The next evening after dark …

“Oh. My. God! Seriously?! This has been here the entire time and I’ve been eating tofu!?” Buffy jumped from the car almost before Spike had it in a parking spot, and certainly before he had it stopped.

“The Holy Grail of American fast food was right here, not five miles from our house, and you let me eat freaking tofu?!” Buffy growled at him angrily as she came around to the front of the car and started for the door of the dining establishment.

Spike got the ignition killed and set the brake before joining her. “Not my fault, the Bo… Joan…” Spike began, immediately on the defensive.

“Oh, right, I forgot, Joan’s in charge of my dietary requirements. You had absolutely noooo say in the matter. One cookbook does not a connoisseur of American cuisine make – especially when the cook doesn’t even eat,” Buffy snarled back as she swung the door with the giant, yellow ‘M’ emblazoned on it open and headed inside.

She’d only gotten a couple of steps into the dining area when she had to stop. Her eyes fluttered closed and her knees even wobbled a bit in utter, gastrointestinal ecstasy. The aroma – oh, sweet Jesus – the aroma of fatty, fried burgers and deep-fried, artery-clogging potatoes swept over her like a long, lost lover. She closed her eyes and just … breathed.

McDonald’s.

She had an almost uncontrollable urge to drop to her knees and kiss the red tile floor – she was home. Or as close to home as she could get in France.

Spike came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, leaning his chest against her back. “Don’t forget who brought you to this Mecca of supersized pleasure,” he whispered in her ear seductively, then added, “And for God’s sake, don’t tell Joan! She’ll bloody kill me.”

Buffy laughed and finally opened her eyes. People in the booths and tables were looking at her like she’d lost her mind. She didn’t care. She was at McDonald’s! Her heart sang. Her stomach rumbled. Her taste buds tingled with anticipation. This was almost as good as sex with Spike. Okay, not really – but at that moment it was heavenly.

“Promise to bring me here every single day and I won’t tell,” Buffy offered slyly.

“That’s blackmail!” Spike accused, scowling at her, his fine sense of decorum severely affronted.

“Blackmail’s such a harsh word,” Buffy objected.

“How do ya feel about 'extortion', then?” he wondered.

“I prefer to think of it as incentive,” Buffy defended as she pulled away from him, took one of his hands in hers, and headed for the counter. Up at the front, she stood back a bit, studying the colorful menu above the cashiers.

Her face scrunched up in thought. Everything was in French. That is just so wrong. “Bagels?” she commented, looking at the pictures, “Burgers do not go on bagels!” she scoffed, clearly disturbed.

“What’re those?” she asked pointing to pictures of some wrap-type sandwiches.

“The Fish McWrap and the Goat McWrap,” Spike translated.

Buffy’s jaw dropped and she looked at him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t – she could tell, he didn’t have that evil glint in his eyes.

“Goat … goat?!” Buffy shuddered. “That’s just wrong.”

She looked back at the board again and her frown deepened. “Where’s the Quarter Pounder with Cheese?” she asked Spike.

“Errr … don’t see it, pet,” Spike confirmed.

“Philistines,” she growled.

“Sorry, luv,” Spike offered. “Got Big Mac,” he suggested.

Buffy pouted. “It’s not the same. The Big Mac’s all about the special sauce – which is basically French dressing …

“Hey! What do they call French dressing in France?” Buffy wondered suddenly, looking over at Spike with seriously inquisitive eyes. “Do they just call it ‘dressing’? Is it the same as our French dressing: doctored-up ketchup? And do they have an American dressing? Or is our French dressing their American dressing? Or do they have American-French dressing, which would be different than French-French dressing? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Spike just stared at her blankly for several of her heartbeats. “Your mind’s a scary bloody place, Summers,” he deadpanned.

Buffy smiled and turned back to the menu, lifting her chin proudly. “Thank you.”

After studying the menu-board another minute, she stepped up to an open cashier and placed her order – in good ole American-English. This was McDonald’s, damn it! “Four double-cheeseburgers, a supersized order of fries – you do have Heinz ketchup, don’t you?” she asked worriedly.

The clerk nodded.

