Summary: After making a promise in the heat of the moment, Buffy finds herself stuck at home, on a long weekend, having to play nursemaid to a sick Spike.

Author’s Note: This is a AU story based on an early 5th season. Joyce is still alive, but neither Glory nor Riley ’exist’. If anything seems out of place, I’ve probably chosen to ignore it, as I’ve pretty much chucked canon out the window. If that bothers you, please consider yourself warned. I’d also like to give a big, big thanks to my beta, Kit, who gave me lots of good ideas and helpful positive feedback. Thanks tons--couldn’t have done it without you!!

Rating: NC-17, for some ‘Mature Adult Situations’

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters (pooh!)--I’ve only borrowed them for my perverse writing pleasure. I’m also aware that I’m ‘borrowing’ the title of my fic from Michael Ondaatje--please don’t sue, it was just the best title for my story...

Feedback: Yes please! No flames, though- this is my first fic and I don’t think I’m ready for some nasty feedback. Remember what your mother told you: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” However, constructive criticism is always welcome...

“Buffy, are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I just don’t feel right about leaving you alone.” Joyce Summers turned to the eldest of her two daughters and gave her an anxious look.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Mom, we’ve been through this every day for two weeks now. There’s nothing I want more than to enjoy a little solitude this weekend. Anyway, I can’t just go away--I’m the Slayer. It’s not like I can hire a temp to take my place if I want to take a break. Although that would be nice wouldn’t it? Maybe I should place an ad in the paper. What do you think: Enjoy working the night shift? Want to get in shape quick? Ready and willing to do some good deeds? Boy, have we got a job for you!”

Joyce smiled and shook her head as Buffy helped her take her suitcase downstairs to where her youngest daughter was waiting.

“I still don’t understand why she doesn’t have to come. I mean--I don’t have a choice, do I? You let her do anything just because she’s the Slayer. It’s not fair!”

Dawn’s whining had been going on since the first thing that morning. “If I wanted to stay home alone, you wouldn’t hear of it. Of course not, I’m not old enough, not slayer-y enough--”

“Dawn!” Joyce cut her short. “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about coming on this trip--it was your idea, after all. You’ve been after me for a year now to go to LA for a weekend, and you’re finally getting your way. Your sister’s old enough to stay on her own, and if I say that she’s allowed to that’s my word and it’s final.” She gave Dawn one of those patented this-discussion-is-now-over looks, and walked to the window.

Buffy took this opportunity to display her maturity and stuck her tongue out at her little sister. Dawn responded by flipping her the finger. Their little exchange was interrupted by the sound of honking.

Joyce parted the curtain and peered outside. “Well, I guess that would be our ride.” She picked up her suitcase and signalled for Dawn to do the same.

Buffy had to stifle a giggle as she watched her sister try to juggle the numerous bags that, Dawn had insisted, were “essential to this trip”.

The young woman reminded her of those people she had seen on the Discovery Channel, who lugged rich people’s luggage up the Himalayas.

“Why don’t you help me instead of just staring at me?”

She shook out of her reverie to see her sister glaring at her. She gave in and picked up more luggage than a girl her size should be able to carry. Guess that slayer strength did have perks other than being able to beat up demons.

“Ok, fine. Not my fault you need three bags for all your makeup.” The last bag she picked up weighed a ton. “What, did you bring your entire wardrobe? What the heck is in here, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business! Stop being so nosy, and just carry it out.”

Buffy snorted in response, but carried the heavy bag out anyway.

The Slayer helped the driver fit the luggage into the trunk of his car. It reminded her of those puzzles Giles made her work on to develop the logical side of her slayer abilities. “Now Buffy, I want you to take these 10 shapes and work them around until they all fit inside this box.”

When the luggage was successfully put away, she turned to her mother. “Mom, I want you to have a wonderful time, and I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be fine. Anyway, long weekends can be a bit dead, no pun intended; I’ll sit back and enjoy some quiet time on my own.”

Joyce opened the door to the taxi and sat down. “I know dear, but I still can’t help but worry. Just make sure you don’t patrol alone. And make sure that you always have a spare stake, in case you lose the one you’re holding. And--” Buffy leaned in, hugged her mom, punched her sister in the arm (in a big-sisterly fashion) and closed the door.

“I’ll be fine,” she mouthed, one last time, as the car pulled out of the driveway.

She stood there, rooted in place, and kept waving until they were out of sight. As the taxi disappeared from sight, Buffy sighed and turned to the house. *A whole weekend. No Mom. No Dawn.*

She grinned widely. This was going to be the best long weekend ever.

(The previous night)

“Oh, please...” *punch* “...how can you say that...” *duck* “...with a straight face?” *kick*

Buffy and Spike had been out patrolling when they walked right into the middle of a group of vampires. They would have noticed them earlier if they hadn’t been arguing about which Hollywood actor had been the best Dracula.

“What do you mean ‘with a straight face’?” Spike slammed a fledgeling into the picket of a fence, and watched the vamp turn to dust. Unfazed, he pursued his point. “Christopher Lee was the closest thing Hollywood ever came up with. I should know, ‘cause I knew Dracula himself.”

He turned around, facing another vampire.

“Poncey and full of himself--that’s what he was. Never liked him at all, actually.” He grabbed his opponent by the throat and punched it in the face, only to have the vampire sneeze on him just before he twisted its head clear off.

“Argh! What the hell was that? Vampire with bloody allergies.”

