Professor Kensington's reluctant declaration that the class was over saved Spike from having to mull over her arguments - well, at least he was saved from doing it in front of witnesses.
__________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Thirteen
December 25, 2002 : 9:00am
Buffy whistled cheerfully to herself as she wandered down the stairs in her robe. There was sleeping in, and no finals to study for, and no classes to go to, and no finals, and she could smell waffles cooking, and had she mentioned, finals were over?
Spike uttered a muffled curse as he melted another spatula trying to get the ancient waffle iron to disgorge its contents. "Alright, next time, someone slap me before I believe the label that says 'non-stick'."
"Really? You're giving permission to be slapped?" Buffy hopped up on the kitchen counter and kicked her feet.
Spike followed their movement, raising his scarred eyebrow. "Fuzzy fish slippers, eh? I've never seen a pair of those before." He turned back to the iron, scraping waffle guts out of it with a pair of metal tongs.
Buffy pointed at her pants. "They match my yummy sushi pajamas."
"Do you own anything that doesn't come in a matching ensemble?" Spike met with triumph, peeling the last of the waffle out of the iron ridges. This time he reached for the can of aeresol cooking spray.
"Actually, I just like to have coordinating footwear- WHOA!" Buffy dove off the counter as a ball of flame billowed off the iron. She yanked Spike back and paused for a second. When she saw that the fire was gone as quickly as it started, she snarled at her husband. "You dumbass! Even I know better than to spray aerosol-propelled oil onto a red-hot iron surface! You could have burned the whole kitchen down! I thought you knew how to cook!"
Spike looked decidedly pale. He swallowed hard. "I... I've never made waffles before."
Buffy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Luckily, she was saved from having to make that decision by Giles stumbling into the kitchen. He, too, was in a robe, his hair in disarray and his glasses askew on his face.
"What happened? I heard yelling... Is something wrong?" He looked blearily around the kitchen, trying to see what was going on.
His daughter sighed heavily. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."
"Merry Christmas, Pumpkin..." Giles looked around the kitchen, slightly bewildered. "Oh! Waffles!"
Husband and wife groaned.
**********
An hour or so later, Giles accepted a steaming mug of spiced tea from Buffy, as he sat in his overstuffed recliner. As Spike started up a CD of instrumental Christmas music, Buffy slipped back into the kitchen.
The two men smiled at each other.
"Bit of an odd Christmas, isn't it." Spike flicked the switch for the tree lights, and the multi-colored bulbs sprang to life.
Giles sipped his tea. "By which, I assume you mean, being in our house? Or being married at Christmas?"
Spike shrugged slightly, and flopped down on the couch. "A little of both. But part of it, too, is-" His thought was interrupted by a mug entering his field of vision.
"Here you go, Spike. I even put little marshmallows in it... I know it's not the same recipe, but..." Buffy's cheeks started to pink.
Spike just stared at the ceramic mug, filled to the rim with hot cocoa, the marshmallows expanding to nearly overflow the top. Carefully, so as not to spill, he reached up and took it from her. When he tried to speak, his throat closed and his vision clouded with tears. He unconsciously started to curl up, pulling his legs onto the couch beside him and cradling the mug to his chest. Blue eyes shut tight, leaking from the corners. Spike licked his lips, then raised the mug and breathed deeply. He took a tiny sip, scorching his tongue, just like always. Looking down at the mug, then over to his father-in-law, and finally, at his wife, Spike was finally able to speak.
"I just miss her so bloody much."
Buffy slipped onto the couch next to him, her brow furrowed in sympathy and concern. Wordlessly, she put a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling tears prick at her own eyes.
Spike's face crumpled, an inhuman sound emitting from his throat. He turned into Buffy's shoulder, clutching the mug tightly against him once more. His breath became a sob. "I just miss her..."
"Oh, sweetie..." Buffy pulled him closer to her, heedless of the cocoa sloshing over onto her new robe. Memories of her own first Christmas without a mother crept up in her mind, and she started to chew her lower lip. Her expression was one of remembered pain.
