Three weeks pass.

Three weeks that might as well be years for the amount of nothing we're able to find research wise. Apart from the doom and gloom from the Slayer-before-me's Watcher (I've since found out that her name was Henrietta, and if the drawings in the journal are sketches of her, she was quite the looker), we draw a big, flashing neon sign of blank. Three weeks worth of tireless evenings spent in all out research mode, and even with all five of us digging, nada. Zip.

We find out nothing else about the connection from the sources the Council left behind.

And the less we find, the more bent out of shape Giles becomes. Go figure.

Two weeks of Spike and I avoiding patrols together. We work out a system, switching off every other night so one of us can join the research party while the other sweeps the cemeteries.

Despite Giles thinking it the safest option for both of us for the time being, it hasn't always worked out. There was one night the second week when Spike had taken patrol while I'd been researching, and he'd gotten into a tight spot with a gang of demons cutting through the graveyard on their way over to Willy's. And Spike, while definitely more than capable of holding his own in a fight, just isn't the most popular of demons lately. But he hadn't exactly been popular even before all the stuff with me had happened, as he'd explained to me countless times, trying to assure me that what had happened this particular night hadn't been all my fault.

He'd never come out and told me exactly how many of them there had been, but judging from the amount of pain my own arm had been in, I'd guessed he'd had his shoulder dislocated.

I'd felt it when he'd popped it back in place, too.

There hadn't been any further complications from the chip, though, and that had been good. Well, good and bad. Mostly bad because I'd made it my own personal mission to get Giles to cave on removing it and had hoped that another close call might be all we needed to finish convincing him.

Granted, I hadn't gotten as far as to consider what would happen when Giles did finally cave to my shameless pleading…but I figured I'd cross that most likely Initiative shaped bridge when I came to it.

But good, ya know, in terms of the no splitting headaches for either of us thing.

Which was good, since I'd been using all my left over mental capacity to try and salvage my classes for the semester. English had been manageable, and so had intro to economics and the art course I'd opted for initially because I'd figured it would be an easy A. History, though, was a nasty of a different color. I'd argued pretty emphatically that it was too far gone, that I should just take the incomplete and call it a day, considering the professor sort of already hated me. And yeah, giving up, not exactly Slayer style. So when I'd explained to my family which classes I'd been planning to make work and which ones I'd planned to get with the forgoing, I'll admit I had expected somewhat of a fight.

I just hadn't expected it to come from Spike.

"Why do you even care?" I ask, dropping down onto my mattress, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

Spike smirks at me from the doorway. Leans against the wood, propping one booted foot in front of the other and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes are warm, the little lines around them crinkling with barely disguised mirth.

He thinks I'm being childish. I know he does.

"Because," he drawls, " I care about you." I watch as unhooks one ankle from the other, stepping into my bedroom and approaching me purposefully. "And you're not a bloody quitter."

I make a face at him, folding my arms over my own chest, trying to disguise the flood of warmth his words have sent rocketing down my spine.

It's something we've been practicing. How to control the emotions, the feelings, the pain. Keep them all from overwhelming each other when they happen. It's an exercise Giles has been having us work on, and so far, I've been just this end of unsuccessful.

"Yeah, well," I grumble, watching him as he comes to stand right in front of me. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "There's a first time for everything."

Spike's lips curve in a wan smile, eyes going to the ceiling and shaking his head. "Suit yourself," he murmurs, turning his gaze back down to mine.

And I see it happen. See the dark of his irises swallow the azure, flashing hungrily as the idea strikes him. The heat flooding my veins unmistakeable now.

He moves closer to me, stepping into my space until his thighs gently graze my knees. "But I woulda been happy to help you…" His gaze rakes down from my face, over my chest, slowly down my torso where it lingers just long enough to make my cheeks flush before snapping back to my eyes. "…study."

I'd ended up passing my history final. A D+, but still passing, and in my mind with colors that could be considered flying. Especially with what Spike had considered to be helpful studying…which had included what my vampire had sensuously referred to as positive conditioning.

I'd accused him openly at one point of only convincing me to finish out the course for that very reason. Spike hadn't even bothered to deny it.

It had amazed me, how easy a rhythm we'd managed to fall into over the last three weeks. Spike had spent an astounding amount of time over at my house, often times remaining there throughout the day. I'd never been 100% clear on what it was he'd been doing while all three of the Summers women were gone…Mom had finally felt well enough to go back to work, and Dawn and I had still had class until about a week ago. He'd never told me, either.

But when Mom began noticing the books on the shelf in the living room had been moved around, I figured it out on my own. Jane Austen, she'd told me one night. Those were the books he'd pulled off the shelves. That, and somebody with a Spanish sounding name. Pablo...something. Mom had told me it was poetry.

That, at least, had made sense.

And we weren't the only ones who'd noticed, and wondered, at exactly how much time Spike had been spending at the house. Granted, yes, he still had his crypt. And granted, yes, he was still staying there most of the time. Most of the time being three, sometimes four, nights out of the week…it had grown into a source of some contention between Giles and I, and also, but to a much lesser extent, between Xander and I.

Once he'd started coming back around again, that is.

I for one, had wondered but had made no move to question it. The last thing I'd wanted was for Spike to think we were wigged by him spending so much time with us, especially when I personally found it insanely comforting. Which, stop and think about that for a second. That not only had I grown used to having the vampire around, but I'd come to expect it, and even rely on it. On his presence. And for more than just the normal reasons. It had been easier, being together, on the connection. It's another thing we'd found out in the course of our...experiments. That the anxiety factors sky rockets for me when I'm not with him. My skin tingles, the knots in my stomach harden and it's difficult for me to focus on much of anything because all I can think about, the only thing I can focus on, is waiting for the sting of pain. Waiting for something to let me know that he's been wounded.

