The island in the middle of the Summers’ kitchen was home to many things. A fruit bowl, a half-finished crossword puzzle, some rudimentary plans for a new branch of the gallery, and some clean dishes that both Buffy and Joyce had ignored for a few days.
It took half a second to sweep the surface clean.
“Spike—”
He wasn’t listening to her. “Gently, now,” he murmured, tenderly setting her atop the island. “Let’s see that cut.”
From the frown that marred her face, Buffy clearly hadn’t realized she was bleeding. She hadn’t, but oh, he had. With every step, he had to school his demon from growling possessively and licking the wound closed. The rich scent of her was driving him mad. She’d been hurt—a vampire had dared hurt her in front of him, and the knowledge had his demon reeling.
He needed her like he needed nothing else in this world.
“Cut?” she replied dazedly.
“Your head hit the grave marker,” Spike replied, gently turning her head to the side so he could determine just how bad it was. “When that…” Hot, burning outrage seared his insides. “When he—”
Buffy blinked rapidly and took his hand. “It’s over now.”
“He hurt you.”
“I get hurt a lot on this job.”
Spike shook his head. “Hold still, now. I’ll be right back.” He marched intently over to the sink and grabbed the nearest hand towel—one that smelled clean and looked unused—and soaked it with cold water. “You’re not supposed to get hurt when I’m with you,” he said over the hum of the faucet. “Not with me there. I could’ve stopped it.”
“We were kinda in the middle of a fight.”
Was that what that had been? Spike’s lips tugged upwards in a ghost of a smile. A lover’s quarrel? About how she was afraid his feelings for her were the product of a spell or some other ridiculous notion. He hadn’t figured that for arguing. It couldn’t be an argument; not with how bleeding ecstatic he’d been at the idea that he wasn’t the only one with feelings like that.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before. Obviously, he sensed that Buffy liked him. He knew it from the way she talked with him. Looked at him. Touched him whenever they were together. Oh yeah, he knew that she liked him. He just hadn’t known it was like that. Beyond being physically drawn to each other, he hadn’t known that her feelings could ever be dubbed as, in her own words, warm fuzzies.
But she was bleeding terrified that his reciprocal feelings were the product of some poncy spell. Ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. After a century of living, and then some, he’d been under enough spells to detect when feelings were manufactured and when they weren’t.
Though he knew that she had a reason for believing the way she did. She had a thousand. And he cared for her too much to press the issue. Not now.
Not when she was succumbing to dizzy spells on patrol and nearly letting herself be done in by fledglings.
Spike was back at her side in an instant, lifting her chin with his fingers. “Hold still, pet,” he murmured, raising the washcloth to her wound. “You notice how all your head injuries of late have been when I’m around?”
Buffy rolled her eyes, but her cheeks blushed prettily at the reminder. “You’re gonna give me crap for walking into the wall, aren’t you?”
“To be fair, it was hilarious.”
“For you, maybe.”
Spike grinned and nodded, dabbing the cut gently. “Well, yes.” His mirth vanished the second her eyes slammed shut and she hissed in pain, and in a blink, his outrage returned tenfold. “Did I hurt you? Am I usin’ too much pressure?”
“No.”
“Buffy—”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“You let yourself get tossed around like a sodding rag doll by a weakling vamp. I don’t think that qualifies as fine.” He frowned and pressed the towel to her cut and held for a second. “Do you have a First Aid kit around here?”
“I don’t need First Aid.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Slayer healing. It’s not that bad.” Though from the look on her face, she was having trouble selling that idea to herself. “I’m not dizzy anymore.”
“Well, then by all means, let’s toss you around a bit.”
“Spike—”
He arched a pointed brow. “First Aid?”
Buffy glared at him stubbornly for a few seconds, then sighed and motioned vaguely with her hand. “Oh, what the hell. You’re being sweet and possessive and who am I to pass that up?”
Spike grinned. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”
“It’s in the bathroom. The one upstairs. First drawer on the left.” She grabbed his arm before he could bolt, and the lack of strength behind her hold made his heart wilt. The slayer grip he’d come to cherish was gone. There was nothing behind her hold but pure human. “Quietly. I don’t think my mom’s home, but you never know. And she hasn’t quite gotten over the last time you were here.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “I was a saint the last time I was here.”
