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He had two bottles of wine in the front seat. Neither were his. Buffy suggested them when Spike asked if he should bring anything to this celebration that was starting to feel more like target practice for questionable suitors. He still wasn't sure about the daisies, but some instinct whispered flowers were a pretty safe bet if he was trying to impress people.

Spike had not worried about impressing anyone for a long time, but now he was with Buffy, and hoping her friends wouldn't look at him like an alien across the dinner table. Surely, foliage couldn't hurt.

All day he alternated between euphoria and jittery pacing. He avoided alcohol purposefully and smoked instead, though it did little good. Now, on the way to her house, every mile closer left him worse off. His stomach was molten and tipsy.

Simultaneously, giddy spiraling ran from the base of his spine to his throat, tickling every nerve until Spike wasn't sure whether he was about to float away or throw up.

Within expected minutes he was outside her place, parking quick, slamming his car door and striding to the front porch. He paused at the steps, taking a moment to breathe. Eyes shut against the cool November wind, ignoring the tingling in his hands, a thick swallow went down Spike's throat as he counted to five.

Christ, his nerves were a muddle.

He was still under that unmerciful stillness when a frustrated shout belted the house's walls. He bounded the steps in one go and knocked loudly on Buffy's front door.

It swung wide almost immediately, and there she stood, wrapped in a towel, hair and makeup done to perfection, sporting two different shoes. He didn't say anything. He didn't exactly have a chance because she offered a helpless greeting, turned away, then left the door open for him, all in about five seconds.

Spike proceeded cautiously. He closed the entryway right before an impatient grunt came from her bedroom.

Quietly bypassing the staircase, he found her cozy sleeping quarters. Spike had never once been inside, and therefore hovered uncertainly near the door, only daring to lean against the jamb like some drunken totem pole.

He spotted a feminine bedspread, one he knew from the spying games previously played while she slept, and dark floorboards which creaked beneath a mess of clothes.

Buffy stood to the left, tearing through a dresser with the chaotic determination of a woman who was both late and in need of an outfit. Her only cover, a towel wrapped tightly around her body, fought to remain perpendicular to the pile of skirts at her feet.

She kicked her mismatched shoes off. Spike crossed his arms, eyeing the soft mint walls all around. There was a vanity table in the corner closest to the window, sheer curtains tickling its white wooden legs. "Why's your window open, love?"

"I got too hot," she answered quickly. There was shiny perspiration coating her chest and collarbone. His bottom lip wedged itself beneath his canines. "I've been searching for something to wear, and I've come up empty," she grumbled.

Her towel's resolve was waning. Spike frowned, and tried to find Buffy's eyes as she closed the messy drawer for good. "Don't birds usually plan this stuff out?" He had no real experience that could have sourced the notion, except for knowing her well enough to know she liked clothes, makeup, and all other girly trademarks. He'd seen her choose garments for mundane occasions days in advance before. Not the dressing changes specifically, but the action of flitting to and from a mirror six or seven times in a row.

She didn't know this, of course.

"I had something in mind, but when I tried it on it just looked..." her face soured, "wrong."

Spike found that hard to believe. Likely, nerves were working his girl into a state of indecision and doubt. Which, if true, meant Buffy was just as concerned about this evening as he was. The concept encouraged both relief and nausea, respectively. "I don't think you have anything to fret over, pet. You'll find somethin'."

Her head tossed golden waves back and forth. "I tried on everything, Spike."

In all honesty, Buffy was having one of those dreaded moments, the ones that lasted hours and only seemed to show up for important occasions. Her entire closet was devoid of anything worthwhile, her dresser had already proven itself obsolete, and her body was a disappointment in every way. She wanted to look cute, chic and sexy. That was hard when you were having a crises.

Buffy sighed, facing him, and her hand froze midway through her tresses.

It was bad enough Spike seeing her like this, messy and banded together by nothing more than a damp bath towel, but he was the definition of put together. Completely dressed, looking distinguished yet oh so hot, and total heartthrob material.

A brown leather jacket that could have been pulled from the back of his closet, judging by the style, hugged his shoulders. It was in perfect condition, edges milky soft and unmarred. A blue button up, neat and smooth and the perfect fit, brightened his eyes. The guy-liner was thoroughly eradicated. His jeans were new, certainly.

