CHAPTER FIVE There is a date circled in red on the calendar in the kitchen. It is the 22nd of December, the last day the Bronze will be open before the holidays. The last night Buffy will have to work until January 1. Thanks to its status as the-only-place-in-town-to-hear -live music, the bar did not rely on Christmas depression to keep it hopping. The owner took off for Colorado. The employees were given nice, if not totally compensatory, Christmas bonuses. And Buffy would be coming home to Spike.

Ten whole days she will be his and his alone. He can’t think of any occasion in their lives that they have been able to spend even the barest smidgeon of time without the interferences of her work. Her slaying, of course, will continue through the New Year because demons don’t take holidays as a rule, but he can still be with her as they bask in the moonlight, weapons in hand, hand in hand. They will make love in the cemetery, on their usual limestone slab, the one that reads Beloved Wife. Buffy likes that tomb because of the romantic engraving. “My sorrow is such that my life dwindles from day to day without your tender caress. When we meet again, our hearts will be fire once more.” He might surprise her one night, have a blanket and one of her fluffy pillows already there. It is getting chilly at night and the last time they made love out of doors, Buffy trembled against the wind and he couldn’t warm her. His touch made her shiver even more.

It has been ten days since they have made love, outdoors or in. He wakes aching for her sometimes, but she continues to sleep as Dawn prepares for school and leaves the apartment. He has been patient for the most part because it is a Herculean task to wake her when she is sleeping so deeply. And it is even more of a bear to deal with the consequences of her interrupted slumber. She can be as crabby as an old man losing at a park chess game when she hasn’t had enough rest.

But tonight they will make love. Dawn is out for the evening at a friend’s Christmas party. Buffy phoned earlier and said that she would be finished at the bar around 8:00. With Dawn’s 11:00 weekend curfew, that will give them three precious hours to play. He intends to make the most of them. Tonight he is going to show her what she has been missing.

At ten till 8:00, he goes into the bathroom to draw a bath for her. Buffy will be tired after her shift. She will need a chance to relax, but not for too long. He will be in the tub with her, once again demonstrating one of the many advantages of having a lover who doesn’t have to breathe. He joined her in the bath not too long ago and tongued her underwater, making her thrash around so that by the time he was finished, almost all the bathwater was on the floor. Afterwards, they soaked up the mess with towels moved across the floor by way of their passionate lovemaking. Buffy remarked that it was the most fun she had ever had doing housework.

As hot water pours from the faucet, he sprinkles some sea salt into the flow, followed by a generous spurt of Buffy’s favorite vanilla scented bubble bath. While the bath is brewing, he goes to check on the candle supply. There are already a few votives lining the rim of the tub, but he wants the room to glow from every angle with soft candlelight. He ventures into their bedroom for the ones they keep on the bureau and bedside tables. While he’s in there, he notes that it is just now 8:00. Perfect.

The tub is full and foamy as he is lighting the last of the candles. He snaps his lighter closed and sits on the rim of the toilet, admiring his work. He wonders briefly if he should have bought flowers for the occasion. But it’s too late now.

Now, how to present himself to his lady tonight. He paces around in the living room, passing his thumbnail over his bottom lip while he thinks. He supposes nakedness is always a welcome sight. He begins to untuck his tee shirt and almost has the garment pulled over his head when he has a sudden change of heart. No, this isn’t right. He doesn’t want to be so blatant. Though at this point he thinks he could take her right at the threshold, with the bath and the candles and the soft mood lighting, he knows the evening calls for a little romance. This is where the silk smoking jacket would come in handy. Where might she be hiding his presents?

There’s only one place in the apartment where she could be stashing away the presents. Their closet. He goes into the bedroom and tears open the closet door. On the top shelf where there were previously bags and bags of stuff are now just the usual clutter of shoeboxes and purses. Damn. She’s found a new spot. Where else? Under the bed? He checks there, but the only thing occupying that space are a growing family of dust bunnies and some balled up Kleenex.

There is a linen closet, he remembers.

Out in the hallway now, he goes to the slim door between their bedroom and the bathroom. After opening the door, he flips on the light switch. No, still just towels and sheets. He moves some of the bulkier towels aside, thinking that they may be just a façade, but again, there’s nothing behind them but more towels.

“Oh, well,” he says to himself. “Wouldn’t be right, sporting her gift before Christmas morning.” He again begins to strip off his tee shirt. “This will have to do.”

After thirty minutes on the sofa in front on the TV, Spike is beginning to realize it’s hard to feel sexy while watching a sappy episode of Providence. He checks the clock over the mantle. Yep, it’s 8:35. He should have offered her a ride home. Now he doesn’t know why he didn’t. Oh, that’s right. He wanted to make tonight special for her. He pads into the bathroom and dips his fingers into the tub. The water is now lukewarm. He unplugs the drain to let out just enough water for a top off of hot water. Some of the candles are beginning to melt down to their wick holders. Such a waste, he thinks in dismay. She would love this and she would love him for it. He can just imagine her girlish squeals and happy Buffy cheerleader moves she does when she’s really excited about something.

He moves his hands through the suds, creating a menacing claw mark in the blinking bubbles. So what is it about a tub dip that’s so soothing and relaxing? He has seen Buffy, dressed in her robe, hair tossed into a messy bun on top of her head, cucumber in hand, nearly salivating for her solo soak. He wondered about the cucumber for a long time until one night he walked in on her and found slices on her eyes, making her look like one of those scary Diva Dolls in the toys section of Target. He has never been curious enough to find out what the great joy of soaking in one’s own filth is all about. But tonight, he might be.

Maybe.

He is already naked. And the water does feel very warm to his touch. Like Buffy. If Buffy were liquid and rectangular.

He puts one toe in. Then the whole foot. That done, he thinks he can manage to put in the whole leg. The other leg follows. And soon he is scooting his bottom against the slick base of the tub. As his head is resting against the seashell bath pillow, it occurs to him that this is sort of nice. Sort of…womb-like. Sort of something a nancy boy longing for his mum’s sweet teet might find very comforting…

Wait. Was this something a poof would do? Because he is not a poof. No, not this vampire, though he has known plenty who are. Not him. No. But this is…this is nice. This is warm and fragrant and soothing. This is…

“Paradise,” he exhales slowly as he allows his whole body to relax against the porcelain. It almost feels as though the tub is conforming to the contours of his body, or that he is melting into the mix of salt and vanilla. Salt and vanilla. The ingredients for homemade ice cream. Mmm…homemade ice cream. Ice cream! There is some in the freezer. He should get it. But this is too pleasurable, too indulgent. A little like a murder spree, but with bubbles.

