Prologue

"Twenty twenty twenty-four hours ago
I wanna be sedated"

Spike Blood crooned along with Johnny, streaking down a rural, crop-lined highway in his classic black DeSoto.

"Nothing to do, nowhere to go-o
I waaannna bee suhdaaated..."

The Ramones slowed to sound almost demonic, then suddenly raced to a speed and pitch that was reminiscent of an Alvin and the Chipmunks tribute band. The bleach blonde man pounded on the dashboard a few times with his fist, trying to get his tape to play normally again. When the music stopped all toghether, he pushed the eject button, only to be met with a handful of ribbon-like tape.

"Bollocks," he muttered angrily to himself, chucking the ruined cassette out the open window onto the deserted road. Fiddling with the knob on his radio, Spike scanned the airways for a decent station to keep him entertained, but found only static.

Finally he heard the voice of a DJ, but was none too pleased.

"And up next, a classic from one of my personal favorites: Garth Brooks." A deep twangy voice began assaulting the Brit's ears with a slow warble.

"Bloody poofter," he growled to himself. "Bleedin' farmers 'round here got no taste in music. What kind of nancy boy name is Garth, anyway?"

Minutes later, Spike was joining Mr. Brooks in a final raucous chorus, belting at the top of his lungs.

"Oh I've got friends in low places
Where the whiskey drowns and the beer chases
My blues away
And I'll be okay..."

Spike caught a glimpse of himself in his rearview mirror, thoroughly enjoying the honky-tonk song, and promptly slapped his own face.

"Been in this soddin' country too long, mate," he sighed aloud.

"Haven't been out of this part of it long enough, though," he amended, realizing he was drawing very close to his destination.

He could still remember with perfect clarity the first time he'd traveled this highway, the first time he'd seen the endless fields of corn and wheat, swaying with the wind, almost beckoning him. The first time he'd met...her.

Trepidation gripped him for the umpteenth time at the thought of what tomorrow had in store.

"Don't do this to ourself, you pillock. She's probably forgotten all about you. It's been three years!" he scolded himself again aloud.

"Has it really only been three years? It seems ages. Such a different time...such a different world...a different me."

Spike took his eyes off the road for a moment to bang his forehead against the steering wheel.

"Cut it out, you ponce!"

He cursed himself for every poetry class he'd ever taken.




Chapter One


Spike was hustling out the door of a classroom, bathed in relief at having finished his very last final as a freshman at University of Iowa. He turned around when he heard his name being called from behind him and saw a cute redhead hurrying toward him, arms full of ever-present books. When she caught up to him, she was slightly breathless, so Spike took the initiative to start the conversation.

"'Lo, Willow," he grinned at the winded girl.

"Geez, you move fast, Speedy Gonzalez," she panted.

Spike chuckled.

"Here, lemme get those for you pet," he said, relieving the girl of her burden of texts.

"Awww...look at you, all chivalrous and gentlemanly!" she teased, falling into step beside him as they made their way through the crowded corridor. "Neato final, huh?" Willow commented with genuine enthusiasm.

Spike quirked an eyebrow at the hardcore nerd next to him. "South American GeoPolitics? Yeah, right up my alley. Can hardly stand the pain of knowing I'll never sit through another titillating hour of that class again..."

Willow blushed a bit and smacked him on the arm playfully.

"Is there a reason you raced after me Red, or you just couldn't stand to be without my presence?" Spike inquired with his trademark smirk.

"Oh, yeah! Are you still looking for a place to live for the summer?"

Spike shifted the load of books in his arms to open the door, letting Willow go ahead of him, then stepped out into the glorious May sunlight himself.

"As a matter of fact, I am. Why d'you ask?"

Willow stopped walking and chewed her lip, toeing the ground in front of her, but gathered up her courage when he stopped as well and gave her a questioning look.

"I know someone who needs help on her farm, and I know how you say you hate farming, but she's really nice and she'll give you free room and board, and I'll be there, too!" She said all this very quickly and in a single breath, afraid that if she paused, she wouldn't be able to finish.

Spike flared his nostrils and rolled his eyes. "We've discussed things like this, Red. Now, you've been great to me all year, what with taking a chance on befriending a bloke like me, and I've told you before that I appreciate it..."

Willow opened her mouth to say something, but Spike cut her off.

"But I've also told you that because I'm only here for a few years to go to school, I want to do the whole 'American Experience' thing as much as possible. Which means there's no way in hell I'm ever gonna waste an entire summer on some bloody farm, turning into 'Spike of the Hill People!'"

It was Willow's turn to flare her nostrils. "Hey, calm down Mr. Huffy! It's just a suggestion. You don't have to go all British curse wordy on me. Besides, this is Iowa. There aren't any hills."

He sighed and looked down at his scuffed black Doc Marten's. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm just tired of being in a whole 'nother country and feeling like I haven't done anything worthwhile. No job, hardly any friends, and now term's out, the dorms are closing which means no home. Bloody fantastic, innit?"

Willow stared at her friend with wide-eyed exasperation. "What do you think I'm offering you, you dope? Job: check. Friends: I'll be there, and so will my friend Xander, so check on that one too. And home: double check. She'll even provide food!"

Spike looked up. "Wait, job? I'll get paid for the whole summer?"

"Duh."

He looked down and sighed, mumbling something Willow couldn't quite hear.

"What'd you say?" she inquired, cupping a hand to her ear.

Spike sighed even more dramatically and looked her in the eye, a defeated look on his face. "When do I move in?"

Willow did a Snoopy dance on the spot and gave Spike a bear hug, which was difficult considering the mountain of textbooks between them. She pulled away with a huge smile on her face, one that he couldn't help but return, but quickly caught himself and turned the old scowl back on.

"Holy yay, I am so excited! I'll pick you up tomorrow at two. You're gonna love it, I just know it. It'll be the best summer, ever! And who knows, maybe you'll even learn to appreciate a part of the whole 'American Experience' thing you weren't expecting.

He gave a wry smile. "Unless my definition of worthwhile experiences changes enough to include cowboy hats and steer wrestling, somehow I doubt it."



***



The following day, after several strenuous hours of attempting to cram all the earthly possessions of two young adults into one sedan, the pair finally set off on their trek. Considering the cramped space and muggy Iowa weather, the trip was rather enjoyable and the three hours went by quickly. They chatted about small things, reminisced about the previous school year, and Spike rejoiced what Willow lamented: the next three and a half months of freedom from education. As they neared their destination, the stretch of highway they'd been traveling grew steadily more rural, with nothing but corn and wheat farms as far as they could see. There hadn't even been another car in sight for the last twenty minutes. Spike began to wonder if they'd fallen off the edge of the earth. Willow took in the sight and sighed happily.

"Isn't it beautiful? I love coming home."

Spike had to admit, though not aloud, of course, that there was something calming and inviting about the infinite expanses of young crops, dancing with the warm breeze.

"So you grew up 'round here?" he asked, turning his attention back to his companion.

"Yup. Right here in good old Price, Iowa. My parents actually decided to retire last year, so they up and sold our house and moved to Boca Raton. Guess they felt the need to get their shuffleboard on." She shrugged. "But this place will always be my home, so this little arrangement works out just peachy for me."

Willow turned off the main highway onto a rough dirt road. Spike became instantly annoyed when he was forced to make the decision between keeping the window down and inhaling massive amounts of dust, or rolling it up and dying from heat exhaustion. He chose the first, compensating by pulling the collar of his black T-shirt over his nose and mouth. Willow took one look at him, with his eyes squinted and face half-hidden, and burst out laughing.

"What?" she heard Spike snarl, muffled by his shirt.

"You're such a baby! It's just dust. Better than those nasty old cancer causing stinky sticks you're always sucking." Sensing the impending retort, she spoke up again. "Besides, we're here."

The road curved suddenly to the right, stopping dead in front of an old farmhouse. It was a good thing Spike's face was concealed, because he'd have been smacked for his expression. He took one look around him and was flooded with simultaneous feelings of shock, satisfaction, and regret. He was shocked that there was no herd of cattle grazing, satisfied that, other than the beef, he'd been exactly right in his presumptions of the place, and regret that he'd ever stopped to talk to Willow the previous day.

Taking a more thorough look, he noted the overgrown front yard, the rusted old tractor sitting in it, the tool shed that should probably have been condemned, and the house next to it. A fairly large, two-story ranch style home, with the requisite shutters, wraparound porch and paint that looked as though it was probably white at one point, before most of it had peeled away to expose the wood beneath. The only thing that seemed, to Spike, to be missing, was a fat man in overalls named Bubba, sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, playing his banjo, bloodhound and shotgun in tow.

Willow turned off the car, opened her door, and stepped out. Shaking his head, Spike followed suit, stretched his travel-weary joints, and walked around to the trunk to grab the first load of bags and boxes. He slung a dufflebag over his shoulder and asked, "Why's this bird need help, anyway? The place is immaculate."

She didn't miss the sarcasm. Willow made a face and purposely hit him with a bag as she hauled it out of the car.

"This place used to be really beautiful, actually. It kills me to see it like this. As a matter of fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here, to see if we can't get it all shiny and new again."

She gave a half smile and started making her way toward the house, weighted down with luggage. Spike scoffed, thoroughly unconvinced this place could ever have been described as anything close to beautiful. When they reached the porch, Willow set down her bags and her expression turned serious. "No, really it means a lot to me. I've been friends with these people my whole life and this farm was like a second home to me, growing up. This family's been through a string of really rough years, recently. The woman who lives here lost her husband a year ago, and they are both very close to me. So please Spike, don't be a poopyhead."

Feeling a little ashamed of himself, he made an apologetic face and nodded. "Right. Well, if you like her, I will too, most like."

Willow smiled at that. He smiled too, picturing the woman he'd be working for all summer. In his mind, he could see a plump, kind-faced woman, white hair pulled back in a loose bun, complete with apron and fresh-baked apple pie. Willow opened the door and as he followed, he realized he'd missed something important.

"Red, I don't even know the name of this woman," he stated, furrowing his brow.

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry. Her name's Buffy. Buffy Summers-Finn."



A/N: So there it is, my very first chapter! Hope it wasn't unbearable. And I promise, Buffy and Spike will meet in the next chapter, and no, she's not what Spike's expecting! EW! If you liked it, review and I'll post sooner!

Chapter Two


As Spike's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light in the entryway of the house, he was pleasantly surprised by his surroundings. Directly in front of him was a staircase leading to the second story. To his right, a formal dining room that obviously didn't get used much, it was a little too clean. To his left, however, was a living room that had an air of warmth and homeyness to it, with a big bay window. It felt lived in and inviting. Just to the left of the stairs, there was a hallway that led to a kitchen that he could immediately tell was the heart of the house. He felt instantly at home.

"Welcome to 1630 Revello Drive," Willow said dropping her bags and spreading her arms in a grand, sweeping gesture. "Buffy? Xander?" she called, but they heard no reply. She grabbed Spike by the hand and practically dragged him up the stairs.

"Easy pet, I'd like to keep that arm if you don't' mind."

"Sorry," she said, and released his hand but didn't slow her pace. "I'm just really excited to see Buffy and Xander. You're going to love them. They've got to be around here somewhere..." She trailed off and stuck her head inside the door at the top of the stairs. She reappeared, brow furrowed. "This is Buffy's room, but no Buffy. Um..."

As Willow opened another door to take a peek, Spike heard voices down the hall a little ways. He tapped Willow on the shoulder.

"Think they're down here, Red," he stated and made his way toward a door on the left side of the hallway, which was just slightly ajar. He stopped dead when he overheard part of the heated conversation taking place inside the room.

"I TOLD you Xander." He heard a woman's voice practically yelling. "I don't need some little kid coming here and getting in my way all summer."

A man's voice answered with exasperation - this was obviously a recurring conversation. "But Buffy, we need help around here! You can't run this farm all by yourself. I have to work most days, and Willow can only do so much. And I don't trust that Clem guy. What's with the kittens, anyway?" He pushed on with his tirade of reason. "Plus, I talked to Willow about this Spike kid, and she says he'll be great, so what's the prob, Bob?"

The woman's voice came back. "Yeah, well, I talked to Willow too, and I don't want some Billy Idol wannabe little boy hanging around!"

Spike had had quite enough of being referred to as an imbecilic child and was about to kick the door open and give the pair a piece of his mind when Willow stepped in front of him and gave her best "hold you horses, mister" face. She opened the door a little further, enough for Spike to see the tall brunette young man, but not the woman. Willow stuck her head in the room and cleared her throat.

"Oh, hey, Wills! You're here! Come on in," he heard Buffy exclaim a little too heartily. "We were just talking about...um...music..yeah, music...Billy Idol..." she attempted lamely.

Willow opened the door fully to enter the room and embrace both of her friends and exchange hello's. Spike simply stood in the doorway, positively fuming, and glaring at the worn hardwood floor. He soon found himself being dragged into the room, elbow first, by a very put-out redhead.

"Spike Blood, meet Buffy Summers-Finn," she announced, once she'd hauled him into the group.

Resentfully, he unclenched one fist and extended his hand, his courteous side taking over. He was met with a tiny, yet powerful, work-roughened hand, and decided to even go so far as to look up from the floor and at the woman he was being introduced to. The moment he did all his anger and resentment, and seemingly all the oxygen in the room, vanished entirely.

The woman belonging to the hand in his was, to say the very least, not what he'd expected. She was gorgeous. Vivacious and much younger than he'd expected, mid-twenties like Willow and Xander, and there was something about her that just seemed to glow. Where he'd expected a plump, matronly body, he found a petite, golden goddess, with just enough curves and tone in all the right places. Instead of coarse gray hair, she had a beautiful plait of thick, shiny, golden tresses that fell halfway down her back. There was no apron, but a black tank top and khaki capris. No apple pie, but she smelled just as warm and sweet.

He was right about one thing, though: her face. She had a kind, vibrant face. With full lips and big, expressive green eyes. The kind of eyes a man could lose himself in if he wasn't careful. It took Spike a moment realize that, beautiful as they were, those eyes of hers were currently expressing a definite level of discomfort and confusion. Spike sped back to reality and landed with an unpleasant bump, realizing he'd been shaking the hand a of a very beautiful young woman for a very long time.

He relinquished his hold on her with a pang of loss that was almost physical. In spite of himself, his gaze turned toward his shoes once more, and he felt a blush radiate from his toes to the dark roots of his bleached hair. If he hadn't been so focused on his feet, perhaps he would have noticed the same reaction in Buffy.

She, too, had avoided eye contact until they'd shaken hands, too embarrassed from being caught mid anti-Spike rant. And when she had finally ventured a peek at him, she too was rendered breathless.

She didn't' believe she'd ever seen a man in all her life who was so...beautiful. There was no other word for him. Buffy took him in slowly, his scuffed black boots, the jeans that seemed to have been made just for him, the tight black T-shirt, and the absolutely ridiculous body that was clearly discernible beneath said shirt. He wasn't tall, but perfectly proportioned, with a face that was almost something out of a Master's sculpture. Sharp cheekbones set in striking relief against soft, full lips and startlingly bleached blonde hair. And eyes that were so brilliantly blue, it was as though a light shone through from behind them. The kind of eyes that could see right through you, inside you, behind all the walls you so carefully built.

Buffy's feelings about his eyes changed from fascination at their beauty and power, to discomfort at the level of vulnerability they brought her to as he gazed so intently at her. As conscious thought slowly began to come back to her, Buffy also became utterly confused. Where was the bookish, awkward punk wannabe she'd so clearly pictured from Willow's description? Just as she was thinking how strong and masculine his hands were, especially for a boy of his age, she was stripped of their warmth, and blushed like a school girl for even thinking it.

*Since when did I become pedophile Buffy? He's a teenager, sicko!*

She looked down in embarrassment once more. There was a long, painfully awkward pause.

"Well, this is pleasant, isn't it?" Xander ventured, unable to stand another moment of the tense silence. He pushed on and stepped forward, shaking Spike's hand bracingly. "Xander Harris. I'd say 'pleased to meet you,' but seeing as how everyone's determined to be weird about this whole thing, why would I go and do a kooky thing like that?"

Everyone smiled a bit to themselves at that, grateful for Xander's dorkyness under fire. He grinned back at them all and rubbed his hands together, pleased with his work.

"Well, y'all, I'm about to go round us up some vittles," he drawled in a horrible attempt on a southern accent. "So thirty minutes. Kitchen. Be there or be square."

He exited and Willow nudged Spike with her arm.

"Come on, I'll show you your room," she said brightly, and made her way into the hall.

Spike followed obediently, but stopped in the doorway, his manners getting the best of him once again.

"Thank you, Mrs. Summers-Finn," he said with a half smile.

She looked up at him, a little perplexed. "For what?"

"Taking a chance on a bloke like me, giving me a home for the summer."

Buffy's eyes softened and she smiled back. His heart skipped a beat or two.

"Well, you're welcome."

He nodded and turned to leave again, but was stopped when she spoke.

"Um, I just want you to know that I really do appreciate you being here. Thank you."

He tilted his head in recognition, and was in the doorway when she stopped him again.

"Oh, and Spike?"

"Yeah?" he looked back over his shoulder.

"Please, call me Buffy. I definitely prefer it."

He grinned again, genuinely this time, and Buffy fought to keep her knees from buckling.

"Right, then. Buffy it is."


A/N: Two down. I honestly couldn't tell you how many more to go. Should it be a little or a lot? Or none? Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: Nothing having anything to do with Buffy the Vampire Slayer or The Temptations or Motown Records is owned by me. Just using em for a story.



