The Second Thanksgiving
By Sabrina
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set after "The Gift" and Buffy's "resurrection," however that happens.
Summary: B/S -- a post-Thanksgiving dinner, first time encounter that eschews tears, guilt, anguish, etc. I wrote this right after "The Gift," when I was trying to envision a suitable B/S hookup. Then I realized that when it finally happens, you don't spend hours talking about it beforehand -- you just jump each other. Based on something that actually happened to me long, long ago.
Archive: Please ask first, but most likely, yeah.
Feedback: If you want: onemileover@aol.com
Disclaimers: All characters, settings, situations etc. belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Inc., Fox Television, UPN, etc. ad infinitum. I'm using them solely for my own twisted enjoyment
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Wary. That was the word. It was how Spike felt all the time, now that the Slayer was back. It wasn't because of the old reasons, the absolute certainty that whenever she saw him she might knock him on his ass, or worse, drive a stake through his chest. No, it was the sort of wary that comes from constantly being on emotional guard, of not giving anything away.
It wasn't just that he was reluctant to reveal anything in the presence of the Scoobies, although that was becoming less and less of a priority. He just didn't care what they thought, although he knew Buffy still did. Dawn was no problem; he knew she'd been on his side practically from day one. No, it was something else: a desire not to tip his hand too early, and a complete, certain belief in the old saw that steady wins the race.
Ever since she'd come back, he knew that the nebulous something between them had taken on – well, substance. Just as in the days before her death, Buffy never mentioned anything about her feelings for him, except in the way she'd come to depend on him for support and guidance. She now seemed to regard him as a sort of second opinion to whatever Giles advised, rather like an unofficial sounding board. He was gratified by her trust and regard, but in the end, it wasn't really what he wanted.
What he wanted was her. The same as ever.
But he could wait.
So now Spike stood outside Buffy's house, behind the tree where he once used to smoke all night and gaze up at her window. It's funny; he'd never really got out of the habit; it comforted him to watch over her, and every once in a while he'd still stand there and keep his usual vigil. But even now, with everything completely changed, something was making him hang back before walking up to the door. It was probably stark disbelief at the prospect of actually going to her house, well, like a person. A few days earlier, with a maximum of awkwardness, she had invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.
He wasn't the type to go into a tailspin of apprehension, although he had taken great care in dressing for the occasion. Now he looked down at himself, at the grey sweater and cargo pants under his short black leather jacket, and figured he looked all right. Not flashy, sort of human. Didn't seem right to wear the black leather duster tonight. Too many bad associations.
He heard high pitched laughter coming from the house, and moved a few steps over from the tree. Through the curtains he caught a glimpse of Willow, Tara and Anya moving around the dining room table. Buffy and Dawn must be in the kitchen, he thought, and this made him smile. He walked back to his tree, glancing in at the living room window, and saw Giles and Xander, Giles reading the newspaper, Xander fiddling with the CD changer. Very cosy. Buffy had always wanted her perfect Thanksgiving, and she never quite seemed to get it. And now with Joyce gone, and Buffy newly returned – he had no idea what this holiday would be like. But at least this time he was actually invited, and wouldn't be tied to a chair the whole time. At any rate, he hoped not, grinning a little. How things had changed.
Taking a breath much deeper than any vampire needed to take, he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Xander answered the door. "Hey, evil dead – er, Spike. Good to see you, buddy. Come in." He stood there smirking, and Spike passed by him with his usual eye-roll.
"Harris. Here. I brought some wine." Spike handed Xander a cellophane wrapped bottle.
Xander read the label out loud. "'Sangre De Toro.' What's that mean?"
"Blood of the Bull. It's a Spanish rioja."
"Ooh. Blood of bull – how appropriate. For you, I mean."
Spike ignored him, stepping into the room. He glanced over at the dining room. Anya smiled and waved at him cheerily; both Tara and Willow raised their eyebrows at him and nodded. He wagged his fingers solemnly at them.
