First Stanza - [Action & Voice]

[deadpoet]

[Action, Locked to Willow]
[A few moments before Spike arrived, he and Illyria had just escaped most of the main action and a great big bloody dragon come out of nowhere. He'd lost track of Angel and Gunn. Wesley was dead. So now it was just the two of them. Until Spike suddenly came to the surface of the river, cursing as he suddenly started burning and then swimming back underwater again until he could hide under the shade of the bridge. A bloody tiny bridge. And here he was with only a pair of white pants, now failing to hide much of anything, as he ended up STUCK in this tiny shadow. There was a book in the sunlight that was just out of reach. As the day passed on, it continued to get further away from him as the sun shifted the shadows further and further away.

What bollocks.

He decided he'd just wait until the first person came across the bridge and get their attention. That ought to do it.]

[Action/Voice, Open To All]

[Well, Willow took him 'home'. And he rather decided he liked it. Of course, a vamp can't make himself good and comfy without the proper accouterments. So after taking a nice long shower in House Seven, perusing the kitchen, and no doubt making his new housies terrible uncomfortable, he makes his way out as soon as it's evening. In his New Feather pants at first, because what else was there? But his first stop is the clothing store and he's soon back into slimming back. And then it's off to pick out a fancy weapon, get some blood at Good Spirits, find some smokes, recollect his lighter, and then snoop around town because he knows a certain old flame is around here. Not you, Buffy.

Around midnight, he hits up the journal after finally recollecting it from beside the bridge.]

This is a nice little village you lot have here. Very cozy. Has a certain quality to it, you might say. Very Shyamalan-type setting. Too cheerful. Downright unsettling, if you ask me.

Anyway, who do I talk to for the big plan? I've done my sitting around already. Relaxing, sure. Not too fond of the wings. Too ironic for my taste. But I'm ready to go and find the wankers who locked us up in here and do something about it. Champion of the people, right here. Just point me in the right direction.

Comments

[herotypical]

"You what?"

This was...unprecedented. But not necessarily unwelcome. Although Buffy could never admit that Spike's presence now most often felt like an advantage. It wasn't just his muscle; it was also his understanding.

"This isn't summer camp, Spike. You can't just plant your sleeping bag in a room and call it yours. We're a household."

[deadpoet]

"Well I didn't plant a sleeping bag, did I? But if it doesn't suit your fancy, you can have Willow do an un-invitation spell while I'm out."

Like hell he was going to ask to stay with her. He also didn't fancy being invited to stay. But he rather liked the place and he didn't fancy going apartment searching in a place he wanted to escape the first chance he got.

[herotypical]

...And like hell was she going to uninvite him. Such an option wasn't even in the cards. "The others might not like it," she countered -- suggesting, under those words, that she might be the source of objection at all.

"They're not exactly used to..." A wide gesture that included all of Spike's body. All of it. New Feather pants and bare torso all. "Vampires."

[deadpoet]

"Last I checked, one of them's Willow. She seemed to manage it just fine, whether she remembers it or not."

He reached for the door.

[herotypical]

"Will's a trooper. Still -- Jilly and Liz and..." Jack "And them? They're from worlds where vampires aren't a thing. At least, not a thing they know about and...

You're really going. You're just gonna walk back into my life and then run out like it's not some big thing?"

[deadpoet]

"Well I'm going to bloody well return, aren't I? I don't much fancy running around in white pajamas the rest of my time here. Sun's finally down, after all."

There was also the fact they were going to start fighting once it got off the subject of the house. He didn't want to fight. He could leave, come back, and then do a reunion proper-like. The way he pictured it.

[herotypical]

She glanced out the window. Sun was down. And he was...still lacking a shirt. And she knew she had clothing just down the hall in his size but she wasn't so dumb as to think she could ever offer her ex a shirt that belonged to her current lover.

Buffy found herself feeling relieved that he was so intent on returning. Sure, she still felt mighty indignant over the fact that he'd moved himself in. She would have to deal with that, eventually. But that didn't mean she couldn't take her small kicks where they were found.

"Fine. Go. All Passions is your best bet. I've got patrol, anyway. Just...one thing? Before you make with the ditching?"

[deadpoet]

He said nothing in response. Just gave her one of those looks, accompanied by the trademark Spike tilt. Tell him what needs telling, Buffy. He's got a cool exit to make.

[herotypical]

Watch as Buffy Summers spoiled his cool exit with three very simple words: "...I...missed you."

[deadpoet]

That spoiled it alright. His hand was still firmly on the door knob. The cool thing would be to say something like, 'I know' and be on his way. Or flash a grin, nod, and turn away. Or perhaps say nothing and just keep walking. All seemed like the appropriate sorts of thing Spike would do in this sort of situation.

He settled for something a little less cool.

"Now that's more what I was hoping to hear. Thanks for finally saying it."

[herotypical]

Buffy very nearly smiled. Almost. So close. There was nothing she could say to stop the vampire.

Correction: there was nothing she was willing to say to stop him.

"Don't go causing too many ripples in my pond on your first night, Spike. Gimme at least the courtesy of, say, a week. To adjust. That's how you can thank me."

[deadpoet]

"Ripples? Me? Wouldn't dream of it."

