Rain fell steadily outside the house on Revello Drive, black clouds
rolling ominously through the gray sky. Inside her bedroom, Buffy
Summers groaned as her alarm clock blared the morning's headlines,
jarring her from the comfortable realm of sleep. Inching her hand
out from beneath the down-filled comforter, she swatted the clock's
switch into the off position. Without moving her legs that were
firmly intertwined with those of the man beside her, she propped her
head against her hand, resting her elbow on the pillow. Her free
hand grazed his pale muscled chest, her fingers tracing every
contour of is upper body. She sighed, drinking in the sight of his
charcoal black lashes casting small shadows against his impossibly
high cheekbones. His platinum curls had loosened during the night
and several unruly strands covered his forehead; in sleep, he looked
almost innocent. She gently pushed one curl off his forehead, moving
it back into the tangled mess atop his head.
He made a low rumbling sound deep inside his chest that could only
be classified as purring, when her hand began to caress the corded
muscles in his arm. Buffy smiled, tracing idle patterns over his
skin, watching his face for any sign of wakefulness. The feather
light touch dragged Spike from sleep, a slow smile spreading across
his lips when he felt the warm arm draped over his chest. He opened
his ice-blue eyes lazily, purring softly with contentment. Even in
the dim shadows of the room he could see Buffy's shining blonde
hair. The long curls cascaded over her bare shoulders, her green
eyes staring intently into his as her coral lips parted in a soft
smile. Spike lifted his head casually, "morning gorgeous," he said,
wrapping his arm around her waist. Pulling her petite body against
his, Spike gently kissed her, his hands holding her close.
After several moments, Buffy broke the kiss, her eyes
turbulent. "Aren't you ever scared that this is going to end?
Because hey, mortal here, no eternal life on Earth." Spike's
eyebrows knit together in confusion, his mind still in the hazy
realm of sleep. His coherent thoughts were limited to the beautiful
woman beside him, not on the mysteries of the universe and eternal
life. He reached out to stroke her cheek tenderly, "I'll never stop
loving you, pet." Buffy smiled for an instant before her face took
on a pensive frown. "Spike, that's not what I'm saying," she began
hesitantly. "What are you saying," he asked, his voice taking on an
unmistakable edge that thickened his accent to an almost predatory
growl. The question fell into the air, caught in the tension that
had somehow invaded the quiet bedroom.
Buffy made no move to answer her lover; instead she kissed his
forehead gently and rolled to the other side of the bed, leaving
Spike staring at her back in confusion. "Buffy, is something wrong,"
Spike asked, propping his back against the wooden headboard. Buffy
still didn't answer him; she simply swung her legs off the edge of
the bed, her feet sinking into the plush blue carpet. "I have to
take a shower," she murmured, raking a hand through her tangled
blonde hair. Spike watched her retreating back before falling
against the pillows. "Women," he muttered ruefully. No matter how
old he was, the opposite sex still remained an enigma.
Padding down the hall, her bare feet sticking to the wooden
floorboards, Buffy shook her head sympathetically. It wasn't Spike's
fault that she asked him crazy questions at six-thirty on a Tuesday
morning. At least he knew enough not to press her, after so many
years together, Spike had finally learned when to keep his mouth
shut. Closing the bathroom door firmly, Buffy pressed her head
against the oak door and sighed loudly. It had been four years since
Spike had moved in with her, and she had never regretted extending
the invitation. He was the best thing in her life, the only constant
source of love that she could hold onto with both hands. At the age
of 25, Buffy had surpassed everyone's expectations of the Slayer;
most Chosen warriors never lived passed twenty and Buffy had no
plans to die anytime soon. She was truly a history-making Slayer,
both in her calling and in her personal life. No Slayer had ever
been romantically involved with two vampires, and she was the first
one to have been retired from duty at the age of twenty-two.
Sometimes her friends still could not believe that she was in a
relationship with Spike, the platinum blonde vampire who had spent
over a century causing havoc in the world. There were days when she
didn't even believe it, despite the thick curtains over her windows
and the omnipresent containers of blood in her refrigerator.
Ironically, it had been one of Willow's botched spells that had
brought them together. The redhead's Tabula Rasa memory spell had
opened Buffy's amnesia-stricken mind to another image of Spike.
Something had changed between the mortal enemies when the spell was
lifted, life no longer seemed as black and white as Buffy would have
preferred. For the first time, she saw Spike as a man with feelings,
not just another soulless creature of the night. The spell had
jumped started their relationship, and after a few months Buffy had
shocked her friends by forcing them to embrace her and Spike as a
couple. It had taken some getting used to, but Spike soon
begrudgingly joined the Scoobies, another member of the family.
After so much time together, Buffy couldn't remember what it was
like to not have him beside her.
As the hot water poured into the shower, Buffy thought about the
dream that had plagued her all night and had prompted her morning
grilling of Spike. She was running through a graveyard, chasing
something, her hair flying wildly through the air. As the chase
pressed on, her breath was coming in ragged gasps and her heart had
tightened painfully in her chest, the burning pain in her muscles
was sheer agony, but she couldn't stop running Then the dream
changed and she was on the ground, her face pressed into the wet
grass, dirt filling her nose and mouth as she struggled to breath.
