The growling of her traitorous stomach was what finally drove Buffy to press her ear to the door.  For too many hours, she’d waited it out inside the bedroom, ready to continue the fight with Spike if he chose to enter, vaguely disappointed when the door remained shut.  There had been indistinguishable crashes and muffled swearing on the other side of it throughout the course of the evening, but about half an hour earlier, she’d heard the front door slam shut, trumpeting Spike’s exit for any and all to hear.  Now, with the hour so near to midnight, she knew she had to eat something soon or deflate from hunger, and with the vampire out on some unknown call of nature, the present was as good a time as any.

Pulling the door open a tiny crack, Buffy peered into the front room, frowning at the veiled darkness it presented.  Only the flickering orange shadows cast by the fireplace allowed her to see anything at all, and she opened the door wider in order to better scan the room’s interior.

What she saw made her jaw drop.

Sometime in the past six or so hours, and for some reason probably known only to the vamp and God himself, Spike had managed to not only rig the tree into a vertical position before the window, but he’d also taken it upon himself to adorn it with the decorations Buffy had made.  Garlands of red laced through the branches like flowing veins, while clove-studded oranges hung from its tips, heavy and treacherous but seemingly secured in place.  The swathes of green she’d lashed together rested across many of the available surfaces of the room---along the mantle, around the window and door frames---and Spike had even grown his own creative bone to add a flourish of berry sprays to the many otherwise bare fronds.

The only thing missing was the star she’d made, but Buffy spotted it resting on the table, just waiting to find its home atop the tree.  Though still in the shape it was intended, the foil that had once been smooth was now wildly creased, as if at one point it had been balled up into a tiny, compact wad and then flattened out again.  One of its points seemed to droop a bit, and, crossing to the table to pick it up, Buffy’s fingers played with straightening it out.

She had no idea why he’d done it.  He’d been just as pissed as she when she made her exit, and this bordered on the realm of an apology, which Spike just didn’t do in her experience.  Of course, Spike also didn’t go about saving his mortal enemy until now, either, she rationalized, and set the star back down thoughtfully.

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

She was curled up on the couch in front of the tree, a plate bereft of all but crumbs on the floor in front of her, watching the dwindling fire dance and crackle in the hearth, when the door was pushed open and Spike stepped in.  His head was bent, his leather-clad shoulders white and wet from fallen snow, and he stopped on the threshold to bang his boots against the jamb.  It was a full fifteen seconds of cold wind blowing into the cabin before he looked up and noticed her, and he hesitated to fully enter as their eyes met.

“It’s snowing again,” Buffy observed, as casually as she could muster.

He looked back at that, and started, as if realizing for the first time that the door was still open.  “Like a bugger,” he agreed, closing it.  Warily, Spike slid off his coat, shaking it free of the rest of the clinging snow.  “Thought I’d check out the area.  Make sure we didn’t have any unwelcome visitors.”

“It’s OK, Spike.  You don’t have to check in with me.”  She smiled.  “It’s not like either one of us can get very far anyway.”

His head tilted in curiosity at her small joke.  “Right,” he said quietly.  He lifted his chin toward the dying fire.  “You plannin’ on letting that go out or something?  It’s a spot easier to keep a fire goin’ instead of havin’ to start with one from scratch again.”

“I guess I hadn’t realized it was so low.  I was just…I must’ve lost track of the time or something.”  It was an uneasy truce that seemed to have been called between them, one neither of them seemed completely comfortable with but one Buffy was afraid to rock for fear of the tension of their fight returning.  She also noticed that neither one of them was bringing up the obvious topics of conversation---not the kiss, not the decorations---but knew that at least one of those would have to be addressed some time before they turned in for the night.

“You’ve got the survival instincts of a gnat, Slayer,” he said as he crossed to the fireplace.

Her mouth was open with a sharp retort at his gibe before the understanding that he was teasing her back sank in.  “I think I’ve managed to do OK so far,” she replied with a grin.

She was rewarded with another of those curious tilts when he glanced back at her over his shoulder.  For a long second, Spike gazed at her through hooded lashes before turning back to stab at the flames with the poker.  “Didn’t know your meaning of OK included hurtin’ your wrist again,” he commented.

Looking down at the joint in question, Buffy frowned as she attempted to flex it.  It was sore, and more than a little achy from her adventures with the tree, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had before.  “It’s fine,” she argued. 

“It’s not.  I can feel it pounding all the way over here.”

“It’s just a little uncomfortable.  It’s not like I broke it again or anything.”

“If you’d kept up with the pine calisthenics much longer, you would’ve.”

So it was going to be the decorations that got discussed.  Funny how she was actually a little disappointed that he’d picked the safer option.

“You didn’t seem to come off on the wrong side of getting it up,” Buffy said. 

His shoulders tensed beneath his tee, but his gaze remained on the fire.  “Yeah, well, knew you wouldn’t stop whingeing until it was,” Spike said.  His tone was surprisingly neutral.  “Bad enough bein’ stuck here with you.  Don’t need to have you nattering on like an incredibly annoying bee in my ear just ‘cause you didn’t get your soddin’ Christmas tree along with it.”

“It’s our Christmas tree.”

That made him look up.  “What?” he said, dark brows knit in consternation.

“You heard me.  You’ve done most of the work with it, you know.  Bringing it in, getting it up, putting the decorations on it.  Sounds like a full opportunity treeshare to me.”

Silence.  His eyes were unreadable, shadowed from the lack of light, and Buffy wished there was better illumination in the cabin so that she could more easily see what he was thinking. 

“I don’t want it,” he finally said.  “Didn’t ask for it, don’t want anything to do with it.  It’s more bother than it’s worth, and I know you think I’m a dab hand at cocking things up, but this thing…this time, it’s not goin’ to be me.”

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke.  “Are we still talking about the tree?”

When he didn’t reply, choosing instead to turn back and stoke the fire, Buffy knew that was the end of the discussion for Spike.  He was willing to wave the white flag for the purposes of his own sanity for the next ten days, but more than that was too much work for him.  It made sense, actually, because really, she didn’t want the kiss they’d shared going any further either.  They didn’t actually like each other, plus there was the whole monster of a fact that Spike didn’t even have a soul.

Not that she could tell that, half the time.  Not when he pulled stunts like the decorating.

“You forgot to put the star on,” she said when the silence began to swell into discomfort.

“Didn’t forget.”  With the fire now raging, Spike stood and crossed to the kitchen, going to the refrigerator to pull out a blood bag.  “Figured you’d want to do the honors, is all.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to speak to her unless he had to, and it made Buffy increasingly uncomfortable to just sit there listening to him heat up his blood.  Taking her empty plate, she went and put it in the sink, rinsing it off before turning to face the table.  The star still sat at its center, and she picked it up, casting Spike one last look before walking back to stand in front of the tree.

No way was she going to be able to put it up without some vertical assistance, so, setting the ornament down on the couch, Buffy went and retrieved one of the chairs, ignoring the sidelong glances Spike was shooting in her direction.  Placing it next to the tree, she climbed up with the star in tow and situated it on the top.

“There,” she announced.  She waited until he had turned to look at her.  “Now, it’s officially a Christmas tree.”

“It’s crooked,” Spike said.

Buffy cocked her head to further examine the angle.  “It looks fine to me.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re too close to it.”  With long strides, he was at her side in seconds, his hand on hers as he tugged her off the chair and away from the tree.  Taking her by the shoulders, he turned Buffy back to face the window.  “Now look at it.”

Spike was right.  What had seemed perfectly fine before, now could be seen as slightly askew, tilting just enough to mar the beauty of the work that had been done.  She folded her arms across her chest, mildly annoyed that he’d seen it and not she.

“I like it that way,” she said stubbornly.

“No, you don’t,” he replied, not without a touch of humor.  He took her place on the chair and fidgeted with the foil so that it aligned perfectly perpendicular with the ceiling.  “How’s that?”

She didn’t want to reply, but… “It’s better,” Buffy said.  It was a begrudging admission, and she knew even as it came out that it made her sound like a petulant child.

Spike shook his head as he climbed down.  “You’d cut your nose off just to spite me, wouldn’t you, Slayer?” he said dryly, going back to his mug of blood cooling on the counter.  “One of these days, you might find it interesting to try admitting you’re wrong about something or other.  Could be a liberating experience for you.”

Unseen by him, Buffy rolled her eyes as she plopped back down on the couch.  “Like you’re one to talk,” she muttered.

She pretended to ignore his footsteps as they clomped across the room, and, when he came to a stop in front of her, she deliberately kept her attention concentrated on the loose threads that seemed to be exploding from her socks.  She would’ve even started whistling to continue the charade of not acknowledging his presence if he hadn’t suddenly dropped to a crouch and put himself directly in her line of sight.

