Mortal Allies Series
Episode 5
War and Roses
By: Passion4Spike
Chapter 14: York Street
Chapter Notes:
Thank you all for reading, and special love to everyone who's taken time to stop in with your lovely comments. They really do mean so very much to me!
Gratitude also goes to MissLuci and All4Spike for their beta skills and suggestions, both of which make this story so much better. All mistakes are, of course, mine.
And, just a reminder to those of you who said in the last story that they needed to talk more... be careful what you wish for! You never know when a Vengeance Demon is listening.
-X-
Buffy snuggled back against her boyfriend with a contented sigh as she petted her dog. "I love you, Spike."
She'd said the words a hundred times, a thousand maybe, but this was the first time she'd said them to him, even if her vampire didn't know they were his. It was terrifying. And freeing. It was like leaping off a cliff, and like floating in a cloud. She knew it was too soon to foist them on her poet, but they refused to stay cooped up, clogging her throat, another moment. This had been the perfect cover. He'd heard her say the words before, more than once. To him it would be just another one of those times, only she knew the truth. For now.
The vampire stiffened behind her, his unneeded breathing hitching in his chest. His arm tightened and then loosened again. Then his breathing returned, a soft, cool breeze riffling Buffy's hair. She waited a few seconds, then several more, her own breath shallow, but nothing happened. The world didn't end. No big bad came storming in the door. No earthquake shook the foundations of her life. She smiled softly to herself. It had worked. She'd apparently fooled the PTB.
The words hit Spike like a physical punch, though it was a strange combination of hope and longing that made his breath catch. He'd almost blurted them back to her, they'd been hovering on his lips, when he realized—the dog. 'Course she was talking to the bleedin' dog.
He'd heard it before, hadn't he? The first time she'd ever said it in his presence had been one of those Twilight Zone moments—a Slayer saying that she loved him, and not just any Slayer, but this one, in particular. It had thrown him for a bit of a loop on the road trip—but that was before. Before he knew her so well. Before he realized his own sappy heart had fallen, utterly and irrevocably. Now... well now he just longed for her to say those words to him, longed to return them to her, but certainly it was too soon in this budding relationship for that bollocks. Showing his cards was a sure way to get his heart ripped open. He'd not only learned that lesson, but had it drummed into him by Angelus and Dru... and, before them, Cecily had begun the music of heartache. So, he just tugged her tighter against him, happy for the physical contact, the words could wait.
"Tell me a story," Buffy requested, snuggling back against her vampire.
When Spike didn't reply, she elbowed him gently in the ribs. "You awake?"
"Sorry, pet, you talking to me?"
Buffy rolled her eyes, though it was lost on the vampire. "Well, I don't think Spike could tell me a story," she reasoned.
Both Spikes snorted, one in amusement, the other sounded a bit like disagreement.
"Right, what kinda story d'ya want, luv?"
"I don't know... tell me about... about York Street, about growing up, about your family."
Spike drew in a deep breath, letting the scent of his Slayer fill his lungs and brace his heart, surrounding it with courage.
"Were you an only child?" she prompted when he hadn't begun after a few moments.
He shook his head. Buffy could feel the movement on the pillow before he began speaking.
"Not as such... though might as well have been. Had a sister that was born 'bout a year or so before me, but she died, just a couple months old, so I never knew 'er. Had a brother as well, younger by the same margin, stillborn. That delivery nearly killed my mum, too... didn't have any more bits after that, so was just me."
"I'm sorry. I guess lots of babies died back then, huh?"
He shrugged against her. "Yeah. Lots of mums did too. From the stories I heard as I was growing up, she even had a proper doctor, not just a good wife. 'Course, not like it is now with the hospitals and what all. Back then, ya really didn't want to go into hospital. Was a death sentence, most times."
"That seems much with the anti-logical."
Spike snorted. "Yeah, reckon so, but they weren't what you'd call the cleanest o' places. If ya went in there healthy, you'd likely come out sick. Didn't believe in germs, and didn't have antibiotics. Was a rare healer what even washed his hands between patients. Guess if you had to be in there, would pay to be the first one he saw. Less chance the germs from another bloke's festering wound touched your burned hand or whatnot."
