Chapter Twenty

 

 

 

 

Although dancing at the Bronze was certainly not her first choice of how to spend the evening, Buffy had to admit that now she had gotten used to the idea she was having fun. Sure it was a little crowded and smoky. And the band, playing modified versions on Beatles classics, was frankly weird. And of course there was the fact that she was the only one who was on her own, without a steady date. But even with all this…it wasn’t bad at all, really. Although the techno versions of Beatles songs—all sang in falsetto by a stringy-haired youth—just weren’t doing it for her. She was glad when the live band took a break at eight-thirty and left the dancers to pre-recorded music.

 

“See? Wasn’t this a good idea?” Xander asked, gyrating wildly to her left. Cordelia kept stepping on his feet to get him to tone it down some, but he wasn’t taking the hint.

 

“It was a good idea,” Buffy agreed. And it had been…so long as she didn’t think too much on how she might have spent the evening otherwise.

 

Still, she was in a considerably better mood now that she’d given it a chance. She had even accepted an invitation to dance by a good-looking college freshman named Gavin. He had nothing on Spike, of course, and his cowboy hat and giant western belt buckle got her nerves. But he was nice enough and it was certainly preferable to sitting at a table by herself, sulking.

 

“You want to do another one?” he asked her when the song ended.

 

“I can’t,” she replied apologetically. “I told my friend Willow I’d sit the next one out so she can dance with her boyfriend—we’ll lose our table if someone isn’t sitting there.”

 

“That’s cool. You want some company?”

 

“Um, sure…” Immediately after saying this, Buffy felt a pang of guilt. She felt as though she was being disloyal to Spike somehow. This was ridiculous, of course, since he was probably out with hot little demon number right now anyway. Vampires were not exactly known for their talent for monogamy and he had never shown any indication he saw her as anything more than a good lay, anyway. Not even when she told him she loved him.

 

She pushed the thought from her mind.

 

Gavin grinned at her—a little stupidly, she thought.

 

“How ‘bout I get us some drinks?” he asked. “What’re you in the mood for?”

 

“Bottled water, I guess. Thanks.”

 

She watched him disappear into the throng of people crowding around the bar, then turned to make her way back to their table. Willow jumped up as soon as she spotted her.

 

“Our turn now? Yay! I love this song.” She grabbed Oz’s arm and dragged him off to the floor while Buffy dropped into one of the vacant chairs.

 

Buffy regretted having to say no to another dance. Now that they were finally playing some decent music she was really in the mood for another one. She swung her foot in rhythm to the music and hummed the words under her breath as she waited for Gavin to return.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

He’d been watching her for a while, parked on a shadowy barstool near the dance floor so he could keep watch over what she was doing. There was no sense in rushing into anything, after all. Although when he saw her chatting it up with the would-be cowboy he squeezed his glass of Guinness until it shattered, much to the dismay of the bartender who had to clean up the mess.  But despite this he thought he was controlling his temper quite well. After all, it could’ve been her head…

 

His eyes narrowed as the cowboy grinned at Buffy, said something, and then began walking in the direction of the bar. Buying her a drink like a little gentleman, no doubt. Spike slouched lower into his stool, waiting.

 

There was a line at the bar and no free seats, resulting in a long queue for drinks. By chance, Gavin ended up standing near to Spike’s right hand, waiting his turn. He kept glancing back over his shoulder as though trying to catch a glimpse of Buffy, but the crowd was so thick as to completely block her from view.

 

“Got a good-looking bird waiting, do you?”

 

Gavin jumped, startled when Spike addressed him. His face relaxed into an easy grin, however, when he saw what appeared to be a friendly patron passing the time by the bar.

 

“Is it that obvious?” he asked.

 

“The blonde?” Spike spoke off-handedly.

 

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

 

“She’s not exactly easy to miss. You know her well?”

 

“Just met her. But I think I’ll know her a lot better before the night’s done—if you know what I mean.”

 

Spike’s grip on his glass tightened considerably, though he smiled back at Gavin easily.

 

“You so sure about that, mate? Looks a little green, if you ask me.”

 

“And that’s a bad thing?” Gavin laughed. “The young ones are quicker to give it up than anyone else. Tell them you’re a college man and they practically beg you for it.”

 

“Hey! You waiting to order or what?” the bartender yelled suddenly, interrupting them.

 

“Bottle of water and a beer,” Gavin told him, digging out some money. He grabbed the drinks and glanced back at Spike with a conspiring wink. “Wish me luck.”

 

He turned to leave then—only to find that Spike had propped one leg up against the wall opposite the bar, thereby blocking him in. He moved forward, evidently thinking the other man would move for him. But Spike just leaned his elbows against the bar, eyebrows raised.

 

“What…?”

 

Spike smiled at the urban cowboy’s suddenly nervous expression.

 

“Good luck,” he whispered.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“Hey, Buffster. Where’d your tall, dark stranger go?”

 

Buffy looked up, vaguely surprised to find Xander and Cordelia pulling out chairs beside her.

 

“You’re finished already?” she asked. She hadn’t realized so much time had passed.

 

“Four songs,” Xander answered. “So what’d you run the poor guy off for? He seemed nice enough…not demony at all. Or is that the problem?”

 

She kicked him under the table.

 

“Shut up. I didn’t run him off. He went to get us some drinks, but…” She looked at her watch. “That was, like, twenty minutes ago. Guess he must’ve found something better to occupy his time.”

 

“He ditched you after two dances?” Cordelia grimaced. “Oh, my God…that’s like a whole new level of loser.”

 

“That’s my girl,” Xander commented, putting an arm around her. “She always knows just what to say to make you feel better.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.

 

“Right. Way to make me feel like a physically deformed shut-in, Cordy. It was just what I needed, thanks.”

 

Xander hesitated then stood up again.

 

“I feel the need for another round of foot-loosedity. Buff, care to join?”

 

“No…you guys go ahead. I’ll stay here and guard the table.”

 

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Screw the table. They’re playing some great songs.”

 

Buffy glanced at Cordelia.

 

“I don’t have a partner,” she said pointedly.

 

“Since when do you need a partner? You’ll dance with both of us. We’ll dance in a circle. It’ll be like the hokey pokey only without all that annoying in-and-outing.” He extended a hand to her.

 

There was a small pause and then Buffy took Xander’s hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He linked arms with her and with Cordelia and they walked out onto the dance floor.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Around the same time Buffy was heading onto the dance floor, Spike was in the alley again, licking blood off his fingertips and staring blandly in the depths of the dumpster.

 

Hmm…two corpses in less than an hour. Pretty good, even for him. Spike grinned then frowned at the fruits of his handiwork. Dumpster was getting a little full, though. If somebody opened it tonight there’d be hell to pay; Gavin was lying right there on top, ready to smile on anyone who lifted the lid. And if they found him they’d be sure to find the other one, too.

 

He shrugged. Nothing to be done about that now, except hope nobody found them until morning. He sure as shit wasn’t going to pull one of them out for a relocate. Although hauling a bloody corpse over to Angel’s house and setting him up for a murder had its appeal, bottom line was Spike had too much on his mind to fool with that now. Like his belly for one. All that blood on top of all that booze wasn’t exactly settin’ right and for a second he thought he might just have to open the dumpster back up and throw a Technicolor yawn at the urban cowboy there.

 

After a moment (and a couple of fags for good measure), the sick feeling passed and he headed back into the Bronze. There were bloodstains on the men’s room floor, he knew. Tokens of his struggle with the cowboy. And he figured the smart thing to do would be to go and mop them up before some drunken chuffer stumbled in there and found them. But he wasn’t in the mood right now. Let them find it, what did he care? He had more important things to worry about than a couple of drops of blood.

 

He slid along the back wall, making for the dance floor. Not to dance but to find her. A quick glance from the doorway had told him she was no longer at her table but her scent was on the air so he knew she hadn’t left and there were only so many places she could be. A moment of scanning the crowd and he found her, right in the fucking middle of the floor, dancing with a brunette and the scrawny boy he’d lamped with a microscope. He cocked his head and watched her a moment. She looked bright-eyed and happy. Young. The exact opposite of everything he wanted her to be right now. Her looking like that made him feel all strange again, flooded him with a tenderness which was totally out of character for him. Not to mention totally, bone-assed stupid. He was supposed to be angry with her.

