Nemesis

[nextpage title=”Part One” ]

Part One: The Shrew

She hated him.

She hated him, and that was the way it was. Every thought of him was compact with raw, brutal, hate that had no boundaries. Her emotions were driven by perceived truths and faltered reasoning with no logic in between. Time had worn any previous want of understanding to a fine point of no return. There had never been loathing like this. It stretched every nerve in her weary body—every last fiber of her aching being. God, she was so tired of waiting.

The world was a cold, tainted place, and she hated him. Life had continued, and she hated him. There was school every day and patrol every night, and she hated him.

She sank into an endless tedium of routine, and all her courses seemed to remind her why she hated him. It was fortunate that her classmates were used to irregular periods of excessive weirdness. Such behavior had the potential to make them talk even more than they did already.

Hatred like this was not born simply. At first, there had been nothing—nothing aside from the sideways glances from her friends, the forlorn and overdrawn expression on her Watcher’s face, and the not-so-direct questions from the would-be love of her life. Buffy had found herself adrift, her mind taking her back again and again to the panic room. Her dreams returned her to Spike’s arms; she was warm and safe in Spike’s arms. Then she would wake up, cold and alone, and remember how simply things had been before he screwed up her life. Before he threw everything into question.

Not only that, but he had bolted the hell out of Dodge in the blink of an eye. She was alone in her confusion, and she hated him.

Her focus on everyday, menial tasks had become singular over the past few weeks. Patience was not her virtue. She couldn’t remember waking up that first morning and feeling different—aside from the ongoing civil war in her head—though looking back, there had to be something. Time had passed, but not much. Not enough to root her into such a cycle of endless resentment.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what was worse: the fact that she didn’t regret it, or the fact that she missed him. Then there were other facts weighing in; the fact that he said he would leave town or the fact that he had and—for once—kept his word. The fact that she had to look at Angel everyday and know that she had betrayed him. The fact that Spike said he would come back or the fact that he had yet to live up to his word.

In the beginning, it had only been time, and she had accepted that. She had demanded that. She remembered looking at him standing outside her bedroom—remembered her urge to unlatch her window and welcome him inside. Honestly, she didn’t know what she’d been thinking. How had she come to the conclusion that enforced distance would magically solve her problems and clear her confusion? And now time had passed. Time had passed, nothing was resolved, and she’d gone from missing him to feeling used. He came into her life, turned it upside down, said thanks, and bolted. Now it had been weeks, and she was facing the lions den alone.

Buffy purposely avoided her own counter of logic that screamed that he had only done what she asked of him. Her will, however, was not to be satisfied. In what deluded world did Spike ever do what she asked of him? Twice before she’d asked him to leave permanently, and twice he had made a defiant return. Now that she wanted him back—if only to kick his pasty ass for the hell he’d put her through—why on earth was he abiding by her wish?

It wasn’t as though progress had been made. Her mind kept talking itself into circles, and time was doing little to heal her headache. Her pangs of resentment only grew more intense, particularly as she found herself at Angel’s side nearly every night. The first few evenings, she had been on her toes, half expecting the bleached wonder to pop out of the shadows. All balls and swagger—itching, leering, waiting to throw what had happened between them into Angel’s face; but no. Patrol was uneventful save the few vampires she came across, and had turned, more or less, into an exercise in distance. She routinely found herself dodging Angel’s inquiring stares. The slanted looks that screamed his unrest with the way she had left things off. There was no sense in denying the space between them. Since her night with Spike, she had yet to really talk with Angel at all; despite all the time they spent together.

She had never trusted Angel; never not suspected him of something. Anything. That mindset had not been improved since his stint as Angelus. And even with all that, it was she who broke their promise of fidelity.

And she was alone.

That was the main source of her hatred. Not Spike’s absence, per se, but the feeling that she had such emotional baggage to sort through and no one to help her along the way. She fought the intrinsic need to tell Willow—not for fear of revulsed or horror—rather, speaking the words aloud meant her betrayal had actually occurred. It affixed the reality onto something she was nearly convinced, despite her bitterness, was a wild fantasy conjured by too many nightly chats with Faith.

Thus, she suffered alone.

She wondered if he’d had his fill of her. After all, Drusilla had sent him back to Sunnydale in a freakishly roundabout way. He had confessed as much to her in a blinding fit of anger before pounding her into the wall. Perhaps she’d been a craving that he simply needed to get out of his system. Perhaps now that he’d had sex with a slayer, he was able to return to whatever sense of normalcy an evil thing could muster.

He had satisfied his craving by pouring it into her. Yeah, that was fair.

And there were cravings. There were cravings so desperate she was certain she would explode with frustration. Amidst the burning fuel of her relentless repugnance, there were nightly conjugal visitations that played nicely in the forbidden corridors of her memory palace. Her dream-Spike seduced her, bantered with her, thrust inside her and murmured as he came. And then he’d leave her—he’d fade away and she’d awaken and be alone all over again.

She hated him.

The line refused to end there. There was a sea of endless possibilities, all resulting in a big batch of Buffy-hatred. She ignored the inner voice that screamed a more logical solution. Perhaps he hadn’t been satisfied. Her experience had to be laughable compared to the tantalizing whims of a psychotic temptress. He had sampled the goods and wasn’t impressed. Hell, if it hadn’t been for being trapped in that room to begin with, he likely would have left. It seemed there was a growing trend amongst her demon lovers. True examples of love ‘em and leave ‘em.

And with each fabrication of likelihood, the hatred kept building.

He had polluted her. He had crawled under her skin and made himself at home. He was a virus. A nasty, incurable virus that was consuming her whole. And in light of that, perhaps it was wise that he stayed away. If he dared show himself now, she would have to kill him. Simple as that.

Buffy sighed. She had to let it go. After all, in the end, she had done this to herself; that was what she hated the most. Beyond Spike’s diligent adherence to her request, beyond the upside-down mockery that her life had become, beyond her friends’ whispers, beyond pensive glances from her boyfriend, she had no one else to blame. It had been her decision. Spike had only voiced his desires, and she’d pulled him in instead of shoving him away.

And yet, in spite of all the logic in the world, she refused to admit it. It was so much easier blaming it on Spike.

It always came back to Spike.

Currently, Buffy sat cross-legged on the floor of Willow’s bedroom, doodling artless shapes on the corner of her algebra homework. She was only mildly aware that her friend had been speaking animatedly for the past half hour, answering with the compulsory, “Uh huh” and “Interesting” when the timing seemed appropriate.

She’d become a ghost to her friends. A shadow of who she usually was. And again, she knew she was doing it. She knew that her temper was easily provoked, and every time she made an effort to calm herself, her mood only worsened. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, and they would never understand. What was there to explain? What could she possibly begin to say that would define her behavior as rational? What was there outside of the truth?

Nope, there was nothing to say. Nothing to do but nod disinterestedly as Willow rambled on about the Dingos’ recent performance.

Only it seemed she wasn’t even feigning interest successfully.

“Hey! Hey? Buffy!”

“Huh?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

Whatever it was that she said had apparently been the wrong thing. Her friend’s face fell to a state of near-cold understanding. “That thing where you don’t listen to me.”

Buffy blinked and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Will. I just…really behind, you know.” She gestured broadly to the ignored textbook. “This…problem’s kicking my ass.”

“And here I thought it was only demons that did that.”

“Hey!”

“Aha! See? You heard that.”

The Slayer smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little spacey.”

Much to her surprise, the redhead simply glanced down, tucking her hair behind her ear. “No problem,” she murmured. “Believe me, I’m used to it.”

At that, Buffy frowned. She knew what Willow was talking about, but that didn’t mean she liked being called on her mood swings. “What does that mean?”

Willow usually backed off when she adapted that tone of voice. The first go-rounds had made it very clear that her friend would never spill what it was that had happened on her birthday. The first dozen or so questions about Buffy’s up-close and personal encounter with William the Bloody had crashed and burned too many times to count. At some point, Willow had stopped asking and accepted Buffy’s newfound irritability.

Tonight, though, the redhead was not backing off. “Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she retorted. “Then again, big surprise. I don’t know much about anything these days, do I? You don’t tell me anything.”

“What does my homework have to do with me telling you anything, other than math and me being non-mixy things?”

Willow shook her head furiously. “You don’t even tell me that anymore. No Angel gossip, no complaints about Faith, no ‘I hate Snyder’ or ‘why doesn’t Ms. Penticuff understand the responsibilities of Slayerdom’? Not anything! Buffy, you’ve been here for an hour and a half and the only thing you’ve managed to write down is your name and a spiral-thingy in the corner of the page. You came over so I could help you, and you’re being all avoidy girl.”

The hurt in her friend’s voice struck a poignant nerve and it wasn’t like she didn’t know that she wasn’t being fair, but she hadn’t the strength to offer apologies. Apologies led to discussion, discussions led to explanations, and explanations led to a world of no.

“My mind’s somewhere else.”

“Well, color me astonished.”

Buffy’s head reeled upward and she glared daggers. The vindictiveness flooding Willow’s tone was nothing if not justified; that didn’t mean she had to sit back and welcome it. “What do you want me to say?” she snapped.

“How about anything? Anything would be a good start.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve just about had it,” Willow retorted impatiently. This strained tension between them was worse than when she returned from Los Angeles last summer. “You can’t keep telling me that nothing’s wrong and expect me to believe it. Hello, best friend here! I’ve been trying to talk to you ever since you got here and you just shut me out. I must have covered every topic there is out there. If all this was about Faith, I’d understand. But it’s not. Something—”

Buffy threw her arms up in frustrated concession. Without further ado, she began collecting the materials scattered around them. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she decided shortly.

“Of course not! Go ahead, Buf. Run away. Shut me out. That sounds new and exciting.”

“Forget it.”

“I can’t very well forget it.” The Slayer was halfway out the door when her friend finally climbed to her feet to go after her. “And it’s not just me. You keep pretending everything’s all nice and normal and tra la la la, but everyone has noticed it. You keep shutting us out!”

Buffy’s eyes darkened and she pivoted meaningfully on her heel. “I’m going through stuff, here!” she snapped. “I mean, you know. With Faith and her random decision that vamps aren’t enough, let’s stake humans and see how they—”

“Don’t even try to pin this on Faith.” Willow was actually shaking with anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen that before. “You were acting wiggy before she killed the Mayor’s assistant. And hey—let’s not mention the random acts of violence. Breaking into that shop, for one thing. Oh-oh! And Angel told me that you really wailed on this vamp the other night before—”

“You and Angel have been comparing notes behind my back?”

“Well, we would talk to you, but you’ve made it beyond clear that you aren’t interested in what we have to say.” There was a heated moment of silence, color draining from the redhead’s face as she heaved a deep breath and consigned her eyes to the ground, overcoming her temper with a heady note of concession. When she spoke again, her tone was calm and tempered. “I just want you to talk to me. You’ve been all with the distance for…well, if I want to be really honest, ever since your little romp with Spike on your birthday. I—”

Astonishment filled her wholly. “My…my what with Spike?”

“You know…with the being locked in with him and everything. I mean, I can see how that would put the wig in your wig out.Hours in a room with him alone? I was wigged enough when he locked me up with Xander, and let’s so not go there. But ever since…”

No. No no no. There was absolutely no way she was going to have this discussion. Buffy backed further down the hall, shaking her head violently. “I gotta go.”

It was a matter of physics. How far could she run before she started screaming in all-out mind-consuming rage?

God, she hated him. Hated him and his thoughtlessness. Killing her would have been a sweeter mercy. At least the dead didn’t have guilt. At least the dead didn’t have to wake up every morning and face her friends with the knowledge that she was hurting them with her distance.

She hated him. She knew she did.

If only she could convince herself.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Two” ]

Part Two: Dinner and a Show

A date. A real date. With all the drama and heartache Angel had put her through in the past year of their relationship, it seemed both bizarre and sweet that he’d want to take her out. They’d never really been on a date before—patrolling and battles to the death weren’t exactly equitable with movies, flowers, and candy kisses. The whole prospect of dating Angel was so simple and complicated at the same time—she wanted to laugh until she cried.

In all honesty, Buffy’s last real date had been years ago. One of the last years before she became the Slayer. Nothing else was comparable. Her brief interest in Owen had resulted in an evening full of vamps to be slain, and similarly, the would-be relationship with Scott always skittered around the inevitable, “By the way, and I know how crazy this is gonna sound…”

Angel had asked her out on a date. Friday. Date night. Bearing in mind that she hadn’t realized they were on comfortable speaking terms, this was considerable progress. An amiably pleasant, if not peculiar, pursuit to draw her embittered attention to the once-dazzling highlights of her life.

Despite her distancing, there was the want and need to acknowledge that some things would never change, even if the rest of the world did.

The evening itself was long and awkward. Dinner stretched into what had to be hours. Hours filled with long, empty silences and a quip or two about how they didn’t serve Angel’s favorite food. Buffy was acquainted with the various forms of silence. There were silences that spoke for things that neither party could say. Silences filled with quiet understanding. Silences where—

An ocean of discovery. It was so dark, but she could see his eyes—hazed and bewildered, studying her severely. Nothing else…but for the pants fighting to be heard over the loudest silence she could bear to remember.

There would be no thinking of that night right now. Even with the noise that surrounded them that seemed to withstand the push for a meaningful conversation. Beyond the ‘how are yous’ and affirmations of general well being. Buffy sat and watched him. Watched him watch her. Watched as they tacitly concluded there was nothing to say. Nothing that either was willing to discuss, as it were.

Buffy found her nerves pressed when Angel spoke, always terrified that he would eventually cross that final threshold. He hadn’t yet—he had more control, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually, he would reach a breaking point. It would happen someday; Angel would eventually seize her by the shoulders and shake her until she spilled what it was that had happened those few weeks ago. She knew he thought about it. He thought about it often.

And they didn’t talk.

With as much as she would like to blame him, Buffy understood that what had occurred was not simply because of Spike. Her layers of hostility brewed and festered, but that truth remained untarnished. Spike’s intrusion into her life had not changed anything that didn’t need changing. Rather, the entire affair had only brought her to a pivotal realization that otherwise might have taken years to reach.

That hurt, because she knew she’d once loved Angel. She’d once loved him, but she didn’t now. Not in the way she had. Not in an everlasting way. He was no different than any girl’s first love: he would remain bottled and kept with fondness, but that was it. Her first love had come and gone, and now she carried on with him as though waiting for the director to yell cut so she could return to her regularly scheduled life. She needed a place to stop; a place to acknowledge the finale of their once-great love. There was heartache and despair down that road, but she’d been there before. Angel had shown her everything—love, yes, but moreover: turmoil, grief, and death. That was his great contribution to her life.

Without saying a word, he could make her feel like such a child.

It was different now. Spike had complicated things by opening her eyes, and she dealt with that recognition by calling it hate. It felt like she and Angel had—for all intents and purposes—already separated, only they’d skipped the messy ‘we need to talk’ thing.

Despite everything, Buffy didn’t want to think about it. The idea of formally breaking up with Angel, putting a technical end to their relationship, had her road-blocked. He was her first, and she clung to that. She remembered daydreaming about where they would be in twenty years, when she was no longer plagued with the burdens of Slayerness, and for a long time, those dreams had starred Angel by her side. A concocted fantasy that she now knew would never be.

To say that her first adult relationship was over felt like wishing away the last gasp of childhood altogether, as though the barrier had not been broken already.

The world was already too confusing to worry about absolutes.

If anything, dinner reminded her why she and Angel rarely went out. His affinity for appearing human did not stretch to his eating habits. She felt that he was punishing himself for being anything less than a man. As though she would forget everything he had done if he smiled soulfully in her direction.

It wasn’t until they were ready to leave that he tripped over an area of discussion that merited more than the obligatory one-word reply. A subject she would like to never mention again. Perhaps it was some strange contingent of irrational feminine logic, but she couldn’t abide the tone of voice he adopted when he spoke of her. “How is Faith?”

A dark shudder rippled through her. Things had been quiet on the Faith front since she killed the Mayor’s aide. Small talk in the greater scheme of things. Buffy was sore on the subject, but not to the point where she would stop their nightly constitutionals. Ever since the birthday-extravaganza, it seemed the other slayer was the only one that refused to hound her for details or regard her as though she were diseased; either because she was too wrapped in her own emotional working or simply didn’t care. It was odd, given her self-proclaimed, god-given right to pry into Buffy’s love life whenever she felt like it. Not a suggestive word had come out of Faith’s mouth in reference to that night.

Of course, that could be attributed to the latest weirdness with her and the Xander kissage. Well, more than kissage, but Buffy really preferred to steer clear of those visuals.

And now Angel was asking about her. He should know. He was her biggest sponsor at Slayer Rehab. Their nights apart left too much to the imagination. The other Slayer’s occasional absence seemed to coincide with Angel’s excuses of ‘I’m busy tonight’ whenever Buffy got around to asking for his time. All things considered, the thought shouldn’t bother her like it did. Not when she was realizing that whatever they had was over. Not when she had betrayed him so willingly. A few hours locked in a steel box with another vampire could do wonders to one’s fidelity.

“She’s good,” Buffy replied softly, attempting to mask her disdain. “I think she’s…she’s dealing slowly. Trying to come to terms…”

The look that flashed across Angel’s face was reflective and understanding. It made her insides boil. “It’ll take time,” he acknowledged. “She went through something traumatic.”

Yeah, because standing there and watching was a walk in the park for me.

“As it shows in her everyday behavior.”

It was impossible not to hear the disdain dripping from her voice.

“People can put up surprising walls, Buffy,” Angel reprimanded with a frown. “We all have our ways of dealing… it took me forever to come to any level of rational acceptance. Faith is…different. She’s coping with what she has done in the only way she knows.”

“By partying?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Well, ain’t that typical? She wondered offhandedly if Spike’s love bite on her throat was meant to pass on some of his more basic urges. That would certainly explain the Angel can be such an ass mantras that had a way of slipping in and out of daily thought.

“I wouldn’t understand,” she repeated incredulously, huffing in aggravation. “Of course I wouldn’t understand. How can I? It’s just another one of those members-only things where—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” she replied, waving airily as she moved to finish off her water. He was not satisfied with that, she knew, but at the moment, she honestly couldn’t give a damn. Not where Faith was concerned.

The rest of dinner was conducted in silence. Neither had anything to say. This was the way it was. Things would be better once they got to the movie. Conversation was not required, and they didn’t have to look at each other if they didn’t want to.

That was, unless her boyfriend was expecting an enactment of what most high school students did while pretending to be interested in whatever film was playing. She really, really hoped not. The idea of kissing him was too wigsome now, especially when her lips still burned from Spike’s passion.

She didn’t want to touch Angel while her mind was with someone else.

*~*~*

Bad, bad movie decision. Bad. A whole world full of bad. Bad to the point of not being able to express the extremity of badness. All the bad in the universe could not have prepared her for a cinematic experience of this variety.

Why oh why had they walked into porn? And why oh why hadn’t anyone stopped them?

Amazingly, Angel remained stoic throughout most of the film, hardly batting an eye if not to toss her an apologetic glance. She wondered if that could be accredited to the two hundred-plus years of experience working in his favor.

Despite whatever mental fallout she currently battled, there was one thing that would remain fresh and permanent in Buffy’s mind. Her time with Angel had moved her, soiled only by the knowledge of what had happened after. He’d been tender and intimate; embodied everything that ‘making love’ was all about. And she’d loved him. She’d loved him so much that her love had destroyed her, her friends, and everything she held dear.

He had been considerate and gentle. He had been everything a girl could want in her first experience.

Well, until he spoke.

“It’s what? Bells ringing, fireworks, a dulcet choir of pretty little birdies? Come on, Buffy. It’s not like I’ve never been there before.”

Buffy flinched and jerked away from him, ignoring the confused look she earned. It wasn’t his fault, she knew. He had not said those words to her. He had not filled her mind with doubt. He had not intentionally broken her.

No, that was Angelus.

“Somethin’ I oughta tell you, before we get back to tradin’ nasty jibes,” Spike said, nudging her head with his. Buffy blinked sleepily and yawned, fighting the urge to stretch. It was still dark, and still hours from any perceptible disruption from the outside world. “Not sure exactly how long we’re gonna be snuggled all comfy-like.”

That very thought had crossed her mind more than once, but she refused to voice her insecurity. She stifled another yawn and reclined comfortably against his shoulder. “You better tell me now,” she warned. “A sleepy slayer is a grumpy slayer. I can’t be held accountable for the monster you’ll wake up to tomorrow if I don’t get my beauty rest.”

Spike rumbled in amusement. She loved the feel of it; rippling sensations across her skin, as if making a point of sharing every smile with him. Every barb of laughter that accompanied every ill-timed pun or horrible joke. From enemies to friends to lovers to lovers who were friends in a matter of hours.

“Beauty rest is overrated, kitten,” he told her. “’Sides, from where I’m sittin’, you’ve already had your fill.”

“You’re either trying to make me blush with that compliment, or you’re very horny.”

“Both, actually. You mind?”

She felt another yawn approaching but hadn’t the strength to push it inward. “Get to the point, Spike.”

Another chuckle. His cool lips found her forehead. “Where’s all that slayer stamina I’ve been dreamin’ about?”

“I’m all stamina’d out. And…dreaming?”

“Yeh. You’re a right annoyin’ chit once you get stuck in someone’s head, you know that?” His fingers ran down her arms, eliciting shivers and goose bumps, and he purred his delight. “Like those musical numbers I was tellin’ you about earlier, only a lot more…entertainin’.”

She found the notion sinfully pleasant. To the point that she was on the verge of asking about the various scenarios and positions his wicked mind had entertained before remembering that he had awoken her for a reason.

“Again with the point. Points are a good thing. They’re nice and…pointy.”

Easy set-up. Spike barked a laugh in return, squeezing her closer to him and settling contentedly. “I’ll let that one slide, pet.”

“Thank God.”

Spike graced her temple with a tender kiss, fingers finding the bite mark she had allowed him to give her earlier that night. It was astounding—how considerate he could be. The compassion he had displayed in the past few hours alone was blowing her away. Counterpoint to everything she had ever experienced before. “What he said to you…” he began cautiously; there was no questioning to whom he referred. “I don’ know the whole story, ‘course, but he gave me an’ Dru a good hint. He was a bloody wanker, luv. That rot about…” Spike lost himself in her hair, inhaling appreciatively as she trembled against him. This was it. This was the way the first time should have been. Lying wrapped in each other’s arms, talking and touching as lovers. A sense of what had been fought for and what was found. Here in the hold of a killer.

Irony, how I mock thee.

“You’re such a fireball,” he continued, his tone having adopted a funny note of worship. Something she would never have anticipated from any man, least of all him. “Christ, it burns me to think this was only your—”

“Don’t,” she whispered softly. “Don’t bring him up. I can’t…I…”

And that was as far as it went. Spike wasn’t about to engage in a heart-to-heart about Angel now. Not with Buffy willingly in his arms. Not for all the blood in the world. She understood what he was trying to say, and that was all that mattered.

The Slayer shuddered and fell cold again. It was a conversation she relived more than she cared to admit, simply for the satisfaction of her qualms and misgivings. After all, if he had meant a word of it, he would have come back.

Even after she told him that she needed time.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what she’d meant with the suggestion. It was appropriate then. Everything was new and confusing. She remembered the dazed appreciation that coursed through her veins when Angel swooped in and took her into his arms. She remembered panicking when he discovered the fresh bite marks on her throat. She remembered the bewilderment that flickered across his face when she threw him off the vampire that was supposed to be her enemy. She remembered the similar flash of incensed jealousy that had shone in Spike’s eyes. She’d felt for him; he was sad and alone, consigned to the odds playing against him. She’d given Spike no reason to think that they would ever have more, aside from asking him to come back. Their hours together had been infuriating, then annoying, then lust-addled, then passionate, and then the best of her life.

The very, very best.

Angel had not mentioned Spike’s bite mark since that first night. The reflection of hurt in his eyes was too much for her to handle. And while she sensed his overriding emotion was betrayal, something told her that he was just plain pissed on a solely primitive level that that she’d let another vamp’s fangs near her throat. A sort of if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-can kind of thing. Honestly, there were times when Buffy wished she had a soulful-monster manual that listed all the characteristics of a brooding demon. At least then she would know what to expect.

At that, she hazarded another glance in his direction, ill timed with a guttural moan that hissed across the screen. She flinched but he did not. He merely sat there, stone-faced and watching. She thought about suggesting they leave but decided against it. There was a look of rejuvenated resolution coloring Angel’s features, as though God would have to strike the theatre down before he’d budge. Perhaps he was too embarrassed. Perhaps he wanted to prove something to himself. Whatever the case, he wasn’t moving. So she sat. And watched. And tried not to watch. And wished herself away.

And then felt horribly guilty. Despite whatever hardships they were going through, it wasn’t fair to rub his nose in what he couldn’t have.

Oh, speaking of…the leading man was descending rapidly down the actress’s overly heaving body, his mouth well-aimed at her shorn pussy. Buffy’s eyes widened comically, her mind shooting to all sorts of inappropriate things.

She made a small noise of complaint as the cool body she had been resting on slid from her embrace. Still half-dazed with sleep, her grip tightened to hold him still, but his own wiry strength was still greater than hers. Spike had to be tired—he hadn’t slept in five days, too rattled with adrenaline in preparation for whatever he had to face tonight. But the added dose of Slayer-blood had completely vanquished any sleeping habits. He acted like he had consumed twelve café mochas in ten minutes.

Which was all well and good, but she was trying to sleep. He had allowed her an hour at first before waking her, then half an hour before feeling the need to reaffirm Angel’s wankerness, then fifteen minutes before waking her again to ask if she was cold. Finally, when she threatened to emasculate him if he dared awake her again for any reason, he settled back with a pout and wrapped his arms around her protectively, telling her to go on back to sleep.

To which, she responded, “Coulda sworn that’s what I’ve been trying to do. You kinda did wear me out.”

She felt him rumble with masculine pride. “Did I?”

“That slayer stamina you mentioned? I told you…slayer powers gone, ergo stamina’s not as staminy as usual.”

She loved it when he laughed. He was so boyish when he laughed. “That’s not a word, pet.”

“Anything’s a word when I’m this tired.”

“You know,” he mused, “I’d like to try to wear you out when your powers are at their full. Figure we could have a helluva week figurin’ out exactly what gives you that inklin’ of satisfaction.”

“Ego much?”

“Well, I am the bloke who ‘wore you out’.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Spike snapped back a witty retort, she was sure, but she was halfway to dreamland before it reached a level of comprehension.

She honestly wasn’t sure how long he allowed her rest during that interval. It seemed longer than a half hour, but the night was going fast. Funny how forever could pass in a blink. The wear-and-tear of hours of incapacitation was weighing on her resolve, but morning would still come all too soon.

Which is likely why he caved to temptation and challenged her threat of emasculation.

Buffy wasn’t sure what woke her at first. Drowning in a pit of long, dreamless sleep. She was grateful for that. Thoughts of what was to come when the door finally opened defied logical reasoning, and she wasn’t ready to cross that bridge, even if it was coming up sooner than she cared to admit.

It didn’t take long to pinpoint the cause of her disturbed slumber. Spike was situated between her thighs, suckling hungrily at her clit. As soon as the first violent shudder ran through her body, he looked up to meet her eyes with a mischievous grin.

Coherency crashed and departed in the wake of fresh desire. His gaze alone was enough to make her core tremble—flickers of disobedience that simply begged to be disciplined. A strangled moan escaped her lips before she could think to stop herself. “Spi…wha…”

He winked at her before sliding down once more, his tongue probing her clit as he hummed with delight. “Sorry, pet,” he returned, not at all apologetic. The tremors that echoed across her skin in response to his voice provoked another arch, and she slammed her head to the floor. “Know you wanted to sleep.” Another torturous lick. Buffy whimpered, her thighs closing around his head. “Figured a midnight snack this delicious would be worth the wrath of Grumpy Slayer Monster in the mornin’.”

She moaned at his words, fisting a handful of platinum locks and holding him to her desperately.

“You’re delicious,” he murmured, his fingers stretching her pussy lips apart. “Christ, Buffy…”

“Ohhh…”

“So delicious. I’ll want this every day. Every fucking day. You understand me?”

She understood. She just couldn’t reply.

She knew she’d want it, too.

The movie was over, and the look on Angel’s face was not at all accommodating. She knew he could tell when her pulse accelerated. When her eyes glazed over. He had seen enough to provide suitable verification without having to resort to petty suspicion.

He knew.

“Well,” she said, trying and failing to sound normal. “That was…well, from the title, I thought it was going to be about food.”

Oh yeah. Smooth, Slayer. Real smooth.

When had her conscience adapted an English accent? She didn’t want to know.

Angel simply nodded and muttered some disjointed reply. Neither was really paying attention.

Buffy emitted a seething breath. Never before had she allowed her thoughts to sway toward the blonder persuasion in her boyfriend’s presence. It was too dangerous—their link too similar. However, her anger was empty; in the end, she knew it didn’t matter. In the end, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though Spike would be waiting for her when she went home.

Again with the all-right-with-that. I’d probably stake him anyway. Hate him, remember?

All well and good. The word excuse was in serious need of redefining.

“No one’s ever done that to you, have they?” Spike settled back, smiling smugly as he wrapped his arms around her once more, steering her to his chest.

It was only then that she felt her cheeks flush. Her body was quaking still, coming down from a euphoric plane and settling with new strains of fatigue. Fresh and waiting to be claimed. “I…erm…”

“I’ve boldly gone where no man has gone before.”

No one should ever be allowed that much arrogance, but she hadn’t the strength to contest him.

“Sure. Whatever. If you’ll let me get to sleep, believe what you want.”

He pouted, mood sullied by the implication. “You still wanna sleep?”

Buffy paused thoughtfully for a minute, turning to meet his pitiful eyes with a wicked smile of her own. The curve of her mouth fit naturally against his. Soothing and calm. The way things should have been for her all along. So strange to find it here and now, even if it wouldn’t last. “Well,” she conceded saucily, “now that you mention it…”

“You ready?”

“Huh?” Buffy blinked vacantly at Angel before realizing that she had done it again. The look on his face was solemn, nearly hurt, and sent waves of guilt through her gut. That was one thing she never wanted to do. Hurt him. Hurt him with her own selfishness. Hurt him because her thoughts were with another.

Another who she hated.

“Right,” she said, nodding more to herself. “Let’s go.”

Something told her that hell would freeze over before he took her to the movies again.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Three” ]

Part Three: There’s No Place Like Home

Let no one ever say that William the Bloody did not know how to make an entrance. He’d lived a hundred plus years and hadn’t a dull minute to show for it. Oh, there were plenty of instances where he found himself unspeakably bored; truly, it took very little to wear on his nerves. But keeping him happy was frighteningly simple: hunting, eating, shagging, telly, and hardly in that order.

The past few weeks had schooled him severely. His need to keep himself from following every instinctual impulse had become a game, more or less. Self-control was not a trait Spike practiced with frequency. He knew that forced distance would drive him insane—so insane that, for a brief period, he’d contemplated not returning at all. He didn’t want to defeat his Buffy lust, only to return and have it painfully rekindled right before she gave him the boot. It was a hasty, if not poorly constructed solution to the hole he had dug himself into. He knew the minute he walked away that his will would not be met, despite how he wished to put things behind him.

He was playing with fire, and that was something no self-respecting vampire should ever do. Something he should never have attempted—not if he cared to maintain a lick of who he was. Angel had crossed that bridge more than once, was likely dancing on it now. That was well and good for him. He enjoyed being the Slayer’s pathetic lapdog. Being the bloke who was there to give her everything, save a good rut.

That thought was more than unsettling.

Spike often wondered how it was for her. How long it had taken her to feel the first authentic taste of regret. And while he wished he could blame his own actions on the same, the only regret he had was that their first time together had been about anger. That he’d wanted to kill her but found fucking her was more therapeutic. That he’d inwardly cursed Drusilla for driving him to Buffy, and then cursed Buffy for allowing him near. Then he cursed himself for believing the falsified promise that he would take his taste and kill her before he became too addicted.

Granted, that didn’t explain why he opted not to. That was crossing the boundaries of forbidden territory, even more than had already been trespassed. He remembered well everything he told her. Everything he couldn’t keep away. Every painfully wankerish confession. Every sinful touch. Every rumble of mirth when he got her particularly angry, and the wealth of deliciously perverse thoughts that he’d wanted to act out over and over again.

Spike still didn’t know where everything had gone so bloody wrong. He had volunteered himself for the position after disposing of Kralik with every intention of killing her. A snap of the throat, a sample of blood, and a hearty return to Dru. It was all there. A carefully constructed, fool-proof plan. Trapping the Slayer when she was at her most vulnerable. Although the prospect of taking her out when she couldn’t fight back was one he didn’t necessarily advocate, desperate times called for desperate measures. It was that or risk the end of a relationship that had defined him for over a century. He had been more than furious. More than willing to rid the world of her. Ethics be damned.

He wanted to believe that confinement with Buffy for any period of time had the ability to reduce the Big Bad to such extraneous levels of poofterdom, but he’d been hers for a long time now. Everything he’d told her had been true.

And when exactly did a soulless, unwankerish vampire obtain a set of ethics, anyway? He should have jumped for joy at the prospect of her death, regardless of the circumstance. Whether she be at full strength or weakened for the delights of creatures such as he, even if the thought had never rested well with him. There was no fun in taking out a slayer when she couldn’t fight back. There was no thrill. There was no passion.

Everything had changed the minute he saw her. The instant he’d grabbed her wrist and pulled her flush against him. The instant he’d felt the heated power in his arms. He’d released his bloodlust almost instantly for just plain lust and allowed himself to slip into familiar banter. It’d felt, for everything, as though he had spent every day since his siring on this level with her. With Buffy. Talking with her. Laughing with her. His mind had provided the world and years worth of memories and sensibility didn’t exist.

Buffy was dangerous to him, and he was addicted to her. She’d risen to the challenge. She’d squirmed—ohhhh, delicious—and voiced her usual threats. She’d demanded motive and made him question his own. Then they had gotten trapped in that blasted panic room, and all thoughts of killing her had flown out the proverbial window.

Then again, that wasn’t exactly true, either. There had never been many thoughts of killing her. Well, at first there had been tons. Some with an unexpected adult rating and others without. Spike wasn’t entirely sure when his daytime musings drifted from sinfully brutal to just plain sinful. There had been no true sign to bring his unnatural craving to a head. And at first, that was all it was: a craving. A craving that quickly turned into obsession.

Then they had formed that unnatural alliance to bring down Angelus, and he’d been lost. He’d seen her for what she was that night, and God, she’d amazed him. And though it had taken him a while to realize it, he lived now only to see her light. To revel in her strength. He wanted to be the one she relied on when the world was ending. He wanted to play her hero, even when she didn’t need saving.

God, how bloody perverse was that?

Spike should have known that the way to confront the problem was not to place himself in a situation where his unnatural ethics would be put to the test. Everything had collapsed. Buffy had surrendered whatever sense of morality she thought she owed to herself. She’d given Spike a taste. He had felt her beneath him. Around him. Burning him. The flavor of her running delicious circles in his mouth. Oh God, it’d been corruption at its richest. He wasn’t sure who lost that night. Whose fall from grace merited the most punishment. Her willful embrace of the dark, or his submission to her blinding light.

Those last few hours with her had been different. Completely reversed from the spiteful, vindictive girl he had originally found himself trapped with. Buffy had laughed with him. Talked with him. Joked with him. Smiled at him. She had laid her head on his shoulder and allowed her defenses that final collapse. He could have killed her whenever he felt like it. He likely should have if he ever hoped to escape unscathed.

But that thought hurt more than he could tolerate. More than he wished to consider.

He’d stood outside her window the following night, and watched her watch him back. He’d fought the urge to climb up that tree that had played host to Angel on many a night and give her a proper goodbye. Instead, he’d managed to turn away with what little dignity he had left, and returned to the darkness as his feet turned to granite.

Spike had left Sunnydale and tried to burn the memory from his mind, despite the promise he felt dampen his heart and the knowledge of truth that tickled his tongue. But here he was, back in Sunnydale, because staying away from Buffy was impossible, especially now that he had had a taste. A sample of what he wanted. Nothing less could keep him satisfied.

It was wrong. It was more than wrong. No vampire should crave the Slayer like this. No vampire should want more, and definite not more than a simple fuck. Oh, if only it was that. He could live with that. That was tolerable. That was explainable. The need to feel her beside him with every wake was not. The need to make her smile as often as possible was not. The need to hold her when she was crying was definitely not. The need to keep her safe from all others was bloody insane.

He was insane. There was no other explanation. No other reason he’d crossed that treacherous line from lust to…he couldn’t even fathom the word. He hoped he never would.

Dreams weren’t enough to send him back. After all, he’d thrived on scandalous, X-Rated Buffy dreams months before Drusilla’s insane allegations drove him into the Slayer’s arms. No. It was simple realization. Driving down the highway one night, lost in his thoughts, and pushed to that fine edge of acknowledgment. Fuck what others thought. Fuck what Drusilla thought. Fuck everyone. He knew what he wanted for the first time—what he really wanted. He knew what he wanted with perfect clarity. He had told her that he was coming back, and he would. Buffy wanted him to come back. She’d told him so.

What if she had changed her mind? Only one way to find out…

The old Desoto had pulled the mother of all U-turns, tires screeching in a silent night before taking off heatedly back to Sunnydale. Spike had no idea how far he had driven before coming to the conclusion that there was no place for him but back. Life after the birthday-incident had been a series of booze, floozies, and more booze. Quick women that he hoped to drown her memory in. A desperate need to escape that had only made him miss her more.

Bloody rotten irony.

In truth, they’d only been separated for a few weeks. More than likely, not enough time had passed for her to decide whether or not she wanted him in her life. And even if a verdict had been reached, it was more prone to weigh toward the other side. After all, what self-respecting teenager would willfully abandon her first love? He wasn’t blind; he had seen the way she fawned and pawed over Angel. Hoping that he had a chance against realized soap-opera was nothing more than wishful thinking.

But Buffy had asked him to come back. She wanted him back. She’d needed time to herself; time to see if their night together had been more than a grudge fuck. That she wasn’t substituting him for Angel. That if she had some of her ever-blessed time, she could—

Figure out how to rip your heart out? Haven’t you had enough of that this year, mate?

There was too much to consider. He had tried running away and failed miserably. And he was back now. Back in Sunnydale; the place that didn’t know when to quit for the vampire that never stopped. A small grin tickled his lips at the thought, familiar shivers racing up his arms and down his back. The Hellmouth didn’t exactly have a skyline—not like Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and all those other fun pit stops he had selected as favorites over the years—but there was something about it that felt natural. Something that felt like coming home.

William the Bloody and his entrances. He had to make them, even if no one was there to applaud his efforts. Therefore, an entrance would be made. A smashing, unforgettable, redundant, and likely expensive entrance. In keeping with the city’s tomfoolery and insistence on maintaining the annoyingly intact ‘Welcome To Sunnydale’ sign that sat exactly where it had upon every previous arrival.

He couldn’t help but drive through it again—he had known that miles in advance. The bloody sign was so annoyingly persistent, and didn’t look good there, anyway. He was doing the town a favor.

Spike grinned to himself and put the car in park, kicking the door open and inhaling the air that was inherently Buffy Summers.

Oh yes. This was why he had come back. Fool to think he could stay away.

A jovial smile crossed his lips, and he finally lit the cigarette that had been dangling between his lips for the last few miles. “Home sweet—”

Buggering interruptions.

“Good Lord. You ran right through that sign!” A small, stuffy British ponce was staring at him agape. As though the world and all its citizens depended on the lifecycle of a postered welcome mat. Spike hadn’t noticed him approach, but it didn’t really surprise him. “Do you have any idea how much the city spends to fund the replacements each month? How could you be so audaciously disrespectful? I have a right mind to—”

The bloke looked to be Rupert Giles’s mini-clone. Tweed, glasses…yeah, he had to be a watcher. A watcher that didn’t know a vampire—moreover didn’t know him when confronted face-to-face. Something that could be rectified very quickly…

His slayer’s golden face flashed before his eyes, and he sighed. Or not. Killing a watcher likely wasn’t the best way to get his girl’s attention. This was bleeding fantastic. Couldn’t kill him, and the stupid sod would probably go screaming to Buffy, which was something he didn’t need. He wanted to watch her before he made his appearance public.

Balls.

More to it than that, a traitorous voice whispered as the man waddled closer. You’re holdin’ back for an entirely different reason, aren’t you, you fairy ponce?

That thought was beyond enemy territory. It was in the middle of the sodding holding cell. He might as well stake himself before considering the implications. Another task he had avoided in the field of self-evaluation. Not now.

Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t knock the bastard off his feet. No harm, no foul.

“Mite rude to interrupt a bloke in the middle of a soliloquy, don’ you think?” His fist met the prat’s eye without further delay. “I was havin’ a moment.”

The man fell to a heap at the vampire’s feet, a pitiful sound escaping his lips. Must be the new one’s watcher. Two Chosen Birds, another crime against society, even if Kendra had been a pushover. If the new one was taking orders from this clown, she had to be more of the same.

Two slayers in one town—one fight and fuck, one to fight and kill. One would think he was being spoiled.

Like Buffy’ll let you off her sister in arms.

Still…it was a nice thought.

With a smile, Spike drew the cigarette away from his lips and exhaled slowly, a smile crossing his lips. “Now, where was I? Oh right…” A shiver of anticipation. There was no denying that rush. The explored need for power. He was looking forward to seeing Buffy again, regardless of circumstance. These next few days were going to be tremendously fun. “Home sweet home.”

Of course, that didn’t mean he would rush into things. Patience was not his strongest virtue, but he would have to exercise it now. He wasn’t about to go waltzing back unprepared. Oh no. There would be no waltzing. Not until he knew exactly what he was getting himself into.

Reservations aside as though they never were. Now that he was back, he couldn’t see what had driven him to leave in the first place.

He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Even if it was from a distance.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Four” ]

Part Four: Patrol

In all honesty, she shouldn’t have been surprised to practically slam into Faith as soon as they stepped out of the Sun. It was in the other Slayer’s nature to experience happiness vicariously through others—at least, what she could only assume was happiness. The date was already a non-success without Faith’s help. After all, she had just spent the past half hour fidgeting uncomfortably while failingly denying memories from her one-nighter with Spike, and something told her that Angel could smell it all over her.

Faith’s brows perked appraisingly when she saw them, likely not debating how to make the best out of an awkward situation. Despite the calamity that had happened indoors, Buffy was tightly pressed at Angel’s side, her fingers threaded through his. The closeness was forced; a failed way to alleviate the guilt that stretched her insides. And yet, she couldn’t ignore the inner voice that screamed she was being unfaithful to Spike, thus bestowing her a heavy loss. There were gray areas everywhere she turned, and it was driving her crazy.

“Whoa, talk about power to the people, B,” Faith drawled, nodding to the proud title that rested at the head of the building. “Never figured you for that type. You two certainly are skirtin’ around the question of how to get your rocks off.”

Buffy immediately flustered in defense, and she didn’t know why. She owed Faith nothing; she was, after all, of age, and it wasn’t as though she had known it was porn. Who would guess with a title like Marquee: Le Banquet D’Amelia? “I didn’t exactly plan this, you know,” she answered begrudgingly. “I thought it was about food.”

“There was food,” Angel offered, his assistance not in the area code of helpful.

“Right.” Oh, I’ll say. Buffy nodded, her mind dangerously treading the path of ‘going there again.’ That was something she absolutely could not do, especially with Faith standing three feet away. “There was that scene with the…food. It was very artistic.”

Faith’s eyes narrowed and she stepped back, hands comfortably resting on her hips. “Well, color me surprised,” she said. “Even with Mr. Joe Restraint, I figured a cinematic experience like that’d have you pawing all over each other like a coupla deranged lust-bunnies.”

Buffy shrugged apathetically. “We’re good.”

“Very good,” Angel agreed in the same monotone.

Faith’s gaze grew all the more skeptical. Her scrutiny was not welcome.

Why she felt like hounding this to death, Buffy had no idea. The guilt raging inside was wrenching but manageable. She had several weeks’ practice under belt, and still her fool mouth decided to run away with her. “Really thought it was about food…other than chocolate and whipped cream,” she insisted, and immediately regretted doing so. Bad line of thought. Bad. Need to get mind away from sinfully enticing film and…

Uh oh. Another flashback.

“You’re the kinda girl a fella could spoil for centuries, luv.” Spike rolled a cigarette casually between his thumb and forefinger, gauging her eyes for reaction. It was odd hearing terms of endearment—near worship—pour from the lips of a man whom had so vehemently campaigned for her death. “Ohhh, now I’m gettin’ all sorts’ve naughty ideas.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He favored her with a rakish grin, lightly running his hand down her bare arms. “’Cause you finally took the time to get to know me, pet?” he offered. “Down to the bloody skivvies?”

“I swear I’m going to hang that Travers guy out a window by his toes when I get outta here.” She paused, then pouted. “Doesn’t sound nearly as menacing as when my mom used to threaten the same to me. Maybe I’ll just beat him up. Seems to work on Willy the Snitch.”

“Think I’ll send him a fruit basket.” He turned his head awkwardly to meet her eyes. “’S that what you human-types do? Or should I just stick with a thank-you card?”

“As long as the blood of the innocent with a side of virgin’s heart are left out of the gift package, I’d say you have free reign.”

Spike barked a laugh at that. “You sure know the way to this man’s heart, luv,” he complimented. “Now, like I was sayin’…what we need is a weekend somewhere. Don’ look at me like that. I can pretend it’s gonna happen, can’t I? Don’ know where we’d go, but I’m sure I could find ways to keep you entertained for hours. Teach you everythin’ you need to know ‘bout foreplay.”

At that, she managed to look wounded, and he swept in before a word escaped her lips. “Don’t even,” he snapped, sharpness counterpointing the tenderness in his eyes. “Don’t turn that around on me. You know you’re bloody perfect the way you are. But we could have fun, don’ you think?” She withheld her tongue. “You don’ have to answer me, ‘course. Keep to yourself. But…” He slid closer to her, voice intrusive and right at her ear. “I could show you how to have more fun with a can of stringed beans than you ever thought possible.” He pulled away just as quickly, favoring her with a wicked grin and an innocent shrug. “Nibble on that all you like. Jus’ a li’l food for thought.”

“B!” Faith snapped her fingers in front of Buffy’s eyes. “You really oughta send a postcard when you go off, you know? Least let us know where to find you. Christ, what’s with you and the spacey?”

“I…ummm…lot on my mind.” She kept her gaze resiliently trained on the pavement. Do not look at Angel, do not look at Angel.“Still got an exam to make up for. Remember? With the skipping out of class we did a couple of weeks ago?” She deliberately did not tag the implied ‘You know…before you killed that guy and we nearly killed each other?’ But it was there. Oh, it was there. “I never really got the chance to make it up…with the…and Will having the evil twin from freaky-dimension-land. Giles managed to convince Mrs. Taggart that I was doing something much more important than chemistry…hence the making-up on Monday.”

Faith nodded appraisingly, not reacting to the minor references she’d molded to jab at her indiscretion. “Nice. Two weeks, eh? Wish my old hang had been that chilled with the voluntary absenteeism. Might’ve actually lingered around past grade nine.” She paused with an apathetic shrug. “Well, all’s well that ends well.”

“She didn’t exactly give me two weeks,” Buffy felt obligated to clarify. She didn’t know why; it just seemed important. “I’ve kinda had something come up every time the opportunity arose.”

That, and it’s been really hard to study with Willow mad at me ‘cause I’m juggling free-flowing hostility and all these lusty Spike thoughts. Oh God. Bad brain. I mean…non-lusty Spike thoughts. Non-Spike thoughts that are of the non-lusty variety. Is that a double negative? Double negative means positive. Dammit! The one thing that sticks from algebra. Non—

Faith shrugged indifferently. She was seemingly determined not to react to anything that remotely hinted at her sins. That was so very Faith-like. For the millionth time that night, Buffy felt herself shrivel with envy. “Hazard of living on the Hellmouth. So, you comin’? I’ve got this itch that’s gonna go unscratched unless we get in a few good kills tonight. No rest for the wicked.”

“Council has you back on active duty, then?” Angel asked, making Buffy jump. She’d nearly forgotten he was there.

“Finally.” Faith nodded. “They want us down by Mercer tonight.”

“How are things with Wesley? Have you two been…I know you—”

“What, with the kidnapping bit? I’m in for the long-haul of no.” The raven-haired Slayer’s eyes flickered dangerously. “But something of interest did happen in way of him tonight.”

“What? Did his green card expire? Please say yes.”

Faith snickered appreciatively. “Nah. Nowhere near that excitin’.”

“Don’t think the Council would go for that, anyway,” Angel observed. A shadow of a smile had crossed his face.

“Apparently, Dudley Do-Right was takin’ a stroll over to Giles’s for a late-night batch of demon research and ran into somethin’ nasty on the way.” Faith flexed her shoulder. “Giles beeped me a while back to give me the full. Guess he wanted to make sure I wasn’t the one who did it.”

A twinge of guilt rolled in Buffy’s stomach. “Is he all right? Wesley, I mean.”

“Unfortunately so. Barely a scratch, save the glasses. I’m willin’ to bet he hurts himself more when he jerks off.”

Buffy’s nose crinkled. “Ewww. Save the image. So…right. Patrol.” She turned to Angel at last, eyes seeking his out in manner of some latent apology. Too little, too late. The marks of their failed evening had burned him sufficiently. Ouch. Movies bad. Check note to self for future. Especially if movies look to be about food.

Mmmm…stringed beans.

“I’ll see you later,” she promised, leaning forward instinctually, head tilting upward to receive his kiss. A casual touch. Brief. Fleeting. Empty. Something heavy fell in her stomach as his lips brushed against hers. Something cold that left her wanting.

No. More than that. Left her more than wanting. The heat was gone.

Their eyes clashed with mutual, troubled understanding.

“Right,” he said. “Be careful.”

Buffy watched him turn and leave as she and Faith started for Mercer. It wasn’t fair. No part of this was fair. Spike strolled into her life and took everything she knew away, made it into a big perversion, and left her to sort out the pieces. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked for anything. She’d been happy before. She’d had friends. She’d had Angel. She’d had duties, and life was good.

God! I hate him!

Only she couldn’t. She could never hate Spike. Not for what he’d given her.

“Wow,” Faith drawled from the sidelines. “I take back what I said. Less bunny and more cold fish.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

A devilish smile crossed her face. There wasn’t anything she enjoyed more than exploiting another’s discomfort. “Hold on, B. I feel suddenly very out of the loop. What’s up with the nonexistent UST?”

Something dark twisted in Buffy’s stomach. Why oh why must this come up tonight? Faith had been surprisingly good about keeping her mouth shut, minding her own business—if her business consisted of killing mayor’s aides and attempting to pin it on her Sister Slayer—without really breaching the line. Why did she feel the need to bring it up now, of all times?

Probably because she saw us walking out of a porn film. Was it that obvious that I wasn’t thinking about…okay, so not going there.

Too late for that. She was there. She’d been there all night. She’d been there all month. She practically lived there. There was nothere without Buffy persistent at its heels.

Similarly, there was no way she was having this conversation right now. Nuh uh. Not with the way the night had gone.

Tonight was supposed to be about moving on. About starting over and gluing the tattered remains of her relationship with Angel back together. Reminders of Spike were not allowed to pop up around every corner. Forget that she couldn’t do anything without being reminded of the night she’d spent with Spike. The argument with Willow was still fresh in her mind. They hadn’t made up yet, and she wasn’t sure when they were going to.

In all fairness, she had been distancey girl. She knew it. She watched herself distance willfully from her friends.

Oh yeah. Life sucked.

“Silence speaks volumes, B,” Faith said, voice annoyingly cheerful. “Y’know I’m just gonna come up with my own opinion if you don’t spill the goods, right?”

“Wow. This is me, astonished. See that? With all the astonishment?”

“Is it the close but no cigar thing? Man, talk about balls. Takin’ your Life-Would-Be-So-Much-Easier-If-We-Could-Pretend-You-Were-Impotent boyfriend to a porn flick?” Faith shook her head with a chuckle, promptly ignoring the death glare set resolutely in her direction. “Was he squirmin’ in his seat? Must’ve been tough not to cop a feel of—”

Anger pillowed on the verge of eruption. Buffy felt it spread from her fingertips to her toes—addled, provoked, just begging for that final reason to break free and make someone feel marginally as bad as she did. However, she maintained control of herself and inwardly counted to ten. Do not take it out on Faith, she encouraged herself rationally. That’s what she lives for. ‘Sides, she doesn’t even know half the story. Let her believe what she wants.

It was a wonderful place, Denial. The atmosphere never changed, the climate was always great, and the company swelled with familiar faces and already-argued debates.

“Oh, I get it!” Faith’s eyes were dancing maniacally. “This has nothin’ to do with ole Broody, does it?”

The line stopped there. This was a no-cross zone. “Don’t.” They’d reached Mercer now, and she couldn’t be more relieved. A demon needed to show up right now and wash all remnants of the night away. She didn’t care what kind. “Faith, when it comes to Angel, me, and me and Angel, do me a favor.” Oh. Pretty demon. Excellent timing. “Duck!”

A flash of curly brown hair and the offending Slayer was out of the picture, revealing the grubby looking thing that had perched behind her sometime during their ‘we’re never talking about this again’ discussion. Short and of the wouldn’t-take-him-home-to-mother variety. Okay, so we jumped the gun with ‘pretty.’ Still in ‘yay’ with his sudden appearance.

Buffy hoped to convey her gratitude with a timely clout. Convenient or not, he was still a demon. A demon sneaking up on two slayers at night. Either very stupid or had a big jones for pain. Or both.

There wasn’t much time between the hitting and the whiplash to consider.

“Ow!” the demon wailed dramatically, head flying back as his hand instinctually tended to his nose. “Ooh, what are you, nuts? Going around punching people?”

That was a laugh. Even with the dorky hat, it was more than obvious that he ran in a group that was not connected to the human variety. In firm demonstration, she yanked the ridiculous hat off his head, quipping an inane, “People?” even if she knew verification was not needed.

Faith had recovered, and was glaring daggers.

“So what? I’m a demon,” the creature replied. Oddly like Whistler, only not as tolerable—or helpful, from the looks of it. And she was quite certain that Whistler hadn’t smelled that bad. “That makes it okay?”

The Slayers exchanged a pointed look before raising their stakes in flawless synchronization, and the demon squeaked. “Hold it, whoa!” he cried, hands coming up. “Stake me now and you never find out what I got for you, huh? Think about it. Demon seeks slayers. Highly unusual?”

Buffy had to stifle a bitter snort at that. Oh, not too unusual. Depends on the demon.

“Talk fast,” Faith hissed.

“How would you like to get your hands on the Books of Ascension?”

