Chapter 21

Buffy had never been more grateful to return to the solitude of a room in her life. The long strain of fatigue was embedded in her coloring; her entire body ready to collapse as she crossed the threshold. It was her good fortune that Spike was behind her. He held her arm with tender concern, ushering her to the den that was now no one's bedroom.

It felt as though years had come and gone since she sat. Since she was alone. Since she had someone there to comfort her. But no. With her vampire behind her, there could be no doubt. He guided her to the nearest sofa and encouraged her wordlessly to sit down.

"'m gonna go get somethin' for you to eat," he said after she was situated. "You look pale."

Buffy smiled gratefully but shook her head. "I'm good, but thanks."

Spike was adamant. He shook his head right back at her and flicked on the television before tossing her the remote. "You look pale," he said again. "An' that's comin' from a vamp."

A small grin flirted with her lips. "You know you're pale when..."

He smiled back at her. "Tonight took a lot outta everyone," he agreed. "But I don' think anyone got more thrashed than you an' Rupert."

"Something tells me you don't care as much if Giles is pale and hungry," she replied teasingly, quirking her head to the side.

"Well," the vampire retorted as he paraded forward to brush a kiss over her forehead. "Rupert's not as cute as you."

"Don't tell him that."

"'E also doesn' have your legs." He winked at her and turned at the heel for the door. "You want anythin' particular? Gonna head up to King's Tavern."

She arched a brow. "They have takeout?"

"For enough cash, they do." He grinned. "'Sides, they've got this onion thing."

"I wouldn't mind a sandwich," she decided. "And some bread pudding."

"You've jumped on that train, too?"

The Slayer shrugged. "Hey, it's good. And we don't have any in Sunnydale. Might as well make the most of it."

"All right." Spike took a minute to look at her before forcing his eyes away. If he started staring now, he knew he wouldn't stop. "Anythin' else?"

Buffy shrugged again in that non-committal way that expressed more than she would have liked to betray. "Just come home quickly."

There was a pause at that; the entire room went still. He looked at her, long and hard before acknowledging that she hadn't realized fully what she had said. What it meant. By the time she turned back to him, he had gathered his bearings and was nodding at the door. He offered a smile that was more dazed than he would have liked, and was outside before she could decipher the look behind his gaze.

Come home, she had said. Come home.

She wanted him with her. She didn't want him to go out at all.

The small words that escaped her mouth so carelessly—how could she suspect what they meant? How could she know?

He was losing himself in her. Surely. Fast. Drowning a slow, delightful death. He was losing himself and Heaven help him if he gave a lick.

Buffy smiled at him warmly as he came in through the small dining area nearly an hour later. She met him at the door and helped bring his supplies inside before the first drops of rain began dancing on the rooftop. They worked in concert for a few quiet moments. Spike retreated into the kitchen to collect some tableware and immediately began setting up the food presentation. The Slayer took his duster and hung it in his new bedroom closet.

The vampire illuminated the table with two candles—more because he preferred them to the intrusive overhead light, but the whimsy of an ideal romantic setting was not lost on him. The ease of routine was upon them, he reflected with a grin; it was as though they had gone through this enough times to declare themselves utterly domestic.

"Mmmm," Buffy said as she made her way back into the dining area. "That doesn't smell like a sandwich."

"I used my creative license to interpret your order as broadly as possible," he retorted with a wink. "'Sides, you need some meat on your bones. A li'l steak every now an' then never hurt anyone."

Her eyes narrowed, but not angrily.

"'S not rare, 'f that's what you're worried about. My goal is to get you to eat it." He offered a kind, disarming smile and stepped aside so that she could inspect her meal. The cut of tenderloin was annoyingly tempting—more so than she would have expected. He had also selected a stuffed baked potato and an assortment of steamed vegetables. Stuff her mother would want her to eat that was suddenly the epitome of appealing.

He had also bought a bottle of wine.

"Got myself one, too," he said, suddenly nervous as she moved to take her seat. "Bloody. An' the onion thing. An' jus' to see what all the fuss is about, bread pudding."

"If you were alive, you'd be spending most of tonight in the bathroom."

He smirked. "Lovely word picture, sweetheart."

Buffy shrugged. "Hey. Only human." She offered a final smile before turning to fully appreciate the presentation of her meal. "This does look good. I don't eat steak all that often."

"We all have our flaws."

"Some more blatant than others." A wicked gleam sparkled her eyes, but he did not call her on it. Nor did he comment on the almost manipulative way she engulfed her bites, her succulent mouth encircling her fork in an overly seductive manner. Her tongue peeked out to tease him as well, as though berating her lips for taking all the fun. This naturally led to all out distraction; so enamored was he in the movements and subtle invitations of her mouth that her next question stunned him verily. "How do you think they are?"

He stared at her for a long, blank moment. "Whassat?"

"Donna," she said. "And Josh, Sam. Toby I don't know too well, but him, too. They all seemed kinda flabbergasted when it was all over."

Oh. Of course she would be talking about today. That made more sense.

"I don' think 's necessarily over, pet," he said, taking a bite of his own steak. "These blokes aren' bloody pushovers. They run your country an' won' take a drastic change like this sittin' down."

"Well, we don't have time for them to get comfortable. We have to—"

"You heard Curly, pet. Rupert drove out, too. Tested it. Whatever wanted us here's aimin' to make the change permanent." He cocked a brow as her skin paled at the prospect of being trapped in Natchez for X amount of time. "An' not that I aim to make those wankers comfy, but 's more than jus' a li'l hard to grasp. You remember how it was when you were called?" Spike shook his head. "I remember wakin' up after Dru turned me. Traditionalist that she was, she had me go through the bloody torment of bein' buried with a load of other pathetic gits she, Angelus, an' Darla offed that night."

Buffy was staring at her plate. He wondered if he stepped over the invisible line by mentioning Angel. He didn't think so, but one never knew with her. Her failing temperament did not last, however, and she glanced up the next instant, as attentive as ever. "I don't think I've ever heard you talk about the night you were turned," she said, tone strained as though begging him to take her mind off an unpleasant topic. "Or before it, for that matter."

They had skimmed the subject of her first great love and how she didn't view him as the pedestal he had been for the finale of her teenage years, but something in her eyes forewarned that the issue was back to being touchy. He had no idea why, but thought it best to not pursue it.

"Whas'sit you wanna hear, luv?" he asked softly. "What dear ole William was like? Not bloody worth it."

She shrugged. "Indulge me."

The words were simple enough, but it was her eyes that sold him. Her eyes that met his tentatively over the candlelight and ached with sincerity. Perhaps it was to take her mind away from things for a while—away from the assorted mess that had been that afternoon and the broken fragments they would have to piece together come morning. It really didn't matter. Spike was approaching an acknowledgement that forbade him from denying her anything.

"Start with when you were born," she said when he didn't speak for a minute.

"Easy, luv. 1854."

"Making you how old when you were turned?"

"Twenty-six." He smiled at the bewildered look that overwhelmed her. "I know. Don' I wear my age well?"

"Were you married?"

That question threw him for a loop. "Was I what?"

"Married. If you were twenty-six when you were turned, that would mean it was 1880." She beamed as though the computation had been something akin to advanced calculus. "I thought that people got married really young back then."