Some time later, the strains of orchestral music penetrated Spike's consciousness. He was aware of Buffy's arms around him, of the cooled beverage sloshed on both of them, and of Giles' supportive presence across the room. Looking up with red-rimmed eyes, he smiled weakly.
"Sorry 'bout that... didn't mean to start Christmas out on such a depressing note." When Buffy smiled back at him, he realized that her own cheeks were tearstained as well. "... pet? Are you alright?"
She made a small sound of protest and scrubbed at her eyes with a free hand. Shaking herself out of her daze, she still didn't answer.
"I think the question is, are you going to be alright, son?" Giles leaned forward in his chair, his sympathetic gaze directed at Spike.
"I don't know, Rupes. Some days I am, and then sometimes..." he trailed off, lacking the words to express what he was feeling.
"Sometimes," Buffy picked up quietly, looking straight at him, "it hits you like a ton of bricks, and you can't breathe. She's gone, and it hurts, and it doesn't ever stop hurting. And sometimes, it's not so bad, but then when it is, you feel guilty for not having hurt more before."
Spike's lip quivered dangerously, and he was forced to break eye contact lest he lose his tightly held control. "She's gone." Pulling away from Buffy's embrace, he stood slowly and took a few steps towards the bathroom. "Think I want to wash up."
As Buffy silently watched his retreating form, her mind spun itself in circles. Mom, Joyce... I miss you two so much. What do I do? What can I say? She vividly remembered every holiday since her own mother's death - the sadness, the pain, the feeling that something was missing. Every Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, birthday and hell, even Arbor Day was a day that she missed her mom. And, at the same time, she was torn up over Spike's desolation. He and Joyce had been on their own, just the two of them, for so many years... she couldn't imagine what he must be feeling. At least she still had her father. Hank Summers... well, no one knew where he was. Still half-lost in her introspection, Buffy nevertheless turned towards Giles.
"Dad?"
"Yes, dear?" Giles started to polish his lenses in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.
"You know that I love you, right?" Almost pleadingly, she held a hand out towards him.
The older man clasped his daughter's hand, and rose to pull her into a tight hug. "I know, Pumpkin. I love you, too."
********
Spike emerged from the bathroom to hear high-pitched voices coming from the living room. Curious, he walked towards the sound. The sight that greeted his eyes made him blink. He rubbed his eyes with his fists. A second look only confirmed his first impression. What the hell kind of drugs am I on? Or is HE on?
Rupert Giles, dignified Scarsdale native and research librarian, a sober, intellectual being, was on his knees. In a jaunty Santa hat. Lip-synching to the Chipmunk's Christmas record that had replaced the symphonic carols. Buffy was half-sprawled over the couch, laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face.
The corner of Spike's mouth quirked. He watched the scene play a little bit longer, standing unnoticed in the doorway. Giles' theatrics kept getting more and more extreme as the song played.
Buffy was laughing so hard that she was in physical pain. She could hardly breathe, her ribs ached, and she had no idea what had possessed her dad to break into this bizarre behavior. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, she saw a flurry of movement from the corner of her eye.
Spike burst into the living room, flinging his arms wide. "ME, I WANT A HULA-HOOP!" He quickly dropped down next to Giles to finish the verse.
"Weeee can't haaaardly staaaand the wait, please Chriiiistmas, don't be laaaaate...." The two men squeaked in falsetto, swaying to the beat. They watched in fascination as Buffy's face turned the bright shade of purple-red that usually precedes an epileptic seizure. Spike and Giles shared a proud grin as she once more burst into peals of laughter.
"So, do we get our prezzies now?" Spike begged her, still speaking in his Chipmunk voice.
"Oh god!" Buffy gasped. "Just shut up!"
He pouted, voice dropping to its proper octave. "Presents now?"
Buffy looked over to Giles, who beamed and nodded. She dove for the tree, nestling herself practically under the branches, and declaring herself the elf. "I pass!"
Spike laughed. "Who goes first?"
Buffy pushed a wrapped package towards her father. "Age before beauty." She batted her eyelashes.