Buffy let out a sigh of relief.  “Thank God,” she mumbled before continuing, “Ummm … a large Coke, and a hot fudge sundae.” Buffy turned to Spike, “Do you want anything?”

Spike choked. “Uhhh … I’ll just have some o’ your fries.”

Buffy turned back to the cashier. “Make that two supersized orders of fries.”

“Bloody hell, Slayer, you feeding a Mongol horde?” Spike asked as he pulled some cash from his pocket and handed the bills to the clerk.

Buffy rubbed the little bulge in her stomach and smiled demurely. “Pretty close.”

**~**

Buffy was giddy with anticipation as she slid into a booth with the tray of artery-clogging fast-food. She reverently peeled back the waxy paper from the first of her hamburgers as if unwrapping a jewel-encrusted Fabergé egg. Her mouth watered and she licked her lips as she took the top bun off the burger. She removed the pickles gingerly, barely touching them with the tips of her fingers, and setting them off to the side of the paper, before replacing the bun atop the burger.

Spike slid in across from her and watched her with amusement as she then opened a pack of Heinz ketchup – accept no substitutes! – with her teeth, and squeezed the contents out on the other side of the burger’s former wrapper turned serving platter. Next, she picked up three French fries, dragged the tips through the ketchup, and lifted them to her lips. She took a bite of the ketchup-coated fries, then lowered them and dunked them in the sauce again – yes, double-dipping is acceptable etiquette in McDonald’s – before finishing them with a glorious moan, licking the salt from her fingers. After that, she picked up the burger and took a large bite, following the potatoes with an all-beef-patty chaser.

"Can hear your arteries narrowing as we sit 'ere," he commented, watching her chew a large mouth-full of burger and bread.

"Everyone knows that blood flowing too freely is bad for you," Buffy retorted after washing her bite of ambrosia down with a drink of her Coke.

"That right?" Spike asked, quirking a brow at her suspiciously.

"Well, duh! If blood flowed too freely, you'd totally bleed to death from a paper cut! Geez, Spike ... I thought you'd know more about blood, considering your ... fascination with it."

Spike chuckled, shaking his head at her logic, and reached for one of her fries. She slapped his hand away adamantly. “Mine! Those are yours,” she informed him, tilting her head to the other order of fries on the tray.

“Touchy, you are, pet,” Spike complained, taking a few fries from his pack.

“Don’t get between a pregnant American and her McDonald’s fries,” Buffy warned, taking another bite of her hamburger.

“Words t’ live by, I reckon.”

Buffy nodded, switching back to devouring another trio of fries.

“Gonna eat them pickles?” Spike asked, eyeing the forlorn green discs on the paper.

Buffy scowled at him and wrinkled her nose. “Gross – no way. They’re … wilted.”

Spike laughed as he picked them up and popped them into his mouth. “Why don’t ya just ask for the burger without pickles, luv?”

“This is McDonald’s,” Buffy scoffed in explanation.

Spike’s brows furrowed, waiting for additional elucidation from her – nothing more came. He blew out a breath and shook his head as he ate more of his own fries. “You Yanks are a bloody strange lot.”

Buffy huffed out a breath. “At least we don’t have freaking goat wraps at McDonald’s.”

Spike shrugged. “Point.”

**~**

A couple of weeks later…

Buffy wandered in a seemingly aimless, meandering path through the hallowed halls of the Louvre, and Spike followed. Her eyes took in masterpiece after masterpiece, rarely settling on any one for long. She’d comment at times, but mostly she was silent as they literally strolled through history.

When even the Mona Lisa drew only gentle acknowledgment from her, Spike started to wonder if this had been a bad idea. She’d enjoyed the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, and even that cheesy, tourist-y boat tour on the River Seine. Of course, none of those things seemed to move her quite as much as that first trip into McDonald’s. Yanks!

Still, it was possible they’d never be in Paris again, and he wanted to make sure she at least saw the high points lest she regret it later.

So, when Buffy finally stopped her amble, Spike took note. He stood next to her and a little behind where he could watch her face as much as look at the sculpture she was gazing at intently. After a full minute had passed in silence she remarked, “It doesn’t look like a shoe.”

