Author: Kendra A. (kendraangelusslayer@yahoo.com) [http://www.iceblur.dot.nu]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Willow and Spike get caught in the rain. Blatant fluff.

Disclaimer: All “Buffy: the Vampire Slayer” and/or “Angel” characters aren’t mine. They’re Joss’, Marti’s, David’s, et cetera. Don’t sue, as I don’t even own a working computer at the moment. All songs belong to the eminent Dave Matthews Band, whose boots I would gladly lick. =) Well, maybe not really, but they *rock*. “Crush” (please, forgive me my guilty pleasures. Don’t hold this against me) belongs to Mandy Moore. And I don’t know who “Singin’ in the Rain” belongs to, but hello? Not mine either. The sign “None of this nonsense, please” is from the books “Dealing With Dragons,” “Searching for Dragons,” “Calling on Dragons” and “Talking to Dragons” by Patricia C. Wrede. I recommend them.

Distribution: The usual—UCSL, Fanfiction.Net, Bite Me… Please?, STTEOT, Near Her Always, Temptation Embraced, all my lists. And, uh, my own personal site. Duh. If you want, just ask and tell me where it’s going.

Context/Spoilers: Pick your own timeline. It’s after sixth season. Riley’s gone, Tara left, Spike’s still chipped and never did the wacky with or got a crush on Buffy, Willow never got addicted… You get the idea. It’s a Happyverse.

Author’s Notes: Okay, my computer is still on the blink, so I’m floppy-disking it—so if any of the formatting is @$%!ed up, that’s why. =) This is written to make myself feel better because my computer is insane and the guy I like won’t get a clue. Also, there’s a drought in New York City (where I live), and it’s also, like, ninety degrees out even though it’s only April (I swear I’m being literal) and I need a break from conjugating Latin. This is in honor of the random rainstorm we had today with lots of thunder and lightning, and of the shoes that eventually began to squelch. Enjoy!

Dedication: Okay, guys, don’t get jealous, but this is for a few people. This is for Lisa, because I haven’t dedicated something to her in what seems like forever, and she deserves it; Lisa, you rock! And I’m working on “Morning” using pen & paper. I promise. And this is also for Len, because she’s recommended books to me and because she’s a hoopy frood; and this is also for Meltha, because she dedicated “Toosies” to me, and that was just about the cutest thing I ever read. So! With that said, on to the story.
 
 
 

Part Three: What A Glorious Feeling

Two lone figures could be seen in the darkness of the Mary Magdalen cemetery. Darkness shadowed their features. Soaked to the bone, they huddled pitifully together…

… Until the taller one burst into song: “ ‘I’m *sing*-in’ in the rain… Just *sing*-in’ in the rain…’”

And then, of course, his slightly shorter partner interrupted him in a higher octave: “‘What a *glo*-ri-ous  *feel*-in’, I’m *ha*-ppy again…’”

“ ‘I *walk* down the lane…’”

“ ‘With a *ha*-ppy refrain…’”

And then, hands clasped, they lifted haggard faces to the deluge from the firmament and joined their voices in triumph.

“ ‘I’m *sing*-in’, just singin’ *in* the *rain*!’”

Spike laughed and opened his mouth to the downpour, gargling. “Aaaagh…”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Please. Acid rain. It’s probably acidic. I bet it’s acidic. It’ll make your throat break out in hives.”

Spike raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Vampires don’t get hives.”

“I’m sure the Powers That Be will make an exception, just for you.”

“Throat hives?”

“Whatever.” Willow let go of Spike’s hands and stretched her arms out, beaming close-eyed up at the grim sky. “I love it when it rains.”

“It reminds me of…” Spike began, and then stopped himself just in time.

“… the music video for ‘The Space Between’?” Willow asked cleverly.

“No,” Spike said, too quickly. Willow laughed.

“I’m right, aren’t I? I’m always right.” She stepped directly into a puddle and mimicked a hold on an imaginary guitar. “Dunh dunh dunh dunh…” She gave Spike an anticipatory look. “Well?”

Spike sighed. “Fine. Start again.”

