They’re going to take Dawn away.




It was only as the words rang in her ears, her lips still parted on the final syllable, that the true import of Ms. Stevens’ warning registered with Buffy. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes, and she instinctively covered her face with her hands again. The gauze wadded up in her fists was soaked through already with tears and—yuck.




She dropped the cloth to the ground and stared at it where it lay next to her feet. She tried to ignore the fact that Spike was watching her have a complete meltdown. That was hard to do when his bare, white feet were toe-to-toe with her practical work shoes and his arms were wrapped around her.  Then his arms receded from her shoulders. She felt bereft at the loss of contact—doubly so when his feet walked away from hers. She heard the soft pad of his tread on the cement floor, then the squeak when he stepped back onto the mat. He pushed something soft into her hands—a small towel. She took it, wishing she were brave enough to take his hand at the same time. She hadn’t felt as if she would fly to a million pieces when he was holding her.




Buffy wiped at her eyes futilely; the tears wouldn’t stop. She was strangely calm, though, even as the tears poured down her face. She looked up at Spike, met his eyes, and began to speak. Her voice was steady and modulated, empty. “I keep thinking: Mom would be so disappointed. I’m supposed to be taking care of her, and I’m not doing it. But at the same time, I can’t help thinking it’s her fault. My mom’s fault. She—” Buffy’s voice wavered. Her fragile control over her emotions snapped—no stronger than the gossamer filaments of a spider’s web. “I’m so … sometimes I get so angry at her. She had to have known I couldn’t do this, and she still left me, and I can’t help hating her for it.”




She stopped her words by clapping a hand over her mouth. She wished she could take those words back, erase the memory of them from Spike’s mind. He was going to think she was terrible. She was terrible.




He’d told her only a few days ago that she didn’t care what he thought of her. At the time, she’d thought that was probably true: she could tell him anything, even all the deep-down, mean, nasty things that she was half-afraid to admit were there, and it wouldn’t matter. His opinion didn’t matter.




She felt like it mattered now. But this was Spike. She’d been awful to him from the day they met. He was right: she’d thought of him as a punching bag. A convenient body on which to release her anger and stress. Even after all of that, after her being—she could own up to it now—completely unreasonable for several months, he was here with her, listening to her, wanting to help her. As if, no matter what she did, no matter how horrible she was, she would still be someone he’d want to know.




He only smiled at her, his eyes soft and blue and accepting. “Oh, Buffy,” he murmured. “That’s natural, to feel that way. It’s okay.” Spike’s hands curled under her elbows and pulled her closer to him.




She placed one hand on his chest. His heart thumped beneath her fingers. “It’s not.” She shook her head—he acted like he understood, but clearly he didn’t. “I thought … I used to think, if Dawn went away, maybe that would be better for both of us. I can’t tell you how many … you know, if I didn’t have to take care of her, maybe I could go back to school. Do what I want to do. Not … not work so much and worry all the time. How could I— She’s my sister! She’s the only family I have left, and I—”




Buffy leaned her forehead against Spike’s chest and gratefully accepted the embrace he offered. He patted her back, then rubbed circles between her shoulder blades. It felt so good to be held, to lean on someone else, even if just for a little while. She let her eyes slip closed as he caressed her. He pushed her messy hair back from where it clung to her wet face, and his thumb stroked away the tears on her cheek. His soft voice murmured equally soft words in her ear. He urged her to relax, and her knees buckled beneath her.




“Not quite what I meant, love,” he grunted as he caught her suddenly limp weight. He eased her down to the mat and knelt next to her as she continued to cry. How many tears could she possibly have? Buffy remembered the towel in her hand and brought it up to cover her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocked out as much light as possible, and simply existed in the moment. Spike’s arms around her, his hands still moving in soothing patterns across her back. Spike’s voice shushing in her ear. The smell of Spike’s cologne, and beneath that, the good male scent of his skin. Slowly, slowly, the flood slowed to a trickle, and her breathing evened out except for the occasional whimper. She tried not to move or think or feel.




“Buffy?” Spike spoke tentatively. His fingers carefully tugged her hair behind her ear and tugged at the towel which concealed her from view. “You’re okay, yeah, love?”




She nodded, holding tight to her towel.




He tugged at it again, not so careful this time. “Talk to me, Buffy. Please.”




It was the fright she heard in his voice that made her drop her security towel and meet his eyes. She’d forgotten: Spike cared about Dawn, too. Loved her, maybe? He treated her like a bratty but beloved little sister; Buffy couldn’t deny that. Of course he’d be concerned. “They’re going to take her away from me. Not right now. We get a … a probationary period, she called it. If Dawn goes to school and improves her grades and we pass a home inspection, I can keep her. But—”




Spike let out a shaky laugh. “You scared me half to death, pet. That’s all you’re worried about?”




Buffy’s temper flared again. She sat up, pushing off the shelter of his arms. “That’s all? That’s … I can’t do this! What don’t you get? I’m going to fuck up, and they’re going to take Dawn away, and—”




He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her one quick, sharp shake. “No! No one is taking her away from you. Because you know what you have to do, and you’re going to do it. You’ll make her go to school; when she knows what’s at stake, she’ll play along. You know that. She doesn’t want to leave you anymore than you want her to go.”




He sounded so sure of himself. Sure of her. Buffy had to make him see. “Did you not hear what I said? I can’t tell you how many times I thought my life would be so much easier without her.”




“I heard you. Did you listen to yourself?” Spike stared at her, hands still on her shoulders. “You’re angry. And it’s okay to be angry, Buffy. Even at your mother, even for something that wasn’t her fault.”




“Don’t … don’t forgive me for that, Spike.” Her voice was hollow, a good match for her insides.




“Oh, love,” he said softly. There was a note in his voice that caught her attention, made her meet his eyes without flinching. He released her shoulders and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked lightly against her cheeks. “You think you have to be all goodness and light all the time? That if you have dark places inside you, you’re not a good person anymore?” He leaned toward her until their foreheads rested together and she could feel his breath puffing over his lips as he spoke. “We all feel things we don’t want to admit to. Thoughts that seem so awful you’d never expose them to the light of day. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. I see you, Buffy—the way you are with Dawn. You’d do anything for your family. That’s the kind of girl you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be so torn up about this.”




Spike lifted his head. His hands fell to her shoulders and moved down to squeeze her upper arms. When he pulled away from her, Buffy stopped him by mirroring his hold. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, her fingers sliding up beneath the hem of his t-shirt sleeves. His skin was warm and surprisingly soft.




“Buffy,” he murmured. She caught her breath at the way he looked at her; something burned in his blue eyes. An answering something quivered in the pit of her belly. Even before he moved toward her, she knew he was going to kiss her. She licked her lips in anticipation.




At the last second, Buffy couldn’t wait any longer. She surged forward and captured his mouth with her own.






***






He stopped at the last moment. Much as he wanted to kiss Buffy—wanted to taste her and hold her—he knew it was a bad idea. There was too much messy emotion lying between them: his revelation unspoken but prominent in his mind, her pain on clear display in her green eyes. She needed him, but anyone would have done at the moment. He just happened to be the first person within easy reach—and a willing ear to boot. Then she moved toward him, she kissed him, and his will melted with the heat of her lips.




Spike moaned low in his throat and tightened his grip on Buffy’s arms. He wanted to pull her flush against him. Hell, he wanted to throw her down on the thin gray mat and not let her up for at least the next two days. But he was sure the quickest way to make her stop kissing him was to force his hand. And—bloody hell—there was nothing he wanted more than to keep his mouth fused to hers as long as she would allow it.




He let his weight fall back on his heels. Buffy made a noise of protest, but then Spike tugged her forward so that she straddled his legs. It was an awkward position; he had to crane his neck to meet her demanding lips. She twined her hands into his hair, sucked on his bottom lip and made him gasp, then invaded his mouth with her tongue. She broke away for a quick breath before inching closer to him and kissing him again.




He needed to put a stop to this before they went too far. Buffy was vulnerable; he was taking advantage. Spike knew that logically, but the taste of her, the warmth of her body against his, overrode all rational thought. He let his hands slip around her waist, and he tugged her shirt out of her pants. He slid one hand over the small of her back. Her skin was like warm silk. He wanted to take off all her clothes and kiss every inch of her. Twice.




The taste of salt on his tongue brought him back to himself. Buffy’s face was still wet with tears, and he was thinking only of holding her, touching her, kissing her. Spike pushed her away. It took some effort, but when she was sprawled on her bottom three feet from him, thinking became a lot easier. “Buffy,” he started, but got no further.




She was on her feet in a flash, her eyes wide and horrified. In the next second, she turned and sprinted up the stairs. Spike stayed where he was until he heard the slam of the front door. Then he headed upstairs himself. He needed to talk to a bottle of bourbon right about now.






***






Dawn cried until her eyes were gritty and dry and her nose was stuffed up. She lay on her bed for a time and sniffled miserably. Then she eased off the bed and crept to the door. She peeked into the hallway. “Buffy?” she said, barely above a whisper. When there was no response, Dawn let herself out of her room and hurried to the bathroom.




She looked awful. Swollen eyes, puffy nose, splotchy cheeks, messy hair. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she stared at her reflection. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she berated herself. Dawn blew her nose and splashed cool water on her face, all the time avoiding further glances in the mirror.




The house was still quiet when she opened the bathroom door. “Buffy?” she called again, a little louder this time. Nothing. She walked downstairs slowly, not wanting to make Buffy mad by leaving her room without permission.




She needn’t have worried. The house was empty except for her. Dawn stomped back to her bedroom and slammed the door. She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily and trying to process her anger. She’d been on edge for the past twenty minutes, waiting for Buffy to burst in and start lecturing and yelling and grounding. Instead, she’d taken off and not even bothered to tell Dawn where she was going? That was typical. Why would Dawn need to know anything? She clicked on her stereo, selected a track from her favorite disc, hit play and cranked up the volume.




I had enough, I had it tough.


I had enough of that crummy stuff.




The next few minutes were a flurry of destruction. A pile of pillows and stuffed animals collected on the floor; the pink bunny she’d gotten from her father on her last birthday—when she was way too old for stuffed animals—hit the door with a soft thud and slid down to join its partners. The posters that hung above her bed were yanked down, leaving behind tattered corners held up with colorful tacks. She cleared her dresser with one sweep of her arm. Tubes of lipstick and eye shadow compacts went flying across the room. Dawn turned in a circle, panting and furious. A snow globe found its way into her hand. She hefted the weight of it in her palm and pulled her arm back.




The door opened a crack, then snagged on an animal head and stuck. Buffy squeezed her way through the opening, kicking at the obstacles in her way until she managed to get into Dawn’s room.




“What are you doing?”




Dawn lowered her arm and studied the knickknack she held. It was a souvenir from a family trip to SeaWorld. She watched as the flecks of white slowly settled on a family of penguins inside the globe. She set the item on her dresser and turned her back to her sister. “Don’t you knock?”




“Let’s put that at the top of the list of Privileges You’ve Lost.” Buffy made her way to the stereo and cut the power. “Now sit down.”




Dawn grumbled quietly, but did as she was told, settling cross-legged onto her bed.




Buffy shifted aside a torn Twilight poster and sank down next to her. She looked tired, Dawn noticed. And her face was all red, like she’d been crying, too. “Doing a little redecorating?”




Dawn lifted her shoulders. “Whatever. I don’t even like that movie. Vampires are lame.”




Buffy took a look around the room. “Not too fond of your make-up collection, either, I see.”




“Can we just get to it?” Dawn snapped. “Am I grounded or what?”