“What is it you’re tryin’ to get me to say, Slayer?” he asked.  His voice was low and dangerous, the muscles in his jaw twitching from the control he was exerting over them.  “Because it seems to me, we’ve both done enough talkin’ for the day.  I don’t particularly fancy goin’ another round of he said she said, and I don’t particularly fancy gettin’ blindsided again by that tongue of yours, so unless there’s something itching you so badly you just have to spit it out now, I suggest you leave me the hell alone.”

“Is that what you really want?” she shot back.  “Because it doesn’t look like it from where I’m sitting.”

“Is what what I really want?”

“The Garbo act.”

“’Course it is.  Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Then tell me why you did all this.  Why go to the bother of the tree and decorating at all if you didn’t want any attention from it?”

“Already told you,” Spike said, and started to rise, only to be stopped by Buffy’s iron grip around his forearm.

“I want the real reason,” she said.

His lids dropped as he looked down at her hold on him, and Spike’s warning from earlier about pushing back began to peal inside Buffy’s head.  “You don’t want to be doin’ that,” he said softly.

“Or what?” she challenged.

Lashes lifted to reveal the sparkling blue.  “Or you just might find yourself gettin’ an earful of truth that would send you screaming for the hills, pet.”

“You think I can’t handle a little bit of honesty?”

Spike’s bark of laughter cut through the cabin.  “Tell me when the last time you found yourself over the moon at hearing anything I had to say to you,” he said.  “Face it.  You prefer your little bubble of denial because it makes life easier for you.  Black, white, and no pesky little shades of grey in between to muddy the waters.  Not that there’s anything wrong with the tried and true black-and-white.  Fuck knows I’ve had my own runaround with keeping the line straight.”  He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that made her fingers itch to do more than just hold his arm.  “Thing is…you just can’t stand having someone turn the coin over on you, Slayer.  You see white when something’s blacker than midnight, and it absolutely eats you up fightin’ what’s right before your eyes.  So, it might be in your best interest to reconsider that request of yours.  You ask for truth, you better be prepared to hear it.”

She so wanted to lash out at him, to slam her fist into his beautiful mouth and shut him the hell up.  But she’d asked for this, and better yet, she knew how to turn the tables on his all-knowing smugness.

“That’s big talk coming from someone who didn’t want to hear what I had to say the last time we were in this room together,” Buffy said evenly.  She forced herself to uncurl her fingers from his arm, waiting for him to back away.

He didn’t.

“I heard you,” Spike said, and his nostrils flared in anger.  “I heard you call me a charity case.”

“No, you heard me make a joke about the lecture Mom gave me before I agreed to vampsit you for Giles.  For some reason, she seems to think that I wasn’t trying to understand what you’ve been going through, that maybe I owed you a little more respect for not buckling after everything that happened.  Not once did I say I felt sorry for you, Spike.  Hell, if there’s anyone I know who knows how to bounce back, it’s you.  And if you dare tell anyone that I admitted that, I’ll personally pull your heart out through your nose.  With tweezers.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was pounding, but Buffy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the stormy confusion battling behind his.  It was everything she’d been thinking about in the bedroom, stuff she’d been trying to tell him during their previous fight, and the fact that she’d actually managed to say it out loud astounded her.  It dawned on her that this was something she’d been meaning to give to him, this declaration of respect, that she’d wanted him to know that his actions over the past few days hadn’t gone unnoticed.  Whether it meant anything to him to hear it, though, was another matter.

“I wanted to see you smile again,” he said quietly.

In the way of non sequiturs, it took first prize.  “What?”

Spike sighed, looking up and anywhere but into her eyes.  “You asked why all the doodads and frippery.  I thought…if I gave it to you…well, you’re a sight more pleasant to be around when you’re happy, Slayer.  So, it was entirely selfish motivation on my part to try and get you to smiling again.”

“And the kiss?”

That brought his attention back.  “What about it?”

“What was that all about?”

Silence.

More silence.

Even more pounding, aching, horrible silence.

If someone didn’t speak soon, Buffy was going to scream.

“It was just a kiss,” Spike finally mumbled.  “Nothin’ special---.”

“Liar,” she said before she could stop herself.

He stared at her in disbelief, eyes narrowing as he tried to sort through her response in his head.  She had no idea what he was going to do.  She had no idea what she was doing, for that matter.  Her head and her mouth seemed to be working on opposite teams at the moment, and her mouth---with the unwanted cheerleading support of every nerve ending in Buffy’s body that remembered what it had felt like to be touched by Spike, to be kissed by Spike, and was pulling out all its sis-boom-bah stops----was winning.

You couldn’t just let this go? she scolded herself.  Spike had given her the perfect out for forgetting all about the incident, and she’d taken it from him and shredded it into itty bitty I’m-not-ready-to-sweep-this-one-under-the-rug pieces.  Not only that, she’d thrown it back into his face with all the grace of a childhood dare.

And if there was anything she knew about Spike, it was that he could never resist a dare.

And, oh god, she really was the Queen of Incredibly Wrong and Bad Ideas, because she was about to make it even worse.

“We were both there, Spike.  You can try telling yourself that it wasn’t anything, but…I saw you.  I heard you.  And…”  She took a deep breath.  “…it scared the shit out of me, because I don’t understand what the hell’s going on.  What it is that’s happening…with…us.  And I want you to tell me what it is, once and for all.”

Slowly, Spike shook his head.  The skepticism of his aspect faded, to be replaced with the softer calculation she more closely associated with him, and Buffy found herself holding her breath as she waited. 

“You never cease to surprise me, Summers,” he murmured.  He stood and began pacing in front of the couch.  “See, I had you pegged for bein’ the emotionally stunted type, with delusions of livin’ up to Romeo and bloody Juliet as the height of your precious little lovelife.”  When her jaw dropped to snap at him, he pointed at her in reproval.  “No sense in denying it.  I was there for you and Peaches, remember?  And I was there for the ‘we can just be friends’ bullshit.”

“I should’ve known you’d---.”

“Let me finish.  You asked for my piece, so now you’re goin’ to get it.”  Stopping, Spike looked down at her with a tilt of his head, eyes dark and sparkling.  “The thing of it is…you’ve got this daft notion that I actually do know what’s happening.  But guess what.  The both of us are flying blind here, and it sure as fuck doesn’t make me happy because this…thing between us rates the top prize for unnatural selection in my book.  Told you, like my evil, evil, and my do-gooders as dinner.  Wondering how kissing you can taste like sunshine was never meant to be on the menu.”

In a way, his words were almost a relief.  No wonder he was running scared.  Spike had absolutely no clue as to why things were shifting like quicksand beneath their feet, and yet he was getting caught up in the whirlwind of how astonishing it felt just as much as Buffy was.  Knowing this was one more thing that they shared, that she wasn’t alone in questioning what was going on inside her head, unexpectedly lifted an unseen weight from her shoulders.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Hell if I know,” he muttered, and began pacing around the room again.

“I’m not looking for any kind of relationship with you, Spike.”

He snorted.  “Like I am?”

“I mean, yeah, we’re kind of on the same team for awhile here, and that’s OK.  I’m OK with that.  But more…”  She was trying to visually follow his path, and finally sighed in exasperation.  “Will you just stop for a second?”

The look he shot her was electric, but his feet never ceased, his steps deliberately heavier as he continued to march around the perimeter of the room.

Buffy jumped up and positioned herself in his path, forcing him to curtail his route.  When he tried to step around her, she matched his movement and folded her arms across her chest to show him she could keep it up all night if he wanted.

“What?” Spike demanded.

“We have to figure this out, because it keeps happening and---.”

“Only kissed you the once, pet.”  His eyes danced as they raked over her, his tongue curling against his top teeth.  “Unless you’ve been havin’ some dreams you’re not sharin’ with the class here.”

“It’s not just the kiss,” Buffy replied.  “There was the thing with the marshmallows, and that first morning on the couch, and---.”

“Thought you said you’d been thinking of Angel,” he accused, his amusement fading as his eyes narrowed in speculation.

She flushed as the realization that she’d stepped right into that one slammed into her brain, and Buffy pursed her lips tightly together, unwilling to admit to the fib she’d fabricated for the convenience of getting him off her. 

It didn’t matter, though.  Spike, as par for the course, saw right through her lie.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, and back was the predator who’d just found a fresh trail to follow.  “Looks like I’m not the only one around here whose pants are on fire, then.”

His innuendo slithered over and around Buffy’s body, latching hold somewhere in the pit of her stomach and sending her careening beyond the realm of any control she’d had left in the situation.  It no longer seemed important to get answers to the questions that had been nagging her, not when there was no way Spike was going to stop turning the tables at every opportunity, and not when she had to fight the urge not to leap over that metaphorical table and pick up on their kiss exactly where they’d left off.  She’d given him too much power already; it was time to tuck her tail and run while she still could.

“Never mind,” Buffy snapped with more conviction than she felt.  Slowly, she began to back away.  “This was just a world of wrong all over the place.  Forget I said anything.”