Buffy glanced to her companion with a narrowed ‘huh?’ veneer before she pretended to consider. “Never really a priority, you know. But now that you mention it, does Barnes and Noble still have them in stock? Get to the point.” A not-so-subtle nod to the stake still coiled tightly in grasp. “Before the point gets you.”

Hah! There’s a bit of the bad-pun-lovin’ Buffy the world’s been missing!

“Oh come on, you’re kidding me! The Books of Ascension,” the demon repeated incredulously. “Very powerful, and I’m not talkin’ about the prose. Dark stuff—major dark stuff. And the Mayor, if you catch my meaning—” Neither noticed Faith tick just a tad. It was probably a good thing. “—would hate for someone to get a hold of them before he…well, you know.”

Buffy shrugged. “Don’t know. Before he what?”

The demon shook his head, his eyes wide. “Hey, hey. Read ’em and weep. That’s all I got to say. Tomorrow, I get the books. Meet me here and if the price is right,
well I give the books to you.”

“Not really looking to trade with a demon,” Buffy replied, smiling sweetly.

“And if this were still a barter economy, that would be a problem. I want cash, princess, five large for the whole set.”

Faith arched a brow, casually gesturing at his face with one finger. “So you can buy…and I’m guessing here, skin care products?”

“Plane ticket. Out of the Hellmouth before it’s adios, Slayer Loco. So, five G’s, what do you say?”

The look on Faith’s face turned scary for a second; she shifted and whipped a stake from her back pocket. “I think ‘Die Fiend’ sums it up, wouldn’t you say?”

She was about to tear into him until Buffy’s hand curled around her wrist, holding her back as the smallish annoyance took off in a blur. “Let him walk,” she said, fight drawn out of her. “I don’t think he falls into the ‘deadly threat to humanity’ category.”

There was something frighteningly neutral about the look on Faith’s face. Something Buffy couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Demon’s a demon,” came the simple, soft-spoken rejoinder.

“Well, it could be important, and even then, I’m curious. I’d like to know about these Books of Ascension,” she answered rationally. “We’re pretty much sitting ducks right now. I know Giles will go all ‘oooh’ when he hears about this…and anything that would pin the Mayor down would be great. Annoying as it is, the thing had a point. If he’s seeking slayers out, the big upcoming bad must be…bad. You think he’s the one that got to Wesley, as Wesley is the walking epitome of pansydom?”

Buffy wasn’t even sure that Faith was following anymore. There was a cold, almost reverent look of odd consideration in her eyes that took a minute to clear. “Nah,” the other Slayer dismissed. “Wes said that it was a guy just getting into town that got him.” She shook with mirthless humor. “Story goes, as retold to Giles, he got into some stink with this guy who has a seriously outdated ‘I Love The ‘80s’ complexion ‘cause he burst through the good ole Welcome to SunnyD sign on the way into town. Oh, but it gets better. Said it was a vamp. ‘Course, Wes’s description of the vamp was twelve feet tall and wicked-long claws that’d gouge your eyes out in a second. Wonder if the prick pissed himself when he saw his first—or five hundredth—demon. To be honest, B, the story doesn’t stick. Probably looking for his five seconds of sympathy, ‘cause no one’s shelving that out by the bushel anymore.” She gazed off thoughtfully. “Not that we did in the first place. I don’t get why a regular vamp’d leave a defenseless flesh bag when he coulda made with a midnight snack.”

Faith could have just as casually mentioned that her pet penguin was a chain smoker and elicited the same reaction. Heart-stopping, mind-numbing realization that leaked through her veins in the manner of a really, really bad joke. She had heard nothing beyond the needed. Vamp rolling into town and knocking over the welcome sign in the process, negating the helpful additives of his attire. And Wesley was alive. Would Spike have left Wesley alive? Would he have recognized him as a Watcher? Would he know to…

It couldn’t be. For all her wanting and waiting, it couldn’t be.

“Hey, girlfriend. Still with me?”

Numb. For all the feelings she had touched tonight, this was the last she expected. She walked without feeling her legs, spoke without registering the words on her lips. Now. Was it now? Had the wait come to an end? Was he back for her at last?

Buffy paused and forced a reign on her thoughts. She refused to jump to conclusions on secondhand information from a girl she didn’t trust.

Better to get to Giles with this information before her emotional blockade initiated a self-destruct sequence of bad tidings. Better to do it now when she felt somewhat attached to her surroundings.

Was it now?

One thing was certain. That old Divinyls record that had gone neglected since the years of Billy Ford would be worn to disuse before the night was over.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Five” ]

Part Five: Beyond The Looking Glass

The majority of the trip to Giles’s consisted of an inward mantra of reaffirmation that the vampire that had scared Wesley was most likely a wandering miscreant who had flocked to the Hellmouth after catching wind of its noted reputation. Ten minutes of blessed and uncharacteristic silence from Faith allowed an extra measure of leverage, enabling her mind to pull the wool over her eyes even more.

It wasn’t entirely the most ridiculous thing she had heard, but it was close.

They weren’t at Giles’s for long; just long enough to get the full story from an overly panicked and very-much exaggerating Wesley. He was sporting a nasty shiner and his glasses had seen better days, but it was otherwise obvious that the bulk of the damage had been to his self-esteem.

It was difficult to judge the look on Giles’s face. They waited patiently as Wesley calmed himself and suffered through several revised tellings of the story. However, despite the changes to minute details, the main points remained the same. Things Buffy couldn’t readily dismiss.

Old ratty car. Burst through the welcome sign. Cigarette. Leather. Blond. British.

Fortunately, the others remained ignorant to her thoughts. Faith was more interested in leaving and getting in a few good slays, and Wesley wouldn’t know Spike from Kiefer Sutherland in The Lost Boys. And Giles…

Giles was the loose canon. Giles knew her better than anyone at times. And Giles was currently studying her suspiciously, measuring her with the same look that told her that he knew she was hiding something. It didn’t seem terribly long ago when she could pull a fast one on him without so much as batting an eye, but he was beyond that now. That paternal glimmer buried within his gaze was enough to tell her that. Buffy swallowed hard. He was thinking the same thing she was. He knew the same thing she did. Spike had returned. Spike was back in town, and under the terms of his last departure, she could only imagine the welcoming committee he would receive.

But that didn’t explain why Giles refrained from voicing his conclusion. It didn’t explain the something different in his eyes. It didn’t do much to explain anything. The Watcher wasn’t one to withhold information, especially with a renowned and proud slayer-killer wandering the streets. There was more than comprehension there. He was watching her for a response. He was attempting to decipher what sort of reaction Spike’s return would have on her. He was waiting to see what she said.

Out of everyone, he had been the least vocal about the night that had rendered him jobless. There was nothing he could say that had not already been said; nothing he could imply that had not been beaten into the ground. Plus, it was possible that he felt that he owed her something. that what had happened was entirely his fault—and she wasn’t one to disagree. Buffy remembered well how angry she’d been with him for keeping the birthday ritual from her. She trusted Giles more than anyone—her mom or her friends—which made his deceit absolutely crushing. Not even Angel’s desouling had hurt her as much. However, Buffy had forgiven him, her resentment replaced by her own self-loathing, not to mention the wealth of negativity directed at Spike. Logic did not enter into her estranged line of thinking.

If it was Spike—if he was the one responsible for Wesley’s shiner—he was being fairly presumptuous in coming back. In making his presence known so loudly.

Oh, well, her inner will snapped. Isn’t that ironic? An hour ago, you were cursing him for not being here…PMSing, much?

“Really,” Wesley was saying, “it’s completely miraculous that my eye isn’t much worse. Had I been caught on better awares, I—”

“Would have fallen over without getting hit first?” Faith offered with saccharine falsity, earning a wounded look.

“This was no ordinary vampire,” he insisted for what had to be the twentieth time in ten minutes. “I daresay, he—”

“Was the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered vamp you ever set eyes on?” Buffy offered.

Wesley stared at her blankly. “Well, erm, yes.”

Giles blinked. “Did you just quote Monty Python?”

Oh crap.

Faith just looked at her, lost.

“Ummm. No,” Buffy replied quickly. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to shut him up.”

“Pardon me if I believe more attention should be drawn to the matter,” Wesley huffed indignantly. “After all, with a vampire of that brawn loose in Sunnydale, I shudder to think how quickly the—”

Faith rolled her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Enough about the damn vamp, all right? Honestly, Wes, I’m startin’ to think you just pulled this story outta your ass to get some notice. Nifty shiner you got there. Are you sure you didn’t just walk into a lamppost?”

Wesley made one last pathetic attempt to gather sympathy, which everyone promptly ignored.

“Look,” Faith continued. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but there are more important things to discuss, rather than yap away about some so-called vamp who—by amazing coincidence—decided not to kill you, okay Chief?”

“Are you seriously insinuating that I fabricated the event?”

“Ohhh, now there’s a thought,” she continued with a malicious grin. “Maybe next time we’ll get lucky and he’ll tear your head off.”

“I’m with Faith,” Buffy heard herself say, eliciting one supremely offended and two befuddled glances in response. “Not about Wes…well, actually, yeah. About that, too. But more to the effect that there are important things to discuss. Sacred duty stuff. “I only meant that if we can progress beyond Screams-Like-A-Woman’s recent crisis, we have an update from the demony front.”

That caught Giles’s interest. It had been a long while since she saw him light up with such fluid rapidity. “Oh?”

“Something that might be related to the Mayor,” she clarified. “Demon caught us on patrol. Said he was willing to sell us the Books of Ascension…whatever those are.”

There was a long pause as this new information was digested.

“The books of what?” Wesley finally commented.

“Ascension. Like I said, not exactly on the ‘here’s the definition’ front, but he said it has something to do with the Mayor.”

“He could have been lying,” Faith offered. “Demons tend to do that, you know. He might’ve just wanted the money.”

Giles had a pensively collected look on his face. “How much?”

“Five G’s.” The raven-haired Slayer shrugged indifferently. “Seems to me if these books were so important, he would’ve upped the price to something he knew the Council could front.”

“I believe it’s unusual that a demon would want cash in the first place,” Wesley observed.

Giles seemed to share his sentiments, a look of disapproval marring his brow. “Demons after money. Whatever happened to the still beating heart of a virgin? No one has any standards anymore.”

Everyone took a prolonged minute to study him speculatively.

“I was just saying…” When their scrutiny didn’t let up, he replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. “Ascension…that’s not a term I’m familiar with.”

“Nor I,” Wesley commented.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Well, that was a given…”

“There might be some books at the library…”

“Ascension sounds big with the power, and power seems to be Willow’s primary focus right now.” Buffy observed, avoiding the instinctive wince that tagged along with any mention of her best friend’s name. The last thing she needed right now was a reminder that they weren’t speaking. “Didn’t you lend her most of your books?”

Giles shook his head. “I let her take home one, maybe two at a time. There are also some volumes of deeper magic that I keep in a secure location. With the rate at which she’s progressing…I fear what might happen if she pushes herself to mature plateaus before she’s ready.”

That earned a wry chuckle. “Yeah, she might actually float erasers instead of pencils.”

“I’m serious, Buffy. Considering where she was in her studies this time last year, she has made remarkable progress. People with access to that kind of power tend to…” His eyes hazed over poignantly for an instant. “Jenny practiced her entire life and had only surpassed the stage Willow is at right now when Ang…when she died. Given Willow’s dedication…” He looked down when his emotions threatened to get the better of him. The one-year anniversary of his girlfriend’s murder had only recently passed. He hadn’t said anything, of course, but his mood had been touchy and distant.

Much like hers, but to a lesser degree. Giles had the decency not to let his emotions influence his behavior.

Faith broke the uncomfortable silence as only Faith could: faking a wide yawn and heading for the front door without any semblance of break. “Well, L’s and G’s,” she drawled, “as much fun as this has been…it’s wicked early and I have better things to do than sit here and reminisce.” Her eyes locked on Buffy. “You know where to find me if all this hoopla starts to make sense, don’t yah, girlfriend?”

A weak nod. “Yeah. You Bronzing it?”

“That and then some.” She shrugged at the pointed look that earned. “Might as well. The night’s still young, and tomorrow’s not a school day.” A thoughtful pause. “Well, no day’s a school day, come to think of it. Not for me anyway. Ta.”

“I really don’t like her,” Wesley mused the second she was gone.

Buffy sighed and pouted her dissatisfaction. “Responsibility sucks,” she complained under her breath. “Faith parties, and I’m stuck with the homework. Giles, I’m going home. It’s been a long night. Movie and Wesley nearly-getting-almost threatened by a twenty-foot vamp with bear-like claws.”

And Spike might be back in town, and you’re not sure how to feel about that.

“I beg your—”

She shook her head shortly as she headed for the door. “I’ll see you on Monday. Don’t hesitate to not call if something really boring happens.”

Stepping outside was like surfacing after being under water too long. There had been too many revelations in one night—too much to consider. Faith’s casual, though unsurprising, negligence of all things world-saveage related. The demon’s proposal. Wesley’s admittedly loud shiner. The possibility that the bane of her existence was back in town, and her thrill of excitement at the possibility that it was true.

Though she so shouldn’t be excited about that. She still had pieces to pick up. And who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t Spike. There were plenty of vamps that went around without care for the property they destroyed and lived in decades classically and forever defined as retro. There were plenty of vamps that came and went. There were plenty…

Who left Watchers alive?

It might not be him.

Yeah…and maybe tomorrow you’ll win the lottery, get the Nobel Prize, and be crowned the Queen of England.

The smile that should have crossed her lips remained at bay. There was nothing to smile about.

Not with Angel giving her the silent treatment.

Not with ugly demons seeking her out.

Not with Spike’s potential return.

Everything in the Land of Buffy was so irreversibly screwed up, and she didn’t know how to begin fixing it. Perhaps with a good night’s sleep, and a call of reconciliation to Willow in the morning.

It was a start.

*~*~*

He would not lurk outside her window.

Spike was many things. A killer, a vampire, a slayer-killer, but he was not some gammy Angel-wannabe. He would not lurk outside her window and brood. He would not watch her when he knew he could not be seen. He would not reach in and caress her skin while she slept.

No, that was much too Angelish. He refused to lurk outside her window.

Pacing outside her window was a completely different story. Angel never paced, and he therefore had no qualms. Back and forth, refusing to make circles, knowing she wasn’t there. Where was she? The cemeteries had been graced with the quick once-over, and while he could very definitely smell her proximity, patrolling had been abandoned more than an hour ago.

Which meant she would return at any time. Only she hadn’t. It was a dangerous assumption. If she caught a glance of him pacing restlessly below her window…he didn’t want to think what sort of reaction that would provoke. It was a bad idea coming here. A bad, dangerous idea. But he couldn’t stay away.

Bloody brilliant, mate, the vampire scoffed to himself, lighting up one of his last cigarettes. Come roarin’ back into town, determined to steer clear of the chit long enough to see if she’s even interested…an’ whaddya do? Go to her house straight away.

His plans never worked.

It didn’t seem to matter, though. She wasn’t home. From the look of things, she hadn’t been home for several hours. Hell, he couldn’t blame the girl. It was Friday night. While Sunnydale wasn’t exactly notorious for its fabulous tourist attractions, he seemed to remember the Bronze as a place of notable teenage hormonal enjoyment.

That thought made him pause discreetly in his paces. No, on second thought, he much preferred her home. Not enjoying anything. Away from the greedy paws of adolescent males, or worse, not-so adolescent elder vampires.

That nagging voice that jested that he was a fool for returning surfaced once more. Despite what she had said, he couldn’t honestly expect her to live up to it. He had known the minute he stepped away from her window those short weeks ago that returning would be the dumbest thing he could do. Leaving in the first place was the idiot’s way out—rendering her alone with her Slayer thoughts that reeked of nobility and Peaches-prone googly eyes. Waltzing back into her life whenever he pleased didn’t bother him as much. The notion that he should never have left was dangerous enough to quench any fire.

But not as palpable as the understanding that his Achilles’ Heel was returning in the first place. He was drowning in the temptation of Buffy Summers, to the point where he couldn’t smother her image, no matter how hard he tried. To where not being near her might have ended him before anything else had the chance.

He was not brooding, and he was not lurking outside her window.

And she was still not home.

Friday night, mate. If she’s not out dancin’, the silly bint prob’ly went out with Peaches.

That thought did not rest well with him. Spike stamped out his cigarette and reached for another. He eyed the tree that led directly to her room. To her empty bed. Was it Angelish to climb up if she wasn’t there? He couldn’t remember Angel staring longingly into a vacant room that smelled of her, even in his not-so-soulful days. No, Angelus always went to her when he knew she was there. When he wanted to torment her with hints of his presence.

What about masochism? Spike had no intention of tormenting Buffy. To enter the room that was saturated with her scent would only serve to cripple him. Suppose he didn’t want to leave? Suppose he got one of his bright ideas, stripped, and crawled into her bed?

Mmm…comfy bed…Buffy in comfy bed…Buffy naked in comfy bed…

Which was precisely why he shouldn’t risk it. He hadn’t yet composed what he wanted to say when he saw her again. That thought alone was enough to make him weep with laughter. For whatever reason, he suspected that his usual bluntness would be resented. Especially if he discovered that he had returned only to face the biting edge of her dismissal—or worse—the pointy end of her stake.

However, at the same time, he understood that any prepared argument would be forgotten the minute her pretty little mouth opened. The girl had the annoying ability to educe two emotions so completely opposite on the conventional roster: hatred and lust. It was a good thing that he was beyond convention, and that those two particular emotions coincided perfectly with his nature. One did not survive without the other.

The tree looked tall and inviting, and the room it led to smelled of her. A vampire’s most basic instincts were not to be fought—it was calling to him. Cliché and everything: a sodding moth to the flame. In the end, who was he to resist? There was nothing to do but follow.

Spike cursed himself. His stamina wasn’t showing its brighter colors.

Then again, it never did.

The window pushed open easily, welcoming him, and his senses were immediately bombarded with the essence of Buffy Summers. Strong, blazing whiffs of tattletale naughtiness to bank in his mental palace. The potency nearly overwhelmed him. What he felt upon roaring back into town could not hope to compare. The Slayer’s personal best. Her room. The room he had never seen, despite numerous crossings.

It was so…cute. Elements of kid-dom were scattered here and there. He approached the bed and picked up a stuffed pig with an amused grin. She had the weirdest taste. From the animals to the New Kids’ posters. The text books to the scattered CD collection. Annoyingly simplistic; the true signs of a teenage girl. He found it charming. So this was where the Slayer lived. This was where she came when the vamps were dust. The air was hers. The space was hers. The bed was hers. If he decided to apply his vampiric senses, he would see the indentation her body made into the mattress.

Personal. It felt personal being here. Standing in the place where she lived. His skin hummed lightly in effect.

Somewhere, Spike knew that it was wrong. He was invading her privacy, he was entering without permission, and there was every possibility that she didn’t know he was back. She would be livid if she found him here. The prat of a Watcher that the Council had sent over hadn’t moved for quite some time, even though he had barely tapped him. He wondered briefly how the Slayer would react to that. The story would spread soon of how they crossed paths and why, and there was no doubt that she would piece two and two together. Then again, how much would the bloke remember? Enough to announce his presence?

A bittersweet thought ran through him. Perhaps that was why she was gone tonight. Perhaps she was seeking him out. Would she greet him with a stake or a kiss? Did she care about the ponce or did her loyalty remain steadfast with Giles?

These questions really had to end. He was giving himself a headache.

Spike decided to make the visit brief. There was no sense dragging things out. The longer he stayed, the more prone she was to interrupting him. Thus, his survey ran fast: speedy but memorable. Not the sort of behavior one would expect from one sent to kill her—rather, endearing touches to things that belonged to her. He inhaled as much of her air as he could, wanting to keep her in his mouth until he retired for the evening.

It amused him to see a discarded rental of The Life of Brian plopped on the far corner of her dresser. He distinctly remembered her saying that she wasn’t a fan of Monty Python before he pushed her to the confession that she hadn’t understood it. He would like to hear what her verdict was now, and was completely prepared to argue the film’s finer points. The little bint was stubborn, after all. She probably sat through it just to tally up its flaws.

The smile that tackled his lips was wide with speculation. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Something else attracted his interest. There was a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Spike’s head quirked and he followed his nose. The search wasn’t extensive; he snatched the panties that smelled most of her and hailed them to his senses with a muffled moan. God, he had missed that scent. Raw, unadulterated Buffy. The same he had tasted and craved. Enough to fuel a thousand nights’ worth of dreams, if nothing else. His cock twitched within his trousers, and he knew it was time to go.

The Slayer’s personals found their way into his back pocket. He returned to the window, then paused to glance over her room once more. Buffy was caught in that blessed stage between childhood and maturity. He often had to remind himself how young she was. The night they shared had shown both colors; he had seen the stuck-up teen and he had seen the woman she was destined to become. And both sides drove him batty.

Which is why you shouldn’t’ve come back, he warned himself, slipping down the tree. She’s the Slayer, for God’s sake! ‘S bad enough you can’t kill the chit. Are you sayin’ you’re—

No. That was a path he had not yet explored. One he didn’t want to think about. Lusting was one thing. It was natural and just. Love…love was…

Outta the bloody question.

Spike sighed, removing the fag from his lips and extinguishing it beneath his boot. Tomorrow he would attempt to see her. Try to establish communication, even if it lasted for only three seconds. He needed to know where he stood. The concept of forced distance was becoming more and more intolerable. She was a drug, and the town was his supplier. Coming home, he’d admitted his addiction and conceded that he desperately needed a fix.

Or twenty.

But not now. Not with his return so young against the night air. He needed time to adjust.

He had to see her first.

*~*~*

The night had already been so distorted. Devilishly bizarre, even if it was the Hellmouth. Whore-bag fun with Angel while she attempted to get herself off by thinking of someone else, a round or two in the mystic mind game with Faith, encounter with a demon who did not desire the still-beating heart of a virgin, and Wesley’s run-in with a Could-Be Spike. There was every possibility that what she felt now was the physical manifestation of the eccentricity, conjured by her paranoia in a lasting attempt to weird her out even further, but she didn’t think so.

Something was off.

Buffy inhaled deeply, and any room for doubt was quenched. Faint wisps of nicotine tickled her nose. Hints of leather and…was she imagining that? No, there was definitely a cigarette feel in here. Combined with the tinglies that were going stir-crazy in the pit of her stomach. Buffy was prepared to observe anything tonight.

Mr. Gordo accompanied her to the window and helped her pull it shut. He nestled securely against her bosom and gave her what comfort an inanimate creature could. But Buffy was lost. Staring down the path where he undoubtedly disappeared. Wondering how long Spike had been here. Wondering what it was he was trying to accomplish.

Buffy was vaguely aware that she should be furious at the intrusion, and she was sure she was, somewhere. The night, however, had taken too much out of her. There was plenty of time to be incensed tomorrow. For now, she settled on mindlessly aimed vindictiveness.

Presumptuous bastard.

No denying anymore. She couldn’t if she tried. The bleached bloodsucker was back in town. He was back, and he hadn’t forgotten about her or what she’d said.

Nothing.

Not a damn word.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Six” ]

Part Six: When The Night Is New

It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her nervous. Any lingering doubts about Wesley’s so-called attacker had retired the minute she stepped into her bedroom on Friday night. If not for the physical strains of evidence—the hovering hint of nicotine, the few items that had mysteriously traveled across the room, and the conspicuous absence of her favorite pair of panties—then definitely for the tinglies that rumbled low in her stomach. Buffy was well aware of how her body reacted to a vampire’s proximity; she was notprepared to feel her anxiety heighten and her pulse quicken for one vampire specifically. One vampire that was not Angel.

Spike had not yet shown himself, and that wigged her out. True, only two days had passed, but the guy was not known for his patience. How many attacks had she countered because of his negligence to plan? Why wait now?

Then again, perhaps his patience deserved more credit than it earned. He had waited for months as he regained the ability to walk, and even longer to act on it. He had exhibited uncanny resilience the night they made their alliance; refraining from lashing out until her provocation became too intense. And even then, she hadn’t needed to fend him off. He had realized what he was doing, and stopped to calm himself rather than simply kill her and have it done with.

But this was different. Mitigating circumstances had intervened back then, and right now, all the circumstances were set. Despite the popular consensus of her friends, even her own barbs aimed at his aptitude, Spike was intelligent. He made the frequent mistake of acting rashly, but it was very obvious that he moved only when he knew he could handle the negative consequences of his actions.

It seemed more than peculiar that two entire days would go by without seeing him, now that she knew he was in town. Though he probably suspected that she was still at unawares, the Spike she knew would have leapt out immediately, ready for that promised discussion. Ready to fight—or more likely—pick up where they left off. The Spike she knew was not one to wait.

Perhaps he did know that she was aware of his return, and had thus refrained from acting. That didn’t seem very likely either. It was his modus operandi to create new problems rather than wait for the old ones to sort themselves out. And now, after two nights of no-show, Buffy was nervous. She kept expecting him to be waiting on her bed when she returned, and didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when her room was empty.

It was amazing how quickly her mood had changed. Angel’s distancing, in league with Spike’s ambiguous non-appearance, left her confused with little room for anger. All the more to believe that Spike knew exactly what he was doing.

Thoughts of Angel caused her stomach to churn. Their date on Friday night had led her to a seemingly endless series of confused dead-ends. It was so strange to think about how their relationship had progressed in the matter of only a few months. It didn’t seem so long ago that she dreamt of him in Los Angeles. Thinking of how he would see her, were he to ever come back. How it had felt to see him spring out from nowhere; how her body had rattled with shock. How her days and nights were tagged with the ever persistent huh? From there to the revelation on Christmas Eve when she confessed that she still loved him, no matter what he did to her. The night that had seen their reemergence as BuffyandAngel™, accessories sold separately. Prepared to link hands, face disapproval, and remain dancing at arms length for a taste of what they could never have together.

Even without Spike’s sporadic appearance on her birthday and the wackiness that ensued, Buffy had been sorting through various qualms about her relationship with Angel. She wasn’t stupid—she knew she would eventually care about the goings-on in the bedroom—romanticizing the situation and making it all about love was ideal on a Disney-like level. Prince Charming and his token bride. The couple that knew nothing of sex and shared the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kiss as the curtains drew closed.

But it hadn’t mattered to her. Not then, because she had loved him. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him still. It was only now that she could see that there would be others. There would be love like she never knew, but nothing quite like what she had with Angel. The love she felt for him now was not the passion that had initially drawn them together. If it had been, Spike’s advances would have gone ignored rather than encouraged. True, she had fought it. She had fought it with every fiber of her being. But her actions of that night were not those of a girl who believed she belonged to one man for all eternity. At least, not a girl who believed she belonged to Angel.

Again, she was resigned to the knowledge that Angel was already her ex-boyfriend. She’d moved on. There was some residual sadness, of course, but she didn’t love him. Not like she had—not like a girlfriend loves her boyfriend, or a wife loves her husband. She loved the memory of the guy he’d been once upon a time, but even then, the memory wasn’t enough for her. The guy in the memory belonged to a girl that no longer existed. She wasn’t the sort of person who could love Angel. Not anymore.

Was that all that Spike had been to her? A wake-up call? No, it couldn’t be something so cold and simple. He had haunted nearly every waking thought since his departure. Her body ached for his touch even as her mind sought reason. It was not what she wanted: moving from one vampire to another. To one she wasn’t sure that she could love. To one that had no soul to begin with. He was a killer. The thought of him was supposed to make her shiver in disgust. She was supposed to be above it. She was supposed to represent something larger than herself. Larger than existence would lead her to believe. She was supposed to—

Bleh. Minor wiggins. Am channeling Quentin Travers.

There was more to it than that. Were Spike merely a distraction to open her eyes, she wouldn’t have hated him so vehemently for leaving her in the first place. She wouldn’t have searched for him at every vampire hangout. She wouldn’t have experienced those delightful chills when she thought the chances of seeing him were running high. She wouldn’t have had to make excuses for herself in firm denial of said chills.

It had been a bad weekend for no reason at all, and that annoyed her immensely.

Thus, Buffy was not in the best of moods as she entered the library that day. The Watchers were chatting hurriedly, anxiously, so she doubted either of them even noticed.

“There was one reference to the Ascension,” Giles said excitedly when he looked up, “in the Marenschadt Text. Not much, mind you, but significant.”

Buffy nodded, though her eyes were drawn to Wesley’s shiner. It had grown worse over the weekend, giving him the comical appearance of a twelve-year old boy in adult’s clothing who had suffered an unfortunate confrontation with the playground bully.

“So,” she said, perking at the idea of having something to focus on that wasn’t vampires in reference to her love life. “Ascension in the negative? I didn’t catch the demon on patrol this weekend, but—”

“It would be very wise for you to track him down,” Giles agreed. “Before someone gets word that the books are in his possession. I would hate to think of what might happen should they fall into the hands of the Mayor. I didn’t find much, mind you, but I found enough. There is a reference to the journal of Desmond Kane…a pastor in a town called Sharpsville. In May of 1723, he wrote, ‘Tomorrow is the Ascension. God help us all.’ And that was the last anyone heard.”

“Of Kane?” Wesley asked.

“Of Sharpsville. It more or less disappeared.”

Buffy pursed her lips. Just when life couldn’t seem to get anymore complicated, reality stepped in. “So, I’m thinking this is one concert I don’t need to see.”

“You should meet with the demon, Buffy. If he has the books—”

“And I’m getting the money from where? Hello, unemployed high school student here. Do you have five thousand dollars?”

“It’s wiser to find the demon sooner rather than later,” Wesley stated obviously, earning an eye roll that he ignored. “Perhaps persuade him to lend us the books free of charge.”

“You didn’t see the demon, Wes,” Buffy retorted with an air toward the dismissive. “He wasn’t exactly on the up and up of high-flying patrician society. He wants cash, and he’s looking for a sell, not to become the world’s first demon library service that delivers.”

“I believe he would have an enlightened point of view if, say, his life were at stake,” the younger Watcher countered. His observation earned two pointed glances, and he fumbled over himself to gain some footing. “Not that I advocate killing harmless…creatures, mind you. Perhaps if you exercise Faith’s more notable persuasion techniques…”

There really was no disputing that point, much as she would have liked. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” Buffy sighed. Didn’t seem she’d be staying long after all. “I don’t suppose either one of you saw Faith over the weekend? She’s been MIA girl since Friday night.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Are you suggesting Faith would suddenly develop the presence of mind to report to us when her patrols are complete, especially when I noted that such precautions could go untended under rare circumstance, unless something of high importance was discovered?”

“Wow,” Buffy mused. “I think that’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you get out in one breath.”

“It’s better that you find Faith,” Wesley interjected sharply. “The demon needs to be located, and fast. Given the Mayor’s resources, it’s safe to say he might get there first if we do not act quickly.”

There was no denying that. With a mute nod, Buffy turned to head out of the library. She had checked Faith’s usual hangs over the weekend with no success, but the other Slayer knew not to stray too far from sight, lest the Council be brought back into the mix. It was only a matter of time.

And, if anything, looking for Faith and hunting down a demon would be less confusing than what she had been tormenting herself over for the past two days. Spike thoughts were too muddled. There was no sense in beating herself up about it if he wasn’t going to seek her out.

Famous last words, a pesky voice warned. She opted to ignore it.

*~*~*

“Faith.” There was no reason to mask the shock in his voice. While Angel was accustomed to a variety of late-night visitors, she had not approached him willfully since the failed intervention. There had been a snide comment here or there—a barbed glance when it wasn’t so painfully obvious. The consequences of their last heart-to-heart had damaged things between them, and he had not attempted to rekindle whatever bond they had. However, discussing the matter was something Angel found important. He just refused to corner her.

Which was why he was so pleased that she’d come on her own terms.

Pleased for about ten seconds before she stepped forward and the scent of blood hit the air.

“Angel,” Faith implored softly. It was so strange to see a face that confident all but bursting with insecurity. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I got nowhere else to go. Look, I hate asking for help, but I’m asking, ‘cause I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble of the extremely bad variety.”

The words that escaped his lips were the most natural thing to grace the air, even if he didn’t wholly believe them. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really not. It’s a couple county lines over from ‘okay.’ Believe me.”

A sigh rolled off his shoulders. “Look, just talk. I’m not going to judge…I really can’t. Start from the beginning.”

The look that crossed her face was dazed, almost maniacal. “Mind if I skip past the ‘mom never loved me’ part and get right to it? I’m scaring myself.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah. That’s why I came to you. I don’t wanna get all twelve-steppy, but remember what you told me, that killing people would make me feel like some kind of a god?” The whiff of blood dancing through the air suddenly assaulted his senses with a powerful blow. Her hands were in view, covered in grit and stained in red. He’d known it wasn’t human from first smell, but the sight worried him all the same.

“It’s not human if that’s what you’re thinking. Not that that makes me feel any better or this guy any less dead.”

The waver in her voice was enough to verify that—human or not—the demon hadn’t deserved this. Angel took her arm instinctively and guided her to the sofa to inspect her indiscretion closely. She was trembling; the blood humming through her veins beckoning with the temptation of just a little closer and…

“Faith, you need help,” he said honestly, his hands cradling hers. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I know. For real now, I’m scared. Scared of what I am…what I’m turning into.” Her eyes burned into his. “Cold-blooded straight up killer. Like you.”

There was no denying the sting, but Angel pushed it aside. Hurtful or not, it was the truth. “Not like me. I didn’t have a choice. You do, Faith. You can stop this.”

“Believe me, I don’t wanna end up the way everybody said I would. Dead or alone or a loser.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

There was defeat in her tone. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was defeat. Defeat wasn’t for the strong. He’d fought the power of his demon for almost a full century. Angel had led himself down a number of darkened alleys with the hope of discovering something that would put his aching soul to rest. He’d wanted to quit more times than he could count. Wanted to scream, wanted to claw, wanted blood in recompense for everything that had been stolen from him. Wanted it over with every fiber of his being. But it had never defeated him.

“Maybe it’s too late for me,” she whispered. Her lower lip was quivering. She was close to tears.

“It’s not.”

“Angel…I’m so scared.”

It was one of those moments where impulse reigns supreme, completely overriding every other nerve in the body that screamed a certain course of action wasn’t perhaps the best idea. But the girl in his arms wanted comfort—needed comfort. Needed that blessed second of reassurance that in some parallel reality, everything could be all right. It was second nature that persuaded him to embrace her. Just as natural, then, when Faith pulled back and brushed her lips against his. The contact was so light, so fleeting, that it could have easily been accidental; the girl in his arms wasn’t the sort to gamble on that kind of wager. Oh no. She saw what she wanted and she took it. Anything she did now was planned.

Angel snapped back, and the illusion he had been painting for her shattered. He wondered if she thought she was fooling anyone when she pulled these stunts.

The words that escaped his lips were not as harsh as they could have been. Resolute and forceful but nowhere near cruel. She did not deserve that. “Whoa, Faith. Hold on.” He delicately grasped her wrists from where they were linked around his neck and secured them in her lap. “I’m here for you. I am…but not like that. I’m with Buffy.”

At first, there was nothing. The look in her eyes could not be read. “You’re with Buffy,” she echoed emotionlessly. “With Buffy. Of course. Well, bully for Buffy. Are you sure she knows that? Huh? You’re with Buffy, but is Buffy with you? Honestly, Angel. You’re pretty, but not exactly the brightest crayon in the box.”

The vampire couldn’t repress a flinch at that. There was no sense denying it. With as much as he reached for Buffy, she withdrew. With as much as he tried, she distanced. It had been understandable at first. He knew Spike well; knew that he was very capable of leaving a lasting impression. But Buffy was supposed to be above that. A night with his annoying grand-childe was a cakewalk after all she had endured, even if he was the renowned killer of Slayers. She hadn’t been hurt— (flash to the bite marks. A twin set. One on her wrist and another marring her neck. Those she allowed him to give her)—and therefore the road to healing should have been shorter than attributed.

Her change in behavior might not have been credited to Spike at all, but that was when it began to show. And he didn’t understand. She’d faced worse. She’d faced much worse.

She’d faced him.

Still, it was only a flinch. He couldn’t let Faith know how deeply the barb had cut. Therefore his answer was short and evasive. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me!” Her words sliced trenches into his heart. “Come on. I know you love the girl, but you’re not deaf and blind. Little Miss Perfect Buff hasn’t been the same since the you-know-when. Right? Isn’t that when this started? The mood swings, the distancing, the holdin’ back on the lip-action. I was there two nights ago when you got out of that movie. Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but she has not been thinkin’ of you as she uses her slayer muscles to get herself off. I’d know. And you know what I’m thinkin’, ‘cause you’re in the same damn boat. I’m thinkin’ five foot ten of the blond persuasion. I’m thinkin’ the exact same thing you and everyone else has been thinkin’ since that night. Why don’t you come out and admit it?”

He would not let her win that easily, no matter how true her words rang. No matter how wide the hole in his heart was expanding. He would not let her win. He would not cave. This was about her. About her problem. It had nothing to do with his relationship with Buffy. “Faith, this isn’t the issue—”

“Then it needs to become the issue! You, King Wes, and all the grubby little Scoobies have been flockin’ to me like I have some sorta problem. So yeah. I killed a guy. Accidents happen.” There was something in her tone that took him aback, even as her words continued to burrow under his skin. “I killed a guy, and I feel shitty about it. I do. I really do. But I’m getting just a little fed up with everyone focusing on putting me through rehab when it’s Buffy who’s banging the undead. The not-so-safe undead. The sort that’s not you.”

Angel’s head reeled back, his eyes blazing yellow. “You have no right to make that sort of presumption.”

“No right? I have no RIGHT? I sure as hell do have a right!” Faith stepped back. “All your little girlfriend has done since I came to this shit-pit town is judge me. Let’s count the ways that Faith is a screw-up and Buffy is queen. And yeah, she’s good at what she does. She fucking has to be. But she’s not perfect. She’s far from it.”

“I know that—”

“Do you? Do you really? Is it because of common sense or because you know in your gut what really went down that night?” Faith leaned forward with dangerous temptation. “You can’t stand there and tell me you haven’t been thinking the exact same thing ever since she and your vamp-sprout got locked up together. Come on, Angel. I’m playin’ to your Dear Abbey…why don’t you indulge mine? Huh?”

It would have been easy to say no. One word. One syllable. Step away from Faith and remember that she was the one in need of help. That her problems amounted to much more than relationship issues that belonged on a demonically twisted Jerry Springer episode. However, there was no fuel. Throughout the entire ordeal, he had stood aside with quiet reflection, watching as Buffy tore herself and others to shreds with action more than words. Watched as she claimed that everything was all right, but knowing the truth was far more complicated, and had the surefire chance of being more hurtful. Watched and allowed himself to be pushed away. Looking at Faith now was an eye-opener. The link that screamed there was one of no more pretending. No more pointing in one direction while fleeing in another. No more accepting the idea that everything was all right when he knew damn well that it wasn’t.

Therefore, the words that escaped his lips became his own. Not some petty recitation of what she would want him to say. No. More than that. Something he needed for himself. An indulgence. A chance to rant. A need to make things better, if only for a few minutes.

“All right.”

*~*~*

It was growing harder and harder for Buffy to ignore the fact that the lower the sun sank in the sky, the closer she drew to the three-day mark. Three whole days since Spike allegedly burst into town, and there was still no word from him. Nothing aside from Wesley’s injury and a pair of purloined panties to suggest that he was in town at all. No Spike. No sign of Faith. Creepy demon that wanted to sell books. Her life was just screwy. The sigh riding up her throat fought for a taste of cold comfort as she made her way to Angel’s.

Angel. What did she plan on telling him? They hadn’t spoken since the theatre incident, and she still had no thoughts on what she wanted to say. He was needed right now—for finding Faith and the deal-making demon. He was needed for more than that, but she couldn’t focus when her thoughts traveled down such an obscured pathway.

Nothing could prepare her for seeing them together. Faith and Angel. Angel and Faith. They were talking quietly at the mansion’s doorway, leaning too close together for comfort. Hushed whispers as though they knew she was watching.

Anger and betrayal coursed through her veins with little hesitation. How long had Faith been here? An hour? Two? All day? Perhaps they had spent the weekend together and she was just now leaving. A swarm of irrational prejudices ran through her head, none and all of them making sense. She knew it wasn’t right—feeling deceived. Hadn’t she been doing that all month? But this…this was beyond comprehension. This was sick and wrong and it was time to go. Watching made her nauseous. Couldn’t be angry. Couldn’t be not-angry. Couldn’t be anything.

It was Spike’s fault. Everything was Spike’s fault. If he hadn’t come back…if he hadn’t messed things up…

Well, she’d be deadlocked in a passionless relationship with Angel. Not so different than where she was now, really. Only she’d be without Spike-shaped lusty dreams to get her through the day.

It irritated her that her reason for being mad at him had just turned into gratitude.

Buffy sighed heavily and turned on her heel. Other than betrayal, she felt nothing. And it wasn’t my boyfriend’s cheating on mebetrayal. It was Angel’s found redemption in another slayer betrayal—like the special thing she could have given him, with or without a personal relationship, had been snatched from under her nose.

I just wanna go home. Draw a bath, snag some historical porn, and forget.

But then her eyes drifted upward and clashed with a violent wave of ocean blue, and the world around her tumbled away. She couldn’t have been more surprised had the earth swallowed her whole. There he was. The bane of her existence. The pinnacle of her aspirations. Standing all of twenty feet away. Watching her. Watching her through hooded eyes. Reading her as though none of the distance, none of the torture she had spent the past five weeks burying herself under had meant a thing. Not in the long run.

The air crackled between them, nearly threatening to break for the intensity of his stare. It took a minute of stunned stupor to form anything resembling cohesive thought. Spike. There. At Angel’s. How long? Had he been following her? Oh God, he was still looking. That was no good. The bottom of her stomach fell with no sense of stamina. As though weeks of repression could be blinked away with one powerful glance.

Angel was forgotten. She couldn’t remember her own name if she tried. And Spike did that. He did that to her just by looking at her. No touching. No ‘did you miss me’ grin. No mind-numbing kiss. Just staring at her. Daring her to make the first move.

Time to speak. Damn, he beat her to it.

“Hello, luv.” It was his voice. Oh God, it was his voice. The very voice she’d listened for every time she stepped outside the house at night. Every time a stranger tugged at her arm for a dance at the Bronze. All amounted to this moment. He was back. He was back, and everything inside went numb in affect. “Fancy runnin’ into you, here of all places.”

Her eyes refused to leave his for fear that he would disappear if she looked away, but there was nothing to say. Spike tilted his head slightly and took a bold step forward. If anything, her reaction seemed to amuse him, though she saw a flicker of uncertainty waver in his eyes.

Buffy swallowed hard. Words had abandoned her. “Spike…”

A soft smile of fond reflection tickled his mouth. He was close now. So close. So close that his scent filled her nostrils and his unnecessary breaths fanned her skin. A lone hand strayed to brush loose strands of hair from her face. When he spoke again, his voice was low. And now all she could do was stand and stare. Just a few feet away from Angel’s mansion, where he was chatting with Faith. This was no good. “You gonna stand there all night catchin’ flies?” he drawled huskily, eyes roaming over her without shame. It made her shiver; she had seen that hungry, feral gleam before. “Or are you gonna welcome me back…good an’ proper?”

That snapped her out of it. A flash and everything came soaring back. The weeks that had not gone by quickly. The sham of a life he had left for her to clean up. The way she burned for him when all she wanted to do was forget. And now he was touching her. And she was letting him. Right when she had been going to make things right.

He was there, hovering over her. Invading her personal space and relishing every second of it. As if he could come and go as he pleased.

Buffy glared at him, not realizing she had moved to strike until her fist connected with his jaw and she watched him barrel backwards, landing on his ass. A shiver of satisfaction shimmied up her spine. God, that felt good.

Only now he was angry. And ohhhh…

“Bloody hell, woman!” he all but shouted, reminding her all too quickly of Angel’s proximity. “Should’ve known better than to make that a sodding either/or question. Then again, I thought we were old pals. Guess I shouldn’t have expected as much. Slayer back in full motion, ready for a round of fisticuffs. Fancy a dance, luv?”

Despite his frustration, his tone had not lost that tantalizing brogue. She hated the fact that he could have such an effortless effect on her. They regarded each other for a sharp moment, both panting heavily, hardly recognizing the voice that grew louder with its approach. It wasn’t until Angel said her name directly that Buffy had the presence of mind to realize he even existed.

She panicked, gaze darting to the walk where he was about to emerge, then again to Spike, who remained on the ground. Her eyes widened with comprehension as she, for the first time, understood what was about to happen.

Uh oh.

This was not going to be her night.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Seven” ]

Part Seven: Empty-Handed

It was the longest moment of her life, and she had had some long ones. Buffy literally saw the scene unfold in the slowest form of delayed reaction she thought possible. A breath held in raw suspension as the curtain separating the old from the new slowly swung open. The Slayer froze completely—her body reacting solely on the level of irrefutable betrayal. No, she couldn’t let this happen. Not now. Not with Spike watching.

Time relinquished its hold, and the next few seconds flew outside of the realm of control. She watched from her scouting position—disconnected from her body and viewing blindly through farsighted binoculars. She was distanced from everything that could have possibly intervened for the sake of culpability.

Thus, her body followed its most natural inclination. Buffy bolted for Angel, hands finding his shoulders as his massive frame formed effortlessly behind the drape. There was a confused grunt and a brief struggle, but she managed to push him back inside, ignoring the nearly imperceptible snicker from behind. But it worked; the peroxided vampire took the hint. In the midst of her boyfriend’s confusion, Spike wisely seized the opportunity to make himself scarce.

Disaster averted.

Temporarily.

Now all she had to do was look at Angel and explain why she was manhandling him at his home. She focused on recollecting herself, mindful but not paying full attention to the series of questions that were being fired at her, in keeping with her calamitous entrance. The room was spinning with more of the same.

“Buffy? Buffy! Are you—”

It occurred to her finally on some level of awareness that Angel was trying to communicate.

The Slayer blinked slowly, at last returning to herself. A longing glance to verify what she already understood. Spike had vanished once again. Where the younger vampire had once been, he was no longer. It hit her like a ton of bricks. He really was gone. Again. He had disappeared again in record time. Disappeared with agility with which she had never credited him. When had the bleached vampire become stealthy?

A cold thought trickled into her mind, unbidden. Suppose his disappearing act led him all the way back into his inner shell? It had taken three days to convince him to approach her. What now? Reason promised that it was his own damn fault for following through only when she decided to visit the actual boyfriend. Would he see it that way, or had he retreated far into himself with the crazy insistence that she somehow deserved this.

Anger sparked without further provocation. Spike had developed the nasty habit of doing that. Enter. Confuse things. Exit. Thanks for nothing.

He’s gone. Oh god, he’s gone. Self-satisfied prick. He better not be gone for long.

It was Spike. Spike who hated waiting as much—to be honest, probably more—than she did. Patience hardly a forte, and far from the esteem of his other virtues. However, these past few weeks had all but rewritten her understanding of the demon. More honest logic suggested that no amount of predictability would prepare her for his next move.

Which was likely a good idea for the moment. Angel was talking.

And she wasn’t listening. Again.

Whups.

Buffy shook her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was walking and came by and—hey—there you were. All…stand-in-the-doorish. Figured it might be nice to drop in and say hey and, oh, what’s that you’re reading? We’re having to read A Streetcar Named Desire for English right now. Have you read it? I mean, of course you’ve read it. You probably remember when it was published. God, gotta love Tennessee Williams. It is Tennessee Williams who wrote it, right? There are so many, I—”

Rambling. Not good. While it was true that Angel was accustomed to her rambling, he was similarly attuned to the various symptoms of anxiety. Buffy plus nervousness equals guilt. Major guilt in the way of secrecy. They had been through enough of the same to grasp that understanding.

Damn. Still rambling.

“—And Vivien Leigh. She was just…well, to quote Keanu: whoa. Played Blanche great, though you really can’t compare to Scarlet O’Hara, can you? I don’t think she—”

“Buffy!”

It was a moment of delayed realization. She looked at him as though she had never heard her name before. The territory was well-matched. Following a man blindly through a labyrinth of continuous riddles, or poor jokes constructed solely for her benefit. She had never seen him look so thoroughly irritated with her.

“Buffy,” he said again with a fiery edge, his patience tested. “What are you doing here?”

Was it possible that she had skipped an explanation to that very question in the heat of her long-winded rambling? She blinked. “I was…patrolling,” she replied slowly. Then stopped. There was no reason she shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as though she had come on the very thought that she would run into Spike.

“Patrolling.” Angel’s brows perked and he crossed his arms. “At my house?”

“Well, I’m not saying this is the best place to take my business, but I kinda just wandered over here and…wait, why is this even an issue? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Angel looked at her for a long minute. “After this weekend, I wasn’t expecting you to try and visit me anytime soon.” He glanced down and sighed. “You know, I’m tired. Buffy, I am so, so tired. I’m tired of dancing at arm’s length with you. I’m tired of walking around on eggshells whenever we talk. I’m tired of pretending that everything is okay. So rather than stand here and perpetuate something that is making us both miserable, I’m going to be painfully upfront.”

Buffy’s heart lodged in her throat. “What do you mean?”

He shot her a glance that told her full well that he knew that she knew damn well what he was talking about. “I’ve tried and I’ve watched you push me away. I’ve let you push me away. God knows I’ve wanted you to let me in and just tell me that everything I worry about is nonsense. That you wouldn’t…but I can’t. I’m going to ask you up front—once—and I want a straight answer.”

Panic shot up her spine, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She couldn’t—even if she was about to say something profoundly stupid. Even if she was about to open the gate. “Fine. I mean, okay. Okay. Take your best shot.”

Full count.

“What happened between you and Spike?”

Buffy swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” she asked again, wincing. Evidently, she had an unexplored capacity for lameness.

Angel surged with irritation and recovered one of the missing steps between them, the feral look in his eyes glowing yellow with intent. “Oh, don’t do that, Buffy. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You. Spike. Birthday ritual. I want the truth. What happened?”

She balked respectfully, even though she knew it was a dumb thing to do. The very notion that he had to ask in the first place was confirmation enough of what he already knew. Speaking the words would do little good. And yet, she found it within herself to grow angry in an illogical twist. There was little more than she hated than being cornered, despite her admitted fault. No matter that she had seen the very object of debate no more than ten minutes ago outside Angel’s home. No matter that coming clean here and now would make a world of difference in the field of the blame game. There was no time for rational solutions. “What are you…” she began, trailing off for the light of truth that sparked through, despite herself. “Did Faith—”

“How did you know Faith was here?”

“I saw her.”

Then he was angry. No word, no question about it. He was completely angry, and it astonished her. Angel had spent far too much time not caring these past few weeks, thus the display left her oddly relieved. As though there was something there worth fighting for. “Stop it!” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with Faith! This is about you and me, and I think that I have just cause to know what happened between you two that night. You can’t keep shutting me out, Buffy. I’m still here, and I think I’ve been a pretty good sport about this.”

“You are so off base now.”

“Really? Interesting theory. Maybe I’m not thinking that clearly. Maybe I am a little off my game, but I really can’t tell you how much I don’t think that’s the case.” He was so close to bursting into game face now that even she could taste it. “But as long as you refuse to tell me what happened…why you let him bite you, why you let him go…” Angel broke and shook his head again, attempting to reign in some control. “I can’t be with you when you’re like this.”

I can’t be with you, period.

God, it would be so easy to break up with him right now. And yet, she held her tongue. There was something decidedly rattling about cutting the strings of her first great love, especially when she’d be leaving him for the idea of another man. Whether or not she and Spike ever progressed to anything was another story.

“I’m like this,” Buffy replied shortly. She felt so little when she looked at him. There was nothing worth saving. “Deal with it.”

“Leave.”

The word was so short, so abrupt, that she had to do a double take to make sure she’d heard him right. He was a stranger—the image he wore was so far from any adopted in her experience. Not quite Angelus: oh no. He couldn’t stand for that, no matter how angry he was with her. That brought about too many memories. At the same time, however, not remotely in the proximity of Angel. Angel was patient and understanding. Angel talked things out. Angel never demanded anything of her. Not like that. Not with a word so cold, a command so grasping, that she could not fathom fishing for a debate.

There was no feasible approach to a reply. No rational sidestepping to avoid another nasty scene. So she did the one thing she should have done from the start. She did what she had been meaning to do all night, on one level or another.

She left.

*~*~*

The path she took home was a simple route that required nothing more than legs and a desire to snuggle comfortably in her bed. Jaunts through Restfield Cemetery were routine, whether or not she was patrolling. It was a habit long formed; no matter the destination in Sunnydale, there was always a shortcut through a graveyard.

Buffy wasn’t so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the telltale signs of being followed; but she wasn’t worried. Only Spike wasn’t following her—he was waiting for her. Her sudden rush of adrenaline propelled her straight into his arms; the force of collision sending him to the ground, and since his arms were around her, she toppled with him. With an irritated ‘oof’, Buffy gasped and wriggled, eliciting a low moan from the man beneath her that she wisely chose to ignore. His grip on her tightened by instinct, and he flashed her a toothy grin.

“Better watch where you’re goin’, luv,” he advised huskily, gaze falling to her lower lip. “Y’never know what sort of nasties are waitin’ for you…”

Great. He was doing that thing with his voice that she liked.

“Yeah, and you’re walking proof of that, aren’t you?”

“My, my, aren’t we in a snit tonight?” His eyes danced merrily and she was not going to flush, dammit. “Though I gotta say that you made it out here a lot sooner than I’d wagered. What happened? Things not go well with your big brooding hulk?”

This was so not the position she’d had in mind for her reunion with Spike, but he didn’t seem willing to let her up anytime soon. And that wasn’t good because she was flushed and he was really close and God, she was supposed to be talking herself out of this. Not a possibility when his arm was pressing her against him like that. How was it that she was trapped when it was he that was pinned beneath her? Damn vampire.

At that, she began to struggle again, desperately ignoring the involuntary whimpers that scratched through his throat when her lower body unwittingly grinded against his lower body. It was probably a good idea to ignore that thing that was definitely not a bulge and similarly not pressed against her in a way that…ohhh…

“Let me up,” she said, cursing herself when she sounded more needy than angry.

“Why?” he echoed innocently, reaching up to softly caress her cheek. “I’m all comfy, here.”

Meltage.

“Well, I’m not.” Buffy flushed. She was such a liar. “Emphasis on the not.”

“Watch it. You’ll ruin a bloke’s ego.”

“All the better. Spike, let me up!”

“No.” His eyes sparkled with defiance, and before she could think to protest, he had raised his head and was nuzzling her neck softly. Her eyes fluttered shut and an impulsive gasp escaped her lips. If this was a play at seduction, it wasn’t working. She wouldn’t let it.Yeah. Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that. The gasp transformed into an all-out moan when his tongue darted out to taste her skin. “You’re so warm,” he murmured against her. “Christ, Buffy, do you have any idea how warm you are?”