Buffy roundhoused the vamp she was fighting, and jumped on top of the nerdy-looking fledgeling. She looked down at it: “What do *you* think? Who was the best movie Dracula?”

The young vampire shrugged and said, “I was always partial to Bela Lugosi.”

Buffy snorted, “Hmph! Figures...” and then staked him.

She stood up, dusting herself off. “I still say that Gary Oldman was the coolest Dracula ever. Anyway, we weren’t trying to figure out which one was closest to the real thing. We were talking about who the coolest one was.” She paused and looked at the blond vampire. “You knew the real Dracula? I mean, good ol’ Vlad himself?”

“Yeah, and I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you. Bugger owes me money.”

Buffy stared at him in wonder. “Does everyone owe you money? Is that the reason you’re always stealing from us?” Then she looked at his duster, and wrinkled her nose “Eww...is that snot?”

Spike’s eyes flew to his beloved leather coat. “Bloody Hell!” He scoured his pockets looking for a handkerchief, or a tissue, or anything to clean the mess up, but came up empty-handed.

“Slayer, you wouldn’t happen to have anything that I can wipe this off with, would you?” He gave her a desperate look.

The shorter blonde reached into a pocket on her jean jacket, and pulled out a wrinkled Kleenex. “I don’t think it’s used. Here -- you can have it.” She handed it to him, with an obviously amused look on her face. He snarled and took it from her with the tips of his fingers, then proceeded to nearly wear a hole in his coat trying to wipe the mucus off.

He tossed the Kleenex aside and glared at the Slayer, who was clearly having too much fun watching him. “Oh, laugh it up, Buffy, but if I get sick because of this, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Buffy pointed a finger in his face: “Listen here, fang-breath: First of all, I don’t *make* you patrol with me--you do it because you’re a loser and have nothing else to do. Second, vampires do not ‘get sick’--you should know that, being a vampire. Third, if you do get sick, I will personally be your nurse and take care of you; but that won’t happen, as it is unlikely, inconceivable, and not remotely possible for a vampire to get sick from being sneezed on, of all things.” At that she turned around and walked away.

Spike stood there, staring at her retreating silhouette. The mental image of her in a nurse’s outfit, tending to his bedside, crept into his mind. Lighting himself a cigarette, he shook the image out of his head. *What the hell was that? That’s the Slayer you’re thinking about; you should be thinking of ripping her throat out, not shagging her...*

He decided against following her and made his way back to his crypt. He’d had enough abuse for the evening. His time was better spent in front of the telly, a cold beer in his hand.

“Giles, tell me again why I’m here instead of at home watching a good movie? I mean, this is the first evening of my holiday and you’ve got me researching fungus demons!”

Buffy was sitting back in a chair balanced on its back legs with her feet propped on the round table. On her lap was a large tome that looked like it was held together by dust and good fortune. She didn’t usually mind these little research sessions at the Magic Box but tonight was a little different, as she was the only Scooby in attendance; Willow and Tara were off on a Wiccan retreat, to find their ‘inner witch’; Anya and Xander had booked a cottage for the weekend (Buffy had blocked out anything Anya had said after the mention of “many orgasms”); and Spike hadn’t been seen since the ‘snot patrol’ incident.

Strangely enough, Buffy had come to accept the bleached vampire as one of the Scoobies--actually, they’d all accepted it much easier than he himself had. Even Xander no longer flinched at the involvement of ‘Deadboy Junior’ in Scooby plans.

Buffy shook out of her thoughts and noticed that Giles had been speaking to her.

“Well?” He looked at her expectantly.

She blinked at him. “Well what?”

“Buffy, did you hear a word of what I just said?”

She let out a little laugh that she hoped would mean ‘Of course, I did’, but he just kept staring at her with a look of skepticism. Under his gaze, her face fell and she offered him a pout.

“Sorry, Giles--I was in my own little world--you know, the one where I don’t know about the existence of fungus demons...” She was interrupted by a slamming door followed by a string of curses “... or annoying blonde vampires.”

Spike stormed into the store, duster swirling behind him; he glared at Buffy and Giles.

“Where are the witches? What did you get them to do to me?”

Giles took a step back and Buffy took her feet off the table, setting her chair down so all four legs were firmly on the ground. They hadn’t seen Spike this angry since he’d been chipped.

“Um.” Giles cleared his throat. “Spike, I’m sure we’ve no idea as to what you mean. Now, if you can calm down...”

Buffy didn’t even see the vampire move until he had her watcher by the throat.

“I. Will. Not. Calm. Down. You will tell me what’s wrong with me, and you’ll undo whatever spell Red and Glinda cursed me with. Or I will kill you.”

That was the last straw. Buffy forcibly pulled the vamp off Giles and threw him into a chair.

“Ok, I’m kinda getting sick of this.” She leaned in and looked him in the eye. “Sit down and tell us what’s going on, or I will personally make sure you get to see your next sunrise real soon.”

It was at that moment that Buffy noticed just how bad the vampire looked. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days: his skin was even more gaunt than what was natural for a vampire, he had dark circles under his eyes and he was in a cold sweat.

She brought her hand to the vampire’s forehead and felt that it was...warm? She furrowed her brow and just stared at him.

Spike shifted uncomfortably under the feel of her hand, not used to having her touch him softly.

Buffy noticed his unease and pulled her hand back as if burned. What was she doing? Why was she touching him? She sounded out of breath. “You’re... all clammy.”

Spike sneered. “Yeah, Slayer, and that’s not all. This little trick of yours has got me runnin’ hot and cold, and worse yet I haven’t been able to keep any food down.”