Spike’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in a mimicry of the standstill she’d forced on him just moments earlier.  “Don’t think so, pet,” he said.  Firmly, he began dragging her toward the front door.  “You started this.  Think we’re bloody well goin’ to finish it, one way or another.”

She didn’t struggle against him, instead letting him lead her to the door he yanked open.  A blast of cold wind raised a bevy of goosebumps along her skin, and she shivered as Spike deliberately placed her against the jamb, half inside, half out.

“I guess you changed your song on me going Shoeless Joe in the winter wonderland,” she said wryly.

Spike ignored her comment and jerked his head upward.  “Take a gander, Buffy.”

Glancing at the overhead lintel, she said, “It’s green.”

“It’s mistletoe.”

Her attention snapped back to his face.  “You put up mistletoe?”

“Call me sentimental.”

“More like presumptuous.”  She started to step back into the cabin, but his arm came up to block her path, his hand on the jamb behind her.  “I’m cold, Spike,” Buffy complained.  She kept her eyes fixed on the dim interior of the cabin. “And I’m tired.  And I’m starting to regret bringing all this up, so just let me go back inside, all right?  Because breaking your arm to get it out of my way when we have no idea what kind of fight we’ve got heading in our direction is probably not the smartest thing for me to be doing right now.”

“Here’s the plan, Slayer.  One time deal.  And when it’s all over, if you want, you can blame it on the mistletoe.”

“Blame what?”

“This.”

She could’ve stopped him.  Part of Buffy knew exactly what was going to happen the second he identified what they were standing beneath.  Part of Buffy could see what was glinting in that blue, the determination and the dare and the desire, and she could see the way his gaze remained on her, unwavering in its assessment, seeing through her---into her---just as it always did.  She could’ve stopped him at any point.

Most of Buffy really didn’t want to.

His hand came up to tip her face back toward his, and his other joined the first in cupping her jaw as his mouth lowered to hers.  Every movement was deliberate, every action measured.  When Spike’s lips met hers, it was very much as if the past half-dozen hours had never occurred, the purposeful glide of his mouth across hers as he resumed the exploration he’d already started banishing the cantankerous voice that kept nagging in the back of Buffy’s brain.  All her questions, and all her doubts, and each and every single one of the arguments that had proliferated in her consciousness since their earlier exchange were settled by the firm power of his mouth, by the fingers caressing her jawline both deadly and tender.

This made sense.  In that moment, without any more reservations about what she was doing, Buffy knew that being with Spike made sense.

As she responded to the desire he barely restrained, Buffy lifted her hands to brace herself against his chest.  The moment they made contact with the chilled fabric of his shirt, she felt him start, as if the return of her touch was more than he’d expected, and he pulled far enough away to look down into her upturned face.

“It’s not because of the mistletoe,” she said softly.

“What is it because of then?” he asked, and though Buffy understood that he hated the weakness it betrayed in him, the entreaty that coated his words exposed his need to know more so than the unfathomable blue of his gaze.

“I don’t know.”  It was the truth, slipping past her lips before she could stop it, but before he could steal away from her embrace to berate her ignorance yet again, she let her arms glide around his back to hold him tighter as she added, “I really don’t care.”

Spike’s silent concurrence with her acceptance of their new situation was announced by the return of his lips to hers, his kiss stronger and more demanding as he took what she so willingly offered.  The biting wind swirled around her ankles, but Buffy was oblivious to the cold, every sensation warmed by the certainty of their rising desire.  She could feel his erection pressing into her hip through the confines of his jeans, long and hard and oh so ready to be free, and wondered erratically if he’d think she was even easier than he must already if she reached down to touch him.

Somewhere in the midst of their kissing, she became aware of a muffled cough, as if someone was repeatedly clearing his throat, but it wasn’t until Spike pulled away from her mouth, his arms wrapping protectively around her as his body bent automatically to shield her from the sound, that she looked in the noise’s direction.

At the bottom of the porch’s stair stood a man, dark hair blown askew by the wind, snowflakes collecting in the unruly curls.  Bright eyes glinted in perpetual amusement as he looked up at them, and he released his hold on the handle of the covered cart that trailed behind him to stuff his hands deep into his coat’s pockets.

“I hate to be the one to break up such a fair display,” he said good-humoredly.  There was a lilt to his voice that she couldn’t quite place, but it was obvious that whoever he was, he wasn’t local.  “After all, a good kiss can be just what a fella needs.  Of course, trying to explain that to the ladies can give you a headache, but---.”

“I know you,” Spike interrupted.  His head tilted as he stepped away from the door.  “Bit of a jaunt for you from LA, isn’t it?”

“I could say the same for you,” the man replied.  There was no mistaking the slide of his appreciative eyes over Buffy.  “Though I must say, you’re keeping much better company these days.”

“You two know each other?” she demanded, stepping out from behind Spike.  She rubbed at her arms as her returning awareness of the chill bit into her flesh.

The stranger shrugged.  “Not really,” he said.  “Just a little torture between not-quite friends, right, Spike?”  He grinned, and in spite of her wariness regarding this new development, Buffy couldn’t help but warm to the genuineness of his reaction.  “The name’s Doyle, and I guess I’ll be settling up a few bets when I get back.  I never figured William the Bloody and the infamous Buffy Summers would be in this one together.”

It was his choice of words that made her pause.  “You’re part of what Jenny was talking about,” she said slowly.

Spike scoffed.  “Not possible,” he said.  “She was a ghost.  I just saw this bloke breathing and heartbeating around Los Angeles not three months ago.  And if he’s not all body-having right now, I’ll eat my jacket.”

“Hope you like the leather,” the man said with a grin.  “Because that would be magic you’d be feeling, not me.” 

A small whimper from inside the covered cart diverted his attention, and as Buffy watched, Doyle stepped back to peer through the small window cut out of its side.  It was an odd construction, like a child’s red wagon covered with a big square box to create a makeshift go-cart.  A tiny door seemed the only way inside it, and it was through that the sound was emanating.

“Awful noisy cargo you’ve got there,” Spike commented with a frown.

“Yeah,” Doyle agreed.  “She’s a handful.  Well, if I could lay a hand on her, that is.”  He nodded toward Buffy.  “I don’t suppose you could come down here and help me out, would you?  The magic that makes me solid doesn’t exactly convince your little guest here of the same.”

Curiosity drove Buffy forward, and though the cold was starting to make her shiver, she held herself firm as she pulled open the door of the cart.  She was immediately greeted by a pair of wide brown eyes, which were nearly hidden beneath a multi-colored cap, and when the owner of the eyes emerged fully, the Slayer found herself staring at a small child bundled from head to toe against the winter elements.

“Hello,” she said slowly.

“Hello,” the little girl repeated after her.

She certainly looked human, and before Buffy could stop herself… “Do you have a name?”

Huge eyes darted past the Slayer to look at Doyle for approval.  When he nodded, they returned to gaze unblinkingly at Buffy.  “Yes,” she said.

A long silence ensued where the only sound was the whine of the wind around them.  It was a full thirty seconds before the Slayer realized that was the only response she was going to get from the child without further clarification.  “I’m Buffy,” she said, and pointed to the porch.  “And that’s Spike.”

She nodded.  “That’s what Doyle said.”

“What should we call you?”

A sudden sneeze punctuated the air, the girl’s nose wrinkling as she sniffed against the cold.  “Holly,” she said, and sneezed again.

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

As soon as he saw Buffy start to bend over to scoop the child into her arms, Spike’s hand shot out to curl around her bicep.  “What do you think you’re doin’?” he asked, incredulous.

A single brow lifted.  “I’m taking her inside.  You might not mind being a vampsicle, but she’s just a little girl and it’s freezing out here.”

“Funny, but I never pegged you for bein’ Mummie Dearest, Slayer.”

The look she shot him was venomous as she yanked herself free.  “C’mon, Holly,” Buffy said to the child, deliberately affecting an ultra-sweet tone in order to counteract Spike’s antagonism.  “It’s much comfier inside.  We’ve even got marshmallows!”

He strode alongside her as she carried Holly back to the cabin.  “Did you ever consider that takin’ her in is exactly what they want you to do?” Spike asked.

“Gee, you mean all these visits from dead people weren’t about protecting her?” she said sarcastically.  “Did I miss a memo or something?”

“I’m just sayin’, I don’t seem to recall us reaching any sort of like mind about what we were goin’ to do about…”  He waggled his fingers at Holly.  “…that.”

She stopped on the bottom stair.  “Have you actually looked at her?  That is a little girl, Spike.  She’s defenseless, which is a state I’d think you’d be more than familiar with, and I am not about to let her die from pneumonia because you’ve all of a sudden decided two’s company.  So, if you’re suggesting I just leave her out here, you can just forget about coming in yourself.”

“Like you could keep me out.”

