Warning: Use of language in this fic.

It was the middle of a freezing, bleeding cold winter, the kind of cold that can still make you shiver, even as a vampire. And although Buffy had made it quite clear she didn't want to see my handsome face again, possibly ever, what was I still doing? Following her while she patrolled in the snow, like a right idiot, that's what. Honestly, if Spike from two years ago, hell even one year ago, could see me now, tromping about in the wet grass while flakes fell down the back of my collar...he'd laugh himself hoarse, ridicule me for about an hour, then stake himself so that he'd never end up such a sorry sight. But I didn't regret it, loving her. I tried to, I tried to hate it, hate her for turning me into such a moon-eyed sap, but I just couldn't seem to manage.

Funny, considering there'd been a time when I'd done nothing but hate her. Actually, that wasn't strictly true. Since the first time I'd seen her, dancing with her friends at the Bronze, there'd been this...connection, this pull, like she was the current, dragging me towards her. At the time, I'd thought it was just because she was the Slayer, and young, and very pretty, but...after all this time, it was still there. Now, though, I didn't try and fight it, didn't want to. Because loving her, trying to be better for her, it was probably the best thing I'd ever done in my life.

Which is what made her rejection hurt all the more. And I got it, I really did, it was a lot for me as well at first. Yeah, she'd loved Angel and Angel had loved her, but the bugger had had a soul, whereas mine was still non-present and very unaccounted for. Sometimes, I did wonder though, if maybe a part of it was still there, and that part allowed me to love her as I did. Which was about ten kinds of stupid, really: just cause I'd turned turncoat didn't mean I wasn't still a vampire, prowlin' creature of the night and all.

Emphasis on the prowling at this very moment, or, more like, 'Trying not to trip over my feet on the ice and alert Buffy I'm here.' For a place called Sunnydale, you'd thought their winters wouldn't be this bad. Even with my vampire eyesight, I soon lost sight of the familiar halo of golden hair amid the blank flurry. The soon would be up soon, not that I thought it would make much difference, given the fact the sky was filled with clouds, like a jar of upturned cotton balls. Picking my way through the mossy headstones, glittering with ice and damp, I sighed contentedly when I reached the stone slab of my crypt, shoving my shoulder into it from where the frame had frozen.

The heater was on in a blink, a cigarette burning between my fingers in another. This is all I need, I thought. A cigarette in my mouth and a place to hole up in to weather the storm. All I need. Don't need some bossy, prissy, holier than though Slayer making me feel like the scum on the bottom of her boots every time she opens that bloody mouth of hers...

But those were just words. Just words, because when I heard a knock at the door and heard the faint murmurings of her heart, I was at the threshold in a flash, worrying re-routing every thought in my mind to, 'What's wrong?'

Buffy was leaning forward, side braced against the door, teeth chattering so hard I was surprised she hadn't bitten off her tongue. "Hi," she offered weakly, green eyes filled with apology and trepidation and..pain? I couldn't see any kind of wounds on her, but with all her bloody layers on...

"I'm in trouble."

When was she not?

Crossing my arms, willing my face into a mask of impassivity, I whirled a hand. "Go on."

Buffy frowned, worrying at her bottom lip. *Don't get distracted. Do not get distracted...

God, I was distracted.

"Buffy the Idiot decided to go out and patrol in Sunnydale's worst storm on record and didn't look where she was going. And tripped. And fell."

Unable to help myself, I snorted, the mental picture just too damn irresistible not to.

She wacked me on the arm, swaying slightly. "Spike, this is not funny. I'm tired, and I'm cold-"

"I can see that, Pet," I drawled with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, the universal symbol of 'Duh, you idiot.' "No, I mean-" the woman wasn't able to finish her sentence: a sneeze of seismic proportions wracked her small frame, making her step back, weight shifting painfully. Barking out a curse, Buffy crumpled, almost knocking her head before I darted across the room, arms banding around her before she could do herself any more damage. Stupid Slayer, always thinkin' she's invincible.

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" I barked furiously, tugging her right arm around my shoulders, scooping her up and easing her weight against my chest, the buttons of her coat like chips of ice against my shirt, but her forehead was burning up...

"Shit," I murmured. "Shit, shit, and more shit."

The Slayer was sick. And hurt. In my crypt. With snow outside. With the sun coming up soon.

