Thanks, deb. Maybe I'll try and edit some more tomorrow.

• * *

"Oh yeah. The hard way." Olivia nodded at Fred. "But we pulled it off and everyone gets a prize, you know? Even though there was no real contest? Angel gets his Big Brainy Boys functional again without all the River in Egypt shite. Our Watchers got rather a lot of lovely swag. And we get an hour tomorrow with the Titanium card, to buy whatever we want." Her voice changed, softening. She reached out a hand to Fred. "And we got to understand a few things about ourselves as well. Didn't we, darling?"

"That's a big hell-yes." Fred slipped her hand into Olivia's, giggled suddenly, and kissed her. "My very best shopping buddy!" ---

There. That's better. Line added to Olivia's bit.

it's veryvery long, and more than a bit strange,

And this has stopped anyone when? What do you think LJs are for, my dear? Loved the bit about bedrooms curing more headaches than bathrooms. Telling and emotional without going into the full choreography. Suggestion always works better than play-by-play, to my mind.

Am-Chau, I'm enjoying this immensely. More, please?

Am, finally caught up. You do Giles voice so very well. I could hear him in my head. I don't often do that with Giles in fanfic for some reason. He sounds so earnest and sincere. I think it needs a wee bit more explanation of how they got together, but that could be because Giles has always seemed pretty het to me (I know, that's heresy). I really like it, though. I think the first person POV gives it an immediacy; it seems different. I would enjoy reading more.

Well, since you ask...

It took two long months (yes, too long) before I was recovered fully from the infection that the demon gave me. During that time he cared for me as Drusilla could not: with patience and true sympathy. The spell dealt with the bacteria, but it further weakened me -- though I will admit, now, on paper that will never be read, that I enjoyed the feeling of being cared for and acted up a bit. I’m sure he figured that out, but he never mentioned it.

Since then we’ve had a quiet spell—well, for Sunnyhell—and he’s been giving the Slayer (Buffy—he likes to know that I can use her name. Maybe it reassures him I’m not in love with her anymore, because I can’t say Dru’s name aloud, though I never stop thinking it) more evenings off. We spend them together, sometimes patrolling, more often at home. I still go out alone in the evenings, for a smoke or a drink, but I don’t pick fights anymore. Why waste my time on violence, when I could have something so much better without the ‘kill, torture, maim, make blood run like wine’ bit?

Tonight we’re curled up in front of the television, not really watching but a bit tired to do anything else. It isn’t a good kind of tired either; it’s the stayed-up-all-night-to-save-the-Slayer-and-her-friends-and-then-had-to-hide-in-the-shop-all-day kind. The kind I’m not very keen on. I twist round so my back is to the telly, and I’m sitting in his lap, looking straight into deep, heavy-lidded eyes. I kiss him, gently, always aware that he's just a human and can't take all my strength, before murmuring, "Wanna go to bed, Rupert?"

When it’s just us, I mostly call him Rupert. Giles in company, luv or pet to tease, and Ripper when he’s drunk or bossy, but mostly Rupert. He calls me William, especially since I let my hair grow out, back to its natural colour- to please him, though I said it was because I was too lazy to keep bleaching it. He says it’s ‘honey blond’ but I think it looks like porridge with mud in. And don’t say—'no mirrors, you can’t see it' because now it’s got long enough that I can. If I want to. The bloody Scooby Gang are having a fine old time of pestering me about it—Xander in particular.

"Carry me, William." Dear lord! My brain works much too fast. Maybe I was trying to block—no, it must be that babbling is infectious, but vampires only get it in the brain, not the mouth. I hope so, anyway. Inside my head babbling I can deal with. Have to.

I stand, trying not to groan as my cramped muscles complain. I have developed a sudden deep-seated hatred for sleeping in shops, I note, bending to slide my arms under his body. It’s been a while since I last did this—he is noticeably lighter than before.

"Bed it is, then." He snuggles—that's the only word for it—up against my chest as a reply.

"Shall we attempt undressing, or just crash?" My accent wanders more when I’m sleepy, and with him around it starts to try and match his. It frightens me how easily I slip back into William’s habits, the ways of being proper and nice that I worked so hard to lose because only evil brought me love.

"Crash," he says, so I do, careful to keep him on top. He is asleep within minutes, but I remain awake a little while longer, comforted by his presence, but still feeling a little scared at the changes he invokes in me, and my inability to protect myself. I’m still not sure if he knows that what I’ve been referring to as ‘the germ demon’ was a human. I don’t really want to think about it, but something honest (something I should have killed long ago, if I knew what was good for me) prevents me from sinking all the way into Sunnydale denial syndrome.

When I wake, hours after dawn but early by human standards, I have a brief moment of panic—he's gone. Then I hear noises in the kitchen, and realise: it’s a weekday. He’ll have got up to make breakfast and get ready to open the Magic Box. I consider lying under the covers for a while longer, but then decide against it. This is my last chance to see him before sunset, unless he closes the shop during the day.