It was the unbidden use of her name that did it. An ode to their past passion. Odd how quickly he grew comfortable enough to address her by her given name, rather than her title. Their one night together had seen it nearly eradicated from his vocabulary. Okay, so he’d slipped a time or two and had refused to abandon the ever-popular pet, luv, and—a personal favorite—kitten. But she had been Buffy to him. Just Buffy. And it was enough to drive her from herself.

Not again.

Struggles renewed with more fervor than he could have anticipated, but he released her before they became too serious. Spike’s gaze was contemplative and penetrating. She had seen that look before, but it didn’t last long enough for her to enjoy it. His eyes faded to anger.

“So,” he growled lowly as she climbed to her wobbly feet. “That’s it, then? Li’l taste, li’l tease, an’ you run back to your sodding broody bear.”

The statement was deliberately provocative, and she didn’t appreciate the sentiment. “Spike, you have eyes, right? ‘Cause the way I see it, I’m running away from Angel.”

“Yeh. Excuse me if that fails to reassure.”

Her eyes shadowed. “I don’t seem to recall promising you anything.”

There was no way to repress the shudder earned from the look he delivered. Darkened and hurt, brewing with more than resentment. For the second time that night, Buffy found herself in an incredibly uncomfortable position and hadn’t the justification to feel anger at anyone but herself. The trenches kept getting deeper and deeper and she lacked persuasion on which way to run.

But then, something strange happened. The intensity of his gaze bore her resolutely into the ground, then relented altogether. It was nothing she could have expected; nothing he could have prepared her for. The Spike she knew fed off anger to motivate his actions. He grasped and molded it until he had reason to lash out with words or fangs. He did not burn in fury for seconds only to let go.

“No,” he agreed softly. “You didn’t.”

Was that a call for pity? For the sake of argument, she was going to assume so. It was infinitely better to stick with familiar territory.

“Oh, don’t even do that.”

Spike reeled, features contorting in confusion. “Do what?”

“Make like I’m the bad guy. I told you—”

“Know damn well what you told me, pet. I’ve played it over an’ over, tryin’ to talk myself outta comin’ here, because I knew exactly what I’d find.” He scoffed at her indignant look and paced a step away before turning again to face her. “But did it stop me? Hell no. Had to come. Had to see you. Had to prove to myself that the girl I touched that night really was talkin’ bollocks ‘bout things she won’t let herself understand.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Spike scowled at her but didn’t immediately reply. He dug his hands into his duster pocket and fished out a cigarette, perking an enigmatic brow at her as it burned to life between his lips. “Whatever you think it means.”

There was a puzzled moment of retake. “What does that mean?”

A sigh tore through the air. “It means whatever the bloody hell you want it to, Slayer.”

It took a minute, but his careless brandishing of her title sank in with all the raw implications of his growing resentment. So they had come full circle. They had come full circle, or he was trying to confuse the hell out of her.

And he was still talking. And pacing. And smoking himself into a frenzy.

“I knew it. I knew it the minute I started. Bloody knew it, but did that stop me? ‘Course not.” His eyes found hers again and he flicked the half-smoked fag to the ground to extinguish it under his boot. “I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this! Li’l Miss Stake-Up-Her-Arse Slayer. Givin’ me the brush-off when all I bloody well did is what you asked.” Spike stopped once more, gaze softening by degrees. The look she had only had one night to grow accustomed to. That grasping, yearning, pleading façade that had wormed its way under her skin and haunted her for weeks. At that moment, it seemed that eons had passed since they last saw each other. “You act,” he continued softly, “like it meant nothin’ to you.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Before she could consider what they meant. A lie that kept growing with no one around to pull its strings. She knew what she wanted. After everything she had put herself through, she wanted to see him hurt in return. With a cold indifference, she shrugged casually. “Who says it did?”

There was nothing for a long beat. Hurt blossomed in his eyes but didn’t travel to his hands. Anger flickered within pools of vibrant torment, but didn’t leak into his stride. He was not responding as a vampire should. No. At that moment, he looked very much like a wounded man. A man that could be destroyed with something as mindless as words. And she felt it. She felt the blunt edge of her sword come back to stab her, but it was too late to take it back.

Spike’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You did,” he reminded her. “You said that it—”

A taste. She had a taste of it now. That blunt, raw hurt, and she wanted more. Buffy quivered with need but she didn’t allow herself time to stop and consider. She wanted to see him angry. She needed to see him angry. She needed to see that he was just a vampire. That she could forget him. That he was indeed simply a symptom of the failure of her relationship with Angel. Nothing more. She needed him to hurt and taste it for herself. She needed to make him bleed.

“Yeah,” she spat. “I say a lot of things I regret later, but I didn’t honestly expect you to take them seriously. And—let’s face it—most everything I told you that night makes the list. And you held on to it? Geez, Spike. That’s kind of pathetic. I mean, what do you take me for, anyway?”

Silence for a long, long moment. No visible reaction. No telling flicker of the eyes. No angry growl. No shoving her away or sinking his fangs into her throat. No sign that he was a vampire. He wasn’t going to bleed, dammit. He was going to deny her that privilege.

“All of it?” he asked at last, taking a step forward. “Everythin’ you told me that night was a bunch of rot?” Spike seemed to be considering, walking forward again, and she couldn’t stand it. “Hmmm,” he mused thoughtfully. The air between them stilled with strands of unguarded longing. That which she couldn’t feasibly push aside. Couldn’t hide from him. In spite of all the barriers she placed, every brick she laid, he saw through it. He saw enough to know that her words weren’t entirely her own. That there was enough lie in them to make something else the truth. They stared at each other for long seconds, and she couldn’t help the small shudder that coursed through her system when he moved to innocently brush loose locks of hair from her eyes. “Is that so,?” he asked softly, voice distant. She fought to remember what they were discussing and failed miserably. All that mattered was that he was here. He was here at last, touching her, filling the void that had all but swallowed her whole. Making something right after the weeks of wrongdoing. And she loved it. “I hope not.” His mouth was on her throat then; hands outlining her arms without touching her. Long, teasing seconds, then his tongue traced a pathway to her ear, a rumble of approval shuddering through his body as he muffled something about her taste. Buffy’s lips parted and a loud gasp tore at her throat, and when his teeth tugged at her ear, she all but fell completely complacent in his arms. “’Cause I’ve thought about it,” he was murmuring. “Every bloody night.”

It wasn’t much of a battle, she realized. Nothing more than the nasty barbs turned back and forth. Those that had cut more than she would consider. This was new; she wasn’t used to this. To feeling the need to relinquish that hurt before she was done inflicting it. And he made sure. He made damn sure that it was her mouth attacking his, her hands reacquainting themselves with his body. Spike allowed her to explore for what seemed like forever before returning her fiery touch. Before running his hands over her body, familiarizing himself with the curves he had long ago committed to memory. He cupped a breast ardently, stroking her nipple through layers of clothing, capturing her moans in his mouth as his other hand ventured south. She broke for a gasp of air and her head crooned back, allowing him access to her throat as his attentions honed in precision. Nimble fingers outlined her hardened bud with feverish anticipation, and when he bent to nip at it, she knew she wasn’t going to last. Here in the cemetery with the air around them silent save for their shared whimpers, as need and want melted stubbornly into one forbidden entity. When he finished teasing her breast, his mouth retraced her skin and possessively captured her lips once more. There was nothing to fight. Not when he kissed her like that. Her body was attuned to his touch and she was vaguely aware that, if he continued like this, his ministrations were going to make her lose herself far more rapidly than even she could fathom. He had only started touching her; it would be a good long while before he stopped.

For whatever reason, that thought broke through the lust-addled haze, and she numbly realized with astute awareness what she was doing. What she was allowing him to do. Her mind fought for reservation but found none. Not with his mouth on her, his hands and…oh God, where were his hands? The faint voice that she had shoved to the back of her mind finally screamed its protestations loud enough, so that she might hear them. With a strangled cry, she pulled back, shaking her head with newfound resolution. “No.” Her mouth defiantly wrested another kiss from his before remembering her argument. “No.” She kissed him again. Have mercy, she could drown in him. Whiskey and cigarettes. Leather and danger. Everything that she shouldn’t want. “Spike, stop…no!” Her hands finally released their grip on his peroxided locks and moved to shove him off of her completely. Pants intermingled in the air as they regarded each other, attempting to reclaim composition. God, he couldn’t look at her like that.

Buffy waited until she knew she could trust her voice. Until she knew that she wouldn’t rush headlong into another painful relapse. She couldn’t let him touch her. “This is wrong,” she said obviously, earning an incredulous glance. Conviction could not waver. Not again. “I was stupid for letting it happen once—”

“Not once,” he corrected, panting slightly. So odd that he would need more time to recuperate than she did. “That night lasted forever, Buffy. An’ forever wasn’t long enough.”

She couldn’t have this conversation now. Not when she was so blessedly unprepared. He had been gone too long, and he was assuming way too much. This couldn’t happen here. Where exactly did he get off thinking he could disrupt everything again? He hadn’t given her time to answer. Or he had, but he had decided it wasn’t what he wanted to hear and had made with the toe-curling smoochies, as though it would change her mind. Asshole.

Buffy hoped her anger poured through her eyes. It needed to. “It doesn’t matter. I told you I needed time, and I’ve made my decision. Stay away from me.”

There was a long beat of silence as he considered her, head tilted curiously. “Is that what you really want?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Closing distances equals bad decisions and more making out…and she didn’t want to do that. Uh huh. “Y-yes.”

The gleam in his eyes told her well that he knew otherwise. Hidden there beneath layers of hurt. Good. Her words weren’t being wasted. But he wasn’t stopping on their account. He was nearing still, and soon that distance she needed would be gone again, and they both knew what that meant. “You mean you haven’t wanted me here all along?” he asked, tone adapting that husky front all over again. “Touching you?” A hand ran up her arm, gently caressed the swell of her breast, before falling at last on the button of her trousers. “Kissing you?” His mouth nipped at hers, grinning widely when he earned a long moan of concession. He took that as grounds to continue and permitted his fingers entrance, slipping inside her slacks completely and rubbing her pussy through the fabric of her panties. His other arm wrapped around her waist to hold her to him when her knees buckled. Lips and teeth on her again. Oh, this was not good. Well it was, but not when she was trying to tell him to leave her alone.

A rumble at her ear. Spike’s tongue traced the lobe lovingly before murmuring, “Making you growl out those sexy li’l mewls. Mmmm. God, baby. I—”

Buffy’s body was screaming even before she pulled away. Not that it did any good. He followed with aching persistence. It was then that she grew angry, and with a shove that did nothing to mask her conviction, she sent him to the ground. “No!” she barked. “God! Stay away from me!”

Spike was on his feet again the next instant, gaze marred with the realization that he had crossed a line. He tried to reach for her but she wouldn’t have it. He looked at her apologetically and released a trembling sigh. “Buff—”

She was fully aware of what would happen if she let him talk. She stepped away, eyes burning with malice. Hurt. More hurt. He had fully denied her the blood she needed. Own wants be damned. Not like this. “You wanna know the truth?” she spat. “Not once. I haven’t thought about you once.” It was amazing how effortlessly that lie spilled from her lips, and moreover, how true it sounded. And there it was. The pain she wanted. Pain laced with incredulity. No, no. There would be no want of doubt by the time she was through with him. “In fact, you weren’t that hard to forget. Don’t make this any more…”

It surprised her when it hit her. The full wave of every vindictive word and the entirety of their effect. Eyes that weren’t meant to blaze with such life were suddenly so vibrant that she found it difficult to breathe. There it was. Everything she told herself she wanted from him. Anger. Pain. Blood. Maybe he would grow livid enough to do something violent. Maybe he would hit her. Kick her. Make her remember why she was doing this. Make her remember that he was a vampire.

She waited for it, but it never came. Nothing but the relentless phase of hurt. What she had told herself she needed. What she couldn’t stand to look at.

Buffy wasn’t sure exactly when she turned to run away; she wasn’t fully aware she had moved at all until she tripped over a headstone. Then she was running again. Running back to Revello Drive where she couldn’t see his eyes. Where she didn’t have to weigh the reward of getting exactly what she wanted.

He hurt now. Hurt because of her. All for doing what she asked. What she wanted him to do. He had left and come back. He was here now and she…

And it wasn’t just him. It was Angel as well. The two men in her life hurt because of her.

Vindictive bitch.

A stifled sob at that. Tears that she couldn’t prevent. Dear God, what’s wrong with me?

That was what she took with her. Her body called for both, but her heart settled on the image of her would-be peroxided nemesis. The face of his hurt would keep her company tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

No two words to leave her lips had ever rung with more truth.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Eight” ]

Part Eight: Drowning In Misery

Buffy knew she was in for a sleepless night. At first, she thought to use insomnia to her benefit: catch up on homework or get a couple of chapters ahead in her English class. Give her a good chance to shock the hell out of Willow.

But she couldn’t focus on anything without taking a detour to endless pain: pain that she had placed there. Pain that she had demanded as payment for everything she’d done over the past few weeks. With every second that she wasn’t employing to track down Spike and apologize, the heavier her burden grew. It was all her fault—as much as she had resented his departure, Buffy was unprepared to deal with his return. He might be ready, he might know what it was that he wanted, but she didn’t have that luxury.

Spike wasn’t making it any easier. He was being purposefully unvampire-like, and it was setting her off her game. If he wanted, he could come to her house and kill her while she slept. There was no reason for him not to. She had rejected him, talked down to him, and made it beyond clear that he was the last thing she wanted. His eyes had burned with anger unlike anything she’d ever seen, seasoned with layers of masterful hurt. But he had not acted on it, and she knew he wouldn’t. Why? There was nothing keeping him out of her house. He’d made no promise to her. He was a vampire. She was the Slayer. In twisted vampiric logic, he had every right to lash out. To act like the demon he was and attempt to put her in the ground for eternity.

More so. He was William the Bloody. Slayer of slayers. The fact that he hadn’t tried to kill her after such blatant provocation left her more than dazed. Rather, it should have left her dazed. It didn’t. And that hurt worse than anything she could have said.

So she was unable to sleep all because of the random appearance of her one-night stand. Spike just had to show up with his stupid eyes and his stupid hands and his stupid voice that went along nicely with said stupid hands as they caressed her just the right way while his stupid lips…

A grumble of frustration rumbled through her, and Buffy flopped tiredly on her bed in defeat.

All those stupid parts add up to a stupid vampire who will never touch you again ‘cause you had to open your stupid mouth. And don’t even pretend that doesn’t bother you. They might have been stupid lies that shouldn’t have hurt his stupid feelings in the first place, but look at where that presumption got you.

It was too much. There would be no more taking of this. Not with every vibrant emotion she’d harbored since Spike’s last visit ready and willing to burst in a thousand different directions. Raw, repressed emotion. The full burden of wanton secrecy. She couldn’t keep it to herself. Not anymore.

This was a job for a best friend. She only hoped Willow was still interested in the currently-vacant position. There was no one in the world who could fill her shoes.

*~*~*

The room was beginning to spin, and that was just fine with him.

The theory of time continuity amazed him…rather, it would if he cared. A hundred plus years of enjoying every sinful pleasure the earth had to offer, and he could still drink himself away into a stupor of relentless boohooing within an hour.

Spike knew well the twisted dealings of a really good kill. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she was hot off a battle. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she’s just plain hot. Most importantly, how many shots of Jack Daniels it takes to drown out the image of a specific slayer, and therein surrender himself completely to a drunken stupor.

Well, it didn’t necessarily have to be Jack Daniels. It didn’t matter what the bartender placed in front of him, just as long as it was strong and successfully doused the taste of Buffy from his mouth. Until every last strand of coherency abandoned him, and the reflection of her words became nothing more than noise falling on deaf ears.

He had just started drinking, though. The night would see a lot of liquor.

Spike tried for anger. After all, he’d never had trouble holding on to his rage. Not until tonight. Why was it that the one emotion he needed was so far out of range? He reached and stretched and tackled and wrestled it, but it escaped him all the same. So bloody frustrating. Even with everything she’d said, he couldn’t remain satisfied with simple resentment. He was owed fury and it was denied for no reason other than his own misgivings.

No. There was nothing but hurt. He was rooted in hurt. Born there. He was intimately acquainted with all of its intricacies. God, this had to stop. First Drusilla and Angelus, then Drusilla and Chaos Demon, and now the Slayer with…her Buffyness. Love’s bitch all the way. He had an odd approach to proving himself right.

And he had seen it coming. From the moment he ran his precious car into the bloody welcome-home sign, he knew that she would be like this. He knew that every wall he’d broken down that night would be up again. She’d be guarding her precious self from feeling things that no decent Slayer should feel.

And even before that. Lying with her that glorious night. Listening to her talk, knowing that her plans would never come to fruition, even if she believed what she’d told him. The promise that what they had had meant something to her. That her relationship with Angel wasn’t what it used to be, and she had acted on something she wanted rather than an oddly-developed case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Spike had offered that morning to end it. He’d offered because he knew that when he came back, this was the welcoming committee he’d face. He’d offered but she’d declined. She’d nearly cried at the notion that he’d never return, and the knowledge had filled him with such relief that for a minute, for a split second, he thought that all might end well.

Not bloody so.

However, despite all the nastiness, there was something there. Something that spoke for every word she hadn’t said tonight. Spike knew that from experience, but he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that the authenticity behind her claims was any less valid. Buffy had spent the last few weeks deliberately talking herself out of something, else she would not have let him as close as she had tonight before the name-calling began.

“Stupid bint thinks she’s better than me,” he snarled, downing another shot of his drink. “Jus’ ‘cause she has friends an’ family an’ people who love her an’…an’…all right, so she’s better than me.” He glared angrily but things were falling out of focus. “What gives her the bloody nerve to be better than me?!”

Another shot. Another drink. A grumble. Damn. His thoughts were still coherent. He needed more alcohol. No, the bartender looked to actually have a conscience about this sort of thing. For the first time that evening, Spike questioned the wisdom of scheduling his pity-party at a pub that wasn’t Willy’s, but knew overall that it was better this way. When he got good and drunk, he tended to talk. A lot. It wouldn’t be good if word got out to all the Sunnyhell demons that William the Bloody—Slayer of Sodding Slayers—was pussy-whipped by the very creature he was notorious for destroying. He briefly considered relocating, but decided it would be better just to steal a bottle of whatever-looks-good and conclude his binge in solitude. He had a reputation to keep, after all. And without Buffy at his side, it looked as though his reputation was all he was going to get.

But still, it was damn annoying that the bartender had a conscience. It was damn annoying when anyone had a conscience, but this took the bloody cake. Maybe he could vamp out and scare him just a bit. Bloody well make him keep pouring. Or better yet, snap his neck and drain the bastard. Not like he hadn’t been bottling up every strand of rage that was unfortunately unBuffy-related with every pedestrian or bystander that he deliberately chose not to kill. Five weeks of denying himself that haven was enough to make any vampire see white spots of wankerdom. The incessant mantra that assured him the Slayer wouldn’t like that had him faithfully perched at the verge of madness, contemplating when best to jump.

But he wouldn’t, and though he knew why, he decided to blame it on the alcohol.

“Bloody ‘ad enough, have I?” he demanded, wrestling off his stool. “Why’s that that you care…mate? I’ll…sod…I’ll…” There would be no wavering from the stupid conscience-having human. Goddammit, this was the Hellmouth! The populace wasn’t supposed to have ethics and the lot of that do-gooder crap. Wasn’t enough that he was at a place where he didn’t have a tab.

The rational part of his brain told Spike that this was the part where he paid for the drinks he’d downed. Buggering ponce. Couldn’t he tell he was in pain, here? Wasn’t enough to cripple a chap financially. Honestly, pubs and brothels should be public service establishments. Like free therapy for those who didn’t give a fuck. Dim the pain until something else came up.

There had to be someone in this god-awful town that he could pin it on. Someone with as much a reason to drink as he had. Someone who knew the Slayer and was well aware of the headaches she issued at leisure.

“Put it on Rupert’s tab,” he instructed. “Giles, right? The…librarian. The drinks are on ‘im.”

The bartender seemed content with this and nodded, moving to serve his next customer. Some lucky ponce who hadn’t had enough. And what was that, anyway? Who actually told people to leave when they’re right cooperative, paying customers? This wasn’t bloody Cheers, it was…

Spike stumbled out of the bar like a drunken buffoon—which he supposed was the point—into the quieted downtown streets of late-night Sunnydale. It didn’t surprise him that the uglies weren’t lurking about; he knew enough to recognize their regular haunts, but the thought was wasted on him for something else entirely.

He didn’t get far. He ran into someone.

Quite literally.

Oh, bloody hell.

It was actually amusing for a second. Either that, or the alcohol was getting to him. The girl dove to the pavement to collect the things she’d dropped, all the while muttering a thousand hurried apologies. Spike was vaguely aware that any decent man—tipsy or not—would be helping her with her plight…then remembered he was neither decent, nor, by society’s standards, a man. But it was his fault and bugger these gray areas. The Slayer couldn’t expect him to remain all proper and domesticated, could she? Especially with the…

His internal ramblings went on until he realized that the girl had collected her things and was staring at him immodestly.

“SPIKE?!”

Yeah, that was his name all right. Did she really have to shout it?

“’Ello…ummm…” He struggled for a minute, waving a bit as gravity tugged at his balance. What was her name again? He really should remember. After all, he had threatened to take her once, in his attempt to quench weeks’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration. There was also something about a broken bottle. Bugger if he could remember anything once the slobbering drunkenness went away. “Willow. ‘S that it? ‘Course tha’s it. What’s cookin’, luv?”

There was nothing for a long minute, and had he been more aware, he would have noted the definite lack of fear behind young eyes. Well, maybe some fear, but not enough to accommodate the knee-knocking terror a self-proclaimed Big Bad deserved. Some fear but not enough.

Instead, she just screamed his name again. “SPIKE?!”

The vampire grumbled. “Bloody hell, could you not shout? Yes, it’s me! Spike. The one an’ bloody only. Who’d you think it was? Carol King?” He took a step backward, hand going to his forehead in ode to misery. The coherent thoughts he’d tried to block out were running in spades, now.

This was the Hellmouth. A poor sap couldn’t even get nice and properly drunk without something intervening.

Maybe he just hadn’t had enough. His mind floated unwittingly to Willy’s again. Sod all worries of other nighttime nasties hearing of his miserable plight. Spike cared bugger all about society’s rules—be it demon or otherwise.

But there was that reputation to maintain, and that was something he was not willing to endanger. Not with the Slayer acting all high and mighty on top of her not-so-white stallion. Bugger. That.

Something grabbed his hands. Powerfully. Oh, right. Willow. He’d forgotten she was there. He yanked them back to his sides in a blink. “What’re you doin’?”

“Checking for a bottle. I’d like to avoid the ‘in-face’ incident.”

Damn. She remembered.

“If I were you, I’d run,” he advised in a voice that was not-at-all intimidating. “Creature of the night, ‘ere. I might do somethin’…creature-ish. Why don’ you jus’ sod off like a good li’l witch?”

There was a second’s hesitation as she actually seemed to consider the suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “no. ‘Cause you’re all drunk-like and…well, you know what they say. Friends don’t let friends drive drunk…a-and even if the commercials don’t specify, I’m sure that extends to mortal enemies and stuff. Not that you’re my mortal enemy. More like…mortal enemy by association. Besides…there’s some stuff I’d like to—”

“Stop talking so damn fast.” Spike pressed a hand to his forehead and stumbled a bit. “An’ listen to a bloke when he tells you to scamper off. Or ‘ave you forgotten jus’ like she bloody well forgot? ‘m dangerous. ‘m a nasty, nasty killer an’…” He trailed off in thoughtful consideration, beyond mortified when a choked sob rumbled through his lips. Damn good thing I didn’t go to Willy’s.“Oh God. Tha’s it, innit? Tha’s why she…” Another beat and anger replaced blubbering sorrow. If he had been on higher awares, he would have noticed Willow jump about a foot and a half in the air when he roared, and her consequent surprise when he failed to burst into game face. “God, that stupid bitch! I’ll drain her dry jus’ like I should’ve. Bloody show her who’s all easy to forget.” Another pause, then he broke down again. “God, I’m so unhappy.”

Damn. The Witch was still there. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to pay attention. Since when did the little redhead develop a backbone? Perhaps he was too drunk to come across as threatening. “Does Buffy know you’re in town?” she asked softly.

Hearing the Slayer’s name nearly shocked the hell out of him. As though he hadn’t been thinking about her—raving about her—all night. As though she weren’t the bane of his existence. Buffy. Spike frowned, smiled, then frowned again.

Brutal bitch.

“Fuck the bloody Slayer,” he snarled. “She th-thinks she’s all better than me jus’ ‘cause she’s all perky an’ noble an’ has that thing she does with her…” His eyes grew hazy for a minute with fond recollection before he remembered that he hated her. “Well, she can fuckin’ rot, for all I care. Show her who’s better than who. Stupid, worthless bitch.”

Willow watched him passively, mouth forming a line of understanding. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take what as a what?”

“Buffy knows you’re in town. You’ve seen her.” When his eyes narrowed, she shrugged indifferently. “It’s kinda obvious…with the bitterness and the drinking. She tends to rub that off on people, a-at least of the recent, anyway. Well…more since you last left town, but—”

At that, his gaze sharpened, eyes coming into focus for the first time since stepping out of the pub. It finally occurred to him that he was standing in the middle of the street, chatting with the Slayer’s best pal. Chatting, as in not threatening. “Huh’s’at?” he asked. “You say the Slayer’s been more than her plain bitchy self since—”

Willow met his eyes knowingly, and the wisdom he saw there was astonishing. She was the sort of close friend who saw right through to the problem, even if the problem didn’t want to be seen. And she’d seen Buffy’s problem.

“Thing about Buffy,” she said, oddly conversational. “She’s good at lying to Giles, her Mom, even Angel, but she’s always told me the truth. I mean, about everything. So, these past few weeks…I’m guessing that I finally met the not-so-truthful side to Buffy. I knowsomething’s up…and it’s pretty obvious that it has something to do with you.”

“You…you know?” The vampire stumbled forward and grasped hold of her shoulders, flinching when the girl ‘eeped’ and twisted herself to freedom. “Sorry,” he mumbled before he knew what he was saying. “Whas’sit you know?”

“Well,” she continued after a minute. “Not a lot. But enough to know that the freaky mood swings didn’t start until after the birthday/locked-with-Spike-for-hours-at-a-time thing. So, survey says…Spike related.” A frown. “Kinda sad. This is the most I’ve, well, been able to talk about her…and you…without getting my head bitten off. And really, no offense, but minor wiggins that it’syou I’m talking to and not—”

“’Course,” Spike sneered, pacing himself a miserable step away. “Bloody well figures she wouldn’t talk ‘bout me. ‘Cause I’m so easy to forget, right? I’m easy to forget. Me! William the Fucking Bloody!”

Willow flinched visibly when she registered that his temper had turned violent again, but made no move to run when the opportunity arose. It was more than obvious that he was not going to hurt her. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“…where the bloody hell does she get off calling me forgettable?” He was pacing now. “I’ll show her who’s forgettable. If she thinks I’m forgettable, she’s ‘bout to forget what was forgotten…” He blinked and met her eyes once more. “You followin’ me, Red?”

“Buffy said you’re forgettable?”

There was another sob at that. One he couldn’t help. God, this was pathetic. The Big Bad reduced to a sniveling crybaby, relinquishing all of his woes on the shoulder of the Slayer’s best chum. Fan-fucking-tastic. If only Drusilla could see him now. “She said she hasn’t thought about me once. But she had the tape. She had—”

“What tape?”

“Monty Python. She said—”

A frown marred Willow’s brow. “Monty Python? What does that have to—”

“Bloody told the stubborn bint that she’d like it all right ‘f she gave it a try,” he explained, reaching for his cigarettes. “The lot of it prob’ly went over her pretty li’l head. Jus’ like everythin’ else. Wonder ‘f that was bleedin’ forgettable, too!”

Willow was following, albeit rather slowly. A short game of connect-the-dots, then her eyes widened like saucers and she leapt to the inevitable conclusion. “Oh! S-so that’s why she’s been renting Monty Python movies like mad these past few weeks. God, and I thought Giles was having her undertake some bizarro training ritual or something. I mean…yeah, I haven’t talked to her in a few days…well, willingly, that is…but I couldn’t get her to watch anything but Monty Python. And dammit…if I have to sit through The Holy Grail one more time, I’m gonna—”

There was a sober twist at that; Spike leaning forward as the words reached his ears. It was unwise to allow himself to hope, but there it was. A smidgeon of hope. “What are you saying?”

“Well, that whatever you said obviously wasn’t as forgettable as she tried to make you believe.” Willow nodded. “Trust me, I know Buffy. She wouldn’t make with the overdone British humor for just anyone.”

The revelation came so fluidly that it nearly took him by surprise. Sheer, simple logistics. It occurred to him that he and Willow could become relatively good pals in some distant, parallel existence.

Then he snapped back to himself.

“Red…”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doin’ here?” He waved to the street dazedly, then pointed to himself.

“Me?! What am I doing here? Hello!”

“’S a free country.”

“Yeah, but last time I checked, it wasn’t…” She stopped in mid sentence. “Okay. From the beginning. I was on my way back from the magic shop. Supplies for a truth spell…for…why am I telling you this? Why are you here?”

Spike offered a defiant smirk. “’Cause I wanna be, tha’s why. Stupid bitch can’t tell me where to go. I’m a rebel. I’ll show her…” There was a momentary pause. “Shouldn’t you be soddin’ off? Evil vamp an’ all. I’m dangerous. I could kill you at any minute, an’—”

Willow’s eyes widened comically as though just then realizing where she was, and whom she was talking to. “But…but you won’t. I know you weren’t going to…I mean, you won’t hurt me.”

Her innocence charmed him. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed at the display of trust. “Ummm…I’m rememberin’ a certain bottle-in-face incident.”

“Yeah, and I already checked. Remember? A few minutes ago? You’re officially bottleless.” The redhead nodded proudly, then winced as she ventured her luck further. “A-and even if you did…have a bottle…you wouldn’t use it.”

At that, he scoffed. “How do you know? ‘m evil!”

“You wouldn’t…because of Buffy. I mean, what happened with you and Buffy.”

Spike froze. “What do you know about me an’ Buffy?” he demanded suspiciously. “Did she tell you? What has she told you? What—”

“Well…like I said, not a lot. I was kinda reaching, but judging by your reaction, I’m thinking I reached in the right direction.” Willow hazarded a step forward. “I know enough to know that you won’t hurt me.”

A rush of anger shimmied up his spine for no reason other than instinct telling him that it belonged there. No vampire should have to listen to such a ridiculous accusation. What burned even more was the knowledge that she was likely right. He wouldn’t hurt the Slayer’s pal. He couldn’t hurt anyone else, after all. Buffy wouldn’t like it. It wouldn’t do well to fall off the wagon with someone as intimately connected to the object of his affection as Willow Rosenberg.

But she didn’t need to know that. Well, she already knew that, but he didn’t need to go do any fool thing like verify it.

“’Course I would,” Spike scoffed. “I’m bloody evil!”

Bugger, she didn’t look convinced. “I-I know you’re evil,” she agreed. “And I’m not saying that I’m thrilled knowing what my best friend did with you in order to merit having this conversation in the first place. A-and by ‘knowing’ I mean ‘pretty damn sure.’ You’re all weepy and all, but not about Dru, so…and I don’t know why she would’ve done it. I mean, she totally loves Angel and—”

There was a quieted, almost broken growl at that. Willow winced.

“Sorry,” she amended quickly, and her eyes widened as she realized the significance of their trade. There was no clause anywhere in the world of demonology to suggest that she should ever feel compelled to apologize to vampires. “Ummm…right. But something of the important nature did happen. And she’s been so…doom and gloom ever since. I think she misses you.” She waited until he had his eyes—that tender gaze that reflected nothing but astonishment—before continuing. “Not that I approve, but…I guess you deserve to know. And I’m pissed enough at her for being so ‘non-best-friendy’ to really…really not care what I say. I kinda have no room to judge until I know the whole story.” There was a scowl. “Even if I am bitter about that entire bottle-in-face thing.”

“Sorry, pet.”

The response was instinctive. “It’s okay.” Another pause. “Bah! Has anyone told you how wiggy you are when you’re not trying to kill everyone?”

“Yeah. A lot, in recent memory.” Spike scoffed and shook his head, mouth curling around his cigarette. “’S not as if I din’t try, y’know. I’ve tried a lot. A good, clean kill. Right quick. Drown the memory of her into someone’s throat.” He eyed Willow’s jugular nostalgically for a long minute, averting his gaze when he saw her begin to squirm in discomfort. “Bloody hasn’t worked, though. Stupid bitch has ruined me. Ruined me then tossed me aside. Ain’t love grand?”

There was a long, pregnant silence as that last statement rang cold through the air. Willow, astonished. Spike, horrified. Neither knew what to say.

“L-love?” the redhead stuttered.

“I din’t mean that,” he corrected hastily, running a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s bloody rubbish, so don’t go preachin’ it to your li’l Scoobies. ‘S jus’ a sayin’. You got me?”

Despite her nod, Willow did not look convinced. The frown marring her brow left little to the imagination. “Right. Right. Be-because if that…I mean, if you did love—”

“I don’t!”

“I know. Totally on board the Spike-Not-With-The-Buffy-Lovin’ train. Got it.” She bit her lip hesitantly. “But if you did, that would mean that you—”

“It doesn’t bloody matter what it would mean!” Spike was pacing in earnest now, looking everywhere but at the redhead and smoking himself into a heated frenzy. “I don’t love the stupid Slayer, all right? ‘S bad enough that she’s got Angel wrapped around her li’l finger. I bloody hate her, got it? Can’t stand the sight of her. That sodding holier-than-thou attitude an’ her shampoo-commercial hair. Says I’m forgettable, does she. Not bloody likely. Bet I could rip her throat out an’ get another chosen bird ready for the takin’, an’ things would get back to the way they oughta be. See how fast I could forget her then!”

His rant lapsed into silence. Willow took a deep, collective breath and her eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “…But you won’t right?” she all but whispered. “Not after what happened!”

“You’re basin’ a lot of your assumptions on a night that you claim to know nothin’ about, pet.”

“Okay—yeah,” she admitted begrudgingly. “For the last time, you’re right. I don’t know what happened. Buffy’s been Miss Distant for…well, since it happened. She hasn’t told me anything. Hasn’t talked about it at all. But I know that there was something there, between you two.”

A flawlessly arched platinum brow curled nicely behind a stream of smoke. “Oh, do you, now?”

“Well, yeah! And, I might add, ‘duh’! Even if I didn’t suspect a thing before, just listening to you has pretty much released the full kit and caboodle. And Buffy…she gets all jittery and defensive every time someone brings you up! She’s been giving Angel the MEGA brush-off without explanation, and not in a guilty kinda way.” It was amazing watching a human illuminate with interest—almost as such as watching a vampire. Spike cocked his head curiously. The Slayer had done much the same while they were locked together, once she found a topic that she was passionate about. The same with Willow now. A sermon in the making. He wondered if she knew just how alive she was. “And I totally don’t get it. I don’t. It’s gross and icky and…she loves him, for crying out loud! She—”

He couldn’t conceal his wince if he tried. The notion was too much to bear. “Been there already. Got the message right clear the firs’ time.”

The response was instinctive and couldn’t be helped for anything. “Right. Sorry.” There was a fleeting lapse before her words caught up with her. “Ah! Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like…well, not a vampire!”

Spike blinked, unsure whether or not to be insulted. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You did it again!” Willow cleared her throat and glanced upward. “Were there smoochies?”

Spike was torn between surprise and amusement, and he had no idea which side of the fence he favored. “What?”

“You. Buffy. Were there smoochies? Twisted, wrong, cabin-fever-induced smoochies? Is that what happened?”

There was nothing for a few seconds as she withstood his gaze of scrutiny, followed by the reprieve, when his mirth could no longer be contained and he burst out laughing. Spike was unreachable for several long seconds as he tried to cap his amusement. Straightening, catching her eye, and falling to bits all over again. When at last he did find his voice, there was no hint of denial in response to her inquiry. Nothing and yet something. Something more. Something unthinkable. “God, Red,” he gasped. “You’re either a villainous she-devil or the picture of innocence. Bloody ‘smoochies’, indeed.”

That took a beat to comprehend.

Another to digest.

And then all fell aside to make way for all-out astonishment. “More than smoochies?!” she shouted, lowering her voice when the vampire winced in silent reminder of his healing headache. “Y-you…you two…there was more than smoochies? Was there groping? Did you two have sex?!”

“Oi! ‘m not tellin’ you anythin’. ‘S my business, innit? ‘Sides, if the Slayer hasn’t piped up, I wager she doesn’ want you to know.”

“But if you hate her,” Willow reasoned, “why do you care what she wants? I wouldn’t think that’d be a priority.”

A long beat as he wrestled with that thought. Then he scowled.

“I’m not talkin’, all right! Jus’ sod off. Find another vamp to pester. ‘m through.” With that, Spike pivoted sharply and began in the other direction, consigning his cigarette to the pavement. An annoyed huff that was more for show. Yeah. Like it’d be that easy.

“You’re going to have to do better than that to get me to go away,” the abandoned redhead warned brazenly before taking off after him. She wheeled to block his path, eyes set with determination. “See this? It’s called Resolve Face. No one backs down from Resolve Face.”

Spike stared at her blankly as though she had grown another head. “Go home, Willow.” A simple side step and he was on his way again, knowing full well she would not pursue. There were certain boundaries one had to consider while conversing with a vampire. Despite how brave she was, the Witch knew better than to chase him down. It was dangerous.

That, however, did not hinder her voice.

“She misses you!” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know what happened, or what she told you…besides the stuff about being forgettable…which I think you know is ridiculous. She’s done everything but forget you.”

Spike didn’t trust himself to look back. “You mean it?”

The hope laced in his voice could warm the coldest of hearts. Small, vulnerable. The face of a child granted his greatest wish. “Yeah. In a sick, perverse way…yeah, I really mean it.”

A moment ticked by.

The sigh that rang through the air was as relieved as it was heartbreaking. As though he had been cast a forbidden lifeline. He turned to face her and risked a step forward.

It was only then that Willow realized the weight she had given him, and moved hastily to retrieve it. “I don’t condone it! It’s wrong and icky and really gives me the wiggins—”

“Then why tell me this?”

That was a good question. She gnawed a minute but already knew the answer. “Because I hate seeing her miserable, even if we are fighting. She already has the Slayer thing. Adding…whatever’s driving her to be so unBuffy like…it’s not good for her.”

Spike expelled a deep, thoughtful breath. “Miserable?” he whispered. “You said she’s miserable? She’s been miserable without me?”

“Well…I dunno if it’s you, but she’s been like that…like this since you two…since you left. I just…” Willow sighed. “I just want to see her happy. I want things to be better for her. Even if I don’t approve…’cause if it’s…if…and ewww. Still not wanting to picture everything. But if it means that…then I’m not—”

A small smile tickled Spike’s lips, and he nodded. “Thanks.”

The air grew oddly comfortable. Loose and reflexive. Almost as if they were nothing more than old friends, catching up after a chance run-in. Familiar in the strangest sense of the word.

And then he was oddly protective. The Slayer’s best friend had provided what the Slayer herself had denied him. It was unnerving…and left him with the strangest sense of responsibility. He had to see her home. A girl walking around this town at night was not the wisest venue, even if said girl was a witch.

“Well, you oughta be runnin’ off. Prob’ly got some sodding thing like bookwork waitin’ for you,” he observed before his face contorted with a frown, something else occurring to him. “’Course, there might be a lotta nasties between here an’ where you live. The Slayer wouldn’t want you gettin’ yourself killed…hell, the stupid chit would prob’ly blame me.”

Willow blinked. “Are you offering to walk me home?”

“What? No! Don’t be ridi…” The war was lost with the reissuing of Resolve Face, topped with a quirked brow. A sigh of concession and his shoulders drooped in defeat. “Yeh. I guess so. But not for you, an’ not for the Slayer, either. I jus’—”

“Then why at all?”

Yeah, Spike, good question.

“’Cause the girl’s ruined me, y’know. Lookit this. The Big Bad reduced to a sodding night watchman.”

“You don’t have to if you—”

Another sigh. This one of defeat. “No, no. Lead the way, Red.”

He didn’t blame her for shuddering in hesitation. Hell, he would, were he in her shoes. The girl had a decent head on her shoulders. Her awkward reservation—that which he was used to seeing—reminded him of himself at that age. God, what a bloody nightmare that had been.

“You can’t come in, you know,” she told him as though he were expecting it.

“Well, that’d be a problem if I was lookin’ for a soddin’ invite. I don’t want to come in. What’s the bloody point? ‘S bad enough that I made the offer in the firs’ place. What, you think I’m gonna kill you now?” He chuckled richly and reached once more for his cigarettes, lodging one between his lips. “Hell, ‘f I wanted you dead, I coulda killed you a long time ago…as you have delighted in remindin’ me over an’ over again.”

Willow stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was serious.

“God, what happened to you?”

Spike glanced up bitterly. “What do you think? You don’ reckon I know that the world would make a whole lot more sense ‘f I could kill the bitch? Trust me, I tried. Din’t work. Couldn’t.”

The revolution was enough to make anyone freeze—if not for the spoken vow, then definitely for the tacit implication of the l-word. Willow knew enough to refrain from mentioning that ludicrous notion again. “You tried?”

“’Course I did. Had her all to myself, din’t I?” A fond smile crossed his lips to contradict the harsh words that escaped them. “Couldn’t do it, though. I have no idea why, but I couldn’t do it.”

And to that, she had nothing to say.

They walked in silence for a few minutes—the level of familiarity lingering still with vague hints of mistrust. It was nothing the vampire did not expect. Hell, the night had been full of surprises. If anyone had told him that he would be playing escort to the Slayer’s pals come nightfall, he would have laughed, then ripped the accuser’s head off. Such allegations had no place near an evil thing.

There was still something, though. Something he needed before retiring. That crumb of hope he had been clinging to. Buffy was miserable without him. She wasn’t just miserable. It was because he wasn’t there.

“Red?”

Willow started slightly at the break in their quietude, but neither made mention of it. “Yeah?”

“What you said ‘bout Angel. Did you mean it?”

“What”

“Angel. She really been…giving him the cold shoulder?”

“Oh. Right,” she replied with a small smile. Spike deserved to know the truth. “Yeah. She really has.”

He nodded his gratitude as his body released its manifest tension. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” When he didn’t reply, Willow jumped the gun and wrestled it away from him. “No, really don’t mention it. She’d probably kill me for telling you.”

Another long silence with no reply. Then he laughed.

“’Course, Red,” he guaranteed her. “Mum’s the word.”

There it was. A promise from an evil thing. Nothing to place bets on.

Oddly, it was rather comforting.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Nine” ]

Part Nine: Just Cause

It felt so strange, dreading an impending discussion with her best friend. Feeling her heart constrict when she caught a glimpse of red hair trailing down the hallway. Not even one word had been shared and she already felt like she was trapped in a worst-case scenario. Like she was preparing herself for a confrontation with her greatest foe.

But she had to face Willow at some point. She had to get this burden off her chest. She needed advice in the worst of ways, and there was no where else to turn.

At least, that’s what she told herself all through her trek through the hallway as she approached Willow’s locker, where the redhead and Oz were talking casually.

Buffy cleared her throat, feeling awkward and intrusive. Even if she had been rather forward last night on the phone, with every step, she felt her nerves failing her. “Hey.”

The redhead glanced up and smiled weakly. “Hey,” she said, closing her locker.

More silence. Silence in a crowded hallway. Not of the good. When things threatened to grow uncomfortable, Oz shifted lightly and placed a tender kiss on Willow’s cheek. “I’m going to go meet Devon to discuss the new chords.”

“Dingo’s learned new chords over the weekend,” the redhead explained.

Buffy smiled and offered an encouraging nod. “Wow…that’s…that’s really…”

“It was momentous,” Oz agreed. “A whole world of sharps has opened for our perusal.” He smiled lightly when Willow giggled, turning to her with that never-ending affection that drove even the happiest couples to the furthest brink of envy. “I better mosey on to somewhere that’s else. Lunch?”

“Definite lunch.”

Then they were alone, and it was talking time.

The noise around them began to dwindle as students dimly realized that first period was due to begin shortly, leaving the void of quietude even further pronounced than usual. Buffy fidgeted for a long minute; not moving but unable to look her in the eye without twitching.

“We need to talk.”

Willow smiled weakly. “I gathered that. There are some things that—”

It was quite possibly grounds for the Worst Timing Ever Award. Xander’s trademark lateness had been expanding to nearly embarrassing proportions as graduation grew nearer, as had his penchant for cheesy excuses. Teachers in the school were almost as antsy as the students. Summer needed to arrive, and fast. Before Senioritis completely took over.

“Xander!”

“You know,” he gasped in greeting, keeling over to catch his breath as the impact of five-blocks-jogged caught up with him. “Cars are a funny thing. You wait for years to actually get the little card that says you can drive one, wait even further to get one that runs and could possibly make other people jealous, and still end up running for it when the damn thing doesn’t start five minutes before you’re supposed to be somewhere.”

“Battery?” Willow asked.

“I dunno. At this point, I’m willing to concede that Xander Harris will never own anything that doesn’t die within three weeks.” He frowned. “Kinda depressing. Anyway, what’s with the selective tardiness? You two finally taking a chapter out of my book?”

The redhead’s eyes widened comically as she realized the hall was vacant. She immediately shifted her backpack and flashed Buffy an apologetic glance. “Oh God. I have a test in English…and I’m all…ahhh! See you later, guys!”

She was gone the next minute—the picture of a human cannonball without the cannon.

Xander looked helplessly to Buffy. “I’m sensing an ill-timed intrusion. You two were about to potentially stop fighting, weren’t you?”

There was a long sigh. Nothing that couldn’t wait, she supposed.

Except that if she didn’t tell someone soon, she was going to burst. And odds were progressing slowly to that option. It didn’t look like she would be getting Willow’s opinion for at least another two hours.

Well, damn.

*~*~*

It wasn’t until the middle of her Chemistry class that Buffy realized that there had been something off about Willow’s behavior during their brief but significant run-in that morning: an almost desperate need to talk to her as well. She had seen it in her eyes and thought nothing of it—it was usual. Just as she went to the redhead for everything, she was accustomed to being the one that dished out advice and acted as the shoulder to cry on when sob-fests were of the essence. She had something to share; something to tell, and that drove her absolutely crazy with anticipation.

By the time the redhead approached, she was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice until Willow cleared her throat.

They looked at each other for a long, lost minute.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Buffy bit her lip wearily. It was beyond odd attempting to make chitchat with the one person in the world who knew all her secrets. She felt like she needed to segue to her point even if they both already knew what it was she was going to talk about. Every opening statement crafted wittily in the back of her head vacated the premises at the threat of being used.

In the end, truth was irrevocably the most difficult thing to say.

When several minutes passed with accumulating awkwardness, Willow exhaled sharply and took the seat opposite her, lips pursed in thought.

Buffy sighed, exasperated. When had this become so difficult?

“When I overcrowded you,” Willow answered. “When you stopped talking to me.”

She blinked, then grinned. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Buffy asked with a small grin.

“Either that, or I’m getting really good.”

“Well, you are, according to Giles. More than you know.”

“Well,” Willow answered, her eyes drifting to her lap in time with her blush. “I think he’s exaggerating. I mean, floaty pencil. Not a big level. Not a big deratting-Amy level.”

“Will, you’ve only been practicing for…well, not even a year.” Buffy smiled warmly. This was good. This felt right. Talking on a level that she had missed more than she could have fathomed unaided. “And yeah, some of your spells go wonky, but wow! This is me impressed.”

The redhead laughed. “You must really be intent on this ‘making-up’ thing,” she observed. “The last time you and I talked magic, you were all worried about the potential ‘kablooey’ factor.”

A moment of respectful silence; the Slayer nodding, unable to keep her hands from shaking. There were things to be said. Big, serious things. Things that she could not avoid. And yet, the longer she waited, the more vivid the picture of Willow’s disappointment became. She didn’t think that she could stomach looking her friend in the eyes and seeing disgust.

And yet.

“Will…I’m sorry.” The words escaped her before she had time to consider. Time to back off. Once released, all would be better. She had to believe that. “God, I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry for—”

“I know. Really it’s—”

“No. Don’t.”

Willow blinked at the fierceness behind the command, though her eyes reflected a certain measure of understanding. That much served as reassurance.

Buffy sighed. “It’s not. Things have been…really sucky as of the late. And it’s my fault. I’ve been…” Her voice wandered with a sigh as she inwardly skimmed how to best approach the subject that had been robbing her nights of sleep for the past six weeks. This was really hard to say.

“It’ll get easier when you actually say it,” Willow said helpfully.

Buffy paused. “I said that last part out loud, didn’t I?”

“Kinda.”

“That’s two for two. I gotta stop doing that.”

“It happens. I know it’s overwhelming. You’ve been through so much. I—”

There was a vehement shake of the head. “It’s more than that, Will,” she said. “I’m so…I’m so afraid that you’re going to be just…disgusted with me. But God, I need to talk to someone. I can’t do this by myself anymore. I just…I can’t…”

Willow pursed her lips and leaned forward, regarding her friend carefully. “Whatever it is,” she said carefully, “I promise that I won’t judge you. You’re my friend, and…hey…we’ve all done things that we’re not proud of. I seem to remember a recent smooch-fest with Xander. It can’t be all that bad.”

Buffy arched a sardonic brow. “You wanna place a bet on that? In the land of screw-ups, I take the cake. I’m the massive cake-taker. I think I closed the entire bakery. I—”

“Stop. Just stop. You’re excusing yourself without…you’re making it worse. Just say it. You’ll feel better. I promise. But first you need to get it out.”

Buffy released a long breath and nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s about Spike.” If she had bothered to look up, she might have been surprised at the complete lack of surprise reflecting in her friend’s eyes. But she didn’t look up. “Promise you won’t hate me. I’ve been so alone and I can’t do it anymore. But…please. I—”

Willow sighed. “I can’t do anything until you tell me, Buff. And I wanna help. I really, really do. But I can’t say it for you. Youhave to get it out. Like I said, I won’t judge you. I won’t. I’m not Xander. I’m not Giles. I’m Willow.” She frowned. “As long as you’re not running off to Los Angeles. But since that happened, I’ve had time to think about your reasoning, and while I stand by the ‘you were wrong’ verdict, I can get why you thought there were no other optio—”

“I slept with Spike.”

For a minute, she didn’t know if Willow’s reaction was aimed at the revelation itself or the unexpected bluntness behind it. And then it didn’t matter. Her eyes had widened comically and her mouth was agape. “You whated with what?”

“Me. Spike. We did the wacky. We were trapped…and there was talking…and yelling, then smoochies. Massive, toe-curling smoochies. Then…”

Willow was staring at her. “And then you slept with him,” she said softly.

Was she was supposed to be this calm? Perhaps she was in shock. Buffy blinked but didn’t think to question it. Anything was better than disgusted yelling and a call for another intervention in the library. “Yeah.”

“You slept with Spike.”

“Geez, Will. Little louder next time. I don’t think they heard you in Cambodia.”

Willow’s eyes widened again in apology. “I’m sorry…I just…it’s Spike. As in you and Spike. Together. In the…oh, bad thought! Bad, bad thought.”

She released a low moan and looked down shamefully. “Kinda got that part.”

“I knew, you know. I knew you were all jumpy ‘cause of something that happened between you two.”

Buffy snorted. “Hell, I think the whole world knew. I just…I couldn’t…”

“I just…I guess I don’t get why. I thought Spike equaled hurl-worthy wiggins. Not smoochies. Not…more than smoochies.” Willow smiled a bit when she ducked her head in shame, but the look was gone when her eyes turned up again. “A-and what about Angel? Do you suddenly not like him anymore?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Buffy sighed and ignored the part of her heart that screamed in protest. The part that hated the thought of letting go. “I don’t think so. Oh God, please don’t judge me for this.”

“I’m not judging you. Hello with the not-judgyness of me. I wouldn’t…I can’t without knowing what happened.”

She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone if she tried, nor could she stop the words from carelessly spilling from her mouth. “Well, there’s a shocker. When I came back from LA it was all your-fault this and your-fault that. And you guys had absolutely no idea what I had been going through.”

“That was different, Buffy,” Willow replied calmly. “That was different as in way. You bailed without even trying to let anyone in. I can understand the bail part. Really. When Oz and I…well, you know…I wanted to. I needed to just get away and stuff. Go bury my head under a rock. I can’t imagine how it was for you. But you not only bailed, you didn’t let anyone know where you ran off too. That’s where the guiltage came in. It wasn’t that you ran…it was that you ran and hoped that everything would fall magically into place with absolutely no repercussions of the negative variety.”

Buffy smiled weakly, even as her insides turned in the memory of it. Willow made good points; there were some things that she would never understand. That was the way it was. “And that differs from this, how?”

A moment’s thought at that. “You’re not really helping your case.”

“So it’s a case? This is case-worthy?”

“You tell me! You’re the one who’s getting snuggly with the undead…again! A-and not the safe…er…kind of dead. We remember that Spike is soulless, remember? And evil.” There was an odd look on her face that lent the Slayer pause. It was almost as though Willow’s spiel was more for herself than for any form of persuasion. That was more than unexpected. “And he’s tried to kill you about a bajillion times. And are we forgetting the bottle-in-face incident, ‘cause some of us are not ready to make with the forgiveness and pretend everything’s all honky dory!”

“What happened to not-judgy?”

That was all it took to melt Willow’s hostility. Her face fell a bit as though remembering herself, and she cleared her throat to dismiss any hints of impending discomfort. “I’m not judging you, Buffy,” she reiterated. “Really, I’m not with the judging. I just want to know why.”

Why? A dry chuckle reverberated through her tired body. “There’s the question of the hour.”

“Not to repeat myself, but I thought you loved Angel.”

“I did,” Buffy heard herself murmuring. “I did love him. More than…more than anything.”

“So, what? You sleep with Spike—”

“Willow!”

She plowed right through the interruption without batting an eye. “And your Angel-lovin’ is suddenly of the past?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“So it’s just a physical thing? You…” Willow managed to look sheepish for a minute as she surveyed her surroundings. “You did…that with Spike just because you and Angel are restricted from dancing to the tune of the funky monkey?”

“No! God, Will. I told you. This has nothing to do with Angel.”

“Funny. ‘Cause if Oz was boinking someone else, I’d think it has something to do with me.”

“I didn’t…” She paused. “There has been boinking? There has been Oz-induced boinking?”

Willow’s cheeks turned deep red and she looked away amidst her discomfort. “Really not what we’re here to discuss, Buff. Angel has to be a part of why you did…what you did…or else there would be no doing.”

“No. It’s more than—”

“Was it a mistake?”

“What?”

Willow arched a brow. “Did you wake up after having all the sex and go, ‘Holy figolies, what have I done?’ Did you wallow and get all defensy and bitchy out of self-disgust…or…” She glanced up expectantly at the issue of an open-ended sentence, but Buffy did not bite.

