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

He was stoking the fire when she came hobbling out of the bathroom, each stab of the burning tinder making the muscles left exposed by his t-shirt flex in a synchronous dance with the sparks that flew up the chimney.  For a moment, Buffy paused in the doorway, watching him as her hand gripped the jamb for support. 

In spite of her apparent conviction when she spoke to Spike on the porch, her head was a muddle---too many questions, not enough answers, and between each and every one of them, an annoying bleached vampire who refused to be ignored.  She’d meant it when she’d said they had to act as a team on dealing with this; she just hadn’t bothered to mention how impossible it was for her to get her brain around the scenario in such a way that it wouldn’t implode.  Of course, if he’d just stuck to his usual obnoxious Big Bad routine, the issue would be completely moot.  She could hate him, but do what she had to do to get out of their current sitch and help Giles.

But no, as par for the course, Spike had to upend everything she knew to be true and make her start doubting what she thought had been blatantly obvious.

By being helpful around the cabin.

By not putting up a bigger fight about the Jenny/First/Holly scenario.

By saving her life in the first place.

Stupid, annoying, unpredictable vampire…

She must’ve made a noise because his head jerked around at that last, and for a split second, Buffy wondered if she’d actually said it out loud.  “How does that one fire make the whole house so comfy cozy?” she asked brightly, avoiding his too-blue eyes as she started to hobble toward the couch.  Change of subject good, she thought.  Even if she was the only one in on the change.

“The world didn’t just automatically get warm when they invented central heating, pet,” he replied.  “And for someone who claimed to be on the mend, that’s an awful convincin’ Tiny Tim send-up you’ve got there.”  Before she could respond, Spike met her halfway across the room, his arm going around her back to help support her, not moving even when she tried to push him away. 

“Get off,” she argued.

“You need to be restin’.”

“I’m fine.”

“For now.”  His hold vanished when they reached the couch.  “Put your feet up.”

“You’re a real mother hen, you know that?”  But she complied anyway, staying silent when he grabbed his leather from where it was draped over the opposite arm.

“And here I would’ve said, cock of the walk,” Spike replied.  He laid the duster along her outstretched legs, tucking the ends under the sinewy muscles, a battery of firm suggestive touches that scaled down her calves and left her squirming against the cushion.  At her feet, he hesitated, his head tilting as if he was lost in ruminations unknown to her, and then, without even a glance back for her approval---because oh boy would she have said something about not going there if she’d suspected what he was going to do---he grasped her ankle and slid the boot away with a liquid speed that left her toes curling in shock.

She couldn’t even ask what he was doing, though the words were right there on the tip of her tongue and begging to be released.  Off came the second shoe, joining its mate where he casually tossed it aside, and the draft that suddenly slithered around her soles made Buffy shiver.

“Thought you said the fever was gone,” he accused with dark eyes finally turned to her.

“It is.  Just, you know…”  She wiggled her toes, desperate for anything that would break the stare he fixed on her, her mouth too dry to be more effective than a few words at a time, her mind racing in wonderment about whether he’d pull his vamp-ometer kissing trick on her again.  “Cold,” she finished.  I am CaveBuffy.  Here me roar.

“Hot, then cold,” she heard him mutter as he wrapped the leather around her feet.  “So bloody predictable.”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.”  He was up then, and with a quick survey of the room, headed for the kitchen.  “Feelin’ peckish, Slayer?”

She didn’t have to answer---her growling stomach did it for her---and Buffy flushed in anger and embarrassment when she heard him chuckle.  “I can cook, you know,” she said sharply.  “You don’t have to be masterchef all the time.”  But even before she could pull the coat away to swing her legs over the side, Spike was back in her face, cool hands grasping her wrists in an unyielding grip.

“Not from here, you can’t,” he said.  “We had a deal, remember?”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“Wishes and horses, pet.”

“Huh?  There’s a horse in it now?”

He looked at her in disbelief.  “Don’t tell me Mother Goose is beyond the Slayer’s understanding.  ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride?’”   He waited for a sign of recognition, but, met only with Buffy’s blank stare, Spike shook his head.  “Why do I even try?”

When he released her hands, she craned her neck to watch him saunter back to the refrigerator.  “So does this mean I don’t get to cook?”

“This means, I don’t fancy you startin’ a grease fire when I’m surrounded by splinters,” he retorted, looking pointedly at the wooden walls and floors.  “I was there at Thanksgiving, if you recall.”

“That was an accident.  And Giles said those scorch marks came out of the cupboards without any trouble.”

“Yeah, well, take it from the bloke who was actually livin’ there.  He was lyin’.”

“And what am I supposed to do?  Just lie here and heal?”

She scowled when the weight of the book landed in her lap, his casual aim making the title jump out at her from the cover.  Children’s Classic Fairy Tales.  “Ha ha ha,” she said under her breath, and gritted her teeth as his answering chuckle floated to her from the kitchen.

Arrogant bastard.

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

Dinner proved to be soup and salad, and as she listened to Spike finish up the dishes, Buffy’s thoughts wandered into the no-man’s land she’d been avoiding since their mysterious guest’s departure earlier that day.  She didn’t want to; the prospect of turning her mind to other matters left a gaping hole in her stomach that made her want to bury her fist in something evil and pound it until it screamed for mercy.  But it did.  And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Jenny…Giles…the mysterious Holly…not one name didn’t come attached to a headache.

If Jenny really was who she claimed to be, then doing this simple thing she asked was the least Buffy could do.  It wasn’t as if it wasn’t already her job or anything, and in the way of karmic paybacks, it was just a small step the Slayer could take to make it up to the teacher.  After all, it was Buffy’s fault she was dead in the first place.  If she’d only killed Angelus sooner…

Yep.  There it was.  The headache she’d been trying to dodge by not thinking about Miss Calendar.

The subject of Giles wasn’t any better.  Who had him?  What did they want him for?  Was he hurt?  Did he know that she was OK?  Jenny had intimated that he’d been targeted by the ones who were after Holly, though how and why, she’d left no clues.  But as long as he was breathing, he would be worrying about Buffy, of that she was certain, and she hated not being able to confirm for him that she was all right.  Maybe next time Jenny showed up, she’d try and force a little more information from her.  Somehow, she got the feeling that there was more than the ghost was letting on.

The facts she’d shared about Holly had been precious few.  Female.  Wanted by baddies.  She had to stay alive until after midnight on New Year’s Eve.  No why, no gruesome details of what color the world would be afterward if Buffy failed.  Just the general warning that it would be apocalyptic bad.  As if the Slayer wouldn’t be able to understand a word she said that had more than one syllable in it.

Now, her eyeballs were pulsing in time with the ache in her head.  Crap.

A heavy sigh lifted her chest, and Buffy leaned back against the pillow Spike had brought out from the bedroom, her eyes drifting shut to deflect any more questions she didn’t have answers for.  From the other side of the room, the steady weight of Spike’s step approached, and she felt rather than saw him stop behind the couch.

“You all right there, Slayer?” he asked.

“Just spiff-spiff-spiffy,” she replied, her tone so perky it hurt her ears. 

Pause.  “You’re not goin’ to get all maudlin and start boo-hooing about Rupert and this Holly bird, are you?”

Her eyes flew open at that, to see an annoyed Spike gazing down at her.  “What?” Buffy said, her elbows tensing to lift herself up.

“I’m just sayin’, we’ve got the better part of two weeks to spend in this place, and if you’re startin’ in with the waterworks already, it’d be nice to give a bloke the heads-up when it comes so he can get away and do something a bit more entertaining.  Like drivin’ crosses into my eyes or something.”

She sat up the rest of the way, the book in her lap tumbling onto the floor.  “I’m not crying,” she said with a frown, the obvious assertion banishing her earlier thoughts to the wayside.

“No, you’re dwelling.  Which often leads to crying.  Hence…the asking.”

“I’m not dwelling!”

“What do you call it, then?”

“Thinking.  Very hard.  But not just one subject,” she was quick to add when his eyebrows shot up.  “Because that would be dwelling.  Lots of subjects.  Dozens, even.”

“Like what?”

“Like…Jenny.”

“Uh huh.  And?”

“And what?”

Spike rolled his eyes.  “This swarm of topics rolling around in your noggin.  Gypsy girl is one of ‘em.  If you’re not dwelling, what’re the others?”