"Ewww, that is majorly with the ick, Spike." She shook her head, trying to imagine not believing in germs. Not believing in Santa Claus was one thing, but germs? She knew there had been a time before antibiotics, but germs were always here, like rocks and possibly Twinkies. Weird.
"Was just how things were, pet."
"Enough about hospitals. So, you're both the middle child and an only child," she observed, letting the germ mystery go.
"Yeah, suppose so. What's that say 'bout me, then?"
Buffy smiled, though she was still facing away from him, he could hear it in her voice. "Well, middle children are more rebellious, but also good at compromise because they usually have to be the mediator, and they're very trustworthy. They're also open to taking risks and embracing new ideas," she related, still petting the dog, who had flopped over onto his side and was snoring lightly. "That kinda sounds like you... except the compromise part."
"I can sodding compromise," Spike insisted.
"Yeah, with your fists," she scoffed.
"Not true... sometimes I use my fangs, as well."
Buffy laughed. "Spike, the Henry Kissinger of vampiredom."
"How the bloody hell do you know who Henry sodding Kissinger is?"
She pouted. "I'm the knower of many things! Did you not see my SAT scores?"
Spike grinned and nuzzled his face through her hair until his mouth touched her neck. "How could I forget... going to Oxford, as I recall."
"Cambridge," she corrected, letting her eyes fall closed, enjoying the feel of his lips moving against her skin.
"That's m' girl," he purred against her.
She let herself get lost in the feel of his soft kisses against her warm skin, letting them trickle down her spine, wrapping around her heart like a warm cloak, and settle as tingling sparks in her belly.
"Hey!" she chastised, making the dog lift his head groggily to see what had happened. "You're being distract-o guy again. Stop that! What were we talking about?"
The dog sighed and dropped his head back to the soft mat. His hoomans were exhausting to watch over.
Spike chuckled and pulled back, the delicious taste of her sweet, salty essence fresh on his lips. "Were telling me 'bout middle children and—"
"Oh yeah," she agreed, refocusing. "So—only children. Some people say that we're spoiled and bossy—"
Spike huffed out a laugh which earned him another elbow in the ribs. He 'Oomphed' dramatically, making Buffy roll her eyes.
"But I disagree," she continued emphatically. "I say we're assertive and determined."
"And bloody stubborn," he added.
"Well, you are," Buffy accused lightly.
Spike's rumbling chortle had more fingers of fire licking her skin. "Was talking about you, pet."
"Hmph!" she objected. "I'm firmly committed to my goals and steadfast in my beliefs. You're stubborn."
Her boyfriend's warm, infectious laugh rumbled against her, making Buffy laugh too.
"Reckon two only children could argue 'bout who's more steadfast in their beliefs 'til the end of time, seeing how they're so sodding stubborn," he observed.
Buffy was still smiling as she snuggled back even tighter into his embrace, enjoying how his chest vibrated against her when he laughed or talked. "Probably not the best use of eternity. How'd we get on this subject, anyway?" she asked rhetorically. "Oh, yeah... So, basically, you're an only child. Tell me about your mom and dad."
He drew in another deep breath of courage and let it out slowly. "Father was a wine merchant. Imported wine from Portugal and Spain at first, then France when they lowered the tariffs. Did well for himself... for us, though he was often gone, either working in the dockyard or off on buying trips. Said he 'maximized profits' by buying direct instead o' going through intermediaries, but it meant he wasn't home as much as we'd have liked."
"What was he like... when he was home?"
Spike paused for a bit before answering. "Men... husbands back then, weren't like they are now. Was a different time, different attitude. Remember thinking he was a bit of a ponce compared t' other men I'd seen, fathers of my friends, but I think that was just in private, with us. Took me to work with him a bit when I was old enough, and he was a completely different person—stern with the help, though they all seemed t' respect him, so I reckon he wasn't unfair, or too much of a bastard. But never was like that with mum and me. Was always attentive, gentle... caring. Tore mum up when he passed away... tore us both up."
"How did he die?"
"Ship he was on capsized in a storm as he was coming back from France. Were no survivors. I was thirteen."
