Chapter Twelve: Just because you feel good

“This is such a bad idea,” Buffy moaned as Spike held her against him.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“What, because you might actually enjoy it? Oh no!” Spike gave her a look of mock horror. “Call the police! Buffy Summers is enjoying herself!”

She thumped his chest. “Can it.”

“Come on, Summers. I’m not that objectionable, am I?”

“Yes. You’re evil and I hate you,” Buffy said, but she couldn’t make it sound very sincere.

The band had slowed down a little and was playing a low-key, bluesy track. It was hard to keep dancing without pressing up very close to Spike. Devon sang out into the audience, his eyes on Dawn, but Buffy didn’t notice.

Spike’s body was hot and close, the muscles in his chest and stomach hard, his body strong and solid. So familiar. It was so damn tempting to just nestle in his arms, the way she had the last time they’d danced, at the wedding...

When you walk into a room it hurts to breathe...’

Buffy sighed and let her head fall on Spike’s shoulder.

He smiled slowly. His lifted her arm from around his neck and looked at her ring finger. “But you’re not Summers any more, are you, pet?”

She put her hand back. “If anyone asks, I am.”

“So why do you still wear the ring? Both rings?”

She shrugged, averting her eyes. “Doesn’t hurt to look unavailable.”

“Men beating at your door?”

She tossed her head. “Constantly.”

Spike quirked his eyebrows at that.

“What, you don’t believe me?”

He shook his head, smirking.

‘Your kisses should be mine

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Buffy said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Spike’s fingers tightened on her waist. Buffy frowned and tried to pull away. “Okay, you’ve had your-”

He reeled her back. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you-”

Spike kissed her.

‘And I just hope you feel it too

“Wha’?” Buffy said, dazed.

Spike’s hands were in her hair, pulling the clasp away, running his fingers through the long, newly golden strands. He kissed her again, and this time Buffy kissed him back.

No one said that love was gonna be easy...’

She was breathless, her heart, her whole body thrumming in rhythm with his. A tiny tiny little voice at the back of her mind told her she absolutely shouldn’t be doing this, but Devon’s voice drowned it out.

The song ended, but neither of them noticed. The band piled offstage, Devon rushed over to sweet-talk Dawn, Willow and Tara giggled in a corner together, no one noticed Buffy and Spike snogging madly in the middle of the dance floor.

“We should,” Buffy tried desperately to take her mouth away from his, “we shouldn’t-”

“Mmm,” Spike replied. “Definitely.”

“But - this isn’t...”

“Sure.”

“We should...”

“We should.”

“Not here...”

Finally he pulled away from her long enough to take in a proper breath. “Yeah. Totally agree. Let’s go.”

He had his arm around her waist as he pulled her off the floor, through the club, and out into the cool night air. He pressed her up against the wall outside the club and kissed her again, more intensely than before, and Buffy was glad the wall was there because she knew she’d have fallen over otherwise.

“Car,” she gasped, and Spike nodded, whisking her over to the DeSoto and leaning over to kiss her again even before she’d finished fastening her seatbelt. He started the engine and gunned out of the car park in seconds, swooshing through Sunnydale at far too high a speed for Buffy’s liking.

Suddenly, without Spike touching her any more, she realised what she was doing.

“Stop!” she cried, and Spike glanced over in alarm.

“What? What’s up?”

“Stop, I need to get out.”

Thinking she was going to be sick or something - had there been vodka in that water? - Spike slung the car onto the hard shoulder and Buffy stumbled out, grabbing her bag, and started running.

“Shit,” he yanked the handbrake on and got out and ran after her. “Buffy. Buffy!” He grabbed her arm and swung her round. “Where are you going?”

“I - this is-”

“What?”

“We can’t,” she said, looking up at him with frightened eyes.

“Why not?”

Buffy opened her mouth. Right now she couldn’t remember.

“We just can’t,” she said lamely.

“Give me one reason why.”

“I-” she honestly felt drunk again, dizzy and confused. She’d been Spiked, hah.

Spike took advantage of her open mouth and kissed her again, and passing motorists honked at them. Buffy felt herself weakening. Spike’s body was so strong and so hot and so hard... really hard, in fact...

“I can’t leave Dawn,” she whispered weakly, the only excuse she could think of.

“Dawn’s fine. The girls’ll take her home.”

“I should call...”

Spike dug his phone out of his pocket - which suddenly seemed very tight - and hit a few keys. He listened, then he pressed the phone to Buffy’s face.

“...of Dawn Summers, I can’t take your call, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Beeep!”

Buffy hesitated. “Dawnie, it’s me. I, er, I’m-” Spike started licking her other ear and her voice went up a few octaves, “I’m with Spike, I, uh, I’ll be home in the morning,” she shoved the phone away and grabbed him and kissed him hard. It was impossible. She just couldn’t stop.

Somehow, they managed to get back in the car, and this time when he pulled back into traffic, Spike kept one hand on Buffy’s thigh. She could feel the heat of his hand through the leather of her jeans. God, she was so hot in them. Really, she should take them off.

Spike seemed to be having the same idea, because his hand was hovering near her fly, and quite suddenly, the top button was undone.

And then the zip, too.

And then Buffy was inching them down.

“Oh Christ,” Spike groaned when he realised she was taking them off. “Are you trying to make me crash?”

“No,” Buffy reached over to his fly, “this is trying to make you-”

He shoved her hand away, the car swerving. “Stop that!”

Buffy giggled, wriggling in her seat, incredibly glad that her random sweep of her underwear drawer had yielded a decent pair of knickers for once. Spike’s hand came back, now to her bare thigh, and his fingers ran up the soft skin on the inside of her leg.

She swallowed.

Surely it couldn’t be far now? His fingers were playing patterns on her leg. Buffy tried to remember how to breathe. This was insane.

“Maybe you’d,” she panted, “better stop...”

“Can’t handle it?”

“Sure I can-” Buffy’s voice suddenly rose to a squeak as his finger stroked the gusset of her knickers. “Dear God, don’t do that!”

Smirking, Spike moved his fingers to the relative safety of her thigh again, and Buffy clung to the car door, urgently sucking in lungfuls of nicotine scented oxygen.

When Spike finally swung the car into a bay in the underground car park, Buffy leapt on him, her fingers scrabbling to unfasten his jeans, her mouth locked to his. She would have fucked him right there and then, but the flash of a torchbeam through the window reminded them both that there were people patrolling the car park.

“Upstairs,” Spike said. “Lift-” he pointed.

“Pants,” Buffy reached for them, but Spike grinned and grabbed his duster from the back seat.

“Put this on,” he said, and licked her neck.

He opened the door and Buffy tumbled out, wrapping the duster about herself. It felt incredibly erotic to know that all she was wearing underneath was a tiny bra top and her underwear. Evidently Spike thought so too, judging by the rather huge bulge in his jeans. He pulled his shirt over it and hustled her towards the lift, but someone else joined them, a man in a suit who looked disgusted at their close contact. But Buffy couldn’t stop touching Spike, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.

