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."

My speech seemed to give him the fresh confidence that he needed, and he grinned. "Some of it’s a bit strange—stuff we took from the people we killed—but some of it’s passable. I hope."

"We won’t know if we don’t look," I said, and moved across to get the suitcase.

One by one, I took out the items, all carefully cleaned and neatly folded up, ready to be worn, barring the occasional tear or bloodstain. There are shirts on top—t-shirts and the red over shirts he wears every day, but after two or three layers of those I found more exotic things.

"White shirt, dressing gown, umm…"

"Norfolk jacket."

I frowned, looking at the pocket covered garment, before moving on. "Smart shoes, baseball cap, Zoot suit.”

“I’d forgotten I had that. Christ.”

I looked at it—long jacket, blue with pinstripes, with padded shoulders and a fitted waist. The trousers that match it taper to narrow cuffs, and it occurs to her that it probably really does suit Spike. The blue is a little darker than his eyes, just enough to bring them out, and I set it aside from the main pile. He frowned, probably wondering why, but I went on.

"Several ties, army jacket and finally…" I held up a pair of baggy trousers, too short to come much below the knee, made of a light cotton.

"Knickerbockers," he told me, half embarrassed, half smirking. "So, Red, what do you think I should wear tonight?"

I looked at the pile again, then at the zoot suit. "That. The zoot suit. It’s a good colour, and… snazzy. Is that a word? Anyway. I’d say a tux, if you had one, but since you don’t, I think the suit is good. With the white shirt, and the matching tie." Okay, babbling there, Willow. Stop it.

"I only wore it once. We killed the guy who was wearing it because D.. she thought the colour would suit me."

"She was right," I said, simply. "Go and put it on, let me see how you look."

He left for the bedroom, carrying the pile of clothes. This is either going to be great, or funny, or hideous. Or all three.

The only thing I'm a bit sad about is that I won't get to see the looks on Giles' face when he sees Spike wearing that.

Chapter Four

"Come in, Rupert," he says, opening the door as I’m getting my keys out. I look at him to smile my thanks, and do a quick double take. He’s wearing something very akin to a zoot suit and, strangely, it looks stunning. I’m not sure if it’s the clothes themselves, the body inside them, or simply the fact that they don’t include and denim or leather. Perhaps all three. Anyway, it renders me speechless.

"Like it, pet?" he asks. When I nod, he pulls me indoors and grabs a brief kiss prior to my taking any notice of what he’s done to the room. Not that it’s in any way bad, you understand, just—tidy. No books strewn all over. No coating of dust on the shelves. No old pizza boxes, on the table—instead, candles. China plates.

"You want to eat now, or later?"

"Now," I reply. Apparently my brain hasn’t completely seized up from the shock- yet. I sit at the table—a table with wine glasses—while he briefly disappears from view, only to reappear within seconds bearing dishes of food that smell—to be precise, they smell like the things like used to emerge from my mother’s kitchen. Alright, so now I’m extremely hungry, not just the very I was on the way home. So much so that my mouth is watering.

He lifts the lids one at a time, explaining as he goes.

"Potatoes with mint in, like the maid used to make; mushy peas, just the way you like them; lamb—it wanted mutton, but I settled for lamb; and Yorkshire pudding, because… well, it’s what you’re supposed to have."

He looks at me, his clear blue eyes brought out by the colour of the fabric and soft curls of honey coloured hairs hanging down his forehead. For a moment, I am captivated by the sight, but then I realise he is looking for something. Appreciation? Acceptance? Encouragement? I’m not sure, and so I plump for an honest reaction.

"It looks wonderful, William—and it smells better. Am I allowed to taste it, or am I to wait until I’m drooling onto the tablecloth?"

That earns me a grin much more Spike than William—and, dear lord, I sounded like I was channelling Xander. I still do. Shut up and watch William, as he picks up a spoon and begins to serve out. The way the suit…no, eat now, other things later.

Later, when my suspicions have been laid to rest (the food tasted just like it had been cooked from the recipe book my mother used, probably the same one William’s mother used, but certainly the one I keep on the shelf (the single shelf, now everything has to be here or in the shop) of non-demonology books.

I also suspect that William didn’t do the cooking. He is incapable of following instructions to the letter, and my guess is that Willow or Buffy helped, maybe Tara. I deem it best to keep quiet, however- it’s the thought that counts, and he did set the table. He’s left handed, and always sets the knife on the left. It must be some measure of how I feel about him that I notice things like that, and spend time thinking about them, imagining those clever fingers handling the cold metal… but be careful, Rupert, you’re getting distracted). We move over to the sofa, but the television stays off, the only source of light the flickering candles.