“Oh.  Well, Giles, of course.”

“Part of the same subject, if you ask me.  Could technically classify as dwelling.”

Pursing her lips into a tight line, Buffy glared at the vampire for a long second before speaking again.  Time to start being creative.  “I was thinking about the fire and how cozy it made it in here.”  Ooo, good.  Go with the pre-dinner convo.

Amusement canted his mouth.  “Oh, lookie, she’s got herself a whole two ideas in her head.  Will wonders never---.”

“And dinner.  I was hoping you didn’t use grease in my salad or anything.”

Now it was a grin.  “Perish the thought.”

“And toes.”  She was on a roll now, determined to wipe that smile off his face if it was the last thing she did.  “And my shoes.”

“Because the two just go hand in hand.”

He was still laughing at her, damn it.  “And you,” she said, before she could convince herself otherwise.  Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, she thought triumphantly when his grin faded.  Look at the Slayer be all multi-thought-having.

“Speakin’ of hand in hand…” he murmured.  His eyes seemed too big for his face all of a sudden, because they were all she could see, bright and glittering and locked on hers.  “So…pondering the goings and comings of her new roommate has taken up residence in the Slayer’s brain.  Color me shocked and bemused.”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Buffy stammered.  “Just in the way of how you’re not doing anything I expect.  Like…not bitching about being stuck here with me, and…and…taking care of me, making sure I’m warm, and fed, and…”  She was too warm now, the leather stifling, drawing out the sweat from her flesh to begin running in tiny rivulets down her thighs.  The look on his face was all-too familiar, a leftover from before the chip days, when she was a tasty meal and something for him to watch and survey with the stealth he would need to take her down, but where before it had seemed menacing with intent, now it was…well, still menacing with intent, just a different kind of menacing.  More like wo-menacing, all come hither and suggestive…

Sexy…

“Hungry!” she blurted, intent on doing or saying anything that would expel the words sexy and Spike from intermingling so closely in her brain.

It worked.  “What’s that?” he asked, solicitude battling confusion as his front slipped away.

“I’m hungry,” she repeated. 

“You just ate.”

 “So I want to eat again.  Is there any soup left?”  When he straightened and looked back at the kitchenette, Buffy exhaled as quietly as she could, only then realizing that she’d been holding her breath.  Close one.  Why was her head doing this to her?  It wasn’t right that it kept bringing her back to the same place with Spike.  She hated him.  She wasn’t supposed to think he was sexy.

Except…OK, maybe she didn’t hate him.  Kind of hard to really hate someone who took such pains to see to her wellbeing.  Disliked, then.

But was that completely true, too?  If she disliked him so much, would she be so willing to side with him against whatever side Jenny was on?  Even when they’d teamed up together before, it hadn’t been the same.  Buffy hadn’t been alone in that fight.  Not before the final blow.  Afterwards…yes, but then that had been her choice, not theirs.

Now, it was just her.  And Spike.

And she was frighteningly OK with that.

It took a second for her to realize that he’d walked away and was standing before the open door of the refrigerator.  “Could do fruit again, I s’pose,” he mused.

A rush of color came to her cheeks as she flashed on the hand of bananas she’d seen on the bottom shelf.  “No fruit!” she said too loudly, which merited a quirk of his brow when he glanced back at her.  “Chocolate, maybe?” she posited instead, and waited as he closed the door and began pulling open the cupboards.

Her eyes were on her fingers, watching them twist and worry the leather draped over her, when Spike’s muffled “Oh!” drew her attention back in time to see his bleached head emerge from one of the lower cabinets.  In his hand was a large cellophane bag, with the unmistakable shapes of pink and white marshmallows clear within its transparency. 

“Fancy a cookout?” he asked as he strode determinedly to the fireplace.  The glee on his face was contagious, his eyes dancing with a light that Buffy couldn’t help but grin at.

“You are the weirdest vampire I know,” she commented, swinging her legs down from the couch.  “Where are my stakes?”

“Pointy enough but too thick.”  With a quick snap, he broke a twig from the kindling pile and handed her half when she came and sat down on the opposite side of the hearth.

Buffy grimaced.  “It’s dirty.”

“It’s texture.”

“I like my marshmallows soft and gooey.”

“And they will be, once they’re in the flame.”  He ripped open the bag with his teeth, a few marshmallows scattering to the floor.  “Now stop your whinging and get to roastin’.”  He picked up one of the pink candies and tossed it at her.  “You get the girlie ones.”

She rolled her eyes, but impaled the marshmallow on the end of her stick anyway.  “Like that isn’t totally sexist.”

“It’s not.”  Popping one of the white ones in his mouth, his words were muffled as he stuck another through his skewer.  “I’m a purist.”

“So sayeth the vampire eating the marshmallowy goodness,” Buffy announced.  Her smile belied the sarcasm of her tone, and she revelled in the heat creeping up her limbs from the flames before her.  It was almost cozy, if being held prisoner behind a magical wall with a vampire who drove her nuts could be called cozy.

“It’s your mum’s fault,” Spike said.  He poked his stick into the heart of the flames, letting the white fluff ignite with a bright orange spark and holding it there while he spoke.  “Got me hooked good and proper with that hot chocolate of hers.”  He stole a glance back at the kitchen.  “You don’t s’pose they stocked us with that, do you?” he asked hopefully.

“Why do you do that?” Buffy said.  Carefully, she angled her marshmallow so that it hovered above the flames, its pink slowly deepening in color.

He looked back at her.  “Do what?”

“Eat so much people food.”

His frown conveyed just how stupid he thought her question really was.  “Because it tastes good,” he said, over-enunciating as if speaking to a child.

“Angel didn’t.”

Spike snorted.  “Well, yeah.  It’s not like he was big on the makin’ himself feel good front, pet.  All about the self-flagellation, he was.  Whatever it took to make his miserable existence even more bleedin’ miserable.  You should know that better than anyone.”

When he pulled his stick out of the fire, Buffy’s nose wrinkled at the charred stump still flaming on its end.  “Ewww,” she said.  “You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?”

“’Course, I am.”  Plucking at the black flakes, Spike poised the stick in readiness as the gooey center was exposed, then aimed it unswervingly at his open mouth to gobble it down.   His eyes closed in rapture, the groans of satisfaction rumbling from his chest as he sucked on the sugary treat, and his head tilted back as he swallowed, savoring every second of its journey down with a pleasure that was palpable.

Buffy smirked when he finally looked up.

“What?” Spike demanded.

“You look ridiculous,” she replied.

“Do not.  Stuff’s bloody marvellous.”

“Oh yeah.  Crispy burned marshmallow is the height of haute cuisine.”

Spike set to placing another one on the end of his skewer.  “Don’t like it for what’s on the outside, Slayer.  You like it for what’s on the in.”

She was thoughtful as she pulled hers away from the flame.  “Why haven’t you been complaining more about this set-up?” she asked, not affording herself the luxury of looking at him as she blew on the golden marshmallow steaming in front of her.

“Is complaining goin’ to change it in any way?”

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

He was gazing at the fire when she stole a peek at him.  “That didn’t stop you at Giles’.”

“At Rupert’s, there was always the chance one of you’d break, or screw up enough so that I could get my own way,” he replied.  “Can’t really argue too much with magic.  Not unless you got the power to make it go away, which I don’t.”

“So, you only fight things you know you can beat?”

“Well, no…”  He frowned then, caught in the web of his own logic.  “I’ll fight just about anything, if the reason’s right enough.”

She nibbled the corners off the marshmallow, rolling the tiny bits of sugar before swallowing them down.  Melted mallow began to ooze over the hardened exterior, and her tongue darted out to lap it up before it fell.  “Even if the reason is you’re just bored,” she teased.

The grin he flashed her was brilliant.  “Sounds right enough to me.”

The silence that ensued was broken only by the crackling of the fire and Spike’s sporadic groans of euphoria every time he swallowed one of the marshmallows.  Too soon, the heat from sitting so close to the flames made Buffy’s skin start to tingle, and she suspected that if she touched them, her cheeks would be awash with fire.  As discreetly as she could manage, she began to inch away, trying to find the equilibrium between still reaching the flames with her stick and not feeling like someone was setting a torch to her clothing, her bottom sliding across the wooden floor.

The path she chose set her closer to Spike, and he glanced down at her curiously as he reached for another marshmallow. 

“I’m hot,” she offered in explanation.

