CHAPTER ONE

---

"No. Way!" Buffy Summers laughed uproariously as she shifted into fourth gear, zoomed up the mountainside and hit each of her tuner pre-sets. --"73 degrees in southern California" -- "Branch, and you're listening to my favorite"-- "You did not say that!"

"Sure did," Cordelia's confident voice blared through her earpiece. "And then, get this, I'm all, Donatella, don't even think about teals for Winter. Sapphire is the new teal."

--me up inside, save me from the nothing I've become--

--"almost noon, don't miss your chance to win"--

"You are out of control, Cordelia Chase."

--check out any time you like, but you can never--

"Aren't I? But you haven't heard the best part yet!"

--can't get you out of my head, boy your lovin' is--

"There's more?" Buffy turned up the radio, took a sip of her Iced Nonfat Chai and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. This was what it was all about: carefree joyride in her zoomy Z4, wind in her hair, Kylie on high, new mmm-hottie on her mind, and bestest bud dishing fashionista dirt on her cell.

"-- gave her my down-with-one-strap rant, I kid you not, she gave me her card!"

Buffy gasped. "She did not!"

"Swear it. She said -- fabulous -- wanted me -- fashion week -- York--" her voice cut in and out.

"Wait, wait, I can't hear you -- hold on--" Buffy plucked the amplifier out of her ear and grabbed her phone. "Hello?"

"I think she's totally gonna offer me a job!" Cordelia squealed. "You have to come over and celebrate tonight! Nothing big, of course -- just me and Angel and Harm and--"

"Oh, I wish I could, but I can't! I have to go to Mom's--" Her phone beeped. "Oh crap, phone's dying. Stupid phone. Stupid me for not charging it."

"That's what you get for staying out all night with Parker Abrams..."

"We weren't out all night," a naughty smile crept across her lips. "Just until 3am."

"Buffy! Already?"

"We talked the whole time!" Buffy insisted as the phone beeped again. "He didn't even touch me. Not that I wanted to... you know, yet, but there I was all nice-smelling and freshly waxed, and not even a kiss! Can you believe?"

"The nerve of that guy!" Cordelia commiserated with a laugh. "What man could resist the hotness of you?"

* * *

Spike tossed the empty bottle of Jack over his shoulder.

It met the other two bottles in the back seat with a clank.

"Bloody... fucking... bitch!" he yelled, pounding at the steering wheel with a closed fist for emphasis. The car swerved, and he regained control to hug another mountain curve. "I'll show you."

Her kiss-off looped in his brain:

You've turned soft and sticky! Soft and sticky! Soft...

Eyes determined, fixed on an unbarriered edge, he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. "I'll show you."

* * *

"I mean, look at me," Buffy said, shifting into fifth gear, "I'm smart--"

"And rich--"

"And not unpretty. I've got a killer body--"

"A wardrobe to die for--"

"A shiny new--" As she veered left at the next curve, Buffy's eyes widened. "--car..."

* * *

I'll show you.

A flash of light blinded him briefly -- sun glinting off an oncoming red convertible. Inside it was some chit holding a cellphone.

Fuck me!

Spike stomped on the breaks, tires screeching--

* * *

"Ohmygod, Cordy, ohmy--" Buffy shut her eyes, opened her mouth and let fly a long, end-of-the-line scream.

---

CHAPTER TWO

---

Out of my way, you little--! Look where you're going, you'll fly over the bloody edge!

On a reflexive impulse -- save her -- Spike jerked the wheel to the right, deliberately impacting with her car to stop its trajectory.

They came to a crashing halt at the mountain's interior shoulder.

* * *

The squealing and crunching noises finally subsided, but the screaming didn't.

Oh, that's because the screaming was coming from her.

She clamped her mouth shut.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Am I alive? Am I on solid ground? Oh my god, my car! My car!

Holding the steering wheel tight, Buffy looked up at the black monstrosity that was now wedged into her front fender. Old, dirty, with crustily painted windows. And some idiot inside.

Whoever was in there was so going to jail.

* * *

Spike peered through the window at the blonde, tan, bare-shouldered, thousand-dollar-sunglass-wearing bint he'd just saved from certain death.

His eyes narrowed. Oh yeah. He was Pissed. Off.

"Stupid--" he kicked the car door open, "bitch!"

Buffy's jaw dropped. "Bitch? Hello? I'm the bitch?" Hands shaking, she picked up her phone, saw that the connection with her friend had been lost, and scrambled out of the car. "You come out of nowhere and crash my car--"

"No, you came out of nowhere and got in my way!"

"You've got a battleship -- it's hardly even scratched and--" she glanced at the damage she didn't want to see. Front right side snarled beyond recognition. Hyperventilating now. "Oh my god, look what you did to my brand-new car!"

He didn't miss a beat. "If you weren't yammerin' on your bloody cellphone --"

"Don't you turn this around on me!"

"--there a law against that?"

"No, but there IS a law against going a hundred miles an hour down the wrong side of the road!"

"You should've stayed out of my way!"

Buffy got a whiff of alcohol-breath and stepped back, repulsed. "You're drunk!"

"So what if I am?" He stepped forward menacingly. "What are you gonna do? Tattle on me?"

"I really, really am." As she dialed 911, her phone blipped off, the screen going blank. "Shit!"

He sniggered. "Right then."

God, he was disgusting. Wrinkled clothes, long black leather coat -- in California? -- deliberately-dyed white-blonde hair, cheeks streaked with black eyeliner... He was a disaster. A big, drunk, hideous disaster. "You are so gonna pay for this. My dad's a lawyer--"

"Bully for him." He turned around.

"Where are you going?"

"Far away from you as I can," he said, opening his right passenger door and shoving piles of clothing off the seat.

"Don't you dare hit and run me!" She followed him. "I know your license plate number--"

"Good thing it ain't mine."

She gasped. "You stole--?" She bent forward into the car. "Look you freaking psychopath, there is no way I'm letting you--"

He'd scooted over to the wheel. "Not about letting me, pet. Bye now." He looked behind him, ready to back up.

Buffy jumped in.

"What the -- Get out of my car you nit!"

She folded her arms. "You first."

He growled, "Get. Out!"

"No!"

Spike backed up enough to disengage the interlocked cars, saying, "Fine, have it your--" Looking ahead again, he gasped.

She followed his gaze.

Her car was rolling backward.

"Oh my god! No! No no no no no--"

She jumped out, ran after it. But it was too late.

Her brand-new Bright Red BMW Z4 roadster equipped with Sycamore Wood Trim, Leather Interior and Sport Suspension sagged once, twice, then disappeared off the cliff's edge.

Buffy stared, open-mouthed, incredulous.

She took off her sunglasses.

Spike watched her, a strange niggling in his gut. What should he care about some rich bitch's daddy-bought ride taking a swan dive? What did he care about anything anymore? And why didn't she think to put on the bloody parking brake?

Smartest thing right now would be to go. Gun the engine and drive away, get back to his sorrow-fest, maybe find another cliff.

But, standing there in the middle of the roadway, she looked so... bereft.

Go, go, now, a voice told him. She'll be fine. Just go!

Rolling his eyes, he turned off the car and got out.

When he appeared at her side, she went berserk, hitting him with her phone and sunglasses and screaming, "You did this! This is all your fault! You stupid, white-haired, makeup-wearing jackass! You worthless piece of--"

"Will you hold on a minute?" He pushed her backward, holding her arms down.

"No! I will not hold on!" She was crying now, eyes wide and wet. "Because my car is gone forever!"

Spike hated seeing girls cry, so he shook her roughly. "Get a grip, girl!"

She seethed through clenched teeth, "My graduation present and everything inside of it just plummeted down a thousand-foot mountain! Don't tell me to grip! And don't touch me!" She jumped out of his grasp.

"It's just a bloody car--"

"Yeah, you'd say that wouldn't you, with your stolen crapmobile--"

"Look. Better the car than you, alright?"

"Are you kidding? My dad's gonna slaughter me when he finds out! I'm as good as dead."

He sighed, patience running out. "Daddy will understand when you tell him a big bad man did it."

"You're not big and bad," she spat. "You're short and pathetic."

He stepped back, breathed in. "Have a nice walk home."

She registered this. Glanced at the cliff's edge, down at her dead phone, and at his back, walking away from her. "Wait!"

"Maybe someone'll come by and pick you up." He slid into the driver's seat and added under his breath, "Axe-murderer, I hope."

"But -- hey--" she ran up to the passenger's side -- the door was still open.

"I said someone. Not me."

"Look, I'm -- the things I say, I don't always mean them--"

"Oh, that's truly riveting."

"Okay, so I do mean them, I just -- Why can't you just give me a ride?" It was unbelievably rank in there. But what choice did she have? "Isn't it the least you can do? You obliterated my car!"

"Goodbye."

"I'll -- I'll pay you! Whatever you want!"

"Don't need your daddy's money, princess."

She took a deep breath, whispering an "Oh god" as she geared up for the humiliation of the following word: "Please?"

He shut his eyes, turned to look at her. This was the last thing he needed today. The company of some shiny-skinned, bouncy-haired, venom-tongued Hollybrat.

He exhaled heavily. "Get in."

"Oh, thank god." She hopped in and shut the door, regretting it the second her Jimmy Choo heel stuck in something gummy.

"On one condition."

"What? Oh, no way. I am not having sex with you."

He laughed, "Please! Don't flatter yourself, blondie."

"Shyeah." She put her sunglasses on her head. "As if."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means 'in your dreams'."

"Hardly," he gruffed. "Condition is, you promise you won't press charges. Or tell dear old Da anything about me."

She rolled her eyes, sighed, "Fine."

"I want a promise."

"I pro-mise," she drawled. "God, you're vile."

Before peeling out, he hinted, "Might wanna be careful of that door. Flies right open without warning."

"Where to?" he finally asked.

There'd been a tense, heavy silence as they whisked down the mountain. Mostly because all she could think to say was how much it stank in there, and why was he headed for the cliff's edge anyway? Either one, she suspected, would get her tossed out of that "trick" door.

"Um, Palos Verdes. You can take the--"

"Palos bloody Verdes? That's over forty-five miles away!"

"So?"

"So I'm not your bloody chauffer, woman! Don't you live around here?"

"What, you automatically assume that just because I drive -- correction, drove -- a nice car and my dad's a lawyer, I live in Beverly Hills?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, Bel Air. But... I can't go home right now."

"Who's in PV, your snugglebunny?"

"My mom," she said, sticking her head out the open window to see where they were going. "You can get on the 405 up here."

"Bloody just great," he grumbled, changing lanes to cut onto the freeway.

Seeing the bumper-to-bumper traffic jam ahead, he thought, Should've taken that cash. He patted his jacket pockets, the seat beside him. Her leg.

She recoiled in horror. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Sorry," he said, amused at her reaction. "Just lookin' for these." He pulled a crushed pack of Marlboro Reds out from under her thigh and singlehandedly yanked out a flattened cigarette. "Don't worry baby, you're not my type."

"Thank god," she huffed, puzzled at the heat that lingered on her thigh. Starting right where he'd touched her, and radiating outward. She rubbed her palm against it -- hot, hot heat that shot up her arm. She crossed her legs to make it stop, but then the heat went in a completely wrong direction.

Legs apart... And breathe. She stole a sidelong glance. Maybe he's Satan.

Satan flipped his Zippo, and her nose wrinkled. She waved a hand at the smoke and faked a cough. "That's repulsive."

"Oh yeah? Well you'll just have to deal, won't you?"

She sighed as they came to another stop on the freeway. Whee, a two hour ride with Satan, the suicidal chainsmoking maniac. Oh my god, what if he's a *homicidal* maniac? Maybe I should start a dialogue so he doesn't kill me.

"So... You're English, huh?"

He chuckled. "Onto makin' polite conversation now, are we?"

"No," she scoffed. "I really don't care what you are."

"Alright then."

So much for that.

He took a long drag. "Came out here from London three years ago."

Okay... "What for?"

Dru. "Bit o' sunshine."

"And that's why your windows are such a lovely shade of crust. Because you heart sunshine so much."

"Can't get anything past you, can I?"

God, this was like torture. He wasn't Satan, she decided -- he couldn't possibly be that important. No, he was just some lowly minion sent to do His evil bidding. And this ratty jalopy was the first circle of Hell.

She wished he'd just murder her already and get it over with.

"Came out here for a girl," he finally said. "I hate the sun."

"That explains the pallor. Did she dump you?"

He slammed on the brakes. "Get out."

"What?" The pallor? Oh, the dumping.

"Get out of my car."

"But we're on a--"

"Get. Out. of my. CAR!"

"What is your damage?" she asked, hands hitting her still-hot thighs. "So she dumped you, big deal!"

He reached across her, flipping up the door lock. "If you don't get out I swear to god, I'll--"

"You'll what?" she faced off, chin high, courage blazing -- even as she felt his angry nose-breath on her skin.

In the midst of their ensuing way-too-close-for-comfort staring contest, a cacophony of beeps struck up behind them. Jaw clenching as he gave her one last steely glare, he relented, stepped on the gas and set his sights forward.

She smiled. Nyah nyah.

"Don't think you're off the hook, Missy," he said. "Still might run this car over a convenient ledge."

"I can't believe you'd do that for a girl," she shook her head in disdain.

He looked at her. "You really have no idea when to keep your mouth shut, do you?"

"Hey, I haven't said a word about how much it reeks in here."

"God, you're--" he swerved into another lane, "unbearable!"

"I'm exceptionally bear-y. It's you that's un."

Sending her a quizzical glance, he shook his head.

Back to silence. Probably for the best. And what the hell is on my shoe? she wondered, looking down at the floor and kicking at rumpled, stinky clothing.

"What are you doing? Leave that alone."

She lifted her right foot into the air, showing him the Ring Ding two-pack that was skewered on her heel. "You're telling me you want to eat this?"

He smirked. "Which edible thing you referring to?"

What was that face? "Huh?"

One scarred brow arched and fell. "I see France."

Buffy frowned -- then gasped and dropped her leg. "Well, don't look at France! What are you doing looking at France?" She frantically stretched the short hem of her dress as that stupid Satan-heat crept up her neck. "I thought I wasn't your type!" She bent down to pull the nasty melted Ring Ding off her shoe. Oh my god, I said eat this. I said you want to eat this.

"You're the one flashed me the French flag," he said with an indifferent shrug.

Edible? Oh, ewwwwwww! "I didn't--! I would never, in a million years, not if you were the last--"

"I didn't see anything," he said over her, hoping that would shut her up.

She huffed, "You better pray you didn't."

"Wouldn't want to, alright?" Prissy little tease. "Not interested in seeing your naughty bits."

"Well, good!"

"Good!" He jerked the car forward.

Maybe he *didn't* see anything, she reasoned hopefully. He was probably just messing with me, being a demon minion and all. They're evil like that. Throwing the snack package into the back seat, she wiped her creamy heel and hands on a red button-down shirt.

"You better not be wiping yourself on my good shirt."

"This?" She lifted it up by one corner like it had the black plague. "Is your good shirt? What are the bad ones like?"

"A lot less covered in creamy center," he pointed out, ready to strangle her.

Dropping it back on the pile, Buffy spotted a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor. She unscrewed the cap, sniffed it and made a face. "Is this what you've been drinking?"

"Regular Sherlock, you are." He swiped the bottle, took a swig and tipped it toward her, offering. Loosen that uptight little ass.

"Ew!" With a grimace, she yanked it out of his hand, then closed the top. "You know, friends don't let psychos drive drunk."

"Lucky for me, you're not my friend," he said, and took a deep centering breath. "And anyway, I'm not drunk. That was hangover treatment."

She saw another bottle, empty, on the floor. "How many of these did you have?"

"Last night?" He sniffed. "Three, maybe four."

"Shouldn't you be blind? Or dead?"

"Yeah." He looked straight ahead. "I should."

CHAPTER FOUR

---

"Oh, stop it," Buffy derided him. "Drama queen."

The gall of this girl! "What the hell do you know?"

"I know that you shouldn't ever throw your life away for anyone else!"

"I don't have a life! Alright? I don't have a mansion and a pool and a maid and whatever else it is you have." His voice wavered. "All I had was her."

"God, that's depressing."

"No," he shook his head. "It was fantastic."

"How can that be good? When she leaves, you're nothing."

He chuckled, glanced at her. "You've never been in love, have you?"

Looking down at her hands, she said quietly, "Yeah, I have."

"Right. Grade four, little Jimmy Shortpants behind the oak tree?"

"Oh, screw you."

"Or big Dougie Dockers at last weekend's wild frat party?" His voice lurched into falsetto. "Oh, Dougie, that was the best three seconds of my whole life!"

Her jaw dropped. "You're a pig."

He laughed. "Or was it jocky Joey Quarterback, traded you in for a pom-pom girl with bigger knockers?"

She sneered, "I hate you."

"That what you told Jimmy before you showed him yours?"

"Will you stop with the stupid names? God!"

"But it's so much fun." And strangely, he was having fun. With this annoying, irritating girl he'd never speak to in a million years if they hadn't crashed into one another. Of course, he was having fun taking the piss out of her, but still. Odd.

"Like you're the expert on love," Buffy chortled. "You honestly thought she'd take you back like this? Because we women find obsessed drunken suicidals so attractive."

And then, just like that, the fun was over.

Spike said measuredly through grit teeth, "You know, this ride will be a lot more pleasant if we don't talk about my ex. Or better yet, at all."

"Pleasant? In what reality could this ever be pl--"

"Right then, door's unlocked, feel free to be pushed out--"

"Okay, no talky! Whatever. Fine." Buffy casually poured the contents of the bottle out the window.

"Hey--!"

With a coquettish shrug, she mimed zipping her mouth shut and threw away the key.

"Why, you little--"

"Ep!" she shushed him.

Despite his aggravation, he found himself smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of her.

Buffy's wandering eyes landed on the wallet sticking out of the uncloseable glove compartment. Equal parts repulsed and fascinated by this stranger, she was tempted to pick it up. She'd never seen anyone who lived like this outside of the movies. She'd never understood how anyone could live like this. It was so... seedy.

Knowing he wouldn't love her leafing through his personal effects, she instead reached for the stereo's power button and fiddled with the tuner, stopping at Christina Aguilera's voice.

"My body's sayin' let's go," she sang along, torso swiveling. "But my heart is sayin'--"

"No," he said, and clicked it off.

"Why no?"

"Because it sucks balls," he answered plainly.

"Music snob. You would so like it if you listened."

"Exactly why I won't." Without warning, he leaned sideways, warm chest brushing over her thighs.

Arms up, Buffy held her breath.

He grabbed a tape from the glove compartment and stuck it into the tapeplayer.

She sighed in relief when he moved away. Why did he make her so nervous? Sure, he had that whole dangerous vibe going, but it was obviously just for show -- and she didn't scare easily. Maybe it was that weird Satanic heat-transfer thing.

A guitar riff started up. Lame-ass punk rock. Oh, joy.

He sang along, "Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go-o-o, I wanna be sedated..."

"And you call this an improvement?"

"Well, yeah."

"Whatever." She added under her breath, "Loser."

He sang, "Can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain, oh no ho ho ho ho..."

She rolled her eyes. Does he know the '90s even happened?

"You know what?" he blurted suddenly. "You're right. I've been all wrong-headed about this."

"Huh?"

"Here I am, feelin' sorry for myself, when I know Dru really loves me. I just have to go back to being the man she fell in love with."

"Oh, gag."

"Gonna go back there. Make things right. Make it like it used to be."

"Great," Buffy forced a smile. Pathetic shell of a loser.

"Yeah." He nodded, pleased with his decision. "Glad I ran into you." He turned up the music.

"I'm not," she said quietly, seeing her car go down the cliff for the umpteenth time. She exhaled, and rested her head on the windowframe.

---

CHAPTER FIVE

---

"Left here, left, left, left," Buffy said, so glad he'd finally stopped singing that godawful punk version of My Way. "Up there, third house on the left."

"This it?" He looked up at the house on the hill -- fairly modest; nice ocean view.

"This is me."

Spike slowed to a stop, wondering what to say. "Right."

"Well, it's been... traumatic."

"Yeah." He frowned, concentrating on the steering wheel.

He seemed about to say something, so Buffy waited. And, nothing.

"Okay, bye." She opened the door, hopped out.

"Wait--"

She spun to duck her head into the car.

"I didn't get your name."

"Buffy."

He laughed, "I'm serious." She was glaring at him. "Oh. So are you."

She narrowed her eyes. "So you must be a James or a David."

"Spike."

"Yeah, that's so much better."

Before she knew what was happening, he'd taken her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it softly.

She drew back, electric-shocked. Uh...

"Goodbye... Buffy."

Quelling her fluster, she focused on a tear in his leather jacket -- anywhere but those sparkling blue eyes. "Goodbye... 'Spike'. Good luck with what's-her-name."

"Thanks. Erm... Sorry about your car."

"It's okay," she shrugged, took a rueful deep breath. "Better the car than me, right?"

He smiled, and watched her bound away, little blue sundress billowing in the ocean wind.

Buffy.

Buffy, that was her name
Bouncy girl with no shame... pain... can't be tamed
Little bitty spitfire can't be -- Nah.

Spike switched that internal soundtrack for another, new chord progressions striking up in his mind.

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
Think you're so tough, she said

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
I like it roughly, yeah

Tapping two fingers on the wheel, he laughed, and then wondered what the hell he was doing.

He shook her out of his head and took a cleansing breath, expression turning deadly serious on the exhale.

"Look out, Dru baby. This time tomorrow, you'll be beggin' me to take you back."

* * *

Buffy sat indian-style on the living room couch, listening to her mother reason with her dad on the phone.

"For god's sake, Hank, she's not a child! She's eighteen years old, going off to college in September! You can't take away that privilege!" She paced past Buffy and into the kitchen. "Yes, but it wasn't her fault--" A clang of a sauce pan. "That's what insurance is for!" A deep sigh. "She didn't see them -- they sped off, and when she got out to inspect the damage, it rolled away!" Quiet. "No. You should be thanking your lucky fucking stars that she didn't go over with it!"

Buffy smiled wanly. Much as she appreciated her mom's fervent support, there really was no arguing out of this one.

Her evasion tactic didn't help her case either: by the time she'd arrived, Joyce had already received a frantic call from Hank, via Cordelia, who'd heard her scream before the phone went dead. Everyone was so crazy worried, they were that much more angry when she showed up unharmed. She should've anticipated as much -- but in her defense, she wasn't thinking very clearly.

"At least let her have her party... she's been planning it for months!"

Buffy sighed. So much for the Best Summer Ever. She was grounded, literally. As in no mode of transportation that wasn't public or friend-sponsored -- until she could afford it herself. And her father knew as well as she did that there was no way she was downsizing to a Hyundai.

"I do too know how to discipline her!" She walked into the living room, and Buffy heard unintelligible yelling through the receiver. Joyce yelled back, "Because she's scared shitless of you!"

Nervously rubbing the back of her hand to her mouth, Buffy realized it was the exact spot where Spike had kissed her. She stared at it, as if he'd left an imprint. I should wash this hand. Who knows where those lips have been?

