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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He creased his brow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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