DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy and Holly have spent a bonding day outside, while Joyce has encountered Doyle when she took a lunch for break...

-----

24. Have a Cup of Cheer

He was actually quite charming, if a little obvious in his flattery, and Joyce found herself relaxing in Doyle's presence long before her food came out. After his initial assessment of her purpose, Doyle had promptly dropped the subject, switching instead to expound on the shortcomings of the juke box, and she'd sat and commiserated good-naturedly on the negative effects of country music on holiday spirit. Mentioning Christmas reminded her of how he'd evaded her earlier observation about his presence in the bar, but Joyce waited until after her food had arrived before broaching the topic again.

"So, why are you in the middle of nowhere on the day before Christmas?" she asked, as she nibbled on one of the celery sticks that accompanied her wings. "Don't you have family you'd rather be spending time with?"

He shrugged. "Family's a relative term," Doyle said affably. His fingers kept playing with the long-necked bottle of beer that he'd ordered but had yet to touch. "And what I do means I move around a lot. Not that I wouldn't want to be with them, mind you. It's just...sometimes time's not exactly the most agreeable of mistresses."

Joyce's smile was self-deprecating as she shook her head. "I think I owe you an apology," she said, unable to quite meet his eyes.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I'm afraid I jumped to a...wrong conclusion about you. I'm sorry."

His laughter rang throughout the bar, engaging her even in her discomfort. "Lemme guess," he said. "You thought I was a philandering ne'er-do-well, with nothing better to do with his Noel than to have a cup of his favorite cheer down at the local watering hole, am I right?" His smile only broadened at her bright flush, and he reached forward to pat her hand in conciliation. "There's a time you wouldn't have been wrong, Joyce. But don't you be selling those instincts of yours short. They could come in handy some day, mark my words."

She ate a fry as she weighed her next words. "Is that why you're not drinking your beer?" she said carefully.

As she expected, his grin faltered, his bright eyes falling to the mouth of his bottle with a wistfulness it was impossible to ignore. "Would love to, that's for sure," Doyle said. "Just...can't." With a forced laugh, he shook off the mantle of the falling mood and pushed the drink away. "So, your turn," he said. "What's your dreadful secret? Have you skipped out on family festivities to hide away in here?"

"I don't have family here. I'm staying at the hotel across the street."

"Voluntarily? You're a brave woman, Joyce Summers."

The last thing she'd wanted when he sat down was spill out her troubles to a stranger, but Doyle's open face and easy admission regarding his own history made her believe that he might be someone who'd understand. "I'm trying to find my daughter," she said. "She's missing."

"That sounds like you should be sitting at the sheriff's office, not here with me."

"I tried that. They weren't exactly...cooperative." Haltingly, Joyce told the story of the accident, leaving out the more pertinent details on what exactly her teenaged daughter was doing with a man old enough to be her father, and ending with her aborted attempts to find the exact site. "I know she's out there," she finished with more vehemence than she wanted. "And I'm not going to just sit back and do nothing while the local police pretend she's not."

Doyle nodded in understanding, though his gaze was thoughtful. "And it was just her and this teacher of hers in the car?" he asked. When Joyce visibly hesitated, he coaxed, "Come on. Who am I going to tell? I'm just a ghost in this town as far as the rest of 'em are concerned."

"There was someone else," she conceded. "A...an acquaintance, but..."

"Have you asked about him? Maybe he showed up at the hospital or something."

Joyce laughed. "No, Spike's not exactly the type to go to the hospital. Even if he broke his back."

"Spike, huh? Sounds like the name of the family dog, not someone with a fetish for pain."

"No, though I wouldn't be shocked to find out he had a studded collar to go with his leather jacket."

"So, this Spike. He the type to just up and walk away from your daughter? Or, would he stick around to make sure she's safe and sound?"

So lost in the considerations his questions provoked, Joyce didn't notice the narrowing of Doyle's eyes as he waited for her answers. "I don't know," she said. "Generally speaking, I know he's not the type to give up on someone he loves, but he and Buffy...well, things between them can get a little...prickly."

"Prickly...bad? Or prickly...they'd rather be---?"

She held up her hand to cut him off before he could finish the thought. "Don't go there," Joyce warned. "This is my daughter we're talking about. I'm still in denial that she lost her virginity in the first place."

"But you don't think he'd do something as rash as...hurt her, do you?"

For the first time, she saw the solemnity in the young man's aspect, and stiffened as she pulled away. "No," Joyce said slowly. "That's not possible." She'd said too much. There was something too attentive in his queries, an interest that spoke more of common courtesy. What had she volunteered that could've provoked his response?

"But you don't trust him."

"I didn't say that."

"So you do trust him."

"No. It's just...it's complicated."

"Kids always are." He'd retreated into his thoughts with her dismissive statements, and she watched him have some sort of internal debate with himself. He had the sort of face that made it impossible for him to hide his feelings, she realized, but recognizing that discussion of Spike and Buffy made him pensive did nothing to alleviate her growing concern.

"Listen," Doyle said, sliding from his seat, "I'm just going to run to the little boy's room for a second." Fishing around in his pockets, he dug out some change and dropped it to the table. "Find something on the jukebox that's not so depressing, would you? I think the two of us need some solid Christmas spirit to cheer us up."

When he disappeared through the doors that led to the restrooms, Joyce took only a moment to make her decision to leave. She was wasting too much time here; every second she wasn't searching was a second Buffy could need her.

"Can I get these to go, please?" she asked the bartender as she stood up. Grabbing her coat, she glanced at the restrooms. It would be rude to just disappear on Doyle. If he came out while she waited for her food to be wrapped, she'd just say her goodbyes and be done with him. At least by asking about Spike, he'd sparked a new avenue of searching for her.

She hovered by the back exit as the bartender cleared her plate away. There, she heard the unmistakable sound of muffled voices from the restrooms, and frowned, taking a step closer. A female. And...Doyle?

Who was he talking to back there?

Joyce waited until the bartender had his back to her, and then slipped through the doors. On this side, the voices were clearer, and it was impossible not to hear what they were saying.

"...still here?"

"I said, I was working on it. She's still eating her lunch. You think you can just rush these things?" Doyle sounded exasperated with the woman who had to be in the bathroom with him. Joyce's nose wrinkled. At least she knew now they most likely weren't having sex in there.

"But she's going, right? You know she can't find them, Doyle. She would probably end up getting hurt, and how cooperative do you think Buffy would be then?"

Joyce froze.

Buffy.

They were talking about Buffy.

He knew where Buffy was.

Or the woman he was with did.

"I'll make sure she goes, all right? It's just..." The restroom fell silent, quiet for so long that Joyce was almost ready to push the door open and pray they hadn't stopped their conversation because one of them was using the facilities. "She makes it sound that Buffy and Spike won't work together if it's just the two of them. How can we be sure---?"

"We can be sure." There was something calming about the woman's voice, a certainty that made Joyce hesitate to interrupt. "You saw them, Doyle. Are you going to tell me that you honestly believe that Spike would do anything to hurt Buffy? Or Holly? I've been telling you guys all along. There's a lot more to him than you realize. You just didn't get the benefit of knowing that side of Spike."

"And you did."

