Falling

By Unbridled Brunette

 
Prologue

Truthfully, he couldn’t find what was so mystical about it. A little chanting, a little burning brimstone…and this was supposed to change the course of an existence? This was what would bring Dru back to him? Spike couldn’t figure it.


 

He lit another fag and cocked his head, watching as Willow threw a bundle canary feathers into the clay pot at her feet. Sparks flew and a foul-smelling smoke billowed out of the container, making Spike wrinkle his nose. No pretty wand-waving here. Nothing was as simple as in the pictures.

 

“Hey Red, hurry it up will you? A smell like that will get into the wallpaper.”

 

She ignored him. He figured she would. She had given him that whole “I need complete concentration” speech. Supposedly a little conversation had the potential to throw the entire balance of the third dimension off, rendering the spell useless.  She never so much as glanced up from her spell book.

 

The fire turned black, then blood-red as Willow threw in the last of the ingredients. She reached across the billowing smoke to clasp his hands, and her voice didn’t tremble as she quietly murmured the incantation. She had told him what to do. When she began to chant he was to close his eyes and empty his mind of all thoughts except those of her. He was to focus all of his energy on her, the desire of his heart. Apparently, this would get the supernatural top dogs into a love-inducing kind of mood.

 

It sounded simple enough, but when all was said and done it was hard to do, focusing only on Dru. Maybe it was the alcohol; he was still a bit pissed. Or maybe it was just the lingering resentment of their last night together. Whatever it was, Spike found he could not focus his mind on Dru. Not just on Dru, or being happy with Dru. No, whenever he closed his eyes all he saw was her face the night she told him. That last night in South America .

 

Why can’t you kill her?

 

“No,” he thought, giving himself a bit of a shake. “Got to bloody concentrate. Got to concentrate on the good times, on being with her again.”

 

He screwed his eyes shut and tried again.

 

But again there was the image of Dru in the dusty street, the contempt on her face. Dru with the scent of another demon’s sex on her. Her voice was soft and cutting, dead on target.

 

I can see her floating all around you…laughing.

 

"Stop it, just fucking stop it!” he told himself. “You’re screwing everything up.”

 

You taste like ashes.

 

“STOP IT!”

 

This time he said it out loud. Really loud. Willow’s fingers dug into his hand, warning him to shut up before he ruined the spell. And he tried. But as suddenly as a TV channel changing there was Buffy, her eyes registering the same disdain as Drusilla’s.

 

Why would you help me?

 

He did it for her . For Dru. Of course he did it for Dru. Why else would he have formed an alliance with the Slayer? Why else would he have let her live when ripping out her pretty white throat would have been as natural to him as breathing had once been? It had always been for Dru.

 

But it hadn’t been enough, had it? Nothing had ever been enough. Even before the truce with Buffy he had not been able to satisfy her. She had begun leaving him in inches, each betrayal forcing him farther away. He bloody well knew what she had been at with Angelus. He knew—

 

The whole earth may be sucked into hell and you want my help ‘cause your girlfriend is a big ho?

 

But she wasn’t was she? Not Drusilla. She was his dark goddess, his black rose.

 

She was his.

 

Why won’t you push her away?

 

Why?

 

Why?

 

He didn’t bloody know why. She was just there, with him, all the time. She was in him. In his head, thoughts of her burrowing like a maggot, devouring, festering. She was destroying him from the inside and he had to stop her. He had to dig her out of there or she would leave him a hollow, empty shell and it would be too late.

 

He jerked his hands from Willow’s and stood up. The anger he had previously focused on Dru was now wholly turned on Buffy, and he no longer felt a desire to see his old love crawling to him on her hands and knees. She would come back and when she did he would prove to her that he was as much of a demon as ever—not by making her bleed or beg  or crawl. He would go one better than that.

 

He would kill the Slayer for her.

 

For them.

 

~*~  ~*~   ~*~

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

 

The road around Breaker’s Woods was narrow and winding, not a good road to be careening around at breakneck speeds, particularly at night. But Oz was worried and frustrated, and the only vent he could find for either of these emotions was through the gas pedal. He was riding the curves at a steady seventy miles an hour, oblivious to both speed limits and Cordelia’s frequent little gasps of alarm.

 

“What if they were kidnapped by Columbian drug lords?” she fretted, gripping the seat with one nervous hand. “They could be cutting off Xander’s ear right now! Or other parts.”

 

Oz glanced at her, half-irritated, half-sympathetic. “I really don’t think…”

 

“You don’t think what?” she asked quickly. Cordelia wasn’t accustomed to worrying about anyone but herself and the sensation was unsettling. She was eager for Oz to offer some consolation for her grief. Instead, his voice had trailed away and he was staring blankly at the side of the road.

 

“Why are you slowing down? They could be in trouble, we have to hurry!”

 

“Wait a minute.” He pressed the brake and the van slowed to a crawl. He lowered the window a bit and tilted his head back, catching the breeze with flared nostrils and a half-opened mouth.

 

“It’s Willow! She’s nearby!”

 

Cordelia’s face wrinkled with disgust. “What? You can smell her? She doesn’t even wear perfume.”

 

“She’s afraid.”

 

He threw the van into reverse and began slowly backtracking. Luckily, the street was nearly deserted because it was obvious to Cordelia that he wasn’t paying much attention to traffic.

 

“Is this some kind of residual werewolf thing?” she asked him, finally. “This is very disturbing.”

 

“I really agree,” he told her.

 

They were silent for a moment, both of them peering into the darkness that surrounded them, Oz still sniffing the air. Really Cordelia couldn’t see how Willow could be nearby. There was nothing around here but woods and icky wasteland, no buildings or anything. But Oz seemed certain.

 

She was about to suggest they at least get out of the vehicle to look around, when suddenly something appeared at the passenger’s side window. It took a double take for her to realize that it was a human face peering in.

 

She screamed and grabbed Oz’s arm. “Oh my God! It’s a vampire!”

 

He hit the brakes and spun around, staring past her. “That’s not a vampire.”

 

“I don’t care what it is—just go! Go!” She tried to push past him and press the gas pedal, but he shoved her back insistently.

 

“No, you don’t understand—it’s Willow!”

 

Stunned, Cordelia turned back around for a closer look. He was right, it was Willow. Not only Willow, but Xander was there too, clutching Willow’s shoulder and wincing with obvious effort to stay upright. Both of them were dirty and streaked with blood. Xander had a long cut on his temple.

 

She threw open the passenger door and immediately began to berate them with questions.

 

“Willow! What happened? What did you do to Xander? Are you okay? Is he hurt—?”

 

Willow opened her mouth to answer, but Xander groaned. “Later, Cordy, okay? We’ll explain everything—just give us a minute.”

 

Stricken to silence, Cordelia nodded.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Buffy sighed and just barely managed to resist the urge to pull her hair. In the hour and a half since she, Oz, and Cordy had split up, Buffy had circled the same twelve-block radius at least a hundred times. It was stupid, really. If she hadn’t seen Willow and Xander the first ninety-nine times then it was fairly certain she wouldn’t on the hundredth. It was just that she didn’t know where else to go. She couldn’t very well wander around town calling their names, and there were no real leads for her go on. Just the incredible mess left in the science lab, the absence of two people who were supposed to be there.

 

For the tenth time she silently cursed her watcher. Why had Giles chosen tonight of all nights to go on a stupid retreat in the stupid woods? He would know what to do in a situation like this, why had he left her to deal with it alone? And why were Cordelia and Oz taking so long to find him? Breaker’s Woods was a fair distance away, but Oz’s van could go pretty fast and Sunnydale wasn’t exactly a speed trap. They could easily have gotten back by now.

 

She toyed with the idea of calling on Angel for help, but decided against it. What help would he be, honestly? He didn’t know where Willow and Xander could be any better than she, and to drag him into this would just be a further waste of time and effort. No, she needed—

 

Spike?

 

Buffy stopped short, blinking with surprise as a figure slipped across her line of vision, crossing to the opposite side of the street and disappearing into a grove of trees near the cemetery entrance. It couldn’t be Spike, she told herself. He was in South America with Drusilla—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back on their agreement and return to Sunnydale. Even Spike wasn’t that stupid; he would know she would kill him if he every came back here. But it looked so much like him. Lean and muscular, and not-too-tall, sporting a sweeping coat and unnaturally white-blond hair… How many people looked like that?

 

Unable to contain her curiosity, Buffy stepped off the sidewalk onto the street.

 

She was about to cross in the direction where she had seen the figure, when suddenly a vehicle came careening out of nowhere. She dove out of the way just before the front end collided with her head. The driver of the van must have seen her at that point, because he laid on the brakes pretty hard. The tires squealed in protest, leaving quite a bit of rubber behind as the automobile slid to an abrupt stop just in front of her.

 

Buffy got to her feet angrily. “IDIOT!” she yelled. “You almost killed me!”

 

As she stormed toward the van, the driver’s door suddenly swung open and a head poked out.

 

“Sorry, Buff,” Oz said evenly. “We were just looking for you.”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

It was such a simple plan Spike was angry at himself for not thinking of it earlier. He would kill the bitch. That would prove to Dru once and for all that he was every bit the bad ass she fell in love with. And when the Slayer was gone Spike knew all those unsettling thoughts would die with her. The strange hold she had over him, the draw…it would all be over. One stone, two very dead birds.

 

The fact that he had tried to kill and failed to kill Buffy several times before did not enter into Spike’s mind at all. He was a man of action, not contemplation. Besides, those other times weren’t due to his mistakes. It was the idiocy of others…that was where the trouble lay. This time he would be working alone and alone was what suited him best. He had snuffed the first two by himself, hadn’t he?

 

He gave pause to think about those former slayers and it occurred to him he might want to wait just a couple of days before he went for Buffy. He wasn’t much of a man for contemplation, but he realized that she would be on her guard tonight. Willow and the other one would have told her about him by now. She might even be looking for him. No, it was best to lie low for a bit and then hit her when she least suspected it. Maybe take the opportunity to relearn her habits, follow her a bit. Get a feel for her, so to speak.

 

Without bothering to check traffic flow, Spike jogged across the darkened intersection. If he remembered right, he could reach the Slayer’s house by cutting through the cemetery, which was right in front of him. It would probably be a shorter route and would offer less potential for being seen, and he could cruise through the old bone yard to see if she was there on the way. He’d stake her out for a little while tonight to whet the appetite, return tomorrow for some serious stalking.

 

Spike grinned to himself and quickened his pace. Every fiber of his being was telling him that things were going to turn out all right this time. It was all cake from here.

