Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and sexual content)
Timeline: Goes AU during Season 2
Summary: A prophecy unfolds just as a new Slayer arrives in Sunnydale. A cocky, British, platinum blonde Slayer with a devilish smile and a body to die for. And Buffy doesn’t know what surprises her more—the fact that he’s male, or the animal attraction that festers between them almost from the beginning.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

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There were nights when patrol was so tedious, she thought about approaching Giles with the aspiration of redefining hellmouth. No vamps. No demons. No oogly booglies. Just a big, empty, ungrateful graveyard that wasn’t driving the up on rectifying her boredom. She had been looking forward to patrol tonight, too. Not for any reason—per se—she just really wanted to kill something.

Really wanted to let loose a little energy before tackling some algebra. After all, Sunnydale: equal to largest vat of evil on earth. The place that had killed her the year before, as in literally. It was the first night in several that she felt like indulging in her calling, and the lousy vamps that were supposed to run rampant were nowhere to be seen.

A deep breath spilled past her lips and she took a seat on the nearest headstone. Despite all her griping, the crap she gave Giles on a regular basis—even her own spiral of inward complaints—there was something to be said for the peacefulness of a cemetery on a night void of activity. Gave her time to clear her thoughts. Gave perspective to the road ahead.

She had come out here more and more often in the hope of running into Angel, though that seemed to be fruitless in itself. Angel only dropped by to warn her that the world was ending or that she was supposed to die—or both, on a really good day. For a guy that had been around for two centuries, he really needed advice on socializing. There were times when she felt him watching her…knowing that it was him without knowing how she knew. Just that certainty.

The guy could make it as a professional stalker. There wasn’t any doubt about that.

Even the night was still. There was no wind. No distant howling. No guttural growls of the recently undead. Sunnydale was asleep. No action to be had tonight. She might as well pack it in and go home.

After all, who could resist the tug of algebra?

She wondered if she could have Giles investigate the possibility that Mr. Kirsch was a demon. Really, no one should feel that obligated to give out so much homework. Ever.

Lousy school. That wasn’t even counting the English paper she had due next Tuesday, or the history project she and Willow had done diddly on since it was assigned. Well, knowing Willow, doing diddly wasn’t an option. They would have to arrange a time where Buffy could find some small way to contribute and quell her guilt over making her school-happy friend do the entire project by herself.

“Enough stalling,” she told herself, rising lazily to her feet. “Time to go home and argue with Mr. Pythagorean.”

It was a fact universally acknowledged that once someone gave up on something, a reason to stay inevitably popped up. She had just hooked her stake into her belt, frowning a bit at the signs of wear against the fabric when the classic damsel-in-distress scream tore through the still night air, reverberating off every tree in the graveyard.

“Typical,” she muttered, taking off all the same.

The scene that she found, however, exceeded every scenario running through her mind. A few vamp cronies she could handle. Damsel in distress, a little tacky but sadly more common than not, but she could handle. Get in a few kicks, satisfy that urge to cause some violence, go home and crack open the text.

Who was she kidding? Patrol was her excuse to not hand in homework. If she was participating in world saveage, studies could take a backseat.

On the other hand, explaining her progress report to her uninformed mother? Not something she would call fun.

Buffy stopped so quickly that she nearly tumbled to the ground. Her eyes widened beyond the point of casual disbelief and crossed into all-out astonishment.

She had never seen a man move like that. Such fluency. Such poise. Poetry in motion. He moved as though he was made for it. A twist here, a kick there. Flash of a stake and an explosion of dust. He didn’t look panicked. Didn’t look threatened at all. A man in his element. Doing what was natural for him.

And damn, was it natural.

Who the hell was this guy?

Buffy held her breath as he dusted the last, then turned to the damsel who looked to have overcome her fear for the appeal of a gorgeous man in black leather.

At least, that was her hypothesis. The stake-happy hottie looked to be, well, a hottie. He was at a distance yet, though, so that verdict was subject to appeal at closer inspection.

“Word of advice, pet,” the man drawled lazily. “From what I’ve heard of this town, you don’ wanna be lurkin’ around graveyards after dark.”

Oh God. He had an accent. Mr. I-Fell-Out-of-An-Abercrombie-Catalog had an accent. The Slayer shook her head to keep from swooning.

Honestly, what girl could resist an accent?

None, evidently. And at that, cue damsel. Damsel was supposed to slip into something seductive before dropping to her knees to begin her reimbursement. Buffy had heard enough from the upperclassmen at Hemery to know what men expected when they intervened a mugging. Not that many muggings were actually intervened, but such was sadly a topic of discussion. “They were…they were going to…and you…”

“Yeh. Stop walkin’ through graveyards after six o’clock, an’ we won’ have to play a repeat, all right?” He arched a brow and nodded generally in the direction of Restfield’s entrance. “Toddle off, now. No one’s hurtin’ you tonight.”

“Can I…is there anything I can do for you? You know…you just saved my life.”

The man stopped at that and his eyes narrowed; looked her up and down, though void of temptation and more prone to skepticism. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he replied. “Don’ take favors for helpin’ vamp bait, especially if they seem willin’. Now go home.”

That little comment earned him an almost-slap from the highly over-indignant damsel. She nodded, masking angered hurt, and turned to walk away.

It only took seconds. The Slayer watched as he battled with annoyance over gentlemanly manners; he turned to catch up with the scoffed girl in seconds.

She followed, keeping to the shadows. Watched him grab the damsel’s arm, apologize for his rudeness in a tone that indicated he wasn’t really sorry, but some form of manners beaten into him since birth demanded that he make an effort. He walked her out and Buffy watched. Watched him wait until he saw people before letting her loose, and turned to stalk away in the other direction.

Man saving woman and not wanting smoochies? Not wanting happies in return for services rendered? What the hell was going on?

Algebra forgotten, Buffy drew in a breath and turned to follow the guy, though at a careful distance. She didn’t doubt her ability to take him if he became aware of her presence and wasn’t exactly a guy who liked company, but she somehow doubted he was the type to lash out at anyone he came across.

At least she hoped. She was intrigued.

There were certain things she could make out simply by following him, the more obvious being his hair color and the incredibly sexy duster strewn across his shoulders. There weren’t many streetlights in the direction he was heading, and the moon wasn’t even out, but she knew a bleach job when she saw one. His hair was thoroughly bleached, reminding her fleetingly of a guy she had known in LA who enjoyed that type of dye job but wasn’t nearly as efficient as the slayer wannabe at making it look non-pathetic.

The glimpse she caught of him turning a corner confirmed the suspicion that had flustered her insides back at Restfield. The man was a hottie. A big hottie. Prominent cheekbones, his lips sensual at first glance…granted, Buffy wasn’t following him to cop a feel, but she was a girl and she did notice such things. Even the hair looked good. Ruffled, it seemed, from the fight; she liked it like that. Hoped he wasn’t the type to slick it back, though her mind’s projected image of such a style was not at all unappealing.

He walked as though he knew he was being followed and didn’t care. Walked as though he was leading her somewhere. The familiar nagging in the bottom of her stomach told her strictly that she should turn around and go home or—at the very most—report the incident to Giles and get his opinion, but her feet refused to comply. If he was leading her somewhere with the intent to harm, he was in for a world of hurt. She knew how to bring it, and well.

The Master, anyone? Killed him completely dead.

She could go get Angel, she supposed, but it was late and she wasn’t too keen on the idea of losing the guy before she saw where he was going.

It didn’t take as long as it felt. Maybe three quarters of a mile away from the cemetery—not far, but she was counting her blessings that she had foregone heels for tonight’s patrol. Especially since it was getting late and she would likely sprint home before her mother became wise to the fact that she was not tucked away in bed.

The guy was staying at the Sunnydale Inn; Sunnydale’s one and only inn. She had been there the week before to investigate the possible arrival of a Kfagna demon, as requested by Giles, and thus had a vague idea on the conditions of the rooms’ interiors. Not great; hardly comfortable. Granted, Sunnydale wasn’t exactly a tourist attraction for anyone with a pulse; accommodations for visitors were few and far between. Still, for half a beat, she wished she could run up to Mr. Mysterious with an alternative for housing. This place gave her the heebie jeebies.

No. No time. He had disappeared inside after a ten second battle with the door. Obviously imparting some restraint to keep from simply kicking it in. She knew that frustration well and silently commended his control…even if it had looked to be on the verge of shattering.

Some things just deserved commending.

The door closed just as suddenly, and then she couldn’t see him anymore.

Buffy stood still for a few minutes, sure that that couldn’t be it. She had been the Slayer long enough to know that stumbling over hotties who could fight was not something one would call a coincidence. There was a reason she had seen him. A reason beyond the obvious.

She expelled a deep breath and frowned. The guy had yet to flick on a light—the room cast in shadows. She wondered if he was watching her now…though the curtains appeared securely drawn, she knew not to trust anything based on appearance. He was a smoothie; with whatever else she could say about him, that much was a certainty.

Another long sigh rolled off her shoulders. Nothing more could be done tonight. First thing in the morning, she would have Willow hack into the Sunnydale Inn registration system and get all the information on the occupant as possible. Then possibly run a background check.

Buffy frowned. Did Willow have the means of running a background check from the high school library? Well, either way, they would get the know. If not the easy way, then the way that involved her, the sexy blonde, and a lot of touching.

A grin tugged at her lips at that. Option B wouldn’t be bad, either. After all, single white female, not getting anything from her would-be vampire boyfriend. Even a spar at this point would be welcome. The only hint that the big brooding sulk even liked her was the reaction he had emanated when she ground up against Xander at the Bronze.

Speaking of things she would never do again…

“Okay,” she said to herself, turning promptly to begin the jog back to Revello Drive. “Let’s go home and not do math.”

It was yet another truth universally acknowledged that when vampires cornered a new victim, the ringleader of the vampires said something lame that was goal-oriented at striking fear into the impressionable hearts of young would-be snacks. And while she didn’t catch whatever the head vamp spat, she was more than certain that it fell into that category.

Seemed her tinglies weren’t tingling for the British hottie. Which seemed logical—tinglies usually indicated vampires, and unless the vampire in question was Angel, vampires didn’t tend to get overly heroic for damsels.

Especially without the added bonus of a blow at the end of said heroics.

Three very ugly vamps were circling her slowly in some bizarre form of attempted intimidation. She could tell they were newbies right off.

“All right, guys,” she said slowly, adapting a fighting stance all the same. “You really want to do this now? I mean, algebra.”

“You won’t be needing to worry about homework anymore, blondie,” one of the vamps snarled, his eyes trailing her in a way that made her skin crawl. “Or anything else, come to think of it.”

She arched a brow. “Do you write your own material?”

“Oh, touchy one, this is.”

“Not touchy.” She flashed him a pertinent smile before leaping into the air and kicking the one nearest clear across the street. “Bored.”

There were a few gasps at that. The familiar, “Slayer!” cries and so forth, confirming her note about their status on the vampire roster of power. Deciphering the old from the new wasn’t nearly as difficult as it had once been. She noted more and more that the young ones were usually quick to rush into a fight and never paid attention to their tinglies. Never acknowledged that Slayers existed and that one lived right here on the Hellmouth.

These three were toddlers in a world of giants.

Well, at least they knew who she was. That was a perk. Didn’t make them any more efficient at the killing her part, though. Rather, they dusted with near disappointing ease. A few high kicks here, a punch there. Three timed explosions of dust, and it was over. The hint of the skirmish collecting nicely on the pavement. And she was alone on the street again.

Only she didn’t feel alone. Buffy frowned and glanced back to the motel.

No change. Nothing. Only one of the curtains seemed pulled back. Just slightly. Not by much, but enough to make her wonder.

She couldn’t see anything. It was dark, it was Sunnydale, and it was a school night. Slayer or not, she needed to be getting home before her mother became wise to her absence.

Still…she couldn’t help but wonder…

Didn’t matter. Willow would pull up the file tomorrow. If she couldn’t, Buffy would orchestrate a visit herself to find out who he was and why he was fighting vampires. And why he was so damn good at it.

Either way, she would have an answer tomorrow.

It was time to call it a night.

She was a work of art.

A gorgeous, vibrant, young work of art. The sort of art that took age before it developed appreciation. Art that remained unobserved for years in museums, admired by a few but overlooked by the masses. He had never seen anyone so full of life. Just at this, at a casual glance, he knew he was in trouble. She was wonderful. And she was the best damn fighter he had ever seen.

Fucking amazing.

Of course, she was the Slayer. Such was in her blood. In her making. In every fabric of what she was. Who she was.

He chuckled lightly to himself as she finally drew herself away from his window, allowing the curtains to fall back into place. Three vamps dusted in less than a minute. She was good. She was very, very good. A bloody pistol just waiting to be shot.

Tomorrow he would get to meet her.

Spike grinned. Somehow he knew. Knew meeting her would change everything. Forever. It wasn’t a hunch, wasn’t a guess—just there. Knowledge beyond knowledge. Something he couldn’t rebuke even if he wanted to.

Meeting her would change his life.

And he couldn’t wait.

Salt of the Earth

Granted it was only the second time she had seen him in her house, but Buffy couldn’t help but be a tad surprised at how much space Angel occupied in her bedroom. He was monstrously huge, and her neck hurt at the mere thought of having to look up at him. He was her vampire, though, and while she was more than confused at his presence, she couldn’t deny the fleeting giddy feeling that shot through her body.

They hadn’t talked since she came back—not really. That mini bitch phase behind her, success in driving him out of his mind while simultaneously driving Xander out of his…and that was the second time that night that her mind had reminded her of the incident. Buffy shuddered and shook her head, stumbling into her bedroom with a graceless tumble that managed to startle a man that had seen it all.

“Buffy,” he said.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” she replied, wiping dust from her slacks. “How long have you been here?”

“Half hour or so. I thought you’d be back by now.”

