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Reclamation by AmyB
 
Reclamation
 
 
 
“So what’s all this, then?  Can I go out there yet?”

Buffy had never, in all her life, believed that it could be so difficult to keep a vampire inside during the daylight hours.  And yet here she stood, barricading the front door against the advances of her overeager lover, watching with amusement that was rapidly transforming into aggravation as he ducked, dodged, and even jumped in his attempts to peek out the glass panels inlaid at the top of the door. 

“No, Spike.  In case you haven’t heard me over and over again during the last four hours, N. O.  No.  Your sunshine-bright little noggin does not go out into the big exciting world until the great big ball o’ flamey death in the sky goes sleepy-bye.  Now do you get it?” Buffy answered, false patience and saccharine-sweetness drenching her tone.

“Don’t have to talk to me like ‘m an errant child, Slayer,” he answered sullenly, giving her a glare that once would’ve made her quail at least a little.  Now, however, it did little more than prompt her to raise a brow and shoot him a smirk in response.

“Then don’t act like one, Spike,” she shot back, reaching out and taking his hand, tugging him deeper into the apartment they shared and away from the door that had been luring him like a siren for the better part of the morning.  “Come on.  I’ll make lunch, and then you can tell me what I’ll have to do to wipe that pout off your face.”

She should’ve been surprised, perhaps, to find herself pinned against the wall with his front to her back, should’ve jumped when she felt his lips against the tender pulse point just beneath her ear.  No matter what she should’ve done or felt, however, what she did do was much more ingrained in her being, much more in keeping with this love the two of them shared; grinning slyly, she pushed her hips back against him, wiggling until she felt his growl resonate in the sensitive hollow of her neck, and brought her hands up to link with his where they framed her against the wall.

“Gettin’ any ideas as to how to make me forgive you?” he asked, grinding forward and biting his lip in smug satisfaction at the little moan she couldn’t quite choke back.  “You were a very bad, rude girl, you know.”

“I know,” Buffy gasped, arching back when another thrust from him caused a wicked amount of friction between her pelvis and the wall.  “Take me upstairs, and I’m sure I’ll be very, very sorry…”  Spike stepped back a fraction of an inch, enough to allow her to turn in his embrace as she leaned up and brushed her lips lightly against his.  “Over and over again,” she breathed in a parting shot before ducking under his arm and darting down the hall and up the stairs that led to the loft bedroom.  He thundered after her, and her final rational thought as he tackled her to the mattress was that at least she wouldn’t have to guard the door anymore.  This was a much better way to keep him busy.

~*~*~*~*

Buffy couldn’t contain the proud little smile that she knew she was flashing as she dressed, aware as she was that Spike’s eyes were on her every move; there was such a feeling of being treasured to be found in moments like this, a sense of goddess-hood that his eyes conveyed as he watched her as though she was the only thing he had ever wanted to see.  She put a little more show than usual into her movements as a result—a long, languid bend at the waist to retrieve the bra he’d carelessly discarded in a passionate frenzy, followed by a turn back towards him and a lithe stretch as she slipped the straps of the garment over her shoulders and then reached backwards to fasten it. 

Her slight smile grew slowly into a grin as Spike’s eyes shaded darker and darker, his chest hitching as the sheet around his waist tented suspiciously.  Reading the look in his eyes and knowing instinctively that another moment of teasing would mean not leaving the loft for several more hours, she snagged her shirt from the chair and pulled it on with a sigh of regret.  They had, after all, already spent the afternoon in bed, and with sunset approaching, it was only fair to let him finally see what she’d been concealing from him.

“So… if you want to see what’s been behind door number one all day, you might want to put on some pants,” she teased, throwing a pair of jeans from the dresser over her shoulder at him as she dug for a pair of her own.

“Right then,” Spike answered, tone blasé even as he jumped up and tugged on his pants, one leg tangling in the sheet in his haste. 

Buffy choked back a giggle at his obvious eagerness, tossing him a shirt that he caught without even looking.  It was the little things, she thought as she watched him stretch, watched the play of his muscles as he tugged the shirt over his head.  It was the way they didn’t have to talk sometimes, the way they were so in tune, that made this newly-established domestic life so good, made it a joy to share her bed and her home and her life with him.  Seven months before, she had been alone and frantic, pacing the floor in the private Concorde that the Watcher’s Council had provided for the Los Angeles rescue mission, terrified of what might greet her.  What she had found, she could never have predicted.

~*~*

Buffy and a hand-picked crew had ridden into Los Angeles like a Slayer SWAT team, only to find that they weren’t needed after all; upon their arrival, they quickly discovered that somehow—despite all the indicators of major doom for the side of right—Angel, Spike, and a deceptively frail-looking blue woman were not only holding their own but were making a good show at decimating the forces the Senior Partners had marshaled.  Buffy paused on the rooftop upon which the helicopter they’d taken from the airport had left her crew, admiration and shock warring for pride of place within her as she watched the two loves of her life battle it out—and on the same side, for once.  She had never believed for an instant that she would ever witness such a spectacle, but with it playing out before her eyes, she was utterly captivated.

Perhaps because of its unexpectedness, perhaps simply because she was seeing both of them again after so much time and pain had passed, watching Angel and Spike work as a team was nothing short of surreal.  That feeling had been not at all diminished by the fact that her first vision of such a phenomenon involved Spike riding the back of a dragon, attempting to restrain it, while Angel made Musketeer-esque slashes at its stomach from below.  They fought well together, she realized with a start, and she felt a proud grin shape her lips as she charged into the fray herself; sword swinging in her right hand, scythe in her left, she spun, parried, ducked, flipped, and fought for her life and for the world, throwing all of her belief in her duty and her desire to see this battle done into every sweep of her weapons. 