"Unless they can find them in the wreck, she'll need new credit cards, a new cellphone--"

Buffy frowned. My cellphone.

Well. Never getting *that* back.

CHAPTER SIX

---

"Spike, what's up?" Xander asked, eyes bloodshot. "It's late."

"I need a favor."

"Sorry man, but you're all favored out."

"Then I'll owe you one."

With a deep sigh, Xander stepped back to let Spike in.

* * *

"I can't believe you let some deadbeat mental case drive you all the way to Palos Verdes!" Cordelia squawked, making Buffy shush her in the busy boutique. She lowered her voice. "Was he cute or something, 'cause I don't get it."

"Ugh," Buffy made a face and glanced at the back of her hand. "Not cute. Not cute at all. He was completely cute-free."

"So why? I mean if you wanted to avoid your dad you could've just let him drop you at my house."

Buffy paused. She hadn't even thought of that. "I needed to see my mom. And I knew you wouldn't feel like driving me."

"Who says? I so would've. Oh, except that I had to meet Harmony for a two-thirty pedicure on Rodeo."

"And there lies the point." Buffy flipped items repetitively on the rack, too preoccupied to decide on anything.

"So when do you get your new car?"

She sighed. "In about never."

"He's interfering with your god-given right to mobility? That's just rude."

"It's so rude!" She whined softly. "He gave me this whole speech about 'learning responsibility' and blabity blah, and all I did was forget to put on the parking brake! I mean, who wouldn't forget in a situation like that?"

"Well, I wouldn't. But that's just me. I'd rather die than lose my car. So, this?" Cordelia held up a shiny two-piece. "Or this?"

* * *

"What's he doing here?" Anya asked, sipping orange juice while nodding at the sleeping Spike on her couch.

Xander peered at the scale, pulled off a shred of weed, then stuffed the leftover clump into a plastic container. Affixing a sticker that said Northern Lights, he said, "Dru dumped him."

"Well it's about time." When he looked at her, she explained, "He's a layabout. Look at him."

Xander laughed. "A layabout?"

"Like you don't know what that means."

"I do, but..." he shook his head, amused. "Nothing."

"Well, he can't stay here for long." Their apartment was much too cramped for houseguests. Plus, he clashed with the warm neutral browns she so painstakingly chose for the living room.

"It was just for tonight, he said." He separated another clump, put it on the scale.

"Tonight tonight or tonight last night?"

"Uh, the second one."

"Good. Because I won't have lackadaisical layabouts cluttering my house."

"Anya?"

"Hm?"

He spun his chair toward her. "Will you marry me?"

She kissed the top of his head. "We're already married, silly."

"Oh good." His hands went to her hips. "Then let's just get straight to the sex."

* * *

"So, if Parker shows, you know what to do, right?"

"Jump him and have my wicked way with him?" Buffy joked.

Cordelia snorted, "No, Nympho of Nymphonia. Play it cool. Be aloof. You do know how to be aloof, don't you?"

"I know how to be aloof," Buffy defended herself. "I'm very loofy. I'm the poster girl for loofs."

"Well, good, because guys? Go crazy over that."

"Riiight. They always go completely wild when you pay zero attention to them."

"They do! How do you think I got Angel?"

Biting her tongue, Buffy settled for an innocuous, "Your substantial cup size?"

"Well, that too." Cordelia grinned, admiring her breasts in the mirror. "But by withholding, I've got him catering to my every whim."

Buffy suppressed an eye-roll.

"Angel and I are longterm, you know? You can't give it up right away for a longterm guy."

Buffy sighed. Cordy just loved to dole out unsolicited relationship advice while backhandedly accusing her of skankiness. But that's what she got for telling her things. "C'mon, you know I'm not like that. Anymore. And neither is Parker. He's all sensitive and caring."

Cordelia adjusted her friend's spaghetti straps. "Plus, he's very, very rich."

Buffy studied her bikini-wearing reflection. "Then I guess he's my longterm guy."

---

CHAPTER SEVEN

---

Spike sat up, awakened by intermittent moans coming from the bedroom. Right, the Harrises. Thin-as-fuck walls.

He scratched his head, sniffed his armpits and made for the shower.

Today was gonna be a good day.

* * *

"It's no fair," Dawn whined, stomping her foot. "She crashed her car! How come she gets to stay and party, and I have to go to San Diego?"

"Because she's old enough to make her own decisions." Hank turned to his older daughter. "Buffy? Remember the rules."

She nodded soberly. "No boys inside the house, no booze, no drugs, no sex, no wild orgies."

"Do you have to say it like that? In front of a fourteen year old?"

"Sorry. No bacchanalian cavorting?"

Dawn said huffily, "You guys, I know what an orgy is."

Hank frowned at Dawn.

"Well, not from experience!"

"Okay orgy girl," Buffy said, shooing them out the door. "Go. Have fun at Grandma's. I'll see you in two weeks."

Dawn whined again.

* * *

"Dru?" Spike called out, confidence high as he hopped up the steps of his apartment, two at a time, avoiding the usual obstacle course of sheet music, drumsticks and articles of clothing. "Dru, baby--"

When he reached the loft, his heart stopped. There they were, writhing and glistening in the early evening light.

Shock turned to blind rage. "Get your grubby hands off my girl!"

Shoved against the wall, Lindsey's eyes widened, arms raised in white flag. "Whoa, Spike; buddy, she told me -- I thought you were--"

"Well you thought wrong."

Something hit Spike on the head.

"Get out! Get out of here! Leave us alone!"

He turned to see Dru picking up another paperback on the bedside table.

"Dru--" He ducked the flying object, letting Lindsey slide down the wall.

"I told you it's over, Spike! I don't love you anymore!"

"Gonna tell me you love him now?"

She hummed and smiled naughtily at Lindsey, "Mmmm, I enjoy him."

The target of her affection made a sick little snigger in response.

Spike took a deep breath, nostrils flared, eyes shut. Then he punched a nice, satisfying hole in the wall where Lindsey's face had been, and felt even better when plaster fell down and the guy recoiled in fear.

"She's all yours, Drummer Boy. Enjoy."

* * *

"Lying, cheating, two-timing WHORE!"

The car rocked as he thrashed around, kicking and throwing things about. He picked up something cool and hard, about to pound it into the dashboard, until he recognized it as not his own.

The hell?

Thin, glittery-gold cellphone.

Buffy...

He ran his fingers over it for a second, came to a conclusion, and started the engine.

Almost everything was set for the party. Buffy checked her reflection once more and adjusted her sarong before stepping out into the pool area.

"Hey... Where do I set up?" someone asked behind her.

She turned. "Oh, hey Oz."

"Hey," he nodded.

She waved at the girl standing by his side. "Willow, hey."

"Hey," the redhead waved. "Is it... okay that I'm here?"

"Of course it is," Buffy scoffed as if that were the most ridiculous question ever. But really, she couldn't blame her for asking. "You're completely welcome here."

Willow gave her a grateful, thin-lipped smile.

Buffy turned to Oz, "Um... over there, by the speakers?"

"Got it." Oz lugged his DJ equipment up the platformed steps.

"Ding dong," Larry announced, the first in a procession of young men lugging kegs. "Did somebody say... beer?"

"Yes, I believe someone did," Buffy answered, happily fleeing from the uncomfortable Willowness.

"At your service, Miss Summers. And I do mean service."

She smiled. "Think I'll just take the beer, thanks."

"Ooh, shot down again." He put a hand over his heart. "I don't think I can take much more of this."

Cordelia and Harmony strutted in. "Oh no, we're unfashionably early! Let's wait inside to make our big entrance." Cordelia turned to Buffy. "We'll be needing cocktails, natch."

"This way please," Buffy smiled, directing her to the bar.

* * *

"Now what?" Anya asked, door half open.

"I need Xander's help," Spike said.

"Look, you can't stay here forever. You know that, right? And if you do, you have to pay rent. Lots of it."

"I'm not staying over. I need an address."

"Who's address?" Xander asked from inside.

Spike stepped through the door. "Girl that owns this phone."

* * *

"Hm..." Xander clicked through to the next window. "Buffy, Buffy, Buffy... where are ya, Buff?"

"What kind of a name is Buffy?" Anya wondered.

"Rich," Xander said.

"Oh," said Anya, considering it for her first-born.

Spike looked at the phone that Xander had charged by way of some technological whatzit. Or, maybe he just had the same plug. Home: 213-

Anya was looking over his shoulder. "Why don't you just call her?"

"'Cause he wants to get it on with the Buffster."

Spike scoffed. "Do not."

"That was quick," Anya shrugged. "One single day after the world revolves around Dru and it's onto the next sexual conquest. Hmpf. Typical male."

"I don't want to... conquer her! I just want to return the bloody phone."

"Uh-huh," Xander nodded, unconvinced. "Hey, no judgment. I hope you're very happy together in your dreams."

"Shut your gob, Harris."

"Funny British insults will not make this go faster..." Click, click, click... "Or maybe they will. Buffy Summers, daughter of Hank. One Never Gonna Get Her Drive, Out of Your League, USA."

"Let me see that--" he peered closer, committing the real address to memory. He slapped him on the back. "Thanks, mate."

* * *

Buffy's arm brushed against Willow's at the snack bar. "Oh! I'm sorry. Go ahead."

"No, you," Willow said.

"Really, Will. I'm the hostess, remember? It's all you."

Willow made a funny face. "You haven't called me that in a long time."

Buffy winced inwardly. "Guess I haven't." Awkward silence. "So, um... where are you going next year?"

Willow chewed on a Tostito. "Yale."

"Really? Wow. Good for you."

"Yeah. It's gonna be hard to be away from Oz, but... I think we'll make it."

"You guys are pretty tight, huh?"

"Since eleventh grade, yeah."

"Right." I should probably know that.

"Where are you gonna go?"

"Nowhere so exciting. Just USC."

"That's good! That's a great school. Their humanities department is the--"

Suddenly, an arm was hooked through Buffy's and she was pulled away from the buffet table. "What are you doing?" Cordelia asked her ear.

"Getting a snack, actually--" She looked behind her.

"Before or after you slipped down a social rung?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's she doing here, anyway?"

"She's dating the DJ. Cord, we're not in high school anymore. We don't have to play 'avoid the loser.'"

"I'm gonna have to disagree with that... Angel!" She scampered off to be with her longterm guy.

Buffy sighed, returning his terse nod. Where was her longterm guy?

* * *

Spike zigzagged through a driveway full of cars. Party going on -- he only hoped it didn't involve dear old Dad. When he saw some high school kids jump out of the Lexus in front of him, he sighed. Didn't know which was worse.

Spike parked, smoothed his hair in the rearview and stepped out.

Laughter and music echoed loudly, but the monstrous excuse for a house was dark. Following the path the kids took to the back, he rounded a corner into a sea of rampaging teenage hormones. Bikini-clad girls and swimtrunk-wearing boys, some in the pool, some not.

He saw her immediately.

She was alight in a crowd of dancers, her hair and skin glowing, setting her apart somehow. Baby blue, shimmery string bikini top, a matching patterened sarong that clung to her every curve. And the way she was moving... undulating to the smooth, driving beat, flickering and flowing like loose liquid fire.

This was nothing like the girl he met two days ago, but he knew her just the same.

He stalked forward, slowly, weaving through the crowd.

Cordelia was the first to notice the party crasher. "What is that and what is it wearing?"

Buffy followed her eyes. "Ohmygod!" She spun around to face Cordelia, back to him, hissing, "It's him! Psycho Car Crash guy! What's he doing here?"

"I don't know," she stole a glance over Buffy's shoulder and sang smugly, "but he's makin' a beeline. Looks like you've hooked yourself another winner."

"Shut up!"

"Don't look now, here comes your new boyfriend..."

"Shhh!"

"Buffy," he said.

Buffy took a steadying breath and turned around. He was entirely too close to her face, and her heart was pounding in her chest. Stay casual, and be mean. "Hi." Hi?

"Hi."

"Hi!" Arm around Buffy, Cordelia leaned in and smiled wide at the pale-skinned anomaly. "You know, I don't remember ordering any vampires."

Spike frowned, bemused.

"Told you," Buffy explained, indicating, "pallor. What--" she pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, "what are you doing here?"

"Thought you might need this," he said, shaking the cellphone in the air.

Oh. It had totally slipped her mind the moment she saw him. But -- how could he wave it around like that? Didn't he know that if she took it, everyone at that party would jump to conclusions? Bad conclusions? "Keep it," she said with great disinterest.

What? Why would she -- Ah, he suddenly got it. Appearances. Lovely. He stuffed it back into his pocket, reading her subtle body language.

"Okay, well thanks for coming uninvited," Cordelia said. "Buh-bye!"

"Look, can I--" he glanced at Cordelia, and back at Buffy. "Can I talk to you a second?"

"Um." Her mouth went dry. "Okay. I, I guess so."

When he turned, a dark-haired lug got in his way and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Not sure what you're offering," Spike replied, and looked back at Buffy. "Gonna call off your guard dog?"

"Angel," Buffy said, "It's fine."

Feeling trapped and cornered and like a freak show on display, she followed Spike away from the crowd, leaving questioning whispers behind. How could he do this to her? How dare he. How dare he!

"Okay, that's far enough!" She snagged his arm as they reached the side of a cabana, out of sight from prying eyes but not all the way in the dark where things could get weirder. "Wanna tell me what the hell you're doing here?"

"Returning your phone," he spelled out as if she were an idiot.

"Yeah, I got that part." She pushed at that stubborn blonde strand in her face. "What I don't get is how you found me, or why you just show up on my doorstep to return a stupid phone I can easily replace!"

His jaw clenched as he leaned forward. "Do you want it or not?"

With a glare, she took it, checked it for grossness. "It's... charged?"

"Had to read the number," he explained, straightening with a shrug. "Get the address."

"You couldn't just call me? Check if I wasn't having a party first? Maybe schedule a public daylight meeting to give it back?"

Spike stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the stars. "Wasn't really thinking like that."

"Well, that's obvious. Thinking really isn't a strong point of yours, is it?"

Unbelievable. He shook his head. "Can't believe I came here to offer you money."

Ex*cuse* me? For... It took her a moment to reply. "For what?"

"The car. What else? My fault, I should pay."

Okay, that was a shock. Who was this guy? "You don't have to. It had insurance."

"Yeah, and deductible's what, five hundred, a thousand?"

"Something like that, but it's taken care of." This was confusing. "Look, I know you don't have a lot of--"

His eyes narrowed.

"I mean -- you... oh god. You know what I mean." She gestured at his clothes.

"No." He tilted his head. "Do tell."

She scoffed. "Why are you even trying to be nice when you know what I think of you and I know what you think of me?"

"Yeah, well, strange things happen to me when I sober up. I grow a conscience, or something. My mistake."

"Yeah, it was."

He inhaled, exhaled, cricked his neck. God, this girl was irritating. "What the hell is your problem, Summers?"

"How do you know my last name? Wait... my problem?"

"Yeah, yours." He stepped forward, staring her down. "Why can't you just let me be nice?"

"Because it makes me uncomfortable," she said, backing up. "You make me uncomfortable."

Startled by this admission and the way she said it, he squinted at her. "Why?"

She sighed, looking away. "I have to get back to my guests. Goodnight, Spike. Thanks for the phone."

"Hey--" he grabbed her arm.

"Hey!" She struggled to wrest free.

Their eyes locked fiercely for a long moment, neither letting up.

"Buffy? Is this guy bothering you?"

Spike released her, assessing the interloper.

"Parker! There you are!" Never happier to see him, she attached herself to his arm. "No, Spike was just leaving."

"Right." Spike stepped back, looked the boy over, and nodded at Buffy. "Have a nice life."

As she watched him disappear into the crowd, Parker asked, "That an old boyfriend of yours?"

Buffy burst into laughter. "No! Oh god, no. No. Really, really not."

Spike chugged back the bottle of Tequila he'd nicked from the party. Why was he letting some smart-mouthed little teenybopper get under his skin?

Because it takes your mind off Dru, you pathetic whinger.

"This is all your fault, Dru. You know that? Here's to you, you sodding rotten beautiful bitch."

He polished it off, flung it behind him and pulled the tape off another bottle.

* * *

"Mind if I cut in?"

Buffy looked up. Angel, with his arms around Cordelia.

"Sure," said Parker, checking with Buffy, "If that's okay with you."

"It's fine," Buffy shrugged and explained, "Really. He's like a brother."

"He was her brother," Cordelia said, taking Parker's hand. "They were steps for three years, she didn't tell you that?..."

Buffy and Angel embraced, her breasts flattened against his bare chest, and suddenly she couldn't hear anything but his breathing.

"You okay?" Angel asked her hair as his hands slid down her back.

Buffy inhaled sharply, closed her eyes. Why did he love to torture her? "I'm good. You?"

"Been all right." Hands slid up to rest on the tie of her bikini strings. "What'd that creep want?"

"Who?" Oh. Right. Spike. "Oh. Nothing. He's a client of my dad's--"

"It's okay, Buffy, you don't have to lie. Cordy told me all about it."

"Excuse me while I kill Cordy."

He chuckled. "Are we back to that again?"

"No," she whispered. "We're not back to anything. This is about confidences."

"I'm not gonna tell," he said. "Although, really not sure why you're protecting him."

She lifted her head. "What are you, jealous?"

He shushed her, eyes darting toward Cordelia. "Keep it down. And no. Not jealous, just... concerned. I didn't like the looks of him."

"Of course you didn't," she rolled her eyes. "But you're okay with Parker."

"He seems like a good guy, might treat you right. I wouldn't do him myself, but--"

"Shut up," she chuckled, and they fell into a comfortable silence for the rest of the dance.

* * *

"That's what I like about you," Parker said, sitting beside Buffy at the pool's edge. "You're not like the rest of them."

"I'm not?" Her feet scissored in the blue water.

"No. You're... different. I mean, you've got all the same luxuries, and the 'tude to go with. But... that's not all there is to you. You're not kiddie pool, you know? You're deep end."

Buffy smiled, charmed. "What makes you so sure of that?"

He took her hand. "It's like, I see the layers underneath. Some of them, anyway. I'd really like to see them all."

"My layers aren't all that interesting," she said, eyes on their interlocked hands.

"To me they are. I mean, like, look at the people you know. People you talk to. Like Oz. You know, he's a cool guy but I wouldn't have known that if you hadn't introduced me. Or, that guy earlier. Spike? Someone like Cordelia wouldn't be caught dead talking to someone like that."

Buffy felt a pang of guilt. I still made him leave. And why do I care? He's an ogre. God.

"Looks like the party's winding down," he noticed, looking up.

"Wow," she said. "I didn't realize how late it was."

"I really like talking to you, Buffy. I totally lose all track of time."

She smiled bashfully. "Me too."

"Oh! My god!" Cordelia sing-songed, coming back from walking Harmony to her car and pausing dramatically in front of Buffy. "It's still here!"

Buffy jumped up. "What is?"

"It." Cordelia looked ill, and pointed toward the driveway. "Go see for yourself!"

* * *

Buffy strode up to the black DeSoto, and opened the door.

Spike spilled out.

"Spike!"

"What? Wha?" He blinked several times.

She helped him up, shoved him toward the driver's seat.

"What are you--" he looked at her. "Bouncy girl? Buffy? What are you doin' here?"

"This is my driveway," she said.

"What? No. I drove home. Got in bed."

"Maybe in some alternate dimension, but in this one you're still in my driveway."

He squinted. "You comin' to bed with me?"

She sighed in exasperation. As much as she wanted him out of her life, she couldn't let him drive home in this state. Plus, she was deep end. "I'm calling you a taxi."

"Taxi? Don't need no taxi, I got this car right here."

"And you are not driving it." She swiped the keys out of his uncoordinated grasp. "Where can I tell them to drop you off?"

"Nice cliff'll do."

"What. Street. Is your. House."

"Don't have a house. Dru's enjoying Captain Girlyname."

"Translation?"

His forehead hit the steering wheel. "No house. No Dru. No life."

"Have I ever told you how sexy you are like this? I'm trembling with lust."

He turned his head slightly to eye her. "Knew you wanted me."

"Yeah, take me, Spike. Take me now."

"'f you insist--"

"Stop that." She caught his hand in mid-neck-pull and made a deep-end decision. "Come with me."

"We going to bed finally? Thank god." He let her pull him out of the car, hoist his arm over her shoulder and lead him toward the stone path.

"You're going to bed. I'm going back to my amazing new boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? That doe-eyed pillock tried defending your honor?"

His hot, sweet breath was in her face. She turned slightly. "If that means Parker, then yes."

"He's gonna break your heart."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," she said.

"Serious, love. He's gonna sweet-talk you 'til you give it up, then move onto the next. Trust me, I know his type."

"You're just full of the insight tonight, aren'tcha?" She deliberately let him slip for a second. "Oops, sorry."

"I'll bet you are," he said, bending toward her, breath on her neck.

She exhaled sharply, staving off that annoying effect he had on her. "Just a few more steps..."

"Where you taking me?"

"The guest house."

"Ooh. Guest house. Fancy."

"Well, you won't notice the fancy. You'll see a pillow, and then you'll wake up and leave."

"Hey, where's your Pop, love? Harry, or Henry or... Hank, that's it. Where's Hank? I wanna ask him for your hand."

"You know way too much about me." She unlocked the guest house's glass door. "It's getting creepy."

"Looked you up, pet. Did a search. Wanted to find you." She dropped him and he stumbled onto the double bed, face missing the pillow.

"Why?"

"'Cause your name is Buffy," went his little song, slurred against the mattress. "Bouncy and fluffy..."

She shook her head, tiny smile curling her lips. "Sweet dreams, Spike."

"Hey, you need a cuddle, don't hesistate to... hestistate... heads of state..." He sang the rest, "to come in my bed... be nak-ed..."

"I'll be sure to do that," she said, sliding the glass door shut.

"What's goin' on?"

Buffy jumped at the voice behind her. "Nothing. Spike's crashing in the guest house. You wanna come inside?"

"Sure," Parker said with a smile.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

---

It was beautiful, tender, soft... just as Buffy imagined it would be. She fell asleep while Parker spooned her, kissing her neck.

Then the alarm rang.

"Stupid-- ugh--" She batted a hand at the bedside table and shut it off, then backed into his embrace.

His non-embrace. His not-there-anymore embrace.

She shot up.

He's gonna sweet-talk you 'til you give it up, then move onto the next.

No. That wasn't Parker. He wasn't like that. He was probably downstairs, fixing her breakfast with the morning paper and a long red rose.

Buffy quickly wriggled into silk pajama bottoms, slipped on a tank top and crept down the staircase, calling out, "Parker?"

No answer.

He's gonna break your heart.

In a daze, she walked to the kitchen phone.

* * *

"Ow." Spike rubbed his head. "The hell?"

"Muffin."

"What?" He reached out and plucked the object from the pillow above him.

"Muffin. You want it or not?"

"Ow."

"C'mon, I didn't hit you that hard."

