The memo arrived in a manila envelope. She untied the string and slid her finger under the seal, breaking it open. She pulled the papers out and laid them across her desk. There was a bold "X" at the bottom of the last page. Hesitantly, she bore her name across the line, then slid the papers back into the envelope. She crossed "Sell the house" off her list. She picked up her phone, and dialed Spike's extension.
"Will speaking," he answered. She melted at his voice. Well, almost. The butterflies she would otherwise write off for pregnancy, dropped from her belly. She crossed her legs.
"It's Buffy."
"Buffy. Is there something wrong with Tuesday's script? I know I shouldn't have let Faith sit in with the team."
"No, it's fine. It's great actually. I just wanted to tell you, my apartment sold today. I just got the papers, and signed. I can't believe it."
"Wow. That was fast, Buff. Are you okay?"
"A little bit of yes, a little bit of no." She buttoned and unbuttoned her blazer. She spun her chair around to admire her office view, her feet propped on her desk. "It's weird to think of other people in my house. Sitting in my living room. Sleeping in my bedroom, showering in my bathroom. I painted those walls, Spike. I laid those wood floors. I lived in that house when I was freelancing for a dingy paper down the road."
"I sold the house I lived in with Dru after she left, too. It was hard at first, but when I look back on it, it would have been harder to live there. To sleep in the bed you made love in, to eat dinner alone every night. Not that you had a bed or a dinner table or anything."
Buffy laughed. "True. Okay. Well, I better get back to this script. I just wanted to tell you." She dropped the phone back into the cradle. She felt free--she could move mountains, she could laugh, sing, jump, dance. She could fall in love. The scary thing about it, was she was. She was falling in love.
---
Spike's apartment was sparsely furnished. A couch, a dining room table, a bed. Two beds for the kids. Buffy's stuff, the little there was: three boxes of folded clothes, a box of shoes, a box of make up and toiletries: were in the corner of the kid's room. She sat cross-legged in front of them, thinking of the weird situation. "I'm living with my boss, sleeping in his kid's bed. When I get horny, I touch myself thinking about him. I'm pregnant with someone else's baby, and despite my bank account being bigger than ever, I still am the most unhappy I have ever been. I officially suck." She laid back on the floor, thinking of her little sister's Tarot cards. "Quit looking for what you're looking for. How can I quit looking for an answer?"
Her cell phone had rung probably twenty times in the last forty-five minutes. Angel had been going insane since he'd found she'd sold the house. Her bank account grew a little more; that dumpy little apartment had ended her with a cool $100,000. Under law, she owed Angel half. She wondered if he'd fight for it. She wondered if their baby looked like him: those dark eyes, the smooth face. Her heart was pounding thinking of him. At the same time, he made her sick. Spike, lately, had been swimming through her daydreams. His cerulean eyes, the chiseled cheekbones, the way his voice, even gravelly in the morning, could turn her on like a switch. Living with him, could prove a dangerous feat. If dreams were potent: she'd be having twins.
"Buffy! Are you going to have dinner with me?"
She jumped. "Hey. When'd you get home?"
"Long enough to hear you talking to yourself." Her eyes narrowed. She pulled herself to her feet then said, "how much did you hear?"
"Nothing good," he assured her, leading her into the dining room. "Dinner?"
"What's cookin', good lookin'?"
---
She arched her back, pressed her hands into his buttocks, her lips into his neck. "God, Buffy," he breathed, "I've been dreaming of this." He pushed into her one last time, then collapsed, breathing heavy. Her hands traced patterns, drawing circles in sweat and the light blonde hair on his back; she drug them up and down, to match her breath. "Hey," he whispered when she didn't answer. "You okay, love?"
"I'm fine," she answered, wriggling beneath him. She squeezed him, still inside of her, then shifted under him again. "That was really nice. Really, really. I mean, wow."
"Yeah?" He thought of her ex husband—tall dark and handsome.
"Yeah."
"So we should do it more often?"
"Absolutely."