Mortal Allies Series
Episode 5
War and Roses
By: Passion4Spike
Chapter 29: Keepsakes
Chapter Notes:
In case you missed it, the 'fade to black' scene in the high school from the end of the previous chapter has been posted in all it's smutty glory. You can find it as episode 5.1 in this series.
Some of you were interested in seeing what 'Hippie Spike' from the summer of love looked like. You will be happy to know that teregramm made an awesome manip of that, and it's included in the story boards. You can see the storyboards on A03.
Thank you all for reading and extra gratitude to those of you who drop me a comment. They are yummy cheezeburgers for my muse. Thanks, as always, to MissLuci, for betaing and, in this chapter, pointing out that Buffy was, in fact, not a child in the 1970s... or even BORN then. Oops. LOL!
-X-
For Spike, the next several days were a whirlwind of activity. What his schedule did not include was interview time with Lydia; he was still too brassed off about her not backing him up on the previous Slayer/vampire partnerships to trust himself in a room alone with her. Instead, his time was filled with contractors and utility companies, with paint chips and wallpaper samples. Why the bloody hell was there an entire sodding paint chip book filled with various shades of white? He was done discussing the merits of 'whisper white' versus 'polar bear' versus 'white wool' for the wainscoting, then on to pre-pasted, non-pasted, or self-adhesive for the wallpaper. Long as it stayed stuck, he didn't give two fucks. And white was sodding white-–bloody hell! And that was before they even began to discuss colors and designs of the aforementioned wallpaper. Every argument he made for one, Buffy would counter; if he agreed with her, then she'd start pointing out all the positives of the other choices, talking herself out of her original selection. It was starting to make his fangs itch.
The electrical box and all the wiring at Hawley Manor had been inspected and updated. The fuses were gone, and a shiny new breaker box had been installed, meaning Spike could run both the microwave, the refrigerator, a the lights, a telly, and a radio all at once without blacking out the entire house. The plumbing, somewhat miraculously, had no leaks. This, according to Spike's mediocre handyman, was due to it having been updated sometime in the last twenty years with a 'full cooper re-pipe'... whatever the fuck that was. The roof had been stripped off and replaced, thus assuring the old structure stayed dry and free of the slow bulldozer effect of wet rot. A heavy door had been installed in the basement, closing off the sewer entrance and all the possible intruders, gasses, smells, and rat infestations that threatened from that quarter.
When Buffy came into the manor house from school one day with three thick, heavy books filled with fabric samples for curtains and upholstery, he threw his hands up in surrender.
"You decide, pet. Whatever you choose, I'll love," he declared, heading for the basement and the escape it provided. Maybe there was a decent group at the poker tables in the back room of Willy's bar tonight.
"But..." she pouted, plopping the books down on the kitchen island with a thud, making the paint chips and wallpaper samples already there bounce.
"Sorry, luv, a vamp can only take so many frou-frou patterns 'fore his eyeballs start t' bleed."
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere without any style, color scheme, or feng shui—Willy's."
"Spike! If you don't help me, I swear I'll put up Barney wallpaper, fluorescent green and yellow striped curtains, and paint the wainscoting bubble-gum pink!" Buffy threatened.
He stopped in the doorway. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," she countered, narrowing her eyes, and crossing her arms defiantly.
"You're a right little spiteful wench," he grumbled, stepping back, and closing the door.
"Which is one of the many things you love about me," she declared, a victorious smile curving her lips.
Spike crossed the room in a flash and had her in his arms the next moment. "Bloody right, I do," he admitted before his lips crashed against hers.
Buffy gasped in a deep breath as she pulled back from the voracious kiss, her head spinning delightfully, her body tingling with sparkling flames. By tacit agreement, they'd not popped any cherries at the manor, not christened any of the surfaces with their lust—not yet. That would come when the house was finished, when Spike was officially moved in, when it was 'home'. Which couldn't come soon enough… for either of them, judging from the way Spike's hands seemed to be everywhere at once, robbing her of breath with his touch. With great effort, she managed to pull her lips away from his.
"I was thinking earth tones," she managed, turning in his arms to face the kitchen island again. She began flipping through the books of fabric samples. "Like these, see? Rust, marigold, deep navy, burnt sienna, terracotta, sage, turmeric... I think they would set off the wood floors best and go with the whole cozy feel of the house."
Spike tugged her back tightly to his front and rested his chin on her shoulder, looking at the colors and patterns as she flipped through them.
Buffy ran her hand over the fabric as she showed him different samples. "They're understated, but we can splash brighter shades in with it, and I'm thinking lots of textures... raw silk and leather, some soft chenille and velvet, with heavy drapes that totally block the sun. What do you think?"
"Sounds brilliant. Told ya you didn't need me."
"I need you," she whispered, turning to nuzzle her lips against his neck. "I always need you."
Spike sighed in contentment, his heart as full as it had ever been. "Always need you too, luv. Now let's see which of these fabrics feels like they'd be best to shag on."
Spike grinned as he started running his hands over the various textiles, running them through his fingers and pinching them almost obscenely, making Buffy wholeheartedly wish they'd never made the vow to keep house cherries unpopped until things were finished.
-X-
"Right, what's the first rule o' slaying, then?" Spike asked the small, rag-tag class of Slayerettes... plus Joyce.
"Have a wide selection of good quips ready to go?" Willow guessed.
"Double knot your shoelaces so you don't trip on them," Xander suggested.
"Leave it to the professionals," Oz offered.
"Don't talk about it to anyone?" Joyce ventured.
Spike sighed and started pacing along the new wood flooring that had been installed in Buffy's garage-cum-training-room. The dingy old equipment, weapons, and mats were gone, replaced by sparkling new everything. The wood flooring was sturdy and yet forgiving, easier on joints than the old concrete. The new mats that covered half of the room were thick and unstained, and weren't just on the floor, but up the walls, as well. The weapon racks were filled with swords, daggers, throwing knives, and axes; there were wooden staffs, crossbows, and trunks full of stakes. The dilapidated heavy punching bag had been replaced with a brand new one, and even the harsh, fluorescent lights had been replaced with caged pendant lights that gave a softer, more consistent illumination. The Council, or more likely Lydia, had spared no expense. They'd even put in a new sound system, with speakers in the rafters. It was prime real estate for training, if this motley crew was trainable. All he wanted was to teach them enough to keep them alive in crisis, and they were all making jokes.
"RRRR-WHOOF!" Spike piped up after watching his namesake pacing around in agitation. He didn't think he was supposed to answer, but he just couldn't hold it in another moment.
The vampire whirled and pointed a finger at the dog. "'Xactly! The first rule o' Slaying is: don't die," he concurred, turning back to face the four humans. "Which means, if you've got a choice, get the hell away from the monster, get yourself behind a threshold, and call me or the Slayer."
"Wooof!"
"Or the mutt," Spike added, taking the hint.
"I know from experience that demons can cross thresholds," Xander pointed out.
"Right, but unless you've royally brassed 'em off, they'll likely not go to the trouble," Spike agreed. "'Course, if they're chasing you, Harris, it's a good wager you've pissed them off..."
"Hey! What's that supposed to—?" Xander tried to interrupt, but Spike kept talking.
"...In which case get somewhere public with lots'a people. Demons aren't keen on crowds, and you'll be harder to follow if your scent's mingled in with other humans."