“Don’t push me, Spike.”

Before the vampire could open his mouth to respond, Holly lifted her head from where it had rested on Buffy’s shoulder and leveled a tired gaze at him.  “Yeah, don’t push her, Spike,” she parroted.

He was left gaping on the stairs as the two females disappeared into the house.  “Looks like the estrogen level just tipped in their favor,” came the casual comment from behind him.  “Tough luck.”

Whirling on his heel, Spike jabbed an angry finger at Doyle as he closed the gap between them.  “This is your bloody fault!” he shouted.  “Things were just starting to get interesting between me and the Slayer, and you had to go and bollocks it up by arriving with the anklebiter.  Why the hell aren’t you in LA, anyway?  Don’t tell me Peaches’ little holier than everyone else routine finally got old with you?  Or did that white horse of yours finally trip itself up and pitch you to the ground with the rest of us demons?”

“I can’t say I blame you for being a tad upset,” Doyle said.  He was completely unfazed by the outburst, which only served to boil Spike’s blood even further.  “If I was in your boots, I’d be wondering how I’d be getting through the next ten days.  Babysitting’s never been my cup of tea.”  He grinned, so wide that Spike was overcome with the urge to smack it off his face, and then winked.  “Good thing tea’s never been my drink of choice, then, right?”

“What’re you blithering about?”

Doyle jerked his head toward the cart, stepping back to allow clearance to it.  “Holly wasn’t my only cargo,” he simply said.

With narrowed eyes, Spike stalked the few feet it took to reach the small door on the cart’s side, pulling it from its hinges with an unnecessary force that sent splinters of wood flying in every direction.

“Easy, boy,” Doyle said when a small chip went sailing past his head.  “Those little slivers mean dust for you, remember?”

Spike ignored him, crouching down to peer inside the hole that he’d created in the covering.  The cart had been made comfortable for traveling for the child, with blankets tucked along its length and a small pillow at the head.  A small, worn doll blinked back at him with its lone eye.  He was almost ready to step back and tell the half-demon where he could shove it when a quick glint of something shiny appeared at the far edge of the blanket.  Slowly, the vamp reached inside, stopping when his fingers encountered a familiar smooth surface. 

“Now, there’s only two of ‘em,” Doyle said as Spike pulled out the tall bottle of whisky.  “So you’re going to have make them last.  And by the time they told me you were crashing our little party, I didn’t have time to get the good stuff.  You’ll just have to settle for the Jack.”

“This was your idea?”  The second bottle was out, and the blanket tossed to the ground, as Spike gave the cart a more thorough search.

“More or less.  Holly can be a handful.  If I could’ve, you can bet I would’ve had a nip or three to help me get through the past few days.”

“Don’t s’pose you thought to toss in some smokes?”

A shake of his head.  “I did have the thought, but the Powers and some very overprotective women had a cow when I brought it up.  Something about not wanting to expose Holly to secondhand smoke or some such nonsense.  Personally, I always thought that’s what porches were for, but does anyone ever listen to me?”

“Ah, well, that’s a club I’m more than familiar with.  Consider yourself in excellent company, mate.”  All enmity he’d felt toward Doyle had disappeared with the whisky peace offering.  After all, anyone who brought him the means to make handling the tyke a spot more pleasant, as well as going to bat for a cigarette allotment, couldn’t be all bad.  ‘Course, there was that whole matter where he’d been aligned with Angel last time Spike saw him, but then again, hadn’t Spike been in the same shoes at one point?

“I know it’s a bit stingy,” Doyle said.  “But---.”

“No, no, it’s bloody marvelous.  I could very well kiss you for this.”

“You have to excuse Spike.”  Buffy’s voice rang clear from the entrance to the cabin, prompting both men to turn and look at her.  “For some reason, he seems to be having control issues with his lips lately.”

The light from the fire outlined her in red and gold, making her seem larger than life as she stood there with her arms folded across her chest.  Every ounce of frustration that he’d felt at her too-easy acceptance for the child burned away at the sight of her, and the corner of his mouth lifted as he looked pointedly at the sill over her head.

“You’re the one standin’ under the mistletoe, luv,” he said.

Her head shot up at that, her back straightening, as if she’d completely forgotten the significance of the greenery in the doorway.  Slowly, her chin came back down, but where Spike expected her to bolt from her position, she surprised him by deliberately leaning against the jamb, her eyes locked with his in defiance.

“It’s cold out here,” Buffy said.  “What say we bring this inside so that I can find out what the hell is going on, OK, boys?”

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

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy watched Spike pull the glasses out of the cupboard.  He could almost be whistling, he was in that good of a mood, and she wondered how it was that a little bit of alcohol---not even consumed yet---could do that to the vamp.  His agitation about allowing Holly into the house had not been that unexpected, considering his reluctance about committing to Jenny’s request in the first place.  Of course, that reluctance had been mirrored in herself, until she’d actually seen who it was she was supposed to be protecting.  How could he expect her to turn her back on a helpless little girl?

“None for me,” Doyle said from his seat at the table, waving off the glass of Jack Daniels Spike offered him.

His scarred brow lifted.  “You sure ‘bout that?”

“As sure as the damn magic that makes me solid says I have to be.”  He sighed.  “You drink up.  I’ll just sit here and get my jollies by watching you enjoy it.”  A finger lifted in warning.  “And you better enjoy it, after the strings I pulled to get it for you.”

“No problems there, mate.”  Spike hopped up onto the counter, where the first thing he did was take a long swig.  With his head tilted back, Buffy found herself entranced by the angular lines of his throat, the powerful muscles flexing as he swallowed the whisky.  When he exhaled in pleasure upon completion, his gaze returned to the pair sitting at the table, to catch the Slayer staring at him in fascination.

“Fancy a nip?” he asked, holding up his glass to her.  His eyes twinkled as she visibly started, the entendre bringing a hot flush of color to her cheeks, and then chuckled when she deliberately turned back to Doyle.

“Please tell me you’re going to be a little more straight with some answers than Jenny was,” she said.

“Oh, so you’re willing to admit it was her, now, are you?” he teased.

“Let’s just say I’m more willing to be open-minded on the subject,” came the rejoinder.  “I can be the Queen of Open-Mindedness if I need to be.”  Spike’s amused snort made her glare at him for a moment, but he just smirked back.

“I can tell you what I know,” Doyle was saying, “but that’s not a whole lot.  Been a bit busy getting Holly here.”  His eyes scanned the otherwise empty room.  “Speaking of, where’d you tuck the tot away?”

“In the bedroom.  She was asleep by the time I covered her up.  How long have you two been on the move?”

He grew contemplative.  “It’s hard for me to tell,” he finally said.  “Two weeks maybe?  Time’s a little funny for me when I’m like this, but two weeks sounds about right.”

“Where’d you bring her from?  Where’s her parents?”

“Dead.  Maria had them killed when she was born.  She’s been living with caretakers in northern Canada since then.  Right up until Maria found her again at the beginning of the month, and killed off the caretakers before the Powers could get the kid out of there.”

There was that name again.  Maria.  The one Jenny said Holly had to be protected from.  Now she was beginning to understand why.

“So what’s so special about her?” Buffy asked.  “Holly, I mean.”

Doyle shrugged.  “I’m not all that sure,” he admitted.  “I know that Maria needs her for some sort of ritual, but how that can be when magic doesn’t work on her, I have no clue.”

“Whoa.”  Buffy held up her hand to cut him off before he could go any further.  “What’s this about magic not working on her?”

“Just what I said.  It’s why I can’t touch her.  As far as she’s concerned, I’m still a ghost ‘cause the spell that makes me solid doesn’t work for her.”

“So I guess the redemption gig with Angel proved a tad more fatal than you thought it would,” Spike commented from the sidelines.

Buffy’s eyes widened in surprise.  “You worked with Angel?”

“Still might.  Like I said, time gets a little funny on this side of the grave.”  At the confusion on both blondes’ faces, Doyle grinned.  “You might want to have another taste of that Jack, Spike.  This’ll probably make more sense then.”

“I’d settle for any sense.”

His grin widened.  “Can’t really vouch for that, but I can try, now can’t I?  See, it’s like this.  Fighting the good fight doesn’t always end when you pass on.  There’s those of us that keep on helping the Powers in whatever way we can, and since they’re everywhere, everywhen…time becomes fairly meaningless.  Until we’re running out of it, that is.”

His words brought a chill to Buffy’s bones.  “Are you saying I’m going to have to keep slaying even after I die?” she asked.  She felt, rather than saw, Spike stiffen, and somehow understood that the tension he exhibited was in direct support of her indignation.  Why he was as upset by the revelation as she was, though, she had no idea.

“Not unless you really want to,” Doyle said with a shake of his head.  “Slayers get a bye to spend their time as they wish.”