Giles rolled his eyes, but accepted that he would begin. Taking the gift, he broke the tape and let the festive green paper fall to the floor. "To Rupes," he read belatedly from the tag. Giles' hand stroked over the smooth finish of the wooden box revealed. A dark brass latch was on the front. Carefully, the librarian lifted the catch, raising the lid to reveal its contents. His eyes widened.
"What is it?" Buffy leaned forward eagerly.
"It's an amulet. Bronze. A representation of the Sumerian god Utu." He looked up at his daughter. "You remember, I did some work on it this past summer..."
Buffy tilted her head. "Oh, that's right. Cool."
"Yeah, mate. It's a replica of a replica. The original's a third century BCE priest's talisman. Would've gotten a generation up, but I didn't quite have the change for it. 'least this one's sixteenth century."
Giles blinked as the price range involved registered in his mind. "This is... I couldn't possibly accept..."
"It's not like it's one of a kind... My mum used her contacts to get it back in August, when you were so gung-ho about it." Spike swallowed, squarely meeting Giles' gaze. "I want you to have it."
Rupert nodded. "Thank you."
Buffy smiled. "Well, thanks to Mr. 'Steal-My-Thunder', what I've got is not so nifty, but here you go." She set her gift down on her father's lap. "Merry Christmas, Daddy."
"Thank you, dear." The wrapping was carefully stripped away to expose a black-bound volume. Gold embossed lettering across the cover declared it to be Writings on the Sumerian Pantheon by Rupert Giles.
"All those essays you wrote about Utu, aka Shamash," Buffy grinned, "while you were doing your legitimate research for the firm? I had Olivia edit them for me, and had them bound for you. So now you can say you are a published scholar." She beamed.
Spike stared at her. "You actually remember who those gods are?"
Buffy whacked him. "I'll have you know that I actually read all of Dad's book. And I understood, oh, about half of it." She grinned at Giles.
"I don't know how to thank you... This is most surprising." The researcher was still running his hands over the leather binding.
"That means it's my turn, no?" Spike broke in.
Buffy nodded. "Yup, since I'm definitely prettier than you are."
Spike stuck his tongue out at her, and reached for a gift bag that had his name on it. His wife slapped his hand, then passed it over. Yanking the tissue paper out, his eyes widened in delight. "The Collected Works of the Sex Pistols! A six CD set! Rupes, you've got great taste."
Giles leaned back in his chair, still holding his book. "Well, I've noticed that your records are starting to skip. It won't be too long before you've worn the grooves right off. I thought you might want to join the twenty-first century."
Both men looked suspiciously over at Buffy, who was stricken with a sudden coughing fit. Interspersed with hacking noises were sounds that could have been, "Pot... Kettle... BLACK!"
Spike rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. "Just fork over the gifts, Goldilocks, and save the commentary for someone who thinks you're funny."
Eyes twinkling, she tossed him another bag. He upended the contents onto the floor. "Linkin Park? Puddle of Mudd? Inzomniak? Pocket Lint? What's this, pet?" Spike stared down at the CDs.
"Speaking of joining the twenty-first century, I think it's time that you broadened your musical tastes. I got you two national groups and two indies. Listen. Appreciate. Alternate with the Sex Pistols before I'm forced to strangle you." Buffy smiled sweetly at him.
He laughed. "Well, thanks then, pet. I'll try to avoid criticizing them."
"That's all I ask... There's still a bunch of gifts left. Are they all for me?" Buffy's eyes lit up hopefully.
Spike and his father-in-law exchanged sheepish glances. "Yeah," the Brit drawled. "Guess it's in our nature t' spoil you."
Buffy beamed, tearing immediately into the first present. "Oh, awesome! I was running out of this..." she held up a set of coconut-scented bath products. Lotion, shampoo, body wash, conditioner, essential oil and a new loofah were all in the basket from the local herbal shop. She immediately unscrewed a cap, breathing deep. Her eyelids fluttered closed. "I love coconut," she sighed. "Thanks, Dad!"
"You're welcome, dear."
Buffy tore into the next package, and squealed. "Demon Hunter Yohko! I love that show!" She clutched the DVD set triumphantly.