As he lies there in total splendor, wondering why in the hell he hasn’t tried this sooner, there is a ring sounding somewhere in the apartment. He jerks his eyes open. He can’t identify the source just yet. Then he realizes it’s the phone. Before he can even make a move to pry himself out of his heavenly bliss, the answering machine picks up.

“Hi. Buffy, Spike and Dawn are otherwise occupied. Leave a message. And don’t hang up, unless you’re a bloody telemarketer.”

This was the message Buffy dictated to him after she was horrified to learn for three weeks the outgoing message was, “Buffy and Spike are fucking now. Leave a message.”

The beep sounds, followed by Buffy’s breathless voice. “Hi, honey. Are you there? Guess not. Where are you? Anyway, there’s been a delay. Some biker demons decided to zoom in right at closing time and guess what? Yep. Slayer carnage ensued and property damage accumulated. So instead of being really grateful, the boss is, like, ‘Clean it up or you don’t have a job next year!’ I’m almost done. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Love you!”

He smiles, letting the bubbles baptize his shoulders again as he sinks back down against the pillow. “Love you too, sweetheart,” he says lazily as the bubbles adorn his chin like a shaggy Rip Van Winkle beard.

He is awake now. Though he can’t believe he was ever asleep.

The systematic undoing of locks trumpets someone’s return to the apartment. Spike springs from the now chilly water and hurdles over the side, diving for the terrycloth towel on a nearby rack. He dries himself off as best as he can, wrapping the towel around his waist as soon as he stops making puddles on the floor. As Buffy is walking into the apartment, he is exiting the bathroom, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, still cinching the towel around him.

“Hi,” she says warily.

“I was just getting out of the shower,” he says. “Wanted to be nice and warm for you when you got home.”

“Aw, honey,” she says, approaching him with open arms. As she falls into his embrace, she murmurs against his shoulder, “You’re so sweet…so sweet and…vanilla scented.” She pulls away from him, aiming an accusatory glare his way, tinged with a laughing amusement. “You’ve been taking a bath!”

Spike snorts and begins to stammer. “Wh…what, me? No…just a shower. I accidentally used your bubble bath, thinking it was shower gel.”

But Buffy has him tagged. “Oh, honey…The candle scent? The sleepy eyes?” She offers his own hand for evidence. “The prune fingers?”

“So what if I have?” he asks, whipping his fingers away from Buffy’s probing, mocking stare. “It was very relaxing! And it was supposed to have been for you, Goldilocks.”

“Really? You made a bath for me?”

“Yeah,” he says, recovering a bit of his cool as he draws her closer. “Thought you might need it after a hard night, perhaps a hard slay.” He breathes into her ear. “Nice preparation for a hard lay.”

“Oh, baby!” she says. “Do you ever know what I like.”

His masculinity effectively still in tact, he feels brazen enough to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom. As they are making their way down the hall, Buffy doffs her top and leaves it on the floor. Spike’s hands are under her bra strap when he ferries her into the bedroom. They are kissing as they land one on top of the other on the bed. Buffy ferociously undoes her own bra, allowing her breasts to bounce free in front of Spike’s delighted eyes while she straddles him. She braises his neck with kisses, rubbing her hardened nipples against his. Spike simultaneously whips off his drenched towel and Buffy’s pants in two swift moves. All that is between them now is the small strip of her satin thong. He gazes at it, breathing in the pungent fresh bread smell of her arousal. With two thumbs hooked under either side of the thong, he maneuvers the small obstruction down her thighs, kissing the areas in its wake as he slips it off her quivering legs.

“Oh, God,” Buffy says receiving his kisses now on her collarbone, down her chest, between her breasts. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Yeah?” he says, continuing to kiss her down her stomach.

“Being close to you. Feeling your sizzlin’ little kisses on me,” she says, arching her back as he comes dangerously close to the tight little band of nerves throbbing between her legs.

“You like these little kisses, do you?” he asks, licking her around her navel.

“The big ones too. But these sizzlin’ little kisses…mmm….” She thrashes her head against the pillow when it appears he is about to take a bite of the ripe little raspberry growing between her slick folds.

He cheats her, rising over her, draping her mouth with his lips. Their tongues box as she draws him closer, wanting to feel his naked form and how much he wants her. His throbbing member lies patiently on her left thigh as he drenches her mouth with succulent kisses. She runs her fingers against the xylophone of his ribcage, hearing music in her head.

When he breaks from her mouth and finds greener pastures in the planes of her neck and chest, she says, “When those damn bikers came in, I thought I’d never get home.”

“But you’re home now, love,” he says, teasing her left nipple with the tip of his tongue.

“I’m always home with you, honey,” she says, drawing his head closer to her breast. “And I will be for ten whole days.”

“Mmmm…ten whole days of Buffy love,” he says before returning his ministrations to her nipple.

“You’re going to get sick of me before January first,” she says with a laugh in her voice.

“Not possible, love,” he answers.

Buffy is spread eagle in front of his approving gaze. He can see that her fiery quim is protruding from her folds. He bows to her, nestling his head between her legs. He licks her left inner thigh, then the right. She shoves her pelvis towards him, sighing in a dove’s mournful coo.

“Buffy wants a happy,” she mewls, prodding him with her feet and pushing her own fingers into her depths.

“Mmm…” Spike says teasingly. “How many licks does it take to get to the center of this little Tootsie Pop? One.” He runs his tongue over the thatch of stiff and moist hairs. “Two.” He flicks the tip of his tongue just at the entrance. “Three.” Finally, he impales her deeply on his tongue.

She tosses her head against the pillow. “Three…” she says in an explosive sigh.

He pulls her down closer to him. She grips his head as though to make certain he will not try to deviate from his singular mission. She needs this. Her release this way is all but guaranteed.

