Part Eight
*Thanks to my husband Mike for the baseball info. Thanks to my sister Jean for the pillow joke.*
Her eyes were incapable of opening so early in the morning, and after so little sleep. But there was a phone somewhere, she knew it, and if her internal clock was right, it was about time to make the call.
She knocked over something that felt like a picture frame before she managed to grasp a phone-shaped object. Eyes still shut, she clumsily pounded in the numbers and held the phone to her ear, only to find it busy. Which is how she realized that she'd just dialed her own phone number.
With a sigh she keyed in the correct number, and she rolled over onto her side, pressing the phone into the pillow.
"Hi," she said softly into the receiver, her voice thick with sleep. "I need to call in. I'm uh.sick."
There was a sympathetic-sounding response that she couldn't quite comprehend, and, behind her, a stirring that pulled at the sheet, exposing her bare shoulder.
"Yeah," she continued. "So I can't come in. Cause I'm all uh.sick. Kay?"
As she tried to decipher the words from the other end of the phone line, a shudder went through her body. In her exhausted state, it took a moment for her to be able to pinpoint the source of this feeling. Just as her brain was registering a hand on her thighs and a mouth on her neck, she heard from the phone: "What's wrong?"
"Uh.uh." Buffy tried to steer her thoughts away from hand-and-mouth-on- body to come up with a reasonable lie. "It's um.pain." The hands became more daring, and immediately elicited a moan. "Ooooh!" She bit her lower lip. "Ooooh.the pain. Yeah, it's..ooooh..terrible. So I have to go now." She swallowed hard to keep more noises from escaping her mouth. "Okay then bye."
She hung up the phone and let it roll off the bed.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, preparing for an onslaught of sensation. But instead, the hands retreated, and the mouth moved up to her ear where it emitted a low and rough, "Do it again."
"Again?" she said through a chuckle. Still unwilling to open her eyes and acknowledge the daytime, or roll over and acknowledge the whispered voice behind her. "But I did it like, four times last night," she said, her tone dropping, almost ashamed.
"Yeah," he said casually, arrogantly. "Do it again. And this time.look at me when you do it."
Eyes still closed, she hesitated and tried to think of that would get him to shut up, or at least off the topic. Something like, 'It's not too early to punch you in the face' or 'Dawn's probably awake, and Dawn cooking breakfast can only end in tragedy. We should go downstairs' or 'How the hell did we get upstairs to my bedroom anyway? I don't remember that part'. Sure, there were things she could say, ways to get out of this; there were plenty of options. But she didn't choose any of them. Maybe because, when she rolled over, her legs tangled in the sheets and her mind set on fulfilling his request, she found that a small part of her, a *very * small part of her, something comparable to an eyelash, actually wanted to do it.
She opened her eyes, and there he was: stupid smirk, wide eyes, bed hair and all. This was the person she'd hated and wanted and sought out and feared. The worst kind of enemy: one who knew her weaknesses, knew when she was down, and could easily use that to his advantage. And then, somehow, a friend: one who, with a just a word, or a glance, or a kiss, could make her smile, or relax, or forget. But even within the comfort was the memory of an adversary, so that even as she moistened her lips and prepared herself to do what he'd asked, something was caught in the back of her throat, that small bit of fear.
And she looked at him, and she did it. "I love you."
A camera on him couldn't have picked up the change, but she, inches from his face, could tell. Whenever she was depressed, she imagined that she was buried within herself, and she knew that her friends were the same way. When things were the worst, they'd pull their emotions inside, putting on a fake smile and a blank stare for each other. But Spike existed at the edges of his eyes, everything about him easily visible. She found it laughable that he had ever successfully lied to her; she could read him so well.
And she thought it would be simple for someone to hurt him. She wondered how he, Mr. I-Am-A-Bad-Ass, could allow himself to be so vulnerable. It would be so easy for anyone to use his startling openness to control him, to destroy him.
And then, she thought maybe someone already had.
Her mouth opened, but she found that her thoughts were much too ridiculous to vocalize. It would be laughable for her to say, 'I'm sorry for how I used you, used your love for me, first to help me fight for my sister's life, and then, even more inexcusably, to comfort me, distract me from my misery. And I'm sorry for the moments, in all those distracting-amazing- terrifying-comforting moments, when you moved to kiss me, and I turned my face away.' It was just too little, and far too late, for those words to have any meaning left in them, just as she would find it absurd - almost insulting - for him to say, "I'm sorry I acted all stalkerish and then tried to rape you." It was impossible to count their mistakes, determine whose were the worst, or absolve them with words alone.
But as she watched his widening eyes and his hopeful half-smile, she knew that something had to happen. As impossible at it seemed, something had to be said to make everything - their history, their hatred, their sex, and their sins - tolerable to both of them.
A few nights ago, separated by the dead body of a demon, she'd had the same nagging feeling, a desire to apologize that she was sure had something to do with the current tightness in her throat. But the words hadn't made sense then either, and instead she'd said -
"Thank you," he whispered.
And then, just like that, it was okay.