Spike leaned over, a quizzical expression on his face. "Is that in Japanese?"
"It's anime, you dweeb. It's got subtitles. Mamono Hunter - Yohko!" she pronounced, faking a heavy Japanese accent.
"And you say I'm a dweeb?" he mumbled under his breath. For the umpteenth time that morning, Spike got whacked.
Giles laughed.
"Oh, just open the rest, will you?" Spike grumbled, rubbing the back of his head.
Still blessed with a smile that wouldn't quit, Buffy pulled a shirt box towards her. Heh, I wonder what Spike got for me. It'd better not be a Rob Zombie shirt, or something stupid like that. Ooh. Maybe he got me something sharp and dangerous! Impatiently, she ripped the top from the box, snapping the ribbon. Her mouth formed a round 'o' as she stared inside. Carefully, she reached in and held up the beautiful black dress. It had one shoulder strap and a diagonal hemline, running parallel to the neckline. Starting at the top of the strap, delicate red embroidered roses wrapped around the waist and body to end at the longest tip of the hem. Generous beaded fringe covered the bottom of the dress, which barely touched the top of her knee.
"It's... it's..."
"Open the next one, pet," Spike urged, smirking broadly at her reaction.
The deep rectangular box she reached for next contained a pair of black platform sandals. They had a five-inch heel, and beaded fringe along the ankle strap, which matched the hem of the dress. Buffy gaped, speechless.
"There's more, go on." Her husband was enjoying this immensely, and he coaxed her into unwrapping a small case. A set of jewelry - bracelet, necklace, and earrings. All were made of the same black beads as the fringe.
Buffy just looked at Spike, unable to speak.
He grinned. "If I'm going to be taking Latin Dancing, I'm going to sodding well have the sexiest partner, now, aren't I?" The Brit glanced over at Giles. "I was planning on getting her a new set of fighting knives, but then I thought, 'more frilly, less kill-y'. Seems to have been the right choice."
Buffy finally managed to form words. "You were going to get me knives?" For some reason, this got her all choked up.
Spike ducked his head. "Oh, alright. Here." He pulled a hidden box from under the couch. "Couldn't resist it, now could I?"
The final gift was a small dagger. It was simple, with a straight, smooth blade and a polished wooden handle. Its leather sheath was the perfect size for fitting into a boot, and it was decorative enough to hang on a wall.
Buffy flung herself at Spike, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you..."
He laughed. "You're welcome."
Taking a hint, she released her choke hold. "God, you know me so well."
Spike snorted. "We've been best friends for what, five years? I should bloody well hope I know you. Merry Christmas, pet." He turned back to Giles. " 's it time to eat yet? I'm hungry."
"Shouldn't you be saying something insufferably British, like 'peckish'?" Giles inquired.
"Shouldn't stuffy librarians think twice before accusing people of being insufferable?" Spike shot back, standing up. "C'mon now, Rupes. What's for lunch?"
"If you hadn't set the kitchen on fire, we would've had a honey baked ham. As it stands, it's either pizza, Chinese, or frozen dinners."
"Oy! I did not set the kitchen on fire!"
Buffy tuned out the voices as she watched the two men in her life exit the living room. Her hand was stroking the soft fabric of the black dress, almost of its own volition. God, he knows me... she thought, as her eyes wandered over Spike's retreating back. God, I love that man. She smiled, closing her hand around the material. Buffy blinked, as her thought registered in her conscious mind. I... love him. I love Spike. I'm in love with Spike.
Buffy pulled her legs under her, hugging the dress to her chest. When did my life get so complicated?
