Fic: Remembrance Day

My posting day was Remembrance Day, and I made it with 15 minutes to spare (in my timezone!)

Remembrance Day

By  spicklething

Setting: Future Fic set in 2013

Notes: I neither follow nor give a toss about the comics, so they didn’t happen. And Spike was never a Pratt. He has a different surname in my ‘verse. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Summary: O valiant hearts who to your glory came
Through dust of conflict and through battle flame.

It was the third year she had attended the solemn ceremony that brought her adopted homeland to a silent to mark two minutes where the world seemed to stand still. The autumn air had turned bitter cold just as it had every second Sunday of November. Dressed head to toe in black, even Buffy’s woolen coat and wide brimmed hat could not chase the chill away as the wind whipped at her slacks. The red poppy on her lapel matched the thousands that joined her to remember. Somewhere in the crowd she knew Giles was wearing a white one in a desperate plea for no more war. He wore one every November even if that “Demon Bitch Thatcher” as he had referred to the former Prime Minister had likened it to treason.

After the Great Demonic War of 2010, as it had come to be known, the world had finally realized that battles were not merely fought in deserts in far away nations. They were also waged over Hellmouths and warriors were not always clad in Kevlar and bearing rifles. They were also girls of all colors and nations that fought to keep the once mythical beasties that hid under the bed from destroying everything. The slayers were no longer a secret, and they were finally revered for the protectors they had been for millennia. A single nuclear blast in Rome had reduced the ancient city to ash but had closed the last of the Hellmouths forever. Millions had perished and the world would never be the same.

And so she and her sisters-in-arms joined the veterans from nearly a century of wars to gather once again at the Cenotaph and remember those who had paid the ultimate sacrifice. At thirty-two, she was the oldest of the slayers. She was not just a veteran of countless battles, she had become a mentor to the younger slayers. Somewhere along the line she had also become the figurehead of the entire brigade of women, more revered than the new Watcher’s Council or its aging director Rupert Giles. Last year her right-hand Pa Kou Xiong, a Hmong slayer from Minneapolis had represented the slayers and had placed their poppy wreath at the foot of the monument. But this year there was more to mark than just the sealing of the Hellmouths.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of the battle of Sunnydale.

Earlier in the week she had joined Giles and Xander to place tiny white crosses bearing the names of Anya and the young girls who had perished in that battle against the First Evil in the yard outside Westminster. Giles had asked her if she had planned to place one in the yard bearing Spike’s name. But that didn’t seem right considering he had always joked that he had a severe allergy to any and all crosses. A tiny cross didn’t seem fitting to mark his sacrifice in the Hellmouth or when he and Angel had dared to tip a windmill when fighting the Black Thorn a year later. She would privately mark his passing later in the day like she had in years past.

Ten years had passed in the blink of an eye. Xander and her sister had become parents while she had never really settled down, marking the years by the lovers that moved in and out of her life.

But with this Remembrance Day Buffy knew she had to bear witness and place the Slayer’s wreath among the others at the war memorial.

She stood at attention when the elderly queen placed the first wreath. This was the first year her husband the Duke of Edinburgh did not follow. Buffy wondered if the queen had lingered a little longer at the Cenotaph to remember her late husband who had passed the year before. She waited her turn after the other royals, the prime minister and politicians laid their wreaths. After the representatives of the Royal Army, Navy, Air Force and Merchant Navy had returned from the monument, she waited for the soldier to hand her the Slayer’s wreath. Buffy made her way to the monument, her footsteps echoing in the silence. She crouched to place the ring of poppies beside the others and lingered for a moment to pay her own respects. With a bowed head, she recalled everyone she had lost before rising to her feet, offering a reverent bow and joining the other dignitaries as the ceremony continued.

She dutifully sang along to hymns that recalled a century of sacrifice, the numbers lost were too many too count. After the ceremony was over, she wove her way through crowd as London returned to its daily routine. Grabbing a seat on the Underground at the Westminster station, Buffy sat for the brief ride to Earl’s Court. She always hated riding the Tube on Remembrance Sunday. Every station surrounding the Cenotaph would be wall-to-wall bodies for the next hour or so.