“It’s just when we’re living that we get shackled to your every whim.”  Her sarcasm was automatic, but his reply had eased a bit of the knot inside her.  Carefully, she glanced over at Spike to gauge his reaction, but his normally readable face was closed, his thick brows drawn together as he just watched her.

“Holly’s not so bad,” came from Doyle.  “Well-behaved, for being three.  Smart as a whip.  And did I mention, out of nappies?  Completely trained, she is.  That made the trip here a lot more tolerable, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t forget bein’ hunted by this Maria bird,” offered Spike.

“Well, aye, that too.”

“What is it with the New Year’s deadline?” Buffy asked.  “Is that when the second guard takes over babysitting duties or something?”

“Holly turns four.  Whatever it is that Maria wants with her won’t work then.  Something about the magic of three.  And don’t ask me about what it is exactly she’s going to do, because I don’t know.  I’m just the messenger boy.”

The room turned vacuous as the trio lapsed into silence, only the hiss and crackle of the fire lending any sound within the walls.  She didn’t like the situation, or being forced into this guardianship with Spike as her unwilling partner, but confronted with the wide eyes of a three-year-old child, how could she possibly say no?  Most likely, Jenny had known that.

It just would’ve been nice to be asked about it first.

And there was the Spike part of the equation.  Buffy knew that his earlier discontentment about the shift in their situation most likely stemmed not only from his irritation with anything remotely cute or adorable, but also from the new state of affairs between them---.

Not an affair!  Just a few kisses does not an affair make!

When he’d challenged her under the mistletoe the second time, an ebony and ivory statue against the midnight sky, she’d had only moments to make her decision.  Did she scuttle away and hide from the green, ignoring everything that had happened between them prior to Doyle’s arrival and proving him right yet again?  Or did she take the bull by the horns---or the vamp by the balls, and oh god I did not just think of grabbing Spike’s…I didn’t!---and stand her ground, admitting to what she’d felt---what they’d both felt---the first time she’d stood beneath the mistletoe?

She decided after watching the play of emotions over his face when she leaned against the jamb---surprise, amusement, and then finally hunger---that she really, really, really liked getting that kind of reaction from him.  It was something she would have to try to repeat very soon.

“I should probably go get Holly’s things from the cart,” Doyle said, breaking the silence.  He rose from his chair.  “I’m surprised she fell asleep without Baby.  She’s never without that doll.”

“Are you going to be spending the night?” Buffy asked, following him to the door.

He shook his head.  “One of the side effects of the spell.  I’m solid, but my body doesn’t have the same needs a living one does.  No sleeping, no eating…”  He looked longingly at the glass of whisky that was still cradled in Spike’s hand.  “…no drinking.  And besides, my job here is done.  Any minute now, the Powers should see fit to zap me back into ghosthood.  But I appreciate the offer.”

She hugged her arms tight against the cold as Doyle opened the door and stepped onto the porch.  “So that’s it?  You just drop her off and go?”

He seemed to consider that for a moment.  “That sounds about right.”

“What about words of advice?”

From behind her, Spike piped up.  “I’d think a bottle of tranqs to knock her out ‘til after the holidays wouldn’t exactly be amiss here.”

“Look,” Doyle said, as he began pulling Holly’s few belongings from the wagon, “it’s really not that bad.  Think of her as just a little you.  If she gets hungry, feed her.  If she mucks herself up, give her a bath.  And when she’s tired, you put her to bed.  See?  Easy.”

“That’s because you’re the one who gets to leave this place,” Buffy muttered, but smiled anyway when she added loud enough for him to hear.  “If you say so.”

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

He waited until it was just the two of them again before approaching her.

“Buffy,” Spike said, and it wasn’t until he saw the slight widening of her eyes that he realized he’d called her by her first name.

“Please don’t tell me you want to talk about what happened,” the Slayer said wearily.  She was busy sorting through the small bag Doyle had left, refolding the tiny clothes absently before setting them on the kitchen table.  “I really don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.”

The anger rose unbidden.  OK, so he had wanted to talk about the kisses, but bugger her if he was going to admit to it now.  She was standing there, acting like she was the only one put out by this situation, when…

“Ever think I might have a spot to say about playin’ Ward to your June?” he shot.  “Maybe I want to chat about the kid.  Ever consider that?”

Buffy stopped, gazing at him for a long moment.  “OK,” she finally said, “that was unbelievably dumb, even coming from you.”

“What?  I can’t have an opinion here?”

“You’ve already made your opinion perfectly clear, Spike.  If you were any more clear, you’d be the Invisible Man.”

“Except I already am,” Spike barked.  “I might as well not be around for as much as what I say is mattering.  Just remember, you’re the one who keeps tossing out words like partners, and together, and it’s not because of the mistletoe---.”

“Ha!”  His words brought her to life, her finger jumping up to point in accusation.  “I knew this was about the kissing!”

“You’re bloody well right it is!” 

“Can you stop thinking with your lips for two seconds and remember we’ve got a job to do here?” she replied.  “There’s this little matter of how either one of us is going to be able to take care of a three-year-old without accidentally setting her on fire---.”

“You’re the one with the pyro tendencies, pet.  I just wanted to leave her out in the cold.”

“And why is that?  It’s not like you managed to do that with me.”

The reminder of how he’d saved her from the accident stopped both of them in their tracks, leaving Buffy’s chest heaving as the adrenaline from their argument surged through her veins, and Spike’s eyes glittering as he glared down at her.  The knowledge that he’d risked so much, stepped outside of his comfort zone of hating the Slayer to save her life, still rankled with a discordant bite as neither knew exactly how to adapt the information to their constantly shifting circumstances, and both hesitated as each considered how to proceed.

A small sneeze from behind them could’ve been a bullet for the reaction it got from the pair, and Buffy whirled to face the sound just as Spike snapped back from the tilt his head had started to make toward the Slayer.  In the bedroom doorway, Holly stood watching them, her nose running slightly before she sniffled loudly.

“I miss Baby,” she whined.

It took Buffy a second to realize to what she was referring.  “Oh,” she finally blurted, and picked up the doll from where it sat on the table.  “You mean this?”

Holly nodded, and held out her hands for the toy as Buffy walked across to give it to her.  “Are you fighting?” she asked the Slayer once she had Baby tucked safely in her arms.

Shooting a glance backwards, she saw the vampire cross his arms and perch himself against the edge of the table, waiting to hear her response just as avidly as Holly was.  Fine, she thought in grim determination.  Be that way.

“Just a little,” Buffy admitted to the child.  She’d always hated it when her parents lied to her about something she knew to be true; no way was she going to make that mistake.  “But we’re done with it now.”

“Doyle says Spike gets cranky.”

“Hey!”

Buffy stifled her laugh, feeling it want to escape through her nose in a snort.  “Doyle’s very smart,” she managed to say with a straight face.

“Doyle says if I’m good and nice to Spike, he won’t get cranky with me.”

“Well, that’s a good theory---.”

“Maybe if you were nicer to Spike, he wouldn’t be cranky with you.”

It was Spike’s turn to laugh, the raucous mirth filling the room, and the heat that rose in Buffy’s cheeks had nothing to do with the fire in the hearth.  “Time to go back to sleep,” she announced to the child, taking her by the shoulder and turning her around to face the dark bedroom.  “You’ve had a long day.”

“OK,” Holly mumbled in agreement.  “G’night, Spike.”

He was waiting for Buffy when she returned from tucking Holly back in, only he’d risen from his seat to meet her at the doorway.  Without saying a word, Spike grabbed her by the wrist and led her to the bathroom, firmly closing the door between them and the sleeping child.

“Not that this is exactly the most romantic room in the place,” he said as he blocked her way of egress, “but it should keep the noise down for the tot out there.  Unless, of course, you decide to throw me through the door, in which case you can be the one to bloody explain to the chit what’s goin’ on between us.”

“What is it you want, Spike?” she asked.

All joking disappeared from his blue eyes, and the lines around his mouth smoothed, making his face seem surprisingly vulnerable as he answered her question.  “Just wanna know where I stand with you, pet,” he said quietly.  “I sodding hate this feeling of standing on quicksand all the time.  Give a bloke a break and tell it to me straight for once.”

“We’re partners,” she replied, equally quiet.  When his lips thinned at the familiar word, she added, “Fifty-fifty.”

He was deathly still.  “That means…equals,” Spike said.  “Is that what you meant?”

She’d hoped to avoid using that word, but it looked like he wasn’t going to give her a choice.  “Yeah.”

Taking a step closer, Spike lifted his hand and ran a bent knuckle along the underside of her jaw.  “Business partners?  Or…something else?”

The possibility of something else made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end at his touch.  She’d already made the choice, hadn’t she?  That’s what the mistletoe---both times---had been about.  It was time to stop waffling and stick with a decision.

“There’s no reason it can’t be a little something else,” she said.  When his head started to bend to kiss her, though, she brought her hand up and stuck it in front of his pursed lips, halting the motion.  “On two conditions.”