“Patrol. Ran into something funky. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” She licked her lips and they stared at each other for an awkward moment. “That still doesn’t answer why you’re here. Why are you here, Angel?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

She extended her arms. “Here I am. Being seen.”

“We haven’t had a chance to talk since you got back from Los Angeles,” he continued. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. You seemed a little…” He gestured inarticulately. “…the last time I saw you.”

“Ho-bag?”

“I was going to say distracted.”

“Mine’s more accurate.” A sigh escaped her body and she shrugged carelessly, tumbling to her bed as she reached for Mr. Gordo. “I’m okay,” she replied. “Still have some nightmares and the like, but I’m okay. Making it through. Going through the motions. And my nightmares have stopped.”

Angel nodded. “I’m glad.”

“We’ll that was sort of the reaction I was going for.” She shrugged again. “It’s strange. I would say, ‘You don’t know what it feels like to die?’ but that wouldn’t be true, would it?”

“Buffy—”

“I’m fine. Really.” It was an easy enough lie. One she practiced by the book. She figured it was usual. And it wasn’t even so much that she had died…it was the nature in which her death had struck her. Prophecy involved. The Master sinking his fangs into her throat. The calm casualness with which he had tossed her aside. Just a bite, at that. Nothing more. As though she was an afterthought whose blood was not even worth tasting in earnest.

Her blood that was supposed to be the richest in the land.

Buffy licked her lips and looked away. No, she supposed she still wasn’t over it. A summer away with tons of shoes via her father’s method of buying her off rather than spending actual time together. Her thoughts were still jumbled and confused. She knew that her behavior the first days in being back was unacceptable and felt more than ashamed; it was just her way of dealing.

There was some vindication. She had smashed the Master’s bones to itty bitty bits. Stupid vamp cronies wouldn’t be able to raise him now.

Not now or ever.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” she asked suddenly, startling both Angel and herself in her bluntness. “Some new big scary roll into town that I should be aware of?”

And if so…is he blonde, British, and sex on legs?

“There might be some trouble,” he said, frowning but not calling her on her casual dismissal. After all, they had mutually decided to not pursue a thing between them. The attraction was there, sure, but Slayer plus vampire? That so could not end well. Didn’t matter what else was there. It was simply something that would not work.

“Trouble?”

“The train that comes through Sunnydale every hour…” He frowned. “The one tonight…the one that was supposed to arrive at ten o’clock…there was a massacre. Everyone onboard was killed.”

The bottom of Buffy’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Severe neck wounds, blood loss, the works.”

“My God. I…” She stopped, blinked, and started again. “Have you been there? Did you see—”

“Haven’t been. They cleaned it up fairly well before I could get a look.”

“A crime scene?”

He shrugged. “Mayor’s orders. From what I was able to gather, it sounds like there was a pretty significant struggle. And there might have been multiple vampires. Moreover…” A frown married his brow. “There’s something else. I’m not sure what just yet, but something…this wasn’t done by amateurs, Buffy. They’re old.”

That was just the sort of thing she didn’t want to hear. “How old?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I’m wagering fairly up there. Even young vampires get sloppy in a crowd that big. These guys…” He trailed off, frown deepening as he shook his head. “Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing.”

Buffy glanced to the floor. “Well…so much for it being a quiet night.”

“Patrol was quiet.”

“Of the very. Except for random guy hopping around like nobody’s business and staking vamps left and right.”

Angel looked at her quizzically.

The lost expression on his face didn’t help her morale. “Rats. I thought you might know something about that.”

“About what?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. This guy’s in the graveyard, practically doing my job for me and now we have a town overrun by master vamps that like to eat tourists?” Buffy moaned self-consciously. “Okay, definitely getting no homework done tonight.”

“This guy was fighting vampires?”

“Yeah. And successfully.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen anyone move like that in my life. I mean, I can’t even move like that…well okay, I can, but modesty really is a virtue. He was good. Really, really good. Saved this girl and everything.”

“Did he see you?”

“A world of no…unless he knew I was following him.”

Angel looked even more displeased at that. “You followed him?”

She frowned in defense, taking a step backward. “Just to see where he was headed. Jeez. What was I supposed to do? Either the guy’s a demon or he’s someone I need to know. I mean, if he can fight like that then why the hell shouldn’t I know him? Especially now, when it seems like we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

He offered no reply to that observation, which Buffy took to mean that she had a point and he had wisely dropped the matter. Instead, he turned and headed slowly toward the window. And here it came. Angel’s typical: grave-danger-blah-blah words of greeting and subsequent can’t-stay-gotta-go-sulk-somewhere disappearance.

For a vampire, he was incredibly predictable.

“Where did you follow him to?” he asked.

“Sunnydale Inn. Gonna have Will hack into their system tomorrow and see if they can pull anything up on the room.”

“And you’re sure he didn’t see you?”

“No, I’m not sure he didn’t see me. What I am sure of is I’m here, as in not dead, and the Slayer, so if need be, I could kick his ass.”

“You said he—”

“Yes, he is. But hey—supernatural forces work on my side. That’s nothing he can vouch for.”

Angel smiled wryly at that. “Right. Just…be careful, okay?”

“Always.”

“More so now. Until we know more about the—”

“Train, yes. I’m in grave danger every minute of my life, Angel. What makes you think having a heads up’s going to do anything? Just give me one warning out of three million?” His look turned stoic again and she sighed, waving him off. “Okay, you can go now. My future has been told, and I need to pretend to give a crap about algebra between now and tomorrow.”

She didn’t watch him go so much as felt it. That random cold draft that whispered through the open window, timing perfectly to his departure. She wondered if it was a demon thing—being so completely unable to announce arrivals and give goodbyes. Angel seemed to take liberty in popping up whenever it was convenient for him. Or whenever something potentially kill-Buffy-shaped burst into town.

As if anything was new.

Another sigh tugged through her body and she leaned back on the bed.

No algebra. Well, it wasn’t like that came as a surprise.

Her mind wandered inexplicably back to the hot blonde she had seen in the graveyard after seconds of trying to find distraction. With whatever else, she was excited about the prospect of finding out who he was.

Why he was in her town.

When he had learned to move like that.

A small smile touched her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. Girlish, almost secretive. Carrying the weight of something she couldn’t even identify yet.

All at a single glance.

Tomorrow would certainly be interesting.

“So he was a cutie?”

For whatever reason, Willow seemed fixated on that one teeny tiny margin on last night’s report. It had not been an easy day—Mr. Kirsch took out his usual ‘I’m disappointed in you’ eyes when she explained after class that homework was a not, making her feel three inches tall and indignant at the same time. There had to be some way to exclude her from measly algebra assignments, right? Total slayage here—saving the world and all. Some people simply didn’t know how to show their gratitude.

Buffy was more than grateful for Willow, though. Her brainy friend was progressing nicely in their project and assured her that she would allow the Slayer to write the conclusion as means on contribution. After, of course, reminding her of what the project was over and the methods used by the redhead to reach said conclusion.

Some days just really, really sucked. Today looked to be one such day.

Thank the PTB for the forty-five minute lunch break. She didn’t know how she would make it through otherwise.

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “He was very much a hottie. Lean, muscular, sarcastic…and he even turned down the gratuitous ‘how may I service you’ line from the bimbo he saved.”

Xander grinned in spite of himself and shrugged. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “Probably gay.”

Buffy’s eyes widened. No. That guy had oozed way too much sex appeal to be someone she couldn’t date if she wanted. It just wasn’t possible. Her mind wouldn’t accept the risk. “No. Not gay.”

“No one turns down the gratuitous line, Buff. It rebukes the golden rule of guydom.”

The Slayer and the redhead scoffed at the same time and muttered an irate, “Men,” under their collective breaths.

“Just saying. We like everything gratuitous.”

“He wasn’t gay.”

“And you know this from all the talking you did with him?”

Buffy pouted. “Don’t try to ruin this for me. He’s hot, he’s not a vampire, and he can fight almost as well as me. Right now, before facts come in, he’s perfect…don’t make him gay!”

“And he really can?” Willow asked in awe. “He can fight as well as you?”

“I said almost,” the Slayer corrected with a slight sulk. “He really gave it good to these guys and…don’t say a thing, Xander.” That effectively erased the line waiting on her friend’s overly-immature tongue. “Dusted them to dust. The girl offered, he looked her over—ha! He looked her over! In that, ‘I’m checking you out’ way, so…there.” She paused and shook her head. “Then he said, ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ and left.” She started picking at an apple, twisting the top as she had ever since middle school, inwardly reciting the alphabet. It wasn’t fate; it was merely habit.

“And you followed him?” Xander pressed. “You really followed him?”

“Really, really. He didn’t see me. And, as I said to Angel last night, notice how I’m still here. As in, not kidnapped, not butchered, still alive.”

“You saw Angel last night, too?” Willow asked. “Wow. Two hotties in one night.”

“Willow, please.” Xander’s face clouded with disgust. “I’m eating.”

The redhead ignored him heartily. “Where’d you see him? What’d he have to say?”

“About the sexy blonde? Nothing. Well, he wasn’t happy that I’d followed him and didn’t know anymore than I did. Gonna take it to Giles and see if he can dig anything up.” She nodded at her friend. “Also, could you hack into the room registry at the Sunnydale Inn? I’d like his name…maybe even a background check. No one is that strong and coordinated without, you know, knowing he was supposed to fight vampires. I mean, he knew about vampires. Of the strange, much?”

“Much,” Willow agreed. “Did Angel say anything else?”

“Oh, the usual. Big danger, blah blah, train station massacre, blah blah. Apparently, we have some new vamps in town. Old vamps that aren’t quite as easily dusted as the three stooges I slayed last night.” Buffy sighed. “Need to check up on that, too. See if there’s anything he knows about the patterns of these vamps or whatever.”

Xander cocked a brow. “You think that he’ll know exactly who the vampires are if you tell him just that? Came in by train, killed everyone, are older than most?”

The Slayer shrugged. “He’s Giles. And he’s British so, he knows stuff.”

“Do you think Giles will know about this guy?” Willow asked. “The hottie with the stakes?”

“Hope so. I want a reason to go over there and kick his door down.”

Xander snickered at that. “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.”

“To talk to him. Jeez.”

“The way you two were going on, can you blame me for not taking that set-up?”

“What? I can’t think a guy’s cute as in ever and not have it be a marriage proposal? What are we, in the 50s?”

“What about Angel?”

Buffy shrugged, though her heart did that warming thing that it always did when the big brooding hunk was mentioned. But she was being good. Cautious. Keeping her distance. And developing a healthy interest in a man that could be a psycho, for all she knew. “What about him? Even if we were going out, which we’re not, being attracted to someone else is hardly reason to paint a big red A on my chest. I mean, hello, they’re called eyes.” A pause. “Angel never shows up for anything more than telling me I’m going to die, anyway. Or a new big bad’s stormed into town. What’s the big?”

“Just another attempt by the males of the species to understand women,” Xander assured her. “Sometimes I feel like I’m sitting in enemy territory.”

Willow grinned at him. “Sometimes you are.”

The warning bell sounded over the cafeteria, and the expected combination of groans and clanking trays followed. A well-timed rehearsal to a dance every high school student knew well and loathed beyond comparison.

“History project?” Willow asked as she and Buffy stacked their trays atop the trashcan. “I promise, it’s not over much. Just some basic ‘causes of the fall of the Roman Empire’ and whatnot.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Skipping’s tempting, but I need to write that conclusion.”

The redhead nodded. “Would be helpful.”

The Slayer forced a grin and returned her nod, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as they turned to make their way through the familiar halls of Sunnydale High.

Just an hour and a half before the day was over, and she could go to Giles. Tell him what had happened. And get some answers to the questions that had running rampant through her head since last night.

She had a feeling that wouldn’t go away. Unidentifiable but real.

Something about last night that she couldn’t put her finger on. Just something.

Her Watcher was giving her that blank look that she had come to associate with every bad ending the world could present for her. The one that almost matched the expression that overwhelmed him when she or one of her friends made a pop culture reference. Almost

“And you say he was…human?”

Buffy arched a brow. “Well, I didn’t get close enough to check his pulse or feel his vitals, but I’m guessing, yeah. Pretty human.”

“What I mean is…there is no possibility from what you saw last night that he was a vampire? Perhaps another vampire with a soul, like Angel?”

“Nope. No vampy vibe. I followed him and he seemed pretty human.”

“B-b-but you don’t know for sure?”

The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Well, I suppose there is a possibility, but I’m really thinking not. I mean…you just look at guys and you know, you know? Make all the cosmic theories you want, the guy was human. One hundred percent bona fide. I’d bet my new autumn wardrobe on it.”

“Well.” He removed his glasses for a routine polishing. “You must be certain, then.”

“What did I just say?” Buffy glanced up from where she was inspecting a new blade that he had provided for patrols. “Anyway, Angel says there are new vamps in town, too. He doesn’t know how many, but they got kill happy at a train station last night. He thinks they’re old because it was so…organized and clean or something. Like they didn’t get sloppy at all.”

“Fantastic,” Giles added. “A new demon fighter in town just in time to face some vampires of an older make. Sounds…timely.”

“Giles—”

“I’m just saying—”

Buffy rumbled a groan and rolled to her feet, approaching the weapons cabinet to find something to commence the afternoon’s training. “Yeah, yeah. No coincidences on the Hellmouth. Gotcha. Blah, blah, blah.” She heard the door to the library swing open and grinned. Good. Math club meeting must have ended early. No matter; gave Willow a head start on working on giving her a name and a reason to bust in on their newest Sunnydale resident. “Hey, where’d you put the crossbow?”

A beat. No reply. She frowned. “Giles?”

“Ummm…this…man you saw yesterday…you said he was blonde?”

She nodded without looking at him. “Blonde. British. Sexy cheekbones. A body most guys would kill for…and though he was wearing a coat, I’m guessing you could bounce coins off his butt. Not that you’re interested in any of that, but—”

“Right. I think he’s here.”

