7 Epilogue: Dancing to the Rhythm

“How did we get back - here?”

“Blue must’ve ordered two return tickets,” Spike quipped, throwing his duster over the back of the sofa and surveying the room. A small Christmas tree stood in one corner, it's lights cycling through red white and blue, paper garlands criss-crossed the ceiling, glitter covered the lampshades, and the marble figurines on the side-tables were buried beneath mounds of tinsel. “You decorated.”

“Dawn’s idea.” Buffy checked her watch. “She’s probably over at Nadia’s. They were planning to hit the Mall early. Last minute shopping.” She took a step towards him. “Spike, I...”

The phone on the desk started to ring. Buffy picked up the handset and pressed the ‘loudspeaker’ switch.

“Buffy Summers."

“Buffy. At last. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Or night rather, where you are.”

“Giles. I just got in. I….”

“You’ve been out dancing. All night. Yes. I know. Dawn was most forthcoming on the matter,” Giles interrupted. “And I have to say, I’d hoped that by now you would have outgrown this desire for...”

“Giles!” Buffy snapped. “Enough of the lecturing. What’s so important you couldn’t ask Dawn to take a message?”

The sound of Giles clearing his throat rumbled through the loudspeaker. “I thought you’d better to hear this from me first.”

Spike perched on the edge of an armchair and watched Buffy’s expression harden.

“It’s about Angel, isn’t it?” The handset trembled in her hand. “Is he...”

“He’s fine,” Giles reassured her. “But Buffy, you have to know, he’s not the same as he was. He’s...”

“He’s human.” Buffy glanced at Spike. He averted his eyes and stared blankly at the floor.

“How on earth did you know?” Giles asked incredulously.

“Long story. Giles, where is he?”

“Um. I have the number right here...” There was a sound of rustling paper followed by the clatter of the receiver hitting something hard. "Yes, I have it now. He's just outside Los Angeles, staying with someone called 'Connor Reilly'. Some connection with the old country no doubt."

Buffy scribbled the phone number Giles gave her on the memo pad. "Thank you," she said numbly, replacing the handset in its cradle.

“’spect you’ll be wantin’ an early flight to LA then?” Spike studied a wine stain on the carpet.

“You really are a dope.” Buffy yanked him to his feet. "After what happened tonight, you think..."

Spike drew back, grabbed his coat and strode angrily towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"This the part where you tell me you couldn't have done it without me and then run off to Tall Dark and Bog-trotting?" Spike kept hold of the handle, his back towards her. "Not goin' there. Not again."

"No. This is the part where I tell you I couldn't have done it without Ambrogio."

Spike half-turned to look at her.

Buffy bent down and picked up the twig of mistletoe that had fallen from the duster's pocket and twirled it in her fingers. "If it hadn't been for what he did," she said softly. "I'd never have realised what I really needed."

"And what might that be?" Spike's features softened and he relaxed his grip on the door-handle.

She crossed the room and held out the mistletoe. "Not 'normal'. Not 'human.' " She lifted her eyes to his. "I'm still the Slayer. I need a little monster in my man."

Spike took the sprig from her. "The Immortal gave me this for a truce," he said, holding it above their heads. "It's not the only thing it's for."

There was no anger evident in the gentle kiss he gave her; none of the frustration that had made him head for the door. But for all it’s softness, something sparked between them as their lips lazily tasted each other and Buffy breathed him in like he was all she needed to live. His tongue slid between her lips and sought hers, tying a lover’s knot to bind them together. As the mistletoe slipped from his fingers, he held her closer, and they swayed to the silent rhythm of the fire dancing in her veins.
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