“And those would be?”

“It doesn’t get in the way of what we need to do to protect Holly from Maria.”

“So we’ll just drug the kiddie up for the duration so that we can have our fun,” he joked, letting his hands fall to her hips as he tugged her closer.

She ignored the stab at humor, though trying to ignore the erection that was starting to press into her stomach was a little more difficult.  “And,” she went on, “none of this goes back to Sunnydale.”

That made him stop, some of the hardness returning to his features.  “Makin’ me your dirty little secret doesn’t sound like equals to me, Slayer.”

When he said it like that, it didn’t sound like equals to her, either, but Buffy wasn’t prepared to budge on that particular condition, no matter how delectable his lips looked pouting like that.  “You’re saying you see yourself as a Scooby?” she said instead.  “I would’ve thought you’d hate that.”

A flicker of barely restrained disgust flashed behind his eyes.  “Still don’t like it,” Spike argued.

“Too bad.”

“So your definition of equals means you still get to call all the shots?”  His hands fell from her body, the space between them returning as he turned back to the doorway.  “I want you, Slayer, can’t really deny that.  And I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say I hadn’t considered what it would be like to have those dimpled knees of yours wrapped around me so tight I popped.  But you know what?  You and your lot may’ve stripped me of the lion's share of my dignity over the past few months, but I think I’ll just hold on to this last little shred, if you don’t mind.”  He opened the door, and for a moment, she imagined she saw what looked like hurt behind the sapphire of his gaze.  “You change your mind ‘bout treating me like your latest vamptoy, you know where you can find me.”

He was out the door, his boots on the ladder to the loft, before she could stop him.  What just happened here? she wondered.

Except she knew.  She’d tried to play the game according to her rules, just like she’d done with so much else in her life, and Spike had called her on her selfishness, refusing to accept her stipulations with a few chosen words designed to make her feel as small as possible.  Only he would have the nerve to do that, she realized.  Not even Angel had ever had the balls to say two words against some of the decisions she’d made for them.

Well, until he walked completely out of her life, that is.

The worst of it was…

…she knew Spike was right.

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

Joyce stifled her yawn as she walked up the path to Giles’ apartment.  His call at the gallery hadn’t taken her too much by surprise; Buffy’s failure to check back in with her had started Joyce to worrying days earlier.  Not that it wasn’t like her daughter to get wrapped up in something and forget about good old Mom, but not even Buffy usually forgot about Christmas. 

Still, he’d seemed…off during their brief conversation, half of what he said not making very much sense.

“Since we’re going to be away longer than I’d anticipated,” he’d said, “could I trouble you for a small favor?”

“Of course.”

“I’m afraid I’ve left Spike all on his own.  Would you mind terribly just popping around and making sure he’s not dead?”

“Spike?  But I thought---.”

“It’s a nuisance, I know,” Giles had interrupted.  “And normally, my being gone for a few days wouldn’t make a difference.  After all, he’s just a goldfish.  But still, I’d appreciate it if you could just check in on him, make sure he’s got plenty of food.  I left an extra supply on the right corner of my desk.”

She’d stopped questioning him at that point, too confused as to when Rupert might’ve gotten a fish, and even more bewildered that he would name it Spike of all things.  But she’d agreed to check in after work, noting when he mentioned it where he kept the spare key.

She yawned again as she pushed open the door into the inky apartment.  It would’ve been nicer if she hadn’t been caught at the gallery with a shipment that was missing a rare Peruvian urn, but she’d promised Rupert she’d feed his fish before going home that night, and darn it all, she was going to stick to that promise. 

Blinking against the light when she flicked the switch, Joyce hesitated on the threshold while her eyes quickly scanned the room.   He hadn’t said where he was keeping the fish, and there was no aquarium in sight in the immediate vicinity.  OK, she thought.  Then I’ll start with what he did tell me.

When she stood in front of the desk, she wondered for a long moment if she’d heard him wrong.  Other than the small lamp, Rupert’s desk was almost completely clear, the only thing on it a rental car agreement in the corner he’d said the food was.  Frowning, she picked it up and opened it, scanning over the details of the car he’d hired to drive to the conference.  Along the margin, the Watcher had scribbled the name of the resort they were supposed to stay at and a phone number.

I must’ve been more tired than I realized, Joyce thought as she closed the packet again.  I had to have heard him wrong. 

There was only one way to remedy the situation, and in spite of the late hour, Joyce picked up the phone.  She had no doubt Rupert held the same sort of hours Buffy did, and besides, this time, she might actually catch her daughter in the room.  The last thing she expected, however, was…

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Giles never showed up for his room reservation.”

Further inquiry revealed that, though there was a convention currently at the resort, it was a group of dentists on retreat, and Joyce sincerely doubted they were the ones interested in hearing the Watcher’s speech.

When she hung up the phone, she knew one thing for certain.

Something was dreadfully wrong.  And Rupert was in some kind of trouble he needed her help with.  It had to be the reason he’d made up the ridiculous story about having a fish named after his houseguest; he would know that she’d see straight through it once she showed up at the apartment.

The thought of the Watcher in trouble was disturbing enough.  It was the prospect that Buffy had left with him, and that he’d deliberately opted to call to tell Joyce that her daughter was all right, that had her the most concerned.

They definitely needed her help.

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

It was the first time since they’d arrived at the cabin that she’d thought of the couch as uncomfortable.

Mesmerized by the sinuous leaps of the fire, Buffy altered her position for the sixth time in the past half hour, this time rolling onto her side in order to better see the effects of the orange and crimson flames as they reflected off the floor.  Around her feet, the blanket she was cocooned inside came undone, but she left her toes bare, the heat from the hearth more than enough to keep her warm for the time being. 

Spike would make me cover them up.  He’d have some excuse about me getting sick again or something.

Automatically, she squeezed her eyes shut, almost wincing at the intrusion of the vampire into her thoughts.  Am I interpreting everything through a Spike filter now? she wondered in annoyance.  Is this a Slayer version of cabin fever?

Whatever it was, she had to do something about it fast, because not being able to sleep due to a severe abundance of Spike on the brain was wrong in more ways than even a brainiac like Willow could count.  And when her brain slid into the natural continuation of not sleeping wouldn’t be as bad if it was a severe abundance of Spike on the body, she knew she would have to do something drastic.

Right, she thought, taking in a deep breath.  I can do this.

Just block him out…

…she wouldn’t think about how much it pissed her off that he got to take the high road on her proposition and she came off as the baddie…

…and she wouldn’t remember how his voice had deepened and coarsened at her mention of partners, the bright flicker deep within the blue that coincided with his mixed sense of disbelief and awe that she would suggest such a thing…

…and she definitely wouldn’t dwell on steel thighs pressing to hers, or silken lips sliding across her jaw, or the heady scent of his skin when being such scant millimeters from tasting it made Buffy’s mouth start to water just in memory…

“Arghhhh!!!”  Burying her face into her pillow to muffle the sounds of her frustration, Buffy flipped onto her stomach and tried to scream the irritation out of her system, her blankets twisting around her body in a rough approximation of a straitjacket gone mad.  The slickness between her legs didn’t make her release any easier, nor did the small shivers that ran down her spine when her pebbled nipples rubbed roughly against the couch cushion.  And when her gurgled cry finally faded and she took in a deep though stifled breath, the scent of eau de Spike that pervaded the pillow filled her head, making her jump backwards into a sitting position.

This is getting ridiculous, she thought.  Her eyes jumped to the ladder to the loft, the top half hidden in shadows as the rungs seemed to climb into nothingness.  It’s only Spike.  The same vampire who tried to kill me six ways to Sunday before getting chipped.  The same vampire who’s saved my life almost as much just since we got to this stupid place.

It should’ve been simple.  If he’d only just accepted her conditions, she could be sleeping right now, curled up in a nice comfy bed instead of being alone on the couch.  She wasn’t even entirely sure what his objections actually were.  Since when did Spike care what she thought, or what the others thought about him?  He had no interest in fighting the good fight, or in being nice to any of her friends.  Hadn’t he proven that, ad nauseum, to her in the past?

The more Buffy thought about it, the angrier she got.

The angrier she got, the more awake she became.

And the more awake she became, the better it sounded to just go up to the loft and give Spike a piece of her mind.

She never even gave a second thought to the sleeping child in the next room.

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

He couldn’t sleep for wondering just what in bloody fucking hell he’d been thinking, brushing off the Slayer like that.

Staring up at the ceiling, Spike could hear her tossing and turning on the couch below, every move she made a sandpaper whisper across his skin that taunted him with the promise of what he didn’t dare take now.  Sure, she’d royally pissed him off with her holier than thou provisos, and for about thirty seconds after he’d stomped out of the bathroom with his pride held high in smug satisfaction, Spike had been pleased as punch at besting Buffy at her own game.