 



 

 

“Spike is what ?”

 

Buffy shook her blonde head disbelievingly, certain she had misheard her friend’s statement. She opened her mouth to list all the reasons why Spike couldn’t possibly be back in Sunnydale, but before she could speak Xander began talking.

 

“He’s back in town. Holed up in the old factory, if you want the specifics of it. Apparently he came back to work some mojo on his ex…or rather he came so he could force Willow to work some mojo.”

 

Buffy held up her hand. “Wait a minute. This is going way too fast for me. Just…start at the science lab and go from there.”

 

Was it her imagination or did Willow and Xander exchange guilty looks?

 

Willow, always thinking on her feet, was the one who spoke first.

 

“I was in the science lab…trying out a couple of new spells. W—we were supposed to double date tonight. Xander came in to meet me and—and Spike broke in just as we were about to leave.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

Willow had to think a moment before she could answer Buffy’s question. After all, it had all been very sudden and a lot had happened since then.

 

“He said…he said he needed to…borrow me for a little while. He threw Xander against the wall and hit him on the head. Then he took us to the factory.”

 

Buffy nodded. “So where does the mojo come in?”

 

“Uhh…well apparently that was his whole purpose for taking us. He and Drusilla broke up and he wanted me to perform a love spell for him. He had all the ingredients and stuff already, and he said if I didn’t do it he would…kill Xander.”

 

Buffy’s eyes widened. “And you did it?”

 

Willow mistook Buffy’s tone of concern for accusation and quickly became defensive. “I had to! He was serious, Buffy! Xander was lying unconscious and Spike said he would—and then he pulled my hair and shoved a broken bottle in my face. He said he would kill me, too, if I didn’t do what he wanted. So I did.”

 

“So that’s that, right?” Cordelia said, speaking for the first time. “Problem solved.”

 

“Uh…no…problem not solved,” Xander answered. “There’s still a bloodthirsty killer on the loose, remember? Problem is far from being solved.”

 

“Yeah, but he got what he wanted. Willow did the spell and now he’ll get his girlfriend back. They can go back to wherever it is they’ve been hiding for the past few months.” Cordelia looked around the group expectantly. “Can’t they?”

 

“They could,” Buffy agreed. “Or they could also hang around here, killing us off one by one.”

 

“But you two had that truce,” Cordelia whined. “He can’t just go back on it…just like that!”

 

Xander rolled his eyes, then winced with pain and touched his temple. “Honey, Spike is a vampire. He doesn’t really hold a whole lot of stock in fair play.”

 

“Xander is right,” Buffy said. “Spike back in town—with Drusilla or without her—means bad news for us. There’s only one way we can be sure we’ll be safe, and that is—”

 

“Stake them both,” Oz interrupted.

 

Everyone looked at him, surprised. Though the statement was made quietly, there was definitely no hint of Oz’s usual deadpan demeanor. He was so angry his fists were clenched, the knuckles white and strained. When he noticed everyone watching him he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

 

“Well isn’t that what you were going to say?” he asked.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

Spike combed Sunnydale Cemetery twice before giving up as a bad job. The Slayer was obviously spending her evening elsewhere.

 

There were more than a dozen other cemeteries in Sunnydale, but Spike had neither the time nor the inclination to check them all. It would be sunrise in a couple of hours and his prospect of finding her in that length of time was slim. She might not even be patrolling tonight, she might be at the library studying or dancing at the Bronze. There were just too many possibilities. He wasn’t too upset about this. Now that he had decided on a course of action he was in no particular hurry to carry it out. In fact, he almost enjoyed the prospect of a long, drawn out pursuit. A hunt was only interesting if it was challenging.

 

 Not that he was giving up for the night. He might not have time to check all of her usual haunts tonight, but he could check her house. He wanted to get a look at her residence anyway, get a feel for who it was he was hunting. The last time he was there—the only time—had not given him much of a read—probably because he was too preoccupied with Dru and Angelus to pay much attention to his surroundings. And anyway, all he saw was the downstairs. You couldn’t really get a whole lot of information from a person’s kitchen or living room. To really know someone you had to get into their private living quarters.

 

And on the off chance she was at home…

 

Spike smiled, canines elongating at the prospect of having something to sink them into. It had been a long time since that magic shop clerk and he was hungry. And Slayer’s blood…that was something special.

 

He left the cemetery at a run.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

“Forget it.”

 

Oz frowned in what might have been his first genuine show of emotion ever. He shook his head to show he didn’t appreciate the bluntness of her answer. “Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t want you getting killed,” she said. “That’s why not.”

 

She leaned against the doorframe of the van and continued, addressing not just Oz this time but all of them. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt, that’s why I don’t want any of you to come with me to the factory. Spike is majorly dangerous, and the last thing I need is to have to worry about you guys.”

 

“But there’s strength in numbers,” Xander spoke up, siding with Oz. “I mean surely five people with stakes would be better than one…Spike would be totally outnumbered.”

 

“But not outmatched,” Buffy answered. “Not outclassed. Guys, Spike has killed two Slayers with apparently no effort at all. It would take him about two seconds to wipe all of you out…and in the meantime I would be distracted, trying to protect you. I’m telling you things will go down much smoother if I go by myself.”

 

She allowed her eyes to pan the group, finally coming to rest on Xander. “Anyway, you need to go to the hospital and get that looked at.” She indicated the gash on his temple.

 

“So where are you going?” Cordelia asked. “I mean…do you really think Spike is going to be lying around the factory, waiting for you to come stake him?”

 

“Cordy is right, Buffy,” Willow added. “Spike stormed out of there before I could even finish the spell properly. He was drunk and ranting about something…then he just left.”

 

Buffy smiled grimly as she hefted her crossbow onto her shoulder and prepared to leave.

 

"He’s gotta come home sometime," she said.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

Spike had earned an invitation into the Summers’ home during his alliance with the Slayer the previous spring. This meant he could come and go as he pleased without any pesky door barriers to bar his path. Why Buffy had not called on Willow’s magical talents to revoke his privileges was a mystery to Spike, but he wasn’t about to complain. There had been a moment when he had remembered that such spells existed—and that Willow knew them—that he had grown nervous. If he couldn’t get into the Slayer’s home then part of his plan was down the toilet before it began. Not a great sign, overall. So it was a relief when the back door fell open with nothing more than a jiggle of the knob and a sharp slam with one shoulder.

 

He paused in the darkness of the kitchen for a moment, waiting to see if either the Slayer or her mum had heard the thump. When it became clear to him they hadn’t he continued on his way unabated.

 

Once he got upstairs, Spike had no idea which room was the Slayer’s. All the doors were shut and all of them looked exactly the same. The last thing he wanted to do was burst in on Mum and have her alarm the Slayer, so Spike relied of his excellent sense of smell to tell him when he had reached Buffy’s room. Though it had been months since he had smelled it, he would recognize that musky, slightly cosmetic, feminine aroma anywhere. He pushed open the third door he came to and stepped boldly inside.

 

No Slayer.

 

Spike stared at the empty bed for a moment, trying to overcome his feelings of disappointment. He had known she likely wouldn’t be here, of course. But part of him had become psyched for a brawl nonetheless, and to find he wouldn’t get one was a real let down.

 

Still, the trip wasn’t a complete loss.

 

He circled the room slowly, gazing at the clothes scattered around, the makeup on the vanity. There was a stuffed pig on the windowsill and a vial of holy water in her nightstand. A lightweight jacket was draped over the back of her chair. It smelled of perfume and leather, and there was a small blood spot on one sleeve. Her school books lay in a dejected heap on the floor. He didn’t miss a thing. It was all part of the game. Hunter and hunted. He had to know her.

 

When he grew tired of the looking, Spike threw himself down on her bed. It was fluffy and soft with those kinds of billowy bedclothes little girls like. He buried his face in a pillow and inhaled curiously. It smelled like…well perfume, of course. Makeup. Some kind of flowery soap or shampoo. That musky, vaguely pleasant odor of her flesh. And something else, something heavier. Something dark and almost salty. It took him a moment for him to realize what it was.

 

Sex.

 

He rolled over, folding his arms behind his head and grinning up at the ceiling. So Ms. Chosen One wasn’t quite as lily-white as she liked to portray herself. Not only was she shagging a vampire, she was doing it in her pristine virgin’s bed in her mum’s house. Either that or she was enjoying her own company a bit too well.

 

To his complete surprise, Spike found himself suddenly aroused by the latter thought.

 

Disgusted, he sat up and rubbed his forehead. But the image wouldn’t die. He could see her in his head, lying here. One small hand slipping beneath the sheets…

 

Bloody hell what was wrong with him? He hated that bitch; he was going to tear her into little bits the moment the opportunity presented itself. So why was he getting his rocks off on thinking of her in bed?

 

It was all Dru’s fault, of course. If she hadn’t left him for that chaos demon none of this would ever have happened. And it had been so long since then. Weeks since he had been with a woman. He just wasn’t used to that kind of restraint that was all. If Dru were here, pleasuring him the way she was bloody supposed to, then Spike knew he wouldn’t be lying on the Slayer’s bed, picturing her in nothing but her skivvies. Once he got Dru back everything would get back to normal and he would be happy again.

 

He would.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~
 

 

 

 

It was pretty apparent from the moment Buffy arrived at the burned-out factory that Spike wasn’t there. She waded through the piles of charred wood and empty whisky bottles to make sure, of course, but that was just following protocol. She knew he wasn’t there.

 

It pissed her off, to be perfectly honest. She had jazzed herself up for a fight, was ready for it. To arrive and find the place empty was just too much of an anticlimax to the evening. All the worrying about Xander and Willow had built up quite a bit of tension and the only way to release it was into somebody. She needed a kill.

 

Buffy kicked at the blackened remains of a doll. God look at this place. Even by vampire standards it was a dump. Why had Spike decided to come back here , even if he was in Sunnydale? Why hadn’t he just killed somebody and taken their house? Or found some dank crypt out in the cemetery?

 

She knew already, of course. It was because of Drusilla. He missed Drusilla and wanted to probe the sore tooth by returning to their old home.

 

It was baffling, really. Buffy’s experience with vampires had taught her that they were cruel, soulless beings, intent on destruction. They not only killed their victims for blood, but they enjoyed torturing them as well. They were…well…evil. So how could they fall in love? Angel had fallen in love, of course. With her. But then he had a soul. Spike didn’t have a soul. So how come Spike could love Drusilla as deeply as Angel loved her ?