“Well, technically, the last time you were here, we had raunchy sex in my bedroom, so I don’t think that counts.” She flushed brightly, and he found the look so unbelievably cute that he had to refrain from kissing her gorgeous lips and telling her how much he adored her. “But I mean…with the killing of Angel and…stuff.”
“I was referring to that, too.”
“You weren’t a saint.”
“I was as close as I ever wanna come.” Spike kissed her cheek before he could help himself. “Don’t move, Slayer. I’ll be right back.”
It didn’t take long to find the kit, though once he had it in front of him, Spike had no earthly idea what to do with it. It wasn’t as though time and experience had granted him much need for antibiotics. Usually, just swathing wounds with a wet cloth was enough stimulation for his enhanced cells. It was one of the many perks that came with being a vampire.
It was supposed to be a perk of being a slayer, too. Buffy was the best slayer he’d ever known; she wasn’t supposed to get tossed around like a rag doll. When it’d happened, he’d been so bloody stunned that he couldn’t get his legs to move. His insides had filled with fire; his demon’s screams could have moved continents.
Spike huffed angrily, glancing up to the bathroom mirror, and was greeted with the reflection of the wall behind him. God help the git who tried to hurt her.
He found Buffy as he’d left her. Her ankles were crossed and she was gripping the edge of the island. She looked every part the warrior—injured, but not defeated. And none of that—none—had to do with strength.
Not the kind of strength that bent steel, anyway.
“Your mum’s not here,” he said, placing the First Aid kit on the counter. “So if this stings, feel free to scream your heart out.”
“I’m not going to scream,” she replied.
“Jus’ saying, the option’s open for you.” He heaved a sigh and laved a cotton swab with whatever disinfectant the kit provided, winced at the thick smell, and approached Buffy tentatively. “Here. Lean toward me, kitten.”
“Oh God.”
“What?”
“You look sick.”
“Smells bad.” He tapped his nose with his free hand. “Heightened senses can be a bloody bitch. Now, come here.”
“Look, I can do it if—”
“Bollocks to that. You think I’m not man enough to tough this thing out? Besides, you’re more important than my nose.” He grinned when she unlocked her ankles and parted her legs for him. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, stepping between her thighs. “Grab hold of my arm, luv, an’ squeeze hard if it stings.”
“If I squeeze hard, I might tear your arm off.”
Spike pursed his lips. He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Easy now,” he murmured, and dabbed her cut. Buffy hissed and her hand closed down on his arm, capturing him in a tight hold that would have been bloody painful were she at full strength. Were she at any measure of slayer strength at all.
She wasn’t.
“I’m sorry.” Spike dropped a kiss to her bare shoulder. God, she tasted sweet. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” she replied through clenched teeth.
“Of course.” He forced himself away from her heavenly heat to retrieve the bandages he’d left in the kit. “Good news is, worst part’s over.”
“You’re gonna bandage me?”
Spike blinked. “Well…yeah. It’s what you ruddy pulsers do, right? One of you gets hurt; you fix it with sticky tape an’ cotton. Or am I behind the times again?”
“Hello! Slayer, here. I’ll just tough it out.”
“What happened to me being sweet and possessive?” He held up the band-aid with a pout. “Wantin’ to patch you up isn’t being sweet an’ possessive?”
“So you’re gonna guilt-trip me into becoming Patchwork Buffy?”
Spike shrugged. “If it works. Hold still, luv.”
“You’ve said that like fifty times. Have I moved?”
He arched a brow. “Now you’re getting testy. You don’t wanna beat up on your sweet, possessive Spike, do you?”
“You’re never gonna let me forget I said that, are you?”
“It’s not lookin’ that way, no.” With cool dexterity, he slid the band-aid over her cut, and leaned back to admire his work with a grin. “There we are. All better.”
Buffy just looked at him for a minute, then blinked and sighed and averted her eyes to the empty space between them. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It’s been…a long, long time since I’ve ever needed…well, not that I know I needed anything or not…it’s been a long time since anyone really worried over me like that.”
