DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’, of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Our story starts two weeks before Christmas during Season 4 of Buffy.  A few modifications I’m making for the set-up…after the Gentlemen escapades, Spike goes right back to living with Giles rather than staying at Xander’s (something I never fully understood why didn’t happen on the show, considering how much Xander and Spike disliked each other), so he’s living with Giles when this story opens.  And instead of Riley claiming that he likes Buffy’s ability to beat him up (which also didn’t mesh with me on the show in light of his later behavior in season 5), he has broken up with her, leaving them friends but not lovers.  Spike is also well aware that he can hurt demons at this point, too.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:  I’m in the mood for something a little lighter than Voices or Rook turned out to be, and so I’m going with my holiday fic, even though the holidays are long over.  It’s not really about the season anyway, because as we all know, it’s about Spike and Buffy all the way, baby…

*************

Dark.

Surrounding her.

Like the whole world holding its breath.

The familiar chilly swirl around her legs was as soothing as the hard weight of the stake poised in her hand, and Buffy could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears as she waited.

And waited.

And then…

The single spotlight, brilliant and blinding, erupted from nowhere, disclosing the frozen arch of her body, the proud tilt of her chin as she stared out into the void.  They were out there, and though they could see her, she couldn’t see them, and the thrill of the not-knowing, the vim of being the spectacle to their voyeuristic hunger, made her veins pulse in anticipation of the dance that was about to begin.

He was out there, too, blanketed by the shadows.  She couldn’t hear him, but his constant presence was a tingle that rippled down her spine with a surety that both quickened and clarified her readiness.  A single slide of her eyes would capture him in her periphery, yet that would disrupt the program, and she couldn’t do that.  There were steps to follow; he trusted her to stick to them.

The baseline came first, a driving pulse that incited her feet to launch into the effortless glides of the first act.  Only the spotlight followed her; in this particular duet, most of the arena remained dark, adding to the ambience as they drew in their audience.  Now, her partner’s movements were audible, blades slicing and shivering as they made contact with the ice, each step precise, each stroke an element in elegance, and though he was only a streak of ebony and silver as they played the roles of vampire and slayer for the auditorium, she knew without having to be told that each of her own strokes mirrored his, both in grace and accuracy.

And here it came, the first of the jumps, and she watched as he sped and wove toward her, lifting the stake for the plunge while at the same time meeting his eyes.  The blue blazed even in the dim light on the ice, and she had to fight not to lose herself in them, lest her concentration lapse as she met him face on---

---please don’t let me two foot it, please don’t let me two foot it---

---and was launched into her triple Axel, a blur of white as she flew through the air.

The audience exploded with applause when she landed cleanly back on the ice, and Buffy allowed herself a momentary smile of delight as she faced her partner before swiveling around to begin the skate away.  His pride at her abilities was undeniably etched across his aspect; not once during their tenure together had he ever taken her skills for granted, though to many it appeared that he shouldered all the heavy work.  They knew the truth.  His contribution was an illusion, not the lynchpin of power, but the extra oomph to Buffy’s natural strength that made the spins, lifts, and jumps magic to behold.

She’d had other partners, of course, but none of them had ever lasted like he had.  The reasons were numerous---failure to match her level of discipline, reluctance to overextend themselves lest they hurt her.  Then, he had come along, and though there had been sparks, they just fit, and the program hadn’t been the same since.

The audience was with them, every step of the way.  From the moment his black coat billowed out behind him when he began his footwork at the top of the number, to the final death spiral that made Buffy’s body feel as if it was skimming on an ocean of liquid air, the crowd watched as Slayer stalked Vampire, coming together before breaking apart and then coming together again for the gripping finale.  They couldn’t feel the electricity that ran down her sides when his hand would grasp her hip, and they didn’t see the synchronicity in their gazes when he would anticipate any errors she might make.  They only saw the beauty of the dance, the pair of blonds skating along the ice, spinning and jumping and losing themselves to the music.

The final beat of the score was punctuated by her blades showering his fallen body in ice as her hockey stop brought her to his side.  There was a fraction of resistance as she did so, enough to make her lose her concentration for a second, and then silence, as she raised her stake in triumph. 

She held the pose…

…his prone body deadly still at her feet…

…and then the crowd returned to life, their applause thunderous as he joined her to take their bows. 

Side by side they stood, soaking in the adoration, the sweat beading on her brow from the exertion.  Buffy stole a glance to the figure at her side, and felt her chest hitch at the thin line of crimson that stole down his temple.  “Oh, my god,” she whispered, forgetting for a moment the ones who watched.  “Are you all right?  Did I do that?”

“’S’nothin, pet,” came the murmured reply.  “Just a scratch.  Not even worth noticin’.”

But she did notice, and the knowledge that she’d somehow failed her partner, the one who trusted her not to, cast a pall over the otherwise glory of the moment.  Mechanically, she picked up the flowers that were tossed to their feet, not feeling the thorns that pricked her fingers, nor seeing the droplets of blood bouncing off the ice below.  “It won’t happen again,” she said quietly as they skated out of the arena, legs slicing in rhythm as his hand settled at the small of her back.  “I promise.”

When he looked down at her, it was an odd mixture of both confusion and certainty that gleamed in those dark depths.  “But I already knew that, Buffy,” he said.  The hand that held her steady, both on and off the ice, took hers as they exited, entwining with her fingers as he led her to the benches.  Already, the music for the next act was starting in the distance, but she didn’t hear it, lost in the cacophony of backstage, the other bodies beginning to press into hers and forcing her to focus on not losing sight of her partner as he walked away.

The program was over.

But the show was only beginning…

*************

“…and it’s going to be a glorious morning for all those getting ready to go out and face the day.  Sunny and bright, with no signs of the storms that they’re predicting for up north---.”

Buffy groaned as she rolled over and slapped at the alarm clock on her nightstand.  Gotta remember to turn that off tonight, she thought grumpily, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders and nestling back into its warmth.  First rule of winter breaks.  Sleep in as much as humanly possible.

“Buffy?  Are you up?  I made pancakes!”

Damn super-Mom hearing. 

“I’m up!” she called back, and stretched along the length of the mattress, the burn in her muscles chasing away the vestiges of a dream she couldn’t really remember.  Blearily, she rose from the bed, and stumbled to the bathroom, kicking aside the shoes she didn’t remember taking off the previous night and wondering why it was again Slayers didn’t get to take Christmas holidays off like the rest of the real world.  Oh yeah, she thought grumpily as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.  Higher calling, yadda yadda, Chosen One, blah blah, sacred duty to save the world, big frickin’ whoop.

She sighed, splashing some cold water onto her face.  Keep an attitude like this and no way was Santa going to leave her any new stakes in her stocking this year.  She’d end up with a fistful of nothing for being such a Scrooge.

“Good morning,” Joyce said brightly when Buffy strolled into the kitchen ten minutes later. 

“I’m with you on the morning part,” she replied, heading straight for the refrigerator.

“Bad night?”

Buffy shrugged.  “The usual.  Except I think I have to finally give up on that cute white top ever being wearable again.  I’ve got this itchy feeling that purple Brachna-whatsit blood is going to stain something fierce.”

“It wasn’t being back in your bed again, was it?”  Casually, Joyce slipped two of the pancakes off the griddle and onto a plate.  “I know it must seem weird coming home after being on your own in the dorm for so long.”

“Mom, I’m a Slayer on the Hellmouth.  Weird is hugely relative.”  She pulled out the maple syrup and grimaced.  “We don’t have any blueberry?”

“Bottom shelf.  Behind the yogurt.”  Her gaze was contemplative as she regarded her daughter rummaging around in the fridge.  “You just seem a little out of it this morning, Buffy.  You did sleep, didn’t you?”

“Yep.  Did that newfangled thing called dreaming, too.  I think it was the Stars on Ice one again.  I’m kind of fuzzy on the details.  Aha!”  She straightened in triumph, a nearly empty bottle of blueberry syrup in her hand.  “Syrupy goodness makes everything better,” she announced, and climbed onto the nearest stool at the kitchen island.

“So something is wrong,” Joyce pressed.

Buffy sighed.  She really wasn’t going to let this go.  “Not wrong,” she said carefully.  “Just…not completely right, either.  I dunno.  I guess I just pictured this Christmas being different.  All mistletoe, and no big bads, and the commando mystery all figured out.  There was serious signage that a very Buffy Christmas was in the works, and now…”  A sigh as she drew abstract swirls through her breakfast.  “I thought Riley and I were doing pretty good considering, but then he wigged on the whole my being able to beat the crap out of him, even though I totally wouldn’t and I don’t see how it even matters when we’re on the same side, you know?  And isn’t he the one who’s supposed to be all Mr. Enlightenment?  But no, girl power steps up and sends him flying across the room with just one little punch, and then it’s, oh I think we should just be friends, Buffy, don’t you?”  She growled in frustration, her fork stabbing into her pancakes.  “I even held back when he asked me not to.  Can you imagine how lame his excuse would’ve been if I’d actually hit him for real?”

Without saying a word, Joyce set a glass of juice in front of Buffy’s plate, and stepped back to lean against the sink.  It only took two bites worth of feeling her mother’s eyes on her before the Slayer broke, setting down her fork and looking up into her face.  “What?” she asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you’re giving me the mom look.  Hence, you’re thinking something you’d rather not say, so, c’mon.  Spit it out.  I can take it.  I’m a big strong girl apparently.”

“Well, you’d be wrong.  I was just thinking how much you’re growing up, and how much I’m missing of it because you don’t live at home any more.  So, no big mystery to solve, Buffy.  Just me being nostalgic.”

“It’s the pancakes,” she said with a smile.  “There must be something in the smell that gets to people.  Like pheromones.”

Joyce bit back her amusement.  “Pancake…pheromones?”

“Hey, it’s the Hellmouth.  It could happen.”

Slowly, Joyce sipped at her coffee, watching Buffy over the rim of her cup before she finally said, “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about…”

Her grin was triumphant.  “I knew it!  You can’t pull one over on these college girl’s eyes.  I’ve been seeing that mom look for way too long not to know when it means something.”

“Well, part of this…mom look is that I got a call last night.  From your Aunt Darlene.  She’s coming to visit us this weekend.  Get a chance to catch up before the holidays.”

Buffy’s grin immediately vanished, to be replaced by her jaw dropping and disbelief clouding her eyes.  “But…you just saw her at Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, but you didn’t.  It’ll be nice for them to hear how great you’re doing.  You haven’t seen them in ages.  You’re not doing anything this weekend, are you?”

