Author’s Note: This is me fulfilling a reader request (for the appropriately named DreamsofSpike) and working through some writer’s block. Feedback is wonderful, and I promise I’m working on chapter six too.
In this interlude there is nudity, adult language, and soul stuff.

Interlude

He stood and moved to lounge in the doorway with deliberate casualness when he heard Buffy come in. There was still such a kick in it, hearing her key in the lock. So much better than the creak of his crypt door opening. He watched her shrug off her light jacket and empty her pockets into the basket by the door, where their keys mingled with the odd stake and his Zippo.
His lady love stretched and called out, "Honey? I'm home," in a light, teasing tone.

"I see that," he remarked. Her eyes searched the dark apartment for him. "Took you long enough."

She shrugged and maneuvered toward the bedroom by memory in the dark. "Giles and I were having a moment." Buffy slid her hand up his chest to play with the silver chain around his neck. "I missed you. Is that dumb?"

He grabbed her up, kissed her hard, dumped her on the bed. She let loose one of her warm laughs and he drank in the sight of her, spilled out on his sheets. "I love you," she told him. "You know that, right?"

"Bears repeating," he replied as she pulled him down to the bed. It augured poorly that he was so happy. Something was sure to happen presently, fuck it all up in a some spectacular way. She clambered over him and pressed his hands to the mattress under hers before attacking his mouth.

When she drew back she was smiling. "You're thinking," she accused. "Poetry again?" He scoffed and lifted his head up, hoping she'd swoop down to meet him. Instead she pouted at him.

"You want some poetry, pet?" He took a deep breath and put on his best William voice. "Was in another lifetime, one of toil and blood/When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud/I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form. 'Come in,' she said, 'I'll give you shelter from the storm.' How's that, love?"

Her eyes were huge. "I thought you said you were a bad poet."

Spike laughed and slid his wrists from her grip to take her face in his hands and bring it down to his for a long, lingering exploration of her mouth. "I didn't write it, Buffy. It's a Bob Dylan song, you little Philistine."

She punched him on the shoulder and moved away from him. Crossed her arms and glared at him where she knelt on the bed. "Don't make fun of me, or I'm going."

That seemed extremely unlikely.

It was a such a rush, the ease he had with her now. He didn't know how much of that was time and how much was the soul. She'd loved him before, but that had been so new he'd barely had time to absorb it before he went on his quest. Would she be here now, in his home, their home, without it? The soul changed things, that much was certain. Everything he did now was colored by it. Still got a thrill from a rousing round of fists and fangs in the graveyard with the girls, but in addition to assuaging his appetite for violence and whetting his appetite for the Slayer there was the added, unfamiliar satisfaction of having done something good.

Not that it made up for what he'd been before. There was no way to make up for that, not if he lasted another century. He could only be what he was now, just as he'd always done. He'd shaped himself from William to Spike to impress Dru and frustrate Angel, and Spike had rebuilt himself for the Slayer into whatever he had become now. Still a touch of William, still a lot of Spike, and maybe something more or less than all of that. He didn't have a real answer. He was hers, that was what mattered mostly. And she wanted him.

"You don't want to go, Buffy," he countered, turning on the bedroom eyes
and stalking toward her on his knees. "I can tell how much you want to
stay."

"It's not fair that you can do that," she grumbled.

He took one of her warm little hands and stroked it across his hip to the bulge in his jeans. "Whereas you have no way of knowing when I'm in the mood."

"You're always in the mood," she retorted with mock dismay. She was already massaging him. Her free hand came up to grab his necklace and use it to pull his face to hers. Men did not swoon, especially big bad warrior men like himself, so there must be some other word to describe the light-headed effect she had on him. Laughter rumbled through her chest as his cock twitched against her palm. "Get undressed," she ordered breathlessly as she hastened to do the same.

Spike kicked off his boots, shucked his jeans, and drew his t-shirt up over his head. When he turned back, there she was, naked and luscious, her back to him as she reached out to drop her earrings on the bedside table. He pounced, pulling her to him and rolling her onto her stomach under him while she squeaked and flailed without real effort.

“Got you now, Slayer,” he purred into her ear.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed in mock horror. Buffy ground herself against him and he sat back on his haunches so that she could lift herself up on knees and elbows. There was nothing quite like the sight of him slowly sliding into her heat, or the noise she made as she rocked back against him.

Spike knew what she liked, how she preferred the first time or two rough and hungry. Later she would let him take it slow and sweet, give him time to make thoroughly sure that everything was as he remembered it from that afternoon. For the moment though she was gagging for the good, hard pounding he was giving her. She gave breathy little groans and grabbed at the foot board. Spike, more. Spike, now. Spike, yes, yes, yes!

He steeled himself against the onslaught of her shaking grasping body and the joy of having pleased his girl. Sliding one arm under her, he pulled her back up against his chest. One hand coasted up to cup a breast, the other pressing tight against her hip to enforce the rhythm as they moved together. Buffy threw her arms up around his neck from behind and shifted so she could meet his eyes. She twisted up to kiss him, her body still moving in counterpoint with his.

“Come on then, let’s go over it again, Slayer.”

She have a breathy laugh in response. “If I couldn't concentrate before--”

“Do you need me to stop, love?” he teased.

“No!” She glared at him with lusty eyes. “Fine.” She sighed, and began to recite, “j'aille, tu ailles, il aille, Spike! nous….allions, vous allies, ils aillent...”

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Good, hot, sweet, tight girl.” He was beginning to babble. Too soon. Had to keep himself grounded. His pleasure would come later.

“Oh god!” Her fingers gripped his hair painfully. Spike could feel her beginning to seize up again as he rolled the nipple in his fingers. He wanted to keep it going, wanted to bring her off again and again. But when she was lax and contented against his shoulder, her hips were still moving. She brushed the hair from her eyes and whispered, “I love you, Spike,” against his lips and he was done for.

“I bargained for salvation, and they gave me a lethal dose.”

“What?”

Spike was barely aware he’d said anything. “Nothing, love. More Dylan.” They lay on the pillows catching their breath. She gave him a smile like a lioness and ran a manicured nail over his chest. If he did, in fact, manage to fuck it all up, he hoped he’d be lucky enough to walk into raging sunlight immediately afterward.

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Actual plot next time, I promise.