And Anya will be there. It's going to stay open all day.

Still fully dressed from last night, I roll off the bed, only narrowly escaping a belly flop onto the floor.

Woken up enough to walk, I stumble downstairs to the main area of the apartment and stand on the last step for a moment, watching him as he pours boiling water into his teapot, turns the toast under the grill—he can’t cope with the toaster, mornings like this, or so he says—and puts a bag of blood in the mirocw…

Hang on just one bloody moment! He doesn’t know I’m awake yet—I haven’t—

"I heard the floorboard creak, Spike," he says, coming to the foot of the stairs and grinning at me. I take the last step down and grin back—into the kiss. He’s changed his clothes—one set of tweed for another—but he still tastes of the pizza we had for dinner last night. The man is coming round to pizza as a good thing to eat, particularly when you’re half asleep already, and would be fully given over to slumber’s embrace if your stomach weren’t rumbling like a tiger in a cage. See? William the Bloody Awful Poet again.

When the microwave beeps, I break the kiss, and say, "Food now, naughties later, Rupert?"

He nods, and goes to see if his toast is done. I put my blood into a mug, and fetch the marmalade for him as well as picking up his glasses. It seems he needs all the help he can get with getting sorted out today.

We hardly speak over breakfast, choosing to maintain our companionable silence until he's by the door, ready to leave. I get up from the table and saunter across to him.

"Come home early," I say. "Buffy can use a night off after yesterday’s fiasco, and so can you."

He looks torn between smiling at my mock-stern tone, and sighing at the reminder of yesterday’s events. I lean in for a goodbye kiss, to spare him the trouble of doing either.

This time he breaks it first. "I really must be going. Don’t sleep too much without me, or you’ll be bouncing when I’m collapsing."

With that, he goes, closing the door behind him and leaving me with all day to prepare a surprise—something romantic, something restful, and something, well, surprising, I suppose is what I’m aiming at. I sit down to think—don't want to overheat the old little grey cells.

So. Romantic. Come on, William, you were going to be a romantic poet; you can summon a little romance. What makes a good romantic evening? Candles. Good food. Wine. Music. Declarations of love. Gulp. Sort out the food first, and don’t think about the last one—what if you say and he doesn’t… or if he just laughs? No. Don’t even go there, as the annoying kids say. Just set up a nice, relaxing evening for Rupert, one step at a time.

Candles. Food. Music—it's like the preparations I made when I was courting Cecily. Then it took me all day to prepare: wash, dress, clean the room, set the table, cook the food, chill the wine, write a poem, rehearse the speech in front a the mirror—and that was just for the five minutes of sandwiches-and-conversation my mother expected me to provide between a guest arriving and her deigning to come down to see them. Cecily must have hated me for those times.

They were awkward all round, but there was no other way I could express my feelings. Damn Victorian codes of etiquette. I think I can probably leave some of it out with Rupert—the poem, the looking in the mirror, for example—but Dru used to like it when I set the table properly, even Angelus and Darla approved—we'd serve wine and young girls.

I can probably leave the young girls out, too—that might be a less pleasant surprise for Rupert. But they might still be able to help. I’ll need ingredients, good wine, and my box of posh clothes from the old factory.

This, William old boy, is turning into a plan, albeit one involving the begging of mortals for assistance. Probably not Buffy, things are still too tense between us; but Willow and Tara like me, even if it’s only because I make their precious Giles happy (at least, I hope I do. I’ll never really know, while I can’t ask him). They might be persuaded to bring stuff over. I’ll give them a ring soon.

What shall I cook? Old traditional British things that would be what he’d like. What did mother used to make? Besides cucumber sandwiches? We would have meat and two veg, that’s the formula. Lamb, or mutton, with potatoes and peas or carrots. Maybe Yorkshire pudding too, because dad liked it—he came from ‘up north’. We didn’t have it after he—focus, Spike. You are doing something nice for the man you love, even if he doesn’t know that, not to earn anyone’s approval, parent or Sire.

If you ring the magic shop, you can ask Anya to give you a warning when he’s on his way home—speak to him, too, tell him—well, say you’ll look after dinner, anyway. He’ll just think you want to order pizza again.

I’m not sure why he didn’t just phone Anya this morning, tell her to open the shop on her own. She wasn’t fighting last night, just hiding and spell casting with Willow. It can’t have been that tiring that she needed help today—maybe he wanted to get away from me. I see it in his eyes sometimes, the exasperation when I wind him up, and the fear? Relief? when I tell him I’m going out for while.

He doesn’t really want me around, he just puts up with me. Oh, sometimes he’s kind, and there are benefits to keeping me here—I can fight demons, I don’t try to pay someone to kill Buffy (not that I would, now, but I don’t tell him that), I can help with research, but really he just puts up with me.

