Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (for language and sexual situations)
Timeline: Drastically AU Glory-less Season 5. No Dawn or Riley.
Summary: Buffy asks Spike to help her with her Thanksgiving dinner, and is determined to keep Xander’s prophecy the previous year of a “new tradition” from coming true. The PTB, unfortunately, have other ideas.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon. They are being used out of respect and admiration for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author’s Note: Okay, so here it is. My contribution to Seasonal Spuffy.  I sincerely hope everyone can at least get some laughs and enjoyment from my contribution, as it was terribly fun to write.

A few things: I owe everything to Megan, Mari,  Kimmie , and Teri for their superb betaing jobs. Mandi, of course, made the gorgeous banner. Kimmie  provided one of my favorite lines of the series, which appears in Part One, and Megan  talked me through several bumps in the last two parts, and similarly provided a wonderful line. Thank you ladies so much for taking the time to go over this for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Lastly, angst lovers will likely be left wanting. This is undoubtedly the most saccharine story I’ve ever written. It’s a screwball holiday comedy, done in the manner of A Christmas Story with elements of absurdism that would hopefully do Tom Stoppard proud. And yes, as with most of my fics, it does get a little smutty. Rather, as I was writing it, I couldn’t help but think of George Carlin’s line, “You ever notice how you never get laid on Thanksgiving? I think it’s because they put all the coats on the bed.” I gleefully set myself up to prove that wrong.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Enjoy!

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

“Oh, God, this is a nightmare.”

“I really think you’re overreactin’, pet.”

“Overreacting? Do you have any idea what all is supposed to go into dressing?” Buffy eyed the ingredients list her mother had provided with a whimper, stomping her foot against the ground before shoving it in her pocket with a defeated grunt. “There are things on there that, I swear to God, she just made up. Stupid ‘family’ recipe. Why can’t we make it like normal people?”

Spike rolled his eyes and boldly slipped his hand into her front pocket, retrieving the list. “You’ve never heard of butter?” he asked, smoothly sidestepping a headstone.

“That’s not the only ingredient,” she retorted stubbornly.

“Onion. Chopped celery. Crumbled cornbread an’ toasted bread crumbs. Minced fresh parsley…” He favored her with an arched brow. “Don’ s’pose you’ve ever heard of parsley.”

“I know what parsley is, smartass.” She paused. “But honestly…minced? What the hell is minced? Sounds…” Her bravado faded under his incredulous gaze, and her lip poked out in a pout. “Evil.”

“Tell me, Summers, how is it that you actually made it to college?”

Just when I think he might be somewhat decent…

“Shut up,” she said instead.

“Bakin’ powder,” he continued. “Hard-cooked eggs, chicken or turkey broth, an’ rubbed, dried sage leaves.”

“Aha! See! Whoever thought of adding leaves as an ingredient? It must be a hellmouth thing.”

“You’re hopeless.”

She shrugged. “At least we’re agreed on this. That’s why you’re helping me, remember?”

Spike leered. “I thought I was helpin’ you so you could spend the day seein’ what good I can do with my hands.”

Buffy flushed but batted at him dismissively, stuffing the list back into her pocket. “Get over yourself.”

He didn’t reply at that, merely flashed a smile and shook his head.

It was strange pretending that nothing had changed. Pretending that a few days ago, her world hadn’t nearly rolled off its axis. Granted things had been changing between her and Spike so gradually, she shouldn’t have been surprised that a moment of utter awkwardness had come about their unusual camaraderie. She knew, after all, how he felt about her. She didn’t understand it; didn’t know why or how his hatred for her had changed at the rate it had, but somehow, she didn’t question it. Like all things in her world, some ends were simply inevitable.

What she hadn’t anticipated was the sudden wealth of affection she felt for him. The affection that had originated, it seemed, from nowhere at all. After all, her relationship with Spike since he paraded back into her life couldn’t exactly be called healthy. There was the chip, his numerous attempts to get it out, his suicidal resignation that he was handicapped, his scheming to exhibit his evil nature in less-subtle-more-annoying methods, and then the final resignation that came with the knowledge that he could harm other demons. It hadn’t been easy for him; at the same time, it hadn’t taken him too long to jump aboard whatever wagon led to the most destruction. His ability to hurt demons cast him in a role of ally that no one could have predicted.

It had made them grow close. It had turned their hatred for each other into begrudging acceptance. Then to acknowledged admiration. Then to friendship. And now, Spike loved her.

He’d never said the words, of course. Never indicated anything to bring her to such a startling conclusion. It was more in the little things; the things he did and said without thinking. The way he looked at her when he didn’t think she was watching. He told her in a thousand different ways and just assumed she wasn’t paying attention. Just assumed she needed words to know the deeper meaning of his smallest actions.

She didn’t. Spike loved her, and recently, the feelings she had for him were well-paced to convergence.

The other night, though, had destroyed the veil of ignorance they played at when around each other. They’d been fighting a nest of newbie vamps when the last had tackled Buffy to the ground, pressing her wrists above her head and forcing her to forfeit her stake.

Her ears were still ringing from Spike’s possessive growl of warning. How she knew it was possessive was beyond her, call it slayer intuition or wishful thinking—she didn’t know. Only that the growl itself was followed by his leaping at the would-be assailant and dusting him through the back—merely to land directly atop Buffy with just enough foresight to toss the stake away before he did something unthinkable.

The feel of him lying between her legs was a sensation that had yet to give her a night’s rest. She’d never forget how wide his eyes grew. How he’d looked so open and vulnerable, so unsure and filled with unspoken desire. They’d stared at each other for what felt like ages as if daring the other to move. He’d murmured her name before dropping his gaze to her mouth, and for nothing more than a second, the world around them had ceased to exist.

It didn’t last, of course. A fresh grave a few feet away began a familiar stir, and they were forced to break away. Neither mentioned it after patrol was over, or any night thereafter.

But he thought about it. She knew he thought about it. If she was so obsessed with it, it must be driving him crazy. Her dreams were haunted with a thousand visions and scenarios. She wondered what he would have done had she thrust her pelvis against his erection. If she’d moaned his name. Hell, if she’d breathed differently. He was so good at reading her; why was it that the signs she’d purposefully given him went unnoticed?

Not much had outwardly changed. Buffy went directly to Restfield to meet Spike at sunset for their normal patrols. He’d teased her about class, she’d called him chip-head—the normal. The ever-comfortable, unchanging dependability that she both treasured and resented. What waited for them beyond this was a little unnerving, but she found, especially after what had nearly happened between them, that the prospect of what they could have together made the leap seem worth it.

“Y’know,” Spike said, bursting her from her reverie. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get so fanatic about a bloody holiday as you do over Thanksgiving.”

“It’s a time for family togetherness,” Buffy observed.

“Unlike Christmas?”

“Thanksgiving is a purely American holiday.”

He gave her a look. “This bein’ why two Brits are gonna be at your dinner.”

“Shut up.”

“Ah, the markings of a truly intelligent debate.”

She pouted, kicking at the ground. “Meanie.”

“Well, yeh. Vampire.”

“Keep that up and I’ll take your name off the guest list.”

“Not bloody likely. You need me to help you cook.”

Her pout deepened and she kicked at the ground again. “You don’t need to rub it in. Anyway, I have the turkey, which I’ll start thawing tomorrow.”

“Do you know how to thaw a turkey?”

She shrugged. “I figured I’d use my blow-dryer.”

Spike laughed loudly as though she’d said something deeply amusing. He stopped and sobered, though, when he caught the look on her face. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“What’s wrong with my idea?”

He laughed again, a bit uneasily. “Well…Buffy, a bloody blow-dryer?”

A long moan hissed through her lips. “God, I suck at this,” she complained, whipping out the list again. “I swear, it’s going to be a disaster…and it’s all Xander’s fault with his stupid ‘let’s make crappy holidays a tradition’ remark last year.” She shook her head and turned her eyes back to the paper. “Okay…thaw turkey.”

“Not by bloody blow-dryer,” Spike added.

Buffy sighed. “Yes, okay. No blow-drying. I’ll do it some other way. What else…I’m supposed to baste the turkey? God, what does that mean?” She glanced to him quickly. “Please tell me you’re a master baster.”

Spike’s head ducked as he tried and failed to smother another rich snicker.

“Oh, grow up.”

“I’d call myself a superb master baster, luv.”

“Perv.”

“Oi. You’re the one that said it. I jus’ took it an’ ran.”

“Seriously. Can you baste? Can you do…half the things on this list?” She handed him the slip of paper again. “Or at least be in the same room as I try to so you can tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“Pet, I’ve already committed myself to not leave you alone in the room with the oven so much as preheatin’. I think you have me well under your thumb as far as this sodding holiday goes.”

Buffy nodded and shoved the list back in her pocket. “I’m just nervous.”

“Couldn’t tell,” he retorted, smothering a grin.

“You could be a bit more supportive, you know.”

Spike nodded. “Right. The dinner will be a smashing success. People’ll chat about it for years to come. It’ll be the bloody bar by which all future holidays are judged.”

“You suck.”

“Very well, but we’re not talkin’ about that.” He waggled his brows. “Though, ‘f you wanna sample of my suckin’, I’m sure we can slip into a mausoleum an’—”

Her cheeks rouged and she kicked at his legs. “Stop it.”

He smirked. “Jus’ like seein’ you turn that color, luv,” he purred.

The cool November air burned her skin, and she shook her head in a desperate ploy to change the subject. “It doesn’t look like we’re gonna have any luck tonight,” she said, indicating a headstone.

“I can rectify that,” he sneered. “’F you’re lookin’ to get lucky.”

“Shut up.”

Spike shook his head and chuckled. “You’re jus too easy to embarrass, sweetheart.”

“Am not.”

He domed a brow and ran his hand down her back, relishing in the way she shuddered against him, and barely concealing a grin at the surprised yelp she released when he caressed her ass. She jumped out of reach the next second, wagging a finger at him. “Knock it off,” she reprimanded without conviction.

“Jus’ provin’ a point. No need to get all skittish.”

“I am not skittish. I’m just…I don’t like to be…”

“Touched?” Spike rumbled suggestively.

“Teased,” she emphasized.

“Well, hell, luv, ‘f you’re achin’ for the real thing—”

Buffy shook her head and held up a hand. “There are no vamps tonight,” she said. “We’ve made three sweeps of this cemetery alone, and no one’s coming out.” She sighed. “Which means that there’ll be a ton of fledglings tomorrow when I’m getting everything ready. Stupid Hellmouth never cuts me a break.”

He rubbed her back again, this time in reassurance. “’S all right, pet. We’ll patrol tomorrow night after everything’s taken care of. An’ if you like, I’ll go with you to the supermarket tomorrow to make sure you get everythin’ you need.”

“Really?”

Spike shrugged. “Sure. Seems only fair, ‘specially since I’m evidently responsible for the whole bloody meal.” A smirk nudged his lips. “You think you can manage toast without turnin’ it into a catastrophe?”

She snorted ineloquently. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“Not really a problem.”

Buffy offered an appreciative grin, then stopped and released a deep sigh. “Okay…well…I was planning on doing my shopping early tomorrow morning. I don’t…you’re usually sleeping then, aren’t you? I was just gonna spend the day, you know, decorating the house and such, but I guess I could—”

He shrugged. “Let’s jus’ stick to your schedule, pet. I can be at your place whenever you want me.”

A naughty shiver raced down her spine. Is that a promise?

“Actually, how about the Magic Box?”

“Bright an’ early? Is the bloody place even gonna be open tomorrow with half the sodding town visitin’ the family they can only stand once a year?”

“Xander eventually convinced Anya that it would cost money to open the store, rather than make it,” Buffy agreed. “But I think there’s something I can use there.”

Spike threw his hands up. “No bloody magic herbs for the dressing.”

“No, I mean to thaw the turkey.”

“Magic to thaw the turkey? Doesn’ sound much better.”

“No, no, no. I saw it on TV once. You’ll see tomorrow, okay?” She grinned. “Besides, it’s closer to the supermarket.”

“I don’ mind goin’ to your place.”

“Well, I’m gonna be at the Magic Box, so unless you wanna be put to work by my mom, you should be at the store by eight.”

“Then there I’ll be.”

He smiled affectionately and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. He was close. Close in ways that wouldn’t have affected her just a few days ago. Close in ways that would undoubtedly taunt her as she slept that night. But God, he looked good. So open and inviting. The impulse to throw herself in his arms was growing more persistent by the second. She needed to get home before she did something stupid or embarrassing. Or both.

Stupid distracting vampires.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked hoarsely, as though tempted by the same conflicting thoughts. Well, he better be conflicted. She sure as hell didn’t want to be in this by herself.

Snap out of it!

Buffy nodded and forced herself to ignore the protesting voice that demanded she take him by the hand, drag him home, and do naughty things to him until morning. That voice led to nowhere good. Nowhere good.

Good. Now all you need to do is believe it.

“Tomorrow,” she said with a nod. “Goodnight, Spike.”

“’Night, Slayer.”

She turned and walked away then before her disobedient hands could do something that would make their friendship even more awkward than it was presently. It was hard enough trying to reconcile that not-hating him and enjoying his company made him a friend, even though she knew they’d been anything but enemies for nearly a year now. Progressing from that to the realm of conscious lusty thoughts was a huge leap.

One huge, terrifying leap.

Falling for vampires is always a bad.

Well, really, falling for men was always a bad. If she was going to judge Spike on the precedent Angel had set for all vampires, she’d have to judge men based on guys like Parker.

Spike’s different. You’ve hung out with him for months. You know he’s different.

Lousy logic.

Best to put him out of her mind until tomorrow. Until she was made to uselessly torture herself with wanting again.

It wouldn’t work, but the thought was at least encouraging.

There were definitely a few perks to having a vampire as a friend. Particularly, she found that locked doors weren’t a problem at all anymore. And she didn’t have to worry with costly property damage. Either Spike was the vampire version of MacGyver, or there were some demonic tricks that Giles had never thought to tell her about.

It was a good thing Anya was out of town with Xander’s obnoxious family—Buffy didn’t think she was up to dealing with lectures on ethics as told by ex-murderous demons at present. She supposed she should feel guilty for sneaking in like a criminal without permission, but it was Giles’s store, and he was used to such behavior from her.

It was about twenty before eight, and despite her lack of sleep the night before, Buffy felt amazingly alert. It was way early for her, but as predicted, her dreams had been tormented by images of a certain vampire, and she had been entirely grateful for sunrise. While her time with Spike did little but add to her confusion, there was something about being with him that, for a little while, made everything absolutely clear.

For a time.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” she sang absently to herself, hauling the frozen turkey to the wrap desk. “Everywhere you go. Take a look at the five-and-ten, glistening once again, with candy canes and silver lanes aglow.”

She stopped at the counter and glanced up, surveying the column of fluorescent lights. “Okay,” she murmured. “Looks good.”

The next second, she had raised herself atop the surface, careful of the random cheap collectables that Anya placed near the register for last-minute buyers. She had to stand on her tiptoes to get a good view of the dusty metal shelf that rested atop the lights.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” she continued, satisfied. She turned her eyes back to the turkey. “Toys in every store. But the prettiest sight you’ll see is the holly that will be on your own front door.”

It was going to be a tight squeeze, admittedly, but she knew how hot the lights became once activated. Really, the plan was bulletproof.

“A pair of something and something and something or other is the hope of Barney and Ben.” She lifted the turkey into her arms and carefully placed it across the column. She waited a minute after releasing it, counted to ten, and released a sigh of relief. “Dolls that’ll something and do something else is the wish of Janice and Jen.”

“An’ mum an’ pap can hardly wait for school to start again,” rang a familiar baritone from the back.

