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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/n: In this chapter, Spike and Buffy draw closer.

Spike is a little OOC, as is Dawn's character, who appears in this chapter. Dawn isn't Buffy's sister, nor is she the Key. Anyway, that will become clearer later.

This chapter is slightly edited from the original posting.

"Spike?" Buffy called out as she went to the usual spot in the gym they met in.

Even though it had only been four days since they'd first met, she found that she was looking forward to their sparring matches daily. Buffy was slowly coming to realize that she had found the other half of herself in Spike. She didn't know why she felt that way with her vampiric sparring partner, but she couldn't ignore the feelings when they were so strong.

"Spike?" she called again louder.

Buffy searched the rooms where she knew Spike would most likely be: the kitchen, the rec room, the main living room downstairs, the basement. Still, there was nothing. The nineteen-year-old was worried. What if something had happened to him?

Then, her mind hit upon a plan. Buffy remembered the movie she and Riley had seen the other night. It had been a vampire flick where the woman was called by her supernatural mate by telepathic means. Riley had laughed at that notion, despite all of the hoopla about the Vampire Beast. But Buffy was thoughtful when the soldier drove her home. She wondered if, given the strong attraction they felt for each other, she could just reach out to him mentally.

**Silly,** she mentally chided herself, but she tried nonetheless. After all, what could she lose?

Buffy breathed slowly, inhaling and exhaling, until she connected with something. She didn't feel Spike's thoughts, but she somehow knew he was near. He seemed to be content in whatever he was doing, and he was all right. She walked through the outer grounds, not really paying attention to where she was going, until she found herself in a greenhouse.

The greenhouse wasn't too large as most went. There were a few plants and flowers which, while sparse, were lovingly tended. The windows, while allowing sunlight to filter through, were somehow shielded against the heat of the rays, as Buffy felt when she stood in the band of light streaming in. She walked past gladiolas, ferns, and other signs of plant life she didn't know, following the sensation of Spike's presence.

When she walked further inside the nursery, Buffy heard a soft voice singing in the back. The young woman turned a corner and saw the vampire, whose knees in the soil. Spike lovingly tended some rose bushes. Her mind seemed to float as it connected with his haunting melody. So, Buffy noted, did the pink roses. When he sang, they bent in his direction, attuned to his music. The bumpy faced vampire stopped his ministrations and turned when he sensed Buffy.

"Buffy…" he began. She sidled closer, studying him.

"Don't stop what you were doing," she said. Spike smiled a fangless grin.

"Which one?" he asked. "The singing or the gardening?"

Buffy kneeled beside him. "Both," she answered.

He started singing a song about a beautiful dreamer. She listened, enraptured by his quiet, medium pitched voice. It was so melodious to her that she started humming along with him. Spike broke off his singing; she stopped humming suddenly and opened her eyes which had been closed.

"What?" she asked.

"You've got a good voice, pet," he told her. He set to work again, removing the petals which had fallen to the ground.

"You garden every day?" she asked. When he didn't answer, Buffy continued, saying, "My mom gardens, too. Me and Cordy though, don't have a green thumb. If I even looked at a plant, it would die."

Spike stopped his work and studied her. "There you go again, puttin' yourself down," he said. He handed her a gardening tool and some gloves, ordering her to make herself useful.

Buffy looked down at the tools, guessing, "You gonna teach me gardening?" At Spike's nod, the girl violently shook her head. "No," she said flatly.

"C'mon, Buffy," he encouraged, "you can do it." The girl was empowered by his enthusiasm, and she finally nodded her agreement.

They got to work, removing the old dirt and replacing it with fresh dirt. He showed her where to trim the rose bushes, smiling when, just like with the fighting, Buffy demonstrated she was a fast learner.

"Tha's it, kitten!" he praised. Buffy got off her knees and the vampire followed. They sat down on a nearby workbench.

"You seem to love the roses the best," she remarked.

"Yeh," he confirmed.

Buffy looked at him quizzically. "Why?" she wanted to know.

The beastly looking vampire's eyes took on a faraway look like the one he'd had when he had discussed his past.

"They were my li'l sister's favorite flower," he answered. "My Dawnie used to tend them almost everyday."

"You loved her a lot, didn't you?" Buffy asked. Spike nodded as tears gathered in his eyes.

Buffy ventured softly, "How did she die? Old age?"

Spike didn't answer the question, just staring ahead lost in his memories. When he spoke again suddenly, Spike talked in a whisper.

"Loved flowers, the Littlun did," he said. He thought back just then as he told Buffy a little about his past.