If I was sensible, I'd chuck her out, leg be damned, would go to sleep for the rest of the day and try and keep warm. *But when the fuck have you, William Pratt, ever been sensible? a small voice insisted in the back of my head. Never.

Certainly not when I carried her down the ladder to the second level, laying her out on the bed as I grabbed the First Aid Kit I kept stashed for emergencies, or when I dragged over the space heater and pilled blankets over her while I rolled up the leg of her jeans, heart wrenching when I saw the tender, angry flesh of her ankle, bone practically jutting out. And I certainly wasn't sensible when I brushed the hair away from her face, fingers coming back wet from the melting snow coating the strands, and murmured, "The scrapes you get up to, sweetheart."

I'm not known for my sense.

I hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep until my eyes fluttered open, sparks dancing along the edges of my vision. Ouch. Bad Buffy. I could barely recall anything. I remember being out on patrol, all the snow, and hearing a noise somewhere from behind me, turning too quickly and skidding on the ice, hands raw from where I'd taken off my gloves to better grip my stake...and Spike. Me showing up at his crypt, practically delirious, and falling and him catching me and...

...and looking after me, apparently.

That was unexpected.

Well, not really, a sly voice slithered in the back of my mind. Spike's never made his feelings for you much of a secret, has he?

Be it hatred or amusement or victory or bravado or love, Spike never did anything by half, and he never shied away from wearing his undead heart on his sleeve to her.

"Looks like someone finally decided to return to the land of the livin'."

Glancing up, I caught sight of his pale face, eyes sparkling with amusement like the shards of ice clinging to my front door this morning. God, was it annoying. And adorable. It was annoying because it was adorable.

"You're technically not alive, and right now one could argue I'm in your land, so I don't think that really applies."

Spike smirked, a gesture as casual as breathing. "Glad to see you're not too beat up to get in a good jibe."

"Oh, no, I am very with the beaten-up," I assured him fervently, "but even if I was dying of plague I'd still have to get in the last word."

His responding laugh seemed to warm me more than the blankets. "It seems someone's forgotten to put their conversational filter in the Buffy coffee machine, haven't we, love?"

I nodded, hissing when the motion shot a jolt of pain all through my body, pooling in my ankle.

"You took quite the tumble, sweets. But don't worry, Dr Spike patched you up and you'll be all better in no time."

I inquired hopefully, "Do I get a lollipop?"

"No."

Pouting, I crossed my arms stubbornly. "That's not fair. Your bedside manner sucks. You'd think being as old as you are, you'd have worked on that."

Spike shook his head, hands curled deep in his pockets. Was he embarrassed? He looked kinda embarrassed, all fidgety and not meeting my gaze and all. Huh. "I'm not much of a people person, Pet. You know that better than anyone."

A shake of the head from me. "No, I don't. You've always treated me like a person, even if I haven't done the same to you."

"You're hurt, and feverish, and delusional: you don't know what you're saying."

"I am definitely all of the above, Spikey, but I still know the words coming out of my mouth."

He rolled his eyes, shifting the blankets so he could sit at the foot of the bed. "Are you always so stubborn when you're sick?"

"Yep," I said, popping the 'p.' "My mom always had her hands full when it was Germ-City for Buffyville. But the last time I was really sick, she couldn't do anything to help."

"Why not?"

"I killed this mind-reading demon and got his blood on me," I explained, the memory still fresh in my mind. "So, I got it's powers, and to start off with, it was super cool, being able to hear what everyone else was thinking. But soon it got real crazy, was driving me mad, and I would have died had Angel not killed it's buddy and fed me it's heart in some potion. Which was, if you're wondering, as uber gross as it sounds. And it was blue, which is just weird."

Spike laughed, propping my foot up with another cushion that appeared out of nowhere. Or had he been holding it? Everything was starting to blur. "You've been through the mill, haven't you, love."

"Yeah, the Evil Mill of Doom and Gloom. But it's okay: it's what I was meant to do. No use crying about it, not that I could cry right now, since my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and I can't feel my eyes, only two hot burning coals of agony which I think I'm supposed to see out of."

A worried frown marred his face, all serious and concerned. It was sweet. I'd never seen him look at Dru like that. He placed the back of his hand on my forehead, cold like a block of ice, stalling the flow of pain for a few blessed seconds.

"You're burning up."

"My penance for idiocy."

Spike shook his head at me. "You're not an idiot, Buffy."