"Hangover." In one swift motion, he spun to look at her, then around the crisp, white, sun-drenched room, and back at Buffy. "All coming back to me." Sitting with one pale-pink pajama-covered knee up on the bed, hair in a loose bun, she was cheerfully popping muffin bits into her mouth. A raised tray adorned with fruits, coffee, juice, a bottle of Advil and a folded copy of the Los Angeles Times separated them. "More or less..."

"Hmm, let's see." She looked up at the ceiling. "You got plastered, informed me that my boyfriend was a player, then you proposed marriage and sang me a song. Milk and sugar or black?"

"Black," he said, eying her skeptically as he took the mug. "You're kidding about the... proposal thing, right?"

"Don't worry. I'm not holding you to it."

His expression didn't change. "Why you being so nice to me? And why're you so chipper?"

"I don't drink," she said pointedly. "And you were right."

"About?"

"Parker."

"Oh..." His face fell. "I'm sorry, love."

"It's okay," she breezed, shoulder meeting her ear. "I have a terrible history with men. They never choose me."

"Maybe you choose them for just that reason."

"Eat your muffin," she said with a scowl.

He looked at it, sniffed it. Smelled like bananas and cardboard. "So you and he... last night?"

"Mmhm." She tried not to dwell on what he'd said on the phone: Sure, I had a good time, well didn't you? It was fun... Nah, I got a lot to do this week. Yeah, we'll see each other around! "I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not," he said in all seriousness. "You're human."

"A human idiot."

"Don't beat yourself up, Buffy." He sat up gingerly. "You can't live your life without taking chances."

"Like letting you drive me to Palos Verdes?" She smiled, licking the crumbs out of her muffin wrapper.

"Or making terrible mistakes like that, yeah."

"I don't think it was a mistake," she said, throwing the muffin wrapper in the trash can and getting up to leave. "My dad's coming back in two weeks. You can stay 'til then if you have nowhere to go."

He watched her, dumbfounded, as she slid the doors shut.

* * *

"What am I, your fucking pet charity of the month?"

Salsa bowl and scrub brush in hand, Buffy regarded the rumpled Spike in her kitchen with astonishment. "Excuse me?"

"I don't need your pity, alright?"

She turned back to the sink, kept scrubbing. *Now* he has pride? "Who said anything about pity?"

"You did, with your pity-eyes."

"Oh for Christ's sake." She put the bowl down, cast off her rubber gloves. "Take it or leave it, okay? I really don't care either way."

He caught a glimpse of her reddened cheeks and lost his train of thought. "Have you been crying?"

"Oh good!" A bitter grin. "I get your pity-eyes now?"

"You have," he determined, and stepped forward with his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry--"

"Don't be. Please." She walked past him. "And this isn't part of the deal."

"What isn't?" He followed her into the dining room.

"You coming and going in my house. You're a guest. There's a house for you, and this isn't it."

"Buffy--"

"Please stop following me."

"No."

"No?" She spun around. "No? Is this the start of a fun stalker/stalkee relationship? Because if there's anything I really need right now, it's a stalker."

"No, I--"

"What? What is it you want from me? I can't figure you out!"

"I can't figure you out!" he shouted. "You run hot and cold and -- And I don't bloody know!"

"You don't know what?"

"What I want from you..." He shut his eyes, looked up at her, poised at the staircase. "I don't know."

"Well, I don't have time to play guessing games." She jogged up the stairs. "Either stay or go, it's your decision."

---

CHAPTER TWELVE

---

"It's the weirdest thing," Cordelia said with a plastered-on smile as she brushed past Buffy. "I could swear loser-guy's car is still out there."

Buffy sighed. Not expecting the tornado that was Cordelia today, she hadn't had a chance to hide his car in the garage after she'd seen his note made of refrigerator magnet letters: STAYING OK. "He's in the guest house."

"Uh-huh," her smile stayed on, "And why are we sheltering the needy?"

"He was drunk, he had to crash. It's no big, Cordelia. Really."

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "You didn't--"

Buffy gawked at her, appalled. "No, I didn't!"

"Then you're absolved. For now." She charged through the house, Buffy at her side. "What happened with Parker? When I left you seemed pretty smoochy-smoochy."

"Nothing." She averted her eyes. "We talked some more and, he went home."

"Play-it-cool Buffy. Good for you. Now--" Cordelia hit the back room with its huge picture windows, and forgot what she was going to say.

Because suddenly, both girls were immobilized by the image of Spike in a towel, sitting down at a patio table to read the paper and munch on an apple, oblivious to their presence.

"It's... got a body," Cordelia said, shocked.

Buffy nodded slowly, transfixed. "It really does..."

"A really good body..."

"Uh-huh..."

Their heads tilted in unison.

"Everything looks so much better naked," Cordelia sighed.

"It really does..." Buffy agreed.

"All it needs is a tan," Cordelia assessed helpfully, "and an appointment with Fedeleo."

"Who?"

"My colorist."

"Yeah."

Mutual deep sighs.

He scratched his chest. "Oh, I love it when guys do that."

Buffy snorted, "'Cause itchiness is such a turn-on."

"It's not the itch, it's the 'here's my ripped pecs, and I get to touch this salty goodness whenever I want. Don't you want that privilege?'"

Buffy took a breath. "Yeah-huh..."

"Whoa, whoa," Cordy started, peeling her eyes away from the spectacle. "Reign it in, Little Miss Carried-Away."

"No," Buffy backpedaled, snapped out of her hot-bod spell. "No, I meant, just in general, not him -- he's, annoying and a jerk. And -- psychotic! Plus, creepily obsessed with someone else."

"And lest we forget, a loser." Cordelia pointed at him lighting a cigarette.

Buffy scoffed, "You were just ogling his pecs!"

"I ogle at Chico the Pool Boy's pecs too -- that doesn't mean I'm gonna elope to Tijuana or wherever and have a million babies with him! God. You know what, honey?" She touched Buffy's forehead.

"What?" she sank back suspiciously.

"I think you're having PTSD."

"A what kind of STD?"

"PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disease. My mom got it after she had me."

"Isn't that post-partum--"

"You've got all the signs. Getting in cars with punk-rock freaks, chatting up granola nerds, helping the pointless... plus your hair is really flat."

Buffy touched her hair.

"I mean, you lost the uppermost prized possession in your life. That's bound to have an effect on your mental state."

Astonished, Buffy looked at her friend as if for the first time. "You know what, Cordy?"

"What?"

"I just realized I don't want to be like you anymore."

Cordelia patronizingly patted her shoulder. "It'll pass."

Please note: If you read the previous chapter a minute or so after I posted it, go back and reload it -- I just added chapter 12 to it (it was too short to post alone). Otherwise you'll be missing some story here. :)

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Buffy tightened her ponytail as she casually approached the patio table. Cordelia had finally left in a fit of disgust over her friend's 'pod-person' behavior -- all that was left now was Buffy, Spike... and that lucky white towel. "Is that what all the kids in England are wearing these days?"

"Well, I tried to change," he began without looking up from his newspaper, "but my car..." he scanned down the page, "seems to be missing a few things. Namely all of my clothes."

"Yeah, I -- I sent them out earlier." She sat down across from him. "They should be back in an hour or so, good as new. Or as good as they're gonna get, considering."

He glanced at her. "You went through my things."

"Nothing personal... just clothes. I didn't enjoy it."

"Uh-huh."

"And it's not a pity thing," she said flippantly. "It was completely selfish in that I wanted you to smell better."

"So you sent them out -- in this big enormous house there isn't one washing machine?"

"You think I'd personally wash your clothes for you? I'm not your freaking maid, and besides, I don't even know how to use a washing machine."

He chuckled, said under his breath, "'Course you don't."

Buffy gaped, and stood up. "Who the hell do you think you are? You take everything I offer, and then you make fun of me?" He was still smiling to himself. "I'm serious -- I seriously want to know! Who are you?"

He studied her expression. "Who am I?"

Chewing on her lip, she guiltily lifted a frayed black wallet from the back pocket of her shorts. "No ID."

He smirked. "Snooper."

"What, so it's okay for you to snoop for my father's name and address, but it's not okay for me to be curious about you?"

For some reason, this made him smile. "You're curious about me?"

"No," she replied quickly, then admitted, eyes to the side, "A little."

He leaned forward, put the newspaper down. "One-time offer, pet. Twenty-question me. Shoot."

She sat down, back straight. "Real first name."

"William."

"Last name."

"Huffman."

"Age?"

"Twenty-six come August."

"Occupation?"

He counted off on his fingers, "Semi-pro musician, part-time bartender, full-time barterer, bloody awful poet -- and professional layabout, according to a friend's wife."

"You forgot one. Thief."

"How's that?"

"The car?"

He laughed. "It's not stolen, love. But you could add 'liar', I s'pose."

"Oh." That was a relief. At least she wouldn't get arrested for harboring a felon. "What do you play? Musician-wise."

"Everything."

Buffy came up with a random instrument. "Harpsichord?"

"Actually, yeah."

"Viola?"

"Definitely."

"Accordion?"

"Learned when I was five."

Buffy raised her brow, impressed... and wondering if he had a picture.

"Curiosity satisfied?"

"We've got a grand piano inside."

"I saw it."

"Poet, huh?"

He scratched his head, looking slightly chagrined.

"So you write songs."

"I do."

"And sing them? In public?"

"Well, not unless I have to, but sometimes, yeah."

"I heard your voice. It's not bad. I mean, when you're not yelling."

He smiled warmly. "What about you? Any hidden talents I should know about?"

She shrugged. "Gymnastics, figure skating. Oh, and I can roll my tongue."

"What?" he laughed.

She opened her mouth, and her tongue rippled in waves.

"What the bloody hell--" he leaned across the table, peering into her mouth. "How do you--?" he touched her tongue.

She laughed, closing her mouth around his index finger, tongue still rolling. He tasted like salt and ash, and a trace of tangy apple.

Their eyes met. She froze.

In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled back.

Sliding against her soft tongue, her teeth, her closed, glossy lips, his finger finally disengaged with a pop!

Spike closed his eyes, inhaling sharply.

Buffy's face flushed, body hot and Satanic again. "I'd -- better go back to doing that thing."

"Right." He swallowed, expression glazed. "Me too, I have a--"

"Bye."

"Bye." He looked down at his slightly tented towel and whispered, "Bugger."

* * *

Buffy shut and locked the bathroom door behind her, catching her breath. Okay, what was happening to her?

Maybe it really was post-traumatic stress.

She walked to the mirror. Opened her mouth, rolled her tongue. Put her finger in, pulled it out. That's what he felt, oh god. No wonder he was looking at me like that.

"I'm a ho," she whimpered. "I get into one car crash and turn into a total ho."

For the second time that day, she grabbed her body wash and turned on the shower -- but this time, she made it cold.

* * *

"You've fucking lost it, mate," Spike told his reflection. "Dru dumps you, you wreck some little girl's car and just because she suckles on your finger like it's a penis-shaped lollipop..."

He sighed, let the towel drop, and spit in his hand.

* * *

Her lathered fingers were lingering way too long in places they shouldn't. Why couldn't she focus on anything else? Not like she hadn't just had sex... which was great while she thought it was gonna be something. Parker had been considerate, attentive; made her come, even...

But all she could see was Spike.

Only one way to get him out of my system.

She unhooked the showerhead.

* * *

"Fuck," he whispered, eyes shut, seeing only her, feeling only her hot mouth.

"One Never Gonna Get Her Drive, Out of Your League, USA."

Laughing, sucking, blushing.

"It means 'in your dreams'."

Dancing, gleaming in the party lights.

"What -- what are you doing here?"

Laugh, suck, blush. Laugh, suck, suck, suck... cheeks hollow, lips ripe, tongue, oh Christ that tongue...

"Fuck!" His come shot into the air, onto the sink, dribbled down his fist as he doubled over, hand working overtime -- shuddering as he imagined, for one split second, taking her completely.

Heavy, rapid breathing slowing in time with his arm movements, he struck the mirror. "Wanker."

* * *

Buffy sat on the shower ledge, head back, legs spread, thudding massage jet stream pointed at just the right spot.

Just a fantasy, just a fantasy, doesn't mean anything...

The party. Spike grabs her arm. Punches out Parker 'cause he knows his type. Tugs her close and kisses her. She finally gives in, wrapping her arms around him. They do it right there, up against the wall, no, in her bedroom, no, in the guest house... on the bed...

"Knew you wanted me."

In his car...

Patting her thigh. Kissing her hand. Fingers on the nape of her neck. Finger in her mouth.

Every touch they'd shared was so unforgettable, so searing; it might as well have been burned into her skin.

The thought of getting all of him... all of that heat...

"Unh, unh -- Unhhh!" Buffy curled her tailbone forward, then rolled erratically in her seat.

The guilt kicked in before the first aftershock.

"And lest we forget, a loser."

Buffy made it her goal to avoid her guest for the rest of the day, if not for the rest of her life. She had the dry cleaners bring the clothes out back; had some take-out delivered to his door. Fortunately, Spike didn't seem all that eager to see her either. He could've easily barged in -- said something annoying, but he hadn't.

She paused as she locked the front door behind her.

What if he thought about me too?

It's possible... the way he was looking at me...

Then she remembered his adamant, "You're not my type."

Of course I'm not. I'm not some hip alterna-chick with dreds and a nose ring, or whatever Dru is. She probably smells.

With that comforting thought, she strolled out to the main garage, car keys in hand, and opened the door... only to find that both of her father's cars were gone. Both!

She stared at the empty space. You really don't trust me at all, do you, Dad?

With a heavy sigh, she opened another door to the second garage, where Spike's battered jalopy hid.

Then she got an idea.

* * *

Spike had circled the grounds on foot three times, and kept getting the same infuriating result. An empty driveway, two empty garages, and no sign of his car.

Or Buffy.

He sat down on the front steps, shook his head, and took out his last cigarette.

He was going to kill her.

Just then, his car turned in to the driveway.

Spike wedged the cigarette in his ear and stood up, waiting for her to come close enough. Then he stormed toward her with a vicious sneer. "Where the hell did you take my car, you little--"

She rolled down the window, beaming. "Check out the hooptie."

"What--" he slung back, noticing that the whole thing had been cleaned, waxed, buffed, and fitted with shiny new chrome hubcaps. "What did you do?" He gasped. "My -- my windows!"

"No more hideous black paint. They're tinted now."

"Tinted--?" That's it. He opened the door and yanked her out. "You desecrated my car!"

Even as he loomed above her threateningly, she couldn't stop grinning. There was no way he could stay mad about this: she'd just turned his car into a sex machine, and no boy, no matter how... English, could resist that.

He leaned forward, narrowing the space between them. She didn't flinch. "What are you smiling at?"

Head down, eyes rising coyly to meet his gaze, Buffy dangled the keys at his face. "Don't you wanna take it for a ride?"

Spike stopped a smile from curling his lips, and tried to look angry. "No!"

She lifted an expectant brow.

He inhaled, exhaled, looked up at the stars, and finally let that smile show. "Get in."

Laughing, Buffy dropped the keys into his palm and pecked his cheek with a "mwah!" before jumping into the car.

Taken aback, he blinked for a moment. Then he followed her inside.

She reached over to fluff his hair. "Just stay away from the mountains, 'kay?"

"Only if you stay away from the hair." He peeled out of the driveway circle at full speed.

* * *

"I can't believe you," Spike said, shaking his head, still running his hands over the clean, shiny newness of his interior. "I can't believe your nerve."

"You looove me for it," she teased.

He glanced sidelong at her and laughed, "Shyeah. As if."

Buffy gasped, scandalized. "You did not just say that!"

"I did." He looked ahead. "Kind of want to kill myself for it, but... yeah."

"Ah-ah-ah," she waved a finger. "There will be no suicide attempts on my watch."

He smiled. That incident couldn't have been further from his mind right now. "Gonna be my conscience now, pet?"

"I am," she said with a nod. "Just as soon as I fully develop my own."

He looked at her. "You've got one, love. Maybe you hide it sometimes, but it's there."

Buffy leaned her head on the window. "Sometimes I wonder..."

Spike slowed down for Saturday night LA traffic. Saturday... wasn't he supposed to do something on Saturday?

Buffy watched a motley crowd lining up outside a club. Red letters on black awning said St. Vigeous. "Hey. It's Oz."

"Hmm?"

"Oz and Willow, going into that club. Friends of mine. Or, sort of friends."

Spike glanced out, saw Xander lifting equipment out of a van. Gig night -- Right. He'd forgotten all about it. And they were still going through with it without him? Bloody traitors.

He slowed as he caught a glimpse of Dru in full makeup, laughing it up with her latest distraction.

He swerved and pulled over.

"We don't need to stop," she said, "really, I don't know them all that well--"

"There's something I need to see."

* * *

"Hey, Spike man, you're late. They're already setting up."

"Not playing tonight." He smacked a ten down on the table.

The door man frowned and slid the money toward Spike. "Don't worry about it guy, you're comp as long as I'm here."

"Thanks, mate." He stuffed the bill into his pocket.

Buffy didn't catch their conversation, just saw the money exchange. "I'm-- with--" She pointed awkwardly at Spike, and followed after getting a nod.

Spike lit a cigarette and surveyed the stage. Dru was adjusting her mic stand. She looked incredible. He turned to Buffy. "You want something to drink?"

"I don't drink, remember?"

"AA?"

Buffy shook her head. "Al-Anon. Honorary lifetime member."

"In't that the same thing?"

"No, it's 'children of'."

He nodded. "Which one?"

"My mom. She's been sober for three years." Why was she telling him this?

"A coke then?"

"Sure. Diet."

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

"Okay." Buffy slunk back against the wall and nodded to the beat of a Cure song. She noticed a DJ lit up in the balcony area, but it wasn't Oz.

"Buffy?" A high-octave voice beside her that could only be the voice of...

"Willow! Hi!"

"Coinkydink, huh?"

"Totally!"

Willow scrunched her nose, puzzled and impressed. "Never thought I'd see you in a place like this."

A place like this, where the non-Cordelias hang out. "Yeah, me either."

"So... what are you doing here?"

"I'm -- with a friend. Or a, semi-friend, or... you know what I mean."

"A guy?"

"No! No. Not at all," Buffy said quickly, and amended, "Well, yes, he is a guy, definitely guy-shaped, but not, you know, my guy, in the romantic-interest sense of the... I'm sorry, I'm babbling."

"It's okay," Willow smiled slyly, deciding not to push. "Where is he?"

"Getting drinks," Buffy said.

"Are you here to see Wicked Plum?" She gestured at the stage.

"Wicked who?"

"Guess not. A friend we just hooked up with again, he's in the band. Remember Xander Harris?"

"Oh yeah -- your old crush!" That got an embarrassed chuckle out of Willow. "He was a senior when we were freshman, right?"

"Right. Well, anyway he's the um, well I'm not sure what he does in the band. Something to do with computers, or keyboards or something."

"Here," Spike said, handing a plastic cup to Buffy and chugging at a beer bottle. His eyes slid to the right, and he noticed Willow there.

"Hi," she waved. "Willow."

"Spike. Friend of Buffy's?"

"Yeah," Willow nodded. "Well, sort of..."

"Right, that's what she said."

Wanting to kick Spike, Buffy gave Willow an apologetic shrug.

Oz walked up. "Hey Buffy. Here to see Wicked Plum too?"

Spike grumbled something under his breath and turned to the stage.

Eyes on Spike, Buffy said, "I guess I am."

"We recently lost our guitarist," Drusilla cooed into the microphone, swaying to and fro. "It's a tragedy, really. But he lacked... vision, you might say. And more importantly," she leaned in with a conspiratorial smile, "he was a horrible lover."

A good portion of the audience laughed. Spike shut his eyes, a bitter taste in his mouth.

"So I say, out with the old," she stomped her foot, "in with the new!"

Lindsey rolled into the mid-tempo 6/8 of "Glad Sight". Devon followed with his bassline; Xander, sitting in front of several keyboards, kicked in with his layer; Anya made love to her cello -- and it took Spike less than a minute to realize that his guitar part had been sampled from the record. Only thing 'new' about this was he wasn't standing there playing it live.

Drusilla sang, "What sort of glad sight is this? Bitten and bruised by a kiss..."

Willow, mesmerized by the frontwoman, asided to Buffy, "Wow, she's beautiful."

Normally, Buffy would've responded with a fault: Yeah, but what's with the dragon-lady nails? But here, she found herself nodding in agreement. It wasn't just the huge silent-movie-star eyes, the long, lustrous dark hair, the sinewy frame wrapped in corset, or even the achingly pretty voice that made this woman so entrancing, it was... something more, something intangible. And maybe a little creepy.

Spike watched the show with a clenched jaw and a white-knuckled grip on his beer bottle. He couldn't believe it. Couldn't fucking believe it. There she was, writhing and crawling up to Lindsey -- singing to that rednecked pillock the words he'd written for her.

When she sang the phrase 'drink you all up', the bottle shattered in his hand.

Buffy looked up, startled. He was trembling. "Spike?"

Then she saw his eyes, firmly planted on the woman onstage.

Dru!

Well, duh. Who else could it be? He looked like he wanted to kill her and die for her all at once.

So there it was. His type. Yeah, she'd never be able to pull that off.

Whoa -- crazy brain? Where the hell did that come from?

Before she could say anything, Spike left her side, mowed a path through the audience and charged the stage, going straight for Xander. He shoved him up against an amp. "You two-timing prick!"

"Hey! Ho! Spike!"

The music died down.

He pressed the broken bottleneck against Xander's chest. "Sampling me? Using my bloody songs? You don't even tell me?"

"Hey!" Anya yelled, coming at him with her bow. "Get off of him!"

Xander stared down at the bottle. "Look, Spike, we didn't have a lot of time to prepare without you--"

"Then cancel the gig!"

"We can't do that -- we cancel once and they never ask us back! You know how it is, man."

"Yeah." He locked eyes with Xander and threw down the bottle, smashing it to bits. "I know how it bloody is. This set is over."

"Spike?" Buffy asked tentatively from the foot of the stage.

"Welllll," Xander said after a glance at Buffy, "maybe I was wrong, huh?"

"Spike, let go of Xander," Buffy said. "Before they call the police and have you arrested."

"You know him?" The blood from his bottle-cut hand seeped down Xander's yellow t-shirt as he shook him. "You know her?"

"We went to high school together," he shrugged. "What? It's not like I knew her address."

"Who's this sparkly little thing?" Dru patronized, gazing down at Buffy.

"None of your business." Buffy turned back to Spike. "Spike?"

"Ooh, and she's got a temper. No wonder my Spike fancies you."

"You know what? He's not your Spike anymore, okay? And just for the record, he's a fantastic lover. Guess the only thing 'horrible' about it was you."

The crowed "ooohed." Dru looked positively murderous.

Spike turned to regard Buffy, dumbstruck.

"Dude, c'mon," the bouncer said to Spike. "We got a show to put on here."

Buffy offered her hand. Spike dropped Xander, jumped off the stage, and strode to the exit, ignoring her.

* * *

"What the hell was that for?" Spike shouted once they were outside.

She answered matter-of-factly, arms out, "You?"

He was pacing, furious. "Did I ask you to do that? Did I ask you?"

"She called you a horrible lover! Doesn't that bother you?"

