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Fifty paces, from one end of the block to the other. Except for that one time he’d nearly stepped on a cat and had to backpedal, making it fifty-two instead.
Spike dragged a hand down his face. Bloody hell, he needed to get his act together and just go knock on Buffy’s door, instead of pacing back and forth in front of the building her flat was in. She lived almost on top of the Trevi fountain, which meant the streets were full of tourists, even after dark. He had to dodge all the happy couples milling around. Their smiles and loving touches seemed to exist just to torment him.
He’d not wanted to touch anyone in a very long time.
Christ, he’d put this off for so long. Excuse after excuse, piling up until they made a nearly insurmountable Everest of reasons not to see Buffy. One year, then another, as he’d trailed behind Angel, cleaning up his mess. Some things never changed. But, eventually, they’d tracked down and sent the last beastie back to hell.
And Spike had run out of reasons to not put a final dot on his so-called relationship with Buffy. From what little Andrew had leaked, he knew she’d more or less settled down right in the heart of Rome. There was some Slayer school being set up in an old castle in Scotland, but Buffy hadn’t wanted to live there. Andrew had grumbled something about cold, damp, and remote, and it warmed the place in Spike’s chest where his heart sat to know the California girl had some limits when it came to rain and chill.
Rome would also be a good place for a Slayer to hunt in. Some demons hated being so close to the Vatican, not to mention the churches that littered the city, but some—him included—enjoyed the thrill. The city sizzled with energy, good and evil having sunk into its very bones over the millennia it’d existed.
He paused for the hundredth time to stare at the building’s front door. The distorted reflection of the building across the street reflected back from the tinted glass. Spike smoothed a hand over his hair. He’d dyed his hair and painted his nails while he’d been stuck inside a hotel hiding from the sun. A little bit of vanity after not caring about any of that rubbish for what felt like ages. He even had clean jeans and a new t-shirt on, and his duster was spotless.
At least he’d look good when Buffy sent him packing.
There was an excellent chance someone had told her in the last two years that Spike was still kicking and this whole appearing on her doorstep would be very anti-climactic. She’d probably slam the door right in his face.
Spike did like his other fantasy better, where she somehow knew he was coming and answered the door wearing nothing but a saucy smile. That version of their reunion didn’t require a lot of talking.
His neglected cock stirred at the thought of a naked Buffy welcoming him, but he told it to sod off as he had for more than a year. She’d not give him a chance to blurt out his carefully prepared speech if he showed up with a stiffy.
The door swung open, nearly smacking him in the face. Spike caught it, holding it open as a man shouted in Italian over his shoulder. Something about hurrying up. A moment later a woman wearing an impeccable dress joined him. Neither looked at Spike as they walked down the pavement still arguing about their dinner reservations.
Hurry up indeed.
With a sigh, he walked inside the building. It was old with narrow hallways but was well-lit. He trotted up three flights of stairs, glad Buffy had her Slayer strength to help her carry groceries to the top because a historic place like this wouldn’t have a lift.
The final hallway, with her door down and to the left, seemed to stretch on forever. The doors he passed loomed like so many tombstones, all mocking him for how dead any kind of relationship he once had with Buffy was.
A welcome mat sat outside Buffy’s door. ‘Merry and Bright’ it said in bright red letters against a brown background. Feeling guilty, he stepped on it to lean close to the door. The sweet, summery scent of her clung to the wood. Spike inhaled deeply, savoring it. There was another person’s mixed in as well, but it was indistinct, too confused with Buffy’s for him to tease it out. Dawn’s, maybe? She was in Scotland at the moment, but it could be a kind of echo from her last visit.
A tiny, hopeful thrill passed through him at the lack of any scent that said Buffy had a regular male visitor. Which was terrible of him. He should be wishing her all the love she deserved, but he wasn’t man enough to not harbor a little jealousy over the idea of her moving on and shagging someone else. Right, a lot of jealousy.
He had to get this over with.
Raising a hand, he hovered his knuckles over the door. Buffy was in there, he could feel a flicker of awareness running down his spine, a prickle that whispered ‘Slayer’.
God, he’d missed it.
Cursing himself for being a fool, he crossed the Rubicon and rapped on the door.
After a moment, it opened, letting out more Buffy-scent, along with cinnamon and pine. Christmas music played on a speaker somewhere.
“Hi,” squeaked a small voice.
Spike blinked. A little girl, her sandy-brown hair tied up in pigtails with red bows, stood clutching the door. “Hi.”
What the fuck was going on?
The child wore green track pants and a glittery pink shirt. Her bright blue eyes shone and she smiled at him.
Dru had liked little snacks like her once upon a time. His conscience, which he still wasn’t quite used to, spasmed with horror.
The little girl raised her chin to a defiant angle that Spike knew very, very well.
This had to be Buffy’s daughter.
Buffy had a daughter.
Not a single one of the times he’d imagined knocking on Buffy’s door had involved there being a toddler in the flat.
Buffy’s daughter.
He wanted to protect her, the feeling welling up from deep inside him. He had to bite back the urge to snap at this tiny human for answering the door alone.