Buffy froze, her eyes falling shut. Oh God. That was so her luck.

She turned around slowly, and sure enough. Right there. Blonde, dangerously sexy, black leather. And looking more than pleased with himself, if that cocky grin said anything.

“Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I presume,” he drawled, reminding her just how sexy his voice was. It threw her for a minute, then she frowned.

“What? How do you…I…” She shot a desperate look to Giles. “How does he know who I am?”

“I—”

Okay, panicking on the increase. She glanced back to the demon fighter, eyes wide. “How do you know who I am? What, are you following me or something? Mr. Perverted?”

The guy’s hands came up neutrally and he rolled a long chuckle. “You were the one who was talkin’ ‘bout my bum, luv,” he observed. “An’, last I checked, I wasn’t the one who followed you to your house, now was I?”

Her face flamed. “Giles!” she called without tearing her eyes away. “Answers? Now? Would be nice!”

“I…I…”

“Won’ be necessary,” the platinum hottie said, strolling forward with cool, controlled ease. “I’ll make the introductions. Name’s Spike.”

God. What a ridiculous name.

Ridiculous but strangely fitting.

“And how do you know who I am?”

“That you’re Buffy?” His eyes twinkled and he took another step forward. “The Vampire Slayer. Well, other than the show you gave me last night...” At that, his gaze fogged over appreciatively. “I must say, luv…your moves…never seen anythin’ like that.”

Her flush deepened. Giles cleared his throat.

And at that, Spike snapped back to himself. “Right. Why I know about Slayers. ‘S a nifty trick, really. I happen to be one, too.”

Pause.

“What?”

“Me. I’m a Slayer.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his duster and rocked lightly on his heels, grinning at the blank astonishment that spread across her face. “Surprise.”

The library fell silent.

When Buffy spoke again, there was a desperate shrill to her voice. “Giles?”

He nodded. “I have books.”

“Get them.”

“Yes, I think that would be proper.”

Spike just grinned, his eyes never leaving Buffy’s face. She was gorgeous when she was confused. Almost as gorgeous as she was when she was fighting.

She was just gorgeous.

And that had been loads more fun than he had expected.

It wasn’t possible.

It just wasn’t possible.

In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.

Twice now she had been told that. A lifetime ago with Merrick in the days of Pike and burning down school gyms. And once again not too long ago with Giles when she was the shiny faced new kid of Sunnydale High. A girl who had hoped to leave her patchy, Slayer-shaped past in Los Angeles so that she could start over without the stake part of her résumé.

No such luck.

And even then, she knew. There were rules. One Slayer. Female. That was it.

And yet, here stood Spike.

Spike who was very, very male. Very. Standing in the midst of Giles’s library, declaring he was a Slayer.

Funny enough, her dominant reaction was bland astonishment. There was no doubt. No reason to doubt. His eyes told the truth, and her own had seen it firsthand the night before. His moves, refined and precise. Just like hers. And he had known that she was there. He had led her directly to his motel, watched as she slayed the vamps that had cornered her just seconds later.

Confirming both their suspicions within less than a half hour. She knew about him. And he definitely knew about her.

Giles was in the back looking through his private collection of texts, mumbling a slur of confused British jargon under his breath. Meanwhile, the two blonde Slayers were left in the foyer of the library, leaning awkwardly side-by-side against the counter. Buffy’s body tense, incredibly aware of his presence.

“How did you know my name?” she asked when there was nothing else to say.

“Huh’s that?”

“My name. You knew my name.”

Spike shrugged easily. “Was contacted by this bloke in England over the summer. Said his name was Gerald an’ that he was with somethin’ called the Watchers Council. Gave me the low down on Slayers an’ what all, mentioned you had died but were brought back via the magic of CPR. But since the lineage demands a new one to be called, here I am.”

“But you’re not a girl.”

“So glad you noticed, luv. Was it the bum you could bounce coins off that gave it away?”

Gah. He would be the type to bring that up just for the sake of embarrassing her.

“Slayers are girls,” Buffy said fervently. “How can you be a Slayer if you’re not a girl? Or…” Her eyes widened. “You’re not gay, are you?”

A mortified look washed over his face. “What?”

“Well, at lunch, Xander said you were probably gay ‘cause you didn’t let that hussy give you her form of a tip when you did the slayage on vamps. I told him no way, but maybe the girl-power thing applies for guys who wish they were girls.”

His eyes were wide. And gorgeous. Stark blue but light; reminding her of the sunset on the ocean.

“I assure you,” he said flatly, “I am not gay.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m judging or anything.”

“Are you bein’ serious, or are you lookin’ for me to prove my heterosexuality right now?” he demanded, gaze glossing over as though that thought in itself was too tempting to pass up. “’Cause there are less subtle ways to get felt up, luv. An’ I don’ think your Watcher would fancy us soilin’ up his counter top.”

Every cell in her body froze in mortification—her face turning red enough to land aircraft.

Oh good God.

Who did this guy think he was?

“I…” she stammered incoherently, completely at a loss. “I—you—I—”

If anything, her indignity only seemed to amuse him more. He ran his eyes over her, large with appraisal, his grin broadening. “Yeh,” he agreed. “You, me. That being the idea.”

“You…pig!”

“Guilty as charged. You’ll find most men are.”

Gaaahh. She couldn’t take standing next to him anymore. Just a breather—she needed a good football field between them for a moment. If anything to calm her raging hormones that weren’t as incensed as they were turned on by his crudeness. Buffy had met a number of overly-confident men; Spike took the cake.

Hell, he took the entire bakery.

What was more exasperating, he had a right to be cocky. Not only was he gorgeous and knew it, but he knew that she knew it and knew that she approved.

“Giles?” she called tentatively, cursing the shrill in her voice. “Ummm…any closer to answers?”

“No,” came the muffled, familiar reply. “He hasn’t—err—I should ask him if he has a Watcher that he knows of. Perhaps the Council—”

“Some guy named Gerald.”

“Gerald? Really?”

“Straight from the pervert’s mouth.”

Said pervert was suddenly right behind her, hand running teasingly down her arm. She shivered and tensed, an incursion of protests slamming against her mouth. She would have elbowed him to save face had he not immediately started talking.

“Gerald’s not my Watcher,” he said, his voice and proximity doing a number on her. She could feel the words rumble through him, massaging her resolve with sensuality she didn’t know mere diction could procure. Damn him. Wouldn’t do good to swoon right there. “He was jus’ the bloke that found me. Told me who I was, that Buffy’d died for a couple secs so they needed someone to fill her shoes in a technicality. Appease the PTB an’ what all.” He shrugged. “He spent the summer trainin’ me. I slayed me a few vamps, bagged a few baddies. All was goin’ well till the Council rang me up an’ told me the Slayer’d come back to SunnyD, an’ that I should come an’ join the good fight. So chaps, here I am.” Spike flashed another grin and spread his arms. “In the very fleshy flesh.”

Buffy and Giles exchanged a long look.

“That—erm,” the Watcher began tentatively, “doesn’t begin to explain why you’re not…”

“A chit?” Another shrug. Buffy pursed her lips and took a self-conscious step away from him, effectively falling out of his reach. Then she was facing him, standing now at Giles’s side. Felt much less confusing on this edge of the line. “As clueless as you are on that one, mate. Gave Gerald a run for his money.”

“And, ummm, how old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Buffy bit her lip, eyes widening at his response. She didn’t genuinely know if she was surprised or not; after all, Slayers were supposed to be girls and young. If the PTB were breaking the rules, why not add a few years?

Furthermore, she hadn’t expected him to be her age. Despite all else, Spike had a sense about him that was much older, more matured despite his lack of maturity. Nineteen even seemed too young for him. But then, there was a boyish gleam in his eyes that only intensified every time his gaze raked down her body—that blissful lack of subtlety that he got away with so well.

“Giles?”

“I don’t know,” her Watcher replied immediately. “I…I know of no foretelling that details the coming of a male Slayer, but there are some older prophecies that I could go through. The Council has records…the Nyazian Scrolls, perhaps?”

At that, Buffy and Spike’s eyes met on the same skeptical note.

“Neither one of you knows what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Sorry, mate.”

Giles nodded, more to himself. “Right. Right, well…I will research. A-and…well, perhaps it’s not as difficult as all that. Perhaps…” He frowned and turned to his Slayer. “Perhaps this is a reaction to your death, Buffy. The Powers knew that two Slayers would be detrimental to the balance and so they—”

Spike chuckled dryly at that, holding up a hand. “Gerald an’ that Quentin bloke already went through all this,” he said, glancing to Buffy. “You tend to remember what’s bein’ said when you’re bein’ poked an’ prodded like a sodding guinea pig. Has nothin’ to do with your girl bein’ alive.”

Buffy licked her lips and turned to Giles again. “So, kinda rules that out, huh?”

“There has to be a prophecy. Something the Council has overlooked or…” A shadow crossed his face at that. “Or something they…I believe a phone call to Quentin Travers is in order.”

Her brows arched skeptically. “Yeah, and while you’re talking with your pals from the motherland, what am I supposed to do with the massive hereness that is him?”

A grin tugged at Spike’s lips and he spread his arms out again. “Whatever you fancy, pet. Jus’ be gentle on the newbies.”

She gave him a look.

“Well, s’not like I mind it rough.”

“Giles!”

The Watcher was even redder than she was, which so wasn’t right. It wasn’t as though he was the target of this guy’s pointed innuendos and seductive, why-are-you-so-sexy smiles. It just wasn’t right. Spike was a perv. A perv that was three years her senior, no less. Forever in teen years. He might as well have been eighty-five.

Well, granted, not with that body, but still…

“Ummm…Spike.” Giles frowned at the name. “Is there something else we can call you?”

“No.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “What? You expect us to believe a self-respecting woman named her child Spike? Please.”

A playful scowl fell over his face. “Oh,” he retorted, “an’ Buffy’s the height of sophistication.”

“Giles!”

“I—erm.” The Watcher’s glasses were in his shirt, his gaze studiously trained on the floor. “I think it better, perhaps, if you take him out for a quick patrol, Buffy. Regardless of the circumstances…Spike’s presence here might be beneficial, especially if what Angel told you last night comes to terms.”

Spike arched a cool brow. “Angel?”

“Vampire,” she retorted shortly, not looking at him. “Souled. Repenting. Major hottie. Any other questions?”

“Can you bounce coins off his rear?”

Giles’s hand halted on its track back to his face, his glasses deciding they weren’t quite polished enough. “Buffy,” he intervened before she could get a word in, “I do think it’s best if you…show Spike how things are done around here. The cemeteries, of course, and maybe the train station that Angel—”

“How things are done?” she repeated skeptically. “We patrol, we slay, we save the world from unspeakable demons, we party. There. Consider yourself shown.”

A mock-wounded look fell over his faces. “You don’ wanna give me a private demo?”

She groaned what she hoped would pass for disgust.

“Buffy.”

That tone from her Watcher was seldom used. They had long ago developed an understanding based on what he expected from his Slayer versus her level of convention when it came to those documented in history. And thus far, aside a few select times, he had never truly exercised a measure of authority over her, knowing it was a fruitless activity even on the best of days.

And it wasn’t like logic wasn’t being seen. Buffy saw all kinds of logic. Spike could prove to be a very powerful asset—she already knew how skilled a fighter he was. The prospect of being left alone with him, however; walking the cemeteries with him at her side was more than a little daunting.

Especially since she felt he had been on his best behavior since he strolled into the room.

“Yeah, okay,” she agreed sharply, ignoring the pleased grin that spread across Spike’s lips. Instead, she turned promptly at the heel and marched toward the weapons cabinet. She felt him following but paid him no mind. Not even when he invaded her bubble and stepped close enough to feel his breath on the back of her neck.

And that was it. Cocky was one thing. Now he was just being presumptuous. “Do you not believe in personal space?”

“Well, since we’re gonna be spendin’ such quality time together, I din’t see the harm—”

Weapons were a no go. She was just distracting herself, anyway. Nothing more than a stake would be needed tonight. “There’s harm. There’s plenty of harm. Most of it will be yours if you don’t back the hell off, all right?” With a vicious slam that sounded angrier than she felt, Buffy whirled around, thundered past him, and made her way stridently for the door.

And nearly plowed over Willow in the process.

“Hey!” the redhead greeted, breathless. “Sorry I’m late. Math club decided to take another fifteen minutes and…why do I get the idea that you’re on the way out and forgot I was coming by?”

Spike threw the library doors open then, stalking forward in a manner that managed to ooze even more sex appeal. Dammit, this was not good.

He was everything she hated in men. Absolutely everything rolled up into one.

Only at the moment, the snark had abandoned his eyes and he looked more vulnerable than she would have ever accredited him for feeling. That wealth of ocean blue deeper, sincere. A glimpse at a self she would bet not many got to see. And if possible, the flush staining her skin deepened. “Buffy, I—” He stopped and perked his brows at Willow. “Who’s this?”

A sigh rolled off her shoulders as they sagged in defeat. “Willow,” she said, glancing away. “Willow, Spike. Spike, Willow.”

The redhead was dumbstruck. “Huh?”

“This is the guy I was going to have you track down,” Buffy explained, hands on her hips. “He’s a Slayer and he was called when I died for two seconds last year. Also he’s not gay, we don’t know why he’s a guy, it’s a thing, and now we’re going on patrol. Bye.”

“Buffy—”

She didn’t hear her. She was too eager to get the hell out of the building.

Which did little good in hindsight, granted. Because Spike was there. Following her with intent. She felt him like she had felt no one. Not vampires; not even Angel. Spike was there. He was very there.

And she didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

He was a complete and utter wanker. There was just no getting around that.