"Pfft. She just said that for the crowd. She knows it's not true."

"The audience didn't know!"

"I don't care about the buggery audience! Do you even realize what you've done? She thinks we're shagging!"

She scoffed. "So, what, she throws you out on the street with nothing, humiliates you in public, steals your music, most likely bangs the hot drummer--"

He turned at that. That obvious?

"--but you want to remain faithful in her eyes forever?"

He sighed. His hand had started to hurt. "Something like that, yeah."

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Don't you even know how girls work? They find out you're with someone else, especially someone as beautiful and smart as say, me, and they wonder why they gave you up."

He looked up, hopeful. "You think so?"

"I know so." She chortled, "I mean, did you see her face?"

"No. What'd it look like?"

She made the face of absolute shock and simmering anger.

"Ha ha ha!" he guffawed. "Do it again."

"No!" She started to walk to the car.

Like a hyper ten year-old, he jumped in her path. "C'mon... just one more time."

"No," she laughed, scowling.

"Pleease?"

How could he metamorphose from raging maniac to adorable little boy in the span of two seconds? How? "Maybe later."

"But you'll lose the--" he caught an eyeful of Willow and Oz walking toward them.

Buffy turned around.

"They threw us out too," Willow announced with a sigh.

"What for?" Spike asked.

"I think they thought we were all together. Rowdy by association or something."

"In that case I missed my chance to maul the bass player," Oz said.

Spike knit his brow, back to bad-boy mode. "Bleedin' shame, isn't he? Dru said all that counted was he had the 'image'."

Oz shook his head in musical camaraderie.

"Hey," Buffy said, looking at Willow, here's a crazy idea, "do... you guys want to come back to my place? I've got the pool and... well, you were there. Leftover party goodness. Still parent-free."

Willow and Oz exchanged a shrug. "Sure."

"You know where to go, right?"

"Yeah," Oz nodded. "We got it."

"I play some guitar," Oz said, sitting back in his patio chair, "Mostly for meditation."

"Crunchy loudness is very meditative," Willow said, and giggled.

"How come you don't have one?" Buffy asked Spike as she dabbed peroxide on his hand. "A guitar?"

"Dru--" he hissed at the sting, watched the white bubbles appear, "said it was property of the band and not mine to take."

"Harsh," Buffy said, and picked up the tube of Bacitracin.

"That is really harsh," Willow said. "How long were you two together? I probably shouldn't be bringing it up, but I'm so curious. And also, what's in this drink?"

"Looks like a lime," Oz said.

"Oh, because I like it."

"We were together almost six years. Since university."

"You went to--?" Buffy bit her tongue, and went back to wrapping his hand in bandage. "Nothing."

He arched a brow at her. "Cambridge, if you must know."

Buffy didn't hide her look of surprise. Edjamacated.

"Cambridge?" Willow repeated. "Wow. I'm going to Yale but I want to do an abroad in Cambridge or Oxford. I haven't decided. Ha, that sounded like 'do a broad'. I'm gonna go do a broad in Cambridge."

"Well, there are lots to choose from," Spike winked.

Willow blushed as her boyfriend chuckled. "Okay, so go on. You met there and fell in love, you obviously had this whole band thing going on..."

"We were both in the music department. She wanted to be her very own tragic opera diva; I just wanted to be her very own."

Eyes on his hand, Buffy made a face, silently mocking that statement.

"That's romantic," Willow said dreamily.

"Yeah, 'cept she always had a wandering -- bloody hell," he whipped his head to the right, "what are you trying to do to me, woman? Cuttin' off my circulation."

"Wuss." She eased the tension of the bandage.

He continued, "Anyway. Couldn't ever satisfy her; couldn't keep her still. One day she just up and decides to move to L.A. Because the pixies told her she'd be a star or some rot."

"The band the Pixies?" Oz asked.

"No, the... pixies in her head." He wiggled his fingers at his head. "It's complicated."

"Or merely insane," Buffy said.

"You be quiet." It was almost affectionate, teasing, the way he said that.

Buffy smiled to herself while she affixed the last piece of tape.

He took a deep breath. "So being the nancy boy I am, I followed her. Came out here on a student visa, didn't go to school, didn't work, just lived and breathed her."

"Wait -- doesn't that mean you have to go back?" Buffy suddenly felt inexplicably panicked.

"Why do you think I don't carry ID?"

"Don't you have a passport?"

"Burned it." He closed his bandaged hand around hers. "Buffy, relax. I'm not going back."

"You guys are so cute," Willow said.

Buffy and Spike looked up. "Huh?"

Buffy realized her hand was still in his. She pulled away so fast she hit her elbow on her chair. Ow.

"Cute. You're so new and in love and stuff."

"What -- oh--" they both bumbled for a second. "We're not--"

Buffy spoke. "I didn't mean about the sex, what I said in the club? I was just doing it to... annoy Dru, really. Although," she glanced at Spike and back at Willow, "I'm sure he isn't -- you know -- horrible --"

"Better believe I'm not," Spike said to Buffy, affronted.

"--but I really wouldn't know," she finally wrapped up, wanting to vanish into thin air.

"Oh, okay," Willow said. "I'm sorry, my bad. You just look like... you fit."

"Fit? Me and her? No--"

"We are totally unfit--"

She smiled at them. "It's just that, you met in such an abrupt way. Crash! I mean, you could've hated each other, but now you're here, and... you're so easy with each other, and you care. It's like serendipity. Or destiny or fate or something. Or possibly lusty bunny-ness." She hiccupped. "I'm sorry, I should stop drinking."

Buffy got up. "Anybody want snacks? I'm gonna get snacks."

* * *

"Buffy, I love you," Willow said as she hugged her goodbye. "I'm sorry I hated you all these years."

Buffy chuckled, "I don't know how much you'll regret that statement in the morning but... I've really missed you, Will."

Oz smiled warmly.

"Aww..." Willow whined. "Let's never be not friends again, 'kay?"

"'Kay." They let go of each other, and she waved goodbye to Oz.

"What happened with you two?" Spike asked as they watched Willow stumbling on Oz's arm en route to the van.

"Oh, you know how it goes. BFF until seventh grade, when allegiances and roles are established." She sighed. "It's pretty..."

"Rough," he said.

"Dumb," she corrected.

"Or that."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Erm, thanks for the wrap." He held up his hand.

"Yeah, well," she pushed a strand of hair out of her face, "I can't have buckets of blood all over my backyard, can I?"

"Right, 'course not. Be right hard to explain to Daddy."

She nodded, looked up at him.

He looked down at her, eyes lingering on her lips.

"Night," she squeaked, and hurried away.

Long after she'd gone inside, he was still staring at his bandaged hand, opening and closing it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

---

Buffy switched off the StairMaster, checked her pulse, and sipped some Evian.

Get your get your get your get get your freak on

Sunlight flooded the exercise room, and Spike entered, wearing nothing but gray boxer briefs. And apparently, he was saying something.

in your face/ open your mouth/ give you a taste

Buffy plucked out her earphones. "What?"

"Said I didn't know you were in here. This off-limits like the house?"

She shrugged, doing everything in her power to keep her eyes away from his lower half. "It's not technically the house, so -- neutral territory. Don't you own any shorts?"

Tiny shake of his head as he looked around. "Just trousers."

Buffy leaned casually against the StairMaster. "I think a shopping trip is in order."

"Don't," he said, striding over to the weight bench.

"Don't what?"

He chose two 25 lb. barbells and slid them into place. "Dress me up to your liking, like you did my car."

"Maybe you'll like it," she challenged, hand on her hip, "like you did your car."

He sighed. "I'm not your bloody Ken doll."

"Who said you were? I'm just trying to--"

"Help? I'll tell you what you can do to help," he said, sitting down on the bench and leaning back. "Spot me."

"Huh?" She fully expected him to say 'Go away, that's how.'

He gestured at the bar with his chin.

Oh, no... standing over him while he... "Shouldn't you wait 'til your hand is healed?"

"It's fine. Gonna help me or not?"

* * *

"Ooh, denied at two-twenty-five!" She helped him pull up the bar and return it to its hinges. "And I was so impressed up until that moment."

"Quiet you," he said, breathing heavily, Adonis-like body sheened in sweat.

A good number of seconds went by before she realized he'd said something else. Look at his eyes. Eyes. Eyes! "Huh?"

"Your turn," he repeated.

"Oh, I don't bench press--"

"C'mon, Summers." He sat up, patting his face with a towel. "Let's see what you got."

"But... it's all covered in your nasty boy-sweat."

He wiped off the bench, picked up her towel and laid it down. "Better?"

"No. I can still smell it."

"Down."

With a whine, she switched places with him. "Okay but if I start bulging with man muscles it's gonna be all your fault."

"You're not gonna bulge," he laughed, rolling off the heavy weights.

She lay back and looked up. "Yeah, speaking of, this is why you need shorts."

He gasped and teased, "Naughty Buffy... Lookin' at my bulge."

"It's right in my face! How can I not?"

"By lookin' at the bar that's about to crush your chest."

"Oh," she took it from him, and lifted and lowered it with ease. "This is nothing. Gimme more."

"Next set," he said, smiling down at her.

* * *

"Will you just quit while you're ahead?" he replied to her insistence that he pile another set of barbells on. "No way you're gonna make it."

"Oh yeah?" she asked between pants. "You think so, huh?"

"You have tiny arms! You can't possibly lift a hundred pounds."

She smiled saucily. "Wanna bet?"

"Oh, please..." But, then again, Spike was never one to turn down a wager. "Stakes?"

"If I make this, you let me take you to Nordstrom's."

He narrowed his eyes, raised a brow. "And if you don't?"

"Anything you want."

A slow, wicked grin. "Oh, you're on."

* * *

"These?"

"No." Spike looked both embarrassed and bored out of his mind.

"These?" She held up another pair of shorts.

"Definitely not."

"These?"

"What are you trying to do? Turn me gay?"

She giggled. "Okay, point." She put that one down.

"This is humiliating."

"Aha! This is it, I can feel it." She held up a black pair and pressed her cheek against it. "And so soft too."

He squinted. "Gonna be nuzzling my crotch?"

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Those are alright, I guess."

"Perfect. Now go try them on."

"No bloody way! Look, if they don't fit I'll return them."

Buffy sighed, shaking her head. Men.

---

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

---

Buffy lay back in her beach chair, languidly sipping a juice and tonic. "Yoo-hoo! Ke-en? Where are you, Ken?"

She heard him curse her name.

She giggled. "Oh, Keeeeennn..."

The door to the guesthouse opened a crack. His head popped out. "You keep calling me that and I'm comin' out there starkers."

"Does that mean 'naked' in your language?" she asked, head cocked, putting on the ditz.

He smiled. "In English? Yeah."

"Okay," she shrugged. "Ken."

He gasped, aghast.

She laughed.

Accepting the inevitable with a burdened sigh, he came forward, modeling another pair of shorts.

"Oohhh, nice." She nodded in appreciation and sucked on her straw. "I likey."

"Better than the last three, then?"

"All good. Now, spin." She spun her finger around.

He rolled his eyes and turned slowly, arms out.

"Come over here."

He cautiously approached her.

"Don't be afraid, Kenny." She sat up, and when he came close enough, she adjusted the tag, and patted his behind. "Perfect."

"Do I please you, Mistress?" he asked sarcastically.

"Oh, very, very much." She sat back. "You can service me now."

"Oh good."

When he came at her, she gasped, shrinking back -- Oh my god, he's really gonna--

And then he scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the pool's edge, and tossed her into the cold, cold water.

Buffy surfaced, spitting and screaming obscenities.

Spike pointed at her emphatically. "Yeah, you know you deserved it!"

"Okay, okay." She wiped the water out of her eyes and treaded to the pool's edge. "Maybe I did." She held out a hand. "Help me out?"

"Oh no. I know that trick, love."

She made the most serious face she could. "I promise I won't pull you in."

"You promise?"

"I totally promise."

He sighed, and held out his unbandaged hand. She pulled him in.

His head shot out of the water. "You little liar! I'm gonna--"

She knife-stroked toward the shallow end. He darted after her, caught her ankle, and pulled her under.

She managed to spin, wiggle out of his grasp, and vault out of the water like a dolphin while pushing his head down.

He took that opportunity to seize her hips and yank her toward his face.

She felt his nose on her navel, and gasped.

Bear-hugging her torso tightly against his body, he emerged. "Oh, I got you now."

"Nuh-uh," she said, looking into his eyes as she held onto his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist, "I got you."

Expression darkening, Spike slid his hands up her back. Rough, calloused fingertips on her peach-smooth skin, eyes on her wet lips...

"Whoa, whoa. Reign it in, Little Miss Carried-Away."

Just then, Buffy's brain conveniently recalled an image of Spike the night before, staring at his ex-girlfriend in a blind rage, blood oozing down his arm.

So she did what she had to do: She splashed him and swam away.

"Alright Barbie," he said, wiping his face, sighting his target on her retreating form. "This means war."

She grabbed the metal ladder and propelled herself out of the pool, water cascading down her back. She slipped two fingers under her bikini bottoms, adjusting them like girls do in the movies, and turned to smirk at him while she wrung her hair.

"Get back in here!" He splashed her from there, but she jumped out of the spray. "I'm not done with you yet."

"I guess Barbie wins," she said breezily, and turned on her heel. "Later, Ken."

Breath heavy, he watched her sashay into the house and close the door.

Right.

"Whatcha doin'?" Buffy asked, plopping on his bed after coming in unannounced. She was bored in the house all by herself -- sick of talking to her friends on the phone, sick of the TV and AOL. And still thinking about The Pool.

"Writing." He hadn't looked up, just lay there on his stomach, scribbling.

"Your awful poetry?"

"Yes, if you must know."

"Can I see?"

"No way in Hell," he said, folding the paper.

"Why not?"

"It's not finished."

"But you'll show me when it is?"

He raised a brow. "Might even sing it for you."

"Ooh, it's a song? What about?"

"Frogs."

She laughed, and lay down beside him.

"And trampolines," he added.

"And why do frogs need trampolines?"

He shrugged. "To hop higher."

"You're such a freak."

Looking at the page, he asked, "What are you doing in my bed?"

"I'm hungry."

"So you're foraging in my bed?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

He turned to her, propping his cheek on his bandaged hand. She was dry and perfectly coiffed again, wearing beige pedal-pushers and a red babydoll shirt that had words on it. He pulled it out by its hem to read: Happiness is Chinese Food. "Starved, actually."

She pushed his lingering fingers away -- Belly-touch! *Tickly* belly-touch! Mayday! -- only to have him weave them casually but firmly into hers. This is not affecting you, I repeat... "Let's order out!"

"Let me guess," he said, eyes on her shiny, manicured fingernails. "You don't have the slightest idea how to cook."

"I do too! I can cook... toast. And Campbell's soup." She shook his hand, hoping he'd let go. Or something. "The best toast and Campbell's soup you've ever ever eaten."

He smiled, and sat up, pulling her along by the hand. "C'mon, let's give you a cooking lesson."

"But -- ordering out, so much easier--"

"Cooking, so much more fun."

"Waah! I hate you."

"Come on," he urged, and dragged her outside.

* * *

"Ta-da!" She held up a bottle of Cabernet blush, and presented it to him like Vanna.

He glanced at it from across the room. "No, sweet. That's still not white wine."

She frowned at the label, and put it back. "Oh, oh, here's a white one. Some German name I can't pronounce."

He bent down to check the flame. "Gewürztraminer?"

"Um, yeah. That's the one. How'd you know that?"

"Bit spicy. Any others?"

"Okay, um, Chablis. Fancy looking. Dusty."

"Try to find something from this millennia."

She pulled out another cellar drawer and ran a finger over the bottles. "Clos du Bois, 2001?"

"Perfect. Give it here."

She stepped up beside him and watched him deftly open the bottle in just three strokes, hand her the corkscrew, and pour a shot into the pan of sautéed onions.

"Smells good," she said, putting the corkscrew on the countertop.

"Tastes even better."

"Where'd you learn to cook?"

"My mum. Mushrooms?"

She handed him the plate of chopped mushrooms, and he knifed it down into the pan.

"What do we do with the rest of the wine?"

"We drink it."

"But I don't--"

"Then I drink it. Now we check on the chicken... Good... Put this on a low flame, and, come." He directed her to the cooktop and stood behind her. "Now one hand here," he placed her hand over the panhandle, "and take this," he put the wooden spoon in her other hand, "and stir, gently..."

Buffy closed her eyes, feeling his hot breath in her ear, his warm chest pressed against the thin cotton of her t-shirt as he manipulated her hand...

"Wake up, kitten. Can't have you sleep-cooking."

Her eyes fluttered open. "I'm sorry, it was just... you were lulling."

"Was I?"

He moved a touch closer. Pelvic contact. Guh.

Her back arched in subconscious response, her whole body simmering on that low flame. Especially her ear, the one he could kiss right now if he wanted to... if he really wanted to...

He disappeared, eliciting a tiny whimper. She blinked herself out of the trance, took a deep breath. Okay, a guy holds you from behind and calls you "kitten" and you're ready to let him dry-hump you in the ass? Get a grip.

But then he came back, and said into her hypersensitive ear, "Cream."

Gulping, she looked down at his hand, pouring a small carton of heavy cream into the mix.

Kitten. Cream. Me-ow.

He made her stir again. Don't move, don't move, don't let him know. No matter how close his lips are to your skin...

Stepping back, breaking contact, he said brightly, "Now we wait five minutes and toss that on the bird."

Uh-huh. She continued to stir. Just... give me a minute.

* * *

"Wow," she pointed at her plate with her fork and declared, "this might be the best thing I've ever had in my mouth."

A trace of a smirk. "And here I thought it was my finger."

She exhaled a laugh, eyes rolling. Marched right into that one.

Looking down and cutting another piece of chicken, she said, "I admit it, okay?" As he waited for her to complete the sentence, she chewed, swallowed, smiled innocently. "Cooking is good."

Spike laughed. Little tease.

"I mean, it takes forever, but the payoff is so worth it."

"Knew you'd come 'round." He poured himself another glass of wine and tipped the bottle toward her empty glass. "Sure you don't want?"

"I'm sure."

"It's not like the hard stuff. Goes down smooth, makes you warm."

"I'm already warm."

"Just as well," he shrugged. "Also makes you horny."

Her eyes widened. "So... you're...?"

Hands folded under his chin, he gave her a tight-lipped grin and quirked a brow.

Buffy opened her suddenly-dry mouth, and the phone rang. She sighed. "I'll be right back."

Before she even said hello, she heard: "Buffy. What happened with Parker?"

"Cordelia?"

"Yes, it's Cordelia. I just saw Parker Abrams at that party you refused to come to, making kissy-face with some random skank, and he tells me you guys are over?"

Buffy sighed, touching her forehead. "Yeah, Cordy. We're over."

"What did you do?"

"Me? I didn't do anything except believe his lame-ass 'sensitive guy' routine."

"Oh my god, you slept with him! You slept with him when I gave you express orders not to!"

"C--"

"You have got to stop sleeping with every guy who shows the slightest interest!"

"I don't sleep with every guy--"

"Have you forgotten the golden rule? Cow? Milk? Free?"

"Okay, first of all, I'm not a cow. Second, that is not the golden rule. And third, I really, really don't need to hear a sermon from the Blessed Virgin right now. I am not you--"

"Well, that's glaringly obvious. All I'm saying is, just try to show a little more self-respect."

Buffy looked heavenward, feeling an urge to smash the phone against the wall.

"Only because you deserve it," Cordelia added pointedly. "Are we still on for Friday?"

"Yeah." Why? Why did she say yes?

"Great. Night night!"

Buffy hung up, walked back into the dining room, and sat down.

"I think I will have that drink."

Spike stepped carefully over a bouncing Buffy to take a seat on the couch behind her.

Arching backward until her shoulders rested between his knees, she grinned at him. "Hi, I'm drunk!"

"Love, you haven't even finished your first glass yet. You can't be drunk."

"Says you." She reached up to tap his lips.

He nipped at her fingertip and smiled. "Bit tipsy, maybe."

"Oooh!" She reached for the remote and muted the TV, gulped down the remaining wine in her glass, then spun around to face him. "Let's watch The Ring. I've been too scared to watch it. Will you hold me during the scary parts?"

Trying to ignore the affect her current position had on him -- kneeling between his legs -- he shook his head adamantly. "Oh no. Seen that with a girl. Made me go to the loo with her for the next three nights."

"Dru made you go to the loo?" She giggled at her rhyme.

"No, Anya."

"You have another girlfriend?"

"No, no -- she's Xander's wife."

"Oh. He's married? Wow." She looked at him. "You went to the bathroom with Xander's wife?"

"We were on tour. He was asleep. It wasn't sexy, if that's what you're after."

She frowned. "Can I have another glass?"

"At this rate, prob'ly not." He reached for the bottle on the coffee table and poured it for her anyway.

"You're right," she said, smiling at her wine glass as it filled.

"Am I?"

"About the horniness." She took a sip, jumped up on the couch beside him and brushed her hair away from her neck, exposing it to him. "Tell me something sexy and whisper it in my ear."

He laughed, gazing at her neck. "I will not."

"C'mon." She faced him, inching her knees to his thigh. "Tell me about your sex life. Like, when was your first time?"

"That's not sexy. Terrifying, more like."

"Mine was sexy. When?"

"I was fifteen," he said.

"Me too! How cool is that?"

"I don't know... Yours was sexy?"

"Oh god, yes. It was... yeah." She looked into her wine glass. "You've been having sex for eleven years."

He chuckled. "Guess so."

"How many girls?"

"Uh..." He looked up at the ceiling. "Well I was with Dru for--"

"Right." She sipped. "So before?"

"God. Fifteen, maybe? Twenty?"

"Ooh, you little manwhore!"

He laughed. "I had a sluttish couple of years, yeah. How 'bout you?"

Buffy snorted. "Two."

He frowned. "Only two?"

"Only two." She lay down and rested her cheek on his lap, facing the mute TV.

"Parker was two?"

She nodded against his leg. Kelly Clarkson was mouthing the words, Surprise! It's time! To feel what's real!

"You've only had sex twice?"

"Oh no." She held up her glass, toasting. "I've had sex a lot."

"Got it," he nodded, suppressing the urge to run his hands through the honey-blonde hair covering his lap. "One lucky bloke, repeatedly."

"In many different positions."

He laughed. "That so?"

"Uh-huh." She sat up again, leaned over, got in his face. "What's your favorite position?"

He looked down, admitting with a shy chuckle, "Missionary."

"Awww!" She slapped his shoulder. "That's the cutest thing ever!"

"Oh, let up."

"I'm serious! No guys love that the best. They mostly like, you know, from behind or whatever."

"Not sayin' I mind that. I just got a thing about..." he waved his hand around his head, "seeing her eyes is all."

She sighed. "That is so sexy of you."

He scrutinized her. Was she serious? And was she really that drunk? God, her eyes were pretty... "Any variation of the theme will do. Legs over the head, whatever."

Her mouth was leaning in to say, "Legs over the head... how?"

