Sorry it took me so long to update. Life got really crazy really fast. But, at long last, here is a new chapter. And, I made it somewhat longish (for me anyway) to compensate for the delay. I also wanted to start moving the story forward a bit, so I wrote this using a series of vignettes. They should give you glimpses into Spike and Buffy's developing relationship, while moving the story along temporally. After all, we still have an apocalypse to get to. Thanks so much to those of you following the story, and thanks also to those of you who take the time to leave lovely reviews. I do hope you enjoy.

New York 2009

It amazed her how quickly they could get out of their clothes. It seemed like almost as soon as they were over the threshold to the apartment, he had her down to her underwear. And he was wearing nothing at all.

And then, she was on the bed in nothing more than her black bra and panties, and he was standing beside their bed, his eyes lingering as he looked upon her body, his smoldering gaze devouring her entirely.

"God, Buffy. You are too bloody perfect."

She let her own gaze wander over his body, his perfect compact form. That body that could love as fiercely as it could fight. She bit her lower lip and grinned. "You're not so bad yourself," she said.

And then, he was there and he was kissing her passionately. And his hands were pushing away the fabric of her bra, and his fingers pinching and caressing the sensitive skin of her nipples. "Almost forgot how hot you are when you fight, Slayer," he murmured into her hair. "How hot a bit of the rough and tumble makes you."

And then, her bra was off and his mouth was on one breast, his tongue teasing the erect nipple, while one of his hands cupped the soft skin of her other breast and the other hand trailed down her flat stomach to rub her clit and push aside her panties and plunge two fingers deep inside of her.

"Oh god, Spike," she moaned. "Need you now."

And then, her panties were off and she was straddling him, his cock deep inside of her. And he was looking up at her, his eyes full pleasure and admiration and love. And she knew that her eyes looked the same.

And then, she knew again and again and again, that this was love and that this was definitely something she could get used to.

A lamp was the first thing Spike brought to the apartment. Buffy did not want to know how he had come by the lamp. She knew that he had stolen things in the past, wouldn't be surprised if still did. Either that, or he had grabbed from a trashcan or dumpster. Or maybe a pawnshop or something. She figured she was probably better off not knowing.

"What's that?" she had asked looking up from her English homework. She was reading some poems by Sharon Olds. They reminded Buffy of herself and Spike, as she once was and as they were now.

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin?

That was what she had been, wasn't it? All those years ago. A skater, gliding over his perfect body without loving it, without loving him, without even loving herself. She had been hard and cold, like ice. There had been heat and steam, it was true. The burning the desire she had felt in her gut, between her legs, that had made her go to him again and again, even though she knew it was wrong. Because how could she do those thing with him and not love him. How could she find the still water, find peace with him, through him, as he made her come and come and come again, and not love him?

The poem disturbed her. It was too raw. Too real. It was a brutal reminder of everything she had done with him, done to him. All the ways she had used sex to hurt him and hurt herself.

But she felt solace in the next poem she read.

At first I cannot have even a sheet on me,
anything at all is painful, a plate of
iron laid down on my nerves, I lie there in the
air as if flying rapidly without moving, and
slowly I cool off.-hot,
warm, cool, cold, icy, till the
skin all over my body is ice
except at those points our bodies touch like
blooms of fire …

We have come to the end of questions,
you run your palm, warm, large,
dry, back along my face over and
over, over and over, like God
putting the finishing touches on, before
sending me down to be born.

"The end of questions." She and Spike had come to that point, hadn't they? Okay, maybe not to exactly the end of questions, but they were definitely approaching it. And at least the hardest ones had been answered. Why doesn't he come to me? Doesn't he love me anymore? What if I never see him again? What have I done? How could I have left him there to die? Does he know that I really do love him? Doesn't he want me?

Those, at least, had been answered.

And the contrast of hot and cold, that spoke to her too. It made her think of the way that Spike could warm her, even though his body was way colder than hers. The way that his cold touch burned her skin, igniting "blooms of fire" that consumed them both.

"Brought you a lamp, baby," he said, holding it up proudly, disrupting her contemplation of the poems.

"Gee. You shouldn't have. Really really should not have." It wasn't the ugliest lamp ever made, Buffy was pretty sure of that, but it was close to it. Runner-up, maybe second runner up. Whatever it was some designer out there had had a really bad day. The stand was iron and looked like it was writhing in pain. The shade was a sallow pustulish shade of yellow, that actually made Buffy gag a little.

