything, on anyone, but her.

Shaky hands stole a sheet of paper from the messy pile on the desk, then reached for a pencil. His fingers did what they were seemingly best at these days, graphite blending shadows from memory, a picture of a face taking shape. Line by line, eyelash for eyelash. This one was going to be the best he'd ever drawn, Spike would find, but it was to be marred with wrinkles and erasure marks; he'd try and make it perfect, thus damaging the paper.

He would take it home in the end. And for as long as he could, he'd starve on the images in his mind and on pieces of paper, before letting this familiar ache guide his feet once again.

***

Buffy woke up the next morning from a dream, her mind filled to the brim with a new face, blonde hair and blue steam eyes. She barely remembered it after finding her bedroom ceiling, no matter how hard she fought with the memory. There were some things that just couldn't be held onto for long, if at all.

The wind flowing through her screened window; billowing white lace curtains, and a cat who didn't want to be caught. Trying to grasp the images her subconscious gifted in sleep but morning reclaimed was next to impossible.

With the hope that she might remember later, despite the improbability, Buffy rose from bed and got dressed. She had a late start, her own reward for working six days a week was she didn't open the store until eleven on Sundays.

She couldn't settle in last night, her ears humming with the ever fading noise of a car's roaring engine. When drowsiness finally came, she slept like a rock. The night was spotted with Tabitha's contented purrs and a nervous man's stuttering; Buffy woke in a much pleasanter mood than the one she'd gone to bed with.

Her eyes were devoid of bags underneath. She lined them with light black color, rosy shadow and mascara. Her lips tinted apple red and glossy, cheeks dusted with peony blush. Buffy pulled open the heavy wooden doors that closeted a majority of her wardrobe, and donned her striped cashmere sweater, softer than a cloud, and black miniskirt.

It had been a while since this outfit saw the light of day, but something felt right about it. She chose a favored pair of boots to complete, and made herself some coffee.

Tabitha requested her breakfast, then, and Buffy ran a brush through her hair one last time before heading out the door with a thermos and car keys. As usual, the drive into town was dicey, made two times worse by the fact she was taking bites out of a banana at red lights.

Fellow drivers made way when they spotted the familiar cherry red Jeep, and soon, Buffy was parking expertly quick in front of her store. It was no secret that she was a bad driver, and she'd long since stopped trying to convince herself otherwise. Buffy could manage the wheel all right, it was all those other things like using one foot for the pedals and flipping your turn signal on that caused issues. Trips to work were as far as she pushed her luck. Most destinations in this area were kept within walking distance, thankfully.

Buffy locked the doors and walked inside with her purse, coffee thermos, and one banana peel. The sight of her boxy, four-wheel-drive car, perfectly in line with the curb and no more than twelve inches away from it, made several viewers release audible sighs of relief.

Despite everything else, she really was a good parallel parker.

Buffy plopped her things behind the counter and turned on every light in the store. She grabbed a bottle of glass cleaner, and two rags that used to be T-shirts before tearing through her merchandise with the plucky energy of a well rested housewife.

Thoughts tried to spiral into her head like raindrops from a cloud, and she let them come, let them play out and take their time before eventually rolling down an unseen hillside. Her hectic mood turned downright caffeinated as cleaning, online shopping, and customers kept her busy for hours. A neighbor brought over lemon iced tea and offered to get her lunch since Buffy seemed so distracted, they figured she hadn't eaten.

A whirlwind of activity, and Buffy was the storm. It had been a long, long time since she felt this energized, this ready for anything. A woman prepared to take on the day, and whatever came with it.

Her mind was nearly as much a roadrunner as her feet and hands. Constant contemplation, wandering concerns about last night. She kept asking the same question over and over again: Why did William leave when he did? She reassured herself silly, tried to shake the thoughts off completely like loose snow, hoping they would melt away, but it never worked.

So, she worked. She dusted until wood polish and orange oil were imbedding into the lines of her palms, watched mindless television before landing sadly on the Soap Opera channel, turned up the radio, and reassured, and reassured, and reassured.

It wasn't her fault she couldn't stop thinking about him. William was strange, in a cute way. Seven years ago, she might have overlooked the shy behavior and timid sentences, but last night, if he wasn't just heartthrob charming, then her name wasn't Buffy Summers.

He acted like a stammering man who'd lost his courage, but walked with purpose, as if there was a cocky swagger buried beneath the thin surface of those hesitant footsteps. His ocean, coal lined eyes looked right through you when he had the guts to lift them. That hair was like nothing else, a punch line to numerous unsaid jokes, and yet somehow, it worked on him.

Everything about William was akin to an unanswered riddle, and she had long since outgrown the need to figure people out, so that wasn't what kept her thinking about him. It was like she'd been put on a roller coaster ride, and was finally reaching the peak of the climb. This man's behavior wasn't something Buffy needed to understand, she simply liked him, was encouraged to know the way things would look once she made it to the top.

Buffy glanced out the windows a lot, too, peering across the street. William's face ought to be familiar now, what with how often it was running through her head.

He told her he was a local. He'd lived here since he was twelve, how come she couldn't find him when she wanted? How often had William passed her by, with neither of them aware of it? How come no one spoke of him? How come he wasn't around?

As if the world were repaying an undetermined debt for some unknown good deed, long time friend Xander Harris walked into the shop right then, his hand raised in a cheerful hello.

Buffy jerked from her chin in palm, elbow on counter position, and blinked at him. "Hey, Buff, what's cookin'?" Her eyes lit up with a focalized smile. Xander frowned, dark brows slanting at the same instant he stopped walking. "What?"

He knew that look. He'd seen it on his friend enough times. She was thinking, possibly planning, which likely meant Trouble with a capital T.

Xander Harris was a kind man, tall and not overly bulked with muscle, but certainly strong. With short brown hair and unassuming eyes, he had earned star status in this town, loved by all who knew him. He had a keen knowledge on war tactics and things that shot bullets, even if he didn't own a gun, and nothing kept him down. He was as loyal as a knight to his king, and more lighthearted than a clown.

So when Buffy stared at him with bright determination like this, Xander knew he was going to cave and provide the lady with anything she asked for.

And Buffy knew it, too; or, at least, she hoped he would help. "All I have are some questions."

Another frown, this one deeper. "Questions?"

"Yeah." She nodded in a perky kind of way. "About a person."

Xander groaned, rather flopping his feet than walking the remaining few steps to the counter. "Gossip is not my friend, Buffster, you know that."

Yes, she did. Everyone did. Her friend learned a valuable lesson about keeping his lips locked after that beating from an upperclassman in high school. Xander had adopted a serious distaste for the nasty business of gossip. "I know. But it's not anything bad, and there are no cheating boyfriends to speak of," Buffy swore.

He gave her a dubious look. "Promise?"

She nodded again. "Promise."

He sighed, but waved a hand as if to say, All right, give it to me.

"I just want to know more about somebody." She bit her lip as she recalled everything that happened the night before. "He says his name is William. I met him last night."

"Ah, so it's a guy." Xander rested his shoulder against the higher portion of a display box, that which sat beside the low gap in the counter. "And pray tell why you can't just ask him these mysterious questions yourself?"

She sighed now, deep and impatient. "Because I don't know if I- if I'm going to see him again."

"Does he live in town?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll see him again." Xander spoke with dry certainty.

"But he says he's lived here since he was twelve, and now he's thirty-seven!" Buffy took a breath to calm her inner teenager climbing to the surface. She felt like Penny. "I've never seen him until... now, and I- Well, that's just a little strange, isn't it?"

Xander rubbed two fingers over the tip of his chin, thinking on what she said, as well as a few curiosities of his own. He pushed the latter aside for now. "Sure, I guess. Maybe he's busy, doesn't come into town a lot. Or maybe he lives somewhere else most of the year."

She scowled briefly, memories flipping back. "I don't think so. He... He seems to know his way around." Buffy wasn't sure about that, but for the sake of being hypothetical she went with it. "And he's really not- Really not your average Joe, ya know? This guy sticks out."

Xander was looking at her like she may have just tumbled out of Wonderland, the Mad Hatter having served up some very special tea while she was there. "Yeah... Maybe it's someone you know, but he's just, I don't know, dressing up?"

"Xander, c'mon."

"Well, he's older than you." The man offered a careless shrug. "It's possible."

She sent him a gentle glare, and it did the trick.

Xander's hands went up, palms facing out. "All right, okay." He sighed quietly. "What's he look like?"

She flashed a smile. *Grateful blue eyes that make you feel like you're being stripped bare. A shy mouth, with its tendency to smirk. Bad fashion sense, except for that coat he wears. Nice big hands, and cheekbones any model would kill for.* Buffy blushed strawberry red, but kept her inner catalogue of thoughts and opinions to herself. Instead, Xander got the abridged version, tame descriptions of a leather duster, bleached hair, smoking habits and a beat up old car. By the end of it, he was looking at her like she was wonderful Alice again.

“Never seen anyone like that around here before, which means he probably doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not a loony, Xander. I didn’t dream up a guy!”

He released a tempered chuckle. “Okay, Buffy, I know. I’m just sayin’, I don’t think this person lives in town. Someone that… unique, would- like you said –stick out around this place. Anyone would notice him.”

She firmed her lips, glancing at the floor. “I don’t think he was lying. I mean, why would someone lie about living here? I could see someone lying about not living here, but…”

All of a sudden, Xander’s brown eyes lit up like bicycle flashers, and he snapped his fingers. “Hey wait! There is a guy!”

Her heart did a little skip. “Really?”

“I’m serious, hang on… Oh c’mon brain, do your thing here!” Another snap of the fingers. “Right! Okay, I’ve never seen him for longer than a minute, but he- he works the graveyard shift. Name is… Will, I think. Will Pratt.”

Buffy didn’t try to stop her grin. “That’s him! Well... I mean, I think. He told me his name was William, last night.”

“Yeah, yeah, bleached hair, doesn’t talk, lives in a huge house on the west side of town. He’s like... that guy in that book.” At Buffy’s confused frown, Xander tried to elaborate. “You know, the one everyone was forced to read in school. The one about that kid, Scout or- The movie with Gregory Peck!”

“To Kill a Mockingbird?”

“Yeah! That one! And the weird guy who never left the house?”

Her frown switched to a scowl. “Boo Radley?”

“Yes! Him!" There was much excited finger pointing aimed her way. "He’s like that.”

It was sad to admit Buffy could recognize the similarities. William was nervous around her last night, as much as one might imagine any known recluse ought to be. He took a liking to cats, though, which she knew was not supposedly a characteristic of the aforementioned fictional Arthur Radley.

Still... Was Xander right? “William Pratt, huh?” He nodded, and Buffy hummed quietly, turning around. Could the stuttering and quick smiles have been courtesy of a mouth that barely spoke? Was the hesitancy to choose his own seat due to the fact William was never welcomed inside anyone else's home? Barely-there blushes and a habit of constant graciousness for something as small as a cup of tea, downcast eyes...

The perfect small town loner; always hiding.

Buffy found herself wanting desperately to keep William company.

She shook her head hard, facing Xander again when he slashed the quiet. "How'd you meet this guy?"

She crossed her arms, looking down. "Oh. Well, he had some car trouble outside my house, so I invited him in." Lord knew how badly she wished the same situation would present itself again; maybe she wouldn't screw things up this time.

God, him leaving made so much sense now.

"That was nice of you," Xander said, and quickly jarred her right out of her own head. A thoughtful expression reentered his eyes, something almost suspicious. "Not that I'm not thrilled you seem to be moving on, but... what about Angel?"

She couldn't help the immediacy of her reaction. The shock, the annoyance, the guard that went up- All of it snaked into her voice. "Angel's gone. He has been for a while."

He had been gone for so long, yet her heart hung on like a survivor might a sinking ship; Xander was close enough to see it. Things finally changed, at some point she couldn't recognize or remember. Any future with Angel was now just a relationship long dead, as it had probably been for years.

"Wow," Xander murmured, impressed. Her flinty gaze subdued him, but only marginally. "And this isn't a rebound thing?" He had to ask.

Buffy forced away the urge to shake her head like a wet dog. Her brow pinched. "No, Xander. I- I don't even-" If Buffy was really honest with herself, she'd admit she had done the rebound thing already. Twice. She was over it.

There was no telling whether she would ever see William again. You couldn't possibly expect a crush to develop overnight, though, even if the gentleman in question was very attractive. "I don't even know if I like this guy, Xand," she admitted, feeling suddenly deflated. "He's just... He makes me wonder."

Her friend shrugged casually. "Careful. Those mysterious types'll get ya." It was a joke, but there was an air of seriousness around it.

She gave a perfunctory nod. Right. Those mysterious types. She'd rather not think of William like that. Something told her he wasn't the sort, to hide, to keep someone guessing on purpose, leave them in a box made with question marks.

*And why am I thinking so much about him again?* Buffy shook off the irritation almost immediately. Xander spun the conversation in another direction, for which she was grateful. The wheels of everyday life kept turning.

Evidently, her friend had not come in on a spur of the moment visit. He was looking for a gift.

The following congratulations on his mother-in-law's upcoming arrival went by with a dull thud. A banging of Xander's head against a support beam, precisely. Buffy listened to his grievances that gave a heartfelt description of the "determined old bat" who was both colorblind and infuriating.

Anya, love of his life, was a wonderfully strange person, with a tendency to exercise her right to be blunt. Xander would do anything for her. The man claimed he would never understand how someone so sweet and vibrant could be related to the one and only Emma Jenkins. Anya's mother was mostly vengeful towards her ex-husband, Anya's father, but if letting the shrew stay at their house for a week would please his wife, then Xander would shampoo the rugs in preparation.

He would also buy a welcome present for the intolerable guest, even if he hated to, because Anya told him "Mother would be very upset" if she received nothing upon her arrival.

It was apparent from this point on, Xander had met with Buffy to both search for a gift, and complain. What kind of person expects a present when they're invading someone else's territory? Buffy took a minute to explain to Xander a house wasn't exactly a dog park, and sure, maybe it was frivolous, but wouldn't this vase make a decent offering?

It was blue, it was old, and it was fairly cheap with the Friends and Family discount Buffy offered to a very, very select few. After all, in a town of this size, nearly everybody would call themselves your friends, and a few too many your family, if you let them.

Xander nodded distractedly to convey approval, so she rung it up. Bubble wrap and a cardboard box to protect, plus the free inclusion of gift wrap. He thanked her repeatedly as Buffy tied an expert bow around the parcel. "Careful," she advised when handing it to him.

"Hey, Butterfingers Harris may have been my nickname in high school, but I'm over that now."

When he pointed a finger at her to provide mock emphasis, one hand letting go of the box, the pretty pink square made a dive for the floor. He hastily grappled then caught it while kneeling halfway to his shoes. Buffy leaned over the counter with a look of horror on her face.

Xander blinked, his eyes twice their normal size. "Never could let things go."

She snickered quietly. "Actually, I think that's exactly what you're good at."

He rose and gave her an abashed smile. "Thanks again, Buff."

"Think Anya's mom will like it?"

"Who knows. I'll ask her, see what she thinks." He headed for the door. "And if she doesn't like the idea, then I'll be back for something else." He paused, eyeing the package in his hands thoughtfully. "This would look good in our dining room anyway. Anya likes blue glass."

Buffy smiled. She could never quite get over that. How Xander froze at a seemingly trivial moment, right before a spark lightened those brown eyes. He was so in love with his wife that it nearly brought jealousy into the hearts of women he passed on the street who had a thing for carpenters. It was an odd day, or perhaps just a weekend, when you didn't see Xander Harris wearing dirty jeans and a wife-beater. Buffy used to know him as the messy teenager with a fondness for Hawaiian print shirts, but after meeting Anya, things changed quite drastically. The floppy hair was cut short, and while he was still a bit messy, Xander's aim for maturity gained momentum and accuracy upon stumbling into his first real adult relationship.

The man loved with his whole, flawed heart, and every time Buffy caught a glimpse of what he felt for his wife, she could ask only one question: *When will I get that?*

The brunette by the exit tucked his package underneath one arm, facing her. "Oh, and by the way, if I hear anything about that guy, I promise I'll report back within record time. Gossip is allowed for family matters alone these day."

She rolled her eyes in a magically easy way, despite how she was feeling inside. "Thanks, Xand, but it's okay."

He frowned softly. "So wait, if I discover that he's building a rocket ship to launch himself into space, you don't want to know about it?"

Her lips pursed. *Some things never change.* "Stuff below a certain level of weirdness, you can keep to yourself."

He grinned largely and waved, almost saluting her. "Your loyal spy, my majesty."

Buffy found a laugh and gave in, but a gasp soon followed as Xander was about to step outside. "Oh wait! Can you fix my door?"

He stopped, turned, and eyed the paneled piece of wood in question. Swinging the door with his hand, back and forth for a moment, Xander said, "WD-40. Or something else slippery, like Vaseline. Just put it on the hinges, should do the trick."

Buffy's wide eyes conveyed both sincere appreciation, and embarrassment once the squeaking stopped. "Don't tell anyone I didn't know that."

"Don't tell Anya I called you 'my majesty' and it's a deal."

"Deal."

***

An hour later, Buffy managed to find- nearly on accident -a brand new container of WD-40. Funny, when Giles first packed the "Smart to Have on Hand" goody box and left it underneath the counter, Buffy never thought she'd use a single thing inside.

Now, as she stood next to the front door, ready to be Miss Fix It, Buffy made a mental note to call later and issue a long overdue thank you.

Cloth in hand, the other aiming the sprayer, it took only a few exact shots to the top and bottom hinges to vanquish that infernal creaking. She was dabbing the excess off when she noticed the scene outside.

Across the street there was a group of boys, and Buffy had the distinct memory of watching West Side Story with her mom years and years ago. There were five in total, none of them possibly older than seventeen, piled into a cloud of denim jackets and fisted hands.

Buffy dropped her tools and ran out before a single thought could cross her mind. She barely remembered to check for traffic and ignored the surrounding faces, people frozen in place as if the current proceedings were a very perplexing manner and they didn't quite know what to do.

Most of them were tourists, but a few weren't. Some were locals, who did nothing but gawk during the same five seconds it took Buffy to barrel into the fray of angry teenagers and start yelling. She tugged at backpacks and cotton hoodies, shoving, screaming over their ugly cursing.

She felt perhaps what was a misaimed punch to the side and barely spared a wince. "Enough!" The piercing order stilled them, and Buffy was finally able to maneuver the kids apart just as another authoritative voice rang through the air.

Five gasping, bruised, disheveled young men glared at each other through a shared haze of anger, and one blonde in a skirt.

Buffy fumed, her eyes sparkling with ferocity like a mother tigress. She acknowledged the fact every one of them was taller than her, and it inspired more irritation. "I don't know why you were fighting, and I don't care." She glanced around at the decoration of scowls and cuts marring their petulant faces. "All of you, across the street, inside my store. Now."

One of them spoke up, his shaggy brown hair and green eyes flinty but respectful at once. He stood on the edge with his partners, while the other two faced off from her left. "They were talkin' about Jim's sister-"

"I just said I don't care why you were fighting!" Buffy yelled. "If you want to tell me, then you will do so inside. Now go!"

That familiar voice echoed again, this time closer, harsher. "You heard her." Buffy glanced behind her, and found the stern face of the high school principal at her shoulder. "Get inside. All of you. We'll be calling your parents from Ms. Summers' store."

Five backs all hunched beneath denim jackets and gray sweaters, their faces set and resigned. A look of agitated understanding passed between foes, joint groans, then a masterful collection of humorless eye rolls.

Buffy watched carefully as they trudged, a set of two, and a set of three, morosely across the street. She followed quickly, and spoke off handed to the man behind her. "You arrived almost in the nick of time."

"Good to see you, too, Buffy."

She placed a hand on her hip as she walked, angry strides trampling pavement. General awareness seeped back in, and she noted avid viewers standing on every corner, still taking in the scene as it fell to a close. Buffy grit her teeth. "You'd think they could find something better to watch."

Robin Wood, tall, professional, handsome and patient, let out a tired sigh that could move ships. "People don't know how to handle teenagers. They figure they're their parents responsibility most of the time."

Buffy hauled in the urge to snap. Really, she shouldn't be mad at Robin. At least he'd come to help. "They are. Too bad their parents don't know that."

He shot her a look, and Buffy glanced away. "I'm just angry."

"I feel ya," he said, casting a paternal focus on the boys parading into her place of business. "You sure you want them in your store?"

Buffy nodded. They reached the open door and Robin held it for her. "I'm going to try and patch them up. I have a first aid kit, some ice in the fridge." She paused, meeting his eyes dead on. "I don't know if calling their parents is necessary."

He was quiet, seemingly considering her words, before ultimately disagreeing with the implied notion. "I have to. It's my job. Even when they're not in class, I'm still their principal."

She sighed, nodding resignedly. "Figured you'd say that."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Just had to try."

He offered no more before following Buffy inside.

She made quick work of separating the quarrelsome group, three on stools in one corner, two on a couch in the opposite. Buffy accepted the proffered can of WD-40 she'd left to get kicked around from one of the boys. She knew Lance fairly well, he was a junior at the high school, as were three others; only one was a sophomore.

She began with the ice and antiseptic, treating just the visible wounds on knuckles and cheeks. Each hiss of pain after alcohol wipes and cotton ball dabbing was punctuated with a snicker of derision from a fellow teenager, then Buffy started on them with the nursemaid act and the insults quit.

She did not quit, however, and neither did Robin Wood. While she doctored and explained just how badly she'd beat up each of them herself if they started fighting again, or broke one thing in her store, Robin crossed his arms and gave a lecture. It was filled with bits like "You should be embarrassed," and "Isn't there a lick of sense between the five of you?"

Jim, Lance and Harry tried hard to get their points across. The other two boys fumed and yelled how they weren't talking smack about anyone's sister, they were just minding their own business when punches started flying. Buffy advised they cut the crap as she handed out sodas, but none would admit to starting the fight, or encouraging one verbally.

"Were not getting anywhere here," Robin grumbled. He played his final card. "You can all expect detention on your next three Saturdays, beginning at nine o'clock."

Patrick, the redhead who played on the football team cried, "I have practice on Saturdays! The coach will cut me if I miss any of 'em!"

Buffy slanted Robin a look. The principal sighed. "Your detentions will all end half an hour before team practices start."

A tremendous breath of relief left Patrick's chest.

Robin's lips firmed. "What you should be worried about is which one of your parents I'll be calling first."

The group tensed as one, their eyes shifting back and forth between each other. Still, they remained brazenly tightlipped, and even Buffy had to roll her eyes at their stubbornness. She was a woman who knew something about that particular characteristic, yet these kids managed to portray themselves as bullheaded in the extreme.

Robin turned to her. "May I use your phone?"

"Uh, sure. Behind the counter." Buffy crossed her arms and started tapping her foot, anxiety creeping up her neck. Biting her bottom lip, she tamped down the urge to stop Robin from calling anyone. He'd issued detention, and as much as she believed the boys deserved to be taught a lesson, she wasn't so sure contacting their parents wasn't overkill. But, like he'd said, he had a responsibility; their hands were all tied.

She eyed the boys with maternal disdain, the kind of concerned agitation that occasionally filled any mother's eyes, especially when she had a son. "Guys are really dumb, aren't they?"

They looked at her in shock, but said nothing.

"Overall. Like, the male population in general." Buffy continued doggedly. "You all love to fight. Someone can say the littlest thing and it just sets you off. What is with that?"

A few of them gulped, all of them looked down in shame at their soda pops. She dropped an alcohol wipe and placed her hands on her hips. "I think you should apologize to each other."

At that, there was instantaneous protest. Lance and Patrick were united by identical expressions of dismay, while the rest simply shouted things like, "No way!" and "Are you crazy?!"

"Quiet!" Robin bellowed from his position by the phone.

Buffy crossed her arms. "You guys have done enough to hurt each other today, okay? Now you're all in equal trouble, and I want you to apologize before your parents get here."

One boy, Sam if she was remembering correctly, had the audacity to lean backward with his hands linked behind his head and say, "My dad's at work. He won't answer."

Buffy blinked, stare focusing. "Then I'm sure Mr. Wood will be happy to contact him another time, when he is home." A thought occurred to her. "What kind of job does your dad have that requires he work on Sunday?"

Sam's self assurance vanished, his back slouching. "Uh... He- He-"

"Give it a rest," Patrick groaned. "They're not going to buy it."

"No," Buffy said distinctly. "We're not." She glanced over at a professional Robin Wood talking quietly to someone on the other line, before facing the teenagers once more. "Now, about that apology..."

***

The whole thing ended with all five boys getting picked up by their parents. It was a somewhat awkward affair, with many grateful acknowledgements and embarrassed apologies thrown around.

No one asked Buffy why she'd gotten involved. Robin Wood had a reason, while she honestly didn't. There was no explanation other than she just couldn't stand by and watch the kids fight. If there was a way to help, or prevent harm from coming to one of the many teenagers in this town, then she would do what she could to lend a hand. It didn't sit well with Buffy that when adults were goggling fights, watching sports or playing with babies, the middle groupers were ignored.

Perhaps she was meddlesome. It didn't mean she'd quit anytime soon.

The last of the kids trudged out at the side of his angry mother, head down and shoulders slumped as the woman alternated between scolding and tilting his chin up so she could get a better look at his black eye. Buffy watched in tired fascination.

As the door clinked closed, no creak to be heard, the shopkeeper released a pent up sigh. "It's amazing they didn't leave the second you told them you'd be calling their parents."

Robin shrugged, but she didn't see it. "They know I would've called them whether they were here or not, and I would have added another detention."

Buffy smirked sardonically to herself, arms crossing. "You like giving those out, huh?"

He was quiet, then suddenly, something totally unpredictable came out of the principal's mouth. "Not really, but maybe if I had someone they could talk to, I wouldn't need to 'give out' so many."

She spun slowly around. "Huh?"

"A guidance counselor. The one we had- Well, the kids couldn't relate to her very much."

"Okay..." Buffy frowned. "That's tough."

"She quit a month ago."

Another frown, this one edged with suspicion.

Robin Wood inclined his head, looking at her with a glint in his eye Buffy wasn't totally sure she could find appropriate. "How would you like the job?"

"What?"

"I haven't filled the position yet. I've been looking for the right person, and I think you might be it." He crossed his arms to mimic her last stance; now, Ms. Summers' arms and jaw were slack with shock. "I know you have the store, so it would only be maybe two, three days a week..."

He went on, and she listened with unwavering attention, but Buffy still couldn't believe he was serious. The very notion she could do a job like that was bewildering. It was something to require complete and total dedication to others' thoughts and emotions. Take into account their fears, their hopes, listen avidly to everything, and bear the brunt of guilt each time something went sour under her own advice... Robin's voice struck her like harsh gust of wind. "You already pay closer attention than most of the parents I deal with," he said. "I know some of the kids come and talk to you after school, when you're here." He gestured to the shop around them. "And the way you handled things today... I think you would make a great addition to the school, Buffy. If you want it, the job is yours."

She was frozen. What did one say to all that?

Words miraculously took shape. "Three days a week?"

He nodded. "It can be two, if that makes the transition easier for you. At least to start."

Buffy chewed on her lip, looking down and then up at the ceiling. Everything was quiet. She could practically hear her own heart beating. The radio was off for the first time in ages; she had turned it down when the parents started to arrive.

She made her decision. "I'll take it."
_________________________________

END NOTES:
Thanks for reading! Please review :)

Author's Notes: Okay, so heads up, this chapter involves a slight crossover. There are two characters from another tv show which has sadly gone off the air, but they are my absolute favorite pairing in that show, and I can make them canon end-game in my head and heart... so, while this chapter is certainly important for Spike, I used two characters from Hart of Dixie in it; here ends the crossover warning.

Disclaimer: No publicly recognizable characters in this story belong to the author of this story. This story is simply written for fun. There is no profit being gained from this story, and all publicly recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.
_____________________________

The wind was soft, like you would imagine butterfly wings fluttering against your palm. Leather whipped his boots, a neon sign lit Spike's hair in a red glow. Sunday night partiers who didn't work tomorrow morning crowded the bar and bled into the parking lot. Thick smoke, from trucks to motorcycles to cigarettes, surrounded the entrance like a murky arch. Music and drunken laughter ruled the air, dancing on lukewarm breezes.

Spike stared at the neon sign above with bag weighted eyes. He'd never been inside this joint, merely passed it on occasion during late night runs to forget things and imagine, enjoy a few too many drinks. Whatever they had available was good enough for him, so long as it was alcoholic.

Yeah, never the healthy choice. He knew it. He just couldn't find the will to care.

Locking the car, Spike tossed his cigarette away and stepped it out on the way to the door. People watched him, those wearing leather coats, skimpy skirts, heels and biker boots. This particular crowd looked to have been out all weekend long. They probably lived for nights like this.

What a thought. Spike’s biggest thrill amounted to one girl in a small town easily ten miles away from the nearest biker bar, really a Mayberry kind of place, and bittersweet dreams that didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of coming true.

Spike wouldn't give her up for the world.

He pounded through the doorway and the crowd made way, suddenly reminded of why he was here. Buffy wasn't his to give up, not really. She wasn’t his anything.

Spike kicked down the frustration. He was starting to think in circles, and each rotation left him dizzier than the last. "Hell, I need a beer."

The bar was dim and the crowd outside made things appear much livelier than what was actually true. He could hear the echoes of his footsteps if he listened hard enough. The music was country, but he was able to tune that out, and the tables were practically empty but for a total of six. Three barstools out of fifteen were occupied. There was a petite brunette running around with a cleaning rag, looking much too chipper for most at one a.m., and a lone bartender earning tips, chuckling with a patron on the end.

Spike eyed the waitress. She was cute. Short, but nice legs. Nothing real special about her, looked a bit young to be working at a place like this, though.

He sighed, turning away. No. Someone blonde would be better.

If only he could summon the desire to actually pursue the idea.

He'd have to force himself through this. Alcohol would make it easier, always did. Made words come smoother, smiles appear real. He could find a chit with green eyes, maybe, and then it'd be fairly uncomplicated to imagine.

Sometimes, Spike just tried to forget, to lose himself in pleasure no matter how temporary, and let Buffy's face slip away. Hardly ever worked, of course, but sometimes… he could distance himself.

Others, he deliberately chose women he could pretend with, birds with pouty mouths and blonde hair. A tendency to smile made it all the better.

Spike ran a hand over his face. There was no envisioning sanity. He was sure he'd go completely fucking nuts one of these days. Hell, if a single half an hour meeting with Buffy was enough to keep him up until the noon hour arrived, despite the agonizing exhaustion that embedded itself inside, then this yearning was sure to do him in, by way of sleep deprivation if nothing else.

Eventually.

At the moment, he'd settle for being half as barmy as his ex. Maybe a bit more than just half, but at least he wasn't talking to pixies.

Spike fell into a stool with a sturdy back, and drummed his fingers against the bar rail. He read the neon sign over the mirror ahead of him. It was identical to the other out front, if dimmer, the title Rammer Jammer glowing in cursive letters.

Spike caught sight of his reflection, and admitted that without much sleep, he looked like a ghost.

Well. He'd forgotten to put liner on today, too. Fortunately, all the darkness under his eyes hid that oversight pretty well.

Someone blocked his view. "What'll ya have?"

The southern offer of liquid comfort rang like music to Spike's ears as he glanced dispassionately at the bartender. "Beer to start."

"Preference?"

"None." A draft suddenly appeared at his fingertips, and Spike nodded in thanks.

"How're ya paying?" The Brit slapped a credit card down.

"Keep it," Spike said. "Jus' do me a favor an’ remind me you 'ave it 'fore I slip out."

The bartender said, “Okay,” though his frown went unnoticed; it wouldn't have been deemed important anyway. "Let me know if you want anything else."

"Will do." Spike took a swig, already planning what his next drink would be.

Somewhere into the forty minute mark, blessedly drowning his taste buds in a cold, dark stout, Spike felt brave enough to start envisioning the night ahead. Start making peace with his intentions.
There was a conveniently located motel about a block away, and that would likely be where he ended up.

A tip of his drink, and cold, bitter hops trickled down his throat. A bandage on the necessary places. It made it easier to force a bit of charm, a little interest, just to achieve artificial satisfaction and convince a woman to spend the night with him.

It had never been this hard before, so Spike took another rich gulp to deaden the nerves.

It appeared spending time with Buffy had only made this worse. Which was fairly ironic, considering the occasion was precisely what drove him here. He was trying to finagle an antidote out of yeasty beverages and failing. He had practically beaten his pillows into nothing more than down and cotton when struggling earlier to find rest; fought to stay under the sheets when only the want to be near her was constant.

Spike couldn't even convince himself to fuck some stranger in the name of forgetting her for a bloody minute, and the idea of choosing someone like... his jaw clenched. He had done this before, but he wasn't sure anyone could fool him now. Not now that he'd experienced the real woman up close, talked to her, been in her home. Everything else felt cheap, like a robot, circuits and wires versus a human heart and soul.

Spike ran fingers through his hair. Fuck he missed her. He hadn't seen Buffy since last night, and the itch to go and rectify the situation was like a never ending burn.

He pressed the beer to his lips again, making an unacknowledged fist at his side.

*All right, mate. Sooner you do it, sooner you can dull this pain.* Fortitude traveled through veins with a cool, slow seep, sticking inside like molasses. It felt as sickening to him as drinking castor oil.

Spike took a deep breath. He'd come here for a reason. It was a logical thing, always helped, always took some of the strain out of his back and shoulders, not to mention his damned stubborn heart. They always got something out of it, both he and the chosen lady...

As if right on cue, Spike noticed a woman's reflection in the mirror over the bar, tall and slim, closing an unlabeled door as she advanced.

A dark eyebrow flicked up. She was leggy, feminine. Long blonde hair, closer to Spike's color than Bu-

He shook his head. Don't think about her.

The stranger in the mirror was pretty. She was, honestly. Fair skin like snow and ruby red lips that slid into a perfect curve. Her body was a runway model design, and she walked like one in her short heels and peach cream skirt. A dark red halter hugged her breasts and slender shoulders.

Spike turned fully, not knowing whether a chit with that much cat-like self assurance would look twice at him or not, but willing to find out. She bobbed straight on over with a confident gait, and glanced once, then a second time at Spike's head, but otherwise seemed uninterested.

He'd not noticed until right then that she was carrying a clipboard, and despite the sleepy look on her face, those elegantly high shoulders did not sag when she set it down.

"Workin' late, pet?" The words slipped out effortlessly, like he was used to saying them, like he could without the added confidence alcohol provided. The lady was in the middle of a sigh, but she sucked the exhaustion right back into her lungs upon being addressed.

A surprised, not overly welcoming expression turned his way. There was a smile Spike could only describe as lemonade sweet and neon bright. "Always workin'," she said, with a slight tilt of her head.

He was almost thrown by the southern drawl. It'd been a long while since he met anyone who wasn't a native of this Midwestern junction of America, but she and the bartender made two tonight. "You own this place?" Spike asked curiously.

She looked away from him. "Nope. Just help run it."

"Don' sound like you're from around here."

She finally let out that sigh, loud and as pointed as her next words. "Neither do you, but you don't see me asking a bunch of questions."

He shuffled in his seat, but forced his lips into a firm smirk. "Didn' mean to rile you, love."

Her expression went from impatient to miffed in the space of several quick blinks, dark lashes fluttering with annoyance. "I don't get 'riled,' thank you, I'm not a dog or a raccoon."

Spike's smirk became heavier, along with his heart as the flirtatious drawl grew thicker. "No," he replied, looking her over from shoes to shoulders. "That you're not."

She was a moment from biting off his head with her pearly white teeth, and Spike finally realized this was a woman who wasn't about to be impressed anytime soon, and he should probably leave off. Then a fairly recognizable voice cut in, and said, "Just 'cause she ain't a raccoon doesn't mean she can't get ticked off now and again. Trust me." Spike turned, and found himself under the steady gaze of the bartender. "I see you've met my girlfriend," the man added.

A groan clogged Spike's throat. With a self-depreciating head shake, he muttered, "Balls!" The lady on his right jumped and made a scoffing noise. "Sorry, pet. Didn't know you were attached."

She gave him a pinched smile. "Now you do, so please, quit talkin' to me."

Busy drying a highball glass, all signs of the domineering beau hidden for the moment, her other half smiled crookedly and said, "C'mon now Lemon, guy can't help he has good taste."

She pressed those rouge lips together and rolled her eyes. Unexpectedly, Spike became the object of Lemon's full, undeterred attention, and immediately wished he wasn’t. "I'm sorry if I offended you, but I am simply not in the mood to be hounded by Billy Idol impersonators tonight."

It was the first time he had ever been insulted by a southern belle. The experience was rather mystifying.

Lemon's snapping blue gaze shifted again. "Wade darlin', did you forget to place an order this week?"

She spoke so sweetly that Spike wasn't sure how the words managed to sound as slighting as they did.

Wade's amused hazel eyes lost their carefree light, his crooked smile turning down. "I- No! I didn't! I double checked everything." He tapped the clipboard lying between Lemon and himself, setting the highball down. "Look again."

She sighed impatiently. "I triple checked. Don’t you remember how we were goin' to try those new-"

"Martini glasses," he finished suddenly. Wade released a groan that muffled the radio's pop-country beat. "Damn it!"

Lemon took pity on him, irritation draining away to be replaced by the face of a woman wholly comfortable handling responsibility. "I can call 'em tomorrow, place a rush order if you want."

He nodded earnestly, gratefully. "Thank you." Then, Wade smiled a little bashfully, and turned to the one customer who had just been privy to their entire conversation. "Don't know what I'd do without this woman."

Spike almost snorted when Lemon replied, "Probably forget how to breathe along with leavin' your head lyin’ around somewhere."

Wade sent her a mildly cutting glare, to which she smiled jauntily. He watched her trot away with her long legs and proud shoulders, and his attention remained fixed on his girlfriend's backside as he said, "You ever dated a chick who could probably run the world singlehandedly, and knows it?"

Spike settled further into his seat and cast a quick glance in the retreating bird's direction. His heart and mind immediately thought of Buffy, though he wasn't sure she fully recognized her own greatness. "Never dated, no." His voice was cauterized by one final sip from the bottle. He shoved it aside.

The bartender did his job very well, Spike decided, as a fresh beer suddenly appeared at his fingertips, cool white mist rising from the open lip. "Thanks."

"No problem." The man with a scruffy chin popped open a brew for himself. "Word of advice; if you do ever date a girl like that, check your boots at the door so they don't yell about the carpets gettin' dirty." Wade slanted him a dry look. "Then make peace with the arguing."

Spike stared into his dark swirling bottle. "Sounds like the life to me, mate."

Yet another crooked smile. "Yeah, well... you'd be right." His beer found a place on the shelf behind him. "Wade Kinsella," he said by way of introduction, holding out one hand.

Spike eyed the proffered hello critically, warily, before they shook. "William Pratt," he nearly muttered.

Wade nodded. "Got a nickname?"

The smirk righted itself onto his face. "Spike."

"Spike?" Two dark blonde eyebrows met in the middle, mocking disbelief clear and honest. "I was thinkin' something along the lines of 'Will.'"

"You thought wrong."

A rueful shrug. "It's definitely not the first time. So, how'd you get it?"

The interest being shown him might have bothered Spike more if he didn't partially believe it was in the bloke's job description; or if he was feeling a little better about life in general. Right now Spike simply didn't care. "Long story, that."

"Ya know, most come in this place, they say their stories are long. Or they just talk." Wade crossed his plaid dressed arms. "Between you an' me? All meant to be a lot shorter, but most people tend to get carried away when they have an audience."

Spike gave him a dubious, one arched brow of disdain. "An' you're bettin' m'different."

"You don't like talking very much, I can tell." Wade placed both hands flat on the bar, sighing dramatically. "'Sides, unless you're in a biker gang like the rest of my customers, I gotta hear the story behind that name."

Spike was silent... but then decided to play. It was a harmless thing anyway; wasn’t like it was Buffy in front of him. "Dated a bird when I was barely out of high school," Spike started. "'Bout two years ago, we tried it again. She wasn't all there," he gestured to his head, "you know? Forever spoutin' rot you couldn't always grasp no matter how hard ya tried. Came up with the nickname after I fought with some wanker who’d been harassin' her."

He wasn't going to explain how the moniker was darkened by the fact he'd used a stray railroad spike to win that fight, pounding the weapon right through his opponent's shoulder, effectively scarring the bastard for life. William Pratt had never felt strong before that day, never felt powerful, and while Spike realized the active search for bar brawls that followed, and midnight challenges in billiard rooms which would undoubtedly bear fruitful excuses to fight, wasn't exactly healthy or intelligent, at the time it made him feel alive. It had made him worthy of the nickname his ladylove bestowed.

Since the need for violence abated, no matter the wimp he felt, or the coward, or the lonely freak, William could always rest against the title he'd earned, the one thing in his life he felt meant something. The only thing that reminded him day to day he could do something.

Wade didn't read into what he offered, and didn't seem ready to dig any deeper, for which Spike was grateful. "Must've been a special woman." At the lack of affirmation, the bartender added astutely, "Wasn't your perfect endin' though, huh?"

Spike gave him a critical look. "Used to think so. When she dumped me, felt like the end of the sodding world..." Blue eyes fogged over. "I was wrong."

Wade watched him swallow another gulp of beer. This guy reminded him sadly of himself several years past, and while it wasn't a twin to twin situation, Wade couldn't help from following a hunch and saying, "You found someone knew to drive you crazy, didn't ya?"

Spike was silent. His whole saggy demeanor changed, back whipping into a hunched hill of muscle, arms and hands curling inward; stiff, hard, coiled. The brokenhearted sigh that flew through his lips thoroughly surprised his current audience. "More like me drivin' myself 'round the bend. Girl barely knows I exist." *Heart bloody well wants what it wants.*

Wade frowned at this. "Well, can't say I ever had that problem." The Brit scoffed and the bartender discovered his curiosity prodded to life. "You know what I think ya need?"

"Another drink?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Some female advice." Before his new acquaintance could stop him, Wade bellowed across the room, over gentle conversations and low toned Kenny Chesney. "Lemon! Get out here!"

The model blonde poked her head out from their small office room. "Why are you yellin'?!"

Wade smirked and ignored the glare from a barstool. He cupped one hand against the side of his mouth. "Boy needs a little advice, uh... of the feminine sort!"

While Spike shook his head continuously like a defective bobble-head, Lemon stomped over and crossed her arms. Ignoring the curious glances from a few surrounding customers, she peered down her nose at her boyfriend.

"Oh, don't give me that look, baby. C'mon, have some compassion." His southern drawl came out in full force, softening, deepening. "Man's got some real heartbreak issues, and we thought you could help."

Spike finally spoke up. "No, actually, your honey here thought you could help. I jus' decided it's better when I keep my trap shut." He would have left right then, but the beer was only half gone, and far be it from Spike to waste alcohol.

When faced with a challenge, Lemon always rose to the occasion. When someone didn't think she could tackle it, well... She sat down, right beside her boyfriend's new pal. "I'm inclined to agree with you on that," she chirped brightly, hands folded precisely in her lap, "but when it comes to Wade's intuition about my ability to help in a situation, he is usually right. So go ahead."

Spike stared at the expectant woman. His nerves were dancing again from the attention, and he couldn't decide whether he should say sod all and hightail it home, or actually give in. He supposed he'd already scrapped the night in regards to getting his mind off Buffy, or pretending his heart wasn't little more than a useless muscle if it wasn't hers, so why not? Wasn't like he had anything to lose.

He didn't honestly believe this couple could help, but then again, maybe he would garner something else. Something like understanding.

Even though Spike wasn't sure he would get any from this Lemon chit. In some very weird way, he felt like he was talking to a drill sergeant when he finally spoke up. "The girl... She doesn't know- know I-"

She shook her head when all he did was stutter, patience depleting quickly. "Know how you feel?" Lemon asked, then looked to Wade for confirmation.

He gestured vaguely. "Uh... apparently, she doesn't 'know he exists.'"

Lemon balked and whipped her head around. "Well make it known to her that you exist!"

Spike glared at Wade again, gritting his teeth, jaw muscle popping in his cheek. "It's not that bloody simple."

"Why?"

"Well-!" He stopped, tongue tied. "What?"

"Why isn't it simple?" Lemon wore a look that clearly said she believed him to be hardheaded or rather slow. "Women are intuitive, but we aren't psychic. If you want her to notice you, you have to talk to her. Let her know you're around, ask her out. Somethin'!"

Spike took another swig of beer. He sat up straighter to meet Lemon's eyes, and mumbled, "I did talk to her. She- She-..." A familiar wave of sick nerves bombarded him at the recollection, giddy remembrance directly following. "She's too good for me, all right? S'not like I can jus' waltz up and-"

"Whoa, hang on." Lemon raised a hand, successfully cutting him off. She asked Wade, "What's this guy's name?"

He smiled. "William Pratt."

She squinted, then flipped back to attentive listener mode when the man in question amended Wade's answer with, "It's Spike."

Lemon paused, shook her head, blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders before she said, "Ya know what, I knew a guy named Meatball, so I'm not as shocked as I wish I could be. Besides, it's irrelevant."

Spike refrained from mentioning that she'd been the one to interrupt. However... "Yeah. An' 'Lemon' is the cream of the crop, right?"

Wade snickered. Lemon allowed one acerbic glare. "It's a flower," she bit off. Spike said nothing and watched as she flattened her pale hands across her skirt again, calm restored easily across her face. "You, sir, have one problem here. You'll never get the girl if you don't quit bein' so afraid."

Wade brushed his hand over Lemon's forearm in silent communication as he left to wait on a customer, while Spike sat there gobsmacked. The bint could make a philosopher feel stupid, a scientist retest his theories a hundred times, and a football coach shuffle plays. Her brows were high and her mouth was a hard line. She held no sympathies, and Spike suddenly found himself doused in shame and respect.

"I have good reason to be afraid," he replied thickly.

Lemon suddenly appeared concerned. Spike also got the distinct impression that she wanted to smack him. Little did he know, bartender Wade was more than used to this combination of expressions. "Only if you believe that," she said. Shock was Lemon's reward. "It's as simple as it is hard, but it's what you have to do if you want to change anything."

She had a matter of fact way of speaking that sincerely irritated him. Yet, sugarless advice couldn't have been drilled harder into Spike's head than if it had come from his own mother, but just as forcefully, he recognized the futility of the words. It wasn't that simple, just that difficult.

Buffy was out of reach. She always had been, and he always watched from a distance.

Lemon's voice replayed. Change...

Change what you think.

A sad scoff. It couldn't be that easy.

Unless...

...could it?

A lump the size of Alaska lodged itself inside his throat. Air was heavy, the beer suddenly abhorrent to his taste buds. What if she was right? What if he put himself out there, flaws and all, he could get closer somehow. Welcomed into an area of Buffy's life? Likely it'd be a small one, but that was safe, and anything, anything was better than where he stood now. On the outside, looking in.

He feared if he kept following her like a shadow, he'd become nothing more than that. His previously solid commitments to stay back were all falling to pieces after one thirty minute confrontation; who was to say never getting that again wouldn't drive him into the ground?

He knew he was asking for what constituted too much with this hopeful notion, but the more he considered it, let it gain roots, the more possible it seemed.

Perhaps... perhaps he could become a part of Buffy's life if he set boundaries. If he was careful not to cross them. If he held himself back, but allowed himself the pleasure of her smiles again. Spike would take a crumb to the whole cake any day. Maybe he- No. He would fight the odds and make certain nothing happened to get him kicked out of her life.

"Where..." Spike cleared his throat. Lemon blinked like an expectant feline, and caught his eyes on a dipping glance as he looked down again. "Where do I start?"

It was amazing. A blinding grin spread across her face. It was almost warm, if you squinted. "How 'bout you try an' be her friend?"

Wade returned, a thankful smile on his lips, as he picked up on the fact Lemon had succeeded in making a point. Even though at the moment, it appeared Spike was having a coughing fit.

"Friends?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, friends!" she shouted back. Lemon threw an impatient hand against Wade's arm. "Tell him!"

He looked between the two people sitting- he'd thought -a safe distance away, on the other side of the bar. Wade rubbed his arm and realized he should have thought better. "Tell him what?"

She huffed. "How we were friends long before we ever started dating." A blink and then a squint of cornflower blue eyes. "Well, really dating."

"Ah." Wade fell into a leaning position against the bar, his smile parallel to the angle. "She's right, ya know. I found after living with her, she usually is. We were best friends-"

"Still are," Lemon clarified.

"-a long time 'fore we ended up where we are."

"A very long time." she added.

Spike looked between the two of them. Cautiously, something long buried fought to climb into his heart; he had the distinct sensation that it was hope. He wasn't looking for love, because he already had it, and the idea Buffy would feel for him what Spike did for her was a pipedream in a fairytale. Still, the man couldn't help what he said next. "How'd you manage to... to want each other at the same time?"

For an instant, neither had anything to say.

Wade and Lemon shared a speaking glance, then they looked at Spike in joint determination, and answered in unison. "We talked."

Well, he had to admit, it might be a good start. Spike took one more swig of beer, wincing before he rose from his seat. Wade was already handing over the credit card, and Spike pulled a couple crumpled twenties out of his pocket. The plastic rectangle met with leather and the bills met with cherry stained wood.

Picking up the cash, Wade said, "Hey, you know I charged that card, right?"

"Keep the money." Spike waved offhandedly as he stepped towards the exit.

"Wait-"

"Consider it my thanks, for listenin'."

The couple watched him leave, a billowing coat and thoughts so loud they were certain they could hear them from across the room. Then, like a flicker one sees out of the corner of their eye, he was gone.

In a rather timely fashion, Hard to Love by Lee Brice started playing over the radio, and they shared a meaningful look.

Wade sighed, his arms stiff and crossing over the bar. "You know that is one of the only times I tried to convince a heavy tipper to keep his money?"

She smiled a little sadly. "And one of the only times I was gonna let you."

***

Spike did not sleep at a motel that night, and neither did he share his bed with anyone but the woman of his dreams- in his dreams. Come the morning, he would wake with just as much terror and craving as he had the day before, that which had nearly consumed him whole, until entering that country bar.

Sunlight had a nasty tendency to highlight fears previously covered by night and alcohol, thoughts of hope that can sprout in a garden of advice dug by strangers. Happy strangers. Strangers in love.

Spike woke the next morning, a terrible chill crawling over his naked skin as he realized it was only eleven, and what on Earth was he doing up at this time when he didn't have to show up at the school until two?

All at once he decided it didn't matter, and rose to go to the bathroom. He made it three steps from the door when his toe came in contact with a mess of paper, and Spike looked down. Five different pictures, all of the same woman, but none quite identical to the other. Snow sheets strewn across a dark floor, like a star on a worn ship deck, and all he could think was how the pencil lines were never quite right.

Spike sighed, then scooped them up, sifting through one at a time as he headed downstairs. It was amazing. No matter how hard his heart beat, his chest still managed to hold it in.
_______________

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading, and please review!

Last Night - Buffy Summers' Residence

She rarely edited the website, and as far as she knew, her customers checked it nearly as seldom. Buffy mainly kept it up for tourists searching out antique shops in the area, and to let anyone who couldn't see the posting beside her front door, know the hours of operation.

She took a deep breath, and stared at the tiny mouse icon. Quickly, she adjusted merely one thing with a few resonating clicks.

Open: Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays - Closed: Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays

An odd schedule, sure, but there was nothing for it until Buffy could find someone to run the store without her on the premises. She had been given an opportunity she didn't even know that she wanted until it was thrown her way. A chance to help kids with the problems that were never so superficial as studying or picking out the best college to attend, though Buffy was certain she would be asked those types of questions, too; she was expecting everything from the trivial to the heartbreaking.

If she could just manage to calm down enough to get some sleep, that would be fantastic.

Buffy was over-prepared. She had literally spent hours contemplating everything that might happen tomorrow, from the sorts of people she would meet, to the worst and best case scenarios regarding their questions, and the answers she could give.

Being a guidance counselor often required intent listening, while the replying part was technically optional. Except Buffy knew teenagers, and she knew they would want her opinion if they sought her out. She was afraid she was a little too willing to give it.

She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, and idly stroked Tabitha's back while they both remained glued to the desk which housed her computer. There was a difference between wanting to be heard, and wanting to help. She was scared her devoted intent to do just that might backfire, and while the chance was always present when kids came to see Buffy at her store, if she was at the school for the very purpose of giving answers, all bets were off.

She was supposed to know the answers, the right things. She wouldn't be allowed the slip up of saying something unsuitable, nor could she apologize and call it a day if things went wrong under her direction. She felt a new weight on her shoulders that had never quite manifested when kids searched for answers in a shopkeeper's advice; now, that same advice would belong to a Guidance Counselor.

Groaning, she startled Tabitha into a wide-eyed head jolt. Buffy said, "Sorry," and rose from her seat. She walked into the bedroom and flopped unceremoniously down on the mattress before pulling the blankets high enough to cover her shoulders. She peered at the clock in the darkness.

It was three in the morning. If she didn't get to sleep, her first day at the school was going to be a lot worse than even she could imagine. "Who decided mornings were a good idea anyway?" Buffy grumbled, then rolled on her side.

It wasn't as if she was dreading this whole having a second job thing. Rather, the concept was exciting, and she knew that given the right dose of courage and faith, she could help a lot of kids. She was just so nervous, so terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, that it was beginning to wear her confidence down.

When she'd told Robin she would take the job, Buffy hadn't expected to start right away, but he asked if Mondays and Thursdays would be all right, and somehow she'd forgotten that tomorrow was Monday. She wasn't sure if it was her own enthusiasm or his auctioneer way of speaking that distracted so well, but it hardly mattered now.

Buffy sighed and rolled over again. Nine AM. She had to be at the school at nine AM. Which wouldn't have been quite so daunting if she could fall asleep. As it was, her mind wouldn't shut off, and sleep seemed far less interesting than all the open possibilities for disaster.

"Ugh!" Buffy wretched her pillow out from under her head and muffled her own complaint. She needed to think of something else before the sun rose, or stop thinking completely. Either was a healthful option.

Unbidden, the image of a man entered beside chaotic thoughts, and she froze in a flat position on her bed. Dark coat, white blonde hair, tall, big boots. Bigger smile. Blue eyes. Strong jaw, trembling hands. She blew out a breath.

Well, certainly better than counting sheep. The fact she may never see him in real life again did have the power to cause a fizzle in her heart, but there were upsides to daydreaming. It couldn't possibly hurt, right?

The more vivid the picture became, and the further into her imagination she delved, Buffy remembered how wonderful allowing this kind of thinking, this kind of dreaming, felt.

Of course, the deeper you wove the fantasy, the deeper you were entrenched, and soon enough your mind was no longer your own. Buffy's heart rate calmed, her belly full of butterflies settled, and sleep just snuck right in, as if merely running late rather than threatening to never show.

Her neck fell slack against the crisp white sheet.

What a lovely distraction indeed.

***

Later that morning, Buffy found herself dragged through the halls of the only high school she'd ever known, utterly out of her comfort zone even with familiarity lying around every corner.

She passed the cafeteria, hoping their food had improved over the years, and the water fountains that never seemed to be operational. The gym's big orange doors. A myriad of different things Buffy saw seemed new and old at once. The feeling was the same; she was just glad it came with memories rather than the terrifying concept of being a student here.

It was only half past nine, and Robin Wood had already given her the grand tour of a building she remembered all too well. She received the keys to an office equipped with everything one might need, and a stack of papers thicker than a college chemistry book.

There were things she had to learn, apparently, and most of them related to the students at the school and all their past transgressions. "Permanent record" wasn't being used, in this case, but there were files weighing down her arms as Buffy and Robin walked through the vacant halls.

She also held sheets and pamphlets on what not to say, and information she might learn which would always constitute a phone call to parents. There were many, many things the students could report to their guidance counselor, but some would effectively break all confidentiality clauses. She dreaded the day that ever happened.

It was one thing to help, and another, completely different thing to dictate what secrets she shouldn't keep for the greater good of a person.

A baseball sized lump of nerves, leftover from the night before, crawled into Buffy's throat. She forced a breath, rubbing at the circles hiding beneath her eyes and under concealer.

Robin was talking as he led the way back to their offices. Hers was right next to his, and it felt as if he'd gone over nearly everything there was to go over. From the hours he wanted her in school, to the power she had when it came to writing students notes so they were allowed to miss class.

It might have been daunting, but trivial rules and other little things seemed so insignificant compared to making sure she did right by anyone who came to talk to her.

Buffy felt her shoulders pulled downward. Robin was still speaking. "... and like I said, you know a few of the kids that go here, so it's only logical they'll have an easier time relating to a local. And someone who's closer in age, but still an adult to them." He flashed a smile. "Before you, I was the closest. Gotta say, it didn't make me feel any younger."

"Well, it feels like forever since I went to high school." Buffy smiled halfheartedly. "So this should definitely be interesting."

Robin lifted a hand and placed it carefully on her shoulder, his voice lowering. "You're going to do fine, Buffy."

She sighed, glancing to the papers in her arms. His hand dropped. "I hope so."

"Believe me, I'm a pretty good judge of character, and if I didn't think you were right for the job then I wouldn't have hired you." Robin leaned to her side and opened the door. "Now why don't you settle in, get comfortable, and start learning about a few of your potential clients." He nodded at the folders and sheets in her hands. "I wouldn't be surprised if you have a couple kids visit you later on."

Buffy stared at the gold letters on the door, reading Guidance Counselor. "They know I'm here? Already?" she asked.

He must have noted the panic in her voice, because Robin smiled as disarmingly as she'd ever seen someone smile before, and said, "I made the announcement when the doors first opened. They all know we have a new guidance counselor on staff, they know your schedule, and who you are."

"Gee, FBI sounding much?"

He chuckled. "Just making sure they're prepared. Believe me Buffy, as hard as this is going to be for you, it's twice as hard for any teenager to willingly take a chance on someone. You'll get used to everything soon enough. The kids?" Robin sighed very shortly. "It's going to be a challenge, just knowing someone's here they can talk to, and convincing themselves that seeking you out is okay."

A spark of light flickered behind those words, allowing her nervousness to fade. Buffy was here so she could help, and she wanted to do that so badly, that the fear of messing up was what nearly made her forget about the opportunity she'd been given.

She could make kids' lives easier, and be the listener they might not otherwise have gotten. Suddenly, the very idea that she could have let this possibility run from her made Buffy shudder. She drew her shoulders up with a sense of purpose. "I understand."

"Good." Robin walked backward toward his own office. "Remember, if you need anything I'm right next door, so don't hesitate to ask."

A nod, a quick wave, and Buffy slipped through the door to her new office just before the school bell rang. It made her jump, but she shook it off and set the pile of folders and papers down for the first time since she'd gotten them. The room was sparsely furnished, but spacious. A brown roller chair sat behind the brown wooden desk, and a painting of a landscape hung on the beige walls in a gilded brown frame. The was a pot without a plant or dirt sitting in the corner next to a brown waste basket. Oh yeah, the carpet was brown, too.

"Welcome home," Buffy muttered, dropping her purse beside a white corded phone on the desk. At least it was clean, and a blank canvas meant it'd be that much easier to furnish it to her liking. She just never expected to get an office until Robin told her she would, and then the idea formed in her head that it would look very official, yet welcoming, because hello, guidance counselor.