"You have to trust me. Buffy is perfectly safe with Spike. They're both stubborn as hell, and it might look like they want to kill each other, but as long as they don't stop talking, we'll be OK."
She heard Doyle chuckle. "I didn't get the impression talking was what Spike had in mind. Did you see the mistletoe?"

"Yeah, I had to talk Jenny out of going to the Powers to ask for another storm to knock it down. She doesn't like Spike being there at all."

"I think if Joyce knew they were shacked up together, she might have a word or two to say about that particular matter, too."

"Which is why Mrs. Summers has to go back to Sunnydale. Doyle, you have to stop worrying about Spike and Buffy. I've got them under control. Your job? Go take care of Mrs. Summers. If you can't get her to leave, at least stall her for as long as you can. Maybe you can find out what Giles said to her."

Joyce darted back into the main room and to her booth when she heard the doorknob start to turn on the bathroom. She'd been right; something was going on, and not only did it involve Giles, but it had Buffy stuck somewhere with Spike and someone named Holly. At least she knew Buffy was all right, but she didn't like being so deliberately manipulated. Did Doyle and his girlfriend really think she would just give up on her daughter so easily?

Though she smiled when Doyle slid onto the seat opposite her, an apology about taking so long spilling effortlessly from his lips, Joyce's face was closed when she nodded back.

Obviously, they didn't have kids. Otherwise, they wouldn't have made such a foolish assumption about Joyce backing off. She would fight to the death to ensure Buffy was safe from harm.

-----

It was a subdued Buffy who nudged the front door of the cabin open with her hip, her eyes burning from the sudden change in heat, her cheeks tingling as feeling began to slowly melt back into them. She blinked twice as she adjusted to the switch in brightness, and then frowned when she saw the empty living room.

"Don't tell me. You killed her for real this time, didn't you, Slayer?"

She jerked at the sound of Spike's voice, head swiveling to see him leaning against the loft railing. His muscled arms gleamed beneath his black tee, and she could've sworn there were fresh scratches marring his biceps. Instinctively, her grip tightened around the child she held. "She's sleeping," Buffy whispered, tearing her gaze away as she headed for the bedroom. "I'm just going to put her down."

He was stepping out of the bathroom, slipping something she couldn't quite see into his pocket, when she re-emerged, and Buffy stopped in her tracks when remnants of her conversation with Holly began echoing inside her head. The talk hadn't gone exactly as she had expected, leaving the Slayer glad that the child had fallen asleep on the long trek back to the cabin.

"He said he thought you were going to die."

"Huh? He said what?"

"Spike said he thought you were---."

"I heard that part. What were you two talking about that you were talking about me dying?"

"I told him I was scared sometimes."

"Scared of me dying?"

"No. That's what Spike's scared of."

That had shocked Buffy into silence.

"Buffy?"

"Yeah?"

"Why does Spike hate ducks? Is it because they quack?"

"What? Spike doesn't...Why would you think that?"

"He said so. He said him caring about you hurt his head and that he hated the pair of ducks."

It took Buffy a moment to realize what she was saying, but it did nothing to loosen the fist that must've magically burst through her chest to start squeezing her heart. "I think it's just a vampire thing," she'd explained, dropping her hand to absently pat Holly's head. "Or maybe just the fact that Spike's always been a little bit weird."

"You look cold," Spike observed with a casual sweep over her body. He didn't let it linger as he sauntered to the kitchen. "Should probably do something 'bout that before you..." He cut himself off with a shake of his head, disappearing momentarily behind the refrigerator door before coming out again with a blood bag and turning his back to her.

"I'm just going to...clean up," Buffy said slowly, peeling her coat from her shoulders. She wasn't sure what she'd expected on her return. He'd fed Holly before she went out, and Buffy'd not even bothered to look at him before fleeing herself, though he hadn't tried very hard to get her attention. She supposed she probably expected him to be asleep, and she'd just try and deal with him when the need arose. She certainly hadn't expected this distant...politeness.

She froze in the bathroom's entrance, her hand halfway to the light switch.

There was no need for further illumination. Scattered throughout the room were more than a dozen candles, of varying shapes and sizes, all lit, all casting their dancing incandescence across the shadowed walls and floor. The sultry air made her nose twitch, and it took Buffy a long second to realize she was smelling some of the bath crystals she'd been secreting away to take back to Sunnydale with her.

Hesitantly, she took a step toward the full tub, hearing the bubbles that skimmed the water's surface fizzing faintly as they settled into oblivion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pile of her clothes carefully folded on the top of the toilet, a fresh towel draped within easy reach of the bath's edge, and a tray with a mug of hot chocolate on the floor.

"Been topping it up to keep it warm."

Buffy whirled to see Spike outlined in the doorway, his face hidden by the darkness. "Why?" she blurted.

He stiffened at the abruptness of her tone, and for a second, she thought he was going to leave. "Thought you'd like it, is all," Spike finally said, his voice taut. "Didn't mean---."

"It's great. Thank you."

Her gratitude took him by surprise. His head ducked, hiding his face even further, and Buffy had to fight the urge to close the distance between them and force him to meet her gaze again.

"Take as long as you want," he said quietly. "I'll keep an ear out for the little one so that you can relax."

As he turned away, all the doubts she'd had about their fight that morning went scuttling to the back of her mind, leaving Buffy only with the need to not let him go just yet. "Are you OK?" she asked. When he glanced up at her in confusion, she gestured toward his marked arms, only then noticing that he had additional abrasions on his knuckles. "You didn't lose a fight with the Christmas tree, did you?"

He smiled at her small joke, but shook his head. "'S'nothin'," Spike replied. "They'll be gone before you get out of the tub, I'll venture. And you? You're not too much the worse for wear from your little recreation...are you?"

When he looked her over this time, the examination was more protracted, his eyes caressing each hidden curve of her body as surely as if he'd used his hands. Each slide made Buffy shiver, and she wrapped her arms across her front in an attempt to ward away the trembling she knew was coming.

"It was fun," she admitted. "We even found a lake that's all frozen over and pretended to go ice skating on it."

"Explains why the both of you are so knackered then."

"I'm not so..." She blushed at his raised eyebrow. "OK, so I'm a little tired. Kind of hard to understand how someone so little can have so much energy. But...what about you? Were you able to get any sleep like you wanted? That was the whole purpose of getting us out of the house...right?"

For some reason, her words made him retreat. "I'll do," he said cryptically, and stepped back into the door's frame. "Take your bath, Buffy. Don't fancy havin' to mind the both of you if you get yourself sick again."

And with the soft click of the latch, Spike was gone.

-----

She luxuriated in the scented water until the first of the candles began to flicker. Unlike her last bath, Buffy didn't sleep through this one. She couldn't. Her mind was too awhirl with details of the night she'd shared with Spike, and their ensuing fight, and her day with Holly, and her unexpected disappointment that he hadn't joined her. That had been her first instinct when she'd seen the room. Rather than the apology she now believed it to be, Buffy had thought it was another of Spike's attempts to seduce her into thinking with her libido and not her head.

It couldn't be, though. Otherwise, he would never have left.

But...even with the unspoken concession, his words from the morning still smarted. She wanted to believe that they'd been prompted merely by the heat of the moment---because, oh god, they were so good at forgetting their situation and getting lost in back-and-forth snipes---but until they talked about it, there would always be that niggle in the back of Buffy's brain that Spike's statement had been truth.

