Buffy pushed the door to Spike’s crypt open, letting in a ray of late day sunshine, which fell over the vampire’s sleeping form.

He yelled and jumped up from the saprophagous as the light fell over his face, already moving into a fighting stance when he saw Buffy. Spike’s undead heart fluttered in his chest, as if just the sight of her could bring it back to life. He longed to reach out and touch her—touch her smooth skin, her silky hair... pull her body to his and kiss her shiny lips as he’d done in the dream. But he’d tried that, hadn’t he?

‘It would never be you. You’re beneath me!’

“Oh, it's the Slayer. For a second there I was worried,” he deadpanned. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, just to keep his hands from doing anything stupid, only then noticing the other two women in the room.

“So, what's with the family outing?”

“I need your help,” Buffy admitted, though it shredded her pride. She was the Slayer, she didn’t need anyone’s help. The one girl in all the world... blah, blah. But she couldn’t do this alone—Glory was just too strong—and this time it wasn’t just the fate of the world in the balance, but her family. Her not-sister, who she loved like a sister, and her mom, who she couldn’t bear to even think about losing. She had to keep them safe, so pride was swallowed, harsh words were suppressed, begging wasn’t out of the question. 

“Great. I need your cash,” he retorted flippantly.

“I'm serious!” Buffy lowered her voice, her tone turning desperate, “You have to look after them.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly begging, but he had to know how hard this was for her—to admit she needed help.

“Well, that's a boatload of manly responsibility to come flying out of nowhere.”

She swallowed and whispered, “You're the only one strong enough to protect them.”

Buffy held her breath, watching his eyes go from taunting to sincere. She let the breath out when his whole expression changed to conciliatory, even accommodating.

“All right, then.” The words were like a balm to her jangled nerves. He would help protect her family.

“Ladies... Come on in. There's plenty of blood in the fridge.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “We brought our own snacks, thanks. Is there room for Coke in there?”

Spike shrugged. “Should be.”

By the door, Buffy implored her mother, “Stay here until I come back. I shouldn’t be too late. I packed the air mattress—try to get some rest.”

“Okay, honey. Don’t worry about us.”

Buffy gave her a hug then turned to Spike. “I’m counting on you, Spike. It’s... it’s my family.”

He drew his lips together and gave her a somber nod. “No worries, Slayer.”

“Thank you.”

Buffy reached out and touched his arm before turning to leave. The gentle contact was too short, too slight, and utterly overwhelming. He looked down at his pale skin, expecting to see scorch marks, but there was nothing—nothing but the warm scent of the Slayer to mark the spot. He basked in the feeling of her deadly hand touching him so gently for a few moments before turning around to his guests.

“I, I love what you've, um, neglected to do with the place,” Joyce joked, trying to break the awkward silence.

“Yeah, well, still evil, aren’t I?”

From the area he’d set up as a kitchen, Dawn snorted. “I’m badder than you,” she asserted, putting the last can of Coke into the fridge, making sure it wasn’t touching the containers of blood.

“Which begs the question o’ why the Slayer’s got you tucked away in a vampire lair instead’a home all tucked up in your beddy-bye.”

“Glory paid us a house call today,” Dawn explained. “It kinda freaked Buffy out.”

“Slayer didn’t look beat up,” Spike observed as he moved over to the TV.

“She just talked... she wants her key, whatever that is,” Dawn continued. “She thinks Buffy has it.”

“Does she?”

“W-we don’t know,” Joyce interjected. “We don’t know what it is.”

Spike arched a brow at the woman. That jump in her heartrate said she knew exactly what the key was this Glory bint wanted.

Before he could reply, Dawn asked, “Is this Buffy’s cami?”

Spike’s eyes darted to the girl, who was standing next to a mannequin dressed in a skimpy blue tank and long, blonde wig. “NO! Get away from that!” He hurriedly gathered up his blanket from the floor and covered his Buffy stand-in. “It’s... it’s Harm’s. Stop snooping about—never know what evil things you’ll stumble across that aren’t fit for a Nibblet’s eyes.”

Dawn rolled her Nibblet eyes, but climbed up on the sarcophagus and sat down, bouncing her heels off the stone.

“Have a chocolate,” he offered, shoving a battered box of chocolates at the girl. “And don't make a lot of noise. ‘Passions’ is coming on,” Spike ordered, going back to the TV, and switching it to the right channel.

“’Passions’? Oh, do you think Timmy's really dead?” Joyce asked, moving up to the easy chair in front of the TV.

“Oh!” Spike exclaimed, motioning for her to take the chair. “No, no, she can just sew him back together. He's a doll, for god's sake.”

“Uh, what about the wedding? I mean, there's no way they're gonna go through with that.”

“Can’t see it, m’self,” Spike agreed as he slid down and sat on the floor next to the chair, a sense of déjà vu settling over him.

~*~

Spike settled in to watch a few more M*A*S*H reruns as he waited for Buffy to return. The flickering glow from the telly was the only light, the volume turned down to keep from disturbing the two humans who’d finally fallen asleep after he’d gotten their air mattress inflated to the perfect firmness.

As the night went on, the story had come out—this Glory bint had visited Buffy, she knew where the Slayer lived, she’d threatened the Nibblet and her mum.

Spike clenched his jaw and took a drink of whisky, his eyes on the Slayer’s slumbering family. Buffy was as magnificent as she was partly because of the strong ties she had to the world of light. They kept the death wish that seemed to come to all Slayers at bay. It would quite literally be the end of Buffy Summers if anything happened to Joyce or Dawn. Spike felt his chest tighten at the thought and a wash of moisture gather in his eyes.

He blinked the emotions back and took another swallow of whisky. He’d just have t’ make sure that didn’t happen, wouldn’t he? Slayer might be a right bitch, with her ‘beneath you’ bollocks and ‘I’ll never need you’ attitude, but she’d come to him for help, hadn’t she? The Slayer had come to him, hat in hand—or at least no fist to the nose—and asked for his help. Not demanded. Not forced. Not even paid for. ASKED. That had to mean something—a crack in her shiny, holier-than-thou armor.

