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It was funny how patterns could make a day seem normal, even if the day began with drinking a pint of pig blood and using an extension cord as a jump rope whilst exercising in a cage. Tara, ever the domestic sort, had tried to outfit his prison with blankets, pillows and books she'd found in the old house. Tara had found a wealth of dusty, old occult tomes for herself and some novels for him. She'd even set up a television on the dryer and handed him a remote control so he could watch his soaps.

Tara slept on the bed beside his cage and Spike didn't know where Buffy slept. She mostly avoided Spike and Tara, keeping to another part of the house and leaving at night. He knew sometimes Buffy would make herself invisible and join them because he could smell her, hear her distinctive movements. Spike wondered if she was getting up the nerve to kill him.

Buffy and Tara took meals together, mainly because his sister was was too polite to force the other girl to eat alone. Afterward, Tara would bring Spike down some blood and a bit of “people food,” as she called it, to see if there was anything he still enjoyed. He'd been unable to stomach anything but the plasma and curiously, hot chocolate with an ample sprinkling of cinnamon, which tasted exquisite due to his enhanced taste buds.

Buffy had not let him out for three days. During that time the siblings had played numerous games of chess, read and talked. It was almost like the times he and Tara would visit their grandmother over the Christmas holiday; inevitably, they'd be snow bound and they'd have to entertain themselves. Almost like that, with several pertinent exceptions. For instance, he was never worried grandmother was going to shove a stake through him.
Tara was lounging on her bed with a lugubrious, leather-bound book pressed flat against her lap and Spike was juggling with a trio of oranges. It was a neat trick he'd taught himself while he was in grade school, but he hadn't bothered to practice since he'd hit puberty. Spike was pleased to see he'd retained his juggling skills; if he survived a career at the circus was still an option.

“It's odd not having to piss,” Spike said.

Tara turned to him with big, sleepy eyes. He looked at her through the horizontal lines penning him and the arc of bright orange passing above his head.

“Just a perk of being a vampire, I guess,” Tara said.

She arched like a cat and tugged at the bottom of her purple, tie-dyed shirt letting the book slide out of her lap.

“But where does it all go?” he asked.

“Hell, maybe? You could be exhaling it,” Tara said with a giggle.

She stretched out her arms and yawned.

“That's horrifying, love, thanks for that,” Spike said.
Spike stopped throwing the fruit and caught the remaining oranges in one hand.

“Could do with a wash, if you don't mind,” he said.

“Sure,” she said.

Tara stood and strolled across the black, stone floor before she alighted on the green steps. She came back a short while later with a copper basin filled with steamy water and a washcloth. Tara balanced the sloshing bowl carefully as she descended. Then she set the metal basin down, passed him a washcloth, and left so he could clean himself in privacy.

Buffy hadn't let him take a shower yet; he supposed she didn't want to deal with the guard duty. Tara had been trying to help, but the little bird bath he was allotted left most of the dirt from his grave still covering him.
He hadn't bothered to put his boots or his socks on after the first night because the cold floor didn't affect him as it might have before. Spike took off his black t-shirt. The day before Tara had thrown his clothes in the washer, along with her dusty garments after finding them some ill-fitting sweats to change into. In a rare moment of sadism, Tara had given him the pink sweatsuit with the rainbow unicorn prancing across the front. He grinned at the memory as he squatted and dipped the washcloth into the hot circle of water.

As he scrubbed his shoulder, he sensed her, Buffy. Spike could feel Buffy's heart pulsing three feet away from him. Her skin smelled like the pith of a tangelo mingled with the animal scent of a living, breathing creature. He wondered how he looked to her; his salt white skin was ground with old earth and the coils of his silver hair were heavy with clay. She must like it though, to add voyeurism to her growing list of taboos, he thought.

“I know you're there, love. Might as well make yourself all visible,” Spike said.