Spike pulled his top lip between his teeth to smother the chuckle that threatened, then cleared his throat. “Nike was a goddess before she was a shoe, pet. The Goddess of Victory.”

Buffy looked at him a moment, her expression unreadable. “Oh. I knew that,” she asserted flatly, looking back at the giant, winged statue before them.

“This is called ‘Winged Victory of Samothrace’ – it’s Greek. Been here since 1884 – I remember Dru wanted me to steal …”

Buffy cocked a brow at him.

“Errrr …” he stammered, ducking his head uncomfortably.

“So, did you?” Buffy asked, giving him a suspicious look.

“Still here, innit?” he pointed out, waving a hand at the enormous marble deity. “Too bloody heavy.”

Buffy blinked. “So you did try to steal it,” she deduced.

Spike shrugged. “Didn’t ‘ave enough minions t’ carry the soddin’ thing,” he explained. “Don’t know what she wanted it for – said it spoke to ‘er. Good bloody thing Miss Edith came along, I’d a’ hated to lug that chunk o’ rock around the bloody globe with us.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and looked back at the statue, which seemed capable of taking flight at any moment. “That’s wrong on so many levels.”

“What? Do anything for my girl,” Spike reminded her.

Buffy shook her head. “Not that; the fact that Dru and I were both drawn to it. But it’s got … something…” Buffy furrowed her brow and tilted her head slightly as she tried to find words to describe what it was.

“Power? Elegance? Grace? Dignity? Grandeur? Exultation?” Spike supplied.

Buffy nodded absently, agreeing to all those, as she began to move around the colossal marble sculpture in a slow circle.

“A certain je ne sais quoi?” Spike offered when she didn’t actually answer. He began stalking after her, following in her awed wake.

“I don’t speak French … much,” Buffy reminded him, not taking her eyes off the sculpture. “But, it has a certain something … I don’t know what.”

Spike stifled another laugh with a cough. “That’s what ‘je ne sais quoi’ means, luv.”

Buffy looked at him. “What?”

“‘I don’t know what,’” Spike answered.

Buffy frowned. “If you don’t know what it means, then why are you saying it?”

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “It means: ‘I don’t know what’,” he ground out slowly as if speaking to a dimwitted, perhaps comatose, puppy.

“You really shouldn’t say stuff in other languages if you don’t know what it means, Spike. I know in school, a kid got me to say–”

“Buffy,” Spike cut her off, his tone scolding. “I do know what it bloody means. It means ... ‘a certain something’. Literally, ‘I don’t know what.’”

“And again I say …” Buffy began, but a teasing smile quirked the corner of her mouth and gave her away.

“You cheeky wench,” Spike growled when he realized she was taking the piss out of him. He pulled her into an embrace and dipped his head to nibble on the curve of her shoulder where it met her neck. “I should drain you and leave you at the goddess’ feet for that,” he snarled against her skin.

Buffy laughed and, despite the searing bliss of his lips against her skin, she pushed him back. “People are looking,” she whispered, casting furtive glances around at the other patrons.

“Let ‘em look. Just jealous, they are. All they can do is look at the soddin’ sculpture, I got the real thing.”

Buffy couldn’t help the grin that spread over her face or the swell that filled her heart, which actually made it hard to breathe. She turned in his arms and looked back at the magnificent Goddess of Triumph, leaning against Spike’s strong back, and holding his arms around her tummy and their babies.

“I think it suits us … we won,” she murmured.

“We did, luv,” Spike agreed, nuzzling her neck gently. “That we did.”

**~**

A couple of weeks later, back in London…

Buffy stood as still as the statue that Spike had compared her to back in Paris, but she felt none of the overwhelming awe that it had inspired as she looked through the observation window and into the small room. Despite her stiff, perhaps even detached, stature, her heart was thundering painfully in her chest, threatening to break her ribs, and she could barely breathe.

“You alright, luv?” Spike asked worriedly, his words gentle and guarded.

She nodded. Once. A barely perceivable motion of her head only noticeable because of the slight shift of her hair. Nothing else moved.

“Breathe, pet,” Spike advised, moving closer to her and laying a comforting hand at the small of her back. Spike was afraid he'd made a terrible mistake letting Buffy talk him into bringing her here.

