Fic: Something (2/4)

“I should move back to the basement.”

It’s a non sequitur after the conversation they’ve been having about her new job (Barista at a coffee shop: good pay, nice customers, perks like slightly-stale pastries to take home at the end of the evening, and a much better smell) while he drank his dinner, and it makes Buffy blink.

“No,” she says, with such conviction that he knows her pause wasn’t due to hesitation but to surprise. “You’re not well enough.”

“Buffy, I don’t like taking your bedroom. It’s not ri-”

“Can you walk down the stairs?” She says it in a perfectly reasonable, guileless tone. He squashes the urge to glare at her, because she knows perfectly well that he can’t. The most he’s done is wobble around the bedroom, never for more than a minute at a time and always clinging to her shoulder.

He can tell she’s biting back a smile, but he doesn’t begrudge her for it. She’s too adorable, even when she’s snarky. Especially when she’s snarky.

“It’s not fair, though,” he grumbles. “You shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch in your own house.”

She shrugs. “I share with Dawn sometimes. And I really don’t mind the couch.”

He minds. Feels acute guilt over it.

“Besides, Xander’s in the basement,” says Buffy, as though that settles it, as though they couldn’t all just play musical beds and she take her room, Xander take the couch, and Spike become the cellar dweller once more.

He wonders why she and Xander switched in the first place, since Buffy had been sleeping in the basement before the apocalypse anyway. Wonders if maybe it’s because he wasn’t there. Maybe without him, the basement was just a basement; awkward, empty, and more than a little lonely.

But he doesn’t ask.

He makes it his goal to walk downstairs within a week. He’s been recovering at a much faster pace now that he’s conscious most of the time. And Buffy’s blood, a syringe-full mixed in with his pig’s blood once a day, certainly helps.

He practices when Buffy’s not around because he knows, instinctively, that she wouldn’t like it. Anya’s right, she has been coddling him. He doesn’t know what to think of it, actually. It’s never cloying, because it’s Buffy, but it is unsettling. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to realize that he’s neither a baby nor about to drop dead (deader) and she can go back to giving him the tepid shoulder.

On the thirtieth day after he closed the Hellmouth (for good?) he reaches the door without stumbling. His chest is sore, and his legs are heavy- not quite used to moving yet- but otherwise he feels fine. His burns have mostly healed, and Anya’s told him that he looks close to normal. The hole in his chest is gone, other than some scarring, which he’ll always have. That doesn’t bother him. His scars have always been a source of pride.

Spike leans on the doorframe for a moment and then steps into the hall. It’s his first step outside the bedroom, and a weight seems to lift from his shoulders. He never felt trapped in the bedroom, not with Buffy- but leaving it is still a relief; it makes him sure that he can be himself again.

Going down the stairs sends jolts through him, but it’s easy enough. He clings to the railing just in case but doesn’t really need it. When he reaches the bottom he pauses. His whole goal had been to get down the stairs; he hadn’t thought about what he would do from there.

He can hear the TV playing in the living room, though, so there he goes. Xander is sitting on the couch and looks up at the footsteps. His one eye widens.

“It lives,” he says tonelessly. “And walks. Why does it walk?”

Spike doesn’t answer, unsure if the boy’s mocking is going to turn cruel. He wishes someone else were in the house. He hadn’t thought about that, either, other than knowing that Buffy wouldn’t be- they don’t sit by his bedside anymore, but there’s always someone in the house.

He’s pretty sure that’s Buffy doing.

He almost asks why Harris is here and not working- Sunnydale’s in plenty of need of construction workers now- when he remembers that it’s Sunday. Awkwardness creeps over him, which really annoys him since it’s Xander of all people, but as he turns to leave- maybe he’ll go to the kitchen and try his microwaving skills next- the boy says, “Ever watch The Three Stooges?”

Spike stares at him and then at the television. He recognizes the three goons on the screen; remembers chuckling at them years- decades ago; he was probably drunk at the time. Xander doesn’t say anything else, but Spike’s positive that he slides to his left, further toward the end of the couch, just a bit.

He makes a split second decision, decides that he’d rather watch the stooges than lie in bed; and besides, he’s curious about Xander’s attitude. So he walks slowly across the room and lowers himself gently onto the other end of the couch, as far from the boy as possible, for both their sakes.

“She’s going to be annoyed, you know,” says Xander conversationally. His gaze stays focused on the television. “She doesn’t want you moving. Thinks you’ll reinjure yourself.”

“’M not that breakable,” mutters Spike. “Think she’d know that.”