 

A sudden, unexpected wave of sympathy washed over her. Spike might be a soulless, evil being, but he was a soulless, evil being in love. Buffy knew how hard it was to be in love with someone and not be able to be with them. In fact, when Angel had lost his soul, she had quickly found out what it was like to be in love with someone who didn’t love you back. She couldn’t help but pity Spike really. He really had treated Drusilla very well; it was too bad she had to be such a big ho.

 

What was she doing running off on Spike now, anyway? They’d been together for a century. Why had she been so eager to cheat on him when Angel turned bad? Buffy could still remember the how hurt and angry Spike had been when he had admitted there was something between the two of them. He wanted to take her to South America to get Drusilla away from Angel so she would love him again. Apparently it hadn’t worked so well.

 

Buffy felt a sudden flash of anger toward Angel. Angel had tried to throttle Buffy the moment he had lost his soul; he had hated the very idea of her because she had made him feel love. So why didn’t Spike mind feeling love? Why was it he could be an evil, soulless vampire and an exemplary boyfriend but Angel couldn’t? She was going to have a serious discussion with him about that.

 

Just as soon as Spike came in so she could kill him.

 


 

“What the bleeding hell are you doing here?”

 

Buffy’s heart turned over at the sound of his voice. She gripped her stake tighter and edged away from the wall, never allowing her eyes to move from his face. When he moved down the stairs the heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, making her jump. Her voice shook as she said: “You know why I’m here.”

 

It was strange, really, that she should be so nervous. She had heard him coming, after all. She had been listening for him and her hearing was excellent. And Spike wasn’t exactly being stealthy, kicking things out of his way and half-singing, half-muttering the verses of an old Sex Pistols song. He had given the De Soto an affectionate slap on the hood as he passed it on the way to the door, and the metallic clang that resulted would have been enough to wake the dead.

 

Maybe it was more the idea that he was so unaffected by her presence that made Buffy so nervous. Spike was smart—he would know that she wasn’t here to welcome him back into the neighborhood. The fact that he was reacting so nonchalantly on her encroachment on his territory was unsettling. He was planning something.

 

Whatever the plan was he was in no hurry to embark on it. He settled himself on top of a large metal crate near the stairway and began searching his pockets for cigarettes. He didn’t even glance up at her as he extracted one from the package, stuck it into his mouth, and lit it with a battered tin Zippo.

 

“You know…” he began, blowing smoke with each syllable. “You’re right. I do know why you’re here. In fact I was wondering when you’d show up. Didn’t really expect it to be this soon, though.”

 

“Yeah, well…I’m capable to a fault, Giles tells me.” Buffy frowned at him in what she hoped was a menacing way and added, “You shouldn’t have come back, Spike.”

 

“I’ll admit it hasn’t worked out as well as I had hoped it would,” Spike replied easily. “But on the whole I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip.”

 

“Oh yeah? Why not? Because of Willow’s spell? Well that just means that there will be two of you to kill, not just one.”

 

“If you’re talking about Drusilla, she’s not coming.”

 

Another little skip in her heartbeat. “Why not?”

 

“Didn’t the witch tell you? I stopped the spell, decided I didn’t want Dru back. Not that way.”

 

“What way is that?” she asked.

 

“Against her will and all that.” He waved an arm for emphasis, scattering ash over the already filthy floor. “But I found another way.”

 

“Kill me.”

 

“Give the little girl a prize.” He grinned.

 

Her muscles tensed as Spike slid to the ground, but she didn’t retreat as he approached her.

 

“One question…how will killing me get Drusilla back?”

 

He rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug and took another drag on his cigarette. “Just a little show of affection. She wasn’t too happy when she found out about our truce. Thought I’d gone soft, wasn’t the same demon I had been. This’ll prove her wrong.”

 

A wave of irritation washed over her. She was accustomed to being at the top of every vampire’s hit list, as well as to the cold-blooded way they spoke of their plans to do her in. She was the Chosen One, after all. The bane of all evil, the Slayer. To fight a hero’s battle and die an honorable death was nothing more than what was expected of her. But to be killed in order to placate an old girlfriend? That was something else altogether.

 

“Maybe that wasn’t the reason at all,” she bit back angrily. “Maybe Drusilla was just letting you down easy. After all…you weren’t exactly keeping her satisfied before our truce.”

 

His brow furrowed, first with confusion then with anger. “What the hell are you implying?”

 

“You said it yourself—Drusilla and Angel were having it on right under your nose. It was the whole reason for your asking for my help in killing him, right? So what I’m saying is…”

 

His pale forehead bulged, yellow eyes flashing with rage. But Buffy didn’t even pause in her discourse.

 

“…maybe you just weren’t cutting it for her.”

 

He moved faster than she could ever have imagined. Faster than she remembered. Faster than she thought even a vampire could move. Before she could blink he was on her, snarling. He backhanded her and sent her reeling into the wall.

 

She just managed to shake off the blow when another one fell. Luckily, she was attentive enough to duck this one, and Spike yelped as his fist went through two layers of cinderblock and sheetrock. When he withdrew his hand from the hole he had made the wall it was streaked with blood.

 

He swung at her again and again Buffy managed to duck. He had put so much force behind this punch that he had a hard time stopping his forward momentum, and in the time it took him to regain his balance, Buffy executed a well-aimed kick to his back. He groaned and stumbled, but just managed to roll back onto his feet before she could stake him.

 

“Bitch—”

 

She swooped forward, drawing her arm in a smooth underhand motion and directing the stake to his ribcage. But just as it seemed she would make contact, Spike retaliated. In one fluid movement he managed to grab her wrist and twist it, effectively causing her to drop the weapon.

 

Startled, Buffy struck out with her free hand. But Spike caught that one, too. He had her by both arms, his pale cold hands vise-like and painful. She flinched and kicked out, trying to hook her ankle behind his leg and bring him down. But it didn’t work. Just as she set out to complete the maneuver, Spike wrenched both her arms, first drawing her forward and then pushing her back, so that she fell to the floor with considerable force. Before she could even think to move he was there, on top of her.

 

She struggled underneath him, but even with all the adrenaline coursing through her body she could not summon the strength to knock him off her. He pinned her arms against the floor above her head and smiled a grisly, sharp-toothed smile as he arched his back and prepared to deliver the deadly attack.

 

Then something happened.

 

Through the fog of fear and disbelief, Buffy became suddenly aware of him. Of his body and how the cool length of it stretched across her. One of his legs was between her thighs, his knee pressing into her crotch, and she found herself suddenly excited by it. He leaned in and his chest pressed against her, flattening her breasts with his weight. Her nostrils were suddenly assaulted by the scent of him: cigarettes and blood and something else. Something heady and masculine.

 

Without even realizing what she was doing, Buffy pushed down against his knee, pressing herself closer against him. Her breath came sharp and fast, like a gasp, and she arched her back, turning her head to one side. She was almost painfully aroused and so ashamed by it she couldn’t look at him.

 

All of this happened in the split second before Spike drove his teeth into her. Had the sensation been delayed—or had she been slower in presenting it—Spike undoubtedly would have killed her. But her reaction to his closeness was so immediate and so pronounced that it startled him. His demon visage faded away, replaced by a human countenance rife with confusion. In that instant of indecision his grip on her arms loosened.

 

Almost without intending to, Spike had withdrawn from her just a little, his eyes registering a flicker of uncertainty. His knee slid back, shifting away from her.

 

It was the lack of contact which brought Buffy back to herself. Once she didn’t have the provocatively placed leg to contend with she was able to perceive the danger in her current situation. She jerked her arms to her sides and Spike—who was still holding onto her wrists—was thrown off balance. He fell against her, but she didn’t allow herself time to take any licentious pleasure in the weight of his body on hers. Instead, she rolled out from under him, rolled away. When he tried to stand up she kicked him in the head, knocking him back to the ground.

 

In the heat of battle her stake had wound up on the floor, and with all the rubble covering it Buffy knew finding her weapon would be impossible. There were some sticks of burnt wood scattered here and there, but for some reason it did not occur to her to grab one. In fact, it didn’t occur to her to her to do much of anything except run. And she followed that instinct with eager abandon, tearing up the stairs and out of the factory like a greyhound out of the trap. Her heart pounded with the realization that she had just narrowly cheated not only death, but something even more frightening and sinister.

 

Herself.

 


 

Spike didn’t try to follow Buffy out of the factory. He could have. He might perhaps even have caught her, considering the state she was in.

 

But he was in a state of his own. A little drunk, a little battle sore. And something else. Something he wasn’t sure how to define. Something brought on by the quiver of warm flesh, the scent and sight and sound of her—yes, it was most definitely pleasure—when he bared his teeth to her. He had aroused her—the Slayer, the Chosen One. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. He wasn’t even sure if it was real. Could it not have been some elaborate hoax? Something she had planned beforehand in the event he overpower her? It had gotten him off her, had in effect saved her life. He wouldn’t put it past her to do something like that. He wouldn’t put it past any woman. They were all deceitful.

 

But could you fake something like that? Spike wasn’t so sure on this point. She could gasp, of course. Do the little head-tilt and arch her body into him. All of that she could do quite easily. But the other? Could she force her flesh to warm beneath him? Force her pulse to flutter and her blood to rush? And the scent—that wonderful, heady, musky scent—

 

You couldn’t fake that could you?

 

Spike traced a finger through the ashes on the floor. He was confused now. Fifteen minutes ago he had been calling for her blood—reveling in the anticipation of her death. Five minutes ago he had looked into her eyes and had been—

 

Confused?

 

Aroused?

 

Curious?

 

There had been a definite response on his part. Physically, at least. But that didn’t prove much, except that it had been a while and he was getting impatient. Otherwise, he had been too surprised to really have a response. She had made him so damn angry with those remarks about Drusilla…so angry he couldn’t even think properly. He had been running on autopilot, really, and it was pure luck that brought her down. He had her within his grasp, ready to be consumed. He had been ready. But then the look on her face—that little gasp when he leaned into her. He didn’t know what to make of it.

 

He stood up, kicked at the ashes angrily. It had been a mistake. No matter how strange she had acted or how strange it had made him feel, Spike knew he should not have let her get away. He was sure this wasn’t the end of it. She would be back, perhaps next time with an arsenal of weapons and an army of teenagers with which to do him in. Next time he might not be so lucky.

 

So maybe he shouldn’t wait until next time.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

 

Buffy rushed into the house, charging up the staircase so quickly that her mother became alarmed.