Their long stare was interrupted by a shrill, deafening squeal. Spike jumped in surprise, ready to leap from the bed, arms raised, his fighting instincts awakened. But Buffy only sighed and reached to the floor to retrieve her pants.
"That's the breakfast bell," she said wearily, and then shouted, "Dawn!"
The alarm stopped and a reply came from downstairs: "It's okay! Everything's okay!"
Buffy pulled on the clothes she'd worn yesterday - a pair of jeans and a tank top - noting that her underwear was nowhere to be found, but unable to work up the energy to care. She opened the bedroom door and called down the stairs, "Remember to smother the flames, not fan them!"
She turned back into the bedroom, where Spike had put his pants on, and was now poking through the piles of her dirty clothes on the floor, searching for his shirt. "You're a slob, Slayer," he said as he kicked aside a pile of jeans. "Don't know how you managed to stop any apocalypses, being this disorganized."
Ah, yes. Witty banter and cutting insults. Much more familiar than declarations of love. "Fine," she replied. "You stay here and criticize me, and I'll go downstairs and have waffles."
"Fine," Spike snarled at her retreating form. Then his eyes lit up. "Wait. Waffles?"
Buffy found her younger sister standing over the sink, running water over a smoking pan. "Hey, Buffy," Dawn said, still focused on the sink. "Is it normal for one boob to be bigger than the other?" She turned around and yelped in surprise.
"What?" Buffy turned quickly, but found only Spike there, himself equally concerned, scanning the kitchen for the source of Dawn's shout.
"Oh my god!" Dawn rushed towards both of them, her shocked expression relaxing into a smile.
"What?" Buffy repeated. Then it registered: early morning, shirtless Spike, braless Buffy.
"Wow," Dawn said. "I heard all the screaming and banging down here when I went to bed, but I thought you two were fighting." She shrugged and went back to the stove, where a second frying pan was empty and sizzling. "I guess it's like when we used to go to the zoo, and I'd see the monkeys and think they were trying to kill each other, and then mom would have to explain that they weren't *fighting*, they were-"
"Dawn," Buffy said as a warning.
Dawn chuckled as she moved the empty pan to the sink. "Well, the waffles are all burnt up, but I can walk to Krispy Kreme." She picked up her purse from the counter and headed for the back door. "I'm sure you two are hungry after all that crazy monkey sex." And with one final giggle, she dashed outside.
"Kids today," Buffy said with a shake of her head. "No respect for the emotional problems of their elders. Orange juice?" She went to the refrigerator and took out the carton. When she looked back, Spike was staring at the doorway, motionless.
"What?"
He blinked and looked over at her, his mouth slack, though his eyes seemed to be smiling. She'd so rarely seen his eyes happy that it shocked her every time, caught her breath in her stomach, and, when it was finally exhaled roughly, she couldn't help but smile in return. That's where she'd seen Angel's soul return - in his eyes, and as she looked into Spike's deep blue eyes now, she thought that this was what had changed most in him. That look of wonder, that peaceful gaze - that was what he'd gained in his journey. In his eyes now she saw how he loved her, and knew that this was the level of love he'd been unable to give her as a demon. And as his mouth opened, she knew what he was going to say.
"They opened a Krispy Kreme in Sunnydale?"
She laughed. "Yeah, just last week. You been to one?"
"Hundreds," he said reverently. He moved to the center island and leaned against the counter. "Traveled all across America to get back here. Seems like there's one in every town now."
"They're good," she said as she poured herself a cup of juice.
"No, they're better than good." He leaned further over the counter and looked up at her, eyes wide. "Do you know that when you go in there, they give you one glazed free, and it's straight from the oven?" His mouth spread into a contented smile and his eyes closed. "It just melts in your mouth; it's so warm." His eyes snapped open, panicked now. "You should go after her. Make sure she gets a dozen, maybe more."
"Calm down there," Buffy said with a chuckle. She leaned against the other side of the counter, her face close to his. "Actually, I thought I might offer to do a blood run for ya'."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Blood can wait til tonight. But Krispy Kremes..."
"I'm sure she'll get a dozen."
"She better," Spike said, his eyes twinkling wickedly. "Shortage of donuts, that could make a man turn evil again."
"Oooo, I'm so scared."
She leaned in to kiss him, and their lips met so easily that it seemed only natural for him to reach out for her, only natural for her to climb up onto the counter and wrap her arms around his neck. And when the plastic cup spilled orange juice as it clattered to the floor, and she felt it seep through her shirt and to her back as his body bore down on hers, and when he moaned, "mmmm" into her throat as he kissed it, and when he followed that with a whispered, "mmm donuts", and when she burst into laughter, and kept laughing, even as she removed the wet shirt from her body, she thought,
*I could get used to this.*
*
Dawn walked into the dining room with a long red and green box, where a freshly-showered Buffy, her hair still wet, sat painting her fingernails. Dawn placed her package down to examine the bottle of nail polish.
"Pale Pink Passion," she read from the label, and then smirked at he sister. "The official color of a new boyfriend."