He called her love, hoping to enrage her enough to appear. It worked. Buffy flickered into his line of sight like a flame appearing on the head of a match. She wore a thick, cream colored cardigan sweater over a red t-shirt, jeans and some preposterous, high-heeled boots the same shade as the sweater. She could probably still take him in a fight wearing those boots, he thought, enhanced vampire strength or no.

“Don't call me—”

“Right,” he said.

Spike wrung the white terrycloth streaked with brown over the cistern, the splash of the water echoing throughout the stone basement. He dipped the fabric back into the basin, then made a pass at his chest. Her eyes never left him.

“So what now?” he asked.

Silently, she took a few shaky steps forward, then took her hand from her sweater pocket. She fingered the key to his prison nervously before it was twisting in the lock and she was holding wide the door. Spike couldn't believe it as Buffy took him by the arm. She tugged him out of the cage and led him up the stairs.

They walked up both sets of steps, passing by Tara who was sitting in the living room talking on an aged rotary telephone. Tara looked at them as though they'd just gone mad. Spike simply shrugged at his sister. Buffy led him to the bathroom at the end of the upstairs hall, a room that was predictably rosy-hued. They went inside and Buffy closed the door. They stood in front of the chiffon pink toilet; Buffy looked down at the gray and white, octagonal tile covering the floor. She had hardly been able to meet Spike's eyes since he'd become a vampire.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I'm letting you take a shower, isn't that what you wanted?” she asked.

“Well yeah, but why now?”

“I couldn't stand watching you suffer any more,” she said.
Spike smiled at her, then he unzipped his jeans. At the sound of it, the girl standing before him turned away, presenting him with her narrow back. He stepped out of his pants, then Spike reached out and touched her slim neck with soft fingers.

“Shouldn't leave yourself open like that, but you're more afraid of the man than the monster, aren't you love?” he asked.

Her exhalation sounded harsh, and her shoulders crimped in even tighter.

“I'm so lonely, it would be worth it just to not feel this anymore,” Buffy said.

He held her neck tighter; the demon could taste her desperation. She was offering him everything; her body, the blood dancing under her skin and the life it sustained. He followed the pulsing vein in her neck with a dirty fingertip, before Spike took off her sweater and set it on the floor. Buffy lifted her arms for him as he tugged off her t-shirt. He kissed her bare shoulder and unhooked her light, blue bra. He knelt and pulled the tab down on her creamy, leather boots. As he was easing her leg from the leather sheath, a polished stake fell out. He handed it to her and then took off the other boot.
Buffy looked down at him and smiled. Spike eased her pants over her hips, taking her panties with them, until she was naked and he was curled up at her feet. He kissed each one of her toes before he stood up and took her hand. She let him.

They walked to the shower, he adjusted the taps and they stepped under the hot water. Spike let the steaming water pour into his mouth until it warmed him before he bent down and kissed Buffy's lips. She pulled away, and he worried she would flee, or worse, plunge the stake she was holding into his chest. Perhaps he still tasted of the blood he'd just drunk, he thought.

Instead of fight or flight, Buffy turned from him and set the stake in the shower caddy, exchanging it for a bottle of shampoo. Buffy squeezed out a dollop of soapy amber liquid. She washed his hair, massaging his scalp until she elicited a happy sigh. Buffy looked satisfied that she could get him to make a sound. She moved on to soaping up his skin. She washed him slowly, adoringly, starting at his feet and making her way up his body. His cock came to life at her touch, but she didn't linger there, though Buffy did take her time washing his face. When she finished, Spike took her hands in his, her fingers like a bouquet.

He thought of what Tara had said, about being in love with Buffy. He knew it was the truth; both the women who'd had access to his thoughts had figured it out before he did. Spike worried if he told Buffy, she would reject his words outright and accuse him of being something less than a person. Still, he decided to stop being such a bloody coward and tell her, if only to give her some sort of comfort.

“I should've told you I loved you when you said it that first time,” Spike said.

Buffy's tears mingled with the clear water. She swallowed hard before she spoke.

