The girls were having a somewhat impromptu New Years Eve party in the livingroom. It was subdued, compared to other New Years “bashes” Buffy had known. The year before, for instance, had involved actual bashing.

    Spike knew this, because he’d been the one being bashed. And banged. And... actually, it had been pretty hot, but that seemed a long, long time ago, now.

    Now, he was alone. Not at a party, not with Buffy, not enjoying himself in the least. But he also wasn’t bound up in a torture chamber having his bones systematically broken by some ubervamp while visions of Angelus and Drusilla and half his victims mentally tormented him in an attempt to break him all over again.

    Now he was safe and peaceful in a basement. He was still chained up, but that was his choice now. Now that he knew what the First could do, now that he knew exactly what it was that was playing him, he could not, under any circumstances, let it get a hold of him again. Never again did he want to be used as an instrument to kill innocent people. And to make matters even worse, Buffy had managed to bring a complete baking set of entirely delectable smelling slayerettes just to torment his senses. Seriously, was she trying to torture him? Apart from Buffy herself – and that scent was so bound up in love and despair it didn’t even really smell like food anymore – they were the sweetest smelling things he’d encountered in ages.

    He was desperate to stay out of their way, but every once in a while they’d find some excuse to head down to the basement. I need to do some laundry or I think I left a shoe down here or Do they keep any extra crossbow bolts?

    Spike knew they were just curious. None of them had ever seen a real vampire before, and here he was, chained up and helpless. And shirtless, much of the time, ‘cause the cotton rubbed on his wounds. Once he’d realized that was the other reason the slayerettes seemed keen as hell to invade his space, he’d abandoned his comfort for modesty.

    An act he knew he would never have even considered before the soul.

    The door to the basement opened, and Spike steeled himself for more nervous giggling and sidelong glances, but to his relief the invader was Buffy. “Hey,” she said.

    “Hey yourself.”

    “You didn’t join the party. I sent Anya down to tell you.”

    “She did,” he said.

    Buffy regarded him. “It’s already nearly midnight.”

    Spike shrugged. “Not really the party animal these days.”

    “I’d noticed.” She nodded at his chains.

    Spike didn’t know how to say he felt better with them on. He hated himself. He wanted himself locked up. It seemed the best thing that could happen. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

    “You haven’t had an episode since you got back.”

    “You don’t know that... thing, Buffy,” Spike said. “The First, you call it.... It got in my head once, I can’t let it....” It was not as easy to talk as he would have liked. Buffy was so beautiful. He hadn’t seen her in party clothes in a long time.

    “Yeah, it nearly talked Angel into killing himself,” Buffy reminded him. “It’s got something against Christmas, I swear.”

    “It’s evil.”

    “I know.”

    “No. It’s evil, pet. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s not bad or wrong. It just... is. It’s been talking to me since it caught me – and even before, I think. I think half my madness was it worming into my psyche. It’s evil.”

    “And I’m done talking about it,” Buffy said with annoyance. “That’s all I do. It’s gotten to my friends, it’s gotten into my life, it’s gotten into you.” She actually growled low, as if she were a vampire, like him. “I’m sick of it.” She stared at his chains. “You shouldn’t let it control you.”

    He held up his hands. “That’s what I’m doing.”

    Buffy shook her head. “No.”  She reached for his chains. “You shouldn’t let it chain you up even now.”

    Spike shook his head. “The First isn’t the one doing this,” he said. She ignored him and reached for the chains, and he put his hand on hers. Damn it... he wished this damn soul didn’t keep making even that feel like putting his hand in holy water. It wasn’t pain, but it was as intense as if it were. “It’s not the only evil, Buffy.”

    She stopped. “You’re not on their side, are you?”

    “No.”

    “Then you’re not evil.”

    “I was,” Spike said. “I know how to do it, Buffy. I could take out this entire house, in about five minutes, and enjoy doing it, too.”

    “But you’re different,” Buffy said. “I know you are.” He looked down. “Aren’t you?” she insisted.

    “Doesn’t change a sodding thing,” he muttered.

    “Things change,” Buffy said.

    “Not those things.”

    “One minute!” someone up above shouted.

    “One minute,” Buffy said softly. “In sixty seconds, the last year will be gone.” She looked at Spike.

    “I don’t think it’s that easy, pet,” Spike said. “Too much happened.”

    Too much did happen. Death and life. Passion and betrayal. Violence, forgiveness, redemption... change. “Things change,” she said again. “It’s a new year.”