It was the three hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirty seconds that followed that were less than stellar.  When the reality of what exactly he’d refused slammed back into his consciousness with the subtlety of a Mack truck.

Right now, his body was at war with itself.  His head was triumphant in its gloating, crowing to any other limb or organ that would listen about how gobsmacked he’d left the Slayer, and that the look on her face when he’d sauntered from the bathroom was almost worth getting chipped for.

Other, more netherly-located, parts raged on about what an absolute prat he was being, because passing up the opportunity to shag the Slayer was the daftest thing he’d done since coming back to Sunnydale and turning into Plan 17 from Inner Space for Uncle Sam.  Who cared what her conditions were?  All they could think about was the scent of Buffy’s…well, everything, and what it would be like to have a handful of hot, Slayer flesh to hold onto while she rode him into the bloody sunset.

And the organ in between, the one long unbeating and most of the time forgotten, was caught in its own little world, whispering in his ear all the complications of emotions that were better left denied.

He knew he had to sleep; the sprout hogging the other bed in the joint would most likely be up at the crack of dawn and demand to be fed, or some such nonsense.  He’d even considered wanking off to relieve some of the tension, but the first time his hand strayed to his semi-erect cock, Spike had stopped just before touching, the memory of soft breasts and softer lips making the act seem somehow hollow all of a sudden.  He’d growled at her control over him, even at such an emotional distance, and lashed out at the blankets instead, kicking them to the floor and just lying there on the sheets, fists balled at his sides as he fought not scream out loud.

He heard her as soon as she rose from the couch, of course.  All he’d been doing for the past three and a half hours was listening to every Buffy noise, analyzing what she was doing, how she was lying, what she was wearing.  When she got up from the sofa, Spike imagined that it was probably just to go to the bathroom, or get a drink.  He didn’t imagine that she’d start climbing the ladder to the loft, but once the realization had sunk in, he quickly closed his eyes and feigned slumber so that she wouldn’t know he was still up as well.

The scent of adrenaline hit him first, followed almost instantaneously by the quickening of her heartbeat.  When Buffy’s sharp inhalation reached his ears, Spike waited for her to enact whatever purpose had brought her to his room, but was met with a deafening silence.  That seemed to last an eternity.

What is she bloody waiting for?

He was about to pretend to wake up, just to see what could be keeping her so silent---because, for future reference, that was a trick he was going to have to learn how to repeat---when a certain recognition of his current circumstances struck Spike.

Fact number one.  His blankets were no longer on the bed.

Fact number two.  Except for those few times downstairs, and for the time he’d spent at Rupert’s house, Spike slept without any of his kit on.  It was just more comfortable that way.

Fact number three.

…Fuck.

That’s what was going on, he realized.  She was just standing there gawping at him, and while he didn’t exactly have anything to be ashamed of---.

Hold up.

Why exactly was he bothered by this?  She was the one not moving from her vantage point.  She was the one whose body betrayed her every reaction to seeing him like this.  He didn’t have a bloody thing to be fussed about; in fact, maybe seeing what exactly she was missing out on would be enough to knock some sense into Little Miss Herbal Essences, and they could finally get around to the shagging that should’ve happened before she opened her big mouth.

The instant his cock started to swell again in response to the much-more pleasant images now playing inside his skull, Spike heard a distinct gulp, and then the swish of fabric dragging across the wooden floor.  When the blankets dropped onto his midsection, his eyes flew open, and he saw an enraged Slayer standing over him.

“You’re a pig,” she spat out, turning on her heel to go back downstairs.

“Well, that’s a disappointment,” Spike drawled, sitting up.  He was tempted to let the blankets continue to slip down his body as he did so, but when his words stopped Buffy in her tracks, he grabbed the edge and held it against his hip.  “All this way just to toss me one of your old standby’s?”  His tongue clucked in mock reproval.  “Someone’s slippin’.”

“A little sign around your neck saying ‘I’m so in love with myself, I sleep in the nude’ might’ve been helpful, Spike.”

“Funny, but something tells me that my neck wasn’t where you were lookin’, pet.”

The bright color in her cheeks was conspicuous even in the dim light that filtered from below.  “Get over yourself,” she snapped.

She looked ready to bolt, but the fact that she’d stayed so long already gave the vampire a strange sense of hope.  “There a point to this little visit?” he asked.   “’Cause I was just in the middle of a particularly pleasant dream when I was so rudely awakened.”

Buffy’s eyes slid for a second to his waist and the unmistakable bulge the blanket barely hid before jumping back to his face.  The corner of his mouth lifted when she said, “Please say it wasn’t about me.”

“But that would be lyin’,” he said in false innocence.  “And here I thought we were past that little phase of our relationship.”

“Spike.  We don’t have a relationship.”

His smile faded.  “No, now there you’re right, Buf---Slayer.  What we’ve got is a bit of a muddle, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the half of it,” he heard her mutter. 

She didn’t move, and he didn’t move, and the air between them grew thicker as a minute slipped into two.  It stayed that way until he finally slumped against the headboard, blue eyes almost black as they riveted to the gaze she couldn’t quite settle on his face.

“You’re not hurtin’ again, are you?” he asked quietly, hating that he caved so quickly in front of her.  Since when did she have that power over him?  It had certainly never been that way before.

There was a moment where she seemed to hesitate, and then her chin lifted as she reached some unknown conclusion.  “Yes,” Buffy replied.  “My…wrist is acting up, and it’s not letting me sleep.  I was thinking…”

“Dangerous…”

“…that you could, maybe, do that thing you did the other night,” she finished, ignoring his slight gibe.  “When I couldn’t sleep because of the frostbite.”

“It was just frostnip, pet, and you’re tellin’ me you want a bleedin’ bedtime story?  I thought the Holly bird was the babe in the woods here, not you.”

As she bristled at his mocking tone, Spike held back the eager bite of want that surged forward at the possibility of having her sleeping at his side by affecting his most disdainful smirk.  The battles that had been waged between his various body parts came to a temporary détente as the reality of Buffy returned.  He’d won his moral war by her coming to him first, so the intellect could still remain superior; she was standing there wanting him just as much as he wanted her, so his cock was more than happy; and as for his heart…well, even Spike had to begrudgingly admit it seemed a little less tight just having her in the same space as him.  Whatever she wanted, he’d be more than willing to do; he was just going to let her twist in the wind a bit before succumbing to her whim.

“Never mind,” Buffy said.  “Forget I asked.  In fact, I never asked.  This conversation?  Never happened.”

But she still wasn’t moving.

And her heart rate had started accelerating again.

“Is it really that hard?” Spike commented.  This was getting old, even if he was glad she hadn’t turned tail and run.

“What?”

“Sayin’ you need me.”

“I thought I’d already done that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I told you.  I couldn’t sleep.”

“And you want me to remedy that?”

“I don’t know what I want!”  It wasn’t excitement that was thrumming her veins; it was frustration, and it drove the Slayer to start pacing around the small space about the bed.  “I mean, I thought I did, and I laid it out there, and then you try and tell me it’s not good enough?  What is that, Spike?  Since when am I not good enough for you?”

“Is that what you think that was about, Slayer?”  No longer caring about covering himself up, Spike sat up at her diatribe, anger raising his voice.  “You’re tellin’ me that putting out all the rules, and saying we do this your way or no way, isn’t just a tad selfish?”

That brought her to a stop.  “You’re a vampire!  How dare you lecture me about being selfish?  You’ve got the moral code of Ted Bundy!”

“Which is why I pulled your ass from Rupert’s car before you turned into Slayer on a Stick, right?”

“Stop changing the subject!”

“Do you even know what the subject is?”  He was out of the bed, eyes flashing and oblivious to his state of undress, and standing in front of her as the taunts continued to come.  “Who is it you’re really mad at here, pet?  Not feelin’ guilty for bein’ such a bitch, are you?”

“What?  No!”

Spike smirked.  “I’d say something here about too much protesting, but then, that would require a lady bein’ present.”

He saw the hit coming long before the muscles contracted in her arm.  Even as the words slipped from his mouth, he could see the anger in her face melt into hurt, and then revert back to venom long before Buffy took her swing at his nose.  Lifting his hand, he blocked it easily with his forearm, and took a small step forward to deny her the space to try it again.  The movement pressed their pelvises together when she didn’t counter his shift, and though his erection had abated slightly in their argument, the heat of her flushed skin through the thin fabric of her t-shirt brought it back with a throbbing hunger.

Her eyes were huge as she lifted them to his face.  When she finally moved---an eternity, it seemed, to Spike---it wasn’t backwards, away from his touch, like he expected.  Instead, it was the smallest of shifts sideways, which caused the head of his cock to brush against her stomach, sending a cascade of sensation straight through his veins and making him groan in spite of his determination not to give her the satisfaction.

“Spike…” she breathed. 