“This weekend?”  Her mind raced.  How could she get out of this?  Three days with nosy family asking her about school, and her boyfriend, and what was she doing with all her free time now that she was footloose and fancy-free living in the dorm.  Not one of those topics boded well for a comfortable start to her holiday.  “Not so much,” she admitted when her mind came up with nothing, “except that it’s just my first real break since finals.  The only definite thing was hanging out at Giles’ this morning filling him in on stuff so he doesn’t feel left out.  Maybe making fun of Spike while we’re there.  Oh, and there’ll probably be donuts.”

“That’s good, then.  Darlene’ll be glad to hear you’ll be around this time.”

There was a pause while Buffy dug back into her breakfast.  “I knew the pancakes were evil,” she muttered. 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on him, you know,” Joyce said.

“Who, Giles?  Willow’s the one who said he was---.”

“I meant Spike.”

She stopped in mid-chew, eyes wide in incredulity.  “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I think you and the others are being far too cavalier in your treatment of Spike.  He’s going through a rough time right now---.”

“Oh, boo hoo, the big bad bleached vampire can’t kill all my friends.  Yeah, that’s a rough time all right.”

“I’m just saying---.”

“Did you know he actually called Xander a nummy treat when he was staying with him?  If that chip was out, Spike wouldn’t think twice about killing all of us in our sleep, Mom.  I’m not about to start feeling bad because he’s muzzled for the time being.”

“Somehow, I find it very difficult to believe that Spike used the word ‘nummy’ with any degree of seriousness.  That sounds like a Xander interpretation to me.”  Turning around, Joyce began rinsing out her mug in the sink.  “I’m not asking you to feel bad, Buffy.  I’m just suggesting that maybe you could be a little more understanding about his situation.  You told me what happened when the Watcher’s Council did that little test on your birthday, how you felt powerless.  Don’t you think that maybe Spike’s going through some of the same thing?”

Setting down her fork, Buffy wiped her mouth before hopping up from the stool.  “OK, first of all, Spike’s not powerless.  He can still hit things.  They just have to be demon things.  And secondly, my sitch and Spike’s sitch?  Two totally different issues.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to cut him a little slack---where are you going?”

The Slayer stopped at the door, her hand on the knob.  “I told you.  Over to Giles’.  Before all the pancake pheromones in this place start making me go soft on Spike, too.”  And with a small wave, she hurried out the door.

*************

She walked in on chaos.

“I don’t need a bloody babysitter!”

“It would only be for the weekend---.”

“Am I talking to myself?  Vampire here.  Took care of myself for more than a century---.”

“Which of course explains you showing up on Giles’ doorstep looking like the little vamp that couldn’t---.”

“Watch it, pizza boy---.”

“I understand it’s a lot to ask---.”

“Whoa, Nellie.”  Buffy parked herself between the three men, holding up her hands to keep Spike and Xander from going at it with more than their words.  Looking over at where Willow sat quietly at the desk, she asked, “What’s going on here?”

“It’s called Pass the Spike,” the vampire answered angrily before the redhead could say anything.  “And it’s fuckin’ ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“Giles?  What’s he talking about?”

Clearing his throat, the Watcher’s hands sank into his pockets as he looked down at his charge.  “I’m attempting to find accommodation for Spike,” he explained.  He ignored the vampire’s snort of derision.  “A rather important symposium has requested me as a keynote speaker at one of their gatherings this weekend---.”

“If they’re so bloody important, why’d they nancy about ‘til the last minute to ask you, Rupes?”

“Shut up, Spike.”  Her order at him was automatic, but almost immediately, Buffy heard her mother’s voice in the back of her head, admonishing her for being too hard on the demon.  Not too hard, she thought irritably.  He’s interrupting.

“Yes, well, regardless of their…timing, it’s still a very distinguished honor to be asked,” Giles continued.

“Not to mention the fair bit of dosh they’re payin’, right?”

“I said, shut up, Spike!”  This time it was louder, harsher, and was met with a furious scowl from its intended target.  She watched as his jaw opened to say something in response, and then snap shut again as he whirled on his boot heel and stomped over to the couch.  “Now.  Let’s try this again,” Buffy said, turning to face Giles.  “Some group of brainiacs wants you to give a speech this weekend?”

“Yes.  They’re convening at a ski resort up north.  It’s a bit of a drive, so it would require me being absent for two or three days, and as I’d rather not leave Spike alone, I’m trying to find other arrangements for him.”

“That’s easy.  He can stay with Xander again.”

“Sorry, Buff,” Xander said, raising his hand.  “The Harris Inn is completely full.  For some reason known only to God and Mom, she’s gone on some bender about having the whole family in for Christmas this year, and I’ve got two cousins and a bedwetting nephew bunking with me in the basement.  So me casa is no casa.”

“Oh.”  She frowned and started to turn toward Willow, but the redhead beat her to the punch.

“We’re not even going to be here,” she said.  “Whatever bug flew up Mrs. Harris’ skirt apparently whispered in my mom’s ear that this Hanukkah is the perfect time to steep me in the history of the Rosenberg woman.  So I’m being dragged to Milwaukee until after the New Year.  Sorry.”

“I know it’s rather a lot to ask,” Giles said carefully, “but, in light of our lack of options, I don’t suppose you’d consider letting him stay at your house, Buffy?  You’re really the one best equipped to handle Spike---.”

“And for the last time, I don’t need handlin’!”

“---and it would only be for the weekend.”

The weekend…the same weekend she was being dragged off to face the family inquisition.  “I can’t,” she said in resignation.  “It must be a holiday thing because Mom’s got family coming by for some good old-fashioned quality time.  Sorry.”

“Well, guess that settles it then.”  A smug Spike rose to his feet and began sauntering toward the kitchen.  “I think I fancy a cuppa to celebrate.”

“Why don’t you take him with you?” Buffy asked her Watcher.  Her words brought Spike to an immediate halt as he turned a frowning face toward her.  “If this symposium is such a big deal and you don’t want him to get into your things while you’re gone, just let him tag along.  I’m sure wherever you’re going has a bathtub you can chain him up in.”

“Yes, I do believe a bathroom is one of the listed amenities,” he said dryly.  “But I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  I didn’t…anticipate spending much time in my suite.”

“So, for the last soddin’ time, just leave me be.”  Spike was at their side in a flash, his jaw flexing, his eyes riveted to Giles’.  A flash of hurt determination skimmed behind the blue and Buffy found herself blinking in surprise when she saw it.  “If I haven’t already nicked your stuff, odds are I’m not goin’ to.  What’s it take to get a little trust with you people?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t tried to kill us so many times,” Xander started, but quieted when Buffy held up her hand.

“What if I came with you?” she asked Giles.  The question popped out of her mouth before she could stop it, and she could feel the surprise bombarding her from all directions.  Mom wants me to be nicer to Spike, I think lack of chains is about as nice as I can be right now.  Plus, extra bonus for getting me away from Aunt Darlene and too many good intentions.  And did I hear Giles say this was at a ski resort?  It sounded like the best solution all around, and anything that distracted from whatever funk seemed to be taking control of her mood lately had to be good, right?  “We work out a schedule who watches him when, and nobody has to worry about Spike being a naughty vamp and doing something that would get him staked.”

“Thanks ever so, Slayer,” he muttered, but his eyes were dark and unfathomable when she glanced at him, and she tore her gaze away, not willing to have to consider the headache thinking of Spike gave her these days.

“That’s…very generous, Buffy, but what about your mother?”

Buffy shrugged.  “It’s just for the weekend, right?  I’ll just tell her it’s Slayer-related.  You promise me at least one night of fun and frolicking minus Spike or a Watcher looking over my shoulder, and I’m in.”

Everyone ignored Spike’s storming from the room, and the way the walls shook from the force with which he slammed the bathroom door.  It was only when he re-emerged a few minutes later, face deceptively calm, that Buffy allowed herself the luxury of giving what she’d offered any more thought. 

I’m a sick, sick Slayer to be agreeing to this.  There’s no way I can go the whole weekend without killing him.

*************

Thick soft snow drifted across the glass, not sticking but accumulating like lace in the corners, all too Rockwellian in its obviousness as it painted the car in white.  “Ooo, pretty,” Buffy exclaimed from the front seat of the rental, and Spike rolled his eyes as he scrunched further down into the back.  Leave it to the Slayer to get enamored with a few frosted flakes, he thought irritably.  Silly bint acts like she’s never seen snow before.

Still, better to have her absorbed in the weather outside than to be paying him any mind, Spike reasoned.  Ever since her out-of-the-blue overture to tag along on Rupert’s little speech-quest, she’d been acting odd around him---one minute complaining about having to do a butcher run for the trip, the next muttering an awkward “um…please” at the end of her request that he keep a low profile when they’d stopped around her place to pick up her things.  It was throwing off his game, and Spike was edgy enough as it was.  Must be that time of the month, he decided, though his nose told him otherwise.  Only reason for her barmy behavior.

They had left immediately after sunset, and now, four hours later and still a good three away from their destination, they were the only ones on the road, the unexpected snow slowing their pace.  Conversation had been brisk at the start of the trip, but with the weather worsening, all three had lapsed into silence, keeping to his or her thoughts.  It was just as well; the last bit of chat had left Spike dying for a fag but unable to have one at risk of being tossed in the boot by the Slayer.

“So what exactly is Boxing Day?” she’d asked in all innocence.

“The day after Christmas,” Giles had replied.  The automatic glance into his rearview mirror told Spike more than his words did; in spite of not being able to see his passenger’s reflection, he was already looking for help from a fellow Englishman to curb the curious American’s questions.

“Is it a real holiday?  Or just a Hallmark holiday?”

“No, it’s a real holiday.  Oh look.  Is that a deer?”

His attempt to distract her failed.  “So why is it called Boxing Day?  Is that the day you’re supposed to return unwanted gifts to the stores or something?”

Giles’ reply came over Spike’s snort.  “No, traditionally, shops aren’t open for business on Boxing Day.”

“But it has something to do with boxes, right?  Or is it boxing, like Mike Tyson boxing?  It’s not a big sports day, is it?  Because that would just be weird.”

“Oh, and spending the first day of the year glued to the telly watching American football is the perfect way to celebrate a fresh beginning.”  Spike had rolled his eyes.  “Look, Slayer.  He’s not goin’ to answer you because he doesn’t bloody well know.  You take five different Englishmen and ask ‘em that same question, and you’ll get five different answers.  The fact of the matter is, you get up, you eat your bubble and squeak, you get pissed, you go to bed.  It’s just a holiday.  End of story.  So unless you want Rupert to start nattering on about how the day’s rooted in old Britain’s bloody need to preserve class lines by playing beneficiary to the less fortunate, I suggest you drop it once and for all, ‘cause something tells me that topic of conversation’s goin’ to be even dryer than whatever peccadillo he’s got planned for his symposium soiree.”

