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He should be at the cemetery.

Spike looked down at the heap of blonde hair covering one shoulder, the girl he loved resting in blissful sleep, her face on his chest, and the notion of work flitted almost entirely away.

He should be at the cemetery, but it didn't matter.

Hours had gone by. Hours of pleasure and laughter, tentative and brazen touching alike. Dusting away the minutes, so careless, so wonderful. From learning his second label to accepting more than just the nickname. She held him close. Buffy kissed like a dream, as sappy and as much of an understatement as that was. Her hands had coaxed his T-shirt from his body to allow for warm, skin on skin contact that made his muscles burn.

They didn't make love. She didn't let him further inside, but every touch brought them closer. Physical intimacy was something Spike understood; he knew what to do, but emotional connection... Well, that was something else entirely.

The cloud of pleasure practically fueled her determination. Buffy stole his heart over and over again through running fingertips and greedy discovery. He remembered her grasping his neck to pull him in for a kiss, while one hand maneuvered to undo his belt. Spike never touched her in the wet velvet between her legs again, because the right to explore had shifted.

"You don't have to," he'd told her. Want of understanding encouraged this gentleman's protest, but her desire to touch him burned it away.

"I want to." Heat and disbelief wrapped around his neck like a collar, but he still stared at her. "Can I?"

Of course she could.

Her hair was silk on his skin. The way it draped around his body, shining like bendable gold would probably never stop mesmerizing him. No matter how much she allowed him to touch, to take, to hear. No matter the amount of time she spent on him, Spike would never get used to a single thing she did.

And if he did, it wouldn't take away from the beauty of her.

If Buffy tracing the edges and bumps that made up his chest ever ceased to kill his ability to breathe; if the sound of her pulling on his zipper ever failed to accelerate his heartbeat; if her green eyes swallowing the image of his cock in her open hand, the feel of her touch affectionately pumping him, stopped emptying the thoughts in his head, then hell would freeze over.

If her beauty and grace, or Buffy's willingness to smile at him, ever quit surprising Spike he couldn't say the rest would follow.

If he could have paused kissing her while she touched him for even a moment, then maybe the whole duration of their intimacy where he got his would have ended sooner. Spike didn't look more than he knew he could handle, but he felt. He felt every damnably perfect thing. Her tongue stroking against his own as her palm hugged his cock, sticking out of his jeans at full mast as she reached further inside the denim. Buffy's mewls of pleasure and excitement were second only to his own in volume, but so much sweeter to listen to.

He felt every vibration and shift of her body, even the disgruntled moans when she couldn't determine whether he liked how she played with his balls. Spike remembered sculpting his own hand over her fingers through the seam of his jeans, squeezing so she would do it tighter, be rougher. Buffy only smiled and redoubled her efforts to kill him. Shortly thereafter, when the woman was nibbling on his lower lip and moaning her appreciation of all the little affections he couldn't help letting out, Spike came into the fast movements of her hand.

He pulled her close, indulging in more of her mouth despite the unwritten rule that said it was overkill because he hadn't let her breathe before that moment. Buffy didn't complain. As a matter of fact, she had smiled against his lips, and her happiness was enough for him.

Spike remembered the way he'd tackled her to the couch and tasted her neck and lips, her chin, cheeks, everywhere she would let him for a while. They paid no attention to the stickiness between them or the intimacy growing in quiet. Comfort and resplendence entwined, until Spike was dozing on her chest.

At some point, Buffy opted to make a bathroom trip. She came back in silky pajama pants that molded to her legs and an apology for having nothing he could change into. He said it was all right, and the awkwardness that should have shown itself by then refused to come out of hiding. Spike was beginning to think it wasn't even there.

That was how he'd gotten here. Noting the clock on the far wall, a careless spectator who claimed it was three AM. Buffy was oblivious to the sound, oblivious to the world in general as she breathed contentedly against his bare chest. He couldn't remember when they'd fallen asleep, and Spike couldn't guess why he'd woken up now.

Perhaps this reality was too much for him, even in rest. Perhaps the fact that none of tonight had been a dream was enough to alight his nerves and drag him from sleep. A subconscious need to reassure himself of reality by living in it. The cause didn't really matter, because the sight of Buffy lying against him was enough to make Spike forget everything but the gratefulness bombarding his gut.

An itch on his thigh went ignored. Even the simple movement to relieve it seemed like too much effort, but it drew Spike's attention to miniscule dampness close by.

He remembered Buffy telling him he could wash up in her bathroom, to use anything he needed.