“I know you're not that person anymore, no matter what you think or you feel, but tonight, let's pretend you are. Let's pretend this is a dream,” she said.
She slipped her hands out of his and held him close.

“You still dream of me?” he asked.

“Every night,” she said.

“Did we stick with Italy or are we hopping around the continent?”

Buffy's eyes dipped and a blush spread across her cheeks.

“We were living at my mom's house in Sunnydale, where I grew up. You were making me a pot of coffee and I was resting my head on your back. You said you couldn't move with my arms around your waist but you didn't mind,” Buffy said, almost smiling.

Spike kissed her curving lips.

“Then what happened?”

“I held you and then the dream changed. I looked through the house and couldn't find you anywhere,” she said. Buffy closed her eyes. Spike kissed the side of her face, let his lips brush against her ear.

“I'm not going anywhere, I'm not leaving you,” he said.

Spike lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hip. He was still hard and she guided him inside of her wordlessly, never opening her eyes. She was still so delicate, so new to everything and he was afraid of hurting her, but she pulled him into a rough rhythm , her small hands urging him at the hip. Spike wanted to tell her he'd die for her, kill for her, but he'd already done both; it would've been cruel to remind her of that then. Instead he told her he loved her over and over.

He felt her come undone against him, and her body wrung an orgasm from his. After she hit her peak, she began to sob, the physical release making it impossible to hide her feelings anymore. He didn't know what to do except hold her while she fell apart. They sat on the floor of the shower with their arms wrapped around each other. From someone looking down they might have looked like a rose, arms and legs for pink petals with a white-blonde center. Buffy’s tears subsided and she rested her head against Spike’s shoulder. Then she sipped the air in little, staggered inhalations until her breathing finally became even.

“The water’s getting cold, I should take you back downstairs,” she said.

“Let me sleep with you tonight,” Spike said.

“This wasn’t…it was only to say goodbye,” she said.

“But I’m not gone, I’m the same man—“

“You’re not. You even feel different. Your skin is cold and poreless, like it's brand new,” she said. She kissed his shoulder and let her hands move down his back. As her fingers passed over the tattoo, he felt an intense shiver of pleasure through his whole body.

“That’s just weird,” he whispered.

“No you’re so beautiful, even more than before. You glow and you feel so silky, I never imagined. God, you feel amazing…but it’s wrong. We’re wrong now, Spike,” Buffy said.

Spike cupped the sides of her face and pulled her into a kiss. When he was finished he looked into her sorrowful eyes threaded with red.

“Baby, I don’t care,” he said.

He kissed her again, but that time she ended the embrace, shoving him away with her open palms slapping against his wet chest.

“It stops, now,” Buffy said.

She stood up and twisted the faucets off. Buffy swept the shower curtain aside with a sharp scraping sound and then gathered up her clothes, leaving puddles on the dizzying tile. Spike stood slowly and then snapped a fuzzy, salmon-colored towel from the rod. He rubbed his hair and watched Buffy try to yank on her jeans over her damp legs. Spike dried his chest and looked at her struggling.

“I'm your prisoner, love, in every single way. If you want to stop, stop, but don't forget you're the one who's keeping me here,” Spike said. He dried his own legs slowly with the towel, watching her try to drag her gaze from his body.

“Would you rather I dust you?” she asked, tugging her t-shirt back on. She was glancing at him behind the slope of her shoulder. She bent at the waist and picked up her sweater, tugging it on, her hands appearing out of the sleeves.

“Why won't you trust me?” he asked.

“I can’t, you can’t even trust yourself,” she said.

Buffy did a sort of curtsy to reach her socks. Spike hated seeing her cover up those toes. Then she gathered her boots. Spike walked over to her with liquid swiftness and took them from her grasp. She let out a startled breath and her back arched. He hadn’t bothered to dress yet and it had the desired effect of completely unnerving her. Spike lifted Buffy’s leg, just as he had in the shower right before he’d entered her, but instead of wrapping it around his waist, he slipped her boot on. She held her breath as he zipped the boot up and then allowed him to encase the other leg.