Their companion got off at the first floor lobby, and Buffy nearly screamed when half a dozen people got on, all wanting to go to different floors. Spike pulled her back against his chest, his erection pulsing against her through the leather of his coat.

When the last person finally exited, he spun her round and pinned her against the wall of the lift.

“Thought they’d never get off!” Buffy panted.

“Thought we never would,” Spike bit her lip, and she moaned loudly. Every cell in her body was screaming with lust. She had to have him, or she’d burst into flames. The lift pinged at Spike’s floor - the penthouse again - and they stumbled out into the small lobby.

“Key,” Buffy gasped.

“Let’s do it here.”

“No!” She pushed his hands out from under the duster. “Inside. Quick.”

She found the key in one of his pockets and had a devil of a time trying to get it in the lock. Buffy had never been able to work those stupid key cards anyway, and with Spike pressing very hard up against her back, licking her ear and telling her all the filthy things he was going to do to her, she started to think she’d never get it done. Maybe Spike’s idea of doing it out in the hallway would be-

“Ha!” The door finally swung open, Spike yanked her inside, kicked the door shut and shoved her up against it. He was inside her in seconds and both of them let out a yell of relief.

“Oh God, Buffy,” he started moving inside her, and Buffy put her hands on his shoulders and lifted her legs up around his waist. “Christ...”

“God, that feels good,” she squeezed him, and he moaned. “Come on, harder. Fuck me harder, Spike, deeper - oh, God!”

Spike came first, unable to hold on for more than a few minutes, and they slid down to the floor together. Buffy pushed him onto his back, straddling him, and slipped her own fingers down to her clitoris, desperate to climax.

Incredibly turned on by this flushed, tousled goddess pleasuring herself on top of him, Spike felt himself get hard again, grabbing her hips and rocking her on him, pulling her down to him, shoving her clothes out of the way and sucking hard on one of her nipples.

Buffy’s sharp gasps turned to shrieks, then to screams, and then she came with a yell, collapsing on him, trembling and shaky, hardly able to breathe.

For a few seconds they lay together, clinging and clutching, breathing hard, and then Spike rolled Buffy onto her back and kissed her, long and deep. She moaned contentedly, and when he started moving inside her again, she rocked her hips in time.

“Again?”

“And again,” Spike thrust into her, “and again... and again...”

“Don’t stop,” Buffy whispered.

“Never.”

And he didn’t. They played with that position for a while, never losing intimate contact, Buffy pushing Spike over on his back again, rolling her hips and watching his face sharpen with pleasure, leaning back and crying out as the friction inside of her built almost unbearably. Spike slipped his fingers down to the place they were joined, and watched her come again. Then he pushed her down on her back, still inside her, and lifted her legs up over his shoulders. Buffy moaned helplessly.

Hell of a view, Spike thought, and it wasn’t long before he came again, triggering a mini orgasm in Buffy.

“We should probably,” he sat up, “try and aim for the bed? I’m getting carpet burns here.”

Buffy sat up too. “You? You’re still fully dressed.”

“You still have your underwear on.” He fiddled with her exposed nipple. “Well, sort of. Have I told you lately how much I love these?” he stroked her enlarged breasts.

“No, but you can show me,” Buffy swung herself off him and wriggled her underwear into a more comfortable position. She was halfway up the stairs when she realised Spike wasn’t following. He was lying back on the floor, looking smug, one hand behind his head. His shirt half open, showing his delectable abdomen.

“Uh, you sort of have to come with me for this bit.”

“Do me a favour and just walk to the top of those stairs,” Spike said.

Buffy frowned.

“You wiggle your arse when you go up stairs,” he explained, grinning. “And right now there’s not a lot covering it.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but she did it anyway, and when she got to the top, turned around just in time to see Spike rushing after her. She shrieked and ran for the outside balcony, and he caught her around the waist and pulled her back against him.

“Running away?” he growled in her ear.

“Gonna stop me?”

“Oh yeah,” he took her earlobe between his teeth and bit on it, “definitely.”

Buffy tried to turn in his arms but he stopped her, pressed her forward onto the balcony. Against the railing.

“Woah,” Buffy looked down. “This is-” she stopped as she felt something behind her, “-kinky...”

“Not the first time we’ve done it somewhere public, love,” Spike’s teeth grazed her neck and she closed her eyes.

“The first time,” she gasped sharply as he entered her, “there’ve been people around.”

“We’re on the top floor. No one’s gonna look up.”

“They could hear...”

She felt him laugh softly, all the way through her. “I sincerely hope they do.”

When she knew she was in love with him, Buffy had liked to have sex face to face the most. She loved to look at Spike’s beautiful face, his heavenly body, see his expression when he came. But now... Now she’d spent eight months telling herself he was just a blip and she’d never loved him anyway, now she was free to admit...

She loved it from behind.

Buffy almost found herself wishing that someone would hear them. Look up and see them. Wish to be one of them. Envious. Wanting it.

“They want to be me,” Spike’s voice was almost inaudible behind her. “Want to be fucking you.”

She didn’t know what was more disturbing: that he’d said it, or that she’d been thinking it.

“Who?”

“The people down there. They want to be inside you. Feel you all tight... squeezing... hard and - thrusting-” his narrative faltered and his hand clutched at her hip. “Fucking you,” he whispered, pinching on her clitoris, and Buffy cried out. “That’s it. Louder. Come on. Tighter.”

“Spike...”

“Can you feel it?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Hard, slick...”

“You’re so hard,” Buffy gasped.

“Tight...”

“Harder-”

“Such a tight, wet little-”

“Fuck me!”

Spike obliged, driving into her so hard it almost hurt. Buffy cried out loudly, and she knew everyone else out on their balconies, enjoying the mild Californian darkness, could hear her. Mindlessly, she moaned and screamed - harder, fuck me, deeper, so good, Spike-! - and when she came, she was sure it could be heard in LA.

Spike came too, and slipped out of her, holding her around the waist so she wouldn’t fold in two and fall over the balcony.

Buffy shivered.

“Cold, pet?” He kissed the back of her neck.

Not cold, Buffy realised. Uneasy. What the hell was she doing?

But before she could really think about it, Spike had led her back inside and made her mindless again. And again. And again.

Buffy woke in the early hours of the morning, breasts full and heavy. William was on solids now, but he still breastfed occasionally, and her body knew this.

God, William.

She looked down at the man sleeping beside her, unutterably beautiful in the moonlight, lying there with his arm slung possessively over her. She shouldn’t have done this. Shouldn’t have done it at all.

As quietly as she could, Buffy slipped out of bed and gathered her clothes. But of course her leather pants were still in the DeSoto, and there was no way she was hunting for the keys to go and find them... Besides which, she still had to get down there with nothing to wear...

