As soon as the door shuts Buffy flops back down onto her bed, hands pressed to her face to try and regain some tranquility, as though she could calm her heartbeat from the outside.

Some goodnight kiss! She thinks, feeling buzzy and awake as though she's had a million cups of coffee. How am I supposed to sleep after that?!

She listens to his footsteps heading downstairs and it tugs painfully at her heart. Having him sleep somewhere else was the wrong choice-

No, right choice. Definitely, definitely the right choice, she chides herself, since the muscles in her body feel like they're full of sparkling magic. Taut with longing. Anticipation still beating through her inside her veins. Much longer and turning back would've been almost certainly impossible. God, how good it had felt though. It would be so easy to follow him downstairs… invite him back up…

Go to bed!

Buffy finally gets up and blows out the candles she'd decorated around the room, wafting the smoke so it evaporates and doesn't leave white tendrils in the air. She slips the dress off with relief. She'd felt more than a little overdressed in it—hadn't been able to stop fussing with it—but it'd had more than the right reaction from him. She still felt tingly at every point his eyes had lingered. Not just lustful but lovesick…

He always looks at you like that, she thinks, feeling another flush of warmth suffuse her cheeks at the truth of that thought.

Another craving for him flares and she busies herself with sifting through clothes to find something to wear to bed. The decision is instinctive; she opts for the UC Sunnydale t-shirt Spike was wearing earlier, abandoned as soon as the dryer released his black t-shirt and jeans. She slips it on.

It smells like him. So wonderfully soaked in his scent, smokey with leather overtones that never really leave his skin and something sharp underneath like lemons. A scent that has a bite to it, unironically. Unable to stop herself, she pulls the neckline up over her head, burying herself in the soft red cotton, and drags in a breath, feeling a jolt of dopamine warming her heart as the him-filled-air eases her.

She finds shorts, pulls them on, and crawls into bed, tucking herself up in the blankets. She takes his pillow from his side and swaps it with her own so that she'll be surrounded by the smell of him even whilst asleep.

She casts a glance at the bedside lamp, and a little prickle of apprehension pierces through her happy fog for just a second. But only for a second. She's too full of the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against her, to have space for anything else. He's still in her house, still nearby, and his presence is enough to feel safeguarded against the bad dreams even if he's not directly beside her anymore. Without thinking about it further she snaps the light off, buries herself in the duvet, and closes her eyes, drifting to sleep on the memory of his lips against hers. The way he'd lowered her down to the bed but still followed her lead, the blissful look on his face even as she slowed things down before their actions took the natural path to completion. Heavily lidded eyes meeting hers, fluttering closed as the kiss burned them both...

She dreams, but not of anything specific. Just shifting space and familiar places that hold no horror for her. Nothing traumatic, just detached images passing through, like watching people on TV fake drive, with a background rolling past in the windows. Meaningless and easy to ignore.

Buffy wakes hours later, bleary-eyed and unthinkingly she reaches for Spike only to find cold sheets under her arm. A shard of grief at his absence tightens her heart before she remembers where he is.

She rolls over, groggily, and finds the alarm clock. 3:14am.

Great, not getting any more sleep now, she huffs and flicks the light switch on, but the brightness of the room makes it seem like the darkness is just waiting around the edges maliciously. Like she's created a beacon for it to hone in on and now she feels exposed. Lonely in this brightly lit bubble.

This paranoia thing is getting really boring.

Buffy worries at a fingernail, cracking some of the pink nail polish with her teeth before she pushes the blankets back. Giving in.

I'm not giving in, she argues with herself. Four hours is a personal best. So there!

She leaves her door open as she slips out into the hallway, illuminating the dark with borrowed light so she can see her way downstairs.

A streetlight outside dapples the stairs and hallway through the windows of the front door, enough for her to see his shadowy shape asleep on the sofa. He's tucked in under the duvet she gave him but with bare feet and jean-clad ankles exposed from where part of it has slipped off. Asleep on his stomach, a pale and naked shoulder protrudes from the covers, one hand dangling over the edge.

Buffy kneels down on the floor, heart beating wildly, and places her hand on his shoulder.

"Spike?"

He wakes with a slight roll of his shoulders, opening his eyes blearily as though he'd only been lightly dozing. He wipes the heel of his hand into his eye sockets, blinking hard.

