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He storms out of the room, but there’s nowhere to go, of course. He grumpily ensconces himself on the couch with the paper, and growls at anyone trying to talk to him. Although they got up late, and it’s mid winter, there’s still an hour or five to while away before sundown.
Spike wakes up with the paper over his face and his senses jump alert. There’s a delicious smell somewhere close, compounded of part Buffy, part warm blood. He pretends to be still asleep while he tries to find out what and where. A whiff of pine brings him up to date and he discards the newspaper. Buffy's sitting next to him, smiling, a mug of blood in her hand.
"I thought you might be hungry," she says.
"I am, thanks," he answers and tries not to gulp down the delicious stuff, warmed to an exact 98.6.
He smiles at Buffy, but she hands him a tissue. "You have blood mustache."
"Oh, sorry," he stammers.
That kinda puts paid to spontaneous conversation. They sit side by side quietly for a few moments. Outside, orange light shines almost horizontally into the windows, patchily outlining Rome’s low cityscape.
"Almost sundown," Buffy says. "Wanna come with on patrol? We can get in a coupla hours before Alessandro comes to take us to dinner."
It takes Spike a moment to grasp that she means the Immortal. He reckons Immy must be a nickname of Dawn's.
"Sure," he says eagerly. Anything to get out of the apartment of insane houseguests.
Buffy has no need of pointy prezzies, he sees. She has an impressive chest of weapons, and he picks out a few stakes and a sword. He feels like wearing a sword. She changes into hard-wearing dark clothes. Spike fetches his duster to cover up the stupid white T-shirt and is ready.
They step out into the cool dusk, the last remnants of the day lingering in burning scarlets and purples on the horizon. Lights are pinking on and Spike feels released. This is terrain he knows, at last.
"How's the bad guy situation, Buff?"
Buffy shrugs. "Okay. It doesn't have the buzz and sparkle of the Sunnydale nightlife, but I get the occasional workout. Let's go down to the Vatican, there's always a religious vamp-fanatic or two trying to kill the Pope or impale himself on the cross in the St. Peter.”
Spike bites his lip and shuts up. Impaling oneself on crosses is silly and commonplace, he gets it. He stares at his boots as they cross through Rome, and at last pass over the Tiber. It’s kinda busy around the St. Peter, which he should have expected. Christmas must have the Catholic Church all in a tizzy. They stake a vamp who's brazenly attacking one of the Swiss Guards, but that's it. No suspicious loitering vampires, no scaly and/or horned demons running around. They turn back, and lean on the bridge's parapet, staring into the dark waters of the river.
Buffy hooks her arm through his. "This is fun, isn’t it? Just like the old days, patrolling together."
Spike's had it with politely pretending they always were best mates.
"Is there something wrong with your bloody memory? The only time we patrolled together like this was when Sunnydale was bristling with übervamps and bringers. That wasn't fun! And before that, we were boinking each other into smithereens against every available tomb. Not the same at all."
He hears his own voice, dripping with hurt, louder and more aggressive than he meant to.
Buffy clenches her arm firmer around his. "I…I know. I guess it's more wishful thinking than how it really was. But can't a girl wish? Ask for a second chance?"
"At what?" Spike asks roughly, clamping down hard on his imagination.
He can’t look at her; he knows his face would give away everything.
"You're so changed, Spike. Closed up. What happened in LA? Did they make it hard for you?"
She looks sweetly concerned, ready with sympathy, but that just shows she knows nothing.
"That's still what you expect people to act like, isn't it? Like your precious Scoobies, shutting out everyone who isn't a carbon copy. Well, guess what, they're not the shining example. Charlie Gunn and Wesley, Fred, they treated me like a person, made me part of the team. I had friends. And I died with them, voluntarily, for a good cause. Making a last stand against the forces of darkness," he says scornfully.
Buffy looks upset. "I didn’t know you felt like that. I thought you were part of the team in Sunnydale! I didn’t treat you badly. At the end." Her voice trembles.