The little girl scuffed her toe on the floor.
He knelt. “Hello, pet, what’s your name?”
“Clara.” She held up a hand with two fingers raised. “I’m two…almost.” The last was accompanied by an eye-roll that was so Buffy, he chuckled.
“Clara,” he said, rolling it around on his tongue. “It’s a good name.”
“Okay.”
Spike knew he should be jealous as hell that Buffy must have shagged some bloke nearly right after Spike had made his big, fiery exit. But she deserved whatever bit of comfort she could find, and somehow, he doubted Clara’s father was in the picture, not with Buffy being ensconced in the heart of Rome.
“I’m Spike,” he said.
“K, ‘pike.” Clara tilted her head.
“I’m a friend of your mum’s, can you get her?”
#
The Christmas cookies mostly looked like what they were supposed to. Buffy glared at them for not retaining their shapes better, but she doubted Clara would care much that they weren’t perfect.
Bags of icing sat on their tiny kitchen table, along with sprinkles of all kinds, including the safe-to-eat glitter her daughter had insisted on.
That kid and glitter.
She blamed Spike for Clara’s tendency towards artistic dramatics. That certainly hadn’t come from her. Her heart made a familiar little twist, the same one she felt a dozen times a day but that she never quite got used to. It wasn’t fair that she’d been given a living, breathing, walking, talking reminder of someone she’d loved and lost, but at the same time, she didn’t know what she would have done if those lines on the pregnancy test hadn’t turned pink.
What really hurt is that she couldn’t tell anyone that she’d welcomed Spike back into her bed, into her body, the night before the assault on the hellmouth and that somehow---their hands entwined, burning—she’d been given an impossible gift. Everyone just thought she’d slummed it with some dude in a bar in Los Angeles.
It was better that way.
Clara didn’t need the kind of scrutiny that would have come from her being the daughter of a vampire.
It was just a knife in the chest every time Clara did something that screamed ‘Spike’ and Buffy felt her loss all over again, without being able to share the burden.
She finished spatuling the cookies over to the cooling rack. The CD changer clunked, going silent as the last disc in the tray finished.
There were voices in the living room, one of them Clara’s, the other male.
Buffy wasn’t expecting anyone. The pan clattered to the floor as she spun, grabbing a stake from the top of the fridge where she kept them out of Clara’s reach. Fisting the wood tight, she hurdled the couch and crashed into the figure in her doorway. “Clara, this is an emergency,” Buffy emphasized the word, relief rushing through her at the sound of Clara’s feet running for the hidey-hole set up for her. A second later, the relief disappeared under the screaming of her Slayer senses. Vampire, powerful vampire.
Familiar vampire?
She looked up, into a face she never expected to see again.
“I suggest,” she said, her voice remarkably flat to her ears. “That you drop whatever glamor you have now, and maybe I’ll kill you quickly. Otherwise, it’ll be slow, and painful, and very screamy.”
“God, I missed you,” the whatever said. “And your mum, Joyce, used to give me little marshmallows in my cocoa and your stuffed pig was called Mr. Gordo.”
Then she was being kissed.
Just how Spike had kissed her, in that all-consuming way that could make her forget anything.
The stake clattered to the floor. She kissed him back, her mind reeling, but her body desperate for more, more, more.
His lips were hard, demanding, and he tasted like mint gum as well as…Spike.
This couldn’t be Spike.
She put her hands on his chest—felt like Spike—and pushed him away. Hard.
He looked stunned, then his face crumpled, and he dropped to his knees. “Fuck, no, I didn’t mean to—”
“Spike?” she said, voice trembling. Keeping her gaze on the vampire, she swiped the stake from the floor but kept it at her side.
Nothing was adding up.
“It’s me, luv.” He raked a hand through his hair, sending it into disarray. “I’m sorry.”
A bazillion questions blazed through her mind, like how, and why, and when. But none of that mattered, if he was here now that’s what mattered. And he had tried to prove himself, but those were things other people knew as well. Angel and Dawn knew about Mr. Gordo, and plenty of people knew about Spike enjoying the marshmallows.
“What did I say?” she asked. “At the end? What did I say?”
He looked up at her. “Under the school? That you love me.”
Buffy’s breath caught. Her lungs burned. Air. She needed air.
Spike.
Here.
“Clara,” she managed to squeak out around the lump choking her. Buffy needed to get it together, and go get her daughter, and probably invite Spike in. Maybe he’d decorate cookies, she thought inanely. Probably complain about no black icing.
“She’s gorgeous, pet. So much you in that itty package. Always knew you’d make an amazing mum.”
His eyes were soft, and his smile wistful. It hit her, Spike had come for Clara, somehow, he knew she was his. Returning for Buffy hadn’t been in his plans, but when he’d found out Clara was his daughter he’d turned up on her doorstep. Her heart lurched and teetered, ready to break.
“Who told you?” she snarled, backing towards the door. It’d feel good to slam it in his face. They’d done just fine without him this long, he didn’t need to show up and make Clara care for him before waltzing off when he got bored or whatever.
