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

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

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

She tried to find her voice, “Spike?”

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

Buffy turned and left the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her head was spinning.

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

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

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

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

He took a sip. “Oh”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spike backed away. “What’s that?”

*Oh, this will be sweet.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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