“Don’t,” he croaked, when her head started to tilt toward his, and stopped her from getting nearer by placing his hands on her shoulders.  The battle within had resumed, only this time a clear winner was quickly declared. 

Though having his chest ache as much as it did certainly didn’t seem fair when his heart had come out ahead.  Since when was winning supposed to hurt?

“What?” Buffy asked, confused.  “Why not?”  She accompanied the questions with another slide of her torso, and in those seconds that stretched to forever, Spike wondered just what it was he was arguing against.

“Told you,” he finally managed to say.  He wasn’t backing off, though; he couldn’t, not when each glimmer of her touch was deliciously insufficient.  He had to stay there in order to add up enough of the caresses to satisfy what he wanted…if that could ever truly happen.

“Oh.”  She seemed to understand what he was referring to without his need to elaborate, and he watched her falter as her bottom lip got snagged by her teeth.  “Well…about that…maybe…I don’t know…we could compromise?”

She’d said it.  She’d actually said it.  His eyes dropped to her mouth and watched her nibble at her lip, imagining what those same nips being applied elsewhere to his person would feel like, and struggled not to throw her onto the bed and find out for real.  “What?” he said, feigning ignorance of her meaning.  “You want to punt the tadpole into the nearest snowbank and spend the next ten days shaggin’ instead?”

“No.”  A small frown.  “I meant…you know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

Just a small taste.  That’s all he wanted.  And she was already folding on the equality issue, so his heart couldn’t actually argue about getting smashed into smithereens by her over-inflated white hat, now could it?

His cheek brushed her temple as Spike bent his head, the perfume from her shampoo mingling with the scent of a stray spruce needle she’d failed to catch during her earlier tangle.  This was how he would always remember Christmas smelling like, he half-realized in amazement when his mouth pressed to the hollow beneath her ear.  A blend of Buffy, and pine, and peaty smoke that made his throat tighten, his body hum.  Funny how over a century with Dru hadn’t offered the same sort of sensory pleasure for this particular holiday…

A small scrape of wood against wood somewhere far away made her freeze against Spike’s caress.  “What was that?” Buffy whispered.

He had a good idea, but bugger if he was going to stop now.  “Forget it,” Spike murmured, but when he tried to pull her closer, Buffy’s hands came up to his chest and pushed, forcing the distance to return between them.

“Is that Holly?” she asked, and craned her neck to look over the railing to the floor before.

“Probably just goin’ to the loo,” Spike offered.  “Doyle said she was housebroken.  Kids do that.”

She ignored his suggestion, and broke completely away.  “Holly?” she called out as she stepped to the ladder.

When there wasn’t an immediate response, Spike came up to her side and glanced down to see the toddler just standing in the middle of the room.  Her doll was clutched tightly to her chest, her mousy-brown hair tangled into a rats-nest in the back.  He couldn’t see her face from that angle, but the eerie stillness of her pose almost sent a shiver down his bare spine.

“Holly?” Buffy called again, and when the second attempt wasn’t acknowledged either, she turned her frowning gaze back to the vampire.  “Why isn’t she answering me?”

“I’d say nobody’s home.”  He’d automatically dropped his voice to match hers.  “I think Doyle might’ve forgotten to mention Little Orphan Annie down there likes to go for midnight strolls.”  When her confusion didn’t go away, Spike added, “She sleepwalks, Slayer.”

“Oh.  Isn’t she a little young for that?”

He shook his head.  “There’s no age limit on this sort of thing.  Just take her back into bed all gentle-like, and try not to wake her up.  That’s about all you can do for her.”

She started to head for the ladder and then stopped, glancing back at him.  “How do you know about sleepwalking?” she asked curiously.

“Dru did her fair share of it,” he replied.  All of a sudden, he felt too visible, standing there without his clothes on, his erection fading with the onset of bittersweet memories.  Turning away from her, he grabbed at the jeans that lay crumpled on the floor, trying to block out the images of alabaster skin streaked with blood and the sound of his dark princess’ voice when it singsonged into the night.  Focus on the now.  Think of Buffy.

“’Course,” he added with his back to the Slayer, “half the time I wasn’t so sure if it was sleeping or just one of her spells, but I treated ‘em all the same, just in case.  One of the few times I’d go by the better to be safe than sorry edict.”

From downstairs, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed in the cabin.

“See?” Spike said, buttoning his jeans.  “She put herself to bed.  You’re all sort---.”  He turned to see the Slayer disappearing down the ladder.  “What’re you doin?”

“She’s not in the bedroom,” she replied.  He looked over the railing in time to see Buffy grab her shoes.  “She went outside.”

She wasn’t even bothering with a coat, and Spike swore under his breath when she followed the toddler out into the still-dark night, hopping on a single foot as she struggled to her shoes on at the same time.  “Stupid bint’s never goin’ to learn,” he muttered, leaping down to follow her.

On the porch stairs, Buffy stood in the inky blackness, already shivering from the cold, her head whipping back and forth as she scanned the murk of the forest in front of them for any sign of Holly.

“Were you born in a barn?” Spike complained as he hopped down to her side.  “I’ve got to be the only one who bothers to close that damn door.”

“Where is she?”  She gestured wildly to the tramped snow at their feet.  “I can’t even tell which footprints are hers, and how exactly did she get out of my sight so fast?”

Spike sighed.  “Go back in,” he said, trudging down the remaining stairs.  “I’ll find her before she wanders off into more trouble.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?”

He turned now-golden eyes to face the Slayer, and smiled around his fangs.  “Same way I always found you.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, just whirled and went off in the direction of the tiny heartbeat he could hear under the humming music of the pre-dawn forest.  Lucky for him, he found the girl before his brain could work too hard on the implications of how quickly he’d jumped to the rescue---just covering my ass so Buffy doesn’t get sick again, no more nursemaid for me---and Spike deliberately slowed his heavy pace as he approached.

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re more trouble than you’re worth?” he crooned, in a dulcet pitch that contradicted the menace behind the words.  Past experience told him it didn’t matter what he said to her; all she’d respond to was the tone of his voice, and not even remember any of it in the morning.

She was circling one of the trees, tiny fingers trailing along the bark, and he could hear the nonsense rhymes she spoke as each phrase added to the cold fog surrounding her head.   Her teeth were audibly chattering, but other than that, Holly seemed oblivious to the cold.

“Might be better to tie you to the bed at night,” Spike said as he cautiously narrowed the gap.  “Don’t really fancy you doin’ any more runners that interrupt things between me and Buffy when they’re just gettin’ good.”  He brightened.  “Better yet, we can put you in the bathtub.  Maybe then she’ll see how heartless it was chaining me up so.”

He was in front of her then, forcing her to halt her circuit, and he waited as she tilted her head back to look at him.  “Is she coming?” Holly asked simply, her face solemn.

Spike frowned.  “Is who comin’?”

“I didn’t do it.  Honest.”

He’d forgotten his own rules.  She was talking gibberish and for a split second, he’d treated it like a real conversation.  “C’mon, moptop,” he said, crouching to meet her eyes.  “Time to get back to bed.”

She came to him without hesitation, burrowing her face into his neck with a simple trust that made him hitch awkwardly as he straightened.  Having only slipped on his jeans before leaving, Spike suddenly regretted not having a shirt or his jacket to slip around her shivering frame, but shoved the thought to the side as he hastened back to the house.  Just doin’ my job, he thought resolutely.  I’m just…doin’ my job.

He didn’t say a word, not even when he passed Holly over to a waiting Buffy in the doorway.  Only when the Slayer glanced curiously back at him once he’d closed the door behind him did he speak.

“What?”

Being careful not to jostle the now-sleeping child on her hip, Buffy gestured abstractly toward his face.  “She didn’t freak out?”

His fingers lifted to touch the ridges that were still on his brow.  “Huh,” Spike said as his vampire mask slipped away.  “Guess it doesn’t bother her.”

There was an awkward pause.  Holly’s early morning sojourn had definitely put a crimp in their loft badinage, and though he was eager to pick up on the compromise she seemed willing to discuss now, Spike could see the Slayer swaying on her feet, exhaustion draining the adrenaline that had fuelled her thus far.

“You need to sleep,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” she agreed, stifling her responsive yawn.

“Probably best if you two bunk together ‘til we figure out how we’re goin’ to stop her from doin’ another walkabout.”

She just nodded, not even protesting when he nudged her in the direction of the couch.  Yawning again, Buffy stretched out on it, laying a sleeping Holly against her side.  Her eyes flickered to his when he grabbed her blanket and covered them with it, but she remained silent, even when he added his duster over the top.

He was halfway to the ladder, silently cursing whisky-bribing ghosts and tiny children who unnerved him by not being frightened when they should be, before he risked a glance back at the couch.

Buffy was fast asleep, her cheek nuzzling the soft leather of his coat, her arms tight around the girl.

If he wasn’t so tired himself, he almost would’ve thought she was smiling.