She hadn't expected it to look like Giles' always stuffy study, minus several imposing book shelves. Robin told her it would have everything she needed, though, so Buffy elected to give him the benefit of the doubt and check the drawers of the very lonely desk.

Fortunately, her new boss was not a kidder, and all seven compartments were soon found to be stashed with office supplies, the only splash of color she'd discovered inside this entire room. There were a conglomerate of Sharpie markers and file folders, Post-it notes, pens, a cup to put things in, and even a label maker.

Buffy glanced around the room for a clock. She spotted one, black and white and plain, hanging above the door. It was quarter to ten, so with a gusty sigh of preparation, Buffy set about livening up the surface of her new desk. She would get to the foreboding pile of papers once she was done.

***

Somehow the concept of lunch didn't even enter her mind. The concept of time, really, suffered a blow altogether, and before Buffy knew it, she glanced up at the boring clock in her now only somewhat boring office, and found it was ten after one.

She blinked, dropping the folder she held in her lap. The hours somehow passed within the space of what felt like minutes, and now she was astonished. Astonished at her own lack of awareness, and her extreme success in going through what had to amount to a dissertation on generic student behavior and teenage moodiness. Honestly, some of those informative pamphlets Robin Wood suggested she read were as stiff as a good drink

It wasn't those which grabbed her interest so thoroughly, of course. Rather, it was the individualized folders filled with different names and faces. Some were thick and some were thin. Some were simple and innocent, others complex and damaging. She'd lost herself in learning each one's story, and trying her hardest to memorize what she could.

Buffy rubbed her forehead and looked at the clock again. She really should go and get something to eat, because an apple and two cups of coffee hardly added up to a breakfast, but she just couldn't find the will to move. It was true her heavy reading had been interrupted by absolutely no one except for the principal, who upon realizing she'd not been visited by any students seemed considerably disappointed. The better part of her secluded morning went by in paces, however, and now Buffy couldn't convince herself to leave the chair.

She sighed, restacking the pile of wrinkly papers. She put the folders away in a bottom drawer, the rest in the lowest shelf of the plastic file sorter. Watching the clock tick away, her elbows flattened and her right temple found an adequate pillow in the flesh of her forearm. Buffy didn't even notice when her eyes fell closed. All she could think about, in a dreary, foggy sort of way, was how much sleep she had lost the night before.

***

Robin Wood wasn't an easily excitable man, but he was as far away as heaven was from hell to keeping calm when family emergencies were involved.

Everyone knew his wife was pregnant, including Robin, but when Faith called to tell her husband that the time was now, Principal Wood hightailed it out of the office so quickly he forgot everything but his car keys. No briefcase, no jacket, and the only reason he had his wallet was due to the fact he always kept it in his back pocket.

He left in such a hurry, that he completely disregarded saying goodbye to anyone he did not pass on the run out. Which meant he did not go into the newest employee's office, and let her know he was leaving.

He had no idea she was sleeping as peacefully as a kitten on a desk, not even the school bells loud enough to wake her.

***

The halls were finally empty, and Spike released a thick sigh of relief. He yanked the zipper down on his gray uniform and pulled his arms free, tying the sleeves around his waist. Different chemicals tinted the air, invisible but potent on tiled restroom walls. In a second, he added the scent of cigarette smoke to the fumes.

Spike cast one last look around at his handiwork before he started pushing the mop cart towards the door. All he had left to clean were the offices. There was another guy on staff here, and between the two of them, the entire place was spotless within a few hours. They hardly talked, and kept mainly to themselves, which was more efficient.

Spike preferred it. Silence was better than annoying chitchat from a bloke he barely knew, even if it did provide ample time for his mind to run itself into the ground.

Honestly, he was used to thinking in circles, even incessantly. *Go and see her. But what if she catches me? I can lie. But not to her, and even if I can it wouldn't be done very well. She wouldn't believe me anyway. Can't risk it. Gotta see her, though. Miss her. God, I want to talk to her again. I should try and... Stupid git, who am I kidding? Not good enough to do that. Can barely meet her eyes. Those beautiful eyes... Fuck. Get done and go to the cemetery, don't think about her.* A spritz of glass cleaner, swipe of a cloth. *Wonder if she had a good day at the store. Wonder if she's thought about me, even for a second... Like hell she has. Christ, I want to see her. I feel like I'm dyin' here.*

He couldn't seem to get last night's conversation out of his head either. Advice from strangers in a bar wasn't usually sound, but at one point he remembered understanding it, agreeing with it, had seen potential to move forward. Now those same liberating feelings were millions of miles away; all he knew were the obstacles.

Spike emptied the mop cart at a slop sink and left it in the closet. He finished his stroll to the offices hand in hand with a janitor's cart and vacuum. The silence didn't do much for mental wars, but it was peaceful. He wouldn't mind some music if his thoughts didn't seem so bloody important. As it was, the lack of footsteps, the dead quiet of an empty school, chatty kids and even the most dedicated teachers now gone home, was as present as the acidic smell of bleach on his hands. It took a full hour at least for this kind of silence to settle in; the clock on the wall read four o'clock. Two hours today, then.

Spike flicked cigarette ash into an ashtray sitting on the cart. He returned it to his pursed lips, inhaling one last time before irritably stubbing the cancer stick out for good.

Christ, not even nicotine helped calm him down anymore. All that could was seeing his girl, laying eyes on her from a distance. Whether or not he caught little more than a glimpse of a shoulder, or her profile as she flitted about her home, didn't matter. It was like without knowing Buffy was alive and well, doing things she normally did, even if logic argued that she had to be, he couldn't feel adequately satisfied. He couldn't sleep well, couldn't watch television without picturing her face every other second. He just... Spike just needed to know she was still with him, in this town, on this Earth. He loved her, and that was all he understood.

Buffy was his world, and the rest of this planet could fall into oblivion for all he cared, so long as she was happy, and he had proof of it.

"Sorry sod," he muttered to himself. Always love's bitch. First for Drusilla, then for the idea of love in general, the concept of having someone to cherish, someone to hold. Until finally, Buffy Summers. A girl who could call him her own, but he would never be able to call his, no matter how badly he wished, or how he felt.

Spike spent the next ten minutes cleaning the teacher's lounge, before walking the added five feet to the principal's office. He glanced inside and noted with relief and alacrity that it was neat as pin, as usual. Robin Wood was an organized person by nature, Spike figured, because it never took more than a swift vacuuming to leave his business quarters polished and perfect. This time, Spike actually got to toss away a forgotten banana peel, and that was heavy cleaning for Wood's office.

He started wheeling the cart back towards the janitor's closet when his eye caught on a door. It was a plain brown door, just like all the others in this place, that he had seen many times before, also like all the others. Except something was different now. The black tape which had previously been covering the words "Guidance Counselor" was gone.

Spike frowned, pausing outside the door. He knew the school was in need of a new staff member, knew the Principal was searching every day for a counselor, but Spike hadn't known one got hired. Of course, the removal of the tape didn't mean that, but it probably meant the office would be in use soon. Unless some kid simply took it, and no one had noticed yet.

Wood probably found someone to tackle the position, and either they started work today and the office needed to be cleaned, or they started soon and Spike could leave the dusting and garbage dumping for another day.

Determining the circumstances meant he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted, finding it unlocked for the first time in weeks.

Spike nudged the door wider and realized the light was on.

Then, all general workings of a human heart flew out the window. Spike blinked once, twice, before a loud gasp flew past his lips and broke the silence like a hammer. There she was, lying across a desk. That familiar mane of golden hair carpeting her makeshift bed, slender arms, and half of Buffy's fair face.

She was asleep, and Spike moved closer unbidden. His heart decided to start beating again with that first shaky step, and it felt like an electric jolt traveled his veins. A thick swallow, a cautious hand reaching out that knew it would never touch, and then he was close enough to see her eyes. He watched Buffy's lashes flutter, and rise.

He stumbled backward. Thankfully nothing hid behind his feet. Buffy lifted her head and yawned, frowning at her unfamiliar surroundings. Then, frowning at him. Spike couldn't move.

It took her a minute to remember lying her head down. The school, the ringing bells, exhaustion setting in... She was still in her office, and now, so was the man she'd been dreaming about only last night.

Buffy was fairly certain she had never seen a person look so close to horrified in her life. Her whole body jerked in reaction. Her nervous system was finally waking up, and she hastily rubbed her bleary vision away with shaking fingers.

Buffy made an attempt to explain, while her brain revved up and her heart pumped all the blood it was capable of pumping through a stiff, whining body. "I- I- must've fell asleep- I-" She rolled her neck and stood up, brushing absently at her black skirt. "Hi- Uh... How- Why are you here?"

He didn't answer but to widen those pretty blue eyes. She regretted her own carelessness. Somehow, her sluggish brain managed to put the pieces together once she noticed his attire. "You work here." He swallowed hard and nodded. She could see his Adam's apple bob under his skin. "I- I-" Damn, with the stuttering. She shook her head and looked at the wall, at her shoes, the desk. Anywhere but him.

Pink still spread across her cheeks, and it wasn't the blood returning to her brain. Of all the ways she could run into William again, this had not been anywhere on her list of acknowledged possibilities. The whole situation reeked of tension waiting to break. "Well, it's official," she sighed dramatically. "You know my secret now. Total narcoleptic."

Her attempt at making a joke fell flat. The urge to say something else came and went like a gust of wind. She noticed William take a deep breath to rival her own, and Buffy waited, hoping he would speak just so she could convince herself this wasn't one of the most embarrassing things to ever happen in her life.

"I- I- I-" There it was. The start of his sentence, with a stutter to boot. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry- Didn't- I didn't know you were in here. I'm-" He looked down, a flash of pain crossing his face as he saw the folded arms of his uniform about his waist. "I'm s'posed to clean..." he mumbled, "...to clean all f'the offices. M'sorry."

Buffy frowned, pure guilt bombarding her nerves. "I'm sorry! I- I should have been out of here-" She glanced at the clock above the door. "Oh my God! I should have left at two! Two thirty at the latest- You were just doing your job, I so didn't mean to freak you out or- or anything. I'm-" She took a breath when he looked up and appeared worried. "You have no reason to apologize to me. Okay?"

Nodding, William ducked his head shyly for the second time. She couldn't tell that his stomach was tied in knots, but Buffy did guess something wasn't right when he said, "You should be gettin' home now, right?"

"Oh." She found her purse, lying haphazardly on the floor. She must have shoved it down there at some point during her nap. "Yeah, I should. Um..." Buffy grabbed her bag and looked absently around the room for things she might have to take with her. "I just- I think I'm missing my keys."

Spike glanced around the room quickly, spotting them on her desk. He pointed.

Buffy sighed, wanting a second chance at that one. Laughed tightly, she shoved the keys into her purse. "What's that saying? If it'd been a snake... it would've bitten me?"

He nodded jerkily. "Right." Spike made the first move he had since she awoke, and it was a step backward. Every thought, every promise made to stay away for as long as he could, shattered cleanly. He'd known it would happen, but that was supposed to be on his terms, and they weren't supposed to talk again. He was amazed he could speak at all right now, though the attempts were entirely pathetic.

The possibility of Buffy showing up here... It never occurred to him. Not once. Never in a million years would he suspect this, or that one of the very things he refused to tell her could be so easily unmasked by sheer happenstance. His job, as undignified and as insignificant as it was, remained a source of shame. He couldn't give a toss for anyone else, but Buffy's opinion had the power to break a man. Now she knew, and all Spike could do was try to remember how to lock his knees so he might remain standing.

The second time they spoke, and it was like this. The third time she was seeing him, and he wore a janitor's uniform. Spike found Buffy sleeping in her office, and the moment could not get any darker.

Then, a light bulb flickered on, and he frowned at the walls around them. "You- You're the new guidance counselor."

Buffy walked out from behind the desk, and met his eyes with a reassuring smile. "Yeah. I'll only be here Mondays and Thursdays, but... yeah." He moved backward again.

Spike knew the next polite thing to do would probably entail asking her how she got the job, or congratulations, but he couldn't get his lips to open. She was going to be here, two days out of the week. At his work. Her work. She'd be helping kids, and he knew she must be so thrilled to get the chance, for he realized how deeply Buffy cared. It was one of the many reasons why he loved her.

Warmth seeped into his eyes, softness he couldn't control, and some of the cold dread stilled, melted away like ice in the sun. Just a little, but it was enough. "Congratulations, love."

Buffy smiled, a glowing, beaming smile that stopped his heart for a second. "Thanks." She shuffled closer.

Then closer. Until finally, before Spike realized it, she was inches away. There was no table between them, no door, no street or moving cars and window panes. She was warm and looking at him with every ounce of it, enough to heat a home, and closer he'd never gotten.

Breathing made her chest rise and fall. The sweet swell of her breasts edged the neckline of a fine linen blouse, white and proper, while her black skirt fell to the knees. Fabric flowing, her hair a floppy bun that she reached back to undo, and then golden waves were draping around her shoulders . He fisted the urge to rake his fingers through it, and clenched his jaw so painfully tight that it cracked.

She didn't seem to notice, but a soft frown was now marring her forehead, pinching it. She opened her pretty lips to say, "I really didn't- I wasn't sure I would see you again."

That wasn't disappointment he heard in her voice. It couldn't be surprise alone, either. The soft, almost breathy tone of something else caught his attention. Hopeful, happy, timid... Relief?

Couldn't possibly be that...

Buffy smiled again, trying to ease his obvious tension. "I'm glad that I did."

It was that.

He almost choked, but the jaw lock broke and instead his chin nearly met with his chest. Spike didn't say a word until his silence birthed nervousness in her eyes, and something within snapped. "So am I," he said. Discomfort and anxiety came second to her pain. Always. Everything came second to her.

The next thing she did shocked all doubt away. Buffy couldn't really care if he was around, nor could she possibly give a damn if he wanted to see her again or not. But when she paused, tilting her head in a sudden way, and asked, "Would you mind walking me to my car?" all possible arguments were as good as dead.

Beaten, bruised, and buried. His highest, loudest insecurities fell to whispers, and he could hear nothing but her uncharacteristic appeal ringing like bells in his ears.

Buffy didn't need him to walk her anywhere. Not to her car, not even out of the school. She was an independent soul, strong, fearless in her stride. Buffy thoroughly hated asking people for assistance or playing a damsel. He knew that. He knew her, and the last thing in the world she would do is request help she didn't need.

Which meant only one thing.

That light in her eyes was for him, and it was feminine, almost determined. Flirtatious.

Reality was never this sweet, and Spike's throat tightened. With a balloon lodged there, beside his heart waiting to burst, he nodded. "'Course."

Buffy smiled yet again, and led the way from the office. When she spotted the cart in the hall it was because she had collided with it. Grunting briefly, Buffy yelled, "Ow!" and hopped on her un-stubbed toes as Spike barreled out. Deducing what happened, he grabbed the rolling cart, panic in his eyes. "Fuck, m'so sorry!" he cried. "I left it out here- I'm sorry. Oh, Buffy-"

She waved a hand, smiling slightly as her face heated ten different shades of red. The hopping ceased. "Don't worry, it's not your fault! It's not your fault. I have eyes, just sometimes I forget to use them."

Her shy laughter turned into giggles as she righted herself, and without force, the terror subsided. The embarrassment practically disappeared, and his self hatred minimized to little more than two or three mental curses. Buffy glanced at the yellow cart and asked, "Gotta put that away soon?"

She watched as something darker, a gray emotion, crossed William's face. His blue eyes dulled and before she knew it, he'd clammed up as tightly as a lock box. He jerked his head towards her office door before closing it. "After- Have to clean-"

Realization dawned. "Oh." Buffy thought quickly and said, "Wait. No you don't." He stared at her. "Don't bother. It's not dirty in there, and I spent a long time getting that desk in order."

He frowned, glancing fast to the letters pronouncing her title on the door. "But I-" He stopped, let go of the doorknob and looked to her for something.

Her mouth lifted on one side. "Leave it for another day."

She couldn't know his heart felt as heavy as a church bell right then, or how her kind indifference to the quality of his job made Spike want to bottle his own surprise and pleasure, just so he could relive it later. Look at it and remember the woman of his dreams hadn't balked at what he did. Remember that she walked with him as he pushed the janitor's cart to the nearest closet, and left it there, before following her.

She let him stay by her side, and didn't comment when he tucked his hands into the low pockets of his dirty uniform. She didn't complain about the smell of bleach and chemicals, didn't do anything but smile and start to talk. All at once, the shame Spike had felt so many times before, dimmed like a porch light.

She asked him how long he had worked at the school, and he hesitated. "Um, 'bout- 'bout fourteen... years." After college ended, which he attended for two years under his mother's urgings, was when Spike got this job to accompany his second. It was hardly a fact about himself he wanted to tell her, so when Buffy looked Spike straight in the eyes and said, "Wow. Long time. You probably know this place better than I do," all sweet and open, he couldn't help but swallow an exhausted sigh.

Relief, when accompanied by shock, was a jarring kind of peace. Spike felt muscles unwind in his back, and then his shoulders, until a smile spread across his face.

Buffy noticed that smile, and it drew forth her next question with minimal anxiety. "Did you go to school here?"

He ducked his head, looking around at the walls and floors like they'd changed colors, suddenly new. "Yeh. Seems like forever ago."

"I know what you mean." They turned a corner. Walking to the parking lot was a journey led by neither, because they both knew the way too well to forget. "Can't say I miss going to school here, but I'm happy with the new job." As they neared the double doors, she stopped, and wanted to ask if he thought they'd be seeing more of each other now that they both worked at the same place.

The hasty pause he lent his feet made her rethink that idea. William was still nervous, and her rush to know certain things might seem pushy; not to mention desperate, on a total Dating 101 No-Nos scale.

*Whoa, hold up. Dating? Is that what I'm trying to do?* She resisted shaking her head. Since when had she decided that. No. Un uh. Not yet. It was too soon. She barely knew this guy, and just because he was charming and hot and had a way of looking at her that made her knees threaten to give, didn't mean much of anything...

Except when he threw a glance at the double doors waiting for her exit, then turned back quick, slightly panicked and asked, "How- How'd you get the new- the job?"

Buffy felt her heart melting.

He didn't want her to leave. It was so beautifully obvious that words died behind her lips and she could only smile.

Spike waited, and when there was no forthcoming reply, but she grinned as bright as a star, he lost track of his thoughts. Anxious nerves dwindled into nothing, as do wispy clouds in the sky. A smirk broke out, shy and soft, starting out crooked until it widened, matching her expression. Buffy's eyes were open and warm and curious, like she was learning about a stranger without them speaking at all, and his heart beat double time.

Finally, remembering herself, Buffy shook her head so gently Spike wouldn't have seen it without that total fascination he kept for every move she made. "I um... Robin- er, principal Wood asked me to be the new counselor. Yesterday."

Spike's enraptured focus slipped, and he frowned very softly, like wrinkles in satin. "He did?"

"Yeah." She shrugged carelessly. "There were some kids fighting outside my store, and I- I sorta helped break it up." Buffy looked down. "He said he thinks that I might be someone the students feel they can talk to."

The frown got deeper. Spike tried to ignore the gnawing inhabiting his chest, rather like a claw scraping at senseless things like jealousy, but he was unable to control his mouth at the same time. "Bloke's married."

She met his eyes, first surprised, then confused. "I know." Robin Wood had married Faith Lehane over five years ago. Buffy remembered clearly; she sold about half their wedding gifts to the attendees. "And that has to do with me getting hired... how?"

*Bleeding. Hell.* Spike swallowed, busying his hands by shoving them deeper into his pockets. Thankfully, he was able to think quickly in the face of disaster. "His wife's pr- pregnant. Heard she was havin' the kid today," Spike mumbled. "Prolly why- why Wood skipped out early."

Understanding fixed in place. "Oh. That's probably why he never woke me up." Buffy laughed quietly and tilted her head as William broke eye contact once again. She wished she could convince him to look at her for longer than a minute. "You did, though."

Her words noticeably startled him. "S-Sorry. I intruded, before." William scratched the back of his head. "I know I should've- should have knocked or-"

"Hey, no I didn't mean that." She rose a hand, quickly breaking his apology in half. "My fault, remember? I'm glad you were here to find me, if you hadn't I could have gotten locked in this place overnight. Can you say 'creepy?'"

Spike's breathing halted, and deeming that he wasn't responding quickly enough, Buffy went on to tell him, "I mean, it was bad having to come here five days in a row every week for four years. I so don't want to spend the night curled up in an office chair. I'm surprised I was actually tired enough to fall asleep on my desk like that."

Her self amused sparkle eased his nerves, which was a first. Somehow, the novelty was beginning to wear a little bit, and he could feel the floor beneath his boots. Could smell the stale school air again, and Buffy's countenance became more than just real. Spike was inches from her body, hearing her voice cascade over his nerves like a lake, and the ripples were finally calming rather than suffocating. Enough, at least, so he could speak without the stutter. "Wouldn't wanna be locked in here m'self."

A sigh of relief trickled down her shoulders. "All these books and classrooms..." She mock shuddered. "Gives me flashbacks to pop quizzes."

He chuckled. She smiled. The tension grew light again, almost nonexistent. Buffy glanced furtively at the exit, wishing for something else to say, anything that might prolong the moment.

Secretly, she was overjoyed to know he worked here, how now she might see William on occasion, often even. Then, of course, there was the fact he also worked at the graveyard, and that led her to believe he wasn't exactly the social type. If all she'd learned didn't already back that theory up, William's second source of income certainly could. He wouldn't like her knowing about it, though, would he? He seemed so private a person, and shyer than a school boy getting called on by his teacher when he didn't know the answer.

She opted for caution and stayed quiet, eyeing the doors again. He spoke up, which urged Buffy to turn her head. "M'sure you'll- you'll enjoy it here, the second time 'round."

She blinked, looking as lost as a kitten until Spike added, "Doin' somethin' different. Bein' a counselor-"

"Oh! Yeah." She shook her head, cheeks going pink. *Damn, Buffy, way to hold a conversation.* A nervous titter left her throat. "I- I'm sure I'll love it. Just hope everyone likes me."

"They'll love you," he said.

She blinked in surprise. His voice, thick, devoted, certain. Buffy never received that sort of faith from a practical stranger before, and she didn't know how William sourced it but nonetheless, she heard it. "Thank you."

His gaze lost its heated attention and he stepped away, but for once, Buffy wasn't afraid he would bolt. No, he looked glued to the floor, even if his whole body shivered with nervous energy. She took a chance and moved towards the double doors at the end of the hall; sure enough, he followed.

They walked outside, across the lot and all the way to her red jeep in absolute silence. Nothing but the cool wind and mossy scents whirled through their fingers, burning their lungs with fresh country air as good as a match.

Spike watched Buffy's hair jump and dance as the wind had its fun, and when they reached her car, the heart in his chest steadied itself to a dull tapping. He felt sluggish, wanted to lean against the driver's door so she wouldn't get in and leave, wanted to stay with her no matter the fear.

For once, his excessive pain was gone. The pain of missing her, of wanting to speak with her, the dreaded conviction that he would never get this close, broken into a hundred pieces. Broken in ways he'd never believed it could be. The moment whispered about how love wasn't so bad after all, now was it? Not when she was near. Not when his tongue did not threaten to choke him and he had fewer reasons to believe Buffy would run from him than he'd ever had before.

Her voice rose from below the hood of the car as she opened the door and got in. He stepped backward, but only by an inch. "Thanks for walking with me," she said. Then, a long pause. Her eyes found his. She appeared as hopeful as an angel, and he wanted to kiss her more than almost all the times before. "Can I-" Buffy cleared her throat delicately. "I hope I'll see you again, William."

"You will."

Her bright smile was a beacon in the night, and he didn't realize his words, his voice, had revealed a wish meant to remain unspoken. Spike stumbled towards the school and Buffy pulled slowly out of the lot, waving goodbye as she just barely avoided a solid yellow parking stop.

Spike lifted a hand to his neck, frowning, rubbing his skin harshly beneath fingers smelling of bleach and glass cleaner. He rewound the moment in his head, the cold Wisconsin wind brushing his face, and a heartbeat speeding.

The air in Spike's lungs left him. All that remained was icy realization, and an afterthought of panic.

***

Buffy drove home with her eyes trained carefully on the road, but her heart between her lips, spread and wide like the moon in the sky. Through her windshield she glanced up, switching the radio on. A song played through the gaps, between girlish half giggles and finger tapping along the steering wheel.

On the days I can't see your eyes, I don't even want to open mine
On the days I can't see your smile, well I'd rather sit, wait the while
For the days I know you'll be near
'Cause a day without you, it just isn't fair
See the days I can hear your voice, I'm left without a choice...

She hadn't felt this way since she was a girl. Since before her threshold birthday when she turned eighteen, before her mother got sick and a boy named Angel entered her life, ready to twist it upside down. Since before her hopes began learning how to rebuild.

Now, there was no twisting, no gut drenched in cold or silence to deafen a lonely heartbeat; there was only flying.

Her car's headlights lit up the short strip of highway, and she made a practiced turn onto her own little gravel road. Heading home, the windows down, with giddiness in her chest.

Plus I get weak in the knees, fall head over heels, baby, and every other cheesy cliché.
Yes, I'm swept off my feet, oh my heart skips a beat
But there's really only one thing to say...

Growing up, Buffy decided, was a double sided card. On one end you found the joker, but the other side beheld a king. A royal face, rich in decadence. You got the good, and you got the bad. Today, Buffy found something she'd thought missing for years.

God damn, you're beautiful to me
You're everything, yeah, that's beautiful
Yes, to me, oh...

Excitement. Butterflies in her tummy. Youthful, and genuine delight, bottled up for her to drink, all because of one man. A man who told her she'd be seeing him again. Maturity did not prevent these things from developing, sadness did. Getting stuck was what drowned sparks in the water.

Yeah you're beautiful, yeah you're beautiful
God damn you're beautiful to me... to me...

Buffy had struck a new match, and the flame could not be any brighter.
__________________________________
END NOTES: Thanks for reading! The song used at the end of this chapter is "God Damn You're Beautiful" by Chester Lee

Please review :)

The next two days and three nights went by very differently for the both of them.

Buffy had a conversation with her new boss Tuesday afternoon, congratulating Robin on the baby, asking after Faith. It was a short phone call, filled with distracted interest for the students he hoped would show some interest in Buffy's position. Robin was taking the rest of the week off, and there was little to be done on his part.

A doting father's attentions were hard to grasp when the school could survive a few days without him; if there were any problems, Buffy should speak with his assistant.

In the meantime, the only other people she spoke with were the townspeople, who altogether supplied a near tumultuous array of questions regarding the mysteriousness of her shop being closed yesterday. Forced to describe the counselor situation, Buffy quickly assuaged any fears that she was planning to sell the antique store or move away. She received many heartfelt congratulations afterward, which thankfully bellied some of the nervousness regarding her new job.

Tuesday was busy, but a happy busy. Kind of like socializing at a party where you're filled with good cheer and preferably sweet wine. In Buffy's case, memories fueled the emotion. Memories and questions that poked at her for answers on a man who was a walking contradiction to himself. A man she decided was quite fun to think about, even if she did so absurdly often...

William was soft spoken, but unafraid of dropping a swear word when she stubbed her toe. He held down a simple job for fourteen years, held doors open for her, proved himself a gentleman yet again when he accompanied Buffy to her car.

She never remembered meeting someone like him. Someone who made her want to ask questions, but didn't hide things on purpose. Someone who made it obvious he was interested without trying. William fought to conceal his feelings, but he did it badly enough that Buffy was sure insecurity played a part. It was the one thing he seemed determined to keep a secret, besides his job, which once revealed no longer seemed to matter.

Buffy didn't think he was purposely hiding himself from her. Not really. Rather, she was fairly certain his lack of personal anecdotes and shy glances were the product of a lonely heart. It only made Buffy more curious.

She had once found mysterious men to be quite alluring, and yes, William was mysterious, but in an unusual way. He was filled with untapped self assurance, always taking heavy swallows and making bold eye contact in the courageous moments. Otherwise, he was like a man behind the curtain, peeking out once in a cautious while to find her waiting for him.

She knew he was there, it was just a matter of coaxing William out.

***

The man in question would have never guessed Buffy's thoughts revolved around him so thoroughly. It had taken a nice big bottle of Jack, in the untouched atmosphere of his own kitchen, to fall asleep after Monday night's graveyard shift. Of course, sleep was really an inaccurate way of describing it. No one would call tossing around in the sheets of an empty bed, beside lying naked and nauseous by an open window for hours, sleep.

He'd gone to bed happy and miserable at once. The first real encounter with Buffy Summers did a number on him, that was true enough, but he'd been the worst kind of unprepared for the second.

His dreams were half conscious ones. Foggy pictures, flitting through his head and filled with color like a kaleidoscope. Butterflies thrived in his stomach. The alcohol was a bittersweet, but necessary addition to this crummy panic and bouts of pacing; Spike was fairly certain he loosened slivers of wood from the floorboards. Needless to say, he arrived at work the next day exhausted and hungover.

Wednesday had many things in common with its predecessor that week. On Wednesday, Spike cleaned the halls and offices at the high school from two o'clock to five thirty, and the entire process was spent looking over his shoulder. He checked around corners, in classrooms and bathroom stalls, half expecting- half hoping -for Buffy to pop up like some Jack in a box. Scared and thrilled over the possibility, it was enlightening to know he wasn't completely insane to think she might.

Even though she didn't.

He drank Wednesday evening, knowing very well what Thursday would bring, and having a need to calm his shaking fingers. A few beers this time. One full pack of cigarettes emptied.

He listened hard to inner fears and desires, like a shadow devil and Hope bitching with each other on his shoulders. Spike knew he couldn't give this chance up. He knew it. The winds had changed, dropping opportunity into his lap. Into his greedy hands. And he was terrified of reaching out.

A thousand reasons, some real and tangible to the mind, others mere sensation, urged that shadow living was safer. Except Spike realized he wasn't capable of it, wasn't wired to tell her no. He was unwilling to hide when Buffy hoped they would see each other again.

Hearing Buffy say that to him was an answered prayer he was still having trouble believing. His constant for so long had been her. Loving her, watching her, ducking behind trees so she wouldn't see him. Hate would quickly replace invitation if she ever knew.

The girl would run, and he would be scum to her. He would become a source of fear. Buffy was everything to Spike; the very idea she could hate him made him sick.

Slipping up was not an option.

In those moments when he could hardly believe Buffy was in front of him, Spike didn't think saying too much posed a problem. It was how she made him feel... real, and alive, like a man worthy of her attention, that concerned him. His tongue might tangle with anxiety, but at least it would keep him from confessing things better left unsaid.

Spike had never demanded or pursued the chances he now held. Never tried to touch what he knew was out of reach, for fear of losing the very person who meant the most to him. Desire remained unbearable, however, a constant echo behind his chest. Now, even if he got no more than a moment or two with her, Spike accepted that it was worth the tightrope walk. It was more than he'd had before, and he would not let greed or idiocy threaten it.

***

Buffy spent Wednesday in a much rosier frame of mind than the man headlining her thoughts.

For a while, anyway.

At the antique shop, she went on a sale sign mission, making three out of cardboard and printing flyers. She discounted all the furniture, and had several decent sales before closing up. Then, Buffy ordered an individual pizza and drove home.

Maybe it was the solitude, the lacking of real distraction. There was simply no song on the radio that could tell her how to do this job right, and little advice to relieve the fear she still experienced. Nervous energy and unacknowledged self doubt flickered inside her like a dying light bulb. Confidence came in spurts, too, but quickly dwindled to bare ash beds ideal for building up anxiety each time.

She had yet to meet with a single student, and Buffy was nearly positive tomorrow would bear no change.

Almost without conscious thought, or perhaps in a striving effort to remain somewhat sure of herself, William's kind words repeated in her overactive mind. They made her smile long enough that Buffy didn't completely dread tomorrow. As a matter of fact, when she thought about running into him again, maybe not so accidentally this time, she was truly happy. Fear and anxiety misplaced for the time being.

It wasn't until Buffy went to bed Wednesday night, counting off things better left worried about in the morning, and how long she should stay after hours in order to see William again, that she realized she had a good old fashioned crush on the man.

***

Thursday morning, she rushed to work, nearly tripping over Tabitha several times who insisted on rubbing against Buffy's ankles. Needless to say, after that the animal spent a good while on her shoulder as she picked out appropriate attire, dabbed concealer under her eyes, and guzzled coffee like a truck driver on a time crunch.

Trying desperately hard not to be late on her second day, Buffy ran stop signs along the way to the school, hoping people were on guard. She made it in one piece and without incident, which Buffy knew had to be partially due to luck, but didn't dwell on it. She strode for the double doors that faced the parking lot and thanked her lucky stars that Robin suggested a starting time one hour later than everyone else's. Not only was it an extra sixty minutes of sleep, but it kept her out of the early crowd.

Buffy smoothed her tan business skirt and held her chin high, a smile plastered on her face for no one's benefit but her own. The joy was not fake, but the nerves hidden behind it were also very real.

*The sooner I get used to this, the better,* Buffy decided, a groan subdued in her throat. She made it to her office without running into a single person, and quickly opened the door... then sighed upon realizing she had left it unlocked. Since Monday.

This time, Buffy did groan, but soon tossed the annoyance aside. Determined not to leave her office looking like an impenetrable fortress today, she left the door open. Behind her, there was dead quiet in the halls, and she knew a bell would break it. Teenagers would file out, rushing from room to room, stopping at lockers, deciding the best ways to while away their free periods.

She hoped at least one would find the courage to enter her office.

A sudden knock jerked Buffy from her thoughts. She found a man standing in the doorway, no student surely, but there was a kind of welcome in his eyes that mirrored the one in his friendly smile. "Hi there," he said. "You must be Buffy Summers."

She frowned suddenly, but then wondered why she was even surprised he knew her name. Honestly, Robin made it clear he had told the entire school about her. That was bound to include people she hadn't met yet, despite it being a small town. "Yeah, that's me." She smiled hesitantly when he stepped into the room. "I don't think I-"

"I'm Roger, Principal Wood's assistant." He shrugged his broad shoulders, a shirt of blue plaid rising and falling.

"Oh. Nice to meet you." Buffy watched him comb fingers down one sideburn, brown hair and brown eyes complimenting a gentleman's countenance. He wore a dark blue tie and black loafers with black pants. She noted the tan belt with some disappointment, because all in all the outfit was good minus that accessory. His hands came together in front of the buckle like he truly considered patience to be a virtue.

"I wanted to introduce myself," he said. "Robin told me to make sure you know that if you need anything, I'm at your disposal, and right next door."

She nodded, smiling openly on a sigh of relief. "Thanks."

"Of course." His hands broke apart, and he moved further into the room. "So, Robin mentioned... you're a little uneasy about this job."

Buffy's eyes widened, startled, embarrassed. She looked down and leaned against her desk. "Um, kinda." She found the nerve to raise her head, speaking as offhandedly as possible. "But I'm sure once I, ya know, get into the swing of things I'll... I'll be fine."

He nodded encouragingly. "I'm sure you will. Believe me, working with teenagers seems daunting until you realize all you have to do is talk to them."

Buffy thought listening wasn't such a bad method, either. "Right." She smiled tightly.

Roger grinned in return, and took the necessary steps backward to meet with the door. Before he walked out, he rested one hip against the frame and snapped his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something. "Hey, you know Robin's going to be out until Monday, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, he told me." She wouldn't return before then, so as long as today didn't hold any catastrophes, Buffy figured the principal's absence mattered little. Still, Roger was kind to let her know.

"Okay, just making sure." The man inclined his head in farewell, and then she was alone again. Buffy finally sat down. She started going through the pamphlets and other silly things she'd left here, wishing she could just throw half of them away.

Reluctantly, she settled for burying them in a drawer.

The quiet fell around her like a pancake on a plate, soft, flat, and for some reason reminding Buffy of what little she'd eaten this morning. When you were running late, and nervous to get where you were going, it was hard to stomach much. If today went by anything like Monday- minus the nap -the lack of activity wouldn't encourage these hours to dwindle any faster.

Squinting accusation at the clock above the door, Buffy put her chin in one hand. She slouched, wondering how on Earth she was supposed to help anyone if nobody came to see her. Sure, it was only five minutes into the second day, but not even a hint of a visitor on her first didn't do much for a woman's sense of purpose.

Buffy sat up, hit by a sudden realization that while she'd slept away that last hour on Monday, anyone could have opened her office door and peeked in. Any student might have sought her out, to talk, to listen, and she'd been dead to the world.

*Crap.* The notion made her feel about as responsible as a toddler. It was all too possible she would have woken up if someone actually entered her office, or knocked on the door; hell, the moment William stepped inside, her eyes popped right open. Except Buffy knew she had slept soundly through at least two school bells, and crowds walking through the halls, which likely meant she was too tired to be roused by anything until William found her long after the day was done.

She was the worst guidance counselor ever. And she had barely even started! Any newfound confidence Buffy might have scrounged up over the last couple days evaporated in seconds, and she hung her head.

Perhaps if she were more proactive about this, students would take a chance on her. An appointment signup sheet outside the office might encourage them, right? Then they would at least see that she was trying.

Or would a signup sheet seem too impersonal? Maybe she could talk to the teachers, ask them to remind their students that everyone was welcome to simply drop in. Buffy was fairly certain she knew all of the staff; Robin's assistant had been a surprise unexpected.

Elbows on the desk, in the middle of a sigh, Buffy raised her head when another knock struck. A young man stood in her doorway. A student. He didn't look much older than sixteen, and he carried a backpack over one shoulder. Buffy immediately sat up. "Hi."

He didn't reply, rather, he looked around her office cautiously, like the walls or the desk may bite. "Hi. I'm- I'm Jack." He shuffled his feet, gaze shifting to and fro.

She tilted her head, trying to slip on a serene expression, all the while fighting to control the excitement in her stomach. "I'm Buffy- Buffy Summers, I mean. It's nice to meet you." She cursed the urge to be casual, but couldn't damn it completely. She knew one thing if she knew nothing else about teenagers, and that was they usually hated formalities.

The boy's fingers worked nervously at his side, his other pale hand gripping the strap of his backpack and readjusting it. "I don't know if I need an appointment or something. If I do I'll make one, but I just thought-" He cut himself off, a tight shrug filling in the blanks. "I figured I should find out, at least."

She practically flew from her seat. "No, not at all. No appointment needed. It's not like I'm busy or anything." She searched the room, almost shouting in triumph when she spotted a neglected chair in the corner, adjacent to the door. "Here," she speedily positioned it in front of her desk. "Have a seat."

Jack hesitated before doing as she said, crossing the threshold with his gaze pinned to the middle, not looking down, not looking up, and not quite meeting hers. Buffy walked around the desk after the door was halfway shut, and they faced each other. She noted he was a good several inches taller without her boots added into the equation. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Well, I-" Another shrug broke his own sentence. Jack's mouth tightened, sighing, one hand gripping his backpack for dear life. "Principal Wood made an announcement the other day. He told everyone there was a new guidance counselor on duty, and that you were real easy to talk to." His voice was controlled, neither quiet nor loud. Frowning gray eyes barely collided with Buffy's own, but she could read him well enough, whether Jack knew it or not. "I think he wants to get everyone to come see you eventually."

She thought back to moments earlier, and relief filled her chest. Ideas and plausible courses of action weren't necessary then. Robin wanted students to open up and talk to somebody just as much as Buffy wanted to help; he took care of nearly everything, he had encouraged them. He'd given this boy a reason to seek her out.

Buffy felt determination fuel confidence, and straightened her shoulders. "I hope most of them will. I'm here to help."

"That's what Principal Wood told us." Jack stopped abruptly. Buffy watched him curiously for a minute, taking in the attire of dark jeans and a heavy brown turtleneck that was too big on him. His hair was short and jet black, face thinner than most boys his age. There was hardly any fat around his cheeks, and little color to supplement.

She made a guess he wasn't going to continue. Whatever he'd obviously stopped himself from saying must have kick-started silence. Buffy hedged carefully with her prompting. "So, is there something you want to talk about?"

Jack could have said a thousand things. Girl troubles, grades, a problem with a specific teacher. Anything. Buffy was smart enough to expect something a bit more atypical, and sure enough, when the silence lent Jack enough courage to speak again, he came back with something truly unexpected. "I know you own a store... in town."

She gave him a nod. "I do."

"Well, I was wondering... I have a free period, so I thought I'd ask you now." His shoulders lifted and fell tightly. "Would you want any help there? Like, are you looking to hire anyone?"

Spun for a loop, Buffy blinked, her jaw falling open. "Um. I was... but only during school hours." His eyes fell, but not before the anxious light in them went out completely. "You're looking for a job?"

Jack nodded. "I need some extra cash. My aunt isn't... She, uh, hurt her knee a week ago, and she can't really work right now, except for some online stuff. But it doesn't pay as well as her other job, and while she's getting better I thought I should look for something."

"To help out." Buffy smiled sympathetically. "I'm sorry, but the only help I really need over there is someone who can work on Monday and Thursday mornings... when I'm here." His morose nod of understanding made her chest ache.

Standing, Jack looked more than ready to leave. He'd asked for a handout, something he loathed to do, and it had gotten him nowhere. Sure, it was a request for work, not charity, but it still left him feeling about two inches tall, and Jack just wanted to forget the whole thing.

Buffy took great pleasure in ruining his exit. "Hey, this doesn't mean I can't still help you find a job."

The boy froze, peering over his shoulder. "What?"

"I have a friend who's always looking for part time workers. If you're interested, I'll give him a call."

When Jack turned around, and neglected to ask what kind of work her friend did, Buffy knew he was willing to take anything. "Really?" the boy asked quickly, "You- You'd do that?"

"My friend Xander Harris works in construction," she explained. "I bet I can arrange something." As long as he was willing to follow orders, which Buffy was certain Jack would, and wear a hard hat, she couldn't think of a good enough reason Xander might actually say no.

Jack was beyond grateful. "I would re- really appreciate that, Ms. Summers."

She smiled. "No problem. If you come see me at the end of the day, I bet I'll have an answer for you. If not, then by Monday for sure."

Jack took his final steps to the door and thanked her three times, smiling shyly but brightly, and Buffy picked up the phone the moment he left. If it took all day and begging, even if Xander couldn't provide anything for him right now, she would find a job opening. She would find something if it killed her.

***

The day fell to a close after Buffy had seen and talked with three more kids. Following Jack, came Penny, who mainly wanted to talk about how exciting it was that Buffy was their new guidance counselor. After her, a girl in the school's theater program stopped by, named Felicity, who needed advice regarding getting more people interested in the performing arts.

After all, who could put on The Wizard of Oz with no one to play Dorothy? After spending a good hour brainstorming ideas with the girl, Buffy's fourth and final visitor arrived. He was a boy named Nick, who was having trouble finding a tutor in English. Fortunately for him, Penny was a wiz in that department, and Buffy knew it. She suggested he seek the fellow student out, pretty certain Penny would just jump at the chance to tutor the star of the school's swim team.

The day soon developed a thick overcoat of success, filling Buffy's chest with thrilling pride. Sure, she had been blessed with a group of fairly easygoing kids, but the quick and precise disposal of their problems lent a dollop of giddiness to her smile when she answered the phone just after two o'clock. "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

"Xander! Did you get my message?"

A pause, then a chuckle playing in her ear. "Uh, yeah. Anya told me before I listened to the one you left on my voicemail, and the one on the house phone. Then, her mother informed me I shouldn't bother having a phone if I'm never going to answer it. You really want to get this mystery kid a job, huh?"

So she had been excessively proactive in contacting him. Buffy didn't feel an ounce of guilt over it, but she still apologized briefly for the mother-in-law thing. "Sorry about that..."

"It's okay. I eat pees and the woman judges me. Nothing unusual. So, gift me with the details on this student looking for work."

Buffy tried not to laugh. "His name is Jack, and he seems like he'll be a good worker. I think he's willing to do whatever you ask, and he really needs a job."

"Yeah, I got that." On the other end, Xander rolled his eyes good naturedly. "How old is he?"

"Sixteen." She double checked his file earlier just to be sure.

"He's a high schooler?"

"Yeah. He came in today, actually asked me if I was hiring at the store, but he couldn't work doing school hours, obviously, and I just need somebody for when I'm here. So when I said no... Well, I just thought you might have something open. It looks like his aunt is his legal guardian, and she recently hurt her knee so she can't work and-"

"Buffy!" Xander cut into her hectic explanation. "I think I have a spot for him. It's not much, but if he doesn't mind coming in for an interview later, I'm sure he can start on Monday."

Buffy beamed. "After school hours, right?"

"Yeah. It'll probably be from three o'clock, to seven or eight. Possibly weekends. I'm not sure yet. Do you think he's willing to work on Saturdays?"

Buffy didn't hesitate. "I think he's willing to take anything he can get, to tell you the truth. You should've seen his face when I told him I couldn't hire him."

"Okay. Send him over to the site- You remember where it is?"

She rolled her eyes. "Totally, Xand."

"Cool. Tell him he can come by anytime today."

A huge breath left her lungs. "Thank you, Xander. So much. I owe you."

"Don't worry about it," her friend replied affably. "Just tell him to watch his head when he stops by. Don't need the kid getting knocked unconscious or something before he even starts workin' for me."

Buffy thought back, snickering into the phone. "I really don't think everyone is as head trauma prone as Giles, Xand."

"Yeah, still, I learned a valuable lesson from that guy. Never let anyone, especially civilians, go without hardhats."

"I'll be sure to warn him."

The conversation soon fell to a close, casual niceties exchanged before Buffy thanked him twice more and dropped the phone into its cradle. She pulled her arms behind her in a stretch and smiled at the ceiling, rolling backward with the chair and spinning around in one big circle.

Buffy stuck her foot out and paused her motions, a boot heel connecting with the side of her desk. A knock rapped against the door. "Come in!" She sat up and immediately, her smile turned wholesome when she saw Jack standing in the doorway, looking worried and flushed. He must have run here from his locker, because there were still tons of kids milling about in the halls and leaving their final classes.

Buffy folded her arms on the desk, and with brilliancy said, "You've got an interview, Jack."

***

It was after two o'clock, and Spike was running late.

There were a couple reasons why this situation should feel less dismaying than it did. One, the boss wasn't in until Monday, which likely meant Spike would receive a scolding from Wood's idiotic assistant, and pissing off Roger was actually a decent source of amusement for him. The git had no personality. Too uptight.

Two, if Spike was late, most people would have left by the time he did arrive. Small mercies, and all that.

However, if someone were to look in on his hectic search for his car keys right now, it would be more than obvious Spike wasn't counting his blessings.

Couch cushions were flipped onto the floor, every cabinet in the kitchen thrown open, and his bedroom torn apart. Anywhere he looked, and no matter how many times he sifted through the pockets of his laundry, Spike came up empty handed. There were very few places he could have set the damn things, and it wasn't exactly a small set. He was a janitor, for Christ's sake.

Even if he wanted to drive the bike, the key for that was on the same chain as every other bloody one he owned. Spike never lost his keys- Well, okay, occasionally, but there were only so many opportunities.

Of course, the past two nights he'd been fairly inebriated, so Spike admitted he could have misplaced them easily enough. He remembered having the set yesterday, walking in the house with them jangling in his coat pocket.

After hanging his duster in the foyer, he set them on the counter in the kitchen.

They weren't in the kitchen now. They weren't on the floor, in a cabinet, hidden somewhere along the marble countertops, or even in the garbage. He had searched the room from top to bottom.

Spike slammed his hand down on a sturdy wooden table, cursing, calling himself an idiot with three different insults. He couldn't remember what else he'd done last night. Those few beers didn't blur the memory so much, but his emotions had, and Spike was about ready to call it a loss and just fucking walk to the school. It would take longer, but at least he'd get there.

At least he'd still have a chance to see Buffy.

Parts of him counseled against the possibility. Parts of him said he was a fool to believe she actually enjoyed their short time spent together on Monday. Parts of him argued that this situation was sure to go up in flames. Parts of him were scared.

Other parts ceased to care.

"Where the hell did I put them?" he muttered harshly. Then, like a flame snapping to life on a match, Spike rose his head and bolted from the kitchen.

He sped all the way up the stairs, down a long hallway, in the opposite direction of his bedroom, to a large imposing door clear on the other side of the house. It was closed tight, as he'd left it, and beneath the doorknob hung his keys.

Spike quickly yanked them free and relocked the room, stuffing the metal set into his back pocket. It was just under a minute when he hopped in his car and drove off, his uniform thrown haphazardly across the backseat.
________________
Thanks for reading!

Not long after she delivered the good news, and sent Jack off with strict instructions to watch out for falling beams and hammers, Buffy had nothing left to do but pack up her things and head home... reluctantly. Very reluctantly.

Roger came in to say goodbye. He mentioned they might be seeing each other again soon, due to Robin's unresolved schedule. Buffy remained polite and friendly while they talked, but when Roger looked at his watch before making an offhand comment about catching an early dinner, and casually left an invitation open for her, she had to bite the inside of her lips to keep from outright declining.

She had dinner plans herself, Buffy told him- which she so didn't -and wished Roger a good night while meticulously reading over files, and needlessly rifling through them.

He left pleasantly enough, and Buffy sighed before tucking her neat stack back inside its drawer. The guy was nice and all, but a little too... clean cut; she had already given men like that their chances.

Besides, at quarter after two, Buffy exhausted every distraction she could to stall actually leaving. She had gone to the bathroom, made herself tea in the teacher's lounge, drank said tea, ran into Dr. Gregory- the biology teacher -and maintained a nice conversation with him for several minutes before he went home. None of this had anything to do with clean cut.

Buffy drew out each moment like it was a curling apple peel, but at nearly three o'clock, she finally admitted she would have to leave without seeing William. Otherwise she risked looking like a total creep. Waiting for him just wasn't something any normal person would do in this situation.

Just as Buffy was about to grudgingly lock up her office, Felicity- theater girl -came running in with a hand drawn flyer. It was a publicity idea, to get the word out that impromptu auditions for the school play would be held on Monday! The girl was giddy with pride and desperation, not to mention running late to make her babysitting job, and so happy with the flyer she asked Buffy to make copies for her. Right away.

If they were hung up tomorrow morning, that left one school day and the weekend for people to grow interested. The theater department needed to acquire a decent list of candidates who could play the role of Dorothy, as soon as possible; the flyers needed to be printed tonight.

Except Felicity had no time, and no way of copying them at home. The local FedEx in town closed at seven and she didn't get off work until ten! Would Buffy mind terribly using the copy machine in the library? Felicity swore she would owe her one!

Not only couldn't Buffy find it within herself to say no, but divinely, this provided an excuse to stay after hours.

She took the inky drawing from Felicity's hands and happily assured the girl it would be done. Buffy was thanked profusely.

***

Half an hour later, every single teacher was gone, every student either halfway home or partaking in extracurricular activities, and Buffy had located the copying machine. That was the fortunate part. Unfortunately, she was currently fighting with the temperamental control panel and trying to guess what God she should pray to for mercy.

Whatever it took to get this thing working, Buffy wasn't having any luck figuring it out. "Stupid technology." Angrily hitting the Restart button, she decided that no way was she about to let down one of her students because of this.

Another five minutes of adjusting settings and plugging in numbers, arguing with the antiquated robot, Buffy lost all patience. "Why won't you work?" she demanded, lashing out with a frustrated slam to the gray lid. Abruptly, a distinct clicking noise sputtered out, and Felicity's flyer was sucked through the document feeder.

Buffy blinked. "Well, okay then." She watched as the machine slowly started to produce fifty identical images on bright yellow paper.

A smile of relief crossed her lips, and Buffy turned around when she got her satisfied fill of watching the copier doing its thing after brute force persuasion. She took a moment to examine her surroundings, soon distracted by quiet grandeur.

She knew this library, although not quite as well as other parts of the school, and some things had definitely changed since Buffy had last visited. For one, it was certainly bigger than she remembered. Heavy book shelves lined every wall, which was nothing new, but there were many more rows standing tall and proud throughout the middle. The ceilings were the highest in the building, wood paneled and housing a round, yellow chandelier. It was solid glass, hanging from an ornate dome of copper metal, and appearing almost like the home of a thousand fireflies when the bulbs flickered.

On the farthest wall, past the stacks, there were sliding ladders connected and propped against short balconies of towering shelves. Students were never allowed to use them without strict supervision, the heights too risky for most people's peace of mind.

Beneath her feet were old wooden floors, dotted with stains and black gouges, but polished to shine like brown honey. Small tables with no more than four chairs each hid behind bookshelves and card catalogs. The computers were all stuffed into a separate room, near the same area where Buffy stood, beside the copier.

As the sounds of arduous printing continued, she let curiosity take hold. The floorboards creaked underneath her boots, echoing quietly as if she moved through a cavern.

Buffy walked around the librarian's perch, a circular wooden desk, its surface laden with magazines, books, and knickknacks. There was a small round table off to her right, topped by a beige globe.

She traveled the rows, and pulled out dusty books that appeared not to have been touched in years. After reading some of the titles, she understood why, but empathized with their loneliness all the same. Buffy then came upon another set of tables and chairs, before she found herself in the section quaintly labeled "Our Town's History."

She brushed her fingers over the smooth spines and edges, taking note of author's names, admiring the old pictures on the wall. They were photos of places she knew like the back of her hand, but appeared as different locations altogether when framed in black and white. Buffy read the titles, gold engravings beneath every one; the old Drive-In on Spruce Street, taken in the fifties when it was a little more retro; Jasper's auto body shop the day it first opened, 1962; the Austin Bakery before it was renovated and turned into a pizza joint.

There were several more, and Buffy scooted down the aisle. She paused in front of one, darker and more shadowy than the rest, a huge three story house, made out of brick. It looked like there might be a driveway off to the left. The picture ended too soon, however, for her to be sure. A big oak tree with wide, leafless black branches grabbing at the sky hid the building's right corner and a section of overgrown gardens.

It was familiar, but she immediately wondered why. A contemplative frown fell upon Buffy's face when she read the engraving on the frame.

Historic Everett House; Photographed 1992, Last Owned by sisters Beth Everett and Anne Pratt.

She blinked. The last name stuck out, and Buffy suddenly remembered.

*Will Pratt.*

She lifted a hand to the glass, words echoing in her mind. William... She had been told he lived in a big house. While this was not one she often noticed, and never had she seen the whole thing up close, she had seen it.

It was a property that couldn't very well be earned on a janitor's salary alone. Judging by the miniscule description, Buffy figured an inheritance situation had kept the building in the family for generations. Was Anne William's mother? If so, Buffy wondered whether she was still alive. And how did one keep up with an old house like that minus a heavy income? Surely maintenance was constant. Maybe William did a lot of it himself, or maybe he'd inherited a large sum of money to take care of it when his relatives passed.

If that were the case, why was he still a janitor? Why didn't he retire and live in luxury? She supposed there could be a clause in a will... Something like all money must be used to keep up the condition of the property? Call Buffy naive, but from what she knew of William- even if it was very little -she couldn't see him being selfish with any sum, or selling the home his mother had lived in.

Then again, hadn't he said he moved to America when he was twelve? Maybe William harbored no real attachment to the house. Maybe he did. There was certainly the chance that he only kept his low-key jobs in order to have something to do, or because he believed he should earn money in some way.

Struck by a lightning bolt of curiosity, Buffy started ransacking the bookshelves until she found the odd, but also very helpful, index of historical town locations. It was a thin volume, very wide, filled with brief summaries and pictures of every house or building that was old and supposedly important.

She brought it to the nearest table, sat down, and quickly scanned an alphabetized directory. The name Everett popped out from the crisp white pages like a firework.

***

Spike tore into the school's parking lot. He immediately searched for Buffy's car, eyes wide and hopes dangerously high. He was gripped by pessimistic disappointment until he spotted the cherry red jeep near the entrance.

A long sigh of relief slackened his spine.

It did not last. Nerves kicked up again and began firing adrenaline through his body, causing anxious flips in his stomach. Biting down, Spike grabbed his hated uniform from the backseat, jumped out of his car and slammed the door behind him, all the while grinding his teeth.

When he strode through the halls, he felt his anxiety fly into overdrive. The place was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and while certain groups wouldn't leave until four, the building was practically empty now.

Spike slipped into the nearest bathroom and quickly pulled his uniform over his clothes, black jeans and a T-shirt hidden behind thick material so gray that not even the dullest of autumn skies could compare.

He groaned when he looked in the mirror. His eyes were reddened from lack of sleep, lined by smudgy coal, and he'd neglected to run a comb through his hair after the great search for his keys. Pulling and pulling at the strands in anxious anger until his curls were freed from their pomade prison, and now he was forced to try and finger-pick it smooth like a monkey.

Spike dropped his hands. It was useless. *Doesn't rightly matter. Not like she really cares about my bleeding hair. Surprised she cares enough to want to see me again.*

Blowing out a short breath, Spike muttered practiced greetings aloud. A shaky syllable in each word and noteworthy subjects memorized with repetition. Trying to make sense out of questions that might never be asked, answers he may never give.

Leaving the bathroom, he clamped his lips shut and rubbed at the curls topping his nape. Spike soon made a beeline for Buffy's office, but when he found himself on the other side of the door, he couldn't knock. He couldn't even fathom what he'd been thinking, but seeking her out intentionally was not the right idea.

Spike hastily stepped back. He swerved and strode for the nearest janitor's closet, prepared to search inconspicuously behind the shield of a bright yellow cart and dusting rags.

He would clean the bathrooms last today, if only to be sure he didn't miss her.

Rolling down the empty halls, Spike's jaw locked and his heart sped, beating like a drum in his chest. His neck was shiny with sweat, but he ignored the laboring of nerves, and instead dealt with the agonizing whispers in his head. Self doubt tried to wrangle for control, persuade him into hiding, forgetting this silly plan, but Spike resisted.

Buffy said she hoped to see him again. It was more than he could turn away from.

Not paying attention, very busy looking over his shoulder, the blonde nerve bundle almost ran right over his coworker. Clement Leighton, also known as Clem, a tall brunette with blue eyes and an easy smile, exclaimed in surprise before offering a hello. "Hey! Spike, you're late, man."

Swallowing a few choice curses, he nodded. "I know. Couldn't find my keys."

Clem bobbed his head and waved a placating hand. "Ah, I gotchya. It's okay, buddy. I started cleaning the bathrooms already since you were taking so long. You know how Righteous Roger likes to boss people around, and he asked me to get to 'em before I started anything else."

Spike rose a scathing brow in response to that new knowledge, but merely said, "So I get the library then?"

"That's right." Clem walked past in his matching uniform, mop bucket at the hip. "I'll see ya later, man. Don't get lost in the books."

Spike rolled his eyes, but internally he was pleased. The library just entailed a lot of vacuuming instead of bleach and toilet brushes. Frankly, Spike preferred the company of shelves and paper to porcelain echoes.

Pushing forward, he kept looking around, his skin prickling. Buffy could walk out of a room twenty paces ahead and Spike would be just as startled if she fell from a ceiling vent.

He tried not to think too much about the clothes he wore. It was embarrassing, being a walking billboard for the very thing he'd tried to hide from her.

He was grateful for her kindness, but the fact still remained; Buffy deserved someone who wasn't content to simply do what he did. Someone who needed more out of life than that which Spike accepted with open hands.