He so rarely said my name; I took notice whenever he did.

"No, I am. I'm a big stupid head, Spike. I push people away and I hurt them when all I want to do is keep them save and I'm a failure of a sister and I'm basically just a big ball of suck, a Buffy Black Hole of awfulness, going on forever."

He raised a scarred brow at her. "You quite done now, missy?"

I nodded.

Spike took a big, unnecessary breath, then launched into an even bigger speech. "That is the biggest pile of nonsense I have ever, ever head, and I've read Edward Lear's *Book of Nonsense. You're not a failure, Buffy, not by a long shot. You're good and kind and insanely brave and selfless, put so much weight on your little shoulders, a weight that would cripple even someone as old as me. Livin' isn't meant to be easy, there's no happy vote of confidence on the tin to get us through each day: we have to find that for ourselves. And as for pushin' people away...well, you're only human, after all, and sometimes when life gives you so much bad it's hard to fully accept the good."

An idea struck me. "Was it like that with me? Did you like me and think I was too good to have in your life, that you didn't deserve to have someone care."

Spike effortlessly deflected, "Who sneezed and made you Dr Phil?" but I pushed on regardless.

"Well, I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I know what it's like to love someone and to feel like you're still not enough."

He cocked his head. "You mean Broody-Face Git-Head."

I giggled, because it was kinda true. "You got it." I quicky sobered. "I loved him, but that didn't matter in the end: I wasn't enough, what we had wasn't enough for him. He didn't have the strength to not resist breaking his curse when he was around me."

"He was an idiot." I shot him an uncertain glance. "Is still an idiot, as a matter of fact."

"Why?"

He took my hand, interlacing it with his. I didn't fight him. I was tired of fighting. "If that had been me...even if if had been like dyin' every day, even if all I could ever do was hold your hand and punch some bad guys for you, I'd never be able to walk away from you, even if you pushed me out the door with all your Slayer strength, even if you didn't want me around, like you do now, the thought of leavin' has never crossed my mind, Pet."

"Not once?" I asked.

He smiled. "Not once."

I rolled my eyes. "Duh. 'Cause you're not him; you'll never be him. You choose this, to help me and my friends, whereas Angel didn't get a choice, what with The Powers That Be being all The Powers That Be-ing. This is what you want to be doing, but I think Angel kinda resents it all."

"He should feel lucky. Not everyone can play hero."

I gave him a proud grin, "'Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.'"

Spike's gaping-fish impression almost made this whole day worth it.

I huffed, mock-petulant. "Don't look so surprised, William. I have been known to pay attention in English before."

"I guess I don't always give proper credit to that noggin of yours," he conceded, and it didn't make me feel small or insecure like it would from someone else: I know people think I'm a dumb blonde, which makes it all the more satisfying when I pull a cat like that outta the bag.

"It's cool. You more than make up for it with all this." I gestured to the blankets, the space heater, the mug of tea on the nightstand and the First Aid Kit still splayed open on the armchair beside it. Spike had really pulled out all the stops, it seemed, even though I'd been so cruel and nasty, even though I'd barred him from the house, and one of the few people he considered a friend, my sister. Who missed him as much as he'd missed her, I think. I still felt guilty about that.

Maybe this might change things.

He tried to shrug away my gratitude like it was a coat he could slip in and out of. "It's nothing."

I tugged on his hand, trying to get him to see. "Buffy doesn't think it was nothing. Buffy thinks it was very sweet, and kind, and un-evily. And Buffy thinks she's getting worse since she's now referring to herself in the third person."

Spike reached over, handing her the mug. "Here, drink this, it might help."

I gulped half of it down, cringing at the taste. "Ugh. What is that?"

"Half a spoon of Camomile tea and half a spoon of ginger," he explained to her, "as well as a generous swig of kid's Tylenol I had left over from when Dawn had that ear infection last month."

"And *that is why I don't go near pools," I shuddered. "That, and the whole Swim-Team-Turning-Into-Fish-Monsters thing."

Spike grinned, taking the cup from my hand. "I really missed a lot, didn't I? When I left, you were still a kid, and when I came back, you were all grown up."

"Hey," the protest fell from my lips, 'I have always been a grown up. I was so grown I was practically a beanstalk."

"Whatever you say, Jack."

"I'd rather be Joan," I muttered to him, "like Joan of Arc."