Watching the two sleeping women, he knew that wasn’t the only reason he would protect them. He cared about them. Joyce and Dawn had always treated him like... well, like a man, not a monster. And while he blustered and pretended that their lack of fear bothered him, there was a bit of his heart that was chuffed to bits about it. Joyce with her cocoa and marshmallows, Dawn with her wide-eyed wonder at his stories, both accepting him as if he were a friend... a brother... a son.

It had been a long bloody time since he’d been a brother or a son. His mind drifted back... back before Dru, back to a loving home with a loving family. Back to a time before illness and death had chipped away at their happiness.

Spike’s heart twisted in his chest as he remembered his family, remembered the love and laughter. Remembered summers in the country, Christmases in the city, and holidays by the seaside. It had been idyllic, at least until Elena had taken ill when she was twelve, the tell-tale scarlet rash a death sentence before antibiotics. She didn’t make it to thirteen. Then his father, lost at sea; that had nearly shattered his mum... and then the consumption that had withered her to a mere shadow of her former self.

He looked at Dawn, her face peaceful in sleep, blanket tucked up and under her chin, and all he could see was Elena; all he could feel was the love for a sister long gone.

And Joyce... could anyone have been more kind to him than she had been? Offering cocoa and consolation when Dru had left him, allowing him into her home, giving him a place where he felt welcome—as long as the Slayer wasn’t there, of course.

Spike sighed and swallowed the last of his whisky. He set the glass down, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Family. He didn’t realize how much he missed being part of a real family before the Slayer had stormed in with her pleading green eyes, shimmering golden hair, and warm, soft hands, and dumped this boatload of manly responsibility on him.

Dawn and Joyce accepted him, but would Buffy ever let him in enough to be part of her family? Was this little chink in her armor a beginning, or just a passing aberration?

He needed more sodding whisky if he was gonna be contemplating that sort o’ rubbish. He’d just gotten up when he heard something outside—something that shouldn’t be there.

He grabbed a dagger before stepping out into the night. The sound was louder, and definitely not his imagination. On silent feet he crept toward the source, keeping to the shadows, using all his stealth and prowess to remain unseen, unheard, unnoticed.

“Buffy,” he breathed as he swept around the side of one of the larger headstones to find her sitting on the plinth, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head in her hands.

She looked up at the sound of his voice, her face awash in tears, her eyes red-rimmed and shimmering.

“What’s wrong?”

The Slayer shook her head and dropped her head back onto her knees, another sob shaking her slender shoulders.

Spike tentatively took a seat next to her on the granite ledge. “Anything I can do?”

Another shake of her head, her body trembling with every sob she tried to stifle. Carefully, Spike laid a hand on her back. When she didn’t punch him or pull away, he began to rub up and down soothingly. “Wanna talk about it?”

She shook her head again as heart-wrenching sounds of distress were buried in her knees. Spike slowly slid over until their thighs were touching, the heat of her, even through their trousers and coats, was sublime. Like touching the sodding sun. He didn’t dare speak for a long time, allowing her to work through whatever it was, as he rubbed his hand along her trembling back.

“What happened, pet?” he asked when the keening sobs abated, shifting to silent tears and gulps for air.

“Glory...”

He suddenly was on alert, looking around the cemetery. “She track you? She here?”

Buffy shook her head, sniffing and trying to regain control. “Not here...”

“What then?”

“Too strong. I can’t... beat her.”

“Bollocks. Haven’t seen a demon yet—”

“Not a... demon,” she gasped, on the verge of hyperventilating. “God... she’s a god.”

Spike’s brow furrowed. “What sort o’ god?”

“Hellgod... strong god, unkillable god.”

“And she wants this key thing? What happens if she gets it?”

“Badness,” Buffy croaked against her knees.

“And you’ve got it?”

Buffy nodded again, still not looking up at him.

“But she doesn’t know what it is, where it is? Can’t sense it or... or track it down with ooogly-boogly magic bollocks?”

“No... she... she can’t sense it.” Buffy took a deep breath and looked up at him, wiping her eyes, swallowing back her tears. “She... she tried to find it once with magic. I... I stopped it. She hasn’t tried that again. Maybe she...” Buffy sniffed and dug into her coat pockets, hoping to find a tissue.

Spike produced a cocktail napkin from one of his pockets and handed it to her.

Buffy took it, giving him a watery smile, and wiped her nose. “Maybe she thought it didn’t work and won’t try that again.”

“Right, then. Well, we’ll just... hide this key thing. Take it out in the desert and bury it...”

“No!” Buffy gasped in horror. “We can’t! Th-that won’t work.”

“Okay... take it out and dump it in the deep blue sea. Will it sink? Could weigh it down, I reckon...”

“NO! We... can’t... do that either.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because!”

“That’s not a sodding answer. You just don’t like the ideas ‘cos they’re mine... wish you’d thought of it.”

“That’s not it!”

“Isn’t it?” he demanded, jumping up and pacing in a tight circle in front of her. “Ask me for m’ help, but can’t stand it when I come up with a brilliant plan to save the sodding world, again. You’re just jealous that I thought of it first.”

“I’m not fucking jealous!” Buffy shouted, shooting up to her feet to face off with him.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Too!”

“Not!”

“Too—”

“We can’t do any of that because Dawn is the Key!” she screeched at him.

Buffy’s eyes went wide as she clamped her hands over her big, fat mouth. She began looking around, but there was no one, or no things, nearby to hear.

“Have you gone completely sack of hammers?”

“If I had a sack of hammers, I’d beat you around the head and neck with them, you annoying vampire!”

“How the bloody fuck is the Nibblet this key thing, then?”

Buffy sighed, rubbing her hands over her weary eyes, sinking back down onto the plinth, feeling utterly exhausted and defeated.

Spike sat down next to her, his expression awash in confusion and concern. “Talk to me, pet.”

She looked over at him, her eyes again shimmering with tears, her chin quivering with emotion and uncertainty.

“You can trust me, Buffy. I bloody well promise t’ help you take care of them.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated.

