It seemed like the dust would never settle, Spike decided drowsily, watching it swirl in the air above where he lay. He'd been lying half-awake for a few minutes, now, sleep disrupted by the crash of a plank or sheet of plaster succumbing to gravity at last. Now he listened to the remains of the old house settle around them – around him and Buffy.

Buffy.

He arched his back, enjoying the aches left from the fight and what came after, wincing as a sharp wood splinter jabbed him in the shoulder. With a soft curse he brushed the offending scrap of debris away. Comfortable though his position was decidedly not, he felt no inclination to move in the slightest. Not with the Slayer's soft snores beside him.

He glanced at her, drinking in the traces of red marring her cheek, neck, and shoulders. His own bruised chest swelled with savage pride. I did that. Moreover, he knew that he bore similar marks on himself at her hands, her hands and fingers and fine, white teeth...

His half delirious thoughts were interrupted by soft coughing. His eyes shot up to meet hers, but found her still asleep, though stirring a bit. Breathing in the dust, he figured. He sat up, wincing, slightly, and gazed carefully at her.

She lay at an odd angle, fully naked, among the rubble and grit. He carefully leaned over and touched her neck, soft, stroking her jaw with his thumb. Perfection. Soft, smooth, perfection. Her skin was still damp with sweat.

Sweat that, even to his dead fingers, had begun to feel clammy.

Wanker! It's what, late November? He pulled himself to his feet sharply, wincing as he tried to find his footing. He looked around the remains of the building, searching for – ah, there it was. His coat. It took some effort to get to, but draping over Buffy and watching her nestle into it, just slightly, was well worth it.

He pulled some of the debris out from beneath her and tried to shift her into a more comfortable position without waking her up. Finally, satisfied, he stood again to survey his work.

She looked small amidst the rubble. Small and pale. Night had robbed her cheeks of their gold, leaving only sharp lines and grey. When did she get so thin? But there was nothing he could do, not right then.

No matter. He'd have the time later. He'd see to it that she start eating and smiling and glowing again, just wait. 'Cause Spike takes care of his girl. He always has, and he bloody well always will.

Was she going to immediately admit that wanted to be with him in the morning? No. He wasn't a complete fool, he was certain there would be denial and excuses and all the rot she'd been feeding him for weeks. But he knew, now. He knew she was fighting a losing battle, that she was almost ready to give in.

He pressed a soft kiss into her hair before lowering himself back to the ground and spreading out, waiting for sleep to overtake him again. His lips were coated with a thin layer of the dust that had built up in her hair, leaving them dry.

It amused him to think that, someday, he could easily be that dust. Someday he'd probably pick a fight he couldn't handle, and be nothing more than dust in the air, ashes underfoot. Meaningless dirt.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was invincible.