And those shiny lips, the way they moved when she flirted -- like she knew how much he wanted them to be elsewhere. "You know." He made another gesture.

"Nuh uh. Show me."

"Show you? No, love. I'm not gonna show you." That much he knew not to do in a situation like this.

"You are gonna. C'mon." She put her wine glass down and sat back on the couch, grasped her ankles and bicycled her legs. "Here I am, I'm like a poseable doll. Show me."

Spike learned right then that it was impossible to say no to her. Because suddenly, he was kneeling before her, sliding her bottom toward him, easing her ankles over her head, and poising himself at her ass. Getting a naughty smile out of her.

His volume dropped to bedroom-level when he said, "Like this. Or..." he latched her bare feet around his neck and leaned forward. "Also," he brought her legs down, wrapped them around his waist, "this. Or..." he unhooked her legs, spread them wide. "Nice split."

"Gymnast," she said, flashing a grin. "Wanna see my favorite?" She grabbed him by the t-shirt collar and sat up. "On your back."

Unable to disobey, he lay prone on the couch, and she straddled him. "Like this," she said, gyrating once on top of him, and turned around, her back to him. "Or like this." She spun around again. "But mostly like this."

He gripped her hips to stop the wiggling and rasped, "Right..."

"And? I love to give blowjobs." She ground into him at the love.

His voice came out barely more than a squeak. "Do you?"

"I really do." She fingered his belt buckle.

He grabbed her hands. She was drunk. This was wrong. "Prob'ly best not to... demonstrate..."

"I mean, some girls hate to give it, you know?" Her fingers weaved into his. "But I don't. Guy looks so... helpless and amazed and stuff. It's such a turn-on."

"Helpless and amazed, yeah. I think I can relate."

"Mmhmm." Lifting his hands over his head, she bent forward until their noses almost touched. "Do you like to... give it?"

He nodded several times, swallowed. "Oh yeah, love it."

"I bet you're good at it too. Show me your tongue."

He unclasped his hands from hers and stilled her hips, choking, "Buffy?"

"Yeah?"

Searching her eyes, he whispered, "What are you doing?"

She frowned, and sat up. He doesn't want me. "I--um--" When his hard-on pulsed against her, her eyes widened. Or maybe he does. She dismounted and fell to the floor.

He didn't move, kept his eyes on the ceiling. "You alright?"

"Uh-huh," she whimpered, lying very still on the soft Berber carpet. What AM I doing? What the hell am I doing?

"I uh, I think we should call it a night," he said.

"Good idea."

"Yes, I'll take care of it!" Buffy walked through the dining room and into the den, three white towels in hand. "Stop worrying."

She stopped at the picture window. No sign of Spike. "Uh-huh. Dad, I got it. It's all under control."

She opened the door out to the back. "Of course I won't forget, I'm not--" Sighing, she held the phone out as she made her way to the guest house.

The vertical blinds were closed. She sat down at a patio table and put the phone back to her ear. "Yes, Dad. I will. Okay, okay. Okay! Let me go do it now, then. Okay? Bye."

She smacked the phone down on the glass surface, took a deep breath, and got up again.

She knocked at the door twice. Listened. Slid it open.

Crumpled papers, a pen, a pack of cigarettes and his leather duster were splayed across the bed. The shower was running.

Buffy knew she shouldn't, but something completely out of her control propelled her to peek into that bathroom door. Completely out of my...

She smiled, leaning back against the doorframe. Stall showers were such a brilliant invention. Except for the translucency of them. And how they got all steamed up.

Even so, his refracted soap-sudded physique was something to behold. Under the water, and, yes... get all that soap off.

Okay, stop, she told herself. You came here to offer penance for last night, not find a whole new reason to... oh, god, that back...

When he spit into the drain, she held in a chuckle.

It wouldn't hurt if she opened the door a teensy-weensy bit more, would it? His back was still turned, he wouldn't see.

It creaked. She held her breath.

Luckily, he seemed to be in his own little world. And so was she, until--

"You planning on joining me or just watching?"

Busted.

Before she could run away, he slung open the stall door. She caught one full-frontal glance and looked up, training her eyes on an imperfection in the wallpaper border. Let the babbling begin. "I, um, came to - to apologize for my... uh, behavior. Last night? That was not me, and definitely not what I wanted. From you. See, this is why I should not drink; obviously, alcohol and me, unmixy things..." She trailed off, biting on her lip.

"And now?" He arched a brow. "What's your excuse?"

She held up the towels. "Towels. I brought you..."

He smirked. "Could've left them on the bed."

"Um, yeah. I'll -- I'll go do that."

"Might as well give 'em to me now," he shrugged, cutting off the shower. "I'm finished."

"I'll just--" she put them down on the sink, avoiding his gaze, "put them down right here." She turned to leave.

"Apology accepted, pet."

"Uh-huh." Exit running.

* * *

As she sat down in front of the TV, Buffy pressed a palm to her face. It was still hot to the touch, still burning with embarrassment. Last night, and now this... He must think I'm a complete hornbag.

And that smirk. As if he knew he was God's gift or something. Just because he was all... endowed.

Maybe this was a bad idea, letting him crash at her place. She had things to do, a life to live! Spike was way too distracting. And way too endowed.

She should really ask him to leave.

"Buffy? You in here?"

Her heartbeat doubled up. She considered staying quiet, hiding maybe, but that was stupid... No, Buffy, you're the one in control. You. "It is my house."

"There you are," he said, finally finding her.

At least he was fully dressed. "What do you want?"

He held up his hand, bandages all askew. "Can't seem to get this right."

She rolled her eyes and sighed histrionically. "Follow me."

* * *

"Stop looking at me like that." She tightened the bandage.

"Like what?"

"Like that, all... smug and evil-grinny."

He chuckled, evil grin wide. "I'm sorry, I can't help it."

"Will you just get over it?" She cut a piece of tape. "So I watched you shower, big deal. You have a nice body, so sue me."

He mock-gasped. "Another thing about me she doesn't find revolting! There's a stunner."

"Yeah, well, that's it. Don't be expecting any more." She taped the bandage shut.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"What what means?"

"Tit for tat, love." He sat back, folding his arms. "And I do mean tit."

She gasped, mouth open.

"It's only fair. You saw me shower, now I get to see--"

"You better be joking."

"I'm dead serious." His eyes panned down and up her front. "I want what's coming to me."

Buffy felt her neck prickle. "I am not gonna--! There is--! I will not shower in front of--!"

He broke into a grin. "I'm kidding, Buffy." Resting his chin on his palm, he said, "You are adorable when you're flustered, you know that?"

She threw her hands up. "God, you are so--!"

"Hot? Sexy? Handsome?" He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Huge?"

"Deluded," she said, eyes level with his.

He smiled and tapped the table once. "Tell you what. Come to breakfast with me -- my treat. And I'll never bring up any of your voyeuristic impulses ever again."

She considered this. "Will I get that in writing?"

* * *

"Not quite what you're used to, is it?"

"Quite not." She glanced around at the hipsters that wall-to-walled the small Silverlake diner, and pulled her wobbly chair toward the table. "But I like it."

"It's homey, yeah?" He straightened the checkered tablecloth. "Though... not from your perspective, I s'pose."

"I like it," she said, once more with feeling.

The waitress dropped their plates in front of them, and Spike immediately forked into his crepe. "Got something you'll like more." He held a morsel to her mouth.

She refused it. "Too sugary."

"Little sugar won't hurt you." He figure-eighted it through the air. "C'mon, love. Open up for Daddy."

How did he make everything sound so dirty? To conceal her blush, she opened up for Daddy. It was sinfully good. "God, you're like the Anti-Atkins."

"Talking with your mouth full," he tsked. "What's next? Elbows on the table?"

She plunked her elbows on the table and stuck her tongue out.

"Rude, rude, rude."

"I'm nouveau riche. We don't have any manners. Besides, you went to Cambridge," she pointed out.

"So?" He poured some sugar into his coffee.

"So you've gotta come from manner-having old-money people, Mr. Hypocrite."

"Never said I was rich."

A throaty chuckle. "Right."

"Honest! I was just lucky. And smart."

"Uh-huh."

"Alright. We weren't poor. But I did go on scholarship, which made me lucky. And I was smart."

"You were, huh? What happened?"

Spike chuckled bitterly. "Love happened."

Buffy commiserated with a sigh, "Love sucks."

"And she finally breaks." He put his coffee cup down. "Fess up. What's the story?"

"Story?" She sat back in her chair. "What story?"

"Your love story." He rubbed his hands together. "You know it sucks, you must have one. I'm guessing it's the repeatedly, in many different positions guy."

Buffy took a deep breath, regretting every single word she'd said the night before, and shrugged it off. "I loved him. He didn't choose me. Can we talk about something else?"

He lifted a brow, intrigued. "Definitely not."

She sighed. "There were circumstances... beyond our control. Things that didn't allow us to really be together."

"Ah. He was a dirty Montague, then?"

"No, not like that." She cut into her omelette. "It's a stupid, long story. And there should be violins or at least a haunting piano theme song if I ever tell it."

"I'll get right on composing it."

"Bottom line is, I loved him, he loved me, it was a lovefest... and then it was over. Because it had to be." She poked at her Iced Tea with her straw, watching the ice cubes rise. "And then when we were finally free to be together, he didn't choose me. He decided to move on."

"I'm feeling the urge to kick some pimply teen ass."

"His ass was not pimply. And he's twenty."

His head tilted slightly. "You still love him."

She exhaled. "I do... I guess I always will, in a way."

He nodded, understanding.

With a puzzled frown, she looked away. "Weird."

"What?"

"It's just... I've never told anyone about him. You're the first person who knows anything about it."

He gazed at her for a moment, and finally blew it off. "I'm a stranger. We come in handy for secrets."

"Are we still strangers?" she asked, fork at her mouth, eyes sparkling with mischief. "'Cause I've seen you naked."

Too strange to be strangers
Too friendly to be friends

There were three light knocks at the door.

Spike stuffed the sheet music into his bedside table, sat up and peered through the glass. Buffy, with a pizza box and two cans of soda.

He opened the door, suspicious. "You're knocking now?"

"Yeah, well. Not anxious to get another full Monty."

"Right," he said slowly, looking her over, "Good thinking." This girl changed outfits more often than Cher. Now she was wearing a soft yellow v-neck halter top with little embroidered palm trees on it and did she ever wear a bra?

She held up the box. "Pineapple pizza?"

He tore his eyes away from her halter top. "Why would anyone put fruit on a pizza?"

"And that's what I thought you'd say. So half is plain." She walked in, he stepped back, and slid the door shut.

* * *

"Just one little bite. It's not gonna kill you!" She waved the slice stuffed with pineapple chunks in front of his face and took it away with a sigh. "Here I thought you were all Adventure Guy, but nooo, you're afraid of a couple of pineapples."

He snagged it from her hand. "Persuasive little chit."

"Thank you!" She gave him a sunny grin, and reached across the floor for her soda.

"You always get what you want?" He inspected the pizza slice.

"Nope. Only from you."

He chuckled. "Right. I'm the chump can't say no to a pretty girl."

She sipped at her Diet Coke. He thinks I'm pretty.

He was chewing. "Hey. Not half bad."

"Told you so. Pineapples, yum."

"Who woulda thought?"

She sat back and put her elbow up on the bed, hand in her hair. "You, if you weren't so pigheady."

"Oi." He pointed at her sloppily, munching on his slice. "Attitude like that's gonna get you intimate with the pool bottom again."

She gasped. "Not in these clothes, it won't! This blouse is one hundred percent silk."

"It'll be one hundred percent wet when I'm done with it." A sidelong glance, and he took another bite.

Buffy only really heard the word wet. And him being done with it. Let's veer away from anything having to do with wetness and being done. And why did he have to say it all throaty like that? Okay, subject, away. Away from throaty wet subject matter. Anything, anything... She picked up her own slice from the box on the floor that separated them. "How'd you get the name Spike?"

He chuckled evilly.

Apparently, not the better subject matter... But she wasn't gonna back down now. And he was so lying anyway. "Oh, come on. That would mean it was pointy. And it's not."

He raised a brow. "Who said anything about it?"

Buffy blushed. "Okay, so, my conclusion-jumping bad. Let's - rewind the tape and ask again. What is it, the hair? Sometimes you spike it."

"Name of my first band," he said with a shrug. "Railroad Spike. Used to nail the flyers to trees with rusty old spikes I found along the tracks. No name, just the date and place."

"That's creative."

"No, it was destructive," he corrected. "Sleepy little English town, zillion year old trees. I was bad. The town rebel."

"Uh-huh. Did any of them know you played the accordion?"

He smirked. "You think you're cute, do you?"

She smiled. "Do you?"

He was struck dumb for a second, and actually started to stammer. "W-- uh--"

"Spoken like a true rebel," she teased, and sipped her soda.

Spike shook his head, eyes downcast. How did she do that to him?

"So. What turns a not-poor boy into a rebel anyway?" She tucked her feet under her thighs. "Peroxide? A questionable record collection? Strategically-placed safety pins? Or are those just the unfortunate side effects?"

"Careful. Getting philosophical on me now."

"Hey, I'm not stupid, you know."

"I know that," he said, looking at her.

And she believed him.

He threw his crust into the box and picked off another slice from the pineapple side. "After my mum passed, I went to live with my granddad. He was a strict bastard, I fought him every step of the way. The end."

She watched him eat for a moment. "Oh. Is he gone too?"

"Yeah. Right before I went off to school."

He really *doesn't* have anybody. Buffy suddenly wanted to kiss and make him all better, all over. But that wasn't gonna happen. No it was not. "And then there was Dru."

"And then there was Dru." He smiled bitterly. "The rest is misery."

"You said it was fantastic."

He paused, eyes on his pizza. "You really want me to talk about this?"

She looked away. "No. Not really."

Silence as he chewed, and then, "Your real name Buffy?"

"Yes it is. And shut up. William."

"Alright," he said, backing off. "Just, you know, could've been short for something."

"Buffy Anne Summers. The end."

"I like it," he said, flashing a smile at her before polishing off his slice.

"Okay, you're what?"

Spike visored a hand over his eyes and looked up from the paperback he'd chosen from the guest house bookshelf. Buffy was standing there in a two-piece with a juicy orange slice pattern all over it. Good enough to eat. "I don't remember saying anything..."

"You. Are sunbathing. Am I in Bizarro World?"

He turned his attention back to his book. "Never figured you for a comic book fan, pet."

"Don't change the subject! You're sunbathing! You!"

"Well, you got me these pretty trunks for the occasion, didn't you?" He held out an arm and grinned at it. "Can't wait to see if I freckle."

She walked up to him, and prodded his chest. "You feel real..."

"Hey!" he laughed.

"And you're still an idiot, so this must be the real world."

"Why am I an idiot?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Because you're not wearing sunblock."

"So?"

Sighing, she kneeled beside him and squirted her SPF 8 oil into her hands, rubbed them together. "So, if you don't want to be Kentucky Fried Spike tomorrow, you need some sunblock. Heavy sunblock." She swept the oil over his arm, his shoulder, back down his arm and to his hand. "But this'll have to do for now."

Spike was trying very hard to keep his cool as Buffy stroked his skin with those soft, surprisingly strong little hands...

Then she dripped oil onto his solar plexus, and he flinched. "Bloody hell, woman!"

"Sorry. It'll get warmer." She smiled at him, and rubbed it slowly, evenly over his chest, his nipples, down to his washboard abs--

When she hit his navel, he caught her wrist. "I'll do it."

"I'm almost done..."

"I'll do it."

"Whatev." She handed him the bottle and sat on an adjacent lounge chair.

"I smell like a sodding piña colada," he grumbled, rubbing the oil over his stomach and legs.

"Better than the smell of burning flesh," she retorted, lying back.

* * *

Buffy glanced at her watch. "Ding! Flip time."

Spike looked up from his book. "What's 'at?"

"Twenty minutes. You need to flip."

"Not your flapjack, pet."

She got up, grabbed the suntan oil, and said it one last time. "Flip."

He sighed, adjusted the lounge chair to flat, and turned onto his stomach.

"Now shut up and let me do this. I promise not to cop a feel."

"Promises, promises." He felt the oil spill down his spine, smooth and warm now. Giving in, he closed his eyes and dropped his book as she methodically spread it over his back, his sides, his shoulders, his arms...

She moved to kneel at his legs, and chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Buffy said, oiling his thighs. "Just, if anyone asked me what I thought I'd be doing this Tuesday? It would NOT be spreading suntan oil all over someone like you."

"Someone like me, 'ey? What's someone like -- Oi! Don't do that!"

She'd gotten to his feet. "What? This?" She lightly brushed her finger across an arch.

He laughed, "Hee hee!"

She gasped. "You're ticklish!"

"Am not!" he said unconvincingly, since it was coupled with a giggle fit.

"Aw, Spike's widdle feet are tickwish!" She tickled them some more. He was giggling. Giggling! It was the cutest thing she'd ever heard.

"Leave 'em alone!" He combusted into hysterics, trying to push her away with his feet. "I mean it!"

"Say uncle..."

"Stop it! Stop stop stop! Uncle!"

"Okay, okay, stopping," she said, raising her arms and standing, trying to keep a straight face. Unsuccessfully.

"I'm gonna get you for that," he vowed, turning his head toward her.

"I'm not ticklish," she said airily.

"There are other ways."

Other ways. Other. Ways. She cleared those images out of her mind. "Well, too bad. You can't move for twenty minutes."

"I can wait."

She surveyed her handiwork. Oily-all-over Spike. Hadn't she just had a dream about this? "Oh, hold on, I forgot your neck." She straddled his butt.

Spike was about to protest when her slippery fingers began to massage his neck muscles, and his vocabulary was suddenly minimized to "Ohhhh."

"You're all kinds of tense." She dug deeper.

He nodded, moaning incoherently.

Ha ha, non-verbal Spike. Oh, the power.

Well, she couldn't neglect his shoulderblades, could she?

Spike knew this was crazy, all of this, but he didn't care. Because fuck if he hadn't felt this good in weeks... months... years, maybe...

Ten minutes of full-back massage later, she decided she should probably stop. "Okay, now do me," she joked, and waited for a reaction. She bent forward. His eyes were closed. "Spike?"

A light snore. He was sound asleep.

She smiled, running a hand down his back. "Hmm. Should I be flattered or offended?" She straightened, did one last upward sweep, raked her fingers through his hair -- soft -- and got up.

"Mm-mm," he complained, dimly roused by the loss of contact. "Come back."

"Go back to sleep," she said snidely, and sat down in her chair.

"Can't. Need you on me."

She chose to ignore that. He was naptalking anyway, didn't know what he was saying. "Get your snooze on now, 'cause in twenty minutes, I'm waking you up."

He drifted back into the best slumber he'd had in six years.

* * *

"Wakey wakey," he heard, right before he was doused in freezing cold water.

With a high-pitched shout, he flipped around in his chair. She was grinning at him, empty bucket in her hand.

"You wouldn't wake up," she shrugged, the picture of innocence.

Water dripping down his head, his eyes narrowed. "Oh, you are in for it now."

He lunged. With a gasp, she took off, triggering a chase around the pool's perimeter.

She shouted as he closed in, "No horseplay around the pool!"

"This horse is not playing," he growled, outstretched hand almost catching her by the boycut bikini bottom before she screamed and scampered away.

"You're just begging for a spanking."

"A sp...?" She gasped. Other ways. "Am not, you big perv!"

"You're going over my knee, missy."

"Not if you can't catch me!" She rounded another corner and sprinted forward.

Sprightly little thing. Couldn't keep up with her.

So, he howled in pain, and limped over to the diving board.

Buffy stopped, turned around. "Spike?" She tentatively approached him. "Are you... are you okay?"

"My bloody ankle," he said, sitting down and making a big show of nursing it.

"Do you... need..." She stepped a little closer.

Just one... more... step...

He grabbed her by the arm and threw her over his knees.

"You big faker!" She tried to wriggle away.

"Yeah," he laughed, holding her fast. "And you fell for it."

She thrashed around in his lap. "Let me go!"

"I don't know, love." He shook his head, running his hand up her thigh. "You've been a bad, bad girl."

"No! No!" Yes!

"That's right. Daddy's gonna spank your cheeky little bum 'til these oranges," he briefly slipped a finger under her orange-emblazoned bikini shorts, "turn apple red."

"No!" She squirmed. Oh, god, with the touching! And the Daddy! "No--"

Wicked grin on his face, he raised a hand in the air and snapped it down once. Not too hard, just enough to make her squeal in surprise.

"Tickling my feet?" Spank! "Drenching my head?" Spank! "Yeah, maybe this'll learn you." He spanked her again and again, getting that same delicious response each time.

"Ow! Ow!" she laughed, struggling not so much. "Ow!"

He rubbed her ass, hand moving in little circles over the spandex material, over her soft, taut skin. "I'm sorry... did I hurt you, baby?"

Legs stilling, she scoffed. "Hardly."

"Oh," he shrugged, and slapped her. Hard.

She screamed a real scream and jumped up, rubbing her behind. Then she assailed him, hitting and pounding his chest. "That hurt! You big! stupid! jerk!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Chest rumbling with laughter, he grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "I just... couldn't resist."

Eyes level with his, she pouted. "Jerk."

He smiled at that pouty lip. "I'm sorry."

When his gaze met hers again, Buffy felt light-headed. Oh no.

His smile faded. Tight grip loosening, his thumbs were now softly stroking her forearms.

She swallowed, opened her mouth to speak...

And the front door slammed.

Her eyes widened.

He frowned. "Who...?"

"Oh fuck! Fuck!" She pulled him away from the diving board and toward the guest house.

"What? Who is it?"

"It's Alejandra. Hurry!"

"Who's Ale--"

"Our housekeeper. God, it totally slipped my mind--"

"So you do have a maid..."

"Housekeeper. Twice a week when Dad's gone. Get inside!" She opened the door for him. "And don't move a muscle 'til I come for you."

His inevitable smirk made her blush.

I couldn't have gone with "don't come out until I tell you to"?

She shut the door, got her bearings, and went to greet Alejandra.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

---

"Spike?" she asked the glass door.

"Decent," she heard.

"There's a mission impossible." She stepped inside.

Spike grinned up at her, a lollipop stuck between his teeth.

He was lying on his back, feet at the headboard, neck curled over the end of the bed, remote control in hand. "She gone?"

She glanced at the TV and sat beside him. "Yeah, finally."

"Aw. What's the matter, you miss me, kitten?"

"It was agony," she said, extra-sarcastic.

"S'okay, sweetness." He rubbed her arm. "We're together now."

She shook her head, smiling. "Where'd you get that?"

"What, this?" He took out his purple lolly and pointed. "Found it in the top drawer. Whole assortment of 'em."

Buffy got up and opened the bureau's top drawer. Sure enough, there was a bowl of candy, nestled beside Spike's underwear, wallet and huh, a strip of condoms. Interesting.

She took out a Cherry Charms and unwrapped it. "I cut the roof of my mouth on one of these once. It bled for like, three days." She stuck it in her mouth.

"Mm. That's what I like about you."

"Accident-prone?"

He shook his head. "No fear."