“I don’t know,” she said. There was a weary, resigned note in her voice that Dawn didn’t like. “Would it do any good?”




“What do you mean?”




Buffy stared down at the comforter, plucked at a yarn tie. “I just don’t know what to do. How to get you to understand that you can’t lie to me. That you have to go to school.”




“School is stupid.” She spoke without thinking. Buffy’s head snapped up, her eyes gleamed, and Dawn flinched back from the anger on her sister’s face.




“How would you know that if you’re never there? You can’t— Dawn, what is it going to take for you to understand that you can’t do whatever you want? Especially not since—”




“Since what?” Dawn dared Buffy to say it.




“Since Mom died.”




They stared at each other as the words reverberated in their ears. Dawn took a hitching breath. “What does it matter what I do?” she said, finally.




“It matters.” Buffy bit her lip before continuing. “Things have to change. Starting right now. You are going to go to school and come home. And that’s pretty much the extent of your social life right there. I hope you had a really good time the past few months, because you’re not having any fun until I’m convinced I can trust you again.”




“What happened to thinking grounding me won’t do any good?” Dawn folded her arms across her chest.




Buffy threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know! I am at the end of my rope with you.”




“Well, I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me.”




“I’m not stuck with you.”




Dawn brushed away her sister’s feeble protest. “Whatever. I know you’re only taking care of me because Mom made you.”




“That’s not what I meant.” Buffy’s voice was quiet, but something in her tone captured Dawn’s attention. “If I can’t make you go to school, I won’t be found fit to be your guardian anymore. They’ll take you away from me.”




“W-what?” Tears welled up in her eyes; she hadn’t thought she could cry another drop today, but apparently she was wrong. “They can’t— They wouldn’t—” She had to stop for a moment to breathe. Questions tumbled through her mind, but the one that kept repeating itself, louder and louder, was: “Where would I go?”




Buffy shook her head. “I don’t … Dad, maybe? Or foster care?” She looked up, and Dawn was shocked at the heartbreak in her eyes. “I didn’t … I didn’t really want to ask.”




Everything fell away in an instant. Hating school and all the fake posers filling it, being treated like a little kid, being talked about—none of it mattered at that moment. All Dawn could think was that she’d lost her father, she’d lost her mother, and now she was going to lose Buffy. And that last one was all her fault. Buffy wasn’t going anywhere; she looked, honestly, as devastated as Dawn felt. And it was completely avoidable. There was no reason anyone in authority should have even looked twice at them. Buffy was working hard at keeping them together. Keeping them a family. But Dawn had screwed it all up.




“They can’t,” she said again. Her lips were numb. “I won’t. I won’t go.”




“I don’t want you to.” Buffy scooted across the bed and took Dawn in her arms. “I need you. You’re … you’re all I have left.”




Dawn began to cry as her sister held her. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to say between sobs. “I’ll ... I’ll be good. Just don’t—” She wrapped her arms around Buffy and held on with all her might. “Don’t let them take me away. Please.” She could feel panic welling up in her chest. Her stomach felt tied in knots. “Buffy, promise me.”




“Oh, Dawn.” Buffy’s voice was tinged with sorrow. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t go anywhere.”




Dawn released her grip on Buffy and sat up. She used her sleeve to mop the tears off her face and sniffled in an attempt to clear her nasal passages. “But it’s up to me,” she said. She stared down at her lap, at her hands twisting together. “It’s my fault we’re in trouble.” She glanced up. After a moment’s hesitation, Buffy nodded.




The knot in her stomach tied itself a little tighter. Dawn clutched her hands to her abdomen and squeezed her eyes shut. “Can I be alone?” she managed to say without bursting into tears again. She wasn’t sure how she managed it.




“Are you sure?”




Dawn nodded silently. She kept her eyes closed until she heard the door click shut behind Buffy. Then she jumped off her bed, retrieved her best stuffed animals, and hit ‘repeat’ on her cd player before climbing back in bed. She pulled the covers up over her head and cried until she fell asleep.






***






Buffy moved through the house very carefully. She felt brittle, as if the wrong thought would break her, and she would collapse. She couldn’t do that right now; she didn’t have the luxury of having a meltdown. And so she simply didn’t think about the wrong things. She filled her mind with the mundane details of her life and ignored the crisis the afternoon had unfolded before her.




She stripped out of her work clothes and thought about the shift she had promised Manny she would cover tomorrow. There wasn’t anything she wanted to do less than spend sixteen hours at the Doublemeat. The extra money would be nice, though. Dawn was growing out of all her clothes, and Buffy needed a better pair of work shoes. She climbed into the shower. That reminded her of the three hundred dollar water bill that had arrived in the mail yesterday. Images of new jeans and comfortable shoes vanished. Buffy sighed and slumped against the shower wall. She tried not to think about anything at all.




It was with a sudden spasm of guilt that Buffy realized, many minutes later, that the water was going cold. Way to be wasteful, she chided herself. She didn’t bother with soap or shampoo, merely turned her face up to the chilly spray and let it wash away the last traces of her tears before turning the water off. She shivered as she stepped out of the shower; goose bumps prickled up on her arms and legs, and her nipples were painfully hard.




Buffy avoided looking in the mirror as she toweled the water off her skin. It would show her nothing she didn’t already know: that she was too thin, that her hair was a damp tangled mess, that she was sporting permanent dark bags under her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to care about her appearance, though. It was difficult enough to go through the motions of untangling the snarls in her hair and brushing her teeth. Buffy wrapped the towel around her chest and headed for the sanctuary of her room and the oldest, comfiest sweats she could lay her hands on.




The steady thumping bass of a Ramones tune spilled out of Dawn’s room. The same song was still playing when Buffy passed Dawn’s door again; this time, she heard the conclusion of the song and gave a sigh of relief when it stopped. Her reprieve from punk rock was short-lived, however; the song started up again after a few seconds’ pause. Buffy knocked very quietly on the door, then nudged it open.




The room was engulfed in an early-evening gloom. Through the gathering shadows, Buffy could make out Dawn’s slim, still figure on the bed. She was asleep, even with Joey Ramone screaming in the background about the misery that was his life. Buffy rolled her eyes when she realized she’d just identified the band and the lead singer. One more thing to thank Spike for. She shied away from that thought and crossed the room to silence the stereo. She stopped at her sister’s bedside to smooth the quilt over her shoulders. Dawn shifted at her touch, but didn’t wake up. Her face was streaked with dried tear tracks.




Buffy eased her way out of the bedroom and downstairs. She supposed she ought to make something for dinner, though she didn’t have any appetite to speak of. As she turned to head to the kitchen, a gentle rap sounded on the front door.




She opened the door and there stood Spike. He held a baking dish covered in aluminum foil. She stared into his blue eyes and tried not to think about why he was the other topic at the top of her do not think about list.




“I made this for you,” Spike said. He passed the pan her way, and she instinctively reached for it. An unintelligible scrawl of numbers and letters was scribbled on the foil in black sharpie. Buffy realized she was looking at it upside down. She turned it around. ‘40 min @ 375,’ she read. She glanced up at Spike.




“Figured you and the Bit, uh, Dawn wouldn’t be coming for supper tonight.” He shrugged. “It’s lasagna. Take the foil off before you bake it.”




Buffy saw a shiver pass through him; his pale arms were bare below the short sleeves of his black t-shirt, and the night was cool. She imagined asking him in. ‘Come out of the cold,’ she’d say, and he would step deliberately into her house. She could picture closing the door behind him, pushing him up against the door, latching her lips to his. He would put his arms around her and hold her tight. He would make everything else on her mind disappear. Buffy wavered—almost spoke—fought down the urge to invite him in. It was too tempting, especially now she knew what it was like to kiss him. The quick, hard contact the night she’d been too drunk to appreciate him and the fleeting, barely-there kiss they’d almost shared earlier this week had done nothing to prepare her for a real kiss from Spike.




He’d kissed her like he never wanted to do anything else.




It was almost enough to make Buffy clear her schedule so he could do just that. But there were bigger things at stake now than how much she really, really wanted Spike, so he stayed just outside her door. The toes of his scuffed boots scraped against the doorjamb. “Is Dawn okay?” he asked.




“She’s … Well, she’s asleep now,” Buffy said. “She’s upset, but I think she understands how serious this is.”

Spike shoved his hands into his jean pockets. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something. Buffy hoped he wasn’t going to bring up what she’d done in his basement. She could feel her face growing hot as she thought of the way she’d thrown herself at him. If she weren’t clutching a pan of lasagna so hard her fingers hurt, she’d probably be throwing herself at him right now.




“I’m sorry,” she blurted, wanting to stop him before he could speak. “I shouldn’t have … I’m sorry I pushed you. Did I hurt you?”




He shook his head and smiled at her. “Nah. I’m tough. I’d appreciate not having a repeat performance, though.”




Buffy blushed. “I know. I won’t … I won’t do that anymore, okay?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.




“About that.” He leaned against the door frame, suddenly very close despite still being outside. “Was thinking—I go to a gym most mornings. Maybe you want to join me? Give you a chance to work off some energy, so you’re not so tempted to beat me up.”




The image of Spike working out—shirtless, sweaty, lifting weights, and had she mentioned shirtless?—filled her mind. She found herself nodding in agreement before consciously thinking about it. “That sounds … I like the idea,” she stammered. She hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was the idea she liked. “Oh, but—”




She hated the objection her brain remembered to raise a few moments too late. Gyms meant memberships meant membership fees. Buffy bit her tongue before she admitted to Spike that she couldn’t afford to be his gym buddy. It was embarrassing to be so concerned about money, especially when faced with someone who didn’t seem to have any worries on that front. She didn’t want him to offer to pay for her out of some weird sense of obligation. And she was afraid that if he did, she wouldn’t have the strength of will to turn him down, which was just asking for trouble.




“But?” Spike prompted.




“I, uh, I’m working a double tomorrow. I don’t think I have time.” Buffy was impressed she managed to come up with a plausible excuse.




The smile on his face faded. “Maybe another time.” He shivered again.




Buffy stepped back from the doorway. “I should let you go,” she said. “Thanks for dinner and … and for earlier.”




“You’re welcome,” he said. His deep voice rumbled through her. “And, Buffy—” He reached out with one hand and cupped her cheek very gently. She tried not to lean into his touch. “If you or Dawn need anything, even just to talk, I’m …” He pulled his hand back, his manner suddenly brusque. “Well, you know where to find me.”




Buffy nodded as Spike turned away. She tried not to feel disappointed as she watched him disappear into his house.

He was still standing there, contemplating the sky, when Buffy emerged from her house. "Hullo," he said as she glanced his way. He spoke quietly, but his voice felt too loud in the still morning air. "You're out and about early."

She nodded and fumbled through her bag for her keys. "Work," she said. She smiled wearily. "Lucky me."

Spike shuffled his feet. Every cell in his body told him to go to her. He took three halting steps in her direction before she fixed her eyes on him. She had such a wary look about her, but he was drawn to her just the same. He closed the distance between them and looked down at her with concern. She looked so tired; her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks were pale beneath a light dusting of makeup. He wanted to pull her into his arms; he wanted to tease her golden curls from the severe ponytail in which they were trapped.

He lit a cigarette to busy his hands and keep from touching her. "D'you want me to fetch Dawn after school?" he asked.

Buffy shrugged. "I, uh, I thought I'd call my friends, see if they can help out. I don't want to impose."

"It's not an imposition."

"I know. I mean, I know you don't mind helping with Dawn, and I really appreciate yesterday. I mean, you listening to me and everything, bringing us dinner—"

"Buffy." He'd heard enough nervous babbling. Time to just get it out in the open. "We kissed."