They walk blindly on, one narrow Roman street after another. Spike has no idea where they are or where they’re going. Buffy's mouth is clenched, her brow furrowed. She looks again like the Buffy he knew. Great, his presence has the effect of taking away her happiness and glow. He vows not to do that, however superficial and empty that happiness may be. She deserves that after her long service.
"You're such a guy!" Buffy bursts out. "Who do you think you are, just dying left and right, making a last stand? The Last Samurai? You never stop to think that the people you leave behind want you alive. No, you just go and die for your stupid principles instead of staying home and taking care of the kids and feeding your family!"
Spike works his arm free and faces Buffy.
"Yeah! So what, it’s my life, innit? Mine to do with as I choose!" he shouts.
She bursts into tears, erasing the last trace of golden-happy-Buffy and Spike feels like the worst kind of heel.
“Look, Buffy. You’re with the Immortal. There’s no place for me here.”
“I’m not ready for you to leave, Spike,” she whispers.
Christ. He’s not gonna give in to tears and empty pleading, not again. "Yeah, well, that’s what you said last time. I bloody well loved you and you left me hanging like that. Not the one nor the other. Done with that now. You bloody well have to choose. Bloody well tell me how you feel first!"
Spike shuts up, stunned at what he just said. That’s not where he was going at all. He was going to depart gracefully and leave Buffy to her glorious happy carefree life.
Buffy looks as stupefied as he does at the sudden turn in the conversation. Her mouth opens and shuts a few times. Not her best look, but he's long past caring for her looks and he's gonna wait until she says it. The first few seconds he really had great hopes he was gonna hear it, but now her face is doing this weird thing, her eyes are bugging out and she's starting to wave her hands. Christ, if it’s that hard to say, she shouldn’t even bother.
Someone hits him on the head from behind, not hard enough to make him unconscious, but hard enough to make him react slowly. There's a surprised sound behind him, and whoever hit him tries again, but harder. Buffy’s face looks on in stunned anger, while two great big goons hold her struggling form. He knows whose minions are doing this, that's not hard to figure out. He just wishes he could move his mouth so he could shout at Buffy to get away.
The minion hits Spike about twenty times, each time a little harder, and he feels unconsciousness closing in. Someone forgot to tell his minions he wasn’t human, he figures. He’s thrust through a conical object and emerges on the other end tightly swathed in fluorescent green netting, like a sodding Christmas tree. He's tossed in a car and then he reckons he might as well be unconscious now.

He wakes up on a cold wet floor, stone by the feel and smell of it. Strange rhythmic sounds reverberate through the room.
Someone coughs. Spike tries to focus his eyes, and slowly the two figures in cream suits converge into one. Immy. Who else. Spike recognizes him easily, although the Immortal has a face that slides off his memory like an egg off a Teflon pan.
"I've seen you before," Immy says contemptuously and digs his narrow, shiny, pointy shoe in Spike's ribs. "Stay away from the Slayer. She's special."
Spike grunts. There's no point in talking to a man in cream suits and a Clark Gable mustache. The Immortal witters on, and when Spike doesn’t react he kicks him in the head and has his minions cart Spike off.
They dump him in a dank, narrow cell, with hardly enough room to lie down but with a high arched ceiling, high enough to stack three Spikes standing on top of each other's shoulders.
Spike takes a few moments to rest his aching head against the weeping stone wall, but he decides he'll have to escape, even if he's not in an escaping mood at all. He worries at his florescent sausage skin with his teeth, but a couple of hours later he hasn’t made a lot of progress at all. He's desultorily biting through strand after strand, bored by the lack of progress but not seeing an alternative, when he hears a woman’s voice some way off. It’s Buffy.
Determination blasts through his veins. He's not gonna be rescued by her, not again. One Christmas spent hanging from chains like a limp fillet of haddock was enough. Fear and anger give him the impetus to swell up against his binding like an amorous frog and he manages to free one hand and shoulder. With no regard for his skin he rips off the remaining threads and casts urgently about for a hiding place or another way out. High up in the ceiling he spots a darker circle. Could be an air vent, that useful escaping venue for movie crooks and spies?