He made no immediate reply, just swept his gaze over her body, lingering on the swell of her bottom before lifting again to her flushed face.  “Carry on like that, pet, and a vamp could start gettin’ certain ideas.”

“Oh, please.  Gutter.  Out of it.”

“And here I thought I was just joining you.”  The reflection of the fire in his eyes made it impossible for her to tell if it was really him, or if his demon was poking its head out, and she stiffened as she waited for the words to follow.  “Seems to me that you’ve been the one so eager for all the touchy-feely.  Wakin’ me up by pretending to be worried about a little scratch---.”

“And waking me up by groping me doesn’t qualify as the same?” she retorted. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”  His voice was like bitter chocolate, melting and oozing and sucking the air from her lungs, forcing her to respond even when her common sense told her not to.  “That mouth of yours might love to lie to me, but your body doesn’t know that language, luv.  I didn’t do anything you weren’t already wanting.”

“I don’t want you, Spike.”  Tight.  Through clenched teeth.  As firmly as she could manage to convince them both.

“Thought we were a team, Slayer.  Weren’t you the one who put us on the same side not three hours ago?”

Why did it seem like he was closer?  “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Was it?  He was closer, his head cocked as his tongue ran along the edges of his incisors, and she could smell the sweetness of his breath with every word, the marshmallow scent thick in the air, making it impossible for her to inhale properly.  Reason told her he was just doing what he could to get under her skin; after all, annoying the Slayer was Spike’s favorite pastime now that he couldn’t kill one.  But was she annoyed?  She was hot, and her head was spinning, and every word from his mouth made her want to find some other way to shut him up, but whether that fell in the realm of annoyance, she couldn’t determine.

“Something wrong?” he taunted.  “Don’t tell me cat’s got your tongue.  I can see it pokin’ out from here.”

“What?  Poking?  There’s no poking!”

“Then maybe it’s just that you’re still hungry.”  Before she could react, his hand curled around hers, pulling her skewer from the fire to draw it to them, tilting it so that the still glowing marshmallow rested against her lips.

They parted automatically, sucking at the sweetness as the melting goo threatened to run down her chin, drowning her taste buds in its luscious delicacy as her eyes locked on his.  Buffy’s throat was closed, the uncontrollable pounding of her heart that had sprung from nowhere taking any and all available room, and she rolled the treat around on her tongue just as she’d done with the small morsels from the first, in hopes that she’d soon regain mastery of her body.

He was mesmerized by the movement of her mouth, the tiny slides of her jaw, the throbbing in the hollow of her throat.  She felt his fingers tighten around hers, but when his lips silently mouthed her name, Buffy panicked.

Oh god.  What am I doing?

Yanking her hand away, the twig fell to the floor as she jumped to her feet.  Its snap when she stepped on it boomed in her ears, the only thing louder her instinct to flee, and she grabbed her coat as she stumbled out the front door of the cabin.

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

Damn it.

Buffy mistake number one.  Letting him get to her.

It was only because her nerves were frayed to whip-cord strands that it was happening at all, she was sure.  Her defenses were down, and Spike’s mindfucks were getting twisted around in the maelstrom of her situation.  Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t be rattled by a few inappropriate remarks, or the firm touch of his hand on hers.  It was just…things were weird right now.  Plus, no way could she discount the ADD vamp factor.  Spike got bored, Spike did what it took to entertain himself.  And it looked like seeing her squirm was at the top of the current Spike wishlist, making her writhe and twist and burn from whatever itch he managed to instill under her skin.  Making her hot…

Although, not really, not now, because…

Buffy mistake number two.  Running out of the cabin without first grabbing her shoes.

Looking down at her socks, Buffy grimaced as the snow that had blown onto the porch seeped through the cotton to start stinging at her soles.  That whole fight or flight instinct needed some serious reconsideration if it meant getting frostbit toes, but going back in now would ruin her exit.

Besides, Spike was still in there.  Spike and the marshmallows.  And the fire.  And that mouth with the tiny bit of fluff caught in the crease that made her want to lean forward and lick it off.

OK, so maybe only her toes were cold.  The rest of her seriously needed to rethink the whole issue of spontaneous combustion.

Damn it.

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

He had to give her credit; she’d lasted longer than he thought she would. 

Between the comfort of their banter and the saccharine bliss of the marshmallows, Spike had been lulled into a thrumming balm, the edges of the world blurring into a relief of orange and scarlet and burnished Slayer skin.  Only when she began inching herself away from the flames and toward him did those edges whet themselves into a ready blade, keen and willing to slice through any part of his anatomy she might choose.  Her smell was intoxicating, all fire and spun sugar, and the opportunity to play into it had been impossible to resist, driving him to taunt her with carefully chosen words, each one designed to make her squirm before running away with her virtue tucked between her legs.

It was that last marshmallow that was his downfall, watching it in hungry fascination as something inside Spike came undone.

Even after the door slammed shut behind Buffy, he remained rooted in his seat, his body screaming at him to go after her while his head shouted at it to shut the fuck up.  Don’t be daft, he wanted to say.  Slayer, remember?  Stake me in half a heartbeat if she knew I just got hard for her.

Not that he was proud of the fact.  Having his cock straining in his jeans when there was bugger all chance of anything serious happening with Buffy was about as frustrating as being stuck in that soddin’ wheelchair.

With a groan, Spike slumped against the couch, propping his elbows on his bent knees as his fingers worried through his hair.  Whoever it was who decided to shackle him with the Slayer in the babysitting job from hell was a sick and twisted bastard, though if it had happened to anyone else, he would’ve been applauding the genius of it from the sidelines.  But here he was, stuck with the one creature walking this planet that drove him crazier than any other, and there she was…

…His gaze lifted to look at the door through which she’d just stormed, but was immediately captured by the casually tossed items by its frame, rolling his eyes in exasperation…

…and there were her shoes, the dozy bint.

His cross mood evaporated as he stared at the boots he’d pulled off her feet earlier, strewn with the carelessness of home.  She was out there now, standing around in her stockinged feet, probably still too wound around that stick up her ass to come in and retrieve what would make her trek into the winter wonderland a tad more tolerable.  No way she wouldn’t notice soon, though.  Her ankle may be faring better, but it was still troubling her, and she’d be feeling the effects of the cold soon enough.

Probably get herself sick again in the process, too.  Wouldn’t that be a hoot and a half.

Balling his hands into fists, Spike straightened, lifting his chin in determination.  He wasn’t going to go chasing after her this time.  Let her fetch her own damn shoes.

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

She’d just about kill for a watch.  Had it been long enough yet?  If she went back inside now, would Spike have dropped his Vampentino act and leave her alone?  Did she want to be left---OK, not even going to finish thinking that question.  Maybe it was time to go to bed…and the fact that they were both two of the most nocturnal animals she knew was something else she wasn’t going to dwell on.

Surely, five more minutes would be long enough.  She’d just count to…

Crap.  Buffy grimaced.  OK.  Sixty seconds in a minute, times five minutes…was that three hundred?  Where was Willow when she needed her?  She’d know.  The girl was a walking abacus.

Three hundred.  Whether it was right or not.  That’s what she’d count to.

“One, two, three…”

Her breath clouded before her face, yet another reminder of just how frigid the exterior air was, and Buffy leaned against the wall of the cabin, relieving her ankle of some of her weight.  It was starting to throb, and not only from the cold.

Maybe I should just go back in.  Maybe I’m just overreacting.

“…twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”

What is he doing in there? For someone who wouldn’t even let me walk across the room on my own, why isn’t he out here demanding I get my ass back inside?

“…twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…”

He’s probably too busy stuffing his face with the rest of the marshmallows.  Stupid, sugar-addicted, freaky vampire---.

“Well, well, well, knew we’d get ourselves a treat, but didn’t think we’d get two of them.”

The drawl slithered over her skin, and Buffy stiffened as the two dark shadows emerged from the forest.  As she took a single pace forward, two sets of golden eyes sharpened in her view, and she quirked an eyebrow as she looked innocently about her.  “Are you drunk as well as ugly?” she asked.  “’Cause…I only see one of me.  Not that I don’t think it might be kind of cool to have another me to help out with the homework, maybe take my finals and such, but still, just me here.”

The taller, skinny vampire who’d already spoken leered, his fangs glinting in the light cast through the cabin window.  “We’re looking for the girl, Barbie doll.  Give her over and we’ll make it quick for you.”

