Becky & Spike Forever

By Fojiao2

PART TWO: The Sunnydale Arms

The cemetery was boring. Buffy had found only one bloodsucker that night, and he'd almost leaped onto her stake. No challenge. She wandered over toward Spike's crypt, her heart racing at the thought of seeing him. They were on the outs at the moment, one of the low points of their on-off lust-filled relationship. Since she'd been resurrected and they'd started to be more honest about their feelings for each other--more on her part than his--they'd also been much more honest about their irritations and every reason they should NOT be together. So at various times one or the other decided to "stay away" until they just couldn't keep their hands off each other. The last time it had been her fault, so she now had to go to his crypt to make amends. It had been five days since they'd been together, and she wore a wicked smile as she neared the front door to his crypt. She was surprised to see a note taped to the door, a note titled: SLAYER.

Dammit, this is too much, she thought. He was breaking the rules. Anyone could have found this note! And anyone would then know that they were intimate enough to leave notes for each other! Buffy was definitely not ready for that. When she found him she just might not make up after all. Let's see how he likes TEN days without me, she thought. Of course, that meant ten days without him also--a grim prospect. Before her thinking went into too much of a downward spiral, she told herself to actually read the note.

It was simple: "SLAYER--Sorry, I've moved. Look for me at The Sunnydale Arms under the name William Bloody. Hope you'll come soon. S."

She didn't believe it. Buffy had to go into his crypt and see how everything had been cleared out above and below before she left the cemetery. The Sunnydale Arms was a large downtown hotel, quite close to The Magic Box, actually. If he really had moved then it could be a convenient location.

It wasn't until she stepped into the hotel's lobby that she realized that Spike had laid another little trap for her. He hadn't left his room number in the note: she would have to go to the main desk and ask for his room. It was a way of forcing her to admit that she wanted to see him and actually telling another person that. Subtle and devious--the hallmarks of a Spike plan. Buffy almost turned away, and if it had been fewer than five days apart from him she might have. But it had been five days.

She stepped up to the central desk and said, "William Bloody's room, please."

The young woman behind the counter, wearing a nametag that said JUDY, looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Of course. Would you be Buffy Summers?"

Buffy looked at her with wide eyes. "Um. Yes."

"Could I see some ID?" Judy asked.

What the hell? It was another challenge from Spike. Oh, he'd pay, and in a way more imaginative than what he was putting her through at the moment. Her jaw set in hostility, she pulled a rarely-used driver's license from her jeans pocket and set it quietly on the countertop. The woman looked the ID over, never losing her professional smile, and then retrieved a key card from the desk before her. She passed it and the ID across the counter to Buffy, saying, "Here you are. It's room 425--you might want to mark that down, because it's not on the key card itself."

Buffy was looking the card over. "What's this?"

"Your key."

"MY key?"

"Of course. Mr. Bloody insisted that you get your own key as soon as you came in. But he wouldn't say when that would be, so we've been waiting two days for you." Her smile increased its wattage. "It's good to see you, Ms. Summers. We hope you enjoy your stay at The Sunnydale Arms."

Buffy left the main desk still looking at the card in wonder. A key to his room. Again, a classic Spike maneuver. Make her jump through hoops, then do something as sweet as giving her the key to his home. Until she got the key she hadn't considered that, for the first time since she'd known him, Spike would have a room that she couldn't immediately access. She would have had to knock like anyone else. He knew that already and made sure that she was the only other person with a key. The memory of when she had blocked him out of her own house was strong in her as she took an elevator to the fourth floor. It had been the night he first said he loved her.

Room 425 was on the corner. Thus Buffy had to look carefully down two corridors before she was sure that no one was seeing her slip the key card through the door lock and open it. "Spike?" she called as she stepped in.

"Slayer?" she heard. "I'll be right out." He was speaking from the bathroom, just beyond the closet to her right as she entered. Buffy took the opportunity to look around the room. A gray carpet and eggshell walls, antiseptic but comfortable. To her immediate left was a nice couch with a coffeetable to match. A new laptop sat on the coffeetable, its screen glowing merrily. The back left of the room had a pair of comfortable chairs, both facing the windows that looked down on the street below. She stepped forward, taking a peek at the half-open door of the bathroom to see if she might get a glimpse of Spike, but steam obscured any view within. Around the corner to the right was the bed, a queen size with a nice comforter in a Navajo pattern. To its right was a small table with a digital clock and a reading lamp. A large bookcase dominated the wall to the bed's left, stuffed with paperbacks and with hardbacks stacked on the top. To the left of the bookcase was a mini-fridge where he probably kept his blood, and to the left of that a desk where the TV was located. God knows Spike couldn't get along without his daily dose of Passions. And to its left was a new stereo and CD player, with a stack of CDs beside it. She stepped toward the desk, curious about his choice of music, though she was pretty sure what she'd find.