__________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Fourteen
"Alright, mis muñequitos, time for me to lay down the law!" Professor Briceño clapped her hands as she eyed the group of slightly uncomfortable college students. The petite, brunette dance teacher placed her hands firmly on her hips. "Now, I am fully aware that about half of you men are only here because your girlfriends dragged you here by the short-hairs. That doesn't matter. You will still learn to dance." Her eyes twinkled, taking any sting out of her words. "Dress code! I don't care if you wear jeans, shorts, or kilts, just as long as you can move comfortably. That goes for the girls as well. We're all going to be moving freely. The important thing for you to remember is shoes. If you show up with sneakers, I will throw you out myself. And quite possibly have you beaten. Wear boots, or dress shoes, or heels. They must have a smooth surface on the bottom, because-" Professor Briceño did a little salsa combination as she continued, "your feet must be able to slide. And you are not leaving rubber streaks on my good wood floors. ¿Comprenden?"
There was a general murmur of assent.
"Call me Yolanda. Any questions?"
Buffy spoke up. "What is the syllabus? Or the plan for the class?"
"Ah! Well, m'hija, your grade is based on attendance, participation, and a final." Her impish grin grew. "The final is a partner dance performance in front of the class and anyone who want to come. Kind of a recital."
"Kind of like 'Dirty Dancing'?" a girl piped in.
Yolanda laughed. "Something like that. But I don't expect anyone here do be doing lifts and stage dives."
The rest of the class period was spent dividing the group into partners. By choice, Buffy and Spike wound up togther. Frankly, Spike thought, I would be out of here in ten seconds flat if they tried to put me with one of the other chits. Annoying pieces of work, they are.
Buffy was grinning hugely, she couldn't keep still. Even though the background music was playing very quietly, she could still feel the pulsing beat. Her hips twitched to the rhythm, and she was swaying very slightly.
Spike smirked slightly, watching her. She was all a-twitch. His resentment at being made to dance softened. Buffy was obviously going to have so much fun with this class. And nothing sucks the fun out of a room faster'n a bad attitude. Spike blinked. That thought... was such a 'mom'-ism. Dear Lord, I'm getting old,
**********
Spike was just towelling himself dry when he heard the doorbell ring. Wrapping the material around himself, he stuck his head out of the bathroom. "Buffy?"
There was no response.
"BUFFY?" He called, louder this time.
No reaction. Muttering to himself all the way, he hitched the towel higher on his hips, and trudged downstairs to see who it was. If it's Red, I'll give her a bloody eyeful. And if Rupes has lost his keys again, I'll never live this down. Swinging the front door open, Spike blinked.
Lindsay McDonald tilted his head to the side, taking in Spike's fresh-from-the-shower appearance. "I take it I'm overdressed?"
Refusing to duck behind the door like a bashful schoolboy, the Brit just stared at the lawyer. "What do you want?"
Lindsay twitched his suitjacket so it rested more comfortably. "As the primary legal representative of all government offices in the Sunnydale area, I'm here to assess the validity of your citizenship claim."
"What's to assess? I got married."
"Ah, but is it under false pretenses? You must agree, it was a rather hurried ceremony." The lawyer smiled politely. "May I come in?"
Grudgingly, Spike stepped aside to allow him in the house. He followed him towards the living room, where the two men stood in awkward silence.
"Hey, Spike, who is it? I thought I heard the doorbell-" Buffy cut off as she came in from the back porch, sunglasses perched atop her head. She furrowed her brow at the strange man in her house. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?" Looking over at Spike, she blushed faintly, realizing the implications of her words. Her husband, standing nearly naked, with a man she'd never met. But get a load of all that skin... She grinned to herself.
Lindsay raised an eyebrow. She's blushing because her husband of several months is in a towel? His suspicions were suddenly becoming more solid. "Lindsay McDonald. I'm legal representation for the local branch of the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization Services. You must be Buffy."
She immediately put on her most charming demeanor. "Yes, I am. What brings you to our home? And can I get you something to drink? I'm sure Spike wants to go and make himself more presentable, isn't that right, honey?" Buffy smiled sweetly.
"Right at that, love," Spike murmured, giving Lindsay one last look before heading to the stairs. "Be right back."
Lindsay nodded, then turned his attention back to the bubby blonde. "Well, there have been some questions raised about the motivation behind your recent marriage. May I offer my congratulations? And I'd love some ice water, if you don't mind." His face split into his own charming smile.
"Oh, okay. Just a second," Buffy went to the kitchen, opening the fridge. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to stay calm. Perky. Homemaker-like. I can't lose him, not now...