 

Joyce left her breakfast preparations to follow her daughter. “Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

 

Buffy shut the bathroom door, snapping the lock behind her. “I’m fine, Mom,” she called. “I just really had to go to the bathroom. You know how it is.”

 

Joyce breathed a little easier. Calls of nature were something she could understand. It was a nice, normal reason for an adolescent girl to be in a hurry. She smiled to herself in relief.

 

Still, being a mother, she couldn’t just let it go at that.

 

“It’s six-thirty. Why are you home so early? I thought you and Willow would want to sleep in on a Saturday.”

 

For a moment Buffy was confused. Then she recalled the cover story she had given her mother. Even though Joyce was now aware of Buffy’s nocturnal activities she did not approve of them—especially if it meant she would be out all night long. So Buffy tried to shield her mother from as much worry she could.

 

In other words she lied. A lot.

 

“Uh…Willow has a history paper due and she decided to get up early to get started on it,” she said quickly, one hand on the door, as if willing Joyce not to open it.

 

“That Willow…she’s such a good student!” Joyce’s voice, though muffled by the door, nevertheless managed to convey that Buffy would do well to emulate Willow’s studious ways.

 

“That’s what they say,” Buffy muttered.

 

She waited until she was absolutely certain Joyce didn’t have anything else to say. Then she sat down on the edge of the bathtub, hugging herself to stop the shaking.

 

What was wrong with her? It was bad enough that she and Angel couldn’t keep their hands off each other despite their promise, but now she was getting hot for Spike . At least Angel had a soul…most of the time. Spike was completely evil. To find herself attracted to him was not only wrong it was...icky.

 

She drew a deep breath. It was okay, though. It was. This was probably just some sort of reaction she was having because of Angel. That was it. In Psych class they had talked about guilt transference—projecting blame onto somebody else to allay your own guilty feelings—and Buffy was sure that it could work the same way with physical attraction. She missed Angel. She was having a hard time adjusting, first to his returning at all, and then to the fact that they must remain only friends. This sudden interest in Spike was probably just some mind-wig over Angel. Transference, that’s what it was. After all, they were both vampires. It made a lot of sense that Spike would be the one to awaken such misplaced feelings in her.

 

She sighed heavily, much relieved to have found an explanation. The only thing that was left would be to find the solution and she was certain that wouldn’t be hard. After all, she already knew what it would be.

 

She would have to kill him.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“See you later, man. Thanks for the lift.”

 

Xander—the gash on his forehead now neatly sutured and bandaged—threw open the rear sliding door to Oz’s van and prepared to exit. However, something on his friend’s face gave him pause, made him ask, “You okay?”

 

Oz shook his head, brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Did she seem okay to you tonight?”

 

Almost mechanically, Xander backed against the open door. “Was who okay?” he asked warily.

 

“Buffy. She seemed a little out of it, didn’t she?”

 

Xander breathed a silent sight of relief, aware that in the front passenger seat Willow must be doing the same.

 

“She seemed pretty much normal to me, man. Maybe a little pissed off at Spike, but that’s expected right?”

 

“Why’d she want to go alone?”

 

Willow turned in her seat, glancing from Oz to Xander with an expression of relief and bemusement. “You know, I was wondering the same thing.”

 

“Well I had a concussion,” Xander replied. “So fill me in.”

 

“She was so adamant about going to the factory alone…didn’t that strike you as odd?”

 

“Not really, Will. She was just being the Buff, concerned for our safety and heroically willing to go it alone.”

 

Willow shook her head. “I don’t think so. She didn’t even bother to go to her house to get weapons and all she had on her were a couple of stakes. She didn’t stop to plan, or to talk to Giles. She just left. It’s not like her.”

 

“It’s very like her,” argued Xander. “God knows I love Buffy, but she isn’t exactly the world’s greatest for strategic planning. That’s Giles’ job…and he’s at that retreat in the woods. She probably didn’t want to take the time to find him for fear Spike might do something else in the meantime. And as for the reason she didn’t want the rest of us to go…I was injured, you were scared, Cordy is worthless as a fighter, and Oz is the only on who can work a stick shift, so he had to drive the van to get us to the hospital.”

 

Willow settled back in the seat.

 

“I guess so…” she said.

 

“I don’t,” Oz said.

 

The other two looked at him with surprise.

 

“Why not?” Xander asked.

 

Oz’s eyes riveted to Xander’s, expressionless as ever in the dim glow of the street lights.

 

“I could smell her,” he said. “That’s how I know.”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Spike was halfway out the factory’s main door before he found the one flaw in his great plan to kill the Slayer.

 

The sun was coming up.

 

Luckily, it was very early and the light was dim as the sun struggled over the horizon, or else he might have stepped right out into oblivion. Still, early as it was, the factory entrance was not protected by trees or other buildings, and the narrow rays of light shooting from the east hit directly on the side of his face, scorching his already bruised cheekbone.

 

Cursing, he darted back into the darkness of the dilapidated building.

 

“Stupid, sodding Slayer,” he muttered angrily as he soaked a rag in bourbon. “Wasn’t for her this would have never happened.”

 

He winced, pressing the cloth against his burnt face. Damn her straight to hell. She had taken up so much of his time tonight he hadn’t even had time to eat. Now the sun was up and he was starving, trapped in this godforsaken factory without so much as a rat to abate his hunger.

 

Oh, she was going to pay for this. He would make sure of that. She was going to pay for all of it.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 


 

“Don’t say anything.”

 

The words came out in something like a growl and the expression on his face was so dower Buffy reached for her stake. In the instant it took her to reach into her pocket, he covered the space between them. His hands gripped her forearms hard. Painfully. Buffy looked down at his fingers digging into her flesh, but she did what he asked. She didn’t speak.

 

His eyes delved deep into her own . He was searching for something, Buffy didn’t know what. She was surprised to find that his eyes weren’t dark like she had thought. They were a sort of cloudy blue-grey. Like the Atlantic on a stormy day. She couldn’t read his expression.

 

The vise-like grip on her arms tightened even more, the muscles of his jaw standing out in high relief as he shoved her. She stumbled backward and would have fallen had her back not collided with the wall. He fell against her, chest and stomach and crotch all pressing up against her. Taut, every inch of him. Hard. She could hardly stand it.

 

“Don’t,” he whispered. His breath tickled her cheek, smelling of blood and not the least bit warm. He bent his head, lips grazing her ear as he finished: “Don’t say anything.”

 

There wasn’t anything to say.

 

Buffy twisted her head just slightly and now his lips were just a hair’s-breadth from her own. His eyes darted from her eyes to her lips. The bemusement was gone from his eyes, replaced by something else, something almost pained.

 

“Love…”

 

She closed her eyes, letting the word caress her lips as he leaned in further. His mouth was as full and soft as ripe fruit. It lingered just above hers, barely touching, as though he wasn’t certain this was really what he wanted. Her throat ached with wanting and a small cry escaped her lips, because she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anyone. She was burning inside.

 

He groaned and fell on her, unable to resist it anymore. His lips were salt and sweet, his tongue a velvet caress. She arched and moaned, clutching at him, pulling him closer. Though he hadn’t touched her yet or invited her to touch him, Buffy ran her hands over him. Her fingers kneaded the cords of his neck, his shoulders. She stroked his belly, slipping her hands beneath his shirt to explore the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

 

The sensation of her hands on his bare skin caused him to groan again. He pressed closer to her, pushing her into the plaster of the wall and allowing her to feel, without a doubt, just how much he wanted this. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her head down so that her lips met his with a crushing force.

 

“Buffy…” he murmured against her lips, so she could feel as well as hear it.

 

Yes…

 

It was more of a thought than a spoken reply, because he was sucking on her bottom lip and she couldn’t talk. Not that it mattered. She loved the feel of his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, and the rough kisses that set her afire.

 

He lips finally left hers, began to devour her throat with equal ferocity. And Buffy—who knew just how dangerous having him at her throat could be—tilted her head back to allow him broader access.

 

“Buffy—”

 

Hands beneath her hips, he lifted her easily, draping her legs on either side of his hips so that she straddled him, feet dangling above the floor. She was panting now, her hands grasping his hair, her legs gripping his waist so tightly she might have crushed a lesser man. She threw her head back and whispered his name, softly at first. Then more forcefully, until it was almost a scream.

 

“Spike…”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Buffy moaned softly, one hand gripping the coverlet as she drifted into wakefulness. She fought to stay asleep and finish the dream which brought her so close to completion, but it was no good. She reluctantly opened her eyes—and was immediately assaulted with the realization of what had just happened.

 

“No…” she groaned. She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. “No, no, no…”

 

But as much as she would like to convince herself of the contrary, Buffy could not escape the knowledge that the attraction she had felt for Spike the night before was not gone. In fact, judging from the dream she had just had, it was growing stronger. The idea horrified her.

 

She sat up, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to banish the images behind them. She glanced at her clock and noted with surprise that it was almost noon. She had lain down for a nap shortly after arriving home at six-thirty and had been asleep ever since.

 

Asleep and dreaming of that…thing.

 

She frowned, grappling for an explanation as to why she seemed to be so fascinated with Spike all of a sudden. Transference was one thing, but erotic dreams? She hadn’t had dreams that vivid about Angel for heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her? She had certainly never had this preoccupation with Spike before.

 

Trying to ignore the shivering sensations that remained as an aftermath of her dream, Buffy swung her legs over the side of them bed and stood up. The bottom line wasn’t really what was causing the problem but how to solve it. She knew how to solve it; to do that she would have to kill him.

 

Unfortunately, in order to kill him, she would have to go see him.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Spike had forgotten what a crap town Sunnydale was. It didn’t even have a good radio station. Nothing that played the Ramones, or the Sex Pistols, or any good bands like that. No, instead it was all Britney what’s-her-name and that Titanic lass, Celine something-or-other. Whiny chick music was what it was and it pervaded every station. The only relief Spike could find was a static filled LA station that played 1980’s pop hits. Normally Spike would have rather shoved the battered little radio up his arse than listen to drivel like that, but the quiet of the factory was beginning to press down on him. It made him think about things he wanted to ignore, remember things he would rather forget.

 

That was why he was now lying on the lumpy, dirty remains of the bed he had once shared with Dru, drinking and listening to Pass the Dutchie.

 

He thought vaguely about having a fag, but the effort of digging his lighter out of his back pocket seemed too much at the moment. He preferred to sip quietly from his bottle and lie, unmoving, in the dusty room. The less he moved the quieter his head became. The quieter his head became the less he had to think about Dru. The less he thought about Dru the better he felt.

 

It was still pretty bad.