"Are you kidding?" She sat down on the bed. "I have tons of fear. Miles. Just not about mincing myself on a lollipop."

He stared at her candy-coated lips, and refocused on her eyes. "What about, then?"

"Oh, you know." She shrugged. "Life stuff. The future. The usual."

He scoffed and said, mouth full, "Please! You got nothing but expensive cars and day spas and rich husbands in your future."

She pulled out her lollipop. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Acting like because I have money, my life is perfect. It's not."

"Alright, maybe it's not. But you," he turned onto his stomach, "have bugger-all to be scared of! Take away Daddy's money and you've still got it all." He crunched into his lollipop, bit everything off the stick and chewed on the bubblegum.

She watched him fling the stick into the garbage can, then lay down on the bed, aping his position. "Define 'it all'."

"Strong, smart, gorgeous, witty. Oh, and stubborn as hell. Do I need to go on?"

She exhaled a chuckle, secretly stuck on gorgeous.

He took her hand, gazed at it as he rubbed it softly. "You're gonna have the world by the shorthairs, Buffy. Whatever you decide to do."

"I don't know about that."

He smiled at her with those clear blue eyes. "I do."

She smiled and put the lolly back in her mouth. "Well, you're all psychotic and stuff."

He nodded. "There's that, yeah."

She spun the lollipop, pulled it out and asked, "Wanna go to a movie?"

* * *

"What happened to that toad guy from the last one?" she whispered to him.

"Uh... he got electrocuted by whats-her-name."

"Oh. Right." Buffy grabbed a handful of popcorn, and Spike caught her wrist, brought it to his mouth, stuck out his loooong tongue and adhered its very pointy tip to one piece.

Watching him chew it, she chuckled. "Toad tongue."

"What's 'at?"

She whispered in his ear, "Toad. Tongue. You."

His eyes closed, head tilted toward her slightly and he muttered, "Show you what sort of tongue I have."

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugged innocently.

"No, really, what'd you--"

"Shhh!" someone hissed behind them.

They made the face of children caught laughing in church, and turned their attention back to the movie.

Things happened onscreen. Action. Romance. Character development. Spike fidgeted in his seat, thinking only of all the places he could put his tongue and how loud he could make her scream. Movie. There's a movie on. Watch it. You're not on a bloody date.

Or are you?

He leaned toward her.

"Mmm, Wolverine." She nodded in appreciation at the screen. "Hot."

"Pfft. What's he got that I haven't?"

"Um, claws? And a massively sexy growl."

Without another word, he pressed his lips against her ear, and mmmmmrrrrrrhhhhhhed.

Buffy gasped, mouth open, and whimpered. Her legs? Instant Jell-o. Her panties? Instant Slip-and-Slide.

Spike grinned, dug into the popcorn bowl in her lap, and sat back in his chair, eyes on the screen as he popped a handful into his mouth and crunched loudly.

Holy fucking god. Buffy tried to even out her breath, feel her limbs again. This isn't good. This isn't good at all.

It was impossible for her to concentrate on the rest of the movie. All she could focus on was how close he was to her side, and how rapidly her heart beat when he murmured his commentary or reached between her legs for popcorn.

* * *

Home. Home. Thank god.

Buffy barely looked at him when she said goodnight.

"Yeah, it's been--"

She shut the car door, hurried inside.

"...fun," Spike finished, and shook his head.

With a sigh, he patted his chest for a cig and smoked it in the car, watching her lights go on and off.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

---

Ten Reasons Why I Should Not Let Spike Lick Me All Over And Have His Way With Me, by Buffy Summers

1. He's a pig.

"Unh..."

2. He knows he's hot.

"Mmm..."

3. He's *way* too big.

"Unh!"

4. He's jobless, aimless, and when left to his own devices, is a slob.

"Mmnnnn..."

5. He's dirty.

"Yeah..."

6. He's sexy.

"Uh hmm..."

Wait.

6. He's too... too... He's a musician. Someday he'll have groupies. Naked ones.

"Hunh..."

7. He smokes.

"Mmm..."

8. He drinks.

"Mnah..."

9.
9.
9. Mmmmmrrrrrrhhhhhh

"Unh! Unh! UNH!" Buffy arched off her bed, three of her fingers buried deep and thrusting, another two twisting a nipple.

She trembled, shook and licked her lips, that unholy growl echoing in her brain.

"Oh god," she whispered, eyes shut, "Oh god oh god oh god..."

Then she exhaled, slow and long.


10. He's in love with someone else.

BANG!

Buffy sat up on her bed.

He's in the house?

He's in the house.

In her ear: "...can't wait to get out of this hellhole, I feel like a freaking rat in a--"

"Amy? Can I call you right back?"

"Yeah, okay," Amy said. "Sure."

Buffy pressed a button on the phone, threw it aside, and listened.

He was downstairs, humming to himself.

How dare he. How dare he just come and go as he pleases! Jumping up to check her hair in the vanity mirror, she noticed that her cheeks were flushed, and surprise, her nipples were hard.

Instant arousal; just add Spike.

"Bra, bra..." She opened her drawer, picked out a lacy pink... What am I doing?

She chose a plain white slightly padded one, slipped it on under her tank top and went downstairs.

Buffy found him in her kitchen, rummaging through a cupboard. Scavenger.

He had a chocolate chip cookie in his mouth, and took it out, intact, to say, "Hello, cutie."

Cutie. He just called me... She folded her arms, lifted her chin. "What are you doing in here?"

"Lookin' for eats. You're all out." He put the cookie back in his mouth.

"Then what's that in your mouth?"

He took a bite, chewed for a second, and threw it in the trash. "Stale."

"Why don't you go buy something to eat?"

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking." He wiped the crumbs off on his black t-shirt. "Wanna come?"

No, no. Say no. Not gonna come. "Where?"

"Grocery store?" He sauntered up to her, placed his palms on either side of the island she stood against, and leaned so close she could smell chocolate chip cookie and aftershave. Leisurely, his gaze slid up her body to her face. "7-11?"

Jesus, he can even make the friggin' 7-11 sound sexy. Her breath caught in her throat as she said, "Okay."

* * *

Mouth at her ear. "Done yet?"

Buffy jumped, startled and flustered. "Don't do that!"

He stepped back with a smile. "You got ice cream in the car, love. Gonna melt on my spotless interior if you stand here reading..." he nodded at the page she had open, "Saucy Young Tart all day."

She leveled her eyes to his, turned the magazine toward him. "Elle. Not Saucy Young Tart."

"Right. The difference is clearly huge."

"Clearly. Saucy Young Tart sounds like something more up your alley."

He smirked, reached up the magazine rack. "You mean like this one?" He waved a copy of Barely Legal in her face.

"Oh, god." Eyes downcast and darting from left to right, Buffy turned red. "Put that away?"

Flicking his wrist, he appraised the cover model. "Hey. She looks a bit like you, pet."

With a scowl, she said, "Put. it. away."

Spike opened it up to the centerfold, and grinned. Minxy come-hither expression, tan thighs and pink, pink lips spread wide. "Yeah, she does sort of look like you, round the..." he circled his hand in front of his chest, "eyes."

She snatched it out of his grasp and stuffed it back in the rack. "Can we go now? Please?"

Laughing, he raised his arms in surrender. "All I was trying to do."

Spike watched her spin on her heel and make haste to the cash register, jean-clad ass switching from left to right.

As he moved to follow her, he quickly scanned the store and stuck the magazine in his back pocket.

* * *

"Now I wanna be your dog," he sang, hitting the steering wheel for percussion. "Now I wanna be your dog."

Buffy exhaled harshly, irritated. "Okay, I get it, you're my dog! Can you turn it down?"

He turned it down. "What's 'at?"

"Nothing, it's just... loud."

He shrugged, and nodded his head to the quiet beat. "You feelin' okay?"

"Just peachy." She took a sip of her blue-raspberry Slurpee.

And now I’m ready to feel your hand
And lose my heart on the burning sands

He lit a cigarette.

"You smoke more than Smokey the Bear," she complained, waving her hand.

"Smokey didn't smoke," he said, exhaling through his nose. "He prevented forest fires."

"Smokey the Bandit, then."

"Want me to put it out?"

"You'd just light another one. You chainsmoke on autopilot. How could you ever quit?"

"Why would I want to?"

"So you don't die?"

"Aw, pet, didn't know you cared."

"I don't." Stonefaced, she shrugged. "But you should."

He stopped at a traffic light and pushed down the grocery bag between them. "What's gotten into you?"

"Who said anything's into me?"

"Since last night. You've been... I don't know, odd-like. Did I do something?"

She looked out the window. "Believe it or not, Spike, not everything is about you."

Eyes on the car ahead of him, he nodded slowly. "Fair enough. What's this about, then?"

"Nothing," she snapped, exasperated. "Why do you always have to drag everything out of me?"

He frowned at her. "Are you on the rag?"

"No!" She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "God! Men."

"Alright," he held his hands up. "You know what? I won't say another word."

"Good!" She sipped at her drink. "And why do you even care?"

"Now what are we talking about?"

"About me. Why do you care about me?"

"I--" He exhaled. "What are you looking for here?"

"Nothing!" Her brow furrowed. "I don't want anything from you."

He looked up at the blue sky, shaking his head. "I don't understand you, Buffy."

"Mutual."

The hell is she on about? "What is your--"

She watched the light turn green and interrupted angrily, "I just want to go home."

"Fine." He hit the gas pedal.

"Thank you!"

* * *

"Some of this is yours," he said, hand in the grocery bag.

"I'm not hungry. Take it." She opened the car door.

"Buffy..."

She sighed, and waited.

He squinted at her. "Do you want me to leave?"

Eyes on the ground, she said, "Do what you want," and slammed the door behind her.

He stared after her, brow knit, mind backtracking over the last day.

* * *

As Spike stuffed the bag of groceries into the guest house mini fridge, something dropped with a splash behind him. He turned his head.

Half a glossy Buffy lookalike was smiling up at him.

He picked her up, opened her to full size and ran his fingers down her two-dimensional, long, blonde hair.

What have you done to me, Buffy?

Breathing a rueful chuckle, he tossed her into the trash, and stood up.

Deep, cleansing breath. That feels better.

"Irritating little bitch."

He looked around the room, and back at the trash can. After a moment, he fished the magazine out.

* * *

Buffy sat at her bedroom's windowbox, head pressed against the glass, gazing down at the guest house. His light was on. Hers was not.

Six hours had gone by since she'd seen him last, and she still couldn't think of anything else. It was official: she was a sick, sick puppy and she would never, ever get this infuriating, incredible, strange, wonderful, badly dressed, sexier-than-Wolverine bastard out of her tainted blood. Not until...

Not until she...

Her heart thudded in her chest.

What if she just did it?

What if she said to Hell with everything, and just did it?

* * *

Too strange to be strangers
Too friendly fucked up to be friends

Spike was startled out of his reverie by a tinny ringing noise. He looked at the bedside phone, yellow light flashing, and wondered if picking up was the right thing to do.

Oh hell, he could say it was the wrong number. "Hello?"

"Master bath, five minutes. Bring a towel." Click.

Spike sat up, and stared at the phone.

Then he looked out his door and through the darkness to the illuminated window on the second floor.

Tit for tat.

As Spike's boot soles plushed into the wall-to-wall carpet of the second floor landing, he paused.

He could hear the shower running, down the hall to his right.

Grip tightening on the staircase banister, he tried to think this through.

He knew, oh, he knew he shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be coming at her beck and call; shouldn't be mowing down a path in the hopes of getting a glimpse of her... no, let's be honest, *more* than just a glimpse. Because this was no open invitation -- it couldn't be. Buffy was just toying with him, like she had been for days; getting just close enough to taste, then rabbiting away, underlining the fact that she was someone he could never have. He couldn't blame her, but still. Walking down that corridor and into that room could only lead to trouble -- or at the very least, another painful pair of blue balls.

Spike sighed.

Bugger it, I'm going.

He strode ahead, and slowed down as he reached the master bedroom. Daddy's bed. Pictures of Buffy and... guess she had a sister.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar.

Taking a breath, he pushed it wider, opening it to a full, clear vision of her, hands in her hair, arms raised, back arched. Water streaming down the curves and planes of her supple golden body, soap lather sliding along with it, exposing her flesh to him slowly, teasingly. Unlike the guesthouse's, this shower door was not translucent. And unlike the girl in the magazine, this was Buffy.

Fuck.

Lips parting, tongue touching his teeth, his breath caught in his throat. A hundred rapid-fire visions went through his mind: pushing her ass against that glass stall; throwing her on her father's bed, still wet and glistening; licking her wetter; two fingers inside her; fucking her doggy-style in front of the mirror...

Suddenly, she opened the stall door.

Turning off the water with her toes, she nodded at the towel he was holding over his groin. "Is that for me... or for you?"

Spike didn't answer, didn't look away. Head down, he took in every wet, naked inch of her with predatory bedroom eyes. Then his gaze met hers, saying in no uncertain terms: I want you. And I'm going to have you. Right now.

At that raw, hungry, uncensored stare, Buffy's eyes widened, and she shut the glass door. "Okay!"

He exhaled a feral, frustrated growl. What the hell is she trying to pull?

She was panting in the shower, sounded scared.

Scared? He frowned, momentarily shelved his lust, and forced his vocal chords to work. "--ffy."

She gulped. "I'm - I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking--"

He shut his eyes, opened them. "I'm a man. Try to remember--"

He could see her nod, heard her whisper, "Yeah."

"I'm going for a drive." He cast the towel down on the floor and walked out.

* * *

Heart still racing, hands shaking, Buffy slid open the guest house door. An hour had passed and he was still gone. But not for good, if his stuff everywhere was any indication.

God, she'd been such an idiot. She wanted him so much, but when... when he looked at her, really looked at her, she choked. Panicked. Couldn't handle it; couldn't handle him. All that was... him. Cocktease, thy name is Buffy.

She sat down on the bed, and something crunched. Pulling the crumpled piece of paper out from under her, she squinted at its scrawl, written under corresponding chords.

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
Think you're so tough she said

She said my name is Buffy
Leave me or love me
I'll turn you fluffy
As if that ain't enough, she said

I like to blow
I'll make it slow

With a gasp, she put the paper down.

Another page of sheet music caught her eye.

For Buffy

It looked like he'd figured out a whole orchestral arrangement for this one. Whee, a pornographic rock opera just for me.

Then she read the lyrics.

A lot of them were blacked out and rewritten, and it wasn't done, but what was there was... wow. Poetic, and heartfelt, and not at all pornographic and... wow.

On the back of the page were the words:

I was in a car crash or was it the war, still I never been quite the same

I'm in love with your name

With a shy smile, Buffy turned it over, read the half-written lyrics again, and again. And one more again. Impulsively, she brought the page to her lips, kissed it, and put it down.

It was then that she realized what was happening to her; what had been happening to her since the moment their eyes met on that mountain road.

"Oh, Spike..."

She looked around the room, rubbed her arms, and made a decision.

"You need to go."

* * *

Spike drove and drove and drove -- music blaring, windows open. He'd considered numerous action plans after leaving Buffy's house. Topping his list was finding any blonde bit o' fluff with a remote resemblance and shagging her senseless. Second was going home, bashing Girlyname's head in with his guitar, and setting fire to the apartment.

He didn't do either. Instead, he just kept driving, no direction, no plan.

London calling, to the zombies of death--

He sped down another steep, winding road.

I know this place.

Screeching to a halt, he pulled over and got out.

Yeah, this was the spot. There was still a crackle of her headlight on the ground. He picked it up, weighed it in his hand, and stood up.

As he strolled to the cliff's edge, it occurred to him -- he was really gonna do it. He was going to die to prove his eternal love to Dru.

And Buffy... Shiny, bouncy Buffy Summers came along and saved him. From all of it. With one chance meeting, she turned his world upside down -- dug him out of the darkness and transplanted him into her sunny back yard.

Where he didn't belong... Where he'd never belong.

"This," he chucked the jagged plastic over the edge, "has got to end."

* * *

They were in her car. The top was down.

She was in his lap, riding him, feeling him deep inside. His hands were coasting up and down her back. The sun shone down, bathing them in warm light. The wind moved her hair.

"Spike," she whispered into his ear.

"Buffy..."

"I love you, I love you," she said.

"Are we... going somewhere?"

She noticed with vague curiosity that they were rolling backward down the mountain road, no one at the wheel.

"It doesn't matter," she said, and held on, burying her face in his neck. All that worried her was that when she looked up, he wouldn't be Spike anymore.

The car tipped back and dove down.

"Don't worry baby, I'm still here," he said, gently touching her hair.

She wasn't afraid. She was warm. Content. His.

Right before they impacted and burned to cinders, Buffy woke up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

---

"What's with the sudden anti-social riff?" Cordelia grimaced, bright midday sun in her eyes. "Everyone is asking about you. I'm running out of excuses."

"I guess I've just been needing a break." Off her friend's blank stare, Buffy added, "You know... to think about stuff."

She continued to stare blankly. "Huh?"

Buffy nodded and settled for, "Must be the post-car loss trauma."

"Must be." Cordelia gave her a skeptical once-over. "Well, are you coming or what?" She smiled. "Lots of cute guys... and no Parker, I made sure of it."

Buffy glanced at Angel, waiting in the car. "Thanks, but... I don't think so, Cord. I'm not feeling up to the whole meet-and-greet right now."

"Your loss." Cordelia sighed, and skipped back to the car. "But you're not flaking on me tomorrow, got it?"

"Uh huh." Buffy didn't hear a word she said.

"Bye bye, Buff," Angel called out with a wave as they drove away.

"Bye, Angel," Buffy said quietly, and realized something new.

It doesn't hurt anymore. Not like it used to.

Her thoughts returned to the thing that did hurt. Spike.

As much as she wanted not to care, she couldn't help but be worried. And angry. And jealous. Crazy jealous. He'd been out all night, doing god knows what with who. Going for a drive, my ass.

She didn't need this. She really didn't need this.

Her speech was outlined and ready, beginning and ending with the phrase, 'You need to move out'. She had no idea how he'd take it. Would he fight her on it? Would he just leave, no questions asked? Would she ever see him again? Wait, that's not the point.

When she turned to re-enter the house, she heard another car pulling up.

The car of Spike.

Her stomach clenching, she watched him approach. You can do this. You can do this, Buffy. You can--

He stepped out of the car, squinting in the sunlight. With a quick, casual nod in her direction, he said, "I'm moving out."

She stared at him, dumbstruck. "What?"

He was already making his way to the backyard. She followed. "Spike?"

He sighed. "I can't stay here, with you. I can't do this anymore."

"Wait -- hey." She tugged on his jacket sleeve. "That's my line!"

"Glad we agree then." He yanked his arm away.

She frowned at his back. "Did you get back together with Dru?"

"What? No."

"Did you see her?" She followed him again.

"No, I didn't see her. Not that that's any business of yours."

"Then what's with the sudden moving out?"

"Shouldn't have stayed here to begin with."

"What? Why?"

He didn't answer, just kept striding ahead.

She intercepted him at the poolside. "If you don't stop walking I'm going to hit you!"

He relented, and stopped.

She took a deep breath. "Look, last night--"

"Yeah. Believe it or not, seeing you starkers wasn't a bloody revelation for me, alright? This isn't about that."

"That's not what I -- God, why do you have to be so mean?"

"That's a little pot calling the kettle isn't it?" He brushed past her.

"What is your problem?"

"You!" He spun around and said fiercely, "You are my problem! You never should've gotten in my way!"

Her brow furrowed. "In your way?"

"That day was supposed to be my last." He stepped back, fanned his arms out. "I'm a walking bloody ghost, Buffy! Look at me!"

"You look all right to me."

Narrowing his eyes, he leaned toward her. "Stop saying things like that. Just stop it, and let me go. Because this," he pointed between them, "is going nowhere."

He stormed away and slung the guest house door shut.

Buffy stood there, shaking, helpless. Tears threatening to fall, she walked in a daze to the house.

* * *

Spike was blindly stuffing objects into a bag when he saw it.

On one of his song sheets, the ballad about Buffy, there was a cherry-colored lipgloss print.

He sat down on the bed.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

---

Buffy was lying stomach-down on her bed, feeling hollowed-out and inconsolable, telling herself he was right, there was nothing she could tell him to make him stay, when her cell phone rang.

She didn't move for a moment. She had no desire to pick it up. Talking to a friend right now -- Cordelia, especially? Not the most appealing prospect. She reached for it to glance at the number, and frowned until she placed it. The guest house.

He was still here?

She sat up, and hit the talk button. "He-hello?"

"Drawing room. Five minutes. Bring your ears." Click.

With a giddy, widening grin, she glanced at the bedside clock and hurried to her vanity mirror.

* * *

Before she made it down the last step, she heard it. The piano: first a light tinkling, segueing into a lush classical concerto. It was something Dawn had recently struggled through; Spike, on the other hand, was playing it like he wrote it himself.

Following the sound, she entered the room. He didn't look up, but she knew he could sense her presence.

Sitting there at the Grand like it was tailor-made for him, he was a study in contrasts: a punk rock virtuoso.

Unable to keep her smile hidden, she approached him slowly, and leaned on the piano. He paused for a moment, eyes downcast, and began the song. The song she somehow already recognized as the one he wrote for her.

She watched his fingers as a slow, mellifluous tune poured out of them. Melancholy, reverent, aching, everything she imagined it would be.

And then he opened his mouth to sing:

"I was burned before I crashed in you
Strung and turned and faded into blue
Waiting for maybe someone like you

He glanced at her, and Buffy swallowed, heart suddenly pounding. Those weren't the same words she read.

"To save me like you needed saving

Too strange to be strangers
Too far gone to be friends
Too lovesick to be lovers
Only one way this could end...

But if you kiss my pages
What else can I do
Think I'll stick around and crash and burn with you

Buffy smiled bashfully. He'd rewritten almost the whole song, and this was... even better.

"You were wrecked before I smashed in you
Lost and vexed and jaded baby blue
Flashed your shine in rooms I never knew
Saw through me like I saw through you

We're too strange to be strangers
Too far gone to be friends
Too lovesick to be lovers
Only one way this could end

But if you keep your clothes on
I'll keep mine on too

She giggled. He looked up with a wink, and sang the real line, slowing it down for the finish:

"Don't know why you let me in
When you've got so much to lose...

But I'll stick around to crash and burn with you
Yeah, I'll stick around to crash and burn with you...
I'll stick around to crash and burn... with you."

When his fingers stopped moving, he looked up.

For the first time in their history together, Buffy was speechless.

He smiled, eyes locked with hers.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Shit. "You gonna get that?"

She finally heard it. "Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah."

When she walked off toward the kitchen, Spike shut his eyes, exhaled.

"Hello?" Buffy had to clear her throat and ask again.

"Buffy? What happened?"

"Dad?"

"Is everything okay?"

She frowned. "Yeah, everything's fine. What's up?"

"Martin called. He said the papers weren't faxed yet."

Oh, shit. Shit! "Oh, really? Well, I faxed them, Monday morning. Right after we talked. Maybe they didn't go through--"

"Buffy, how am I supposed to feel comfortable hiring you someday or recommending you for a firm when you can't complete even the tiniest task for me?"