She had seen him don a non-punk style before, but never so tamed as this.

He always wore the same thing around her; a customary black shirt and jeans. Sometimes, the denim changed to light blue, and of course she'd gotten used to his janitor's uniform by now, but Buffy could not say she had gotten used to this.

"Can I see it?" he asked.

Blindsided, she shook her head. "What?"

"The first mix n' match. We've got some time," he said, pointing at the little red clock that governed her nightstand. "Might be you're being too picky."

Buffy hefted a deep sigh. "That's easy for you to say."

"How so?" He watched her hoist the drooping towel and wander to the closet. She pulled the double doors open and grabbed a hanger.

"When you come over looking like you do, all handsome and stuff..." She slipped behind the closet door and dropped her cover. Spike locked his knees, acutely aware of his unmoving feet. "It's easy to give a compliment when you know that you look good."

He hadn't known, not to the degree she was making it seem. Buffy poked her pretty head out and smiled at him. She was discouraged, but trying not to show it.

The most he noticed was a flash of elbow. While Spike's throat threatened to close and his spine grew rigid, she did the last bit of hopping and zipping required to finish getting dressed.

A moment later, and Buffy trotted out from behind her makeshift screen. She approached the full length mirror on his right. A sweater of smooth brown velvet cut her chest in a V, exposing a gentle swell of cleavage. Mid rise jeans in dark blue hugged her hips, and pointy leather boots nearly brought her to his eye level.
She fluffed her hair experimentally and said, "So? What do you think?"

He thought a lot of things, but saying them was neither smart nor possible. Spike swallowed hard. "You must be smokin' somethin', pet."

Her eyes went round. "It's that bad?"

"No, it's that distracting." He gave up the threshold, walking to her side. For once, Spike allowed himself a thorough study, a stroll for his eyes from bottom to top. He assessed her slim build, long legs and delicate collarbone; masking desire proved impossible. She blushed under the blatant approval, in her cheeks to underneath her velvet sweater, and smiled despite it all.

Buffy fiddled with a strand of gold, twining it around and around her fingers. "You look beautiful, as per usual," he murmured. "All this twaddle 'bout havin' nothin' to wear is in your head."

The grin broadened. "You think so?"

He ducked bashfully. "Would a bloke this handsome lie to you?"

She laughed, and it caused overactive heartbeats. "You're also the guy who says words like 'twaddle.'"

"You trust that cousin of yours."

"Good point."

"You really do look fetching."

She gave herself one last assessment in the mirror, looking over her shoulder and then down her front again. "Okay. I guess, if you like it..." She nodded for the statement's end.

Moments later, he watched as she got her purse together, chose a brown suede coat and applied another swipe of something that smelled like strawberry to her lips. A dinging noise from the kitchen was what brought an end to his happy theater.

Buffy left to retrieve two metal tubes of Pillsbury dough from the refrigerator and shut off the egg timer. When she noticed him watching her, she explained she hadn't wanted to forget the one thing Anya asked her to bring; bread rolls. This reminded Spike of the wine and flowers still in his car. He mentioned them offhand, and after witnessing Buffy's stunned pleasure over the latter, experienced a floating sensation beneath his feet.

"She'll love flowers. That was really nice of you."

He would have shrugged, but she was setting the manufactured food aside now, stepping closer. In a moment he could feel her breath. "I didn't exactly kiss you yet, did I?" Buffy said. A violet reminiscent scent wafted around him. Spike shuddered as her hand grazed his forearm.

He wanted to tear the leather off. This coat didn't help him hide like his duster did, didn't supply that added shot of confidence Spike treasured, but it helped; at the prospect of feeling her skin, he knew he could easily go without.

She pressed in, like the need was just as great on the other side. She moved her body closer because his hands told her so, and snuck her own beneath his jacket because she wanted to. The velvet was soft, but somehow her throat, chin and collarbone were softer.

Her touch ghosted along leather like it would piano keys. Spike cupped the back of her head, lost his fingers in gold tresses. The dip in her waist led to the curve of her hip; a valley of warmth. Denim, smooth and coarse at once, caressed his skin. She pressed her mouth against his gently, coaxing with milky, moist flicks of her tongue.