Watching her face, nothing had ever been quite as certain as that. He was a git. Opening his big mouth before the girl had time to know him yet for even an hour. His mouth was likely one of the largest ploys in how often he found himself in trouble. It never failed him. Whether with his mother, his ex-girlfriend, the Watchers he had spent the summer with, or even the police. Those few times in his disturbed adolescence when friends had convinced him it would be fun to do something so completely juvenile that he couldn’t help but wince whenever he thought of it. Even now, years later. Years after the time for fixing it had passed.

Well, he had a token of reminder for that one, anyway. Every time he looked in the mirror, that scar that paved through his eyebrow looked back at him.

Buffy was brassed, yes, and it was his fault. Though he honestly didn’t believe she was angry at him as much as she was herself for her reaction to him. She was young still, three years behind him. And already within this past hour, he knew that there would be times when that was very obvious—but more likely, times when he forgot there had been days before she came into his life.

So soon. But he felt he knew her. He had spent three months learning about her. Studying the journal kept by her first Watcher in Los Angeles. Pouring himself over every bit of information on her that the Council would provide. Listening to the progress she had made in just that last year. Learning how she had died.

It was funny, feeling a pang of something unidentifiable but real for someone he didn’t know. Someone he had previously never heard of, someone he would have never met had this thing not happened. And even though he knew that her death had been fleeting and obviously less than permanent, the knowledge that she had died made his insides clench.

Meeting her had brought him to a crossroads. Meeting her when he felt he knew her so well. Meeting her when he had been nothing but fascinated from the moment Gerald approached him close to four months ago. Approached him, told him who he was, what he was, and explained there was another.

Another that lived on the other side of the world.

As for what he had said to her…well, that could hardly be helped. The first words he had heard her melodic voice sing out were about him. And, well, he was a guy. The girl liked him—he knew girls well enough to know when he was liked. And she liked him a lot.

She just didn’t like it that she liked him, which was fair.

It was surreal standing next to her. He could see the outline of the Master’s bite embedded in her throat. Could practically see her mind speeding through clockwork as she tried to suss out his presence and why he seemed enamored with her, beyond the obvious. Beyond being one of two. The only two.

“Buffy?”

They both tensed at his voice. She for the anticipation of what he would say, he for the fear that he couldn’t stop his words from running away from him again.

She didn’t reply. But she was listening. Oh, she was listening.

Spike grinned in spite of himself. “Guess that old saying’s true after all, huh?”

“What?”

“Only get one firs’ impression.” He sighed. “Look, if I made you uncomfortable back there, I din’t mean it. Well, I meant it; I shouldn’t’ve said it. You get any bloke next to a pretty girl an’ his mouth’s bound to go off, right? At least that’s been my experience, an’ I fail to disprove it every time I get the chance.”

Buffy tensed even more so, her eyes wide. “Ummm, okay.”

God, what idiotic thing had he said now? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Like hell.”

She licked her lips and shrugged. “It’s just…you said…pretty. Say that to any girl and she’ll go off into la-la land for a minute. Just forget it.”

Spike grinned. “Jus’ pretty? Is that what I said? Seems an’ injustice, really. After all, you accurately sized me up earlier.”

“And somehow I get the feeling that you’re never going to let me live that down.”

“Likely not, no.”

“Well…don’t let it go to your head. All of that was said before you opened your mouth and introduced yourself. And then failed to do what most sophisticates do and shut up.”

“Someone’s touchy. Seems I struck a nerve, luv.”

Buffy’s eyes clouded over and she stopped short just as they breeched the entrance of Restfield cemetery. Her hand grasped his wrist, twisting him to a standstill. Looking at her lovely face, marred with confusion and anger and arousal that she likely wasn’t even aware of. And suddenly his jeans were uncomfortably tight.

“Okay, we’re going to lay out some ground rules,” she said. “I’m taking you on patrol because Giles wanted me to. After this, we’re never going anywhere together again, okay? Except in the case of an apocalypse or big baddies that require more than one death of a Chosen, you got me? I work alone. That’s the way it’s been, the way it is. The way it’s going to be. Understand?”

“Crystal clear.”

“Good.”

“Except the part where you were talkin’ an’ not meanin’ a word of what you said.” He smiled, somewhere between smirking and sincere. “Look, I spoke a piece an’ some things were said that shouldn’t have been. Got that. But you’re not nearly as indignant as you’d like to be, an’ if you were in the mood to be honest, that’s what really has you riled up.”

Buffy’s face fell in a manner he knew automatically to associate with someone calling her on something and finding the truth in its fast. She wrestled with herself for a few seconds before consigning a sigh and shrugging her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “maybe.”

Spike grinned. “Well, guess any impression’s better than none,” he speculated.

“Yeah, you’d like to think so.”

“More so than you’re ready to know.” That remark visibly confused her, and he seized the opportunity to start further into the graveyard in subtle reminder that they had patrolling to tend to.

For a few minutes, they walked in silence. Listening to branches and leaves crunch beneath their feet. The calm steadiness of their mingled breaths dancing in the cool night air. The cemetery was as still as it had been the night before, save the lack of cronies to dust. Those in themselves had been a surprise. After an embarrassingly long amount of time traipsing through Sunnydale’s numerous graveyards in the hopes of stumbling across their residential Slayer, he had finally encountered something to distract him from the thought of a girl he had been waiting months to meet.

Months. She was here at his side now.

Her voice was musical. He wagered he was the only one who heard it when she spoke.

“So,” she began tentatively, tone degrees apart from where it had been just minutes before. “Why did you…you know, turn that girl down last night? I mean, she was looking to give it to you and then some.”

A tight grin tugged at Spike’s lips. “Not my type,” he said.

“Guys have types? I thought all she had to be was willing. It wasn’t like she was asking for a long-term relationship. She just wanted—”

“Casual sex doesn’ do much for me,” he replied, enjoying the way her face flamed. She looked adorable when she was embarrassed. And at that alone, he felt the urge to press on. “Sure, ‘s nice in theory. An’ yeh, there’ve been nights when I find myself very much in the mood to oblige, but overall, I don’ see the appeal.”

Not so much in the past few months, actually. Not since he was called.

Not since her picture was shoved under his nose, and his heart was stolen by a pair of pretty hazel eyes.

Spike decided to leave that part out. It would only frighten her. And she was still so young.

“So…you’ve done it.”

Her skin was reddening even more so, and her meaning was far from ambiguous. Still, the devil in him couldn’t resist. “I’ve done it?”

A pause. “You know.”

“I can assure you I don’t.”

“You’ve…” She gestured inarticulately, looking anywhere but him. “I’ve just…it’s…I…the part about the, ummm…”

“Yes.”

She stopped at that, abandoning her discomfiture and meeting his eyes, her own wide. “You have?”

His eyes narrowed. “Li’l personal conversation, isn’t this, Summers?”

“Well, I…I don’t know. I’m…” Her face crumpled into a frown, then she burst into vivid color. “Never mind. You’re right. I…I really don’t know why I asked that.”

He did. He remembered when he first found out that his friends weren’t virgins; it was awkward. As though that line between adulthood and adolescence was suddenly palpable, and his mates had aged in years. That in itself was stupid; he knew that now, but it was the way boys thought when they were young. And likely the only thing that drove him out to find Cecily later that week and give her what she had so richly been asking for during the duration of their so-called relationship.

That was a mess waiting to happen. Not his best moment.

Buffy was pure innocence, and the knowledge charmed him. Added to her beauty in ways she wouldn’t recognize until she was older.

Spike had to bite down on the sudden impulse to touch her; grab her hand or establish some form of contact. Feel her skin around his. He had touched her tonight but received no touch in return, and touch was what he craved. Even if it was only her fingers entwined with his.

“’S’all right, kitten,” he assured her. “You never know anythin’ if you don’ ask first.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not usually that forward…especially with people that I don’t know. And it’s really none of my business.”

He shrugged easily. “Life wouldn’t be interestin’ if we kept strictly to our own business, now would it?”

A smile at that. An honest-to-god smile. A smile that reached her eyes.

It would have been the perfect moment had their Slayer tinglies not gone off at the same beat. Spike tore his gaze away from her and immediately in the direction his instincts were guiding him. Growing stronger by the second until he felt her small hand cover his, jolts of electricity sparkling through his skin.

“It’s okay,” Buffy said. “No one. Just Angel.”

Angel. Right, the wanker with a soul. Gerald had talked him up on that one, too.

Angel was enormous. More so than he looked in his pictures. Spike had spent a good few days reading up on the big git, especially after learning that he had intentionally placed himself near Buffy and that their relationship was cozy in nature. It was strange seeing him in the flesh—almost as though the Phantom of the Opera had come to life, only sans the whimsy and the talent.

He had not taken any photos as Angel. The vampire that Spike knew was the one documented in history. The one that the Watchers called the worst of them all. The sort of vampire that gained respect in a world where half-breeds were almost worse than humans in the eyes of any demon.

And yet, it was only for the way the over-sized sod looked at Buffy that Spike truly embraced how much he disliked him. A sort of abhorrence that seemed to be there from the beginning and only now realized.

“Buffy,” the vampire greeted, though his eyes were on Spike. Dark and distrusting. “Who’s this?”

“Umm, this is—”

“Name’s Spike, mate,” he all but growled. Civilized culture usually included handshakes with proper introductions. Such formalities were exempt from this meeting. “Vampire Slayer.”

Emphasis on vampire slayer.

Angel gave him a blank look. “What?”

Buffy shrugged. “It’s true. This is the guy I was telling you about last night. He showed up and evidently, there’s me plus one. Giles is making with the research. We’re just out patrolling. Showing him the ropes, and all that wonderful jazz.”

Angel was still staring at him numbly. “You do realize this guy’s a…guy, right?”

“Yeah. Weird, huh?”

Spike shoved off a grin. “Guess I won the one in a mil lotto, mate,” he replied. “Threw the bloody Council for a loop, an’ now her Watcher’s on the case. Doesn’ really seem to make a bit of difference, though. I’m here.”

“Yeah…and how is that?” The vampire finally tore his eyes away, refocusing on Buffy. “Last I heard, Slayers had to be, well, dead before another was called.”

“Yeah and I, well, was, remember?” She beamed a bright smile that slid casually over layers of unresolved pain—the same that Spike would see if he were blind. The girl was coping admirably, but her hand had also jumped from his to rub at that mark in her throat. As though tainted by mention alone. “You were kinda there.”

Angel frowned. “That counted?”

“Evidently.”

“And he was called?”

“’m standin’ here, aren’t I?”

They both threw him a look at that.

For what it was worth, Buffy seemed to catch on that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Angel’s presence and coolly pressed onward to shift the subject away from his being called to something more neutral. “Do you have anything for us on the vamps that came in last night?”

“Ummm, yeah, I…” He cast a misgiving glance in Spike’s direction. “Can we talk privately?”

“No.” Again, he found himself the target of two wayward stares. “Well, if you have information, might as well dish for the both of us. We’re the ones trackin’ the vamps down, aren’ we?”

“I’d rather speak with Buffy alone.”

“Well, I’d rather have a load of money to go with my devilishly good looks. Don’ always get what we want, mate. Figured two centuries of livin’ would’ve taught you that one already.”

Angel stepped forward territorially. “You know, if there’s something you want to say—”

“Think I jus’ did.”

Buffy’s hand clamped down on his again and his body warmed. Granted there was still a good few feet between her and the vampire, but the knowledge that he was the one she reached for, even on such short acquaintance did a number on his heart that jarred him with its potency. Though there was every possibility that he was reading way too much into the subtle hints of her delectable body language.

“Angel, Spike’s okay,” she said. “We’re on the same team here. You got information? We want it. What’s the low-down on these vamps?”

The big sod looked at her for a minute longer before he deigned himself to answer. “Two of them…just two. The oldest is Penn…he was a Puritan who was sired in the early nineteenth century. He’s ruthless, will destroy anything that stands between him and what he’s after.”

“What’s he after?”

Angel shrugged. “I don’t know. Unless he…I don’t know. But I do know who he brought with him.” He reached into his coat pocket and unfolded a newspaper clipping. “They found a doll on the train, amongst other things.”

Buffy’s brows perked. “And it made the paper?”

“Not exactly. I just saw it in the back of the photo.”

“And this means what in vampire lingo? We got a Claudia case running around?”

The vampire looked at her blankly. Spike just grinned.

“That piece by Anne Rice,” he clarified. “The big show of vamps with those two baby-face actors who can’t act?”

Buffy scowled. “Brad can so act.”

“In your dreams, kitten.”

“Yes, he has known to star in a few of those.”

“This isn’t a…whatever case.” Angel stuffed the newspaper clipping back into his pocket. “The vampire’s name is Drusilla, and she’s Penn’s…well, lover, I guess. She was made in 1860, and as far as I know, they’ve been together ever since.”

Spike cocked a brow. “How do you know?”

He shrugged in that manner that clearly said he knew more than he was willing to divulge. “Just do. Vamps know of other vamps. It happens. Ran into them a time or two over the decades.” He turned to Buffy. “They’re dangerous, though. Whatever they’re here for, they won’t stop until they find it. And they won’t hesitate to kill whoever stands in their way. They’re not like the others you’ve faced, Buffy. Unlike even the Master. Penn is a sociopath; has been known to take on the persona of a human serial killer and string the authorities along just for kicks. And Drusilla…she’s a bit unpredictable. As far as insane vampires go…”

There just wasn’t any part of that sentence that Spike liked.

“An insane vampire?” Buffy whimpered. “I am so not liking the sound of that.”

Angel nodded stoically. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

He was gone the next minute, just like something out of the movies. A flash and then nothing where he had once stood. Not even the hint of someone walking through the graveyard in retreat.

Didn’t really matter which way Angel showed himself out. Spike released a deep breath, clutching Buffy’s hand tighter before she pulled away hastily, having evidently forgotten that she was holding onto him at all. His own immediately lamented the loss of her touch, but for the flush that flooded her skin in its stead, there was some measure of reassurance that it would not be the last.

Rather, the first of many.