Spike smiled. “My pleasure. Now…” He exhaled slowly and wedged himself between her thighs again. “If you’ll just hop back in my arms, I’ll carry you upstairs an’ tuck you in.”
“What?”
“If you’re lucky, I’ll even read you a bedtime story.”
“Whatever happened to walking? And…I can tuck myself in, thanks. Plus I’m all grimy and gross from patrol, and—”
“Pet, you gotta let your vanity go every now an’ then. You’re exhausted.”
“That’s not the point—”
“Make it the point for tonight, hmmm? Come on, then.”
Buffy rolled her eyes, then glanced almost reluctantly to the sanctuary his arms provided. “You’re really getting off on being the manly man, aren’t you?”
Spike shrugged and smirked wickedly. “I get off in many ways.”
“I don’t wanna know.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
Buffy stared at him a minute longer. “This,” she said, sliding effortlessly into his arms, “is humiliating.”
“If it was, you’d be walking.”
There was nothing about this that he didn’t love. The feel of her against him was remarkable—something he wouldn’t trade for all the blood in China. He loved the way she protested being the dainty female; it was refreshing, it was different. She was a woman who could take care of herself, and hated being pampered even when she deserved it.
Too often, during the last few decades of their relationship, Dru had capitalized on her illness by making Spike her all-too willing manservant—which, at the time, had been just fine with him. He hadn’t complained; he hadn’t known to complain. He hadn’t felt anything but pride in taking care of his woman.
The pride he felt in taking care of Buffy, though, was divine. He felt as though he was helping a fallen goddess—someone who didn’t reach out to many when she needed a hand, and he’d been lucky enough to be standing within reach. Buffy was so proud, so gloriously stubborn, and she wouldn’t accept help from just anyone. Similarly, she wouldn’t trust just anyone to see her weakness. To see her when she was less a deity and more a human. She was so accustomed to that bloody pedestal that her friends put her on—that her Watcher and her stupid brooding hulk of an ex put her on—that she didn’t know when to stop. When it was all right to look around and see if anyone was willing to lend her a hand, or at the very least, a willing shoulder.
Buffy didn’t depend on anyone but herself, and though she might think relying on him now was a sign of weakness, it was perhaps the strongest display he’d ever witnessed.
“Don’t s’pose you need me to help you change into your jams, do you?” Spike asked, lowering her steadily to the floor. “I…what the bloody hell is that?”
Buffy blinked dazedly. “Huh?”
He pointed to the mountain of clothing protruding from her otherwise normal-looking mattress.
“Oh,” she replied with a flush. “That. Erm…I was…having trouble. That is, I didn’t know what to wear tonight.”
“So you tried on the whole bloody town?”
“Hey! I didn’t…ummm.” Buffy shifted anxiously, pivoting on her heel and pressing her palms to his chest. “I need a minute. I need to…change. Oh.” She turned again and dove for the mountain of clothes, surfacing a minute or so later with a pair of flannel bottoms and a tank top in one hand. “I need to be in the other room to change.”
“Why?”
“I just do!” she insisted, brushing past him and marching intently toward the loo. “Don’t touch anything!”
Stubborn bint was going to shower anyway. Spike huffed and turned back to her room bemusedly. And he wasn’t supposed to touch anything? How the hell did she think she was going to get into bed over the mess she’d made? He had two hands and some time to kill—might as well make it easy for her.
It didn’t occur to him until he had the mountain successfully shoved onto the ground that the only engagement she had planned for the evening was patrol with him. She’d worried herself silly over her wardrobe for a non-date patrol…with him.
Spike found himself grinning like an idiot.
Buffy had dressed up for him. For him.
That was almost worth not breaking her trust by leaving her panties where he found them. He smirked to himself and shoved a few pairs into his duster pocket. Almost.
She didn’t leave him alone for long. Her scent hit the air the second before her voice did. God, she smelled divine.
“You touched things.”
Spike whirled around and shrugged. “Jus’ wanted to lend a hand, pet.”
She arched a brow pointedly at the pile of clothing that now resided on the floor.
“Never said I was any good at this housecleaning business.” He took a few steps forward, squinting at her bandage. “How did you manage to shower an’ not rub that thing off?”
