Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

13.

There were days when she really didn't want to get out of bed. Usually those days involved tests in Psych class or the impending doom of knowing Giles was going to lecture for, like, ever, when she finally called to tell him about what had happened on patrol the night before. Today, however, her lethargy was due to her reluctance to once again face the strange reality that was now her life.

It had been almost three weeks since Spike had managed to wake her up. Three weeks of trudging through books and scouring the town for a magician she knew instinctively she wasn't going to find. If Ethan was behind this—and though she'd never admit it to Spike, she knew this wasn't really Ethan's style—he was gone. Or elsewhere. But she needed to blame someone, and Ethan was conspicuous for his absence.

After her dream she'd been so certain he had something to do with this. But they'd been through every hotel and motel in town without finding even a trace of him. They'd even gone back to Tara's, just in case the dream had been pointing them at her. Once more her search had turned up nothing, though it had been funny to watch Spike twitch a little under the white magic vibes he claimed were emanating from the witch's dorm room.

So now they were back to the books again; hence her laziness.

Faintly she heard the beep of the microwave downstairs, which meant Spike was up and moving. At least if he was heating blood it meant that he probably hadn't snacked on her mom, which was a constant worry.

With Angel, she'd often forgotten that he was a vampire. Sometimes even his bumpies were easy to overlook. Buffy never forgot that Spike was a vampire, though at this point she'd spent more consecutive time with him than she'd ever spent with Angel. She and Angel had never lived together. He'd never been constantly underfoot, snarking and sneering and doing his best to piss her off. They'd never seen each other first thing in the morning, every morning—in fact their time schedules rarely coincided. Which, in retrospect was totally a good thing. How much worse would it have been the night that she and Angel had ... if he'd ... if they'd ...

With a groan, Buffy climbed out of bed. Time to go check on her mother.

Joyce was, as always, sleeping peacefully. For probably the hundredth time since she'd woken from the spell, Buffy tried to wake up her mother. For probably the hundredth time, she failed. She checked her mom's neck for any fang marks and was once again relieved to find none.

Still, she worried.

Spike was still a vampire. Sure he was playing nice right now, but only fear and their truce was keeping him in line. Which ... kinda flimsy, really. She was surprised by how easily he seemed to have turned off the blood lust. Oh, he still threatened her, and she'd caught him a couple of times staring at her neck with morbid fascination, but he didn't seem nearly as tempted by the Sleepers as he ought to be.

Which made her worry even more.

Eventually, he was going to do what a vampire does: bite someone. He'd bite someone, and then she'd have to stake him. She just hoped she could do it before anyone was really hurt.

She showered and primped and took as long as she could before heading downstairs. Spike was already sprawled in what she was coming to think of—reluctantly—as his chair, not even pretending to pay attention to the book in his lap. Instead he was watching TV. He glanced up as she came into the room.

"Thought you were going to sleep all day," he said.

"I need coffee," she said, because it was too early for verbal sparring.

"There's a fresh pot. Made some earlier."

Yeah, like she'd drink his coffee. He'd probably poisoned it.

Still, it smelled wonderful when she entered the kitchen, and it looked okay. And it was a fresh pot. No sense letting coffee go to waste. Besides, if it killed her, she wouldn't have to research, so, hey, bright side!

She poured a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal, then carried her complete and balanced breakfast into the living room again. Giles would likely have a fit if he knew she was leaving liquids so perilously close to his precious books, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. She settled into her research nest on the couch, plumping a few cushions around her and arranging her study materials within easy reach.

"What's on the menu for today?" she muttered, digging through the pile of books they'd brought back the night before. "Advanced Mysticism, The History of ... Mohair?"

"Moh'eire," Spike said, without looking at her. "Probably forget that one unless you think our problem was caused by multi-armed demon fish women with exploding pustules for heads."

"Ewwww," Buffy said, and tossed the book to the far end of the couch. "Pustules? Really?"

Spike shrugged, his gaze riveted to the TV screen. "Bloody disgusting," he agreed.

Buffy watched the TV for a minute, wondering what had the vampire so interested. … Wait. Huh?

"You're watching Passions?" Her mom was a fan, and she'd watched a few episodes with her. Somehow, Spike hadn't really struck her as a daytime soap kind of guy.