The girl.  The Slayer felt her insides freeze at what had to be another reference to Holly.  More demons who were after her; maybe the Jenny ghost wannabe had been on the up-and-up after all.  “It’s Buffy,” she retorted automatically, maintaining an air of nonchalance in spite of the churning inside her head.  “Not Barbie.”

The short vampire snorted, turning to look at his partner, the greasy hair he had pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck swinging.  “Hey,” he laughed.  “She’s got the same name as the vampire slayer.”

“That’s because I am the vampire slayer, Ponyboy,” she said.

“Impossible.”  Stilts grabbed the railing and climbed the bottom porch stair.  “The Slayer’s on the Hellmouth.”

She stopped at the top and stared down.  “Welcome to my home away from home, boys.”  Her good foot shot out, clipping across the vamp’s jaw and sending him sprawling back into the nearest snowdrift. 

Ponyboy grabbed his mate under the arms, and dragged him away from the house.  “That bitch didn’t tell us anything about the Slayer being here,” he complained.  “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

“Stop your bellyaching.  We’ve got a job to do, and we’re going to do it.”  Stilts turned a dangerous gaze to Buffy.  “Besides, there’s two of us and only one of her.”  After a pointed sniff to the air, he added, “And she’s not exactly up to par, are you, Slayer?”

“Which just means it’s going to take me a little bit longer to kick your ass.”  All thoughts of her cold feet vanished when he leapt forward again, this time avoiding the stairs to tackle her around her midsection, and the pair went down in a tangle of limbs onto the porch.

Buffy grunted when a fist slammed into her stomach, but she held firm as she brought her feet up to launch him back over her head.  Rolling to the side, she caught Ponyboy out of the corner of her eye, stealthily trying to sneak up from behind.  I don’t think so, she thought, and grabbed the tip of an icicle forming on the railing to break it off.  When she felt his hand wrap around her ankle, her body twisted to drive the icicle into his wrist.

Ponyboy howled in pain, falling back to clutch his arm to his chest.  “Bitch!” he snarled.  A quick yank pulled the driven ice from the wound, and he dropped the blood-stained spear onto the step.

“Might as well get two for the price of one,” Buffy muttered.  Before either of them could react, the icicle was back in her grip, and this time, she whirled to face Stilts, driving it into his gut.

The tall vampire growled, but didn’t stop his advance, launching again to drive the Slayer back into the snow.  The impact loosened a flurry of white from the eave, and it fell with a wet squelch next to Buffy’s head, half of the snow stinging her cheek where the cold spilled.  For a split second, the sensation of choking clogged her throat as stray flakes managed to make their way inside her mouth.

She reacted blindly.  Shoving him off, she grabbed one of the porch posts and snapped it from its mooring.  She broke it over her knee, and, as they approached her from opposite sides, Buffy drove the jagged wooden ends reflexively into each of the vampire’s chests.  Something in her wrist gave way with the impact, but the Slayer’s cry of pain was cut off when she was seized in a sudden coughing fit from the scattering dust.

“You’re a bloody piece of work, you know that?”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned to see Spike lounging in the open door, her shoes hanging from his left hand as if he’d been interrupted from bringing them out to her.  “Enjoy the show?” she asked, struggling to her feet.  Her socks were soaked, her toes beginning to burn from the frigid wet, and Buffy was pretty sure she’d broken something in her wrist again.  Damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her in pain, though.

Spike shrugged.  “Not your best work, but that icicle trick was a bit of all right.  Probably worth the price of admission just for that.”  He glanced at the dust darkening the snow.  “Lemme guess.  This was about that Holly bird again.”

“They complained that whoever hired them didn’t tell them I was here,” she said with a nod.  “And they referred to the boss as female, so at least that part of Jenny’s story is holding up.”  Her face screwed up in thought.  “What did Jenny say her name was again?”

“Maria.  This doesn’t mean you’re gettin’ on board with what they have in mind, does it?  ‘Cause I thought we’d agreed to tell them to stuff it.”      

Adamantly, Buffy shook her head, but then hesitated.  “I’m just reluctant to do any kind of stuffing right about now,” she said.  In her distraction, she missed both the innuendo in her words and the wicked gleam that curled the corner of Spike’s mouth.  “At least,” she continued, “not until this Holly shows up.  There’s too many things we still don’t know.”

“Know one thing.  You’re not goin’ to do anyone any good you keep channeling Francis the Talking Mule.”  Shaking his head, Spike dropped her shoes inside the door and strode forth in determination, scooping her into his arms.  “You have got to be the most stubborn girl I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“What’re you---?” she started to say as she struggled against him, but the instant all the strain was taken from her muscles, Buffy felt herself automatically melt into his hold, unsolicited relief drawing out a sigh.  “You have really got to stop doing this.  I’m not a baby.”

“Then stop acting like one.  Stayin’ out without your shoes was stupid and you know it, Slayer.”

At least she had the courtesy to blush.  “Is there anything you don’t overreact to, Spike?” she said in annoyance.  She tried to wriggle her toes, and frowned.  “Although…”

He stopped just outside the door.  “Although what?”

Buffy ducked her gaze under his intense glare.  “My feet feel funny.”

“Funny how?”

“My toes are numb and kind of tingly.”

Spike muttered under his breath, his pace quickening as he carried her over the threshold.  Lashing out with his heel, the door slammed behind him, and Buffy jerked at the sound, her head whipping around to stare at the entrance just before he dropped her onto the couch.

“Hey!”

“Keep still,” he barked, pressing her back into the cushion when she tried to rise.  Strong fingers grasped her ankle and Spike peeled her left sock off, dropping it to the floor with an audible squelch.  “Damn it,” she heard him mutter before he rose and crossed behind the sofa toward the kitchen.

“What is it?”

“Get the other sock off.” 

She heard the water start flowing in the sink, and though the urge to see what he was doing was great, she did what he said, looking down at the small white patches along the top of her feet.  “Is it frostbite?”  The question came out before she could stop it, and she leaned forward to poke at the skin.

“Not yet.”  He appeared back at her side, a basin of warm water in his hands.  With a frowning tilt of his head, Spike swept his gaze over her legs before setting down the water.  “You’re goin’ to have to get out of those pants,” he said.  At her visible shock, he rolled his eyes.  “They’re damp from the snow,” he explained, gesturing toward the damp cuffs.  “The wet will draw the heat and you need to be thawin’ those toes of yours if you don’t want to be called Stumpy the Vampire Slayer.”

“Oh.  I think there’s some pajama shorts in one of the drawers.”  She watched as he began striding toward the bedroom.  “And bring me a blanket to change under!”

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

The two women watched the golden flicker of the cabin lights dance across the snow.  “You really should’ve told them,” the first one said.

Jenny glanced at her companion.  “You know I couldn’t,” she said.  “We were specifically told not to.”
The first woman shrugged.  “That still doesn’t make it a good idea.  Buffy gets pissed when people hold out on her.  She is not going to be a happy camper if she finds out you held back information.  You’d think you would’ve learned that when you were still alive.”

“And what was I supposed to say?”  Jenny’s gaze was open, but quizzical.  “’Hey, Buffy, you know the girl we’re asking you to protect?  Just so you know, if she dies, so does the whole Slayer line which includes you.’”  She shook her head.  “It’s better this way.  The Powers know what they’re doing.”

“Funny, but I didn’t hear the Powers telling us to sic a couple of vamps on her.”

“Motivation.  She needs to believe that there’s a genuine risk to Holly.”

“There is a genuine risk.”

“Yes, but we have to be sure she’s going to do it.  After our confab this afternoon, I’m not positive she will.”  Jenny sighed, her eyes returning to the cabin.  “And I’m even less convinced that Spike will be of any help in this at all.”

“You don’t have to worry about Spike.”  Jenny’s companion swiveled her head to watch the shadows passing by the windows, the unmistakable shape of the vampire stopping behind the glass.  “He’s got a way of surprising people.  Especially himself.”

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

Under other circumstances, he would’ve been able to appreciate the night.  Crisp and inky, the sky beckoned to Spike through the forest’s spidery branches, glittering with long-dead light that made the snow shimmer like a mirage beneath his boots.  If Dru had been with him, he was certain that she’d be in the thrall of some rapt conversation with her twinkly oracles, and for once, he almost wished he had the same skill.  Maybe they could tell him what the hell was going on inside his head, because he for one had no fucking clue.