He urged them together, crushing and quick. Heat rose fast. She opened to him, moaned and sighed so he felt her exhales in every crevice of his body. Her familiar taste, and God the fact he could call her familiar, was like taking sips of absinthe, all encompassing, sweet, heaven in a drink.

She pulled away to take deep breaths, while he lost his in the column of her throat. "Spike, we really shouldn't-" She cut herself off with a sudden moan. Really, the man was too good with his tongue. But they needed to leave. They were supposed to be in her car on the way to dinner. She'd only just looked at the clock, and if they weren't at Xander and Anya's soon, they might not arrive even fashionably late.

His tongue again, stroking her skin, hot and slick and behind the shell of her ear, knocked common sense to the ground. Spike never heard what Buffy started to say, and it didn't matter because he was pushing her up against a wall, the edge of the entryway, with his hand protecting her head from collision.

Her back was another story, rammed hard and fast into the wood. They slid together, two bodies made one by addictive friction, across the level strip of wall. She opened her eyes on a grunt and saw the side of the stairwell. To their right was the front door. Ironic, how close the exit sign was, and how badly she didn't care to use it.

Buffy tore the leather jacket off and let it fall. Spike's fingers fell down, beneath the waistband of her jeans. She arched her neck and spine; he moved to steal what air she breathed. Her zipper parted, warm male hands stroking the softness below her belly button while his tongue played behind her teeth.

Then he was faster, sliding lower. Pressure started, that deep pit in her abdomen where blood simmers like water above a fire turned hot. He found the lace and then the curls, smoothing, rubbing, until she was riding his fingers. His arms kept her upright, hands digging in with matching death grips

One, two long thrusts, experimental and wet. She could feel the rings he wore deep and cool inside, warming with every plunge. An angled palm caressed her from the outside. Pressure landed in exquisite places, sensation flying upward until it leveled in her mouth.

She broke free for air again. His legs framed her right thigh, and she lifted it, providing the kind of friction used to make any man moan. Pressing harder, against him, into his hand, feeling him go deeper. Her leg provided ample warmth for his zipper.

Something inside made Buffy break the silence of gasps and pretty moans, his lethargic grunts that parried well with every enthusiastic sigh. She started saying his name. It wasn't planned, didn't include much thought, wasn't a prayer or a plea. It was just his name. "Spike..."

A moan fell across her lips. Every muscle began to either bend or stretch. He pulled away, moved between slow and fast, harsh thrusts of his attentive fingers. Her voice, once so simple, grew louder and as weak as her reservation. "Spike..."

It became a litany. Sharp, half spoken, slurred and whimpered. She wasn't focused on that. Everything had turned blush, like she'd been drinking too much. Spike's breathing was rapid against her neck, a mantra of voiceless pleasure. Then, finally, her name whispered past.

"Buffy..."

She was close. So close. She could feel it, taste it like she could taste the mint and smoke on his lips.
"Buffy..." he breathed again. His words were soft and hot. "Oh, Buffy. That's it. Love- I've got you. Won't let you go. Never."

The heat grew, drove deeper. Her eyes fell shut.

"That's my girl," he murmured like a poet, like he knew something she didn't. The rocking motion quit against her thigh. Buffy moaned. "Don't cry, baby. You're almost there. For me now, c'mon. Let me have it. Not lettin' go 'til I feel those muscles rippling around me."

His gentle coaxing roused her keening side, and like an ocean wave, pleasure rolled forward in a foamy rush. Wet and hot and slippery as he rubbed the numbness away like it was all she had left to give. Her neck arched painfully far back, and Spike's teeth sunk into the delicate skin in famishment.

It was thick and hard to breathe. Buffy's voice was sweet, pure peaches and honey, stabbing through the loud throb of his heartbeat. Spike groaned with those final writhing tugs, lost in sensation, lapsing moans scraping his flesh. He freed her body of his touch, lace panties sodden, but stayed there, close to her warmth while the juices dried.

