~*~

Bloody fucking hell.

Spike was having what was commonly known as A Bad Day. And while he generally didn’t go in for the Dr. Seuss random capitalization bollocks, a day as bad as this definitely deserved that and more. A banner, maybe. Or a blimp.

‘Course, rambling to himself wouldn’t change the fact that his meticulously prepared spaghetti sauce was currently splattered all over the floor.

He knew she liked spaghetti; she’d told him so often enough. It was easy to make but delicious if you did it right, so he figured it was a sure shot. He hadn’t counted on turning into a klutz while carrying the dish out to the table.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Spike scooped what sauce he could and wiped the rest off the floor with a rag. He supposed he ought to be thankful that it hadn’t spilled on the carpet, but now all he was thinking of was how rotten the canned stuff tasted compared to his own home-made kind.

He was stirring a (clearly dye-enhanced) cherry-red pot of sauce when the doorbell rang.

Buffy walked in, not bothering to wait for him to answer the door, and he found himself wryly thinking that it was just as well that she was familiar with the place—if he stopped stirring this swill, it’d probably catch fire or something equally annoying.

“Hey, handsome,” she chirped, striding into the kitchen. Her hair, dress—hell, her entire attitude was bouncy, and it made him feel inexplicably annoyed.

“You’re early,” he said crossly.

He regretted it the second her face fell. “Fine, then I guess I’d better leave,” she snapped, annoyed.

“Wait.” He let go of the spoon for long enough to grab her wrist. “Sorry.” The apology was met with a suspicious gaze. “I meant to get things set out all fancy, light candles an’ all that, but then it went all to pot.”

Buffy blinked. “You got high?”

“No, pet,” he replied, chuckling. “I dropped the spaghetti sauce it took me an hour to make.”

“Oh.” She paused. “You made spaghetti!”

Her face lit up, and he almost felt bad to say, “Yeah, but…not with the right sauce. Just the cheap store kind.”

“But it’s spaghetti,” Buffy said, grinning widely, “And I didn’t have to chop the garlic, or cook the noodles, or anything!”

“You’re like a kid at Christmas!” Spike let out a grunt as she crashed into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“This is better than Christmas,” she informed her, her voice muffled. “This is the best day ever.”

He was blushing. Blushing. More proof that the world was, quite literally, falling apart at the seams. “’s nothing, honestly,” he muttered, stepping away from her.

“You baby,” his girl accused good-naturedly. “So you spilled some sauce. Remember that time I dropped your birthday cake in your lap?”

He did, in fact. He’d been forced to go to work with a white stain in an exceedingly embarrassing place. “Right, so ‘m not the only one who’s perpetuated culinary disasters,” he admitted. “But I feel like an absolute idiot.”

Buffy shrugged, an action that would have been offensively flippant were it not for the sympathy still in her eyes. “It’s not a big deal,” she insisted. “Any food that I don’t have to make or serve is good, remember?”

Still stirring, he held out an arm. She nestled into his side happily. “This is nice,” she said almost sleepily, watching the sauce.

“’f you like sauce from the can,” Spike grumbled, unwilling to let such an ego-damaging issue go.

She laughed. “I didn’t mean that,” she said, stroking his chest. “I meant…this. You and me, all cozy in your house…the all-new blue upholstery about to be installed tomorrow…”

“Tell you what, pet,” he said, turning off the heat on the stove and embracing her fully, “You stop prattlin’ on about my soon-to-be-girly décor, an’ I’ll stop ‘bout the sauce.”

“Deal,” she whispered, and their lips met.

To his credit, he honestly hadn’t planned to start this night with a kiss…or several kisses. He’d meant to treat his girl to a meal that she hadn’t had to cook, nothing more. He hadn’t meant to back her up against the couch, to lower her and cover her body with his—to slide his hands up the dress, find the fastenings, and undo them.

He was a tad bit too busy to ask her if she meant to push off his coat and unbutton his shirt.

This was where they stopped usually—him half-naked, her down to her bra, both of them panting, gasping, and desperately wishing for more. This was where they always stopped.

But not tonight.

Tonight, somehow, her bra came off almost as easily as her dress had. Tonight, when he kissed his way down her collar bone, she didn’t stop him, didn’t push him away. Tonight, her fingers released him from his pants easily, as though they’d mapped out the way thousands of times before.

In a way, he felt that they had.

Tonight was the culmination of a thousand nights—nights of longing and pain, all coming together in sharp, glass-like shards of pure bliss.

But like glass, they pierced. And as they touched and kissed and moaned—as they finally after so long, reached the completion he knew they’d both craved—tears ran down both their cheeks.

~*~

It hurt.

She supposed she ought to have known it would. Didn’t everyone say that the first time hurt? But as she lay awake, with him half on top of her on the large black couch, she felt a dull ache deep between her legs.

Of course, it had felt damn good while she’d still been doing it. For a moment Buffy allowed herself to luxuriate in the memories—memories of Spike sliding in and out of her, of his mouth finding her nipple and making her see stars, of his hands, holding her as she shuddered and cried out.

And now there was pain. Pain and apprehension, because what they’d done less than a half an hour ago was something from which they could never come back.

Stroking his hair, holding him to her as though he were her only anchor between this world and another, she felt herself falling. Not for him; no, she’d done that some time ago. Instead, she felt herself falling into a darkness she hadn’t foreseen. Adulthood—or merely foolishness?

She knew only one thing as she stared into the dark of the living room. Whatever was at the bottom…whatever was there, she and Spike would pay the price.

And it would be dear.

~*~

A/N: Yep, I chickened out. When the time came, a graphic sex scene just didn’t seem right. But I’m still all nice and nervous about this chapter, so feedback would be very much appreciated.

~*~