"So?" Her defensive tone stung him to the core, but made him more determined to put this to rest.

"Exactly." Spike swallowed his pride and forced the words out. "I know it didn't mean anything." He bit back the to you his heart so wanted to add. "You were upset, I get that. Doesn't change anything between us."

The relief on Buffy's face hurt more than it should. He knew she didn't feel about him the way he did about her, so there was no earthly reason to be wounded by her reaction.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I didn't want to … to give you the wrong impression. I don't, I mean—"

He held up a hand. He might be in love with her; that didn't mean he could stand here and listen to her reasons for rejecting him. Even if she wasn't entirely aware that was what she was doing. "Don't worry about it." He took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked the smoldering butt away. He nodded toward the house. "'S Dawn going to be up and ready for school by the time I get back from the gym?"

"Oh, well, her alarm is set." Buffy gnawed on her bottom lip. "Are you … you're sure this is okay? You've been doing an awful lot for us, and—"

He cut her off with a short laugh. "What else am I gonna do with myself? Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly in high demand anywhere else." And oh, that sounded a tad bitter. He went with it. "It's been … Buffy, you don't even know. I've been living my life in a fog, sleepwalking through my days. Going through the motions. And then you and Dawn show up, crash into my life—It's … it's like waking up from a long sleep. I haven't had anything—anyone—to care about in a long time." Here he couldn't help himself; he brushed his fingertips gently against her cheek. She flinched at his touch, and he drew his hand back quickly. "And I do, Buffy. I care about you."

Spike watched her shutter herself off, close up right before his eyes, and he tried to backpedal. "You and Dawn, you're … I hope you won't find it too odd if I say you've become very important to me." He cursed his stilted language, the way he stiffened at her withdrawal. He was such a fucking ponce. All it needed was for him to blurt out the words I love you, and his status as an unbearable ninny would be confirmed.

He wavered for a moment, those exact words on his tongue. What did he have to lose? He looked at Buffy, her arms folded around her and her eyes firmly fixed anywhere but on him. Right. Everything.

Dawn was the first person in years to break through his self-imposed solitary confinement. She'd managed to remind him of the man he used to be, the man who had a family. A sister. And then there was Buffy herself. When was the last time a woman had stirred anything within him other than transient lust? Spike couldn't remember.

He took a deep breath and stepped back. "I'm not saying don't call your friends. But I'm here for you, Buffy. Just … let me know what I can do, yeah?" His voice came out raspy; he cleared his throat.

Buffy nodded and shifted her bag from one arm to the other. "Thank you, Spike," she said quietly. "Um, I really have to—" She trailed off and gestured toward her car.

"Oh. Oh, yeah, of course. Off to the gym myself. So, I'll get Dawn, then?"

She nodded again, still looking a bit hesitant. "She has detention after school. So she'll be out late. Not til four or so."

"Like I said, pet, not much else I've got to do." Okay, so maybe he should go a little lighter on the pathetic loser-ness aspect of his life. "Have a good day at work, Buffy." By some supreme effort of will he didn't pull her to him for a parting kiss, but watched her get in her car and drive away.

It didn't mean anything.

She'd spent half of last night replaying their kiss in her mind, all the while telling herself over and over that it was a mistake. That it didn't mean a thing.

So why did it sting so much to hear the same words from Spike?

Buffy shook her head and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She was obviously insane. Lack of sleep and stress were driving her up a wall. She shouldn't be hurt, for crying out loud—she ought to be relieved. Which she was. Extremely.

Only then he'd gone and said all that stuff about caring for her and Dawn. And what did that mean? Was he lying about the kiss not meaning anything? Or was it … oh, god. He thought of her like a sister, that had to be what that little speech was all about. No wonder he'd pushed her away yesterday. He was probably totally grossed out. And who could blame him? Buffy blushed when she remembered—again—the disgusting way she'd jumped on him.

Except … He hadn't seemed disgusted. He'd kissed her back. Touched her. And then he'd brought her dinner. Okay, maybe that was more for Dawn's benefit than hers, but he'd still done it. She was confused, because what did he want from her? What did she want from him? They'd developed an easy camaraderie over the past week, and it was tempting to continue to rely on him.

Buffy pulled into the Doublemeat parking lot and parked her car. Not for the first time, she wished for a job that took a little more brain power, something that would distract her from the tumult of thoughts filling her head. She'd spent the night before trying to suppress her undeniably lusty thoughts about Spike; while her worry for Dawn had distracted her, she'd still spent more time than she'd have liked focused on her neighbor. It would be easy to let him keep taking care of her and Dawn. But Buffy wasn't sure that was the best idea, not the way she was feeling about him. She just needed some space, some time, to let her emotions settle. There had been so much turmoil in her life for the past half year; the last thing she needed was an ill-advised affair with her neighbor. That would be awkward when it was over.

She was going to call Willow—maybe Dawn could spend some time with her and Tara after school for a while. They were both so good at school, so enthusiastic about it; they were bound to be good for Dawn. She'd call them tomorrow. Today, Spike could get her to and from school. He'd probably give her a good scolding along the way. Odds were, that would make more of an impression on Dawn than anything Buffy might have to say.

Manny appeared at the employee entrance, arms folded and toe tapping impatiently. "Drama queen," she muttered, and slid out of her car with a resigned sigh.

The piercing shrill of her alarm yanked Dawn from an unsettling dream. The details faded too quickly to capture more than a fleeting impression in her conscious mind: herself at her kitchen table, someone at the stove behind her, a creeping sense of dread. Her mother's eyes—

Dawn darted out of bed and pressed play on her cd player. She swiped away a tear as the music blared from her stereo, chasing away the last fragments of the dream. She was glad Buffy wasn't here this morning to tell her to keep it down; she needed the noise to drown out the thoughts and memories circling in her mind.

"I wish I was someone else. I'm confused, I'm afraid, I hate the loneliness," Dawn wailed along with the Ramones as she hurried through her morning routine. She balked momentarily when she came to the kitchen door and flashed on her dream. Then she pushed past the unease and poured herself a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.

She ate slowly, methodically, her mind whirling despite her determination to not think about anything at all. Dawn wondered what foster care was like, if it was really as bad as all those after-school specials and melodramatic teen novels made it out to be. That was probably just so they could sell books or ad space on a TV show or whatever; no way would kids get put in homes where they were going to be hurt. Right?

It was a stupid thing to worry about, anyway, so Dawn commanded herself to stop. A minute later, she found herself picturing her father—his broad shoulders and wide smile. And were his eyes blue, like Dawn's? It bothered her a little that she couldn't remember, and that she was wasting time imagining where he might be right now. Probably somewhere sunny; he always loved their trips to the beach.

It was a relief when the doorbell rang, though Dawn's stomach clenched at the thought of facing Spike this morning. He was probably going to be mad at her, too. She dropped her dishes into the sink with a clatter and quickly ran some water over them. Her spoon rattled into the bowl, sploosh, and she went to answer the door, a smile she didn't quite feel plastered on her face.

She dropped the cheerful expression when Spike didn't respond in kind. He muttered a curt "Let's go," and walked off to his car before she could even answer. Dawn gathered her things and hurried to catch up with him, sliding her arms into her coat as she walked.

"Thanks for taking me to school," she said once they were on their way. It was the wrong thing to say, she could tell that immediately from the sour expression on Spike's face when she broke the silence.

"Right. And you'll be attending all your classes today, will you?"

Dawn cringed at his sarcastic tone. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

He shrugged and lit a cigarette. Dawn stared at him; he hardly ever smoked around her anymore, and when he did, it was always with a guilty look and a warning to never start smoking. "Yeah, well, you should be sorry," he said finally. His fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel as they waited at a red light. "What did you think was going to happen?" He took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke before looking at her.

"I don't know," Dawn said. She shrank into her seat under the force of Spike's glower. "I guess I figured I'd get some detention and … But now they might take me away from Buffy. Did you know that?" Spike nodded. "Well, that's just stupid! How was I supposed to know they'd— I mean, it's not like anyone's lining up to take responsibility for me. Buffy doesn't even want—"

"Don't you say that!" He tossed his cigarette butt out the window and turned to glare at her. Dawn was glad they were almost to the school; Spike was definitely driving angry. "Don't you think for even a minute that your sister doesn't want you around. This is killing her, worrying about you."

"Oh." Her voice was small. She fidgeted with the window crank, pushing it forward and backward. "I didn't think—"

"Too bloody right, you didn't think." Spike snorted, half-angry, half-amused. "And what exactly were you doing instead of going to school?"

"Oh, um, nothing." Dawn ducked her head. No one else had thought to ask her what she'd been doing. They were more concerned with what she hadn't been doing. "Mostly I was at the library. Stuff like that."

They pulled up in front of the school. Spike put the car in park. He fixed her with a skeptical look, and Dawn rushed to defend herself.

"I'm serious! I know it's totally dorky, but I didn't know where else to go. There's only so much time even I can spend at the mall."

Spike looked at her and chuckled. Dawn let out a breath; maybe he wasn't too mad at her. "So, not off with your little boyfriend, then? Not gonna have to worry about another little Summers running around?"

"What?" It took a second to absorb his meaning. "Ew, Spike, no!" She blushed, though, because there was that one day, an afternoon spent riding around in the car with Jason and a couple of his friends. They had shared a moment, albeit one marred by his buddies arguing over the radio in the front seat. Jason had leaned over and whispered in her ear. Dawn had committed to memory the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice as he told her she was the sweetest girl in the world. Then he'd kissed her, a brief, chaste peck on the lips that was ended when the car hit a bump, knocking their heads together. They'd laughed about it, both rubbing at the knots on their foreheads. Dawn thought he might have kissed her again, only Brandon stretched an arm over the back seat and passed a joint into Jason's waiting hand. So yeah, that wasn't a story she would be telling Spike anytime soon.

"Right, well, let's keep it that way," Spike said. He watched her steadily for a moment. "Big Sis know yet that you've got a suitor?"

Dawn crinkled up her face. "A suitor? You really are Little Lord Fauntelroy, Spike." She was relieved when he laughed at that, too. "And no. Because Jason's not … he's not my boyfriend. I don't think. So don't say anything to Buffy. Please?"

Spike sighed. "You just keep yourself out of trouble, all right?"

"I will," Dawn said. She gathered up her bookbag and opened the door. "Thanks again for the ride and everything."

"Sure thing, pigeon." He smiled at her, and the last remnants of tension in her chest relaxed at his easy manner. "And Dawn—" He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she moved to get out of the car. "I don't want to see you go anywhere, either. Okay? So behave yourself."

Dawn had to fight off a sudden wave of emotion at his words. She wasn't going to cry today; she'd done enough of that yesterday. "I promise," she said.

Spike nodded, satisfied, and released her arm. "Off you go, pidge. I'll see you after detention."

Dawn groaned at the reminder of her after-school activities. The next couple weeks were really going to suck.

Two weeks later. Thanksgiving Day

Buffy lay in bed, still caught in a fuzzy half-sleep after hitting snooze on her alarm. It was altogether too early to be waking up, especially on her day off. She'd promised Dawn a real Thanksgiving dinner, though, just like mom used to make. For a minute, she allowed herself to wish that things were different. If Joyce were still alive, she'd be getting up around now to get the turkey in the oven and start the final preparations for a big family celebration. Buffy snuggled deeper into her covers and drifted off to the warm fantasy of her mother's capable hands turning dough into pie crusts.