"Well, I didn't exactly get it for you. Hate those fucking fluorescents. Make me look dead."

"You are. Dead, I mean."

"Know that love, but don't exactly fancy looking like bloody corpse."

She put down her pen. "First of all, you're not bloody, just way too British. Anyway when corpses are up and walking and bloody, they're zombies, which are, ew, so not sexy. Secondly, how do you even know what you look like? You haven't exactly been reflectable since fluorescent lights were invented." He did look dead, well deader, under the harsh lights. But, it didn't matter to her. He was there with her, that's what mattered. Not the lights or his pallor. Just him.

He held his hand out in front of him, turning it, examining his alabaster skin, the blue veins that lined it. "I can tell I look damn pale. The bloody English rose doesn't fair so well without sunlight, yeah. Gets all withered and dead looking." He plugged the lamp and turned off the overhead lights. "Ah," he sighed, "much better." Flopping on the couch. "Us dearly departed prefer soft lighting. Goes better with our complexions."

"How romantic. Well, that explains all candles. Got to say I did wonder why creatures that were flammable always seemed to pick fire to light up their crypts. It just seemed, well, dumb. And all the vamp attacks in fancy restaurants finally make sense. Always wondered about that. Interests include mood lighting, long walks on the beach, of course, and, oh yeah, eating people."

In the coming weeks he brought home other things. Buffy never asked where they came from. Rugs and curtains. More lamps and some candle sticks for the bedroom, which he smirked at her as he brought in, "Always was one for playing with fire, love." One night he dragged a desk up the stairs, and another week it was a wardrobe.

When he brought home the painting, she raised her eyebrows.

"What?" he demanded looking at it with an air satisfied appraisal. It was a print, clearly, but it was matted and framed. There was a woman sprawled out on a bed, dressed all in white, with a little gremliny thing perched over it, and a black horse with wild, terrifying eyes.

"Its just a little icky. You know, normal people hang up like still lifes or beach scenes or sunsets or gardens. Not... that. Its just kinda creepy."

"Supposed to be, love. Its a nightmare."

"Well, its not going in the bedroom. I so don't need help with nightmares."

He looked at her, suddenly concerned. "Still having those Slayer dreams, love?" his tone softened.

"Yeah. Never stopped. But they are different now. Not so apocalypticy. But still pretty horrible. Except that it's not the end of the world or whatever big bad is coming to town, it's the girls. I see what they see, you know, almost like through their eyes. And I feel what they feel," she shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "And usually only when its bad. Like when it's something that totally terrified them. I see it. I experience it with them. Faith gets them too, a little bit, but not as bad. And the other girls don't get them at all. Thank god. They have enough to deal with."

"So do you."

"I know. But it's different with me. Anyway. It's been better. Since you came back. I sleep better." She gestured to the picture. "But there is no way that thing is going to be watching me when I sleep."

He hung it in the living area. She was still pretty wigged by it. It was the horse, she decided. It had crazy eyes that bore into her. Then she decided it was a pun. A night-mare. Okay, she liked puns. She could do the pun thing. It made it a little bit less creepy. But only a little bit.

Spike probably only liked it because it was some sort of weird vamp porn, she decided. The woman's long white neck was extended and exposed. Just kinda asking for it. He didn't bite people any more. She knew this. But just because he didn't do it didn't mean that he didn't like to look. He had a soul now, but there was still a demon in there too. She was sure that there must be points when he was tempted. Maybe this was a fantasy, an escape, a willing victim, or at least a passed out one. Or maybe he just liked it because he was a complete creepy weirdo.

She didn't ask, because in the end, it didn't matter anyway.

Buffy talked to Dawn. She called her a few days after her phone call to Willow. She had been nervous, afraid of what her sister would say. She so did not need Dawn lecturing her about her love life.

"Hey Dawnie," Buffy greeted her sister, "I need to talk to you about something. About Spike, actually."

"You two are together?"

"Sorta. No. I mean yes. Yes, we are together."

"Finally."

"And…"

"Finally."

"Really? That's it, that's all you've got to say. I was sure I was going to get a whole big speech about how I'm an idiot."