 

He amused himself briefly by recollecting the expression on the Slayer’s face the night before. Little girl getting off on being near the Big Bad. It was flattering…Demented and sad, maybe. But flattering. Made him wonder just what shagging a slayer would feel like.

 

Not that he would do it. That would be a definite conflict of interest. Still…it was something to think about. And Spike had drunk enough bourbon to think about it without guilt or restraint. Drunk enough to feel no shame in imagining what that pert little high-school body looked like without clothes. So what if she was the slayer? She was still a female. A right nice-looking female, at that. Why shouldn’t he think about it?

 

He swigged from his bottle, suddenly morose. He knew damn well why he shouldn’t think about it. It was dangerous to allow himself to form attachments to his mortal enemy—even if those attachments were as tenuous as sexual fantasies. Allowing himself to get a raging hard-on for her might well mean getting killed in their next confrontation.

 

That bitch.

 

Spike growled low as his thoughts circled back to the same path they had been following for days now: it was all her fault his unlife was in shambles. If it weren’t for Buffy, Dru would never have left him. If it weren’t for Buffy, he would never have come back to this hellhole. And if it weren’t for Buffy, he wouldn’t be lying here shitfaced and starving, getting off on the mental image of statutory rape.

 

Spike was so preoccupied—not to mention inebriated—that he did not hear the factory door open. Nor did he hear footsteps, not even as they descended the stairs to the room he was in. In fact, he didn’t notice anything at all until she appeared before him, wraithlike. So much like the image he’d had in his head that for a moment he was not sure if she was real or not.

 

The grim expression on her face told him she was.

 

Spike didn’t bother to sit up. She wasn’t holding a weapon and he knew he could move well out of range before she drew one. No reason for him to get up before he had to.

 

“Well, Slayer, here you are again. If I’d known you were coming I would have tidied the place up a bit.”

 

“I would have called,” she replied dryly. “But I don’t have your number.”

 

“I’m in the book.” He smirked at her, still lounging comfortably on the broken bed. “You know, Slayer, we can go on swapping witticisms or we can get down to business. It’s up to you.”

 

“I’m not here to fight, Spike.”

 

Now he did sit up.

 

He looked into her eyes, trying to decide just what kind of game she was playing with him. But her eyes were veiled, unreadable. He tried to think of something to say what would trip her up, make her reveal what she was planning.

 

When he opened his mouth, however, the only thing what would come out was: “Huh?”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 


 

 

“You aren’t here to fight.”

 

Spike slid off the bed and, without taking his eyes off her, began searching his pockets for cigarettes.

 

“So tell me, pet. Why are you here? Not for the ambience I’m sure.”

 

Buffy’s eyes followed his hand as he gestured to indicate the scorched walls and ashy floor, the broken and burnt furniture.

 

“It does lack something,” she agreed.

 

He stuck a fag into his mouth, lit it. “Yeah. So why’d you come?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

 

He had to work hard to keep his surprise from showing. What was she at, saying things like that? She never wanted to talk to him. She preferred kicking him in the balls.

 

He took a long drag on his cigarette, playing for time.

 

“So talk,” he said finally. “The way I figure it, you’ve got about three minutes left where you can. After that I’m going to rip your throat out.”

 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she repeated.

 

She moved forward and despite the fact he didn’t see a weapon, Spike jumped away, moving out of range in the event she decided to attack. He backed nearer to the wall and glared at her, eyes flashing briefly yellow. Had he not been so drunk he might have gone ahead and finished her—or tried to. As it was, however, the demon visage faded as quickly as it came. He leaned against the wall, ostensibly calm and collected, though really the posturing was more a support for his wobbly knees than a show of poise.

 

“Two minutes,” he said.

 

“Why aren’t you like the others?”

 

He snorted derisively. “Why aren’t I like the other what ?”

 

“The other vampires. Angel lost his soul and he lost his ability to love. Why didn’t you?”

 

He bridled at the question, offended at the implication that he was different. The ability to love wasn’t exactly a trait revered by most demons and to have her say it aloud like that….Well, it was like an affront to his manhood.

 

“Who says I haven’t lost my ability to love?” he snapped.

 

“You loved Drusilla. You made an allegiance with me and risked your own life to safe hers. Why is it you could do that and Angel couldn’t bear remembering that he loved me at all?”

 

He cocked his head at her thoughtfully.

 

“Hey! Why all the questions, Slayer? I don’t recall you being this chatty before.” He grinned wickedly. “Oh…Don’t tell me you and Angelus had some of the old in-out and now he’s back to being a bad dog.”

 

“Don’t be disgusting!” she snapped, sounding more like he knew her.

 

Spike bounced on the balls on his feet, sensing a fight. “You didn’t always think so, did you, Goldilocks? Angelus told me you were panting for it not too long ago.”

 

“Just tell me why, Spike. Why are you different?”

 

He shrugged, disappointed that she would regain her calm so easily. “How in the bleeding hell should I know? And why should I give a damn?”

 

She didn’t bother trying to answer his question, just watched silently as he pulled the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and crushed it against the wall.

 

Irritated that she had no rejoinder, Spike shot out, “You know…maybe I’m not the one who’s different. Maybe it’s your Angel who isn’t like the other vampires. Just because something is evil doesn’t mean it can’t have feelings, you know? Maybe something is wrong with him .”

 

He was hoping to piss her off again, but instead she nodded her head in agreement.

 

“Maybe,” she said. “I wouldn’t know.”

 

Perplexed by this, Spike tried to take another approach.

 

“Although…the Judge did say Dru and I stink of humanity. Maybe we’re the black sheep in our demonic field. A new breed of modern vampire that isn’t afraid of public displays of affection, monogamy, or discussing our feelings.” His voice was thick with irony, mocking himself as well as her.

 

But again Buffy refused to take the bait. Instead of getting angry at his remark, she considered it with a ridiculous earnestness, as though she had just discovered some great secret about him buried under all that sarcasm.

 

“You still miss her, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, bloody hell…”

 

“Why didn’t you let Willow finish the spell?” she persisted, ignoring his grumbling.

 

“WOULD YOU JUST STOP ALREADY!” he shouted, finally chafed raw by her questioning. “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT—SO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

 

“You could have attacked me the minute I walked in here,” Buffy charged right along, ignoring his demands—as well as the radical change taking place over his features. “Why didn’t you?”

 

Spike didn’t know why he was so angry, except that this wasn’t the way he wanted it to go. He didn’t want her to be so poised, so in control of the situation. And she mentioned Dru! What did she know about Drusilla or his relationship with her? Nothing! She had no right to mention her and rip the scab off a wound that wasn’t healing so great in the first place.

 

Shaking from intoxication as well as rage, Spike snarled at Buffy. “If you have a weapon on you then you had better get it out now, because I’m about to crack your head open.”

 

If the threat frightened her, Buffy hid it well. She reached into the back of her jeans and withdrew a wooden stake from where it was concealed in her pocket. There was a moment where she looked at the stake and then at Spike with an expression of indecision. Then, with the air of a skydiver pulling his parachute cord and hoping for the best, she threw the stake down at his feet.

 

Spike stared at the weapon as it skidded along the concrete flooring to rest near the toe of his boot. “What kind of game are you playing, Slayer?”

 

“No games Spike.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“I’m proving a point. I told you I didn’t come here to fight.”

 

Her small chin lifted almost defiantly and never had he seen her look so stubbornly resolved as when she added: “So if you want me, come and get me.”

 

So he did.

 

He dove on her, moving with enough force that both on them fell hard onto the dirty concrete floor. But Spike landed on top. He grabbed her wrists and forced them over her head, pinning them to the floor so she couldn’t strike back.

 

Oddly enough, she wasn’t even trying to strike back. Instead. she just lay there, looking at him with a baffling expression in those hazel eyes. And then there was that smell…that heady scent that he remembered from the night before. It was stronger now, sharper and hotter. It filled his nostrils and saturated his tongue, urging him to respond.

 

There was no doubt about it this time. She wanted him.

 

Spike smiled a grisly sharp-toothed grin, more than a little pleased with this turn of events. He arched his back in and bared his teeth, ready to sink them into the tender white throat just inches from his lips. He thought he might just not leave her dead after all, but instead bring her back to be his. He had never sired anyone for a lover before and he liked the idea of creating her, teaching her everything his way.

 

He would have done it had Buffy not suddenly tilted her head back, curving her back so that she pressed closer against him. She was warm and soft against the cold length of his body, her live heart thumping steadily against his dead breast. He had never slept with anyone but Dru; he had never so much as kissed a woman who was not a vampire. He liked the way her flesh warmed to his touch. He liked the quivering of her pulse and the low breathing that was growing heavier, more ragged. He didn’t want to kill her.

 

“What are you doing to me?” he whispered as he his features softened into human form once again.

 

“Nothing you don’t want done,” she whispered back. Though he wasn’t so sure of that.

 

He kissed her lips, hard. His teeth bruised her, punished her, dared her to resist. But she didn’t resist; she opened her mouth and welcomed him into the feverish heat therein. Then her tongue pushed back into his mouth, trailing heat as it explored his tongue, his teeth. And then he relaxed, kissed her like a lover because he didn’t want to brutalize her. Not just then, anyway. His mouth left hers, trailing kisses down her chin to her throat. His lips and teeth only feigned to devour the soft flesh, and though he scented warm blood just beneath the surface he ignored it. He wanted something else now. And maybe it was because he was drunk and lonely, but he didn’t care if she was the slayer. He wanted her.

 

She was so hot. Jesus Christ, how could he have spent his existence slaughtering people for food without realizing how much heat the human body was capable of generating? Everywhere he touched her it seemed she would burn him. He liked the feeling, wanted more of it. He wanted to get her kit off, to feel her naked body against him. He wanted nothing between his cold flesh and that wonderful heat.

 

Her blouse had about ten thousand tiny little buttons; Spike unbuttoned maybe two of them before he gave it up for a bad job. He grabbed her collar and jerked downward, ripping her shirt off her shoulder and scattering each of the ten thousand buttons across the grimy floor. Buffy looked as though she might have something to say to this, but Spike didn’t give her a chance to protest. He kissed her again, drawing her tongue into his mouth and sucking gently. She moaned and arched against him, completely acquiescent as he removed her jeans. More than acquiescent—she was helpful.

 

As he worked his own shirt off over his head, Spike could feel her hand slipping tentatively between their bodies, fumbling with the button of his jeans, lowering the zip. A cool rush of air hit him as his fly parted, his erection springing free. Buffy wrapped her hand around him, stroking up and down his shaft as cautiously as though she had never done it before. Of course, knowing Peaches, she probably hadn’t. Prat probably never let her play at all; it was all missionary position and lights out with him. Spike figured he would have to teach her.