But focus, William. Spike. Whatever. Focus on dinner. Phone the shop, ask Anya to give me a bell when he leaves, and then ring the witches’ dorm room.

"Hello? Magic Shop, how may I help you spend money here?"

"It’s me—Spike."

"Oh.."

"Ssh, I don’t want him to know who’s calling, yet. Is Giles there with you?"

"He’s in the basement—he can’t hear us."

"Right. Now, can you keep a secret?"

"For a friend like you? Of course."

"I want to give him a surprise this evening, but I need some warning when he’s coming home. Can you ring me when he leaves? That should give me ten or fifteen minutes to put the finishing touches on."

"Yes, sure. Here—he's just come upstairs. I’ll pass you over. Giles, it’s Spike."

I manage to hiss ’thanks’ before I hear my lover's voice on the phone.

"Spike?"

"Hi, Rupert. How’s it going?"

"Fine. I thought I asked you not to call me at work."

"Yeah, I know. Just wanted to tell you not to worry about dinner tonight, I’m fixing it."

"Pizza again?"

"Maybe." I’d hoped he’d just assume. I’m not sure why, but even little white lies like that make me feel uneasy when I give them to him.

"Okay then. I really am busy at the moment, and there are more customers arriving every minute. Goodbye, Spike."

"Goodbye."

I’m not sure why I’m bothering—but I won’t let that doubt stop me. My feelings not being returned never stopped me before—I chased Cecily for months, and Buffy for nearly as long, until I turned round one day and saw Rupert, the man, standing there, not just Giles the Watcher.

Doorbell! That startled me. See what happens when you get too introspective, William? I open it, to find- the two girls I wanted to speak to.

"Willow, Tara! Hi!"

"Um, hi, Spike," Willow says. "I guess Giles isn’t in?"

"No, I’m afraid not. Anything I can do you?"

"Well, if we could come in, there’s something we want to talk to you about, actually."

Wondering what on earth they could have thought of, I step back to let them in. After all, there are some things I want to ask them, too.

When they are both seated on the sofa, I settle back into an armchair and look from one to the other.

When they are both seated on the sofa, I settle back into an armchair and look from one to the other. It makes Tara a bit nervous, but that’s all the better for encouraging Willow to get to the point. "It’s about Giles. Well, you and Giles."

"What about us?" I suddenly feel very defensive. "You two can hardly disapprove, can you?"

"No, no, w-w-we don’t," Tara says quickly, aware that her girlfriend isn’t handling this very well. "We approve, we just wondered, because you know you don’t get a lot of, um.."

"We thought you might like a bit of quality alone-time, so to speak, and as you saved us last night…"

"A-a-again…"

"We wondered if there was anything we could do to help."

This is amazing. ‘Great minds think alike,’ as dad used to say (and part of my mind can’t help adding, ‘fools seldom differ,’ in my mother’s voice). I look at them once again, pretending to consider. Since they’ve offered, might as well- oh, blow it, I’ll tell them the truth. More or less.

"Matter of fact, there is. I’ve been going to do something nice for him for a bit now, but it takes me more time to set it up—no going out all day, and such. If you girls could run a few errands for me, that would be great—then it could all be ready for tonight."

"Sure- just give us a list."

"Okay- but you’re writing it."

"If you insist."

"I do. So—got pencil and paper?"

Tara delves into her handbag and pulls out said items, handing them to her red-headed lover.

"Right," I say, quashing the voice that says, 'Spike? Have you gone *mad*?'. "Let me see—some stuff from my crypt, the suitcase that’s hidden under the coffee table; potatoes and peas; mint and fresh blood and…" It’s quite a long list by the time I’m done, quarter of an hour later, and Red has industriously scribbled it all down.

"We’ve better be off, then. I’ve got class fairly soon, but one of us will be back this afternoon, with the stuff. Okay?"

"That’s great," and then I say a word Spike would never say, for the second time today, "Thanks."

"You’re welcome," Tara tells me, as they rise and leave. I remain sitting, thinking hard and fast. Food coming this afternoon, say three maybe four, no reason to expect Rupert earlier than six, even if they shut the shop at five thirty—that gives me from now, ten thirty seven if the clock is right, about four hours to prepare myself and the apartment, before I need to be ready to begin cooking. Better get cracking.

I now understand people's complaints with WIPs, you can't peek at the end to see if it all turns out OK. I write too much twisted stuff to feel safe with simple preparations for a romantic dinner. Something's going to go wrong, I know it.

connie, my darling, this was written quite some time ago. I've changed a lot, and while the edits reflect that somewhat, I'm not changing the basic plot to be what I'd write now. Just to... warn you. And here's the next bit, while I'm at it.