"Bad dreams?" he asks as he turns to lean on an elbow, and she's more than moved, hopelessly grateful, that he's made such an easy space there for her to talk to him if she needs to.

"No," she whispers back, smiling a little. "Just…" her heart flutters that she's going to say these words. That they're going to be audibly cemented like superglue between them. Un-retractable. "...Missed you."

His eyes crinkle in a smile, soft and kind without gloating. "Want me back up with you, luv?" he asks, and Buffy almost says yes but caution stays her words.

"Upstairs is still… sorta dangerous," she says, leaving it unsaid that she'll be reliving that kiss all night. That she's hungry for another. For more.

For further.

He snorts at her phrasing. "Safer down here, is it?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "There's monsters lurking about."

"Mm. Marginally safer," she replies with a slight nod.

"Wanna bring Glinda the Good down to chaperone?" His teasing tone unwinds some of the apprehension she'd had at waking him up. Even in the middle of the night, there's such natural back and forth.

"I think I can handle the monsters all by myself." She grins, a twin of his goading smirk. "Slayer destiny, chosen-oneage, and everything."

His lips pinch in a chuckle tamped down, and she feels giddy with the sight of it. Flirting used to be such a heady, effortless pastime when she was in high school, so easy to do with the right person, regardless of the heart-stopping anticipation that feels like it's brimming over in her gut. So effortless with Spike, who seems like he was built for it anyway.

He chuckles, the cadence more than somewhat suggestive. "Are you gonna han-" he starts before she slaps her hand across his mouth.

"Don't you dare say what I'm very very certain you're going to say," she says, laughing quietly.

He tugs her hand down by her wrist, grinning from ear to ear in the dark. "You started it."

"Yeah, well, I'm also finishing it."

He doesn't let go but pulls her closer until he can wind an arm around her waist and heave her over him in a roll, slotting her down between himself and the sofa back.

Buffy snuggles down until her head is on his chest, braiding her legs with his. Skin on skin as her feet slide between his and her arms wind around his middle. His arm that's sandwiched between her and the sofa holds her gently by the waist, his fingers leaving slow circular patterns across the jut of her hip between the hem of her t-shirt and the waistband of her shorts. Almost sensual. Maybe not even intentional. Still chaste enough not to warrant further speculation.

When are you going to tell him you love him?

The question bubbles out of her subconscious and makes her heart skip a beat. Freezes her breath in her lungs where it turns frigid from the shock that those words had manifested so clearly in her head. And yet so without control.

She casts her eyes up to Spike to see if he heard them. They felt so loud and he seems more than a little clairvoyant sometimes of thoughts she doesn't want him hearing. But it seems like he's winding down back into sleep. His fingers slow in their movements, about to depart into unconsciousness and leave her to her breath stealing sudden self-awareness when he stirs again, tucking an arm underneath his head.

"What do you count as our first kiss?" he asks, so softly is almost a whisper.

Buffy blinks, stunned by her question and his, her mouth moving silently as she works out the answer as if it's algebraic.

"Not the engagement spell," she says eventually. "Doesn't count."

He hums in agreement.

"Maybe the-" Buffy's thoughts take a dive into the memory of the Bronze. His stomach. His scars. "Maybe the uh…post-Glory one," she says, quietly to hide the rawness in her throat.

Spike sucks air in between his teeth as though the memory causes him pain for several different reasons. "Doesn't count," he answers. "Thought you were the damn bot."

Buffy glances up at him. His eyes are closed, head cradled in the crook of his arm. "What gave me away?" she smirks.

He sucks his cheek, seeming to be debating with himself about whether to tell her or not. "Your pulse first," he replies, eventually. "Felt it on my lips."

"Oh…" she says, shakily. "I thought it was like a body heat kind of thing."

Spike smiles, a little sadly and lopsided, just a slight upturn to the corner of his mouth that she decides not to probe.

She worries her lip in nervousness, focusing on figuring out the question to avoid others. "Maybe… the one in your bed?"

His brow furrows for a second like he's drifting off to sleep and can't follow the thread of the conversation much longer. "That was a dream…" he says practically inaudibly. To himself, and if she wasn't so close the words would've been swallowed up before reaching her ears. Would have floated away like breath in cold air.