Chapter 3

"Sorry it's so...basment-y." Willow crinkled her nose as she finished descending the creaking staircase to what was to be Spike's domain for the summer.

"You're kidding, right?" he scoffed and looked at her incredulously.

She stared at him, a hurt look on her face. "Oh, yeah...um, it's a dark...and kinda musty...basement."

Realizing she'd mistaken him, Spike backpedaled. "No, no, that's not what I meant! I meant that compared to the hellhole called campus housing, this place is damn near heaven. The whole cellar to meself, with no Parker to bugger things up."

"Oh yeah, Parker, your roommate this last semester, right?" Willow recalled.

"That's the one."

"Wasn't he the player-ish one? Always bringing the girlies home?"

Spike chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, to cover up all the boys he brought home."

Her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline from surprise.

"And as far as dark and musty goes..." He did have to squint a bit to see in the dimly lit room. "Well, just remember I'm a U.K. lad. Allergic to sun an' all."

Willow laughed as they dropped his luggage on the twin bed that had been placed near the wall for him. He did a quick inventory, making sure they'd brought down all his belongings, and wondering vaguely why it seemed he had so much more stuff when they were trying to cram it into her car.

"Thanks for the help. You need me to get your things?"

"Nah," Willow shrugged. "Xander's probably gotten it all for me by now. He's good like that. Thanks, though."

Spike nodded in recognition.

"I think I'm going to go upstairs and clean up before dinner," she said, turning to leave. "Anything you need?"

"No, I think I'm fine, thanks."

She started up the stairs but paused when Spike spoke.

"Oh, and Red?"

"Hmm?"

He gave a half smile. "Sorry I've been such a toff about this whole deal. It's already better than I'd expected."

She grinned and nodded, then climbed the rest of the stairs, a knowing smile on her lips. "Duh. You'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to notice chemistry like that," she whispered to herself.

Spike stretched, his muscles still bunched from the cramped drive, and exchanged his sweat-dampened shirt for a clean one. He began unpacking his clothes and couldn't help but let his mind wander back to just a few minutes before. Never in his young life had he felt so blindsided by attraction to a person. Buffy made him feel all giddy and...

"Twitterpated," he murmured to himself aloud, then chuckled. He got so lost in his thoughts of Buffy that when Xander hollered "DINNER!" down the stairwell, he gave a decidedly unmanly squeak and dropped the pair of socks he was holding. Spike looked around, grateful no one was there to witness it, and cleared his throat in a very macho sort of way before he picked up the socks and headed upstairs.

***

Buffy took a deep breath and shut her bedroom door, glad to have a moment to herself after the awkward scene that had just taken place. She bent down and began unloading her laundry basket, trying to keep herself from thinking about the hottie currently in her basement, and the undeniable attraction she felt toward said hottie. It really wasn't like her to get all bumbling and...

"Twitterpated," she thought aloud, then shook her head to clear it. She decided to focus instead on what pain she'd inflict on Willow for completely misleading her. It didn't take Buffy long at all to come to the conclusion that her feelings were entirely Willow's fault.

*Well, duh, I got butterflies* she thought. *Anyone would when they're startled by someone not looking as they'd been lead to believe.*

With that, she dropped her last pair of clean socks into the drawer and left her room to follow Xander's cries toward the kitchen, immensely pleased with her own prowess in the art of rationalization.

***

The kitchen smelled heavenly as Spike entered it. He saw Willow standing on her tiptoes, reaching for a glass at the back of a cupboard. Spike walked up next to her and grabbed it for her.

"Thanks," Willow said, almost shouting over the sounds of The Temptations' "My Girl" blaring through the main floor of the house.

Spike shrugged and smiled widely. "I love this song!"

"Good thing, 'cause we play oodles of oldies in this house! Now go make yourself useful and put these on the dining room table," she ordered, pushing several glasses into his arms.

He turned and made his way to the dining room singing along with the music softly. He pushed the swinging door open with his back, and when he turned into the room, the sight that met his eyes wasn't exactly what he'd hoped. Xander was holding Buffy close, whirling around the room and singing at the top of his lungs while she laughed like mad.

*So that's how it is* he thought, his stomach twisting in jealousy. *The whelp doesn't seem like the type she'd go for. Bit of a poof, if you ask me.*

Xander dipped Buffy and held her there, both of them almost falling over and laughing at their clumsiness. From her awkward position, bent backward over Xander's arm, she noticed and upside down Spike staring at them. Xander followed her gaze and looked up at Spike.

"Hey, man! Come on in!" He shouted genially.

"Um, Xand...can you let me up now, maybe?"

He looked down at ther, almost forgetting she was hanging half upside down. With a sheepish grin, he righted her, and she had to cling to his shoulder for a moment to quell the dizziness from the blood suddenly rushing back down to her body. Xander took her hand and kissed it, bending into a ridiculously low bow.

"Thank you for the dance, m'lady," he boomed in a pompous voice as the song ended. Buffy curtsied and they giggled again.

It wasn't until Willow hit him in the back with the door that Spike stopped staring.

"Oops, sorry!" she apologized as Spike shot her a foul look. It had nothing to do with her or the door.

*Suck it up, you ponce. No point in being all moody and broody. You can't help it if the bint's got no taste in men.* He set the glasses down at each place setting and sat in the last empty seat at the table, directly across from Buffy.

"Well, kids, dig in," Xander said, helping himself to a generous mound of mashed potatoes.

Spike took a helping of peas from the dish in front of him, then loaded his plate with roast beef and potatoes, and followed Xander's actions by smothering the whole thing in gravy.

Xander reached over and smacked him on the back heartily. "See? Now you're eating like a real red-blooded American man," he stated with an encouraging grin.

Spike forced a smile back and warily took a bit of Xander's home cooking. It was surprisingly good.

"Good supper, mate. Thanks."

"Yeah, we've decided it's better to just leave the cooking to him," Willow sighed, casting a sideways glance at Buffy.

Buffy slumped down in her seat. "Turns out Buffy and cooking aren't such mixy things." She held up the dish in front of her, showing off the scorch marks where flames at some point had obviously licked it.

Spike snorted, struggling to keep his mouthful of peas from spraying all over the table. She gave him a look of mock indignation, which he found to be very lovely.

Encouraged by her challenging look, Spike said, in a matter-of-fact voice, "Well, I just feel bad for you, is all. You're a woman. Isn't cooking your lot in life?" He winked.

Buffy gasped dramatically, trying very hard to look affronted, but couldn't keep the smile out of her voice completely. "You're a pig, Spike!"

It was Spike's turn to feign resentment, but before he could speak, he was distracted by the sound of the door swinging open behind him. He turned to see a very old man with very loose skin, large floppy ears, and a set of very ill-maintained teeth.

"Hi, Clem," the other occupants of the room chorused.

The man smiled at the room at large, then took the pie tin he'd been holding in his hand and loaded it with food.

"Oh, Clem, this is Spike. He'll be staying with us and helping around the farm this summer. Mostly in the pigpen." Buffy said brightly, just as he was about to exit the room. Clem didn't catch the joke, but Spike pursed his lips and shot her a look across the table as Clem extended his hand. Spike warily shook it, entranced by the way the flesh on the man's arm swayed as he did so. The only thing he could figure was that he must have lost a great deal of weight very quickly at some point.

"Nice to meetchya," Clem stated exuberantly, showing off his ghoulish smile.

Spike smiled back. Despite his appearance, there was something about the man's sincerity he liked right away. "Likewise, mate."

Clem moved toward the door. "Come see me anytime you're in the mood for a good game of kitten poker." And with that, he left, skin flapping.

Spike turned back toward the table, bewildered. "Kitten poker?" he questioned, looking to the others for comprehension. They all giggled and shrugged.

"He's a nice enough guy," Willow ventured. "He lives in the attic and works as a farm hand. Has for as long as I can remember. He's harmless, really. Just has a thing for kittens..."

Spike quirked an eyebrow and opened his mouth to question further, but promptly decided he'd just rather not know.

The rest of dinner was fun and comfortable. He was very glad the group was as warm and welcoming as the home they lived in. They all laughed as Xander elaborated on Buffy's misadventures in cooking, and even harder as she retaliated with the tale of how she'd shown him up completely the one day she was a worker on his construction site.

Pleasantly full, content, and sleepy from an eventful day, they cleaned up the dining room and kitchen and headed to their respective bedrooms for the night. As Spike undressed and crawled into his bed, he smiled to himself.

He felt included and welcomed in this place. And it was more than just a perk to be in the same house with a beautiful woman like Buffy to keep his mind occupied. *And if I'm not mistaken, she was flirting back* He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face as he actually let himself think that perhaps it wasn't such a big mistake coming here, that it might even end up being a summer worth remembering.

The moment he got under the covers and turned out the lamp by his bed, he heard Willow's voice loud and clear, which wasn't hard, seeing as she was yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Goodnight, Xander!" Spike heard echoing from her room.

Xander yelled back from his bed. "'Night, Willow!"

Willow's voice came back, with an enthusiastic "Goodnight, Buffy!"

"Goodnight, Wills!" he heard Buffy shout.

"'Night, Buff!" bellowed Xander.

"'Night, Xand!" Buffy hollered back.

Spike cracked a grin and shook his head. *Odd, these ones. Endearing, yeah, but odd.*

Then, through the quiet house he heard Willow again.

"Goodnight, Spike!"

He just chuckled. He was too tired to shout. And for that matter, too cool.

"Hey!" he heard her again. "I said goodnight!"

He laughed aloud again, but still gave no answer.

"Spike! I know you can hear me! Don't make me come down there, mister!"

He finally gave up, not one to spoil their nighttime ritual, and also not particularly in the mood to piss the redhead off now that she had easy access to where he slept.

"Alright!" He shouted, barely containing the laughter in his voice. "'Night, Red! Sweet dreams!"

"Thank you!" she replied. "Now was that so hard?! Honestly!"

Spike rolled onto his side, just able to hear the friends' soft laughter. *Yeah* he thought as he yawned, feeling sleep begin to wash over him. *Not so bad.*




A/N: Thanks again to all of you who've reviewed, and thanks to all of you who will review (hint, hint!). Just thought I'd warn you now, there'll be A LOT of songs mentioned in this fic. I live my life to a soundtrack, and thus, so do my characters. Anyway, let me know what you think!

Chapter Four


It seemed to Spike that he'd barely closed his eyes before he was being not-so-gently shaken awake.

"Spike. Hey, man, up and at 'em." He could hear Xander saying in a tone that was entirely too chipper for early morning.

"Wutimzit?" he mumbled groggily.

"4:15."

"In the morning?" Spike nearly yelled.

Xander shushed him. "Um, yeah, that's generally the part of the day we Americans experience awakeness. So come on, rise and shine."

In a supremely mature gesture, Spike rolled over and faced the wall, yanking the covers up over his head. "Do a man a favor and sod off 'til 'bout noon."

"Suit yourself, man. If you're going to be like that, I'll just go ask Willow to get me some water out of the freezing cold well…"

Deciding he didn't know the whelp well enough to call his bluff, Spike reluctantly rolled out of bed, glaring blearily at the unbearable ponce.

"There we go. Come on, big day ahead of us, chock full of farm-fresh goodness," Xander said encouragingly. He left the basement whistling a jaunty tune.

Spike changed into his standard black shirt and jeans, which took a bit longer than usual considering it took him several attempts before realizing he was trying to shove his head through the arm hole. He stepped into his Doc Martens and trudged up the stairs. Immediately he made his way to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, rubbing his puffy eyes. *How in the bloody hell are we supposed to work when it's not even light yet? Friggin' farmers are mad.*

He turned around to face the kitchen and finally noticed Buffy and Willow preparing breakfast. Or rather, Willow was preparing breakfast, Buffy was buttering the toast. She looked up at him, her own eyes still a little bleary and gave a small smile. "Morning."

Spike tried to reply, he truly did, but rude or not, his brain and mouth couldn't connect so early, so he was only able to force out a grunt and a nod.

"Not Morning-Guy, I see," Buffy remarked, handing him a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast. "Eat up. You'll need it. Plus, I buttered the toast myself." She smiled, genuinely proud of herself.

He attempted a smile and plopped down on a stool at the bar, pushing his food around with a fork. Xander took the seat next to him, gobbling down his breakfast like a starving man, and talking to Willow with his mouth full.

"Um, I don't know if that's really the best thing to wear for working," said Xander, looking him up and down. "Black on black on black probably won't be all that comfortable, I'm guessing. It's kinda chilly right now, but once the sun's up, it gets pretty damn hot out there."

Spike sighed. "Well, mate, it's the only thing I've got, so I guess I'll just have to live."

"You could borrow some of my clothes," Xander offered with a shrug.

Giving him the once over, Spike curled his lip in disgust. Not only was Xander considerably taller and broader than he was, but apparently without a mirror. He wore a plaid button up shirt over his undershirt, dirty, faded jeans that were too baggy, and dilapidated old cowboy boots. "I'll be just fine, thanks." There was no thanks in his voice.

"Whatever. Just trying to help. But I really don't hate to say I told you so."

"I bet not," Spike muttered before he took another sip of his coffee.

Willow spoke up before Xander could make a comeback, wanting to dispel some of the obvious tension in the room. "Um, so…how's breakfast? Isn't the toast great? And oh, the hashbrowns…"

"It's all great Red," Spike said with a forced grin. He didn't understand how people could eat at this time. For all intents and purposes, he was still asleep. "So tell me, what is it you birds do while we're out slaving in the sun?"

"Oh, you know," Buffy said in a sing-song voice. "Eat bonbons and play with each other's hair…wait for the men folk to come back and take care of us."

"Wanna trade places, luv?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"What, you want a man to take care of you, Spike?" she questioned cheekily.

Xander burst out laughing, spraying Spike with bits of egg.

"Well, no. 'Specially since I seem to be the only man around here..."

Xander swung his head around so fast to glare at Spike he almost got a kink in his neck. Buffy stepped in between them, clearing their plates without bothering to ask if they were finished. "Okay boys, cock fighting is still illegal in America, so play nice, will you?"

"I think you guys need some fresh air or something. Get to the chores, already. Milking: does a body good," Willow added lamely.

Both men took another chance to glare at the other, and then went out the back door, keeping plenty of space between them.

"What was all that about?" Willow wondered aloud.

Buffy shook her head and shrugged. "Don't look at me."


***


Spike and Xander crossed the dry, patchy yard to the work shed, where they suited up in huge, filthy work boots and well-worn leather gloves. When he was handed a pair of chaps, however, Spike decided he had to put his foot down.

"No way in hell am I putting these on," he spat.

Xander finished buckling up his own chaps and looked up, more than annoyed. "Are you going to fight me on everything? Because I'm seriously hoping this attitude crap is just a morning thing, or you and I are going to have some serious issues. I'm not going to beg you to do everything, man."

Spike looked down at the chaps again, then up at Xander, jaw tightening. "I'm not gonna go around lookin' like one of the ruddy Village People!"

With a roll of his eyes, Xander started outside. "Whatever. It's so not even worth it. Don't wear the chaps then. I really don't give a damn if your jeans get shot to hell, so just come on. Got miles to go before we sleep."

Spike didn't know what was making him feel like pushing the whelp's buttons.

*Oh, wait, he's a right prat, that's why. And NOT because you're jealous,* he thought. *Nope, not a lick of jealousy here.* He nodded his head in affirmation once before chucking the chaps in a corner and shuffling off after Xander.


***


After a morning of trying his hand at milking, mucking out stalls, feeding and watering stock, and a rather painful incident in the chicken coop involving a light bulb, a water hose, and a lot of broken eggs, Spike was exhausted and irritable. Their final task for the day, Xander had told him, was moving pipe. Well into the second hour of doing so in the sweltering midday sun, the two had even stopped bickering in the name of getting done as quickly as possible.

His usually gelled-back hair had gone crazy on him from the humidity and his own sweat. He had taken off his shirt only twenty minutes into the chore, hoping it would help cool him off, but he could still feel frequent drops of sweat running down his arms, face and back. Of course, there was no way he'd admit that wearing all black had been a stupid move, or that he should have just worn the stupid chaps, judging by the three large rips his jeans had acquired throughout the day.

He and Xander had fallen into a somewhat tense but efficient rhythm, disconnecting a piece of pipe, moving it twenty feet, and reconnecting it to another line of pipe. *Loads of fun, eh, Old MacDonald?* Spike asked himself. *Bugger the field. Do these crops really need water today?*


***


Willow was carrying four glasses, and trotting alongside Buffy, who was carrying a large pitcher of lemonade, as they headed out to the lower wheat field to give the boys a break.

"So Oz is going to come for a visit?" Buffy asked as they were turning the corner around the fence into the field.

"Yup! Next week. Oh, and did I tell you about the dream I had about him? See, there was this giant otter on a motorcycle..."

But just what the mobile marmoset had to do with anything, Buffy would never know. As soon as they were within eyesight of Xander and Spike, her brain could only form one thought: *Gah!*

The air seemed suddenly hotter and heavier as she caught sight of a shirtless Spike, glistening with sweat, muscles rippling as he picked up one end of a pipe and lifted it high over head. She'd never seen a body that amazing before. His pale skin contrasted perfectly with the dark shadows his muscles created as they flexed and relaxed beneath the smooth surface. He wore his jeans very low on his hips, exposing an unbelievably sexy crease in his flesh just below his abdomen.

In her open-mouthed stupor, she failed to notice a dip in the ground. Buffy stumbled and sloshed half her pitcher of lemonade down her front.