 

He shook his head, trying to clear it of all that confusion. No point in standing here like an idiot when she was just a few feet away. He’d come here for a reason, hadn’t he? So was he just going to throw it away because of some stupid weakness that was probably more alcohol than anything, anyway? Of course he wasn’t.

 

He began pushing his way into the crowd. Her friends were turned in profile to him and Buffy herself had her back turned, so Spike was able to approach them all undetected. That was the way he wanted it. He could have taken her out in front of the others, of course. It might even have been fun, spilling all their secrets to her friends, showing them that the Slayer wasn’t quite as clean as she would have them believe. But for whatever reason he didn’t want it that way. He wanted her alone. He wanted her…

 

It took a bit of skill to do it right. All three of them had to have their backs turned, otherwise the other two might see him and start shouting and he’d never get her away. He waited until the song ended and they started to exit the floor. By chance they moved in his direction, but he was prepared for such a contingency and slid quickly around, putting himself to their backs. When the crowd had pressed in on them, separating them, he made his move.

 

He was lightening-fast, grabbing her around the waist while at the same time pressing his other arm against her throat so she couldn’t scream. To the people around them it would look like he was merely giving her a hug, but in reality he was squeezing so tightly she gagged. His lips grazed her ear as he leaned in to speak to her.

 

“Miss me, pet?”

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

 

 

Miss me, pet?

 

Buffy’s mind raced wildly at the question. What was Spike doing here? God, he sounded really pissed off…had he come to punish her for standing him up? She would have asked him except his arm was still across her throat, crushing her larynx and making speech impossible. She did, however, gasp and pull at his arm, trying to let him know she couldn’t breathe.

 

But he didn’t seem too concerned about that.

 

“I knew it,” he whispered. His mouth was against her cheekbone and she shivered unwillingly at the sensation. His breath smelled sharply of beer and something else, something metallic that was most likely blood. But instead of curbing her desire for him, the scent only heightened it. The hard column of his body—the sheer power in his pale, lean muscles. She felt like an idiot but she couldn’t help it; the danger of the situation turned her on.

 

What did you know?

 

She wondered but she couldn’t ask. He was still holding onto her, but now they were moving. He was propelling her across the crowded floor and into a shadowy space near the end of the bar. Buffy’s eyes darted around hoping to catch a glimpse of Xander or Cordelia, but it seems that they had already made it to their table. No one else around them seemed to notice that the man she was with was choking her. So much for safety in numbers, jeez.

 

He threw her into the wall, spun her around so that she was facing him. Propping an arm against the wall on either side of her, he leaned forward, completely blocking her in. Well, not completely. He had let go of her throat and now that her brain was receiving oxygen she could have always kicked him in the gut or knocked him down. But she didn’t want to do that.

 

“I knew it,” he said again. This time his voice was shaking with suppressed rage. “This morning—I knew what you were at. Off like a shot as always. I figured it was Angel—”

 

In the dim half-light of the neon bar signs, Buffy could see his eyes were bleary and bloodshot. Apparently the beer breath came from more than one bottle then. Great.

 

“Spike, I wanted to come to the factory tonight!” Her words came out a harsh rasp which burned her throat…but at least she could speak now.

 

“Forget your way, then did you?” he asked acerbically. “I knew blonds weren’t smart but that explanation won’t hold water even for you.”

 

“I did want to—” she insisted.

 

“Oh yeah? Then why do I find you here instead, prancing like a show pony in heat for some scratter whose balls haven’t even dropped yet?”

 

Frustrated, Buffy raised her voice. “Look, Glenn Close, if you’d just be quiet for a minute then maybe I could explain!”

 

“Let’s hear it then!”

 

“I wanted to come but this morning Willow and Xander invited me to the Bronze instead. I told them ‘no’ but they wouldn’t listen. They insisted. And, really, what was I supposed to do? Tell them I’d like to but I needed to go hump my dead boyfriend instead?”

 

“Then why the bleeding hell didn’t you come to tell me that?” he demanded.

 

“Because they wouldn’t let me! They’re getting suspicious about why I haven’t ki—about why we haven’t fought yet. They think something is wrong with me…like I’m depressed or something. And they’re worried. I haven’t had a moment to myself all day, so I couldn’t come tell you.” Her voice softened slightly. “I was going to come afterward. I swear to you, Spike, I was.”

 

“I’m getting sick of this.” This time his voice shook as well as his hands. But the worst of his anger seemed to have passed, leaving Buffy to wonder why he was still trembling.

 

“What are you sick of?”

 

“You…running off…not showing up. You said—”

 

She knew what she’d said and it frightened her somehow that he should be referring to it.

 

“I’m trying,” she cut in quickly. “I really am…but it isn’t easy. I’m like Clark Kent juggling my mild-mannered personality and my superhero personality…and one other personality now, too, apparently. You try it sometime and see if you can keep all of your appointments.”

 

“Bet you kept ‘em for Angel, though.” His voice was mutinous, like a sulky child’s.

 

“Would you stop with the Angel talk? I don’t want to be around Angel any more than you want me to be around him…so just shut up about it.”

 

“You know what your problem is?” he demanded, anger returning in a sudden, sharp burst. “You’re so afraid of that side of yourself you’ll find any excuse to hide from it.”

 

She looked away from him.

 

“That has nothing to do with—”

 

“It has everything to do with it, love—whether you want to admit it or not. You can’t play me like you could Angel. I understand you, see. He never did.”

 

“I wanted to—”

 

“Maybe you did,” he conceded. “But you never bloody planned on actually doing it. You were looking for an excuse—any excuse. Your friends gave you one and you ran with it—because bottom line is you’re too chicken-shit afraid of your own feelings to initiate anything. That’s why I gotta pin you down always, right? That’s why it starts as a brawl? That way it’s my doing and none of your own. You’re the Slayer —” he spat the word like an obscenity. “You’re above feelings like these…hurts your ego…doesn’t it? So you give it a good fight and—when you can’t fight anymore—you land it on me!”

 

His fist slammed into the wall just inches from her head. Buffy flinched away not only from the threat of being hit but from the sickening way his hand crunched into the plaster, leaving a blood-smeared indent. It seemed as though he was almost as eager to hurt himself as he was to punish her.

 

She watched him untangle his arm from the crumbled plaster and look at it. His hand was scraped and bloodied, the fingers curled up in a way that suggested he might have seriously hurt himself¯or at least as seriously as a vampire could anyway. He stared at the rapidly-swelling appendage with a detached sort of interest for a moment and then before she could stop him he punched the wall again. And then again.

 

“Stop it!” Buffy grabbed him by the elbow and flipped him around, slamming his back into the cracked drywall before he could do himself further damage. “What’s the matter with you?”

 

He laughed in the sort of drunken, pseudo-hysterical way that made her think someone should really start a twelve-step program for the undead, and answered: “’s your skull or the wall, love. Were I you I’d let the wall take the brunt of it.”

 

And that was when it hit her like a blow––the reason he had come looking for her in the first place. The reason he was so upset. The reason he had hurt himself rather than give her the smack she might have deserved.

 

Spike was in love with her.

 

The idea was so absurd that for a split second she almost dismissed it altogether. But his bloodshot eyes were locked on hers and somewhere beneath the anger and jealousy, hidden beneath the bleariness of alcohol...there it was. He loved her.

 

A completely alien sensation of tenderness flooded over her and suddenly she felt an overwhelming desire to protect him. Him . William the Bloody, agent of destruction, destroyer of Slayers, and God only knew what else that she hadn't even heard of. And here she was feeling all warm and fuzzy for him. Had she given herself a second to think it over rationally, Buffy would have laughed.

 

But she didn't think about it.

 

Instead, she picked up his wounded hand in both her own and, under the pretense of surveying the damage, stroked her thumb across the ravaged knuckles.

 

“God, you idiot. You've broken it.” But though her words were harsh Buffy's voice was soft with concern.

 

“What the sodding hell do you care?” he growled. But he didn't pull his hand away.