"But I -- I did do it, I just didn't check the OK message!" Right after I forgot to send it...

"You want me to ask Linda to come over and do this work when you're already there, is that what you want?"

"No. I'm sorry, Dad, I -- I'll go do it right now."

"I want you to sit there and make sure every last page goes through. Do you hear me?"

She shut her eyes. "Loud and clear."

As she hung up the phone, Buffy noticed her hands were shaking. And not because of her father, who was usually the cause. But because of the man waiting for her in the next room.

She closed her fists and stood ramrod straight, trying to calm her breath. That song... It confused her even more than she had been for the last week. He was telling her he'd stay, that he'd wait to see what happens -- but he knew as well as she did that they were pretty much doomed. So what did he want her to do?

She knew what she wanted to do. She could feel it; see it happening in her mind's eye. Feel his soft lips on hers, see the clothing flying every which way, hear the piano keys clink as their bodies sought purchase.

It was a nice fantasy. But she couldn't always do what she wanted to do. And pretty songs didn't change that.

Was it finally time to talk, honestly, about what was going on?

Buffy took a deep breath, psyching herself up to leave the kitchen. Really, really going now. Here I go. Watch me.

And just as she took her first step, she heard the back door open and close.

She frowned, and her shoulders sagged.

Well. Probably for the best. Because... For the best.

With a sigh, she headed down the hallway to the office, looking forward to sending 300 pages of legal briefs to some guy named Martin.

---

A/N: The song Spike sings here, "Crash and Burn", written solely for this story and performed by me (sorry, but Spike wasn't available -- you'll just have to pretend I'm a hot English boy), is available for free listen and/or download here. Please keep it to yourself and don't redistribute. (I think they're actually selling it on some Korean mp3 site now... I know, I don't get it either.)

Foolish as he knew it was, Spike waited for her.

He'd done his part, hadn't he? He'd sung her his song. Cut his heart out and presented it to her on the good china with a sprig of parsley. Sure, he saw it on her face as the phone rang, as that reminder of her reality set in, how easily she could dice his offering into a hundred pieces... but there was a glimmer in her eye, right before the gears started shifting; a little glimmer that said she felt the very same way. Or maybe she just thought the song was pretty.

It was hard to tell.

Why couldn't he read women anymore? Used to be so good at it.

He closed the piano lid, and looked at his hands, the scar from the broken bottle.

He hadn't a clue that Dru was cheating on him all that time. Blinded by love, he was. Or obsession.

He must've known he was just hanging on by a thread when he followed Dru out here. That's why he did everything in his power to keep her, which only served to push her farther away. Soft and sticky. Doting and clingy.

A muffled shout drifted from the kitchen, and he smiled. Telling someone off again.

That was his Buffy. Made him forget all about Dru. Made him forget he even existed before last Thursday. Made him realize his "eternal" love for Dru ended long before that fateful day.

Hated her for that.

Well... not entirely.

So, the next move was hers, all she had to do was... come back.

But she was off the phone. There'd been silence for minutes now.

Which meant only one thing: she was sharpening her blade.

Right. He stood up. There's my cue.

* * *

Buffy opened his door at 10am. He was sleeping on his stomach, white sheet barely covering his ass. If only he'd stop looking so pretty...

When the door latched, he jerked up and turned around, adjusting the sheet to shield his nudity.

"Hi," she said.

He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Hi."

She sat on the foot of his bed, looking around the room.

He cleared his throat. "Something on your mind?"

She nodded. "Us."

He propped himself up on two pillows.

Nervously, she rubbed her hands together. "Look, I... that song was beautiful."

Sighing in resignation, he leaned back and turned his gaze to the ceiling. Part one of the kiss-off. Pretty song.

"But... the thing is..."

Nibbling on his thumbnail, he shook his head. "Don't."

She twisted at the waist to face him. "I have to."

He sat up. "Don't bother. Hell, I know what you're gonna say--"

"Will you please just listen to me?"

Folding his arms, he looked away. "Go on."

"The thing is..." She breathed in. "You're still in love with her."

He frowned. Didn't know she'd say that. And besides... "You're still in love with him."

"Love him. Not in love. Not anymore."

He squinted at her. What's she saying?

"I don't want to be your Rebound Chick."

"You're not my bloody rebound," he insisted with a chuckle. "And we didn't bounce off each other, did we? Stuck tight. Could be tighter." Fingers crossing to demonstrate, he twitched a brow. "Then we bounce."

She rolled her eyes. "Can we not? I'm trying to figure out some serious stuff here and you're being all Innuendo Boy which makes it way too hard for me to--"

"Decide what you want?"

"Yeah." She looked down. "I mean, your song said you'd wait. You'd stick around, right?"

He nodded. God, I'm a ponce.

"And I get that you have your reservations too. But there was some stuff you left out."

"Like...?"

"Like... it wouldn't hurt to know what you want. What you really want."

"Don't need a bloody song to tell you that."

Her eyes met his. He was giving her that look. That total possession look. "I can't give you that."

He scoffed. "More like won't. I'm a fun project for you, but the moment it threatens to get real--"

"Is that what you think?" She stood up. "You're not a game! You're... you're too real. And I don't know if I'm ready for that. Yet. Or, if I'll ever be. Can you understand that?"

Shutting his eyes, he sighed. "So what do we do while you decide whether or not I'm worthy?"

"Spike..."

"Sorry." He gestured at her. "Rephrase that with your... 'real' bit. What do you propose we do?"

"We ease off for a little. Give each other some space. I won't go all hobiscuit on you, and you won't... do the many things you do that turn me hobiscuity."

He pursed his lips. "Right. Okay."

"Good," she said, and headed for the door.

"Buffy?"

She turned to him.

"I never think about her. Not when I'm with you."

She saved her smile for when she was outside.

* * *

Buffy opened the back door.

He was touching the doorframe, eyes downcast and shy, hair shining in the porchlight.

"Don't want to bother you, just--"

"Come in, Spike."

He stepped inside, glanced around the den. "Fresh out of refreshments, is all."

She outstretched an awkward hand toward the kitchen. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." He headed that way.

The phone rang, and Buffy heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fucking Cordelia."

He smirked. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Something like that." She followed him toward the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Yeah, what?"

"Oh, uh, hi. ...Buffy?"

"Oh, Willow, hi!" Buffy watched Spike grab a beer out of the fridge and sift through the drawers for a bottle opener. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone annoying. What's up?"

"Well, here's the thing. I was thinking, I mean maybe this is, I don't know, too weird for you? But... me and Oz were just about to go to Diamante Pier, and I, well I thought of you--"

"Oh my god, I haven't been there since--"

"Since we were kids, right? Yeah, me either. So I was thinking, I mean, only if you don't have plans, which you probably do--"

"I'd love to go, Will," Buffy interrupted with a smile, and locked eyes with Spike. "Why don't we do one car and pick you up in say, thirty minutes?"

Spike's brow wrinkled. We?

She made a tentative gesture, asking his permission.

He shrugged and nodded, sipped his beer.

"Okay, sure -- is that 'we' as in you and Spike?"

Buffy turned around to face the kitchen counter, lowered her voice. "That's 'we' as in 'just friends'."

"Uh-huh," she teased. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much..."

Buffy gasped. "Don't you Shakespeare me! Little rabble-rouser."

"I neither rabble nor rouse. I'm merely astute."

"Well, put your stute somewhere else." She opened and closed a cookie jar. "You... do still live at 7 Crescent right?"

"I surely do. See you in a few!"

* * *

"I love your car, Spike," Willow said from the back seat.

"Thanks, pet."

Oz patted the frayed leather behind Willow's head and confirmed, "She's a classic."

"We've been through a lot, she and I." He glanced at Buffy, who couldn't help but smile.

Willow sighed. "I wish I had a car like this. I wish I had a car."

"Tell me about it," said Buffy.

Spike found Willow in the rearview. "I know a guy, could get you something like this." Buffy was squinting at him. "On the up and up. I swear."

"Yeah?" Willow asked. "For like, how much? I'm not real large with the cash right now."

He shrugged. "Owes me a favor. I could probably get him down to say, nothing."

"Really?" Willow jumped up and down and squealed. "Oh my god! Really?"

Spike smiled. "Just let me know when you're free. I'll take you both down there."

"Oh my god! That would be so great! Oh, but -- do I have to act all disinterested and cool and stuff? Because that sort of goes against my very nature."

"Not at all," he laughed. "I can do all the talking. Though I'd have to disagree that you're not naturally cool."

"Aw..." Willow looked to Oz. "He thinks I'm cool."

Oz touched her hair and said tenderly, "I got the memo a while back."

"Anyone who tells you different's a bloody pillock."

Buffy watched Spike during this exchange, first with a growing curiosity, then with a sense of amazement, and now with something else she couldn't quite name.

Why had she not seen this before?

Spike wasn't a work in progress; he wasn't someone who needed to be changed or dressed up or fixed.

Spike was... perfect.

Without a second thought, she reached out to touch his hand that rested on the seat between them.

He looked at her, surprised.

She met his gaze, and their fingers intertwined.

She smiled.

Slowly, he smiled back.

"Oh, my ew." Buffy's nose crinkled as she scanned the Pier lined with crowded, neon-lit corn dog joints, souvenir shops and carnival games. "This might be even skankier than I remember it."

"You gotta look beneath the skank Buffy, and see the innate charm," Willow said.

She paused, concentrating. "Nah... I'm still seeing skank. And ugh, smelling it."

"I love that smell! It's like fried... fried... what is that frying?"

Oz offered, "Shrimp boots?"

"I love the smell of fried shrimp boots." Willow grinned and took her boyfriend's hand.

The back of Buffy's hand grazed Spike's, and she hooked his pinky with hers. Eyebrow arched, he looked down at her.

Willow turned to them. "What do you think, Spike?"

"I like it," he said, pulling Buffy toward him at the waist. "Reminds me of Brighton."

Buffy wrapped an arm around him, and met his gaze with a contagious smile. He set his sights forward to conceal his giddiness.

"I've been to Brighton," Oz said, nodding. "I think they have shrimp boots there too."

"Buffy, look! It's Mr. Whaley!"

She tore her eyes away from Spike. "Oh my god! He's still here?"

Giggling, the girls skipped to the small quarter-powered ride. Sharing a bemused shrug, the boys followed.

"Oz, got a quarter?" Willow asked from atop the purple whale, her untied Converse sneakers swinging merrily.

He dug into his pocket. "I've got three dimes."

Spike produced a quarter, and stuck it into the slot. The whale set into motion.

Buffy looked up at him. "Got a quarter for me?"

"No bloody way. I'm not watching you do that." He pointed at Willow, who laughed as she straddled the jiggling, vibrating ride.

"Why not?"

He smirked. "Do I need to draw a picture?"

She glanced down, and back up. "Can I frame it?"

He whispered in her ear, "Bad girl."

Buffy eyed him coquettishly. "I'm not bad. I'm a good girl..."

Spike cocked a brow, anticipating her elaboration.

"I'm very good..." Eyes on his, she rolled her head sensually, took his hand, and grinned. "At ring toss."

It took him a moment to register this, and he chuckled. Tossed me good, you did.

Strolling backwards, she lured him toward the game, challenge sparking in her eyes. "Ten bucks says I beat your ass."

He scoffed. "Make it twenty, and you're on."

* * *

"I'm thinking we should go to Joe's All You Can Eat." Willow pulled useless bits out of the paper towel dispenser. "Oz says he digs their clam rolls." She laughed. "Ha, dig. Clams. Get it? Clam digger... Anyway."

With a smile, Buffy eased out a full sheet for her. "Yeah, well, good luck dragging the boys away from their precious Shoot the Star game."

Willow dried her hands and looked at her friend's reflection thoughtfully. "They really love their shooting, don't they?"

Buffy shrugged and began to reapply her lip gloss. "Boys and guns. It's a thing."

Willow leaned against the sink, and grinned. "So...?"

Buffy paused, lip gloss wand in the air. "So what?"

Gesturing at the enormous Care Bear sitting on the sinktop beside Buffy's purse, Willow said, "With 'He Who Wins You Care Bears'."

"Oh." She rubbed her lips together, closed the tube. "That what. It's nothing. Really. We're just--"

"Buffy?"

"Yeah?"

"I know it's been a long time, but I can still tell when you're covering. Besides, you've been touchy-feely-flirty girl all night."

Buffy sighed, a smile tugging at her lips. "Okay, there might be something."

Willow lifted her chin. "I knew it."

"Stop looking so proud of yourself. Nothing has or will happen."

"Why not?"

"Because. Because the happening of it is something that shouldn't. Even if I do think he's... kind of gorgeous," she grinned, and began to hop on her feet, hands folded at her chest, "and sweet, and smart and sexy and perfect and even if he writes an amazing song for me--"

Hopping along with her, Willow's eyes widened. "He wrote a song for you?"

"Yeah," she sighed, so glad she finally had someone to talk to about this. "It was amazing."

"He wrote a song for you?"

"He sang it for me too. With the piano."

"Oh... Buffy... He wrote a song for you!"

"Yeah." She looked down. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Only massively incredibly!"

Buffy laughed. "I know... But I don't know! I feel like it's crazy soon, and... he's just so... so wrong for me but... right, you know?"

Willow put her palms up. "Hey, you said it, not me."

"I didn't--"

"Yeah you did." She handed the Care Bear to Buffy and picked up her Spongebob Squarepants. "You can't fight that feeling of 'so right' forever, you know..."

"Thank you, REO Speedwagon," Buffy said snidely, opening the bathroom door for her friend.

* * *

"I have no hand-eye coordination, Spike, I mean it--"

"You're a gymnast, how can you have no coordination?"

"Hand-eye, moron. I can't shoot guns, I hate guns, I -- oh, you turned it on!"

"I did," he leaned into her from behind. "Now look through this right here, match it up with a target, and squeeze the trigger."

Every sound around her faded to just his voice, his breath in her ear. "I can't do this if you're gonna lull me."

He chuckled, stepped back. "Sorry. Carry on."

With a sigh, she peered through the viewer, squeezed the trigger and missed. "I told you, I can't do this! You take it. Take it."

"No." He returned the rifle to her grasp. "You're going to learn. You see that guy up there on the piano? He's your man."

"That guy? He's the hardest one! How can you expect me to--"

"Will you stop whinging and just do it?"

"What's a whinge?"

"You." He stood behind her again. "Just let me lull, won't be a second." He pressed his cheek against her temple. "Now focus on that little bull's-eye up there, center it between these two knobby things, right here, keep your elbows steady, and..."

She shut her eyes and squeezed. The wooden piano man went into motion, fingers moving, head swiveling, top hat jumping.

Buffy gasped, incredulous. "Oh my god! I did it! I shot something!"

"Feels good, right?"

Squealing and bouncing against his close close body, she spun around, took his face in her hands, and pulled him in for a swift kiss.

And that's when the rest of the world tipped over and fell off a cliff.

Mirroring her expression of surprise, of trepidation, of intense longing, his hands slid up her bare shoulders, to her face... and with an intake of breath, he pushed her up against the game counter and kissed her, hard.

Yes! Oh, god, yes, his tongue, so soft, soft, and soft...

Fucking candy-coated lips, knew she'd taste like this...

They drew apart in unison, gasping for air, staring into each other's eyes. And then, their mouths met again desperately, all reservations forgotten.

Delectable tingles shot from her neck to her toes and everywhere in between, making her moan and hold him tighter.

The soundtrack in Spike's head struck up in rejoice. Possessively, he raked his fingers through her hair and she held the nape of his neck as their heads tilted with telepathic timing and their bodies melded into one, as if they were tailor-made for each other. As if they were born for just this one purpose. Willow had it right:

They fit.

And at that thought, Buffy remembered they weren't alone. She pulled back, finger on his lips, and her eyes slid toward their friends.

Oz and Willow were deeper inside the game room by the little bowling machine, hooting as they scored. They probably hadn't seen, and it wasn't as if they'd be terribly shocked if they had. However, everyone else in the vicinity was looking away uncomfortably and diverting their kids' attentions.

"I um," she began.

"Yeah." He stepped back, looked down at the ground. "Sorry. I don't--"

"No." She pulled his jacket lapels toward her. "I just think we should continue this... elsewhere."

He smiled, relieved beyond the telling. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," she nodded. "Definitely yeah."

Toeing off her sneakers, Willow noticed Buffy still faltering on the stairs that led to the beach. "Aren't you gonna come down?"

Buffy hesitantly patted the railing. "Nah..."

"Come on, sweet," Spike said, reaching for her waist. "One foot after the other."

"But it's icky."

"No it's not," he laughed, free arm sweeping outward, "look around you. Moon on the water, crashing surf, sand for miles... romantic's what it is." Off her worried expression, he slung away from her and added, "Uh, for some people, I expect."

It was hard not to smile at him then. Vaguely chastened, he smiled back.

She couldn't blame him for slipping -- the anticipation had risen to a deafening fever pitch since the kiss, and all she wanted was to feel his soft tongue again, his fingers weaving into her hair, his hard, warm body pressing against hers; so insistent, so sensual and... so not ready for other people's eyes.
"It'll be extra romantic when I step on a hypodermic needle full of crack."

"Silly Buffy. Crack doesn't go in a hypodermic needle." He turned his back to her and crouched down. "Up you go."

"Huh?" She glanced at Willow and Oz, ambling hand-in-hand to the water's edge.

"Piggy-back, Princess."

"Not a princess..." she grumbled, but climbed onto his leather-clad shoulders anyway.

"There now," he said, voice deliberately straining as he stretched to full height, grasp on her ankles. "All the perks of beach-combing without the pesky beach contact. Hey, watch the hair."

"But I like it when it's messy."

"You do?" He made a mental note to never slick it back again... and then he lost his train of thought, because suddenly she was rocking on his shoulders, using his ears for leverage, and saying:

"You're a way better ride than Mr. Whaley."

As much as that statement begged for a retort, he was more interested in the fact that only a thin layer of cotton separated her from the back of his neck. And god, she felt good.

"And no quarter required." Buffy grinned. This piggy-back thing was fun. "Keep walking! Bouncy bouncy bouncy..."

He let slip an agonized groan -- and she halted. "Oh god. I so didn't mean it like that!"

Recovering, he cocked his head. "You sure? 'Cause there are better parts of me to ride--"

"Shhh!" She slumped forward to whisper at him. "Loudmouth."

"Right. That's one of them."

With a not-so-surprised gasp, she slapped his face lightly.

"Oi! Don't smack the transport!" He teased her bare thighs, and she felt that skin-burn again... until he pinched her.

"Ow!" She pinched his ear.

"Ow, ow--" he stopped, and rolled his shoulders. "Wait, hold on -- just thought of something."

"...What?"

"I can drop you."

"Nooo!" she screamed as he bent over to dump her in a pile of dried seaweed.

Giggling, he fell to his knees and draped some over her. "Lookit my pretty little mermaid..."

"You big stupid-head!" She brushed the crinkly black seaweed off, and with a quick glance toward Willow and Oz -- liplocked and in their own world -- she pulled him by his shirt collar and kissed him.

Surprised at first, he became swiftly overzealous, nearly pinning her on the sand.

She raked her fingernails down his quivering stomach, up his thigh...

He growled in her ear.

Oh. God. "Stop, stop," she panted, palm still cupping the outline of his hard-on.

Pressing her hand there, he rumbled in her ear, "Driving me crazy, you know that?"

She nodded, gulped. "Let's go home."

Spike shot up, and outstretched a hand to help her. "Time to go, kiddies."

* * *

Jumping into the car before their friends did, Buffy and Spike were unable to resist adhering for another buttery kiss. As the back doors opened, they uncoupled, smiled guiltily and tried to look bored. Spike turned on the stereo.

It was impossible to keep focused on conversation all the way to Willow's, thanks to the electric charge that zipped between the duo as they exchanged heady, secret glances and scalded each other with the slightest touches.

When Willow got out, she said with a big grin, "Have fun, you two."

Covering her mouth, Buffy laughed -- busted -- and looked at Spike. He raised a brow, and watched Willow and Oz walk away from the car.

Finally, they were alone. She slid over, coiling into his embrace, their lips meeting again.

Enough waiting. She needed him, right now...

When she reached for his buckle, he stopped her and panted, "Not here, baby. Let's do this right."

She searched his eyes, saw that he meant it. Rebel Spike, die-hard romantic.

"How fast can you drive?" she asked, settling on clasping onto his arm as he set the car in motion.

"Watch me break a bloody world record," he sneered, wheels screeching before he finished the sentence.

* * *

Keeping her safety in mind, Spike dutifully kept his face forward, eyes on the road -- even as she licked his ear and nipped at his neck.

Once they entered the driveway, however, all bets were off.

Finally, she thought as she felt his tongue meet hers again.

Finally, he thought as he pondered which bed was closest.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light behind them. Breaking apart, they sought out the source.

"What...?" She looked toward the house.

There were two cars in the driveway -- Cordelia's and Harmony's. And another one was pulling up behind them.

"Oh no!" Buffy realized, horrified. "It's Friday!"

"What's 'at mean?"

"I made plans with -- Shit."

Why didn't he just let her have her way with him in the car? Why? "Want to get out of here? We could go somewhere--"

She was about to say, Hell yeah, when Cordelia showed up out front, squinting into the headlights.

"This is just what I need..." Buffy rubbed her temples.

He didn't want to say this, but, "Should I drop you here, come back later?"

"No, no! No, I need you. Just..."

"Buffy?" Cordelia asked, accosting them. "Is that you?"

She sighed.

"Don't worry pet, I won't give us away."

After giving him a grateful look, she opened the door, putting on her fake voice. "Oh my god, Cordy, I completely zoned! I'm so sorry!"

"Is that--?"

Spike stepped out of the car, stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

"It is," Cordelia answered her own question, nose awrinkle.

"He has a name. It's Spike."

"Is it staying?"

"Yes, he is."

"That's nice," she said, plastic smile wide. "Anyway, Buffy, there's someone I want you to meet."

The car had parked behind them, and a tall, boxy, dirty-blonde boy was getting out of it.

Buffy whispered harshly, "What did you do?"

"Riley!" Cordelia said, and he nodded as he approached. "This is Buffy. Buffy, this is Riley. He goes to USC with Angel."

Riley extended a hand. "Hi, Buffy. Pleasure to meet you."

Eyes narrow, Spike flicked his lighter.

"Um, hi!" Shaking Riley's hand, she shot a glare at Cordelia.

Riley peered at Spike. "And you are...?"

"He's just a friend," Cordelia said quickly. "Isn't he, Buffy?"

Buffy turned to Spike. "He's--"

"That's right," Spike interrupted, gaze on Buffy. "I was just dropping her off. 'Fore I went back to my place."

"But he's gonna hang with us for a little while," Buffy added.

Cordelia looked from Buffy to Spike. "Uh-huh." She turned to Riley. "Well, what do you say we go in back and get you two acquainted!" She linked an arm through Buffy's and walked her toward the path to the pool.

Over her shoulder, Buffy sent Spike a helpless look.