The alarm sounded again, and Buffy roused herself. The pies weren't going to make themselves, and wishing for her life to be normal again was nothing but a waste of time. She pulled on an old t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants, then stumbled down the stairs and yawned her way into the kitchen. She carefully read the small print on the plastic shrink wrap around the turkey before cutting it off. She set the oven to 350 degrees, rinsed the turkey and … gross. Buffy stared with dismay at the lumpy, bloody package of bits that fell out of the bird into the sink. Was she supposed to do something with that? She fleetingly thought of Joyce, who would know exactly what that stuff was, then shrugged and wrestled the turkey into the roasting pan before moving on to the next item on her cooking agenda.

For the next several hours, Buffy measured and chopped, sliced and diced, peeled and pared her way through her Thanksgiving menu. Dawn wandered into the kitchen and sniffed approvingly at the aroma of slow-roasting turkey filling the air. She happily stationed herself at the sink and started peeling potatoes as Buffy finished mixing up the pumpkin pie filling. With the pies in the oven, Buffy turned her attention to quartering potatoes. She stood next to Dawn as they worked, and for just a moment she was able to pretend they were merely acting as their mother's helpers. Like any other holiday, any other year. Then Dawn asked for another task, and the illusion was shattered.

"I don't know right now, Dawn," Buffy said. "Let me get the potatoes going and clean up a little bit, then we'll see what else needs to be done."

Dawn nodded and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal. She rinsed the potato peels and other detritus from the morning's work down the drain. There was a sudden grinding noise followed by a metallic squeal, and then thick, greyish water began rising in the sink.

"Ew, ew!" Dawn shrieked a little and reached for the switch. She flipped the disposal off, and the noise ceased. The water didn't go down, however, and Buffy quickly reached around her sister to turn off the faucet.

"That's not good," Buffy muttered. She ducked down and rummaged beneath the sink until she found the reset button on the garbage disposal. She turned the water back on and tried the device again, with no better results. If anything, the water level in the sink rose even more.

"Buffy, what are we going to do about that?" Dawn eyed the sludge-filled sink, her nose wrinkled in distaste at the potato and carrot peelings floating in the water.

Buffy thanked her lucky stars she had a landlord to deal with problems like this. She'd have to call Mr. Giles and just hope she wasn't disturbing him on the holiday. Except he was British; did they even celebrate Thanksgiving? She didn't think they did.

The phone rang four times before a woman answered. "Rupert's phone," she said.

"Um, hi. I—This is Buffy Summers. I rent a house from Mr. Giles, and—"

The woman giggled. "Just a moment, dear. I'll get Mister Giles for you." There was a rustle of cloth in the background and a brief, muffled conversation.

"Miss Summers." Mr. Giles' smooth, accented voice came over the line. "What may I do for you?"

Buffy bit her tongue on the litany of things she would like someone to do for her. None of them were anything like the responsibility of a landlord. Unfortunately. "Our garbage disposal is, well, it's not disposing. More like regurgitating. And I'm making Thanksgiving dinner, and my company is going to be here soon, and—"

"I do apologize, I'm unavoidably tied up right now. And I doubt you'll find a plumber on the holiday." He paused for a moment. "Ah, my nephew, William, might be available if that's acceptable."

"Oh, I don't want to bother anyone on the holiday." But please send someone over here to fix this, she tried to silently communicate.

"Not a bother. The only reason I'm out of town is because you Yanks insist on having a four-day weekend to eat turkey and watch American football. Who am I to argue with that?" A clink, like ice rattling in a glass, accompanied his words. Buffy wondered if her landlord was drinking. At ten in the morning. She rapidly readjusted her assessment of him as stuffy and dull.

"Well, if you're sure it won't be any trouble," she said.

"I'll ring William and send him 'round as soon as possible."

Buffy let out a relieved sigh as she said thank you and ended the call. She turned to Dawn and smiled. "Crisis averted. I hope." She glanced down at her outfit and considered changing, then discarded the notion. Mr. Giles' nephew would just have to deal with her as she was; she still had work to do. "Okay, Dawnie, do you want to whip the cream for pies, or—"

"Ooh, I'll do the whipped cream." Dawn dragged a bowl out of the cupboard and clunked it down on the counter. She had just submerged the hand mixer into the whipping cream when the doorbell rang. The sisters looked at each other.

"That was quick." Buffy went to answer the door. She opened it to reveal her neighbor. The one she'd been studiously avoiding. "Spike," she said, taken aback by his unannounced presence. "What's up?"

Spike regarded her solemnly and hefted the tool box he held in his right hand. "Rupert called, said you had some plumbing problem."

"You're William?" Buffy grinned as a flush spread across Spike's face. Then she realized he looked more angry than embarrassed and quelled her desire to tease him. But seriously: William Williams? No wonder he'd changed his name. "Um, yeah, our kitchen sink is—"

He brushed by her into the house and headed for the kitchen without another word. "Nice to see you, too," she said to herself as she closed the door. She heard Dawn's excited greeting on seeing Spike, and his pleasant response. Obviously, his grumpy mood only extended to Buffy; she supposed that was what she got for laughing about his name.

And for not bothering to talk to him for the past two weeks, she reminded herself. If one of her friends had given her the silent treatment for no apparent reason, she'd probably be miffed, too. Yet he'd shown up at her house—promptly, no questions asked—when he knew she needed help. Buffy sighed and headed for the kitchen, determined to fix the mess she'd made.

Spike wiggled on the kitchen floor, trying to find a spot where the edge of the cabinet wasn't digging into his back. Wasn't happening. "Hand me that wrench," he said. Dawn complied eagerly, and he twisted the final nut into place and crawled out from beneath the sink. "Okay, try it now."

Dawn flipped the switch for the garbage disposal. It roared to life, and the brackish standing water swirled down the drain. "You fixed it!" she said with a smile.

Spike nodded and handed the wrench back to his assistant. He glanced up at Buffy as he helped Dawn put his tools away. She hadn't said more than two words to him since he'd started working. Not that he'd expected anything else from her. She'd shut him out completely after they'd kissed. That hadn't been much of a surprise, given her skittish attitude the next morning. The one thing that had kept him from barging in on her privacy was knowing what she was going through with Dawn. It still hurt, though, even as he told himself she had more than enough to deal with in her life without a lovesick idiot following her around like a puppy.

He slammed the tool box lid down and stood up. "There you have it, ladies. The kitchen is all yours again."

"Are you leaving already?" Dawn blinked up at him. "We haven't seen you in forever."

Spike flicked his eyes to Buffy and back to Dawn. "You've had other stuff going on, pigeon. Detention and whatnot, yeah?"

"I guess." She sounded doubtful. Then her face brightened. "Oh, you should stay for dinner! Right, Buffy? Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya are going to be here, too, do you remember them? None of them really have families, either—or at least, not ones they want to hang out with—so we're going to have an Orphan's Thanksgiving. Tara and I came up with that, even though none of us are actually orphans. And your family isn't around, so you're kind of an orphan, too. So have dinner with us?"

He couldn't help but grin at Dawn's flood of words. He'd missed her, missed having the energy she brought into his life. His house had been too quiet and empty; he'd gotten accustomed much too quickly to having Buffy and Dawn around. His smile faded, and he shook his head in response to Dawn's last question. "Don't want to intrude," he said. "It's not really my holiday, anyway."

"But, turkey!" Dawn protested. "And there's pie! You don't have to be an American to like pie and turkey."

"Dawn, I said—"

"Please, Spike." Buffy's quiet voice interrupted him. "We'd love to have you join us." She looked up at him, met his eyes for the first time since answering the door, and a slow, shy smile spread across her face.

Spike found himself nodding in agreement before he'd made the conscious decision to accept her invitation. It wasn't fair, the way she could melt him with a word or a look. He really didn't stand a chance when it came to Buffy Summers.

Dawn engulfed him in a hug, and he amended his earlier thought. Both these girls had him wrapped around their little fingers. Spike smiled, and for the first time in weeks, he felt at home.

Buffy spared a second for one last glance in the mirror. She gave her reflection a wavery smile; she barely recognized the girl in the mirror. When was the last time she'd bothered with make-up or curled her hair? Didn't really pay when she spent most of her time wearing an ugly hat and sweating over the fryers at the Doublemeat. Not for the first time, Buffy vowed she was going to find a different job. As soon as the holidays are over, she promised herself.

She fluffed her fingers through her curls, letting them fall haphazardly around her shoulders, and opened her bedroom door. The aroma of turkey wafted up the stairs along with the rumble of Spike's voice and Dawn's answering lilt. She sounded happy, and Buffy felt a surge of warmth for Spike's ability to bring a smile to Dawn's face. She had been worried that today would be too full of memories for either of them to enjoy the holiday the way they wanted to. The way they always had.

Thanksgiving had always been a riotous occasion at the Summers household. Any friend who didn't have anywhere else to go was invited to their house. Buffy's friends had been regular attendees ever since they'd met in high school. Joyce always managed to find some lonely, starving artist—or, one memorable year, a troupe of performance artists—and wrangle them into a spot at the table. Buffy had hesitated to even suggest a big meal this year, because celebrating Joyce's favorite holiday without her seemed too much like admitting she was really gone.

But Dawn had insisted that she wanted to do Thanksgiving the way they always had. So they'd invited their friends and put together a menu comprised of Joyce's tried and true favorites. They had talked a lot about their mother as they made their plans, and more than once, Dawn had dissolved into tears. Buffy wasn't sure how to help her sister, not when she had to fight off tears herself. So she'd had misgivings about today; would it just be a reminder of how much they'd lost?

When the doorbell rang, Buffy shook herself from her thoughts. "I've got it," she called, and made her way downstairs. She plastered on a wide smile, determined to at least appear happy for Dawn's sake.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" Willow and Tara greeted her; behind them, Xander and Anya were just pulling up to the curb. Buffy ushered the women in and waited for the others to join them.

"Let me take your coats," she said, once everyone was inside. The small living room was abuzz with their voices. Buffy's smile became less forced the longer she listened to their animated chatter. It was good to have her friends around, and she felt some of her tension about the day dissipate.

Spike and Dawn wandered into living room. Well, Dawn barreled in and dispensed hugs while Spike hovered in the doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the door frame and watched the flurry of greetings with a small, sad smile on his face.

"You guys remember Spike, right?" Buffy re-introduced Spike to her friends. She remembered the circumstances of their first and only meeting. She snuck a glance at Spike and couldn't help thinking of how she had so wildly misjudged him. Neither of them had been at their best that first day. He looked up at her as she watched him make polite, manly conversation with Xander—who had always been a vociferous campaigner for adding more guys to their little gang. Her eyes met Spike's, and she felt an almost physical connection to him at that moment.

"I didn't know you and Spike were so friendly." Willow's quiet words startled Buffy; she'd been off in her own world and hadn't noticed her friend's approach.

"Oh, he, uh, we had a little plumbing issue this morning, which he fixed. So we asked him to stay for dinner." Buffy quailed at the questions in Willow's eyes and took the coward's way out. "Dawn gets along with him really well. Um, I'm going to go put these away," she said, indicating the armful of coats she still held, and escaped up the stairs before she had to explain why Dawn's friendship with their neighbor translated into Buffy making googly eyes at him. She dropped the coats on the bed and took a moment to gather her thoughts before returning to the kitchen to complete the final preparations for dinner.

Buffy announced that the meal was ready, and there was a brief scramble as everyone milled about the table. Dawn orchestrated the seating arrangements, and soon they were sitting down, a little crowded in the smallish dining area. But no one seemed to mind the occasional bumped elbow as they filled their plates. Buffy watched her guests nervously as they took their first bites. She felt like everything had gone well—apart from the minor almost-disaster of the morning—but was still relieved to see the yummy expressions that surrounded her.

