--

“No,” Buffy said curtly.

Spike rolled his eyes.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

Buffy threw an arm around in a sweeping motion, and then glared at Spike, expectantly.

“Do you see something wrong with this neighborhood?”

“No…good schools...usually pretty quiet.”

“‘Usually pretty quiet,’ he says!”

“Well it’s quiet during the day!”

“Yeah, because none of your demon buddies can come out in the sunlight!”

“So? What’s wrong with demons?”

“What’s wrong with…Spike,” Buffy moaned, putting her hand to her forehead, “I’m the Slayer.”

Spike gasped and bulged his eyes out in pseudo-shock.

“You are? You’re the…Slayer? Oh no, and I’m a vampire, so that means that…Buffy,” he groaned, dropping to his knees in shaking reverence, “please don’t kill me, oh Slayer of my peoples! I am far too unworthy of even the slightest prick of your stake! Oh, Slayer, I beseech you….”

Spike trailed off as Buffy whapped him on the head with the rounded edge of her stake.

“Can it. Spike, I’m serious…I don’t want our baby growing up here, and I can’t even imagine how pissed the neighbors would be if the Slayer moved into their neighborhood.”

“They’ll be fine, pet…I can take care of any dissenters…I can fix it up…I ate a decorator once, so I’m sure something stuck.”

Buffy shook her head and grabbed his hand, leading him away from the small building. She cringed her nose as she tromped forward.

“I am not raising my baby in a crypt, Spike.”

“Oh,” Spike said, stopping dead in his tracks, “so now it’s just your baby, is it? Well that’s just peachy, Slayer, because as I last recall that baby is half mine.”

Buffy sighed, unwilling or unable to squabble with Spike anymore.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…it’s just a turn of phrase.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spike said, drawing Buffy close to himself, and pecking her on her forehead. “You know, Slayer, I used to stay mad at you…it’s not fair.”

“I believe you’ve threatened to ‘maim me beyond repair,’ and ‘wrend my sodding entrails from every inch of my bloody frame,’” Buffy said in a mock-cockney accent, “No less than twenty times.”

Spike smiled at Buffy, rolling his tongue behind his teeth.

“And now look at you…all carrying my seed and what-not.”

“Disappointed I’m not all maimed or wrendy-like Buffy?”

“I seem to like randy-like Buffy.”

“I said wrendy.”

“No, you didn’t, pet…come here.”

Pulling a squealing Buffy behind another crypt, Spike stared into her eyes before doing anything else.

“I love you, you know, you daft bint.”

“Of course you do. You have to,” Buffy said, pointing to her still flat stomach.”

“I don’t have to, but I do. I’m a vampire, Buffy…I’ve lived for sodding ever, but you make me feel…like I matter…you make me feel like a man…and that’s….”

Spike trailed off in his heartfelt speech as a mischievous grin caressed Buffy’s face and she broke out into song.

“You make me feel! Yooou make me feel! Yooooou make me feel like a natural woman!”

Rolling his eyes and pressing her body against the crypt, Spike shook his head.

“Are you going to sing while I shag you? Because it might throw my game off.”

A mixture of laughing, groaning, and thrusts echoed throughout the Restfield cemetery until the briefest hints of Dawn spattered the skyline.

--

Spike and Buffy quietly entered Giles’ home, just as the sun was illuminating the morning sky. Sensing that the home was inhabited for the moment, they relaxed, and Spike walked into the kitchen as Buffy drew all of the blinds and curtains. Carrying a bowl of Weetabix, a mug of warmed blood, and a glass full of pomegranate tea, Spike sat down on the couch and motioned for Buffy to join him. Buffy did, and grabbed a stick of the Weetabix, dunking it in the tea to moisten it slightly. When Spike mimicked her actions, only dipping his slice of Weetabix in blood. Buffy crinkled up her nose in disdain, and Spike scoffed at her reaction.

“To each his own, Slayer.”

As she bit into her stick of Weetabix, Buffy grimaced.

“Yuck! What kind of…why do English people have such poor taste in food?”

“How can you not like Weetabix?”

“It’s…icky. I can’t describe it. It’s like…dry oatmeal and…feet…they should call it Feetabix.”

“Oi! Now watch your lip, Slayer. I may love you, but no sodding bird talks like that about Weetabix. ‘Weetabix is unbeatabix,’ love, which is something you’ll have to learn if we’re going to make this thing we have work.”

“Sorry, Spike,” Buffy said, tossing her Weetabix down to the table, “I just don’t see it.”

Spike sighed and picked up her abandoned wheat block and dunked it into his mug before crunching down.

“What does my dear love want to bloody eat?”

An impish smile crossed Buffy’s face as she envisioned Spike in a sombrero.

“Mexican.”

“Mexican?”

“Mexican.”

Spike sighed.

“Slayer, I….”

“Nope. I’m going to get all fat and pregnant, so I get to make the decisions here.”

“But….”

“Nope.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Slayer,” Spike seethed as he stood up, “the only sodding Mexican place in Sunnydale is ‘El Alce,’ and I’ll be right damned if I’m going to eat there.”

Buffy pouted.

“Why?”

“Because I know you, Slayer, and if there’s a chance to embarrass me, you’ll sodding take it.”

“Please?”

Unable to resist the power of her pout, Spike grabbed his duster and nodded to the door.

“Lead the way, pet. But I’m not wearing a sombrero.”

Suppressing the urge to retort, Buffy merely fastened a pathetic pout onto her face and turned on her heels to stare into Spike’s eyes. He sighed.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

--

As a fresh batch of tortilla chips and salsa arrived at their table, Buffy grinned at the sombreroed vampire sitting across from her.


--




**Author's Note: Let me just say, although I have no idea how they taste in blood, Weetabix are pretty freakin' awesome! Mmm. So here I sit, eating my nummy Weetabix with butter and brambelberry jam and wishing I had some even nummier Spike to top it all off with. :( *Le sigh*