“Wait!” Willow fumbled with the ties that kept her long heavy hair in its now haphazard bun until they finally slipped out. Her hair plopped onto her shoulders wetly. “Okay.” She stood straight again, took hold of her imaginary guitar, put her fingers on the strings and offered up the best sound she had: “Dunh dunh dunh dunh…”

“ ‘You cannot quit me so quickly,’” Spike sang softly.

“Dunh dunh dunh dunh,” Willow hummed, watching him closely.

“ ‘There’s no hope in *you* for me…’”

“—Dunh dunh dunh dunh…”

“ ‘No corner ya could *squeeze* me…’”

“Dunh dunh dunh dunh…”

“ ‘—But I got all the time for you, love…’”

Willow gave her best impersonation of the entering of another guitar and assorted string instruments and kept the beat with the tapping of her foot, which splashed gently in the puddle.

“ ‘The *space* bet-*ween* the tears we’ve cried is the laughter keeps us coming back for more… The *space* between the wicked *lies* we tell and *hope* to keep safe from the pain…’” Spike slowly focused his eyes on Willow, who had long since stopped her sound effects but whose fingers still twitched on imaginary guitar strings and whose foot still gently kept time.

“ ‘But will I hold you again? These fickle, fuddled words con-*fuse* me…’” Spike laughed shortly, “ ‘Like will it *rain* today? We waste the hours with talking, talking… These twisted games we’re play-*ing*…”

Willow’s hands dropped from the air where she’d held her guitar and her foot stopped splashing. Spike closed his eyes and turned his face back up to the rainfall. He didn’t stop singing, and Willow didn’t stop watching him.
 

*   *   *

An hour and a half later, nearly all sung out and convinced they’d patrolled every single possible corner of Mary Magdalen, Willow and Spike headed home.

Ownership of Willow’s parents’ house had been passed to the redhead long ago, as Sheila and Ira Rosenberg were very nearly never home; after years of holding up against the pressure of her friends to make the house truly her own, Willow had gone out one weekend without telling anybody and completely redecorated.

No longer a bright, sterile white, she’d had the outside of the house painted a pale rosy color, with the roof and the shutters a darker shade. A sign swung from her porch roof just above the steps to the front door, a phrase taken from one of her favorite books. Gold letters on black paint, it read:

NONE OF THIS NONSENSE, PLEASE

Spike chuckled every time he saw that sign. Willow had finally thrown the book at him so at least he’d know the context, but knowing the origins of Willow’s practical but amusing form of greeting had only made him laugh harder.

Inside, the floors were a dark cherry wood, every room homey and spacious. Willow’s own room (formerly her parent’s bedroom) was decorated with brightly colored silk scarves hanging on the walls and delicate white strings of lights bathing the space with a soft glow. A small wrought-iron daybed was nestled in front of the French windows and covered with a plethora of throw pillows and stuffed animals. One wall was completely lined with bookshelves and graced with a rolling ladder. Willow loved coming home.

Spike loved coming home with Willow.

The guestroom was very rarely used by anyone except himself, and he’d all but moved in anyhow. One near-dawn miss had led to “accident” after “accident” until both of them had admitted that, in theory, Spike *could* have managed to get home on time; Willow had simply smiled and opened her home to him, and he had accepted whole-heartedly. He and Willow usually ended their evenings with a cup of tea or hot chocolate (with those little marshmallows), curled up in armchairs in the living room, and usually it was Spike’s duty to carry a sleeping redhead up the stairs, to clear a space on her crowded bed, and to tuck her in.

On other nights, though, their tradition varied. Willow might hop down the hall to Spike’s bedroom in a sleeping bag, and they might watch late-night movies; Spike might dress in sweatpants and a T-shirt to sleep and then make his way to Willow’s room, where he’d watch her brush and braid her hair and paint her toenails, and where they might tell stories.

For almost a year they’d been doing this, as well as patrolling together, bursting into random song together and even going grocery-shopping together, and it had taken until this very evening—when Spike had heard Willow commiserating with Buffy while he lurked in the bushes—for the vampire to realize that the feelings he’d been having lately meant that while he might not be in love, he was in serious like. As well as in lust.

Damn.
 

*   *   *
 

With great difficulty, leaning against the door, Willow squeezed a hand into her soaked jeans pocket and tried to extract her keys. “Mmph…”

“Need some help there, luv?” Spike offered coyly.