    Spike couldn’t help it. He scoffed. “Is it.”

    Buffy looked down at him. “Yeah. It is.” She leaned forward and unhooked his chains. “You don’t need these.”

    “I don’t trust–”

    “I do,” Buffy said. “Come on. You’re not going to go slaughtering slayer chicks with me around. Don’t you trust me?”

    It was a bizarre echo of their affair, as Spike had held out his handcuffs, a perfectly eloquent offer. “Always,” he whispered. Buffy couldn’t help but crack a smile – a rare occurrence these days – as she unchained him.

    As she pulled away, Spike couldn’t help it. It was the boldest move he’d done in a long time, but he had been longing to feel her, to kiss her, to breathe her in. He caught up her hand gently, and very swiftly brought it to his lips. He didn’t quite kiss her hand. He didn’t quite hold it, either. But for a brief second he slid her warm flesh to his face, feeling her fingers against his lips, made her part of him.

    It was enough, as raw as he was, as charged as he was. It felt as intimate and passionate as their first kiss – which was madness, as this was practically nothing. But it was everything, too. Buffy seemed to feel it, also. She froze, just for a heartbeat, but as Spike made no other gesture, the surprise did not have to be followed by a decision. She seemed relieved by that.

    Something had changed between them, once she’d led him out of that chamber. He wondered if she now realized she needed him as much as he needed her. (To fight this coming war, of course, he told himself. No other reason, she couldn’t need him for anything but that.) But the angry hesitance that had been between them, even after he’d left the school basement and forced his way into some kind of logic... that had melted away.

    They had a bond again, the kind of bond Spike hadn’t felt since she’d just come back from death. That bond, that friendship between them had been boiled away by the heat of their lovemaking. He’d missed it, missed it terribly, from the first moment she’d kissed him. He hadn’t realized, when he finally had her in his arms, that what he really wanted most from her – her self – would be drowned in the passion of their bodies. That stillness, that easy serenity was back between them again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d still been longing for it. If this was all he’d ever have... he was grateful for it.

    He did not regret the gesture, even though Buffy was staring at him now that he’d released her, and the tiny half nuzzle of her hand felt as heavy suddenly as if they’d just shared another secret tryst. Suddenly the sounds above them coalesced into something more organized. “Here it comes!” one of the girls shouted, and then there was a collective countdown. “Ten. Nine. Eight.” The two of them smiled at each other. They were missing the countdown. “Seven. Six.” Buffy glanced up at the ceiling and gently shook her head. “Five. Four. Three. Two.” Then Buffy bent forward. “One.”

    Buffy kissed him.

    It was not a crazy, heart-rending, fire-charged passion of a kiss. There was no violence or hatred in this. It wasn’t anything passionate, either. It was barely even a kiss – more like that peck she’d given him when she’d pretended to be his robot, so long ago, after Glory had beaten him ‘cause he’d refused to give up Dawn. He was too stunned to respond, and Buffy acted like it was nothing, leaving Spike no choice but to follow suit. “Happy New Year,” she whispered, echoing the joyous shouts of the girls above.

    It is so far. “You too,” he said.

    Buffy glanced up. “I should probably...” Go back up. Play the mentor. Interact with the troops.

    “Yeah.”

    Buffy stood up and went across the basement instead. She pulled something down from a shelf full of old board games and puzzles. “Cribbage?” she said a second later. She turned around holding a deck of cards and a cheap old cribbage board.

    Sometimes Spike really hated his new soul. It tormented him with guilt, tortured him with nightmares, and wracked him with confusion. This was one of the first times he loved it. He knew, if this had been before he’d gotten it, the ease and subtleness of her offer might well have been lost on him.

    It was a small gesture – cribbage. It was not romantic or passionate. But out of all the people in the house, out of all the celebratory things she could have been doing, Buffy’s first choice was to hang out in a musty basement on the night of the new year, playing interminable card games with a guilt-ridden murderous vampire.

    “I think I can count up to thirty-one.” He stretched his un-bound arms and dragged a cardboard box in front of the cot to act as a table. He expected Buffy to grab one of the folding chairs, but she sat beside him on the cot, and curled up. Spike brought his own knees up, and shuffled the deck. They sat curled up together on the bed, a deck of cards between them, jocund revelry going on above.

    If any one upstairs noticed Buffy wasn’t at the party anymore, they didn’t think to check the basement.