A/N:  Many thanks to OneTwoMany for being a wonderful beta.
Disclaimer:  All belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
 

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

    William Shakespeare
 

"Excuse me, sir," the flight attendant said, offering Spike a warm towel, "we should be landing soon."

Spike stretched and sat up, enjoying the lazy feel of a good sleep.  He looked around the cabin with satisfaction.  Wolfram & Hart's private jet had revolutionized air travel as far as he was concerned.  The long flight from L.A. had passed quickly, as Spike had spent most of it in the comfortable double bed.  Spike's cabin had the same sunlight-proof windows as the firm, so for the first time he could fly without having to huddle under a blanket and wedge pillows against the window shade.  And not only did the slender flight attendant bring him custom cocktails, she even heated his blood for him.

He felt a bit smug about enjoying the flight so much, especially considering how much grief he had been giving Angel for basking in the luxury of the evil law firm's perks.  But he hadn't asked for this little boondoggle, and he hadn't even known about the private jet when he agreed to make the trip.

A few days ago, Fred had shown up at his apartment.  She had a grocery bag filled with food in one arm, and a six-pack of beer in the other.  She made tacos for dinner, which Spike had drenched in hot sauce and enjoyed quite well, along with most of the beer.  He had thought for a while she had come just for the pleasure of his company, but towards the end of the meal her true purpose was revealed: they needed his help.  At first Spike had refused outright.  He wasn't going to work for them, and he didn't think they had much of a handle on the whole good/bad concept anymore.  But then Fred explained the problem.

Apparently they had gotten word of an Argus demon who was setting up shop in London.  According to their research, Argus demons are very hard to track, as they can take on the appearance of any creature they choose, including humans. When an Argus demon is in a human form, there is little to give him away.  Argus demons also have a long history of associating with vampires.  It was believed that they fed off of them, which gave the Argus the energy it needed to maintain its façade, and kept the vampires in thrall to the demon.

Fred told Spike that Angel had encountered this breed almost a hundred and fifty years ago. He and Darla had stumbled upon a war between rival factions of Argus, and had succeeded in reducing their numbers substantially before the survivors fled.  One of those survivors was very likely the Argus that was terrorizing London now.

Fred managed to convince Spike that he was the only possible choice to confront the Argus.  It might recognize Angel, but it had never met Spike, and so Spike should be able to get close enough to him to find out his plan, and then kill the demon as well as any vampire minions he had accumulated.  When Spike balked, Fred's face fell, and she haltingly described the mayhem that the Argus demon had caused the day before, killing over a hundred young girls at a school for orphans outside London.  She also told him that he'd get to stay in a nice hotel, have all the food and blood he liked, and a hefty bonus on top if he killed the Argus.  Finally, done in by her sweet smiles and flattering words, along with the promise of an all expenses paid trip to England, he had agreed.

The plane landed smoothly, and taxied into a large hangar.  This was particularly convenient, Spike mused, as it was midday and he didn't fancy dashing out into the sun, as weak as it was during February in England.  It occurred to him that this must be some kind of private airfield too, as this clearly wasn't Heathrow.  Oh well, just another advantage of doing the devil's business, he supposed.

The flight attendant handed Spike his bag and guided him to the door of the plane, pointing out the black stretch limo awaiting him.  She smiled sweetly and waved as he went down the ramp.

The limo driver stood outside the car, holding a sign with "Spike" scrawled across it.  "You moron," Spike mumbled under his breath as the driver opened the back door for him.  "It's not like there's anyone else getting off that plane."

Sliding into the car, Spike admired the soft leather of the seats.  He stretched out his legs and leaned back, his hands behind his head.  "So, mate, where're we off to?"

"The Hampshire Plaza, sir."

"What's that?" Spike asked idly.

"Your hotel, sir.  And a very fine hotel it is, too."

"Oh, all right then."  Spike peered through the darkly tinted windows.  As they got closer to the city, he tried to place himself, but finally gave up.  "Tell me when we get there, alright?" he asked, and closed his eyes.  It had been a long time since he had been to London, and he wasn't sure what to expect.  Not from the town, so much as from himself.  He had done so many terrible things in London; he didn't really want a trip down a blood-streaked memory lane.  He was glad, really, that he was here to kill a demon, right a wrong.  Was the least he could do.

Soon the driver spoke, interrupting his reverie.  "We're almost there, sir.  You'll get a good view of the London Eye in a minute."

Spike turned to the window.  Towards the river he could see the top of the now infamous giant ferris wheel.  Over their taco dinner, Fred had informed him that the Eye wasn't really a ferris wheel, for a variety of reasons that he hadn't really followed, and chattered on about how he had to ride it while he was here.  Spike had wondered aloud if perhaps Fred was losing sight of the actual point of this trip, which seemed to fluster her a bit.

Now that he saw the Eye, Spike thought he might go down and take a closer look at it later.  It was truly impressive, with capsules like spaceships hovering in the sky.  It might even be the one place in the city that hadn't witnessed his past sins.

Finally the limo pulled up in front of an imposing building.  He didn't remember there being such a grand  hotel in this part of town.  "This is the Hampshire Plaza, sir.  I'm going to take you to the private entrance."  After a few more turns, they pulled into an underground garage, and stopped in front of a richly carpeted reception area.

Spike refused the porter's offer to carry his bag, but let them escort him to the desk.  Wolfram & Hart had taken care of everything, and soon he was on his way to the room.  At least these idiots didn't hang a sign with his name on it on the door, he mused, as they stepped off the elevator into his floor.