Yet it was still the fastest way to meet up with friends and family at the Blackbird, the usual post-ceremony haunt for her friends to gather before scattering again to the winds. It wasn’t anything fancy by any stretch of the imagination. But it was relatively close to the house that the Council owned at Collingham Gardens which was posh and so huge that she was certain her old house on Revello would fit in the living room. She had the option to live there with a dozen younger slayers assigned to the London squad, but she’d already had her fill of Estrogen Central ten years before that she opted to live alone in the Council’s mews house two blocks away. Sometimes being the oldest slayer had its benefits.

The Blackbird was only half full. The cold weather must have been keeping the tourists away. Her friends were already seated at a table, and Dawn waved her over when their eyes met. The table was already filled with pints of various drinks.

“Sorry I’m late,” Buffy said as she took her coat and hat off and sat down.

“No big,” Dawn answered with a smile. “Got you a cider.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said before taking a sip.

“I really must apologize as we have already ordered,” Giles added. “Dawn could not wait any longer. She ordered you pie and chips.”

“You’d think she was pregnant again by the way she’s eating,” Xander said with a laugh. “She’s a bottomless pit.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Dawn asked as she elbowed Xander.

Buffy nearly choked on her cider. “Well, are you?”

“Am I what?” Dawn looked around. All eyes were on her. “Oh look, the food’s here!”

She ducked the question and tucked into her sandwich as soon as the waitress set the plate in front of her.

“You’re acting avoid-y,” Buffy said, arching an eyebrow and not giving her sister any wiggle room.

“No, I’m not,” she said, taking a large bite of her lunch. She licked at the ketchup smeared at the corner of her mouth before offering her sister a bite of the sandwich. “Chip butty? It’s Britain’s culinary gift to the world!”

“It’s a French fry sandwich,” Buffy answered with a shudder. “And I’ll pass, blech.”

“Hey!” Dawn said with a mouth full of fried potato, “They aren’t fries. They’re chips, and they’re delicious!”

Giles shook several dashes of vinegar over his plate of chips and added to the conversation, “And you are still avoiding the question.”

Buffy dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “It’s no use, Giles. She’s not talking. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s going on. Greasebomb Special. Pint of radioactive colored soda, and a husband that’s conspicuously silent.”

She turned her attention to Xander. Stomping his foot under the table, she ignored his protests and eyeballed him. “Cough it up, Harris. Did you knock my kid sister up again?”

“Geez, Buff, when you put it that way, it sounds oh-so-romantic,” he said.

“So you’re not denying it!” Buffy countered.

Xander shot a quick glance at Dawn. “Yes…I mean no…”

“Ha!” Buffy crowed. “I knew it!”

“We were waiting to tell you all until we were further along,” Dawn interrupted.

Giles leaned in and gave Dawn a congratulatory peck on the cheek. “Congratulations to you both. When are you due?”

She took another gulp of her drink before answering, “End of April. That should give Oliver enough time to prepare for whole the big brother thing.”

Buffy took another sip of her cider. “That’s great news, Dawn.”

“You okay, Buff?” Xander added. Despite their good news, there was no mistaking the melancholy that Buffy had brought with her into the pub.

A sigh, and Buffy picked at her plate with her fork before answering, “Oh, you know, today always brings up old memories and stuff.”

“Are you still planning on visiting Highgate this afternoon?” Giles asked as he glanced at his watch. “You had best keep an eye on the time…”

“East Cemetery closes at four,” she interrupted, putting on her best smile. Winter hours. She’d known the schedule for years. “I should head out soon if I want to beat the worst of the crowds on the Tube for the trip back home. It may be a Sunday, but the Underground will still be packed from the ceremony. But enough with the gloomypants. Let’s hear more about this upcoming baby!”

***

Buffy stayed at the Blackbird long enough to finish her lunch. It would be a while before she saw Giles again, Christmas if she were lucky. The Michaelmas term at the Slayer academy in St. Andrews was far from over, and he needed to return to his pupils in morning. After a hug and a quick goodbye, Buffy decided to take the Underground to the Archway station this year instead of a closer stop and walk the remainder of the journey up Highgate Hill. She needed to clear her head, and the hike past Whittington Hospital and down to the duck pond.