Their minds were stitched back together in worn silence, gasps drifting together like candle smoke. Buffy's sleepy, cat-like smile was what gave him the permission to zip her jeans closed. Once he buttoned them, he noticed her staring at her thigh, where it wedged against his crotch.

Spike shuffled back, but she didn't let him get far, as if he wanted that. He hadn't blown his load, even if the option was tempting. Now, however, the seriousness of everything returned, bringing along that old friend Uncertainty. He was thankful for the physical pain. Then, Buffy grabbed his hand and coaxed it higher. She glanced shyly- Imagine that? -into his eyes.

A slow instant and she pulled him in again, nudged their lips back together. The kiss was sweet and slow. She made his heart go calm even if his body remained as taught as a slingshot. Her leg moved. His palm found her throat.

When they parted, his eyes were dreamy and drawn immediately to her own; a connection flickered.

"What was that?" Spike asked roughly.

Buffy smiled, starry and yet certain. She glanced not so covertly to the predicament below his belt buckle. "A promise."

***

It was a promise that would have to be put off, and they both knew it.

They arrived at the Harris residence in record time. The Dutch colonial stood against a sunset backdrop, expansive with windows alight beneath plum clouds. After they found a place to park, Spike hopped from the driver's seat and strolled around the Jeep to open the passenger door.

Buffy was still talking. "I don't understand why I couldn't drive."

"Told you, pet." He took the small paper bag out of her hands. "Like bein' behind the wheel."

"Right," she scoffed. Buffy grabbed the flowers off her seat and took his arm once he shut the door. "This has to do with my lack of driving skills, doesn't it?"

It was one of those questions that didn't sound like a question, but Spike followed through. "I never said that, you did."

"But you were thinking it."

"So you're a mind reader now?"

"Oh, shut up." They approached the house together. The wind was calm and soft like a butterfly's descent, but cold. Old snow and brown grass lined the sidewalk's edge.

Four creaky porch steps and they were facing the dark red door, pausing with a measure of unseen tension. The easy conversation they had kept up in the car deflated like a balloon. Buffy swallowed thickly, took a deep breath and squeezed Spike's hand. "They'll love you," she said, tossing him a glance full of affection, and rang the bell.

Spike nodded. He smiled as genuinely as he could, shuffling in place. His throat was tight again, and he hated that it took only seconds for the reaction to manifest, like he'd eaten something bad.

The sound of wind chimes in the distance startled him, a cold metal pinging, but he didn't flinch. He didn't move a muscle while Buffy huddled closer and took shallow, even breaths. He tried blanking his mind altogether, but couldn't help absently wondering how long it might take for his hard on to go away.

He counted meaningless seconds while they waited for someone, anyone to come to the door.

When someone did, it wasn't Xander, the fellow he'd met only briefly. It wasn't the bloke's wife either, the exuberant blonde he'd come across once or twice but never spoken to. It was an entirely unfamiliar character. A female with dark hair and dark eyes. Sharp frown lines edged her mouth, but they disappeared in an instant once she spotted him.

Her gaze zeroed in like a sniper scope. "William?"

Spike blinked. He frowned, looked at Buffy who was frowning too and turned back to the woman he didn't know. Then, in the softening light of the porch lamps, her features tickled a memory. He stared harder. "Wait a minute."

Buffy glanced between them. "You two... know each other?"

"It is you," the woman declared. She scanned Spike from head to toe, astonishment springing to her face. She resembled one of those Italian paintings, all round eyes and soft, cherub features. Pretty, Buffy noted. Loud, too, a fact easily deduced as the stranger leaned forward to speak, very directly, to Spike. "Why, I never would have thought to run into you again! Not in a hundred years!"

Evidently, she thought he was deaf.

While Buffy was trying to understand the gobsmacked expression on her date's face, Anya slid into view. "Buffy! Finally, you're here. I was worried you forgot the rolls and had to go back for them."

A little heavy breathing, and why she didn't know, but the excess oxygen suddenly went straight to her head, leaving behind a floaty sensation. "Uh, no. No, the rolls are right here." Buffy lifted the bag from Spike's hand; he let go effortlessly. "Just have to pop 'em in the oven."

"Great!" Anya smiled as she regarded her guests, attention landing on the only man. "Hi. You're William, right? I'm Anya, Xander's wife."