"Your suite, sir," said the porter, holding open the door.  Spike stepped in and looked around.  He was in a sitting room, lavishly decorated with brocades and deep floral patterns in red and gold.  Opulent wall hangings and gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls, and antiques were scattered throughout.  Through a set of french doors a canopied four-poster bed dominated another luxuriously appointed room.

"You're sure this is my room?"  Spike asked.  It was a far cry from the cheap motels of his past.  But more Angel's style, he supposed.

"Yes sir."  The porter proceeded to point out the various amenities, as if Spike couldn't figure out where the washroom was.

"Thanks, mate, I've got it."  The porter nodded and left.  A bit skittish, Spike thought.  Maybe it was the fact that the mini-bar was filled with packets of blood.

Spike sat down on the admittedly comfortable sofa, and tried to work up some righteous indignation.  If Wolfram & Hart thought he could be bought so easily, he'd show them.  Why, a few nights at a posh hotel weren't going to change his mind about the place.  Didn't want no evil Big Brother tellin' him what to do.

Spike shook his head.  He was as bad as Fred.  He needed to get his mind off the travel arrangements and focus on the point of this mission.  Spike stood up and wandered about the room.  Fred had told him that her London contact, a fellow with the fanciful name of "Sherlock," would leave him instructions about where to meet.

Spike found an envelope on the bed, propped up on the pillows.  Inside, as expected, was a note from Sherlock, but it was printed in a script so full of tiny curlicues that Spike had trouble deciphering it.  Seems Sherlock's having a little too much fun with his word processor, he thought.  The note read:

Spike -

It is very important that you do not attract the attention of the Argus demon until I have had a chance to brief you on the plan. We will meet tonight at 9:00 in the main ballroom of the Hampshire Plaza.  There will be many people there to provide cover.  Wear the clothes that have been left for you, and bring the enclosed document.  I look forward to seeing you.

Sherlock

A little cloak and dagger for my taste, Spike thought.  Enclosed with the note was a very formal looking invitation, embossed on creamy paper.  "Saint Valentine's Day Ball," he read.  "This doesn't bode well for my disguise."  He opened the heavy door of the wardrobe and pulled out the black suit bag hanging inside.  Laying it out on the bed, he unzipped it.  "A very fine tuxedo, sir," he observed, mimicking the limo driver.

Well, first he'd shower, and then he'd see if he could still tie a bow tie.

Later he discovered that he could tie one, although only if accompanied by much swearing and stomping about.  The tux was indeed a fine one, with a notched lapel and satin buttons, and it came complete with gold cufflinks and a black silk cummerbund.  The shoes pinched a bit, but aside from that the tux fit perfectly, causing Spike to wonder if Wolfram & Hart had magic tailors on their staff.

After messing around with the telly for a while, nine o'clock finally arrived.  Spike hunted around for the brass key to his room - no plastic cards here - and headed downstairs to the lobby.

As soon as he got off the elevator, Spike was surrounded by men in tuxedos and women in elegant eveningwear.  I guess Sherlock was right about me fitting in, he observed, as he searched for the entrance to the ballroom.  It wasn't hard to find, as everyone was heading in the same direction.

Outside the ballroom doors, several prim white-haired matrons were carefully checking invitations.  Spike handed his over, and after it was carefully scrutinized, a delicate boutonniere of pink sweetheart roses was fastened to his jacket and he was allowed to enter the room.

There could be no mistaking the theme of tonight's event, Spike thought, amused.  The abundance of pink, white and red roses on every conceivable surface not only gave the place the feel of an English garden gone wild, but also exuded an overpowering aroma.  Spike hoped he wouldn't be expected to sniff out any demons in this place, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to distinguish much through the roses' heavy perfume.

Spike accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped it as he wandered through the room.  The orchestra was playing smoky jazz tunes, and servers circulated with trays of little tidbits.  Here and there around the room were intimate seating areas, cosy tables for two, adorned with more roses and delicate flickering candles.

Spike was just starting to wonder whether Sherlock was going to show when another waiter approached him, holding out a small tray with a white envelope on it.  More notes, Spike thought, annoyed.  What did a fellow have to do to kill a demon around here?

He took the envelope and opened it up.  This time the note was on a heavy ivory card, but without the printed curlicues.  Instead, he found a handwritten verse:

Roses are pink,
Without you I was blue.
Might I dare to think
You still love me too?

What the hell, Spike thought, turning the note over to see if he had missed something.

"Can I have this dance?"

And there she was, right in front of him, her eyes wide open and shining, her smile as bright as sunshine.

"Buffy?"  He was suddenly frozen, his chest tight with dizzy fear.

"It's me."  She reached up and cupped his face with her hand.  "And it's you.  Really you."  She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.  "Oh my god, you are really here."  Her voice broke and she sniffled back a sob, clutching him tightly.

Spike tentatively put his arms around her and began stroking her hair, her back, her lovely bare shoulders, his mind whirling with disbelief.  He forgot completely about the trip to London, the ballroom, the Argus demon.  They could have been back in her basement in Sunnydale, for all he knew.  All there was in the world was this woman, this one, incredible woman.

Buffy loosened her hold on him and looked into his eyes, sending a jolt straight down his spine.  "I missed you so much.  It hurt... I still couldn't believe you were gone.  I kept telling myself that you'd come back."  She ran her hands up and down his lapels, then up to his cheek again, touched his hair gently.  He was mesmerized, fascinated, her voice ringing in his ears.  "Then last week Andrew told me and I was at the airport before I knew it.  But I couldn't get on the plane to L.A."  She paused.  "I couldn't deal with everyone there."  She raised her eyes to his, and spoke softly.  "Can you forgive me?"