"Run away and hide," Oz observed. "I'm feeling like this isn't going to be as hard as I thought."
Spike gave him a smirky smile. "The hard part comes when ya can't run and there's nowhere to hide."
"I really hate it when that happens," Willow murmured.
"You're not gonna be able to overpower a demon or a vamp, and they aren't just gonna let you walk up and stake 'em."
"They're so unhelpful that way," Xander muttered.
"Not even Oz?" Willow asked. "He's got that wolfy stuff going on. I bet he could..."
Spike's hand shot out and grabbed Oz's wrist, squeezing hard. The other three squeaked and jumped back in reaction to the blur of motion. The dog came up to his feet, brows furrowed, watching the struggle between the White Rabbit and the Wolf I Cannot Crunch.
"Pull free," the vampire challenged, lifting the boy's arm up between them. Oz struggled, twisting his arm, trying to wrench it from Spike's grip. He tried to pry Spike's fingers open with his other hand, and even tried punching Spike in the nose, which the vampire blocked with his other hand, all to no avail.
Finally, he released the redhead's arm and looked at Willow. "Reckon that's a 'no'... not in his human form. Stronger than your average Joe, I'll give ya that, but not enough t' take on aught more than a newly risen fledge."
Oz scowled at the vampire, rubbing the mark that he'd left on his arm. Willow was at his side in a moment, also giving Spike a nasty look. "So, what? We're just doomed kittens without Buffy?" she challenged.
"Not if I can help it. Gotta use cunning, yeah? Be smart about it," he explained, pointing a finger to his temple. "First, need t' have the good sense God gave a gnat and not get yourself into a life-or-death situation. Know that leaves Short Bus out in the cold, though..." He jerked his thumb in Xander's direction. "So we'll work on things you can do t' get yourself outta there in one piece... or at least with most of your blood still on the inside."
"Hey!" Xander protested again, but again was ignored.
"Now," Spike continued, "first thing to remember—always have a weapon you can get to quick-like—stake or dagger or both. Holy water is right handy, as well. Second, don't go for the flashy tentacles just 'cos they're waving 'em about like one o' those tube men in front o' the used car lot. Go for the center. Brains, heart, eyes. Everything's got eyes and nothing likes havin' 'em poked out. Third, forget that bollocks about the heart being on the left—go for the middle, right behind the breastbone on a vamp. Also, less chance of the stake getting stopped by a rib.
"Closest you'll get to a vamp, and your best chance t' stake them, is when they're about t' bite you. You don't want that t' happen from behind—put something at your back. If there's no building or crypt about, then lay down on the ground with a stake in your hand. Most vamps aren't over bright, they see a meal on the ground they don't stop t' think, they're just gonna bloody dive on you. All you've got to do is get the stake up and in the right place—in the sodding middle of the chest—they'll do the work o' falling on it for you."
The four students were nodding now, their faces set in grim determination to learn new strategies for Hellmouth survival.
"Right, then," Spike continued, grabbing four foam stakes from one of the weapons' chests and handing one to each student. "We'll start with the simplest scenario—you're on your back and a vamp dives at your throat. After that, we'll try it against a wall, and if we have time, we'll go outside and see if you can get onto your back 'fore me or the fleabag can grab you from behind."
Spike closed his eyes and rolled his head in a half circle. When his eyes opened again, they were gold, his smooth forehead a snarl of ridges, and fangs glinted in the soft light. "Who's first?"
-X-
As she approached her house, Buffy's mind was still on the meeting she'd just come from with the 'drapery consultant'. Who knew there were so many different styles of drapes! Ripplefold, tab-top, grommet-top, goblet pleat, crown pleat, box pleat, rod pocket (she was still giggling about that one). Then, depending on what style you got, you had to choose the right hardware to go with them, which also came in different styles and finishes. And then there were the pros and cons of valances to consider!
She should've rescheduled it for another night so that Spike could've gone with her, but she thought with the fabrics picked out and the measurements done, it would be a simple meeting to get everything going. Not.
Her mind was yanked away from curtain rods, finials, valances, and tiebacks by terror-filled shrieks coming from her own backyard. She was speeding around the corner of the house in a heartbeat, stake already in her hand. As she neared the back, she could hear growls and barks along with the shrieks, and a few curses filling the air.
The backyard was half in shadows, illuminated by the one inadequate flood light, but it was enough to show Buffy the chaos. Her dog and her boyfriend were chasing her friends and her mom around. The chase-ees would suddenly fall to the ground and roll onto their backs like those fainting goats, and let the chasers catch them!
"What kind of insane-o Hellmouth survival training is this?" Buffy demanded angrily, stalking closer. "You're supposed to be showing them how to stake vampires, not become snacks!"
Her boyfriend suddenly clutched his chest and rolled off the prone form of Willow, who was holding a stake. A stake! Buffy gasped, her eyes flying to Spike's sprawled form, searching for wounds, for blood, praying that no splinters were lodged near his heart. She froze in place, heart in her throat, as her mind flashed back to wooden bullets, to splinters covered in blood, to cold and mud and the smell of gunpowder, to her trembling hands, her terrified heart, and Spike's wild eyes, feral with pain and hunger.
Willow jumped up from the ground and began a victory dance around the downed vampire. "I did it! I got him! Who's 'bloody rubbish' now?" she taunted, standing over him.
"What is wrong with you people!?" Buffy screeched. She was moving, across the yard, and on her knees next to Spike the next moment, running her hands frantically over his chest. The rest of the group had gathered around, congratulating the witch. Spike, the dog, was dancing around with her, tail thumping anything or anyone that got in range.
Spike grinned, fangs glinting in the low light. "Worried for me, were you?" he taunted, saffron eyes dancing with mischief.
"Spike! Don't move, there might be splinters..."
"Buffy, they're not wooden," Willow informed the Slayer, tapping her on the head with the foam stake.
"W-What?" Buffy gasped, grabbing the too-real looking stake from her friend's hand, feeling it give beneath her grip.
"It's just pretend, you know, for safety in training," the witch explained.
"Then why did you fall over like you'd been staked?" Buffy demanded of the vampire.
"Got me in the heart, she did. First time she managed it properly. Deserves a bit of a swoon, I reckon," Spike explained.
"You're an asshole!" Buffy declared angrily, slapping him sharply on the chest.
"Yeah, but I'm your arsehole," he countered, rubbing the spot as he sat up. Then Buffy suddenly found herself on her back in the grass, Spike's demon visage filling her vision, his legs straddling her hips, pinning her down. "What say we show 'em how it's done, pet?"
"It?" Buffy squeaked, her mind whirling, very aware of the hardness pressing against her and their recent roleplaying sex education in the classroom filled with imaginary students. Now her backyard was filled with very real, very familiar students. Was her hot, hard, overly-sexed, vampire boyfriend really suggesting they reenact their lessons? In her own backyard? With her friends, her dog, and her mom watching them with eager I'm-ready-to-learn-things-show-me faces… There were cherries and there were cherries and this one she was one-hundred percent certain she'd never be ready to pop!
Spike's deadly grin turned suggestive, his voice lowering several octaves into a melty timbre. "Was talking 'bout slaying, but if you'd rather..."
With a roll of her body and kick of her legs, Spike was launched into a somersault over Buffy's head. His back hit the ground with a thud of impact, but the air was filled with his laughter.