“Yeah, why? After... after everything, why would you help me?”

Spike lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, shifting his gaze away from hers. “Rather fond o’ the world as it is. Seems best way t’ keep the Happy Meals walking about ‘til I can get this bloody chip out—”

“No, that’s not it. Tell me why.”

“Dunno what you want t’ hear, pet. Told you before and I’m telling you—”

“You didn’t help me with Angelus to save the Happy Meals, you did it for Dru. Tell me why you’re doing it this time.”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes up to the stars. “Like your mum is all... and the Nibblet. Closest thing I’ve had t’... t’ friends in a good while. I’d do it for them.”

Buffy nodded then dropped her head into her hands, running her fingers back through her hair as she ordered her thoughts. “Okay, here’s what we know...”

~*~

“So,” Spike began in way of summary. “These monks made the Nibblet outta this Key energy t’ hide it from a hellgod named Glory, who wants to use it t’ open a portal. They mucked with all our brains, making us remember her as your little sis... and she doesn’t know any o’ this, but all your mates do—which is gonna end badly, if ya ask me. And, as if having a hellgod after her isn’t enough, there’s also a Medieval Fair in town, and those chain-mail tossers want t’ destroy the Key, as well. They know you’re protecting it, but they dunno what... or who, it is either.”

“Pretty much.”

“If the hellgod can’t sense the Key or find it with magic, then how the bloody hell did she end up in the same sodding town with it?”

Buffy sighed. “I think she followed one of the monks who must’ve been coming to warn me.”

“Brilliant. Go through all that work t’ hide it, and then just lead her right here to the sodding thing. Incompetent prats. That’s what happens when ya give up wine, women, and song—get bloody soft in the head.”

The Slayer rolled her eyes.

“And these Knights, how’d they come t’ be here?”

“I have no idea. Following Glory? Maybe there’s an announcement on Craig’s List.”

“But they dunno what form the Key’s in either—or where it is, seeings as they didn’t show up at my door.”

“Seems like.”

“So what if you weren’t here? What if we just...” Spike raised a hand, flicking his fingers open in a ‘poof’ gesture, like a magician making something vanish.

“Disappeared? Ran away?”

Spike shrugged. “Prefer t’ call it retreating and regrouping. Sounds like they got lucky with that monk bringing ‘em here. Could have Red do a little cloaking spell so they couldn’t track us with magic, and just slip away.”

“All of us? The whole gang?”

Spike’s eyes widened and he shook his head frantically—bugger that! “Just us, pet—you, me, yer mum and little sis.”

“But... how can I protect the others—”

“By keeping ‘em out of it,” he cut her off. “Said yourself, this bint doesn’t know who your mates are—best keep it that way. And best way to do that is to not have them near. Don’t be like that barmy monk and lead her right to ‘em.”

“For how long?”

“Long as it takes... My experience, these rituals have an expiry date... have t’ be done when the planets are aligned or Saturn’s in the fifth house, or a Stormtrooper actually hits something it’s shooting at.”

Buffy smiled sardonically, as she leaned into his side. Spike froze for a moment, then slowly wrapped his arm around her, tucking her beneath it. She rested her head on his shoulder, and they just sat there for a few long, silent minutes listening to the night songs of the crickets and frogs.

“Had another thought,” Spike said quietly, loathe to break the comfortable silence. There were so few comfortable moments between them, and he really didn’t want her to move—ever—but he knew he had to run this idea by her before acting on it.

“That’s scary,” she teased, but thankfully didn’t move. “You didn’t strain anything, did you?”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” he deadpanned. “Remember the Order of Taraka? Thinking I should give them a bell... set them on her, as well. Didn’t actually finish the last job; they owe me one.”

To Spike’s dismay, Buffy sat back and away from him. As his arm fell away, his hand somehow landed atop one of hers in her lap. When she didn’t pull it back, he wrapped his fingers around her warm, deadly knuckles.

“They couldn’t kill me, how do you think they’d kill a god?”

“Killin’ wasn’t the point then or now... distracting is the point. Keep ‘er busy mucking with them, less time tracking us down.”

Buffy frowned. “They’re kind of big with the collateral damage quotient. Not loving that.”

“Can tell ‘em to keep it down,” he offered. “Would be worth the risk if it keeps her from finding her Key and opening that portal, yeah?”

Buffy’s frown deepened and she dropped her eyes. “I’m supposed to protect all humans, not just... not just my family,” she whispered.

“If you’re constantly worrying your pretty head over your mum and the Nibblet, how are you gonna focus on the rest? Your mates aren’t complete blighters; can keep themselves safe from the run-of-the-mill Sunnydale riff-raff, and Glory won’t be any wiser to ‘em. Doncha see? By protectin’ your family, you are protecting the ungrateful populace o’ this world.”

The Slayer kept her head bowed, the silence stretching between them again. Maybe Spike was right... but was it really for her to decide what level of collateral damage was acceptable? After all, those people caught in the middle could be someone’s mother or sister...

Then she had another thought. Her head shot up and her eyes were wide, blazing with an epiphany. “You could’ve called them anytime... you could’ve called them on us, sent them back after me. The chip doesn’t stop you from doing that, does it?”

It was Spike’s turn to look away.

“Spike? That’s true, isn’t it? Why... why didn’t you?”

He cleared his throat and desperately reached into his psyche for his cloak of big-badness to slip into. “Thought you lot were my best chance at finding a way to get this sodding chip out of my cranium. Killing you would’a mucked up my chances, wouldn’t it?”

“Why would you think we’d help you get the chip out?”

“Not help... just point me in the right direction. And ya did—with that doc what came t’ work on the giant corn muffin.” He shrugged. “Just rotten luck it was the wrong kinda doc.”

“That was months ago. So, why haven’t any assassins knocked on my door?”

Spike swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Told ya, grown a bit fond o’ the bit and yer mum. Wouldn’t want any... collateral damage.”

Buffy turned her hand over beneath his and slipped her fingers between his, closing them gently, holding his hand. “You’re a strange vampire,” she murmured, not looking up at him.