During a rare pause in the frenzy, Buffy did a quick ally check, noting that all of her team was holding its own; eyes shooting to check for Spike and Angel, she found them dodging streams of flame from the dragon as they slowly hacked it into weakness.  Her eyes landed on the strange blue figure as she finished her scan of the alley, and she noted with a mixture of disconcertment and admiration that the woman was doing a rather impressive job of ripping out spines and tearing off heads.  She was certainly trippy in and of herself, certainly not human and rather detached in her violence; while Buffy couldn’t help but be curious, she knew that the ‘who’s and ‘how’s would be a story for another time.  Feeling the heat as another burst of flame tore across the pavement, catching no small number of the Senior Partners’ demon attackers unawares and singing them to cinders within moments, Buffy turned her feet in the direction of Spike and Angel’s combatant, running with a speed she hadn’t employed since the last time she’d left Sunnydale.

She reached the dragon in moments, shocked brown and blue eyes meeting hers for an instant before businesslike shields slid over all three warriors; there were discussions to be had, but the ascendance of hell took precedence.  Buffy forced her sword deep into the dragon’s chest, sliding between substantial ribs and creating a fountain of greenish blood that seemed to have a life of its own as it gushed out around her blade.  Disgusted but determined, Buffy screamed for Angel and Spike to stand back as she swung the scythe at the beast’s neck, only to scream again, this time wordlessly in frustration, when Spike caught the weapon and wrenched it from her hands.  She looked at him, confused, but he simply nodded once at her, gave her a half-smile, and tossed the scythe to his right—directly into Angel’s waiting hands.  All of her fantasies of the first words she’d hear from his mouth when she finally saw him again, and the reality was beyond anything she ever could have fathomed.

“Believe you have a job to finish, Angel.  Buffy, come with me?”  The now-vacant hand with which he’d caught the scythe shot out to envelop her similarly empty one, and he tugged her back with him as Angel gave them a small smile and a nod before bringing the vicious blade down in a graceful arc that removed the dragon’s head cleanly from its body.  Panting, the three of them stood there, a warrior triptych frozen by a moment’s triumph, before a blinding flash stole their attention.  The brilliant light shot forth from the blue woman’s outstretched hands, doubling back behind her and back in on itself again, creating a swirling hole that pulled every Senior Partner-allegiant warrior in the alley—both those still surging into battle and those whose bodies lay strewn across the pavement—into its depths.  Eyes closed, the deceptively fragile-seeming figure stood in the brilliant swirl of light until the alley was purged; the portal slowly diminished, closing like a camera’s aperture until it faded into nothingness, and only then did the strange blue woman open her eyes.

“I waited until the half-breeds slew the dragon.  That was your wish, was it not?” she asked, voice commanding but strained, head tilted as she studied her allies.

“It was,” Angel gasped in reply, hand over a large gash in his side.

“Damn fine, Blue.  Couldn’t’ve done it better,” Spike agreed, giddy laughter teasing at the edges of his tone.

“That was… something.  Does somebody want to tell me what kind of something?” Buffy asked as her team slowly made its way towards her.  Green eyes met brown, met cerulean, met unnaturally glimmering royal—the time for answers had come.

~*~*

It had taken Angel months to heal from the yawning gash in his side, as well as the thousand other nicks and punctures that stemmed from the battle.  Spike’s injuries were much the same, absent the deep abdominal wound; he had believed that he would heal in mere days, and yet he required a weeks-longer convalescence than any could remember a vampire having needed for such relatively minor wounds.  Buffy and her team had come through with much less in the way of damage, though each of them bore some sort of wound from the struggle that seemed to resist quick, easy fixes.  Out of all of their forces, it had been Illyria who had healed the fastest, taking only a week to mend physically.  Mentally and emotionally, however, her wounds ran the deepest; her strength had been largely drained by her expulsion of the demons and showed no signs of returning, leaving her adrift and confused, more trapped inside her shell than she had ever imagined possible.

Eventually, they came to the conclusion that there had been a sort of magical enhancement to the enemies’ blades; it was the only explanation for the extensiveness of their injuries, for each wound’s protracted healing time.  Injured skin would flame red, almost incandescent, burning with a corresponding heat beneath the skin; slowly, the warmth would depart, leaving marks that faded inevitably to an almost unearthly, pristine, glistening white as they healed.  Each of the veterans experienced the phenomenon in turn as the battle carved itself into each of them.  It seemed as though fate, or perhaps the Powers, had sought to mark each of them, to memorialize their participation in flesh; they were all strangely proud of these marks that would never fade away.  Even Illyria, for whom flesh was a troublesome condition, saw these new imperfections as a badge of an honor for which she was grateful, even if she didn’t quite understand why they should hold such significance.

The rest of Buffy’s team had returned to the Watcher’s Council base of operations within a week of the battle, leaving Buffy behind, at her request.  She had been the least injured of the four remaining, and had stayed with the expectation that she would take on the care of all of them, if only temporarily; she soon realized, however, that nursing was a cooperative concern.  Each looked after the other in large and small ways; wounds were bandaged, tears were dried, meals prepared, but the considerations went far beyond the physical.  Shoulders were shaken to rouse sleepers from nightmares that left them screaming, grief was counseled, laughter echoed, memories shared; the weeks they spent healing worked on many levels, allowing them to mend emotional wounds as well as physical, both building upon and stripping away the years of complication that had gone before. 

For her part, Buffy had marveled at the antagonistic but very real friendship between Angel and Spike, even as she made tentative inroads to friendship with an Angel who understood, from observing the way she looked at Spike, to whom her heart belonged.  The warrior Angel whose wounds she dressed—who laughed at her jokes and made a few hesitant ones of his own, who smiled when she smiled, who was in every moment a general mourning his fallen troops, even as he tried to raise the morale of the survivors—was a man she was proud to call friend, a man for whom she was proud to care.