They were both on their feet facing each other the next instant. Buffy kicked the real stake—which she'd dropped at some point in her frantic worry over her boyfriend's wellbeing—off to the side, and gripped the foam one tightly. Spike bounced around her, fists raised, devil-may-care grin flashing deadly fangs.
"C'mon, Slayer... show 'em how it's done, then," he taunted, lunging into a roundhouse kick aimed at her head.
Buffy ducked it, sweeping a leg out and taking out his supporting leg, dropping him to the grass again, but he bounced right back up, spun, and caught her in the ribs with an elbow, which drove the air from her lungs. The Slayer kicked one foot out and tangled Spike's legs, sending them both sprawling on the ground again. They grappled for control, rolling and bucking, pulling and pushing, each trying to throttle the other to get enough leverage for a victory.
Buffy was vaguely aware of her friends, mom, and dog gathered around them, yelling (or barking) encouragement or advice, or, in the case of her mom, telling them to be careful! As they rolled on the damp, soft earth, Buffy found herself laughing along with Spike, even as she threw punches and received reciprocating blows. She'd never allowed herself to find true joy in violence before. It was all sacred duty, yada, yada... all very serious and world-endy. But this, here, with him—it was just joyful, ridiculously euphoric.
It was like another part of her had been released. Just as he'd set the woman free, allowed her to explore and embrace her sexuality, she felt the Slayer part of her unfurl from the tightly-contained bud where it had always lived, and blossom into an exultant, powerful warrior.
Even when her head whiplashed to the side from an impressive blow to the jaw, Buffy kept laughing, returning the favor with equal ferocity. They tumbled, struggled, and rose, trampling the tender grass, neither giving any quarter nor desiring any to be given. Trading punches and kicks, drawing blood, raising bruises, and all the while laughing.
Joyce's heart was in her throat as she watched the two warriors abuse each other, locked in a deadly dance, laughing the whole while. She gasped when blood flew from Spike's mouth and her knees nearly gave way when Buffy's nose spurted red.
"Stop... shouldn't they stop? Shouldn't we stop them?" Joyce asked no one in particular.
Willow laid a comforting hand on the woman's arm. "I'm pretty sure they're just, um... playing. You can tell on account of Buffy hasn't even started punning, and neither one of them are dead yet. O-or deader, in Spike's case."
"They should be okay. They've never been able to kill each other before, though there was the whole paralyzed by an organ thing. But Spike got over that... eventually," Xander added helpfully.
"It's kind of elegant, in a lethal sort of way. Like 'Swan Lake' meets 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre'," Oz observed.
"Woof!" Spike agreed heartily.
Joyce wrung her hands, but tried to distance herself from her motherly instincts to protect her child and see what the others were seeing. It came into focus slowly and with some effort, but when it finally clicked, Joyce felt herself relax. Her daughter was incredible, with the strength of Thor, the cunning of Loki, and the grace of an angel—spinning, twirling, leaping, cartwheeling, lunging, striking, pivoting, attacking, retreating, and all the while laughing, simply glowing with joy.
And Spike seemed her equal in all things, including the exuberant joy. Taking blows and delivering them, his duster whirling like a cape, fists blurring forward before staggering back, blood flying along with taunting laughter and challenging words.
Joyce found herself smiling, cheering first for Buffy, then for Spike—whoever seemed to need encouragement at the time.
Buffy's heel caught on a root as she retreated from a high kick, and she fell hard onto her back.
"Gotcha!" Spike exclaimed, diving for the downed Slayer.
"Gotcha," Buffy whispered as he landed on the stake, which collapsed against his breastbone.
"Wow, Spike was right," Xander observed, more than a little surprised. "Vampires really aren't all that bright."
"Bugger..." the un-bright vampire muttered, looking down at the bit of foam pressed against his chest.
"You lose," Buffy taunted, giving him a Cheshire grin.
"You win," he breathed, dipping his head, and capturing her lips in a hungry kiss.
"Mmmm..." she moaned against him in agreement, wrapping her arms around his neck as their tongues and lips took up the battle.
"That part wasn't in the lesson," Xander complained. "Were we supposed to get a kiss after we staked him? I feel cheated," he continued, tilting his head to get a better view.
"I think that's just a Buffy thing," Willow said, grabbing Xander's arm to keep him from drifting closer to the pair. "I guess you could ask him in next week's class, though."
"Huh? Oh, yeah... uh... no, probably should just, uh... He seems to be a really good kisser, though," Xander stammered distractedly.
"Come on, everyone," Joyce called, corralling the other students, and turning them for the back porch. "Hot cocoa and Piroulines all around," she offered.
When furry Spike began to follow, Joyce stopped him. "PG-13," she reminded him, tilting her head toward the couple on the ground. "You're the only one who can do it."
Spike huffed and rolled his eyes. Even he knew it was too late for that.
"I know, I know, but..." Joyce sighed. "But she's still my little girl... I can live in denial in my own house for a while longer if I want to."
The dog arched a doubtful brow at her.
"At least keep things decent while they're in bursting distance of my bubble of blindness."
Spike whined plaintively, looking through the back door into the kitchen, which promised yummy treats.
"I'll save you something extra-special, don't worry," Joyce assured him with a pat on the head before she followed the kids into the house.
The dog sighed and plodded over to the writhing, moaning pair in the yard, contemplating the best strategy. Bulldozer nose? Slobbery kisses? Stompy paws? Thwacking tail? Deafening bark? All of the above?
"Let off, Cujo!"
"Argh! Spike kisses! Kisses of Spike!"
"Whoof!" Spike informed them, bulldozing his way between them, his long, pink tongue delivering hot, wet kisses to their skin. "Rrrr-rrof!"
Spike got the dog in a headlock and flopped him down onto the ground next to Buffy. This resulted in both heroes being thoroughly thumped with a furry sledgehammer as the dog wiggled and waggled happily—his mission nearly complete, treats looming in his future.
"Clearly the PG rule's still in effect... least-wise while your mum's in residence," Spike grumbled, reaching out to grab the beast's deadly tail and reduce the number of bruises being added to the ones the Slayer already delivered.
"Mom's drowning in that river in Egypt," Buffy agreed, raising up on her elbows, which was as far as she could get with Spike pinning her hips down. "Patrol?" she suggested, her eyes glittering up at him.
Spike grinned devilishly. "Oi, Cujo, what say you stay here while me and the Slayer patrol, eh? Bring ya back a pizza, we will... extra cheese and pepperoni."
The dog sneezed explosively and jumped up to his feet. He danced in a happy circle around the pair then headed for the back porch, looking back and waiting for them to let him in. Treats and pizza! Best. Day. Ever.
Spike chuckled, rising to his feet in a smooth, sinuous motion, before reaching a hand down to help Buffy up. "Cujo's gonna get fat and lazy if we have t' keep bribing him with dough and cheese t' get him to stay home," he pointed out.
Buffy let her dog into the house and rejoined her boyfriend in the yard. He picked up her real stake and handed it to her. "Which means we really need to get your house—"
"Our house," Spike corrected, but Buffy just kept talking as she tucked the stake away, "—done so we can start christening it with no PG13 rule."
"Too right," Spike agreed as they headed around the house, hand in hand. "In the meantime, I know a nice, quiet crypt just waiting t' be debauched."
Buffy grinned at him. "Sounds perfect.
"So," she asked as they got to the sidewalk and began jogging toward Restfield and the empty crypts that peppered its grounds. "What's your stance on valances?"