After taking a deep, slow drag, he followed.

Cordelia leaned in on Buffy's ear. "Now, you listen up. I've had enough of your post-traumatic whatever. Consider this an intervention."

"I don't want to be intervened--"

"Which is why they call it an intervention. Riley's a psych major," she said loudly as he walked beside them, and whispered, "Maybe he can help."

"Hey, Buff, what happened to you?" Angel asked jovially, turning away from Harmony and Larry as the three approached. Then he saw Spike, and the jovial went away. "What's he doing here?"

"He dropped her off or something," Cordelia dismissed.

His jaw clenched. "Is he staying?"

"Yeah," Spike said, returning his stare with equal suspicion. "He is."

"Hi," Harmony waved. "I'm Harmony."

He exhaled a stream of smoke through his nose and nodded. "Spike."

Cordelia glared at her, and she shrugged apologetically.

"So..." Buffy wrung her hands, "Who wants a really strong drink?"

* * *

Willfully ignoring the white elephant in the room, Buffy's people lounged on the sectional couches, while the elephant in question stood warily in the doorway, nursing a Guinness and checking the clock.

"Riley's a good old Iowa boy." Angel patted his buddy on the back. "Hundred percent farm grown."

"You mean like Superman?" Harmony asked.

"You're thinking of Kansas." Riley looked down humbly. "And I'm no superman."

"Plus I think he was actually grown on another planet," Buffy pointed out.

"Right," Harmony said. "I don't really pay attention to the plot. I just think Tom Welling is choice."

"Choicer than moi?" Larry asked her, aghast.

"Well... he is a superhero."

Buffy's eyes met Spike's. Please get me out of here and take off all my clothes.

He didn't get the message, apparently, because he just took another swig of his beer.

"Riley's a star football player," Cordelia said. "He's been on TV. Everybody says he's a shoo-in for top draft pick next year. He could be the next Joe Montana."

Riley chuckled. "Don't listen to them, Buffy. I'm really not as bad as they say."

"I'm sure you're not." She smiled sweetly, making Spike gnash his teeth.

"All this talk about me, and I don't know anything about you," Riley said to Buffy, and glanced pointedly at Spike.

Buffy hedged. "Um... me?"

"We were on varsity squad together," Cordelia supplied. "She would've been head cheerleader if it weren't for me being so talented."

Head cheerleader. Spike smirked, imagining Buffy in a short skirt and pom-poms. In his bed.

"Yep, Cordy just stole that away from me." In her peripheral, she saw Angel look at her, and down at his drink.

"What else do you like to do?"

Kiss Spike. Kiss Spike. And Kiss Spike. She realized she was gazing at him, and turned to Riley. "Um... you know. Regular stuff."

"Good," Riley breathed, realizing he was in for a difficult night. "Hey, me too."

* * *

Half an hour later, the only fully sober ones in the bunch were Buffy and Riley. Spike, who was running on a nice buzz, sat down in a chair and played quarters with Larry and Harmony, occasionally glancing at Buffy to see how close she was to her blind date. To his credit, Riley kept a respectful distance.

When Buffy laughed, Spike turned to her. Is she flirting?

Feeling his eyes on her, she sent him a tiny, reassuring head-shake.

He arched a brow and flipped another quarter.

"So," Riley said, noticing this. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Who two?" Buffy asked.

"You and... Spike."

"Ugh," Cordelia said, getting up. "Angel? Come with me to get another drink."

Angel mumbled, "Do you really need another?"

At Cordelia's icy glare, he sighed in defeat, and followed her out of the room.

Buffy watched them go, and refocused on Riley. "I--I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"I was asking... how long you--"

"Oh, right. Uh, not very long. He's a... he's a friend of the family."

Spike smacked his shot glass on the table.

Buffy chewed on her lip.

"A... friend of the family you haven't known long?"

"Well, yes. A new friend. Through my dad's work... it's... complicated."

"Got it. Your dad's a lawyer, right?"

"Oh, uh-huh."

"Prosecutor, or...?"

"Entertainment law," she said absently. "Movie deals and stuff."

"Wow, that's pretty cool. You must meet a lot of famous people."

"Not really. It's not as exciting as it sounds." She gave him an obligatory smile and tried not to meet Spike's gaze. "What does your dad do?"

"Um, he's an ex-marine? I--"

"Oh, right. You told me that already, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Hey, even the best relationships start with an awkward getting-to-know-you conversation."

And that was just about enough. Spike stood up and lumbered away.

Buffy's pulse quickened. "True!" Although, not true with Spike -- they'd fallen into easy, albeit mean-spirited, banter immediately. After nodding several times, she said, "I'll be right back, okay?"

"Sure..."

* * *

Riley bumped into Buffy, mid-Spike search, in the den. "Hi. Not stalking, promise. Just passing through... for something to drink, specifically."

"Oh, please, help yourself. Kitchen's that way."

"Thanks. Can I get you anything? Water? 7-Up?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks." She smiled widely until he walked away.

"Ooo-oooh," she heard a low sing-song behind her. "Can I get you a soda-pop? I think I'm in lo-ove..." Spike's arms slid around her waist.

"Mmm..." Back arching, she nuzzled into him, glad he wasn't angry, and liking the sound of him saying that entirely too much. "Don't make fun. He's a... nice guy."

"Courteous," he agreed, cheek rubbing against hers. "Dull as a butter knife, but courteous."

"You don't get that 'he's gonna break my heart' vibe?" she teased.

"I think you're gonna break his," he whispered into her ear, fingers easing up her shirt. "Let's go upstairs."

Her eyes closed as the dull ache that had been throbbing between her legs all night caught fire. "They'll be gone soon, I promise."

* * *

"I think it's time to soak in hot bubbly goodness," Cordelia announced gamely. "Who's up for it?"

"Not me," Riley said, catching another furtive, frisky smile between Buffy and her 'friend.' "I think I'm gonna head out."

Thank god. "Aw, really?"

"You can't head out!" Cordelia pshawed, almost spilling her margarita on the rug. "It's hot tub time!"

"Yeah, I'm really not a hot tub kind of guy," he said, standing up. "Buffy, it's been a pleasure meeting you." On his way out of the room, he ceded quietly to Spike, "She's all yours."

Spike smirked.

"Let me walk you to the door," Buffy offered.

* * *

Cordelia rushed up to Buffy as she locked the deadbolt. "What is your problem? How could you let him go?"

"I just, I'm not ready for anyone new right now."

"Are you sure? Because I'm beginning to think you've got something new already in progress."

Buffy sighed. "If I told you he went to Cambridge and he isn't poor, would that make it okay with you?"

"Oh god," Cordelia said. "You're a lost cause. That's it. I wash my hands of you."

"Strangely not upset about that," Buffy said under her breath.

* * *

"Spike, you can wear my dad's swim trunks, let me get them for you!" Buffy said loudly, for the benefit of their guests.

"I'm not getting in a sodding hot tub," Spike murmured to Buffy as she made for the stairs. "Not with these people. Make them leave."

"The faster you soak, the faster they leave. The faster we have hot sweaty sex in every room of this house."

His throat constricted. "Yeah, okay. Hot tub it is."

* * *

Larry patted Harmony on the ass as she sat down in the tub. "There's my fine lady."

"Where'd Spike go?" Harmony wondered.

"Back to his crypt, moohahahaha," Larry boomed, and bit her neck.

Harmony giggled and swatted at him. "Stop it!"

Buffy sat at the edge of the tub, feeling the stare of Angel, who sat in the bubbling water beside Cordelia.

She heard a noise -- Spike had emerged from the guest house. In his swim trunks.

"Whoa," Harmony said, jaw dropping. "Hello."

"Hey," said Larry, affronted.

Buffy smiled.

"I see it's been tanning," Cordelia said, eyebrow arched.

Spike strode up, cocksure as ever. "Make room for Daddy."

Buffy giggled, and slipped into the hot water with him.

"So," Angel cut right to the chase, "How long've you been staying here, Spikey?"

"Staying? He hasn't been staying," Buffy said.

"Oh yeah?" asked Angel. "Where exactly do you live?"

"There a reason you need to know?" Spike asked.

"He's very protective," Cordelia explained, patting her boyfriend's chest. "They used to be steps."

Buffy rolled her eyes.

"Right," Spike said. "So you're big brother, then?"

"Something like that."

Spike frowned, knowing something was off. "Not staying. Crashed here that one night."

"After you two... crashed."

Buffy gaped. "Angel!"

"What?" He looked at Buffy, pointing at Spike. "I want to know what's going on with this asshole! You've been making fuck-me eyes at him all night!"

"He is not an asshole! And how are my eyes your business?"

Margarita glass empty, Cordelia helped herself to the rest of the latest pitcher. "Well, that clinches it. She's obviously having sex with him."

"Cordelia! I am not--"

"Oh whatever, Buffy. One thing I know about you? Is you don't know how to keep your panties on."

Spike was appalled. "She does too--"

"Spike, shut up," Buffy said, tunnel-vision on Cordelia.

"I mean, you gave it up, what, like three years ago in a one-nighter? And then you get pregnant with some other Shmoe -- you were doing it every which way but smart."

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Buffy rose to a stand, fists balling until it hurt.

Angel looked up in trepidation and put a hand on his girlfriend's shoulder. "Okay, Cordy, that's enough. We're all drunk, let's just calm down."

"I'm not drunk," Buffy said evenly.

Cordelia continued, "Tell me. That guy who knocked you up? Did he even know? Or care?"

Eyes zeroing in on Angel, Buffy's voice dripped with venom when she said, "Why don't you ask him yourself."

And with that, she vaulted out of the hot tub and stormed into the house.

Cordelia frowned at Angel. "Huh?"

"Don't ask me!" Angel said, arms up in defense. "She's crazy! I have no idea what she's talking about."

Spike, on the other hand, did.

With a derisive sneer, he stood up, spat "Fucking coward," and rammed a fist into Angel's nose.

As Angel yelped and the girls screamed, Spike went after Buffy.

He found her upstairs, sitting on her bed, head in her hands. "Buffy?"

Unable to look up, she did her best to muster some sarcasm. "Little bit of a buzzkill, huh?"

"C'mere," he said, and pulled her into his arms.

She sobbed softly against his chest.

"Wanker," he breathed, shaking his head.

"Such a wanker," she agreed with a pout.

"She'll prob'ly kill him before the night's through, if that's any consolation." Gently, he stroked her hair. "Maybe they'll kill each other."

"God, I didn't want her to know... I really didn't. I just..."

"I know. Shhh."

"But... I'm getting mascara all over your chest."

"Sod it. I'm washable."

She sighed, feeling comfortable and warm in his embrace. "You must think I'm a freak."

"Why would I think that?"

"Sleeping with my step-brother? That's kind of ew."

"Takes two, pet. And I don't think you broke any laws."

"I know, but..."

"Here," he said, rolling backward to get the box of Kleenex by her bedside.

"Thanks." She dabbed at her eyes. "My dad and his mom, they were only married two and a half years."

She didn't have to explain, but he knew she needed to get this out.

"I was fifteen, and suddenly I had this hot guy living in my house." She sniffled. "Maybe I just loved him 'cause I knew I couldn't really have him."

"Maybe. Or maybe you just loved him."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I did."

He brushed a tress of hair out of her eyes.

"He started dating Cordy as a cover-up. She was his beard." She chuckled at that.

He took his cue, "And then when your respective folks split, he thought it was best he just stay with her. Not rock the boat."

Buffy nodded. "Cue sad theme song. God, somebody kill me."

"Not while I live," he said.

She smiled at him, new tears forming. He held her for a long while, until the sobs petered out and the last car pulled out of the driveway.

"C'mon," he said at last, taking her hand.

"Where?"

"Know I spied some kind of ice-creamish concoction in the freezer."

With a shy laugh, she let him pull her along.

* * *

"Want some?" she asked, holding up a spoonful of Starbucks Java Chip.

He took it in his mouth.

"Drippy," she said, and licked it from his chin, and teased his mouth open with her tongue.

When the kiss turned passionate, he pushed her to arm's length, and took a very deep breath. "No."

"No?" He didn't want her anymore?

"I said I wanted to do this right, and I meant it. Can't have you thinking of someone else."

Oh. "I'm not--"

He lifted her chin. "I'll still be here tomorrow."

She stared at him for a moment, and sat back on the couch. "Stop being so perfect. I might start to think you're not real."

"Thought you said I was too real?" He put his arm around her. "Now I'm not real at all?"

"Oh my god," she said, looking into her ice cream bowl. "What if you're not? What if we both died that day and this is some kind of..."

"Heaven?"

"Well, the Java Chip does lend weight to that theory." She took another bite, nuzzled into him and declared with mouth full, "Heaven rocks."

* * *

Buffy woke to the sound of her doorbell, and lifted her head from Spike's chest. He was asleep, mouth slightly open.

God, he'd held her all night. Perfect, perfect guy.

The bell chimed again. She got out of the couch and made her way, groggily, to the front door.

It was Cordelia. Standing there with red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh god, Buffy, I'm so sorry!"

Wind knocked out of her from Cordelia's fierce hug, she squeaked, "What?"

"I can't believe he... and you... God, I was so stupid!"

Cordelia Chase was crying? "It... it's okay..."

"No, it's not okay. My whole perfect relationship has been a lie!"

"Oh. Well--"

"I also hate you a little bit," she added, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and barging into the house.

Following Cordelia through the hallway, she said, "It's kind of mutual."

Cordelia finally sat at the couch in the den. "How could I be so clueless? I thought I was number one in his life, I really did..."

Buffy sat down. "You are."

"It doesn't matter, it's over. He told me everything, and I..." She teared up again. "God, I'm so sorry I called you a slut and told everyone about your abortion. I was drunk, and stupid, and so mad at you for not being my mindless minion anymore."

Buffy sighed.

"But why didn't you tell me?" Cordelia asked. "Like, before? Didn't our friendship mean anything to you?"

"Our friendship consisted of shopping and gossip and me telling you you were great. We never got... deep. I told you stuff on a need-to-know. You found out about the abortion and I had to tell you something." She looked at her hands. "At the time, what I was doing with Angel seemed like the worst thing I could possibly be doing. I was ashamed."

"But, I'm not completely heartless. I have feelings. I could've, you know, been there for you."

"I..." She said all she could say: "I didn't know."

She touched Buffy's hand and said sheepishly, "I'm really sorry."

"Yeah." Softening, she placed her free hand over Cordelia's. "Me too."

"This an estrogen-only zone or can I happen by?"

Cordelia regarded the sleep-rumpled Spike in amusement. "And how is Mr. Spike Tyson today?"

"Up for round two if there's call for it," he replied with a wink, and slipped through the back door, headed to the guest house.

Buffy was confused. "Okay... huh?"

"He didn't tell you?" Cordelia leaned in. "He punched Angel in the nose. It might be broken."

She looked after him. "Oh no."

"Oh yes."

She gasped. "Oh no, do you think Angel will tell my dad? Or, or sue?"

"Not after I told him he does that, I tell his mom alllll about his sordid past. I mean, you know I would never? For you? But he totally bought it. You know how mortified he is of her."

Buffy's jaw dropped. Cordelia was full of surprises today.

"Anyway," Cordelia got up, and nodded at the guest house; at Spike. "He likes you, Buffy. A lot. You're lucky."

Buffy blinked, suspecting she was hearing things.

"Hey, I'm not gonna say it again..."

Returning her friend's sly smile, Buffy then walked with her to the front door.

"So," Cordelia stuck out a hand and hazarded, "Eventual bygones?"

After a pause, realizing none of this even mattered anymore, Buffy shook on it. "Present bygones."

Looking unusually grateful, Cordelia let go. "And now I'll say bye, and be gone."

"See ya, Cordy." Buffy closed the door feeling she'd closed a sad, silly old book... and knowing that an exhilarating, wondrous new chapter was just waiting to bust open. Any second now.

With a giddy grin, she bolted upstairs to shower.

Spike hit play, turned the volume knob all the way to the right, and Joan Jett sang, "Ahhh."

In time with the guitar riff, he slapped his face with aftershave.

Now I don't hardly know her
But I think I could love her

Hearing it blare from the guest house, Buffy smiled at her reflection, opened a tube of MangoLicious Gloss, and brushed it over her lips. Press, smack, kiss.

Crimson and clover

He coughed, waving at the cloud of deodorant billowing from under his arms.

Ah-ahhhh

Applying a light-brown mascara, she smeared some on her cheek. In her hurry to fix it, her makeup box spilled into the sink.

Now when she comes walking over
I've been waiting to show her

Damn, he was running out of clean clothes. He could've sworn there was one black t-shirt left... Yes. He sniffed it and pulled it over his head.

She flipped her hair and pushed tendrils out of her eyes. Or should they be in?

Crimson and clover

He pieced his platinum curls into straight, messy sections. Or should he comb it back?

Over and over

Out.

Messy.

Spike winked at the mirror as he sang, "Yeah."

Buffy spun in a light perfume spritz. Adjusting her mini halter dress and taking a deep ready-or-not breath, she made for the stairs.

My my, such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling

Heartily singing along, Spike clicked off the bathroom light.

Crimson and clover, over and over

Buffy strode purposefully past the pool, hips switching to the beat.

Crimson and clover, over and over
Crimson and clover, over and

He opened the sliding door, and came face to face with Buffy.

Skin prickling, the air between them thick and tense, they stared at one another. Somebody had to make the first move.

As aggressive, driving guitars filled the brief silence, Buffy decided it would be her.

I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation

She grabbed his head and kissed him into action.

With his strong, suddenly very possessive hands lifting her dress and kneading her bare skin, she urged him into the guest house and slammed him ungracefully into the bureau. A lamp fell over.

A girl can do what she wants to do and that's what I'm gonna do

He laughed into her mouth. Bloody tiger in good-girl clothing.

She reached blindly into the drawer at his side and pulled out that long strip of Lifestyles. He snatched it out of her hand and tossed it onto the bed behind her.

Kissing her, threading his fingers through her hair, Spike untied the straps at the nape of her neck. As he peeled them down, exposing her pert breasts, she shivered at his brazen touch.

Oh. God.

Eating her up, coasting his hands reverently over her goosebumping flesh, he squeezed her shoulders... and gave her a swift push.

Buffy landed on the bed, giggling and shielding her flushed face. If she weren't half naked beside a strip of condoms, she'd almost pull off 'demure'.

With a slow-spreading smirk, he pulled off his shirt, pounded his chest like King Kong to the beat of the music and theatrically outstretched his arms.

Then, he dove on top of her, eliciting a delicious scream.

And I'm only doin' good when I'm havin' fun
An I don't have to please no one

Ardent, intoxicating kisses on her collarbone, neck, mouth... God, his lips, his tongue... Without realizing it she'd coiled her legs and arms around him, python-tight.

She was not going to let him go. E-ver.

But then he whispered, "I need to taste you," and she was somehow compelled to set him free.

Tongue teasing her nipples, working her into a frenzy, he hiked up her dress, then slid down her body, licking and nipping at her along the way.

He nuzzled his face between her legs. She squealed and tremored, bucking up and clamping her thighs at his ears.

He loved that she could be bashful and bold all at once.

Spike tried a slow seduction: bit at one string of her bikini thong, easing it down her leg with his teeth, but then his impatience won out. Lifting her legs in the air, he got the thong off in two yanks, spread her thighs -- gymnast split -- and descended. Tongue flat. Head wiggling.

"Ohhh! God!" Her back arched off the bed.

Fucking hell. She tasted like warm, tart honey, and he wished he could turn the music down -- wanted to hear everything, every moan, every shudder and sigh...

"Unh!"

Encouraged, he pushed a finger into her, licked and sucked on her clit.

Buffy knew, just knew he'd be good at this... but she wasn't prepared for earthquaking good. At this rate he'd make her come in seconds, and it was too soon... she wanted him inside her first.

An' I'm never gonna care 'bout my bad reputation

He felt her feet under his arms, her hands on his ears, beckoning him toward her.
Well fine, he could do that too.

Spike rose to mount her, looked into her eyes, kissed her breath away. She tasted herself on his lips.

Palms on his flexing pectoral muscles, she pushed him up.

Panting, they held each others' gaze until her eyes slid down his chest to the outline of his hard-on, straining at his jeans. She bit her smiling lip and reached down to release him.

She couldn't undo the belt fast enough, so he swatted her hand away and did it himself.

Determined to help somehow, she looped her toes into his waistband and pushed his jeans down his thighs. Did he always go commando, or was he just prepared?

His naked cock bobbed in the air, and she took hold, feeling it pulse in her hands, thinking, it's like a work of art.

"Fuck," he breathed, and their eyes met.

She reeled him in, and he quivered -- he quivered! -- as his sensitive tip made first contact; so wet, so hot, so... Now.

He thrashed a hand at the bed, grabbed a plastic square, put it in his teeth, pulled.

She fished it out before he could. Put it in place and rolled it down like a pro, kittenish eyes on his.

Amazing, he thought. The girl can make even safe sex look sexy.

He captured her lips again, and nudged against her entrance as she urged him forward.

Their eyes rolled back, breath catching in unison.

She had to relax to take him all the way in -- big, but not ouch big.

Ooh... perfect big.

"Bloody... hell," he marveled as he was fully sheathed in the softest, tightest place he'd ever been. "Buffy..."

"Yeah," she whispered, curling her pelvis up to meet his exploratory thrusts.

"Shit, Buffy..." Faster. Deeper.

"Mmm, yeah..."

Eyes riveted on one another, she caressed his cheekbone. He shook his head, awestruck. Gulped. "Made for me."

Shy smile turning to saucy grin, she unclasped her ankles at his lower back and fastened them around his neck.

"Oh yeah," he affirmed, running his hands up her thighs and driving into her rhythmically. "No fucking question."

She giggled and gasped.

His breath heavy, hot in her face, he kissed her wherever he could, muttering incoherent words of desire, holding her ankles.

Teeth grit, he slowed his thrusts to make this last...

Through her lust-fog, Buffy was sure of one thing: Dru was a big fat liar. Or maybe Dru just wasn't woman enough for him -- for her Spike.

My Spike. Buffy liked the sound of that.

So why should I care bout a bad reputation - anyway

She pushed him up, and he looked down at her in question. Her answer: "On your back."

One corner of his mouth curled, and he did as she said. She sat up to a kneel, pulled her dress over her head, hair spilling sensually over her shoulders as she mounted him.

Naked. Glistening. A wet dream come true.

And speaking of wet... Jesus.

She guided his hands to her waist and dipped down to suck his tongue into her mouth as she ground her hips, wrung his cock expertly.

He held her fast, manipulating her movements. She straightened again, threw her head back, arching, buzzing at the high.

Spike fixated on her perfect tits, shining with sweat, bouncing in time with her hips.

Hot, secret whispers: "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Buffy--!"

Eyes shut tight, she dug her fingers into his chest. "Yes, yes yes yes yes! Spike!"

He pulled her close. "Look at me."

Flying, sailing, hurdling over a precarious edge, he watched her ecstatic eyes as she crashed and burned with him, louder than fire, hotter than a sonic roar.





END PART ONE