"Is not," Buffy said. She held out her fingers to examine her work and then blew on her nails softly.
"Is too," Dawn countered. "You wore the same color on your first date with Riley, and before that, with Scott Hope."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "There is no way you could possibly know that."
"Sure I can." Dawn took a chocolate glazed from the box and sat down at the table. "That's my nail polish, so I always notice when you steal it. And also, I read your diary pretty much daily."
Buffy threw an angry look across the table and reached into the Krispy Kreme box with the hand that had already dried.
"Not that I mind," Dawn added. "Steal the happy-love colors all you want. Last fall you drained most of my depressing colors. It was Deep Red Sunset and Midnight Maroon all year long."
"You know," Buffy said through a mouthful of jelly donut. "Just because you take something from my room and put it in your room, that doesn't make it *yours*."
Dawn only smiled and took another bite of her donut. "So is he still here?"
Buffy nodded. "Yeah, and you really gotta see this."
Spike was asleep on the living room couch, his knees drawn to his chest, and both arms wrapped around the pillow, hugging it to his head possessively. He wasn't breathing, but every few moments his eyelashes fluttered against his face and his lips parted slightly, then closed again.
"It's so cute," Dawn said.
"Almost sweet," Buffy agreed.
Dawn looked sideways at her sister. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Buffy smiled. "I'll get the lipstick."
*
Spike woke up to the sound of two hushed female voices coming from the next room. Occasionally bursts of laughter and teasing shouts broke through their whispered conversation, and slowly lured him back from sleep. After checking to make sure the drapes were securely closed, Spike sat up, turned on the television, and shouted, "Donuts!"
"Five thousand and twenty-four to three thousand four hundred and twelve," he heard Dawn say. "You suck."
"Do not," came Buffy's reply.
"Hey, I'm just repeating what I read on the bathroom wall down at the bowling alley," Dawn said innocently.
"Donuts!" Spike shouted, louder this time.
Dawn appeared in the doorway a moment later with her hand on her hip. "Grouchy much? We saved you four."
"We would have saved more," Buffy said, entering with the Krispy Kreme box. "But Dawn's a pig."
"At least my weight goes to my boobs," Dawn replied with a smirk. "And not to my big fat calves."
"You got her there, nibblet," Spike said as he took the box and dug into it.
Buffy glared at both of them before sitting down on the couch beside Spike, who devoured half of a glazed donut in one bite. "Hey! Let's not forget which one of us has the strongest and most destructive supernatural power."
"Yeah," Spike said, his mouth full. "Dawn."
"What's on TV?" Dawn moved to sit on the floor in front of them.
"I believe the official term is 'pansy American baseball'," Spike told her. "But not much else to watch on the telly when you're home all day." As he brought the donut to his mouth to finish it off, he caught a glimpse of his hand and froze.
Buffy stifled a giggle.
"Do you like it?" Dawn asked. "I thought you were more of a Midnight Maroon guy, but Buffy used up all of mine."
"So it's Wild Mango," Buffy said, erupting into laughter.
"You are two seriously evil bitches," he said, glaring from one giggling woman to the other. "And you better have a way to get this bloody stuff off. Don't think Wild Mango will go over so well when I have to go to Willie's later for blood."
"I have nail polish remover," Dawn said, though she made no more to retrieve it. "And I think I have some black, if you're still into that lame goth thing."
Spike rearranged his pillow and leaned back against it. "My thing is neither lame nor goth. Now be quiet already; this is an important game."
"You put some big kittens on it?" Buffy said from the opposite end of the couch.
"It's a subway series," he explained without taking his eyes from the TV. "Mets at the Yankees. See that guy pitching? That's Roger Clemens. Has a big feud with Mike Piazza."
"Why do they have a feud?" Dawn asked.
"Two years ago Clemens beaned Piazza in the head with a pitch. Yankees tried to make like it was all an accident, but the next year, Piazza breaks his bat on a hit, and then Clemens picks it up and throws it. The bat comes close to hitting Piazza, so he storms the pitcher's mound and there's almost a fight." Spike stretched to reach one of the remaining donuts. "Damn funny thing. Earlier this season, when Clemens was at bat, the Mets pitcher threw wide and almost knocked him in the ass with it." He chuckled through a mouthful of donut. "So, with any luck, two of them'll be up against each other some time this game, and they'll be a little bloodshed."
"But why do they hate each other so much?" Dawn asked.
Spike shrugged. "Dunno. They play for different teams, keep getting in each other's way. Just a clash of personalities, I suppose."
Buffy considered the story. "So, let me get this straight. Two people who, for no real apparent reason, hate each other passionately, keep trying to hurt each other, and seem to get a kick out of pissing each other off."
"That's about it," Spike said.
Buffy nodded. "I think they're in love."
Spike nearly choked on the final bit of donut he was chewing. "What?"
Dawn smiled in agreement. "Unresolved sexual tension. Makes sense."
"They are not in love," Spike said with a scowl.