“Prefer t’ think of myself as a rebel.”

That drew a small smile from her. The words and feelings she’d been battling for so long clambered against her breast, desperate to be free, and though she was frightened to give them voice, she was so tired of the fight. “If I tell you something, will you promise to not use it against me?”

Spike clamped his teeth down on his automatic snarky refusal, letting the big bad mask slip a bit. “Alright.”

She looked up at him with those eyes he wanted to fall into, pools of green so deep and warm, he would gladly drown in them. “You scare me... you and your... rebel-ness.”

He tilted his head, expression confused and curious.

She stammered a few incoherent words, before shifting her gaze past him, off into the distance. “You make me feel things I shouldn’t feel for another vampire and... it frightens me. It makes me say things... nasty things, terrible things, things I can’t take back even if I don’t really mean them. Because if I can’t take them back, then... then I’m safe, because you’ll hate me for them and...”

She met his eyes again, those eyes that conveyed more than a million words ever could. “But, you don’t hate me, do you?  No matter what I say, I can’t make you hate me; I can’t make you leave, can I?”

Spike shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t let go of her hand, which was hot and soft in his. “Seems not.”

“And I can’t make myself stay away from you. When I need help protecting the people I love most in this world, you’re the one I came to—not Angel, not the Council, not whatever’s left of the Initiative... you.”

He met her gaze again, steeling his nerve. “And why’s that then? What’re these feelings you’re so afraid of?”

A memory flashed in Buffy’s mind from their magically-induced engagement. Spike’s lips on hers. Spike’s hands roaming beneath her clothes. Spike’s fingers touching her... there. Spike’s mouth covering hers, swallowing her strangled cries of pleasure as she came, her blind Watcher in the next room, oblivious to their bathroom liaison.

Her whole body flushed and tingled—she’d never gotten to return the favor or go further—which was probably of the good, but it often filled her dreams.

“Yeah...” Spike rasped, his voice rough with lust, as if he’d read her mind.

She blinked, shaking herself back to the moment, and looked at him, feeling vulnerable, like he could see all her fears, inappropriate feelings, and lusty desires laid out like a buffet for him to use to twist her into knots. Why couldn’t she drive him away? Why wouldn’t he just HATE her? It would make burying all those feelings so much easier. But he just kept showing up, kept helping, kept looking at her like that... like he was right now. Looking at her like... like it wasn’t just her mom and sister that he cared about.   

“That what’s scaring you, then?” he asked in that same sinfully dark timbre, holding her eyes captive with his burning blue gaze. “You aching for another vampire’s touch.... want my hands on you again... want to feel me inside you? Doesn’t seem enough t’ scare a Slayer. Anything more to it?”

Buffy cleared her throat, squirming beneath his intense scrutiny. He saw way too much, which was bad—so very bad. “I—I maybe don’t... hate you.”

Spike leaned closer to her, his eyes focused on her irresistible lips. “I maybe don’t hate you, either, Buffy,” he admitted softly before touching his mouth to hers. This time she didn’t pull away in disgust. She didn’t spew vitriolic words at him. She kissed him back... gently, slowly. Her free hand came up to cup his cheek; his slid behind her neck to tangle in her long hair. The kiss lingered, an almost chaste exploration, tasting each other, as if their lips had never touched before.

When it ended, their eyes met, rife with vulnerability. Buffy broke first, her fear making her look away. “I... I need to run all this by Giles—the running and the assassins—not the, uh... other... non-hatred stuff,” she stuttered, standing up abruptly.

Spike rose with her, not releasing her hand. “I’ll watch over them,” he promised.

She nodded. “Thanks... I’ll try to make with the quickness.” She turned to go, but Spike still had hold of her. She turned back, brows raised in question.

“Just making sure... you still don’t hate me, yeah?”

Buffy gave him a tentative smile, unconsciously running her tongue over her tingling lips. “Lack of hatred remains.”

Spike lifted their clasped hands to his lips and touched a tender kiss to the back of hers before releasing it. “See you soon, then. Careful you’re not followed.”

She nodded, her voice stolen by the lack of hatred shining in his eyes, then turned and hurried from the cemetery.

Spike watched her go, his body taking note of her bouncing hair and her swaying hips, while his heart wrapped around her words—I don’t hate you.

~*~

When Spike returned to the crypt, he found Joyce pacing back and forth, wringing her hands. “Spike! Thank goodness. I was worried.”

“Sorry, pet. Just having a chat with the Slayer.”

“Buffy? Is she back?” Joyce asked, her eyes darting to the door.

“Was, but gone again. Needed t’ run some ideas past Rupert. You should be resting...” he suggested, taking her arm to guide her back to the mattress where Dawn slept the deep, sound sleep of the young. He looked harder at the girl, her mouth hanging open, face a mask of utter innocence.

He tried to wrap his mind around what Buffy had told him, tried to square it with his memories: The furious youngster, screaming at him to leave her sister alone at the high school just before Joyce clocked him with that axe, then tossing sodding erasers at his back as he fled... err... retreated. Keeping Angelus focused on Rupert and off the crying, yet defiant, girl that Dru had nabbed from the library along with the Watcher. Wasn’t easy, that—girl was a blank canvas begging to be despoiled. He’d managed though... somehow. Or he actually hadn’t, he supposed, though his memories told him he’d kept her safe, unspoiled. He remembered how sodding jealous she’d been when he and Buffy had been engaged. He’d had a heart-to-heart with her then, telling her how she was like a sister to him and now, with him getting married to big sis, he’d actually be her brother. Still had to promise to teach her to fight—as was a big brother’s duty—before she’d give her blessing.

Joyce cut into his thoughts, “I... I need to talk to you. Can we go outside?”

“Alright,” Spike agreed, turning for the door, one hand still on Joyce’s arm like a proper escort.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked when they’d gotten a few feet from the closed door of his crypt.

Joyce turned to face him, her hands still curling into nervous knots. “I need a promise from you, William.”

Spike’s brows went up. William, is it? “What’s that, then?”