-X-
"Look like a right terror, you do," Spike teased as he turned the pages in the old photo album.
"I sooo don't! I look like a little cherub," Buffy argued, slapping him playfully on the arm as they cuddled together on the sofa. The TV was on, but the volume had been turned down low, and the only one watching the old 'Scooby Doo' rerun was the dog.
"That tracks, runnin' about shooting arrows through hearts," he agreed, earning him another smack.
"Fine! Let's see yours, then."
Spike bobbed his brows, his smile turning lecherous. "Just how much time ya reckon we have 'fore your mum gets home?"
The dog reluctantly turned his attention from Scooby and Shaggy devouring a gigantic sandwich. "Woof," he reminded them—PG13—before turning back to the show.
Buffy flushed under her boyfriend's lecherous gaze. "Pictures," she clarified. "Show me your pictures."
The vampire chuckled and handed her the photo album as he rose. He was up the stairs and back down before the next commercial had finished, a battered, wooden box in hand. It was about the size of a briefcase, Buffy thought, though maybe a bit thicker, with tarnished brass banding, corner protectors, and key escutcheon. On top of the box was a brass plate with the initials WJP engraved in old-fashioned, swirling script.
Buffy ran her fingers over the worn letters as Spike sat down next to her, the box on his lap.
"This was yours, from before?" she asked.
He nodded, his fingertips gently caressing some of the deep scars that marred the wood. "Me mum got it for me when I went off to university. Was right smart. A writing desk; had places for inks, pens, blotters, and paper. Was bloody posh in its day."
Spike began fiddling with lock using an unfolded paperclip. "Lost the key," he explained, as his tongue peaked out from between his lips in concentration. After a few moments of turning it this way then that, the latch released. It opened completely, like a book, spreading across both their laps, the open face becoming a flat surface for writing. Spike lifted one side of the writing surface and removed a tray with lots of small compartments, all filled with trinkets, and set it on the coffee table.
"Can I—?" she asked, waving a hand at the tray.
"Just baubles picked up here and there," he explained, shrugging his ascent.
Buffy's heart swelled with affection, her love growing even deeper. He may not think it was any big deal, but these were his treasures—things that he'd found important enough to keep, to lug around with him. This was part of his life, part of his past, part of him. She was sure everything in here had a story, a story she wanted to hear about, a story she was sure Spike would share with her if she asked. Unlike the vampire she had once thought of as her soulmate, who never shared anything with her. Could a vampire without a soul still be her soulmate? Heartmate? Lifemate? Lovemate?
She leaned forward and scanned the contents, picking up or running her fingers over some of the items. There were beads, shells, strange coins, doll eyes, a rabbit's foot, spools of thread and needles, a tiny, stoppered glass jar with what Buffy hoped was sand in it, a set of metal dog tags, a whole bunch of safety pins, some jewelry—rings, bracelets, necklaces—all in silver, little bits of sea glass, guitar picks, rocks, some old keys, a bent top from a bottle of Coke, and a little porcelain, black-and-white spotted dog figurine.
Memories. Memories of a very long life.
When she looked back at him, Spike had a reflective expression on his face as he shuffled through what had been beneath the tray. "The Police, The Ramones, Blondie, Talking Heads, Joan Jett," he read off faded scraps of paper—ticket stubs. "New York in the seventies—bloody brilliant," he reminisced, setting those aside and picking up a faded, yellowed photograph.
"What's that?" she asked, leaning in to see.
"Dru..." he said, showing it to her.
"When was this taken?" Buffy wondered, taking the thick, creased photo from his hand. Dru was standing with one hand against her heart, her head tilted just so, looking grim, as everyone seemed to in super old photos.
"Not long after... after we met," he said. "Were still in London, was around Christmas. Had one with all her dollies too, was bloody creepy," Spike said distractedly, looking through the box. He shrugged. "Don't see it now. She must'a taken it."
Buffy snorted. "When a vampire thinks something's creepy, you know it's bad," she teased, then softened her tone, "Do you miss her?" she asked, handing the photo back to him. She looked at him through the veil of her hair, watching his expression.
He shook his head immediately, but the sad smile and wistful crinkle around his eyes as he took the photo back contradicted it.
"It's okay if you do," she said, laying a consoling hand on his bare forearm.
Spike looked up at her and shook his head again. "Don't miss 'er, just sorry for... for leaving her on her own. Worry for her." He screwed up his lips into a frown. "Though I reckon she's just ducky, given that she's stomping about in your dreams."
"She... I think she really cares about you. She's trying to keep you safe, which I'm in full agreement with. Something I'd never thought I'd be—in agreement with Drusilla."
"Can keep m'self safe," he grumbled. "Don't like her muckin' about in your brain."
"She's not... mucking about, she just... visits and gives me vague and largely unhelpful warnings. I don't let her wander around touching my things. And, like I told Giles, I'd rather have vague warnings than no warnings, which is what I've been getting from the good guys lately."
Spike sighed and looked back at the photo of his dark princess.
"It's fine, Spike, really. And she's fine...ish. I mean, she seemed Dru-like."
He nodded, looking up at her again. "Hard t' just turn off the feelings, yeah? Even when someone's ripped your sodding heart out. Bloody ridiculous, is what it is."
"It may be ridiculous, but it's part of what makes me love you. You don't stop loving, your heart doesn't abandon people, even if you have to eventually walk away from them to save yourself, you still care."
Buffy touched a soft kiss to his cheek. "I love you," she whispered against his skin, resting her head on his shoulder, and looking down at the picture of Dru that he still held.
"Love you too, pet. More than... more than I can say," he replied, turning to press a kiss onto the top of her head.
They sat in easy silence for a couple of minutes, just basking in the understanding and comfort of the other.
Buffy broke the silence first. "Do you have any of you from back then?" she asked softly, looking into the jumble of photos and papers in the box.
Spike dropped the picture of Dru and shuffled around again, finally coming out with another yellowed and worn picture. "This was around the turn o' the century," he explained, handing it to Buffy.
She sat up, leaning away from him a little to hold it under the light. "Do you have a... ponytail? And... suspenders?"
"What of it?" he sniffed. "Was the fashion, wasn't it? Gotta keep with the times."
"You're so cute, all prep school chic. Were they red? Tell me you had red suspenders!" she teased, turning her thousand-watt smile on him.
"They weren't sodding red," he muttered, snatching the picture back. She released it, not wanting to do any damage.
"Don't be a grumpy pants," she cooed, snuggling up against him again. "You made fun of bitty Buffy, I can't make fun of baby Spike?"
He rolled his eyes, looking at the photo, memories flooding back to him. He'd been on top of the world, he'd just killed his first Slayer, he and Dru were alone, no sodding Daddy to draw her attention, and no Darla to be telling them what to do, where to go. They'd been free... he'd never been happier, and yet there'd still been something missing. He'd not admitted it then, wouldn't look inside long enough or hard enough to even let himself notice, but he knew it now. He knew it now because the girl at his side had filled that empty ache where his soul had once been, filled in all the yearning cracks in his heart with warmth and light and love.
"What color is your hair?" she asked, studying the faded and stained black-and-white photo that he was still holding. "I mean, the real color?"
He smirked and looked up at her. "Think you know what color m' hair is, pet," he drawled suggestively. "Need t' have another look t' be sure?" he offered, dropping a hand to his belt.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "It looks lighter than... down there."