Buffy jumped and turned, her hand flying to her heart instinctively. “God, Spike!”

“Was jus’ enjoyin’ the view, luv.” A wicked grin spread across his lips. “Why? Did I scare you?”

“No, I was jumping on a counter for my health.”

“What are you doin’, anyway?”

She nodded at the lights. “Thawing a turkey.”

The grin melted just as easily and Spike stalked forward, his eyes going wide when he saw what she had accomplished. “Bloody hell, Slayer…”

“What?”

“That’s not gonna work.”

“Sure it is,” she argued. “There’s no one in the store today, and those lights are really hot.”

“’S a bloody fire waitin’ to happen.”

“It’s on the small thing between the lights and the ceiling. It’s not directly on the lights. Besides…” She indicated the showcase lights that were designated to hit the collectables she’d noted earlier. “See? It’s a double heat ray. It has to work.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you didn’t think of it.”

Spike tossed her a wary smile, then held out a hand to help her down. “You’re either insane or you’re brilliant,” he decided, shaking his head. “Let’s jus’ hope it’s the latter.”

Buffy just shrugged and grinned. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” she continued. “Everywhere you go.”

“There’s a tree in the grand hotel, one in the park as well. The sturdy kind that doesn’ mind the snow.”

“You know the words?”

He waved a hand. “’Ello. I’ve been around forever. An’ aren’t you singin’ about the wrong holiday?”

“There are no Thanksgiving songs,” she said. “And everyone starts decorating for Christmas in November, anyway. So it’s actually beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”

“There are Thanksgiving songs,” he countered, frowning.

“Are not.”

“You were never taught ‘We Gather Together’?” Spike rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, it’s your bloody holiday.”

“Sing it for me,” Buffy suggested, crossing her arms.

“What? No!”

“What? You were singing a minute ago!”

“I’m not gonna bloody serenade you.”

She pouted. “Well, phooey, you’re no fun. Come on, Spike. Where’s the Thanksgiving spirit?”

“I’m British. Now’s the time when I’m s’posed to begrudge you for stealing our colonies.”

“Need I remind you how badly we whupped your British ass in the Revolutionary War?”

“Hell, pet, I’m jus’ impressed you named the right war.”

She scowled and elbowed him, ignoring his laughter. “You’re just bitter because our country’s bigger,” she said.

“An’ you paid for it with blood. How very American of you.”

“You’re really not gonna sing the song for me?”

He shook his head. “Really not.”

Buffy pouted. “Fine, party pooper,” she said, pulling out a revised edition of the grocery list. “Are you ready to go?”

“Let’s go a-shoppin’,” he agreed, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she turned to make sure the front door was locked, then took lead ahead of him, ignoring him as best she could. Her random mood change baffled him for a minute, but as expected, the vampire picked up on her motive rather quickly and growled something about bossy women under his breath.

Yeah, that’s gonna help.

It didn’t take long for her tactic to drive him crazy. Rather, a few seconds later, Spike sighed in concession. “Oh, fine. I’ll sing the bloody song.”

Buffy’s frown melted into a brilliant smile.

He just shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me anyway.”

There was a pause at that. A long, uncomfortable pause. Buffy willed herself not to retract, or even look at him. She stared straight ahead, trying to look as though she hadn’t said anything remarkable or approached an issue that neither of them had even admitted was between them.

In the end, Spike didn’t reply either way. He merely released a deep breath and began slowly, “We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing; he chastens and hastens his will to make known; the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing, sing praises to his name: he forgets not his own.”

“You don’t strike me as an evangelical,” Buffy quipped nervously, entirely too aware of his presence. The song hadn’t done much to distract her from the awkwardness that had stretched between them.

“’m not,” Spike agreed. “You wanted to hear the bloody song.”

“Is there more?”

“Yeh.”

She smiled, trying to overcome her discomfort, and batted her eyes. “Please?”

“Why? You din’t even know this song existed.”

“Well, I do now and I’m trying to broaden my horizons. Besides…” Rouge tinted her cheeks. “I like the way you sing.”

Spike’s eyes brightened at that. “Really? Erm…really?”

She nodded. “You know, when you’re not drunk or singing to the Sex Pistols.”

“Don’ be criticizin’ my taste in music.”

“You have taste in music?”

“Slayer…”

“Spike? Please?”

He studied her for a minute longer, then weakened and conceded. “You’re hell on a man’s resilience,” he commented, reaching for his cigarettes before moving forward to open the hatch that led to the sewer for her. “Right. Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining, ordaining, maintaining his kingdom divine; so from the beginning the fight we were winning; thou, Lord, wast at our side, all glory be thine.”

The lyrics that he was singing sounded more than bizarre coming from him, but that did little to diminish the waves that crashed over her by the melodic notes in his voice. Begging him to sing for her? Not the best way to convince herself that she was just casually interested in him.

It just made her wonder what else that mouth was capable of.

And that led to badness. Much badness. And badness plus Buffy was very nonmixy.

Only it seemed to follow her wherever she went.

Very nonmixy. Best to think about the seating arrangement for the dinner. There had to be hundreds of ways to sort four people.

It’d at least get her to the grocery store.

“Amen,” Spike concluded, studying her hard.

Buffy swallowed.

Okay. So admit it. You’re in trouble.

She fought back the moan that crawled up her throat.

This was so inconvenient.

Part II

Spike was beginning to suspect that Buffy’s grocery list was possessed, or had been hexed to keep them in the supermarket forever. It had only been twenty minutes, but so far, the entirety of their stay had been focused in the produce section. By the time they made it to the breads, they’d be getting ingredients for next Thanksgiving.

He was tempted to answer the prospect of battling through the hordes of last minute shoppers by flashing some fang, though somehow, he didn’t think the Slayer would recognize that as the act of someone with her best interest in mind. Irregardless that these blighters seemed bloody well confident that all the space in the world was theirs to claim.

“Why on sodding earth do you need a cantaloupe?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at her as she examined the small orb in her hand.

She shrugged. “You never know,” she said, dumping the fruit into a cellophane sack and tossing it into the cart. “Maybe we’ll have a cantaloupe emergency.”

His earlier assessment of insane or brilliant leaned more toward the former, though her brand of lunacy was a refreshing one from the all-out dementia that the ex-love of his life had occupied. Buffy was quirky if nothing else. She wanted everything perfect to the degree of an all-out obsession, but with as crazy as her ideas became, he found her similarly growing more and more adorable. And the way that she wanted him so desperately to be a part of the holiday had his insides singing with hope.

“Can you think of anything I’d need a kumquat for?”

Spike smirked and leered at her appreciatively. “Gigglin’ inappropriately at the fact that it’s called a kumquat?”

She rolled her eyes. “God, how old are you?”

“You age long enough, pet, an’ you end up where you started from.” He pointed accusingly. “An’ don’ be callin’ me black, Ms. Kettle. I saw you snicker.”

“At your immaturity,” she agreed.

“Believe that if you must.” His gaze lingered a minute longer, his body swallowed in satisfaction when her cheeks rouged and she glanced down. God, he could never get enough of that. “You makin’ your potatoes from a box or from scratch?” he asked. “Or rather, am I makin’ the potatoes from a box or from scratch?”

“Well, if you’re willing…”

He was already reaching for the roll of plastic with which to collect said potatoes. “Do us a favor, then, an’ put the cantaloupe back.”

Her blush deepened and she nodded, reaching into the cart. “If we have a cantaloupe emergency, though, I am so blaming you.”

“Fair enough.” Spike flashed a grin as he sacked the potatoes. “So, what kinda party are you throwin’? You lookin’ for somethin’ you could put on the cover of a Hallmark card?”

“I just want it to be normal,” she replied.

He rolled his eyes. “Bloody impossible.”

“Well, as normal as my life can get, I mean. I’m not looking for anything completely unobtainable. I want you there, after all.”

“To cook,” he emphasized.

“No. I want you there. Your cooking expertise is just a big perk.”

From the way her heart was hammering, he knew that admitting that much was a big thing for her, despite how far they’d come. Small hints like that warmed him thoroughly. After the almost-kiss of a few nights before, he’d half expected all the progress they’d made since their days of fighting to the death to relapse all the way back to square one.

Her behavior, her shameless flirting, and the adoring way she looked at him—well, he was only almost-human. He didn’t trust that she was fully aware of half the things she did that drove him crazy. She couldn’t know.

Not how he felt about her.

“Ugh,” Buffy grumbled, scowling at her list. “I have to get three different kinds of dessert.”

“What the bloody hell for?”

“Everyone likes different things. I don’t like the taste of pumpkin pie, Mom hates coconut, and Giles is weirdly addicted to German chocolate cake.” She shook her head. “So, I need a German chocolate cake, a pumpkin pie, and a cookie cake.”

“Why a cookie cake?”

“’Cause as long as we’re going twenty rounds of favorite sweets, I want mine. It’s my party, dammit.”

Spike smirked. “I don’ s’pose I get a vote?”

“You’ll eat my cookie cake and like it.”

“So we’re not buyin’ everythin’ to make from scratch. Pumpkin pie’d take a good chunk of the day.”

Buffy shook her head. “Nope. For the desserts, nobody does it like Sarah Lee.”

They turned the corner toward the frozen meat section, where evidently the entire populace of Sunnydale was enjoying some heated last minute shopping. Spike expelled a deep breath. “Well, as long as we’re doin’ that the easy way, do you really need that big sodding bird? Can’t we jus’…” His eyes fell to the crowd around the packed meats. “Buy a pre-prepared turkey?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Luv—”

“I have a turkey. Buying one of those genetic turkeys would take away from the holiday.”

“Sweet—”

“My turkey’s just fine.”

Spike sighed as she rolled the cart by, wishing desperately for a fag. The bad feeling he had about the dinner was growing into an uncomfortable premonition. He wanted everything to go well for her, especially since she was pouring so much into the meal’s success, but her methods had him predicting an all out disaster.

Maybe she wouldn’t notice if he grabbed a packaged turkey. Just in case.

It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

Losing Buffy in the store proved to be a decidedly bad idea. Spike found himself surrounded by pounding hearts and racing pulses, sweat and exhaustion, and completely alone. He could smell the Slayer. He could pick her out in a crowd, blindfolded if need be, but every time he thought he’d caught up with her, the scent would shift. The next twenty minutes were spent plowing his way through the entourage of last-minute shoppers and battling his innate need to shift faces in the wake of such temptation.

By the time he finally spied her, the panic blazing across her face stabbed him with both guilt and an odd sense of gratification. It wasn’t that he didn’t know she cared—he did; God, he did—but seeing it was a pleasure he wouldn’t soon deny himself. And the way she managed to look both relieved and pissed off when her eyes met his? It was hard to believe at times that she didn’t know exactly how sexy she was. How she tempted him with every breath that rushed through that amazing mouth of hers.

How he spent his nights remembering the taste of her kisses and wishing that Willow’s spell had lasted just a little longer.

Buffy grabbed his arm and pulled him close once they were within reach. She then proceeded to hit his shoulder several times, though without animosity.

“What the hell happened to you? I’ve been worried sick!”

“Worried?” he couldn’t help but echo, trying to hide his grin as he slid the back-up turkey into the cart. She seemed too preoccupied with him to notice. “About me?”

“I turned around and you weren’t there, you big stupid…guy.”

“In case you din’t notice, pet, the entire bloody town decided to show up at the same time.” As though to prove his point, a random customer bumped into him rather harshly, nearly knocking him over. Spike growled a bit too primitively, and turned back to Buffy before she could open her mouth to reprimand him. “There now, you see?”

She frowned and caressed his shoulder. “You just need to be careful.”

“I’m a vampire, for Chrissake! These people are snack food.”

“Jeez, a little louder, maybe? I don’t think they heard you in Bangladesh.”

“Oh, for cryin’…this is the bloody Hellmouth. You really think that announcement would shock anyone?”

Buffy shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Just…come on. Let’s get going. I want to get the frozen stuff in the fridge ASAP so we can run back and check on the turkey.”

He sighed and nodded, placing a hand on the small of her back and massaged her gently. “Right, luv,” he murmured. “Let’s go.”

She quieted for a minute, relaxed against the small caresses he was giving her, and slowly coming down from her erratic panic. And despite his words, he was still too touched by the overall display to really care about anything else.

Even more so when she, the Slayer, opened her mouth to apologize. “I’m sorry if I was patronizing…it’s just that I turned around and you weren’t there.”

He bit back a grin at that. “Right. Had to be bloody traumatic.”

“Hey! You could’ve been dust for all I know.”

“Yeh. In broad daylight, done in by the granny hordin’ all the candied yams. Have a li’l faith. I din’t crawl outta the grave yesterday.”

Buffy snickered appreciatively. “Well,” she retorted, “you never know.”

No. You never did.

Spike smiled at her, his bravado on the rise. She couldn’t possibly know how much the little things like that affected him. What she told him without saying a word.

He had the sinking suspicion that, despite all, he was going to end up loving this holiday.

Every supermarket in the world had a novelty aisle that, for most of the year, was filled with nonsense things that people didn’t know they needed until they saw them. The same aisle would, near the holidays, perform the amazing feat of becoming the essential pit-stop for anyone in need of last-minute decorations.

Walking down that aisle in Sunnydale reminded Spike of news reports from the war—the pictures he’d seen following Hiroshima and the coverage that had plastered the evening news during Vietnam. There were old women beating each other with their purses over Pilgrim salt-and-pepper shakers and pumpkin candlestick holders. He was beginning to wonder if the prophets had it wrong. Perhaps the end of the world was going to be nothing more than an all out brawl on who got the turkey napkin holders rather than a definitive battle between good and evil. At that moment, he’d believe it. The entire place had turned into ground zero for some cataclysmic disaster.

“I got something!” Buffy gasped when she resurfaced from the mob, holding a few unrecognizable items above her head in victory.

“What the hell is that?”

“Streamers,” she answered, gasping for air. “And some turkeys to hang from the ceiling.”

Spike just looked at her, then chuckled and shook his head. “Your fanaticism about this sodding holiday is beginnin’ to worry me.”

“What?”

He pointed at the mob of people behind her, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the way of a shopper who was about to make the dangerous leap inward. “We need to get outta here,” he said. “Before you spot some whipped cream with turkeys on the canister.”

Her eyes brightened. “There’s whipped cream with turkeys on the canister? I didn’t—”

A low growl rumbled through his throat and he jerked her out of the Aisle of No Return, toward the city-length checkout line. “No.”

“But if it’s seasonal—”

“No,” he barked. “We’ve already been here for three bloody hours. I’m not gonna let you risk your neck by goin’ back into that madhouse for whipped bloody cream that might not exist. The stuff we have’s fine, all right?”

“You really don’t want to be here, do you?”

“The firs’ hour an’ a half or so wasn’ so bad.”

“Oh.” She winced. “Sorry. How long did you say we’ve been here?”

“Three hours.”

Three long, agonizing hours with bloody pulsers all around him, complete with pounding hearts and racing pulses and tasty-smelling adrenalin. Not a bite to be had. He was starving, he was in a food market, but they didn’t sell what would satisfy his hunger. It was torture.

Buffy’s eyes widened in shock. “Liar!”

“Yeh. I’ve bewitched time to do my bidding.” He pointed to the clock which read a quarter of twelve. “Well, nearly four hours.”

“We’ve been in the grocery store for four hours?!”

“This is what I’m sayin’.” Spike tugged on her arm again, pulling her out of the way of another flying customer. He was beginning to think the entire supermarket was possessed, rather than simply the Slayer’s grocery list.

“This is the kinda thing that people usually exaggerate about,” he muttered.

“What?”