He flicks his tongue against her clitoris and she flinches, drawing her knees up instinctively. His lips draw the hardened nub into his mouth and he sucks lovingly as his hand caresses her left nipple. The combination of the two stimuli causes her to mutter mindlessly, “Uh…so good…uh…baby…baby…Spike….Spike…”

It is always such a turn on to her when she hears his fierce suckling and she feels the effortless moans vibrating inside of her. This is his absolute favorite thing to do. He has told her this from the very beginning. Before Spike, no one had ever dared to touch the Slayer like this. Her virginity was lost in an awkward missionary style that didn’t result in anything other than the exchange of bodily fluids and the departure of her lover’s soul. Parker wasn’t into other people’s pleasure as much as he was into his own. Riley believed that as long as penetration was giving her the big “O” then they didn’t have to go down any other avenues. Little did he know, in the back alleys of her mind, she did dream of other things. This was one of them.

She reaches down to tickle the outer rim of his ear. He knows she is watching him perform and adds a little something extra from her viewing pleasure. He tilts her pelvis at a slight angle and withdraws his tongue, extending it as far as he can out of his mouth so that she can see the muscle diving into her. She slams her head back onto her pillow and widens the breadth between her legs.

“Taste…taste…” she mutters, pulling her fingers through her hair.

He knows what she means without having to ask for clarification. This is what he loves most about her when he’s like this. Naughty little Buffy…He wedges a wriggling index finger into the rocking walls of her canal, gently scraping her viscous fluid. Removing his finger, careful not to spill, he spoons the fluid into her awaiting mouth. She sucks contentedly on his finger until all traces of her musk are gone. He told her once that she had the most wonderful taste in the world---a tangy aspic of lemon and peach. She has developed an appreciation for her own juices as well, especially when she can taste his skin along with them.

With the moistened tip of his finger, he traces her left areola, mimicking the ministration of his tongue. Her inner muscles are tensing around him. Her clitoris tightens between his lips. As she makes that exhausting hike towards her release, she thrusts her hips forward, bucking against him until he almost loses his grip on her. She is a wild child when she is approaching release. He is always mindful of those powerful thighs and what she might do in a moment of loss of control. He protects himself by bracing his hands against the insides of her legs.

“Oh, God, honey…Oh, God…eee…eee…EEE!” she screams, her body convulsing so violently she nearly shakes the mattress off the boxsprings.

He continues to lap away at her core, her flowing juices mixing the most magnificent cocktail he’s ever drunk. Finally, he rises from her, plopping his head on her stomach. He loves to feel the muscles of her abdomen shift under his cheek when she’s making her descent from the heights of ecstasy.

She runs her fingers through his hair, petting him gently as she says though an exhausted sigh, “That was so good, Baby.”

“Yeah?” he smiles, capturing her left hand with his and kissing her palm. “You about ready for round two?”

“Always,” she grins lazily.

He slides off of her and positions his own pelvis between her still shuddering thighs. With one hand, he guides himself to her entrance. When the tip brushes against her thoroughly engorged clitoris, she lets out a yowl and bunches the bedspread in her fists.

But just then, the phone rings beside the bed.

At the sound, the two of them jump. Their gazes are locked in miscomprehension for a few moments. When Spike thinks that she’s just going to let the machine get it, he pulls his hips back, ready to gun himself right into her. Then suddenly, she obstructs the entry with her hand.

“Honey, it might be Dawn,” she says in a cautionary way.

He settles back on his folded legs, silently cursing the Nibblet. She has some timing, he thinks bitterly as he watches his lover reach for the phone.

Curling the receiver under her chin, she says, “Hello?”

“Miss Summers?” a deep, unfamiliar voice intones.

“Speaking,” she says, pulling her hair away from her mouth.

“Your sister has been in an accident,” the voice says without emotion.

Her heart falls in a crashing elevator fashion to the base of her stomach. “Oh, God. Is she OK?” she somehow thinks to ask.

“She’s being treated at County General. She’s all right. Just a little bruised.”

“We’ll be right there,” Buffy says. “Thank you.”

Spike doesn’t even have to ask her what’s wrong. He sees the fear in Buffy’s face. It is not often that she shows this side of her, the one that she allows herself to display when the lives of family or friends are concerned. She never shows even a hint of fear when engaged in battle, never lets her game face slip for a moment. But if someone she loves is in danger, the terror of her helplessness twists her features into a mask of tragedy.

“Get dressed,” she instructs as she begins reassembling her clothes.

CHAPTER SIX

“Your sister and her boyfriend are here,” the nurse says casually, sliding open the green curtain that surrounds them.

Instantly Dawn wishes that the accident had left her in a coma or unconscious at least. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the questions, the accusations, the disappointment in her sister’s face. She thinks briefly about lying down on the cot and feigning grave injury. The wreck left her with barely a scratch and she now thinks if she had some big oozing cuts or an indigo shiner around her eye that her sister would take pity on her. But before she can further contemplate any sort of ruse, Spike and Buffy appear.

“Oh, God,” Buffy says, relief pouring from her face in sheets when she sees that her sister isn’t hooked up to any machines. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, Buff, I’m fine. Just a little shaken,” Dawn replies.

“What happened?”

Question number one, Dawn thinks ruefully, and it has to be the hardest one. “First of all, Buffy, don’t freak.”

“Don’t give me a reason to,” Buffy says. “The driver you were with was drinking, wasn’t he?”

Already Question Number Two, even with the answer to Question Number one still on the launch pad.

“Well, yeah, he was, but---

“Dawn!” Buffy expostulates. “How many times have I told you NOT to get in a car with someone who’s been drinking?”

“Listen, I didn’t know he had been drinking! I swear! He seemed perfectly OK to me.”

“Who was it?”

Question Number Three. A fairly easy one.

“This guy. Michael Lloyd.”

“Michael Lloyd?” Spike asks. “The bloke who’s a freshman at UC Sunnydale? The one who dates Melissa Braxton?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I thought you didn’t like him. Said he cracked his knuckles all the time and smelled like Ben Gay.”

“Well, he is annoying. And by the way, he’s not dating Melissa Braxton anymore. He’s dating Meredith Cummings.”

“The chit who gets out of playing dodge ball all the time because of her implants?”

“Well, that’s just a rumor. But she did develop kind of quickly and she does sit out of a lot of dodge ball games.”

“I thought she was dating Ben Murphy.”