She’d looked back at him then, and for a moment he’d wondered if he’d grown a third head from the way she regarded him.  Almost as if she wasn’t completely sure he’d said what had just come out of his mouth.  A flicker of something---surprise? amazement?---danced behind the green, but just when he was about to relax his own countenance in the face of hers, she spoke again.

“So what’s bubble and squeak?”

The reminder that chains didn’t require a bathtub, and that the trunk was just as good a riding seat as any if one didn’t need to breathe, was all he needed to withdraw into his head.  It’s not like Spike was trying to dwell on his frustration at being treated as such a second-class citizen.  It was just…well, honestly, what was the bug up Rupert’s skirt about all this?  He got left alone all the time when the Watcher went out, and except for that time when he’d been caught sneaking out trying to pawn some of that vinyl he kept laying about, he’d been on his best behavior with the git.  In fact, it only seemed right that the old man would want some distance, with as much as he griped about having to share everything with Spike.  This forcing him along to keep an eye on him was just a load of bollocks.

So was the Slayer’s presence for that matter, but a small part of Spike was thrilling at that little addition.  Three days with her mostly at his beck and call…it certainly offered the opportunity for a tad bit more entertainment value than his usual daily grind.  He may complain a good game, but when it came down to it, no one brought a smile to his face faster than the Slayer.  Usually it was a grin at her indignation when he managed to get a gibe in that particularly hurt.  Or a leer when he could smell the frustration wafting from her every pore.  Maybe he’d even get lucky and get the chance to see her fight.  Now that would be worth the price of admission on this whole bloody weekend.  The chance to see the poetry of Buffy Summers in motion.

Wonder if I can talk her into patrolling while we’re there?  Should definitely get to see her then and get a nice spot of violence of my own to top it off.

So lost was he in his musings that he didn’t see the dark shadow dart into the road.  The only thing Spike was aware of was the Slayer’s shout of warning to her Watcher, and then the sharp sideways lurch of the vehicle as Giles attempted to avoid whatever had crossed their path.  It might’ve worked if the falling snow hadn’t played deception with the ice it covered on the concrete, and the rental car slid out of control onto the embankment, tumbling an unbuckled Spike against the door when it began to tip, only to smash his head into the roof when it started to roll. 

Within seconds of Buffy’s shout, all three occupants were unconscious.

*************

He woke to the scent of blood.

Thick, luscious, piquant, and making his mouth water just at the prospect of it running over his tongue.

And though he felt the delicate tickle as it dripped down the side of his face, Spike knew that it wasn’t his own blood that he was smelling.  He’d been in more than enough fights with her to recognize the scent of hurt Slayer when it assaulted his senses.

Cracking his lids open, the first thing he saw was the huge dent in the roof overhead, buckled and bent as if a giant had tried poking his fingers through the metal in order to extract its occupants like some candy surprise.  That’s modern engineering for you, he thought irritably.  One little roll and it’s tin can alley for the bleedin’ car.  The door at his feet was dented in as well, and Spike had a sneaking suspicion that if he turned his head, he’d see the same thing behind him. 

Somehow, the smell was even more overpowering with his eyes open, and gingerly, he sat up from his sprawled position across the seat, stretching his limbs as he did so.  Nothing broken, though his noggin had taken a good hit, screaming at him from the inside like a banshee straight out of hell.

“Well, that was a kick and a half,” he drawled as he wiped at the blood running down his face.  Sucking it off his thumb, he half-turned toward the front seat, ready for whatever derisive quip the Slayer would throw at him this time.

It never came.

She was slumped against her seat belt, an angry red welt from the strap scraping its path around her neck to disappear beneath the collar of her blouse, her lashes dark against the bluing of her cheek.  Golden tendrils were sticking to her forehead where the source of the blood he smelled flowed, and though he could see the spider web cracks in her window, he spoke to her just the same, trying to confirm his suspicions.

“Slayer?”  His voice seemed too loud in the confines of the car, but when it elicited no response, he tried again, this time reaching out to shake her shoulder.  “Buffy?”

Nothing.  Out cold.  Giles’ old man driving had finally done someone in.

Only then did the break in Spike’s scrutiny allow him to register what should’ve been obvious the second he’d sat forward.  With a very deliberate turn of his head, he looked over at the driver’s seat, and his lips pursed tightly together.  The Watcher was gone.

Not gone, as in dead, but gone as in…no longer there.  The driver’s door was jammed closed, but a quick glance was all Spike needed to know that that hadn’t been Giles’ egress of choice.  In rolling down the embankment, the car had been stopped, right side up, by slamming into a large tree, and the thick trunk now effectively blocked any way of opening the door from the inside.  The windshield was also out as a viable option; though cracked and non-usable, it was still in one piece, with no gap in it large enough for someone of Rupert’s size to get through.

What made it even more odd was that the driver’s seat belt was still firmly fastened, empty as if whatever it had contained had simply been lifted out, and the keys were missing from the ignition.

Jaw grim in determination, Spike turned to the rear doors, pulling ineffectively at their handles only to learn that they too were broken in the accident, blockading him inside the vehicle.  “Fuck that,” he muttered, and leaned back on his elbows, his booted heel smashing against the window to send it flying into the snow that still swirled outside.  It was a tight fit to shimmy through it, but he’d done worse over the course of his lifetime, and ended up half-buried in the accumulating snow by the time he tumbled out the other side.

The storm was even worse than it had been when they’d gone off the road.  Darkness wouldn’t have normally been a problem for the vampire, but now it was laced with flurrying flakes that eddied and whirled around Spike’s head.  Shifting into game face didn’t help much, but the simple act calmed his furious nerves.  Mother Nature wanted to fuck with him?  He’d give her a hell of a fight then, and go down biting with the bitch if that was the case.

Right.  So.  First order of business.  Get the fuck out of the storm before---.

Her groan cut him off.  Even with the wind whistling in his ears, Spike heard the Slayer’s moan and without thinking, stepped forward and yanked her door from its pins.  Rupert can kiss that security deposit goodbye, he thought as he crouched at her side.

From this vantage, she looked even worse.  Her wrist was obviously broken, bent at an awkward angle across her lap, and there was more blood oozing from various points on her body.  A jagged piece of plastic extruded from her calf, but when Spike grabbed its edge and yanked it free, an agonized cry bubbled from Buffy’s throat and he looked up in time to see her eyes flutter open.

“Spike…?” she murmured when her gaze met his.  Confusion merged with pain in the darkened green of her eyes, yet it wasn’t that that captured his attention.  Instead, Spike’s gaze fixated on the grey pallor setting in her skin, pinching around her lips, and a comfortless understanding sank into his stomach.

Even if her Watcher had managed to get out somehow to go get help, and even if the Slayer did have super-healing capabilities that would make mincemeat of most of her injuries under normal circumstances, the bitter cold would do her in faster than either could help.  She was already shivering from the blasts of wind gusting through the interior, the flakes clinging to her lashes, and the tiny coat she was wearing was doing nothing to protect her from the elements.

His mind raced.  Part of him was shouting to hell with it, leave the Slayer be and get himself sorted.  The cold wouldn’t bother him too much while he found shelter until it passed, and then he’d be a free agent again---albeit a chipped one---away from the Hellmouth and ready to start trying to make a fresh start of it.  It wasn’t his bloody fault she was in her current state---that honor rested on her Watcher’s head---and it wasn’t as if he cared a rat’s ass what happened to her anyway.  So why weren’t his feet moving?

Because in his gut, he knew he couldn’t do it.  She was a warrior, brilliant in her killing beauty in spite of being a white hat.  If she was going to die, it was going to be at the hand of a worthy opponent, preferably him.  Freezing to death when she could live to fight another day was beneath her. 

“Where’s Giles?” she asked, her voice ragged.

“Gone,” was his reply.  “It’s just the two of us.”  What else could he say?  It didn’t make sense to him that her Watcher would just up and vanish when his Slayer was bleeding to death at his side, so it was pointless trying to draw any conclusions.  “We’re goin’ to have to get you out of here,” he said.  “How do you feel?  Anything broken?”

She ignored his question, staring back at him with eyes whose lucidity countered the balance of her injuries.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What?”  He bristled under her intense gaze, throwing his shoulders back.  “Just thought…Look.  Fine.  Have it your way.  You want to freeze to death, you be my guest---.”

Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm when he began to straighten, strong in spite of her wounds.  Spike glanced down at it for a long moment, her fingers pale where they curled over the leather, before looking up to see the darkened green of her eyes. 

“Just…my wrist, I think,” she finally said, and he realized she was answering his previous question.  “My leg hurts like a bitch, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Can you walk on it?”

“I don’t know.”  It was killing her to admit to the weakness, her eyes darting around to look at anything but his face.  “But it wouldn’t have to be that far, right?  Just back to the road so that we can hitch a ride.”

“Which is god knows how many feet up and away,” he countered.  Spike gestured to the swirling snow.  “Can’t tell for sure through the bluster, but looks to me like we rolled a fair bit.  It’s goin’ to be a climb to get back up, I think.”

“Oh.”  There was silence for a long moment, the world devoid of any sound but the rushing of the wind.  “I’m going to have to wrap this up,” she finally said, tugging at the sleeve over her injured wrist.  “There’s a first aid kit in the trunk.  Can you get it?  I’ll take care of this, while you get our things together.”

“If you’re thinkin’ of turning me into your own personal packhorse, Slayer, think again---.”

“I meant weapons, you jerk,” she bit out.  “And blood for you.  We could end up at some gas station in the middle of nowhere while we wait for someone to come get us.  I’m just trying to…be prepared.”  Her initial bombast was fading, and Spike could see the strength waning from her countenance.  Already, she was starting to tremble from the exertion of holding her own against him, and he straightened to go to the rear of the car, rather than argue with her some more.

*************

Buffy’s lashes fluttered closed for a moment as she leaned against the headrest, listening to Spike curse as he fought with opening the trunk.  Not so sure this was worth the pass on Aunt Darlene’s visit, she thought listlessly.  Next time, I just keep my big mouth shut when Giles has a personal problem.

Giles.  Spike said he was gone, and her own quick glance to the seat beside her only made the confirmation ache even more.  What if he got thrown from the car? she wondered.  He could be lying out there right now, hurt, or stumbling around to try and find her.  Or dead.  That prospect hurt the most.  More than anything, she wanted to throw off her seatbelt and go off in search for him, but in spite of what she’d told Spike, she knew she wouldn’t make it ten feet in the storm on her own.  They would both be dead and that would be the last thing Giles would want.