“Of course I felt bad about what happened!”

“But you would do it again.”

It was not a question. Questions implied the need for answers, and both already knew what hers would be. “Yes.”

“Are you…do you love Spike?”

“What?!” That reeled the Slayer back to herself. More effective than a cold shower. “No! God, no. Wills, I spent one night with him. One night where we had nothing better to do than—”

“The horizontal labamba?”

“Talk,” Buffy finished. “We talked. A lot. Played twenty questions. We…got to know each other. And then he started in on the reason that Dru left him. The real reason.”

Willow frowned. “Why Dru—”

“It was because of me.”

“I thought it was because she wanted to date a Chaos Demon.”

“Well, she apparently wanted the Chaos Demon ‘cause Spike wanted me.” The other girl’s eyes shot wide open, as though just then realizing something. Again, Buffy did not notice. “That was…he killed the vampire I was supposed to fight that night so he could prove to Dru that I meant nothing to him.”

“Didn’t work, huh?”

“A world of no.”

Willow nibbled on her lip as she processed the new information. “Then…okay. So Dru left him because of you. But he…is that why you…and he… Did his sudden case of feeling-having mean that you—”

“No!” That word was growing really popular. “It was more than that.”

That was it. Without warning, Willow’s patience finally ebbed beyond the breaking point, and the indifferent mask she was hiding behind fell away. “So, let me get this straight,” she barked. “It was more than a one night stand and less than a one-time thing that meant nothing to you. You feel bad for what happened, but you don’t regret it. You don’t love Angel but you’re still with him. And you slept with someone you claim to hate. That does not scream ‘happy camper’ in the relationship department. More over, you slept with someone who told you that he has feelings for you. I know Spike is…well…Spike…but you’ve seen how he can get when he’s all heartbroken and mopey. Again with the bottle-in-face!”

“I know! God!” Buffy finally crumpled, her face falling into her waiting hands as the tears finally showered down her face. It all came storming back. Every worry she had entertained. Every ill-conceived notion. The look of utter heartbreak on Spike’s face the night before. The spiteful disdain that had colored Angel’s eyes. The knowledge that she was responsible for both. “God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me! What I…I told him to come back, Will. I…he offered to leave forever, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it. I almost…and then last night…I…”

A little feigned ignorance never hurt anyone. All things considered, Willow had grown immeasurably talented at the whole ‘lying’ thing. “Spike’s in town?”

Buffy nodded pitifully. “I told him to come back because I needed time to think. I told him to go away and come back. And…God, the things I said. And I still don’t know what I…what he wants from me. And he’s a vampire! He’s the real thing! I can’t…but I can’t not. There’s definitely…every time I think about what happened, I just…I can’t believe that I didn’t make him stay here. He wasn’t Spike then. Or he was. To absolutely mutilate the cliché, he was the Spike that I guess no one else gets to see. He was…” She glanced to Willow, fully expecting disgust or disappointment at her full display of emotional trauma where a soulless thing was concerned, but all she received was calm understanding. It was times like this that made her suspect that she didn’t deserve friends. “He was sweet and loving and attentive and funny and…a vampire. He was still a vampire.”

“The bite marks.”

Buffy instinctively reached for the aforementioned marks, relishing the slight shiver of excitement that sprouted across her skin in response to the contact. “He’s a vampire, Willow. I can’t…if not Angel then definitely not another vampire. Another vampire who—”

“If he wasn’t a vampire, Buff, what would you do?”

“What?”

“Spike’s a vamp, sure. He’s a scary, evil—”

“If you make another bottle-in-face reference, I’m going to—”

Willow smiled. “Yeah, well that’s pretty much my one Spike story. I gotta tell it as often as possible. Listen, I know it’s crazy. And yeah, the scenario wigs me out. But I know that if you…you had to have had your reasons. If Spike got…if you let Spike that close…then…”

“I have feelings for him, Willow.” It was barely a whisper, as though the notion itself was enough to push her over the proverbial edge. “And it’s gross and obscene, but real. I have feelings for someone that I…I can’t have feelings for. I can’t—”

“Already defied that logic.” She smiled softly. “Buffy, based on everything you’ve told me, the best I can tell you is to talk to him. Even if I can’t see the words ‘loving and sweet’ when I think of Spike, he…I guess it’s safe to say that you know him better than I do. Don’t go to him thinking that it’s wrong or what we’ll think. You don’t even know what you want yet. Maybe you’ll decide to not be with either of them. Who knows? But if you’re the one that did the asking for him to come back, then you at least owe him a civilized conversation.”

Buffy glanced down, unwilling to admit that her skin was numb with relief. There it was. It was over. Everything was out. She had spilled the beans to her best friend and they were still best friends. She wasn’t disgusted or disappointed…a little wigged, but that was to be expected. But it was over now. The burden gone. The pain of secrecy diminishing.

Why had she waited so long before confiding? Oh yeah. Idiocy.

“Thanks, Will,” the Slayer said truthfully. “I…I really don’t know how to—”

“Then don’t. I’m just glad we’re…I’m glad you told me.”

“Me, too. So with the gladness. I needed to get that out.”

“I could kinda tell.” Buffy smirked at that and Willow flashed an unrepentant grin. “So, you gonna go Spike-hunting tonight?”

More than anything.

Buffy nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. After I talk to Angel.”

*~*~*

He had been present for all of three minutes and could already tell that the art of poofter-watching hadn’t grown any more interesting than it was two months earlier. And yet, here he was. Watching through eyes half-hooded with envy as his grandsire went about the mansion, satisfying any odd quirks or time-consuming rituals to make sunset come quicker. If Spike hadn’t been utterly convinced that Angel was the dullest vampire on the planet before, he most certainly was now. The big git could lull a rock to sleep.

The very fact that his jealousy had led him to a day full of spying on the wanker had him beyond annoyed with himself. He knew it was pathetic. He knew that if the Slayer happened by and sensed him near, he would be dust in two seconds flat. But he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t draw away. The Witch had juiced him with hope the night before. Spike was convinced that such had been the furthest thing from her intention, but she’d made no move to retract it. The truth was there in all its glory, and he relished. Whatever Buffy wanted him to believe was a lie.

He just had to see it for himself.

Unfortunately, that meant watching Angel. The only vampire that could not rival the company of a lamppost. It was beyond amazing, in Spike’s expertise, that a firebird like Buffy could tolerate the dolt at all. His day was occupied with reading, brooding, doing that wankerish Tae Bo, and more brooding. He slept a bit, leaving his childe to congratulate himself in his ability not to stake the ponce during times of vulnerability. No, no. The Slayer wouldn’t like that. A century and a sodding half of hating Angel, and he schooled himself to patience based on what the Slayer would want.

Something was definitely wrong with that picture.

It wasn’t just that. Oh no. That would be too simple. Every action done since leaving this hellhole of a town had been executed with the mindset of What Would Buffy Do? On occasion he had managed to break free from that line of destructive thought, but never the easy way. He wondered briefly if Buffy would be more bothered by murder or infidelity. Not that he had anything to be faithful to, of course. She had made that perfectly clear.

And even so, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t screamed her name when trying to drown out her memory with faceless floozies, thus defeating the purpose of trying to forget her.

The day continued with all its tedium. Spike was almost certain that Angel sensed someone was near, but the elder vampire never bothered to investigate. That was annoying. True, things would get ugly if Spike was caught, but at least it would be interesting.

Nothing happened for a long, long time. Not until an unfamiliar scent lit up the walkway. He didn’t actually see her enter, but the effect could not be missed. And he knew—he knew without question, reason, need of proof that he was looking at the face of the new slayer.

At that, Spike’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. There was something off about her. Something very off. She was a spitfire, no doubt. She carried herself with confidence that he could appreciate, even if she was trying to come off as meek and lost. No, this was a girl on a mission. He could feel power rolling off her.

And yet, there was something in her eyes that made him uneasy, and it took him two seconds to decide what it was. He knew well that vengeance-tainted visage. That passionate need to destroy beings of light. The girl was out to hurt Buffy. She was there intentionally to hurt Buffy, and that was enough to make him hate her. A low, protective growl flustered a bit in his throat, and he didn’t allow himself to stop and consider the connotations. He was too forgone down that pathway to stop now.

If this bird harmed the Slayer—his Slayer in any way…

Spike quirked a curious brow as the scene unfolded. The raven-haired bird was approaching Angel. Now, that he could approve of. Stupid chit could mess with the ponce all she liked, especially since he appeared less than enthusiastic about her arrival.

And again, he digressed. There was something there.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Spike murmured, reaching for his cigarettes. He had gone all day without a fag and it was beginning to take its toll. “Something wicked this way comes.”

At first, Angel appeared more thunderstruck than anything to respond to the sudden presence of his uninvited guest. With a long blink and a dutiful nod, the acknowledgement, “Faith,” rolled off his lips.

Faith. Spike all but snorted. Interesting name for a slayer.

The girl took that as all the initiative she needed. “Hey,” she greeted. “Sorry to bust in all uninvited.”

“What do you want?”

The trade grew wearisome after that, but Spike wasn’t interested in their words. Oh, no. Body language spoke for so much more than anything verbal could hope to accomplish. That didn’t mean he wasn’t listening. He picked up a mention of Buffy’s name and regarded his grandsire with a wide smirk when he flinched and turned away. The underlying implication was enough to make any regular bloke break out into a happy dance.

It was very apparent that Angel wasn’t interested in discussing Buffy, though the other girl seemed to want to chat him up a bit. Talking about how she was out of line with all the presumptions she made and that whatever problems they were going through were none of her business. When he grew antagonistic and she realized that she was losing him, she immediately switched gears and began on some long-winded spiel concerning how she was sorry for something else she had done the previous night. The display was sickeningly staged, and Spike found himself frustrated at Angel for not reading through it. Rather, the wanker’s resolution weakened on the spot and he apologized for his hostile behavior, treading down some martyrdom path of righteousness about how he understood whatever it was that she was going through, and that he wanted to trust her.

It wasn’t until Angel’s hands found Faith’s shoulders and she twisted in his embrace that things changed.

The next flash of events was so brash and unexpected that Spike briefly entertained that he had lost his wits. Whatever the Slayer had planned, he had not expected this. The word “chump” escaped her lips. There was a quick splash of pig’s blood and a snarl of accusative vampiric fury.

A snarl that did not stop the chanting.

Then yelling. Then…

Spike’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening, thunderstruck. “Oh bollocks,” he muttered. “Now this is interesting.”

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Ten” ]

Part Ten: Dancing on the Sidelines

“You won’t believe the news I have for you.”

Buffy grinned tightly to herself and glanced up, meeting Xander’s eyes. There wasn’t much that could be said right now with the potential of surprising her, but she decided to keep that tidbit to herself.

“Does news involve food?” she asked, smiling half-heartedly. “I could go for some pasta.”

Wesley emerged from the bookshelves with interest at that, adding, “I must admit that I am starved.”

“I would have recommended doughnuts if I didn’t think someone would confiscate the jellied,” Giles offered offhandedly, closing the cage door and regarding Xander with perked brows.

“If everyone is finished making dinner arrangements, I’m going to continue.” The lighthearted mood dwindled almost immediately. “Life is just a big bucket of funny. Always mocking with jokes that—unsurprisingly—go right over my head.”

Buffy blinked. “Huh? What’s the what?”

“I have information coming out of my ears, that’s what.” He stopped suddenly, finding a focal point of interest. “First off, I found your demon. Though that’s gonna seem kinda on the iffy side of important once I’m done.”

“My demon?”

“Yeah.” He glanced to Giles, who shuffled uncomfortably. “The one with the books? Of Acieration?”

“Ascension,” the Watchers corrected on wordless command.

Buffy’s face fell. Then her eyes widened. Oh. That demon.

At that, she lent herself pause. That was most definitely a conscious thought, and that dropping feeling in her stomach was of the extreme non-relief induced. She had been hoping for news about Spike. Surprising how the root of that knowledge failed to…well, surprise her. The thought barely festered whereas it should have sent her into a worried frenzy. Willow’s words of reassurance reverberated with endless comfort, and though her friend had bailed on the study party for some last minute helping-Percy-action, Buffy drew in her source of consolation. It was needed. The Witch understood—she understood far better than she could have ever hoped.

She glanced back to Xander and sighed. “You found him?” She watched him readily as he nodded, snatching the proffered address from his grasp. All seemed plausible, not that she suspected Xander would purposefully mislead her. It simply struck her as hokey that things could go as easy as all that. Need a demon? Here’s the address.

Wesley cleared his throat. “As timely as this does appear, we cannot be sure that it is authentic. Demons have every motivation to hide—”

“Oh no, it’s real.” Xander grinned proudly. “Willy gave it to me, and even though he has been known to change alliance at random, the information he gives is good. He’ll sell you any bit of gossip once you flash the green. Or beat him up.”

“You beat him up?”

“Well…okay, I bribed him. And he must be close to hitting rock bottom, ‘cause he told me a lot for the price I quoted. Which brings me to point two. You won’t believe—”

“I can’t believe it was that simple to locate a demon. As invaluable as this one,” Wesley declared with a huff. “You’d think he’d go to great lengths to remain hidden.”

Buffy tossed the dumbfound Watcher a mild grin. “Fashion tip, Wes,” she observed. “Mouth looks better closed. And, I know you’re still trying to fit into the groove, but this is Sunnydale. Finding demons is not exactly something of the hard.”

Unless they’re Slayer-obsessed vamps who don’t want to be found.

“You’d also think,” Giles mused, studying the address in his Slayer’s grasp over her shoulder, “that he would set some higher standards for himself. This place by the bus station? It’s awful! Demons by definition should at least attempt to invest in a pit of filth or a nice crypt. No one has any bloody standards anymore.”

“I’ll have to remember to mention that.”

Xander nodded, not bothering to conceal his irritation at having been interrupted. “May I continue, please?”

Buffy’s eyes were still transfixed on the provided address. “I didn’t even know you were looking for him.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Not until Giles called me last night. And as helpful as I’m sure that is…and no, I don’t expect any reward, though I wouldn’t say no to a gratuitous lap dance…” Xander allowed a minute to pass with a shamelessly dreamy look on his face. Then he shook his head, and it was all business. “That’s not the big news.”

“There’s big news?” Buffy asked, wide-eyed. “I mean, bigger than the ‘I know where the demon is’ news?”

“In so many ways, yeah. Brace yourself.” Xander expelled a long, dramatic breath. “You know the vampire that specializes in coming up with the ideal situation in giving your girlfriend a reason for dumping you while he’s obsessed with winning his own back?”

A round of blank stares. The Slayer blinked at him, dumbfound. While clarification was not required, she did need a minute to let it sink in. There was no doubt in her mind that Xander was talking about Spike, even if he hadn’t felt the need to segue his meaning in with a round of subtle hinting. If Willy was on the up-and-up of that new gossip, then the vampire was obviously not attempting to remain discreet.

“Umm…” Giles started, not bothering to mask his confusion. “What?”

“Spike,” Buffy said softly, avoiding the foray of astonished glances she received at mention of the name. The past few weeks had known everything but the acknowledgement that the peroxided pest even existed. “He’s talking about Spike.”

“Spike?” Wesley asked, voice clouded with confusion. His hesitance would have been eye-roll worthy if the Scoobies had not faced the same dilemma of identity the year before. Digging through volumes of Watcher’s Diaries to pinpoint the demon’s history and estimate how much of a threat he presented.

Giles nodded in affirmation as he dove into his pocket for his polishing handkerchief. The glasses perched on his nose soon followed. “William the Bloody,” he replied. “A childe of Angel’s. He has gone by the moniker Spike since before the turn of the century, I believe…though it is not well documented.”

“William the Bloody,” Wesley echoed, eyes going wide. “Dear Lord, he’s in town?”

“Yeah,” Xander spat bitterly. “And can you say bad timing?”

Buffy couldn’t help the slightly sardonic smile that tugged at her lips. “You should know he’s in town better than anyone, Wes.” Save me, of course. “I think you were the first that he decided to tell.”

A lapse of misunderstanding. He stared at her blankly. “What?”

There was a moment of startling comprehension. The expected instant droned and Xander’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “And I’m playing a serious game of connect the dots. The vamp that hit Wes—the smoking, blonde, leather-wearing vamp—”

A snicker clawed at Buffy’s throat. “The same that was ten feet tall and breathed fire?”

“I hate to say it, but this all falls into the realm of the extremely obvious,” Xander said, the note of accusation not lost on anyone present. “And yes, I’m just realizing it now, too. But Giles! Giles! You’re beyond the not-seeing-the-obviousness of me. You should’ve known it was—”

The look the elder Watcher issued could silence anyone. It shone through strands of lingering doubt with blinding comprehension. His glasses were still consigned to the handkerchief in grasp. Perhaps he liked it better when he couldn’t read the expressions of others. “I did,” he confessed. “I just…I didn’t know how to…” His gaze traveled upward and blindly locked with Buffy’s. And she understood.

He hadn’t wanted to mention Spike in front her. Because he knew.

He knew.

Buffy drew in a sharp breath, realizing she was suddenly on prime display. As though the words of caution her friends had undeniably been whispering behind her back were all for not. Even Wesley looked to have his suspicions. God, was there no one in this town that didn’t know what had happened that night? Had she really gone to such lengths to shut herself off for no reason?

And, if what Giles was hinting at bordered on true, why wasn’t he angry? Or hurt? Or disappointed? If nothing else, she expected big leaps of stinking disappointment. Nothing less than what she received when she concealed the truth behind Angel’s return. There was nothing to suggest the fatherly displacement she had grown to loath. There was nothing at all.

What the hell was going on?

“Okay,” Xander said, inhaling and exhaling deeply as though to reign control over his senses. “What the hell is going on?”

It was mildly reassuring to know she wasn’t the only one fraught with disconcertion. More over, Buffy took whatever comfort she could muster in the realization that her friend seemingly remained ignorant about the Spike ordeal. Giles could feign diplomacy about such matters: Xander Harris could not.

Buffy met Giles’s eyes, surged with momentary panic. “Just tell us what you know,” he told the boy, not looking away from her. “If Spike is in town, chances are he is here for a reason. Past discretions notwithstanding…we know enough about him to know that his trips to Sunnydale in the past have been fueled by selfish motivation.”

Buffy’s head reeled as though slapped. Perhaps she’d given Giles too much credit.

“What has prompted William the Bloody’s presence here before?” Wesley asked. It was almost amusing. He had turned rather pale.

“You mean the Council didn’t let you in on it?” Xander asked, wide-eyed. He was giddily rolling on his heels with the hint of conspiracy. “Damn, and I always thought those guys were so considerate. And, for the sake of not wasting your oh-so-English breath, it’s just Spike. No point saying more than needs to be said. Which is something the both of you are highly talented at.” With a thoughtful frown, he turned to the older man, who regarded him with an arched brow. “Is that a Watcher thing, or a British thing?”

Giles snickered appreciatively but ignored the inquiry. Replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he indulged a few steps forward, hands worming into the pockets of his trousers. Buffy knew the look well. It was the same he adapted before assuming the role of Mr. Lecture. They were about to have a history lesson. “When Spike came to Sunnydale originally,” he began, “it was to restore Drusilla, his paramour. She had been weakened after a mob attack in Prague, where she was thought to be dead—”

“Drusilla,” Wesley mused speculatively, uncaring for his interruption. “Ah, yes. Another childe of Angel’s correct? She was a covenant girl. Rumor has it that she was dead.”

“Oh so very not dead,” Xander quipped. “Well, in the final dead sense of the word. She’s most assuredly undead. And Spike—man—that boy is crazy about her. Which is sort of ironic, in itself, seeing as she’s the crazy one.”

A small pain shot up her arm, and she realized that her fists were clinched tight enough that her nails were etching small crescents into her skin. Still, she did nothing to alleviate the infliction. The more the merrier. At least then, she wouldn’t cry out in protest.

I’m not jealous, I’m not jealous, I’m not…

“In fact, that’s what brought the bleached wonder around the second time.” Xander nodded bitterly. “And, unless Willy’s mistaken, that’s why he’s here again.”

“What?” No. That didn’t sound right. Buffy snapped to firm attention. “Spike’s here because of Drusilla?”

“Well, he didn’t say that in so many words. In fact, it seems that Captain Peroxide has been avoiding the demon hangs. Guess he wanted to keep a low profile. Though, I gotta say, if that’s the case, he’s not exactly doing a bang-up job. Word is, he’s hit practically every bar in town except for Willy’s. Moping and drinking himself into a frenzy. Worse than last time. I can’t think of any reason other than Dru, can you? I’m thinking this time for good, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. Ass decided to come back here.” The young man clenched his teeth as though to restrain himself from lashing out, though his intended target seemed rather ambiguous. “Not only does he have the worst timing ever, but I can’t think of one person who would hesitate before…well, I’m still pissed about the entire Cordy thing, as I’m sure Willow is…even though she and Oz came to that understanding. And Buff…well, youwere trapped with the guy for hours on end. A matter Angel would likely…” He trailed off when he registered that he had lost her. “Buffy?”

For her part, Buffy was lost in a world of contemplation. It ached. While she wasn’t about to sincerely believe some off-handed report from a cast-off source, her mind painted a painfully colorful picture of what might have transpired in the weeks of separation to merit his return. Their time together, however brief, had convinced her of the authenticity of his feelings—she felt she had no right to judge—but Spike had made no small noise about his intense displeasure in wanting her. It was something he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, and sure as hell didn’t want to obey. And yet it had brought him back, and he fell helpless to its call.

Had he returned to Drusilla after he left? Could he do that? Simply experience what they had experienced and go back?

The notion made her shudder with very unfair jealousy. She ignored the voice that reminded her that she had done nothing more than the same. It was different. Angel lived in Sunnydale—he was unavoidable. Locating Drusilla required active hunting. Would he have tried to find her? Had she rejected him again? Was that the real reason behind his return?

God, that hurt. It was deserved after what she had said, but damn, it still hurt.

“This is Commander Harris paging Spaceship Buffy. Buffy, do you copy?”

She blinked and looked at him. Then she was on her feet.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

That was a good question and she had no answer at the moment. She just had to get out of there before someone dug a hole too close to home. The paper in her hand rubbed tightly against her skin, and she invented a quick excuse. “Demon. Books. Gotta go.”

At that, Giles took a harsh step forward. “Buffy, there’s something you ought to know about—”

“Later.”

“But it’s really most important—”

“And I’m sure it’ll be just as important when I get back.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk later. No rest for the wicked.”

Wesley stepped forward then with his opposition. “But you should wait for Faith—”

The name made her insides recoil with disgust. “That’d be a no. I can handle it. Really guys. Chill.”

“Buff.” Xander again. Calm but layered with undertones of worried. “What if you run into Spike?”

There was a pause. Her back was to them. “I’ll handle it,” she answered softly.

Then she was out the door.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Eleven” ]

Part Eleven: Unforgettable

It was a good plan. Straight, one-track, and left little room for questioning. The only problem was the sudden and complete depreciation that had occurred the minute she reached the indicated room number. The door was open, swinging partially in the apartment building’s weak ventilation system, and presented a creepy film noir sequence of a gangster break-in. It was odd feeling her heart constrict in the momentary worry in the welfare of a demon, but it did at that.

Two details were immediately perceptible based on first-glance: the break-in was a hit, not random, and whoever did it had fun.

Buffy drew in a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

A lot of fun.

“Friend of yours?”

The voice cut through silence so thick that she immediately suspected its origin to be of her own conjuring. That lasted all of three seconds—before her vampire tinglies went ablaze. The Slayer froze in place, her insides wrenching. Good God, she hadn’t expected him to seek her out so soon. Not after the way they left things last night. And yet he was there. When she pivoted, he was there. Standing inside—inside—the dead demon’s apartment.

“Spike.” His head tilted curiously at the uncertainty in her tone, and the fire in his gaze brightened with perceptibility. “Uhm…h-how…how did you get in here?”

It took a few seconds, but his bemusement finally settled. He looked her over thoroughly from head to toe with a shine of something akin to adoration in his eyes. As though she was the cutest thing he had ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Then it was gone, and the mask of disdain was back. Spike arched a brow and held up a hand, counting off his reasoning. “One, this is a demon’s flat, pet. Don’ exactly require an’ invite. An’ two, in case it escaped your notice, he’s kinda dead.”

“Yeah, noticed the dead part,” Buffy retorted, trying to maintain a neutral façade. It wasn’t going to work if he came closer…like he was doing. Albeit it was only one step, but dammit, it was still distracting. “Your handiwork?”

Spike stared at her. “Right,” he said slowly. “’Cause since I bagged a slayer in the full-out physical sense, I must be a pussy-whipped demon-killer now.”

Her head reeled at the defensiveness of his retort. An aggravated sigh tickled the air when he gauged her reaction, and the vampire consigned a hand through his slightly ruffled platinum hair.

But he wouldn’t apologize; because they both knew he meant it.

“Well, if that’s the case,” she retorted coldly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Spike snickered and shook his head, reaching for his cigarettes as he ventured another step into the belly of the beast. “Dear me, aren’t we defensive? Noticing a pattern with this, luv. Seems every time I see you, you’re in a snit about somethin’ or other. Lemme guess: you an’ Angel played out another horribly overdramatic portion of your would-be love life. It makes sense, especially after last night. I’d’ve been up for a round or two of relentless boredom, myself. Well, that or laughter. Whichever comes firs’ in his case. To me, it depends on the day. An’ how broody he is.”

“Well, I guess that’s fair,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “But if we’re going to go into comparison, I gotta say that Angel’s only broody on the days that Drusilla is insane. And yet.”

A flinch at that—his outward to correspond with her inward. Buffy lent herself pause for a long, unmoving moment. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she had decided. Wasn’t she supposed to be apologizing? Dammit. Apologizing was not a Summers strong suit, and Spike was helping out in that department.

He was giving as good as he got. Lousy pride.

The lapse only lasted a second. Frowning one minute and complacent the next. He arched a flawless brow as his cigarette hummed to life. “That’s lovely, pet,” he said disinterestedly. “But it has rot all to do with—”

“Not how I hear it.”

Okay. That was bewilderment. All out bewilderment. “Huh’s that? What’s not how you hear it?” He paused. “Did I miss somethin’?”

“You tell me.”

If anything, he became even more aghast, searing with irritation that didn’t know why it was being irritated. Spike drew a long hit off his cigarette and shook his head, allowing himself a long, dry chuckle as if it were a rich joke. “Buffy, start from the beginnin’. What does Dru have to do with anything?”

Buffy. He used her first name as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Its sound rolled off his tongue; it had been born there. She knew nothing else.

“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing.” Confidence was building slowly. Good confidence. She needed that. Only it didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere. Spike looked more confused than ever. “Xander dropped by the library today. Said that the word is out that you’re back in town.”

“Damn. An’ I went to so much trouble to keep it quiet,” he grumbled with obvious lack of concern. “Yeh, and? I s’pose there’s a point to this highly unsurprising turn of events. Please don’ keep me hanging.”

That drew her back from the line. Buffy scowled and crossed her arms. “Apparently, everyone thinks that the new and improved mopeyness that you’ve made absolutely no point to hide is because of Dru. They think you got dumped again.”

Spike just stared at her. “Hold up,” he said, raising a hand for a moment of requested clarity. “You think that’s it, don’ you? You think I’m back here because of her. Because—”

“What? I suppose you’re going to tell me that you aren’t?” The words sounded ridiculous enough in her head; breathing life into them made her want to beat herself to death with her own shoes. That small voice harbored deep inside simply wouldn’t let up—wouldn’t allow her defenses to fall. If she stood before him unguarded, there was no way to walk away unscathed. And Buffy couldn’t hurt again. Not after the trauma that was last summer. No way. Huh uh. “Come on, Spike. Five weeks is a long time. I’m sure you—”

“Are you completely daft? God, you’re a piece of work, Summers. I come all this way an’ you have the bloody gall to…” He trailed off when he saw the look in her eyes waver. An answering call that only he could provide. The first he had been granted since his return. Softer now, he lowered his head and regarded her with growing curiosity. “What part of last night din’t you understand? I came back for you, pet. Jus’ like you asked me.”

At that, Buffy fidgeted nervously.

“Seems as I recall, you were the one who thought it right timing to rip a bloke’s heart out,” he growled. “Now you’re makin’ with this cockamamie story as though it gives you…what? Grounds? Buffy, I’ve been in town for two nights. Two buggering nights. That’s all. Don’ really think the demon populace is on the up an’ up of what revs my motor these days. Not unless you’ve done your share of broadcasting to the world since our li’l…encounter.”

“Of course not!”

“Then don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Kinda impossible when you’re around.” The words were out of her mouth before she had the opportunity to consider the double-entendre. By the widening of his eyes and the consequent grin that spread across his lips, she could tell that he knew well that her slip had been anything other than intentional. “Oh stop it. You know what I meant. God, do you really think it’s something I’d bragabout?”

A flash of hurt streaked across his features, but was gone the next instant with an indifferent shrug. “Know I would.”

“What?!”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Would, pet. Other way of sayin’: haven’t. God, the way you carry on, you’d think you din’t trust me.”

“Oh, score one for Mr. Perception!”

“What have I ever done to make you not trust me?” Her eyes narrowed and he grumbled in immediate concession. There was no reason to even deign that question with a witty rejoinder. “I meant since what happened, an’ you bloody well know it. Don’ get all preciously tight-assed on me.”

“I’m not—”

“Save it, Summers.”

“Just level with me. Did you go back after Dru?”

He stared at her incredulously. “You’re off your wagon.”

“Oh, come on, Spike,” she retorted. “You’ve been gone for weeks now. And it wasn’t like you bothered to hide how much of aninconvenience you believed your completely random and likely imagined or…or…” Buffy trailed off when he started taking steps toward her once more, his glower in full affect. Anger. Heat. Desire. Everything he wasn’t supposed to exhibit—not toward her. The full ridiculousness of accusation finally slammed into her, and she knew then that he had done anything but go back to Drusilla. There was no way. Not with him looking at her like that.

“Or what?” he growled. Oh, God. Dangerously close. “You really think I’m capable of somethin’ like that? That’d I’d…I’d bloody well turn my world, my whole buggerin’ existence upside down, halfway lose my mind because of what you did to me, then go weepin’ an’ crawlin’ back to Dru?”

Whoa. Be kind, rewind.

“What are you—”

“Maybe you’re capable of that, Slayer.” He chuckled humorlessly and stepped back, eyes rejoicing when she almost automatically moved to recover the granted space. “Maybe you can do what we did, feel what we did an’ go crawlin’ back to your former full of guilt an’ anguish an’ regret. Not me. It’s not in my make-up. What happened between us was a bloody revelation. I couldn’t go back to her if I wanted to. Not after you. I’m not like you in that, pet. I don’ have that sodding luxury.” A timely growl. He was pacing again. “An’ yeh, I’m right brassed off ‘bout it. Y’think you can do that to me? Jus’ feed me up, tie me down, gimme what you gave me, and bloody well shut me out when I come back here? I did exactly what you wanted me to do, Buffy! God, an’ here I thought I was pushin’ it returning when I did. Thought it was too soon. If I’d’ve thought that you’d forget everythin’, I never woulda left town. I never…”

That was it. Her heart was breaking and she was too stubborn to do anything to prevent it.

Her silence gave him reason, and Spike looked up. The blaze within his eyes intensified, then softened. As though he could see how torn she was. How utterly ripped apart. Granted incentive measured without words. The crumb he had been searching for since returning. The look was so concentrated that she had no choice but to avert her gaze. There could be no want of feeling when he looked at her like that.

“Buffy,” he said softly. “I know you’ve…I know it’s gotta be bloody confusin’ for you. Okay? I’m not a complete jerk. I know that you’ve been givin’ Angel the cold shoulder…an’ that’s gotta be difficult. I bollocks things up, sweetling. All the time. I know that…I din’t mean when I said that you’d…that it was easy for you to…” A sigh and he broke off, unable to look at her a second longer. “Jus’…I din’t mean it, all right?”

“Yes you did.”

Spike shook his head, eyes wide and desperate. “No, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you. I didn’t mean to…” He was three seconds away from covering the space between them, and they both knew it. Their night together had proven that alone: if he was enamored with a woman, he absolutely hated being the source of her pain. “I gave up wanting to hurt you…well, it was only that night, but God it feels like a sodding lifetime has passed since then. An’ believe me, vampire here, I bloody well know what a lifetime feels like. Please, I—”

“Spike…” There was resignation in her tone. “I can’t do this now.”

“I don’t think it matters if you can or not, luv. We’ve gotta chat this out.”

“I can’t. Not…” She gestured to the dead demon. “Not now. Not like…there’s important stuff going on now. Really important stuff and you…I can’t have this weighing in on everything else that I do. Don’t you…if you’re here, if you keep doing this, I won’t be able to…you’re getting in the way.”

“Oh, is that it? You think you can jus’ put me on hold an’ expect me to be at your bloody beck an’ call whenever it’s convenient for you?” His brows furrowed in disgust. “Did it ever occur to you that we could spare each other all the achies that this is apparently causing by bein’ honest? I’m tryin’ here, luv. You can’t expect me to make all the effort by myself.”

“I don’t expect you to…” Buffy sighed dramatically and gestured to their surroundings. “Look at this! Open your eyes! I’m the Slayer—I have to be able to focus on my job!”

His cast a pointed glance to the aforementioned deceased. “What? Protecting demons?”

“Yes—no! God, you’re insufferable!” Spike couldn’t help himself at that; he grinned and waggled his eyebrows. An irritated grumble rumbled through her body and drove his mirth away without hindrance. “Someone was…he had these books. These books of…whatever. And he was going to sell them to us. To me and Faith and the other Scoobies, but now something—”

“Faith?” Spike retorted, doming a brow. “You mean the nasty bird, yay tall—” He demonstrated a near-accurate measure of her height, “—dark hair, cute, biker chick attitude? The other Slayer?”

Buffy blinked. “Did you call her both nasty and cute?”

That prompted a grin. A suggestive one, at that. “There are two kinds of nasty, pet,” he reminded her. “You oughta know that one better than anyone in town.”

“You think she’s cute?”

“Hello. I. Am. A. Guy. I’m a guy who’s neither a poofter, nor blind. The girl’s got spunk.” He favored her with a condescending wink. “I like spunk. Oh, but speakin’ of her, I have some news that you’ll—”

She wasn’t listening. She was too angry. Of all the nerve.

“I’m gone,” Buffy announced coldly, forgetting her so-called assignment without further provocation.

Unfortunately, in order to be gone, she had to bypass a certain peroxided pest. Said peroxided pest was not about to let her leave on that note.

This was a lesson she would learn the hard way. Not two steps were made toward the exit before he grabbed stealthy hold of her arm and pulled her against him. “Don’t do that.”

There wasn’t a lapse. Not a delay. She immediately began to struggle. “Let me go!”

“Dammit, Buffy. You’ve gotta—”

“I need to—”

“—listen to me. I came here to tell you somethin’. Somethin’ important.” When she looked up, painfully close in proximity—his hands still wrapped tightly around her wrists, Spike released a heady moan and lost all front to reason. Only a night had passed since he held her this way, but it seemed like a millennia. For-sodding-ever just because of buggered pride. If her increased heart rate and the rapid heaving of her chest was any rejoinder to the obvious, he had to say that she was right there with him in assumption.

The moment was lost with the next beat. He made the mistake of swooping to capture her lips, and she had twisted from his grasp before he had time to miss her warmth.

By the angered look in her eyes, he had done something wrong.

“Oh yeah,” she spat venomously. “Real important. God, Spike. Just stay the hell away from me.”

“I din’t mean to—”

“Funny how often you feel the need to do stuff and say things that you don’t mean to.”

“Buffy!” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “This Faith bird, all kidding aside. She’s bad news, luv. She—”

The strain of warning broke off when he saw the look on her face.

Then she couldn’t help it; she laughed.

Spike frowned. “What?”

“Faith’s bad news? Faith? Thanks for the bulletin!” Her laugh turned bitter when she saw the confusion behind his eyes. “I know she’s bad news, Spike. She’s killed a man, and I mean a human. She killed a man not too long ago and all but killed me when I tried to keep her from jumping town, and—”

There was a blur of movement and suddenly he was on her, hands searching out all possible corners for injury, however aged. “That bitch tried to kill you?” he growled possessively. “Are you all right? Did she get you anywhere? Did—”

The insane blubbering stopped once she realized that his touches were becoming a bit too bold for his own good, even if the look he portrayed was worry. Truth be told, it was in all likelihood that Spike didn’t know what he had done wrong when she pushed him away, but she knew enough not to live on presumption.

“What?” he asked, genuinely curious.

A sigh coursed through her and her shoulders rolled with relaxation. All possible venues for anger had retired. It was unattainable when he got so damn…cute. But there was no way she was going to let him know that. “One,” she said, holding up a hand to count off as he had earlier. “I’m a slayer, I heal. It’s been long enough that even if I had any scars—which I didn’t—they’d be gone by now. Two, why do you care? Three—”

An indignant flush overwhelmed him. “Why do I—”

“And don’t give me that ‘because I worry about you’ bull—”

“Bull? Now it’s—”

“Would you please—”

“Stop. Can I—”

“Let me—”

“Finish my bloody sentence!”

That was it. The pivotal and final ‘it.’ Brought to a standstill, eyes locked in a heated moment of festering outrage. And then it was over. The wall between them finally collapsed and there was nowhere to run but to each other. It was mutual, almost simultaneous. Buffy was in his arms before she could register that any distance had been covered and all thought of protest abandoned her when his mouth covered hers. The touch matched his eyes with fire, nipping with blunt teeth until she opened up for him. As though they had been made to fuse together. As though they understood that there was no motive for winning so they might as well do this instead. A battle as always—they couldn’t stop battling each other if they tried. Through every taste there was a challenge, every nibble an answer. Soon the air was filled with sounds of aggravated irrationality when they got in one another’s way of further exploration. Buffy knew then with her hands in his hair that there would never be enough of this. Enough of what he made her feel, and how effortlessly he could make her feel it.

“Oh God,” Spike moaned, halfway in protest when he finally broke their kiss to allow her breath. His mouth immediately became distracted with the soft flesh at her throat, and he shivered when she mewled her encouragement. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

Somehow that message squirmed through Buffy’s lust-addled mind and brought her attentions to a screeching halt. Her hands froze, tightened, and finally released him altogether. Her body tensed with unseeing reaction and caused his to do the same.

She bolted from his arms the moment she felt him draw in a breath to speak. Better. This was better. Safely on her side of the room where he wasn’t touching her. Where his lips weren’t getting in the way. Oh yeah. As far as ground for coherent thought went, it didn’t get any better than this.

Coherency. Right. Just as soon as she calmed down.

Her mouth tingled from kissing him. God, she wanted to kiss him again.

“You ass!”

Spike blinked. “What now?”

“Missed me? Missed me?”

He was still staring at her as though she was loopier than Drusilla. “Well, yeah. This entire forced-distance thing’s been killin’ me. Ever since…I can’t stop…I’ve missed—”

“No. You haven’t.”

Confusion was giving way to anger, and that was never good. “What?”

“You haven’t missed me, Spike. You’ve missed this.” Off his stupefied expression, Buffy clarified by motioning erratically between them. “It’s not…you’re just…”

The peroxide vampire’s expression softened and he exerted a needless breath. It was infinitely better to go with negotiable. “I’m still not following you, pet.”

“There’s more to me than sex,” she snapped, face flushing as though saying the word incriminated her in some fashion. It was something he would have found adorable were he not so busy being furious. “Hell, I don’t have to be here for this. I could be anyone and you’d still—”

A dissatisfied growl sounded through the air and he paraded forward once more, seizing her by the shoulders and giving her a good shake. It was like grabbing ice. “Don’ be daft, you silly bint,” he hissed. “God, ‘f that was all this was, don’ you think I could’ve found someone a li’l less you to scratch my itch for me? Lord knows I tried. Tried to get you outta my system, an’ that din’t work. Tried to forget you an’ that blew up in my face. Tried to—”

Evidently, they were back to the interruption game. That was just fine by him. “You tried to…but you said…”

A bitter snicker escaped his throat. “What? I meant every word of what I said. Never once went back to Dru. Never once went to some bird’s bed thinkin’ it was anythin’ but shagging. Never once said anythin’ but your name. An’ din’t that get me nice an’ slapped too many times for comfort. God, I tried to forget you. Tried to forget you a thousand times over. I—”

Okay. Shrill. “A thousand times? You were only gone for five weeks!”

He grinned somewhat sheepishly. “It’s jus’ a sayin’, luv,” he assured her. “There was a floozy or two. I’ll admit it. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. But it din’t work. I din’t forget you. I…” Spike released a heady breath and stepped forward again, deliberate and into her personal bubble. Closing his eyes and cooing softly—enjoying being close, even if only seconds had passed since she was willingly in his embrace. He ran a hand down the length of her arm and made to claim her mouth again, lips hovering just over hers. “Ican’t. I can’t forget you. You’re everywhere. I—”

Buffy blinked and broke eye contact. While she was quite certain that he didn’t possess thrall, it was easy to believe at times. She exhaled slowly and flexed her hands as though to physically restrain herself from lashing out again. “No,” she protested softly. “It’s not…you don’t…God, Spike you don’t even know me. I don’t know what you missed, but—”

His skin felt so soft against her mouth, fingers caressing with delicacy. She was fragile and would break the minute he relinquished his touch. “I know you, Buffy.”

“Stop calling me…it’s wiggy and—”

Spike plowed right through the interruption. They had danced this dance at arms length for too long. “I know you,” he repeated softly. “Better than you could ever know. An’ I missed it all. Missed the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Missed how you can light up a room with that gorgeous smile of yours. Prob’ly would dust if I’d ever got a taste of your happiness. I missed your eyes. That look you get whenever you’re tryin’ to segue your way oughta sticky situations an’ scenarios. Missed the way you fight with me. Missed that look you get whenever you’re seriously brassed. Missed the way we can play twenty questions…even while…” His hand hovered dangerously close to her breast. Just enough for her to effectively feel its presence without feeling him. “Missed the way I can chat you up all night an’ never get bored. Missed your life.” At her ear now, his voice was dangerously low. “Those others, they were jus’ warm. Not like you, luv. You’re simply bursting with life.”

Find something! her mind cautioned. Don’t…can’t…mustn’t let him win…

When she found her voice, it was a gasping example of the human condition. She fought for the first strand of irrationality she could seize, and settled indisputably with jealousy. “There were floozies!”

Spike sighed in aggravation and pulled back. “You still on that?”

“Of the human variety!”

“Well, yeh. Had to replicate you somehow.”

“You’re telling me I shouldn’t be offended?”

“Offended? Luv, I was tryin’ to forget you. Obviously din’t work out to my benefit. Besides, I’m sure you’ve done your share of snogging with Peaches since I’ve been gone.” There was a momentary pause as he remembered something. “Unless you were lyin’ last night an’ really have been givin’ him the cold shoulder.”

Buffy’s eyes widened with comprehension. The pallid understanding Willow had given her that afternoon. The surprising lack of…surprise. All made perfect sense. “Willow,” she said softly, looking up. Spike regarded her with unease, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “You saw Willow last night.”

“I did not.” A moment of intense scrutiny and he floundered. “All right, I did. She ran into me as I was runnin’ into a streetlight. Or before I ran into a streetlight.” He frowned. “’m sure there was a streetlight involved. Somethin’ got real bright, that’s for sure. She talked me right through my drunkenness. Nice girl, Red.”

A momentary flush of betrayal coursed through her system. She couldn’t help it. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

The vampire shrugged indifferently. “The chit was worried ‘bout you. Said you’d been distant. Doin’ wacky things like…give Angel the cold shoulder. Hell, the li’l twig even got it through her thick skull that the reason was you missed me. That I wasn’t bloodyforgettable after all.”

“Spike—”

“Kinda shows what state you’ve been in, luv, when Teen Witch an’ Big Bad can get together an’ share a load of achies caused by the Slayer.” He glowered at her relentlessly, arm twitching in unconscious demand for another cigarette. “Red meant no harm by it. She’s jus’ worried ‘bout you, ‘s all.”

Worried. Oh yeah, Willow was worried. So worried that she had to make like everything she heard that afternoon was a surprise. Like she was wrong for doing what she had done. Even if there hadn’t been perceptible judgyness, there were definite undertones to the wrongness that is Buffy. And it was too much. Standing here after such an emotionally pressing day, talking with the source of her pain while knowing there were places she had to be. Ascensions that she had to stop.

Places other than here that she had to be.

People other than Spike that she needed to see.

This was why a Slayer was not allowed a personal life. It got in the way of the big picture.

“I’ve gotta go.”

Spike took a step to the right to obstruct her exit. “Where? You know we need to chat this out, Buffy. Willow—”

“This isn’t about Willow. This is…” A sigh heaved off her chest. “I can’t…there are things that are about to happen. Big things. I can’t add you to the mix right now. I really, really can’t.”

Spike stared at her for a long, cold minute before his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Right,” he said coolly. “I got that. Really. But I could…I could help you. There are things—”

“Help me? This from he who said just recently that bedding a slayer wasn’t enough to turn you into some pussy-whipped—”

“I din’t mean that, an’ you know it.”

“Yes you did! God, Spike, you can’t just say things like that and expect a clean ‘I didn’t mean it’ to make everything better! Especially if…” Buffy met his eyes tiredly. His antics had moved toward the department of stalling and she was beginning to wear her very last nerve. “This, whatever it is, we can’t…it won’t work.”

His jaw tightened and the fire behind his gaze turned black. “Is that right?” he growled. “Kinda hasty, don’t you think?”

“Hasty?!” That phrase alone opened the door to a thousand angry reprimands, and she knew inherently if she took the bait, there would be no resolution to any of her larger looming problems. “No. No more of this. I gotta get out of here. Gotta find Faith, gotta find out who killed this guy, gotta find out if the Mayor has—”

“Wait—”

“No, Spike. I’m through. I—”

“It was Faith who killed the bloke! I thought you…” His words prompted her to stop dead in her tracks and pivot slowly to face him. The look on his face betrayed honesty but she had seen her fill of truthful façades. There was no reason to believe him.

Other than the fact that the suggestion made perfect sense.

Spike released a huff of air when he saw he had her undivided attention. “An’ there’s more. ‘S why I came here. You got this bloody awful habit of distracting me from—”

“How?”

“What?”

“How do you know that Faith killed the demon? What? Were you here with her?”

Yeah, that was kind of ridiculous. His arched brow did nothing but verify the same. “No…” he said slowly. “Her scent’s all over the place. Reeks of it…that an’ somethin’ I’m fairly sure that died in the bugger’s fridge. God, some demons jus’ don’ know how to live it up, I’m tellin’ you.”

Faith? Her scent? For whatever reason, that thought did not rest well. “How the hell do you know what Faith smells like?”

Spike paused for a long minute, the note of rising irritation in her tone singing sweetly to his ears. He took in her sight with lingering appreciation. That heaving chest. Those widened eyes. The luscious curves. Everything that compiled her into the Slayer—into Buffy—completely and utterly wrought with discomforted jealousy. So this was where he told her, right? This was where the motive for his assistance came shining through and all was revealed. Every ugly detail. Everything from her honey going bad again to the intimate workings of his new playmate. How he had watched them snog like hormone-driven teenagers. How he had listened to them plan Buffy’s demise with utter delight. How the other slayer had sat cast astride his grandsire’s prone and willing body as secrets were shared and everything but the actual physical took place.

This was the part where all was revealed. Right?

Jealousy flared in Buffy’s eyes. Jealousy over him. Because she thought he fancied Faith.

“Forget it,” she spat over her shoulder. “I don’t want to know. I don’t have time—”

Okay, maybe he was wrong in the ‘not telling her’ bit. Talented or no, if the Slayer rushed out unprepared, it could get her killed. There was no way she could fend for herself against Angelus and one of his playmates, especially if said playmate was another slayer.

“Buffy, wait—”

“No. I’ve done enough of that.”

“But there’s somethin’ you gotta…it’s about Angel. He an’—”

“Spike!” An angry final pivot, her eyes blazing with unspoken fire. “I. Don’t. Have. Time. I don’t have time to listen to you prattle on about Angel or Willow, or telling me about your floozies, or your feelings, or any of it. Do you get me? I have way too much on my plate right now to stop and deal with you. You’re going to wind up getting me killed, do you understand? If you cared for me at all, you’d back the hell off and let me do my job. Since you’re not, I have to—”

“I’m tryin’ to help you do your sodding job!”

“Don’t even give me that.” Her eyes were stormy when they met his. There would be no listening, and the sunlight outside meant that he could not follow. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

That was it. With a huff, a toss of hair, and angry spin, she was gone.

“Fine, you stubborn bitch!” Spike called futilely. The slightest phrase, the tiniest turn of her head, and she could reel him into misery so refined that it was a wonder he did not attempt to follow. The simple burden of nonexistence was going to destroy him someday. Him or her—likely both. They always destroyed each other. “Jus’ don’ come cryin’ to me when you wind up dead!”

A beat passed and he faltered with a long-winded sigh and defeated slump of the shoulders.

Wind up dead. Because of him? No. He couldn’t allow that. Better follow her. To find her before she found out. To risk her venom and warn her before Angelus took the liberty. Before he killed her out of retribution. Wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if something happened that he could have prevented.

“An’ you had the nerve to say you’re not whipped,” he muttered irately under his breath. “Bleedin’ wanker.”

She would be long gone by the time he reached the lobby. His slayer out there in the sunlight. Burdened with herself, with him, marching into territory that she was not prepared for. Readying herself to fight a battle that he could have…

The sewers for him. The sewers that he had once mocked Angel for using because he couldn’t stay away from watching his girl in the daylight. The sewers because he knew they would get him where he needed to go all the quicker. Lowered to that. Because if his selfish pride got in the way of her duty, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Because the world was more interesting with her in it. Enough to make the Slayer of Slayers shrivel with fear at the thought of her absence.

It was perverse. It was disgusting. It was unnatural.

And she drove him crazy.

Ain’t love grand.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Twelve” ]

Part Twelve: One Man’s Rain

On a good day, seeing Xander Harris sprawled on the ground outside what could be considered a Sunnydale slum would have been the cherry on top of the nummiest chocolate Sundae anyone could order. And yet, for whatever reason, the sight provided Spike with no sense of peace, or rest at all. He had spent the better part of his afternoon attempting to track Buffy down and provide all the information he had withheld from their less-than-successful meeting, though the sun had been less than accommodating in his plight. By the time he could maneuver freely, he felt too much had already been wasted.

However, it wasn’t a lost cause until he deemed it so. And William the Bloody was not one to give up so easily.

When the horizon crashed to the inevitable waves of nightfall, something akin to worry began brewing within his chest. Close but no cigar. Spike would not allow himself to worry about her. Not only was it wrong, there was no sense in wasting the energy. She was the Slayer. She could handle herself. She had faced worse. She had faced everything—more than any to proceed her, more than any likely would.

But she was the Slayer, and such came with an unwarranted expiration date.

And it was Angelus.

And there was a rogue Slayer on the loose.

And the odds of two versus one were never good to bet on. Buffy was talented and quick and he had fought her often enough to know to trust her instincts, but she wasn’t invincible. There was a time when he would have scoffed the insinuation that a girl—any girl, sacred calling or not—could render him useless in the seat of a wheelchair. The Slayer was powerful, but the code aligning her existence was weighted in death. There was no way she could overpower both opponents. Not if they struck at the same time.

But he wasn’t worried. No, of course not. He wasn’t worried. Not about her.

He was fairly certain he had overshot worried an hour ago.

Spike prowled the expanse of downtown Sunnydale three times before acknowledging that the Slayer had likely returned to that school of hers. Behind closed doors that weren’t so closed, but remained carefully shut to creatures such as he. He had all but decided to retire at Willy’s—reputation be damned—when he happened across Xander lying in a heap at the side of the road.

And oh, the possibilities. The peroxide vampire wasn’t too terribly familiar with the boy; his own experience with him notwithstanding. Beyond the face-punch and the kidnapping, not much had been learned other than he was willing to do outlandishly stupid things to protect those he loved. Otherwise, Spike had heard a story or a thousand from Angelus the previous year—all laced with seething jealousy and shots of unbridled hatred. He remembered well the tale of how Buffy had used the boy to make his grandsire antsy after returning home that initial summer. The Slayer’s antics amused him, though he couldn’t help the similar twinge of discomfort that shimmied up his spine at the thought of her…well, he preferred not to think about it.

It took all of two seconds for Spike to piece together what had happened. The alley was bathed in Angelus’s scent—followed closely and not outshone by the other Slayer. The rogue. The one he hadn’t had ample time to warn Buffy about in the midst of their recent spat. While it struck him as mildly curious that the Great Poof would leave Xander alive, seeing as the boy annoyed him so, he didn’t care enough to draw the matter out to conclusion. Had that annoying, Buffyesque voice not warned him that leaving the boy was not of the good as far as Slayer points went, he would have turned on his heel and left without a second thought.

As it was…

Bugger.

Spike dragged Xander’s unconscious being out of the road and propped him against the nearest building. The whelp had a bruise on his face the size of Texas and was dozing so peacefully that it nearly surprised him when a low groan perturbed his stillness. It occurred to him that being the first sight the boy’s notably sore eyes would take in might not be in his best interest, and with every notion for withdraw, the Buffy-voice grew louder and more insistent. Besides, if anyone was in doubt of his occupation of Sunnydale, now was no better than later to clear up any potential confusion.

There was simply no sense in hiding when all the good surprises were taken away. Buffy and Willow knew that he was here; everyone else was simply a matter of time.

“Bint better appreciate this,” he growled to the uncaring night air. “Oi, mate. You awake?”

Harris groaned and batted a hand absently.

“Mate?”

Another groan.

“Xander!”

The demanding tone was all the motivation required: the boy’s eyes popped open and he sat forward with demanding insistence. “Okay, Mom, I’m up. I’m up. I’m…” He squinted as he took in the sight before him, not bothering to mask his astonishment. “Spike?”

“No, I’m Spike,” the vampire retorted. “You’re a useless wanker on the side of the road. Now get up an’ tell me where I can find the Slayer.”

Another long, incredulous blink. It was more than obvious that he was still battling fatigue; the vampire had the grim impression that Xander’s revelation would not be as nonviolent were he more alert. “Spike?”

“And again with the observation skills. Pick those up at school?”

“What the…” Vigilance was beginning to come in waves, though the platinum blonde was still amused when Xander absently accepted his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “What are you…what am I…” A few seconds of harmless wondering, then his eyes shot open wide. “Angel!”

“Am not!” Spike scoffed. “My hair’s actually presentable!”

“No. Angel’s all with the…being of Angelus. The Angelus being. He’s…” Xander paused and gave his companion the once over, and his gaze broadened comically. “And really with the you being Spike…oh God, I was wrong. This day did get worse.”