"Whoa, Buff, you okay? Might wanna try actually watching where you're going." Willow followed her gaze, catching on. "And not ogling the goodies," she added with a smirk.

Breaking out of her daze, Buffy balked and tried to wring out the hem of her shirt, which had taken the brunt of the spill, drenching her entire midsection. "Wha...ogling, I wasn't ogling anybody. That is, not that there's anybody that's ogle-worthy, 'cause hey, it's just Spike and Xander and..."

Willow cocked her head to the side and gave Buffy her "oh, come off it" face.

Buffy scowled. "Gimme a break. You're not blind, either."

The redhead just giggled. "Nope. But the difference between you and me is that I know how to put my eyeballs back in my head."

They cleaned up as much as possible and crossed the rest of the distance to the men.

"Can we offer you a bit of refreshment, gentlemen?" Willow called as they sat down in the shade of a shed on the edge of the field.

Spike look up, delighted to see Buffy, not to mention bearing lemonade. He was more than glad to have a break from the beating sun and the sole company of the whelp, whom Spike had decided possessed no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm and followed Xander to the shed, where he flopped down next to Buffy.

As Buffy poured them all a glass, he couldn't help but notice the large wet spot on the bottom of her shirt, or the way it made the thin baby pink cotton stick to her skin and show off her gorgeously toned abdomen

*Cor, what a body.*

Buffy couldn't help but steal glances at him, either, as he lay back on his elbows, making his washboard abs even more obvious.

*Now there's a way to make laundry day a little more enticing...Dammit! Bad Buffy!*

Just as she was mentally smacking herself, her hand touched Spike's while giving him his lemonade. Their eyes met for a split second as an all too familiar shock coursed through them both. Tensing, she released the glass and looked away, noticing for the first time how very interesting the peeling paint on this particular shed was. "You boys getting along better?" she inquired.

Xander and Spike just glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. Buffy furrowed her brow. "That good, huh?" Still, neither man said anything.

"Aw, you guys can't be all with the loathing all summer! You're supposed to like each other. So do," Willow said with a pout.

They made small talk for a few minutes, until the lemonade was gone and work had to be resumed.

"Thanks for the drink, pet," Spike nodded to Buffy with a smile.

She smiled back, but lowered her head. "You should really thank Willow. She made it, thankfully. When life throws me lemons, I somehow tend to leave out the sugar."

Willow and Xander both made faces, the memory all too recent.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Spike teased. "Even my baby sister can make lemonade. And she's five!"

Buffy rolled her eyes and tried to suppress a grin at his ribbing.

"Do you even have a sister, Spike?" Willow asked.

"Well, no, but it just proves the point: even my imaginary baby sister can make lemonade." He grinned.

That earned him a smack on the chest from Buffy, who watched intently as the firm skin turned briefly white, then back to its normal color. He nearly did a victory dance when he caught her staring at his chest. He brazenly flexed every muscle in his upper body, relishing in her almost audible gulp.

Coming back to herself, Buffy hurriedly grabbed the boys' glasses and the empty pitcher and began to walk back toward the house. "You two play nice. Or else," she threatened over her shoulder. Willow followed close behind her.

"C'mon, bleach boy, we've still got about two hours of work ahead of us," Xander sighed as he stood and stretched.

Spike would have whined like a baby, but he felt suddenly energized. *Hell, if the chit looks at me like that every time I take it off, I'm never wearing a shirt again.*


***


By nine o'clock that night, Spike had made one promise to himself. *I'm never taking off my soddin' shirt again!* He hollered in pain as Buffy laid a cool wet cloth across his right shoulder, currently the color of a tomato.

"Oh, quiet down, you big baby," Buffy scolded.

"Stop trying to torture me then!"

"Hey," she said, placing her hand on her hip. "It's not my fault you're genius enough to work outside all day with no shirt and no sunscreen. Of course you got sunburnt. Now stop squirming and the cloths won't hurt as much."

Sitting in the basement on the edge of his bed after an incredibly long day with Xander, his skin stinging like mad, Spike was at least glad to have the company. He sat still as she gently placed a cool cloth over his other shoulder, but hissed loudly at the pain.

"Spike Blood…" Buffy murmured. "Vicious name for such a wimp."

"Oi!" He scowled at her. "Give a bloke a break, luv. Never had a bad burn before. Not exactly loads of sunny days in London."

"Fair enough. But please tell me that's not your real name," Buffy pleaded with a smile.

He snorted. "Does William Henry Blood, the Third suit your fancy?" he asked in a snooty accent.

She giggled and sat next to him on the bed. "So where did you get 'Spike'?"

"Back home on my school rugby team. Got tackled and some sod from the other team 'accidentally' stomped on my face. A spike from his cleat gave me this," he pointed to the prominent scar on his eyebrow and Buffy gasped, "and I gave him a crooked nose."

"Ouch," Buffy whispered with raised eyebrows. "Rough sport. I didn't know you played rugby."

"Still do, actually. Live for it. That's why I'm in the States, as a matter of fact. Got a scholarship to play for the University."

"Wow. What position do you play?"

"Lock."

"Oh, cool!" she exclaimed.

He blinked. "You like rugby? Didn't think you American birds were into it."

"Nope, don't know a thing about it. Just pretending to be interested in the name of being a good hostess," she said sweetly.

"Oh, well anything for the sake of propriety," he panned with a roll of his eyes.

Buffy grinned and batted her eyes. "So tell me, Mr. William Henry Blood, the Third, is there a reason you're in school other than sports and parties, or are you the typical young adult male?"

Spike scoffed. "One, let me say now that if I ever hear you use my full name again, I will get you."

She threw up her arms in surrender. "Right. No more William Henry Blood, the Third."

He glared, but continued. "And secondly, of course there's another reason than rugby and parties: easy American girls," he said with a smirk, touching his tongue to he back of his top teeth.

Buffy's stomach flip-flopped as she watched his mouth. She snorted in disgust, even through her smile. "You're a pig, Spike."

He opened his mouth as though about to retort, but then pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and nodded in acquiescence.

She shook her head and giggled, trying to ignore the slight jealousy over the "easy American girls".

"But really, yeah, I am going to school to learn something."

"Well fancy that…What are you studying?"

He let out a long sigh, knowing full well she wasn't going to let this one go easily. "Literature, with an emphasis on Creative Writing and Poetry," he said in one breath.

As expected, Buffy burst out laughing.

"Oh, bugger off," he said defensively.

She took a calming breath. "No, that's really neat. Unexpected, maybe, but very respectable," she said with a fervent nod. "Actually, come to think of it, it kinda makes sense. When Willow first told me you were coming, she said you were a bit of a bookworm. So needless to say, I was surprised when I met you and saw the 'Rebel Without a Closet' look. Seriously, do you own anything that's not black?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," he rebuked as he made a face. "I have quite a collection of charcoal and midnight grey."

Buffy grabbed a bottle off his nightstand.

"So what were you expecting then, pet? Slacks, collared shirts, bowties, and bloody awful curly brown hair?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Buffy shrugged as she squirted some green goo from the bottle into her hand. "Turn," she commanded.

Spike obeyed, turning his back to her, flinching as she gingerly removed the damp cloths from his shoulders. "Then you should have known me a few years back."

"What, you weren't always into the 'Flesh For Fantasy' thing?" she teased, sitting down Indian-style behind him with the bottle between her legs. *Speaking of flesh and fantasies...* Buffy mused as she carefully rubbed the gel onto his shoulders and back, letting her hands linger longer than necessary.

"Not so much. Dressed like a bloody great prat growing up. Like my life's ambition was to be a virgin librarian. You know I actually owned four of those tweed jackets with leather on the elbows?"

She doubled up in laughter with the mental image, and Spike joined her, loving the sound of it.

Buffy's laughter subsided. "So what caused the great shift in wardrobe?"

"Long story short? My mum stopped dressing me." He was having a very hard time not leaning into Buffy's touch as she caressed his upper back with the soothing liquid. "What is that stuff, anyway?"

"After-sun lotion with aloe in it. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Spike had to bite his tongue, opting for a nod over his preferred, "Yeah, now how 'bout you take off your shirt and let me have a go."

"How d'you know so much about sunburns, anyway?" he asked.

"Well, when you're from L.A., there are lots of opportunities to get over-toasty, so you learn how to deal."

"Didn't know you were from California. I thought you were a native like Xander and Willow."

"Nope, SoCal born and raised, my friend." She squeezed more lotion into her hand and continued her "for medical purposes only" feel-up session. "Lived in L.A. until my parents split up when I was fourteen, then Mom and I moved to a town called Sunnydale. Strange little place…"

"Did you go to university, then?" he asked over his shoulder, fighting the chills running up and down his spine. It was getting harder to ignore the physical effects she was having on him.

"Yup. Good ol' UC Sunnydale. I wanted to study psychology. That's where I met Riley," she mentioned.

"You're husband? What was an Iowa boy doin' in Sunnydale?"

"He was there on a football scholarship. We met in the campus bookstore when I was a freshman, and got married exactly one year, to the day, later." Buffy suddenly closed up the bottle and wiped her hands on a towel. "All done. You can get dressed, now." She scooted to the other end of the bed, further away from Spike. She couldn't ignore the feeling of guilt at slathering down a half-naked boy while talking about her husband.

"I'd be polite and put a shirt on pet, but the fact is I can't lift my arms over my head at the moment. But go on, I'm dyin' to know how the bloke dragged you to the middle of soddin nowhere." He turned around and faced her, sitting with his legs folded comfortably beneath him.

"Oh, no, I don't want to bore you," she sighed with a shake of her head.

Spike was surprised but more than pleased at how comfortable and candid their conversation was becoming, and how genuinely interested he was in finding out more about Buffy. "No, really, I'd like to hear, if it's all right. Lord knows I could use the company. And the distraction from the sunburn," he added.

She gave him a half smile, finding that she felt more at ease talking with him than she'd thought possible. There was an openness about him that seemed to beg for honesty in return. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. Here we go, the Reader's Digest version of the Summers-Finn saga."

Spike rubbed his hands together with a grin and rested his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand, ready for intensive listening. "Do tell, luv."

She took a deep breath, as though she were about to tell it all in one sentence. "Well, like I said, we got married really young. I was only nineteen. He was twenty. We had come out here a couple times before we tied the knot, to do the whole meet the parents deal. I loved them and this farm right away. All with the quaintness and simplicity. So not like L.A. or Sunnydale. After we got married, we stayed at UC Sunnydale, living in married student housing." Buffy shuddered and made a face as though she'd just eaten a lemon. "But the next semester, Riley's parents were killed in a car accident."

Spike didn't know what to say, so he just encouraged her to continue with a heartfelt look of sympathy.

"This place was their whole life," she said, gazing at the walls around them. "They raised Riley here. They practically raised Willow and Xander here, too. We couldn't just let it get repossessed or auctioned off or something, so we moved out here to take care of it and live the American hillbilly dream," she said with a smirk, which Spike returned.

"So Riley grew up with Red and the whelp?"

"Whelp?" she wondered with a furrowed brow.

"Xander."

"Oh, okay...But yeah, those three have been inseparable pretty much since conception. This was their second home And that didn't change when Riley and I moved in. I swear they've eaten more meals at this house than any Finn ever did. Filthy rotten moochers."

Spike chuckled.

"Nah, I love 'em to death. Riley and I are both only children, so it was like having a bunch of siblings who didn't look anything alike. Very Brady Bunch. But they've been there for me every second this past year..." she trailed off and picked at a thread coming loose from the comforter.

Not wanting to push, but very curious, Spike caught Buffy's eye and asked softly, "Can I ask how it happened?"

She took another deep breath, and he backed off. "No, nevermind. I completely understand if you don't want to talk about it."

"No, no, it's fine. I don't mind at all. It's good for me, actually. Gets easier every time. Almost exactly a year ago," she paused and took a steadying breath. "Riley was working with one of the horses out in the lower pasture while I was making dinner. Out of nowhere comes this huge summer thunderstorm. They used to be our favorite thing in the world. Whenever one would start, we would both drop whatever we were doing and cuddle up in bed to listen to the storm. So I went upstairs to our bedroom to wait for him, but when he didn't show after a while, I got worried and went to see if he was okay. I got outside and it started pouring so hard I could barely see. I finally found my way out to the pasture, but by the time I got there..." her voice caught as she blinked back tears.

Spike reached out and gently placed his hand on her knee, willing to just wait if need be. She found strength and solace in the kindness of the simple gesture and pressed on.

"The doctors told me there was nothing I could have done, that when a lightning bolt that strong hits a person directly like that, it's over in an instant. That he never even realized what happened. They said the same thing when my mom died," she whispered.

Spike's heart was breaking for Buffy. To have seen and lost so much already in her life, he had to look away to hide his misty eyes, but gave her knee an encouraging squeeze.

"It's weird, you know? They both just up and died one day. No warning, no goodbye, no chance to do anything about it. Riley and I were only married for a year and a half, and it's almost been a year since he died. They say the first year is the hardest to get through, but that it gets much easier after that."

She wiped a solitary tear from her cheek. "Eighteen days. I guess that's when some miraculous change occurs and I'm suddenly a lot more okay with being a widow at twenty-two. I dunno, maybe something will change, something will make it easier..." she said doubtfully. "My husband loved this farm so much. And for me, it's like a living, breathing memorial to him, a piece of him to keep with me and love. So for now, I'm just putting everything I've got into getting it back on its feet."

There was a pause, where each was lost in their thoughts.

"How'd your mum go?" Spike asked quietly.

"Aneurism. Complications from an operation she'd had. I was almost eighteen."

He chewed on his bottom lip. "I was sixteen when I lost my mum."

Buffy grasped the hand that was still resting on her knee. "Spike, I'm so sorry. I had no idea..." she whispered with sympathetic eyes. "I guess that means it's your turn for 'Life Story time'," she added, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

He looked at her intently for a moment. "You and I have a lot in common, actually. My dad left before I was born, so it was just me and my mum. It's odd being 'the Third' when you've never met the first or second..." he pursed his lips, trying to remind himself he wasn't bitter anymore.

"Mum was really overprotective, hence the lack of fashion sense, but I really loved her. She was all I had, and vice versa. Grew up in London, living inside of books, until one of my mates introduced me to rugby, and I was never the same again...thankfully. So when Mum died, I 'expressed' myself through some really awful poetry and getting immersed completely in rugby."

"Was your mom sick?" she questioned, her heart going out to him.

"Yeah, she'd been fighting cancer for years. Fought right up until the last day, too. Full of piss and vinegar, that one." He snorted softly and smiled, looking Buffy in the eye. "Guess you know where I get it, eh?"

She smiled back. "So that's when you became...Big Bad?" she teased.

"Big Bad, eh? Brilliant! I like it." He gave a cocky smirk. "Yeah, I guess that's when you could say I 'transitioned'," he said, making air quotes.

"Well, I bet all those easy American girls you were talking about appreciate it."

He nodded fervently. "You bet your arse they do." He waggled his eyebrows and did that damned thing with his tongue again.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "So tell me, oh great and marvelous Spike, the Chick Magnet, what does your girlfriend think about your choice of hair color. Or rather, lack thereof?" She reached a hand up to ruffle his still mussed hair, but he caught her wrist and gave a warning glare.

"One, don't touch the hair. And two, what the hell would I want with a girlfriend? Women are nutters, the lot of 'em."

She smacked his chest playfully.

"Ow!" he yelped.

"Oh, sorry!" she hissed

Spike placed his hand over the spot she'd hit him, trying to quell the stinging. "Well, if that's how you feel...Why don't you tell me, then, Buffy? What is it you look for in a man?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but quickly shut it and made a face. "You know, I've never honestly thought about it that hard. I never really had a lot of boyfriends..."

Spike found that incredibly hard to believe.

"I guess with Riley, he protected me. Comforted me, kept me grounded, you know? He kinda balanced me out. He was a lot more practical and no nonsense than I am. Very loyal and chivalrous, almost to a fault. Loved, honored, cherished - that whole thing."

He couldn't help but think how much effort it would take to try and keep Buffy grounded and no nonsense. He didn't really like the sound of it. And he had to ask; it had been gnawing at him all day. "And Xander?" Spike tried not to spit the name of the newly acquired bane of his existence.

"Oh, well Xander's...Wait, huh? What about Xander?"

"You know, what do you like about him? Why're you dating him?" he pressed, part of him not wanting to know at all.

Buffy blinked three times, then erupted with uncontrollable laughter. He looked at her, befuddled.

"What's so bleedin' funny?"

Catching her breath and clutching her side, Buffy sat straight again and sighed. "Sorry, it's just...Ew!" she giggled again. "Dating the Xan-Man? That's almost incest! This is Iowa, not Arkansas."

Spike's heart leapt in his chest and he had to sit on his hands to keep them from punching the air in triumph.

"I mean, I love Xander to death, but it's always been completely platonic." She enunciated the last part of the sentence very clearly. "And speaking of whom, I'm thinking you guys should really get over this whole macho-fest fighty thing you've got going on. It's getting old. And he really is a great guy."

Nodding his head and grinning like a madman, Spike suddenly felt an inexplicable rush of affection toward the man. "You know, I reckon me and the whelp could be best mates."





A/N: Yeah, so that was a bazillion times longer than my other chaps, so I hope it makes up at least a little for the lack of updates...And just FYI, there will finally be Spuffy smut in the next chapter! Luvs!

Chapter Five




Buffy was alone in the house. Xander, Willow, and Spike had gone into town to run some errands. Laundry seemed to be the most useful way to occupy herself. So, with a full basket held against her hip, she made her way into the dark basement, careful not to trip on the stairs.