Except now he couldn't stop. She'd lifted a gate to let him into heaven, and while he never expected to pass the threshold, denying her was not an option. Solitude went only so far in keeping Spike tethered, when love played a part.

His black boots were stepping on white marble floors, and they were sure to stain, but every time he looked at Buffy's beautiful face, her eyes contained only welcome. Not indifference. Not mockery. Not disgust.

Feeling guilt wriggle into his stomach like a snake, the man walked faster, his strides large and forced. He met with the library doors, and plucked up the vacuum before using the cart to prop the entrance open. Despite his thoughts, his feelings refused to be quelled. If she saw the open door and the yellow cart, then she would know he was inside.

Men worthy of Buffy's regard did not spend time hiding in the dark, watching her house and following her like a shadow. But Spike was selfish, and sometimes, what you deserved was not what you were given.

Sometimes, you were offered more.

***

Buffy focused on the words before her, little lines of black columned on crisp white paper. She read voraciously, until the two and a half pages of information ended, starting anew on a different history for a different building. She reread them.

Everett was a family name. For over a century, each member was born and raised in the same house. They were a wealthy lot, and through the years the residence became a customary item to be passed down. It grew in size, and went from the first owner, to his son, to the next, finally to a daughter, to her children, to theirs, and so on and so on...

Eventually it was left to two sisters; Beth and Anne Everett. They were distant from their grandfather's bachelor brother, living just an ocean away, until the day he died, and the residence fell into their hands.

Beth, age twenty-nine, decided to pack up and head to America, see just what this foundation of family history had to offer. Not long after she left England Beth met a man and married him, thereby choosing to remain in Wisconsin, U.S.A., while Anne kept up life across the pond. Many years later she would move, as well, to finally share the house with her sister.

Buffy thought she could guess the rest of it.

William told her he came here with his mother when he was twelve. If that was true, then Anne and Beth had likely been his closest relatives. Buffy knew from the book that Beth- his aunt, then? -passed away some time ago, followed by Anne only three years prior to now.

Considering the facts, Buffy assumed William was left alone, the house undoubtedly all that remained of his family. If his father was around, the guy wasn't mentioned. If he had siblings, she didn't know. All Buffy did know- which was decidedly more information than she had less than an hour ago -was William's mother and aunt were gone, and he was most likely living in that big forgotten house on the edge of town.

It was a grand old building, made of bricks the color of white sunflowers, half covered by grasping ivy and windows on every floor. In the book, it looked daunting.

Buffy traced the edges of the photo until her finger slid closer to the middle, outlining the front door and chimney stacks. She tilted her head, wondering the size of the hallways in this place. Wondering how far the ceilings stretched and how deeply the fireplaces nestled into the walls. She tried to imagine an expansive living room feeling cozy or warm. She tried picturing a bed that wouldn't prove too small; thought enviously of the closet space, then sorrowfully of the bare corners and empty nooks. The quiet that must echo through, no cramping or clutter, fewer walls to muffle the creaking sounds and hang pictures from.

It was a beautiful house, that was for sure, but Buffy wondered how one might feel if they were cursed to living in it alone.

Silently, she closed the book. A cold silence rang, its fingers wrapping around her throat before she realized why the temperature suddenly changed; her skin had acquired goose bumps everywhere.

Buffy turned around. William was standing there, solid and still, less than a foot away. Her arms clenched around the book, eyes widening to the size of the moon. Undecided words lodged in her throat before they could gain breath. Hell, she couldn't breathe.

Air came rushing forward like bullets, all at once, as if reminding her it was there to be used, and Buffy inhaled. Shaky, thrusting her stammering heart to the back of her mind, she managed a weak, "Hi," and that was it.

***

Evidently, he was the one tasked with speaking. She seemed to have clammed up. Her shoulders, those pretty pink lips, were stiff, compressed like a card in an envelope. Every inch of her lovely form taught and nervous.

For a switch, Spike felt indescribably calm.

It was like the beach versus the ocean. When the waves thrash and fight, and the sand is swallowed, washed away by the current but never hurt or angry. Spike was so often caught in unsettled waters, gasping for breath; calm wasn't a word he understood.

However, the book, and the realization of what Buffy had likely been looking for, was as shocking as it was viewpoint shifting. The opposite of humbling; rather, she was stoking a flame that had barely made itself into a spark.

Now, Spike learned something. Today, in this library, he realized she had read about the history of his house, and the family which owned it. His family. He'd seen the pages she was poring over. Spike hardly gave a toss for the building's historical foundations himself, he merely lived in it, acknowledged it as his mother's last home, but Buffy had wondered. She had wanted to know.

She had wanted to know something about him.

A vibration ran through Spike's limbs, until it settled in his fingertips, warming from the inside out. "Hi." It was the first word, the very first thing he had said to her today. She smiled, crooked and uneasy, blushing the color of maraschino cherries. He wanted to touch her. "Found yourself in the library, eh pet?"

Buffy glanced up, caught off guard. His voice had never been so sure. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant sound, but it didn't help her any right now. She felt rather like a cat trying to hide the fact there was a dead canary in the closet. "Yeah. I, uh, I was-" Buffy blanked. Why had she come in here again?

*Felicity! The copier!* her brain screamed, and she jumped to say, "The copier."

She offered nothing more. No extra syllables or verbs. Nothing. "The copier?" he echoed simply.

Buffy shot a look behind him, presumably, at the machine in question. "I- I was making copies- For a student. She asked me... You see, she babysits. And she was running late, so I said that I would print them for her because they have to- have to go up tomorrow morning."

Spike decided his girl was very endearing when flustered. Of course, she was always bloody adorable to him. "That was very nice of you."

Wow. Not a single stutter, direct eye contact and everything, even a little amusement shining in there. She wondered briefly if she was dreaming.

Spike tipped his head. Buffy tensed further when he nodded at the book, holding her breath.

"Some light readin' while the copier does its work?" he asked.

She gulped, then forced a laugh even a nun would have to admit sounded awkward. "Yeah. Exactly. I was just poking around. Thought I'd find something to read while I waited..." Her voice trailed off as William reached cautiously forward, and ran his thumb across the cover of the book. She knew it wasn't possible, but every slow smoothing motion poked through pages and leather until her middle was alight with tingles.

Buffy inhaled quietly, letting her ribs expand. The book pushed against the pad of his thumb. She tried to smile when his hand fell away but her lips felt slack and cold.

William glanced up, then away again. Not from fear, unless anxiety could hide in a sexy smolder as his attention focused on her mouth. "Find out anythin' interesting?" he murmured.

Okay. So he totally, definitely, no-way-in-hell-didn't know what she'd been reading about, and actively searching for. *Crap. He's gonna think I'm a total stalker.* Was she supposed to come clean, or lie? The coward's way out seemed smarter. "Nothing particularly riveting," she said, amazingly controlled, too.

He did the strangest thing then. William reached out again, his eyes flickering like gems in the sun, and grasped the book. He asked, "May I?" so she let go. Buffy watched him flip pages, the white paper moving as quickly as hummingbird wings. William eventually paused near the beginning, but that was all she could tell.

Buffy had the unrelenting urge to bite her nails; she settled for twisting her hands together instead. Maybe a half-truth would slide?

William stared at the book, his attention fixed, and one would think it might relieve some of the tension in her chest, but it didn't. Somehow she knew he was equally aware of every move she made. "Everett, love?" His voice made her shiver. It was different, wholly new compared to all the other times she had heard him speak. "History tickle your fancy?"

She was silent for a tense moment. "Well, I sometimes like to read-... Uh, I mean, yeah." His eyes suddenly clashed with hers, and Buffy could do nothing but spill. "I was curious. I saw the picture of the house over there." She raised her hand to point at the frame on the wall, sighing loudly in defeat. "It says it was owned by two sisters..."

A hint of recognition, and he murmured, "My mum and aunt."

"I knew your name was Pratt!" she said excitedly, then quickly felt subdued by the mocking eyebrow lift William offered. Buffy swallowed and chewed on her lower lip. "Sorry... I guess I was- I wanted to know more about the house. I'd only seen it a couple times..."

Her voice grew quieter with each word, until all that was left was shy eyes and flaming cheeks. Spike snapped the book closed and for some sick reason delighted in her miniscule jump. It felt bloody good to be the one in control for once, to feel confident standing in front of the single person whose opinion meant the most to him.

"You've come across it then," he said. "On the West edge of town." He knew she'd seen it. It was how he'd seen her. There was a gas station right across the road, and while forest blocked a majority of the house's face, Buffy had likely glanced the viewable portion and remembered it.

She nodded. "Yeah. I almost didn't recognize it from the photo, though..." She gestured to the frame on the wall again; Spike's focus didn't shift.

How to tell her he had no trouble recognizing her after that first glimpse. Two years ago, when she had stopped for gas across the street, and he found her. Spike vividly recalled the way she moved, the flow of her hair in the gentle wind. Buffy had worn jeans and a cream V-neck top, and the second she drove away, he'd wanted to go out and catch her.

Things progressed steadily after that. He would check the gas station lot, stop by to pick up snacks and cigarettes, searching for a bright red Jeep. It wasn't right away that she came back, but eventually, Buffy did stop there again. He fell into hoping, into following her, always yearning to see her face.

Spike resisted, at first, but he was loathe to give the woman up. Love grew out of watching her, wanting her, dreaming about her since he couldn't otherwise be at her side. Buffy somehow became Spike's world in a length of time that now, he couldn't determine.

He was fairly convinced it didn't matter. He remembered being so certain she would never waste a second look on him. So sure that Buffy wouldn't want a single thing to do with a stranger who worked as a janitor and lived as far outside society as he could. Spike had never believed his dreams might come true, that the moment he was in right now would ever be real.

He sucked in a deep breath, and Buffy's gentle frown of concern made his heart ache. All those bloody nerves that screamed while walking in, the panic and fear kept constantly at his side when it came to her, seemed like ghosts and nightmares now. Untouchable, unseen.

All his bouts of pacing, every single bottle drained, the worries accompanied by dreams, they were all intangible, floating away and dispersing like smoke.

He had made it this far... who was to say he couldn't go farther?

Spike set the book on the table, brushing against Buffy's arm as he did so. In the distance, solitude and stuffy air combined into a backdrop so quiet he could almost hear her heart beating. Buffy went still, and while her murmur sent goose bumps to rise on his back and throat, it was not out of apprehension, but something richer. Something more zealous.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

Somewhere, in a distant part of his brain, Spike realized he was playing with fire. He was considering something that would definitely be pushing boundaries, something that could threaten what he had. He always feared losing Buffy so greatly, feared a mistake or clumsy words might tear her away from him. That he could stupidly push for too much, push for what logic argued this woman would never give. After all, how in the hell could he deserve it?

A few seconds had passed since Spike last said anything, due to the winding road his thoughts traveled, and evidently, she took that to mean he was upset. "I'm sorry if I- I mean, I didn't mean to like, pry or anything. I admit I was curious. A friend of mine said he thought your name was Pratt and- Not that I was talking about you or anything. I just mentioned the car thing, remember how your car broke down in front of my house? And he said- Well, he remembered your name and, I don't know, I wanted to know more about you I guess..." Her cheeks glowed like a warm fire.

William's head tilted in the middle of her tirade, and now he was staring; this kind of luminescent gleam sat in his eyes above a still mouth. He was dead silent.

Buffy gulped. Why had she spoken? Why had she said a single word?! What happened to the half-truth idea? Now he was going to think she was nutty- *I'm starting to think I'm nutty.* -and probably never speak to her again. It didn't help that all the blood had traveled to her face, and Buffy just knew she was the color of a Bubblicious gum wrapper.

God, if he would only say something, then maybe she could salvage this. Maybe she could convince him she wasn't a crazy girl obsessed with some guy she barely knew. *Aren't I? No! I'm not. I just... have a crush. Definitely sure of that now.*

If William would break this glacier thick ice and speak to her, then she could go on from there. Buffy was loathe to open her mouth again before she had something to respond with.

An unspeakably tense moment passed; her shoulders were high and her heart was racing, Spike was holding himself back with an invisible leash about to snap.

Then suddenly, he couldn't take it. He just couldn't stand there, with Buffy's fear and anxiety clear in her eyes and her whole body prepped for his lashing out, and do nothing. Spike gathered all the courage in his heart, pushed the demons down, muffled the warning screams, and leaned close enough to feel her breathe.

Inch by inch, centimeters falling away, and watching Buffy's eyes widen as her chin tilted up. He noticed her reach back and grip the edge of the table, and he didn't kiss her like he knew she thought he would. Spike stopped and swallowed a knot the size of a baseball, then murmured, "I'm an open book for you, love. You have a question, you can always ask."

It was a partial lie, Spike knew, and it was incredible he'd been able to utter it. He had not been willing to tell her about his job before, and he would never tell her how he watched her, would never admit to the obsession he harbored or the love he felt before she even knew he existed. So no, he was not a completely open book, but Spike realized if Buffy was curious enough to ask questions or do research on his home, then he would try. He would try so damn hard to cater to her pondering.

Evidently, his nearness and chilling tone of voice only exacerbated the nerves. Buffy was beginning to stutter more than him. "I didn't want you to- to think that I... Um, that I was being nosy."

"Be as nosy as you wish, sweetheart," he said, before she could continue. The endearment made her raise her head and when Spike found the darkest depths of her green eyes, his heart started pounding.

Buffy bit her lower lip, something like indecision splicing the bemusement on her face. She looked at his mouth when she murmured, "Do you want me to- to be nosy?"

He almost chuckled, and the fact he could feel the urge to do so when he was this close to her was a pinnacle moment in itself. "I'd love it," he swore. Tension invaded his muscles, until Spike found his hands pressing into the surface of the table. He was blocking her in.

Buffy's voice fell, deeper, quieter than before. She shrugged lazily, bringing her shoulders closer to his chest. "Know what I'd love?"

He could feel the heat coming off her. Soft skin brushed his, pink lips moving, his head fogging. Spike held still, but the sensation of her knees connecting with his briefly, was enough to pull him nearer. Buffy's hands found his wrists. She was so bloody close, he could barely breathe, but felt every little exhale leaving her mouth.

"What's that?" he muttered.

"This." She moved so slowly, leaving ample time for him to back out, that the moment was warm and honey-like before it began. Her lips brushed his, as softly as a feather, and reality faded.

Spike's restraint unwound.

Soft pressure. Light and silky, moving across Spike's tense lips as smoothly as skates glide over ice. His heartbeat stopped entirely. His palms grew sweaty, sliding on the table behind them; muscles coiled so tightly he felt them clench and spasm.

Not her muscles, of course. Buffy was plush and pressing, like a granted wish. Every bone in her body melted, every inch of her stayed gentle and soft. When the moment unfroze, and the dark behind his eyelids sparkled, he wrapped his hands around her waist. Heat seeped into biting fingers. Gasps died behind closed lips.

Buffy lingered in the haze, moaning very quietly, like she was having a dream. Suddenly, William moved closer. Hips bumping, fast hands, eyes welded shut. At some point Buffy couldn't recall, she had stood from the chair, now he pushed her into the table.

He came to life, slid against her, hurried and smooth, warming her from the outside in. His body bent like a fist curls its fingers, she felt her pulse skipping, felt his caresses turn rough. Steam blowing against her mouth and when he pulled back just to dive back in, Buffy swore she could hear his heart beating.

She touched his arms, the fabric of the uniform coarse underneath her fingertips. He held on with an iron will that had been building for ages.

The pressure of her chest was a sensation William had never thought to feel against his own, but still imagined over and over again until the dream was a picture he knew every corner and color of, where the needy groans tickling his skin were all in his head. Where imagination ensured the woman in his arms wasn't a stranger, and she knew both his names.

Teeth nibbling her bottom lip made Buffy shiver.

She whimpered. Spike yanked her closer still. They were as molded together as two people could get. Gently, nails dug into muscle. She dragged her tongue along the seam of his lips and coherence returned like a shot. Spike's palms burned with warmth and his ears rang. The strenuous arching of body into body was not a random female with close-enough blonde hair. It wasn't his imagination. It was Buffy, it was his girl, and this was real.

*I love you, I love you, I love you.* The vow reverberated through his mind like an echo. Spike grappled with her hips until his fingers were bunching the material of her skirt. Little gasps and deep moans pulled sounds from his own throat he'd never thought to make around her, the kind of lost ecstasy a man exhibits when he's guided by the feelings of a tight zipper and unfettered heat.

She was weakening beneath him, her body sliding into lethargy based pleasure and sighing against his mouth every time they parted. He dove deeper, unwilling to stop. Unwilling to let go. Spike never thought he would taste her like this, know her like this. Everything around them was still and quiet, but between them, a hundred fires were lit, a thousand cherry bombs going off; audacious, alive.

His tongue slipped wetly along hers, stroking the insides of her cheeks and the backs of her teeth. Bodies grew sweaty. She bit his lip. A gentle hand sped over her ribcage to her breast, Buffy felt it cup her, then wander downward, yanking again at her hip. A growl that thoroughly surprised her accompanied skirt shifting. Her thighs were bare, air cool and denim chafing.

William touched her like he was handling a glass ornament, something breakable, but he could only remain so gentle. He craved her. He wanted her. She felt a stiffness kneading the soft part of her stomach, the portion below her belly button that was almost another section altogether.

It made her greedy. It made her gasp and made her burn. His kisses were electric, rough and desperate. They broke apart, crisis inhales of oxygen flowing into lungs. His lips dropped to her throat, biting, licking, loving the skin with fond nips and wet sucking. He tugged on her nerves through skin, nibbling up and below her ear. Buffy's eyes flew open, the view of the wide ceiling sadly reminding of where they were, and that they had never done this before. Any of this. Despite every lustful notion of I-missed-him which begged to differ.

She felt William's hands cup her elbows, tugging her impossibly closer. Buffy arched into greedy kisses, her name whispered hotly against her own throat, and the sound was so erotic she could scream. A pulse of warmth spread between her open legs, climbing into the apex of her thighs. Her hands slid through his hair and combed back. Hazy eyes rolled up in her head. She felt an insistent moan crash against her neck.

She was loathe to say a single thing, wishing the moment would never end. William wedged his leg between hers. Rough fabric was suddenly brushing and rubbing; flesh turned dripping, hot, throbbing. Buffy knew she had to stop, but the writhing, full body grinding was hard to forfeit.

In a very dark, very pathetic moment, she felt a sinking sensation of disappointment collide with sparks before the stupid words had even left her mouth. Gasping for equilibrium, she said, "We-We should stop."

It didn't stall him at first, maybe because her voice was quiet and breathy. Maybe because his eyes were closed and he appeared to be savoring every sweaty grind, just as she was. It took her a moment to get a handle and stop. But a second slid by where he changed, his entire, wonderful body going from hot and invading, to merely frozen. Her lips were trembling as William pulled away, all the tension in the world written on his face.

The self-assured countenance from earlier was nowhere in sight. Instead, Buffy was rewarded with a significant amount of insecurity. His blue eyes were passion filled, practically shining with heady lust and desire, but he said nothing. He gulped, but he didn't speak. Nodding was William's sudden reply; he still neglected to pull away.

Air flew in and out of her mouth; he seemed hypnotized by the action. She slid her hands high until they gripped William's shoulders, every inch of her skin on fire. Every single centimeter between them a distance too far for her liking. Control was a ghost emotion. Buffy hastily grappled with it before all sense flew out the window. Her wet panties were an entreaty and one pet name away from hitting the ground. "I- We-" Damn, where had coherency gone?

Their gazes clashed as she took in deep breaths, rather like lightning meets a metal antenna. Buffy felt the telltale sensation of fingers clenching and kneading her flesh through a chafing top. "You're an amazing kisser," she finally chuckled. William clenched his jaw and smiled, an unnerving combination. Buffy bit her lower lip, caressing his throat tentatively. Calm had to be restored before she leaned in again and stole his mouth with intent she'd never be able to kill. "I don't- I didn't mean for-..." Her own gulp cut her off; William was leaning into her stroking hands. She softened considerably as tension drained away.

He still trembled. William looked like he had something to say but didn't dare whisper a word of it. He didn't seem to want to let go of her, didn't look as if he was ready to chance breaking the spell neither of them had cast on purpose. Hastily gathered nerves fought with reservation in his eyes, stance unsteady as if braced for a fight.

"I didn't mean to jump you," Buffy murmured. She was so grateful he hadn't dropped his hands yet; they supported her quite well. "I just wanted... well, that."

The fact Buffy's warm, soft body was molded against his chest and groin probably had something to do with Spike's control right then. One might also gamble it could have the opposite effect, but shock wouldn't wear. He should be in bed right now, fast asleep, but this wasn't any dream and he was still accepting the fact he wasn't hallucinating. The urge to blink his eyes clear over and over again was acute. He couldn't with her watching him.

Before Spike could stop himself, he said, "Feel free to do it anytime." He panicked momentarily after the words came out, but her blinding smile shut him up real quick, and the apology was forgotten.

Buffy turned pinker somehow. She looked shyly away and his speeding heart skipped a beat. The words were on his lips, begging to be said. He swallowed them. Silence would have to suffice, the emotion in his chest contained, but echoing: *I love you.*

She spoke up gaily, yet somewhat bashful. "I don't think it qualifies as an after school program, though."

Spike chuckled, amazingly. She felt so damn good in his arms he held on tighter. She didn't balk or move away; rather, Buffy wriggled on his knee and snuck in a broken little gasp, so the grin on his face only spread thinner.

Messy golden waves framed her face as she leant back, eyes bright and happy. A goddess... Spike could taste the possessive desire to take her home and keep her there, in his bed preferably, for the rest of their lives. He could barely control the urge to pepper kisses across her cheeks and reddened lips. The bottom one was sucked under a top row of pearly white teeth, and he watched her nibble on it lazily. She was thinking of something, feeling unsure. "But maybe, if you want, we could do it again," she said. "Ya know, sometime when we're not at school. Like after dinner or... or something."

Spike blinked stupidly several times in a row, this time actively trying to clear the fog, fortunately unaware of how he reminded Buffy of Bambi right then.

Her hands gently massaged his biceps, and distraction caught her in its trap. Buffy was frowning, and scared to move away. If she did, would the heat dissipate? Would he leave or reject her? She had never asked someone out before, and right now, the silence was slowly wearing down what confidence she had regarding his affections.

William broke her from the sad dilemma with a hoarse reply. "I'd love that, Buffy."

She smiled warmly, happy and relieved. Spike watched in bewilderment and awe as she leaned up to kiss the corner of his open mouth. *Dear God, I must be dreamin'.*

But he wasn't, and as he reminded himself of this for the umpteenth time, and Buffy wiggled away with an apologetic beginning to a pout, taking the book that had started everything, putting distance between them, it didn't throw a bucket of cold water on his absurd delusions. Nothing was absurd. Nothing suddenly happened to ruin the moment or scare her off. His anxiety was both buzzing and dim, rather like alarm bells muffled by water. He didn't say anything stupid as he watched her strut to a shelf, didn't get caught adjusting his hard on in his jeans before she turned around. Hell, when Buffy came near after shoving the book back into place, making her way to the copier, Spike grabbed a hand without thinking and let her guide them both silently in that direction.

Blissfully unaware of the terror sure to strike the moment they parted, Spike gave in to this sense of... allowance. A right to be with her. It was something he'd never had before. It was entirely unreal and wholly undeserved.

He stroked her wrist tenderly with his thumb.

Buffy picked up the finished copies one-handed and tucked them against her stomach. She was supposed to leave them in the principal's office, so Felicity could pick them up tomorrow morning. Buffy suddenly realized she didn't have a key to the principal's office.

Fortunately, she had already planned on asking William to walk her to her car again, so a detour would likely pose no issue if he said yes. "I uh, I need to put these in the principal's office with a note for Felicity," she murmured, lifting the pile of papers up, forgetting he didn't know who Felicity was. Luckily, William sussed out the details. "If it's locked, would you mind letting me in?"

He shook his head. "Course not."

"Thanks." Buffy took a step closer and warmly squeezed his hand. "William, would you also not mind walking me out to my car after I drop the flyers off?"

Again, without hesitation, and his heart in his throat, he said, "Course not, love."

Buffy smiled...

...then tried to postpone. The moment they left the library was the same moment which would quickly lead to her departure, and she didn't want to let go yet.

However, gentle questions eventually allowed conscious note of the time. They were soon on their way out, and William held the door open for her before closing it behind them.

***

The flyers were safely stacked on a desk corner in Wood's office, and the walk from there to the parking lot had somehow lengthened due to delays with no cause. Neither wanted to separate, so with their hands dropping and rejoining at appropriate intervals, the couple managed to extend the trip by pinched minutes.

Finally tugged relentlessly through the exit doors, they found themselves drifting across the parking lot. She could feel him. Every step she took, he followed; every time Buffy spared a glance, William's eyes were already trained on her. It was a warm sort of feeling, made her nerves tingle, and on her palm his stroking thumb created sensations resembling hot candle wax turning cold.

She turned to him before opening the car door. The Jeep was against her backside, chilly and uncomforting as the wind played with the edges of her skirt. She remembered how his hands had bunched it, how they caressed and squeezed her hips. While the grip he'd taken was just this side of desperate, his fingers did not reach for more intimate corners. Buffy didn't know if that made her feel cherished or disappointed.

She knew the way he looked at her felt intimate. It was sort of like William saw something she couldn't, even if there was a mirror right in front of her. He tilted his head now, gazing with lingering focus, and fresh blood rose to the surface. Her heart beat a little faster, her cheeks felt warm. Buffy knew he was nervous. He stood so still but his thumb and grip on her hand was a bit fast, a bit trembling. She wondered when he had last held hands with somebody.

She couldn't recall the last time she did.

Spike watched her take an indrawn breath. Buffy smiled very kindly at him and while a countdown begun in his head, she said, "So... I guess I'll see you soon."

There was a hint if there ever was one, except the very words made Spike's head spin. He could barely blink let alone reply, and stood there silent, awkward, feeling like an idiot. His thoughts spiraled out of control when her hopeful eyes remained fixed, green in the setting sunlight and gold with want. *I'm gonna bugger this.*

She wanted him to make the next move. Buffy had taken charge in the library, from the kiss that shook his foundations, all the way to the dinner request. Now, it was his turn. His decision, his signal, and he couldn't even twitch a finger.

Buffy swallowed hard, waiting for some kind of response, but similarly aware she may not get one. After all, part of what endeared her to William was his bashfulness, the way he would look at her like a once blind man might the sun, but not speak his mind. If he couldn't tell her his feelings with words, he conveyed them very well with touch and gaze; but she noted that his thumb had finally abandoned the cycle of rubbing her palm.

Forced to quell insecurities, Buffy took a surreptitious breath and leaned up to place a kiss on William's sharp cheekbone. She lingered there and heard him half cough in his throat. Their chests met.

Spike tugged her closer to him. His instincts were suddenly untethered, like a whip was struck to break a thin, thin vine supporting his reservations. She fell off her tiptoes and gasped quietly against his jaw; the hard bulge prodded her stomach and she nuzzled her body closer into the fabric of his uniform.

Spike's voice was very tight but hardly controlled. "I'll call you." Of course, he wasn't sure if he could actually do that, but right now, he believed he could.

Buffy's smile was sweet, but uncertain. "You don't have my number."

*Fuck.* Heat suffused his chest. He wasn't supposed to know her number. "In the book, no?"

It was a pathetic false assumption, but thankfully, it worked. Buffy laughed and dipped until her moist, pretty mouth was well away from his skin. A groan filled his throat. "I didn't think anyone used that local phonebook."

Spike shrugged. "Don't usually have a reason."

Her eyes warmed and her lips slanted. All charm and gentle flirtation, Buffy backed up and opened her Jeep's driver's side door. Slipping between window buttons and the front seat, she tossed her purse in without checking where it landed. "Today was, um-" Suddenly unsure of where her mouth had taken her, Buffy glanced away, hastily biting back emotions. She finished in a voice of forced bold, which didn't sound very bold at all, but he saw the girlish happiness in her eyes, and that was so much more than enough. "I'll talk to you soon, William."

"That you will." He watched as she climbed in before shutting the door for her. Buffy gifted him with a pleasant smile and thanked him. Spike quickly stepped back, and was several paces away when Buffy started the engine.

She got no further than halfway through a two-point turn before he noticed the mark on the ground. Spike frowned and ran ahead, startling her into nearly breaking on his foot.

His hands gripped the edge of the window as Buffy rolled it down. His eyes must have relayed urgency, because she was definitely worried. "What is it?"

Spike indicated the windshield. "The car made a mark on the pavement, love." Nerves took a backseat as they both looked at the spot where Buffy's Jeep had sat since nine this morning. There was a dark green splotch and a matching dribble connecting the circle to the underbelly of her car.

Buffy turned the key in the ignition, reminded by William to put the car in park before she did so, and hopped out. They both walked side by side to the stain. Buffy's frown was severe. "What the hell?"

Spike knelt down, and stuck a finger into the half dried puddle of slime. Buffy cringed behind him. "Your car's leakin' coolant," he said.

His girl let out a very tortured groan, and he tried not to let it affect him.

"What?!" she exclaimed. "I just took it in to get all checked out and stuff. Like a month ago!" That wasn't long for a car, right? Buffy didn't get a tune up every month, but still. She didn't even go to the dentist as often as she visited the auto body shop.

William rose and casually walked to the front of Buffy's Jeep. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Can you open the bonnet, pet?"

Thankfully, she had a very British and sometimes juvenile cousin, who acted more like an overprotective father, living in England, otherwise she might not have known what William meant. Buffy dutifully went to pop the hood and pouted mildly at her car. The windshield displayed nothing but red, then she walked around to stand by his side.

Glancing incomprehensively between William's face and the chaos of her seemingly undamaged engine, Buffy took a step closer when he pointed at a black hose bordering the very front of the boxy cutout. "Got some wear in there. You'll need to refill the coolant 'fore you drive home. Might not get very far usin' it tomorrow mornin' if you don't do it then, too."

Buffy rolled her eyes and slumped. "Great. So does this mean I need to call Larry the mechanic and have him fix it soon?" She really didn't mind Larry. He was a nice old man and always gave her a discounted price for services other customers had to pay full on; however, that didn't mean she liked spending good shoe money on her car.

Besides, every time she went over there, Larry's oldest son had a tendency to hit on her, and he wasn't exactly polite or suave about it. The compliments he served up didn't amount to much more than sexual invitations and leering that made Buffy think he was constantly holding back wolf whistles like a mute construction worker. *Okay, true. But really not fair to Xander or his kind,* she admonished herself.

William shook his head decisively. "No," he said. Buffy missed the jaw clench because he turned to her with flaring eyes. "You don't have to go into that place. You-" He took a deep breath, abruptly breaking contact like a wind changing direction. "You don't have to go there. I can- I'll fix it."

Buffy paused. She stared at his taught cheek. "William... I didn't expect you to- I mean... I- I can pay you. Obviously, I'll pay you."

He couldn't let her do that. Spike shook his head again, harder this time. "No. Don't worry about it."

A moment passed, then, "But-"

"I'd like to do this for you, Buffy."

He could tell she was having trouble with that. She was staring at his profile but Spike could see the girl clearly. Her mouth was open in shock and her eyes were studying him like his silence might reveal more about his intentions if she just looked hard enough. Except some things were better left unsaid.

For one, he would never let a mechanic rip her off for a simple job such as this. Nearly anyone could do it. That was innocent territory, but he was too smart to mention it either way. Spike also didn't like when Buffy went to Larry's Auto Body Shop. *Breathe a word and you're as done as pulled pork.* He knew how the oldest boy looked at her, knew the git made her feel uncomfortable. The wanker had a way of talking about girls that the less said on his opinions, the better. It was probably good Spike had never been left alone in a room with the idiot.

There was no conceivable way she was setting foot in there if Spike could help it, and besides, he had the tools and the ability. After asking her to let him help, the next preemptive method would be accompanying her to the mechanic, or hell, fixing her car in the middle of the night. Of course, that would lead to many, many questions.

Just... anything to keep her safe.

Spike swallowed a sigh. Buffy could only know about a third of his reasons for this. He wanted to fix her car because he liked her. Because he was smitten. That was safe and true and feeding the thankful light in her eyes right now. He could only hope she didn't see too much.

"Thank you. I would really appreciate that."

The words were soft, spoken velvet, and his heart calmed. Buffy suddenly reached out to the leaking hose with her fingers, and Spike hastily snapped her hand back. Startled, she gazed at him in question.

"It's hot, sweets."

She blinked, then nodded numbly, gazing into his eyes. Their hands relaxed together until she had wrapped her fingers around his. Smiling, Buffy squeezed ever so gently and said, "It's not the only thing."

Another something hot caused William's pupils to dilate. He tugged on her hand and Buffy grinned her best bashful, feminine grin. "Can you come over tomorrow?"

He nodded, cobalt stare pointed and wide.

Her smile grew into something the Cheshire cat would be proud of. "Great." Buffy ticked one playful eyebrow. "I'll cook dinner."

In the midst of a gulp, and every single nerve within Spike's body going haywire, his mind turning to mush, he would never be able to guess how the words, "Sounds perfect, love," were uttered. But he managed to say them, and Buffy let him squeeze her hand a little tighter.

___________________
Thanks for reading!

Buffy had absolutely no idea what William's favorite food was.

It was Friday, the day after he helped her add water and fresh coolant- which he kept in the boot of his DeSoto, like a reliable car owner -to the antifreeze tank, unwilling to let her leave before it was done. He showed her how to do it herself and said she would need to check the level before driving around tomorrow.

Well, now it was tomorrow, and Buffy's mind was far from car mechanics.

The morning came and went with no word or appearance. She never expected him to show up before the agreed upon time, but did think about William enough to make the minutes drag and conjure just about a hundred possibilities which might send him by.

She thought about him while refilling her coolant reservoir this morning, following his instructions carefully. She thought about him during the busy hours at the store, every time someone asked how her new job was going, even when Xander called to let her know Jack seemed like a great kid who now had a reliable source of income.

Xander, of course, mentioned William outright, which instigated a happy report and blushing fits, and the warning not to stop by her house at ALL for ANYTHING. Promises were delivered readily, excitement for a friend overriding Xander's curiosity. Buffy fully expected an inquiring rundown soon enough.

At the end of the day, she closed up shop (an hour early) and headed to the grocery mart, on a hunt to find the perfect dinner-date cooking necessities.

She stood in the rice aisle, at the moment, wondering just how many kinds of rice there were in the world and what were the differences between brown, white, and quinoa. *Is that one even rice?*

Buffy set a box back on its shelf and frowned at the contents of her basket. Red wine and free-range chicken probably wasn't what William expected. It took a little more to make a meal. She kept asking herself what might he like?

A vegetable dish would make a nice addition to the menu. She read in a magazine that having some color on your plate was always good. Maybe she should get peas. Peas were green. And hadn't Giles once told her he liked peas? Were British people partial to them?

Making a U-turn for the frozen section, Buffy mentally went through her supplies at home, and her history of dinners with men.

All the men she knew ate meat, and while she wasn't a vegetarian, her own meager consumption made it seem like most guys enjoyed their animal protein quite a bit. Hence, the chicken. However, she had no clue what William liked, and she certainly couldn't lump him in with the rest of the male population when it came to taste buds.

*Oh God, what if he's a vegetarian?* Her eyes bugged unknowingly, and Buffy paused to reflect on the chicken. If William wasn't a vegetarian then there wasn't a problem, right? Unless he was more of a steak fan? Crap. Why hadn't she asked him what he liked?

Maybe she should skip the chicken after all. Buffy eyed the package critically. Could he be a vegetarian, though? She could make extra sides to be safe, that way if he didn't eat meat she would still have plenty to offer. She didn't want to fall back on that plan or seem inconsiderate, but what else could she do?

Then again, what if he did like steak?

Someone bumped into her, jarring Buffy from her tumbling thoughts. She barely managed to look up in time with an apology for standing as a blockade before they were gone, and her mind rewound.

What was she doing again? Right, peas.

As she walked through the aisles leading to the checkout counters, Buffy filled her basket with green peas, a bag of red potatoes, orange carrots- *How's that for some color?* -the possibly detrimental chicken breast, wine, and even made a swerve backwards to top the shopping off with a box of brown rice. It wasn't until she made it to the registers and was digging through her purse that she realized her wallet was gone.

She frowned and put her basket on the floor to better search her bag, ultimately setting that on the edge of the conveyor belt and emptying out most of its contents before realizing her wallet was definitely not inside. *Did I leave it in the car?*

Buffy padded her jeans and coat pockets, glancing up when the cashier woman, Mallory, asked her with honest concern if something was wrong.

"I can't find my wallet." Buffy sighed and quickly repacked her purse, offering an apologetic smile to the people behind her. "I think I left it in the car." She hoped. "Could I leave my basket here and run out to grab it? I'll be really quick."

Mallory nodded and said, "Of course. Just put it on top of the cooler there." She gestured to the pop bottle refrigerator that acted as a bookend for the conveyor belt. Buffy tossed her basket up and Mallory waved the next customer forward genially as she jogged to the exit.

Buffy didn't usually wish for things like this, but at the moment, she really hoped she was being forgetful, because she had no recollection of leaving her wallet in the car. She always kept it in either her purse or a back pocket, along with her keys. She was pretty good about stuff like that. Well, usually. There had been instances where...

Digging through her purse again, and bypassing the automatic doors, Buffy froze in a panic when she realized her keys were missing, too. Her head shot up.

She always chose a parking spot well away from other cars, because even if she was great at parking in general- especially parallel -wedging in between narrow lines and other vehicles tended to prove difficult. This meant she left her Jeep at the corner of the grocery mart, well away from neighboring bumpers and side mirrors.

Skidding to a hasty stop behind said Jeep, Buffy didn't have a chance to run to her driver's side door and pray she'd left it unlocked, because when she saw a man fiddling with it, using her keys to try and open it, everything became painfully clear. Outrage filled her gut like a rush of steam.

She yelled something, she wasn't entirely sure what, but it made the thief lift his head before running off with alacrity. He dropped her keys but clutched her wallet tightly in his hands.

Buffy dropped her purse and ran after him, nothing but adrenaline and anger fueling every step. She was shouting so loudly her throat burned, calling him an entire glossary of names. Instinct blinded her, and soon, Buffy was catching up.

The man was large, not tall. He was probably rounder around the waist than your average carnival tent, and though he ran fast, it was only for about a minute. She would have heard footsteps behind her if she wasn't so focused on the back of the man's head. Before she knew it, she was jumping on his back.

Immediately reminded of those chicks who tried to help out their boyfriends during bar fights, Buffy clutched for dear life as the thief struggled. She managed to dig her thumb into one of his eyes. "Give me my money you asshole!" She received a howl of pain in retribution but was tossed backward into the grocery store's brick wall before she could inflict more damage.

Grunting in pain, Buffy slowly collapsed to the pavement, heaped beside a metal dumpster and some bags of old garbage. She watched flies circle around her head and then her wallet dropped to the concrete beside her feet.

The thief pawed at his face, muffling an agonized groan, calling her a bitch before reaching for the source of all this. Buffy blinked hard in an attempt to clear her mind and make some use of her limbs. She watched in dismay as he greedily scooped up her wallet again in one beefy hand. *I'm not going through this just to come out of it with nothing but a concussion.* Buffy forced herself to try and stand, failing miserably as the world moved and her head throbbed.

Wincing, she started to say, "Give me my wallet-"

-and was then cut off.

Very effectively cut off, as the man with a bloodshot eye and his angry fist now raised high, was suddenly bulldozed.

He crumbled like a building. Hit by hit, brutal punches striking meaty flesh. Buffy watched in shock and horror as her enemy was slowly beaten into stunned defeat. He tried protecting himself but was taken down too quickly.

Buffy could barely speak, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the wooziness or even the fight itself. It had to do with who she was seeing tear into the dishonest scumbag currently moaning and bitching at her feet. She barely noticed the pleas and whines, barely registered that he had dropped her wallet again.

All she saw was rage filled blue eyes and taught cheeks, the profile of a memorable man. The same man she had planned on cooking dinner for tonight.

William. Her shy, sweet, stuttering William, who kissed like a devil come to life but smiled like an angel and opened doors. His familiar lips curved into a not at all familiar snarl as he beat, and beat, and beat. The man who had stolen from her was a weakened pile of limbs. Buffy heard bone crack and winced in reluctant sympathy, eyes never leaving her defender's monstrous expression. All she saw was rage, a complete lack of remorse or sympathy. Eventually the thief beneath him quit struggling.

William finally stopped. He fell to his knees, off the man's stomach. Buffy's heavy breathing created a chorus in the alley, pinging through the air like electricity as he came closer.

Motionless as he crawled up to her bent legs, William met Buffy's gaze without a tinge of regret or nerves or blushing timidity. He was a completely different person, and she didn't realize that the softened rage in his eyes was only soft for her, was only there to begin with because of her, until he said, "Are you okay?"

She was quiet. Words wouldn't form.

"Buffy?" His voice held a very worried, somewhat desperate edge.

One might think she was stunned, which was true. She was thoroughly stunned, but not because of the headache or the thief or even because she had gotten tossed into a brick wall. Buffy was shocked because the man before her had just made it very clear that there was at least one side to him she knew nothing about, had in fact never imagined might be there at all.

William's hands clasped her arms, wrapping around them completely. She could feel his thumbs rubbing gently into her skin. One look at his eyes paved the way for further bemusement.

So black, so bright, they were guarded and open at once. He was showing heartfelt concern, for her, but underneath there was seething anger, not for her. Buffy swallowed and wondered absently how a person could display so much emotion in one moment, whether or not he knew he was doing it. It reminisced of reading a road map, or someone's diary.

His worry came out again in the form of words. *At least one of us is having luck with that.* "Buffy, tell me you're all right. You're fine, yeah?" He trained his slowly panicking gaze on her torso, then her wrists and thighs. "Tell me if you're hurt, I have to-"

She put one tentative hand on his shoulder, shutting him up. Her palm smoothed and melted into soft leather. Buffy nodded, though she wasn't entirely aware of the motion. "I-I'm fine. I'm okay." She took a deep breath and broke contact with those bottomless eyes, using leverage on his shoulder to try standing.

William cupped her elbows and helped support her when she swayed. Buffy missed the jaw clench but noted the tension in his body. "Did you hit your head, love?"

She nodded again. Her fingers were already kneading her temple. Shock took a backseat to pain as aching made itself known in her back, and the drum set in her head grew louder upon using her feet. She leaned into William as he helped her away from the wall. "I was- I was shopping."

He frowned but Buffy wasn't looking right then, so she missed it. "Figured that." A gulp went down his throat, and he spoke in a manner that made her believe he was trying to distract her with conversation, though there was a measure of uncertainty in his voice, "Dinner preparations?"

Buffy released a breath. "Yeah. For tonight. You- Do you like chicken?"

"What?"

She opened her eyes and looked up at him then, blinking. "Do you- Sorry. Never mind. I think my brain got a little, um, knocked around."

His jaw tightened again, and he began to lead her away from their half-conscious companion. Buffy followed blindly for a moment before she realized William was taking her back to her car. "Wait, my wallet-"

"I'll get it, pet. Don' worry." She didn't respond. Soon they were beside her Jeep, Buffy content yet shaky in William's arms. He bent to retrieve the forgotten set of keys by the driver's side door and quickly let her in, then sat her down. "Don't move, all right? I'm going back to get your wallet."

Buffy nodded, leaning against her seat. His soft yet firm voice brought immediate relief to frazzled nerves. "What about the guy-"

"I'll call the cops. Then I'll have 'em send an ambulance over."

"Ambulance?" She dropped her hand from her forehead. "I don't need an ambulance."

"You can barely stand, Buffy."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," William growled. She flinched in reaction, but realized soon after that his anger wasn't directed at her. Not really. He apologized immediately and started begging. "M'sorry, love. But Christ... I just- Please. Please, let me help. Let me call-"

"Why are you here?" The question threw him, she could tell. Buffy sighed tiredly. "I mean, how did you know I was in trouble?"

William swallowed, the very gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Buffy's breath caught, and she leaned into his touch without thought. "I was stoppin at the auto shop," he said. "Saw your car, then I heard you... screamin'." He jerked his head to the her left, and Buffy turned to see his DeSoto parked right in front of Cranky Engines Auto Supply. It was part of the strip mall that bordered the grocery store's lot.

Buffy said, "Oh." When she faced him William moved his hand down her throat and tapped three warm fingers against her pulse. It fluttered beneath his touch. "I'll be right back, yeah?"

"Okay."

"Don't move."

"I won't."

William smiled warmly with something soft in his eyes. He turned away and strode back to the man lying around the corner, presumably unconscious. Buffy worried about that, but not enough to think on it very long because her head still hurt.

The only thing that seemed to fight through the fog and the throbbing was knowing just who had rendered that guy helpless. What William had done to him.

Buffy played with her keys absently. She didn't remember him giving them to her, but now they sat in her lap and she couldn't help fidgeting, staring at her forgotten purse that lay feet away with hazy awareness.

One thing she never would have pegged William as was a fighter. *I guess I'm not so great at the pegging,* Buffy thought, and wiped off a shockingly red stripe of blood from her hand, courtesy of the keys.

***

One Hour Earlier

*I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this.*

Spike's inner monologue consisted of little else but this repeating phrase. It had not been very long ago that the possibility, the very consideration, Buffy and he may ever share a date floated around his head as a fantasy. It was a notion based as much in reality as the idea of riding a dragon.

And today, Spike was going over to her house for dinner.

He was going over to Buffy's house for dinner, in exactly one hour and forty-three minutes. Not to mention, fix her car. If Spike was honest with himself, those three minutes were give or take, because he didn't want to be late, but he didn't want to be on time either. If he was too punctual he would look as desperate as he felt. Then again, if he was late it might look as if he didn't care.

He might panic about it a tad more if he weren't so busy panicking over everything else.

What should he wear? Should he bring something other than the tools to fix her car? Wine? What if she already had wine? He knew what her favorite was- or presumably what her favorite was. He'd only seen her buy it once or five times, but it was always the same. Would she wonder how the hell he could have known what her favorite wine was?

She was cooking dinner, though. He should contribute to the meal. Or would it be rude to bring something since she told him she would cook? What kind of shoes did he wear? Should he bring a change of clothes so he didn't chance getting grease in the house after he was done with the car?

Also, what the bleeding hell did he think he was he doing?

Spike downed a beer in under a minute after the mental boxing match with his own thoughts. Eventually he found the will to calm down enough to pick out his clothes. The wine was still up for debate, and he supposed he could always grab something similar to her favorite and offer it as a gift if she'd already bought something, but at least he had his wardrobe figured out.

Mostly.

Jeans- the good ones, no holes -and a blue dress shirt to cover a black sleeveless. His Docs, because he could work in them, and they were dark enough so no marks would show. He did plan on keeping an extra pair of shoes in the car, though, just in case.

He decided on wearing his duster, too, because frankly, he wouldn't be able to do this without it. The coat was like a second skin, a security blanket in its own beaten leather sort of way. He got it originally to please Drusilla, but had since come to cherish it, worn it in so thoroughly no one else could carry it. The coat was his through and through.

An image of Buffy wrapped up in leather entered his mind. Spike froze mid-pace, breath dropping, eyes falling shut. Body bare underneath, she would stand with smooth legs and spiky heels, her throat accessorized by trailing fingers. Her smile, kittenish and flirty as she snuggled into his duster and made it a home.

Spike exhaled and his eyes popped open. He sent a frustrated glare to his belt buckle. Fuck, but the idea wouldn't leave. Buffy could wear nothing ever again but that treasured leather coat and Spike would pray for a harsh winter. He could keep her bundled and inside his home, in his bed. Rolled up in his sheets, parading around the halls and blowing kisses around corners...

He swallowed the want, shoving his desires down, even if the pictures refused to abate. They refused to go anywhere, even as he traveled upstairs to check his appearance in the mirror for the fourteenth time.

This was dangerous. He had a plan, a safety route to follow. He had mapped it out.

He was going to fuck up.

Spike jerked a comb through his hair and rubbed at his eyeliner. He still wasn't sure Buffy liked the look, but she'd seen it before. Wouldn't she have made some crack about it if she didn't?

Oh, hell, if Buffy hated it maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would encourage her to keep her distance. Maybe it would stop her from doing things that made him lose his head altogether, like kissing him. Like rubbing that firm, hot body against his, like making those noises when he kissed her throat...

Spike grit his teeth and turned away from his reflection, shoulders taught but low. This was a problem. He wanted her, wanted to know how she would feel beneath him, writhing... taking him inside. He loved her more than he could stand, and was finding out just how shaky that made his restraint. How it was so easy to forget everything about himself and find purpose in her. Like kissing her erased his inadequacies. Like loving her with his hands, as if Buffy letting him touch her at all wasn't a miracle, and it was enough to keep her with him. As if she would never find out the privacies he had breached and the lines he had crossed.

Spike told himself he would not get too close. He could never lose her then, not really. So what if he never really had her before, it was better than being cut off. It was better than getting so close things went bad because she realized just how hard he was clutching. Christ, the idea she might come to fear him was an invisible knife twisting in his stomach.

He was already too close.

She had kissed him. Buffy had asked him out on a bloody date. She... trusted him. She was his dream come true and Spike knew if he didn't get a handle on things, then every damn moment of peace he found would go up in flames.

He was dying and thrilled at the same time, but if he kept on thinking about her pressing against his body in that library and making love to his mouth with her tongue, holding on tight to him, then God help him, this would never work.

Self-control was already slipping. Spike couldn't touch her again. He would try and impress her, fix her car, and thank his lucky stars- or Temptation's sick sense of humor -that he was able to spend time beside her. That Buffy cared.

And he would do nothing else. Because if she opened herself to him and he got to taste her, and she left, everything would fall apart. Spike was already halfway there, but when Buffy looked into his eyes he felt like he was somewhere else completely.

A thick sigh left his throat, the one sound to be heard all throughout the house.

He went to the bathroom to wash the eyeliner off.

***

A while later, Spike was speeding down the town's tiny streets, a harsh tune by the Ramones blasting through the radio. His windows were rolled up, increasing the sound until the glass shook and his feet had no choice but to slam on the pedals. He was tearing apart the dirt roads and abusing the steering wheel with shaking, pounding hands.

Thick plumes of smoke drenched the interior. Sunlight streamed through like yellow gold hands, reaching into dust. His words were sung inharmoniously, nerves and misery breaking every word.

The setting light hurt his eyes and the air was cold, whispering news of a dark winter. He still rolled his window down so he wouldn't smell like an ashtray, flicking a bud out onto the street before sparking up again. He wouldn't have left the house until absolutely necessary if it weren't for this gnawing anxiety and anger, the crisis battle between I'm-the-luckiest-bastard-in-the-world and I'm-just-a-bastard, or the fact deafening silence was working to shake the remaining sanity out of him.

He also needed a radiator hose.

His destination was the auto body shop on Kent. It was the only place besides Larry's where Spike could get the right equipment to fix Buffy's car. He was expected at her house in under two hours and yes, there was panic, but more than that there was this sick sense of greed urging him to arrive early if not on time, damn consequences. There was anger at himself, at his luck, and joy underlying all of it. There was the always present need to see her. The desire to hold her. The want to please her.

He was losing it. Going completely fucking nuts. Restraint dwindled and he stubbornly tried to hold on, but his grip was slipping. He knew his limitations had to be stricter tonight. Another part of Spike believed this evening was some dream he'd cooked up. He couldn't even recall the simple process of fixing a leaky radiator hose, and was starting to convince himself he'd completely destroy that cherry red Jeep by the time he was through with it.

Spike tossed his cigarette away and before he could light another, realized he was in front of the auto shop. He turned off the radio and rolled the window up, pocketing his Zippo. A few deep breaths of smoky air filled his lungs.

Worried again of smelling like ash and smoke, not paying any attention to his surroundings, Spike got out of the car. His eyes downcast and mind trying to reel itself in from murky waves, he moved tensely towards the door.

That was when he heard her scream.

It wasn't a scream of terror or even one of pain. It was just hers.

Spike ran like a spooked horse, eyes locking onto Buffy in the distance as she charged away from him and towards another.

He passed her car and fallen purse, nerves deadening. She turned a corner, gaining on the stranger. His stomach tightened and gasps burned his damaged lungs. He couldn't see her anymore. There were shouts for help and angry, indignant exclamations permeating the air until it was so thick with fear he couldn't breathe. He was the only person in the entire world who could hear her, asides from the man she chased.

A dull cry of pain numbed Spike from the inside out, and terror flooded him.

Any ideas of Careful flew out the proverbial window when he reached the corner and saw her lying against the wall, appearing as limp as a broken doll.

A cursing shadow of a man, the one who'd put her there, the one to blame, stood on unsteady legs and all Spike saw was an angry twist of contempt on the unfamiliar face. The world blinked out except for Buffy's soft groans.

The figure was not a man, not a human being, not a person with a heart and veins and a body. In Spike's eyes, he became nothing more than the proverbial target. Hatred bottled into a fat, skin covered package, falling under a deserved assault as Spike stormed ahead and barreled into it.

They both fell, one hitting cement, the other just hitting, and hitting and hitting until blood spewed forth and coated his hands. Its face turned dark in Spike's eyes, nothing but a misshapen shadow. A figure of something, a million things which fought to hurt the woman he loved. Tried to take advantage of her. Tried to keep him back, take her away.

Spike couldn't let that happen. And it was all he knew for several long, vicious moments...

______________
Thanks for reading. Please review! :)

The ambulance lights were giving her a headache.

A larger headache than the one already sustained, but they had nothing on that little beam of white light the nice paramedic insisted on pointing in her eyes.

Buffy blinked hard and ignored the urge to shake her head. Quick movements were so not of the good right now.

There was a harsh breeze in the air, kicking up dried leaves on the ground, spinning them around in circles. Her purse sat in her lap and her hands were clean, she was thankfully no longer dizzy while the man who stood as cause for the ambulance was no longer standing.

The determined thief, some guy named Martin, according to the sheriff, was handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police car. His face was a portrait of bruises and selected swelling. From what the officers and paramedics told her, he would be fine. The worst of his injuries were a broken nose and one loose tooth.

Apparently Martin was wanted just one county over for purse snatching and car theft, so there was little upset over his face. The sheriff was more than pleased to arrest him, despite being not so pleased with the circumstances.

Sheriff Howard, or Al- short for Albert -was well known in the community. He was your typical idea of what a small town sheriff should be; fair, honest, and just this side of lenient when it came to the citizens he protected. When this latest incident was called in with her name attached, it was only a matter of time before he showed up to handle the situation himself.

Buffy's attention landed on the two men in the distance as the paramedic began packing up equipment. Al Howard was a good man, a little tenacious, and always determined to get to the bottom of things. He dated Buffy's mother just over seven years ago, close to the time of her death.

It was a cold shock when Joyce died. Buffy knew Al suffered differently than the others. He was as quiet as he had ever been the day of the funeral. The only thing she remembered him saying was how he would always be around if she needed anything.

At the time, Buffy could barely think, and only knew the man as well as she knew the rest of the town. Al showed her unlimited kindness and respect when they saw each other, often reminding her that he was just a phone call away.

Al's devotion to Joyce Summers overflowed into responsibility for her daughter. Buffy never did ask him for help, but now, watching the sheriff interrogate William against the hood of his police car, Buffy realized she may have to.

The paramedic at her side zipped a big bag closed, mentioning something about headaches and not going to sleep. "I don't think it's a concussion, but if you should experience anymore dizziness definitely check in at Webster and they'll perform a CT scan."

Buffy was momentarily distracted from the image of William's bowed head. He was trying not to stare at his bruised hands and failing, while a deputy babysat the thug in the backseat. "CT scan?" she asked. "Why would I need a CT scan?"

"You probably don't, but if you feel dizzy or your headache gets any worse, I think it's best you see a doctor and go to the hospital." The paramedic- Julie, her name tag said -threw her bag over one shoulder and tossed her brown ponytailed hair with it. "And remember what I said, you shouldn't fall asleep for several hours. I know it's early, but even if you feel tired don't go to bed or lie down. Concussions have this nasty way of making sure you don't wake up again."

Buffy nodded immediately. "I won't." She looked over at the deputy again. Standing beside him was the other paramedic, a tall man with jet black hair and impatience written across his face.

Julie recognized her partner's edgy attitude as she followed Buffy's line of vision. "Well, judging by that expression, I'd say it's about time we head out." She strolled away, intending on collecting her coworker.

Buffy moved down from the edge of the ambulance. Walking slowly towards William, every step had her body growing tense, until her purse was wrinkling in her hands. The keys were tucked inside, her wallet safe and secure again.

She wished she could say the same for her mind. Concussion fears aside, this whole experience still had her rattled. Looking at William, straight-backed and meeting the eyes of his interrogator, Buffy was left with more questions and damaged assumptions than answers. All she knew for certain was there was no way she'd let him get into trouble for helping her.


Sheriff Howard brought his pen and paper to his waist, resting it against his belt buckle. He was quiet as she approached. William turned and Buffy smiled as reassuringly as she could.

There were no polite courtesies or announcements. No declarations or disappointed stares. No more questions except, "Can I talk to you for one more moment, Ms. Summers?"

*Ah. Professional Al. That's a change,* Buffy thought dully, then promptly shook it away. Her random brain wandering was going to screw her over one of these days.

She followed Al until they stood only a few feet away. Buffy's headache was seemingly fading, and she could feel William's gaze boring into her back. His knuckles were cleaned up, but he hadn't let the Julie woman bandage them. Buffy's were clean, too, and she sensed that Al was aware of every little detail.

They were side by side. He looked at her with patient paternal eyes. Buffy could barely discern what color they were in the fading sunlight, but his dishwater blonde hair was nearly golden, and his fit frame towered inches and inches above her. "You all right?" he asked.

Buffy nodded easily.

Al sighed, stuffing one large hand inside his front pocket. He threw a look over her shoulder to his deputy, and Buffy heard a car door shut on cue. "We're gonna take this guy in, and then-"

Her gaze widened. "What? No. No, you can't." She would make Al's ears bleed if he tried to arrest William. That was not about to happen. "He was just helping me, he didn't do anything wrong. The other guy- He-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. We're not takin' your friend in, Buffy." Al held his hands out in a placating gesture, and waited for the alarm to die down. She froze in the middle of a deep breath, and he continued. "I spoke with Will. He's a bit of a loner that one, but he's hardly the trouble startin' sort. I've met him before, you know. He works on the graveyard shift."

"So I've heard."

"He told me what happened and I listened. It's the same as you told it. This guy you faced off with is a criminal. I'm not going to charge Pratt with anything, so long as he doesn't let something like this happen again." He raised a finger and pointed behind her. "And I told him that. But he was defendin' you, and, well, that's good enough for me. I've never known much about the man, but I know you."

Buffy's whole body felt suddenly lighter, and she glanced anxiously between William and the sheriff. "So it's all okay? We can go?"

Al let out a sigh that required just about every bit of oxygen in his lungs. "Yeah. I've got the information I need for my report. This bastard doesn't need to go to the hospital, but we'll probably bring him to Webster anyway just to be safe. Your friend Pratt really did a number on him." A heavy inhale passed his lips, and Al met her eyes boldly. "Will did right by you today, but if he had gone much harder on Martin I would've been forced to do somethin' about it. The both of you need to be more careful, you hear me?"