 

He covered her hand with his own—“It’s all right, love, you’re not going to break it off”—and began guiding her, moving her hand hard and fast, until she caught the rhythm and continued on her own.

 

“Oh, bloody God, yeah…you got it now…”

 

He let go of her hand and, after a brief interlude to absorb the fact that the Slayer was wanking him off, Spike turned his attention to the removal of her bra. Her breasts were small and perfect, like Dru’s. Spike despised the gargantuan and unreal melons sported by so many females today. In his opinion anything bigger than a handful was wasted. And he didn’t want to know what saline bags under skin felt like. Buffy was smooth and firm; she fit perfectly into the curve of one palm. He stroked her breast for a moment, rolling his thumb over her nipple to make it hard. When it was, he leaned down and drew it into his mouth. He could tell by her startled cry that Angel hadn’t bothered doing than for her either, the idiot. He sucked hard, using his teeth and lips and tongue to full advantage until she moaned and writhed beneath him.

 

“Spike…”

 

Something in the toneless sort of cry with which she said his name turned on Spike even more and for a minute he thought he might just shoot off right then, right into her hand. But he didn’t want that.

 

He sat up, gently pulling her hand from his penis and placing it at her side. She looked confused, but before she could sit up or ask questions Spike placed a hand on each of her knees and pulled her legs apart. Waves of heat emanated from her center, bearing with it that incredibly spicy odor of her arousal. Spike reached down and slipped a hand between her legs, stroking first the silky curls over her mound of Venus and then slipping between her folds. She was dripping wet for him and, again, incredibly hot. He explored with his fingers the swollen nub of her clitoris, the lips of her labia. He teased her a bit, sliding one finger just inside the heart-shaped opening of her vagina and immediately withdrawing when she tried to push against him.

 

“You want me, Slayer?”

 

“Ooh…yes…” she sighed.

 

“I want you,” he told her, nuzzling her bare stomach. “God, I want you…”

 

“Take me, Spike.” Her hands, which had been stroking his hair, grasped suddenly. She pulled his head up so that she could look into his eyes. “If you want me, take me.”

 

He growled softly—a put on—and grabbed her wrists again, pinning her down.

 

“Maybe I will.”

 

She cried out sharply as he pushed into her and he had to hold back a grunt of surprise. Either she had only done it once or else Peaches had a todger the size of a pencil, because she wasn’t stretched at all. She was so tight that for a moment Spike thought he might not get in. She was practically a virgin, for fucks sake, and he was a bit larger than your average. He reached behind her, pulling her hips up so that her lower back was raised, and thrust hard. This time it worked. He sank in, buried to the hilt in that tight sheath of muscle.

 

“You okay, there, pet?”

 

She nodded, but he gave her just a minute anyway. He wanted her to be accustomed to his presence before he started pumping so he wouldn’t hurt her. Although had he taken the time to think on it he would have wondered why he even cared. She was, after all, an enemy. Shouldn’t he want to hurt her?

 

But he didn’t think about it.

 

When her breathing slowed a bit and the muscles surrounding his cock relaxed, he began to move around. He went gently and very slowly at first, testing the waters. When she moaned softly and moved in counterpoint, he began to push harder. Since the feedback continued to be favorable, he allowed himself the luxury of letting loose a bit. He slid about three-quarters of the way out, paused, and then plunged back in with enough force to push them both several inches across the floor. Buffy made a noise almost like a scream and for a moment he thought he must have split her open.

 

“Fuck it all! Did I hurt you?”

 

“N—no,” she gasped. “It felt really—really —good. Spike—do it again!”

 

He grinned.

 

“That’s my girl.”

 

He repeated the maneuver and again she cried out, her wet muscles clenching around his pulsing erection. She hooked her ankles together, her legs pulling against his lower back, pulling him even deeper. Her hips rose up, rotating and bucking against him, and to Spike’s utter shock she came. He’d expected to have to work on it a bit longer. Not that he was complaining; it felt fucking great, those hot, hard contractions around his cock. And it went on and on…Spike had to bite his bottom lip to stave off his own orgasm. He wasn’t ready for it yet.

 

He wasn’t done with her yet.

 

Buffy was breathing as though she had just run a race. She gasped then laughed, staring up at him with big, awestruck eyes. “Spike that was—what was that?”

 

Spike chuckled.

 

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know, pet.”

 

Easily he rolled over onto his back, pulling her along with him. Buffy, still coming down from what might have been her first multiple-orgasm ever, seemed surprised to find herself suddenly on top. She shot him a puzzled look.

 

“Your turn to do the work, Slayer,” he told her. “You got Chosen for a reason, you know? Now show me some of what those muscles can do.”

 

This was evidently a novel idea to the Slayer, and she took a moment in deciding what to do. Spike thought he might have to take her by the hips and guide her, the way he had with her hand. But just as he reached down she made up her mind and—

 

“HOLY FUCK!”

 

Spike grabbed the backs of her thighs, his fingernails digging in as she moved over him. He didn’t know what the hell she was doing—her movements were hard and fast and bizarre—but it felt damn good. And the way she looked, writhing around naked on his lap…sex on a stick if he’d ever seen it. Even though he had been trying to draw it out for her, Spike could feel his own orgasm building. It pissed him off, in a way. He’d wanted her to come again…and again after that. It felt so sodding good and he didn’t want it to end yet; he knew when it ended she just might kill him.

 

He grabbed the back of her head and dragged her down against him, kissing her open-mouthed. His hips bucked up once more and, just as he was about to give up hope, she came again. Spike groaned in relief as the walls around him shivered and clenched, drawing his own orgasm. His cold semen spurted into her hot passage, making both of them cry out.

 

When it was over, Buffy collapsed against his chest as though utterly exhausted. Her hair was damp and her body slick with sweat; Spike was as cool and dry as ever. Both of them were trembling.

 

“What were you doing just now?” he asked her, finally.

 

She smiled, twisting her head on his shoulder until she could look at his face.

 

“I was writing your name,” she said.

 

He shook his head in amazement.

 

“Your penmanship is friggin’ beautiful, Slayer.”

 

She laughed. But when she started to reach for her clothes, Spike grabbed her waist and held her back.

 

“What is it?” she asked, baffled.

 

“You don’t think we’re done, do you?” he asked.

 


the context of chapter seven, so I decided to slip it in as an interlude between chapters. Hope you guys like it. ;)

Interlude

 

 

 

 

“Not done?”

 

Buffy cocked her head at Spike, puzzled by his declaration. Her experience in this department was admittedly limited, but she had thought that guys had some sort of waiting period before they could get it up again. Maybe the rule didn’t apply to vampires.

 

Spike raised his eyebrow at her.

 

“Not sore, are you?” he asked. Buffy thought she heard concern in his tone, but when she looked at him his eyes were blank, his lips twisted into a smirk.

 

“Not sore,” she told him. “It’s just I didn’t know you could…”

 

She trailed off, embarrassed, but Spike caught her meaning. He grinned.

 

“Few minutes and I’ll be ready to go again, love. ‘Til then…”

 

He pushed her down until her back was against the floor again. He raised her knees up, spreading them apart much in the same way he had when he fingered her. But he didn’t touch her there. Instead, he leaned over her and kissed her belly button.

 

“You smell incredible,” he murmured—so softly that Buffy suspected he didn’t intend for her to hear him.

 

“Incredible how?” she asked, and Spike grinned against her abdomen.

 

“Like flowers,” he said huskily. “And salt…and sex.”

 

He bit her softly and she groaned. He was the one who smelled good. Though if had he asked, Buffy would have been hard put to describe the odd assortment of scents that comprised that interesting, earthy Spike-smell. Whatever it was it wasn’t the odor of the typical walking dead.

 

His lips continued on a downward path, tongue lightly laving her flesh even as his fingertips stroked her thighs, her hips. Buffy arched her back, raising her knees and spreading her legs almost without conscious thought. He was being so gentle, coaxing from her what he wanted her to give him, forcing nothing. It was hard for her to remember he was evil.

 

His thumbs were between her legs now, pushing apart the swollen lips of her sex. She could feel his mouth hovering just centimeters from her aching nub, the tingling out-rush of tepid breath as he spoke softly: “Guess this is another first?”

 

She closed her eyes and nodded speechlessly. His mouth was so full and soft, closing around her throbbing clitoris. And cold. The inside of his mouth was just a shade cooler than the rest of him—much in the way hers was a little bit warmer—but this didn’t detract from the eroticism of the moment. If anything, the chill of his tongue on her heated flesh drove her arousal even higher.

 

Through hooded, hungry eyes, Buffy watched Spike. His dark blue eyes were just visible, sparkling wickedly as he attacked her sensitive clit with his teeth and tongue. Just as Buffy was certain she was about to come again he moved his mouth away.

 

“Don’t…” she whispered.

 

He growled an indistinct answer, trailing kisses down to her wet center. He plunged his tongue inside her opening, holding her hips down when she tried to buck, laughing a little at the ragged little cries which escaped from her throat. She tried to hold back but the things he was doing to her—

 

What was he doing to her?

 

When she came, she came hard. There was nothing to grab on to—no strong waist to clasp with her legs, no lean back to hug, no kisses to muffle her groans of release. She twisted and sobbed, pulled his hair and scratched at his shoulders, searching for something solid to cling to. Her nails drew blood and the hair-pulling alone would have been enough to scare off a mortal man. But not Spike. If anything, the unexpected aggression of her response turned him on. It was, after all, something he was accustomed to.

 

Before the last of the tremors faded, Spike was on top of her again, kissing her hungrily. She could detect her own flavor in his mouth and though a few short days ago this would have grossed her out beyond all reason, now for some reason it only added to the experience. She was surprised at how sweet it was: sweet and vaguely salty, the way she imagined blood to taste. It made her wonder what he tasted like.

 

Buffy could feel him against her thigh, long and thick, the skin of the head as soft as velvet. He was hard again, pulsing with blood but not at all warm. The tip was slick with precum and, without stopping to think about it, Buffy reached down and slid her thumb across it.

 

Spike watched silently as she stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked the sticky substance off. He had been surprised when she broke their kiss, but this was even better. He liked the look on her face as she tasted him, those red lips wrapped around her thumb as though it were a lollipop. He raised his eyebrows at her.

 

“How’s it taste, love?”