“Oh, they are so over. Didn’t I tell you about what happened at Katie Olsen’s party?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, God, it was all over school how Ben and Katie’s cousin Brenda were caught making out in the basement. Meredith was soooo pissed that she---

“OK, OK. Enough of the Sunnydale High Soap Opera update,” Buffy says, privately marveling about how much her boyfriend knows about her sister’s classmates and concluding that the two of them spend far too much time together. “Can we get back to the issue at hand? Dawn, you were supposed to be at a party tonight, but for some reason you left it to get into a car with a driver who was impaired and shouldn’t have been driving.”

“The party turned out to be really lame. I mean, so boring there were people, like, falling asleep on the couch. Michael said he knew of another party in the hills. I didn’t know whose party it was, but Travis did. He said they were pretty cool. So before I knew it, we were all in Michael’s car heading for the hills. And then we were heading for a stoplight that was red, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. He ran right through it and the car kind of got slammed into by another driver coming through the intersection.”

“Oh, good God,” Buffy mutters, the image of the accident unfurling in her mind. “You could have been killed, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. But the important thing is I wasn’t, right?”

“Yes, that is the important thing. But it still worries me that even after I’ve told you time and time again not to that you would get into a car with someone who had been drinking.”

“Buffy, it’s like I told you. I had no idea Michael was drunk. There wasn’t any alcohol at the party. He must have had a flask or something.”

“Was anybody badly hurt?” Buffy wonders.

“No. I think Michael mashed his mouth on the steering wheel because there was all kinds of blood dripping from his mouth after the accident. And Travis just has a few bumps and bruises like I have. Meredith was OK too.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Buffy says.

“So…I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?”

Buffy takes a moment to look at Spike. Of course, the idea of punishing Dawn is always the last thing on his mind whenever she goes astray, mostly because her punishments usually involve grounding which means long, long days of her in the apartment when he and Buffy could be fucking.

Finally, a smile breaks through Buffy’s worried features. “No, I don’t think so. Not this time. I think the accident was probably lesson enough. You just scared the hell out of us, that’s all.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

“That’s OK, Dawn,” Buffy says wearily, drawing her little sister into a tentative embrace. She eyes her platinum-coifed lover, remembering what they were doing when she got the phone call. This seems to be on his mind as well as he embraces Dawn from the other side. He shakes his head defeatedly and smiles as he places a kiss on Dawn’s forehead.

Suddenly, Dawn is sniffing the air, contorting her nostrils in an exaggerated way as a certain scent catches her attention.

“Spike?” she asks, still sniffing. “Why do you smell like vanilla?”

Spike only clears his throat and gives Buffy a warning glare not to say a word. But soon there is something to distract them. All attention now is re-routed to the short, stocky man in the pin-striped tie with the mustard strain on his lapel.

“Well, Miss Summers, it doesn’t appear that anything is broken,” he says, glancing at his notes before beaming his smile their way. “You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Buffy says. “Is there anything we should do for her at home?”

“She’ll be a little sore for a while, I imagine. A little ibuprofen should take care of the aches and pains. Warm baths should help as well.”

You might have to wait in line, Buffy thinks as she smiles over at her lover.

“So I’m free to go?” Dawn asks hopefully.

“You are discharged.”

The trio emerges as a solid unit from the cubicle. Dawn is a little stiff and she takes slow, measured steps that the Slayer and the vampire match on either side of her. Buffy is still going over in her mind how bad the accident could have been and how lucky she is to be taking her sister home in one piece. Her sister’s mortality has been challenged a lot in the short time she’s been on the earth. She hopes this will be the one hundredth and final time, but in her heart, she knows it probably isn’t. She is a Summers girl after all.

“Hey, there wasn’t a lot of food at the party. Can we maybe stop somewhere and get a burger or something before we go home?” Dawn asks.

“Oh, I guess so,” Buffy says tiredly. “But we do have some of that leftover potato bake in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Dawn aims a terrified look in Spike’s direction, a distress signal he knows quite well.

“Uh, Buffy, I could go for a burger as well,” Spike says, receiving Dawn’s grateful, silent thank you’s. “There’s a Doublemeat Palace on the way home. We could go through the drive thru.”

“Oh, OK. A milkshake does sound good right about now.”

As they were winding their way down the hall, they hear loud voices coming from one of the open wards to the left. In their approach, at least one of the voices becomes more and more recognizable. It is the voice of a boy, its pitch wavering from high to low frequencies, repeatedly saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Once they are all able to get a proper view of the situation, they see the familiar boy, hunched over on the gurney where he sits, miserably. On one side stands a tall gentlemen who is not saying a word. On the other side is an hysterical harpy of a woman for whom a loss for words does not seem to be an issue.

“Why did you let this happen? How could you have been so stupid?” the woman asks, seemingly rhetorically as she is not listening to any of the “I’m sorries” being issued in return. “Honestly, I don’t understand you sometimes. No, all the time. You have this bright future ahead of you. You’re going to be accepted at MIT. You’re going to be a chemical engineer who will make a very good living. But tonight you almost threw it all away, didn’t you?” The boy just slumps against her continued harangues. She grabs him by his collar. “Didn’t you?”

“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?” he fires back, jerking her hand away from his shirt.

“The thing is, you’re not sorry. You don’t even realize what you’ve done. You could have been killed. You could be lying down in the morgue right now!”

“I know, Mom. But I’m not. I’m alive. I mean, aren’t you at least happy about that?”

“Yes, I am happy that my son is alive. But I just am having a little trouble understanding why he’s sitting here in hospital after getting in a car with a drunk driver. A DRUNK DRIVER!”

“But I didn’t know he was---

“Oh, come on, Travis! Don’t even try to use that as an excuse. You’re a smart boy. You should know what a person acts like when he’s been drinking.”

“Honest, Mom, it’s the truth!”

Before Mrs. Singleton can fire back with a retort, Dawn’s small voice intervenes.

“It is true, Mrs. Singleton. None of us knew Michael had been drinking. Travis even asked him before we got in the car and he lied,” Dawn says.

Mrs. Singleton makes a slow turn in Dawn’s direction and the teenager can feel every hair stand up on the back of her neck. Her eyes cut to Travis, who is silently pleading with her to back off; this is not her fight. She should run away, far away, just as fast and as soon as she can.