And my anxiety gives him anxiety, which does nothing to help him when he is out, say, patrolling.

So, yeah, Spike and I have been largely of the inseparable for the better part of the last three weeks. Not including patrols, not including the times I'd had to force myself to go to class, we've been together.

So it had been an easy decision, in the end, to invite Spike over for Christmas. There'd been some initial resistance but he'd caved after much prodding and poking from Dawn, specifically. And her poking and prodding had been at my request.

I'd understood his hesitance. I just hadn't cared.

"What's this then?" Spike asks now, sitting beside Dawn on the sofa as Mom places a medium sized, artfully wrapped box on his lap. "Thought I said no gifts, Joyce."

He had, of course. Multiple times. Any time any of us had tried to sneakily ask him what it was he'd wanted for Christmas, he'd been very adamant. Nothing. No gifts.

"Demons don't exactly get in the Christmas spirit, yeah?" He'd said, making things increasingly difficult.

Not that it had stopped us.

"You did," Dawn agrees cheerfully, offering him a bright smile as she hops up off the sofa and dives beneath the tree, grabbing her own much less neatly wrapped parcel and tossing it toward him.

Spike catches it with one hand, never taking his eyes off my little sister, scarred eyebrow raised high. For being so loud and proud about hating all thing's Christmas, he's certainly presenting a different image now. Granted, no, he hadn't caved to the majorly festive sweater that Dawn had initially requested that he wear, opting instead for that silky red button down shirt over one of his more faded t-shirts. And he'd studiously avoided the house the night we'd decided to decorate the tree.

But he's still here. Still celebrating with us, for all intents and purposes, even though he'd initially balked at the idea.

He hadn't been exactly happy when I'd told him we'd gone ahead and invited Xander and Anya, as well.

But he's here. Sitting in front of the tree, chatting with Dawn, breaking off every once and a while to watch the flickering black and white images of Miracle on 35th Street dancing on the TV screen. He'd claimed to never have seen it, but I don't think he'd counted on me watching him as closely as I have been tonight. Wandering in and out of the living room and back into the kitchen, helping Mom with dinner, setting the table in the dining room. And watching Spike. Always watching Spike.

My eyes can't help but be drawn to him. It's something else I've spent the last three weeks noticing. No matter where we are, no matter who we're with, no matter how much distance I manage to put between our bodies…my eyes find him instantly.

So I notice it tonight when I catch him quoting certain lines under his breath. I can hear him, even in the other room. I don't know if it's just because I'm so highly attuned to him now, or if it's the connection, or what.

I'm watching him carefully, now. Leaning against the door frame leading into the living room, seeing him interacting with my sister and my mom. Sure, he'd put up a fight about being here, but he looks awfully comfortable. The picture of domesticity. Or, as much as he can be, what with the mug of blood in his hand.

Sometimes it surprises me how effortlessly Spike seems to have fit himself into my life. Other times, it doesn't surprise me at all.

"Go ahead and open them, Spike," Mom admonishes, resting her hip on the edge of the sofa's arm rest nearest me.

My vampire turns his eyes to her, and his expression melts into one of gentlemanly kindness. It's an expression exclusively reserved for my mother, and it never fails to bring a rush of heat my own cheeks. It's like getting a little glimpse into who he'd been, what he'd been like, before.

"Honestly," he says, his voice softer, too, "you didn't need to do this."

Mom smiles at him and nods her head. "Just open it."

"Open mine first," Dawn pipes up, tapping the wrapped gift that he's still clutching in his right hand.

Spike sighs, trying his best to look put out, giving a grandiose eye roll and everything. But I can feel it, how much he's enjoying the attention. The affection. Something that, the more I get to know him…really know him, I've come to believe might be the one thing the bleached vampire craves more than blood.

"Right then," he grouses, reaching his left hand, the mug of blood, out to Dawn. "Do us a favor and hold this?"

She takes it from him, but not before making a face and muttering a customary "ew" under her breath. Spike chuckles. I feel the corner of my lips quirk up into a smile.

It's a mug. Dawn had gone to great lengths, or so she'd claimed to me, to pick out just the perfect one. A particularly tall one, with a masculine looking black and red pattern criss crossing on it.

"It's a mug for blood," Dawn explains, as though it hadn't been fairly obvious to everyone in the room. "A blood mug."

I find myself giggling softly at the look passing over his face now. Mom glances at me, smiling when she catches my eye. She winks.

"Hmm," Spike murmurs, turning the porcelain mug over and over again in his hands, examining the pattern. "Why do I get the feelin' this is a present for you birds as much as it is for me?"

Dawn makes a face at him, a little like she's thinking the word duh, tucking her legs up underneath her in a criss cross position. "You try being on dish washing duty with a sink full of blood stained mugs."

I step forward then, moving into the room and dropping down onto my knees beside the base of the Christmas tree.

"Here," I say, reaching down and pulling out the package I'd wrapped earlier that afternoon and holding it out to Spike. "Do mine."

He turns swirling indigo eyes toward me, reaching forward to gently set Dawn's mug down on the coffee table, shifting Mom's unwrapped present slightly so it's resting on the cushion to his right. His eyes search my face and I can feel the curiosity coming from him as he leans forward and takes the package from me, his hand gently brushing against mine as he does.

It sends sparks shooting up my arm.

I don't think I'll ever get used to that, either.

"Now I know I told you no gifts," he chides me, his voice drawling, sarcastic, but his gaze is impossibly warm.

I shrug. "This ones more for me, too," I say simply, our gazes locked even as he begins to tear into the wrapping paper. I watch him, biting down into my lip as he removes the last of the paper and pops the box open, finally turning his eyes from mine.