The prospect of talking about it, however, terrified her. Spike was right. She liked her little bubble of denial. She liked being able to put things into their proper slots of good and evil, and she was beginning to more than suspect that Spike belonged in neither.

Holly had her own opinions on the subject. For the little girl, Spike was someone to be trusted, intuitively it would seem. Was it just ignorant naivete, or was it the wisdom of uncorrupted youth?

She was thoughtful as she toweled off, enjoying the textured rub of the terry against her skin. When she saw the black lace bra and panties set Spike had selected for her, Buffy couldn't help but smile and shake her head at his predictability. It didn't matter that he'd chosen an innocuous pair of jeans and turtleneck sweater to wear over them; the fact that he still picked the same underwear he'd teased her about on that first day spoke volumes.

The sound of Holly's chatter greeted her when she opened the door, and she glanced over to see the child sitting with Spike at the dining room table. The pair sat opposite each other, with what looked to be every glass in the cabin in two semi-straight rows between them. In Spike's hand, he held one of the Jack Daniels bottles Doyle had brought, topping off a cup in front of him as he listened to Holly finish whatever it was she'd been describing.

The creak of a floorboard beneath her foot alerted him to her presence, and Buffy froze when Spike looked up to see her. "You look...better," he drawled, his gaze devouring her in no uncertain terms. He waved with the bottle. "Come and join the festivities. Moptop and me were just gettin' down to playing some Christmas Eve games."

Her incredulity rose as she approached the table. "You're doing shots?" Buffy said in amazement as she gaped at the glasses. The scent of the whisky made her nose tickle. "Spike, she's three."

"Which is why she's got hot chocolate." Rolling his eyes, he turned away from the Slayer and leaned across the table toward Holly. "Told you she'd have a stick up her ass 'bout it," he mock-whispered.

Holly giggled before turning bright eyes to Buffy. "Do you want to play?" she asked.

Spike didn't allow her to answer. "'Course she doesn't," he said. He set the Jack aside as he leaned back in his chair, one hand toying with the cup he'd just filled, the other hooking through one of his belt loops, inevitably drawing Buffy's gaze down to his sprawling legs. "That would mean admitting she leapt before she looked, which goes against her precious Slayer code."

It was a dare, and Buffy knew it. Lifting her chin to meet the taunt in his eyes, she deliberately reached for the whisky bottle. "So, have you completely raided the cupboards?" she asked. "Or are there enough glasses to let me in on the fun?"
 

To be continued in Chapter 25: Up on the Housetop...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Buffy, Spike, and Holly are about to celebrate Christmas Eve, snowbound-style, while Joyce has overheard Doyle talking to someone about the fact that Buffy is alive and kicking...

-----

25. Up on the Housetop

Truth be told, Doyle was rather pleased with himself. The girls' instructions had been simple and straightforward, and outside of the one glitch where he'd panicked on Joyce's opinion on Buffy and Spike, he didn't think his scheme to get Mrs. Summers back on the road to Sunnydale was working out too badly. In fact, knowing that she was still sitting opposite him with full awareness the sun was shrinking on the horizon was cause for celebration, in his book. Too bad he couldn't have a drink to do so.

He watched as she closed her cell phone and set it down on the table. "Nobody matching Spike's description has shown up at any of the nearby hospitals," Joyce said.

Doyle nodded in what he hoped appeared like genuine sympathy. Upon his return to the table, she had probed his thoughts on following the Spike lead, and when it was apparent it was a bone she wasn't going to stop gnawing, he'd made the suggestion to check around anywhere he might've gone to for medical assistance. "Just to be safe," he'd said. He'd even tossed out the possibility of other hotels---."

"Not that I think that your daughter would do anything she shouldn't," he'd assured hastily when Joyce appeared to take what he was saying the wrong way. "I'm sure she's a perfectly well-behaved girl. Look at who she's got for a role model." His most charming smile had seemed to placate her, but not enough to shake loose the idea, and she'd ended up agreeing that maybe his advice was the best for Buffy.

Frankly, he didn't care how many people she called. As long as she didn't go back out on the road to look for the Slayer, his job was done.

"Where are you staying?" Joyce asked.

The question came out of the blue, but Doyle grinned to cover up how it had startled him. "I'll be hitting the road again here fairly soon," he said. "Places to go, people to see, you know. My partners will want me to be checking in with them for updates on how things are going."

"You never actually told me what it is you do."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "My job's all milk and water. Nothing to be writing home about."

"But it keeps you busy."

Her sudden interest in him and not Buffy or Spike made Doyle nervous, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "You could say that," he answered warily.

"I could also say that I think you're a lousy liar. Would that be very far from the truth?"

There was no guile in her face, and her eyes were unblinking as she waited for him to respond. It was a patented mother look, and not one Doyle had been subjected to since---well, since the girls had guilted him into getting Joyce Summers back to Sunnydale. He only wondered what he'd done that had given him away.

"Now that's not a very nice thing to say," he said. "And here I thought we were getting along so well."

"That was before I found out you were just playing me for some kind of sap," Joyce countered. She leaned far enough across the table to give them a sense of privacy, and circled his wrist with a tight grip. "I don't know what's going on here, or why it's so important for me to not be looking for Buffy and Spike, but something tells me that you have all the answers I need. I don't think either of us need to be going anywhere until you start telling me what in hell is going on."

Carefully, he pried away her fingers, casting a sideways glance at the bartender who seemed to be too busy watching a colorized version of "Miracle on 34th Street" on his small television behind the counter to notice them. "There's nothing to tell," Doyle said.

"Oh? So you're not having clandestine bathroom meetings about Buffy and Spike? I must've forgotten to take my medication this morning because I could've sworn I heard a voice saying your job was to keep me from finding my daughter. Or was it to pry information out of me about Rupert? It wasn't completely clear from where I was standing."

Well, at least he knew now how she found him out.

Doyle sighed. "I don't suppose it'll do any good to just hear that your daughter's doing dandy, will it?" At her silence, he shook his head. "I didn't think so."

"Where is she? What happened? Is Spike with her? What happened to Rupert? Who exactly are you? And why are you trying to keep me from finding Buffy?"

Each question rose in volume, until by the last, even the bartender had torn his eyes away from his movie to glance in their direction. "Keep it down," Doyle hissed. "Trust me. You don't want that kind of attention."

"It is if it's going to give me the answers I want."

"It's going to get you kicked out of here, that's what it's going to do."

"Then maybe the police will listen to me. They can't just ignore me if I've got a witness who'll testify about Buffy."

"They'll just think you're a nutter, Joyce. I told you. I'm a ghost to these people around here. I meant that literally."

The disclosure did what he'd hoped. It shut her up. Of course, it also attracted the last person he wanted to see right now, and Doyle ducked his eyes at the form that materialized at the table's side.

"She overheard us," he volunteered before the new arrival could say anything. "What else was I to do?"

"I know," the young woman sighed. She smiled at the edgy astonishment in Joyce's face. "Hello, Mrs. Summers."

"You...he..." Reaching out, Joyce poked at Doyle's shoulder, wincing when her finger bent backwards against his flesh.

"Magic," he explained. "A necessary precaution for the job I needed to do."

