Blood and Mistletoe

 

Author: Holly ( holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com  )

Rating: NC-17 (For strong language and adult situations)

Timeline: BtVS Season 4 – Post Something Blue

Summary: Jilted with mingled feelings for the Slayer post the Will Be Done spell, Spike declares his feud with the Scoobies a Pax Romana for the holidays, and naturally ends up with a handful.

Distribution: Mandi, Yani, Luba, take it!  Everyone else, just let me know.  (Nothing personal—just know these gals. *wink*)

 

*~*~*

 

Really, it had seemed like a wonderfully thoughtful idea at the time.  One of those ideas that hits about midway through a very boring class and manages to rejuvenate a dying spirit for the better of the next hour and a half.  Though surprisingly better, for even after half the day had past, Buffy found herself latching onto her burst of creativity with enthusiasm that refused to find shelf-life.  Thus, as she and Willow headed back to the dorm after completing their final classes prior to the holiday break, she let spill her insanely genius proposal and was pleased with the round of encouragement she received.

 

Though, as what happens with every genius proposal, once words hit the air, the redhead wanted to lend a hand.  Within fifteen minutes, she had Xander on the phone and his request to do his part before he and Anya left for Oregon for the obligatory seasonal family visit.

 

Whatever indignation Buffy might have felt at having her project so brazenly hijacked by her closest friends was inevitably won over with logic.  After all, Xander needed as much QT with the Scoobies as possible before he faced the family—Anya’s comments notwithstanding.  Furthermore, he was the only one around who was good with tools.  Though Slayer strength did have its perks, it never came with the disclaimer that Chosen Ones would similarly be talented in shop class.  

 

More besides, Giles was only going to be out of town until Christmas Eve and they would need to extract as much manpower out of Xander as possible before he took leave. 

 

It was strange not having her Watcher around; strange in an oddly-fashioned ‘the parents are out of town/cat’s away’ sentiment.  More than she ever felt when her mother would leave on assorted overnight sales trips for the gallery.  It was even stranger that he had given her his house key and asked her to watch Spike while he was gone.  And then strange turned to remarkably funny at the thought that a vampire as old as he was would require a babysitter. 

 

Remarkably funny quickly turned into annoyed.  It wasn’t until she arrived back at Giles’s place that she remembered fully how very much she and the platinum pest did not get along.  As though that entire section of her life was blocked temporarily for the feel of real-life adult responsibility on her shoulders.  Something more than the common ‘save the world, stop the apocalypse’ thing that was by now highly routine. 

 

A full three days had passed since Giles had finalized the arrangement.  Three days of going to sleep under the same roof as her mortal enemy.  Three days of waking up to an obnoxiously alert vampire that insisted on padding after her as she performed her morning routine. 

 

Well, more like a day and a half.  After a while, a girl needs her privacy.  And that was when chains in the bathtub came in the handiest.  The trouble was, after Willow’s botched spell of just a couple weeks ago, touching Spike was almost addictive.  That sort of magnetic pull that was hard to miss and harder to ignore.  A feeling of longing that stirred her gut and sucker punched her to the other side of the moon, as it were.  It was hard looking at him with new eyes.  Knowing now how those hands that had caused so much bloodshed felt when…

 

Okay.  Blushing.  Not going there.

 

It was strange.  Looking at Spike in a different light was very much of the strange.  And it wasn’t so much a different light—more a my-god-has-he-always-had-those-cheekbones? kind of light.  A realization sort of light.  The realization that she had never before been with a man that wasn’t always towering over her.  That Spike’s size was small but wired with muscle, and that she felt genuinely adored and safe when he held her.

 

Of course, that was all accredited to the spell.  The very, very bad spell that she needed to forget.  Spike didn’t adore her, and keeping her safe was far down his list of priorities.  And yes, while each step he took practically oozed of sex, that was no reason to think of him any differently.  Being the typical male he was, he had gone straight to the pretending-it-didn’t-happen phase—which was really all the same to her, because she had told him to get on with forgetting and to never mention it again.

 

It didn’t help that her mind kept mentioning it for her.

 

It also didn’t help that her feelings for him had softened to the extent of allowing him free from the chains in the first place.  While they had safely established that any physical harm was impossible for the handicapped bloodsucker, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a healthy abundance of other ways to torment her.  Little things.  Stupid things.  Fighting over the remote, bickering about supper, making too much noise while getting ready, and arguing the values of an action classic versus a well-known chick flick that she decided to endure simply because it annoyed him so much. 

 

Stupid things like that. 

 

Coupley things like that.

 

It had gotten better the second night.  In order to be released from his bonds, Spike forced himself into his very best behavior.  And while she didn’t buy it, it was nice to settle in comforting silence and the occasional forced compliment rather than screaming matches that woke up the neighborhood. 

 

The third night he had all but pleaded with her to let him go.  Told her that Giles never kept him locked up this long.  Told her that his joints were getting stiff.  Told her that he was going to start smelling like the dead.  Told her once, just to see her blush, that he hadn’t had a good wank in days and was really itching to release some tension.

 

Well, it succeeded in making her blush.  It also succeeded in a hasty retreat, a slammed door, and a cautious routine of ignoring him for the rest of the night.

 

Tonight was the fourth night and they had two more to go before Giles got back from his family thing or whatever that had driven him to London.  And since her brilliant beyond brilliant idea had come about, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of the vampire at all.  Not even when Anya and Xander showed up for pizza and he wailed about being hungry.  Not even when Willow whipped out some festive cookie dough and started baking—this time, gratefully sans the guilt.  Every scream and shout and murmur and whine went carefully in one ear and out the next.  What she was making was far too important to be distracted with idle obsessions that would dither once the afterglow of the spell was firmly off her back.

 

The brilliant beyond brilliant plan entailed building a new and improved weapons chest for Giles, layered with engravings of his favorite and hazard-free sacred emblems.  And though she had been initially aggravated when everyone decided to hone in on her Christmas gift idea, she was more than pleased a few hours into construction when her hands were killing her and her back was sore from being hunched over a work-bench.

 

It seemed, looking around, that phase two of Giles’s present would be to clean up the mess her brilliant idea had made.

 

“Okay,” Xander said, bursting through the silence that had hazed her mind ever since the gang arrived—even with the laughter and the jokes and the festive, seasonally correct Christmas music playing on her Watcher’s prized stereo.  Her friend sat up and wiped his hands on his jeans.  “If we wanna get this anywhere near a state called done before Ahn and I leave tomorrow night, we’re gonna have to get more supplies.”

 

Buffy’s face fell and she stared at him blatantly for a few long seconds before turning to survey what damage had already been done.  The place looked like a certified disaster area.  “More supplies?”

 

“Yeah.  I’m assuming you want this chest to have functioning hinges?  Maybe a handle?  And oh, right, a top?”  He shook his head with a laugh.  “We’ve exhausted our resources and now must leave and get more.”

 

A pout crossed her face.  “I thought I got enough wood.”

 

“You did,” Willow jumped to agree, nodding hastily.  “For the, you know, chest itself.  Not for the top.  And I need to go and see if they have that book at the Magic Box, anyway.  A Beginner’s Guide to Magical Benevolence?  It has a lot of the emblems and stuff that he likes.  A-and it’s in English, so…bonus.”

 

“Plus,” Anya added, jumping to her feet.  “It’s getting very stuffy in here.  I want to get Xander home quickly tonight so that we can enjoy at least two sessions of copulation before tomorrow’s breakfast with a man named Rory.”

 

The redhead frowned.  “Your uncle’s coming into town?”

 

“Yeah.  Evidently, he’s skipping on the fam-shindig this year and decided instead to grace us with his presence—his uninvited presence, I might add—the day before we leave.  Really, all he wants is an excuse to go get chummy with my dad with some very Irish eggnogs.”  A forced grin wedged its way onto Xander’s lips.  “Tis the season of obnoxious relatives.”  He turned swiftly back to the Slayer and nodded, whisking away all hint of family shame.  “I guess we’re going.  You coming along?”

 

Buffy arched a brow and took another good look at their surroundings.  “Uhhh…no?  No, I think I’m gonna stay here.  You know…straighten up and watch Christmas specials.  But I do want to have it at least looking like a chest before you guys hit it tonight.”

 

“I’ve been known to work a miracle or two in my time.”

 

Willow shrugged.  “I’m sure there’s a spell that—”

 

“No!”  Spells equal bad.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Ignore the hurt look on best friend’s face.  “No…I just…not with Giles gone.  You know if something goes all kablammy, he’s the only one—”

 

“Yeah, yeah.  Logic abounds.”  A sigh coursed through the redhead and she shrugged into her jacket that was, for the most part, vastly unneeded.  “Besides, it’d kinda defeat the purpose of our making something from scratch.”

 

Buffy offered an enthusiastic nod.  “Most definitely.”

 

“You sure you don’t wanna come, Buff?”  Xander asked again, helping Anya into her coat.  “A little home depot fun?  Hey—maybe get some innovative slayage ideas, yes?”

 

She shook her head.  “Nah.  Go.  Away with you.”

 

“I—”

 

Anya rolled her eyes and tugged impatiently on her boyfriend’s arm.  “Come on, Xander.  She doesn’t want to go.  You’re wasting valuable orgasm time.  Move it!”  And not at all surprisingly, the outburst inspired a sheet of bright red to tint his face; he nodded hurriedly, and bolted out the door.

 

Willow licked her lips as she made her way to follow.  “Here’s an idea,” she said once they were alone.  “He should take Anya to Oregon…then leave her there.”

 

Buffy stifled a grin as she moved into the kitchen to raid the fridge.  Giles had been thoughtful enough to stock it full of every possible type of food that she would ever want.  Plus an always-handy soda supply alongside an assortment of chocolate that led her to believe her Watcher had caught on to her fetish for sweets.  “Now, now, Wills,” she berated lightly.  “It’s the most wonderful time of the year, after all.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.  You and your Protestantism.”  A grin spread across the redhead’s face as she reached for the doorknob.  “You want me to bring you back anything?”

 

“Nah.  Well, the not-severed head of Anya would be a plus.”

 

“Damn.  There goes that idea.”  She laughed richly.  “We’ll be back soon!”

 

Then she was gone.  And Buffy was left alone in a house that almost reeked of teenage devastation. 

 

Well, nearly alone.

 

“SLAYER!”

 

There was the tiny factor of the vampire chained in the tub that had undoubtedly been waiting until the Scoobies left before rehashing his complaints at full volume.  It was to be expected—for the past hour, his behavior had been more than commendable.  She was beginning to think he had willed himself into a pile of dust, as Spike was never quiet for more than two minutes at a time.

 

“Here’s the funny thing,” Buffy retorted loudly, moving about the kitchen cheerfully.  “I hear you yelling, and yet feel compelled to do absolutely nothing about it.”

 

There was a muffled groan of aggravation.  “Come on, Slayer!  Have a bloody heart.  My legs are crampin’ an’ it smells to sodding high heaven in here.”

 

She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the mess that colored the living room.  Chances of her fairing any improvement before the others returned notwithstanding, she didn’t particularly think that allowing the vampire free reign stood as a good idea.  Regardless of how much she was itching for company beyond what her friends had to offer.

 

And that was the problem.  Even more so, she refused to consider the very real fact that had it been just a couple weeks ago, releasing him would have been extremely out of the question.  So much that he likely would have known better than to ask in the first place.

 

At that, she felt her will begin to slip.  And when she raised her voice to answer his plight, the sharp edge that so often remained crisp and pertinent was gone.

 

“Hold on.  I want to at least get this place presentable before you start making your usual mess.”

 

There was a brief pause at that; Buffy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud.  With whatever else, it was nice to continuously take the vampire by surprise.  She would have sworn for a brief second that he was aggravated that she had exhausted his line of reasoning and arguments with simpler acceptance. 

 

The vampire did have the oddest habit of trying to get on her nerves.

 

“Well…” Spike began a minute later.  “’F you’d let me out now, we’d have the bloody place picked up in no time.  What’s that ole sayin’, luv?”

 

“If you’re about to say something gross, I swear, you’re not coming out of there at all tonight.”

 

Right.  Because now he would say something gross, and she would blush and her voice would go higher than usual, and even though walls separated them, he would likely smell his affect on her.

 

God.  Hadn’t she learned enough the first time?  Vampires equal bad. 

 

Maybe she had just sampled too much eggnog for one night.

 

“’S that it, Slayer?” Spike purred.  “You wanna keep me chained up all night?  Gotta say, din’t know you had it in you to be so brazenly kinky.”

 

Well, that wasn’t as much gross as explicit, but it resulted in the same fashion.

 

“I have kink, Mister,” she replied informatively, determined not to be sidetracked by idle conversation and attempts to knock her off her foundation.  “Nothing you’ll ever get to see.”

 

“A pity, that is.”  Another impatient rattle.  “Come on, Slayer!  Lemme out!”

 

“Ummm…no.”

 

“What’s a li’l hospitality between sworn enemies?”

 

“Something that’s off the table.”  Buffy turned to locate one of the larger boxes that had at one time contained an assortment of powertools and the like.  Perhaps that chainsaw that Giles had used to create a door last Halloween—now being used for hammers, nails, glue, screws, and screwdrivers.  “I really don’t want to have to deal with you tonight.”

 

“Tough.  I’m here.  Deal with it.”

 

“Do you want to be gagged?”

 

“Yeh.  Like that, wouldn’t you?”  There was a lazy seduction added to his tone that made her cheeks flush and her aggravation rise.  He knew it now.  Undoubtedly.  He knew it and he was deliberately rubbing it in her face.  As if she was the only one that had been affected by that spell. 

 

“You’re a pig.”

 

“How stunningly original.  Look, Slayer, ‘f you lemme out now, I can help you an’ your mates build the whatever you’re buildin’ for Rupert.  Right?  Made a dozen things for Dru over the years.  An’ ‘s not like I have anythin’ better to do.”

 

Buffy paused.  Did he really have to mention Dru?  She wasn’t over her crush yet.

 

But that was totally beside the point.

 

“Yeah.  The likelihood of my letting you out being so great as is, the likelihood of you actually doing something to help me is just that much more…” She frowned at the lack of a better word.  “Unlikely.”

 

“Oi!”  Buffy could practically hear his frown.  “I might be evil, but I do keep my word.  Like I said, ‘f you’d stop to listen for a bleedin’ second, I have nothin’ better to do.”  There was another break for reaction, and when she gave none, an aggravated sigh tackled the air.  “You know, those commando blokes could take a chapter outta your book under cruel an’ unusual punishment.”

 

That was a bit much, but it did get the point across.  And served to remind her that she was in the mood for some company of the non-Scooby persuasion.  An answering sigh reached her lips and she shook her head, pushing the supplies aside and padding down the hallway.

 

The apartment stilled with an air of expectation; she knew he was waiting for her to snap at him so that he could launch fully into his rebuttal.  A wry grin tickled her lips.  Spike was nothing if not a source of entertainment.  Regardless of anything else, he certainly kept her on her toes.

 

All else was worth the look on his face when she pushed the door open.  She was greeted with a somewhat numbly astonished burn in his eyes.  As though any sign of civility—even when full out proof was right before him—shook him to his core.  And true, while things between them had been tacitly awkward since the blotched witchcraft, seeing him so taken aback was unlike anything she had ever before witnessed where he was concerned.

 

“And you’re going to behave yourself?” she asked, left hand delving into her front pocket to fish out the key.

 

Spike nodded urgently.  “Be a bloody saint,” he agreed.

 

“Saints aren’t bloody.”

 

His eyes sparkled with annoyance but it didn’t matter the next second, for she had tossed him the coveted piece of bronze and turned to leave on the same beat.  “The others will be back soon,” she said over her shoulder.  “Xander wants to get the lid on and I think Will’s gonna start the engravings.  We’re sanding everything tomorrow.”

 

“Right.  Put the vamp near the dangerous blocks of wood.  That sounds like a jolly good plan.”

 

A scowl beset her face.  “Hey!  You said you’d help!  No weaseling out.  Weasels get tub time.  Okay?”

 

“’m not weaselin’ out!”

 

“There’s a definite weasel factor here.”

 

“Oh, that’s sodding it.”  The offense seemed rather light for him to have reached his ‘sodding it’ limit, but one could not expect much more from an evil vampire.  The next thing she knew, he had made a grab for her hand only to be slapped away; her own covering his in a moment of coveted contact.  She knew her eyes were flaring. 