"Oh, Spike," Buffy sighed, turning in his arms to face him. "I'm so sorry." She caressed his cheek gently as they both resettled, her eyes searching his, trying to add their own modicum of comfort.
He gave her a weak smile. "Appreciate it, but was a long time ago, pet."
"I know, but still." Buffy shrugged, letting her hand fall away to rest between them on his chest, over his heart. "How did... I mean, when mom and dad got divorced, money got tight—did you guys..."
"Father had insurance, life and marine, as well as fire," Spike explained. "My mum's cousin bought the wine business. Left us fairly well-off... upper middle class, anyroad. The cousin helped set her up with a solicitor and get the funds invested, as well. Meant I could continue my lessons, went to Uni, we stayed in the house, had no worries on that front."
Buffy nodded. "Well, that's good, at least. He sounds like he really loved you guys... made sure you'd be taken care of."
He gave her a small smile, his eyes going distant as if lost in the past. "Mum made a bit of money herself, as well," he said after a few moments. "Was a brilliant botanical illustrator, even had some books published. Mostly self-taught, she was. 'Course being a woman, and a self-taught one, meant she didn't get the credit she deserved in those days."
The Slayer's brows furrowed. "Books? Like... with her drawings and stuff in them? Do you have any of them?"
Spike shook his head. "No. Never... I... traveled light, didn't we? Well, Darla had all her finery, and Dru had her sodding dolls, but took me and Angelus together to get their trunks shuttled about. No room for our own bits and bobs."
"You never settled down anywhere with Dru?"
Spike shrugged. "No, she was always following the pixies... I was always following her. Never stayed in one place much over a couple o' months... usually less."
"Did you inherit any of your mom's talent for drawing?"
He frowned, shaking his head. "Am cack-handed..." At Buffy's confused expression he clarified, "Left-handed. Spent the better part of my youth trying not to be; didn't leave a lot of time for drawing and such."
"Why would you do that?"
"Was seen as a... a bad omen or some rubbish. Thought left-handed people were witches, evil. Teachers made ya use your right hand—that'll sodding turn you evil, I can tell you."
"That's just ridiculous. That's as bad as not believing in germs," Buffy asserted.
"Just how it was. Probably in a hundred years, people'll look back and think stuff we're doing now is barking, too."
Buffy pursed her lips, but didn't argue. She realized they'd, once again, gotten off the topic, so she refocused. "What was your mom's name?"
"Anne... Anne Pratt," Spike replied.
Buffy gave a little smile. "Anne... that's my middle name."
"Know that," he admitted.
"How do you know that?"
He shook his head, brows furrowed. "Dunno... must'a heard it somewhere or seen it... maybe on that SAT bollocks?"
She nodded. It seemed like he knew everything about her, and she knew nothing about him. Well, not nothing, but there was so much she didn't know. "So, you didn't bring anything with you when you... left with Dru?"
"Put a few trinkets away in the safe deposit box. I reckon they're still there; paid it up in advance for two hundred years. The bloke looked at me like I'd just escaped from Bedlam for that." Spike laughed lightly at the memory. "Told him it was a time capsule, not t' be opened 'fore the lease was up."
"And you think it's still there?" Buffy wondered, suddenly animated. "What's in it? Can you get it out?"
Spike's gaze refocused on hers, a smile playing on his lips. "It's still there... or was last I checked about a decade ago. No reason to think it's not. In London, though. Can't just pop out and get it."
"Oh." Buffy sagged. "Maybe one day?"
He nodded and touched a kiss to her forehead. "One day, luv."
"So, your mom... what else do you remember about her?"
His expression went distant again. "She was kind, funny... smart. 'Course, she was an artist. When I was young, she was always at her drawing board, sometimes just doodling, but often working on a project. Had a glasshouse in the back garden." At Buffy's confused expression, he clarified, "What you'd call a greenhouse. Could grow anything, it seemed. She'd have all these exotic plants out there, then she'd bring in cuttings to use as models to draw from." He shook his head and looked back at Buffy, his expression soft. "She was a good woman. Your mum brings her to mind—strong and kind, good hearted."
"What happened to her? Did she... pass before... before Dru?"
Spike's eyes darkened and he dropped his gaze, his face a study in shame.