He sits awkwardly, half facing me, half turned away. We are holding hands, so, watching his face to gauge the reaction, I lift his hand with mine and kiss the back of it. Immediately his eyes are on me, smiling at the gesture but also with a spark of nervousness, even fear, within their depths. As that was the general sort of thing I was hoping for, I twist all the way around to face him fully, left knee bent so that my foot tucks under my right knee. Then I let go of his hand just long enough to move it to my other one, and slide my arm up behind his shoulders, ready to pull him close.

I take the time to send whatever spirit is guarding me today a quick prayer of thanks that Anya didn't wake me when I fell asleep on the pile of new invisibility cloaks I was meant to be cataloguing, because that is the only reason I’m still awake, before I say, "Thank you, William."

He has been watching me all along, tensing his muscles so as to remain still, and now he widens those expressive eyes in surprise, asking for more details.

"Thank you for being here," I continue. "Thank you for dressing up for me, for supper, for not trying to make me talk when I was eating, for cleaning the apartment. Thank you for setting up this evening for me."

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything, apparently deciding that it’s now my turn to do the work. Which is fine by me—I've got plenty to say.

"I’ve really enjoyed it, but there is something missing."

• * *

Something missing, he says. Yeah. I’m not human, and he doesn’t love me. I don’t trust myself to speak without letting him see my tears, so I just concentrate on staying where I am, not snatching my hand away and running off to stake myself. Any time with him is better than no time.

"… what we’re missing is honesty. We’ve been a couple, living and sleeping together, working together, for nearly six months, but neither of us has ever really begun to talk about how we feel."

Ah, so this is where he asks me how I feel, and I…I should have written and rehearsed that declaration of love after all. Here it comes, the dreaded- no, it doesn’t sound like a question.

"I really don’t know how you’re going to react to this, but I’ve got to say it."

• * *

He continues to look at me, carefully hiding whatever he is feeling behind ‘the mask of Spike’, the picture of I’m-a-bad-vampire-with-no-feelings-and-I-don’t-care-about-yours. It must have been cultivated over many years to transform him into what he believed Drusilla wanted him to be, but now he uses it to hide when his emotions are in turmoil. When he’s wearing jeans and boots, it suits him very well, and must have protected him from much heartache over the years- if not the pain of feeling, then the pain of his feelings being known. On the other hand, it doesn’t quite go with what I can now see are patent leather shoes.

Stop thinking, Rupert, look down at his hand in yours and say what you have to say. He can’t- won’t- wouldn’t- bite you.

"William, I…I love you."

• * *

What! That’s supposed to be my line, and he’s supposed to reject me! Does that mean I should—no, William, you want this, react the way he does when you fantasize the ideal way of telling him about your feelings. Let a little smile out past the mask, turn around a touch, and lean forward into his embrace.

• * *

He frees his hand from mine, as I’d feared he might, but it is only to run it up my arm, and my fears are calmed as he leans forward into my embrace. It makes me supremely happy, even though the position is more than a bit awkward, because as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper, "Love you too, Rupert."

I clasp him tight at that, and know that this will rapidly turn into something else. I know because he has begun to pepper light kisses up and down my neck and over my ear, all the bits of exposed skin he can reach. This evening will go down in my private diary as one of the best of my life.

Am, I'm loving this. But there's one bit that threw me enough to where I honestly didn't know who was speaking:

"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."

"Fetch" and "must be off" - you'd say it, I'd say "off again" as a half-half Anglo-American, but Willow? She's a nice Jewish girl from southern California. I can't imagine her using either of those terms. they're purely UK.

The rest? I am sooooo loving this.

Drat. USians don't use 'fetch'?

(Stoopid Canadian parents.)

Drat. USians don't use 'fetch'?

Rarely. Very, very rarely. And then they're usually heavy-duty readers of Britlit.

I still have some leftovers from being dragged all over the place as a kid - I'll use "right, I'm off" and I have never got out of the habit of saying "mind that idiot on the bicycle!" instead of "look out for" or whatever. But honestly - try imagining Willow using clasic Britspeak in her own accent.

I'm from a family of fetchers.

Some things (marks, writing exams, to(u)ques, university, pissed for drunk, chesterfield, washroom) are obvious. Fetch, NSM.

(Adds new one to list.)

(My vocabulary, spoken, has altered a great deal since I started watching TV like an obsessive, but I am beginning to understand why I was frequently mistaken for an exchange student.)

(I'm slow.)

Hee! I still say university as well, and it takes me a moment when people say they're going to college.

Oh, and there's another one: "as well." I use "too" only in very specific circs: "Hey! Me too!"

Thanks for the pointer, deb. The classic Britspeak in my own accent, and that I'm writing in Giles and Spike, affects the Americans at times.

Is

"True—but that could be a good thing. If you let me put these down inside, I’ll go and get 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 have to get to class."