"Slayer?" she heard behind her, and spun around to see Spike, shirtless and barefoot, in a pair of black jeans. He was grinning widely. Her stomach took a quick dip within her. She hated seeing him like this when they were on the outs, because she knew every inch of that scrumptious torso through her lips alone. And her hands. And her own chest, sliding up and down his. Standing there, confronting him for the first time in almost a week, her nipples crinkled into hardness despite herself.

Spike seemed to notice none of this, lost in the moment of introducing her to his home. "Well?" he said, holding his arms out as if to encompass the entire room. "Isn't it nice? No dust here, pet, no skulls or chains. And no bad memories, I hope--just a place to create new ones."

"So it's yours?"

"Yeah--all permanent-like. Paid up for months."

"And this?" she asked, holding up the key card.

"Ah." His face froze. Just like that she could rob him of his excitement by thrusting reality in his face. Never mind that he did the same thing to her almost constantly--it was still a momentary sting. He sat on the bed, looking up at her stoic face. "Well, I have to admit--I would sometime like this to be OURS, not just mine. But I'm not pushing, I'm just giving you the option." He then stood up, pointing. "But don't rake me over the coals for this, Slayer. If I'd made you knock to get in you'd be asking me where's your key by now."

Buffy's face relented, and she sat on the bed, testing its comfort. "You're probably right," she said. "Y'know, this is much better than the bed in your crypt."

Spike stretched out beside her on the bed, hoping she'd join him in that reclining position. "Better in every way, luv. No more complaints about not changing the sheets enough--there're new ones every morning. And a nice hot shower, which presents lots of possibilities."

Buffy returned a bright smile to his knowing leer. "Yeah, I can see a lot of potential here. But how'd you do it? Where'd you get the money for this?"

In answer he stood once more and looked around the room in speculation. "You'll have to forgive the mess, but I've been doing some shopping," he said. "Still, there's something definitely lacking here: something for the walls. Some paintings or photos. I was thinking of letting you choose, 'cause you have that classic Summers touch when it comes to art. But I have one thing of mine I wanted to hang first." He then picked up a small framed something from the TV's top and hopped back onto the bed with it.

"How long have you been preparing that speech?" Buffy asked through a grin.

"Two days," he said. "But I still mean it. Look."

She read the framed paper rectangle, then stared, her mouth hanging open. "Spike! This is--!"

"Just a photocopy, really," he said. "But it's my first check, the initial payment by the publisher. I thought I should keep it on the wall."

"This-- this is $80,000!"

"Yeah. The next royalty checks won't be nearly so impressive, I know, but they'll be steady. And then there's the rest of the series. And movie rights! Oh, that'll be lovely."

"How--" Then what Spike had said replayed in her mind. "You're published?"

"Stay with the program, Buffy--yes! I am a published writer, after only 130 years of practice."

"What have you written?"

"Oh, it's nothing. A fiction series, really easy stuff. Some of that fantasy/horror crap that you've said you never read."

"What, like Anton Spence?"

Spike froze for a moment. "You've, ah-- you've read Anton Spence?"

"No!" Buffy said, wrinkling her nose. "All that killing of vampires and ghouls and werewolves? I get more than enough of that in my real life. But Dawn reads 'em."

"She does?"

"Oh, yeah, a lot of the girls her age like that Laurell Hamilton, Anton Spence kinda stuff. I suppose now they're going to be reading William Bloody. What are they, the kinds of things you used to tell her? Stories about the people you've killed?"

"Nah, Slayer, it's more contemporary. What do kids these days care about murder in the years before they were born? It's just fantasy action/adventure, nothing special. Tons of other series out there just like it."

"But it's profitable?"

"I won't be buying a new Mercedes anytime soon, but yeah, I have enough to live on comfortably. And you know how trendy these things are--I'm gonna get what cash I can and sit on it for a while. But I can definitely afford to upgrade my lifestyle."