Spike arched a brow. Her questions and assumptions were charming him. "An' they don' now? No, luv. Wasn' married. 'F I had been, I don' rightly think I would've been with Dru for any period of time. It was more the chits who married young. There were some blokes who did, don' get me wrong, but it was more common for men to wait. Let their wealth grow, an' what all. Women married younger to start makin' babies for their husbands. My mum, for instance, got hitched when she was fourteen. My pap was twenty-seven years her senior."

Buffy's eyes about boggled out of her head. "Fourteen? And...ewww. Statutory, much?"

The vampire rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I was under the impression that you'd been in school for some time now."

"They don't cover stuff like this."

"You mean you don' pay attention."

"Your mom was married when she was fourteen? To someone who was...ugh. That'd be like marrying Giles." If Buffy caught the humor behind his gaze, she did not betray it. "And your parents..."

"My pap sent her off to a boarding school, 'f that's what you're thinkin'. Some minds back then did think that fourteen was a bit young to be havin' kids." The relief she exhibited almost coaxed a laugh from his throat. "My mum came back, an' as she used to tell it, they fell madly in love an' started on the more pleasurable side of bein' hitched."

"Awww, that's both sweet and gross. Your mother told you this?"

He shrugged easily. "I embellish. That story that they found me an' Mary on their doorstep stopped bein' cute after the first fifteen hundred times or so."

"Mary?"

"My older sis by two years."

Buffy looked at him dumbly as though the prospect of Spike having siblings was foreign to her. "What happened to her?"

The vampire arched a cool brow. "I din't kill her, 'f that's what you mean."

"No. I just—"

"She got married in 1869 an' lived a full life. I prolly have grand nieces an' nephews runnin' around out there." He smiled slightly, as though the thought had not occurred to him before. "She lost two kids to fever. Another to miscarriage. Broke her heart, I know, an' we begged her to stop. The last one nearly took her along with it."

"That's so sad."

He shrugged again, though this time not so easily. It had been a while. "'F she had any kids that lived, it was after I was sired. I tried to look in on her from time to time, but Dru couldn't stand that. She din't like the idea of me takin' care of mum, an' she sure as hell din't wanna compete with Mary. I don' know 'f I ever got it through her thick skull that she was my sister."

"What was Mary like?"

A fond smile crossed his face. A smile that made him look centuries younger, if she didn't know better. "For nineteenth century England, luv? She was controversial. Got mixed up in politics an' what all. Gambled a bit an' never took to the set status that London had labeled her with. Did all sorts of things proper ladies never took part in. Picked on me somethin' horrible. She was a kidder." His eyes softened. "She never understood why she couldn't be a feminist an' a lady at the same time. An' she loved me. She was...she was wild, but not how you'd think. No one could touch her. We always jested that Nicholas—the bloke who married her—never knew what hit him. Don' see how anyone could, where she was concerned."

Buffy licked her lips. She could almost see it. Two children, a boy and a girl, racing across a proper English lawn. The girl a bit older, laughing and with dark, chestnut curls and a melodic laugh. The boy, cute and proper, trying to catch up. Flushing a bit in the cheeks as his sister poked fun at him. Handing her flowers that they selected by the pond. The image was so real she could nearly taste it. Spike—William and his sister.

"We moved into town a few years after my pap went off," Spike continued, blissfully unaware of her digression. "Had a family house outside Manchester but we went into debt an' had to sell the place off. Moved to London on the last of the family money an' I tried to get a job workin' for the paper. That din't last."

"The paper?"

"Yeh. English an' writin' was my specialty. Wanted to make somethin' of it. Lost the news an' got into poetry."

"Okay, you're teasing me now, right?"

The look in his eyes told her full well that he was not. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, almost mournfully. "I wish I was. I wrote stuff so horrible it'd make your ears bleed. Kept me company, though. Me an' mum. She got sickly there toward the end. Wasn' very old, but sixty-four was old enough back then. I took care of her. Then one night I made a colossal mistake, had that thrown in my face, stormed out in a bloody huff, ran into Dru, an' that's that."

There was something on his face that suggested anything but finality. "Spike?"

He didn't even bother to pretend nothing was wrong. "I don' wanna get into what happened after. 'S...I jus' don' wanna get into it."

Fair enough. "Okay. Okay." She waited a minute, but the look didn't go anywhere. A haunted gaze that struck a chord deep within her; his beautiful ocean eyes now stormy. A tide of gray alongside a lifeless shore. "Spike...tell me about your dad."

It took a minute, but he nodded and snapped back to her. "I don' remember much," he replied. "He left when I was eight."

"Left?"

"For the States. He was shippin' material to a port in New Orleans. We always suspected he got gunned down, 'cause their borders were s'posed to be guarded with blockades." Another shrug. "'E wasn't a Southern sympathizer, but he also wasn' too fond of America, seein' as we had a few in our blood that had fought to keep the colonies right where they were. He figured if the South won, America was a lost cause. Wasn' malicious or anythin'—he jus' felt a sense of loyalty an' justice. He was a good man. Loved Mary an' Mum to pieces an' always talked to me like I was a man his age rather than a li'l tyke. I remember that much, an' my mum made sure we never forgot. We were Bennetts, firs', foremost, an' always."

"Bennett? That's your name?"

"William Bennett, an' don' you ever tell Rupert." His eyes were dancing, though his tone was serious. "I don' want him snoopin' around, diggin' up cold facts that I bloody well know an' others that I could find out jus' as happily 'f I wanted."

"I won't tell Giles. So were you named after anyone?"

"My pap. He was William Sinclair Bennett—my mum was Clarissa. You know Mary." Spike stopped abruptly, blinking and breaking away as though coming out of a long sleep. "So there, Slayer. You have the full on William the Bloody's blotched an' terribly borin' family history. Care to tell me what that was all about?"

Buffy licked her lips and shrugged again, glancing to her food that was growing cold. "I just wanted to know," she replied. "I wanted to know you. Angel never told me where he..." She sensed him stiffen at the mention of her former, and moved rapidly to amend. Strange how they traded offense in that regard. It was she that had been bothered a moment before. "And I wanted to know. I wanted to share that piece with you. I wanted to know something about you that no one else does."

There was nothing for a long minute. He studied her curiously, not doubting, but curious. She was so sincere. She had never been this sincere, least of all with him. What had he done to earn this? Who was regarding him, and for what purpose? Buffy wasn't his. She was eons beyond him. Light-years. A golden goddess his kind could never even hope to touch. She shouldn't be sitting with him. Asking him about his past as though she cared. Watching him with eyes filled with compassion. It was wrong. It was so wrong.

He was not the sort of man that deserved the woman she was.

I don' care. Don' care.

Only he did. All too much.

"In any regard," she continued a minute later. "Thanks for telling me. For sharing all that with me. I...it means a lot."

"I think you know jus' as well as I do that I've lost the ability to deny you anythin'." Spike smiled wryly and expelled a deep breath. "Anyway, it was a long time ago. I don' think about it much anymore."

"Why not?"

"Doesn' do any good to dwell in the past, sweetheart. Old philosophy." A still beat settled through him. "It'd take somethin' extraordinary to make that change for me. I can't do rot about the past. What 've done. What mistakes 've made. I can only think to do better." They fell quiet a minute longer. Spike reached for the wine and poured her a glass. Strange how loud the trickle of liquid could sound in a room that stung of silence.