"This is delicious, pet," Spike said. She sat at the head of the table, and Dawn had coerced Spike into taking the spot to Buffy's left. He tilted his head and smiled softly at her. "Think you've been fooling me about you needing cooking lessons."

Buffy ignored Willow's sudden look of pointed interest; that girl's eyebrows alone could say a thousand words. She shook her head, negating Spike's statement. "I can do simple stuff. Mashed potatoes and stuffing mix? Not really haute cuisine."

"S'okay." Spike leaned closer to her and spoke low so curious ears at the table couldn't hear him. "I don't mind doing the teaching."

Buffy couldn't ignore the quiver in her stomach his words triggered. She knew her cheeks were flushed, and she was sure everyone's eyes were on her. This was exactly why she'd been staying away from Spike. She wanted to ... She forced those thoughts out of her head. They were so far from PG-13 it wasn't even funny. Definitely not appropriate for a family dinner.

"How's school?" She directed her attention to Tara, who was seated to her right.

Tara had just popped a forkful of turkey into her mouth, so it was Willow who spoke up instead. "It's great! We've both been looking at options for grad school. There's a fantastic program at Berkley that Tara's interested in, and I like their physics department, so that's a possibility."

"B-but there's also MIT," Tara added. "That would be a great opportunity for you, sweetie. I can do my grad work almost anywhere."

"MIT?" Dawn said. "What's that? Where's that?"

Spike answered her question, and the conversation quickly rolled on. Buffy, though, was still stuck on the 'Massachusetts' portion of his response. She'd had no idea Willow and Tara were entertaining the idea of moving across the country. It was her own fault, she supposed. She was the one who'd stopped returning phone calls or making any effort to get together with her friends. It had been easy to bow out of long-standing social events, like Thursday nights at the Bronze, though it occurred to Buffy that her friends had easily accepted her flimsy excuses, as well.

She swirled her fork through her mashed potatoes and gravy, her good mood and her appetite taking a serious hit. It wasn't just the thought of two of her closest friends being thousands of miles away. She should be graduating from college in the spring, too; if her life hadn't been derailed, she might be making plans for grad school herself.

Buffy snickered. Okay, probably not grad school. Getting through undergrad studies had been work enough; school never had been her strong point. But the fact remained that while her friends were moving on with their lives, doing the things that any young adult might reasonably expect to do, she was stuck. Only twenty-two—well, nearly—and already in a dead-end job and saddled with a kid—

Buffy quelled that thought. She loved Dawn and wanted her around. It just ... wasn't fair. And there was nothing she could do about it. When she noticed Spike staring at her with a concerned look in his deep blue eyes, she forced a smile onto her face and her attention back to the conversation.

"—the summer in Europe. Well, a month, at least," Willow was saying. "We'd like to hit the highlights, you know? London, Paris, Rome, oh my."

"That sounds wonderful," Buffy said. The words sounded wooden to her ears, but no one seemed to notice her insincerity. "You guys will have a great time."

Xander cleared his throat and sent a meaningful glance at Anya. "Since we're talking about plans for next year," he began, "there's something we'd like to announce." He took his girlfriend's hand in his and smiled warmly at her. She grinned back, then turned to their waiting audience.

"We're getting married!"

The table erupted at the news; hugs and felicitations were dispensed, and Dawn peppered them with questions about their plans. Buffy could tell she was angling for an invitation to be a bridesmaid. She added her own congratulations, grateful for the level of excitement Willow and Tara were displaying, so her own rather hollow response went unremarked upon. She felt Spike's eyes on her again and raised her wine glass with a cheerful grin that didn't quite match up with her emotions.

"To Xander and Anya," she said, and everyone clinked their glasses together in a toast to the happy couple.

Spike leaned over the pool table, his eyes fixed on Buffy. ​​She was alone—a bubble of stillness and solitude, even surrounded by her friends. That desperately cheerful smile on her face might convince the casual observer that she didn't have a care in the world. Her friends should have recognized her detachment. Instead they chattered around her and never seemed to notice she wasn't engaged with them.

​He shook his head and gave his attention back to his game. "Nine at the side," he called, and neatly sunk his shot, as well as the next two. Dawn rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, and Spike remembered he was meant to be teaching the girl how to play pool. He deliberately scratched on his next go.

"Gee, thanks," Dawn said, and bent down to retrieve the cue ball. She placed it carefully on the table and took aim at the two.

"Hang on, pidge." Spike moved to her side and pointed her cue at the four instead. "Try that. Real gentle on the cue ball, but remember to follow through." He watched as she lined up her shot, and then grinned when she excitedly squealed at sinking the ball.

"Did you see that?" Dawn was all smiles as she re-chalked the cue and circled the table, eyeing up her possibilities.

"Sure did." Spike leaned against the drink rail and fiddled with a cigarette. Stupid anti-smoking laws. He glanced up and just caught the quick movement of Buffy's head as she pulled her eyes away from him. He was reminded for a moment of the last time he'd been playing pool at the Bronze while she watched him. He'd been mindlessly flirting with that Harmony bird, but been cognizant of her gaze on him. And then, out in the alley ... Was that where it had started, this obsession with Buffy?

​He stepped outside into the warm night, as relieved to be away from the vapid blonde who'd attached herself to him as he was to be getting a nicotine fix. A crowd of teenagers spilled out of the Bronze's front door and wandered down the street in a jumble of excited voices; Spike moved away from their bustle, into the dark maw of the alley that backed the club. He smoked silently, unhurriedly.

The heavy metal door clanged behind him, and he turned to see who was in the alley with him. The figure was at first shrouded in shadow, but then she stepped under a light and leaned wearily against the brick wall. Buffy. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and sniffled once or twice. Spike watched her for a moment before feeling as if he were intruding on something private. He knew enough of his neighbor to feel sure she wouldn't welcome his presence right now. He pitched his cigarette butt away and slipped out of the alley and back into the Bronze through the main entrance.

He found himself searching the club for her later, his attention continually drawn back to her. After several minutes she came back in, all traces of whatever had been bothering her missing from her smiling face. It was only after her little friends left that she gave up the pretense of a good mood. Spike watched her as she drank her way through the rest of the night. He wasn't sure what it was that compelled him to step in when he saw her reach for her keys; he simply knew he couldn't let that girl find her own way home. He pushed Harmony's clinging hands away and made his way to Buffy's side.

She was doing it again, had been all day. Putting on a show for her friends, tamping down whatever demons she was struggling with so the people she loved wouldn't worry. Her eyes settled on him as he watched her, and he sent her a smile. Her lips curved up slowly, a small, secret smile that felt just for him. Spike's stupid heart stuttered for about the tenth time since she'd tendered an invitation for him to spend the day with her and Dawn—to be part of her family.

"Uh, Earth to Spike?" He tore his eyes away from Buffy's. Dawn held out the cue ball. "I scratched."

"Try it again, then," he said. He threw a glance over the table and set the ball down in a likely spot. "Here, you can make the six, easy as pie." Dawn scooted around the table, and he dropped a hand on hers to help her aim. When he stepped back to let her take the shot, his eyes gravitated to Buffy. She was watching him again, and Spike felt a rush of satisfaction that, for all she'd skittered away every time he'd tried to start a conversation with her, she couldn't take her eyes off him. He held her gaze for a moment, until Dawn's defeated groan distracted him.

"I'm never gonna get this," she complained.

"Sure you will. Just takes practice." Spike pushed Buffy to the back of his mind and focused his attention on the other girl in his life. "C'mere," he beckoned. "Don't even worry about stripes or solids, right? Take some shots and get the feel for it."

He coached her through clearing the table—with a little help—and then let her rack the balls for 'a real game.'

Spike broke and with a loud clack​, the neat triangle of balls careened around the table. The two and the thirteen disappeared into pockets. He leaned over the table again and very carefully missed sinking the eleven. He'd left a nice, easy shot for Dawn, hopefully without making it too obvious that's what he was doing. "How're things at home?" he asked idly, as he stepped out of her way.

Dawn shrugged. "Fine, I guess." She looked up at him, a question on her face, and Spike pointed to the seven hovering near the corner pocket.

"You're managing to stay out of trouble, I hope. School's being attended and all that?"

She gave him a sharp look from the corner of her eye as she took aim at the ball he'd indicated, but ignored his question until after she'd taken her turn. She sighed as the seven caromed away from the pocket. "Stupid game," she muttered. Then: "Yes, I've been going to school. And doing my homework, thanks to Willow and Tara. Buffy doesn't let me have any unsupervised time anymore, so ..."
He squeezed her shoulder as he walked past her. "That's what you get when you screw up. Lots of adults telling you what to do."

Dawn shrugged again and leaned one hip against the table. "Yeah, whatever. I mean, I like hanging out with them, but ..." She gnawed on her lip before continuing. "Buffy's too busy with her stupid job to spend any time with me. I know she has to work so we have, like, food and stuff. I just wish—"

Whatever teenage desire she'd been about to divulge was destined to remain a mystery, as a floppy-haired, baggy-jeaned boy walked up to her. "Hi, Dawn," he said, and she turned bright red under the boy's attention.

"Uh, h-hi, Jason. Happy Thanksgiving."

"Are you busy? Do you want to dance with me?"

Dawn shot a look at Spike, who merely raised one eyebrow. "Well, um, I was playing pool, but ... You don't mind, do you, Spike?"

He held out his hand for her cue. "'Course not, pigeon. Off you go, now."

"Thanks!" Dawn gave him a quick hug. "Buffy's up in the balcony," she whispered in his ear before scampering off with the boy. Spike watched her go, bemused at her parting words. Leave it to the fourteen-year-old to either notice his interest in her sister or simply try her hand at matchmaking. Regardless, his eyes were drawn to the balcony, where Buffy stood at the railing, a drink in her hand. She stared out over the dance floor, that same distant look she'd sported at dinner firmly in residence on her face.

Spike placed his and Dawn's cues back in the wall rack, stopped at the bar, and then made his way up to the balcony. He lingered for a moment at the top of the stairs, taking in Buffy's figure against the strobing lights that illuminated the stage. She was dressed almost primly, with her buttoned-up-to-the-chin, long-sleeved blouse and a knee-length skirt. Her hair hung in soft curls around her shoulders, and Spike thought that he liked it best when it was down, all golden and shiny. He thought about pushing it aside and leaning in to kiss her just behind the ear. She'd smell of her shampoo, the light perfume she wore, her sweat. Then he tamped down his baser urges and noticed that her shoulders were drawn tight; tension radiated from every fiber of her body. The artifice was gone. With no one watching her, no audience to perform for, even a complete stranger would be able to tell she wasn't happy.

Buffy's attention was still fixed on the crowd of people before her, and she gave no indication of noticing him till he sidled up to the railing next to her. "Hullo, pet," he said. "Having a good time?"

He expected a quick, positive response from her; he was taken by surprise when she shook her head. "This used to be one of my favorite Thanksgiving traditions." She didn't look at him as she spoke. "After the family stuff, we always come here. It's this unspoken thing: all survivors of Sunnydale High will get extremely drunk together on turkey day. It's our chance to catch up and, you know, show off to each other. But I really don't want to play the 'so what have you been up to this year?' game anymore. It's kind of depressing to not have any news to share other than 'Oh, I dropped out of school and started working at the Doublemeat.' Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"

"Think I can imagine," Spike said. "You had good reasons for what you did, though, yeah? I'm sure your friends understand that. You've got nothing to be ashamed of, Buffy."

"Nothing to be proud of, either." She tipped her head back and drained the rest of her drink.