Xander raises an eyebrow.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he adds hastily. Usually he doesn’t care what the Scoobies think of him, but this is different; he doesn’t want anyone to think he isn’t grateful to Buffy.

“Yeah,” says Xander, a tad grudgingly. “S’pose you do. She’ll still be annoyed, though.”

Spike shrugs. It feels good to shrug again after all his time spent immobile. “Doubt she’ll beat me up for it.”

Xander bites back a dark chuckle. “She’ll lecture you though. Probably almost as bad.”

Spike thinks back to the lectures she gave the potentials and almost adds, “Worse.” He stops himself, though; he doesn’t want to mock Buffy, especially not behind her back, not even good-naturedly. Instead he looks at Xander out of the corner of his eyes, wondering where this almost-banter comes from. He isn’t used to not having his thumb on people. Usually he can read the Scoobies like open books, but Xander has been markedly reserved of late. Has his animosity actually lessened since the Hellmouth closed? Or is being polite only because Buffy makes him? His comments make Spike wonder just how many lectures Buffy’s given recently, if she’s been lecturing her friends about caring for Spike.

When Xander stays quiet, he turns his attention to the television program. It’s as inane as he remembers, but he’s willing to be amused by anything at this point, and he finds himself on the verge of chuckling several times.

It must be a marathon, because another episode comes on next, and then another. It seems like hours later when Xander says, “I feel a lot more sympathy for Larry and Curly now.”

Spike’s about to ask what he’s talking about when the slapstick they just watched flashes to mind: Moe poking Larry and Curly’s eyes. It takes a long, tense moment to figure out how to respond.

“I feel a lot more sympathy for donuts now.”

Xander turns to him, confusion etched on his face. Spike can almost see the cogs turning. Then the boy’s lips start to wobble; soon he’s grinning. He turns back to the TV without another word. For the first time Spike thinks that Anya’s right and another apocalypse is imminent, because it seems as though he and Xander just might be getting along.

The front door opens at 7:20.

“Hey, Xander,” calls Buffy. She drops her purse on the floor and takes the stairs two at a time without looking into the living room. Spike stares after her. To his surprise, Xander wears a little smirk.

“Three…two…one,” he whispers.

“Xander!”

The next second Buffy’s clattering down the stairs.

“Where is he- what happened-?”

She practically skids to a halt. Her mouth hovers open as she finally takes in the living room.

“What- Spike, are you all right?”

She’s at his side in an instant, crouching so their heads are level. Spike looks into her eyes and feels, for the first time since he left his bed, a bit dizzy.

“M’fine,” he says hoarsely. “I got downstairs.”

Her brow begins to crinkle in confusion and then hardens abruptly. “Oh.” There’s a long pause before, “Good for you. Are you sure you feel all right?”

He stretches, feeling tingles all over. “Haven’t moved in a while. But yeah, I’m all right. How was work?”

“Fine.” She says it absently and bites her lip. “Do you want dinner down here and then you can go back upstairs-”

“Buffy, you should have your bedroom back,” he says gently. “I can manage stairs.” Part of him doesn’t know why he’s arguing so strongly- a year ago, hell two months ago, being in her bed would have been a dream come true; but without her there it’s just a bed (as useless as he thinks the basement might be without him) and he can’t suppress the shame that he’s displaced her, can’t forget the thought that all he seems to do is inconvenience her.

“It’ll be harder to take care of you in the basement,” she says.

He gives her a pointed look. Even Xander allows his incredulity to show.

“So after the First had his jollies with me, I was in the basement being…ignored?” says Spike carefully. He doesn’t know how much banter is okay between them. Buffy’s seemed so…concerned about him of late. He doesn’t want to abuse that concern.

She reddens. “You’ll go back upstairs for now- after you eat- and I’ll think about it!” She straightens and goes to the kitchen before he can think of an argument.

He’s lying in her bed again come midnight (he should know better by now than to argue with her) reading The Phantom of the Opera, one of the few books in this house, when she knocks on the doorframe and comes in.

“Nothing,” she says in response to his questioning glance, and he sighs inwardly in relief. He wishes she wouldn’t patrol so often, especially since she goes alone half the time (and when did he start thinking that it was his right to go with her? He should squash that thought before it gets him hurt), but he knows she’ll never stop slaying. Not if there were a hundred million other slayers in the world. Which there might be now for all he knows.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, the same as she always does.

“Fine,” he says, the same as he’s always responded of late.

Buffy leaves without another word, which he finds a bit odd. Usually she says good night. He goes back to the book and does a double take when she appears again. He’s even more startled to see her in a pajama shirt and drawstring pants and holding her pillow. She avoids his gaze as she walks to the left side of the bed. There’s a faint blush in her cheeks; her pillow makes a soft thump as she sets it down.