"I'll say." Buffy lay back on the bed, spreading her arms out on the comforter. "You never stop surprising me, Spike."

"And that's a good thing, right?" he said, his face just inches from her own, his hand already working at her belt buckle.

"Hey! Hey!" She wriggled out of Spike's grasp and stood up, stepping over to the windows. "Why are you always in such a hurry? We haven't even--"

"I'm not the one who has to apologize this time, Slayer," Spike said, still lying on the bed, eyes closed as he looked for patience. "Remember? We were talking about terms of endearment. And you said, 'you can't be a sweetheart when your heart doesn't even beat.'"

Buffy stared at him from across the room. "I was right," she said, and immediately cursed herself internally. Stupid pride!

Spike sat up on the bed, meeting her stare with one of fury. "Well then we have nothing to talk about. You're obviously wasting your precious time with me! I'm just a useless, undead thing, right? Too unworthy to even talk to like a man!"

Buffy stepped over to the bed and kneeled, taking his hands in her own. "No, it's not like that. I just-- Saying things like that doesn't feel like us, y'know? We fight, we argue, we push each other to the edge. What we have is too hard and passionate for those words."

"Only because you want it to be," he said, his sorrow clear in his voice as he brushed fingers through her hair. "I'm not asking you to say you love me--God KNOWS you've told me enough that you don't. But we have to talk to each other outside of the sheets a lot more, pet. It's not like I get to show off my best girl to my friends, or hear your friends tell me what a great pair we make. I'm still begging for scraps here, luv, and to give me a pet name would show that we're more than just partners in bed, that we can have conversations and treat each other like equals. That quiet times--like this, right now--don't have to be so rare between us. Is that really too much to ask?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, kissing the hand that was wrapped around hers. She looked up into his eyes. "You really are my sweetheart, aren't you?"

Her voice, her eyes, her warmth so near him--how could his undead heart not melt at the sight of her? "I am your lover, your man, your dirty little secret," he said. "And yes, I am your sweetheart." And your kept man, Spike thought to himself. Dru could take me or leave me, but she never tried to make me a doll that she kept on a shelf. God, I am so Slayer-whipped.

She sat next to him on the bed, but things were still a little awkward. Neither of them wanted to make the first move that would lead to something more naked, but both wanted it. Finally, Spike had an idea. "I know," he said. "How about a storytime?"

Buffy groaned and rolled her eyes. "God! How did this little tradition start again?"

Spike cleared his throat. "Last summer, when you-- when the Scoobies and I-- well, when you weren't around." He side-stepped the whole issue of her death, like usual, rather than let that pain catch up to him again. "We spent a lot of time during patrol with nothing to do, so the others started to fill me in on stories that I'd never heard. Giles was the best, of course." He couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Lord, that man could talk, but he had a real grasp for narrative. Came from writing his Watcher's journal, I suppose. All those tales about Faith that I'd never known, and the Inca mummy girl, and The Harvest. Just amazing the things that go on at the Hellmouth."

"Yeah, it's an E-ticket ride," Buffy muttered. "Okay, so did you have a question?"

"Well, I was wondering about something only you could tell," he said. "You don't have to, of course, but . . ." Buffy just twirled her index finger in a "get-on-with-it" motion. "I was wondering just what happened that summer after you defeated Acathla. I know you went to L.A., but the Scoobies weren't too specific about what you did there."

Buffy suddenly noticed the TV remote and snatched it off the bedside table. "Wow, do you have cable? 'Cause Sealab 2021's on and--"

"Slayer," Spike said, taking the remote from her hand. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay. I just-- just wanted to know more about your life. To give me a clearer picture of you. This was something even Angelus couldn't tell me."

Buffy couldn't meet his eyes. "I've never really told anyone. Except Mom. And Dawn. I couldn't even tell Giles, 'cause o' what he'd think of me."

Spike coughed a laugh. "I'm an evil old thing, luv--not much I can look down on."

