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Cleveland. The council has bought them a flat in a quiet neighborhood. It's not permanent; they're only meant to stay a couple of years, covering for Faith, who's pregnant with her and Robin's first sprog. Between the lines is the understanding that the baby might not be an only child for long and their stay could be extended.
Spike doesn't mind. After several years spent traversing Europe from hotel room to hotel room to the occasional rented flat, from problem to problem to the inevitable apocalypse, it's nice to be back in the Colonies again. Bit of a breather. Most of all, Buffy is loving it. She has complained all too often about the blandness of the various places they've lived. Looked at the blank walls and the drab furniture, and spoken wistfully about some day settling down.
Even though they both know this isn't going to last, she's indulging. She's gone all out. The table is covered in paint and fabric samples, furniture catalogs and take-out Chinese boxes. She's everywhere at once. Holds up samples in the different rooms to see how they look when the light from the windows – necro-tempered glass, of course – hits them. Turns every now and again to ask for his opinion.
He humors her. Plays the dutiful boyfriend to her nesting instincts and never once complains.
A couple of times, they've talked about the fact that he can never give her a child. She insists she's fine with it; points out that they could always adopt at some magical point in the future when their lives will calm down and it wouldn't be tantamount to sending out an open invitation for all demon-kind to start making kidnapping plans. In the meantime, they have their hands full with Dawn.
Somewhere along the line, he's not sure exactly when, he's been upgraded. He's no longer the older brother to Buffy's little sister, but a father-figure of sorts. She comes to them with her boy troubles, her college woes and nowadays her first-job-as-a-watcher worries.
Spike doesn't mind. His love for Dawn is only overshadowed by his love for Buffy and he does his best to fall into the new and unfamiliar role he's been cast in. It'll be tougher now, with the Atlantic between them, but twice-weekly phone calls were promised and he intends to deliver.
He shifts into gameface and uses his fangs to tear open the packaging tape on the box marked 'kitchen'. Buffy wants to paint the walls before they move in properly, which is fine, but they'll need some basic household stuff. Can't live on takeout for too long and he needs mugs for his blood.
After moving aside an oven mitt and a box of utensils, he pauses with a wooden tray in his hands. He smiles, remembering the last time he used it, bringing her soup and crackers in bed when she was ill. He tends to dote on Buffy when she's not feeling well - doesn't like seeing her weak or in pain - and she's taken to calling him nurse William.
Spike lets her; he doesn't mind. Vampires don't get sick, but occasionally she will play nurse to him for completely different purposes and that makes it all right.
Underneath the tray are blobs of bubble wrap, containing the mugs. He starts to unpack them and put them on the counter. Halfway through, she calls out for him.
“What do you think of this one, for the living room? It's called Amber Spirit.”
Spike looks at the painted strip she's holding. The color is far too tame and one-dimensional to be called amber anything. His thoughts drift to the Tsar's beautiful Amber Room, in which he once danced with Dru. Even now, he can still remember the many different shades of stone adorning the walls and the warmth they seemed to exude.
“I like it,” he says, because it's as good a color as any. The amber spirit he really prefers though, is the kind he keeps in his hip flask.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Think it'd look nice. Bright and cheerful, just like you.”
She laughs, shoves him playfully in the ribs and returns to her samples, but not before he sneaks a squeeze of her bum.
Perhaps the main reason he so willingly plays along to whatever she needs him to be, is that it never lasts. She's learned to take normal when and where she can get it, because something always happens to break up what might be called everyday life. Like now. There's a hammering on the door, urgent and pleading, shattering their domestic bliss.
Buffy runs for the door. It's one of the baby slayers assigned to the nearby area. Her eyes are big and she's got a nasty burn on her arm.
In the hubbub that follows he catches only bits and pieces of the story as he runs to fetch the first-aid kit (the very first thing he unpacked) and sets about bandaging her up. Something about a necklace from an antique shop, bought by a curious teenaged warlock and now a malevolent spirit is on the loose. It isn't until the baby slayer mentions a small detail about the type of necklace involved that he freezes and then bursts out laughing.
They both look at him, confused. He shakes his head and smirks at Buffy. “An Amber Spirit wreaking havoc downtown. Maybe we should reconsider and pick a different color for the living room, yeah?”
Buffy gets it and starts laughing too. Moments later, they've grabbed their weapons and are out the door.
No, Spike doesn't mind any of the many roles he plays in Buffy's life. But this one, the warrior by her side as they march off to yet another battle, is definitely his favorite.
The End