The back of the car bounced as the trunk dropped shut, and Buffy turned her head in time to see Spike reappear at the door, the black of his coat making him stand out against the snow.  She had to stifle the hysterical giggle that rose to her throat.  Usually, it was the bleached hair that turned him into one huge beacon of “notice me!”; now, it and his pale skin melted into the white, almost making him seem like the headless horseman swooping in to her side.  It was kind of funny, if she thought about it.

“You’re an idiot, you know,” he was saying.  He gestured toward her coat. “Fashion statement or no, I don’t think a little piece of cowhide to show off those perky breasts of yours is worth dyin’ for, do you?”

It took a moment for her to realize he was referring to her suede jacket, and Buffy’s good humor immediately vanished.  “Funny talk…c-c-coming from the…S&M Ken d-d-doll…” she managed. 

Her teeth were starting to chatter, clicking loud enough for him to hear over the wind, and Spike just shook his head in disbelief.  “Quipping to the end,” he muttered, and as she watched, he slid his arms out of his duster.  “Here,” he said, holding out the coat, waiting for her take it.

“What?”

He grimaced, dropping the leather unceremoniously onto her lap.  “Unlike you, I don’t need to be worrying about my internal furnace going tits up at a little spot of cold.  Just…don’t bleed too much on it.  It’ll take me ages to get the Slayer smell out of it as it is.”

Warily, she watched as he proceeded to toss her the first aid kit as well.  Something was making the vampire edgy, more so than normal, and that, in conjunction with the massively weird saving-the-Slayer routine, was making her edgy.  She didn’t like edgy.  She liked being edge-free.  Of course, she also liked not being in pain, or being out in the middle of nowhere in a freak snowstorm with only a vampire determined to kill her at his first opportunity for company.  Which just led her back to her original question of why exactly he didn’t run when he had the chance.

She was taking too long to bandage her injuries.  “Fuck, Slayer,” Spike swore as he knelt at her side, yanking the kit from her good hand.  “At the bloody rate you’re goin’, we’ll both be icy treats by the time you’re done.”

Quickly, his deft fingers wound the bandages around her wrist, immobilizing it and causing the stabbing pains in it to dull to a throbbing ache.  Buffy moaned at the immediate satisfaction it gave her, but ignored the curious frown he shot her before he bent to tend her leg.  Don’t care, she thought stubbornly as the glide of his hands across her calf brought almost instantaneous relief.  Less pain equals good.

She’d managed to undo her seatbelt by the time he was done, and was already sliding her body out of the seat before he’d stepped away.  Each move made her wince, and as soon as she put her full weight on her injured leg, Buffy felt her knee give out from the excruciating pain.

Spike’s arm was around her in an instant, grabbing the duster from the car seat and wrapping her in it before scooping her against his chest.  Immediately, she buried her face into the crook of his neck, using his body to shield herself from the worst of the storm.  Oh, this is better, she thought drowsily, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Much, much better…

*************

At the first touch of her exhalation, Spike stiffened, holding himself rigid as he felt her body’s rhythms pound against his flesh.  In spite of her lowered temperature, her breath was warm, flushing his skin and tickling beneath his shirt in delicious licks that the cold couldn’t touch, and he flinched when the memory it evoked roared its ugly head behind his mind’s eye.

Red’s bloody spell.  All those moments in Rupert’s chair with hot little Slayer all curled around me, like she was tryin’ to get inside my skin.  Like she was tryin’ to fuckin’ wear me like this month’s latest vogue, only it wasn’t meant to be a static thing, no, she had to be constantly crawling and touching and draping and rubbing like if there wasn’t an inch of her not covered by me, she’d crumble into dust.

Like I wasn’t tryin’ to do the exact same thing to her.

Though it hadn’t been that long since their faux engagement---just a few weeks, really, what’s a few weeks when one’s lived over a century?---he’d managed to sublimate most of the memories to his subconscious, only reliving them when they appeared again in his dreams, usually with some permutation that made the ending a tad more hospitable.

But this…the actuality of Slayer skin and Slayer breath and Slayer blood…so close and so maddening with its singsong taunts of “here I am, come and get me.”  He’d been able to largely ignore his desire to taste her while he set about to the tasks at hand, but now, his demon raged inside his skull, demanding satisfaction though it knew it wouldn’t get it.  That didn’t mean it stopped the little bugger from trying to goad him to try her---just a little lick, licks won’t hurt her, no hurt no foul and the chip stays zap-free---and it was taking all his concentration not to drop Buffy in the snow and just say to hell with the whole situation.

“Spike…” she murmured, the lone syllable drawn out as if she wanted to make it two, all sweltering and coaxing along his skin where she breathed it out onto his neck.

“Yeah, Slayer?” he replied gruffly.  His amber gaze began scanning the clouds of snow around him, trying to discern which direction to go to get to the road.  Another car coming along would save both of them a world of trouble right about now.

“Thanks…”

The tension in her limbs dissipated as he felt her lapse back into unconsciousness.  Just as well she’s out like a light again, he thought.  ‘Cause what in the bleedin’ hell do I say to that?  Gratitude from the Slayer was more confusing than the dreams that plagued his sleep.  Whatever gods had mucked up the arrangement of hate/hate between them were goin’ to get more than a kick in the pants if he ever caught up with them, that was more than certain. 

Except, of course, she would have nothing to be thankful for if he just stood there like a complete git and let the snow pile up around his ankles, freezing both of them to death.  Well, her to death, him to just someplace extremely uncomfortable.

“Right,” Spike muttered.  Another sweep of the area around the car and he was off, head bowed against the wind, Buffy’s wrapped body nestled against his chest.

*************

From the safety of distance, she watched as the vampire began to march away with the Slayer in tow, the duffel of supplies he’d taken from the broken vehicle slung over his opposite shoulder.  One of his savage kicks had popped the trunk, and she had observed in wonder as that savagery had vanished with his tending to the wounded girl, replaced with a matter-of-fact gentleness that had more than gotten the job done.

“Huh,” she mused out loud, head tilted, eyes dark in begrudging admiration.  Yet another surprise from the chipped demon.  The others had argued with her about his inclusion, and she was astonished to find that their assertions were becoming truth.  She hadn’t even had to step in to convince him to save the Slayer; he’d done that inexplicably and completely on his own.  She was going to have to eat some serious crow if everything turned out all right in the end.

He passed within yards of her vantage point, oblivious to her presence, and when she realized he was heading toward the road, she frowned.  That wouldn’t do.  The road was beyond their protection.  Something would have to be done about that.

*************

The steep face of the embankment stared back at him through the white squall, and Spike gritted his teeth at his impending scramble.  Up and over, mate.  Car came down, you can sure as hell go back up it.

It was easier said than done, though.  Perhaps if he’d been unencumbered, he wouldn’t have given the climb a second thought.  Actually, no perhaps about it.  The rise would’ve been nothing if he were on his own.  Problem was, he wasn’t.  He had Buffy in his arms, and with each second that passed, the trembling rooted deep inside her thin body spread, emanating outward and vibrating into his flesh, even through the layers of her clothes and his coat.  If she was going to make it, she was going to need to get to someplace warm.  Fast.

For a brief second, he considered taking her back to the car.  He could probably hotwire the thing, keep the engine running for her while he went to the road and hailed for help.  She’d be there if Giles showed up as well, and Spike wouldn’t end up on the short end of a stake in case the Watcher took his helping her the wrong way.  In the way of options, it might be the best one when it came to saving the Slayer.

There was a third option, one that niggled in the back of his brain, but Spike was ignoring it as best he could.  Just leave her, it whispered.  Every vamp for himself.  But listening to it meant failure at what he’d set his mind to.  It meant his gut was wrong.  It meant denying Buffy what she deserved. 

And giving it credence was not something he was prepared to do, even if the question of just when he’d gone soft on Slayers made him want to rip out his own heart.

So, his boot gritted through the piling snow, and he shifted Buffy in his arms to reach for the branch of a nearby tree.  It was then that the first waft breathed along the undercurrents of the wind, prickling his nose with sulphur.  Spike froze, his spine stiffening as his golden gaze swung around.  All he could see were the snow and trees, both thick, both impenetrable, and for a moment, he thought he’d imagined the sensation.  He was almost ready to turn back around and face the embankment when another draft of the scent made his nostrils flare.

No.  He hadn’t been wrong.  Someone, somewhere close, was burning something.  A fire.

That meant life.

That settled it then.  Option number four.  He’d get the Slayer to someplace warm and hope that they had a phone.  As he began the trek deeper into the woods, he felt her shift within his arms, mumbling something he didn’t quite catch into his coat.  Automatically, his hand came up and stroked the nape of her neck, fingers like ice where they met the small hollow, her shivers lessening for a moment at his touch.

“’S’alright, Slayer,” Spike murmured.  “Just a little snow.  Not even worth noticin’.”

*************

Every time she felt darkness start to overwhelm her, the smell of Spike’s duster sparked her back to the real world.  Sharp and oddly soothing in its familiarity, she was grateful for the added protection it provided, even if the ramifications of Spike offering it in the first place gave her more questions than answers.  He could’ve run, she realized.  Or worse, he could’ve killed me.  I was already bleeding so it probably wouldn’t have hurt if he finished off the job.  Plus, he was vamped out.  Had he tried before she came to?  Was that the reason for all the bumpies?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t have the strength at the moment to ask him.  Not that talking seemed to be a problem for him, however.  He kept muttering to himself, phrases drifting in and out of her consciousness, things that didn’t make sense and hurt her head trying to fathom.  But, he was moving, and as long as he was moving, she had to believe that they were getting somewhere, that every step took them closer to the road, closer to civilization, and further away from weird vampires with Slayer fetishes.  Except, he was going with her so maybe not further away, but…

Shuddering against the confusion that was clouding her mind, Buffy tightened her grip around his neck, wincing when her wrist was jostled and a brilliant stab of pain shot up her arm.  Immediately, Spike responded by shifting her weight, taking care not to aggravate any of her injuries, and slid her arm from around his neck so that it was nestled between their bodies.  She felt the hard planes of his chest beneath her, the thin cotton of his tee providing only the most cursory of protection, and swallowed at the sudden heat that rose in her veins.  You’ve touched that chest, she reminded herself.  Not that she really needed reminding.  The events during Willow’s spell had a way of poking their head out from her memory at the most inopportune times.

Like now.