He had just finished a long patrol around the perimeter of their prison, having abandoned the Slayer as soon as he’d fetched her change of clothes, silently trusting that she’d do the smart thing for once and use the basin of warm water he’d given her for thawing her feet.  The cabin had seemed stifling, the fire he’d been entranced by uncomfortably blistering, and the excuse of looking for more potential attackers had been perfect for fleeing her presence.

Spike was furious, and not finding any more demons upon which to vent his frustration had done little to dissipate the burn that hummed through his veins.  Not only had Buffy rebroken her wrist in her fight with the two vamps, the stubborn cow had gone and gotten frostnip on her feet from standing out in the snow for too long.  It was a mild case, but that didn’t stop him from being annoyed at her.  If she hadn’t run outside, she wouldn’t have gotten herself into the mess in the first place. 

Of course, if she hadn’t run outside, he held little doubt that he wouldn’t have been able to resist the draw of her scent, or the swell of her mouth, or avoid reaching out to touch the satin luster of her skin.  Even thinking of it now, his body betrayed him with the resounding pitch of his muscles, hardening and throbbing in an imagined accord as he remembered crumbling at the sight of Buffy’s rapture.  Or was it his rapture?  The lines were already blurring in Spike’s head, though one thing remained crystal-clear.

The look in her eye when he’d touched her.

As if, for the first time, she saw him.

The Slayer wasn’t the only target of his fury, though.  He’d deliberately stood in the doorway and watched her battle the two vampires, not once considering jumping in to lend her a hand.  She didn’t need his help to beat them; they were both obviously young, and though the snow was an unexpected hindrance, Buffy proved with her icicle trick that she was more than resourceful enough to compensate for her surroundings.  Besides, watching her fight was better than watching Passions.  He’d have to be thick as a brick to miss that opportunity.

On the other hand, by doing nothing, Spike had left her to get hurt again when she should’ve been on the final side of mending.  Her broken wrist was entirely his doing, just as the frostnip was also his fault.  If he’d not been so stubborn about bringing out her shoes sooner, she wouldn’t have to be soaking her feet in the cabin now, trying to fight back the damage the cold had done.

The damage he’d done.

As the cabin loomed before him, Spike swore under his breath.  The idea of going back inside was almost enough to send him walking in the opposite direction.  Only the hope that the Slayer might actually be asleep already, thus avoiding any confrontation, kept his stride forward. 

That, and his stomach was growling like a son of a bitch.  Guilt had a way of making him hungry.

Fuck.  He did not just think of himself as feeling guilty.

With a violent shake of his head in an attempt to clear it, Spike pushed open the front door, his eyes automatically straying to the couch.  The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider stopping them.

“What in bloody hell are you doin’?”

Buffy jerked from the massage she was giving her feet, shrinking away when he stormed forward and grabbed her hands to keep them from their task.  “They hurt,” she complained, and freed herself from his grasp.  “They were all tingly and I thought I’d just give them a rubdown to make them feel better.  What’s your damage, Spike?”

“My damage,” he said, mocking her tone, “is that I don’t fancy catering to you any more than I already am.  You can’t touch where you’ve been frostnipped.  Rub ‘em down and you destroy the muscles before they can heal themselves, Stumpy.”

“Oh.”  She didn’t seem to know how to take this information, and looked disappointedly at her feet, her tanned legs stretched out before her.  “Not even a little?” she asked.  “What about just kind of poking them?  That can’t be bad, right?”

He caught her in mid-reach, staying the arc of her arm.  “No.  Touching,” Spike reiterated.  He stood like that for a long moment, cold fingers wrapped around her hot hand, staring down at her in ice-blue frustration, and understood in the flash of a second the grief her Watcher went through.

The realization was an electrical bolt through his veins, releasing his grip and whirling him in a circle of ebony leather as he marched toward the kitchen.  Along the way, he shed his coat, dropping it to the table and well out of her reach---daft bitch can do well enough without her vamp security blanket for a change---and fought back the fury that was threatening yet again to swell inside.

“Go to sleep, Slayer,” he ordered, yanking open the refrigerator door.  The packet of blood was in his hands, his demon already out to slice through the plastic with a sharp fang, before he heard her move, heard the faint rustle of the blanket as it slipped to the wooden floor.  Not looking back, not looking back, he intoned silently, and instead focused on the task of warming his food, the comforting familiarity of pouring the liquid into the small pan, grabbing the spoon to stir it so that it wouldn’t scorch while it heated.  I’d just tear her head off for bein’ a stubborn chit and then get my own headache in turn.  Not looking back.  Don’t care what she says.

“I’m not tired,” she said, and he could almost hear the pout in her voice.

“So fuckin’ get tired,” Spike muttered.  His stirring grew more rigorous and splashes of blood jumped over the side of the pan, dotting the stovetop in crimson.  He couldn’t deal with her right now, not with the Gordian tapestry his thoughts were weaving.  Hate her, admire her, want to rip her throat out in one moment, want to kiss and suck at it the next.  Repulsion…desire…frustration…wonder…strand after strand after strand that mocked him with ease when offered singly, but laughed in merriment by knotting together and refusing to come undone.  If he could just pull one…

But no.  Not even that would make the lot unravel, and Spike just knew without examining it any closer that doing so would be wrong anyway.

“What’re you doing?” she asked.

He didn’t even bother to reply.  From her angle, he thought it was pretty obvious what he was doing, and so he’d just make it known through his silence that her sad little attempt to make conversation wasn’t going to work.  Even though he had to literally bite his tongue not to say anything.

The hush stretched into painful proportions, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and the metallic clink of the spoon.  “What’s with being so Oscar the Grouch?” Buffy finally asked.

“What’s with the Chatty Cathy routine?” he shot back.  Only then did Spike allow himself the luxury of stealing a glance, his intent that it last only the second it would take to satisfy his curiosity, but he froze when his gaze settled on her.

She was kneeling on the couch, leaning against its back to watch him work in the kitchen.  From behind her, the fireplace cast its illumination, brightening her hair to sun-kissed sand but leaving her face shadowed and solemn as she seemed to wait for some unseen signal to speak.  He could still see her eyes, though, and it was the look there that scattered the disquiet furled into coils around his gut, locking him into place with the naked honesty that gleamed in the green.

“It hurts,” Buffy said softly, like each word stung to admit.  “And I’m trusting that you’re right about not massaging it if I don’t want to make it worse.  So pardon me if I thought keeping myself distracted by chatting might make it a little easier to deal with.”

“Don’t really feel up to the parlez vous, pet,” Spike said, just as quietly.  He tore himself away, reaching for a mug and emptying the saucepan though he could still her eyes burrowing into his back.

“You’re not going to bed, are you?”

“Hadn’t counted on it.  Someone’s got to keep an eye out in case we get an encore from another gruesome twosome.”

“But you won’t talk to me.”

He stared at the blood in the cup, the fluid made darker by the black ceramic surrounding it.  “Tried that earlier, remember?” he said.  “You opted for the ice queen road instead.”  Sipping at his drink, he crossed to the shelves and picked up the book he’d been reading before heading for the small table.

“So you’re going to read instead?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

Quiet.  Heavy and oppressive and so glazed in viridian, Spike swore he could hear every blink of her lashes as she watched him stare blindly at the words before him.  His eyes swept over the page once…twice…three times, each pass failing to reveal any more of the text, before he growled and scraped his chair back across the floor.

“Lay down, Slayer,” he said, marching toward the sofa with the book tucked into his hand.

There was a moment of hesitation before she complied, stretching back along the length as her gaze followed his approach.  “What’re you going to do?” asked Buffy.

He settled in the far cushion of the couch.  “Way I see it, you need to sleep and you’re not goin’ to let me be until you are.  So, if you won’t let me read in peace, I’ll just have to share it, is all.  Five minutes of Flaubert and you should be out for the count, courtesy of bein’ a card-carryin’ member of the MTV generation.”

She grimaced.  “You can’t read something else?” she complained.  “I saw the movie during one of Xander’s video nights, and outside of those little jiggly green guys bouncing around, I didn’t think it was all that cute.”