Spike seemed unsatisfied with my choice of heroine. "You know she didn't meet a happy end, right?"

The last thing I said was, "Most heroes don't, William," before sleep claimed me once again.

Looking back on this moment, I'd be honest to myself regarding my intentions, why I did exactly what I did, but right then, right now, I deluded myself into thinking that the only reason I watched as Buffy Summers slept was to make sure she was still breathing, plain and simple. Even though I would be able to hear her heartbeat from the level of my crypt above, even though I knew she was just tired and needed to rest. Even though with her Slayer healing a broken ankle wasn't going to take her down for good...

Yeah, I was a real pro at deluding myself.

She looked so peaceful, like nothing bad could ever touch her. A part of me wanted to keep her that way, always, but a bigger, smarter part of me knew she'd hate me for trying. This was what she was meant for, it was why we'd met, but at the end of the day that didn't mean I had to like it, did it?

Her whimpers pulled me from my troubled mind, each one striking me in the heart like no chunk of wood ever could.

"Spike?"

"Yeah, Pet?"

Buffy grimaced. "You might wanna move before I sneeze all over your shirt."

I chuckled, but didn't move an inch. "Got no plans to go anywhere, luv, no matter how many times you sneeze on me."

"Pinky promise?"

Dawn had made me overly familiar with the concept, and it did sound slightly absurd, coming from her of all people, but I agreed nonetheless. Look at me, William the Bloody, a savage vampire with a body count higher than the Empire State, making pinky promises with a sick -but still unfairly gorgeous- Slayer.

A goner, thy name is Spike. Your dignity has left the station, vamp-morals have swiftly vacated the premises and all that.

She didn't let go of my hand. I didn't notice it at first, but after five minutes without having her move away, I stared down at where our skin touch with a sense of befuddled wonder, like looking at two rainbows or flowers coming back from the dead. It was something that shouldn't exist, should be impossible, and yet I was witnessing it all the same. It was incredible and amazing and wonderful.

Which was exactly why I had to let go.

Because, when it came down to it, she was still human, I was still a blood-sucking fiend with a penchant for long leather coats and too-loud punk music. She was good, I was...not-evil, we were what we were and nothin' could or would ever change that. There were lines between us, barriers not to be crossed, not just mental and emotional ones but physical ones too...

Which all went out the bloody window when, using the last of what Slayer strength remained, Buffy yanked on my hand, pulling me from my chair to land on the bed in a severely undignified heap. Bloody woman, always upstaging me. She giggled at my murderous expression like I was some fluffy kitten, and, God help me, I just let her.

"I'm really cold."

I offered, already getting up, "I'll get you another blanket."

"But I've already got one right here," she indicated my general presence. "One that doubles as a pillow, too. Win-win for Buffy."

"Are you sure?" I asked hesitantly, because although I wanted nothing more than to put my arms around her and hold her as I had thought about so many times before, in dark alleys and backyard porches and grey hospital waiting rooms, I still wanted this to be her choice.

"Of course I'm sure. You're like the comfiest thing in here right now."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks for the compliment."

She smiled, a dimmer version of her mega-watt glow, but just as genuine and sincere. "You're welcome."

Buffy laid her head down on my chest, hair tickling the side of my neck, easy breaths puffing out to warm the bare skin below the collar of my shirt, and I had to wonder just who was the keeping who warm.

I must have been asleep for hours, because when I opened my eyes, I felt a million times better. Comfortable and relaxed and incredibly cozy, like wherever I was, it was exactly where I was meant to be, always.

That place being in Spike's arms, apparently.

To say I was freaked would be a bit of an exaggeration. Did I scream? No. Did I wrench out of his grasp like he was on fire? No again.

Did I bite my lip and scrunch my eyes closed and hope either he, or this feeling of contentedness melt away? You betcha. But it didn't. The more I stayed, the more I wanted to never leave. Stupid, stupid Buffy. I never should have come here, I never should have asked him of all people for help. I shouldn't of done what I did next: laid my head back down and gone straight back to sleep. But considering what happened next...maybe it was the best choice I ever made.

Cold air jolted me awake, crawling along my back and making me shiver. The bed was empty -what a surprise, not- but apparently Buffy hasn't gone far. Indeed, for she was standing right in front of me, holding out a mug of blood like it was the Slayer version of the olive branch. I took it, albeit warily, waiting for her to open that big mouth of hers.