"Oh." Buffy's heart sank. From his conversation with her mom that she'd eavesdropped on, she'd known Spike, or William, hadn't been married or had any children before he'd been turned. She'd been glad of that at the time, because, for one thing, that meant he wouldn't have killed them. She hadn't even considered his parents or siblings. She'd been so quick to jump on the 'Yay! Spike didn't kill his family like Angelus did' wagon of happiness that she'd completely overlooked the fact that the family Angelus killed wasn't his wife and kids, but his parents and siblings.
"Buffy, I..." Spike started and faltered, looking up into her disappointed eyes for only a moment, before looking down again.
"It's okay, I... I mean... I understand..." she stuttered, trying to cover the dismay that had suddenly overtaken her.
"Do you?" he wondered, still not looking up at her.
She was quiet for several long, horrible seconds. "No," she admitted quietly.
Spike nodded, tears threatening his eyes. He blinked them back, swallowing hard. "Loved my mum," he rasped through his emotion-clogged throat. "Loved her beyond telling... would never hurt her, even after... after Dru. Never meant to hurt her, at least. Thought I was... thought I was saving her."
Buffy's brows furrowed and she shook her head. Tears had gathered in her own eyes, which she fought back. "What... How could you think—?"
"Was dying, my mum. Had consumption... TB they call it now. Told ya before, no antibiotics back then. Was a death sentence. She'd wasted away, my beautiful, vibrant mother. Couldn't draw any longer. Did a bit of needlework, something that didn't need too keen an eye or steady hand."
Spike's voice changed slightly, still solemn, but clearly reciting from memory...
"Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget,
"What thou among the leaves hast never known,
"The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
"Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
"Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
"Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
"Where but to think is to be full of sorrow,
"And leaden-eyed despairs,
"Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
"Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow."
He stopped and sighed heavily, glancing up at Buffy, who was listening attentively, her brows still crinkled.
"Keats," he explained. "'Ode to a Nightingale.'"
Buffy swallowed and nodded. "Your mom was dying?" she clarified.
He nodded and looked past her to the colorful fabric cocooning them within its diaphanous embrace. "Thought I could make her well again. I felt... I felt strong after... after Dru turned me. The whole bloody world was more vibrant. I felt... alive... which, I get the irony, pet. Thought I could make my mum feel the same, give her eternal life, take away her pain. She could tend her plants again, draw... create beauty like I remembered. She could be happy again and... and never be sick or in pain."
He stopped, his lips thinning into a tight line.
"What happened?" Buffy prompted after a few moments.
Spike looked back at her, meeting her confused, somber gaze. "I made her a vampire, like me," he said flatly. It was so un-Spike-like that there was no mistaking the effort he put into making himself sound impassive.
Buffy chewed her bottom lip, waiting for more, but he didn't continue. "What... I mean, where is she?"
"Dust." Another word spoken as a disinterested third party, as if Spike had suddenly been taken over by a pod person.
"Tell me."
He shook his head and looked away from her again, off into the long ago past.
"Please."
His lips pursed in frustration, his jaw clenched, trying to contain whatever was boiling below the surface. Buffy laid her hand on his cheek, feeling the muscles tick beneath her palm. "Nothing you tell me will make me hate you... or... or not—" Not love you. Shit! "—or care for you less."
Spike snorted and rolled onto his back, pulling away from her touch. He flung an arm over his eyes, clamping them closed against the memory, but it didn't help. It was inside him; he couldn't block it out. How the fuck had he let himself get dragged into this conversation? He'd kept trying to steer it away, but Buffy was like a dog with a sodding bone. Why hadn't he just said his mum died when he was born, that he was an orphan, bleedin' Oliver Twist?
"It's okay... I just... you don't have to tell me. I just thought..." Buffy stammered to a stop. She slid over to curl against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, one arm and one leg draped over him. "It's okay, baby."
She could feel his chest rise and fall in a huff, but then he went still and silent. After a couple of minutes, he lowered his arm from his eyes and wrapped it around her, tugging her closer, but not looking at her.