“Somehow I don’t think ol’ Gustave set out to be ticklin’ your funny bone when he wrote it, Slayer.  Unless you think gore and carnage in Carthage is particularly amusing, in which case, you’ll probably think this is a bloody riot.”

“That doesn’t sound like the movie I saw.”

“I’d wager not.”  Nimble fingers thumbed through the pages, finding the spot where he’d left off.  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Spike cleared his throat, staring at the book as the question of what the hell am I doing? rambled around inside his skull.

“’She wished to learn the future,’” he started, his voice semi-flat.  “’…and approached the serpent---.’”

“Wait.”  He looked up to see her frowning at him.  “You’re not starting from the beginning.”

“Uh, no.  I’ve already read that part.”

“I haven’t.”

“And that’s my problem because…?”

“I won’t know what’s going on.”

“You’re s’posed to be gettin’ a bit of kip anyway.”  He turned back to the book.  “Live a little on the edge, Slayer.  Playin’ it safe’s for pansies.”

As he resumed reading, Spike’s nerves slithered in response to her steady gaze on him, knowing without needing to look that she was staring and wondering what he was playing at.  Not that he actually knew, but damned if he was going to let her know that.

“’…approached the serpent, for auguries were drawn from the attitudes of serpents.  But the basket was empty; Salammbo was disturbed…’”

In, and out, and in, and out, and in again, each breath that should’ve been leading to slumber still too shallow and still too rapid to mean anything but that Buffy was far from falling asleep.  If he concentrated, Spike thought he might actually be able to hear the blood rushing through her veins, a soft swirl of bittersweet and fire to contest the heat of the flames that crackled in the hearth.  But he couldn’t do that, shouldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that, because doing that would be tantamount to conceding defeat, letting her win by making him lose control when he already had so little of it.

“’…She found him with his tail rolled round one of the silver balustrades beside the hanging bed, which he was rubbing in order to free himself from his old yellowish skin, while his body stretched forth gleaming and clear like a sword half out of the sheath…’”

His voice faltered for the briefest of moments when Buffy stretched out her legs, her calves coming to rest across the top of his thighs.  The iced patches across the top and sides of her feet were fading, but they were still too stark against the golden tan of her skin, glaring at him in reproach for daring to brand her flesh with his negligence.  His jaw tightened.  It shouldn’t be like this.  He should be dancing with proverbial joy at seeing the Slayer incapacitated.  But he wasn’t.  It was a bloody ridiculous way to be ambushed, and she, more than most, deserved better than that.

“Don’t stop.”

Her words were barely above a whisper, but they clamored in Spike’s ears, drawing his eyes away from the ashen mottling on her feet to the luminescence of her aspect.  Black had devoured the green, and she watched him with a gravity that made him wonder if she was really aware of what she was doing to him.

“Close your eyes, Buffy,” he murmured, and waited the long seconds before she obeyed.  “Can’t expect to sleep if you don’t.”

It dawned on him when he turned back to the book that he’d called her by name, but shook it off.  He was allowed to slip up every once in a while.

“’…The white light seemed to envelop her in a silver mist, the prints of her humid steps shone upon the flagstones, stars quivered in the depth of the water; it tightened upon her its black rings that were spotted with scales of gold.  Salammbo panted beneath the excessive weight, her loins yielded, she felt herself dying, and with the tip of its tail the serpent gently beat her thigh; then the music becoming still, it fell off again…’”

A log fell in the fireplace, desiccated and charred but still echoing against the walls.  Buffy’s legs jerked in his lap, her muscles rubbing against his, and he felt rather than heard the corresponding jump in her heart rate.  Though his reading never stumbled, Spike’s attention was split between the words on the page and the body stretched out beside and atop him, his every sinew waiting for her to return to her relaxed state.  It didn’t happen right away, but as he finished the chapter and moved to the next, the vampire suspected that the story was working against him here, winding her up instead of winding her down.

“’…Matho did not hear; he was gazing at her, and in his eyes, her garments were blended with her body.  The clouding of the stuffs, like the splendor of her skin, was something special and belonging to her alone…”

He so desperately wanted to shift her legs, to remove the pressure their fine weight was exerting on the length of his erection, rubbing the rough seam of his jeans just enough to keep it in the forefront of his mind.  Was she even aware of his excitement? he mused.  He doubted it.  She wouldn’t be so calm and unmoving if she knew.  Of course, the evening of her breath, and the slowing of her pulse, told him that she was finally being lulled into sleep.  That could most likely explain her ignorance of his arousal.

“’…He was carried away by ungovernable curiosity; and, like a child laying his hand upon a strange fruit, he tremblingly and lightly touched the top of her chest with the tip of his finger…’”

There was no denying the rhythm of Buffy’s body now, and Spike finally looked away from the book to see the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept.  It was hypnotic, just as mesmerizing as the heat that washed from her flesh, and the cabin dissipated into a muddy haze on the fringe of his vision.  As had happened before the fireplace when he’d steered the marshmallow to her mouth, all Spike could see was Buffy, and the urge to begin massaging away the pain in her feet swelled inside him.  He knew he couldn’t; he’d been telling her the truth about it being detrimental to her recovery.  But he also knew it would temporarily alleviate her discomfort, and for the space of that second, that seemed more important than any far-reaching ramifications.

He shook off the spell and turned back to the book.  Just keep reading, he told himself.  You’ll stay out of trouble that way.

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

The books that lined the wall blurred in his vision, in spite of the spectacles that were still perched on Giles’ nose.  He was exhausted, and his head ached, but the thoughts that churned inside refused to be put to rest, raising question after question, scenario after scenario, making him wish he’d never even considered accepting the speaking engagement.  Maybe then, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament.

He knew that was false thinking, though.  Maria was quite adamant that she needed him in her search for her daughter, and throughout the course of the evening, it had become increasingly obvious that she had been prepared to do whatever it took to get him onboard.  That didn’t make his decision any easier; if anything, Giles found himself wondering how someone so rabid about maintaining the Slayer order could’ve stayed outside of Council radar for so long.

There was a soft knock at his door, prompting an automatic, “Come in,” before he could think otherwise.

It opened to reveal a nervous Paul, dark shadows beneath his eyes announcing his fatigue with the late hour.  His fingers played with the doorknob as his gaze swept the clean interior of the room.  “You’re not packed.”

Giles leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.  “Did you expect me to be?”

“We weren’t…certain,” Paul admitted.  “You were unexpectedly reserved once you sat down for tea.  Silas and I have been sitting down in the drawing room, wondering how long it would take you to either join us or announce that you were leaving.”  He took a tentative step forward, though his hand never left the door.  “Have you reached a decision?”

“I don’t see where I have much of a choice.  Telling me that Maria’s daughter has the capability of killing Buffy is just as effective as putting me under lock and key, don’t you think?”

Though Giles’ tone was cold, the admission that he would be staying on was enough to relieve some of the tension in Paul’s stance.  “Maria will be extremely pleased to hear this,” he said.  “Your participation is vital to our success.  The knowledge you bring to the table---.”

“Yes, yes.”  Giles cut the sycophantic babbling off with a curt wave of his hand.  “I’m not prepared to do anything tonight, though,” he went on.  “And I wish to speak to Maria first thing in the morning regarding what she will need to do in order to ensure my full cooperation.”

For a moment, he faltered.  “You…wish to be paid?”

“Hardly.  But since it’s her interference that has either hurt or put Buffy in danger, I expect the least she can do is try to compensate for that.”  He rose from his seat and turned his back on his visitor to cross the room to the bathroom.  “I’m turning in for the evening,” Giles said.  “I suggest you do the same.”

From the sanctuary of the adjoining room, he listened to the soft click of the outside door, sagging in exhaustion to the side of the tub as he exhaled heavily.  Maria’s claim that her daughter had devised a way to destroy the Slayer line, whether true or not, was serious enough an allegation to warrant further investigation.  Really, he had no choice but to stay and find out what he could, regardless of the questions that were reeling inside his head or his attitude toward the other Englishmen.  He just couldn’t let them gain the upper hand.

Giles sighed, rubbing wearily at his eyes.  He would do this for Buffy, and hopefully, she was still alive to benefit from the outcome.

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

She woke to the overwhelming scent of pine.

Groaning as she rolled away from where she was curled into the back of the couch, Buffy blinked against the sight of a looming green hulk not four feet away, leaning against the window its needled branches effectively blocked.  The irrational thought of am I still in the cabin? darted through her head as she propped herself up on her elbow to take a closer look.  Almost immediately, though, a stab of pain shot up her arm, and she winced as she fell back against the pillow, cradling her broken wrist close to her chest.