 

For a minute Buffy wondered if he was being sarcastic. When she looked into his face, however, all she saw was desire. His eyes were black with it.

 

“Tastes salty,” she told him simply. It was the truth but not all of it. It tasted heavy and masculine, salty and sharp, absolutely without sweetness. All adjectives that could also be used to describe Spike’s personality and all somewhat lacking in the description. There weren’t words to describe him. Or it.

 

His eyes were following the movement of her tongue, lapping lightly at the pad of her finger. It was already clean, but she continued to do it because she liked the expression on his face as he watched her.

 

“You prick tease.”

 

“You like it.” She grinned.

 

“Only because I expect to be rewarded for my patience.”

 

Her breath caught as he moved her legs apart, slipping in between. His erection lingered at her center, the swollen head just touching her vagina.

 

“Yes?” he asked her, nudging her opening but not trying to push in. “No? Give me some feedback, pet.”

 

Fine, she thought. You want some feedback…?

 

She reached down and wrapped her hand around his erection, guiding him into her opening.

 

“Enough of a hint?” she asked.

 

“Bloody hell, yes!”

 

She dropped her hand and Spike pushed the rest of the way in. For some reason he went much more easily this time—perhaps because Buffy was already so wet, or maybe because she wasn’t nervous the way she had been the first time. Whatever it was, it felt a lot better.

 

“Buffy—?” His voice hoarse, the words muffled as he kissed her breast.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You want to try something a bit different?”

 

She smiled to herself. He was all about the teaching, was Spike. From what she’d seen so far, though, his lessons were fun as well as informative. She nodded her head.

 

“Good girl.”

 

He reached behind her thighs, lifting her legs up and draping them across his shoulders. It was a weird feeling, her ankles behind his head, her knees pressed against her chest. It opened her up and Spike slid in even deeper, hitting the sweet spot previously discovered only by incredibly hard thrusting. Now he was leaning right on it, rotating his hips so that the head of his penis was circling across that incredibly sensitive area. Jolts of pleasure traveled through her—not just her sex but up all her nerve endings, so that when he pushed against her she could feel it in her abdomen, her breasts…everywhere tingling with a sudden onrush of heat.

 

“Oh, God…” she whispered. “That feels…”

 

“Tell me,” he prompted when she trailed off. “Tell me how it feels, love.”

 

“I…don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s…everywhere…”

 

If he wondered what she meant by that he didn’t ask. Instead, braced his arms on either side of her head and began the slow slide out.

 

Buffy knew enough by now to know what was coming. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and—

 

“Ooh….”

 

She sucked in her breath as he pushed back into her, but it wasn’t from discomfort. He went fast and hard, slamming against her like a train wrecking. She could feel him shoving against that bundle of nerves deep inside her, and with each thrust it felt as though her body were being ignited anew.

 

“Ooh…good…” she moaned, clutching his head against her as she came. Spike laughed.

 

His hands cupped her buttocks, pulling her forward as he suddenly leaned backwards. When he was upright, he pushed off with his knees and the balls of his feet until he stood straight, her body draped around him like a scarf. Buffy was astounded, more than a little turned on. This was surely not something a mortal man would have been able to do.

 

One of his arms supported her hips, the other one behind her back to keep her steady as she slid her legs down from his shoulders to clasp his waist. When she was finally situated, he cradled her hips with the curve of both arms and pushed her against the wall.

 

“And this?” His words against her ear were throaty, almost a purr. “This good, too?”

 

He was rocking up and down, slowly at first, but building speed. Buffy nodded but didn’t say anything. The truth was she was wishing that they weren’t in the factory right now. She wanted to be in a bedroom, somewhere with mirrors so that she could see how she looked, riding this beautiful corpse. The contrast of them: her skin tanned golden, flushed with wanting, against his milky-white, blue-veined length. She knew how good it must look.

 

She couldn’t stop staring at him as he pumped her. Her eyes traced his cunning, almond-shaped blue eyes, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the straight nose and full, sensuous lips. The cords of his neck and shoulders flexed and strained with effort as he bounced her, lifting her hips and dropping her to meet each of his thrusts. Beneath her fingertips his back was chiseled and firm. His whole body was like marble sculpture, cool and hard, solid. And it amazed her that evil could be like this. That evil could be beautiful. Desirable. Better than good.

 

Buffy closed her eyes as she felt Spike quiver beneath her, the cold liquid of his sex emptying into her hot passage. She sighed and laughed, came right on the heels of his orgasm, reveling in the wickedness of what she was doing.

 

She was so tired of being good.

 


 

 

“I don’t understand why we haven’t heard from her.”

 

Willow looked across the table at Xander. She didn’t ask who he was talking about, she knew. Buffy had set out to slay Spike the night before and none of them had heard from her since. Joyce had told them that Buffy had come home early that morning, slept a few hours, and left again shortly after that. Studying at the library, she said. Right.

 

They’d tried to track her down, thinking perhaps she would need backup if the night before had not been a successful one. But after hours of driving around her usual haunts, they hadn’t found anything. Finally Oz suggested they stop for a bite at the Bronze. None of them really felt like eating, but it gave them a chance to discuss the situation at hand.

 

Willow didn’t know how to respond to Xander’s remark. She didn’t know why Buffy hadn’t checked in with them. It wasn’t like her to say she would do something and then blow them off. And she knew they would be worried. She had to know. The whole thing made Willow uneasy. Suppose something had happened to her? But Joyce said Buffy had come home, so whatever happened would have happened pretty much the moment she left her house that afternoon. Willow couldn’t imagine what could happen to her in broad daylight. As a general rule, Sunnydale’s demon population didn’t start stirring until late evening.

 

And then there was Oz’s remark the night before. The cryptic remark about scenting Buffy before she left out to find Spike. Though he hadn’t come right out and said it in so many words, Willow and Xander understood that the scent Oz was talking about wasn’t Calvin Klein. It was…well…arousal. But why would she have been aroused? And if she had been did that mean that her hunt for Spike had been a cover story for something else? Willow wouldn’t have said it aloud for anything in the world, but privately she believed that the whole scenario reeked of Angel.

 

She nibbled on a French fry, thinking about it. It wasn’t such a leap to believe Buffy would cave in and start seeing Angel again. They were obviously still nuts about one another, and spending time together as “friends” wouldn’t make it any easier to resist those romantic urges.

 

Willow darted a glance at Xander.

 

After all, she should know.

 

But say Buffy did go to Angel last night....Why would she lie? She could have told them she would be with Angel. She could have said they would be training, or going to a movie…she wouldn’t need to concoct a story about Spike.

 

Unless she was going to Angel with the intent of doing something very naughty. If she was planning on doing something that might result in a re-emergence of Angelus. Then Willow could totally see why Buffy would feel the need to lie.

 

But that was silly. More than silly. It was crazy. Buffy would never do something so foolhardy or dangerous, not after what happened last time.

 

Would she?

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Buffy jolted awake to find the late afternoon sun in her eyes. Light filtered in through a crack in the wall, warming the bed with a swath of sunshine. The tiny battered radio in the corner was still on, playing an old Billy Idol song through a curtain of static. She sat up slowly, pushing her tangled hair out of her face as she did so. Her hair hung in wet strings around her face and her skin was coated with drying sweat, making her feel sticky and dirty. Spike’s face was pressing against her back, as dry and cool as if they had not spent the afternoon practicing every move in the Kama Sutra. She didn’t remember falling asleep.

 

Moving very slowly, Buffy managed to slide her body off the broken bed without waking Spike. She threw the blanket across his face to keep the sun from burning him, and then began tiptoeing around the room in search of her scattered clothing. He had effectively shredded her blouse in removing it and her bra seemed to have disappeared, but she threw on her jeans and socks, laced her shoes. The red shirt he had been wearing unbuttoned over his black T-shirt was bunched up, half-hidden under the bed. Buffy pulled it on.

 

It was strange. Four hours ago she had arrived with the intent of having it end just like this. There hadn’t been a single moment of uncertainty—not a single moment when she stopped to think what would happen afterward. Now it was afterward and she was terrified.

 

What had possessed her?

 

She blushed hotly, remembering the terrible desire she had felt. Seducing him had not been in her mind as she went to the factory early that afternoon. Truly she had only been thinking of dusting him, destroying with him those feelings that had been plaguing her since their first encounter the previous night.

 

 Then she saw him.

 

What was it about him, lying there on that dilapidated bed that suggested such vulnerability? Maybe it was merely that when he saw her he didn’t move to attack her, though she knew that might have been more  because of the bourbon than benevolence. But he even when he spoke there was no anger in his voice, no hatred. It seemed like he had to key himself up to fight with her; it wasn’t until she mentioned Drusilla that he showed any real antagonism at all.

 

She had pitied him, lying there all alone, missing Dru. But that wasn’t the reason she had slept with him. In fact, she had wanted him a lot more when he finally became enraged with her. She wanted him more when she stopped pitying him. She wanted him most when he was dangerous.

 

Buffy glanced uneasily toward the bed. In all actuality, she still wanted him. It was just that now she could think clearly, could see the horrible consequences her actions were bound to have. Now she could control herself.

 

She knew she should stake him. Whatever his reasons had been for not killing her when he had the chance, Buffy knew Spike would not miss another opportunity. He hated her. He would use this incident to torment her, to blackmail her, to goad her into a fight which would eventually kill her. She knew him well enough to see how it would play out. But she couldn’t kill him. Not after what had happened between them. Not now, when he slept naked on a bed they had shared. She couldn’t.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

He should have killed the bitch when he had a chance.

 

Less than an hour after Buffy made her departure, Spike woke up. He knew she was gone even before he opened his eyes. Her scent in the room was cold, stale, and the warmth was gone from the bed. Another female to abandon him, it was becoming a habit.

 

He rolled out of bed and into his jeans, fuming. His stomach churned with embarrassment as he remembered the night before. The shag had been nothing; a fuck was a fuck whether it be with a slayer or a vampire. But he had been good to her. He had treated her like…like a sodding friend or something. He should have followed his first inclination. He should have killed her. Bled her dry, sated his hunger. He could have turned her, twisted her. Made her like him.

 

Made her his.

 

And yet…yet he could remember another woman he had turned, twisted. He would keep her with him also—or thought he would. Thought he was playing the dark horse, the unlikely hero pulling her back from the precipice of death. Giving her just a little of what Drusilla had given him. What a laugh.

 

Spike pushed the thought away, angry at himself for remembering at all. It had happened a lifetime ago—several lifetimes. It didn’t matter now. None of it mattered now. He didn’t want to turn Buffy anyway. Turning a Slayer—it was too kind for her. He had to torture her, kill her. He had to make her hurt .