Chapter Three

"Hi, Spike," I said as he opened the door, trying to hide my smile at his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. "Nice rest?"

"Better than on the table in the basement. And you’re early."

"True—but that could be a good thing. If you let me put these down inside, I’ll go and fetch the rest—Xander gave me a lift, but he couldn’t stay to help carry."

For the second time that day he stood back to allow me to enter. This time, I went back past him almost at once, saying, "I can help for maybe two hours, then I must be off again." Spike didn’t comment, just nodded, which I took to mean, "Yes, I’d like that." Given what I know of his organisational skills—and what I know he knows of mine—I hadn’t expected anything else.

When I returned, staggering under the weight of a large suitcase, he let me get inside and then shut the door.

"So, bossy, tell me what to do."

"Planning is a good beginning. You sound like you know what you want, but a bit precarious on the how-to-get-it-front. Yeah?"

Quietly, he said, "It’s been a long time since I last did this." I wonder if there wasn't a little undertone there, of not wanting to remember the last time. "Well…" I looked around, thoughtfully. "Cooking and cleaning first, then you chose what to wear, set the table, and wait for the man—or woman—of your dreams to arrive." He raised an eyebrow at that. "What? You can’t tell me you never dream about him."

"No comment. From the way you summarised that, it sounds like as case of, "what do you want, cooking or cleaning?"" He must have caught my look, because he added, "You did say you’d help," in his best you-don’t-love-me-anymore voice.

"Cooking, then. But you might have to give me some pointers on the proper British way of doing things."

"How about the proper British recipe book I was going to use?"

I grinned. "Sounds good to me. Let’s get going, then." No harm in chattering while we work, though. "You never did tell me if you ever dream about him."

"No? Fact is—and I’d rather this didn’t get around—I do, sometimes. The other night, I dreamt that he found a spell that would make me human, make him able to…"

"To what?"

"To…to… look, can’t we change the subject? I may not be able to bite humans any more, but I can tell when they’re trying to get me to say embarrassing things."

"What is it, Sp.. William? Do you think he doesn’t love you?"

"I know he doesn’t," he snapped, struggling to remain in human guise, his eyes glinting amber. "Now are you going to shut up and help, or leave?"

I ignored his threatening manner, seeing the gold in his eyes but confidant that I was right. "Neither. I’m going to help as best I can—and number one thing is you have to be honest about what you feel. No point aiming for romantic if you’re going to back out of the really important part. You’ve always prided yourself on being honest, haven’t you? Well, be honest now. You love him, he loves you."

"That’s easy for you to say. You’re beautiful. People love you. They have to be dead or nuts before they even want to be around me."

"Not true. I don’t know about in the past. I wasn’t there, and I suspect you’ve changed a lot. What I can say is—Giles loves you, I like you, Tara likes you, even Xander and Buffy could come round to it. They don’t actively hate you anymore, anyway. So there."

"Three people who like me. Yeah, that’s a real fan club." He turned away.

"Now you’re just being wiseass. You never said you wanted a fan club—it's asking a bit much—and one of the three loves you. Isn’t that enough?"

Subdued now and still facing away from me, he replied, "I don’t know. I’ve never had this before."

I stared at his back for a moment, and then realised. That's the absolute truth. I stepped across to him, cautiously, unsure how much I had hurt his feelings and aware that his shoulders were heaving with silent sobs, to put a hand on his back.

"That’s okay, William. You don’t have to know."

Seeming to need the touch, he turned around to bury his head in the little hollow between my shoulder and neck.

It was strange, I knew that much—but he'd cried on my shoulder once before, and… now he had a soul. Human, to all intents and purposes. I let him cry.

• * *

Later, when he'd calmed down, we finish cleaning and cooking, and when we stopped for coffee and blood, I got around to asking him what was in the box I’d been asked to bring from its hiding place in the crypt.

"Clothes," he told me, and I'm sure he knew that the vague answer wouldn't be accepted.

I just said, as if I hadn't noticed his attempt at concealment, "What kind of clothes, silly? Some of us were under the impression you only have the one set."

"Well, officially I do."

"But unofficially?"

"It was D…" His voice tailed off, pain suddenly flooding him again.

I went to sit by him on the sofa, ready to return to my role as vampire comforter, if need be. "Drusilla?"

He swallowed hard, and nodded. "She liked to… to play dressing up. Sometimes just her, but sometimes me as well. I kept…some things, for the purpose. Including some in that box. I thought maybe… but maybe not."

"You thought they would be nicer than the jeans-and-t-shirt look, for the romantic dinner? I’m only guessing here, but based on what I’ve seen of her taste in clothes, I’d say you’re right. If you can’t stand wearing things with memories like that, then we’ll see about something else—I expect Xander or Riley has something smarter that would fit you—but I think we should look at what you’ve got, first."