She nodded. "Yes. We-We will. Thank you." Arms crossed over her chest, and Al patted Buffy's shoulder.

"I'm glad you're all right." He smiled softly, and she managed to return it. "Be thankful it's Half Price Movie Night, otherwise we'd have ourselves a crowd to deal with on top of all this unpleasantness."

Buffy's lips quirked as Al gave her one more gentle shoulder rub and walked away. She turned around when he strolled to Julie's side.

Almost immediately, William's eyes found Buffy's, then promptly fell away. She inhaled slowly as she made it to his side, all twitchy fingers and steel spine, but her arms lowered when they were only a foot apart. His pale, bruised fingers were stark against the color of black clothes. His gaze was a bright blue world carrying a hundred different needs, wants, and all of them shook Buffy to her foundations.

Before, they were flirting. Before, they were going to have dinner together. Before, it was one kiss. Now... Now, it was something more.

They didn't say anything for a long minute, until Buffy found herself asking him if his hands hurt. "No, just sting a bit," he replied. "Nothin' to complain about, though." The stutter was nowhere to be found.

"Good." It was all that would get by her teeth. "You should put ice on them." Why was her throat closing up? Why was it so chilly out here? Why was it hard to meet his eyes all of a sudden?

"Buffy?"

Her head jerked up. She watched William remove his long coat and step away from the police car. "You're shivering, pet." She felt smooth, warm leather drape around her shoulders and then he tucked the lapels together beneath her chin. Numbly, she grasped the ends so they wouldn't fall open again. "Thank you."

He didn't say it, but she looked up and felt more than welcome. The intensity there left her bare and open. Buffy cleared her throat when the slamming of another car door jarred the silence. "Do- Did you get grilled?"

Al poked his head out the driver's side window like he'd heard his name, and waved, saying goodbye to the both of them. William watched him drive away, something calm and resigned in the smirk on his face. "Just a bit. He mostly repeated the same questions over an' over again. Got to soundin' like a broken record by the end of it."

His countenance lightened suddenly and he smiled. "Bloke was more worried 'bout you than whatever happened. Worked out well, too. He wants a phone call once I get you home."

That startled her. "What?"

Awareness crept into those blue eyes again, like he remembered something vital that had almost slipped away due to carelessness. "That is- Um. I told him I'd take you home. I expect that headache f'yours is still botherin' you?"

Yes, a little, but did she tell him that? Shouldn't she be pushing him away now? Shouldn't that be the next step? After all, old habits were hard to break. "Isn't your car here?"

The fact he'd totally forgotten was obvious, but William merely shrugged and said, "I can pick it up later."

Buffy turned halfway around and they both stepped back so the ambulance could pull out. She nodded to his DeSoto, parked in front of the auto parts shop. She wanted to ask him how he would get home tonight. Would he walk from her house?

She realized the last thing she wanted was for him to do something like that. She didn't know if she wanted him escorting her home, though. Buffy was sure she could drive. She was also sure she didn't want him to leave yet.

Unbidden, words came out of her mouth before they met with any sort of filter. "You were going to fix my car tonight." Buffy inhaled shortly. "That's why you said you were here, right?"

William nodded. He looked like he might be trying to study her and Buffy would have been a little more wigged out by that if his coat wasn't so distracting. It was also chasing away residual numbness. Her head did hurt. Of course it did, and wasn't it so great that she had left a forgotten basket of food inside the grocery store?

It wasn't fair. Here everything started out innocent and exciting, racing time to make it home so she could change, freshen her makeup, and start dinner before William showed up.

Now, there was no dinner, no makeup freshened, and Buffy was a monosyllabic- minus the stutters -mess, questioning just how deeply she was getting herself into this. Which shouldn't happen yet, not before so much else that usually took place in the dating game.

It shouldn't blindside a person after some asshole steps in to hurt you and the guy you like saves the day. It shouldn't happen because so much anger and rage in the moment had made it impossible to mistake William's feelings. It just shouldn't happen like that.

His hands, the gentle ones, the ones that clutched her with painfully clear desperation when she kissed him, were bruised and bloodied. Because of her. William was looking at her with warmth and something unnamed, and it was all Buffy could do to remain standing.

There were so many questions now she could hear ringing in her own head. Then again, maybe that was the brick-to-skull contact thing.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, abruptly looking down. He spoke quietly. "I figure dinner's off the table, so to speak. If you want I can fix the car tomorrow, when we have better light." He threw a contemplative glance at the darkening sky. "Or I s'pose I could do it now, f'you have a proper light back at the house. I'd just have to get the part from the shop first."

Buffy wet her lips and started walking. She didn't say a word as he followed.

They approached her Jeep together. Buffy opened the driver's side door and it swung noiselessly through the air. "Is tomorrow okay?"

He frowned. "Yeah."

"Great." Buffy hopped into the car. When Spike thought she was about to scoot over and settle in the passenger's seat, to make room for him, she stuck her keys in the ignition and tossed her purse there instead.

The engine revved to life. Buffy began closing her door.

It took every ounce of self control to keep himself from grabbing it and stopping her. He remained still. "Buffy-"

The door silenced him. She mercifully rolled down her window as ice spilled through every vein. Spike's pulse quickened. She spoke without looking into his eyes. "I'm fine to drive, I promise. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

His jaw grew tight, and locked. "What time?" he managed.

"I'm home all day. I don't work Saturdays."

He knew that. Spike didn't say anything as he watched her roll the window back up and he didn't move away when she pulled out, self preservation at the very back of his mind. His throat constricted.

He was left standing, quiet and alone in the shadows, fingers going numb from the cold and other things.

That's when Spike realized she still had his coat.

***

Buffy made it home in one piece, despite the tension in her wrists as she drove, the jerky way she stepped on the brake pedal, worse than usual, and the sweat pouring down her neck.

Once cold, she started burning up the second she left. Driving away from William was something she hadn't known she would do until the moment came, and she could only keep going. Get farther and farther while dealing with emotional alarm, high speeds under her feet. Buffy's fingers tightened around the steering wheel and simultaneously felt like jelly.

You couldn't blame a girl for freaking out a little. Could you? Would anyone, if they saw her now? If they saw the way William, a guy who hardly knew her in reality, went ballistic on her behalf? She could have been anybody. There was a chance he would have reacted the same way had it been another woman. Another person. Except his eyes... She finally saw the depths there. She felt like she had just been brushing the surface before, but there was a glimpse tonight. A true glimpse of the man behind the stuttering speech. There someone who cared about her.

Someone who cared deeply.

And she ran out on him.

Buffy sighed, head shaking. She flipped the radio on in an effort to gain distance.

Unfortunately, the radio wasn't so sympathetic.

...I bet you got no idea you're going way too fast.
You're trying not to think about what went wrong, trying not to stop 'til you get where you goin'
You're trying to stay awake so I bet you turn on the radio, and the song goes...
I can't live without you, I can't live without you, baby
I can't live without you, I can't live without you, baby, baby

William looked at her like she was another person, like she was more than just one woman. He looked at her, and she felt a million indefinable things, things she hadn't felt since... she couldn't remember when. He looked at her, and it was a whisper saying he couldn't live without her.

How was that possible? Was she loony? How was it that one man's eyes could scare Buffy so much she up and left after he saved her from some asshole who could have caused some major hurt?

How could William care that much?

The highway won't hold you tonight
The highway don't know you're alive
The highway don't care if you're all alone
But I do, I do.

Better question, why was she running?

She knew, of course, but she wouldn't admit it to herself. Not yet.

Maybe when the song was over.

The highway won't dry your tears
The highway don't need you here
The highway don't care if you're coming home
But I do, I do...

***

Spike stormed out of Cranky Engines Auto Supply, radiator hose, new coolant, and a few large clamps in the plastic bags swinging at his side. He threw it all into the front seat of his car and then locked the door, making a swift turn in the direction of the grocery mart.

*Girl thinks she can shut me out, does she?*

Well, she couldn't. Not now. Not after what was made clear tonight. After what happened, seeing just how far her pride and strength would take her, and how possible it was for the world to take her away from him.

Like his own fears and compulsions fought to keep him distanced.

Spike ground his teeth together as he scavenged the grocery aisles. The paramedics both said Buffy didn't have a concussion, and he knew she was safe to drive by now, but she wouldn't get away that easily.

Not this time. The moment Spike had seen her lying against that brick wall, everything changed.

***

She remembered his soft, careful touches right after the fight.

A washcloth massaged droplets of cool water off her skin. Around her nape, Buffy rubbed and kneaded, trying desperately to forget a pair of blue, beseeching eyes.

He asked to drive her home, and she didn't even bother telling him no.

*God, what is wrong with me? The second anyone gets close I just...*

The moment she walked through the front door, Buffy had hung up his leather coat, half amazed and half terrified to realize she was still wearing it. Tearing off the rest of her clothes, she hopped in the shower and scrubbed the day from her overheated skin.

Now, she opened the door on her toasty bathroom layered with steam, exhausted but refreshed. Somehow, the shower hadn't made her feel any better.

She used to think there was an underlying reason no one ever quite fit into her heart just right, even if at the time she never noticed or acknowledged it. She didn't open up fully to men, not since Angel. Was that really because she was saving herself for a wish yet to come true? Or was it because she was afraid of getting crushed the same way Angel had crushed her so many years ago?

Was she a coward? Was what she thought lay in William's eyes scaring her because it was logically impossible for someone to care so much about her so quickly?

Was it because she didn't want to hurt him like she had hurt others? Or was it really just because she was afraid of getting hurt?

God, Buffy never believed she could be this cliché. So very closed off. Being afraid to love was the driving conflict in movies and books, not real life. Not her life at least. What was she doing to herself here? The worst possible fate she could think of would be emptiness; lack of love, loving another, and being loved. She believed in that connection. She felt it before.

Except that had been different. She was older now.

She wanted to be happy.

The question was, how did she stop pushing happiness away before it could prove itself?

Buffy fell onto her broken in couch, curling against one of the arms. Tabitha, who hadn't left her side since she first stormed in, hopped onto her lap. There was no purring, which was odd enough, but the way Tabitha licked her chin before settling down, no meowing or pawing for attention, told Buffy just who she was willing to trust.

*I really am on my way to becoming a crazy old cat lady.* The thought made her laugh sadly. Buffy stroked the feline's back and looked out the window.

Gazing into the darkness, she imagined the trees lining the road. William had parked his car beside them not very long ago. She thought about tomorrow, and how he might act when he came by to fix hers. She wondered briefly if he even would. Buffy wasn't convinced she hadn't scared him away by making herself out to be a total bitch.

Then, she thought of his eyes and realized with stark anxiety, that he would show. William wouldn't leave her hanging.

Suddenly, she spotted lights in the darkness. They pierced it like skewers. A familiar car sped up her driveway.

Buffy gasped and moved Tabitha off her lap. Running to the door, she opened it wide as a creaky slam of metal announced his exit.

Her porch light was as dim as a little candle, but she could see him clearly. His big boots climbed up her front steps, and he smirked with an unfamiliar, cocky air of self confidence.

It amazed her that she felt a shiver of attraction race down her spine. "William, what-"

William took another brave step forward, two plastic bags hanging from his fingers. "M'here to cook you dinner."

__________________________
The song referenced is "Highway Don't Care" by Tim McGraw
Thanks for reading! Please review!

Buffy found herself scanning his whole body before reaching his eyes again. She blinked very hard. "What?"

William dropped the bags at his sides. "We had a date."

Bold. A point made in only four words. It was true, too, but she figured the plans had fallen to the wayside in favor of a meltdown. Hadn't she told him she would see him tomorrow? "Yeah, I know. But-"

"An' you called it off."

"Again, yeah." Moving halfway behind the door, Buffy said, "I'm sorry. I-" Her attention shifted at the rustling of plastic bags. “What are those?”

He lifted one, “Car parts,” then the other, “Food.”

“Car parts? I thought you would come by and fix... Tomorrow. I mean, I thought tomorrow was okay for that." He started picking things out of one bag with obvious determination, and she lost all hints of bashfulness as confusion took the wheel. "What are you doing?”

Soon, he held an armload of food, including chicken, pasta, frozen and fresh vegetables, and jarred spaghetti sauce. His hands were practically overflowing and Buffy's eyes were huge.

"Is this all right?" he asked.

She had to shake her head. "Huh?"

He motioned awkwardly to the jar. "Vodka sauce. It's delicious, but if you don't like it we can- I can make somethin' else. Know this sweet chicken dish my mum used to like." He took a breath. "Jus' figured you might want chicken 'cause you asked me about it. Mixes well with the sauce, too." He very quickly set down a large portion of his assortment. "Or hell, we can order out. But for dessert..."

He reached inside the almost empty grocery bag and presented to her a container of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Buffy's head quit spinning as her heart melted. She looked closer and recognized it as Chocolate Fudge Brownie; her very favorite.

Little did she realize her delighted laughter was the relief that poured over Spike's shoulders. He took a risk with the ice cream, knowing how much she enjoyed it. But when tasked with choosing a reliable dessert, he simply couldn't help himself trying to please her.

Buffy picked up some of the food off the porch, a sigh flowing from her upturned lips. William was already grabbing the rest when she said, "C'mon in."

He smiled a smile so full of joy and gratitude that she was tempted to kiss him, shake up that strangely confident exterior as much as he'd shaken her. But the moment passed, and he pushed the door open so they could both step inside.

Amazingly, Tabitha had not interrupted their conversation with an escape attempt. The feline did, however, approach Spike immediately once she spotted him. She landed half on his shoulder, half hanging from it with a vertical jump after he shut the door.

William dropped his bags and chuckled, stroking the animal's back. Buffy rolled her eyes. "She's ridiculous."

"I don't know," he murmured. "Seems intelligent. Has good taste in people."

Buffy piled her share of goodies on the kitchen table, pausing for a moment. She spoke with careful tease as she turned around. "When I get a package from the UPS guy she acts the same way."

William smirked. He smirked like a man with a deeply ingrained knowledge of smirking, and just how to do it to get a girl's knees wobbling. The combination of that with what he said next practically floored her. "Hasn't met a bloke who sticks around yet. A shame, that is."

Buffy's hands dropped from her hips. His eyes were on Tabitha, but something told her his full attention was not.

From the moment he drove up she was sensing a difference. Like the endearing shyness had all but evaporated, and those stuttering sentences she remembered had been only imagined. Buffy could no longer find the nervous man she knew so well, or rather, had just begun to understand.

His blue eyes fell on her. They were sultry and intently fixed, or maybe that was another example of her imagination at work. Either way, Buffy was suddenly very aware of her lack of proper clothing, and made a necessary retreat to lose the robe.

Once alone in her room, shutting the door before throwing on a bra at breakneck speed, Buffy's thoughts started rushing, too. She stumbled into a pair of cotton underwear and searched for pants, realizing William's lack of hesitance was wielding a sort of power over her that she wasn't entirely sure she understood.

She thought about his arrival, and the excitement she felt earlier this morning. She thought about the callous way she left him in the alley. How William's fists had shown just how non-delicate he really was. Despite never appearing to be the slightest bit brutal or uncaring, when the need arose, he had no issue tearing into another man without hesitation.

And she recalled vividly the way he kissed her such a short time ago, with clutching hands and desperate mouth. She couldn't say either of those things fit well with the man she thought he was, but fell rather snugly into place beside the man she saw now. The man who when she told him to leave her alone, he practically laughed in her face while supplying dinner.

It should unsettle Buffy all over again, but it didn't.

Tender violence in the way he kissed, overpowering anger when she was threatened. These qualities were not lining up with overused thank yous after tea, or apologies born from fear of doing the wrong thing.

Buffy tugged a snug camisole over her head and examined her overall appearance in the mirror. Face free of makeup, hair damp, feet bare and legs covered by worn-in blue jeans, she looked nothing like she had intended when this date was originally planned, but that was before she called it off. Before he refused to listen to her.

Sighing, she opened her bedroom door and quickly traveled to the kitchen. William was still petting Tabitha, but now all the food was on the kitchen table, the bag of car stuff tucked into a corner by the front door.

He looked up when she came in, stare bright and strangely needy. "How's your head?" he asked.

Tabitha was dropped gently to the floor as Buffy approached. "A lot better, thanks."

William nodded before looking her over with obvious care as she came to a close stop. "Got a lump?" he said quietly.

"What?"

"On your head."

Buffy reached self consciously for the tender place on her skull. "Oh. No. It's flat. I mean fine. I'm fine, really." *Oh God did I really just say I had a flat head?*

William smiled at her again, one of those blinding smiles that left her stargazing. In a flash, he had stepped nearer in order to reach the table, close to her hip. His wide hand almost brushed hers as he picked something up. "Got a pot?"

She frowned, but decided to have a look at the item he was holding before going with another clueless question.

A bag of pasta. Buffy looked up again. "Uh, yeah. Sure." She stepped away to begin the search for a large pan. She found one easily enough and filled it with water, then set it on the stove, wondering why she was holding her breath, why her heart was racing.

William approached from behind as Buffy lit the burner. He said thank you, and in an effort to remain busy, she set out to locate the pasta strainer.

Minutes passed quietly, with nothing but the clinking of pots and big cooking utensils, water running, chopping, and the occasional question or gracious thanks splitting them into domestic segments. Buffy did very little, as she was directed. She dumped the vegetables in a shallow pan of water and cut up green onions. When she was done with that, and the tension in the room still refused to abate, seemingly affecting her alone, Buffy plopped into a nearby chair and stared at William in speculation.

He hadn't said a single thing to suggest he was angry at her for blowing off their date, didn't even bother to ask why she tried. He just... came over and let her deal with his presence in whatever way she might.

Whether he would have left if she insisted was a question Buffy couldn't answer with complete confidence right now. Confusing still, was how she found herself letting him inside with barely even a token protest.

His arrival tonight was just one more testament to how much he wanted to be there for her. It underlined the suspicions she already held; William cared, and cared deeply.

Deeply enough to totally ignore her fleeing like a scared rabbit at the first true show of it. She was exceedingly grateful for the lack of guilt tripping. Buffy would never admit that the fight had rattled her, because in retrospect that had very little to do with her hasty departure. Watching William go mad and rage and bloody another man's face was shocking, but it hadn't been scary.

What scared her was the fact he did it at all. It was the fact he went from so angry to so calm and soft in the space of a few seconds, because of her. He walked Buffy back to the car after helping her off the ground, and she couldn't remember a man being so gentle, so caring. He looked at her with emotion he couldn't hide. Perhaps that was why he never liked meeting her eyes for very long, because they left him virtually on display.

Except now he was doing it, testing her limits on eye contact intimacy as if such simple bravery was never once confined to frozen seconds. He was confident in every way he hadn't been before, and while Buffy tried to reconcile this change and understand it, it distracted just enough to leave her off balance when considering her own worries regarding their budding relationship.

Whether it stood as such was no longer a question. Uncertainty disappeared completely the moment William gave her his coat to wear in the alley.

Buffy sat up, straight as a board. Something about the quiet motion must have alerted him, because William turned around, still stirring pasta and flipping chicken, to look at her with uncertainty.

"Your coat," she explained. "It's hanging by the front door."

"I know, love. Saw it when I walked in."

A breath left her. He didn't care she'd basically stolen it then, thank God. "I forgot to give it back to you." She rose from her seat. "I'll go and get-"

"Don't bother. I'll fetch it when I leave."

Buffy went quiet again, nodding in response as she sat back down. William returned his attention to the food and she grew tense all over. He was being so... nice. It was really beginning to make her feel like a jerk about running off before. Not to mention, William being the cool and capable one while she stuttered like a nervous teenager? How many times could she point out that the whole dynamic was really getting old?

"Might want to call the sheriff an' let him know you're home safe." William replaced a lid on a frying pan, muffling the sizzling noise. His lean frame seemed taller now, though he slouched at an angle when he faced her, and Buffy was slightly hypnotized by his toned arms and careless grace. He had always seemed so very careful until tonight.

He had barged into her home and was practically forcing her to let him cook dinner. Yet she still found him remarkably, ridiculously attractive. It shouldn't matter that the man's face made having any sort of differing opinion impossible.

In the moment, she missed what William said next. Buffy forcefully cleared her mind and refocused. "Call Al?"

He nodded easily, unaware of her pondering. "Told him we'd phone when you were back home. Wants to know you're safe."

A pause. "Right." Buffy stood and headed straight for the telephone, feeling William's eyes on her the whole way. Beneath a small side table with one drawer was the town's local white pages. She flipped through the book until landing on Al's information. Every number that might be used to reach him was listed, including his home, personal cell, the office, and the restaurant he typically visited for lunch.

She dialed and waited patiently for the ringing to cease. William had mentioned before Al wanted them to call once she got home. Buffy was a little annoyed she'd let her personal issues fog the memory, even as her back broke out in goose bumps due to a particular man's interest and attention.

She had little time to feel guilty, or too self aware, before Al picked up. Buffy started the conversation in a cheery tone of voice she knew sounded forced, but was quickly reassured by genuine consideration from the other line.

"Now that you're home I want you to stay in and rest awhile, okay?"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I plan on it."

"Good. If you need somethin' let me know. Is that Pratt guy still there?"

Buffy cast a furtive glance at the man near the stove. "Yep, he's here."

"All right." He sounded relieved. "I think it's good to have someone with you right now."

"I'm not in shock, Al."

"Yeah, but you looked pretty white when I last saw you, so just do yourself a favor and let the guy stick around. He'll take care of you."

"I- I don't think that's really... my choice." William's body was fluid and relaxed, but she knew he was listening. She just knew it. "We're going to have dinner soon."

Al was quiet at that; it was silence that echoed a convinced smile. "You're right on one thing, dear. You don't have much of a choice. A guy reacts the way he did when a lady's threatened, and it's gonna be hard to pry him away from her. I'm sure he's more than willin' to take care of you."

Buffy turned her back on the kitchen and faced her living room, staring blankly at the couch. She finished her conversation, quickly veering the topic in another direction and promising Al she would program his number, rather, numbers into her cell phone later on. He didn't say anything else about William, and she was thankful.

Hanging up, Buffy noticed Tabitha lying on the kitchen table, gazing longingly at the cook. Approaching quietly, Buffy scooped the cat into her arms and pet her a minute, before setting her on the ground.

She wordlessly began gathering plates and utensils. William opened the jar of spaghetti sauce after straining a batch of soft, steaming noodles over the sink. She was trying to ignore the quiet, lost for topics as Al's voice trailed through her mind.

Her frantic desire for sound was eventually sated when her eyes landed on the radio, a portable black and white one tucked on a set of shelves between magazines and old notebooks.

She dropped the forks and knives on the table. "What kind of music do you like?" Her voice seemed louder than she would have imagined and Buffy resisted a flinch. William was setting pots and pans in the sink. She realized the plates she'd set out were now on the counter, half filled with food.

"No chance you like the Ramones, is there?"

Buffy stopped rifling through her small CD collection to frown at his profile. "Sorry, I don't." *He listens to the Ramones? Definitely getting loner punk vibes.*

William smiled warmly and said, "Put on whatever you like, pet. I'm sure I'll enjoy it."

She looked doubtfully at the NOW! 10 and Counting Crows album in her hands. "Um... How 'bout another band?"

Spike stole a glance from the corner of his eye. Buffy's genuinely worried expression made his heart feel light. Still smiling, but wanting to reassure her, he said, "The Clash?"

Some plastic clinked. "Sorry. No dice. What about Train?"

A snort was muffled when he pursed his lips, focusing on dishing out saucy noodles and small cuts of lean, tender chicken. "I can... listen to 'em."

Buffy let out a playful sigh. "Which politely means that if you do your ears will bleed."

"Not a river."

She rolled her eyes and searched through what remained. "Red Hot Chili Peppers?"

Spike considered. "Yeah. They're not so awful."

She plunked the CD inside her radio before pressing play. Familiar lyrics and melodies quickly filled the house with a soft hum, and she said, "I don't think I've ever met anyone who doesn't like Train."

Spike grinned lecherously. "I've never met anyone so obsessed with the 90's. You need to update that collection f'yours, pet."

"Hey, my NOW! CD is from 2002, for your information."

"Right." Spike snickered, then turned with two full plates of food in his hands. He set them down on the table, and Buffy was about to ask what he wanted to drink when he rubbed nervously at the back of his neck and mumbled, "I was gonna get wine, but alcohol's not good to have after a head injury."

Buffy smiled over the sudden change in demeanor, his concern made clear. "I have juice or water," she suggested. "Wine too, but I won't drink it. I'll get some for you if you want, though." With new, almost cheerful nerves, Buffy went to the fridge to retrieve the leftover rosé.

He caught up and laid a gentle hand on her bare arm. Goose bumps tingled beneath his touch. William hastened to say, "I'll have what you have, pet."

Spike's inner demons danced merrily at the thought of alcohol, but he was suddenly wary of the possibility that if he had a glass, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from having more. Losing composure was the very last thing he needed.

Buffy nodded easily, but her stomach was a cluster of butterflies. "Okay." A fast glance at the contents of her refrigerator and she said, "But that means you're stuck with diet coke or water."

"What happened to the juice?"

"Just orange. You think that goes well with pasta?"

He smirked lightly. "Lots of unexpected combinations work well together."

Buffy smirked back, her chest tightening as she reached for the carton of Tropicana. "Yeah, I guess sometimes they do."

***

A good hour and a half went by, and it was pitch black outside, but a warm glow of light remained within the house. The plates were cleared, and under William's urging, Buffy had a second helping. After his third the pot was left empty.

They talked a lot. He talked plenty, which was yet another change regarding the man she knew. Mostly about easy things, asking questions, drawing them out from her. There was no want for conversation.

He piled dishes in the sink while she scooped chocolate ice cream into two bowls. Adding a duo of spoons, Buffy turned back and handed him his. "So you never knew your father?" she asked.

It was the personal start. The beginning of a discussion that wasn't so simple or lacking sensitivity. She knew about his aunt and mom, mostly from a book, but family was an unread chapter overall between them.

William shook his head and followed her guide to the couch. "He passed when I was young. Few months b'fore I turned two, my mum told me." His whole body warmed when Buffy chose to sit in the middle, beside him, rather than against the opposite arm of the couch.

Softly she said, "I'm sorry." Spike watched a dollop of ice cream disappear between her pale pink lips. She swallowed after working her jaw by increments, letting it melt a little. "It's hard, not knowing your dad."

William nodded. "Sometimes I think it's better that I didn't. Can't feel the loss then."

Buffy looked away and he caught the move immediately. Frowning, silent, Spike heard the sudden bitterness in her voice. "I know what you mean."

The frown deepened. In the heavy quiet that begged to be shattered, he realized he had a question to ask. An honest question. Here was something he didn't know about her, number 500 on the list that spanned their evening so far.

So, with tension in the air, and concern and curiosity taking the wheel, Spike said, "Ever know your dad, sweets?"

Buffy closed her eyes. Several seconds went by before she gathered her resolve. "He was around until I turned thirteen. Then my mom and him got a divorce." She became self conscious, turning away. "I didn't see much of him after that."

He wanted to backpedal, wanted to take the moment and undo it like a ribbon. But he couldn't, so Spike merely said what he felt, and hoped it would be enough. "His loss."

That earned a smile. Small, crooked, but heartfelt. Buffy looked at him again. "That's what Giles told me."

Spike was beginning to like this often referenced cousin of hers. "Bloke's right."

She shrugged and took another bite of ice cream. "I think that was part of the reason he hung around for so long. Since my dad was never really here, he kind of took his place."

"Did your mum like him?"

"Yeah, she did. I miss him, but I know he's happy back in England. And he visits."

"It's a hard place to forget once you've lived there," Spike said, then glanced around his current surroundings, eyes flickering. "America isn' so bad, though."

"You and your mom moved here when you were... twelve, right?"

William looked at his scoops of untouched chocolate. He answered in a purposefully offhand voice that sounded anything but. "Yeah, we did. Moved in with my aunt."

Buffy nervously chewed her lip. "I- I know." His eyes shot up. "The book kind of filled in some gaps." She wanted to ask if he had any brothers or sisters, but she was fairly certain she already knew the answer. Before she could stop herself, something else came out of her mouth. "It must have been hard when she passed away."

Immediately, she wished she could take the stupid words back.

William sighed, his jaw clenching. "Bloody understatement," he replied and Buffy flinched, but he didn't see it. "She got really sick after my aunt died, off an' on 'til the day..." He sighed, mouth pinching. "I took care of her, or tried to, anyhow."

A deep line sat between Buffy's brows, and he would have noticed if Spike chose to look up. Except the moment was edgy and he needed to get his emotions under control before chancing that.

A soft pressure tickled the area beneath his chin, encouraging him to lift his head. Spike reacted due to surprise more than actual compliance, but when he did Buffy's touch fell away. There was something in her eyes, a light that reminded him of a home's glowing windows at night.

"I'm sure you did. And that she loved you very much." A beat pulsed between them. "It sounds like you two were close."

"We were." He swallowed thickly. "She took care of me all my life. Miss her every day."

Buffy chewed on her lower lip, searching his face. "I know how you feel."

His gaze sharpened, glistening in the low light. There was no sound, the music had turned off and Tabitha was napping peacefully on a rug near the stairs. "You do, don't you?"

She nodded, missing the stillness he assumed. Spike tried to think of how they'd gotten here. Dinner flew by with laughter and anecdotes about the past and present. He learned things he'd never known about her, soaking up every detail. She seemed interested in the way he described England, a different territory, and the way he let her in on things from his younger years. Like growing up with an aunt who practically bled with a talent for drawing, hanging pictures on every wall she could; like his limited time spent at college, something she understood. He even went into detail about the house, sketching each floor and most of the rooms with descriptions alone.

By the attentive way Buffy listened, Spike could be persuaded to think she was genuinely interested, but he also tried to get her to talk as much as she wanted. God help him, no matter what she talked about he couldn't seem to get bored. He only wanted more.

The conversation remained sweet, casual, lighthearted even. There was no laughter in her eyes now, and no hint of a smile on that sweet mouth. She opened it shakily and he could tell by the tension on her face that talking about her mother caused great pain.

That was something else he could understand.

"My mom passed away seven years ago. She had... It was a brain aneurysm." The words went quiet, trailing into nothing but a whisper. She blinked fast and looked at her bowl. A sad smile cracked her lips. "I remember she used to make me hot chocolate when I was upset. That, or ice cream. I think she did it until I left for college."

His head shook gently, a hundred pinpricks across his chest. He reached out on instinct, no thought of caution or hazards, and brushed his fingers over her shoulder. Her face lifted. "Mums are good about stuff like that." She nodded sadly. "M'sorry I brought it up."

"You didn't."

He neglected to respond, because even if she was right he was still sorry. When she licked her lips and took another bite of ice cream, Spike chose a different route. Moving his hand reluctantly away, a hesitant mention came next. "You're a lot like that with the kids at school, y'know."

She gave him a funny kind of scowl, like his voice came out with a different accent or something. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen it. The way you listen to them."

"I'm their guidance counselor."

"I'm talkin' before that." Spike wondered distantly if his next words would be like burying a good intention with too much information, but he couldn't keep his faith from pouring out. "Isn't it true kids stop by your shop just to hear your two cents? An' don't you always give it? You have time for 'em where their own folks don't. They look up to you, Buffy. You... You care and you try, just for them. That's somethin' special."

Her eyes were large and shining. She swallowed thickly before her chin threatened to quiver. Taking a deep breath, Buffy composed herself, and fought with the need to say thank you and the urge to refute William's self assured statements. It was frightening how heartfelt encouragement could make her feel wonderful and doubtful at once.

She was saved from the awkward middle ground when he leaned closer. She thought he might kiss her, when a little tap made Buffy look down. He flicked her bowl of chocolate ice cream and said, "Better not let that melt, pet."

She blushed lightly. He watched her duck and finish the bowl of soupy dessert more than he actually focused on eating his own. By the time they were through, the conversation had changed again, and he was rinsing out his bowl after setting her dry one in the sink.

"So, I heard you work at the graveyard."

Spike dropped the bowl. It pinged against the metal sink, startling Buffy, and Tabitha off in the corner. "Sorry," he said quickly, then held up the undamaged dish. "Slipped."

She laughed. A careless sigh followed by arms crossing made Spike very wary, until she tilted her head and gave him a whole new reason to drop things. "So, graveyard. Can't imagine that's where you learned to fight."

Suddenly, Spike couldn't move.

"I mean, I could be wrong. Maybe the cemeteries here are crawling with activity. What are there, two?" He met her eyes, and a shiver ran down Buffy's spine. "Do you work at both, or...?"

"Just- Just one."

She shrugged one shoulder and his heart began to race. "How'd you get the job?"

An inquisitive question, kindly said. Spike focused on his fingers gripping the edge of the sink. "Who told you?" he murmured.

She blinked. "Two people, actually." She gave him a sidelong look, confusion blanketing her eyes. "I didn't know you didn't want me to know."

Spike took in a deep breath. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

He turned to her. A quiet sigh filled the space between them. "It's just a job, love. There's nothin' special about it, nothin' noteworthy." He shrugged uncomfortably, all the while a distant fear played in the back of his mind. "It's just something I do. S'not important."

"What?"

"Never intended for you to know about it is all."

Buffy was quiet for a moment. Then her slight guffaw captured his full attention. "Why not? Weren't you ever thinking, 'Hey, maybe I should tell this girl what I do for a living?'"

Spike's brows met in the middle. "You know what I do."

"Apparently not all of it." Buffy inhaled deeply and edged closer, her arms like wooden planks strapped across her chest. "William, people usually... When they go on a date, the point is to get to know each other." Her voice lowered by several degrees as they stared at one another. "Isn't that... what this is?"

He nodded despairingly, but resolute. "Yes."

"Don't you want me to know you?"

He didn't answer right away. A jaw clench came into play. "Do you want to?"

Buffy tilted her head, reaching out with one slow movement and cupping his cheek. William leaned into her. "I think I do."

His eyes remained wide open as her soft skin traced his cheek. Inside, something snapped, like a leash around his throat, and he swallowed with new freedom. While the moment drew out she inched a little closer until he could practically feel her breathing.

William lifted his own hand to her wrist, gripping it lightly. She saw the bruising and scabs on his knuckles. "I don't think I would have pegged you for a fighter."

He realized what she meant when a finger trailed gently across his damaged skin. Spike took in air by careful increments. "Is that a compliment?" Another warning bell went off, but he shoved the alarm away. "Or should I be insulted?"

Buffy laughed and shook her head, all contact dropping. "No. It was just... a little shocking." Her eyes fell and the way her voice trickled over her next words made them sound all too thankful, extinguishing his lingering uncertainties. "What you did for me... Thanks. I don't know what might have happened if you weren't there." She gestured briefly to his once brutal fists. "And I'm sorry about your hands," Buffy added.

It was his turn to make a point. Spike stepped forward until they were pressed together, and she gasped so quietly he barely heard it. Buffy didn't move away, so he lifted both of his hands and used them to frame her face. "Don't be sorry."

Placing one feather light kiss on her lips, he lingered and soaked up her softness, her heat. "I'd do it again," he murmured, dotting whispers along her skin, brushing their mouths together. "Never let somethin' hurt you." Those petal pink lips fell open with a trembling breath. "M'not that kind of man, Buffy. Won't let it happen."

Pillow soft and hot, he took another kiss. This one lingered until her toes were curling against the floor, until lifting further into his body, the room spinning away in blinding darkness. A safeness overwhelmed her, made her feel... protected, supported, strong.

She reached out and held onto the back of his neck, crushing herself closer, tangling their tongues together. He responded boldly, forcing her into the counter. One hand left her face to block her in.

Buffy's hips rose, rubbing denim into denim. She had the distinct thought, as his mouth left hers to catch a breath, that if this was the kind of cherished, fear worthy connection that had been eluding her all her life... Well, Buffy never wanted to run away from him again.

_______________________
END NOTES:
Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading :)
P.S. Sorry this update was so very late.

The kiss turned fast, a shift of movement and Buffy found herself hoisted onto the counter. Her back hit a cabinet door; her legs dangled off the edge.

Their mouths broke apart in the name of labored breathing. She fumbled for balance and grasping the nape of William's neck, tugged him closer, between her thighs. A moan rolled against her tongue.

Buffy could feel his whole body, pelvis grinding upwards, pushing into her. She let go of the counter and chose a new field to explore, to hold onto.

Her fingers slid south, until they were wedged between two layers of denim, delving inside Spike's pockets and urging him forward. Pulling him so firmly against her she forgot they had never been so close.

Feminine softness slammed across him, and he tasted her with deeper strokes of his tongue. Each muscle tightened. Blood coursed through Spike's veins and it all went in one direction. He couldn't think, could hear nothing except for Buffy's tiny mewls of enjoyment. Her heart was beating so fast he could just begin to feel it.

He tore away, mere inches, to discover the pulse point on her neck and dropped a kiss there. Then another, until wetness and heat skated across her skin, teeth tracing in gentle skims. Her lungs pulled in air that turned out sighs and gasps powerful enough to make him shiver. She alighted his already blazing nervous system with every arch and kiss, and he was having trouble not leaving a mark behind on her throat.

Buffy's legs wrapped about his waist. She felt hardness pressing against the most intimate, throbbing place, turning it milky. Rough hands found the bends in her knees. Her jeans were stiff and his were worse, but the friction carried a simple pain, a pressure that birthed something sweeter.

Her ankles crossed, locked him in close. The blood pulsing through her thighs turned hot. His bruised fingers snuck beneath her shirt and grazed Buffy's skin like a bow does a violin. She gasped softly, back arching, flattening her breasts against his chest. He pulled away from her throat as her head fell back.

"William..." She'd whispered it like a prayer, and by God if he kept setting her nerves off like this she would have to admit that one man could be the face of religion. Every touch, every flicker of heat was different, it felt like a whole new variety of sensation. It was strong. Electric. Buffy wasn't a stranger to passion, even if it had been quite some time since the last encounter, but she was certainly new to this.

Needy moans and careful little gasps escaped her, and Spike could barely keep from losing all control. She clawed his back, one hand under his shirt to mark his skin and encourage a whimper from his mouth. Her breath puffed against his lips. Spike kissed her so hard and pushed in so close that her scalp hit the cabinet again. She hissed between her teeth.

"M'sorry," he mumbled quickly. Then he dove back in for another taste, realizing she couldn't know just how close he was to losing all restraint. How little ways they had to go before he wouldn't know thoughts from actions, obtainable wants from forbidden fruit.

He'd never thought he would be here, know the way it felt to be kissing her, but the dream was real. Dreams were dangerous in that he'd never been in control of them before.

Tongues mingling with tender desperation, she didn't think she could stand to be in her clothes a moment longer. Buffy didn't think she could stand his damn T-shirt anymore either, and brought her fingers around to tug restlessly at the hem.

Her mind was turning to jelly, kind of like her legs, and while somewhere in the restrained portion of her brain Buffy knew she would stop when it was necessary, the frantic warmth between their colliding bodies made such ideas seem faraway and lazy.

All of a sudden, William paused. She had gotten the cotton T-shirt about halfway up his stomach, and dear lord there were ridges beneath her fingertips. The man was something else. He had abs you could crack an eggshell against, but William's stillness chilled her exploration.

He was still kissing her, but brokenly now. Buffy shivered at the dropping friction between her thighs. They were as close as they could get, but his hips had slowed down, creating shallow circles she couldn't say didn't drive her crazy.

The sharp heat was decreasing and her nerve endings felt parched.

Buffy realized William was sweetening every action. His hands, once scaling to the swells of her breasts, now fell and reached over her shirt. He framed her jaw and kissed her gently. Hunger and satisfaction battled for the first word. She was practically purring after each tender stroke, but a stronger, sharper need willed her to keep wanting, to keep going.

She was a fan of slow and romantic, sometimes, but the taste of deliverance when she kissed him, a wildness unmasked, made Buffy eager to regain their hopeless dance. The grinding and lovely clothed fucking that made her whine in the back of her throat.

She wasn't a whiner by nature, but somehow he had made her so.

She tried to pull the T-shirt up again. He shushed her and brushed her hands away. Everything around them blurred in frustration and Buffy, for the life of her, couldn't make up her mind.

"William... kiss me," she pleaded, half astounded the words were actually coming out. Their mouths brushed and she spoke into him. "Like you were. Please." He hummed against her, a sound of contentment and torture. Buffy leaned forward and traced his lower lip, moving the tip of her tongue past it to taste him again.

He opened, gasping hotly and she took the opportunity, took what she wanted him to steal back. He didn't deny her, but as their motives turned ulterior and the kiss grew frantic, William stopped with deliberateness. She wouldn't have it, and pulled away to do what he'd done moments before.

Buffy moved down his hard jaw and his working throat, nipping, sliding moist kisses across his skin. She barely tickled his Adam's apple when he forced her up, pushing until her chin was on his shoulder and his fingers held her neck. She heard his other hand slam against the cabinet door. Buffy finally realized William was shaking.

He took air in like a man whose mouth was sealed shut; thin, rushed inhales that couldn't meet his lungs through the grinding tension of his jaw. Desperation had been a theme tonight, fused into their muscles until Buffy could taste it, but this was different.

He was trying to grasp something; William was a trembling mess of diminished control and she didn't know why.

It reminded her of the moment he'd found her in the alley.

Own breathing unsteady, Buffy tried to move back but he held fast, and a guttural whisper pressed into her hair. "Don't."

Don't what? Inch away? Leave? She was all too aware of the way their bodies shuddered as one. The sensation of cramped heat and hardness snuggled between her thighs was like a brand. And he didn't want her to move.

William hadn't let go of her neck yet, was keeping her as still as he could to prevent another kiss or another writhing movement. Yet he remained right up against her, stubbornly refusing to budge. Refusing to separate even if she stole whatever control he was trying to maintain. Buffy felt the gentle beginnings of his fingers twining in her hair. It was like he was afraid to hold her, and yet couldn't help himself.

Her frown grew more prominent. "William, let go of me."

He flinched and hugged tighter. "No."

She quickly gentled the request. "I'm not going to leave. I want to see you." She needed that, she needed to catch his eyes.

It took a moment, but soon his hand dropped, allowing a chill to sprawl over her skin. It trailed down her back like a shadow.

The expression on his face made her worry about him, made her slightly self conscious. Taking in ragged breaths, because they were the only kind she could get, Buffy caught his very unfocused gaze and asked, "What is it?"

A panicky scowl was his only response. He looked afraid. He looked shameful. He kept looking at her mouth.

"William?"

"Wasn't about to-" She watched a jaw muscle flicker beneath his skin. "Can't lose control. Not with you."

Something thawed around her chest. Buffy breathed out long and smooth, then in again. "You won't," she said. He gave a tense, dubious glance to where her legs were clenched about his hips. "I'll tell you when to stop."

Hope and gratitude filled the sapphire in his eyes, but a flash of uncertainty followed.

Then, like a shot, he drowned her attention with a reckless kiss. Buffy gasped, astounded and relieved, too much so to say a single word. *Luckily he doesn't take much convincing.* Her toes curled into his jeans and it was made very clear that William needed little encouragement to let go of his reservations, as long as she acted as their mutual anchor.

Buffy was having trouble remembering exactly what that entailed when he lifted her into his arms and strolled to the couch. William lowered them together and set her on his lap.

He began another line of kissing and nipping down her throat. She fell in closer, reached for his arms and held on as he encouraged movement. Just a little, then more, until her hips were rolling and her back curved. Until that dangerous burn returned, hotter than she remembered.

She felt allowed to lose herself, allowed to enjoy it. Buffy let her inhibitions die, tugging William's mouth away from her throat so she could claim it once again.

He bit her lower lip. Her eyes sprung open with a groan, and she pushed him back. Her nails raked across his jaw, downward, over his chest until they searched beneath his shirt. This time he didn't discourage her tugging, but he wouldn't stop kissing her to peel away the layers.

She settled for touching him like that, underneath fabric, and moaned when his right hand molded around her ass and shoved down hard. He worked her closer, heat seeped into her skin through denim and sticky wet cloth.

She was getting herself off on his lap, seeking out that tantalizing fire through grinding and kissing. A litany of moaned whispers broke through the haze of Spike's mind, and it was then he realized she was letting go.

With a feeling like he was slipping into the sea, his restraint gone now, he heard her call out his name in a whimper that became a plea. "William..." It was quiet, almost shy compared to the way she was kissing him, the way they rocked together as if practicing a dance they would soon master.

He immediately corrected her, piercing the fog with an order. "Call me Spike."

They barely parted each time she came down on him. Denim chafed his skin, but the friction was as sweet as it was painful and the look of those bee stung lips caused an inability to care. Buffy stared at him as she maintained their steady grinding, riding his cock through fabric and zippers. "What?" she breathed.

"Spike."

"Sp-Spike?" she stammered, confusion pinching her brow.

"Yes." He stole her lips in another heartfelt, demanding kiss. The kind of kiss that ruined questions and killed curiosity. "Say it," he growled.

She sucked in deeper breaths, and a determined light entered the green and gold shine of her attention. Their foreheads bumped together and she grabbed his hand, prying it from her body to place it on the button of her jeans. She was afraid he might refuse, might pull away in fear or chivalry or something else equally mindboggling, but he didn't. Maybe because she punctuated her request with the following words.

"Please, Spike."

He immediately undid her button, pulling her closer, flush against his chest. She heard the metal teeth of the zipper part, felt her thighs start to burn from the inside out. His hand was trying to wedge into that tight space, but he wouldn't let her pull very far off his lap to help, and Buffy was somehow grateful.

She felt his fingers as much as she felt his groan. It was a far gone sound, ending in an uncontrolled pitch just this side of untamed. His knuckles rubbed tenderly against damp cotton in contrast, and she inhaled so deeply she became lightheaded.

His other hand came from around her hips. Buffy only noticed because he was no longer anchoring their lower bodies together. The rough but gentle touch climbed upward, framing her entire jaw. One ring on his thumb felt cool against her skin, a startling difference between warmth and metal. She leaned her head back and let him touch.

Spike pressed into the soft place beneath her chin, where throat met delicate jaw bone, and the soft place between her legs. Buffy swallowed. There was moist fire where he prodded the crest, barely exerting pressure on her clit with the pads of his fingers.

Spike's anxious hands soon began a bolder exploration, one wrapping half around her neck, the other slipping inside her panties.

She whimpered and pressed down, urging his touch inside her. He gasped as if surprised, but quickly took the obvious invitation. A long, middle finger curling and pushing, sliding in. Refusing to come fully out again. His thumb massaged her clit in little, gentle circles that made her whole body tremble.

Gasping, she leaned forward and kissed him. She kissed him until she forgot what air even was and took mouthfuls in through her nose. He didn't stop her, didn't do anything but hold onto her neck and the center of her. Buffy moaned against his lips. A thrill raced down her spine, coiling into a knot of perspiration and rich liquid heat. He said her name when parting, pushed up so hard he lifted her, body writhing and melting at once on his hand.

A glorious feeling spun through her like a serpent, sinful, free and snapping. He played her like a harp, tugging at invisible strings and wet, clasping skin. He made her say his name on a high pitched moan that would have embarrassed her if Buffy had any human neighbors. As it was, no one in the entire world could hear her now except for Spike. And she had the blinding thought that no one else had ever seen her so abandoned in her entire life.

It was intoxicating. It was revealing, and the idea alone, without the sensation of losing all her strength in one go, was enough to make her drop.

Buffy fell tiredly into his arms. He released her neck and pulled his other hand from between her thighs in a blink. Her chin was on his shoulder again, but he wasn't keeping her there. No, Buffy's own contentment and exhaustion kept her very happily sitting on his lap, the side of his throat her makeshift pillow.

Spike breathed slow and deep, still hard as a rock inside his jeans, but too fucking lost and in love to move a goddamned thing. He cherished the feel of Buffy in his arms, and slowly, yet quick, like snow falling before melting against a warm sidewalk, all barriers died away. Desires took full hold, and every wall he had envisioned climbing may as well have never existed.

"Buffy..." he breathed.

She made a little contented sound, and Spike smiled. Lifting his hand, he took his drying fingers into his mouth and sucked them wet again, his senses heightened by taste and smell. Christ, he wanted to lick her up until she was riding his face, wanted to swallow around that hot, tight hole and mark her irrevocably, leave love bites on her skin.

*Oh, bloody hell.* His condition wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. That he knew. Her taste was intoxicating. Her warmth seeped into his bones like smooth honey, but Buffy nuzzling his throat was what made him shiver. Spike's hands found purchase on her waist to keep her where she was.

The nuzzling turned into nibbling, and the nibbling turned into kissing. He took a shallow breath. "What are you doin', kitten?"

She laughed very quietly. "I think I like that nickname."

"Just that one?" Spike's eyes closed in torturous pleasure as she moved up to bite and lick his ear.

"I like all the nicknames you use."

Well, that was certainly good to know. Dear God, what was the woman doing? His hips jerked up without thought and she sighed a purely joyful breath, before whispering, "Why am I supposed to call you 'Spike?'"

He grumbled, swallowing hard. His hands were damn near suffocating her hipbones but she didn't seem to mind. "S'a nickname, too."

"So I can call you something different?"

He nodded. "If you like." *Don't just choose one, choose both. Please, choose both...*

"All right," she said happily enough, and a volume of air filled his lungs. His heart was already beating like an ocean against the shore, but when Buffy pulled up and gave him a bright smile, it stopped completely. "You're going to tell me how you got it, though, right?"

Spike froze. Panic threatened to bubble up. He stared into her open, caring eyes, the ones still a bit fogged from pleasure and looking just a mite too sparkly for his shaky inhibitions to handle. He'd gotten himself here, he had the entire world in his lap and she was asking him to give up more secrets.

The moment could not become any more surreal, or more wonderful. With a resigned sigh, and the last of those tender heartstrings tightening like a vise in his chest, he explained. "I got it from- It had to do with fightin'."

She frowned, her fingers quit their toying with the sensitive hairs on the back of his neck. "You got it from fighting?" She sounded somewhat incredulous, but curious once his nod spurned the surprise away. "Who gave it to you?"

That, he didn't want to tell her. "Old friend."

She frowned again, dubiously this time. Her eyes slanted and the sparkle returned, but where before it had spoken of satisfaction, now it reflected determination. "You won't tell me who?" She leaned forward to nibble on his earlobe, his fingers biting into her denim covered skin. "Not even if I do this?"

The question was punctuated with a feminine hand scaling down his abdomen and finding the bulge in his jeans. Spike jerked as Buffy rubbed him from the outside. *My girl, you're playin' with fire,* he thought, but all contemplation quickly escaped without so much as a farewell wave. He was a slave to Buffy's next move and that was the simplicity of it.

Let her play with fire, they'd been doing it all along.

She inched forward, rolled her hips. His jaw clenched. She gave him a saucy grin and bit her lower lip, murmuring, "I mean... 'Spike.' It's different, and I'm curious."

The girl wasn't even begging.

His heart skipped over itself, and he finally admitted defeat to the power of one slow, doe eyed blink. "It was- Old girlfriend."

Her whole body went still.

*Bugger.*

"An old girlfriend?"

Buffy's voice wasn't soft anymore, it was direct, edged with something close to peeved interest. "Was she- I mean, why did she give you that name?"

Definitely peeved.

Spike swallowed a lump. His cock was still hard and when she leaned backward and removed her teasing hand, he barely muffled his groan. "Like I said, for fightin'."

Buffy was nearly pouting in her confusion, the desire to ask questions palpable. The look on her beautiful face was so adorable he almost forgot about the pain and pleasure currently burning his blood. "Who did you fight?"

"S'not important."

"I guess it's not." She had to admit, this pointless need to know more about the root of his nickname was starting to gnaw at her. The thought of another woman, his ex, giving him the moniker, and then William himself asking Buffy to use it, was leaving behind little sour doubts in her stomach.

"Was the weapon I used," he muttered suddenly.

Buffy blinked. His words registered and she was left confused all over again. "What?"

He rolled his eyes, not in exasperation, but more in embarrassment at himself. "I used a railroad spike in a fight that I won. She witnessed it, got to callin' me 'Spike.' Soon 'nough I was... establishin' a reputation."

Well, Buffy decided she would be getting frown lines before age forty-five, after all. It would seem more disappointing if she weren't so thrown by his admission. "'Reputation?'" she echoed. "You have a reputation for fighting?"

"Had, really." Spike looked at her shocked expression and couldn't help tightening his hold on her. "Got it. Kept it. Liked the name." He liked what it stood for, but he guessed she understood that.

Buffy did. Her previous insecurity and half formed imaginings of some faceless ex keeping William's heart captive in a bottle for no one else to touch, evaporated.

Now she knew how he was able to defend earlier, in the alley, with the thief. His past. His abilities, brutality, truthfully shameless in foundation. It was... It was the Spike in him.

*He didn't want to tell me before,* Buffy recognized, clarity rushing forth. *He didn't think I'd like it. Or be able to handle it.*

Well, that was so totally not true.

Not after what had happened. Not now.

Before she could make that understood, he was talking again. "You asked 'bout it. How I learned to fight. Now you know. I've been in enough of 'em to write a bleedin' book, the bastard you met up with today-"

"Would have barely made a footnote." She smiled after the interruption, letting him see that she was okay with it, and rather grateful, too. He was stunned thoroughly; it charmed her all the more. *There's the William I know.*

Buffy was excited to get to know the other side of him, too. Spike was a funny name, but she thought she could get used to it, at the very least, if not come to smile when she said it.
_______________________________________________________
END NOTES: Thanks for reading! Please review!! And happy holidays to all!

He should be at the cemetery.

Spike looked down at the heap of blonde hair covering one shoulder, the girl he loved resting in blissful sleep, her face on his chest, and the notion of work flitted almost entirely away.

He should be at the cemetery, but it didn't matter.

Hours had gone by. Hours of pleasure and laughter, tentative and brazen touching alike. Dusting away the minutes, so careless, so wonderful. From learning his second label to accepting more than just the nickname. She held him close. Buffy kissed like a dream, as sappy and as much of an understatement as that was. Her hands had coaxed his T-shirt from his body to allow for warm, skin on skin contact that made his muscles burn.

They didn't make love. She didn't let him further inside, but every touch brought them closer. Physical intimacy was something Spike understood; he knew what to do, but emotional connection... Well, that was something else entirely.

The cloud of pleasure practically fueled her determination. Buffy stole his heart over and over again through running fingertips and greedy discovery. He remembered her grasping his neck to pull him in for a kiss, while one hand maneuvered to undo his belt. Spike never touched her in the wet velvet between her legs again, because the right to explore had shifted.

"You don't have to," he'd told her. Want of understanding encouraged this gentleman's protest, but her desire to touch him burned it away.

"I want to." Heat and disbelief wrapped around his neck like a collar, but he still stared at her. "Can I?"

Of course she could.

Her hair was silk on his skin. The way it draped around his body, shining like bendable gold would probably never stop mesmerizing him. No matter how much she allowed him to touch, to take, to hear. No matter the amount of time she spent on him, Spike would never get used to a single thing she did.

And if he did, it wouldn't take away from the beauty of her.

If Buffy tracing the edges and bumps that made up his chest ever ceased to kill his ability to breathe; if the sound of her pulling on his zipper ever failed to accelerate his heartbeat; if her green eyes swallowing the image of his cock in her open hand, the feel of her touch affectionately pumping him, stopped emptying the thoughts in his head, then hell would freeze over.

If her beauty and grace, or Buffy's willingness to smile at him, ever quit surprising Spike he couldn't say the rest would follow.

If he could have paused kissing her while she touched him for even a moment, then maybe the whole duration of their intimacy where he got his would have ended sooner. Spike didn't look more than he knew he could handle, but he felt. He felt every damnably perfect thing. Her tongue stroking against his own as her palm hugged his cock, sticking out of his jeans at full mast as she reached further inside the denim. Buffy's mewls of pleasure and excitement were second only to his own in volume, but so much sweeter to listen to.

He felt every vibration and shift of her body, even the disgruntled moans when she couldn't determine whether he liked how she played with his balls. Spike remembered sculpting his own hand over her fingers through the seam of his jeans, squeezing so she would do it tighter, be rougher. Buffy only smiled and redoubled her efforts to kill him. Shortly thereafter, when the woman was nibbling on his lower lip and moaning her appreciation of all the little affections he couldn't help letting out, Spike came into the fast movements of her hand.

He pulled her close, indulging in more of her mouth despite the unwritten rule that said it was overkill because he hadn't let her breathe before that moment. Buffy didn't complain. As a matter of fact, she had smiled against his lips, and her happiness was enough for him.

Spike remembered the way he'd tackled her to the couch and tasted her neck and lips, her chin, cheeks, everywhere she would let him for a while. They paid no attention to the stickiness between them or the intimacy growing in quiet. Comfort and resplendence entwined, until Spike was dozing on her chest.

At some point, Buffy opted to make a bathroom trip. She came back in silky pajama pants that molded to her legs and an apology for having nothing he could change into. He said it was all right, and the awkwardness that should have shown itself by then refused to come out of hiding. Spike was beginning to think it wasn't even there.

That was how he'd gotten here. Noting the clock on the far wall, a careless spectator who claimed it was three AM. Buffy was oblivious to the sound, oblivious to the world in general as she breathed contentedly against his bare chest. He couldn't remember when they'd fallen asleep, and Spike couldn't guess why he'd woken up now.

Perhaps this reality was too much for him, even in rest. Perhaps the fact that none of tonight had been a dream was enough to alight his nerves and drag him from sleep. A subconscious need to reassure himself of reality by living in it. The cause didn't really matter, because the sight of Buffy lying against him was enough to make Spike forget everything but the gratefulness bombarding his gut.

An itch on his thigh went ignored. Even the simple movement to relieve it seemed like too much effort, but it drew Spike's attention to miniscule dampness close by.

He remembered Buffy telling him he could wash up in her bathroom, to use anything he needed.

The task was quick and tedious at once, because the uncertainty about using one of her washcloths to clean his crotch included about two and a half minutes of mental warring.

Spike opted for toilet paper, and paper towels which were folded in a neat pill on top of the sink beside a bar of soap. He was squeaky clean when he trailed out, hoping that the smile greeting him on Buffy's lips wasn't forced.

She reassured him silently by making room on the couch. Spike had once believed cuddling with the woman he loved after helping each other come apart would just remain another wish never granted. The magic of the night, of the moments they'd sewn together with well timed truths and patience were now equally rooted in certainty. It was like that feeling you have when you go back to a place you've only ever categorized as your heart, your home away from home.

Except when he sat down on the couch and Buffy wrapped him in her arms, they laid back, and a foreign feeling entered his chest. Like a pendulum swing, that sense of home which hadn't been present since his mother died came rushing in.

Buffy gave him that feeling back. And it was different, more whole, more intimate.

With the knowledge, Spike looked at her now before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I..." He swallowed hard. His throat went tight. "I love you, Buffy."

In the dimness of the house a high pitched, feline complaint rang out.

He blinked and moved to peer around Buffy's body. Tabitha sat on the floor, beside the couch. She meowed again after catching his eyes.

Frowning, Spike looked to the bowls on the kitchen floor where Buffy had given up some chicken earlier, then hastily back when the animal protested his loss of concentration.

He sighed quietly. "All right, all right," Spike murmured, before making an anxious attempt to maneuver out of the haven that was Buffy's arms. She moaned a little as he shifted them both, and the man combed his fingers through her hair, praying Tabitha wouldn't voice another grievance.