Spike’s throat dries as she lifts the covers and slides beneath them. She’s suddenly frighteningly close, only inches away. He can smell everything on her, her sweat, her shampoo, the graveyard, everything that makes her Buffy.

“You’re right,” she says abruptly, finally looking at him. Her eyes give nothing away. “It is nice to have my bed back.”

He starts to sit up.

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

He knows he looks like a deer caught in headlights, but he can’t help it.

She clears her throat, her cheeks still pale pink. “Unless you really want to. I mean, if you think I’ve developed cooties in the past month…”

She looks at him pointedly, and he thinks about their last few nights before the almost-apocalypse, when they slept in each other’s arms. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope that would continue- had told himself she’d only dropped her guard because she’d thought the world was going to end.

Besides, they had never slept together in her bed.

A thousand thoughts press in on him- I’m in Buffy’s bed with Buffy-why is she here- does she trust me?- what does she want- I love you-

“No,” he mumbles.

“Good!” And she beams, her normal, confident self again. It’s reassuring.

And also terrifying.

“Just turn the light off when you’re done,” she says, nodding at the lamp on the bedside table. And with that she lies down and faces the other side.

Spike turns the light off less than a minute later. He’s in too much turmoil to read anymore; and he’s afraid that the light will inconvenience her now. Sleep is the farthest thing from his mind as he lies down (how is he supposed to sleep when she’s right there?), and he stares at the ceiling. After a moment he feels her shift.

Suddenly she’s curled up against him, her head next to his. Her warm arm slides across his stomach.

“Tell me if I accidentally touch anything that hurts, okay?” she whispers.

He makes a tiny sound of assent. It’s all he can manage.

He’d go cross-eyed if he tried to look at her because she’s so close, but he can practically feel her smile.

“If my heart could beat, it would break my chest…”

Explode from his chest more like. He closes his eyes, even though he’ll be too busy lying next to her to sleep at all. He feels her breath against his cheek, slow and even, the gentle weight of her arm slung across him, and her hand on his side.

He’s never been so happy to meet a goal.

Now that he’s made his first progress downstairs, he finds a lot of other firsts follow: first microwaving of his own blood, first foray onto the moonlit porch, first bleaching of his hair, first shower. Up until now Willow has been doing periodic cleansing spells on him, for which he’s grateful; first because, well, who wants to go six weeks without being bathed (he did that already when he was out of his mind, thanks very much) and second because the thought of Buffy bathing him in any bathroom fills him with sudden choking pain and makes it hard for him to see straight.

After his first shower he goes to Buffy’s room wrapped in a towel to sort through his meager supply of clothes that she brought up from the basement a few days ago. He pulls on sweats- denim is still a bit too rough for his legs- but instead of putting on a shirt he examines his chest.

The circle of skin where the amulet rested is still pink and bumpy, but you could never tell that there had once been a hole there. The rest of his burns have mostly healed, and his chest is about as healthy looking as his corpse skin ever gets. The only other thing amiss is the long horizontal scar a few inches below his collarbone where Buffy sliced the amulet off him with the scythe.

He’s tracing it idly when Buffy walks in.

She stops short, and for a moment they stare at each other. Or rather, she stares at his face for a second and then her eyes zero in on his chest. Her cheeks pinken, which he finds a little odd since he’s spent the majority of the past few weeks bare-chested (or bandaged-chested) and then she says quickly, “Sorry, I didn’t realize-”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says equally quickly and adds, because she seems so embarrassed, “It’s my fault, I didn’t close the door properly.”

They stare at each other again, her eyes dropping once more to his chest and then back to eye-level.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly.

He quirks his eyebrow. What on earth does Buffy have to be sorry about?

She steps forward and before he knows it she’s inches from him, lifting her hand to touch her fingertips to his scar. For an instant their hands brush, and he feels a wild impulse to take hers, the same way he did when she was checking his ribs while they were training potentials in the graveyard. This time he doesn’t want to remove her hand, though, and so he drops his to his side. Her fingertip traces his new scar, and that’s enough to make him feel light-headed.

“For this,” she says. “It probably won’t go away.”

The words take a minute to register because he just can’t fathom the idea that she’s apologizing for giving him a wound that saved his life. Then he takes another minute to think of how to respond, because the whole conversation has taken a turn for the preposterous.

“Don’t be daft,” he says at last, and now he does take her hand. He can’t help it. He wants to reassure her, wants to wipe the regret from her features and bring her back to her senses. “Buffy, you saved my life. I hardly think that warrants an apology.” He means it to be funny, but his tone is all wrong. He sounds too serious, a little melodramatic, and he realizes what it is he really wants to say.

