I don't remember my legs being this rubbery when I got on the plane in Rome. Yet, here I am, in LA and all I can do is keep singing a song I heard in one of those old claymation Christmas movies. Off-key, too.

Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you'll be walking cross the floor
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you'll be walking out the door

The cabbie mumbled something in Mexicanese under his breath when I threw a wad of bills at him. I'm pretty sure it wasn't "Wow, that girl can sing!" It was probably more along the lines of "I'm glad that crazy gringo bitch is finally out of my stinky cab." What fucking ever. It's pushing nine and I'm standing in the middle of this concrete jungle playing the same game I played in Rome.

Go in. Don't go in. Go in. Don't go in.

Yeah. I know. Shit or get off the pot. Pot. Now that's something I've never tried. I'd probably give into temptation and smoke some right now if it was offered, though. Sure. Why the Hell not? And then I remember the little bottle of Bacardi I pilfered from the plane sitting in my carry-on. So, I put the bag on the ground next to my suitcase full of stuff I probably won't wear because, come on, Spike likes me naked. Well, at least he used to like me naked.

Ooh! Alcoholic fortification. I slip what's left of the bottle in my jacket pocket and then I'm in. And the security guard is asking me a myriad of questions that should be simple, but I'm on a mission. And this is just wasting my time, so I do what I do best... hit him and run. And I make it to the elevator as I hear his lackey calling up to the offices above us.

I have no idea what floor they're on, so I just follow my Spidey senses. Correction, Slayer senses. I don't get a cool costume and mask. I don't get to shoot webs at my enemies. No. Not me. I get a pointy piece of wood and the burden of footing my own bill in the clothing department although Andrew did tell me that he could probably get the Council of Watchers to give me some sort of clothing allowance since so many get ruined in battle. Yay, Andrew. That would make Buffy a very happy girl.

I'm not sure what floor this is, but I'm getting major vamp tinglies up and down my spine. I hit the button I hope will make this thing stop. Great. Funky doors that open on both sides. Spidey senses say go right. Uh, Slayer senses. Yes. It's definately this way. Wait... bottle of Bacardi... yes. In my jacket pocket. So, I pull it out and finish it off. I wish I had more. Maybe Angel has a nice little wet bar in his office. I keep walking down the semi-dark corridor. Aha! Angel's office! How can I tell? I can smell the hair gel.

Knock. Don't knock. Knock. Don't knock.

Don't knock. Nope. I kick the door as hard as I can and it flies open. Angel's sitting at his desk and he's on the phone. I'm just loving the look of shock on his face. He's looking a little scared. Definately wasn't expecting Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In half a heartbeat, I'm on his desk and he's on the receiving end of Mr. Pointy. One wrong move and I'll dust his ass. And I think he knows it.

He tells whoever is on the phone that he'll call them back. Good idea. I'd hate to have one of his little clients hear him go poof!

"Buffy, what are--"

"Can it, Pisches!" Okay, so not the authoritative voice I'd heard in my head. Seems my mouth is working about as well as my legs. "Want my bampire! NOW!"

Angel's got his hands raised in surrender. And he's pulling that ridiculous I'm-so-hurt-cause-I've-got-this-stupid-soul routine. Yeah. Only it's not so cute anymore.

"Buffy I don't--"

"Uh-uh!" I yell, pushing the stake a little deeper into his chest. I mean business. "I means bischnesch, Schoul Boy!"

Oh, more with the puppy dog eyes. How could I have ever fallen for that?

"I. Wants. My. BAMPIRE!!!!"

"Can we please do this without the stake, Buffy?" he asks a little too politely.

I put Mr. Pointy back in my pocket and climb down from his desk. I'm looking around his office, but I'm not seeing the wet bar I was hoping would be there. I slide into one of the comfy chairs across from his desk and sigh. Pretty nice desk. I'll have to make sure I fuck Spike on it before we leave.

"Buffy, are you drunk?" Angel asks cautiously. He's still sitting on his side of the desk. I think the stake incident is going to keep him there. And that's good.

"Drunk?" I start laughing. It sounds like the Wicked Witch of the North cackling inside of my head. But it's all me. I think it's what they call irony. I have an irony laugh. Ironic, I mean. At least I can still think fairly straight even if I can't speak straight. "M'not DRUNK, Nanschy Boy!" I tell him.

He's nodding. More of that injured-party look.

"I'm NOT!" Ouch! Someone's yelling. Oh, wait. That would be me. And I have every right to yell. He stole my vampire! And I want him back!!!!

"How long?" he asks me.

"How who wha?"

"How long have you known?" he asks again.

"Schinsch Andrew tole me!" I let him know. I've got my arms crossed in front of my chest. I'm trying out my own resolve face.

"Uh, yeah. I figured as much. When did Andrew tell you?

"Better quesch'n, you broody bassert... how long've YOU knowed my bampire wush 'libe?" I am so trying not to cry right now. All I want is my vampire. And this one ain't it.

He's acting all cagey now. Looking around his office, twiddling his stupid fingers. Going all Bert and Ernie on me. That pretty much lets me know that he's known awhile.

"Nische anscher. Gon' schtart whish'lin now an' actin' like yous nevah evah heard me?"

Damn Buffy, bitch much? He's so pissing me off, though. And still with the not answering.

"How. Long." It's no longer a question. It's a demand.

"It's been... awhile." He's reluctant to give me any more. So, out with Mr. Pointy. As soon as he sees me twirling the stake, he scooches his chair back a bit.

"It's not as simple--"

"Den MAKES it schimple," I tell him.

"When Spike came back, he wasn't corporeal."