 

“No.  Touching,” she barked, very mindful of the fact that it was her grasp that held him in place and not the other way around.  It was a piece of detail work that she decided pointedly to ignore.

 

Spike, however, did not have the same sense of courtesy.  A condescending leer touched his mouth and he glanced pointedly between them.  “You’re the one who can’t keep her hands to herself, pet.”

 

Buffy scowled and moved to release him abruptly—a good release.  The ‘I’d- rather-be-handling-a-scalding-pot-of-boiling-water-than-be-anywhere-near-you’ kind of release.

 

Only the effect wasn’t exactly what she had hoped for.  Her fingers flexed and her hand moved, but his moved along with her.  Right along with her.

 

The Slayer’s eyes widened with alarm and met his of similar astonishment. 

 

Then they were yanking in earnest.  Pulling one way, pushing another.  A tug of war between Spike’s left arm and Buffy’s right.  They heaved and jerked and wrenched every which direction, but it was to no avail.  The Slayer’s hand rested calmly atop her vampire adversary’s, their skin fused impossibly together.

 

“What the bleeding hell did you do?!” Spike snarled, eyes wide with fury.

 

“Me?!  I’m not the one who was all with the grabby!”

 

“Yeh.”  He held up his hand, demonstrating where hers was attached to the back of his.  “As this would so admirably suggest.”

 

The room was spinning.  She felt a headache coming on.  “God, it must’ve been the glue.”

 

“You think?!”  He stared at her for a minute, then quieted and glanced down.  “What glue?”

 

“Xander brought over some industrial strength glue for the thing.  The…chest or whatever.  I must’ve gotten some on me when I was cleaning up.”  She frowned pitifully and dropped her eyes at their linked hands.  “Oh my God.”

 

“Bugger.  Do you have any idea what a bitch of a problem that stuff is to get out?”

 

Buffy looked up at him in a panic.  “What?  What are you saying?”

 

Spike shrugged.  “Well, for starters, unless you have a solvent on hand, we’re bloody well stuck like this.”

 

If she thought her eyes couldn’t get any bigger, her headache any louder, she was wrong.  “What?!”

 

“Jus’ until we can get some, that is.  Calm down.”

 

“Calm down?!  Calm down?!  I’m glued to you, and you’re asking me to calm down?!”  Buffy was seconds away from hysterical laughter or sobs of frustration.  “Oh God.  Oh God.  How…” She frowned and started hitting him with her free hand.  “This is your fault!”

 

Spike growled lightly and caught her by the wrist.  “Would you stop it?” he snarled.  “This isn’t helpin’ anythin’, all right?  All we gotta do is ring the number on the glue an’ they’ll send us a solvent or tell us where we can get one.  Savvy?” 

 

Her eyes were burning and her vision had blurred.  Had she worked herself up to tears already?  The somewhat irritated but surprisingly compassionate look on the vampire’s face betrayed the answer before she even felt the wetness trickle down her throat.  “The number on the glue?”

 

“Yeh.”  He nodded and slowly released his grip on her wrist, heaving a sigh of relief when they didn’t stick there as well.  “They’ll have a number on the pack, luv.  Somethin’ reserved for this sorta situation.  Come on.  Dry your tears an’ we’ll figure this out.  All right?”

 

Buffy nodded and turned to the sink, feeling idle and foolish.  She washed her face awkwardly with Spike standing directly beside her, his hand caught in hers, her left working vigorously to make up for a job it was not accustomed to manning.  Her body wracked with trembles.  And amazingly enough, he didn’t say a word about it.  Didn’t call her weak or tell her anything more than what had already been said.  Merely handed her a towel when she was through and led her into the other room to locate the number on the pack of glue.

 

It was maddening how painfully aware of him she was all of a sudden.  More so than before—something she had thought quite impossible.  But as he guided her into the kitchen and reached for the phone, Buffy honestly couldn’t remember being so thoroughly sentient of anyone in the whole of her life.

 

They were hunched over the counter as he made the call, their fused hands on the surface before them.  She nibbled on her lip and came to the random conclusion that pretending he wasn’t there was likely the best mode of operation, no matter how painstakingly there he was.

 

God, the Scoobies were going to flip.

 

She must have spaced most extensively, for the next thing she knew, Spike had slammed the phone onto the receiver with an angry huff and jerked her in a manner that was more like himself into the living room.  He seemed to forget she was there at all until she crashed into his back and nearly cost him his balance.

 

Spike straightened, murmured an apology, then flopped down onto the sofa—bringing her with him.

 

“Would you stop dragging me around like a doll?”  The words hadn’t meant to come out as harsh as they did—she wasn’t particularly eager for the surprising light of Compassionate Spike to take a bow and leave the stage—but the damage was done and his jaw set determinately.

 

“Oh, I dunno.  Could you not shrill into my ear while sittin’ two bloody inches away?”  He glanced in disgust at the source of their predicament.  “This is absolute bollocks.”

 

“What?”

 

“What?  What do you sodding mean, what?  Din’t you hear any of what I jus’ told you?”

 

No.  She had been busy spacing then.

 

Regardless, Spike plowed right ahead as though he had not left her with a question to answer.  “The bloke on the phone said they’re waitin’ for a new shipment of the solvent to come in.  Too bloody busy right now—bein’ so close to the big holiday.  An’, to make everythin’ even more opportunistic, they have to mail it in to Sunnyhell from LA.”

 

That panicky feeling was coming back with a vengeance.  “What?  They’re…what?”

 

“Three to four days, best guess.”

 

“So…you’re saying…”

 

“We’re stuck.  Like this.  For days.”  He grinned humorlessly, though the look wavered at the desperation sparking her eyes.  There was something else there.  A spark of mischief that she knew not to trust.  Something to bring even more chaos to this jumbled mess.  “Happy fucking Christmas.”

 

II

 

It was late when the Scoobies left that night. 

 

The reaction had been fairly generic.  Xander freaked and blamed Spike, Anya shrugged and asked if the new situation meant that she and her boyfriend could leave, and Willow started rummaging through her list of spells for one that could come in handy.  No luck to be had in any regard. 

 

And so night was upon them, as was the almost assuredly catastrophic discussion involving sleeping arrangements.  Up until that evening, it was Buffy’s custom to take the bed and either chain Spike up or allow him to sleep on the couch. 

 

Tonight, rules were up for grabs. 

 

“Okay, here’s how it’s going to work.”  Buffy bit her lip in thought.  “I’ll sleep with my hand dangled over the side of the bed?”

 

Spike arched a brow.  “What ‘f I roll over?  You come tumblin’ outta bed, an’ then blame me for bein’ asleep while sleepin’.  Don’ think so, luv.” 

 

“I wouldn’t blame you for—”

 

“Think about it.”

 

She did.  She did and he was right.  Rats.  “Well, do you have any suggestions other than the one you’re not going to suggest because you know how utterly dusty you would become as a result?”

 

The vampire heaved a sigh and threw his hands up in the air; something that wasn’t quite as effective as it could have been, since hers followed.  “What do you want from me, Slayer?  ‘S not like I bloody planned this.”

 

“And how do I know that?”

 

He gave her a look.  She pouted and nodded her concession without a word.

 

“Okay,” she said after a minute, voice conspiratorially low as though someone walking along outside might overhear.  “Say I…say we do…sleep in the same bed.  Me under covers, you above.  And if there’s any hanky panky—”

 

Spike barked an incredulous laugh at that.  The kind that reeked of condescension and aimed appropriately for the heart.  “Well, well,” he drawled.  “Someone seems to think a pretty lot about herself.”

 

“I’m just saying.  You in bed, me in bed, hands glued together.  How should I know how your sick mind works?”  

 

“Well, you seem to be havin’ fun makin’ guesses.”

 

“I—”

 

“’m not gonna touch you, all right?  Other than this.”  He shook their hands demonstratively.  “We sleep on opposite ends of the bed, hands in the middle.  That permissible, your highness, or should I start buildin’ a mote around your side?”

 

Buffy glanced down.  “Yeah.  It’s fine.  But you’re above the covers.”

 

“What’s it matter?”

 

“I want you above the covers.  It’s not like you feel the cold, anyway.”

 

“True, but a man does like havin’ somethin’ soft against him.”  He wriggled his brows.  “Whatsa matter, luv?  Afraid you’ll succumb to temptation an’ wake up with the sudden impulse to shag me silly?”

 

Her eyes widened in insult.  “As if!”

 

“Oooohh, valley girl now, are we?”

 

“I am this close to just sawing your hand off.”

 

“Frightenin’.  Really, it is.”  Spike’s eyes twinkled.  “Seems I hit a sore spot.”

 

“Get over yourself.”

 

“That’s it, innit?  You can’t trust yourself with my hot, tight li’l body walkin’ around like eye candy for the starvin’ sorority girl.  Well, gotta tell yah…”  He must have really been confident, for he leaned in very close, eyes level with hers.  Staring her down.  “You wake up hankerin’ some of that hanky panky you proposed earlier, you jus’ give yours truly a tug, right?”

 

Buffy’s temper flared and she released some sound between a scream and a growl, backhanding him hard with her left hand.  Which, naturally, resulted disastrously when she sailed across the room with him at the impact of her own clout.  Sailed across the room and landed securely in his arms.

 

“Ow.”

 

Spike winced and sat up, shifting his left arm to relieve the tension where she had fallen on it awkwardly.  “Always told you that you pack quite a punch.”

 

Her sentiment still seemed the best.  “Ow.”

 

“Yeh.  Smarts like a bitch.  Maybe you won’ do that anymore.”  The vampire rose to his feet with a slight wobble and shook his head.  “Right.  So…you sleepin’ in all your goods?”

 

Was he asking her if she was going to strip?

 

“What?”

 

“You have PJs or what all?”

 

“I’m not getting naked in front of you!”

 

A slow smirk crossed his face.  “Now, that’s not what I asked, is it?”

 

Buffy flushed and her scowl deepened.  “You’re asking me about my clothes—how the hell am I supposed to take it?”

 

Spike shrugged.  “Right.  Don’ really care, either way.  I was jus’ offerin’ to lend you a hand if you needed it.”

 

“Oh yeah.  You’re here to be helpful.”

 

An aggravated sigh tickled the air.  “Really, Summers, you’ve got to do somethin’ about that ego.  What?  Do you walk around thinkin’ of the various ways different men are tryin’ to shag you?  I hadn’t noticed your dance card havin’ that many marks.”

 

Another low blow to her sex life.  Buffy took the salt and flinched but refused to let it grain her too deeply.  It was, after all, Spike.  Whatever he said now was minimal compared to the verbal abuse she had sustained after the Parker ordeal.  “I’m not taking anything off.”

 

“Pity.”  The word was short and cold, coinciding with the sudden lack of warmth in his eyes.  “Get under the covers, then.  An’ don’t try to sneak a peek while I’m takin’ off my trousers.”

 

The Slayer’s eyes went wide.  “What?!”

 

The look on her face inspired a grin. “I can’t bloody well sleep with my bits confined, now can I?  Man needs a li’l comfort room.”

 

“No.”

 

“Usually sleep without a stitch.  Makin’ a special exception.”

 

“Spike, I swear to God…”

 

“Figure Rupert left some boxers I can—”

 

“No.  No.  Stop.”  Buffy enforced use of her grip on him and yanked.  “No.  Jeans stay on.  Clothes stay on.  Okay?”

 

The vampire rolled his eyes.  “Look, ‘m evil, not desperate.”  There it was again.  That wicked tongue of his.  He stopped abruptly when that barb hit the mark and released a wealth of hurt to flood her eyes.  An inward curse.  With however irritated he was with her lately, there was something about seeing his Slayer upset that rubbed him the wrong way.  His shoulders sagged in defeat.  “There’s absolutely no way I can get out of this conversation?”

 

Ah.  There it was.  The hardness set in her face again.  Back to business.

 

“Lie down.  Shut up.  Leave me alone.”

 

“Buffy, I—”

 

Her head reeled at the blatant use of her given name and she stared at him for a long, cold moment.  One of those moments that genuinely surprised when it had passed and there was nothing left but the cold afterwards.  She had climbed in bed before he knew it, arm outstretched inelegantly as he situated himself beside her.  Lying atop the covers as she had requested.

 

It wasn’t until the silence had stretched to the utmost levels of discomfort that he decided to speak again.  Quell the fire between them.  Make up for some, even if it didn’t make sense.

 

What was this strange power she held over him?

 

“Buffy?”

 

There was nothing for a few seconds.  She was unaccustomed to her name in the air, just as he was to having it on his tongue.  It was pleasant, though.  Liberating.  The knowledge that the Slayer could be Buffy, too.  “Yeah?”

 

“’Night.”

 

A pause.  “Goodnight, Spike.”

 

And silence.

 

*~*~*

 

It really wasn’t possible to get comfortable under the covers while wearing jeans in Southern California.

 

Buffy groaned and shifted position for the twenty-third time in a half hour.  Beside her, Spike slept like the dead, taking an occasional breath and murmuring something unintelligible every now and then; otherwise the picture of comfort. 

 

All too typical for him. 

 

Didn’t make any difference either way.  She wasn’t in the position to do anything about it.

 

Another twenty minutes past and she gave up.  This was pointless.  If she couldn’t sleep, it didn’t really matter what she was wearing.  She would be the walking dead tomorrow, and that was the vampire’s job.  With a defiant sigh, Buffy threw the blankets off and turned her left hand to the clasp on her jeans.  It took some fancy maneuvering, but she was free in seconds and feeling better already.

 

Shimmying her pants down her legs?  Different story.  At least not without making her movements overtly obvious and disturbing her bedmate.  A sigh of concession hissed through her lips, and with a cautious glance in the vampire’s direction, she lifted her right arm and lowered it awkwardly to her waist.

 

First contact surprised her.  Spike’s gentle touch on her skin, her hand splayed across its back.  Tender in that moment.  Almost reassuring.

 

Small shivers tickled her skin.  Her feelings separating common sense with hidden, naughty little cravings of forbidden desire.  It would have been better had his hand been glued atop hers; at least there would have been an additional barrier between his skin at the present and her pelvis.

 

Even with the help of two hands, having her superior appendage seized by handicap was not working to her benefit.  Her fingers couldn’t maneuver to any degree of success around the intrusion of the vampire’s hand, and if she was too forceful, she feared jarring him awake and then facing the impossible scenario of explaining herself.

 

Only now one of those gaudy rings that he couldn’t seem to part with had managed to catch itself on her zipper.

 

Buffy’s eyes widened in horror and she began shaking her wrist in earnest, desperate mewls clawing at her throat.  God, this was worse than dying of discomfort.  Discomfort over humiliation always.  Now Spike would wake up with his hand caught in her pants—literally—and the jags and barbs he had sent her all night about her reeking of desperation and her obsession with getting ‘shagged’, as he called it, would come full circle.  And he being the current source of her crush, however strange and very wrong that was, it would be an act of supreme devastation.

 

“Oh for sodding…”

 

Spike sat up abruptly and Buffy shrank back in embarrassment, astutely avoiding his eyes and preparing herself for the larger burn.

 

It never came.  Instead, the vampire moved over her and hooked his thumbs under the belt loops of her jeans, glanced to her face once for permission, and yanked her trousers down when she refused to meet his gaze.  Then his presence was gone and the mattress to her right moaned with the reapplication of weight.  And then silence.

 

She waited for minutes for him to start in on her bizarre fixation.  For him to ridicule her for hypocrisy.  For him to say anything that would align correctly with his character.  To jar, to poke, to barb, to belittle; to be Spike.  But it never came.

 

There was nothing but the occasional sound of a slumbered moan.  Nothing at all.

 

The other never came.

 

*~*~*

 

It was a strange sensation—knowing the first minutes of morning while snuggled in a man’s arms.

 

Buffy blinked numbly with the stretch of reluctant wake, her head pillowed softly on an unfamiliar chest, cool but far from unpleasant.  Her arms were outstretched; the right at a particularly gauche angle—the other wound around the body that lay beneath her.  The feel was different but spectacular: never had she felt so thoroughly secure.  And other things were coming into perspective.  A hand was at her back, stroking absent and subconscious caresses into her skin; her legs were straddling one foreign thigh with betrayed intimacy.  It didn’t even occur to her until five minutes or so of stolen time had passed that one hand blatantly refused to move, and that she was curled with gentle poise in the embrace of her enemy.  Her enemy that was holding her with such delicacy, she could have easily mistaken his regular animosity for affection were it to always feel this good.

