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Chapter Twenty-One

Angel had unhappily departed with a set of keys to his apartment, but instead of relocating just yet, Spike clung to the familiar sheets of his pullout bed in Giles’s study. It wasn’t that he wasn’t ready to be on his own- the continual questions from Rupert were driving him bloody insane- but he wasn’t ready to relinquish Buffy. He knew that she would be spending the day trying to cook up a storm, and what better place to see her act all domestic housewife but at Giles’s. So he encouraged the sympathy for a little longer, and got to see Buffy in an apron, covered in foodstuffs as she panicked prettily. Not that they could just have an ordinary day, though. There were various undertones that spoilt it; Oz having run away to find control of his wolf and Red’s politically correct stand on why there shouldn’t be Thanksgiving. And to really round out a perfect start to the day, Harris rocked up sporting several nasty diseases that he had contracted from being too stupid to stay away from an old Mission with cursed Shumash Indian Spirits. Oh, it was lovely, and Spike was ever so glad that he hadn’t skipped the bunk and missed the lot. He might have a bright, spanking new soul, but he was still evil!

When the call came from Angel to tell them of a threat to Buffy, thanks again to the Cheerleaders ‘visions’, Spike was almost laughing at the curse that seemed to be on the Scoobies themselves. Did they manage to not court trouble everywhere they went? He wasn’t laughing, though, when the first attack occurred. Hard to laugh around an arrow sticking out of your shoulder, inches from your heart. Buffy had looked at the narrow stick protruding from his shoulder and paled in alarm, copying the dainty housewife act down to a ‘t’. He figured her many recent visions in which she witnessed him turning to dust was enough to spark a bit of fight within her. Thankfully it spurred her to action abandoning for the moment her holiday feast and the activity of trying to slay a number of unkillable spirits perked her up immensely, bringing her back in touch with her purpose. Only to turn one of the buggers into a bear. Spike’s frantic pleading of “Turn it back, turn it back,” had the Scoobies in stitches around the dinner table for hours that night. The dinner that was not totally ruined by the attack, unless you could call the Slayer’s culinary skills weapons of gastronomy.

Spike just felt grateful to not be tied to a chair this time around, and he got to sit next to Buffy into the bargain. He was profuse in his giving of thanks. He munched and crunched his way through the meal, but once he got to the pumpkin pie, he stalled.

“Ah, so Slayer, this is what you were beating the hell out of that condensed milk for?” He looked at it nervously.

“I never expected you to eat human food, Spike. Could I get you some blood instead?”

He looked at her in wonder and the affection he could see betrayed by her flushed cheeks hardened his resolve and he turned back and stabbed the pie with his fork. His determination wavered slightly as it reached his mouth, but her gentle smile pushed him over and he opened wide and slipped it in. Closing his lips he pulled the odd tasting piece onto his tongue, the flavour not entirely palatable, and quickly swallowed it whole. He made a play of chewing, and wiped his mouth with a napkin, gentile manners forcing him out into the open.

“Mmm, delicious.” He smiled, wondering how he was going to get the rest past his lips, then noticed that all eyes around the table had been observing him. He was shocked when he encountered the gleeful look on Harris’s face, one step away from shoving the whole slice in his mouth. He was suddenly tempted to shout a warning, but instead decided to distract Buffy when the git turned green and spat the pie out, hiding his napkin in his lap. Everyone then proclaimed themselves to be full and the rowdy clean up began.

The night became tedious as soon as the dinner plates were cleared as far as Spike was concerned. All he wanted was some alone time with Buffy; time to explore the phenomenon that was them. As confused as he felt about his own identity for the moment, he was sure of his feelings for the Slayer. He could feel the rightness of this soul, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his demon had surrendered to the love he felt for this girl, the one in all the world chosen to slay his kind. He had never feared irony, but was flabbergasted- no, that was a Giles word- stunned that his demon had fallen so hard for this chit. Time for contemplation and musing was gone though, he needed to get her alone, and fast.

“Slayer?”

She looked at him with a mix of sadness and annoyance. “My name is Buffy. Why are you having trouble with that?”

He cocked his head to the side in the way only he knew how and gave her a lascivious grin.

“Buffy,” he breathed, and she drifted over to him as if bewitched. He pulled her backwards toward the study and leaned into her, clasping his hands round her waist. Their steps were slow, measured, as she curled her arms up around his neck. They stopped at the door and she pulled her body closer to his, her hot breath tickling his ear.