She could feel the waves of pain crushing her petite body, she had
never been so afraid in her entire life. It was like her entire
world was collapsing and she was powerless to stop it. When Buffy
has woken up, her face was wet with tears, her shoulder shaking
uncontrollably.
That was why she had asked Spike if he was scared of the end. Of
course, that was a ridiculous question to ask a 126-year-old
vampire. For Spike, death was already a distant memory; he had lived
for decades with no regard for the years that passed before his
eyes, there was always enough time. The opposite was true for Buffy;
she had spent years wondering if every battle was her last. Years as
the Slayer hadn't given her a lot of practice in planning for the
future, she was used to living one day at a time, never sure when
her time would end.
She shut off the water abruptly and stood in the empty bathtub,
shivering as the heat left the room, a slight chill brushing over
her glistening skin. Trembling with a cold that was deeper then
flesh, Buffy grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it tightly
around her body. There was a numbness within her that seeped into
the depths of her soul, a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach
that refused to go away. Rubbing a plush towel roughly though her
wet hair, Buffy slowly brushed out the knots, examining her face in
the mist-framed mirror. Her look had toned down in the last few
years, since opening her own fashion design company in the building
where Joyce's old gallery had stood. After securing a salary from
the Council of Watchers and borrowing some money from Giles, Buffy
had founded Luster. The company had taken off immediately, and Buffy
was still getting used to keeping normal office hours in a real
office building.
The bedroom was deserted, thin slivers of sunlight peeking through
the heavy navy blue drapes. She turned on the light, dropping her
bath-towel on the tan comforter, glad that Spike had made the bed.
Mildly disappointed that her blonde vampire had gone downstairs
before they could continue their discussion, Buffy sighed softly.
Pushing open her closet doors, she surveyed the mass of clothes with
a critical eye, searching for something to wear. Designer labels
jumped off every hanger, shirts and pants taking up every available
inch on the wooden racks. Sweaters in a myriad of colors filled the
top shelf, perched precariously against a sloping pile of purses.
Hundreds of shoes littered the floor, making use of every available
inch. The closet was only a small testament to Buffy's financial
prosperity, her entire house seemed to glow with an inner beauty to
was a tribute to her decorating talent and plump bank account.
Backing out of her closet, she stood before the mirror that hung
over her dresser. Running a silver brush through her still damp
tendrils, she turned on the straightener before reaching for her
hairdryer. She grabbed a thick section of her hair, beginning the
daily fight against frizziness and flyaway strands. Once Buffy was
satisfied that her hair was as straight as it was going to get, she
pulled on the green button-down shirt that Spike swore made her eyes
glow like emeralds. Slipping into her favorite black pants, Buffy
hopped around the room, pulling on her socks and her ankle-high
boots simultaneously. She dumped the contents of her make-up bag
onto her dressers, rummaging through the small pile for her thin
tube of concealor. As she dabbed the cream on her under-eye circles,
Buffy thought about how domesticated her Big Bad vampire had become.
Spike had opened his own real estate business four years ago and was
incredibly successful. His clients were primarily harmless and
misplaced demons who had wandered onto the Hellmouth in search of a
place to live. The road from antagonist to agent had been purely
accidental; he had set Clem up in a deserted crypt and through word
of mouth the blonde vampire was soon inundated with dozens of
demons, all wanting a new home. He had worked out of his old crypt
for two years until Dawn had introduced him to the wonders of the
Internet. Now, Spike conducted ninety percent of his business over
the web, only venturing out for special clients. Willie's bar now
had a few computers in the back room, and Sunnydale's demon
population could now find a new home without braving the wrath of
the Slayer or Spike. Since the real-estate business didn't satisfy
Spike's short-attention span, he spent hours dabbling in the stock
market, fascinated by the constant rise and fall of prices. Buffy
was so proud of her un-dead entrepreneur, between the two of them,
they had the best in everything and were able to give Dawn the kind
of family she deserved.
The smell of bacon frying brought Buffy back to the present moment.
She blended her blush and put it back into the bag, putting a tube
of lipgloss from the dresser top into her pocket. Buffy smiled at
her reflection, picking up her jewelry, mostly gifts from Spike. It
still amazed her how much thought and time her vampire lover put
into buying her jewelry. The ruby and diamond ring had been from
their first Christmas, the diamond earrings from her twenty-first
birthday, a white gold ring with their names engraved inside had
been her anniversary gift last year, and the heart-shaped diamond
pendant was from their second Valentine's Day together. Dawn had
given her the thin white-gold bracelet for some birthday several
years ago, and the tiny silver watch had been found in Joyce's
carved jewelry box. Pleased with her appearance, Buffy tossed her
air, loving the way her diamond earring sent tiny rainbows of light
dancing across the room. Humming softly to herself she walked
downstairs to see what damage Spike was causing in the kitchen, her
bad dreams almost completely forgotten.