Buffy tapped Dawn on the shoulder playfully. "I bet the next time they fight, they do that thing where they get right up in each other's faces -"
"Yeah, and they're screaming and cursing."
"And then one of them grabs the other and they kiss."
"And then they realize they wanted each other all along," Dawn said, putting her hand to her chest.
Spike put his hand to his head. "Ugh. Will you stop making it all gay? I won't be able to watch."
"Wait, you said Clemens is a pitcher, right?" Buffy asked. "What about the other guy? What position is he?"
"Piazza," Spike said wearily. "He's a catcher."
Buffy burst into laughter.
"What?" Dawn got up onto her knees and turned to face them. "What? Why is that funny?"
"Well, you know." Buffy put her hand to her mouth to smother more giggling. "Gay men, you know..pitcher, catcher?"
Dawn's eyes widened. "*That's* what that means?"
Buffy held one hand out towards her sister. "Oh Piazza! I love what you do with my balls!"
Dawn took Buffy's hand and fluttered her eyelashes mockingly. "Oh Clemens! My bat is so long and hard!"
Spike clicked off the TV. "I hate you both."
"Oh Clemens! Hurt me with your huge bat!" Buffy shouted out even as she and her sister both burst into a fit of giggles.
"Shut up," Spike said weakly. "If I didn't want this pillow so much, I'd throw it at you." He put his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. When he felt something sticky, he withdrew his hand and frowned at it. "What's.?" He grabbed a napkin from the donut box, scrubbed at his lips, and then looked at the red stain it had left behind.
Buffy and Dawn both collapsed with laugher.
*
An hour later, Spike sat with one hand on the coffee table while Dawn, sitting on the other side of the table, applied fresh black nail polish. Buffy sat stretched out across the length of the couch.
"So the only way out is the mystical-pool-thingy," Buffy said, "And there's this huge metal gate blocking our path. So I put my back to it and I get it up, lifting with the knees, of course, not the back. It's crazy heavy, but I manage to lift it a little, and everyone gets through. Everyone including Evil Demon Guy #1, but ha ha, I drop the gate so that it impales his legs. And then I say something cool and I smash in his head with a club."
"Cool," Dawn said as she finished the last nail and surveyed her work.
"So you've been to hell," Spike said.
"Yep," Buffy replied. "And there was a whole section just for boy bands."
"Figures." Spike took his hand back and scrutinized his nails. "Nice job," he said to Dawn.
"I'm the expert," Dawn said proudly. She smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. "This is fun, just hanging out like this, isn't it?"
Buffy nodded. "I wouldn't mind spending the rest of the summer this way. Peanut and laughing with my Dawn, and torturing Spike."
Spike threw her a half-hearted snarl as he moved back to the couch.
"Maybe Spike can stick around?" Dawn asked hopefully. "For a few days, at least?"
Suddenly embarrassed, Buffy gave Dawn a small smile and tried not to notice the bare arm brushing against her leg as Spike resumed his relaxed pose at the end of the couch, and she drew up her legs to give him more room. "I don't see why not."
"Yeah, should be a good time," Spike told her. "So long as nothing bad happens."
Both women turned to Spike, mouths hanging open, faces distorted with shock and horror.
"What?" Spike said.
As if on cue, the front door banged open and Anya rushed into the house calling out, "Buffy! Something's happening; are you okay?"
She stopped at the entrance to the living room and took in the casual scene: Dawn sitting on the floor with a bottle of nail polish, and Spike shirtless, reclining on the couch, one hand moving tentatively to rest on Buffy's knee.
"Oh," she continued with a stiff smile. "This is one of those uncomfortable moments I hate. Buffy, glad you're all right; I was worried when you weren't around for lunch. And Spike, nice to see you're back; sorry about the depressed-sex-thing."
Spike nodded. "Not a problem." The foot closest to him made sharp contact with his hip. "I mean, um." His eyes widened in mock concern. "You said something's happening?"
"Some sort of apocalypse?" Dawn asked.
"No," Anya said.
Buffy breathed a sigh of relief.
"Much worse than that," Anya added. "Remember I told you some weird foreign customer was coming to the shop today? Well." She turned to the door, which was still partially open. "Where did he go? Hey! Foreigner!"
The door opened further, and a familiar man entered the room behind Anya, his arms filled with large, dusty books, his face somber and full of purpose.
Buffy swung her legs to the floor and stared at the man in shock. "Wesley?"
Spike groaned. "Didn't I tell you to sod off once already?"
Dawn looked from the man in the doorway to Spike and back. "What's going on?"
"Hello, Buffy." Wesley said, setting his books down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, but there's little time for catching up. After re-examining the prophecies of Aberjian, and cross-referencing them with some texts Anya was able to provide, I believe that the End of Days is well on its way."
"Of course," Buffy muttered.
Wesley squared his shoulders and took a step closer to the couch. "Like it or not, Spike, you will play a central role in these final battles. You can't turn your back on this. It's very clear from my research that the fate of the world rests solely on your." He trailed off, looking confused. "Are you wearing mascara?"