(England, 1880, The Pratt House)

Dawn Augusta Pratt was cutting the roses off of her bushes, singing "Early One Morning" as she worked. She got up, smoothing the dirt off of her yellow morning dress. It had a long skirt with delicate, pink flowers on it. Although the youngest of the Pratts tried to make it presntable, she could tell that the dress her mother had given her last year was ruined.

"Dawn?" William Pratt called to his sister. He took in her long skirt ruined by soil, and smiled.

"You know Mother's going to be in an uproar all morning since you ruined your dress," he teased, none too angry as he added, "although if you had not, I would have eventually." Both older brother and younger sister laughed heartilly as Dawn's pretty blue eyes strayed to her brother's clothes.

William had no problem keeping his clothes tidy. His brown jacket and vest were neatly pressed, and his white shirt beneath had not a sign of dirt. His shoes were also newly polished, and his brown, curly locks were not in the least bit tousled. On his nose rested a perfecly cleaned pair of spectacles.

By comparison, Dawn's longer, darker brown hair was all over the place despite her having a huge yellow bonnet to restrain it.

She launched into one of her many tirades befitting a seventeen-year-old girl. "I do not see why I cannot dress in breeches like some girls do! You men have all comforts in the world!" She complained. "You do not have to wear corsets that pinch and skirts that make you perspire in the summer time!"

"But we also don't look as pretty as you women," William soothed. "Tis our loss." Dawn smiled at that.

William smiled back as she said, "You always know the right thing to say. That is why I know everyone will love your poetry reading at the gathering tonight!"

The elder Pratt considered his poetry and felt a moment of doubt. "Do you really think it is any good?" he asked his sibling. Dawn gathered up her flowers and walked ahead of William into their modest country house.

"I think it is VERY good!" Dawn chirped.

William playfully ruffled her hair as she removed her hat. He looked about for any servants and, seeing none that could give them away, he motioned her to the stairs. The pair might have gotten away with squirreling the younger Pratt upstairs if their mother had not seen them.

"Dawn Augusta Pratt!" Anne Pratt, their only living relative other than a distant Aunt, shrilled at the top of her crisp, British lungs.

**Caught!** Both brother and sister thought as they stared at each other. Anne marched up to them as William struggled to find his voice.

"Mother," he said, "t'was not her fault. I wanted the roses, and I…" Anne wasn't buying it. She whirled on her son who backed down in the face of her wrath.

At age fifty, Anne Elizabeth Pratt was a tower of strength. She had weathered the death of her husband of over twenty years of marriage at the hands of consumption, and she had also dealt with the loss of her brother the month before to the ravages of war in China.

While most women would have been committed in the face of such tremendous hardship and also "spoon fed" a daily diet of morphine, the only living elder Pratt would not allow herself the indignity of despair. She had gotten a job teaching at a highly respected university and, thankfully for her, she had selected a very able bodied business manager to look after her husband's estate, which had been enough for the family to live on comfortably if not wealthily.

She also sold jams and jellies, which were made in her own shed in the back yard. The people she did business with couldn't get enough of her peach preserves and her strawberry jam.

Like her son, who took after her in looks if not temperament, she had golden brown locks which were slightly graying but still were curled in the latest style from France. Her dress, a dark brown affair, had the high collar and lace décolletage with a cameo at its center. She turned a pair of dark green eyes on William and Dawn.

"When shall you ever learn?" she asked her daughter.

Before William could defend his sister, his mother looked at him. "And you! You encourage her!" Anne accused. William shrugged, his head bowed and his blue eyes staring at the floor.

"She is to meet suitors who are of good character and good provisioning," she told her son. William nodded, facing his mother. He had heard countless lectures before. The elder female shoved her daughter to the stairs.

"I will attend to her," she told her son. "You should practice your readings for tonight." As she climbed up the stairs, Dawn looked over her shoulder helplessly at her brother, then she disappeared.

William's eyes followed his sister's as he thought, **Some day, Nibblet, it will be you and me. I will make a name for myself with my poetry somewhere, and I will take us both to a faraway land where we can live as we want, with no mother to tell us what to do.**

The only male Pratt went into the drawing room to compose some poetry….

(Spike's memory ends. Spike's house, the Present…)

"Get out!" Buffy exclaimed. "You do POETRY?"

"I did poetry," Spike told her. "Haven't written a poem in some thir'y years."

Buffy got off of the bench and walked out of the greenhouse. Spike steered her to a room connecting it to another door leading to the main house. As they walked, Buffy asked, "So?"

"Wha'?" Spike responded with a question.

"Aren't you gonna show me your stuff?" she wondered, intrigued.

Spike heard the echoes of laughter in his head, but willed them away as he answered, "No."