He jumps up, and it is a vent, and with desperation he hooks his bleeding hands in the grille. He yanks it out, but as the grille was the only thing holding him up, he falls down himself as well. This is no longer James Bond, it's Sylvester and Tweety. Sylvester jumps up in maniacal haste and clamps his fingernails into the fissures between the stone, fearful that Tweety will discover him still locked up in his birdcage. He swings in, legs first, and then finds himself stuck with his shoulder. Bugger bugger bugger. And he can’t even swear out loud, because Buffy might hear him. He can hear footsteps and her voice approaching the cell.
Spike wrenches his shoulders loose, swearing off pumping iron for ever, and has to leave behind a lot of skin as he crawls feet forward through the narrow vent, as fast as he can. He rounds a corner, hears Buffy’s baffled exclamation and a rumble of male voices. Heh. He's a bloody hero and he doesn't need the Slayer to hold his hand or help him escape.
The air vent, or tunnel, is very long. It's hours before Spike enters a junction where he can stretch for a moment and reverse direction. The novelty of crawling feet forward wears off pretty quickly, anyway. The tunnels going left and right are blocked off after a few feet; there's nothing for it but to go forward.
It’s dark, and the tunnel is often narrow, and it's a damn good thing that Spike’s a vampire, because a human being would have died from lack of fresh air, claustrophobia or hitting the head very hard against the ceiling once too often.
Suddenly there’s a light ahead. Spike starts crawling faster, his energy renewed. He's almost there! But the light is very yellow and it's soon clear that it doesn’t come from ahead but from a side opening. Spike's ready to take a right, why not, but when he peers inside he sees that he won’t be going in there. There’s a grille between the tunnel he’s in and the shallow niche.
The creature that stares at him from its tiny niche like a cross between a gargoyle and a skeleton, and is probably a very old and famished vampire. It can’t have fed in centuries, and its bone-white limbs have shrunk to pipestems and its face to a bat-faced fleshless skull. It opens pale slimy eyes and regards Spike without curiosity.
"Hey Spike, long time no see," it says. "What's the date?"
"Late 2004," Spike says. "Almost 2005, in fact." He doesn't recognize the creature, but of course he's been all over the world, a household name.
"Are you kidding? I thought the world was going to end with the coming of the Millennium," it muses, clicking and hissing its consonants. Must be hard without saliva and a dried out tongue. "I made a bet with Heinrich Nest that I would last longer than human history. Are they still up there?"
Spike nods. "You got a ways to go yet, mate. Not planning on leaving, that lot. What's riding on it?"
The thing brings its head as close to the grille as it can. "Ten guineas! How about that?"
"Okay. And, um, what were you planning on doing with that gold? You’re a vampire; you don’t need to buy things."
"Oh. Didn’t think of that."
“And who are you gonna collect your winnings from if there's no human beings left? Not to mention that the old bloke's been dead for a while," Spike adds with satisfaction.
"I'll be - hey! Let me out! Hey!"
It tries to grab Spike with a few spindly, but still preternaturally strong fingers, but Spike jerks back in time.
The creature screeches on for miles but Spike pays it no attention. Something as stupid as that doesn’t deserve a break. Willing to welsh on a bet, too. Wanker.
How long has he been going on? The skin and flesh on his elbows and knees is worn down to the bone, and he's incredibly bored and hungry.
Again, there’s light ahead. Spike doesn’t get as excited as the first time. He peers in the low cave. It’s lit by an electric light, and it’s clearly been a cell. The occupant has sadly died some months ago, and the skeleton is draped half on a chair with its head cradled in its arms on the table.
Spike thinks he recognizes the dress it wears, the jewelry, the shoes. The head still has its long brown hair. The fabulous breasts have long rotted away, together with its other fleshy parts, but Spike's sure that this is indeed Ilona, CEO of the firm formerly known as Wolfram and Hart. Angel’s actions have had widespread consequences. Ilona's probably serving her masters in a rather hotter environment now. Spike shakes his head and continues on. Contemplating Ilona's fate perks him up a little. There are worse fates than the one he's living through. But then he realizes that if even Ilona has perished in the Wolfram and Hart fracas, any illusions he might have had about seeing his friends again are just that, never gonna happen.