Re-entering the room, she set down two glasses, and gave the lawyer a puzzled look. "What does your office want to know? I don't quite understand what the issue is."
"I've been assigned to make periodic visits because your hasty marriage is mildly suspicious."
"Yes, you've said. I just don't understand what's so suspicious." Buffy's expression and tone were carefully upbeat.
"Well, I gave him a notice of deportation. Within six weeks, a previously unattached man is married? Some have wondered if he paid you to marry him, or something of the like. I know how much he values that green card." Lindsay was also the epitome of politeness.
At this point, Spike came back downstairs, dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt. He sprawled down on the couch next to his wife and looked over at the lawyer. "So, what can I do for you?"
Buffy patted his knee absentmindedly, still looking at Lindsay. "Oh, that! See, we've been good friends for a long time." She leaned back in her seat, brushing shoulders with her husband. "Friendship is always a great place to start a relationship, don't you think, Mr. McDonald?"
"I wouldn't know. And please, call me Lindsay." He eyed the couple. The body language was casual and familiar, but something about it was off.
"Alright, Lindsay. Well," Buffy continued, looking back at Spike with a small grin, "what can I say? I fell in love with my best friend." She marveled at how easily those words slipped off her tongue.
Spike leaned forward to touch his forehead against hers. After fleeting contact, he looked up at the lawyer. "We'd talked about getting married, someday... When the letter came, we just decided to go for it." God, I had no idea Buffy was such a good actress. I almost believe her.
Lindsay nodded slowly. "Sounds good." He was quiet for a moment. "This is a nice house - would you mind giving me the tour? I hate to impose, but I was thinking of moving out of my condo..."
Buffy smiled brightly, standing up. She didn't believe him, she was sure he knew that she didn't believe him, but pretence was maintained all around. "It's not a problem at all. We can start in the kitchen, so I can put these glasses in the sink," she laughed, gathering the emptied cups.
The first floor garnered very little reaction from Lindsay. When they reached the upstairs, however, he had one very important question. "Why do you have separate bedrooms? And bathrooms?" He quirked a brow. Oh, there's a hole in their story big enough for me to drive my truck through.
"Well... I mean, it's still my dad's house," Buffy blushed. "I may be married, but he has certain... opinions on his baby girl being all grown-up." Yikes, where did I get THAT one from? At least it's semi-believable...
Spike chuckled quietly. "Yeah. We're saving up to try to get our own place, but funds are kind of tight." He cocked his head, eyeing Lindsay. "You would know."
The lawyer just smiled.
_________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Fifteen
February 14, 2003
Loud, Latin rhythms pulsed through Buffy's skin, crawling over her clothing and seeping through into her blood. A sheen of perspiration coated her forehead, but she didn't care. All that mattered was the way her hips moved, back and forth, side to side, a little swish- her foot kicked out to the side, and then she completed the move by tucking her knee and planting her shoe back firmly on the ground. Spike's hands were on her waist, her arms around his neck, and they moved together as if they'd been born dancing.
It had only taken a month of classes to make them move this easily.
"En la disco, yo me la encontre - me miraba, dijo, le acerque. Yo le dije, << ¡Vamos a bailar! >> Y a la pista, me la fui a llevar..."
He pulled her flush against his body, and they began a series of turns across the floor.
"Nu-nu, yeah, yeah..."
The inane lyric repeated half a dozen times, but Buffy barely heard it. She was surrendered to the music, feeling the beat, feeling the way it made her blood pulse and sing. The way that Spike's touch set her on fire when they moved this way. Spins, dips, turns, kicks - he guided and controlled her dancing. It was primal. It was provocative. It made her want him so badly she ached all over.
"Oh, ¡Para! I can't get you out of my mind..."
**********
Buffy stared down at her textbook, not understanding a word of the print. She didn't even see it, really. All that she saw were blue eyes, high cheekbones, and messy white-blonde hair. She saw lips curving into a pleased smirk. Her eardrums still reverberated from the music.