“Thank you,” says Spike quietly. He hasn’t said that yet in all these weeks. “For saving me.”

Her fingers tighten around his even as her gaze drops. She shows no signs of wanting to flee, but this still feels awkward and wrong. The reason why doesn’t take long to figure out either.

They’ve saved each others’ lives more than a few times over the years- although if he’s honest, usually he’s the distressed damsel in their duo. She’s saved him often enough this year alone- from the First, from the chip, from the basement and his own self-loathing.

But they never thanked each other for those times. Saving each other wasn’t a chore or an honor. It was just something they did.

In fact, the one time she did try to thank him, when she followed him after he left the Scoobies to their singing, he stopped her before she could get the words out. And they kissed. Come to think of it, that’s how she thanked him after he let Glory torture him, too: she kissed him.

He looks down at their joined hands, where he’s been absent-mindedly running his thumb across her knuckles, and imagines kissing her now. It’s an idle daydream that he hasn’t let himself indulge in for quite a while. Then he feels her gaze on his face and looks back up.

“Don’t ever feel sorry,” he hears himself say. And then he adds, to lighten the moment, to make himself forget about kissing her, “You’re the reason I’m alive. And you patched me up again, besides. You’ve been wonderful, love. A regular Florence Nightingale.”

For some reason this causes her brows to knit, too. She pulls her hand from his, but instead of releasing it, she turns it over and looks at his palm.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when a silent minute has passed.

She makes a small noise, stops, and then clears her throat. “Looking for scars.” Her voice is odd; it sounds like she has a head cold.

He quirks the eyebrow again, but she’s not looking at his face, so he has to prompt, “Come again?”

“You called me that after you stopped that sword from hitting me,” says Buffy. “I never said- I wasn’t very-” She clears her throat again, definitely looking upset now. “And you called me Florence Nightingale.”

Now that she’s reminded him, Spike remembers the moment vividly; remembers her dismissal of his injuries.

“As I recall, you had a lot of things on your mind, love,” he says gently, hoping to lift her gloom. “Crazy knights. Watcher with a hole in him. Demented god.”

Buffy doesn’t say anything and continues staring at his hand.

“Buffy.”

She finally meets his gaze.

Spike lifts his free hand and points at his palm. “I don’t have any scars,” he says. “But even if I did, it would be worth it.”

Still holding her gaze, he touches the new scar on his chest. “And so is this.”

Their eyes meet and hold, and she’s stopped breathing, and God help him he’s imagining kissing her again when footsteps pound in the hallway and a voice calls, “Buffy, did you borrow my new blouse, because I can’t find it, and if you did I’m going to call you a hypocrite for the rest of your life, Miss Never-Lets-Her-Little-Sister-Borrow-Her-”

Dawn skids to a halt in the open doorway so fast he can almost see the cartoon dust tracks behind her.

“Um, never mind, I’ll check in the basement again,” she says very fast as tomatoes sprout on her cheeks.

“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll help you look,” says Buffy, and just like that she’s gone. His hand is empty, and her lips may as well be a thousand miles away. She doesn’t look at him again as she brushes past Dawn out of the room, but there’s still a faint pink tinge to her cheeks.

As Dawn follows, she gives Spike a look that startles him.

He thinks it’s apologetic.

“Going to patrol tonight?”

He takes his mug from the microwave and turns to face her. Buffy’s sitting at the island, flipping through mail and eating salad left over from last night’s dinner.

“Hmm? Yes, I think so. I didn’t go yesterday or the day before.” Buffy contemplates the leaf of iceberg and cherry tomato on her fork, as though she forgot why it was there, and then pops it in her mouth.

She’s not eating enough carbs, thinks Spike. Or protein.

He’s been watching too much daytime TV lately- too many cooking shows- for his own good. But there isn’t much else to do (Day 36 now, and he still hasn’t left the house).

And it’s true. The apocalypse is past, but Buffy’s still not eating enough. Or sleeping enough. She’s working full-time, still patrolling, and she spends scads of time with Dawn and the Scoobies- taking Dawn to the mall, going to the Bronze with Willow, Xander, and Anya. Spike know she’s trying to make up for not being as involved a sister or friend the past two years, but he wishes she would take care of herself too.

“I could come with you,” he says, as casually as possible. “If you want company.”

She looks up now. “I…don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He’d told himself not to get his hopes up, but he still experiences a sinking feeling.

“I can do it,” he insists, even though he’d also told himself he wouldn’t argue. “I’m better.”