Uh-huh. In English, please?

"He was a ghost, Buffy."

I'm laughing my ass off now. That's just too much. Now he's just grasping at straws.

"No, it's true. He was tied to the amulet that I'd given you. And he couldn't pick up a phone much less leave LA or this building. Then, there was a battle... and he and I had to compete. And, again, I guess he's won."

Cryptic as ever, thank you Peaches.

"Won?" I'm only half-following. All I want is my damned vampire. Is that too much to ask?

"Buffy, what happened to you being cookie dough?" Angel is asking me. Good Grief, Charlie Brown. Here I am... drunk, incredibly jet-lagged and holding a weapon of vampire destruction just a few feet from his whiny ass and he wants to talk about cookies? Like I need this crap.

"An' you schay MY drunk? Huh!"

"It's just..." I can tell that he's trying to choose his words carefully. "You said that you were cookie dough and that you weren't done baking. Are you saying that you're done now?"

"Nope," I grin. I already figured out this one back in Rome. "My schaying dat MY bampire likesh him's cookiesh right outta da tube. Don' wannem baked, Dough Boy!"

I am totally pouting now. And Angel is just pissing me off more and more. I know my vampire is here. I can feel him. I've got major tinglies working right now and Angel is wasting my time just like the security guard did. If he doesn't hand over my vampire soon, I'm gonna have to hurt him.

"Buffy, why don't you get some sleep and we'll do this in the morning. We've got some empty suites--"

I'm out of my seat and back on the desk with my stake poised over him.

"Why don' I schtake you and den jus' shkatter da ashes in da mornin'?"

He looks like he's finally getting it. He nods and I put the stake back in my pocket, but I leave my hand wrapped around it.

"Okay, then. Let me get your bags and I'll take you up to your suite--"

"My bampire?" I'm tightening my grip on the stake.

He nods. "I'll send him in after I get you settled."

Okay. That's more like it.

"Mmkay. Das more likesh it."

It's a nice suite. Very nice, in fact. It's big and clean and has sleek leather furniture. But it doesn't have my vampire. Angel sets my bags down and walks in behind me.

"Why don't you get something to drink while I call him," Angel suggests. "There's juice and soda in the fridge."

I open the double doors and stare for a second of two. Yep. There's juice and soda. Water, too.

"You gotsch ennythin' schtrong more dan dish?" I ask, still staring at the rows of beverages.

He tells me no and mumbles something about me not needing it anyhow. Yeah. We see how well he knows what I need, now don't we? Bet it was his big idea to keep Spike from me all along. And, even if it wasn't, I'm sure he was all about encouraging Spike to keep his big mouth shut.

I hear him on the phone. He's telling Spike to just come to suite three and to do it fast. Yeah. Do it fast, Blondie, I silently agree.

I still haven't taken anything out of the fridge. I'm just standing here looking at all of it. It's stocked all nice and neat like the cooler section in convenience stores. Diet Coke all in one neat row. Small bottles of milk. Milk would definately not be of the good on a bellyful of booze. Cute little cartons of orange juice. Wish I'd saved some of that Bacardi. That would be a yummy cocktail. Bottled water.

And then I feel him. The tingles are firing my synapses at lighting speed. And what do I do? I try to grab the refrigerator door, the counter, anything to keep me from hitting the floor. But my hands are suddenly slippery and I'm falling. And then I feel strong arms around me. And the scent hits me hard. His scent.

He's lifting me up and telling Angel to get me some ginger ale and microwave popcorn. And Angel's arguing with him. He's telling Spike that I need tea and crackers. And I get mad all over again.

"You lischen to m'bampire!" I yell, still in Spike's embrace as he lowers us both to the couch. "My needsch ginnerale an' mic-- myro-- micrap... dat poptorns dat he schaid!"

I hear the low rumble of a chuckle in Spike's chest. My head is right where his heart should be. So, I start talking to it. Hell, even I know that he thinks with his heart and not his head. That is, when he's not thinking with his dick. And I'm not feeling that so much right now. So, heart it is.

"Love you, you schtuppid bampire," I tell it. "Tole me you'd nevah evah leave me. Keepsh your promishes. Not like SHUM bampires who SHUCK!"

Angel sits the ginger ale on the table in front of us and throws down the bag of popcorn. Even I can tell that it's a little burnt. So much for his vampiric sense of scent. Spike wouldn't have burned my popcorn.

"Schmells burnt up," I mumble.

"Ingrate," I hear in response. And Spike tenses up.

"Time for you to leave, Peaches," he tells his grandsire.

"Yeah," I agree. "Time fo' you ta leavesh, Pisches!"

Spike laughs again as Angel storms out, slamming the door in his wake.

"Meant it, big meanie," I tell Spike.

He moves me off of his lap and hands me the ginger ale.

"Drink up, Slayer," he instructs me. "You're gonna have one hell of a headache and a tummyache to boot."

I drink some of the ginger ale and then open the bag of popcorn. It about makes me puke right there. I guess Spike gets that and takes the bag from me and crumples it up. He throws it toward the kitchen and it sails over the counter and lands in the sink with a thud.

"Should schtake your ash," I mumble. I can feel the tears stinging the backs of my eyelids.

He's looking at me with those soulful blue eyes and I start crying. I can't hold it back any more.

"Tell me again," he whispers. His thumb is stroking the tears from my cheek and he's got me locked in his unwavering gaze. This is the part where I usually tuck my tail and run. So I look him dead in the eye and gather up all the love I can find and force it to surface -- in my eyes, in my voice, in my smile.

"I love you, Spike."

"I love you too, Buffy."