Surprise and rising panic battled with the pure joy of seeing his slayer before him.  "Forgive you?  What are you talking about?"  Spike's voice came out in a whisper.  Things were moving too fast for him to keep up.

Buffy took his hands in hers and studied his fingers, then kissed each one.  He trembled at her delicate touch.

"Are you okay?"  she asked, her face full of worry.  The look of concern on her face sparked something inside of him, some old hope he had thought well gone.

"You mean my hands."  He wanted to make a joke, lighten it up, but he couldn't find the words.  "I'm fine.  See?"  He wiggled his fingers at her, ignoring the twinges in his forearms.  Finally she smiled.  The rush of pleasure that shot through him threatened to knock him over, and he gestured towards a little table.  "Why don't we sit down?"

Buffy sat across from him, smoothing the skirt of her white satin gown.  A waiter brought them champagne, and a plate of petite chocolates.

Spike drank his glass down quickly, then set it down, twirling the stem between his fingers.  "I don't suppose we're still waiting for Sherlock?"  Spike asked, trying for an innocent tone.

Buffy laughed.  "No, sorry.  He won't be coming."

"And what about the Argus demon?"

"Would you believe I killed him on my way over?"

Spike raised an eyebrow in response.   "Who came up with this little plan, anyway?"  He couldn't take his eyes off of her.  She was radiant, igniting him with the heat of her presence, her carefree laughter like fuel to the flame.

"You don't think I thought of all this?"  Buffy asked, feigning offense.

"Just thinking you might have had some help from a certain girl I know back in L.A.  Skinny, long brown hair, endearing Texas accent?"

"Okay, Fred helped a bit.  Well, she helped a lot, especially with all the travel stuff.  Do you know Wolfram & Hart has a whole department dedicated to making travel arrangements for people with, uh, special concerns?"

"Like fatal allergies to sunlight?"

"Exactly.  I figured since you've been helping them, they ought to help you back."  Buffy said proudly.

"And how did Angel feel about sending me off to fight his old foe?"  Spike feared he knew the answer to this one.

"That wasn't so much of a problem, really."  Buffy smiled gleefully.  "You see, we didn't tell Angel, and there was no old foe, so no problem at all."

"Are you telling me you made the whole Argus demon thing up out of whole cloth?" Spike asked carefully.

"Not sure what that means, but yeah, we made it up.  Far as I know, there's no such thing as an Argus demon.  I mean, have you ever heard of a demon who feeds on vampires and steals their will?  I didn't think you'd buy that one, but I guess Fred was pretty convincing."  Buffy was grinning like the cat that ate the canary, and Spike was beginning to feel like the canary.

"I think it was the bit about the demon eating a school full of orphan girls that pushed me over the edge." Spike said coolly, wondering what the hell he could have been thinking.  'Course they didn't really need him to fight evil.  He'd just screw it up like he did the last time, wind up with more body parts cut off, needing the poof to rescue him.  "Guess the joke's on me, then."  He stood up, brushed his hands over his ridiculous suit of clothes, and headed for the door.

"Spike, no," Buffy leapt after him and grabbed his arm.  "Wait.  That's not what I meant."

Spike stopped, forced himself to be still, while every muscle in his being yearned to sprint away.  Still a bloody fool, he thought.  Never gonna change.  He focused his eyes on a spray of red roses that had fallen to the floor, petals smashed by passing guests.  "What did you mean, then?"

"Spike, look at me."  Buffy moved in front of him, forcing him to twist away.  "Spike, please," she said softly, her voice catching.  "It wasn't a joke, not on you, anyway."

Spike wished she would just finish, let him go.  It was all too familiar, but he wasn't prepared for this now.  It had been too long since he jumped at Buffy's beck and call, and he wasn't sure he could go back.  "Why'd you do it then, pet?"

Buffy apparently gave up trying to catch his eye, and instead took his hand and held his fingers to her cheek.  Her skin was petal soft, and the gesture unnerved him despite his resolve.  "It was supposed to be a surprise.  A Valentine's Day present.  For you."  She took a few deep breaths, and dropped his hand.  He looked up at the loss of contact, and recognized her fighting stance.  Here it comes, he thought.  Better duck.

"Spike," she said firmly, "aren't you happy to see me?"

Of course he was.  Stupid question.  But that didn't excuse her making a fool out of him, did it?  Dragging him halfway across the world on her whim, dressing him up like a poof, forcing him to attend a romantic gala under false pretenses...

"It's complicated, Buffy."  He could tell from the look on her face that this conversation wasn't over yet.  "Look, can we get out of here?  Need some air."

"Sure.  They did go a little overboard with the rosy goodness, didn't they."  Buffy gazed a bit regretfully at the dance floor, then returned to determined-face.  "I'll get my coat.  You meet me by the front door, okay?"  She looked at him like he was a recalcitrant child, and stalked off towards the coat check.

Spike felt a bit steadier waiting in the lobby, although he didn't know if it was the distance from Buffy or from the overwhelming aroma of the flowers that stabilized his equilibrium.  Since he'd been in L.A., he had mostly been able to avoid the whole "what if" topic where Buffy was concerned.  Especially while he was still playing Casper, there wasn't much point to it, although it had pained him to wonder if she knew he was back and simply couldn't be bothered to contact him.  More recently, the whole thought of showing up now and expecting her to care again had seemed a ridiculous presumption, more properly forgotten than entertained.