He made it with little consequence but for the cold that crept into his veins when he left the couch. He moved silently in the kitchen and found her food dish empty.

Tabitha caught his attention with a quiet squeak of a meow. Spike glanced quickly towards Buffy's sleeping form before tiptoeing to the cabinet door where the feline sniffed and pawed.

In a minute, Spike had located the dry cat food and refilled her bowl. She was a quiet eater, and to further delay any demands he gave her fresh water before climbing back into bed. Rather, onto the couch. Silently, as slowly as he could, Spike fell beside his girl and nuzzled in close. She wedged herself nearer, his arm molded gently around her back, and the stiffness in his limbs depleted with one sleepy sigh.

Buffy breathed against his throat, and Spike fell asleep.

***

Four hours later, the sun had risen and was busy painting the sky in gold. Light streamed into the living room lining them in strips, reaching the floor and warming other select surfaces. Buffy was roused by something unnoticeable. She woke in a quick manner, sleep drenched eyes blinking open and her pulse thrumming in her wrist and neck.

She turned, as her vision cleared found the sight of a male nipple only inches from her face. Buffy blinked again and when she looked up, bumped Spike's chin.

The memories came rushing back. Following close behind, came a smile. Their evening dinner had somehow fallen into a cozy couch sleepover, and Buffy couldn't say she regretted a single moment of it.

Her heart was well and truly tangled. For once, it didn't feel like barbed wire; rather, the ties were made of silk or cotton or something equally soft and comforting, something that made looking at him now in the milky morning remind her of magic rather than daunting pain. She didn't know if it was because Spike, William, was the first man she had opened up to since truly letting her first love go. She didn't know if Angel had anything to do with it at all.

Buffy wouldn't say he did. The right person wasn't necessarily supposed to come at the right time, but if nothing else Angel had taught her the best people stayed in your life whether you wanted them to or not. He hadn't. None of the men she'd been with afterward gave Buffy a reason to think he should have, and she was starting to realize that if she had stayed with them she might have been settling for something less than what she needed. What she wanted.

William made her feel things that even the first love hadn't, pre and post the trauma of that relationship. It was a different kind of emotion invading her chest little by little now, and there was no pain, just excitement. There was no guessing because she had no idea what else this man might do, or what he might make her feel. Last night's sex-tivities certainly hadn't been planned. She was learning William like a book, from cover to cover, and she was thoroughly enjoying the read.

If this budding trust wasn't in place, then maybe some panic would have wedged in beside contentment. As it was, all she felt was warm and... and loved.

*Loved.*

Oh. There was the panic.

Buffy frowned and swallowed. She took a deep breath and forced the fear to the back of her mind. She had already dealt with this. It was silly running from a relationship she was certain now had merit, from something which made her happier than she'd been in so long.

Besides, if she tried she would only hurt herself. And William. She would hurt William, and Buffy didn't want to do that.

Likely he'd just show up at her house with a bagful of food and cook her dinner again. Pulling away was kind of futile at this point.

With that resolution, Buffy laid back down. She remembered it was Saturday and burrowed against Spike's chest like Tabitha enjoyed snuggling into the laundry. She felt his hold around her tighten marginally, as peace filled her to the brim.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

***

Jack eased his arm out of Mr. Harris' grip, hoping the man still qualified as his boss. Just because he'd shown up with a black eye wasn't normal grounds for firing somebody, was it? Jack didn't think so.

Sure, he couldn't work today, but Mr. Harris never said a word about firing him. How could you even fire somebody who hadn't worked a day for you yet? Refusing to talk about what happened shouldn't leave him without a job either, in his humble opinion. You'd think another guy would understand, but all Xander Harris kept talking about was "telling Buffy."

The man didn't seem very old. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he was older Xander Harris wouldn't be getting so antsy about a couple bruises on a sixteen year old. It wasn't like this thing didn't happen all the time, just usually the bruises were easier to cover with clothes. The times they weren't, well, let's just say Jack wasn't bad at applying concealer.

He cringed and ran a hand through his messy hair. His left eye was pretty messed up. It couldn't be swelling, but the slant in his vision begged different.

Sleeping through his alarm this morning hadn't been the best decision made by his subconscious. He was convinced that if he'd gotten up on time, the worst thing to happen might have been a little mockery if anyone noticed the makeup. He could have blamed acne. Nobody would have known about the bruises.

As Xander Harris knocked harder on the door in front of them, it felt as if the pounding echoed inside his brain. Damn it, his eye really throbbed.

Jack clenched his teeth. Here he stood, his hopefully-still-new boss practically knocking down his guidance counselor's front door on a Saturday morning. A part of Jack wondered why the hell this was Xander Harris' immediate destination after seeing his face, another part of Jack was too exhausted and irritated to care.

God, his life was such a joke.

"Buffy!" Mr. Harris bellowed, sounding somehow apologetic. "Buffy, look I know it's early but I have to-"

The door opened in the middle of that sentence. Standing in the frame was a short woman wearing her pajamas, messy hair, and a scowl darker than the mud on his boss' boots.

"Xander, what the hell are you-" She was halfway to yelling before her eyes locked on Jack's slouching, discolored image, and her expression went from angry to terrified. "Oh my God. Jack?"

Great. Motherly sympathy. He hated this.

"What happened?" Buffy demanded, storming forward on bare feet. She sent Xander a fierce look which got him talking so fast the words nearly strung together.

"I didn't want to bother you but he showed up at the site like this." Jack was waved at, and it made him feel about four years old again. "I told him he couldn't work, and he isn't in the mood to explain the damage. I figured you'd want to know about it."

Buffy sent silent concern in Jack's direction.

"I'm also not sure about that eye," Xander added. "If it swells shut, he can't do a thing on site until it heals."

"It's fine," Jack grumbled.

As Buffy opened her mouth to reply, a third person completed the picture of Jack's humiliation. A bleary eyed man with white blonde hair and no shirt ambled into the doorway.

Buffy turned around instantly. "Oh William- Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

The man, William presumably, took in the situation quickly and even with those bags under his eyes Jack thought he assessed everything fairly well. He also thought the man looked familiar.

Xander Harris blinked in shock. "William? Pratt?"

Bleached guy rose a single hand, the other finding a place in his jeans' pocket. "One an' only."

"Oh." Taking a second to digest the obvious, Xander turned worriedly toward Jack, then his friend. Buffy was as red as a tomato.

Jack tried not to grin, and his guidance counselor's following decision to ignore the awkwardness in the air and start grilling him made it easy. "What happened to you?" she asked impatiently.

He couldn't refute the sigh bubbling in his chest. When he let it out none of the tension in his shoulders went along with it. "Nothing. I fell."

She looked him over again. "Bull." Buffy reached out slowly, her fingers curling into a limp fist before they could touch his cheek. Her expression suddenly hardened like a rock. "Who did this to you?"

"No one. I told you-"

"We both know you're not telling the truth." Xander interrupted. Quiet followed before it was his turn to sigh. Long and hard and tired, he said, "Look, Buff, I didn't bring him here 'cause I wanted to get him into trouble. He can't work with those bruises. There would be questions. And he's a student, so I don't know what the protocol is here."

"You did the right thing Xander, it's okay." She turned around and Jack thought she sent the man in the doorway a silent message, but he wasn't looking at her. William was staring at him. As Buffy Summers went on to thank her friend for bringing Jack over, Xander reassuring her that "the kid" would still have a job on weekends as long as he wanted, William hardly even blinked.

Jack was starting to feel like he was some kind of mannequin in a store window. His eyes fell to the porch and Xander Harris' voice suddenly sounded louder than it ever had.

"You take care. I'll see you next weekend, okay?"

A rough pat on the shoulder shook his concentration enough that he actually replied. "Yeah."

The man walked away and Jack felt a sudden pull on his wrist. He blinked, found Buffy Summers' hand wrapped around his arm. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

"No, that's okay, I- I just gotta go home." He scratched at the back of his head. "Get some sleep."

"Right," she scoffed. "Not before I get some ice on those bruises. Or should I call your aunt?"

Jack rolled his eyes, and it sort of hurt the one, which made him angry. "I swear, I'm fine."

A voice piped up from behind them. "Looks like you got yourself into a nasty one. What was it, three or four?"

A question fell over his guidance counselor's face, but Jack shared none of her confusion. He ducked his head again and rubbed at irritated skin. He could still feel the grip of a hand on the back of his neck and it seriously made him want to crawl under a rock.

The fact his guidance counselor's boyfriend had figured out Jack got his ass beat like a whiny kid with no friends made him feel twice as exhausted and about four times more willing to sit down and apply some ice to his wounds. Black eyes really could cause one hell of a headache.

"It was three," he replied irritably.

Buffy noticeably swallowed a gasp and wrapped her arm halfway around Jack's shoulders. She guided the young man inside with no protest from him, and Spike was already in the kitchen, pulling out a chair by the time she closed the front door.

She flew to the refrigerator after Jack sat down. A skinny teenager with a mess of black hair and bruises all over his face. It tore at her inside to see him looking so defeated, not pulling his eyes from the ground once he sat down. She thought he might be counting the floorboards. Buffy got a small bag of frozen fruit out of the freezer and brought it to his side.

"Thanks," he mumbled. Suddenly meek and quiet, the kid threw a cautious glance at the man who now stood across the room, finally wearing a shirt. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Janitor at your school, mate," he answered easily. "Name's Spike."

Jack frowned, then winced as it carried pain to his swelling eye. "Oh."

"Ice might do better on that, Buffy."

She turned from poking gently at Jack's purple skin and nodded quickly. A moment later she had put together a washcloth with ice cubes and wet the outside. After handing it to Jack he said thank you and Buffy proceeded to use the bag of fruit on his chin where a welt had formed.

"How did this happen?"

A minute went by before Jack elected to reply. "I got into a fight," he mumbled.

"Well, that's obvious."

He would've rolled his eyes again but could only see Buffy out of one of them now. "It's not a big deal."

"Yes. It is." She sighed heavily and gave him the damp bag of blueberries. Turning around, Buffy sent Spike a worried look.

She didn't know what to do. Here was a kid, one of her kids, all beaten up for a reason he wouldn't explain. Some ice and medicine would clean him up and help him heal, but without knowing the source, she couldn't stop this from happening again. A voice in the back of Buffy's mind said Jack was getting bullied, another insisted that he was an unlikely victim.

Jack was not the type of kid to lay down and take a beating. Even if he was kind of a loner, if he was getting bullied then this boy would fight back. It wasn't logical that he wouldn't.

But then... How well did she really know Jack? He carried himself with an edge, was nervous when asking for help. He seemed like the type to be great, even insistent, about taking care of himself.

There was a big difference between persona and reality, though. Not to mention, bullying was the last thing kids his age ever wanted to face.

"Has this happened before?"

"I said it's no big deal."

"I've never seen you with bruises at school before."

*No offense, but you just started working there and usually they're not visible anyway.* Jack didn't snub her though. Instead he just looked away and swallowed his irritation as best he could.

Predictably, the boy went quiet after that. Spike shared another look with his girl and strolled to the fridge. He returned with orange juice and a glass from a cabinet. Pouring the former into the latter, he eyed the boy in front of him intently and at the kid's questioning frown, said, "S'good for the healin'. F'you put a cold compress on that eye in a day or so it'll help, too."

Jack rose one caustic brow, and it was so familiar to her that Buffy nearly fell over. Then he caught a glance at Spike's hands, nodded at them and said, "Why aren't you drinking it then?"

"Already had some."

Spike flexed his hands into fists but barely spared a look for the bruising on his knuckles; Buffy's eyes were fixed. Immediately, she retrieved two more glasses and poured some good old vitamin C for everybody. Just so Jack wouldn't feel funny.

The action made Spike smile, and the teenager holding a hand towel to his face even cracked a grin.

"So, who were the blokes that went after you?"

Jack clammed up, smile gone.

Spike sighed quietly and took a sip of juice. Buffy sat down across from him, and suddenly the boy was talking again.

"You get into a lot of fights?" he asked Spike.

"Used to," he said. "I imagine you're in the same boat?"

Again with the clamming.

Buffy bit her lip and sent a look of grateful warmth in Spike's direction. He nodded marginally, and even if her whole stomach felt fluttery all of a sudden, she still managed to follow the lead of their silent teamwork.

Turning back to their guest, Buffy said, "Jack, you can talk to me. Neither of us are going to say anything."

Bitterness crept into his eyes. "The janitor I've never met who has two names, and my school guidance counselor. Sorry. Don't really want to spill my life story to you two."

"Exactly. I am your guidance counselor," she said firmly. "And that's why you can tell me these things. And Spike- William..." Buffy turned and dropped him a swift smile. "You can trust him, too."

Jack's lips pursed tightly. A moment went by.

"Reckon' you got a few good kicks in?" Spike added.

Jack sighed. "Got a good hit on one of 'em," he mumbled.

Buffy swallowed around a sigh of relief. She looked to Spike again. He seemed to know better things to say than she did.

But he just nodded at her to continue, and so reluctantly, she did. "Who did you hit?" she ventured.

"No one that didn't deserve it, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't."

"I'm not one of the assholes in this town."

"I never said that."

"But I look like one." Jack sighed irritably, took a big gulp of juice. He was still holding the towel to his eye, and stumbled away from the table a little as he stood up. "Look, thank you for the ice and juice and... playing mother hen, but I think I should be getting back home."

Startled, Buffy could barely stumble out of her own chair in time to stride in front of him. "No, listen to me. You're not okay and that's my responsibility."

"Not really."

"Jack-"

"I promise you, it's not your problem. I'm not your problem."

That hit her like a rockslide. He walked around Buffy after setting the towel down. "Oh, sometimes I wish it wasn't," she muttered.

Spike's voice preceded her next attempt at blocking Jack from the front door. "You know, walkin' 'round this town looking like that'll get you noticed."

Halting as if he stepped in tar, Jack sighed. After a tense second or two he spun around. Avoiding Buffy's flashing eyes, he knew there was concern there he didn't want to see, and the other guy in the room was a better target for his irritability anyway. "I can take shortcuts."

"You mean the same ones everyone else in this bloody town uses? Right, good plan."

"Jack," Buffy pleaded when his silence lasted long enough, "just sit, okay? You don't have to talk about what happened if you don't want, but-" She thought fast, frustration bleeding into her mind and clouding the ability to think. "Look. I'll get changed and drive you home, okay? Just let me do that much."

He sighed deeply again, seemingly at her this time. "That's okay. I'd rather walk." He'd also rather not get seen being driven around by his guidance counselor, as it was just one more way to ensure he'd have two matching black eyes by mid week.

"I'll take him."

Both their heads snapped in one direction.

"Your car needs to be filled with coolant again, likely. I'll take him, it'll be quicker."

"Spike... You don't have to do that." When had the names flipped? He was suddenly Spike to her more than William now? Buffy supposed it was the way he stood, arms crossed and purple hands at his elbows.

She was honestly not adverse to the idea, but Jack wasn't Spike's responsibility. He was hers. And his aunt's, if the boy told his guardian about the fight once he got home. Which, call her crazy, but Buffy didn't see that happening.

Spike merely shrugged at her concern, raising one eyebrow carelessly and speaking to the teenager in the room. "Where you live?"

"On Madison Street."

He nodded. "No trouble takin' him."

She bit her lip, nearly protesting again. But something registered, and it was that unwritten request in Spike's blue eyes, something that said he could find out more information. Something that insisted this was a reasonable idea, him taking the boy home, because there were secrets here she couldn't understand and Jack wouldn't confide.

But he might confide in Spike.

"I'm getting driven home by a guy who goes by 'Spike.'" the teenager deadpanned.

It wasn't a question, which was obvious. It was an acceptance. Buffy smiled faintly, staring at the man she'd spent the night with in something close to awe. "If you're sure."

"No, not really," Jack answered, despite the fact she hadn't been talking to him that time.

Only a minute later, and they were out the door, walking five feet away from each other to Spike's car. Buffy watched from the doorway with her heart feeling as swollen as Jack's eye, and God, but the sensation was so out of place she nearly wanted to thump her chest with a fist.

She knew, that by the time Spike returned, he would have garnered all the information she needed. And Buffy was beyond grateful.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes I updated twice in one day. Read this chapter BEFORE chapter 16, please! :)
___________________________________

Christ the car ride was awkward.

Spike flexed his hands around the steering wheel, throwing a gauging look at Jack. The bloke hadn't said a word since being asked what music he liked, and because Jack appeared to be fine with the rock station there was really no reason for Spike to argue. Or talk at all for that matter.

A sigh fell on his right. Jack was staring out the window at moving cornfields. They were about two minutes from town, but between there and Buffy's house lie acres of farmland. Spread after spread of corn, soybeans, and wheat. The scenery was nice, if you liked that sort of thing, but Spike had learned over the years it took a special kind of person to appreciate the Midwest.

He didn't know if he fell into the category, but the sunsets that made the fields glow gold certainly were a sight. Right now daylight was just finishing its ascension, painting the sky in pastels. No rain to come, but somehow the air in the car was brimming with gray clouds no one could see.

Jack was thoroughly, blissfully distracted. He jerked noticeably in his seat when Spike voiced the awkward question. "So, you're gettin' beat down lately, then?"

The boy delivered a glare shadowed by purple and blue.

*Great start.* Spike sighed again, pursing his lips together before turning a corner. Shops and fast food places were coming into view. "No chance you want to tell me who it is."

Silence.

"Know you won't. That'd be rattin', yeah?" Jack sent him a probing look, eyes squinting marginally. "Doesn't hardly matter if you're the bloke outnumbered three to one. M'sure you figure you've gotta play fair even when the opposing team ain't so rules oriented."

"Ever hear about pride?"

"Was never one of my strong suits." A smirk tipped his mouth. "Not sayin' you should be tellin' on 'em. Just sayin', f'you want to win, avoid comin' home with bruises m'sure aren't too much fun coverin' up, sometimes you have to fight dirty." Spike stole another sideways glance and found Jack staring at him, cornfields forgotten. "Play by their rules instead of somethin' as pointless as being noble."

"You think I get the crap kicked out of me for nobility?" he demanded. The boy pointed to his injured eye. "Look at me. I'm a joke. I'm not ratting because it'll just be one more reason for them to kick my face in. And believe me, I know that if being noble had any merit I wouldn't look like this."

Spike started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Fair enough." Silence fell again, but not for long. "You get a kicking from more than one tosser on the regular or is your arse more of a free for all?"

Jack frowned. "No it's... it's usually two or three," he answered stubbornly. "Besides the usual bullshit I get into at school."

"Gettin' mouthy with bullies in the halls?"

"I never start this crap!" he shouted.

"Didn't say you did. But I understand how hard it is to keep your mouth shut, even when it's probably what's best for you. 'Course, I didn't learn I had a talent for mouthing off 'til I got a mite older."

He glanced down. "You've gone through this kind of thing a lot?"

"Yeah, when I was livin' in England." Jack lifted his head and stared attentively. "A while after that, once I'd been here a few years, started fightin' for fun. Wasn't exactly smart, but I learned a lot."

Jack paused. They were only about five minutes from Madison Street. "You know how to fight?"

Spike snorted, shamelessly arrogant. "Could say that."

"Like, well?"

"Well what?"

"You fight well?"

"Yeah." *I'm no boxing champion but put me in a street fight and I'll win without much doubt.*

Jack went quiet again. He released a deep breath before shutting the radio off and twisting his hands together. "How'd you get those bruises?"

Spike looked at the damage in question, and his jaw clenched. "Sometimes you gotta defend other people."

A moment went by where all Jack did was stare out the windshield. "What do you do if a guy is on your back, pushing your face into the ground?"

Spike nearly missed the stop sign in front of them. He turned to the kid with incredulity in his eyes and said, "You don't get into that position to begin with."

"Thanks. You're real helpful."

Spike rolled his eyes and muttered a curse. "If your hands are free, I'd say try wrappin' a leg around his for leverage and usin' your hips to get him off. If you know his face is close to your head, toss it back and break the bastard's nose."

Jack looked like he was cataloging the information. "What if your arms are held back while a third guy's punching you?"

"Seriously? You're getting the shit kicked out f'you like this and you've never told anyone?"

"Will you just answer the question?"

"Can't get out of everything, mate. Half the fight is instinct." Spike had to hand it to the kid, he had a brain up there if he was so adamant on getting answers, he just didn't have the skills to put it to good use.

"And the other half?" Jack demanded.

"Experience. Skill."

"You have that."

"Right."

"Can you-" Suddenly, the boy stopped. He closed his mouth and swallowed his words, eyeing his shoes. "Never mind."

Spike frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"And I like hosting tea parties on Sunday. C'mon, spill."

Jack rubbed his fingers against his forehead, groaning quietly and sighing like a gust of wind. "It's not important. It was a stupid idea."

Spike braked at a red light. Madison was the next left turn. "There's often somethin' to be said for stupid ideas."

Jack's shoulders blended with the black leather of the car seat. "Not this one."

Spike watched from the corner of his eye until they turned onto Jack's street. They pulled up to a tall white house with shutter windows and concrete steps leading to the door. It had a picket fence surrounding the small front yard, and a smooth black metal mail box with the flag up at the gate.

The passenger side door opened with a creak. Spike caught Jack wincing as he got out and slid one supporting hand beneath his arm. He stood up slowly, palming his ribcage, swollen eye all the more severe on his white face.

Jack took a deep breath, and leaning on the roof of the car with his free hand said, "Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome."

He nodded and shut the door. Spike watched him stroll diligently toward the house with dark windows and a locked up front door. The air was very still. If the aunt was home she was likely still asleep.

Jack got about as far as the front gate. Quickly rolling down the window, Spike leaned across the bench seat. "Hey!"

He turned around. "Yeah?"

"You want some pointers on fightin', you come to me."

Jack's eyes bugged, even the one that was swollen shut exhibited some movement. He took several steps closer. "Are you serious?"

"You wanna tell me who kicked your arse to start with, then yeah, m'serious."

His mouth firmed. "I don't-"

"You want to keep bein' pushed around, getting the snot kicked out of you, it's fine with me. But I can help, teach you some moves, what not to do and all that."

Unchecked interest showed itself, but Jack leashed it. He stuttered when he spoke. "How- I mean, how do you know you can help me?"

"Because I do. Now, if you're interested, you have to tell me who you got into it with."

Jack closed his eyes. It took a minute, but finally he relented. "Just some guys from school."

"Names."

His head fell and Spike could see the tension on his face. Jack groaned heartily before continuing. "Michael O'henry, Joe and Shaun Gregory. Joe is Shaun's older brother. He doesn't go to school anymore but he still hangs around. Guy can't seem to find anyone his own age to follow him around, I guess."

Spike frowned, a memory tickling his curiosity. "As in Larry Gregory?"

"Yeah, at the body shop. They're his sons."

Spike smirked nastily to himself and shook his head. "'Course." Larry wasn't a bad person, the bloke was just too old and hardworking to worry much about his sons' extracurricular activities. That Joe git was particularly irritating, what with his habit of offending the opposite sex, one woman in particular, and Spike's extreme desire to pound his face in.

Anyone who bothered Buffy with too many innuendos and barely there respect was just asking for a painful lesson. Joe had always been like a mosquito buzzing at the edge of Spike's vision, something worth swatting if only he'd been given the chance.

This was just one more reason to hate the wanker.

"Spike?"

He snapped back to attention, a burning aftertaste in his mouth and a need to head back to Buffy's immediately. "Yeah?"

"You can't tell anyone."

"M'gonna tell Buffy."

Jack's face fell. "No! If she-"

"She won't." The boy paused. "Trust me, she doesn't want you to get hurt anymore than you have. She wants to keep an eye on the students who're botherin' you, I'd wager."

*There's a long list,* he thought to himself. "Are you sure she won't say anything? I mean, she's nice. I appreciate the job she got me with her friend and everything, but earlier-"

"You don't have to worry about her sayin' a word. But if it makes you feel better, I'll talk to her."

Jack sighed again, nodding very reluctantly as tense seconds went by. He was mentally picturing the thousand ways his admission could get out and travel the hallways at school. That's all he needed added to his persona. Jack the Loser, Jack the Outcast, Jack the Emo, Jack the Nerd Who Liked Reciting Poetry in English Class, Jack the Rat.

He studied the ground and swallowed around a sour lump in his throat; heat lined his stomach.

Spike moved back, put his hands on the steering wheel. "I'll be expectin' you then?"

The mention of their plans jarred him. "Uh. Yeah. When should I-"

"After school. M'there Sunday through Thursday."

"The school?" Jack frowned. He thought that might be like hanging meat in front of a tiger, but then again there was a gym there, complete with mats and workout equipment.

Besides, Spike wasn't likely to invite some pathetic teenager over to his house anytime soon. Even if the school was a little bit risky, Jack wasn't sure he really cared. Anyone who would hang around after hours never went near the gym. And his eye needed more ice. "Okay."

Spike nodded cleanly and revved the engine. Jack quickly headed inside.

Some form of conscience, irritably tugging at Spike's mind once he pulled off the street, made him think diligently about everything. The Gregory boys, Jack, this new idea to teach the kid some fighting technique. It was barely eight in the morning for Christ's sake.

Spike switched the radio on again. If he could actually help Jack, make the kid's life easier, lessen the impact of these bullies he was dealing with, it would be worth all the effort put in.

Spike knew how badly getting picked on made a person want to crawl under a rock. Before leaving England he used to face hatred from his peers every day. Going to school was like facing the firing squad, only instead of bullets he was shot up with spitballs and badly rhymed insults. The teachers never did anything about it. He was a boy, and they simply expected him to toughen up.

As a child, William had been reserved and quiet. He never spoke out of turn or made jokes to hurt anybody else. He immediately found out such behavior was what made you a target for those who did. Toughening up didn't come for quite some time.

He must have thought of transferring every day, but he lived in a small town and commuting to another school would have cost a good amount of time. They always had money but his mother hated driving, and William never liked to ask more of her.

His mum knew the kids in town could be snobby, even cruel. She figured he didn't enjoy school because he simply didn't fit in, but she didn't know the full of it; as the years went on he told her less and less. His father had passed away when he was little, and being the man of the house fell on the son's shoulders. You couldn't be a man and cry when people were bullying you. After a while, William got better at hiding the evidence.

His late father's reputation never helped. It had sourced much amusement over the years. Except when harmless opinions turned into the weapons of uninformed kids, the hilarity and innocence stopped.

His father had been known as a slightly crazed historian, sometimes inventor, and eccentric author. One of the few memories Spike carried of him involved frayed hair and cracked bifocals from an electrical experiment gone awry. The man had been kind, if a bit moody, and his memory cemented in town as a person with several loose screws keeping his brain in place.

William spent years defending a ghost, but the most he ever got out of it was more experience with clumsy fists and toilet dunking. The day his mother chose to move them to America was probably one of the best days of William's life.

Jack couldn't move away. Even if that were an option, finding yourself ignored by everyone around you and living in solitude wasn't exactly any better. Sure, you didn't get saddled with the bruises and humiliation, but damn if you weren't lonely.

Spike shook his head. He turned the radio up a little louder. Jack was older than he'd been. He could learn how to fight, how to defend himself, and turn his life around.

If the plan didn't work, Spike assuaged any feelings of apprehension with the fact he could always find Joe Gregory and beat him into a brick wall. What a twenty-two year old was doing bullying a sixteen year old kid, Spike had no idea. It took a lot to sink that low and become that pathetic.

The only problem with coloring Gregory's face in scarlet was Jack might have to deal with the aftermath, and that, Spike wasn't sure he could risk.

Something told him Buffy wouldn't mind Joe visiting the hospital, but he wouldn't tell her. He wouldn't tell her about any of this. She didn't need to worry about it. Hell, judging by the way she'd stressed her sheriff friend's warning about not taking part in anymore physical altercations, Spike was half convinced the bird was concerned for his welfare.

The fact she could care at all made him feel like he was worth a bloody million. Just a few days ago he was all set to keep his distance, remain observant only when absolutely necessary for his own health. Now... Now, he couldn't separate himself for the world.

Being beside her, holding Buffy as she slept... It was better than anything he could've imagined. The pictures he took, the drawings, the poems he wrote, every daydream fell in comparison. He was filled with peace when she smiled at him. When she kissed him, opened herself up in that way, the hope in his heart burned brighter than any flame.

Spike stomped on the gas pedal and traveled the familiar roads, speeding back to the place he'd left, back home.

***

Buffy made breakfast while he was gone.

She whipped up a small batch of pancakes and added sugar to the defrosted blueberries. She set the table with silverware, napkins, teapot, coffee, butter, maple syrup, and toast to finish off. She covered the plates with pan lids to keep them warm. By the time Spike returned she was buttering her own bread and searching for jelly.

He knocked, which made her smile. Even with her concerns regarding Jack, somehow the fact Spike had talked to the boy eased her mind.

She opened the door and graced him with a bright smile, leaning in to grab his hands and pull him through the entryway. Buffy gave him a fast kiss which appeared to surprise him, but she quickly got to the questions before he could do anything about it.

"Did you talk to him?"

Spike shut the door and followed her. His nose twitched the same instant he saw the spread on the kitchen table. Sweet, bready, coffee and sugar scents made his taste buds tingle. Absently he noted Tabitha rubbing against his booted ankle. "Yeah, I did."

Buffy pulled out a chair for him to sit down. "What did he say?" she asked fretfully. "Did he tell you who's been bullying him?"

Spike ignored the chair, pulling out the other and gesturing for her to sit. He didn't speak until she did. "Couple blokes at school. Another who's older and doesn't go there anymore."

Buffy frowned thoughtfully as he took off his coat and sat across from her. "I can't think of anybody like that who would bully a teenager."

Spike clenched his jaw. He reached for the coffeepot and filled her mug half full. "Joe Gregory?"

Buffy's eyes grew noticeably rounder. "Are you serious?"

"S'what he told me"

"He's in his twenties!"

"I know, love." Spike took a moment to really look at the view in front of him. His girl, who had cooked breakfast, sitting across the table in this little kitchen and taking a sip from the coffee he'd just poured her. Shock was spearing his nerves. He'd thought greeting Buffy in her robe last night had him faltering, but this was different. This was inviting, intimate, and reminded him how lovely it would be to spend the rest of the morning loving her.

Simply put, it was enough to melt his heart. "Thank you."

She was distracted. "What?"

"For the meal. It smells delicious."

"Oh." Buffy acted like she had forgotten the food completely. "No problem," she said with a bashful grin. "You drove Jack home. This is the least I could do."

He hoped she hadn't done it out of gratitude, but the picture of sharing breakfast with her softened the painful edge of probability. Spike lifted a lid off his plate and stood to put it on the counter, then hers.

"Did he mention anyone else?"

"Joe's brother, Shaun, goes to school with him. And another kid, name of O'henry."

Buffy sighed, nodding gratefully when he passed the jelly. She started working on her forgotten toast once again. "Michael. I know him. He's kind of a bully to everyone. I saw him shove a girl into the side of a parked car once outside my shop."

Spike tensed. That day was months old, but he remembered it. Buffy had run out of her shop with fire blazing in her eyes. She'd given Michael a scathing speech capable of making anyone's ears bleed before taking the shaken girl inside. Spike waited on the sidelines from start to long after the finish, ready to spring into action if the bulky young man tried pushing anyone else around.

He hated bullies too much to be discriminatory. Spike didn't care if Michael was a teenager, he would have gladly strangled fear right into him if he'd so much as touched Buffy or the other girl again.

Buffy nibbled off a bite of toast, wiping strawberry jelly from her lips. "Do you think they'll go after Jack again?"

He shook his mind of Michael O'henry and took note of her phrasing. She didn't call the fight just "boys being boys." She saw the assault on one of her students as what it was.

Even so, he couldn't rightly lie and say no, despite the desire to comfort her. He couldn't bring up working with Jack either. "I don't know."

"Well," she spoke thoughtfully, "maybe I should talk to their parents. I mean, it is kind of my job after all."

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

Spike filled his cup with tea and bit off a huge chunk of pancake. He made sure to swallow before answering. "He'll look like a rat. It'd make things worse."

Buffy rolled her eyes and hung her head. A hefty sigh flew past her lips. "I hate that I can't do anything," she admitted. "I just want to storm over to Larry's and give him a piece of my mind."

Spike paused. "You can help, pet."

She lifted her eyes, meeting his. A question rested between them.

"By being there," he said. "You give Jack support, be there if he needs somethin'. You're already doin' more than enough."

"I just feel like it's not enough. I want to... I want to protect him."

"You got him a job. That'll give him a way to earn some dosh, along with keepin' him busy."

Her left eyebrow went up. "I haven't heard that one before."

"Means money," he said with a little grin. "Now eat up, your cakes are gettin' cold."

Buffy gave a half laugh, half sigh. She started cutting and poking at her food with a fork, but she only took three bites before dropping it. "What if it happens again? What if he comes to school with a black eye and bruises?"

"Reckon he'll have that already come Monday, pet." Her face fell and Spike immediately regretted his words. "He'll be fine. The boy's young, it'll take no more than a couple days to get rid of the bruises."

"That won't stop it from happening again."

He wanted to tell her she could let him take care of it, rely on him, but Spike knew such promises were off limits. They were too likely to get broken. He wasn't in control here. "Jack will be all right, Buffy. I know it. Kid's tough."

She sighed again, taking a large gulp or two of coffee. Her chin rested in her hand and she noticed he'd stopped eating. "You're not chewing."

Spike shrugged. "Not gonna start 'til you do, sweetheart."

That encouraged a reluctant smile. Buffy leaned back and started working on her pancakes again. After a moment or two of silence except for silverware clinking against plates, she said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything. Talking to Jack. Being good with him when I couldn't be. Taking him home. I just..." Her gaze filled with sweet appreciation. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. M'always here."

"I like that."

"Me... being here?"

"Yeah. I like it." *You make me feel supported. I'm quickly understanding how much that matters.*

Buffy never realized dependency could make a person feel something other than weak. She always used to think she needed to stand alone, the perception taking root when she was very young. After her mother passed away the concept only solidified, even before Giles moved back to England. It seemed the older she got the less people there were around her, and the fewer reasons she had to depend on those who stayed. The idea she could depend on a man without feeling like he was trying to coddle her was astounding, yet Spike was doing it. He was flipping her world upside down like a pancake.

There was something like loyalty in his eyes, something that eased all fears. Spike would probably keep surprising her, and that was just one more thing that made her feel like she could trust him.

He was staring at her in this awestruck way that made her feel thoroughly exposed, but Buffy kept her eyes level. It took several seconds before she could no longer take it and looked down at her plate of half eaten food. She heard him whisper something, and it sounded like, "Thank you."

Little did she realize what three words were balancing on the tip of his tongue.

***

"All done."

Buffy smiled after he slammed the hood of her car. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

He looked away bashfully, which surprised and delighted her. "It was no problem."

She walked forward. The sun was striking the front of her Jeep, lending it a cherry gleam. There were sounds of swaying grass and squawking geese as they flew in a V shape high above.

The air was chilly, so she wore a big sweater over her tank top and blue jeans, while Spike stood in nothing but Levis and a T-shirt. He seemed unbothered by the cold. "At least let me pay you for the parts."

Spike looked at her and shook his head, wiping his hands on his pants self consciously. "Not takin' your money, pet."

"But it's not fair. You did the work and you bought the stuff. I'm getting everything out of it and you're getting nothing."

*I'm getting to be near you.* Spike was half hoping something else would go wrong with her car. Enough mechanical problems and he'd never have to leave. "You made me breakfast."

"You made me dinner. We're even on the food scale."

He chuckled. "Love, if there's one thing I don't mind it's helping you with body work."

She smiled in shock and Spike nearly tore out his own tongue. The innuendo was what it was, and Buffy knew it, but she didn't balk or scold. No, instead she sidled up closer and said, "Well, I still plan on repaying you. One way or another."

Heat spread through his body like a whirlwind, shame forgotten. Spike found himself staring at her lips. "I'm curious to know what you have in mind."

"You'll just have to wait and see."

That was a loaded statement. Suddenly, Spike couldn't reign himself in. He took a step forward to bring them nose to nose, placing his fingers gently on her hip. "Promise?" he asked with a brow waggle.

Buffy's answer was a kiss.
_____________________________

END NOTES: Thanks so much for reading!

ATTENTION:
READ CHAPTER 15 FIRST!
I updated twice in one day, so make sure you read the chapter in order! :)
Hope y'all enjoy.
_____________________________

There was something to be said for routine. Buffy managed to readjust hers fairly easily as the weeks went by. She worked at the high school every Monday and Thursday, while in between her commitment to the store remained steady.

Anya Harris was thrilled when Buffy asked her if she would be interested in a part time job. Since Xander had given Jack one, and she really did need someone to keep the place open those two extra days, hiring Anya was probably the best decision she could have made.

The woman loved to make a sale. There were a few intricacies Anya needed to learn, mostly regarding etiquette, and a general rule of thumb not to speak her mind quite all the time, but other than that she was a great employee.

Buffy's position as a guidance counselor grew less daunting. Students started frequenting her office, asking her advice on everything from college to relationships. They trusted her with the general teenage drama, and relied on her help to solve their problems.

It could be overwhelming, yes, but the more Buffy did the more rewarding it became. She felt like she was making a difference for these kids, most of whom hardly ever talked to their parents. She didn't like the disconnect between the generations, but her position allowed an opportunity to explain that no matter how clueless or strict, parents did usually have the best intentions.

She believed she was starting to make progress on both sides. Robin Wood recently tried to rope her into working three days out of the week instead of two, as he was suitably impressed with the response she was getting from the students. Buffy wasn't ready to give up another day at the store, which he accepted, but she was flattered by his praise all the same.

Outside of work, Spike came around more and more. A day didn't go by where they didn't speak. They chose to meet up after school on Mondays and Thursdays, usually talking in her office for at least an hour. They had dinner at her house twice a week, but that was happening more often, too. Tabitha was beginning to make a habit out of sleeping on Spike's coat if he left it on any semi flat surface.

Colder weather sped into the area all at once. The skies were either damp and gray, or bright and chilly. It snowed the first day of November. These inspiring mornings and frosty evenings doubled in short time, the cattails in her front yard started to bow, and the holiday season climbed its annual rise to the forefront of everyone's mind.

Thanksgiving crept up like a sneaky neighbor. Buffy was so distracted by work and a man she was very quickly starting to think of as her boyfriend, even if the label hadn't been tagged on yet, she almost didn't notice. Halloween had come and gone without so much as a single costume idea, spent handing candy out to trick-or-treaters while Spike called every other hour from the cemetery.

Thanksgiving, however, was to be a much different affair. One of those family holidays, plump with football and turkey.

Giles was in merry old England, and unlikely to come home for it. Apparently, he had been invited to stay at a ski resort in Switzerland.

Thinking about Giles on a ski lift alone was enough to make her nervous, imagining him actually hurtling down the slopes had Buffy locking the man into a verbal contract that barred him from sport participation completely.

He swore to stick to the sauna and chess games. Apparently, there was a little tournament going on there and he was convinced he had a shot at winning. Didn't she know he was great at chess? Until then, Buffy hadn't, but she was exceedingly grateful for tedious strategy games as soon as he informed her.

Without Giles coming in for a holiday he didn't really celebrate anyway, Buffy had no reason to host dinner. It was a load off her mind, and amazingly, she was invited to spend Thanksgiving with numerous friends and neighbors on a day to day basis. After the almost-mugging at the grocery mart, which people got wind of fairly quickly thanks to not so widely spread town gossips, everyone became particularly warm and welcoming.

It wasn't uncommon for Buffy to receive holiday invitations, but they were especially abundant this time around. It was probably just luck that Anya and Xander were the first ones to ask whether she had plans or not.

She would be attending dinner at their house in a little over a week. Buffy was expected to bring the rolls, as Anya explained she always burned them when she tried making them herself.

It was going to be a small affair, or so Buffy expected. The Harrises, Anya's mother, a couple neighbors, and her. The entire idea of actually celebrating this year seemed almost mundane, until the notion struck her to invite Spike.

She was nearly positive he didn't have plans. He was British, after all, and unless the man was great at holding a grudge she didn't think he would be opposed to coming.

Buffy thought about it for days, idly glancing at the mark on her calendar and cringing every time. She toyed with the best way to ask him, and then considered the answers she might receive. Each scenario left her more nervous than the last.

Dating William, dating Spike, was new. It was the closest thing to a relationship she'd had in over two years. Every time Buffy thought about asking him whether he wanted to attend a family-esque dinner, which might hint at commitment and other serious things, she was captured by schoolgirl inadequacy.

You just didn't ask a grown man if he wanted to be your boyfriend. It felt too forced, to childish. Exclusive was a more suitable word, but semantics didn't take away from her panic.

They hadn't slept together yet, and despite those intimate kisses the night of their first date, they had barely progressed so far a second time. Every once in a while he looked at her in that bone melting way, like she was the universe rolled up inside a human being, and Buffy felt her stomach tighten and blushed so hard that her nerves probably turned pink. Yet she still couldn't bring herself to ask if he would come to Thanksgiving dinner... let alone whether they qualified as a true-blue couple.

They spent unrestricted amounts of time together, shared meals together, even ran errands for each other on occasion. Spike had picked up paper towels so many times now it was unlikely she would remember to get them for herself ever again. These kinds of things were undoubtedly of the couple variety, and despite the fact Spike had only just gotten a cell phone, he was never hard to reach. It almost seemed he went out of his way to make certain she could get a hold of him.

None of her past boyfriends had been so doting, and Spike demanded nothing from her. No declarations, and no tears to prove she trusted him. He had become much more comfortable with teasing her, too, and that relaxed Buffy. It made her think he was starting to trust his own judgment as much as she did.

What they had was different. Almost a partnership, and if someone had told her when she was eighteen that she would eventually kick Angel to the curb and start getting in deep with a new man just weeks later, a man named Spike, Buffy probably would have laughed herself silly.

She was under no delusions he was perfect, but his imperfections- from the occasional stutter to his tendency to talk during movies -were what made their relationship so groundbreaking. Spike calmed and excited her. She didn't feel as if she needed to measure up to anything to make them both happy.

She was in deep, and she knew it, but focusing on the obvious had never been something Buffy liked to do. So, she let her mind nitpick the little things, rather than examine just how close she and Spike were getting.

Pouting over the fact he hadn't invited her to his house yet was number one. Sure, he described it in great detail, and the pictures in that book counted for something, except Buffy's curiosity had very little to do with the property and everything to do with wanting to see how he lived. Was Spike messy? What did the inside of his fridge look like? Was it filled with strange bachelor necessities like lunchmeat, chicken wings and beer? Did he have a day planner? Just how many black T-shirts and button ups did the man own?

It was never the guy's problem opening up, it was always hers, and she couldn't rightly say she was facing that dilemma with Spike. She also couldn't say he acted like he was hiding anything. Her insecurities were merely getting the better of her, and Buffy had to fight them down occasionally. After all, it had never once been said she wasn't welcome in his home.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving she was busying herself with work, and trying to avoid the entire concept of relationship conjecture.

Occasionally, customers paid Buffy to display their antiques in her store. The most recent example was a drop front writing desk from the 1930s, and she was suitably impressed by both its style and condition.

Buffy examined the piece from top to bottom and dusted it clean. There were roses painted on the sides, numerous cubbies for letters, papers, and other things. It reached her waist in height. The legs were stout and ornate, three serpentine drawers made up the middle, and the surface was smooth, unmarred cherry wood.

Anya had already tagged it with the price, but Buffy couldn't remember her mentioning who brought it in. She walked behind the front counter and found the log book organizing secondary sale merchandise, spotting Anya's latest entry almost immediately.

Apparently, Larry Gregory was the owner. "Sell for asking price or best offer."

Buffy frowned over that. She rarely got people to allow wiggle room on the pricing. That was why they brought their personal items to her. Not only could she wrestle a good wad of cash out of almost any penny pincher, but a higher price usually meant it took longer to sell a piece. Her store acted as a storage unit and selling block.

She shrugged absently and closed the log book. Eyeing the desk again, standing in a corner beside a full length mirror and several dozen photographs, Buffy decided it really was kind of priceless. Larry didn't seem much for antiques, though, and he must have no sentimental attachment, otherwise he wouldn't be getting rid of it.

She wondered how he'd acquired it.

Just as Buffy was setting the book back on its shelf, beside her folded coat and one unopened twelve pack of diet coke, the front door opened with a parade of wind.

The radio overhead quieted and tension spread across her shoulders like a net. An all too familiar face, bordered by streaks of yellow blonde hair and oil smudges stood impatiently inside her store.

Buffy cleared her throat and resisted a scowl. "How can I help-"

"Where is it?" he demanded.

A moment taken to catch up didn't help her decipher his needs. "What?"

"Where's the desk? The one my dad gave you to sell."

Buffy blinked in shock and turned as if in slow motion towards the piece. He was glaring at her back, she could feel it on her spine like little needles, but once he spotted what he wanted his attention shifted.

Joe Gregory, oldest son to Larry Gregory, resident pervert, and most recent addition to Buffy's "People I Would Clock" list, was a tall and grimy young man. At age twenty-two he worked daily with his father at the mechanic shop. He used to bug her to no end. Ever since learning that he liked to beat up sixteen year olds for fun and encouraged his younger brother's help, Buffy found she hated just letting him set foot in her store.

The guy wrapped his long arms around the sides of the desk without delay, one heavy groan piercing the air. He carried it three feet before Buffy ran out from behind the counter. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I'm taking this back," he said irritably. "My dad had no right to give it to you, and he has no right to sell it. Now get out of my way."

Buffy shook her head and put both palms flat on the closed, slanted surface of the desk. "I am not letting you take this. Your dad asked me to sell it for him. If he's changed his mind then he can tell me."

He glared dramatically and dropped the desk, making her jump. That furious brown glower could frighten anyone, but Buffy was oblivious to the emotion. "I don't give a shit. You're not selling it."

"It's your dad's, isn't it?"

"No. It's my mom's, and until he gets permission from her ghost to fucking sell it, I'm keeping it."

A chill went through her. That's right. The Gregory boys had lost their mom some time ago. Despite every instinct in Buffy's body begging her to scream at the moron, her gut still reacted to that knowledge. "I'm sorry," she forced herself to say, "but your dad expects me-"

He didn't want to hear anymore. Joe stepped around the cherry wood barricade between them and towered over her. She hadn't worn her boots today, well, not her clunky ones. Just flats, so she was about as tall as she could ever wish to be and that meant her head reached Joe's chest. It was an unsettling difference when a man was invading your personal space.

"I'm not asking you," he snarled. "It's my desk. My dad doesn't have a right to it. She left it to me."

"I think you should take a step back." Buffy's voice had lowered, something darkened by its hush. "Now," she warned.

He refused to move. "Why?" A light entered his eyes, one that was somehow dark. It flickered like wavering candle flames. "Am I making you uncomfortable, sweetie?"

Buffy ground her teeth together. There was that damnable nickname, covered by syrupy disgust. An unreal endearment he sneered to multiple women in town if they met with certain requirements. Maybe his unfiltered bad luck with the opposite sex was what made him bully Jack, a way to compensate, a way to feel like a "man."

Tough guy was going to learn a hard lesson if he kept trying to bully her. "You're making it less likely I'll let you take that desk."

"Like I said, I'm not asking."

Joe Gregory turned and picked the big piece of furniture up once again, and Buffy was clenching her fists to remain in control. "I'll call your dad and talk to him about this if you want me to."

He ignored her, lumbering towards the door.

"Or I'll just call him now, so I can talk with him."

The man didn't stop. "Do what you want. I'm not going to let him see this thing again if he keeps trying to get rid of it."

Any remaining sympathy died a quick death. "Maybe you should ask him what he wants."

Joe finally dropped his load and turned on her, storming forward. "Maybe you should keep your nose out of other people's business!" he shouted. Buffy stepped back, her spine hit the counter. "You might think you can push an old man around because you're cute, but tits and ass don't work on everyone."

Something snapped. "You think I'm pushing your dad around?"

"I'm betting you manipulate a lot of men to get your way."

"I don't hurt people for personal gain," she said.

"You sure look like the type." His shins caressed her knees in an eerie sway.

Buffy swallowed. "That's funny coming from you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I thought it took one to know one." She inched backward, further into the counter's edge, and rose her chin to look him dead in the eye. "You look like a manipulative jerk to me."

He pinched her chin in one big, oily hand. Surprise and fear pulsed together as she shoved him off, but Joe grabbed her wrist and squeezed. "You need to learn how to shut your mouth one of these days."

He pushed himself away before she could reply. The glass clinked in protest behind her. She trembled against her will, watching him stomp back to the desk and haul it out the front door.

Until that moment, she hadn't realized her heart was beating a mile a minute. Buffy cupped her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. Her wrist throbbed like a twitchy clock striking the hour. The moment swayed to stillness as her nerves worked for composure.

The quiet didn't last long. About twenty seconds into it, someone new barreled into her little shop and Buffy jumped again. Her whole body felt weighted with lead, but when she saw Spike's face, relief took hold of everything.

"Buffy." He stormed forward, eager hands coming up to frame her shoulders. He didn't touch her, just looked her over from head to toe, beseeching blue eyes edged with worry and coal liner. "Are you okay?"

She reached forward without conscious thought, latching onto his arms. Spike pulled her into a hug and maintained eye contact, letting their foreheads touch. "Yeah. I'm okay," she said, but a knot tightened in her stomach.

Something small, something almost invisible, changed. On his face, the worry quickly melted into anger. "What happened?"

She heard the coldness in that question and was transported back weeks, to an alley behind a grocery store. She remembered a thief and blood, lots of it. Buffy's turned away, unblinking, to stare at the floor. "Nothing."

Spike's breathing was barely audible but she could see his chest heaving through his T-shirt. Her hand, wrapped once more around her wrist, was taken in a gentle grasp. "Did he touch you?"

His biting voice, the question, was all more than enough to make her look up. Buffy shook her head. "How did you-"

"Saw him after I parked, walkin' out of here carryin' a desk. Pillock looked angry."

It sounded like the idea of Joe being angry at her made Spike livid; and that was just the concept. "He was," Buffy admitted. "The desk was his mom's, and his- his dad tried to sell it through me. Joe took it back."

"That's what he wanted?"

She nodded. "We kind of argued about it first."

A fast tremor shook his body. Spike reached for her arms and began rubbing soothing circles into her flesh through the cotton. "I imagine he didn't bother asking."

She laughed humorlessly. "No, he made that very clear."

Thick bile filled his gut. The only thing stopping Spike from bolting out the door right then was the fact his girl looked as white and fragile as a porcelain doll. He hated it. "I'll get it back for you if you want."

Buffy shook her head again, annoyed to feel her eyes watering. "It's not worth it. I'm sure I'll hear from Larry soon enough."

She didn't know Spike wanted to do everything he could to intercept that call. If the bastard wanted to keep the bloody desk then let him keep it, but there was something Joe Gregory didn't have rights on, and that was Buffy's peace of mind. The wanker had already stolen his. "Did he hurt you?"

Buffy didn't say anything right away, but having not answered the last time she knew there was no avoiding it. A tight shrug accompanied hedging. "I'm fine. The guy's just a jerk."

The guy was dead. Spike closed his eyes with her admission, every limb and muscle going rigid. He kissed Buffy's forehead, and wrapped his arms more fully around her, relieved when she let him.

"Spike, you can't do anything to him."

Apparently, the chit could read his mind. "I beg to differ on that note."

"You can't," she exclaimed, moving her face away from his chest. He immediately wanted to pull her back. "The guy is a bully and in major need of an ass kicking. I get that, okay? But I can't let you start a fight. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me."

Spike exhaled much like a dragon and ignored her, scanning Buffy's face and right hand some more. "What did he do when he was in here?"

"Spike, did you hear me?"

"What did he do, love?"

"Take a desk."

"I mean to you," he demanded.

"Just grabbed my wrist, okay?" She shook her head, sighing. "I'm fine. I promise."

Spike took that moment to fixedly examine the exposed appendage.

After a minute she lost her patience and tugged it away from him. "Will you promise you're not going to get into a fight with him?"

His anger finally rose to the surface, bubbling behind frosty blue eyes. "The bastard put his hands on you. You think I'm just gonna let-"

"What about Jack?"

The interruption made his mouth snap shut. A fierce muscle tick appeared in his cheek, and Buffy had the insane urge to curve her hand against it.

Spike looked down. *Balls.* Jack. He couldn't... Damn it to hell. He couldn't do a thing about Joe because of Jack. The kid would imagine himself to be the cause. Even if Spike explained...

His senses flared. "I'll tell him what happened. Jack won't think I-"

"But Joe will be angry."

"And bloody."

"He'll take it out on Jack," Buffy stressed. "At least, he might, and I'm not willing to chance it." Spike turned away, rage tightening his entire body from shoe soles to throat. "Besides," she added quietly, "I can't let the sheriff think you're always getting into fights, especially if they concern me every time. And I don't doubt Joe would press charges."

Spike figured he could always rip out the idiot's tongue. That would interfere with filing a complaint, and he shouldn't have one anyway, but the idea wasn't likely to fly with Buffy. "What about makin' your own report?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to deal with that. In this town word would get around."

"Maybe it should."

"Larry's doesn't deserve that," she explained quietly. "I don't want to hurt him, and I don't think much can be done to Joe anyway. All he really did was take back something that used to belong to his mother."

Sighing, Spike shook his head and resisted the urge to storm out, find the wanker, and beat him into an extended hospital stay. It was only after a good minute of grinding his teeth together that Spike managed to nod.

Buffy finally smiled, thankful and gentle. She leaned up to kiss him with sweet timidity the man knew all too well wasn't her normal shade of passion. Spike pulled her closer, cradled her body against his own, and tenderly feathered voiceless endearments across her lips. She sighed contentedly and brought her hands to his neck, wrapping them around and using her toes to raise herself higher.

Spike pulled back for air alone. He murmured her name and she giggled softly. The sound was so light, so unexpected and damn beautiful that his eyes popped open. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just feel better now."

He smiled tenderly. Inside, he was thanking God. "I'm sorry I wasn't here before-"

"Don't be sorry," she cut in. Buffy turned so she could nuzzle his jaw affectionately, each nerve in Spike's body quickly set aflame. The radio played soft music overhead. He sighed into her hair and held on for as long as he could.

All the while, a voice in the back of Spike's mind called out a warning. Not to step back, or loosen his grasp; it was a ringing alarm that stood as the countdown for something else. Something he feared related to Buffy's safety.

Spike realized his heart might be getting in the way of logic, but his gut rarely turned out to be wrong. When he had seen Joe Gregory striding from the store, the seconds it took to travel to her side were muffled by his own pulse.

With every running step the unease doubled. The idea of Joe being near her made Spike's fighting instincts go off, and if something like this happened again, there was nothing to stop him from making peace with several inner demons.

____________________
Please review! Thanks for reading!! :)

He still remembered the conversation word for word.

"Would you like to come to Thanksgiving dinner?"

It was the same day Joe Gregory paid a visit. After Spike helped close up the store, he followed Buffy home and they ordered a pizza. She let him stick around long past the time he should have, and when one AM rolled by she sleepily brought up the subject.

The entire thing, while speared by mundane casualness, threw him for a loop. They were lying on the couch. He was quickly starting to think of the short, worn in blue sofa as a second home. The cushions were more comfortable than his own bed, and he freely admitted this had everything to do with the woman resting beside him.

She was nearly dozing on his chest when the topic came up. Buffy asked the question against his chest before raising those big doe eyes. When she looked like he might let her down it provided a solid reason for his heartbeat to falter, and he felt a secondhand rush of fear.

Her fear.

She honestly thought he might say no.

"I'd love to, Buffy."

It wasn't until her face lit up with a smile and she kissed him that Spike realized what he'd done.

Intimidation wasn't something he was accustomed to feeling in regards to... well, anyone nowadays. Buffy was another story, but each moment they spent together softened the perils a bit. Spike would never have thought he could hold her hand, or kiss her for that matter and not wake up in the middle of a lonely bed. His new reality solidified every day, became less of a dream and more groundbreaking as the inadequacies that had kept him from seeking her out fell away.

When they were alone.

They had never spent time outside their own little bubble, around other people. The morning Buffy's chum brought Jack all black and blue to her front door didn't rightly count. Spike didn't mind this arrangement, but keeping it was impossible. He didn't see anyone outside of her, his janitorial coworker on occasion, and the kid.

The idea of attending a family dinner made him want to scrub his skin until the prickling stopped, and drink heavily. He hadn't celebrated a holiday since his mum passed away, and there was always a nice bottle of liquor to drown his sorrows on the worst ones. The last couple Christmases had been spent outside, in his car, watching Buffy entertain her friends and family with good ole JD by his side. He would stare at those glowing windows like they were begging him to come home, though he knew different so his feet remained firmly weighted.

Now, while still trying to grow accustomed to the freshest upheaval in his existence, she asked him to be her guest at Thanksgiving dinner. It was a common and yet monumental milestone. It meant more to Spike than it likely should. She was inviting him inside her social circle, suggesting that she was more than happy to acknowledge their relationship. She considered it important, real, and worthy.

It was the surest way to crumble the foundations he currently used for balance. Spike was doing his best to show Buffy without truly showing her just how much he cared. He tried to be better, he was working with Jack and helping in a way he never would have done just weeks ago. He relished being able to treat her like a man is supposed to treat the woman he loves. She repaid him in ways she would never know, with the simplest things he considered monumental.

Now he had a shot to prove himself capable of normal human interaction for her, by going to dinner; and if Spike got some sick thrill out of knowing the likely conclusion Xander Harris had drawn after seeing him at Buffy's house, without a shirt on and so early on a Saturday morning, then he couldn't really help it now could he?

If nothing else, this situation allowed Spike a different, primitive kind of satisfaction. Whenever he thought of Buffy bringing him to a family get-together he noted the interpretation; he was her date. No matter his insecurities, Spike could see that.

It meant she was aligning herself with him. It meant she wasn't ashamed, even if maybe she should be. His girl was claiming a place at his side. He'd never felt more accepted in his entire life.

Spike was certain he would manage to fuck it up.

On Tuesday night, having gotten off the phone with her hours ago, he sat by the window in his bedroom, staring out at the rain. Buffy was staying home, catching up on some sleep. She hadn't mentioned seeing him or wanting to, and he didn't want to push. She had to get up early to take in an order at the store. Anya Harris was supposed to meet her around six AM.

He considered driving by and checking on them. The town was fairly dead around that hour, and since Joe Gregory had paid his visit Spike didn't feel right about Buffy staying there alone, or closing up shop without stopping in to help.

He rarely watched from the shadows these days. He got to spend real time with her, hear her whisper in his ear, and that was more than his stalking habits could ever hope to keep up with. Only sometimes, if he was early for a date, he'd find himself waiting around and watching through distance. It was both a choice and a proclivity.

The periods Spike used to spend feeling nerve-racked and sick to his stomach at the idea of talking to her had lessened over the weeks. Now, he usually capped off the pacing after three, sometimes two hours.

He wasn't going to stop by the store today, because Anya would be there. He also knew that Joe worked on Wednesdays, and Buffy might notice a black DeSoto hanging around the area in broad daylight. He couldn't go over to simply say hello, because the woman knew he was practically a bat when it came to his sleep schedule. Just another thing Buffy didn't judged him for, despite all reason.