He gestured at the ensuing madness around them. “This. All of this. It’s the sort’ve thing you’d see satirized in a comedy skit. Not bloody well acted out in live action.”

Buffy grinned and shrugged. “Only on the Hellmouth, eh?”

“All the entertainment’s up close an’ personal,” he agreed.

Her grin broadened into a smile, and Spike decided right then that it was worth a thousand torturous years to be on the receiving end of her good graces.

Even Buffy’s fervent obsession with the holiday was worth it. He’d do anything to be near her. She was his kind of crazy. The only kind for him. And if she let him close enough, he’d never let her go.

Somehow they had managed to spend the entire afternoon at her place, which was perfectly fine with him. After putting the groceries up, Buffy had yawned and stretched and noted that she was tired. Spike had scoured the video selection, and after persuading her that slowing down to watch a flick when she obviously needed a break wasn’t going to hurt anyone, popped in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Predictably, she was asleep within five minutes.

It touched him that she was comfortable enough around him to sleep in his presence. Admittedly, he’d spent more time watching her than the movie. She was snuggled at the opposite end of the sofa, her arms hugging a pillow, and she looked so peaceful it stole the unneeded breath from his lungs.

He only wished that she had curled in his arms before napping, but that would take crossing a boundary they hadn’t come to just yet.

The movie had been over for about an hour, and Buffy was back in full holiday mode, reenergized from her powernap. He watched her under the pretense of being irritated with himself, though there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be. She was so bloody adorable when she let herself worry about anything other than the world of demons and sacred callings.

Spike glanced up from where he was leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette wedged between his lips. The Slayer was currently atop one of the dining room chairs, holding up the red and orange streamer before the window. She had hung another in the entryway before the staircase alongside the several decorative paper turkeys that would make Martha Stewart proud.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

He was impressed. Buffy had taken a few dollar-store items and employed them wisely. The touch was subtle, slightly silly but it suited her well: a fine line between refined and idiosyncratic. And she was looking at him with such anticipation that even the witty retort curled and waiting on his tongue died without ceremony. Her nerves were beginning to get the better of her.

“Looks good, sweetling.”

Her brow furrowed. “Really?”

Spike nodded. “I like it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Well, I’m not sayin’ it looks like Windsor Castle, but I think you’ve done a right good job, considerin’ what you had to work with.”

She smirked. “Funny boy.”

Spike arched a brow and removed the fag from his lips. “Boy?” he drawled.

“Well, I’m assuming you have…” Her eyes wandered southward, and out of nowhere, he became self conscious. Bloody unpredictable chit. “That which makes you male.”

You lookin’ for a demonstration, pet?

The thought made him tremble with want, and he had to break eye contact to maintain a semblance of control. “Erm, well,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “Point is, not a bleeding boy. All man here.”

“Awww. Did I hurt wittle Spikey’s pride?”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Who are you callin’ little?”

“Someone’s sensitive,” she teased.

“You know, for someone who’s so bloody dependent on me for her party, you do talk a good talk.” He smirked and ran his fingers down his front, a small thrill shivering down his spine when the tease abandoned her eyes. There was nothing that he relished more than the look on her face, her gaze following the path of his hand, her mouth all but watering.

Just say the word, Slayer, an’ I’m all yours.

“I…ummm…” Her cheeks rouged and she turned quickly back to her decorations. “I’m just going to…ummm…”

It all happened fast. Buffy’s speedy whirl-around caused the chair she was standing on to rock against the sofa, and in seconds, it fell from under her. Spike didn’t have time to think—it was all instinct. He bolted across the room, catching her in his arms as she impulsively reached for him. Her legs wrapped around his waist as a surprised yelp tore from her lips, and somehow he ended up with his face buried in her soft breasts.

Oh fuck.

Spike was captured in absolute rapture for a few wonderful seconds. Buffy was in his arms. Her warmth was pressed against him, her heart hammering against his ear, her pulse was racing. God, she smelled good enough to eat; like baby powder and the hint of lavender. She was so ready for him. He’d enjoyed long whiffs of her arousal before—usually something that accompanied them mutually through a long patrol. Something that inspired a good wank afterwards. He couldn’t get enough of that scent…and he was closer to it now than ever before.

His mouth itched to sample her soft, perfect globes. To pull her shirt down and tease her nipples as his hand explored the wetness pooling between her legs. To put this agonizing charade to a rest and give them both what they wanted. He’d make it good for her. So bloody good that she’d never question his feelings, or think to tell him that it was wrong between slayers and vampires because of one lousy experience with his wanker of a grandsire.

It couldn’t last, though. Not in their world. Their world was reserved for longing glances and lonely nights of dreaming for each other.

Buffy expelled a deep breath. “Spike?”

“Slayer,” he growled into her, his hands sliding up her thighs until he was holding her ass. “Buffy…”

“I—I think you can p-put me down now.”

He sighed in defeat and lowered her to the ground. He missed her warmth immediately. “Was jus’ gettin’ comfy,” he complained, plastering on an awkward smile.

“Well…I…ummm…” She was bright red, and looking anywhere but at him. “I…we better go to the Magic Box now. It’s almost dark…and stuff. Turkey.”

Spike nodded and sighed again, casting a hand through his hair. “Right. Come on. Let’s be off.”

The day had gone by so quickly, and he didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to go home that night and be away from her until the following morning. Every time he was allowed near her, every time the part of him that was hopelessly addicted to her got its fix, the pangs of withdrawal dug deeper. He always needed more by the time she left him to return to her life of forced normalcy.

Buffy slipped into a jacket at the door, which baffled him as she was hot enough to warm the both of them. It barely hit seventy-nine degrees on the coldest day of the year, yet she managed to shudder as though she was freezing.

Women.

She turned to him at last, smiling kindly, her nervousness still palpable albeit controlled. Spike couldn’t help himself; his insides melted on cue and he soaked up her warmth as though he hadn’t seen her face in a thousand years.

“You were right,” she said.

“Huss’at?” His eyes were trained on her mouth. She was a breath away.

A wicked look danced across her face, and her eyes dropped to his crotch. “Definitely all man.”

Spike nearly choked in surprise. “You saucy minx.”

She grinned and sprinted out the door.

He followed her with a predatory gaze. “I’m gonna let you have it,” he drawled before taking off after her.

The air between them had changed. By the time the shop was in view, Buffy was certain she was just hanging around Spike as means of sacrament. A constant reminder of what she couldn’t have. Forbidden fruit, as it was. Been there, done that. She’d already gotten her fill of the Tree of Knowledge. No going back for seconds for Buffy.

And yet, Spike was right beside her. He’d had that look in his eyes again tonight. He’d wanted to kiss her almost as much as she’d wanted to be kissed. Lousy vampires ignoring lousy preset boundaries by lousy Powers That Be that were determined to make her life all around lousy.

He’s not like Angel, that logical voice told her for millionth time.

He’s still a vampire, replied the increasingly annoying voice that she wanted to jerk from her consciousness altogether. Honestly, what did it know, anyway?

“I really shouldn’t have left the turkey all day.” She sent him a meaningful glare. “Damn you and your tempting nap suggestions.”

“That’s right, luv. Blame the vamp.”

“It’s what you’re there for, right?”

“Savin’ your bum when things go south? Yeh, seems about right.”

“Well, you’re not a very good vamp, then. Saving the Slayer? Totally not a part of the job description.”

Spike tossed her a narrow look. “Oh, I’d say I’m a very good vamp, Slayer.”

Her face heated and her gaze darted to the ground. “You would,” she retorted, crossing her arms as a means of self-preservation.

“Well, after all, good is relative.” He winked as they came to a halt before the Magic Box. “’Sides, heaven forbid you get a li’l shuteye. Yeh, I guess you’re right, kitten. I am one heartless bastard.”

No you’re not. That’s the problem.

Spike gestured to the lock. “You wanna do the honors, or shall I?”

“You’re a bad influence,” Buffy retorted, digging in her pockets for a hair pin.

He favored her with a rakish smirk and ran his tongue across his teeth. “The baddest, baby.”

She shot him a look but didn’t reply. There were certain things she simply couldn’t trust with her voice.

“Prepare to be amazed,” she said a minute later, standing straight up. “Inside is irrefutable proof that there’s more than one way to thaw a turkey.”

They proved to be famous last words. The minute she opened the door, whether by movement or eerily timed tricks of the Hellmouth, said turkey crashed to the counter. It was so sudden, Buffy couldn’t help but jump. Anya’s trinkets broke and scattered and bits of water splashed across the floor. The turkey rocked for a second at the edge of the wrap desk, then finally collapsed to the ground with an anticlimactic thud.

The air around them grew very still. Then Spike couldn’t help himself. He released a long roar of a laugh and clapped appraisingly.

“Well done, Slayer,” he commended.

She didn’t say anything. Rather, she stared at the mess for a long beat, released a sigh, then turned and walked away.

“’S not that bad!” Spike amended quickly, scouring to lock up the store again before he tore after her. “Buffy!”

She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

“Luv, I’m sorry, okay? I jus’…I don’ know what you expected. You stuck the sodding turkey up there an’ jus’—”

Buffy threw her hands up. “I know, okay? No lecture.”

“I wasn’ gonna—”

“No lecture.” She shook her head furiously. “This isn’t going to work. None of this is going to work. Who am I kidding? I can’t pull off a Thanksgiving meal. I can’t even thaw a turkey! I’m just—”

“You pulled it off last year, din’t you?”

“Giles and Willow were helping me,” she whimpered, wiping at her eyes. Stupid girlish tears. Gonna mock me for that, too. “But Will went to see Tara’s mom and Giles…”

“Y’don’t need the Watcher, pet. We’ll work this out, yeh?”

“Nothing is going right!”

“Bollocks. The turkey fell. So what? We dunno that it din’t thaw. Looked to me that the shelf was jus’ slippery from where the ice was meltin’, which was really kinda predictable.” His hand found her back and began caressing her soothingly. “Everything else is goin’ fine, sweets. Jus’ stop expectin’ the worst from yourself. There’s no need to panic every time somethin’ happens off the hoof like that.”

A long sigh rolled off her body. He was right, of course. He was right too often.

“You’re right,” she said, kicking at the ground.

Spike arched his brows. “I’m what?”

“You heard me.”

“I want you to say it again. Come on, now. ‘S not so hard. Take a deep breath an’ say, ‘Spike, you were right, I was wrong, an’ as a reward for bein’ right—’”

“You get rewards now?”

“What fun is there in bein’ right if there are no rewards?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Typical.”

“But I’m still right against your wrongness.”

She offered a non-committal shrug. “However—”

“No. No ‘however.’ Just be wrong. Just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it.”

“Ass.”

“Bint.”

A giggle rose in her throat and she looped her arm spontaneously through his, ignoring the annoying voice of everything anti-vampire. Her skin tingled to be so close to his. “You’re a big jerk, but you’re kinda fun sometimes,” she said as they crossed into the graveyard. It shouldn’t have surprised her that this was where he led her instinctively—or rather where they led each other. This routine was rooted in the fabric of every night.

“I’m fun all the time,” Spike retorted with an expected leer. “In fact…” He gestured to the nearest headstone. “Sit down, luv.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide and her heart started thundering. “What?”

“Sit down. Gonna show you how much fun I can be.”

Oh god, oh GOD! So not ready for this.

Yet she didn’t object. She was tingling with fear and anticipation, but she couldn’t deny him anything.

I am in so much trouble.

Spike moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’re tremblin’,” he murmured. “Scared, sweetheart?”

“Scared?” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound as uncertain as she felt. “You’ve never scared me, Spike.”

“Now, now, pet. You’re lyin’ again.”

“I am—ohhh. Ohhhhh, my God! What are you doing?”

Suddenly his voice was very close. “Don’ tell me no one’s ever given you a massage before, Slayer.” His hands were playing her body like a harp, and she was melting rather rapidly into a puddle of slayer-putty. God, he could proposition her all he wanted if he kept doing that.

“Ahhh.” She rotated her shoulders into his magical touch, her body shuddering. “God, that feels fantastic.”

She heard him exhale deeply, as though strained. She knew she sounded suggestive, and at the moment, she didn’t care. It was a rare day that anyone ever sought to see if she was doing all right in all realms of the job. As long as she was still breathing, the world seemed content. No matter if she pulled a muscle here or sprained an ankle there—she was the Slayer, and as long as she was alive and kicking, everyone around her was satisfied.

“Better?” he asked raggedly.

Buffy nodded dreamily and relaxed into him. “Mmmm…I am so your bitch for life.”

Okay, so he had obviously hexed her. There was no way she would say that to Spike, whose job, other than being evil, had somehow reverted on a nonstop plan of slayer seduction.

Said hex was likewise the reason she didn’t know when to stop talking. “How do you always know?”

“Know what?”

“What I need?”

Her mind had been completely taken over by Buffy The Lust Bunny. Whatever she said was against her will.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to convey that to Spike with any measure of success. Whenever she tried to open her mouth and let him know that she obviously didn’t mean any of her whimpers or pleasured gasps that sounded much naughtier than they were, she either sang his praises or moaned in delight.

“Buffy,” he murmured, his mouth much closer now. Then—oh God, he was suckling at her throat. Vampire at her neck, and all she could do was whimper in encouragement. His hands left her shoulders, wrapping around her middle as his mouth laved her skin in sweet, soft kisses. “Want you so bad, kitten.”

“Guh.”

The next thing she knew, she had twisted in his embrace, thrown her arms around his neck, and had attacked his mouth with hers. To hell with everything else—Spike was the only thing in her world that made sense. That kept making sense. That didn’t surprise her, even where he should. The fact that they were friends? It seemed natural after everything. The fact that he was the one she kept running to? Well, that’s what friends were for, right? The fact that no man’s touch had ever made her feel so alive? That had to mean something. Cliché as it was, it was the truth. Her body reacted like a lightening rod if he so much as brushed up against her. Now his lips were forming words against hers, their tongues tangling, a low, throaty moan rumbling through him that she had somehow inspired—she swore then that life didn’t get any better than this. He tasted of cigarettes and smelled of leather. Tasted like liberation itself. And God, his arms were around her, holding her body to his as his tongue explored her mouth. If he was temptation embodied, then she wanted nothing more than to roll in it. Screw the rest, she had what she wanted.

She’d never been so turned on from a simple kiss before. Granted, nothing between her and Spike could ever be considered simple.

“Buffy…my God.”

She didn’t know how they ended up on the ground, or at what point she straddled his waist. And it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at all. She was grinding herself into the hardness that pressed against her, swallowing his whimpers with her own. She drank him in as though she was dying of thirst, and he was the only one who could provide solace.

At some point, though, reality had to come crashing down. Buffy tore her mouth from his with a heavy gasp, her wide eyes taking in their surroundings. They were still in the cemetery, despite the fact that the ground had definitely moved.

“Buffy,” Spike gasped. She was on top of Spike. Her legs were on either side of him, and she was sitting on his erection. He was looking at her like a man starved, though recognition burned behind his eyes. He knew what was coming. God, he knew before she did. “Buffy, I…I din’t…”

The world collapsed around her with all its cruelty.

Stupid, stupid.

“I…I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, clamoring to her feet. “I was…ummm…”

He stared at her for a minute, swallowing her in his gaze.

“We…” Buffy brushed dirt off her jeans, avoiding his eyes at all costs. “We should get back to the Magic Box,” she said. “See about the turkey. Get stuff ready for tomorrow.”

There was a long pause followed by a sigh of defeat. Spike climbed to his feet, wiping his hands, and nodded solemnly. “Sure thing, pet. Lead the way.”

She released a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. Pleaded with him without words to understand. “Okay.”