"'S gonna be hard for 'em," the vampire said when the quiet became too thick. He didn't want to lapse into old habit, and while that didn't seem likely with where they were headed, he was not going to gamble his chances with this one. Not for all the blood in China. "Your new mates. Don' rightly know what you hope to accomplish with the lot of 'em."

"Yeah. You're right. Of course...it would be very hard."

"They came here for a bloody photo-op an' are now facin' a potential apocalypse. Not exactly in the brochure."

"You think that's what it is? An apocalypse?"

Spike chuckled and shook his head. "'m not about to wager that kind of gamble, luv. Not until we know what we're dealin' with. 'F you want a guess, though, here's the best I can do: Red's new boy went in over his head an' somethin' came out of the book. 'S why we were sent to find it, more or less. 'S why your rogue bird's here at all."

"You mean we were supposed to end up here? In Natchez?"

"I don' think Natchez has anythin' to do with it. We were s'posed to end up near the book." He quirked his head to the side, studying her. "You know better'n anyone that things are never as they seem. Faith ran like Hell was chasin' her to, what? This shithole in the middle of nowhere? 'S somethin' bigger than we thought, luv. Always bloody is."

There was an exasperated sigh and Buffy leaned back, bottom lip poking out in a petulant pout. "I don't wanna save the world again," she complained. "It's so been there, done that."

"There's the spirit, luv." His eyes were fixed on her mouth. It seemed forever since they had fleetingly yielded to their mutual attraction, though it had not yet been twenty-four hours. And yet, so much had changed. The Scoobies were aware, at least on a surface level, of what was happening between them. The others—those gits from Washington—were now trapped here along with everyone else. It was the worst sort of timing that he could have wanted; his own allegedly faux conscience screaming every few seconds that creatures such as he would burn for daring to blemish such radiance. But he couldn't go on if he didn't try. The feel of her mouth against his the night before had broken all rules. She wanted him. Her arms had been around his neck, her body pressed intimately against his. The small murmurs and gasps that her throat surrendered haunted him; a sweet melody to keep him wishing, searching, yearning for a sign that it was all right now. That they could try to become what they were becoming without fighting it anymore.

But time. She needed time. And God, how he respected that. Admired it. Shared the sentiment. For as much as he wanted her, he needed time, too. Time before they cast all reservations aside and made those walls come tumbling down. For he knew. He knew when it was over, when he allowed himself to start, when he finally embraced the sensation of loving Buffy, he would never be able to stop. Not if all the world passed him by. He would be there. He would love her until time no longer mattered. Until the last sun set over the horizon, and longer.

Forever.

This was so much bigger than either of them could have known.

And true, Spike was usually a taker when there was something he wanted; thus the thought of asking almost made him wince. Almost but not quite.

"I..." He flushed as much as a vampire could and glanced shyly down when she sent him a questioning look. "May I kiss you?"

That was it. The room went deaf. She stared at him in utter bewilderment. He didn't blame her. It was a strange request, coming from him. It was a strange request altogether. But he didn't want to presume the mood and anger her. They had come too far for that.

"What?"

"I know you said you need time, pet. An' I don' wanna...I don' want you to think I want more than jus' that." His voice was growing hoarse with even the thought, and his eyes glazed over in passion that his better angels had to battle the lust-crazed demons from breaking. "I've been fightin' the urge to kiss you all bloody day. Jus' grabbin' you an' kissin' you senseless—'till you don't know what to do with yourself. 'm a bloody addict—you made me an addict with one sample. Can't hardly do anythin' with the want of what we had last night. So..." He met her eyes again, ready for the bite of laughter or the short dismissal of rejection. Ready for anything aside the soft glow of her eyes that nearly looked a sheen of tears against the candlelight. "May I kiss you?"

Buffy stared at him a moment longer as though waiting for him to seal his statement. A pun to an unfunny joke at both their expenses. But he didn't. He just sat there, looking at her as she looked at him. Waiting for his answer. Waiting to see if she would grant him an answer.

Then she rose to her feet slowly. Intently. Never breaking her eyes away from his. Watching him closely, as though daring him to make a move. He didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't blink or twitch or frown for want of what she would do. Had he been alive, his heart would have drummed hard against his chest. But he wasn't. He couldn't sweat; couldn't perspire or pant, or flush or let her know, aside the bulge in his trousers that was becoming more and more common when she was around just how deeply she affected him.

It was the gentility that got him. For everything in the world, he had not known softness like this. Her hands were trembling but certain. She cupped his face tenderly and searched his eyes for a long, endless minute before she brought her lips to his. And he melted into her. The taste of her sent a long, coursing moan through his system; he was lost. Absolutely lost. His hands slid up her thighs and anchored her into his lap, arms locking behind her waist. Her own wove around his throat, pressing her pelvis against his with as much sensuality as he had ever felt with such a modest touch. He whimpered her name against into her mouth—a cry of surrender, even to his ears. No more fighting. Not between them. The touch was soft and passionate, fiery but not exceeding the boundaries of propriety. They dissolved into one another like nothing at all. Smoldering, mending. Needing and finding. Another wave crashed, though the kiss was initially soft and exploratory, it gained zeal at escaping such lengthy suppression. The feel of her lips against his swiftly drained him of all fortitude, all resolve, anything that even began to construct the fabric of who he was. With her tongue stroking his in a manner that was familiar and tentative all at once, needing and soft, he swallowed her mewls and sighs and gave back as he received. There had been no reality before this touch. Nothing at all.

She was moving against his erection in long, womanly strokes. He wanted to send their dinner scattering and throw her back on the table. And then he didn't; this was enough. The simple joy of just kissing and caressing her was something he never thought to have. His hands slid over her back, nimble fingers massaging her skin through her tank. Her nipples were hardened and pressed intimately against his chest; he wanted to cup her breasts, but wouldn't without permission.

Though his record in asking tonight had been in his favor. He withdrew to her front, thumbs stroking the underside of her clothed globes and he broke his mouth from the temptation of hers, lips taking chart down her throat. "Can I?" he whispered, sliding his skin against hers so she would not mistake his intent.

"Uhhh..."

Hesitation made him wary. He didn't want to pressure her into anything. Thus, he went back to kissing and petting her until he heard her rasp at his ear, "That was a yes, by the way."

Spike smiled but didn't reply. He pressed a kiss at the hollow of her throat before sliding his hands under her camisole. The warmth of her skin set his own aflame. He was going to burn simply by touching her.

"More," she whimpered. His thumbs were gliding over her laced nipples—having almost more an effect on himself than on her. The knowledge that he had Buffy in his arms, allowing him to touch her this way, initiating a kiss that had turned into an all out snogging session was well beyond his mark of understanding. He had Buffy. A very warm and notably aroused Buffy. And she was here because she wanted to be. She was with him.

And now, she was asking for more.

If he got any harder, he would burst through the denim.

"Buff—"

Her own mouth was pressing feverish kisses against the pale skin at his throat. Little aching burns from where the sun had touched him. He ached in all the right places. "Just a little more," she mewled. "Please."

He wondered if that request was up for interpretation.