It was all downhill from here. But he meant well. And his smile was genuine, not mocking.

[herotypical]

A snort of a laugh. Wouldn't dream of it her ass.

But the smile was...alright. Nice. Okay, it was more than nice. Nice enough to make altogether more friendly than she cared to be.

"Go. Before I change my mind and opt for house arrest instead."

[deadpoet]

"Don't tease me with that. I might just take you up on it."

A smirk and he turned to leave.

[herotypical]

His back turned; her smile let loose. Buffy shook her head.

"You'd be beyond stir-crazy in four hours. Tops." She accused him in his retreat. As ever, Buffy only managed to warm up to him when he was on his way out of her life.

[deadpoet]

He merely gave a back handed wave as he disappeared into the night. Stalking away. There was a lot to mull over. Pleasant departure or not, Spike was not happy. His mind was still back in LA.

Funny how he'd let Angel get him so wrapped up in all that.

[ the next evening... ]

[herotypical]

Times were tough. Hearts were sore. Egos were...likely soon to be bruised some more. But Buffy had possessed a full twenty-four hours to digest Spike's arrival. Her frayed nerves -- so often shot from the get-go with sudden surprises -- were now considerably better knit. And she'd had a lot of other familiar faces in the meantime. A lot of unconnected chatter. A lot of distractions.

Well. Except for one.

So -- tonight? Sunset saw the Slayer inhabiting her couch and leafing through a pile of...bridal magazines. There was no way she was going to hit her patrol in earnest tonight if there was a chance that Spike was still out with her.

[ the next evening... ]

[deadpoet]

Spike spent a lot of time in the woods, even with the sun up, for lack of anywhere else to go. Exploring mostly. He made it as far as the barrier, just enough to give it a few kicks and prove it was there. By the time he arrived back at the house, he was starved for blood and glad for the fact he'd brought some back from the bar. He wasn't in the mood for a social outing.

He let himself in. No knocking. He lived here, after all. Or that was the plan, anyway. Whatever Buffy's response may have been, he could see the bridal magazines right off.

Bloody hell.

Well to hell with that. He didn't even bother saying hello. Let her make her wedding plans. Wordlessly, he continued to the kitchen. He'd get some blood, heat it up, and then leave. Simple enough plan.

[herotypical]

The clatter of the front door tore her gaze away from a charming article about bridal shoes hand-dyed by blind monks. The magazine flipped shut and Buffy pushed it aside, along with her scribble-heavy notebook filled with wedding suggestions. Plans. Ideas. She found that it was rather fun to plan a wedding, so long as it wasn't her own. But she'd grown a dangerous habit of closing her eyes and secretly planning Dawn's wedding instead of Elizabeth's.

"So kind of you to rejoin us," she said in that quietly reproachful voice of hers. There was no wall between the living room and the path to the kitchen, and so she shamelessly stared after him.

After a moment, she stood. And followed. Her heart was racing at a more reasonable pace, now. She felt a little less threatened and a lot more confident.

[deadpoet]

"So now I'm welcome, then. Nice to know."

He opened the fridge and peered inside. Then moved things around. Top shelf. Bottom. The side. The drawers. The freezer, even. He turned around, irate.

"Where's my blood? I had three pints of it in here when I left last night."

[herotypical]

"Opaque water bottle on the bottom shelf. The one labelled frappuccino."

She leaned against the kitchen door's frame. Yes, the rest of the blood had been...removed. But Buffy -- anticipating a moment like this one and not interested in another argument with a tummy-rumbling vamp -- might have gone and surreptitiously fetched some more from the bar and then disguised it as best as possible so that Jack wouldn't pour that one down the drain, too. Of course -- she wasn't going to confess any of this to Spike.

And why should she? The vampire was a grown boy. He would work it out on his own.

[deadpoet]

He lifted the bottle and opened it up, sparing her a suspicious look as he regarded her over the top of it.

"Sparing the other's appetite, is it?"

He could see the practicality in it, anyway. Vampire or not, it was easy to understand that humans weren't so comfortable around the stuff. Even if they could be ridiculously squeamish at times. "Smells different, though."

Mildly. It wasn't important to him. It just didn't smell like the blood he brought with him the night before.

[herotypical]

"The last thing we need is someone making an ice-cream sundae and mistaking your breakfast for strawberry syrup. And...and some folks don't have the stomach for it. If they knew it was right next to their coffee creamer?"

A shrug. If he'd buy it, she would sell it. But for her part -- and unlike a particular evening so many years ago -- she didn't look away when he sniffed at his meal.

"If you're keen to nuke it? Pick the mug with one that says '1978 Accountants' Conference' on it. There'll be no mug-swapping. I don't want to drink my tea from something with blood stains on it."

[deadpoet]

He reached up into the cabinets and pulled one that read "Malnosso - A Family Company" from the back of the cabinet. Frowning as he read the label.

"I've a feeling no one's likely to miss this one either."

One day in and he'd already heard enough about them to draw enough conclusions about that lot. Even if he did sign up for several missions only hours earlier.

[herotypical]

"...Cheap Christmas gift. I don't know if anyone's ever used it. Go to town. Just -- well, I don't need to tell you twice."

No. Mug swapping.