"Shall we go?"  Buffy took his arm with a flourish, apparently still striving to stay in character notwithstanding the gathering thunderclouds.

Struggling to regain control of his fluttering nerves, Spike went for the tried and true snark.  "Hope you didn't have to kill too many kittens to make this thing," he said, poking at Buffy's white fur wrap.

"It's not real!"  Buffy asserted indignantly.  "At least, I think it isn't.  I borrowed it from that lady friend of Giles's.  He and I get along better if there's another person in the room with us.  Fewer dirty looks."

So Buffy and the watcher were still on the rocks?  He made a mental note to ask her about it later, if there was a later.

The doorman nodded respectfully at them as they went out, seeing only an elegantly dressed couple spending a romantic evening together.  They walked the blocks in a silence that was somewhere in between awkward and comfortable.

"The Thames River's that way.  I can see the ferris wheel."  Buffy pointed.  The Eye was decked out for Valentine's Day, glowing hot pink against the night sky.

"The Eye's not actually a ferris wheel, you know," Spike said, thinking as he spoke that he sounded like a pompous ass.

"Oh, really," Buffy said.  "Since you know so much about it, you can fill me in while we ride."

"What?"

"Let's go on it."  Buffy looked pleadingly at him.  "Please?  I've got VIP tickets.  We don't have to wait on line, and we'll get a capsule all to ourselves."  When he didn't respond she turned away, the excitement fading from her face.  "It was supposed to be part of the surprise."

He didn't know what to think, what to say to her.  It just wasn't fair of her to spring herself on him like this.  He didn't have any tall tales to tell, any heroic achievements to recount.  And she would find out soon.  She would see him, see that he wasn't a champion, had never been.

"Spike?"

Get a grip on yourself, he thought furiously.  This night doesn't have to be a disaster.  You're making her miserable.  Nervous, pathetic ponce.  He brushed a hand through his hair, and pushed all thoughts of hope and hurt aside.  "All right, then.  I'm game."  He smirked a little, then smiled, and was rewarded by Buffy's squeal of glee.

A short while later, they were boarding the imposing wheel.  As Buffy had promised, when she presented their VIP tickets they were quickly brought to the front of the line and escorted into a private capsule.  Spike ignored this additional abuse of Wolfram & Hart's privilege; this trip was already too full of folly to keep count.

"It's kind of like being inside a big glass jellybean, don't you think?"  Buffy paced the capsule, trying to decide which end to look out of.  "They said when we get to the top we can see for twenty-five miles.  Even you've never seen London this way," she said encouragingly.

"It's true, I haven't."  The pink lights shining on the wheel reflected back into their capsule, giving everything a warm glow.

Buffy and Spike stood quietly at the windows, their hands resting on the railing, as the wheel lifted them into the sky, and slowly started back down.  Spike wondered what Buffy was thinking.  Did she see this as companionable silence?  Was she contemplating his bizarre behavior, or taking in the scenery?  They exchanged comments every so often, Spike biting his tongue at every inane remark he made.  He was acutely aware of where his hands were, of every time he had to move to scratch an itch.  He felt more claustrophobic in this glass sphere than in any crypt.

Finally they made it all the way around, and he and Buffy turned towards the door.  "We were 140 meters up in the air at the top," Buffy commented.  "That's, that's even more in feet."

Spike nodded absently.  "That it is."

"Did you recognize all those places?  I mean, did you live right here, in the city?  Or does London have, you know, suburbs?"

He tensed as her question forced him to consider the various locations of his sins, too numerous to map.  "I recognized plenty."  He tried to keep his voice steady.  She didn't realize what she had said.  "But the memories aren't good ones.  Didn't do much to be proud of here, Buffy."

"You're not that man now, Spike," Buffy said softly, moving closer to him, her face upturned towards his.

"I'm not a man at all.  Nor a champion. You don't know who the hell I am."  The thoughts that had been churning around inside his head for so long flew out of his mouth, and Spike stepped back, wishing for the hundredth time that night that he had his coat to give him someplace to put his hands, to swirl around him as he strode off.  The capsule door finally opened and he shot out.

***************

Buffy was right behind him, trying not to knock over any of the waiting tourists as she pushed past them.  Could anyone else be so aggravating, she thought, catching up with him as he strode angrily down the street, hands fisted at his sides.

She tried to match his pace, get him to look at her.  "I do know who you are, Spike."  She tried to sound confident, but her impatience was growing and her voice came out more whiny than persuasive.  "You know it.  Spike, come on."   She had thought things were going okay when they were on the ferris wheel, but then it all went boom.  How could she know that while she was thinking about how incredibly hot he looked in that tux, he was reliving all the bad he had done to the inhabitants of the city below?

Buffy stumbled and she stopped to yank her heel out from between the cobblestones.  She had never imagined this night could go so horribly wrong.  Finding out that Spike was alive had sent her soaring with giddy euphoria.  All she could think of was seeing him again, kissing away his fears, resting in his comforting embrace.  Andrew had put her on the phone with Fred, and together they had come up with the perfect Valentine's Day reunion.  But in classic Buffy fashion, she had apparently forgotten to take into account how anyone besides herself might react.  She had thought it would be a wonderful, romantic evening, a night they would always remember.  Well, at least she had gotten the last part right.

Spike had gone several blocks up the street and around a corner when Buffy finally caught up with him.  She grabbed his wrist and tugged him to a halt, pushing away the awful thought that if she pulled too hard  his hand might come off.  "Don't run away from me, Spike.  I'm not dressed for it."  The panic in his eyes struck her, and she tried to soften her tone.  "Please, just talk to me.  What's going on?"