Angel was able to surrender the naïve pipe dream that had been a perfect love between he and Buffy only because he knew better now, saw the depths and complications of the love that shone between Buffy and Spike; battle-scarred, exhausted, he realized that the world—that he and Buffy and Spike, together with the forces that surrounded them—were far more complex than he had ever wanted to acknowledge.  Perfection and innocence didn’t survive long in the world they inhabited; their world required the muddying of the lines, thrived on experience, depended upon warriors, heroes, those who sacrificed themselves for those who may never know.  Buffy was one such, had been so all along, and Angel was coming to terms with the realization that he, Spike, and Illyria—and Lorne, wherever he was—were as well.  Wesley and Gunn had given their lives to that heroism; while in darker days he believed that they had done it for him, that he had left them with no choice, he had Spike’s voice to remind him that they had all signed on, that they’d all done it for the sake of hope.  It was a hope that he tried now to share with the others as a means of honoring the fallen; it was a hope that he vowed to keep alive.

Illyria had disappeared the morning after her last bandage had been removed, only to return a week later with two containers of ash; at a loss as to how to care for the fallen allies whose bodies she had sought out and retrieved, she had built a pyre and collected their remains, giving them an ancient warriors’ death rite as she angrily blinked back tears she had not called forth.  Upon her return, she stood in the doorway, holding out her meager offerings, hoping desperately for a readmittance that she avidly declared she didn’t desire; Buffy holding the door open wide to permit her entry was the only answer that Illyria received, but it was all that she needed.  She was torn, confounded by her newfound and far-too-human weaknesses, confused as to why she felt drawn to these strange creatures; she was defiant of their importance, and yet she needed them all the same.  But once inside, the ash of the fallen between them, she felt the haze of her confusion clear somewhat, pushed aside by the weight of common grief.  Together, hands clasped, heads bowed, silence reigning, the survivors had mourned for losses that cut to the very heart of each of them.  Here, in this place, somehow Illyria belonged—somehow, all of them belonged.

Spike had busied himself with Illyria, with Angel, with his own injuries—essentially, aside from terse attentions paid to Buffy’s mostly-superficial wounds, he had surrounded himself with the tangible, the solvable, or the presence of those with whom large emotional confrontations did not loom.  His avoidance had been successful for no longer than mere days; while gentle hands had wrapped gauze over torn flesh, Buffy had broached the space between them with an echo of words that had last been accompanied by holy, cleansing fire. 

Spike had wanted to believe, had tried to believe, but he had other scars that had never faded; against everything he believed that he wanted, he had been wary of her, distant, shielding his heart anew within old walls.  Buffy, having never encountered such defenses from him, had tried a tender approach briefly before giving in to her Slayer impulses and simply battering the walls down, forcing him to listen, to look into her eyes and deny the truth therein as she told him that she loved him.  Even the sharp voice of doubt within couldn’t counter the fire, the honesty in that stare, and he had surrendered; he had had no choice but to believe her and to take her in his arms, apologies for the past and promises for the future forming a prayerful shared liturgy as they kissed, caressed, imprinted themselves on each other and on their new world.

And so bonds had been forged, connections made, lives brought together and shared from out of the smoke and ash of a battle gone by.  No plans had ever been verbalized, and yet they somehow managed to end up making lives within mere feet of each other.  Buffy and Spike had made a home together, while Angel had found a place of his own two apartment buildings down; Illyria, though she was prone to wander, always found her way back, and was always given a place to rest in one of the two apartments.  They didn’t question the wordless closeness, never mentioned the bond that tied them as surely as did heartstrings and history.  It was merely who they were now, a unit that time and strife had forged.  Buffy had had the right of it years before; family was just what you made of it, and what they had created was without a doubt a family of their own.

~*~*~*~*

A family that had just gotten another member—in a manner of speaking—courtesy of Buffy.

“Where did you…” Spike asked, staring at the beauty in front of him, awestruck.

Buffy smiled at him, enjoying the look of abject rapture on his face as he stared at his present.  “I sorta scoured the West Coast.  When that didn’t turn up anything, I started moving east.  So I guess the final answer to ‘where’ is Colorado.”

“And you had it sent all the way here?” Spike queried, taking a step forward and running his hand along the pristine curves, employing touch now that he’d absorbed every detail as thoroughly as possible with his eyes.  “It’s… mint, Buffy.  Absolutely bloody flawless.  Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“Not as much as you might think.  It’s not really as in demand as some others; plus, it’d been in the lady’s garage for years.  It had been her father’s, and once she heard our story—well, as much of it as I could tell her, anyway—she worked with me on the price.  A good romance’ll get them every time,” Buffy answered, moving into the void created by the arm Spike stretched towards her and sighing happily when he pulled her closer to him.

They stood like that for long moments, Buffy pressed to Spike’s side, his hand pressed against the hood of the DeSoto that Buffy had apparently moved hell and half of North America to find for him.  He just couldn’t fathom it.  He’d never thought she paid any attention to his car, given that they hadn’t exactly been on friendly terms when last she’d seen it.  He’d tracked the car down once he’d gotten out of the Initiative and free from the wardship of the Watcher, garaged it just in case; aside from driving Dawn to and fro a few times during the summer Buffy had been gone, however, it had stayed in storage, his feet and the bike he’d… inherited the night Buffy came back serving most of his needs.  He had thought about taking it when he left Sunnydale for Africa, but just couldn’t do it; as obscene as it seemed to undertake such a quest in a car that had seen so much of his worst, he also couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it somewhere, losing it for good—no matter what it stood for.  The same impulse that kept him from using an emblem of his former self as transport to his destiny kept him from retrieving it once he’d returned to Sunnydale, and so in storage the car had remained until it had, he assumed, been buried underneath the rubble alongside him.

But now… now here he stood, resurrected, in front of a car that seemed to have been brought back from the beyond as well.  In the arms of his Slayer.  Giddy laughter overtook him, and Buffy sent an amused, inquiring look his way.  “What’s funny?” she asked, narrowing her eyes into a playful glare.

“Just thinkin’ what a triptych we make, love.  Me an’ my car back from hell, you back from heaven… if we aren’t proof that the Great Beyond isn’t great enough to hold us or far enough beyond, ‘m not sure what is,” Spike answered through his chuckles.

Buffy laughed.  “Well, close enough, I guess.  This car is more ‘your’ car in spirit, and it’s not from the Great Beyond so much as the Rockies, but the analogy slides on the technicality.”