Buffy was momentarily dismayed when he took a solid two and a half seconds to respond. "Um, yeah. That's me." Spike grasped Anya's proffered hand. "Good to meet you."

"Same here." She let go and Buffy watched his pale fingers drop. Anya turned to the woman holding the door open. "Cecily, this is Buffy and William."

"Nice to meet you," Buffy said.

"Pleasure," she muttered, barely sparing a glance. "Anyanka, you didn't tell me you knew a man by the name of Pratt."

"Is that his name?"

"William Pratt," she enunciated in a gimmicky voice. "We grew up in England together."

*Well that explains the Poppins accent,* Buffy thought.

"How strange," Anya replied. Her smile shone with welcome and a casualness Buffy envied. "Well, come in you two. Dinner is late enough as it is with the turkey taking so long, and Buffy I think you should put those rolls in the oven right away."

She nodded absently, watching Cecily back up. Spike didn't say anything as they stepped inside, merely helped Buffy off with her coat as the door shut behind them. He avoided every angle open to eye contact, but she noticed, when he took the paper bag so her sleeves could be shed, that his jaw had clenched into solid rock.

"Are those for me?"

She snapped to attention at Anya's question. Remembering the flowers, their plastic wrapping now cold in her hand, Buffy immediately gave them to her hostess. "Yeah. Spi- William picked them out."

An inane chuckle erupted from Cecily, muffled the second Buffy's eyes met hers.

Anya was the one to ask, "Is something funny?"

"No," Cecily choked. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Buffy heard a distinct pause in Spike's motions as he hung up their coats- which Anya directed him kindly to do -and it was in that moment she decided Cecily was not somebody she was going to like.

"William has just always been such a gentleman," she added with the barest hint of sarcasm. "Haven't you?"

And there was the winning question that led Buffy to believe Cecily was the Queen of backhanded compliments. *Yep. No fuzzy feelings whatsoever.*

She turned to see Spike's reaction. A silent nod. Then, his attention shifted again, like a desperate grab for a lifejacket. Insecurity Buffy hadn't seen in weeks splattered across his granite expression. Transparent vulnerability filled his eyes.

Anya spoke up blessedly quick. "I think flowers are nice. These will make a perfect centerpiece." She turned her guileless stare on the both of them. "Thank you."

When he merely nodded again, Buffy was forced to say, "You're welcome."

Their hostess told the trio to follow her into the dining room. She led the way with Cecily at her shoulder, while Buffy and Spike lagged purposefully behind. It was amazing how the sound of retreating footsteps could easily break such a thick silence.

She stole the paper bag of uncooked rolls and wine from him. "Are you okay?"

Spike threw her a surprised look Buffy didn't buy for one second. "Yeah. Fine."

"Then why are you monosyllabic all of a sudden?"

He sighed roughly. Pale hands were clenching into fists, his face downturned. "M'sorry."

"Don't be-" She caught herself before her voice could rise. "Don't be sorry. Just tell me who Cecily is, and why you've been acting weird ever since she opened the door."

He was deathly quiet. The house felt swamped with company and she could hear Xander's bellowing laughter from the dining room up ahead. Savory aromas coated the entryway in a lip smacking mist. Warmth became oppressive heat.

The only thing Buffy could think about was the weight growing across her chest, and how soon she might be able to open a bottle of wine.

Then, by some miracle, Spike's clamming up ended before they turned the corner. He paused, she followed suit. Cecily and Anya were one wall and paces ahead of them.

"She's someone I knew when I was in England."

"Okay, I got that." Buffy crossed her arms before asking the next question. "Was she an old girlfriend?"

The horror that crossed his face did a lot for a girl's nerves. "No!"

"Then who-"

"She was a bitch who used to torment me, all right?"

Buffy froze, scowling. "What are you talking about?"

His teeth ground together, so loudly she heard them. "Before I moved, wasn't exactly a popular bloke, right? Got picked on, kept to m'self a lot." Spike took a deep breath that had an unfinished sigh tacked to its end. "Had a crush on the chit when I was 'round eleven. Didn't have much taste back then."