“No matter what happens, you have to promise to keep Dawn and Buffy safe. I’m not the priority here... they are.”

“Already promised Buffy I’d do all I could t’ protect you and the bit,” he countered.

“And, as her mother, I’m countermanding that... she and Dawn come first.” Tears welled in her pleading eyes, though her back was straight and proud. “I need you to promise me, William. I’ve never asked anything of you before... but I’m asking this...” The tears spilled over and slid down her cheeks as she suddenly dropped to her knees in the damp grass, her face turned up in supplication. “Please... this is me begging you.”

“Bloody hell,” Spike growled, gripping her upper arms, and lifting her back to her feet. “Of course, I’ll do everything in my power t’ keep them safe—keep you all safe.”

“But if there’s a... a choice—Buffy and Dawn come first,” she pressed.

Spike sighed, rolling his eyes to the sky, hands on his hips, then looked back at her. “You Summers women are a stubborn lot.”

“Is that a ‘yes’? Do I have your word?”

“We’ve got a plan... shouldn’t be any need for—”

“But if there is, do you promise?” she cut him off.

“Bloody hell... yeah, fine, but I’m telling ya, it’s not gonna happen.”

Joyce threw her arms around him and buried her tear-stained face in his neck. “Thank you, William. Thank you.”

Momentarily shocked, Spike stiffened, then slowly wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace, careful to not squeeze too hard. How long had it been since someone hugged him in earnest? Buffy had during that spell, but of their own free will?  He couldn’t rightly remember. Harmony maybe, but that hardly counted. She never did anything that wasn’t for Harmony’s benefit. This was different. This was real. “Alright, pet. It’s all gonna be—”

He stopped talking suddenly and tilted his head closer to hers until his ear was touching the side of her head.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, his unnatural stillness alarming her.

“Shhh... don’t move.”

That command didn’t help at all. She tried to look around, but Spike clamped a hand on the back of her neck and held her still, then pulled the scarf from around her head.

“Shhh...” he repeated, leaning in again, listening to the blood flowing through her veins.

“You’re scaring me...”

He pulled back and looked at her with concern. “What’s doc say about your...” He motioned toward the healing wound in her skull.

Joyce took her scarf back from his hand, touching her fingers tentatively to the side of her head. “They say it’s fine... they got it all. Why?”

Spike shook his head. “Not fine. Something’s... off. With the blood... doesn’t sound right.”

“I’m sure it’s—” She was going to say ‘fine’, but the look in Spike’s eyes stopped her. “What... are you sure? How can you know?”

“A century and more o’ listening to blood flowing just there,” Spike explained, bringing his demon up and pulling her in, as if to bite her. His ear hovered not far from the incision on her scalp, and he listened again. Her heart sped up, and the strange sound was exacerbated, a slight pause in the ‘whooshing’ that should dance in time to her heartbeat. It was faint, but unmistakable to his ears.

He pulled back and shifted back to his human guise. “Something’s wrong, pet.”

~*~

Spike paced back and forth outside the crypt, waiting for Buffy. He’d finally gotten Joyce to lay back down, and after some tossing and turning, she’d fallen asleep. He should’ve kept his big gob shut... not added more worry to her already overburdened heart, but control over his mouth had never been his strongest asset.

He heard the Slayer’s boots on the hardpacked trail before he saw her, and he turned to wait for her to appear. His heart began to flutter like a kaleidoscope of riotous butterflies all taking flight at once, and then she was there, striding toward him, face determined, tears dry. She was a bloody Valkyrie, his Slayer. A warrior goddess, a firebrand. And she’d kissed him... no spell, and no remorse in her emerald eyes. She didn’t hate him. That chink in her armor had turned into a proper fissure that filled his hopeful heart with, well... hope.

She gave a little smile when she saw him and began walking even faster.

“What’s the word?” he asked when she was close.

“Giles is duly horrified and impressed by your plan and insight,” she related, stopping when she got within arm’s reach of him—closer than she would’ve normally done, he noted. “He checked with Travers and his bunch of fossilized flunkies, and they agreed that there probably is a certain timeframe for Glory to use the Key. They’re going to work out some astral chart or horoscope or consult a Ouija Board to try and pin that down. In the meantime, we make with the skedaddling. The gang’s also going to vamoose, just in case. Anya and Xander are going to stay with his uncle Rory; Willow and Tara are going to visit a coven in Seattle. Giles is going to stay here as a central contact point. Everyone’s supposed to check in daily, or sooner if there’s trouble. And I’ve got veiling amulets to help keep us off magical radar.”

She pulled out a necklace with a round, metal—perhaps bronze or copper—amulet dangling from it. It had a labyrinth design carved into the face with a jade stone in the center. “It’s supposed to confuse magic... get it lost in the maze or something,” she explained, handing it to him.

Spike took it and lowered it over his head, tucking the amulet beneath his shirt. “Right, I’ll get the car. You get your mum and sis up and ready. I’ve gotta make a stop at hospital on the way out of town.”

“For blood?”

“Well, could do with a bit of that, but mostly t’ use their computers. Got the fastest internet connection in the whole sodding town, there. And the billing area leaves ‘em powered up and unattended at night.”

“And we need a computer, why?”

Spike grinned. “How do you reckon I summon the Order of Taraka? Smoke signals?”

Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. “Demons use message boards? That’s so wrong.”

Spike reached out and took her hand. “Feeling better, pet?”

She nodded and gave him a grateful smile. “I always feel better with a plan... even if the plan is to run away. Thank you.” She lifted onto tiptoes and touched a damp kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for helping me, for not hating me.”

Spike felt moisture threaten his eyes and blinked it back frantically. He didn’t dare speak, his tight throat was too full of love and joy to risk it. He gave her a nod, squeezed her hand reassuringly, and disappeared in a swirl of leather, off to retrieve the DeSoto.

~*~

“We are not listening to the sodding Bubble Gum Boys!” Spike insisted, reaching over to pop one of his cassettes into the car player.

“Backstreet Boys!” Buffy corrected from the passenger seat. “We certainly aren’t listening to the Dead Washingtons!”