Over the past years it had become her own private way to mark Remembrance Day. If only he would have believed her the first time he died. If only she would have made him believe her before he died again with Angel in that alleyway in Los Angeles. It didn’t matter that Spike had died on the other side of the globe and had never been buried in his grave in Highgate in 1880. It was where she had connected with him most. Her friends stopped offering to accompany her years before. It took a while, but even Buffy had finally realized that she still loved him had never quite gotten over him. He was still very much in her heart a decade later, and it wasn’t a secret to the other slayers. She knew that they called her the Dowager Slayer and even the Widow Atherton behind her back. Now that she was in her early thirties, the names didn’t seem to matter. She only had one cat, and that certainly didn’t make her a crazy cat lady. But she was sure she was ranked up there with them. She was the eldest slayer. Didn’t quirky and eccentric come with title?

She knew the way to his grave and no longer had to rely on maps and notes. Each year it seemed to bring more overgrown vegetation to the older corners of the cemetery. No one famous or noteworthy was buried where she was headed, so the upkeep was never a priority of the charity that cared for the grounds. After all, no one was paying a handful of quid to see Spike’s grave. That money was reserved for the giant stone lion, Marx’s grave and even the sleeping dog that kept watch over his master’s grave for over a century.

It was nearly four and the sun was going down. The gates would lock in a few minutes, but Buffy knew an easy way out. There were few vampires to worry about these days, and even less demons in London. Her cadre of slayers kept the population under control, so she had the luxury of staying after twilight to visit with her past.

“Look at this mess,” she said as she brushed the dead leaves off the Atherton family’s gravestone, his three sisters were buried elsewhere with their husbands. It was a simple obelisk that stood atop a stacked base and understated compared to the intricate mourning stone angels surrounding it. She pulled away the ivy that encroached on the stone and once again silently read its inscription:

Buffy unpinned the paper poppy from her coat and rested it on the top step of the obelisk’s base. “I laid the wreath today,” she said to no one, “but I saved this one for you. Not a lot new with me. Teach, slay, repeat. Might be a rinse in there somewhere.” She paced a little bit as she thought of things to say. “Oh! Dawn and Xander are going to be parents again. Don’t know what she’s having yet, but she’s due this spring. Giles is still on faculty at the academy up north, and…”

“You know,” a voice quietly said behind her, “that the only one down there’s Dear Old Dad, but I’m sure he appreciates…”

Her slayer instincts sprang to life, and she drew the wooden stake as she charged the vampire behind her. But as she tackled her opponent to the ground and began to drive the stake home, their eyes connected. It was too late to stop the stake from penetrating flesh, but she was able pull back enough to miss his heart. His eyes flashed yellow and his forehead rippled with ridges and the hunk of wood plunged into his chest. He let out a pain filled cry and shoved her off him as he pulled the stake out and rolled to his side.

“Dammit, Spike!” she yelled. Her pulse roared in her ears. She wasn’t sure if she was furious or terrified. Buffy stood and brushed the leaf litter from her coat. “I could have killed you!”

“Nice seeing you again, too, Slayer,” he groaned, his eyes screwed shut, one hand over the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” Now she was mad.

“Fucking hell, woman, I didn’t think you’d actually stake me!” he grimaced then continued to apply pressure to the wound.

Buffy paced back and forth nervously. This wasn’t how she pictured a reunion. “How did I know you weren’t another vampire?”

“Didn’t give me much time to explain,” he groaned as he pushed himself up to a seated position.

“Hello, slayer here,” she fumed. “Stake first, ask questions later. You forget the drill in the past, oh, zillion years you’ve avoided me?”

Buffy reached down to help him up. Without saying a word, he accepted the proffered hand and let her haul him to a stand, wincing as he rose. Spike brushed the leaf litter off his coat and surveyed the damage before he said, “You ruined my shirt.”

She could feel her blood pressure rising. “You vanish, don’t bother to contact me for ten years, and all you’re worried about is your fucking shirt?” she yelled. “I thought you were dead for real this time. Ever think of picking up a phone in the past decade and letting someone know you were alive? You know, kind of a new invention. Speaker on one end, talky part on the other?”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he answered, that defensive bitterness she’d heard so many times creeping into his voice, “but calling plans don’t tend to cover most hell dimensions!”