He began to sound nervous, “How am I supposed to be the Big Bad if I keep passing out every time I get myself worked up?” At this, the vampire fell into a sneezing fit.

“Argh!!” He roared in frustration and swept his arm over the table, sending books flying in every direction.

Ever so helpful, even towards the vampire that just moments ago had threatened his life, Giles offered Spike a tissue. It was this act that jogged the slayer’s memory. As recognition dawned, she began to laugh.

Spike stared at her dumbfounded. “Bloody hell! I’m happy you can see the humour in my misery! Care to share what you find funny with this?”

Buffy took her seat, grinning, and looked at Spike.

“Remember when we were out patrolling a few nights ago, when you had to borrow a tissue off me? Do you think that has anything to do with your...condition?”

Then it hit him. The source of the past few days’ pain and misery was one stupid fledgeling who dared sneeze on him, just before bursting into a cloud of dust. Spike groaned and slid further onto his chair, throwing his arm over his eyes in a move worthy of an Oscar nomination.

Giles could no longer contain his curiosity. “Would someone be good enough to explain to me what this is all about? Buffy, did something happen the other night when you and Spike were patrolling--something that you should have mentioned before now?”

Buffy gave him a pleading look.

“Honestly, Giles--I really didn’t think it was important.” Spike snorted at this. Buffy frowned at his interjection and continued. “Long story short, Spike got sneezed on by a vampire, just before he dusted it. He had, uh, snot, on his coat, and he asked me for a tissue to wipe it off. It didn’t really phase me, although, come to think of it I don’t think I’ve ever seen a vampire sneeze before.”

Spike’s reply was curt. “That’s because it doesn’t happen, you stupid bint. Sneezing is a human thing.” Sometimes he couldn’t come to grips with just how daft the Slayer could be; if she was the good guys’ beacon of hope, they were in serious trouble.

Giles stood, wiped his glasses for the umpteenth time that evening and spoke up. “Well, from what I’ve observed, I’m afraid that this has nothing to do with a spell, Spike. I’m sorry to let you down but I’d say your symptoms point to--how shall I say this--the flu.”

“What?” Spike and the Slayer both stared agape at the Watcher.

“Well, um, if you think of it, Spike was exposed to the virus when he was...sneezed on, and he’s certainly exhibiting symptoms of the flu: general aches and pains, hot and cold flashes, trouble keeping food down...if he weren’t a vampire it would have been obvious, but since he’s not human, it just didn’t naturally come to mind.”

“Oh, I don’t bloody believe this.” Spike rested his forehead on the table and let out an audible groan. “First Dru leaves me, then I get chipped, now this. Why don’t I just get a soul while I’m at it? I could go to LA and help Peaches out in his quest to help mankind.”

Buffy was enjoying every moment of this. Seeing Spike so unceremoniously tossed off his ‘I’m a vampire, so I’m higher up on the food chain’ pedestal was a sight to behold. She calmly made her way towards him and put her hand on his shoulder in a display of mock affection.

“Don’t worry Spike, we’ll send you some chicken soup.” She paused, then added, just to get his goat. “We’ll even have Angel come by to nurse you back to health.”

Spike stiffened at Buffy’s mention of his grandsire; the last thing he needed just now was giving that poofter the satisfaction of seeing him in this condition. He’d never live it down. Then his face brightened, as some not-so-long-ago promise clawed its way back to the forefront of his conscience.

He looked at Buffy with a leer.

“No, not Angel, pet. I seem to recall you saying something the other night, when all of this started. Something to the effect of ‘if you do get sick, I will personally be your nurse and take care of you’ (this he said in a mocking, effeminate voice). Well, I’m sick--and I expect you to keep your promise.”

Buffy gasped. “I... I never said that!”

She turned to Giles, who simply stared at her with an odd look on his face; she could swear he almost looked amused. Spike just peered at her through tired lids. Maybe if she stalled long enough, he’d just fall asleep and she could leave him there.

“Well, maybe I did, but how was I supposed to know he’d be sick? Vampires don’t get sick, it’s unheard of!” Her voice rose an octave higher as she panicked at the thought of having to lower herself to nursing the sick vampire back to health; she knew he would milk it for all it was worth.

Giles cleared his throat and made a move to save her--or so she thought.

“Actually, Buffy, there are records of vampires becoming ill--it’s not entirely unheard of at all. The strains of viruses are different than the ones that attack the human immune system, but vampires are susceptible to them nonetheless.”

Buffy couldn’t believe it; she squeaked. “Giles, you’re supposed to help me--not make things worse!”

The Watcher’s lips twitched at the corners, and he offered his Slayer a sympathetic look.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t take back promises that you make in the heat of the moment. You’re an adult and you’re expected to bear the responsibility of your actions and your words. This is something that you and Spike will have to work out for yourselves.”

He’d always known that her impetuousness would come back to bite her, but he’d never imagined that it would involve Spike, of all people. Buffy continually complained that no one treated her like an adult--this was to be her initiation into the adult world, and it would be a harsh one. Of course, he couldn’t go along with this, as he had serious concerns about the vampire; perhaps this was just another of his twisted plans. However, he was chipped and seemed genuinely sick. Would he pose a risk to the Slayer if she took him in to her home?

Buffy’s shoulders dropped. Giles was right. She did say those words and now she had to live up to them.

“I’ll do it. I’ll hate every single moment of it, but I won’t go back on my word.”