Buffy had started drifting off into sleep when he finally spoke, his voice low and sad. "After... after I... She was strong and well—as I'd hoped—but she wasn't my mum anymore. I... I'd saved her, but she'd changed. Said some... well, said some nasty things to me. Said I..." He stopped and shook his head. "Things that weren't true... cruel things. Wasn't my mum."
"The demon changed her," Buffy suggested, keeping her voice as quiet as his, afraid to break the spell. "A lot more than yours changed who you were."
"I reckon," Spike said. "Dunno... just knew it wasn't my mum, wasn't the kind, clever woman I'd grown up with. I couldn't... couldn't bear what I'd done. I staked her, Buffy. I killed her, and turned her, and staked her. My mum... I... bloody hell, pet. I..." His voice broke and the tears he'd been fighting erupted from his eyes. "I just wanted t' save her. Wanted to... help her. I didn't know..."
"Oh, Spike. Shhh," Buffy cooed gently. She lifted up and began peppering his agonized face with soft kisses, murmuring to him soothingly. She pulled him back on his side and into her embrace, never stopping the rain of kisses over his tear-streaked face. "I'm so sorry, baby. So, so sorry. I love you so much. I'm so sorry, I can't imagine the pain of that. You had to try. I understand now. If it was my mom, and I thought I could save her, I might've done the same thing... I would do anything for her. You did what you thought was right. Shhh... baby, it's okay, I understand now. Shhh..."
"I'm so bloody sorry. Forgive me... please forgive me," Spike begged with his face buried in the crook of her shoulder. He sobbed against her, his arms wrapped around her as if clinging to a life raft in a raging sea. He hadn't done this since that horrible night, hadn't dared sob like a ponce in front of Dru.
Alone in his empty house, William, on his knees in his mother's dust, cried for what felt like hours, his heart broken, his guilt a leaden weight pressing him down. It had been ugly and painful; he thought he was being ripped apart with each agonized wail of grief. It had gone on and on and on... He honestly had no idea how long it had taken for him to exhaust himself. But he had never let himself do that again, never let himself relive that scene, never let himself feel that horrible pain again. Not until now. Once he'd walked out of their house, the few trinkets and photographs he'd gathered while he'd been waiting for his mother to rise tucked in a bag under his arm, he'd never let himself look back. It was why he'd never been back to the safe deposit box. He'd checked on it, but never gone inside, never slid his key into that lock. It was too much. Too painful.
Buffy didn't know if he wanted her to forgive him, or if it was his long-lost mother he was talking to, but she answered anyway. "I forgive you, Spike... you're forgiven. It's okay... it's all okay."
She rocked him as he cried, cooing and murmuring softly against him, holding him as tightly as he held her. She found her apprehension and disappointment that had surfaced earlier had transformed into an even stronger affection for the vampire in her arms. He'd always been different, right from the start. Maybe there were other vamps who'd tried to save their families instead of slaughter them, but from what she'd read going through Watcher's diaries trying to track down past Slayers, there couldn't be many. She knew he'd done evil in his long unlife, that he'd killed and done... worse, but he seemed to have come full circle. From trying to save his mother, to actually saving hers. What a bizarre world she lived in. What an incredible man he was… is… and he was hers.
Buffy continued to soothe him with soft touches and feather-light kisses as he shook with grief. Finally, the wracking sobs quieted, transforming slowly into silent tears, and then even they stopped. "'M sorry..." he murmured, trying to wipe the dampness from her tear-stained skin.
"There's nothing for you to be sorry for. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you, but I... I'm glad you told me. I really do understand now."
"Must think me a right ponce."
Buffy smiled sadly but tried to lighten his spirits. "Well, if that means I think you're a loving son, a brave man, and a kinda strange vampire, then you'd be right."
Spike snorted and pulled back to look at her. His blue eyes were bright, shining with the remnants of tears. He gently brushed some locks of her hair back from her face, tucking them behind her ear. "I love you, too, Buffy."
Buffy blinked in surprise, the words taking a few moments to register. "What?" she questioned when they really hit her, suddenly on the verge of panic, her heart flip-flopping madly against her ribs.
"I. Love. You. Too. Buffy," Spike repeated slowly, carefully enunciating every word.
Buffy's mouth formed a silent 'O' then she winced. "You heard that, huh?"