He climbed to his feet. “Who told me what?”
“Nobody is supposed to know. So, I need to know who told you so that I can slay them.”
Spike’s brows drew together. “Told me what, pet?”
Had he always been this thick? Buffy could have sworn he’d been pretty smart most of the time. Maybe dying had killed brain cells, though that hadn’t been the case with her. She was going to have to spell it out for him. “Told you that Clara is your daughter.”
“That’s…Excuse me?...Are you feeling alright?...I…” His adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s impossible,” he whispered, swaying on his feet.
Relief flooded through her. He was here for her, but there was no pulling back those words. “I guess I can’t put that cat up the chimney.”
His expression became even more befuddled. “Do you mean back in the bag?”
“I don’t care where the cat goes, but, yeah…not so impossible. I hadn’t been with anyone since you when we, uh, reconnected in the basement. And then six weeks later I was puking in the morning and super tired. Everyone just thinks I had a one-night stand in L.A., but not so much.”
Spike tilted his head to the side, managing to look both confused and adorable. “Are you certain?”
Buffy snorted. “She looks just like you. I don’t know how anybody else hasn’t mentioned it. Your eyes, your mouth, your toes. Occasionally your attitude.” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes it feels like you’re not really gone.”
Spike’s mouth hung open, he blinked a couple more times, then he recovered. “She looks like you. Tiny, no fear and…shit.”
“And shit?” She would have been offended if the big, bad vamp didn’t look like he was a stiff breeze from being blown over.
“Her hair, I was going to say blonde, but, it’s not quite.”
Buffy shook her head.
“When I was younger, my hair was…” A shudder went through him. “Can I see her?”
It’d be easy to say yes. “I want her to know. All I’ve said is that her dad’s a brave man I love, I didn’t say dead. But…my heart could take it, if you just want to have a night together before you run back off to do whatever, but not hers. You can’t give her a father and then take that away. I know how that feels.”
His fierce gaze met hers. “I came to see if you’d have me, Buffy, to fight next to you if that’s what you wanted, to be friends, or to be in your bed if you’d have me. I’m not going unless you send me away. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but I had to make sure you’d want me. I had to be able to stand here and look you in the eye. And I’ll still do all of those things, luv, but I’m begging you to let me be here for Clara.”
She met his gaze and held it. Spike didn’t flinch. Deep in his eyes, so like Clara’s it made her heart ache, she saw the faint spark of his soul. He’d fought to stand here before her, baring his heart.
“Is all of the above one of my choices?” Buffy asked.
A smile curved one corner of his lips up. “That would be more than I deserve.”
“Then come in and meet your daughter, Spike.”
She reached out to take his hand, curling her fingers around his cool ones. For a heartbeat, they both paused, looking at their joined hands. The last time she’d…but no, that was the past. Right now, the impossible was happening. As a Slayer, she should be used to that, but when the impossible happened differently every time, it was hard to prepare yourself.
With a tug, she brought him through the door and into the living room. “I’ll get her,” Buffy said. “She’s hiding. It’s something we practice.”
When she started to let go of his hand, Spike pulled her in close. “I’ll keep her safe. I’d add you to the list, but I know better.”
She laughed. “Thank you.” After a moment, she stepped back and hurried towards Clara’s bedroom, looking over her shoulder more than once to make sure he didn’t disappear, but he remained very real as he shoved his hands in his duster pockets and frowned at the pictures on the mantle.
Buffy stopped at Clara’s door. The room was a riot of pink, with stuffed animals and picture books scattered on the floor. “Come out, Clara,” Buffy said. Pride swelled up when nothing moved. She lightly tapped on the door, in rhythm to the tune of a nursery rhyme. After a moment, the false bottom of the toy trunk rattled. Clara wiggled out, her hair slightly worse for wear, and ran to Buffy.
“Mommy!”
Buffy lifted her to hug her close. “I’m so proud of you. You did everything just right that I asked you to.”
Clara looked close to tears. “Was that a bad man?”
“I thought he was, but he’s not at all. He’s very excited to meet you.” Buffy carried Clara, who shyly buried her face against Buffy’s shoulder, into the living room.
Spike had taken his duster off and was sitting in black shirtsleeves on the couch, his knee bouncing. “Hello again, Clara,” he rumbled, his attention zeroing in on the little girl. Butterflies took wing in Buffy’s belly. She wanted this to go perfectly.
Clara turned her head and peeked at him. Spike waved. She waved back.
That was a good start. “Clara,” Buffy said. “Spike is going to be staying here, with us.”
“He doesn’t get my room.” Clara’s tiny scowl, so very Spike-like, nearly made Buffy laugh.
“No, honey, you’re right, he doesn’t. Spike is…Spike’s your daddy.”
Clara’s eyes got huge. “Fo’ reals?”
Had Clara been pining for a father this entire time? Buffy’s heart did a summersault at the thought of her tiny child hiding that kind of pain. “For reals.” Clara launched herself at Spike, who easily caught her mid-air. He settled her on his knee, his eyes almost as round as hers.