He turned to back to the living room, passed close to Giles' newspaper-obscured figure. "Giles," he said, as pleasantly as he could.
Giles lowered the front page, gave Spike a level look. "Spike." The paper snapped back up. He hadn't been entirely won over, either. Oh well.
Dawn came charging out of the kitchen. "Spike! You're here. Come and look – I made the pumpkin pie all by myself. I think it turned out OK, but Buffy really wanted some stupid Martha Stewart leaves on it, and I wouldn't let her, so she's pissed off at me." She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the kitchen.
"Look," said Dawn excitedly, "It isn't even burned or anything. I think it looks pretty good, no matter what Buffy says."
Buffy was crouching down over the open oven, basting an enormous brown-gold turkey. "Dawn, I said it looks fine. Hi, Spike. Tell her it looks fine."
"It looks fine, Dawn."
"Yeah, I know. We've got pecan pie too, but Willow and Tara cheated and bought it at the bakery."
Buffy straightened up and closed the oven door. "Dawnie – take the relish tray and the cranberry sauce out to the table. Tell Xander to come in here and start opening wine bottles." She turned to Spike, meeting his eyes with the level gaze she'd affected ever since she'd returned. It was almost as if she was constantly assessing his presence in whatever situation they happened to be. It was arresting, but oddly pleasing to him. "I bought some blood for you if you don't feel like going through the motions of a turkey dinner. It's in the fridge."
"That's okay. I think I'll take my chances with your cooking. How bad could it be, anyway?"
"Please. Your idea of haute cuisine is the flowering onion. You don't have to eat if you don't want to – I'll just zap you your cup o'blood in the micro. "
"Buffy. I'm kidding. Everything looks wonderful. Delicious." He picked up an olive off a nearby tray and bit into it, smiling at her.
"Don't bs me, Spike."
"I mean it."
"Yeah, right. Here, take Anya's casserole-y thing out to the table. Tell everybody we're starting." She handed him a large, heavy earthenware dish which seemed to contain the requisite Thanksgiving green bean/French onion mixture.
"Yes, ma'am." Spike braced the heavy casserole dish gingerly against his stomach and walked out to the dining room. "Um, look sharp, everybody – dinner's nearly ready."
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Dinner was over, and Dawn bounced on her tiptoes before Buffy, pleading with her. "Buffy, please let me go to Lisa's. You said it would be okay."
"Can't you just wait until our guests go home? It seems like the height of rudeness to leave a party when you're one of the hostesses."
Xander poked his head in the kitchen door. "Actually, Buff, Anya and I were thinking about cutting out, too. We're both tired, I'm stuffed like a pig… Well, anyway, we'll give Dawn a ride over to Lisa's if you want."
Dawn looked beseechingly at Buffy. "See? My stuff's all packed – I can leave now. Pleeeease?"
"Dawn, don't think I don't realize that this is a clever ploy to get out of doing the dishes. Okay – go. Just don't overstay your welcome tomorrow."
"I won't – Lisa and I are going to the mall, though. We want to hit all the sales. Oh – can I use the Visa card?"
"What, are you crazed? Absolutely not. Oh, all right. Don't go nuts. We still have no visible means of support, you know."
Released, Dawn ran up the stairs two at a time. Buffy put down the wine glasses she was carrying, and followed Anya and Xander out to the front door. She dutifully hugged and kissed them both, and watched ruefully as Dawn tore down the front walk after them, gold credit card clutched in her fist.
"Don't lose it, Dawn! Remember, I can report it stolen at any time!" Dawn waved at her as she got into the back seat.
Buffy hugged herself, watching as Xander's car disappeared around the corner. Giles walked up, winding a scarf around his neck, and squinting up at the clear evening sky.
"Guess I'll be pushing off too. Thanks for dinner, Buffy – it was wonderful." He paused to look at her. "Are you all right? You seemed a little subdued all evening. I know this couldn't have been easy for you or Dawn."