Her nails were digging into his back. It was time to stop thinking and just go with it. Spike growled into her neck and yanked her bra down, her breasts filling his hands with almost an air of triumph. He pulled at her nipples, massaged her, squeezed her, and dared to nip down and tease her needy peaks through the thin cotton of her shirt with his mouth.

Buffy clutched at him desperately, head flinging back. "Oh my God."

The way she was grinding in his lap...he was going to embarrass himself. And rather quickly. Her perfumed center rubbed against his cock shamelessly. The request for more tickled his ears again, and he knew this had to be the last or she was going to cross into territory she wasn't ready to travel yet.

A lot could change in a day. He didn't think that had. And that was why, instead of whipping her top over her head, he pulled the collar down to sample her bare skin. If he saw her naked—even waist-up—and wanting him, he wouldn't be able to stop. And this had to stop. Had to stop before he lost that last ounce of control. Even still, his mouth encircled a dusty nipple, suckling at her; teasing her with his teeth before moving to give the other breast the same treatment. Then, dropping kisses as he went, he made his way back to her mouth and poured the wealth of feeling that he had yet to accept, that he was still exploring into the union of their lips.

"Buffy," he moaned, hands sliding up to her arms. "Buffy, we have to—"

"I want you."

God. She was saying them. She was saying the words he yearned to hear her say. The words he had waited for, longed for in a time that he no longer knew existed. She wanted him. Christ Almighty, Buffy Summers wanted him. His self-restraint slipped another notch.

"Buffy." Spike's grasp on her forearms became forceful. "We have to...luv, we have to stop."

That was all it took. Those four small words. Immediately, she pulled back, her eyes wide and imploring. A smacking bite of rejection in the middle of what she felt so desperately. It took her a few seconds to find her voice. "I..." she began. "I don't understand. You...I thought you—"

"I do!" he amended hastily. Lord, how could she think otherwise? "Sweetheart, I want you so much it fuckin' hurts." He reached to readjust her top, running a loving hand through her hair. "So much I keep myself awake nights, thinkin' of you. I jus'...last night you said you needed time."

She was staring at him. She still didn't understand. He coughed and looked down.

"This means a lot to me," he said softly. "You mean a lot to me. Anythin' that we do...it has to be real. Somethin' more than a roll in the sack. I want you but I want to have you. Not jus' that part of you. There's more to you than jus' that. With me an' you, Buffy, it would have to be somethin'."

There was a long pause as she studied him. "Why?"

He balked, hurt. That was one question he hadn't been anticipating. "Why?" he retorted bitterly, hands coming up. "Why, she asks. Why."

"No. I'm not...I'm not trying to be...I just want to know why it's so important to you." The Slayer looked down, absently playing with the material of his shirt. "Why I am. I don't get it. I just...why?"

A breath coursed through him and he relaxed. Oh.

That was an entirely separate matter.

"Because," he began, voice rough with arousal, "'s you an' me, kitten. An' anythin' else jus' doesn't measure up. It's you an' me. God, it has to be somethin'. An' I'm not about to ruin it by leapin' into bed with you. I want it—Christ, how I want it. But I want you more." He smiled warmly at the expression on her face. "I'll wait for you, Buffy. Don' rush ahead 'cause that's what you think I want."

She looked at him. Just looked at him. Her eyes were soft and understanding, filled with awe and wonder. As though it was a miracle alone that a creature such as he could think, much less give her that much. For one horrible minute, he thought she might cry. But no. No. Instead, she pulled him close. Pulled him into her arms and held him against her, her head buried in his throat.

Spike tightened his arms around her, purring and nuzzling her hair.

Buffy was hugging him. Hugging him.

I'll be goddamned.

"Thank you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his throat. "Thank you."

Looking back, he supposed this would be how he remembered tonight. For everything come and past, there had never been such a moment of frank complacency in his life. Sitting here in the small alcove of a townhouse he would one day reflect with such poignant fondness that the notion nearly made him laugh. Sitting here with the scent of their lingering arousal tingling in the air. Holding the woman he loved in a calm, comforting hug. Inhaling her scent as he watched the fire dance on the wicks of nearby candles.

And that was it. That was the reason. Spike would remember this because it was the moment his life changed for him. The moment he realized everything that he had known for some time. When it stopped lingering in ambiguity and became something tangible. By God, he really did love her. It wasn't just something that fluttered in and out of recognition. It was known. He could touch it if he liked. And while the realization sent his head spiraling, made his knees weak and his heart feel like it should start a furious cadence, there was an ever-present tranquil variable that soothed any outraged reaction. Serenity at its best. It had been inevitable from the start. Buffy was with him at every turn. Knowing now that he loved her was simply a delayed acknowledgement. He knew it. God, he knew it.

Her arms tightened around him. Calm. Comforting.

Oh yes. If nothing else for a thousand years, this was what he would remember.

The bliss of a warm embrace. Feeling wanted. Feeling needed. Feeling anything.

He had Buffy with him now. If he had to cross every step of his inferno alone, he would do it.

He would make this last.

Chapter 22

A sort of estranged sense of normality stretched across the morning dew and lingered with each pair of eyes that wafted in an endless sea of uncomfortable silence. The concession into the dining room for the expected morning routine not downsized for any palpable cause; the Millers were as friendly as ever. They sat the breakfast on the table and, as they had every morning prior, left their guests to their own devices. The table itself was too full to seat two additional patrons as it was. Thus, and in loo of everything that had happened, the Scoobies took solemn seat at their decided spots, watching the Senior Staffers with both anticipation and concern.

One would have thought it an improvement that Buffy and Spike remained conspicuously absent; it only served to make Josh and Sam more nervous. Donna, who was still numb from the day before and her midnight realization that—yes, Spike was a vampire—sat in silence, a dazed, far-away expression on her face.

Despite the comfort of presence, it was a note of relief that Giles had not opted to make the trek across town and join them for breakfast. And no one really expected to see Toby for the remainder of the trip.

"So," Wesley said, initiating a step forward after wafting in a period of general discomfort. "Did everyone sleep all right?"

Josh and Sam paused simultaneously in mid-bite and glanced up with dual stares of incredulity.

"Xander and I copulated several times over the course of the evening," Anya offered with a smile. "And again preceding this morning's breakfast ritual. I am still basking in my post-coitus relaxation."

More silence. Harris groaned lightly but offered his girlfriend a smile of reassurance.

It was awkward pool—sitting and staring at one another. Unsure of what territory was common territory anymore. Willow cleared her throat and flashed the others consolatory smile. "Well," she said with a slightly nervous laugh. "That was definitely inappropriate."

"All things considered," the former Watcher countered, pleasantries dropped, "I believe we can all use a form of distraction."

Sam frowned and shook his head. "I don't see why we should avoid the issue at all," he replied reasonably. The look he received from Josh in turn did not follow that line of thinking, but he shrugged and turned his attention back to the others. "There's nothing to hide anymore—and if there is, I really don't think we want to know about it. If we're going to be here, stuck together for an indeterminable amount of time, we might as well confront the elephant in the middle of the room rather than avoiding it."

The redhead smiled tentatively and nodded her encouragement.

"We're good at confronting elephants," Josh muttered. "Especially when the world no longer makes sense."