Spike ignored him, shaking his head generally. His hands coiled nicely in the fabric of Harris’s shirt, and he had the younger man pressed against the wall before he had time to react. “You saw Angelus?” he demanded, though it was more as additive reminder. “Remember where was ‘e headed?”

“Like I’d tell you!” Harris sputtered indignantly.

A scoff and a release. “Prob’ly don’ even know.”

“Do so!”

“Then bloody tell me! I gotta warn the Slayer, mate. Where was he headed?”

Xander arched an eyebrow. “Right. Because that’s oh so convincing. You want me to tell you so that you can warn Buffy? Not, oh say, make her even deader than Angelus aims to? First of all, I trust you about as far as I can throw you. And even though I am well built, that’s not far. That’s barely to the curb…and the only reason you get curb-trust is because I know you didn’t kill Buffy on her birthday when you could have. But that’s the only reason. I’m not about to go make things worse.”

Spike sighed his exasperation and slammed the boy against the bricks for further affect. It didn’t hurt as much as it could have, but it wasn’t the most pleasurable sensation to tickle God’s green planet, either. The vampire knew how much pressure to apply; one of those perks for having enough time for extensive experimentation. “Get off your righteous bloody horse,” he snarled. “The Slayer could be in trouble or dead or God knows what. ’F Angelus is out there, ‘s already worse.”

“Okay, true. But of the two of you, who’s killed the most Slayers?”

There was a heartwarming pause at that. He couldn’t help the fluster of pride that coincided with his nameless recognition. “Well, he couldn’t ever master the right tech…” Spike paused and eyed Xander skeptically. Likely not the best tactical move. “I mean, don’ get your knickers in a twist. I won’t hurt Buffy.”

“And to that, a universal huh?”

The vampire rolled his eyes. “You said so yourself! If I wanted her dead, she would be. Remember? The birthday-incident?”

“I remember her saying that you only kept her alive because it was that or boredom.”

Spike’s gaze narrowed. “Are you really that thick, or do I need to pound it into your skull? Come on, mate. We both know that wasn’ the reason.”

There was a brief moment of recompense before Xander’s eyes opened wide at his blatant insinuation. “Oh really?” he retorted skeptically. “Is there some big, universal reason why a vamp would go out of his way to…” He stopped, shook his head, and started over. “Forget that. I don’t even wanna go there.”

“Jus’ tell me if you’ve seen her! I’ve looked all over bloody downtown an’—”

“So you could…what? Take that shot that you purposefully left open when you—”

“God, is this how you an’ your mates live your lives? Wander around an’ wonder why I din’t drain your Slayer?” Spike shook his head incredulously and indulged a few steps back, chuckling without mirth. “It’s the same bloody thing all over. Will has all these wonky ideas about actual feelings an’ the like. Slayer thinks I used her for…” He trailed off when he realized Xander wasn’t following him around his easily confused bends.

It was just as well. Buffy wouldn’t want him sharing all of their dirty little secrets. Hell, she would likely stake him if he so much as hinted as to what truly transpired the night that had changed everything.

At that, Red’s voice from the night before came soaring back to homeplate. But if you hate her, why do you care what she wants? I wouldn’t think that’d be a priority. Lousy witch. What did she know?

A bloody lot, the vampire grumbled inwardly.

Xander was still staring at him blankly. Finally, when he tired of trying to piece the Brit’s logic into any structure that would appear coherent, he shook his head and demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothin’.”

“Did you see Willow last night?”

A pause. “No.”

“’Cause I definitely heard something to the effect of Willowness in that little onslaught of nonsense.”

“Then you’re wonkier than you look. I—”

“Who all knows you’re here?” Harris demanded. “Am I the last…again? God, this is so typical. First with the crashing through sign plus beating up Wes—which, by the way, bonus—and now with the…God, no wonder everyone looked all ‘duh’ when I announced you were in town. It’s not really a mystery, is it? Can’t let Xander in on the fun, now can we? Sheesh, I might as well move to Zimbabwe. Maybe then they’d—”

Spike sighed, bored. “Are you gonna prattle on all night like a useless wanker, or am I gonna have to torture you for information?”

If the vampire wasn’t already feeling helpless, he certainly fell back a few notches at the indifferent look the notably empty threat received in return. When he couldn’t strike fear into Xander, he knew something was off. Even more so than falling topsy turvey for the sake of she who was the enemy. The world was bloody wonky, and he was serving only as its helpless pawn in the continued mission to make him as miserable as possible.

“Please,” the boy snickered, ignoring the scowl he earned. A hand came up and he started counting off rhetorically. “You didn’t kill Buffy when you had the chance. You didn’t kill Wes when you came into town. You didn’t kill Wills last night, so I’m thinking you probably won’t kill me.”

“You sure you wanna test that theory? Already your chirping has annoyed me more to death than I thought possible.”

“Wesley,” Xander pointed out. “He’s alive. And way more annoying than me.”

“You really wanna wager on that?”

“Please. You haven’t even tried to bite me. And we’ve been out here for ten minutes. Not to mention, you found me unconscious.”

Spike sulked a bit, not wanting to concede that he had a point, even if said point was fairly obvious. “No need to rub it in,” he pouted. “But you’re just wastin’ time. I need to know where the Slayer is.”

“Why would I help you?”

The vampire closed his eyes tightly as his fists clenched to keep from lashing out. The urge was becoming intolerable. “Because,” he said slowly, deliberately. “If you don’t, Buffy’s gonna end up with a severe case of dead. Her honey’s out there, ripe an’ willin’ to tear up this bloody town, like you said all of five minutes ago. I’m your best shot, what with your back-up bird bein’ right there along with him.”

It was then that he noted the conviction in the other man’s eyes begin to waver. The sort that would tumble at the cost of every value upheld in his view of acceptability. There was no doubt in Spike’s mind that Xander would crack at that, but for the first time he saw what the move would mean for him. The willful acknowledgement that while demons were the bane of his existence, it wouldn’t hurt him to trust one in order to pull for the greater good. It might hurt him to recognize, but it was essential. And the boy was willing to take that step.

“Look,” he said shortly. “I rather seriously doubt that she’s there, but I called Giles at the library and he hadn’t heard from her since I gave her the lead on the…whatever, but she was definitely planning on heading to her house afterwards for supplies. Since there has been no news, I’m guessing she got distracted or a big on the books.”

“The Books of Ascension?” the vampire echoed.

“Right.” Xander paused. “How’d you know that?”

Spike waved generally. “Ask later. When was this?”

“No, I think I’m asking now.”

“Do you want to see her dead or not?” An uncomfortable moment passed and the boy caved again. There was no good reason to other than the alleged well intent sparkling behind the enemy’s eyes. The very same that he was fool to trust, even if he knew it was for the right reasons.

“Couple hours ago,” Harris murmured in reply.

A nod. Couple hours. Right after she left him at the demon’s apartment.

“If she…” Spike trailed off and shook his head, features hardening with resolve. “You better head on back to your chums,” he said. “Maybe she’s called since. If they haven’t heard from her…God, I don’t even wanna think about it. I’ll head over to the mansion an’ see what’s going on. That’s the only safe place for him…Peaches an’ his new dish. If they have her, it’ll be there.” His eyes set coldly. “An’ he’ll be torturing her.”

There was a long beat of uncomfortable silence. Xander cleared his throat.

“Well,” he began. “If that’s the case…”

“Right. ‘m off.”

The vampire didn’t make it ten paces before facing another interruption. However, Harris’s voice was lower—almost curious—and he could fool himself for a minute that the prejudice that held him firmly grounded was taking a brief leave for the namesake of a common plight.

“Spike?”

He didn’t even bother to turn around. “Yeah?”

“Just out of curiosity, and this by no means excuses your permanent status as a thorn in my side—not to mention all sides everywhere—but why do you care?”

His lips quirked slightly at that, and he looked every-so-slightly over his shoulder. “’Cause the world’s a wonky place, mate,” he answered honestly. “I’m jus’ followin’ my blood. An’ right now, my blood’s telling me to protect her.”

“Good. But if that ‘protect’ turns into ‘eat’, you know I’m gonna have to take you out, right?”

At that, he couldn’t help it; he spared a bark of laughter. A few naughty pictures fluttered in and out of suggestion, but he knew better than to voice them. “Right,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*~*~*

To say that Giles was unaccustomed to worrying about his Slayer would have been more than misleading, but after three years, he knew enough not to let his apprehension control his already overactive nerves. Buffy was efficient; she was hardly reliable when it came to such idle concerns as reporting in and double checking to be sure that all went well in the land of demon-hunting. However, the past few weeks had known a difference in stride. She had been behaving oddly, but with more caution than he could have asked for. Nightly patrols concluded with calls and reports—usually a check-up on Faith’s behavior. He had grown accustomed to it. Now it was nearing twilight, and word had yet to come in.

He knew he should not worry. After all, it was Buffy. And yet worrying was being done.

It was rather ironic that her attentiveness had strengthened since Wesley’s arrival. As though she was compensating for his release by attempting to be the Slayer he had encouraged her to be throughout his tenure as active Watcher.

Giles occupied himself with books in the meantime, trying to block out the shrill of the younger Watcher’s complaints. He had been going on for the better part of a half hour about the negligence of either Slayer, demanding to know what this ‘Spike’ business entailed, and pouting remorselessly when answers were denied.

Not everything fell under the subheading of all for not. With research on the Ascension pending, information and speculation about Mayor Wilkins was running on leaps and bounds and into the limelight of rationality. However, when Oz revealed that the man in question had indeed been alive for approximately one hundred years, shards of new knowledge and theory burst with vibrant luminosity.

It was Wesley who decided to offer the brilliant; “He’s not human,” observation, earning a wide variety of looks that all resulted in the natural conclusion of ‘duh.’ And yet, despite the levity of the situation and the hope presented with a bevy of new information, the elder Watcher was not at rest.

Hours had passed and Buffy had not checked in. She never checked in, but it was bothering him.

“I hate to spoil the mood,” a familiar voice said as he entered the library, attracting five pairs of eyes up with a continuous ‘what now’ insistence. “But this is so much worse than you think.”

Willow’s brow furrowed in concern. “Xander, what happened to you?”

“The question is more, what didn’t happen to me?” The boy flexed his shoulders with a weary sigh. “For someone who’s constantly out of the loop, I do have a lot of things happen to me. And again with the not knowing where to begin.”

“Is this about the Mayor?” Wesley asked, maneuvering around the table with pert interest. “Did you find something?”

“Oh no. When I say worse, I mean worse.” Xander’s eyes wandered back to Willow, and he all but chuckled at the confusion written plainly across her face. “You know how some people hate to say I told you so? Not me. I told you so. Angel’s back in the really bad sense, and uh, I told you so.”

A long still beat settled through the library.

The younger Watcher stepped forward with the utmost seriousness. “Angelus has turned? Xander, this is terribly serious. Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes and gestured to the growing swell on his face, managing to withhold a snicker as everyone gasped with newfound realization. Was the mark invisible? It certainly didn’t feel like it. “Gee, let me think. Kind of hard to tell. Last thing I remember was his fist. And then Spike.”

“Spike?” Willow asked weakly. “He was there, too?”

“No. He came later. Was off spurting a bunch of nonsense about…well, I guess it’s not exactly nonsense. The guy seemed really wigged about the potential ‘impending slaughter that is Buffy’ department.” Xander paused dramatically. “Call me crazy, but I think there’s something going on between the two of them.”

Cordelia made a face. “Buffy and that peroxided moron? Oh, gross. Her lack of taste is becoming clinically serious. At least Angel knows the basic essentials of hair-care. I shudder to think of how that bleach has—”

“Okay, slightly more serious than the accessorizing part of Buffy’s new love-life,” Xander interjected sharply, tossing Willow an annoyed glance. “How about the soulless part? The evil ‘he’s tried to kill us, let’s list the ways’ part. How about the murdering half of Europe part? Or—”

“He’s different now,” the Witch murmured.

“Is that right?”

“Way! He’s so completely…” She flushed and glanced down. “I mean…I wouldn’t know.”

“Kinda blew that cover, Will,” Oz informed her with a gentle smile.

She returned the glance as best as possible, but her eyes were wide with conviction. “Okay, so I ran into the guy last night,” she confessed. “I was on my way back from…well, it doesn’t matter. And yeah—we talked. Quite a bit, actually. He was all drunk and mopey and—”

“So you naturally assumed that he’s an all right guy now?” Xander demanded irately.

Willow shook her head rapidly. “No! Oh God, no! No, I was very much on my toes. Of the really. I’ve seen drunk, irrational Spike before, remember? He said about a thousand times that he was all evil-like and didn’t care about Buffy, but…I dunno, the vibes he was giving off were really…ummm, not evil? He was in pain of the massive sort. I think it’s because Buffy gave him the brush-off. But he is different. I know that much. He even walked me home.”

“Okay, rewind,” Cordelia interjected. “You let drunken Spike walk you home?”

She shrugged. “He kinda insisted. Thought there’d be some beasties or whatnot on the way home. Said Buffy wouldn’t take it kindly if I got myself all dead.” A still beat waved through the library at this new information, and lasted until the Witch couldn’t contain herself. “He’s so smitten.”

“Spike’s smitten?”

“Very smitten. Won’t admit it, though. Had a wig attack of the large variety when I called him on his ‘I love Buffy’ Freudian slip.”

Xander looked nauseous. “Okay, so first he’s smitten, and now he loves her?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Willow decided the next second. “I think he’s confused. Hell, I’m confused about his confusion. And it’s obvious that Buffy’s confused. But at least they can be confused together. Or…there…”

“Sorry if I don’t feel like bursting into glorious song about my best friend going out with another vampire…one that doesn’t evenneed a happy to go all ‘kill her friends’-ish.”

Wesley stepped forward at a diminutive attempt to play his nonexistent authority. “As riveting as this all is,” he said, clearing his throat, “it is highly irrelevant. There are more important matters abound. Xander, where did Spike go after you two parted ways?”

“To the mansion. He was…” The boy stopped and blinked as though he needing to stutter over his own words. Funny how this hadn’t seemed at all peculiar fifteen minutes earlier. “He was worried about Buffy. Thinks that Angelus and Faith might—”

“Faith?” Willow echoed helplessly.

“Oh, did I leave out the best part? Guess who’s Angel’s new playmate?”

Cordelia snickered. “Kinda late to guess, Mr. Revelation Man.”

The Witch had effectively caught whatever epidemic had seized Xander and looked a bit woozy. “Faith and Angel? Together?”

Xander snickered. “Imagine the possibilities.”

Throughout the entire debate, Giles stood soundlessly in the back, attempting to absorb everything on a level of rationality. He knew he could not allow himself to dwell long, though he couldn’t find the willpower to move. A cold flush had settled through him and it lacked direction in where to resolve. There was simply too much to accept all at once. The knowledge of his Slayer’s imminent danger. The revelation of her relationship with one of the most dangerous vampires in history. The compilation of the Mayor’s unraveling plan as well as oncoming verification of Faith’s treachery. It was all too much to take.

Most importantly, she was in Angel’s clutches. And she didn’t know.

When a Watcher of his experience drew the line, it was definitive. He wasn’t sure where one thread of worry ended and another began.

She didn’t know. He hadn’t told her. She had left before he could tell her.

“Angel hasn’t transformed,” he said softly.

The entire flow of movement in the foyer came to a definitive standstill as all eyes landed on him in open-mouthed horror.

“People!” Cordelia exclaimed, exasperated. “Which is it? Soulless or soulful? Make up your minds, already!”

“And to that, the entire room said, ‘Huh’?” Xander took several furious steps forward. “How is he not evil? As I recall, claiming me as his personal punching bag was a characteristic of the evil Angel, not the we-tolerate-him-when-Buffy-makes-us Angel.”

The elder Watcher shook his head gravely. “The Mayor put a contract out on Angel’s soul,” he explained. “It was his misfortune that he chose to remove it through means of an old acquaintance of mine. Once it was revealed what the Mayor intended, my friend came to me and shared everything. Angel is only playing the part of Angelus as a farce so that he might extract as much information about the Ascension from Faith as…” He paled and trailed off. “I had hoped that Buffy would set the entire thing up with him before…but given the tension between the two of them recently, I took it upon myself. And today, she left before I could…”

Comprehension came in waves, and everyone’s gaze transformed from revolutionary to accusatory.

“You let her leave here without telling her?” Willow all but screamed.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Giles protested. “She was out the door before I could—”

“And you didn’t chase her down?!”

“Yes, yes. We’ve established that I’m a complete and utter git, all right?” The matter might have been pressed from several angles had everyone not noted how visibly the Watcher was shaking. “I really thought she would have checked in before…before…”

“Umm, Giles,” Willow said meekly. “This is Buffy. Remember?”

“There is every possibility that this can work in our advantage,” Wesley volunteered. “If Buffy truly believes that Angel has turned, her performance of reaction will be all the more convincing.”

“Yeah,” Xander agreed. “And how exactly will she react to the Spike factor? He’s on his way to ‘save’ her right now.”

A foray of troubled glances was exchanged—all except from Cordelia, who looked beyond bored, and Oz, who remained forever indifferent.

“Well,” Willow said finally, color still drained from her face. “Buffy was wondering what it would take to know how she felt about him. Guess she’s about to find out.”

“Did I mention that I have a bad feeling about this?” Xander wondered feebly.

“I think it’s a given,” Oz offered in his customary monotone.

“Yeah. Figured. Just felt the need to say it.”

Willow shook her head with a sigh. “You’re not the only one.”

*~*~*

Buffy couldn’t believe her ears. It was right there; right before her, and she refused to accept it. Refused herself that line of plausibility. Every nerve in her body was numb with the purity of astonishment. The blood in her veins ran cold, and she was sure every demon within convenient proximity could hear the calamitous pounding of her heart.

Déjà vu in the worst sense imaginable. That familiar dread that grasped her heart. The falling of her stomach as she felt herself crumple from the inside. The downward spiral that surged through her veins as she shoved the end of a sword into her lover’s gut. Complete and utter despair. The need to die in retribution to feeling it had happened already. All over again. A measure of redundancy.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted…

A tiny irrational voice wished that Spike was with her, if only to remind her that she wasn’t who she had been a year ago.

Buffy blinked and indulged a series of rapid breaths, but the scene before her refused to change. Angel. No, not Angel. Angelus. He was Angelus. That gleam. That tone. The face that belonged to another. Angelus.

Angelus was back.

Tears welled in her eyes as she battled the scream that climbed up her throat from escaping. No, she wouldn’t allow him to see her distress. She wouldn’t give him that much power. She wouldn’t let him know that every part of her was breaking. Kill him. That’s what she had to do. She had to kill him. She had to call Willow and get her to do the spell again. She had to do something.

She had to not cry.

She had to escape.

She had to escape now.

Angelus was advancing, favoring her with a lavish leer. The neon of his eyes sparkled with ferocious intensity, and he ran his tongue along the side of his incisors. “You know, I never properly thanked you for sending me to Hell.”

That was it. Her willpower broke. Her knowledge to hold on remained steadfast, but her strength wavered as she felt every sensation in her body collapse. “No,” she protest pitifully.

If anything, her reaction encouraged him. The smirk on his face was unbearable. “Yeah, and I’m just wondering where do I start? Card? Fruit basket?” Somehow, he had gotten near enough to grab her by the shoulders and pull her flush against him. “Evisceration?”

Kick him away! the Slayer within screamed. Don’t turn into a talking doll! Do you want him to kill you? And yet she was firm in her denial, unable to stop her tears from trailing down her cheeks. “No.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Angelus continued conversationally. “Maybe there’s still some good deep down inside of me that remembers and loves you. If only you could reach me. Then again, we have reality.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to break her out of her daze. Buffy’s façade hardened and she glanced up through her tears. “Never happen,” she spat, utilizing her superior strength to wriggle away, surprised when he didn’t put up more of a fight. Then again, Angelus loved the chase. It had always been more important than any part of the outcome to him. “I will kill you before I let you touch me.” She began retreating slowly, eyes never leaving the shadow of her boyfriend, ignoring the singsong, Told you so, told you so’ that sounded internally at full volume for her negligence in seeing this from the beginning. “Faith, we need to get out of here. Now.”

She whirled just in time to see the Slayer in question reclined quite comfortably against the entryway, arms crossed and an eerie look of complacence on her face. “Speak for yourself, B. Me, I like it here.”

Buffy’s eyes widened in realization, and she felt herself shatter even further. Faith. Angel. Angelus. Oh god oh god oh god.

Once more, her mind called out for Spike. Stunning and quick, as though coming to that lasting resolve. Such surprised her but didn’t; she wouldn’t second-guess herself now. It was the last thing she would remember. The world around her collapsed as stars blocked her vision, and she fell to the ground at the force of impact. A whirlpool of blackness consumed her, and then nothing at all.

All was still.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Thirteen” ]

Part Thirteen: Count Your Blessings

She was having the most ridiculous dream.

Spike and Angel were racing each other to see who could get to the edge of the cliff the fastest, giggling like children. It was Spike who reached the edge, turning to his grandsire with a cocked head. “You think she’s up for a round yet?” he asked.

“Timing’s not nearly right,” Angel retorted, casting a glance over his shoulder where the scenery melted from the sunny outdoors to the cold of his mansion. She saw herself chained to a wall, and where Angelus was preoccupied with the bonds. “She needs softening before we have our fun.”

“Fun’s not to be had.” Spike again. He sounded more and more distant with every word. “She doesn’ like me to have my fun. It’s all tease the vamp around the mulberry bush. Not you, though, mate. She’s having a gay ole time tryin’ to wager which one of us gets the trophy at the end of the tunnel. Fancy makin’ another round before she names the winner?”

“Sorry,” Angel replied. “I can’t. Terribly busy.” He nodded discreetly to the wall, eyes blazing. “Slayer’s all tied up. Gotta play.”

Spike pouted at that, fidgeting his displeasure. “But don’ you care about the trophy?” he demanded. “Needs tending to. Won’t know who wins unless we race. I promise I won’ cheat. I’ll wager my smokes against it. But I want that soddin’ trophy.”

“Take the trophy,” Angelus conceded, not even sparing a glance in their direction as he admired one of the finer swords from Angel’s private collection. “The race doesn’t matter to us, boy. You should have learned that a long time ago.”

“It’s no fun if I just take it,” Spike complained. “An’ you’ll jus’ steal it from me.”

Angel shrugged, walking toward his counterpart. “You’re right.”

“We probably will,” Angelus agreed, shrugging apologetically. “But you can have fun with it until we’re ready to put it on our mantle.”

“So you jus’ plan to keep her there?” Spike wondered incredulously. “Slayer doesn’ like to be kept. She’s gonna fight you for the title.”

“That’s fine,” Angel replied. “We like it when she squirms.”

Something hard shoved at her brain, and the three chatting vamps faded into a blur of nothingness. Someone was tugging at her, pulling at her arms. Her arms were tied. Tied behind her. Tied but…

Someone was kneeling before her. Her memory returned in shards. Someone. Angelus. Faith. They were at the mansion. Because Angel was now Angelus, and he was with Faith. Because she liked it here.

Oh God.

And no one knew where she was. Her mother did, of course, but by the time that she spoke to Giles or any of the Scoobies, the worst would have already been done.

There’s Spike.

Buffy shook her head inwardly. He won’t come. He doesn’t care.

Someone breathed a cold breath into her stomach, chilling her skin even through layers of clothing. “Now, now,” a familiar, overdrawn voice spat. The same that had starred in too many nightmares to count. “No need to play possum, Buf. Fun can’t be had until you’re awake.”

A sigh tore through her lips, her jaw clenching as her eyes reluctantly obeyed. He was right before her, staring up at her with the same gaze that had the ability to penetrate every nerve in her body. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he greeted conversationally, grinning. “You know what I just can’t believe? All of our time together and we never tried chains. Well, can’t dwell on the past, especially with the future we have ahead.”

Buffy was quite certain that she had never hated anyone in her entire life like she hated Angelus right now.

“Bondage looks good on you, B. The outfit’s all wrong, but, hey.”

Well, maybe not. It was a close tie.

She shot her raven-haired mutinous ally a look that could freeze hell. “Don’t talk to me,” she snapped.

“Oh, the girl’s all feisty!”

There was no way Faith had any measurable idea what she was getting herself into. A partnership with Angelus? He could barely maintain his deals with demon cronies, and unlike his grandchilde, forming alliances with slayers was not his modus operandi. Turning on Faith would be Angelus’s first move after he was done with Buffy. Two slayers in one day. Talk about bragging rights.

And Faith couldn’t see it.

That was just too…priceless.

Evidently, the other Slayer didn’t agree, for when Buffy crumbled into high-pitched, near-mad giggles, the other girl’s confidence slowly melted into confusion.

“What’s so funny?” Faith demanded.

“You.”

“Big talk for a girl who’s all chained up.”

Buffy shook her head, laughing still. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Faith climbed eagerly to her feet. “Really?” she replied. “Weird, because something about all this just feels so right. Maybe it’s one of those unhappy childhood things.” Oh God. Was she going to go into some melodramatic explanation that somehow justified for handing her associate over to a deranged psychopath? That was so 1960s James Bond. “See, when I was a kid I used to beg my mom for a dog. Didn’t matter what kind. I just wanted, you know, something to love.”

At that point, Faith found it absolutely essential to pull Angelus down for a round of tonsil cleansing. If the sight was to prompt a jealous reaction, then her captors were far behind the times. The reservations she had earlier that afternoon remained as pertinent as ever, though for whatever reason, watching her would-be boyfriend mack on the one chick that was making life particularly difficult failed to register as anything but…boring. And sort of gross.

Besides, she and Spike had been doing that very thing only a few hours ago. Only a lot better, from the looks of it. Of course, she couldn’t actually see herself when she was engaged in kissage, but she knew how Angel tasted, and while it wasn’t fair to play favorites…

They were still kissing. Buffy decided not to worry about what was and wasn’t fair. She was being forced to witness the other girl get her freak on with her mortal enemy. Wiggins of the massive variety.

Oh, thank God. Faith came up for air. She turned back to her, and somehow, Buffy managed to look irritated and hurt. “A dog’s all I wanted,” the raven-haired loony continued. “Well, that and toys.” In manner of Vana White, Faith lifted a blanket off a small table at her feet to reveal an array of various torture instruments. Though subtle, the act alone was enough to draw Buffy back to a state of realization. This was of the very bad. Torture time with a slayer and Angelus? Not exactly her idea of fun.

“But Mom was so busy, you know, enjoying the drinking and passing out parts of life that I never really got what I wanted. Until now.”

Buffy inhaled sharply, deciding to go for rational. If there was any hope of getting out of there alive, she had to reach Faith on some level where they understood each other. “Faith, listen to me very closely,” she said slowly. “Angel’s a killer. When he’s done with me, he’ll turn on you.”

Angelus glanced up with a slow, frightening grin. “She’s right. I probably will.”

Faith paused in thought, and while she would never admit it, Buffy knew a flash of fear when she saw one. “Yeah? Hmmm. Guess we’ll just have to keep you around for a while then.”

That was better than nothing. A while meant that her friends had a greater chance of finding her before the ‘being dead’ part sank in.

“Before we get started,” Faith continued. “I just want you to know, if you’re a screamer, feel free.”

In spite of herself, Buffy snickered. “Yeah. That’s happening.”

“Just thought I’d make the offer.”

“I scream for no one.”

Angelus cocked his head curiously. “Not how Spike tells it.”

She blinked at him numbly, then relaxed. There was no reason to keep it a secret anymore. No reason to keep anyone in the dark. Not with Angel gone—not with Angelus in his place. The thing she had tried to forget.

Her British vampire, even at his worst, he was never that blatantly…demony. Of course, he would likely resent the notion; that didn’t make it any less true. Spike could be damn scary when he put his mind to it, but he very rarely made the conscious effort. She had held a stake to Drusilla’s heart and won the day. She had made a deal with him and saved the world. She had been locked with him for hours on end and revealed more about herself than she ever cared to admit. Shared more than she thought she would with someone who wasn’t Angel. A vampire who wasn’t Angel.

Looking at Angelus now, Buffy couldn’t be gladder that Spike wasn’t Angel. She just wished he were with her.

What to say to the demon that already knows everything?

“Well,” Buffy began conversationally. “There are just some men who bring out the screamer in me. So sorry if you don’t measure up.”

She could have sworn a fleeting glance of hurt flashed across his eyes, and a pang struck her heart. However, before she could dwell, Faith had cackled in amusement and clapped her hands together. “So I was right!” she squealed delightedly. “You and the platinum sex-pot were doing the horizontal tango all along. Wow, B. Getting your funky on with yet another vampire. ‘Course, that one being of the soulless variety, I can see where the attraction is. William the Fabulously Fucking Bloody. Kudos. You have to be the kinkiest slayer in history.”

Buffy shrugged. “At least mine’s guaranteed to not kill me directly afterwards.”

“Oh no?” Angelus retorted stingingly. “Is that what you think? Silly girl. You really don’t know him at all, do you? Granted, poor William never really knew where to stick it with any form of success, but let me guarantee you, sweetheart…if he’s fucking with you, it’s because he thinks he can get something out of it. Something beyond slayer pussy. He’ll wear away his penchant for taking what’s mine because I did the same to him, but when the novelty’s gone, he’ll snap your neck just like the rest of them. He always has had an unhealthy obsession with slayers. Likely just wanted to know what I saw in you.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Spike just loves to taste what I’ve grown out of. Why do you think he took to Drusilla so…easily?”

Another barb that was designated to hurt more than it did. Buffy had learned long ago to take everything Angelus said with a grain of salt.

You’ve got a lot to learn about men, kiddo. But I guess you proved that last night.

The churning in her stomach was familiar.

As was the near-instantaneous detour to another night, more vibrant in her memory. Spike caressing her temples with the feather light touch of his fingertips. Whispering into her hair, caressing her skin with his lips. Holding her as she’d never been held.

The sincerity in Spike’s touch outmatched anything that Angelus tried to make her believe.

“Not the way he tells it,” Buffy retorted. “And let’s just say, for the record, that he did not pursue me at all. What happened between us is and will always remain our business. You might have grown out of me, Angelus, but I think it’s safe to say that Spike grewinto me quite…nicely.”

There it was again; that telling flicker behind the demon’s eyes that made her insides flush cold. The very same that took the fun out of returning his snide with a bit of her own. Again, Buffy was forced to draw herself back from the line. Despite appearances, there was no way that Angelus would reveal so much through a simple look. It was difficult enough to get his soulful counterpart to acknowledge when something was on the outs. To see him react so negatively to an arbitrary mention of Spike…

Oh. My. God.

Buffy’s eyes went wide with realization, and when she met his once more, she understood.

It wasn’t Angelus. It was Angel. It was still Angel.

There was no sense in looking apologetic. While she was horrified, there was nothing to apologize for. It was finally out in the open. She was scorned and tired of hiding it. Watching him play the part of her greater nemesis served as one of the more potent wake-up calls in her short duration of existence.

This was the face of everything Angel kept at bay all the time.

This was Angelus.

The other vampire—her vampire—the vampire that had held her, caressed her, murmured appraising notes of cindered nostalgia against her lips…he was soulless. Spike was soulless. And yet he managed to express more feeling than her so-called boyfriend ever had. Angel or Angelus…neither could hope to match him.

Buffy had known it for a long time now. A very long time. She’d just wanted to hold on. A part of her had been unwilling to let go. Angel was her past, and letting go of her past meant growing up. Meant becoming a woman.

Meant embracing something that terrified her.

Spike.

“You vapid little vampire whore,” Faith sneered appraisingly. “Again with the not thinking you had the stones to strut your stuff. ‘Course, we really can’t be surprised, can we, Angel? After all, she was trapped with him for…how long was it? Not even an entire day? Yeah, she really needed your soulful half bad if that was all the persuasion it took to—”

“That’s enough,” Buffy snapped.

“Oh, don’t get testy on me now, B. You’re the one gettin’ all the practice being a vampire cum-bucket.”

“So, what? You turned Angel because you were jealous? Wanted to know what it was like, and didn’t take my ‘leave it be’ speech to heart?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you. It never was.”

“And yet, here I am all chained up. Huh.”

“Where you see prospect, I see bonus.”

Buffy’s head titled inquisitively, allowing her tone to drop as her eyes widened in a desperate need to understand. “Why, Faith?” she asked softly. “The sudden one-eighty? Was the first taste of blood not enough for you? You killed a guy and can’t stay on the ‘humans equal good’ wagon? I really want to know what the big is. What’s in it for you?”

Faith just laughed and shook her head as though disappointed. “What’s in it for me?” she repeated incredulously. “The real question, B, is what isn’t. You know, I came to Sunnydale. I’m the Slayer. I do my job—kicking ass better than anyone. What do I hear about everywhere I go? Buffy. So I slay, I behave, I do the good little girl routine. And who does everybody thank? Buffy.”

Buffy began struggling futilely against her restraints, eyes widening when she noted they weren’t tied as tightly as she was originally led to believe. Her gaze briefly averted to Angel, who was still not looking at her. “It’s not my fault,” she said desperately.

“Everybody always asks, why can’t you be more like Buffy?” Faith continued. “‘Yeah, Faith. Be more like Buffy. Screw as many vamps as you can. Get a feel for the big long cold between your thighs.’ Oh yeah, be like Buffy. Seems like a sound plan. But did anyone ever ask if you could be more like me?”

A flicker of anger flashed across Angel’s face and he glanced up meaningfully. “I know I didn’t.” He cocked his head. “Though perhaps in retrospect, I should have.”

Faith snickered appreciatively before turning her attention back to their captive. “You get the Watcher. You get the mom. You get the little Scooby gang. Hell, you get the vamp gangbangs, for Chrissake! I do exactly what I’m supposed to, and what do I get? Jack squat. This is supposed to be my town!”

Buffy jerked again. “Faith, listen to me!”

“Why? So you can impart some special Buffy wisdom, that it? Do you think you’re better than me? Fuck B, you’re more screwed up than I am, and you can still come off as all holier-than-thou. Psh. Better than me.” Faith shook her head and turned around, raising a challenging hand. “Do you think it? Do you? Say it, you think you’re better than me.”

At that, Buffy paused. So that’s how we’re going to play this, huh?

There was only one way to answer that inquiry and get any sort of response. And she knew it.

Helped even more that it was true.

Thus, deliberately, the elder Buffy concluded, “I am.” She had to bite back a victorious grin when Faith, stunned, slowly turned to face her, pinning her with a dubious glare. Buffy didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. She just continued. “Always have been.”

“Um, maybe you didn’t notice…or maybe you did, but didn’t recognize a good thing when you had one.” Faith slipped her arm through Angel’s, curling into his side. “Angel’s with me.”

Buffy opened her mouth to reply, something insipid and overly dramatic, but her words were stolen directly off her lips with the sudden disruption of the most welcome voice she’d ever heard in her life.

“Oh, she noticed,” the British vampire drawled, removing the cigarette that was wedged between his lips and blowing a deliberate stream of smoke in his grandsire’s direction. “Prob’ly jus’ too busy rejoicing on the inside to even pretend to care a lick. An’ honestly, Peaches. Despite our differences, I always figured your standards for goin’ up, not down. Gotta say, I’m disappointed.”

The air froze with uncertainty. Buffy’s insides flooded with warmth. Spike was here. Angel wasn’t Angelus, and she wasn’t in trouble. Not really. And things were about to get really hairy, but none of that mattered, because Spike was here.

Spike had come for her. He had come for her.

At the moment, that was all that mattered.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Fourteen” ]

Part Fourteen: Crossing The Rubicon

It was the sort of silence that lasted forever—stretching and spanning the sand of time. As though the three pairs of eyes in the room had fleetingly forgotten an outside world existed at all, and suddenly an intruder walked among them. An intruder. William the Bloody: standing only yards away in snarky defiance for all to see.

Buffy would have liked to assume that Angel was simply stunned speechless, but she knew the truth. Her kinda-boyfriend wasn’t a man of too many words, unlike his unruly childe, thus stunned silence was the only reaction he could offer.

“’Course,” Spike continued, strolling forward leisurely. “You did go all bug-shagging crazy about this time last year an’ started fucking Dru. Gotta tell yeh, mate…as much as I bless her wicked li’l heart, it’d take somethin’ mighty powerful to drag me away from such…oh, how to put it…warmth.” He refused to look at her; instead cocking his head and searched his elder for a reaction. “An’ to believe,” he concluded, “they always said you were the thinker in the family. Spoutin’ this an’ that an’ the like about philosophy, the apocalypse, an’ all that other rot. Don’t rightly see how you could leave such a delicacy all untended an’—”

The entranced look on the raven-haired slayer’s face rapidly melted into boredom. With a roll of the eyes, she nudged Angel and quirked a brow. “Does he always talk this much?”

At that, Buffy couldn’t help it; she spared her surrogate evil-stepsister a grin and shook her head. “Trust me,” she drawled. “You’re getting the Cliff’s Notes version.”

Spike smiled devilishly and finally allowed his eyes to meet hers. “Don’t remember you complainin’ much, luv,” he observed. “’Course after a while, we weren’t so occupied with the talking.”

“Either that or I tuned you out,” she replied, though she couldn’t do anything to banish her smile. “I don’t seem to remember youever shutting your yap.”

“Again, you’re not one to throw stones.” The grin tickling his lips broadened and he tossed a tantalizing glance in Angel’s direction. “Whatever you said to her, mate, the day after, I gotta thank you for it. She an’ I had a hell of a time proving you wrong.”

A flurry of objection swarmed instinctively in Buffy’s stomach. Her mind was stuck on constant replay, unwilling to fully accept what her eyes were telling her. He was here. Spike was here. Despite everything that had happened in the past few days, everything she had told him to thoroughly eradicate his affection for her, he was here. He had come for her.

That didn’t mean she was dumb enough to believe they wouldn’t return to their biting trades and snappy insults once free from scrutiny, but for the moment, Spike had seemingly forgotten the nastiness between them. Whatever had happened—whatever she’d said—was not enough to erase his feeling or sense of aptly-timed chivalry. And true, the sense of danger was not as potent as she’d originally believed it to be, but the feeling was there all the same.

She was worth enough to him to follow, to rescue even after the way she had left him. The things she had said. He had come for her anyway.

“Right,” Faith said, snapping her out of her reverie. “With as fun as it is watching you two reminisce, your timing’s a little off, Spikey. Angel and me, we were just about to torture the hell out of B for kicks. You’re welcome to join, of course—givers and receivers are both encouraged.”

“Not gonna happen, pet, in any regard.”

Angel snickered. “You’ve resolved yourself to white armor then?” he demanded. “All for the sake of your prey? Honestly, William. To think you once had the gall to call me whipped.”

“Point being?” Spike retorted, his brows perking. “If you’re not gonna say anything interestin’, I’d appreciate it if you stepped aside. Got me a lady to rescue.”

“And she’ll…what?” Angel demanded skeptically. “Fall into your arms? Gotta tell you, Spike, all that close, personal time we’ve spent together since you skipped town? Not exactly reading that she wants you that badly.”

Buffy was tempted to call him on that but forced herself to remain silent. If Angel kept up this charade, Faith would know the truth and everything would be over. They needed to maintain the façade of Angelus until they had the needed information retracted from her—then they could run off, for all she cared. The longstanding vindictiveness pouring from her boyfriend’s mouth, while more than justified, wasn’t scoring any last-minute warm fuzzies.

“Obviously, your sense of smell has been fried by the constant subjection to that bloody awful rot you put in your hair,” Spike returned coolly. “With as much as I’ve been following the both of you these past couple days, I gotta say you’re not the one getting her worked up…” He leaned forward on his heels, unable to bat away the cocky grin spurned on his lips with sweet retribution.“Mate.”

“Has everyone forgotten the torture part of torture sessions?” Faith demanded irately. “Getting kinda bored, people!”

“Occupational hazard when you work with him,” Spike replied, nodding at his grandsire. “An’—think I was clear a second ago—you go near her an’ you’re gonna lose something.”

“You’re threatening me?” she replied, brows arching. “You? Oh, please. You’re about as scary as Angel was with a soul, and likely twice as whipped. I’m thinkin’ that when all’s said and done and you put your money where your mouth is, that you know deep down that Little Miss Buff won’t touch you if you soil one of her dainty humans.”

Spike paused at that, allowing his gaze to travel to Buffy once more, this time taking in her appearance. “You think?” he returned speculatively, eyes not leaving hers. “The Slayer doesn’ seem too happy. Something tells me she wouldn’t spend much time crying over the likes of you.”

“Better watch your pronoun agreement there,” Faith snapped, prowling forward with a stake that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “B’s not the first, last, and only anymore, or didn’t you get the memo? And seeing as I’m not the one who’s all tied up, I’d wipe that dumbass smirk off your face and realize that you’re in way over your head. Your girl’s not going anywhere for a while, and unless you’re jonesing to join her, I’d skedaddle. Things around here are looking to get messy.” She then paused and shrugged. “But hey—if you’re looking to join in on the fun, be my guest. We’re in for a wild ride.”

Spike snickered and shook his head, the look of incredulity never faltering. “Tying up your intended? Not my idea of fun, pet. Besides, I’ve ample other things I have a right mind to do with her that’s plenty more enjoyable than the good ole fashioned bloodbath.” He spared a quick glance to Angel, who remained stoic, before stepping forward to fully consider the younger Slayer. Faith wasn’t one to scoff at. She was quick and strong and packed a mean punch—colored in the fragrance of her massive overconfidence. The passiveness on part of his grandsire only supported the illusion that the Great Poof enjoyed watching where the true loyalties lay.

“Gotta say, Liam,” Spike began, moving forward casually as he appraised Faith with a leering eye. “You rightly know how to pick them, don’t you? If it’s not one extreme, it’s the other. This one you’ve snagged’s as impure as the yellow-driven snow. She’s got spine, she has. But you’ve never fancied your birds to have much goin’ on upstairs. ‘S prob’ly why you couldn’t keep my slayer happy.”

That provoked a long chuckle from his elder, and Spike frowned, favoring him with a skeptical once-over. “Somethin’ funny?”

“Spike—” Buffy tried to interject, at last finding her voice. She was defeated the next minute when he held up a hand in motion for her to wait.

“You,” Angel replied, shaking his head. “You all over. Lecturing me on how to keep your women straight. Tell me, how is Miss Edith doing?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Spike retorted. “An’ for the record, I think the bloody doll was somethin’ of your invention.”

“I’m not the one who spent the better part of a hundred years pampering a misfit loony.”

At that, he couldn’t help the protective dark surge that billowed forward when anyone made mention of his once-black goddess. A century’s worth of love was nothing that could be vanquished easily, especially when he wasn’t entirely prepared to let go. Spike had admitted to himself after leaving Sunnydale that it was over between him and Drusilla—that didn’t mean he was ready to allow his heart’s plunder reap the toll of bad decisions. “No,” he agreed through gritted teeth. “You’re jus’ the one who made her that way.” He pivoted back to Faith speculatively. “That’s what you have to look forward to if you decide to spread your legs for dear ole daddy. ‘Course, I wasn’t around for the first couple decades. Waking up to that every mornin’ without an anecdote would prob’ly make me go bum-shagging crazy, too.”

Spike quickly turned back to Angel before Faith could get a word in. “An’ while we’re on the subject of how one spends his century,” he snapped, “why don’t we discuss yours. Hmmm? Feeding on rats, stalking high school chits. Oh, crawlin’ back to Darla on bended knee back in China?” He flashed a grin and gave him the thumbs-up. “Nice move, mate. Too bad you couldn’t off the brat. She might’ve given you the happy you were beggin’ for an spared you a good ninety years of torture.”

Angelus took the bait and stepped forward, glowering darkly. “Suppose you can tell me you’d be able to handle it, William?” he drawled. “A nasty, squirming soul filling your insides with the stench of purity? Screaming out in the voices of everyone you’ve killed. Telling you where you belong. Doing their damndest to put you in your place. Trying to make you feel…human? You’d be fortunate to last a week, much less a century. And you know what they say…what doesn’t kill you—”

“—softens the skin for the next batter who steps up to plate.” The dry smack of flesh hitting flesh sounded through the otherwise motionless room with the same impact of dry wood hitting a hollow wall. It was odd watching the larger mass of brooding muscle react with anything that could be conventionally labeled as surprise, especially where his childe was concerned. Spike smiled at that, ducking quickly as Faith reached for her stake instead of falling to the side of her so-called comrade. The girl was quick like that—but not enough to amount to anything more than a one-stand amusing sideshow. Spike twisted her stake-arm behind her back and threw her to the ground with near harmonious synchronicity.

“What I think you can’t handle, Liam,” Spike continued, prowling intently for a dry-mouthed Buffy. All was worth it simply to see her stunned into speechlessness. “Is knowing that your girl chooses one over the other, no matter which face you’re wearin’. Baby likes to play—an’ the good ole toss an’ tumble’s not rightly enough for her.” He stopped when he was inches away from his slayer, unable to help himself from caressing her astonished face with a bit of the old candor. “Innit so, sweetheart?”

Buffy’s eyes brightened at that as though only then fully registering his presence. Here. Against her. Angel and Faith were still on the floor—recovered but watching the exchange intently, positively stunned. She could relate. Her own inner monologue was slowly betraying her for something of a different tune. It was almost as easy as forgetting that the man in the audience wasn’t really who he was pretending to be. It wasn’t Angelus. It was Angel. He was…

Angel had touched her before. Caressed her face just like this and made her feel a thousand wonderful things, but it simply could not compare. Not with the concern blooming in Spike’s blue, violent eyes. Not with anything that symbolized what it was that he was doing here. Just how far he was willing to push it. How much he was willing to concede.

Because he hadn’t forgotten her. And despite all her vain attempts, all her self-loathing and hostility, she couldn’t forget him, either.

“Are you hurt?” Spike murmured, brushing his lips against her ear. How had he gotten so close? Wasn’t he across the room just seconds ago?

Time must have passed—not much, but enough to make him worried. Buffy wagered she was too forgone in her own musings to pay him much mind. “Kitten,” he said, a bit sharper. “Did they hurt you? Can you move at all?”

She blinked dazedly. “Spike…”

“I’m here, luv.”

“Spike.” There was a bit of the old bite in her tongue, and she cast a quick eye to Angel and Faith, the latter of which looked about ready to go in for some serious damage. “Hands.”

“What?”

“Mine.” Simple one-word replies. Surely he would catch on.

He did. Immediately, he sought out her wrists, intent on freeing her. When his fingers began to pry at the manacles that held her, his eyes widened and he jerked back as though bitten.

Jerked back and tossed a curious glance to Angelus.

And understood.

And smiled.

Another glance to Buffy only verified the same. The resolution he found there stopped his nonbeating heart. He fought the urge to kiss her breathless. Served the Poof bloody right.

But he had to make sure. He had to be sure that she knew what she was doing. What this meant. What it would change for them. For everyone. “Ball’s in your court, Slayer,” he told her softly. “Whas’sit gonna be?”

And again with the surprise. Buffy looked at him curiously, then realized that he was right. The ball was in her court. It came down to a choice. Her choice.

The prospect was not nearly as frightening as it had seemed an hour ago.

“Again with the bored,” Faith said, forcing her to spiral out of her thoughts. “Sorry. Something I ate didn’t go down right, and I’m making with the queasy. I think I might hurl if you two get any more lovey dovey.” She turned to Angel with a quirked brow. “And to think, you said that vampires don’t establish meaningful dialogue with slayers.”

“He wouldn’t know anything about meaningful dialogue,” Spike supplied. “Just can’t wait to sink his fangs into his next-to-latest conquest. Watch yourself, pet. Peaches might look like a pushover, but he’ll turn on you sure enough…once he’s had his fill.”

“I tried to tell her the same before you got here,” Buffy agreed, oddly conversational. “Faith’s not much on the listening front.”

“Did I miss something here?” the other Slayer demanded.

“Just several key steps falling into place,” Buffy retorted, earning a quick grin from her vampire. Regardless of endings, they needed to find some route to escape on. “When all’s said and done, look at you. Using magic to steal Angel’s soul. Must sting to know he wouldn’t touch you in the real world. And then, of course, there’s me. You had to tie me up to beat me. There’s a word for people like you, Faith: loser.”

“You don’t look beaten to me,” Spike observed, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “S’pose I could fix that later, ‘course.”

“What, because your blonde boy toy is here now, you think it’s gonna swing in your favor?” Faith chuckled incredulously. “Even if you do manage to crawl outta here, there are things in motion that are so far beyond your control, it’s not even worth mentioning.”

“What?” Buffy snapped. “Your boss’s lame Ascension? Like I couldn’t stop it.”

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

“Dream on.” Faith huffed a sigh and shook her head. “This is bullshit. All of this is complete bullshit, and it’s gone too far.” She turned to Angel. “And to think, we were gonna have all sorts of fun. Too much wastin’ on the fly for my comfort. I’ll take him if you take her. Or the other way around—whatever revs your motor. We’ve got better things to be doing than chattin’ up a couple of has-been’s who don’t know when their number’s been called.”

Spike’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Jus’ try it,” he challenged. “I’ve done in my fair share of slayers, luv.”

Angel quirked his head. “That’s not going to happen,” he said softly.

“You’re damn straight it’s not,” Faith agreed. She’d found her stake and was ready for the kill. Time was up on all accounts, and Angel had a firm grasp on her wrist before she realized what his words had meant.

“You were right about one thing,” he murmured, all façade of Angelus dropping at a whim. The brown, warm eyes of the other were back, no longer clouded with indifference. “This has gone too far.”

It took a minute before realization flooded her eyes, and another before she shot a glance to the two blondes—both freed now, the disused shackles swinging in abandonment against the wall.

“You played me,” Faith growled. “You all played me!”

“I din’t,” Spike obligatorily pointed out. “I jus’ got here. Nothin’ personal, luv.”

“And in fairness,” Buffy concluded with a shrug, “I didn’t know what he was up to until I woke up. Seemed rather obvious to me. What’s the matter, Faith? Not as perceptive as you thought?”

The other Slayer’s eyes went wide. “Oh yeah?” she spat. “Just see how long he remains on your side. What, with the boning of blondie here, I don’t really foresee the start of a beautiful—”

Before the words even had the chance to become an afterthought, Buffy projected herself across the room. It took all of two seconds to kick the stake out of Faith’s grasp, and then all was left to instinct.

The overly-dramatic Scooby entrance was all but missed in the heart of excitement. Spike glanced upward in the midst of the sudden yelling and caught Willow’s eyes. The redhead stood alongside the whelp and the colorfully-haired bloke he remembered vaguely from the previous year. The entire gang was torn between watching the battling slayers and staring dumbfound at him, as though his presence hadn’t been wholly expected.

From the stoic look on Giles’s face, however, he knew it was anything but true.

It took very little to detour Spike’s attention. As quickly as it started, the battle in the middle of the room came to a swift finale. The Slayers froze in virtually identical positions, each holding a blade to the other’s throat. Faith was winded and slightly worried—the look on Buffy’s face reflected nothing but fierce determination. It was as though she was returning home after a long leave of absence. It was the closest to herself that he had seen her since he arrived in Sunnydale, and the expression made him swell with pride, adoration and…

That warm fuzzy feeling. Love?

What an appalling notion. Made him sick to think how easily one word got stuck in his head. Ever since Willow’s more than absurd suggestion, the thought…the notion had been floating around his conscious and imposing his personal space. Moving into the darker corners of his psyche and making itself more at home. Regardless of what happened from here on out, he had a feeling the proposal was there to stay. It was too comfortable to pack everything up and move out on the same note.

Not a good time to digress.

Faith regarded the blade at her throat with a bit of the old humor when the panic abbreviated, snickering for what it was worth. “What are you gonna do, B?” she demanded. “Kill me? You become me. You’re not ready for that.” She leaned inward and planted a sisterly kiss on Buffy’s brow. “Yet.”

Then she was gone. Up and on her feet, somehow pushing beyond all restraints. Spike wagered it might be wise to go after her, but he was too concerned about Buffy to give it much thought.

Still, he wasn’t quick enough to get there before Willow fell to Buffy’s side. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

It took a minute, but Buffy nodded. “Yeah. I…we didn’t get everything we needed to. Things got a little…out of hand…” She glanced to Spike, her gaze boring through him. There was no malice there—simply a cry for understanding. He was beyond touched that she selected him as her target before glancing to Angel.

“That’s fine,” Xander said, still standing at the sidelines. The general Scooby consensus for the moment seemed to be voting in the direction of ignoring Spike entirely, which was all right by him. He half-expected to receive an earful from at least seven different parties before the night was out, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher that more important things were in circulation than berating him and the Slayer for their indiscretions. “That’s fine, Buff. We’ll get to it tomorrow.”

“No.” Buffy shook her head and slowly climbing to her feet with Willow’s help. “It has to be tonight. The Mayor…he and Faith won’t expect us to…I have to know what the Ascension…what we need to gear up for. If they have the books—”

“They do,” Spike volunteered. “Thought I told you that earlier.”

A beat at that.

“Earlier?” Xander echoed.

“Earlier?” Wesley all but screeched. Spike had to refrain from chuckling with pride at the purple patch underlining his left eye. “This really is unacceptable. As your Watcher, I—”

“Yes, earlier!” Buffy shook her head furiously. “Look, this isn’t the time to scold me for my personal decisions. I saw Spike earlier…at the demon’s apartment… and…well, he knew that Faith had the books. He tried to tell me but I didn’t listen.” A sigh coursed through her at that, and she met Spike’s eyes again. “You tried to tell me about this, too, didn’t you?”

There was no need to clarify which this she referred to.

“’Bout your boy going bad? Yeh. Caught that act.” Spike’s head tilted curiously, daring to meet Angel’s eyes. “Guess that’s what it was, then, wasn’ it? An act. Shoulda caught a whiff of that the firs’ time around. You din’t fool me the last time you tried to play the bad boy…guess it jus’ took reminding you what the prat acts like to pull the part off with any measure of success. Isn’t that right?”

Angel’s gaze was trained steadfast on the ground, resolutely refusing to meet Buffy’s eyes—which was fine, because she wasn’t looking at him, either. “Giles…he…” he began, fighting for control. “We talked earlier. Said a mage had come to him…hired by the Mayor to retract my soul. I agreed to play the double-agent and get as much information as I could.” He trailed off with a sigh, tension dropping from his shoulders. “That went well.”

Giles took that as his cue to excuse himself. “I tried to tell you before you left, Buffy—”

Buffy held up a hand, collecting her thoughts. Again, Spike had to school himself to restraint. While all these sprouting dramatics had a penchant for the funny, he wasn’t about to let his mirth control the situation, especially when he knew how important it was to her. There were times and places for all the other, and this was definitely not one of them. “It’s all right,” she assured him. “Yeah, it would’ve been nice to be on the ‘in,’ but you did try to tell me before I left. I know that.” A sigh coursed through her tired body. “If I had known…we could’ve…”

“That was the plan,” Angel grumbled.

Her eyes flashed. “So sorry if my ignorance spoiled your James Bond scenario.”

