Dreaming of a White Christmas

Author: enigmaticblue

Rating: PG

Archive: If you've already got my permission, otherwise just ask.

Disclaimer: You know the drill. All these characters belong to Joss and ME and other people who are actually making money off them. I'm not.

Summary: My annual Christmas fic, written for calturner who said she wanted Spuffy, S7, and snow. I hope this suits.

Part I

The house was as silent as Buffy could have hoped by the time she brought Spike home. She wished that there was another place they could go that wasn't so crowded. There were girls sleeping on every available surface—but not in the basement, and not in Buffy's room.

Tonight, she would have to keep him in her bed.

"Where—"

It was the first thing Spike had said after she'd retrieved him from that cave. He hadn't believed that she was real at first. His defiance—as wounded as he'd been—had nearly made her smile. Not that she'd told the girls this, but Spike was one of the people she was fighting for. Buffy needed him on her side for just that reason—Spike wasn't a quitter.

Buffy would need every ounce of that determination from here on out.

"My room," she said softly. "It's the only one that doesn't have guests, and you need to get cleaned up."

"The basement," he muttered, trying to pull away from her. "'s just fine for me."

"There isn't a shower in the basement," Buffy said in a whisper. "Come on, Spike. Don't argue with me. You're not up to it."

On another day, at another time, Spike probably would have made an inappropriate comment, but he just winced. "Right then."

Buffy supported him up the stairs, noting that he was dragging one leg. They took the stairs one at a time, Buffy waiting patiently for him to get both feet under him before they tried to go any further. She tried to support most of his weight so that his damaged leg could rest a bit, but she didn't say anything. It wasn't her way.

She led him into her bedroom—the one that had been her mother's. After the events of last spring, Buffy had thought it only right that she take this room. She and Dawn had been forced to use some of their meager funds on carpet cleaning, and Buffy hadn't wanted to use the other bathroom. Her mom's old room had the benefit of a private bath, one where Spike hadn't—

Buffy refused to let that thought cross her mind. Not now. Not when everything was so different.

She managed to get Spike seated on the toilet, hoping that the girls hadn't emptied the tank earlier. "Shower or bath?"

"I can take care of it, Buffy."

"You can barely stand on your own," she replied. "Shower or bath?"

"Bath."

She started running the water.

The long silence hung between them, carrying that spark that had been engendered in the cave. When their eyes had met, and Spike realized that she'd come for him. Buffy wondered what exactly he'd seen, what emotion had he been able to read? Because she'd been so glad to see him, she'd been rendered speechless, unable to even give him a few reassuring words.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner."

"Don't be. You had your hands full with that thing my blood called up."

Buffy could hear the self-loathing in his voice. "That wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it? They used my blood to call it, Buffy. They—"

The First had used him, period. Used him to kill, used him to turn, and then used him to bring forth yet another monster. Spike couldn't help but think that he would have been better off dying in that cave in Africa. At least then he would have done some good, right? He'd have died in pursuit of his soul. At least then no one else would have had to die at his hands.

"Don't you dare even think about giving up." Her voice was low, intense. It brought his head up so he could meet her eyes, something he hadn't been able to do for more than a heartbeat or two. This time her gaze held him firmly. "That was not your fault."

"Buffy—"

"It wasn't." She was fierce in her assertion. "Unless you want to argue that it was my fault, because that thing seems to be after me."

"No!" Spike's denial was vehement. "'Course not!"

"Good. Then you'll listen to me?" Buffy's voice softened, teasing him, as though she had no hope of Spike ever actually listening to her.

"Don't have a choice, do I?" he asked. "Reckon I'm at your mercy for the moment."

She smiled. "You're right. You don't have a choice. Let me get you a towel."

The tub was full by now, and she shut the water off and turned to get a towel from the linen closet. Spike watched her move, noting that she was looking rather beat up herself, although not quite as bad as he was.

Of course, if she really had managed to kill the Turok Han, it was no wonder she was a bit sore.

"If you need any help," she said, "just holler."