“You’re heavy,” he said with a wink.
Clara beamed. “I’m big.”
Buffy wanted to stand there and gawk as they got to know each other, but if she wanted her dream of the three of them making a little, happy family together, she couldn’t helicopter over the two of them. They’d have to figure themselves out. Her feet still felt like lead as she took a step toward the kitchen.
“I’m going to go set everything up for cookie decorating, I’ll call when it’s ready,” she said. Spike caught her eye, his expression so grateful that tears threatened and she had to hurry the rest of the way to the kitchen before they fell.
#
The miracle on his knee was absolutely related to Buffy, based on how much of a chatterbox she was. Clara had told him all about her favorite food—mac n’ cheese—her favorite toys, what she wanted for Christmas, and was now describing earnestly about how she liked puppies but couldn’t have one because they were messy.
Spike would have to talk to Buffy, but he was going to find Clara the fluffiest, cutest puppy in the world. Or ten of them. He was not ashamed to find himself wrapped around her finger.
Now that he had time to truly inspect her, he had to admit Buffy was right. Clara did look like him, her hair and eyes were just like his. How had anyone not brought that up with Buffy? Maybe they all thought she’d found someone to shag that looked vaguely like him?
Mostly, he was glad she hadn’t told anyone. Though it would be nice to pick Giles’ brain over the whole Shanshu thing. Angel had Conner, and now he had Clara. Maybe the translation had been imperfect, because a vampire with a soul and something about human…every time Spike would pick Clara over being turned into a human himself. Because then the prize became Buffy, or at least according to Angel it did, even if the girl in question hardly seemed to be hung up on the presence of a heartbeat.
Who wouldn’t want a daughter as clever and sweet as his?
“We watch Rudolph?” Clara asked, bouncing on his knee.
“Of—”
“After we decorate cookies,” Buffy interrupted, her eyes suspiciously shiny. “It’s Christmas Eve, we have to get them ready for Santa.”
“Of course we can, after we do what mum says.” He set Clara down.
“Cookies!” she hollered, running for the kitchen.
Buffy put a hand on his arm as he walked by. “Are you doing okay? She’s kind of a lot.”
“She’s perfect.” He tucked a strand of loose hair behind Buffy’s ear, attempting to ignore the desire even such a simple action stoked in him. “Is it too soon for me to love her?”
“I did the instant I knew she existed, so you’re in good company.”
He’d missed so much. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for all of it.” Every second, from holding Buffy’s hair while she puked to cradling a newly born Clara.
She crossed her arms. “Apology accepted, for now. Miss anything else and I’ll kick your ass.”
“I’m holding you to that, Slayer.” He kissed her nose before following Clara into the kitchen. His daughter had climbed on a chair and had a cookie stuck in her mouth.
“Clara!” Buffy frowned. “Those are for decorating.”
“Oops,” Clara said around a mouthful of sugar cookie. She didn’t look even a little bit repentant and he had to stifle a laugh.
“C’mere you.” He snagged her and sat her on his knee again. A pile of neatly cut and perfectly baked cookies sat on the table, along with bunches of icing bags in a rainbow of colors. “You did an amazing job baking these, Buffy.” He poked Clara’s side. She was warm and smelled like summer. How had he had any part in creating such a wonderful little being?
“Thank you.” Buffy sat in the chair next to him. “While pregnant I couldn’t exactly be out running around like I had been, and I got hooked on TV cooking shows. Then I thought, I could learn to do all that. So I did.” She shrugged like it was no big deal.
“You’re always surprising me, pet.” He gently intercepted Clara as she reached for another cookie. “Decorating, sweets. Which one should we do first?”
“R’endeer!”
Spike snagged a prancing reindeer cookie and grabbed white icing, showing Clara how to outline around the cookie.
Once the white icing was in place, he wanted to add an eye, but, “There’s no black.”
Buffy laughed like he’d said something hilarious, and he couldn’t help but smile at her mirth. He made the eye green.
The evening flew by. The cookies were all decorated, with several being set out for Santa. They all watched Rudolph snuggled on the couch, and Spike held up Clara so she could hang her stocking as the last thing to do before bedtime.
To his delight, when Buffy tucked her in bed, she begged him for a story, so he read her ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’. Then he read it again, but after the third time through he closed the book and turned off the lights. Spike sang Christmas carols softly to her until she fell asleep.
She lay on her side, lashes fanned over her cheeks and a stuffed puppy in her arms.
He might be a demon, but he’d help make an angel.
Spike crept to the door, finding Buffy standing just outside wearing a soft smile. She led him to the living room, where the multi-colored fairy lights on the tree twinkled in the dark. Presents that hadn’t been there before were now heaped under the tree, wrapped in shiny silver paper.
“She’s very into you,” Buffy said, leaning a hip against the back of the couch.
“My daughter has good taste.” The words sounded both foreign and absolutely right on his tongue. Buffy rolled her eyes. “And I suppose I should nip out to the shops. Surely somewhere in Rome is open that I can get her presents at. I was at sixes and sevens coming here and I didn’t even manage to get you a gift. I’ll be back in a tic.”