She was out of breath, and she could feel her hair falling out of its expensive twist.  Spike wouldn't meet her eyes, and he trembled in her grasp.  She reached for his other hand, and gathered both of his hands together, bringing them up to her chest, forcing him to turn towards her.   "Spike, what is it?"

Moments passed, and Buffy waited, still except for her steadying breathing.  Finally Spike raised his head from the sidewalk and met her gaze.  She stared into the depths of his blue eyes, searching for the source of his distress.

"Buffy," he began, his voice tight.  "I'm sorry.  Can't get my head around it.  Don't know how to say it."  His voice caught, and he turned aside, but not far.  She could still see his eyes, his sharp cheekbones, the pain etched into his face.

"I didn't think I'd be back.  Thought I was done.  Big blaze of glory, and all." His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face were taut.  "I can't keep that up.  It's not who I am.  I was just the guy wearing the necklace.  Didn't do nothing special."

He was so tense that Buffy thought he was going to bolt, like a stag racing for safety.  "Spike, that's not true."

"It is true, and there's nought we can do about it."  He took a deep, shaky breath.  "You asked the wrong bloke to the party, pet," he said, stepping backwards and withdrawing his hands from hers.  "If you'd have seen me these past few months, you'd know.  I'm not your champion."

Buffy's stomach clenched as she grieved for him, for all the damage she'd done him.  No surprise that he hadn't believed her when she said she loved him, with the Hellmouth collapsing around them.  Tonight's mess was all her fault.  She was no good with words, so instead she had tried to show him how she felt with showy surprises and fancy footwork.  But there was no more time for that now, she had to make him understand, had to just come out and say it.

Buffy stepped closer to Spike and before he could protest, she reached up and put her arms around him, holding him tight.  He stiffened but he didn't run, and her embrace hinted of slayer strength she was all too  ready to employ.  She pulled him closer, and pressed her head against his.  "Listen to me, Spike.  Hang on for a minute, and listen.  It doesn't matter whether or not you're my champion," she whispered.  "You're more than that.  You're more than I ever hoped to find, and I thought I had lost you forever.  But you're back, and I won't let you go."  She paused, and inhaled deeply, pouring all of her feeling for him into her words, willing him to believe.  "I know who you are.  And I meant what I said, in the Hellmouth.  I love you."

********************

"I love you."

Spike heard Buffy's words and he wanted to demand that she take them back, quickly, before he could remember them, let them take hold of his heart.  He had come up with a dozen rationalizations for Buffy's past declaration of love, and had succeeded in convincing himself that even if she had believed it for a moment, it wasn't real.  Not meant to last past his expiration date.  But here she was, gazing meaningfully into his eyes, running her hand over his face.  A tremor of hope and excitement ran through him, but he pushed it aside.  She doesn't know what she's talking about, he thought.  She still doesn't know who she's talking to.  I'm just a memory she's held on to, something to remind her of home, cold comfort.

"Why don't we go back to the hotel, okay?"  Buffy asked lightly.  "We can talk more there.  But, you know, with heat and snacks."

He nodded and let Buffy take his arm again.  She snuggled close to him and they proceeded back to the hotel.  Spike focused on the feel of her body against his, warm and alive, trying simply not to think about the certain disaster that was on its way.  Letting himself believe that Buffy loved him wouldn't make it any easier, wouldn't help him weather her inevitable slights and slanders, her oblivious disregard.  Would probably just make it hurt more.

Spike hadn't reached any conclusions by the time they reached his room, although in the back of his mind he still thought that the safest course would be to run, and fast.  But Buffy in her usual style seemed to have taken the problem as solved, and had moved on.

"Nice room," she remarked, laying her furry wrap down on a chair that was as old as he was.  "Kind of cluttered, though, don't you think?"

"What, you'd rather they set me up with a cot in someone's basement?" he asked with a smirk, relieved to find he could still speak about normal things.

"No," Buffy shot him a pointed look.  "But it is awfully pretentious, isn't it?"

"Only the best for the rulers of the evil empire."

"It really bothers you that this trip came courtesy of Wolfram & Hart, doesn't it?"

"I've got no problem with takin' advantage of them.  But too much of that, and they'll want a favor in return, and it won't be a back rub."  Spike shook his head, amazed that Buffy hadn't thought of this when she arranged this tainted playdate.

"Fine, after tomorrow I promise not to take any more money from the devil," she said obediently.  "But can't we just enjoy it until then?  I mean, the mini-bar is stocked with all kinds of goodies.  And look - there's even some old drinks to go with the creaky furniture."  Buffy proudly held up a bottle of Macallan scotch.  "You like this kind of thing, don't you?"  she asked innocently, opening the bottle and pouring some into a heavy crystal glass.  "Let me know if it's any good."  She handed him the glass, and he gratefully drank it down, relishing the taste and the welcome warmth.

"I don't think that came with the room."

"No?  Maybe it was just a special perk.  Buy one extravagant room and two tickets to the fanciest ball in London, get a free bottle of scotch."

"No, you bought it for me," Spike said, abashed.  "Planned it to please me, like the limo and this monkey suit."  He twirled the gold cufflinks, miraculously still attached despite his incessant fiddling.  "Bet you wish you hadn't bothered, for all the thanks I gave you."