Spike all but cackled with glee. He’d been handed a starring role in that three-act show in front of the wanker and now he was getting a front-row seat to a fight? Who knew that God blessed demons? “Ohhh,” he drawled tauntingly. “Lover’s quarrel.”

At that, Angel and Buffy pivoted to glare at him. “Shut up, Spike!” they snapped.

His hands came up. “Hey. Innocent bystander, here.”

“Right,” Angel barked. “Innocent.”

“Don’ get mouthy with me, Peaches. After all, it wasn’ me who—”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed and she silenced him without having to say a word. Spike merely met her gaze, watched, and nodded. They had come too far tonight to be set back because of his big yap.

“They won’t expect us to try anything again so soon,” she continued. “That’s why, if we want any information at all, we have to gonow.”

“What do you have in mind?” Willow asked softly.

Buffy sighed. “I’m going to the Mayor’s office. He’s bound to have something there—even if it is a small something. Anything right now would be a good. I’m not going to let this set us back.”

“You really think he’d leave his important ‘I’m about to Ascend, ask me how’ papers out for anyone to see?” Xander asked skeptically.

“No. I’m anticipating getting my hands dirty. There’ll be some digging involved.” She stepped forward intently. “You guys have a bad habit of not listening to me when I tell you to not follow me, but don’t follow me. I can’t do this and worry about you, too. I need you to go back to the library and wait for me. Trust me…you’ll know if something of the bad happens.”

“I don’t like this, Buffy…” Giles began.

“Tough. Deal.” Her eyes fell to the floor for endless seconds before finally traveling back to Spike’s. Her vampire.

His slayer.

Spike took an unnecessary breath. With all his experience, he had never really seen a slayer in the midst of her duty. And yeah, while she was technically pulling for the side he should dispute, the sight of her was enough to steal his heart all over again.

“Besides,” she said, speaking to no one in particular. “I won’t be alone.”

No specifics were made, but Spike knew that he was going with her. There was no getting around that. Angel was welcome to tag along. It didn’t matter. She had him at first glance.

Something in her eyes told him that she had already consigned herself to this fact, and that was the reason she didn’t protest when he stepped forward at her unspoken cue. “Right then,” he drawled, extending his hand. “To the belly of the bloody beast an’ back. You ready, luv?”

There it was. The challenge lain out on the table: waiting for her to claim or rebuke. Waiting for her acceptance or refusal. Waiting for finality—knowing that no matter her choice, it would change everything.

Knowing it would break him if she denied him her touch.

Buffy paused for a long minute. She glanced at Angel, whose pained expression remained glued steadfast to the ground. And while Spike felt her heart churn for him, it did not stop her from locking eyes with his and stepping forward intently.

Then their fingers entwined, their palms pressed together, and they were joined by warmth.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”

The final stepping-stone. No turning back from this. Everything changed with three simple words.

No turning back.

Unsurprisingly, he found the notion rather warming.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Fiften” ]

Part Fifteen: Of Bedknobs and Broom Closets

The pace they set across town was quick and silent, and while there was nothing Spike would have liked more discuss what had happened at the mansion, he knew instinctively running his mouth was not an option. Their hands were no longer linked, and the unspoken message was more than clear. Buffy was still engaged in an inward civil war. No matter what she’d said or what she promised, her mind and heart were in two different places. There was no accounting for what she wanted. What she said she wanted. What she’d truly meant when she took him by the hand. If she regretted it at all.

Spike had looked hard for regret. Her eyes betrayed nothing and her face was a blank slate. If she was having second thoughts, she didn’t betray it. She didn’t betray anything.

A quick jaunt through the cemetery—Sunnydale’s most reliable shortcut. However, as they neared the outer border, something climactic fell within his companion, everything froze. He must have sensed it before she did; he was prepared when Buffy lurched with a whimper, burying her head in her arms as the first sobs started wracking through her body. As realization hit full force.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

Spike immediately fell to her side and ignored the pang in his heart—the same which wanted nothing more than to hold her as she cried. Instead, he caressed her back and murmured soothingly, though the rumbles in the back of his throat never quite breached the barrier separating coherency and dialect. He knew why she wept.

Angel.

Knowledge made his insides coil, but he forced himself to shove his reaction aside. Regardless of her grief, the fact remained she hadchosen. She had chosen him. She had chosen him over Angel. She had chosen him in front of everyone. Spike reckoned some grief was expected. After all, the girl had gone through more than her fair share with his ponce of a grandsire. He had been the great first love—the very same to which she would undoubtedly measure all others for years to come.

All others. Another distasteful notion.

The choice had been made, yes, but there was more to it than that. So much more. More, even, than Buffy understood. Spike was not fool enough to hope, despite the saga with Angel at last ending, for more than what he was owed. The thrill of being allowedthis glimpse into her life was all he needed right now. More acceptance than he figured to earn given the way things had been going up until two hours ago.

Yes. The Slayer had chosen.

She just hadn’t specified what her choice meant. And he could live with that.

For now.

In the meantime, these schoolgirl crying jags were of the expected. It was a big deal for her. A huge fucking deal. Spike knew enough from watching soaps and the constant melodrama of human interaction that a girl’s first love was not one so readily disregarded. Whatever she mourned now was expected.

What was not expected was the sudden lunge into his arms. It took all of two seconds for his surprise to wan and his arms to gleefully curl around her. His murmurs of comfort intensified, his hands becoming more boisterous as they explored her hair, her back, every curve he could touch without crossing the boundaries she’d established.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against him, tickling the hairs at his throat.

Spike rested his head against hers. “What’s that, kitten?”

“For everything I said…ever since you got back into town.” She shuddered and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “You…you came for me.”

Astonishment blew him clear out of the water.

Huh?

“What—”

“After the way I…” Another muffled sob. “After the way I treated you…you still…” Her grip on him tightened instinctively. “You still…you came for me anyway. I gave you no reason to…and you still…”

Spike froze, heart in his throat. That was why she was crying?

Silly chit.

“Buffy…” He pulled back and smiled warmly. God, she was beautiful even with tears pouring down her face. “’S that really why you’re crying? You thought I’d leave you to the likes of Angelus? I’m not heartless, pet.”

Buffy shook her head in protest. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, clutching him tight enough to warm the deadest of hearts. “I lied to you. I…you did everything I asked, and I…”

“Hey now. None of that.” With every fiber that composed his strength, Spike drew back to look at her face. A breathtaking visage of strength and sorrow. She was undoubtedly the best he had ever met. He couldn’t fathom the weight of the world resting comfortably on any other Slayer’s shoulders. Not with everything she had been through. And so young…she was still so young. Her eyes told the story of a thousand lifetimes, and she had not yet seen the span of two decades.

Absolutely amazing.

Bloody spectacular.

“I don’t get it,” she murmured, calming a bit at last. “Why? I gave you every reason to say ‘the hell with it!’ and get the heck out of Dodge. Hell, I would’ve killed me by now.” She crooned against him, almost kittenishly, and he shivered in turn. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Why can’t you kill her?

Bloody good question. The very same he had been toying with ever since he left this shithole town, and very definitely since he returned. Why hadn’t he killed her? Why did the thought of her death make him want to drink a lot and beat up random inanimate objects for fun? Why had he furrowed in protective rage when he pieced together the inevitability of her whereabouts when he saw Xander earlier in the evening? Why? Why? Why?

I can still see her floating all around you…

Big Bads did not call truces with Slayers. Big Bads did not talk with Slayers. Big Bads did not befriend Slayers. Big Bads did not rescue Slayers. Big Bads did not hold Slayers as they wept.

Big Bads weren’t supposed to want to take Slayers to bed out of tenderness and feeling, if at all. Big Bads were supposed to survive on one motive: kill Slayer.

He did not want to kill this girl.

You taste like ashes.

The same, unbidden thought that had been floating forebodingly around his subconscious for the past few days surfaced again—glaring and shining with vibrant you-can’t-ignore-me colors.

Ain’t love grand?

Love. Was that what this was? It was different. It was warm. It was completely separate from the love he had known with Drusilla. It was…

You’re all covered with her.

Different didn’t mean rot. Different was…exactly that. Different. Different love was still love. Was it possible? Did he actually love the Slayer? The fucking Slayer? The bane of his existence? The same girl whose promised death inspired most demons to roll out of their slime-puddles and face this god-awful world? The very same he had campaigned against with such intense fervor? The same he had wanted to—to something from the instant he saw her?

I look at you…all I see is the Slayer.

The quivering being in his arms…composed in strength…born of light…so bright she could dust him simply by giving him a look. A single look.

Spike emitted a trembling breath and knew.

Yes.

This was love.

And it scared the piss out of him.

There was no way he was going to betray that much. Not when this newfound closeness between them was still so fresh. Not when he didn’t know where they were headed; if they were headed anywhere at all. Not when she wielded the power to break him with the softest glance, the gentlest whisper, the…

Yeah. Definitely love. William the Bloody Awful Poet didn’t emerge for just anyone.

“Couldn’t,” he rasped at last. “Could never kill you…hurt you…never…”

At that, she managed to crack a slight smile. A small, breathtaking smile in the midst of her sorrow. “So says he whose previous ambition was in the cause of my death,” she observed.

“Never again, pet.” Unable to help himself, his lips brushed against the tender skin at her throat, and he felt her shiver against him. Then he was speaking, revealing far too much, bugger the consequences. “I made my choice, Buffy. I had bloody well made it when I left the firs’ time around. This is where I wanna be. Here.”

She sighed. “It’s not that easy, Spike.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He shook his head dismissively. “Explain it to me.”

“Well, you’re a vampire, for one.”

“Well, that would explain the aversion to crosses an’ the drastically serious sun-allergy.”

She didn’t crack a smile. Instead, she continued with an old favorite. “You…you don’t have a soul.”

Dammit. He knew she was bound to notice that.

“Well, aren’t you Miss Perception t’night?”

Buffy shook her head. “It’s wrong. This is seriously wrong. And you know it.”

“Not exactly my firs’ choice in lovers, either.” He kissed her temple. “’Course, that stupid rot about freewill an’ the like gets in the way. I’ve already played this round with myself, Slayer. You can’t change what you are anymore than I can change what I am.” He neared her again. “Doesn’ mean a bloody thing, though, as to who we are.”

“That’s just it. I am what I am. I’m the Slayer…all the time. I don’t get to just be Buffy.” She sighed again. “I can’t…Spike, I know that…there are things about vampires that I know. You need violence…and you need blood. And you don’t have a soul to know why that’s wrong.”

“’S wrong because it hurts you, sweetness. I don’ need a soul to see that.”

“But you need a soul to stop yourself.”

At that, Spike arched a brow and scoffed at her. “You really think so?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she berated. “I know it’s very Blue Velvet and all, but you are what you are…just like you are whoyou are. And yeah, one of the Great Romantic Gestures of the times might be to give up something you love as much as you love the hunt for the one person you shouldn’t want, but then, we have reality. I couldn’t live with myself if my…being with you endangered innocents, Spike. That’s a part of who I am.”

A long pause settled between them. Stifling and uncomfortable.

Then he surprised her by lunging through her throat.

“Hey!” She likely would have shoved him back with a piece of pointy wood had he not slowed his assault at last minute to favor her skin with a reassuring lick.

Then he asked, “What is this to you?”

“What?”

“This. What we…whatever we are. What is it to you?”

A beat. “True. We’re true, Spike.”

They both ignored his answering shiver as well as the instinctive tightening of his arms around her. “An’ this…” He sank his blunt teeth into her skin and moaned aloud. The thrill of her pulse vibrated dangerously against his lips, whispering delicacies of everything he could have if he just bit a little…harder…

“You know what I wanna do now?” he demanded. “You know what my demon’s jus’ aching to do to you? Sink my fangs into your throat. Drink your blood until there’s nothing left. The essence of the Slayer. The crème de la crème. ‘S there, luv. Whispering li’l nasties about how good you would taste. ‘Bout how right it would feel. ‘Cause that’s what I am. That’s what I do. Always. Always want blood. Always want the best blood. Always want what I can’t bloody well have. You know that well enough, don’ you, Buffy? Know what I am. What I’ll always want. What I could take so easily. An’ you know why I don’t?”

Buffy panted heavily for a few seconds before her voice died in an articulate whimper. He took that as ‘no.’

“Because it’d bloody well kill me if anything happened to you. Had to learn that the hard way. An’ no…’m not particularly thrilled with it.” Spike pulled back, running a hand through her blonde locks, grinning lightly when her eyes feathered shut. “But I apparently don’ have a say. Can’t change it. Can’t forget you. Can’t do anything anymore but be right here. An’ I know that if I wanted to go after a tasty towner, it’d hurt you. It’d hurt everything we…we could have. An’ I can’t stand for that.” He bent his head once more to nibble at her flesh, eliciting a sharp moan that went right to his southern parts. She had the most delicious moans. “So as long as you care, Buffy, it’ll be who I am. This will be who I am. You can never stop caring, pet. It’d end us both.” A pause. “But never kid yourself—it’s only for you. Not for them. You get me? I’ll bloody bag it if that’s what it takes, but it wouldn’t be because Iwant to. Don’t have the wiring for that…don’ reckon I ever will. If I could have you an’ munch away at this sodding town’s populace, I’d take it. But I know I can’t. Is that good for you? ‘S that somethin’ that would be…”

He stopped and held his breath. The world seemed to unravel at her stillness. At her silence. He wanted to see her eyes but feared what he would find. Those depths had more power over him than he ever cared to admit.

“I’ll be someone who doesn’ hurt you,” he promised softly. “Buffy, you have my word.”

Something warm pressed against his lips, and Spike all but collapsed with the breath of verve. It was poncy and it killed the sodding cliché, but having her near him—having her like this—made him feel alive. Here in his arms. Here willfully pressed against him. Nibbling at his lips as she sought entrance, filling his mouth with a sweet moan of surrender when he granted it. He felt her fists coil in the leather of his duster, felt his entire body into the most inviting embrace he had never known. The way she kissed him—as though she was forming words against his mouth. A taste of innocence along with the danger of intrigue. And he knew he was lost. If not before now, then definitely with the life coursing through him. He tasted her and she tasted him. Their tongues mated and explored then mated some more. As though the kisses they had shared in the past had not existed. As though this was the first.

And he suspected, in many ways, it was.

*~*~*

“What’s this bint got against you, anyway?” A pause. “’Sides the obvious.”

Buffy shrugged with a humorless chuckle. “I guess she thinks that I took her glory away from her or something. The sad thing is, we were getting to being bestest friends before she killed that guy. I mean, yeah, in many ways Faith’s like my evil twin. She’d do things that’d make me feel slightly on the side of wiggy, but we were…working together really well before she went all patchety-murdery.”

Spike frowned and tightened his grip on her hand. They had left the cemetery ten minutes ago, consigned that wallowing while things of the utmost importance were in circulation could not satisfy all issues. And true, while the prospect of playing Superhero and saving the day did not rest entirely well with his demon, Spike knew that being a part of the Slayer’s life meant actively…well, being a part of it. He could do this. He could pretend to care.

The determination on Buffy’s face made him wonder how long it would truly be pretend. And that thought was one he never wanted to revisit.

“Sounds like you’ve been through a right lot since I split town.”

“Oh yeah.” She shivered slightly. “Aside from the usual woes of being of the Chosen Two, I’ve had to deal with a brooding-even-more-than-usual boyfriend, a tell-me-what’s-bothering-you Watcher, friends who try to help and I shut out for the fun of it, and an evil clone who decided to help the demons in town rather than fight them. It’s safe to say that life has sucked beyond telling of it.”

He grinned at her cheekily. “Poor baby.”

Buffy turned to him sharply, fully prepared to reprimand until she noted his sparkling eyes. It was then the subtle caresses to the small of her back finally tingled to life, and she shivered again. There was something to be said about this casual…casualness. It made her feel warm. Even when they were at their happiest, she and Angel always remained gallingly formal with each other. Thus with a poorly acted whimper, she nodded pathetically. “Uh huh. It’s just been awful.”

“Anything I can…do for you?” His question was punctuated with a pinch of her ass. She squealed and scowled and tried to wallop him, but he ducked in time to escape her onslaught, grinning like a madman and challenging her with his eyes.

Oh yeah. This was fun.

They ended up on the ground again: Buffy straddling his thighs and holding him with her hands on his chest. The vampire didn’t exactly look disappointed to be her prisoner. In fact, she had never seen him so…

The word happy didn’t feel right, but it fit all the same.

“That was rude,” she informed him pristinely.

“My specialty, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? Well my specialty is staking rude demons.”

“With all due respect, eat me.” Spike grinned and thrust his hips upward. “Please.”

“Dream on.” Buffy scowled though her eyes were twinkling. The next minute, she was on her feet, offering him a hand. “As much as I’d like to sneak away somewhere right now, I wasn’t kidding back at the mansion. I really need to get the inside on what the Mayor has planned. So come on.”

Spike pouted but accepted her hand all the same. “Did my ears deceive me, or did you jus’ admit to wanting to sneak away somewhere with yours truly?”

“Get over it.”

“Yeah. That’s likely.”

“Spike, if we’re going to try to do this, you’re going to have to accept that stopping the bad guys comes before playtime.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably and proclaimed in his best whiny voice: “But I am a bad guy!” Before she could protest, he had her against him again, his tongue tracing a wet pathway from her collarbone to her ear. “Don’ you wanna stop me?”

Buffy trembled. “Guess that means I’ll need to take you down.”

He favored with another lavish leer. “Oh baby,” he cooed. “Please do.”

She tried to look irritated; she really did. There were important things happening right now—things that couldn’t be put on hold for smoochies. She was getting that familiar feeling in the swell of her breast that suggested it was not a good idea to bring her boyfriend to work.

Then her heart stopped. Boyfriend? Is that what he is? Talk about jumping the gun.

Not that she reckoned Spike would have any problem with the title. The notion warmed her more than it likely should, but she was too tired to worry with particulars. She just didn’t know if she was ready for such a large, solidifying step. So many others had been taken tonight.

After all, only a few hours had passed since she told him to get out of her life for good. Now here they were. With the coupley-giggles and the straddlyness and the let’s-make-out-athon that had no sign of ending before the next three apocalypses.

“Come on,” she said, continuing toward city hall. “If all goes well, this won’t take long.”

“Well, now you’ve done it,” Spike grumbled, reluctantly following suit. “Nice knowing yeah, Slayer.”

She turned and offered him an arched brow. “You’re coming, right?”

“Not rightly soon enough.”

“SPIKE!”

“Right, right. Here. Tug my leash a li’l harder. Might get free otherwise.”

Buffy managed a soft smile, waiting for his hand before continuing up the walk. In turn, the vampire presented her with a look that melted whatever residual ice had encompassed her heart. Like the gesture meant the world and more to him.

Little things like that were making her realize more and more how lost in this man she really was. And these were only the mannerisms she chose to witness; it pained her with almost forlorn nostalgia to think of everything she had missed since their reunion. More so, it amazed her how quickly the time and tide could change, and how her whim was leading her fast to the once-dreaded Point Of No Return.

She hadn’t wanted this. She had fought against it with everything she had left. Spike’s abandonment of Sunnydale, while wise, had taken whatever there was of her along with him. Her feeling, her trust. Unwittingly, he had become the second vampire—man—to leave her the morning after, and despite his fevered promises and very enthusiastic reassurances, she suspected a hidden part of her had shrouded in that uncertainty. There was fault on both sides for her fallout. Spike had done everything in his power to secure her faith in him, despite his own admitted accounts to various flings in a desperate effort to forget her. And even so, that wasn’t entirely his fault. Listening to Buffy Summers was one thing. Believing Buffy Summers was an entirely different subject, especially when it concerned matters of the heart. She had a very bad habit of saying one thing while inwardly cursing those who didn’t read her mind and opt for the second, unspoken option.

And through it all, through the best of times and the worst of times, he had been there.

Buffy refused to name the emotion that warmed her insides, but squeezed his hand in soundless assurance. The gesture earned a confused glance that she did not bother repaying. They had known too much raw brute and unanswered questions to beat around any proverbial bush.

“Penny for your thoughts, luv?”

“My thoughts aren’t worth a penny.”

He grinned disarmingly. “Ohhh…so we’re in the gutter, again?”

“Spike…” Her tone softened along with her eyes in that sort of innate understanding that she should do anything but egg him on. “I really can’t…we have to get this done.”

“An’ I’m not arguing.” He gestured with unspoken emphasis to the Mayor’s offices. “Lead the way. Whas’sit we’re lookin’ for? These Books of Whatchamacallit?”

“Ascension,” she replied, unthinkingly tightening her grip again. This time, he returned the favor. They were walking with purpose, now. Heading toward the offices with synchronized steps even as their conversation suffered no hindrance. The building was eerily abandoned—dark in all respects save the middle hallway.

It took a few seconds of silent scanning for either being to become satisfied that they were alone. Buffy appraised her vampiric companion with arched brows, adhering his senses, and was both confused and relieved when he shrugged and shook his head. “Nope,” he said, just above a whisper. “This hall’s all clear.” His fingers clasped hers possessively and tugged her after him.

“It’s way too quiet around here to be…quiet,” she decided. “I doubt we’ll find the books before getting the official boot. I just need to dig up enough to know what it is the Mayor has planned…in all its wonderful vagueness.”

He tossed her a skeptical glance. “Buffy, the bloke went through a hell of a lot of trouble getting the sodding text,” he observed. “’m thinkin’ his being in possession of them isn’t something a white hat would encourage.”

“Of course. It’s not like I’m going to poo-poo them if I see them lying around, but I’ve gotta be logical about this.” The Slayer shook her head determinately. “And while I don’t think Faith’ll be expecting a full-out crashing this soon to…what happened back there…security will definitely be on the up. Oh, I’m very much set on getting the books. I just think that’s a meeting that’ll be saved for another breaking-in extravaganza.”

A tired sigh rumbled from her partner. “Can I jus’ kill the bloke?” he asked, mimicking a petulant child. “Please? I’m sure his being dead will somewhat hamper whatever it is he has planned.”

“If you come across him, be my guest to try. This guy packs it with the full out armed guard thing. You’d think he was the President or something. Oh, and it gets better. His secret service is something of the undead persuasion.”

“Vamps?” Spike rolled his eyes. “Better’n better.”

“And assorted demons he tries to keep happy by paying timely tributes. There was this one snake thing in the sewers that ate babies.” Buffy made a face. “This was during a random time warp-age by the adults, too. He poisoned all grownups with chocolate and had them acting like hormone addled teenagers while he stole all these babies from the hospital.”

Spike’s brows perked; impressed. “Now, there’s a man with all his pieces on the board.”

The Slayer scowled at the admiration in his tone and slapped his shoulder for good measure. “Hey!”

There were no apologies; not that she expected any. Rather, Spike just shrugged as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, yeah, pet, I am evil. Doesn’ matter how much I love you; that’s never gonna change.”

They stopped simultaneously, eyes going wide with comical harmony as his words sank in. The vampire immediately dropped her hand and stepped back to catch her gaze: imploring, astonished, horrified at his own misgiving, but needing to see her reaction all the same. Buffy was just staring at him. The soft light in her eyes warmed under his stare, but it wasn’t enough to counteract the full-out bewildered look on her face.

Then her lips parted and she was speaking.

“Spike—”

Something moved up the hallway and voices drifted through the corridor. There was no time to think. Spike instantly covered her body with his, shoving her unceremoniously through the first door that he saw.

Which happened to lead directly into a broom-closet.

Through a flurry of emotions and a mixture of halfhearted grunts, Buffy found herself pressed tightly against her unlikely companion, clutching to his shoulders as his own hands found purchase at her hips. She ignored the instinctive tinglies that immediately shimmied up her spine his touch, fighting the desire to lean entirely on his willing body. Instead, she drew in a tight breath and shot him a panicked look as the sounds mingling in the hallway dwindled from muffled incoherency to two very distinct voices.

Her heart was racing, and she didn’t know if it was because of the danger of being caught or the thrill of being in his arms. Her mind leaned toward the latter. She thought it best to shove her thoughts aside lest her active imagination run far away from her and was somewhat relieved to note that Spike didn’t appear to be suffering the same. Their breaths intermingled dangerously, and they stared at the blank door, as though serendipity would cause it to open.

It didn’t take long, however, for the initial surprise to wan. After her adrenalin rush past, Buffy felt very much on even ground. Even if she was hiding in the enemies’ headquarters’ in Spike’s arms. It felt right, even expected. As though this was where she had been destined to come all along.

“Seems no matter what he do,” Spike mused, “we always end up in a closet.”

“Shut up!” Buffy hissed. “They’ll hear!”

“Not ‘f we’re quiet. Quit shuffling, Slayer. Or things will get real noisy here in real quick.” He nudged his hips forward, rubbing his erection against her. Bolts of lust shot to her core but she couldn’t betray them. Instead, she slapped his arm again pinned him with a scowl.

“Pig.”

He grinned. “Oink oink, baby.”

“I swear that’s all you think about.”

“Well, an’ I must reiterate: I am a guy. An’ you can’t feel too rightly horrible ‘bout it. Knowing what you do to me. How wrapped around your li’l finger I am, you fantastic bitch.” He leaned in and nibbled lightly on her throat, eliciting a sharp moan that shoved him closer to the proverbial edge.

“Did…” She crooned into his mouth and gasped when he bit down. “Did you just call me a fantastic bitch?”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Asshole.”

“You love it.” Spike stilled for a minute, head buried in her shoulder. For all his talk, this alone was nice. Near perfection. Simply being with her was enough to have him singing badly in the streets. Nestled in her embrace. There was never a time he remembered being so lax around Drusilla. Not in a hundred years, not with everything they had shared.

His noted distantly that she hadn’t continued her earlier reaction to his confession, and was relieved. The last thing he had intended to do was blurt he loved her while in the middle of some co-op assignment. Hell, he had only just realized the depth of his feelings. He was still taking baby steps into the larger picture, and understood any notion of love right now would only distract her. Confuse things more. Might make her withdraw. Thus while he knew that she had heard him, that she knew, he was perfectly content to let her feign ignorance.

For now.

Similarly, Spike knew that wouldn’t always be the case. With as fast as they were moving, he might be singing a whole different tune come morning. He only hoped what he had to offer would be enough.

“Spike…” She said softly, breaking him out of his stupor. “We better…get going…”

Immediately, his mouth latched onto her neck again, inwardly scoffing at the idea that something as trivial as an Ascension could rob him of his newfound happiness. It wasn’t often he was happy, and if he knew Buffy, it wouldn’t last. He wanted to treasure what he could while he could; leave the imminent unpleasantness for another day. “People are in the hallway,” he reminded her, voice muffled and words forced between kisses. Her pulse throbbed in his mouth, beckoning him a little taste, but he knew she wouldn’t like it. She hadn’t contested the first mark he gave her, but things were different now. It wasn’t—despite what she wanted to believe—a fling. Not to him, and not to her. They were far beyond ‘fling’ territory. “We’re stuck here, baby. Might as well make the best of it.”

“I…” Buffy crooned and gasped, rubbing herself against him. He growled in turn and thrust his hips sharply against hers, hard cock begging for attention. “Spike…it might be…need to…God…”

“No one’s here, luv. ‘S jus’ you an’ me.”

The voices in the hallway seemed to disagree with that. They stopped rather inconveniently near the small room harboring the two intruders, projecting intonation loud and clear. Immediately, Buffy’s hand tightened on his shoulder as she forced him to stop.

She knew that voice.

“I’m just saying, if blondie hadn’t shown up, they might’ve gotten everything from me.” There was a long-winded sigh. “Y’don’t get it, Boss. He had everyone duped. Even his own fucking girlfriend. And I bought it.”

A thoughtful muse was her response, the voice tagged along with it casual and hardly sounding concerned. That has to be the Mayor. Buffy had heard him speak at one or two public events—admittedly while passing by. Her mother had forced her to watch some city development thing that he announced on the local evening news some time ago. Recent events had caused her attention to gain respective detail, but she only identified him now by the casualness with which he addressed his protégé. While Faith regarded everyone in the same light, she suspected there were only a few people that maintained such a personal relationship with his Mayorness.

“You know, it just goes to show that you can’t trust even your right hand man to do an adequate job anymore,” he mused thoughtfully. “Back in the day, if you sent an employee out on assignment, he didn’t come home until the product was acceptable. If Mr. Trick had made a sturdier effort to dispatch that Spike fellow the first time he whirled into town—”

“Then they would have the skinny on what you have planned! I don’t think you’re seeing the big picture here, Boss. He. Had. Me. Fooled.”

“Oh no,” the Mayor replied. “I’m not worried about that, and you shouldn’t be, either. Even if they had managed to squeeze a drop of information out of you, it wouldn’t amount to anything. After all, my girl got me the books, didn’t she? And furthermore, my dissatisfaction with Mr. Trick’s performance has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that tonight was nearly a blunder. It’s the principal of the thing. You hire a man, you expect him to do his job.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But why are you going to do about it?” Faith reasoned. “He’s still some kid’s asthma attack, so problem solved.”

Buffy’s eyes widened and she glanced to Spike. “Those guys!” she whispered furiously. “The ones that you said used to work for you when you came back…the first time…he sent them after you!”

She conveniently left out the part where he’d come back for a love-spell. At the moment, the thought inspired too much jealousy.

“Caught that, pet,” he murmured. Then, reading her mind, his lips neared her ear and licked her tender lobe before whispering, “Dru’s got nothing on you. Don’ fret a pretty li’l hair on your head. I’m too lost in you to even wanna think about findin’ my way back.”

“Who’s fretting?” she retorted, but her heart wasn’t in it. Before he could reply, she had turned her attention back to the door, straining to hear what was being said.

He merely smiled at her.

There wasn’t much more of consequence. Inane chatter, this, that, yadda yadda yadda. It wasn’t until Faith mentioned Graduation Day that Buffy’s ears perked up. The reference was fleeting and lost within seconds in a sea of dialogue, but she had something now. True, it wasn’t much. It was barely a crumb. But it was something to pursue, and that was all that mattered.

The pair outside parted ways—the Mayor insisting Faith get a full eight hours of sleep and that they would arrange a miniature golf date for the next day—then they were gone.

It grew silent for long seconds; Buffy was at a loss for what to do. The Mayor could still be in the building somewhere, and granted while she wasn’t too worried about being caught, encountering Wilkins after everything that had already happened tonight was not on her list of things to do. Within the time span of two hours, she had managed to devastate Angel, disappoint her Watcher, shock the hell out of her friends, and confuse herself so thoroughly down the longwinded pathway that she didn’t think she could take much more.

So foregone in her thoughts, Buffy nearly forgot she was in Spike’s arms. In a broom-closet. That he was with her at all. That was, until, she felt his lips descend upon her throat.

“Mmmm,” the vampire mewled. “Alone at last.”

Buffy gasped breathily and leaned back, eyes fluttering closed as his mouth worked up her neck, her hands caressing his shoulders of their own volition. “Spike,” she sighed, “we…God…we…we can’t. Not…not here.”

“Gotta kill time somehow,” he replied simply.

“By fucking?” she spat. The word sounded dirty on her lips, even though she was no stranger to its usage. Nevertheless, it had the desired effect; he pulled back and frowned at her. “I swear, that’s all I am to—”

“No fucking,” Spike promised softly. “Wanna make love to you. So much. I know you deserve more than this. In a closet, of all things. Kinda like our relationship, right? Before tonight? In the bloody closet.” He leaned in again. “I’d love to take you out, luv, but it’s still soon. I get it, you know. ‘Sides…you’ve got your do-gooder work to do. Haven’t found the books, have we? So in the meantime…let me…” The hand at her right hip moved suddenly, shifting to part her legs for him. “Please?”

“But—”

“’m not gonna take you in here,” he continued, lips dancing over her chin. “But…jus’ for a li’l while…can we…”

“We shouldn’t—”

“’Course we shouldn’t…” Spike grinned. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”

“What if…mmm…” Buffy’s argument was abandoning her. A little hearty gasp rumbled through her lips when his mouth found that delicious pressure point on her throat and began to nibble more intensely. “What…if…someone hears…uhhhh…us?”

He shrugged. “They’ll die of envy, how ‘bout it?” The hand still at her hip delved under the hem of her shirt and began caressing the skin it discovered. “Mmm, please, baby? Jus’ for a li’l while?”

Sure. That’ll go over well.

Nevertheless, she nodded before she could think to protest, and instantly found herself swept inside a desperate kiss. His lips were cool against her. The lingering taste of cigarettes and alcohol consumed her completely. The kisses in her past, while nice, could not compare to his. There had been a boyfriend or two in Los Angeles before The Divorce—back when she was just emerging from her ‘all boys have cooties’ phase, thus the kisses of then were either brief or entirely too sloppy from trying to imitate Dylan and Brenda off 90201. Angel’s touch was always passion-filled, but he held back. She would have liked to believe it was because of the curse, but even in the pre-Angelus days, he was cautionary. Hesitant. As though he was going to break her.

Spike was nothing like anyone she had ever dated before. In all fairness, he did not entirely deserve to be compared to the men and—more accurately—boys of the past. He was passionate and demanding, loving and lustful, considerate and greedy: every synonym and opposite she could muster to describe the horribly clichéd sensation of his lips against hers. When his hand climbed up her side to caress the underside of her breast, she gasped into him, and he seized the opportunity to plunder her mouth with his tongue. Boisterous. Daring.

She loved it.

Had he not pulled back to allow her air, Buffy figured she would have suffocated rather than deprive herself of his mouth. As it was, her head tipped back and she gasped loudly. Then his voice was in her ear. Rasping. Demanding. Driving her around-the-bin-loony-toons-insane.

“Tell me how much you missed me. Wanted me. Tell me I’m not forgettable,” he demanded, tone dropping beseechingly the next instant. “Please?” Before she could reply, he snatched her right hand and guided it to his cock. Guh. “Can you feel how much I missed you? Oh Buffy, doesn’ even do a justice.” His mouth returned to her throat, nipping lightly at his mark. His mark. She had allowed him to mark her. When he spoke again, all signs of resistance had melted full way to plea. The Big Bad on his knees, begging her with words. Remarkable. “Tell me you missed me, pet. Tell me you touched yourself every night and screamed my name when you came. Tell me you buried your fingers in that hot, tight li’l quim of yours an’—”

Buffy had no words. No actions. Her fingers danced across his denim-clad erection of their own will, eliciting a delicious growl that she felt more than heard. “Oh God…”

“You feel what you do to me?” His hips thrust desperately against her hand, seeking friction. And she gave. Her touch gained confidence, as though only remembering herself. She traced. She rubbed. She teased. She got her own back only to have it stolen within seconds. A continuous race back and forth, up and down. No one else was as well matched to play for her, nor knew the rules half as well as she did.

“Yes,” she gasped in turn. “Oh…so nice…so…”

His grip on her wrist lessened with an attentive whimper and Spike’s eyes rolled up inside his head. The resounding growl shot whispered promises to her sex, and Buffy shivered in turn. He waited a minute, fingers dancing over her skin, before running his own hand up her arm and down her side so that he could cup her clothed pussy. “Can I feel…” he whispered fervently, massaging her, “what I do to you? Please, Buffy?”

She nodded erratically. “Yes, yes! Oh, God, please.”

He flashed her an unrepentant grin in turn and slipped his hand below the waistline, paused for a moment to savor the breathy, desperate look on her face, and dipped his hand inside. Instantly, he felt his entire body was aflame. Her warmth. Her heat. God, she had the power to rip flesh from bone. The heady little breaths she took. The tiny, indiscernible nods she gave him as she gnawed her lip in a vain attempt to hide her reaction. He was going to drown in her: no questions asked.

There were worse fates.

Spike pushed one finger inside her, his moan nearly swallowing hers. “Christ, your scent is burnin’ me from the inside,” he gasped, pumping slightly, stretching her before fitting another finger in. “You’re so…God, so wet.”

“Mmmm,” she agreed, moving gently against his hand.

“So tight.”

“More…more, please.”

“An’ you smell…” The thought wandered off—he couldn’t think but to touch her. Couldn’t do anything but do whatever it took to make those delicious sounds rumble from her mouth. He watched her like a man starved, pumping his fingers inside her molten, tight pussy, stroking that perfect spot within her rhythmically before it became too much for him. More, more, more. He always needed more. And thankfully, so did she. Without breaking pace, his eyes rolled back and he whimpered, “I have to taste you.”

“Have…what?”

Spike flashed a rueful smirk. “Don’ tell me you forgot, pet. You’ll ruin a bloke’s ego.”

The grin she gave him in turn was bold and shameless, and for whatever reason, caused an untimely frog to leap into his throat. Despite all they had done, all they had shared, he didn’t reckon she had ever looked at him like that. “Well,” she replied saucily, “I guess you need to remind me.”

“My bloody pleasure,” he growled when he found his voice, dropping to his knees unceremoniously. He spared little time tugging her right leg free. And that was all he needed. Her panties were a thing of the past with a quick rip, and immediately found themselves stuffed into his back pocket.

“For your collection?” Buffy asked breathily as he lifted her freed leg over his shoulder.

The reply was long coming; Spike nuzzled her sex and inhaled appreciatively, planting feather light kisses along her inner thigh. “Don’ have a collection,” he growled in turn. “An’ ‘f I have any say, you’re going to remain knickerless for the rest of your days.”

A small blurb of laughter erupted from her lips, and he arched a brow at her quizzically. “Then you’re not going to have any say.”

He pouted but gave her little time to dwell—lowering his lips to her pussy once more and nibbling a light path to her burning center. Buffy’s head arched back and she gasped, waiting for his touch to quench her, but it never came. It took her only a second to register the absence of his mouth. And when she glanced down, he was favoring her with a particularly evil grin.

“Why not?” he prompted.

Buffy stared down at him.

One thing was for certain: they would never stop competing for control. No matter how far they went, that remained the same. She saw it in him, and knew herself well enough to vouch for the truth. Oh, he would fight her for it. And she would fight back. And it would be wonderful.

“Wha…why?” she demanded. “Why what?”

“Why won’ I have a say?”

“You know why!”

“Explain it to me,” Spike said simply, mouth returning to her pussy. He scattered light mock-bites all along her inner thigh, sparkling eyes never leaving hers. “I go commando all the time.”

“I remember.”

“Knickers jus’ get in the way.”

“Of what?”

The peroxide vampire grinned. “Of this.” His tongue licked a wet pathway up her slit, eliciting an estranged cry from her lips. Buffy’s breathing was becoming more and more labored, and her eyes closed in heavy concentration. When he refused to continue, she forced herself to focus on him with a frown.

“You wouldn’t want to get in the way of this, would you?”

“Bah! Get in the way of this? If you hadn’t stopped to have a conversation, I would’ve…” The word, though similarly not foreign to her lips, sounded weird in her mind, and she couldn’t bring herself to voice it aloud. “…already.”

Spike chuckled at her sudden coyness, and the motion echoed against her skin—seemingly stretching to every nerve in her body. “Well,” he replied, mouth continuing its mission to tease her without mercy. He blew a stream of cool air at her mischievously, biting back another chuckle when she convulsed. “If you would jus’ tell me why knickers are important, I could get to it.”

“You…pig!”

“How stunningly original, Slayer.” He licked her outer lips again, tongue penetrating her ever-so slightly before rushing back for another tantalizing sweep. Another chuckle rumbled through his throat at the moan that pushed through hers. “Come on…you can say it.”

“Other…than…my personal…” Buffy’s hand found his shoulder and squeezed. “Just…personal…some days…out of month…that…”

Spike’s brows perked at the prospect. He hadn’t thought of that. Of course, the girl was mortal. She was due to her monthly cycle. And that meant…

Oh God. The very thought was nearly enough to…

Make him buckle in concession. The taunt abandoned his eyes as he looked at her with the utmost clarity. A beat of hopeless surrender. He teased her lightly at first, running his tongue in sensual, concentrated sweeps across her moist folds. Buffy gasped headily and the sound drove him absolutely insane. Nothing to compare—the sweetest symphony in the world, and it was his. All his. Even at the slightest touch, her juices flooded him. It was undoubtedly the warmest, most sinfully delicious flavor to ever permeate his tastebuds. He lapped her up in earnest, eyes trained on her face all the while. The low moans rumbling through her throat fueled his passion—every noise she made, every twitch, shudder, tremble that seized her body—everything that drove him nearly out of his mind. His attentions honed and explored, searching out what he could do to make her…react…just…like…that.

A mindless whimper sounded through the dark. “Spiiiike,” she gasped. “Please…more…”

That was it. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Spike conceded, catching her clit between his lips, sucking and pulling without ceremony. His fingers sought and stroked her labia, greedily trying to consume everything at once. She was so sweet. So terribly warm and sweet. Her clit pulsing against his tongue, long moans twisting off her perfect mouth every time he stroked her. He loved her clit. Could play with it until the end of days and wouldn’t have enough. Loved how tight she became when his fingers slipped into her pussy, drenching his skin with her honey, gasping the deeper he pressed. And still it wasn’t enough. She was thrusting her hips slightly against him, likely of her own volition, moaning loud moans of encouragement that only served to work him up more. This act was nothing she was terribly familiar with—which she had begrudgingly confessed after being hounded with an impromptu game of twenty questions that initial night. So long ago. It seemed so long ago.

Mindful of her opening, he kept his mouth’s attention on her clit, tongue encircling her once, twice, again and again while his lips suckled the sensitive skin surrounding the precious bundle. Above him, Buffy panted and mewled and tried to articulate, failing miserably. She sobbed softly when she couldn’t form words, and the sound was music to his ears. The taste of her arousal along with the salt that flavored her skin was enough to send him properly over the edge. His cock strained painfully against his zipper, and he ignored it. He ignored every nerve in his own body that screamed for release, concentrating fully on giving his Slayer the best orgasm in her life.

His Slayer.

Buffy’s hands fisted his hair, and he growled slightly against her. “God,” he whispered reverentially, “you taste good.”

“Gooood,” she agreed with bated breath.

It could have gone on if his own need had not been great; over his own marketing of their time together, he had discovered irrefutably that making her squirm was a delight he would never retire. It did more than indulge any lingering whim—it pleased him so wholly that whatever else was nearly unessential. He had never been with anyone that affected him like she did. And here she was: moaning and writhing under his touch.

At last, he left her clit to the tender attention of his thumb as his tongue probed her opening. And he drown in her taste. Never enough. It was never enough. Too long had passed, and this was only the beginning. Only. He would never let her go again. He delved. He tasted. He stroked her to perfection, pulled back, and stroked some more. Softer when he knew she wanted it. Quicker, then slower. Adding the tender caress of his fingertips in the manner he instinctually knew drove her crazy. He stroked her clit as his mouth made love to her, rumbling his own pleasure at her taste against the heat of her skin. He could stay here forever. Needing her. Worshipping her. Loving her. He found that perfect spot within her and stroked with fervor until he felt her muscles clamp and her tremors reach their apex. His hands immediately grasped her thighs to hold her steady, and he lapped her up with enthusiasm as she finally cried out her euphoric release.

For long minutes, there was nothing but the sounds of Buffy’s recovery. Droned gasps that rang as small harmoniously against the silence surrounding them. Spike licked her twice more before turning to caress her inner thighs with more of the same. He drew back only when satisfied, hands caressing her thighs soothingly as his eyes drank her in. She was a vision. Labored breathing, heavy gaze glossed over, face flushed and sweat glistening her golden skin. Fucking beautiful. His own Aphrodite.

His.

God, he loved her.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Sixteen” ]

Part Sixteen: Behind Blue Eyes

She didn’t know how long they had been kissing, and truthfully, she didn’t care. Everything had somehow muddled into a blast of colors as soon as his lips moved over hers. She tasted herself on him and suppressed a long whimper when he suckled it back into his mouth. As he berated her without words for robbing him of his candy. She distantly accepted that there was still a job to do, still an Ascension to stop, still a corrupt mayor a god-complex on the loose, but priorities fell when placed against Spike’s sinful lips. How their make-out session even began was somewhat muddied; she remembered dragging him by the collar to her mouth. Remembered pushing him away only to grab him back again. There was nothing about this she didn’t love; the way he sighed, the way he gasped, the way his eyes glazed over when they clashed with hers. They way he warred with her lips and fought for custody of her tongue.

The way he kissed her.

It could have gone on forever; it would have gone on forever had Spike not pulled away, leaving her lips with a parting nibble. “Kitten,” he murmured. “As much as I’m enjoying this…we better go.”

She blinked foggily. “What?”

“’m guessin’ the Mayor’s gone. Haven’t heard anything…’cept the li’l delicious noises you make.” He grinned. “At least there hasn’t been anything for a good twenty or so. Better get a move on for those books, yeah? Your Slayerettes’ll worry if I don’ see you home soon.”

Buffy blinked and searched for words, much less a sentence, her lust-addled mind blocked, her lips still tingling from kissage. It was difficult to even pretend to concentrate with his erection strained against her stomach. Amazingly, Spike appeared very calm. Perceptive, even responsible.

Somehow, she managed to find words. “I’ve been gone longer before…”

“Yeah, but never with an evil vamp lookin’ over your shoulder.” Spike smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’ think I’ve won Red over jus’ yet, an’ Harris is far from trusting me. If I keep you out any longer, I have a bloody rotten feeling I’m gonna be greeted with lots of stakes an’ crosses when I finally get you home.”

“Who are you, my father?”

His grin broadened, and his hips thrust forward. “Not unless you’re really perverted, luv.”

She made a face. “Gross, Spike!”

“Your words, not mine.”

She pouted and he moaned in turn. “Slayer,” he murmured. “You don’t belong in the dark. We don’t belong in the dark. Not after what we’ve done. Let me take you out, Buffy.” He neared, his lips working up her throat once more. “Please?”

“Yes,” she groaned, throwing her head back as her arms curled around his neck. “But…we can…please, Spike…they…they are…please…”

“Please what?” he asked, face buried in her skin.

“There’s…we have time…”

Spike grinned. “Din’t take much to change your tune, did it?”

“You…” Her hand dropped to the clasp of his jeans and began tugging. “Don’t you want me…don’t you want…”

His hips thrust forward once again and they both groaned on contact. “Does that answer your question?” he rumbled huskily. “Bloody hell, woman, I don’ think I’ve wanted anythin’ as badly.”

“Then…” Her hands began fumbling with his belt. “Let’s…can we…let me…do something for you.”

Spike bit back another groan. “It’d be messy, luv.”

“Since when do you care about leaving a mess?”

“I don’…I jus’…” He sighed and grasped her wrists. “I told you there’d be no fucking in the closet, din’t I? You really gonna make me go back on that? You’re better than this, sweetheart. You deserve a nice, big comfy bed. Not some quickie while we’re stuck here.”

“But you…” Buffy glanced down, her brows perking at the rather telling bulge pressed against the denim.

He followed her gaze and smiled softly. “Yeah, well…it happens.”

Buffy pouted and lowered her mouth to his throat, sucking his flesh between her teeth. Surely there was a way to convince him. Doing her best in her limited experience to drive him crazy—persuade him to her way of thinking. She wasn’t ready to leave the broom-closet. Not now. Not yet. Not without exploring him as he’d explored her. “Let me…” she whispered against his skin. “Please…I want to…”

He frowned and cocked his head, ostensibly attempting to focus. “Want to…?”

Buffy merely smiled and dropped to her knees.

Let him figure it out. She wanted to play.

*~*~*

Spike blinked dumbly, skin still buzzing. His chest ached with the need to gasp though his lungs refused to cooperate. The fog in his head didn’t lift until she felt her lips caressing his denim clad cock. Until he realized fully what she intended to do. Christ, if he got any harder, he would surely explode. A low moan rattled through his body, his mind already providing the image—admittedly conjured at a date that far preceded this—of her sweet, hot little mouth on him. Wrapped around him. Caressing him and…

And all was lost. The deafening sound of his zipper lowering sliced through the air, freeing his cock into her warm, lethal hands. “Buffy! I…oh, fuck…”

She ran her fingers in slow, sensual laps up and down his length, ignoring his struggles. Ignoring the way his hands were fighting for something to grasp. She cradled him in one hand, studying him so intensely the need to gasp overpowered his still chest, violent breaths ripping off his throat. She was so warm. So warm. Her hand trembled where she held him but she didn’t back away. So warm.

Then she was speaking, and her warm breath did a number on him. Spike moaned loudly, unable to stop himself from fisting his fingers through her golden hair. He did not hold her in place—he would not presume—but he needed to feel her. To feel something. Her hands on him weren’t enough. It was more than he ever expected, but it wasn’t enough.

It could never be enough.

“I have a lot to make up to you,” she whispered. “Let me try.”

“Try?”

“To make it up to you. I…” Buffy flushed and wiggled. “And this. I wanna try this. I’ve never…with my mouth…on anyone…and I want to with you. Let me try?”

Let her try? Holy fuck. Even though it was nothing he hadn’t already pieced together, the words rattled his bones and made his blood surge with new life. He knew she was relatively inexperienced; any sexual explorations prior to him were limited to Angel, but only in his wildest fantasies had he ever seen himself as the man to educate her. To teach her what her body could do. To show her how amazing she was. While their night together had healed the doubts she harbored about her sexuality, Spike hadn’t pushed past her comfort zone. He hadn’t wanted to pressure her into anything. Simply being with her was more than he deserved.

Despite everything, the shades of her innocence were so vibrant at times it forced his needless breath to catch in his throat. The Slayer could portray many things—that was what she was. A girl. A woman. Someone aged, someone young. Someone who had already lived a thousand lifetimes while still enjoying her first. It amazed him. Astounded him. And with every beat, he wanted more. He would never stop asking for what she had to offer, but anything she gave him would always be enough.

And even though it went against his every instinct, he shook his head, argument dying in his throat. “Buffy…pet…sweetheart…y-you don’ have to…to prove anything to—oh Jesus!”

Her touch was so delicate, so hesitant, it practically served as his ultimate undoing. Not with the way she approached him, not with uncertainty or fear—rather with a vibrant desire to please. He couldn’t fathom the weight of what she was doing, and reckoned the power she had over him had completely escaped her notice. She didn’t know how tightly she had him wrapped around her little finger.

If she ever did realize it, it would be the end of them both.

It was her hands at first. Barely touching him at all—slowly running the length of him. He knew she was working through her own curiosity, but it was driving him mad. The subject of her experimentation. God, he must have done something right to get here. In a matter of hours he’d gone from being so sure she would have nothing else to do with him to witnessing the demise of her relationship with the wanker who had stood between them. And now this.

This.

And it was so much more than this.

Then it came, her tongue swept over his aching head, suckling at the beads of precum gathered there, her lips curling and wandering further down his length. It took everything not to buckle with sudden desperation. The slightest touch, combined with everything that was her—her scent, her curiosity, the lasting strains of nearly-faded fear…everything that was Buffy—was more than he could bear. It was being swallowed by the sun. Everything she did, regardless of demeanor, intention, or magnitude, affected him with the same potency, tingling the right areas with ecstasy he could not begin to comprehend. Small segues furthering her pathway of discovery. The telling nibble at his velvety tip. The way her hand danced still across his length, grasping him as her confidence built. The way she coiled her hand at the base of his cock…right there, moving in time with her body’s innate rhythm. Welcoming him into Heaven. Heaven. It had to be. Heaven or as close as he would ever get. Her tongue caressed the underside of his erection and he felt her grin against him when he trembled into a long, unrestrained moan.

Spike’s usual verbosity failed him. Feeling her, knowing what it meant for them, had rendered him speechless. All he could do was tighten his grip on her blonde mane and hold on. He could never feel enough of her. Never get enough of her.

Not even if they had eternity to wear each other out.

*~*~*

It was quite possibly the most intimidating thing she had ever done. Buffy was certain he could feel her heart pounding. More than convinced that at any minute, he would shove her aside and tell her to quit embarrassing herself. She still had no idea what ultimately persuaded her to her knees, and certainly didn’t know why she had taken him into her mouth. Her own reasoning seemed foreign. Conjured by a girl who wanted to prove she was a woman, when in truth it had to be obvious she was a child in adult’s clothing.

Blowjobs had always struck her as degrading, thus she’d long ago sworn she’d never perform one. They were men’s way of dominating women, and she would have none of that. She wouldn’t be the trophy girl for anyone. Wouldn’t bow to the whim of just anyone. Not even Angel.

When she’d changed her mind, she didn’t know. All she knew was she was here, not repulsed—eager. Determined. Attempting to worship him as he had worshipped her. There was nothing degrading about this moment, and with that, the prude in her died forever. That didn’t mean that her confidence was it its peak. She was fumbling to remember everything Kimberly, a friend from Hemery, had told her about blowjobs. How to put her gag reflex to good use. What exactly to do with her hands. How much pressure to apply. If there was such a thing as enough in the male vocabulary. How to croon and pretend she was enjoying herself

But it wasn’t pretend, Buffy realized. Even with Spike’s experimental, half involuntary thrusts, she found nothing herself loving every second. She loved the way his skin tasted. How he fit into her mouth—not quite all the way, but she compensated with her hands, which he didn’t seem to mind at all. She loved how the silky head of his cock felt against her tongue, and how he moaned and released a string of unhurried, incoherent declarations when she licked and nibbled. She loved how well his balls fit into her palm. How his grip on her hair tightened when she massaged him. How his hold was not commanding—more a display of his desperation. How he gasped when she tasted his sac. Every noise he released, every move he made was delicious to her, and she wanted desperately to inspire as much need as possible.

Then his voice broke through the dark. “Buffy…” he moaned. It was the sexiest thing she had ever heard. “Bleedin’…feels so good, baby…oh God…I…”

She pulled back, lips lingering at his tip as her eyes darted upward. He jerked imperceptibly at the loss with a hoarse, guttural cry. “Don’t stop!” he pleaded. “Please don’t stop. Oh God…”

“Mmmm…”

That seemed to encourage him even more, and his hips thrust sharply against her mouth, cock begging entrance. “Holy fuck.”

“Spike…” Then she deep-throating him in earnest, taking him as far as she could as her hands squeezed him. Instinct inevitably took over—Buffy’s mind lost to a haze. She licked. She sucked. She nibbled. She caressed. She did anything and everything that came to mind. His moans trembled through the air, and when she felt his balls clench, she knew he was about to fall over the proverbial edge.

“God,” he moaned. “Buffy…sweetheart…’m gonna…”

She nodded her understanding—her permission—and his whimpers reached precipice as her head bobbed up and down. She felt him tense beneath her fingers, and her mouth doubled its efforts. This had to be perfect for him after everything she had said and done—how she’d punished him for her confusion and anguished thoughts. How she’d punished him for intoxicating her then fleeing the scene. The sounds filling the air inspired a number of emotions—manly but reverent, hoarse but gentle. A perfect combination of sandpaper and silk in one glorious package. Sounds that escalated without warning. With a last, deep groan, he grasped the back of her head and came with a tremulous roar, hips pistoning forward. Buffy felt she should be surprised with the impact of his taste, but everything was left to instinct. She swallowed what she could of his milky spendings, licking the corners of her mouth before turning her attentions to make sure none had dribbled onto his own skin. In turn, his shaft hardened again, but he pulled her to her feet before she could go in for seconds.