"She bullied you?" Buffy asked. Her voice had gone soft and the humiliated shine crashing in Spike's eyes made her wish it hadn't.

"She was indifferent to me at first," he mumbled. "I wager that's why I liked her, but she didn't exactly appreciate the sentiment once she found out. Took to feelin' insulted right quick."

A heavy pause. "I'm sorry."

He went quiet, sad embarrassment pouring down his features like a mask. "I don't need pity, Buffy."

"I mean, I'm sorry that she's here." That was a partial lie, not because it wasn't true, but because it hadn't been at all what she'd meant.

"Not your fault."

"What was that crack about the flowers?" she asked.

His whole body went rigid. "I wager it was 'cause I tried givin' her some, once." Spike scoffed cruelly. "Didn't go like I wanted, as you can imagine."

His hands were wedged in his pockets. Buffy reached for one, emboldened when he let her hold on.

"It figures," Spike said next, shaking his head and looking down. "I've been all nervous for tonight, you know. Should've guessed some demon from my past would show."

Buffy gave him a smile, empathetic and sad and genuine. "I think it's some sort of game for the big guys up top. They seem to like irony."

A snort. "No kiddin'," he said, and squeezed her hand without thought.

There was that lighter emptiness now, the kind of quiet you hear after a fireworks display or in little jokes made to erase prickly emotions. This time, the hush turned into a comforting one, like a locked door swinging open. Spike pulled their joined hands up, close to his chest. Eyes and mouth shut, he brought them higher until he was kissing her knuckles.

Buffy warmed. "It'll work out," she murmured.

He smirked a little, self depreciatingly, but she decided she would take it. "You think so?"

"I know so."

***

She knew nothing.

Absolutely nothing. The moment she and Spike strode through the dining room hand in hand, the night spun on its ass quicker than you could pour a glass of fortifying alcohol. Which Buffy did, four times.

She capped it off at that, and thankfully she was a slow drinker otherwise the wine would have gone straight to her head.

Not that she didn't welcome a little oblivion right now, but that was probably the very last thing this evening needed. Intoxication would guarantee she offered a strictly honest opinion on everything and everyone.

A verbal filter was necessary for survival. Very, very necessary. Especially when upset didn't even begin to describe the range of emotions she was experiencing.

It started early, brought to the dining room for introductions, Spike and Buffy remained uncertain except for the hold they kept on each other. The room housed a table laden with plates, silverware, napkins, candles, and many breakable wine glasses. Beyond that, a lounge area cornered off by two loveseats and matching recliners faced a flat screen. A football game was playing across from the dinner table draped in ivory lace.

A paper turkey sat in Xander's lap where he ruled over the social atmosphere with jovial management, his disinterest in the game camouflaged by a genuine interest in playing host. They followed him around as Spike was forced to shake hands with everyone he didn't know, which accumulated to everyone in the house. While Buffy herself recognized all faces present, she still wasn't prepared for the social tension.

Xander gladly shook William's hand first, but Buffy could tell by the way he avoided her date's eyes that he was a little unsure about the man. That could be disregarded, and Spike handled the rotation, learning five new names in three seconds, with his discomfort almost entirely concealed. It was similar to the way a crossing guard steps into traffic, confident the cars won't hit him but knowing full well they still could.

The group consisted of the Gardiners and the Bennings, two married couples in their thirties, as well as Anya's mother Emma, and Roger from work.

Roger's annual Thanksgiving plans at Robin Wood's house had been cancelled, apparently, due to a visit made for Faith's uncle to show off the new baby. Since Roger and Xander were drinking buddies, it only made sense he would accept a Harris invitation.

Buffy had nothing against Roger personally. However, not long after discovering Spike knew him, she began to change her opinion.

It was the handshake, first. "William, Roger. He's Principal Wood's assistant at the high school," Xander said by way of introduction. Buffy was holding gently onto her date's arm while they greeted the brunette in the checkered button down.

"We've met," Spike said, his hand empty and extended like a towel rod.

Roger smirked ever so slightly, and took his sweet time reaching out. "Yes, we have."

The handshake became long and almost flinchingly tight to Buffy's eyes. "You guys must run into each other a lot at school," she observed, hoping the statement might break their staring contest.