“Buffy, are you sure? This is Spike--William the Bloody--that we’re talking about. He may be chipped, but he must still be considered a potential adversary.”

“Giles, I patrol with him every night. If he wanted me dead, he would have tried by now. I’ll take him home, make sure he gets over this bug or whatever it is, quickly, and boot him out so I can relax before Mom and Dawn come back.”

She turned towards the vampire, expecting him to be sitting there with an arrogant grin on his face, ready to taunt her at any moment. Instead he was out cold, face against the table. *Boy* she thought to herself *this is really the start of a fabulous weekend*.

She walked up to him and shook his shoulder, trying to wake him but the vampire made no sound. She bent lower and shouted, “Spike! Wakey wakey--time to go home!”

This time, there was a groan, but not much more.

“Giles, I am so not carrying him home. Help me wake him, please.”

Giles looked at the sleeping figure. “Well, I suppose I can give you a ride home, if you can carry him to the car. I don’t know if we’ll have any luck at waking him, honestly. He does seem deeply out of it.”

They managed to get Spike into the back seat of the car and proceeded to drive to the Summers household. Giles pulled into the driveway and gave Buffy a fatherly look. “Do be careful. I know he’s sick, but he’s still Spike. You never know what to expect. ‘Expect the unexpected’ should be your mantra.”

Buffy smiled weakly. “If that’s the case, then I should expect him to act all gentlemanly and show some manners.”

Giles smiled back at the young woman whom he loved like a daughter. “Yes, well nonetheless, please call if you need help of any kind.”

“I will, Giles. Thanks for the ride.”

She sighed, got out of the car and pulled the sleeping passenger out of the back, flinging him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. *Ugh! Never realized he was so heavy... Guess this is where the term ‘dead weight’ comes from*

Buffy managed to make it into the house without dropping him. She walked in and casually tossed him onto the couch. He lay there motionless, one leg hanging off the couch. She stared at him, despite herself.

He looked so different in sleep; how could someone so arrogant, so irritating, look so peaceful, so handsome....

*Wait--did I just think that Spike looked handsome? Oh, I must be in serious need of a good night’s sleep. He’s not handsome! He’s annoying, and he’s dangerous, and he’s... Okay, I can admit to myself that he’s handsome. I’d have to be blind not to see that. But that doesn’t mean anything! So he’s got that bad boy thing going on that seems to attract women, for some crazy reason. He’s an arrogant, dangerous, handsome vampire... with kissable lips. Argh! Where did that come from? His lips are not kissable- well, maybe...*

She shook her head and came to her senses only to find herself staring into the vampire’s eyes. The vampire’s open eyes--had he been watching her stare at him? Buffy blushed at the thought.

He leered at her. “See anything you like, luv?”

Too quickly, she replied, “No!” Then, she regained her cockiness. “Heh, you wish. I was just trying to figure out a way to make sure that you wouldn’t get sick on the couch; maybe I should move you to the cot in the basement so you don’t make too much of a mess.”

Spike gave her a worried look. “What, in my condition? It’s damp and cold down there!”

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “And that’s different from your crypt in which way?”

“Well, you don’t see me there right now, do you?” He tried to make himself more comfy on the couch, propping his head on the armrest.

“As far as I’m concerned, this flu is a human affliction, therefore I should be entitled to human comforts. And anyway,” he added, as a jab to her earlier staring, “if I’m down there, you won’t be able to steal glances at my body when you think I’m sleeping.”

*Damn it, he’s right!* That little inner voice was really beginning to worry the Slayer. This vampire was her mortal enemy, the constant thorn in her side, the one who’d tried to kill her family and friends numerous times; and now she was staring at his body. *His perfect body, so sleek and hard; think of how long it’s been since you’ve been with a man...*

She stirred as she heard a groan and realized that it had come from her. All she had to do was put up with him until he was better, then get him the hell out before something incredibly stupid *incredibly earth-shattering--wouldn’t be anything less than that, would it?* happens.

“You’re going to want a pillow and a blanket, I suppose,” she said, her voice squeaking.

Spike didn’t know what to think. Why did she keep staring at him like that? It was starting to unsettle him. *Clue in, you git, she just asked you a question!*

“Uh, yeah--that would make sleeping on this couch more comfortable.” Then he realized that something was off; he furrowed his brow and asked, “So, where are Joyce and the Nibblet? You scare them off?”

The young woman sneered, “No, I did not scare them off. They’re in LA for a weekend of shopping. I was supposed to stay home and have a nice relaxing weekend of watching girly flicks and eating ice cream straight from the container. Now it seems that I’ll be stuck here with you.”

As she turned away, she mumbled, “Should’ve gone to LA; would have gotten some nice clothes, but NO, I had to stay home...”

Buffy made her way to the linen closet and pulled out a pillow and a blanket--one of those thermal ones that were light but kept you warm anyway.

When she came back to the living room she found the vampire asleep, duster tucked around him. She allowed herself a little smile and proceeded to divest him of his coat and boots. *Thank God he’s asleep or I’d never live this down.* She gently lifted his head and placed the pillow underneath. As she tucked the blanket around him, he mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear, although she swore ‘mum’ had been in there somewhere. She stepped back and glanced one last time at her guest.

As she made her way up to her bedroom, she thought to herself, *Maybe this won’t be so bad after all--maybe it’ll actually be tolerable*

Buffy was ripped from the comfort of her dreams by the sound of coughing coming from the bathroom. Still drowsy, she forgot that she wasn’t alone in the house. She grabbed a weighty candlestick from her bedside table and made her way to the hallway.