"Did you catch the briefing this morning?" Donna asked with interest. "Danny asked CJ if she had any new information on us, or why we haven't been around."

"Yeah, and her 'that really has nothing to do with foreign policy' remark made me feel real missed." The Deputy Chief of Staff expelled a deep sigh. "She can't really say anything until we know what's going on. And at this rate..."

"None of us know what's going on anymore," Xander pointed out, still flushed from his girlfriend's frankness but definitely willing to move on. "Giles started spewing a bunch of mumbo-jumbo last night and this stuff with the book, our being trapped in Natchez by a wall of nothing where the locals don't seem to mind and Faith doing god-knows-what. Are we even still worried with her? I am completely lost."

"Well, look on the bright side," Josh retorted. "At least you've had this for more than thirty-six hours."

"I don't see what the big is," Harris shot back. "You live, you work, there are demons and the occasional apocalypse. Buffy helps. Buffy saves the world. You go back to work. It's always been this way. It was this way two days ago, and it will be this way tomorrow. Nothing has changed. Case closed."

Willow scowled at him. "Case closed for us, yeah. We come from Sunnydale where, even before we knew about demons, there was the general acceptance that something was not right. I mean, our high school had a national mortality rate."

Sam's eyes boggled. "What?"

"We always just thought it was normal," the redhead continued. "I'd never lived anywhere else. And yeah, finding dead guys in lockers is not exactly what one would call ordinary circumstances, but—"

"There were dead guys in your lockers?" Josh demanded, eyes wide. "Man. And I thought I had it rough in high school."

Donna was staring at them. "And you thought this was normal?"

Wesley offered a thin smile. "In the world we come from, it was."

The Witch shrugged in accordance and offered another nod. "Well, as Oz pointed out, it made a lot of sense, actually."

"Who's Oz?" Josh asked, perking a brow. "Is there some law in Sunnydale that says you all have to have names that are right out of the circus?"

There was a pause at that—Willow was effectively tongue-tied. Her face turned red and she glanced down helplessly. The subject itself was still sore but further in the stages of healing than anyone would have thought, given her disposition when they left California. And no one seated at the breakfast table could have any doubt as to who was responsible for that turn around.

But still. Oz was a big part of her life. To think of him as past made her uneasy.

"Oz was a werewolf," Anya said diplomatically. "He used to date Willow."

"A werewolf?" Donna about choked. "A ­werewolf?"

"There are werewolves now?" Josh reiterated, equally unglued. "And the pile of things that Leo has yet to tell me continues to stack higher."

Sam's eyes were wide, almost crestfallen. "You dated a werewolf?" he asked, voice small as though such was a statement of character. "Okay. Now I'm having a complex."

"Where is Fido now?" the other man asked, reaching for the biscuits. "Why aren't you two off making a bunch of puppies somewhere?"

"Josh," Donna berated, flashing Willow an apologetic glance.

"You do realize we're talking about a werewolf, here. As in those things that you see at Halloween and in Michael Jackson music videos."

"Oh, for crying out loud." Sam threw his napkin into his plate and sent his colleague a long, exasperated look. "We're talking about a lot of things that none of us expected to ever talk about. Vampires, witches, slayers, demons—is it so radical, with that list, to throw in werewolves? You keep talking about them as if they don't exist."

"Well, before I came here, they didn't!"

"It is difficult to grasp," Wesley said, holding up a hand. "And we're sorry that we had to get you involved. The entire matter is extremely unfortunate. However, to understand, or even help us at all, you have to look beyond the given of the past thirty years and accept what is and always has been. Your government is obviously a part of it. I've actually heard rumors that their connection to the demonic world goes back even further than this Initiative would suggest. But the truth of the matter is, the world does go on. It hasn't changed—you have simply been granted new information to apply to it. It is exactly the same as it was before you left. The difference being you now know something that you did not know before."

"What about you guys?" Donna asked softly. "Are you still looking for Faith? I'm confused...I still don't see why the authorities aren't involved—"

"You'd understand if you ever saw Buffy in action," Xander commented. "Slayers are strong."

"But Buffy's so small," the blonde objected, as though it mattered anymore.

"Buffy's size is what boggles your mind?" Josh asked, perking a brow. "Not the fact that we're eating breakfast with a witch, a demon, and a guy who works at Hogwarts?"

"Former demon," Harris was quick to clarify.

Wesley cleared his throat. "It was the Watcher's Council," he clarified. "And I do not work for them anymore. I am a rogue demon hunter."

Donna frowned. "What's a rogue demon?"

"I really must stop saying that..."

"The Faith thing is complicated now," Willow began, drawing everyone's attention back home. "We came here thinking she was the reason we're here. We didn't plan it; it just sort've happened. She was our problem, so we were gonna fix it. No big. Now Giles thinks that Faith is just what brought us here—that we're here for something else. Or maybe Faith was brought here for something else and we just ended up getting in the way. It's complicated."

"And he thinks all can be solved by flipping through that book?" Josh asked.

Xander smiled wryly. "You'd be surprised."

"Really, at this point, I don't think I would be."

Sam's eyes went wide and he turned to Willow suddenly. More and more, their conversations were becoming verbal boxing matches with the individual players trading off as moderators. "Where is Buffy?" he asked, voice overly loud. "Is she helping Giles, or...?"

"No." The redhead frowned. "She and Spike made an early night of it, I thought. She was wiped and Spike wanted to get her in bed."

Xander gaped at her. "Willow!"

"To sleep!" she protested, but it was to no avail. The table had taken the innuendo and run with it.

"Yeah, I'll bet he did," Josh agreed.

"She could do worse," Anya added reasonably. "I know that my sexual prowess gained momentum after a hundred years or so. And vampires have amazing stamina. I'm sure Buffy will not be displeased in the orgasms Spike can give her."

"Ahn, can we please not use the words 'Buffy', 'Spike', and 'orgasms' in the same sentence?"

Josh turned to Sam with a small, bemused grin. "You know that sticky-wicket that we were looking at?"

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, no. The Republican Leadership would flip."

"When do they not?"

Donna shook her head and looked back to Willow. "I don't understand the hostility about Buffy and Spike," she said. "I know it has to do with his being a vampire, but I don't get why that is worse than being a demon or a witch. You said your old boyfriend is a werewolf. I just don't understand why Spike's the odd man out."

The redhead opened her mouth to reply, but Xander leapt in. A madman to intercept a canon before it exploded across the table.

"He's not a man," he said adamantly. "At all. Vampires aren't human. Willow's human. She's a witch, but she's human. Same with Oz. And Anya. She's not a demon anymore. Spike isn't human. He's dead. He has no soul."

Josh cocked a brow. "So tell us how you really feel."

Donna still looked confused, and with good reason. She frowned and gestured broadly, digging further into a tangle that no one was yet prepared to unwind. "So...if Spike were to become human, you wouldn't have a problem with him?"

"Vampires can't become human."

"But if he did?"

There was a considerable silence at that. Willow arched her brows and turned to her friend curiously. Anya was also watching with some interest. After all, if he denounced the Slayer's right in that regard—should there be an interest, and all had pretty much agreed there was—then he would be in serious conflict with his own moral standings.