“So kind of you,” Spike teased as he pulled her in front of him, kissing her forehead and then the crown of her head as she dropped her head back to smile up at him.  “I just… I can’t believe you did this, sweet.”

She shrugged and then cozied back into him, interlocking their fingers against her stomach as his other arm came to wrap around her and tilting her head back to rest under his chin.  “You’ve lost enough, Spike—the car, the duster, all the things that show who you are and how far you’ve come.  I just thought that it was time you got something back.”

“Got you, don’t I?  That’s all I need.”  He held her tightly, took a deep breath, let her scent fill his senses and generally just praised whatever power had brought her to him.

“Well, if that’s the case, then I guess we could tell Margie that we don’t want the car after all.  Might even get a road trip to Colorado out of the return,” Buffy retorted, turning her head and shooting him a saucy grin.

“Bite your tongue!  Smart-mouthed wench, not lettin’ a man get sentimental,” he grumbled playfully, raising his eyebrow as she batted at him and turned in his embrace to face him, a wicked look on her face.

“Hey.  Aren’t you supposed to ‘christen’ new cars?  You know, welcome them to the fleet?” she asked, running her hand across his chest, coquettish smile and heated gaze through a fringe of dark eyelashes emphasizing her intentions even more.

“Believe that’s ships, love,” Spike murmured, sliding his hands down her back and ghosting his fingers along the waist of her pants.  “But we do have that bottle of champagne in the kitchen, if you’d like to be a doll an’ run fetch it.”

Not what I meant, you ass,” she shot back, delivering a light smack to the back of his head as punishment for his cheek and for the mischievous grin that was doing very naughty things to her self-control.

“Really now?  That’s good to hear, then… was sort of countin’ on the other meaning,” he replied as he bent his head.  “Thank you,” he whispered as his lips met hers, the kiss tender for an instant before becoming heated. 

The kiss continued until Buffy broke away, panting desperately even as she sought his mouth again.  “Welcome.  So,” she asked as she once again resurfaced, “know of any good abandoned roads?”

Spike’s wolfish grin was her only answer.

~*~*~*~*

Buffy couldn’t really say that she was surprised that Spike had exhibited an almost preternatural sense of where to find the most abandoned access road she could’ve imagined.  As they sat next to each other in the back seat of the ‘new’ car, holding hands and trading shy, teasing kisses, she was grateful for the fact that he’d been able to find such a place—the way her heart was pounding, the way he was touching her, things weren’t going to stay shy for very long, and she didn’t really want an audience.

“You know,” she giggled against his throat, giving it a little nip and laughing more at his answering growl, “I think we’re supposed to be a little bit closer than this in order to get the most out of the whole ‘parking’ experience.  If memory serves.”

“First off, I don’t need to be hearin’ about memories like that,” Spike shot back archly, raising one brow at her.  “’less you want to hear all about my adventures…”

“In the olden days with the Queen of the Damned?  Psssh,” Buffy answered, waving her hand dismissively even as she gave him a saucy little grin and arched into the hands reaching for her, giggling herself breathless as he tickled her mercilessly.

“All right, then, Little Miss Memory… how are we supposed to do this?” he asked, lips against her jugular, treasuring the desirous little moan and shiver that she gave at the caress.

“You… oh!... you can’t be serious, Spike.  You have to know how to do this,” Buffy objected, neck arched gracefully, one hand questing up his thigh.

“Assume I don’t,” he murmured seductively, smothering a wicked grin against her flesh.  “Didn’t exactly have cars to go parkin’ in back in my day, now did they?  An’ shaggin’ in a carriage, no matter how posh, is not comfortable or wise, really.”  At Buffy’s questioning look, he shrugged.  “Well, ‘s horse-drawn, yeah?  Rough ride—an’ not of the fun variety.”

“OK… so that’s an ‘ouch’ to something I’d never be able to do anyway,” Buffy said sarcastically.  “Hey… wait a minute.  So you’ve never, you know , in a car?  ‘Cause if you haven’t…”

“Bloody hell, slayer, you can say shagged.  ‘ve heard it before from you, love… it an’ all sorts of other nasties once that pretty little mouth gets going.  An’ no, as a matter of fact—I’ve never shagged in a car.”  Spike chuckled at the blush that stole across Buffy’s face, and he kissed the tip of her nose tenderly.

“All right then.  As I was saying before I got so rudely interrupted, if you’ve never… shagged in a car, and I’ve never shagged in a car, then we’re sort of breaking new ground here, aren’t we?” Buffy asked coquettishly, curving into his side and peppering kisses along his jaw.

“That would be true,” Spike answered, head dropping back as her lips drifted lower.

“So… wanna play virgin?” she giggled, nipping at the column of his throat as she slid one leg across his lean hips, hovering above him for an instant before sliding down, rocking her hips against his and echoing his groan as the pressure of the movement shot through both of their bodies.

“Really… rather not, pet, if it’s all the same,” Spike answered huskily, hands on her hips making her movements both more forceful and more controlled, refusing to let her speed or ease her rocking.

“Why not?” Buffy asked, leaning back, pouting a little as she pulled his t-shirt free of his jeans and tugged it determinedly upwards until he raised his arms and drew it over his head, dropping it carelessly aside and wrapping his arms around her.

Spike chuckled at the expression on her face, sliding one hand up her back and into her hair, tugging her forward and kissing her hungrily before responding.  “’Virgin’ is somethin’ that loses all its appeal as a game when you spent well nigh on thirty years as one, love.”

“You were…” she asked, eyes widening almost comically in realization.  “I mean, I suppose I knew… with William… but I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Slayer.  I was once an innocent young lad, wide-eyed and virtuous,” Spike murmured against her throat, tongue darting out to trace her pulse, hands smoothing the gooseflesh that resulted from his caresses.

“And what are you now?” Buffy asked breathlessly, arching into him, enthralled by his voice.

“Now… I’m a lecher,” he answered, leering playfully at her, tongue curled behind his teeth as his hands slid around to cup her ass.

“Spike…” she objected warningly.