She looked up at him quickly to see if he was mocking her, but his eyes held nothing but sympathy. "Hold me," she said, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his torso and spoke directly into his chest as she described her walk home on the morning she sent her lover to Hell. Spike remembered that morning, rushing Dru into his DeSoto, heading South in the early light, knowing that the Slayer was probably already dead at Angelus' hand but hoping that she'd stopped Acathla before it happened. And hoping more, but not willing to admit it: hoping that the strong, smart Slayer whose mother he had spoken to that evening, whose sister had looked at him with fear and fascination from the top of the stairs, would be able to go back to her family. The thought of that house with a hole in its family structure, of a world with an absence where there had been a brave girl who'd sacrifice herself for its sake, gave him an unexpected punch in the gut. He hadn't known the source of that pain, not yet, and certainly had no thought that three years later he'd be cast directly into that personal hell and have to live in a world without her.

Buffy went on, telling about her life as a waitress named Anne, about floating through the city doing her best to keep her head down and not be noticed. And the best way to do that, of course, was not to notice anything around her. It took someone else, one of Spike's would-be victims who had gotten away, to bring her out of her shell. And, naturally, a crisis too big for her to ignore. She found on this one day exactly why she was the Slayer, why the world needed a Slayer: because she'd been surrounded by petty evils all summer--by groping hands and leering idiots, by muggers and burglars, by drug dealers and crooked cops--but they were things that could be defeated by human strength alone. The world, however, contained evils that towered over these things, evils that could only be brought down by a Slayer. Even off the Hellmouth there was a crying need for her strength, her resolve, her skill. To do anything less than use her Chosen gifts would be to betray everything she was inside. She had run away from the pain of Angel's murder specifically to protect that flame of hope within her, harboring her last remaining dream before Sunnydale and her life as the Slayer snuffed it. She'd be damned if she'd let a workhouse full of demons take it from her.

"--So I got the first group out," she finished. "And before we could even turn around and think about rescuing anyone else the whole time-portal thing just disappeared and walled itself up. Nothing more we could do." Buffy then stayed silent.

"So you came back to Sunnydale," Spike prompted.

"Yeah," she said, her voice listless. It had obviously been a long time since she let herself remember that time of her life. "I figured I could fight my demons here as well as I could anywhere else. Around here they're just a bit more literal."

"And I'll bet," Spike said, "that you felt more guilty about those you left behind in that Hell than victorious over those you saved."

She pulled back and looked into his face. "How'd you know?"

"Because I know you," he answered. "You're harder on yourself than anyone I've ever seen, than any Slayer I've known! You deserve a break, Buffy! You've saved THE WORLD, what, four or five times?"

"Six," Buffy said quietly. "Giles counted."

Spike grinned and pulled himself out of her arms so he could take her face in his hands. "My point is, luv, that you're a goddess. You're a golden warrior of light, the best and bravest there's ever been. And like any larger-than-life figure, you're a champion at tying yourself into knots for no reason. It's not healthy, and it's not pleasant to watch for those who love you. The world owes you a reward, but since it seems to be taking its own sweet time delivering, you have to find ways to reward yourself. And the best method I can think of is to NOT cause yourself more pain than is necessary." He hated having to lecture her, but sometimes he had to channel Giles in order to get anything through his Slayer's head.

"You're my reward," she said quietly. And Spike remembered why he put up with beatings and cutting insults and anything Xander bloody said and being kept in a closet with her other toys or talked to like Mr. Gordo. For moments like this, when his dreams of her sweetness actually came true, when he was able to bask in the warmth of her true affection. Never mind that he was living the life of Riley (Ha-ha, very droll) and just like that bloody dull soldier boy was taking whatever he could get from her without complaint. That living boy had had no idea what it was like to live in darkness and pain as long as Spike had, and had had far more dreams come true than Spike ever considered wishing for.

"I don't deserve you, pet, and that's the truth," Spike whispered to her. "You're the brightest thing I've known in a sunless life. You make me believe that there really is a good cause worth fighting for in this world, if even a monster like me can have one of your kisses."

Buffy's response was to grab the back of his head and pull him into a searing kiss. "You say the sweetest things," she told him when she pulled away. "Why do you have to be so annoying at the same time?"

"If I were perfect, pet," he growled between kisses, "I wouldn't be half so interesting."

She tugged them both up onto the bed and they stretched out lengthwise on the comforter, Buffy lying on top of him. She glared down into his face, suddenly serious. "Five days, Spike."

He grinned his response. "You're so bloody stubborn," he said. "If you'd given up two days ago you could've helped me move."

"You always know the right thing to say," she groaned sarcastically, while her hands went to work unbuttoning his pants. Spike was busy himself, removing her shirt and bra with one hand while his other fumbled with the zipper on her jeans.