Halfway down, movement caught her eye. Startled, she stopped, still half hidden by the basement ceiling, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. If it was another raccoon or something that had gotten into the house, she didn't want to frighten it. When she was finally able to make out what it was, she nearly dropped her laundry basket.

As she stood there, bent double, her eyes bugged out and her jaw reached the level of her navel. That was no raccoon. And apparently, Spike wasn't as gone as she'd thought. He was lying on top of his bed, wearing nothing but the moonlight streaming through the window, and he was...

*Oh my holy God!*

Buffy could see now what the movement was: he was slowly pumping one hand up and down his fully erect and gorgeously proportioned cock. She could see it glistening with his precum as he'd run his palm over the belled head every few strokes and gather it up to lubricate his shaft. Of course she should have just left, turned right back up the stairs and gotten far away, let him do...that...in peace. But she somehow found herself rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from his lean, chiseled form and the knee-weakening look of pleasure on his face.

Without knowing it was happening, she placed the laundry basket on the stair above her and knelt to get a better look. One arm brushed against her nipple as she knelt, and suddenly, almost of its own volition, her right hand unbuttoned her jeans and slipped into her soaked panties, running a finger up her wet slit.

*I'm a total pervert! I'm a peeping Tom! Scratch that, peeping Buffy. I can't sit here and do this.* Spike made a low, rumbling moan at the exact moment her finger found her clit, and Buffy found she could, in fact, do nothing else.

She watched as his other hand slid slowly down his perfect abdomen to fondle his sac, and his back arched off the bed a bit at the new sensation. She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning as she inserted two fingers into her tight pussy; she'd never seen or done anything so erotic in all her life. His hand started to move faster up and down his length, facilitated by the more frequent drops of sticky fluid leaking from the slit at the tip. He was breathing faster, and making the sexiest little noises she'd ever heard. She was enthralled by the way he began pumping his hips up and down, and she plunged her fingers in and out in time with his thrusts, rubbing her thumb harder against her clit.

Buffy had never been so wet, and she was so close to cumming, there was no way she could stop now if she tried. Spike thrust into his hand faster and moaned out one word: "Buffy". That was all she needed. Her hand was flooded with her own juices and a cry was ripped from her throat; her body tensing violently as she came.

When she opened her glassy eyes, she could see him staring at her with a horrified look on his face. But she noted his hands never stopped their movements. She had given herself away. Now he knew she'd been watching him. And even more unsettling was the fact that she didn't care. Buffy stood, never breaking eye contact, and carefully made her way down the stairs on shaky legs.

Spike watched her, wide-eyed, still stroking himself as she stopped at the foot of his bed. She licked her lips as she got a closer look at his exquisite nude form. The next thing she knew, she was pulling her shirt up over her head and pushing her still unbuttoned pants down her legs. Seeing him lick his own lips, she looked him straight in the eye as she unhooked her bra, exposing her full, firm breasts to his entranced gaze. She squeezed them together and pinched her nipples, delighting in the way his cock twitched in his hand. Buffy ran her hands slowly down the length of her torso, hooking her thumbs into her drenched panties and sliding them off her smooth legs. Spike let out a groan and she couldn't hold back anymore.

She crawled up on the bed with him and swung one leg over his, her cunt now hovering directly over the tip of his erection. Running her hands from his chest to his navel, she marveled at the way his muscles twitched and flexed under her palms. Slowly, she bent down to kiss him, tasting him softly and experimentally. Almost as though the kiss had breathed life into him, Spike moved for the first time since he'd realized she was there. He was suddenly sitting up, pressing his chest against hers, and kissing her with a passion she'd never felt before. It was as though he wanted to devour her, body, mind and soul. She plundered his mouth feverishly with her tongue, but they both stopped abruptly with twin gasps as his hardness brushed against her intimately.

Buffy reached between them slowly, taking hold of his cock and guiding the tip to her aching clit. She rubbed it against herself and they both jerked and closed their eyes at the contact. He dipped his head a bit to take a peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking at it and laving it with his tongue while she continued circling her bundle of nerves with his leaking cock. Spike began tugging and nibbling at her nipples in earnest, and she held him to her with her free hand, playing with the soft curls on the nape of his neck.

It took only a few moments before their movements became more frantic, grinding against each other and mewling into the night. She moved him faster and faster against herself, their bodies jerking and tensing as they both came closer to the edge. Suddenly, Buffy felt the strangest and best thing she ever had in her life. Her clit caught in the slit of his belled head, causing an unbelievable shock of sensation to course through their bodies. They arched away from each other as they orgasmed, Spike roaring her name as his cum splashed against her pussy, Buffy screaming his while she felt him explode against her. She felt herself falling backward, and was surprised when she landed against a soft pillow.

*What the...why does he have a pillow at the foot of his bed?*

Opening her eyes, she found herself alone, in her own bed, in her own room, soaked in sweat with a sticky hand still between her legs.

*Oh my god! It was a dream? A freaking dream?*

Buffy didn't know whether to laugh or cry, torn between relief and a disappointment she wouldn't let herself admit. She hadn't thought about it very long at all before exhaustion pulled her into a fitful sleep.



***



It took Buffy a good three days to work up the courage to be in the same room with Spike, let alone look him in the eye. Of course, things were made even more difficult by the small matter of Spike hanging about the house constantly, on account of being laid up by his present status of "burnt to a crisp". To top it all off, her mind and body seemed hell-bent on her continued mortification. She'd had similar dreams each night since the first. At least she was comfortable in the knowledge that she wasn't one to talk in her sleep. She hoped. But she wasn't alone in her present discomfort.

Buffy hadn't said two words to him since their heart-to-heart in the basement, and Spike had taken it to mean that he'd somehow made her uncomfortable or upset her. And just when he was starting to think she could like him. Although he couldn't fathom what offense had slipped through his lips, he'd convinced himself he'd bollocksed up something that may have had potential.

Thus, it was with great relief for both of them that the weekend finally came, bearing with it the arrival of Willow's boyfriend, Oz. Xander and Spike had put their differences aside for the most part and were fast becoming friends, both of them looking forward to having another male presence in the house. Sunday evening found Spike reading on his bed when headlights caught his eye through the window. Peering out through the glass, he knew immediately he would get along with Red's boytoy just swimmingly. As the vehicle's ignition and headlights were turned off, he could make out a thrashed old cargo van in the drive, sporting several different colors of paint, ranging from mottled black to pure rust, and it looked as though it were riding on four spare tires. It was the sort of car one named; something that reflected the boundless memories created within its dilapidated sanctuary with the closest of friends. Spike barely got a look at the man stepping down from the cab before an elated squeal pierced the night and said man was bowled over by an armful of Willow. He chuckled and marked his place in his book before setting it down to go and meet The Great Oz.

As he entered the foyer, he found Xander and Buffy were already exchanging greetings with the newcomer, and Willow appeared to have been surgically fused to her boyfriend at the hand.

"Oh, Oz, this is Spike," she stated, bringing Oz's hand up with her own as she pointed.

Spike stepped forward and the two shook hands genially. It was strange to finally meet the man Red had gushed about every day for months. Oz was shorter than he'd imagined, only as tall as Willow, with red hair to match hers and a kind, handsome face. There was an aloofness about him, almost as though he was privy to something no one else knew, but would never dream of boasting about it.

"Can we help you with your bags, mate?" Spike offered.

"Oh, thanks but no, this is it," Oz replied, gesturing to the small duffel bag and guitar case at his feet. "I'm not exactly what you'd call high maintenance," he added with a shrug.

"So we don't have to carry your stuff up the stairs? Then I say yay for non-high maintenance Oz!" Xander said happily.

Willow gave him a look, her eyebrows raised.

"Guess not," Xander mumbled as he grabbed Oz's duffel and turned up the stairs.


***


A short while later, they were all in the kitchen chatting and sipping hot cocoa.

"So Oz, Willow said your band is playing at The Bronze this weekend," Buffy mentioned over her mug.

"Yeah, you guys should come. Always more fun to embarrass ourselves in front of friends," he replied.

"Hey, Spike plays guitar too, don't you?" Willow asked.

He shrugged. "Been known to dabble a bit, yeah."

"Well, hey, we're rehearsing tomorrow if you want to come jam. Maybe even play a song with us or something this weekend. You sing at all?" Oz inquired.

"Technically," Spike admitted quietly. He'd never played in front of people before, and the thought made his stomach tighten. "But I dunno. Wouldn't want to impose."

The room at large was suddenly a chorus of support, everyone encouraging him to join with the band for their own curiosity's sake. Buffy touched his arm lightly, speaking to him for the first time in days.

"Yeah, Spike, you totally should! You didn't tell me you played. I'd love to hear you. And Oz's band is a lot of fun."

He couldn't help the wide grin that stole across his face before he turned to Oz.

"Count me in."







A/N: Whew! My very first smut over and done with! Thank the lord. Hope it was up to expectations. Okay, now scroll down a little bit, and you'll see this box that says REVIEW. Now, be a good little reader and do as you're told. Lol! Reviews=encouragement=more writing=faster updates! Thanks a million!

Chapter Six




The Bronze was loud, stuffy and crowded. You couldn't move six inches in any direction without awkwardly bumping into someone or having a drink spilled on you. Just the way a club should be.

By the time Buffy, Xander, Willow and Spike arrived - Willow having spent a full two hours perfecting her "my boyfriend's in the band" ensemble - Oz's band Dingoes Ate My Baby was just about to start their first set. The group grabbed a table near the dance floor, directly in front of the stage for optimum Oz viewage.

"You nervous, Spike? Big performance and all tonight," Xander asked.

"What's to be nervous about?" He casually countered. *Other than the hordes of drunken critics, not to mention Buffy gawking at me while I make a fool of myself.* He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably as the band took the stage to raucous applause.

The four of them talked and laughed as Dingoes played loudly, except for the moments Willow would shush them to try and hear one of her boyfriend's solos. Xander even bought a round of drinks, which predictably turned into an amiable argument between he and Spike as to whether or not a 19 year old could legally drink in the U.S., since he was legal in his own country. It ended with a drinkless Spike muttering about "age-ists" as the band announced they were taking a break. A DJ started playing danceable music and Willow got up and adjusted her clothing.

"That'd be my cue to exit. Gotta go fight off the unseemly types from my oh-so-talented man," she stated with a grin.

"Think I'm going to follow her," Xander said with an even bigger grin. "Cute girls go where the band is. Xander goes where the cute girls are."

Spike gazed at Buffy as she chuckled at Xander's comment and they bade him farewell. "Well, pet, guess that leaves just you and me." He stood with a smile and offered his hand. "Dance with me?"

Buffy eyed him warily for a moment. "I don't know if I'm in the mood to embarrass myself at the moment."

He looked at her pointedly. "Nope. Sorry. No sympathy. I'm the one who has to dance and sing tonight. Right bloody Broadway revue. C'mon. Least you can do to ease my pain," Spike finished with a pleading look.

She sighed and took his hand, letting him lead her out to the floor. He expertly steered her through the crowd with his hand on the small of her back, and Buffy found it hard to resist melting into his strong touch already. They found a clearing in the mass of writhing bodies as the beat slowed and a familiar melody had her grinning and moving her body slowly. "I love this song!"

Spike rolled his eyes.

"What? 'Love Song' is one of the best-ever...love songs." She scowled.

"Yeah," he countered. The music was loud enough that he could move much closer to her under the pretense of easier conversation. "I liked it too, the first time, when a little band called The Cure sang it."

"Hello, California girl, here!" Buffy said, now close enough that she didn't have to raise her voice much at all. "Of course I prefer the 311 version. Much sexier."

He had to admit, she did have a point. Spike didn't know the last time a simple song and watching a woman dance had been such a turn-on. Placing his hands on her hips, he was more than a little relieved when she didn't pull away, but moved even nearer, her body now pressed lightly against his. Watching her move so rhythmically, the sweet smell of her gorgeous hair, the way her halter top and jeans hugged her curves perfectly, the sight of a smile tugging at her glossy lips as she closed her eyes and lost herself in the song; it was almost too much for him. And when her hands glided up his biceps and over his shoulders to clasp behind his neck, he couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to deserve this moment.

As the music overtook her slowly, Buffy was struck vaguely by the thought that her body seemed to fit so well next to his. For once, she didn't feel dwarfed or intimidated, but sensual and confident. His whole being exuded an all-encompassing sexuality that she was undeniably drawn to. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, she took a deep breath and just went with it. She exhaled slowly and made the choice to just enjoy the moment for what it was, to lose herself in the feel of his strong chest and torso pressed against hers, the smell of his cologne, and the way he slowly ran his hands up and down her sides as their bodies moved in sync. The song ended and she could hear a seemingly distant voice and applause from all sides.

"Thank you!" Oz yelled into the microphone over the noisy crowd. "We're back from our little break and ready to try something a little different for you all tonight. We're going to bring up a friend of mine to play our next song with us, so everybody give it up for our guest singer, Spike Blood." The inebriated crowd cheered once more.

"Guess that's me," Spike said softly, reluctantly pulling away from Buffy.

She shoved him gently in the direction of the stage. "Break a leg!" she shouted over the noise.

With a deep breath, he walked up on the stage to more applause, and several catcalls from women throughout the club. Spike shook hands with the bandmates and grabbed a guitar off the stand next to the drums and sat down in a folding chair in front of the microphone. He thanked the audience and Buffy could feel a collective sigh from the female occupants of the room at his accent.

Complaining under her breath about desperate groupies and making her way back to the table where Willow and Xander sat, a sweet, soulful note shot straight from Spike's throat to her spine. The band started in on a slow, sensual song that Buffy had never heard before, but could instantly tell would be a new favorite.


There's a soft, sweet space on the back of your neck
That smells like rain

Spike crooned in a simple, sexy voice.

There's a way you look at me, baby
Heals my pain
Now I've studied every inch of your body
Baby, what's on your mind?
The touch of your skin just pulls me in
Every single time
There's a silent conversation
Full of hidden revelations
In your eyes

She was sure he was looking her directly in the eye as the chorus picked up.

Baby I'm so into you
Every whisper from your soul to my heart
And Baby I know it's true
You're a sweet little mystery sent to me from the stars
And that's the beauty of who you are

There's a faith you're saving for a rainy day
I could use right now
There's a way you move my soul to sing
Only you know how
You are sensual salvation
You're the holiest temptation
Baby, I'm never, never, never going to be the same

Cat calls and obscene comments mingled with the general applause from all over the club now, and Spike visibly gained confidence.

Baby I'm so into you
Every whisper from your soul to my heart
And Baby I know it's true
You're a sweet little mystery sent to me from the stars
And that's the beauty of who you are

I can't explain it
Or begin to conceive
All I know is that you made me believe

Baby I'm so into you
Every whisper from your soul to my heart
And Baby I know it's true
You're a sweet little mystery sent to me from the stars
And that's the beauty of who you are

The last few notes of the song were drowned out completely by the overwhelming approval of the audience and Spike couldn't have been happier. He stood and shook hands with the band again and held up a hand in gratitude to the room and walked offstage grinning.

Buffy watched as women in various states of drunkenness and undress surrounded him. She sneered at the sluttiness that seemed to positively radiate from every chick in the joint, clapped politely, then reached over and took a huge swallow of Xander's Jack on the rocks. "Blech."

***

A long while and a few too many drinks later, Buffy spotted Spike making his way through the crowd back to their table. As he sat, Xander and Willow each handed out genuine, excited complements on his performance. He looked to Buffy, but she remained silent, taking another long swallow of her drink. "Blech," was all she said.

Spike scowled in disappointment, but brushed it off, trying to convince himself that it wasn't her approval that mattered above all others. Eventually the band finished for the night, leaving the music to the DJ, and Oz joined the group. They all relaxed and laughed for a bit, until Xander looked over his shoulder and suddenly began straightening his collar and primping frantically. Spike followed his line of vision and saw a very attractive brunette coming toward them purposefully. She stopped at their table, next to Xander's chair, who gazed at her like she was an angel while the woman made eye contact with Spike.

"Hello. I wish to congratulate you on your performance," she said brightly. "I believe it's safe to say you made every woman in here wish for the opportunity for you to give them orgasms. Well done." And with that, she turned around and left.

Spike tried to fake a smirk to cover both the flat-out confusion and the embarrassment he felt. "Right. Who was that?"

Xander muttered something unintelligible, and Willow filled in for him. "Anya Jenkins. Xander's had a thing for her since tenth grade, and she's even weirder now than she was then." She turned to her best friend, who seemed to be coming out of his stupor. "You do realize she's insane, don't you?"

Oz rubbed his girlfriend's arm. "Oh, come on. I don't know about insane. I think slightly mentally ill fits better in this situation."

"Hey, so maybe she's a little...unique," Xander countered. "Unique is sexy, right?"

Willow simply rolled her eyes, then focused on a point over Spike's shoulder. "Oh, Spike, it looks like another one of your fan club members is coming this way," she said with a smirk.

He turned in his chair to see a pretty blonde teenager standing right in front of him, wearing a very skimpy, very pink dress. She batted her big doe-eyes at him and smiled coyly. "Wanna dance?" she asked.

She was pretty, she was attainable, and she was more than willing, but this girl wasn't the one he wanted to dance with. "What's your name, pet?" he asked with a cocky smirk, while at the same time taking a peek at Buffy to see her reaction.