"'No?'" Buffy repeated. "You're telling me 'no'?"

"That's right, pet," he responded.

They made their way to the gym and Buffy went into a nearby bathroom to change. Later, she emerged with tight jeans, a tank top, and her play weapons, her hair up in secure hairpins like it usually was when they fought.

As she came after him with a high kick which Spike deflected, she said, "How's about we make a deal? I defeat you in the first two rounds, you show me at least one poem?"

Spike returned her question with another kick. "Okay," he finally agreed. "But if I win, you have to give me somthin', too."

Buffy staked him with the blunt edged object perfectly in his unbeating heart. "I accept," she conceded. They continued sparring until they had reached a draw.

"It's…" Spike started to state the obvious.

"I know," Buffy said, "a draw." She muttered, "bummer." Spike chuckled.

"Don' worry, kitten," he told her when he saw her troubled expression. "I won't make you cluck like a chicken or strip down naked, though heaven knows I want to!"

Buffy blushed as he continued, "Bu' we have plenty of time for seein' each other's unmentionable parts!"

Buffy's response was to snicker a little as she went into the bathroom to towel off. Spike walked to the den where he kept his poetry and, after a moment of scanning what he considered his best poems, selected one about a maiden.

When he returned, Buffy had washed her face and applied fresh makeup. She had also changed into a slightly less casual sweater: a wine shade that complemented her perfectly. Spike thought about a poem concerning Buffy all of a sudden. He mentally went over the words before noticing that she had grabbed the piece of paper and started reading.

"'My maid is like the turn of the dawn,'" she read before Spike could grab the paper back. She turned away, keeping just enough of an arm's length away from him so that he couldn't snatch the poem from her.

Buffy read aloud again, reciting, "'Her presence is so comforting. Her cherry lips and fragrant scent spur me on. I am no longer languishing…'". She handed the sheet back to Spike.

He braced himself for the torrential flood of laughter which usually followed one of his poems being read out loud, but she didn't laugh. He was glad Buffywasn't laughing; even Angelus had snickered when William had written something criticizing the ones who had ruined his life.

"Ye'll be takin' my advice, Spikey," Angelus had purred with his not-quite-gone Irish brogue to the younger vampire when William had been first turned, "you might want to bury that mess straight away."

Darla had laughed, saying, "Or BURN it! A fitting end to such God awful poetry!" Only Drusilla had the presence of mind not to laugh.

"You aren't laughin', pet," Spike ventured in the present. "People usually do." He braced himself for the onslaught of laughter. Maybe her lack of it was just a delayed reaction. **Any moment now...** he told himself. But instead of rolling on the floor, Buffy just shrugged.

"Well, considering it's the first poetry I've ever really heard, I think it's okay," Buffy responded truthfully. "And," she added, "it's not as long winded as some of that Browning crap or boring like the 'Niebel-something' stuff Cordelia usually brings home from school."

Spike rewarded her with a smile full of fangs. He closed the distance between them and stood behind her when she went to check her hair in the bathroom's mirror. The reflection caught her slightly mismanaged hair, and of course, it didn't show any signs of him. The younger Summers didn't react; he was a vampire, after all.

"Thanks, lion cub," he said softly.

Although she couldn't see him, the essence she had felt from all around her grew stronger with a vengeance. Buffy sensed him, could feel waves of desire from him, his total devotion to her engulfing her. She decided she liked what she felt.

Spike breathed in her soft, Vanilla smell tinged with sweat and found himself staring at her hair. Slowly, he removed the hairpins, letting the golden mass tumble free. He was looking at his Golden Goddess, and he was totally smitten.

"What are you doing?" Buffy breathed.
"Jus' makin' you look more presentable," Spike responded. "You have gorgeous hair. My brown haired sis would have been envious."

His cool, calloused hands skimmed her neck. Buffy moaned In response. Her pulse seemed to want to join his hands, or at least beat its approval of his touch. Her heart pumped faster.

He fingered a lock of her hair, marveling at its softness. "You truly are a golden vision," he purred.

Buffy turned slightly, looking at him over her shoulder. She started to lean back into his chest but then pulled forward. Spike's breath caressed her ear as his nostrils caught a whiff of her desire for him.

"Buffy," he said, winding the hair around his fingers. "Short for Elizabeth."

"Yeah," Buffy said slightly hoarsely, seemingly not able to say anything else. The blood was thumping, aching for him to pierce the tender skin in her neck. She knew Spike sensed it, too.

"Your Mum give you that name?" he asked in a husky voice.

"My father, actually," Buffy answered. "It kinda stuck over the years."