“I really don’t think this is any of your business, young lady,” Mrs. Singleton sneers through teeth that are so gnarled, Dawn thinks her top and bottom front teeth are just going to pop out and pierce her right in the chest like a rain of gunfire.

“Um, actually it is, because I was in the wreck,” Dawn replies warily.

“Yes, you were. And I would expect this kind of reckless behavior from someone who spends most of her school days in the principal’s office. But not from my son.”

Buffy can feel the fury building in her, the heady heat of a battle about to begin. It is the same feeling she gets when she is about to take on a demon. But before she can utter a word, someone has beaten her to a response.

“Hey!” Spike interjects. “Now, Buffy and I do the best job we know how raising Dawn. It’s not easy and we do mistakes, but I think Dawn’s track record speaks for itself. Out of the ten times she’s been to the principal’s office this semester, there have been only three times she was actually guilty of what she was accused of. So you see---

“Hey, honey,” Buffy says, pressing a hand against Spike’s chest. “I think you’ve made your point. Mrs. Singleton, don’t you think you’re being just a little too harsh on Travis. I mean, Dawn told us that she had no idea Michael was drunk and we believed her.”

Mrs. Singleton gives a curt laugh. “Fine. You just go ahead and wallow in your denial. In the meantime, I'll keep doing the job of being a responsible parent.” It seems that Mrs. Singleton is finished with them, but then she turns around again with a new fire alight in her eyes. “One day, Miss Summers, you’ll know what it’s like to be a parent. Someday you will know what it’s like to have something you carried inside of you need your guidance and your discipline. Until that day, don’t even think about passing judgement on my parenting skills, you little---

“Samantha, that’s enough,” the heretofore silent man says, untucking his arm from the folded length of his jacket to coral his wife in before she says too much.

Mrs. Singleton inhales an audible breath through her flared nostrils and demurs to her husband, at last turning around to her son once again. Travis looks at the floor, his shoulders hunched, helplessness registering in his face, pinching his youthful features until he looks as old as his father. Buffy takes the initiative to stir her group away from the joyless trio, leaving them to flit hopelessly in their dysfunction until the doctor comes in and releases the boy to his parents’ care and probably more of the same treatment at home.

None of the three says a word about what they witnessed either in the parking lot or in the car. Nothing is said until the Desoto pulls into the parking lot of the Doublemeat Palace. A line of cars snakes its way around the perimeter of the restaurant for the drive thru, but it appears that inside, there are fewer people cueing up at the registers. Dawn volunteers to be the hunter gatherer and as soon as she snags a twenty from her sister, she is out the door, still walking a bit stiffly, to the side door of the restaurant.

Once Dawn is a safe distance away, Spike exhales and slams his hand on the steering wheel. “That woman!”

“I was just waiting for you to say something,” Buffy says.

“As a seasoned pro on the demon circuit, I can tell you that that woman is pure evil,” Spike says, drumming his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. In the old days, he would have been taken Mrs. Singleton’s actions as a plea for a speedy separation of skull from spinal column. An exception should have been made in this case. Buffy should have allowed him to at least toss her across the room into a table of medical instruments, letting her crash to the floor in a shower of metal. But she is human. Buffy even frowned on the idea of his snacking on a would-be mugger one time, so he imagines any act of violence against Mrs. Singleton would have provoked a similar reaction from his lady love, even though the woman was clearly asking for it.

“I kind of felt sorry for Travis,” Buffy says through a dreary sigh.

“You know, I don’t like that boy, but I will tell you that his mother should be very glad that Travis even likes girls, the way she treats him.”

“I mean, you believe Dawn, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. She would never lie to us.”

“No, not to us,” Buffy says, a minute tingle twitching her lips into a smile.

Spike looks over at her and catches her unannounced expression. After the evening they’ve had, a smile is the last thing he expects to see on her face. “Hey,” he says, dropping a hand on her shoulder for a brief squeeze. “What rates a smile on my girl’s face?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says, shining a pair of admiring eyes his way as she leans against the seat. “Just us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. You and me. After that whole summer of it just being me with Dawn and second guessing myself and trying to get things right with her through trial and error. It’s nice to have someone to be an us with.”

“Even though the us is…us?”

She smiles again, linking her fingers with his. “I only want to be an us with you, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the ending credits of How the Grinch Stole Christmas begin to roll, Dawn gets up slowly from the sofa, stretches her long arms towards the ceiling and says through a yawn, “Well, that’s it for me. I’m off.”

“You can’t stay up for Miracle on 34th Street?” Buffy asks from her seated position of the floor between Spike’s knees.

“I can’t stay up for anything on any street at this point,” Dawn replies. “Bedtime is calling. And if the Grinch happens down the chimney to steal our Christmas tree...Oh, wait! We don’t have a Christmas tree.”

“Sorry,” Buffy strains through a smile. “I’ve been kind of busy lately. I’ll go down to the storage room and get it tomorrow. Then tomorrow night we can make some eggnog, sing some Christmas Carols and decorate it. Sound like a plan?”

Dawn twirls a finger around in the air. “Sounds like a blast. I’d better rest up for all the mayhem.” She turns and heads down the hall to her room. “Night, you guys.”

“Good night,” Buffy and Spike say in unison.

Buffy scoots over to the VCR and presses the rewind button. She rented half dozen Christmas-themed flicks that afternoon to get everyone in the spirit, since the mood of the household was decidedly bah-humbug. Without their mother at the holiday helm, both Buffy and Dawn are having a hard time facing the 25th and Spike, even in his human years, was never the ho ho ho type. It just occurred to Buffy this afternoon that she hasn’t even made plans for Christmas dinner and tomorrow is the 24th. She wonders if any Chinese restaurants will be open…

Buffy waits out the tape’s rewinding by stretching out of the floor on her stomach and resting her chin on her folded hands. She is feeling the drowse of having kept her eyes focused on the TV screen for too long a period and she thinks that Dawn had a good idea about going to bed early.

“So what did you think of the Grinch?” Buffy asks, stifling a brief yawn.

“Well, first of all you’re talking to a purist,” Spike says, “I think that the storyline loses something without Dr. Seuss’ original poetry. And Anthony Hopkins may have played Hannibal the Cannibal, but he’s no match for Boris Karloff, the best monster portrayer ever, as a narrator. Take away those elements and all you’ve got is Jim Carrey running about in a suit of green shag carpeting remnants.”