"It was a little weird. We both miss mom so much…" She broke off, trying to smile. "I think she would have wanted us to carry on, though. The holidays meant so much to her. Anyway, I think Dawn's okay, and so I am I. Thanks for asking, though." She stepped forward, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "And thanks for coming. And for being there. I don't think you know how much your being there has helped me."
"I'm glad." Giles looked pleased, but a little sad.
"Sure you don't want any leftovers?"
"No. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow for a turkey sandwich."
"You do that. 'Night, Giles."
She walked back up the path, went in and closed the door behind her. Idly, she flicked off the living room lights, thinking that they'd all spend the remainder of the evening in the kitchen. She entered the dining room, intending to continue clearing the table, and came upon Spike, who was quietly scraping and stacking the dinnerware. He was being pretty careful about it, too, obviously remembering that it was her mother's wedding china.
"What are you doing?"
He looked up from his task. "Helping you out. As per usual. The rats seem to be deserting the ship pretty fast."
"Willow and Tara are still here."
He snorted. "Just barely."
She rolled her eyes a bit, more from habit than actual annoyance, and walked into the kitchen. Tara was sitting at the center island, shaking out some Advil into her palm. She handed it to Willow, who was standing next to her with a definitely pained expression. Willow gulped down the pills with a large glass of water.
"More headache, Will?"
"Uh, yeah. The bigger the spells, the longer and more hideous the headaches. This one's going on four weeks."
Tara gazed at her, obviously worried. "I keep telling her she should see a doctor. This shouldn't be happening. Maybe you need stronger drugs, honey."
"Yeah, or an arrow through my head. Hey, maybe Spike could help with that. Just kidding." She sat down wearily.
Spike stuck his head in the door. "Help with what?"
"Nothing," said Buffy. "Will was just alluding to one of your former specialties. Go back to work." His head disappeared. Buffy looked back at her friends. "I think Tara's right, Willow. Go to the doctor!
"Okay, okay. I'll call him on Monday. Look, Buffy – I'm sorry, but I think I'd be pretty useless at cleanup detail tonight. Would you hate us if we left now? I think I really have to get to bed. We'll come back tomorrow morning and help you clean up if you want."
"Nah. It's okay – I'll do what I can tonight, and then force Dawn to do the rest after she's bankrupted us at Bloomingdales. You guys go home. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay. Thanks for dinner." Willow stood up and gave Buffy a quick kiss on the cheek. "I love you, you know that?"
"I do. Now go home and feel better. I'll get your jackets."
A few minutes later, after saying a final goodbye to Tara and Willow on the porch, Buffy came back inside. Spike was at the sink, scraping leftovers into the garbage disposal.
"Wow, you seem to be pretty good at all this women's work. I guess you have changed for the better."
"Ha very ha. However, no rest for the weary. All the big stuff is still out there. Hop to it, pet."
"Yes, sir." Buffy headed back to the dining room. After a minute, he followed her.
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They walked back into the kitchen, balancing the remaining serving pieces between them. Buffy gingerly placed a large platter in the sink.
"Just dump that stuff on the cutting board." She looked at Spike, who was struggling to keep from dropping the spoons he had placed somewhat precariously on coffee cups and saucers. "I can take it from here. You can go home too if you want."
"Nah. I'll help you. You wash, I'll dry."
She paused, giving him that direct, level look again. "You sound just like Dawn – always shirking the pans. Why don't we trade off sink duty, just to even out the workload? Do you need an apron?"
"No. I can keep myself clean."
"Oh yeah? Then what's that crusty stuff there on your lip?"
"Where?" He started feeling around his mouth, somewhat abashed.
"Here." She reached up, and smoothed away the offending morsel from his face with her thumb and forefinger, as if she were cleaning a child. He stiffened slightly at her touch, looking down at her as she brushed it off. He emitted a little nervous laugh.
"Heh. One of the drawbacks of having no reflection – you never know when you've got stuff on your face, or in your teeth…"
Their eyes met, and Buffy immediately dropped her hand.