Buffy’s hand shot out and grabbed him with crushing force. “Don’t you dare leave.”
“I don’t want to fail my first Christmas with her.”
“She’s got a bazillion presents, and I don’t need anything. Please, I don’t think I could take it.”
Spike nearly melted at how fierce Buffy looked. “Alright, luv. I won’t go anywhere.” He’d never go anywhere again if she didn’t want him to. “Should I make myself at home on the couch?”
“Really?” Her lower lip crept out and for a second, he tried to figure out what she was on about. It hit him like a ton of, well, not bricks. Maybe sexy bricks. Lord, he was going daft.
He reached out, curling a hand around her hip. “Bed?”
#
As cute as it was that Spike had gotten completely wrapped up in Clara, Buffy was ready to ring his bell for not realizing that duh, of course she wanted him to take her to bed.
It’d been sweet that he wanted to run out and buy gifts, but it was going to be a while before she was comfortable being anywhere where she couldn’t see or hear him.
The realization that she didn’t have to be lonely anymore, didn’t have to be both mom and dad to Clara, didn’t have to put a brave face on in the morning when it was just her and Clara all day because everyone else had been too busy to visit—even Dawn had been too wrapped up in what was happening in Scotland to come for the holidays—rolled over Buffy.
“You saved me again,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his strong chest. “I’ve been doing fine on my own, but tomorrow was going to be all kinds of not fun. Now it’s going to be the best Christmas morning I’ve had in years.
“Oh, Buffy.” Spike curled around her, squeezing her tight before scooping her up into his arms. “Point the way.”
She directed him down the hallway to the last door on the left. “It has the best view.” He carried her to the window and opened the blinds. They were looking over the Spanish Steps and up towards the Trinità dei Monti Church that hovered at the top. People still thronged the square and steps, the joy of the holidays filling their faces. “I like it here, it was a nice gift from Giles, paid for by the resources we pried from what was left of the Council.”
“It’s a great place to hide. So many people that it’d make even an ancient demon hard-pressed to pick up on your scent or signature.” He tilted his head. “Did you know Keats lived almost right here? He died here, too.”
“I did, the real estate agent told us at least ten times. But no more history, not right now.” It was what was happening now that mattered. Like the revelers in the streets, she wanted to be in the moment. “The church bells are nice,” she murmured. “They’ll be ringing for midnight mass tonight.”
“To drive out the demons?” Spike asked, quirking an eyebrow. He pulled the blinds closed again.
She pushed at his shoulder. “Good thing you’re not in the church. There’ll be no bellringing in this room.”
He nuzzled her neck. A zip of energy along her spine let her know he’d let his demon out.
“Are you sure?” he asked raising yellow eyes to meet hers. They were challenging, but that was Spike, always pushing her. She traced his demon features with the tip of a finger, every bump and dip familiar and loved. Had she ever thought them ugly?
Buffy leaned in, close to his fangs. “I’m sure.” She kissed him, darting her tongue into his mouth to scrape across a fang, flooding their mouths with her blood.
Spike moaned, sucking hungrily even as the cut quickly healed. She twisted in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He grabbed her ass as she broke the kiss.
“What was that for?” he asked, yellow eyes shifting to blue. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
She hitched, pushing her sex against the bulge in the front of his jeans. “For that.” She rocked against his hardness, desire welling up fast and desperate. She’d taken care of herself from time to time but had mostly been too busy, exhausted, or in too much grief the last few years for to be any kind of a regular event, but all that missing lust seemed to be coming back to haunt her like the ghosts of orgasms past. “Spike,” she whimpered. “Hurry.”
“I’ve been planning this night for ages because I need to show you how much you mean—”
Buffy bit his neck, making his cock jerk against her. “You can be all sweet and stuff after this first time because I didn’t get to imagine this at all. You were dead. I’ve got years' worth of sadness to work out.”
Spike’s face fell. “Buffy—”
“Less talk, more kissy.”
He claimed her mouth while walking her to the bed. The full-sized bed had been lots of room for her, but Spike tended to spread out when he slept. They’d need to do some shopping.
He set her down, broke the kiss, and yanked at the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head. She had on cheap underwear, but judging from the look of admiration on Spike’s face, he didn’t care that it wasn’t Victoria’s Secret.
He pulled off his t-shirt, revealing pale skin and tight muscles that she hadn’t let herself fantasize about in ages, because she couldn’t have them. Now she felt greedy, wanting everything, wanting all of him. It hurt that he’d not rushed to her side the instant he could, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know what happened during that time, but the fight wasn’t worth it, not when he was undoing his pants.
She licked her lips as she tracked every movement of Spike’s hands as he undid his belt and fly. He shot her a grin he’d probably describe as ‘cheeky’ before stripping his pants off, letting his cock bob free.
Oh yeah, she’d missed that.
“Condoms are in my dresser. One of the girls gave them to me in a ‘give condoms and men will come’ idea. I never opened the box.”
Spike wrapped a fist around his cock, stroking. “I’m a bloody vampire, which I’m fairly certain you know.”