 

“I do care,” she said softly. “And I'm sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what?” He wanted her to spell it out.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to you tonight when I said I would. I should have told you I would be late.” Her lips just grazed his cheekbone as she added: “But I meant what I said...I wanted to come. I was going to come as soon as I could get away from here. I want to be with you.”

 

“Be with me.” He snorted. “And just what does that entail? I’m not your bitch, you know. I’m nobody's bloody plaything.”

 

Buffy didn't answer him. She slid her hands beneath his leather duster, into the back pockets of his much-worn jeans, drawing him in closer to the curve of her body. He wasn’t leaning down for her and she didn't wait for him to. She stood on her toes, tilting her head up so she could brush her mouth across his.

 

Spike didn't exactly return the kiss, but he didn't draw away from it either. If anything, he seemed to be waiting, riding his own responses with a curb to see how far she would go herself. She could feel his restraint in the hard muscles of his chest and arms; see it in the way his jaw tensed and his brow furrowed. It was really kind of a turn on.

 

She kissed him again, this time drawing his full bottom lip between her teeth and sucking softly, laving it lightly with her tongue. He made a sound like a cat purring and she leaned in further, kneading the tight muscles of his bum as she arched and rubbed against the bulge that was just beginning to grow in his jeans. His mouth parted a bit and she took advantage of the opportunity to slip inside, caressing his teeth and his tongue. Spike’s purring became a low growl, almost like a groan. And even though he was shaking with his effort not to respond to her, he was responding. Not just with his lips and tongue but with his whole body which leaned into hers...with his unbroken hand stroking and coiling in her long hair.

 

It felt wonderful, all of it. So wonderful that for a moment Buffy allowed herself the pleasure of forgetting where she was and whom she might be seen by. Just a moment. But by the time Spike’s undamaged hand began wandering around and underneath her clothing it all began creeping back to her.

 

“Spike wait.”

 

He sighed heavily.

 

“Jesus, it figures. What now?”

 

His eyes which had been closed opened again. They were still bloodshot, still hazy from drink and more than a little belligerent. As if he saw his responding to her kiss as a sign of weakness and was embarrassed by it. Or maybe he thought she was about to make some snide comment on it. Either way, Buffy could still read a certain, vague hope in there as well and she knew that despite his tough exterior she hadn’t been imagining his feelings for her. Even if he was determined to hide them as best he could.

 

“W––we can’t do this here,” she said, trying and failing to control her heavy breathing. “If someone saw us––if my friends saw us––”

 

“Yeah, yeah, they’d tell your watcher and then naughty Buffy would have to go to bed without any dessert.” Spike smirked, evidently thinking she was about to call an end to the evening and trying to appear dispassionate about it.

 

“No––I mean, yes. Well, something like that, I guess.” She sighed, completely flustered. “What I mean is...I want to leave now...with you.”

 

The vague hope she had seen in his eyes suddenly leaped to the forefront, though his voice remained measured.

 

“And where're we going?” he asked her.

 

She traced a finger over the lapel of his battered leather coat to give herself an excuse to look down. Her voice shook slightly as she took a chance and did as he wanted her to—took the initiative once again.

 

“How about the factory?”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

Spike’s arm encircled Buffy's shoulders in a proprietary way as they pushed through the small crowd blocking their exit. Considering how truly shitey the evening started out, he was feeling more than a little surprised at how it was ending. Who’d of thought the Slayer would start snogging on him and him half ready to snuff her? Not that he was complaining, mind. But it was a strange turn to say the least.

 

He was trying very hard not to feel anything for her. She had already shown herself to be somewhat untrustworthy and the last thing he needed was to fancy another bird who would fly the coop on him. Yet despite his best efforts every time he looked at her he would feel that same warm, weak feeling in the pit of his stomach. As though the heat she was radiating was melting some part of him from the inside. And he kept thinking about what she had said to him the night before. That she loved him. She hadn't said it since and he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up. But did she love him? Why did it matter to him? He didn't love her, of course he didn't. So why was he worrying about it? Why was he hoping that against all odds she would say it again? That she would mean it this time?

 

Pushing the thought aside, Spike shoved open the rear door to the club. He nuzzled Buffy's ear as he gently propelled her into the alleyway, completely unaware that as he did four pairs of eyes were watching him from across the room—and four sets of jaws had promptly hit the floor.

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

 

 

“Okay, that's it. I'm following them.”

 

Cordelia grabbed Xander's sleeve and jerked him back into a sitting position.

 

“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “It's that Spike guy! He'd cut you into little pieces before you could make a move...and then how could you take me to the winter formal?”

 

“Sorry, dear. I was just laboring under the delusion that our friends’ lives are more important than gettin’ jiggy at the school dances,” Xander snapped. He started to stand again, but this time Willow's voice stopped him.

 

“Xander I think Cordy is right. Spike is really dangerous—”

 

“Which is exactly why Buffy should not be walking out the door with him now!” Xander shouted.

 

“She seemed pretty safe to me,” Oz remarked blandly.

 

The other three all stared at him in disbelief.

 

“You're not serious,” Xander began. “You don't—”

 

“Was I the only one that saw her climbing all over him? That was definitely not Spike who started the whole heated lip-locking. So obviously whatever they're doing...wherever they're going...I'd say Buffy is pretty into it.”

 

“Ugh, that is sick ,” Cordelia stated. And for once no one argued with her.

 

“She can't really have been...I mean they couldn't really be...What was that?” Willow asked helplessly.

 

“Obviously, he’s done something to her.” Xander looked around the table for support. “C’mon...we all know Buffy despises Spike. There is no way she would actually kiss him because she wanted to or because she likes it. There has to be a reason why.”

 

“Like what?” Oz asked blandly.

 

“I don't know!" retorted Xander heatedly. "Maybe he’s blackmailing her…or threatening her. Or pulling some kind of vampire mind-trip—”

 

“Yeah!” Willow picked up eagerly. “Couldn’t Drusilla do that? Get into people’s heads and make them think she was someone she wasn’t? I mean, she did it to Giles, right? She made him think that she was Ms. Calendar so he would give her the information she wanted. So maybe Spike…”

 

Oz frowned. “It doesn’t add up. If Spike had that kind of power why wouldn’t he have used it before now? And why would he be using it for that reason? He hated Buffy, right? It was Drusilla he wanted back.”

 

“Anyway, I think she knows exactly who he is,” Cordelia added primly.

 

“And why is that?” Willow asked—a little snidely.

 

“Because ever since he rolled into town she’s been saying how she’s going to go kill him and she never has! She keeps giving these completely lame-o excuses and you know she could kill him if she really wanted to. He’s not even as old as Angel and she killed Angel—and he was her boyfriend!”

 

“But that’s exactly my point!” Willow argued. “Buffy was willing to kill even Angel when she had to! There is no way she would let Spike run around town murdering people; not even if she had developed some weird crush on him. And she couldn’t possibly have a crush on him—she hates Spike. She always has. Something else has to be going on.”

 

“Look, no matter what the reasoning behind her behavior is, I think the only thing we can do right now is to tell Giles what's going on.”

 

“We couldn't!” Willow was appalled.

 

“Why not?” Cordelia demanded, quickly taking Oz's side. “He's her Watcher, not us. Let him deal with this.”

 

“Not just yet, though,” pleaded Willow. “Let's talk to Buffy first.”

 

Cordelia looked at her as though she had taken leave of he senses. “And what possible excuse could she have for getting it on with Spike in the middle of the Bronze?”

 

“I—I don’t know,” Willow admitted. “But she has a right to tell her side of it, doesn’t she? Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

“Aren’t you going to come here?” Buffy asked coyly. She had just broken the last in a series of increasingly feverish kisses and backed away from him—nearer to the bed—in a none-too-subtle attempt at getting him to pounce on her.

 

Spike smiled, amused by her attempts at seduction.

 

“Sorry, pet. My house, my rules…and in this game Slayer goes first.”

 

She looked momentarily lost, like she had no idea where to begin. It was kind of appealing, actually. And it made sense. She had never been the one to get things going between the two of them and judging from the fact that Angel hadn’t seemed to have taken the time to teach her anything else, it stood to reason he hadn’t taught her the art of seduction, either. Well, he’d change that.