Willow treated him to an undiluted Condescending Raised Eyebrow and finally managed to catch her keys. “A-ha! Stupid jeans. Don’t you hate wearing soaked jeans?”

Willow unlocked the door, keeping an eye on Spike as he gestured to his own denims. “They’re impossible. Do I have a change of clothes here?” he asked.

Willow pushed the front door open with her shoulder and stumbled inside, dropping the keys with a clatter on the hall table. Spike followed her inside and locked the door behind them.

Willow stopped to pull off a sneaker. She hopped precariously on one foot as she wrestled with her wet and sticky sock. “C’mere. I need a balancing assistant.”

Spike grinned as Willow gripped his shoulder with one hand, finally triumphing over the sock. She threw it up the stairs in the vague direction of her bedroom. “Don’t go anywhere!” she exclaimed when Spike was about to move away. “I have two feet you know.”

When her shoes and socks were safely off her feet, Willow turned away and tripped up the stairs, picking up the socks she’d thrown as she went. “Check your room,” she called down to Spike. “You should have some sweatpants left from last time. If you don’t, I have some of Xander’s clothes here.” She turned towards her room and was gone from Spike’s line of sight.

Spike smiled fondly after her and wondered why the Hell it had taken him so long to realize he liked Willow more than was strictly platonic. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t much what he thought of as his type—he usually went for more striking girls, like Drusilla or Buffy with their undeniable good looks as well as their undeniable bosoms. That wasn’t to say Willow wasn’t good-looking. Not at all. And he wasn’t about to complain about her proportions in the bosom department…

Spike groaned and rubbed his temples. This train of thought wasn’t getting him anywhere.

He trudged up the stairs and lingered in the middle of the hallway, leaning slightly towards the left… Towards Willow’s bedroom, where he could already hear a shower running and hear her singing faintly beneath the louder sound of water falling.

“ ‘Our love is so right… I won’t waste a minute here tonight… Our love is so right… And tonight my dance is all about you…’”

Willow’s voice trailed off, and Spike slowly turned towards the right, towards his own bedroom, humming softly.

“ ‘I’m going crazy… And it’s all ‘cause of you… I’m going under… over you…’”
 

*   *   *
 

Willow stepped gingerly out of the shower and reached for her towel, relieved to be clean and unsweaty at last. She bent and flipped her hair forward to wrap the thick locks in her towel and pulled her bathrobe around her slender frame. A gentle kick of her foot opened the bathroom door, and she inadvertently shivered as she entered her air-conditioned bedroom, billows of spice-scented steam following her.

She tiptoed to her bedroom door and peeked out, looking for a sign of Spike. No? Good. She closed her door and danced lightly to her CD player, which she turned on and then browsed through. Careful to keep the volume low and praying that nobody would ever find her out—as she’d never hear the end of it—Willow pressed play and skipped to her closet, searching for pajamas as the song began.

She dropped her bathrobe to the floor and replaced it with a long-sleeved T-shirt and loose pajama bottoms as she unconsciously began to sing along.

“ ‘You know… everything that I’m afraid of; You do… everything I wish I did; Everybody wants you, everybody loves you. I know… I should tell you how I feel; I wish… everyone would disappear. Every time you call me, I’m too scared to be me and I’m too shy to say…’”

Here Willow started bouncing lightly from side to side, shaking her damp hair loose from its impromptu turban and hopping around the room. “ ‘Oooh, I got a crush… on… you; I hope you feel… the way that I do. I get a rush… when I’m with you. Oooh, I got a crush on you… A crush on you…’”

Willow made her rhythmic way back into the bathroom and emerged momentarily with a small bottle of freesia-scented leave-in conditioner and a hairbrush. She continued her singing as she massaged the conditioner into her hair, shook her waves out and began to brush slowly.

“ ‘You know… I’m the one that you can talk to; Sometimes… you tell me things that I don’t wanna know. I just wanna hold you! You say… exactly how you feel about her. I wonder, could you ever think of me that way?’”

Spike, hearing the bubblegum-esque beat from his bedroom, curiously toweled his hair dry, tugged the loose T-shirt back into place from where it hung, slightly crooked, on his shoulders and stepped into the hallway. He made his way to Willow’s bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar and squinted in, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing at the sight of Willow singing into her hairbrush as though it were a mic.