"I don't know," Xander replied at last, voice somewhat calmer. "I...my problem with Spike might be..." He trailed off numbly—unsure how to finish. If there was a way to finish. Another silence settled on the room; he appeared genuinely befuddled at this. Unnerved by the weight of his own prejudice, and had nothing more to say on the matter.

Donna glanced back the Witch, who nodded hurriedly. It seemed continuously up to them to drag everyone out of the trench when it seemed they were getting ready to bury themselves alive. "So," she said brightly. "A witch, huh?"

Willow pursed her lips and paled a bit, but offered a quiet nod and smiled. "Yep. That's what they tell me."

The topic was well placed and succeeded in drawing everyone back to the more tangible matters at hand. And true, while the redhead didn't entirely enjoy being the center of attention, she was getting better at mastering the art of not caring all too much.

"You do spells, huh?" Josh said, acknowledging without words that the question was inane but similarly moving to a dismissal of apathy. "That's...weird."

The Witch smiled faintly. At least he was trying. "Yeah," she replied. "Spellcasting typically falls under the guidelines."

"I always thought that witchcraft was a religion, not a practice," he observed, visibly straining for conversation, even if it was ultimately appreciated. "Couple girls back in school were into that stuff. They never did anything involving spells."

Donna frowned. "How do you know?"

"Too many bake sales. There was no way they had time to actually do spells."

"Maybe the spells were to do the bake sales."

"No," Willow intervened, "he's right. Most of the 'witches' that you meet aren't real witches, so to speak. Like my Wicca group back at UC Sunnydale is kind of the same way. There are people who follow the religion, and there are people who practice it." She shrugged. "I practice it."

The blonde woman was studying her with intrigue. "Is it hard? The kind of witchcraft that you practice?"

Willow smiled in turn. "Well, you know that gray area between brain surgery and nuclear physics?"

"So yes."

"Donna," Josh said warningly.

"It takes patience, resolve, and control." The Witch paused and licked her lips, casting her friends a long, pointed look. "Three things that I'm still working on. It can be disheartening. I mean, I've been in the practice for almost three years now and I still have trouble with a lot of my spells."

Harris grinned in spite of himself. "That's putting it mildly, Will."

"Okay, so my magic goes wonky."

"She cast a spell that made Xander a demon magnet," Anya interjected.

Sam glanced at Willow askance. "Why would you do that?" he asked, almost fearfully. As though her being in possession of such power made it all the easier for her to seek revenge on those that wronged her.

"I didn't mean to," she argued. "It was after Oz left. I was hurting and I wanted the hurt to stop, s-so I cast a spell that my will be done. A-and it worked. Only the hurt didn't go away—I accidentally made Giles blind, Xander a demon magnet...and Buffy and Spike were engaged for about two hours."

"I don't think that last one is too far off the mark," Wesley muttered.

"That's not all," the former demon argued. "Willow debated tampering with dark magic when she found Oz and Veruca naked together."

The Witch's head dropped into her waiting hands. "Thanks, Anya."

"Dark magic?" Donna echoed, eyes wide. "As in—"

"Hey, I was going through something."

"Who's Veruca?" Sam asked.

"Another testament as to why the people of California have names that sound like new variations of illegal drugs," Josh suggested, wincing as Donna elbowed him.

Willow glanced to Xander and shook her head. Her friend very palpably didn't know what to make of that shake, and thus interpreted it as means of continuation because the matter was still too touchy for her.

"She was a werewolf, too," he explained. "She and Oz..."

"So you cast evil black magic on your boyfriend because he cheated on you?" Josh demanded before turning to pat Sam's shoulder. "Watch out, buddy."

"I didn't actually do it!" the redhead objected.

Donna shrugged. "I would have. You have no idea how many times I wanted to curse my ex-boyfriend."

The Deputy Chief of Staff's eyes twinkled. "Was this before or after you left me to go back to him?"

"Shut up."

"What's that?" Wesley asked.

"Nothing. It's a thing with them," Sam replied, turning back to Willow. "How long ago was this?"

She licked her lips. "He left about...I don't know...we had so many things happen at once. But I cast the Will Be Done spell not too long ago. It was right before Faith came out of her coma and swapped bodies with Buffy. I went to his room and he had sent for his things...he left Sunnydale to try to find a cure for his wolfiness. I don't know..."

"So..." The Deputy Communications Director frowned. "You two are still together?"

"No. I don't know where he is." She glanced down. "I don't know if he's ever coming back. And...I just don't know."

"Is there any way you could teach me some spells?" Donna asked, drawing her attention away from the past and Oz and to an area of growing bemusement. The woman appeared genuinely enthralled. Josh appeared horrified. "Like how to make coffee or type memos or fight inflation?"

Sam cracked a grin at that. Josh's horror turned into a scowl. "Yeah," the latter said, taking a sip of his cooling coffee. "Teach Donna how to wield magic. That doesn't spell disaster in any way."

She frowned. "You're such a downer."

"Well, up until recently, you were freaking out about a ghost cat!"

"Yes, and under the circumstances, I believe I was not wrong to raise the issue as a State concern."

"You're impossible," he complained good-naturedly.

"Impervious," she corrected. "And I'm not wrong. Look at what has happened. Firstly, we now are aware that the paranormal exists. Secondly, we're stuck because of aforementioned paranormal forces. Thirdly, Sam has potentially initiated the apocalypse."

"Hey!" the accused interjected.

"It's just 'an' apocalypse," Xander corrected. "We've faced too many apocalypses to give any one too much credit. Buffy thwarts them."

"Then they're not really apocalypses," the blonde pointed out.

"A-and we don't even know what Sam did," Willow said. "It might be nothing." The Scoobies looked at her dumbly. She flushed and glanced down. "Okay, so it's probably a very big something, but that doesn't necessarily mean apocalypse."

"Now all we need is Donna trying to make magic coffee and accidentally sending nukes to North Korea," Josh retorted with a grin.

"In any regard, we should probably head over and see if Rupert has found anything," Wesley said, standing diplomatically. "I trust him to phone us, of course, but we cannot be increasing the productivity by sitting around and squabbling about things. I suggest we adjourn to the Eola Hotel before deciding on a mode of operation."

Willow nodded. "Agreed. But someone should go get Buffy and Spike."

"Why Spike?" Anya asked. "He can't go anywhere. It's sunny."

"Well, we should go get Buffy."

A silence fell over the table. No one truly wanted to approach the townhouse. While the chances were good that they wouldn't find anything incriminating, the very thought that they might was enough to set some people round the bend. And true, the Senior Staffers didn't really know why such a match would not be fortuitous, they thought it best to avoid the matter altogether.

Finally, Xander drew in a breath. "I'll go."

The redhead's eyes went wide. "I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe I—"

"Don't worry. I'll act like a sane person." He smiled thinly. "She's Buffy. And yeah, while I don't approve of much of anything she's done lately, I'm gonna try to remember that my not liking Angel didn't help one bit in the 'her dating him' department."

"Angel?" Josh asked. "A guy named Angel?"

"A guy vampire named Angel."

"Man, I'd've hated to be him on the playground in the third grade."

Donna quirked her head. "Angel is a vampire, too?"

"And an entirely different story that Wes can explain while I head into the line of Don't Wanna Go There." He stood and made his way to the exit just as swiftly. "Be back in a sec."

He was gone. And all eyes fell on the former Watcher, even those that already knew the tale.

