title: The Proper Response

rating: pg-13-ish?

summary: Spike was, once upon a time, a proper gentleman. And proper gentlemen were keenly educated and aware of the proper response to conversations, situations, and accusations. The proper response had always taken a backseat to whatever his girls had needed.

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As much as he hated thinking on his life pre-Drusilla, Spike was, once upon a time, a proper gentleman. And proper gentlemen were keenly educated and aware of the proper response to conversations, situations, and accusations.

So he knew, when she whispered down to him, "Spike... I'm cold.", the proper response would have been to get her an extra blanket. He knew getting out of the little nest of blankets on the floor, mumbling a "Yes, Kitten...", was the *wrong* response. Even more wrong was sliding into her twin bed behind her, waiting for her to turn in his arms, waiting for her hide her face against his throat, waiting for her to tangle her legs in his.

He waited, waited to lose the fight with himself, to wrap his arms around her, one hand slipping beneath her sleeping tank, fingers skimming over her too thin sides, tracing ancient lines of poetry across her back.

Waited for her warm breath to dampen the hollow of his throat, for the fingers of one of her tiny hands to nestle between the elastic and fabric of the waistband of the sweatpants he wore. Waited for her breathing to even out again, rest more fully against him.

Waited for the same thoughts to plague his mind. How much longer she was than her sister, softer. Why she chose 'I'm cold' to be code for 'I'm all alone'. Why not having a soul didn't prepare him to look into those blue eyes and say no. Why watching her eat her supper didn't mean a thing because she was still too thin.

He waited for the looks he knew he'd get the following morning. Because he wasn't a proper father-figure, and he was never anyone's big brother. He didn't know how to make her do her homework, or keep her from skipping school, or sassing the Wicca's.

Tonight, like every night, he said he'd let go. Slide away from her while she was asleep, go to the couch, or the floor where he properly belonged. But she made a contented sound against his throat, he could feel the start of a smile drifting across her sleeping lips.

So he broke a promise to himself, and pulled her a little closer, mumbling softly into her hair, his hand on her back etching the words there, invisible but permanent on the porcelain canvas of her skin.

He waited for the Victorian voice within him to scream about touching this innocent. That it wasn't proper. He waited for all of it. He never had to wait long for much.

But he wasn't a gentleman anymore. And the proper response had always taken a backseat to whatever his girls had needed. Spike tangled a kiss in her mango-berry scented hair. "That's you, hunni," he whispered softly, "you're my girl now."