Hmm...what to say? Thanks to everyone that's reviewed for this fic. I would've updated sooner, but I was in Paris for the last month or so. I wrote this in a bar, inspiration struck, while staring at some Parisienne hottie. Sorry, it happens. Review if you like, 'cause I definitely would.

"...I mean it Will, come home with me..."

He fixes me with a skeptical eye, "Why? What's waiting for me there?"

"Me."

Beautifully cruel lips curl upwards like smoke rising, "Haven't we tried this before Peaches? Almost a century of it, if I remember correctly. A century of fists and fangs and well..." The trademark smirk reappears, "Lots of other nasty bits."

I can remember every nasty bit, as he calls them. I actually remember them quite vividly, they were the only things that made me feel alive.

"...Didn't work out so well the last time now did it? What with you becoming a walking hair gel commercial with a soul. It's not going to work ducks. I don't think it was meant to..."

He's almost gentle as he insults me, I think this may be Spike's way of letting someone down easy.

"Yes it will," I insist almost petulantly, "It's like...We're Verlaine and Rimbaud."

That gets me two raised eyebrows and a slightly perplexed stare. At least I'm getting somewhere.

"So you're the middle aged brooding writer and I'm the hot young thing that you want in your bed? Can't we just skip to the part where we fight and one of us shoots the other and flees to London. I personally volunteer myself to go to London."

We've progressed to violence and teasing, I should be pleased. Thrown in an impulsive smirk and you've got Spike. Add some rather impressively bad poetry and its perfectly William.

"No, I think we're past that stage. We've moved into the happily ever after part."

He looks at me, eyes alight at the prospect of a good argument. I know exactly what he's thinking. Every argument we've ever had has always ended in some sort of sloppy, drunken competition. The competitions are always ridiculous and there never is a clear determination of what defines the winner.

There was this one time in Germany, we strolled thorugh the streets of Berlin in the nude. I think it was Spike's idea. I may have burned his clothes. I maintain that it was cold and things shrunk. I think the fact that he had a following of prosititutes helped him out a little bit. Whatever it was, he got more whistles than me and has yet to let me forget about it. He maintains that he's 'just a better fucking specimen love!' I let him believe it.

"So how do you figure," he shifts on his stool and leans toward me.

"You beat me with a crowbar and ran away to Brazil," I reply dryly, remembering the millennium in hell that followed after that encounter.

"Oh, right," he leans back, "Can I still shoot you and flee to London?"

"NO." It's best to be blunt with Spike. He tends to

"What if I just wing you? Just a little nick."

do things like that. Honestly, I don't think all the neurons fire up there.

"No Spike," I sigh paitently.

"What if I winged you and didn't flee to London? That way you wouldn't have to pay for the ticket."

I know that he thinks this is a legitimate idea. Just don't ask me where it came from.

"No Spike."

"Come on! It only just for a little bit!" he starts to pout.

"Spike, I'm not going to voluntarily let you shoot me and then pay for an international plane ticket. Absolutely not."

"Why? It would be fun."

-I will not kill my Childe, I will not kill my Childe, I will not kill my Childe.-

"No Spike."

"Spoilsport," he mumbles grumpily.

"Come on," I get up from the bar.

"Where?"

"Home."

"Oh, right," he gets up without a fuss. I think he's forgotten that he didn't want to do this.

A glance confirms that yes, Spike did just put a glass bottle of whisket into his pocket. He's now in the process of tryiung to get the pretzel basket in there.

"Spike..." I warn.

"What?" He snaps. I think he's upset because he's just realized that the pretzels won't fit in there without breaking.

"I'll feed you when we get home."

"What?"

"We'll get takeout."

"Can I have dumplings?"

"Sure Spike." I guess I should be happy that he's following me out of Caritas.

"And Shrimp Toast?"

"Sure."

"And Kung Pao Chicken?"

"Sure."

"Can I ha..."

"You can have whatever you want."

"Oh, okay then."

I think I surprised him. He's silent for the first few blocks after we leave the bar. I might have to start thinking that Spike is capable of actual –thinking-! Hell may have just frozen over.

"Are we there yet?"

Weather forecast from hell:

The unecpected frost was set to come through the tri-hell dimension area. That system has currently changed course and will miss our area. Hell will remain at its current boiling temperature.

"Two more blocks."

-One block passes-

"Are we there yet?"

"Not yet."

What have I volunteered myself for? I actually fought to have this misbegotten brat of a vampire stay with me.

"Are we close?"

To killing you again?..."Very."

"Good, I'm hungry."

"I know."

He's silent again, should I be worried?

"Actually," he's lost the sarcastic edge, "Can I just go to bed? I'm kind of sleepy."

Did the Big Bad just say 'sleepy?'

"Sure."

"Do you know how to say anything other than sure?"

"Yeah," I smile. I missed this, the continual banter, the easy conversation. I missed having this around.

"That's good. Anything polysyllabic?"

"Sometimes."

He doesn't say anything, but I can feel him smiling.

The Hyperion is dark when we finally get there. I'm guessing Cordelia has left, rather than suffer the indignity that is a bleached blonde hyperactive vampire. If I had to guess, I would say that Wesley is probably sleeping in the books again.

"Where are the pet humans?"

"Home for the night."

"Slackers."

He sighs. I think he wanted to make fun of them. It would probably be the highlight of his day. I lead him into my small apartment, flipping on the lights as I walk through the door.

"Nice digs."

"This way," he follows me into the bedroom.

There's only the bed in there and my bedside table. He glances around and starts to get ready to bunk down on the floor.

"You can use the bed Spike."

"Well, where are you sleeping then?"

"On the couch," I turn to walk out the door, "Goodnight Spike."

"You can uh...you can stay here. You know, if you want."

His face is so vulnerable, I can't help but love it. I can tell he wants everything to work out here. I can tell that he wants this really bad. If he thinks he's adept at hiding his emotions, he's dead wrong.

"Okay."

That done, Spike starts stripping. I just remembered that he never slept with clothes on. Duster, T-shirt and forty punch Docs fall into a pile on the floor in a matter of seconds. His hands move to the belt buckle.

"Spike...pants stay on."

He doesn't argue. I don't think that he wants to mess with our temporary agreement of peace. He pulls back the comforter and climbs into a pile of Egyptian cotton.

"Coming?"

"Yeah," I strip down to my pants and climb on top of the covers.

Spike immediately slips over and snuggles into the hollow of my shoulder. His head resting on my arm, letting me drape my own around his shoulders. It just fits. It's like the last piece of the puzzle. He completes everything that I've been looking for since I moved to LA He belongs here.

"You know you belong here right?"

He shifts so he can look up at me with bright blue eyes, "Here? With you?"

"Here. With me."

He snorts, "Yeah, I've always known."

"I smile and stare at the ceiling. William's come home. That's all I've ever needed. Just William.

FIN