"Who are you?" she asked, turning to the young woman. Joyce's pass at reconciling the ghost's solidity was determined when her hand moved right through the skirt that seemed so real, and she swallowed before adding, "Maybe that should be, what are you?"

"We're friends," the young woman said quietly. "And there's a lot we need to tell you. Would it be all right...maybe we could talk about all this in your hotel room?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure what the elder Summers was going to do, but when the tentative nod finally came, he watched as his partner stepped aside to allow Joyce room to slide from her seat, giving her a wide berth when she began walking toward the door.

"Jenny's not going to like this," Doyle commented, rising to join his partner.

"Jenny hasn't liked any of this since I got permission to include Spike," came the rejoinder. Together, they began following Joyce out. "Jenny's just going to have to live with it. Or you know..." She smiled at him when he chuckled at her small pun. "...not."

-----

"That's not fair." Buffy's voice seemed too loud in the growing heat of the cabin, though she didn't know if the added warmth was due to the roaring fire in the hearth or the effects of the whisky in her veins. Fire, she decided. Can't get drunk on just a few shots.

Spike shrugged, an exercise in nonchalance, but the bright gleam in his eye was in direct opposition with his assumed aplomb. "It's pidge's call," he said. "Her turn, her pick."

"But it's not a game if you automatically win."

"It's not about who wins, pet. It's about who loses. You tellin' me you can't hold your breath longer than a three-year-old?"

She turned to Holly, who was watching the exchange with growing boredom. "Pick something else," Buffy instructed.

"Don't listen to her. You made your choice, you stick to your guns."

"Spike doesn't breathe. It's not a fair choice."

"Since when do I care about fair?"

"It's bad enough you're corrupting me. I'm not about to let you start in on an innocent little girl."

"Oh, so is that the bug up your skirt, luv? Big Bad William has sullied the Slayer's honor? Boo bloody hoo."

"Get over yourself."

"Funny, but it's just a mite more pleasurable when you get over me."

"I have to pee."

Both blond heads swivelled to stare at the little girl they had forgotten about as she hopped down from her chair and walked over to the bathroom, closing the door shut behind her and leaving them in silence.

"Guess that's that," Buffy declared. "Game called on account of rain." Before she could stop herself, the giggles erupted from her throat, and she dropped her head onto the table as her shoulders shook.

Grabbing the half-empty whisky bottle, Spike rose and began gathering the glasses. "That's it. I'm cutting you off."

"Why?" Her voice was muffled from where her face remained pressed to the wood.

"Someone's drunk."

"No, I'm not." She shook her head to accompany her denial, and then she abruptly sat back up, rubbing her forehead. "Ow."

"Guess it's a good thing you're such a lightweight, Slayer," he commented. He held the bottle up to the light, tilting it to watch the amber liquid inside run freefall against the glass. "This might just last me to the New Year after all."

"Why do you do that?"

The pout in her voice diverted his attention away from the alcohol and back to Buffy, a frown drawing his brows together. "Do what?"

"Call me Slayer. I don't walk around calling you 'vampire.'"

"'Cause I've already been told off once 'bout swearing in front of the tidbit."

"I'm serious, Spike."

"And you think I'm not?"

She was on her feet at that, closing the distance between them until she had backed him up against the counter. To his credit, he didn't shy away from the approach. In fact, he merely reached behind him to set the whisky down before folding his arms across his chest.

"I know you think this is all fun and games," Buffy continued. "Believe me, you've made yourself perfectly clear on the matter. But one of these days, someone could lose an eye or a liver or something, and then where would the fun be?" She poked him in emphasis. The desire to tell him exactly what she thought of his purpose in seducing her the night before---because that was how she was going to view it, damn it; if he wanted to fuck her to make her nicer, then he was damn well going to get the blame for it happening in the first place---had been building ever since she'd come out of the bathroom and settled in to play the silly shots dare game he and Holly had created. She'd had to refrain from saying anything during the game, though, even when it became obvious the two of them were conspiring to cheat against Buffy. There was no other way she could've lost so many of the rounds.

Spike was motionless. "I'm sure you've got a point in there somewhere," he drawled.

"My point..." She poked him again, but for the longest second as her fingertip pressed into his shirt, Buffy became transfixed with the memory of what lay beneath the black cotton, the way his skin had seethed against hers, stealing her heat as its own...the suggestion of its tang against her tongue when she'd been straddled behind him, tasting the sinew of his neck before she'd moved around to swallow down the head of his dripping cock. Unbidden, her breath began to quicken, and she jerked her hand away as she struggled to clear her head.

What was I saying?

Oh, right. I was mad at him.

Why was I mad at him?

Oh. Right.

"My point," Buffy repeated, this time just pointing a wary finger at him, "is that internal organs are fragile, and just because yours don't work anymore, doesn't mean you have the right to go messing with mine."

She tilted her chin, proud that she'd stated her opinion on the matter so clearly. Take that, stupid vampire, she thought. I can so be a grown-up and tell you how I feel, even if you're being an obnoxious, conceited jerk.

The effect was spoiled, however, when her tongue seemed to stick out of its own volition and she turned to flounce away.

Spike's hand on her arm jerked her to a halt, more out of the fact that her head was suddenly dizzy than any force he might've exerted. "Did I miss the part where we stopped talkin' about the game and moved onto something else?" he asked. His eyes were dark as they searched her face, and Buffy noticed that he wasn't letting go of her, though she had already used the expanse of his chest to steady herself against the spinniness of the room.

"Oh, you mean I wasn't clear?" she stated in faux innocence. "I didn't make it one hundred percent proof positive what Buffy's intentions were? Wherever could I have learned that little trick from?"

Yanking her arm away, she stumbled back against the table, but quickly righted herself. It felt good to say some of the things that had been tumbling around inside her head all day, and if Spike didn't get completely get it, well, then, that was his fault, wasn't it? He'd been all over the mood map ever since they woke up, with pit stops in the suburbs of snarky and distant downtown, to name just a few. Why did Buffy have to play by different rules?

"What the hell are you goin' on about?" Spike demanded. "If memory serves, I'm the one who's got his head on straight in this scenario. Eighty-sixed your power trip, didn't I?"

"Which I still don't get, by the way."

"Your problem. Not mine."

"No, you're my problem, Spike. You, and your baths, and the saving me when I really didn't ask you to, and then conning Holly into thinking you like her---."

"Leave the tidbit out of this."

His voice had dropped to a menacing level, but Buffy was oblivious to his rising ire. "Is it a thrall thing?" she went on. She was on a roll. "Did you learn that little trick from Drusilla? Offer up some sweet talk, and a few games which seem fun on the outside but on the inside turn her head all squishy, and she's falling at your feet, as if she doesn't know you're a killer, and dangerous, and would drain her dry if you didn't have a piece of plastic in your head that turns you into Spaz Boy if you even think about it?"

"I've never pretended to be anything I'm not."

"And yet, she still adores you. Worse, she trusts you. And you're just going to rip her heart out because you're going to fail her, Spike. You're going to screw up, and Holly's going to get hurt, and you're not going to care that she put herself out there only to find out that it was all a ploy because all you're interested in is making your life easier."