She took his hand without waiting for him to offer it. There would be no running from this. No denying that it had happened. No pretending that her world hadn’t again been turned upside down. No pretending that whatever she had with Spike wasn’t exactly what she wanted.

“Just give me time,” she muttered when he shot her a confused look. “I wasn’t ready.”

Spike held her eyes for a long minute, then nodded softly and kissed her brow. “I’ll wait till the end of the world,” he replied.

“That’s a long time.”

“Says who?”

She smirked. “Touché. Call it wishful thinking.”

“Well, I know what I’ll be thinking of wishfully tonight.” He shot her a cocky grin and waggled his brows. And her body flooded with warmth.

Maybe, for the first time, what she wanted and what was right could peacefully coexist.

Maybe. Spike made the impossible seem possible.

And when she was ready, she was going to take him by storm.

It gave her something to look forward to.

Part III

The shrill of the doorbell ringing was undoubtedly the most harmonious sound to ever grace the air

“Oh, thank God.”

Already she had been cooking since she awoke and she felt her control on the situation slipping from her grasp. She had the unsettling feeling that the day was going to be a disaster.

But now it was okay. Spike would take care of everything. He was, after all, the designated cook.

Buffy threw the door open with a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God,” she gasped again, somehow managing to avoid lunging into his arms. Cook now, play later. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“I know!” She grabbed his wrist and jerked him into the house. It was just a few minutes before dawn, and between pacing in wait of his arrival and groaning at the sight of the mess she’d created, she’d fretted about asking him to come over so near sunrise. The day had not started off on the right foot. “Sorry, today’s just a massive wig-fest.”

Spike perked a brow. “Miss me already?”

“That and I’m about ready to bomb the kitchen.”

His eyes sparkled. “Looks like I got here jus’ in time, then.”

“Get in here.”

“I think I’d like to hear you say that when we’re both naked,” he purred, favoring her with a long, rakish leer. “Calm down, pet. We’ve got time to fix whatever you feel you’ve bollixed up.”

“This is going to be a nightmare,” she whimpered.

“Where’s the trust?”

“I’m panicking here!”

Spike smirked. “Couldn’t tell. Look, pet, it’s gonna be all right. Jus’ let me get to the kitchen. Half the stuff we won’ be able to get into until two hours before your dinner. Let’s jus’ get the turkey cookin’, yeh?”

“It’s in there. And I think the stuffing looks good, but I—”

“Buffy—”

“This is a mess. Why did I get myself involved in this? It must be some spell…some holiday-crazy spell. I’m insane. I’m certifiable. I make Drusilla look like some Aristotle-like philosopher. I—”

He burst out laughing at that and took her by the shoulders. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “calm down. ‘S all right. All right? Spike’s here now, an’ he’ll take care of everythin’.”

His eyes were warm and his embrace looked so welcoming that she couldn’t help herself a minute longer. The next thing she knew, she had buried herself in his arms, sighing softly when he held her against him. There was nothing suggestive—nothing much. It was nice simply being held. He gave her more comfort in a matter of seconds than any other man had given her in the duration of an entire relationship.

“Thank you.” She pulled back reluctantly, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“No one really does.”

Buffy smirked and hit his shoulder. “Okay…let’s get this thing done.”

“Jus’ for the record, luv, you could never be as insane as Dru.”

A shiver of jealousy surged through her at that. She didn’t handle images of the men she loved with other women very well, though the second she met his eyes, time suspended and all became abundantly clear.

“Trust me,” he said softly. “I consider that a virtue. You, I can talk to. I din’t even realize I was missin’ that until…” He glanced down awkwardly and cast a hand through his hair. “Well, I…”

It was somewhat disconcerting to see Spike get nervous and flustered when hey, that was so her role. And yet, there wasn’t even one part of her that didn’t warm in adoration. Buffy smiled softly and leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. “Gotcha,” she murmured.

“You have no bloody idea.”

She flashed a grin. “I think I have some idea.”

“An’ here I thought I was s’posed to be the evil one,” he retorted, breaking away from her and moving toward the kitchen. “Come on. We need to salvage what we can.”

“What we can? What happened to the optimism?”

He shrugged. “Calmed you down, dinn’it?”

“You ass.”

The insult had no punch. She wasn’t angry; rather, her entire being was immersed in relief simply with his presence. The burden of perfection was off her shoulders. She now had the perfect scapegoat.

“An’ don’ even think about blamin’ this mess on me, luv,” Spike said as he surveyed the kitchen.

“Why not?” she whined.

“’S your bed. You lie in it.”

“You mean you won’t…” She paused, not meeting his eyes, her cheeks flushing as she realized the full connotations of finishing that thought. “I mean—can’t I use your being British as an excuse? ‘He’s from England. He doesn’t get it.’”

“No deal. I’m not here to take the fall for your shortcomings.”

“Hey!”

Spike just tossed her a grin and pulled the fridge open. “You got the bird in the oven, right?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been up for a half hour. That was the first thing I did.”

“Well, it’s either gonna be extremely well done or jus’ right. I thought it was s’posed to cook for only four hours or so. ‘S a twenty-pounder, right?”

“Four to five, and yes.”

“So your guests are gonna be here at ten in the bloody mornin’?”

“It’s a noon thing.”

Spike just shook his head. “Bloody Americans changin’ traditions on me. Wasn’ the supper in the evenin’ last year?”

“I’m trying to avert disaster by not starting a tradition!” she cried. “Something you’re not exactly helping me with, Mister!”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have more mood swings than—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll—”

“My point exactly.” He grinned. “Look, you have the thermometer, right? Turkey’ll be ready when the thickest part of the thigh reaches a hundred an’ eighty degrees.”

Buffy sighed. “How do you know these things?”

“I did my research. Din’t wanna botch up your dinner.” He gestured to the island. “Also, your cookbook is open.”

“The thermometer’s in the cabinet.”

He nodded. “An’ you said you had the stuffing?”

“It’s cooking.”

“Where?”

She arched a brow and pointed dubiously to the oven. “In the turkey.”

Spike sighed. “Bollocks.”

“What?”

“Well, now we gotta make sure it cooks. If it doesn’ cook, people are gonna get sick.” He paused. “Though that might be bloody funny. Fancy to see what shades of green we can turn your Watcher?”

Buffy froze. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“Are you kidding me? Where does it say that? How do you know that? Why do you know how to cook a turkey?”

“I don’…or I din’t until I cracked open a cookbook last night.”

“You read cookbooks?”

He gave her a look. “I nicked one of yours. Din’t think you’d mind, since I did it with your best interest at heart.”

“Well, you probably took the one that mentioned that, with my luck.”

“I was gonna be doin’ most of the cookin’ anyway. Figured it was only fair.” Spike finished his survey of the fridge and closed the door with a sigh. “But let’s worry less about that right now. We have another problem.”

Buffy released a long, strangled moan. “Oh God.”

“Apparently, we forgot to pick somethin’ up at the Battle of Antietam yesterday.”

“The supermarket?”

“I hear they call it that.”

“Is it something mega important? You don’t want to go to the supermarket on Thanksgiving.”

“I din’t particularly wanna go yesterday, but yeh, I’d say it’s important.”

“Important to the point where people will notice?”

Spike tossed her a look. “I dunno, pet. How important do you think butter is?”

Buffy reached for the counter dramatically. “Oh crap.”

“In a bloody nutshell. Guess it’s back to the quickie mart for us. In the meantime…” He slid on a pair of oven mitts, which made her giggle in the midst of her panicking. “Let’s save the turkey, yeh?”

He pried open the oven door and peered inside. “Oven looks cold,” he observed. “Bet you forgot to preheat.”

“Yeah…I don’t understand preheating. How can you preheat an oven? There are only two states an oven can be in: heated or unheated.”

“Well, it might buy us some time, then.”

It didn’t take much. Spike, predictably, did the bulk of the work.

“Will you marry me and be my cook?” Buffy asked from where she was seated on the counter, mesmerized by the way he worked.

He tossed her a narrow glance. “Be careful what you wish for, luv,” he retorted, dumping the stuffing into the trash.

“Hey!”

“You made it without butter,” he reminded her, silencing her objection. “Don’ reckon even I’ll try to brave it.”

Buffy glanced down with shame. “I thought I was being helpful. I didn’t want you to have to do everything. It’s supposed to be my—”

“We’ll deal with it, sweet. I don’ mind doin’ everythin’.”

“I mind you doing everything.”

“You’re jus’ afraid I’m gonna lace the veggies with cyanide,” he teased, sliding the turkey back into the oven. “We’ll let this cook while we brave the market, yeh? Figure we have to be back within five hours.”

“Five hours?”

“Well, we’re jus’ goin’ for butter.”

“Oh God.”

He smiled. “Relax, luv. Unless you want me to get you a sedative while we’re out.”

She pouted. “Very funny.”

“Come on.” Spike placed his hand on her back as they navigated toward the basement. “It’s early enough that we might miss the rush.”

The statement proved to be another prime example of famous last words. Thirty minutes later, entering a place that could only be explained as D-Day sans the whimsy, a flying customer collapsed at their feet as they walked inside the sliding doors, followed by an old granny who was using language that would make a sailor blush.

Buffy sighed. “You were saying?”

“Yeh, well, I called that wrong.”

“I think this place is hexed.”

“Right there with you, luv.”

It was impossible to survey the landscape. Two rows of florescent lights had gone out, giving the market the eerie feel of being completely lost to darkness. Darkness that was definitely predawn darkness and not post-dusk—it had a completely different feel. Buffy supposed it would be different once the sun had fully risen, as she’d never been inside a grocery store before dawn; for the moment, she had her doubts.

There was no room for movement. The muffled arguments and barked commands, the battles over the shopping carts—she was beginning to resign herself to the fact that the holiday was doomed.

Spike seized her hand. “Come on,” he said hurriedly. “We’ll make a run for it.”

“I don’t—”

“Jus’ don’ let go of my hand,” he said.

And before she could object, they ploughed forward; right into the eye of the hurricane. How he navigated them through the sea of people, she would never know. She felt her body tugged in every which way. Felt her skin jabbed, her flesh bruised, her feet stepped on. She heard Spike curse loudly several times, but he didn’t stop. He kept pushing; kept moving forward.

“Are you okay?” she asked when he came to a stop in the dairy section, placing a hand to his face. He looked a bit dazed.

“Bloody chip fired about a thousand times.”

Buffy nodded, seizing the last container of butter with a long sigh of relief. “Okay. Let’s make another run for it. Keep running no matter what happens.”

“You want me to nick it?”

“Well, technically I’m ‘nicking’ it. And don’t give me that look! I think this place is possessed, and I have no qualms about stealing butter from a possessed supermarket.”

Spike nodded, impressed. “Way to go, Slayer.”

“Shut up.”

“This is a big step for you, you know.”

“I swear—”

“I’m proud, really. After all, this could—” He broke off suddenly; the tease abandoned his eyes and he quickly jerked her to him, pulling her out of the way of another flying customer. The man crashed haphazardly to the floor and hopped up again, seemingly undeterred, before leaping right back into the mounting chaos around them. “Right. Enough of that. Let’s go.”

Before they could make a run for it, however, something grabbed a hold of the vampire’s wrist and nearly tugged him to the ground.

“What the bleeding—”

Attached to his arm, seemingly from nowhere, was a small, mean-looking old woman with an intensely displeased look on her face.

“The hell!” Buffy yelped. “What’s your problem, lady?”

“I believe you’re holding my butter,” she said crossly.

Spike yanked himself free with a snarl. “You believe wrong.”

“I saw it first.”

“Says who? We’ve been over here for five minutes!”

“I’m an old woman. I can’t cross the store as quickly as you ungrateful youngsters,” she grumbled. “Now hand it over. I saw it first.”

“Well, I grabbed it first,” the Slayer retorted, her eyes narrowing. “So tough luck.”

The vampire flashed her a surprised look, as though he had expected her better angels to overcome the devil on her shoulder. He was in for it, if that was the case. The day was going bad enough without some old granny trying to rassle them over a tub of butter.

Especially with an argument as lame as hers was. She saw it first? Big whup. If everyone got what they wanted based on seeing it first, society would be an all-around free-for-all—more so than it was already.

Unfortunately, no one had told the granny that.

“Let go!” the woman shrieked. “You little harlot!”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “What did you call me?”

Spike wasn’t quite so passive. He stepped forward heatedly, his gaze burning with animosity, his body language universal. “Look, you old bint, we nabbed the bloody butter fairly, an’ we’re leavin’ with it. Now apologize to my lady an’ go bother someone else.”

There had to be some Thanksgiving demon going around, controlling things and people at random. Either that or something truly was in the water. The next second, the old woman, unfazed, lifted her handbag high over her head, and brought it crashing down across the vampire’s back as though he had just made a lewd suggestion.

“Fuck!” Spike snarled. “What the bleedin’ hell is your problem?!”

“Hey!” Buffy cried, shoving the old woman back. She didn’t relent. Rather, the Slayer’s interference made her the handbag’s target, and Spike’s control, consequentially, snapped cleanly in half.

It was a surprise to everyone when his bumpies burst forward. An even greater surprise when he collapsed to the ground with the firing of the chip, having reacted as a vampire would. However, seeing his fangs was evidently the push the old woman needed. She ran screaming in the other direction, forgoing the butter to the Slayer’s ownership, and disappeared among the masses.

Buffy fell to her knees beside Spike and ran her fingers tenderly through his hair. “You okay?”

“Bloody hate this chip,” he grumbled, nuzzling her hand.

“I know.”

“Crazy old bird?”

“Gone.”

“Good.” He sighed and rose to his feet, holding onto the Slayer’s hand all the while. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

Sweeter words were never uttered.

“Well, don’ you look edible?” Spike drawled, raking his eyes down her body as she bounded into the kitchen. “You’re bound an’ determined to distract me, aren’ you?”

Buffy flushed and looked down, inspecting her clothing. She wasn’t wearing anything special; rather, she had changed quickly into what she called ‘cooking attire,’ which basically consisted of a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Definitely nothing worthy of the lusty looks her vampire was sending her. It was perhaps the least sexy thing she owned.

“I need to find some Christmas music to play while we make stuff,” she said, averting her eyes quickly. “Giles is on his way.”

“Already?”

“Yeah. I think he wants to be near to supervise the cooking. Make sure I don’t do something…well, hazardous.”

“An’ by you, you mean…?”

She smiled and stroked his arm. “He just knows you too well to trust you.”

Spike smirked. “Funny girl.”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like me.”

“Perish the thought.” He plopped a casserole dish before her and handed her a wooden spoon. “Stir.”

“What is it?”

“The new stuffin’ plus butter.”

Buffy shook her head. “I swear, I’m going to talk to Giles about getting the supermarket exorcised,” she muttered. “There is absolutely no way those people weren’t under the influence of something.”

“I’ve been sayin’ that since yesterday, when you were under the influence.”

“What? I was not!”

Spike arched a brow. “I knew I shoulda brought a camcorder.”

“I was so not under any influence.”

“You jumped into a bloody moshpit of battlin’ customers to…what? Get a couple paper turkeys an’ festive streamers? You were off your nutter.”

She averted her eyes back to the ingredients she was stirring. “Was not,” she pouted, though the punch had abandoned her argument.

“You nearly tripped over yourself to go back an’ find whipped cream with a turkey on the canister.”

“Shut up.”

“Jus’ sayin’, luv.” He moved to the oven and pried it open. “Where’s your mum?”

“Upstairs, getting ready,” Buffy replied.

“Getting ready?”

“She wants to look nice for our Thanksgiving dinner. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Jus’ seems a li’l much to get ready for a bloody meal that’s bein’ cooked in your own home.”

“You just don’t get it.”