"So it's a pity party, then, is it?" He handed her the drink he'd bought her; he'd taken a chance and ordered a fruity cocktail along with his beer.

Buffy took the drink with a glare in his direction. "You think I don't have a reason to feel sorry for myself?"

He tipped up his beer for a long swallow. "Didn't say that, love. Just ... not what I'd expect from you."

"What's that mean?"

Spike turned to face her full on, waiting until he had her attention before speaking. "You're the strongest person I've ever met, Buffy. Everything you've done since you lost your mum—moving out of your house, putting your dreams and plans on hold to raise your sister— Not many people I know would do what you've done. And from what I've seen, you do it without fanfare. Without asking anyone to notice how much you're giving up. So, yeah, maybe you've got a reason or six to justify a little self-pity. But it doesn't seem like your style."

Buffy stared at him for a long, breathless moment before turning away. Spike followed her gaze to where her friends danced together: two happy couples amongst the crush of people on the dance floor.

"It's not fair," she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her. "Everyone's all ... paired up and making plans and moving on with their lives. What am I doing? Look," she gestured at the writhing crowd, "even Dawn has someone to be with." She leaned over slightly and rested her wrists on the wooden railing, the drink nestled between her small hands. "What do I have? There's no one I even think I want to feel like that about, the way Xander and Anya ... They're getting married, Willow and Tara are going to move away for school, and I'll just be here. Stuck."

Spike swallowed hard and tamped down on his impulse to declare himself, to tell her all the feelings that swelled up inside him whenever he was around her. He stood silent next to her, the two of them alone together in the crowded club. The rhythms of the band swirled around them until Buffy suddenly turned to him.

"Dance with me?" There was no joy in her face as she turned to him; the invitation sounded stilted and awkward. But when she held out her hand, he took it without hesitation and led her down the stairs. They deposited their drinks—both mostly empty now—on the bar on their way to the dance floor. Spike pulled her into his arms and thanked whatever powers-that-be as Buffy molded her body against his.

Buffy wasn't sure what had possessed her to ask Spike to dance. Maybe it was being fed up with being the fifth wheel after spending the evening watching Xander and Anya make googly eyes at each other while Tara and Willow cuddled together. Or maybe it was the sting of Cordelia Chase's pseudo-sympathy when she'd gotten caught up to the non-events in Buffy's life over the past year.

Well, that wasn't fair. It wasn't Cordy's fault that everything out of her mouth sounded sarcastic.

Whatever had prompted her words, Buffy was glad he'd accepted her invitation. Spike held her close, and she let her eyes slip shut. Just for a few minutes, she wanted to pretend that her life had never gotten derailed. She ought to be a senior this year. Maybe she'd have been renting a house with Willow and Tara, rather than spending another year in the dorm.

She had the renting a house thing down, at least.

Buffy pushed the bitter thought away and tightened her hold on Spike's hand. He slipped an arm around her; his hand settled at the small of her back and traced random patterns there. Her skin felt almost too warm beneath his touch. She allowed herself to lean on him and for a moment let herself wish she had what she'd been envying all night.

It wasn't that she wanted a boyfriend—and she certainly wasn't thinking of Spike as potential boyfriend material, because can you say awkward? Buffy was pretty sure dating your neighbor was right up there with ... a really, really wrong thing. But he smelled incredible—leather and smoke and just the smell of him rising off his skin—and they fit together perfectly. And … She wondered if he really meant the things he'd said to her. He thought she was strong? That she was doing something … worthwhile. Buffy hadn't thought of it in those terms before. She just … did what had to be done. And most of the time she didn't think she was doing any of it very well. Maybe, though. It wasn't like Spike was her biggest fan; she knew she'd made an amazingly terrible first impression.

And second impression. And third … Buffy let out a sharp, quick laugh and relaxed against Spike as they swayed to the music. They circumscribed a tight circle in their corner of the dance floor, until she remembered the last time she'd been in his arms. When she'd kissed him.

She took a deep breath and pulled back a little. She looked up to see Spike looking down at her, an unreadable expression in his blue eyes. The silence between them suddenly became uncomfortable.

"So, William Williams?" she said. "Were your parents hoping you'd grow up to be a poet or what?"

Spike grinned stiffly and shook his head. "My birth name was William Henry Pratt." A muscle twitched in his jaw as he continued, "The Third."

She blinked. "Oh. Well. That sounds ... aristocratic."

"Maybe a bit less so than you'd imagine."

"Meaning?"

His eyes went hard for a second. Buffy found herself regretting the offhand question. She opened her mouth to tell him to forget it or maybe to change the subject, when he spoke.

"Meaning my father was a berk who thought he was something because he'd had a run of luck in the stock exchange. He'd have done well enough to have left off with the airs and skipped the establishing a dynasty gig." He sighed, and the anger faded from his expression. "And that's enough about my family. Now, you, pet—"

"What about me?"

Spike smiled down at her as he spun her around in time to the music. "Yeah. What are you gonna do?"

"Do? I don't—"

He pulled her in close to him and snugged their clasped hands up to his chest. "You don't want to work at that grease factory forever."

Buffy dropped her gaze to their entwined hands. Spike's forefinger, clad in a plain silver band and chipped black nail polish, stroked along her thumb. She felt as if her entire being were focused on that one tiny point of contact. Silly when she was pressed against him from chest to knee, but that light touch did more to rattle her nerves than the warmth of him up and down her body.

"Buffy?" He let go of her hand and tipped her chin up. Whatever he saw on her face made him frown. "I apologize. I didn't mean to, um, interfere."

"No, I mean, you're right. But it's what I have to do right now."

"Why?"

"You're kidding, right?" She shook her head and laughed bitterly. The hurt that clanged through her took her by surprise; why had she been so sure Spike would understand? "You've met my sister, the human garbage disposal. What part of this equation don't you get?"

He blinked at her sharp words. "You don't belong there, Buffy. You're something—You're better than that."

She shrugged, made uncomfortable under his scrutiny and his good opinion of her. "I don't see a lot of options," she said finally. "I don't know what else to do."

"Don't have to figure it out on your own, do you? Your friends are there for you. Seems they've really stepped up since …" He fell silent, and just like that the awkward was back in their conversation.

Buffy struggled for something to say that wouldn't sound stupid or dismissive. She knew she'd been childish about the whole thing. It was just a kiss, right? Only, as she snuck a look up at him, it didn't seem like such a simple thing. "I'm sorry," she blurted out.

"Sorry? For what?"

"I've been avoiding you, and you've been so … so helpful and good to me. And I just … I shouldn't have done that." Then, before she could stop herself: "I missed you."

"Did you, now?" The self-satisfied smirk on Spike's face made Buffy want to recall her impetuous words. Then the sharp angles of his face and the sharp look in his eyes melted into something softer, warmer. He stroked her cheek with his fingers before slipping his hand through her hair to curl at the nape of her neck. "I missed you, too, kitten."

Buffy stared at Spike. Mutual missage. What did that mean? Just that they were ... friends. Who missed each other. Only what she was feeling right now was so far from friendship. Even with her ex-boyfriends, she'd never felt this irresistible pull to another person.

His thumb stroked along her neck just behind her ear. She shivered pleasantly at the caress. The song ended, and Buffy was distantly aware that they were no longer swaying to the music. Spike's arm tightened around her waist, and he leaned in toward her and spoke her name.

"Buffy!"

And that was a different voice altogether. She turned her head slowly, caught in Spike's gaze like a fly in sap. Dawn's grinning face made her move hastily two feet to the right. "Dawn. Hi. We're dancing." Stupid brain. Her sister's grin only widened.

"Okay, whatever, weirdo. Is it all right if I go home with Willow and Tara? Please, please, please?"

Buffy scrambled to switch gears and focus on Dawn. She couldn't shake her awareness of Spike; he glowed like neon next to her. "Uh, where's Willow? I'd like to talk to her before—"

"She's getting her coat. She said it's fine. Can I go?" Dawn bounced on her toes, nearly burbling over. She made her eyes go wide and put a pout on her face. She'd obviously forgotten who'd patented that look.

Buffy scanned the crowd looking for Willow. She was just getting seriously annoyed at the tall boy with the exceedingly puffy hair who kept getting in her line of vision when her friend's voice sounded in her ear.

"Hey, sweetie, we're taking off. Am I taking Dawnie with me?"

"Are you sure it's okay?" Buffy twisted her fingers together and tried not to feel guilty about her overwhelming desire to not be responsible for her sister tonight.

Willow laughed and wrapped an arm around Dawn's shoulders. "It's no bother. We love this kid."

Buffy nodded. "Thanks, Willow." She reached for her sister and pulled her into a hug. "Happy Thanksgiving, Dawn," she whispered in the younger girl's ear. Then she forced out the words she wished came more naturally to her: "I love you."

Dawn squeezed her tight before stepping back. In that moment, the absence of their mother was a physical pain that shook Buffy to the core. She doubted, from the smile on Dawn's face, that her sister felt the same keen loss as she herself did. She had to wonder at the timing; surely when she was trying to remember the exact proportion of spices for the apple pie would have been a better instant to need her mother. But it was there nonetheless, a sucking chest wound that she'd somehow forgotten.

Spike's hand pressed warm at the small of her back, and Buffy pushed the pain away. She caught Dawn's uncertain expression and smiled warmly. "What time should I pick you up tomorrow?" she said.

"Oh, um, I can … can I just call when I'm ready?"

Buffy nodded again. "That's perfect, Dawn. Have fun, okay?" They said their goodbyes, and then she was alone with Spike. She turned to him. "How about another dance?" She forced a bright smile onto her face, though of everyone she knew, he seemed the least likely to be fooled by her act.

"My pleasure." Spike fixed his eyes on hers as he pulled her back into his arms. She went willingly, and they moved slowly to the music. Buffy tucked her head beneath his chin; she could hear the steady lub-dub of his heart under her ear. It was easier to be away from his piercing gaze. She felt herself relax again as the immediacy of her sudden longing for her mother began to fade.

The band tore into a new tune with a more upbeat tempo. Spike surprised her by turning her around so her back was to his chest. His hands on her hips urged her to move in time to the music. Buffy felt her cheeks grow warm at the intimate contact, but then she tamped down on her embarrassment and lost herself in the physicality of the dance.

She let her head fall back as they danced, their bodies close enough that she could feel Spike's ... could feel HIM pressing into her buttocks. She gave in to the sudden need to press her hips against him. He took a deep breath, and his left hand slid around her abdomen to hold her firmly in place. His other hand reached up, pulled her loose curls back from her left shoulder. He leaned forward, rested his chin in the curve of her shoulder as his fingers dragged slowly through her hair and continued down her arm.

"Buffy," he said. The movement of his lips near her ear sent a chill skating along her nerves. She thought of kissing him: the taste of him, his mouth beneath hers, thought of how his arms had felt clutched in her hands, his skin warm over clenched muscles. His free hand curled up her side, stopping only when his thumb brushed against the swell of her breast. He spoke again—"Buffy"—and just the way he pronounced her name made her know that she could have anything she wanted from him tonight.

That thought spiraled around her brain, gaining import as she moved in unison with him. His mouth trailed along her throat; he dragged his teeth against her skin, but so gently and politely that it felt like a kiss. Buffy reached up with both arms and twined them around his neck. Her eyes slipped closed as they danced, and he continued to ply her with soft lips and warm breath. She was sure there was a reason she should put an end to this, but there was nothing in the world she wanted to do less than make Spike stop touching her. The music swirled over her, and she shimmied her hips to the rhythm.

Just for tonight, she thought, I can do anything I want.