A sigh escaped his lips. "Well," he began, "odd as it sounds, Angel's relationship with Buffy started in 1898 with the body of a murdered virgin and the curse of her gypsy clan..."

Josh glanced to Donna. "We're gonna be here for a while," he said.

Every breath he took lingered with the sweet scent of vanilla. He didn't need to breathe, of course, and more often than not, he didn't know why he did. A habit that refused to die with his body. One habit of many. It was a passing whimsy—he hardly even noticed when he did it anymore. Except sometimes, she would get a funny look on her face as though contemplating that very thought. She would quirk her head at him for a minute, open her mouth with words he could taste ready on her tongue, then decide against it and move on. He didn't know when he had started noticing that; now, like his breathing, it seemed habit.

Spike smiled, basking in the feel of this. It took very little for the night to return to him. The night and all the glorious things that had come with it. The hint of raspberry tainted the air from where the candles had burned to a shallow end. They had enjoyed the dessert together, seemingly hours after they withdrew from the simplicity of a warm embrace.

She was all around him. Even still. Now. They had retreated into the den god-knows-when and discovered that one of the older television stations was running a Monty Python marathon, followed by shorts of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. It would have been easy for Buffy to impose space between them; there was another moderately comfortable chair on the other side of the room. But at her suggestion, she had led him to the sofa-bed he had used not too long before and curled up behind him. Her head resting at his chest, her arm wrapped around his middle. Her body quivering with chuckles whenever John Cleese and Terry Gilliam spoke. She began to doze off during Chaplin's 'The Kid,' and awoke toward the end with a sigh of resignation before moving to depart for her own room.

"No," he had whispered urgently, pressing a kiss against her cheek, then again to the pulse of her neck. "Stay here."

"I—"

"Please, Buffy. Stay with me."

It was obvious she hadn't wanted to move in the first place. With their relationship undefined, though, and the barrier set by both, she didn't know what was and wasn't permissible until they decided to cast reservations aside. She had smiled at him gratefully and brushed her lips against his cheek in turn, then settled and dozed back to sleep.

Which was why he was waking with his golden goddess in his arms. Sleeping on the sofa couldn't have been as comfortable as she was making it look. Her head was at his chest still; an arm still draped around his middle. His own had wound around her waist and itched up the hem of her shirt so he could feel the warmth of her skin. The television was no longer on, which he found odd as he had no memory of turning it off. It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered. He had Buffy in his arms. Nothing could ever matter if not for that.

And...was that Xander coming around the back?

Spike's eyes went wide, body clenching and arms around his girl tightening inexplicably. If the boy walked in and saw the Slayer cuddled in his arms, words were going to fly and none of them would be pretty.

He had to get her to the back. And fast.

The vampire drew in a deep breath and started to rise, only to be forced back by a sleepy murmur and a tightening of arms around his middle. Buffy crooned a bit and rubbed her cheek against him kittenishly, flexing to find a comfortable position and sighing with contentment before she rested again. That was all it took. Spike's urgency deflated, and he reclined once more.

If Xander wanted to throw a fit, he wouldn't stop him.

Well, not unless he started yelling and disturbed Buffy's slumber. The vampire had no earthly idea when last the Slayer obtained a decent night's rest, and they had stayed up fairly late watching movies. She deserved this.

There was a light rasping at the door. "Hello?"

Spike licked his lips. Neither he nor Buffy had a habit of locking the doors. They did it when they remembered to, but she was strong enough to fend off anyone who fancied breaking in. And unless they wielded a wooden stake or were hell-bent on setting people on fire, there wasn't much damage an intruder could inflict upon him.

Meaning, in Laymen's terms, that nothing prevented Xander from walking right on in.

Which was exactly what he did.

"Hey, Spi—oh." He stopped dead in the doorway. The vampire winced a bit at the light, but the veranda was at such an angle that the sun had no chance of seeping through the entrance. "I...uhhh...what the hell?"

"Pipe down, White Bread," the Cockney retorted. "Slayer's sleepin'."

"Yeah...doesn't she have her own bed?"

"Fell asleep watchin' flicks, s'all." He shrugged as best he could without disturbing her. "Din't wanna bother her. 'Sides, after yesterday, was right worn out, myself. Anyway, 'f she wants to have at me later for actin' 'indecent' or what all, that'll be her fare. Don'cha think?"

Xander didn't say anything. His eyes were taking in the coziness of the scene. He wet his lips and nodded, visibly fighting to keep himself from making an outburst. It was surprising in that sense; Spike would have figured him to cast all protocol aside and go in for the kill. He didn't. He just nodded.

Spike gestured broadly with his free hand. "'S there a reason why you're here?"

A pause. Harris blinked dumbly and shook his head. "Oh, right. Ummm, we're all heading to the Eola to see if there's been any progress on the book or what the hell's going on."

The vampire arched a cool brow. "Don' you think Rupert'd call 'f there was?"

"Yeah, well, it's better to be doing something rather than just waiting." Xander shrugged. "Ummm. When Buffy wakes up, let her know where we are. 'Kay?"

Spike couldn't believe his ears. "Sure."

"Right. Thanks."

That was it. He turned and left the next minute, shutting the door behind him.

The vampire sat dumbfounded for endless seconds. "Bloody bizarre that was," he muttered, running a hand through the Slayer's hair.

At first, he thought it was that subtle movement that jarred her awake. She yawned softly against him and stretched with a low moan before sitting up. When he saw her eyes, he banished all worries of having been the cause of her disturbance. It was obvious that she had been alert for some time.

Which perplexed him even more. As a vampire, he was generally attuned to these things.

"Yeah," she said, twisting to gaze out the window before looking back at him with a small smile. "I figured he'd start screaming curses."

"Mornin', sweetheart."

"Good morning." She preened against him and released a sigh of content. He wondered fleetingly if he was still asleep and the real morning had yet to begin. "You're all cuddly."

The notion should have offended him. Really, it should have. The Big Bad...cuddly? No sir, not this Big Bad. No way. No how. Huh uh. And yet, that sentiment didn't match the flood of warmth that kissed his insides. He couldn't find it within himself to be offended when the words made him so bloody happy. Sodding nancy-boy ponce. "Cuddly, am I?"

"Mhmm. I feel like I've been sleeping for two days." She yawned in direct contradiction, and he found it adorable. "Which is strange, because this couch isn't that comfy. Did you sleep all right?"

"Never better."

"I wasn't crowding you at all?"

He smiled. "'ve never been more comfortable in my life, pet. 'Sides, 'm the one who asked you to stay."

"Ask me again, 'cause I don't wanna get up." She defiantly laid her head upon his chest once more. "We've done a bajillion sweeps of this town. If Giles finds something, he finds something. He's just gonna get cranky and send us away."

Spike's smile turned devious and he ran his tongue over his teeth in a manner that had her skin blushing prettily the next second. "Wanna play hooky?"

"You're a bad influence."

"The baddest, baby."

"And, much as I'd like to, we should get ready and go before Pod Xander gets beaten up by Real Xander."

He barked a laugh at that, making no move to let her up. "How long've you been awake, sweetling?"

"About twenty minutes longer than you."