Another miniscule nod.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Spike continued, his gaze following hers through the reinforced glass to the blind man on the other side.

She did not nod this time, but did try quite resolutely to breathe.

“What happened to him?” Buffy wondered, her voice a bare squeak of breath through her suddenly dry lips.

Spike swallowed. “Doc says they found ‘im stripped, gagged, strung up, and locked in ‘is garage. Apparently a hive o’ angry hornets was left with him … and a bloody bucket-full o’ red ants … and a few crows. Did a bit of a number on ‘im, they did. Said he’d been in there a good, long while ‘fore anyone realized he was missin’. Shame that.”

Buffy slowly turned her head and looked at Spike, her eyes wide. Her words to Spike echoed in her mind, I want to … to … strip his clothes off, string him up, and pour red ants all over him, then put him in a room with a hive of hornets, and then bury him up to his neck in the desert and let the buzzards peck his eyes out and eat his brain.

“You.”

Spike pursed his lips and shook his head, tapping a finger to his forehead. “Can’t. He’s human … technically speaking, of course.”

Buffy looked back at her worst nightmare come to life, now broken, blinded, strapped to a hospital bed, and lost in catatonia.

“Joan,” she amended softly, remembering the three days Spike and Joan had been gone supposedly securing transport for the three of them back to the States. At the time he’d insisted that it would be boring, that the trip would be long and tiring, and he had suggested that Buffy just relax on the beach while he and Joan took care of it.

Spike shrugged noncommittally.

“Couldn’t catch any buzzards to put in there with him, huh?” she asked flatly. “I guess the crows worked.”

Spike shrugged again. “Dunno what you mean, luv.”

Buffy snorted a wordless scoff, clearly not fooled.

“What do ya want t’ do?” Spike asked, ignoring her cynicism.

Buffy didn’t answer. She just stared at the monster that had haunted her nightmares – both sleeping and awake – for weeks. The monster that had violated her, who she was sure had tried his best to make her abort her babies, who had weakened her and used her and humiliated her and …

She clenched her jaw and refused to allow the painful memories to bring tears to her eyes. She wasn’t weak anymore. She could smash through that window and crush the life out of him before any of the hospital’s orderlies could intervene. She felt rage surge up from her belly. Her body stiffened and she began to tremble with the depth of her anger. She fought against it just as she’d fought the tears, even as her heart hammered ever harder against her ribs, urging her to act, to exact the ultimate revenge, to kill the bastard.

“Buffy?” Spike’s voice was very near, very soft.

Buffy closed her eyes and forced a deep breath of the horrid-smelling air of the mental hospital into her lungs. As she continued to breathe in the sickly-smelling air, her trembling slowed and finally ceased, and her heart-rate began to pull back until it was a mere gallop.

“Nothing,” she said finally. “Leave him.”

Spike leaned forward so she could see his face. “You sure?”

She blinked her eyes open and was immediately blanketed by the cobalt blue depths of love and concern that were Spike’s eyes. The rage within her waned, replaced by the warmth and courage that Spike brought her. She nodded, this time more adamantly.

“I refuse to be turned into a monster like him,” she said after a moment, her words steeled with the strength of her anchor.

Spike nodded, and looked away, hiding a wince. And like me? he wondered grimly.

Spike turned back to look at the crazed skeleton that used to be a human. Its thin, pallid skin was covered with angry, red welts, pustules, and wounds from its ordeal in the garage. Its eyes were covered with formerly-white bandages, now stained brown with blood and other fluids that oozed from the empty sockets.

“Living like this is probably more punishment that I could’ve ever delivered anyway,” she continued, as her breathing and heart-rate both slowly came under control, and her adrenaline grudgingly waned.

She turned her gaze to Spike who stood beside her, his hand still resting gently against the small of her back. She knew he’d done it for her. He’d done it so she wouldn’t have to. He did it so she would never have to free the raging monster within her that wanted revenge, and then face that monster in the mirror every morning. “Thank you.”

Spike cocked a brow, slowly turning his face back to hers. “For what?”

“Putting him here.”

Spike lowered his eyes and gave her a slight nod. It would be the only acknowledgement on the subject that he’d ever give her.