The memory of the trip in the lift, wearing just his duster, some heels and little more than her underwear, made Buffy feel ill. She’d acted like a hooker.

Pressing her hands to her face, she made herself breathe. She’d go, and then next time she saw Spike, she’d just explain that sure, he could see Will, but it was best if they didn’t see each other.

It was bloody annoying, though, that she had to borrow his jeans to go home in.

The taxi dropped her off at the end of the street and Buffy ran the rest of the way. She didn’t want to wake Dawn. But when she got in and made to creep past her sister’s bedroom, she found it empty. Willow and Tara’s was, too.

Panicking, she ran around calling her sister’s name. Checking the answerphone. Looking for a note. There was nothing. Buffy’s heartbeat raced. God, she’d gone missing before, Drusilla had kidnapped her and tortured her, and it was all because Buffy was too busy fucking Spike to notice-

She hauled out her cell phone and was just about to look up his number and beg him for help when she realised there was a message flashing on it. It took two tries for her terrified fingers to reach voicemail, but when she did, Dawn’s voice filled her ear.

“Buffy? Listen, I looked for you in the Bronze but I can’t find you... Uh, I’m going to this club Devon knows. Don’t worry, I’ll behave - Willow and Tara are here too. We might be late back. I guess if I’m not back in the morning I’ll be at, uh, Oz’s...”

Buffy closed her eyes. Out on the razz with bandmembers who were at least five years older than her - and in a band! They could be drinking, and smoking, and God, there could be drugs...

Buffy started calling her sister’s number and leaving terrified voicemails.

Dawn woke to hear William crying, and buried her head in the pillow. She could have stayed with Devon. She could have taken Oz up on his offer of a lift home. But no. Instead, she’d slapped Devon’s face so hard she’d no doubt there’d be a bruise, and stormed out. So maybe she’d thought about going all the way with him. And then she’d remembered that she was seventeen and barely knew him and then he’d said - well, she wanted to forget the disgusting things he’d said.

Xander’s apartment wasn’t far away, so she’d gone there, leaving a message on Willow’s mobile that she wasn’t going home with them.

Willow and Tara woke on the sofa in the apartment Oz and Devon shared. Devon had lit up a spliff, and while neither of the girls were interested - tried it at college, not too impressed - his second hand smoke had definitely made them woozy.

“Where’s Dawn?” Tara asked, and Willow blinked sleepily.

“She was with Devon...”

They looked at each other. “Oh, no, do you think-?”

“Do you want to go and check?”

“Do you?”

Eventually, they decided to go together, and cautiously pushed open one of the bedroom doors. Oz lay asleep with his rather abrasive girlfriend, Verucca. No Dawn.

“At least it’s not a threesome,” Willow whispered, making Tara giggle.

“Door number two?”

Willow nodded, and they opened it.

Devon, snoring loudly. There was a big bruise on his face, but no Dawn.

“This is...” Willow looked confused. “Is this good?”

“Well, she’s not with Devon...”

“But she’s not here...”

“Huh.”

Dawn called just as they were starting to get worried, and the sound woke up Devon, who moaned loudly that Dawn was a menace, and what the hell had she done to his beautiful face?

Trying not to laugh, Willow and Tara had made a tactful exit and driven to Xander’s to pick Dawn up.

“We wondered where you’d gone...”

“Oh,” Dawn tried to look casual, “I just missed Will is all... How come you guys fell asleep?”

“Oh,” Willow couldn’t look at her girlfriend, “we were just really tired... Shall we go home now? Buffy’s probably worried sick.”

They walked in to find Buffy calmly eating breakfast in the kitchen.

“Nice of you to all call and tell me where you were,” she said.

“You don’t look too distraught,” Dawn said, getting into stroppy teenager mode.

“No, well, I heard your garbled message at about four this morning, and called Xander, and he filled me in.”

“Where did you go last night?” Willow asked curiously, and Buffy’s eyes were suddenly fixed on her cereal bowl.

“Uh, I just, I needed some air, so I left for a walk. And then I came home. Straight home. Didn’t any of you get my message?” she asked cautiously, trying to remember who she’d called before deep hot lust had taken over.

Willow and Tara shook their heads, wondering if the dope smoke had messed up their phones.

“I, uh, ran out of battery,” Dawn admitted.

“Well, I just came straight back here,” Buffy said brightly. “Didn’t go anywhere else. So did you guys have a good night?”

They all suddenly found other places to look.

“Not bad.”

“Okay.”

“Kinda dull, actually.”

And all of them were so relieved that no one else thought they were lying, that they forgot to notice how guilty they all sounded.

Chapter Thirteen: Secrets and Lies

I must not think about Spike, Buffy told herself as she drove to work and remembered making out in his car. I must not think about Spike, as she parked up and swung her legs out, this time covered by a businesslike skirt, not a leather duster. I must not think about-

You know, the railing on the gallery balcony is just like the one on the hotel balcony...

The sheets on the bed in that painting are like his...

That man is wearing a leather jacket...

Oh fuck. I have to stop this.

It was a Saturday, and both Willow and Tara were helping out, charming difficult customers into buying expensive pieces. Buffy looked over yesterday’s sales figures. She couldn’t believe how well the gallery was doing. All this fantastic stuff suddenly coming her way, and people practically queuing up to buy. She had several customers on waiting lists, waiting to haggle over the next piece by their new favourite artist.

It was midafternoon when someone knocked on the office door. Buffy, not looking up from the computer spreadsheet she was working on, didn’t look through the door window as she called, “Yeah?”

The door opened.

It was Spike.

“You know, I just love you in glasses,” he said.

Buffy quickly took them off.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” He held up a bag. “Brought your clothes back. Bet you looked adorable in my jeans.”

“I’ll have them sent over to the hotel-”

“‘Have them sent over’? My my. Aren’t you just the little businesswoman.”

He had that familiar quirky smile, the gleam in his eyes. He knew what was coming.

At least, he knew what he wanted to come.

“Well, I am a businesswoman,” Buffy said. “Look, running a business.”

“Six day weeks.”

“Saturdays are busy.”

“All days are busy, from what the bit tells me.” He looked around the office, full of unpacked and half catalogued crates. “Place is doing well.”

Buffy shrugged. “It’s like I got a fairy godmother or something. Well, maybe two. Fairy godsisters. Gay ones.”

Spike’s eyebrows flickered at that. “None of it due to your hard work?”

“Well, I-” she narrowed her eyes at him. “Are we having a conversation?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Yes, Buffy thought, most of them to me.

“Look,” she said, “about last night-”

“I’m still recovering.”

Buffy tried hard not to blush, and failed.

“You were,” his hand reached out and traced her cheek, “amazing.”

She closed her eyes. “You-” abruptly, she stepped back. “Stop that.”

“Stop?” He put his head on one side. “There’s a new word. I never seem to hear that from you.”

“Well, maybe I should say it-” she realised he was teasing her, and frowned. “I mean it.”