“Took you long enough, Slayer.”  From behind the couch, Spike suddenly appeared over her, and Buffy frowned as she noted both the wet curls announcing his recent shower and the fresh scratches across his cheeks.

“There’s a tree in the house,” she said.

His eyes jumped to the window, and then settled back on her in mild annoyance.  “Yeah?” 

She pursed her lips together, his condescending response to her statement causing her own irritation to flare.  “Why is there a tree in the house?”

“’Cause I put it there.”

“And you did this because there’s no such thing as being too close to Mother Nature?”

With a roll of his eyes, Spike shook his head, pivoting on his heel to disappear from her view again.  “I did it ‘cause you were whinging about bein’ stuck here for Christmas, you bint,” he said.  “Got an eyeful of dead birds’ nest for my trouble, and this is the appreciation I get?  Thanks ever so.”

The declaration of the tree’s true purpose made her sit up again, this time mindful of keeping her weight off her wrist.  What she expected to see wasn’t what she was met with, however, and Buffy’s jaw dropped as she watched her now-hostile roommate pick up a mug of blood and head for the ladder to the loft.

Every cupboard in the kitchen was open, half their contents spread out on the floor, the counters, the table…really, any surface that could accommodate them.  Scattered among the bags and boxes of food were various greeneries---and redderies, and orange-eries, and even a yellow-erie, if she was being exact---that she’d seen growing in the flora outside.

“What is all this?” she asked.  “And why are you leaving it for me to clean up?”

“It looks like Christmas,” he shot back, more than a little sarcastic.  “And now that you’ve finally decided to grace me with your wakeful self, you can do the sortin’ of what’ll work on that bloody tree ‘cause I’m goin’ to bed.”

He was up the ladder and out of her sight before she could bite out some quippy remark, but in all honesty, Buffy wasn’t sure she had it in her just then.  Her gaze returned to the array around the kitchenette.  As her thoughts began to shed the dullness of sleep, she came to the incredible realization that Spike had gone out and---somehow---chopped down a pine tree, dragged it back to the cabin, and then proceeded to extract anything inside their prison that might be useful as an ornament.  The details of why weren’t exactly clear, but for some reason, he’d taken it upon himself to give her the appearance of a merry Christmas, even if she wasn’t anywhere near her home or her mother at the moment.

What does he want? she wondered as she pushed the blankets off.  I wasn’t complaining about the Christmas lackage that much…was I?

Before she could posit any theories, however, the aching prickling of her feet yanked her from her current contemplations and back into the muddle of emotions that had been the previous night.  Spike reading to her had taken her completely by surprise, and though she’d only wished for a conversation to act as distraction from the pain, Buffy had been more than content with the storytelling hour as an effective substitute.

Well, maybe content wasn’t the right word.

More like…

…turned on as hell.

It most definitely wasn’t the Robin Williams movie that Xander had made her watch---though if the video store had a tape about this Salammbo chick, Buffy was sure going to be recommending that one on the next movie night---and Spike’s voice had warmed to the task quickly, lilting over the lyrical passages with a liquid sensuality that made her feel as if she was being draped in toasted raw silk.  She’d been riveted by his profile, fixated on the way his mouth moved over the words and remembering how he’d looked in the flickering shadows cast by the fire.

And then he’d stopped, and the air had been oppressive and hollow without the sound of him, without the presence of his voice, and she didn’t know why, and she didn’t care why, but having him continue had seemed like the most important thing in the world right then, and she would’ve done almost anything to make it happen.

So when he instructed her to close her eyes, she’d done so, though the instinct to argue with him about it had risen for the briefest of moments.  Maybe it was the way he said her name that stopped her tongue, because Spike never called her by her real name.  Or maybe it was the coiled tension she could feel in his limbs, like he wanted to run but was bound to the couch by some unseen force that only he was aware of.  Or maybe it was the naked self-recrimination she’d caught in the almost black of his eyes before he shifted to something she didn’t dare recognize.

Whatever the reason, she’d complied, and it had seemed like forever before he’d resumed his reading, the minutes escaping her as sleep finally won.

Now here she was, waking up to a vampire’s idea of Christmas decorations, and she didn’t know what to think anymore.

The understanding that she really hadn’t known what to think the previous night either was quickly dismissed as Buffy rose from her makeshift bed.  She had things to do this morning---not the least of which was to figure out what to do with the six-foot fire hazard now leaning only three feet away from the fireplace---but first things first.

Shower.

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

When he heard the water start running in the bathroom, Spike finally allowed himself to relax back into the pillows.  No confrontation then.  Good.  Wasn’t entirely sure what he’d be able to say to her anyway.

It had seemed like a bloody brilliant idea at four o’clock in the morning.  For too long after he’d stopped reading, Spike had watched Buffy sleep, not bothering to move her legs from his lap but not allowing himself to touch her this time either.  In repose, she seemed almost…ethereal, and he’d struggled to squelch the snippets of poetry that popped automatically into his head.  Been awhile since that had happened, not since he’d been under Dru’s attentive care immediately after the organ incident.  Unless, of course, he counted the verse he’d written special for the Slayer after Thanksgiving---

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Bloody hate this holiday,
And fuck you, too.

---but counting that made his stomach inexplicably roil, so he shoved the memory aside in favor of remembering instead the blush of scarlet and gold across Buffy’s cheeks as the reflection of the flames had danced upon them.

At some point, the Slayer’s complaint about missing out on Christmas with her mom had jumped through Spike’s head.  The holiday didn’t mean so much to him anymore---not without having Dru around to lavish with presents---but it obviously did to her, and so the seed was planted, until an hour later, he was outside in the snow with one of Buffy’s daggers, hacking away at the biggest, bushiest, greenest tree he thought he could get back inside before sunrise and getting mauled to death by the half-dozen or so birds’ nests that had toppled from its branches as he did so.

She’d have her Christmas, and he could walk away thinking he’d done something to pay Joyce back for being a decent lady by giving her daughter a peachy Noel.  Yeah, that was how he was going to rationalize it.

Though he knew deep down he was doing it for Buffy.

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

She’d made a decision by the time she stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom.  Saying she was calling a truce with Spike was one thing, but committing to it had been an entirely different ball of wax.  Buffy knew she’d been dragging her feet on trusting him---really trusting him this time, because if he was going to kill her, he’d had ample opportunities and hadn’t acted on a single one of them---but if this was going to work, she had to stop with the half-hearted attempts and give the vampire the credit he was due.

And she was so glad Giles wasn’t around to witness her saying such a thing.

She couldn’t deny the facts any longer, though.  They were piling up like so many empty pizza boxes at an all-night research session, and pretending they weren’t there was only giving her headaches.  Surely, it had to be easier to just give in to the impulse to give Spike the benefit of the doubt.  After all, the vampire had done his best to try and brighten the place up with a bit of holiday cheer.  Just for her.

Of course, he’d also left a huge mess for her to clean up, too.

Standing at the table, she grimaced as she surveyed the display of condiments and foodstuffs that he’d decided could be converted into homemade ornaments.  Dried penne to string on the dental floss he must’ve pulled from the supplies in the bathroom…boughs of pine that could be bent and shaped to drape over the doorways…Spike had even tossed in the last remaining bag of marshmallows, though what he thought she might do with them, she had no idea.  A sudden flash back to the fireplace, and she was moving to start sorting the chaos, anything to distract her from her traitorous thoughts and her even more traitorous body as the memory of the heat and the fluff and his touch returned with a vengeance.

Right, she thought, forcibly shifting her train of thinking as she held an orange in one hand and a roll of saran wrap in the other.  Time to start channelling my inner five-year-old.  Or my inner Xander.  Either way, it’s ornament-making time.

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

Over five hours later, a dishevelled Buffy sat on the floor amidst the garlands she’d created, a sense of surprising accomplishment swirling around inside her.  Not too shabby, she thought, as she spun the star she’d made out of tin foil and a bunch of sticks from the wood supply.  Mom would be proud.

Her wrist was sore from overuse, but splinting it when she came out of the bath had kept it immobile during most of her activity and she held no worries that she’d hurt it further.  Plus, by forcing her concentration elsewhere, she’d completely forgotten about the aches in her feet, and those were now feeling as good as new again, though one was tingling from being curled underneath her for just a few minutes too long.