Spike sighed, fogging the window. He propped one arm up to pinch the skin between his eyes. Yes, Buffy was coming to know the worst parts of him, and yet she failed to turn away. He knew his violent streak bothered her, but she still accepted it. She allowed him to get close, and didn't pull back when he wanted to hold her after Gregory had... Spike clenched his right hand, breathing deep.

She understood he had been almost as shaken as she.

Buffy didn't know he loved her, but Spike was half convinced that if she found out she wouldn't balk or laugh either.

When she found out, he ought to say. Because at this rate the admission was going to bleed like a ripped vein sooner or later. They'd been together for almost two months. If he didn't say it, those three little words were going to spring up like a jack-in-the-box at some useless moment and tear his world apart.

Spike snorted derisively. He considered getting a beer to dull this over-thinking before it kicked into high gear. He was already on the track to a host of imagined tragedies caused by professed love, and buggered up Thanksgiving dinner scenarios.

Obviously there was no telling the disasters a meal of turkey and sociability might present. While he was both amazed and grateful Buffy wanted him there, Spike knew going to that dinner could prove a huge mistake.

He was afraid of saying something idiotic, afraid her friends would notice what made him so very inadequate. Attention could be drawn to flaws Buffy wouldn't have noticed or minded so much without their pointing fingers. He'd only just gotten close to her. If Spike lost her now, there was no telling if there would be anything left of him.

Gritting his teeth, Spike squeezed his eyes shut on the rain. Agitated, exhausted in his mind, he thought, *So much for not over-thinking it.*

He stood up and ran a hand down his face, leaving the bedroom. He began a familiar journey down the hall, footfalls squeaky in the sheet draped tunnel with red carpeting and wood floors. Recently uncovered furniture, paintings coated in dust and dim lighting cast from ancient chandeliers marked the way. Shadows were like stepping stones.

He walked past the stairs, made it to the door always kept locked, and fished the keys out of his back pocket. In a moment Spike had the room opened to the not so fresh air and switched the overhead light on.

He headed straight for the table against the far left wall, a surface of polished wood laden with books and crinkled papers. He found the thin yearbook with ease. Spike spent a moment flipping stiff pages until reaching the one he had dog-eared long ago.

In the middle, amidst dozens of other faces, was Buffy Summers at age eighteen. The high school kept copies of their yearbooks and Spike had gotten his hands on this one some months back. Every time he looked at it, he found little blips inside that made him yearn. Seeing pictures from when he hadn't known her made him want to be a part of the past in ways historic journals and newspapers failed miserably.

Spike knew no other faces in the book. Buffy hadn't been much of a group participant from what he could tell. The only other clear image he found was one of a parent-teacher night, hosted by the girl in question. Spike couldn't guess she'd done that of her own free will, but it was still her past. She might have been a very different person back then.

It was the definition of bittersweet, knowing that. Spike scanned the pages as he searched for that second picture, and on the way something caught his eye, much like a shiny penny sitting at the bottom of a fountain.

Liam "Angel" Conroy, dark hair and eyes, big forehead. Spike recognized him almost immediately as a sickening knot formed in his stomach.

A scene from mere weeks ago resurfaced, when he'd spotted the man for the first time standing in front of Buffy's house. A giant beside her, inspiring the kind of stiff, raw reaction only ex lover's could.

Spike swallowed, forcing the taste of bile down his throat. An old boyfriend of hers. He'd known it without knowing the man's name before, despite the past being something Spike couldn't reach. Buffy told him about the fun and painful things that made up her life, but exes remained a shut topic. These circumstances left him thankful. He didn't like to think of other men touching her, then or now. He lived in the real world on occasion and knew Buffy's beauty didn't go unappreciated. He understood any red blooded male with half a brain would want her, but since Spike had found her, there had been no one else.

No boyfriend, no one night stands, not even a date for the past two years. Spike never realized just how severely he relished that kind of good fortune until now.

This Liam prick had obviously let Buffy down. The way she regarded him made it clear, all grown up with that expensive car and idiotic hairstyle wasn't enough to keep her from turning away. The oaf got close, felt her love, her body, and her loyalty before Spike ever knew she existed.

And the wanker bollixed it up because he didn't know what he'd had.

Spike flipped the pages again, furiously searching for her face in that single square amidst a collage of unimpressive strangers. He paused on bright eyes and a youthful smile. The girl looked carefree and happy, vulnerable because of it. She was a shining light even in a pale photograph, but there had been changes since then.

Spike swallowed thickly, tracing the picture with his thumb. He memorized her image like a habit before shutting the book and dropping it back on the table. He turned and headed out the way he came, eyes focused on the door, then the keyhole, then the carpeted floor as he strode down the hall.

He wouldn't change anything about Buffy. Not for the world. But he would pay a fortune to go back in time, and take away the hurt. He loved her unconditionally. The fact someone else had touched her heart and squeezed until it broke made Spike want to tear that man apart.

He settled for pounding down the stairs to get a beer out of the fridge. The rest of the evening, he spent his abundance of time trying to focus and wash imagined pictures from his head like bad stains.

While the hours ticked by Spike found himself praying for a guarantee, hoping to God and anyone who might listen that ex loves remained fixed in the past, if not for Buffy's sanity then for his own.

***

Buffy yawned and slammed her alarm clock quiet with one effective smack. She blinked several times in a row before rubbing her eyes and tossing blankets off her body with borrowed strength. It took five full minutes to move again, even with chilly morning air caressing her skin like a goading mother.

She sat up in bed, half asleep and dreaming of coffee. She turned to see Tabitha curled in a quiet, dozing ball on the other pillow, jealousy following a swell of tenderness in her heart.

Rising on unsteady bare feet, Buffy wandered into the kitchen, going slow so she didn't acquire a migraine. She chose to spare her weary eyes the pain of bright light and got ready in the soft shadows of dawn. A pair of jeans and three shirts for warmth were wiggled into, the first a faded cotton T, the second a fleece sweater, and the third a bulky hoodie from the county fair.

It took thirty minutes in total to find her way out of the house, hair combed, teeth brushed, and a thermos of caffeine in her hands. Buffy drove through familiar streets dotted with rainbow puddles, passing sidewalks barely unrolled for the day. Farmers and school teachers normally rose about this time, but no one was hitting the roads yet. The high school, she knew, was out until Sunday for Thanksgiving break.

Soon, she was parked in front of her store, appreciating the sunrise before killing the engine. It peeked out from behind a line of buildings much like a puppet. The sky was still blue and black in most places while just one edge turned blush pink before her eyes.

She quickly left the warmth of her Jeep for the damp, morning cold. A car door slamming caught her attention and she spotted Anya trotting down the street. They met in front as Buffy got to work unlocking the storefront.

Once inside, she immediately went to the thermostat to turn up the heat.

"The coldest morning of the year and they couldn't make this delivery a little later?"

She rolled her eyes at Anya's comment but didn't say anything. Buffy wished the delivery could have been changed, too, but the truck driver insisted on sticking to his route. The only way she was going to get this dining room set was if she accepted the fate of waking up at six AM.

She wasn't looking forward to the exhaustion she'd be facing later on, once her "overtired" energy took a nosedive. Maybe she could sneak a nap in, but since she was already here, the concept of going home for only an hour or two, then coming back to reopen didn't make much sense.

She'd let Anya leave whenever she wished, because once the truck was unloaded Buffy didn't need anymore help today. Then, like a responsible shopkeeper, she would remain here until five, and that was as late as it would go.

It wasn't long before Anya and her had cleared an adequate space for the table and six chairs. When the delivery finally arrived, about thirty minutes late, they helped unload.

Buffy was happy to learn Anya was no weakling. With the driver's help they managed to finish quick and without issue. It was nice that the truck had a lift, and there was a big garage door at the back of the store amply wide enough to accommodate an eight by eight foot table.

Buffy experienced quiet satisfaction over the delivery man's shock as he watched two petite blonde women with manicured fingernails lift the table minus his burly assistance. A couple signatures and one thank you later, Buffy was cleaning the chestnut pieces one by one while Anya bickered with her about the price.

"It could go for a thousand."

"I was planning on eight hundred."

"I thought you said it was from the 1940s."

"Yes, and eight hundred is the best I can get for it."

"But-"

Buffy sighed, shaking her head. "Do you want to tag it a thousand and see if you can sell it?"

Anya smiled.

Buffy finished polishing the table with orange oil before wiping the chairs down again. Each seat was upholstered with embroidered velvet, gorgeous fabric, and hardly any scuffs or scratches marred the wood. Perhaps a thousand wasn't completely unreasonable after all, but Buffy knew this town and her customers well enough to tag merchandise appropriately. "If it's not gone in a month we lower the price."

Anya rolled her eyes but nodded. She happily made a little sign out of folded paper before setting it in the middle of the shining tabletop. "I wish we had something like this at home," she said. "Our dining set is so boring."

Buffy shrugged. "Maybe you and Xander could buy this one as like, a self given Christmas present."

Anya shook her head. "Oh no. I'd never purchase something from the place where I work. That's just bad business sense."

Buffy bit her lip to keep from laughing. Anya slipped behind the counter again. "Maybe I'll ask him to try and make one."

"Won't that take a while?" Buffy asked.

"Yes, but like I said, we have a dining set already. I can be patient."

Buffy nodded. She watched Anya set her purse and coat on the counter, taking out a thin file to check her nails.

"Thanks for coming in so early again. I know getting up at six AM isn't fun."

"It's okay. You're paying me."

Buffy closed her eyes, masking amusement. "Yes, I am."

Anya tucked the nail file away and looked up. "Do you need me to stick around any longer?" she asked.

"No, that's okay. You can go. I've got it from here."

"Okay." She slipped into her coat and headed towards the front door. Her boots clicked against the floor. "So, we'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, six right?"

"Yep. Don't forget the rolls."

"I won't. You like Pillsbury?"

"As long as they taste good."

"Very."

"Are you bringing that guy?"

Buffy blinked. "Um, yeah. If that's still okay."

"Of course. The more the merrier," Anya said, facing her. "I just wanted to make sure so I can tell Xander. He's scared he'll say something stupid and embarrass you."

Buffy frowned. "Like what?"

"Like call him your 'boyfriend' if he isn't, or call him your 'friend' if he's more than that." Anya nodded proudly before she said, "I told him I'd find out the details so he wouldn't stick his foot in his big mouth."

Buffy's own mouth fell open and didn't shut again for a solid four seconds.

Why was it her most recent concerns appeared to be everyone else's, too? She wished she could say she was surprised, but after Xander met Spike on that abrupt Saturday morning, the former shirtless and sleepy eyed, the insinuations had been hard to ignore.

She tried explaining to Xander it looked more red handed than it really was, but she hadn't known whether or not he believed her. Now, Buffy was getting her answer.

"Spike- William is not my boyfriend," she tried awkwardly to explain. "At least, not officially. But we're more than friends."

"Oh. Okay." Anya's frown was contemplative and a little confused, but non-judgmental. "I thought you two slept together?"

"No! We really haven't. It might've looked that way when Xander saw him at my place, but we-"

Anya tilted her head of long blonde hair and shook it. "Why not?"

She sounded so perplexed, almost looked like a curious owl trying to understand its surroundings, that Buffy had to pause. "What?"

"Why haven't you slept with him yet? Is his penis misshapen?"

Her eyes grew wide. "What?!"

"Because if it is, that doesn't always mean the sex will be bad." Anya spoke matter-of-factly as she readjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. "Before I met Xander I dated many guys with crooked penises. Sometimes it actually makes it easier to have an orgasm, if he knows how to use it."

Every ounce of embarrassment displayed itself on her face. Buffy was sure she looked like an over-rouged clown. Her words were a mutter. "I don't think it matters-"

"Xander's is actually quite straight, though. And he's the best I've ever had so it probably just depends on the man."

Buffy held up her hands, desperate now. "Please don't talk about your husband's private... anything, in front of me. Please."

"Xander has very nice private parts," the wife defended.

"And they are all his and yours. I don't need to know about them."

Anya huffed delicately. "I just don't see why you haven't slept with your new man-friend, Buffy. Whether his penis is straight or not, I would think-"

"His- It's fine!" Dear God, not even she thought a person could stammer this much. It was a known fact Anya could be blunt, but Buffy hadn't known the woman well enough to understand the width of that definition until now. "Shape has nothing to do with us not- With me not..." She made a rolling hand gesture to finish her broken sentence.

Pity entered Anya's eyes, and strangely, Buffy almost felt like they carried a mother's concern. "So he isn't your boyfriend or your sex buddy. What do you two do?"

A quick moment's pause. Buffy released a breath and it took that hefty sigh to realize she had quit breathing completely. "We talk," she answered softly.

"Tell me there's at least some oral action."

Back to blushing like a nun. "More like touchy action," she murmured, smiling despite herself.

Now Anya was looking at her like she was a nun. Buffy crossed her arms and stared at the floor. "Well, for your sake I do hope you allow this man to give you orgasms soon, in one capacity or another. You would be much more relaxed."

Buffy pouted involuntarily. "I'm relaxed."

Anya said nothing. She strolled towards the front door again. "Orgasms are very healthful. I read it online, and in Cosmo."

"Trust me, Anya, I'm... healthy."

The other woman beamed. "Good. And don't worry, I'll talk to Xander. Obviously you don't need him saying something dumb to scare your man-friend away before the good stuff happens."

"I appreciate that. I think."

"No problem." She waved genially, the door closing soundlessly behind her.

Anya's departure incited a deep breath, held for five seconds, then released as slowly as molasses. Buffy plunked down on a stool in the far corner. She started counting her reasons, many of which stood up misleadingly well despite missing legs.

It wasn't as if she was against sex. Buffy freely admitted she was a fan of it, but her past experiences had always started out sweet and exciting, only to dwindle to pure tedium. She hadn't put much thought into a sexual relationship with Spike, only because she had to focus very hard on avoiding the topic altogether.

It was impossible to deny the passion between them, or the stubborn attraction and resistance she felt every time their hands explored each other's clothing. Holding back felt similar to rubbing sandpaper across her skin. Buffy was convinced, if two people could ignite real sparks between themselves, her house would have gone up in flames weeks ago.

It started at the library, that day he found her snooping. That kiss had been the equivalent of striking a match to start a wildfire. Spike's protective instincts added to the attraction. Even if Buffy was the last woman to need defending, she could admit that being cared about like that had its appeal. Spike's tendency towards violent action bothered her, of course, but his obvious concern for her safety softened the edge.

She wanted to be closer to him, feel him holding her, touching her, but something said it wasn't quite time yet. Some instinct, whether centered in her heart or her gut, urged Buffy to wait. She wouldn't mind so much if she wasn't stuck with this uncertainty regarding their relationship. Rather, if she understood that, there wouldn't be any reason to hold back.

She wasn't sure if it was the reason, but Buffy knew deep down what was coming. She'd been in love before and this dating game wasn't clouding her emotions with a sense of triviality. She was racing towards that cliff, that fall, and God help her but if Spike didn't get there, too, there was no telling what she would do.

Tomorrow they were sharing dinner with her friends. It was important only because he was coming along. If things went well, if he seemed comfortable, maybe then she would get an answer. She could learn whether those heart clenching looks Spike lent were real or just a matter of time stamped affection.

_______________________________
END NOTES: Please review if you can, but thanks for reading either way! Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter!

He had two bottles of wine in the front seat. Neither were his. Buffy suggested them when Spike asked if he should bring anything to this celebration that was starting to feel more like target practice for questionable suitors. He still wasn't sure about the daisies, but some instinct whispered flowers were a pretty safe bet if he was trying to impress people.

Spike had not worried about impressing anyone for a long time, but now he was with Buffy, and hoping her friends wouldn't look at him like an alien across the dinner table. Surely, foliage couldn't hurt.

All day he alternated between euphoria and jittery pacing. He avoided alcohol purposefully and smoked instead, though it did little good. Now, on the way to her house, every mile closer left him worse off. His stomach was molten and tipsy.

Simultaneously, giddy spiraling ran from the base of his spine to his throat, tickling every nerve until Spike wasn't sure whether he was about to float away or throw up.

Within expected minutes he was outside her place, parking quick, slamming his car door and striding to the front porch. He paused at the steps, taking a moment to breathe. Eyes shut against the cool November wind, ignoring the tingling in his hands, a thick swallow went down Spike's throat as he counted to five.

Christ, his nerves were a muddle.

He was still under that unmerciful stillness when a frustrated shout belted the house's walls. He bounded the steps in one go and knocked loudly on Buffy's front door.

It swung wide almost immediately, and there she stood, wrapped in a towel, hair and makeup done to perfection, sporting two different shoes. He didn't say anything. He didn't exactly have a chance because she offered a helpless greeting, turned away, then left the door open for him, all in about five seconds.

Spike proceeded cautiously. He closed the entryway right before an impatient grunt came from her bedroom.

Quietly bypassing the staircase, he found her cozy sleeping quarters. Spike had never once been inside, and therefore hovered uncertainly near the door, only daring to lean against the jamb like some drunken totem pole.

He spotted a feminine bedspread, one he knew from the spying games previously played while she slept, and dark floorboards which creaked beneath a mess of clothes.

Buffy stood to the left, tearing through a dresser with the chaotic determination of a woman who was both late and in need of an outfit. Her only cover, a towel wrapped tightly around her body, fought to remain perpendicular to the pile of skirts at her feet.

She kicked her mismatched shoes off. Spike crossed his arms, eyeing the soft mint walls all around. There was a vanity table in the corner closest to the window, sheer curtains tickling its white wooden legs. "Why's your window open, love?"

"I got too hot," she answered quickly. There was shiny perspiration coating her chest and collarbone. His bottom lip wedged itself beneath his canines. "I've been searching for something to wear, and I've come up empty," she grumbled.

Her towel's resolve was waning. Spike frowned, and tried to find Buffy's eyes as she closed the messy drawer for good. "Don't birds usually plan this stuff out?" He had no real experience that could have sourced the notion, except for knowing her well enough to know she liked clothes, makeup, and all other girly trademarks. He'd seen her choose garments for mundane occasions days in advance before. Not the dressing changes specifically, but the action of flitting to and from a mirror six or seven times in a row.

She didn't know this, of course.

"I had something in mind, but when I tried it on it just looked..." her face soured, "wrong."

Spike found that hard to believe. Likely, nerves were working his girl into a state of indecision and doubt. Which, if true, meant Buffy was just as concerned about this evening as he was. The concept encouraged both relief and nausea, respectively. "I don't think you have anything to fret over, pet. You'll find somethin'."

Her head tossed golden waves back and forth. "I tried on everything, Spike."

In all honesty, Buffy was having one of those dreaded moments, the ones that lasted hours and only seemed to show up for important occasions. Her entire closet was devoid of anything worthwhile, her dresser had already proven itself obsolete, and her body was a disappointment in every way. She wanted to look cute, chic and sexy. That was hard when you were having a crises.

Buffy sighed, facing him, and her hand froze midway through her tresses.

It was bad enough Spike seeing her like this, messy and banded together by nothing more than a damp bath towel, but he was the definition of put together. Completely dressed, looking distinguished yet oh so hot, and total heartthrob material.

A brown leather jacket that could have been pulled from the back of his closet, judging by the style, hugged his shoulders. It was in perfect condition, edges milky soft and unmarred. A blue button up, neat and smooth and the perfect fit, brightened his eyes. The guy-liner was thoroughly eradicated. His jeans were new, certainly.

She had seen him don a non-punk style before, but never so tamed as this.

He always wore the same thing around her; a customary black shirt and jeans. Sometimes, the denim changed to light blue, and of course she'd gotten used to his janitor's uniform by now, but Buffy could not say she had gotten used to this.

"Can I see it?" he asked.

Blindsided, she shook her head. "What?"

"The first mix n' match. We've got some time," he said, pointing at the little red clock that governed her nightstand. "Might be you're being too picky."

Buffy hefted a deep sigh. "That's easy for you to say."

"How so?" He watched her hoist the drooping towel and wander to the closet. She pulled the double doors open and grabbed a hanger.

"When you come over looking like you do, all handsome and stuff..." She slipped behind the closet door and dropped her cover. Spike locked his knees, acutely aware of his unmoving feet. "It's easy to give a compliment when you know that you look good."

He hadn't known, not to the degree she was making it seem. Buffy poked her pretty head out and smiled at him. She was discouraged, but trying not to show it.

The most he noticed was a flash of elbow. While Spike's throat threatened to close and his spine grew rigid, she did the last bit of hopping and zipping required to finish getting dressed.

A moment later, and Buffy trotted out from behind her makeshift screen. She approached the full length mirror on his right. A sweater of smooth brown velvet cut her chest in a V, exposing a gentle swell of cleavage. Mid rise jeans in dark blue hugged her hips, and pointy leather boots nearly brought her to his eye level.
She fluffed her hair experimentally and said, "So? What do you think?"

He thought a lot of things, but saying them was neither smart nor possible. Spike swallowed hard. "You must be smokin' somethin', pet."

Her eyes went round. "It's that bad?"

"No, it's that distracting." He gave up the threshold, walking to her side. For once, Spike allowed himself a thorough study, a stroll for his eyes from bottom to top. He assessed her slim build, long legs and delicate collarbone; masking desire proved impossible. She blushed under the blatant approval, in her cheeks to underneath her velvet sweater, and smiled despite it all.

Buffy fiddled with a strand of gold, twining it around and around her fingers. "You look beautiful, as per usual," he murmured. "All this twaddle 'bout havin' nothin' to wear is in your head."

The grin broadened. "You think so?"

He ducked bashfully. "Would a bloke this handsome lie to you?"

She laughed, and it caused overactive heartbeats. "You're also the guy who says words like 'twaddle.'"

"You trust that cousin of yours."

"Good point."

"You really do look fetching."

She gave herself one last assessment in the mirror, looking over her shoulder and then down her front again. "Okay. I guess, if you like it..." She nodded for the statement's end.

Moments later, he watched as she got her purse together, chose a brown suede coat and applied another swipe of something that smelled like strawberry to her lips. A dinging noise from the kitchen was what brought an end to his happy theater.

Buffy left to retrieve two metal tubes of Pillsbury dough from the refrigerator and shut off the egg timer. When she noticed him watching her, she explained she hadn't wanted to forget the one thing Anya asked her to bring; bread rolls. This reminded Spike of the wine and flowers still in his car. He mentioned them offhand, and after witnessing Buffy's stunned pleasure over the latter, experienced a floating sensation beneath his feet.

"She'll love flowers. That was really nice of you."

He would have shrugged, but she was setting the manufactured food aside now, stepping closer. In a moment he could feel her breath. "I didn't exactly kiss you yet, did I?" Buffy said. A violet reminiscent scent wafted around him. Spike shuddered as her hand grazed his forearm.

He wanted to tear the leather off. This coat didn't help him hide like his duster did, didn't supply that added shot of confidence Spike treasured, but it helped; at the prospect of feeling her skin, he knew he could easily go without.

She pressed in, like the need was just as great on the other side. She moved her body closer because his hands told her so, and snuck her own beneath his jacket because she wanted to. The velvet was soft, but somehow her throat, chin and collarbone were softer.

Her touch ghosted along leather like it would piano keys. Spike cupped the back of her head, lost his fingers in gold tresses. The dip in her waist led to the curve of her hip; a valley of warmth. Denim, smooth and coarse at once, caressed his skin. She pressed her mouth against his gently, coaxing with milky, moist flicks of her tongue.

He urged them together, crushing and quick. Heat rose fast. She opened to him, moaned and sighed so he felt her exhales in every crevice of his body. Her familiar taste, and God the fact he could call her familiar, was like taking sips of absinthe, all encompassing, sweet, heaven in a drink.

She pulled away to take deep breaths, while he lost his in the column of her throat. "Spike, we really shouldn't-" She cut herself off with a sudden moan. Really, the man was too good with his tongue. But they needed to leave. They were supposed to be in her car on the way to dinner. She'd only just looked at the clock, and if they weren't at Xander and Anya's soon, they might not arrive even fashionably late.

His tongue again, stroking her skin, hot and slick and behind the shell of her ear, knocked common sense to the ground. Spike never heard what Buffy started to say, and it didn't matter because he was pushing her up against a wall, the edge of the entryway, with his hand protecting her head from collision.

Her back was another story, rammed hard and fast into the wood. They slid together, two bodies made one by addictive friction, across the level strip of wall. She opened her eyes on a grunt and saw the side of the stairwell. To their right was the front door. Ironic, how close the exit sign was, and how badly she didn't care to use it.

Buffy tore the leather jacket off and let it fall. Spike's fingers fell down, beneath the waistband of her jeans. She arched her neck and spine; he moved to steal what air she breathed. Her zipper parted, warm male hands stroking the softness below her belly button while his tongue played behind her teeth.

Then he was faster, sliding lower. Pressure started, that deep pit in her abdomen where blood simmers like water above a fire turned hot. He found the lace and then the curls, smoothing, rubbing, until she was riding his fingers. His arms kept her upright, hands digging in with matching death grips

One, two long thrusts, experimental and wet. She could feel the rings he wore deep and cool inside, warming with every plunge. An angled palm caressed her from the outside. Pressure landed in exquisite places, sensation flying upward until it leveled in her mouth.

She broke free for air again. His legs framed her right thigh, and she lifted it, providing the kind of friction used to make any man moan. Pressing harder, against him, into his hand, feeling him go deeper. Her leg provided ample warmth for his zipper.

Something inside made Buffy break the silence of gasps and pretty moans, his lethargic grunts that parried well with every enthusiastic sigh. She started saying his name. It wasn't planned, didn't include much thought, wasn't a prayer or a plea. It was just his name. "Spike..."

A moan fell across her lips. Every muscle began to either bend or stretch. He pulled away, moved between slow and fast, harsh thrusts of his attentive fingers. Her voice, once so simple, grew louder and as weak as her reservation. "Spike..."

It became a litany. Sharp, half spoken, slurred and whimpered. She wasn't focused on that. Everything had turned blush, like she'd been drinking too much. Spike's breathing was rapid against her neck, a mantra of voiceless pleasure. Then, finally, her name whispered past.

"Buffy..."

She was close. So close. She could feel it, taste it like she could taste the mint and smoke on his lips.
"Buffy..." he breathed again. His words were soft and hot. "Oh, Buffy. That's it. Love- I've got you. Won't let you go. Never."

The heat grew, drove deeper. Her eyes fell shut.

"That's my girl," he murmured like a poet, like he knew something she didn't. The rocking motion quit against her thigh. Buffy moaned. "Don't cry, baby. You're almost there. For me now, c'mon. Let me have it. Not lettin' go 'til I feel those muscles rippling around me."

His gentle coaxing roused her keening side, and like an ocean wave, pleasure rolled forward in a foamy rush. Wet and hot and slippery as he rubbed the numbness away like it was all she had left to give. Her neck arched painfully far back, and Spike's teeth sunk into the delicate skin in famishment.

It was thick and hard to breathe. Buffy's voice was sweet, pure peaches and honey, stabbing through the loud throb of his heartbeat. Spike groaned with those final writhing tugs, lost in sensation, lapsing moans scraping his flesh. He freed her body of his touch, lace panties sodden, but stayed there, close to her warmth while the juices dried.

Their minds were stitched back together in worn silence, gasps drifting together like candle smoke. Buffy's sleepy, cat-like smile was what gave him the permission to zip her jeans closed. Once he buttoned them, he noticed her staring at her thigh, where it wedged against his crotch.

Spike shuffled back, but she didn't let him get far, as if he wanted that. He hadn't blown his load, even if the option was tempting. Now, however, the seriousness of everything returned, bringing along that old friend Uncertainty. He was thankful for the physical pain. Then, Buffy grabbed his hand and coaxed it higher. She glanced shyly- Imagine that? -into his eyes.

A slow instant and she pulled him in again, nudged their lips back together. The kiss was sweet and slow. She made his heart go calm even if his body remained as taught as a slingshot. Her leg moved. His palm found her throat.

When they parted, his eyes were dreamy and drawn immediately to her own; a connection flickered.

"What was that?" Spike asked roughly.

Buffy smiled, starry and yet certain. She glanced not so covertly to the predicament below his belt buckle. "A promise."

***

It was a promise that would have to be put off, and they both knew it.

They arrived at the Harris residence in record time. The Dutch colonial stood against a sunset backdrop, expansive with windows alight beneath plum clouds. After they found a place to park, Spike hopped from the driver's seat and strolled around the Jeep to open the passenger door.

Buffy was still talking. "I don't understand why I couldn't drive."

"Told you, pet." He took the small paper bag out of her hands. "Like bein' behind the wheel."

"Right," she scoffed. Buffy grabbed the flowers off her seat and took his arm once he shut the door. "This has to do with my lack of driving skills, doesn't it?"

It was one of those questions that didn't sound like a question, but Spike followed through. "I never said that, you did."

"But you were thinking it."

"So you're a mind reader now?"

"Oh, shut up." They approached the house together. The wind was calm and soft like a butterfly's descent, but cold. Old snow and brown grass lined the sidewalk's edge.

Four creaky porch steps and they were facing the dark red door, pausing with a measure of unseen tension. The easy conversation they had kept up in the car deflated like a balloon. Buffy swallowed thickly, took a deep breath and squeezed Spike's hand. "They'll love you," she said, tossing him a glance full of affection, and rang the bell.

Spike nodded. He smiled as genuinely as he could, shuffling in place. His throat was tight again, and he hated that it took only seconds for the reaction to manifest, like he'd eaten something bad.

The sound of wind chimes in the distance startled him, a cold metal pinging, but he didn't flinch. He didn't move a muscle while Buffy huddled closer and took shallow, even breaths. He tried blanking his mind altogether, but couldn't help absently wondering how long it might take for his hard on to go away.

He counted meaningless seconds while they waited for someone, anyone to come to the door.

When someone did, it wasn't Xander, the fellow he'd met only briefly. It wasn't the bloke's wife either, the exuberant blonde he'd come across once or twice but never spoken to. It was an entirely unfamiliar character. A female with dark hair and dark eyes. Sharp frown lines edged her mouth, but they disappeared in an instant once she spotted him.

Her gaze zeroed in like a sniper scope. "William?"

Spike blinked. He frowned, looked at Buffy who was frowning too and turned back to the woman he didn't know. Then, in the softening light of the porch lamps, her features tickled a memory. He stared harder. "Wait a minute."

Buffy glanced between them. "You two... know each other?"

"It is you," the woman declared. She scanned Spike from head to toe, astonishment springing to her face. She resembled one of those Italian paintings, all round eyes and soft, cherub features. Pretty, Buffy noted. Loud, too, a fact easily deduced as the stranger leaned forward to speak, very directly, to Spike. "Why, I never would have thought to run into you again! Not in a hundred years!"

Evidently, she thought he was deaf.

While Buffy was trying to understand the gobsmacked expression on her date's face, Anya slid into view. "Buffy! Finally, you're here. I was worried you forgot the rolls and had to go back for them."

A little heavy breathing, and why she didn't know, but the excess oxygen suddenly went straight to her head, leaving behind a floaty sensation. "Uh, no. No, the rolls are right here." Buffy lifted the bag from Spike's hand; he let go effortlessly. "Just have to pop 'em in the oven."

"Great!" Anya smiled as she regarded her guests, attention landing on the only man. "Hi. You're William, right? I'm Anya, Xander's wife."

Buffy was momentarily dismayed when he took a solid two and a half seconds to respond. "Um, yeah. That's me." Spike grasped Anya's proffered hand. "Good to meet you."

"Same here." She let go and Buffy watched his pale fingers drop. Anya turned to the woman holding the door open. "Cecily, this is Buffy and William."

"Nice to meet you," Buffy said.

"Pleasure," she muttered, barely sparing a glance. "Anyanka, you didn't tell me you knew a man by the name of Pratt."

"Is that his name?"

"William Pratt," she enunciated in a gimmicky voice. "We grew up in England together."

*Well that explains the Poppins accent,* Buffy thought.

"How strange," Anya replied. Her smile shone with welcome and a casualness Buffy envied. "Well, come in you two. Dinner is late enough as it is with the turkey taking so long, and Buffy I think you should put those rolls in the oven right away."

She nodded absently, watching Cecily back up. Spike didn't say anything as they stepped inside, merely helped Buffy off with her coat as the door shut behind them. He avoided every angle open to eye contact, but she noticed, when he took the paper bag so her sleeves could be shed, that his jaw had clenched into solid rock.

"Are those for me?"

She snapped to attention at Anya's question. Remembering the flowers, their plastic wrapping now cold in her hand, Buffy immediately gave them to her hostess. "Yeah. Spi- William picked them out."

An inane chuckle erupted from Cecily, muffled the second Buffy's eyes met hers.

Anya was the one to ask, "Is something funny?"

"No," Cecily choked. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Buffy heard a distinct pause in Spike's motions as he hung up their coats- which Anya directed him kindly to do -and it was in that moment she decided Cecily was not somebody she was going to like.

"William has just always been such a gentleman," she added with the barest hint of sarcasm. "Haven't you?"

And there was the winning question that led Buffy to believe Cecily was the Queen of backhanded compliments. *Yep. No fuzzy feelings whatsoever.*

She turned to see Spike's reaction. A silent nod. Then, his attention shifted again, like a desperate grab for a lifejacket. Insecurity Buffy hadn't seen in weeks splattered across his granite expression. Transparent vulnerability filled his eyes.

Anya spoke up blessedly quick. "I think flowers are nice. These will make a perfect centerpiece." She turned her guileless stare on the both of them. "Thank you."

When he merely nodded again, Buffy was forced to say, "You're welcome."

Their hostess told the trio to follow her into the dining room. She led the way with Cecily at her shoulder, while Buffy and Spike lagged purposefully behind. It was amazing how the sound of retreating footsteps could easily break such a thick silence.

She stole the paper bag of uncooked rolls and wine from him. "Are you okay?"

Spike threw her a surprised look Buffy didn't buy for one second. "Yeah. Fine."

"Then why are you monosyllabic all of a sudden?"

He sighed roughly. Pale hands were clenching into fists, his face downturned. "M'sorry."

"Don't be-" She caught herself before her voice could rise. "Don't be sorry. Just tell me who Cecily is, and why you've been acting weird ever since she opened the door."

He was deathly quiet. The house felt swamped with company and she could hear Xander's bellowing laughter from the dining room up ahead. Savory aromas coated the entryway in a lip smacking mist. Warmth became oppressive heat.

The only thing Buffy could think about was the weight growing across her chest, and how soon she might be able to open a bottle of wine.

Then, by some miracle, Spike's clamming up ended before they turned the corner. He paused, she followed suit. Cecily and Anya were one wall and paces ahead of them.

"She's someone I knew when I was in England."

"Okay, I got that." Buffy crossed her arms before asking the next question. "Was she an old girlfriend?"

The horror that crossed his face did a lot for a girl's nerves. "No!"

"Then who-"

"She was a bitch who used to torment me, all right?"

Buffy froze, scowling. "What are you talking about?"

His teeth ground together, so loudly she heard them. "Before I moved, wasn't exactly a popular bloke, right? Got picked on, kept to m'self a lot." Spike took a deep breath that had an unfinished sigh tacked to its end. "Had a crush on the chit when I was 'round eleven. Didn't have much taste back then."

"She bullied you?" Buffy asked. Her voice had gone soft and the humiliated shine crashing in Spike's eyes made her wish it hadn't.

"She was indifferent to me at first," he mumbled. "I wager that's why I liked her, but she didn't exactly appreciate the sentiment once she found out. Took to feelin' insulted right quick."

A heavy pause. "I'm sorry."

He went quiet, sad embarrassment pouring down his features like a mask. "I don't need pity, Buffy."

"I mean, I'm sorry that she's here." That was a partial lie, not because it wasn't true, but because it hadn't been at all what she'd meant.

"Not your fault."

"What was that crack about the flowers?" she asked.

His whole body went rigid. "I wager it was 'cause I tried givin' her some, once." Spike scoffed cruelly. "Didn't go like I wanted, as you can imagine."

His hands were wedged in his pockets. Buffy reached for one, emboldened when he let her hold on.

"It figures," Spike said next, shaking his head and looking down. "I've been all nervous for tonight, you know. Should've guessed some demon from my past would show."

Buffy gave him a smile, empathetic and sad and genuine. "I think it's some sort of game for the big guys up top. They seem to like irony."

A snort. "No kiddin'," he said, and squeezed her hand without thought.

There was that lighter emptiness now, the kind of quiet you hear after a fireworks display or in little jokes made to erase prickly emotions. This time, the hush turned into a comforting one, like a locked door swinging open. Spike pulled their joined hands up, close to his chest. Eyes and mouth shut, he brought them higher until he was kissing her knuckles.

Buffy warmed. "It'll work out," she murmured.

He smirked a little, self depreciatingly, but she decided she would take it. "You think so?"

"I know so."

***

She knew nothing.

Absolutely nothing. The moment she and Spike strode through the dining room hand in hand, the night spun on its ass quicker than you could pour a glass of fortifying alcohol. Which Buffy did, four times.

She capped it off at that, and thankfully she was a slow drinker otherwise the wine would have gone straight to her head.

Not that she didn't welcome a little oblivion right now, but that was probably the very last thing this evening needed. Intoxication would guarantee she offered a strictly honest opinion on everything and everyone.

A verbal filter was necessary for survival. Very, very necessary. Especially when upset didn't even begin to describe the range of emotions she was experiencing.

It started early, brought to the dining room for introductions, Spike and Buffy remained uncertain except for the hold they kept on each other. The room housed a table laden with plates, silverware, napkins, candles, and many breakable wine glasses. Beyond that, a lounge area cornered off by two loveseats and matching recliners faced a flat screen. A football game was playing across from the dinner table draped in ivory lace.

A paper turkey sat in Xander's lap where he ruled over the social atmosphere with jovial management, his disinterest in the game camouflaged by a genuine interest in playing host. They followed him around as Spike was forced to shake hands with everyone he didn't know, which accumulated to everyone in the house. While Buffy herself recognized all faces present, she still wasn't prepared for the social tension.

Xander gladly shook William's hand first, but Buffy could tell by the way he avoided her date's eyes that he was a little unsure about the man. That could be disregarded, and Spike handled the rotation, learning five new names in three seconds, with his discomfort almost entirely concealed. It was similar to the way a crossing guard steps into traffic, confident the cars won't hit him but knowing full well they still could.

The group consisted of the Gardiners and the Bennings, two married couples in their thirties, as well as Anya's mother Emma, and Roger from work.

Roger's annual Thanksgiving plans at Robin Wood's house had been cancelled, apparently, due to a visit made for Faith's uncle to show off the new baby. Since Roger and Xander were drinking buddies, it only made sense he would accept a Harris invitation.

Buffy had nothing against Roger personally. However, not long after discovering Spike knew him, she began to change her opinion.

It was the handshake, first. "William, Roger. He's Principal Wood's assistant at the high school," Xander said by way of introduction. Buffy was holding gently onto her date's arm while they greeted the brunette in the checkered button down.

"We've met," Spike said, his hand empty and extended like a towel rod.

Roger smirked ever so slightly, and took his sweet time reaching out. "Yes, we have."

The handshake became long and almost flinchingly tight to Buffy's eyes. "You guys must run into each other a lot at school," she observed, hoping the statement might break their staring contest.

It broke the handshake. Roger pulled back. "Yes, exactly. William here is our most reliable mop handler."

She blinked in shock, because what else could you do when a comment like that came out of somebody's mouth? She saw Spike's expression close, turning gray as stone, and Buffy suddenly thought of a hundred other ideas for what to say.

Her date beat her to it. "High praise, comin' from you," Spike said. His voice was nearly unrecognizable. "Last I checked, you had a fondness for teachin' other blokes how to use a toilet brush."

"I thought we were talking about mops."

"Good to know you can differentiate between the two, mate. Figure my point is still clear."

Roger bit his lip and sucked it inside his mouth, squinting again. He faced Buffy abruptly, smiling like a wax doll. "And how are you Buffy?"

"I'm-" She spared a look for Spike. He was unmoving except for the clenching jawline. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Glad to... report it."

Xander, to his credit, merely looked between everyone standing like strange marionettes and said, "Well, one less introduction to be made. Buffy, William, I think I heard my wife say something about rolls?"

She sighed, nodding fast. "Yes, I have to put them in before Anya has a meltdown. Sp- William, would you help me?"

"Sure, love," he said, draping an arm around her shoulder. She frowned, but let him guide them away from the seating area and towards the table again. She thought he might be shaking. "Where's the kitchen?" he whispered in her ear.

Buffy pointed to a swinging door on the opposite wall. They made the journey like swimmers racing towards a lifeboat.

Upon entering, they were assaulted by a cloud of aromas. Rosemary, sage, thyme, chicken, turkey, and garlic seemed to swirl into one invisible concoction that could raise noses miles away.

In the brown paper bag, dough-filled containers clinked against the bottles of wine. Spike reached down and took the long forgotten sack from Buffy's hand once again, paying little attention to the fact that Cecily was bending over in front of them. Her head of ringlets disappeared halfway into the oven while her stocking clad thighs stood as a blockade. "My casserole is coming along quite well!" she announced.

A pantry door shut soundly on their right. Anya emerged with flour on her cheek. "Good. Now, can you report on the turkey like I asked you?"

"Doing well, I suppose."

Anya sighed. She wiped the smudge off her cheek and noticed Buffy and William standing near the doorway. "Oh, good! Cecily, move so Buffy can put the rolls in the oven."

The woman abided by standing upright, and letting the oven door slam shut. "All yours, dear."

Buffy swallowed her immediate response to that address, taking Spike's hand as they strode to an island counter on their left. It resided well out of the way in the large kitchen, settled into a corner with only the necessary walking space around its edges.

It afforded just enough privacy to have a hushed conversation while Anya prattled on about water-thin gravy.

"Okay, what's up with Roger? Either I never realized he was such a jerk or you guys have history."

"Two for two, pet," Spike muttered, setting the bag down and watching Buffy ferret out the Pillsbury rolls. "Bloke's a pain in the arse, likes to pretend he's the boss while lookin' down on people he feels deserve it, is all."

Buffy took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, unpeeling the wrapper around the metal tube. "Color me not surprised. When I heard that 'mop' remark I wanted to shove one down his throat."

Spike paused noticeably. His brows rose on his startled face; Buffy would have found it endearing if she wasn't so irritated. "Got a bit of a dark side, do you?"

"Not usually, but for certain people I make an exception. I mean-" A gasp of surprise cut her sentence in half as the tube of dough exploded, opening with a loud pop. Evidently, she'd put pressure on its tiny dotted seam without realizing it.

"Everything okay over there?"

Cecily's inquiry was guileless, but it managed to stoke Buffy's anger all the same. "Fine," she said all too artificially.

Calmly, after the witch turned back around to fiddle with something by the sink, Spike took the tube out of Buffy's hands. He said, "Why don't you find us a sheet?"

She frowned momentarily, grabbing the two bottles of wine. "Okay."

After locating a corkscrew, two glasses of white zin were poured and one of Port. Spike drank nothing, which she found amazingly disciplined of him, and helped spread out raw dough in neat rows on the cookie sheet Anya provided.

Despite the smog-like tension, Cecily only tossed three barbs at Spike's general existence. The first, came with an offhand chuckle and a comment about his hair. "What an interesting color," she chose to say, and Spike chose not to reply.

The second prod arrived after the rolls came out lightly browned and plump. Since Buffy was putting the flowers he'd brought in a vase, Spike was in charge of freeing the doughy morsels from the oven. "Now I see why your mother never let you out of her sights, William. You must have been a wonderful help in the kitchen."

Buffy watched his entire back grow tense. He ignored Cecily again, turning politely to Anya instead. "Have a basket you'd like these in?" he asked.

Once that moment came and went, the final dig, to which Buffy could not hold her tongue, came beside a question from the bitch of the evening. Cecily was holding a crystal wineglass and watching Buffy throw out flower cuttings, while Spike leaned helpfully patient against the far wall. Anya was talking on and on to him about working in retail.

"How long have you lived in this town, Buffy?"

"My whole life. And you?"

"Oh no, I don't live here." Cecily cackled. "I left one little town to move to a city, not another little town. You can understand that. Of course, William chose to do the opposite, but then again he was never open-minded. Always very unimpressive, that one."

Buffy realized that Anya hadn't stopped talking or noticed their conversation, but Spike's attention had refocused. He was staring at them and listening to every word. The brunette turned her fake smile in his direction just before Buffy lost all patience like one loses an umbrella to an unforgiving storm.

"I'd say William has a lot of impressive qualities," she said, then leaned closer to whisper the rest. "I mean, you should see him without a shirt on. Abs like that could knock the wind out of any girl with a pulse."

The fact she knew Spike only heard enough to recognize her retort as a compliment didn't dampen Buffy's joy. Cecily's reaction was too satisfying. A more dumbstruck expression Buffy had never seen.

When she faced her date again, there was awe in his eyes, the kind that practically bled with gratitude and something else unnamed.

It was exactly five minutes later that dinner was served. Spike and Buffy migrated from the kitchen gratefully. Once she placed the vase in the middle of the table, they found their assigned seats easily near the end.

Spike picked up his name card from the plate and stared at it. Everyone else was taking their time about sitting down, creating a din adequate for private comments and conversation.

"I think Anya likes it when things are kind of lavish," Buffy whispered. "She keeps making special calligraphy labels for the things in my shop."

Spike nodded as he set his place card down. "I imagine she uses 'em for practice."

Buffy studied her own little card and moved it to rest beside his. "I think you're right. These must have taken her forever."

"It's not so hard once you get the hang of it," he said.

"You know how to write like that?" she asked in disbelief, gesturing to the elegantly curved letters.

He shrugged tightly. "Taught m'self when I was a teenager."

"When I was a teenager I was sneaking into R rated movies and blowing off study sessions." Her soft laughter managed to encourage a smile from him, but took none of the weight off his next words.

"Didn't have much to do at that time. I was a bit of a loner, even after I moved."

"I thought you were a loner now."

He turned to her, startled. "You did?"

"Yeah." Buffy smiled uncertainly. "I mean, maybe. Aren't you?"

He looked down at his empty plate. Chairs around them were filling up. "Didn't realize you thought-... I mean, yeah."

A frown broke her features into lines and soft pink undertones. "It was kind of implied... Or maybe I was just picking up on a vibe that wasn't really there. You just never seemed like the kind of guy who liked to socialize."

A moment passed. Spike nodded stiffly, said nothing, and Buffy felt effectively stupid even as Xander drew everyone's attention to the head of the table.

She had only been given a thousand hints to Spike's reclusive qualities. It didn't bother her; she never thought it might bother him. She couldn't be sure now whether it did, or whether the fact she noticed it was what conjured the insecurity on his face.

Buffy frowned down at her empty plate. She hadn't realized acknowledging something like that would upset him. Perhaps, if she'd done so in private, it wouldn't have.

*Great, I focus on something like this when he's meeting my closest friends for the first time, hanging out with practical strangers, and facing off with two bullies. Fantastic, Buffy.*

Spike took her hand beneath the table, and she looked up. He was watching Xander make a winded speech, something she herself had tuned out. The tension in her shoulders fell away, as if it had simply been brushed to the floor.

So Spike wasn't too good with crowds. He was great with her.

Dinner lasted ten years.

Of this, Buffy was certain. It started with an argument between Xander and his mother-in-law, because he almost forgot to say grace after his lengthy "Thank you for coming" speech, and wasn't he just the lowliest of the low for that? Did he think his own voice was more important than showing appreciation to God?

After a back and forth tiff, ended once Xander fell into his chair in exhaustion and defeat, Emma said a thorough prayer. Everyone bowed their heads.

Afterward, the distribution of food should have been simple. A system of rotating dishes and plates turned hectic only once Cecily, sitting across from her, made a big to-do about everyone trying her homemade casserole. Buffy, wisely, said nothing, and just attempted to dissect the reasoning behind her current bad luck. She hated casseroles.

Her face remained impassive, though, as she locked eyes with the annoying woman here and there, while wedged between Spike and Roger. With these arrangements, the other half of the table guests seemed an entire galaxy away minus Emma's occasional barb thrown in at her son-in-law.

Soon enough, they were all engrossed by each other, and Buffy was locked into a tense conversation. Xander, who sat on Spike's right, kept telling knock-knock jokes to fill the silences that sprung up as often as dandelions weeds.

Guiding the conversation between her friend and her date, she was mildly relieved they were talking at all. The two men didn't butt heads, really, there was just very little they had in common.

"Do all British people like mushy peas?"

She resisted the urge to smack her forehead.

Spike frowned, as expected. "What?"

"Sorry," Xander chuckled. "It's just, well, I only know one other Brit, and he insists peas need to be mushy in order to taste good."

"Excuse me," Cecily interjected. "What am I, chopped liver?"

"Close to it," Buffy muttered. Spike smiled behind his drinking glass.

"What kind of peas do you like?"

"'Mushy', as you put it, are favored by those with refined palates."

"Thus, my point is strengthened," he replied.

"Very Giles-y word there, Xand," Buffy joked.

"Anya bought me word of the day toilet paper," he grinned. "So, William?"

Spike looked at the covered antique dish set beside his plate. It was pink and white and surely hand painted. Without surprise, upon lifting the lid he found a colossal heap of green peas. "Uh... can't speak for other folks with the accent, but I'd have to agree with Buffy's cousin and... Cecily."

Without a word, Buffy took the delicate dish away from him.

"Oh, so you know about Giles? Buffy, you told him about Giles?"

She nodded. "He came up."

"I think you'd like him," Harris said, all too happy about this new topic. "He's kind of rough around the edges sometimes, but he's mostly just tweed and dusty books."

Spike smiled uncertainly. A thick urge to look ahead and to the left nagged at him, but he ignored it. "Sounds charmin'."

"Buffy, you never mentioned why Giles wasn't coming into town."

She looked at Anya. "Oh, he's on a ski trip."

"A ski trip?!" Xander was horrified. "Tell me you're kidding. You're kidding, right?" Nervous laughter fairly belted from his lungs.

"Do shut up, Harris, you sound like a hyena," Emma reprimanded from the other side of the table.
"I made him promise me he wouldn't actually participate," Buffy explained. "He went because of some chess tournament or something."

Xander sighed with relief. "That's the Giles we all know and love."

"Buffy," Anya said, "can you pass the peas?"

"What does this Giles person do?" Roger asked abruptly.

"He teaches," Xander answered. "And he's Buffy's cousin."

"Your cousin lives in England, Buffy?"

"He moved back a year ago." She was barely looking at him.

"That must have been hard on you. Is he your only family?"

She tensed. "Blood related, yes."

"So," Spike cut in, boldly enough to end their conversation even if the utterance wasn't for either of them, "Buffy says you work in construction?"

"Yep!" Xander nodded before taking a large bite of turkey. "F schyou evler need sometin buil, jus-"

"Honey, chew your food."

Somewhere at the other end of the table a disapproving comment was uttered.

Xander paused, then swallowed. "If you ever need anything repaired or even built, come to me and I'll be happy to help."

"Thanks." Spike refrained from mentioning he wasn't a novice with a hammer, instead catching one of Buffy's smiles and sharing it with her.

"I mentioned the dining set to him, Buffy," Anya said quickly. "He's thinking of making it as an anniversary present."

"That'd be really nice."

"See!" Anya poked her husband in the arm so fast it barely registered to his witnesses. "She thinks it's a good idea."

Xander held back a sigh. "Thanks Buffy."

She said nothing because Anya was still going. "I don't see how it would be any harder than those lounge chairs you built for Howard. Or those windows you fixed for Mrs. Lang."

"Let's talk about this later, honey."

Anya pouted. "The ever surprising mantra," she muttered in Cecily's eager ear.

Xander drank from the beer bottle in front of him. "You work at the graveyard, William?"

Buffy dropped her fork, and in her peripheral noticed Roger turn his head. Spike froze in the middle of a mashed potato bite. She sent a helpless look in Anya's direction.

He realized he'd fouled something up, but it didn't erase the question.

"Uh." Spike swallowed his spoonful of potatoes and wiped his lips. "I-I work there some nights."

"How is it?"

"Yes," Roger chimed. "What does that kind of job entail?"

Buffy wrung her hands in her lap.

"Mostly watchin' the grounds." Spike's voice dropped in pitch. "Doin' passes, making sure nobody sneaks in."

"Well," Roger said, an unheard scoff behind it, "I can't imagine anyone would want to sneak into a cemetery. Surely, most people have better things to do."

"Oh, I don't know. I think you'd be surprised," Cecily cut in. "After all, William must spend quite a bit of his time there. One would think there to be a reason."

Spike's jaw had grown taught, and he appeared to be staring at the condensation coating his water glass. "It's mainly teenagers you've got to watch out for."

"He's right," Buffy said. All company faced her and she grew uncertain. "I mean, it's usually younger people who sneak in."

"I know I used to," Xander hurriedly interjected. "But it wasn't just when I was in high school." He nudged his wife and winked. She rolled her eyes. "Buffy, you used to go there with-"

"Yep." She paid immediate attention to her food.

Xander blinked in sudden shock at his own stupidity. "Damn. Sorry..." Then, to his wife, "Ow! Hey, don't kick me."

Anya smiled thinly. "Don't give me reasons to."

Cecily threw a joke in about Xander's deservingness for physical abuse, and the couple across from them were left in their own little bubble for the moment.

"Who d'you go to the cemetery with?" Spike asked quietly.

"Nothing. No one."

"Real convincing."

"I used to sneak in with my friends when I was a teenager, that's all," she whispered.

"So it wasn't all R rated movies, then?"

There was an edge to his voice that made chills curdle in Buffy's stomach. "Usually."

"Usually the movies, or the cemetery for some alone time?"

She finally looked at Spike, frowning. "We were just trying to explain how you were right."

"Clearly."

"You used to sneak into the cemetery, Buffy?" Roger asked for clarification, breaking into their conversation. "It doesn't seem like you. It sounds so juvenile."

She grit her teeth, but Xander beat her to the reply. "We all did it. Aiming rocks at headstones was a regular Friday night activity." He spoke with push, trying to convince not just Roger but also William of past events. The nervous laughter had started again.

"Sounds riveting," the former remarked.

"It wasn't," Buffy stressed.

"I hope your hobbies have changed pace a bit since your youth," Cecily commented.

"Of course they have," Anya insisted.

One of the women at the other end of the table, whose name Buffy had forgotten, said, "When I was young, we used to go skinny dipping in the pond on the south edge of town." She giggled into her husband's shoulder. "Those were some of the best times."

Spike was strained with imagining an old photo from a yearbook in his head.

"I think we all did things when we were younger that meant a lot at the time, but don't hold much importance anymore," Anya declared.

Xander sent his wife an impressed, gratified look. "Well said, honey."

She beamed. "Thank you!"

"Buffy, would you pass the Port?" Cecily asked suddenly.

Buffy grabbed the bottle without paying much attention. In consequence, the loud clanging of glasses tipping roused her focus, and she watched as the Port collided with the salad bowl, which in turn made contact with the pea dish.

A sharp gasp followed the noise. Anya jumped to check on the antique's condition. Emma shouted in dismay. A candle went out. Buffy's immediate attempt to set the wine on a flat portion of the table ended in her dropping it.

Amazingly, the bottle landed straight, but Cecily's glass was knocked over and coated the tablecloth in red. Buffy's eyes grew huge as chairs skidded backward with the group's effort to clean up the mess, damage control in a great pile of napkins.

"Is the dish okay?" Buffy asked once the stain was snubbed.

"Yes, thankfully," Anya replied. Her sigh was filled with palpable relief, the pink and white bowl protected in her hands. She smiled at her mother who was busy fanning herself.

"I'm so sorry," Buffy said.

"Ahn, why don't you put the dish away before something actually happens to it?" Xander chuckled.

"Good idea."

Everyone returned to their original positions, some tension relieved only due to all the abrupt excitement. Buffy fell gratefully into her chair, and Spike wrapped his arm around the back of it.

"Jumpy, love?"

"Apparently." She shook her head, speaking low and practically into his shoulder. "About what Xander said-"

"I know. It's okay," he murmured. "It was my fault."

She looked up, caught his blue eyes and realized, that no, it wasn't okay. Not because Spike wasn't being honest, or because she needed to feel guilty over having a past, having old flames, but because she realized she didn't want him to be hurt by them. Not now, while they both tried desperately to keep the evening from falling into total chaos. Not ever, because he so obviously gave a crap.

He'd no sooner been picked on by Roger and started to talk friendly-like with Xander that Spike had to hoist his guards up. It wasn't fair, and Buffy wanted to end the night for the both of them.

But she couldn't.

All she could do was grasp Spike's hand, squeeze it, and pray for simple peace.

Of course, when had peace ever been so easily gained?

***

Dinner had ended about fifteen minutes ago, and now dessert was up. Everyone was unbuttoning their pants, sipping coffee, tea or spirits, nibbling on homemade pumpkin pie and pastries. Emma was busy telling a story for the two couples on her end of the table, entertaining them as if she were the head of that little group. Anya and Xander were talking in turns about something to do with a monkey and a stolen banana at the zoo; this had gained nearly everyone's attention.

Except for hers. Buffy was too busy. She had gathered a host of questions she dare not ask, but no one said she couldn't stew over them.

Spike was holding onto her thigh beneath the table, and that was probably the only thing keeping her quiet and visibly calm.

She glared through her fourth glass of wine at the moronic Hoe-bag sitting across from them. That's right, Cecily had elevated from Bitch to Major Bitch, then followed by the grand Hoe-bag title. Maybe Anya could make up a little sign for her.

Buffy sipped her drink. She knew that some of this irritation could be attributed to her own mistake. After all, she had been the one to leave the room.

Such a stupid decision. She'd had to use the bathroom. Anya and Cecily were gathering coffee and sweets while Mrs. Benning picked up the few remaining dishes scattered across the table.

It seemed like the safest time to leave. Roger was stuck in a conversation with Emma at that point, and Xander had silently promised to entertain William for the thirty seconds Buffy was planning to be gone.

She succeeded in regards to her own time limit, but success was to be short lived.

Cecily and Roger had both returned during her absence. They were like two cackling vultures pecking at her date's nerves. While Roger boasted to Xander about his important duties for Robin Wood, Cecily was sitting in Buffy's chair next to Spike and talking about something she undoubtedly had no business bringing up.

The woman had made it crystal clear she held little, if any, respect for William. Seeing him again obviously hadn't helped enlighten her to the idea that maybe the boy she used to tease had grown into a strong, intelligent man.

The last thing Buffy expected was to catch the woman flirting with him. At least, that was what it looked like. For all Buffy knew about her, Cecily could have been trying to rekindle old memories and tempt William with what he couldn't have, what she thought he still wanted.

Her giggles, soft and forced, fell into the new glass of Port underlining her lips. Her free hand was on Spike's arm, but he shifted away and looked as comfortable about the whole situation as would a person being circled by a bumblebee.

So yes, Hoe-bag. With a capital H. Major.

It took Buffy all of three seconds to stride over to them, claim she held reserve on the very seat beneath Cecily's ass, and deliver a sweet smile easily equated with bitter lemonade.

She watched Cecily stand elegant and slow. The brunette walked with her curly head held high to the other side of the table, and from that point on, Buffy remained at Spike's side.

Her dislike for the other woman hadn't just grown, it skyrocketed.

"Thank bloody God," Spike said once she sat down, tugging Buffy's faraway chair close to his own.

"Did you two have a nice chat?"