And then he was there, and he was so close she had to lean back into the table to get some breathing room because his mouth was inches from hers, and his hands were rigid where they balled into fists on either side of her hips and all she wanted to do was touch him and taste him and devour him and feel him doing the same to her, and she hated that she still felt the weakness of the attraction even knowing what she did about how he felt about the whole matter.

"You might want to reconsider your logic, pet," Spike growled. "And be glad that your livelihood isn't contingent on you makin' with the Van Owen. Because you know jack about what I'm interested in, and if you're goin' to bandy about ridiculous accusations about what makes my life easier, you might want to have a stake handy for when I decide to hell with my little chip problem and get rid of you, once and for all. Because there is nothing easy in feeling what I do about you. Nothing."

His tongue poked out beneath his teeth with his over-enunciation of that last word, a vicious score along her flesh even if Buffy wasn't sure that had been his intention when he uttered it. Confusion made her swallow to try and dispel the dry mouth that had cottoned her mouth, and she blinked more than once in a vain attempt to regain some clarity.

"We were talking about Holly," she managed.

"Were we?"

"I was."

"Don't think so, pet."

"You know what's in my head now?"

"I've got no bloody clue what's in your head any more. I just know what comes past those lying lips of yours."

"I don't lie!"

"Should I step back now before you poke my eye out, Pinocchio?"

"I don't lie!"

"Repeating yourself don't make it true."

"I don't---." She cut herself off at his raised eyebrow, and shoved him away. "I hate you."

Her declaration was meant to put an end to the discussion, once and for all. She didn't want this. Holly would be walking out any minute now, and she'd see the two of them fighting, and all Buffy's work in being the girl's friend today would get tossed out the window because no way would the kid take Spike's side against anything, even if the stupid vampire was dead wrong, and a jerk, and---.

She turned to stare at the bathroom door. "Is it just me or has Holly been in there for an awful long time?" she queried.

It was an observation that apparently hadn't occurred to Spike before Buffy made it, and she padded after him when he marched to the door. For a moment, his hand lifted to knock, but when he caught the Slayer watching him with raised brows, he grimaced and wrenched the door open.

"Time's up---," he started to say.

Buffy plowed into Spike's back when he stopped in the doorway, reeling slightly as she grabbed the jamb. "Did we switch to playing statues?" she asked, and then peeked around his shoulder.

"Looks like someone's had her fill of celebrating," Spike said softly.

Holly was on the toilet, her pants around her ankles, her body slumped as her chin rested on her chest. In spite of the uncomfortable position, the child was fast asleep, her slow and even breathing betraying her body's slumber.

"How does she do that?" Buffy whispered. She watched as Spike stepped forward and crouched in front of Holly to peer into her face.

"A little help here would be appreciated," he commented.

Quickly, the pair cleaned up the little girl, and though they moved and jostled her as needed to redress her, Holly never woke, not even mumbling when Spike lifted her into his arms.

"Must be nice," Buffy murmured, pushing back the hair that had fallen over Holly's cheek.

"What?" Spike asked.

"To be able to just give in like that," she replied. "Her body said it was time to sleep, so she went to sleep. Seems...easy."

He gave no reply, just looked at her for what felt like forever, before brushing past to take the child to her bed. Buffy followed after them, but when Spike disappeared into the bedroom, all the fight that had been wound throughout her body seemed to vanish.

Spike found her sitting in front of the fireplace, the poker laying forgotten in her hand, when he came back.

"Think the nipper's got the right idea," he said, falling onto the cushions of the couch. "A spot of sleep sounds like my idea of heaven, right about now."

"What're you complaining about?" Buffy replied. She didn't bother turning to look at him, continuing her fascination with the flames that leapt in the hearth. "You slept all day."

"If you say so." She heard him sniff. "What're you doin' to that fire?"

"I'm not doing anything."

Another sniff, and this time, the couch groaned as he shifted his weight on it. "Well, what did you do while I was puttin' the girl down?"

"I told you, I didn't do anything." Buffy jerked out of his way as Spike appeared at her side, taking the poker from her grasp to poke at the charred logs. Immediately, a shower of sparks came spraying onto the floor, forcing both of them to scuttle away, but it was the accompanying cloud of smoke that caught Buffy's attention.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Spike was already heading to the door, grabbing his coat from where it was draped over a chair. "Something's blocking it," he replied. "Unless you feel like choking to death in your sleep, someone's got to clear the rubbish away."

She watched the door after he'd gone. It was things like this that made her want to scream, she realized. Contradiction, after contradiction, after contradiction. If Spike was a normal vampire, he would've just kept his mouth shut, let Buffy and Holly die from asphyxiation by morning, and been free of whatever tethers he felt they were. But no. Instead, he was outside---.

There was a dull thud overhead, and Buffy tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling.

---make that on the roof, fixing the fireplace so that the Slayer and a child he should have absolutely no interest in could live another day. Vampires didn't do that.

And Slayers weren't supposed to care, but that was a proviso that was rapidly slipping into oblivion, even as Buffy listed all the reasons in her head that she shouldn't go after him.

-----

He did it more to get away from her. He hadn't been lying about something obstructing the flue, but taking care of it had been minor compared to his need to be free of the constant reminder of Buffy and her incessant metaphors where she came off as the injured party. She'd been edgy during the entire shots game that he and Holly had constructed, losing more often than was necessary, and Spike couldn't help but question whether or not she was deliberately using the alcohol as a means of escape.

If he had more than the two bottles, he knew he would've been doing that very thing.

He didn't get her. He'd swallowed his pride and apologized with the bath, even though he didn't know what the fuck he'd done wrong that morning, and still it wasn't good enough for Buffy. If she knew what he'd spent his day doing, would she still be mad? He didn't know. He didn't care.

Fuck.

Yes, he did.

That's what pissed him off so much.

Didn't mean he was going to give in to her whinging.

Maintaining his balance on the roof was harder with the ice that had crusted beneath the snow, and Spike had to grab onto the branches that hung overhead to keep himself steady as he made his way to the chimney. Even before he reached it, though, he could see what had blocked it up.

Like a thick finger beckoning to the devil, a tree limb had snapped from the weight of the snow, falling to the roof to become embedded in the chimney. Most of it extruded from the narrow opening, but there was enough inside to prevent the free flow of the smoke, hence the acrid scents he'd detected in the cabin. Planting his feet on either side of the stack, Spike reached through the prickly needles to grab the shaft, tugging it free and pushing it over the far edge. It disappeared from sight, landing with a muffled swish down below, and he wiped his hands on his jeans to get rid of the icy dirt.

"Wow. There really was something up here. I thought you were just kidding."

He stiffened at the sound of her voice. "Yeah, well, it's all safe as houses for Kris Kringle now, so you can just skedaddle back to your warm delusions and leave the Big Bad to finish the clean-up, all right?"

She deliberately stepped in front of him when he tried to retrace his steps back down, hands on either hip as she glared up at him. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above to turn Buffy's hair to silver, and Spike felt the familiar pull in his stomach at the smoky aspect in her eyes. So bloody beautiful. His fingers were twitching to touch her, and he almost growled aloud at his body's betrayal to his mood.

"Get back inside," he snarled instead. "You're goin' to fall on your ass and break your bloody neck out here."

"What makes me think you'd be the one to cushion my fall?" she accused.

"You don't watch it, I'll be the one who pushes you over," he warned.

"You couldn't do it."