 

“Go on love,” he encouraged her. “I’m not going to bite…and if I were you’ve probably got a stake on you somewhere.”

 

She laughed. “Oh, I know that. It’s just that I don’t really…What do you want me to do?”

 

 “What do you want to do, pet?”

 

A sly sort of grin flickered across her lips.

 

“Go on,” he said softly. “That’s my girl.”

 

“Your girl—” she echoed sotto voce. And suddenly Spike found himself pinned against the wall, her small warm body curving into his own. Her mouth was just a centimeter away…her eyes so close they filled his vision so he could see nothing else. He could feel her breathing, slow and a bit ragged, as her chest rose and fell against his own.

 

“Am I your girl, Spike?” she whispered. Her breath was warm and wet; it smelled of the kisses they had shared. “Am I…?”

 

“All mine,” he growled softly, possessively. “My Slayer.”

 

“Yours…”

 

Their mouths met with a crushing force—lips and tongues wrestling, struggling for closer contact. He thought she was kissing him , but to be perfectly honest he wasn’t sure of it. But she was touching him, her small hands finding their way beneath his duster and exploring the clothed muscles of his chest and abdomen, eliciting his low rumble of approval.

 

Spike kissed her with all the fervor of a creature gone wild, but he didn’t return the caresses. His hands were at his sides, turned back and grasping slightly at the concrete wall behind him. It hurt his broken hand like a bitch, but damned if he was going to let himself take control of the situation. She was going to play him for once.

 

Oddly enough, the lack of response seemed to arouse her more. She twined one of her legs between both of his, sliding it up and down against the erection already straining at his jeans—moving in rhythm to their hot, deep kissing. She tugged his duster over his shoulders, pushing it down his arms so it could fall to the floor. The heavy leather dragged at his injured hand as it fell and he flinched at the unexpected pain. But he made no complaint. He had, after all, been schooled by the master of sexual torture. A little pain was nothing more than par for the course.

 

Buffy didn’t notice him wince; nor did she see when he surreptitiously wiped a smear of blood off his hand and onto the leg of his jeans. Her mouth had moved from his lips down to his neck. She found the scar Drusilla left the night she turned him—two pale, shiny dimples in his otherwise smooth flesh—and closed her mouth around them, sucking and biting gently, her tongue lapping lightly over the blemish as she gave him what felt like one helluva hickey.

 

Spike sagged back against the wall and sighed. “God, yeah…”

 

“Spike…” The word was hot, muffled against the skin of his neck.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Tell me you want me.”

 

He pulled away slightly, torn between confusion and a sudden, intense feeling of arousal at her request. “I want you,” he said huskily. “I’ve always wanted you.”

 

A split second after he said this, Spike realized it was true.

 

The Slayer took a playful bite at his ear and whispered: “Always?”

 

He laughed unsteadily. “Since I saw you at the Bronze that first time.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

He tried to stay focused, but it wasn’t easy with her tongue in his ear. Not to mention the fact she was now pulling his over shirt off his shoulders, too. He rolled his head back to allow her broader access and said with difficulty: “You were with your friends, but you were dancing alone. Like you were in your own world and you didn’t need anyone else. It was hot. You…were hot. Wearing that little halter-top thing. You moved like no one else in the room. I knew you were the Slayer the second I laid eyes on you by the way you moved.”

 

“And you wanted me even then?”

 

“I wanted to shag you…I wanted to kill you. It was a very complicated emotion.”

 

“Must’ve been…hard…” Buffy whispered. Her eyes met his briefly, the very picture of youthful innocence. Or at least they would have been had her hand not been snaking down the front of his trousers.

 

Spike’s eyes flicked down then back to her face. He smiled slowly, wickedly. “Oh…it was that, all right.”

 

He gripped her shoulders, leaned to press his lips to hers. Before he could, however, Buffy withdrew her hand and grabbed his elbow. With one quick and amazingly forceful jerk she had flipped him backward over her shoulder. He hit the opposite wall of the small room, falling neatly—if somewhat the worse for wear—onto the narrow mattress of his broken bed.

 

“What the bleeding hell was that for?” Spike demanded. But beneath the resentment in his tone was something dark, sexy. He had forgotten how powerful she was. It was a helluva turn on.

 

“Slayer goes first,” she said in an innocent tone, all the while stalking toward him like a jungle cat. She was shedding her clothing with each slow step.

 

He shifted on the bed, his eyes following each article of clothing on it’s descent from her body to the floor. “C’mon then, Slayer. It’s your turn…so come .”

 

The challenge in his voice made her pause. She raised her eyebrows slightly, letting him know he was in for something, though God only knew what. She was down to her knickers now—a white wisp of silk and lace designed to cover as little as possible while still functioning as an undergarment. Heaven help him but he was ready to shoot his load just from the sight of it.

 

Come and get me, Buffy. Do your worst…

 

There was something hungry, something almost predatory in her eyes, which was mirrored back at her through Spike’s own eager gaze. She moved around to the foot of the bed, came up at him in a panther-crawl, moving hand over hand until she was straddling him. She eased his T-shirt up his body with an agonizing sort of slowness, following each inch of newly exposed skin with hot kisses and soft little bites. Spike arched his back and raised his arms, allowing her to more easily dispatch the shirt over his head.

 

“Spike…” Her fingers were trailing up and down his arms, the nails rasping over his over-sensitized skin in a way that was both painful and sexy.

 

“Yeah?” he breathed.

 

“I’m initiating…”

 

Her small hands curved around his wrists, pinning his arms to the mattress above his head. Her grip on his wrist made his wounded hand throb more and she was leaning right on a bruised rib, but Spike didn’t let that deter him. In fact, far from being off-putting the pain was a bloody aphrodisiac. He closed his eyes and purred into her kiss, biting her tongue so that she squealed with surprise and he tasted blood.

 

She let him get a bit of a swallow before drawing away.

 

“Look who’s trying to be the Big Bad,” she taunted. A come on.

 

He snickered. “Trying? Love, I could have out your throat before you knew what hit you.”

 

“You…can’t even hit me,” she whispered. She picked up his swollen hand and touched it to her bare breast, making him hiss with mingled pleasure and pain.

 

“Won’t,” he corrected her. “Not can’t. You’re damn lucky, I won’t, too…”

 

“Damn lucky,” she echoed.

 

She unbuckled his belt, jerking it from his jeans with enough force to make him wonder if she was about to use it on him. But she didn’t. Instead, she moved on to unbutton his jeans, opening the fly and releasing his erection.

 

“And you? Are you lucky?” Her voice was a whisper, her lips just inches from his throbbing cock as she leaned down, pushing his jeans over his hips. When she reached his ankles he kicked them off, along with his Docs.

 

“Bleeding…hell ,” he choked as her lips slid over him, enveloping his aching shaft in the wet warmth of her mouth. He arched into her as she began to suck, grabbing at her hair with his good hand. For someone who probably hadn’t done a lot of this, she was unbelievable. Her mouth was like a ring of fire sliding up and down over him, her tongue laving softly, trailing wetness and further heat as her fingers lightly stroked his base. In no time flat she’d hit on his rhythm and went with it so perfectly he thought he would die if he didn’t come soon.

 

And it didn’t take too long; he was too ready and she was too good at it. She had him bellowing like a rutting bull in no time flat.

 

Afterward, Buffy raised her head to look at him. There was a wetness on her mouth that was him; she licked it off with the tip of her tongue before smiling playfully at him. “So I guess this means I passed, right teach?”

 

He growled and grabbed her waist, flipping over so that she ended up on her back with him straddling her. “It means it’s my turn now.”

 

Despite the tough-guy attitude, his uninjured hand was very gentle as it slid down her shoulder to cup one tender young breast. Her skin was like satin against his rough palm. He followed the outward curve of her flesh: down and underneath then back up the cleavage to her other breast to repeat the maneuver. She arched into his touch, hissing softly. And Spike could hear her heartbeat increasing; he could practically see it pounding against the wall of her chest. Beneath his touch the peaks of her breasts stood up stiffly amid a sea of gooseflesh. He was hard again just looking at her. He lowered his head and kissed her there, while at the same time venturing to slip his hand down her chest and over her stomach…into the scrap of white satin that served as her underwear.