Dawn hopped out of the car with a quick goodbye and scurried up the sidewalk to the house. She could hear the thumping bass of some generic pop song from the street; a clamor of voices rose an octave above the blur of music. She turned the doorknob and cracked the door open. Awash in the spill of party noise, Dawn turned and waved to Willow and Tara. A sigh of relief escaped her when they waved back and drove off. She'd been worried for about half a second when Willow had come up to talk to Buffy. Luckily her sister was too googly-eyed over Spike to pay too much attention. Dawn was half-surprised she hadn't broken up a snogfest when she interrupted them. She saw the way they'd been, like, looking at each other.

She stepped into the house, instantly too warm in her red woolen coat. She stripped it off and scanned the crowded living room she found herself in. A keg held place of honor in one corner, and Dawn moved that way. Navigating a party where she knew next to nobody might be easier with a beer in her stomach. She filled a plastic glass and took a nervous sip before glancing around again. Okay, so she recognized almost everyone in the room, but there was certainly no one she would call a friend—or dare strike up a conversation with. Then a pair of blue eyes beneath a shock of dark hair caught her gaze. A smile curved her lips, and the rest of the party faded away as Jason moved toward her.

She was going to have so much fun tonight.

It was an off-hand comment, "Get a room" tossed at them in a disdainful manner, that stopped them. Half a second after Spike heard the words, processed the phrase as the truly brilliant idea it truly was, Buffy detached herself from him. She pressed a hand to his chest and cast a furtive glance around from their dark (but completely not private) alcove under the stairs. Perhaps she'd forgotten all her friends had gone already.

"Stop," she said. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him. Her obvious denial burned, and he didn't want to let her pretend there was nothing going on here. It was she who'd turned to him on the dance floor; she who'd pulled him into a searing kiss, wound her arms around his neck and twined her body against his. Spike curled his fingers around her hips and tugged her closer to him.

"Why?" He pressed his forehead against hers. His breath rushed out of him, and she had to feel how much he wanted her. Buffy twisted against him, and their mouths met again. He couldn't get close enough to her, though she was pressed so tightly against him a whisper wouldn't fit between them. He wanted more, wanted her skin bared to his fingers, wanted her mouth and hands on his flesh.

Only she'd said 'stop' so he mustered up everything in him and did just that. He pulled his mouth from hers and put an arm's length between them. "Buffy," he said. Just that, her name like a prayer, and nothing else. He fixed his eyes on hers. In his peripheral vision he saw her lick her lips, then she nodded slightly.

"Not here." Her voice was hushed, but the words were clear. She stepped towards him, closed the distance and wrapped her hands around his biceps. "Take me home," she whispered, and dropped a kiss just below his ear.

Spike tugged her across the bench seat and out the driver's side door. It may have been quicker to disentangle themselves, but Buffy had no desire to remove her lips from Spike's, or peel her hands out from under his shirt. Judging by the firm grasp he had on her ass, he could relate.

They stumbled clumsily up the few steps to his door. Spike spun them so he could reach the doorknob and banged the back of Buffy's head against the door in doing so. She grunted at the impact.

Spike pulled away from her, and somehow that hurt worse than the slight ache at the back of her skull. "Sorry about that," he said. His lips moved against her cheek with his words.

"I'm fine." She buried her fingers in his hair and pulled him back to her for another searching, searing kiss. He fumbled with the keys for a minute before the door finally opened behind her.

Buffy was the one to break the kiss this time. She backed over the threshold, keeping her eyes fixed on Spike. The blue of his eyes had gone dark; their smoldering heat stirred a reaction deep in her belly. Spike slammed the door shut with such force that the windows in the living room rattled in their panes. He stalked toward her, quickly closing the gap between them. A bolt of desire shot through her. She needed his hands on her, his mouth on hers, his lips and tongue moving in concert with her own.

Spike kissed her hard, holding her face in his hands, and walked her backwards into a wall. He fisted his hands in her hair, almost to the point of pain, before releasing her from his grip and his mouth at the same time. He splayed both hands against the wall and leaned his forehead against hers. His breath came in fast gasps against her lips; his body pinned her to the wall. He pressed, hard and needy, against her belly as his chest moved against hers. When she squirmed against him, he inhaled sharply, then shifted his hips against hers.

Buffy moaned and reached up to recapture his incredible mouth. He kissed as if he were dying for her, as if he'd been too long in a desert and she was a spring of clear water. He drank her down; she'd never been kissed like this before. With no conscious effort, her legs came up around his waist, and she climbed him like a vine.

Spike wrapped an arm around her to support her weight; his other hand snaked up her left thigh, under her skirt. His fingers grazed against her pussy. One finger slipped beneath the elastic of her panties and dragged slowly along her labia. She squirmed into his too-light touch, wanting more. Now.

His hand disappeared from her sex, and then he peeled her legs from around him. Buffy firmly disagreed with this plan and tightened her grip in protest. Spike pulled his mouth off of hers. "Wanna see you, pet." His voice, a sinful whisper—like stolen chocolate—rumbled through her, zinged an electric shock straight to her clit.

Her feet hit the floor.

He stepped back and raked his hungry eyes over her. His glance tripped along her nerves; she could honest-to-god feel his eyes on her body.

"Touch me," she commanded.

Spike arched his scarred eyebrow at her tone and rolled his tongue behind his smug grin. The silver barbell through his tongue winked at Buffy, and she was suddenly consumed with the need—a deep, physical ache—to know how that would feel on her clit.

"But you're all covered up," Spike said. He trailed a finger along the high collar of her shirt. "You look like a Victorian schoolmarm. All buttoned up and prim."

"A schoolmarm?"

Buffy barely had time to get offended before he leaned in and nibbled gently on her throat. "Mmhmm. It's fucking hot."

"Oh—"

He caught her lips with his, and his hands skimmed over her arms. Though he was barely touching her, it was driving her crazy.

"Spike, you need to—" She met his eyes, and her courage suddenly failed her.

"Oh, I know what I need to do." His hands went to the collar of her shirt and yanked. Buttons flew from their moorings and clattered across the wood floor. "Oops."

His unapologetic smirk begged to be wiped off his face. Buffy launched herself from the wall and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. Spike worked her shirt down her arms. Her wrists caught in the sleeves, and for a moment she was helpless before him, her hands tangled together at the small of her back. He released her from the fabric before she could fully process the surge of fresh lust that jolted through her.

"Upstairs," she managed between frantic kisses. "Now." She would have said please, but Spike was rather insistent she use her tongue for other purposes. She wasn't inclined to argue.

They made slow, stumbling progress across the foyer to the staircase. After half-crawling backwards up three risers, Buffy stopped and tugged at the hem of Spike's t-shirt. "Off." He obliged her and skinned it off in one smooth motion.

Guh. She put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. Her palms curved over his pecs, cupped the small swell of muscle lightly as her fingers pinched his nipples. She leaned forward and sucked his left nipple into her mouth. The ring piercing it danced on her tongue as she teased the hardening bud.

Spike snaked an arm around her and pulled her tight against him. His other hand threaded through her hair and gently pulled her head away from his chest. He panted for breath and just stared at her. "Are you real? You are … fuck, Buffy, I—" He crushed her to him and plundered her mouth with his. Slowly, slowly, he nudged her up and back.

His hands were busy as they crab-crawled up the stairs. He deftly unhooked her bra and pulled it from her arms. He pushed her up another step as his tongue swirled around first one nipple and then the other. His hand unzipped her skirt and maneuvered it down her legs. By the time they'd climbed another two stairs, she was naked save for her black thong and her knee-high boots.

Spike leaned back and looked at her. His hand traced the path his eyes took. His fingers glided across her collarbone, through the valley between her breasts, over the curve of her ribs to dip into her belly button. She shivered under the feathery attentions; a trail of gooseflesh followed his touch. "So pretty, Buffy," he said as he curved forward and pressed a kiss to her stomach. Her abdominal muscles jumped. His hand curved around her hip as he kissed his way to the edge of her thong. He grasped the elastic in his teeth and pulled it away from her skin, then let it snap back into place.

"Up," Buffy said. She twined her fingers through his hair and tugged him to her for another kiss. They made steady progress until Buffy's heel caught on the second-to-last riser, and she landed on her back in the upstairs hallway. The floor was cold against her overheated skin. Spike was on her before she could get up, hovering above her and sucking on her nipples while his other hand dipped inside her panties to stroke against her slippery skin.

He pinched her clit between his thumb and forefinger and tugged gently. "Ooohh." Buffy writhed against his fingers; she panted and twisted on the floor. "Oh, my god. Please," she said. "Please, please." She had never heard herself sound like this before: breathy and desperate. She wasn't even sure what she was asking for, what she wanted him to do. She just wanted more. More of his hands on her, more of his skin against hers, more of his mouth and tongue and clever fingers.

He slid his thumb inside of her in response to her pleas, and the heel of his hand pressed against her clit. She strained into the pressure and nearly sobbed when his hand slipped away from her. Spike released her breast with a wet plop and looked down at her. He licked his lips and bent down to tease a kiss across her mouth. He pulled away when she sought to deepen the kiss.

"Spike. Please."

"Mmm, love hearing you say my name," he said. He flicked his tongue across the strand of silver hoop earrings that scaled down the shell of her ear. Her toes curled. "Love hearing you beg." Spike met her affronted glare with a smirk. "What do you want me to do, now you're asking so nice?"

Buffy caught her breath. What she wanted. Spike twirled his tongue behind his teeth again, and the flashing silver jewelry caught her eye. She watched, mesmerized, as he pushed the barbell along the cage of his teeth, expertly rolling it around in his mouth. "I want you to—" She bit her tongue and felt herself blush as she nearly dared to name her desire.

Spike didn't miss her embarrassment, of course. Not with the way her body was glowing like a giant flashing neon sign. "Ooh, you went all pink, kitten." He lowered his head to dip his tongue into her belly button and drag it up her abdomen and between her breasts. He moved up her chest until the ball of his tongue stud traced the notch of bone at the apex of her sternum. She shivered as the jewelry hummed along her skin.

"I know what you want," Spike whispered against her collarbone. He slid his hand down her side, and his fingers snuck beneath her panties to stroke her hip. He worked an arm beneath her, lifting her off the floor so he could slide her silky thong down her legs. When it got caught on the heel of her boot, he tugged roughly until it came free with a rrrip. Buffy glared at him; he smiled smugly in return as he slipped her ruined underwear into his back pocket.

"You're awfully hard on my wardrobe, Spike," she said.

He laughed at that. He grabbed her hand and placed it between his legs. The heat of his engorged penis radiated through the fabric of his jeans. "I'm just awfully hard." He grinned as she blushed a deeper red. She didn't move her hand, though.

"That's … mature." But she laughed as she said it, and still her hand didn't move.

It was a strange moment. Laying naked on her neighbor's floor, her hand on his dick, her pussy craving his tongue: it was hot and erotic—and completely unlike her. And possibly the best Thanksgiving she'd ever had. If someone had told her this was what she'd be doing tonight, the last word she'd have associated with it was fun. But that's what she realized now: she was having fun with Spike.

Naked fun. There were worse things in the world, though maybe that was just the four cocktails talking.

Then Spike's eyes met hers again, and Buffy nearly gasped at the raw need on his face. He trailed a finger up her right leg, and all thoughts of fun were burned out of her, replaced by the fire his touch ignited along all her nerves. He reached the junction of her thighs and nudged her legs apart with a tap. She let her knees fall out to the side and lay there, splayed and naked, open to his heated stare.