When had she fallen so hard? Why was this happening to her?
Spike. It was strange how he'd crept into her life. Slow but sudden, if that made any sense. Slow, in the gradual closeness that had developed over years, over heartaches and heart-breaks. Slow, in that they'd been friends for five years, and kissed but once. And then suddenly, she'd woken up to realize that his smile and his happiness meant more to her than just about any other thing in the world.
It just wasn't fair, even though it made more sense than anything else ever did. She was crazy about her best friend. Buffy was in love with her husband. It sounded so simple, so natural, but... it was her curse to live a complicated love life.
I am never allowed to be happy...
Buffy looked around the classroom, suddenly depressed by all the people wearing red and pink. The annoying couple in the row ahead of her was playing footsie again. She grimaced. Another Valentine's Day to spend alone on the couch with my two second-favorite men: Ben and Jerry.
When class ended, Buffy grimaced. Another lecture completely missed by my spacing out. Dammit. Popping her neck, she stood and gathered her books, heading out of the classroom. Hot fudge. I need hot fudge.
The evening found Buffy in a soft robe, curled up on the couch with a half-gallon of "Everything but the..." She sighed, turning the tub to read the label. "Chocolate & Vanilla Ice Creams with HEATH® Bar Chunks, White Chocolatey Chunks, Peanut Butter Cups & Chocolatey-Covered Almonds!"
So why don't I feel better?
Buffy grabbed the remote in her free hand, and flipped on the television. Channels flickered across the screen, until she settled on something loud and guy-like, with lots of automatic weapons and explosive devices. "Ah," she murmured aloud. "The anti-chick flick."
"What was that, love?" Spike came into the living room, scratching his belly. With a yawn, he ran a hand through his hair.
"Nothing," Buffy replied. Since his attention was caught by the spray of machine gun bullets mowing though bodies in a gruesome bloodbath, she felt free to examine him. Tousled, ungelled hair and smooth, ivory skin. No shirt, just a pair of sweatpants slung low enough on his hips to make her swallow hard. Sexy bare feet. Glasses perched on his nose, reflecting the light from the T.V. He's so beautiful like this.
She felt an ache in her chest, and desperately needed to break this silence. "Studying or sleeping?" she managed.
"Hmm? Oh, studying. Was catching up on my readings for American Poetry. You know how much I like Professor Kensington, but he's a complete slave driver." Spike stretched, popping his neck and back with a sigh of relief. Then he snorted.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing... well, something that Andrew was saying today in class, about slavery and what not... It's not that funny, out of context." Spike smiled again, shaking his head at his classmate's antics.
"Did you get the reading done?" Buffy shoveled another bite of ice cream into her mouth, trying to stave off the drool reflex at how his muscles moved under his skin. Bad brain! Shut up!
"What? Yeah, I did." Spike came around the side of couch and sat down next to her. He leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and tossing an arm across the back of the sofa. Buffy took advantage of this, twisting to curl up against his chest. She dipped her spoon back into the ice cream tub. "Mm, thanks." Spike took the spoon away from her and popped it into his mouth.
Hazel eyes widened, fixated on the way his cheeks sucked in as he swallowed. A tiny dribble of fudge trickled down the corner of Spike's mouth and his tongue swept out to catch it. Still watching the T.V., he started licking the spoon clean, long sweeps lapping away all of the chocolaty residue.
Something chose that instant to rise up inside of her, breaking through all of her inhibitions. Something inside of her snapped. Buffy couldn't take any more. She grabbed the spoon away from him, and then nestled closer.
Spike glanced down at her, confused. "Is something wrong, pet?"
"Don't you ever feel it?" she murmured, reaching up to lace her fingers through his.
"Feel what?" Spike's brow furrowed in concern. What's going on? Is she ok?
"Lonely," she whispered. Ice cream was set down to melt on the table. Buffy cupped his hand with both of her own. "You're close enough to touch, Spike. Close enough to hold. I don't understand it." She stroked down his hand, caressing his forearm.
Spike met her gaze, shaking his head slightly. "Look, Buffy. I don't know what you want from me, but-" 