And I'm nervous. More nervous than I'd thought I'd be that he won't like it. Or he'll think it's dumb. Or offensive. I find myself half way holding my breath as he pushes aside the tissue paper and stares down into the contents of the box.

And then he laughs. Not a long, loud laugh, but a soft one. Appreciative. Like he's on the the inner circle of an inside joke and is enjoying being in the know.

He looks back up at me, eyes bright, twinkling, and tilts his head to the side.

"This the color, then?" He asks, reaching into the box and pulling out the soft, cotton v-neck t-shirt on the top. The one that's a lighter, not quite Robin's egg blue.

I offer him a small smile and shake my head. Something a little like confusion flickers over his face, hits me softly in the middle of my chest. I move toward him, a little awkwardly on my knees, until I'm propped up directly below where he's seated on the sofa and reach for the box.

There are four different t-shirts inside, each a different shade of blue. Pulling the box into my lap, I dig through the shirts until I reach the bottom one. A deeper, darker shade of blue than the shirt on top, but not quite as deep as the navy and not as hazy as the grey blue of the other two. The girl that had helped me at the store had described it as "cerulean".

I pull the cerulean colored shirt out and hand it up to him, watching as his eyes flit from mine to the fabric in my hands and back to my face as he takes it from me.

"That's the color," I tell him softly, remembering the conversation we'd had in his crypt all those weeks ago. "That's the color right now."

Spike searches my face for a moment before looking back down, passing one black nailed hand over the fabric, twisting it gently in his fingers. He stares at it for a a few endless seconds.

And then he looks up, reaches out, cupping my chin in his hand and drawing me closer to him to plant a firm, lingering kiss to my lips. It isn't a deep kiss. Isn't even open mouthed. But we stay like that for a long moment, only breaking away once we hear Dawn's semi-stifled giggle.

Spike grins at me, enjoying how easy it is for him to bring color to my cheeks most likely, and whispers a meaningful "thank you".

"You have to wear them," I tell him, clearing my throat a little awkwardly and pulling my chin out of his hand, settling down onto my ankles. "I know they aren't black, but—"

"I'll go put one on right now," he says silkily, cutting me off, moving as though to stand up.

Mom stops him with a gentle clearing of her own throat. He turns to look at her, and she raises both her eyebrows. "You have one more present to open, Spike."

I'm actually just as curious as he is about what it is Mom's gotten for him. She hadn't told me, and as far as I know hadn't told Dawn, either. She hadn't really even asked Spike what he'd wanted. But the package with her wrapping, with his name on it, had turned up beneath the tree the night before just the same.

"Of course," Spike says instantly, a little sheepish, his voice contrite as he places the t-shirt back in it's box and sets it down on the sofa beside him, picking up the other package and setting it in his lap. He stares at it for a second before beginning to open it.

He's nervous. I can feel that he is, but I'm not sure why.

It's a book. Well, no, it's three books. Reddish brown covers, with gold trim, and some sort of intricate design all along the spine baring a title I can't make out in the dim light. Spike can. His eyes light up, turning from the cerulean blue that matches the t-shirt resting on top of my box to something a little lighter. He turns to look at Mom, a soft smile, genuine smile, playing on his lips.

"Pride and Prejudice," He says softly, lips curving in a small, knowing smile.

Mom smiles back, nodding her head. "You said you lost your copy?"

"I…" Spike trails off, turning his eyes down to the books again, trailing a hand over the front cover. "I mean, yeah, I did…ages ago. Before…"

Before.

Mom's still smiling warmly, watching my vampire stare at the books, watching as he flips open the front cover and moves to the copyright page. He shakes his head, eyes widening slightly. "1903."

"I tried to find one from your…era, but I—"

"No," Spike says quickly, and even though he's cut her off his voice is gentle. He turns his eyes back to look at my mom, that same expression on his face, accent softening, his mannerisms suddenly every inch a man born and bred over one hundred years ago. "This is magnificent, Joyce. Truly. I…" He looks down at it again, shaking his head as though he can't believe what he's seeing. "Thank you."

Pride and Prejudice. I've heard of it, obviously. I'm fairly sure I was supposed to read it for a class in high school.

I can't seem to remember if I actually read it or not, though. I don't think I even really know what it's about.

It's a love story, though. I know that much.

"You've read it before?" I ask Spike quietly, eyes glued to his face as he flips through the pages of the book on top. I can see it now, from where I'm sitting, that it says Volume I on the spine.

Spike nods, scanning the pages quickly, not looking up at me. "Caught hell for it, too," he adds absently, dragging his eyes away from the words before him long enough to smile at me before glancing at Mom again. "Not exactly a manly read, is it?"

I turn to look at Mom too, and she's grinning back at us, her eyes darting between her daughter and the vampire that loves her. "It's very…fitting," she says cheekily, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I don't know what she means, but Spike seems to, because he chuckles appreciatively.

I frown, glancing at Dawn who looks just as lost as I do. I don't like it.

"Fitting?" I ask, looking back to Mom. "Why fitting? What's fitting about it?"

Spike reaches toward me, tucking a curled lock of hair behind my ear and drawing my attention back to him. "I'll explain it to you later, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Everything in me melts at the word, the way it sounds rolling off his lips. It's the first time he's ever called me anything except for the standard pet, or luv. Well, besides kitten, but I'd nipped that in the bud real fast.

This, though. This I like.

I've yet to test out any pet names on him. Well, apart from Willow's spell last year, when I'd decided to go with honey. And even then, even with the spell, it had sounded weird. Too…fluffy for someone like Spike. But maybe that was just because I didn't really know the vampire then. Hadn't cared to.

"Later is good," I say, leaning imperceptibly into his touch, enjoying the gentle play his thumb makes over my jaw line.