“What?”

He started to stalk back into the shadows when he turned on his heel to answer her, “Believe me, if I could, I would’ve contacted you sooner.”

She couldn’t help but notice that the mischievous glint that used to twinkle in his eye was gone. Spike looked tired. Maybe it was the darker color of his hair. Or maybe it was the different coat. It didn’t matter. The swagger was gone.

“How long were you gone,” she asked, not sure if she wanted to know the answer.

He didn’t answer at first. His jaw clenched up and he looked at the ground for a moment before he said, “A lot longer than a decade. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” Spike let out a sigh and started to walk away as he added, “Look, I knew this would be a bad idea when Giles told me you’d be here. I didn’t want to hurt you, Buffy. Never did. You don’t have to say anything, so please just stop mourning an empty grave and get on with your life, Slayer.”

“Spike, wait!” she called out as she followed after him. At least he didn’t push her away when she grabbed his arm. She was losing him all over again, and a decade’s worth of pain and loss came bubbling from wherever she had shoved it. “Don’t go. Not like this.”

“Buffy…” The resistance drained out of him.

She wasn’t going to screw it up this time If she said the wrong thing, she knew he’d be gone forever this time. “You’re hurt,” she pleaded. “At least let me patch you up.”

“I’m fine,” he answered while wiping the blood from his hand on his jeans.

“Are you still bleeding?” she asked.

Spike pressed his hand against the wound on his check and surveyed his palm before shaking his head. “Already closing up. It’ll be fine in a day or so.”

She reached for his hand before he could try leave. “Let me see,” she said surveying his palm. There were so many things she wanted to say, but for once she couldn’t find the words. “I’m sorry,” she added quietly.

When he didn’t immediately answer, she said it again. “I’m sorry, Spike.” Buffy felt herself start to shake. If she looked him in the eye, she knew she’d start crying. There was so much more to apologize for than driving a stake in his chest. She’s mourned him for a decade and was about to lose him because neither of them knew when to stop bickering at each other. They were masters at wounding each other over and over again, but she wanted him to know that she was sorry for every time she had hurt him.

They stood there for a moment. The awkward silence was deafening above the distant sound of the evening traffic. Those damn tears that kept threatening to spill rolled down her cheeks as he pulled her into his embrace.

“I’m sorry, too,” he whispered.

Time seemed to stand still as Buffy wrapped her arms around him and let herself really sob for the first time in years. He gently stroked her back, tracing circles against the fabric of her coat. Funny how they fit still fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle after all these years. Her head still tucked safely under his chin when they embraced..

After several minutes, Buffy said, “I want to go home.” Her voice was ragged and small. They both knew it was an unsaid invitation. Coming this far, she couldn’t imagine stepping foot in her own house alone. She’d had ten years of it and had enough of being alone.

Spike took a step back, and without saying a word, thumbed a way the tear that was streaking down her cheek. “Alright then,” he said quietly with a nod. “Home it is.”

He zipped up his coat. No sense sharing his gaping chest wound with the rest of London. There would be plenty of time to clean and dress it when they got back to her house. Before they started their way back to the gates, Spike reached down to retrieve her discarded stake. He spun it in his hand to present the blunt end of it to Buffy. “I do believe this is yours,” he added.

“Thanks,” she answered and tucked it back into her coat pocket. It was deep enough that there was barely a noticeable bulge.

Spike started to lead her down the path, his hand a comforting presence at the small of her back. But after a few steps, he abruptly stopped. “Just wait,” he said, doubling back to the Atherton gravestone. He scooped up the paper poppy that Buffy had left behind and then jogged to catch up to her. She shot him a puzzled look.

“What, you gave it to me, yeah?” he asked. “My dad won’t be wearing it any time soon, and no sense leaving it here for the miserable squirrels to shred.”

“Do squirrels actually shred things?” she countered, a smile creeping across her face.

Spike shrugged. “Who knows, but I wouldn’t hold it past those destructive little blighters.”

And with that, they headed out of the cemetery and toward the Archway Underground station. For a Sunday evening, the traffic along the back roads to the Tube stop were not very crowded. The eerie blue light from a television flickered from an upstairs window. She wasn’t ready for the volumes of explanations that would invariably fill in the blanks of the past decade. There would be plenty of time for that later. But for now, Buffy was happy to fall back into the old routine of walking side by side after a night in a cemetery. No wonder no other man ever seemed to understand you. Only Spike appreciated how normal this was for her.