 

Especially with the sudden swell of palpable desire that tinted the blankets and nudged her hip. 

 

Heat flooded her cheeks at that, timed perfectly with the sudden racing of her heart.  She didn’t know what, but something about the vampire stripped her of all measure.  Crept and chipped at the impenetrable wall left behind by the last of the Aurelius clan to break her heart.  Broken and mended.  All by a man who could never love her.

 

Of course, love wasn’t a discussion she was about to have.  It was a crush and that was that.  A crush left over from some stupid spell.  If she knew what was good for her, she would forget the Will Be Done spell had ever taken place, go to Riley, smile sweetly, and become the epitome of perfect girlfrienddom.

 

Except with the random killing of demons, of course.

 

The other wasn’t possible.  The other that nagged at her with a vengeance.  It just wasn’t possible.  And yet, despite all probability, it was there.  In the span between dusk and dawn, she could admit how easy it would be if she allowed herself.  How painstakingly easy.

 

And regardless of his feelings for her, he couldn’t possibly find her repulsive given the enthusiastic reaction her proximity was receiving.  The temptation to reach down and take him into her hand was egging from a naughty thought to a place of actual contemplation.  As was the drive to pucker her lips and give him a Christmas present never before given by her to anyone else.

 

The Slayer caught herself at that and almost recoiled in horror.  He was right.  All his reprimands the night before—she was the horndog.  She was the one that couldn’t prevent a foray of crude thoughts, the one that assumed he felt and thought the same because she couldn’t shake the impression of him from her system.  And that was what she had to remember.  Just because she wanted him gave him no reason to reciprocate.  Point of fact, he would likely be disgusted if he knew some of the inappropriate scenarios her mind had entertained as of late.  He hated her; always had, always would, and there was nothing more to it.

 

And it was just as well.  Because it was a crush.  A stupid, idiotic, I-can’t-believe-you’re-going-there-again crush.  A crush sparked by a spell and fueled by adhesive.  Once they were separate again, she wouldn’t be surprised if he left town just to wash away all hint of her from his system.

 

That didn’t explain why she was curled in his arms, though.  Or why every time he turned, his erection nudged her with aching persistence.

 

Well, the last one wasn’t so much a mystery.  He was asleep.  He was a vampire.  He was male.  And he was probably dreaming of his lost ladylove, which she would have assumed initially had she not been so thoroughly egocentric.

 

An ironic, humorless grin tickled her lips.  She truly was living with the shadow of Drusilla over her head.

 

And oh my god Spike was waking up.

 

Buffy’s eyes went wide and her body clamped down, hand subconsciously squeezing his as he yawned against her throat and released what had to be the most sensuous purr she had ever heard.

 

Vampires purred?  Spike purred?

 

It was definitely time to roll away.  With a frown, the Slayer cautiously lifted her weight off the vampire and made to resume the position she last remembered—a good four feet of distance between them.  She didn’t get far.  Within the first hint of motion, Spike’s eyes snapped open and the hand at her back shot to her arm.

 

“Jus’ where do you think you’re going?”  She blinked at him dumbly.  He smirked in turn, eyes traveling the length of her, flexing beneath her experimentally.  “I was jus’ gettin’ comfy.”

 

Buffy licked her lips.  In the motion, her leg had inched away from the evidence of his comfort, and she tactfully opted to not demonstrate how well aware she was of his situation.  Right now, her eyes were caught in his.  It was strange seeing him so up close without the safety of a fight to declare as an excuse.  True, the spell had granted more than enough time to grow familiar with such tight immediacy, but there was no spell now.  Just them. 

 

“Getting up,” she replied shortly.  “Using the…” Every fiber in her being froze and her voice broke off.  Oh God.  Her eyes met his.  Oh God.  “Oh God.”

 

It didn’t take much for Spike to discern her sudden panic.  “You need to use the loo, don’ you?”

 

She nodded miserably.  “Human.  Kinda happens.”

 

“Right.”  His brow furrowed in thought, and she was oddly touched that he seemed genuinely embarrassed for her.  Even if it was a charade, it was sweet of him to pretend.

 

Spike?  Sweet?  Oh god, we need the solvent.  Now.

 

“Here.”  The vampire slowly sat up, bringing her with him.  “I’ll stand in the tub with the curtain drawn.  All right?”

 

“But you’ll—”

 

“Sweetheart, we might have to get used to not bein’ modest around each other.”  He stopped, frowned, shook his head, and revised.  “You might have to get used to not bein’ modest around me for the next few days.  Got it?  We have no bloody idea how long we’ll be like this.  Might take Rupert to—”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

“Well, come on ‘f you need to go that badly.”

 

“No.  No, that’s not it.”  Buffy’s face fell.  “I just remembered something.”

 

A few seconds of silence.  “Have at it, luv.  Don’ leave me in suspense.”

 

“Tonight was the Bronze Christmas party.  Ugh, this blows!” He looked at her as though she had lobsters crawling out of her ears.  And that didn’t seem to help.  “Would you stop?!”

 

Spike blinked, then set his face with expected resolve.  “What’s your problem, Summers?”

 

“I have no problem!”  Yeah.  Okay.  So, lying now.  Buffy’s shoulders slumped and she expelled a deep sigh.  “I just really wanted to go to the party.  Since my mom’s out of town for Christmas, it was really the one holiday-centered thing that I had going for me this year…other than the ritual exchange of presents and all.  I was just—”

 

“So let’s go.”

 

Now she was doing the lobster-staring thing.  “What?”

 

Spike shrugged as though he hadn’t realized what he had said.  Or to whom he had said it.  “We’ll go.  Don’ rightly see why this’d effect your going to a bloody party.  ‘F anythin’, you’re guaranteed your date won’ run off on you.”  He held up their joint hands demonstrably.  Then caught the look in her eyes.  “Jus’ tonight, for god’s sakes.  We’ll play your mates for fools.  ‘S not like there’s another option here!”

 

“Did you just say date in reference to us?”

 

“Do I look like I’m proud of it?”

 

No.  No, he didn’t.  Buffy fought the urge to scream her frustration.  Oh well.  At least he had used the d-word before anyone else.  Before she did. 

 

He looked seconds away from rebuking the suggestion when she finally managed to summon a smile that was neither humorless nor cynical.  One that accurately portrayed her feelings rather than guising them in a shield around her heart.  Despite all else, Spike had been a wonderful sport.  With what happened last night, even including their spat, he had done everything possible to make her comfortable.  Something she would have never thought him capable of.  Just something.

 

“Thanks,” Buffy replied earnestly, warmth embracing her heart when he smiled back.  “I really appreciate it.”

 

And then something amazing happened.  Spike became shy.

 

Spike became shy.  He glanced down, muttered a few unintelligible things, offered a nervous laugh, met her eyes again and sealed it with a nod.

 

In a moment of pure abstract, Buffy realized her jeans were curled on the floor and that she was sitting on the bed, under the blankets with her archenemy—wearing nothing but the shirt she had adorned yesterday and panties.  Spike’s shirt had gone missing sometime in the night as well—well, more or less bunched as far off his top as he could afford—and when he had invited himself under the covers, she did not know.  But here he was.  Here they were.  And it felt as natural as anything else.

 

Oh God.

 

Which, inadvertently, took her back to where she had begun.

 

“Oh God.”

 

That was all it took for the sweet look to vanish with a façade of annoyance.  “Now what?”

 

“Bathroom?”

 

The fire in his eyes died just as easily and he offered a small grin.  “Oh, right.” 

 

It was strange seeing him like this.  His face came to life when he smiled; she remembered thinking that when they were under the spell.  Spike so rarely smiled around her—well, he never smiled around her, but she loved seeing it.  He had a gorgeous smile.

 

At that, she frowned.  Bad Buffy.

 

It wasn’t as though anything would come of it.  Thinking along these lines would do nothing more than prevent her from getting over something that needed to be gotten over.

 

And yet that didn’t explain for the gentlemanly posture he performed while she indulged a moment that was supposed to be intimate.  Or how he helped her wash her hands while manifestly not caring too much for his own regard—not that it mattered, anyway.

 

No.  That did not explain that at all.

 

III

 

Being notoriously overly creative, the staff at the Bronze had oh-so cleverly decided to theme the Christmas Party with a ‘Holiday in the Movies’ pattern—playing all sorts of songs from all sorts of Christmas flicks, regardless if the songs actually had seasonal significance aside being composed for a certain picture.

 

It was amusing how the Bronze could have great or horrible taste—never the middle of the road.  As for tonight, Buffy had not yet decided for which side her loyalties lay.  While the premise itself was lame, they were playing some awesome compositions.

 

The place was kicking as she had expected.  The entire town had showed up. 

 

Getting ready for the party had been an interesting venture.  Buffy was possessed with a need to look festive, and despite Spike’s groans, he went along with it.  However, their situation being as it was, achieving the holiday look was something of a challenge.  It had taken the help of Willow and a very hurried Xander and Anya to get the full effect before they rushed off to the airport.

 

Not that Xander was in favor of the dance idea, but he had no argument to offer as they were, in every sense of the word, stuck together.  And perhaps it wasn’t as much the dance itself that drove her friend up the wall, but the fact that he was the only male of the bunch and thus elected to help Spike with his trousers.

 

Help was perhaps overstating it a bit.  He stood and watched—albeit not closely—as the vampire dressed, issued an abrupt nod when he was finished, and left the room in a hurry.

 

It was a different story for Buffy.  After they discovered the only way to remove her top was to tear it off, Willow began searching frantically for a spell that would safely set whatever clothing the Slayer selected onto her shoulders without needing her to free her hands. 

 

“Warlocks do this all the time,” the redhead had said hurriedly.  “Magicking clothes onto themselves and such.  Really.  This spell?  Piece of cake.” 

 

The very nervous blonde had subconsciously squeezed Spike’s hand for reassurance, not realizing she had done so until she felt his fingers curl around hers to return the favor.  They were sitting inelegantly on top of Giles’s kitchen table, backs pressed against each other’s so that nothing inappropriate was seen.  As strange as it was, spending the day with him—unable to physically do anything but—made her feel protective of the vampire.  Closer to him.  As though of everyone in the room, he was the one she could trust.

 

Which was foolish, granted, but how she felt nonetheless.

 

In the end, it had only taken three tries with Willow’s spell to get the outfit on properly.  And she looked good—black velvet pants with a red Santa-themed top, three quarter-length sleeves made of the same material.  Only difference being the white rabbit fur that adorned the color.  It was stylish and fun and she loved it, regardless of the snappy comment Spike had made.

 

She had the feeling he hadn’t meant it.  Not really. 

 

And even if he had, it didn’t matter once she saw what Willow decided he should wear.  One of Giles’s old shirts, no doubt.  A fashion so old it was on the brink of coming back.  Or, by pure chance, a shirt from nowhere at all.  It was red, which he liked, and festive, which she liked.  And he had black slacks on to boot.  He was hot.  There was no doubt about it.

 

They had been at the party now for almost two hours.  And despite the weirdness of being there with Spike, she was having an amazing time.  So amazing that she nearly didn’t recognize Riley when he approached, gave her vampire date the death glare, and asked for a dance.

 

“Ummm…” Buffy smiled nervously, looking anywhere but his face. He was the last person she had expected to see tonight.  And quite frankly, she had been better off for it.  It wasn’t that she didn’t like Riley…she did, in that ‘he’s a really great guy’ way.  But truth be told, ever since she clarified that she wasn’t engaged, she had felt more and more pressured to pursue a relationship with him.  That was something she really, in her heart of hearts, did not want.  “Actually, the thing is…umm, Riley.  I can’t…I—”

 

Evidently, her lack of preparation was interpreted as something else entirely.

 

Something that was almost laughable.

 

“Is this guy bothering you?”

 

At that, Spike released a low, almost possessive growl.  “No.  She came with me,” he snarked.  “So back off, brute boy.”

 

There was a flash of anger in immediate reply, then a pause and a frown.  “Do I know you?”

 

This was not going anywhere marked as good.  She had to intervene before the flaring testosterone sent her and her would-be date sailing backward.  After all, should the vampire go flying, she would too by default.

 

And then her night of partying would become an awkward explainathon. 

 

“Listen, Riley…I came with Spike tonight.”  She cursed herself when she watched his eyes widen with recognition.  Damn, damn, double damn.  “Yeah…uhhh…remember that thing where we weren’t getting married and it was all a story?”

 

The vampire gave her a perplexed look.

 

A sigh rolled off the glowering boy before her.  “Lemme guess…” he said.  “That was the real story because…what?  You two had a fight or something?”  He didn’t wait for her to confirm or deny, merely held up a hand.  “Look, if you two have a thing going on…” He shook his head at her in exasperation.  “Is this what you do?  You…find guys and then…the thing with Parker, and—”

 

There was a snarl behind her that almost surprised her more than the question did.  “Think that’s enough, mate.”  Spike’s eyes had this feral look about them that both invigorated her and made her nervous.  There was every possibility that he was seconds away from doing something incredibly stupid.  “Think you better apologize to the lady.”

 

Buffy blinked.  Since when was her vampire chivalrous?

 

And since when was he her vampire? 

 

“Spike…”

 

“No, luv.  The wanker’s gonna apologize.”  Spike’s eyes set determinately.  “Aren’t you?”

 

The vampire was palpably not of an intimidating height, but the air in which he carried himself was the sort that demanded respect from every outlet he tapped himself into.  People who saw him knew just from a glance that he was not the sort of person to mess with.  Evidently, that same glance was what attracted Riley over in the first place.  The hint that he might be trouble.

 

And though she knew Spike could sense the animosity from a mile away, he did not look to give much a damn.

 

Then something strange happened.  A look overwhelmed Riley’s eyes that had not been there before.  A distant, thoughtful look that turned into one of pure malice for the hint of a second—then he was normal again.  Riley.  The guy she now had absolutely no future with, but somehow couldn’t work herself up to be as upset about that as she felt she should.

 

There was a coughed sorry, then, and before she knew it, her would-be boyfriend had backtracked to his table where some of the guys she saw him hanging out with were prepared to mock.  She knew she should feel something on some level—and she did; a small ounce of regret, of loss, an internal Another One Bites The Dust stuck on repeat.  Buffy was beginning to feel, especially in recent days, that she was just not meant for a normal relationship.

 

Which was fine, because her life?  Not normal.

 

The vampire at her side was still rigid when she squeezed his hand and shook.  “Are you okay?”

 

There was no response.

 

Buffy frowned.  “Spike…”

 

It happened before she could stop to catch herself.  Before the music could play her up to the moment.  Before her mind could unscramble itself and make it known for once and for all what it was she wanted.  It seemed so random, so anomalous, and yet so terribly right that she couldn’t think to object.  The instant his lips touched hers, she was gone.  Melted away into some forbidden paradise where nothing in the world mattered except for the stolen feel of this.  Bliss in every sense of the word.  A whimper of repressed longing scratched at her throat, and she had hooked her good arm around his neck the next moment, leaping into the kiss with everything she had.  Warring off his tongue with hers.  Exploring his mouth with liberation that seemed too long coming.  Their hands clasped together as much as possible, his arm wrapped around her waist to haul her into him.  His taste filling her mouth: tobacco, whisky, leather, even the hint of blood.  All things she had so long resented.  All things that were driving her wild now.

 

Not much time had passed since they last shared a kiss like this, but there was something about it, something that charged her to know it was real this time.

 

Or rather, as real as it was going to get.  When they broke away, panting and leaning into each other, the volume of the music settled around them once more and she was overwhelmed with a sudden attack of bashfulness.  She didn’t know what had brought that on—didn’t really care—but the knowledge that it had taken so little to free her inhibitions brought reality back with a screeching halt.  Her arm was still wound around his neck, her brow pressed to his brow.  She felt him hard against her stomach and managed to wade off a smile.  Managed to stop herself from pushing into him.  It was too fast.  From where she had been the night before to this…it was too fast.

 

And yet…

 

And yet oh god not fast enough.

 

Then the moment was over.  Just like that.  Over.  As though sensing her hesitation, Spike reeled back and caught her gaze.  “Mistletoe,” he said abruptly, pointing skyward.  “I was jus’…mistletoe.  An’ the blokes over there were jus’ askin’ for an eyeful.”

