The first time it happened, he thought he was dreaming...

Sleeping Arrangements

Nothing has been said - and she hasn't kissed him again - but she's taken to creeping into Spike's room when he's asleep and crawling into bed with him. Not that he stays asleep; she's quiet and careful, but he's a vampire. More to the point, he's Spike and she's Buffy. He'd never sleep through her appearances.

He doesn't mind. He's never slept so well, before or since, as when he was curled around a sleeping Buffy, but he'd been convinced it was a privilege he'd said goodbye to a long time ago. It wasn't as if she'd often slept over even when they were shagging on the regular.

It reminds him of those nights, nights that seem so long ago now, in the basement of Revello Drive, before his world had (sort of) ended. Just a couple of nights, a stolen moment - not something he'd dared hope for at the time, let alone expected to happen again.

A lonely night in a deserted house when she'd been desperate, exhausted, falling apart, that was one thing. In her own home? When she had other options, better options? He never thought she'd choose him to be her safe place instead of her dark place. He'd been astounded she trusted him this way - still is. Her compassion amazes him. Her kindness disarms him.

Still, that'd been different, impending apocalypse and all. It'd been outside the natural order of things, a little taste of heaven before they descended into hell. A taste he'd never expected to experience even one more time.

He isn't sure what it means now, her slipping into his arms and snuggling in to him, but he doesn't dare ask. If he asks, it might stop, and he can't do anything that might stop this happening.

The first time it happened, in this unusually non-apocalyptic setting, he was stiff (in all possible senses of the word) and uncomfortable, afraid to even breathe in case it sent her away. Had lain there wondering if he was dreaming, or maybe just losing his marbles again. Hadn't been able to relax, never mind sleep... and hadn't cared.

Weird and uncomfortable as it'd been, as little rest as he'd had, he was thrilled, ecstatic. He'd lie awake for hours and hours if it meant he got to have Buffy in his arms.

When it happened again, when he contemplated the possibility it might be more than a strange one-off, he'd briefly considered wearing something besides a smile to bed, something he's seldom done since he was a prim and proper Victorian gent.

(There'd been one other time since he'd known her, one anomaly; those same nights in a cold basement with a small army of slayerettes a short flight of stairs away.

While he's never been shy about his body, if anything is rather proud of how it tends to attract all kinds of positive attention, he didn't especially want to wander around in the altogether with a houseful of abnormally strong hormone bombs as potential witnesses, thank you so very much.

Even then though, it'd been jeans and a t-shirt, not underwear or, worse, pyjamas. He has standards.)

But she'd known the first time she came to him here that he usually sleeps naked, and she'd come anyway, come back afterwards despite it. She doesn't seem to mind, or to care that his body reacts so predictably to her presence. The impetus to change the habit of several lifetimes has come and gone.

Besides anything else, he's scared sleeping in something besides his skin would be too much of an acknowledgement of what's happening, and if he acknowledges it, if they acknowledge it, maybe they'll have to talk about it, and he fears the result of that would be that it would stop happening, and... he really just can't, okay? If she decides to stay away, that it's not right, he'll live, but he's not going to voluntarily do something to endanger it. He got a soul, he didn't turn into some kind of flawless Saint. He's still a man.

(Or at least, still a vampire, which doesn't exactly give him more self-control or better morals.)

His nakedness hadn't stopped her nuzzling into his chest with a noise that sounded like relief, or wrapping an arm around his waist so firm and possessive, and, well, it was bloody marvellous, bordering on miraculous.

As it happened more and more often, he got used to it (as much as he's ever likely to, anyway), and her soft, warm little self folded trustingly into his chest has once again become something that makes him sleep better and more deeply.

Sometimes they'll lie awake, and she'll study his face in the half light. He never knows what she's looking for, what she expects or hopes to find, nor whether she ever finds it. He doesn't mind that, either. Tacit permission to stare at her, drink her in, absorb her presence? Bloody well count me in.

He still can't quite believe what's happening, can't decide if it's reality or some strange fever dream brought on by too much wishful thinking... but hey, who cares? He's been much, much worse places both inside and outside his head, and while he's sure no one's ever going to call him wise, he does have the sense not to turn something so wonderful down just because he's not sure what it means and isn't entirely convinced it's real.

One of these days, they'll probably have to have a little chat, they'll have to discuss how more afternoons than not she comes in for a nap and a cuddle. But in the meantime, he just pulls her closer, listens to her quiet breathing and lets it lull him back to sleep.

~ fin ~