 

She was on fire down there. Hot and slippery wet all over, the delicate trigger of her arousal throbbing beneath his fingers. He barely touched her and she began squirming, her breath coming in hoarse gasps. God help him, he couldn’t stop himself. He began stroking her in earnest, massaging her clit while at the same time his fingers darted in and out of her opening. He couldn’t stop looking at her while he did it—she was so fucking beautiful. Her eyes were dilated and a little glazed; her swollen, red lips were parted and wet. Her breasts bobbed slightly as she writhed beneath his hand and he leaned to kiss them, catching one perfect nipple between his teeth as he did so and suckling her in time to the thrust of his fingers in between her legs.

 

“Please—” She was writhing, grasping handfuls of sheet. “Please, Spike…”

 

“Keep saying it.” His words muffled because he was still kissing her nipple. “Slayer...keep saying my name...”

 

“Spike!” She said it in a beseeching sort of moan and he felt almost dizzy with lust for her. “Spike—please—”

 

“Please what?”

 

She reached down, curling her hand around his pulsing cock. “Please come inside me…”

 

He didn’t need any more encouragement than that.

 

“Buffy—” he breathed. “Pet—”

 

He fell on her, his erection sinking into that sheath of heat and wet and rippling muscle. He started out slowly—in and out and around as gently as he could manage to give her time to get used to his presence. Then he began to build momentum and speed, going faster and moving deeper inside with each thrust. She spread her legs and raised her lower back to allow him greater access—and he went so deep he thought he was hitting the end of heaven.

 

Despite his determination to be easy with her, before he knew it Spike was pounding into her with all the finesse of a convicted felon in the middle of a laundry-room gang rape. He couldn’t help it. Slow and sweet just wasn’t in his nature and besides, she was not doing much to help him with his self-control. In fact, the harder he rammed her, the louder she moaned—the tighter her legs clasped his waist—and the hotter she grew.

 

And then she came. And all those muscles were clenching him over and over, wringing his own orgasm from him so forcefully that he cursed and cried as he spilt his cold semen into that hot passage. It felt so good it hurt—like she was dragging something out of him, something he needed to give her but didn’t necessarily want to.

 

But even though it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, to give voice to the burning in his stomach—the aching and almost vicious sensation of wanting in his chest—he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her know, not this one. Being weak had lost him Dru. He couldn’t risk it with the Slayer.

 

He just couldn’t.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

The Bronze closed at eleven on weeknights and Alyson Marks was especially grateful of this fact tonight. Alyson was a waitress at the Bronze—a job she used to help cover the cost of her collage tuition. It was a thankless job, serving food and drink to the spoiled little teenagers of a fairly affluent town; Alyson never enjoyed it. But it had been especially hard tonight.

 

For whatever reason, the place had been completely packed, more like a Friday or Saturday night than a Monday. They weren’t staffed for that kind of a crowd because they weren’t expecting it and so Alyson had been run to death all night. Of course, this meant service hadn’t been that great and correspondingly, neither had the tips. She would be glad to get home.

 

Alyson did her part to help the rest of the staff clean up: she took wiped tables and stacked chairs and swept the floor. She went around to all the small trash receptacles and emptied the waste into a large bag and then wrestled the heavy bag out into the alley to dump into the large bin near the door.

 

The dumpster was shut, so Alyson had to drop her bag in order to wrench the heavy metal door open. Then she grabbed the heavy sack with both hands and tried to heave it over the edge and into the dumpster. She only managed to get it halfway across, which left the bag teetering over the top, threatening to spill out onto the pavement—which, she knew, would earn her a prime bitch-out from her boss. So she stood on her tiptoes and tried shoving the bag farther in, and as she did something caught her eye. Something pale and bluish-white, sticking out from under the half of the Hefty bag that was in the dumpster. Something that was slim and curling slightly upward. It almost looked like—

 

Alyson released her hold on the bag abruptly and began stumbling backwards away from the dumpster. A small, choking sound worked its way up her throat, building momentum until it was a sharp and completely hysterical shriek.

 

It was a hand.

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

 

 

Spike yawned and turned over, putting his back to the sliver of light which sifted through the cracked cement wall. The burning was what woke him up; when he opened his eyes the lids felt scorched and sore. He reached up to survey the damage and his right hand reminded him just how badly he’d treated it by throbbing, making his mouth water in silent agony.

 

Didn’t matter, though. None of it made one bit of difference. Nothing could kill this mood. He rested his cheek on his arm and smiled.

 

“You’re still here.”

 

Buffy rolled onto her side, too, so that she was facing him. She must’ve already been awake. “You thought I wouldn’t be?” she asked. Her voice was soft as pillows.

 

“I didn’t know to tell you the truth.”

 

She reached out, stroking a forefinger across the slightly singed skin of his eyelids. “You should fix that wall.”

 

“Yeah, well. I’m thinking of finding better digs altogether. I think the broken and burned look may well be on its way out.”

 

She smiled and shifted beneath the blanket. He could feel the warmth of her thigh brushing up against him. Her hand dropped from his brow to his mouth, tracing the curve of his bottom lip.

 

“Look at you,” she whispered. “With your hair all messy and curly. It’s kind of cute.”

 

Spike’s hand flew to his rumpled locks. “It’s not curly!” he said defensively. “And I’m not cute. I’m a vampire. I’m fierce…like a wild animal.”

 

“Fierce animal. “ She smirked, not bothering to hide her amusement. “No, I totally agree.”

 

He rolled over onto her, lacing his fingers in hers and pinning her arms to the mattress. He felt her breath catch at his nearness, her heart thumping as he almost touched his lips against hers. “Watch your mouth.”

 

“Watch it for me,” she whispered back.

 

She leaned up, closing the small space between them and catching his bottom lip between both of hers. It was a soft kiss, but lingering. He released her hands and she reached up, trailing her fingers through his matted hair, petting and stroking until he relaxed, his eyes drifting slowly shut.

 

Her mouth was pushing at his, gentle but insistent. He parted his lips and her tongue slipped inside, lightly tracing the outside of his teeth, his gums. She teased his tongue with the tip of her own—light, slow passes to make him groan softly. Her tongue was a velvet touch, warm and vaguely sweet. He could detect his own heavy, salty flavor there as well, and he felt a sudden rush of territoriality. And fear. Because even though she was his, he knew eventually someone would try to take her from him. Everything good always got taken away.

 

 “Hey…temper, temper,” Buffy whispered suddenly, breaking their kiss. She stroked a finger across his forehead, which was not ridged but which had been, momentarily, three seconds before. “What’s wrong? Why the bumpies?”

 

“Ah…nothing. I’m fine. Just had an itch.” He scratched between his eyes for effect.

 

She didn’t look convinced.

 

“So looks like you’re late for school,” he said to change the subject.

 

Buffy glanced at her watch and groaned, covering her face with her arm.

 

Spike rolled onto his back and smiled up at the mildewed ceiling. “Not that I’m gonna play truant officer, mind you. You’re welcome to stay here.”

 

“I hate school,” she complained, her voice muffled in the crook of her elbow. “Why do they have to make it so early? Eight-thirty and already I’m late.”

 

 “Guess there’s no point in going then,” Spike told her. “You’ll just have to stay here today and keep me entertained.”

 

She sighed and sat up. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and sullen, her lower lip pouted. “No, I’ve got to go. Principal Snyder’s already got it in for me. He’d love another reason to call my mom in for a bitch-fest.”

 

“What’s he look like? I could kill him for you,” Spike offered. “Or better yet, turn him into a vamp so you can kill him. It’d be fun…a project for the two of us.”

 

Buffy paused in her dressing as though seriously considering the offer, even though he knew she wasn’t. “No,” she said finally. “You’d better not.”

 

His eyes followed her every movement as she pulled on her clothes, stepped into her shoes. It wasn’t until she glanced over at him that he looked away, studying red-black of the dried blood caking the back of his right hand, the puffy bruises where the bones had broken.