“Not arguin’.” He paused. “Sweetling? You say you had the turkey in the oven an hour before I got here this mornin’?”

“Half hour,” she corrected. “Why?”

“So it’s been in…hour an’ a half? Two hours?”

She moaned. “Where we really at the supermarket that long?”

Spike smiled. “Possessed, remember?”

“Yeah. Okay. Why?”

“’S not cookin’.”

There was a long pause.

“What?”

“’S not cookin’. This turkey’s a twenty-pounder; it should be…well…” He gestured to the oven. “’S not cookin’.”

“Oh my God. Why?” That wealth of panic that she was certain would be associated with Thanksgiving from this point forward surged with sudden strength. “Oh my God. Oh God. Oh God. What am I going to do? Spike, I—”

He turned to her and grasped her by the shoulders. “Calm down.”

“Calm down? My turkey—”

“I got another one.”

It took her a few long seconds to comprehend that sentence.

“You…what?”

“I bought another turkey yesterday.”

“When?! You were with me all day!”

He nodded. “Remember when we got separated in the market?”

Her eyes flashed with ire. “You got separated from me ‘cause you didn’t have faith in my ability to cook a turkey?”

“I wanted to make sure we had all bases covered.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look. If you wanna be pissed at me for lookin’ out for you—as usual—fine. You can yell at me all you want, but I have to make your bloody dinner right now, okay?”

He turned to the fridge without waiting for a reply. Buffy glared at his back for a few seconds, then exhaled deeply and realized she was being foolish. Unsurprisingly foolish. So what if he’d been looking out for her best interest, and that her best interest just happened to involve buying something as means of making sure they had a Plan B should her Plan A go sour? Wasn’t preparation the smart thing to do?

Logic told her so, even if she felt she reserved the right to be irritated. It would be nice, after all, if someone just once exhibited a little faith in her ability to do something normal.

“Bollocks,” she heard him murmur.

“What?”

“Never mind about the spare.”

Urge to panic rising. “What?! Oh no, why?”

“I din’t look at it. Couldn’t…too many bloody people, an’ I din’t want you to see it. Din’t want you to get all upset an’…”

“Spike?”

“’S not turkey.” He held up the package. “’S steak.”

Buffy just stared at him for a long moment.

“Yeh, I know,” he muttered, tossing the frozen meat to the island. “Sorry. I jus’ wanted to make sure everythin’ went right for you, ‘cause it was important. I buggered it up.”

No, he hadn’t. None of this was his fault.

“Spike…”

“Look, I’ll go back an’ face the mob. Bloody doubt there’s any turkey left, but we might be able—”

“What? Are you crazy? I’m not sending you back to that place.”

“Slayer—”

“Make the steak. It’ll be fine.”

He was looking at her as though she had sprouted horns. “Kitten, I’ll jus’—”

“No, you will not. I don’t want you to go back there. Especially now with Giles on the way and…look, the steaks will be fine. It’ll be our new tradition to avoid Buffy-screw-ups when it comes to thawing impossible-to-thaw meats. It’s fine.” As if to solidify how fine it was, she narrowed the space between them, cupped his cheeks, and caressed his lips tenderly with hers. “And I’m sorry for bitching earlier. I just…I wanted to do something right.”

His eyes smoldered. “You do many things right,” he retorted. Then grinned. “An’ please, Slayer. You wouldn’t be yourself if you weren’t bitching half the time.”

“Shut up,” she replied, albeit good-naturedly. “…And make the steaks?”

“Consider ‘em made.”

Buffy beamed at him. “I’m gonna go search for Christmas music.”

“Wrong bloody holiday,” he reminded her, his gaze glued to her backside as she bounded off.

“There are no Thanksgiving songs,” she retorted, turning briefly to face him, her eyes twinkling.

“I’m not singin’ We Gather Together again. No bloody way.”

“Then don’t complain about my musical selection.”

He smirked and pried open the cellophane wrapping surrounding the frozen meat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There were certain styles, Buffy reckoned, that her mother had kept simply for the hope that one day they would be back in fashion. The sweater she was currently wearing was no exception. A big brown gaudy thing with pumpkin-orange checkers; she usually accredited her mother with dressing sensibly, though there were the noted times when her fashion radar was severely off the mark.

Nevertheless, she was her mother, and moms were prone to dress like hapless stylist victims…especially on holidays. Besides, the sweater was, if anything, seasonally appropriate.

“Hey, Mom? Where’s our Bing album?”

“In the basket of CDs next to the fireplace,” she answered. “What smells so good?”

“Whatever Spike’s cooking in there.”

Joyce favored Buffy with a long, maternal look. “Are you making Spike do all the work?”

“Mom, he practically volunteered.”

“She has me shackled!” Spike called from the kitchen, his voice full of mirth.

“Buffy!”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s kidding.”

“I thought the entire idea was that you were going to cook dinner.”

“Yeah, well, Spike’s a rare breed of…helper vamps. That’s what he does.”

“She threatened me! Said she’d bathe me in holy water ‘f I din’t comply!” Spike, however, appeared in the doorway the next second, looking anything but imprisoned. “Got the steaks on the stove,” he said, nodding politely to her mother. “’F you wanna start on the other goodies…”

“I wanna find my Bing album first.”

“I keep tellin’ her she has the wrong bloody holiday,” the vampire explained to Joyce, his voice compact with false burden as though greatly troubled.

“Just don’t let her work you too hard.”

Buffy froze from where she was digging through the CDs. She could practically hear the retort ready and curled on her vampire’s tongue, and silently begged that the one shred of tact that he had in his vile body would command his lips to keep it in that deviant mouth of his where it belonged.

Fortunately, she didn’t have to suffer through the next few seconds of uncomfortable dialogue to determine whether or not her plea had been answered. The doorbell rang.

“Oh, that’ll be Giles!” she quipped, leaping to her feet. “I’ll get it!”

She felt Spike’s amusement as his eyes followed her to the hallway. Lousy pervert vampires.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” she said as she opened the door, a large smile plastered on her face. “…Dad?”

Her smile froze. She didn’t know what to do.

From the living room, she heard her mother pause and say, “I’ll go get the Scotch.”

Hank Summers just smiled warmly and nodded at her, as though his presence after four years of missed birthdays and limited phone calls was just what the doctor ordered. Especially unannounced. On one of the biggest holidays of the year.

“Surprise,” he said.

Buffy just stared at him.

He really had no idea.

Part IV

Spike tossed Buffy a sympathetic glance. She had been pacing ever since she returned from her second wardrobe change, muttering a tapestry of obscenity under her breath that he was impressed she knew how to use properly. Hank was in the family room, chatting with Joyce and the Watcher, going over the past few years as though he had been gone for a long weekend.

“I can’t believe him!” she cried in loud whisper. “He hasn’t had anything to do with me since my sophomore year of high school, and he suddenly shows up as though I owe him something?”

“Kitten—”

“Like I give a crap that Jenna ran away with the mailman.” She pointed to the living room. “Serves him right, really. I hope she and the mailman have a ton of mail-babies and send him postcards of their happy family during the holidays. He’s only here because he doesn’t want to be lonely on Thanksgiving. I’m a freaking excuse for him. His fallback position just in case the rest of his life isn’t going as hunky dory as he’d like.”

“You could always kick him out, y’know.”

Buffy shot him a confused look. “What?”

“If he’s gonna mess everythin’ up for you…” Spike sighed inwardly and wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. He could see the wheels of irrationality spinning in that gorgeous head of hers. She was about to impart on some tangent feminine illogic, to be sure. Then again, that feeling of loving through resentment wasn’t exactly new to him. Such had been his entire story with Drusilla until the golden goddess standing before him had helped him open his eyes to the world he was missing.

“I can’t kick him out,” Buffy grumbled, hoisting herself atop the kitchen counter, her lower lip jutting out. “Believe me, I’d love to, but…”

“He’s your pap?”

She nodded, her expression a mixture of heartbreak and self-loathing.

Spike wanted desperately to take her into his arms, but at this point, he figured making sure that the rest of the dinner went off without a hitch was his best way to help her. They had already had their share of small catastrophes to guide them through the day—the last thing she needed was the rest of her meal to follow the example of their luck with a timely crash and burn.

“And now he’s gonna see what a colossal screw-up I am. Who has steak on Thanksgiving?”

“Pet—”

She held up a hand. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry…God, I’m lucky enough that you’re here and this hasn’t turned out worse than it has. At least we have a main course. Though…oh my God! What are we going to do about dessert? The pumpkin pie needs to—”

“No worries.” He smiled. “I figured out why the turkey wasn’ cookin’. Had to in order to cook the stuffin’.”

“Why wasn’t it working?”

“Apparently, to get the thing to work, you gotta turn it on with the timer.”

She released a pitiful moan, her head falling into her hands. “I’m too stupid to live,” she moaned.

“You bloody well are not. Who knew that—”

“My mom did. She told me it was going to…and I forgot. Oh, God, I can hear her now. ‘Buffy Anne Summers, you've lived in this house how long and you still don't know how to turn on the oven?!’ Or better yet, the ‘you never listen to me’ speech. I ruined everything. I am so mentally-challenged.”

“Buffy—”

“I suck. I am the queen of suckage.” She peered through her fingers at him as though daring him to laugh. “And don’t you say anything nasty!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Spike paused and bit back a grin, unsure where to go from there. “’F you want, we can postpone the big supper so that—”

She shook her head, eyes wide with horror. “No! No…we can’t do that. I don’t want my dad here any longer than he has to be. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Right.” He tossed her a pair of mitts and nodded to the oven. “Pop out the stuffin’. I already have the veggies on the table. Jus’ gotta warm the bread an’ make sure all condiments are out.”

“Why do we have stuffing when we have no turkey?”

“Because you din’t tell me to not make it an’ I figured it’d be better to go ahead rather than let you down.”

Buffy was quiet for a minute. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re God’s gift to women?”

Spike bit back a smirk at that and tossed her a coy look. “’F I knew it was this easy to get you eatin’ outta my hand, luv, I’d’ve tried it a long time ago.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“Me, either.”

She made a face at him and struck his shoulder half-heatedly with the oven mitt. “Watch it, wise-ass.”

“I do my best.” Spike drew in a deep breath. “Best go get everyone in the dinin’ room, yeh? ‘S about time to eat.”

“First I’m gonna go downstairs and see if I have any blood left.”

He arched a brow. “An’ tell your pap what, exactly?”

“That it’s none of his damn business and maybe he wouldn’t be so clueless about the happenings of my life if he was a dad even when it’s not convenient for him.”

She was so vibrant when she was angered. He could watch her all day. “You’re magnificent,” he murmured.

A charming flush complemented her cheeks, and she glanced down shyly. “Well, thanks. I try.”

“Toddle off. I’m gonna get everythin’ on the table.”

“Is there a statute of limitations on the amount a person can say ‘thank you’?”

He just grinned and nodded to the basement. “Oh, I’m sure we can find some nice way for you to repay me for all the hard work I’ve done,” he purred, winking.

Buffy’s eyes flashed. “Name the time and place.”

“Tease.”

“Just you wait.”

Spike seared her with a look. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to tell the others to bugger off and cart her off to bed; let her work out her stress as she rode his willing body. In all honesty, he was surprised he had maintained such an air of self-control with the way she kept provoking him with subtle looks, all-too-brief kisses, and that shameless flirting that had seemingly been liberated from the previous night’s snogging session.

There was no longer any question of her feeling; whether or not she had realized it herself, however, was a different story. One thing was certain: what had happened between them last night was undoubtedly the most magical thing he had experienced in his century-plus of living. And best of all, she wasn’t denying it. She was embracing it.

The other dinner guests had wandered on their own accord into the dining room. Spike sent Hank Summers a scornful look that undoubtedly went unappreciated, but he felt he needed to do something on his lady’s behalf. From everything he had learned about the man, he had very little reason to give him the benefit of a doubt.

Furthermore, when he met Giles’s eyes, he was greeted with a wealth of relief, as though the Watcher was grateful that his slayer had a vampire handy. The man had never looked at him like that, even when he found himself transformed into a snarling Fyarl demon that growled in languages only Spike could understand. That alone spoke volumes for how the dinner was anticipated to play out.

Joyce also met him with a silent look of welcome. It made him feel both valued and uncomfortable. After all, he was a vampire. And vampires should not feel like the Slayer’s personal savior amongst her family and friends.

“Ah,” she said, turning to Hank. “This is Spike. Buffy’s…erm…”

“Boyfriend,” Giles concluded with a note of satisfaction.

The vampire snapped his head back to the Watcher in astonishment; the old man’s eyes were twinkling with glee, and he knew then that an unlikely alliance had been forged entirely on Buffy’s behalf. After all, his lack of a pulse notwithstanding, Spike was wholly aware that his outward appearance didn’t necessarily generate feelings of warmth and comfort among parents, especially a bloke that didn’t know him.

More over, Rupert had the look of a mischievous child on his face—the kind only those who knew him would know to identify. Yes, for the purposes of vindicating Buffy, perhaps it was better to go along with the charade as though it made sense.

Not that Spike minded being so casually brandished as the Slayer’s boyfriend. Rather, he had to quell the surge of giddiness that commanded his body and plaster on a big grin as though it wasn’t news to him.

“Boyfriend?” Hank repeated, his tone bathed in disapproval. His eyes were fixed on Spike’s hair. “She certainly…erm…she’s grown into a punk phase, I see.”

The last lock fell into place. Spike hated this wanker. Who greeted his daughter’s honey like that?

“Nice to meet you, too,” he all but snarled, setting the steaks on the table.

Joyce seemed a bit annoyed with that, as well. “I’ll have you know that Buffy has been seeing Spike for a year and a half now,” she spat. “And they’re very happy together.”

“You honestly approve of our daughter dating a guy named Spike?”

“The name’s William, mate,” the vampire growled, turning in time to greet the Slayer, who was carrying a glass of blood she had likely intended to disguise as red wine. “Spike’s jus’ somethin’ I picked up in school.”

Buffy frowned and set the glass at Spike’s presumed place, her expression a mesh of confusion. “What’s going on?”

Hank gestured to Giles. “Rupert was just introducing me to your boyfriend.”

The Slayer’s eyes bulged and she shot a warning glance to Spike, who shrugged. “Rupert felt it’d be too bloody obvious,” he said. “We’ve been outted, so to speak.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “So…Giles…told Dad…that we’re dating?”

Her reaction wasn’t exactly everything he’d wished for, but there was something reassuring in the fact that the revulsion he remembered so well from Willow’s Will Be Done spell was replaced instead with deer-in-headlights confusion. She had done nothing to indicate that she was ashamed of the relationship developing between them, or that if they progressed, if she became ready, that she would force him to hide his love for her.

Hank glanced skeptically to the table, seemingly willing to forgo his unwarranted disapproval of his daughter’s relationship. Instead, he turned to scrutinizing the food Spike had spent the better part of the past two and a half hours putting together. “You’re having steak on Thanksgiving?”

“New tradition,” Buffy said.

“I see.”

“Well, we could always send you to the supermarket if you want to have a more typical Thanksgiving,” she suggested sweetly, though Spike saw demons dancing in her eyes.

You gorgeous li’l she-devil.

“No, this looks fine.”

“I’m so glad it meets your expectations,” Joyce drawled sarcastically, taking the seat next to Giles before Hank could claim it. “I know she had you in mind when she started cooking.”

He shot her a scathing look. “You seem to be enjoying your liquor.”

“I don’t see why we can’t be civil,” Giles said. “After all, your daughter did put in quite a bit of effort in putting this meal together.”

Hank glanced to the plates again and released a long sigh. “Very well. Is anyone going to say grace?”