“Uh, yeah, super duh, but since last time I had to start a college fund for the impossible, I think it’s a good idea.”
“Oh, right.”
He turned and padded to her dresser, giving Buffy a wonderful view of his rear, which was more exciting than the vista outside her window. Her memory had not done it justice. She arranged herself against the headboard.
A box landed on the bed seconds before Spike did. He growled at her jeans before attacking them and dragging them and her undies down and off her legs.
Spike prowled up her body, pausing to plant a kiss on her shaved mound before continuing up to her chest.
“Bra,” he said, tracing the edge of a cup with his tongue.
Buffy started to go for the clasp but then hesitated. She’d breastfed Clara, and things hadn’t ever quite returned to how they’d been before after that. “Can I leave it on?” It was cheap, but it did a decent job of lifting.
Spike looked puzzled. “Aren’t we doing fast?”
“Yes, but, well, I had a baby and Slayer healing does a whole lot, but there are some things it can’t fix, like a few stretch marks and, y’know gravity.”
Spike took hold of her and dragged her under him until she was flat on the bed, his hands braced beside her shoulders and his knees on either side of her hips. “If you think, for one second, I’m going to hare off because of a few marks from time and fact you gave birth to my child, you’re completely off your rocker. That’s rubbish, luv. I think it’s obvious I want you badly.” He jerked his chin down, toward where his cock hung heavy and full between his thighs. “But I must not be doing my job properly if you’re worried about a silvery line or two on your skin. Keep that scrap of cotton on for now, I’ll show just how much I missed your tits later. This second, I’m going to lick you until you can’t see straight.”
“Oh,” she managed. Of course he wasn’t going to be put off by boobs that weren’t as high and firm and they’d been before Clara. He'd never faulted her for being human. And now she was aware of how tight and needy her nipples were.
Spike nuzzled between her thighs just as the bells of the church pealed out their call for the faithful to come and worship.
Buffy threaded her fingers into Spike’s hair, knowing full well what he could do with his tongue.
The first lick was soft, sweeping from her opening to her clit. She moaned, her legs spreading as she tugged at his hair. The next passes of his tongue were all gentle and exploratory like he was remapping on the contours of her pussy. He pushed his tongue deep into her channel, making sounds of pleasure as he tasted her.
Finally, he turned his attention to her clit. The swirl of his tongue, punctuated by tapping, drove her wild. She bent her knees, bracing her feet against the bed, and used her hold on his hair to shamelessly hump against his face.
Thank goodness vampires didn’t need to breathe.
Her thighs quivered as the muscles of her belly tightened. She was close, so damned—
Buffy squeaked in complaint as Spike pulled away from her grip. “Want something?” he asked.
She lifted her hips, making her desire clear. “It’s Christmas, I want my prezzie.”
“Just a tic, I have to wrap it first.”
She bit her lip, trying not to giggle as Spike ripped into the box, opened a condom, and squinted at it. “Let me.” She sat up. With a huff, she held out a hand and he dropped it in her palm. Buffy wouldn’t call herself an expert at condom use, but she’d bet good money she had more experience than her vampire.
Her breath caught as she sat up. This was another thing she hadn’t imagined ever being able to do again. She put a hand on Spike’s thigh, briefly digging her fingers into the muscle because he was realrealreal, before sliding her palm up over the smooth skin to cup his sac. Spike moaned, hips jerking as she gently rolled his balls.
One more soft squeeze and she moved higher, fisting his rock-hard shaft, stroking it with slow, unhurried motions. It was familiar, every vein and the weight of it in her hand, but still not quite as same as in her memory. She’d forgotten the exact velvety feel of the skin, or just how the slit on the end looked. There’d always been such little time for them to linger over each other, what with something or other always hanging over their heads. Though she could admit that part of that time the thing had been her own fears and depression.
“I’m sorry this is the first time we’re together without a ticking clock in the background,” she said.
Spike, who was mostly looking at what she was doing with her hand, grinned. “Well, there’s Christmas morning. I think there’ll be the pitter-patter of little feet awfully early.”
“Fine, there’s that.” She rolled the condom over him. “But you know what I mean.”
Spike caught her wrists and pushed her back into the mattress. “I do know, luv, it’s glorious. And I hope this is the first of very many nights we’ll have where we don’t have to fear the morning light.”
She bit at the corner of his jaw. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re a vampire, you always have to fear the morning light.”
“Thank you for that astute observation. Right brilliant,” he said drily, even though an amused smile played over his lips.
She hooked a leg around his hip. “Shut up, Spike.”
“Gladly.” He reached between them, his fingers skimming her sex before the head of his cock nudged at her entrance.
Spike’s eyes were closed, his lips swollen from her kisses, light and shadow playing over the strong lines of his cheekbones. The first time she’d gazed at him as he’d pushed inside her swirled through her memory, his awe, her desperate need to forget so many things. She had no need to lose herself anymore, she was a Slayer, and a mother, and very much wanted to learn how to be somebody’s partner in the day-to-day rhythms that made up a life. Spike’s partner.