The task was quick and tedious at once, because the uncertainty about using one of her washcloths to clean his crotch included about two and a half minutes of mental warring.

Spike opted for toilet paper, and paper towels which were folded in a neat pill on top of the sink beside a bar of soap. He was squeaky clean when he trailed out, hoping that the smile greeting him on Buffy's lips wasn't forced.

She reassured him silently by making room on the couch. Spike had once believed cuddling with the woman he loved after helping each other come apart would just remain another wish never granted. The magic of the night, of the moments they'd sewn together with well timed truths and patience were now equally rooted in certainty. It was like that feeling you have when you go back to a place you've only ever categorized as your heart, your home away from home.

Except when he sat down on the couch and Buffy wrapped him in her arms, they laid back, and a foreign feeling entered his chest. Like a pendulum swing, that sense of home which hadn't been present since his mother died came rushing in.

Buffy gave him that feeling back. And it was different, more whole, more intimate.

With the knowledge, Spike looked at her now before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I..." He swallowed hard. His throat went tight. "I love you, Buffy."

In the dimness of the house a high pitched, feline complaint rang out.

He blinked and moved to peer around Buffy's body. Tabitha sat on the floor, beside the couch. She meowed again after catching his eyes.

Frowning, Spike looked to the bowls on the kitchen floor where Buffy had given up some chicken earlier, then hastily back when the animal protested his loss of concentration.

He sighed quietly. "All right, all right," Spike murmured, before making an anxious attempt to maneuver out of the haven that was Buffy's arms. She moaned a little as he shifted them both, and the man combed his fingers through her hair, praying Tabitha wouldn't voice another grievance.

He made it with little consequence but for the cold that crept into his veins when he left the couch. He moved silently in the kitchen and found her food dish empty.

Tabitha caught his attention with a quiet squeak of a meow. Spike glanced quickly towards Buffy's sleeping form before tiptoeing to the cabinet door where the feline sniffed and pawed.

In a minute, Spike had located the dry cat food and refilled her bowl. She was a quiet eater, and to further delay any demands he gave her fresh water before climbing back into bed. Rather, onto the couch. Silently, as slowly as he could, Spike fell beside his girl and nuzzled in close. She wedged herself nearer, his arm molded gently around her back, and the stiffness in his limbs depleted with one sleepy sigh.

Buffy breathed against his throat, and Spike fell asleep.

***

Four hours later, the sun had risen and was busy painting the sky in gold. Light streamed into the living room lining them in strips, reaching the floor and warming other select surfaces. Buffy was roused by something unnoticeable. She woke in a quick manner, sleep drenched eyes blinking open and her pulse thrumming in her wrist and neck.

She turned, as her vision cleared found the sight of a male nipple only inches from her face. Buffy blinked again and when she looked up, bumped Spike's chin.

The memories came rushing back. Following close behind, came a smile. Their evening dinner had somehow fallen into a cozy couch sleepover, and Buffy couldn't say she regretted a single moment of it.

Her heart was well and truly tangled. For once, it didn't feel like barbed wire; rather, the ties were made of silk or cotton or something equally soft and comforting, something that made looking at him now in the milky morning remind her of magic rather than daunting pain. She didn't know if it was because Spike, William, was the first man she had opened up to since truly letting her first love go. She didn't know if Angel had anything to do with it at all.

Buffy wouldn't say he did. The right person wasn't necessarily supposed to come at the right time, but if nothing else Angel had taught her the best people stayed in your life whether you wanted them to or not. He hadn't. None of the men she'd been with afterward gave Buffy a reason to think he should have, and she was starting to realize that if she had stayed with them she might have been settling for something less than what she needed. What she wanted.

William made her feel things that even the first love hadn't, pre and post the trauma of that relationship. It was a different kind of emotion invading her chest little by little now, and there was no pain, just excitement. There was no guessing because she had no idea what else this man might do, or what he might make her feel. Last night's sex-tivities certainly hadn't been planned. She was learning William like a book, from cover to cover, and she was thoroughly enjoying the read.

If this budding trust wasn't in place, then maybe some panic would have wedged in beside contentment. As it was, all she felt was warm and... and loved.

*Loved.*

Oh. There was the panic.

Buffy frowned and swallowed. She took a deep breath and forced the fear to the back of her mind. She had already dealt with this. It was silly running from a relationship she was certain now had merit, from something which made her happier than she'd been in so long.

Besides, if she tried she would only hurt herself. And William. She would hurt William, and Buffy didn't want to do that.

Likely he'd just show up at her house with a bagful of food and cook her dinner again. Pulling away was kind of futile at this point.