“Kennedys,” Spike growled as Buffy made a grab for the cassette in his hand.

From the backseat, Joyce made an exasperated sound. Buffy and Spike both stopped their struggle for control of the tape, and it fell into the floorboard between them with a clatter.

“Maybe should let yer mum choose,” Spike suggested, chagrined.

Buffy looked back at her mom. “What do you want the radio on? KPOP or dead and stinky punk rock?”

“How about KLSK... classic rock, K-97?” she suggested.

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes, while Spike smirked. Might not be his first choice, but was still in the realm of decent music, unlike the sodding boy bands Buffy would have them listening to. The Slayer turned around and tuned the radio to the channel her mom wanted, then sat back in her seat as Spike merged onto the 101 and headed north.

“Where are we going anyway?” Buffy asked.

“I vote for Disneyland!” Dawn suggested from the back.

“You always pick Disneyland. We’ve been there a hundred times because you always pick it. I don’t think we need to go there again,” Buffy complained, before looking at Spike. “Please tell me we aren’t going to Disneyland.”

“Sorry, Nibblet,” he said. “Thought we’d head for San Francisco.”

“Why San Francisco?” Buffy asked.

Spike shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road as he passed slower-moving cars. “Big city, easy to blend in. Got an international airport, big seaport... lotsa avenues for escape if the worst happens. Also reckon a bloody Renaissance Festival rolling into town might cause a stir there.”

“The same could be said for L.A,” Buffy pointed out.

“Hardly!” Spike scoffed. “Could have a whole bloody legion o’ knights ride through town on sparkly elephants, and those daft buggers in L.A. wouldn’t blink an eye.”

While all Spike had said was true, it wasn’t the main reason he’d picked San Francisco. He’d learned, while on the computer in the hospital, that the neurology department at the UCSF Medical Center there was the top ranked in the state. He looked at Joyce in his rearview. He’d agreed to not tell Buffy about the murmur, but only on the condition that she have it checked out there as soon as they arrived. He wasn’t sure how they were going to explain that to Buffy without getting staked for not telling her sooner, but Joyce said she’d take care of it.

“Also, Angel isn’t in San Francisco,” Buffy observed.

“Hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Spike smirked.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a smile from curving her lips. He was so predictable... or maybe she just knew him too well. That thought took Buffy a little off-guard—she knew Spike too well... better than she knew Angel, even better than she’d known Riley. That had been part of the problem, hadn’t it—the knowing of Spike? The reason she kept trying to push him away, to squash the scary feelings that kept surfacing... the non-hate.

“Oh! I love this song,” Joyce said from the back. “Can you turn it up?”

Spike turned up the radio, really listening for the first time. The Pretenders were singing, ‘I’ll Stand By You.’ He glanced over at Buffy as Christine Hynde crooned...

Cause I've seen the dark side too
When the night falls on you
You don't know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

Their eyes met as the song continued. They held each other’s gaze for a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, then they both looked away, feeling too exposed as the song continued.

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

Well I'm a lot like you
When you're standing at the crossroads
And don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
'Cause even if you're wrong...

Spike set his right hand down on the leather seat between them, palm up. Buffy gnawed on her lip a moment, then slid closer and placed her hand in his. Their fingers intertwined as naturally as breathing, seeming to fit together like puzzle pieces cut from the same cloth. 

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you


Spike squeezed her hand and began to sing along, half under his breath, as the song continued...

And when
When the night falls on you, baby
You're feeling all alone
You won't be on your own

As the chorus continued, Buffy moved even closer to Spike, slowly crossing the wide expanse of leather until she could lean into his side. Spike released her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her even closer.

In the backseat, Dawn’s eyes went wide, and she opened her mouth to comment, but Joyce quelled whatever she was about to say, loathe to break the mood of the two superheroes. She urged Dawn to lie down, and let her own eyes fall closed, a soft sigh of approval floating up from her heart as the song wound down.

I'll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you

“Never desert you,” Spike murmured into Buffy’s hair, touching a tender kiss to the top of her head.

Buffy turned her face up to look at him, her emotions swirling madly around her confused heart. Why was lack of hate for Spike bad? Why had she wanted to drive him away? Why had she wanted to bury her feelings? Because Angel had left so she could have ‘normal’? And how had that been working out?

“I’m not normal,” she whispered, not aware that she’d even spoken aloud until Spike replied, “Far from normal. You’re bloody...”

“If you say Abby-Normal, I will punch you,” she warned.

Spike snickered. “Was gonna say exceptional... remarkable; a bloody wonder, you are, Slayer.”

“Oh.” She settled her head back onto his shoulder. “That’s okay then.” After a moment she explained, “Angel said he could never give me normal... that I deserved someone normal.”

“Angel’s a sodding idiot. You deserve someone as far from normal, as bleedin’ incredible, as you are,” Spike declared.

Buffy smiled, nonchalantly laying her hot little hand on his thigh. “I wonder where I could find such a person? One who would stay... who wouldn’t run off because I was too strong or not... not needy and normal enough. One who wasn’t afraid of the darkness, who could handle the violence and danger, and not get freaked out when a hellgod is hunting me.”

“Tough one, Slayer.... take a special bloke t’ handle all that bollocks and your penchant for sodding boy bands.”

“Yeah, it would take someone pretty unique,” she agreed, still smiling as she gave his thigh a squeeze. “Maybe a rebel... someone I don’t hate.”

Spike bit down on his lip, his heart basking in the radiance that shone from the chasm that had opened in the Slayer’s armor. “You let me know if ya find him, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Buffy sighed, then yawned widely. “You’ll be the first to know,” she promised, as her eyes closed. She let the rumble of the engine, hum of the pavement, and the safety of Spike’s embrace settle her jangled nerves, allowing her to float away into the comfort of exhausted sleep.

Spike glanced in the rearview and saw that the two in the back were also asleep. Joyce had her eyes closed, head lolling against the headrest, while Dawn was curled up on the wide seat, her head in Joyce’s lap. 