"Later is great," Mom says, standing up and moving over to the side table where the lamp sits and pulling out the tiny drawer, there fishing something out of it before closing it again. "Because I have one more gift here."

And she tosses whatever it is in her hand toward us, Spike's reflexes acting quickly, reaching up and deftly snatching it out of the air. I watch as he turns his palm over to reveal a silver key. I recognize it easily.

The key to the front door.

She's given him a key to the house.

"Mom?" I ask, turning to look at her, brow furrowed. Not understanding. Not wanting to get my hopes up.

"Oh," she says, smile slipping a little. "Was that too subtle?" She half throws her hands up, looking disappointed. "I was worried it might be too subtle."

"Afraid it might be," Spike says, his own eyes fixed on the tiny piece of metal in his hand.

"Well, you know you're always welcome here, Spike. I just wanted you to be able to…come and go whenever you want. Even if the girls and I aren't here. School will be starting again next week, and with me working a few hours at the Gallery—"

My vampire is up and off the sofa in a flash, the books he'd held in his lap a moment ago pushed aside, relegated to the pile beside the box that contains his new t-shirts. And he's standing in front of Mom, pulling her into a hug before she has a chance to get another word out.

She laughs, looking at me from over his shoulder and making a face that's half bemused and half delighted, patting his back gently.

"I hope that means you like it," she says lightly, smiling warmly at Spike as he releases her, stepping back slightly.

"Best bloody Christmas 've ever had," he concedes, turning back around to look first at Dawn, and then at me.

"Great," Mom says, clapping her hands together happily. "Well, everyone should be here any minute, so Dawn?" My sister turns to look at her. "Help me finish setting the table?"

Dawn sighs, grumbling a little as she un criss crosses her legs and stands up, shuffling passed Spike, who hooks an arm around her and tugs her into a firm side hug as she moves around him.

"Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?" he asks her pointedly, using his grip on her shoulders to turn her around until she's facing the coffee table. And his new mug. "Need somethin' to drink supper out of, yeah?"

Dawn maneuvers out of his grasp, leaning forward and snatching the red and black mug off the table before turning back to him.

"Do you like it?" she asks, her voice hopeful.

Spike grins at her, nodding. "Love it."

Dawn, satisfied by the response, grins back at him and hurries into the foyer and through the doorway into the dining room.

"So, I begin, putting my hands on the sofa cushions to push myself up onto my feet. "Still not in the Christmas spirit?"

Spike nods thoughtfully, approaching me with slow, measured steps. "Did you know she was goin' to do that?" He asks me.

"Buy you a book?" I ask, intentionally misunderstanding and shrugging casually. "Why, was it not on your list?"

Spike chuckles, a deep vibration from low in his throat and he smirks. His gaze is heated as it rakes over me. "'S mostly symbolic, I'm guessin'," he muses, still slowly stepping toward me, holding the key out in front of him. "Don't imagine I'll be doin' too much comin' and goin' durin' the hours you ladies are out."

I nod. "Still," I muse back, taking a small step forward of my own to meet him halfway. "Mom never gave Angel a key." I shrug, tilting my head to the side. "Even with that shiny soul of his."

It's become a running joke for us. Sure, Spike and I had gone along readily with Willow and Tara's idea that the connection between Spike and I might mean we were sharing a soul. Once I'd explained my reasoning to Spike, it hadn't been hard to convince him to play along. Anything to convince Giles the chip could come out. Anything to make the tension between us all die down just a little.

It had worked, too. Like a charm.

I still haven't decided if it's good or bad, how easily, how quickly it had made everyone's attitudes change.

Even without proof, even knowing nothing else. But I guess I remember when I used to think it made all the difference, too, so I can't be too surprised…can't hold it against them too much.

Spike chuckles, dropping the key into his jean pocket and reaching for me, winding two strong hands around my waist.

"Means a lot, you know," Spike says, tilting his own head to mimic my position, eyes burning heatedly into mine. "Havin' me here tonight."

I look up into his face, frowning slightly. "Christmas is a family holiday, Spike," I step a little closer to him, feeling his hands tighten possessively around my waist. "Where else would you be?"

Spike inhales deeply, turning his eyes over my shoulder, toward the Christmas tree. He shakes his head. "'S real, right?" He asks quietly, still not looking at me. He narrows his eyes and I watch the dancing lights from the tree mirrored in his irises. "This. You, me." He turns his head toward the dining room. "Them. 'S all real?"

I reach up and place my hands flat on his chest and sigh, can't help form feeling the tiniest bit frustrated that he's always so quick to need reassurance. Another thing I've come to learn about him. He isn't half as cocky or self assured as he seems.

I'd found myself thinking a lot over the past weeks that he'd feel differently if he could see his reflection.

But it's Christmas, and all I got him was a set of lame t-shirts. So I nod and whisper, "The realest."

"Do you want your gift now?" He asks me, pulling me a little tighter against him. "Or later?"

I frown at him. "Was that an innuendo?"

Spike chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Despite what you might think, pet, I don't actually have a one track mind."

Good.

That makes one of us, at least.

"Oh," I say, trying hard not to sound disappointed. "I thought you were going to change," I say, reaching my hands up and twisting them in the silky fabric of his button down.

"Gift for you, first," he says, letting go of me and stepping to the side, leaning down and picking up a beautifully gift wrapped package that I know instantly by looking at it he didn't do himself. "Then I'll change."

I take it from him, eyeing him through my lashes. "I thought I said no gifts," I say, mimicking him from earlier, and pretty badly at that.

If it offends him in any way, he doesn't show it.

"You did," he concedes with a nod of his head. "I just didn't bloody care."

I sit down on the sofa, in the spot he'd been occupying earlier and he takes up residence on the floor, on his knees at my feet.

It's a ring.