“ ‘I got a crush… on… you; I hope you feel… the way that I do. I get a rush… when I’m with you. Oooh, I got a crush on you… A crush on you…”

Unfortunately, at this interval Willow’s eyes scanned the room and met Spike’s peering amusedly through the door. Instead of blushing and scampering to turn off the CD, though, Willow just smiled and skipped to the door, flung it open, took Spike’s hands and pulled him into the room, telling him frankly:

“ ‘Oh, I wish I could tell somebody but there’s no-one to talk to, nobody knows I got a crush on you, a crush on you… I got a crush…’”

Spike laughed and let go one of Willow’s hands. He lifted his arm and twirled her gently as the long instrumental played out. The scent of her shampoos, conditioners and soaps floated lightly in the air between them and Spike inhaled deeply.

He loved the way she smelled.

Damn again.

Willow lifted *her* arm and Spike bent a little to let himself be twirled, relishing her smile. Her shirt rode up her flat stomach slightly, treating Spike to a quick peek at her adorable belly button.

Willow broke away from him as the last verse began, spinning in circles on her own. “‘You say… everything that no-one says, but I feel… everything that you’re afraid to feel. I will always want you, I will always love you…’”

Her eyes couldn’t help but flick up to meet Spike’s at the last line, and a small smile tickled her lips. Spike swallowed and leaned forward to turn off the CD player.

The expression on Willow’s face was hard to read, but Spike could tell she was hurt. He extended his hand and offered an apologetic smile. “I came to ask if you wanted hot cocoa, pet,” he told her.

There was a significant pause that tore Spike’s heart before Willow slowly placed her hands in his, and the smile she gave him was a poor mockery of her usual sunny grin.

“I’m sorry,” Spike said, closing his fingers around hers.

“For what?” Willow asked, not looking at him.

“For… turning off…” Spike gestured to the silent CD player. “I should have thought first.”

“So should I,” Willow said quickly. “Can we drop it, please?”

This was not going well at all. “No,” Spike said. At a loss for anything else to say, he blurted, “I heard you and Buffy talking.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “You *what*?”

“It’s naughty to eavesdrop, I know,” Spike said unapologetically, “But I’d been through three smokes in about as many minutes and I just wanted to know what you talked about when I wasn’t there. That’s all.”

Willow nodded slowly, her eyes still wide. “Uh huh. Can we *drop* it?”

“No,” Spike growled, “Because you’ve got it in your thick little head that I don’t like you, and you’re wrong.”

“I know you *like* me, and I know you just want to be friends and that’s fine, Spike. Can we please, please drop it?”

“Do you have ‘naked Spike-thoughts’?” Spike demanded. Willow looked away. “Well, fine then. I have naked *Willow*-thoughts.”

Willow’s mouth dropped open as her eyes swung back to meet his. “You what?”

“I have…” Spike sighed. “You heard me. But it’s not just that. I like walking with you, I like talking with you, I like singing with you, I like skipping along to “The Wizard of Oz” with you, I like having cocoa with you, I even like having bloody research parties with you. I like your friends because you like them even if they’re a bunch of bloody wankers, I like your silly fluffy sweaters, I like your beaded jewelry, I like your Beanie Babies collection, I like the way your hair smells, I like your laugh, I like your smile, I like your Resolve Face, I like how hyper you get if you have too much coffee, I like the way you cry during old movies, *I* *like* *you*.”

Somehow Willow still looked doubtful.

“What will it take for you to understand?”

Willow blinked slowly, and then:

“Wow,” she said. She took a few steps backwards and sat on her bed with a plop, as if she were a marionette whose strings had just been cut. “*Wow.*”

“Do you believe me yet?” Spike asked, crouching in front of her. She looked down at him dazedly and he grinned. “Chin up, pet. Can’t be that bad, a sexy bloke like me fancying you.”

The corners of her lips twitched. “You really do?”

“I *really* do.” Spike leaned forward, crossing his arms and balancing his elbows on Willow’s knees. “Scout’s honor.”

Willow hesitantly stroked his cheek. “Wow.” At his raised eyebrow, she said, “On cloud fourteen right now. Sorry if I’m kinda monosyllabic.”

“Cloud *fourteen*, huh? Stroke for my ego.”