 

Buffy blinked at him, wounded.  No way was that a mistletoe kiss.  She had endured mistletoe kisses in the past.  Never had one set her skin aflame.  Never had one made her lose all sense of time and reasoning. 

 

Any period of relapse that she could have seized went by unnoticed; Spike had twirled her stylishly as the next song struck the speakers, a feat not simple given their predicament, but accomplished without fault nonetheless.  A softer instrumental number that completely escaped her recognition.  They were silent for long minutes.  Silent in a crowd full of music and laughter and conversation.  From one instant of elation to another of abandonment—she felt stripped and alone. 

 

A chuckle rumbled through the vampire, startling her back to the present.  “This song’s appropriate,” he murmured suddenly.

 

It was still the instrumental number.  Buffy favored him with a confused glance.  “Oh?”

 

“None more so.”  His head dipped closer, fingers curling around hers as the arm around her waist grew more demanding.  And then something light touched her ear; a harmony that she had never known before and was glad for it.  There was no sound on earth that could have competed with Spike’s low voice singing the misplaced lyrics for her and her alone to hear when the melody began the repeat.  “The best things happen while you’re dancin’,” he began.  “Things that you would not do at home come naturally on the floor.  For dancin’…” He dipped her lightly.  “Soon becomes romancin’.  When you hold a girl in your arms that you’ve never held before.”  She couldn’t help but flush at that, and it turned even more so when he favored her with a coy wink.  “Even guys with two left feet come out all right if the girl is sweet.  If by chance their cheeks should meet—” And they did on that order alone, “—while dancin’, provin’ that the best things happen while you dance.”

 

  There was no way she would have ever known without tonight that simple vocals could be an invisible erogenous zone.  True, some singers did for her, but none like this. 

 

And Spike?  Who would’ve thought?

 

“That’s…ummm…” Buffy glanced down.  “Not a Christmas song?”

 

He grinned.  “Yes it is, luv.  Well, ‘s from a Christmas flick, right.  Aren’t those the rules?”

 

“It’s from a Christmas movie?”

 

“Irving to boot.  Y’know…bloke who composed the most popular Christmas song ‘f all bloody time?”  His eyes twinkled.  “White Christmas.  Musical from the fifties.”

 

“You know the lyrics to a musical from the fifties?”

 

“Kitten, I had to go see it on openin’ night.  Dru likes people to sing for her.”  A shrug to follow through with her instantaneous fall of spirit.  Ah.  Right.  Drusilla.  There was that shadow again.  “Though granted, for a sappy holiday flick, that one was one of the more bearable. Was always a fan of Irving’s music.”

 

“Right.  You’re into old music.”  She made a face.  “Well, the Sex Pistols—”

 

“Are a bloody brilliant band an’ we’re not goin’ there.”  Spike dipped her again just to throw her off guard.  “Jus’ because my taste is superior doesn’ mean it isn’t diverse.  Though, ‘course I’d expect you only listen to whatever boy band the record company’s promotin’ at a given time, right?  That or Britney bloody Spears.”

 

“What?  No!”

 

“Y’know, you kinda resemble the bint.”

 

“I do not!”

 

He nodded, more to himself, a studious look on his face.  “Short.  On the skinny side.  Blonde.  Cute.  Yeh, pet, you got her look down.”

 

The room did one of those freezy things again where they were briefly the only occupants, despite the continual twirl of conversation around them.  “You think I’m cute?”

 

“What?”

 

“You said cute.”

 

He scoffed.  “Did not.”

 

“You did so!”

 

“The point is, Slayer, I can have varying tastes in music.   ‘ve been around for sodding ever, right?  The Sex Pistols weren’ always there.”

 

Buffy pouted at his refusal to admit what she had so obviously heard just a few seconds before, but decided ultimately to let it drop.  In the long run, all that really mattered was that he had said it while off guard.  And it wasn’t as though it meant anything, anyway.  Girls just liked being told they were pretty.  Or, in the case of Spike, cute.

 

And what was that, anyway?  Cute?  She was cute?  Puppies were cute.  Babies were cute. 

 

He had to be the world’s most aggravating vampire.

 

“You said the song was appropriate,” she said a minute later.  “What did you mean?”

 

“Huh’s that?”

 

“How was the song appropriate?”

 

Spike’s brows perked.  “The best things happen while you’re dancin’?”  She nodded.  He smirked.  “Don’ tell me you haven’t noticed it, sweets.”

 

“Noticed what?”

 

The record had shifted to a subtler Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.

 

“Every move we make,” he said, emphasizing by thrusting his pelvis up in time with the beat—so in time that she didn’t know whether or not it was intentional.  “Every day.  Ever since we met.  All we’ve done with each other…is danced.”

 

He dipped her a third time before she could protest and continued unhampered when she was eye level once more.  “There’s different ways to dance, luv.  Slayers dance with their bodies—all out.  No matter what you’re doin’.  You think you’re fightin’…you think that’s what calls vamps for the kill.  You think it’s your blood—that plays a part, I won’ lie, but ‘s somethin’ else.  ‘S somethin’ beyond anyone’s conception…our drive for the Slayer.  Every move she makes, every li’l gasp of air she takes…’s all a part of the dance.  Every Slayer does it.  Taunts us.  Torments us.  Flaunts herself an’ asks us to take her.”  He stopped, frowned, and thought.  “You, on the other hand…” In an abrupt move, he twirled her around so that his arms had criss-crossed over her front and her back was pressed to his chest.  He made no effort to hide his erection, rather presumptuously ground it into her backside and nearly moaned aloud when she pressed back into him.  “You, Slayer…you dance with all you’ve got.  You dance for the sake of dancin’.  For the sake of everythin’ you’re s’posed to be aimin’ for.  You’re different from the others.  Your body calls us to the dance, but that’s not why we stay.  ‘S somethin’ else…somethin’ about you that gives the dance a whole new meanin’.  An’ that’s all we’ve ever done, luv.  All you an’ I have ever done.  Danced around each other until the song changes tunes.  Fightin’, screamin’…an’ now…”

 

Buffy’s eyes were threatening to fall shut as her body went lax in his embrace.  She had to fight the temptation to recline her head on his inviting shoulder.  Every word that escaped his lips initiated a tingle across her skin, burrowed deep within her system and refused to allow her peace.  She wanted nothing more than to lose herself.

 

“Now,” he continued softly, “we’re puttin’ the fight to music.  The dance never ends.  Not with you.”  She felt his free hand draw hair away from her face, and her gaze reluctantly focused and found him staring at her with a look she had never seen before.  And for long minutes, they were without time.

 

“’S your eyes,” he said suddenly.

 

It was amazing she could find her voice.  “What?”

 

“Your eyes…’s how you dance.”  He searched her imploringly.  “A man could dance forever in your eyes.”

 

Buffy’s head spun. Realities had suddenly bent to her whim.

 

Mistletoe kiss.  Yeah. Right.

 

Somewhere, somehow, she was able to locate her voice.

 

“And,” she began.  “The best things happen while you’re dancing?”

 

Spike grinned.  “Only while you’re dancin’.”

 

Four simple words.  It was funny how four simple words could be the foundation of everything.  Could open the gateway to everything.  Of course, as was in this case, it was hardly ever just the words—more the thought and feeling that went into them.  The knowledge of what they meant.  What he meant when he said them.  Because this was it.  If there was an it, they had arrived at its doorstop. 

 

Oh God.

 

How in the world had they gotten here from yesterday?

 

Buffy pulled back abruptly and disentangled herself from Spike’s embrace.  They parted as far as possible and simply stared at each other in silent question.

 

What did this mean? 

 

The Bronze was suddenly too hot, and she needed to get out.  “I’m gonna go kill things,” she announced abruptly, and turned sharp on the heel.

 

Naturally, this prompted Spike to follow.

 

“Well,” he mumbled under his nonexistent breath, more than confused.  “Guess ‘m comin’ along.”

 

The air stung with the weight of unspoken words.  Dangerous words.  Words that once spoken could not be taken back. Words that remained unspoken but demonstrated in ways that spoke louder than anything they could have said.

 

Anything.

 

IV

 

A disastrous half hour later saw them shelved into the lavatory, Spike having prompted Buffy atop the counter as he wet a washcloth.  Like all others, it was an odd but comforting positing; his left arm resting in her lap and their fingers entwined.  Strange how that was becoming familiar.  That small side effect that was not a result of the glue at all; rather a growing closeness that had somehow formed in less than twenty-four hours.

 

And they still had days to go…

 

“Come on,” he prompted gently, raising their hands to the hem of her shirt.  “I gotta see it if I’m gonna clean it, right?”

 

A pout crossed her lips.  “It’s not even that bad,” she said.  “Just a scratch.”

 

He arched a brow.  “I don’ mean to be crude, luv—”

 

“That’s a first.”

 

He ploughed right ahead, ignoring her.  “But I can smell how bad it is.  Vamp, right?  You haven’t stopped bleedin’ yet.” 

 

The look in his eyes convinced her resolve to waver; she didn’t believe she had ever seen him so concerned over anything.  With a sigh and a short nod, Buffy conceded her grip and he moved between her thighs. 

 

Okay, so patrolling while glued to a vampire was not a good plan.  She should have known and she admitted that, but the alternative had been too nerve-wracking to pursue.  Dancing with her enemy with her attraction for him on the steady increase instead of dithering away as it should have.  She was inches from collapsing her head against his shoulder in despair. 

 

How was it that Spike treated her like a woman while Angel had always insisted on treating her like a girl?

 

Buffy shuddered a deep breath, her eyes taking in the serious look on the vampire’s face as he methodically doctored the few scrapes she had sustained in the very opportunistic vampire attack on patrol.  The small, feathery touches against her skin were enough to rage any inferno while simultaneously drawing the fire down to a cool hum of satisfaction.  Regardless of their situation, there was no reason for this.  No reason Spike should be with her at all.  No reason for him to care that she was hurt.  To help her stop her bleeding.  His nostrils flared, but he asked for nothing in turn. 

 

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly, startling them both with her brashness. 

 

His hand froze against her.  “What?”

 

“This.”  She motioned between them emphatically.  “I know we’re…but why do you care?  You could’ve let that vamp off me if you’d wanted to.”

 

“Oh, so now everyone who saves your life has to pass the Buffy Summers loyalty quiz?”

 

She frowned.  “I never—”

 

“I jus’ did.  All right?  Can we drop it?”

 

“No, we can’t drop it.  Not only did you save my life, Spike, you also put yours in danger.  Have we forgotten the chip?”  As if to make doubly sure the chip was not forgotten, Buffy tapped the side of his head with skeptical condescension.  “Granted, yes, knowing that your little handicap doesn’t apply to non-humans is a good thing, but you could’ve…you didn’t know that.  And you could’ve—”

 

Spike perked a brow.  “You really think I woulda jus’ stood there an’ let those vamps take a chunk outta you?”

 

She stared at him blankly.  “Well…yes?”

 

“You’re off your bird.”

 

“What does that even mean?!”

 

“It means sod all else before I stand aside an’ watch you get hacked to tiny bits by baby vamps not worthy enough to lick your shoes.  God, you really think I could stand for that?”  He was wound tight; his body wound tight with the need to pace.  “You think I’d let you be offed by some two-bit act?”

 

“Yes!”  She took some pride in the wounded look that flashed behind his eyes, though not exactly knowing a reason.  “You’re Spike, remember?  The Slayer of Slayers?  Any of that ring a bell?  And me.  Buffy.  Vampire Slayer, the.  You’ve only tried to kill me since the day we met, and now you’re saying you don’t want to see me dead?”

 

“No.”  The answer surprised them both.  Spike blinked numbly at the truth behind it, glanced to her with some apprehension, but seemed otherwise invigorated by the resilience of shameless acknowledgment.  And when he spoke again, his voice had lowered and the fire behind his gaze had softened.  She became dangerously aware of their proximity; his free hand having settled on her arm, caressing her gently in a manner that was somehow more intimate than any other touch granted from the men in her life.  “No, Buffy.  I don’ want you dead.”

 

He was calling her Buffy again.

 

Oh God.

 

“Why?”

 

Spike’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Why? Does a bloke need a reason?”

 

“It’s you, so yes.  Your mission is to kill the Slayer.”

 

“Changed my mission.”  He shrugged.  “Don’ know when it happened.  Jus’ did.  Don’ wanna kill you anymore.  Don’ know ‘f I ever did.”

 

“Can I weigh an opinion on that?”

 

He quirked his head.  “It ever occur to you, kitten, that I have had experience killin’ Slayers?  I know you know it, but do you have any idea what that means?  I’ve had chance after chance to kill you…managed to bollocks it up some way or another.  Hell, ‘ve been invited to your home, for God’s sake.  Chance after chance…” A hand moved up to brush a few unruly locks of hair from her face.  “An’ I never did it.  Never went through with it.  You’re better than the others, sure.  Best I’ve ever seen.  But ‘f I wanted to…’f I really wanted to…I’d’ve done it by now.  I haven’t.”

 

The words should have disgusted her.  Should have revolted her.  Should have convinced her to stake him then and there and solve her problem.  And, if nothing else, should have definitely eradicated any remnants of her stupid crush once and for all.  Of these things, it did none.  Rather it set her heart pounding so hard she was certain it could be heard through walls.  Made her clothes uncomfortable and set her skin aflame.  Made her clench her thighs—made her want to throw him against the wall to do all sorts of naughty, inappropriate things to him.  Made her want.

 

“I haven’t…” Buffy looked down, unable to maintain the demand of his gaze.  She was afraid she would blurt out something she wasn’t yet prepared to face.  “I haven’t killed you, either.”

 

“You haven’t?”  She looked up.  He was smirking.  “Yeh, kinda noticed that one, luv.  Any idea why?”

 

“No.  You’re annoying and evil and by all logic accounts, you should be dust.”

 

“An’ yet…” He was moving in dangerously close.  Oh god oh god and no mistletoe to blame it on.  “Here I am.”  His right hand reached at her cheek and wiped away some residual dirt from patrol.  “Sweetheart, I know what you’re gonna say, but I think you need a bath.”

 

“I stink?”

 

“No.  It’d help with the achies.”

 

“You want me to bathe like this?”  She held up their joint hands.  “Huh?”

 

“What, you were gonna go four days without a shower?”  Spike’s eyes narrowed.  “You thought I’d go four days without a shower?  Honestly, Slayer.”

 

Her cheeks flushed.  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

 

“Well, come on then.  Hop up.”

 

“No!  No, I’m not…showering with you.”  Naked Spike.  Wet naked Spike.  She wouldn’t be able to control herself.  “You’ll have to stand outside the shower while I do it, okay?  Quick, painless—”

 

“With the nozzle pointin’ that way—” He gestured discernibly, “—an’ your right hand glued to yours truly?”

 

“I am not getting naked with you!”

 

He scoffed indignantly, his face hardening from the sweet resolve she had been treated to all night.  “I swear, Summers, you have some ego.  Like that’s what’d I’d be thinkin’ about.”

 

“Well it’s what I’d be thinking about!”

 

They froze and gaped at each other.  Buffy closed her eyes and wished for the counter to swallow her whole. 

 

Spike’s gaze, in turn, had softened again.  “Slayer—”

 

“Don’t.  Don’t read too much into it or flatter yourself.  Y-you just get two people naked, and…wet…and shower…and…you think about it.  It happens.  Case closed.”

 

“Buffy.”  He was smiling at her now; a kind smile.  An almost adoring smile.  So far off from the smiles she had ever received from him.  A smile reserved only for spells when happiness was the mode of operation.  A smile she had only seen when they were planning wedding arrangements.  “I lied.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hello, guy here.  I’d be thinkin’ about it, too.  God, I’d be thinkin’ about it.  How could I think of anythin’ else with…an’ you’re…” His eyes trailed the length of her, suddenly hazy with thought.  Overwhelmed.  “You’re…’m runnin’ the bath for you.”

 

“I’m not getting in.”

 

“You’ll get in ‘f I have to throw you in.”

 

“No.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“Yeh—we’ll take a shower instead.”

 

Buffy’s eyes went wide.  “Spike!”