With that resolution, Buffy laid back down. She remembered it was Saturday and burrowed against Spike's chest like Tabitha enjoyed snuggling into the laundry. She felt his hold around her tighten marginally, as peace filled her to the brim.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

***

Jack eased his arm out of Mr. Harris' grip, hoping the man still qualified as his boss. Just because he'd shown up with a black eye wasn't normal grounds for firing somebody, was it? Jack didn't think so.

Sure, he couldn't work today, but Mr. Harris never said a word about firing him. How could you even fire somebody who hadn't worked a day for you yet? Refusing to talk about what happened shouldn't leave him without a job either, in his humble opinion. You'd think another guy would understand, but all Xander Harris kept talking about was "telling Buffy."

The man didn't seem very old. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he was older Xander Harris wouldn't be getting so antsy about a couple bruises on a sixteen year old. It wasn't like this thing didn't happen all the time, just usually the bruises were easier to cover with clothes. The times they weren't, well, let's just say Jack wasn't bad at applying concealer.

He cringed and ran a hand through his messy hair. His left eye was pretty messed up. It couldn't be swelling, but the slant in his vision begged different.

Sleeping through his alarm this morning hadn't been the best decision made by his subconscious. He was convinced that if he'd gotten up on time, the worst thing to happen might have been a little mockery if anyone noticed the makeup. He could have blamed acne. Nobody would have known about the bruises.

As Xander Harris knocked harder on the door in front of them, it felt as if the pounding echoed inside his brain. Damn it, his eye really throbbed.

Jack clenched his teeth. Here he stood, his hopefully-still-new boss practically knocking down his guidance counselor's front door on a Saturday morning. A part of Jack wondered why the hell this was Xander Harris' immediate destination after seeing his face, another part of Jack was too exhausted and irritated to care.

God, his life was such a joke.

"Buffy!" Mr. Harris bellowed, sounding somehow apologetic. "Buffy, look I know it's early but I have to-"

The door opened in the middle of that sentence. Standing in the frame was a short woman wearing her pajamas, messy hair, and a scowl darker than the mud on his boss' boots.

"Xander, what the hell are you-" She was halfway to yelling before her eyes locked on Jack's slouching, discolored image, and her expression went from angry to terrified. "Oh my God. Jack?"

Great. Motherly sympathy. He hated this.

"What happened?" Buffy demanded, storming forward on bare feet. She sent Xander a fierce look which got him talking so fast the words nearly strung together.

"I didn't want to bother you but he showed up at the site like this." Jack was waved at, and it made him feel about four years old again. "I told him he couldn't work, and he isn't in the mood to explain the damage. I figured you'd want to know about it."

Buffy sent silent concern in Jack's direction.

"I'm also not sure about that eye," Xander added. "If it swells shut, he can't do a thing on site until it heals."

"It's fine," Jack grumbled.

As Buffy opened her mouth to reply, a third person completed the picture of Jack's humiliation. A bleary eyed man with white blonde hair and no shirt ambled into the doorway.

Buffy turned around instantly. "Oh William- Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

The man, William presumably, took in the situation quickly and even with those bags under his eyes Jack thought he assessed everything fairly well. He also thought the man looked familiar.

Xander Harris blinked in shock. "William? Pratt?"

Bleached guy rose a single hand, the other finding a place in his jeans' pocket. "One an' only."

"Oh." Taking a second to digest the obvious, Xander turned worriedly toward Jack, then his friend. Buffy was as red as a tomato.

Jack tried not to grin, and his guidance counselor's following decision to ignore the awkwardness in the air and start grilling him made it easy. "What happened to you?" she asked impatiently.

He couldn't refute the sigh bubbling in his chest. When he let it out none of the tension in his shoulders went along with it. "Nothing. I fell."

She looked him over again. "Bull." Buffy reached out slowly, her fingers curling into a limp fist before they could touch his cheek. Her expression suddenly hardened like a rock. "Who did this to you?"

"No one. I told you-"

"We both know you're not telling the truth." Xander interrupted. Quiet followed before it was his turn to sigh. Long and hard and tired, he said, "Look, Buff, I didn't bring him here 'cause I wanted to get him into trouble. He can't work with those bruises. There would be questions. And he's a student, so I don't know what the protocol is here."

"You did the right thing Xander, it's okay." She turned around and Jack thought she sent the man in the doorway a silent message, but he wasn't looking at her. William was staring at him. As Buffy Summers went on to thank her friend for bringing Jack over, Xander reassuring her that "the kid" would still have a job on weekends as long as he wanted, William hardly even blinked.