It broke the handshake. Roger pulled back. "Yes, exactly. William here is our most reliable mop handler."

She blinked in shock, because what else could you do when a comment like that came out of somebody's mouth? She saw Spike's expression close, turning gray as stone, and Buffy suddenly thought of a hundred other ideas for what to say.

Her date beat her to it. "High praise, comin' from you," Spike said. His voice was nearly unrecognizable. "Last I checked, you had a fondness for teachin' other blokes how to use a toilet brush."

"I thought we were talking about mops."

"Good to know you can differentiate between the two, mate. Figure my point is still clear."

Roger bit his lip and sucked it inside his mouth, squinting again. He faced Buffy abruptly, smiling like a wax doll. "And how are you Buffy?"

"I'm-" She spared a look for Spike. He was unmoving except for the clenching jawline. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Glad to... report it."

Xander, to his credit, merely looked between everyone standing like strange marionettes and said, "Well, one less introduction to be made. Buffy, William, I think I heard my wife say something about rolls?"

She sighed, nodding fast. "Yes, I have to put them in before Anya has a meltdown. Sp- William, would you help me?"

"Sure, love," he said, draping an arm around her shoulder. She frowned, but let him guide them away from the seating area and towards the table again. She thought he might be shaking. "Where's the kitchen?" he whispered in her ear.

Buffy pointed to a swinging door on the opposite wall. They made the journey like swimmers racing towards a lifeboat.

Upon entering, they were assaulted by a cloud of aromas. Rosemary, sage, thyme, chicken, turkey, and garlic seemed to swirl into one invisible concoction that could raise noses miles away.

In the brown paper bag, dough-filled containers clinked against the bottles of wine. Spike reached down and took the long forgotten sack from Buffy's hand once again, paying little attention to the fact that Cecily was bending over in front of them. Her head of ringlets disappeared halfway into the oven while her stocking clad thighs stood as a blockade. "My casserole is coming along quite well!" she announced.

A pantry door shut soundly on their right. Anya emerged with flour on her cheek. "Good. Now, can you report on the turkey like I asked you?"

"Doing well, I suppose."

Anya sighed. She wiped the smudge off her cheek and noticed Buffy and William standing near the doorway. "Oh, good! Cecily, move so Buffy can put the rolls in the oven."

The woman abided by standing upright, and letting the oven door slam shut. "All yours, dear."

Buffy swallowed her immediate response to that address, taking Spike's hand as they strode to an island counter on their left. It resided well out of the way in the large kitchen, settled into a corner with only the necessary walking space around its edges.

It afforded just enough privacy to have a hushed conversation while Anya prattled on about water-thin gravy.

"Okay, what's up with Roger? Either I never realized he was such a jerk or you guys have history."

"Two for two, pet," Spike muttered, setting the bag down and watching Buffy ferret out the Pillsbury rolls. "Bloke's a pain in the arse, likes to pretend he's the boss while lookin' down on people he feels deserve it, is all."

Buffy took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, unpeeling the wrapper around the metal tube. "Color me not surprised. When I heard that 'mop' remark I wanted to shove one down his throat."

Spike paused noticeably. His brows rose on his startled face; Buffy would have found it endearing if she wasn't so irritated. "Got a bit of a dark side, do you?"

"Not usually, but for certain people I make an exception. I mean-" A gasp of surprise cut her sentence in half as the tube of dough exploded, opening with a loud pop. Evidently, she'd put pressure on its tiny dotted seam without realizing it.

"Everything okay over there?"

Cecily's inquiry was guileless, but it managed to stoke Buffy's anger all the same. "Fine," she said all too artificially.

Calmly, after the witch turned back around to fiddle with something by the sink, Spike took the tube out of Buffy's hands. He said, "Why don't you find us a sheet?"

She frowned momentarily, grabbing the two bottles of wine. "Okay."

After locating a corkscrew, two glasses of white zin were poured and one of Port. Spike drank nothing, which she found amazingly disciplined of him, and helped spread out raw dough in neat rows on the cookie sheet Anya provided.

Despite the smog-like tension, Cecily only tossed three barbs at Spike's general existence. The first, came with an offhand chuckle and a comment about his hair. "What an interesting color," she chose to say, and Spike chose not to reply.