Buffy smothered a laugh with a cough; Spike glanced down to hide his grin.

“Do you not pray in this house?”

“To which god?” Giles muttered. Spike reckoned he was the only one who heard it as he was the only one who laughed. The Watcher sent him an appreciative look at that and they shared a moment of private ridicule.

Hank sent Spike a scathing look. “Is there something funny about religion?”

“Mate, if you don’t see the funny in religion, you’re not paying attention.”

Buffy kicked him under the table.

“Ow! Luv, do us a favor an’ watch the heels, yeh?”

Hank gestured to the vampire. “This is the sort of young man you approve of for our daughter?” he asked Joyce.

“Buffy’s old enough to make her own mistakes,” Joyce said, reaching for the green beans. She then realized that she had misspoken and released an untimely giggle. “I know I was making my own mistakes at her age. You should know, right?”

Spike noticed she had placed the bottle of Scotch right beside her wine glass. Bugger all.

Buffy’s father sighed. “Joycie—”

“Don’t you ‘Joycie’ me, you—”

Giles met the vampire’s eyes, then glanced to Buffy. Simultaneously, all three folded their hands and bowed their heads.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference,” the Watcher said quietly, as though trying very hard to restrain himself from throwing something.

“Amen,” the vampire and the Slayer murmured together.

Neither of Buffy’s parents seemed to notice the passing of grace. Rather, her mother poured herself another Scotch and spewed some nasty, only halfway intelligible insult across the table.

“Nice mouth, Joyce.”

“Thanks. Rupert certainly thought so.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Mom!”

“Oh, honey, you knew about that,” the woman retorted airily, taking another drink. “It’s old news to everyone here.”

Spike stared at the Watcher in amazement. “You shagged your slayer’s mother?”

“Spike!”

“It was the band candy,” Giles retorted, blushing brightly.

“Way to go, mate.”

Buffy’s head fell into her hands. “Please stop talking,” she begged. “And pass the potatoes.”

“You actually talk about sex in front of…” Hank gestured to his daughter, and Spike had to fight a snicker. “Honestly…”

“Your daughter happens to be twenty years old,” Spike said calmly. “I’d think hearin’ the dirty s-word isn’t likely to faze her, yeah?”

Wrong thing to say to the chit’s father. The vampire found himself on the receiving end of a particularly nasty glare. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Nothin’ that you can’t figure out for yourself.”

Buffy tried to kick him again and missed, hitting her mother instead.

“Ouch!”

A long, mortified pause. “Sorry, Mom.”

Joyce, however, was less concerned with her pained leg than she was with the presence of her ex-husband. “You’re the one who brought up sex in the first place. And anyway, since when did you become the spokesperson for the Religious Right?” she demanded. “Y-you’re the o-one who blew off your daughter’s birthday to boink your secretary. Honestly…” She giggled and handed Giles the Scotch. The Watcher indulged in a long swig straight from the bottle. “Someone’s a little hypocritical.”

Buffy passed Spike the steak platter, then reached for the gravy. “How’s the stuffing?” she asked, her face burning.

“Better than it would’ve been without butter,” he replied.

“Well, at least I’m not setting a bad example for our daughter!” Hank retorted indignantly. “No wonder she’s ended up with some guy who calls himself Spike, of all the ridiculous things.”

“No, you haven’t been around to set any kind of example at all, have you?”

“This is a lovely brand,” Giles said appraisingly, holding up the bottle. “Lovely. Could’ve sworn there was more of it. Don’t suppose you have anymore?”

“In the basement.”

“F-fantastic.”

Buffy leapt to her feet and tossed her napkin into her chair. “Don’t get up. You’ll fall down the stairs. I’ll get the booze.”

She waited for a long minute until it dawned on Spike that she wanted him to follow. He flashed the others a grin and followed suit. “I’ll, umm, help you carry it.”

“Oh, look,” Joyce said loudly. “Guess there goes the proof of my bad parenting. My daughter and her punk boyfriend are sneaking off for a quickie in the basement.”

Spike froze. As entertaining as this was, he didn’t want Buffy to completely fall apart at the seams. Her mother wasn’t paying too much attention to her reactions, and though he knew that his girl had to understand that on some rudimentary level, the words themselves were bound to wound.

“Joyce…”

“Whups. I think I see the bottom of the glass.”

He exhaled deeply as Buffy stormed off. “Bloody brilliant,” he muttered, turning to follow her.

As expected, he found her at the bottom of the basement stairs, pacing furiously. He couldn’t help but feel a stab of empathy. It wasn’t fair. It truly wasn’t. For all the trouble she’d gone to in order to pull off her ideal Thanksgiving, the Powers certainly weren’t issuing her the right cards by which to change her inherently bad karma. It was out of her hands, though. Out of her hands entirely.

“Sweetling—”

“Don’t say anything,” she said sternly. “Just don’t say anything.”

Spike licked his lips. “’F you din’t want me to say anythin’, luv, you shouldn’t’ve asked me to come with you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yes, you did, an’ don’ gimme that.” He closed the space between them and released a long sigh. “’S not goin’ so bad.”

“So bad?” she echoed incredulously. “So bad?! My father shows up, unannounced and definitely uninvited, dons the cap of the concerned parent, all but Bible thumps me about being your girlfriend…which, by the way, what?”

Spike shrugged and reached for his cigarettes. “It was Rupert’s idea,” he said. “I jus’ went along with it.”

“I can’t believe you.”

He perked a cool brow. “You really that bothered by bein’ my girl?”

“No, but that’s beside the point. My mom is drunk, my Watcher is getting drunk, my dad is suddenly a Republican, and they’re up there talking about their icky sex lives, then passing judgment on the nonexistent sex between us!” She turned quickly and kicked the dryer. “I am…I am going to kill Xander.”

“Why? Not that I need a reason, but how does Harris—”

“This is all his fault. He said it’d be a new tradition. A new ‘screw-up-Buffy’s-holiday-tradition.’” She kicked the dryer again. “He and his stupid jinxing of everything messed up my Thanksgiving!”

“I thought the tradition was s’posed to be ‘bout the Indians attackin’ to get their land back.”

“It’s not. Not after this.”

Spike puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette and turned to search for the liquor. “Way I figure it,” he said, “you maintain an air of sanity, luv, an’ your mum’ll be so bloody in your debt that I bet she lets you have her plastic for the weekend.”

That made her think. “Shopping…at the mall…”

“Yeh.” He tossed his fag to the ground and stamped it out beneath his boot. “Buy yourself a bunch of pretties for havin’ to put up with everythin’ tonight.”

“You’re gonna pick that up, right?”

“If you like. I jus’ want your mouth.”

“Oh.” Her hands slid up his arms on their own volition. “I think I can handle that.”

There was absolutely no way she didn’t feel the spark of electricity that sizzled between them the second their lips met. No way was the warmth that blazed his insides simply due to the warmth her body had to offer his. There was completion in her kiss that he had never known before. Her tongue engaged in a sensual exploration of his mouth, dancing with his as he swallowed her small, lusty whimpers, her arms flying around his neck. Then she was pressed completely against him, her breasts flattened against his chest and the warmth of her pussy riding his denim-clad cock.

She’d teased him with small kisses all day. Tasting her now, he knew that any pretense he might employ to kid himself that he wasn’t completely lost in her was entirely futile. He was completely lost.

“Buffy,” he whimpered, breaking away from her lips to lick at her throat. “Want you so much.”

“Unh…”

He nibbled at her skin. “Wanna play hooky from the party?” He inhaled deeply and drew his head back, his hands sliding down her sides and rubbing circles into her hips. “Give your pap somethin’ to talk about?”

“I shouldn’t.” She cupped his cheeks and kissed him again heatedly, thrusting her hips against his. He moaned aloud, throwing his head back. “We can’t.”

“Oh, I think we can.” Spike shoved her against the dryer, hiking her legs around his waist before ravaging her mouth again. He couldn’t get enough of her. Allowed this much taste, he wanted nothing more than to drown completely in her warmth. “Let me…”

She shoved him back suddenly and he was instantly bereft. He would have objected had he not noted the heat flashing behind her eyes. Instead, he just blinked in confusion and tried to ignore the shrill scream of his sex drive that didn’t know how to read body language; the same that would gladly go against all the power of Ancient Rome just to have her in his arms again.

“Keep quiet,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Buffy—”

Her lips dropped to his throat, her fingers tugging at the zipper of his trousers. The next thing he knew, his cock sprang into the warmth of her touch, and his long, answering moan tore through the air.

“Oh Jesus, what are you…”

“Push your jeans down.”

There was no way a bloke could argue with that request. Spike nodded and kissed her, obeying eagerly. He half expected to wake up and find himself either at the beginning of the day or a universe away from a Buffy that would let him touch her. But she wasn’t going away, and neither was he. Her small hand was stroking him into oblivion and she was suckling at his throat, small moans of approval escaping her lips as though she could feel what she was doing to him. As though every caress she bestowed upon his body whispered against her pussy. God, he wanted to lick her from head to toe.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “Buffy, please…”

“What do you want, Spike?”

“You. Always you.” He whimpered when she sank to her knees before him, his hips thrusting forward the minute that delectable mouth of hers surrounded his cock. “Oh, fucking hell.”

Her tongue lapped at him, swirling around his sensitive head as her hand pulsed around his shaft before sliding downward to cup his balls, squeezing him with every warm suck of her mouth.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he gasped, thrusting himself deeper into her throat. “So gorgeous. Feels so good. Such a hot, luscious mouth. God, Buffy…”

“Mmmm.” She drew her head back and released him, her hand pumping him furiously. “You like that?”

He nodded with a whimper. “Buffy—”

She smiled up at him, and he about lost it. “I guess that ‘I’m not ready’ thing took a drastic leap forward,” she murmured, lowering her head again and planting a series wet kisses along the underside of his length before lapping at him with that sinful tongue of hers.

“Pity,” he moaned. “I was ready to wait.”

She released him completely and sat back on her legs, flashing him a coy glance. “Well, if this is ruining your plans for—”

“Buffy!”

“Shhh. I don’t want to add any fuel to the fire.” She nodded to the upstairs before taking him back into her mouth, squeezing his balls again as her lips slid all the way down his shaft until his head was brushing against the back of her throat. She swallowed around him once, then drew back again.

“Oh, Jesus.” Spike tossed his head back, his fingers threading through her golden hair. “You’re so hot. Such a sweet li’l mouth.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” she whispered, brushing a parting kiss to his velvety tip.

“Buffy—”

She winked and pressed his cock against his stomach as her mouth dropped to his sac, engulfing him completely in her hot, wet cavern.

“Oh God!” His grip around her hair tightened and he attempted to rein her in closer. She giggled, and the vibrations felt so damnably good that he couldn’t help from whimpering. “You’re incredible,” he gasped. “So bloody incredible.”

She licked and suckled at his sensitive skin, teasing him with her teeth.

“Bloody hell!”

Buffy grinned and released him again with a wet plop. “I never thought…” She trailed off awkwardly and flushed as though she had caught herself saying something particularly scandalous, a notion that charmed him, considering that he was pretty much her slave for eternity. “I…”

Spike swallowed hard and forced himself to focus. “Sweet?”

“Nothing,” she replied airily, licking at the side of his length and welcoming him back into her mouth with a tender kiss against his spongy head. “Nothing.”

Then she swallowed him in warmth again, and all was lost. Spike screwed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that he didn’t need to breathe. Her tongue swirled around him enticingly, rubbing his sensitive slit as her hands squeezed him into the next life. She was magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. And when he brushed against the back of her throat again and felt those magical muscles of hers contracting around him, he couldn’t help himself. He fisted her hair and came with a roar, his bumpies bursting forward as he emptied himself into her hot mouth.

God, there had never been a feeling like that before. Hours later, it seemed, Spike came down, panting harshly. He felt his cock slide from her mouth and murmured lowly in complaint before collapsing wearily to his knees. His trousers were bunched around his ankles and his bits were dangling. He smelled her arousal—he wanted to bathe in it. Explore the flesh that she hid from him, sample her secrets as she now knew his.

“Buffy…bloody hell…”

It astonished him when she blushed. Even more so when she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Buffy—”

“I…umm…” She cleared her throat and shook her head, casting a nervous hand through her hair. “I really didn’t, um, come down here to do that.”

A pang of fear struck his chest. No, no, no. He wasn’t going to let her off that easily. Not now that he was so close to having her.

“Slayer…” Spike tentatively dropped a kiss across her mouth, relishing in the feel of her lips when she didn’t pull away. “God, I don’ even know where to begin…that was the most amazin’ experience of my entire life, an’ I—”

“Really?”

His eyes bulged. “You’re serious? Buffy—”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea—”

The wrong idea? She sucks his cock and then thinks that maybe she gave him the wrong idea?

“Wrong…bleeding hell, woman, I’m in love with you. If you haven’t figured that out yet, then I don’ know what the hell we’re playin’ at here. You can’t jus’ do somethin’ like that an’ expect me to—?”

Buffy was slack-faced. She just stared at him.

“Oh, for Chrissake, now what’d I do?”

“You’re…in love with me?”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me you din’t know that.”

“Well, I thought…maybe…I hadn’t really, okay, yes, I had my suspicions but…you’re in love with me?”

He released a deep breath. “Yes. God, yes. I have been forever. I jus’ never thought you’d ever…” He glanced down. “This is some holiday thing, is that what you’re tellin’ me? Scratchin’ an itch or what all before—”

“No! No, no, no. It’s not…no, I mean…” Buffy looked everywhere but at him. “I didn’t want…God, I thought you’d think I was just meaninglessly throwing myself at you or something. Which, yeah, kinda doing that…when I said ‘wrong idea,’ that’s what I meant. It isn’t me getting anything out of my system. And that kinda wigs me out, but I needed you to know that if this was just…whatever to you, then I had to stop before I got more emotionally invested. I can’t be…but, you love me?”

Spike’s eyes smoldered and he cupped her face tenderly, caressing her lips with his. “More than anything,” he murmured.

“Ohhh…”

His erection was back with a vengeance, and the tantalizing scent of her arousal was tempting his nose and mouth in ways that were most unbecoming, especially considering that he didn’t want to take her on her basement floor. But he needed to show her how much she meant to him. Needed to let her know that this wasn’t something he was going to walk away from. He wasn’t the kind of bloke who loved only halfway. No, Buffy had consumed him whole. He wanted to devour her. Now. Right now. Forever.

She smiled and kissed his lips tenderly. “We better get back upstairs.”

Spike pouted, his disobedient hand wandering between them to cup her pussy. “I’m not hungry for anythin’ that’s on that table,” he growled.

Buffy blushed prettily. “Hey—”

“Let me make you come, baby. I’ll make it so good for you.”

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back just slightly. “We need to get upstairs,” she said. “They’re gonna come looking for us if we don’t, and I don’t really want my mom and Watcher to find out about us like that.”

“Party-pooper.”

“Well, sorry, but one of us has to keep a clear head.” She stood with long sigh, shuddering when he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face between her legs. “Ohhh, God.”

“Buffy,” he murmured against her. “Christ—”

“Sp-pike, you need to stand up, now.”

“I don’ think that’s what you really want.”

“It’s not,” she conceded, “but we really need to get back.”

Spike released a long breath in defeat and clamored to his feet, tugging up his jeans. “Y’think they’ve missed us, luv?” he asked. “’m bloody well confident that your pap has either socked Rupert or joined in their li’l liquor party.”

“We came down here for the liquor, remember?”

He grinned goofily. “Oh yeah.”

Buffy met his eyes and offered a shy smile. “You really love me?”

“More than you’ll ever know, sweetling.” He burned her with a look. “An’ I plan to show you jus’ how much t’night after the circus has left town.”