"Could. Just can't because of the hardware, remember?"

"Was it worth it?" Buffy demanded. "Are you happy with yourself now?"

"For clearing the chimney? Yeah, I'm just rollin' in the aisles, can't you tell?"

"Stop it!" The force of her voice made her stumble on the slippery slope, and Spike's hand shot out automatically to catch her before she toppled over the side. She ended up pressed to his chest, only the faintest of alcoholic fumes still clinging to her breath as she tilted her head back to look at him.

"There," she stated, though her voice was barely a whisper. "That's what I'm talking about."

The familiarity of her pulse against him made his muscles relax of their own accord, and Spike sighed against the injustice of it all. "You're drunk, Buffy," he said quietly. "You're not makin' any sense."

"Then that makes two of us." Her eyes scanned his, but what she was looking for, he had no idea. "I don't get you, Spike," she said. "I thought...I mean, last night, it made sense, and it even made a sort of sense this morning, but then you didn't make sense, or maybe too much, and then Holly, god, trying to get sense out of her is impossible because she's all about the you being scared which makes no kind of sense, and I don't know if it's because she's three or really smart or really dumb or maybe all of the above, you know?" She stopped to breathe, and hung her head. "I really must be drunk because I have no idea what I just said."

Reaching out, Spike canted her head back up with a single finger beneath her chin. "Why did you come up here, pet?"

Her breath was a wispy cloud as she fought to find the words. "Because you make me hurt," she finally admitted.

His hand fell away, and his shoulders straightened. He should've known she'd only meant to drive the knife in a little deeper, but for a second there, Spike had actually believed she might say something real for a change.

"It all hurts," she was saying. "My head, and my heart, and I'm tired of trying to figure out why I care that it hurts. I keep telling myself that you're evil, but then there's the bath and you being all thoughtful and---."

"Wait. Go back." Hope returned, and in that moment, Spike didn't hate it. "What was that bit 'bout your heart?"

"Oh, no, you don't." A warning finger waved in front of his face. "You know darn well what you did."

"If I did, would I be asking?"

"Yes, because you're evil and you just want to make me stew in it."

"Humor me, Buffy. Let's pretend I have no bloody clue what you're talkin' about." He stuffed his traitorous hands deep into his duster's pockets, determined not to yield to the urge to just say to hell with his pride and grab her right there and then. "What, exactly, does your heart have to do with anything?"

She was going to run, he could tell, and this time, Spike was going to let her. He was tired of playing chase when it was barefacedly obvious that she wanted to be anywhere but around him. He had better things---.

"Because last night meant something to me," Buffy said quickly. Her heartbeat was pounding in his ears, against his skin, enlivening him when he'd thought he was past feeling. "And...I hate that it didn't to you. Are you satisfied now? You got what you wanted."

"And what was that?" His voice was hoarse. She couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying.

She also couldn't meet his eyes. "I care, all right?" Her arms hugged her body, as if to shield herself from his response. "You got me to care about you, you jerk."
 

To be continued in Chapter 26: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas...

DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss', of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce has gone off with Doyle to find out what exactly is going on with Buffy, while a slightly drunken Slayer has followed Spike to the rooftop and confessed to him that their relationship means more to her than he thought...

-----

26. Twas the Night Before Christma

The roof shimmered in the moonlight, broken patches of snow blinding alongside the dark tile that peeked through the icy crust. Even standing still, Spike's balance was unsteady, but it wasn't the cabin's camber that forced his precarious stance. It was her words, pounding against him in vicious accompaniment with her body's rhythms, threatening to topple him from the peak, and he had to steel his spine in his resolve not to fall.

A resolution that was already wavering in the face of his naked need to believe her.

Spike coughed, clearing his throat. "Well," he drawled, more casually than he felt. "Juliet, you aren't."

It lit a fire somewhere inside Buffy, jerking her head up to glare at him in righteous fury. "And you think you're my idea of Romeo?" she snapped. "Wrong body temperature, for one---."

His tsking was a sharp slice through the crisp night air. "That argument only works on those who aren't familiar with a certain Slayer's romantic history," he chided. "Which would be neither of us, pet."

"This has nothing to do with the fact that you're a vampire!"

"So you're head over heels because of my sparkling personality? Funny, but that one's almost as hard to swallow."

Eyes bright.

Nostrils flaring.

A single beat where Buffy almost seemed to be vibrating from her barely controlled indignation.

And then...

"You think this is because I'm drunk, don't you? I'm not drunk. I told you that."

Spike lifted a single brow. "I believe we've already established that someone's verbal skills are a bit lacking at the moment. Not that that differs too wildly from when you're stone cold sober---."

"I can prove it to you."

"What, that you can talk?"

"That I'm not drunk." Gritted teeth now. She was approaching pissed off, which, while not his ideal state for her, was at least one he understood.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that, Buffy?" Spike said. "Have you walk the straight and narrow so you can tumble nogginfirst into the drifts?" He shook his head. "Don't think so. Not about to get suckered into that role again."

Her confusion made her sparkle, a bundle of jittery nerves that electrified his mood, made him relish the confrontation even if the reasons for it were still cowering in fear of exposure. "Why are you even arguing with me about this?" Buffy demanded. "I thought you'd be all floaty and gloaty about getting into my head."

"Oh, I dunno. Might have something to do with gettin' treated like a bloody pariah almost since you rolled outta my bed this morning," he countered. "You've got more moods than Sybil, so pardon me if I'm not exactly sure which one you're channelling at the moment."

"I just told you I cared about you."

"And downstairs, you said you hated me."

"We were fighting!"

"And we're not now?"

"No! Yes! No!"

Spike smirked at her in satisfaction, though it didn't quite reach all the way into his heart. "Believe that settles the debate on the power of your oratory," he stated.

With a wordless cry of disgust, Buffy threw her hands up in defeat, beginning to whirl to escape his presence only to stop in mid-spin when her heel started to slip on the ice. She fell to her knees, scrabbling for a hold as she kept herself from falling further, and shot Spike a withering glance when he unconsciously took a step toward her to help.

"I don't know why I expected any different from you," she grumbled as she equalized her weight along the peak. She wasn't rising back to her feet, choosing instead to sit and stare out through the skeletal trees. "Once a self-centered meanie, always a self-centered meanie."

Ah, the eloquence of inebriation. How the mighty have fallen.

With her back to him, Spike couldn't see her features, but the tone of her voice made that unnecessary. For a long moment, he just regarded Buffy, the bow of her head as she stared out at the forest, the curve of her ass where it melded to the bend in the roof, and each passing second watered down the ire that had burned so brightly in his chest during their discourse. He couldn't believe her, of course, as much as he might want to, but hearing each jagged breath being wrenched from her body as if he was clawing it from her lungs himself was more than he could stand.

Slowly, Spike inched his way forward, crouching when he was within a foot of Buffy to sit directly behind her. She stiffened when she felt his thighs brush against hers, but the tension was short-lived after he'd pulled her back to lean against his chest.

"Listen," he said, and his voice was an even modulation that had soothed more than one ruffled feather in the past. "I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't want to believe you, luv, but we both know it's the Jack doin' the talkin' at the moment, not you. It's got you goin' in circles and frankly, I'm gettin' more than a little dizzy trying to keep up."