 

Spike yanked on his T-shirt angrily. Hurt, yeah. She would bloody hurt. He jammed his feet into his boots without bothering to unlace them first. The room was dimmer now, the light gone from the cracked wall. Spike had no idea what time it was but he estimated it was near to five o’clock, which meant that the short winter evening was drawing to a close. Soon enough the sun would be down.

 

He smiled with a savage pleasure he could not bring himself to feel.

 

“Ready or not, love…here I come.”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

She couldn’t go home. Not yet, not while her mother was still awake. Joyce Summers was a good mother, an intuitive mother. She would know in a moment that something was wrong, and Buffy had no idea how she could even begin to answer the questions that would surely follow. She stopped off at a gas station near the factory to use the payphone out front.

 

“Hi Mom, it’s me.”

 

“Buffy! I’m so glad you called.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Buffy could tell from the chipper tone of Joyce’s voice that her mother was trying hard to hide the fact she had been worried and she squirmed, ashamed of herself.

 

“I thought we could order a pizza for dinner and maybe rent a movie,” Joyce added. “You know…make a real girl’s night of it. How does that sound?”

 

“It—it sounds great, Mom,” Buffy stammered.

 

Joyce sighed, knowing her daughter well enough to know what was coming next. “But you have something else to do?”

 

“I have to patrol.”

 

“But Buffy…I thought maybe we could talk about colleges tonight. I admit I overreacted before. You don’t have to go all the way across the country. I picked up some brochures from nearby schools, okay?”

 

It took all of Buffy’s patience not to scream at her mother. Couldn’t she give the college thing a rest just for a little while? God knows she had enough on her mind without adding college applications and admissions essays to it. Why couldn’t Joyce take a hint?

 

“That’s great, Mom,” she said. “But now’s really not a good time…”

 

“Well, when is a good time?” Joyce asked, finally losing her false note of cheer. “I mean, really, Buffy. When can I get a moment to talk to you? You’re always with your friends, or Mr. Giles, or out patrolling. When do I get my chance to spend some time with my daughter?”

 

“Soon,” Buffy insisted. “I promise you and I will sit down and read the brochures and discuss classes and wince at costs together. Just not tonight. Please…”

 

“What can I say?” Joyce asked. “You’ll do what you want to anyway. You always do.”

 

“Mom,” Buffy began, alarmed by her mother’s tone.

 

“No, Buffy,” Joyce said wearily. “Just go on. Go patrolling.”

 

Buffy started to reply when she heard a betraying click over the line, followed quickly by a buzzing dial tone.

 

Her mother had hung up on her.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Joyce gripped the kitchen counter until her knuckles turned white, trying very hard to rein in her temper. She hadn’t meant to hang up on Buffy; it was just that it made her so angry! Why should this thing , this vampire slaying, deny her the education she deserved? It already denied her sleep, safety, a normal social life….Why wasn’t Buffy fighting this? Mr. Giles had Faith to patrol when Buffy was gone and Faith obviously enjoyed the job. Why wouldn’t Buffy just let it go?

 

Something thumped against the front door, interrupting her train of thought. Joyce turned her head to the side to see what it was—and immediately gasped with surprise.

 

Spike grinned back at her, pleased by the response. He leaned against the frame of the open door and raised one hand in greeting.

 

“Hello Joyce.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 


 

 

Joyce shook her head, frowning slightly at the man who was leaning against her open doorway, grinning at her in a way that wasn’t altogether pleasant.

 

“Do I know you?”

 

Spike smirked at her. “I sing in Buffy’s band.”

 

“Buffy’s band—oh, yes!” Joyce smiled, remembering now. “You were here last spring with Buffy when she…ah…”

 

“Told you about her night job? Yeah, that was me.” Spike moved from the doorway into the kitchen, then paused. Might as well be polite, even if an invitation wasn’t necessary. He didn’t want to alarm her.

 

Yet.

 

“May I?” he asked, indicating the room.

 

“Of course,” she said. “Come in.”

 

Grinning to himself, Spike took the seat she offered at the island in the middle of the room.

 

“So you’re looking for Buffy?”

 

“Uh, yeah...” he said, gazing around with interest. “Is she here?”

 

“She’s out patrolling.” The way Joyce said it told Spike that she wasn’t pleased by this, and he took this bit of information and ran with it.

 

“Patrolling?” Surprise and disapproval dripped from every syllable. “It’s Saturday night, she shouldn’t be patrolling. She should be out having fun.”

 

Joyce sat down across from him, delighted to have found a like mind. “See! Now that’s what I thought, too. But Buffy….Well, it isn’t her fault really. It’s that Giles man—do you know him?”

 

“A bit.”

 

“He’s so…controlling! He’s made her believe that this is the only path life has offered her, that if she isn’t out hunting monsters all night then she’s turning her back on some sacred oath.”

 

Spike shook his head solemnly. “Shameful.”

 

“And now she thinks she has to give up college for this! She refuses to even discuss the idea of going away to school, and I know it’s because of that vampire slaying.”

 

“Education is very important; the building blocks for a successful career.”

 

“Right! If I could just get her to see that…” Joyce trailed off, silent for a moment. Then she looked up, remembering her manners.

 

“Would you like some cocoa?”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“I cannot believe she would just hang up on me like that!” Buffy muttered to herself. “I mean how does she expect me to tell her anything? Look at the way she reacts to that part of my life!”

 

She glanced both ways and then jogged across the street to the cemetery entrance. She certainly couldn’t go home now, and it was the only thing she could think of to do. Her friends would be at the Bronze and she definitely didn’t feel like talking to them right now. The mall was dull on a Saturday night and the library didn’t bear thinking about. This was the only game in town. For her at least.

 

She strolled through the rows of headstones, which had by now become pathetically familiar to her, and thought wearily about all the mistakes she would have to undo to fix her life. All the people she would have to lie to—not just Joyce but also her friends, Giles, Angel…

 

Angel.

 

She stopped.

 

How had she not thought of Angel until now?

 

She groaned softly to herself. If there was one person in the entire world Spike would tell about their encounter it would be Angel. Spike hated Angel, he would gloat about it. He would say all kinds of horrible things…embellish everything that had happened. And he wouldn’t wait. He would do it tonight, immediately. He blamed Angel for ruining his relationship with Drusilla and this would be his revenge.

 

No, it wouldn’t!

 

Buffy wheeled around, cursing how stupid she’d been not to kill him. What an idiot to let sentimentality get in the way of common sense. She had thought that she would give him time, see what he did. Though she hadn’t relished the idea of him running around telling people, she hadn’t really believed he would. Attempted murder was more along his lines, not spreading gossip. She had forgotten about Angel. If he told Angel then everyone else would find out, too, and there was no way she could live through that.

 

She had to get to the mansion before Spike did.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Mayor Wilkins sighed heavily and leaned on his putter.

 

“It’s too late for this, it really is.”

 

Allan stared back at him confusedly, wondering if this was some sort of threat to him. “Sir?”

 

“It’s the end of the day, I’m tired….Why do these things always happen just as I’m ready to head home?” He shook his head sadly.

 

Then, brightening: “Ah, well. We have a Spike problem do we?”

 

“He’s been spotted back in town,” Allan said. “And there was an incident at a magic shop in broad daylight. The police had a hell of a time covering it up.”

 

Mayor Wilkins laughed good-naturedly as he began putting away his practice green. “Well, yes. You know he was up to all kinds of shenanigans last year. We had a world of fun trying to guess what he’d do next.”

 

“I remember.”

 

“Yep…there were some mighty interesting bets being taken over what that guy would get into next. I remember this one time—” The mayor noticed Allan’s expression and paused.

 

“But I guess we’re past that now,” he decided. “This year is much too important to let a loose cannon rock the boat.”

 

“Should I have Mr. Trick send a committee to deal with this?” Allan asked.

 

But Mayor Wilkins didn’t seem to be listening to him. He was muttering to himself, head cocked to one side thoughtfully. He looked up at his assistant sharply.

 

“Loose cannon. Rock the boat. Is that a mixed metaphor?”

 

Allan stared back at him, completely confused. “I…ah…”

 

“Boats can have cannons…and a loose one could cause it to rock…”

 

The mayor chuckled to himself, suddenly noticing Allan’s bewildered expression. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I don’t know where my mind goes these days! Why don’t you take care of our little Spike problem? A committee, like you said.”

 

“It’s as good as done.”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Spike leaned forward slightly, eyeing the line of Joyce’s neck as she stooped to give him his cocoa. She was still stressed out; the jugular vein was pulsing. He licked his lips, staring at it. He thought briefly about throwing her over the counter and ripping into her while she was distracted. But hungry as he was, he was enjoying the game far too much to end it so quickly. Anyway, he couldn’t kill her now. He needed her. She had given him an idea.

 

“You know, I really think you’re being too hard on yourself, Joyce,” he said innocently. “It isn’t your fault Buffy is in the predicament she’s in. If anything you should be blaming that Giles person; he seems a bit dodgy to me.”

 

Joyce sat down across from him, her own mug clasped in her hands. “Oh, I’m sure he means well,” she sighed. “It’s just that his priorities are so skewed—drink your cocoa before it gets cold. Like with the patrolling. She’s out on a Saturday night, missing out on being with her friends, because he taught her that her ‘duty’ comes first.”

 

“So when is the slayer—I mean Buffy—due back?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. She doesn’t tell me much.” She sounded bitter.

 

“Did I hit a sore spot?” he asked sagely.

 

“No. Well…maybe.” Joyce set down her mug and looked Spike directly in the eyes. “To tell you the truth Buffy and I had a fight tonight and I…hung up the telephone on her.”

 

She sounded so upset and guilty that Spike patted her hand. “It’s all right. A little row doesn’t mean anything. She’ll understand.”

 

“She never talks to me!” Joyce bit out, suddenly so keyed up she didn’t even notice when Spike covered her hand with his and left it there. “She tells her friends everything—and Mr. Giles. But all I get are lies and ‘you wouldn’t understand.’ I want her to open up to me. I want to be her friend. But no matter what I say or do, she just keeps pulling further away. It’s like she’s afraid to talk to me.”

 

Spike was careful to keep his open-faced, innocent expression intact, but inside he was grinning broadly. She had just given him the opening he needed. He grabbed her hand with an intensity it wasn’t hard to muster and leaned forward to stare into her eyes.

 

“So she hasn’t told you about us then?”

 

Joyce blinked. “W—what?”