She didn't disappoint.

"Look, before this gets awkward or one of us threatens bodily harm, I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of me; you didn't have to."

"Of course I bloody did," I argued heatedly, taking a generous gulp to steady my resolve. "Your chums would have had my head if I'd left you out in the snow, not to mention your mum. Since I quit like spinnin' on this mortal coil, I reckoned I'd better play nursemaid."

Buffy huffed, slamming her mug down on the nightstand with a bang I felt under my boots. "Don't," she growled threateningly, emerald fire blazing in her eyes, "don't give me some lame pass at humour in some ridiculous attempt to deflect my genuine apology. Are you still mad at me? Is that it? Because I'm sorry, okay? I know I reacted badly, I know I hurt you."

"It's fine," a nonchalant shrug with me, coupled with a few flicks of my lighter, and Hey, Presto! Complete indifference achieved. Even added a quick, "I'm over it," for good measure.

But if Buffy Summers is one thing -apart from brave and beautiful and smart and funny and selfless and incredible- it's that she's the single most stubborn being walkin' the planet...besides me, that is.

"Are you?" she insisted, voice like a purr, like a cat with a mouse trapped under her claws, never letting go no matter how much the mouse tries to bite at it. "Can you look me in the eyes and say it like you mean it, William?"

Shit, she had to use my name, didn't she? My real name, given to me by the woman who shared the name of the hero standing before me, the two women I've loved more than any other, and who had hurt me the most in turn.

But I still couldn't say it. No matter how much I tried to push the words outta my throat and into the open, it just didn't happen.

And I think she knew that. All along, she'd been sure I would never be able to say it. Her triumphant smile was proof enough, as was the fact that she nodded her head and murmured a quiet, "Good. Glad we're on the same page then."

"We're not on the same bloody page, Buffy!" I yelled at her, tired and confused and just wanting to stop feeling like this around her. "We're not even in the same book, in the same library, on the same effing continent."

"Yes, we are." She took me hand. "Because if you'd asked me to do that...I wouldn't have been able to, either."

I must have stared at her like a blithering idiot, for she kindly elaborated, "Spike, I knew where I was going the whole time. When I got hurt, I could have gotten out of the cemetery easily, could have gone to any of my friends for help, or the Magic Box or heck even back home. But I didn't. I came here, to you?"

"Why?"

Her hand migrated to my cheek, caressing and careful. "Because I trust you. Because when it's cold out, you're the only one who can keep me warm. You know, metaphorically and..."

"Yeah," I cut her off swiftly, "I got you, luv."

"I'm so sorry about everything. The past few weeks have really sucked without you, like the world was kicked off-kilter."

"Same here, Buffy. Same here."

She buried her head in my chest, and my arms came back around her, holding her close because I wanted to, and finally could.

"Spike?"

"What?"

She pulled away. "I really wanna kiss you right now, but I think I'd just end up sneezing in your face, so how about we just get back under the covers and eat Chinese and watch re-runs of *Dawson, since I know you're a secret Pacey and Joey shipper?"

"Dawson Leary is a clueless, egotistical, over-emotional overgrown toddler with ridiculous hair, and I stand by my statement." I smiled, adoringly, because I did indeed adore her. "That sounds perfect, luv."

She grinned, flopping back onto the covers, hair a satiny halo around her head. "Who knew all it would take was some bad weather and a broken ankle to get us to finally admit how we feel."

I grinned right back. "Oh, trust me, if I'd have known all i needed was a little snow, I'd have gone to Alaska and filled some buckets and dumped 'em on your doorstep ."

"How thoughtful," she teased wryly. "Words every girl dreams of hearing."

"Well, you are my dream girl, so..." I trailed off, unable to meet her eyes until she kissed me on the cheek. If I'd been human, I would have been bright red.

"Aww, Spike," she chided sweetly, "you're gonna make me melt."

No, I said to her. The only one melting here was me.

Author's Note: Hello, Spuffy shippers! Welcome to my little 'Buffy gets sick and Spike takes care of her and they finally admit their feelings' one-shot. I've had this sitting around for a while, and I'm systematically making my way through all my drafts and posting them as they're ready.

Yes, to those that were wondering, the title is taken from the lyrics of the Dido song, "Don't Leave Home."

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please feel free to leave a review and let me know.

All my love, Temperance Cain.