(tbc)
*Thanks to my husband Mike for the baseball info. Thanks to my sister Jean for the pillow joke.*
Her eyes were incapable of opening so early in the morning, and after so little sleep. But there was a phone somewhere, she knew it, and if her internal clock was right, it was about time to make the call.
She knocked over something that felt like a picture frame before she managed to grasp a phone-shaped object. Eyes still shut, she clumsily pounded in the numbers and held the phone to her ear, only to find it busy. Which is how she realized that she'd just dialed her own phone number.
With a sigh she keyed in the correct number, and she rolled over onto her side, pressing the phone into the pillow.
"Hi," she said softly into the receiver, her voice thick with sleep. "I need to call in. I'm uh.sick."
There was a sympathetic-sounding response that she couldn't quite comprehend, and, behind her, a stirring that pulled at the sheet, exposing her bare shoulder.
"Yeah," she continued. "So I can't come in. Cause I'm all uh.sick. Kay?"
As she tried to decipher the words from the other end of the phone line, a shudder went through her body. In her exhausted state, it took a moment for her to be able to pinpoint the source of this feeling. Just as her brain was registering a hand on her thighs and a mouth on her neck, she heard from the phone: "What's wrong?"
"Uh.uh." Buffy tried to steer her thoughts away from hand-and-mouth-on- body to come up with a reasonable lie. "It's um.pain." The hands became more daring, and immediately elicited a moan. "Ooooh!" She bit her lower lip. "Ooooh.the pain. Yeah, it's..ooooh..terrible. So I have to go now." She swallowed hard to keep more noises from escaping her mouth. "Okay then bye."
She hung up the phone and let it roll off the bed.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, preparing for an onslaught of sensation. But instead, the hands retreated, and the mouth moved up to her ear where it emitted a low and rough, "Do it again."
"Again?" she said through a chuckle. Still unwilling to open her eyes and acknowledge the daytime, or roll over and acknowledge the whispered voice behind her. "But I did it like, four times last night," she said, her tone dropping, almost ashamed.
"Yeah," he said casually, arrogantly. "Do it again. And this time.look at me when you do it."
Eyes still closed, she hesitated and tried to think of that would get him to shut up, or at least off the topic. Something like, 'It's not too early to punch you in the face' or 'Dawn's probably awake, and Dawn cooking breakfast can only end in tragedy. We should go downstairs' or 'How the hell did we get upstairs to my bedroom anyway? I don't remember that part'. Sure, there were things she could say, ways to get out of this; there were plenty of options. But she didn't choose any of them. Maybe because, when she rolled over, her legs tangled in the sheets and her mind set on fulfilling his request, she found that a small part of her, a *very * small part of her, something comparable to an eyelash, actually wanted to do it.
She opened her eyes, and there he was: stupid smirk, wide eyes, bed hair and all. This was the person she'd hated and wanted and sought out and feared. The worst kind of enemy: one who knew her weaknesses, knew when she was down, and could easily use that to his advantage. And then, somehow, a friend: one who, with a just a word, or a glance, or a kiss, could make her smile, or relax, or forget. But even within the comfort was the memory of an adversary, so that even as she moistened her lips and prepared herself to do what he'd asked, something was caught in the back of her throat, that small bit of fear.
And she looked at him, and she did it. "I love you."
A camera on him couldn't have picked up the change, but she, inches from his face, could tell. Whenever she was depressed, she imagined that she was buried within herself, and she knew that her friends were the same way. When things were the worst, they'd pull their emotions inside, putting on a fake smile and a blank stare for each other. But Spike existed at the edges of his eyes, everything about him easily visible. She found it laughable that he had ever successfully lied to her; she could read him so well.
And she thought it would be simple for someone to hurt him. She wondered how he, Mr. I-Am-A-Bad-Ass, could allow himself to be so vulnerable. It would be so easy for anyone to use his startling openness to control him, to destroy him.
And then, she thought maybe someone already had.
Her mouth opened, but she found that her thoughts were much too ridiculous to vocalize. It would be laughable for her to say, 'I'm sorry for how I used you, used your love for me, first to help me fight for my sister's life, and then, even more inexcusably, to comfort me, distract me from my misery. And I'm sorry for the moments, in all those distracting-amazing- terrifying-comforting moments, when you moved to kiss me, and I turned my face away.' It was just too little, and far too late, for those words to have any meaning left in them, just as she would find it absurd - almost insulting - for him to say, "I'm sorry I acted all stalkerish and then tried to rape you." It was impossible to count their mistakes, determine whose were the worst, or absolve them with words alone.
But as she watched his widening eyes and his hopeful half-smile, she knew that something had to happen. As impossible at it seemed, something had to be said to make everything - their history, their hatred, their sex, and their sins - tolerable to both of them.
A few nights ago, separated by the dead body of a demon, she'd had the same nagging feeling, a desire to apologize that she was sure had something to do with the current tightness in her throat. But the words hadn't made sense then either, and instead she'd said -
"Thank you," he whispered.
And then, just like that, it was okay.