"That what it is?" Spike said. "It's good."

"You're supposed to be reading."

"It's over in half an hour, Slayer," he said, still without looking at her. "Won't kill anything to wait thirty minutes so I can find out why the witch hates Christmas."

Christmas.

It was almost Christmas.

How the hell had she forgotten?

She did some mental calculations, got confused, then scribbled dates down on her notepad. They'd fallen asleep on the third of November, and Spike must have woke her on the fourteenth. She'd been so focused on breaking the spell that Thanksgiving had never even registered. Now it was December second, she thought—she'd have to double check the calendar, since the days were beginning to blend together. In any case, Christmas was only a few weeks away.

If they didn't solve this, soon, she was going to miss Christmas. No presents or Christmas trees or yummy eggnog or ...

Mom. Willow. Xander. Giles. Oz.

She missed her friends. She missed talking to them and laughing with them. Missed Willow's enthusiastic optimism and Xander's lame jokes. She missed Giles and his stuffy Britishness, and how Oz could be funny with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. She missed her mother so much. Even though she knew she hadn't called or stopped by as much as she'd meant to, now that she was in college, having her mother here and yet unable to speak with her hurt more than she could have imagined.

There had to be something in one of these books that could be useful. All the spells they'd tried at the magic shop had failed. None as spectacularly as that first one, but the resulting fizzles were just as disheartening. She was going to find an answer, somehow. There was just no other possible outcome.

***

She was going to stake him. It was the only solution. He just never shut up.

Three days of watching Passions had somehow hooked the vampire, and when he wasn't insulting her or baiting her into an argument, now he was babbling on and on about the lives of the fictional characters who lived in a town called Harmony. For a town with a reputation for supernatural shenanigans it sure had a nice sounding name—although it probably reminded Spike of his ex-girlfriend.

"Where's Harmony?" she asked. They were patrolling—not for roaming vampires, of course, but Buffy had decided that the opportunity to take out any nests while all the vamps were sleeping was too good of a chance to miss. Besides, she still hadn't given up the hope that she'd stumble on the cause of the spell during their explorations.

"Somewhere in New England, I think," Spike said.

"What's she doing there?" Buffy frowned, confused. Spike returned her look, then she realized he was still thinking of the stupid soap opera. "Not the town, you moron. Your ex. You know, the blonde one that you had to re-inflate occasionally?"

"Oh," he said. "Her. Don't know. Not really my ex, since we weren't technically dating. Unless shagging constantly and me knocking her around counts as dating?"

"You are a walking, talking PSA for asshole boyfriends, you know that, right?"

"I'll have you know I'm a bloody brilliant boyfriend," Spike said.

"Oh, yeah, I can imagine your idea of the perfect date: a little violence, a little bloodshed, maybe some rape and torture thrown in for fun."

He glared. "Try dinner—"

"You mean murder?"

He ignored her. "Dancing—"

"Do you do that on their graves or just the corpses?"

"Romantic moonlight strolls—"

"Yeah, I can see how daytime picnics might be a mood killer. But if you ever want to try it, I'll bring marshmallows." She was enjoying this way too much. Spike was actually glowering. It was the most fun she'd had in days. She could almost see his temper boiling behind his eyes—it never even occurred to her that baiting a sociopathic predator might be a bad idea.

"Well at least I can keep a woman after I shag her," he said, stepping into her space.

Okay, ouch. That hurt. "Too bad you have to use chains," she said, trying to mask the wound he'd knowingly prodded.

"Believe me," he said, advancing on her slowly and forcing her back a little. "They like chains. Sometimes they even beg for them."

"Well, duh. Vampires are kinky. Chains? Not so big a turn-on for real women."

"Speaking from experience there, Slayer?" Spike asked. His expression was sly.

"Matter of fact? Yes. You should see what happened to the last guy who tried chaining me up on a date."

"Tell me all about it, Slayer," Spike said. She'd heard of people's voices oozing sex before, but what Spike's voice was doing was absolutely triple X rated. "Don't leave out a single grisly detail."

"I-I … uh, well, he ... uh, got arrested," she said. It had seemed so much more ... climactic in her head. Probably because she'd been fighting off a giant snake demon at the time. And what was with guys and giant snake demons? Can we say 'penis obsession?'