Sunlight spilled into the living room, providing sharp contrast to
the shadowy kitchen. Spike stood behind the central island, pouring
coffee into a bright pink mug, a loose cotton shirt covering his
sculpted chest. He set the coffee aside, filling the second mug with
a thick garnet liquid as something sizzled on the stove behind
him. "Morning," Buffy said with a wide smile, snatching her coffee
cup off the tiled surface before sliding onto a bar stool. Spike
returned her smile with one of his signature smirks before turning
back to the stove, not wanting the pancakes to turn into a singled
mass of charcoal. Propping her chin on her hands, Buffy watched him,
her eyes twinkling with amusement. No matter how suburbanized Spike
had become, he still insisted on dark clothes, leaning more towards
charcoal gray and navy blue instead of ebony black and blood red.
This morning, he had on all black and Buffy smiled appreciatively at
the view granted to her by the tight jeans.
Sliding everything from pans onto an empty plate, Spike picked up a
glass of cranberry juice with flourish and whisked the plate down in
front of Buffy. "Breakfast is served, sweetheart," he said, bending
down to kiss her lips tenderly. Buffy murmured appreciatively, glad
that Spike loved to cook, her own culinary skills were limiting to
microwaving and boiling water. "Eat up ducks, you don't want to miss
the first non-singed meal of the week," Spike teased gently. Buffy
just smiled, reaching for her coffee, her mind elsewhere. She has a
meeting outside of Sunnydale in two hours and with traffic, her
commute was going to take forty-five minutes. Spike looked at his
Slayer sideways, he could always read her like a book and time had
done nothing to make her less transparent. She looked preoccupied,
he thought, watching the way her fork hovered above the pancakes,
not really seeing the food before her. "Buffy, you alright luv," he
asked, taking a long sip of blood, his thick accent a mixture of
concern and adoration. She nodded absently and Spike decided to drop
the subject. When Buffy got moody it was better if he just kept his
mouth shut, anything else resulted in broken bones or being forced
to sleep on the couch.
They continued the rest of the meal in comfortable silence, each one
lost in thoughts and memories. A smirk tugged at the corners of
Spike's mouth as he watched his Slayer eat her bacon, wiping the
meat in the left-over trail of syrup on her plate. Even though
another Chosen warrior had been called, he still thought of Buffy as
his Slayer, the affectionate nickname reminding them of how their
saga began. They still patrolled occasionally, whenever Spike was
craving a spot of violence or Buffy needed to let out some excess
aggression, so the name was well-deserved. Cleaning her plate
gratefully, Buffy stared into Spike's blue eyes; she could get lost
inside those cerulean depths, just watching the emotions flicker
through them. "You're too good to me," she said, putting her
slightly sticky dish into the sink, "what'd I do to deserve you?"
Spike lifted his scarred eyebrow, tipping his head thoughtfully. "I
dunno, you're just lucky, pet," he said, his voice taking on the
serious tone that he normally reserved for lecturing Dawn about her
schoolwork or dating habits. Breaking into a wide smile, he
continued, his tone playful, "though I think I got the better end of
that deal. Get to wake up next to you every morning, don't I?"
Buffy blushed red, "and you said you were an awful poet," she
muttered in disbelief. He chuckled, "I was," his eyes dancing with
laughter, the way they always did when he was teasing her. Buffy
kissed his cheek, "thanks for breakfast," she said, moving towards
the door, "I love you." No matter how many times said those three
words, Spike couldn't stop his eyes from lighting up. It had taken
so many months to break down the walls she had built around her
heart, so many weeks to reassure her that he wasn't going to run out
on her like every other important man in her life. "Love you too,"
Spike said, dangling her car keys off the edge of his finger,
waiting for her to realize that she had forgotten them again.
Snatching her leather briefcase off the kitchen table, Buffy began
to open the door when Spike's arms wrapped around her
waist. "Forgetting something, pet," he teased, pressing the keys
into her hands. Buffy giggled, turning around to face him, "thanks,"
she said, kissing him playfully. His arm still around his waist,
Spike reached behind him to pick up her bottle of cranberry
juice. "Didn't remember this either," he said, pressing it into her
free hand. "Thanks babe," Buffy murmured before sailing out the
door, wondering where her head was that morning. Her blonde hair
fanned out behind her, catching the early-morning rays of sunlight
as she made her way through the backyard towards the driveway.
She unlocked her royal blue Jeep Grand Cherokee, throwing her
briefcase onto the passenger seat and securing her juice in the cup
holder. Flipping down the visor, she grabbed a CD that Dawn had
burned for her. Now a freshman at Berkley, the younger Summers
sister always made a point to send Buffy burned CDs. She claimed
that Buffy needed to listen to something besides Spike's punk rock.
Buffy turned the key in the ignition with her right hand, feeding
the CD into the player with her right. Snapping her seatbelt closed,
she threw the car into reverse, humming idly in that off-handed way
that seemed to quell some of the tension that was weighing heavily
on her mind. She knew what she had to do, she knew what she wanted,
she just didn't know how to share her news with the people she
loved. Buffy hated making decisions without being able to talk to
anyone, especially Spike. The vampire had been her confident as well
as her lover for so long that she wasn't used to keeping secrets
from him.