“Not what you wanted to hear, love?  Then how about this…” he chuckled, fingers of one hand toying deftly with the low, flesh-baring neckline of her shirt, the purely decorative buttons that adorned the fabric covering her cleavage.  “Now I’m a man desperately in love… a willing slave to a beautiful woman who stole my heart without ever trying, determined to worship her in any way she’ll let me for the rest of my days… a poet with a muse so ever-present I need not ever write down the words she inspires…”

“Words… words good…” Buffy moaned as his lips pressed against her exposed flesh.  The addition of his tongue to the caresses forced little gasping mewls from her, and her hands tangled in his hair as she held him against her.  “Words… very good.  Beautiful poet.”

Spike stilled, hands freezing mid-caress as he raised his eyes to meet her gaze.  “Is that right, Buffy?” he asked; then, a moment later, and much more quietly, “you really mean that?”

The wonder in those eyes nearly broke her heart; that such simple words could mean so much to him twisted her inside, made her regret the past and give thanks for this moment, for the chance to reclaim their love from the ashes to which it had nearly been consigned.   “My beautiful poet,” Buffy answered, smiling, hand cupping his cheek as she leant forward and kissed him, a slow, deep caress that conveyed more of her heart’s desire than her body’s.  “You are my beautiful… wonderful… brave… brilliant… poet… warrior,” she continued, each adjective emphasized by a kiss to his brow, his nose, his cheeks, his throat, the hand she took in hers and raised to her lips.  "Make love to me?" she asked, gliding her hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders.  "Please?"

“Never have to beg me, Buffy,” Spike whispered hoarsely, eyes shining.  “Always yours, love… here for the taking.”  His hands slid up and under her shirt; Buffy raised her arms and sighed as he pushed the fabric higher and higher until he could draw it over her head and toss it into the front seat.  While his hands were occupied with baring her, his mouth was busy exploring the newly-revealed flesh; he covered her chest, her shoulders, her breasts in teasing, open-mouthed kisses, tracing the edge of her bra with the tip of his tongue and relishing the little shudders of pleasure that shook her body. 

Their hands tangled, held high aloft over their heads, and Buffy looked down with glazed, hungry, loving eyes as their arms descended, Spike’s wrapping around her back and trapping her hands there, holding her seemingly defenseless against him.  She shivered as his tongue flicked against that spot just below her ear, as she felt his lips wrap around her earlobe and his teeth nibble gently.  She pressed desperately into him just in time for him to pull back, his fingers releasing their grip on hers; one strong, calloused hand slid forward to the fastenings of her jeans as the other traveled the barest distance upward to unfasten the lacy little confection she was wearing as a bra.

“Beautiful, beautiful girl,” Spike murmured as Buffy slipped the garment’s slender straps from her shoulders and tossed it aside.  She arched backwards, hands going back and bracing on his knees for support as Spike’s fingers traced her bellybutton in a ghosting, torturously erotic little caress before continuing teasingly downwards between the now-open denim. 

“Hips up, pretty poppet,” he said, and Buffy obediently shifted forward to kneel over him as he guided her pants over her hips, pushing them until they rested just above her knees.  Wordlessly, eyes locked on his, she reached back and grasped the strong muscles of his legs again, shifting her weight to where her hands rested there; Spike gently pushed her legs up and back, pulling her pants over her feet.  “Naughty,” he remarked, eyebrow cocked, as he realized that she was bare under the denim, and Buffy gave him a cheeky little grin in response.

“You’re not the only one who can go commando,” she shot back, leaning towards him and dropping her hands to his waistband.  “Hips up,” she teased, lips a breath away from his as she unfastened each button slowly, pausing and caressing him through the fabric as each came undone.  Buffy moved to kneel next to him, eager to be less of an impediment to his nudity, and Spike groaned and bucked upwards in frustration at the loss, his hands joining hers in impatiently shoving the material down.

Buffy giggled as she watched him kick restlessly out of the pants, a brief frown of consternation marring his features before he growled lightly and toed off his boots, allowing the material to finally, mercifully, puddle in the floorboard.  “Back here now ,” he demanded, and Buffy was only too happy to oblige him for a moment, straddling him and sliding her damp sex teasingly down his length before scooting further back and off the seat, not stopping until she was kneeling before him, knees between his feet.

“What are you… come up here!” Spike objected, reaching for her hands.

“No.”  Buffy smiled cattily at him before leaning forward and giving the underside of his cock a long, slow lick; as his eyes went wide, she traced the head with the point of her tongue, paying special attention the little spot right beneath that always made him lose most of his control.  Sitting back on her haunches, hand wrapped around his hardness, she batted her eyes up at him flirtatiously and taunted, “I don’t think I want to come up there just yet, Spike.  I like it down here.  It’s all… roomy.  A girl could get so comfy in a place like this.”  She slid her hand up and down his shaft, slowly, tightening her grip on the upstroke, loosening only marginally on the down.  Watching him breathe deeply in an attempt to rein in his desire, Buffy smirked to herself before flexing her wrist just a bit and giving the trajectory of her hand a slight spiral; the action had exactly the desired impact, wringing a husky, guttural moan from his throat.

“Oh Christ,” Spike groaned, head falling back against the seat, eyes remaining open and locked on the little minx between his legs.  The smile on her face, the look in her eyes, what those things meant to him—the joy and the love he could see in her were better than what she was doing to him with her skilled little hands and the promise of that positively evil tongue.  He had time for a moment of silent gratitude for the love he’d found in her; then her lips touched the inside of his left knee and began working their way upwards, and he lost all hope for coherent thought.  “That’s my girl… god, you don’t miss a trick,” he sighed appreciatively as one hand tangled loosely in her long blonde tresses.