“Oh, and you meant it last night,” Spike came around the desk and Buffy found herself trapped between it and him. “‘Stop, Spike, don’t ever stop...’”

He was awfully close. Buffy was backed up against the desk and Spike slipped one knee between hers.

“No,” he mocked gently, “you never tell me to stop. Or at least,” his breath was hot on her ear, “you never mean it.”

His hand slid up her thigh.

“I mean it now,” Buffy said, but the words were hardly audible. “I want you to... to stop.”

Spike’s lips brushed her earlobe. “Make me.”

She put her hands on his shoulders, but she didn’t push him very hard, and when he started kissing her neck, she didn’t stop him at all. She knew she should, she was sure she wanted to, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“Tell me to go,” Spike murmured, and his voice hummed through her.

“Go,” Buffy whispered hoarsely.

“And say it like you mean it.”

His hand slid up under her skirt. She could feel his heart beating against her chest. Her nipples were hard. Her legs were parting themselves.

Buffy glanced over her shoulder and saw the office door was open half an inch.

“Someone could-”

“Come in,” Spike was stroking her hip now, “and see us,” he bit her collarbone, “making out right here on your desk.”

Buffy was panting. This had to stop.

But right then Spike kissed her, and she really wished he hadn’t, because once he started kissing her there was no way she could ever stop kissing back. He was addictive. He felt so good, and tasted so good, and his hands were all over her, kneeding her breast, slipping just inside her knickers and very gently fingering the dark curls there.

Buffy had no recollection of her own hands unfastening his fly, she only realised she’d done it when Spike moaned softly because she’d taken him in her hand and was stroking him.

“Red,” he hissed against her neck, “or her girlfriend, they could come in here,” his finger flicked her clitoris, and Buffy gasped sharply, “and see us. Just look in through the window,” he reached up and pulled the clasp from her hair, inhaled its scent, “and see us.”

Buffy could hardly think. He was so big and hard, and she was getting so hot, squirming wetly against his fingers. She pulled him towards her, rubbed him against her, and covered his mouth with her own when he groaned in pleasure.

She lifted one leg around his waist to draw him in closer, and then he slid up inside her, and both of them froze for a brief second, before movement became important, that glorious friction, sliding and thrusting and trying hard not to make a sound.

“Why so quiet?” Spike whispered in her ear.

“The door is open,” Buffy squeaked, as Spike reached inside her blouse and fingered her nipple. “The gallery is full of... people...”

“Don’t you want them to hear?”

“What? Are you-” she broke off, because Spike dipped one finger between them and started stroking her again.

“Feels good,” he said, and she nodded helplessly. “Looks good too. You have any idea how damn sexy you are, Summers? The way you move, your eyes, your hair dances when you move like that.”

He pulsed inside her, still for a few seconds, and then he whispered very close to her ear, “Don’t you want them to see that too?”

Buffy shook her head frantically, but just like last night, out on the balcony, the idea of someone, anyone - especially someone she knew - just walking in and seeing her having sex, was such a turn on she found herself grinding up against Spike’s rather delectable body, just that little bit harder.

“They hear a noise,” he was suggesting now, “come to see if you’re okay... You don’t answer ‘cos you’re too busy coming your brains out..”

Oh boy, did that sound like a good idea to Buffy.

“And then they open the door...”

She grabbed his buttocks and pushed him deeper inside her, and her eyes rolled back in her head, her whole body shuddering.

“And they see you with your skirt all pushed up, your shirt hanging open, head back...”

It was coming, it was coming, she was nearly there...

“Me deep inside you...”

Oh God...

“And there’s nothing you can do to stop them,” Spike whispered, and Buffy came, biting down hard on his neck to keep from crying out.

“Discovery fantasy,” Spike said with satisfaction, and thrust into her until he came too, Buffy’s hand over his mouth. He licked her palm, bit the soft skin, and she gave him a warning look, her eyes half on the door.

As soon as he was done she pushed him away, ran over and shoved the door shut, turning the key.

“You ever hear the one about the horse and the stable door?” Spike asked.

“I can’t believe we just did that!” Buffy rearranged her clothing frantically.

He took a cigarette out of his duster pocket and lit up. Buffy scurried over and grabbed it from his mouth, but before she could stub it out, Spike caught her around the waist and kissed her hard.

“You have to go,” she said.

He pouted. “Don’t want a re-match?”

“No! In fact, we shouldn’t even have-”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Enough with the ‘shouldn’t have’s, love. If you didn’t want to, then you wouldn’t. I wasn’t making you do anything.”

He looked so smug Buffy nearly slapped him. Worse than that, he was right. He hadn’t made her do anything - well, not strictly speaking. He hadn’t forced her. She could have stopped.

All he’d done was make her not want to stop.

“Go,” she pointed to the door, disentangling herself from him. “I have work to do.”

“Can I come see Will tonight?”

“How about you go see him now? Dawn has him at home. Or maybe the park. Why don’t you go and look?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

Buffy pressed her hands to her hot face. “You’ve been in here long enough, Willow and Tara are gonna think-”

“What? You’ve been shagging your husband? Oh no, surely there’s a law against that, pet?”

“You are not my husband.”

He grabbed her left hand and pressed his up against it. Their rings shone in the light. “Got a certificate at home says I am, pet.”

Buffy pulled her hand away and turned back to the computer, not looking at him. “Could you just leave?”

Spike looked at her a long while. Then the door was unlocked, and he was gone, and Buffy put her head down on the desk and felt like crying.

Spike came over that evening, and Dawn looked pleased to see him.

“Buffy’s in the bath,” she rolled her eyes, “she likes to wallow for hours.”

“I remember,” Spike said. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” she grinned and stepped back, and he glanced into the living room, saw Will on his playmat.

“So what happened to you last night?” Spike asked, picking his son up for a cuddle. Will gurgled happily and babbled a load of cheerful nonsense.

“Oh, I, er, I sort of went out, with Willow and Tara...” Dawn looked down at her homework.

“And those guys from the band?” Spike asked astutely.

Dawn blushed. “No,” she began.

“You’re such a bad liar, bit. Try not to blush, don’t avoid eye contact, have a decent answer prepared. Where did you go?”

“With the guys from the band.”

“See, now you’re not even trying.”

“Willow and Tara were there but they... I don’t know, maybe they were drunk, ‘cos they both just got all sleepy and passed out... But I didn’t see them drinking.”

“Were they smoking?”

“No. Devon was.”

Spike said nothing. Maybe a word with Red later might be in order.

“Why all the blushing, bit? Did you and the singer get up to something you shouldn’t?”

Dawn blushed even deeper.

Will was waving his arms for his rattle and Spike, having learned a while ago that the baby liked to gnaw to help his teeth through, handed it over.

“Dawn,” he said, and she knew something serious was coming by the use of her real name, “how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Had any boyfriends?”

Her face was crimson now. Dawn stared furiously at her maths book.

“Not really.”