"Well, I am reconsidering the tux.  It was damn sexy for a while, but now you just look overdressed."  Buffy took the glass from his hand and led him into the bedroom.  "And those shoes.  Can't believe you actually wore them.  It's a miracle you're not limping."  She motioned for him to sit down on the bed, and knelt on the floor beside his feet.

"Buffy, quit it," he protested.  The daft bint was taking his shoes off.

Buffy shook her head.  "I got you into this mess, I'll have to get you out of it," she said playfully, a coy smile lighting her face.  She unlaced his shoes, first one and then the other, and slid them off.  She pulled off his socks and began to massage his feet.  He flinched, but her grip was firm and her hands were hot, shooting flickers of pleasure up through his limbs.

"Cold feet?" she asked, looking up at him with a mischievous grin.

"Buffy, what's going on?"  Spike asked helplessly.  Suggestive didn't begin to describe Buffy's behavior, yet Spike couldn't quite accept it just yet.  Further, he still felt like a basket case, not exactly primed for performance.

"Spike, don't you get it?" she asked softly.  Buffy rose and leaned around him to remove his tux jacket.  She hung it in the wardrobe, then sat beside him on the bed, reaching up to undo the bow tie.  Her face was inches from his, and her breath was warm on his neck as she deftly undid the knot, then collected each gold stud and cufflink from his shirt and dropped them into his pants pocket.  His shirt unbuttoned, she removed it carefully.  She ran her hands down his bare arms, down to his trembling fingertips.  Spike was motionless, frozen in place, until her hands moved to his pants and began to unfasten his fly.

"Buffy, wait," he said, his voice rough.  His hand covered hers, stopping her movement.  He knew she must be able to feel him throbbing underneath their hands, and he struggled to maintain control of his eager body.   What in bloody hell was going on with her, and why wasn't he enjoying it?

Buffy sat up and turned her face to his, looking surprised at the interruption.  She seemed to see something in his eyes that moved her, toned down her Buffy-the-sex-goddess act.  "Too much?" she asked, chagrined.  She turned her hand over to give his a gentle squeeze and hopped off the bed.  "I'll be right back," she noted, and headed into what Spike vaguely remembered was the washroom.

Before he had a chance to give any rational thought to what she was doing, she was back.  She had traded her white gown for soft gray pants and a white tank top, and was holding something out to him.  "Want to change too?"

"Where'd you get all that?"

"In the cabinet.  It's a full service hotel, that's for sure."  She smiled gingerly.  "Actually I stayed in this room last night.  I cleaned out most of my stuff so you wouldn't see, but I left a few things here and there."

"So you stocked the fridge?"  He winced, not liking the idea of her buying blood for him.

"No, actually, the hotel did that part.  But the scotch was me."  She grinned again.  "Guess you knew that."

"I don't understand, Buffy.  I don't deserve all this."  He couldn't fathom where this was going.

"We'll argue about that later.  Go put these on, and come to bed."  The panic that attacked him again must have shown in his face, as Buffy quickly elaborated.  "To sleep, okay?  Or whatever.  No pressure."

He turned away and changed into the black sweatpants she handed him, wondering if she was watching.  Turning back, he saw her nestled comfortably under the covers.  She patted the spot next to her.  "Check out the pillows.  Mmm.  Downy soft."

He climbed into the bed and lay down carefully.  Buffy moved over to him and laid her head on his shoulder, snuggling tight against his side.  He shifted until she slipped into that familiar place, his arm wrapped around her, his hand resting gently on her hip.  He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, remembering now the sound of her breathing, the scent of her hair, last shared so many months ago.

"We've been here before, Spike," she said tenderly.  "It wasn't that long ago.  I know you've been through a lot since then, but you're still the same person."

"I don't know if I am."  Somehow it was easier to say this here, with her warm against him, her arm draped possessively across his chest.

"Fred thinks of you as a champion, that's for sure.  She told me you saved her life, even though it meant giving up what you thought was your only chance to un-ghostify yourself."

Well, yeah, he thought.  But being soft for a pretty face doesn't make me a saint.  "But I don't know what I'm supposed to do, now.  Bloody 'Powers That Be' keep playing their games with me.  First they make me a ghost, then they make me corporeal, I don't have anything to do with it.  I don't know what they'll do to me next."  His voice was low as he voiced something he hadn't yet let himself think about.   "What if this doesn't last?"

"So what is the gang at Wolfram & Hart doing about it?"  Buffy asked, annoyed.  "Nothing, right?"  She held him tighter, and reached up to stroke his hair.   Spike held still, absorbing her caresses like a parched sidewalk does water.

When she spoke again, she raised herself up on an elbow, and looked into his eyes.  He felt, somehow, that she was seeing straight into him, deep down inside him where his fear and hope lay entwined.  "I love you, Spike," she began, her voice low and intense.  "What I feel for you has become such a part of me," she pressed a hand against her chest, "I don't know how to describe it.  But I felt it long before you put the amulet on."

She snuggled back down next to him, as if they had this conversation every night, and continued.  "Last year, after we took your chip out, Giles was truly pissed off at me.  You remember that, right?"  She stroked his shoulder, shook her head against his chest.  "Later that night he cornered me upstairs and gave me this whole little speech, told me that I had to understand that 'Spike relies on you and you rely on him.'  He went on some more after that, but I wasn't really listening.  Because I realized he was right, absolutely right, and this felt more important to me than anything ever had before."

Spike felt something inside him loosen and flex, and he rolled onto his side, facing Buffy.  He had felt it back then too, her trust that he would be there to back her up, his that she would support him, their belief in each other becoming natural, expected.  He hadn't been surprised when he heard that Buffy had told Wood that if he interfered again, she'd let Spike kill him.