Jack was starting to feel like he was some kind of mannequin in a store window. His eyes fell to the porch and Xander Harris' voice suddenly sounded louder than it ever had.

"You take care. I'll see you next weekend, okay?"

A rough pat on the shoulder shook his concentration enough that he actually replied. "Yeah."

The man walked away and Jack felt a sudden pull on his wrist. He blinked, found Buffy Summers' hand wrapped around his arm. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

"No, that's okay, I- I just gotta go home." He scratched at the back of his head. "Get some sleep."

"Right," she scoffed. "Not before I get some ice on those bruises. Or should I call your aunt?"

Jack rolled his eyes, and it sort of hurt the one, which made him angry. "I swear, I'm fine."

A voice piped up from behind them. "Looks like you got yourself into a nasty one. What was it, three or four?"

A question fell over his guidance counselor's face, but Jack shared none of her confusion. He ducked his head again and rubbed at irritated skin. He could still feel the grip of a hand on the back of his neck and it seriously made him want to crawl under a rock.

The fact his guidance counselor's boyfriend had figured out Jack got his ass beat like a whiny kid with no friends made him feel twice as exhausted and about four times more willing to sit down and apply some ice to his wounds. Black eyes really could cause one hell of a headache.

"It was three," he replied irritably.

Buffy noticeably swallowed a gasp and wrapped her arm halfway around Jack's shoulders. She guided the young man inside with no protest from him, and Spike was already in the kitchen, pulling out a chair by the time she closed the front door.

She flew to the refrigerator after Jack sat down. A skinny teenager with a mess of black hair and bruises all over his face. It tore at her inside to see him looking so defeated, not pulling his eyes from the ground once he sat down. She thought he might be counting the floorboards. Buffy got a small bag of frozen fruit out of the freezer and brought it to his side.

"Thanks," he mumbled. Suddenly meek and quiet, the kid threw a cautious glance at the man who now stood across the room, finally wearing a shirt. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Janitor at your school, mate," he answered easily. "Name's Spike."

Jack frowned, then winced as it carried pain to his swelling eye. "Oh."

"Ice might do better on that, Buffy."

She turned from poking gently at Jack's purple skin and nodded quickly. A moment later she had put together a washcloth with ice cubes and wet the outside. After handing it to Jack he said thank you and Buffy proceeded to use the bag of fruit on his chin where a welt had formed.

"How did this happen?"

A minute went by before Jack elected to reply. "I got into a fight," he mumbled.

"Well, that's obvious."

He would've rolled his eyes again but could only see Buffy out of one of them now. "It's not a big deal."

"Yes. It is." She sighed heavily and gave him the damp bag of blueberries. Turning around, Buffy sent Spike a worried look.

She didn't know what to do. Here was a kid, one of her kids, all beaten up for a reason he wouldn't explain. Some ice and medicine would clean him up and help him heal, but without knowing the source, she couldn't stop this from happening again. A voice in the back of Buffy's mind said Jack was getting bullied, another insisted that he was an unlikely victim.

Jack was not the type of kid to lay down and take a beating. Even if he was kind of a loner, if he was getting bullied then this boy would fight back. It wasn't logical that he wouldn't.

But then... How well did she really know Jack? He carried himself with an edge, was nervous when asking for help. He seemed like the type to be great, even insistent, about taking care of himself.

There was a big difference between persona and reality, though. Not to mention, bullying was the last thing kids his age ever wanted to face.

"Has this happened before?"

"I said it's no big deal."

"I've never seen you with bruises at school before."

*No offense, but you just started working there and usually they're not visible anyway.* Jack didn't snub her though. Instead he just looked away and swallowed his irritation as best he could.

Predictably, the boy went quiet after that. Spike shared another look with his girl and strolled to the fridge. He returned with orange juice and a glass from a cabinet. Pouring the former into the latter, he eyed the boy in front of him intently and at the kid's questioning frown, said, "S'good for the healin'. F'you put a cold compress on that eye in a day or so it'll help, too."

Jack rose one caustic brow, and it was so familiar to her that Buffy nearly fell over. Then he caught a glance at Spike's hands, nodded at them and said, "Why aren't you drinking it then?"

"Already had some."

Spike flexed his hands into fists but barely spared a look for the bruising on his knuckles; Buffy's eyes were fixed. Immediately, she retrieved two more glasses and poured some good old vitamin C for everybody. Just so Jack wouldn't feel funny.

The action made Spike smile, and the teenager holding a hand towel to his face even cracked a grin.

"So, who were the blokes that went after you?"