“So,” he said after a long minute. “That was Angel.”

Buffy nodded shortly. “Yep. That was Angel.”

“Big brooding sort’ve fellow.”

“You noticed that, too, huh?”

A wry grin tugged at his mouth. “You’ll find that my eyes are connected to my brain jus’ like everyone else’s, kitten.”

She didn’t say anything at that, rather paced herself a step away.

Spike swallowed hard. He didn’t want to ask; didn’t even want to think about it, but the question was there. Floating between them with no sign of dissipating. Not mentioning it would likely only intensify its strength. Better to address it now. “What is it with you two?”

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“You an’ Peaches. There’s somethin’ there.”

Buffy licked her lips and shook her head. “No, there’s not.” A pause. “Okay, so there is. It’s nothing. Nothing that’s going to amount to anything. Not now, not ever. And…it’s strange. Whatever was there’s not as strong as it was. I don’t know if it’s the entire ‘I’ve been dead, and I didn’t like their men’ thing or…something else.” She shrugged carelessly. “He had the tall, dark, and handsome thing going for him. All with the mystery and the stuff most girls will typically swoon over. And yes, guilty, I swooned. But…I dunno. I just…” Her eyes met his after a few minutes. Met his and held. One single instant out of thousands. One that meant everything and nothing at the same time.

“Things change.”

Spike repressed the pleased smile that itched his lips. Instead, he nodded and turned back to face the cemetery where their night was still only beginning. “That they do, luv,” he agreed. “More often than you’d think.”

Things had changed just then. Just with that moment. One stolen moment.

The evening breeze painted colors around them. And they set off side-by-side. Two Slayers born for the night. Born for the hunt. Born for this moment.

Walking together.

As We Play In Life’s Ballet

Obtaining her Watcher’s approval was something that Buffy didn’t always mark high on her list of priorities. After all, if the slayage was complete and she was still not dead, what was the big in doing it by the book? Giles was all books, and Lord knew she respected him for that. Since they were constantly combating forces of death and destruction, it was always good to have one brilliant mind admirably capable of dealing with that stuff without being bored to tears. That scoff, that near-condescending-but-still-fatherly roll of his very British eyes was something that she almost depended on. It was a sign that she was doing something right, much to her stuffy Watcher’s chagrin, even though her methods were less than orthodox.

That did little to explain the tightness in her stomach that seemed to clench every time another word of praise rumbled through Giles’s mouth. Spike had been training now for about an hour; showing off the moves his substitute Watcher had taught him over the summer. And damn, he was good. He was very good. He handled every weapon that Giles handed him with grace and poise that looked as natural as anything Buffy had ever witnessed. That move that Giles had been practicing on her since last May? Spike nailed it without having to be warned.

Not fair. Buffy sat crosslegged on one of the numerous unoccupied study tables, sharpening her stakes and pretending that she wasn’t captivated with the new Slayer’s moves. If possible, that burning attraction she had felt for him since night one had swelled even more. And every time he caught her while she was not watching, she was sure her heart was coming closer to leaping entirely out of her chest.

Lousy sexy male Slayers who weren’t supposed to exist…

“Excellent!” Giles commended again, beaming through his gulps for air. “Your handle with…that is just…and you say you…and Gerald only commenced…training over the summer? You have…no previous experience?”

Spike just smirked, twirling the long staff almost as an afterthought. Giles looked ready to have a heart attack from their recent spar and he had barely broken a sweat. “I had plenty of experience, mate,” he said, gaze finding hers before her eyes darted away in a failed attempt at apathy. “Jus’ not with weaponry. Learned everythin’ ‘bout bein’ the Slayer while Li’l Miss Buff was off in Los Angeles.”

“Remarkable!”

Buffy sneered and shook her head, though more to herself as she pretended to focus on the slivers of wood that peeled off her stake with every sweep of her knife.

“Oh.” Giles straightened suddenly, wobbling over to the checkout counter. “Speaking of Gerald, I heard from him today. The Council has approved your being turned over into my…care…alongside Buffy…indefinitely. It didn’t make much sense for them to send over another Watcher when I can just as well tend to you both.”

Okay. No longer pretending not to listen. Buffy’s eyes shot upward in horror.

“What?”

Spike turned to her, a smirk ready on his face. “Seems we’re sharin’ a Watcher, luv.”

“Giles! You can’t…you…” She shook her head determinately. “No!”

The Watcher shrugged, taking a sip of his somewhat aged coffee. “Council’s orders, Buffy,” he replied simply. “It shouldn’t affect us much one way or another.”

“But he’s not even staying here!” she argued, then fell slack and eyed the offending presence ominously. “Are you?”

Spike just grinned and shrugged. “Oh, I dunno,” he replied coolly, eyes running over her. “Think I might find a reason or two to make the move here permanent.”

“Don’t you have, like, a home?”

At that, he sobered. Sobered so quickly that Buffy quickly bit her tongue and cursed herself for the manner in which the words had rolled out of her mouth. Evidently, her reaction to that alone was enough, and Spike just sighed and turned back to Giles. Pursuit of her for the day cut to a sudden and unpredictable halt.

For the past three days, they had been dancing around each other. Exchanging biting remarks that were not without innuendo, never too far from letting the other side of their repression free. The stuff that lay beneath the surface. The temptation to apologize for her words now was almost unbearable, especially since she didn’t know the nature of her offense—only that she had offended.

As if sensing the sudden tension between them—the sort that wasn’t sexual—Giles cleared his throat and set his coffee down. “I believe there was one of those dreadful teachers meetings this afternoon,” he said. “Spike, why don’t you and Buffy spot each other until I get back?”

She licked her lips, casting a wary glance to the clock. “Aren’t you, like, a half hour late?”

“Not quite. But I—erm—will be back later. Ms. Calendar had a question about something that I might be able to help her with.” He tossed his discarded staff to his first Slayer, and she caught it with ease. “Help each other out.”

Moments like this, she saw the virtue of carrying a camcorder wherever she went. Giles moving that fast was definitely something to catch on tape.

Spike pushed himself off the counter and turned to her almost immediately, tossing his own weapon between his hands. “Well then, kitten,” he said, brows perking. “Wanna show me what you got?”

Buffy slid off the table slowly, stretching her arms as she took Giles’s place in the middle of the room. It didn’t feel right, though. Facing him in a battle-like situation with this thing that she had done suddenly between them. There was a rage behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before—not anger, more a storm settling across a sea that was already disturbed by ghosts of a long haunted past.

Every day, there was something about him that wasn’t there before.

His moves in actual combat were more beautiful than she could have ever gauged watching from the sidelines. Every turn a preemptive strike of poetry, his face, his body language—everything about him twisting her insides. The wood of their staffs crackled through the otherwise still air, singing alongside heaves of breath and the guttural, masculine sounds that rumbled through his throat.

Strange. So strange. Her reaction to him since he first came in had grown more defensive, even as her self-imposed walls wobbled in loom of the impending fall. She liked him; liked spending time with him. The leer was there as always, softer than before. And her reaction of just minutes ago—news that Giles was now to be shared between them—she didn’t know if her offense was more that she considered her Watcher to be her Watcher, or that the reluctant fantasy that he wouldn’t go away was coming true. And she still didn’t know how to feel about that.

She didn’t want him to leave. She just wasn’t ready to admit that she wanted him to stay.

An indeterminate amount of time later, they were reclined side by side against the library counter, panting in the aftermath of a spar that had worn them both out. A victory yet to be called; it was impossible to choose who had won a joust so evenly matched.

“My mum died a year ago,” Spike said suddenly, jarring her back to herself. His eyes were trained on the ground, that vulnerable glimmer breaking through that she had only seen once before. The sort that left her with more than an impression of the hidden personality that he kept shoved aside. The one that she wagered was more him than he cared to admit. “Lung cancer.”

Oh God.

Buffy tentatively placed a hand over his, starting when he glanced to her in astonishment. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I shouldn’t have…with the before and everything. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeh, well. Even if you did, you didn’t know, right?” He shrugged, not hiding as much as he would have liked. “’S jus’…still kinda sore.”

“Spike—”

“’S fine, Buffy.”

“No, I really didn’t mean it. I was just being Ms. Insensitive. I really don’t mind that you’re staying here.” She smiled best she could, edging closer. “Actually, it’s kinda fun having you around.”

His brows perked with interest, a ghost of a smile tickling his lips. “’S that right?”

“Well, you are annoying as all hell, but I think I’ve gotten used to you.”

The smile turned into a smirk in a flash. “Thanks ever so.”

A quiet beat settled between them. Companionable. Comforting.

Buffy wet her lips subconsciously. “Lung cancer?” She paused, hand tightening around his almost out of second nature. A need to comfort a man that was, by in large, still a stranger. “Feel free to ignore me for being tactless at any moment.”

Spike grinned, using his hold on her to tug her closer. “’S fine,” he said, and she believed him. There was something in his voice that would always speak the truth, regardless of how real it was. “Yeh, she died of lung cancer. Smoked for years. I started, too, when I was fifteen. Dropped it the minute she told me she was sick.” A sigh trembled through him. “Some people can’t quit cold turkey. All it took from me was word that she was sick, an’ it was terminal. Haven’t touched a bloody fag since.”

A small, proud smile crossed her lips. “Cold turkey?”

“’S not as hard as it sounds.”

She arched a brow. “My cousin smokes like a chimney. She’s tried to quit more times than I can even begin to count. Doesn’t sound too easy to me.”

“You have a cousin?”

“On my father’s side. Haven’t seen her in years.”

Spike flashed a genuine smile, hoisting himself atop the counter. She followed in seconds, missing the sparkle of adoration that flickered behind his eyes. “You really haven’t had the temptation to smoke again?” she asked. “Not once since you quit?”

“Well, the urge does come up every now an’ then,” he replied honestly. “But I do like breathin’ without the threat of coughin’ up a lung.”

“Yeah, I can definitely see that.” Buffy expelled a deep sigh and glanced down. “How did…Gerald, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah. When Merrick first came to me, it was like a dream or whatever. Something that still doesn’t feel real, even with everything that’s happened. I just…I guess I’m wondering what happened with you. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it before.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And now you’re here.”

“Took you a few days to notice that.”

“Well, your personality got in the way.”

“Y’know, a lesser man might be offended by that.”

She arched a cool brow. “Are you a lesser man?”

His eyes sparkled; hand tugging at hers and coming dangerously close to his crotch. “You’re free to investigate my measurements any time, sweetheart.”

Buffy’s face flamed and she yanked her touch out of his reach. “Why do you keep doing that?” she demanded, eyes darting around the room; looking anywhere but him.

“Why? I should think it rather obvious.”

A shuddering breath rumbled through her lips. “Ummm…me slow?”

The hum of his chuckle sent small ripples across her skin. There was still nothing about him that she did not like—despite everything piled to the contrary. That self-confident poise he carried himself with. The leers, the appreciative eyefuls, even the seductive innuendoes that had inflamed her indignation for the face of her nonexistent anger that first day. She had grown accustomed to them in a matter of hours.

“Guess I have a confession to make,” he said, expelling a deep breath. “Practically all the time that I din’t spend with Gerald an’ the Watcher mates back in England, I spent pourin’ over every bit of information of you that I could find.”

Buffy froze. “What?”

“Yeh.”

“Why?”

It was amazing to watch Spike grow sheepish; their acquaintance still so new, she hadn’t seen anything so adorable. Though, for some reason, she felt that telling him that would not be received in the nature intended. “I was intrigued,” he said softly. “Everythin’ about you intrigued me. Still does. That night that you followed me back to my flat? I was out lookin’ for you. Wanted to see you after I’d spent so much time readin’ on you. Lookin’ over everything the wankers would fork over. When I knew you were followin’ me, I couldn’t bloody well help but try to make you at leas’ a fraction as intrigued with me as I am with you.”

The potency behind his gaze startled her. Buffy was suddenly aware how fast her heart was pounding. How hard her pulse was racing. The depth that he was bearing to her dragged her into a light that was still too bright for her young eyes. The thought of Spike enamored with her, even before acquaintance, both excited and frightened her in the same beat.

“I don’t understand,” she said a minute later, suddenly startling aware of his proximity. “Why? I mean, I’m sixteen years old, I live in California, I kill vampires. That’s me. That’s all there is to know. How can that—”

“You’re daft if you believe that,” Spike retorted dryly.

“Well, then I’m daft, or whatever.”

“I’ll bloody well say. You’d have to be that, deaf, an’ blind not to see how bloody amazin’ you are.” The urgency behind his voice made her redden even more so, and she again found herself unable to meet his eyes. “Fuck, Buffy, I’ve only known you for a few days an’ I can tell you that. I half-expected my fascination with you to die right off once I’d satisfied my curiosity, but God, it’s flown off the sodding charts.”

“Why?”

“You’re remarkable an’ you don’ know it.”

A nervous titter rang through her body. “Would you mind telling my mother that? She just thinks I’m a troublemaker.”

“Buffy—”

“I’m nothing special, Spike. Well, except for the killing of unspeakable demons, but that—”

“Bollocks.” An ironic laugh rumbled from his lips. “God, Buffy, you died. You died, an’ you came back stronger than ever. Most people would quit at that. You din’t. Every day I see you, you’re tryin’ harder. Jus’ a li’l harder every day; doesn’ matter what you’re workin’ on.”

“I have to. I’m the only one.”

A hand cupped her cheek, and suddenly her eyes were level with his. The softness of his touch around her. Guiding her gaze to him, drowning in his raging sea before he lowered his eyes to her mouth.

“Not anymore,” he murmured.

God, he was going to kiss her. Spike was going to kiss her. Buffy’s heart thundered even as her eyes fluttered shut. She felt his breath on her lips, could nearly taste him already. Her skin trembled against his though she didn’t know whether she quaked out of fear or anticipation. Kissing Spike would bid away whatever was left between her and Angel, and only for the knowledge that she wanted this somewhere within the recesses of her feared admittance. And if she wanted him, if she allowed herself to get lost in his kiss, there would be no going back.