“I’m not a bloody Oujia board that you can take a tumble with, pet. I’m not exactly the person you knew, but I’m not exactly a demon, either, I don’t know what I am. But you can’t just take me out like your high school yearbook, reminisce about the good old days and shove me back in the basement. You're going to have to figure out what to do with me, sometime,” Spike said.

She turned her head away.

“I’m getting you help. My friend will be here in three days,” Buffy said.

“Who is this, bloke, it is a bloke, right?”

“Yeah, his name is Wesley and he’s a Watcher, like Giles was,” Buffy said.

“Should I be jealous?” Spike asked.

“Never,” she said.

He dragged his lips across her forehead and she flung her arms around him convulsively. She started to shake and he thought she might be crying, but instead she sought his mouth for a kiss. When he began rubbing her breasts through her shirt, she pushed him away again.

“Put clothes on, now,” she said.

He smirked at her.

“Really, because—“

She put out her hand.

“Now, please, just now. When Wesley gets here he’ll figure it out but till then you stay clothed and caged,” she said.

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Right,” he said.

**

Buffy didn’t touch him as she led him back to his prison. She nudged him into the living room hall. As they neared the doorway, Spike could hear Tara crying. He forgot to bow and scrape; instead he went to his sister. She was huddled under a pink and lavender quilt with lots of gingham squares, her eyes raw.

“What is it, love?” he asked, gently.

Spike extended his fingers to her cheek, but she scrambled backward.

“Don’t, don’t t,t,t,touch me,” Tara said.

Buffy knelt beside Spike.

“What happened, Tara?” Buffy asked.

“I t,t,think we need some t,t,time apart,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Spike asked, although he had a
horrible sensation clamoring through his stomach. He ignored the clutter of sensations pouring into his consciousness and concentrated on Tara. She was feeling violated, invaded and disgusted. She’d felt everything that he and Buffy had done upstairs; the pleasure, the sadness, the anger and his resignation.

Tara fixed him with her enormous, hazel eyes.

“It wasn’t like when we s,s,shared a room and you’d have a wank after you t,t,thought I’d fallen asleep. I couldn’t just hum the Doctor Who theme in my head until it was over. It was overwhelming, Billy. Penny knows s,s,someone who can help me close the gate with meditation. I’ll just be gone a few days, learn the t,t,technique and withdraw from my classes, s,s,sort t,t,things out with my professors,” Tara said.

“I think there could be a giant question mark forming over my head,” Buffy said.

Spike exchanged a look with Tara; she nodded.

“There was a s,s,strange consequence of the s,s,spell,” Tara said.

Tara explained the situation to Buffy. The tiny blonde looked pensive as Spike's sister spoke.

“So you sensed everything, as in all of the things?” Buffy asked.

“Yup.”

“Ew,” Buffy said.

“I’m sorry, Tara, I didn’t think,” Spike said.

“Yeah, I know what you were t,t,thinking. It's O.K. Love’s a funny t,t,thing,” Tara said.

Spike felt like a teenager who'd just been caught rummaging through his mother's purse for money. Buffy looked stunned. She guided him into the basement and locked him in without speaking. He wanted to call her name as she took the stair, but he remembered it wasn't to be said aloud. The two women he cared for most in the world had abandoned him because of what he was and there was nothing he could do to fix things. He picked up one of the oranges he'd been juggling with and threw it against the stone wall of the basement. As it splattered, he could almost hear Tara saying, “Hey, what did that orange ever do to you?”

Spike looked up, but she wasn't there.


Chapter End Notes:
"What did that orange ever do to you," is a direct quote from Amber Benson's movie, Chance.
Also "Baby, I don't care," is from the classic noir, Out of the Past.
"Love's a funny thing," was Spike's last line in Lover's Walk.



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