This night wasn’t for forgetting, but for remembering how good things could be between them.
The head of his cock pressed inside her, and a soft shudder passed through him. He was holding back, or savoring, being gentle, or whatever. It was sweet of him, but speaking of remembering, he needed to remember she could kick his ass.
Buffy braced herself against the bed, clamped her knees to his hips, grabbed his shoulders, and twisted.
Spike landed on his back with a growl, his demon flashing its features before retreating. Buffy laughed, in joy, in pleasure, but mostly because he was here, beneath her, where he belonged.
His cock was still inside her, and she sank all the way onto his shaft, welcoming him home. “I missed you,” she whispered, rolling her hips to cherish the feel of his hardness inside her.
Spike’s eyes weren’t closed now. The grin he was wearing was wide and delighted, and some of the awe she remembered from the first time was in his gaze as his eyes flicked over her. It was mixed with admiration, and enough lust to…to…sink a floaty thing.
Buffy rode him, his hands wrapped about her hips, her muscles remembering just how to move to please them both. She couldn’t move as hard or as fast as she wanted to, because putting the bed through the floor would probably ruin her downstairs neighbor’s Christmas as well as her own. Luckily, patrolling in the city meant she knew a few places she could take Spike where they could let loose.
She groaned, from the building ecstasy between her legs and from the sheer joy of knowing she’d have Spike fighting by her side again.
The world once more felt whole and comfortable.
Spike swept a palm up her side to cradle her breast through her bra, his thumb stroking the peak of her nipple through the lace. Buffy found her earlier hangup gone, she needed to feel his fingers on her skin. Reaching behind her back, she undid her bra and slid it off her arms. Spike made a happy noise and pushed himself up to catch a nipple between his lips.
The cool suction of his mouth and flick of his tongue drove her over the edge.
Buffy slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries as pleasure spread like wildfire through her. It burned away the last cobwebs that’d been encasing her heart, letting it beat unfettered for the first time in ages.
She clutched Spike’s head to her chest, his cheek to her breast, holding him tight so he couldn’t disappear. He groaned and thrust upward, sending her catapulting into a second orgasm before she’d come down from the first.
“Buffy,” he murmured against her skin, right over her heart. “Buffy, Buffy, BuffyBuffyBuffy—bloody hell—” He smooshed his face into her boob as he came with a flurry of thrusts and a stifled shout, his cock jerking with his release.
As soon as he stilled, Buffy tried to disentangle their limbs.
Spike clung to her. “Don’t go.” He sounded strangled. It nearly shattered her, because she’d done that to him.
“Condom,” she whispered. “Then snuggles.”
“Oh, right.” He leaned back but paused. “What am I supposed to do?”
Buffy took his hand in hers and showed him how to anchor the condom while pulling out, helping him get it off, tied up, and in the trash. It was intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, turning what could have been weird into a shared experience with laughter. It was so very normal in a way she hadn’t even known she needed.
Spike draped himself over the small bed, patting the space beside him. He made a very tempting picture, all pale skin and hard muscle, but she scooped his jeans off the floor and tossed them at him. He snatched them out of the air with a frown. “Not sure I need these.” Buffy pulled a pair of red plaid pajamas—top and bottoms—from a drawer. “Or you those.”
“It’s in case Clara creeps in during the night because of a nightmare.”
“Shit,” he breathed, rolling on his back and tugging the jeans up while watching the door as if she might barrel through at any moment. “I’ve got a lot to get used to.”
“Yup.” Buffy did the buttons up on her pajama top. She crawled into bed, yawning, to wiggle into a comfortable position on her side with Spike spooning her from behind. He pulled the quilt over them both. She twisted enough to kiss the scar on his eyebrow before settling down again.
Spike nuzzled into her hair. “I can’t believe I have a daughter.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
The arm around her tightened. “I’m sorry I don’t have gifts for you or Clara, I’ll make up for it next year.”
Buffy yawned and closed her eyes, surprised as always that she could feel safe with a vampire at her back. “You’re the present this year, Spike. Stop knocking what you gave us. But—”
Spike tensed.
“Next year,” she continued. “I’m expecting something shiny and expensive.”
“I will get you the whole damn jewelry shop.”
He sounded very sincere. “Just a nice tennis bracelet would do. Something to sparkle when I’m Slaying.”
“Nothing could ever shine as bright as you do.”
Buffy sniffed back tears. She could remember when she’d hated him saying things like that, but now she could hear all the sincerity in his words and knew he treasured her for her, not just for how she could wield a stake.
“I’m glad you’re here, Spike.”
“So am I.”
#
Spike woke up to the clang of bells jangling against his eardrums.
For a second he couldn’t remember what was happening, but then it hit him like eight flying reindeer. It was Christmas morning.
“It’s six,” Buffy mumbled. “Go back to sleep.”
They were tangled together under the quilt, Buffy a warm, comfortable weight snuggled against him. Joy swamped him. This was real, he’d woken up in bed with Buffy, which was something entirely new. And blasted amazing.