Spike's expression grew worried, a sad smile curving his lips. "Rather I hadn't? Want t' pretend you were talking to the mutt?"
Said mutt sneezed violently, rattling his tags. He blinked lazily and pushed up to his feet with a yawn before padding over to his water bowl near the door.
Buffy's teeth bit down on her bottom lip, and she shook her head. "You didn't have to say it back. Spike never says it back, after all. Not in so many words. Well, not in words at all, cos, you know, dogs and words are unmixy. I know it's customary to say it back, but it's not required. Just cos I said it, you shouldn't feel like you have to say it. I mean, I understand totally if you—"
Spike's lips closed over hers, stopping her rambling. When he pulled back, he tilted his forehead against hers and whispered, "I love you. God, woman... what you do to me. Have me tellin' stories I've never told another living soul... or even dead ones. Feel like I've loved you since... I dunno. Long time."
"What?" she asked again, pulling back to look at him.
"Your needle stuck? Do I need t' hit a reset button or just give you a bit of a bump?" He demonstrated the bumping idea with a thrust of his hips against hers.
Buffy's gaze jerked down a moment, before resuming her study of his face. "You... really love me?"
"I do."
"You aren't just saying it 'cos I said it?"
"Not a chance."
"And you have for a while?"
"I have."
"How long? As long as you've hated me?"
"Not quite that long... but for a bit."
"And you're just now telling me this, because...?" she wondered.
He ducked his head bashfully, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
"Spike?"
Spike sighed and looked back up at her. "Was afraid, pet. Thought you'd think I was off my bird... moving too fast or whatnot. Didn't think you'd... say it back. Wasn't brave enough t' chance it."
Buffy snorted, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she flopped onto her back and began to laugh. "We are so pathetic," she declared, giggling.
"Whaddya mean? How long have you known, then?"
The Slayer laughed harder, shaking her head. "A bit," she parroted back to him.
He pursed his lips, trying to look angry, but failing, as he too started chortling. "Utter blighters," he agreed, rolling over onto his back next to her.
The Slayer was smiling as she turned and curled against his side, settling her head on his shoulder, draping one leg over one of his, wrapping an arm around his waist. Spike's arm slipped around her, holding her to him, as soft chuckles bubbled from his chest.
"Say it again," Buffy requested, snuggling against him tighter.
"I love you, Buffy," he murmured, touching a soft kiss to the top of her head. "Love you so bloody much. You've no idea how much. Bloody hell... never thought... never thought you'd love me back. Terrified the living daylights outta me thinking..."
"Thinking what?" she prompted gently.
"Thinking I'd given my heart away again to someone who didn't feel the same... who'd never return it," Spike admitted.
"I know that feeling," she sighed, lifting up so she could look into his eyes. "Do you remember when you brought my mom to Crawford Street that night? After I sent Angel to hell? You told me my heart was like a piñata that'd been beaten until all the shattered pieces spilled out, and no matter what I did, I could never gather them back up or put it back like it was?"
"I remember," he admitted.
"These last weeks, getting to know you... Well, I think your heart's like that too... shattered and spilled and not quite the same as it was before."
Spike's eyes shifted away from hers, looking up at the colorful, flowing fabric draping the ceiling. "No sense denying that," he agreed.
"But, here's the thing I'm starting to realize—maybe we weren't supposed to put our hearts back like they were. Maybe that's how it works. Maybe the idea is to find another heart that's been ripped up and shattered in just the right way that it fits with ours, where the broken pieces of our piñatas slip together and make it whole again."
A soft smile graced Spike's lips as he turned shimmering blue eyes back to meet her green ones. "And you reckon mine makes yours whole?"
"Maybe?" Buffy gave a small shrug, licking her lips nervously. "It's how I feel around you. Even when you're making me crazy, when I want to wring your neck, I still feel like all the little shattered pieces have been glued back together, and you're the Elmer's." She swallowed anxiously, her fingers clutching at Spike's shirt, just over his unbeating heart, as if to anchor herself in case of a body blow. "Do... do you feel like that?"