Buffy smiles in response at her sweetheart’s assessment of the film and lays the side of her head on her crossed arms.

Seeing his ladylove in a prone position, Spike slides off his chair and crabwalks over to where Buffy is lying. Once beside her, he too stretches out, reaching behind her neck to give her a quick massage.

“Speaking of shag,” he says, close to her ear. “How about finishing what we started last night?”

“We can’t,” Buffy says in an exasperated protest, her voice muted against her sleeve. “Dawn’s here.”

“Yeah, I know. But if we’re really quiet…” he says, tracing a finger down her spine.

“Honey, no!”

“Come on. Please?” he asks hopefully, kissing her exposed cheek and whispering into her ear, “If we take things nice and slow, we won’t make much noise.”

“She’ll still be able to hear the bed springs.”

He rolls her over until she is flat on her back. She gasps in surprise as his hands go to either side of her head, trapping some of her hair between his palms and the carpeting. “We’ll do it on the floor, then,” he says, his hips undulating above hers.

“Honey---

“Please?” he asks, bringing his head down for a lingering kiss. “Please?” followed by another kiss.

Her arms go around him as he relaxes his body on top of hers. She loves to kiss him. If it weren’t for the fact that there were other things she liked to do more with him, she would just kiss him all the time, she thinks. It was such a shock to her, at first, how soft and supple his lips were. She imagined for the longest time that his mouth would be firm and tough like tanned hide. But at the first brush, she felt the tenderness and as her lips conformed to his, the truth that his mouth had been expounding on for months; he loved her. Even now, when lust is so clearly on his mind and so vividly repeating against her pelvic region, she is reminded of that first sensation that his love for her was real and not just another act of aggression. What seemed like such secret sin in the beginning now feels just like breathing to her.

He moves a little to allow his hand to wander between them. His fingers curve around the mound of soft flesh between her legs and he massages the area through her jeans. She loosens her mouth long enough to mutter, “Oh, God…” and lays her legs out in a V-shape across the floor.

“You getting hot for me, baby?” he purrs between kisses.

She nods, her head suddenly vibrating with giddiness as her tongue curls around his.

“You getting wet for me?” he asks, squeezing her roughly between her legs as though to wring out some of her juices onto his palm.

“Uh huh,” she answers.

“Let Spike see,” he says in a low growl.

She hears the muted pop of the top button of her jeans being undone. She feels the feather-light touch of his fingertip circling her navel. He circles over and over again until she starts to squirm in her ticklishness. She watches as he lifts the elastic of her panties and lodges two fingers underneath the fabric. Her moan is instant as his fingers slice into her quivering, moistened flesh, brought up to a ragingly hot temperature at his cold touch.

“For me?” he asks, nuzzling her cheek.

“Yeah,” she says as his fingers caress her clitoris. Regaining enough sense to know what’s going on, she slips a hand between them and feels up his trim, muscular thigh until she reaches his crotch. He moans against her as her fingers cup around his swollen member. “For me?”

“Always,” he answers with a smile.

She strokes him from the outside of his jeans as his fingers continue to work their magic between her legs. When he touches a particularly hot spot, Buffy yowls, “Storage!”

Thinking this is just about the oddest word anyone has ever muttered during foreplay, Spike freezes his fingers and looks into her arousal-mired eyes.

“Come again?” he asks.

“The storage room,” she finishes. “We could go down there and get the Christmas tree tonight.” She reaches up to trace the branched scar in his eyebrow. “I keep the big couch down there. The one with all the pillows from the old place? And there’s a pole. You can tie me up and frisk me if you want,” she says, segueing into the most sensual rasp he’s ever heard her make.

“Well, then I think we need a little Christmas right this very moment,” he drawls seductively into her ear.

Spike grasps her hand and helps her to her feet. Her legs are already a little shaky from their foreplay and he steadies her as she buttons her jeans. Hand in hand, they walk to the door. Buffy undoes the dead bolt while Spike curls his body around the rise of her behind. He nibbles the back of her neck as she reaches for the night latch.

“Darling,” he says, “why do we have all these bleeding locks on the door?”

“To keep intruders out, silly!” she says with a slight giggle, feeling his lips tickle the edge of her earlobe.

“Has it ever occurred to you that if anyone ever tried to break in, the two of us could pulverize the perp into paste?”

Buffy only offers him a look that says, “You should know better than to ask such a question” and flips the deadbolt.

And there, standing before them is a familiar man with a head of raven hair. His fist is paused mid-air as though he were about to knock.

“Xander?” Buffy says, her voice pitched high in surprise.

Spike takes a breath and mutters, “Case in point.”

“What are you doing here?” Buffy asks.

Xander only glares at her and brushes past them. “OK. I just want it to be known that I am officially confused about women for life.”

Spike rolls his eyes and thinks to himself, “I should have sired the prat when I had the chance the other night. Then he wouldn’t be able to just walk in like he owns the place.”

“Uh oh. What happened?” Buffy asks as her friend plops down on the loveseat.

“I don’t even want to talk about it,” Xander says, putting his hands behind his head.

“Well, good, because Buffy and I were just on our way out,” Spike says.

“Honey,” Buffy warns with a cutting glance. She returns her good intentions towards Xander. “Let me guess. You had a fight with Anya.”

Xander exhales a breath, nearly imitating the personification of the North Wind. “Oh yeah. A big one. Like a Tyson/Holyfield bout without the ear munching.”

Buffy sits on the edge of the chair nearest the loveseat. “Was it about the wedding?”

Seeing that Buffy is in helpful friend mode now, Spike takes his sulking into the kitchen.

“They’re all about the wedding these days,” he answers darkly. “We hardly ever fought until I put that ring on her finger. I mean, just because Cosmo says that if a man wants to postpone a wedding, it means that he doesn’t want to get married at all, that’s the law.”

“You’re thinking about postponing the wedding?”

“Just by a few months. Until September.”

“September? But you’re supposed to get married in February.”

“Yes, I know that. And February is just a month away. I just need more time. I tried to explain that to her and she just kept saying, ‘That means you’ll never be ready to get married.’ And I said, ‘Yes, I will be ready to be married. In September.’ I tried to reason with. I told her that the extra months would give her more time to get all the Martha Stewart details down to the letter about the ceremony and the reception. Nothing I said seemed to matter. It all ended with her saying, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, drop dead!’ And when a vengeance demon, former of not, says something like that, I think it’s best to clear out and wait for things to blow over.”