Buffy didn’t answer, merely smiled against the soft white flesh beneath her lips as she continued her worship.  She’d always loved his skin, the absolute silk of it; it had once, what felt like a lifetime before, seemed so incongruous with the long, sinewy muscles it covered, the coiled strength that he embodied, but she knew better now.  His body symbolized perfectly the essence of her love, the man he was—though inverted.  Spike himself was all William tenderness beneath a seemingly brittle shell, warmth and sensitivity coiled beneath roughened bravado; the play of hard muscle beneath velvety flesh, however, was the truth of him —the inner core of strength beneath a sensitivity and a nobility that characterized both man and demon.  Those muscles and that flesh told his story, the legend that was his past and his present, more perfectly than words ever could.

She felt the tension in him as her mouth journeyed higher, heard him suck in breath and watched his hand fist on the seat and then relax as he waited for her to reach his erection… and she heard the breath Spike had been holding become a plaintive whimper as she rocked back and began to blaze an identical trail up the other thigh.  She stopped to kiss every scar, every mark along the way, laughing inside as he huffed in lustful agitation and muttered about selfish bints taking their time.  Soon enough he was tensing again, and Buffy fought the urge to tease him further, instead pressing her lips against his balls, darting her tongue out in a series of small licks that had him bucking up towards her within instants.  The fingers of Spike’s free hand curled into the leather of the seat as the hand in her hair tightened; the low, guttural moan of her name had her looking up at him with a bright grin before wrapping her mouth around the tip of his hardness and taking him in with inexorable slowness.

The first constriction of Buffy’s throat around him nearly broke him, but the sight of her wet, full lips as she slid back held him transfixed.  Spike watched her pull free of him, watched as she pressed the flat of her tongue to the head of his cock, and groaned at the feeling; it was only when she closed her mouth around him again, easing forward and preparing for another deep down stroke, that he moved to end the torment.  “Right.  That’s about enough of that,” he groaned, putting his hands under her arms and tugging her upwards, back onto the seat and into his embrace.  “Keep that up, an’ we’re never gonna get this thing christened quite right, love.  You know I can’t take much of that mouth without…”

“I know,” Buffy replied, grinning smugly as she braced her hands on his shoulders and rose up onto her knees.  One of Spike’s hands on her hips and the fingers of the other dipping into her wetness and sliding inside her, however, soon wiped any conceit from her face, leaving behind it only blazing need.  “Oh my god… Spike…” she whimpered, attempting to arch into him and finding herself stymied by his hold on her hip.  The implicit plea in the words was more than enough to encourage him, however, and his fingers began to explore more boldly, filling her, plunging in and out in a maddening rhythm as he rubbed circles around her clit with his thumb. 

Spike wasn’t sure that there could ever be anything quite as glorious as Buffy was in these moments—hair tousled, eyes wild, pearly little teeth sunk deep into her lower lip as she murmured incoherent pleas and rocked against him.  “There’s my Buffy… my wicked girl, my perfect little vixen,” he encouraged, ducking his head enough to take one erect, dusky nipple between his teeth in a tantalizing little nip.  The way her muscles convulsed around him in response, coupled with the husky sound that escaped her throat, told him that she was just on the edge. 

Spike smiled to himself as he focused more attention on the taut bud, flicking it with his tongue before abandoning it in favor of trailing provocative, open-mouthed kisses across her chest, blazing a heated trail to the other breast.  Her hands tangled in his hair almost painfully as she held him to her, and he could feel the muscles of her thighs begin to tremble from the force of her desire.  The barest nibble on the as-yet-untouched nipple yielded a strangled scream, and Buffy’s head fell forward, her forehead resting against the crown of his head as she panted and mewled.

“Spike… baby, I need… oh, God, I need…”

“Got just what you need, kitten,” Spike answered hoarsely, lifting his head just enough to brush his lips against the tender little pulse point just behind her ear.  He flicked his thumb across her clit once, twice, then gave it a firm rub as he plunged his fingers deep; just as he felt her muscles give, felt her sink further towards him as her legs proved unable to support her, he nipped sharply at her pulse with his blunt, human teeth, worrying the flesh just enough to leave a vivid mark.

Buffy’s husky scream filled the car as she quivered around him, babbling senselessly as her head rolled back and forth against his; finally wrenching free of his grip on her waist, she pumped her hips in a frenzied back-and-forth rhythm.  “That’s it.  Come for me, Buffy.  Let me feel you, darling girl… let me feel it,” Spike chanted, the words a combination of demand and plea.  The arm whose grip she’d escaped banded loosely around her back as he held her against him; he kept up his caresses, his teasing licks and nibbles, until he felt her collapse bonelessly against him, her head falling to rest on his shoulder and her breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against his throat.

Spike withdrew his fingers from Buffy gently, smiling as she made contented little sounds that were only slightly muffled by his flesh.  Moving his hands to cup her ass, he raised her pliant form, lifting her back onto her knees and repositioning her until she was poised just above his aching erection. 

Buffy stirred, lifting her head languorously, looking at him with sparkling eyes.  “And who said it was time for this already?  Maybe I want something else first,” she remarked, words still slurred with ecstasy; one brow was raised in challenge, and her lips twisted with the effort of smothering her grin.

“See to you again later,” Spike vowed roughly, urging her to take him in, coaxing her with long, beseeching downward strokes of his hands on her flesh.

Buffy’s smile won out, lighting up her face and molding it into an expression purely wicked, more than a little primal.  “See.  To.  Me.  Now,” she demanded, a tiny flick of her hips emphasizing each word, covering the head of his cock with her juices and tantalizing him with the slight back-and-forth pressure against his needy flesh.  Sliding her hands down his arms, she covered his hands with hers as she pushed her knees outward and slid down to envelop him fully in one sharp, controlled movement, gasping in pleasure as their pelvises met. 

Their fingers tangled as Buffy rocked gently, giving them both a chance to savor the sensations of their joining; as if by silent accord, they leaned into one another, mouths meeting, tongues tangling leisurely as they set up a slow, decadent rhythm.   Time faded as they kissed, touched, rediscovered, letting themselves enjoy the tenderness that time, love, and security had allowed them to finally share.