"Look at you." His lips followed the path his finger had just traveled. He pressed a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses on the soft flesh of her thighs. He paused when he reached her sex and gusted a breath over the curls that covered her. "You're so wet for me." He dipped a finger between her labia, dragging it from her entrance up, up to tap against her swollen clit.

"Spike." She panted out two quick breaths. "Want—"

He looked up at her. They both held their breath as Spike's finger circled the nubbin of flesh. "I know, Buffy." He dropped his head to brush a kiss onto her moist flesh. Her hips bucked up.

Buffy gasped when he took his mouth away. He'd been teasing her—light touches and soft kisses designed to excite her without allowing her any satisfaction—and she'd had enough. She took hold of his head in both hands, her nails digging into his scalp. He chuckled against her skin and allowed her to push his head between her thighs.

Spike curled his hands under her hips, cupped her ass in his palms, and tipped her pelvis up to him. Finally—finally!—his tongue slipped into her folds and leisurely licked her from bottom to top. He swirled the tip of his tongue around her clit, then flattened it against her.

"Hoh!" Buffy squirmed beneath him. Spike released his hold on her buttocks in order to throw her legs over his shoulders and press a finger into her pussy. Her arms spasmed out to her sides, and her fingers scrabbled across the floor in search of something to hang on to as he licked and nuzzled and sucked. He pulled her clit into his mouth. She could feel the firm pressure from the barbell when he ran his tongue over her sensitive bundle of nerves. It was subtler than she'd imagined it would be, but the sensation sent a thrill racing through her.

Another finger joined the first one he'd slide inside her, and Buffy's stomach muscles clenched. He pressed harder, and the motion twanged and pulled at something deep inside her; a wave of reverberations swept through her body. She could feel the press of his fingers all the way to her scalp and her fingertips. It was too much, too fast, and she let out a wordless wail, her back arching off the floor. Spike chuckled against her cunt, and the vibrations spread through her. Her inner muscles fluttered, warning of her impending orgasm. She was so close. Then his fingers were gone, and Buffy almost screamed in frustration.

"Spike … please," she begged. His hand smoothed over her abdomen and held her down when she rocked her hips up again.

"I got you," Spike said. His breath puffed out over her engorged folds, and his tongue replaced the emptiness left by his fingers. Buffy swiveled her hips up to his mouth, driving him deeper inside her. Her heels dug into his back. She worried fleetingly about hurting him with the sharp heels of her boots, then his tongue moved against a spot inside her that drove all thoughts out of her head. He planted a hand on her breast and rolled the nipple between his fingers. At the same time, his other hand plucked at her clit.

Buffy's climax ripped through her like a storm. Even though she'd known it was coming, the intensity of her orgasm took her by surprise. She gasped out a breath. Every muscle in her body clenched and tightened; her legs vised around Spike's head, and her hands clamped into the hard ridge of muscle on his shoulders. When she came back to herself, she was shaking, trembling like a new leaf in a windstorm. Tears ran down her face.

"Oh, my god," she managed. "That was …"

Spike rested his chin on her pubic bone and smiled lazily at her. His fingers still played at her nipple, and tiny aftershocks skittered across her skin. "That was a bloody revelation." He released her breast and slowly stood up. "And I'm not half done with you, pet."

He reached a hand out to her and lifted her up to stand before him. He quickly unlaced his boots and kicked them off to separate corners of the hall. His hands went to his waistband and unbuttoned his fly. Buffy watched with bated breath as he pushed the jeans over his slim hips and down his legs until he stood naked in front of her. She ran her eyes over him, appreciating the contour of his muscular chest and arms, the definition of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hips. Then her gaze went lower and ...

"What is that?"

Spike followed her gaze to his cock. He grasped it in his left hand and gave it three long, slow strokes. Buffy's eyes and mouth opened into wide circles of amazement. Awe, Spike liked to think. He grinned and hitched his head to the side.

"Why, a bossy little thing like you? Don't even tell me you've never seen one of these before." He tugged his cock in her direction.

Buffy kicked one knee out and planted her hands on her hips. And, wow, did that do wonderful things to her tits. She looked like a fucking sex goddess: naked except for those knee-high boots with the wicked heels, nipples at full attention, lips red and swollen, and hair all mussed. He licked a taste of her luscious pussy from his lips.

And she was talking.

Spike released the grip he held on his penis; if he didn't, he'd end up coming just from the sight of her. "What's what, now, love?"

"That. Thing. In. Your." Buffy's bravado vanished, and she gestured vaguely at his pelvic region rather than complete her sentence. Spike smirked and took himself in hand again.

"Oh, this?" He pulled his foreskin back so she could get a good look at the thick stud running top-to-bottom through the head. "I think you're going to like this one, pet."

Buffy reached out a tentative hand and, with one gentle finger, traced around the piercing. He hissed in a breath at her barely-there touch, and she glanced up at him, startled.

"Didn't that hurt?" she asked. "I mean, like, a lot?"

Spike chuckled. "It did at that. Felt like I was on fire for three weeks straight." He grasped her wrist and pulled her flush to him. For the first time he felt her completely naked and pressed against his own bare skin. He wanted to do this every day for the rest of his life. Be with Buffy. In every way.

He wondered if she'd ever feel the same about him.

He spread his left hand across the small of her back; his pinky grazed the cleft of her ass, and she trembled against him. His other hand stroked the sweat-dampened strands of hair from her flushed cheeks. Buffy's eyes were still riveted to his cock—now pressed between their bodies. It jumped under her gaze. She flicked a look up at him, then back down to the object of her fascination. She reached out again and wrapped her thumb and forefinger around the shaft, just behind the glans. She rolled her fingers, and her breathing quickened as she watched his foreskin slide back and forth.

"I've never been with anyone who wasn't, um, you know. Circumcised."

How she could blush after he'd just had his tongue so far up her pussy she'd cried was a wonder to Spike. That almost derailed him from asking the question that had immediately occurred to him. "How many?"

Her hand stilled, and he realized, yes, he really had just said that aloud. Buffy stared at him, her expression unreadable.

"Sorry, pet." He looked down at his penis, the head nearly purple with blood and desire, and at Buffy's delicate fingers encircling him. "Bit distracted and all."

She licked her lips, and Spike couldn't pass up the temptation. He kissed her fiercely, wanting to erase the hint of doubt his impetuous words had brought to her eyes. She wound her arms around his neck and leaned into him, deepening the kiss. It was no work at all to lift her lithe frame into his arms and make his way down the hall to his bedroom. He set her down beside the bed and knelt in front of her to unzip her boots. Buffy steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as he slid the first boot from her foot.

Her fingers traced over his back, and he winced as they brushed across a sore spot just below his shoulder blade. "I hurt you," she said quietly.

Spike slipped the other boot off and looked up at her. "'S'okay." He smiled. "Totally worth it, to watch you come." Another blush swept through her, igniting her skin. He trailed his hands up her legs and over her hips as he stood, then cradled the weight of her breasts in his palms. His thumbs tweaked her nipples, and she let out a little breathy gasp. Christ, he loved the noises she made.

Her eyes were wide and dark. "You're not … not into getting hurt when you're—" Buffy flicked his nipple ring lightly, then wrapped her warm hand around his cock. "Is that what the piercings are about? You like to be hurt?"

He groaned as she tightened her fist around him and moved it slowly up and down. "N-no," he stuttered, and grabbed her wrist, freeing himself. He sat on the bed and pulled her down to sit next to him. "These," he gestured at his piercings, "didn't have anything to do with sex."

Buffy raised an eyebrow and sent a pointed glance toward his nether regions. "Really. But I'll like that one, isn't that what you said?"

Spike smoothed her hair behind her ear and leaned in to nibble at her neck. "Mmm, you will, kitten," he said, and licked a line up her neck. "Didn't get it for that reason, 's'just a bonus, that it's gonna make you feel good."

"Oh." She tipped her head back to give him easier access to her throat. She moaned and whimpered as he took full advantage of her open invitation. His little sex kitten, and he was making her purr. He cupped his hands around her breasts, but then Buffy put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

"So why'd you do that?"

She was staring at his cock again. Which Spike didn't mind, but he'd rather she stop talking about it and start touching it again. He wondered if she'd suck it if he asked very nicely. Then he processed her words. He needed a moment to allow his blood-deprived brain to formulate an answer so he leaned Buffy back onto the bed and distracted her by licking her breasts until she moaned.

The truth would be too much, a mood killer he was in no mood for. "Can we save the question and answer for later?" He tempered the sharp edge to his question with a long, slow exploration of her left nipple. "Want to be inside you."

Buffy sucked in a heaving breath and pushed herself up onto her elbows. She fixed him with a serious stare. "Can you wear a condom with … that?" She nodded towards him, and her eyes inexorably followed along. Spike suppressed a grin.

"Of course," he said, and stood to fetch a prophylactic. He was sure there was at least one in his bedside table. Buffy's hand closed around his wrist before he got far.

"Do you have to? I mean, I'm … safe. If you are?"

Her question surprised him, stilled his motion, and he turned to look at her. She was gnawing on her bottom lip. Spike leaned in to her, replaced her teeth with his own, and kissed her til she was breathless. "Don't have to, kitten," he said, when they came up for air. "If you don't want me to."

She looked up at him then with eyes gone dark with lust. Her pupils were blown, the green of her irises nearly swallowed up. "It feels different—without one, right? Better?"

Spike nodded.

"That's what I want," she whispered.

He nodded again and captured her lips in a fierce kiss. He planted a knee on the bed, between her thighs, and urged her backwards across the mattress. He covered her in kisses, each inch of heated flesh his tapestry. Her skin pebbled behind his touch as he dragged his fingers across her abdomen. She was so open to him, so responsive, and suddenly Spike couldn't wait one second longer. He pushed his hips into the cradle of her thighs, and the belled head of his penis brushed against her sensitive clit.

She was so hot and wet, he thought he would combust. He slipped between her folds and nudged his tip against her opening. Where a moment before he'd been wound up, nearly beyond reason, to be touching her, to be inside her—now he couldn't go slow enough. He wanted to savor this moment; Buffy panted below him, her arms twined around his neck, as he slipped the barest inch into her tight channel, and then edged back out.

"Spike!" Her voice echoed from his bare bedroom walls. Her heels dug into his buttocks and urged him forward.

He resisted her just enough to make it last. Each centimeter was a battle of wills between them. Spike grasped her face between his hands and stared straight into her eyes as he sunk another inch into her. Her rapid exhalations gusted across his lips as she stared back at him. Finally she relaxed in his embrace, stopped forcing her sharp knees into his hips and her sharper heels into his arse. He braced his elbows on either side of her rib cage, curled his fingers around her neck in an echo of her hold on him, and captured her lips once more as he shifted his hips flush against hers.

Buffy's head flew back once he was fully seated inside of her. She clenched her cunt muscles around him so tightly he nearly went off in that first instant. It was only by sheer force of will that he held on until she relaxed around him. He felt he could write a sonnet to her, to the heat of her body and the way he fit so perfectly inside her. He panted into her neck for a second before he felt himself together enough to look at her.

"I can … I can feel you. I mean—"

Spike smirked at her expression, her earnest wide eyes. "Told you you'd like it." He swiveled his hips then, feeling smug and in control once more. He could feel what it was made her gasp so: a soft, spongy spot deep inside her. He could practically see how each touch vibrated through her. She clamped her knees against his hips like a vice and held him in place.

"There, there, there," she chanted, eyes squeezed tight shut and her hands in claws around his shoulders.

He obliged; as he stroked,he pressed on there, there, there, and then she stopped chanting, held her breath, clenched against him and around him so tight that he knew he had no choice but to come along with her, and so he did.