Spike watched her leave, waiting until she shut the door behind her to lever himself up with the edge of the sink. His fingers fumbled with his jeans, and he just managed to get them off without passing out. A dark bruise discolored one hip, the color in stark contrast to the marble of his skin.

He was fairly sure that the femur had been fractured, if not broken. Spike wasn't quite sure when it had happened. The last few—days? weeks?—were a blur of pain. He knew there were ribs broken, and his insides were bruised. A human would have been bleeding internally.

A human would have been dead within the first day.

Spike lowered himself into the hot water with a sound halfway between a moan and a whimper. It felt so good and hurt so bad all at once, and he clamped his lips together to avoid making any more noises. It wouldn't do to have Buffy rushing in here to help him.

As the warmth of the water seeped into him, Spike let himself drift, exhaustion taking over. He didn't think he'd ever been this tired, not even when he and Dru had escaped the mob in Prague. That hadn't been pleasant, but at least he hadn't been tortured for days on end by a "real" vampire.

He had no idea how much time had passed when Buffy's voice called through the door, "Spike? Do you need any help?"

"No," he responded, his voice hoarse. "Be out in a minute."

"Okay. Take your time. I don't want to rush you."

Of course, now that Spike knew that Buffy was standing outside the bathroom door, waiting for him, he felt the need to hurry. He finished washing the rest of the accumulated grime off and pulled the plug, preparing to stand up.

That was when he realized that he might need Buffy's help.

It was only by a great effort that Spike managed to stand, holding onto the wall for the support that he desperately needed. Instead of alleviating his aches, the hot water seemed to have broken down his carefully constructed defenses against the pain.

If Spike didn't know better, he'd say the adrenaline had worn off, and now the hurting had set in, but he didn't think that vampires had a working endocrine system. Maybe they had something that worked just as well. Or maybe it was the simple fact that now he knew he was going to survive, he didn't have to fight against it all quite so hard.

In any case, there was no way he was going to be able to get his jeans back on, and Spike wrapped the towel that Buffy had left for him around his waist. He stumbled to the door, only to have Buffy open it, catching him before he could fall on his face.

"You know, you could have asked for help," Buffy commented, sounding amused. Her arm wrapped securely around him as she led him over to the bed. "I got blood for you."

Spike shook his head. "Thanks, but I can't stay here, Buffy. 'm not taking your bed."

"First of all, the only other available bed is in the basement," she replied. "And I am not hauling your undead ass down there tonight. Secondly, it's a big bed, and you're in no shape to be doing anything but sleeping. I trust you to keep your hands to yourself."

Spike wondered if she would have been so willing to trust him if he weren't weaker than a day-old kitten. "Yeah."

"It's just for tonight. And tomorrow," she quickly added. "Tomorrow night we can worry about getting you down to the basement."

"Right." The blood she gave him was room temperature, but there was a lot of it, and he drank it down as quickly as possible. Spike had never been ashamed of being a vampire. It was what he was, and even with the soul, he didn't think he'd want to give it up.

Even so, it twisted something inside him to have Buffy watching him drink blood. To wonder whether she would ever view him as anything other than a monster. Spike let Buffy take the empty container, quickly dropping the damp towel on the floor and sliding between the covers as quickly as he was able.

Spike would have felt a little more comfortable if he'd had something to wear, but there wasn't anything available, and he didn't want to ask Buffy for anything else. Perhaps it was better not to call attention to the fact that he wasn't wearing anything.

He realized as Buffy turned back towards the bed that she had changed and was now wearing flannel pajamas that covered her from neck to toes. Spike also didn't miss the fact that while she got under the comforter, she didn't get under the sheets.

He wasn't sure if that barrier was a relief or a disappointment. Spike wasn't sure he trusted himself around Buffy anymore.

"Good night, Spike," she said as she flipped off the light.

Trying to lay as still as possible, not wanting to disturb Buffy more than necessary, Spike stared into the darkness. He was so tired, and yet he didn't think he'd be able to sleep. There was too much pain—both from his wounds and from being so close to the Slayer.

Her scent wrapped around him, teasing him. It only made sense that the one time she actually invited him into her bed it would only be because he was too hurt to do anything about it.