"Well, you are an idiot. But you already know that. At least now you're a happy idiot."

"But you hate him."

"I don't hate him. I never did, Buffy. I was really really angry with him, and really really really disappointed. But I guess he turned out alright. At least you think. And that's what matters I guess."

"Thanks Dawn."

"God, you are so lucky that I got over the whole vampire crush phase so much faster than you did."

Some nights she was so exhausted that she would fall asleep almost immediately after making love. Her heart and body so full of him, so satisfied, that she would slip into a peaceful dreamless sleep.

Other nights she felt wired. Energized, exulted, by their loving making, she would be up for hours. These nights they would lie in bed together, her head resting on his chest, his arms around her. They would talk sometimes. Or they would lie there without saying a word, wrapped in the comfortable silence of their love, in a state of togetherness that no longer required a spoken language. On these nights, they would gently drift off to sleep. Spike could always tell when she was sleeping by the way her breathing became regular and soft, the rhythm of her heartbeat often lulling him to the sweet unconsciousness rest.

"You breathe even in your sleep," she told him one morning, her hair smushed to one side, her mind still a little groggy, and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She had always found it weird that Spike breathed. Vamps, of course, didn't have to. She had always found it unnerving when Angel, distracted by one crisis or another, would forget to breath. But Spike always did. As if breathing was a habit he had picked up when alive and hadn't been able to break. It made him seem more human.

He turned from his back to his side, spooning her, and throwing an arm across her chest, "Suppose I do."

"I like it," she smiled, running her finger along his forearm, "its normal, you know. Much with the humanness." Her smile widened, "Just promise me one thing."

He kissed her neck, his lips lingering on the sensitive skin. "Anything, pet."

"No snoring, okay. I so do not want us to be that normal." And they both laughed.

One day she came home from class early to find him strumming a guitar and singing softly.

Have I ever told you
How good it feels to hold you
It isn't easy to explain

She had heard the music as she walked down the hall toward the apartment.

And though I'm really tryin'
I think I may start cryin'
My heart can't wait an other day

When you kiss me I just gotta
Kiss me I just gotta
Kiss me I just gotta say:

The walls were so embarrassingly thin. She tried not to think about what the neighbors heard coming from their bedroom. She just hoped that most of them were already asleep by the time she and Spike got home from patrol and got into bed.

Baby, I love you
Come on baby
Baby, I love you
Baby I love, I love only you

But the music was new. She wondered what he could possibly be watching on TV.

I can't live without you
I love everything about you
I can't help it if I feel this way

Oh I'm so glad I found you
I want my arms around you
I love to hear you call my name

His back was to her, and he did not look up when she opened the door, so she watched him quietly from the doorway.

Oh tell me that you feel
Tell me that you feel
Tell me that you feel the same

Baby, I love you
Come on baby
baby, I love you
Baby I love, I love only you

When he finished she cleared her throat.

"You going to tell me how long you've been standing there," he asked, hopelessly, somewhat abashed.

"Not a chance." She paused. "You're good. Really good. I mean I knew you could sing, the whole Sunnydale musical extravaganza, but I didn't know you played."

"I don't," he looked down sheepishly. "Well, not really. Not well."

"You sounded good to me."

"Nah. Just blundering about it."

"When did you learn? I mean, I don't remembering you playing before." I was her turn to look sheepish.

"Didn't. Rae sorta taught me. Something she loved."

"What is she like," Buffy asked. Figuring that it was a stupid question. Guessing that she didn't really want to know the answer. Knowing that she couldn't help asking it. Because she wanted to know more about this woman. This other person with whom he had spent three years of his life. He almost never mentioned her. And Buffy was totally curious. Dangerously curious. The kind of curious that would definitely kill the little kitty.

He shrugged. "She's nice. And pretty. And smart. Had a great ear. Real talent, but a piss poor pupil." That was all he offered.

Buffy was sure that he was downplaying the other woman. After all, pretty was the understatement of the century. She had kinda walked past Rae and Spike's office a few of the days she was on campus. It was stalking. Not really. Well, only a little bit like stalking. And she knew that Rae was way more than just pretty. She was gorgeous. She was perfect. Which meant Spike was probably trying to minimize all her other perfections too. Trying to keep the admiration out of his voice. Trying to keep her from feeling insure or jealous or annoyed or all of those things. But she didn't feel insecure about it. Not anymore. Not really. And she wasn't mad. She just wanted to know.