The second prod arrived after the rolls came out lightly browned and plump. Since Buffy was putting the flowers he'd brought in a vase, Spike was in charge of freeing the doughy morsels from the oven. "Now I see why your mother never let you out of her sights, William. You must have been a wonderful help in the kitchen."

Buffy watched his entire back grow tense. He ignored Cecily again, turning politely to Anya instead. "Have a basket you'd like these in?" he asked.

Once that moment came and went, the final dig, to which Buffy could not hold her tongue, came beside a question from the bitch of the evening. Cecily was holding a crystal wineglass and watching Buffy throw out flower cuttings, while Spike leaned helpfully patient against the far wall. Anya was talking on and on to him about working in retail.

"How long have you lived in this town, Buffy?"

"My whole life. And you?"

"Oh no, I don't live here." Cecily cackled. "I left one little town to move to a city, not another little town. You can understand that. Of course, William chose to do the opposite, but then again he was never open-minded. Always very unimpressive, that one."

Buffy realized that Anya hadn't stopped talking or noticed their conversation, but Spike's attention had refocused. He was staring at them and listening to every word. The brunette turned her fake smile in his direction just before Buffy lost all patience like one loses an umbrella to an unforgiving storm.

"I'd say William has a lot of impressive qualities," she said, then leaned closer to whisper the rest. "I mean, you should see him without a shirt on. Abs like that could knock the wind out of any girl with a pulse."

The fact she knew Spike only heard enough to recognize her retort as a compliment didn't dampen Buffy's joy. Cecily's reaction was too satisfying. A more dumbstruck expression Buffy had never seen.

When she faced her date again, there was awe in his eyes, the kind that practically bled with gratitude and something else unnamed.

It was exactly five minutes later that dinner was served. Spike and Buffy migrated from the kitchen gratefully. Once she placed the vase in the middle of the table, they found their assigned seats easily near the end.

Spike picked up his name card from the plate and stared at it. Everyone else was taking their time about sitting down, creating a din adequate for private comments and conversation.

"I think Anya likes it when things are kind of lavish," Buffy whispered. "She keeps making special calligraphy labels for the things in my shop."

Spike nodded as he set his place card down. "I imagine she uses 'em for practice."

Buffy studied her own little card and moved it to rest beside his. "I think you're right. These must have taken her forever."

"It's not so hard once you get the hang of it," he said.

"You know how to write like that?" she asked in disbelief, gesturing to the elegantly curved letters.

He shrugged tightly. "Taught m'self when I was a teenager."

"When I was a teenager I was sneaking into R rated movies and blowing off study sessions." Her soft laughter managed to encourage a smile from him, but took none of the weight off his next words.

"Didn't have much to do at that time. I was a bit of a loner, even after I moved."

"I thought you were a loner now."

He turned to her, startled. "You did?"

"Yeah." Buffy smiled uncertainly. "I mean, maybe. Aren't you?"

He looked down at his empty plate. Chairs around them were filling up. "Didn't realize you thought-... I mean, yeah."

A frown broke her features into lines and soft pink undertones. "It was kind of implied... Or maybe I was just picking up on a vibe that wasn't really there. You just never seemed like the kind of guy who liked to socialize."

A moment passed. Spike nodded stiffly, said nothing, and Buffy felt effectively stupid even as Xander drew everyone's attention to the head of the table.

She had only been given a thousand hints to Spike's reclusive qualities. It didn't bother her; she never thought it might bother him. She couldn't be sure now whether it did, or whether the fact she noticed it was what conjured the insecurity on his face.

Buffy frowned down at her empty plate. She hadn't realized acknowledging something like that would upset him. Perhaps, if she'd done so in private, it wouldn't have.

*Great, I focus on something like this when he's meeting my closest friends for the first time, hanging out with practical strangers, and facing off with two bullies. Fantastic, Buffy.*

Spike took her hand beneath the table, and she looked up. He was watching Xander make a winded speech, something she herself had tuned out. The tension in her shoulders fell away, as if it had simply been brushed to the floor.

So Spike wasn't too good with crowds. He was great with her.





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