She peeked through the bathroom door, which had been left ajar by whoever was in there. That’s when it all came back to her--Spike was sick and he was staying at her house until he was better. She let her ‘weapon’ drop to the floor and pushed the door completely open.

If she’d had any doubts about the vampire’s claims of illness, they were erased by the sight she took in. He was hunched over the toilet, one arm gripping the tank and the other holding his head up. His body was shaking from the combination of coughing and vomiting, and his skin was covered with a sheen of sweat.

She tried to find her voice, “Spike?”

“God, Slayer,” his tone was listless and he made no move to look at her when he spoke. “Do me a favour and stake me, will you?”

Buffy turned and left the room.

He groaned, wallowing in misery--he’d never felt this bad, not even in the past few days. He’d been better last night, so he thought; his sleep had been undisturbed by coughing or nightmares, probably due to the Slayer’s home being a bit more conducive to good health than his crypt. But that was short lived, as he now found himself sitting on the Slayer’s bathroom floor with a splitting headache, a raw throat, and every muscle in his body sore.

He thought to himself, *Figures the chit would just walk away, so much for helping me get better. So I’ve tried to kill her stupid Scoobies. I’m vampire for Christ’s sake! It’s what I do...* His musings were interrupted by the sound of running water. He hadn’t even noticed her come back; he’d been so absorbed in self-pity that he hadn’t heard her walk in.

She stood at the sink, wetting a facecloth. She watched him as he sat on the cold ceramic floor. Where were all these maternal feelings coming from, and why was she feeling them for Spike, of all creatures?

She should be revelling in his pain, or taunting him at least. But no, she felt genuinely sorry for him and she wanted to help him feel better. She crouched down and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Those tiles can get pretty cold.” She handed him a towel. “Sit on this, you’ll find it’s a bit warmer.”

Then she took the facecloth and started to clean him up. She wiped his face gently, then moved on to his shoulders and his back. She felt his muscles flex under her ministrations. She paused, and got up to rinse off the facecloth.

He stared at her in disbelief; was she actually being nice to him? She was being more than nice to him--she was being... motherly. The strangest thing was that it felt good. It almost felt natural; him sick, her taking care of him. *Bit of a stretch from our usual encounters- no sarcasm, no venom; maybe this is the Buffy I never get to see firsthand* He was watching her every move, memorizing them; he was sure he’d never see this side of the Slayer again.

When she got back down to his level, she could see the wheels turning in his head. *Wonder what he’s thinking about? Probably wondering why I’m being so nice to him- maybe he thinks this is some kind of trick. If he does, he’s not acting like it. He’s just sitting there, trying to read me. I wonder if he trusts me...*

She leaned in, and started to wash his chest. She felt him take in a deep breath; he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. *Guess that answers my question.*

His skin was so pale, the result of over one hundred and twenty years of absence of sunlight. She now openly admitted, without guilt, that he had a body to die for. The muscles in his chest were well defined; they reminded her of those Greek statues they had in museums. She couldn’t help herself--she trailed a timid finger down his chest, tracing the outline of his abs. Her inner Slayer was screaming at her, *What on earth are you doing? You’re only supposed to get make him better so you can get rid of him- stop with the making out!*

He slowly opened his eyes, and she felt like she saw him for the very first time. Why did it feel so different than every other time they’d looked at each other?

Then it dawned on her--he wasn’t sneering, or taunting her; the mask of rivalry had been tossed aside, and they were just two individuals looking into each other’s eyes. She had to find her voice before they did something they’d regret. *Would you really regret anything you did with him?*

“Uh...” this was harder than she’d expected, “we’d better get you off the floor before...”

He smiled at her. “Before I catch a cold? Bit late for that, pet.”

Nevertheless, he raised himself to a standing position and stood on wobbly legs. He had no idea what she was up to, but he certainly wasn’t going to do anything to stop it. When he’d gazed into her eyes, he’d come to realize something: the intensity of their fights, their clashes, didn’t take root in their hatred for one another, but rather in an oddly-placed sexual tension. Fighting with the Slayer always left him as exhilarated as if he’d shagged her.

He fought to remain upright and held his arms out to steady himself. *When was the last time you had a bite to eat? You’re weak as a kitten.*

The thought of food made his stomach grumble. Buffy raised her eyebrows, and he gave her a smirk. He put his arm around her shoulders and tried to find a way of easing their obvious discomfort.

“So what are you making me for breakfast? I’m absolutely famished.”

She pulled away, and stared at him in disbelief. “What? After all this throwing up? Tell me you’re kidding--you can’t be hungry!”

He teased her, “You know, Slayer, if you don’t want to make me breakfast you just have to say so. It’s just that I was under the impression that food would be included in the whole ‘nurse me to health’ package.”

She couldn’t believe it. Not five minutes ago, she was staring into the blonde vampire’s eyes, wondering if there was more to him than what he let on; now the Spike she knew was back in full force, annoying the hell out of her.

Her head was spinning.

“Fine--just put a shirt on before you blind me with your whiteness. It’s giving me a headache.” She let go of him rather sharply, and walked away in a huff.

His heart sank a little at the thought of having ruined this moment, but he never thought that they stood a chance as lovers. Oh, they would be amazing lovers, there was no doubt. He grew hard as he imagined the Slayer putting all her passion into making love to him, rather than into fighting him. But that’s not how things were meant to be, or so he assumed the others would say. He took a deep unnecessary breath and walked down the stairs.