"You always wear too much," he complained through a wide smile.

"And you're going commando, as usual," she said, moving her hand quickly to emphasize that point.

Spike's eyes shut and he had to stop moving for a moment to maintain control. "It's me own home, pet," he breathed. "I'll walk around starkers if I like."

"Be it ever so arrogant," Buffy countered before meeting him for another searching, burning kiss. A few kicks and twists on their part and they were both naked, holding onto each other for dear life. For this was the dearest part of life for both of them, the most honest and free existence they knew, wrapped in their universe of two. And though it would last for hours it would be over far too quickly.

Approximately four hours later they lay side-by-side, wrapped in the thin hotel linen. She was the first to speak. "Sorry about the wall." They both looked to their left, where the formerly-clean white wall now had a large indentation the size and shape of Spike's head and left shoulder.

It came from a bit of energetic fun that Spike didn't regret at all. "'Sokay, luv," he said. "The room needed christening. Though since we're going to make this a regular site for wrestling I might want to put a pad up on that wall. No telling how much punishment it'll be expected to take." He chuckled to himself at the very thought of testing those limits.

"I miss the candlelight," Buffy said. "There's no . . . mystery under these fluorescents."

"I totally agree," Spike said. "I was getting used to the novelty of all this brightness, but you're right, it don't help the mood." He leaned to the right and kissed her shoulder, catching her eye. "Y'see, it's these little touches of Summers artistry that'll turn this place from an antiseptic little room into a real home."

They returned to staring at the ceiling. "Antiseptic," Buffy said, tasting the word.

"Hmm?"

She turned onto her left side, facing Spike, and he turned to face her.

"I noticed something earlier," Buffy said, "but I didn't want to spoil the mood."

Of course not, Spike thought. You never bother to do that until AFTER you've gotten your happy. "Yes, dear?" he asked, trying his best to sound innocent.

She couldn't quite meet his eyes as she began. "You know that I like how we can have conversations now. I really missed that, missed coming to you for understanding. And yeah, it means we have arguments even more than before, but that just means we get to make up." She smiled at him, at the memory of how heated and passionate they'd been only minutes ago. "But lately you've been getting into lecture mode," she continued, "as if you're some wise old man instructing me."

He rubbed a hand across her naked midriff, causing her to shudder. "Don't you want the benefit of my experience?"

She smirked at him in a copy of his own trademark look. "You KNOW I do. But you have to admit, there's been some change coming over you this Spring. And it's not just the time we spend together."

Now it was Spike's turn to look away. "I'd hoped that it wasn't so noticeable. Sorry if I've been a right prat with my high talk and all."

"If I knew what a prat was I still wouldn't call you that," Buffy said. "So what's been happening?"

"Well, I guess it's the book, mostly. You don't know the publishing world, luv--these things don't happen overnight. I turned my book in for publication late last year, and I've had to live through months of galleys and typesetting choices and cover art approval and teleconferences about the PR campaign. And it's still weeks from actually coming out! Not to mention the fact that I have a contract for the next two books and a promise with my agent for four after that. I've been working on the sequels whenever I have the time."

"Wow. No wonder you haven't had much time to help me with patrolling the last month."

Now Spike definitely looked uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah. There's that, too. Y'see, Slayer, I've been coming to grips with something that I haven't wanted to admit. Fact is, I would have staked myself before saying this before, and we both know I tried to do just that two years ago. But now it's time I grew up and said it to you as well as myself." He took her hands and looked her fervently in the eyes. "I don't think I'm the Big Bad anymore, pet."

Buffy stared into his desperate look, then couldn't help but snicker at him. "That's it? I could've told you that years ago, Chip Boy! You haven't been the Big Bad for--" She was interrupted by a loud growl from Spike as he rose in a flurry of sheets and left the bed.

He stepped to his closet, out of view, and Buffy heard a drawer open and close. When he stepped back into view he was wearing a pair of boxers and had begun pacing. They both knew that he thought better while pacing, and Buffy rolled her eyes and prepared for another lecture from Professor Bloodsucker.

"You don't understand," Spike told her, still moving, "you never did. You're just 21, you have no idea who you really are, who you're going to be. And you're not rushing to find out either one working at that burger place. You don't know what it's like to have an identity that keeps you warm and centered for a bleeding century!" Buffy was a little too stunned to interrupt him, and he took her silence as permission to dig into the meat of his argument.