**~**

Buffy woke the next evening with excited butterflies dancing in her stomach. They were starting for home – back to America – today. Spike hadn’t divulged much of the travel arrangements to her, other than to say they’d be sailing and passports wouldn’t be an issue. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know any more, honestly. She loved him, but his methods were sometimes … questionable. She knew he didn’t hurt anyone to secure their passage, but being ignorant of just what he had done, she’d decided, was probably best.

Buffy had never sailed before – well not on anything as large and grand as whatever would cross the Atlantic – and she was giddy with excitement about the upcoming adventure.

She looked down and ran her fingers through her lover’s disheveled hair, spiking it up in places where the curls would allow. He looked so angelic, sleeping with his ear pressed against her abdomen, listening for their babies’ heartbeats. He said he could hear them sometimes, although at their last appointment before leaving France, Marie-Élise said it would probably be a few more weeks before they could actually be heard with a stethoscope, and that it was probably Buffy’s heartbeat he was hearing. Spike hadn’t argued with the midwife, but grumbled that he knew the bloody difference when he and Buffy were alone. Buffy was sure he was right – if anyone knew the difference, it would be Spike.

She’d awoken with him in this position on more than one morning, and it warmed the cockles of her heart … whatever they were. He was the strangest vampire she’d ever known or even heard of. That wasn’t a giant revelation to her now, of course, but it still made her smile thinking about her first meeting with the Big Bad. If she’d only known then what she knew now, how different would her life have been?

Buffy intertwined the fingers of her other hand with the hand Spike had resting on the slope of her tummy just under her breasts and was met with something unexpected: jewelry. He hadn’t been wearing any jewelry lately – or even painting his nails black, for that matter.

She lifted his hand up and looked at it. On his left ring finger was a plain gold band – a wedding band. Her brow furrowed. When the hell had Spike gotten married? And to who? Buffy shook her head, that was crazy. Of course Spike wasn’t married. But why was he wearing a …

“Mornin’ luv,” he murmured, his eyes blinking open as a wide yawn parted his lips.

“Something you want to share with the class, Mr. Pratt?” Buffy questioned, turning his hand so he could see the ring on his own finger.

Spike cleared his throat and sat up from his awkward sleeping position, where he’d been using her belly as a pillow. His back cracked and popped a few times as he straightened it. Then he tilted his head from side to side, eliciting more loud cracks of bone settling back into their proper alignment.

He was stalling. Buffy knew the tactic. She waited.

“Nothin’ to tell, is there?” he said at last, twirling the ring with his thumb. “Just thought it’d look better if we … well … didn’t want anyone t’ think … that the bits … that I didn’t … that you were … that …”

Buffy’s brows inched upward the longer he stammered. She let him keep on stuttering for a while before offering, “You didn’t want anyone to think I was an unmarried, shameless hussy carrying bastard babies belonging to some unknown father?”

“Well. Now that you mention it … yeah,” Spike agreed.

“So … you … what? Stole some…”

“Didn’t steal!” Spike defended. “Bought,” he assured her as he pulled two smaller-sized rings from the pinky of his right hand and held them out to her.

Buffy glared at him incredulously, ignoring the proffered jewelry: a small, almost infinitesimal, diamond engagement ring and a plain gold wedding band.

“Wow. That is soooo romantic,” she sneered at last, still ignoring the rings.

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise. “I … errr … huh?”

Buffy huffed out a disgusted breath and tossed the covers off. “Sorry to interrupt this farce, but I’ve got to pee,” she announced as she got up and stalked to the bathroom. The door slammed behind her, leaving Spike utterly confused in the subsequent silence of the hotel room.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and waited for her to return, trying to suss out his hormonal Slayer. Not even half-way through her pregnancy and she was already driving him mad with her un-suss-able mood swings.

When she finally emerged several minutes later, he stood up and tried again. “I know the diamond isn’t much, luv,” he offered apologetically. “Can get somethin' nicer later, after we're settled. Thought you’d rather spend our money on a house for the bits than a little bauble for your hand. ”

“Did you? Well, that was very thoughtful, Spike,” she snarled back, walking past him to retrieve her clothes for the day.