She knew that without having to know anything.

It had happened so fast. It had all happened so fast. But there was chemistry here that didn’t exist with Angel; never had. Losing herself to Spike would be so easy if she let herself. And knowing just that much after only a few days terrified her beyond reason.

“Buffy,” he murmured reverently, his lips barely grazing hers before the sound of an irritated throat clearing itself rang through the air, forcing them apart with more than a simple note of loss.

Buffy expelled a deep breath and looked up.

They were no longer alone.

He knew simply in watching them together that she was lost to him. Granted, she had always been lost to him on some level. Buffy was the Slayer, he was a vampire, and there simply wasn’t a way to bridge that between them. No feasible future for them. They had known that much the year before after sharing that ill-fated kiss. The one that had revealed his true face to her. Revealed what she should have known, as the Slayer, from the very beginning.

There had been feelings there, though, despite their inability to be together.

And he had known. It was inevitable. Buffy was a young girl; she was gorgeous and independent, clever and resourceful. It was only a matter of time before a new guy came into the picture. Only a matter of time before he was but an afterthought, and their tease of what he could never have finally slipped completely out of his reach.

He simply hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

He had known from that first night, though. The way she talked about a guy she didn’t know, not hearing herself as her words taunted him in foreshadowing the loss of her forever.

Three nights ago, he had seen them together and his suspicions were confirmed.

And yet, waiting as he was—there was no way he was about to watch the girl meant to be his salvation lose herself in the arms of someone else. Not while he was standing there. Not while he was made to observe them.

He had come there with the intention of telling her everything that he had omitted from his depiction of Penn and Dru the other night. Everything he wanted to tell her without the prying eyes of her new love interest watching every second of their exchange. Yet now he could see that waiting for her to have a free moment would only cost them time. And if he knew anything about his irreverent childer, time was something they did not have. It shocked the hell out of him that they had yet to make a move, being here as long as they had.

It only meant that they were here with reason.

Thus as Spike cupped the face of the girl he loved, he decided to make his presence known. Bring the Slayers back to themselves; alert them to the vampiric company that they should have recognized the minute they walked into the library.

They jumped together and eyed him wearily: Buffy flushed with excitement and shades of guilt, Spike just annoyed. Not that he really cared what Spike thought. From their haphazard meeting a few nights before, he knew that they would never be two to go out of their way in the namesake of friendship.

“Angel,” Buffy gasped. He could nearly taste the race of her pulse. “I—umm. We were just…I…what are you doing here?”

The penance in her voice reflected in Spike’s eyes, only his in the form of hurt rather than regret. And for that, Angel felt a pang of kinship. It had likely been beneath him to prevent her from reaching for something that could result in actual happiness, but what was done was done and he couldn’t take it back.

Could only hope not to be so thoroughly self-centered in the future.

“Sorry…I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just have news,” he said, turning to step down from the veranda that overlooked the foyer. “Well, just some things I should have told you the other night.”

Spike’s brows perked. “This about the vamps you say you knew over the years?” he asked drolly, head cocking to one side. His eyes sparked with knowledge. As though that tidbit about Angelus being a key role in their creation having never truly been ambiguous.

“Yes.”

Buffy frowned. “Angel?”

“Penn and Drusilla are both mine,” he said, eyes on the ground. “I sired Penn…I didn’t tell you that he tends to sign his victims with the symbol of a Christian cross on their left cheek, or that—”

“That was another thing he learned from you,” Spike accused lowly, arms crossed. That much confirmed it. “’S how he adapted that serial killer tendency in the firs’ place, right?”

This Slayer had done his homework before he flew across the world.

“Yes.”

“Angel…” Buffy expelled a deep breath and stepped forward, her arms crossing. “Why didn’t you tell us this much before? We all know that you killed before you—”

“I didn’t just kill them,” he replied sternly. “I sired them. I trained Penn to be everything that I was. What he lacks in innovation, he more than makes up for in brutality. Drusilla is just the opposite of him. She’s unpredictable and vicious…and I’m guessing that’s why they’ve been together so long.”

Spike cocked a brow. “How you figure?”

“Penn likes to be kept on his toes. He’ll go where he can reap the most damage. He rarely changes habit, though, and if he does, it’s at Dru’s urging.” A long, needless breath rolled off his shoulders. “Dru is insane because I made her insane. I killed her family in front of her…played with her…tortured them. Tested her sight so that she would see what I was about to do to her before I did it.”

“Her sight?” Buffy echoed, her voice small.

“Drusilla’s a Seer. A gift from Darla, because she knew how much I liked Seers. Like convents and virgins.” Angel shook his head in a picture of self-loathing. He didn’t want to look at Buffy now; didn’t want to see the disgust burning in her eyes. He knew the feeling of it intimately; too much so to have a firsthand glance at what it looked like on top of that. “I killed her the day she was supposed to take her vows to become a nun,” he concluded. “Darla and I. Darla didn’t want her made, but I did. It wasn’t as easy as death.”

“So the Puritan an’ the nun hit it off,” Spike drawled. “Isn’t that rich?”

“Spike…”

“Still don’ see why you din’t tell us this the other day, mate.”

That much didn’t really matter though, did it? The male Slayer already had the lead. Was already in the know. He had simply opted to keep that much from Buffy as well. Perhaps protecting her from the inevitable drop of disappointment, perhaps not. It would have come out eventually. For all the researching that Giles had been doing since the names were given, uncovering the ties with Angelus from there was just a matter of time.

“I had my reasons,” Angel replied at last, eyes on the ground. “I’ve been trying to track them down the past couple nights to no avail. I think they know I’m here…which may or may not be the reason they decided to vacation in Sunnydale. I haven’t known Penn for tracking down Slayers…it would be too much outside his norm. There’s every possibility that they don’t know that you two are players in this town.”

Buffy frowned. “But you said Drusilla is a Seer—”

“She is. She’s not omnipotent, though. And her visions tend to come in patches…sometimes she will know everything precise. Other times, she will only know pictures of what the future holds.” At last, he garnished the courage to glance up. Meeting two sets of eyes that were giving him virtually the same look. Almost as though they were of the same make. “They’re here for a reason, and they’ll tear Sunnydale apart without thought if anything stands in their way.”

“Right,” Spike said lowly, reaching for Buffy’s hand. “Guess we better be off, then.”

“Where?”

His eyes set darkly, meeting Angel’s with a vengeful fire that the vampire knew well and understood. Years ahead of the boy’s experience, even if it felt they were on the same playing field.

“Patrol. Think these gits oughta know there’s gonna be people standin’ in their way.” He squeezed Buffy’s hand beckoning her eyes back to him. “The two of us, remember? Not alone anymore, pet.”

It took a few seconds—only a few seconds. The indecision wavering in her eyes flickered once before setting with resolution, and she nodded again before the air around them fell too uncomfortably thick with silence. “Yeah,” she said. “Patrol, then. Angel, stay here and tell Giles everything you just told us. We’ll be on patrol.”

She left him, then. At the new Slayer’s side, their hands linked with intimacy that hadn’t been there before.

That wasn’t what bothered Angel, though. That was almost expected.

What bothered him was the fact that she didn’t throw him a second glance before she was gone.

Not even to say goodbye.

Those Scintillating Sinners

It was quite possible that with a little bit of help, Halloween could become Buffy’s favorite holiday. Aside being her one genuine night off, the idea behind the festivity was one that she had always embraced while growing up. A night that gave her an excuse to be as wild or sinful as she chose without suffering any of the repercussions. History aside, she was nearly convinced the celebration was in honor of every teenage girl harnessed by stereotype and just aching for a reason to let loose.

At least, that was what she had been trying to convince Willow all day. First at school, then at lunch, once between classes, and now at the costume store—some random place called Ethan’s that would be gone within a week.

A night of horror movie bashing and Bronzing-it cut short thanks to Snyder’s the mandatory signup for neighborhood kids making the normal rounds. It didn’t matter, though—wasn’t truly inconvenient aside the abruptness of their task. The children had to be back early enough for the night to be used to the full extent of Halloweeny goodness, just as God had intended it.

As of yet, despite the lapse of time, there had been no word from either Penn or Drusilla. Patrol had upped in vampire cronies; however, leaving the Slayers to conclude that siring a loyal legion of followers was their current modus operandi. And as far as any help that Angel might procure, he had not located his childer, nor estimated where they might be. Drusilla was a traditionalist, he said, and Penn was predictable. Yet neither had shown face.

And now it was Halloween, and they were ready for a night of actual freedom.

So here they were, shopping for dress before the witching hour began. Spike and Xander were somewhere in the back of the store, surfing through the monetarily conservative accessories as the girls debated over the remaining costumes.

The fact that Spike was here at all—that he had volunteered to accompany her with the children instead of the movie/dance fest she had invited him to with the gang—made her heart melt. Feelings for him over the past week had definitely become of the boyfriend nature. Their flirtiness notwithstanding, the almost-kiss they had shared in the library more than a week ago went unmentioned but never forgotten. She caught him looking at her sometimes with something her inexperience could only identify as longing—the heat within his gaze burning her insides with something she had never felt before.

Spike had been rather adorably insistent that she bring him along. Now he and Xander were in the back of the store, trying on goofy glasses and earning assorted glares from the other customers when their laughter grew too loud.

Buffy winced at the look on Willow’s face as her friend studied the package she had all but stuffed in her hands. “Oh, come on,” she urged. “I’m going to be wearing something just like it. You won’t be alone. Halloween’s an excuse for good girls to get wild. You really don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

“W-w-well that may be, b-b-but you can get away with it,” the redhead stuttered. “I can’t. Wild on me equals spaz. I mean, you don’t think this is kind of slutty?” She stopped at the widening of her friend’s eyes. “Not that your outfit will be slutty, but i-it would on me because I don’t wear stuff like…not that you wear stuff like this, ‘cause you don’t. You’re just—”

Oh, thank God. Spike and Xander were approaching. Lord knows Willow meant well, but sometimes her meaning well came off as rather insulting.

“Looks like the girlies are still frettin’ over their nightly attire.” Spike turned to Buffy, gaze gleaming wickedly. “You find somethin’ skimpy but appropriate to wear tonight, luv?”

A frustrated groan rumbled through her throat. “So now you both think that I’m a slut?”

The other Slayer’s eyes widened and he stepped back wisely, hands coming up. “Okay; obviously came in on the wrong end of that conversation. Tell you what: Harris an’ I’ll be over checkin’ out the plastic swords.” He paused, shaking his head. “Think the bloke has a complex…he’s spent half his time lookin’ at all the phallic symbols.”

Buffy sighed her resignation and grabbed his arm before he could move away again. “No, don’t,” she said, barely above a pout. “I’m just trying to convince Willow that Halloween isn’t a day to be self-conscious. The entire idea is to be someone else.” She grabbed the package her friend had occupied herself with during the mention of Xander and phallic symbols and shoved it under Spike’s nose for his approval. “What do you think?”

A small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his suddenly lust-filled gaze took a leisurely tour down her body. “Definitely need to see it on you before I give you my verdict, kitten.”

Buffy rolled her eyes even as her skin tinted. There were times when she was sure he only said things like that to make her blush. “Not for me, you perv,” she said, thwacking his chest with the package in question before tossing it back to the redhead. “For Willow.”

“Right. It’d look smashin’ on you, Red. Go for it.”

Perfect answer. Precise and honest, but without the lustiness that he had given her. Rather more with a short nod and a brief glance in her friend’s direction. The answer all ideal boyfriends would give.

That word—the b-word—had started floating around her mind more often than she wanted to admit. They grew closer each day. Patrolling, training, Bronzing a few times. And for as infatuated as Spike had once told her he was with her, it only seemed to grow as the days went by.

Even if he was keeping himself at a careful distance. No smoochies. Just moon eyes and flirty snarkage, which was of the good, but Buffy felt she was definitely ready for smoochies.

“What are you dressing as?” she asked, naughty thoughts featuring him in everything from togas to gold bikini shorts—thanks to Willow’s suggestion during last night’s Rocky Horror viewing that Spike would make a great Rocky—running through her head.

He held up a bandana. “Biker.”

Oh. Sadness.

“That’s it?” Buffy pouted. “Just…that?”

“Well, yeh. I have that other leather coat that’s not nearly as nice as my duster that’ll pass decently. Plus, I have no money…unless you fancy me rippin’ off Rupert.” He shrugged. “Halloween’s more for chits when you reach a certain age, anyway.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Am so.”

“Are not. I’m wearing something slutty and you’re with the bandana and leather coat? Come on, Spike.”

His eyes sparkled. “’F your ‘something slutty’ happens to be in fake leather, we’d make quite a pair tonight, pet. The big bad biker an’ his sassy li’l vixen?”

Despite her disappointment, her skin flushed again at his suggestion, and she looked away quickly. “Yeah,” she drawled, trying and failing for disinterest. “Like you could be a big bad anything.”

“Guess we’ll find out tonight, huh, luv?”

Suddenly he was gone, her eyes catching his leather-clad backside as he made his way to the register. Willow and Xander were talking somewhere, comparing costumes—her friend evidently going with the ghost, which she would rectify when they were dressing. For the moment, Buffy’s mind was thoroughly occupied.

Spike’s eyes caught hers after he made his purchase. She could see them dancing even from across the room.

Okay. Time to rethink costume.

She needed something in fake leather.

Honestly, little kids and all, she had not imagined that trick-or-treating could ever be fun past the age of ten. The appeal had long since lost its charm, especially after the catastrophe a few years back when she accidentally slipped away from her mother’s hold while touring a Los Angeles mall in lieu of the danger on the streets.

For the past hour and a half, however, she had been having an absolute ball. Spike was surprisingly good with children, more so than she would have ever accredited without seeing it for herself. And he was even behaving like a non-perv person, which also scored some points seeing as every few seconds, his eyes told her in graphic detail what he would like to be doing.