Spike closed his eyes, listening for another heartbeat.
It beat steadily, the location telling him Clara was still in her room.
“Little one isn’t up yet.”
“You can tell?” Buffy asked. She stretched her legs out.
“I can hear her heartbeat.”
“That’s more convenient than a baby monitor.” Buffy’s eyes were open now. She grinned. “It’s Christmas.”
Excitement wound its way through him in a way it hadn’t for more than a century, when he’d been a little boy and had run down the stairs knowing it’d be a day of presents and good food. He banished the years that holidays had meant easy feeding to a far corner of his mind, unwilling to wallow in the self-loathing that would bring. His daughter and Buffy deserved a cheerful Christmas.
The bells finally stopped their clanging.
Buffy rolled to face him and launched into his arms, hugging him. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you too.” He kissed her nose.
She continued, wiggling over him and sitting up on the edge of the bed. “C’mon, we have to get everything ready for Clara.” One more sinuous stretch that made him regret not being able to pull her back into bed…well, sort of, he was buzzing with the joy of being able to spend the morning with his family.
He had a bloody family.
Who’d have ever imagined that? Besides the git he’d been back when he’d had a heartbeat.
He followed her, picking up his shirt and tugging it on.
Buffy moved like a whirlwind around the flat, turning on the twinkling lights on the tree, taking the cookies left out for Santa while leaving a few crumbs behind, and getting kid-friendly Christmas music playing.
“Can I help?” he asked, watching her frown at the pile of presents under the tree before moving a box slightly to the left.
“Buns,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“Cinnamon buns, I picked them up for breakfast this morning. Can you get them in the oven?”
Spike hoped the tree survived the death glare she had aimed at it. “Yeah, luv, I’m on it.”
He slipped into the kitchen. Somewhere in one of these cabinets was Buffy and Clara’s breakfast.
“In the fridge,” Buffy said, poking her head into the kitchen. “Fifteen minutes at three twenty-five.” She disappeared, leaving him to face this battle alone.
Spike marched to the oven and turned it on to preheat. He could do this. Maybe.
Lucky for him, she had her kitchen set up like Joyce’s and he easily found the cookie sheet, foil, and butter to keep the rolls from sticking. As soon as the oven was ready he put the half dozen buns in, setting the icing on the top of the stove to soften.
The plate of cookies they’d decorated sat on the counter. He ran a finger over the top, admiring the meticulously decorated holly leaves with red berries Buffy had done. His and Clara’s were a bit more eclectic. A light bulb went off over his head, a brilliant idea if he did say so himself, and he set about making it work while the rolls heated.
He finished just as the timer dinged.
Buffy busted into the kitchen, grabbing oven mitts and pulling the buns out.
“What are you up to?” she asked, as he pushed a chair back under the table.
He leaned a hip against the counter. “Oh, just thought I’d hang some mistletoe.”
“I don’t have any…” She trailed off, her eyes following his finger as he pointed over her head. A wide smile broke over her face as she took in the cookie he’d dangled from a string attached to a light fixture. He’d added a note: Mistletoe. It wasn’t much, but Buffy looks delighted. “Do I get a kiss?” she asked.
“Of course.” He cupped her chin, tilting it up to press a gentle kiss to her lips. Buffy made a soft, happy noise and pulled him closer while deepening the kiss.
The sound of tiny feet hitting the floor caught his attention. Spike broke the kiss and dragged Buffy to the kitchen door.
Clara burst into the living room. She stopped and squealed at the sight of the gifts under the tree.
“Mommy!” she yelled. “Presents!”
“Santa brought you lots,” Buffy said.
Clara turned towards Buffy and him, and her face lit up with delight. “Daddy!” she hollered, launching herself at him and hugging his leg.
Blast, he was going to cry. “There’s my good girl,” he managed around the lump in his throat. He put a hand on her head, but then she was pushing past him into the kitchen.
“Buns?” she asked, pressing herself up on her toes, one hand on the counter.
“After presents.” Buffy shooed her back into the living room. “She really is your daughter.”
“Hmm?” He dropped a kiss on Buffy’s hair, marveling that she was right there, her summer and vanilla scent filling his nose.
“You didn’t notice?” She elbowed him, but not hard. “Clara stole a cookie off the plate while she was in the kitchen.”
“She did? I didn’t even see her…really?” Sure enough, his daughter had the head of a cookie reindeer in her mouth while she wrestled with pulling the largest box out from under the tree. “Oh god, she is me. I’m so sorry.” He snorted out a laugh.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Buffy patted his back. “Especially because now you’re here to help. Wait until she has a temper tantrum over something like her peas touching her chicken nuggets.”
“Who would want that?” He nudged Buffy, but all joking aside, he bloody wanted to help with things like that. Wanted to put plasters on knees and read to her every damn night. “I’m going to be here for every moment of that. Right beside you.”
Buffy took both his hands in hers, pulling him into the living room where Clara was munching on the poor reindeer and ripping the paper off the box in handfuls.
Buffy’s gaze met his, the bright Christmas lights reflecting merrily in her eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The End