"You can never go to the bathroom again."

She smirked. "High demands."

"If you do, I'll make my excuses and wait outside," he grunted.

"What was she talking about?"

"Her career," Spike muttered. "Bimbo managed to become a lawyer."

"Fitting. Aren't they like, always evil?"

He had laughed, a lighthearted, welcome sound in the middle of an evening designed to test anyone's sanity. It was only a wonder Buffy's suspicions hadn't swirled to life earlier, even the implausible ones.

Like why had Cecily asked for the wine bottle when her glass had only been half empty, anyway? Did she hope Buffy would get in touch with her inner klutz, thereby staining Anya's tablecloth and almost destroying antique dinnerware?

Perhaps Cecily was devising a plan of action after that snit in the kitchen; the snit having been had by her, of course. Buffy merely started it with a slightly gaudy comment, which had been totally justified.

Then again, maybe that was exactly what had peaked Cecily's interests in William. It made sense. Once you mention your hot boyfriend has a six pack hiding beneath his clothes to a witch, she's bound to try out a spell or two.

That, or she was hoping to tease him. Unfortunately for her, Buffy knew damn well Spike wasn't interested. He'd made it plain that bullies were easy to hate and so, so hard to like after they made your life a living hell.

That left her wondering again. Just how badly had Spike been treated by Cecily in his youth? Did others pick on him so horribly, too? Sooner or later, at a different place and time, Buffy would like to find out.

At the moment, Anya was taking over the conversation as Xander cleared away empty plates. She was talking quite animatedly about the online work she had begun for a high end lingerie company, and this was when Buffy realized the pumpkin pie on her plate wasn't down a single bite.

She set her wineglass aside with paranoid care, and quickly realized her fork had gone missing.

"I think Xander took it by mistake."

Buffy looked up to Roger's helpful expression. He offered her his own shiny utensil. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"You're welcome." She felt his eyes on her with the first mouthful of pumpkin-y sweetness. "So, how has your work at the school been going?"

Buffy swallowed both her dessert and a lump. "Good. It's good." She smiled politely.

"Great! I knew Robin needed to find someone like you for that job."

"Like me?"

"Yeah, someone younger, but not too young to be a college freshman either. They never have enough experience."

"Um..." In truth, sometimes Buffy felt being younger might actually help her understand the students a little more, but she couldn't find another reason to naysay the compliment. "I guess. Thanks."

She turned away, and found Spike preoccupied with a confession from Anya. "You're afraid of rabbits?" He sounded baffled.

"Haven't you seen their beady little eyes? They're terrifying creatures." She shuddered.

"Rabbits," he repeated, slower now. "Those fuzzy lil' things that hop around and eat carrots?"

"Great! Thank you for describing them. I'm sure I can look forward to nightmares now." Anya shook her head emphatically. "Honestly, what kind of animal needs all those carrots, anyway? And the hopping is the worst part, if you ask me."

Roger spoke to Buffy softly. "Do you enjoy the work?"

"Huh?" She shook her head and faced him. "Oh. Yes, I do."

"It's kind of ironic, isn't it? This thing with you and Pratt."

She frowned, her eye catching the two empty glasses and one forgotten beer bottle near his hand. The man was a fan of Heineken, she'd learned. "No, I don't think it's ironic."

Cecily's laughter cut in. "William, you'll never understand her fear. Most of us have given up trying."

"It's a perfectly reasonable fear. Have you even looked at their ears?!" Anya exclaimed. Xander walked back into the room. "Honey, tell them rabbits are terrifying."

"Those beady eyed rodents are nothin' but trouble, I've been saying it from the beginning."

"William here cannot seem to wrap his mind around the idea." Cecily was blissfully unaware, or uncaring, of how much using his given name nagged the girl in front of her. "To Anyanka, he's just as simpleminded as the rest of us."

Even if it wasn't a particularly pointed insult, Spike still looked down to conceal the thick swallow going down his throat.

"I'm still trying to figure it out," Buffy quickly added.

"There's a surprise," Cecily said to her lap.

No one else caught the comment. Anya had started talking about her aversion to Easter. Buffy's eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth-

-but Roger cut her off. He draped one checkered print arm around the back of her chair. Somehow, Spike's wasn't there anymore. "Isn't Pratt... what, ten years your senior?" he whispered. "I'd think you'd want somebody younger."

The man's eyes were foggier than Buffy remembered. "Are you like, totally hammered?"

Roger offered a goofy grin unbefitting his character. "Slightly. I always get a bit inebriated on Thanksgiving."

"It must be a great distraction from being you."

"You hit the nail on the head there," he laughed, then suddenly straightened in his seat. "I hope I'm not offending you."

"Gee, what gave you that idea?" she muttered.

Roger frowned, blinking deeply. "I just thought... Never mind. You're a smart woman."

Sometimes, alcohol made people more likeable; others, it made more confusing. Roger was one example. "I think we should ask Xander to make you some fresh coffee," she said.

"It's all gone."

"Hence the 'more' word."

He spun the aforementioned beer bottle around in front of him like a game, frowning dejectedly.

"Everything okay, love?"

The hum of Spike's voice was a welcome tickle against her ear. Buffy sighed, then found he was glaring heavily at the space behind her neck, where Roger's arm rested. "Fine," she said, then hissed, "He's drunk."

She felt a shift of movement. The man to her left was holding his hands together in his lap again. His face was droopy and unconcerned. William scooted closer to Buffy until he was practically on top of her.

Then, in the midst of Anya rattling off the types of pets she would allow near her person, and Xander being scolded once again by Emma on something to do with drink coasters, Roger spun his beer bottle just a little too hard and the leftover contents splattered across his shirt. A collision between glass and more glass resounded, quieting the room except for the noise of sloshing and crashing.

A teacup was lost. Pretty pink alcohol from Buffy's wineglass coated her from waist to knees. She stood up in a rush, as did Spike and Roger respectively, the latter knocking his chair into Buffy's leg before it fell over. Xander rushed to her aid, Spike's hand fell to her back and pulled backwards, guarding her against further injury as she rubbed her knee.

Anya and Emma began chattering about spot treatments for her clothes. "Take those pants off immediately," the mother shouted.

Roger was offering a hectic apology. Buffy sighed over it. "It's okay," she lied through the embarrassment. "These are jeans, and they're dark. This is not a fashion emergency... just a wet one."

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

The panic in those words was surprising for the current situation But when she saw Spike's face, all fraught and anxious, she forgot about her own pain.

It was clear. The angrier and more upset she became right now would directly affect his emotions, too. Hell, it would ruin the remainder of the evening with little effort. No, she had to smile, at least while they were in front of an audience.

"I'm fine." Buffy took her hand off her knee, tugging at her wet sweater. Xander was asking his wife if she might have any extra clothes. "Look, it's not a big deal. It's getting late anyway-"

"I have something you can wear," Anya said.

Buffy paused.

"There's this skirt in my closet that would look great on you, and a shirt to match, I'm sure. Please, don't leave yet."

She sounded so sincere and determined pesky guilt arrived to ruin Buffy's escape. She shared a lost look with Spike, and knew he would follow her lead.

Xander asked her to stay again, though he leaned in and spoke very quietly when he did. "Roger just snuck away. He's feelin' lousy. I should have mentioned he can get weird when he drinks sometimes, and there was some sort of falling out with his brother, I guess. He feels bad."

"He should."

Xander looked up, surprised as she was, to meet with William's unforgiving expression. "It was an accident," Xander replied.

"Wouldn't have happened if he wasn't all over her."

"All over her?" Xander frowned and look to Buffy for confirmation. "Buff, was he-"

"No. No, he was just drunk, like you said." She smiled, then scowled briefly at Spike and grabbed his arm. "Anya," she called, "Would you mind getting that skirt? We're going to see what we can do about drying me off, in the kitchen."

Spike, and everyone else, noticed the slight emphasis. The room was adequately quiet as she and her date made their exit.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I added chapter 19 literally ten minutes ago, so be sure to read that before you read this chapter!! Thanks for the reviews and for reading everyone! *hugs*
___________________________

When shutting the kitchen door, she finally heard Cecily speak up: "It was only a little wine."

Buffy's teeth clenched together as she stormed to the sink. It was half full with plates and silverware. She reached for paper towels before yanking at the faucet handles.

"She is a tried and true bitch."

"He's a git, Buffy."

They spoke at once. She faced Spike while patting towels against her leg. He offered a cloth rag instead. "Roger? Yeah okay, but what was with that comment you made? About him 'being all over me?'"

Spike stiffened. "He has a thing you."

"Maybe." Her date exhibited a critical look. "Fine, you're right about the whole 'git' thing." She swiped the towel. "But he wasn't exactly 'all over me' either... unlike some people."

Spike frowned. "What do you mean?"

He sounded so perplexed she actually stopped trying to clean her clothes, tossing the used napkins onto the counter laden with utensils and coffee cups. "Cecily might be slightly evil, but it sure looked as if she developed good taste once I left."

Spike's expression was one of true confusion. "What the bugger are you talking about?"

"She was flirting with you."

His frown smoothed out, eventually spreading into a self degrading smirk. "Just enough to try an' shake the cage, love."

"So you think she was teasing you?"

"Tryin' it, yeah."

"Did she succeed?"

He scowled again. "You really think she could?"

Buffy fell silent. Of all the women at that dining table, only one caught Spike's attention. He was thoroughly devoted and she knew it, but God it had never felt that way before. Not with anyone. Of course she was still insecure at times, but that had everything to do with her and very little, if anything, to do with Spike.

"No," she said. "I guess I don't."

"You 'guess?'"

"I'm sorry." She crossed her arms and looked down. "I know you don't like her."

"Damn right I don't like her!" He recaptured Buffy's full attention with a harsh whisper. Spike's face became a combination of disgust and irritation before her eyes. Hell, he might even be angry with her.

There was a novel thought.

"She made me feel lower than I..." He paused, jaw tight. "She made my life worse than I ever thought it could get at the time. Before the bitch realized I liked her things were barely tolerable, and they stayed that way, 'til I proved what a thickheaded moron I was by admitting it." He pointed aimlessly at his temple, scoffing. "Just 'cause she makes a jibe or two and tosses a pass at me for old times' sake, doesn't mean I'll fall at her feet. I'm not a pushover anymore. I'm not a dog chasin' after a bone."

The grip she held on her own arms had tightened during his speech. She nodded upon realizing he was finished.

Breathing quick and heavy, his eyes lost focus, trailing down her frame and up again. They widened suddenly as he leaned back. "I'm... Oh, Christ. Buffy, I'm sorry."

"No," she said quietly. "You're right."

He blinked. "What?"

"I said you're right," her voice began as a whisper, "I... shouldn't have thought you would still be interested in Cecily. I'm sorry."

A thick moment, the kind broken only by hammers and revelations stilled the air. Spike cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for what I said out there, to your friend."

Buffy shook her head, looking away briefly. "It's okay. Xander should know Roger isn't exactly my favorite person." Hesitantly, she added, "And, call me crazy, but I'm getting the vibe he isn't your biggest fan. Which gives me enough reason not to like him."

A humorless smile. "Made that transparent, did we?"

"Yes. Both of you, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say he's the jerk."

Spike smiled gently. "Not taken with him, then?"

"Now who's making crazy assumptions?"

He shrugged.

Buffy sighed. "Are you kidding?"

"Suppose so."

"I would never date him," she swore. "Even if I hadn't seen the way he acted tonight, he's not my type. Not even close."

Spike tilted his head, something soft there, something warm tracing his features as hers grew pink. There was quiet again, for a moment, some stillness not even the echoing conversation on the other side of the door could touch.

Buffy looked away first, gesturing at her ruined clothes in place of tender examination. "Guess all that worrying about an outfit was kinda pointless, huh?"

He tilted his head the other way, eyes adoring. "You're still fetching, love."
"Even covered in white zinfandel?"

"There are worse things." He grinned. "This way, you're damn near edible."

Buffy focused on the ground, hiding from that lecherous bitten lip he was displaying and ruefully added, "I don't think my jeans are in agreement."

They shared a quiet laugh. Spike hedged carefully closer. "Did we just..."

When he wouldn't continue, and looked as if backpedaling might entice, Buffy finished for him. "Have a fight?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I think we did." She took a deep breath. "It's one of the mile markers for being a couple, I hear."

Before another word was said, the door opened, admitting a small bout of noise before Anya let it swing shut. She had clothes hanging over one arm, and a hopeful smile on her face. "Here you are. I hope these fit."

Buffy took the items quickly, oblivious to Spike's stillness, and held the tank top against her body. "I'm sure they will. Thanks."

Anya smiled helpfully. "You can use the bathroom upstairs if you want, for more privacy."

She nodded gratefully, and took Spike's hand without comment. They sped efficiently across the hectic dining room and down the expansive foyer, before making it halfway up a flight of stairs. She finally let go to hold the railing.

Spike didn't ask why at first. Buffy was sure he already knew. His uncertainty wasn't made clear until they reached the top of the stairs.

"Don't think you need my help changin', love."

"I seem to remember something about me not being allowed to go to the bathroom alone."

He scratched the back of his head. "I was partly jokin'. Could leave you to your privacy, f'you want."

"You think I'm leaving you down there with the Harpy and Harpo Marx?"

"Thought it was a possibility," he admitted.

"Guess again."

A wide room with comfy chairs and loveseats greeted them first, two hallways sprouting from either side. Buffy made a left.

The turn brought them straight to what appeared to be a storage closet, then the bathroom.

She slipped inside and Spike leaned against the doorframe. "I'll be quick," she said.

"Take your time."

Once he heard the lock click, he let his body relax for the first time in hours. Recent dinner accidents, women with tenacious appetites for drama, bullies, and that familiar emotion named Jealousy took a backseat to something else. Something kinder. It rushed to the forefront of his mind, a shining light amidst the storm of this Yank holiday.

"Did we just have..."

"A fight?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I think we did. It's one of the mile markers for being a couple, I hear."

He closed his eyes, his heartbeat light and heavy at once. He wouldn't draw attention to what she'd said because he wasn't stupid, and he certainly didn't want to put his girl on the spot. Maybe he was just reading too much into it. After all, words were simple, changeable things; semi-permanent at best.

The smile on Spike's face remained. For once, instinct and plausibility weren't mocking him. For once, Buffy knew every embarrassing characteristic of his life. She accepted his work, defended him to an old devil from his past, ignored another man who took it upon himself to mock Spike in her presence, and kept by his side. Buffy had chosen him at every turn this evening, and so when she called them a couple, Spike was inclined to believe her.

***

"He's a janitor?!" The bowl clattered against the countertop. "Are you certain?"

Anya was washing dishes, finishing the last of the plates and spoons. "Xander told me." She frowned heavily as suds squeezed between her fingertips. "I don't know why you're so surprised, you asked if he had another job. And why are you laughing?"

Cecily immediately went quiet. "It's just so common. Not very shocking either, if I was to be unfavorably honest."

"Aren't you always?"

Cecily smiled.

Anya dried her hands. "I wouldn't say anything else about it, if I were you."

"Why not? Isn't it customary to talk to people about what they do for a living?"

"Not always. Especially when you're only going to try and make someone feel bad about it."

Cecily looked primly away, setting a cup inside its cupboard. "Really, Anyanka, you talk as if you aren't the pot and I the kettle in this scenario. I've heard you give quite a few scathing remarks in your time."

Said pot rolled her eyes, and shut the cabinet door. "I know, but I'm asking you as a friend not to make any trouble."

Cecily nearly scowled, and would have if she wasn't so worried about the frown lines. "You're softening up. We used to have such fun until you decided to get married."

Anya pouted momentarily. "Love changes people."

"I don't know what that has to do with anything."

"Buffy is Xander's friend. If something embarrassing happens with William here, then she will be upset, and I don't want my husband to think you or I had anything to do with it."

"Your husband has never exactly been a fan of mine, Anya. If you would only accept it, by now we would all be much better off."

"I still don't want you making things difficult."

Her brows rose. "You aren't hiding some reason for your sympathy, are you?"

Anya clasped her hands together and squeezed. "Let's just say it wouldn't be good for Buffy, for reasons other than the obvious."

"Heavens knows what that means. You really believe I can decipher your cryptic language?"

"I'm not being cryptic. I'm being appropriately dramatic." Anya suddenly pointed over her shoulder at the refrigerator. "Could you get some more cream out for mother? She wants it for her coffee."

***

"I hate to see that woman drink caffeine."

Roger sat with his hands covering his face, only half paying attention to what Xander was saying. The portion of his brain that was sober, the somewhat intelligent part, remained preoccupied with shame. "She's having more coffee?"

"If she stays up past six o'clock she needs it," Xander whispered, "but I think she underestimates how much it screws with her. Last Easter she had five cups of espresso and started yelling insults out in Latin."

"I'm sorry," Roger muttered. "I know you don't like her."

"Shh!" Xander ordered. "Don't say that. The woman has ears like an elephant."

He sighed, dropping his hands. "How do you think Buffy's doing?"

"I wish you'd let that go." Xander propped his arms across his knees. "She isn't mad."

"I doubt it."

A moment's pause. "Is it true you were hitting on her?"

Roger groaned, sipping desperately at his steaming cup of coffee. They were sitting in relative quiet near the television, but other voices threatened to give him a headache. "I always liked Buffy," he admitted, "ever since I saw her at the school. I realized she wasn't interested in me, though..."

"Then why push it?"

"I just can't see why she's dating Pratt, of all people."

Xander stared into Roger's glazed eyes, wondering if the myth about coffee turning drunks into hyper drunks rather than sober human beings might actually be true. "William seems all right," he said uncomfortably.

"Oh c'mon," Roger muttered resentfully. "He's the janitor, for God's sake."

Xander scowled but hid the reaction well. "I think you're dealing with the green-eyed monster right now, buddy. Believe me, I've been there, but sooner or later you have to let this go. You'll find the right girl eventually."

He said nothing, and merely gulped the rest of his coffee.

***

"Love, are you comin' out anytime soon?"

Spike was still waiting. He knew women typically took their time getting changed, but Buffy had disappeared inside ten minutes ago, and some instinct told him to knock.

Silence as an answer did nothing but exacerbate his concern.

"Buffy?"

"I don't think Anya gave me the right clothes."

He frowned at the talking door. "What?"

A deep sigh from the other side. "It's all too... tight."

"Let's see it then."

"I don't think so."

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Why not? You can't possibly look bad in any of it."

"Just go get Anya, please?"

"Are you sure?"

Silence again.

"Buffy?"

"Never mind. It's okay, I'll come out."

Spike waited. After six full seconds had passed, the doorknob turned and the entryway cleared. He noticed one of her hands braced on the edge. While Buffy's eyes remained downcast at first, they rose immediately after she heard him choke.

He gawked. Gawked, ogled, and openly acknowledged his eyes were as buggy as one of those round-faced dogs, but helping himself was unrealistic. Creamy lace edged her breasts and collarbone, wrapping around Buffy's shoulders with the aid of delicate satin ribbons. What veiled the rest was hardly opaque. If he focused, he could make out the shadow of her waistline.

The skirt was cut high, stretching just to mid-thigh. Her legs were otherwise bare. Long and pale and smooth. He couldn't raise his eyes much further than the hem.

For a moment, Spike wondered if the clothes were actually the same ones Anya had provided in the kitchen. He didn't remember the shirt looking like the top half of a nightie, not when Buffy held it up. And the skirt... Well, the skirt was a black mini that could probably double as a belt if you rolled it once or twice.

Buffy tugged nervously at her ensemble. It was all comfortable to physically fit into, but not so comfortable to sport. *Less is not always more.*

She picked up her discarded boots and muttered, "These don't really go."

Spike blinked. "Uh, sorry. What?"

She shook the shoes in her hand. "Boots. Non-matchy."

"Oh. So what?"

"I'm not going to walk around barefoot."

He resisted clearing his throat, forcing eye contact. He trapped his anxious hands behind his back. "Why not?"

She gave him an exasperated look and used her hair to modestly cover her shoulders. Quickly fetching her own clothes from the bathroom, Buffy soon led the way back downstairs. Spike's gaze remained hot and steady the entire time.

They were just about to turn into the dining room, Buffy set on asking Anya for a pair of sweatpants and possibly a sweater, when he tugged her back. They fell into the long foyer, her spine against the wall, sounds of gentle conversation echoing in her left ear.

"What are you doing?"

Spike looked like he was both at a loss for words and dying to say something.

She frowned as he took her hand and steered them all the way to the front door. There, he retrieved his coat- not hers -and offered it with a hard swallow and timid eye contact.

"If you want... This- This might make you feel more comfortable," he stuttered.

Buffy's mouth fell open. Instead of speaking, pointing out the fact Anya likely had other clothes to be borrowed, or how there remained the option of wearing her own coat, she set her ruined jeans and shirt aside. She turned around, wordlessly slipping one hand into his jacket's right arm, and Spike immediately assisted with the rest.

The leather covered more of her than it ever would him. The zipper almost reached her skirt's hemline and Buffy's entire torso was concealed but for the part in the middle. She felt warm, readily appreciated the fresh, masculine scent encasing her. Just like she remembered, the material was buttery and smooth.

Suddenly, going barefoot didn't seem so bad.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Of course," he said.

After one poignant second spared, they headed for the dining room again, Spike positioned at Buffy's back the entire way.

***

The night was looking up.

It begun when Anya asked Buffy why she was wearing a coat, followed by Xander asking if it was her coat, and then Cecily wondering why it wasn't.

Buffy gave the anticipated explanations; "I was cold," "I didn't like how my jacket paired with the skirt," "William offered."

It was all very believable, and if the sight of Buffy wearing his clothes bothered anyone they kept quiet about it. Roger might have grumbled something when they first came in, but that only added to Spike's genuine pleasure.

Seeing his girl wrapped in leather was something any man could appreciate.

Of course, Anya was no man, and therefore a different story. Mrs. Harris seemed disappointed when Buffy reappeared thoroughly covered up, and the more he thought about it the more Spike thought the lady might be getting ideas. Especially when she neglected to offer Buffy a second, more appropriate change of clothes.

A part of him genuinely wanted the coat to come off. Just sometimes, when he got distracted by her legs or the patches of skin visible through the parted jacket. When he would notice her breasts peeking through, bouncing as she laughed, or the black skirt hugging her thighs.

Nonetheless, desire fought a poor battle against the rest. Buffy confidently wearing his clothes in public left Spike awestruck. But it was the moments he caught one of the other men staring at her legs that reinforced the coat's significance. He remembered he ought to be thankful for Buffy's modest nature. Besides, the contrast between brown leather and golden hair painted a pretty picture.

Hell, she could be wearing a gum wrapper and it would undo him. The woman was a goddess. He'd always known it, but now, tonight, she was his goddess. A month back, Spike would never have believed it possible. Two years ago he might have thought an apocalypse was more likely, but today he saw miracles.

Buffy was laughing, and sharing in the first carefree moment of the night with him as Xander told a funny story from the past. She hid her face in his coat with every embarrassing anecdote.

It was heaven to watch her. So much so that the evening's previous failures seemed miles away.

Even Cecily's veiled comments didn't seem to grate anymore, and the less he reacted, the more stabs she took. Anya finally noticed and grew visibly irritated.

An hour went by. The coffee turned cold and guests started to leave, yawning their goodbyes but still drawing them out in typical friendly fashion.

The Bennings and Gardiners were slipping on their coats, pausing to thank the hosts. Emma insisted on seeing them again before she left. Xander asked repeatedly when that might be, and when shushed by his wife switched to who wanted leftovers.

A flurry of last minute activity took place. Who liked the cranberry sauce? Who wanted the casserole Cecily had made? Was everyone in good condition to drive? The Bennings offered to take Roger home, and he could pick up his car in the morning if it was suitable. Xander relayed the message while they talked with Emma and Anya near the front door. Cecily had snuck off at some point, probably to use the restroom. Spike and Buffy were occupied packing up food in the kitchen.

"Think Anya wants this left in the tin or put into somethin' else?"

"Leave it," Buffy said. She glanced at the half empty pie container in Spike's hands. "I'm sure Xander will finish it before the night is over."

As if summoned by the call of his name, Xander came into the kitchen with a tired smile on his face. "The Gardiners just left."

"Two down, only six to go," Buffy said.

"I'm glad this day is winding down, but I'm almost sad that it'll just be me, Ahn, and my mother-in-law again shortly." He paused. "Actually, no. I'm very sad. Damn, why do I remind myself of these things?"

Buffy and Spike chuckled. "She's a mite tough on you, eh?"

"The woman lives to inflict pain and suffering."

"Careful, Xand. She might hear you."

He groaned. "She's too busy telling everyone out there how I should be pursuing a different career."

"Lady doesn't like what you do?" Spike asked, snapping the lid closed on a Tupperware full of chicken.

"If it doesn't require a suit, it's not going to produce a good enough income for her daughter's wellbeing. At least, that's her standing argument."

Buffy sighed. "You know she's wrong, right?"

"Of course," he shrugged. "Besides, I love my job and Ahn approves. She doesn't listen to her mom about that stuff anyway."

"Good." Buffy shared a little smile with Spike as he opened the refrigerator door for her. She set a Tupperware of pastries inside next to a container of orange juice. "Hey," Buffy added quickly, turning around, "that reminds me. I've been meaning to ask you about Jack. How's he working out?"

"Oh yeah! I've wanted to talk to you about him, too. The kid's been getting along really well, actually. I haven't seen him show up with anymore bruises either."

Buffy smiled, glancing at Spike with relief pouring from her eyes. "Really? He's okay?"

"Seems to be," Xander said. "He's really getting a hang of this kind of work."

Buffy sighed, reaching without thought and without looking for Spike's arm. He inched nearer. "You have no clue how good that makes me feel."

"Always happy to help," Xander said. "By the way, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. With Roger."

"Oh." She shrugged. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know, but I still feel bad. He's more hammered than I thought. I should've been watching out." Xander met William's eyes tentatively. "I know he wasn't exactly polite to you either."

Spike looked surprised. "It's not a big deal."

"It's not okay, though. And I'm sorry about it."

The blonde nodded uncomfortably. "Thanks, mate."

An awkward pause urged Buffy to ask, "Are the Bennings going to drive him home?"

Xander shook his head. "I don't think so. Last I checked, he was half asleep on the couch and didn't want to move. I'll probably just drive him home or let him spend the night. He's off work tomorrow anyway."

The couple nodded and soon continued their work preserving leftovers. It took a full minute of quiet interspersed with general chit-chat before Xander snapped his fingers and said, "Shoot! Buffy, I totally forgot, Anya was going to wash your clothes."

The woman froze, dropping an empty container to the floor. "What?"

"That's why I came in here, to tell you. She said she was going to wash them and get 'em back to you another day. I was supposed to let you know."

"That sweater is dry-clean only!"

"It is?" Xander's eyes bugged. "You better warn her. She was just heading for the basement."

Buffy looked at Spike, grabbed his arm desperately and said, "I'll be right back," before taking off.

***

She practically skidded down the long, carpeted stairwell leading to the basement. She bypassed a pool table, workout equipment and a desk, before finally locating the washer and dryer. Anya sat atop the former, gently kicking the air with her high heeled shoe. "I was wondering when you'd get down here."

"Xander said you were going to-" Buffy frowned and dropped her arms. "Where's my sweater?"

"Where you left it, with your boots and coat."

She frowned harder. "Then why did Xander-"

"Because I needed to talk to you. He was just a prop."

"You tricked me into the basement? What is this, Scream Five?"

"Hardly. I just needed to get you away from William for a moment."

Buffy sighed with relief. "So you were never going to wash my clothes?"

"Of course not! Do you think I'd wash velvet? I'm not completely crazy."

Buffy chuckled, hopping on top of the dryer to sit beside her. "Thank God for that."

"Yes, thank God I have common sense."

"Why did you want to talk to me down here?"

"Because I needed to yell at you."

"This sounds very much not fun."

Anya nodded precisely. "It isn't. I gave you my lucky skirt, one of the hottest tops I own, and you covered it all up with that jacket."

Buffy scowled, looking down at herself. She pulled the coat away from her body before snapping back to attention, eyes wide and accusing. "You did this on purpose?!"

"Of course I did!" She sighed dramatically. "You wouldn't know a good scheme if it hit you in the face, would you?"

"I don't make a habit of scheming."

"Well, you make a habit of ruining mine, that's for sure."

"I almost asked you for sweatpants, are you seriously telling me you're angry I threw a jacket on?"

"Yes!"

Buffy counted to three. "Anya, tell me what your oh so clever plan was supposed to accomplish. Now. Before I go upstairs and tell Xander you might be better off committed."

"It was to get you laid."

Mouth shut, cheeks instantly rosy. Buffy blinked hugely, like a stunned owl. "What?"

Anya released an impatient sigh, tossing her hair over one bare shoulder. She wore a purple halter dress that fanned out across the washer like a tablecloth, and Buffy only now noticed its gallantry. "I thought if I got you into something a bit more revealing, William would be a little less proper and make you a little less uptight."

"I am not uptight!"

"Do you look in the mirror when you say that?"

"Ugh!" Buffy hopped to the floor, half exasperated and very tempted to strip down and throw her clothes at the perky woman who ought to be holding a heart shaped bow and arrow. "Anya, I'm getting there with William. In my own time, okay? I'm getting there, but sexy clothes aren't going to speed things up!"

"Really?" She rose an eyebrow. "Is he or is he not a man?"

"I don't even want to bother answering you."

"He's going to be thinking about sex even more now that he's seen you in a short skirt."

Buffy crossed her arms and frowned. "Did you ever think I'm the one who wants to wait?"

"Of course you are. This does not mean the situation can't be fixed by elevating his interest."

"There's nothing to fix!"

"I'm only trying to help. If he doesn't jump you later on tonight, then there's no harm done. And if he does, you can always say no."

"Thanks for the permission."

"There is no reason to be snooty."

"I'm not trying to be," Buffy sighed. "I just want you to let me make these decisions on my own."

"Fine!" Anya hopped off the washer. "Be a born-again virgin all your life. It won't hurt me if you're not having orgasms."

"There's no reason to be snooty," Buffy returned.

"You were at least thinking of doing it this week, right?"

"If you want me to show you my calendar, you're out of luck."

"It's obvious. I would have picked up on it the moment you two walked through the front door together but everything seemed rather tense at the time. And I couldn't be sure if it was sexual or not."

Buffy hugged herself. She neglected mentioning Cecily had been the cause for every ounce of tension earlier on, then suddenly remembered the awful woman was still upstairs and she'd left Spike to fend for himself. "Look, Anya, I appreciate what you were trying to do, okay?"

"You do?"

"Yes. I know it's just your weird way of being my friend, but can we go back upstairs now?"

She huffed, but linked arms with Buffy in a show of peace. "I suppose."

A thick sigh welled up in her throat again, but Buffy was able to squash it. Discreetly rolling her eyes, she let Anya guide the way.

***

They separated in the foyer. Anya said her last minute goodbyes to the Bennings, while Buffy left in search of her date. Their conversation in the basement was echoing in the back of her mind, lending questions to her own hesitations. Why did she insist on dragging this thing out with Spike? Why was she so wary of taking the next step? She knew it was only a matter of time, but for some reason, likely named Fear, Buffy needed more of it.

She passed Xander in the dining room babysitting a drunk Roger, who had somehow gotten hold of another beer. *One more point in Spike's column,* she thought, and mentally checkmarked the box labeled "Trusted Around Alcohol" under Boyfriend Requirements, before pushing her way into the kitchen.

"It must be so nice having a job that doesn't require much dedication, or skill for that matter..."

Buffy stopped, her mind instantly swept clean of personal concerns.

Cecily cornering William against piles of Tupperware and freshly cleaned dishes, with her claws out, eyes glittering in delight, was something of gag-worthy proportions. Worse than watching her fake-flirt with him. It was a harsher view of her carnivorous appetite, something cruel she could never share with the rest of the dinner guests.

There was no one around to see it. Nobody except her victim, the same boy she'd bullied years before. Something wicked flattened the air and made Buffy cringe, her nerves prickling. She could barely see straight when the shock wore off.

"I shouldn't have anticipated great accomplishments from you. I'm sure your mother didn't. She babied you all your life, no doubt out of pity-"

She couldn't take it. Not another moment of it. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Cecily jumped, startled as a rabbit. "I beg your pardon."

"There's no chance you didn't understand me." Buffy stormed forward. "Unless you've suddenly gone deaf, which might make it a little harder to be such a bitch."

Cecily looked to William again. "It seems you've finally found that backbone you were missing all your life. She's quite mouthy."

Buffy's glare splintered with derision. "Too bad he didn't lose you in the exchange."

"He never had me, I assure you."

"I really don't think he regrets that."

"I daresay he shouldn't, what with you taking up the minutes he doesn't spend cleaning toilets."

"God!" Buffy faked a laugh, harsh and loud. "Do you ever shut up? Or is the constant sound of your own voice some kind of coping mechanism?"

Cecily straightened, throwing a haughty glance in Spike's direction. He was rattled and showcasing it like a neon sign, but Buffy had yet to look into his eyes.

"It's good to know you've surrounded yourself with people matching the quality of your lifestyle, William. No wonder you never fit in with the rest of us back home."

"It must be great living with such a high opinion of yourself," Buffy returned. "Who knew delusion was so popular nowadays."

"You've certainly picked it up," Cecily remarked. "At first I thought you hadn't realized how far beneath you William stood, but now I see you're just lying at the foot of the pedestal you've set him on."

Spike flinched. It was miniscule and Buffy was nearly certain she had been the only one to notice, but it fueled her ire like nothing else. "When you fall off your own, maybe you'll finally get a taste of reality. God knows that would do us all a favor."

Cecily opened her mouth again, and Buffy was going to interrupt when Spike took her arm.

"That's enough," he said.

She froze instantly. "What?"

"It's enough. Leave it." He turned his icy expression on the insolent brunette and spoke evenly, carefully. "Cecily, I'd appreciate it if you would leave."

The woman did a ping-pong glance between them, surprised and finally quiet. The moment stretched out like an overused rubber band.

Seconds passed. He eventually spit the order. "Get out!"

Cecily blinked in astonishment. She heeded the command amazingly quick and left the room in under five seconds.

What she left behind, was a silence as tense as the man holding Buffy's arm.

What Buffy didn't expect was to be hauled against his chest and her mouth crushed by a pair of fervid, biting lips.

Hands ran the stretch of her spine, her arms and shoulders. Spike's fingers pressed her close, gliding across her skin in anxious, passionate digs. His whole body acted like an umbrella, surrounding her. Buffy gasped when the kiss broke almost as soon as it had begun.

"What-"

"You're wonderful," he rasped. "Bloody amazing."

"Spike-"

He cut her off again, no words to be said. Buffy rose her hands, caressing the underside of his jaw and he fairly purred, tugging her closer yet. She could feel heat gathering between their chests. His jacket parted to expose the softness of her fitted shirt, lace and all. Delicately, calloused fingers traced it, traveling lower until hitting the curve of her waist, wrapping anxiously around.

Buffy stood taller, on her tiptoes, their tongues coaxing each other deeper. A happy moan collided with his little growl and she found she was beginning to smile.

"Well I wanted it to happen," said a new voice, "I just didn't think it'd be in my kitchen."

The couple broke apart as if magnets had done it. Buffy and Spike looked to Anya in shock as a laughably awkward silence filled their throats.

Their hostess seemed unaffected. "Did you two pick out leftovers before going at it like those hoppy creatures we shall not name?"

Reaching tentatively, their fingers interlocked and Buffy squeezed Spike's hand. "Sorry, Anya. We, uh, got distracted."

"It's fine, but I would think a bed might be more comfortable."

"I'm sure you're right." Buffy blushed and sent him a smile she knew he needed, aware of the tension overflow between Spike and herself. It was a little distracting. His thumb was trailing the veins in her wrist.

Anya's brow puckered with gentle concern. "So, are you guys actually planning on taking leftovers? I have to know so I can make sure Xander doesn't gobble them down all at once. He acts like a bear preparing for hibernation every time we host a dinner party."

"No, I don't think so," Buffy said with a laugh. She shared a heart jarring glance with the man holding her hand, gaining unseen distance from the casual atmosphere again. Spike appeared completely set on staring at her, and the look in his eyes could melt a glacier. He wasn't the least bit embarrassed either. He seemed to have forgotten the ten minutes of discomfort endured before their passionate lip-lock.

"If you two are ready to go then, you can always get those clothes back to me another day, Buffy."

"Thanks." She led Spike to the kitchen door, barely looking away from him. "I'll return everything when I see you next."

The other woman nodded happily, but neither paid notice. "Sounds good."

"Did Cecily leave already?" Buffy dared to ask.

"She just left. She seemed to be in a hurry."

Buffy blushed, this time facing Anya in dismay. "That was probably my fault. There was... a disagreement before you came in."

"Oh?" The lack of surprise in her voice would have been telling if Buffy wasn't so focused on Anya's potential upset. "It's not a problem. I'll speak with her."

She swallowed heavily. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

Spike scowled, and looked like he wanted to add something to that, but Anya waved her hand. "Don't be. I'm not easily embarrassed. Besides, Cecily can be a handful."

Buffy nodded hesitantly, not daring to agree.

The waylaid intention to depart soon resurfaced. Buffy and Spike followed Anya into the dining room where they found Xander tucking Roger in on the tiny sofa. He whisper-called his wife over to explain they would be housing a drunk for the night.

Spike chuckled quietly as he and Buffy strolled into the foyer. Their footsteps echoed immediately, conducting a series of creaks and floorboard whines. Solitude arose, mutual and underlying awareness climbing high. Her hand was warm and small in his, but firm, a sure hold. They were halfway down the hall when he pressed her to the wall with a kiss. Their bodies fell like book pages, one onto the other, and the clothes that hugged her bones could have been nonexistent.

She felt his hardness vividly, his hands burning through a black, cotton-polyester blend. His mouth became rough, going deeper with every stroke of tongue.

Buffy pulled away first. "I think we should save this for later," she whispered, inhales punctuating each word.

"Right." Spike kissed her again, quick, messy. "Later."

It was the right moment, because when they drew apart Xander walked in, followed quickly by his wife. "You guys must be anxious to get home," he said. Buffy and Spike nodded in unison.

The farewells were efficient, despite Anya's leaving to retrieve a plastic bag for Buffy's wine soaked clothes. Spike tossed her forgotten coat over his arm and waited while Xander complained about having eaten too much.

The Brit listened with half an ear. He was spending most of his attention on Buffy, as he often did. This time was far worse. Xander's voice turned into no more than a hum and Anya's joined it when she returned. Spike watched Buffy smile, toss her ruined garments into the proffered bag and say thank you.

The moment felt good. Pleasant and rushed at once. It easily beat the past few hours. There had been scenes that Spike would likely never forget. The high point, though, hadn't come until the very end. It wasn't now and it wasn't the kissing, it was when Buffy tore into the kitchen in his defense.

He'd never had someone do that before. Protecting himself was a solitary job, while protecting his girl took precedence. First it was Drusilla and today Buffy; there was never anyone protecting him, and frankly, he rarely wanted it.

Except Buffy had taken the reins into her own hands. She faced off with someone he couldn't have risked telling off for fear of making a bad impression. Cecily's barbs had hit their mark many times, but he wasn't a cowering child anymore. He was able to fight back, physically, verbally, it didn't matter. He still would have handled the situation in the kitchen passively, no matter how out of character it seemed.

Only Buffy wouldn't let him handle a thing.

Spike's chest warmed with every flashing memory. The way she'd spoken for him, lashing out at Cecily as if the woman's every insult had been aimed at her instead. As if seeing him targeted cut into Buffy's skin as cleanly as a cobra. It would have done so for Spike, had she truly been the victim.

Realizing Buffy reacted with the same venom, fighting back for his name, burned as good as a matchbook. Comforted as well as hurt because he wanted to tell her how much he loved her more than anything at the time.

He knew he couldn't, so the only fix was kissing her breathless.

Spike wanted more now. He wanted to know more, of her body, her taste, her affection, as soon as he could have it. But she would set the boundaries, draw every line and make the rules. He knew he couldn't make love to Buffy without telling her how he felt. Not tonight. So he'd take whatever she would give, and pray he was strong enough not to ask for too much, lest everything he'd earned be risked for greed's satisfaction.

His jacket was still draped around her body. Buffy zipped it closed and Spike realized she had donned her shoes. It was time to leave. They uttered their final goodbyes after a joint statement from her friends that it was "Nice to meet him," and walked out together, side by side.

They traveled across the porch, down the steps and two thin sidewalk strips, all the way to Buffy's car. Their hands didn't break until Spike opened the passenger door and helped her in. He walked quickly to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.

"Back to my place?" she asked.

He started the engine, looking at Buffy. In the darkness there was an unasked question hidden inside her forest eyes. A street light collected a shimmer there, and lit up the car's black dashboard. "Your place," Spike murmured. "We'll go to mine another day."

"Okay," she said, and huddled into his coat for warmth. Spike switched on the heat. "You can stay as long as you like tonight," she said.

He smiled. "I plan to."

***

"Where'd Cecily fly to?"

Anya sighed after shutting the front door. "She isn't a bat, Xander."

"If the wings fit."

"She's in the attic," Anya huffed. "Getting the shoes I borrowed a couple months ago."

"Just don't let her get too comfortable up there, she might nest." Xander pressed a kiss against his wife's cheek to soften the dig.

It didn't work. "You just go check on your drunk billy goat, all right pal?"

His frown was one of confusion. "Since when did we result to animal name calling?"

"Since you decided you hated my friends and started it."

He smiled boldly. "On that note, I shall depart to provide Advil, a trash can, and water for my goat." He turned and made way down the hall, humming quietly to pronounce a jovial end to the argument.

Anya sighed and hurried for the stairs. She scaled them quickly and made a right upon reaching the top. Passing her mother's bedroom, she heard Emma pattering around behind the door. Walking through the study next Anya eventually reached the place she and Xander spent their nights, and found Cecily waiting inside.

Sitting on a chaise lounge next to the only window, her friend kept arms and legs crossed in a show of displeasure. Her scowl could have pinned a fly in place.

Anya noted it and counted silently to three. When she spoke her voice was clear and even, if only because she had practiced indifference for years, and learned patience from Xander. "You had some fun this evening."

"I'm sure you believe that," Cecily returned.

"You're mad? About what exactly?"

She glanced away, as if to say: "Well, if you don't already know..."

Anya crossed her own arms, and hedging closer decided to get right to the point. "You don't get to be angry, Cecily. For once, I'm going to be angry. I have the same rights as anyone else, so wipe that look off your face." Her friend scoffed. "How could you start a fight with Buffy and William when I asked you-"

The brunette cut in with a humorless cackle. "Oh, that is divine. I tell you that your friends are rude, am then asked to discuss the situation upstairs, kept waiting while you say goodbye to them, and you return with accusations."

"Yes, because I was hoping to prevent another argument."

"Between who, precisely?"

Anya paused, thrown off. "You and William and Buffy! Your childhood 'acquaintance' and my- Xander's friend." She sighed with frustration. "Haven't you been listening?"

"That's funny isn't it," Cecily said, "how you stumble when you try claiming that Buffy is Xander's friend, not yours. I wouldn't have thought him to be so possessive over the title."

"He's not," Anya said defensively, "but Buffy isn't my friend... not really. She's known him for years. That is why I asked you not to cause trouble, but you just couldn't help yourself."

Cecily rose from her seat and moved closer. "I was being myself, Anyanka. You seem to forget that when we first became friends it was because we were so very much alike," she said.

The other woman went quiet, squeezing her own arms with lukewarm fingers.

"We had everything in common. We enjoyed the same entertainment, the same food and music. I was only doing what you would have gladly taken part in, once upon a time. Relished, even." Her voice dropped, words tangling into a whisper. "You certainly noticed William's weakness this evening. Those atrocious nerves just waiting to be rattled, ripening him for a panic attack?"

Anya cringed at the glitter in Cecily's eyes. "Yes, I did. But I didn't see the point in poking at him like a wounded bear."

Cecily's lips pinched as she straightened her posture. "Because of Buffy."

Anya frowned.

"You know," she added, her tone cracking like a cymbal, "when you married Xander I tried to be happy for you, but you've changed. The woman I knew would have laughed at William's expense while sipping her dessert wine. At his stiff, wannabe poise. I grew up with the lad, he was never anything special, always bumbling around. He was a pathetic child, and you could have helped me enact some vengeance for the embarrassment he caused me when I was little. But instead you played the goody goody."

"How did he embarrass you?"

"The poor fool had a crush on me and blabbed about it to the entire village. Rather, it got out somehow, but that hardly matters. The point is, I was made a laughing stock. Do you know how hard it is to be mocked in a small town? Much harder than it is anywhere else, I assure you."

Anya scowled. "You always told me you enjoyed making guys unworthy of your attention feel like dirt. Did you do that to him?"

"Well, of course I did. He deserved it." Cecily rose her brows imperiously. "And though we both know you were never picky when it came to men, a weakling like William would have been ripe pickings for you once."

Anya let out a deep breath she hadn't realized sat stagnating in her lungs. "I don't think I'm supposed to be a bully, Cecily. Not anymore."

A solid ten seconds passed in silence; an unseen rope was snipped in two. "I suppose you think I'm surprised, but I knew you'd gone soft a long time ago," Cecily admitted. "I'm just sorry I held out the hope you might change."

Anya stood motionless as her friend walked past. She heard Cecily's hand fall to the doorknob.

"I did change," Mrs. Harris said quietly.

Cecily rolled her eyes. Anya knew it, somehow, and braced herself for the expected blow. It would be the last one dealt between them. "At least now you and your husband might actually have something in common. Both of you are as spongy as graveyard dirt."

The tap-tapping of Cecily's high heels echoed a pragmatic chorus all the way to the stairs. A moment of silence and Anya felt her eyes welling up, for despite the fact it had been right, her heart still hurt.

It always did when you severed a friendship, and worse when you were thereby left with none.

***

Their communication skills surpassed general human ability. Neither Spike nor Buffy expected to get what they wanted. Fear made an excellent doubt mechanism, but they reached home in record time anyway, skipping from the Jeep as soon as Spike cut the engine.

Stumbling into each other's arms on the front porch, they moved inside only to trip right over the cat. Buffy broke free to feed her, pet Tabitha once, then take off Spike's coat. Hers was tossed on the couch and the bag of wine-scented clothes dropped to the floor. She quickly rewrapped her arms around his neck.

"Bed," she murmured.

He obliged, practically carrying her over the threshold into her room. She hit the light without looking, arm stretching above his shoulder. Spike set her on the mattress. He stole her moist red lips in another impatient kiss.

Buffy stroked his chest, arms, and the smooth skin beneath his shirt before she started fumbling with the buttons. His wide palm ran up her thigh and tickled her skirt hem. She arched to fit his zipper against the satin between her legs, bending knee, scooting closer.

Spike groaned into her mouth, pulling back to nibble on her throat. He licked a path up to her ear and bit the lobe, rocking his hips, pushing her skirt higher.

Buffy abandoned the buttons, using her frantic hands to claw his back instead. She cried out when he suckled the skin across her collarbone, tugging at the lace neckline with his teeth a minute later.

Spike grabbed her waist in both hands and picked her up, resting her head on the pillows. He spread his fingers below the edge of her top, looked her questioningly in the eyes, and after Buffy's nod yanked the garment over her head.

His palms raced across her body, firming around all the indents and shallow curves. Buffy's skirt was bunched around her hips now, but he pulled that down and off, followed by her shoes. They fell to the ground with two impatient plunks, socks floating after them.

She tried urging Spike back up, but he was paying great sudden attention to her bare ankles. Nibbling, guiding a trail for himself around the bone, up one calf, her knee and thigh...

Then he started over again, from top to bottom across the other limb. She was trying not to move which only resulted in moaning his name, some mild cursing, and squeezing the comforter in her hands.

Spike's fingers curled around her knees and dug gently into the soft skin behind them. The lean expanse of her stomach shivered, abdomen clenching, and her panties grew wet. Heat filled the blood in her thighs, sweat glistening across her skin. Spike licked a gentle path and tasted every salty bead.

"Spike..." Buffy ignored the whimper hiding in her voice. He looked up from the place between her legs. Softly, the edge of his nose grazed satin, making her tremble. He smirked cruelly and nuzzled fondly, like he was enraptured with the feel of her through the fabric.

"Please..." she begged, wondering when the hell begging had become part of her bedroom script. "Spike!"

"You sure, love?" His voice was shaky, deep. "You'll let me have a taste of this sweetness here?"

She nodded. He didn't say another word. Her throat felt coated in honey or something else equally sticky as his thumbs slipped beneath the edges of violet satin, trembling like her heartbeat. Easing the garment off, she pressed her knees together and Spike soon pulled them apart again. Left hand on her thigh, the right dragging her knee over his shoulder, exposing her, prying her open like a music box.

Buffy fought the urge to close them again. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done this without either the covers in place or the lights off. It felt new and electric, hot, and damned good, too, but she was nervous all the same.

"Spike?"

He hadn't moved for a good five seconds, which wasn't helping. "Yeah?" he choked.

Buffy swallowed, trying to sit up just a little and failing. "Is something... wrong?"

"No!" he exclaimed, and she suddenly realized just how heavy his breathing had gotten, how severely she'd been holding hers. "Nothing is wrong. Not a bloody thing."

"Oh. Okay," Buffy softly replied. The next moment she couldn't speak. He pressed in as close as a person could get, mouth at her crest; soft, curious. Gently he pried his lips open and took her folds into his mouth, sucking them like one might a sour candy.

His nose grazed her curls while he came to know her taste, the musky flavor of her body. Buffy could feel the cautious skimming of his teeth, the dips Spike's tongue made into her center. Every tickle against her clit sent a jolt down her spine. Every lick made her hotter, wetter, and a little less coherent.

A hush ran across the air. Spike rose his head and pressed his shiny mouth into her curls. Kissing her there briefly, Buffy tried to muffle her gasps when he looked at her.

"You're divine, you are."

She had to be blushing, but her body was too flushed with yearning to tell the difference. Before she could say anything, he lowered his mouth again and licked circular motions around her warmest place, dipping inside for samples.

"Oh, God..."

"Better than I imagined," he said, mostly to himself. His left hand wandered closer until Buffy felt his fingers spreading her folds apart. "You're so soft, and warm..." One knuckle slipped inside. "I'll never get enough of you."

She wished she could manage something more than strangled moans. All that accompanied her noise was uncontrolled twisting and flexed thighs.

He suckled her clit again, merciless, swirling his tongue as his fingers curled. She felt strangely hollow for him, and the only moments she was full were when he slipped back inside. He exerted pressure on the shallow wall adjacent to her belly, scraping it. Always gentle, coaxing that heat from her body to spiral out and spear her nerves in waves.

His efforts grew more insistent, more direct. He stopped the careful teasing and sucked her clit anxiously, refusing to let up. Buffy gasped his name. Her legs tried to close but he kept them open. Spike's fingers went deeper, moving in tandem with her writhing hips. He used his supporting hand to push on her stomach and she felt him more acutely within.

He released her clit for a moment, then tongued it slowly, beginning anew. She was about to go numb when he pulled away, fingers and all. She protested, he sunk lower and opened his mouth, slipping his tongue deep inside her pussy and moaning against the rest.

She whimpered, gasping repeatedly until Spike pulled away. He turned his head and drove a little deeper, tasting her more fully, placing the heel of his hand over her labia and clit. Her nerves fired off a blissful sensation and Buffy felt the familiar tugs of release at her toes. The heat built for the umpteenth time, but Spike allowed it to headlong now, her fingers lost in his hair, his own pinching her thigh and pelvic bone as she fell over the edge.

Her breath left her in a hoarse rush, every muscle turning molten and lax. Her legs fell, shoulders flattening against the mattress. Moments strung out inside aftershocks of pleasure as Spike crawled slowly up her body.

He hadn't removed his clothes. His shirt was still only halfway buttoned, hanging off his muscular frame. Bleached curls were a tangled mess and his lips were red, glistening. Spike licked them clean before leaning down to press a tender kiss across Buffy's mouth. She opened to it, her tongue colliding with tanginess and sticky warmth.

She pulled him closer, her lethargic body growing alert. Her fingers returned to the buttons on his shirt as Spike grabbed her arms.

The kiss broke. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Fulfilling a promise."

His eyes widened. "I'm going to be fair to you this time," she murmured. Buffy finished with his shirt and helped peel it off. She kissed him again, smiling, then urged him to turn over.

Spike landed on his back, arms wrapped nervously around her, refusing to let go. Buffy moved downward. Wet love bites, swirling tongue; shivers swept his skin.

She moved slowly across his chest, teasing his nipples with long, courteous kisses and licks. He ran his hands through her hair, massaging her scalp. Buffy hummed in appreciation. Then her mouth skipped along the edges of his torso, nipping, counting his ribs and every gasp that followed.

She reached his hips and scraped her teeth across them, ending at his belt. She reached to undo the buckle, but looked up, catching his eyes instead.

"I'm not ready for... the other thing yet." He frowned, but without disappointment. "I'm slower than most girls, I guess," she mumbled, slipping in a nervous laugh. Spike nodded almost immediately.

"I just want you to know I'm getting there. So you wouldn't expect... ya know, and be disappointed."

Spike sat up, reaching for her. "Never happen," he vowed. Two wide palms framed her jawbone, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. His unyielding stare was a message all its own.

Buffy smiled, relieved, adoring. "You're okay with the slow thing?"

"I wouldn't call this slow," he murmured slyly, wrapping an arm around her.

She giggled and kissed him, quickly pushing Spike back to the bed. Once he was lying down Buffy sat up and reached behind herself to unfasten her bra, allowing the straps to fall lazily off her shoulders before dragging it away.

His eyes fairly glittered, a dark sort of gleam that reminded her of wine in candlelight. Buffy undid his belt and yanked on his zipper. She had him naked in the same short amount of time it took to pry his shoes off and remove his jeans.

Slowly, she crawled over him and knelt high. She watched in delight as Spike reached out. He traced her with eyes and impatient hands, looking like an artist who adores the statues at a museum, greedy to explore every inch.

She was art to him. It was as simple as that. He studied her nude body with nothing short of lust and worship, like he was seeing Venus in the flesh and not just an ordinary woman. A gentle hand skimmed her nipples, her hips knew a rough squeeze. Happy sighs spilled from both their mouths. He massaged reverently, warming her blood with baby tingles that swarmed across her flesh from the source of his fingertips.

Buffy leaned down and stole his lips. She traced them carefully with her tongue and curled it inside his mouth, coaxing him into an open glide and thrust. Spike hauled her closer. His cock brushed her stomach. Gasping, breaking with a spontaneous chuckle, she slid across his hard body to perch between his legs.

Spike groaned and promptly dropped backward when he felt her tongue. Licking, swirling, hot and bold from base to tip. His throat closed up.

Her long hair tossed to one side, he watched Buffy's lips wrap around the head and slide down. Her cheeks and throat encasing him, hugging his cock like a glove, suctioning lovingly all the way back to the top. She locked eyes with him, lapping at the slit, pearly drops on her tongue. Without thought his hands wove themselves into golden waves.

Buffy grasped the root of him, her free hand sneaking lower. Humming around the upper half, pulling back to lick the underside and the head every few blessed seconds, she took her time. She learned his most sensitive inches of skin, the way his cock flexed in her hand when she teased him, and the sounds he made with each firm twist.

Spike felt his balls encased in softness, gently squeezed. He groaned as Buffy redoubled her efforts. She went a little deeper, a little faster, allowing his cock to touch the back of her throat ever so slyly before hollowing out her cheeks again and sliding away. Her name left him in a rush, his fingers tightened in her hair and he muttered a plea.

Buffy suckled just the head of him for a moment, like a lollipop leaking sugar. She slid down to gently scrape her teeth along the foreskin before swirling her tongue against the belled edge. Then, she took him in full, and Spike felt her fingers squeeze his balls tighter. A warm hum rattled him from cock to spine.

He cried her name, heat tensing his muscles and pleasure filling his mind. A loud, rhythmic beat started in his ears but he knew its location to be in his chest. Buffy didn't falter, she looked at him with mischief and delight. She moaned over his grunts and curses, watching as he came undone in her hands. Rapture and gratitude melted across his heartbreakingly gorgeous face, melding to create something raw. He felt her every swallow, his cum dribbling down her throat, and the moment's seconds fell into a century's worth of ecstasy.

Everything unraveled quietly, like small waves ripple a lakeshore. Spike's body went lax in a minute and Buffy crawled up his side, tucking herself against smooth, sweat shined skin. She wrapped an arm around his middle, bent knee touching his hip. "You alive in there?"

Spike's panting mouth stole hers in a kiss that rattled, a toes curling, rapid pulse kind of kiss. She felt lighter than a firefly, and when she thought the feeling would cease, he only tugged her beneath him.

He plunged recklessly into an unchecked, devout exploration of her lips. The weightless feeling in her toes spread through Buffy's body and everywhere his hands chose to touch. Time was periodically broken, little inhales dotting every second. Nothing but quivering lips, tasting tongues, and the velvet edge of quiet words persisted. Each of them grew lost in consuming the other.

***

A short time later they moved beneath the covers, a shared desire to sink into captured warmth beckoning, a switch turned on autopilot. They pressed together like flowers in a book. Long white limbs interlocking, hands leisurely running. After Buffy got up to turn off the light, she gladly returned to Spike's side so they could lay in peaceful exploration.

She tucked her head against his throat, listening to him breathe. It was strange for her to be this close to a man, naked and exhausted, but for pressure to remain nonexistent. Vulnerability unraveled in the quiet. Ribbon after ribbon of respite, comfort, connection, eyes focused, closeness reverberating like a silent drum. There were kisses, wandering touches, reminders of sparks easily ignited. In simple time they both fell asleep. The final threshold remained uncrossed, and that was all right for now.

Spike woke to the sound of a bell. It was a repetitious noise, faint but suitably insistent and irritating. He squeezed his eyes closed shortly after opening them, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his and Buffy's blanket-made cocoon.

Eventually, the realization struck that a persistent ringing was likely to wake her, so Spike left a kiss in her hair and turned over. He leaned across the edge of the bed and blindly found his jeans on the floor, digging into the front pocket. He pulled out his cell phone.

He silenced it before awareness sunk in. The only person who might ever call him was Buffy. Spike had only gotten the thing for her, no one else had the number. All calls made to his house were set to be forwarded, of course, but only as a precaution.

He blinked furiously and tried to clear his head. Contact from the school or Robin Wood was unlikely, but...

Spike flinched at the bright glare of the mobile screen as an icon for a new voicemail suddenly appeared. He listened to it begrudgingly, closing his eyes yet again. A grumpy and rarely heard voice of the deacon ran down his nerves. He cringed; the message replayed. A group of teenagers had broken into the cemetery, done some damage. Police were called.

A groan of silence and depth left his body. He usually had holidays off, minus Halloween, and when he did occasionally ignore the rules Spike was never caught. He wasn't likely to be in any trouble for this absence, but still needed to get to the cemetery as soon as possible. That last bit, according to his boss.

Rubbing a hand down his face, he set his phone on the nightstand and looked over his shoulder. He traced the dark outline of Buffy's body. Immediately, Spike curled to that side.

It wasn't bloody fair. The first time he shared her bed, naked bodies pressed intimately together, keeping space like lovers, and a twist of bad luck cuts it short. The last thing he wanted to do was leave. Dress in his jeans and face the cold air outside. Bloody hell, he had told her he would stay.