She realized he was slowing then, his footsteps growing heavy, and risked lifting her head to see what could’ve lessened his pace.  The sharp angles of his face disappeared into ebony shadows in the storm, and his eyes were dark pools in spite of their amber glow.  They were fixed straight ahead, staring at something in the distance, and Buffy twisted in his arms to see what it was.

A rustic cabin loomed amongst the trees, its porch half-hidden by all the fauna.  Several windows glared back at her, devoid of life, but one on the ground floor seemed to dance and flicker in her vision, as if something on its other side shimmered in expectancy.  Flashes of orange made her heart leap with hope, and her eyes slid automatically to the roof, searching the outline against the sky for the proof that she needed. 

It took only seconds to find, surprisingly enough.  And as she inhaled, the aroma of fresh fire and smoke warming her from the inside out, she heard Spike mutter under his breath, “Home, sweet home…”

*************

She wanted him to run, to escape the bitter winds that somehow managed to find every crack in her clothing to sear her in ice.  Her skin, where she could feel it, burned from the cold, but with sanctuary only yards away, Buffy didn’t understand why Mr. Whaddaya-mean-it’s-not-Saturday-yet was dragging his boots to get there.  Every step he took was achingly slow, and by the time she turned back to face him, her mouth was already open to snipe at him.

“Now would be a perfect time to show off that vampire speed you’re so hot-to-trot about,” she said.

Instead of picking up his pace, he halted, golden eyes glaring down at her.  “Next time you’re marching through six feet of snow, against the wind, toting a Slayer who’s scarfed down one too many donuts during her so-called research parties, we’ll talk about who’s not so fast,” Spike growled.

“You forgot about it being uphill both ways,” she said dryly, and then stopped, a small pout jutting her lower lip.  “You really think I’m fat?”

Rolling his eyes, he resumed his pace, head bent against the oncoming gusts.  “You’re a piece of work, Summers,” he muttered.

She held her tongue, gaze intent on his features.  Spike might not be bothered by the cold, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t having an effect on him.  The normal pallor of his skin had taken on a more ashen cast, the hollows beneath his cheekbones even more stark in their angularity.  Snowflakes clung to his dark lashes and brows, thickening them to the point where imagining some sort of demon yeti didn’t seem so farfetched to Buffy, and the lower curve of his lips was beginning to turn blue.  She hadn’t seen him look this bad since the day he’d shown up on Giles’ doorstep, and that had been pretty bad.  She was almost feeling guilty about being the reason he was out in the storm in the first place.  Almost.

Though it had to be the wrong side of midnight, Spike’s tread was heavy as he clomped up the stairs to the porch, each step knocking off snow that had accumulated around the soles.  “You’re g-g-going to wake everybody up,” Buffy admonished as he approached the door, though it lost some of the harsh effect she intended by her teeth clickety-clacking away.

“And lettin’ ‘em lie about with their sugarplum fancies is exactly how we want to get ‘em to come and let us in,” he replied.

“Oh.  Right.”  She hated how stupid he made her feel sometimes.  But when he lifted his fist to pound at the heavy wood door, she spoke again.  “Wait.”

His exhalation was one of frustration, but his muscles stilled anyway.  “What is it now?” he snarled.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the ridges that stood prominently from his forehead, quirking her brows at the same time.  A second passed, then understanding burned inside the gold, and Spike gave his head a quick shake as he forced the demon to recede.

“Better?”

“More likely to get us in,” she answered.

There was a hitch in the arc of his arm as he glanced down at her, her not-quite-a-compliment taking him by surprise.  Buffy kept her mouth shut, just looking into the familiar blue, and waited as he pounded at the door, not completely certain why she’d phrased it that way either, but having neither the strength nor the attention span at the moment to care.

The sound of his pounding was smothered by the screeching wind, but even when he beat at the door a second time, the seconds ticking by in direct opposition with the tempo of the swirling snow around them, Buffy felt her hope begin to fade.  Could it be that nobody was home?  But what about the fire?  Wasn’t leaving one going a hazard or something?  So close and yet so far, and her body was crying out for the cushiony embrace of the heat enclosed in the four walls, screaming if she would let it, pain from her injuries and lethargy from the cold battling to subdue her once and for all.

Taking care not to jostle her more than he already was, Spike leaned over to peer into the window, and Buffy craned her neck to try and see what it was he was witnessing.  He straightened before she had a chance, and looked down at her with an amused determination in his eyes.

“Looks like the three bears are out for the evenin’,” he said.  “Feel like a little b&e, Goldilocks?”

She wanted to argue with him about the wrongness of what he was suggesting, to tell him how not surprised she was that he would suggest criminal activity when the legal way didn’t pan out.  She wanted to, really.  But when a snowflake flew into her eye, stinging her eyeball and making her lids squeeze shut against the squall, she remembered the trek into the woods they’d already done, the pull of Spike’s feet as the drifts had started to slow even him down, and the words refused to come.

Besides, maybe they were only sleeping.  Maybe as soon as Spike opened the door, some guy would show up in an old-fashioned nightshirt with a loaded rifle under his arm and a curlered wife hugging the wall behind him, ready to defend his property against the invading marauders---.

Then again, maybe she should just stop thinking.  And watching “Little House on the Prairie” marathons with Willow.  Neither was really helping her out here at the moment.

He took her small nod in stride, but it was only after he’d already turned the knob---without even having to break any lock, Buffy noted---that the reality of their situation truly hit.

“Spike,” she said as he pushed open the door.  “You’re going to have to put me down.”

“Thought your leg couldn’t take it,” he said, hesitating.

“I don’t think we’re going to have much of a choice.”  The heat from the interior struck the side of her face with a mother’s caress, and she almost moaned from the exquisite torture of feeling her cheek tingle from the newfound feeling.  “If the owners aren’t here, you’re not going to be able to go in.  No invite, remember?”

“Oh.”  It was obvious the possibility hadn’t occurred to him, and the guilt Buffy had almost felt earlier came flooding back with a vengeance when his eyes fell to the threshold.  “Well, guess that about tears it then, doesn’t it?” he commented, but there was an odd emptiness in his tone as he did.  “Just make sure to pass me back my coat once you’re all snuggled in.  I’ll find me a shed or something to hole up ‘til rescue arrives.”

“OK,” she agreed, her voice somber.  “And I’ll find some blankets, too.  I’m sure whoever lives here will understand.”

Silently, Spike dropped the arm that cradled her knees, allowing Buffy to stretch her weary muscles and right herself on the doorstep.  Avoiding putting any weight on her injured leg, she grasped the edge of the entrance and leaned forward to call out, “Hello?  Is anybody home?”

“Well, I could’ve done that,” she heard him drawl behind her.

She couldn’t hear a thing from inside the cabin, only the crackle of the wood in the fireplace she caught on the periphery of her vision.  “Hello?” she called again, this time braving a small hop forward.

Her leg brushed against a jutting beam, and the unexpected jolt sent another cleaverful of pain ringing through her muscles, her body collapsing of its own accord as if rolling herself into a tiny ball on the floor was its only escape from the agony.

She never hit.  Before she could make contact with the burnished grain, strong arms wrapped around her waist, tugging her up and away, and Spike’s annoyed tone filtered to her ear.

“Jesus, Slayer, you’re as bad as a day-old kitten.”  The comforting solidity of his chest---and since when did she start thinking of Spike’s chest as comforting?---met her cheek, and she found herself staring up into the aggravated blue of his eyes, nestled once again in reassuring peace.  “Remind me to tell Rupes when we catch up to him that good old-fashioned book balancing does wonders to keep his Slayer from falling on her ass when she gets a little boo-boo.”

It wasn’t meant to be funny, and the reminder of Giles and the fact that he wasn’t with him stung like a bitch, but Buffy couldn’t keep the smirk from twisting her lips, or the laugh from bubbling forth.  “Boo-boo?” she said.  “Big Bads use words like…boo-boo?”

“Don’t get me started on what kind of words get bandied about.  Think that might be a little war you’d be inclined to lose.”

“Because using bloody and sodding in every other sentence makes you the king of literacy, right?”

“It’s colorful.”

“It’s annoying.”

“It’s---wait a minute.”  He frowned, and looked down at his feet in confusion.

“What is it?”  Twisting her neck around, Buffy looked over the side of his arm, and saw his heavy boots fidgeting in their place on the floor.  “Did you step on something?”

“No,” he said, as if he was speaking to a child.  “I’m in.  Looks like I didn’t need an invite after all.”

He was right.  In reaching to catch her, he’d crossed the threshold and now stood a good two feet inside the open door, the snow already melting from his boots to puddle along the wood floor.  All thoughts of their arguing vanished as the circumstances sank in, and Buffy lifted her head to scrutinize the room.

“I guess this means it really is deserted then,” she murmured.  It didn’t make sense, though.  The place looked lived in.

Most of the design was open-plan.  One wall sported a large fireplace, in which the fire they’d smelled outside was burning happily away with a large supply of wood in the scuttle next to it, and a large deer head was mounted over the mantle.  A couch was positioned in comfort before the blaze, but the only other furniture in the room was a table and chairs resting in the corner that was meant to be the kitchen.  The usual rustic appliances were there---a small fridge, a gas stove---with cupboards hewn from the same wood that comprised the walls and floor.  Other than the entrance, there were two doors, both closed, and a ladder led the way into what looked like a loft.

Yeah.  Lived in.  Except it couldn’t be if Spike could just walk in without the usual allowance.

She waited for his usual sarcastic quip, but it never came.  Instead, he marched over to the couch and dropped her into its corner, letting the duffel fall from his shoulder at the same time.  “I’ll find some blankets for you,” he said.  “Let you warm up a tad.”

That much nearer to the fireplace, and the heat it radiated was already thawing the icy crust that Buffy imagined had formed along her skin.  Her head drooped against the padded arm, and she waved unenthusiastically toward the door.  “Cold,” she complained.  “Close, please.”

He rolled his eyes, but did as she instructed, his heel sliding in the melted snow at the entrance.  “I’ll see if there’s a phone in the other room, too,” he said, heading for one of the closed doors.  “Don’t see one lyin’ about in here.”

“OK.”  She didn’t feel like arguing any more.  She didn’t feel like anything any more.  Each lick of the fire crackling behind her head was melting her muscles, and she could feel herself sinking into Spike’s duster, the leather caressing and molding to her limbs, as the world began to spiral around her.  Nothing seemed to matter more than the almost painful liquification of her body, each digit coming back to life while her head seemed to fall into an oblivion. 

Fire good was her last cognizant thought before exhaustion swept her away.