Spike looked at the photo again. He hadn't seen his real hair color in so long, it was a bit hard to remember exactly. He'd been platinum since the seventies... and had been a few other colors over the preceding decades, from black to bright red—Dru'd even died it candy floss pink once in the eighties. Daft bint. Looked like Cyndi bloody Lauper. Got him into loads o' brilliant rows, that did, so he couldn't complain too much.
He dropped the old picture back into the pile and began searching again, finally coming out with one from the late sixties, the one he'd told Buffy about when his hair had been past his shoulders. The picture was in color, though the colors had been muted by time.
She squealed when she saw it, bouncing in the seat, making the dog look over to make sure things were still within the house rules.
"Oh. My. God! Your hair is prettier than mine! You're prettier than me!" She held it under the light for a better look. His curls had been tamed to waves by the weight of it hanging down well past his shoulders. It looked so soft, like a cloud of buttery silk around his head. Her fingers itched to dip into it, run through it; her body tingled at the thought of it tickling over her breasts, along her quivering stomach, then flowing over her quaking thighs as he slipped his tongue into her aching core.
She cleared her throat and tamped down the sudden flare of lust, always smoldering just under the surface these days. "This looks, uh... blond?"
Spike shook his head. "Photo's a bit faded... reckon it's more of a light brown," he admitted, running a hand back through his platinum locks, loosening some curls in the process.
"I can't believe you were a hippie," Buffy laughed, settling back against his side, the picture still in her hand. "With a headband and all. Did you wear tie-dye t-shirts and bellbottoms?"
Spike smirked. "Had t' fit in, didn't I? Looking like that got me a free pass anywhere I wanted to go. Woodstock was brilliant. Fed off a flower child... spent the next six hours watchin' my hand move. Ended up missing Jimi Hendrix. Sodding shame, that was."
"Did Dru ever change her hair?"
He shook his head. "Not as such. Said the pixies wouldn't recognize her if she changed it overmuch. Wore flowers in it during the sixties... pixies are fond o' flowers, apparently."
Buffy snorted. "Do you have pictures of yourself after Dru cut all this glorious hair off?" she asked, handing the photo back to him.
He took it, adding it back to the melee in the box, and started digging again. He finally came out with a blurry black and white photo of him and Dru. His hair was short, standing up in bright blond spikes. He looked inordinately pleased with himself, his tongue curled against his teeth, a cheeky grin curving his lips. Dru stood behind him, looking as serene and unchanged as... as something serene and unchanging.
"Your Billy Idol phase?" she teased, looking back up at him.
"Have you know, he got his look from me," Spike sniffed, looking over at the picture. It had been taken just days before he'd killed his second Slayer in New York. He and Dru had been on their own for the whole 20th century... seventy-seven years. The last few, he'd been having the time of his life in the Big Apple. He'd discovered punk rock and CBGBs. The Son of Sam had the whole city ripe with fear, civil unrest and urban decay made hunting a doddle, and even Dru had been happy in the heart of the dark city, not pressing for them to move on.
"Of course he did." Buffy rolled her eyes. "What's... what are you wearing?" she asked, squinting at the picture. "Is your brow pierced? And is that... eyeliner?"
Spike grinned. "Had t' fit in," he repeated, though he had to admit he looked bloody good in eyeliner.
"That's... hot," Buffy murmured, trying to sharpen the image in her mind, wishing the picture had been larger and more focus-y. "How did you keep your brow from healing around the... what is it?"
Spike leaned forward and picked up one of the large safety pins from the tray of trinkets and held it up. "Healed around it; long as I didn't pull it out, was fine. Got it yanked out a time or two in brawls. No fun, that, but I just put another in. Had a few other piercings as well," he revealed, his voice dripping with sweet, sticky sin.
Buffy licked her lips. "L-like what?" she stuttered, her eyes drifting down toward his crotch, which was mostly obscured by the writing desk/keepsake box.
Spike's teeth closed over his full bottom lip a moment. "Yeah, that. Had a 'Prince Albert'."
"A w-what now?" Buffy stammered, licking her lips.
"Prince Albert... is a ring goes in the tip and comes out on the underside... just in that little spot you like t' tickle with your tongue... that one that drives me mad."
Buffy felt a flush heat her face as she looked up to meet his glittering blue eyes. "Doesn't that... hurt... like, a lot?"
"Only for a mo'... then it feels bloody amazing."
"Oh... Why did you, um... get rid of it?"
He shrugged. "Had my tongue pierced, as well. Dru started yanking it out every chance she got; was a bit afraid she'd take a fancy to ripping the other out, as well."
Buffy's face paled, her expression pained. "And it's called a 'Prince Albert'? What does that mean? I thought Prince Albert was something in a can... like beans or something?"
Spike snorted. "Well, there's Prince Albert tobacco... in a can," he agreed. "But this is a bit more sexy. Called that 'cos it's said Queen Victoria's husband, Prince Albert, had one."
"Queen Victoria? As in... super old Queen of England? That one?"
Spike chuckled. "One and the same."
"I thought Victorians were, err... repressed."
"I'm a Victorian," Spike pointed out, curling his tongue against his teeth.
Buffy cleared her throat again. "Right," she muttered, looking back down at the photo. Her insecurities were creeping back in. Spike had done so many things—things she'd never even heard of—had so much more experience than she did. He must think I'm the biggest dork in Dorksville.
Spike nuzzled his mouth through her hair to whisper against her ear, "Could put 'em back in. Trust you not t' do any damage. Might even borrow a bit of eye liner from your massive collection so you can see it in living color."
Buffy bit her lip shyly and turned to meet his eyes. "Really?"
His eyes were bright and hot, like a propane flame. "Trust me, it'd be my pleasure. Gotta warn ya, may not be able t' hold back long with your tongue running over that ring. May have t' swallow me down right quick-like the first few times."
A saucy smile replaced the apprehensive curl of her lips. "I think I could handle that."
-X-
When Buffy excused herself to go upstairs to get a shower before her mom got home, Spike took Cujo out for a meander around the backyard, using the time to have a fag as he waited for the dog to mark his territory... as if it didn't already reek of massive demon-dog piss. Looking through the old photos with Buffy had brought back so many memories, memories of times he'd thought he was on top of the world. He'd been wrong. So incredibly wrong.
Now. Here. This was the real thing—the top of the world, cloud nine, nirvana, paradise, Shangri-la. He felt like he could share anything with Buffy—no matter how dark or how poncy—and she'd understand. He'd never felt that before with anyone. It was an intimacy that transcended the physical into the metaphysical. He'd say she was his soulmate if he'd had a soul to share; she absolutely was his mate in every other way. It was sodding mad... a vampire and a Slayer, a Victorian and a Gen-Xer, a sinner and a saint... Okay, well, maybe Buffy wasn't exactly a saint, but she was a ray of golden light striving to keep the dark at bay, and he was the dark. Or had been.
Spike took a long drag on his fag and looked up at the starlit sky. "Think you're sodding funny, don'cha?" he asked the heavens. "Twisted is what you are... What did you reckon would happen 'tween us? Taking bets on who'd kill who? Anyone play the long odds of us falling in love? Hope they cleaned the rest of you sick fucks out, got every last piece o' silver from your pockets."
"Rrrrffff?" the dog asked, nudging the vampire's hand with his nose.
Spike snorted and looked down at his namesake. "Haven't lost it, don't make a fuss."