"I remember how it felt," he said, looking into her eyes.  He did remember, and he wondered if he could just be allowed to savor it, let it be for a moment.  He swallowed hard, not sure what to do next.

"You know, Spike, you never did answer," she paused.  "The question in my 'Roses are pink' poem.  I mean, I know it was a terrible poem, but I meant it..."

He stared at her, amazed at the hint of trepidation in her shining eyes.  "Buffy Summers, 'course I love you.  Could never stop."  He reached towards her, touched her hair, drew his fingers down the line of her cheek.   "Will never stop.  Love you always," he murmured, entranced, as he pressed his lips against hers.

The touch of her lips set him on fire, impossible heat spreading throughout his body.  She wrapped himself around him and returned the kiss passionately, her tongue pressing through his lips and joining his.  They were thrusting against each other now, writhing and sliding.  Spike took his lips from hers and traveled down, tasting her delicious neck, nipping at her collarbone.  He moved his hands to her caress her breasts under her shirt, stroking each one harder and harder.  His thumb rubbed a nipple, then her shirt was off and his mouth was there too, licking and sucking until she moaned with pleasure.

He moved his hand down inside her waistband, and pressed a finger against her most sensitive spot.  He let her thrust against him, sliding his fingers in and out in time to her rhythm.  Her breath was coming faster now, and he briefly captured her mouth with his, relishing the feel of her hot breath.  "Come on, my love," he urged her.  "That's it, my pet.  That's it now," he whispered in her ear, and rubbed his thumb against her clit.  He felt her muscles clasp around his fingers and she shuddered and gasped as she reached her climax.

Still panting, Buffy released her grasp on his shoulders and pushed him onto his back.  She slipped her pants off, and then his, sliding her bare legs enticingly over his own.  He thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than her face, flushed with exertion, joyful from loving him.  She stretched up to caress his face, gazing into his eyes, laying her slender, overheated body over his cool skin.  He ran his hands up and down her sides, over her hips, found her nipples with his thumbs and rubbed, and she moaned in ecstatic response.  She was kissing him everywhere, her warm little mouth delivering bursts of heat on his eyelids, his ear, down his neck.  Then her lips found his and moved on top of him, taking him inside her.  He hissed with pleasure as he was surrounded by her heat.  She began to move around him, slowly at first, then more quickly, bringing him closer and higher until he didn't think he could take any more.  "Buffy, yes, please love, yes," he pleaded.  He felt her clench him more tightly and thrust harder yet again as she reached her peak, and he exploded in waves of overwhelming sensation.

********************

Buffy woke up slowly, savoring the soothing feel of Spike's cool sleeping body against her throbbing muscles.  She kissed him, marveling that she could do that, just reach over and kiss him.  She tugged on his lower lip with her teeth, and his low growl in response sent shivers running up and down her spine.  "Do you even know how unbelievably sexy you are?" she asked, sitting up to admire him.

His eyes opened lazily, and she traced his cheekbones with a finger, admiring his impossibly blue eyes.  They were just as she had remembered, although she thought that his skin wasn't as smooth.   Had he aged, burning in the Hellmouth?  Or had her memory painted a picture of alabaster skin that was a little too perfect, even for Spike?   She could stare for hours, reaquainting herself with his face.  "I want to take a picture of your eyes.  Show you how beautiful you are."

"Yeah, right."  Buffy could see he was trying to brush off the compliment, but she thought that if he could, he'd be blushing like a bride.  Not that she believed that brides blushed much these days, but same idea.

She ran her fingers lightly down his arm, stopping when she reached his forearm.  It pained her to think too hard about what had happened, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.  "Does it hurt?"  She didn't figure he'd admit to it, but it must have freaked him out too.

"Changin' the subject, are you?"  He winced as she flexed his hand back and forth.  "Okay, yeah, it still hurts," he admitted.  "But it'll be all healed up soon, I imagine."

Buffy felt a flood of tenderness for him.  After all they'd been through, he was still trying to be the big bad.   Probably trying to make up for last night's emotion-fest.

"Lucky for me psycho-slayer hadn't gotten around to making hand puppets out of the leftovers before Angel's crew got there," he continued.

"Ugh, Spike," Buffy squirmed.  "Bad joke."

"The whole thing's a joke, Buffy.  I wouldn't listen to them.  No patience for bureaucracy.  Thought I'd just save the girl myself, don't need nobody's help.  Rushed right in and nearly got myself killed.  Same worthless git I've always been."

"You're right.  What use does the world have for a headstrong demon-fighter who won't listen to reason?"  Buffy said lightly.  "I certainly can't relate."

Spike snorted and turned to face her, a wry grin spreading across his face.

********************
Spike didn't know how she did it, shedding light on his self-pity and burning it away.

"I know what went wrong," she continued, a determined look on her face.

"Oh you do, do you?"  No surprise.  Buffy had an answer for everything now, it seemed.

"You needed a partner, someone to back you up."

Spike remembered his relief, and shame, when Angel finally showed up and subdued the slayer.  He had done all right, lately, working with Angel's crew.  But something about it just didn't suit him.  "Don't think Wolfram's hiring these days.  'Sides, I hear their benefits aren't what they used to be."

"That's not what I had in mind."

"Then pray tell me, pet.  Can't stand the suspense."  He waited for her pert reply, but she looked away from him, knotting her brows.

"If I had been there, this wouldn't have happened to you," she said softly.