Or, more specifically, it's…three rings. Three thick, gorgeous gold bands, one each for my pointer, middle and ring finger, soldered together on the sides so as to form one long line. And on the top, a golden cross. The same thick gold as the bands, with gleaming red gem stones outlining it.

"Do you like it?" Spike asks, and I can feel his eyes on my face even though I'm not looking at him.

I smile softly, nodding my head. I reach into the box and pick it up, examining it more closely.

It's heavy.

I want to ask him how he paid for it, but I don't.

"Had a little help from the lover wiccas," Spike admits, almost as though he's reading my mind. "Knowing how to go about gettin' this made."

My eyes snap up to his.

"You had this made for me?" I ask, my voice soft.

Spike looks at me sweetly, but like it should be obvious. "You think what you've got there is in high demand?"

I consider this, looking down again, picking the ring up and sliding it over my onto my left hand.

It's beautiful. And deadly. I can tell by the weight of it, now that it's resting against my skin, that it's meant to be more than just a pretty piece of jewelry.

"It's a weapon," I muse, flexing my hand, enjoying the way the golden bands tighten and fit against my knuckles.

"Just a little extra protection," Spike agrees, his voice low, "for when I'm not there."

I turn my eyes to his, raising both brows skeptically. "You think I need protecting?"

He makes a face at me, tilting his head down and narrowing his eyes, dropping his voice to deep purr. "I think I'm not takin' any chances."

Everything about the way he says it warms me from the inside out.

"I love it." I lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, William."

He freezes suddenly, pulling slightly away from me, his eyes ducked.

"'M gonna go change," he says, shifting around me, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing for the blue cotton v-neck on the sofa beside me.

I frown, watching him, seeing as his back disappears around the corner and up the wooden staircase.

"Okay," I say, sure he can still hear me.

A moment later, the doorbell rings, heralding the first arrival of the night. Giles, I assume, who's normally the first to arrive at things like this.

And as I move to open the door, I halfway wonder if that's the reason Spike had run off so quickly, or if it had simply been my use of his given name.

Dinner is awkward, but not as awkward as I expect it to be. I imagine a lot of that has to do with Mom.

But it's nice. It's nice to have everyone here, and to go one night, just one, without mentioning the demon connection, or what it means, or any other theories that are floating around about it.

There's only some brief tension between Spike and Xander when the vampire first entered the dining room, after changing into the blue t-shirt, and the tension isn't even over me.

"Whoa," Anya had said immediately, her voice low, appreciative, eyes raking over the peroxided blonde.

She hadn't been wrong. With his platinum curls slightly tousled from dragging the t-shirt of his head, the fitted cotton stretching over his chest, the v-neck dipping just enough to show a little of his smooth, pale skin. Sleeves just long enough to show off the hardest cut of his biceps. And the color. Maybe it wouldn't have been so striking if I hadn't been used to seeing him wear such dark colors, so much black. Or maybe it wouldn't have been quite so jarring if it hadn't matched the shade of his irises so perfectly.

I'm not sure.

As it was when he'd set foot in the room, he'd actually stolen the air from my lungs. And he'd noticed when it happened, too. Felt the flood of white heat between us, and sent me a knowing smirk from across the table.

So, yeah. Safe to say those shirts had definitely been more of a gift to me than to him.

Xander had sent a scathing look in the vampire's direction, grabbed Anya's hand, and directed her to their chairs at the table.

But that had been the worst of it, really. Maybe everyone had decided ahead of time to be on their best behavior due to the holiday.

"Are you still hungry?" I ask Spike now, leaning over to whisper in his ear, not wanting to interrupt the happy conversation going on around us.

He shakes his head. "'M fine, pet," he assures me, lifting his new mug up demonstratively. "Can fit two whole bags in here." He tosses Dawn a quick wink after noticing her eyes on us. "Bloody brilliant."

She beams back at him, looking very proud, and I feel a little surge of softness in my chest. How effortlessly the vampire beside me has taken to my sister, and she to him.

It makes me wonder, not for the first time in the last few weeks, about his family. Not Drusilla and Angel, not his vampiric family, but his real one. Before he was turned. The Pratts. Did he have a kid sister like I do? An older brother, maybe? And his parents. His mother. Who were they?

I still get glimpses here and there, little insights, brief looks into who William had been. The more comfortable Spike gets around me the more he lets that part of him show. He'd shown me on more than one occasion how well educated he'd been. Shown me, too, on even more occasions than that how deep seated his desire for romanticism is. How strongly he feels things. Everything.

But he hasn't told me anything. Not really. Sure, he lets it slip sometimes when he forgets to keep a tight hold on his Big Bad image and drops his guard, flashes of the sensitive gentleman he must have been shining through the carefully cultivated punk-rock-I'm-a-vampire-fear-me exterior.

So, no, he hadn't told me. And I hadn't asked. Not after I made the mistake the first time, a couple weeks ago. Had pushed him when he'd told me he hadn't wanted to talk about it, had argued back and forth briefly over it because I hadn't understood, and he'd left the house in a flurry if black leather and pulsing anger. True, Spike had come back to the house a short few hours later and had offered me a halting apology, but I'd gotten the message pretty loud and clear. The Pratt Family— squarely in the not ready to talk about it category.

Still, now especially, I'm thinking there's something to it. A soft spot, very clear affection and an easiness with my sister and mother that I just feel has to come from past experience.

"Glad you like it," Dawn's saying now, referencing the now drained mug on the table in front of Spike. Then she pauses, making a serious face. "Just don't get any ideas about me washing it for you."

Spike puts his hand out, palm up, fingers together and shakes his head once. "Wouldn't dream of it, Niblet."

I watch from my seat as the two of them engage in light, frivolous banter about whether or not vampire's dream, and why they sleep, and whether or not they actually need sleep or if they just do it, you know, out of habit.