The Guardian dropped his jaw into a doggie grin and began a small cyclone as his tail slashed through the air. Spike scratched the dog's ears as he sucked in the last lungful of nicotine. "Thanks for sharin' your girl, mate. Take ya both for burgers again soon, yeah? Sound good?"
"WHOOF!" Spike agreed, bouncing in place with cheeseburger joy.
"Least that's still a sure bet..." Spike muttered fondly as they headed back inside.
-X-
Spike stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of Buffy coming down the stairs in her nightwear. His mouth dropped open, and his cock swelled to full and painful attention as she glided toward him, a nervous smile curving her pink lips.
Bloody hell. Was she trying t' send him to an early grave... again? How was he supposed to adhere to the PG13 rule with her walking about dressed like that?
His appreciative leer traveled over her, drinking in every delicious flutter and whisper of fabric, every splash of color, every ripple of silken piping that shimmered next to her golden skin. "New togs?" he forced out past the desire clogging his throat.
She stopped a couple of feet from him, running a finger along the plunging neckline, drawing his hungry eyes with it. She looked up at him through her lashes, all shy innocence. "Do you like it? I got it for our trip, but never got to wear it."
He grabbed her hand and pressed it to the solid bulge behind his zipper. "That answer your question?" he rumbled, rubbing her hand up and down the length of his cock.
Buffy bit her lip, a sassy grin forming. "You're demented, you know that, right?"
"Told ya I had a thing for yellow duckies. Never seen anyone wear 'em better. Dead sexy, you are. Christ, gonna bust a nut in my jeans just looking at you, pet."
"Demented!" she repeated with a laugh, pulling her hand from his grip so she could spin in a circle, modeling the rubber duckie PJs—loose fitting, with long sleeves and long pants, adorned with grinning, yellow duckies floating in a tub of blue water, green tiles as a backdrop. "There is zero about these that's sexy."
"Like hell. Sexy as fuck, you are," he disagreed, stopping her spin the next time she faced him, and pulling her body against his. His hands cupped her duckie-covered arse, tugging her hips hard against his cock, grinding into her as his mouth captured hers in a ravenous kiss.
Buffy laughed against his lips. He was sure that not even angels could make such a sweet, joyous sound. He drank it down as her amusement turned to ardor, and the kiss deepened. Spike's hands roamed over the soft fabric of her PJs, finally finding the hem of the top and slipping beneath, letting his palms sizzle against her sweet, hot flesh. Buffy's hands played in the short hairs at the back of his neck, working their way up, intent on loosening the rest of his curls from their gel prison, but they were interrupted before she got the chance.
A heavy weight leaned against their legs, making them both stumble to the side, breaking the kiss.
"Oi!" Spike objected. "Barely outta 'G' here, you tosser!"
Buffy giggled. "I don't think Prince Charming used any tongue on Sleeping Beauty," she pointed out. "And I don't remember him feeling her up, either."
Spike scoffed. "Haven't read the right version, then, pet. Sounds like there're more books in your future," he teased.
"Demented!" she said again, half laughing, half rolling her eyes.
"Dunno what you expected... looking like a sex goddess covered in yellow duckies. Fuck, just so much a man can take!"
"Total perv!" She laughed again, grabbing his hand, and leading him over to the couch. "I've got something to show you..."
"Your sweet tits? Was well on my way t' seeing 'em—"
"No! I brought my keepsake box down... I thought, well, you shared with me..." She shrugged uncertainly as she plopped down on the couch, pulling Spike down with her.
The dog huffed and settled down nearby, clearly not trusting the control of a vampire under the influence of yellow duckies.
Buffy picked up a glittering, brightly colored, bead and gem covered box from the table as she snuggled her duckie-covered arse up next to him. The box was a bit bigger than a cigar box and absolutely covered with sparkling gems in every color, size, and shape imaginable, arranged to resemble dozens of flowers in a rainbow of dazzling colors.
With a flourish, she opened the box to reveal her treasures. Disneyland tickets shared space with ice skating medals and postcards from her dad sent from faraway lands like Indiana and Boise. She felt her heart twist when she got to the old Ice Capades tickets, and shoved those, along with the lame postcards, to the bottom of the box. There was a broken Swatch watch, the face covered in random swaths of color, but not a single number, and a candy-striped friendship bracelet, woven from soft thread that she'd gotten from her bestie in middle-school. There was an 'emerald' engagement ring that looked like it came from a bubblegum machine.
"My first crush gave it to me," she explained with a blush. "We were going to elope and go live at Sea World with the otters."
"Notice you've not set up house in the otter pond. Tosser break your heart, then?"
She laughed, taking the small, cheap ring back. "It turns out that it's hard to get to San Diego on two dollars and twenty-six cents, which is what we had between us. Also, we got hungry, so we decided to go home for lunch first."
"Suspect your mum had a thing or two t' say about your plans."
"She thought we should wait until we were older... like maybe ten, at least."
Spike grinned. "Such a vixen. Breaking hearts since primary school."
Buffy picked up the piece of sea glass from Spike's collection. It was a frosted, jade-green color, the edges worn smooth from decades of being tumbled in the surf.
"Seaham Hall Beach," Spike explained. At Buffy's raised brows, he continued. "Along the North Sea coast back in Merry Ole. Whole beach littered with the stuff. Dru decided it was sodding treasure... gems or what-all, gathered up a bloody steamer trunk of the stuff. 'Course I was the one that had to drag it up the bloody cliff t' the car. Had t' weigh twenty stone or more." He shook his head and took the piece from Buffy, looking at it with a mixture of fondness and disgust. "Slowly emptied it every time we stopped 'til was just a handful left. Fancied this one." He shrugged, looking up at her. "Hadn't met you yet, but it's just the color of your eyes when you're properly brassed off."
Buffy rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Did Dru notice her treasure was gone."
"'Course... but she blamed the fairies. Tricksters and thieves, they are," he laughed, dropping the glass back into the tray.
He picked up a green vampire head from Buffy's box, it was squishy with a hole in the bottom. He mimicked her raised brows in question.
She ducked her head and took it from him, turning it over and over in her fingers. "It's an eraser, you know, for a pencil? Mom had it in a box of old notebooks and stuff. She said it came in a box of Count Chocula. I told her that wasn't fair because she wouldn't even buy monster cereal for me except at Halloween." Buffy pouted, then shrugged, looking down at the aged toy. "But then she gave me the eraser, so it was okay."
She met Spike's eyes again. "I... I couldn't use it, I was just... enthralled with it. I carried it around with me for months. One time I thought I'd lost it and was just frantic until I found it under my bed. Mom thought I'd lost my mind." She snorted ironically before looking up at Spike. "I guess that was a clue about my, you know... destiny. Something inside me was already all focusy on monsters."
She brightened and pulled something else from her box. "I also got the Pink Power Ranger from a McDonald's Happy Meal." She showed him the toy. "You know, to keep the vampire in line."
Spike chuckled, taking the toy from her. "Your spitting image, luv. Bloody sexy, right down to her stylish boots and deadly fists, ready t' pummel... or snog, any vamp that gets in her path."
"Shut up," Buffy chided, taking the toy back. She reached into his box of trinkets and pulled out the little black and white dog figurine and held it up for explanation. It was really cute, a Dalmatian puppy crouching low; it seemed to be smiling, pink tongue poking out, its tail raised, ready to play.