"I’m a person--a man, dammit, no matter how YOU choose to define that--just like you. I reflect the world that I’ve been shown. You and the bloody Scoobies have grown up with love and understanding, patience and kindness, since you were in diapers. We both know that Joyce was one hell of a mother, but I'll tell you this now, Slayer, I'm half-convinced that she was a saint. You think you got it tough as the Chosen One? If you go down in a fight at least you know that you gave it your all, that you were a warrior 'til the end. But Joyce gets to sit home all evening imagining each punch you take, and thinking that maybe you got the sniffles one evening and get knocked down by one hit too many. And it's all over for you and she won't even know for HOURS that you're even dead. Yet she showed you patience and love to the very end, Slayer; even took on a second child without complaint because it was just her lot in life and she took it like a soldier. God, if I'd known just one person like her while I was alive I might not be a monster today.

"And so there’s me. For more than a century I’ve been handed a steaming plate of blood and madness daily, watched my own bloody sire abandon me, and loved a woman who didn’t know my name half the time. Every day with Drusilla was ‘la la la, birds and whistles,’ and I wanted SO MUCH to get into her head and share what she saw of the world. Not ONE of you ever considered how tempting it was to go mad alongside her, just drop the fight to keep a level head in this topsy-turvy hell we call reality and stop being her bloody anchor of normalcy. Who cares if we’d both survive as bleeding loonies? At least I’d have her WITH ME when she was with me! Even a day of that would have been paradise to me then.

"And now there’s Sunnyhell. I come to kill a Slayer and get staked in return. One glimpse of you in that alleyway and I’m smitten. You were more fire and strength than I’d seen in all my years, wrapped in a golden package. And I fight it, sure enough, because everything I’ve ever known has told me there’s no hope for such things, there’re no happy endings for things like me. The conqueror worm takes us all in the end, kiddies, so killing a Slayer’s no worse than stepping on a daisy. So I thought. But then I’m right nackered by the Initiative and . . . and you lot take me in. Sure, at first it’s to get information, and I’m thinkin’ at the time that you’ll dust me as soon as I’m empty of talk. But you never do. And once you find out I can kill demons you just LET ME GO.

"I never saw anything like it. Spent the next few months trying to stay evil. The most I really achieved was just active selfishness. Even helping Adam wasn't for a bad cause--once he got my chip out I'd have turned him in as soon as I could and told you how to beat him. Nothing meant anything to me then: I was empty of love, empty of purpose, empty of will. That Summer's when I hit the wall, when I was a lot closer to staking myself than that pathetic attempt I made in Xander's basement. I had to face facts that the Spike I'd been for all those years had skarpered and left me holding the bag.

"So something inside me, some instinct I didn't even know I had, something stronger than my demon, threw out a lifeline and snagged on my thoughts about you. 'Here 'tis, Spikey,' it said. 'Look no further, lad, you've got your role model. Beauty, passion, strength, and a purpose. When you have no one left to be you can be her. Or at least as close to her as a short-tempered, foul git like you can reach. Oh, and did we mention that you already love her?' And after that the Big Bad was nothing but a mask. I loved you with all my heart--still do--and it tears me to pieces some nights, especially when you don't want to be bothered. But you're my whole world, Slayer, you're the sun that I orbit, and when you reject me it's like the sun telling you that it won't rise this morning. I lived all of last Summer without a sun or a moon or anything, just stumbling through the darkness, expecting to fall off the edge of the world at any moment.

"Then you came back." He ended on the floor at her feet, putting his head in her lap. By this time she was sitting at the foot of the bed, wrapped in white linen, watching him through silent tears. She ran her fingers through his hair as he continued to speak. "But it hasn't been much easier. No one's giving me a clear identity, neither you nor the Scoobies. Dawn stopped coming by my crypt ages ago, which is a good sign, I suppose--shows that she's becoming her own person. I'm not officially your lover because you won't speak about me to anyone. I'm not officially a Scoobie because no matter how many demons or vamps I kill I get no credit for them. I'm not even a vampire anymore, because I don't hunt for my food--at best I'm a ghoul on a liquid diet."