I never would have guessed that the two of them would get along so well, but they do. Then again, I never would have guessed a lot of things.

That Mom would take to Spike so quickly. That she would be so completely fine with everything we'd had to tell her. That Willow and Tara would find a way to be so okay with it that they'd helped him with my Christmas present. That Xander might come around enough to at least be civil.

And the biggest thing, perhaps, is me. That I could love Spike. That I could fall in love with him and never even realize it.

Maybe I never would have known, if it hadn't been for the dreams. For the connection. For Dracula.

It makes my chest ache to think about. Only a few months, and we've really only been together for…what? Three real weeks? A month at most?

It feels like a lifetime.

I'm jarred out of my thoughts by the gentle pressure of his hand on my leg, kneading softly. I whip my head toward him and smile. He smiles back.

"I think we're just about ready for pie," Mom says, standing up and lifting her empty plate into her hands. She looks toward me. "Buffy, would you help me clear the plates?"

I smile at her and nod. "Sure." I reach down and remove the napkin from my lap, letting my hand trail over Spike's as I do, squeezing it once before removing it and placing it back in his own lap. I give him a stern look, and he smirks back at me.

Neither of us miss the soft groan from across the table.

"Then I'll be pretty much ready for barf," Xander says, and my eyes turn to his. I can't tell if he's talking about the food or about the display he's just seen from Spike and I.

The flush of irritation I feel tells me Spike thinks it's the latter.

"Xander," I scold instantly, my eyes narrowed at him meaningfully. I press a soothing hand against my vampire's forearm, waiting for the tumultuous emotion to fade slightly before removing my hand and getting to my feet.

"No, no," Xander corrects himself hurriedly to me, and then his eyes go wide as he realizes both implications of what he's just said and turns to my mom. "Barf from the eating. 'Cause all was good." He clears his throat awkwardly, and Spike is enjoying his discomfort far too much. "And too much goodness…"

Mom makes a face at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm taking it as a compliment."

I pick up my plate and reach for the empty plates beside me as well, turning finally to pick Spike's mug up and carry it into the kitchen. He stops me with a gentle hand over mine, a quick shake of his head, and gets to his feet as well. I can feel all eyes on us as he takes the stack of empty plates from me, balancing them on the palm of his left hand and picking up his blood stained mug in the right.

"Thanks," I say softly, my lips curving up at the corners.

Spike shrugs casually, managing to keep a tight balance on the plates. "'S the least I can do."

Xander's mouth literally drops open. I see it happen out of the corner of my eye. Spike just shoots me a mischievous wink, his eyes twinkling with undisguised triumph, and heads for the kitchen.

"Yes," Giles says, clearing his throat and turning his eyes toward Mom, away from us. "Uh, everything was delicious." He offers her a warm smile and stands up, reaching forward and taking the stacked plates from Mom the same way Spike had taken them from me. She smiles back and nods as he moves past her into the kitchen.

I watch him as he goes, nibbling on my lip, feeling a little antsy at the thought of the two of them in the kitchen alone. Together. With lots of pointy knives and wooden utensils.

"Yes," Anya adds cheerily, beaming at Xander, "I'm going to barf too."

My eyes go wide as they meet Mom's again, but she just forces tight smile, her eyebrows raised as she reaches for the last plate near her. "Everyone's so sweet."

"Yeah," I mumble, turning and giving Xander another wide eyed, brow raised look. "Real sweet."

He gives me an answering look and throws his hands up in the air. "Whattya want from me?"

"I want you to be nice," I tell him, lowering my voice a little and leaning across the table to pretend to pick something up from the far side.

"I am nice," he insists stubbornly, lowering his voice in turn. "I'm very nice. See me sitting here, minding my own business and not staking your boyfriend?"

I think he's kidding, but I'm not 100% sure.

"Not that he hasn't thought about it," Anya chimes in, that little needed dose of honesty making the muscle in Xander's jaw tighten as he turns to give her a look.

"I haven't," he explains, turning to look back at me. "Not…seriously, anyway."

I roll my eyes, but decide to let it be for now, letting everyone chat amongst themselves and turning to follow the path I'd seen Mom take a minute ago into the kitchen.

I walk in on chaos.

Spike at the sink, Giles standing beside him, both their voices low and tense. I'd felt some anger a moment ago but I hadn't been able to tell for sure if it was mine or the vampires. Now, though, I think I have a good idea.

"You know as bloody well as I do that it's the most logical explanation," Spike hisses, his voice quiet, strained with the effort of holding in his temper.

"We both also know that you're opinion isn't exactly unbiased in the matter," Giles argues back, voice just as low.

But I'm only able to make out the tale end of the conversation before Mom shouts "Damn it!"

I turn toward her just in time to see her slam the oven door closed, drop a very crispy looking pie down onto the island counter top. She looks up at me, cheeks flush. "I hate this oven. It burnt."

"Oh, no," I say quickly, forgetting completely about the brief exchange I'd just witnessed between the two most important men in my life and turning my full attention to Mom. "It's just blackened." I step up to the counter, eyeing the burnt top, the black crust. "You know, it's, it's Cajun pie."

Giles steps away from the sink, turning to pick up a fresh bottle of wine off the counter beside it and turning toward Mom.

"Shall I open another?" he asks her, already with the corkscrew in his free hand. We've already been through two bottles tonight.

"Oh," Mom says thoughtfully, a slightly wicked gleam in her as she looks at my Watcher. "Do you think we dare?"

A moment passes between them, and I can't help myself. Keeping my eyes down on the burnt pie, reaching absently for the pie server beside it, I shrug casually. "As long as you two stay away from the band candy, I'm cool with anything."