But he didn't say any more. And for once, she didn't force the matter.

Buffy called Giles next. He sounded flustered on the phone, not so much surprised by call as by her tone.

"Buffy is that you?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, Giles, its me."

"Sorry, for a moment I did not recognize your voice. You sounded…"

"Happy?"

"I was going to go with different. But, yes, I suppose happy suits your change in tone just as well. Better in fact"

Buffy laughed into the receiver.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" Giles demanded, doing little to conceal the contentment in his own voice.

"Spike," Buffy answered simply, before blushing furiously. She could almost hear Giles whipping off his glasses to clean on the bottom of his sweater. "Not like that. I mean. It's just that Spike and I, well, we kinda are."

"Are what?"

"Together."

"And you are happy about this change in circumstance?"

"Ecstatic."

"Very well."

"Very well," Buffy repeated. "I tell you that I'm with a vampire you despise and all you have to say is 'very well'?"

"Buffy, you are one of the most headstrong women I have ever known. I could argue with you about it. But as stubborn as you are about many things, you are most stubborn about matters of the heart. I'm afraid any argument would be completely fruitless, so I have resolved simply to be happy for you and leave it at that, no matter what my better judgment is currently shrieking at me."

"Giles?"

"Yes, Buffy."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Another day she came home to the apartment stinking of bleach. Spike was there, shirtless, with white gunk covering his head. She couldn't help but laugh.

"You're home early," he growled.

"Thank god," she coked out between laughs. "I so wouldn't have wanted to miss this. This is... This is..." she couldn't finish her sentence, giggles cutting off her words.

He glared at her, doing his best impression of an evil, dangerous, and pissed off vampire. Unfortunately, the bleach, which looked a little to much like frosting or whipped cream, completely undermined his attempted rancor.

"I'm sorry," she tried to apologize before bursting into another fit of giggles. "You just look kinda like Spike with whipped cream on top."

He smirked "Well, don't that sound like a nummy Slayer treat," he arched an eyebrow.

She knew he was trying to be all purry and seductive. But it was just too funny. "I'm sorry." She tried again to apologize, with similar results.

He crossed his arms across his bare chest. "Now you listen to me, Slayer," he growled, "I don't make fun of your hair care routine. And I don't fuss around with bloody highlights or hair dryers.

And yeah, so what if she spent time doing her hair every morning before class, thought Buffy, a bit annoyed that he was picking on her hairdryer. Her hair was one of the few girly luxuries she let herself enjoy. Hair and clothes. Not might be the most practical for demon slayage, but she didn't care. She was allowed to be a just girl sometimes.

Then she looked up, and taking in the sight in front of her, she burst out laughing again. It was just too funny. One of Sunnydale's biggest baddest vamps with hair bleach slathered across his head. And the tough guy act, the way his nostrils pinched, the muscle in his jaw tightened, the way he scowled at her, glowered really, that just made the whole thing more comical. Especially since he was always making fun of Angel's hair. Spike was just as vain. Buffy found herself extremely grateful for the fact that neither vampire could see himself in the mirror. She could only imagine the degree of preening that would take place at that point.

"I'm sure you'll look almost as pretty as me when you're done. Just need a deep conditioning to replenish some of the moisture and you'll be all 'don't hate me because I'm beautiful.'"

"We could go the Herbal Essences route, love. Those bints seem to be really enjoying the lather, rinse, repeat, yeah."

"I don't need shampoo to sound like that in the shower, not when I have you."

"You have me, love. Hook, line, and bloody sinker."

She smiled, "Because I'm worth it."

"Worth all the hell you put me more and through. And I plan to ravish you until you know it yourself," he moved towards her, seductively, before stopping abruptly, remember that his head was still covered in bleach. "Just as soon as I get this sodding stuff off my head."

That night he came home with a can of Ready Whip and, as he swirled his tongue across her nipples, licking off the whipped cream, she realized that he was right. That this was definitely a nummy Slayer treat.

She eventually called Xander. They hadn't talked very much recently, not since the night they had fumbled into their aborted fucking. Things hadn't been outwardly awkward, but there had been some distance, some embarrassment between them. And she knew this was not going to be an easy conversation. Which is why she had put it off until last.