“I'll stand by you,” Spike sang softly as they sped through the night. “Take me in, into your darkest hour, and I'll never desert you. I'll stand by you...”

~*~

Exhaustion was the only excuse Spike could think of for not hearing her come out of the bedroom she’d been sharing with her mum and sister, and walk right up to his resting place in the living room of the cabin where they’d stopped for the day. They’d made it to Big Sur, a couple of hours short of San Francisco, before the rising sun had stopped them... that and the overwhelming fatigue. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there, clad in her Yummy Sushi pajamas and clutching her pillow to her chest.

“Slayer...” he rasped, pushing himself to a more upright position on the air mattress. “What’s wrong?”

“Dawn kicks in her sleep,” Buffy pouted, looking to all the world like a lost waif, not a powerful Slayer.

“Yeah? Whaddya want me t’ do about it?”

“I thought I could... sleep out here.”

Spike moaned, looking at the couch—something designed for fashion, not coziness. “Right...” he muttered, grabbing his pillow, and making to rise.

“No!” Buffy exclaimed a bit too loudly. She lowered her voice, “I mean... um, I didn’t want to take your bed. I wanted to... uh... sleep in it... with... you.”

He blinked, not certain he’d heard her right. “You want to... sleep with me?”

Buffy shifted in place uncomfortably. “Not sleep with you, just... sleep with you,” she clarified, somehow making the two sentences have different meanings. “I... thought... I mean...” She took a breath and finally met his eyes. “Could you just hold me?”

Spike’s heart melted. It was nothing more than a mass of goo beneath his breast, likely never to be recognizable again as anything more than a blob of Buffy-love.

His expression softened and he slid over, stretching out on his side, giving her room to join him. Buffy crawled in. The air mattress was a bit bouncy, but comfortable enough. She placed her pillow next to his and snuggled back until they touched, her back to his chest, her ass tucked right against his zipper, her legs forming themselves to his.

“Is this okay?” she asked in a shy voice.

Was it okay? No, it bloody well was not anything even approaching ‘okay’. It was sodding torture. It was ecstasy. It was like touching the sun. It was like drowning in sweet, decadent wine. It was heaven and hell all rolled into a beautiful, stubborn, strong, miraculous Slayer package.

“Fine, pet,” he murmured into her hair, which tickled his face with silken strands of perfect bliss. Spike slid an arm over her middle and she snuggled back even tighter against him, laying her hand over his. He nearly groaned aloud, but managed to hold it in.

“We’re gonna tell Dawn later... tonight, I guess, before we get on the road,” Buffy admitted in a small voice.

“Think it best she hears it from you rather than one of the Scoobies,” he whispered against her, breathing in her heady scent—sunshine and sandcastles, blue skies and storm clouds—all mingled with the unmistakable tang of Buffy... sexy Slayer, incredible woman.

She nodded and sighed. “We talked about waiting, telling her when she’s older—like maybe when she’s fifty—but you’re right, it would be worse if she found out by accident. Though I have no idea how to even begin that conversation.”

“Know you’ll figure it out, pet. Just speak from your heart.”

“My heart,” she repeated softly. Her heart was currently skittering and skipping around in her chest so wildly that she thought for sure it would burst out and do cartwheels or backflips or maybe a whole gymnastics routine. Why had she fought this so long and so hard? Fought her heart. Fought her instincts. Fought whatever it was that kept drawing her toward Spike. Curled up with him, the little spoon to his big, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. They fit. Not just their bodies, their minds, their stubbornness, their loyalty, their snark, their impatience, their strength, their prowess, their... their lack of hate.

“Sleep well, Slayer.”

“Good nigh—uh, day... Do vampires say good day like we say good night? Cos, you sleep in the day, so... good day, but that sounds like Crocodile Dundee... like, g’day, mate... which is just weird...”

He pressed a soft, cool kiss to the back of her neck, stopping her rant and sending a shiver down Buffy’s spine, which settled as a tingling fire low in her belly. There was no doubt what she’d be dreaming of today... see, that just sounds weird.

“Good night, Spike.”

~*~

The sun was still high in the sky when Buffy woke from her dream... her dream of Spike, of his lips, of his hands, of his body. She slowly realized it wasn’t all a dream. His lips trailed kisses across her neck while the hand that had been wrapped around her stomach was beneath her top, drawing feather-light circles around her yearning nipples.

“Someone had a delicious dream,” he murmured against her shoulder. “Doesn’t seem your dream lover did a proper job of it, though. Shall I...?”

“Mom... Dawn...” she reminded him.

“Sleepin’ like babes,” he assured her, still teasing her breasts. “Just need t’ be quiet like.”

“Oh... Spike, yes,” she breathed, doing her best to be ‘quiet like’, her eyes fluttering closed as she arched into his hand, pressing her ass back against the hard bulge of his cock.

Spike let out a half-growl, half-groan as he slid his hand down over her taut stomach, dragging a line of gooseflesh in its wake. Then he was beneath her waistband and moving down, down...

Buffy gasped and a shudder of pleasure ran through her when he slid a finger between her folds and touched her throbbing clit.

“Left you right on the edge, he did,” Spike whispered as he tapped out a staccato rhythm on the bundle of nerves, making Buffy’s hips buck against him as she swallowed a cry of release. “Cum for me, pet,” he murmured as he slid two fingers into her spasming channel and began to pump slowly in and out. He kissed her neck and nipped at her earlobe as Buffy squirmed and thrust her hips against his hand.

“More... more...” she begged, a bare whisper, as her mind floated in the carnality of his touch, in the honeyed decadence of his voice, in the tingling coolness of his lips. “Spike... yes, again... more.”

He pulled back and plunged his fingers into her hard, driving a cry of pleasure from her lips. Buffy covered her mouth with her arm as more sounds she couldn’t control burst from her throat as she came again and again. Every crash of his palm against her clit, every stroke of his fingers over that spot deep inside her—a spot he’d found before during their ‘engagement’, a spot only he had ever been able to touch—made her body unravel in shuddering rapture.