Buffy sighed quietly. "Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"I will be in a few days." In truth, Spike wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay since that night in the bathroom when he'd broken the only rule he'd held onto for over a hundred years. That night had broken him more completely than Buffy would ever know.

Not that he would ever tell her. Spike would never ask for her sympathy, not when he'd been the one so clearly in the wrong.

"No, I mean, are you okay?" she asked again, emphasizing the word in such a way to make it clear that she wasn't talking about his physical well-being.

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that." He honestly wasn't playing dumb. Spike really didn't have any idea of what she meant.

"Before—before the Bringers got you," her voice caught, steadied. "You were ready to give up. You wanted me to kill you."

Spike was quiet for a long, empty moment. "Yeah, I did."

"Has that changed? Because I need you for this fight, Spike. I need you, but I can't have you giving up on me." Buffy took a deep shuddering breath that he had no trouble hearing. "I need everyone I can get, but if you can't do this, tell me now. I'll send you away."

As if he could leave when she needed him. "If you need me, I'll be right here, Buffy."

The silence was almost comfortable after that, holding a hope that Spike had not dared to dream of. Maybe this thing between them could be repaired. Maybe, someday, Buffy might actually forgive him.

Spike didn't dare hope that she might love him, no matter what that fey girl had said.

"You missed Christmas," she said into the silence. Buffy didn't feel sleepy, not with Spike so close to her. Not that she was afraid to sleep in his presence, more that she was still wired from the fight with the Turok Han, and having rescued him from the cave.

She wished she could tell him how good it was to have him back.

"Haven't celebrated Christmas in..." Spike trailed off. He had celebrated Christmas with Dru, because she liked that. Not since then.

Buffy seemed to decide that he couldn't remember the last time, rather than from any hesitation to name an old flame while lying in her bed. "I guess vampires don't really celebrate the holidays."

"No, not usually." Spike didn't bother telling her that he had never been your typical vampire. If she hadn't figured that out already, she was never going to.

"You didn't miss anything. We didn't even have a tree this year. It seemed pretty pointless with the Bringers crashing through the front window every other week." There was a pause in which her hand came to rest over his. Spike wasn't certain if it was by accident or by design, but he didn't dare move, not when she seemed content to talk to him. It was almost like before—before all the badness had begun between them.

Spike hesitated before offering the sympathy he felt her words deserved. "I'm sorry about that. I know it's probably hard with your mum gone."

"It was worse last year."

He wanted to apologize yet again, although he wasn't quite sure for what. Words would not repair what had been broken. "Buffy, I—"

"What was your last Christmas like?"

"My last Christmas?" Spike asked, confused.

"Yeah, what was it like?" she asked. "When you were—alive."

Why she was asking him about his last Christmas as William, Spike had no idea, and he could usually figure Buffy out. Still, it seemed such a simple thing to give her. A story about a good man who had loved his mother.

"It snowed that year," Spike began, trying to remember, to clear away the cobwebs of the years. He had never forgotten William, but he didn't often like remembering what he had been. Not the monster or the man. "The snow covered everything the night before, and when we woke the next morning, everything was white and fresh. We had a tree, with candles on the branches, and a kissing bough, although there was no one to really enjoy it."

"A kissing bough?" Buffy asked, amused.

Spike smiled in the darkness. "Like your mistletoe."

"Then you didn't have anyone to kiss?"

"No."

Spike felt Buffy's hand close around his own, her fingers twining with his. "Mom used to put up mistletoe," she said. "Dad would catch her under it, like a game. That was a long time ago now."

Lost moments and painful memories lay between them. Spike felt close to her in this moment, more intimate than any they'd shared while they'd been shagging each other. "What would you wish for this Christmas, Buffy?"

"Peace on earth?" she suggested with a bitter laugh. "Or—maybe snow. We had a white Christmas one year. I would love to see one again."

"Maybe when this is all over," he suggested.

Buffy squeezed his hand. "Maybe so. Go to sleep, Spike. You need the rest. I need you strong."

Amazingly enough, Spike slept, Buffy's hand still in his.