Cars clipped by at a steady pace where the three major thoroughfares merged together at Archway Tower. A saxophonist busked outside the entrance to the Underground station, the horn’s case littered with a few quid and other assorted loose change. The station wasn’t all that full, and Spike made his way to the automated ticket machine. He started to plug coins into it. “What zone are we going to?” he asked.

“Zone?”

“What station, love?” he clarified.

“Gloucester Road.”

He chuckled. “Never pictured you a Sloane Ranger.”.

“A what?” she said before pressing her Oyster card into the reader at the gate.

Spike followed behind and fed his ticket into the gate and answered, “Posh girls from Chelsea and Kensington with their fancy little shoes and expensive matching handbags. Lady Di type girls that live in swanky flats that their daddies pay for.”

The stepped on to the escalator and descended into the cavernous Underground system. “There’s nothing wrong with nice shoes and purses. And for the record, I don’t live in a swanky flat. Okay, the Slayer house is pretty swanky, but I live in an apartment above a garage.”

The both stepped off the escalator as they reached the bottom and headed toward the platform. A breeze kicked up as last car vanished into the tunnel. It would be a few minutes before the next train arrived.

“It’s called a mews house. Little more upscale than the Fonz living over Richie Cunningiham’s garage,” he laughed. “Hate to break it to you, Slayer, but you are living in posh neighborhood. Upscale houses built above former stables for even more uberposh homes that include things like basement swimming pools and servants’ quarters.”

“Wait, the Slayer house doesn’t have a pool, but it does have a pretty kick-butt gym in the basement.”

“Same difference,” he pointed out. “And I suppose you nip down to the Sloaney Pony for a pint now and then with the other preppy little slayers?”

Oh, he was itching for a fight. She wouldn’t admit it, but it was damned better to the awkward sniping from earlier in the evening. And there was something about it that was so comforting and familiar about it.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I have been known to get a drink at the White Horse. Never knew why it was called that until now, but thanks for the history lesson. ”

It didn’t take long for the wind to kick up again, and another train came to rest at the platform. With a hiss, the doors opened, and a handful of people exited the cars. Buffy couldn’t be certain, but she thought she saw a Rubchak demon poorly disguised as a vicar head toward the escalator. It wasn’t harming anyone, so she quickly decided to leave it to the slayers lucky enough to be on duty tonight to hunt it down if it decided to get peckish later. Spike gestured to the open door and, above the repetitive recorded announcements to mind the gap, “After you, love.”

The car was barely half full, and they had no problem finding two seats together. An elderly man ignored them and read the Sunday Times. A teenage girl nodded her head in time to the song playing on her iPod. Spike and Buffy were just another couple heading home on the Tube. It felt good to feel normal. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the whirring sound of the speeding out of the station.

She enjoyed the relative quiet of the short ride to Leicester Square where they had to change trains and the decibel level would rise exponentially. The car swelled with riders by the time they arrived, and the platform was teeming with tourists of all ages. Didn’t matter if it was a Sunday night. She let Spike take the lead and let his hand slip into hers as he weaved them through the crowd and headed toward the Picadilly Line. He had never talked about living in London. In fact she wasn’t certain when he’d last called it home. But there was no question he knew his way through the Underground.

The train was packed for the last leg of the ride home. It was standing room only. Buffy leaned back into Spike and felt her body gently press into his as the train once again accelerated from the station. She marked time by the passengers the entered and disembarked. Six stations later, they reached Gloucester Road. Only a few more blocks and she would be home. They would be home, and she would have the second chance she never dreamed she would have.

The walked through the neighborhood without saying a word. A grey cat darted across the road as they turned on to Colbeck Mews and cut across the road toward her home. Buffy dug into her trouser pocket and pulled out the key garage below her apartment. She stepped inside and flipped on the overhead lights. Only then did she realize that he didn’t follow her in.

Spike shrugged sheepishly from the threshold. “I guess that’s your front door,” he explained. “Don’t have problems with detached garages or barns for that matter.. Suppose there’s no magical barrier clause for outbuildings.”