He melted at her sorrowful concern.  Taking her in his arms he kissed her, gently stroking her mussed hair.  "Took a whole unit of Wolfram & Hart flunkies to bring her down, pet."  After Angel had singlehandedly subdued the girl, that is.  "Buffy, I'm okay.  Really I am.  Vampire healing and all that."

"But you were almost dead.  Again.  And you would have died before I even knew you were alive.  All because of me."  Her voice was flat.

"Because of you?  How's that exactly?"

"That slayer, Dana.  She's my fault.  I know how hard it is to be a slayer, to have this power inside me.  And I gave it to all of them, without asking, without knowing if we could even find them all.  Girls without friends, without watchers."  She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Without a crazy, beautiful blond vampire to help them."

She wasn't wrong, but what choice had they had?  "We didn't have a lot of options at the time, love.  Apocalypse, you recall."  Daft girl saved the world, and she still thought she hadn't done enough.   "Thought you were doing that whole slayer school thing, anyway.  That's gotta be a help."

"I tried for a while.  But Giles and I," Buffy sighed, "we still have our differences."  She gave him a lopsided smile.  "And I'm still not any good at taking orders.  Even when the new Watcher's Council tries to call it 'consensus building.'"

"That why you went to Rome with Dawn?"  He wondered what little sis thought about his return.   He ached remembering their brittle truce, so wildly different than the friendship he had once thought they had.

"Yeah, I guess.  We had an apartment together, but then a spot opened up in the dorm, and she moved out.  Can't blame her, really.  I haven't been very good company."  Buffy extricated herself from the sheets and went into the washroom.  Spike rose and found his jeans and black t-shirt from the day before.  He couldn't believe it was just yesterday he put on that damn tux and headed out to kill a demon.  Valentine's Day surprise, indeed.

In a few minutes Buffy returned, wearing a soft pink t-shirt and blue jeans.  She walked over to the heavy velvet curtains that encased the windows and carefully pulled them aside, letting in a delicate stream of sunshine.

"Careful there," Spike teased.

"I think it's almost check-out time."

"Had enough of me already, have you?"

"I don't think that's possible, actually," she replied, smiling.  "But we have to decide what we're going to do."

He stared at the sparkling sunlight dancing patterns on the intricately carpeted floor.  There's the crux of it, he thought.  Still don't have a lot of options.

"What's the matter?" Buffy asked.  She let the curtain close, cutting off the sunbeams.  "I didn't mean what are we going to do with the rest of our lives.  I just meant do we want to stay here another night or go someplace else.  We have the limo..."

"But that's the real question, isn't it," he interrupted quietly.  "You've got me, now what the bloody hell are you going to do with me?"  He was resigned to the thought that there was no good answer to this question.  But like the sun, Buffy was relentless, a pint-sized force of nature, and wasn't going to let him be.

"Let me ask you something."

Spike thought the flash in her eyes was a distinct warning sign, but didn't think he could get out of this one.
"All right," he said mildly.

"You do want to be with me, right?"

"'Course I do, Buffy," he heard himself reply automatically.  "Just don't know how it's gonna work."  At least that was the truth.

"What are you afraid of?"

"What, you mean besides having my heart ripped out of my chest and chewed into tiny pieces?  Who wouldn't want that?"  He couldn't believe he had said the words out loud.

His chest tightened at the shocked expression on her face, but what did she expect.  Only a very great fool would fall for this again.

"Spike, I love you, I really do," she said, eyes wide.

"I know, and I love you too," he said intently.  "Never doubt it, Buffy.  And if you need me, I'll come.  Promise.  But you and me, we're wrong together."

"My God, Spike, has Angel completely brainwashed you?  Next you're going to tell me you're leaving for my own good."  Buffy stomped across the room, swinging her arms angrily.

"Not just for your own good," he said softly, sitting down on the bed and resting his face in his hands.

"What do you mean by that?" she said, her voice low.  She sat down next to him, but he couldn't meet her gaze.  He could feel her breathing speed up, sense her blood rushing through her veins.  "Spike, I didn't bring you all the way over here just to have you dump me, did I?"  There was a hint of panic in her voice, lying beneath her trademark lighthearted confidence.

Moments passed, measured in her thundering heartbeat.

"Spike, did you ever make a list?"

"What?"  He lifted his head to look at her.  The color was returning to her cheeks.  Can't keep this girl down for long.

"A list.  Of all the things you wanted to do in your life.  You know, climb Mount Everest, tame a lion, that kind of thing."

"Not so interested in lion taming," he replied, not sure where this was going.

"Make one now.  Is love on it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you want love or not?  Because you told me all this time you did, and now we can have it, and you say you don't.  It's stupid, and it's not fair, and I won't let you do this to yourself," she said furiously.

"Oh, now you're looking out for me?"

Her gaze flickered to his arms.  "Somebody has to."

He couldn't follow her argument, and he feared he was losing track of his.

Buffy reached up and touched his face, just for a moment, her eyes finding his.  "You'd trust me in a fight, wouldn't you?  Trust me with your life?"

"You know I would."

"Then trust me now."  She leaned forward and kissed him, a swift, fleeting kiss, gone from his lips almost as soon as it had begun.  "We can do better this time, Spike.  I know we can.  Take a chance on us."

His girl had strengths more powerful than those bestowed by her slayer heritage, he thought helplessly.  "I want to, Buffy, I'm just..."

"Trust me, Spike.  Trust me with your heart."

He kissed her then, and he gave her his heart.  It was hers all along.  Of course, everyone knew he was a very great fool...
 

THE END