"Nineteen seventy-four Monopoly World Championship at the St. Regis Sheraton in New York," he began, grinning. "Was the winning token... bloke named Alvin... though he liked to be called Big Al." He chuckled, taking the small dog from her.
Buffy frowned. "That's not a Monopoly thingie. The dog in Monopoly is a Scottie and it's silver. That's a Dalmatian puppy, totally not silver."
"Bloke brought it from home—good luck or whatnot. Guess it worked, eh? He won."
"And how did you end up with it... and why were you at a Monopoly Championship, anyway?"
"What? A vamp can't enjoy board games?" Spike sniffed.
"You play board games?" she asked incredulously.
"I'm bloody ruthless at board games," he contended with a glint in his eye. "You name it, I'll trounce ya at it."
"As if!" Buffy scoffed.
"Warn ya, though, only play for wagers... no funnsies."
Buffy struggled to hold back a smile. "Just what do you wager?"
Spike's grin turned feral. "Depends... with you it'd be something... personal."
She felt the embers in her belly begin to flare again. "L-like what?"
"Have t' be something worth the trouble... something you'd not want to lose."
She swallowed hard. "Such as?"
Spike leaned in closer to her, close enough she could feel his cool breath on her skin. "Like... tying you up, at my mercy, spread-eagle on m' bed, using you for m' pleasure for hours... make you cum 'til you beg me to stop, then make you cum some more. Cover ya with my spunk... down your throat, filling your hot cunny, covering your perky tits... dripping from your sweet arse..."
Buffy shivered involuntarily, her body tingling, her pussy throbbing with need and the secret (or not-so-secret, if Spike's sudden nostril flare had clued him in) desire to lose that game before passing 'Go' even once. "A-and if I win?"
He curled his tongue against his teeth lecherously. "Me at your mercy... your willing slave... use me how you will. What's your pleasure, pet? Ride my tongue and drown me in your cum? Or fuck my cock 'til I blister... or maybe you'd fancy buggering me with those dainty fingers o' yours, make me scream and buck and jizz all over the sheets..."
"Oh." Buffy suddenly had a hard time breathing, as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. 'Bugger'... She'd learned all about that in her 'lessons'. The thought of doing it to him give all her tinglies tinglies. Try as she might, she couldn't find any part of her objecting to any of his... wagers. Quite the contrary, in fact. She was more than ready to play those odds, win or lose. Either way seemed like a victory to her.
"God, you're glorious when you're turned on... so wet and hot," he purred, trailing a finger gently down the side of her face to her lips. "Christ, you smell like heaven, pet. Could burn with the heat pulsing in your veins, radiating off you like a fucking star gone supernova. Can't stop wanting you... fuck, Buffy, want you every minute of every day."
Buffy grabbed his hand before she started sucking his fingers—which could only lead to very non-PG13 badness, like sucking other things, things she really wanted to be sucking, and licking, and kissing, and touching, and...
She shook her head to stop the track of her thoughts, holding his hand tightly between hers. "Me too," she admitted. "Is that... normal? I mean... it's not like we don't... you know... every chance we get. And still, it doesn't seem to be enough... or it is, but it wears off in like... minutes and I want you again."
Spike lifted their clasped hands to his lips and dropped soft, cool kisses against her knuckles.
"Don't reckon it's normal to keep falling in love with you over and over, either. Falling deeper and more powerfully and magically every sodding minute, even when I'm sure I couldn't love you more. Is it normal for your mates to want to upchuck their desserts just from the utter sappiness they see every time they're in a room with us, cos we can't stop touching each other or stealing kisses or just drowning in each other's eyes?"
Buffy blinked at him, unable to answer, her heart once again swelling to proportions she never imagined she could feel. And he felt that too? She wasn't alone with this... this overwhelming flood of affection, of attraction, of love.
"Got no desire t' be normal, Buffy... do you?"
There had been a time when that was all Buffy had wanted—normal—but now?
She dipped her head and bit down on her lip, making Spike wish he was biting that sweet, pouty mouth. Then she looked up, meeting his gaze and a flare of green flame shone in her eyes as she shook her head. "No normal for us... Abby Normal all the way."
He laughed deeply and pulled her closer for a kiss—long and lingering and not enough and too much and... fuck, he was gonna dust before he had her to himself in their own house. Then again, he might dust if he had her all to himself, dust from shagging her every sodding minute of every day, dusting from his heart exploding with completely abnormal levels of love and joy. Joyce and her rule might be savin' his life... even if it felt like torture at the moment.
When Buffy pulled back to breathe, she rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his hand, still clutched between hers, the tingle of his unique flavor on her lips, even the throbbing need between her thighs. Soon... soon Hawley Manor would be ready, and all this torture would be over. Then they'd play Monopoly. And love each other. And be completely Abby Normal all the time.
Spike sat back first, taking a deep breath, and Buffy mirrored him. He placed the little dog back in his box and started rummaging through hers for something new to get their minds off the wanting.
"You... you never told me how you got that doggie though," she reminded him.
He grinned devilishly. "Won it in a game o' Monopoly," he purred. "'Course, wasn't the only thing I won. Turns out 'Big Al' comes by that moniker honest."
Buffy's flush redoubled and she covered her face with her hand. "I... don't think I want to know."
Spike chuckled. "Let me know when you do... was a brilliant weekend," he offered as he pulled out a folded bit of green and white computer paper from her keepsake box. "What's this, then?"
"Oh, um—" Buffy's eyes went wide as she reached for it, but Spike turned and blocked her attempt to snatch it back.
"Oh-ho! Must be scandalous. A love letter from the otter-boy?" he teased, unfolding it as he fought off her questing hands.
"Your Perfect Man: War and Roses," he began reading the heading.
"Oh, god..." Buffy groaned, flopping back onto the couch, covering her face with one hand. She'd forgotten that was in the box.
"While you may project a happy-go-lucky, silly exterior to the world, secretly you're a bit of a brain, with razor-sharp instincts, and you know exactly what you want. You don't have time for games and players, and while far from a dainty princess—deep down you're looking for a prince. You want the cheeky smolder, the baby blues, and hair you can run your fingers through!"
Spike turned back, arching a brow at her. "Took one o' those quizzes, eh? Cosmo or Glamour?"
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Elle," she admitted. "Online... obviously," she said, waving at the computer paper.
"Seems spot on... razor-sharp instincts, far from a dainty princess, no time for games. And, if memory serves, you're rather fond o' these baby blues." He fluttered his lashes for emphasis. "And my cheeky smolder gets you all hot and bothered. And sod it if you aren't always wantin' t' muss my hair."
"It forgot to mention the royal pain in the ass that comes with those cheeky, smoldery blues," she grumbled. "And the twisted yellow duckie kink."
He chuckled and looked back at the printout. "Your ideal man will challenge your intellect, as well as your physicality—and he'll make you giggle, and blush while he's doing it!" He grinned at her. "Clearly not talking about the gigantic forehead, eh?"
Buffy rolled her eyes. Clearly.
He continued reading, adding an overly dramatic flair to the words, "He is bold, courageous, gallant, romantic, and loyal to a fault, a knight who'll defend you to the bitter end."
He looked up at her again. "Sounds like a right catch, if ya ask me, pet. Where d' ya s'pose you can find a bloke like this? Don't reckon Harris knows how to spell 'gallant' and wouldn't know passion if it came up and bit him on the arse."