"Harmony," he heard the girl answered as he continued to study Buffy, who had her head tilted completely back, tapping the bottom of her glass to get the last piece of ice into her mouth. He took a deep breath and turned his attentions back to the girl in front of him. "You know, Harmony, I can't think of a thing I'd rather do than dance with you." Spike threw a wink over his shoulder in Xander's direction and let the girl lead him away.

Buffy glared across the room, as much as her blurred vision would allow her. *God, whore much? Who does she think she is, wearing that nasty little nothing of a dress and talking to my Spike.* she thought as she watched the two blondes share flirty touches and a very close dance. *No! Dammit! Spike. Not my Spike. Just Spike.* Sitting there, witnessing this disgusting display, her head started to spin and nothing seemed right at all. Something had to be done. She wouldn't stand for such skankiness. Almost of their own will, her feet carried her shakily across the dance floor to where Spike and the ho were pressed against each other. She tapped the groupie on her fake-baked arm to get her attention. "Excuse me, but what was your name, again?" she asked politely.

Spike and the blonde wrapped around him stared at her blankly, but after a moment, the girl answered back. "Um, my name's Harmony. Harmony Kendall."

Buffy looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then grinned and clapped her hands as though overjoyed. She turned her attention to Spike. "Oh, baby!" she cried, squeezing herself between him and Harmony. "That's absolutely perfect, isn't it?"

He continued to stare at her in confusion.

"Oh, don't play dumb. Those names, of course. Harmony and Kendall? Won't they just be the most adorable names for the twins when they're born?" she cried excitedly, rubbing her abdomen lovingly.

The girl called Harmony's eyed bugged out comically and she stomped away, leaving Spike with his mouth opening and closing like a fish, trying to get a handle on what in the hell had just happened. He grabbed Buffy by the wrist and practically dragged her from the dance floor, out a side door that led to an empty alleyway. "Bleedin' hell, woman!" he cried, once they were outside. "Have you gone completely daft? What was all that about?"

"Oh, come on, Spike," Buffy said with a giggle, leaning back against a cool wall to steady herself. "I did you a favor in there."

"Oh yeah, right, a favor...because God knows I didn't want a gorgeous girl hanging on my every word and every limb all night. Jesus, Buffy! What were you doing? What were you thinking?"

She visibly bristled. "What was I doing? Maybe trying to look out for you so you wouldn't have nasty little skank-whores following you around, embarrassing you and themselves!"

Spike scoffed and folded his arms in front of his chest.

Buffy continued, all the yelling and gesticulating not helping where the problem of balance was concerned. "And what was I thinking? God, Spike, what were you thinking, huh? At the very least you could get someone your own age!" She pressed herself closer into the wall as he suddenly moved a few steps nearer in frustration.

"My own age?" he cried, pointing to himself. "You silly chit, she's eighteen! She is my own age!"

What possessed her, she'd never know - whether it was her own severe intoxication, or the way his intoxicating cyan eyes turned stormy as his jaw clenched in anger - but before she even realized she'd moved, Buffy's lips were on his in a hungry kiss. This effectively silenced Spike, but after the briefest of moments, snatched her back to sobering reality. *Oh, God* she thought. *Spike lips...lips of Spike!*

She pulled away abruptly, leaving him with a puckered, shell-shocked look on his face and what she knew to be one of utter horror upon her own. They stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, each staring wide-eyed at the other.

Torn between more yelling, more kissing, or passing out, Buffy settled somewhere in between. She vomited all over Spike's vintage Doc Marten's.






A/N: See? Drinking always leads to badness. The song in this chapter is "So Into You" by Marc Broussard, who is someone I pretty much worship as a god. Check him out. I told you I'd use a lot of songs in my fic. Thanks again for all of your support so far, I had more reviews in the last chap than ever before, and I appreciate it so much. You have no idea how much they keep me going. Luvs!

Chapter Seven





The next thing Buffy knew, she found herself in her own bed, trying to drag her eyelids open. They seemed to have been welded shut. When she finally accomplished the task, she immediately cursed herself and the sun, slamming her eyes closed.

The hangover to end all hangovers was pounding relentlessly behind her eyeballs, her entire body pulsating with aches and nausea. Groaning and rolling onto her side, she noticed something squishy on her forehead. Buffy reached a hand up slowly to feel a strong, masculine hand pressing a cool, damp cloth to her hairline. "Xander?" she croaked, giving the hand of her caretaker a loving squeeze.

"Guess again, luv."

Buffy's eyes shot open to find a blurry Spike gazing at her from a chair beside her bed. A mix of intense pain and a flood of recollection from the previous night's events sent her flying under the covers. "Oh, God," she groaned.

"Not quite the thanks I was expecting, pet, but..." Spike said quietly. She could almost hear the smirk on his face.

She moaned again, slowly venturing out to peer at him from under the solace of her comforter. As the twin Spikes she was seeing slowly solidified into a singular person, Buffy took in the same -but more rumpled- blue collared shirt and brown leather jacket he'd had on the night before, and the dark circles under his eyes. "Did…did you stay up all night just to take care of me?" she asked softly.

"'Course not. I stayed up for the 'Passions' marathon on the soap channel," he replied, pointing to the muted TV on the opposite wall. "Bloody brilliant show." He gave her a half smile and winked, then removed the towel from her head, rinsing it off in the basin of water he'd set up on the night stand.

Buffy watched him silently for a moment, then threw her hands over her face. "Spike, I am so sorry," she mumbled through her fingers, shaking her head slowly in disbelief and guilt.

Spike gently lifted Buffy's hands from her face, holding them tenderly in one hand and replacing the damp cloth on her forehead with the other. He took one of her small hands in each of his and rubbed the backs gently with his thumbs. "No worries, Goldilocks. Like I said, had the telly to keep me company." He shrugged. "'Sides, I owed you one. You took care of me when I toasted myself all crispy-like."

She looked at their joined hands, then up to his tired, handsome face. "That's not really what I meant. I mean, yeah, thank you so much for being all with the caretaking, but I'm trying to apologize for last night." She sighed.

"It's not really me you should be apologizing to, now is it?" Spike smirked at the confused look on her face and continued. "It's my boots that may never recover."

Buffy huffed but had to crack a small smile at the jibe. "You know, saying 'I'm sorry' is hard enough without you being your usual smart-ass self."

"Well don't bother with saying it, then," he said simply. He saw her open her mouth to press the subject but cut her off. "Seriously, luv, no need for apologies. No one should be held responsible for their actions when they're that pissed."

"Oh, come on. I wasn't that angry. Was I?"

He laughed softly and gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "No, luv, where I come from, pissed means drunk. You Americans bugger everything up."

"Hey!" she started defensively, but suddenly got a very thoughtful look on her face, which slowly turned into one of comprehension.
Spike watched the emotions play across her face and tilted his head to the side. "What is it?"

She smiled up at him brightly. "Do you remember that awful old song by Chumbawumba? What was it called...Bathslapping...?"

"Tubthumping?" he offered.

Buffy nodded. "That's the one. Anyway, pissed...pissing the night away. That song suddenly seems a lot less gross."

He laughed genuinely at that. No one he'd ever met thought quite like Buffy. " You know, I actually owe you a thanks." He relished in her look of confusion a moment before continuing. "It's always good to know my prowess with kissing is still impressive enough to make women nauseated."

She blushed furiously. "Oy. I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not in this lifetime."

Her blush slowly softened into a grateful smile as he released her hands and leaned back into his chair. Only Spike could make light of something that mortifying. She closed her eyes once more. "I just don't know what got into me last night."

"'Bout a fifth of Jack, judging by the look of my Doc's..." he said with a yawn.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was wearing that adorably annoying, cocky grin. "Ugh, this is awful. I'm never drinking again. It always leads to badness. I think I actually turned inside out at one point. And how you put up with me, I'll never know. Really, thank you for looking after me. It was way sweet of you." After a moment, when she didn't receive any kind of sarcastic reply, she opened her eyes and saw a sleeping Spike slumped down in his chair, his head drooping a little to one side.

Buffy grabbed the throw at the foot of her bed and spread it gently over him, noticing just how gorgeous he looked with his hair all tousled and curly and his lips slightly parted. Lips that only a few hours earlier had been on her own. Lips that she knew, even through her drunken haze, had kissed her back. And short-lived as it was, the whole thing still had her reeling. And damned if those lips weren't just begging to be kissed again, and only a couple of feet away...*Crap! Stop being such a dirty old woman, Buffy!* she chided herself.

With a profound feeling of frustration and renewed nausea, she threw the covers back over her head, determined to completely block out the last twelve hours of her life.

Chapter 8





“Dear God, what is that thing?” Buffy exclaimed, revolted.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Spike questioned emphatically.

“The word ‘no’ springs to mind, but it feels so inadequate.” She couldn’t help but grimace as she stared at the “classic” car Spike had driven into the garage. He’d called it a “De Soto”. She thought it looked more like a Piece of Crap-o. She giggled at her own lame joke.

The monstrosity had a rust-colored hood, black body, two grey doors, more dents and dings than one could count, and four different tires and rims. Honestly, Buffy was impressed it had even made it to the farm from…where ever he had gotten it.

“Where’d you get it, anyway?” she wondered, as Spike ran gentle hands lovingly over the fender, as if it were a priceless piece of art.

“Clem knows a bloke who wanted to just haul this beauty off to a junkyard. Lucky I got to him in time. Can you imagine a piece of history like this, just being tossed along the wayside, forgotten?”

Buffy thought to herself that there were things in history that never should have happened. The Salem Witch Trials, Pepsi Max, K-Fed, and this car.

“Once I slap a new coat of paint on her,” he continued, “some new tires, a new radiator, she’ll be good as new.” He shrugged. “Oh, and new upholstery, all new wiring, a muffler, and change out all the brakes and belts.”

“Is that all?” she murmured quietly.

He glared, one eyebrow raised, lips pursed.

Buffy’s breath caught as she imagined nibbling that full lower lip. *Yummy.* She cleared her throat, attempting to look casual.

“When are you going to find time to fix it up? There’s so much to be done around here.”

Spike looked at their shabby surroundings, then tilted his head to look back at her. “Well we’d better get started then, hadn’t we pet?”


***

The days succeeding were long, hot, and tiring. The daily chores, like milking and moving pipe, went much more quickly now Spike and Xander had called off their pissing contest. So much so, in fact, that they were finished by lunchtime most days, leaving the entirety of the afternoon to projects around the farm that had been neglected for far too long.

The first task was a new fence for the pasture, which held the few horses and cattle. After two straight days of digging post holes, Spike cursed himself for ever having complained about moving pipe. That was cake work, comparatively. There were definite plusses, though. He had learned—the hard way—the benefits of proper clothing and sunscreen, and now wore one of Xander’s cowboy hats and a white T-shirt every day, which he only removed for Buffy’s “lemonade visits”. For the sole purpose of cooling off, of course. She seemed to make these trips quite as often as was reasonably justifiable. Add that to the now-healed sunburn, and Spike had the golden kind of tan a guy just can’t get in London. He didn’t mind one bit. Buffy didn’t seem to, either.

Time to work on the De Soto wasn’t as hard to come by as he had expected. Xander worked as a construction manager in town most evenings, to bring in some extra money, so Spike was often left to fend for himself with the two women of the household. Though at first he had no objection to this whatsoever, it soon became evident that his dreams—and daydreams—made interaction with certain of them too tense at times. He had to do something with his hands, and since a nineteen year-old male can only take so many showers a day without raising a few eyebrows, automovitve reconstruction proved to be the most productive. And prudent, for that matter.

So there he was, flat underneath the car again, ratcheting away and humming Blitzkrieg Bop to himself. He heard the garage door open and close and a pair of flip flops clapping against the cement floor.

“Whatchya doin’?” Buffy asked airily. He could hear she had gum in her mouth.

*Not thinking of shagging you, that’s for damn sure.* “Just checking the front end. What brings you out here, pet?”

“Seriously in need of a break from dishes. I swear, with two guys in the house, I’ve never seen so many dirty dishes in my life. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He poked his head out from under the De Soto and gave her a pitiful look. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.” He quickly disappeared again. Looking from the ground all the way up Buffy’s perfect legs to the hem of her tiny denim shorts cut off whatever witty retort he would have added, and suddenly it felt incredibly hot and cramped in the garage. *Thank the Lord for baggy coveralls*, he thought, else he’d have been even more uncomfortable. *Cars, cars, cars*, he repeated to himself over and over again, taking deep breaths to try and calm down. *Cars, cars, in the back seat of the car with Buffy’s lips on my-*

“Do you wanna come, Spike?” he heard Buffy ask.

He nearly choked on his own tongue. “What?” Spike practically yelled.

“Would you like to come into town with me? To run some errands? I’ve been talking for a minute straight, here, and you didn’t hear a word I said. Boys and their toys,” she finished with a sigh.

Clenching his jaw and breathing deeply through his nose, he calmed down a bit. Spike moved out from under the car, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

Buffy struggled to keep her mouth from dropping open like a fish as Spike stood up, his coveralls unzipped, the top half hanging about his waist, and gazed at his body barely hidden by a white tanktop, shining with sweat and marred by engine grease. *Ohhh salty goodness.* Catching herself, she shook her head slightly, avoiding his eyes. “Well, I’m going to head into town, if you want to come.” Looking him up and down slowly again, she finally made eye contact. “But if you’d rather stay home and take a shower or something…”

The way she was looking at him made Spike want to kiss her breathless right then and there. He swallowed. “Yeah, I think I’ll stay home and shower. Or something.” He said vaguely.

Buffy smiled awkwardly and walked out of the garage, her hips sashaying gently in her shorts.

*Sod it all!* Spike ran into the house as soon as she was out of sight, heading for the bathroom. Never mind the fact it would be his fourth shower today.










A/N: So there you are, kiddies, the continuation of this little story. And it only took three quarters of a year! If anyone's still with me, please leave a review and let me know!

Chapter Nine




Buffy couldn’t breathe. She gasped for air, but could not get enough oxygen to fill her lungs. Her head swam, her chest burned horribly, and she knew the human body could only hold out for a few minutes without air. But the immovable object resting on her chest had been smothering her for longer than that. Much Longer. Three hundred and sixty-five days, to be perfectly exact. An entire year without drawing a proper breath. She wondered vaguely if she could sell her body to science; she had to be some kind of medical marvel.

There were days when the weight was not so unbearable. Days when the tears came, falling thick and salty from her eyes, alleviating some of the terrible pain. Almost as though her body had found another way to exhale. She couldn’t count how many nights she’d cried while locked in her room, her face buried in her pillow so no one would hear. With the tears came sleep, bringing with it dreams of inhaling, which was close enough to the real thing, because he was there.

In the rain, his lips on hers, he was there.

The sheer mass of him was enough to crush her petite form, but somehow he resuscitated her as he kissed her gently, the rain dripping from his brown hair into her eyes and mixing with her tears. Always in this dream, as his kiss filled her empty damaged lungs, the skies would turn an angry purple and thunder would clap so close she could feel it reverberating in her bones. She would throw her arms around him, clinging to him desperately, refusing to let him go this time.

But inevitably, the hair on the back of her neck would stand on end as he pulled away to look at her sweet face and brush the hair from her forehead. A blinding flash of light, and suddenly he was gone. She would wake screaming, wasting the precious oxygen he had given her, lips tingling with his taste as she whispered his name on a final breath before suffocation set in again.

The days that held that for her—dreams and tears—were followed by days like today. No tears, no screaming. Simply the absolute quiet and indescribable emptiness that viciously pressed in upon her fragile body from all sides. She was distantly aware that the afternoon sun was shining brightly, but the atmosphere around her had grown stagnant and sickly, and everything felt too quiet. As though she had been trapped inside an impenetrable bubble for twelve months. She wished she could cry, or scream, or even vomit. Do anything to purge some small fraction of the aching in her torso.

Today, the one that held the same horrid date on the calendar, there would be no relief. She knew that, had been expecting it for some time, and had resigned herself to being holed up in her bedroom alone. It was the day he had done what every person she had ever truly loved had done: left. Riley was gone, and he had taken much of her with him, just as her father, her mother, and Riley’s own parents had done. Huge chunks of her had gone missing, leaving her riddled with holes and secure in the knowledge that loving someone, giving your heart to them, meant it would be torn to shreds when they went away.

Buffy tried very hard not to think of this same day, one year ago. Fervently, she attempted to block out images of a dangerous sky, torrents of rain, the sound of her feet sloshing through the puddles and the thunder swallowing her voice as she yelled his name. Panic set in as her mind pulled her, unwilling, through the ankle-deep mud toward the center of the corral, her nostrils stinging with the scent of burnt hair and flesh, praying with her whole soul that the only corpse it contained was that of the horse she could see near the gate.

Her chest constricted brutally, curling her into a ball on top of her mattress as her memory slowed painfully, each step taking eons, as she drew near enough to see over the animal’s hulking, crumpled body. Eyes finally resting upon him, his white t-shirt clinging to him in the downpour, she fixated upon the fact that his shoes were lying some twenty feet away, still tied.

Time stopped completely as she ran to him, feeling for a pulse, trying to remember her C.P.R. training, and attempting to force air into his lungs. She had given her very last breath, trying to make him stay. But she knew, could feel it down in her core, that he was gone; he’d slipped through her fingers. She planted a final kiss on his cold brow and laid her head on his unmoving chest for an immeasurable span of time, feeling that piece of her—the piece that belonged solely to Riley—wash away in the rain.