“Feminine ingenuity,” she replied, then shuffled when his focus shifted to her scanty attire. “Don’t.”
“What?” he asked, his eyes glued to her breasts. Her nipples were saluting him through the thin fabric. God, it’d be so easy to reach out and touch her. Taste her. Caress her. He’d have her on her back and halfway to the stars before she thought to shoo him away.
“I should…” Spike expelled a deep breath and cast a hand through his hair. “I should go. Let you rest.”
Buffy’s eyes softened. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Spike…” The next thing he knew, she was pressed against him, her hands splayed across his chest. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable; the tease had vanished. It was as though she was just coming to terms with what had happened. As though she was just realizing that a vampire had been at her throat tonight, and she would’ve been dead were it not for him. Her former worst enemy. Her not-quite-boyfriend. Her not-quite anything.
Spike shivered. Boyfriend. The Slayer’s boyfriend. How was it that he suddenly craved that title above all others? What had she reduced him to?
Why didn’t he care more?
“When I…squeezed your arm downstairs,” she said slowly. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”
He swallowed. “Slayer—”
“Tell me.”
A beat. “No. It didn’t.”
“And earlier…” She frowned and trailed off. “Is this…is this another side-effect? Another symptom of…Dru’s spell or whatever?”
“I don’t know, pet. I don’t think so.”
Buffy’s frown deepened. “I could’ve…”
“No. You wouldn’t have.” He held up a hand. “I don’ bloody care if I was there or not. You’d’ve found a way to do it. To off the bastard that hit you.” The very thought made him shake. “An’ it’s prob’ly jus’ a glitch.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve been through a lot, recently. Rest up, kitten. Tomorrow’ll be better.”
He was going to walk away; he really was. But then, something strange happened. Something he couldn’t have predicted. Buffy’s small hands cupped his face, and the next thing he knew, he was in paradise. A moan scratched at his throat and his hands seized her shoulders. Her mouth whispered against his, her soft, silky tongue imploring his lips for entrance. He devoured her, determined to drown in her taste. It had only been days—Christ, just days—since he’d known the simple rapture of her kiss, but it felt like lifetimes. He’d missed her kisses. He’d missed everything. The small, panty moans she whispered against his lips. The way she thrust her hips against him, the way she rubbed against his hard, denim-clad cock as though she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. He’d missed this. God, he’d missed this so much.
But rationality shut him out. Buffy wanted him now. He could smell how much she wanted him. How desperately she wanted to lead him back to her bed and forget that tonight had happened. Forget all the bad while swallowing the good. But he couldn’t forget. Not with everything she’d told him. His body craved hers, but not in the way that had possessed him to lose control before. No, he craved her simply because he craved her. Because she was Buffy, and there was nothing to living except the want of her.
Her plan, however tortuous, had worked. The stupid thing had actually worked. They were together every night, and the pain had subsided. And he had control now. Control where he did not want it. He had the power to stop this before it turned into something she’d kick herself over.
Their argument, their lover’s quarrel, wasn’t over. Buffy didn’t think he wanted her for anything beyond what her delicious body had to offer. He was dead set on proving her wrong, and words were meaningless without action.
“Buffy,” he murmured helplessly against her lips, reaching behind his neck and seizing her wrists. “We can’t.”
She pulled back and blinked stupidly. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses.
Christ, he wanted her.
“The plan, kitten. Remember?” Spike brought her wrists to his mouth and worshipped the inside of each with a soft kiss. “I want you. I don’ think you know how much I want you. But if we do this tonight, you’re gonna regret it tomorrow. I don’t want you to go through that.” He paused, then neared to brush his lips against her brow. “I’m stopping before you become that girl.”
Buffy just stared at him in wonder.
“Pet, I’m not rejecting you. Fuck, if you need to feel how much I want you, just put your hand—”
“No. No. I…” Her head ducked and he caught the shine of what he thought were tears. And when she glanced back up, the look on her face was worth every ounce of frustration that roared through his body. “Thank you. Just…Spike, thank you.”
Warmth flooded him wholly.
He was wrong; it wasn’t just worth his body’s frustration.
It was worth the whole damn world.
To be continued