Pulled her to her feet and downed her in his eyes. It seemed imperceptible that a gaze that blue, that inherently cold, could inspire such warmth. He looked at her as though she had been handed to him by the angels, and when he groaned his capitulation and covered her mouth with his, she knew there was nowhere else she belonged.

And God, it scared the hell out of her. This had happened so fast. Too fast, her mind warned, but Buffy heard nothing of it. She couldn’t stop. Not with how he touched her—kissed her—not with the reverential wonder pouring through his lips. He was murmuring unintelligible adorations, and she knew if any took comprehensible form she’d go weak at the knees for the feeling behind them. He meant it. She knew now. Now that she really saw him, she knew it was true. What he had said. What he had not intended to say. The confession blazed in the hallway rang with such clear and utter candor it nearly had her knees buckling.

He loved her. Spike, William the Bloody, slayer of slayers, loved her. And his love was so frighteningly potent she felt she might implode with feeling. He loved her in a way that was foreign, in a way about which she had only read. He loved her as she had loved Angel—completely, wholly, without prejudice. With reservation, yes, but knowing the ends would justify the means. He loved her the way she wanted to be loved. In the way Angel never had, because he knew it was wrong and cared. She had known it was wrong, too, but didn’t care. Couldn’t. Because she had loved him.

Did she love Spike? Could she, with feelings for Angel floating around her heart? Buffy had once thought that love after Angel was impossible, and while she saw now the stupidity behind such thoughts, she didn’t know if she was ready. She had told herself so often over the past few weeks it wasn’t possible; that was then, and now she had chosen Spike. She had chosen Spike over Angel, despite hesitation, but that didn’t mean she was ready to completely open up. To love.

To love Spike.

But at that moment she wanted it. Love. Love for Spike. She wanted it so desperately. Perhaps it was too early to know if the warmth she felt was love, but she hoped it was. Buffy wanted to love Spike the way he loved her. The way she felt it in his touch. The words he had not meant to say. The words rolling off his heated gaze. The words reverberating through his skin when he cupped her cheek. The warmth blazing from his cold mouth as he worshipped hers. Softness that a killer should not possesses. Softness that he gave her in spades. The promise of everything he was, no masks, but in turn with everything he would be. His vow in the cemetery notwithstanding—he was willing to do it. To go the extra mile. To be what he could be for her. A man she could love.

“God,” he whimpered when he finally pulled away. “Buffy, you bloody astound me.”

She smiled and he growled in return. This lighthearted though equally full-feeling candor between them was something to which they both needed to grow accustomed, even if she enjoyed the breathlessness that came with every beat. “So I was okay?” she asked, hands sliding up his arms until they were hooked behind his neck.

The look he gave her was incredulous until he saw the palpable shades of her very real curiosity, and even realer threads of fear. His eyes gave her all the answer she was ever going to need. A small, kind smile tickled the corners of his mouth and he leaned forward to give her a reassuring kiss. “Sweetling, you were…I have no words. That was fucking amazing. Christ, I’m gonna start composing poetry again ‘f I don’ watch my step.”

A childish giggle bubbled off her lips. She couldn’t help it. She was feeling very giddy at the moment. “You composed poetry?”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing; she knew immediately whatever memory her words had inspired was not a happy one. After a minute, though, when he saw she wasn’t teasing him, he offered a smile and kissed her again. “The worst stuff you’ve ever heard,” he confirmed. “It’d make your ears bleed.”

“Oh! Can I see it? That might be a very helpful tactic against scary demons.”

He smirked. “Ha bloody ha.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Evil vixen.”

Buffy flashed a coy smile. “You love it.”

“Yeah.” He reached out to brush locks of hair from her sweat-laced face, the look of obsequious awe over-powering him again. She would never—could never—tire of seeing him like that. “I do.”

The words rolled off him with such ease Buffy nearly dropped her reservations. She nearly dropped everything; including the part about being snuggled up with a former enemy while holed in the headquarters of the current. Stashed away in a broom-closet. She was so relaxed she didn’t care if she ever moved again. For someone who didn’t give off heat, in Spike’s arms, she felt warmer and safer than she ever had.

God, and if that revelation didn’t shake her to her core. She’d never felt this. Never. Not once. Not even with Angel. Angel was always tense, and by gum, he made sure she was, too. Spike simply was, and there could be no more to it than that.

He was. There was no finale. No recap. Nothing to bottle the potential. She wouldn’t cripple him with words. He simply was. The possibilities were endless.

And that was all that mattered.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Seventeen” ]

Part Seventeen: In All The Old Familiar Places

“So that’s all we’re looking for, then?” Spike asked as they edged into the Mayor’s darkened office. “The Books of…”

“Ascension,” Buffy agreed with a nod.

“An’ then we can get the bloody hell outta here?”

“That’s the general plan.”

“An’ where to after that, pet?” He probably couldn’t help the suggestive way he worded the question, but the teasing look he delivered was definitely intentional. Buffy flushed and glanced away. The sooner they got out of here, the better. She wanted to be alone with him again. Wanted it more than anything. Alone in a place that wasn’t Evil Incorporated.

It had taken several persuading promises to convince her to move things outside the broom-closet. Spike had estimated the building had been empty for a half hour. More than likely, the Mayor and Faith had moved along just seconds after Spike had ushered them into their hiding place. Therefore they had wasted a good chunk of the evening by fooling around, though Buffy wasn’t about to complain. She was too damn giddy to complain.

And her mood was shared. While he didn’t let himself declare his love again, Spike’s behavior spoke volumes. He didn’t let her stray too far out of arm’s reach, his hands caressing her skin at every opportunity. However, his tone and mannerisms, despite bodily suggestion, remained professional. It was an act, she knew. Spike had not made small game about that. Despite how things changed, he would remain what he was. A vampire. A soulless, inherently evil vampire. If she decided to throw her hands up and declare people on the menu, he would comply with a song in his heart. That was his prerogative. He was a being of destruction; he was made to make the darkness scream. He was a monster.

But he was a monster who loved her. A monster who would do good by her as long as she asked it of him. What made him different? What made him…this? What made him Spike? What made him an ode to an unlikely hero in times when such things were not made to exist?

Now was not the time to mull it over.

Spike was studying her when she met his eyes again, his head cocked and his expression worried. He waited as long as he could, but the silence drove him without much persuasion. He was a creature of many words, and when he found himself encompassed with quietude, his foremost reaction was to disturb it. “Buffy? Pet? Somethin’ wrong?”

Buffy shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“Look, if you’re…if you’re having second thoughts about—”

“No. I’m not.” She smiled disarmingly, leaving him with nothing but to understand that sometimes silence had no ulterior sanction. Sometimes silence was simply that: silence. “I’m really, really not, Spike. I was…I was just thinking.”

That would have to be good enough.

He nodded. “Right.” Clearing his throat, he returned his attention back to the creepy neatness on Wilkins’s desk with a frown. Anything that orderly deserved to be messed up. Messed up proper. Of course, a natural-born troublemaker, he assumed this position with a hearty grin and started rummaging through every nook and cranny he could locate. “Don’ know exactly what you’re looking for, other than the books,” he said, glancing up. Buffy had busied herself with the cabinets against the other wall and was, by the look of things, not having any more success. “Mind filling a bloke in, here?”

“Just anything, really,” she replied airily. “Anything that mentions the Mayor, his dealings, a pamphlet on becoming…whatever it is he’s looking to become. Or do. I’m not sure. Ascension, I’d think, would mean—”

“Don’ use the word ‘become’, please.” Spike made a face. “When Angelus was all keen on waking up Acathla, he made a big fuss about he was about to ‘become’ something great. Just another reason why I hate that wanker. With him, it’s always about Angel.”

Buffy distanced at that, arms falling impassively to her sides. “That’s what he said about me,” she all but murmured. “That night. That night you came to me and we called truce. He told me that I thought it was always about me.”

The vampire snorted, glancing back to the desk. “Coming from the prime principle sod himself? We all got a bit of egotism, luv. ‘S human nature.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He rolled his in turn.

“Right, fine. ‘S nature, pure an’ simple. Vamps are all about the self-glamour. I guess it jus’ out with more emphasis when you’re sired. We live, generally, by following the essential sins of the flesh. That’s where the lack of a conscience comes in handy.” Spike glanced up to catch her reaction, but she had none to offer. “I know you pretty well, Slayer, if I don’ say so myself. I knew you well before calling truce that night. Before coming back the first time around, which was why I could tell you what you din’t particularly wanna hear. An’ definitely after we…after we were trapped together.” He cocked his head at her. “Why do you think I spent half the night playing a round of twenty questions with you?”

A line cast and drawn. “Why?”

“’Cause I wanted know you. I wanted to know you better then than I already did, even if I din’t know it then.” He flashed a grin. “An’ yeah, you can make it about yourself. So can all your sodding Scoobies. Hell, even ole Rupert. But no one, in all my years, has ever been more self-centered than Angelus. That includes yours truly, an’ I’m not modest. I’m an egotist. Everyone knows it.”

She couldn’t help the grin that tickled her lips. “Oh yeah.”

He smirked in turn. “Not that I don’ have a lot of encouragement, or anything.” A sigh depressed his shoulders. “There was jus’ a difference. Angelus had fame…more than me, much as I hate to admit it. An’ he let it go to his head. Thought his bloody existence was the reason the earth rotated.”

Another thoughtful pause as Buffy distanced. The memory came from nowhere, and its impression sent shivers down her spine. A sodden Angelus grinning at her cockily when she raised her stake. The eve of her birthday after the Judge had been blown to bitty pieces. She had gone to kill him, she really had. But it was too soon and she couldn’t. And he knew it. He knew it and he played on her insecurity. Knowing that she loved him. Knowing that she couldn’t kill him because she loved him. Pity case for the Slayer. Boohoo. Cry me a fucking river.

The vampire that was currently reading through the Mayor’s papers was equally soulless as Angel had been that night. The vampire that was perusing passages of intricate daytime planning and meeting arrangements was allegedly as evil as the one who had snapped Jenny Calendar’s neck. The vampire she desired had killed more people than she could even begin to fathom. The vampire she desired had held her when she needed it, had pleasured her with no thought for himself, had opened doors and aligned windows within the spans of just a few hours.

“Hmmm, this is interesting,” Spike was saying, holding up a weekly planner. “Entry from a couple months ago. Your Mayor’s contracted to the Powers through a law firm in L.A. Ever heard of Wolfram an’ Hart?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Bloody powerful lot, pet. ‘S been around about as long as the Powers an’ alters form every couple centuries or so to keep up with the times. Deals with black magic an’ the like. Powerful evil. If Wilkins is one of their clients, he has more than jus’ two-bit vamps an’ a wacko Slayer guarding his goods.” The platinum vampire tossed the planner aside in favor of an older one he found buried in the last drawer of the Mayor’s desk. A few seconds later, he reached conclusion. “Yeah. He had to have…representation in selling his soul. I’m also willing to bet that an association with Wolfram an’ Hart helped him in more ways than one to get in office.”

Buffy’s mind was racing. She nodded, feeling very much like a bloodhound that had just picked up the scent. “How old was that entry?”

A pause. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Spike?”

The vampire glanced at the date again, a wry grin tickling his lips. “Well, for a bloke who used be human an’ hasn’t been introduced to the world’s only known age-defyin’ solution, I gotta say he’s in good condition, all things considered.” He met her eyes. “You din’t know he was over a century old, did you?”

“A century?”

“Gotta say, this Ascension’s sounding more an’ more interesting.” He placed the book where he’d found it. “Though I don’ rightly know a bloke with that kind of attention span. Even Angelus at his most diabolical would get bored after a hundred years or so.”

“Why do you keep doing that?”

He frowned. “Doin’ what?”

“Bringing up Angelus? Or Angel? I…”

The frown deepened and Spike’s head tilted curiously to the side. He didn’t try to deny it, but similarly, he didn’t rush around to provide an answer. It wasn’t improbable that he would act on behalf of his more guarded insecurities; it had certainly happened before, and despite everything that had popped up in the past few hours, he wasn’t entirely convinced that she knew what she was doing. Or that this was the big it for her. With every turn, he half expected her to pivot at her heels and go running back into the Grand Poof’s arms.

That concern was minimal, granted. Buffy hadn’t been the one to bring up Angel in conversation. He was the prat that kept reminding her of his existence. But the line was cast and she had accepted the bait. Either way, despite what happened between them, they were going to have the inevitable ‘Angel’ discussion sooner or later.

He’d really thought it would be later…

Spike sighed. How was he supposed to explain this when he lost himself in the details? Sodding pillock. “Dunno, pet. I guess I…I jus’ wanna make sure that you know who’s here with you. I’m no sodding Peaches substitute, Buffy. I’m me. William the Fucking Bloody. I’m jus’ as soulless as he was, like you were so eager to observe not a bloody hour ago. Only—”

“—only you’re not him. I get it, Spike. I do.”

“Do you? Do you really? You think this is some game? Bloody hell, you were bouncing me back an’ forth not—”

“I know. I know.” It was hard. How could he go from making her feel like a goddess to tearing down that pedestal in a matter of seconds? The feeling was still there, she knew. Potent and tangible as ever. It was simply a matter of staking claim. He needed to know—of course he needed to know. Despite his promise to her, even despite the quick fix in the broom closet, he had nothing concrete. He had told her that he loved her, and she had not said it back. She hadn’t even acknowledged it.

But he wasn’t looking for that. For some reason, there was no doubt in her mind bringing up the Three Little Words was of the major bad. If he hadn’t meant to say them, there was no way she was going to use them as her argument. He could always play dumb, and the confession had meant too much to her to have it taken away in the heat of the moment.

“It wasn’t fair to you,” Buffy began. “And I’ve tried…God, Spike, I’ve tried so hard…even in this past…I know it couldn’t…what…I’m still having to make up for it. For how I acted. Treated you. Like some…and not just you, either. I was a monster to Will and…and Giles. I didn’t speak to Giles for weeks because he…and now I’m going to have to clean everything up from scratch and…”

The distress in her voice had his eyes softening instantly. “I din’t mean to go off on that,” he said. “Luv, you’ve given me more than my fair share tonight. More than I thought you’d ever give.”

“But it wasn’t enough, was it?”

“I din’t—”

“You wouldn’t. You’re here. You’re really here.” A small smile tickled her lips as her own words came back to slam her. “You came back.”

He grinned as well. Couldn’t help it. “’Course I came back. Said I would.”

“But I—”

“I pushed you, Buffy. It wasn’t fair to—”

“Don’t go off with the noble bullshit,” she snapped without anger. “I haven’t been…I haven’t told you what you need to hear yet.”

At that, his eyes widened. If she said anything in relation of love now it would ruin everything. His own words still haunted the air between them, and he didn’t think he could stomach a reprise of earlier disappointment. He had been loved before out of obligation and it didn’t work. Rather, it smart like a bitch. If she said she loved him now, they were ruined. There was no sense in masking gratitude in the package of love. It only made for more broken hearts in the end. “Don’t—”

“You’re not forgettable.”

Spike froze, argument lost.

“You’re not,” she continued breathily. “Hell, you’re so unforgettable that trying to forget you distanced me from everyone. They all saw it. They all knew it was you, in one way or another. You who was driving me crazy. I couldn’t focus on anything. I was…I was so pissed that you’d left me to clean up the mess, but I knew it was…you said it yourself. You did exactly what I asked you to do, and I blamed you for not reading my mind, even if I didn’t know what my mind was saying at the time.”

His eyes were cobalt and his skin tingled, feeling her heat even from across the room. Words. Words gave him life. He thrived on them. Drank, digested, and produced them. Her words were burning him alive with more fire than anything she could have given him before. His arms ached to hold her. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and hold her until time ended.

He was. God, he really was in love with the Slayer.

If desire were substantial, they would both be drowning in it.

Before he could stop himself, he had thundered across the office, closing the needless space between them. One arm snaked around her waist and the other pressed against the back of her head to steady her for his kiss. Fortunate; she buckled in impact, whether for the spontaneity of attack or the feel of his mouth moving against hers. His teeth nipping at her lips. His tongue begging for entrance and the resounding moan which coursed through him when she granted it. Then they were mating with their mouths, clutching at each other as though losing hold meant falling off the edge of the earth. And it wasn’t enough. His hips bucked furiously against hers and she returned the favor; they shared a whimper in frenzied union and set up pace before it became too much, and they were forced to pull away again.

Spike’s mouth made play up and down her throat. “Tell me more.”

“Wha…”

“Tell me more.” He nudged his erection against her pussy and she crooned again. God, if they weren’t careful, he would fuck her here. Right here. In the Mayor’s office. On top of the old sod’s desk. Papers flying, pens falling to the floor, her legs astride his shoulders as he slammed into her over and over and…

If possible, his cock hardened even further. They needed to get out of here.

“Not,” she managed to gasp before he assaulted her mouth again. “Forgettable.”

Another sharp thrust forward.

“Oh God. Not forgettable.”

“We done here?”

Buffy’s breathing was labored and her eyes glossy, and she nearly mewled in protest when he pulled away from her just enough to catch her gaze. “What?”

“Are we done? Books not here, that the general verdict?”

Oh right. The job. “Books not here,” she agreed with a hasty nod. “Ascension on Graduation Day. Big stoppage for later date.”

“Right then. Let’s off.”

Move? He expected her to move?

“Slayer?”

Eyes. Oh, eyes. He was still panting, too. Hair tussled from her greedy hands, his lips swollen from kissage. Probably as swollen as hers. And his jeans looked about ruined. That zipper was showing some major restraint, but Spike had the entire super-strength thing going for him. And size? Did anyone mention—

Moving. Right. Feet were a good thing.

“Where we…” Her mind was still buzzed. What she really wanted him to do was something out of a perverse porno flick, but that was a big eww. Especially in the Mayor’s office. Thank God for logical thought—she figured if she didn’t have it in spades, he would take her up on any offer. They hadn’t been big on the discreet thus far tonight, but going at in the Big Bad’s lair was sort of a not.

“Well, we got three options, way I look at it,” he said, trying very hard to pretend he didn’t want to shove her against the wall and have his wicked way with her. Future note good: get rid of sexual tension before partaking important assignments with subject of said sexual tension. “You do your do-gooder work an’ run off to the Watcher. Tell him what the rogue bird said to her boss an’ that the books weren’ found, but you’ll come back when you think there’s a better chance of them being here.”

“You really think they’re not here?”

“Likely not, pet. If I were running this show, I’d have some lackey working round the clock on cracking the language barrier.”

“How do you know it’s not in English?”

He grinned at her innocence. “Because, despite your self-involved world view, older texts rely on languages that aren’t Westernized. You expectin’ the Cliff’s Notes version?”

She scowled, and he continued.

“There’s option number one. Number two is I see you home an’ leave it at that. We don’ go any further than we’ve gone tonight.” Spike smiled at the fleetingly perplexed look that overwhelmed her features. “Don’ get me wrong, luv. I don’ wager there’s anything I wanna do more than lock you up an’ ravish you till you can’t walk, but I can be patient about this.”

She arched a brow.

“Yeah, I can. I know it’s worth the wait.”

“You’re really offering to…” No point in beating around the bush. In for the kill. “Were you even here a few minutes ago? We practically had sex against the wall!”

At that, the platinum vampire’s eyes traveled the length of her and his tongue caressed his teeth in the way he knew she liked. But he wouldn’t cave. Despite his own body’s hunger, despite the room that was perfumed in her arousal, despite the persistent bulge in his trousers, he wouldn’t cave. This was worth patience. Worth anything and everything. She had given him more than enough tonight. “Don’ make this some sodding rot about me not wanting you,” he scolded softly. “You know that’s rot. Buffy, I want this to be real. For us. Not somethin’ we do jus’ because we want each other.”

“I’ve said—”

“I know you’ve said. An’ I know it’s true. I know.” He betrayed himself and stepped forward, cupping her cheek. “An’ it’ll be true tomorrow. An’ the day after. An’ the day after. We have all the time in the world.”

Buffy blinked at him blearily. For some reason, words seemed hard to come by.

He was right. They did.

All the time in the world.

“What…” she gasped heavily. “What’s the third option?”

“Third option…” He leaned inward, lips caressing hers without fully touching. “We go back to my hotel—”

“You have a…” Gasp. “Hotel? Not the factory?”

“Not the factory. Bloody hate redundancy, an’ I was found out too quickly there the last time.” Spike’s mouth descended on her throat and he placed a feather light kiss over her throbbing pulse. “Got a room. A nice comfy room, with lovely bed, a mini-fridge, an’ a telly to top things off.” He moved away suddenly and grinned when her eyes fluttered open. “There. That’s the third option.”

Buffy nearly stumbled with the unexpected absence of his body against hers. Okay. Standing. Also a good.

“That’s the third option?” she demanded. “After that little speech about how waiting is a good thing?”

He shrugged. “Well, jus’ wanna be sure you got your cards in line. If you fancy a shagathon, I’m your man.” A shade darkened his eyes. “I bloody well hope so, anyway. Rip the spleen out of any other wanker who touches you.”

“Okay, gross.”

Another shrug. “All in a day’s work. This is me, Buffy. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, I’m definitely taking. Taking is me. And hotel’s sounding good right now.”

A beat.

“But,” he finished for her, “option number two’s likely the smartest, right?”

Buffy nodded. Reluctantly. Half of her was still blazing with the surprise that was Spike plus maturity. The other half was swooning for the romantic notion behind it. Not a lusty thing after all. Well, not a thing based completely on the lust. Her more concrete worries pushed asunder for something real. He would wait. He would wait for her. “Yeah, the smartest,” she agreed with a small smile. “I’m all for the smartest.”

“Right.” He extended a hand for the taking. “Let’s get you home, luv. Before your mum worries an’ all that rot. Besides, it’s prob’ly better that you tell your precious Scoobies about what you found here…an’ that the Big Bad din’t make you his supper.” He stopped to smirk. “Well, in any way you din’t beg for, anyway.”

She flushed. “Okay. Scooby meeting. Also a good. About the conversation we heard and the books…well, sort of the books. Seeing as we didn’t look all that much, not about what actually went down here, right?”

Spike’s grin broadened. “That being the both of us, I’d hope not.”

“Spike!”

“What? It’s what you meant, too, an’ you bloody well know it.”

Her cheeks flamed. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to rub it in.”

“Mmmm, sounds delicious.”

More blushing. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Bloody right you will.” Spike edged behind her and nudged his still-persistent erection into her ass, just barely. It was enough. The gasp that flooded the air echoed through every vacant corridor. “As it is, I’m turning in with a nice long wank.”

It was embarrassing how easily the words rolled off her tongue. “And what will you be thinking about?”

He chuckled. “After tonight? Lemme count the ways. Namely…that magic mouth ‘f yours.”

Hello. Pleased to meet you. I am Rudolf the Red-Faced Buffy.

A few seconds of silence, and then something else. Turn of the tide, a complete change in tone. Something she could not let go of if she tried. Something she needed to hear, even if she already knew the answer.

“You really will be here tomorrow?”

She didn’t mean to sound that needy, but for his part, Spike hardly noticed. Instead, he stopped and looked at her, wonderment sprawled across his face.

Then he smiled. A soft, gentle smile.

“I’ll be here,” he assured. “Count on it.”

There it was. His word. His promise.

And she believed him.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Eighteen” ]

Part Eighteen: A Midnight Tête-à-Tête

In an ideal world, walking her home wouldn’t turn into a massive thing. It was taking her from Point A to Point B, preferably with a kiss good night, and promises about the days to come. After all, they had decided to wait. Waiting was a good thing. It made all kinds of sense and tickled the hopeless romantic within. All go for waiting. Waiting had been taken to committee, voted upon, and passed. It deserved its own foam finger.

That didn’t explain why she was pressed between Spike and a mausoleum in the cemetery, doing everything but waiting. It didn’t explain why his arms were wound around her waist, why she was thrusting her hips against his hard cock, or why she was nearly crying into his mouth with the need of furthered friction.

Rational thought eventually managed to break through her lust-addled mind, though she had no vote on whether or not it was welcome. Buffy pulled back, panting, attempting to piece together Spike’s face through a blur of color. “I.” Gasp. “Thought.” Pant. “You were…walking…me home.”

“Oh, we’ll get there, pet,” the vampire promised heatedly, running his tongue along the roof of her mouth and reveling in the groan he earned. “’S your fault you smell so bloody good.”

That argument lacked logic. “Right.”

“It is!”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Spike smiled and pulled back, his fingers playing across her collarbone. “What are you gonna tell them?” he whispered, trusting the question was not so ambiguous it required elaboration.

He was right. A sigh rolled off her shoulders. There was thinking to be done. Thinking in mass amounts. There was also a conversation with Angel hovering in the dreaded future. She would eventually have to talk to him. To settle whatever was left between them in a manner that could be considered civil. She hoped he would be civil, even if she did not expect him to understand.

The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, but with as far as things had gone, it seemed inevitable.

“I don’t know,” Buffy replied, eyes falling shut in wordless ode to her confusion. “Willow, I’m guessing, is all ‘All aboard’ on the Spike-loving, train, isn’t she?”

They both wisely ignored the mention of the l-word. In such context, it didn’t mean anything. He couldn’t, however, help the snicker that tickled his lips at the description of Red’s favorable disposition. “Is she now? Seem to remember chattin’ her up, though last night’s kinda blurry. I was sloshed for a good part of our conversation.”

Buffy pursed her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “About whatever I said. Truthfully, so much has happened that I don’t really remember it…but it wasn’t of the good, I know. I was trying to be vindictive and—”

“It worked, let’s jus’ leave it at that. An’ you better bloody quit apologizing. Think we agreed that you’ve done more than make it up to me.” He waggled his eyebrows and thrust his cock against her, which earned him a desired blush. “You were confused is all.”

“To put it very mildly.”

“Hell, I half din’t know what I wanted when I came back, either.” Spike leaned forward, burying his face in her neck. Her pulse thrummed against him; he planted a tender kiss over its flesh-encased sweetness. Wanted to drink. So badly wanted to drink. But wouldn’t. Not without her say-so. And he wouldn’t ask. “Jus’ that I was tired of looking for you an’ ending up with disappointment.”

Buffy half-flared in jealousy, but forced her thoughts away. Whatever was done was done. He had left on an empty promise and returned to her when she asked it of him. There would be no more of that.

“Damn right there won’t.”

“What? Did I talk out loud again?” There was no need to ask the question; his eyes said it all. “I’ve been doing that all day.”

“They weren’ anything to me, Buffy. Know why?” He waited but she didn’t reply. He hadn’t truthfully expected it. “They weren’ you. I don’t dally around on my women, all right? Was bloody faithful to Dru for over a century. I’m here now, an’ as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

“As long as I’ll have you?”

“Well—”

“Spike, this is serious.” She sighed harshly, her eyes falling shut to collect her thoughts. “I know I’m young—but I’m also the Slayer. I’m the Slayer with a very permanent expiration date stamped on my forehead. I had to grow up fast. And yeah, maybe I was a little hasty, but there was a time when I was sure whatever I had to offer this earth other than the occasional saveage would be dedicated to Angel.” Her vampire stiffened against her but didn’t object. There was a definite past-tense in her voice that he knew better than to second-guess. “I’m not with Angel…well, I guess since we haven’t had The Talk yet, I technically still am, but I’m…I’m here with you. And that’s pretty much the it. The big it for me. I wouldn’t have done what I did and made the choices that I made for anyone. You get me?”

A very still, very poignant silence settled between them. The intensity of her lover’s stare was overwhelming at times. Too much to handle or accept. As though she awed him. Too much and not enough. Never, ever enough. “I get you,” he murmured hoarsely. “An’ luv, I…if we’re in this, then you gotta understand I’m gonna cover your back like there’s no end.”

“Promises, promises.”

He flashed her a devious smirk but it melted away quick enough. The conversation was too staid to allow such digression. “I mean it. You might be the Slayer an’ what all but you’re going nowhere without a good fight from yours truly.”

“Considering your vocation, that’s pretty ironic.”

“’m not makin’ a vow to protect a slayer, you silly bint.” Spike ran a hand through her hair, and they were both surprised when he trembled. “I’m makin’ a vow to protect you. Your being the Slayer is jus’ a side note. I’m in…” Deep breath. Might as well say it. They both knew it, they both had heard it. It was time to get it out there for good, consequences be damned. “Buffy…I’m in love with who you are, not what you are. We jus’ likely wouldn’t have been acquainted if you weren’t in the field of demon-slaying.”

A long, tremulous beat. There it was. Spike loved her. He’d said it twice now. Twice. No room for error. Out in the open. Said again with intention.

“I know,” she replied. “I just…how do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That you…that you’re—”

“That I love you?” She still couldn’t say the words herself, thus merely opted with a safe nod. “’Cause I do. I’ve been around forever, an’ despite whatever your books tell you, I know how to love. An’ what I feel…God, don’ ask me how this happened. Part of me is still reeling. What I felt for Dru I thought no one could come between. You did. An’ maybe it was infatuation at first, but I’ve seen you, Buffy. I’ve seen you fight an’ try. I’ve seen you do things I can’t imagine. You sent your boy to Hell ‘cause you knew it was right. You fought against the person you loved an’ knew that there was no good way for it to end. You were determined an’…God, jus’ so…”

She didn’t realize she was crying until he caressed her cheek, thumb rolling lazy tears.

“I wasn’t prepared for you,” he continued softly. “You bloody well blew me away. You’re more than me, sweetheart. So much more than this pissant world you’ve been assigned to guard. You got stuff in you that people only hope to touch. An’ the fact that it’s good…the notion that it’s everything I’m s’posed to…’s crazy, luv. ‘S bug-shaggin’ insane. Wonkier than Dru ever was. But I see who you are an’ I can’t help myself. God save the man who can’t help but love you, Buffy, an’ damn the man who doesn’.”

The breath suspended between them drew to an agonizing halt. There had been no words of greater beauty spoken to her. She feared his pedestal—was suddenly terrified of the duty she had to uphold. The goodness. The wealth. Her mouth drew his home and she poured everything she could not say into the union of their lips. She kissed him thoroughly, praying that he could decipher her silent message. That he would understand her for all the wonderful vagueness she had to offer.

Everything she had shared with Angel notwithstanding; she had not known that it could be like this. And she feared that it was false. A phony representation of what he was and wanted. He said it was real, and she needed it to be. She needed it to be real so badly. She needed to trust that it was.

Spike sensed her plateau, of course, and resumed his ambition to draw her down. The night had already known too many revelations to impound her with more. Perhaps he had spoken out of context, but he had spoken. He had spoken words that would have eventually bubbled to the surface, and even with the moment passed, it still seemed ideal.

But he had to get her elsewhere. He had to get her focused on something that wasn’t so horribly serious.

“What about your other pal?” he murmured.

Buffy blinked dazedly. “What?”

“Your chum. How’ll he take to me? The poncy one that—”

“Xander?” she offered with a wry grin.

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Din’t take much to out the contestants, did it?”

She smirked. “Don’t read too much into it. Seeing as Xander’s the only other guy I hang around, it was more a process of elimination. And what’s it going to take to get you to remember his name?”

“It comes an’ goes,” Spike retorted airily. “I remembered it earlier tonight, thanks ever so.”

“Is that right?”

“As the proverbial rain. You would’ve been proud.”

Her grin spread. “I don’t doubt it.”

There was a short, albeit comfortable silence, a concept that did not lose her on irony. Never had Buffy known a comfortable silence with anyone, least of all Angel, just as she had never known sincere ease. In that regard, it wasn’t fair to continuously compare Spike to her former, but comparisons were inevitable.

“What’s going to happen next?” she heard herself ask.

He frowned. “Next?”

“Is this…is this going to be…” Buffy heaved a deep breath. “You really think the non-evil thing is something that you can do?”

To her relief, he didn’t assure her automatically. His brow furrowed and he fell silent, eyes drawn far away. He was considering the question for her sake, and she appreciated it more than words could express. After all, it was a grim concern that deserved true thought rather than a hasty promise.

“I would never do anything with the intention of hurting you,” he decided after a few minutes. “An’ that includes hurting others. But we’re not meant for absolutes, Buffy. It could happen. I won’ presume to fancy up what I am, an’ I’ll never pretend. I’ve told you as much.”

“You have,” she agreed.

“But I’ll do my best by you. If anything happens, I’ll go to you right away. Let you know what I did…or din’t do. You have my word.” Spike sighed heavily. “I don’ ever wanna hurt you, luv, but I know it doesn’ always work out like that. I’ll do my best to be someone that…I told you this earlier. I’ll do my best to be your someone. That’s all I can offer.”

“It’s enough.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard and cupped his cheek with her hand, drawing that endless ocean back home. “I trust you.”

A blink.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Buffy smiled. “I do. And I don’t trust easily, Spike.”

“I know.”

“It took me forever to trust Angel.” A sigh heaved off her chest. “And when I did, it took his soul away.”

“You din’t trust Angel?” Spike repeated, notably stunned. “You two had the sodding ‘star-crossed’ melodrama goin’ on for what felt like—”

“I loved him, don’t get me wrong. But it wasn’t enough. Love without trust wasn’t enough for me, and I don’t think it ever can be again.”

A thoughtful silence. “But you trust me.”

Buffy smiled again, a warm smile. “Yeah. I trust you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just do.” She shook her head and placed a hand on his chest. “I do. But I’m afraid.”

“Of what, baby?”

“Of you…of this.” She shuddered and he went along with her. “God, it’s all so…”

“Overwhelming?”

Buffy nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“You have no idea.”

It was. It had to be overbearingly crushing for him. Turning around an entire pace of life. Going against his value system. All for…what? What she had to offer?

He was sure, though. There was no doubt or hesitation behind his eyes, and she knew he wasn’t acting on impulse. No. Spike knew what he wanted. He had weighed the ins and outs. He had been granted the opportunity to wander and taste the sinful pleasures his demon craved, but he was denying it. He was denying himself so much.

He rejected his nature for her. That meant more than anything. And she wanted to tell him so.

The words, however, never touched the air. Other words beat her to it.

Odd. She hadn’t even felt him approach.

“Well,” Angel said, voice neutral and eyes equally distant. “I suppose we can call off the search party.”

Buffy froze awkwardly—her body compact between Spike and the mausoleum, her hands resting on his forearms. She felt her companion go rigid against her, his hold on her tightening by instinct rather than possessiveness. Had she wanted to wiggle free, she could have without struggle. He was not keeping her against her will, and his attentions weren’t exactly focused.

But she didn’t move for all the world.

To his credit, Angel didn’t bat an eye. His hands were buried in the pockets of his trench coat, his expression void of emotion. “Buffy,” he began shortly, “Giles and the others are looking for you. We were worried.”

Breathe. In and out. Calmly…God, how long has he been watching us?

A smaller voice interrupted at that. One to which she was still growing accustomed, but depended on with more than just an ounce of reliability.

Does it really matter?

Yes, it mattered. Despite choices made, despite everything else that had happened, Angel deserved her honesty in the very least. He deserved more than to be casually brushed aside. He deserved more than to watch them flaunt their newfound relationship in front of him. Spike would have no qualm in gloating, of course. She could nearly feel his revulsion for his grandsire stretching through his muscles and set in the tightness of his jaw. Yet he managed to keep his mouth closed. Managed by a hair. It was painfully obvious that he wanted to break into a mocking song and dance number. But he didn’t.

“Well,” she said softly when she remembered she had a voice. “I’m fine. As you can see.”

“So you are.” Impartiality vanished without suggestion. “But you can’t blame them for worrying, bearing in mind the company that you decided to keep tonight.” He was glaring at Spike. “Buffy, I think we need to talk.”

Spike’s hold on her tightened. It was the only thing that could have brought her back to him at that minute. Her heart thundered so hard even she could hear it, and her temples throbbed with soundless effect. Spike’s eyes softened when he noticed her distress and he stepped back, hands going to her wrists so he could caress the skin there in means of neutral comfort. “You’ll be all right?” he asked.

Buffy smiled her appreciation. “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’ have to—”

“You heard the lady,” Angel growled, prowling forward.

At that, Spike’s eyes flashed yellow and he snarled with equal fervor. “Back off, you overgrown boy scout. I was addressing the Slayer, not you. An’ in case you din’t notice, you’re not exactly walking in on me ripping her throat out.”

“Spike…”

“’ll leave when she—”

“Spike.” Buffy placed a hand on his cheek and directed his gaze back to hers, and his anger instantly dissolved. “Spike, Angel and I need to talk. Alone.”

It was infeasible, but somehow every word of that sentence struck a different barb in his chest. Even if he knew it was the truth.

Nevertheless, he would comply.

“Right,” he agreed with a huff. Then his voice dropped. “Sunnydale Inn. Room nine. If you need…’f you…I’ll be there if you need me.”

“Room nine,” she repeated.

“I love you.”

She smiled, and his world lit up on command. “I know.”

He found it within himself to return her cordiality, pulling away and finally releasing her completely. “See you ‘round, Slayer,” he said. “An’ good luck.” He began to walk off, stopped, and turned back. “One more thing.”

Spike would have bet money that Buffy didn’t know what hit her until it was over. His hand shot out with rapidity even a Slayer could not anticipate and grasped her wrist, tugging her into his embrace as his mouth sought hers. In all likelihood, their kiss only last seconds, but it was enough. Enough to recount everything shared, everything the future promised, everything he felt. Funny how the simplest thing meant more connection than practically any other art. He tasted her, savaged her, loved her, and pulled back when he knew he was at heightened risk for decapitation if the scorned lover took another step forward. A flush of pride over washed him at the vision she portrayed. Reddened cheeks, glassy eyes, swollen lips, and breathlessness that tempted him to give Angel a real show.

Boundaries had already been overstepped. He knew better than that.

“Don’ forget, Buffy,” he murmured.

The Slayer’s eyes widened as she fought to return to herself. “Spike…you better go before someone gets seriously hurt.”

He didn’t know if she meant him or her aching honey. He didn’t know if he applied for both positions or not. Judging by the pain in Angel’s eyes, he reckoned she was referring to the other vampire.

“It’ll be okay,” she told him, and he couldn’t tell if she was angry with him or not. There was nothing to suggest either. “But it needs to be done.” Before he knew what had happened, Buffy’s grip about his wrist remembered itself and pulled him forward with more authority than he could muster. She did not ravage his lips as he forbiddingly hoped, but rather nuzzled his skin with growing familiarity and tickled his ear with the warmth of her breath. “Please trust me.”

Trust. The same that she had given him.

“Please.”

“Right.” One syllable that could not begin to measure the amount of faith born on its back. The same that whispered, Please don’t make me bleed. He had bled too much on promises of conviction. But there was something in her eyes that told him not to worry. That all would be well somehow.

“Don’t forget.”

Buffy turned back to him once more, and he saw what he needed. It was there. Burning. Etching. Whatever could convince him to leave her be in the cemetery. Alone with the man that had so long been the only glimmer in her eye. And himself—alone with the promise of what he was to her, and how she thought him as unforgettable. Intention he reckoned she didn’t recognize herself. Intention that meant more to him than anything that had happened thus in his favor. She had taken his hand earlier and meant it. Now she was initiating the first step toward tomorrow. And she wouldn’t disappoint.

Buffy’s eyes leveled with his; he knew no other truth. “I could never forget.”

She had believed him. She had placed all her eggs in one basket, and she trusted him not to let her shatter.

He had to return the favor.

And walk away.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Nineteen” ]

Part Nineteen: Bittersweet Symphony

Chapter Notes: I typically try to stray away from the more archetypal opinions of various Buffy characters, (Riley, for instance) when it comes to fic-writing.  (Riley’s a great big git, but that’s beside the point).  While I completely abhor the B/A ‘ship, I do like Angel as a character and try to be faithful to him in everything I write that he plays a part in.  However, given the situation in this story with Angel has the wronged party, I just went with my instincts.  (My instincts told me to write Angel the way he was portrayed in AtS Season 2…or a likeness thereof…thus dancing around his ‘I’m an arrogant jackass with a dark side, hear me roar’ stage.  He is a vamp of many faces).Oh, I also stole a line from As Good As It Gets …’cause that movie rocks.

---

There were times Spike annoyed himself with his own impatience. This certainly qualified. All the distraction in the world couldn’t draw his mind away from the night’s events, or the twist at the end that had separated him from Buffy’s side before he was ready. She had said nothing to make him worry, but he could not rest when he knew he had left her with her first love. The man whose death had wedged a rift between her and her friends, and whose return had nearly torn them all apart.

Spike’s relationship with Buffy was too fresh to fuck with, and Angel would do his best to rip apart their union. He would tear her to pieces and offer to patch her up. That was what he did—gleefully ripped the hearts of others but gave the wounded puppy routine if anyone decided to return the favor.

Of course, were Buffy here, she would remind him it wasn’t Angel who made her life miserable. It wasn’t Angel who drove Drusilla away. None of it was Angel. Angel remained eternally blameless. It was Angelus. His darker side. His demon side.

If only she knew how truly Angel mirrored Angelus, it would tear her apart.

He was going mad.

Not that Spike had a say or anything. Too much had happened already—far more than he could have dreamed. They already had come so far.

There was nothing on the telly and he was running out of bagged blood. Bagged blood. Christ, what was she doing to him?

His own promise haunted his ears. And he knew exactly what he was.

He was in love with the Slayer.

He was in love with the Slayer, and he missed her. Now. Now more than ever. They had been apart less than an hour and he mourned her absence as though years had passed. Was he so completely unraveled by what had happened?

The answer wasn’t ambiguous.

He was worried. He was terrified. Twice in recent memory, he had come within a hair’s taste of perfection, and twice it had been ripped away, and it had broken him. He hated that Angel had that much power over her. He hated his own misgivings. He hated the knowledge all could be snatched from under him without so much as a blink. It had happened before. No matter the circumstances, despite the consequences, it was always Angel they chose. Angel to whom they ran. Angel they really wanted.

But Buffy had chosen Spike. Buffy had chosen him over Angel. Buffy had taken his hand and led him outside. When she broke down in the cemetery, it was not Angel for whom she wept. When she kissed him, it was not Angel she imagined. When he pleasured her, it was not Angel for whom she cried. When her mouth enveloped him, it was not Angel she tasted. When all was said and done, it was not Angel she trusted.

But Angel had been there first.

This was so fucking maddening.

There was nothing he could do tonight, not when he’d already set the rules. He wanted to mark Buffy all over, but knew his earlier estimation had been right, even and especially with the new developments. If what he and Buffy shared was real, she would feel the same way tomorrow. She would come to him tomorrow. She would be tomorrow exactly who she was today.

She wouldn’t forget. She had promised. She had promised him to never forget.

And she would be hurt if he didn’t trust her.

Pacing around the hotel room wasn’t doing anyone any good. Spike sighed hard and jerked a hand through his hair. Nothing on the telly, nothing to do but wait. Better head to Willy’s. Or that pub from the night before. He reckoned he had charged a walloping load to the Watcher’s credit, but still couldn’t find reason enough to care.

Spike shook his head heavily and marched toward the door. There was no problem a trip to Willy’s couldn’t fix.

Except a notably brassed Angel waiting outside his hotel room.

He hadn’t truly seen the man since beating him senseless with a crowbar last spring. Sure, he had caught glimpses here or there—had broken into the Magic Box and stolen rats eyes along with a few other goodies. Had been nearly pummeled to a pulp by the ponce the morning after Buffy’s birthday. Had watched his non-soul-losing show with Faith and all the wackiness that had ensued. Had seen the devastated look on the git’s face when Buffy grasped Spike’s hand.

But there had been no quality time with Angel alone. Not last year’s Ode to Angelus. And he reckoned that such was a situation that the elder vampire meant to rectify.

In all fairness, Spike had more than enough time to prepare a good defense. While Angel wasted no time with pleasantries, there wasn’t a person alive or undead that could mistake his intentions. There wasn’t any pretense; the elder stomped inward, hand closing around Spike’s throat and shoving him unceremoniously against the wall. Eyes and fangs descended, and Angel’s grip tightening rigidly with a horrible roar. He would have crushed a lesser man.

“I don’t know what you did to her, Spike,” he snarled, “or what you’re planning to do. But know that I’m going to—”

Spike’s eyes widened. It didn’t take him long to recuperate. True, he had anticipated this visit—he just hadn’t figured it would be so soon. Though of late, he could say that about a lot of things. “What? Gonna what? Watch her enjoy herself for a bleeding change? Honestly, if you can’t tell when your own girl’s unhappy, you don’ sodding deserve her.”

A flash of yellow. “Like you do?”

“Maybe.”

Angel rolled his eyes, grip tightening. “Please, Spike.”

“I was there for her, wasn’t I? When you couldn’t be? When you were off planning the end of the world an’ shagging Dru to your merry delight, I was there for her.” The bones in the younger vampire’s face shifted, demon raging forward. He tore free with a roar, landing a punch from last Tuesday that sent Angel crashing into the television set, which promptly shattered.

Sparks flew and wires fried. Spike winced and released a weary sigh. Good move, mate. “Fantastic. There goes my entertainment for the night. Somethin’ tells me the bloke at the front’s not gonna be happy.”

Angel pushed himself up with a face of disgust, brushing away bits of broken glass. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” he growled. “But rest assured, once I find out, you’re going to find yourself blowing away in the wind, one particle at a time.”

“You know, you were much better at making threats when you were soulless.”

“I’m not kidding, Spike. You hurt her, you’ll wake up on fire.”

“Now, why in God’s name would I hurt the girl when there are much more…pleasurable pursuits?”

Okay, not the smartest thing in the world to say, but bugger it. Who did this sod think he was, charging in here in his less-than-white armor to defend the Slayer, of all people? The Slayer didn’t need defense—certainly not from him. Not that he and Angel saw eye-to-eye on the matter. In a blink, Spike found himself on the floor with an enraged Angel pummeling him into next week, but it didn’t last long. His own strength came surging back and before either could fully react, the elder vampire had made an indention in the far wall.

The crash was followed by irate pounding from the neighboring room. “Would you knock it off? There are people trying to sleep here!”

Neither vampire replied. Eyes never wavering, they rose to their feet simultaneously, drawn to an irrevocable standstill. Watching each other. Daring each other. Waiting for the other to speak.

“This is about what I told you, isn’t it?” Angel finally spat.

Spike blinked. “What?”

“To kill the girl, you have to love her. Is that what you think you’re doing?”

Of all the egocentric…

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” the younger vampire spat. “Or how many times do I gotta spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Want. To. Kill. Her. An’ if I did, I certainly wouldn’t go about it your way, you ninny. Think I’d take a slayer down without a proper fight? You’re off your rocker.”

“So I’m supposed to believe that you really…” He broke off, eyes darting to a corner. “She says that you’re in love with her.”

“She’s a clever bird. Try listening to her.”

“I’m not buying that.”

“Surprise, surprise. Ask me if I care.”

“She also says you promised to change…” Angel stepped forward. “To give up what you love best. I think…she doesn’t know you that well. She’s only had a glance of what you are. What you’ve done. What you can do. And that’s why she believes you.”

“So, what? We’re gonna to rassle it out?” Spike spread his arms. “You’re forgetting, mate, that I know you pretty bloody well, too. You think the Slayer’d be interested in how closely akin you an’ your personable half really are?”

There was a menacing growl. “I am nothing like Angelus.”

And a scoff to answer it. “Oh, cry me a sodding river. You’ve never been anyone but Angelus, you overgrown ponce, but at least he had personality an’ din’t try to hide the fact that he was a universal prick. It’s the same sob story with the both of you. Losing your marbles over some hot li’l blonde. One had a hankering for carnage, the other protects the world. You were a pup with Darla an’ you were a pup with Buffy. Bent over backwards to give ‘em everything they wanted.”

“You’re talking to me about bending over backwards?” Angel replied skeptically. “Are we forgetting Drusilla?”

Spike waved dismissively. “Remember me? Love’s bitch? Man enough to admit it? Still do. You think I asked for this gig? You think I wanted to fall head over for a Slayer? God, it ripped my innards out an’ stuffed them back in. It’s more than wrong, an’ I know it. I bloody well know it. There’s a part of me that’s always gonna be asking what the bleeding fuck I got myself in to. But it doesn’ change anything, mate. I love the girl. I love her more than you an’ me are worth. Only knew it tonight but I’ve felt it forever. Since before I knew where to look when it came to her. That’s why I came back at all, you stupid sod.”

“Funny,” Angel replied, stepping forward. “Seems as I recall, you came back whining and moaning about Dru, and how she had dumped you for…what was it? A Chaos Demon?”

“She left me because of Buffy. Because she knew how I felt.” Spike shook his head in awe. “She knew how I felt before I did. Before, even, that pleasurable li’l night caught in the house those Watcher wankers set up for her to die in.” He stopped with a sigh and moved to the bed, taking a seat. “If it’s any consolation, I din’t come here originally to shag her an’ make your life miserable…though, I gotta admit, that was a bloody fantastic perk. An’ it’s not like she fell into my lap. I fought for her. I’ll fight for her until I’m dust.”

“You’re in over your head,” Angel decided softly, anger receding. “Far more than I originally thought. You think this is going to be easy? That you can fight for her? She’s mortal. You’re not. She’s a hero. You’re not. She—”

“Sounds like someone’s had time to think up this tune up before he started singing it,” Spike observed, brows perking. “You weren’t having second thoughts about the girl you went so wonky over jus’ last year, were you? Find another tarty blonde to chase around by the tail?”

Angel’s eyes darkened. “Buffy is not like Darla,” he snarled. “In more than the obvious ways. With Darla, I knew it was forever. Or it was for me at the time. It was forever to me because she was forever. She was a vampire, so was I. She liked the chaos, so did I. She was of my mold. Buffy is light in itself. You can’t expect to touch that for too long without crumpling to dust. She is everything your nature is against.” He offered a resigned sigh and took a seat. “Everything our nature is against.”

A few ticks of silence settled between them. Spike threw a glance over his shoulder. “’S that defeat I hear?”

“She’s young. She’s only eighteen, and at times, that really shows.” He sighed again. “And at other times, she…”

“Blows your bloody mind away.”

“Right.”

Things fell quiet again. Then Angel asked, “You really think you’re in love with her?”

“No think about it.”

“How can you know?”

“Because it’s stronger than whatever I had with Dru.” Spike’s eyes distanced. “When I’m with her, there’s no one else…anywhere. She looks at me an’ I know I’m about to burn from the inside. Her touch…her scent…surrounding…all around…” His breath trembled when it hissed through his teeth. Never had he imagined sitting in his hotel room with Angel and having this conversation. Just went to prove how nothing came of planning things out anymore. However, for the minute, there was nothing to suggest hostility. That could change at any given moment, but for now it was safer to simply go with it. “She’s so pure.”

“And you want to spoil her.”

“Bloody no!” Spike grumbled and jerked to his feet. “It’s her purity I love, you stupid git! I can’t get enough of it. She makes me wanna…makes me wanna…”

“You might wanna be careful on how you finish that sentence.”

“She makes me wanna be a better man.”

“You’re not a man at all.”

“An’ you are?”

“I’m closer than you.” Angel clamored to his feet. “I have a soul. You don’t. I know the difference between right and wrong. You don’t. I can be a—”

“An’ here we are again.” Spike rolled his eyes. “You wanna know how you’re like Angelus? You’re bloody well screamin’ it from the rooftops. So fucking full of yourself. An’ for the record, I do know the difference between right an’ wrong. It was jus’ recently that I decided to give a fuck.”

“So you care now.”

“I care because she cares.”

“And what happens when you stop caring about her?”

“I won’ do that, Angelus. I’m not you. What’s she gonna do? Shag a bloody soul into me?” Spike scoffed and shook his head. “Right now I’m as bad as I’m hankerin’ to get. I was faithful to Dru for longer than any sodding married you’ve come across, demon or otherwise. I was ready to spend eternity with her.”

Angel quirked his head. “But you fell in love with the Slayer.”

“Din’t leave Dru, though. Wouldn’t have. Din’t know I was in love with the Slayer until after she’d left me.”

“What happens if Buffy leaves you?”

“I piss myself into a blubbering fool, make half a dozen follied attempts to get her back, an’ end my torment by kissing sunlight.” The thought alone made Spike’s insides freeze, but he remembered what she’d told him and it gave him peace. Buffy had chosen Spike, which meant he was the one she wanted. “An’ I won’ delude myself into believin’ it’s not possible. But she trusts me, an’ I don’ aim to take that lightly.”

“She trusts you?”

“Yeah.” Spike replied slowly. “Trusts me not to hurt her…not intentionally. I gave her my word, an’ if you knew me half as well as you claim, you’d know my word’s not somethin’ I take lightly.”

Something twisted and dark fell over Angel’s face. “You really think you can do this? Love her? Be good for her? You don’t know what love is, Spike. You don’t have the networking for it.”

Instantly, the younger vampire’s insides wrenched in protest. “What the bloody hell do you call Dru?!” he shouted, eyes blazing yellow. “What I had with her was—”

“Not real. It was infatuation. Like what I had with Darla. It was—”

“Oh, so if it’s true for you, it has to be true for the rest of us.” Spike caved and started pacing. It was inevitable. The floor simply looked too calm to sit there unwalked. “Again with you an’ your ego. What do you know, you lousy sod? How do you know that it wasn’t true with Darla? Or does the fact that it might’ve been the real thing scare the piss outta you, ‘cause that means that there’s a bit more monster in you than you wagered?” He glowered. “Or does it jus’ eat you away that I can be what you’re not? Somethin’good for her?”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Good for her? She’s the Slayer!”

“Din’t stop you, did it?”

“I’m—”

“—different. Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

“If you keep this up, it’s going to end up hurting her,” the elder warned. “And I will kill you if you hurt her.”

“’m not gonna hurt her. ‘F I did, I wouldn’t be around for you to kill me.” He paused. “An’ how exactly do you define ‘hurt,’Angelus? Like you hurt her? Telling her that rot that she wasn’t worth a second—”

The dry smack of flesh hitting flesh was not a foreign sensation, but it did manage to take Spike by surprise. He found himself braced against the dresser, panting useless gobs of oxygen.

“That. Was. Not. Me.”

Spike didn’t bother to glance up. “Looked like you. Talked like you.” He shook his head. “An’ lemme tell you…Buffy an’ me? We had a helluva time proving you wrong about her. Second, third, fourth…I lost count, she felt so good.” He twisted his lips in a particularly vile smirk, ducking another flying fist, which allowed him an opening to pop Angel good in the nose. “You’ve gotten to thinking you’re so preciously high an’ mighty. You’ve forgotten your place, mate. I’m no worse for her than you were, only she’s guaranteed that ‘m not gonna rip her throat out at night.”

“She—”

“You think I’d let a Slayer this close to me if I wasn’t serious? I love her. I love the girl. I’d no sooner hurt her than I would’ve Dru.”

“You did hurt Dru, though. Toward the end.”