Spike ran a finger down from her temple, brushing back a lock of her golden hair. "Feel like my heart had been drowning in the dark 'til you opened a window and let in the light. Almost forgot what it was like t' have someone really care about me. Until you. Until your brilliant sunshine found me. Saved me... took all the shattered bits out of the dark and let them mend in your warmth."
The Slayer smiled, all her doubts, all those horrible thoughts and worries, melting away like snow beneath a shining sun. She nestled back against him, her head on his shoulder, her body pressed against his side. "I think we're both broken just right... perfectly imperfect matches."
He wrapped his arm back around her, reveling in the soft, sweet heat of her. "Perfectly imperfect... I love you, Buffy Anne Summers, the Slayer from Sunnydale," he murmured, touching an adoring kiss to the top of her head.
"I love you, William James Pratt, the vampire from York Street." Buffy steeled herself, waiting for the earthquake, the tsunami, the tornado, the apocalypse. There was no mistaking that declaration for anything but what it was, but nothing happened. At least nothing apocalypty. The dog, however, chose that moment to return, nuzzling his cold, wet nose against her neck.
Buffy lifted her shoulders and buried her face against the vampire to fend him off. "And I love you too, you big galoot!"
The dog seemed pleased with that, and he flopped down beside the blondes, panting happily, water dripping from his muzzle.
The room grew quiet then, each lost in their own thoughts. The candles and lights cast dreamy shadows over the colorful, gauzy walls surrounding them. Spike's fingers traced random patterns on Buffy's shoulder, just above the fabric of her dress, lulling her into a state of perfect bliss.
He loved her!
She loved him!
There was nothing else needed.
And then Buffy felt it. Spike—the vampire, that is—began purring like a big, magical, Jellicle cat.
Buffy smiled as she drifted toward sleep in her boyfriend's arms, the soothing rumble against her a sure sign that he was as perfectly content as she was.
-X-
Chapter End Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! Well, the LOVE WORD is out and the world hasn't ended... yet. Did you catch when Buffy said it in the middle of trying to soothe Spike? Spike certainly did.
References:
Keats, Ode to a Nightingale:
'Ode to a Nightingale' is one of John Keats' great odes, written in May 1819, when the poet was just 23 years old. The poem is dominated by thoughts of death, underpinned by meditations on immortality and on the finite nature of joy. The previous year, Keats' brother, Tom, had died from tuberculosis, the illness that had also killed their mother. When writing the poem, Keats was aware that he himself had started to experience the first symptoms of the disease.
GERM THEORY:
The French scientist Louis Pasteur speculated that the spread of microorganisms (called germs) in the body could explain infectious disease. This was known as the Germ Theory of Disease. Although he never tested the theory, Pasteur suggested that a disease might be controlled by exposing the wound to germ-killing chemicals.
In 1864, while working at Glasgow University as Professor of Surgery, Lister was introduced to Pasteur's germ theory of disease, and he decided to apply it to the problem of surgical infections.
He looked for ways to prevent germs from entering a wound by creating a chemical barrier—which he called an antiseptic—between the surgical wound and the surroundings. The chemical he chose to use was carbolic acid, which killed the germs on contact.
Lister began to develop his antiseptic techniques through experimentation and clinical trials, regularly publishing his findings. Reception to his theory was mixed.
Because they didn't accept that germs caused infections, many surgeons found the antiseptic system excessive and unnecessarily complicated.
Safe deposit boxes that were around when William was and still are:
The London Silver Vaults is a large subterranean market that opened as The Chancery Lane Safe Deposit on 7 May 1885. Originally renting out strong rooms to hold household silver, jewellery and documents, it transitioned to housing silver dealers in secure premises a few years later. It is located on Chancery Lane, London, WC2A 1QS. One vault was used to store a farthing, with the owner paying over GB£100 over the years for the vault
Spike's mom here is based loosely on the real Anne Pratt:
Anne Pratt (1806 – 1893) from Kent, England, was one of most well-known botanical illustrators of the Victorian era. As a child suffered from poor health and was encouraged to occupy herself by drawing. Victorian women build an extensive interest and love of botany.
Cack-handed: As a child, British King George VI (1895-1952) was naturally left-handed. He was forced to write with his right hand, as was common practice at the time. He was not expected to become king, so that was not a factor.