She blew out an indignant breath, refusing to meet his eye.
"His word is his bond, and he'll never ask more than he is willing to give himself. He'll test your patience at every turn, and push you beyond the limits you place upon yourself—and you'll be grateful every time he does! Your relationship might have its ups and downs—this much passion and competitiveness is bound to ruffle some feathers—but the making up will always be worth it!"
Spike was preening like a peacock by the time he'd finished reading. "Just how long ya been looking for this courageous, loyal, passionate, feather-ruffling knight, then?"
Buffy gnawed at her lower lip, reaching over to take the printout from Spike. She smoothed it out on her thigh lovingly before answering. "A while... I took this the same day I got your 'Keep Calm and Drink Patrón' postcard. The one with your phone number on it...?"
"That right? And no one jumped to mind reading that?" he wondered, arching a brow at her.
"The only one who jumped to mind had promised to never come back to Sunnydale, was a whole country away, heading for Brazil with his eternal love," she reminded him sullenly, carefully folding the printout back up.
"Fair enough." Spike sat back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tucking her in against his side. "Whaddya reckon Elle would say 'bout my perfect woman... my War and Roses lover?"
Buffy continued to chew on her bottom lip, keeping her eyes trained on the folded paper in her hand. "It would say..." she began softly. "That she's strong and independent and doesn't need anyone to open car doors for her or pull out chairs o-or walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk like he could actually stop a speeding car from mowing them both down... but that she secretly likes it when they do. She can fight her own battles—literally—but she likes having a partner who can keep up with her, who knows how to fight at her side without getting in her way."
"Rrrrwoof!" Spike reminded her from the floor at their feet.
Buffy smiled and buried her bare feet in the thick fur on his back, rubbing gently. "Two partners who can fight," she amended. "Your perfect woman is always right, and you should not argue—"
Spike snorted out an argumentative laugh. "Think we've established that she's not always right, that she's a stubborn bint who thinks she has t' protect the whole bleedin' world..."
"That's literally my job... like, with a paycheck and everything," she interjected, lifting her chin proudly.
"But she doesn't have t' protect her perfect man," he continued, talking over her. "Or do daft things like leave him for his own sodding good, 'cos as noted on your little scrap o' paper there, he'll stay with her, fight for her, 'til the bitter end."
Buffy swallowed and nodded, blinking back a sudden rush of emotion from her eyes. "Your perfect woman will stay with you, fight for you, until the bitter end, too... she promises. But she'll wring your neck if you get yourself dusted before the bitter end, because she's a real bitch like that," she threatened.
"Seems fair."
Buffy moved as she spoke, swinging one yellow-duckie-clad leg over Spike's to straddle him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she settled onto his lap. "Your perfect girl has had her heart broken and twisted into knots and sometimes she forgets that... that her perfect man would never do that to her, that he's the one that put her Humpty Dumpty Heart back together again. When she forgets that it's because she's afraid and she just needs to be held and loved and forgiven for being a dope sometimes."
"Ditto, pet," Spike murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist.
"And no matter how much of a shirty vampire you are, your perfect girl will always forgive you... eventually. There will be feather ruffling sometimes and misunderstandings with your incomprehensible Queen's English, and you'll just be plain wrong a lot of the time, but she promises to forgive you for all that."
"Right big of you," Spike deadpanned.
"Also, your perfect girl will kick your ass at Monopoly."
Spike grinned lecherously, pulling her in for another lengthy snog. "Looking forward to it, pet."
-X-
Joyce had a dizzying sense of déjà vu when she got in after staying late at the gallery to set up a new display of Egyptian pottery she'd gotten on consignment. Buffy and Spike asleep on the couch, the dog lazing comfortably on the floor beneath them.
She dropped down into the chair opposite the couch, just as she'd done that night so many weeks ago after she'd speared Spike with a stake—thankfully not in the heart—and her drugged and weakened daughter dusted the insane vampire, Kralik, by running him down with the Jeep... repeatedly. She'd been overwrought with guilt and fear and a thousand other emotions that night, and was overcome with relief that they'd all survived the night. Spike had only been back in town a few hours at that point and already he'd been beaten, burned, and staked.
And yet, he'd stayed.
He'd stayed and was now replaying the scene in her living room, albeit with less mud and blood and considerably less anxiety. She watched the two blondes sleeping, Buffy in those new PJs she'd bought—the ones with rubber duckies on them—Spike in his jeans and t-shirt, though he'd kicked off his boots. The dog was happily using said boots as a pillow, or perhaps a drool cup.
They both looked so peaceful, so at peace.
Joyce had only gotten fractured snippets from Buffy about why she'd returned from San Francisco without Spike, something about the Powers That Be and sacred duty, but it appeared that whatever the problem was had been resolved. Thank goodness. She scanned the top of the coffee table strewn with yellowed, curled photos and two keepsake boxes, sitting open, revealing their secrets. The boxes were about as different as two things could be—one of heavy, natural wood and the other covered with glittering colorful baubles—and yet they were exactly the same. Filled with memories.
They'd been sharing... sharing memories, telling stories, growing even closer.
Joyce found herself dabbing at her eyes, tears of relief trickling down her cheeks. She liked Spike... perhaps even loved him as one would love a son or a dear friend... or a son-in-law? And she knew that Buffy loved him, that he made her daughter happy, even if Joyce didn't fully understand all their relationship's nuances. She also knew that he would keep his promise and, to the best of his abilities, he'd help Buffy defy the odds and live a long and happy life.
She shook herself, sniffing and drying her tears, allowing the fearful emotions that déjà vu feeling had brought up to dissipate, and letting hopeful joy take its place. She grabbed a soft throw from the back of the chair and silently crept over to the couch, stepping around the dog, who opened one eye to watch her spread the cover over the two sleeping superheroes, just as she'd done that horrible night, but this time she did it with a soft smile rather than a fretful grimace.
As she straightened, her eyes met a pair of bright blue orbs looking up at her. As the haze of sleep lifted, a tinge of fear or worry crept into Spike's expression. She widened her smile for him, pressing a finger to her lips, a silent communication. Don't move, don't speak, you're fine. Keep my girl safe and happy in your arms.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod, tightening the arm that was wrapped around Buffy. She murmured something in her sleep and snuggled deeper beneath the cover before stilling, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her body a living blanket, sprawled atop him, pinning him to the cushions.
Joyce touched a reassuring hand down on Spike's other shoulder before turning and heading for the stairs. When she stopped to turn the light off, Spike's eyes were closed, his head was tilted, his cheek resting against her daughter's head, fitting together like puzzle pieces... so very different, and yet made for each other.
-X-
Chapter End Notes:
Hippie Spike Manip by teragramm. Thank you sooo much!
Trivia: Sophia Crawford was the stunt double both for Sarah Michelle Gellar on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and for the Mighty Morphin' Pink Ranger in the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers TV series and feature film.
Trivia: 1974 Monopoly World Championship was played in NYC and won by Alvin (Big Al) Aldridge, an accounting student from Cornell University, who had been playing Monopoly since he was 9 years old. After a three-hour game, he received the Charles B. Darrow Cup, named for the man who invented the game in 1933.
During the match, he had been the only player who said little, moving as his token a tiny black‐and‐white spotted China dog that he had brought from home.
There was no picture of it, so I just chose a vintage China Dalmatian puppy figurine for it.