“Kissed any boys?”

She gave a rigid little shake of her head. “Not until Devon.”

“Was kissing all you did?” When Dawn’s head snapped up, Spike waved a hand for silence. “I don’t want any diagrams, just... tell me in terms of bases.”

“We just kissed. Well, and he tried to - but I told him I didn’t want to, and he got all angry. So I,” Dawn’s fingernails were digging in her palms, “I left.”

“You told him no and walked out?”

She gave a tiny nod.

Spike looked thoughtful. “Dawn, come here.”

She looked terrified.

“Just come here,” he rolled his eyes, “I’m not gonna do anything.”

Nervously, she stood up, and walked all the way across the room, trembling. Spike patted the sofa next to him and she sat primly, back straight, knees together.

He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

“Proud of you, bit,” he said. “That was very much the right thing to do.”

She looked up with startled blue eyes. “R-really?”

He nodded, laughing, and shifted William on his lap. “What did you think I was going to do?”

She shrugged nervously. “I don’t know...”

“Has Buffy been telling you horror stories about me?”

“Buffy hardly talks about you at all.”

Spike gave a facial shrug. “Figures. She still mad at me?”

“Yes, although I’m not entirely sure what for.”

“That makes two of us, love.”

He eventually got bored of waiting for Buffy, who appeared to have dissolved in the bathwater, and made his goodbyes to Dawn and a sleeping Will, leaving when it was pretty late. Dawn took William upstairs and as she passed Buffy’s room, noticed her peering out the window at Spike’s car vanishing down the street.

“You’re so pathetic,” she said.

Buffy whipped round. “I wasn’t hiding,” she said defensively.

“Yes, you were.” Dawn stomped into Will’s room, nearly waking him up. “You’re acting like such a baby.”

“I’m a baby? Dawn, who’s the one holding this family together?”

“I don’t know,” Dawn said, “but it feels like me most of the time. I go to school and I babysit. That’s all I do. You know, all the kids in my class go out at least once or twice a week. Apart from the Bronze the other night, I haven’t been out since before - before Will was born.”

Buffy pulled her out of the baby’s room and shut the door.

“You wanna go out more? Well, sure and I’ll stay at home with Will while the gallery, which is only just starting to do well, completely falls apart.”

“You don’t need to be there 24/7,” Dawn nearly shouted. “Willow and Tara know far more about art than you do-”

“I have to run the place-”

“They can do that-”

“They’re completely unpaid! And where are they, anyway?”

“They went out. Couldn’t stand all the tension and bullshitting in this house.”

Buffy raised her hand like she was going to slap Dawn, but instead she just marched into her room and slammed the door.

“Oh, very mature,” Dawn muttered, and did exactly the same.

Buffy pulled the pillow over her head and tried desperately not to cry. Why did it seem that no matter how hard she tried, something always happened to hurt her? She tried to love Spike, and he broke her trust. So she came home to start over, and found out she was pregnant. Against her better judgement, she followed her heart back to England, where Spike broke her all over again, twisted and smashed and stamped on her viciously. Then her mom died. Then the gallery failed.

And now, only now, eight months later, did she finally feel on top of just one area of her life, and all the others were tumbling down. Dawn hated her. Spike was haunting her.

Spike.

The cause of her life’s destruction, and the only thing left from it.

She threw the pillow on the floor and rolled on her back. It was no use. She’d never sleep, and just lie there getting more and more frustrated and angry and then she’d yell and scream at Dawn in the morning, and Will would pick up on it and he’d be upset, and it would be Sunday, her only day off all week, and she needed some peace.

But first she had to get rid of this anger.

She rolled out of bed, took off her pyjamas and tiptoed downstairs. She taped a note to the door for Dawn, put on her long coat and boots, and got her car keys.

She was outside the hotel in a few, very short minutes, shaking with cold and nerves as well as anger, and she very nearly pressed the Stop button on the lift and got out. But then she arrived at the top, and there was only Spike’s door there, looking at her, mocking her. It was only last night she’d had sex right up against that door.

I must be crazy, Buffy thought as she knocked.

The door was wrenched open. “Can you morons not read? There’s a Do Not Dis-”

Spike broke off and stared at Buffy. She stared back. He was wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans, his hair was tousled, there was a shot glass in his hand. Skunk Anansie was playing: Hedonism was on. Buffy winced.

He was the first to speak.

“Thought you’d gone down the plughole, love.”

“Can I come in?”

He stood back, eyes following her. On the expensive stereo, Skin sang, ‘Just because you feel good, doesn't make you right. Just because you feel good, still want you here tonight.’

Buffy walked over and pressed the Skip button.

‘I’ve been biding my time. Been so subtly kind...’

This time it was Spike who winced.

“You wanted something, Summers?”

“Why do you call me that?”

“You don’t seem to want to be a Dashwood.”

She said nothing, her eyes fixed on the dancing bars of the graphic equaliser.

‘I’ve got to think so selfishly, ‘cos you’re the face inside of me...’

Damn music. Why did it always get inside her head?

“Spike,” she turned, suddenly nervous. “Why do you keep coming round?”

‘I’ve been biding my days. You see, evidently it pays...’

“You know why.”

“Tell me.”

His eyes were dark and unfathomable. Buffy knew he’d been drinking - by the looks of the bottle on the table, for quite some time.

‘I’ve been a friend with unbiased views, and then secretly, lust after you...’

“Why are you here?” Spike repeated, draining his glass and pouring some more.

Buffy unbelted her coat, unfastened the buttons, and let it fall. Underneath, she was totally naked.

‘So now you feel lusty, you’re bored and bemused...’

Spike drained that glass, poured another, drained that.

‘You wanna do someone else? So you should be by yourself, instead of here with me, secretly...’

“Didn’t get enough earlier?”

Buffy didn’t know what to say. She just needed... something, something to make the anger, the pain, the frustration go away. Just for a little while. To have someone do something for her, to make her feel better. Something more than just a mom, just a sister, just a boss.

“Don’t you want me?”

Spike crossed the room in a few long strides and grabbed her to him, crushed her mouth under his, fingers digging into her flesh. The hard fabric of his jeans grated on her skin, his teeth bit down hard on her lip.

“Want you, Summers? I’ve always bloody wanted you.”

‘Trying hard to think pure, bloody hard when I'm raw...’
Blood was pounding in Buffy’s ears. “Why? What for? Just for sex?”

“No!” Spike yelled. “Not for sex, not just for sex, dammit. I want you,” his fingers fisted in her hair, “all of you.”

“Why?” Buffy insisted, her voice cracking.

“Because I love you, Buffy. Don’t tell me you don’t know that, ‘cos-”

But Buffy reached up and grabbed him back and kissed him, hard, brutal, her nails drawing blood from his shoulders, his back, his arms.

“Who got you good and mad?” Spike stumbled back a few paces, rubbing his arms.

“You did.”

He almost laughed. “Me? What’d I do?”