Another interminable time of crawl, stop, regrow some skin and muscle, crawl, wear the new skin out, etcetera. He must have been in here for days. Maybe a little Buffy-brand humiliation would have been easier to bear than this whole trek. Spike has no idea which direction the tunnel is going. For all he knows he might be on his way back to the North Pole.
Just when he's contemplating turning back, he sees another light. He knows better than to expect daylight and indeed, that’s not what he sees.
A cozy cave, lit by oil lamps and candles, and a nice little fire in the grate. A demon family, heavily wrinkled Clem-look-alikes all, is squabbling over dinner. Spike can’t quite make out what they’re eating, but the length of the bones is a bad sign.
"Oi!" he shouts. "I wanna go outside. Am I getting close?"
The dad looks up, disturbed in the midst of giving his offspring a proper bollocking. "Straight ahead, another mile or so. Don’t fall into the sea."
"Thanks, mate. And your cousin Clem says hello."
"Chi? Clemente? Non è nel Dale Pieno di Sole?" Mum babbles excitedly, but Spike crawls on.
Sunnydale is no more, and neither are the friendships and alliances he forged there. Move on, Spike.
"Close the window, hon," Dad says. "Traffic out there is getting worse by the century."
No time for making nice now. If it's only another mile, Spike decides he has some energy left.
He can smell fresh air now. The demon was right. When he draws closer, he hears human voices. Damn. If this is the only way out, the Immortal must have known about it for ages. He could have posted sentries. Spike lays his head on his arms and has to take deep breaths. He's not crying. Heroes don't cry, not even from weariness.
Okay. He limbers up as well as possible in the narrow tunnel space, waits a bit for his skin to grow back on the important bits and then forges ahead. Too bad he can't crawl fast enough to really surprise them.
He slithers close. First, he's gonna listen in to what they have to say.
"So how long did Immy say it would take him?" Xander’s voice says.
"Three days, give or take," Dawn answers. "More popcorn?"
"Sure. And could you hand me another can of Coke?"
There’s crackling and glugging.
"What time are Buffy and Giles coming? My feet are cold," Dawn complains.
"I can’t see how, with those ugly hairy boots of yours. I'm wearing sneakers and you don’t hear me complain. Lemme check. It’s five thirty. Buffy should have been here by now."
Spike could scream, but he doesn’t. Heroes just shoulder their burdens and plod along with furrowed brows. He really has the worst luck ever.
"Oi!” he says resignedly.
"Spike! Buddy! Are you there? You made great time, man. Kudos!"
"Yeah, well, har har."
Spike flops from the tunnel opening like the last anchovy from the tin, a little bit dried out and not the good kind of fragrant.
"Hey, Spike," says Dawn.
"Bloody hell," Spike growls.
Churlish of him, but it’s hard to be friendly when your grand escape attempt has been reduced to nothing. He should be more mature when he decided to make a run for it instead of waiting for Buffy to bail him out. It's childish, being souled and all, and a proven hero. Bugger.
His mood does not improve when both Dawn and Xander, after initially moving in his direction, step hastily back. Gee, does he maybe smell, after traveling ten miles in an offshoot of the Cloaca Maxima?
"Do we wait for Buffy to cut the cord or do you wanna do the honors, Dawn?" Xander says with a guffaw.
He makes a wide gesture to encompass all the equipment standing and lying around. "Look! We made ourselves comfy waiting for you. Barbecue, chairs, party tent. You want some popcorn?”
The popcorn is held out at arms’ length.
"Coz the man who made Buffy ditch the Immortal? Deserves all the otter blood in the world," Xander prattles on, oblivious to Spike's lack of response.
Spike growls and unkinks everything that got kinked in the tunnel, mostly his neck and back. He’s bent forward, trying to get a last stubborn knot out, when two extremely strong hands grab the errant muscle and subdue it effortlessly.