Their long stare was interrupted by a shrill, deafening squeal. Spike jumped in surprise, ready to leap from the bed, arms raised, his fighting instincts awakened. But Buffy only sighed and reached to the floor to retrieve her pants.
"That's the breakfast bell," she said wearily, and then shouted, "Dawn!"
The alarm stopped and a reply came from downstairs: "It's okay! Everything's okay!"
Buffy pulled on the clothes she'd worn yesterday - a pair of jeans and a tank top - noting that her underwear was nowhere to be found, but unable to work up the energy to care. She opened the bedroom door and called down the stairs, "Remember to smother the flames, not fan them!"
She turned back into the bedroom, where Spike had put his pants on, and was now poking through the piles of her dirty clothes on the floor, searching for his shirt. "You're a slob, Slayer," he said as he kicked aside a pile of jeans. "Don't know how you managed to stop any apocalypses, being this disorganized."
Ah, yes. Witty banter and cutting insults. Much more familiar than declarations of love. "Fine," she replied. "You stay here and criticize me, and I'll go downstairs and have waffles."
"Fine," Spike snarled at her retreating form. Then his eyes lit up. "Wait. Waffles?"
Buffy found her younger sister standing over the sink, running water over a smoking pan. "Hey, Buffy," Dawn said, still focused on the sink. "Is it normal for one boob to be bigger than the other?" She turned around and yelped in surprise.
"What?" Buffy turned quickly, but found only Spike there, himself equally concerned, scanning the kitchen for the source of Dawn's shout.
"Oh my god!" Dawn rushed towards both of them, her shocked expression relaxing into a smile.
"What?" Buffy repeated. Then it registered: early morning, shirtless Spike, braless Buffy.
"Wow," Dawn said. "I heard all the screaming and banging down here when I went to bed, but I thought you two were fighting." She shrugged and went back to the stove, where a second frying pan was empty and sizzling. "I guess it's like when we used to go to the zoo, and I'd see the monkeys and think they were trying to kill each other, and then mom would have to explain that they weren't *fighting*, they were-"
"Dawn," Buffy said as a warning.
Dawn chuckled as she moved the empty pan to the sink. "Well, the waffles are all burnt up, but I can walk to Krispy Kreme." She picked up her purse from the counter and headed for the back door. "I'm sure you two are hungry after all that crazy monkey sex." And with one final giggle, she dashed outside.
"Kids today," Buffy said with a shake of her head. "No respect for the emotional problems of their elders. Orange juice?" She went to the refrigerator and took out the carton. When she looked back, Spike was staring at the doorway, motionless.
"What?"
He blinked and looked over at her, his mouth slack, though his eyes seemed to be smiling. She'd so rarely seen his eyes happy that it shocked her every time, caught her breath in her stomach, and, when it was finally exhaled roughly, she couldn't help but smile in return. That's where she'd seen Angel's soul return - in his eyes, and as she looked into Spike's deep blue eyes now, she thought that this was what had changed most in him. That look of wonder, that peaceful gaze - that was what he'd gained in his journey. In his eyes now she saw how he loved her, and knew that this was the level of love he'd been unable to give her as a demon. And as his mouth opened, she knew what he was going to say.
"They opened a Krispy Kreme in Sunnydale?"
She laughed. "Yeah, just last week. You been to one?"
"Hundreds," he said reverently. He moved to the center island and leaned against the counter. "Traveled all across America to get back here. Seems like there's one in every town now."
"They're good," she said as she poured herself a cup of juice.
"No, they're better than good." He leaned further over the counter and looked up at her, eyes wide. "Do you know that when you go in there, they give you one glazed free, and it's straight from the oven?" His mouth spread into a contented smile and his eyes closed. "It just melts in your mouth; it's so warm." His eyes snapped open, panicked now. "You should go after her. Make sure she gets a dozen, maybe more."
"Calm down there," Buffy said with a chuckle. She leaned against the other side of the counter, her face close to his. "Actually, I thought I might offer to do a blood run for ya'."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Blood can wait til tonight. But Krispy Kremes..."
"I'm sure she'll get a dozen."
"She better," Spike said, his eyes twinkling wickedly. "Shortage of donuts, that could make a man turn evil again."
"Oooo, I'm so scared."
She leaned in to kiss him, and their lips met so easily that it seemed only natural for him to reach out for her, only natural for her to climb up onto the counter and wrap her arms around his neck. And when the plastic cup spilled orange juice as it clattered to the floor, and she felt it seep through her shirt and to her back as his body bore down on hers, and when he moaned, "mmmm" into her throat as he kissed it, and when he followed that with a whispered, "mmm donuts", and when she burst into laughter, and kept laughing, even as she removed the wet shirt from her body, she thought,
*I could get used to this.*
*
Dawn walked into the dining room with a long red and green box, where a freshly-showered Buffy, her hair still wet, sat painting her fingernails. Dawn placed her package down to examine the bottle of nail polish.
"Pale Pink Passion," she read from the label, and then smirked at he sister. "The official color of a new boyfriend."