“I love how you say my name,” she whispered in a voice gone croaky with desire. “It gets me hot.”

He dragged her inside and kicked the door shut, ignorant of the mixed stares that followed them. On the other side of the door he claimed her lips, almost lost in her taste, but his ears picked up discord from various members outside.

“Pet? I think we should pack up and head over to the apartment.”

Her response was slow, her movements almost drugged as she lifted her head to peer into his sparking blue eyes.

“Wha?”

“I’m sure it was your eloquence that drew me to you, luv.” His quiet chuckle brought her closer to reality as she let go of the sensation of his lips.

Then what he had said kicked in. Privacy. That was what they needed. Privacy to explore this thing they had going on. Uninterrupted privacy to make out, kiss for hours, or even days if she so chose. She had to make sure that Giles didn’t have a phone number.

Running a longing hand down his arm from his shoulder, she linked her fingers in his and pulled him to the bed. She collapsed on its edge and looked at him.

“Are you already packed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t come with much, luv, if you rightly recall.”

“Oh yeah,” she breathed. “Where is your stuff?”

“In the Desoto. Hadn’t moved in anywhere when the soldiers got me good.”

“Okay. Let’s get your car then and go move you in.”

He pulled her back to her feet and within seconds they stood again in front of the Scoobies.

“Happy Thanksgiving, guys. I’m going to help Spike move in to Angel’s old place.”

Not waiting for objections, they departed, leaving a more subdued atmosphere behind them.

Within forty minutes they had dragged all of Spike’s belongings into the place, mainly weapons and a few changes of clothing.

“Bugger.” Spike suddenly remembered his record collection and books left in the lair he had shared with Harmony, and determined sometime soon to reclaim them before she decided to toss his stuff onto a bonfire. A time when she was absent, he thought, would be best. No need to get Buffy riled up like she had been over Anya.

The place could do with a bit of cleaning, but Buffy was unprepared for the feeling of rejection that she associated with the place, and suddenly saw that it might not have been the best option. Pushing it to the back of her mind, she refused to look through to the bed in the other room and instead sat in Spike’s lap, as he was- after all- sitting in the only chair in the room. Her apprehension of past memories leant her forgetfulness and she was suddenly more forward than she had been so far. Once in his lap however, with his arms around her waist, her shyness returned and she lowered her eyes. With a finger under her chin, he nudged her to look up and caught her gaze in a magnetic grip, refusing to let go till he had said his piece.

“I’m not him, Buffy. My soul won’t disappear. I won’t disappear. We ‘ave time to sort this out. Not doing anything tonight that you might regret in the mornin’.” And he kissed her softly, yet boldly, marking his claim on her heart, and she surrendered it to him willingly.

It was as she dreamed; innocent but passionate. They kissed until the need to wrench herself away was paramount for self-preservation. Her body protested loudly for her to go further; she knew his body, and knew what he could do to her, how he could make her skin sing with sensation, and her mind die a little in satisfaction. But that was her future self and all of that was based on a lack of stability in the world. Her return from death clouded her judgement so that she didn’t know that the mate she had chosen was not an attempt to gain feeling back in her world, but the obvious choice from her heart. Their relationship had been fraught with too much pain, on both sides, for her heart to not be involved. She hadn’t seen it then, but now she wanted to savor everything. It had been too early, and she was wary of repeating the same mistakes.

She wanted to experience the little steps. The hand-holding, the little secret kisses of hello and goodnight; she wasn’t ready for the commitment of the flesh. She wanted the romance she had had with Angel, the romance that eclipses the common sense of a teenager. She wanted it to last because she was positive this was her forever.

Spike, in his intuitive wisdom seemed to understand without being told, and held her close, his hands securely clasped behind her back; not wandering like his body screamed at him to do.

“How ‘bout you stay pet? No funny business, just let me hold you while you sleep?”

She looked upon him, yearning and hungry, but for so much more than flesh. Slowly she nodded, and with a gentle and hesitant hand he led her to the bed that had revealed Angelus to her. She closed her eyes and was determined to dismiss him from her mind, more than ready to create more memories, happier memories.

“No pressure, Buffy. Just let me show you I’ll be here when you wake.”

And she fell deeper.





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