*************

No phone, but plenty of blankets and a bed someone could get lost in.  Or a pair of someones, if the opportunity presented itself.  Even a trio could manage to find their own niche beneath the down quilts, but Spike figured that his chances for anything like that here were as good as the soddin’ Blue Fairy showing up and spelling the chip away.  Wasn’t going to happen in his immediate future, not with the Slayer just on the other side of the door.

Standing in the doorway, his head tilted as his gaze flicked over the space.  The bedroom was deceptively large, with a fully functioning bathroom that he hadn’t expected to find behind the second closed door.  It was stocked as well, toiletries and towels to come out his ears if he wanted, with a rustic charm usually reserved for New England getaways.  All it’s missin’ is a rocker and Whistler’s mother, he thought, and shrugged as he went back into the main room.

He stopped as soon as he saw her on the couch.  She had fallen asleep, his coat coiled tight around her body, her hair tumbling across her face.  Tinges of pink were starting to return to her cheeks, and in the flickering orange of the fireplace, Spike would’ve sworn on a stack of corpses that Buffy was almost glowing.

“Bugger,” he swore under his breath.  So much for getting his coat back.  One move and she’d wake up, and in her tired state, she’d probably lash out at him in violence, regardless of her injuries.  Probably break my nose again, he thought irritably as he closed the distance between them.  Wish I knew what the cow’s problem was with my nose.  Or better yet, wish I could just give her a taste of her own medicine.  See how she likes it, havin’ part of your face smashed in on a regular basis.

His nose pricked as he approached her.  Blood.  Sharp and tangy and most importantly, fresh.  She must’ve started bleeding again.

A quick glance over her face told him that it wasn’t coming from her head wound, so his eyes automatically drifted to her other major injury, and saw the crimson stain spreading along the fabric of her pants.  Great.  She’d re-opened the gash, and now she was bleeding like a stuck pig all over the only comfortable-looking piece of furniture in the joint.  With a sigh, Spike grabbed the first aid kit from the top of the duffel and knelt at the side of the couch, lifting her leg carefully so as not to wake her.  He was going to have to rip the material, but he figured she’d rather live with a floppy trouser leg than watch her life flash before her eyes in a blaze of bloody glory by bleeding to death.

He left her shoe on.  Easier than stripping her down and frankly, once his cool fingers came into contact with her slim ankle, he decided it was probably safer as well.  Each brush of his skin against hers stole a little more of her heat and by the time he’d rebandaged the wound, more of his body was aflame than he was comfortable admitting.

He hesitated before setting her leg back down.  Her calf was smooth, well-muscled, with the instinctive grace of a thoroughbred colt, and other than the cut that was momentarily tamed, free of any other marks.  I wonder if she scars, he thought absently.  His thumb was stroking the delicate bone of her ankle, but he was unaware of it as his head tilted in contemplation.  Fights enough, has taken more than her share of battle wounds, she must have a trophy or two hidden away on that pert body of hers.

“So, do I get to hear the story of how you got this?” she’d asked while curled into his chest, her fingertips dancing over the scar on his brow, the book of wedding invitation samples forgotten on their laps.

“Memento from a Slayer in China,” he’d said.

She’d pretended to pout and he’d been instantly fixated on the quiver in that bottom lip, wondering how long he had to listen to her talk before going in and giving it another nibble.  “I don’t like the idea of another slayer touching you,” she’d groused all too prettily.  “That’s my job.”

He’d growled at that, and yielded to the desire to kiss her, tugging her tight against him and feeling her tremble under the ardor of his caress.  And the issue of scars hadn’t been brought up again.

His hand jerked back as if burned, and Spike rose abruptly from his seat, backing as far away as he could.  Bloody magic.  Always getting in the way, confusing the issue by turning the pair of us into a couple of drooling teenagers.  It didn’t matter that she’d actually treated him nicely while they’d been engaged; he preferred her this way---sharp, both in tongue and mind, not simpering and fussing and phony like she’d been those few hours.  Real.  Honest.  Even if she did hate him.

Being currently unconscious was good, too.

Still…he faltered from his pacing at the far end of the room, eyes drawn back like magnets to her sleeping form on the couch.  If he was going to dwell in the land of truth-telling…if he was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with one of Rupert’s little gang, he could do worse than it being with Buffy.  She’d at least make it interesting.  And what was the point of it all if not to be interesting?

A small sigh escaped her lips, and as he watched, the Slayer pulled the coat even tighter around her.  Must be cold, he thought, and picked up one of the blankets he’d brought out from the bedroom.  He laid it over her without thinking, and then stepped back when she snuggled into it, her good hand tugging the hem up to her face as she tried to draw it closer.

Interesting.

That was definitely one word for it.

*************

It was the shivering that woke her up.

Quaking that seemed to start somewhere in the pit of her stomach.  Trembling that made her skin vibrate, made her eyeballs ache, made her jaw tense from trying to still.  All around her, too close and taking control and when did the world turn orange?

Her open eyes were trying to focus, but all Buffy could see was black and brown and red and orange, blending and churning along walls that didn’t look familiar.  But they did look tall.  When did everything get so tall?  Her breath caught in her throat.  I’ve shrunk!  Oh god, Willow’s done another spell and I’m teensy tiny and if Amy gets out of her cage, she’ll eat me and that wouldn’t be---oh wait.  I’m lying down.  That’s OK then.

She could feel the weight of blankets pressing her down, the smell of leather and smoke pervasive and pungent, almost like she could taste them. 

I have leather blankets?  When did I get leather blankets?  Maybe they’re Willow’s.  Why would Willow have leather blankets?

It wasn’t until she struggled to sit up that she saw the black coat fall open, the vague memories of the trek through the snow floating back to her awareness.  It was too dark to be morning already, the curtains drawn over the windows, the dying embers in the fireplace the only illumination in the cabin.  The bite to the air set a new round of shivers coursing through Buffy’s body, and she pulled her legs up to her chest in an attempt to warm herself up.  In some faraway place, she was vaguely aware of a throbbing pain in her calf, but it was nothing compared to the ice that was chilling her from the inside out.

Just wanna be warm.  Think warm thoughts.  Warm warm warm…what a funny word.  Kinda like worm.  Warm worm, warm worm, warm worm…nope, not working.  Find something warm to do the job for me then.

From the fireplace, a snap of the charred remains of one of the logs sent a spray of sparks dancing into the air, and Buffy swung her head around to stare into the leap of flames that it suddenly spurred.

Ooo…fire pretty…

*************

He’d found a well-stocked woodpile around the corner of the house.  Rather than sleeping, especially since they couldn’t be sure that someone might not yet show up and claim the property, Spike had grabbed a book from a small shelf unit in the corner and read by the firelight until the flames got too low to do so comfortably.  Stoking it over the past couple hours hadn’t really diminished the supply in the scuttle, but he’d quickly realized that they would run out of wood some time during the day.  Plus, with Buffy temporarily out of commission and his own sunlight issue, hauling more in was really the best plan.

His arms were laden when he kicked the door open, and he knocked his heel against the corner to loosen the snow that clung to his boot.  It was then that he heard the swish across the floor, and Spike looked up in time to see Buffy crouched before the unsheltered fire.

She must’ve woken while he was out, and risen from her place on the couch.  Still wrapped in his coat, she was propping herself up on her good hand as her injured one stretched toward the flames.  For a second, he frowned, wondering just what in hell she had in mind.  But when he saw the visible tremor in her slim fingers, and saw the fire jump up as if to shake her hand in an incinerating caress, he reacted instantly, dropping the logs and flying forward to pull her away from the blaze.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” he started to demand, only to have the words die in his throat before they could fully come out.

Her body was shivering against his, her teeth starting to chatter, yet when she turned her face to look at him, even in the dim light Spike could see the heightened pink on her cheeks, her huge eyes haunting and fever-bright.

“Cold…” she murmured.

“You’re sick,” he corrected automatically, and pulled her closer as he rose and sat on the couch.  “Burning up.  It’s probably from bein’ out in that bloody storm.”  Laying her back, he picked up the blankets she’d tossed to the floor and tucked them in around her.

“Still cold,” she complained.  Her eyes were following his every movement, sliding as he marched over to the door and shut it, never wavering even as he picked up the logs he’d dropped and toted them to the hearth.

“Fire just got a little low,” he said, wiping the snow and dirt from his hands now that they were empty.  “You’ll warm up soon enough.”

“Are you cold?”

“I’m not the one who’s sick.”

“When I was little and got sick, my mom used to hold me and rock me until I fell asleep.”

He stopped at that, eyes narrowed as he tried to read her face.  “I’m not your mum,” he said carefully.  She wasn’t really asking him to hold her, was she?  “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not so little any more either.”

Her lip quivered.  “You do think I’m fat.”

Frustrated, Spike ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how he’d ever managed to survive a century of listening to Drusilla’s nonsense.  Oh yeah.  Because I loved her.  So why am I still sittin’ around here, listenin’ to the Slayer?

“You’re not fat,” he said out loud.  “I just said that to wind you up.”

Without warning, she lashed out, kicking off the blankets that he had just laid on top of her.  “Hot now…” she muttered, and her fingers began to claw at the coat.

She was still burning up; he could smell the fever seeping from her pores.  There weren’t any drugs in her first aid kit, so sweating it out and resting was her best option of getting over it.  “Now none of that,” he chided.  Picking up the blankets, he bent to begin wrapping them around her again, only to feel the Slayer’s good hand wrap around his wrist and tug him down on top of her.

In spite of being sick, she was still strong, and Spike ended up sprawled along her length, half on and half off the couch.  The full body contact between them elicited an immediate sigh from Buffy, and before he could stop her, she was nuzzling her nose into the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply.  “Better…” he heard her murmur.

He didn’t understand what she was doing.  Moreover, he didn’t understand why he stayed there, drawing up the blankets to cover both of them.  Maybe it was the furnace of heat she provided to warm him, better than a thousand fireplaces.  Maybe it was the iron grip that was still fastened around his wrist, holding on desperately as if letting go would mean disappearing into nothing.  Maybe it was the delicious weight of her head on his shoulder, the sense of being needed and useful again pervasive and intoxicating inside his veins. 

And maybe it was a little bit of all of them.

The soft flush of her breathing soon told him she was asleep, and too easily, Spike lost himself in the sensations of her pressed up against his body.  The ends of her hair tickled against his forearm, the musky scent of fever and blood and Slayer and Buffy mingling and drifting to his nose.  It was more hypnotic than the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, a drug he’d long ago forgotten how to appreciate, and within moments, he was fast asleep.