Jack clammed up, smile gone.

Spike sighed quietly and took a sip of juice. Buffy sat down across from him, and suddenly the boy was talking again.

"You get into a lot of fights?" he asked Spike.

"Used to," he said. "I imagine you're in the same boat?"

Again with the clamming.

Buffy bit her lip and sent a look of grateful warmth in Spike's direction. He nodded marginally, and even if her whole stomach felt fluttery all of a sudden, she still managed to follow the lead of their silent teamwork.

Turning back to their guest, Buffy said, "Jack, you can talk to me. Neither of us are going to say anything."

Bitterness crept into his eyes. "The janitor I've never met who has two names, and my school guidance counselor. Sorry. Don't really want to spill my life story to you two."

"Exactly. I am your guidance counselor," she said firmly. "And that's why you can tell me these things. And Spike- William..." Buffy turned and dropped him a swift smile. "You can trust him, too."

Jack's lips pursed tightly. A moment went by.

"Reckon' you got a few good kicks in?" Spike added.

Jack sighed. "Got a good hit on one of 'em," he mumbled.

Buffy swallowed around a sigh of relief. She looked to Spike again. He seemed to know better things to say than she did.

But he just nodded at her to continue, and so reluctantly, she did. "Who did you hit?" she ventured.

"No one that didn't deserve it, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't."

"I'm not one of the assholes in this town."

"I never said that."

"But I look like one." Jack sighed irritably, took a big gulp of juice. He was still holding the towel to his eye, and stumbled away from the table a little as he stood up. "Look, thank you for the ice and juice and... playing mother hen, but I think I should be getting back home."

Startled, Buffy could barely stumble out of her own chair in time to stride in front of him. "No, listen to me. You're not okay and that's my responsibility."

"Not really."

"Jack-"

"I promise you, it's not your problem. I'm not your problem."

That hit her like a rockslide. He walked around Buffy after setting the towel down. "Oh, sometimes I wish it wasn't," she muttered.

Spike's voice preceded her next attempt at blocking Jack from the front door. "You know, walkin' 'round this town looking like that'll get you noticed."

Halting as if he stepped in tar, Jack sighed. After a tense second or two he spun around. Avoiding Buffy's flashing eyes, he knew there was concern there he didn't want to see, and the other guy in the room was a better target for his irritability anyway. "I can take shortcuts."

"You mean the same ones everyone else in this bloody town uses? Right, good plan."

"Jack," Buffy pleaded when his silence lasted long enough, "just sit, okay? You don't have to talk about what happened if you don't want, but-" She thought fast, frustration bleeding into her mind and clouding the ability to think. "Look. I'll get changed and drive you home, okay? Just let me do that much."

He sighed deeply again, seemingly at her this time. "That's okay. I'd rather walk." He'd also rather not get seen being driven around by his guidance counselor, as it was just one more way to ensure he'd have two matching black eyes by mid week.

"I'll take him."

Both their heads snapped in one direction.

"Your car needs to be filled with coolant again, likely. I'll take him, it'll be quicker."

"Spike... You don't have to do that." When had the names flipped? He was suddenly Spike to her more than William now? Buffy supposed it was the way he stood, arms crossed and purple hands at his elbows.

She was honestly not adverse to the idea, but Jack wasn't Spike's responsibility. He was hers. And his aunt's, if the boy told his guardian about the fight once he got home. Which, call her crazy, but Buffy didn't see that happening.

Spike merely shrugged at her concern, raising one eyebrow carelessly and speaking to the teenager in the room. "Where you live?"

"On Madison Street."

He nodded. "No trouble takin' him."

She bit her lip, nearly protesting again. But something registered, and it was that unwritten request in Spike's blue eyes, something that said he could find out more information. Something that insisted this was a reasonable idea, him taking the boy home, because there were secrets here she couldn't understand and Jack wouldn't confide.

But he might confide in Spike.

"I'm getting driven home by a guy who goes by 'Spike.'" the teenager deadpanned.

It wasn't a question, which was obvious. It was an acceptance. Buffy smiled faintly, staring at the man she'd spent the night with in something close to awe. "If you're sure."

"No, not really," Jack answered, despite the fact she hadn't been talking to him that time.

Only a minute later, and they were out the door, walking five feet away from each other to Spike's car. Buffy watched from the doorway with her heart feeling as swollen as Jack's eye, and God, but the sensation was so out of place she nearly wanted to thump her chest with a fist.

She knew, that by the time Spike returned, he would have garnered all the information she needed. And Buffy was beyond grateful.





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