"You're not the only one," she muttered.

He smiled, and let his hand drop to begin stroking the back of hers where it rested between her legs. It was easier to bare his thoughts to her when those green eyes weren't boring into him, daring Spike to rise above his demon, gloating when he failed. And if she didn't remember a word of what he said when morning rolled around, all the better.

"I didn't get any sleep today," he continued, "for the thought of you, and what you and me might be together. How great that could be, even if it's scary as hell."

"Yeah," she whispered, and the single word wrapped around his heart and squeezed. "I did a lot of thinking today, too. That's why---."

"Let me finish." The temptation of her throat where he could see it beneath the lapel of her coat made his mouth water, but Spike held firm, pulling away from the obvious contact to lessen the allure. "Tried to make amends with the bath and such, but it's a little too late for gestures, isn't it? Can't very well hope that you'd feel the same way, not in any real deal where it's not just about the sex. I've been the Big Bad to you for too long for that to happen, so really, it's nobody's fault but my own."

She twisted around to face him, and the moon behind her shadowed Buffy's face from scrutiny. "I can't believe you're actually apologizing," she said.

"What? No, no apology. I'm just sayin'..." But the enormity of what she'd said stuttered to a halt at the edge of Spike's thoughts, and carefully, he reeled it back in, turning it over and weighing it against the tirades and the nonsense and the so-called admissions that had been spilling from Buffy's lips for the past half hour. "What is it you think I need to be apologizing for?" he asked warily, eyes narrowing in anticipation of her response.

She stiffened, but didn't turn away, small chin jutting forward in a determined show of pride. "For trying to use sex with me as a way to make staying here easier for you," she said.

And then it clicked, and the morning replayed in all its awful Technicolor glory as he saw it through the eyes of a confused Slayer, and heard his "nice" gibe as something other than the joke he'd intended. He wanted to laugh, and scream, and sob, and shout at the realization and her stubbornness and her innate sense of being able to automatically assume the worst. But instead, he just yanked her to him, pressing his mouth to hers in a quick kiss.

She spluttered against the onslaught, and pulled away, her fingers going automatically to her swollen lips. "You're not getting sex for giving me the brush-off," Buffy warned, and, when his head ducked for another caress, braced her other hand against his chest to stop him from repeating the action.

Spike grinned. A weight had been lifted from his shoulders with this new understanding, and if it weren't for the icy snow seeping through the denim to blister his ass in cold, he'd think he was floating somewhere above the trees. "Let me give you a spot of advice, pet," he said cheerfully. "Next time you get your knickers in a twist 'bout something you think I'm sayin', don't turn tail before callin' me on it. Odds are, I'm just flapping my gums and you'll save us both a heap of headaches by getting the truth up front."

The sudden shift in his mood brought a flummoxed frown to Buffy's brow. "Huh?"

"C'mon." With a quick yank, he'd hauled her to her feet, dragging her down the length of the roof to the edge before she could protest against it. He turned a wicked smile to her, and, curling his arm around Buffy's waist to mold her to his hip, asked, "Feel like flying?"

She didn't have a chance to respond.

Lightning reflexes had Spike leaping to the ground below, Buffy tucked safely against him so that she wouldn't take the weight of the jump on any of her previously injured limbs. She fell against him when they landed, knocking him back into the snow, but rather than scramble away, she stared at him in bewilderment, still unsure what exactly had heralded this mania that now seemed to possess him.

"I thought I was the drunk one," she commented.

Strong fingers cupped her ass, grinding her pelvis against his growing erection. "Don't tell me that wasn't fun," Spike admonished.

"That wasn't fun."

She yelped in surprise when he pushed her up. "Guess we'll have to try it again," he announced, entwining her fingers with his.

Buffy stopped him before he could make the jump back up onto the roof. "Not that playing Batman and Robin isn't at least something different," she said, "but where in the world did this come from? Just two minutes ago you were all apologetic and broody---."

"Angel broods. I ponder."

"Whatever. Still doesn't tell me what your sitch is, Schizo Boy."

His head tilted as he contemplated her. "You were right," Spike finally said.

"I know." Beat. "About what?"

"I do owe you an apology, so mark this day, pet, 'cause you won't be gettin' another." When she tried to distance herself from his grasp, Spike drew her closer, wrapping his coat around the pair of them to cocoon them from the elements. "But first...did you mean it? About caring. The truth, now."

The alcohol in her system softened her features, he realized, made it even more impossible for Buffy to hide from him the dangerous thoughts and emotions that commanded her existence. Gazing down at her, he witnessed the trepidation return, fear of another rejection battling with the proud backbone that made her so formidable, and gleefully watched the fearlessness win.

"Yes," Buffy admitted.

"But..." He reached up, stroked the silver-blonde hair away from the eyes he so desperately needed to see. "...this morning, luv. The pushing me away. I thought it was because you didn't, see? You wouldn't let me touch you, and after last night...did you really think I'd be willing to just walk away after what went on between us? Don't rightly understand what it is, and it scares the shit out of me, but...you and me...it sparks. It burns, and it blinds, and as terrifying as it is, it's---."

"Real," she finished.

The corner of Spike's mouth lifted. "Yeah," he said. "Exactly. So, that's what I owe you the apology for. For not believing you when you said...when you told me..."

She watched him struggle to find the right words with growing amusement. "Guess I'm not the only one who has a hard time wrapping her tongue around it, huh?" Buffy teased.

He growled when she playfully punched him. "Good thing I'm so good at wrapping my tongue 'round other things, then isn't it?" he taunted with a devilish gleam in his eye.

She squealed when his mouth dropped to nip at her neck, pushing him with enough force to send him back into the snowdrift. "I thought I said you weren't getting sex again after giving me the brush-off," she said with an assumed haughtiness. "Don't think you're getting to me that easy, buster."

"You think this has been easy?" Spike replied. A few minutes earlier, he would've been furious at her shove, but with their new understanding out in the open, it was simpler to see the flirtatious taunt in her voice. Hell, he could already smell her newly realized arousal clinging to her skin. If the Slayer wanted to play, he was more than willing to oblige her.

"I think you're obsessed with sex."

"Well, yeah. It was bloody fantastic. Can't really fault me for wanting more, now can you?"

Her eyes flickered to the cabin. "There's still the issue of Holly."

"Moptop's sleeping."

"I mean, we can't be all over each other all the time in front of her. It's not...that's what I was trying to put a stop to this morning, you know. She's impressionable."

"So she'll learn from a master."

"I'm serious."

With a sigh, Spike pushed himself back to his feet, leaning against a tree trunk as his hands automatically went to his pockets. The crumpled pack reminded him that he only had five cigarettes left to last until the New Year, but with as much as had happened that day, he figured now was as good a time as any to have one.

"So, you're saying you want nothin' hands on in front of the kid, is that it?" he asked, inhaling deeply on the filter. The nicotine sizzled along his veins, doing its job in relaxing him when languor was the last thing on his mind. "Think you're makin' a mistake, though."

"That's because you want permission to get into my pants whenever you want."

"Not just that. It'll do her good to see a positive spin on a relationship for a change. She's not exactly been exposed to the same sunny side of the street you grew up on, luv." He frowned when Buffy began to giggle. "What's so funny?"