"Buffy's a child's name, way I reckon it. Do you know how I see you?" Spike queried.

Buffy turned back to the mirror. "How?" she wondered, curious.

"You look like a 'Beth' to me," he responded, slowly turning her so that they faced each other. "Beth is a more grown up name." Buffy frowned.

"I'm not crazy about it," Buffy told him. "Riley calls me 'BethAnne', and I really don't like that." Spike wasn't quite sure why Riley called her that if she hated it but he told himself that Spike would not call Buffy that.

"Anne?" Spike asked, remembering his parent.

Buffy nodded, confirming, "Yes, my middle name is Anne, after my maternal grandmother."

Spike had never believed in heavenly signs before, but he could not have seen this maiden in his future if he'd tried. The mere fact that she had the same name as his mother (but hopefully none of the personality traits,) proved that Buffy was no ordinary girl. He didn't know if she was the one to save him from Drusilla's curse, but he knew he would love finding out if Buffy could.

"Did you like it when people called you 'Bill', or 'Billy'?" she asked. Spike winced.

"No," he said with all conviction. "I see your point, lion cub. Buffy, it is, then."

"Spike it is, then," she told him, adding, "or I could call you 'William'".

"I much prefer 'Spike'," he replied. "Seems better, don't you think?"

Buffy looked into his beautiful orange eyes, but then remembered that he had not asked for his favor. "I got my wish: you read some poetry," she responded. "What did you want?"

Spike pulled her closer, saying softly, "This…".

He kissed her; a kiss that, despite his coldness, was warm and tender. She lingered through his kiss, wrapping her arms around his bumpy neck. His lips grew bolder then, his tongue thrusting through them and into her waiting mouth, caressing her teeth. Buffy sank her tongue into his mouth, not thinking once about her dream-Spike with his handsome face. Every moment of her life was here, and now. She would have been more aggressive, but the vampire pulled away.

Buffy put her hands to her lips, breathing, "Woah!"

Spike opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. "Guh…" he finally said.

Buffy seized the initiative and kissed him once more: thoroughly, passionately. The vampire was overwhelmed by her scent, her touch, her presence. He knew that if he didn't end things soon, he was libel to taste her sweet blood and he wouldn't stop until he'd drained her dry.

"Buffy…" he said between kisses, "…enough." Buffy broke away, frowning.

"You didn't like it?" she asked, wounded.

Spike took in gulps of air as he thought of a suitable response. His eyes fell on the huge clock and as he noted the time, he was glad he had a way out.

"S' almost six," he told her.

Buffy's eyes followed his, and she swore softly as she stared at the clock. Scooping up her bag, she told him that she'd better go. After she left, Spike went outside and, catching a squirrel, drained it of its blood.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Wesley returned home that evening, Spike was sitting in the dark, his face still covered in blood. After switching on the light, the college student placed the pig's blood he had bought in a cup and warmed it in the microwave. Spike didn't move.

Windham-Pryce sat down next to his friend on the couch, handing over the mug full of blood. Spike drank greedily as Wesley finally noticed his condition.

"What happened?" Wesley asked, worried. Spike turned haunted eyes on his friend. Wesley blanched, saying, "Oh, no! You didn't…I mean, you didn't kill somebody, did you?"

"Jus' a squirrel," Spike told Wesley.
The younger Brit breathed a sigh of relief but then his eyebrows drew back, confused.

"Then why the long face?" he wanted to know.

Spike rose from the couch crossing over to the kitchen. He threw the plastic cup with the smiley face on it into the sink and turned on his faucet full force. After a moment, Spike switched off the water and stood in front of his couch, facing his "brother".

"Because it was all I could do not to kill someone, or turn 'em," Spike ground out bitterly.

Wesley waited until the vampire related the events of the day. It took all of the college student's self control, but he managed to not show or relate any emotions or sensations to Spike.
"I'm sure it's just a momentary thing," Wesley tried to soothe. Spike grimaced, sitting back down on the couch. Wesley got up slowly.

"Anya and I will find out what it is," he said. Spike looked up hopefully at Wesley, not even bothering to tell the college student about Anya. The younger British man went upstairs, leaving Spike with his thoughts.

When Wesley got into the room, he pressed the automatic dialing function on his cell. When Anya picked up, the college student said, "Ana? I need to talk to you right now. Meet me in the Magic Shop."

He heard the former Vengeance Demon responding in the positive. Wesley hung up his cell and, after returning back downstairs, he said to Spike that he needed to get some books he had forgotten for studying, he hurried out. Spike growled lowly but turned on his telly, hoping to get a re-run on a cable channel of his favorite soap, Passions.





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