Bolting upright on her bed, clutching at her sternum as a now familiar shock of pain seared through her, Buffy was beyond desperate for relief. Frantically, her mind raced, trying to come up with a way to escape the boulder perched on her chest, if only for a moment. Sleep, and therefore beautiful dreams, would not come, she knew. Running to Xander, or even Willow, to cry on their shoulder was not an option. The pair had gone into town to visit the grave site and some old haunts in his memory- something she was positive was not within her capacity for pain. But even if they were there, they had seen too much of the wall she had built to hide some of her despair, her strong face. Today was not the time for facades. This was not Buffy with her “look-how-well-she’s-coping” front firmly in place. Today was nothing but raw fear and agony and loneliness.

Quite suddenly, but quietly, it dawned on her what she needed, and she found herself propelled forward, dreamlike, through the hallway and down the stairs. And every step told her that yes, a small piece of reprieve was coming. Her mind had looked back and latched on to the last time she’d almost been able to breathe.

Just a simple brush of fingertips and a split second of eye contact had allowed her chest to expand the tiniest bit. That was all she needed: a tiny bit, a hiccup, enough to get her through just a little longer. It didn’t make any sense, a part of her realized, to turn to someone she hardly knew, but she was being drawn all the same.

She found him standing near the sink in the kitchen, turning to look at her as she entered. She knew that her face was mask-like; numb and deadened by the pain. But her panic must have been written very clearly in her eyes, because the moment Spike’s disarming gaze met hers, he flew across the room, enveloping her in a fierce embrace.

Buffy gasped, gratefully breathing him in by the lungful, and clutched him savagely as racking sobs lurched through her. Tears and pain and glorious oxygen all flowing freely. The torment of a year without breath was over.







A/N: Do you think happiness heals whiplash? Let's find out, shall we?

Chapter Ten




Pain is a private thing, and young though he was, Spike had been through enough to know that. So he had insisted on doing all of the morning chores himself to give Xander a break and an opportunity to focus on his friends for the day. He remembered all too well what it was like to lose someone very close to you.

In turn, he spoke to his Mum quite a lot as he went about his work on the farm that day. He wasn’t sure whether or not he believed she could hear him, but it was a comfort to talk to her nonetheless, so he’d done it almost every day since she’d passed. Spike wondered, at times, if he wasn’t slightly mad, blabbing in his head to his dead mother all the time. He realized, though, that it didn’t much matter. It felt like she was there, so he went with it.

It took almost the entire day to do everything that needed doing, finally coming into the house for a much deserved drink. His efforts had allowed Willow and Xander to get out of the house for a while to visit Riley’s grave. Spike was exhausted, but glad to have helped his friends in some small way. Buffy, on the other hand, was a different story.

As he poured a glass of lemonade himself for the first time that summer, he was eager to get back out of the house and stay out of Buffy’s way. She’d shut herself in her room the night before and never reemerged. He understood that she probably needed plenty of space, today of all days; a little room to breathe. But more than that, he didn’t know if he could handle seeing her in so much pain and being completely powerless to help her or make it better.

So he was quite surprised when he heard her soft footsteps coming toward the kitchen and stop in the doorway. Preparing himself to see a tear-stained Buffy, her hair glinting deep gold in the afternoon sunlight, he took a deep breath and turned to look at her. He was not prepared for what he saw. Her face was pallid and completely blank. But her eyes, her panicked, beautiful green eyes told him, at once, everything he needed to know: she was falling apart and needed someone to hold her together. In an instant, he was crushing her to him, thanking the Lord he’d found a way to help.

Great, shuddering sobs ripped through her as she clung to him as though he were some kind of lifeline. Collapsing onto the hard kitchen floor together, Spike wrapped his arms and legs around her, molding as much of his body to hers as possible. They sat like that forever, he rocking her back and forth on the linoleum, making gentle shushing sounds and stroking her hair. His body began to ache from the awkward position, but it felt so absolutely necessary. She was going to pieces and he was determined to help her keep her shape.

When her wails had finally quieted to soft whimpers, and her breathing had slowed to the occasional hiccup, he lifted her exhausted form into his arms and carried her to the living room, depositing her gently on the sofa, placing a pillow beneath her head to make her more comfortable. Spike stood and turned to move toward the kitchen, but felt a death grip on his wrist trying to stop him. He looked back at her, saw the alarm written on her face, and knelt beside the couch. With his free hand, he brushed some hair from her damp cheek and cupped her face, looking into her wide eyes, which were made a much more brilliant hue from her weeping. Smiling softly, he assured her with a look that he wasn’t about to leave her. She nodded and released him as he stood again.

Spike quickly went to the kitchen, trying not to think too much as he fetched her a glass of cold water. The relief on Buffy’s face was overwhelming when he returned with her drink, settling himself beside her as she took the cup gratefully. She set the glass down on the coffee table and immediately curled back into him, resting her head on his chest as fat, slow tears rolled down her face. Encasing her in his arms again, he laid his cheek against the top of her head and inhaled deeply. He knew she hadn’t even showered today, but Spike couldn’t get enough of the sweet, warm scent that was solely Buffy’s.

Eventually, her breathing became slow and she no longer made the occasional shuddering gasp, signaling Spike that she was finally asleep. It wasn’t until then that he let himself come undone a little, show some weakness while she couldn’t see. Silent tears fell from his tired eyes and into her tangled hair as he wept from the emotional overload of seeing Buffy hurting so much.

Next thing he knew, it was dark in the house, all traces of the too-bright day gone, and Buffy was still huddled against him, sleeping soundly. He carried her up the stairs to her bed, pulling the covers over her and placing a feather-light kiss on her brow before she turned away from him in her sleep.

Sleep. It was exactly what Spike needed. Everything is easier to get into perspective after a good night’s sleep. But sleep evaded him. As he lay there on his tiny bed in the dark basement, his mind wouldn’t stop replaying and analyzing the day’s events, no matter how hard he tried to clear his head. He didn’t want to remember the sinking feeling in his chest when he had first seen her that afternoon. Nor did he want to think about how easily their bodies had fit together when he held her, or the heavenly smell of her hair. He kept seeing her gorgeous eyes, even greener than usual from crying, then thinking that as beautiful as that sight was, he never wanted to see it again. Spike would do anything to keep her from ever being sad again. And that was bad.

All the little things Spike couldn’t let go of, couldn’t stop thinking about, they all added up to one big thing he’d been trying not to admit for weeks, now: he was utterly and inexorably in love with Buffy Summers-Finn.

“Bugger.”






A/N: You know that reviews are my brand of heroin. Feed my addiction?

Draped in baggy overalls, with a handkerchief covering her hair, Buffy poured fresh paint into a pan and Willow dipped her long-handled roller into it. The pair had been refurbishing the chipped walls of the bedrooms all day. Having a friend to share the work had turned the mundane chore into a funny, memorable day. And there had only been one small paint fight.

Willow turned back to the wall she had been working on, and began to smooth on more of the sage green color. “Buffy,” she began with a note of hesitance, “can I ask you something?”

The blond dipped her own roller in the paint as her eyes narrowed warily. “Yes. What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been counting, and I was curious if you were aware of the number of times you’ve mentioned a certain British farmhand since we started painting this morning?”

Buffy could practically hear Willow’s cheeky grin. Turning to the redhead with a raised eyebrow, she placed one hand on her hip. “Your point being?” she challenged. Perhaps she had mentioned him in passing once or twice, but it wasn’t like she had been yammering about him all day.

“My point,” the other woman countered, not backing down under the pointed stare of her best friend, “is that you haven’t shut up about him all day. I’ve counted up to fourteen so far.”

Oh.

Willow continued her N-shaped stroked along the wall. “So, what’s up with you two?”

Not liking the direction this conversation was taking at all, Buffy tried the old standby: denial. “Up? Nothing’s up with us. I mean, not us, because there isn’t even an us to be up. Yeah,” she nodded to herself in confirmation, “no up or us to speak of.”

“Right,” Willow said condescendingly. “Which would explain why you two are constantly holed up in each other’s bedrooms, and every spare moment of the day you’re in the garage with him working on that old car, or he’s helping you around the house. And it’s not like I’ve caught you making googly moon-eyes at him when you think nobody’s watching. Yup, definitely nothing of interest there…”

Scowling intently at her roller, Buffy continued painting. “I do not make googly moon-eyes, thank you. Maybe you just happened to catch me in a moment of thoughtful reflection.”

“Yeah,” Willow snorted, “if you were thoughtfully reflecting on Spike’s butt.”

Buffy had to laugh at that. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?” She sighed in defeat.

The other woman shook her head. “Not unless you can look me straight in the eye and tell me you’re not the least bit interested in Spike Blood.”

Turning to her friend defiantly, the blond opened her mouth, then closed it again with an audible snap.

“Ha! I knew it! So, when are you going to make with the smoochies?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but couldn’t completely hide her blush. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wills. There won’t be any smoochies. It’s not like that. He’s nineteen, for one thing. And last I checked, cradle-robbing wasn’t exactly on my ‘list of wacky things to try’.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” Willow said with a dismissive gesture. “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number, baby.”

“He’s a teenager!”

“And? He’s older than you were when you got married, for crying out loud! So, why not? Spike’s funny and smart and really nice under all the bad-assity; not to mention he’s got the body of a Greek god. Plus, he’s totally crazy about you. So why can’t it be ‘like that’?” she demanded, using air quotes.

Setting her roller down in the pan, Buffy’s shoulders slumped, and a small, defeated sigh escaped her lips. “Because it can’t. I can’t.”

Willow saw the sadness in her friend’s eyes, comprehension dawning on her. She set down her own roller and crossed the room noisily, the plastic protective sheeting rustling under her feet, and rested her hand gently on Buffy’s arm. “Buffy, look at me.” She waited for Buffy to comply before she continued. “The three people in the world who knew Riley Finn best live under this roof, myself being one of them. In all the time I had with him, there was one thing about him I was more sure of than anything else: he loved you. And when you love someone, you want more than anything for them to be happy, right?”

Buffy nodded, blinking hard to clear misty eyes.

“Now, since he’s been gone,” the redhead continued, “there hasn’t exactly been a whole lot of singing and dancing for joy around here. Especially not from you. But whenever Spike is near you, every time I catch the two of you talking or working together, you’re different. Happier. Even Xander’s noticed it,” she said pointedly.

Recognizing the gravity of that last statement, Buffy’s eyebrows raised.

Giving her friend’s arm a gentle squeeze, Willow pressed on. “Riley, Xander, myself—we all love you. You know that, right?” There was a nod in the affirmative. “Which means we want you to be happy. Now the question is, do you want to be happy?”

One of the tears Buffy had been struggling to keep at bay escaped and slid quickly down her cheek. She swiped at it and drew a deep, steadying breath. “I care about Spike. A lot more than I thought I would, or maybe even could. And you’re right; there’s something about him that makes me feel so…light. But how could I ever act on it? What, I’m supposed to just turn my back on Riley? Forget the man I married? What kind of person would I be if I did something like that?”

Willow bit her lip and stared at the floor for a moment. “Buffy, did you love your mom?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Of course.”

“So, when you married Riley, did you stop loving her?”

“No,” Buffy asserted. “That’s ridiculous.”

“And Xander and me,” Willow continued, “When you met us did you stop loving Riley?”

“Wills, no, but—“

“But what, Buffy? Letting one person into your heart doesn’t push another person out of it. Having a relationship with Spike won’t in any way detract from what you had with your husband. If the situation were reversed, would you want Riley going around miserable and lonely for the rest of his life?”

The look in her green eyes was answer enough.

“I didn’t think so. It’s up to you, now. You’re the one who has to choose how you live and what you can’t live without.” Willow wrapped her arms around the tiny woman, hugging her tightly. “Don’t be afraid to live your life, to get what you want. To be happy,” she said, her words almost a whisper.

They parted after a moment, smiling watery smiles at each other.

“Now,” Willow said in a cheery voice, lightening the mood, “enough about you. Let’s talk about my boyfriend and his rock band.”

He always closed his eyes when he played, as though he was trying to see the music. Buffy thought it would make a lot more sense to open his eyes and try to see his fingers on the strings, but he seemed to be doing just fine sightless.

The song was one she didn’t recognize, and it seemed an odd one to sing. Something about murdering a lady with a hammer, set to a jaunty tune. She made a face and shrugged to herself. *To each his own,* she thought.

She stood in the hallway with her head peeking into the living room as the house began to settle for the night, watching him. The muscles of his shoulders shifted beneath his shirt as his hand moved up and down the neck of the guitar. Perhaps she should have felt a little ashamed, spying on him like this. But she reminded herself that it was her couch, thank you very much, and it wasn’t exactly the most private spot in the house. What was more, Buffy really enjoyed having a moment to observe him from this vantage point.

In the month since ‘that day’—what was she to call it? Riley’s Death Day? Like it was a holiday of some sort?—when she had come to Spike for comfort, things had definitely changed. At first, she had tried to blame it on him, convincing herself he was too immature to handle dealing with the aftermath of her making with the water works, and was therefore behaving strangely. But even Buffy’s powers of rationalization could only hold that one for a couple of days.

He never mentioned ‘that day’ directly, but the way he looked at her every morning when he asked, “How are you today, pet?” communicated so much more than pleasant cordiality. And when he would briefly touch her elbow or the small of her back in passing, she couldn’t deny the warmth that would linger in that spot, or the soft comfort that settled through her.

No, she had to admit, Spike had not changed. He was still his charming, kind, smart-assed, cocky old self. It was she, Buffy, who had been affected so deeply by that afternoon. She had let him see her completely stripped, naked and vulnerable, without any walls to hide behind. And now, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t quite seem to cover herself back up when he was around. Terrifying as it was, there was a part of her that liked it, a part that was grateful to be exposed.

Since she had realized she hadn’t wigged him out permanently, they had talked every day. Not just polite chat, but long, substantial conversations, often lasting late into the night. They had discussed everything from embarrassing high school stories and politics, to music and books, to hopes and fears for the future. There was flirtation and chemistry between them. So much so, that at times she was sure if they touched fingertips, sparks of electricity would fly between them. She wasn’t blind—or stupid, for that matter. Buffy knew Spike’s feelings for her were more than simple friendship; which only made things that much more complicated.

Thus, she was grateful for this opportunity to be around him, but not with him, listening to his strange little song. He struck a final chord and she took a purposely noisy step into the room. He was startled, and she smiled at the surprised look on his face as she moved toward him.

“How long you been standing there, luv?” he questioned, returning her smile.

“Long enough to know you have seriously morbid taste in music. What the heck was that song, anyway?”

Spike feigned a look of shock. “How dare you insult one of the greatest bands of all time! Why, that song’s an unsung classic.”

Buffy stared at him in confusion. “Um…let me guess. The Sex Pistols?”

He laughed. “No, but good to see you’ve been paying attention. That was a song called ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ by The Beatles.”

“Really? Huh. Their other stuff seems so normal.”

“You’ve obviously never seen ‘Yellow Submarine’. It’s like an acid trip without the crash.”

She shrugged. “Well, Beatles or not, that song is creepy. Hi, morbid, much?”

He bowed his head to her over the guitar in a grand gesture. “I apologize for offending your delicate sensibilities,” Spike said solemnly.

“Huh?”

Rolling his eyes, he sighed in defeat. “Um…my bad?” he attempted.

“You talk funny,” Buffy stated with an accusing look.

“It’s called English, luv. You should try it some time,” he retorted with a smirk.

“Hey,” she countered, “my English is just fine. Just because I don’t go all proper and accent-y doesn’t mean I can’t speak.”

Spike just lifted an ironic brow. “Not even going to touch that one.”

She squinted menacingly at him and poked him in the chest with a petite finger. “You’d better be nice to me, you know. Or else.”

“Or else what?” he snorted, looking her up and down. “You’ll flay me in your adorable little outfit?”

Buffy playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Watch it, bub. I could lay the smack down on you, yummy sushi pajamas or no.”

“No pajamas, eh? You could lay whatever you like on me like that,” he said with a lecherous grin, grazing his tongue across his teeth.

Raising her face to the ceiling in an attempt to hide her blush, she made an exasperated sound. A sudden thought occurred to her and she looked at him inquisitively. “You’re not wearing pajamas.”

He looked down pointedly at his faded jeans and worn, form-fitting white T-shirt. “Clever observation, Sherlock. Any more big revelations you’d like to announce?”

“No, I mean, here it is bed time and I just realized I’ve never seen you in your pajamas before. Are you embarrassed to be seen in them or something? What, do they have Spiderman on them?”

“Not exactly,” he said slyly. “But yeah, there’s a reason you’ve never seen me dressed for bed. I don’t exactly like to make a habit of runnin’ round the house starkers.”

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What does star—oh,” she finished quietly as she caught on.

A cheeky grin spread across his face. “We wouldn’t want the whelp feeling bad ‘bout himself, now would we? And it’d be unfair to you and Red. You’d be spoiled on any other men.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m so glad to see there’s no fear of you ever having self-esteem issues.”

“What, with all this?” he said airily, gesturing to himself. “Not a chance.”

“Sometimes I wish you’d just stop talking.”

“Well, there’s one thing I can think of that’ll shut me up, Goldilocks,” he rumbled with an indecent look.

Ignoring the thrill his words sent through her, she fixed him with a sultry stare and gave a throaty laugh. “I think our minds are on the same track, Spike.”

“Yeah?” he practically squeaked, then cleared his throat.

She leaned toward him, then abruptly grabbed the pillow behind him on the couch and plopped it into her lap. “Play for me,” she said innocently as she sat back. “I know you’re incapable of passing up an opportunity to show off.”