“That’s probably smart,” Buffy concedes. “Well, the important thing for you to know is that she doesn’t really hate you. I mean, right now you’re not her favorite cuddle toy on the shelf, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to let you go to a white elephant sale.”

“She was getting pretty scarily sentimental about the days when she infested men with penile boils and full-body fungi towards the end of the fight,” Xander says with a grimace.

“Well, since her pendant was smashed, I don’t think you have to worry about…those particular things. What you need to think about is---

The phone rings from the kitchen. The bell sounds twice before Buffy has to ask Spike to get it.

Spike comes into the room with the cordless phone in his outstretched hand.

“Shop girl is on the line,” Spike says.

“Tell her that I’m not talking to her until she calms down and can discuss things rationally,” Xander says firmly.

“No, you tell her. I’m not your bleeding message service and I certainly don’t mix in affairs involving ex-vengeance demons,” Spike says, forcing the phone into his hand.

Xander takes a cleansing breath before shouldering the phone. He pauses before saying, “Anya, if you want to continue the fight via AT&T, I’m turning Sprint, OK? Look, I said I was sorry and….Anya…An…I know what you’ve read and I know that---

Anya…Anya, please just listen to me for once and stop yelling!” Xander’s eyes bug out of his head. “Nice language, An! Would you kiss D’Offeran with that mouth?”

Buffy tip-toes out of the room as it appears the discussion they’re having is not meant for anyone’s ears but their own. Spike is already there in the kitchen, putting a mug into the microwave. He drums his fingers on the counter, waiting for the seconds to tick by until the blood is an acceptable 98.6.

“Hey,” Buffy says softly, touching her lover’s arm. “I know you’re mad, but don’t be.”

“All you had to say was that this isn’t the right time to pay a pity call,” Spike growls.

“Honey, I couldn’t turn him away. I mean, Xander and I share a long history. He was my friend before anyone else at Sunnydale.”

“Yes, but you made other friends eventually.”

“But he was my first friend. I can’t just tell him what he’s going through isn’t important to me because it is, especially since he’s had to put his life in danger so many times for things that are important to me. You understand that, don’t you, sweetie?” she asks in a honey sweet voice.

Spike twists his mouth to one side and presses his thumb against the clear button on the microwave. After extracting his mug, he takes a pause before drinking, letting Buffy know that he is annoyed by this and he will continue to be annoyed by Xander’s presence until the whelp is gone.

“I understand it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Spike says, taking a drink.

Buffy soothes his arm with a few soft strokes of her hand. “It’ll all be over soon. They’ll talk for a while and then he’ll go home. And then we can be alone,” she says, laying a promising kiss on his cheek.

“Sure,” Spike says. He looks at the time on the microwave. 9:00. He thinks back on the time he fought with Dru from approximately 9:00 pm to 9:00 am---two days later. There is a similar fervor to this row. Only Spike and Dru’s fight had been about how Spike wasn’t paying enough respect to Miss Edith and she was very cross with him. The only thing that resolved that tiff was a gentle tea party and a deep apology as Dru bit deep into the neck of a ten year old and later seated the china doll the girl clutched while she died around the miniature table and chairs Dru kept spit shined and cobweb free, even though sometimes they lived in sewers and drank from circus freaks to stay alive.

“It’ll all be over soon,” Buffy reminds him again.

At 12:35 it is still not over.

Buffy goes over to the fridge. The freezer contains two pints of Ben and Jerry’s. She chooses the Chunky Monkey for Spike, knowing how much he likes something with a bit of texture, and the Cherry Garcia for herself.

Grabbing two spoons from the drawer, she says, “It’ll be over soon.”

“Oh, God,” Spike says as he’s about to stab his spoon into the permafrost of the ice cream.

“What?” Buff asks, taking a seat beside him.

“I just thought of a time that was more annoying than this. Dru and I were in Prague, staying in a hotel. The pipes banged all night. I drove my fist through the wall, jerked out the pipes. The whole building collapsed around us. It was daytime. We were sizzling, trying to find shelter and when we did, we wound up at some youth hostel. After we killed everyone, we slept on these mealy mattresses and woke up singing the Cider Song. Apparently, that sort of thing is passed on in blood. This is far more annoying,” Spike says, slurping a renegade droplet of melted ice cream from the side of his hand. “Not only can I hear what Wanker Boy is saying. I can also hear his honey through the phone.”

“Really? Your hearing is that good?”

“Oh yeah. Vampire Belltones can pick up just about any sound. Including the hysteria of a jilted bride to be.” There is still the begging in Xander’s voice, the sound of a man who will do anything to please his woman short of scissoring off his balls and becoming a castrato. There is the tenderness, the continued assurances that he is sorry and he was wrong to think such things and the female response, former demon or not; but honey, the thought that you don’t want to marry me…

“Well, he’s not really jilting her. There’s still going to be a wedding. Just not as soon as she planned.”

Spike cocks a thoughtful eyebrow before diving in for more ice cream. “If you say so.”

“You don’t think he wants to marry her?” Buffy asks, spooning a bite into her mouth.

“Oh, I don’t even care at this point. So what if I don’t get to wear my tux for Shop Girls’ nuptials. There’ll be other times. Such as when we do our James Bond role-playing games,” Spike says, hiking the toe of his boot up Buffy’s pants’ leg.

“I’d feel bad for Anya if they did call it off. I mean, it’s all she’s talked about for months.”

“I know,” Spike says, thinking back on all the times he’s opened the door of the Magic Box, sending the post-it notes on Anya’s seating chart fluttering in the draft. “But at least it’s given her something else to ruminate about other than profits, losses and wolf bane.”

Buffy twists the side of her mouth to one side and stirs her ice cream glumly. “I wonder if she and that troll were ever engaged. From what I remember, he wasn’t a troll when they were dating. He was just some big, dumb guy, she said.”

Spike blasts a snort through his nose. “Do you see a pattern here?”

Just then, Xander’s hushed whispers go up a few decibels.