It was Buffy who broke the rhythm first, moving her hips a bit more vigorously to meet his upward thrusts, the press of her hands against his gaining in force as she pushed against him for greater leverage.  She arched back, pulling away from their kisses, and Spike was awestruck by the sight of her—eyes hooded and hungry, lips swollen, bright hair bouncing in time with their coupling.  She looked elemental, primal—and still, somehow, angelic.  She really was the most incredible creature that he’d ever known, could even imagine. 

Sensing her need, Spike guided their joined hands behind her back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, kissing her deeply once more to quiet her plaintive whimpers.  “Hold on, love,” he murmured, releasing her hands and bringing his to her waist, pulling her against him roughly as he thrust upwards.  Buffy’s hands flew to his shoulders, and he felt her nails dig into him slightly as she bore down, helping him to deepen their contact.  Her walls tightened slightly, and he heard her inhale audibly before holding her breath; recognizing the signals, he gripped her harder, thrust faster, keeping his strokes short and sharp.  Five more quick, almost punishingly-strong thrusts, and she cried out his name, shuddering against him as she rode out her orgasm, tormenting him with the agonizingly blissful contractions of her channel around his cock and the tickle of her hair against his chest as she sank forward against him.

Silence reigned for a few brief moments as Buffy trembled through the aftershocks of her pleasure; recovering, she smiled against the crook of his neck, tightening her arms around him.  “It’s a damn good thing you were all virginal during your day,” she mumbled satedly against his shoulder, even as her hips began to rock against his anew, his cock again applying delicious pressure to her sweet spot.  “Victorian England would’ve been fresh out of virgins if word about this got around.”

“Is that right?” Spike asked, smug smirk in place as his hands slid from her waist to cup and squeeze her ass, pulling her against him forcefully for a few more strokes and making her mewl and writhe in his arms.  “Reckon I could’ve talked you out of yours, if things’d been different?”

“I… oh, God… I think so,” she answered on a gasping breath.  “I think you could’ve had me years before if I had known about this, and…”  Her words trailed off as she frowned a bit and worried her lower lip; Spike recognized the look as the one she wore when she was searching her memory for some elusive fact.  After a few moments, the frown disappeared and she leaned forward, drawing him into a kiss, teasing the tip of her tongue along the underside of his before pulling back, keeping their noses touching.  “And if you hadn’t been eating people,” she added belatedly, the addendum accompanied by a loopy, satisfied little smile that showed her pride in being able to think coherently with him buried inside her.

Spike chuckled, the sound sending jolts straight to her core, making her muscles clench involuntarily around him with sufficient force that he nearly panted in response.  “So I could’ve breached the Slayer’s maidenhead,” he murmured pompously, giving her a wicked smile.  “Wait ‘til I tell Peaches.”

“Spike,” she warned, this time clenching purposely and wringing a strange blend of groan and growl from his chest.  “You will tell him no such thing, and you know it.  Besides, if you say ‘breach’ or ‘maidenhead’ again, I’ll kill you myself.  I mean, I know you’re old, but ewww.”

“Because ‘popping your cherry’ is so much classier,” Spike retorted, easing a hand between them and giving her clit a slight twist as punishment for her insolence.

“Point taken,” Buffy agreed on a gasping inhale, nose wrinkling with disgust.  “There’s really no good way to say it, is there?”

“Not as such.”  His arms banded around her as he raised his hips and twisted suddenly, lowering her onto her back on the seat and holding himself over her, unmoving, still fully embedded in her warmth.  “’s probably just as well that it wasn’t me, then, huh?  However would we talk about it?”  He leered playfully at her, leaning in and murmuring directly against her ear, “and after all, I did still get the pleasure of… corrupting you.  Didn’t I now?”

His lips against her ear, the low rasp of his voice so close, sent pangs of ravenous need through her, and she groaned in objection to his stillness.  “Why are you not moving?  Move.  Move!” Buffy encouraged, gasping, planting her feet on the upholstery and pushing upwards, attempting to rock her pelvis against his.  Her attempts were thwarted by their position, and she frowned up at him.  A raised, expectant brow was her only response.  “OK, so you corrupted me.  In all kinds of ways.  Do you want a list, or are you going to get back to what we were doing here?”

“The admission was going to be enough, but now you’re just being rude and taking me for granted.  I think you’re counting your pleasure as a foregone conclusion.  I’m really rather hurt.”  The self-satisfied look on his face, however, told her that he was anything but.

“Spike.”  The warning in her tone didn’t faze him; pouting with frustration, she resorted to whining.  “Come on, baby…”  Her plaintive mewls were accompanied by a supplicating little smile.  “You know you want to…”

“Ah-ah-ah… ask me nicely,” Spike taunted, keeping still, continuing to defy her efforts at movement while somehow managing to withstand the lure of that lush, jutting lower lip.

“I thought you said I never had to beg,” Buffy answered, glaring at him with anger fueled by frustrated lust.

“Poetic license,” he answered, dipping his head and nipping one erect nipple lightly; his shift of position gave her the slightest bit of leeway, and he was left biting back a groan when she bucked up, driving him deeper.  Her eyes drifted closed briefly, a dreamy smile forming as she reopened them to meet his.  “Never will have to beg me to love you or want you, Buffy.  But sometimes, my love, it’s fun to watch you play against type, be the begging kind.”

“You suck,” she answered petulantly, smile gone and pout back in full effect.

“Ask... me… nicely, and we’ll see about that.”  The look he gave her was purely sinful, promising pleasures she’d just tasted but still craved; nevertheless, she was holding on to her control until Spike upped the ante.  He drew his hips back slightly, withdrawing from her heat only to thrust powerfully back into her; he stopped once he was fully embedded and circled his hips in one long, fluid motion, his pelvis pressuring her clit.   Buffy felt the last bit of dominion she exercised over her desire fall away; the look in his eyes, the sensations he was causing, the promise of more—all of it was just too much, and she snapped.

“Please, baby,” she whispered hotly, desperately, hands tangling in his hair as she tugged him towards her for a quick, ravenous kiss.  “Please.  Please fuck me.  Make love to me.  Whatever you want.  God, Spike, please… please just let me feel you moving inside me!”