 

The vampire sighed and rolled his eyes.  “Look.  We’re gonna have to do this eventually, right?  Might as well get it outta the way.”  He waited for a minute as she debated inwardly and lost every argument against the voice of rationality.  Ultimately, he was right.  Even if they did not do this tonight, there was tomorrow to think about.  Tomorrow and the days following.  God.  “Right,” he said, evidently reading the concession in her eyes.  “So…’m startin’ the shower.”

 

The air around her was suddenly very hot.  A stymie burn from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her hair.  He turned from her as best he could and flicked the water on—leaving her to her own devices.

 

For her part, Buffy stood at an awkward standstill, unsure what to do with herself.  What, if anything, would suggest too much.  They had decided to take a shower together—okay, her mind was already filled with much promise of naked goodness, but what exactly did this mean? Was he acting purely on behalf of her aches and pains, or was he looking for an excuse to get her naked? 

 

It seemed too radical to stop now and ask if this was still a part of the date or if they were back to being two reluctant victims of industrial strength adhesive.

 

By the time Spike had turned back to her, she had done nothing to disrobe herself and he wasted no time setting the pace for her.  He raised his hands to the hem of her shirt wordlessly, sending a cautious glance to her face before edging the material upward.  She knew he could read her nervousness; could feel it rolling off her in waves of irrepressible uncertainty.  With whatever else they had done to this point—spell or no spell, glue or no glue—there was something about the intimacy of nudity that deepened the significance.

 

Cold air hit her like a bucket of ice.  Strange.  The air hadn’t felt cold before.  Perhaps that was accredited to the fact that she was standing in the bathroom of Giles’s apartment with a vampire she had too recently hated, wearing nothing waist-up but a skimpy lace bra.  Her festive top adorned from nowhere was currently bunched where their hands were fused together.  The room reverberated with the pounding of her heart.

 

“You’re gonna have to rip it,” she murmured, surprised at how husky her voice sounded.  He looked up at her with wondrous awe and something she had never seen before guiding him through a blur of recognition.  “Yours, too.  We’ll have to rip it.”

 

“Buffy…”

 

Her eyes met his and what she saw took her breath away.  So close.  When had he gotten so close?

 

A yank and her top was gone for good; sailed to the floor as his free hand steadied her arm.  Then slowly skimmed up the length of her and paused at her shoulder, fiddling with the strap of her bra.

 

He whispered her name again, eyes drifting to her face for another nod of permission. And she must have granted it for his fingers itched to the swell of her breast and stroked her lightly through the thin material, a low, throaty moan rumbling through his body.  Then he raised his other hand to work the front clasp, and her breasts spilled into his welcoming touch, eager digits automatically pulling at her nipples, sending small jolts of pure lust to her core.  God, this was really happening.  He was really touching her.  There was awe masked with hunger in his gaze, and he was touching her.

 

“’m gonna kiss you,” he said suddenly.

 

The Slayer looked at him numbly, heart throbbing just beneath his caress.  As though carrying on a rational conversation while being fondled by a gorgeous vampire was remotely possible. “What?”

 

“’m gonna kiss you.”  It was not a question.  He was going to kiss her.  He was staring at her mouth like a man starved, offering her a sheepish smile when he couldn’t stop.  “Jus’ thought I’d let you know.”

 

This was one moment out of a million, but it would be one to always remember.

 

Mind hazed, Buffy nodded best she could.  “Oh.  Okay.”

 

It was amazing how weightless she felt.  Even more amazing that that was the first thought that seized her mind as Spike’s good arm jerked an anchor around her waist as his mouth found hers with more fervor compacted into a single kiss than she had ever before experienced.  Kisses were simple.  Sweet.  She had shared kisses with a number of boys—tentative ventures with nameless faces met back at who-knows-where before she left Hemery in ’97.  She remembered the name of her first kiss was David Greenbrier and that he had thought his tongue was some blessing from Heaven.  The few that followed before Angel, she didn’t remember.  Couldn’t place.  They existed where all the forgotten kisses existed.  Shelved forever in some cupboard labeled for those she had once known and would likely one day forget altogether.

 

There were kisses that established foundations and others that halted construction.

 

Then there were kisses like Spike’s, where all memories of those stolen moments in the past were suddenly made meaningless.  Spike’s exploration of her; gentle but hungry.  Forceful but yielding.  His tongue taking to her mouth with softness that counteracted the need behind every stroke.  His lips danced against hers—forming poetry without words.  His fingers curled around hers where they were joined, his other hand at her breast, stroking her with craving she had never thought she could inspire.  For every touch he gave, every sweep his mouth made against hers, he made her feel in seconds more desirable than she had in the full of her experience. 

 

Where this would make Angel lose his soul, Spike for all accounts seemed to gain one in mindless seconds.  The notion was dangerous, she knew, but could not find it within herself to care at that moment.  Her legs were around his waist, grinding into his hardness and nearly weeping with relief when he thrust back into her.  The sounds rumbling needily from his throat tugged at every nerve in her body. 

 

She mewled in protest when his mouth finally wrenched away, though her lungs were grateful.  They stared at each other, stunned for a few endless seconds.  Watching; waiting for the other to speak.  Daring themselves to put a name on something so powerful.

 

Buffy braved it first even if she didn’t feel confident enough.  “I…there’s no mistletoe,” she said lamely. 

 

Spike’s eyes darkened with passion and neared her mouth again.  “Sod the mistletoe,” he growled.

 

They were kissing again, and none of the rest mattered.  Long, wet, heated kisses—the type that stole minutes, hours, half days for the want of something more.  His velvety tongue stroked her to points of ecstasy she didn’t know kisses could bestow.  Then she felt him nip at her breast, drawing one ruby nipple into his mouth and reality collapsed altogether.  His teeth teased her lightly, only to be fended off with an angry tongue.  Buffy cried aloud and grasped at his head, her own finding the surface that had suddenly appeared behind her and her body wrenching a lever that was protruding from the wall. 

 

The shower.  They actually were in the shower.  She hadn’t even noticed the change of scenery.  And even with the water running, had he not pulled away for that fraction of a second, she doubted she would have anytime soon.

 

It didn’t matter the next second, though; his hand had dipped to her trousers and tugged with some instance.

 

“Gotta get you outta this,” he murmured, thoroughly occupied at her breast.  “Gotta get you clean.”

 

“Clean…”

 

Somehow her clothing disappeared, and she was naked in his arms.  She didn’t know how it had happened; when he had managed to do it.  Never had he pulled away from her, dragged his mouth away from her aching skin to tend to the menial, however anxious concerns about clothing.  It didn’t matter, though.  Nothing mattered except the feel of him against her body.

 

Spike dropped alternative kisses on either breast, his eyes trailing heatedly to her face.  Then he was working up her throat, mouth lavishing every inch of skin until he reached her lips again. 

 

“You’re beautiful, Buffy.”  He pulled back to see her eyes.  “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

 

She swallowed hard, and if it was possible, her blush deepened.  Why did it not seem like a line?  It had to be a line.

 

“I mean it,” he said, as though reading her hesitation.  “I look at you…’f the sun shone so bright, I’d be a dead man.  No creature of darkness could hide when she smiles like that.  There’d be no shadows.”  His head tilted.  “’ve…this means somethin’ to me.”

 

Buffy’s head spun, floundered with poetry.  “I—Spike…” A few seconds past and words failed her, but she remembered herself as his head ducked with the initial stain of embarrassment, and she lifted him to her eyes once more.  “It means something to me, too.  I don’t know…I…”

 

“Shhh.”  He smiled warmly, head dipping so that he might nibble at her throat with soft sensationalism.  His right hand became more boisterous, scaling over the flat of her stomach to cup her mound with nimble fingers.  He swallowed her gasp of surprise and moaned into her when she clutched at him tighter. 

 

“Spike—”

 

“Shhh,” he mused again.

 

“Spike…jeans…” Buffy wailed incoherently and dropped her hands; best she could while taking his with her, tugged at his belt in sudden desperation to free him of his confines.  “Want…need to feel you.”

 

“I—”

 

She didn’t know if he meant to protest or encourage, but it was too late.  She emerged the victor; his erection sprang into her hand with a liberated whimper, and he gasped as her grip tightened with need.  The angle was awkward—her left hand employed rather than her right, but the pay off was that much more rewarding.  Every pant that rumbled through his lips, every time her name rolled off the litany of pious observations, every second stolen: every everything.

 

“Buffy.”  Spike’s hand remembered itself after a few long seconds, his fingers massaging her sodden folds such gentle poise that it near drove her out of her mind.  He studiously avoided where she craved his touch the most; her body cried out in desperate outrage before her mind could prevent it. 

 

The smile that touched his lips was tender, not mocking.  “You’re even more beautiful like this,” he said.

 

A strangled moan escaped her throat and her hand tightened around him, earning back some of her own.  “So are you,” she murmured.

 

“Christ, Buffy!”

 

The sound sent shivers up her skin.  Her name on his lips was sounding more and more natural.  He was panting against her in a manner she would have found funny had he not suddenly skipped the pleasantries and plunged two fingers deep inside, earning a strangled gasp. 

 

“Uhhh.”

 

“Wanted you,” he rasped at her ear, “so fucking long.”

 

Buffy pulled back lightly, her thumb teasing the head of his erection.  Words were beyond her now.  Coherent thought was beyond her.  How this had gotten so far, she did not know or care.  Her body ached for his in ways it had never before ached.  There had been nothing before this.

 

“So long.” His thumb in turn finally found her clit; he swallowed her pleasure with his mouth, thrusting fingers pressing her further toward elation when it was no longer enough.

 

Then everything came back to her; words, logic, everything.  She needed it for this.  Needed it to convey what her body craved.  Something that somehow required verbal consent.  It was a big step for anyone—for them, the gap between one extreme and the other would never close.  Not so far off between love and hate—though no one had said anything about love—but large enough for her that she knew, even in a lust-filled haze, that everything would change after this.  Everything.

 

He knew it, too.  He would have taken her by now had he not known it. 

 

Or rather, he would have taken her had he known it and simply not cared.

 

“Spike,” she gasped.  “Inside.  I want you inside me.”

 

The vampire’s eyes went wide.  “Buffy…”

 

“Please…” Her mouth found his ear.  “Make love to me.”

 

It was amazing what silence could do to a room filled with sound.  The water splattering at her back before hitting the tub and trickling into the drain.  The gasps of air stolen from one being that didn’t need it and another that couldn’t get enough.  The bells in her head that she had always thought to be proverbial.  All around her.  Sound.  She couldn’t get away from it. 

 

And yet, for the astonishment pouring through Spike’s eyes, she would have thought it all sold for a moment of silence.

 

“Buffy?”

 

Her nerve would have failed her had she not heard the hopefulness in his tone.  And it took that to realize the significance of what she said.

 

Make love, not fuck.  She asked him to make love to her.  It was what she wanted—she had not put any thought into the words.  She had not considered what it meant, if anything.  She had simply yielded to the wails of her body, to the ache stretching her insides that only he could quench.

 

The hope in his eyes moved her more than anything he could have said.

 

It meant something to him, and that thought nearly prompted her to tears.

 

“Buffy…” His lips neared hers with near-reverence.  “Are you sure?”

 

“God, yes.”

 

“Say it again.”  He smiled when she shot him a questioning look.  “I jus’ need to hear it.  Prove to myself that this is real.”

 

Buffy stared at him for a few awed, endless seconds.  “Spike, I—”

 

And then it happened.  The thing happened.  The breech between reality and this stolen paradise crumpled completely.  Not even the running water could smother the sound.  In an apartment such as Giles’s, the slightest hum carried without much measure.  All sounds except those from the bath; that meant nothing for the sounds surrounding them.

 

It was the front door.  Someone was banging on the front door.

 

Spike’s eyes went wide after the surprise waned.  “Buffy…” He looked to her for an answer he had not issued a question for.  And they stared repentantly at each other for endless seconds.  “What…”

 

Whatever she said next came out of pure panic.  The sort of panic that strikes right before you do something that is meant to change the course of your life.  Taking that final leap of faith.  Naturally so, such leaps are usually given more time to work up to than a mere day.  It seemed forever had passed, but it had only been a day.  A day of stolen time.  They had had their day.  They had somehow gotten here.  And now the outside world had come knocking to remind them kindly that it still existed.

 

With all its ugliness and truth, the outside world still existed.  The world outside the bathroom still existed.

 

So she panicked.

 

“It might be Giles.”

 

And instantly regretted it the minute the words escaped her lips.  It wasn’t Giles.  They both knew it wasn’t Giles.  Were it Giles, he would have no earthly reason to knock.  It was his apartment, after all. 

 

Spike saw this, of course.  Read it in her eyes.  Read the flicker of uncertainty and watched it spread into genuine alarm.  Watched as she stopped at the edge of the cliff and looked down hesitantly at the height she had to jump.  The depth of how much she had to trust him to catch her in case she should fall.

 

And there was doubt.  In that second, there was doubt. 

 

Buffy watched his resignation and it all came back.  She opened her mouth to protest as he pulled away, but it didn’t matter.  His eyes had gone distant.  He was suddenly miles away from her. “Right,” he said shortly.  “Might be Giles.”

 

“Spike—”

 

The water suddenly stopped running.  “Come on.  We gotta have a robe or somethin’ to cover you with, right?”

 

“Spike—”

 

It was no use.  He wouldn’t listen.  He jerked her out of the shower, and she followed as though watching her life being played for her by someone who no longer knew her lines.  He dressed her as modestly as possible, and as closely as possible before pulling up his sodden jeans.  The robe hung awkwardly off her right shoulder with the lack of an arm to go through, tugged at the bottom to cover as much flesh as she could manage.  But it didn’t matter. 

 

It wasn’t Giles.  They both knew that going to the door.

 

It wasn’t Giles.  And it wasn’t Willow.  It was a deliveryman.  A deliveryman that smirked knowingly before he presented them with their package.

 

The solvent, of course.  It was the solvent.  It was here now.  Now of all times.

 

Three days early.

V

 

A miserable day passed.

 

A long, dull, uneventful day spent watching every holiday special the television had to offer.  She sat empty-handed, every now and then flexing her fingers with the blind expectation that he would appear at her side.  It was as though a part of her had been severed—something she hadn’t known long; hadn’t known long enough.  For a day, they had been glued together, and now the day was over.

 

As was, it appeared, everything else.

 

Buffy really had no one to blame but herself.  Evidently, Xander had phoned Cordelia at Angel Investigations before he and Anya left for Oregon and explained the situation in hopes of their having some influence—or, at the very least, funding.  A later conversation with Wesley confirmed that Angel had about flown through the roof when he learned that his unruly grandchilde was literally stuck by the side of his former girlfriend, and bullied some local vendors into upping the delivery date of the solvent.  In a matter of minutes, the Slayer’s world had collapsed.  The look on Spike’s face had been unreadable.  Not beyond surveying her for reaction, but more distant than she had ever seen him. 

 

It only got worse after they were released; he had jerked away from her and stormed to Giles’s bedroom with a defiant slam.  And despite however much she had tried to persuade him, he refused to come out. 

 

Now a day had passed and she felt empty.  Empty and ridiculous for feeling empty. It was impossible to develop these sorts of feelings in a day.  She knew that.  And she should have been grateful for what happened.  After all, had it not, she would have made a terrible mistake.  The sort of mistake budding relationships with men she didn’t care about simply didn’t recover from.

 

At least, that was what she told herself until waking up in her own room the next morning and suffering through the dreaded oh-god-that-happened-yesterday replay.  The house was big and empty; she didn’t realize how much she had been looking forward to a Christmas at Giles’s apartment until she toddled downstairs to the smell of her mother not-making breakfast.  Her mother was making breakfast in another town for the holidays.  It was Christmas Eve, Giles’s present remained unfinished, and her heart was broken because of a stupid vampire and some stupid glue. 

 

Well, more stupid Xander calling stupid Angel who had to ruin everything with his stupidity. 

 

Buffy glanced to her right hand that was no longer attached to his.

 

Stupid glue.

 

Stupid crush.

 

Stupid crush that was now oh so much more than a crush.  Her feelings were muddled except for that.  There was no questioning that.  One did not go to bed at night after suffering through something like that and wake up the next morning feeling miserable because of it.  Because the small-minded men in her life didn’t know when to butt out.  Because she had stood on the brink of something wonderful only to have it ripped away from her the moment it was within view.

 

Make love, she had said.

 

Of all the ways to…and she had chosen that one.