Buffy seems to repress a sigh.

Spike mentally kicks himself.

“You’ve only been walking for a few days. You haven’t even left the house yet. I don’t think you’re up for patrol.”

And you’d be just one more thing for me to worry about, he imagines her adding to herself. He doesn’t push the patrol issue because the last thing he wants to be is a distraction (he was never a helpless Scooby, thank you very much), but he does ask, “Is there anything I can do? I feel useless.”

The last part slips out without his brain’s approval. This time he mentally punches himself.

Buffy stares at him blankly.

“I just…want to help somehow. Do something besides sit on the couch all day,” he says a little grouchily. “You work and patrol and you buy so much blood for me-”

“Spike, I’m doing what any adult does. I’m working and running a household.” Buffy puts down her fork. “And don’t worry about feeling useless. You’re healing- you’ve got burns and peeling skin, and you need to take a breather- metaphorically speaking- every few minutes. You’re supposed to feel useless.”

She crooks a smile, and he tries to smile back, even though he doesn’t think the joke is very funny.

“Besides, even if you were in perfect condition, it’s not like you could get a job,” adds Buffy. “You’re a vampire.”

The unspoken ‘duh’ rings in the air. Buffy looks back at the mail, but Spike can’t make himself move from the counter.

“Not like you could get a job.”

No, he can’t get a job. Can’t contribute to the household. Can’t be a normal man. Can’t even fight demons for her anymore.

Could never be a normal boyfriend.

Not that he should be thinking like that.

He’s still ruminating over these thoughts (brooding, some might call it, if he were a dark-haired, huge-foreheaded Neanderthal) a few minutes later when she brings her dish to the sink.

“I’ll take care of that,” says Spike automatically and pulls it gently from her grasp. Their fingers don’t touch, which he thinks is a shame. “You go do what you need to do.”

Buffy blinks. “Okay. Thanks.” She disappears down the hall, and Spike turns on the faucet. He can do the dishes for her.

Be as normal as he can be.

When he’s done cleaning up the kitchen, straightening the couch cushions and picture frames in the living room, and tidying up anything else his restless brain notices, he goes and sits on the porch to wait. It’s a cool night, and the moon is bright. It would be a lovely evening if Buffy weren’t patrolling alone.

She looks surprised to see him and when she comes into view, and her pace quickens. “What’s wrong? Is Dawn-?”

“Doing her homework last I checked,” he replied. “Physics, I think. Judging from the sailor’s mouth she’s suddenly developed.”

Buffy’s shoulders relax. “All right. So what are you doing out here?”

He raises his eyebrows. She should know the answer. He intends to be just as coy (Just wanted some fresh air, pet), but instead he hears himself say, “Waiting for you.”

She hesitates. She didn’t expect to hear the truth. “You didn’t have to. You must be tired.”

“You really think I’d go to bed while you were out patrolling?”

Buffy frowns a little, but in a thoughtful way, not as though she’s annoyed.

He’s about to stand when she turns and sits beside him. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and sighs a little.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it,” says Spike, though ‘night’ isn’t what he’s really thinking.

She opens her eyes and stares at the moon. “Yeah. It is.”

“Kill anything?”

Her lips twitch. “No.”

Good, he almost says, but keeps quiet.

He’s so focused on watching the stars (and making a useless wish or two) and enjoying the peace he feels when they’re alone together, and he’s so profoundly grateful that some things never change, that it takes him by complete surprise when her hand slips into his.

“What are you doing?”

Spike straightens and looks over the open refrigerator door to see Dawn standing in the doorway to the hall. Her brow is furrowed and her lips pursed, as though she thinks she should be suspicious but can’t come up with a sufficient reason why.

“Looking for food,” he says, and goes back to pondering the fridge’s contents.

Her tennis shoes squeak as she walks closer to stand behind him. “Yours comes in the Styrofoam containers. It’s red. Rhymes with mud. You may have heard of it.”

“Me? Never,” he responds. “I’m trying to figure out what healthy meal could possibly be concocted from all this.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“I-” He hesitates, looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. She looks genuinely curious, not as though she’s about to mock him. And the fact that she’s asking at all, that she’s standing so close to him, when a few months ago she would barely look at him, compels him to admit, “I was going to see if I could cook something for Buffy and you. For dinner. Try to be useful” (Try to be normal).

He tenses, waits for the sniggers or the scoffs.

Dawn chews her lip for a moment, her eyes wide and expression unreadable. Then she steps even closer, so their shoulders bump, and peers into the fridge as well.

“You could make quesadillas,” she says. “There are tortillas and cheese.”