Dropping the star to the side, Buffy stood and stretched, glorying in the pull and burn of her muscles as the movement heated her body.  Whatever his reasons, Spike had had an excellent idea with the Christmas decorations, and in her holiday spirit of goodwill toward a certain vampire who couldn’t hurt her anyway, she was going to thank him for it, if he ever decided to wake up.  Hardly a peep had come from the loft since he’d vanished up the ladder, and if she hadn’t heard the occasional squeak of a bedspring while she fought trying to get dental floss through the tiny holes in the pasta, she almost would’ve been worried that something had happened to him.

Almost.

Ornaments done meant there was only one thing left to tackle.  With a baleful frown, Buffy turned her head to look at the tree leaning against the sill, its branches obscuring most of the visible glass in the panes.  Now how in hell was she going to manage that?  It would need to be rooted in place, but somehow, she didn’t think a treestand was part of the necessities Jenny and her ghostly cohorts had arranged in coming up with this little scenario.  Something else, then, that could contain water so the thing wouldn’t die in two days and leave her with a cabin full of needles to sweep up, because somehow Buffy just knew Spike wouldn’t care enough one way or the other to do it himself.

Crossing to the cupboards, the Slayer pulled out a pot, turning it over in her hands to examine its sides.  Its diameter was wider than the trunk, so if she used it, she’d have to find some way to bolt it into place.  Was it their only pan?  A quick glance told her no.  That was good, because not having anything to heat Spike’s blood in would probably make him cranky as hell.  But still…what could she use that was strong enough to hold it reasonably upright?

She mulled over the dilemma for a few seconds before brightening.  Scanning the room, she spotted the weapons bag near the door, the short dagger Spike had obviously used to saw the tree down still tossed haphazardly across its partially open top.  Its blade was dull from its unorthodox usage, dried sap still clinging to its serrated edge; it would need a serious workover before it would be at its most functional again.

It wasn’t the weapon she was after, though.  With a few hurried steps, Buffy was kneeling by the bag, digging around for the longer of the two knives she’d brought.  This one was thicker, with a blade a good foot and a half long, its heft more than enough to provide at least some balance for the tree while she secured its upper half to the curtain rail.  Between it and the pot, it would be more than workable as a stand, she figured.

She figured wrong. 

The first time Buffy tried lifting the tree to set it to rest in the water-filled pan, it slid between her fingers, its needled trunk scraping at her fingers, and dropped to hit the edge of the aluminum, spilling the water all over the floor and dousing her thick socks.

The second time, she tried from a lower angle, getting on her knees to pick up the tree closer to the base while she attempted to slide the refilled pot underneath it.  She didn’t account for the extra weight at the top, however, and felt it start to tip forward just in time to shove the pan out of its path, thus avoiding another spillage.  It didn’t save her from being buried beneath its branches, though, and got an irritable scrape across her jawline as she stood to push it back up.

What she needed was longer arms, Buffy decided as she held the tree upright.  One that could hold the top, while the other slid the pan in underneath.  Then maybe a third arm to keep it steady while she ran the knife through the pan to keep it in place.

OK.  Maybe this plan was a little on the sucky side after all.

Deciding to give it one more go, Buffy reached through the prickly branches to grasp the trunk with both hands, carefully spaced to allow herself the maximum coverage.  A twinge of pain shot through her arm from the force she was exerting on her injured wrist, but she ignored it as she focused on firming her grip.  Once she was confident it wasn’t moving, Buffy looked to her side and stretched out her left leg, angling her foot to try and hook the pan she’d pushed away on the last attempt.  Inch by inch, she kept her pace slow, ready to compensate her balance the second she felt the fir start to tip again.

When the toe of her sock brushed against the base of the pan, a smile of satisfaction creased her face.  “About time,” she said to no one in particular, and redirected her attention to not accidentally stepping into the water as she nudged it closer to the tree.

Finally, she thought in triumph, only to have her every nerve jump to attention when the edge of the pan caught on one of the not-quite-smooth-enough floorboards, grinding to a halt as the water came splashing up over the sides.  The jump diverted her focus just long enough for the tree to decide it wanted to fall over again, and before Buffy could stop it, it was slipping through her fingers, pressing against her chest as it began to topple forward.

Slayer reflexes weren’t quite as fast as the arms that appeared from nowhere, encircling her shoulders to grasp onto the trunk and thrust it back against the wall again.  Buffy felt Spike’s bare chest leaning into her as he helped her guide it back into a canted position, the power flexing through his visible muscles as he did so, and then it was gone, leaving her staring at the pine branches as she released her own grip.

“Stupid tree,” she muttered.

“Stupid Slayer,” Spike countered from behind her.  “What in bloody hell were you tryin’ to do?”

“You’re the one who brought the damn thing in,” she said, whirling on her heel to face him.  She’d expected him to have moved back, and was visibly shocked to find Spike barely six inches away, head cocked in curiosity.  Sleep had done its number on his hair, tousling it into errant curls that made her fingers itch, and he wore only his black jeans, the angled jut of his pelvis visible above the waistband.  All of a sudden, she was too aware of her own disarray, and fought the urge to push back the tangle her hair had become in her tree tussle.

“You could’ve waited ‘til I was awake to do something about it,” Spike said evenly.  His eyes darted to the pan on the floor.  “Or maybe tried putting the water in after you’d got the soddin’ tree up.”

“Oh.”  Her gaze followed his to the mess she’d made.  She hadn’t thought of that option.  Damn it.

“Don’t know how you expected it to work anyway.”  Buffy turned back to meet the mocking blue of his eyes.  “The tree’s just goin’ to fall over without something to make it stick.”

“That’s what that was for,” she replied, and pointed to the dagger that rested on the floor just a few feet away.

A slow smile curled his lips as Spike chuckled.  “Gotta love a girl who knows what to do with a good poke,” he said.

Her eyes widened at the innuendo, especially when she saw the familiar running of his tongue along the edges of his teeth.  He’s just baiting me.  He’s trying to push my buttons.  Frantically, she tried to latch on to some of her earlier resolve---I can do this, I’m better than him---and affected as genuine a smile as she could manage.

“I owe you another thank you, by the way,” she said, and watched the surprise overtake his bravado.  Ha.  Let’s see who gets the last laugh here, blondie boy.  “For the Christmas stuff.  You didn’t have to do that.”

It took him a moment to respond.  “Don’t have to do a lot of things,” Spike said slowly.  The corners of his eyes crinkled as his gaze narrowed in scrutiny. 

She rushed onward, ignoring the hammering that had started inside her chest.  “Still, it was a good thing.  Like the reading last night to get my mind off my feet.  I know you don’t have to, and you did it anyway, and I just wanted you to know…you know, thanks.”

More silence while he just regarded her.  Why isn’t he talking?  This is me being all adult here.  I deserve a snark or a quip or something.

But when he spoke again, the words that came out were not what she expected.

“You liked the reading?”

His voice was a rumble in his chest, inexplicably raising goosebumps along her arms, and Buffy was grateful that she was wearing long sleeves so that he couldn’t see them.  “It was nice,” she said, lamely.  Why is he standing so close?  Back up!  Back up!  Except there was a tree behind her, and with him so close and the branches poking into her sides and her back, the only way to get past Spike meant she’d have to physically move him, and somehow, Buffy just knew that touching the vampire at that exact moment in time would be monumentally bad.

“Nice is boring.”  The tilt of his head was back.  “Never been pegged as boring before.”

It was a challenge; she could see it glinting in the darkened blue of his eyes.  “That’s not what I meant,” she said before she could stop herself.

“It’s what you said.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know what.  Twist around what I say.”  It was slipping---her resolve---her frustration rising to the point where it felt like hundreds of tiny flames were singeing the inside of her skin.  And what is his hand doing?

“There something else you’d prefer me to be twistin’, pet?”  He’d reached up, a single finger stroking the graze she’d received from the tree when it fell on her, but instead of swatting him away, she shivered, unable to prevent the spontaneous response in her body from the almost gentle touch.

“Stop it,” Buffy breathed.  Her gaze was diverted from his by the twitching in his jaw.

“Make me.”

“Spike---.”

She heard his muttered, “Fuck it,” a split second before his lips crashed to hers.

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