*************

First…there was the warmth.

Not the smothering swelter that often accompanied the breaking of a fever, made even more uncomfortable by too much awareness of one’s own skin.  No, this was the luxuriant satisfaction of being cocooned in downy tinder, wrapped and shielded and secure against invaders both outside and in, where the only thing in the world that seemed to matter was burying oneself deep within the swaddling and only coming out to eat.  And even that could be argued as unnecessary, given the right circumstances.

Then…there was the weight.

All around her, not just around a specific portion of her body, bearing her down without suffocating.  Blankets and clothes and more, and it was the more that brought the unsolicited smile to her lips, comfort to bask in as she felt the arm across her waist, the broad hand made warm where it had slid beneath her blouse, cupping the undercurve of her breast in proprietary.  More was around her lower half, a knee nuzzled between hers, a strong thigh pressing against the cleft between her legs, and Buffy automatically burrowed against it, firming the contact to spread a delicious glow within her muscles.

But then…there was the scent.

Peaty smoke that coated her throat, made the air thicker, more palpable, as if she could take it onto her tongue in cottony licks if she only tried.  Blood, dried not fresh, but almost so familiar that it was like background noise to the rest.  Leather.  Stale cigarette smoke.  And the unmistakable musk that was uniquely Spike.

Buffy’s eyes shot open, her smile vanishing, the memories of the previous night rushing back with a clarity that left her breathless.  She was on the couch, turned in toward its cushioned back, buried under blankets and Spike’s coat and most importantly, Spike.  It was his leg that was pressing against her sex, and it was his arm holding her tight against his chest…his hand cupping her breast.  Now that she was awake, she could even feel his cheek resting against her hair.

Oh god.  I’m spooning with Spike.

Her good hand clenched into a fist where it was curled against her chest, her body going rigid as anger flooded her system.  What the hell was he doing?  Where was her stake?  Oh, he was so dust when she…

And then she stopped, choking on her indignation with the advent of the memories.

She couldn’t condemn him for it.  Even squeezing her eyes tightly shut couldn’t change the fact that the recollection of her thoughts and actions during the worst of the fever burned with a crystalline fire on her retinas, as if she was watching it from across the room, and Buffy now remembered without a shadow of a doubt how she’d forced the vampire to hold her.

She’d been so cold.  She remembered the bittersweet flames gamboling and circling in the fireplace, and how hypnotic their dance had been, how nothing had seemed more important at the time than to get as close to them as she possibly could.  And then his arm, strong and powerful, pulling her away to leave her chattering with need, the ice inside her veins threatening to explode with a deluge that would leave little tiny Buffy pieces all over the floor if she didn’t do something about it quickly.  All she’d wanted was for it to stop, and without heat to surcease the tremors, the only other option had seemed that from her childhood.

His initial refusal had made her angry, and wasn’t that a boatload of weird because wanting to be held by Spike?  Not high on her list of fun things to do.  Or at least, it hadn’t been until last night.  Yet, he hadn’t fought her when she’d yanked him down, probably out of fear of opening her wounds again, though why that should’ve stopped him, she had no idea.  Sleep had quickly overtaken her, bringing with it dreams of pancake breakfasts with Spike and her mom that only left her feeling even more confused about what the hell was going on, and now here she was, awake with a sleeping vampire draped over her, feeling oddly at peace in spite of who it was, and questioning why she wasn’t kicking him off the couch for good.

She wasn’t even going to begin asking herself why he’d stayed with her in the first place.  That way could only lead to badness; she was sure of it.

Be nice, she could hear her mother say, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of doing the unthinkable.  “Spike?” she whispered.  She’d just ask him to get up.  She could be adult about this; she’d been sick and he’d just been nice enough to help her out when she needed it.  Oh god, I just referred to Spike as nice.  This has to be an apocalypse or something in the making.  That’s the only way to explain freaky weather and freaky Slayer thoughts. 

The single word did nothing to prompt any movement in the vampire, and gently, Buffy rocked her body, trying to jar him into waking up.  “Spike,” she repeated, this time a little louder.

This time, she got a response, just not the response she expected.  A growl rumbled from Spike’s throat, vibrating against her neck, and his grip actually tightened around her, his thumb brushing across her lace-covered nipple.  She gasped, the small stroke driving the muscles in her stomach to clench, and inadvertently pushed back against him in response, the frisson of pleasure it elicited in her momentarily outstripping her rational thought.

“Mmmm…” he murmured.  “Someone’s finally warm, methinks.”

The silken amusement in his voice sent goosebumps erupting along her exposed neck, and she felt herself begin to drown in the sensations.  But when his lips brushed the shell of her ear, when his tongue started to trace the delicate curve before nipping at the lobe in a coordinated attack with his fingers, reality came crashing back.  Stiffening, Buffy’s elbow jerked back, connecting roughly with his solar plexus and forcing him to stop.  “Spike!” she said, all regard for being nice gone straight out the window.

She felt him lift his head, but no other part of him moved, his hand still firmly placed inside her blouse, his thumb…OK, she wasn’t going to consider what his thumb was doing.  “Think your bedside manner’s got a bit of work to be done with it,” he said.  “Last time I checked, sucker punching the bloke who’s just saved your life didn’t fall under the Emily Post code of etiquette.”

“And feeling up your patient does?”

His chuckle was more felt than heard, and it corresponded with a rough squeeze of her breast.  “You didn’t seem to be complainin’.  Can’t fault me for takin’ what’s bein’ offered, now can you?”

“That’s because I thought you were Angel.”  The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them, a lie to her ears but the surest way she knew to cut through Spike’s bravado. 

He immediately stilled, then pulled away within seconds, taking with him the bulk of the blankets as he clambered to his feet, leaving her feeling oddly bereft alone on the couch.  Rolling onto her back, she saw the stiff posture of his shoulders as he crossed the few feet to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and jabbing harshly at the dying embers.  Guilt rolled over her at the untruth she’d used to disengage from him, but she pushed it aside as she tried to sit up.  He’d asked for it; he shouldn’t have been doing what he was in the first place.

“If you’re back up to snuff, I’d like my coat back,” he said.  No more warmth remained in his tone, his voice as cold as the room around them.  “Need to give it a proper seeing to.  Your blood’s all over it.  The sooner I get the smell out, the sooner I’m not a walkin’ target for half the demon population back in Sunnyhell.”

“You don’t get out of Giles’ house anyway---.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I want my bloody coat back.”

“Then why’d you bother giving it to me in the first place?”  She was angry now, all her questions from their trek through the snow spilling forth.  “For that matter, why go to the hassle of getting me someplace warm last night?  I mean, I know you’re all about the song and dance, Spike, but I always thought the wanting me dead part was real.  Seems to me, you blew a perfectly good chance to get what you’re always running off at that mouth about.”

“I’m beginnin’ to think the exact same thing,” he growled.  Tossing another log onto the fire, he shot her a glower of hate over his shoulder.  “Now take it off.”

Common sense told her that now was not the time piss him off even further.  He couldn’t physically hurt her with the chip in his head, but in her current state, he could get to her through the sheer act of negligence.  Leave her stranded once the sun went down, let the fire die out so she’d freeze to death, the possibilities were really endless.

Which was why, of course, her stubbornness kicked in and she did the exact opposite.

“I’m still sick,” she complained.  “And it’s still cold in here.”

His eyes glittered as he stared at her, flecks of gold visible in the blue even at that distance.  “That’s what the blankets are for,” he said in a low voice.

“It’s not like you need it anyway.”

“My life’s never been about need, Slayer.  It’s about want.  And right now, I want you to stop actin’ like a selfish baby and give me my damn coat.”

“But I’m---.”

“Don’t bloody say it.”

“---sick,” she finished.

She never even saw him move.  One moment, he was crouched before the fireplace, the poker dangling from his hand.  The next, he was bent over the couch, fists on either side of her head propping his body up as he leaned over her.  Spike’s nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, and she literally saw his pupils expand, the black swallowing the irises as they swept over her face in an intimate inspection that left her breathless.

“So…that your reasoning then?  You want to hang onto my coat because you’re still all…hot?”  His voice was suddenly casual---too casual, oh crap---and Buffy squirmed beneath him, ignoring the twinges of pain from her leg as she wondered why it was it felt like he was smothering her when their bodies weren’t even touching.  Where exactly was he going with this? 

She wasn’t going to let him see her weaken, though, and lifted her chin in defiance, staring him down.  “I’m still feverish, if that’s what you mean.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You didn’t know you were last night.  What makes you so certain you are now?”

“I just know.  Take my word for it, Spike.”

“Oh, because a vampire puttin’ his trust in the Slayer makes a whole world of sense.  Right.”

She smiled, in spite of the butterflies in her stomach from still not knowing what game he was playing.  “Well, until you manage to find a thermometer in this place, you’re not going to have much choice in the matter, now are you?”

He paused, still eerily calm though now a dangerous glint had appeared in his eyes.  “Give me a reason to believe you, pet.”

I’m not going to rise to his bait, I’m not going to rise to his bait.  Out loud, she said, “Because if you don’t, I’ll kick your ass.”

He chuckled.  “Strong words comin’ from someone who couldn’t even walk through the door without fallin’ on her face.”

“I never asked for your help, Spike.”

“No.”  His face hardened.  “That, you didn’t.”

She could see what he was thinking, the remembering of how she had asked him to hold her flitting across his face.  He’d only done as she’d requested---well, she hadn’t exactly asked for the groping part but hello, he was a vampire, what did she expect?  And even if she didn’t understand the why of it, it didn’t lessen the fact that he’d gone out of his way to get her to safety when he could’ve just run.

“I did say thank you, didn’t I?” she said, biting back the retort that rose automatically to her lips.  “Some parts of last night are still kind of fuzzy, so if I didn’t, I’ll…say it now.  Thanks.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as they narrowed, her words obviously taking him by surprise.  This close, the male scent of his skin that had been so pervasive when she woke returned, bringing with it the call of his caress, and her inner muscles tautened at its promise.  OK, not the reaction I expected.  No!  Wanted.  I meant to say wanted.

“There are other ways to tell if you’re sick, you know,” Spike said.  Back to casual.  That can’t be good.

“You’re not just going to believe me, then.”

“Call me funny, but trusting what comes out of that mouth of yours doesn’t quite measure up to trusting what I can tell with my own body.”

It took a moment for what he said to sink in.  “Huh?”

His head lowered, and Buffy shrank back into the padded arm of the couch trying to get as far away from him as she could.  She froze when his cheek feathered over hers, his audible inhalation along the side of her face too loud in her ear.