Spike feels a moment of panic at the idea of using the stove, putting the right amount of cheese on, and flipping the quesadillas at just the right time so they don’t burn. He squashes it.

“Right. Good plan.”

He takes out the tortillas and the package of shredded cheese and puts them on the counter. Dawn moves back and watches while he digs around in the cabinets for a frying pan.

“Quesadillas are my specialty,” she says casually. “They’re not that hard but if you want any…guidance.”

Spike makes a show of washing his hands before putting the first tortilla onto the pan. Then he looks up, trying to appear innocent and not as hopeful as he feels.

Dawn waits a beat before taking the bait. “Now you sprinkle some cheese on it.”

He does as she directs.

“That’s enough. Now turn the stove on.”

He does, and her lips twitch.

“Now wait for it to melt.”

After they watch the slowly oozing cheese for a moment, he asks lightly, “How’s school?”

Dawn shrugs. “Boring. It’s all derivatives this and rhetorical devices that and explain why World War II started. Meanwhile I’m wondering, where are my zombies and enchanted letterman jackets and sinister basements?”

“High school,” Spike deadpans. “Once you go Hellmouth, you’ll never go back.”

Dawn sighs dramatically. “I’m spoiled for life. Thanks, by the way, for destroying it and making me go to summer school in the next town over.”

“Just doing my evil vampire duty,” says Spike. “Ruining teenagers’ summers since 1880.”

“You might want to flip it,” says Dawn, as another grin tugs at her lips. She jerks her head toward the pan.

“Brains of the operation as usual, Nibblet.”

He’s already turned to the stove when he realizes what he’s said. The spatula freezes in his hand. There’s no sound from behind him. He turns the quesadilla as slowly as he dares and forces himself to turn around.

A plethora of emotions war on her face. He thinks he sees anger and sadness and doubt and maybe regret. Can’t tell what it all adds up to, though.

And then she wipes her expression clean. “Well I think you’ve got the gist of it. I’m going back upstairs.” She’s already at the door when he calls, “Dawn!”

She halts.

There are so many things he wants to say to her, starting with “I’m sorry” and ending with “I love you.” He settles on, “Do you want one?”

She doesn’t turn her head. “Sure. Yes, please.” Then she’s walking very fast down the hallway and up the stairs, and he turns back to the stove with a sigh.

Buffy’s shift ends at 7:00, and she walks in at 7:20, right on schedule. The table is set, a salad’s been hastily tossed, the quesadillas are waiting in the pan so they stay warm, and Spike is leaning against the island wearing a well-practiced expression of nonchalance. Everything’s perfect.

Until he hears Willow’s voice.

“-Going to like working in a bookstore. If I’m going to work in retail, I’d rather be surrounded by books than clothes, you know?”

He hadn’t thought of Willow; recently she’s been spending most of her evenings out of the house helping Xander and Anya move into new apartments and cajoling Xander into taking Andrew with him. Spike hasn’t decided how to react yet when the women enter the kitchen and halt abruptly. Willow’s widened eyes dart to Buffy, who stares from the stove to Spike.

“Uh,” he says.

There’s a clattering on the stairs and seconds later Dawn speeds into the kitchen.

“Hey, Buffy! Oh hey, Willow. We didn’t know if you’d be home tonight. Spike made dinner for us, but we can whip up another quesadilla for you too.”

“Oh! Um, I don’t want to intrude…” Willow’s voice falters, and she steals another glance at Buffy.

“Not at all,” says Spike, finally regaining his equilibrium. Dawn’s looking at him squint-eyed. He can practically hear her thinking, “I’m giving you a chance, Spike. Don’t screw it up.”

“Dawn and I made quesadillas,” he says, trying to sound off-hand about it (calm and collected, that’s the ticket). “You don’t need to eat them, obviously, if there’s something else you prefer. Just thought you should have a home-cooked meal if you wanted it.”

“That sounds great,” says Buffy. He’s grateful for how bright and enthusiastic she sounds- probably faking it, but he appreciates the effort. “I’ll just put away my purse…”

She retreats to the hall, Willow on her heels. Even his vampire hearing can’t pick up their whispers, but he’s in no doubt that they’re discussing him. When they return Buffy is smiling and Willow looks nervous but hopeful. Buffy starts toward the dining room and hesitates to glance back at the stove.

“Go on,” says Spike quickly. “I’ll just make another one for Will. Be right there.”