 

“And what about later? After school…?” He attempted a forced disinterest but had the distinct feeling she wasn’t buying it at all.

 

“After school I have to go slaying or I’m going to have the boss really angry at me,” she answered. “But after slaying…”

 

He leaned in to the hand she placed against his cheek. “I could go with you, tonight. Slaying, that is.”

 

“You want to help me kill vampires?” She looked skeptical, a little amused.

 

“What?” he asked, defensively. “I’m a demon; I like carnage. And a kill’s a kill no matter what the prey. It’d go twice as fast, me being there.”

 

Her expression changed, softened. As if she had just figured out his real reason for wanting to go with her. And when she spoke her voice had gone all soft, too. “Yeah…it would. And I’d like for you to come.”

 

Made embarrassed and more than a little uneasy by the way she was watching him, Spike shifted away.  “Well…that’s good then,” he said, awkwardly. “I will.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

“Okay, remember…just like we practiced it,” Willow whispered.

 

Cordelia rolled her eyes. The four of them—Cordelia, Willow, Oz, and Xander—were standing in the main hallway of Sunnydale High. Buffy had just arrived—and only an hour and a half late. She was just approaching from the opposite direction, making a beeline for her locker.

 

“Do I have to be here for this?” Cordy whined. “I mean it’s not like she and I are such great pals or anything. Why should I have to hear all the icky details of her lust for the undead?”

 

“Because we have to maintain a united front,” Willow insisted. “She has to understand that this is wrong, not just in my eyes or Xander’s but everyone’s. If all of us aren’t here then it won’t have as much impact.”

 

“Okay, are we going to talk to Buffy about her boffing Spike or host an Al-Anon intervention?” Xander asked. “’Cause I’m not seeing why everyone should be here either. You and I are her best friends, Will. We could—”

 

“We’re all staying,” Oz interrupted. His tone was intense, almost accusatory. But when Willow looked in his direction his countenance was as bland as ever.

 

“Right…” she said slowly. “All of us should be here.”

 

“Here she comes.” Xander nodded in Buffy’s direction.

 

“All right. Just…everybody remember their lines. And don’t accuse her of anything; the last thing we need is for her to go on the defensive.” This last was directed by Willow to Cordelia, but the latter didn’t seem to be listening. At any rate she made no response to it; she was checking her teeth for lipstick streaks and preening before a compact mirror. It wasn’t until Buffy had almost reached them that Cordy snapped the mirror closed and assumed the previously rehearsed position.

 

The four of them closed in together to form a tight, short wall between Buffy and her locker. Even so, she didn’t appear to see them until she was right there, almost running against them. Then she jumped like she was startled, started to smile.

 

“Hey—” But the smile faded almost as quickly as it came and she was left with a puzzled frown, her forehead wrinkling with confusion as her eyes moved from each stoic face to the next. “Guys, what’s the matter?”

 

Willow glanced at Xander, who stepped back and nodded to her, giving her the floor even though she hadn’t asked for it. But nobody else was stepping up. She sighed and bit her lip.

 

“Buffy…we need to talk.”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

 

He wasn’t staying home today. He’d made up his mind. Too much time cooped up indoors was probably part of his problem. Alone. He hated being alone, it was too…lonely. He didn’t blame Buffy for leaving; he knew she had to maintain some semblance of normality for this to work. But that aside, he was bloody well not going to spend his day staring at the walls.

 

The De Soto was parked out in that treeless sea of asphalt. Sunshine city. Made for a dangerous run getting over there, but he was determined. He grabbed the blanket off the bed and draped it over his head to protect his face. As long as he kept his head bowed and stared at the ground he was pretty sure he could get across the parking lot without breaking a leg or bursting into flames. There was nothing for him to run up against, anyway.

 

And he fared pretty well. Okay, yeah, his hand sizzled a bit while trying to get the door open. But it’d heal. It still hurt less than the broken one. All in all he considered himself a success. Gold medal at the U.S. Parking Lot Sunshine Sprint, 1998.

 

 He slid into the cracked leather seat and slammed the door behind him with a triumphant bang. Then he faced his next challenge. The keys were gone, hidden somewhere beneath the mound of debris scattered over the seats and floor: empty whisky bottles, burger wrappers, Wheat-a-bits boxes, dirty clothes, and battered books.  He dug through the rubbish, cursing softly to himself. But it didn’t take long to find them. They were lying on the floorboard near his foot, half-hidden by a mound of cigarette butts. He picked them up and stuck them in the ignition. But as he started the engine something else occurred to him. He had no idea where he was going to go.

 

He let the engine die and sat back, lighting up a fag to give himself a bit of time to think. There was always the option of the hunt, but he wasn’t really that hungry. Anyway, hunting in daylight was a real bitch. Even if he managed to find some idiot wandering around waiting to get eaten there would be less of an opportunity to kill without being seen. And unless he did his killing at a closed public place like a mall there was no way he could make a kill before the sun set him afire. No, hunting was most definitely out of the question, even if he were hungry.

 

The Slayer’s house. Now there was an option. He could go in and watch the telly, maybe find something valuable of Mum’s to nick. The fridge would probably be good for some snacks, too. Spike preferred blood, but he liked pizza rolls. He considered it seriously for a minute but ultimately it was no good. Just the same as the factory but with better trappings. He wanted to be out doing something. And anyway, he figured stealing from Buffy’s house probably wouldn’t keep him in the Slayer’s good graces. Better to think of something else.

 

What he thought of was Joyce.

 

Joyce was a problem, he knew. She didn’t trust him now, Lenny had seen to that. And if anyone would try to keep the Slayer from him Spike knew Joyce would; she hadn’t been overjoyed by the idea of them sleeping together even when she felt sorry for him. She would be even less so now. And she was a mother. She could probably sniff out a lie from ten kilometers away. He thought she’d be the first to figure it out, where Buffy was spending her nights. And when she did…

 

Spike reached for the ignition, his decision made. He thought he remembered something said once about Joyce owning an art gallery. If she still owned it then that was probably where she would be at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning. There couldn’t be that many art galleries in a town like Sunnydale and Spike seriously doubted the ones they had would be overwhelmed by clientele. Maybe if Joyce owned a Gap Outlet or a Starbucks then he’d have something to worry about. But chances were he could catch her alone at the gallery.

 

He grinned to himself as he maneuvered the De Soto out of the parking lot and onto the street. There was nothing like the pursuit of attainable goals to keep a bloke feeling important. And this was something he was good at: the art of persuasion.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

 

 

Buffy crossed her arms over her breasts, staring back at the small group of her friends with what could only be called outright belligerence.

 

 “What do we need to talk about?” she asked.

 

Willow pretended not to notice the challenge in her friend’s tone, but her face colored slightly as she began to speak.

 

“Um, yeah…See last night at the Bronze…Well, you sort of disappeared on us and we were kind of looking around for you at the table. And then we saw you and you were…ah…” She trailed away, at a loss for words.

 

Cordelia, never suffering from that particular problem, quickly leapt in to give Willow a hand. “We saw you making out with that Spike vampire person,” she said bluntly.

 

Willow shot Cordelia a furious glare, but the other girl seemed completely unaware. She was staring at Buffy intently, clearly waiting for an answer.

 

“We saw Spike,” Willow said quickly, trying for damage control. “And we saw you. And the two of you were talking…and then…well…you kissed him. At least it looked liked you kissed him. And we were just wondering—”

 

Buffy stared at her friend steadily, her expression even. “You were wondering what? ”

 

Flustered, Willow looked to Xander for help.

 

“We were just wondering if you were okay,” he fell in supportively. “It seemed like a sort of non-Buffy thing to do and we thought maybe something was wrong.”

 

“Wrong?”

 

“Like you were in trouble…or he was forcing you to…”

 

“Nothing is wrong,” Buffy stated firmly. “And I’m not being forced to do anything.”

 

Now it was Xander’s turn to look confused. “Well, good,” he said quickly. “I’m glad everything is okay. However, that does kinda beg the question—”

 

“So you’re making out with him because you like it?” Cordelia interrupted, making a face. “Yuck. Buffy, that’s gross even for you. I mean Angel was bad enough…although I have to admit he did have a certain moody-sexy quality. But Spike is evil…and not even just sometimes like Angel was. And his style is so completely 1982. I mean who does he think he is? Billy Idol? And how many times has he tried to kill you now—?”