Spike smirked. They were toe to toe now.

"I'm shaking in my boots. Clearly, your bloke didn't know how to do it right."

"Do what right?" she asked, confused.

Spike leaned in. "Make you beg," he whispered.

"I thought you said that I wasn't the begging kind," she said, narrowing her eyes.

His mouth twisted up in a mocking sort of grin. "There are ways of making any woman beg, sweetheart. You just have to find it. Now you ... you're the sort that I could play with for hours. Chain you to a wall, strip you slowly, light a few candles. I'd lick you all over, from that silly little nose of yours right down to the delicate little spots between your—"

The combination of his eyes and his voice and his nearness was doing strange things to her. Warning bells were chiming in her head, and at the same time a slow heat was pooling somewhat lower. Her heart was racing. He was so close, too close. He was looking at her with naked hunger, and her Slayer senses were practically screaming Vampire!

Alarmed, Buffy punched him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Spike swiped at his bloodied lip and glared. "Fuck if I know," he said. "You started it."

"I did not."

"Did so."

"Did not."

"Doesn't matter," Spike said. He deliberately sniffed. "You liked it."

She punched him again. "No sniffing."

He sneered. "Bitch."

"I hate you."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Mutual. That's what makes it hot."

Buffy turned before she throttled him and marched away. She knew she needed him—and there was a whole universe of wrong in that statement—but she really wanted to stake him.

***

Patrol turned up a single vamp nest in an abandoned house way out on Fifth. Finding them wasn't easy: she had to try to pay attention to her tinglies, which were on overdrive tonight after her little altercation with Spike. The glares he kept sending her way sent warning jolts down her spine. Still, his particular signature was distinct, and when she'd noticed the normal goosebumps on the back of her neck, she knew they were near something. And once they were close enough, she had Spike to confirm. His ability to pick out the heartbeats and scents of Sleepers versus the smell of a vamp nest was, she had to reluctantly admit, more than handy.

The three vampires inside were, of course, sleeping, and it didn't take long for her and Spike to dispatch them. Though she still preferred staking them, Spike, for some reason, had been awfully happy about twisting the head off the lone female vamp with his bare hands.

No more nests turned up on that particular route, so they headed back to Giles' to load up on books for the next day. Again. Eventually they'd have to move them back, she knew, but it was far more convenient to have them at hand in case they missed something. Still, how many nights were they going to have to do do this before they transferred his entire library to her house? And what were they going to do if they still hadn't found the solution?

With that in mind, Buffy was on a mission.

"What are you doing?" Spike asked from the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, as far in as the invisible barrier would allow, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. It kept him occupied and calm, and he kept the filthy habit out of her house, so she tried not to say anything about it.

"Looking for all the books on magic I can find." She'd decided that their technique of going shelf by shelf was just taking too long, and leaving them with too many books that were totally irrelevant. So, tonight, she was on the hunt for anything that looked like it might have something to do with magic or witchcraft or sorcery.

"Reversal spells aren't working," he reminded her. Which, hello? Totally unnecessary. Maybe she didn't have the bruise anymore from the last one that had backfired, but she wasn't likely to forget how she'd acquired it. A cauldron flying at your head kinda stuck in your memory—even though it hadn't stuck in Spike's skull. Pity.

"So we won't look for reversal spells," she said. "But maybe we can find one that'll let us hunt down the original caster. Or ... or something that will wake sleeping people. Or something." Anything would do, really, at this point. Buffy wasn't feeling picky. Time was trickling past and the longer the spell went on the more she worried that they wouldn't be able to break it. There had to be something they could do. Some step that they had missed.

As she loaded a stack of books into one of the empty crates they'd picked up outside the grocery store during a food run a couple nights before, Buffy tried to think optimistically. They were going to find the answer in one of these books. They had to.

Living like this, with Spike, was gonna kill her.

***

"Spike! No!"

"Slayer?"

Buffy shot up in bed, gasping. Spike was leaning over her, frowning with concern.

He's okay, she thought, and flung her arms around his neck, still trembling a little. Spike froze, then patted her shoulder a little awkwardly.

"Uh, Slayer?" he said. "I thought we weren't supposed to—"

Abruptly, Buffy jerked away, staring at him in horror.