She told him as gently as she could. He didn't say anything for several minutes.

"Xander?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, Buff. Sorry."

"I know you have never liked him."

"Never liked him? Buffy, I hated him. He… with you… and Anya. I wanted to kill him."

Buffy flinched. "I know. I've wanted to kill him plenty of times myself."

"I just don't know if I can handle this. I mean, I thought it was over between you."

"So did I."

Xander cleared his throat. "So, back from the dead?"

"Yeah, its more common than you might think."

"I'm beginning to see that."

There was an awkward pause.

"And he is some kind of professor."

"Yeah. He is."

"Now that I would love actually love to see."

Another awkward pause.

"And you guys are what, like living together?"

"We are."

"Well, then I hope you are beginning to realize how much I sacrificed for you and your Evil Dead obsession. I let him crash at my place not once, but twice. Vampire does not equal excellent house guest."

"He is not that bad."

"He doesn't even do his own laundry."

"He does now."

"And I will be accepting your heartfelt gratitude at any time."

"Uh."

"Oh come on. I laundry trained him. Before living with me, he was so not big with the spin cycling."

"You know what," Buffy announced, "we are Beatrice and Benedick."

They were sitting together on the couch. Well, he was sitting. She was definitely a bit more loungey, propped up somewhat by pillows, her feet in his lap. He was rereading 1984; she was reading Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing.

The play had surprised her. She had thought that Shakespeare was all about the tragedy. The star crossed lovers. The ambitious statesmen. The mad princes. His plays always seemed to have a whole lot of people dying in them. But this one was different. It had surprised her. And when Spike had explained the Elizabethan pun in the title ("No-thing. Got it, Slayer. According to old Willy its all about pussy, yeah," he had smirked), she had been even more surprised.

He looked at her amused, tilting his head. "How so, Slayer?"

"Because they've spent all of their lives fighting. They are attracted to each other, but they can't admit it to themselves, so they turn that desire into hate, and they hurt each other. Its like what we did for way too long."

He raised an eyebrow. "So, what you're saying is that you've always been attracted to me, Summers?"

She rolled her eyes. "As much as I hate to say it, because I know it will go right to your head, yeah, I think so."

"Took you a bloody long time to figure it out."

"Please. Like you knew right away. You had plans to turn me into a Buffy buffet until my mom hit you over the head with an axe."

"I like the sound of this Buffy buffet. What time does it open?"

She shoved him playfully. "Not the point, Spike."

He grinned. "No. I get it, Buffy. And, I'm sorry for all the things I did that hurt you."

"I know, Spike. And I'm sorry for all the things I did to hurt you. Especially since you did figure it out before me. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee."

"Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand." He paused. "Although, got to admit, Slayer, you hand was, for the most part, pretty far from loving."

Buffy really hated the New York winter. New York fall, Spike reminded her. But it felt wintery to her. She was still a California girl at heart, and the blustery autumn winds chilled her to the bone.

Patrols were the worse. Stupid vampires only came out at night when the little warmth the sun provided had vanished in the cold night air.

By the end of October she went out on patrol bundled up like it was the dead of winter. Why did they call it the dead of winter, she wondered? Maybe because of the spike in supernatural activity. Demons hated the summer, the long days kept them confined, and they got sluggish, lethargic, and lazy during those hot and hazy nights. But the cold did little to slow them down. Which was wicked annoying. Her hand was turning to a stakicles, and the vampires seemed completely unfazed by the frigid air.

"Shouldn't you like go into hibernation or something?" she demanded of Spike.

"Not how it works, love," he chuckled. "Not to worry, there are plenty of ways to warm you up."

"I vote for hot chocolate."

"A cuppa coco sounds good to me."

"Then other toasty activities?"

"Sounds like a plan, Summers."

"I like this plan."

"And I like this cold front, or whatever it is making you melt."

She pouted and he crushed his cold lips against her own, igniting a fire that warmed them both the whole way home.

The Sharon Olds poems Buffy reads are "Sex without Love," and "After Making Love in Winter." The print that Spike brings home is a copy of The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. Spike is, of course, singing The Ramones, "Baby, I love you." And the lines of Shakespeare they quote are from Act 3: Scene 1 of Much Ado About Nothing.