“You - you came and you - you ruined everything, you changed everything, you made me into this - this thing, got me into this state, and now I can’t - I only feel - I just-”

“So it’s nothing big, just our whole relationship?”

“We don’t have a relationship,” Buffy yelled.

Spike raised his hand but Buffy caught it, and before he could hit her, she smacked him across one perfect cheekbone. Astonished, he struggled against her, and where the old Buffy could probably have held him off, she wasn’t as strong as she used to be. Visiting the gym was not high on her list of priorities.

His fist landed on the edge of her jaw, a glancing blow, but it made her furious. He’d hit her before, but he’d had good cause, being that she was beating him up at the time.

She started hammering at him with her fists, some blows harder than others, some just taps, most enough to bruise him. Spike stopped trying to fight her, recognising that she was far too angry and hurt to be stopped, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to start something he might not be able to stop. He was slightly too drunk to trust himself in a fight.

Eventually Buffy burned herself out, reeling away from him, her hands to her face, trying desperately hard not to cry. The song was still playing and the words, ‘So now you’ve been busted, you’re caught, feeling used,’ swirled around her head.

She struck out at the CD player with her fist, once, twice, three times, until the music abruptly ended and all she could hear was Spike’s laboured breathing and her own ragged intakes of breath. Her eyes stung.

“Buffy?” Spike said from behind her.

“You were supposed to make it better,” she muttered hoarsely, her throat closing over with tears.

He touched her shoulder and she turned around, looked up at his face which was already coming up in bruises, and the tears slipped down her face.

“Did I just do that?”

He nodded.

“I-” he folded his arms around her and held her as she cried, kissed her when she lifted her tearstained face to his, made love to her, although she was just fucking him in return.

When she left, he poured out more bourbon and chainsmoked until the sun came up.

Chapter Fourteen: The State of Things

A.N. Yes, there are more lyrics coming up. I promise I’ll try and stop - it’s not a songfic after all. But after listening to this the other day, I suddenly realised it was the tale of this relationship. I’d think Neil wrote it about Spike and Buffy, except it was done in 1996... Anyway. It’s called Distant Sun. Go download it now.

“You’re sure?” Glory said. “He actually goes to her house?”

“And she to his hotel, your magnificent ladyship.”

She paced about. “She told him the baby was dead. You heard that. Why is he going there?”

“Well, maybe because the baby isn’t dead.”

Glory spun about. “What? How long has the baby not been dead?”

The small man cowering in front of her gave a nonplussed look.

“Er, since it was born, oh glorious one.”

Glory marched over and grabbed him by the ear. “How long have you known?”

“Just a few days, I came straight back here to tell you...”

“And he goes to see it? What is it?”

“It’s a baby, your-”

“I mean is it a girl or a stupid boy?”

“A boy, oh merciful and beautiful-”

She dropped him on the floor and he felt at his sore ear. Good job she was paying him so much. And not just in money. Glory’s sexual favours were something to behold.

“Well, then something must be done.”

“But what?”

“We have to get rid of it,” she said simply.

Buffy rolled her aching shoulders. She’d spent most of the morning lugging heavy boxes of paintings around and most of the afternoon cataloguing them. It was a Sunday, and she was in the gallery all alone, the radio playing in the background to keep her from going mad.

It wasn’t working.

She picked up the phone, dialled a guiltily familiar number, and said, two words. “I’m alone.”

Ten minutes later the door was open - despite that she’d locked it and had the only key - and Spike had her half naked on the floor.

It had been going on for weeks now. Buffy was starting to despise herself - both for using Spike, and for needing to. Part of her wished he’d just go away and leave her alone, and part of her was so glad he was there. She felt alive when she was with him. She could just let everything slide away on a wave of mindless bliss. It didn’t last long, but it helped.

And then it was back to Dawn getting tetchy with her, Willow and Tara effortlessly outclassing her in the gallery, Anya wittering on about how much more money than Buffy she’d made that week, Xander’s stoic silence. He’d barely spoke to her since she’d told him that Spike was going to be a big part of Will’s life. Gone was the open offer of a lift to the nursery or babysitting: now he was always too busy to help out.

Anya, with her characteristic bluntness, had told her it was because Xander thought Spike was a bad influence on them all, and he’d hurt Buffy before, he was going to hurt her again, and she was just too damn stupid to realise it.

But Buffy realised it. She was letting him hurt her. Sometimes literally. She was having to wear longer sleeves and higher necks to cover the bruises she got from him. At the time, she never minded, but afterwards she cursed herself for letting him mark her. She was sure they used to have sex without getting violent, but she could barely remember it.

Spike made public appearances every now and then, coming over to see Will in the afternoons or evenings, helping Dawn with her homework - at least she was talking to someone, and Buffy found out most of the important things in her sister’s life through her lover - or taking the baby for a stroll around the park. He didn’t see any reason why he and Buffy couldn’t go public - after all, if she didn’t want anything to do with him then why the hell was she sleeping with him? Or, for that matter, still married to him - but she was adamant that her friends mustn’t know.

“Xander hates me already,” she said, “and Willow thinks you’re evil too.”

“I’d noticed the way she left the house whenever I got near it, pet.”

“Well, now they’ve officially moved out it does sort of make it easier.”

“They? Girlfriend can’t stand me either?”

“Tara - she doesn’t exactly say much, does she?”

“Not a lot. But then if I was shagging Red, I probably wouldn’t, either.”

“You fancy Willow?”

“Course I do. She’s hot. And she’s a lesbian. What’s not to fancy?”

And Buffy had bashed him for that, and he’d caught her and kissed her, and they’d had some more sex.

Sex was pretty much all they did. In his hotel, in her house on the rare occasions it was empty, in both their cars, the elevator at the hotel, the gallery, the park, the Bronze, back alleys all over Sunnydale. He’d turn up and within seconds they’d be pulling each others’ clothes off. Sometimes Buffy went to him, if her day had been hard or she’d argued with Dawn or Xander had given her the cold shoulder.

Solace. It was all she wanted - or all she could figure out that she wanted - and what Spike was ready to give her. She didn’t ask why, and neither did he.

But he was getting bolder. Making moves on her when Dawn was in the house, coming in to ‘talk’ during gallery opening hours, making dirty phone calls in the middle of the day. One time Buffy had picked up the phone while Tara was in the office with her, and it had been Spike, murmuring filthy things that had made Buffy get very hot, panting and wriggling, and in the end she’d simply put the phone down and driven straight to his hotel and shagged him into unconsciousness.

Lying on the smooth wooden floor of the gallery, naked, arms and legs entangled, it was almost easy to imagine it was all normal. But Spike knew that in a few minutes she’d get up, drag her clothes on, try and make sense of her hair, and leave, without very many words to him.

He reached for his jeans pocket and lit up a cigarette, counting down to her inevitable exit. Five, four, three-

“Hey,” Buffy said, “no smoking in my gallery.”