She beamed madly and kissed him. “Okay. I think I can live with that.”

“You think?”

“Well…I won’t know until tonight, will I?”

“Oh, you’re gonna get it, missy.”

“Promises, promises.”

She had no idea. None whatsoever. Now that he’d had his taste, he would never let her go.

Never.

They reentered the room just to see Giles launch a spoonful of mashed potatoes at Hank Summers before bursting into a fit of childish giggles.

Buffy just stopped and stared. “What. The. Hell?”

“He called me a sodding mother-shagging bastard,” the Watcher explained through his cackles. “Where the bleeding hell have you two been?”

There were now three empty liquor bottles on the table. Her father, aside being covered in projectile mashed potatoes, had a look on his face that she knew all too well. That stumbling drunk countenance that had greeted her practically every night she sneaked into the house during the last of her parents’ doomed marriage.

She set the bottle of Scotch on the table with a long sigh. “To get you drunkies more booze,” she said. “Where the hell did you get this other stuff?”

“I was just looking for that,” Joyce said, snatching the new bottle away with glee.

“Buffy, did you know your mother’s a whore?” Hank asked, thoroughly wasted. “She—she fucked the brains outta English here…on a cop car.”

The Slayer felt Spike stiffen beside her. “You call her that again, an’ you’ll be eatin’ your tongue for dinner.”

“Ooohhh…big scary vampire.” He waggled all ten fingers for effect. “Is that what you are? He told me about you. What kinda vampire dyes his hair that color? Are you Kiefer Sufferlan’?”

“Dad, shut up.”

He just sneered nastily. “Truth hurts, don’t it?”

“If you say one more thing like that, so help me God…” She turned to Giles. “You told him about the police car?!”

“He called my parenting into question,” her Watcher explained drunkenly. God, he had to be the only person in the world that could form a coherent sentence with perfect grammar and manage to make it sound as ridiculous as he did with that slur of his. “Told him I was a bloody good father. You told me you wanted me to give you away. Thass what I’m gonna do.”

“What does boinking my mother have to do with—okay, you know what? I don’t care.” She threw her hands up and pivoted. “You guys wanna ruin my day? Fine, go ahead. Have a good time acting like idiots.”

“We’re not the ones that went downstairs to shag,” Giles countered, then burst into giggles again. It took him a minute to realize what he’d said. “Isshat what you did?”
“Bugger off, Rupert,” Spike growled.

Buffy’s face flamed but her expression hardened. “You all can go to hell.”

“’Cause you know what happened the last time, right? Bloody hell, Hank, this is a good suit!”

She didn’t stay to see the room dissolve in chaos after her father threw the gravy. Instead she released a deep breath, turned, and walked calmly up the stairs. She didn’t even wait for Spike to follow her.

That he would was just a given. It was the sort of man he was.

And she loved him for it.

Part V

Buffy released a deep sigh as Spike closed the bedroom door behind him. The look on his face was saturated with sympathy, and she felt her entire body warm with appreciation. The racket sounding from downstairs was likely loud enough to pique the interest of the whole neighborhood, and the floor wasn’t cooperating with her silent pleas to swallow her whole. At this point, Spike was her only link to sanity.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

He smiled awkwardly and leaned against the door. “Sorry the day din’t go like you planned, sweetheart.”

She glanced down and licked her lips. “Of all the days, huh? My dad shows up, my mom gets plastered…even Giles, who is supposed to be the grown-up. Though he did drink a lot last year.”

He grinned. “’m surprised it took him that long to take a likin’ to booze,” he said. “What with puttin’ up with you, an’ all.”

Buffy smirked. “Thanks.”

“Jus’ sayin’, I think you need to leave the vampire slayers to the vampires.” His eyes flickered passionately. “One in particular.”

The smirk died into a smile, and she threw her head back thoughtfully. “I think we should just go away next Thanksgiving.”

Spike perked a brow of interest. “You an’ me?”

She nodded. “Somewhere far, far away where the turkey is pre-prepared and all we have to do is show up.”

“’m game if you are.”

“You think we can just escape bad karma like that?”

“Honestly, luv, I think people create their own karma. You were so bloody determined to have everythin’ go right today that you did everythin’…well…”

“Wrong?”

“I din’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Well, I won’ pretend to understand where your ideas for thawin’ a turkey came from.” He grinned. “You wanna go away now?”

“Little late, isn’t it?”

“Never say never around a vampire, Slayer.”

“Why am I putting up with this again?” she asked. “Hell, why are you? You spent forever on that dinner, and they’re throwing it around?”

Spike shrugged. “Doesn’ matter to me.”

“Oh, come on. It has to matter.”

He opened his mouth to object, then glanced down with a sheepish shrug. “Well,” he said, “maybe a li’l. I’m more brassed off at the fact that they ruined somethin’ that you practically worried yourself sick over. They din’t seem to appreciate that at all.”

“It’s my dad’s fault.”

“Yeh. An’ your mum’s.” When she shot him a warning glance, he shrugged and stepped forward. “She knew how important this dinner was to you.”

“Not really.”

“Buffy—”

“I didn’t get all wiggy around her like I did with you,” she said. “I didn’t let her know how freaked out I was about everything. I didn’t want her to step in and take care of everything…this was supposed to be me proving that I could do something on my own.”

Spike perked a brow. “Which is why you made me do everything?”

Buffy glanced down. “Shut up. I said I wanted to do it on my own…that didn’t mean I could actually do it.”

A smile flickered across his face. “Has it really been so terrible?”

Heat seared her skin and she cleared her throat. “No,” she said. “Well, I…I ummm, would have liked my guests to have eaten, rather than wear the food. A-and my dad showing up was kind of a buzz kill. But…there was that…that other thing.”

God, he was so close. She wanted to reach for him but found herself inexplicably nervous, and somewhat embarrassed about her wanton behavior downstairs. Honestly, she didn’t know what had come over her. She knew she wanted Spike; hell, she could even concede to liking him a bit. Or, yes, okay—she acknowledged that the word like was a little loose. There was another word, four-lettered that similarly began with l that she was partial to. Still, big step. Very big step. Loving Spike meant something else for her entirely. It meant giving up the promises of Angel coming back into her life, telling her he was a dolt for having left her, and whisking her off into the sunset.

And yes with the lame. The prospect didn’t even appeal to her anymore. She had no idea when she had stopped pining for her former great love, but it had happened somehow. Somehow, she had grown up.

Every girl went through this. There was the man that taught her to love, and the man she would love for the rest of her life. Angel had taught her to love, but he was too clumsy to know what to do with it when she gave it her all. Furthermore, she couldn’t see Spike ever hurting her the way Angel had—a huge acknowledgement, considering one of them was sans soul. And that much was hard to remember at times.

Thing was, should Angel burst through her door right now, open his arms and declare himself curse-free, Buffy didn’t imagine herself particularly inclined to rush passed the vampire standing with her now. She had lost the girl and gained the woman in a course of a few years. Angel was never meant to be her forever. He had done what was needed: he had wizened her to the ways of the world when it came to love. He had taught her something valuable, and while she didn’t regret their relationship—other than that whole evil thing—she certainly didn’t pine for days of old.

She had loved Angel as a child, and now that she was older and wiser, she could see how wrong he was for her. He was all responsibility, order, and discipline. He was the perpetual adult.

Buffy was reckless, carefree, hopelessly romantic, and yes, while she did occasionally carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, she didn’t let herself get bogged down in detail work. Spike was the same. They were equals in every way. And they both had a tendency to crash head first into love and be no better for it afterward.

Perhaps that was because they had tried with the wrong people. Perhaps they were meant, cliché and all, for each other.

Buffy rather liked that idea. Angel had inspired the girl to grow up and leave the man that had made her so that she could love the man she was meant for. She couldn’t begin to fathom ever hurting Spike the way Dru had hurt him, nor could she ever see Spike giving her the brush-off in manner of his grandsire.

“What are you thinkin’, luv?”

She licked her lips and met his eyes, releasing a deep breath.

He loves you. He said so. You heard him.

“I’m thinking…” She slid her hands up his arms and smiled coyly. “Spike…”

“Mmm?”

“I think I kinda love you.”

Spike drew in a sharp breath, his eyes swallowing her with warmth and awe. “What…what did you say?”

Buffy smiled and kissed him tenderly. “I don’t know when it happened, I just—”

“Say it again.”

There was a desperate note in his voice that she had never heard before, and it occurred to her how serious this was for him. Their time together had revealed some unpleasant truths about his past, and while he’d never come out and said it, she knew that love was something he felt himself incapable of obtaining. That while affection might exist, love itself was something to remain perpetually out of his reach. No one would ever love him the way he loved—with the fullness of his being. They had wasted so much time with other people when what they needed was each other.

Buffy cupped his cheek and brushed her lips over his again. “I love you, Spike,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.

He released a ragged breath against her throat. “Oh God,” he murmured.

She felt her heart hammering against his unanswering chest, felt his erection pressing into her stomach. “Spike…”

“I love you,” he gasped. “God, I love you so much. I jus’… I never thought…”

“Me, either.”

His mouth found her throat, whispering soft kisses against her skin as he walked her backward toward the bed. “Need you,” he murmured, suckling at her.

“Mhmm…”

“Buffy, please…” His teeth gently scraped at her flesh, and her body shivered in response. “I can’t…”

Buffy released a shuddering breath as her legs met the edge of the mattress, and she sat on instinct. Spike gazed down at her, and it occurred to her that he was waiting for her to speak.

“So lovely,” he murmured, his eyes raking her hungrily. “Sweet?”

Actions are better than words, she thought. Which is good, because you seem to be running low on words.

She fisted the hem cotton of her turtleneck.

“Buffy—”

There was a crash somewhere below them and an influx of swearing. Spike’s gaze remained glued to hers.

A grin twitched at her mouth. “They’re not gonna miss us anytime soon, are they?”

“Don’ reckon so, luv.”

“And it’s pretty hot up here…” The room was actually fairly temperate, but she didn’t think he’d object if she took her top off. Rather, his eyes followed the rising hemline of her shirt until her clad breasts were revealed, and she could’ve sworn she heard a whimper just for showing off a little skin. “Do vampires get hot?” she asked innocently.

Spike’s eyes were glued to her boobs. She could’ve asked if he was into anal penetration, and he wouldn’t have heard a sound.

“Spike?”

He licked his lips. “Bloody gorgeous, you are.” He raised his gaze slyly. “’m sorry, luv, must’ve zoned. Did you say somethin’?”

She shrugged in all innocence. “Guess it’s not important.”

“Does it involve ditchin’ the bra? ‘Cause I’d say that’s important.”

She smirked. “Well, I was trying to segue into you losing clothing…”

Spike’s gaze flashed. “All you have to do is ask.”

“I wasn’t asking. I was segueing. I was trying to be all with the seduction and you—”

“Jus’ flash those titties an’ I’m yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men.”

“Yep,” he agreed, thoroughly unashamed.

“Do vampires get hot?”

“Was that the segue?”

“Can’t put anything past you, huh?” She glanced down. “Still no with the seduction?”

Spike grinned and peeled off his tee. “I dunno, luv,” he replied as though taking on a character. “Cold blooded creatures tend to adapt to their surrounding’s. Guess it depends on how hot you are. An’ judgin’ by the commotion in my trousers…”

Buffy’s eyes fell to his crotch on cue. “Mmmm…any chance you can lose those, too?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he purred, nodding to her bra.

She smirked and reached behind her back. “And here I thought you’d wanna be the one to do this.”

“I’d probably rip the bloody thing, I want you so much.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” She paused awkwardly. “It’s not…you know…I haven’t been with anyone in over a year and I wasn’t…ready…like I haven’t been to Victoria’s Secret in ages and—”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Buffy—”

“I don’t have sexy underwear. I-I never wore it well. It’s all itchy and it gets stuck in places where no underwear should…get stuck.”

He smothered a grin. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, stripping his jeans down his legs as he kicked off his shoes. “An’ adorable. Like I give a fuck about sexy underthings. I’d rather you wear nothin’ at all.”

Her eyes widened as she watched his cock bob against his stomach. Mmm. Yummy. A fresh rush of lust surged through her body. “Huh’s…what?”

“See anythin’ you like?”

Buffy pointed. Spike burst out laughing.

“God, I love you.”

She met his eyes coyly. “I love you, too.”

“An’ you still haven’ shown me your goods.”

“You sure you don’t wanna rip it? If we’re going to the mall tomorrow after Mom gives me her plastic, we might be able to stop by and get some sexy underwear.”

“Aww, Slayer, I’m touched you’d suffer through physical discomfort to feed my sexual appetite.”

She made a face. “Only on special occasions.”

“With us, it’s gonna be special all the time.”

“Sap.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“No, I’m calling you a sap, deaf boy.”

“I thought we’d already diminished the boy theory, luv.” He ran his hand over his cock enticingly. “Or do you need to be reminded?”

Stop drooling. “Yes, remind me, please.” Buffy sat back on the bed and thrust her breasts forward, donned in her unsexy bra. “Remind me until I can’t walk.”

“My pleasure.” Spike knelt before her immediately, his fingers flickering the straps of her cacique. “Slayer…”

“Off with it!”

“What would you wear to the mall?”

“I do have more than one bra, you know.”

The flimsy garment concealing her from him snapped cleanly in two with a good tug. He palmed her breasts reverently, his mouth bestowing a series of kisses across her liberated flesh as his fingers played with her nipples. “Guess I’ll jus’ have to destroy them all,” he murmured.

Buffy grinned and ran her fingers through his hair. “I have absolutely no intention of letting you destroy all my underwear.”

Spike’s lips wrapped around one of her nipples while his fingers manipulated the other. She threw her head back with a loud gasp and thrust her hips forward, her body falling back to the mattress. “I think,” he mused thoughtfully, his mouth departing southward with a series of heated kisses that commanded her to instant goo with each brush against her skin. “Under the circumstances…you might be willin’ to never wear knickers again.”

“Don’t count on it.”

He paused from where his unoccupied hand was prying at her trousers and glanced up at her challengingly. “Y’think so?”

There was something dangerously sensuous behind those devious eyes of his. A thrill raced down her spine and she squeaked ineloquently. “Oh no. No, whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“Nope. Don’ think I’ll be doin’ that.”

“Spike—”

“You smell delicious,” he informed her, both hands now tugging on her slacks. “Good enough to eat.”

He waggled his brows at that, and her body turned into a molten puddle of slayer-putty. The dominant part of her, though—the terrified amateur—screamed in protest and demanded that she retract to that dark place of inexperience and rejection. “Spike, you don’t…”

Damn, he really tore those panties clean off her body. There one second, gone the next. He could be a traveling magician with a trick like that. Well, okay, she wasn’t a big fan of the print on those, anyway. And as long as she was buying new bras…

Buffy gasped aloud and bucked against his face when he licked up her slit. “Oh my God!”

“Mmm,” he rumbled into her, “no, I really think I do.”

“Oh my God…oh my God!”

That earned a chuckle. Ohh, vibratey. “Pushover,” he teased, nibbling at her outer folds. His index and middle fingers, eager to be included, slipped inside her pussy, and they both moaned as she contracted around him. “Fuck, baby…”

“Oh…what are you…”

“So bloody tight.”

“Unh…” She squeezed him again, her eyes falling shut as he wrapped his lips around her clit and suckled her into that magical mouth of his. “You…”

He chuckled again, his tongue tracing her wet flesh with a concurrent hum of approval. “See I’ve made you lose mastery of the English language…what little you had, anyway.”

It occurred to her distantly that now was the appropriate time to be offended. “You…oh my God…you…asshole!”

“Hey, I’m jus’ glad that I still got it. Been outta practice, y’know.”