“That’s …aaaah!” Spike groans. “Right there. Harder. Unh.”
The pleasure is so intense his eyes roll up, but when he can see again he Xander and Dawn are watching with interested and awed eyes.
“Man,” Xander says, “That she touches you in this state- gotta be true love.”
“Yeah,” Dawn says, “because the slime? And the smell? Buffy, you’ll never get it out of your sweater. Don’t.”
He turns to Buffy, expecting to see her step back and go ‘ew’, but in spite of her immaculate winter white ensemble she hauls him close in a rough, fierce kiss, pushes him away at arm’s length to study him carefully, gives him another of these predatory kisses, then slaps him angrily. The cream wools and furs she’s wearing are a palomino gray and mud shade. Buffy ignores it.
“So,” she says, “Finally had enough of tunneling through the mud, huh?”
Her face can't decide whether she’s angry or sad, and Spike immediately feels guilty, an emotion he’s felt around her way too often. “There’s blood in your hair,” she says sternly, as if it’s his fault. “Where else are you hurt?”
He mutely raises his arms. His forearms are scabbed from wrist to elbow, and Buffy’s brow darkens. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up and bandaged. Xander, where’s the blood we brought?”
Xander dives obligingly into the cooler and hands him a thermos of tepid blood.
"We have to get out of here, it's almost sunup." Buffy's voice is sharp with anxiety.
Spike doesn't need to be reminded of this. He can feel the dawn burning to get through the last sliver of Earth protecting him, but he doesn't move. He needs a moment longer here, he has to choose. That's what he's here for, innit? His old lives are gone, lost to him, and no old slights or loves or promises mean anything. He's new, feather-light now, and he can choose any course he wants. But there was never any doubt what he would do. He chooses Buffy.
Spike decides to follow one of the first impulses he had when meeting her. He falls on his knees and buries his face in her lap. He doesn’t even have to fake the sob, it's such a relief to have set on a course. Buffy huffs a little in surprise and then her hands twine in his hair and yank on it half-heartedly, not quite ready to let go of anger and anxiety. She pulls him closer against her, and he calms down in the warm organic smells of expensive clothes and girl mingling together in her crotch.
At last, she pushes his head away so she can look at him but keeps a secure grip on the filthy shoulders of his T-shirt. He's lost the duster, somehow. Who cares? It wasn't the real one, anyway. Just reincarnation the third, like himself actually. Maybe it's starting over too, just like him, on the shoulder of some blind, nameless creature slithering around in the stagnant dark. He's crawled towards the ever-changing sea and the light, and he's there to stay.
He grins at Buffy, pushing at his teeth with his tongue, knowing she'll get exactly what he means by that, what he's going to do to her the minute they get home.
“Love,” he says, grinning at her, ”what are we doing on a beach in December? I’m thinking a hot shower and three days in bed to recuperate.”
He can tell Buffy doesn’t want to smile back but can’t help doing it. Isn’t life funny? Nothing like crawling through a sewer for a coupla days to make you realize she loves you.
Buffy and he walk back to her car. She’s brooding on something. He’s gonna get some harsh words.
“I could have sworn you were really close when I came to break up with Alessandro and get you out of that cell,” she says.
“Really?” Spike says with a straight face. That she loves him doesn’t mean that he has to tell her every little thing. “Must have been a lingering trace of my presence.”
“Hm,” Buffy concedes.
Spike suddenly isn’t in the mood to listen to harsh words, however well deserved. He cups her face with his filthy, scabbed hands and kisses her gorgeous lips, the lip-gloss already marred by their previous kisses.
“Don’t talk,” he says against her lips. “Just wanna love you. Really soon. Wanna be inside you. How long until we get home?”
Buffy’s legs wobble and he has to hold her up, something he likes doing.
“Quarter hour,” she says breathlessly.
“Good,” he says. “If it takes any longer I’m gonna ravish you on the backseat, and to hell with Xander and Dawn.”