“Come in, Spike,” she said just as she had so many years ago.

Crossing through the doorway, Spike looked around. The overhead lights shone brightly on the Land Rover and sedan that the Council kept in the garage. “Of course you would live in a Mews House,” he said.

Buffy stopped before heading up the stairs. “What do you mean by that?”

“Feel like I’m coming full circle right now,” he answered.

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Dru turned me in a mews house,” he explained as swiped at his nose with the back of one hand. “Only it wasn’t a house back then. Was just a mews with horses and bales of hay. Did you know there used to be stalls where those cars are parked?”

Buffy felt her eyes grow wide and a horrible thought crossed her mind. “You weren’t turned here were you?”

Spike laughed. She loved how his eyes crinkled up he laughed. Her mother always talked about people laughing with their eyes. She never knew what her mom meant, but Spike definitely laughed with his eyes.

“Don’t be silly,” he said following her up the step to her apartment. “But it wasn’t far from here. Lived in a nearby neighborhood. Bet you never knew that. Anyhow the building is long gone. Think there’s an off license where it used to be.”

She unlocked the door at the top of the step and led him into the kitchen. Buffy set her keys beside the blinking answering machine. “Can I get you something?” Wow, she sounded like her mom, a chattering, nervous mess. “I apologize I don’t have any blood. But I’ve got a couple bottles of cider and some beer in the fridge. If you don’t want that, I could put the kettle on and make some tea.”

“Buffy, you don’t have to get me anything,” he said. “I fed this morning, but thanks for offering.”

She shot him a suspicious glance.

“Pig’s blood,” he explained. He took his coat off and handed it to her so she could drape it over one of the dinette chairs along with hers. “Soul’s still in place if you’re wondering. Found a shop off of Paddington Station that sells blood.”

There was no more hiding what she had done to him. There were no shadows to hide the hole in his shirt and no way to avoid how the black tee was stained with blood. She didn’t even want to think about how a millimeter or two in right direction might have caused the stake to dust him.

“Take your shirt off,” she instructed

“Bed your pardon?” he said. “Don’t you think we’re moving a little fast right now? Thought we established a while back that we wouldn’t be treating each other like a hunk of meat.”

“You’re funny,” she answered, opening a cupboard in the kitchen and pulling out a first aid kit. “I want to clean that hole in your chest. I put it there. It’s the least I can do.”

Spike tugged off his shirt and leaned against the kitchen counter. And there it was in all of its gory glory. It wasn’t gaping, nor was it gushing with blood. But there was no avoiding the wound on his chest. The skin was jagged and torn. The hole was nearly an inch across. It was so damn close to his heart. She really did almost kill him.

“How long will it take to heal?” she asked.

Spike tried to get a good look at. He probed gently with a finger before shrugging. “Don’t really know. I’m guessing it’ll be gone in a day or two.”

Buffy opened a package of gauze. She wet it under the tap and gently blotted at the wound. He winced but didn’t try to back away. “Sorry,” she apologized.

“It’s okay,” he said gritting his teeth.

“But how long would it take to heal with slayer’s blood?” she asked.

His grabbed her hand and turned very serious. “No, Buffy. I won’t let you.”

“Just answer the question, Spike.”

He shrugged before answering. “An hour or two?”

She tossed the bloody gauze in the trash. “Well, that settles it. I gave it to you, and I can fix you, too.”

This time he grabbed her and spun so that she was pressed against the counter instead of him. “I mean, Slayer. I’m not going to let you do this. I told you that I’m fine. Thank you, I definitely appreciate the gesture, but I’m not going to risk hurting you. Do I need to remind you that the last time I drank from a slayer, I drained her?” Of course he’d argue about this.

“But I’m not Nikki Wood,” Buffy said, “and you have a soul, remember? You’re not that monster any more.”

“Buffy…”

She bit her lower lip until she drew a little blood. Before he could react, she drew him into deep kiss, knowing full well that he would get just a little taste of her blood. Maybe it would be enough to overcome his virtuous sensibilities.