When Spike entered the kitchen, he found Buffy sitting at the table, her nose in the newspaper. Across from where she was sitting was a mug filled with blood. He sat down, took the mug in hand, and asked “So, what are you making me for breakfast?”

A voice from behind the paper answered curtly, “You’re drinking it.”

He took a sip. “Oh”.

The sports section was slammed down onto the table and he found himself staring at a frowning Slayer.

“Lemme guess--you want more than that.”

“Well, yeah--I’m starving. Don’t take me wrong--the blood’s nice but I don’t think it’ll be enough. You know, human disease, human treatment. I’m sure that some nice solid food will help me feel better.” He patted his stomach and grinned like the Cheshire cat.

She pushed her chair back and got up, groaning. *He’s really milking this for all it’s worth* she thought to herself. As she slammed the frying pan on the stove, she put her hand on her hip and turned to him. “So, what would your sickly highness want for breakfast?”

He never expected her to give him a choice. “I don’t know--I haven’t had a proper breakfast in over a hundred years. Do you know how to make bubble and squeak? I think I used to like that for breakfast.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Bubble and squeak--ugh, what’s that?”

“Listen, just make whatever you want, and I’ll eat it.”

She warned him, “You better eat everything I make you--I’m not cooking for you just to have you turn your nose up at it.” Then she added, “I don’t know why I’m putting up with this...”

She continued to grumble under her breath, as she got to work. Truth was, she was happy now that she had something to keep her busy. She hadn’t been too eager to sit at the table with her guest, especially after what had transpired in the bathroom. She was still confused as to why she had felt attracted to him and blamed it on the fact that she was still half-asleep when she’d gotten up.

*Yeah, that’s got to be it! I’m groggy, I walk in there to help him out. And then he looks at me with those eyes of his- those beautiful, icy blue eyes...* The same eyes that were staring at her at that very instant.

Spike was enjoying every moment of this little arrangement. Not only because he had the Slayer serving him hand and foot (although that was a big bonus), but because he got to see her domestic side. He’d never really thought of her in a housewife capacity, but she seemed to be comfortable enough in the kitchen; she had more than one thing going on at once and wasn’t burning anything--that surprised him, as he’d always pegged her for a klutz. But that didn’t surprise him as much as the display of maternal affection she’d shown him that morning. If he closed his eyes he could still feel her touch on his skin--tender, gentle fingers--those same fingers that had nearly broken his nose on more than one occasion could also soothe and heal. He was startled out of his thoughts by the clunk of a plate, placed in front of him.

In an exaggerated sweet tone, Buffy asked, “Would you like anything to drink with that, while I’m busy being your servant?”

Spike tried to keep a straight face. “No, the blood’s good. It looks good--you can go back to reading your paper. I should be fine.”

He looked away from her to keep from breaking out into hysterics--the look on her face was priceless; her right eye twitched and her jaw clenched. She stormed out of the room, mumbling something about limited patience.

One large omelette, three pieces of toast (with jam, of course) and half a bag of hashbrowns later, the void in Spike’s stomach was filled. He had forgotten that food could taste so good. Of course, there were hot wings, but that was more like a snack food. He hadn’t had home-cooked food in what seemed like forever; come to think of it, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a solid-food breakfast. He looked around. *Now where’s that Slayer? Haven’t seen her since she left in a huff. Probably sharpening a stake--maybe I shouldn’t have pushed it.*

As if she’d heard his thoughts, Buffy appeared in front of him holding some sort of glass tube. She had a funny look on her face that he couldn’t quite read.

“Time to see how your fever is doing. Now open up, and we’ll take your temperature”.

Spike backed away. “What’s that?”

*Oh, this will be sweet.*

“Spike--this is a thermometer. This very modern thingy reads your temperature. Thing is, it’s kind of tricky. It goes in your mouth, under your tongue. You have to be very still and you have to leave it in for a full hour. If you move around too much, or if you take it out too soon, the mercury that’s in it can become unstable. If it becomes unstable, it might...” *Think! What can keep him scared enough to stay put for an hour? Oh, yeah! Heh heh* “...well, it might ignite.”

Spike looked at the thermometer like it held the plague. “Bloody Hell, Slayer, you’re trying to kill me! I’m not going near that thing...”

Buffy ‘tsk’ed. “Oh, please--don’t be such a baby. Every kid has to go through this when they’re sick. It’s normal. It’s the only way to make sure that your body is getting better. I mean, what if you just think you feel better, but you’re not really better? You just wake up forever like you did this morning, puking your guts up, never fully healing.”

She gave him what she hoped was a believable ‘I truly care’ look. If anything was going to scare the vampire into having his temperature taken, it was this. The thought of forever heaving his insides until his body was wracked with convulsions should frighten him into doing anything.

With a look of defeat, he acquiesced. “Fine. I will put that sodding thing in my mouth and I will sit still for one bloody hour.”

He plopped himself on the couch with a grumble and allowed the Slayer to place the gadget in his mouth.

Buffy couldn’t stand it anymore. It had been 20 minutes since she’d sat Spike down in the living room with the thermometer; he just sat there staring at the walls like a patient in an asylum. It was honestly giving her the creeps.

She went over to the couch, and sat beside him. He turned to look at her; if looks could kill, she would have been vaporized. She gave him a smile and offered, “Maybe some TV will help pass the time. Here...” she passed him the remote. “Is there anything else you need?”