 

And then she panicked.  She had been so ready to make love with Spike one moment and had chickened out the next.  The PTB had offered her a way out and, being the big chicken that she was, she had jumped at it.  Grabbed it, hogtied it, and started up the fire.  And in the process ruined whatever the vampire felt for her—or disrespected it to a degree where reconciliation was out of the question.

 

It was something, too.  He felt something.  Something powerful.  She hadn’t recognized it until it was too late.  Hadn’t known how to perceive that occasional glow of affectionate softness until he dropped her reservations and allowed her into his light.

 

So what did this mean?  Her heart was hurting and her head was full.  In a day, her crush had turned into something so much more.  Something that made her ache.  Her body was broken and her eyes refused to remain dry.  Every Christmas special ended in happiness, guaranteeing much use out of the Kleenex box that remained faithfully at her side.

 

Make love, she had said.  Make love.

 

She had used the word aloud.  She had looked at Spike and said love.  But that didn’t mean anything.  It couldn’t.  Her mind refused to leave it be, but it didn’t mean anything.  

 

But if it didn’t, why did she feel this way?  Why were her temples throbbing?  Why couldn’t she keep from reaching for a new tissue at everything Christmassy, from Gap to Hallmark?  Why was she hurting?  It didn’t make any sense.  He was just a stupid vampire.  It wasn’t as though she…

 

Buffy froze.  Her heart stopped.  Her eyes went wide.  And the world rolled off its axis.

 

Oh God.

 

No.

 

She did.

 

Did not.

 

She loved Spike.

 

Not true.  So not true.

 

She was completely, entirely, agonizingly, and helplessly in love with Spike.

 

Oh God.

 

What an appropriate moment to be interrupted.  Buffy leapt off the couch the moment she heard the doorbell ring, her head spinning so fast it was a miracle when she didn’t fall back down again.  This was the way it happened in the movies.  The main character reaches her epiphany and then the doorbell rings with her love on the other side, soaked with rainwater and looking for all the world like he could ravish her on the front porch if he weren’t so consumed with angst.

 

Of course, her life being as it was, it came as no surprise whatsoever that it was Willow looking abnormally perky.  Her life wasn’t like the movies—vampires in movies never caressed her or cared for her the way Spike had last night.  Her revelation came at its peak, and now her best friend was here and…

 

Buffy blinked.  “Riley?”

 

Willow frowned and shook her head.  “No.  Me, Willow.”

 

“Will, why is Riley here?”

 

She shrugged.  “He was strong enough to help me move the big chest?”  As if on cue, the girls stepped aside as Riley ploughed inward, nodding at Buffy with a goofy aren’t-I-being-so-helpful look on his face.  She returned it best she could but there was no feeling behind it.

 

The chest.  They had gone to Giles’s for the chest.

 

“I just thought we needed to finish it, right?” Willow added obligingly, searching her face for reaction.  “And since Xander and Anya are out of town, I thought I’d call Riley and see if he—”

 

God, they had gone to Giles’s place. 

 

“Yeah, we need to finish it,” the Slayer agreed with a forced smile, trying to quell the pounding of her heart.  If they had gone to Giles’s, they had seen Spike.  Had he said anything?  Was he there?  Was he okay?  Why wasn’t Willow asking why he hadn’t been chained up?  Why wasn’t Willow asking about what had happened?  Why wasn’t Willow asking why she was there at all, and not house-sitting like she was supposed to be doing?

 

What if Riley had killed Spike?  Well, no.  Extreme much?  That was ridiculous.  Spike didn’t have VAMPIRE tattooed to his forehead, at least not to someone who didn’t know what they were looking for.  She was just being paranoid.

 

And God, how it was showing.

 

“Spike?” Buffy asked abruptly, unable to contain herself.  “Did you see Spike?”

 

A frown pressed upon the redhead’s lips.  “Yeah…” she said slowly, trading a long glance with Riley.  “Well, I spoke with him on the phone before we got there…a-and he helped us move the thing into Riley’s car.  Buffy…” There was a long pause that ended once the Witch realized that the Slayer couldn’t read her mind.  “Did you know that he was…ummm…out and about?”

 

Buffy shook her head.  “Is he okay?”

 

“What?”  Riley’s voice penetrated the air with deathly seriousness.  “Did you two have another fight?”  He grinned humorously at the perplexed look on Willow’s face.  “These two can’t seem to decide if they’re getting married or not.”

 

“Yeah, because that’s not going to need an explanation,” the Slayer muttered. 

 

“Buffy?”

 

“I…uhhh…” I’m in love.  I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it.  Yeah.  If only.  “I…we should work on Giles’s thing, right?  He gets in tonight and we still don’t have the lid or the engravings…we should…really…get working.”

 

They were both staring at her blankly.

 

Yeah, Buff.  Way to make with the smooth.

 

Oh thank God.  Phone.

 

Buffy smiled apologetically and edged away with body language that could not be misinterpreted.  With any luck, it would be her mother wanting to chat for an hour and a half about Christmases past and how she wished she could be there to share it with her, especially since it was her first Christmas away from home.

 

But it wasn’t her mother.

 

“Hello?”

 

A long, tortured pause and she heard him inhale.  And just like that, the room started spinning.  Oh God. 

 

“Buffy.”

 

The Slayer’s eyes fell shut in waves of relief.  The world threatened to crash with the sudden abandonment of the weight that she had been carrying.  He had called.  He had called her home.  Spike was on the phone and he was calling for her. 

 

God, he sounded as though he was in as much pain as she was.

 

“Spike…” Her heart thundered furiously.  “I’m…I’m sorry.  It…I didn’t mean what happened.  I shouldn’t have said it.”

 

There was a pause, then a long sigh of concession.  “Yeh, luv.  Figured that much.  Was jus’ callin’ to—”

 

Gah.

 

“No, not that.  Not what I said when I…unless you didn’t mean it, either.  I was talking about what…I…I shouldn’t…” She frowned miserably.  “Why is this so difficult?  What I said to you in the…I meant that.  I didn’t mean what happened after that.”

 

Another long pause.  She could practically hear the seconds ticking away.  And with every lingering beat, her heart wrenched with the conviction that he was about to bark something degrading about how every couple that gets glued together goes through a thing where they want to ‘shag’ each other silly. And while he was humbled but not beyond amused at the notion that she was still in said phase, he was merely calling to respectfully tell her to ‘bugger off’ and leave him the ‘bloody hell’ alone so he could forget everything that happened between them.

 

She waited for him to say that.  Waited for him to break her heart.

 

It never came.

 

“Do you…” His voice was oddly shrill.  “You mean it, sweetheart?”

 

Sweetheart.

 

A warm smile crossed her lips, spreading to every nerve in her worn body.  Shades of reprieve washed over her body.  Everything was going to be all right.

 

“Yes.  I—”

 

“I need to see you.”

 

There was a new note in his voice—anxious and desperate.  A sort of sense that warmed her heart and made her pulse race with excitement.  “I’ll be over in just—”

 

It was just the sort of moment to warrant an unwanted interruption.

 

“Buffy?”  Riley poked his head around the corner.  “Buffy, who is it?”

 

The Slayer bit her lip, eyes wide.  In just a matter of seconds, the tenderness from the other end had vanished.  He had gone silent in ways that would shame a monk. 

 

Unfortunately, Riley was a miserable disaster when it came to reading body language and failed to interpret her seething glare as means to shut up and walk away.  Instead, he presumed a step forward and placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Buffy?”

 

There was a hiss as though the vampire sensed the nearness of proximity, and her heart jumped.  “Buffy,” Spike said lowly.  “What.  Is.  He.  Doing.  There?”

 

“He and Willow dropped off the chest,” she explained hurriedly.  “You knew that.  Will said they dropped by and—”

 

The man at her side refused to waver.  “Is that the fiancé?”

 

It was more out of habit than anything, but she opened her mouth and said the one thing she shouldn’t have said.  The one thing that held the power to make everything worse.  “He’s not my fiancé.”

 

And that was it.  It was over.  Spike growled lowly in her ear and slammed the phone on the hook before she had time to amend.  Buffy’s eyes went wide and her body froze—indifferent that Riley and now a curious Willow were staring at her.  In a chance to make everything better, she had instead ruined whatever had been left over to salvage.  It had happened so quickly.  So quickly.  And it was over now.

 

The phone fell from her grasp as her hands fought to find the nearest surface.  Oh God.  It was over. 

 

“Buffy?”

 

She glanced up to her friend’s face, uncaring how she looked.  “That…that was Spike.  He…he wanted to…” And in a snap, it all came together.  Nothing overly climactic.  Nothing that wouldn’t have come to her otherwise.  Just the knowledge—the recognition that she wasn’t the protagonist in one of those cheesy romance films who cried over the men they loved when it came to silly misunderstandings.  She was much more than that.  She was the Slayer, and she knew what she had to do.  Her mind wracked with newfound determination.  “I have to go.”

 

Riley frowned.  “Go?  Buffy—”

 

“I have to go.  Will.”  She stopped again and searched the redhead’s eyes imploringly.  “Something’s happened.  And I’m not going to…I’ll call you later.”

 

“Buffy—”

 

“Just…try to get the chest done, all right?  Take all the credit.  All of you.  Giles will like it.  I just…” She shook her head.  “There’s some place that I gotta be.”

 

No more games.  No more excuses.  No more hiding.  No more glue.

 

There would be nothing between them at all.  Nothing but honesty.

 

That or nothing at all.

 

*~*~*

 

They stared at each other for endless seconds.  Him unattainable.  In the doorway, his gaze a stonewall—far from her reach.  She suspended on the porch, a half-smile on her face, her right hand dangling mistletoe above her head. Long seconds of nothing.  Warred feelings, hurt glances, and deep breaths that she could not identify as his or hers.  Her heart was thrumming much too loudly to take anything into account.

 

It was the longest silence of her life.

 

Buffy licked her lips and shrugged lightly when nothing happened.  The incessant declaration of it’s too late rang mockingly in her head, but she would have none of it.  It wasn’t too late.  It couldn’t be too late.  Not for them.  Not when they had only just begun. 

 

“I brought mistletoe,” she said lamely.

 

The storm behind his eyes flickered.  Then it was over.  Before she could pause to take a break, Spike had seized her by the shoulders and dragged her over the threshold, assaulting her mouth with his.  And that was it.  Buffy moaned her relief into him and dropped the twinleaves to the ground, her arms wound around his neck with vigor.  The door slammed behind her and she was propped up against it the next second; the vampire devoured her like a man starved, whimpering against her needily as he encouraged her legs around his waist.  One arm wriggled to her thighs, the other hand scaling up her body to cup a breast.  The world was falling around her and she didn’t care.  All that mattered was she was here.  She was in his arms and he was kissing her into the next life.

 

It didn’t occur to her until he wrenched his mouth away to pepper her throat with ardent, desperate kisses that oxygen was something she needed.  And still, it didn’t really matter.  His arms were around her, his lips were on her, and his erection was grounding into her.  All else could vanish for all she cared.  Rapture was being served on a silver platter, and she wasn’t the type to make the same mistake twice.

 

“Christ,” Spike moaned.  “What took you so long?”

 

“I didn’t…I…” Buffy smiled and shrugged, tugging him down for another kiss.  “Insanity?”

 

He nodded hurriedly, hands—wonderfully void of glue—dropping to the hem of her top and whisking it over her head before she had the chance to protest; that in itself being the furthest thing from her mind.  His lips found her throat again almost immediately, and he worshipped her skin while all else fell around them.  “Must be,” he agreed, sinful tongue caressing her jugular in long, sensuous strokes.  “God, I nearly went outta my mind.”

 

She clenched him tighter at the words, tugging the patent black tee off his sculpted chest and consigning it to the floor alongside her discarded top.  Then his skin was bare for her exploration.  Her fingers traced patterns over forgotten scars, marks on a body that knew age as others might know wine.   Each imperfection telling another story, making him perfect in ways she could not comprehend.  Her mouth dropped to his shoulder, hands curled around his arms as his teeth began nipping at the straps of her bra. 

 

God.  And she had nearly thrown this all away.  All for what?

 

How stupid can I be?

 

Suddenly, he pulled away, depriving her aching body of his wicked mouth with such candor she nearly feared it all a dream.  That she was in her bed, cold and alone, and Spike still hated her.

 

It didn’t last long.  His voice broke through her fear.  Sent small waves of reprieve to every nerve.  “Buffy?” he said softly.  “Buffy, look at me.”

 

It was then her eyes were practically sealed shut.  A kind sea of blue greeted her when she summoned the nerve to obey.

 

Even with everything that had happened before, she had never seen him look at her like that.

 

“Buffy,” he said again, brushing a few unruly locks of golden hair away from her flushed face.  “Are you sure?”

 

God, she had never been more sure or unsure of anything in the whole of her existence.  She only knew that life would be a little worse if she walked away now.  A little worse to be followed by a steady dissent as days went on until it was unbearable altogether.

 

She had walked away once.  She never would again.

 

“Yes,” she gasped at last.  “God, Spike.  I’m so sorry for yesterday.  I don’t know what…I’m just…I want you.”

 

He moaned in protest.  “Want you, too, kitten.  So fucking much.  So much.  Jesus…” He released a ragged breath and smiled as best he could.  “For as bloody long as I can remember.”

 

Buffy nodded, tugging him forward to ravage his lips, her hands dropping to the waistband of his trousers.  “I was scared,” she confessed between heated kisses, her bra joining the growing pile of clothes on the floor.  “Wanted you so much…then it was happening.  Didn’t know what it meant.  Didn’t—”

 

Spike bowed his head to her breast and engulfed a rosy nipple into the icy inferno of his mouth.  “Means you’re mine,” he rasped, seizing her lips to ward off any imminent protest.  It was another few minutes before either could form words.  He grinned at her winningly.  “Always have been.”

 

The certainty in his words shook her down to her core.  “Oh?”

 

“Absofuckinglutely.”  He ran his tongue over his teeth in a manner he had to know turned her on almost more than his mouth and hands on her body.  “An’ I’m yours.  Christ, can’t you feel it?”  Nimble fingers tugged at her nipples, reeling her in for another round of Death by Spike Kissage.  “’ve felt it.  With you.  ‘S so different.  More than anythin’ I’ve felt before.”  A whisper of his tongue against the pulse of her throat.  “Din’t know, though.  Couldn’t.  Not until…God.”

 

“Ohhh…”

 

“Buffy…” His teeth tugged at her earlobe.  “Upstairs.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Not gonna do this against a door.  Want you upstairs.  In a nice warm bed.  Wanna worship you like you deserve.”  He buried his face almost shyly into the crook over her throat, planting small kisses on every patch of skin he could find.  “My goddess.”

 

Buffy’s head dipped and she hugged herself to him.  Her skin tingled with words, her mind drowning in promise.  She nodded before she could fathom anything but, and he stole gravity from her the next instant.  It was a slow spiral from the foyer of the loft to the tangled rumble up the stairs.  Before she knew what was happening, she found herself bounced on the springs of what could have been any mattress and rough, eager hands tearing her trousers down her legs.

 

“So beautiful,” Spike murmured, his voice coaxing her eyes open.  He looked like a fallen angel at her bedside, clad in nothing but unbuttoned jeans that would find a home on the floor if she had any say about it.  A sanctimonious seraph looking at her as though she was the link to redemption itself.  Standing in a shade of blue, melting in blood and snow.  “So fucking beautiful.”

 

“Spike…”

 

“God, I—”

 

The Slayer released a slow whimper and sat up, yanking at his jeans with renewed conviction.  A resounding gasp sang through the air as his erection sprang into her waiting hands, cold surrounded in an onslaught of heat.  His head reeled back, his fingers threading through her hair.  Buffy smiled kittenishly and rubbed her cheek against his hardness, her hands cupping his sac with delicate reverence.  This was the first time she had ever truly studied a man—never having been brave enough to ask such a thing of Angel.  And Parker?  That was laughable. 

 

Spike…there was trust there that hadn’t existed before.  Not with him—not with any man.  It was special.  It made what they had special.  Different.  A step away from the childish world of shielded adolescence and into the maturity that had waited too long to welcome her.

 

She caressed him slowly; eager fingers running laps up his length before taking again to his balls.  Savoring every shudder that rippled through his body.  Such to the point that when her tongue came into play, it was nearly natural.  Sight and touch quenched—she needed to taste him.  To see if he was as delicious as he looked.