"Is not," Buffy said. She held out her fingers to examine her work and then blew on her nails softly.
"Is too," Dawn countered. "You wore the same color on your first date with Riley, and before that, with Scott Hope."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "There is no way you could possibly know that."
"Sure I can." Dawn took a chocolate glazed from the box and sat down at the table. "That's my nail polish, so I always notice when you steal it. And also, I read your diary pretty much daily."
Buffy threw an angry look across the table and reached into the Krispy Kreme box with the hand that had already dried.
"Not that I mind," Dawn added. "Steal the happy-love colors all you want. Last fall you drained most of my depressing colors. It was Deep Red Sunset and Midnight Maroon all year long."
"You know," Buffy said through a mouthful of jelly donut. "Just because you take something from my room and put it in your room, that doesn't make it *yours*."
Dawn only smiled and took another bite of her donut. "So is he still here?"
Buffy nodded. "Yeah, and you really gotta see this."
Spike was asleep on the living room couch, his knees drawn to his chest, and both arms wrapped around the pillow, hugging it to his head possessively. He wasn't breathing, but every few moments his eyelashes fluttered against his face and his lips parted slightly, then closed again.
"It's so cute," Dawn said.
"Almost sweet," Buffy agreed.
Dawn looked sideways at her sister. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Buffy smiled. "I'll get the lipstick."
*
Spike woke up to the sound of two hushed female voices coming from the next room. Occasionally bursts of laughter and teasing shouts broke through their whispered conversation, and slowly lured him back from sleep. After checking to make sure the drapes were securely closed, Spike sat up, turned on the television, and shouted, "Donuts!"
"Five thousand and twenty-four to three thousand four hundred and twelve," he heard Dawn say. "You suck."
"Do not," came Buffy's reply.
"Hey, I'm just repeating what I read on the bathroom wall down at the bowling alley," Dawn said innocently.
"Donuts!" Spike shouted, louder this time.
Dawn appeared in the doorway a moment later with her hand on her hip. "Grouchy much? We saved you four."
"We would have saved more," Buffy said, entering with the Krispy Kreme box. "But Dawn's a pig."
"At least my weight goes to my boobs," Dawn replied with a smirk. "And not to my big fat calves."
"You got her there, nibblet," Spike said as he took the box and dug into it.
Buffy glared at both of them before sitting down on the couch beside Spike, who devoured half of a glazed donut in one bite. "Hey! Let's not forget which one of us has the strongest and most destructive supernatural power."
"Yeah," Spike said, his mouth full. "Dawn."
"What's on TV?" Dawn moved to sit on the floor in front of them.
"I believe the official term is 'pansy American baseball'," Spike told her. "But not much else to watch on the telly when you're home all day." As he brought the donut to his mouth to finish it off, he caught a glimpse of his hand and froze.
Buffy stifled a giggle.
"Do you like it?" Dawn asked. "I thought you were more of a Midnight Maroon guy, but Buffy used up all of mine."
"So it's Wild Mango," Buffy said, erupting into laughter.
"You are two seriously evil bitches," he said, glaring from one giggling woman to the other. "And you better have a way to get this bloody stuff off. Don't think Wild Mango will go over so well when I have to go to Willie's later for blood."
"I have nail polish remover," Dawn said, though she made no more to retrieve it. "And I think I have some black, if you're still into that lame goth thing."
Spike rearranged his pillow and leaned back against it. "My thing is neither lame nor goth. Now be quiet already; this is an important game."
"You put some big kittens on it?" Buffy said from the opposite end of the couch.
"It's a subway series," he explained without taking his eyes from the TV. "Mets at the Yankees. See that guy pitching? That's Roger Clemens. Has a big feud with Mike Piazza."
"Why do they have a feud?" Dawn asked.
"Two years ago Clemens beaned Piazza in the head with a pitch. Yankees tried to make like it was all an accident, but the next year, Piazza breaks his bat on a hit, and then Clemens picks it up and throws it. The bat comes close to hitting Piazza, so he storms the pitcher's mound and there's almost a fight." Spike stretched to reach one of the remaining donuts. "Damn funny thing. Earlier this season, when Clemens was at bat, the Mets pitcher threw wide and almost knocked him in the ass with it." He chuckled through a mouthful of donut. "So, with any luck, two of them'll be up against each other some time this game, and they'll be a little bloodshed."
"But why do they hate each other so much?" Dawn asked.
Spike shrugged. "Dunno. They play for different teams, keep getting in each other's way. Just a clash of personalities, I suppose."
Buffy considered the story. "So, let me get this straight. Two people who, for no real apparent reason, hate each other passionately, keep trying to hurt each other, and seem to get a kick out of pissing each other off."
"That's about it," Spike said.
Buffy nodded. "I think they're in love."
Spike nearly choked on the final bit of donut he was chewing. "What?"
Dawn smiled in agreement. "Unresolved sexual tension. Makes sense."
"They are not in love," Spike said with a scowl.