Jealously unlike anything she had ever before experienced overwhelmed her, sending sharp stabs of pain to her belly. Imaginary pain, yes, but real enough to hurt. Buffy fell completely against the mattress, her legs somehow ending up draped over his shoulders. “I don’t wanna know about that,” she spat, only the words were timed evenly with several long moans as he suckled her labia between his teeth. “I…Spike!”

“Never like this before, Buffy. Not with anyone.” He nibbled lightly at her clit, his fingers thrusting steadily within her. “You taste so good.”

The irrational swell of anger was diminishing. “Really?”

“Mhmm…” He lapped another long path up her slit, his eyes rolling back. “So good.”

“Ohhh.”

“You’re mine,” he growled, that miraculous organ inside his mouth flicking her clit rapidly. “Mine now. You understand?”

“Yes—yes!”

“Say it.” His fingers abandoned her then, his tongue plunging inside her before she could hiss in complaint. He swallowed her whole and her body went up in flames. It didn’t last—it seemed he was intent on torturing her until she was nothing but Buffy the Vampire Sex Slave. He slipped out of her pussy, licking at her twice and nipped at her clit again. “Say you’re mine, baby.”

“Yours.”

His fingers were thrusting within her once more, harder this time. The pleasure was so sweet she thought she might fall apart for the feel of it all. “Would you say that with my fangs inside you?” he asked.

“Yes! Oh, yes!”

“Would you let me bite you, luv?”

“Ohhhh…oh my God, Spike, oh my God.”

He evidently took that as hesitation and not the fact that she was completely at his mercy. He blew a stream of cool air against her sensitive skin, spreading her pussy lips wide. Buffy cried out and arched off the bed, thrusting herself wantonly against his face.

“I’d make it so good for you,” he promised, bathing her with his sensuous tongue in several seemingly endless licks. He eventually zeroed his attention on her clit again, manipulating her, stimulating her, torturing her until he finally tugged the tiny bundle into his mouth once more.

“Spike!”

He released her and rubbed his face against her wet flesh. “I want you so bloody badly,” he murmured, running his hand over her pussy, his thumb settling over her sensitive pearl and stroking her deferentially as his tongue found home inside her again.

There were no words for the sensations he unleashed. Nothing whatsoever. He was licking her from the inside out, whispering sweet nothings against her skin, telling her how good she tasted, how much he loved her, how this was it for him; how there would never be anything else. Every time his fingers swept over her, his eyes clouded over with awe and landed on her face, as though he expected her to disappear at the drop of a pin. There was nothing but this feeling. The wondrous feeling of being absolutely cherished. She had never known it could be like this. Never.

He pinched her clit. “Would you?”

She arched into him, a small sob of pleasure bursting through her lips. “Would I…what?”

“Let me bite you.” He lapped at her eagerly, massaging her clit with a bit more fury. “Let me taste that part of you.”

“Ohhh, yes.”

“Really?” Spike arched a brow. “You would?”

“Yes!”

“Would you let me…would you let me claim you?”

That question didn’t harbor his usual confident swagger, but it succeeded in catching her thoroughly off guard. And perhaps that was why he abandoned pursuit so quickly, his mouth plundering her pussy with new intent, grunting his approval into her skin. He plunged his tongue back inside her tight, wet hole, and thrust inside her until the symphony building within her erupted. Her back curved off the bed as the world disappeared around her. It was a sensory explosion, unlike anything she had ever experienced. And when she fell back to earth and found his arms curled around her waist, she knew then that whatever he asked she would freely give.

After all, what was an eternity here or there if she could spend it in his arms?

“My God…”

Spike stirred at that, resting his chin against her belly and meeting her eyes. “Did you like that?”

“I’m saying it again: I am your bitch for life.”

He chuckled, though the laugh didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s all a bloke can ask, baby,” he said.

“Not quite. You asked me something else.”

Spike drew back at that and shook his head. “No…I…I was caught up an’…we jus’…I din’t mean for that to come out. It jus’ did. Watchin’ you…tastin’ you come…goes to a bloke’s head, yeah?”

Buffy paused, her heart all but stopping. “So…you didn’t mean it?”

“What?” He blinked dumbly. “Bloody hell, yes, I meant it! I jus’…you…”

Her body warmed with relief. “Ohhh…oh, good. Thank God. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Claim me.”

He was looking at her as though she’d sprouted a second head. “You do know what a claim is, don’ you, luv?”

“Well, yes.”

“It involves me biting you.”

She nodded encouragingly.

“…an’ taking blood.”

“Uh huh.”

“An’ makin’ you mine.”

“Yes.”

“…Forever.”

“Thanks. I thought we covered that by answering yes to the first question, but I appreciate the review.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Buffy, this is serious.”

“I know. I’m serious girl.”

“You don’ know what you’re sayin’.”

“Funny, I don’t seem to be speaking a different language.”

“It’s binding. It’s marriage without divorce. It’s—”

“Spike, please. Really, I am the Slayer. Give me a little credit.” She cupped his face and smiled. “I know what a claim is. I do. I know what I agreed to when I said yes.”

“You can’t.”

“Why are you trying to talk me out of this?”

“Because I don’ want you to do this an’ then realize you made a big bloody mistake an’ hate me for the rest of eternity. I couldn’t bear it.” He shook his head soundly. “We love each other. For somethin’ this big, we can—”

“Are you even listening to yourself? There are a thousand reasons to not do this, I’ll admit…but they’re all based on what-ifs. I love you. That’s not going to change.”

He was gazing at her with such adoration that she wanted to weep. “How can you know? You haven’t loved me that long.”

“Yes, I have. I just said the words today. The other part’s been coming for a long time.” She kissed him soundly. “I don’t leave the ones I love, Spike.”

“You—”

“Even when I should. I should’ve left Angel long before he left me. I didn’t.”

“You can’t know that—”

“But I do.” She placed a hand over his nonbeating heart. “I love you so much…in ways that I never…this feels right. It feels right. And either way, Spike, my life doesn’t allow for what-ifs. I love you. You make me happy. That won’t change. It will never change.”

“We’ve only been together for a half hour, if that.”

“We’ve been together for a long time…just without confessionals and earth-shattering orgasms.”

He smirked a bit at that. “You’re soundin’ like Anyanka.”

Buffy grinned lightly. “Can’t you believe that I love you enough to do this? If you notice, I haven’t been wigging out over the possibility that you could lose interest after a century or two and—”

He growled at the thought. “Never happen.”

“I know. I know. With you, I know. I know the way you love…I know. I’m not as blind as some people think.” She kissed him. “And hey, I’m Miss Insecure, so if I can admit that much, the least you can do is give me the benefit of a doubt.”

There was a long silence as her words washed over him. As his protests and counters dulled to the higher reality of what she was saying. The change took him slowly. Disbelief faded to reason, reason to hope, and hope finally to amazement. “You really want this?” he asked, his voice slow and his tone cautious. As though a wrongly accentuated word would pave the pathway for retraction. “Really?”

“Hello! What have I only been trying to beat into that thick skull of yours for the past—”

“You really wanna be my mate?”

She was engulfed in warmth. There was no way any woman could be at the receiving end of the love glowing from his eyes and not melt on cue. “Yes,” she replied softly. “Yes. That’s what I want.”

He nearly choked with awe. “You’re an amazing woman, Buffy.”

“Hey, I just know what I want.”

“I’ll never forgive myself if I bollocks this up.”

“You won’t.”

Spike perked a brow. “This is me, we’re talkin’ about here.”

“Yes…and me. We screw up colossally all the time.” She blushed. “The holiday is a testament to that in itself.”

He smirked.

“But we usually screw up together. And you’re there to pace me when I get a little crazy. I’m here to help you when…well, you need a place to hide when the debt collector’s come to repossess your crypt.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, for Chrissake…one time, that happened. One time. I’m gonna be hearin’ about it for the rest of eternity.”

She giggled. “Think you can handle it?”

A warm smile spread across his lips, and he leaned inward to taste hers. “Lookin’ forward to it,” he murmured.

“Mmm…good.”

She took him by surprise then; completely threw him off his game. Her blunt teeth latched into his neck, biting him hard until she felt his blood spill into her mouth, his body trembling against hers as a long, sensuous moan tore from his lips. He held onto her as though the world was trying to rip him away, panting harshly and finally releasing a grunt of complaint when she drew back.

“Mine,” she murmured, a jolt surging through her body. So strange how that one little word could change so much. She would never understand it—she never had. Words were words, after all, and the only way they got their power was through the power she gave them. Yet that word did something to her. She felt her essence tugged around his, matching and trying to merge. She was only allowed acceptance when Spike whimpered yours, and the world around her dissolved in warmth.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, throwing her head back as he coaxed her to scoot up the bed. Then he was on top of her, cradled between her thighs, his cock rubbing her sodden folds as his hands cupped her breasts. She felt as though a gate had opened somewhere and bathed her in gold. There was nothing in the world like this. Nothing.

Ragged pants wracked his body, his face buried in the crook of her throat. “Yours,” he murmured again.

Then his fangs sliced into her skin as his cock sank inside her pussy, and Buffy swore she saw stars.

“Oh God!”

“Mine,” he growled lightly into her skin, licking the small wound closed as he withdrew himself from her body before sliding into her again. The dualism of sensation claimed her wholly; small bursts of euphoria shooting through her system as she clutched at his head and thrust herself against him. “Mine! Say it.”

“Yes! Yours! Oh, God!”

Spike met her eyes with awe, pumping sweetly into her body. “Oh, Buffy…”

“Unh…”

He pressed his brow to hers. “Are you okay?”

“Good!” she agreed, arching herself into his touch as his hands found her breasts again. There was nothing around her, she decided. Nothing but Spike, moving inside her. Moving over her. Feeling his abdomen brush against hers with every thrust. The slick glide of his length as he pumped into her, his skin on her skin; his body in hers. Small jolts of electricity claimed her nerves and she clutched at him desperately. The tables had turned; now it was she who feared to be ripped away. To be denied this. To be torn from his side.

“Never happen,” he murmured, licking at her throat as he tugged at her nipples. “Never. You’re stuck with me, now.”

“Ohhh…” His cock was striking her at an angle she hadn’t thought possible, his balls slapping against her ass as his thrusts gained momentum. “Ohhh! Did…I…say that out loud?”

He chuckled, and damn if that didn’t feel better with him moving inside her than it had when he licked between her legs. The movement sent rumbles through his body, claiming her own in small vibrations from the inside out.

“Oh my God!” she gasped.

“Claims have more perks than one, sweetling.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

He chuckled again, then again when she moaned. “We’ve been claimed all of—”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“Bossy minx.”

“Arrogant…guy.”

Spike cooed in pleasure, one hand abandoning her breast to dip between their thrusting bodies, sliding over her sex. “Fuck, I love you,” he murmured, mouth capturing her abandoned nipple and suckling her between his teeth.

“Ohhh!”

“You’re so tight, baby. So warm. So bloody perfect.”

“Spike…”

“You feel like sunshine.” He bit into her breast lightly, though she knew that her gasp wasn’t in pain. Rather, her vaginal muscles tightened around him as his thrusts grew faster. “So good. So bloody good.”

His fingers were playing her like a harp, stroking her clit gently. She felt her stomach tighten, pinpricks of ecstasy blazing across her skin. Felt the symphony he had inspired through her blood just minutes ago rising again for a repeat. She lost herself with every parry. His flesh molded her, sliding against hers as his mouth worshipped her skin. He found her mouth again as sensation tightened and threatened to erupt. She wanted to prolong it; wanted to sustain the feeling of Spike captured within her. But God, he was massaging her clit furiously, his cock surging into her with desperation. A slow crescendo took her by storm.

“I love you. I love you.”

“Yes!” she gasped, clutching at him desperately.

“Buffy—”

“Bite me.”

And he did. She tumbled into a detonation of euphoric release. His fingers on her clit, his body crashing into hers, his fangs buried in her throat, and she was lost. Consumed in a fire they had created together. She tightened around him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he spilled himself inside her, thrusting desperately to grasp everything there was to take. The world could have ended then, and she wouldn’t care. All was buried in completion. And as their hips rocked to a still together, she knew there would be no greater sweetness.

Hours later, she felt his fangs slide out of her throat. Felt his warm kisses brush across her skin. Felt him tremble as he asked, “Are you all right?”

What a silly question.

“I’m perfect.”

Spike met her eyes with a wary grin. “I’ll say.”

“I just…I’ve never…”

“You’re amazin’, is what you are.” He nuzzled her throat delicately, licking sweetly at her skin. “So amazing. I’ve never felt anythin’ like that.”

“Mmmm…”

“An’ you’re mine, now.”

The words made her body positively hum. “Yes.”

“God…I love you.”

A wide smile spread across her lips. “I love you, too.”

Spike grinned, the hand between them stirring as he slid his fingers over her clit again. “An’ I’m beginnin’ to understand why Americans love this holiday.”

“I know why I do.”

“Next year, we gotta teach you some better songs.”

“Next year, we’re going away.”

His grin turned roguish. “I can’t wait.”

“Me either,” she agreed. Then paused, smiled slyly, and flexed her vaginal muscles around him, earning a long whimper. “Though if you wanna take me now, I’d be cool with that.”

He perked a brow, panting softly. “Take you, huh?”

“Yes, please.”

He smirked and shifted, his cock hardening. “Take you now, you say?”

Buffy moaned and nodded, thrusting herself against him wantonly. “No time like the present.”

Spike lowered his mouth to her breast as he began moving within her again. “Truer words were never uttered.”

“Buffy’s gonna…s’not gonna be happy.” Joyce lifted her head. The dining room was an utter disaster; food was splattered on the wall, shards of broken dishes had scattered across the floor. “S’all…”

“You know, this stuffing’s pretty good,” Hank said from where he was reclined against the wall, eating directly from the casserole dish. “It’s very…buttery.”

“Should try the steak,” Giles mumbled. “How’s come no one ever told me vampires can cook? I-i-it’s not in my books…that’s for bloody sure.”

Something crashed on the floor above them.

“No, no, no, not again,” Hank complained, covering his ears.

“Vampire stamina,” Giles said, giggling. “She’s in for quite a ride.”

“That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” the other man said indignantly.

The Watcher nodded. “Yeah, and she’s getting her brains shagged out by a bloody bloodsucker. How about that for irony?” He laughed again richly, then promptly passed out on the table, landing face-first in what was left of the green-beans.

The walls were beginning to moan.

“Buffy screams like a banshee,” Joyce muttered, pressing the bottle of Scotch to her forehead.

“She gets that from you,” Hank replied. He was quiet for a minute, then said, almost reflectively, “At least she’s happy.”

The house all but trembled as the vampire above them roared in release. His scream was second only to their daughter’s.

“Sounds like he is, too,” the woman agreed.

“We’re drunk enough that we’re not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, aren’t we?” Hank asked, reaching for one of the discarded bottles next to his feet. “Don’t wanna be scarred for life.”

They fell to silence for a few seconds. Then the crashing sounds took the repeat and started from the beginning.

Joyce moaned. “Bit late for that,” she said.

They met each other’s eyes in a moment of awkward unity through alcohol-muddled minds.

“Joycie?”

“Mmmm?”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You, too.” A pause. “Assface.”

“I deserve that.”

“Yes, you do.”

Hank smiled and nodded as though satisfied. He then turned his eyes to the ceiling and yelled, “Happy Thanksgiving, Buffy!”

A long, muffled moan answered him, but that was satisfactory. He turned to Joyce and raised his bottle. She smiled sleepily, found the drink nearest to her, and did the same.
“Cheers,” they said together.

And, very predictably, drank.

FIN

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