 

Spike gasped at the first hint of her mouth on him, hips jerking forward.  “God, Buffy.”

 

She murmured approvingly, lips surrounding his belled head.  She curled her right hand at the base of his erection, squeezing her encouragement as she massaged his sac in a way that was new yet familiar at the same time.  There was no demand behind his slow, half-involuntary thrusts—just wrangled moans and gasps.  Worshipful praises rumbled in a voice overwhelmed with impassioned arousal.  Her instincts overcame her fear.  And for every whimper he betrayed, every shiver that waved across him, she was all the more rewarded. 

 

Then suddenly his hands were at her shoulders, pushing her back to the mattress with such haste she felt so crudely that he might as well have spat in her face.

 

One look at his smoldering gaze, though, whisked away all doubt.

 

Well, almost all.  A girl needs some reassurance every now and then.

 

“Did I…” Buffy flushed and looked away.  Never had she foreseen a situation where she would find herself so thoroughly vulnerable.  “Did you not…did I do something wrong?  I thought you’d…like that.”

 

It took a few endless seconds, but his stare turned incredulous.  “Did I…pet, another second of that an’ I would’ve embarrassed myself.  Not to mention given you a surprise I don’ think you’re ready for.”  He licked his lips and shoved his jeans down his legs.  He took no shame in his nudity and it was hard to avoid staring at the evidence of his desire.  Wondering how she had begun to fit him in her mouth.  And, more so, how he planned to…

 

There she was, blushing again.

 

Luckily, Spike seemed too preoccupied with the other bare and blushing parts of her to pay much attention to her face at the moment.  “You drive me wild,” he purred.  “Absolutely wild.”  He was on her the next second; wrestling hot kisses from her mouth, hands taking a venturous track down her body.  “God, Slayer, I’ve wanted you since that firs’ moment.”

 

“Glue?”

 

He pulled back and smiled kindly into her eyes.  “No, sweetheart.  The other firs’ moment.  The real one.  The kind that only happens once.”  His gaze kept trained on her face as he lowered his lips to her breast.  “You taste so good.”  Fingers slid down her abdomen and hooked under her panties.  “So warm an’ sweet.  My quivering goddess.  So beautiful.”

 

Coherent thought, failing.  “Uhhh…”

 

“From the firs’ moment, baby.  At the Bronze.  Saw you dancin’ with your mates an’ have wanted this ever since.”  His lips began working down her body.  “More than I ever realized.  More than anythin’ else.”  Buffy cried out when she felt his tongue encircle her clit, her eyes wide with awe.  She had thought this alone to be one of the things girls talk about but never experience.  Spike’s mouth on her pussy, pushing her to levels of ecstasy she hadn’t known existed.  “I knew it,” he gasped, sinking his tongue into her, lapping at her juices.  “Felt it.”  His fingers had taken to the distended sliver of flesh and were stroking her into the next world.  Her body was drenched in sweat and her heart was thundering so hard it hurt to breathe. And it was worth it.  Oh God, was it worth it.  The strokes of his tongue, the caresses of his touch.  Breeching every boundary her experience had placed and setting them so far out of reach that no one else would ever come within view.

 

A long sigh rumbled through him.  Relaxed.  Peaceful.  Strange that he should be so with her underwear wrapped around one hand, the other teasing a nipple as he lay between her spread legs.  His mouth occupied where no man’s had thought to touch her.  He could set her aflame and sooth the fire in one stroke, and it felt wonderful.  “God,” he gasped, head snapping up.  “God, I love you, Buffy.”

 

That was it.  The world stopped.  Time came to a standstill, and everything crashed to the quaking ground.  Her eyes popped open and her hands found his shoulders, clutching with need that did not have a name.  He had frozen above her—his face alight with sudden panic.  “Oh God.”

 

“Spike—”

 

“Buffy, I—”

 

“You love me?”  She sat up slowly, cupping his face.  “Really?”

 

“I…” There was a silent few seconds before his eyes fell shut in defeat.  “I shouldn’t have said it.  I—”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

And just like that, the world started moving again.  Everything set back into place as it should be.  He was looking at her again with wonder, though there was hope buried in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.  A sort of light reserved only for moments like these.  “What?”

 

She smiled.  “I love you, too.  I don’t know how it happened…or why.  But it did.  I love you.”  And then, in a classic twist of feminine illogic, her profound happiness conveyed itself to tears and she burst into uncontrollable sobs.  “I love you so much.  And I’m so, so scared.”  A powerful revelation in itself.  It was a rare day when Buffy Summers admitted to any form of weakness so reflective.  “Bad things happen when I love,” she explained.  “Bad, bad things.  And—”

 

A tremble ran through Spike’s body and his face softened at her tears.  He had her cradled to his chest almost instantly, hand running soothing strokes through her hair.  “No, kitten.  There’s no reason to cry.  No reason.”  He palmed her cheek delicately; thumb flicking at the watery manifestation of dread.  “Not now.  You have any idea what love does to me?  How deep I feel it?  I’m never lettin’ you go.  Not after this.”

 

“Really?”

 

He nodded fervently, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  “I don’ leave, sweets.  ‘S not in my networkin’.  Never left Dru.  Not once.  An’ the only reason she kicked me out on my firm, lickable ass is because of you.”  She smiled a bit and poked him in the side.  Spike smirked at her even as kindness danced behind his eyes.  It was strange—seeing that expression there.  Knowing, innately, he had always kept it even if guarded.  Knowing now that she was the source of it.  “I don’ leave.  Wouldn’t have left her ‘f there hadn’t been some nudge.”

 

“I—”

 

Spike pulled back slightly and tucked wayward locks of hair behind her ear.  “She knew, ‘course.  About you.  ‘Bout how I felt about you.  Drove her right batty, it did.  Well…” He paused mischievously and winked.  “More so than usual.  I mean, honestly.  A Chaos Demon?”  He spread his arms demonstratively.  “Really?”

 

“Her loss, my gain.”

 

Snappish.  That tendency of being the jealous type was nagging insistently at her side.

 

“My gain, you mean.  Can’t thank her enough for what she did.  Sendin’ me back to you.”  He whispered a kiss across her lips.  “I din’t know, though.  Had to suss that one out on my own.  Even when she up an’ told me, I din’t know what she was sayin’.  Took Red’s spell for me to open my bloody eyes.”  He pressed his brow to hers.  “Took bein’ glued at your side to know it was real.  Everythin’ was real.  Wanted it to be a spell so bad, but you have to look at life differently when she’s curled up right beside you.  Drivin you outta your mind.”  His lips dropped to her throat.  “An’ you did.   Drove me outta my mind.  An’ when I thought you…there was a chance that you might’ve felt…”

 

Buffy blinked.  Had he opened her mind and started reciting her inward journal?

 

Or perhaps.  Just perhaps…

 

“I love you,” he said again, encouraging her against the mattress once more, his fingers suddenly reminding her of their presence as he parted her nether lips and slipped two eager digits inside her.  “So much it hurts.”

 

She frowned.  “Hurts?”

 

“Only in the best way, baby.”  He grinned, retracting his touch from her womb with a murmur of complaint before he turned his hand to himself to coat his length with her juices.  Then he had positioned himself at her entrance, teasing her slippery folds with the feel of him.  However, for all the lust on his face, he managed to stop and turn serious.  Allowed his love to pour through his eyes.  Allowed her to see everything his inner barriers had kept guarded behind uncertainty and words without sound for what seemed like forever.  “Last chance,” he murmured, calm brogue betraying his need.  “We can wait ‘f you want, sweetheart.  ‘F you don’ think we’re—”

 

Buffy’s hands shot to his forearms and her legs tied around his waist, and she had propelled him into her before he could finish the thought.

 

They shared a heated moan at union.  He was so deep inside her.  So deep.  She had never been so filled.  And it was wonderful.

 

Her neck arched backward.  “Oh God.”

 

“On second thought…” Spike’s jaw clenched, his eyes falling shut as the most gorgeous look of bliss overwhelmed his features.  He withdrew from her heat with a noted struggle, then slammed back into her before he had a chance to miss her warmth.  “Waiting’s overrated.”

 

“Entirely.”

 

“Ohhh, fuck.”  His head collapsed against her shoulder, his stilled hips arching forward in slow, deep movements that seemed to reach every part of her there was to reach.  “Fuck, so tight.  Fuck fuck fuck.”

 

Buffy grinned, linking her hands behind his throat.  “Monosyllabic, much?”

 

He growled and withdrew with a sharp thrust that rapidly turned that grin into a surprised gasp of pleasure.  “Condescendin’ bitch.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“With stupid hair…”

 

Buffy’s nails dug trenches into his forearms.  His movements were gaining momentum, every inward spiral succeeding in the support of her continued fall.  For whatever he said, there was love in his eyes to contradict it.  Love to redefine her expectations.  To make him just as he was—Spike, whether he be snarking with her at the Bronze or pounding her into the mattress at Giles’s apartment.  He was as he was. 

 

And he loved her. 

 

“Who I fucking adore.”  Spike dipped his head to the column of her throat and licked a wet path to her lips.  “I love you, Buffy,” he gasped, thrusts growing sharper.  “God, you feel so good.”

 

“You too.”  Her eyes fell shut and her face contorted with pleasure.  Experience notwithstanding, she would never have thought it could be like this and maintain gentility.  Never thought something so simple would, for once and for all, draw the line that separated lovemaking from sex.

 

“You’re so tight.  So fucking perfect.”  Spike’s eyes closed tightly as he visibly struggled for that blessed last strain of control. It was a gorgeous battle to watch.  Thrilled her to no end.  Knowing that she was at the final tunnel of that journey. “Never,” he gasped.  “Never been like this…”

 

“Never,” she agreed.  “I’ve never…oh God.”

 

“Tell me this is real.”

 

Another fear he was helping her answer.  Even with him pistoning deep within her, awakening emotions she hadn’t known to be resting, she feared it all but a dream.  Locked away in some inner turmoil where she would never dig it out.

 

But it had to be real.  It had to be.

 

And she told him.

 

“Real. It’s real.” He thrust deeper into her, and she arched with a muffled cry in turn. “Oh God. So real.”

 

Spike clenched his jaw as his pace increased. Words were superfluous now for everything else they had said.  They had spoken on every level there was to speak.  There was nothing left that wouldn’t resort to plain reiteration, however much it was craved.  Needed. With every inward plunge, the glow behind his eyes softened with love. Looking at her as though willing her to be anything but real.  Demanding that if this was a dream, the PTB wake him now before the extent of their cruelty played out.

 

At that moment, he was the embodiment of perfection.

 

“Buffy.” He pulled away completely, lingering so the very tip of him caressing her outer folds. Her eyes went wide.

 

“Spike!”

 

“Mmm,” he purred.  “Love that sound.”

 

“Oh God…” She wriggled desperately.  “Please!”

 

“Love you.”  With an insolent swirl of his hips, he slammed into her again. Her head flew back into the pillows and she mewled, her Slayer muscles contracting to pleasurably painful depths.  Had she been aware of anything, she might have panicked for fear of hurting him.  Everything else was gone.  The world had turned into a maze of color

 

“Say it, Buffy,” he gasped, reaching another rapid break. “Say it again.”

 

She nodded urgently. “God.  I love you.  I love you, Spike. I love you.” He started moving again and she gasped stridently. “…I’ve loved you…for what seems…seems like forever.”

 

Their pants merged into one collective as his thrusts grew frenzied.  She became tighter and wetter with each parry—she was close, so close.  So far within the bounds of that one moment of perfection that she had always fantasized in some form of reality.  The same she thought she had experienced but had always wondered for the opposite.   She felt his hands on her—one brushed her hair from her eyes as he caressed her lips with a kiss, the other traveled the length of her body and slithered between them. His mouth returned to her throat and imitated its path, sketching an alluring pattern southward and suckling her nipple between his teeth.

 

And that was it.  That tight ball of contained rapture had wound to full circle.  “Oh God,” she gasped, arching off the bed.  “I’m…”

 

“Love you. Love you so much.”

 

“Yes, yes.  Love you.”

 

“Love you.” He massaged her clit in speeded, tortuous circles. “Always.”

 

“Always.”

 

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

 

“Oh God.  I—”

 

And that was it. With a final thrust, she arched and began to tremble, tunneling her nails into his arms as his name rumbled through her throat.  An explosion of sensory followed—she felt it with everything.  Every nerve in her body wound and cried out in an impulsive parade of elation.  The stars that she had always thought proverbial danced in front of her.  There wasn’t an inch of her body left to rejoice.  And he followed her, quenching her fire before she gave in to the burn. Emptying himself as his hips surged forward, desperate for as much as she would give him.

 

Hours later, it seemed, when he lifted his head to study her face, he melted with an endless expression of wonder.  “Christ almighty…” he murmured.  “Never.”

 

“Never what?”

 

“Felt anythin’ like that.  You’re amazing.”  With a sweet smile, he lowered his cheek to her chest again.  “You all right?”

 

Buffy grinned and stretched, encouraging a moan through his system when she inadvertently squeezed where they were still joined.  “I’m perfect.”

 

“Told you as much.”  He brushed a kiss at the swell of her breast.  “Not squishing you?”

 

A scoff.  “As if.”

 

“Good, ‘cause I’m all comfy.”  In direct contradiction, though, he rolled them over so that she was sprawled across him.  He slipped out of her warmth with a unified murmur of complaint, but tugged the blankets until they were covered.  A far cry from just two days ago, when she had demanded clothes and a good three feet of distance.

 

It seemed a lifetime had passed since then.

 

Buffy smiled contentedly at the thought, etching mindless patterns into his chest.  “Definitely it,” she decided.

 

“What?”

 

“Best Christmas ever.”

 

“Oh, right.”  Spike raised his head at that, eyes finding the small digital clock at the bedside stand.  “An’ appropriate, too.  Happy Christmas, pet.”

 

“Past midnight?”

 

“Jus’ now.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it.”  She snuggled happily against him.  “I’ll have to get your Christmas present later.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Didn’t know I loved you when I was all with the shopping.  Besides, after-Christmas sales.  Always a bonus.”

 

She felt him smile and his arms tightened around her.  “You’ve already given me everythin’ I could’ve wanted, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.  “Nothin’ can hope to top what you gave me tonight.”

 

The notion warmed her, but she pinched him in jest.  “That mean I’m not getting a prezzie?  Humph.  Some boyfriend you are.”

 

“Oh, so my endless love an’ devotion isn’t enough for you?…an’ did you jus’ call me your boyfriend?”

 

“Well, the title is up for grabs.”

 

Spike blessed her with that gorgeous smile of his and succeeded in taking her breath away for the thousandth time that night.  “Not anymore, it’s not,” he growled, kissing her fiercely.  “An’ no girlfriend of mine goes without a shiny from her personal sex-god ‘round Christmastime.”

 

She arched a brow teasingly.  “Sex-god?”

 

“Makes us well matched, eh, kitten?”  He smirked and stretched beneath her.  “So…whaddya gonna give me?”

 

“Ummm…” Her hand slithered between them, taking his cock into her grasp.  She smiled as he grew within her hold.  “How about a happy?”

 

Spike rumbled a moan and thrust his hips forward encouragingly.  “I love this holiday,” he decided.

 

And Buffy, for once, could not argue with him.

VI

 

“You’re sure about this?”

 

“Never been more so.”

 

Spike cocked a brow.  “You understand why I worry, right?  You don’ seem to be takin’ this very seriously.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes and sat up, making a full effort to not give a damn that she was completely in the buff and that the blankets were bunched at the end of the bed.  In the four days since they had gone public with their relationship, the mischievous vampire had exercised every tool up his very proverbial sleeve to eradicate her shyness when it came to nudity.  Especially when he was in the room. 

 

After finding them sinning rampantly in his bed, Giles had given them the boot and closed himself off with a bottle of hard liquor and some eyeglass polish.  It proved for an uncomfortable Christmas, but the Slayer had honestly never been happier.  With Spike’s prompting, they had gone—as planned—to the Watcher’s loft for the Christmas exchange.  The way she subtly sat herself in her lover’s lap was one of many things that went unmentioned.

 

She had given Spike an I.O.U for Christmas.  He had smirked and done the same.

 

That night, closed off in the solitude that only home could offer, Spike had handed her a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup and a pair of handcuffs.  What she did with them was completely up to her.