And to her.

Well, if she was going to be entirely truthful, the little lustful looks had been more than one-sided. For whatever reason, the casual holiday air had her feeling promiscuous…or something she hadn’t felt before. Promiscuous likely too large a step—her vibes were working for Spike and Spike alone at the moment.

Which was progression. Definite progression.

The night altogether was one for her diary.

The outfit she ended up purchasing was more than perfect, despite the state of her fake leather, and she ended up matching him rather admirably. And, more importantly, it had the desired effect. The minute he left her alone at Ethan’s, she had rushed over to the side of the store she had been trying to coax Willow into with babysteps, abandoning her quest to sexify her friend for Xander’s approval. In minutes, the ideal outfit was pieced together. A little on the expensive side, but much of the worth it to see Spike’s jaw hit the ground.

And yes, she did look like a whore.

But again, Halloween, and she had a jacket to cover herself up in front of the kiddies. A matching jacket…and knee-high boots, a mini skirt, and a hat. Her jacket hid the most revealing feature—one of those tops that could just as easily pass for an expensive bra if she cared to use it again. Technically, it was a top; just of the extremely revealing nature and something she would never have even thought of touching prior to meeting, I-can-make-aluminum-sexy-watch-me-how.

When closed, the jacket barely revealed her midriff. That plus the hooker boots had been enough to get Snyder breathing down her neck. Thankfully, he was minus a scene and she a scolding for the time being. Spike seemed to emanate a command of authority that was otherwise sorely lacking. Of course, that didn’t mean that she was out a lecture of the extremely redundant variety—she had just been handed a ‘get out of jail free’ card that would be in use until after the weekend.

Her mom was at a Halloween party with a handful of the friends she had made since they arrived in Sunnydale, which was of much relief as Buffy wasn’t too eager for her disapproving eyes at the much too revealing outfit.

Well, not revealing now. But if she opened her jacket…

All that mattered was she matched Spike. The hooker boots gave her an inch of borrowed height, which made them about proportionately even. That was one of the many things she was growing to love about him. She could look at him and spare herself a neck brace at the same time.

The look of awe in his eyes when he caught his first glance of her would remain forever engraved in her memory. That point two seconds before his gaze was overwhelmed with that lustiness she was becoming more and more acquainted with. She half expected him to lunge directly into their unfinished kiss and was more than half disappointed when he didn’t. Rather, Spike had become almost shy, swallowing hard and averting his eyes as though suddenly commanded by a gentlemanly need to enforce distance between them.

“I…uhhh…” he had stammered unintelligently, sending that customary blush up her skin, only deeper in potency for reasons she couldn’t quite determine. “You look…God, Buffy…”

“I look like God Buffy?” she had replied cheekily.

He had chuckled and sent a nervous hand through his hair, forgetting the bandana in his jumpiness. “You look amazin’,” he had told her honestly, the sapphire in his eyes alighting passionately, that lust leaking back through as he gave her another look over. “Fucking amazin’. Jesus Christ, I din’t think you were gonna take me seriously.”

She had flashed him a bright smile at that, buttoning up her jacket and inciting a small frown when his eagle-eye view was suddenly robbed of him. “I’m serious girl. Let’s go and make with the tricks.”

An hour and a half later, here they were. Just thirty minutes from taking the kiddies back. Just thirty minutes before their night truly began.

And Buffy couldn’t help but revel in the small thrill that ran down her spine.

Tonight was a good night. She didn’t get many of those.

A truly good night.

And nothing could ruin her fun.

Of course, there was that unspoken commandment somewhere that stated anyone who believed the future, even for a matter of hours, was set in stone played the part of the fool. For at the exact moment that Buffy made her wistful wish, silent as it was, to havens that had a habit of never listening, the night took a surprising turn.

A turn that should not have been surprising on the Hellmouth, despite the day.

Willow didn’t know what was happening, but she knew something was wrong.

Wrong in the sense of very. At the moment, she was looking down at her ghost-clad body from a third-person perspective, and to say the experience was wigsome was a slight understatement.

There were a variety of things that she had grown accustomed to, of course. But seeing her own self lying dead on the porch of some old lady’s house? That she had not been prepared for. In a panic, she turned her eyes to herself, unknowing whether to be relieved when she found the jeans and sweater she had been wearing all day still clinging to her seemingly incorporeal body.

“Oh my God,” she said slowly. “I’m a real ghost?”

That question went unanswered for the sudden ring of fire through the air. Kids were erupting in screams, an assortment of demons crowding the street she had been standing on just seconds before. A clear shot of the normal Sunnydale landscape. Any other night she wouldn’t have been surprised. But not tonight.

Not tonight. Giles had promised.

And in the midst of it was Xander.

Holding what appeared to be a very big gun of the real nature. Oh God.

“Xander?” she muttered, more to herself as her ghostly feet carried her across the lawn to where her friend seemed to be shooting at nothing.

Nothing that was most likely a big something.

“Xander!”

When he spun around, she found herself with a face-full of M-16. It was quite possible that running up to a man holding a big scary gun was not the smartest plan she had ever conjured, but panic was the predominant emotion. She couldn’t help herself.

“It’s me! Willow!”

Well, if he knew who she was, he likely wouldn’t be pointing a gun at her.

A dark, suspicious shadow crossed Xander’s face, grip on his gun tightening. “I don’t know any Willow,” he said gruffly.

“Xander, quit messing around. This is no time for jokes.”

“What the hell’s going on here?”

Willow’s hope fell with that. He really didn’t know her. Her best friend of god-knows-how-many years didn’t know her. And he had a gun. Which was still pointed at her. There were so many ways this scenario was not good. “You don’t know me?”

Xander lifted the gun and shook his head, starting past her dismissively. “Lady, I suggest you find cover.”

“No wait!” She made a mad dash in front of him, and blinked her astonishment when it did little to impede his intention. Rather, she felt him move through her in a sensation comparable to a small breeze, and slightly pleasurable in a way her mind had always associated with sex. That dark part of her mind that she never, ever talked about. “Oh!”

In seconds, Xander had whipped around again, and she found herself at the end of the barrel once more. “What are you?”

Her hands came up neutrally. “Xander, listen to me. I’m on your side, I swear. Something crazy is happening. I was dressed up as a ghost for Halloween, a-and now I’m a ghost.” She frowned. “And you were supposed to be a soldier, and now I, I-I guess you’re a real soldier.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Something akin to familiarity, but far-placed from the Xander she knew. He didn’t lower his weapon. “You expect me to believe that?”

Her mouth opened to answer, but she never got the chance. A growl sounded from behind and her friend’s attentions suddenly took a drastic leap from her and to the demon that was approaching. A notably small demon that turned to run at the sight of the gun.

Which reminded Willow that it was probably not only them suffering from the strange metamorphosis. Rather, most of the monsters on the street right now looked to be of kid-height and mentality, despite the realness of it all.

Which in turn meant that there was to be no shooting of any kind.

“No!” she screamed. “No guns! That’s still a little kid in there!”

Xander favored her with a skeptical look. “Step out of the way.”

“No guns, that’s an order!”

And to her great surprise, he lowered his rifle. She didn’t know what compelled him to do so, but didn’t think to challenge it. No guns meant no hurt little kid—that was just fine with her.

Now it was only a matter of locating the Slayers.

“We just need to find…” She caught a glance of her friend’s profile, mostly unchanged except her hair appeared longer, her makeup more pronounced, and she was on the arm of a very dangerous looking Spike. Still, all of that didn’t make up for the initial thrill that she was here.

Slayers equaled good. They would settle this.

“Buffy!” she screamed, taking off across the street, well aware that Xander was following. “Buffy, are you okay?”

Something roared in the background. She heard Xander take aim and mutter something about a situation.

The monster was back with a friend, and they were looking to party.

Oh dear God.

“Buffy, what do we do?”

There was a disinterested snicker at that, prompting her attention back to her incredibly scantily clad friend. “Are you talkin’ to me?” she asked, brows arching pointedly.

“Buffy?”

“No, but thanks for offerin’. Name’s Liz.”

Willow closed her eyes in frustration. Oh good. More fun. “Okay, right. Liz, what do we do?”

An easy, callous shrug. “Empty your pockets and give ‘em what they want,” she retorted apathetically with an accent that was most definitely not hers. Not unless she lived in Brooklyn. Off the astonished look she received in turn, Buffy shrugged again in disinterest with eyes that didn’t know her. “Don’t go all goo-goo eyes on me, sweetheart. Tell you what I tell Vinny, I don’t care if my grandmother’s about to get mugged, I ain’t steppin’ in to help.”

Willow whimpered dejectedly, turning her eyes to Spike. “You wouldn’t be Vinny, would you?”

A disgusted sneer curled his lips, leaving her to guess an emphatic no. “Do I look like a soddin’ half-fazed prick who can’t keep his coke addiction to his bloody self? Stupid li’l shit still owes me double for the last round. Christ no. Name’s Will—that’s all you need to know.” He turned to Buffy to murmur something into her hair, which she giggled at in a very womanly, unBuffy-like manner. A way that made Willow feel uncomfortable on top of frightened in the midst of the world falling to pieces around them.

Why Buffy and Spike knew each other like this was beyond her. Maybe they were the Bonnie and Clyde of the Lower East Side, wherever their alternate personalities lived. She had no clue. Other than getting them to safety right now was the first priority.

“Vinny can’t keep his limp dick to himself,” Spike clarified nastily. “Trust me, pet, you’d know ‘im if you saw ‘im.”

Whoever Vinny was in this deranged little universe had ties with these versions of her friends in ways she never cared to know.

“Okay, whatever,” she said. “We gotta get inside.”

“Funny,” Spike purred, running his hand boldly over the front of Buffy’s bodice before his hands slipped under the waistband of her skirt. “I was jus’ thinkin’ the same thing.”

Oh God. Not good.

“This is not the time for…” Xander sneered at them in a manner that made Willow distinctly feel like the only adolescent. “That. Ghost girl is right. We need to find some cover.” A flash; he raised his gun and fired a few warning shots above the approaching demons’ heads, sending them running yet again in a manner that the redhead could not help but find surprisingly sexy. He turned to her the next second, brows arched speculatively. “Any ideas where, Princess?”

Spike’s hand had managed to slither further into her friend’s private region despite the orders to the contrary. Not good. They needed to get inside and chained up in separate rooms.

“Ummm…Buf—erm—Liz’s house,” she said quickly. “It’s close.”

Buffy arched a brow at that. “Honey, have you ever seen me?” She stretched her arms demonstratively. “You think I can afford to live in a neighborhood this snazzy? On my salary? You gotta be yankin’ me.”

Willow shook her head. This was just one big headache.

“Whatever,” she said. “Just follow me.”

In the end, she didn’t know if it was her insistence or Xander’s M-16 that convinced the skeptic duo to follow. She was just glad they did.

Now it was only a matter of keeping them off each other until she could figure out what the hell was happening.

For whatever reason, it felt like years had passed since she had last had him. And for the world, she wasn’t going to let some redheaded bitch tell her what to do. Granted, there were no objections as she was escorted to some fairly richly looking place. The digs she liked; the being bossed around by two faceless nobodies? Yeah, that bothered her.

What she wouldn’t give for a gun right about now. These two would fall easy. Already breaking the cardinal rule: you don’t turn your back. Ever. Currently, after determining that the house they had broken into was vacant, the redhead and the other guy had raced to the front window, urging them along.

And they followed, however reluctantly. Rather immersed in the shadows. And in the meantime, Will was rumbling wicked things into her ear, his hand sliding up her abdomen to play with her covered breasts. His erection prominent and grinding provocatively into her backside. They needed to sneak off now.

Sneaking off. She hated sneaking off. Made her feel like she was back in Daddy’s house, or sliding away from a greasy, drugged, and sated Vinny as she pieced together her self-esteem and made her way to the only sanctuary anyone had bothered showing her.

She hadn’t needed to sneak off in years. Not after Will taught her how to shoot without flinching.

“Giles,” the redhead was saying hurriedly. “We need to get Giles.”

“Who’s Giles?” Solider Boy replied.

“He’s—” The redhead stopped short, eyes darting out the window again. “Oh God. Cordy.”

“Who?”

“Go help her!”

Liz rolled her eyes and turned to Will, nibbling at his throat as he murmured something into her hear. “I’m ready,” she drawled slowly, “to blow this popsicle stand.”

“’m ready for you to blow my popsicle,” he retorted nastily, running his long tongue along his teeth.

“No!” the redhead shrieked, whipping back to them. “There will be no blowing of any kind, all right? You guys…I know it sounds crazy, but you guys aren’t all lust-bunny in real life. Well, you sometimes look like you wanna be, but—”

Liz was about to snap her head off about knowing shit when the door opened and the soldier was back, this time with a random chick dressed in a cat outfit at his side. Another one of Vinny’s likely. The man had some twisted-ass fantasies.

It was only a matter of time before she and Will accumulated enough money to get the hell away from the psycho and start over somewhere. Somewhere far, far away.

“Wait,” Catwoman was saying, “what's going on?”

The redhead took a deep breath and began her version of the truth. Again, Liz felt the urge to snap the soldier’s gun away and show the mousy bitch how things were settled where she came from. “Okay,” she said, “your name is Cordelia, you're not a cat, you're in high school, and we're your friends.” A pause. “Well, sort of.”

“That’s nice, Willow. And you went mental when?”

“I’ve been asking her the same question since she picked us up,” Liz noted, guiding Will’s hand under the cup of her bra, gasping when his fingers automatically tweaked her nipple. They needed to find a corner or a room and fast.

Catwoman blinked at them inarticulately. “Okay, when did Buffy go ho-bag?”

“What?” The redhead cast them a glance, then winced and groaned. “Gahh! Stop that!”