"Well. There's nothing in your teeth. Okay. Guess I'll start with the plates." She turned on the hot water tap.
They worked mostly in silence, studiously washing, drying and stacking the dishes on the center island. Such a homely job, so utterly natural and comfortable. In an odd way, it put them on an even keel – no drama, no heartbreak, no searching questions, just the companionable washing of plates and cutlery. It seemed almost normal.
Finally, they were finished. Buffy took off her huge yellow Platex gloves and untied her apron. Spike leaned against the sink, looking at his fingernails. "Huh. I think I have the beginning of dishpan hands."
"Poor you." She glanced through the door toward the dining room table. "You know, there's still almost a full bottle of pinot noir in there."
"Yeah?"
"Wanna kill it?"
Spike raised his eyebrows slightly. "Sure."
"Get those clean wineglasses off the table. Let's go to the living room – I have to put my feet up, they hurt. Remind me never to cook in three inch heels ever again.
"Right."
They sat in the living room, Spike on the couch, Buffy in a chair. The room was dark, lit only by the light from the dining room and the fire that was still flickering in the fireplace. Buffy poured a glass of wine and handed it to him, then poured one for herself. They each took a long drink, and sank back into their seats, still relaxing in their comfortable silence.
Buffy threw her legs over the chair arm, kicking off her shoes and wiggling her toes with obvious relief. Spike watched her surreptitiously. Since she'd come back, he'd resisted staring at her, at least not in an obvious manner, mainly because he was loath to come off as a raging psycho stalker. But now the soft light burnished her hair and threw her face partially into shadow, and he couldn't help himself. She was, in a word, beautiful. It was almost painful to look at her.
He shook his head as if to clear it, and he glanced around the warm quiet room. "Home and hearth. This is strange."
"Why? Would you rather be in your crypt? You can't, really. It's so…creepy."
"I've had some time to get used to it. Anyway, it's not the only place I've lived."
"You mean the factory? That big old ugly mansion?"
He grimaced. "No. Believe it or not, I've actually lived in real homes. In several countries, to be exact. Nothing like this, though. That is, not in a long while."
She looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"
He gazed down into his wineglass, then took a long sip. "I had a home not wholly unlike this, before I was turned. A sunny terrace in Islington – that's a neighborhood in London. Lived there with my mum and sister." He paused. "That was many lifetimes ago."
"Do you ever wonder what happened to them? I mean, Angel once told me…" She winced visibly.
"Don't believe everything you've heard. And to answer your question, yes. Sometimes I do wonder. But in the end there's really no point. I became a different…person. A creature of the night, with no history and no memories." He smiled a little sardonically, avoiding her eyes.
"That sounds…bleak."
"It is, at times."
Buffy thought for a few seconds. "Sometimes I wish I had no memories. Then all the bad stuff – my mom dying, me dying – wouldn't crowd in all the time."
Spike gave her a long look. "I'm sorry about that. But just think -- then you'd forget all the good stuff too. Darling kid sis. Scoobies. Angel, Captain Cardboard, that idiot frat boy, your various hairdos down through the years, oh, and beating me to a bloody pulp whenever it struck your fancy."
"I'll never forget that. And don't think I can't do it again, dude."
"How well I know it."
They were silent for a few moments. Then, picking up the wine bottle again, she said, "Here. Have some more wine."
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Slayer?"
"No! Of course not. But I do sorta like drinking here at home. It's novel. And I'm not 21 yet either, so technically I'm committing a crime. I never do that."
She stood up, a little unsteadily, tilting the wine bottle toward Spike's glass. Suddenly, she overbalanced a bit, sloshing wine on his shirt when it should have gone in his glass.
"Easy, girl. Oww – now you've done it."
"Wait a minute. I'll get some club soda."
"It's okay. Forget it, I'll take it to the all-night cleaners or something."
Ignoring him, she walked into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a dish towel and a bottle of club soda. She kneeled next to him on the couch, and started dabbing rather ineffectually at the stain.
"Hm. Looks like blood."