 

He was undoubtedly the most inventive lover she had ever had.  Though, saying that, it didn’t take very much.  And she let him know after she cuffed him to the bed and forced him to watch her eat vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup on top.

 

After he had been thoroughly punished for some unknown deed of the past, she took the syrup as God had intended it—poured onto the lusciously bared body of her vampire.  Licked off, reapplied, and licked off again.

 

“Knew there was some kink in you, Slayer,” Spike had gasped as her tongue swirled around one of his chocolate-covered nipples. 

 

“Told you as much,” she had replied, lapping her way southward.  “Now hush and be a good boy.  Gonna suck on my chocolate ice pop.”

 

“Dirty girl.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“Yeh, I really do.”  He had flashed her that sexy, warm smile that made her buttery in the nether regions and winked.  There had to be some passage in the Bible that condemned him to Hell for that alone—right next to the one that condemned her for enjoying it. And were that the case, they were beyond redemption.  But they would enjoy it together, and that was all that mattered. 

 

“Can’t be a good boy, you know,” he had said as her tongue teased the underside of his length, lapping up every drop of chocolaty goodness that she had spilled.  “’S against my nature.”

 

“Mmmm,” she had mused in turn, mouth closing around him and doubling back to taste his sac.  “You’re being a good boy now.”

 

“’F you uncuff me, I’ll prove you wrong in half a bleedin’ second.”

 

“Don’t think so.  You gave me the cuffs.”

 

“Din’t know you’d take to ‘em like a sodding pro.”

 

“Never underestimate a Slayer, pal.”  Her hand had wrapped around his erection and given him a good squeeze before her mouth returned to lick at the head.  “Especially one just discovering her kink.”

 

“Good thing chocolate doesn’ require solvent, missy,” he had teased, arching as she took him into her mouth again.  “Fancy you get stuck that way.  That’d be a story to explain to your mum.”

 

A lesson well learned.  Right next to the one marked payback’s a bitch.  Once released, Spike had cuffed her well and done things to her that merited serious blushing every time chocolate was suggested for anything thereafter.

 

“Fancy you get stuck that way,” she had jested back as Spike had suckled her clit into his mouth.  “My mother would…come at you…with an…axe.”

 

He had glanced up at her and winked.  “Not very original, luv.”  And dipped his head back to the task at hand.

 

Yes, they had enjoyed a lot of fun with chocolate that night.  In a matter of two days, it already felt like they had been in a relationship for years.  The day after Christmas, in full awares of what shoppers tended to do after the big holiday was over, Spike had treated her to the mall where she bought him a ring in the style of his others, but with taste.  He, in turn, bought her a necklace with a value appraisal so high it made her head spin.

 

Even more so when he ripped it off her in a fit of passion later that night.  And turned up the next day with a new one and a small, boyish look of apology on his face.  They were careful to remove it before he chased her back to her bedroom.

 

The ring she gave him, she later noticed, was on his ring finger.  He caught her looking at him, perplexed, and only smiled to note that he understood and intended the implication.  It made her heart swell. 

 

It was in the dawn of the fourth morning—after Spike awoke her with a shagathon that lasted longer than she wanted to admit—that he first mentioned ritualistic mating.  Speaking in broad terms.  Futuristic terms.  Terms that warmed her with security.  The notion that this was something that would be forever to him.

 

It was already forever to her.  Buffy tended to take to love in terms of forevers.  Being a Slayer, her forever was never guaranteed.  She knew she loved Spike—she knew that the love they shared was unlike any she could begin to compare it to.  It was new, granted, and strange.  All considering that they had been trying to kill each other not too long ago.  But it wasn’t as though she didn’t know him.  She did—she knew him better than she knew anyone, which was why loving him wasn’t such a drastic leap forward. 

 

Slayers weren’t given forevers.  They were about the moment.

 

So she suggested that they do it. Mate.  The whole sacred thing: blood swap, claiming, rite of passage—the full kahuna.  He had given her this half-dazed, half-awed look before shaking his head and muttering something about how she didn’t know what she was saying.

 

She spent the rest of the afternoon convincing him with her hands and mouth that she knew full well what she was saying, and meant it more than anything.

 

So here they were.  Alone, naked, in bed; her sweet and palpably nervous vampire running soothing strokes up her arm.  Looking at her as though God had handed her to him with a holy blessing.

 

“I’m more than taking this seriously,” she said, brushing a kiss over his hand.  “You really don’t think I know what this means?”

 

“Think ‘f you really knew what it meant, there’s no way you’d’ve suggested it.”

 

“Hey, you suggested it, pal.”

 

“With no thought to it actually happenin’.”

 

She pouted at that.  “You don’t wanna claim me?”

 

And earned an incredulous, half-offended stare.  “Don’ want to…God, Buffy, of course I want to!  You have any idea what the suggestion alone means to me?  Have any sodding clue warped in that fuzzy mind of yours?”  He shook his head with a short laugh.  “I’ve never claimed anyone, pet.  Never had anyone wanna…guess the thought that you…jus’ takes me by surprise, s’all.”

 

The Slayer frowned and sat up, taking his face into her hands.  “What?  Never?”

 

He looked away, embarrassed.  “Well, ‘s not like I din’t want to, right?  An’ really, had I, you an’ I wouldn’t be here.  I’m countin’ my blessings on that one.”  She smiled kindly at his words, though it dissolved the next second when he waved her hands aside and turned his gaze downward.  “No one’s ever wanted…well, Dru an’…she din’t…’cause of sodding daddy.”

 

Buffy’s eyes darkened.  “Angel?”

 

“One an’ bloody only, thank the maker.  An’ you know what’s really funny, pet?  ‘S the same with everyone I…” He shot her a wounded glance.  “’S the same with everyone.”

 

“You think I’m just saying this because I can’t have Angel?”  She bit in a gasp when he looked at her sharply, as though accusing her of voicing the words he had so clearly been thinking.  “Spike, that’s ridiculous.  I don’t want Angel.  He can bang Cordelia for all I care.”  That earned a small snort.  She smiled and leaned into him.  “He left.  I hurt, yeah, but like most girls, I got over it.  And I love you.  Not him.  Well, honestly, I’ll always feel something…first love and all.”

 

He growled lightly at that.

 

“But you’re the last love.  And the right one.”  Buffy smiled when he finally understood the meaning behind those words and shot her one of those astonished looks of utter reverence.  “When I saw Angel in LA…it was a closure thing.  He left me without saying anything; so seeing him again…yeah…it was painful for that.  Like the entire high school thing was really over and I had to accept that I’m in college and Giles is no longer a librarian and the transition was sort’ve complete.  And again, true, didn’t think I’d fall in love again.  Not so soon.  Didn’t think it’d be with another vampire.”

 

Another muffled growl.

 

“Didn’t think it’d be you.”  She smiled and kissed him.  “Can I tell you how glad I am that my line of thought sucks?  I love this.  I love you.  If Angel came through that door right now, curse free, you’d have nothing to worry about.”

 

It took a few minutes, but he finally met her gaze.  The uncertainty he guarded broke her heart five times over.  “Really?”

 

“Yes, you big dork.  I don’t say things like ‘I love you’ unless I mean them.  Did I think I’d be saying it so soon?  Of course not.  But here I am.  And I mean it.  I love you, Spike.  You, only you, until apocalypse do we part.  And unless you don’t want to, you better get with the claiming, ‘cause I—”

 

Buffy shrilled a small yelp as Spike tackled her back onto the mattress, pulling her mouth into a desperate, loving kiss.  There was need there.  Hunger that hadn’t been there before.  Hunger that he kept shielded until now—until this moment—even from her.  He kissed her until oxygen became crucial, then began a slow, teasing journey down her body. 

 

“Guess I talked you into it, huh?” she gasped.

 

Spike murmured as his mouth engulfed a rosy nipple, hand squeezing her neglected breast.  His other hand was already teasing her soft wetness, palm pressing into her until she released a throaty cry into the darkness of a room that had collected many over the past few days. 

 

Buffy clutched at his head.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

His mouth released her with a plop. “Big yes, baby,” he agreed, continuing his pursuit down her body.

 

“I’ll definitely say.”

 

“You flatter.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“You win.”

 

She grinned.  “Always do.”

 

Her minor spat of gloating didn’t last long.  Nimble fingers teased her clit, earning a long repressed whimper before edging into her with immoral indolence.  Her eyes went wide and shot to his face, reddening at the smirk he flashed in her direction.  “This drives you wild, doesn’ it?” he asked.  “Bein’ touched so slightly.  Jus’ feelin’ me.  Bet I could bring you off jus’ like this.”

 

“You could bring me off with your voice.”

 

“I knew it.”  He dropped a kiss onto her stomach.  “Only, I like tastin’ you.  So call me selfish, but I prefer this…” He buried his face in her pussy, pushing his tongue into her for a few quick laps before raising his eyes to hers again.  “Much more.”

 

Buffy stared at him, blinking sweat from her eyes.  “Oh yeah,” she agreed.  “How selfish of you.”

 

“I know.  Take, take, take.”

 

“Selfish greedy bastard.” His tongue encircled her clit, his fingers prying at her opening. And she arched off the bed.  Condemnations continued.  “Oh God.  Don’t stop.”

 

“Mmmm,” he murmured into her.  “Selfish greedy bastards don’ stop.”

 

“Love you, Spike.  Love you so much.”

 

“You know that selfish an’ greedy means the same thing, right?”

 

“SPIKE!”

 

He smirked and lowered his head obligingly, nibbling at her folds.  “Christ.  You taste like fine wine.”

 

“Less talky, more tasty.”

 

“Bossy bitch.”

 

“Greedy bastard.”

 

He rumbled a chuckle into her that shamed her at how good it felt.  “I love you,” he whispered heatedly.  “Love you so bloody much.”  He deftly ignored the look he received at making such a declaration after being thoroughly admonished, nipping at her clit and welcoming the copious flow he earned into his mouth.  “You taste so good.”

 

Buffy cooed and thrashed, fisting the sheets for lack of anything to grip.  She was learning steadily that even though he was a vampire, it still hurt to have his hair pulled.  “God, Spike.  Oh my God.” Skilled fingers parted her folds and an equally skilled tongue darted out to taste her, sinking into her with devilled ease.  He slid a free hand under her hip, anchoring her to his mouth.  He purred into her, tongue teasing her to new levels of ecstasy.  Stroked her to perfection while his thumb and forefinger fondled her clit with expertise she never wanted the back-story to.  He whispered poetry into her body, drank everything she had to offer, and brought her over twice before he let her go again. 

 

He licked up her spendings as though born from the Tree of Knowledge.

 

“Greedy bastard,” she gasped again, completely void of conviction as he prowled up her body.

 

He brushed a kiss over her lips, rubbing his erection at her stomach until she took him into her hand and positioned him at her opening.  “Thought you might say that.”  Another kiss at the nape of her neck.  “Mmm, feels good.”

 

“This?”  She was teasing him with the residue of her climax, that which even his expert mouth could not lick away.  Spike’s eyes fluttered shut briefly and he hummed a coo of pleasure, thrusting forward into her grasp ever so slightly.  When he didn’t respond, she squeezed him tighter and he offered a fierce nod, wedging an eye open to glare at her.  “Thought so.”

 

“Wench.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“Don’ start that again.”

 

Buffy grinned.  “I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

 

“Yeh, that’s your excuse for everythin’.”  He winked at her, whispered another kiss over her lips.  “Gonna let me in?”

 

“And here I thought I was trying to convince you.”

 

He smirked and brought her hands up to either side of her head, lacing their fingers together.  “You get an A for effort.”

 

Then he sank inside her.  Deep.  All the way.  They shared a murmur of pleasure, hands exploring each other with soft sensuality.  She rested her brow against his, an assortment of whimpers and pants tumbling through her lips.  With only days behind them, she wondered if there would ever come a time when this alone wouldn’t be too much.  And when they began moving together, it was an opus of paradise.  With every thrust and parry, his hips battling hers, his hands exploring her body, his mouth warring her mouth before taking down her throat.  Caressing her everywhere.  Teeth teasing her breasts.  Hands brushing hair from her eyes.  His eyes smiling into hers. 

 

That look of love that was never so potent as it was when he was inside her.

 

Pressure built without caution.  The pace he set was leisurely but hard at the same time—slamming his body into her with moans of untamed possession.  He lavished her nipples with his tongue and peppered kisses along the underside of her breasts.  She had her legs tight around him; her anchor, for everything would tumble if she thought to let go.  She contracted her Slayer muscles in time with his thrusts, and the smoldering look he gave her—no different but just as cherished as all the rest—sent her spiraling.

 

“Buffy,” he gasped.  “’m not gonna last.”

 

“Me, neither.  Do it.”

 

“Love you,” he panted, the look on his face only half-conscious to the knowledge that he was speaking.  “I love you so much.”

 

Buffy nodded, tugging him down for a hot, needy kiss.  “Love you, too.”

 

He flashed a smile at her that warmed her heart, his right arm collapsing onto his elbow.  The other hand, never idle, wandering the expanse of her body to massage her where they were joined.  He drank up the widening of her eyes and licked his lips in expectation.

 

“Come for me, baby.  Please.”

 

“Spike…” She threw her head back.  “Do it.  Bite me.”

 

“Buffy—”

 

“Do it!”

 

There it was.  That feral flash behind his eyes.  Her own widened in turn, almost surprised when she saw the demon emerge.  Her heart galloping when his fangs descended, but not from fear.  Never from fear.  This was an act not born of fear.  Fear had no place here.

 

Not even when he sank his teeth into her milky skin, triggering an orgasm that knocked her into the next world.

 

“Oh God!” she gasped, clutching at him desperately as his thrusts grew harder, the fangs lodged in her throat.  “Oh…GOD!”

 

It was over in seconds.  Just seconds.  His incisors retracted and his tongue lapped sweetly at the mark.  Her skin tingled.  “Mine,” he growled.  “Mine.  My Slayer.  My Buffy.  Mine!”

 

“Yours,” she agreed without thought, and his head reeled in astonishment.  “Yours.  I’m yours.”

 

There was awe in his eyes.  He honestly hadn’t thought she would go through with it.

 

Well, if that surprised him, what she intended to do next would knock his metaphorical socks off.

 

“Buffy—”

 

Spike had no chance to react.  No shot of stopping her, even if that had been his intention.  She had lashed forward and fastened her blunt teeth into his throat over Drusilla’s mark before any thought could come around to coherency.  Latched into his skin hard enough to draw blood.  Felt him explode within her, his body surging forward, hers milking his for everything he had to offer.  She lapped modestly at what she had produced, the ivory taste of his essence on her tongue.

 

Worth it to complete something so sacred.

 

“Mine,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.  “As mine is yours.”

 

“Yours,” he gasped, hips rocking to a standstill until he finally collapsed.  “For fuckin’ ever.  God…oh God, Buffy…”

 

She grinned impishly, her pants mingled with his.  Her body tingled still with a pleasant sensation that outmatched any post-coitus repose she had ever enjoyed.  “Didn’t think I’d do it, did you?”  Her body instinctively baring itself to him.  She was his.  Three days, glue, solvent, a botched spell, and somehow she was his.

 

Spike lapped at her wound reverently, his grasp on her possessive.  “Buffy?”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“I jus’…god, I love you so much.”

 

She smiled and pressed a kiss into the nape of his throat.  “I love you, too.”

 

“Forever.  Right?  This is forever?”

 

“Didn’t I just do the claimy thing?”

 

Spike chuckled wryly and sat up, resting his weight on his elbows as he looked down at her.  “Y’know,” he said.  “I oughta write that glue company a thank you note.”

 

“You and me both.”

 

He smiled and rolled them over, snuggling her into his side.  “Mmmm.  So…”

 

“So…?”

 

“Whaddya think we should make Rupert next year?”

 

Buffy blinked dumbly and twisted so that she could see the twinkle in his eyes.  The same twinkle that gave way to numerous possibilities.  A twinkle she was beginning to adore.

 

“Oh,” she replied coyly.  “I dunno.  But I do have some ideas.”

 

“Do you, now?”

 

“But they’re not for Christmas.  You know, he has a birthday coming up.”

 

Spike smirked devilishly and rolled her over so that she was lying across his chest, and smiled into her eyes.  “Oh really?” he asked, slithering a hand between them.  “Do tell.”

 

 

FIN