"Oh, god," she said, scooting back until she'd pretty much run out of bed and was in danger of hitting the floor. "It was a dream. No ... it was a nightmare."

Spike stared at her from his perch on the edge of her bed. "You were screaming my name," he said, then arched an eyebrow and smirked knowingly. "Moaning, it, too."

"Nightmare!" Then something more than obvious occurred to her. "And you're in my room. Why are you in my room?"

He just gave her a look. "Like I said, you were screaming. I'd just started to nod off, too. Thought you were being murdered up here."

"Well, I'm not. Sorry to ruin your day. Now get out," she said, giving him her best intimidating glare. Spike just settled himself more comfortably on her bed. He wasn't wearing a shirt, she noticed.

She'd hugged shirtless Spike.

Oh. God.

"Was it another of those Slayer dream things?" he asked. "Sounded nasty." Somehow he made the word 'nasty' sound both horrifyingly bad and also dirty as hell. She hadn't even been aware you could do that with one word. When he shifted a little, the muscles in his abdomen rippled enticingly. She balled her hands into fists.

"No!" she said. Unlike her dream with Ethan, there was nothing about this dream that pointed at anything important. And she so did not want to discuss it with Spike. Unfortunately, Spike didn't appear to have gotten that memo.

"How do you know?" he asked. "Dru used to have the craziest dreams. Sometimes the crazier they were, the more important they were. Won't know unless we chat it out."

Somehow she doubted his motives were so innocent. There was a look in his eyes that said he had some inkling as to the contents of her dream, and he couldn't wait to find out the dirty details.

Well, it was a good thing he could hold his breath indefinitely — 'cause she so wasn't spilling.

"Trust me," she said. "It wasn't that kind of dream. It was just ..."

… the demon flung him into the corner hard enough to knock him out. Somewhere in the shadows of the crypt, Xander and Anya were battling another demon, but for the moment all of Buffy's concern was for her fiancé. She dispatched the big green guy with the horns and rushed to Spike's side. She couldn't remember why he wasn't capable of fighting; all she knew was that she had to protect him. He was everything: her love, her world, the future Mr. Buffy Summers, Slayer. She cradled his head tenderly, checking for injuries. His eyes blinked open, revealing endless blue depths. "Buffy ..." he whispered, then reached for her. Their lips met hungrily, their hands roaming each other's bodies, desperate ...

"It was just a nightmare," she said. "Willow had screwed up some spell and was going to be a vengeance demon, and Giles was blind, and Xander was like a demon magnet, and we were all fighting a bunch of them in a crypt. That's it."

"And I was there?" Spike asked. His expression was halfway between amused and incredulous, with a side order of indignant. "Part of your little gang?"

Buffy tried for a nonchalant shrug. "You know how dreams work. It's probably just because I've had to deal with you every day. No big." No way was she going to mention that Willow's spell had made them get engaged. That little detail was never going to see the light of day.

"You sure? You seemed awfully concerned about me, pet."

"I'm not your pet. And I wasn't concerned. I was trying to strangle you."

"Liar," Spike said. He yawned hugely, then levered himself off the bed and stretched, giving Buffy an amazing view of vampire musculature hard at work.

Guh, her brain thought, totally without her permission. Ruthlessly, Buffy crammed that impulse right back into its box, then sat on the lid. No matter that her brain was also trying to replay the images from her dream: sitting on Spike's lap, his mouth devouring hers, running her hands all over that ...

Bad Buffy brain. She tried to remind herself of every single —very good— reason why Spike was absolutely repulsive and that dreaming of being engaged to the bloodsucker was a sign that she'd spent far too much time in his company.

"Well, if there's not gonna be any violence, I'm going to bed. Wake me up when Passions comes on," Spike said, wandering toward the door.

Buffy grimaced. Passions: reason number five thousand seven hundred and eight.

***

After he was gone, Buffy reluctantly crawled out of bed. She'd only slept for three hours, but after that dream there was no way she was going to fall asleep again easily. Instead she threw on some comfy sweats and went downstairs to do some reading. Unfortunately, her tired mind kept wandering back to the dream and images of kissing Spike, cuddling Spike, rubbing all over Spike ... leaving her wishing desperately for a forgetting spell.

Coffee, she decided, could cure the sleepies, at least.