The vampire crossed his arms and made a rubbing motion with his hands. Buffy frowned, but clued in quickly. “You’re cold?”

He nodded.

She got up off the couch. “No prob. I’ll get you the blanket you had last night--be right back.”

As she retrieved the blanket, it occurred to her that her little plan of making the vampire suffer was backfiring. She was fetching him the remote (without his asking, at that) and she was getting him a blanket. She just didn’t seem to be able to knock that pesky maternal instinct.

She got back to the living room, and handed Spike the blanket. He pulled his legs up onto the couch and proceeded to wrap the blanket around himself; the only body parts not shrouded were his head and the arm holding the remote. Buffy sat beside him and couldn’t help but smile to herself; he looked like a ten year-old off sick from school.

After an eternity of flipping through infomercials (“Eww! Who’d buy a chicken juicer?”) and talk shows, Buffy was starting to feel her brain go soft. Spike had been grumpy since discovering that Passions had been pre-empted by a pledge drive; he had muttered a few curses and sank down further into the couch. Buffy raised her eyebrows at him, and he scowled at her.

She looked at her watch and saw that an hour had passed. She turned to the cranky vampire. “Ok--time to take that thing out before you bite it.”

She removed the thermometer from his mouth and held it under the lamp so she could read it more clearly.

“I can’t believe you got so worked up just because your show was cancelled.” She looked at the thermometer and frowned. “What’s your temperature supposed to be, anyway?”

Spike threw his head back and groaned. “Oh, please don’t tell me that I sat still for a bloody hour, and it was for nothing!”

“No, don’t worry; it’s just that I don’t know your natural... uh, unnatural... oh, whatever--your usual temperature. If I don’t know that, I can’t figure out how high your fever is.”

“Fine--it’s supposed to be at 63.5 degrees. What does that stupid gadget read?” He made an attempt to grab the thermometer, but Buffy just turned away from him.

“Don’t touch it! It says...” By now the thermometer had cooled off to the point that it was no longer accurate. Guessing that Spike wouldn’t go for another hour of sitting still, there was only one thing she could do--lie. “67.5 degrees. That means you’ve still got a fever, but I suppose it’s getting better.”

“Well, I could have told you that! Don’t see me with my head in the toilet, do you? Can’t believe you had me sit still for an hour, just to tell me something I already knew...”

Buffy snickered to herself and got up to rinse off the thermometer, and put it away.

When she came back into the living room, Spike was watching the TV with a disgusted look on his face. “Are you watching that chicken juicer show again? That is sooo gross!”

“Nah, it’s worse than that--it’s downright revolting. It’s got some giant singing purple dinosaur prancing around with some ugly kids.”

Buffy reached for the remote. “Ok, mister, that’s Barney, and we’re popping a movie in if you’re going to torture me with that crap.”

Spike agreed, for once “Movie sounds good to me--what do you have?” He gave her a leer. “Got any dirty ones?”

Her head snapped up from the video cabinet. “No, I do not have any dirty ones! You know you’d be easier to tolerate if you kept your mind out of the gutter.”

“You know, pet, after 120 years on this planet, I’ve come to realize that life’s much more fun if you spend some of it in the gutter; ‘s less boring that way.”

She huffed, pulled out a couple of tapes, and threw them at him.

Buffy never expected them to agree on a movie so easily. She’d expected the vampire to shoot down all her suggestions out of spite, but he’d agreed on one of the first ones she’d tossed at him. Granted, she tried to find ones she knew they might both go for; no use asking him if he felt like watching Anne of Green Gables or Mary Poppins. So it was settled; she popped in X-Men, and sat down on the couch next to Spike.

He’d never openly admit it, but Spike was actually enjoying his time spent with the Slayer. The little thermometer incident just emphasized the pleasure he felt at watching her act all ‘motherly’ with him. He might not have recognized the thermometer right away, but he at least knew that it didn’t take an hour to register; he wasn’t, after all, as daft as she thought he was. He’d played along with her, knowing that sooner or later her guilt would push her into babying him; he hadn’t been around women for over 120 years, and not learned anything.

He’d watched her with hidden glee as she fetched him the TV remote and a blanket; the icing on the cake were the glances she’d throw his way, every now and then, to make sure he was still ok.

In only two days, she’d gone from trying to rip his head off, to fawning over him. And how was he reacting to this? He was sitting back and enjoying it. *Ponce* he thought to himself. *You’re going soft, like the ol’ grandsire- and for the same chit, nonetheless.* He hadn’t even put up a fuss when she tossed the movies at him; any of them would have suited him just fine, and he didn’t want to upset her. An upset Slayer would leave him to watch the movie alone. Nope--didn’t want that. Anyway, he was getting kind of tired, and didn’t feel like arguing.

He leaned back, stretched his feet out in front of him, and tucked the blanket around himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. This is something he could easily get used to.

About 20 minutes into the movie, Buffy noticed that Spike was being uncharacteristically quiet. Usually he chattered nonstop during these movies, Did that to a bloke once or That reminds me of this one time Dru and I..., but now he seemed to be keeping his thoughts to himself.

She went to ask him if he was ok. *Why should I care if he’s upset? Why does it matter all of a sudden?* That’s when the little voice at the back of her mind piped up, *Maybe it has to do with the way he looked at you this morning; if you’re nice to him, maybe you could be staring into those beautiful blue eyes every morning*

The memory of that morning’s encounter stirred up feelings of warmth in the Slayer. She imagined what it would feel like having those eyes gaze at her in a moment of passion--that gaze, accompanied by the feel of his cool hands on her warm skin, his lips on hers... She opened her eyes, *Argh! Spike thoughts are bad thoughts!*, and turned to the vampire; she saw that he had fallen asleep.