Palm at the back of her hair, Spike lay still for a moment. He supposed he could simply claim never having received the voicemail, and refuse to show. He'd likely get fired for it. The deacon who managed the church over there was a testy old sod.

Spike could take his chances, or even quit, but he really didn't fancy looking for another job in this town where he wouldn't have to talk to people. Plus, losing it would only heighten the chances Buffy might start thinking of him as truly pathetic. Spike would rather she see him as someone worthy of lying beside her at night.

And what a night it had been. Breathing deep, breathing with her, counting her passionate returns. Spike traced a delicate shoulder carefully in the darkness. For the first time in his life, he felt peace. Divine, genuine peace warming his bones, and he didn't want to let it go.

Disbelief remained prevalent, but it was faded like a picture. He didn't know when it had become incapable of ruling his happiness like an unforgiving king, but he was thankful.

Happiness. Spike nearly scoffed. *What a thought.*

He grasped the blankets and pulled them higher, covering her arm. He then leaned in to press a kiss against Buffy's forehead, wishing she might fall right back to sleep once he left. He didn't want to disturb her, but knew that leaving without an explanation would prove supremely ungenerous.

She stirred almost immediately. Spike was murmuring her name, gently shaking her through the blanket like one would a child. "Sweetheart, wake up. I've got to go."

Buffy moaned, wrinkling her nose, and Spike chuckled. She swatted his hand away and he chuckled again. "C'mon, love."

"Mmm." Buffy pried her eyes open, but he could just barely tell. "What?" she croaked.

"I've got to leave," he muttered. "It's the last thing I want."

She was quiet again, as if gathering memories from the active portion of her brain. "Then why are you going?" she grumbled.

"Problems at the cemetery."

"Oh." She shut her eyes again before pushing her face into the pillows. "Sorry."

Spike was half sure she didn't know what she was saying, but comforted her anyway. "Don't be. I'm the one who's sorry. Now, go back to sleep, yeah?"

She sighed. "Okay."

He left another kiss on her cheek, absorbing her warmth for a minute before eventually rising from the bed. He had cold and wrinkled denim halfway up his legs when he heard Buffy mutter, "Miss you," and fall back to sleep.

Spike finished dressing. He dropped one last kiss on her pouty lips. He knew she couldn't feel it, but he didn't care.

"I love you," he whispered.

Spike waited until he was confident she wouldn't rouse, holding his breath, then tiptoed out of the bedroom with boots in hand. He put them on in the hall, bestowed a quick pat to Tabitha's head when he found her sleeping near the front door, and slipped out.

Checking the lock was secure after he shut it, pulling on his coat, Spike hurried to his car in the predawn atmosphere and drove reluctantly away from Buffy's house.

What he didn't know, was that from the moment he'd exited the bedroom, Buffy's eyes had popped open, as wide and bright as the full moon. His retreating footsteps were nothing compared to the echoes of his admission, the one he was so sure she had not heard.

***

Spike roared through the cemetery gates with palpable ruin, his bitterness wholly unbefitting such an early hour. It wasn't the fact he was tired, or the fact he was going to likely be stuck cleaning up a mess made by bored and irresponsible teenagers the morning after the Thanksgiving Dinner from Hell. It was this dagger sharp urge he'd felt the moment he'd pulled out of Buffy's drive, to turn right around and go back to her, to where she and a bed were happily awaiting his return.

He couldn't follow that urge, couldn't soothe the itch. Couldn't so much as scratch it with his little pinky finger; because one of the only times in the history of his employment at the cemetery, there was an actual disturbance. He'd dealt with kicking people out before, homegrown ghost hunters, couples, and even some confused elderly folks, but he'd never gotten a call in the middle of the night because some kids got the idea to host a party.

Couldn't the brats find somewhere else to drink illegally?

As Spike drove up to the little guardhouse he called his on select nights, the bricks were a blinking canvas of red and blue. He quickly realized the sheriff was in town.

After slamming his car door shut, Al Howard turned on him with a puffy stare. Spike nodded to the man, approaching quietly. A deputy was talking to a row of teenagers in the distance, far from the exuberant light display.

Al hummed, lifting a Styrofoam Dunkin' Donuts cup in greeting. "Mornin'."

"Right," Spike sighed. "Guess it's just 'bout daybreak, ain't it?"

Al nodded sleepily. "Right you are."

"So, what the hell happened here?"

" A party. A fight. Underage drinking. Nothing original, thankfully." He closed his eyes and rubbed them. "Already phoned the parents, but none of 'em are pickin' up. It looks like we're gonna have to do an individual drop off."

Spike followed the coffee led hand and squint at the shadowed batch of teenagers, morosely lined up like ducklings. The scene was scarily out of place for a cemetery. Neon hued lights scattered, a mismatched group of hooded sweatshirts, litter dotting the browning grass, two police officers and- Ah, there was his boss.

The bloke wore clothes as black as the trees overhead; dark khakis, a sweater, and his heavy wool coat. He strode towards Spike and past the painstakingly curious deputy with distress on his old, pasty face. The image painted a unique scene, indeed.

"Pratt!"

Spike swallowed his foul mood as well as he could. "Sorry I wasn't here, sir."

"That's not the point!" the deacon shouted, evidently set on getting straight to his. Coming to a halt right in front of them, he continued with a tirade of complaints. From the look on Al's face, it was all repetition, and by the time the good man ran out of breath Spike was back to square one on the agitation scale.

He thought of Buffy, and was simultaneously calmed and angered at once.

"You've got to stay here and clean things up before morning, you understand?" The deacon nervously picked at his shirt collar, eyes demanding and anxious.

"It is mornin'," Al said, in Spike's opinion just to rankle the man's nerves.

"Thank you for the reminder," he replied caustically. "I trust the forthcoming sunrise means you will be taking the children home now?"

"Just as soon as my deputy is finished up, we'll head out. I'd also like the second car to get here and help with the distribution, if you don't mind." Al's smile was compressed.

The deacon sighed. "Very well. Pratt, do get to work. I'd insist that the... offenders undertake the task, as I'm sure our loyal sheriff can understand," he pointed out, "but most of them can barely walk in a straight line at the moment. Let alone poke around for litter in the dark. This area cannot be left a mess for the visitors tomorrow- ahem, today."

"Yes, sir."

"You may leave when you have finished."

Spike nodded. The old man returned it and trotted away, his steps precise. A flashlight in hand, he clicked his tongue with disapproval at the bottles and cigarette butts under his heels.

The deputy turned away from the teenagers then, and before he could retreat entirely the deacon snapped his fingers with impatience. The young police officer heeded the call and Al sighed. "He'll make Bernie recount everything those kids just told him, slurs and all."

Spike scowled, preoccupied with his own frustrations. He scanned the ground and just like water to a sponge, it sunk in, the reality of the nonsense that had dragged him from bed. Roused him from a peaceful sleep. Forced him to leave Buffy's warm, welcoming arms.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from resigning on the spot.

Party leftovers were strewn from his shoes to at least twenty paces in every which direction. Someone had tried to start a campfire with little luck, leaving a perfectly good bottle of whiskey behind. Its contents dribbled across a tall pile of twigs surrounded by mismatched rocks.

Sensing Al's attention on him, Spike tossed the man a glance. "My boss doesn't like talkin' to the troublemakers themselves," he said. "I've learned he prefers to let your lot handle things."

Al nodded. "How long have you worked here, if you don't mind my askin'?"

Spike shrugged. "Years." He clenched his jaw. There were at least three piles of broken glass in sight.

"I see your hands healed all right," Al said.

Spike flexed his knuckles. "Yeah. They're doin' fine, thanks."

"Good to hear."

A moment of quiet came. Spike sighed heavily and bent to retrieve the forgotten bottle, muttering to himself ironically about the money wasted on cigarettes and cheap booze.

The deputy approached. He handed a scribble filled notepad to the sheriff and said, "I talked to all eight of 'em, sir. They're certain their parents won't be up for hours. We'll have to drive 'em and drop 'em since no one's answering the phones."

"Surprise me next time, Bernie," Al said. "What about Michael and... What's the other kid's name?"

"Jack, sir. Jack Winton."

"How're those two doing?"

Spike snapped to attention. "Hold a second. Who now?"

The deputy glanced at the man in charge, but Al wasn't looking back. "He said Jack Winton. Why, Pratt? You know him?"

Spike barely spared the sheriff an eye twitch before he was moving towards the lineup. They looked like unhappy little gnomes from a distance, all slouching and irritable. They had similarities in appearance, from hoodies to boots; up close was different. The one on the far left raised his face; when Spike squint, he could recognize the person looking back.

"Yeah," the Brit muttered, storming ahead. "I know him."

Al and his man didn't follow. If they had, Spike wasn't sure he would have heard their footsteps. Agitation, sharper than a switchblade, was charging up his spine like lightning. Jack's expression, one of hapless disdain, became the metaphorical bull's-eye for Spike's wrath.

It didn't register to Jack. Not at first. Not until Spike was only four feet back did the boy's demeanor change. He ducked his head again. Shame became evident, some fear; it was the same expression you'd see on Pinocchio every time his nose grew.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Jack!" Spike caught him in a glance and held it. "What the bloody hell are you doin' here?"

He blinked, hard. Eyes fogged and wary. "Hey Spike. What's up?"

The boy swayed and Spike reached out on instinct, steadying him. Mouth curling in shock and distaste, he said, "You're pissed, aren't you?"

Jack snorted, hiding a girlish giggle. "Just buzzed now. So?"

Spike yanked the hood down, exposing dirty, tousled black hair. He noted the other teenagers to his right and pulled Jack away. Overheard conversations concerning angry parents and likely punishments reassured him no one was paying them any attention. " 'So?' That's all you've got? How 'bout tellin' me why you're here?"

Jack frowned blankly, strangely dimwitted. "I gotta explain that one?"

Spike's jaw clenched. "Who planned this lil' outing? Was it you? Or were you just invited by those friends you claim not to have?"

The boy looked stricken. "Lay off, man."

"I'm supposed to lay off, am I?" He took a step closer. "When I get a call in the middle of the soddin' night 'cause you're screwing around out here?! At my place of work? Got dragged out of bed 'cause of this, just so you know. I'm the one who gets to clean up the mess." He gestured around them, voice threatening a rise. "Now, tell me, was it your idea or someone else's?"

"I'm not a snitch," Jack growled.

"Well, that answers that then," Spike said. "You aunt know you're out here? Probably not, right. D'you tell that woman anything?"

He looked away. "Why do you even care?" He rubbed his nose with a blood stained hand.

Spike's attention quickly shifted. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

He blinked, recollecting what was mentioned only seconds before. "Al said something 'bout a fight."

Jack looked at him, glittering and bold, suddenly hitting Spike with anger most men couldn't carry, much less a kid. "And you're surprised? Have you forgotten why you've been helping me?"

The words lashed him with meaning. Spike pressed his lips tight. Jack did, too. A moment came where the quiet murmuring of outsiders and the crackling roll of a new car approaching grew prevalent.

"Who was it?"

"Who do you think?" Jack muttered bitterly.

Spike turned around and studied the string of teenagers. At the far end a bloke he recognized, Michael O'Henry, stood glaring with two swollen black eyes, right through the man in the leather coat to the boy on the other side.

"Right then." He faced his charge again. "What'd he do, call you a baby or somethin' of the like?"

"Yeah, that was it." Jack swallowed thickly. "You can't blame me, all right? Not you."

Spike's jaw clenched again. He studied the bully's broken stance, the favoring he was bestowing to his left leg. In a second, it all became too costly. Jack was barely shaken, Michael was furious. Swallowing his pride and principals, Spike said, "You should've kept your fists to yourself, mate."

Outrage flew across Jack's cheeks like a fever. "You're saying this? To me?"

"I'm sayin' there are rules," Spike bit off. "There're times you don't start a fight!"

"Who said I started it?!"

"You did." His voice grew abruptly quiet. "Insults, right?"

Jack laughed angrily. "Since when does control have a place in this? You're the one who taught me to forget about pride and just fight."

"It's pride what got you into this," Spike growled.

"You taught me not to take any bullshit!"

"I taught you how to defend yourself!"

Jack's eyes narrowed to slits. "Well," he muttered, "I did a pretty good job tonight, huh? I'm learning fast. You're a decent teacher."

"Is there a problem here, Mr. Pratt?"

Spike turned quickly. Al and the deputy were suddenly standing in confused wonder beside him. "Havin' a talk with the tyke here."

"Don't call me that," Jack snapped.

Spike's whole face twitched with repressed irritation. Al stared so hard that a lesser man would have dropped his gaze immediately. "Jack is my responsibility," he explained.

"The hell I am."

The kid shot off, and the deputy grabbed him before Jack could get more than three feet. He restrained him, pinned his arms. Spike snuck a forearm behind Jack's head at once, intercepting a sloppy but sure to be effective head butt aimed at the deputy's nose. "What I should say," Spike added, immediately grabbing hold of the boy's neck, "is that I'm taking responsibility for him."

The sheriff cocked his head and scratched it, paying the stunned deputy little mind. "Why is this?"

Spike sent Jack a warning glare before he went on. "He showed up at Buffy's place a while back- She's his counselor, as I'm sure you've heard." Al nodded. "Well, kid was sportin' a black eye. She was worried 'bout him. I thought I could get him to... open up, play a sort of big brother role in his life." Spike paused, effecting a look of disappointed concern. "Been at it for a few weeks, but now I see I haven't done a very good job."

Al turned to the boy, acknowledging the way Spike controlled him despite his deputy's position. "I wouldn't say that." He spared a moment for the others being quietly packed into the newest patrol car. Two more yawning officers. On the other side of the cemetery, he could see the purple hue of the sun floating above garish red and blue lights. "Jack, is it true Pratt can claim responsibility for you? Make sure you get home?"

Jack was breathing quickly, set for another run, but then something flashed behind his frustrated eyes that hinted at resignation. "Yes, sir. My aunt won't mind."

Al nodded once more. "It would be helpful," he admitted, taking a sip of his cold coffee and cringing. "Pratt, you sure it's all right with your boss if you leave to drop him off?"

Spike stepped cautiously away from the deputy and Jack, releasing his hold on the latter. "I was figurin' I'd have him help clean up before I did," Spike said. He rolled his eyes at the boy in question when Jack protested.

Al snorted. "Sounds like justice. Would you tell his aunt that I'll be paying a visit later on, if she's up when you get there?"

"I will," Spike assured, and stopped himself from looking at Jack too keenly.

"I appreciate it," Al said. Leaning in, he spoke quietly to William. "Between you and me, Michael- the boy he got into it with -is pretty beat up. Now I'm not sayin' he didn't have it comin', but Jack did quite a number on him. I think he's got a bruised rib or two."

Spike looked down, resisting the urge to swallow a lump that had suddenly grown inside his throat. He cleared it instead, and concealed the pride he probably shouldn't be feeling with genuine, if minimal, regret. "I'm gonna have a talk with him."

"I'm sure you will." The sheriff patted Spike's shoulder, then said to his deputy, "Bernie, let's go. Mr. Pratt will take it from here."

The cop shoved Jack free. Spike caught him and held him by the neck again like a pup. They watched as the remaining teenagers, officers, and flashing patrol cars gathered to leave. There was a short tussle between Al and Michael O'Henry, likely over Jack, and why he wasn't being accompanied home by men in uniform. A solemn exit was, thankfully, the ultimate result.

Spike and Jack watched fixedly. The outline of a new morning twinkled in the distance. Sudden emptiness of the worn grounds acted as a trumpet, and jarred Spike back to his former level of irritation. He kicked a forgotten beer bottle and said, "You'll be picking up the glass."

Jack shrugged off his grip. "Looks like Michael asked why I wasn't getting escorted home. That'll make me real popular at school."

"You become a social butterfly as of late?"

Jack glared with feeling. He turned pointedly around and started picking up scattered debris.

"Oi! I asked you a question."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack demanded, dropping a beer can. "That I've suddenly acquired friends? Right. In what universe?

"Oh, I see. So this group is just who you hang out with when you feel like getting drunk on private property."

"This is a cemetery."

"Owned and managed by a church, moron. You really thought no one would bother you here?"

Jack sighed with clear frustration. "Look, I'm sorry! Can we just clean up so I can get home?"

Spike's brow furrowed deeply. He groaned and clenched his fists, then leaned against a stone cross. Jack dropped carefully to his knees and he could see they were caked with mud. The boy picked at glass shards that were embedded in the dirt while stiffness hunched his shoulders.

Spike looked away. All around him silence thickened. Violet light was reaching up from the landscape in the east, outlining trees and headstones. Darkness retained superiority but crisp morning air was bleeding through, turning this night into yesterday. While Jack lazily extracted bottles and cans from the grass, a familiar isolation surrounded his observer. It wasn't new. It had not lifted when the others were here, neither had it descended upon their departure; but Spike felt it now more than ever.

He didn't have answers yet. None as to why his plan to help someone else had gone sour, other than the fact he was dealing with a teenager. There was one advantage to Jack's youth, and that was the lad's strength; he wouldn't suffer physically for this. He would rebound quickly. However, such youth inspired recklessness, and he was good at fighting. Genuinely good.

The forthcoming repercussions of tonight set Spike's nerves on edge. Not only the likelihood of Jack's future dealings with bullies and classmates, and the trouble he might be in with his aunt, but the concern and anxiety that would surely be dropped at Buffy's door.

Worse yet, the ramifications Spike would face for his fault in all of it.

Jack was shivering. Spike knew better than to comment on it.

They were rounding a curve on a sunlit road, driving towards Madison. The morning was clear, while a sense of worn exhaustion lingered like the frost. Minimal overcast did little to amend the cold. Inside the DeSoto, an awkward silence was bent on driving the tension further into the ground like a stake.

It was only an hour ago Spike realized the point he'd been missing. The tidbit of information which neatly tied up several loose ends, and made him think twice about his qualifications to teach anyone anything about dealing with bullies.

Up until tonight, Spike never would have pegged Jack as the type, but through his own anger and tiresome merry-go-round of "Where Did I Go Wrong?," he realized the fight must have been instigated prior to its onset.

The bloke made a bet. Michael was a sore spot for him, and Spike had the strongest suspicion that declaring a public challenge, to which Michael met head on, was precisely what Jack had thought of to return some overdue humiliation.

It was a reasonable plan on paper. The human peacock loses, and the underdog makes a name for himself. Except the consequences of the action left Jack in several deep piles of shit, with Spike already halfway buried in one of his own.

"You challenged the wanker, didn't you?"

He froze. The accusation was fresh. Jack's scabby fingers clenched in his lap, and he turned, a streak of yellow sun parting his wary expression. "What do you mean, I 'challenged him?' "

Spike blew out a deep breath. "Look, I don't exactly feel like knockin' your head against the window, but I will if need be."

"All right, fine," he sighed. "I did. I won, too. What's the problem?"

"That's why the others were around. You made it a public event."

The boy scoffed, crossing his arms and looking away. "Believe what you want."

Spike's brow flicked up. "Michael spread the news then?"

"He was so sure he'd win," Jack muttered.

"M'surprised there weren't more of you toddlers. But then again, it was a holiday."

"I'm not the one who decided to do it here," Jack snapped, "and I didn't decide on the day either. I just-"

"You just challenged the idiot to begin with, is all you did. What, might I bloody ask, was going through your thick head?"

"You were the one who said the only way to shut people up is to punch 'em in the mouth," Jack accused.

"I didn't say that!" He hadn't. Not in so many words, at least. Unfortunately, Spike's advice was starting to catch up with him. It wouldn't matter, if Jack weren't the one dealing with the repercussions. "I taught you how to fight so you won't be comin' home with one good eye anymore. How many times do I have to bloody say it?"

"You're such a hypocrite," Jack spat. "You told me you knew what it was like. So you know people don't start leaving you alone just because you can fight. If they can't hurt you with a fist they'll do it in other ways. I'm sick of it! You have to earn a rep in order to make any difference."

"And you thought tackling street fights with an audience was the fastest way to do that, Ponyboy?"

Jack opened his hands to display emphatic obviousness. "It worked, didn't it?!"

Spike cursed. "All it did was get your 'friends' in trouble with the cops, and build up the grudge O'Henry carries around for you like a pet poodle. Not to mention, something tells me you're not excited 'bout the sheriff havin' a talk with your aunt."

"I can't believe you're actually doing it for him," he grumbled.

"If she's up, you bet I am. M'not going to wake her at six in the bloody A.M., though. to report how her nephew's been makin' a name for himself."

Jack glared. "You think you're really in charge of me, don't you?"

"Someone has to be." Spike rolled down his window a crack, reaching for his pack and gaining a cigarette. "Your image is gettin' too big to fill a mirror, mate. That's how you get in over your head before you know it."

Anger and dispute lent a prideful tilt to Jack's chin. "I won't go back to being a punching bag."

"I don't expect you to. But challenging tossers so they'll get their arses handed to 'em in front of a crowd is too Fight Club, even for a bloke like yourself."

Jack rolled his eyes and pulled his hood up.

Spike scowled. With one hand, he tore it back. The teenager was immediately insulted. "You look like you're trying to play the role of rebel with that thing on."

"I'm a rebel, huh?"

"No, I'm a rebel. You're an idiot."

"Do you look in the mirror when you say that?"

"Oi! Quit gettin' caught by the police, and maybe you'll know somethin' about it." Spike gave him a pointed glare. "But I don't expect you'll be testin' your luck anytime soon."

Jack didn't respond, but his second eye roll was a kind of soft retort that hinted at acceptance. They continued the drive in silence, throwing away tension mile by mile, and absorbing forced wakefulness as the sun rose higher in the sky. The radio switched on and soft rock supplied a lazy undercurrent. Jack closed his eyes and began to doze, while Spike counted the many ways he was buggered as soon as Buffy got wind of this mess.

And she would, because Spike would tell her. He would tell her everything.

His decision to teach Jack a thing or two about fighting had never been to get him into more trouble, only to protect the kid. Spike understood all too well what Jack was going through, and if there was a way to teach him anything about survival, make the pain stop, then Spike would do it.

But after tonight, he wasn't certain Buffy would sympathize.

The possibility she might be furious made his heart beat double time. She would have every right to be upset. Spike knew he had butted in, albeit with good intentions, but without reasonable planning or forethought.

He remembered how happy she'd been when Xander talked of Jack's development and apparent good fortune. It was impossible to apologize for that, or much of anything besides the boy's growing ego; but Spike would severely regret losing Buffy.

She was the very thing, the very person he had wanted for so long. Finally being a part of her life, welcomed and appreciated, held by her, was everything he had ever wanted. For two years the concept of achieving those dreams in someone else's arms felt cheap. Now, Spike would come face to face with the tangible fear of losing the woman whose price did not exist.

It made him sick, realizing the mistakes he'd made with Jack, and he hated to think the boy might suffer unfair consequences. Disappointment from his aunt, or some other authority figure trying to make a point, future collisions with the O'Henry prick; but what made Spike's heart clench was knowing how much Buffy cared for Jack. This incident would upset her greatly, and give her a reason to revoke the trust she'd given blindly.

If only he let her talk to Jack before this, do her job as well as she always did. If only the kid hadn't been dealing with people who didn't care to listen to him. If only Spike had stayed out of it. If only...

"You okay?"

Spike blinked and turned his head. Jack was staring with unveiled concern, one dark brow lifted in uncertainty. A hard swallow and Spike realized he was biting down on his cigarette, the steering wheel clenched in his white knuckled grip.

He threw the fag out the window and took a deep breath, "I'm fine. Just worried 'bout you is all."

Jack frowned heavily, shame sparking in his eyes. "You don't have to be. You shouldn't."

"What? Worry?" Spike scoffed. "Right. Your aunt is likely to be pissed, and your dealings with tossers like O'Henry are just goin' to get worse. I should be restin' easy."

Jack sighed. "Look, my aunt won't do more than ground me. Yeah, it sucks, but it isn't going to ruin my life."

"There's a silver lining," Spike muttered.

"I won't tell her how you've helped me, if that's what's bothering you."

"Guess again."

"I can deal with those assholes now. I don't think Michael is going to come after me again, and if I'm wrong, I know how to handle it."

"You mean by beatin' him into a shoebox? Get sent to military school after your aunt realizes what a delinquent you're turnin' into?"

"I've been defending myself."

Spike hurriedly lit another cigarette. "Listen to me," he mumbled, flipping the lighter closed, "when you get your head out of your arse, then maybe I'll stop worryin'. 'Til then I'm gonna fret because someone's got to watch over you, and if Buffy doesn't break her neck tryin' it's going to be 'cause I took some responsibility."

Jack said nothing. He pursed his lips and swallowed a thick lump of resentment or anger or some combination of the two, before turning his face to the window.

Within the next tense minute, Spike pulled up to a familiar white house and got out of the car, slamming his door. Jack followed slowly, past the mailbox and down the sidewalk, up to the shiny doorknocker.

Spike ignored him when he said his aunt was still asleep, and hit the door several times with his fist. There was nothing for five full minutes.

"The back is never locked," Jack offered.

Grumbling, Spike said, "Lead the way."

They hurried to the yard, through a small white gate with a broken latch and up some cement stairs. The morning cast harsh light on the snow patches and brittle sticks that would turn green come spring, but a warm glow surrounded the smooth red door that opened without a peep.

Spike followed carefully, stepping lightly. The house was dark and misty, devoid of inner sound. They traveled a kitchen with outdated tiles, two hallways that broke off opposite each other, and a dining room with a huge mahogany table in the center. It only took a few hushed lefts and rights before Spike was convinced the woman of the house was still asleep, and he was intruding.

"I'll leave you be, but the sheriff is going to stop by on his own time," he said, "so be sure to warn your aunt. It'll be easier for her in the long run."

Jack flopped onto the nearest soft surface, which just happened to be a floral print couch beneath a window in the living room. He yawned and tucked himself into his sweater, hugging a throw pillow. "I'll let her know."

"I'm serious."

"I know. Now shut up, please." He closed his eyes. "And shut the door when you leave."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Sweet dreams," he muttered. "Hopefully you sleep off the rest of your hangover by the time your aunt's up."

He got no retort for the comment.

Turning, rubbing his neck, Spike was halfway to the dining room when he heard the boy pipe up.

"Thanks for the ride."

***

Buffy was sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee and reading over the newspaper before work.

*Okay, so that's one huge lie.*

She was pacing in the kitchen, sucking down her third cup of chamomile tea prior to inhaling one jumbo cup of coffee, and she'd already decided to keep the store closed for the day.

It was nearly eleven A.M. She looked at the clock again. Wrong. It was now officially noon.

After walking- circle style -into the living room, Buffy dropped onto the couch. Setting her cup down, she rubbed her eyes and yawned deeply.

She looked to her left, scrutinized the phone, wondering yet again if she should call him. Wondering if he would call her. Wondering, wondering, wondering...

Wondering if what Spike had said was the truth.

Buffy remembered hearing him murmur the words. How they caused a deep jolt in her stomach. She was half convinced she had dreamt it at first, then she heard his footsteps as Spike walked out, and the door clicking shut behind him. The hollow departure of his car engine was the ultimate finalizing reality check.

He had said the words. Those three little, but oh so big words that always managed to ruin every relationship. It was illogical to think otherwise, what with history still ringing in the distance like a gong.

Buffy couldn't say she was very good at love. It always bit her in the ass, and she never felt the same for her partners as they did for her. Not since Angel, anyway.

A sudden groan left her lips. In the kitchen, Tabitha looked up and glared. Buffy returned it.

A momentary flashback to the day she had first seen Spike through her storefront window, and she was groaning again. Buffy remembered weeping over Penny's harmless well wishes, and coming to the very jarring conclusion that if she was to be happy, she had to quit wasting her time. Years spent pining for a man who was never meant to be hers had lengthened a heartache from a youthful past. Loneliness shaped a hole in her chest that grew familiar as the years flew around her like confetti.

This was why Spike's confession kept shaking her up. This was why Buffy hadn't been able to fall asleep since hearing it, or eat more than half a bowl of cornflakes all morning.

She was just starting to feel again, to open up to a man for the first time in years. Creaking the door a bit, leaving it ajar... and waves had rushed in.

She didn't know how to respond to the admission. Buffy didn't know if Spike had even meant it like she thought. In a 'I want to take care of you, possibly have children, get married and grow old together' way. Not to mention, how was she supposed to take him saying 'I love you' when he thought she was asleep? That wasn't exactly a good sign, was it?

Numerous doubts kept rising to the surface like bubbles in boiling water. Repeatedly popping after Buffy would ask herself if deep down she thought Spike had meant what he'd said. If she thought his actions and treatment of her bordered on infatuation or falsity.

She always answered these questions the same way: No. It was too clear, too heartfelt and sweet, the way Spike said the words, like the announcement came naturally to him. He was a man unafraid of loving her, a man willing to confess his feelings, if not directly to her, then in a quiet whisper until he could gather the courage.

She felt it in her veins every time she remembered his voice.

It didn't alter her own dilemma on what the hell to say in return, though.

Buffy flopped backward, reaching for a pillow to tug over her face. Did she say anything? Should she just act like she had been sleeping? She didn't feel confident saying it back yet, and she certainly wouldn't lie about something like that. Not ever, and not to him.

It felt as if the moment was coming, on its way, in first class seating on the bullet train, but it wasn't yet here.

She wouldn't rush herself. It wasn't fair to Spike, or her, and he deserved better. Her heart kept fluttering like a spastic moth every time she thought about being loved by a man like him. A man who was hard and soft, protective but not invasive. Warm, funny, kind, sexy, tolerant of her cat. Hell, Buffy would even go so far as to say he liked Tabitha, and if that feline had nothing else going for her, she had great taste in men.

Speaking of the devil, Tabitha scared the crap out of Buffy the next second by jumping on top of the pillow currently smashed to her owner's face. The human flailed uncoordinatedly and reached up, grabbing hold of her pet.

Tabitha meowed loudly and Buffy sighed in aggravation. "Ever hear of personal space?"

Another meow. The sudden blare of the telephone startled them both, and Tabitha quickly wriggled free to charge into the bedroom.

Buffy ran in the opposite direction, towards the phone. When she picked it up the cord was already tightly wound in her sweaty palm and her breath was short. "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

Her brows slanted. "Al?"

"I'm sorry to call you at home, hun, but I tried reachin' you at the store a few times and nobody picked up. Figured you might be playing hooky."

She cleared her throat and took a breath. Not Spike, no need for irregular heart rhythms right now. "You could say that. What's up?"

"Well, pardon me if I'm late with the news. Won't be surprised if Pratt beat me to mentioning it, but I still wanted to talk to you about the matter myself."

Buffy scowled. "What news? Al, what's going on?"

"There was a little trouble at the cemetery last night. Well, more like early this morning. I tell ya, coffee only does so much good before the sun rises. I had to double my regular doses."

"What happened this morning?"

"Pratt didn't tell you then?"

"Uh, Sp-" She shook her head. "William told me something had happened at the cemetery, but he didn't..." Buffy fumbled impatiently, sighing. "Look, can you just tell me what's going on?"

"There was a little problem with some kids over there. Threw a party, small, not much wreckage, but there was a bit of a fight between two of the boys. I hear from Pratt that one of 'em had gotten into this sort of thing before..."

As she listened to Al's explanations, a tale starring Jack, Michael O'Henry, several other kids who attended the same school, and her very own boyfriend, Buffy's stomach tightened into knots.

By the end of the phone call, her blood was boiling, her heart beating frantically, and her feet carrying her swiftly out the front door.

***

Buffy called Spike on the way. No answer and not enough patience to leave a voicemail, she drove to his house as batty as she'd ever driven, gravel and paved roads the victims to her Jeep's screeching tires. She knew the way, but only because of a book found in the high school's library, and heavily aged memories of shortcuts etched in her mind.

In fifteen minutes or so, she pulled up to a dark gated entrance with stone fences on either side. The height of a somehow familiar mansion loomed fifty feet away from the nose of her car, and two garages book-ended it.

Buffy parked quickly, gulped around the stiff knot lodged in her throat, and got out of the vehicle. There were trees everywhere. Heavily barked, towering trees with drooping branches to provide maximum amounts of shade. She examined the vacant grounds for all of two seconds, noting how out of place a cherry red Jeep looked here, before nearly running to the front door. She found a doorbell and rang it at least five times. Her tapping foot created a tedious rhythm against the cement step, and she muffled it by knocking without mercy.

"Spike?!" Nothing. "Spike?!"

More knocking. Harder this time.

"Damn it," Buffy muttered. She turned around and searched the area for any sign of the familiar black DeSoto vintage. The closest garage, the one on her left, had its big door halfway risen off the ground. She walked closer to peer through the four foot tall gap.

Car, and a motorcycle she'd never seen before, present and accounted for. Buffy huffed before crawling underneath the door, standing tall once inside. "Spike?!"

She waited, but received no answer. Buffy walked around the DeSoto and discovered a red door. Tentatively, her phone like a weight in her back pocket, she reached for the handle.

Slipping into the gentle warmth of the house, the floorboards beneath her boots let out little more than a creak. Buffy wondered whether or not she should call out again. After all, it wasn't like she had a right to be here, and something about sneaking into Spike's home instead of waiting on his front step didn't feel right.

She sighed and walked down a narrow hall, passing a laundry room and coming to a fork. The left side beheld a staircase, the right a flat and carpeted path.

She went left. Obviously, if Spike was home, he would've heard her banging and ringing had he been on the first floor. Likely, he was on the second or third.

Again, guilt rose inside her mind, poking at her like an insistent toddler. Buffy called his name again, and a quiet echo was the only response she got.

There remained an acute sensation of eggshells beneath her feet as she continued. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and to gain distraction Buffy considered Al's phone call, the upheaval that led her here.

It wasn't the sheriff's fault that one of her students had gotten into such a mess, or that her concern shot to skyscraper heights upon learning about Jack's graveyard fight. It was purely her. Buffy's own determination to do her job, and be there for her student.

However, it was completely Jack's fault for worrying her. For getting himself hurt. For breaking into a cemetery and fighting with Michael O'henry to begin with. The only way Buffy might not strangle him was if she learned the fight had been started by Michael, but the way Al was talking, she found that hard to believe.

How did Jack win such a fight? One against one was much different than one against three, sure, and Michael was Jack's age. Joe Gregory wasn't involved this time. The odds certainly could have fallen in Jack's favor.

But Buffy wasn't convinced.

She had questions. Questions, concerns, and plans to visit the kid very soon, but after Al told her what William had said, she was driven straight to her boyfriend's door. Jack could wait, she had decided on some subconscious level, if Spike would answer questions for her, and clear up this whole matter. She was certain he'd been helping Jack in some way, spending time with the boy, perhaps after school. Talking to him, acting as a big brother or role model. Spike was bound to know more about the fight than Al did, and likely more than Jack was willing to tell.

This is why Buffy was climbing an unlabeled staircase to the second floor of Spike's foreign mansion home; calling out his name once again, despite the utter silence in the wood panels all around her.

She finally reached new level ground, and silence continued to echo. If he wasn't in earshot, she had to think he was the next floor up, but finding another staircase would all be left to chance. She turned a short corner and faced a long hallway with dark cherry carpeting. Dust free furniture lined each side, and on the right, in the distance, she could see a staircase leading down.

Buffy took three hesitant steps. "Spike?! It's Buffy! I'm sorry, I kind of let myself in..." Again, no answer from the emptiness around her. Sighing, she walked ahead. Dangling chandeliers cast a tepid glow across the few doors dotting the walls. Paintings lay against paneling, on the floor, freshly dusted and more than a few of them topped with dirty rags. The evidence of recent cleaning piled up as she came to the railing, overlooking a long pathway of carpeted steps. Several dusty sheets were hanging over the wood banister, as if waiting for their turn in the washing machine.

Buffy moved on. She found three doors within ten feet of each other, two on her left and one on her right. Each led to rooms left vacant but for shadowy corners and foggy windowpanes.

She frowned harder the further she traveled. An ache started in her chest, something deep and repetitive. The quiet, the dust, the colors, all of it spoke of mourning and solitude. She had once considered such emotions to be a possible cornerstone when thinking on Spike's life in a big house like this one. Left all alone. The reality, however, was much harder to face than a few sad considerations.

The reality made her call out his name again. A need to let him know there was more in the house besides dust particles and antique furniture. Living with nothing else was a life incapable of supporting anyone's needs. Especially not a man's like Spike's. He was too passionate for it, too rock solid and alive to be cast into the shadows.

God, if she had a dollar for every time seeing him had lightened her day or alleviated that barren feeling in her heart, she might be able to buy a new car. Except she wouldn't, because Spike had worked on the Jeep for her, and despite its age, something about knowing a leaky coolant hose led to their first date made cherishing the automobile quite easy.

Buffy reached the end of the hall. There were no stairs in sight, and only one door left. She reached out and turned the knob, listening to the hinges squeak in protest.

Inside, she found a room with more dimness than furniture. She could only see the outline of a table and chair in the corner ahead, but nothing more. She walked inside and palmed the expansive wall, searching for a light switch.

She found it quickly enough and flipped it. The sudden exposure made her blink her eyes closed, and upon opening them Buffy noticed a small pile of boxes on the floor.

No staircase, only boxes, and then she noticed the pictures stuck to the wall. She walked closer.

Buffy blinked again when her feet collided with the pile. She knelt down, retrieving a foggy photograph. It was of a woman with blonde hair, wearing a salmon pink sweater, her face turned away from the camera.

She frowned. She recognized that sweater. She'd thrown it out a year ago, donated it to the rag collection at work. Buffy picked up another picture.

Polaroid photographs, words scrawled on wrinkled pieces of paper, and drawings... All in a box. All packed up like keepsakes, and all of...

*They're me.* Buffy looked up again, gaping at the wall. A hoarse sound of fear left her throat.

It was nearly half covered by her face.

Buffy shot to her feet, trembling everywhere. Her heart thumped a heavy, repetitive drum-like beat. The wall of pictures and poems shot out like a 3D film, blurring when she stared for too long. It was like that car crash metaphor; terrible, yet all you could do was gawk despite your better judgment.

She stumbled backward, and a striking thought occurred. Instinct really. With panic and confusion, Buffy turned and bolted for the door. She ran straight ahead with her pulse like a woodpecker in her neck.

She hit a wall.

Spike reached out, gripping her arms, holding her still. "Buffy!" he exclaimed. "Love, what are you doin' here-"

She wretched herself free. No words came, and she knew her eyes were as glaringly bright as streetlamps. She could feel herself shaking.

"Buffy?" Spike's voice was drenched in ready concern, pinging across her flesh like cold raindrops. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"N-No- I-" She shook her head. "I rang the doorbell."

He frowned worriedly. "It's broken."

Buffy swallowed, looking up. "What is that room, Spike?"

"What?"

She flung an arm out, going around him so she faced the space in question. Immersed in knowledge, self preservation the first and somehow last thing on her mind, Buffy went straight for answers. Pointing furiously, she repeated herself. "What. Is. That. Room?"

Spike's expression folded. It became hollow and unsure. He turned briefly, looked in the direction she indicated, and froze. "Which room?"

"The one with my face pasted all over the wall!" She suddenly felt sick. Buffy stepped back, gaining space, moving closer to the staircase she knew was some distance behind her.

Silence filled the air like oppressive smoke. He turned back, eyes sad and terrified. "I can explain," he croaked.

She found herself blinking furiously, trying to reign in undeterred emotions. Fear was quite prevalent. "Explain why you've been keeping pictures of me?! And- and drawings..." Her stomach coiled into knots. "What is all of it, Spike?"

"It isn't simple. I haven't- I haven't taken any pictures in a long time," he stuttered. Eyes of blue were now black with desperation. "I can't tell you why I... did it, but I- I never wanted you to see-"

"You took those pictures?" A hot breath of air left her lungs empty, an utterly hollow sensation in her chest. "You spied on me?"

Silence and a jaw clench. His face said it all. "Buffy, I-"

She couldn't catch her breath. Her heart dropped; she turned and ran. Pounding down unfamiliar steps, Buffy made it to the first floor in record time. Spike's voice calling out behind her fueled adrenaline like gasoline does a fire.

Gaining escape through the first door she found, Buffy ran out of the house and into the cloudy front yard. Big trees and weak sunlight trailed the path she took to her car. Upon yanking open the driver's side door, she stopped.

Spike was close again. Maybe teen feet back. Her icicle grip on the door handle tightened like a vice.

"Buffy, please," he was yelling, breathing harsh and erratic. His face was the most despairing thing she'd ever seen. "I would never hurt you!" he shouted. "You've got to believe me. Those pictures, the drawings, they're nothing! Just dreamin' on paper."

"Dreaming?" she spat. "You call that dreaming? You... You stalked me! How can you say that is nothing?!"

"I meant it's nothing compared to..." He stopped himself, tears shimmering to turn a gaze into ice pools. "None of it is anything close to being with you. It's not real, and I know that."

"You've got a shrine, Spike; that is real." She jumped in her car, but his voice stopped her again, this time from slamming the door.

"I never thought... I never wanted to hurt you, Buffy." She faced him. Her throat was closing up. "I'd never thought to have a chance outside fiction," he stressed. "I never believed you would-"

"Love you?" she cried. The stricken look he returned made her heart pound. Fiercely, she added, "Like you love me?"

He swallowed, standing taller as if preparing for a firing squad. "I do love you."

She laughed without humor. It was a sad, crackly sound, devoid of control. "An obsession isn't love, Spike. You have... a problem."

"Don't say that," he begged. "Don't tell me my feelings aren't here." His palm rose to his chest. "They're real. I feel them, every bloody day. I know what-"

"You don't know what love is, if you think this is the kind of thing people do when they love someone."

"It wasn't like that!" he shouted. His cheeks were growing wet, making them look painted.

Buffy shook her head furiously. "You have a problem," she croaked again, "and after this... there's no way I could ever feel... the way you think you do."

The world around him tipped. Scents of damp earth and snow filled his lungs. "You don't mean that."

Buffy swallowed hard, refused to meet his eyes, and closed the car door. She started the engine and sped away, muddy tire tracks the only evidence of her arrival.

Spike called her name three times, shouting into the distance, following until she was out of sight. His steps were slow. He felt like he was trying to run in a dream and molasses made up the ground.

She did not come back. He prayed to wake up.

***

Why? The question was echoing in her mind like a siren. The same one, the same reasoning behind it. An alarm to beat the tepid calm from her body like a club.

And how? 'How' was a serious contender on the top of her list. How had he followed her? How had he taken those pictures? How had he learned to draw her face and body as well as a professional? How, how, how...

How could Spike do such a thing? Why would he? Why was he claiming to be in love with her when he had a display of... Boxes of photographs...?

Buffy shivered and cut a hasty turn off the bridge. She'd been driving for an hour now. Sick waves kept churning her stomach. She rode in silence and kept trying to stop her tears from falling. Remembering Spike's own breakdown was affecting her in the oddest way. She felt violated and angry at once, sympathy whispered there might be room for it if she wasn't so damned hurt.

And disgusted. Disgust had a solid claim on something here.

She swallowed a lump. Time was wasted. On him. It was gone, like water down a drain. She had spent nights with him, evenings talking over home cooked dinners. Intimate moments... Last night was one of the most passionate encounters she'd ever experienced, and now everything about it was tainted.

He was tainted, and she was a fool. A blind fool who gave in to trust so easily, assuming meeting him and becoming so enamored so quickly was the result of previous emotional stunting, courtesy of a heartbreak never allowed to heal.

Well, now she had a new one to deal with, and Buffy had never felt so raw in her life. Vulnerable, sick, lost. Her heart was already growing armor again, and this was a new kind of closed off. A new kind of wall ascending to never before reached heights.

The concept of telling anyone was purely unappealing. She felt idiotic for allowing someone like that to get so close to her, and it would be much easier to tell Xander that things just hadn't worked out, vaguely implying Spike and her were too different to make it work. Anya would likely be more disappointed, and more nagging on the topic, but Buffy would find a way to put her off.

She rounded another curve and wiped at a stubborn tear. She felt spiders crawling up and down her arms each time she remembered what sleeping in his arms had felt like. The way Spike acted, she'd never once thought it could hint at an unhealthy obsession. She was so content, so happy... Now, she wondered if each time she let him get close, she'd only encouraged destructive attention.

The notion made her feel like throwing up. Blinking hard, glancing ironically at the storm clouds forming in the distant sky, she made a U-turn and headed for home.

All the while, a part of her, the part that was breaking, wished she had never seen the pictures to begin with.

***

Jack was walking. He was keeping his head down and his scabby hands in his pockets, avoiding the prying eyes of strangers and townsfolk with every unspoken rudeness.

The sheriff had stopped by already. Jack's ears were still ringing like church bells from his aunt's sour temper. Who knew a little fight between himself and a jackass of the same age would cause her to get so upset?

She didn't raise her voice above a terrifying mutter before the sheriff had left, but while he was calm and cool, she blew up like a volcano the moment his retiring presence tucked tail.

Not that the old guy tucked tail, really. Actually, that was more like what Jack did following his two week sentence. He would be cleaning out the ancient, crumbling garage after school for fourteen days. If he wasn't done by then, she'd tack on another seven.

The boy groaned, counting his steps as he checked his phone. He had been walking to Spike's place for half an hour now, and the longer he walked the more he dreaded getting there.

Remembering the fury he'd seen earlier this morning had Jack rethinking his plan to apologize.

A latent headache was starting to cement, too. What was the point in having a teacher teach you how fight if you got into more trouble for it than you ever did just taking the hits?

*At least I'm not walking around with a broken nose,* he thought to himself. That was definitely an upside. The lack of bruises and blood stains. However, getting grounded, into trouble with the cops, and making an enemy out of the one person he might actually be able to call a friend was the other side of the coin, the downside.

Jack kicked a gravel rock. He only knew where Spike lived because of an address on a slip of paper, something he'd ripped out of the tiny local phonebook. He was approaching the towering mansion now, glancing carefully at the darkening sky. That's all he needed, a downpour to soak his clean clothes.

Sighing loudly, Jack bit the figurative bullet and raced ahead. He had just barely knocked on the front door when it swung open with a soundless rush of wind, nearly tipping him over.

Spike was standing there, eyes wide and red, swollen. He took in Jack's presence and his shoulders fell about five inches. "Fuck."

"Well 'hi' to you too."

Spike shook his head and left the doorway. Jack ambled in carefully, quiet and wary. "Spike?"

He turned a corner and watched the man throwing handfuls of paper into a roaring fireplace. The protective grate was feet away and tipped on its side, energetic flames licking the air before nearly making contact with the carpet.

Jack could hear him muttering, something about "stupid git," and "helpless sod." Undoubted insults flung at himself.

He'd known Spike was angry earlier, and with good reason Jack finally realized, but this wasn't the kind of anger you showed over some careless teenager.

This was different.

Clearing his throat, Jack reached out with a tentative word. "I think the fire's good to go by now."

Spike released a shrill laugh, startling him. Throwing more and more paper, barely sparing the unlabeled notes a glance. "Yep. Real good to go, it is. It's roarin' away, burnin' everything... ruining everything."

Jack scowled, edging nearer. "Okay, you're getting metaphorical."

Spike clenched his fists around some sentenced paper before tossing it to the flames. He spun around, eyes watery, voice unsteady. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

Jack shook his head. Right. He was here to say sorry. "I came to, uh, apologize actually. I realized I was wrong... earlier."

Spike scoffed, nodding hard. He said nothing.

"I just wanted to make sure we were cool, ya know?" Jack shrugged awkwardly. "I'm sorry I came to your home, but I wanted to talk to you in person and I wasn't-"

"You should've called."

The boy frowned. He glanced at the crispy sparks shooting from the fireplace like stars and said, "I don't really think you would have picked up."

Spike didn't respond. He turned around again, and threw the last of his notes into the fire. Stalking from the room a second later, Jack was left to follow.

Frustrated at this point, the boy chanced getting closer. "Are you like, on something? You're acting really weird."

"I'm not-!" He cut himself off. Shaking his head, running his hands through his white hair, the man shakily muttered a confession. "I screwed up."

Jack's scowl deepened. "What?"

It took a full thirty seconds for Spike to come back. From where, Jack wasn't sure, but the man's eyes were fogged and distant, and his head was obviously not clear. "I... I hurt the girl."

Jack was silent. He tilted his head. "You have a fight with Buffy or something?"

Spike shook his head again. "We- She- I hurt her. I did somethin'... Can't fix it."

"I doubt that."

"You don't know," he growled. "You have no bloody clue what happened."

Jack sighed. "You want to tell me?"

Spike's mouth soured, a pinch in his cheek and he covered his face. The man's shoulders started shaking. A sound, his whole body trembled, and Jack knew he was crying. He'd never seen Spike cry.

It got louder, but remained muffled. Spike reached out and grasped the doorframe. Jack knew, somehow, he should not reach for him; and thank God because Jack didn't know the first fucking thing about comforting another person. Much less someone he'd looked up to as a mentor for weeks now.

"Do you want me to stay?" he murmured.

Spike shook his head and sniffled. The man sniffled.

*I've gotta get out of here.*

"Go. Don't need a shoulder, I just..." Spike coughed. His hands were shaking like a kid on a sugar high, minus the sticky smile. "Just go."

"Okay." Jack nodded. "Call me if you... if you need somethin'."

Spike never replied.

Jack left with determination and a hurried pace, a new destination in his mind, and little care for the storm clouds overhead.

***

It was raining. Buffy had just gotten out of the shower. A hundred degree shower mixed with appalling tears. Her eyes were ringed by puffy skin. Her fingers were pruny, her hair as wet as the earth getting pounded outside. Tabitha was quiet once fed, and as Buffy sat on her bed in exhausted fashion, only to bolt upright again and start changing the sheets, the feline kept her company by sitting in the corner.

Buffy tore everything off her bed and threw it in an empty laundry basket. She pulled out fresh linens from the top shelf in her closet and was finishing with the pillowcases when she heard loud knocking at the front of the house.

Frowning, she left the bedroom. She tiptoed to the front door, throat tightening and tears springing to her eyes instantaneously again. She gulped, hastily locating her cell phone before asking who it was.

It wasn't him.

Buffy fought relief and sadness in one breath. A breath she used to say, "What are you doing here, Jack?"

The dripping teenager was scowling, tiny droplets gathering on his brow. "Can I come in?"

Buffy moved out of his path. He ran inside.

And the storm followed him.

"What happened?"

Shouldn't she have started with the questions? "Yeah, what happened? Why are you drenched?"

He gave her a disbelieving blink and mopped his forehead with a cold, wet sleeve. "It's pouring outside."

"I meant why did you come here to begin with?" Buffy suddenly felt a twinge of panic. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Jack nodded, stunting her concerned inspection. "Yeah, but Spike isn't."

Her whole body tightened.

"What happened earlier? Does it have to do with me?" Jack asked this with dubiousness in his mouth, though he was careful not to convey it. After all, he highly doubted his actions could cause a couple like Spike and Buffy to break up, but he had to be sure. "Did he tell you what happened at the cemetery?"

Jack watched his guidance counselor cross her arms over her robed front. Her hair was wet and there was a distinct smell of fruity shampoo in the air. She'd obviously just showered but the redness spreading across her face couldn't be from that alone. "He told me," she muttered. "Are you all right?"

Jack shrugged irritably, slicking his hair back. "I'm fine. But again, Spike isn't, and now that I'm here I don't think you're okay either. What happened? You guys had a fight, that's plain, but what was it about?"

Buffy scoffed. "You're pretty nosy."

"And so are you. You're always asking me personal stuff at school. Now it's my turn." Jack cleared his throat and stood up straight. "Why is Spike acting like a Looney Tune?"

"You went to his house?"

"Then here."

Buffy rubbed her arms and looked down. "You shouldn't have gone over there."

"He's my friend." Her eyes shot up, round and unsure; Jack was nearly certain his looked the same. "He... He's been there for me," the boy mumbled, "and I needed to apologize to him about this morning. I went over there, and found him burning stuff and... It just wasn't good."

Buffy shuddered. It was a fierce looking twitch, but she tried to hide it all the same. Her voice took on a hardened quality that would make most people cower. "You should stay away from him. I know you guys have probably gotten close lately, but Spike is..."

"I'm not staying away from him." Jack shook his head like the statement was an obvious fact, and she was crazy to try and refute it.

Tone soft but shaking, she said, "Spike is... unstable."

Jack blinked. "He's my friend." He cleared his throat again, and repeated the words. "He's my friend. He's got my back." The boy simultaneously realized that he had Spike's back in return. *It's probably why I'm here, come to think of it.*

"What happened between me and him doesn't concern you. You don't have to try and fix it."

"You don't seem very happy about it, whatever it is." Jack studied Buffy's tired eyes and guarded disposition. The lady was trying hard to stay strong in front of him, to be an adult.

It wasn't working. He could tell how much the dispute with Spike had hurt her. Which bothered him.

He was getting real tired of worrying so much about other people. "So, are you happy or not?"

Buffy looked down, sad and fighting a break. "No. I'm not happy, and I don't think you should stay in contact with Spike anymore."

"Because you're not?"

She said nothing, but her eyes spoke the truth just as clear.

"Good luck getting me to listen to that advice, Ms. Summers."

She narrowed her eyes. "You know you can call me 'Buffy.'"

"And you know you're making a mistake." Her stare widened and became indignant. "Spike and you are a great couple. I've seen you guys together too much now." He sighed before his voice grew quiet. "You both care about each other. Whatever it is that's happened, you two can fix it. I know it."

Buffy's mouth pinched. "You don't know anything about it, Jack. Leave it alone."

He tried not to feel the sting of the dead-end order, and shrugged dismissively. "Fine."

Jack walked back to the door and stepped outside, cutting off Buffy's hurried yet flat offer to drive him home. "But you're making a mistake if you don't try to work things out. And no, I'll walk, the rain is just about over with."

He closed the door, unsurprised when she let him. Jack groaned as he maneuvered the porch steps in the dark, bypassing the little pond easily enough, before turning into a shortcut provided by a bike path through the woods.

He didn't know what had gone down between Buffy and Spike. He didn't know why he suddenly cared so much about it, or why seeing Spike breaking down had triggered an internal instinct to help. All that seemed to matter was that it had, and despite his own problems, or maybe because of them, Jack didn't like the idea of such a dependable duo breaking up.

He didn't like the idea of either of their hearts being shattered, or the possibility that he wouldn't sit in the same room with them again. He recalled times when Spike had come into the guidance counselor's office towards the end of a day, interrupting Buffy's probing questions. Jack liked seeing them smile at each other. It was sappy, but nice. He liked that they both talked to him, too, that they both had his best interests at heart. Them being together almost made him believe it more.

A thunderclap overhead made him look up. The raindrops were still falling, but softer now, less brutal. The lightning in the distance seemed duller. The storm had been short, but made its mark on the land. Jack's left boot got stuck in a chipmunk hole turned into hollow mud, and he paused a moment to wriggle free.

A sudden strike flew across his chin, sending him backward and into an untidy pile of limbs. His feet were both high in the air and the second he noticed the first shadow move close enough, he launched out with a vicious kick.

One loud groan of pain and cracking bone. The nameless male stumbled backwards, clutching his nose. Jack sprung to his feet and quickly blocked an attempted sucker punch, retaliating with an uppercut. Another down, he turned in quick circles and surveyed his surroundings, spitting blood on the ground.

Michael O'Henry's face soon became clear as he rose from his place against a tree and glared heavily through the cold moisture. Off to the right, Jack heard Shaun Gregory's bitter muttering and swears.

A frustrated smile sprang to his face. "Sneak attack in the rain." Jack studied Michael's beefy frame from head to toe. "Galoshes? Nerdy and unfair."

"Little prick," Michael snarled, running forward. Jack quickly had him flipped on the ground, catching his own breath before landing a solid punch to his opponent's abdomen.

Michael clutched his ribs. "A little help-" he wheezed, but Shaun was still cursing.

"The asshole broke my nose!"

Jack scoffed. "Big baby." He looked up at the dark trees as he gained distance between his enemies. "I don't think we need to continue right now, guys. The weather is terrible for a brawl."

Michael sat up, breathing hard and sending a glare to his partner, who was still gingerly inspecting his face and wincing every other second. "Listen to this idiot talk. You thought you were just going to get off easy with everything, huh?"

"With what?"

"The cemetery!" he bellowed, then coughed a few hacking wails. "Fucker. You better watch your back from now on. You might've gotten better at fighting, but-"

"You have friends in low places. Yeah, I know." Jack sighed irritably. "Look, I've had a shit day. I'm gonna leave now, and let you have some time to plan your next ambush. Next time," he nodded at Shaun, sitting on the forest floor against a tree, "pick a more durable partner."

He turned around and started walking back the way he came. Jack rubbed his forehead, breathing raggedly but staying quiet. He would go back in a few minutes then make a different turn, stay on the bike path but head just a little bit out of the way of his house to throw them off.

He was nearly out of earshot from Shaun's whimpering when he heard Michael shout, "We know you've got friends!"

Something, maybe a spark of intuition, made him stop. Jack faced the shadowy figures in the distance.

"You've got people you care about... one in particular, right?" Michael was still heaving, but he sounded confident now. It was unsettling.

"I don't have friends," Jack shouted irritably. "You're out of luck if you want to punish me through someone else."

A snicker made his back tense. Shaun spoke this time, nasally and shameless. "We all have the same guidance counselor at school, don't we? Only difference is, she seems to like listening to you whine about your problems more than anyone else these days."

Jack's blood turned cold. He bolted forward and quickly grabbed for Shaun's shirt collar. He ignored Michael altogether but for making sure to stay several feet away from him. The guy in his hands gurgled an exclamation of surprise. "Ms. Summers isn't my friend," Jack lied. "She's just a woman doing her job. You hurt her, and I won't care, but you'll probably be expelled."

Suddenly, hands from nowhere grabbed Jack by the back of the coat and tugged him hard. It took a lot of effort to gain freedom while staying on his feet.

Michael glared cockily through the darkness as he stumbled. "You reacted pretty quickly for someone you don't consider a friend. And what's with the late night visit, huh?"

"She isn't my friend."

"I think he's lying," Shaun chuckled, rising from the wet ground. "She's like a second mother. Probably pays more attention to him than that crippled old aunt he lives with."

Jack bit his lip expertly hard. Michael chuckled and he spotted a nasty smile on Shaun's face.

"And what about that guy who got you out of trouble with the cops, huh?"

"He didn't," Jack snapped. "He works there and made me help him clean up. The sheriff stopped by my house later."

"Likely story," Shaun taunted.

"Either way, I'm sure the counselor had something to do with getting him off easy," Michael added.

Jack experienced a foreign sensation of relief that they were dumb enough not to know their own school janitor when they saw him up close. Still, they kept harping on the Buffy subject, and that was dangerous.

"Maybe you're just trying to find an easier target since you can't beat me up anymore," he said. "Picking on a girl has got to be simpler, and jackasses like you have to get off somehow, right?"

Michael hissed an dirty insult which went ignored.

"You're not so tough," Shaun returned.

"You want to bet?"

There was silence again, until Michael spit and stormed off, Shaun following close behind. "You'll see what happens," the former shouted. "Can't protect everyone!"

Jack waited until they were out of sight before cursing. He cursed fluidly and angrily, then took the long way home.