Buffy tapped Dawn on the shoulder playfully. "I bet the next time they fight, they do that thing where they get right up in each other's faces -"
"Yeah, and they're screaming and cursing."
"And then one of them grabs the other and they kiss."
"And then they realize they wanted each other all along," Dawn said, putting her hand to her chest.
Spike put his hand to his head. "Ugh. Will you stop making it all gay? I won't be able to watch."
"Wait, you said Clemens is a pitcher, right?" Buffy asked. "What about the other guy? What position is he?"
"Piazza," Spike said wearily. "He's a catcher."
Buffy burst into laughter.
"What?" Dawn got up onto her knees and turned to face them. "What? Why is that funny?"
"Well, you know." Buffy put her hand to her mouth to smother more giggling. "Gay men, you know..pitcher, catcher?"
Dawn's eyes widened. "*That's* what that means?"
Buffy held one hand out towards her sister. "Oh Piazza! I love what you do with my balls!"
Dawn took Buffy's hand and fluttered her eyelashes mockingly. "Oh Clemens! My bat is so long and hard!"
Spike clicked off the TV. "I hate you both."
"Oh Clemens! Hurt me with your huge bat!" Buffy shouted out even as she and her sister both burst into a fit of giggles.
"Shut up," Spike said weakly. "If I didn't want this pillow so much, I'd throw it at you." He put his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. When he felt something sticky, he withdrew his hand and frowned at it. "What's.?" He grabbed a napkin from the donut box, scrubbed at his lips, and then looked at the red stain it had left behind.
Buffy and Dawn both collapsed with laugher.
*
An hour later, Spike sat with one hand on the coffee table while Dawn, sitting on the other side of the table, applied fresh black nail polish. Buffy sat stretched out across the length of the couch.
"So the only way out is the mystical-pool-thingy," Buffy said, "And there's this huge metal gate blocking our path. So I put my back to it and I get it up, lifting with the knees, of course, not the back. It's crazy heavy, but I manage to lift it a little, and everyone gets through. Everyone including Evil Demon Guy #1, but ha ha, I drop the gate so that it impales his legs. And then I say something cool and I smash in his head with a club."
"Cool," Dawn said as she finished the last nail and surveyed her work.
"So you've been to hell," Spike said.
"Yep," Buffy replied. "And there was a whole section just for boy bands."
"Figures." Spike took his hand back and scrutinized his nails. "Nice job," he said to Dawn.
"I'm the expert," Dawn said proudly. She smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. "This is fun, just hanging out like this, isn't it?"
Buffy nodded. "I wouldn't mind spending the rest of the summer this way. Peanut and laughing with my Dawn, and torturing Spike."
Spike threw her a half-hearted snarl as he moved back to the couch.
"Maybe Spike can stick around?" Dawn asked hopefully. "For a few days, at least?"
Suddenly embarrassed, Buffy gave Dawn a small smile and tried not to notice the bare arm brushing against her leg as Spike resumed his relaxed pose at the end of the couch, and she drew up her legs to give him more room. "I don't see why not."
"Yeah, should be a good time," Spike told her. "So long as nothing bad happens."
Both women turned to Spike, mouths hanging open, faces distorted with shock and horror.
"What?" Spike said.
As if on cue, the front door banged open and Anya rushed into the house calling out, "Buffy! Something's happening; are you okay?"
She stopped at the entrance to the living room and took in the casual scene: Dawn sitting on the floor with a bottle of nail polish, and Spike shirtless, reclining on the couch, one hand moving tentatively to rest on Buffy's knee.
"Oh," she continued with a stiff smile. "This is one of those uncomfortable moments I hate. Buffy, glad you're all right; I was worried when you weren't around for lunch. And Spike, nice to see you're back; sorry about the depressed-sex-thing."
Spike nodded. "Not a problem." The foot closest to him made sharp contact with his hip. "I mean, um." His eyes widened in mock concern. "You said something's happening?"
"Some sort of apocalypse?" Dawn asked.
"No," Anya said.
Buffy breathed a sigh of relief.
"Much worse than that," Anya added. "Remember I told you some weird foreign customer was coming to the shop today? Well." She turned to the door, which was still partially open. "Where did he go? Hey! Foreigner!"
The door opened further, and a familiar man entered the room behind Anya, his arms filled with large, dusty books, his face somber and full of purpose.
Buffy swung her legs to the floor and stared at the man in shock. "Wesley?"
Spike groaned. "Didn't I tell you to sod off once already?"
Dawn looked from the man in the doorway to Spike and back. "What's going on?"
"Hello, Buffy." Wesley said, setting his books down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, but there's little time for catching up. After re-examining the prophecies of Aberjian, and cross-referencing them with some texts Anya was able to provide, I believe that the End of Days is well on its way."
"Of course," Buffy muttered.
Wesley squared his shoulders and took a step closer to the couch. "Like it or not, Spike, you will play a central role in these final battles. You can't turn your back on this. It's very clear from my research that the fate of the world rests solely on your." He trailed off, looking confused. "Are you wearing mascara?"
(tbc)