“Anya, what the hell more do you want from me? I’m already working 70-hour weeks as it is. I’m going to be paying for that ring on your finger until our kids are old enough to get married. Do you want me to take a second job? Is that it? So then we don’t see each other at all? Is that how you want it?”

No is the answer to all these questions. Spike hears the answers in one long, screaming sob that nearly deafens him. “Blast!” he says, dropping his spoon into the ice cream tub and shoving himself away from the table. “This is bloody ridiculous. I’m gonna---

“Sh…He’ll hear you!” Buffy cautions.

“I hope he does hear me. They can carry this on in their own apartment.”

“Spike, come on,” she says, running her hand up his arm, giving his bicep a brief squeeze. “If he and Anya don’t get things resolved, he’ll need someone to talk to, meaning best friend and best man will be called on for tea and sympathy.”

“I’ll not waste the rest of my evening counseling that glorified brick layer for all the bloody tea in China!”

“Honey, calm down.”

Spike takes his head in his hands for a second, counting slowly to ten. Once his head stops pounding, he is able to speak on some conversational level again. “I’ve just been sitting here, thinking as I’m licking this ice cream off the spoon, I’d much rather be licking it off you, in the privacy of our bedroom. Is one night alone with my sweetheart too much to ask for?”

“Spike, what am I supposed to do? Say, ‘Yeah, Xander, you once saved my life and you’ve helped me prevent six apocalypses in the last five years, but I’m horny and I really wish that you’d go home so that I can have sex with my boyfriend’?”

“Now, there’s an idea!”

“Spike, that’s not what a friend would say. And I would never say that anyway. You’ve had times when you really had to talk to someone about a problem. You talked to my mother about your break-up with Dru. She didn’t tell you to go away. Even though she probably should have because at the time you weren’t the safest gun in the rack.”

The memory of being alone in the quiet kitchen with Buffy’s caring mother sparks a smile on Spike’s face. Spike had only met Joyce once before and their first encounter had been less than amicable. Had she the strength of her warrior daughter, Joyce could have crushed his skull with that axe. But on their second meeting, she was kind to him, gave him hot cocoa and a forum in which to air his grief and bitterness over the loss of his then beloved.

“She was a sweet lady, your mother,” Spike says with an emotional crackle in his voice. “I asked for little marshmallows and she looked through the cupboards for them. Made me feel all cozy and cared for.”

“That was Mom,” Buffy says, drawing a hand through Spike’s stiff locks. She settles her head on his shoulder and kisses the side of his face, her lips landing squarely on the hollow of his cheekbone. “As much as I love you, I just really need to be here for Xander right now. And after he’s gone, we can be alone, OK?”

“OK,” he replies through a heavy sigh.

“And, hey. If Dawn’s been able to sleep through all of this so far, she might sleep through…something else that tends to get a little loud,” she says, snapping her teeth over the upper curve of Spike’s ear. “What’s the score on the argument now?” she whispers.

“Still at nil, love,” he’s able to say in a contented voice, with Buffy so near and her hands stroking his hair. “She’s still on about the postponement and he’s still trying to justify it.”

“Hopefully it will be over soon,” Buffy says.

At 7:35 am, Xander bounds into the kitchen, clapping his hands together so hard that it whiplashes Spike from his facedown position on the table, but his sweetheart remains comatose.

“Well, make sure your tux is pressed and ready to go on September 24 because that’s the new date for the Xanman’s bachelorhood wake,” Xander says with remarkable enthusiasm, given the early hour.

Spike is unable to open his eyes, which is just as well because he knows the sight of Xander beaming in their kitchen after holding them hostage with his pre-marital spat the night before might just make him do something stake-worthy.

“Yeah?” he says groggily. “Well, congratulations.”

“I was finally able to get through to her that it just made sense to extend the engagement. You know, Anya’s been around for a long, long time and has met tons of demon-types. But the thing is, they don’t always have street addresses. This will give her more time to send feelers out for some of the friends she’s had to leave off the guest list because she couldn’t find them.”

“The more demons the merrier,” he says.

“Yeah,” Xander replies. “You know, come to think of it, that might not be such a bright idea after all. If the demon force outnumbers the human contingent, there might be trouble. Maybe we’d better keep the wedding date as it is.”

“Harris!” Spike barks. “A bit of advice from someone who knows what he’s talking about. If you’re onto a good thing, don’t do anything to muck it up.”

“I guess you’re right. We’re on speaking terms now, which is more than I had hoped for last night. Listen, thanks so much for putting up with everything. And when Buffy wakes up, tell her thanks too.”

“Will do.”

Once Spike hears the front door close, he reaches over for Buffy.

“Hey. Buffy. Wakey, wakey. The whelp’s gone,” he says in a sharp whisper while jostling her by the shoulders.

“Hmmm,” she returns, semi-conscious.

“Buffy, we can be alone now. Xander’s gone, love.”

“What time is it?” she asks, in a voice muffled by the crook of her elbow.

“Just about half past seven.”

Buffy raises her head drowsily, still not quite able to focus. “It’s sleepytime.”

“Not now, Buffy,” Spike says encouragingly, lending her a supporting arm. “Not after we waited all night for him to leave. This is our time, anyway. Remember? Morning nookie, better than a cookie?”

She groans and rests her head on her shoulder. “But I’m tired…”

“If you’re tired, then I’ll get on top. You won’t have to move a bit. Let me do all the work. Just a quick one, sweetheart. In and out and that’s all.”

“Did you guys stay up all night eating ice cream?” Dawn’s voice sounds from the door.

The sudden arrival of a third party on the scene spurs Buffy into sudden wakefulness. With blurry eyes, she zeroes in on the three empty containers of ice cream overturned on the table, including the generic brand of vanilla which has resided in the freezer ever since Buffy moved in. “Oh, God! I think I’m going to puke!” She excuses herself from the table and dashes for the bathroom.

After watching her sister’s speedy retreat down the hallway, Dawn turns again to Spike. “Was I dreaming, or was Xander here at some point last night?”

“Yeah, he was here, Nibblet,” Spike says, rising slowly from the table in near exhaustion.

“What was he doing here?”

Spike looks at the melting remains of the ice cream he and Buffy devoured with such reckless abandon the night before. “We thought he was looking for some little marshmallows,” he says, beginning to clear off the empty cartons and sticky spoons from the table. “Turns out he didn’t need them.”

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