I don't have to look at Giles to see the stricken look on his face, to know exactly what he's thinking. I hear him do that very British, uncomfortable throat clearing thing, murmuring something unintelligible before he turns on his heel and heads back into the living room.

Behind me, Spike chuckles, and I turn to glance at him over my shoulder in time to see him wiping his hands on one of Mom's dish towels. Scarred brow raised, azure eyes a perfect match the the soft blue of the t-shirt.

Domestic looks good on him. Absurdly good.

"Wanna fill me in on that little story?" he asks, directing the question to both me and Mom as he tosses the towel lazily onto the counter.

"No," Mom says quickly, instantly, fixing my vampire with a very motherly look that threatens to wipe the knowing smirk right off his face. "She doesn't." Then to me, voice a low, amused whisper. "You are a demon child."

I grin at Spike as he moves around us, hands raised as if in surrender, watching him until he's gone. Then I turn forward again and lean my shoulder into Mom's. "I live to torment you, is that so wrong?"

She sighs like agreeing with me is a chore and nods her head, smiling down at me softly. "A daughter's duty, I suppose."

"Look," I say, angling the pie server, "all we have to do is just cut off a little bit of the burnt…" I cut into the pie as I say it, and the entire thing falls off the edge of the counter. Mom screams, I give a half involuntary shout as I try and catch it, and we both dissolve into giggles as it lands face down on the floor.

"I'm sorry," I tell Spike a couple hours later, moving at a leisurely pace through the Sunnydale Cemetery, a cold, dry wind kicking up dead leaves and swirling them around our feet as we go.

It had been a last minute decision, to patrol tonight at all. But Spike had explained that Christmas is sort of...the opposite of Halloween. Instead of all the big nasties hiding out and taking the night off, they decide to come out in full force. Be all with the havoc wreaking while us humans are happily eating our pumpkin pie and opening presents.

So once dinner had ended, and the gang had filtered out, we'd geared up and headed out pretty soon after. It had been the first time in weeks we'd taken patrol together, so we'd taken it easy. Stuck close together. No toying with vamps when we find them, either. Just some quick stakeage and on to the next.

With the added bonus of me getting to test out my new present, which, it turns out, is as lethal as it is gorgeous. I'd decided to wear it on my right hand tonight to give my right cross a little extra oomph, and boy,howdy, it had worked like a charm. Like a really heavy, gold, jewel encrusted charm.

"What for?" Spike asks, glancing at me as he comes to a stop beside a couple day old grave, sensing the same thing I have. The shifting of earth, the subtle scratching sounds coming from below the ground. I fall in beside him, reaching back into my waistband for my stake and turning my eyes down to the freshly packed dirt.

I sigh, shoulders sagging as I mumble "For getting you such a lame present."

There's a rush of frustration from the vampire beside me, and just the slightest hint of confusion. I'd know what he was thinking even if I couldn't feel it, though, for the way he says my name now. "Buffy." Low and smooth, a touch of a warning. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking and doesn't even want me entertaining the idea.

I keep my eyes on the ground and shake my head, ignoring him. "It is. It's lame. Dawn got you something way useful, and Mom got you something really, really thoughtful. And you with the specially made…" I trail off, eyeing the cross ring as I wrap my hand tighter around the stake. I sigh. "And here I am with the 'here honey, have some t-shirts'." I turn my eyes up to the open, empty sky. "God, I suck."

Spike opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't get a chance. A moment later, the fledgling vampire claws first one hand and then the other out of the dirt, bracing them on the grass on either side of her grave and struggling to dig her head out, too.

Spike and I don't even look at each other, just reach forward simultaneously, each of us taking hold of one of her wrists and yanking her roughly out the rest of the way. I let go of her hand and toss the stake over to Spike, who catches it in mid air effortlessly.

She falls into an instinctive hunting position, no doubt having smelled my blood, and snarls at me. I fall back into my own fighting stance, pausing just a moment to gather the strength behind my arm and throwing a hard right jab to her nose, a left cross to her cheek, and ending with a right hook to her jaw. It leaves two angry cross shaped brands in her skin, and she growls and snarls in pain, even as the force from my last hook send her flying directly into Spike, who flips the stake in his hand before slamming it smoothly into the fledgling's heart and watching her float away on the wind.

Once gone, he turns directly around toward me again, eyes flashing with all the frsutatriong I's felt from him a moment ago.

"You have any idea how precious it is?" He asks me tersely, his voice still low as he takes a step closer to me. "What you've given me?"

I frown at him, catching the stake as he tosses it back to me. "They're just a cotton blend—"

"Not the sodding t-shirts, Buffy," he growls, cutting me off and stepping closer to me again. His eyes are dark in the moonlight, gleaming with something I still haven't grown used to seeing. Abject adoration. For me. It's always there, even when he's frustrated, or annoyed, or growling at me like he is now. It never goes away, never fails to steal my breath and root me to the spot. "You."

I blink at him, still gripping the stake awkwardly, trying to wrap my head around what it is he's saying. "Me?"

Spike nods, and the gleam in his eye softens as he stops moving, having already stepped fully into my personal space. Well, I guess calling it my personal space isn't even really accurate. It feels lately like we're practically sharing everything.

"You let me in," he murmurs, his voice still tense but different. Tense with meaning now instead of the slight irritation at me over beating myself up about the lameness of his gift. "Let me know you, your family." Spike reaches for me, brushing the tips of two cool fingers along the hollow of my cheek, making the skin there go all tingly. He exhales, half laugh and half sigh, tilting his head to the side. "You know how many years it's been since I've felt like I did tonight? Too bloody many to count." His fingertips move down my jaw until his hand is cupping the back of my neck gently. "Spendin' this night with you, sweetheart." He's so close to me now that I can taste the hazy mint of his cigarette smoke over my lips. "That's the gift."