“Could smell it on you last night,” he murmured.  “Now…not so much.  I’ll have to find some other way to get a fix on your temperature.”  He pulled back.  “Unless of course, you’ll just be a big girl about it and pass over the coat like I asked.”

Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t move. 

“Y’know…”  His eyes swept downward, lingering on her torso and hips before dragging back up to meet hers again, making her feel naked in spite of the two coats and other clothing barring his view.  “…a century of ninety-eight point six experience makes me a thermometer, in the absence of something proper to use.”

“And again with the…”  Her query trailed off as the innuendo sank in, every thermometer-shaped appendage the vampire sported rifling through her imagination faster than he could’ve acted on, and the tightening in her stomach shot lower even as her head exploded in indignation.  “Lay one finger on me, Spike, and that’ll be a finger you’ll never see again,” she warned.

“Who said anything about fingers?”  His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth, and this time, there was no mistaking the smile playing on his lips.  “If that’s the way the Slayer mind works, it’s no wonder Angel and the college boys didn’t stick around for seconds.”

Though in hindsight she realized she should’ve seen his gibe coming, Buffy went rigid at the sting of his words, their intent cutting deep.  How did…? she began to wonder, only to answer her own question before it was even finished.  Of course he knew.  Spike was evil, not deaf.  Angelus had probably said something, and as for the others, she and Willow had had enough conversations on Giles’ couch for something to have been picked up by undead ears.

“Shouldn’t worry that Clairol head of yours about it, though,” he was saying, and it took everything she had to force her attention back.  “Can taste the heat just as well as touch it.”

His head was bent before she could react, descending lower and lower, and all she could seem to focus on were those full lips and the imminent kiss he was going to take.  Her heart caught in her throat, impossible to breath or swallow, but when he tilted his head at the last moment, pressing his mouth to her forehead instead, her lashes fluttered closed, relief and anger and just a little disappointment mingling together to leave her stomach churning.  It was a kiss oddly evocative of those from her childhood, gentle but firm and riddling her in bewilderment, lingering for only a second---one that stretched into infinity by way of forever, it seemed to her.  Then…he was gone, not just gone from the swift caress but gone from above her, standing at the foot of the couch with eyes that were too dark for his face, all mirth wiped from his countenance as he looked back at her.

“Should sleep some more,” he said, his voice neutral.  “Your fever’s not as high as it was last night, but it’s still there.  And if you want to bug out of this joint when the sun goes down, you’ll need all the strength you can get ‘cause I’m not carryin’ your ass this time.”

Pivoting on his heel, he was halfway to one of the closed doors before she spoke again.  “Where are you going?” Buffy called out.  He’d never been the kiss and run type before; what in hell was bugging him now?

“Shower,” he replied tersely.  “You’re not the only one who bled last night.  Got a certain stink I’d like to get off me.”

*************

His face was a twisted snarl as he raked the washcloth across his skin, scrubbing at the dried blood around his cuticles until they began to bleed again from the force.  What had started out as a ploy to get back at the Slayer for her dig about Angel had escalated into something he hadn’t expected, all evil intent evaporating the instant his lips had touched her skin.  He’d just wanted her to hurt, to burn like her words had, just mess with her head and think he’d actually deign to kiss her without the benefit of magic, but the smell…the taste…fuck, the bloody heat…all too suggestive of the hours he’d spent wrapped around her, the peace that had soaked into his muscles for the first time in what seemed like centuries.

Not that he understood it for a second.  She was a bitch to him at the best of times---well, not exactly true, she’d been oddly polite and nice at intervals yesterday---and she’d stake him in a second if she thought he was a threat of any kind.  So relaxing into her while they slept was the antithesis of what should’ve happened.  He should’ve never fallen asleep at all, or let down his guard.  And he damn well never should’ve gone so far as touch her outside of a fist to her face. 

But he had.  And fuck if he hadn’t actually enjoyed it until she made her little cut about thinking he was Broodboy.  Because now that he looked back on it, he didn’t believe it for a second.  If she was so averse to him and everything he was, why was she hanging onto the soddin’ coat?

Didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt like a bitch, though.

And it didn’t make any of her other words any clearer, either.  Thanking him in the middle of his little game?  What the hell had that been about?  He’d almost sacked the entire thing then, the instinct to back off visceral and a struggle to overcome.  Of course, if he’d done that, he wouldn’t currently have the taste of Slayer still lingering on his lips, all honeyed heat and soft…

Bugger.

With one last dunk of his head under the water to clear his thoughts, Spike stepped from the tub, grabbing the fluffy white towel he’d set aside and running it briskly over his skin to dry off.  Just have to get through the rest of the day, he thought with renewed determination.  Find a ride back to Sunnydale tonight and then that’s it.  No more Watcher means no more free room and board.  No more reason for me to stick around the Hellmouth when I’m not completely toothless any more.  Get away from the Slayer once and for all; being around her lot’s making me go soft in the head.

He grimaced as he looked at his dirty clothes.   Should’ve brought an extra change instead of the Slayer’s weapons, he thought as he slipped them back on.  Not like she needs them anyway.  She’s the most resourceful bird I’ve ever known.

He was still seesawing when he opened the door, curly head bowed as he dropped his boots on its other side.  “How much blood did you bring?” he heard the object of his internal battles say, and he jerked his gaze up to see her standing before the open fridge, his coat hanging off her slim frame, using the edge of the door to keep herself upright.

“What’re you doin’ up?” he demanded, ignoring her question as he marched to her side.  Gone was all thought of their earlier skirmish on the couch, replaced with a frustrated concern that she really was going to kill herself if she didn’t start listening to what her body was telling her.  Even the light in her eyes seemed to say adios to the kiss, which in Spike’s book, was definitely a good idea.  “Didn’t you hear me?  You still have a fever, and I’m really not in the mood for a repeat of last night.”

“How much blood did you bring?” she repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the flare of anger in the her voice.  “I told you to grab weapons.  This isn’t meant to be a little vacation where you can just pig out at your heart’s content, Spike.  We need to protect ourselves---.”

“Don’t get your knickers in such a twist.”  He held up his left hand, fingers spread.  “Five bags.  That’s what I figured I’d need to get through a day.  And I don’t know why you’re checkin’ up on me by lookin’ in there anyway.  I haven’t even put ‘em away.  They’re still in the…”

His voice faded as she pushed the door open wider to expose the interior to his view, slim fingers grasping the freezer instead to steady herself.  It was stocked, just as the bathroom had been stocked, but what stopped him in his tracks was the top shelf, laden with bag upon bag of what could only be fresh blood.  There was enough there for a week’s rationing and---.

“There’s more in the freezer.” Buffy finished the thought for him. 

His eyes were serious when he tore them away.  “You know those aren’t mine, right?” he asked.  “Even if I had only brought my stores---which I didn’t---it still wouldn’t be enough to fill that.  Those belong to whoever owns this place, which means---.”

“---we’re crashing a demon’s house who’s got as much of a food fetish as you do,” she said.  “No wonder you could get in last night.”

“So where is he then?”  Spike folded his arms across his chest.  “And why leave the homefires burning if he’s not going to hang about?  Not that I’m fussed, mind you.  Something tells me a demon with a thing for stuffed pigs will be a doddle for us to take care of, if he pokes his head around again.”

“Huh?  What’re you talking about, Spike?”

He hooked a thumb toward the bedroom.  “Prat’s got one sittin’ pretty right in the middle of the bed, like it owns the joint.”

She was past him in a flash, hobbling along and keeping as much weight off her injured leg as possible.  By the time he joined her at the bedroom, beads of sweat were already forming on her brow, her breathing shallow from the exertion, and Spike’s hand shot automatically to Buffy’s waist to help stabilize her.  He watched her face as she pushed open the door and peered inside, his confusion matching hers albeit for different reasons.

She seemed hypnotized by the bed.  “Can you…go get it?” she asked.  Her knuckles were white around the jamb, and he could feel her heartbeat racing out of control.  This wasn’t the fever talking; this was something else, something that drove his feet to respond without any snarky questions, something that made her fingers shake when she took the stuffed animal from him and turned it over.

“Something’s going on, Spike,” Buffy said in a low voice.  “Somebody’s playing with us.  I don’t know how, I don’t know why.  Maybe they even have something to do with the car accident last night, but…”

“And playin’ with the stuffy tells you this…how, pet?”

She pointed to each spot on the toy as she named it.  “Mascara, from crying over stupid Parker.  Chocolate ice cream, from Xander deciding Slayer pigs deserved to be part of victory celebrations, too.  And that very inappropriately placed hole in his seam?  That’s from Amy getting out of her cage and decided to make him her new chew toy.”  She held up the pig to emphasize her point.  “This is Mr. Gordo, Spike.  This is mine.”

*************

Their voices were a murmur from somewhere around him, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in Giles’ head.  Like a thousand jackhammers spread around his skull, the pain reverberated with a tension that made him wonder just who had hit him this time and vow to give it back thousandfold.  Please be Spike, he thought.  That would at least give him twice the satisfaction.

Only then did he remember the accident, the pitching of the car as it had gone over the embankment.  That’s it, he realized.  I must be in the hospital.  When he opened his eyes, though, he wasn’t greeted with the sterile white he expected.  Instead, a wall of books loomed over the twin bed he was resting on, and the voices didn’t belong to doctors but to two suited gentlemen conversing on the other side of the room.

He must’ve made a noise as he stirred because both men immediately stopped talking and looked in his direction.  The taller and younger of the two was impeccably groomed, close-cut dark hair and gaunt features giving him the effect of a scarecrow in spite of his tailored suit, but it was the other one who strode forward with a smile on his bearded face, a handkerchief appearing from his pocket to mop at his brow as if any sort of physical effort would cause his rotund form to burst.

“Ah, Endymion awakens,” he said.  “We were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come around, old chap.  We can’t have the prize pupil sleeping through what could very well be the best holidays of his life, now can we?”  He chuckled as if he’d just made some sort of joke, leaving Giles staring at him in confusion.

He had a British accent, a Northerner who’d tried to posh it up with obvious years at Cambridge and failed miserably, achieving instead a mishmash that would fool no one except Americans who couldn’t tell a Scot from an Aussie.  But being British didn’t necessarily bode well, and gingerly, Giles sat up, realizing that he was still fully clothed.  “Who are you?” he demanded, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by his wince at the loudness of his own voice.  “And what in blazes is going on here?”

The speaker held up a fat finger.  “Ah, but the question isn’t what is going on here,” he said, “but what will be going on.  Do keep that straight, Mr. Giles, or I’m afraid that we shall never find her in time.”