He chuckled. “Right you are,” he agreed as he shifted around to a better position for playing, surreptitiously moving closer to Buffy in the process. “What’ll it be, then? Your wish is my command. So long as I know the song and it isn't tripe, that is.”

Buffy pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not another creepy song about bashing peoples’ heads in,” she offered, snuggling the pillow as she made herself comfortable.

“Oi! No more insulting The Beatles,” he scolded. “I suppose I’ll have to redeem them now, eh? Something a little less violent?”

She pouted at him. “Less talky, more strummy.”

“All right, hold on to your hat,” Spike said and squeezed her knee gently.

As he began to pick out an introduction, she looked down at the spot he had touched, reveling in the tingling that radiated throughout her entire leg. Buffy wondered—not for the first time—just what it was about him that made her feel this way. The sound of his voice and guitar laid a soundtrack to her musings as he began to sing.



There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain



The tune was sweet and beautiful. She knew it wasn’t just his stunning face and mesmerizing body that made her heart pound and her head feel fuzzy every time he was around. He was more than easy on the eyes, but she had seen attractive men before and had never felt as though she were slightly tipsy. Spike was different.



All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all



He was far from perfect, she knew. He was lazy, which annoyed her; and stubborn, which could aggravate her to no end. And when he got stressed, he smoked, which simply made her sick to her stomach. But much to her surprise, she found she really did appreciate the fact that he never let her get away with things. He always called her out. Still, despite his sarcasm, he viewed the world with such passion and hunger, she couldn’t help but admire him. Everything he did, every emotion he felt, he dove into head-first. Was that called bravery, or stupidity?



But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new



His voracious appetite for life made him the kind of person that was hard to ignore and impossible to forget. Buffy felt trapped in an old cliché: drawn to him like a moth to a flame. But for all his intensity, he wasn’t the type to burn bright then die out quickly. Spike knew when and how to simply be content with his surroundings. He was just a good person, and being with him made her happy.



Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love your more



She watched his long, calloused hands move gracefully for a long moment, and moved toward him a bit to study their movements more closely. Her eyes trailed up the powerful tendons of his hands and wrists to the tanned expanse of his sinewy arms, until they met his broad shoulders, which stretched the well-worn shirt slightly. Buffy’s fingers itched to travel where her eyes had. He always closed his eyes when he played. But now, as the song came to its final verse, she found his captivating gaze holding her own, and she realized he wasn’t singing for her, he was singing to her. Thoughts ceased as she gave herself over to the moment.



Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more



Spike plucked out the last few notes, never breaking eye contact. He rested his palm against the strings and smiled faintly, the only sound in the room being the crickets chirping their lullaby outside. A pleasant evening breeze drifted through the open window and blew a few strands of hair across Buffy’s cheek. Before she could brush them away, his hand was there, tucking them behind her ear, letting his hand linger gently on the side of her face.

There is a look that every boy gives just before he kisses a girl. His eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back again, and there is a certain softening of his features. No matter how many times a girl sees that look, it will invariably make her feel thirteen years old again. Buffy knew the look well; Spike was doing it now. She leaned closer to him, even as butterflies erupted in her stomach.

Everything seemed to slow, giving her time to take in his scent, the cool, hard wood of the guitar between them, and the warmth of his breath on her lips as their faces almost touched. She thought there could not have been a more perfect moment for two people to kiss.

“Goodnight, Xander!”

Buffy and Spike both jumped slightly, pulling apart as Willow’s hollering startled them both.

“Goodnight, Willow!” Xander yelled in reply.

Spike could have joyfully killed Willow in that instant. She couldn’t have started the bedtime ritual thirty seconds later? “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, knowing the moment was gone. The redhead upstairs wished them both a loud goodnight, and they answered back in kind.

Buffy smiled at him rather shyly and failed miserably in her attempt not to blush. “So when do we work on the DeSoto again?” she asked, pretending nothing had happened, but not quite meeting his eye.

“Tomorrow evening, maybe?” he replied. “Promised Clem I’d teach him how to play good ol’ Texas Hold ‘Em. But after that, hopefully, if there’s time.”

“Weaning him off kittens, huh? That’s…helpful of you.” She got up from her seat on the couch, stretching dramatically. “I’m beat. See you in the morning,” she said as she made to leave the room.

Spike reached out and grabbed her hand lightly, and she turned back to him. He had been so bleeding close tonight, there was no way he wasn’t kissing something. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, savoring the feel of her skin for a moment. He met her eyes, finding an indiscernible look in them. “Goodnight, Buffy.”

She gave him a half smile and left the room, heading upstairs for her bed. The moment had been lost, and while a part of her was slightly relieved, most of what she felt was disappointment. She’d been aching to kiss Spike—without the influence of alcohol—for some time and suddenly felt a pang of loss. Willow's voice echoed in her head, then, as she recalled their conversation from the previous afternoon. “Don’t be afraid to live your life, to get what you want; to be happy,” she had said.

Abruptly, Buffy stopped, halfway up the stair-case. Making up her mind, she took a deep breath and turned around, nearly stumbling in her haste to get back to the living room. He was standing with his back to her, gently returning his guitar to its case.

“Spike,” she said breathlessly, as she strode quickly to him. He turned to look at her quizzically, and before she could lose her nerve, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head to meet his lips with her own.

Quickly recovering from his momentary shock, he responded in earnest, one arm settling around her waist as the other hand stroked her neck. His lips were enticingly warm and soft against her own and she tasted even better than she remembered. There was no aftertaste of whiskey this time, but somehow she still felt slightly intoxicated.

*Pretty much perfect,* she thought absently.

Before she could let herself get too carried away, she pulled back, opening her eyes slowly to meet his. He grinned so widely at her, she thought his face was in danger of breaking. But it was contagious, and she returned the smile, even as she stepped reluctantly out of his arms. “Goodnight, Spike,” she said quietly, then left the room.

The moment Buffy stepped into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, she leapt onto her bed face first and squealed into her pillows like a teenager.




A/N: Like it? Hate it? Want me to shut up? Tell me.

Chapter Twelve




“Mmm…” Spike hummed as he sucked gently on the tip of Buffy’s tongue. He kissed his way across her jaw line to suckle a spot just below her ear that he knew she liked, whispering, “You taste like sunshine.” And she did.

They had been out in the fields all day, bringing in the last of the hay. She tasted of sun and salt and dust and something warm and distinctly her own. He savored the intoxicating mixture, brushing his lips down the column of her neck to her collarbone.

“And you taste like cigarettes. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: yuck.” She made a breathy little noise and stroked the back of his neck, which turned him on immensely. “You’re good at that,” she sighed as he tongued the hollow at the base of her throat.

He grinned against her and murmured, “I’ve had practice.”

Buffy made an inquisitive noise and asked, “Oh, yeah? How much?”

Snorting, he continued his attentions, sucking on her pulse point. She crooked a finger und his chin and made him look up at her, intense curiosity suddenly written across her face.

“No, really, Spike, how much practice are we talking, here? How many girls have you done this with?”

“Enough,” he mumbled.

“Just tell me.”

He looked at her as though she were crazy. “Does it really matter that much to you?”

“No. At this point, I’m just bent on getting my way,” she replied brightly.

“Funny; so am I, pet.” Spike leaned in hungrily to capture her lips.

She pulled back, though, leaving him frowning, but with his lips still puckered, making her laugh. Looking him in the eye, she squeezed his face between her hands, making him look rather like a frustrated fish. “Just tell me,” she repeated.

“Seventeen,” he mumbled through his unnaturally pursed lips.

Buffy blinked at him once. It didn’t register right away, but when comprehension dawned on her, she shoved him away and nearly yelled, “Seventeen?”

“Well, yeah. Why? I thought you said it didn’t matter,” he said, rubbing his chest where she’d shoved him. “How many is it for you?”

“What, me?” she asked needlessly. “Two.”

Spike was nonplussed. Two? She had only ever snogged two blokes? He couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t believe it,” he said stupidly.

“Well, too bad, ‘cause it’s true. Seventeen? Really?” She seemed to have gotten herself under a little more control.

“Cross my heart, pet. Not something I’d forget.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she mumbled, half under her breath. “Pushing yourself on poor, innocent girls…”

“Oi! I’ve never in my life done anything that wasn’t completely consentual! What do you take me for, anyway, a bleeding—“

Upon meeting her eye, he stopped. She was teasing him.

“Nosy li’l chit,” he growled, yanking on one of her braided pigtails.

“Manwhore,” she retorted, swatting his hand away.

“Shut your gob.”

“Make me.”

He did.

After a frenzied chase around the porch, consisting of more tickling and kissing than actual running, they collapsed heavily onto the porch swing. Buffy laid her head in his lap, slipping a hand under the hem of his shirt, tickling the skin of his abdomen lightly, but quickly dozed off. He couldn’t blame her. Work around the farm was only getting more exhausting as the summer neared its close. He couldn’t remember ever being so consistently tired as the time he had spent here.

Spike was used to humidity, but the cool, grey mists of London were a world apart from the heavy, muggy August nights in Iowa. The air was dense and still, and things seemed to move more slowly through it, like figures through water. He pulled a deep breath in through his nose, savoring the thick scents of the grass and hay, the musk of the animals, and the sweet scent of Buffy.

The climate wasn’t the only thing that had changed for him. He let his mind wander again to how different this summer had turned out to be from what he had expected. In May, summer had seemed nothing more than a few months with which to find a job to finance a bit of travel; a means to an end. And yet, here he stood—or sat, rather—only a short while from school starting back up, and wondering how on earth he could bring himself to go back, to leave this place. Or more importantly, to leave Buffy.

Spike had never really had a family, save his ailing mother, and with her loss, he felt as though he had been set adrift, lost his anchor in a rather stormy sea. But with Buffy, he had found shelter, a place where he felt he belonged and, he hoped, a place that belonged to him. She had become a part of him; wrapped herself so tightly around him, heart and soul, that the line distinguishing them as separate entities had begun to blur and bleed. By now, he was quite sure that, were they to be separated, huge parts of him would go missing, attached to her inexorably.

He had expressed this notion a few nights previous, though in not so many words. (What he actually had said was, “It’ll be a pain in the arse to go back to school without you.”) She had replied by stating airily that she was sure he would survive, somehow. But even having buffered his sentiments as he had, something moved behind her eyes when she had looked at him. A wall raising, he thought.

And so it went every time with Buffy. Whenever their conversation became too emotional, or their touching too personal, she would pull back. A blockade would suddenly stand between them, and he would know to go no further for the time being.

He understood, of course. The wounds of loss and loneliness, that drifting feeling, were still very fresh for her.To push himself on her, take advantage of her in any way, was something he must absolutely avoid. He cared for her enough that, unbearable as the need to have her and give himself to her sometimes seemed, he would wait. He loved her. He could wait.

Contemplating how much he wanted her was a stupid thing to do, as it made his longing that much more urgent. He had to touch her. For the moment, he contented himself with gently unplaiting her hair and running his fingers through it, delighting in the soft, sensual slip of it over his hands. He wished he could wake her, whether to finish what they had started earlier, or simply to be in her company, but he knew first-hand how burnt out she was.

In the mad scramble to complete the myriad tasks that lay before them in preparation for fall, Xander, Willow, Spike, Buffy, and even Clem had worn themselves ragged. And surveying the area around him, Spike felt more of a sense of pride and contentment at what they had accomplished than he ever had before.

1630 Revello drive was practically a different place than when he had first arrived. Gone were the overgrown yard and peeling white paint of the neglected house. They had laid new sod and painted inside and out, built a new fence, put the barn and chicken coop in much better repair, and generally made the place a regular Sunnybrook.

“The best prize that life offers is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.” Spike had read Teddy Roosevelt’s words in his U.S. History 104 class, and was now grateful for it, recognizing the truth in it. The changes that he had seen in himself in just a few short months were surprising, to say the least. There was just something about hard physical labor that grounded him, connected him to the earth and crops and sky all at once, as well as to himself.

Initially, he had refused Willow’s offer to even come, thinking a summer couped up on a farm would be a waste of precious time he had meant to spend experiencing the States. Now, he couldn’t imagine any other scenario in which, in one summer, he could ever learn so much about himself, the world, life. So it was work worth doing. For Spike, for Buffy, and for him. For Riley.

Spike would never meet Riley Finn. Knew of him only through pictures and the fond reminiscing of those who loved him. But while there was a part of him that was vaguely jealous of the man—jealous of the part of Buffy that belonged solely to his memory—he felt an odd sort of kinship with him, a sense of indebted gratitude at sharing what had been Riley’s.

*Thanks, mate* he thought, as he continued to thread his calloused fingers through Buffy’s hair. *I’ll take care of ‘em for you.* Spike smiled to himself. He talked to his mum all the time. Why discriminate between deceased persons?

“What are you thinking about?” Buffy’s voice suddenly broke through his thoughts, startling him a bit. He hadn’t realized she was awake.

“What makes you think I was thinking? Not much going on in a young adult male brain, after all,” he said.

She stretched and turned her body so she could see him better, keeping her head in his lap. “While ordinarily I’d agree with you, fact is, you were playing with my hair. You always have to do something with your hands while you’re thinking.”

It warmed him inside a bit to know she had noticed such a thing, but he merely shrugged. “Sorry to have woken you, luv.”

Buffy sighed, her eyes fluttering in sleepiness, and curled into him a little more, despite the damp heat of the night. “No worries. Usually when you think, you smoke, and I’d much rather you pet me than do that.”

He grinned, watching her fall back into a deep sleep more quickly than he had thought possible. The thought caused a sudden wave of exhaustion to roll over him. Scooping her up as gently as he could—Lord, he could swear she weighed more when she slept—and, not having the energy to heft her all the way upstairs to her bed, laid her on the couch in the living room, which wasn’t much cooler than the porch, but was at least indoors.

He slipped off her shoes, stepped out of his own sandals and removed his shirt, and spooned himself tightly against her. She curled her arm back behind his head, molding herself to him unconsciously. Spike laid a kiss against her ear and, laying an arm over her slim waist, fellt promptly asleep. He dreamt of shimmering golden things—soft hair and wheatfields.

Buffy was dreaming again, she knew. You can’t actually kiss your dead husband in real life. But she hadn’t had this dream in weeks. And something about it was different.

The rain was still coming down, but the clouds weren’t quite as black as she remembered. It was so nice to be in Riley’s arms again, but even that felt different. Like always, he made to pull away from her again; but this time he didn’t disappear, and Buffy didn’t wake up screaming.

She tilted her head back to look up at his face. He was smiling softly down at her. “You’re not leaving?” she asked.

“I’m already gone. I can’t leave you again,” he replied gently. Riley tucked a lock of wet hair back behind her ear. “I have something for you.”

Buffy looked down to where he was holding a pink cardboard box in his hands. Opening the lid, she found a cake that looked as though someone had used it as a soccer ball. The icing was smeared everywhere, most of it had been squashed rather badly, and there were even several chunks that seemed to be missing entirely.

Looking back to her husband’s face, Buffy smiled sarcastically. “Some present.”

Riley took a bite of a large piece of cake he held in his hand. It seemed to match the outline of one of the missing corners. He shrugged. “Nothing’s perfect. But it’s still a cake.” Popping the last bit of his piece into his mouth, he licked the crumbs from his fingers and grinned. “Still tastes good.”

He leaned down to kiss her gently, and she could taste icing on his lips. It was sweet. “Happy birthday, Buffy.”

Buffy woke suddenly, staring around her room. “What the hell?” she whispered to herself. She was getting very tired of dreams.

Adjusting to find a more comfortable position, she closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But her mind and senses seemed to be on overdrive. The strange vision kept replaying itself in her head, try as she might to clear her mind. Her mouth was dry, the sheets at once too stiff and too clingy in the still, hot air; and it seemed as though every cricket in the state of Iowa was gathered outside her window, they were making such a racket. Groaning, Buffy gave it up as a lost cause and grudgingly rolled out of bed.

The wooden floorboards were mercifully cool beneath her sweaty feet as she tiptoed her way down the stairs toward the kitchen, intent on a tall glass of ice water to soothe her. Dreaming of Riley had unnerved her. Why had she dreamt of him now, and like that? He hadn’t visited her at night for some time. Since she had first kissed Spike, to be exact. And what was with the cake?

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts she didn’t even notice the light from the television in the living room as she passed, the odd floorboard groaning under her step. The moon was shining so brightly through the window over the sink, she didn’t bother to turn on the light as she entered. Padding over to the cupboard and grabbing a glass, Buffy took a moment to stare at the brilliant, silvery orb. It would be a full moon tomorrow, and there was so much light it cast shadows on the farm. Moonshadows.

Smiling to herself, she started humming the old Cat Stevens song and walked to the refrigerator, nearly collapsing in relief as she opened the freezer door and let the glorious frigid air wash over her face. She basked in it for a long moment, lifting the sweat-dampened hair from off her neck until goosebumps arose on her arms. Finally reaching for the ice and dropping a few cubes into the glass, she kept one cube to run along her overheated neck and brow, her quiet humming the only sound in the still house. Buffy closed her eyes at the heavenly sensation as it started to melt and a few stray droplets trickled down to her collarbone. The words of the chorus began to tumble softly from her lips:

And if I ever lose my hands, lose my plough, lose my lands
And if I ever lose my hands, oh if…

Just at that moment, a pair of hands slipped round her waist from behind and a deep, hushed voice finished the line of the song:

I won’t have to work no more.