When he brings the quesadillas in a few minutes later Buffy and Willow are chatting again about their jobs and Dawn is sitting at the other end of the table listening. Buffy falls silent and seems to tense when he comes in with the pan, which makes his stomach clench; but as he slides a quesadilla onto each woman’s plate, it occurs to him that her discomfort may not be because she’s faking enthusiasm but because she honestly doesn’t know how to react. How long has it been since anyone’s served her? Cooked dinner for her? He doesn’t remember dinner being any sort of occasion in the Summers household even when Joyce was alive.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

He goes back into the kitchen and after a moment hears the sound of chewing.

“They’re not bad,” Willow mutters, in such a low tone that he knows he wasn’t meant to hear.

“I taught him everything he knows,” says Dawn.

“And they’re not bad?” jokes Buffy. “Aren’t you the queen of weird food concoctions and accidental food poisoning?”

“Hey! That was only once, and I was thirteen, and feel free to drop it any year now…”

Spike smiles as he listens to the conversation in the next room. He’s so content listening to the happy lilt in Buffy’s voice that he doesn’t register Willow saying his name until Buffy appears in the doorway.

“Aren’t you coming?”

He starts. “I- what?”

“Eating with us?” she says. “I mean, I assume you’ll drink blood but…you know…with us? If you want,” she adds quickly.

He swallows. “I’ll be right there.”

He warms up a mug of blood even though he isn’t really hungry and brings it into the dining room. He feels oddly self-conscious about it, which is silly since everyone here knows what he drinks, has seen him drink it, and of late, has even helped him drink it. Besides, these people are the closest he has to friends in the world.

But still, it feels weird to drink his blood in the dining room. At dinner, no less.

Spike doesn’t know if Dawn sat next to Willow on purpose or if it’s coincidence, but he appreciates it either way as he sits in the chair beside Buffy’s. She smiles at him, which makes his stomach do a flip. The fact that she’s eaten three quarters of her quesadilla and has a large helping of salad adds to the internal acrobatics.

“This is great,” she says, and it sounds genuine this time. “So how was your day?”

“Good,” he says, and is surprised to realize he means it. “There was a Passions marathon on the telly. And I did a few rounds with the punching bag.”

“You were careful, right?”

“’Course,” he says, as the worry in her voice makes his insides melt. “When the punching bag decided to fight dirty I did the mature thing and walked away.”

“First time for everything,” murmurs Willow.

Buffy snorts into her glass of water. Willow slowly turns the shade of her hair.

Spike smiles lazily at the witch. “Don’t worry, Red. Not planning to make a habit of it.” He turns to Buffy, who’s still grinning.

“How was your day?”

Their conversation continues long after the food is finished, and when it devolves into a comfortable silence he begins clearing their plates. Buffy immediately stands to help, but he tells her in a brooks-no-nonsense tone (that he wouldn’t have dreamed of using a few weeks ago but which he now thinks he can get away with) to sit and relax. She stays with Willow and Dawn while he washes the dishes, and a little while later he hears movement upstairs. He’s just finished loading the dishwasher when he feels a prickle on the back of his neck and realizes that Buffy didn’t go upstairs with the others after all.

“Spike.”

He steels himself and turns.

She’s only a few feet away, regarding him with an unfathomable expression. Her mouth opens, but she hesitates.

“Thank you,” she says at last.

He nods. “Welcome.”

She starts to leave but halts in the hall to look back at him. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I know.” He thinks about adding more, but what else is there to say? She gives him a wan half-smile and disappears, and he turns to close the dishwasher.

Spike soon discovers that while Joyce may not have been Martha Stewart in the kitchen, she owned one of the lady’s cookbooks and several others besides. It only takes him a few flipped pages (while no one else is around) to realize that all the recipes are vastly beyond his skill level. That’s okay because they’re also beyond the contents of Buffy’s fridge.

Yogurt, cheese, peanut butter, celery, and ketchup. Not anything to even spice up a mug of blood, let alone a human meal.

When Dawn finds him frowning at the fridge, she doesn’t even ask. She just joins him and frowns, too, and says, “Looks like a frozen dinner night. Lasagna or ravioli. Yippee.”

Spike opens the freezer and finds it a little more satisfying, if not more nutritious; it has ice cream at least. He starts to pull out a microwavable dinner to check the preparation instructions and hesitates.

“Do you think I should?” he asks. “I don’t want to…” Seem presumptuous. Overstep my boundaries. Annoy her.

Dawn shrugs. “Look at it this way: it’s Buffy. If you piss her off, she’ll tell you. And you can always feel free to make me dinner.”

Spike suppresses a smile. “That right?”

She raises her nose imperiously. “Just run the menu by me first.”

“Will do. Can’t promise you’ll always like it though,” he warns. “There isn’t much to choose from. You need more vegetables. And fruit. And protein.” He ticks them off on his fingers, mulls a bit, and adds, “Probably calcium too.”