"Well I'm not counting under the influence of magic-smoke kisses," she says petulantly, tired of questions now both spoken and thought as she closes her eyes. "Or amnesia ones."

Spike huffs out half a laugh, his fingers resuming their slow perusal of her skin. "Fine by me, pet," he mumbles, and she knows just what he means.


"They're sleeping together?!"

The sound of Xander's voice booming through from the kitchen causes Buffy's jolt out of sleep at the same time as Spike's, who turns his head to look up. His hand rubs her back as though subconsciously soothing her after the rude awakening.

"Yeah, they're sleeping together," Dawn's voice replies, muffled and crunchy like she's eating cereal.

"What?!" Xander again, louder this time.

Buffy winces from the unnecessary volume so early in the morning.

"N-no not like that-" Tara this time, her soft stutter more difficult to hear.

"Oh no, just for like sleepover friend reasons," Dawn says, bouncy and direct, clearer from having swallowed her mouthful.

Spike grunts, rubbing a knuckle into his eyes. "Did you hear 'em come in?" he asks and Buffy shakes her head no, massaging her own eyes.

"And again, I say what?" Xander makes only the slightest effort to lower his tone.

Maybe it's the early morning lethargy, but Buffy can't seem to find it in herself to care that she's been caught in such a compromising position. Her head flops back down onto Spike's shoulder with a tired huff.

"He's like her security blanket?" Anya's voice pipes up, putting it in the bluntest terms. "Or a teddy bear but with impressive musculature?"

Buffy smirks, holding on as Spike stretches, impressive musculature rippling under the shared duvet.

"You know I've always had a soft spot for that ex-demon." He mumbles, turning on his side so he can cuddle into Buffy further.

"Ooooh I see what happened-" Xander says, still at full volume. "I got knocked on the head by a girder at work and now I'm in a crazy coma land."

"If you were in crazy coma land, would you be wearing that sweater?" Dawn's voice smirks.

"Hey, I made him that sweater!" says Anya.

"Want me to grab you some breakfast, luv?" Spike asks, twirling her hair around her fingers as he traces her ear with his nose. "Break up the rabble?"

"Nah. Just stay here," Buffy yawns before settling back into his arms. Her leg snakes around his thigh, anchoring them together by the ankles. "I'm going back to sleep."

"That's my girl."

"-Anyway, none of this is why we're here," Xander interrupts, and there's a brief dramatic pause like he's about to divulge some new supernatural occurrence. Something that's going to take all the brain-power of the Scoobies to solve. "We saw you at the magic box."

The sentence belly-flops disappointingly.

"You… saw me at the Magic Box?" Tara's voice sounds unsure of the point, tactfully leaving space for further explanation.

"Wow, what an absolutely unbelievable thing to happen. No wonder you rushed over here." Dawn drawls.

"She's spending too much time with you," Buffy mumbles into Spike's chest.

"Sure, blame the Brit for teenage sarcasm," he grunts, giving up the pretense of keeping things light and chaste and slipping his hand onto her bare thigh, leveling it tighter between his legs.

"Not, you-you," Anya clarifies, "it was like an apparition-you. A not-there you. Like all ghostly and moving through stuff."

"Mega-creepy. We-," Xander pauses uncomfortably, "we were afraid you might've died actually."

"Maybe it's just a ghost that looks like Tara?" Dawn offers.

"Maybe," Anya replies, sounding unsure. "But then a customer came in and needed a charm for warding off ghosts, and then another, and well… it seems to be becoming some sort of an epidemic."

"So just to get the facts straight," Dawn says, crunching again as though on her second bowl of cereal. "You thought Tara might be dead, but you stopped to make a sale?"

"Three separate ghosts?" Tara replies, ignoring Dawn's valid point. "Weird."

"Ugh, that's my cue," Buffy mutters, unable to put off mystery-solving any longer.

"Can't you just hit snooze?" Spike grumbles, burrowing into her neck. "I'm really enjoying where your leg is right now…"

Buffy chuckles, pulling back. "Gross, get off."

They untangle themselves from each other, not minding that the action is filled with all too intimate grazes and half-intentional touches. She hands him his t-shirt from where it was draped over the arm of the sofa and after one last lingering smile he follows her into the kitchen.