Buffy nearly jumped out of her skin. Whirling around, she dropped her glass and could barely hear it shatter over the sound of her heart hammering her ribs. She looked up into a smiling face, and placed her hand over her chest, trying to take a deep breath. “Dear Lord. Spike Blood, you nearly scared me to death,” she hissed.

He looked at the glass shards scattered on the floor and frowned. “Yeah, noticed. Sorry ‘bout that. But honestly, you can’t blame a bloke. I mean, you’re just so delicious…” he broke off, and caught a stray water droplet on the column of her neck with his tongue.

Already on edge from her strange night, Buffy took a step back from his invading proximity, and immediately regretted it. “Dammit!” she yelled, feeling searing pain shoot up the back of her leg.

“Shhh,” Spike said out of reflex. “Glass?”

She nodded, grimacing. Almost effortlessly, Spike scooped her up and carried her to one of the bar stools, sitting down in the next and propping her foot into his lap. The light of the moon was such he could just see the tiny shard glinting in her heel.

“Spike, don’t touch it, it’ll hurt,” she whined, flinching away from him.

“You’re a right baby, you know that? Now just hold still like a good girl and I’ll take care of you. Won’t hurt a bit.”

Buffy watched, rigid and skeptical at first, but became gradually entranced as he massaged her ankle slowly, then lifted her foot a bit higher. Leaning down to place his mouth on her sole, he rubbed his thumb firmly over the arch of her foot as she felt his teeth scrape gently on her skin.

He sat up again, and removed the piece of glass from between his teeth, handing it to her. It didn’t even sting. Bringing her foot up to his mouth, he placed a soft, warm kiss upon the arch, smirking at her from beneath thick, dark lashes.

Without realizing it, Buffy had been holding her breath, and gasped a little as she inhaled. Somehow, that was one of the sexiest things she had ever seen. She let her leg drop from Spike’s lap and leaned toward him, pulled in by his intense gaze.

“How do you do that?” she whispered, her face very close to his.

“What’s that, pet?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly.

“Make it not hurt so much,” was her reply as her lips met his hungrily.

Spike stood to get closer to her, tongues and lips and teeth mashing together with an intensity he rarely got to see from his girl. When her warm hands snuck up under the hem of his T-shirt and she pulled it off him, he was more than willing to seize the opportunity. Hauling her up onto the island countertop, he situated himself between her legs and hitched one up around his hip, needing as much contact as possible. He relished the feel of her warm, smooth skin as he ran one hand up and down her thigh, the other sneaking under her tank top to span across her sweat-slick back. Their bodies were taking over and he had no intention of regaining control any time soon.

“Mph…Spike,” Buffy mumbled against his mouth. “Spike, stop,” she insisted, pulling away.

It took him a moment to register they were no longer kissing, and when he opened his eyes, he pouted at her. “Huh? Wussat?”

She laughed, and removed her thigh from around his hip. Holding his face in her hands, she kissed him chastely. “I’m bleeding.”

“Oh, bugger me,” he said, sobering up and looking down at her foot. There was indeed a tiny trickle of blood running down her sole and dripping off the end of her second toe. He grabbed a Band-Aid from the junk drawer by the refrigerator, then unrolled several paper towels and made his way back around the island.

“Jeez, way to make me bleed all over the place,” she teased as he handed her the bandage and paper towels.

“Pah!” he exclaimed, head thrown back, and retrieved the broom and dustpan from the pantry. “Not my bloody fault you attacked me.” He bent down to sweep up the remains of Buffy’s glass.

She watched intently as he worked to push the sparkling shards into the dustpan, the exposed muscles of his back moving fluidly. He stood, emptied it into the garbage and returned his tools to the pantry. Turning toward her again, the heat in her gaze was scalding as she slowly looked him over.

“Well, can you blame me?” she asked in a husky tone. Suddenly turning her attention to her injured foot, she hauled it across her other knee and busied herself with cleaning and dressing it, seemingly impervious to the look she could feel Spike giving her. She pretended to ignore him as he came within just inches of her, leaned down and just barely let his lips brush against her neck. His breath lingered there and made her skin tingle.

Finished with the bandage—her hands shaking only slightly—she let her leg drop, positioning it so she was again straddling Spike’s lean hips. He moved closer still, so that they were almost pressed together again, and curled his hands into fists, pushing them knuckles down into the counter on either side of her. Their eyes met and his jaw clenched, she leaned back with her hands behind her, presenting herself to him, and his nostrils flared.

He kissed her throat again, letting his tongue taste her, then her collarbone, then to her slight cleavage, just at the top of her camisole. His hands moved to the bottom hem, pushing it up to uncover her firm stomach, as he bent down to lavish attention around her navel as well. She wasn’t sure exactly how far he was taking this, but right at that moment, she was in no mood to stop him. When she let her head drop back and her eyes close, she felt him smile against her overheated skin.

Then quite suddenly, he was gone. Buffy sat up and looked down between her legs, where she found Spike industriously wiping up the tiny puddle of blood her wound had created. She scowled at the top of his platinum head. “You’re a rude, terrible person, you know that?”

“You’re just now figuring that out, Goldilocks? Maybe you are as daft as you look.” He smirked up at her. “Lot of blood for such a tiny little cut. Look at the mess you made,” he scolded.

“I’m the bleedinest.”

Spike snorted and stood, tossing the soiled paper towel onto the counter beside her.

She grabbed it immediately and looked at him, disgusted. “Yuck, Buffy blood.”

Their eyes met for a long second, and he grinned at her cheekily as she blushed, embarrassed by her unintended double meaning. “Throw that away. Please,” she said quietly, handing the wad of towels back to him. He did as told. “And don’t think I don’t know what daft means, jerkwad,” she piped up, trying to cover her awkward slip. “Call me names and put dirty things on my counter…” she mumbled.

“Oho! So the only dirty thing allowed up there’s you, is it?” he teased.

“I’m dirty?” Buffy scoffed. “Says Captain Conquest, over here. ‘Ooh, look at me, I’ve shagged seventeen birds, cuz I’m sooo randy,’” she mocked in an atrocious British accent.

“See,” he countered, “there you go again, letting your big gob get in the way. It’s snogged, not shagged, you loon.”

“There’s a difference?”

Spike looked at her sideways for a moment, trying to decide if she was joking or not. She wasn’t. “Yeah, pet, there’s a difference. Rather an enormous one at that.”

“What’s snogging, then?”

“Kissing, making out, swapping spit, tonsil hockey…all those jollies. Shagging is sex, Buffy.”

“So wait.” She raised a hand. “I’m totally lost now. You told me the other night that you’d kissed seventeen girls? You count people you kiss?”

“What, you’ve no idea how many blokes you’ve snogged?”

“I could probably give you a rough estimate, but yeesh, I never kept a tally.” She looked down at her feet swinging below her. “Okay then, now that’s clear, how ‘bout answering the question I was trying to ask. How many women have you shagged? Had sex with, gotten horizontal, bumped uglies…just so there’s no confusion.”

He squinted at her, an unidentifiable look on his face. And even through the moonlight, Buffy could have sworn she saw him blush the tiniest bit before looking down and running a hand through his hair.

She swallowed. Keeping a tally of all the girls he’d only kissed meant he definitely kept track of his sexual exploits as well. Was he embarrassed because the number was astronomical? That was most likely it, she realized, knowing Spike’s charm and also the sheer hotness that was him. But she still wanted to know. Kinda.

“Just tell me. It’s fine, I promise,” she said after a deep breath.

When he continued with his shoegazing for a bit, she could tell he was nervous. Finally, he met her eyes, opening his mouth to speak, then shutting it again. His eyes shifted to the refrigerator, then he shook his head and stood up straight, steeling himself. He held his right hand out, then let his fingertips and thumb meet, forming a circle.

Buffy stared.

“Zero. I have shagged zero women. I’m a virgin.”

Still, Buffy stared.

And then she was laughing. Hysterically.

“Yeah, right,” she gasped through her giggles. “Spike Blood, a virgin!”

She wiped her streaming eyes and surveyed him, standing there with one eyebrow raised, arms crossed against his perfect bare chest. “Ha! You, the British Adonis poet athlete, are pure as the driven sn—ohmygod you’re serious.”

Buffy wasn’t laughing anymore. “You’re serious!” she accused.

His jaw tightened further and he nodded.

“You’re an actual virgin. As in, never had sex. At all.”

“Fun as your new hobby of pouring salt into gaping wounds is sure to be, feel free to stop any time,” he replied coldly.

Buffy heard the hurt in his voice and immediately reached out her hand to him. “Spike, I am so sorry. I just never in a million years would have expected that. I mean,” she waved her hand up and down, exhibiting his person, “you’re you.” His face relaxed a little at that, almost smiling. “So yeah, I’m shocked, but I totally respect it.”

Spike examined her still outstretched hand warily, then came toward her and grasped it in his. “So you don’t think I’m a complete tosser, then?” he asked, half mocking, half disbelieving.

“Assuming I know what a tosser actually is? I mean, we’ve really got to figure out this whole language barrier thing, cuz you know they say England and America are two countries divided by a common language. Maybe we could both learn Portugese—“

“Buffy, you’re babbling.”

“Am I?”

“And you only do the babbling thing when you’re uncomfortable.”

“Do I?” She swallowed.

“Well, now you know, then. My decidedly un-dirty little secret. And if it gives you the wiggins or whatever the hell you would say, I get it. I do.”

She peered into his sweet, expressive eyes that could show so much fire one moment, and such deep vulnerability the next. “Spike, please believe me when I say I totally respect your decision. I wasn’t laughing in mocking, I just honestly couldn’t believe it. Seriously, how does someone like you go this long without girls on both sides of the ocean falling over themselves to be with you?”

He genuinely smiled this time, flattered. In a manly way.

“I mean, there are lots of reasons to wait, like for love or even for marriage like one of those Mormons.” She paused. “Oh, crap, you’re not a Mormon, are you?”

Spike laughed and grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down. No, but bloody entertaining, that lot. Had a mate back home that was, and whenever they’d play football or any other kind of sport, it’d start with a prayer and end with a brawl.”

“You’re trying to change the subject.”

“Yes I am.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want. I understand it’s really personal,” she half smiled at him and cupped his cheek.

Sighing, he ran his hand through his already mussed hair, then covered hers with it. “Nah, I do. Want to. I want to be open with you. I just…could we not be looking at each other?”

Now she was confused again. “You want I should get a blindfold or something?”

“No, you silly bint. It’s just easier to talk that way sometimes, you know?”

She crinkled her brow, then had to quiet herself from squealing as he scooped her up suddenly into his arms and headed to the front room. “I’m perfectly capable of walking, I’ll have you know,” she mentioned.

“Oh, I’m aware. But you seem to have somehow missed the fact that I am, of course, going to take every opportunity to hold you against my hot, tight little body,” he replied, tucking his tongue behind his teeth. Reaching the couch, he sat and reclined fully, positioning Buffy atop his body so their stomachs were touching and her head lay on his chest. She had to admit, there with their bodies connected top to toes, the warm breeze from the window gently lifting the hairs off her neck, the soft blue light from the television, and the steady thumping of his heart beneath her ear, she truly felt as though they could tell each other anything. It was extremely pleasant, and she felt incredibly safe.

“Okay, suddenly shy guy. Spill.”

“Well, truth is, there’s not much to it.”

A sudden realization hit her, that with the added sensation of his voice rumbling softly in his chest, she was going to have to be very careful to stay awake.

“Of course, when I was younger, I was randy as hell all the time, exactly like every other lad. I’d have taken anything I could get. Didn’t much matter which girl or what she was like, I just wanted sex. Problem was, girls weren’t exactly drooling over tweed-clad, bespectacled William. Then my mum died, and I guess I had to grow up pretty fast.”

His hand ran a soothing circuit over her back, in recognition of their shared loss.

“And just like a bleeding after-school special, I went a bit mad for a while. Acted out. Started running with the rugby crowd, changed my clothes, my hair, even went by a different name. Not to mention the excess of frigging drugs and liquor. Plus, I found out one of life’s little secrets: Birds dig dangerous types.”

She snorted.

“I mean really, you should have seen me then. Went deep into the punk look, spiked all my hair, eyeliner, studs and safety pins everywhere, including my sodding eyebrow.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Ouch, much?”

He shrugged. “I was pretty sloshed at the time.”

“So how did you pull yourself out of your spiral of debauchery?”

“I became a believer in choice.”

Spike could almost feel her brow crinkling. “Care to elaborate?”

“My mum was dead, I was an orphan, and I had let myself become a victim of circumstance. And one night I was at a house party, and everybody there was absolutely hammered, including me, and there was this girl. Pretty lil’ thing had been hanging on me all night ‘til finally she asked if I wanted to go upstairs. I said yes, of course, so we stumbled up to a bedroom and fooled around for a while.”

“Spike, where’s this story going?” Buffy asked warily.

“Give it a minute, will you? Can’t rush a good narrative.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Anyway, back to my masterful storytelling…ow!”

She’d bitten his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides as she struggled.

“You asked for this story, so you’re going to lie here and listen like a good girl, however I choose to tell it. So there I was, ‘bout to shag the brains out of this gorgeous little brunette who was more than compliant. Hell, she was half unconscious, lying there, mostly naked.”

“And THEN? Move it along, Blood,” she threatened, which was rather idle in her immobilized state.

He chuckled. “All right, keep your knickers on, bossy lil’ chit.”

“So what happened?”

“I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the bedroom wall. Punked out, drugged out, drunk and angry, about to clumsily make it with some poor girl whose name I didn’t even know. I hated what I saw. And more than that, I hated to think how disappointed my mum would have been if she’d have seen me.

“So I guess with all the shit that comes with having to grow up too fast, there also comes the growing up bit. I knew then and there that for me and my mum, I had to go down a road that would lead to becoming a man we could both be proud of. Made sure that girl got home all right. I quit partying hard, quit drinking so much, backed away from the safety pins, and threw myself into rugby and school work. After that night, I’ve of course had opportunities for sex. Plenty of ‘em. More than my fair share, I’d wager…ow! Will you quit with the teeth?”

“Will you quit with the cock-and-swagger-‘til-Buffy-pukes bit? Because if I hurl, it’s going to be all over you.”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “As I was saying, since then, I’ve of course had situations present themselves, but none of those girls were what I was looking for. I didn’t want just anyone, I wanted someone amazing.”

Buffy smiled to herself and snuggled into his smooth chest. “Hm…and have you maybe found this special someone?”

“Maybe? Try definitely,” he replied, and nuzzled her hair. “I mean, Xander is the most amazing bloke I’ve ever met.”

She groaned. “You are seriously disturbed.”

“Well there’s a news flash for no one.”

“No, really. You and Xan crack me up. What, with your little man-crushes.”

He paled. “I do not have a man-crush on Xander!”

“Baloney! First you two can’t stand the sight of each other, and now you’re always together, working on the DeSoto and glorying in each other’s manliness. And when you’re not together, you talk about how cool the other is. It’s really quite cute.”

Spike lifted his eyebrows. “Xander said I’m cool?”

Buffy laughed with him and shook her head. “I’m not complaining, believe me. It makes me happy you two are getting along so well, and eased up on the pissing contest. You just make sure and balance your time well, because I’d hate to think you like him more than me.”

His hands drifted down and squeezed her bum firmly. “I can absolutely promise you that will never be the case,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Hang on.” Easily rolling her off of him, he disappeared into the basement silently. He was back before she could even get fully readjusted.

He sat down beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Nodding his head toward the wall clock, which read just after two in the morning, he said, “Now technically we’re only two hours in, but I couldn’t wait. I got you a birthday present.”

“Ugh. I was kind of hoping it wasn’t actually my birthday.” She stared at him for a long moment, then furrowed her brow and fixed him with a steely glare. “Tell me it’s not a cake,” she said threateningly.

Spike shrank away from her slightly. “It’s not a cake…”

“Oh, thank God,” she sighed in relief, instantly perking up. “In that case, oh, thanks so much and you really didn’t have to and really, it’s too much. Now gimme.”

Laughing, he presented an envelope from behind him, which she snatched out of his hand and did a little shimmy, like a five-year-old.

“It’s really nothing special, but I figured, what the hell? It might be fun.”

She tore the bleached paper open with relish and dumped the contents into her lap. “Rodeo tickets? You got us tickets to the rodeo tonight?”

“Yeah, was that wrong? Willow said—“

“No,” she cut him off, “that’s awesome! I love the rodeo. I just never in a million years would have expected you to be caught dead at one.”

“Well, Red told me you love them, and I figure millions of hillbillies can’t be wrong. Or at least, not all the time.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and snuggled into him, a ‘thank you’ mumbled into his skin. “So what were you watching before I got up, anyway?”

“Dead Poets’ Society. Couldn’t sleep. Wanna finish it with me before we toddle off to bed?”

“Surely,” she yawned, curling closer into him, like a giant, quirky cat.

Spike reached for the remote control and resumed the film. Twenty minutes later, as the credits rolled, he stretched and turned off the television. “You know, growing up, I always wanted to be a teacher, just like Robin Williams in this movie. Passionate, full of conviction, all that rot.”

“You’d be great, I’m sure,” she mumbled sleepily. “Don’t let me pass out on you again. You’re quickly becoming my favorite pillow.”

“Really not complaining here, luv.” But he helped her to her feet, and walked her to the foot of the stairs, entwining the fingers of his right hand in her left.

“Thanks again for the tickets, Spike. I can tell it’s going to be a good birthday. It’s already been an eventful one, at least.”

He smiled and caught her lips with his own in a gentle goodnight kiss. “Happy Birthday, Buffy,” he whispered against her mouth. She tasted so sweet.