“That’s right, pet... let go. I’ve got you... cum, Buffy... cum all over me. Can take all you’ve got, don’t hold back... cum for me... cum like a bloody goddess... fuck, pet, so fucking wet. God, you smell so good, feel so fucking good. Need to taste you. Can I taste you? Buffy... please.”

Her mind was floating in clouds of sparkling rainbows and glittering jewels, but he took her muffled moan as assent, because the blinding bliss of his fingers stopped. She felt bereft for their loss, but still floating somewhere outside herself in the heaven he’d poured over her. And then her warm flesh felt cool air as he dragged her PJ bottoms down her legs. She blinked through the fog and watched him press her knees up, opening her fully, and then his tongue was there, soft and firm at the same time, teasing her clit, lapping at her juices, and she fell back into the overwhelming pleasure of it all.  

“Taste so good. Thought I’d imagined it... thought Red’s spell had twisted my sodding mind,” he murmured against her between long, languorous licks from taint to clit and back again. “Fuck, Buffy, could drink from your chalice forever.”

“Yes... yes...” It was all she could manage, her voice a gravelly rasp as the pressure inside her began to build again, keeping her soaring and quivering beneath his touch. “Forever...”

And then his devilish tongue was inside her, and god, could it be even better than his fingers? How was it possible? Her dreams hadn’t done him justice. That one stolen time during the spell hadn’t done him justice—as amazing as it had been. His tongue, his lips, his fingers all working together like a conductor directing a symphony, and she was the instrument... all the instruments, all building to the crescendo which rolled over her with a crash of cymbals and a fanfare of trumpets.

And then his mouth was on hers, devouring her scream, and he tasted salty and warm and slick and... that was her—she was on his lips, and it was so fucking hot. She frantically scrabbled at his belt, and the button beneath, then the zipper, which slid down loudly in the silent cabin. Then his cock was in her hands, and he moaned into her mouth as she stroked the long, hard length of him.

No, her dreams definitely had not done him justice.

“Need you... Spike, please...”

His mouth withdrew; his whole body withdrew for only a moment, but it felt like an eternity, and then he was back, jeans and t-shirt shed, his smooth, hard body cradled between her trembling thighs.

“Let me see you, pet...”

Only then did Buffy remember her top was still on, and she quickly wriggled free of the warm material, baring herself fully to him.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, dipping his head to take one nipple between his teeth, worrying it lightly, before sucking down hard. Buffy’s back arched up as she let out another gasp of pleasure, her eyes fluttering closed as her legs clamped around his slim waist.

“Spike... please... now...” She reached between them and guided his straining cock to her slick opening.

He pressed forward as their eyes met and held, and then he was pushing inside her, opening her, stretching her to his girth ever so slowly. Her lips parted in a silent cry of pleasure, but she kept her eyes locked on his. Was she imagining the utter lack of hatred there? Could the adoration and awe she saw shining in the blue depths be real? Was he seeing the same in her eyes?

“Tell me you don’t hate me,” he begged in a sinfully deep rumble.

“I don’t hate you more than... more than I can say,” Buffy whispered back.

“I don’t hate you, either... don’t hate you to the moon and back,” he declared as his hips met hers, his cock buried balls deep in her tight, hot quim.

Then his mouth was on hers again and he was moving inside her, a slow, decadent dance as he pulled back and pressed forward. Buffy’s hips rose to meet his as her hands roamed over his back, down to his perfect ass, and back up again, reveling in the feeling of his hard muscles moving beneath his soft skin. He felt so good, his coolness to her heat, his angles to her curves, his deep voice flowing over her with honeyed words of praise and reverence. It was overwhelming. Suddenly tears were leaking from her eyes, tears of joy and relief, because her heart had been right all along, and she didn’t have to fight it anymore. They fit. Every part of them fit. And it wasn’t normal, but she wasn’t normal... she’d never be normal and why Angel thought she should be... Spike didn’t think she should be normal—he thought she should be exceptional, remarkable. And, oh, god, what he must think... she was crying!

But then he was murmuring soft words and kissing her tears away and he somehow understood. Were his eyes shimmering too, or was it her tears making it look that way? And he was still making love to her, and it felt so good to just let go. To let everything out, to not hold back, to cry if she wanted or laugh or do both, which she was doing now, and he didn’t think she was a lunatic, he was laughing too, and still kissing her eyes, tasting her tears and, god, she really, really didn’t hate him. And when she begged for more, he gave more... so much more, and harder was harder and faster, and she was flying again and the mattress complained and air began to hiss from the seams, but he didn’t stop as she clung to him, biting down on his bulging biceps to stifle the sounds she was making as she shuddered and came apart beneath him, around him. And he buried his own howl of completion against her shoulder, which made her shiver and quake harder as the world exploded in a profusion of bliss.

And then she was giggling again, his magnificent Slayer, and he couldn’t help the rumble of laughter that bubbled from his full heart as the mattress sighed out the last breath of life and left them lying in a sated tangle of limbs on the hardwood.

“We killed it,” she said through her laughter, and, god, she was beautiful, glowing with life, sparkling with joy. His heart was bursting with love, her hot body wrapped around him, holding him to her as if he’d ever dare to move from her embrace.

Spike smiled down at her, then kissed her, tasting her effulgence, as their bodies shivered and trembled in the afterglow. “Don’t hate you so bloody much, Buffy. God, you’re glorious.”

“Don’t hate you... very much with the not hating of you,” she sighed back against his lips.

He rolled them over, never breaking contact, until his back was on the hard floor, and she was pillowed atop him. She grabbed the blanket and together they got it draped over their bare flesh.

Buffy sighed as she snuggled down against him and was asleep within moments, warm and safe and sated.

Spike feathered his lips over her sweet, salty skin, peppering a chant of, “Love you, love you, love you...” onto her soft body, praying for her to feel it, for it to seep into her dreams, into her heart, into her very soul.

~*~

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Dawn screamed as she stormed out of the cabin into the twilight, slamming the door behind her with a resounding thud.

It opened a second later as Buffy hurried after her.

Spike,<