It only took a few minutes to brew a fresh pot ... only to discover that every single mug in the house was dirty. True to the house rules, Spike had confined his blood drinking to only one mug, but he seemed to take extra pleasure in using all the others for his coffee. The entire top rack of the dishwasher was nothing but mugs.

Reason number five thousand seven hundred and nine.

Grumbling, Buffy put the last of the dishes in and started the cycle. Then she dug out a pack of styrofoam cups left over from a Scooby party and poured herself a cup of coffee. The counter around the pot was stained again, so she wiped it down, then figured she might as well clean up the kitchen while she was at it.

Two hours later, Buffy was swearing under her breath as she finished scrubbing out the microwave. Logically she knew that Spike's blood wasn't splashing all over the inside of the appliance, but it could. And the idea of putting food in there after he'd been heating up ... people parts? Yeeeuck.

It was almost worse than living with Kathy and her toenail clippings and labeled eggs. At least Kathy didn't eat people.

At least, Buffy didn't think she did.

She wrung out the sponge and stepped back to admire her nice clean microwave. Now that it was sparkly fresh, she could maybe make herself something. She turned to rummage through the cabinets for food.

The basement door creaked open and she heard Spike pad, barefoot, into the kitchen. "Noisy bitch," he complained. "Any particular reason for all the slamming up here for the last hour? Some of us need our beauty rest."

"You're a corpse," Buffy said, moving around boxes in hopes of finding something interesting for lunch. "It's not like you're going to get better. And I was cleaning, not slamming."

"Could've fooled me," Spike said. She heard the fridge door open. "Sounded like you were beating up the Tin Man."

Buffy found a box of shell macaroni and cheese buried toward the back of the pantry and pulled it out. Aha! Microwavable, and she wouldn't have to dirty the big pasta pot. She turned around—just as Spike hit the timer on the microwave.

The light inside turned on, illuminating Spike's Blood Mug like a solo performer on a stage. It began a slow twirl, and the coppery scent of warming blood filled the kitchen.

Buffy swallowed hard, feeling her bile rise. There was a clattering sound then, like someone had crushed a box of dry pasta in their hand, and the pasta had spilled out on the floor.

"You all right, Slayer?" Spike frowned at her.

"I'm fine," she said, between clenched teeth.

Giles, when he was angry, had this vein poppy thing that happened in his forehead. Buffy wondered if it were catching, because she could swear she could feel a vein up there throbbing away. Mr. Oblivious handed her a broom and dust pan, then hoisted himself up on the island counter and gestured at the mess on the floor. "Should clean that up."

Shame that the broom handle was aluminum, not wood.

***

By the time she was done re-cleaning the kitchen, Spike was coming back downstairs from his shower. He was still barefoot and bare chested, but now there tiny droplets of water clinging to his skin and skimming down over his ridiculously chiseled torso. He frowned as he finished scrubbing his hair dry with the towel, the white curls springing up into a riot.

"You're out of hair gel," he announced.

Buffy's fists itched. The only reason she was out of hair gel, she suspected, was because something kept using it to slick its hair into a bleached helmet. In general, Buffy normally only went through her expensive hair gel every six months, since she used it sparingly. She'd just bought this last bottle right before Spike had turned up looking for the Gem of Amara. Now it was gone, and the store that sold it was closed for the Spell-idays.

Spike opened the basement door, then chucked his towel down into the depths. She hadn't looked down there for a while, but she had a feeling that when she did, she wasn't going to like what she saw. There was laundry she needed to do, and if she had to wade through Spike's crap to get to the washer ...

That throbby vein feeling was back, ticking away like a clock.

He helped himself to some coffee, using one of the styrofoam cups she'd gotten out earlier and slopped some of it over the brim onto the counter. A few drops spilled down the side of the pot and dripped on the floor as he slid the pot back into place, where it hissed as more coffee sizzled off of the base. Then he stared at her curiously for a half second, shrugged and headed for the living room.

Silently, Buffy trailed behind him.

In the living room he ignored the two boxes of books on the coffee table that they needed to go through. Instead he hauled his chair in front of the TV, hunted for the remote among the cushions, then flopped down and flicked through the channels until he found what he was looking for.

The dulcet tones of the Passions theme song filled the room.

And Buffy lost it.