“Stop me.”

She grabbed the cigarette and stubbed it out on his stomach. Spike shot bolt upright.

“Ow! Bloody hell, woman!” He stared at her. “That fucking hurt!”

Buffy shrugged, standing up and going after her clothes.

“And she’s off,” Spike remarked, lying back on the floor, rubbing the burn on his stomach. “You know, Dru used to do that.”

Buffy said nothing.

“Did I do something wrong?”

She turned back, fastening her jeans. “No,” she said. “You know this isn’t about you.”

“Funny how you know exactly what I want to hear.”

“I mean I - forget it.”

“Not even talking to me now, pet. You know, you really know how to make a man feel wanted.”

He stood up and pulled on his jeans, shrugged into his shirt.

“You’re leaving?” Buffy paused.

“Damn right I am. For once. Before you chuck me out.” He threw his duster on. “And don’t bother coming over tonight. I’m closed for business,” he said, flicking the Open sign as he stalked out of the gallery.

Buffy scrunched up her eyes. This had to stop.

She went into the office, got the phone book, and started dialling.

She didn’t come over that night, or the next. She didn’t call him to come to the gallery, and when he came to see Will, Buffy left the house before he could say a word to her.

The reason became clear a few days later, when Room Service brought up a big fat package addressed to Lord Spellingdon. He ripped it open, and found divorce papers.

He called Buffy’s house and Dawn answered. It was hard to keep the fury out of his voice.

“Dawn. I need to speak to your sister.”

“She’s not here. She went out for a run.”

“Did she take her phone with her?”

“Uh...” He heard her moving about. “No, it’s here.”

“Tell her to call me the second she gets in. And if she won’t, you call me and I’ll speak to her.”

She picked up the measured calm in his voice. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“No. Everything’s fine. I just need to speak to Buffy.”

“I’ll tell her to call,” Dawn said, sounding puzzled. “Bye, Spike.”

“Bye, niblet.”

He put the phone down, and realised his hand was shaking. He reached for his packet of fags, the bottle of bourbon, and the CD remote.

Spike had a large CD collection, and at the forefront were naturally the Sex Pistols. The ones he kept on public display were all punk or hard rock, a few classics like the White Album and Dark Side Of The Moon thrown in for good measure.

But right at the back, where no one could see them, were the ones he needed for comfort. Leonard Bernstein. Bryan Adams. Crowded House.

He took out Recurring Dream and put it on. Then he drank some more bourbon. Then he relaxed a bit.

‘Tell me all the things you would change
I don't pretend to know what you want
When you come around and spin my top
Time and again, time and again...’

Sodding Summers woman. She spun his top whenever she felt like it - and what did he get? The pleasure of her company? It wasn’t even that pleasurable any more. Oh, the sex was still amazing, and there were moments - usually when she was asleep - that he looked at her and her face was soft, young again, her arms held him tenderly. She was his, really his, mind, body and soul.

And then she opened her eyes. And that bloody mouth.
‘No fire where I lit my spark
I am not afraid of the dark
Where your words devour my heart
And put me to shame, put me to shame...’

Shame? She should know something about that, Spike thought bitterly, lighting another fag. She’d been so ashamed the first time, and then after the Bronze, and then... And then she’d started coming to him.

Well, there was fire, but not the sort he wanted. If he looked behind her eyes she just looked... well, dead. There was just darkness there. He knew he should give up, but he also knew there was something deep down there that he could get at. If she was totally dead inside, then how could she do the things she did?
‘You're still so young to travel so far
Old enough to know who you are
Wise enough to carry the scars
Without any blame, there's no one to blame...’

He closed his eyes. Neil, mate, he thought, how did you know? Did you meet Buffy or something?

Except about the blame. They were both to blame. But then, she was only doing what she did, because of what he did, and he only did what he did because of what she did... So who was to blame?
‘It's easy to forget what you learned
Waiting for the thrill to return
Feeling your desire burn
And drawn to the flame...’

It’d burn them both eventually. He rubbed his stomach. Already had, in a literal sense. The thing was neither of them could stop. He craved her even while he was with her. He needed her, even if she did leave him feeling empty. Every time he swore he’d say no next time, and every time he took her back. Forgot everything he’d resolved. All for the heat of her. Moths and flames.
‘And I'm lying on the table
Washed out in a flood
Like a Christian feeling vengeance from above
I don't pretend to know what you want
But I offer love...’
Spike grabbed the remote and stopped the CD. Silence filled the room.

That was getting a little too close for comfort.

Someone knocked at the door and Spike glanced wearily over at it. “Piss off,” he yelled.

The knock came again.

“Please go the fuck away.”

“Spike,” came Buffy’s voice, and he threw his empty glass at the door. It made a thud, then fell down to the thick carpet, unbroken.

Stupid sodding piece of shit glassware. Things can’t even break when you want them to.

He stomped over to the door, yanked it open, and stomped back to his chair without looking at her. With no glass, he had to drink straight from the bottle. He lit up another cigarette and inhaled so deeply half of it was gone by the time he breathed out.

Still she said nothing.

Eventually he took another swig of bourbon and chanced a glance at her through the reflection in the big panoramic window. She stood quietly. He could see jogging clothes in her reflection. So no nakedness, this time. Can’t have everything.

“Night falls and she appears,” he said, half to himself.

“I thought face to face might be better.”

“Really? So that’s why you sent me these,” he chucked the packet of papers in her general direction, “without any warning.”

“I thought the last year might have been warning enough.”

“Why didn’t you do it before?”

Her answer was simple. “Couldn’t afford it.”

“So you stayed married to me for financial reasons?”

“Hey, I never asked for a cent from you.”

True, Spike thought, but you still got a fortune. He ached to tell her about all the paintings, the artefacts, the sculptures he’d sourced, bought, stolen, for her. But Spike had inherited more than a title from his father: he’d got his stupid pride, too.

He stood up and faced her. Sweatpants, vest and a little hoodie. Pink cheeks. Messy hair. Adorable.

“So that’s it,” he said. “Over. Or are you still gonna come here looking for cold comfort?”

“That’s over too,” she said quietly. “I-”

She broke off, and Spike watched her intently.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’ve been using you. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say. He didn’t even know if he was angry or touched or confused or hurt or all of the above.

“Will you sign?” Buffy asked, and he was still a while longer before he shook his head.

“No.”

“Please don’t make this harder.”

“I couldn’t, pet. Look at us - married less than a year and already there are divorce papers.”

“There would have been papers earlier if-”

“If you hadn’t been so sodding proud and refused to ask anyone for help,” Spike snapped.

Buffy dropped her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

“God, what does it take to get a bloody reaction out of you?” Spike yelled. “All you do is sodding mope and shrug and bloody cope,” he said it like a bad word.

“What am I supposed to do? Sit around and cry because something else in my life has gone wrong? Spike, I am tired of crying. You know after Mom died, I cried for two weeks solid? Seriously. With no provocation. I couldn’t stop crying.”