He suddenly sat up on his knees, looking into her eyes. "But I'm not cryin' on your shoulder, luv. Don't think that. I'm just-- I'm trying to explain something, and as usual I'm not getting to the point. Y'see, I found something this Spring, what with the book and all. There was a part of me that I'd forgotten that I'd left behind, but he's breathing in me now through the words. The words, baby, they've given me a life again!"

Spike stood now, gesturing as he paced. "As a vampire, you sort-of get used to the things you've given up. No more sun, no more real human company, no more family. You usually get to compensate for these things with power, and it's quite a narcotic. Me, I used to think that I left everything bad behind me when I died and finally found my true self as a vampire. Because, as I've told you, I was nothing but a lovesick wanker back then, a poet who still hung onto Coleridge in the 1870's! I was only too happy to leave William the Bloody Awful Poet in a shallow grave in England.

"But since I've started writing--oh, Buffy, it's like there was a room in my heart I didn't even know was closed because it'd been nailed shut for so long. I couldn't write well as a living man because I didn't know people, didn't understand them. But now my heart's caught up with my vocabulary. It started slowly, but the more I wrote last year the more alive I felt. The words are flowing through me like blood, luv, and they're the best diet I've ever had. I'm--" He paused, searching for phrases. "I'm a rusty winepress that still gives a good vintage. It's good to feel useful again, to know that I'm producing something that people appreciate. 'Sall I've ever wanted, really: to be needed." He finally seemed to have run out of steam and exhaustedly sat at Buffy's side on the end of the bed.

Buffy took a minute to pull herself together. "So now that you've found your inner Giles--" They both chuckled at the phrase, and allowed their eyes to meet. "Well, is this why you've been avoiding patrols?"

Spike nodded. "I've been taking my violence out on the keyboard," he said. "I find when I get a good steam going I don't really need to tear body parts off things. Amazing, huh?"

"Yeah." Buffy didn't know exactly what to say. As much as she appreciated how human he was becoming, it was also disconcerting. For so long he'd been this monster that she could safely keep at a distance--emotionally speaking, of course. If he became a man, and did it for her sake to boot, she'd have to start admitting some things she didn't want to. Put up or shut up time. Really scary.

"Buffy," he said, bringing her attention back to his shining blue eyes. "I want you to know how much I've appreciated you being here for me while I went through this. I couldn't have admitted this to anyone else--even if the Nibblet were to ask me, I'd still insist I was the Big Bad and just as evil as I'd always been. But with you I can take off my masks. You're the only one who really listens to me."

"Oh my God," Buffy breathed, "you sound just like me."

"Well, we've sorta been to the same places, luv." He met her steady gaze for a few seconds, then smirked. "Okay, okay, I haven't been to Heaven, you're right. But I never understood why you wanted to be 'normal' when you seemed to have everything already. But now that I've tasted it I can see what you meant. It helps me understand what you're going through a bit more."

Buffy suddenly looked around to the digital clock by the bed and jumped up. "God, it's 3 A.M. I have to get to sleep. I have too much to think about now."

"You'll bunk down here," Spike said, already rising and smoothing out the sheets and comforter. "It won't be a problem."

"It will if I come home tomorrow wearing the same clothes I went patrolling in."

Concentrating on his task, Spike said, "If you look in my closet you'll find three pairs of jeans and a few of those pullover tops you like in a variety of colors, all your size." He looked at her and shrugged. "I told you I went shopping."

"So in the morning--"

"In the morning," he finished for her, "you'll have a relaxing shower while I order breakfast from room service. I know that Dawn's been getting herself to school just fine these days, so you won't have to rush. Just have breakfast with me, then go to The Magic Box--it's just four blocks away, right?"

This newly competent Spike might take some adjustment. But then again, it was pleasant not to have to think of alibis and lies all by herself. If he was still willing to keep them secret then she might as well enjoy the improvement. "We could get room service? Really?"

"Kitchen's open 24 hours, luv," he said, pulling back the sheet and comforter and motioning for her to get into the bed. He knew she preferred the right side. "Maybe tomorrow night we could start a bit earlier. Have dinner here, say. And then I'd go help you with patrol." He'd turned off the room's lights as he spoke, leaving only the bedside lamp on.

Buffy climbed into bed and set a weary head on the comfortable pillows, better than anything the old crypt bed had offered. "Sounds like a plan," she muttered, before falling asleep with Spike at her side, their hands intertwined beneath the sheets. He kissed her shut eyes quietly, lovingly, before falling asleep himself.

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