Sliding closer to him so she could pull his blanket back up, she brushed the back of her hand across his cheek. His skin was cool and soft. As she did this, the sleeping vamp shifted towards her and fell with his head on her lap.

*Oh, great. Now I’m stuck here. What am I supposed to do?*

She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and started to wind her fingers through the blond locks resting on her lap; they were much softer than she had imagined. Then the strangest thing happened-- Spike began to purr. She could feel it more than hear it, and it was turning her on.

The thought occurred to her that if someone were to walk in at that moment, she would be finding herself in a very compromising position, what with Spike’s head on her lap. That led to a less innocent vision, one where the vampire’s head was on her lap for an entirely different reason; she blushed. *Oh, Buffy--bad, bad thoughts! Hello, mortal enemy--not ‘hello yummy sex-god’. But if there was a god of sex, Spike would be it, wouldn’t he?* She looked down at his sleeping form, still running her fingers through his hair--it was like a sensual mantra.

As Spike slowly came to, his mind was muddled with sleep. *Must’ve fallen asleep--looks like the Slayer was good enough to give me a pillow, though.*

He shifted his head and stretched his arm over his ‘pillow’, only to hear a startled gasp and an increased heartbeat. *Huh? Pillows don’t have heartbeats...* He opened his eyes, and saw that his head was resting on a pair of thighs. *Bloody Hell- Slayer thighs; she’ll bloody kill me for this.*

He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his mind; he needed to rely on his senses. He could feel Buffy’s fingers in his hair; he could hear her quickened heartbeat, as well as her rapid breathing. *She can’t be afraid--can she?* He could feel her warmth, even more so than usual, and he could smell....

*What the...no, she’s not scared; quite the opposite, innit? You recognize that smell- the Slayer’s turned on from having your head on her lap. Probably imaginin’ something not altogether wholesome*

His face broke out into a grin. *Play your cards right, mate and maybe you’ll get the chance to do ‘something not altogether wholesome’ after all.*

He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying his damnedest to keep touching down to a minimum. He stretched, like a big cat, yawning. He turned and looked at Buffy, who was sporting a wide grin.

He creased his brow. “What?”

She traced a finger down his cheek. “You’ve got bedscars.”

He gave her a fiery look. “More like thighscars, I’d say. A bloke could really get used to waking up to that.”

“Yeah? Would that cause a certain ‘bloke’ to purr, then?” She knew she had him when he gave her a puzzled look.

“What on earth are you talking about, Slayer?”

“Oh, please--tell me you don’t know--I’m sure Drusilla must have mentioned something in over 120 years.”

He was too tired to play games, and the mention of his sire ruffled his feathers. “Listen here--I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s this about purring?”

Buffy got up off of the couch, stretching and said, nonchalantly, “You were purring while you were sleeping. That’s what I’m talking about.”

He looked up at her. “Purring? What the hell do you mean purring? Vampires do not purr.”

“Fine. Then you were temporarily congested, and it’s now magically cured. We can stick to that explanation if it makes you more comfortable. Right now, however, I have some housework to do and I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of the way.”

Head high, and shoulders squared, she left the room.

“Purring? Hmph--bollocks!” Spike opened the drawer on one of the end tables, and pulled out a deck of cards. He laid them out on the coffee table, and busied himself with a game of solitaire.

They spent the rest of the afternoon doing their own thing, Buffy busy with her chores and Spike with his cards. The house was shrouded in a comfortable silence, as if they’d lived together for years, not just hours; the knowledge alone that someone else was there contented the both of them.

Around five o’clock, Buffy came up from the basement hefting a large basket of laundry. She put it down on the coffee table, and grunted. “Ugh. Nice of Dawn to leave me her laundry while she’s out shopping. Hope I shrunk a sweater or two. Give a thought to what you want for dinner, and we can talk about it when I come back down, ok?”

Not waiting for an answer, she picked the laden basket up once more and headed upstairs.

A few minutes later, she was back down, sitting on the couch next to Spike. Pointing at his cards, she jumped in. “You can put your ten there. Oh! You can move that pile to that Queen...”

He put his cards down, and frowned at her. “Would you like to play?”

Buffy gave him an embarrassed look. “Sorry, about that. My Slayer ‘right-from-wrong’ powers don’t prevent me from becoming a backseat solitaire player.”

He gave her a short ‘hmph’ and proceeded to move ‘that pile’ to ‘that Queen’.

To avoid picking at his game once again, Buffy picked up the topic of dinner. “So--didja think of dinner? You had a big breakfast, but you haven’t had anything else all day. Are you really hungry?”

Spike put his last card down, having finally won a game.

“Actually, I am feeling a tad peckish. Not really hungry, but a bit of food in my stomach would help.”

“Fine--how about some chicken soup? Won’t take me very long to make some, and it’s good food for a cold, so I guess it must be good for a flu as well.”

The bleached vampire got up, and stretched like a big cat.

“Chicken soup sounds good--you make it, I will eat it. I’m not going to be fussy--I’ve no energy for that tonight.” He scratched his head and yawned, a move that--to Buffy, at least--gave him a deceptively human appearance.

She got up, and headed for the kitchen. “Chicken soup it is, then.”

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