Buffy turns her head. “Hurry up, Xander, I’m freezing!” she yells and gets back to the business of reacquainting herself with the taste of his tongue.
The ride feels endless, and since Buffy seems to be taking Spike’s threat seriously, she keeps him at a low simmer, not at full boiling point. Once inside the apartment, she makes him strip in the hall, holding a trash bag to deposit his clothes. Spike is kind of sorry to see his first white T-shirt go. Still, one shouldn’t read too much symbolism in random happenings. Buffy prods him in the direction of the bathroom. He’s giddily imagining in full lurid detail and color and sound what’s going to come after the shower, so he doesn’t protest and slips under the hot stream like a good boy. Hey, he is a good boy now. Sometimes he still forgets.
The warm water dulls him and he doesn’t know how long he’s been standing in the glassed-in shower, dreaming of sleeping in Buffy’s arms. Buffy in the flesh pokes her head into the shower. Spike’s whole body spasms in an involuntary reaction to her voice. Buffy takes it in with a concerned look that changes into a grin when his body demonstrates its happiness at seeing her. She gives the interested part a friendly handshake and tugs him gently out of the shower and nudges him toward the tub.
“Hey, your bath is ready, dreamy eyes,” she says.
“We could…” he says, but she pushes him firmly towards the steaming bath.
“Buffy takes care of the owies first,” she says and Spike meekly complies.
It’s nice to be bossed around and looked after when you’re tired and sore. He sinks back into the scented bathwater and feels his tense muscles relax.
“Come in too?” he says with his best smile and head-tilt, but Buffy’s made of stronger stuff.
She holds up sterile pads and mercurochrome and Spike offers up his left hand with a sigh.
“Do I get a kiss if it hurts?”
“You can have one now and one if you hold still,” Buffy says sternly and bends over to him.
The difference in temperature between their faces is a lot less than out there in Ostia and it makes the kiss less feverish and urgent. Her skin is almost cool, smooth against his cheek. Buffy takes a last, lingering sip at his mouth and sets to work on his hand.
“There’s a lot of dirt in there, Spike,” she says. “Let’s hope it doesn’t go septic.”
“I’m a vampire,” Spike mumbles with his eyes closed.
If he gets any more relaxed, he’ll fall asleep before he can give Buffy the seeing-to she deserves.
“Other hand,” she says.
“Hmm.”
His hand is turned around and he feels her press a kiss to his palm. It tugs faintly at his groin and he opens his eyes to see her give his hand a quick lick.
“You could lick me somewhere else, later?” he says.
Buffy makes a face. “The house is kinda full. Makes me feel…”
“Inhibited? Cramping your style?”
“Yeah.”
“You could suggest that your little pals take themselves off somewhere. The way theywere going on they might just be willing to,” Spike says.
“Willow and Giles went to some museum…. I want to say ‘Borgnine’?”
“Borghese,” he says. He marvels at how much pleasure he takes from a simple word flub, when it comes from her.
“Borghese,” she repeats. She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “But Dawn and Xander were out there all night in the cold. They just wanna go to sleep. Kinda get that.”
“Give them earplugs?”
She slaps him lightly, and the slap trails off into a caress. Her fingers roam through his hair as if she’s trying to find something there, courage, or nits maybe.
“Spike,” she begins, and colors for no reason at all.
Spike’s heart floods with something that’s not love, not pity, but something in between. Compassion, maybe. Compassion for this girl who finds it so hard to open up her heart, even if he knows with hundred percent, or possibly ninety-seven percent certainty that her heart is his. Spike lays his head back against the rim of the bath again and grasps her hand in his stiff, festively mercurochromed one.
“I’m ready,” he says when she remains silent.
Buffy’s color flares up again.
“I love you, Spike,” she says, and there’s a weird little strangled sound somewhere in the middle, like a squeezed off sob.
"Hey," he says, "I love you too."
It's the first time ever he's gotten to say it back to her and it's crunchy and strange in his mouth. Buffy's hands shake under his.
"It gets easier the oftener you say it, love," he says. "Now are you gonna get in the bath with me or what?"