“Was that so hard?” he asked, eyes glittering as he shifted his hips again, withdrawing almost completely this time before plunging forward again, hard, wringing a high-pitched cry of pleasure from Buffy.

“No,” Buffy answered, eyes wide and pleasure-stricken, locked on his.  “Worth it, anyway.”  Her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders, hips arching into each downward thrust he made; her breaths were coming fast and hard, taking the form of nearly breathless little exhalations that warmed his flesh and did magnificent things to enhance his view of her breasts. 

Spike could tell that there were words riding each breath she took, but it required every last bit of his hearing to make out the almost-inaudible chant of “Please.  Please.  Please,” that Buffy was uttering.  One simple word, murmured so quietly that it was almost surely never meant for his ears—and yet he was lost.  His thrusts grew faster, deeper, urged on by the need in her eyes and the hunger filling every cell of his being.  Bracing himself on his forearms, mindless in his pursuit of his desire, he plunged into her, a low rumble in his chest providing a backbeat to his rhythm.  The feeling of her surrounding him, tensing and holding him inside her; the smell of her arousal, the sound of flesh against flesh; everything about the moment, the experience was so exquisitely perfect that he couldn’t have held back his release had he tried.  He could feel the contractions of her walls, felt his own orgasm approaching, and he ducked his head to rest in the crook of her neck as he panted and thrust wildly, frenziedly, losing the liquid tempo he’d maintained thus far.  He was so close, and yet he felt as though he was hovering on the brink, just out of reach…

“I love you.”  The words were softly spoken, a pause for shallow, gulping breaths separating them, but they were still the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard.  “I love you,” Buffy repeated, the words stronger now, as he raised his head and looked down into her eyes.

The words were all he needed.  Spike’s eyes drifted closed as his body tensed, went completely still for one deceptively-long instant; the pleasant sting of Buffy’s fingernails in his back, coupled with the surprising little nip of sharp human teeth at his jugular, broke the spell.  Head falling back, low growl rumbling and interrupted by bliss-tinged moans, Spike came in short, quick bursts inside her, his continued shallow, pounding thrusts extending his pleasure and bringing Buffy to hers.  “Love you, Buffy.  Love you so much,” he rumbled huskily as she tightened around him and gave herself over.

Wildly, heedlessly, Buffy tugged him towards her, claiming his mouth with hers and nearly devouring him in her fervor.  Finally breaking from the kiss, trembling with the last echoes of her climax, she blinked slowly and repeated her declaration of love; Spike followed suit, and the repetition of the words in the hushed closeness of the car became a quietly-spoken litany by which they came down from their peaks.

Long after the words faded into nonsense sounds and slow, heated kisses, they remained tangled in each other, petting unhurriedly, extending the moment as much as possible.  They had nowhere to go; rushing would be pointless.  It had taken them years to learn to appreciate every moment they had, but it was a lesson they had finally taken to heart.

The caresses could’ve taken minutes or hours, growing more ardent before cooling back into exploration, walking a fine line between playful eroticism and blinding passion.  During one of their more impassioned moments, Buffy arched up into a particularly fervent caress, only to squeak in pain and drop back to the seat instantly.  “Ouch,” she mumbled sulkily, tiny frown creasing her brows.

Alarmed, Spike withdrew gently and sat up.  “You hurt?” he asked, eyes concerned and troubled as they swept her measuringly.

“No.  I’m fine.  I’m just… stuck to the seat,” she answered, wincing as he took her hand and tugged her upwards.  “Note to self:  bring a towel next time we decide to get all High School Confidential.”

“Next time?” Spike asked seductively, eyes sparkling as he leered at her, tongue behind his teeth.

“Yes, next time.  Duh.  Like you didn’t know there’d be a next time,” Buffy shot back, retrieving her jeans; easing into them, she rolled her eyes at him, even as she surrendered to her smile.  “So… how about we get dressed, and then you drive your girl home?” she asked playfully, leaning forward and giving him a quick kiss on the nose.

“Oh, I think I can do better than that,” Spike replied as he slid his feet into his jeans and tugged them upwards, lifting his hips to slide them all the way to his waist.  “I might even walk you to the door.”

“Would you?  What a generous offer.  Oh, you truly are a noble hero,” Buffy teased, batting her eyelashes at him in exaggerated, coquettish sweeps.

“Damn straight.  Let’s just not forget it, yeah?” he shot back, reaching forward and retrieving her shirt from the front seat, handing it to her with only a minimum of tauntingly pulling it out of reach.

“Yeah, yeah,” Buffy grumbled, suspiciously cheerfully, as she tugged the shirt over her head.  “Nobility all around; heroes one and all. Just take me home, brave warrior.”  She frowned as the blind search for her shoes that her feet were conducting turned up her bra instead; shrugging, she threw it into the front passenger seat and turned back to see that Spike was frozen in place, arms in his shirt, looking at her as though he couldn’t quite believe she was there.  “Spike?”

“Home.”  His repetition of the word was barely a whisper, but Buffy still managed to hear it, and the private smile playing across his lips made her feel warm inside, made her thankful for every moment of their lives that had served to make this one possible. 

Reaching towards him, she traced his cheekbones with gentle fingers, smiling as their eyes met and gazes held.  “Yes, Spike.  Home.  Our home.”

“It really is, isn’t it?  All of this is ours.”  This time the grin wasn’t private—it was all for her, for them, and gods, but it was gorgeous; Buffy found herself helpless to do anything but respond in kind.  Nodding once, almost shyly, Spike tugged his shirt over his head and opened the car door, pulling Buffy out behind him. 

Spike opened Buffy’s door for her, swatting her behind playfully as she got inside, and dodged any retribution by closing the door.  Thus thwarted, Buffy stuck her tongue out at him, earning a chorus of laughter and mock-scornful head-shaking as he walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. 

Spike’s hand rested against the dashboard for a few long moments, his eyes closed; blinking them open slowly, he slid his hand behind the steering wheel and turned the key, leaning to give Buffy a kiss on the cheek before putting the car into gear.  “Right, then.  Let’s get my girls home.”