He watched her sorting angrily through her suitcase – which had been neatly packed a moment ago – shoving things this way and that, to find what she wanted. After a moment, her hands went still and her chin dropped to her chest. He could just see a small quake of a sob shudder her shoulders.

Bloody hormonal woman, Spike thought to himself, but his anger lost its edge when he smelled her tears.

“Buffy?” he tried, his voice gentle. “What’s wrong, pet?” he asked, moving forward to stand behind her.

“Nothing,” she replied, her voice cracking with the tears he couldn’t see but could smell, and now feel, stab into his heart.

“Please tell me,” Spike begged, gently turning her around to face him. He touched one curled finger under her chin and lifted her face up to his. “Buffy, what did I do?”

She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. “Nothing. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry the ring’s not…”

She shook her head again. “It’s fine. It’s … There’s nothing wrong with the rings. They’re … perfect.”

“Then what?” Spike wondered, wishing she’d just for once in her bloody life not make him figure out what was rambling around in her scrambled, barmy, Slayer brain.

Buffy swiped angrily at her traitorous tears and took the rings from Spike’s hand. “Blame Walt Disney,” she said cryptically as she shakily slid the rings on her finger – they fit perfectly.

Spike was sure a day would come when his face would freeze into a permanent befuddled caricature of himself – it was only a matter of time – as he tried to understand his Slayer.

“You’re upset ‘cos I didn’t take you to Disneyland Paris?” he guessed.

Buffy choked out a bittersweet laugh. “No. It’s just …” she waved a hand vaguely – her left hand, with the rings. She sighed. “I guess I just always thought … one day … someone would … ask me to marry him and … it would be … not like this. Not a … lie – not an act.

“I thought there would be … little cartoon bluebirds fluttering around dropping rose petals on my head, and pounding, cartoon hearts bouncing around my chest, and … angels singing ... harps and trumpets. It’s just … stupid girl stuff. Fucking Walt Disney and his stupid movies,” she spat, turning back around to resume her search for something to wear.

Spike’s jaw dropped open. “Buffy … are you sayin’ … what are you saying?”

“I’m saying Cinderella is a skanky ho bitch who should die a horrible death, and I damn sure won’t ever let little Dawn watch any Disney movies,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her task. “They’re just … cruel … and … and heartbreaking when girls grow up and find out it’s all a horrible lie. Life’s not like the movies.”

“B-but …” Spike stammered, his heart suddenly in his throat. “You … I didn’t think you … when you were trying out the names for the bits … you didn’t … yours … you didn’t ever say … Buffy … Pratt. I didn’t think you … wanted to actually … marry …”

Buffy turned around slowly and looked at him.

“…me,” he finished, his eyes delving into hers, trying to see the truth.

“Oh, Spike,” Buffy sighed out tenderly, her shoulders slumping. “You are such a dope sometimes.”

Spike flinched like she’d slapped him. “I am not. You’re a bloody barmy, hormonal bird that the Amazing Kreskin wouldn’t be able to suss out!”

“What are you saying?” Buffy replied huffily, her posture straightening as she planted her fists firmly on hips.

“Saying that, if I’d known you wanted t’ get married, would’ve … done … this different, wouldn’t I?” he growled back, his hands mimicking hers as he leaned nearer to her.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Spike asserted, his lips snarling away from his teeth. “Give me those, Fairy Tale Girl,” he demanded, reaching for her hand and practically yanking the rings off. “I’ll show you bloody Cinderella,” he growled more to himself than her as he stuffed her rings into his pocket along with his own.

“What are you doing?” Buffy nearly screeched as he took the rings back. “You’ve lost your freaking mind!”

“No doubt about that, Summers. Would happen to anyone that hangs around the likes of you for more than two days, I reckon.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and replaced her hand on her hip, resuming her annoyed stance. “Now you don’t care if people think I’m a skanky, preggo ho?” she wondered incredulously.

Spike smirked at her and took a step back. “Well, apparently, it was good enough for Cinder-bloody-rella, reckon it’s good enough for you.”

“Vampires!” Buffy exclaimed, rolling her eyes and tossing her hands in the air in defeat. “There's never a sharp, pointy stick handy when you need one.”

**~**