And I think it's the way he says it that makes me believe him. That maybe I've managed to give him something important, something special without even realizing it. I feel my shoulder relax, melting into his touch as the slow spread of warmth works it's way through the tension in my chest.

"I like it when you call me that," I tell him softly.

His answering chuckle send shivers down my spine. "I know," he says, grinning cheekily down at me, eyes twinkling. "Felt it earlier."

Of course he did. I narrow my eyes at him, shaking my head slowly. "Cheater."

The hand cupping the back of my neck tightens it's grip, pulling me closer to him, the soft swell of his bottom lip just barely grazing mine as he chuckles again and whispers, "You love it."

"Against my better judgement," I whisper back against his lips before surging forward and covering his mouth with mine, swallowing his soft groan of pleasured surprise as his fingers knead the skin at the nape of my neck.

"So you don't mind the t-shirts?" I ask him, pulling back to nibble at his bottom lip, bringing my hands up to his stomach so I can fist the soft blue cotton.

Spike just shakes his head, hungrily claiming my lips again, his arm dropping to wrap around my waist and pull me tighter to him. "No," he whispers heatedly, the hand at my neck moving up to thread into my hair, "don't mind 'em."

A sharp flash, a flood of heat directly to my core as my pelvic bone comes flush against his. I twist my hands harder in the shirt, thumbs slipping below the hem to graze along the flat planes of his stomach, the sharp v-lines across his hips. He gasps, in surprise again, I think. I'm not normally the aggressor in situations like this.

Definitely not in the middle of patrol.

Not that we've had a lot of opportunity lately.

Truthfully, for as much and as often and as completely dripping with sex and innuendo as Spike always seems to manage to be, the past three weeks have seen very little in the way of true intimacy. When we're together, we're usually researching. Or spending time with Mom, and Dawn. Not alone. Rarely, actually, are we ever alone. Even when Spike does spend the night at our house, his sweet, albeit misguided sense of Victorian values that he loves to claim are long dead usually prevent him from staying with me in my room. At least, not for the whole night.

So this, right here. His lips, our mouths, the flavor of smoke and the tang of blood as his tongue sweeps over mine. The wind whipping around us, strong fingers pulling at my hair, the heady feel of him against me. Grinding his hips sensually against mine as he lets out these deep, urgent growls of approval.

Even just this. This is good. Most definitely necessary.

I break away from his lips just long enough to press a trail of kiss over his jaw line. "I don't mind 'em, either," I say, my voice a husky, womanly whisper that I don't think even I knew I was capable of as I remember exactly what it was I'd thought when he'd set foot in the dining room earlier tonight.

Spike groans again, both hands tightening around me, pulling me more flush against him. "That right?" He breathes, almost sounding pained, and I find myself gasping against his skin when he nudges my legs apart, slipping his denim clad thigh between them.

If we keep this up we're going to be in a world of trouble.

"Mmhm," I manage, turning my attention to his neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses down from just below his ear the hollow of his throat, enjoying the way his muscles tense, the way the heat moving between us rages higher and higher the lower my lips travel over his skin.

Trouble, I think blankly, opening my mouth and sinking blunt teeth into the curve where his shoulder meets his throat. He shudders against me, my name leaving his lips on a strangled, masculine whimper.

And then it all stops.

Over, as quickly as it began, the heat vanishes replaced by a heat of a different kind. A searing, blinding pain focused somewhere in the vicinity of my upper right shoulder, just over the blade.

I cry out and fall forward, hands still gripping the fabric of Spike's t-shirt, and the pain is starting to spread. Radiating out from the pin point in my shoulder and threading itself through my right arm, down the right side of my body.

And everything's hazy. I don't understand.

Spike drops his hand from my hair, using both arms now to fully support me, growling a complaint in his throat as I'm sure he's feeling something similar to what I am.

Except this. This is new. The pain is still there, but now things are shifting. Changing.

"Oh, God," I whimper, just as my legs give out, my entire body going numb.

Spike's arms grip me tighter, keeping me upright. "Buffy," he says urgently, his voice low in my ear, a litttle hazy sounding through the numbness and the rapidly dwindling pain. "What is it?"

I shake my head, opening my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. No sound. My tongue feels thick, heavy.

I shake my head again.

Spike pulls me closer against him, and I can see his eyes. Glowing feral, yellow. He's vamped out, scanning the tree line behind me, knowing at this point exactly what it is that I know. Besides being able to have felt the initial sting of pain, I wonder if he can feel the numbness, too.

Probably not, I reason dimly, recognizing that he's still standing very much upright. Still very much in control of his arms and legs. I kind of wonder why, but don't have the energy to ask. To question it.

My head is spinning. Padded. Like it's been stuffed full of cotton. And my eyelids are heavy, suddenly. I can't keep them open.

A tranquilizer. Maybe a tranquilizer dart.

From somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I recognize it. Granted, no, I've never been shot with one before. But I've seen them. Know how they work. Had seen Riley and the other commandos use them before, tons of times last year.

With the Initiative.

The Initiative.

"Bloody hell," Spike hisses, and I wonder if he's spotted something. It stings again, a sharp stabbing pain, for a moment as Spike's hand closes around the end of what I assume is the back end of the tranq dart and yanks it away from me.

My eyes are closed.

And the next instant we're moving. He's lifted my dead weight up into his arms, tucking me closely against his chest and he's moving at a fathomless vampiric speed back through the cemetery. He knows, too. I can feel it. A wash of instant, immediate rage coupled with an intense anxiety of knowing. Knowing we need to get out of here. Regroup.

Keep whoever, whatever, it is that's shot me from getting a hold of either of us. And I don't know where it comes from. Don't know why I feel so certain that it's true. But it's the last coherent thought I have, just before the darkness falls.

The Initiative is back in Sunnydale.