Dawn stares at him like he’s lost his mind again. He can’t really blame her.

“I’ll put it on Buffy’s to-do list. Slay vampires. Pay mortgage. Eat more calcium.”

She may mock him, but over the next few days he notices that the fridges’ contents do become better rounded. Two days after their talk he finds apples, fresh broccoli, and carrots. Dawn doesn’t say anything, but he knows that she does most of the shopping now that Buffy works full time. Together, they figure out how to steam the broccoli, and even though it turns out kind of mushy, Dawn declares it’s an improvement over frozen dinners.

Frozen potato wedges, breakfast sausages, spinach, and a carton of eggs appear next. On Saturday morning Dawn shows him how to make an omelet. It’s lopsided and runny and one egg ends up on the floor instead of in the pan, but by the end Buffy has a freshly made omelet, sausage, and calcium-added orange juice. When they serve her, she looks more than a little bemused but certainly not pissed.

Making that breakfast gives Spike an idea, and as soon as he gets the chance he asks Willow to teach him how to make pancakes. She agrees on the condition that he doesn’t try to usurp her position as Head Pancake Maker and on Sunday afternoon he learns the fine art of making funnily shaped flapjacks.

He gets the cookbooks out again and looks for simple things he can do. When he oh-so-casually points out a picture of a vegetable stir-fry to Dawn and remarks that a blood-based sauce would make it just right, she snickers. The next day the fridge holds every ingredient listed in the recipe. The stir-fry that night is a little burned, but Buffy eats three helpings.

Spike doesn’t think it’s his imagination that the regular meals are doing her good. She’s not just skin and bones anymore. She fills out her clothes better, the angular cut of her face softens, and she looks much less wan. There’s a bounce in her steps now, and her default expression is a smile rather than a frown, as it had been for the past two years. He can’t help but feel a swell of pride that he might be helping her- might be contributing to her health and stability- and when he sees Dawn’s glowing smile as she looks at her sister…well, he feels a swell of pride then, too.

The best night is when he goes all out. He boils potatoes and makes a salad with all the works- tomatoes, cucumber, avocado, olives, croutons, beans, dressing. Willow’s working late, so it’s just the three of them, which is what Spike likes best. They eat and talk and joke, and Buffy teases him and says he’s turning into a 50s housewife. She immediately squeezes his hand, though, and tells him it’s delicious, and for a split second Spike wishes Dawn had somewhere else to be too.

After dinner he surprises them with a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Even Dawn is amazed; he didn’t have to ask her for ingredients this time since they already had the chocolate chips, which Willow uses sometimes in pancakes.

The cookies are a little burned and crunchy, but when he microwaves them and the chocolate melts, Buffy’s eyes pop and she actually licks her lips. Dawn suggests they eat them a la mode, and as they’re all at the counter scooping, Buffy suggests they watch a movie. She chooses a classic that Spike has heard of but never seen before.

“I get the middle,” she calls over her shoulder as she puts the video into the VCR.

Dawn and Spike exchange a look and scoot to opposite ends of the couch. Buffy plops between them, and Spike also doesn’t think it’s his imagination that she’s closer to him than to Dawn. In fact, it might not even be going too far to call it snuggling, the way she’s pressed again him and has her feet curled up beneath her.

It turns out that the movie is a classic for a reason. He laughs more than a few times, has to swallow hard and blink a lot at the end, and is left feeling unexpectedly discombobulated. He’s glad that Harry ended up with Sally, but he can’t help feeling disappointed at what that means for the big philosophical question.

Can men and women be just friends? Is that what he and Buffy are? Spike doesn’t know anymore. He’d like to think that they’re like Harry and Sally, that they’re more than just friends.

But he’d also like to think that it really is possible for men and women to be just friends- because otherwise, what are Buffy and Angel?

Still, the night’s been too perfect for him to dwell on such dreary thoughts. Especially since Buffy is very slow to detach herself from his side
and she trails him into the kitchen to talk as he does the dishes. Afterward they go up to the bedroom together, and it’s not until they’ve turned off the light that he realizes that for the first time he didn’t feel a twinge of self-consciousness when they both slid under the covers.

The next morning when he wakes in her arms, it’s different than it’s ever been before, different from how they usually lie next to each other or how they cradled each other that night in the abandoned house. Her hand is clasped against his chest, holding him close; her legs are tangled with his, her breasts press against his back, and her breath tickles his neck. She’s completely wrapped around him.

Tears prick his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he briefly, seriously considers the possibility of spontaneously combusting from happiness.

Part 3

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/425224.html