As she pulled back she saw his eyes flicker briefly with yellow. “Let me do this for you,” she asserted. “You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. So give me a gameface, Spike. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

He sighed as though he were conceding and let the ridges ripple across his forehead and his fangs emerge. Buffy had never been afraid of him when he showed his demonic visage. To prove her point, she caressed his ridges before leaned again and kissed him a second time. Without saying a word, she tipped her head to the side and offered her neck in invitation. Sure, he could feed from her wrist or even the crook of her arm. She’d be able to control how much he drank and could easily pull him off if he started to go to far. But Buffy wanted to prove to him that she trusted him even with this most intimate mode of feeding.

His lips were cool against her neck as he placed moist kisses in the sweet spot below her ear. Buffy let out a breathy moan when his fangs pierced her skin, and any resistance she may have had melted away as she felt him gently tug at her neck. Spike pressed closer to her, his cock hard against her hip. She arched against him, warmth and pleasure spreading through her as her body drew taut like a bowstring.

Spike released her neck and left her aching for more. He let the ripples and ridges fade away. His tongue darted out to clean the blood from his lips while she tried to regain her composure.

The edges of his wound started to knit together. He wasn’t kidding. It would probably be gone within the hour.

“Now what?” he asked, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. “Can we just jump over the fighting about the past ten years and skip to the wild monkey sex we’re so good at?”

He kissed her again before unbuttoning her blouse. A glass she had left on the counter earlier in the morning crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces. The bedroom was another floor up. She had no doubt they would eventually find their way there, but she wasn’t certain if the walls would be standing by the end of the night.

“As long as we don’t take down the house this time,” she answered tugging at his belt buckle. “I really don’t want to move in with Dawn and Xander.”

***

Morning came early. Too early as the ring from her mobile phone dragged her from sleep. Buffy blindly fumbled for it on her nightstand. Dawn’s face graced the display screen.

“This better be good,” she muttered. Hitting the button, she grunted her greeting to her sister, “It’s my day off. Whaddya want?”

“Fine, be that way,” Dawn said from the other end of the connection. “Just for that, I’m holding your hat ransom for a million pounds. I called to let you know you left it behind at the Blackbird and I have it.”

Buffy sat up and raked her hair away from her face with her hand. “This couldn’t wait until later, why?”

“Because I want to talk to Spike,” Dawn giggled. “Is he up yet?”

“No,” Buffy replied while she nudged Spike who had been sleeping beside her. He mumbled into the pillow and slowly opened his eyes. “But I can wake him up. How’d you know he’d be here?”

“C’mon, Buff, we all knew he’d be there this morning,” her sister said matter-of-factly. “Giles and I knew he was back. He’s been staying at the Council Headquarters since he returned. Who do you think told him you’d be at Highgate yesterday? So can I talk to him?”

Buffy rolled her eyes and unceremoniously handed the phone to Spike. “It’s for you,” she announced.

Spike rolled on to his back so he could take the call. The wound on his chest had completely vanished. She loved how he looked first thing in the morning, wild curls jutting in every direction.

“Don’t torture your big sis, Niblet,” he said into the phone. “It’ll just end poorly for the lot of us.”

“Just wanted to make sure she got her Happily Ever After last night,” Dawn said.

Spike rubbed the sleep from his eye and answered, “Not without a few speed bumps in the road. But yes, she seems happy, and certainly hope it lasts for Ever After.”

“Good,” Dawn declared. “Now will you let me if you are still planning on coming to dinner tonight? Oliver’s dying to meet you. Of course you can bring Buffy.”

“Six o’clock, right?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“We’ll both be there,” he said. “But for now, give your sis a break. She’s been through a lot in the past day, okay? We’ll talk more tonight.”

They said their goodbyes, and Spike set the phone on the nightstand on his side of the bed. The had the whole day ahead of them before they had to be anywhere. They had the rest of the day before they had to be anywhere, and she was perfectly happy to spend it in bed. Buffy rested her head on his chest as he lay back and snuggled closer when he wrapped his arms around her.

“Spike?” she asked.

“Yeah, love?” he answered with a kiss on the crown of her head.

“I’m so happy you’re home.”

Home. It was such a comforting word. It was a place where you felt safe and loved. It was a place where time didn’t mean anything and you could sleep until noon with your lover.

It was a place to forgive and start over.

 

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/432056.html