Will sneered at her. “Make us,” he snarled, thrusting his hips into Liz’s backside.

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

“And now I’m even more disturbed than I was before.” Catwoman turned back to the redhead, eyes wide and erratic. “What the hell is going on here? Buffy’s actually being skanky instead of just annoying? Xander’s wielding a gun, you’re with the amnesia check and most importantly, I was just attacked by Jo-Jo, the Dog-Faced Boy. Look at my costume! Do you really think that Partytown's gonna give me my deposit back? Not on the likely.”

“Hear that, baby?” Liz sneered. “Some people have real problems.”

He chuckled dryly before taking to her throat with his tongue.

The soldier placed his overshirt around the Catwoman and they shared an awkward thanks.

“Okay,” the redhead said. “You guys stay here while I get some help. If something tries to get in, just fight it off.” She turned specifically to the soldier, eyes wide and imploring. “And please make sure that they—” She gestured to them broadly. “—stay here. With clothes on? Buffy’s not exactly the type to be all with the showy in public, and I know for a fact that she’ll wig and then some if she snaps out of this in a situation she doesn’t wanna be in.”

And that was it. All Liz could take. This kid was half her age, and now she was coming across with the words of wisdom? Where was she when she finally packed out of her mother’s house sixteen years ago? Damn, teenagers annoyed the crap out of her. “Look, sweetie,” she spat. “If you think you can waltz in here, play hero, and not manage to piss me off in the process, you’ve got another thing comin’. So back the hell off before you’re made to. Got it?”

A still beat settled through the room.

“Fuck,” Will swore irreverently. “So fuckin’ hot when you’re brassed, luv.”

“B-Buffy, I—”

She shook her head. “Back. Off. And stop calling me that.”

“What the hell is up with her?” Catwoman demanded.

The redhead stared at her a minute longer before turning back to the other chick, her eyes wide and shaded with hurt. “I-it's like amnesia, okay? They don't know who they are. Or what they’re saying. Just sit tight. I’ll be back soon.”

The next thing she knew, the mousy little brat had pulled a Houdini and walked right through the wall; seconds later, she found herself under fire from the other bitch in the room. Someone who obviously carried herself with more confidence, but not nearly the authority she was striving for.

“Buffy, what the hell is your problem?”

“The lot of you are our problem,” Will snarled, drawing her close. “We’re leavin’ now.”

“The ghost girl said you two were supposed to stay here,” Solider Boy said, taking a step forward. “She seemed to know what she was talking about.”

“Fuckin’ bollocks to that,” her man spat. “Even ‘f the crazed bint was onto somethin’, do the two of us look like people who haven’t been doin’ each other for the past ten years?”

The solider wavered at that.

“Whoa,” Catwoman intervened, holding up a hand. “I know Buffy’s been all crazy with her new guy, but I also know how to tell when a girl gets laid and she hasn’t been getting any. Period. Xander, you can’t let them—”

“Buzz off,” Liz spat. “You don’t like it? Shoot us.”

Will snickered appreciatively at that, and they took a turn to leave the room, protests heard but ignored. He led her back through the kitchen, paused at the door they had come in through, then paused again for the reminder of where they were.

“No place in here, sweetcakes,” he drawled heatedly. “Out there’s a bloody mess.”

“Joint this big has to have some room for privacy,” she purred, running a hand up his leather-clad arm. His gaze heated at that, and he nodded before jerking away and trying the first door he came across—the one adjacent to the island in the middle of the kitchen. The one that led to a downstairs.

He closed the door behind them, locked it, and she was in his arms, smothering him with heated kisses that seemed far too long in the wait. Drawing his tongue into her mouth, wrestling with him greedily as she struggled with balance down the rickety flight of stairs. Her hat was the first thing to go and the only article that took no effort. She had his coat on the floor in seconds, rustling at his feet as he walked her into a washing machine. His hungry mouth scaled down her throat; his hands tore her own jacket off and threw it impertinently over his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he moaned into her mouth, eager fingers prying at her top. “Why does it feel like it’s been so fuckin’ long?”

“Don’t know,” Liz replied honestly. Her nails scratched his abdomen as she ripped his shirt off his body with strength that would have frightened her were she not so aroused. “Don’t really care. Just…oh, God. Like that.”

His fiery mouth had engulfed her breast, his obedient hand rolling her neglected nipple between skilled fingers. He knew her so well. So well. Had from the beginning. Knew what touches set her skin ablaze and what touches calmed the storm with the same soothing accord.

She couldn’t think of how many times they had done this. Stolen away in the middle of some gang fight or after Vinny had collapsed atop her. Will was always there; healing the wounds she inflicted upon her own abused skin with a touch that she would nearly call angelic were she none the wiser. Just always there. Not wanting money like the others; not wanting drugs or a way to Vinny’s good side. Wanting an out. Wanting a reason to not turn that gun on himself at the end of the day.

It had been years and they were still creating that reason. And the unsatisfied promise of some day was now turning real. They almost had enough money to make it on their own. Almost had enough to make these trysts more than just trysts—make it permanent and exclusive. She knew he loved her; there was never a question of that. They didn’t say it much because love didn’t exist where they lived, but they said it often enough to remind each other that it was there.

That it was real when nothing else was.

He ripped her panties off without effort, stuffing them in his back pocket before she could mewl a protest. “Love this skirt,” he murmured into her throat, plunging two fingers within her. Liz cried and arched back, some in pain—surprised pain—but mostly in pleasure. He quivered a shuddering breath against her skin, pulling back, eyes wide with awe. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he gasped, hand moving in careful but familiar strokes. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Jesus. If I din’t know better…”

Liz moaned her encouragement, brow resting against his. “Uhhh…feels…”

His hand halted movements, eyes darting to her face. There was that consideration he reserved only for her. That reminder that even whores found a prince every now and then. “Too much, baby?” he asked heatedly, worriedly. “I dunno what the hell’s—”

“No. That…” Her arms tightened around his throat as he tentatively began exploring her again. Fingers thrusting forward—her passage growing tighter. A pain she hadn’t felt in years stirred her insides. The sort of pain one typically only felt once. “That redhead…she said there was some…whacked out thing going on. Maybe…ohhhh. I…Will…”

She winced and he pulled out of her completely, ignoring her whimper of loss and shaking his head. “Not gonna risk it,” he declared, panting and confused. “Not gonna hurt you.”

“It doesn’t—”

“Not gonna risk it.”

“Will! I need…” She jerked him back to her, fingers prying at the clasp of his jeans. “Need this. Need you now.”

“Liz—”

His cock sprang into her hands, his protest drowned out with a moan of pleasure. She slipped off the washer and fell to her knees, her tongue caressing the underside of him before she pulled back to suckle delicately at the head. “Need you now,” she repeated hotly, licking at the beads of moisture forming at the tip of his length. “Anyway I can get you.”

A whimper of surrender and she had won him over. His fingers wove into her hair, clutching her to him fiercely as her mouth made the familiar track back and forth, swallowing every time the head of his cock struck the back of her throat. Teasing little hints of her expertise, his adoring sighs and moans surrounding her in hazed encouragement. Her right hand wrapped around the base of his erection, her left squeezing his balls rhythmically before dropping abruptly between her legs to stroke herself in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck, so good!” he growled into the darkness, head rolling back. “Fuck it. Liz…oh fuck, Liz.”

She murmured around him, drawing her lips back. Her tongue enveloped his belled head teasingly, alternating between suckling and lapping at his needy skin. Her hand was pushing her further to crescendo, twisting her clit between her fingers as her teeth scraped at his foreskin.

“God, so hot,” he murmured reverently. “Liz, need to see you. Spread your legs for me. Let me see what—”

Without retracting her mouth, she did as he asked. He gasped in excitement and thrust into her mouth with renewed vigor, eyes rolling up in his head. “Fuck, so sweet,” he mewled. “You know what that does to me, don’ you? Your delectable li’l hand buried in that tight quim of yours. I—”

Something happened, then. The room fell cold imperceptibly. A draft from nowhere, and then something changed. Something changed. Within her mind’s eye, a world shattered around her. Faces of people she had known for decades washing out as a new horde of the more familiar memories claimed her in a whirlwind of recollection. It only lasted seconds in retrospect, but it felt much longer. Felt as though years rolled off her shoulders and suddenly she was the Slayer again. A sixteen-year-old Slayer just a couple weeks shy of her birthday, and it was Halloween in Sunnydale. Buffy’s eyes widened in astonishment; first at the realization that the life she had thought to have been living for the past hour was gone, the second for the fact that her mouth was wrapped around Spike’s erect penis and her hand was between her legs.

Oh God.

“Oh, fuck,” Spike gasped, eyes going wide. “Buffy? Buffy, oh God—”

She released him as though burnt, backed up until she ran into the washer, her heart thundering so loud she thought the world was falling down around her. They looked at each other for long seconds, neither sure of what to do. Caught somewhere between a rock and a hard place with nowhere to turn.

Her eyes went back to his erection, widening in astonishment. Yeah, definite hard place.

“God,” Spike mewled, his hand encircling his throbbing predicament of its own accord. “God, Buffy, I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t trust her voice with words. Rather, just watched in awed curiosity as his hand began to stroke himself to climax—something she had read about in a number of trashy romance novels but never thought to witness. Eye level with Spike’s anatomy, the intimate part of him that she had had her mouth around just seconds before.

“’m so sorry, baby,” he gasped again, voice hitching with an incursion of emotion. She didn’t know whether he was apologizing for his actions while they thought they were long lost lust bunnies or the fact that he couldn’t keep from masturbating in front of her to reach the release he needed. She suspected it was the latter, and fell short of knowing how to make it better. “’m so, so sorry.”

There was nothing to be sorry about. Her fear was gone. Her heart was still thundering, yes, but with something new. Something almost feral. Her voice still wasn’t working. She wanted to tell him it was all right, that she was all right, but the words wouldn’t come.

And before she knew what she was doing, she was edging back toward him. Dangerously close to his cock. Watching him with curiosity that begged to be sampled.

A long, tortured moan tumbled past his lips when she touched him, his head thrown back in a torrent of agonized bliss. He whimpered what sounded like a protest but did nothing to stop her. Rather, his hands fell to his sides as her own encircled him again, pumping him slowly, unsure of herself, watching his face for reaction and melting in awe when he crumpled in ecstasy.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “God, Buffy. Oh, my girl. Sweet, sweet girl. I’m so sorry, kitten. I can’t—”

She tentatively licked at his head, and he lost it.

“Sweet Jesus.”

The next thing she knew, Spike had yanked away from her and collapsed to the floor beside her, grabbing his discarded shirt. She watched in a mix of fear, shyness, and disgrace as he came, the roar that escaped his throat sending shivers up her spine. And suddenly she became painfully aware that she was sitting on the floor of her basement wearing nothing but her boots and a skirt—sans panties—and that the material was bunched around her thighs.

And that Spike had just spent himself in the cotton of his black t-shirt, and was slumped over, one hand holding him up as long pants claimed his body.

How long they sat like that, she didn’t know. The awkwardness between them stretched now in a void that seemed too large to fill. Twice she heard her friends come to the top of the room and bang on the door, and twice neither she nor Spike raised their voice to answer. They sat there in silence, not looking at each other. Not knowing where there was to go from here.

In a flash, the span was over, and Spike was crawling back to her. He didn’t say anything, just watched her eyes as he neared. Didn’t drop to gawk at her exposed breasts or gloat at the fact of what had just happened between them. Rather, he stopped when they were separated by just inches, cupped her face, and brought her mouth to his.

It was the sweetest kiss she had ever known. Tasting, teasing, reverential in the way his lips moved against hers. Whispering small adorations into her, his thumbs caressing her cheeks softly. Soothingly. His tongue tasted her mouth slowly, lustful but cautious. As if he was pouring back everything he had felt into her. Giving her more than his apologies—giving her himself entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her lips again, a mantra that would have lost its power were it not for the feeling behind it. “This is all my fault. We should’ve listened to Red…I never—”

Buffy shook her head. “It’s okay,” she said. Her face burned with more than embarrassment. Something much larger than herself had passed through the basement. Passed between them. “It…I don’t really know what happened, but…”

Spike rumbled a light chuckle against her, reaching over for his coat to slide it around her shoulders, that gentlemanly quality that she had noted before their night began leaking through once more. “Never felt anythin’ like that,” he murmured. “Jesus, Buffy…you din’t have to—”

“I know. I was…” She was going to have to fill in something else for ethnicity on her next scan-tron test if she kept this up. “It felt…like the thing to do. Like I knew you.”

“You do know me.”

“Like I knew you…like that.”

The uncertainty in her voice ashamed her, but Spike was there, and despite the awkwardness, there was no reason to hide from him. Even now with this thing between them. With the taste of him still on her lips, her skin burning with his kisses. Thank God for him. Had she been here with anyone else, she would have died of humiliation.

“’F you’d been here with anyone else,” he growled possessively, tightening his arms around her, “they’d be in the hospital right now.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Little bit.” Spike twisted her slightly in his arms so that her eyes were locked with his. “I mean it, Buffy. I’d’ve bloody well castrated the fool who touched you like that.”

“You did.”

“Present company excluded.” Another awkward beat. Spike released a quivering sigh and brushed her hair away from her face, his lips caressing her forehead. “You’re amazin’,” he murmured deferentially. “So bloody amazin’.”

She sighed and wrapped herself around him, finding solace on his bare shoulder, her skin tingling with the weight of what had happened here. Regardless, Spike wasn’t going anywhere. He was here with her. Holding her in the dark as reality stepped back. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, leaning his head against the washer. “I really don’ know.”

“I don’t know, either.”

And for whatever reason, be it the confusion around them or the sanctuary she found in his arms, that answer was good enough. For right now. For this moment. Spike wasn’t going anywhere. He would be here tomorrow. Whatever else could wait until then.

Wait until daylight came to banish away the night.
 

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