 

“Cordelia, shut up, ” Xander snapped. He turned back to Buffy. “If you aren’t being controlled or blackmailed by him or anything like that then what is going on Buffy? You hate Spike. He’s the enemy. Why would you let him—?”

 

“Let him what?”

 

“Buffy, we were there—we saw you kissing him—”

 

“And you thought you’d chase me down this morning to get a synopsis, is that it?”

 

Startled by the accusation Xander stammered, “N—no. Of course not. We were just—I mean we wanted to—we’re worried about you…”

 

“Worried about what exactly?”

 

“I think about the frenching Spike part, mostly,” Cordelia spoke up. “You know…’cause aside from the fact he’s an evil vampire with questionable fashion sense and you were supposed to kill him…you don’t really even know the guy. So we were just wondering why it was you were climbing all over him like a skank in heat at the Bronze last night.”

 

“You want to know about Spike and me?” Buffy asked defiantly. “Fine. I can even sum it up in four words: None—of—your—business. There. Are you happy now?”

 

She spun around on her heel and stormed off without collecting her books. And she didn’t just walk away; she walked out. She exited the school by way of the nearest door, moving in a slow, jerky tread designed to show the four left watching just how angry she was.

 

There was a long silence in her wake.

 

“So I guess this means we tell Giles, now,” Cordelia said, finally. She looked around at the dumbfounded faces of her friends. “Right?”

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

Well, this was just…great.

 

Spike moved forward, allowing the glass door to bounce closed behind him. A small bell over the door had rung when he opened it, presumably to announce his presence to the proprietor. But inside that front room of the gallery there was no one. No customers and no Joyce. He’d been right to assume the gallery wouldn’t be seeing much action; the people of Sunnydale would be more interested in feeding their appetite for the material than enriching their souls with fine artwork. Joyce must have been in the back somewhere, unpacking merchandise or such like.

 

There was a short counter in the back of the room with the cash register and a telephone sitting on it. A door behind the counter was closed, a small enamel sign sternly warning: EMPLOYS ONLY—NO ADMITTANCE. From behind the door Spike could hear faint rustling movements. Joyce must not have heard the bell when he came in. That was good. The element of surprise was always a plus in dealings like this. He could’ve burst in on her just as easily, but he chose instead to wait for Joyce to discover him. In the meantime he wandered idly around the room, examining the artwork which lined the walls.

 

His back was to the counter when the lady finally did make her appearance ten minutes later. He’d of thought she would recognize him from the back but for some reason she didn’t. Maybe the coat and the hair weren’t as original as he had once thought. It was disappointing, really. He’d been hoping for a shriek of instantaneous recognition.

 

Instead she said: “Well, hello there! What can I help you with?”

 

He turned around slowly in order to give himself time to light his cigarette. “Got anything by Andy Warhol—”

 

There was the shriek he was looking for.

 

“—because I just love his work.”

 

“You get out of here!” she screeched. “Get out or I’ll—”

 

He glanced at the object she had grabbed from the counter to brandish threateningly at him. It was a stapler. She appeared to wilt slightly as he grinned at her weapon of choice, but she didn’t back down. Slayer must get it from her mum then, that backbone. He’d figured as much.

 

“How did you get in here? Buffy said—”

 

“It is a public place, after all.”

 

He took a step forward but Joyce backed farther away, colliding against the wall behind the counter. He could see her eyes darting to the Employs Only door, trying to gauge whether she could make it inside before he caught her. She didn’t stand a chance, of course.

 

“Hey—” He extended his hands, palm out. An attempt to appear harmless. “Not still mad at me are you Joyce? It’s just a window, isn’t it? No real harm done amongst friends.”

 

“I know what you are,” said Joyce shakily—she was still holding the stapler. “Buffy told me that you’re a—a vampire.”

 

Blowing a cloud of smoke onto the NO SMOKING sign next to them, Spike leaned his elbows against the counter. “Really? What else did she say about me?”

 

“She said that you’re dangerous and that I shouldn’t let you inside the house again. She didn’t tell me you could come into a public business without an invitation, however,” she added, looking suddenly put out by the idea.

 

“But you gave me an invitation,” he explained, nodding to the welcome sign hanging on the front door.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Spike reached quickly across the counter, plucking the stapler from Joyce’s grasp before she even had time to react. He twirled the erstwhile weapon like a baton in one hand, thinking for a moment before answering her question.

 

“Just a friendly chat is all. Is that so wrong?”

 

“I don’t want to chat with you,” she snapped. “You’re a—you’re disgusting—”

 

“Yeah. Not so disgusting as her last boyfriend, though. Am I right?” He flashed a mischievous smile, adding: “Least I’m not trying to do in the entire planet for a whim. And I could’ve killed you, you know. The other night. Easily. But I didn’t.”

 

For a moment she looked almost curious. “Why not?”

 

He shrugged. 

 

“You’re a nice lady. And you’re the Slayer’s mum, which accounts for a lot besides. I wasn’t lying to you when I said I—how I felt about her. That’s why I’m here. I need your help in doing something for Buffy.”

 

“I’m not helping you do anything. I want you to leave my daughter alone, all right? She doesn’t want anything to do with—”

 

“Actually, she does. But that’s not the point. Joyce…” He grabbed her elbow when she would have turned away, holding her back and forcing her to meet his gaze. “You and I have something in common—two things, actually. We both care about Buffy and we both want her out of the slaying business. If you help me then we can make that happen.”

 

 

“Forget it! You think I don’t know why you want Buffy to stop slaying? I know. You want her out of the way so you can turn this town into your own personal killing field—”

 

“How long do slayers live, Joyce? Twenty-one years or twenty-two…twenty-five at the very most. There’s never been one to hit thirty. Not one. You think Buffy will be any different than the rest of them? You think she’ll be able to hold on forever? Shoot out a coupla grandkids for you and keep at it, on and on into eternity?”

 

Joyce shook her head.

 

“No…Mr. Giles wouldn’t—”

 

“You said it yourself: he cares more about the mission than about Buffy. Not really his fault, mind you. It’s what he’s trained to do. It’s his job, Joyce: get all he can out of her before she wears up and gets killed. At the rate she’s going how long do you reckon that will be?”

 

“Buffy can take care of herself.” But Joyce’s voice was less than certain.

 

“Yeah. For how long? Day in and day out, fighting for her life. Death is at her coattails and she’s already slipping into its grasp. Bit by bit she’s giving it up. I know; I could’ve killed her twice in the past three days alone—”

 

“That’s different. If she trusts you—”

 

“For Christ’s sake! Listen to me! I could have killed her, Joyce! Easily and not because she trusts me. That was a pretty recent development I can tell you. But she’s making mistakes and getting careless—and all it takes is to get careless on the wrong day with the wrong demon and she’s dead. Do you want that to happen?”

 

She stared at him, shaking her head but not saying anything. Spike dropped her arm. He slid off the counter, leaned in until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I’m on your side, Joyce. I want what’s best for Buffy.”

 

“You aren’t what’s best for her,” she said. But her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He almost had her, he could feel it.

 

“I’ve never hurt her, have I? I could have several times in the last few days alone, but I haven’t. Neither has she gotten hurt on my lookout.”

 

He started away but paused by the front entrance and gave her a meaningful look.  He added: “Can you say the same for her watcher?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

 

 

 

Giles sighed and pulled off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes in a weary, defeated way.

 

“You are absolutely certain about this?” he asked, finally.

 

“Pretty sure,” Willow answered. “I mean I’m definitely sure that she was kissing him at the Bronze. But the other thing…the having feelings for him thing? That’s more like a hunch. She didn’t say she did…she didn’t say anything, really. It was just a feeling I got.”

 

“Could he be forcing her? Threatening her?”

 

“I don’t think so. Xander and I asked about that and she was really defensive of him…really clear that no one was making her do anything. And Giles…if you saw them last night at the Bronze…it was almost…”

 

“Almost what?” he pressed.

 

She flushed. “Never mind.”