"You. Us. The thought that anything about you and me being together could be positive for anyone." She suddenly sobered. "How do you know that about Holly?"

He shrugged. "Not hard to tell. Kids sleepwalk for a reason, and considering Doyle said this Maria bird has been after her since she was born, stands to reason that Holly's seen more than her fair share of the uglies."

"It would explain why she's not afraid of your game face."

"That better not be a comment on my looks, pet."

"So, can we make some sort of deal? Just...hold back a little on the PDA when we're in front of Holly?"

He'd already made his decision regarding her request before she'd pushed it, but Spike held his tongue for a long moment, his lungs filling periodically with smoke as he puffed at his cigarette. "We're not in front of Holly now," he finally said, deliberately sweeping his gaze over her.

His lips quirked at her shiver. "You're not cold?" Buffy asked.

"Vampire, luv. The question should be...are you?"

He only saw the smile that spread across her face for a brief flash before Buffy whirled away from him and dashed off into the trees. Pushing off the trunk, Spike flicked the remains of his cigarette into the snow, hearing the quick sizzle as the burning tip melted its way below the surface before setting off after her.

New game, new rules.

Think I'm goin' to bloody love this one.

-----

Joyce pressed the compress into her eyes, though she knew it was going to do nothing to ease the ache that was making her skull feel like it was going to explode from the inside out. The glut of information that had been thrown at her over the past few hours was enough to make her wonder if this was what Buffy went through every time an apocalypse breezed its way into town, or if Joyce was just acutely unable to process it in the same manner. Either way, her headache was more than testimony to the weight of the situation.

She'd thought she was handling it remarkably well, considering. It wasn't until her skepticism and constant questioning had worn their patience thin and the pair of ghosts had resorted to having Jenny Calendar appear out of nowhere to convince her it was all the truth, that Joyce crumbled. Seeing the dead teacher, looking every inch as if she was still alive and hadn't suffered at the hands of a ruthless Angelus, had been disconcerting at best.

At worst, it had been a nightmare. And not how she'd envisioned spending her Christmas Eve.

At least she knew Buffy was safe. The details they'd shared about the mission for which the Powers That Be had selected the Slayer seemed innocuous enough, though the enemy that was pursuing the child in question didn't. Joyce didn't fully understand why they wouldn't tell her where her daughter was, but until her head was clear again, she was letting them get away with that. That would be an interrogation for another time.

It was surprising that Spike had been chosen as well, though she'd discovered that his primary advocate among the ghosts seemed to hold the same opinion of the vampire that Joyce did.

"Spike fights to the death for those he cares about," the young woman had said. "Once he decides you're his concern, there isn't anything he won't do to protect you. That's the kind of loyalty we need protecting Holly."

Joyce wanted to argue that, while she believed they were correct in their assumptions regarding Spike's behavior, he was still a vampire who had no vested interest in an unknown child, but her headache got the best of her, keeping her silent long after the women had left. It was only when Doyle said he was stepping out to fetch her something to drink that she spoke up again.

"You're worried about them, aren't you?" she'd said as he hovered in the doorway. "You think Spike's going to screw up somehow."

Doyle just shrugged. "I won't lie and say the thought hasn't occurred to me," he'd admitted. "But if he can get the likes of you and Buffy to care about what happens to him, well, then I guess anything is pretty much possible, isn't it?"

Food for thought. Well, if thinking didn't involve so much discomfort. Better to just lie still and pray for a moment of clarity when it was past.

She opened her eyes when she heard the door quietly open and close, propping herself up on her elbows to see Doyle enter with a large sack in his hand. "I'm not that thirsty," Joyce commented with a wry smile.

Doyle chuckled. "Thought I'd get you a few things," he said, setting his parcel down on the lone table in the motel room. He spoke as he emptied its contents. "It's not exactly home cooking, but since we aren't having luck talking you back to Sunnydale just yet, I guess it'll have to do."

The sugary smell of homemade pie wafted to her nostrils, and Joyce sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to get a better look at the food he was laying out. "I thought everything was closed at this hour," she said.

"Everything is." He held up a warning finger. "And don't be lecturing me. I get enough of mothering from the girls."

"I think my stomach is inclined to be on your side in this matter," Joyce replied. They were both silent while he finished with the arranging. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?" she asked when he'd settled back into the chair he'd first vacated.

"Can't," he admitted. "As long as you're still about, someone's got to keep an eye out for you. Now, if you'd be a good girl and go back to Sunnydale---."

"Not without Buffy."

Doyle sighed. "Which means, you're stuck with me." He flashed her his widest grin. "It could be worse for you. I've been told I'm quite the charming fella."

In spite of her weariness, Joyce joined in his smile, crossing to sit opposite him at the table. "I could just slip out when you're not looking. You can't watch me all the time."

"One advantage to being dead. Every reason you can think of that would naturally divert my attention is gone. Would you like to try for door number two?"

"Something tells me that's the door with pie."

He pushed the tin closer to her, watching as she fished out one of the plastic forks he'd also brought. "Happy Christmas Eve, Joyce," Doyle said. "Let's say we relax and enjoy it. While we can."

-----

"You're certain?" Maria's voice betrayed none of the unease that was gripping her insides, and her hand remained steady where it held the telephone receiver.

"No doubt," came the masculine voice on the other end of the line. "I was there myself when she came in. All hot and bothered that her daughter was in that car crash you were asking about the other day."

"And what did you tell her?"

"Exactly what you asked us to. Nothing we could do without a body, and so forth. She came with a whole bunch of information she only could've gotten from another cop, though, so she's talked to someone. I just can't tell you who."

"I see. Thank you very much for calling me. I do appreciate it."

He laughed. "That's what you paid me for, right?"

"And there shall be a very hefty Christmas bonus for you, as well," she said. Bidding the officer farewell, Maria was completely absorbed in her thoughts by the time she returned the phone to its base.

Joyce Summers was alert to the accident, even knowing as much as the general vicinity where it had occurred.

The only communication to Sunnydale had been under Maria's supervision, when Rupert Giles had contacted his Slayer's mother to alleviate her worrying.

Ergo, Rupert Giles must have said something to warn the Slayer's mother that something was amiss.

Rupert Giles would have to be watched.

It was unfortunate, really, because the work he'd accomplished so far on the translations had far exceeded any of their expectations. His brilliance was putting both Silas and Paul to shame, though Maria had few delusions that his aid was motivated by anything other than his concern for his Slayer. His loyalty rested with Buffy. Now, he'd proven it by giving the elder Summers some unknown alarm that could only inhibit Maria's search.

She wished that she could remember the conversation he'd had on the phone, so she could understand how he'd managed to elude her detection so thoroughly. Perhaps there would be a clue there as to something she had missed.

Pressing an intercom button on the phone, Maria waited until a tinny "Yes?" came through the speaker before ordering the request for the security tapes. It might take her a little time to find what it was Rupert thought he was getting away with, but she had no doubts that she would.

There was no room for failure at this point.

It was just a shame such a keen mind would have to be sacrificed. Maria would've liked to further explore a relationship with the strong-willed Watcher. Beyond Holly's frustrating disappearance, Rupert Giles had been the one wild card to remain in her hand that sparked any sort of interest for her.
 

To be continued in Chapter 27: The Stars Are Brightly Shining...

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