"No."
Spike tries to keep a straight face, but his disappointment must be showing.
"I wanna get us in a real bed, Spike. That'll be kind of a novelty act for us. A nice one. But I'm gonna do your knees first."
Spike lifts a brow, but doesn’t make the obvious joke.
He bottles up his ardor a bit longer. Some aging will only make the brew better, he supposes. His knees are sticking up out of the bathwater in all their scabbed glory. Buffy washes out the dirt and paints the scrapes over with her bottle of red stinging stuff.
"No more excuses then," he says. "Love you and want to be in bed with you now."
"Love you too, Spike," Buffy says with another flaming blush. Looks good on her, red. He slips a hand inside her robe and squeezes her breast. She makes as if to slap his hand away but bears it with a shiver.
"I know it's silly, Spike, but I feel like this is all new. Kinda scary."
"Yeah," he says softly.
They've used each other's bodies in all positions, screamed in release, moaned, and come more times than he can count, but yeah, this is new.
"Come on," she says, "just your hair. Last thing, I promise."
Spike rolls his eyes in mock agony, but he allows her to shampoo his hair and dunk his head to rinse it out.
"Now?"
"Now you can carry to me bed," Buffy says, but squeals when he takes her literally, rising out of the bath dripping wet and scooping her up in his arms.
"Spike!"
"What?" he says, walking purposefully on his way to her bedroom.
"You’re wet! You're naked! What if people see you?"
"You mean if Dawn and Harris, in spite of what they know is going on, wake up from their deep sleep and decide to investigate the happy screaming?"
"I - I guess…."
Spike kicks open the bedroom door and deposits Buffy on the bed. He gives her no time to recuperate but crouches over her on all fours.
"Now you lie back and let me look after you," he growls.
Buffy glows up at him, so that he's surprised when her answer is, "No. No way. The thing is…"
She flips him over, or at least she tries to. Spike wrestles for his position, but then her robe falls open. Her exposed golden-skinned breasts distract him for a second and gain her a moment’s unfair advantage.
"Spike – you’re tired and hurt. I’ll do the driving. No arguments.”
“Wasn't planning to, sweetheart."
The light in the room is soft but bright, courtesy of the frosty, sunny morning outside. The light folds itself around Buffy's limbs in the most flattering way imaginable, leaving red and blue afterimages on his eyelids whenever she moves. Her lips are everywhere. Her hair caresses his skin with a thousand little fingers and the only anchor Spike has to tell him this isn't a dream, but really happening, is the clenching of his fingers on the snowy white sheets.
They lie quietly together after a while, still breathless and astonished at what has passed between them. Spike glances idly over the glowing rectangle of the window blinds. Suddenly a gust of wind blows them aside and he can't move fast enough to elude the beams of the deadly sun. But there isn't any sunshine; the sky is a curtain of deepest black, pierced with a thousand tiny holes that aren't big enough to let in the light. Santa Claus bends his big head inside through the window, though Spike’s sure there was glass in there a moment ago. Two giant, mean-looking black birds flap their wings to stay in balance on his wide red shoulders.
"I see all is well, lad. Whaddya say, is my debt discharged?" he thunders into the room, winking his good eye.
"Paid in full," Spike says.
"I'll be on my merry way then. May all your troubles be little ones!" Santa booms and with a wave and a whinny from Rudolph, the birds cawing harshly, he takes off, nearly vertically, towards the stars.
Spike flinches in anticipation of blasting rays of sunlight, but the blinds are in place again, as still as if they never moved aside. Whoa. Debt discharged, Santa said? That's just fine with him. Gods, even ex-gods, are scary people to tangle with. He lays his hand flat on Buffy's warm belly. She arches into it and murmurs a sleepy endearment in his ear.
Troubles? Little ones? He wouldn't really….Spike wills himself to relax. Too early to tell anyway. And even a god couldn't bloody well make that happen, could he? He bends over Buffy again, trying to rouse her for a second round. He's home. The future can take care of itself.
THE END





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