 

“I think what Willow means,” Cordelia piped up. “Is that Buffy is over her vampire-lover squeamishness. She may have been embarrassed or guilty or whatever when it came to Angel…but she’s practically wearing a ‘Love me, love my vamp’ shirt now.”

 

Willow shot her a dirty look. “It wasn’t that bad.”

 

“Hello. Were you there? We weren’t even two words in before she jumped on the defensive about it.”

 

“Well maybe she was defensive because she is embarrassed,” argued Willow. “Did you ever think of that?”

 

“Girls…” Giles began wearily, but they railed on unchecked.

 

“I think you’re being too judgmental!”

 

“And I think you are too quick to defend Buffy just because she’s your friend!” Cordelia snapped back. “If it was me—or anyone else in school—you’d practically be ready to burn her at the stake—”

 

“All right! You’ve made your point!” Giles voice was firm this time, almost angry.

 

“Yeah. He’s right,” Xander added. “And it doesn’t matter whether Buffy’s being manipulated by Spike or if they share a magical love beyond our understanding. We still have to do something—”

 

Giles head shot up.

 

“Magical love?” he echoed.

 

Xander looked around at the others, made uneasy by the librarian’s intense stare. “Did I say something?”

 

“Willow…you performed a spell for Spike.” As he spoke Giles’ voice became more energized. “A love spell.”

 

“Only ‘cause he made me—”

 

“You said it was a spell meant for Drusilla, but that he interrupted it before you could finish. That he was angry and ranting about—”

 

“Buffy!” The four teens spoke her name together excitedly.

 

“You think the spell backfired?” Willow asked. “Could it have?”

 

“Of course. Love spells are terribly complicated and notorious for some of the bad side affects they can have.  If Spike wasn’t concentrating—or if he was concentrating on Buffy rather that Drusilla—”

 

“But would the spell affect both of them?” Oz asked.

 

“No…that’s the extraordinary thing. It wouldn’t. Only Buffy would be affected. Which means that, so far as we know, Spike is acting of his own free will.”

 

Cordelia made a face. “So he’s, like, really in love with her? How sick is that?”

 

“Either he has feelings for her—or has developed feelings for her because of this. Or…”

 

“He’s toying with her,” Xander finished. “That’s it, isn’t? I’ll bet that’s it!”

 

“It might very well be,” Giles confirmed.

 

“Then we have to stop him. We have to kill him—”

 

“Kill Spike! And how are we going to do that? Buffy couldn’t do that even before Willow put the mojo on her—and she’s the Slayer!”

 

Xander’s face fell before this logic, but Giles’ eyes widened.

 

“Angel!”

 

“Yeah!” Xander nodded excitedly to Giles. “Angel can kill him for us—”

 

“No…Angel was planning to kill Spike. Two days ago. He told me—” Giles paused and then asked, “Have any of you seen him lately?”

 

“No,” Willow breathed. “Not at all.”

 

“And Buffy went to stop the fight. I thought it was to defend Angel, but…”

 

“Spike is obviously still alive because he was at the Bronze with Buffy last night.” Willow paled. “Giles, do you think Angel is—?” She couldn’t finish.

 

“I don’t know. We mustn’t take anything for granted, at any rate.” He rose from behind the heavy wooden circulation desk. “I’m going to the mansion to see for myself whether or not Angel is all right. The four of you stay away from Buffy! Do you understand? She isn’t acting herself and if you challenge her fantasy it could be dangerous—most especially if Spike finds out about it.”

 

“So what are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Cordelia whined.

 

Giles waved his arm in the direction of the bookshelves. “Search the spell books for a cure. We will meet back here in an hour to discuss what I’ve found.”

 

He pulled a crossbow from beneath the desk, hefted it onto his shoulder, and turned away. The Scoobs waited until he had gone and then headed to the stacks in a unit.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

 

Buffy stretched her legs out across the sofa and aimed the remote control at the television before settling back against the cushions. Digging her spoon into her ice cream, she flipped channels until she found what she was looking for—a soap opera she hadn’t seen since the day she became a Slayer. It was half over, but it didn’t matter anyway. As with most soaps it was easy to fall back into the groove of watching.

 

Not that watching a cheesy soap opera was her first choice for entertainment. After leaving school Buffy went back to the factory, hoping that seeing Spike might lift her out of the bad mood the Scoobies had put her in. But he wasn’t there. She had no idea where he might have gone in the middle of a sunny morning, but she figured there was no reason to hang around waiting for him. He’d taken the De Soto and could be anywhere by now—and since he was under the impression that she wouldn’t be free until late afternoon there was no telling when he might return.

 

Buffy licked at her spoon and smiled to herself, thinking of the expression on Spike’s face when he said he wanted to slay with her. Who would’ve thought a member of the soulless evil dead club could be so…

 

Okay, well sweet wasn’t exactly the right word. But he was definitely being very nice to her. Concerned and affectionate. The look in his eyes when he woke to find her there was the same type of fondness she’d seen him bestow on Drusilla countless times. Obviously, then, the myth about vampires being unable to love without a soul was just that: a myth.

 

She frowned. That really didn’t speak well for Angel then, did it? Supposedly he had been in love her when he had his soul, but when he lost it…Which meant that either he wasn’t the same being with his soul as without or he was a much more evil vampire than Spike and just wasn’t capable of feeling anything. She wondered—

 

Her interest was suddenly diverted by a news flash preempting the soap opera. A pasty young reporter in an ugly suit was standing in an oddly familiar-looking alleyway, waving her microphone to gesture to the building behind her. Her chipper voice and sunny smile were oddly at variance with the words coming out of her mouth—words that made Buffy snap to attention.

 

“Employs of the Bronze, a favorite club among Sunnydale teens, were shocked last night to discover the bodies of two patrons stuffed into a dumpster, just feet from the club’s rear door. The bodies were discovered by a young waitress while the staff was cleaning after hours.

 

Authorities were notified by Bronze owner, David Merrick, and found the second body shortly afterwards. Merrick declined interview. However, his legal team assured us that measures are always taken to ensure the safety of Bronze patrons. Despite this, it is apparent that at least one of the murders took place inside the club, as blood stains and signs of a struggle were discovered in the men’s room. No witnesses have come forward and staff say that ‘all seemed usual’ last night’ although damage to some drywall was discovered this morning and is being called ‘in possible relation’ to the case.”

 

Buffy’s bowl fell from her lap as she sat up, but she leaned in toward the television, oblivious of the mess of chocolate and vanilla melting into the rug. She turned up the volume on the TV.

 

“The local authorities are calling the murders “possibly drug-related” and note the increasing problem of PCP usage among Sunnydale youths. They are confident that the perpetrator will be apprehended soon in spite of the admitted lack of forensic evidence found at the scene. When asked about possible suspects, the homicide detective on scene was evasive. He hinted that they had a few leads but that he could not comment further at this time. The names of the victims are being withheld until their families are identified but are being described as a Caucasian man and woman in their early twenties. While it is possible they knew each other, the time of deaths are estimated at as much as an hour apart. Both victims had similar deep wounds to their throats and appeared to die from blood loss.”

 

“Goddamn it, Spike!”

 

Buffy threw the remote at the wall.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 

Giles didn’t have to step inside Angel’s derelict mansion to know that something terrible had happened. The door was wide open, half hanging from its rusty hinges. From the threshold—and in spite of the dim light inside—Giles could make out the broken bits of furniture, strewn clothing and papers. Though he didn’t relish the thought of stepping inside for fear of what he might find Giles knew he had little choice. He gripped his crossbow tighter as he crossed over the doorstep.

 

“Angel…? Are you here?”

 

There was no answer to his call, no sound at all save the crunching of his feet over broken glass. Someone had taken care to destroy absolutely everything that was worth anything in the house: picture frames and glasses were shattered, books ripped apart, clothing shredded and what looked like ink poured over them. There was a dark smear of dried blood on the fireplace masonry. Giles moved closer to examine it and his foot struck something hard and light—something that skittered across the floor and struck the opposite wall with a clatter.

 

It was a wooden stake—and it was covered with ash.

~*~  ~*~  ~*~

 tbc