“Hormones,” Spike muttered.

“Well, maybe, but don’t forget my mother had just died and my husband was-” she held up her hand “-as far as I knew - fucking someone else.” She shrugged. “They put me on the Pill to work things out. Settled my hormones. Meant I was only crying for about twelve hours out of every twenty-four, instead of the whole lot.”

Spike nodded. He’d figured she was on some kind of contraception, because she’d stopped asking for condoms. Then he’d seen the packet in her bathroom, and decided not to press the issue. Right now, it wouldn’t help anyone for her to get pregnant again.

“You think divorcing me will help?”

Buffy sighed, and for the first time since she’d walked in, moved from her spot on the carpet. She flopped down in one of the plush chairs opposite Spike. He remained standing.

“I can’t see how it could make anything worse,” she said.

“No? Is it even going to make any difference? I’m not going to just go away, Buffy-”

“I didn’t say you had to. You can still see Will, as much as you like. You’re a good father,” she said quietly, and right then Spike knew he’d do anything to keep her.

He got down on his knees in front of her and took her hands. “Buffy. Please. Tell me why you’re doing this?”

“Because there’s no reason for us to be married.”

“There’s no reason for us to be apart, either.”

“There are-”

“No reasons,” he repeated firmly. “You thought I’d cheated, but I didn’t. You told me Will was dead, but he isn’t.” A thought occurred to him. “Dawn has him?”

She nodded.

“I still love you, Buffy,” Spike said quietly. “I loved you a long time before I realised I did. And I’m not going to stop loving you because of some stupid misunderstanding or this.. this apathy or whatever it is that’s wrong with you.”

“You think there’s something wrong with me?”

“You hardly speak to me unless you’re actually fucking me. No, don’t flinch - that’s all you’ve been doing is just fucking me. Emotionless sensations-”

“How can you say that?” Buffy whispered.

Spike raised his eyebrows. Oh, was he getting somewhere?

“The whole time, I’ve just been trying to... I was so angry and I just needed... You made me feel, Spike, something that wasn’t misery and lethargy. Sometimes you got me so mad-” she broke off, tracing a recent bruise on his cheek. “Dawn said you told her you’d taken up boxing,” she said with a slight smile.

“Best I could come up with.” He had to keep her smiling. “Maybe I should. Reckon I’d look good with those big fat gloves on...”

“Those shiny shorts,” Buffy giggled.

“Oh yeah. Would I be hot, or what?”

She stroked his cheek again. “It might mess up your face.”

“I was getting a bit tired of being so pretty anyway. You know, the first time a woman faints at the sight of you is flattering, but when they do it every day it’s just boring.”

She was rolling her eyes now, but still smiling. Spike nearly laughed in delight. It had been so long since he saw her smiling properly.

He touched her lips. “I meant it,” he said.

“About the boxing?”

“About you. Us. I still love you, Buffy. Always will. I’m not about to give up on you.”

“Even when I’m such a basket case?”

“I like to think I enjoy a challenge.”

She closed her eyes. The smile faded.

Damn.

“Spike, it’s not going to work-”

“Why not?” He was pleading now, still kneeling there in front of her, holding her hands.

“It just - it can’t. We’re too different.”

“Can’t we want it to work?”

“Is wanting enough? I wanted you to come to me after Will was born-”

“I did! I did come. And you told me to go. Remember?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and she didn’t protest when Spike put his arms around her and held her. She sniffed against him, then her arms slowly sneaked around him.

Spike closed his eyes and held her tight. Neither of them said anything, neither moved very much. Buffy sighed against him, and Spike said, very softly, “I don’t pretend to know what you want, but I offer love.”

Buffy went still.

“Not that I thought I’d ever be quoting song lyrics to you, love, but-”

“It’s easy to forget what you learnt,” she sniffed. “Waiting for the-”

He pulled her head up and stared at her in amazement. “You know Crowded House?”

“Tara had a CD. I made a copy.”

He stared some more.

“Never had you down for a fan, though,” Buffy said, and he realised she was teasing him.

Oh, sweet lord, his Buffy was back.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” he said, giving her his best smile. He brushed his lips across hers, and it hardly even qualified as a kiss, but it made his pulse quicken.

There was a long silence.

“Maybe,” he breathed, “this isn’t a good idea. We should-”

“It’s a good idea,” Buffy said, and kissed him properly. But not a hard, angry kiss; a soft, sweet one, like the ones they’d shared when they were a proper couple. Married. Baby on the way. Happy. Blissful.

Once they’d started with the kissing it got rather hard to stop, so they didn’t stop. Kissing turned into touching, and touching to stroking and licking, all of it sweet and slow.

And then Buffy’s eyes connected with Spike’s, and she smiled, and he smiled, and he tore her hoodie off and threw it halfway across the room. She wrapped her arms tight around him, pulled at his t-shirt, pushed at his jeans, rubbed her heel against the small of his back.

“Go on,” she said, as he pulled her sweatpants down and slipped his fingers between her legs. “Now. Please.”

He slid into her, and it was so good he lost balance, falling backwards against the glass-topped table. It, unlike the shot glass, shattered into millions of pieces, and Buffy yelled in alarm as Spike grabbed hold of her and rolled her free from the debris, protecting her with his body.

“Oh my God,” she laughed. And Spike was so entranced by that laugh that he completely forgot he’d just rolled over several feet of broken glass. They made love for the first time in months: energetic and happy and pleasurable. And when it was over, Spike pulled Buffy in close and kissed her and held her, and she didn’t make any move to leave.

Eventually she sighed. “I should-” she began, and Spike felt like hitting her, no - hitting himself. He should have seen it coming.

“Go, right,” he said, starting to move away, but she shook her head, frowning.

“Don’t go. Going bad. Stay,” she said, and, confused, Spike did as he was told.

“I was going to say, I should probably call Dawn,” she said. “She told me to call you and, um, the next thing I knew I was sort of here, so...”

Spike grinned and kissed her forehead. “Dammit, I guess one of us has to move.”

“Otherwise this could be very entertaining,” Buffy giggled, picturing them both trying to get to the phone without breaking contact. She kissed his nose and disentangled herself-

And then she stopped.

“Spike,” she said urgently, and grabbed his arm.

“Ow,” he said.

“Yes, ow!” He was still half-wearing his shirt, and she pulled it off him.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” She stared at his arm. It had gone straight through the glass and taken most of his weight when he rolled them away from the wreckage. It was cut to shreds. Buffy could see bits of glass stuck in there.

“You need a doctor,” she rose to her feet.

“It’s fine,” Spike said.

“It’s clearly not!”

“Your concern is touching, love, but really, I just need to get the glass out. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”

Buffy touched the bullet wound on his shoulder - the wound that had been her fault, so bloody long ago.

She kissed his injured hand. “I’ll call Room Service,” she said, “they’ll have bandages.”

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