“I’ll stroke more than your ego,” Willow informed him with a wink.

“*Willow!*…That a promise?”

Willow rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I know.”

Willow crossed her arms and laid them across his, leaned forward very slowly and carefully brushed her lips against his. Spike stretched up into the kiss and stroked his hand along her arm until he could tangle his fingers in her hair, pressing her closer.

At long last they separated. Willow gazed down at him with stars in her eyes. “Wow.”

“I’ve been getting a lot of that this evening,” Spike commented smugly, and then added, “But, yeah, I’d have to agree. *Wow.*”

Willow laughed and took his hand. “Cocoa?”

He smiled at her. “Sure.”

They stood together and walked with their hands still tightly clasped to the kitchen. Somehow, they managed to warm milk in a pan, set out cocoa mix, sugar and vanilla, mix each drink and not spill anything using only one hand each.

They just didn’t want to let go.

Willow hopped up onto the counter and braced herself with the hand that held Spike’s. Probably her hand would cramp from being kept in the same position for such a long time, but she didn’t care. She smiled at Spike, who stood between her pajama-clad legs with a chocolate moustache on his upper lip. She leaned forward and delicately licked it away and gave him a quick kiss. “Chocolate,” she said by way of explanation.

Spike smiled and raised his mug. Willow did the same, and they paused to think of a toast.

“To us,” Spike said. That one was obvious. They knocked mugs and took sips.

“To air conditioners that enable us to have cocoa in ninety-degree weather,” Willow suggested. They drank again.

“To the Slayer,” Spike said. Willow looked at him, surprised. “Because if she hadn’t pestered you about me, we might not be right here right now,” he elaborated, and couldn’t help adding, “’S not like I like her or anything. Bloody busybody.”

Willow kicked him in the side lightly. “That toast *was* fine.”

They drank again.

Every sip was a toast—to Dave Matthews Band was one; to Mandy Moore was another, once Willow explained who Mandy Moore was to Spike. They toasted the cemetery, for being patrolable; they toasted the air conditioner at the Magic Box for breaking; they toasted the insane weather, for raining; they toasted Judy Garland for being Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”; they toasted Dawn; they toasted Xander and Anya, and finally they ran out of cocoa.

They ran water into their mugs and adjusted their grip on each other’s hands. As they walked up the stairs, Willow gently hummed,

“ ‘Our love is so right…’”

“ ‘Forget the clouds that rain on your light,’” Spike added softly

“ ‘Our love is so right…’”

“ ‘And tonight my dance is all about you,’” Spike whispered. They paused on the top step to kiss softly, and then stood awkwardly in the hallway between their two bedrooms.

“You could… sleep with me, if you want,” Willow suggested. “I don’t think… That is, if you promise to behave. For tonight.”

Spike brightened. “Yeah?”

“Only if you’re very, very good,” Willow said primly.

Spike leaned in to nuzzle her cheek. “What if I’m very, very bad?”

Willow shivered at the low tone of his voice but managed to keep her own voice steady. “No misbehaving,” she said decisively.

Spike sighed. “I can behave.”
 

*   *   *
 

While Willow brushed her teeth and braided her hair for the night, Spike gently rid her small bed of all of its stuffed occupants. “Sorry, mates,” he told some particularly dejected-looking ones. “’S my turn now.” He grinned.

Willow reentered her bedroom with her hair French-braided into two pigtails and gestured to the bed. “What side do you want?”

“You need a bigger bed, luv,” Spike commented, but got in and gestured to the empty space next to him. “Hop in.”

“You promise to behave?” Willow said suspiciously.

“Promise.”

Willow gently lay down next to Spike, pressing her back against his chest. She stretched her arm out to set her alarm clock, but Spike stopped her hand. “Nah, don’t bother,” he said.

“I have to get up to go with Buffy to take Dawn to school!” Willow protested.

“I’ll get you up,” Spike informed her. “You sleep in.”

“But—”

“I’ll have breakfast ready for you,” Spike said. “It’ll take awhile… I’m making scrambled eggs.”

He could hear Willow’s heartbeat speed up. “R-really?”

“Only for you,” he told her, and draped an arm across her waist.

Willow smiled and lifted his hand to her mouth to kiss it softly. Then she laid her arm along his. Spike spooned snugly against her back, and they slept.