"Well. Not really. A little too purple. I oughta know."
She looked up at him, and they locked eyes. She stopped dabbing, but soon caught herself, breaking the gaze, and started scrubbing at his shirt again just a little too vigorously. Suddenly, he took her wrist, stopping her. They looked at each other again, their faces ridiculously close.
All at once, without even thinking, she leaned in and kissed him gently. With that, they both completely lost it. His hands went under her jaw, thumbs on her cheeks, covering her mouth with his. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and suddenly they were both standing, pressing their bodies together urgently. He slipped his hands down to her waist, and accidentally touched her skin where her sweater had pulled away from her skirt. This seemed to galvanize him even more, and he slid his hands up under her sweater, stroking her back and then coming up in front to touch her breasts. If the kiss ignited something, this touch sent them both over the edge. She put her arms around his neck, and pulled him toward the staircase.
They broke away slightly then, looked at each other, and immediately started laughing crazily. She kissed him again, backing up the stairs, pulling him along, both of them stumbling and giggling like idiots.
Finally, somehow, after stopping every few steps to kiss and feel each other up, they were at the threshold to Buffy's bedroom. They looked inside, at each other – and suddenly the enormity of what was about to happen sank in. It was sobering, but it didn't diminish their desire in the least. Without a word, Spike picked her up and carried her in. Just like that.
Now we dolly back, now we fade to black….
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If this story were a movie, the next scene would open with quiet, swoony music, and an overhead shot of her bed. The camera would push in slowly to show them under the covers, lying side by side, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his chest. She is sound asleep. He is wide awake, one arm under her neck, stroking her hair with one hand, and holding her wrist with the other. His expression is one of quiet joy, of bliss. He turns his face to hers, breathing in her scent, kisses her gently, turns his body towards hers, burrowing in, tightening his arms around her. Unconsciously, she returns the embrace, snuggling deeper, murmuring "Spike." He looks at her, profoundly moved, whispers, "Buffy." His happiness is palpable – she is, finally, his. He closes his eyes, and slowly falls asleep.
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He awoke sometime before dawn. They were still wrapped up deeply in each other, but he knew he had to get out of there or be fried to a crisp at sunrise, something he now more than ever did not want to happen. With extreme reluctance, but the utmost gentleness, he eased her arms away from him, stood up out of bed and started gathering his clothes off the floor. He dressed swiftly and quietly, then stood for a moment gazing down at her. If she was beautiful in the firelight, then moonlight and starlight turned her into something wholly other, a thing of silver and alabaster, soundly sleeping, serene and calm. He swallowed with difficulty, watching her.
Even though it was out of his actual experience, he knew this thing for what it was: sometimes, when you're very lucky, and all the stars are aligned, and each of you wants it as much as the other, this first act of possession is more profound than any marriage. In some weird primal way, you actually merge – your hearts, your minds, your bodies, your lives. It's completely frightening, compelling, wondrous, bizarre -- and so, so rare. And it had happened to him. Whether or not it had happened to her remained to be seen, but it didn't really trouble him. It was odd, but he actually felt confident again, more than he had in years. For once, there seemed to be infinite possibilities before him.
He knelt by the bed, and picked up her hand, being careful not to wake her. He pressed his nose to her wrist, inhaling her fragrance and feeling her warmth, then kissed it. He stood, picked up his jacket, and walked out of the room.
He stopped downstairs to scribble a note on the kitchen chalkboard. "The sun sets at exactly 4:48 p.m. tonight. I'll be here at 4:51." He looked at the detritus of his second Thanksgiving with Buffy, then walked out the back door, pausing at the steps where they had first made a little peace with each other so long ago. It was a very small thing that had grown and propelled them to this point, and now it seemed like a miracle, a tiny bit of care that obliterated all the pain and hate before it. He had patted her on the back, trying to make her feel better, and that single, selfless gesture had changed him forever.
Smiling at the memory, he stepped off the back porch, walked around the house past his tree, then ran down the street, outdistancing the sunrise.
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