“Oh, gettin’ petty are we? Jus’ so happens I hurt Dru because I was helping Buffy take your pitiful arse down.” Spike shrugged easily. “An’ as far as anything else goes, I don’ really see what any of this has to do with you. If she’s spoken her piece to you about how…” He trailed off. “What’d she say that got you so riled up, mate? Couldn’t be jus’ that I love her. I wagered you’d break down my door either way, but your knickers are in even more of a twist than I’d figured.”

Angel glanced away self-consciously. “Like I’d give you the satisfaction.”

“Oh, ‘ve had my satisfaction.” Spike grinned. “An’ I look to get more where it came from.”

“I ought to rip your head off.”

“An’ I oughta yours, from the way you treated the girl.” He took a bold step forward. “You know why she trusts me? Because yougave her reason.”

There was nothing to say to that. Regardless of intent or motivation, it was the truth.

And with that, Spike’s thoughts returned to Buffy entirely. He had to see her soon. The sooner the better. He had to know how she felt in the aftermath. And before he could stop himself, he heard his voice tickling the air again. “How is she?”

Angel fidgeted. “She’s…I didn’t really pay attention…”

“Good going, mate.”

“She’s not happy, that’s for sure. I…” The git at least had the decency to look guilty. “I said some things that weren’t altogether nice.”

Spike’s eyes darkened. “Did you hurt her?”

“What? Of course not! I—”

“There’s more than one way to hurt a girl, mate, an’ we both know it.” He prowled forward darkly. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

A very Buffy voice invaded his thoughts. Redundant, much? Hadn’t Angel just promised the same thing?

Sod it. He didn’t care.

Angel arched a brow and chuckled. “Is that right?”

Spike, however, had lost his humor. He shoved the elder vampire against the door, not batting an eye at their rather telling height difference. If they wanted a genuine fight, it was Angel on whom many would place bets. In all the years they had competed, Spike had not bested his Yoda.

Not in any category save one.

Someday, he was going to break all the records.

“You think this is a game?” Spike demanded hotly. “What did you tell her?”

“What you are.”

“She knows what I am.”

“Not like I do.”

“You arrogant wanker.”

“Her friends, her Watcher, her calling…everything she stands for is against you. If she actually goes through with this, she’s betraying her nature. Betraying every noble thing she’s ever done…for a creature that can’t appreciate her. What she is. What she’s sacrificed. What she goes through every day.”

Spike fisted Angel by the hair and smashed his head against the door again. “You think I don’ appreciate it?” he demanded. “You don’ think the concept bloody well boggles my mind? She’s so much more than me.”

“No need to tell me twice. And the word I used is can’t.”

“An’ you told her this?”

“Of course.” Angel shoved him back and prodded forward again. “I love her, Spike. I love her very much. So much that I know when it’s time to let go. I know she can never be mine, because I’m not meant to have her. But hell if I’m going to sit back and watch her bend over backwards for a creature like you. Watch her destroy everything she’s supposed to represent. Every good thing in her life because you decided to take a walk on the wild side.”

“What she’s supposed to represent? Is that all she is to you? A bloody icon? Do you even know her at all?”

“I know her,” Angel replied, voice low and angry. “Far better than you ever will. She’s something beyond you. Beyond your comprehension. Beyond your will to grasp anything outside your selfishness. You don’t deserve her.” He stopped glaringly. “You’re beneath her.”

Everything froze. Everything. Time. The ground. The whole bloody world. His bones rattled with rage. Black, toxic hatred flooded his veins. That was it. The last straw. The final strain of his patience had snapped. Spike’s skin tingled and his chest ached. The demon wanted loose. Wanted free. Wanted to show this jackass the sort of stuff of which he was truly made. Stake his claim on the girl here and now and have the whole matter behind them. If Angel didn’t make tracks soon, one of them was going to die.

And it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Get. Out.”

Amazingly, Angel wasn’t so daft he didn’t realize that an invisible line had been crossed. He nodded and started for the door. “Right. I’ve said what I came to say. But remember, if you—”

“If you tell me one more time to stay away from her, you’re not gonna be around long enough to tell the tale.”

Angel’s brows perked. “Big words. Think you could?”

“Fancy findin’ out? I’m ready to rip out your insides an’ shove them down your throat. Get out.”

A nod, almost cordial. As though they were old friends. His words, though, weren’t as kind. “You touch her,” Angel said, opening the door, “a part of you is coming off.”

“You won’ get close enough to me to try.”

“We’ll see.”

And that was it. Angel was gone. Damage done and all.

He had the nerve to think he differed from Angelus.

“Stupid sod always has to have the last bloody word,” Spike mumbled, combing a hand through his hair. Then he turned and glared at the blank doorway. “Wanker!”

That didn’t make him feel any better. Growling, he turned back to the empty hotel room, glancing it over as though he had never seen it before. The vacuity of the walls. The broken television that had somehow skidded down the dresser and nearly collapsed completely to the worn, green carpet. The bed with a rumpled comforter. It had looked halfway decent once. Then Angel came and ruined everything. The fucking prick.

Beneath her.

He was going to break something, and he didn’t know for whom. Buffy or himself.

He wanted to go to her. Forget what he’d said or what they decided—he needed her now. Needed to see her. Needed to make sure she was all right. Needed to eradicate the fear that Soulboy’s lecture had managed to change her mind. He needed to know she didn’t think as Angel thought—that she didn’t think he was beneath her. People couldn’t help whom they loved, and he was a shining example. No one had asked him permission or bothered to take his feelings into consideration. But he loved Buffy. Spike loved Buffy and that wasn’t going to change. Despite Angel, despite his heritage, despite Sunnydale, despite the sodding Slayerhood and all of the above.

He had chosen.

So had she.

And bugger Angel. The sod had no right how to tell her to live.

Spike wanted to go to her. He needed to go to her. He needed to comfort her. He needed her to comfort him. He wanted them to comfort each other.

But they couldn’t, and he knew it. Not tonight. If he showed up now it would make things worse. Too much had occurred in too little time, and being cornered was the last thing she needed. He wouldn’t bully her; she’d had enough of that for one night. She had had enough of several things for several nights.

And yet she was hurting. He could feel it. She was hurting and she needed him.

No, he corrected himself. She doesn’t need anyone. Least of all me. Not tonight.

Buffy would have to come to him. She knew where she was and that he wasn’t leaving. She would come to him when she was ready. When she knew the decision she made was the one she truly wanted. When she settled her inner war. It might take time; rightly would, and there was too much on her plate as it was. They had agreed on tomorrow. Tomorrow.

He would wait.

[/nextpage]

[nextpage title=”Part Twenty” ]

Part Twenty: Good Vibrations

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. Don’t make me repeat myself. I hate that.”

“No need. I heard you enough the first time.”

“Good.”

“I can’t believe you would be so naïve.”

“Funny coming from you, wouldn’t you say? I loved you first, after all.”

“This is what you’re telling me? You love him?”

A pause. “I…I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe. It’s too soon…and there’s…but I know that I care for him. I care for him a lot. I’m definitely on a one-way road to Love-Ville. I do know that. He’s been there…he’s done stuff that blows my mind away. He came after me when I gave him no reason to.”

“And that makes every wrong thing he’s ever done okay?”

“I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“This isn’t about you, Angel. Why do you think I’ve kept to myself these past few weeks? It’s torn me apart. What I did. The reasons I did it. Why I didn’t regret it. What I felt for you was supposed to be invincible. It was supposed to be forever.” The silence that settled between words was deafening. She spoke again before it grew too deep. “It wasn’t. What happened last year changed things. I just didn’t know how much until Spike came back into my life.”

The air of resignation gave old scars new cuts. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react. She was beyond that. “This isn’t about me. I get that. We were inevitably going to have to face some pretty hard choices. I’ve…I’ve been thinking about that for a while. You’re the Slayer. I’m a vampire. And it kills me, but there is no future there. I’ve had to carry that burden longer than I care to consider.” He sighed, shoulders falling. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let go to have you run to someone who has even less to offer you than I do.”

Okay. Now anger. “Okay. Lemme get this straight. I sent Spike away so that I could give you the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech. You counter with your own version of ‘It’s not because I don’t love you, it’s because I’m a vampire.’ And then you tell me that you’re letting go but still want to have a say of who I have in my life? Let’s get one thing straight, Angel. It’s just not like that for us anymore, and if we’re really honest, it’s not like that for you, either. Things have been of the not since you got back from…”

“Hell?” he offered softly.

“Right. And if it wasn’t Spike, it would’ve been someone else.” She stopped. “But it is Spike. For reasons beyond me, he’s…he’s who I want to be with.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Yeah, well, a part of me can’t believe I’m saying this. That doesn’t make it any less said.”

“You don’t know him. You never will. You can’t possibly know what you’re getting yourself into.” A dramatic headshake. “You think any of this is real?”

“I know it’s real. What he feels…I feel it from him more than I ever felt it from you. When he…when we’re together, we’re together. No vampires, no slayers. It’s just us.”

“That’s what he wants you to believe.”

“God, would you listen to yourself? I think I can tell when I’m being had. You don’t think I questioned myself every step of the way? You don’t think that I’ve wondered…I’m the Slayer, Angel.”

“No, you’re a child. You think Spike gives a damn about the likeness of a fair fight? He’s a demon, Buffy.”

She paused meaningfully. “You’re lecturing me? Hello! I’ve dealt with this crap for years! All I’ve seen is the bad. You were the cause of a lot of that. You were the reason I cried myself to sleep every night last year. You were the reason I pushed myself away. You were the reason I let my friends, my mother, and Giles down. Don’t ever coach me on the principles of good versus wrong.”

“So you think the way to rectify it is to sleep with the enemy? You think that Spike is the answer?”

“He loves me.”

“And that makes everything all right?”

“I never said that.” She stopped thoughtfully. “He loves me, Angel. And he’d never hurt me. He’s had chance after chance and he—”

“How very reassuring. At least you’re keeping tabs.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me!”

“Because hurting Slayers is something Spike’s never done.”

“And yet between the two of you, look who’s done the most damage.” She held up a hand. “And I’m not talking about your magical mystery tour into the land of soulessness. You hurt me so much without having to have Angelus to blame it on.” Another pause. “And for the record, I don’t think you know him half as well as you think you do.”

“Of course not,” he sputtered indignantly. “You wouldn’t.”

“If you’d seen him—”

“I saw enough. Enough to eradicate whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish, and I’d feel no differently if you had…Buffy, he’s a killer. A ruthless, soulless killer. He doesn’t care about what he’s done or what he will do. And he can’t stop himself. You don’t know that kind of darkness.”

“Oh, but because you’re a vampire, you automatically know how all vampires think and feel. Honestly, Angel…”

“I know a lot more than you do if we’re going from that angle.” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re embracing darkness itself. You’re giving yourself over to something that will never appreciate what you are and what you do.”

She froze. “What about who I am? Doesn’t that matter anymore?”

“If who you are is someone who can love something evil, I don’t care to know you. You’re different than this. You’re above it. And you’re betraying everything—your calling, your friends, your Watcher, yourself—by dismissing what—”

Silent tears skated down her cheeks, but he didn’t comment. And she made no attempt to wipe them away. “How can you say that?”

“Apparently, just as easily as you can do it.”

Buffy Summers sat in the dark of her room.

There were many things she hated about Angel—things she had known for a while, things she was picking up as she went along. She hated the way he looked at her with otherworldly knowledge; a walking encyclopedia and a constant source of the ‘how-to’ guide everyone should consult. She hated the way he spoke to her as though she was a child. She hated the way he saw Giles’s side of a disagreement more than hers. She hated his ego-trips. She hated the way he never wanted anyone to forget he was the way he was by choice. He was always tortured. Always carrying the burden of a thousand crosses for the path of redemption that remained incomplete. And she was the one temptation keeping him from salvation.

She hated it more when she felt he had a point.

None of these were questions were revelations. The past few weeks had been a testament of self-reflection. Wondering how whatever had transpired between her and Spike had been allowed to grow at all. Why neither of them had been able to walk away. If certain things hadn’t happened, she knew she would feel differently. But things had happened, and Spike had come for her.

Spike had saved her when no one else would. Spike had loved her with no want for himself. And Spike was nothing like Angel.

That was one of the things she currently liked best about him. His positive attributes were currently stuck on repeat. Right now, his non-Angelness was his strongest forte. She expected the next would be the way he shared his humor when he was amused and understood what she meant when she went on her most obscure tangents.

It was wrong. She knew that. It was wrong. Whatever she felt for Spike was wrong. And as Angel so delighted in observing, it would tear Giles apart if it hadn’t already. It betrayed everything she was. Everything the Slayer was supposed to represent. Spike was evil. Despite what he did, how he tried, he would always be evil.

So what did that make her? The lover of an evil thing.

Buffy was tired of mind games. She was tired of battling with herself and losing over and over again.

She didn’t realize she had started crying again until tears splashed across her hands. It wasn’t fair for a person to hurt this much. To have known such blissful release and have it stolen within a half hour.

And yet, somehow, somewhere, she knew it didn’t matter.

Not what Angel thought. Not really.

Not what anyone thought.

And somehow, that made everything worse. Worse and better at the same time. Life was funny like that.

She was hurting too much. And she couldn’t be here anymore. The rules had changed. At every turn, an amendment was made. She was half making them up as she went along. Breaking a little more and piecing herself back together in an image that only pretended to represent what she was before. Spike was her choice. He had been since the first. Since the night they found themselves trapped together. He had been her choice that night.

He had been her choice every night thereafter.

Tonight was the first night that she had the courage to accept it.

Everything had changed. And distance, despite how smart it sounded on paper, was the last thing she wanted tonight. She needed reassurance. The mobility that allowed her to believe that tomorrow didn’t matter. She needed to get back to where they had been tonight, and she couldn’t wait another day. Alone was something she couldn’t tolerate. Not tonight. Not when she needed connection so desperately. The same she had nearly thrown everything away to grasp.

He would understand. He loved her.

And that was all that mattered.

*~*~*

The minute that he opened the door, she knew she had done the right thing. But she didn’t have the opportunity to say so; before she could even issue a weak hello, she was ushered inside by a pair of very relieved arms which swept her into welcoming arms, holding her against his chest as his lips immediately began exploring her skin. Kissing her like he hadn’t seen her in years. Like the time apart had all but killed him, and she was the only antidote.

It came slowly. A trembling, whispered hush. “Are you all right?”

“What?”

Spike pulled back, hand going to her face. She realized she hadn’t stopped crying since leaving her bedroom. There had been no sobbing. No angered screams for a plight unheard. Just tears. A steady stream that would remain unclaimed.

The safer route was to ignore his question completely, especially since she didn’t have an answer. “I’m sorry.”

He tensed. “Why?”

“For not waiting, like we decided. I just couldn’t…not after…”

A long sigh of relief rushed through his lips. “Don’ be silly.”

“But—”

“Are you all right?”

A question asked twice could not go ignored.

“He…what he said…”

“I know.”

“How?”

Spike pulled back so he could see her eyes. Similarly, it was only then the details of the room came into view. The smashed television. The rumbled comforter. The rather large indention in the wall.

“He came here?”

“Left not ten minutes ago.”

Buffy nodded, vision blurring again. God, she hated crying. “I needed to see you,” she whispered.

“Bloody well had to staple myself to the floor to keep from finding you. Din’t know if seeing me was what you needed or not.” Spike sighed. “I wagered it was better to let you come to me.”

She was still trembling, but it all seemed better now that she could rest her head against his shoulder. “Thank you.” Buffy exhaled deeply, rubbing her face against his tee. “He told me it wasn’t real.”

Spike was still for a minute. Then, slowly, he lowered his head to her throat and began whispering kisses across her skin. “Does it feel real?”

“Yes.”

“’S real for me, Buffy. Always will be.” He pulled back and brushed a soft kiss across her forehead. “Is it real for you?”

“Yes.” Buffy licked her lips, her head rolling back. “He said I don’t know you.”

“Bollocks. You know me better than I know myself.”

“He said you don’t love me.”

Spike’s embrace tightened. “He’s wrong.”

“I know.”

“Do you regret anything?”

Buffy could tell even he was surprised at the ease which came with that question, but not as surprised as she at the ease of her answer. “No,” she replied. “Nothing. He…he told me everything I thought he would.” Buffy shivered and buried her face in his shoulder again. “And it just made me want you more. Is that wrong? Am I…?”

“No. Absolutely not. There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want.”

She quirked a brow but didn’t pull away. “Are you just saying that because it works in your favor?”

“’Course not. I’m impartial.”

“Right.”

Spike grinned and rested his head against hers. “You know this is it, right? For me?”

“I know.”

“An’ for you…?”

“It’s it for me too, Spike. I…” A sigh. “It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting you and this. I’m tired of trying to decide what’s right and wrong. I’m tired of people telling me they know me better than I know me, and therefore know what’s in my best interest. And I’m sure as hell tired of being told there’s something wrong with me.”

His eyes darkened. “Did he tell you that?”

“Everyone’s been telling me that, and not just about you. God, I just…I can’t do this. I can’t pretend to not want what I want and not get what I need and…I can’t pretend to not want this, and fuck if I don’t care what that makes me.”

“You are who you are. I can’t make you anything.”

“I know that.”

“Do you really?” Spike pulled back and met her eyes again. “This isn’t about you touching darkness, luv. I’d know it if it were.” He smiled and spread his arms. “’m the one’s that’s been corrupted.”

She blinked. “Corrupted?”

“Your…you, Buffy. God, I can feel it jus’ bursting off you.”

“What? What’s bursting off me?”

“Everything I’m not supposed to want. Everything that ever made me at all. That’s you all over. I’m the one who’s reaching…” Spike sighed. “An’ he can’t stand that. That your light touches me when it couldn’t him. Not when he was all muckin’ darkly dressed up with no place to go.”

Realization was a scary thing. Understanding was more so.

“You think that’s what this is about?”

“Not completely, but a big part of it.” Another brief pause. “This isn’t gonna be easy, pet.”

“I never thought it would be.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, you understand me?”

Buffy nodded; her tears had stopped. Her arms curled around him and their gazes matched. Power for power. “I know,” she replied softly. “I wouldn’t let you, anyway.”

He nuzzled her delicately. She figured he was in the same state that she was. It felt much more than an hour had passed. Funny how time bent in accordance with emotional revelations. “’S that a fact?”

She scowled. “If you even think of going anywhere again, I’m going to cut something off.”

“Oi. Easy on the goods. A bloke can’t take that too lightly.”

“They’re only good here, as far as I’m concerned.”

He chuckled and swooped to kiss her again. “So you’re holding me hostage at the risk of my manly parts?”

Buffy nodded, her hand dropping to his stomach and she tracing mindless patterns across his clothed flesh, inching up the black fabric little by little. Her head fell back to his shoulder, fingers easing from his abdomen and whispering up his arms, nails barely touching his skin. Barely breathing her influence across him. A trembling whisper at his throat, then her tongue was exploring him in soft, unhurried caresses.

Spike’s gasp twisted between hesitation and pleasure. “Buffy…” he whimpered. “What…what are you…?”

“I want you.”

He moaned in protest. “Want you, too. But…sweetheart…” He managed to pull back, finding her hazy, pouting eyes. No more tears. “I don’t want to make things…I don’ want you to do this to…to prove somethin’ to me. It’s real now. I wanna keep it real. Please…please don’ turn me into a comfort fuck.”

Spike was precise. He used the word fuck as absence of love. There would be no fucking in this room.

There would be no fucking at all. When they joined, it would be making love. He needed her to understand the difference, because when they crossed that line, there was no going back.

Cautiously, he met her eyes and released breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. She was smiling. She had the sweetest smile.

“This is not about comfort…” Buffy whispered. “Well, okay, it is a little. A very little. And yeah, I’m vulnerable and needy gal right now. I won’t deny it.”

“Not really helping the cause, pet.”

“But that’s beside the point. I knew the minute you left me tonight that I wasn’t going to be able to not…to not do this. I want you because I want you. Not because I need to feel better. I came here tonight because…” She sighed. “Angel didn’t make me, Spike. His talking to me didn’t…and it’s not because I need to prove anything to you or myself about this being real. It is real. It’ll be real tomorrow. But it’s also real right now…” Her mouth found his throat, and he crooned at her touch. “I’ve missed you.”

She knew how those words did him in.

“You…”

“I’ve missed you. I don’t know if I’ve told you that or not.” Buffy’s hands reached the hem of his shirt and began tugging upward, waited for his compliance, and smiled softly when he raised his arms and allowed her to remove the tee completely. “You stood outside my window that night…and I knew you were going away. And I…I didn’t know what I thought or felt then, but I knew I was going to miss you.” A breath before she leaned inward, kissing his shoulder. “You let me be me. Just me. Not Buffy-When-With-Mom or Buffy-When-With-Friends or Buffy-When-On-Patrol-And/Or-Training…just Buffy. A hundred percent.”

“Hundred bloody percent,” he agreed, taking in her scent.

“And I knew when you walked away that I’d miss you.”

“If you’d have run out after me, I would’ve stayed.”

“If I had, do you really think we’d be here?”

There was a question to which he really didn’t have the answer. Neither did she.

“The poof doesn’ let you be you?”

She chuckled wryly. “When Angel gets a look at me—me as I am—he gets snippy. Sometimes I think I’m supposed to be more than I am when I’m around him. Like being the Slayer plus girl he loves makes me some pedestal, and when my less-attractive personality traits leak through, it soils my image.”

“Then he doesn’ love you.” Spike pressed a finger to her lips before she could object. “Not like he should, anyway. If he only sees what he wants…’s like being infatuated with somethin’ because of the image you give it. The stupid sod’s never been close to perfection in his unlife—not when he was an alive wanker, an’ certainly not as a dead one. You’re not perfect, Buffy. Not in the way he wants you to be. I wouldn’t love you if you were. Flaws make you human, an’ it’s your humanity that I love.” He grinned cheekily and nuzzled her again. “An’ other things, of course.”

“Mmm…other things…”

His jaw tightened as her exploration, traveling southward. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

“Sure…?”

“You wanna do this now? We’re worth waiting for.”

“Spike, I’ve waited. I can wait more if you want to. If you need to have that reassurance that we’re real. But I’ve told you, you’re not going anywhere.” Her fingers deftly popped open the clasp of his jeans. “And neither am I.”

Then she wasn’t speaking at all. Spike took her face into her hands and fiercely brought his mouth to hers, drawing her into a biting, needing, loving kiss that devoured and assaulted within the same breath. At last the strains of his own need became tangible, though how he had kept them from driving him out of his mind, she would never know. She certainly hadn’t. It took only a beat of initial surprise before she was responding in kind. His thumbs moved in soft, sensual circles against her cheek, calming and arousing all within one stroke as he explored her mouth to his satisfaction.

It wasn’t enough, though. Soon his hands dropped to tug at her shirt; a black number with the British flag sprawled across the front. He had noticed it earlier and though he forgotten to mention it, he smiled a bit at the irony. The garment fell to the floor and he had her lips against his before he could miss her taste.

Her own hands were becoming more boisterous, and he grasped her wrist before she could delve into his jeans and free his cock. Funny that despite what they had gone through together, they had not managed to do this properly. Always stashed away in some closet, shoved aside by the angry world or trying to hide from it. He hadn’t even seen her naked. Not really. Their first night had been in the shadows, and there hadn’t been anything but each other. No window. No nothing. And it had been hurried. The sort of union that was beneath her. Hard and angry. He hadn’t explored the full depth of his feeling then—he had only come to terms with feeling it at all. She was the tool for extracting his confused rage, and it shamed him now to consider.

Spike enjoyed sex thoroughly—hard, slow, fast, gentle, it didn’t matter. With Drusilla there had been little variation. She changed occasionally, of course, but it was very rare that she did something they had never tried before. A new brand of pleasured punishment. And she always liked being in charge. It was a game to her, and he hadn’t minded.

This was new. And he wanted it to be different than the first time.

He wanted to show her what she meant to him. That he could be all sorts of things if only to see her just as she was. That the anger of their past was just that: in the past. Things had changed since then, and he wanted her to see how much.

“Buffy,” he whispered into her mouth, coaxing her hand completely away from his cock even as his body cried out in protest. This wasn’t about him. “Jus’…slow down, all right?”

“Slow down? I haven’t even—”

“I know. Figured I’d stop you while you’re ahead.” He nibbled on her lips. “If you start on that, I won’…this is different, luv. Jus’ lemme…lemme do this for you properly.”

Buffy cocked a brow. “Properly?”

“Mhmm…” Spike’s hands dropped again, unzipping her fly as his lips worked across her collarbone. He drew back to tug in earnest at her clothing and she nearly cried out when he dropped to his knees before her. Without much effort, he managed to rid her of her pants completely, tossing them next to her shirt and discarded footwear. Then she was standing before him, dressed in her cotton white panties and matching bra.

“My underwear sucks,” she complained, crossing her arms over her breasts.

Spike tsked disapprovingly. “I’ll say,” he agreed, fingers running over her damp crotch. “Thought I told you to never wear these again.”

“They’re not the same from earlier. You oughta know, seeing as those are ruined and in your pocket.”

Spike grinned unashamedly. “Was I not specific enough? No knickers for my Slayer, understand? They get in the bloody way.” To demonstrate, he tongued her through the thin layer of fabric, and chuckled when she buckled in response. “See?” he asked, ripping them from her body without further warning.

“That’s two in one night, you realize.”

“I’ll destroy all your frilly undergarments if I have to get you to see things my way.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts’.” He was against her again in seconds, mouth commanding hers desperately. “I love you like this.”

Buffy’s head rolled back. “Like this?” she asked, scratching his arms.

“Like whatever. But definitely like this.” He cupped a breast, grinning when she moaned and swooping down to tease her throat again as his thumb excited her nipple through her bra. “Here in my room, full starkers…where I can see you.”

“Spike,” she breathed desperately against his mouth.

In two seconds, he had ripped away her bra as well. And she was naked against his eyes. Spike inhaled sharply and stepped back, his hazy eyes running the length of her. She was completely left to his observation. After a few seconds, the air around her grew tight and awkward; he stopped her before she could cover her breasts again.

“Don’t,” he gasped. “Please.”

“I—”

“Please.” Spike closed his eyes but opened them just as quickly as though fearing she’d disappeared. “You’re so bloody beautiful.”

“I…”

“You’re beautiful, Summers. Don’ think I’ve ever seen anything as…” Then there were no more words. He who thrived on dialogue was at a loss, and the knowledge overwhelmed him. It was the rightful end of whatever there had been; the beginning of something monumental. And he couldn’t stand it. He bent and drew one of her nipples into his mouth, doing things to her that she had never thought she could experience. His hand tended the neglected breast, tweaking her nipple between nimble fingers as his lips and tongue bade worship to her. His other hand, not to be left out, dipped between her thighs and pried her pussy lips apart, and he moaned into her skin when her liquid heat rolled over her fingers. His fingertips slipped over her clit. She was a harp; he her musician, and he played her to climax.

Then took the repeat and did it again.

Buffy panted heavily as she came down, realizing belatedly Spike was still mostly dressed. Her chest pressed against his—skin on skin contact that she craved so much. His fingers were still exploring her pussy, thumb teasing her clit at his leisure, and he leered every time a wanton moan escaped her lips. Her hands clutched at his shoulders desperately, her head rolling back. And Spike could do nothing but stare at her in wonder. Here she was. After everything, here she was. In his arms.

She wasn’t going anywhere. This was real.

His fingers curled inside her and she sobbed softly in pleasure. Oh God. This was real.

“Spike…”

The vampire’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips feathering her face with soft kisses. She battled him; of course she would. Fighting until she found his mouth, sucking his tongue her trembling hands remembered themselves and again dropped to his fly. This time he did not protest. He couldn’t. As it was, he was fortunate she had loosened them as she had before he’d grown carried away. She withdrew his cock tentatively; her fingers danced over his sensitive skin, running the expanse of his length. Knowing him. Memorizing him. Learning him again, but for the first time.

“God, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Spike whimpered.

Buffy’s eyes shot open, her sweat-laced body heaving against him deeply. “Nuh uh,” she replied, squeezing his shaft and teasing his throat with her teeth. Nibbling sweetly on his skin, squeezing his cock and teasing his belled head with her thumb. Spike whimpered and hissed, his hips jerking forward in time with her exploratory pumps.

“God,” he mumbled against her. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’ve told me.”

“’m telling you again.”

“Well, so are you.”

He huffed indignantly. “Still tryin’ to emasculate me.”

Her grip tightened around his cock, earning a heady whimper in turn. In an instant she had gone from moaning and writhing to controlling and dominant. It drove him wild. “Now,” she breathed against his throat, pumping his cock harder, “why would I wanna do something like that, when there are so many more…pleasurable pursuits?”

“Dunno,” he replied. “Seems you’d do yourself a right injustice.”

“Agreed.”

Spike smiled and brushed a surprisingly chaste kiss across her brow. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” she whispered, fingers dancing teasingly over his aching head.

“Keep that up, pet, an’ this isn’t gonna last but another twenty seconds.”

“Mmmm…but what a twenty seconds.”

He flashed another grin, deftly withdrawing his fingers from her pussy and lifting her into his arms.

“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.

Spike’s brows perked. “Where do you think?” he replied, depositing her unceremoniously on the bed.

Buffy bounced and giggled, and his eyes followed. God, her breasts were fantastic. And suddenly he couldn’t get naked fast enough. In hurried seconds, he had divested the rest of his clothing and was joining her. His body covering hers, pressing her thighs apart, his thick cock coming to rest upon her delicious mound.

“I love how you feel against me,” she mused, wiggling her hips. “So…heavy.”

Spike grinned, running his mouth over hers without pausing for a kiss.

“Heavy, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Then you’ll love this.” He thrust his hips forward, nudging his length between her pussy lips and drenching himself in her juices. His balls slapped recklessly against her flesh. “So hot, Slayer. So wet. Love you. God, how I love you.”

Buffy blinked harshly and raised her head to meet his kiss, unhurried and loving for everything that yet remained unsaid. Her hands grasped his forearms, leveraging herself against a hard thrust of his hips. The wealth of feeling pouring behind blue eyes said more than he ever could, despite the richness of words in a place where they should not subsist.

Spike reached between them once more to finger her pussy before he positioned himself. He teased without thinking, eliciting more hurried, voiceless whimpers that only coaxed his spirits higher. The sounds she made were so bloody delicious—he couldn’t help but do whatever it took to make sure she never stopped making them. He only paused when he noted her eyes were squeezed shut, her nails digging trenches into his forearms. And there it was. The cause for all. A sight so breathtaking. More than he was worth. More than he could ever hope to be worth. A being of pure radiation. Life and light—lovelier than anything he had been fortunate enough to see in the long years of his existence.

And it was his. All his. At last, at that moment, he understood, and the notion stole the proverbial breath from his lips. He was here. He was finally home.

“Buffy,” he said softly as he prepared to push inside. “Look at me.”

It took a minute to realize that she had been addressed. Her breathing was labored and her eyes heavy, shining vibrantly with desire. The sight stole what little was left of his heart. “I love you,” he said.

Buffy smiled kindly. “You’ve told me,” she said again.

“Won’t ever stop tellin’ you…” He began edging himself into the only home he had ever truly known. Plunging into the encompassing welcome of her perfect flesh, wet and wrapped so tightly around him he could barely remember he didn’t breathe. He wanted everything. Her scent. Her sounds. Her touch. Her skin molding perfectly against his. He wanted it, Christ, and it was too much. Too much and yet not enough. Spike breathed steadily, head again finding rest at her shoulder. “Can’t ever stop telling you…stop showing you…” He began moving within her slowly when she gave her silent consent, setting a gentle tempo, delving beyond depths of any physical magnitude. She burned him, set his skin aflame and cooled him all within one delicious stroke. Oh God. And again. “Christ, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

“Spike…”

He lowered his head to her breast, drawing her nipple into his mouth and laving it with his tongue. His hips moved in slow, deep strokes, his free hand at her hip to pull her with him. Their eyes met once more and then they were moving together, fighting each other, battling each other—warring for custody of his cock while remaining trapped in a paradise of sensation. Every thrust to match the answering parry. Each time he entered her, he was embraced by the same homecoming molded anew with perfected light. He made a harvest of her body, hands everywhere, unable to touch her enough. Her own fingers drew tracks down his back, combing pathways through his hair, scratching marks into his skin. When she timed his thrusts with the contraction of her Slayer muscles, he nearly lost it all over again; unsure what he was so desperate to posses. There within his view. There but far.

“So much,” he mewled into her ear.

It took a few seconds to find her voice, her hips surging upward. “What?”

“Never…so much…oh Buffy…” Spike’s eyes closed tightly as he tried to regain the control that was slipping away beat by beat. He had to be careful; else it would vanish completely. And by God, he had to make this last. He had to make it about her. “Never been like this…”

“Never,” she agreed, though it was more in turn to his statement.

He couldn’t ask her for love. Not yet. Not tonight. And he couldn’t keep reiterating his love for her, lest the words lose power. They were still new and he wanted her to always remember.

But there was still something he needed.

“Tell me…” A few intermediate pants. Funny how oxygen became essential even for the dead. Was that her influence or his? He didn’t know. “Tell me I’m…tell me I’m not forgettable.”

Buffy’s eyes locked on his. This was important. He needed to know just as badly as she needed to say it. “Spike…” she moaned as his attentions honed. “You’re not forgettable. Could…never…forget. Never forget you.”

“Tell me this is real.”

“Real. So real.” He pistoned deeper within her, and she arched with a muffled cry. “Oh God. So real.”

Spike’s jaw clenched and his pace increased, triggered by the hard slaps of their bodies colliding. The feel of his balls smacking against her ass. Words were at a loss for the whimpered moans rumbling through his system. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said; everything was left to plain reiteration, however much it was needed. And it was needed. Anything he could get right now was very, very needed.

As it was, he was beyond surprised that he hadn’t started sputtering verses of godawful poetry for the feelings she was releasing. The sounds rumbling through her throat were going to drive him over the edge if the needy, awe-inspiring look on her face didn’t beat them to it. With every inward plunge, the sheen behind her eyes changed. From desire to kindness, from lust to cordially, and he found the combination, with as erratically unpredictable as it was, moving beyond compare.

God, she was the embodiment of perfection. Her breathing was becoming labored and he pulled away completely, lingering so the very tip of him caressing her outer labia. Her eyes went wide.

“Spike!” She meant to sound menacing, but her heady moan betrayed her more influential need.

“Buffy.”

“Oh God…”

He wanted to tease her forever just to get her to call his name like that, but his own need was too great to prolong her torment. With a defiant swirl of his hips, he slammed into her again, and if possible, her eyes widened even further. Her head flew back into the pillows and she mewled, her Slayer muscles contracting to pleasurably painful depths. He knew he would have been crushed were he anything but what he was, and the knowledge turned him on like nothing else.

She was so much more than he could have ever imagined.

“Tell me,” he gasped, stopping harshly. “Tell me it’s me, Buffy.”

“Yes. God yes. It’s you, Spike. It’s…” He started moving again and her words rode out on a strangled gasp. “…I think…it’s always been you. Somehow.”

Their pants intermingled as his thrusts grew more frantic. She was growing tighter and wetter with each stroke and it was driving him to the proverbial edge—the same edge that he reckoned would only remain proverbial for so long. He was close, so close, but he held back, forcing his orgasm aside. One hand strayed, brushed her hair from her eyes, and traveled the length of her body before slithering between them. His mouth returned to her throat and mimicked its course, drawing a tantalizing pattern southward and suckling her nipple between his teeth.

“Oh God…I’m…”

“Love you.” The words came unbidden. He couldn’t help them if he tried. “Love you so much.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Love you.” He found her clit and rubbed her slowly, softly. She was so slippery under his fingers. She burned him up. “Always.”

“Always.”

“Come for me, pet. Please.”

“Yes, I’m—”

And that was it. With a final thrust, she arched and convulsed, digging her nails into his arms as his name escaped her with hoarse declaration into the mockingly still ambiance of the room that awaited the boundary beyond the bed. And he was following her, shooting blinding white streams into her welcoming heat. Emptying himself as his hips surged forward, desperate for as much as she would give him.

When the waves finally subsided, it took everything not to simply collapse on top of her. He held himself up on quaky arms, observing her with emotion that pushed him far beyond anything he had ever thought himself to be. Her own gaze was blurry and unfocused, but she found him. And the warmth that poured from her eyes moved the final piece into place.

She didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. She didn’t know what she was betraying. What she was telling him without saying anything at all.

But he did.

Finally, coherency returned, and she gazed up at him quizzically. “You didn’t go all bitey.”

Spike blinked. “I didn’t.”

“Thought you would.”

A smile tickled his lips and he lowered his head to the mark he had already given her. The mark that had somehow linked them together and brought them where they were now. He made play with it, gently running blunt teeth over her skin, and shivering lightly with the implications of her gesture.

“I will,” he promised her. “But not tonight.”

Not tonight. She had already given him so much tonight. Claiming her in that way would signify the beginning of something for which she was not yet ready. The promise of a new beginning she didn’t know fully that she wanted.

But he had seen it in her eyes. The words were there, buried under recesses of doubt and insecurity.

For that, there would be another night.

He knew it now, and it brought him solace.

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[nextpage title=”Part Twenty-One” ]

Part Twenty-One: The Rest Of Me

Their eyes met through the room’s darkness created together new heights of radiance. He was over her, moving in shallow thrusts, hands skimming the length of her body, fingers exploring her temples before trailing to cup her breasts. Their mouths met and they ravaged each other over and over again for the foreclosure of time.

Time.

Flash. She was astride him, riding his prone body, arching and crooning with every downward spiral upon his cock. Her eyes were closed, a look of pained pleasure wrought across her face. He tugged at her nipples, pulling her down to kiss her.

“So warm.”

The first words to know life in an hour. The room had been heavy with their shared whimpers and pants, but no words. They had been too occupied with each other to voice any emotion. It was so rare for Spike to be vocally submissive, but the unspoken implication that words were too little to describe this remained redeemably drawn in blood.

But he was speaking now, and it was wonderful.

Buffy placed her hands on his shoulders, eyes hazed. Her body tingled all over, her movements slow and wonderful. There was something to be said for this. There was something to be said for a lot of things.

“What?”

“You’re so…so warm.” Spike panted needlessly, running his fingers up her sides. “You’re burning me up. God. Feels so bloody good. So good.”

“You, too,” she gasped, head flying back. “Feel so good.”

His hand went immediately to her hair, threading strands through his fingers as he grasped her head to direct her eyes back to his. “Tell me.” There was no demand behind his voice; rather a plea, but she could deny him nothing. Especially not like this.

“Deep,” Buffy mewled. “So deep.”

“Oh…”

“Touching…it’s never…not like this.” She bounced harder at her own words, slamming him with her pussy and working his length deeper within her. “Never been like this. Not even…with you…I can feel you…more than just…” A long sigh rumbled through her throat as his fingers slid down her abdomen, between their bodies. She whimpered as he sought her clit, slamming onto his cock with focused intent. “I feel you, and I know…I know it’s you.”

Spike closed his eyes. “Oh, Buffy…”

“And it’s so good. So…oh God.” She sighed again, pace increasing still, her desperation betraying itself in vibrant colors. “I…I…”

“Shhh…” Instantly, his eyes flew open and he hauled himself up, covering her mouth with his free hand, fingers rubbing her clit as their bodies moved together. It was still too soon for the words, and the last thing he wanted her to do was blurt it out during climax. There was something so insincere about orgasm-inspired love confessions. Her eyes matched his and she understood. And nodded.

He was right. It was too soon.

But it was coming.

Fortunately, at that instant, so was she. With a heady cry, she braced herself and rode out the endless ripples of her orgasm; squeezing him so tight he was genuinely surprised when he didn’t pop. He followed her with a roar; vamping and forcing himself back to the mattress. His hands immediately found purchase at her hips, and he hauled her downward as he pistoned himself into her.

And finally knew silence.

Spike hugged her to his chest and they trembled together, remaining intimately connected; neither wanted to lose that union. This was almost as good as the other. Resting together in the post coital drift. Simply being.

He loved that she perspired. It was a strange thing to love, but he did. The scent she exuded was incomparable. His fingertips skimmed her back, barely touching, and drifted over her sweat-laced hair. He brushed a kiss across her forehead.

And they rested.

*~*~*

“What? Ohhhh…again?”

“Are you really surprised?”

“No. Really, really not. But…again?”

“Again an’ again. We’re putting a sodding deadbolt on that door. No goin’ in, no goin’ out. No bloody interr…oh god.”

“Somehow, I think the hotel supervisor would have a problem with tha—oohhh, God.”

He grinned. “Sod the bloody supervisor. I aim to keep you in this bed an’ well shagged for the rest of your days.”

“Ohhh…I could live with that.” Her moan was detoured with an irritated rumble. “Then…there’s…there’s the…Ascens—”

“Wait. Gotta wait. Jus’…yeah, luv. Jus’ like that. Don’ be afraid to use them. It’s what they’re there for. Ohhhh…”

New rule: no talk of shop while in bed.

Ever.

*~*~*

“Slayer, that fuckin’ tickles.”

She giggled and moved to the side of the bed as he lunged for her, missing horribly and nearly toppling to the floor. “Poor Spikey. What’s wrong? The Big Bad can’t handle a little torture? What sort of Big Bad are you, anyway?”

“Torturing utensils usually come in the shape of whips an’ chains, luv,” he argued as he rolled over and raised himself on all fours, prowling toward her like a sleek feline. His eyes were sparkling wickedly, and he ran his tongue over his teeth in that way he knew made her go all weak at the knees. In a moment of ill-timed swooning, he was able to capture her wrist. “Not sodding parrot feathers.”

“I was trying to be…inventive?”

“Where’d you get that, anyway?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? This is your dump, remember? Not really of the fancy. Sunnydale suits aren’t exactly posh. For some reason, no one ever wants to vacation here.”

“Gee, I wonder. An’ stop insulting the digs.” Spike scoffed. “Behold the mini-fridge.”

“And the smashed television.”

“Blame that on King Forehead. He got in the way.”

“Of what?”

“My fist.”

“So you ruined a perfectly good television to hit Angel.”

“Would’ve ruined a lot more, too. At leas’ I saved the mini-fridge.”

“Oh, right. This is high-living.”

“Can’t live highly if I’m not alive.” He grinned at her, managing to pry the feather from her fingers. If she had wanted to keep it, overpowering him would have been simple. Slayer abilities: major bonus in the strength department. Even if her opponent was a notoriously strong vampire. But with that look in his eyes, Buffy clearly saw that trying to avoid whatever tactic he was up to would have been one of the more foolish rendezvous of her trial.

“You’re cute when you’re inventive,” he informed her, kissing her nose. He rolled away before she could capture his mouth and begin a long and diversionary snogging session. “But otherwise, a bleedin’ amateur.”

She pouted. How dare he look all kissable and just move away like that? “Oh really? Think you can do better?”

Spike shrugged off-handedly. “Don’ like to brag, but—”

The pout vanished without prompt, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh please.”

He chuckled but conceded without contest. “Right. Who am I kiddin’? I love to brag.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and sidled up closer. “Luckily, you’ve given me plenty to about.”

Buffy flushed but walloped him on the shoulder. No way was he winning that simply. He’d never let her live it down. “As if.”

“You know it’s the truth, pet.”

“You’re bent.”

“An’ it makes you scream, doesn’ it?” He ran the feather lengthwise down his taut cheekbone, and grinned as she leaned inward to receive the same treatment. “That’d be the hundred plus years of…experience.”

God, his voice did a number on her. Buffy shivered and tried to look resolved, failing miserably. “Enough experience to know what to do with that feather?”

“’m hurt that you even need to ask.”

“Something inventive?”

“’Course,” he replied with the utmost seriousness. “Lay back.”

She wanted to fight him but he delivered a look that clearly stated it would be well in her favor to abide. That alone prompted obedience. If Spike didn’t want to fight, then he must have something…interesting up his sleeve. Metaphoric sleeve, of course. Right now, he was scrumptiously naked and very adamant on remaining that way.

“Comfy pet?” he purred. The shit-eating grin on his face informed her he was perfectly aware of where her mind was. Hell, he could probably name the gutter.

“Shut up and get on with it.”

“Mmm…so sentimental. I can already tell we’re gonna be one of those cutesy couples that can’t help but bleeding bash each other’s heads in or shag each other silly wherever we go.”

“Spike!”

“Look here,” he drawled cockily, sitting back. “She’s screaming my name already.”

“Argh, you infuriating asshole! Just wait until…uhhhh…ohhhh…”

*~*~*

“I don’t wanna leave.”

“Then don’t.”

“Kinda must. School day.”

“Bugger school. What can they teach you there that you can’t learn here?”

She giggled and rolled onto her side, fingers etching light, mindless patterns into his chest. “Nothing important. But I really should…Willow and Giles…and everyone…they’ll be worried.”

“What about your mum? You din’t tell her where you were goin’, did you?” He glanced worriedly to the door, as if by some twist of fate, she would burst in with an axe at the ready.

“I left her a note.”

He waited with an arched brow. She rolled her eyes.

“Of course I didn’t tell her where I was going. My mother might like you more than Angel—” Spike flashed an unrepentant grin and she pinched his lips before he could snag an obvious retort. “—but that doesn’t mean that she would approve of us having had endless sexcapades on a school night.”

“Oh, but it’s all right for the weekends?”

Buffy smirked. “And holidays. There’s probably a Parent/Teacher Conference Day coming up soon.” Then her face fell. “Oh God. I hate those.”

The vampire turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “When do you leave?”

“In a half hour.”

“You might as well ditch. You din’t get any sleep last night.” He grinned. “My naughty girl.”

A small smile tickled her face. “Trust me, I’d really like to stay here. Really, really.”

There was an obligatory pause. “But…”

“But I do need to talk to Giles.”

“About what we found.”

“Right.”

Spike pursed his lips and nodded. “Uh huh. So go talk to your Watcher an’ come back. No harm, no bloody foul.”

The proposition was entirely too tempting. School was tedious, especially for a senior who skipped on a regular basis, anyway. But there was a principle involved. She didn’t know what it was, per se, but she was sure that it was involved. “You want me to flunk out?”

“’Course not. You got homework? I’ll help.”

“What?”

“History, luv. An’ English. I’m good in English.”

Buffy grinned and leaned against the pillow. “Because of the poetry, right?”

A pause. He ducked his head, blushing as much as a vampire could, and she found it unspeakably adorable. “Yeah…”

“I want to. Really. You’re making the ‘be responsible’ thing really hard.”

His hips nudged hers suggestively. “That’s not the only thing that’s hard.”

“Spike!”

He didn’t even bother to look apologetic.

A few minutes of silence settled between them. Soft and companionable.

“You know what I said last night was true, right?”

She looked at him.

“’m not goin’ back.” Spike sighed. “I’m not leaving, and I’m not goin’ back. Either. To whatever we were doin’ before this. Makin’ excuses, telling each other it was wrong. No matter. I’m made of stones, pet. You know that better than anyone. But if you try hard enough, you can break stones, too. Especially you…bein’ the Slayer an’ all. I’m not goin’ back to that. With you, Buffy…I’m only goin’ ahead. You got me?”

There was a beat. Then she smiled kindly and sealed the space between them with a gentle kiss. “It’s still real,” she whispered. “I promised you it would be, and it is. It is. It’s tomorrow and I’m here. I want to be here. And I don’t regret anything. Do you get me?”

A lasting gaze of wonderment settled over his eyes. As though he hadn’t truly believed it possible until the first rays of sunlight verified that everything that occurred the night before hadn’t been some wondrous dream. As though he needed this moment—this—to know differently. She was touched and saddened in the same beat. Knowing that she could do that to him was one thing; knowing that she had put him in such a state to begin with was something else entirely.

“Hey…” he said softly, reaching for her face when he noted the fall in her eyes. “No more of that. I can be a right wanker at times. I jus’…I needed to say it. Regardless.”

Buffy nodded with a shadow of a grin, and leaned inward to claim his lips in a soft kiss, which inevitably led to another. And another. And another. A few minutes passed before either could break away.

“Mmm…pet?”

“Yeah?”

“Any idea where we go from here?”

There was a moment’s thought. She nibbled her lip and contemplated. “You know…for once in my life, I have no clue. I guess we’ll get an idea when we get there.” She paused to glance at him. “That all right with you?”

He grinned and kissed her again. “Bloody perfect.”

She smiled, because she believed him. And for now, that was enough.

The morning could not last forever. With a great deal of stamina, Buffy forced herself out of bed and into the shower…which was admittedly not the greatest game plan, as Spike found it imperative to join her and consequentially set her back even more than she was already.

It was worth it.

Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he escorted her to the doorway and paused before she could leave.

“When will I see you again?”

“Tonight. Today, right after school. Or training. Whichever.”

“If you want, I can pop by the library an’ give Rupes a vow of my honorable intentions.”

Buffy grinned and rested her head against his chest. “You better not. I don’t want to risk him not listening to you and going all stake-happy. Listen, for them, it’s going to take—”

“Time. I know. Because of all the ‘tryin’ to kill them’ that I did.”

“Tends to bring out the worst in people,” she agreed.

“But now—”

“I know.”

He grinned. “Jus’ checkin’.”

An emotional pause as they studied each other, lips meeting in a lasting kiss she would carry with her throughout the day. His teeth nibbling at her, his tongue battling her, his mouth loving her for everything she was worth and more. A taste that she never wanted to find herself lacking. It amazed her with every beat. What he was. What he did. What he had become.

How easily he made her burn.

When they pulled apart, she was smiling. “Today is considerably looking better than yesterday, judging by the start.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“I’m glad I came by.”

“Oh, God, me too. You have no bloody idea.”

Buffy sighed and disentangled herself from his embrace. It was time to leave. She had to leave. Back to the mundane world of schoolness. All work and no play.

But there would be plenty of play at day’s end. She counted on it.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Soon,” he corrected, earning a smile. “Buffy.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

If there was ever a time she didn’t melt when she heard that confession, she reckoned she should be shot. He had the ability to turn her to butter with just a glance, but his words were her ultimate weakness. How many times had he prompted her to tears simply by proclaiming what he felt? She had lost count. There was too much to consider.

She would return the sentiment one day. Would find the courage to say the words and mean them. She was halfway there as it was. With the depth of feeling she experienced now, love was inevitable.

Inevitable, but not rushed. He did not want rushed. He wanted perfection.

“I know.”

He smiled.

She knew.

And he would know, too.

Someday.

*~*~*

The bell signifying the start to first period had hardly finished ringing before Willow twisted excitedly in her seat, wide-eyed. “Okay,” she said hurriedly. “You’re talking.”

Buffy flashed her a deer-caught-in-headlights look that might have seemed premature under different circumstances. There were some to which things she wanted to work up—not blurt out while Ms. Adams discussed frog-mating rituals. “It’s learning time!”

“Oh, phooey. You’re so talking.”

“You’re going to get us yelled at.”

“And you have a massive hickey on your neck.” The Slayer eeped and reached automatically to cover her throat. Not that it did any good; Willow merely grinned wider.

“Or should I say hickeys?”

“You mean…”

“You look like you have the plague. The plague of Spike Lips.”

Buffy grumbled and tugged her hair out of its ponytail, glancing around the room with the sudden suspicion that she was the target of a number of stares. For a school that thought it proper to ignore her, she had the strangest way of attracting attention when it was not wanted. “Dammit,” she muttered. “He is so dead.”

“Literally.”

A small grin tickled her lips at that. She couldn’t help it. “Not where it counts.”

“And where would that be, Missy?”

“In all areas.” Buffy nodded her head toward the instructor, who was giving them a death-glare. “Later.”

Later came sooner than she would have liked. Willow followed her with Resolve Face to the library; intently ignoring the Slayer’s chiding that reminded her she was being uncharacteristically evil by skipping second period.

The library itself was vacant, and she was glad. Despite what she told Spike that morning, she was so not ready to face the Watcher.

“You’re talking!” Willow told her. “You disappeared last night with Spike, didn’t contact us for hours, and Giles said that Angel came by to see him after—”

Buffy gulped. “You talked to Giles?”

“That time before school starts? Yeah, some of us are here for that, too.”

“He didn’t happen to…errr…”

“Well, he wasn’t too happy with…anything. But I think that’s just because he’s British.” Willow propped herself onto the front counter. “Speaking of British, you minx, you better start talking. You were all with the moon eyes last night, disappearing for hours when you were supposed to be tracking Faith, and show up this morning looking…well…I’m too virginal to put a name to it, but I know there’s a name!”

“Oh, yeah. About Faith. I—”

“Save it for the Watcher. This is best friend QT. Did you and Spike…”

Buffy bit her lip unsurely. “You’re all right with the ‘me and Spike’ of that equation?”

“Well, I am a little wigged by the ‘used to want to kill us’ thing, but hello! I was there last night.” Willow smiled warmly. “I saw something. Besides, after you get to talking to him, he’s an all right guy. I mean, for someone who’s all with the dead and all.”

“Giles isn’t going to like it.”

“Giles will get used to it. He got used to Angel.”

“Angel has a soul.”

“Angel also murdered his girlfriend.”

Very true.

“A-and,” Willow continued, “I really don’t think he’ll contest Spike if Spike doesn’t make with the eating of Hellmouthy locals. Is he going to continue eating Hellmouthy locals?”

Buffy reddened, her mind detouring hard and fast down the nearest gutter. “Ummm…just one, I think.”

The Witch looked at her askance before turning rouge. “I…uhhhh…ummm…Buffy!”

She grinned, masking her own embarrassment for such a brazen comment with a shrug. “What can I say?” she returned coyly. “I’ve been corrupted by evil sex.”

It was just the opening needed for Xander Harris to pile through the library’s swinging doors. Willow’s giggle masked his entrance, but by the automatically-interested look on his face, it was more than obvious he had caught that remark.

“No sex is evil,” he said in greeting. “I rebuke this in the name of Guy-Dom.”

The Slayer studied him in silent contemplation. Might as well go for broke… “It’s with Spike,” she clarified.

To his credit, Xander didn’t miss a beat. “I stand corrected. And disgusted. And…what?”

Willow and Buffy’s eyes met again, and they giggled conspiratorially.

This was an exceptionally good start.

*~*~*
Like all things, it would take time getting used to this. Buffy had known it from the start. From the moment she took Spike’s hand in her own. From the moment their eyes met. From the moment she understood.

In all things, there was no going back.

There were other factors weighing in. Giles. Her mother. Angel. The Mayor. Faith. All aspects that would be dealt with as they presented themselves. Some would be easier than others.

Some might rightly break her. But then, there had always been battles to face. Evils to defeat. And there always would be.

But not today.

Tentatively, Buffy knocked at room nine of the Sunnydale Inn just as the sun was setting. The door flew open without missing a beat.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Such evils would be faced another day.

Spike stood aside and gestured her inward. “So,” he began conversationally. The domesticity behind his tone elevated her to levels she didn’t know existed. The notion was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but find it overly heartwarming. “How was school?”

A soft smile. This was right. She was drawn into something that soared beyond her. Beyond anything she had ever been made to understand.

A lasting piece falling into place.

And it was real.

FIN

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