He scowled. "How the bloody hell did I not know this? Vamp senses my—"

Buffy shrugged with a small, secretive small. "What can I say? Feminine ingenuity." Then, to top it all off, she leaned up and brushed a kiss across his lips. Small and familiar; like old lovers waking up after many mornings just like this.

They froze at the same moment, seemingly recognizing the significance on the same wave level. And Spike couldn't help himself. Emotion stormed his eyes and seized his reason.

She was blushing again; looking anywhere but him. "I..."

"Buffy," he gasped, fisting her golden locks and pulling her mouth to his. This touch wasn't nearly as domestic; his tongue tackled hers, tasting her to the fullest. God, there was never enough of this. Never enough. He had never felt such ardent passion for someone in the course of his existence. Not anyone. It poured into every touch they shared, every caress, and had them gasping for air within seconds.

"You kissed me," she said obviously, regaining some ground.

"Well, you kissed me first." He nuzzled her hair. "Thought kissin' was all right now."

"It is. Definitely is. It's just...I have morning breath."

Spike smothered a grin. She was adorable. "Don' care," came the answering murmur before he pulled her down for another long kiss. "Bloody perfect the way you are."

"Why do vampires not have morning breath?"

His grin softened and he ran a hand across her cheek. "Don' have breath, don' have its variations. Simple as that."

"You guys have it too easy."

"Yeh. Easy's the word. Can't go out in daylight, can't go in some place unless invited firs'. Have to put up with the rot of myth an' the like by hack writers an' Hollywood producers." He smirked. "Have to put up with the Slayer."

"Yeah. This Slayer's really scary where you're concerned."

"Bloody push-over," he agreed.

"Hey!"

"An' she's completely hot for me."

Buffy rolled her eyes as her blush deepened. "Get bent."

"Bend you over somethin' one of these days."

"In your dreams."

He winked. "Only the best ones, luv."

"We better get ready."

"Can't go anywhere." Spike pointed to the ceiling. "Sun's out."

Buffy's face fell a little at that. He shared her sentiment. There was very little they had done separately since arriving in Natchez. Since having that fight the first night. And, truth be told, he wasn't at all wild about the notion of sending her out with her very biased friends when he couldn't be there to counter accusations. Not that her resolve wasn't every bit as strong as his was; he just didn't care what they thought. She did. She cared a lot, and the thought that the Scoobies could potentially get in the way of whatever was happening between them burned him to no end. "Oh, right," she said at last, crawling to her feet slowly. "Okay, well..."

"'ll make you breakfast 'f you wanna shower."

She stared at him. "You will?"

Spike shrugged. "Sure. Think we have pancake mix. An' maybe some leftovers from last night."

"You're gonna cook for me?"

"What'd I jus' say?"

Buffy shook her head. "Well, now I know the world is ending."

"How's that?"

"I've found a man who will cook for me and doesn't mind my morning breath."

"You forgot 'dead sexy,' 'world's best kisser,' an' 'delectably shaggable.'"

"Did I mention he has an ego the size of South America?"

Spike shrugged, unable to stop grinning. "Oi. That's nothin' compared to the size of his—"

"I'm showering now."

"An' that image will give me somethin' to think about when I'm showerin'." He winked again as her flush deepened even more, if such was possible. This was a side of the Slayer that no one had seen before. No one. It had to be. And it was all his.

"Toddle off, now," he said a minute later after his teasing pretense dropped, nearing to brush her forehead with a kiss. "'m gonna start on your pancakes."

Buffy paused and licked her lips as though to say something, but decided against it the next minute. Instead, she offered a quick nod and disappeared into the back toward her room without another word.

Spike smiled to the empty den and cast a hand through his hair.

These past two days had been the best of his life. The absolute best. And despite all his happiness, he was terrified. They were in at the start of a potential apocalypse. There was no telling what that meant. What would happen when the sunny skies were overwhelmed with clouds once more.

He wouldn't lose this without a fight.

And if any of the wretched Powers That Be tried to take her away, he would sure as hell give them one.

Chapter 23

A sigh of exasperation filled the air as Giles slammed the phone onto the hook, wearily eying the group that had toddled through the front of the Eola Hotel. There was a certain amount of illogical logic in his frustration; he had been trying to reach them for ten minutes and, despite the timeliness of arrival, it was rather annoying that they had left without waiting for a call of confirmation.

He was relieved, though, to see Buffy without Spike persistently following at the heel. While he had long ago vowed to stay out of his Slayer's personal life and decisions, it was more than disconcerting to see her so carelessly throw aside protocol and leap into a relationship with another vampire. A soulless one at that. A vampire that was not only a vampire, but also one that had—on numerous occasions—attempted to end all their lives. A vampire that until recently set out on a campaign to discover what was wrong with his spontaneous handicap and then fix it. Giles wouldn't pretend to know all the particulars; he also wouldn't delude himself into a false sense of complacency. If Buffy was allowing herself to become emotionally entangled, he suspected that there had to be at least some faith that she had sat down and weighed out the possible range of consequences.

The one slice of small comfort he conceded was that they were away from Sunnydale—away from home—and that people often did strange things without the echo of outcome to answer them while on vacation. And granted, while trying to find Faith and potentially facing an apocalypse was far from a vacation, he knew it was the closest thing she had had for some time.

"Giles," Willow said in greeting, snapping him from his reverie. "You look like your favorite puppy died."

"We didn't wanna bother you," Xander continued with an easy shrug, "but we're getting on the extreme side of restless with the massive doing of nothing back at the place."

Sam chimed in helpfully. "We wanted to know if you needed help with the thing."

"Or a break," Donna suggested. "Or..." She nudged her boss.

Josh blinked at her. "Don't look at me," he said. "I was just following everyone else."

"Xander declined my invitation to spend the day obtaining mutual orgasms," Anya said with a faux-cheery smile. "So here I am."

"We're all here to help," Wesley added. "With anything you need."

There was a pause. Giles removed his glasses and shot Buffy a pointed look, asking for her input without words. When the Slayer realized it was her turn to offer her reason for being present, she shrugged and offered a half-smile. "I'm here because I figured it was time we...you know...started contributing. Now that the full is out and about, no more tiptoeing around issues is required. That and it's sort've my job."

"A job that you've been neglecting for nearly three days," Harris pointed out.

She frowned. "Hey. That first night, yes, Will, Donna and I partied at the diner. Then I got distracted."

"I'll say."

Her eyes narrowed even further. "Ummm, the phantom car heading right to St. Francisville? Being trapped in the Addams' house? The book? Any of that ring a bell?"

The elder Watcher cleared his throat and stepped in before his children threw down in an all-out screaming match. "Speaking of which. I believe I have discovered what occurred that night that made Faith appear to be in two different places at once." He tossed a hesitant gaze to Sam, who smiled a weak smile of reassurance before Willow reached back and took his hand almost out of instinct. "It's actually very simple and I am therefore appalled that I did not think of it before." He nodded at Buffy. "Your pull with Faith is not unlike that of a vampire's. Not unlike, but different enough that you do not realize it. While there has never been a case of two slayers before you, the Council seemingly has an answer for everything, even circumstances as unprecedented as this."

She stared at him blankly. "Your point?"

"What you saw was an image of what your senses are supposed to target. It was a double, Buffy. A form of astral-projection—like Billy, when Sunnydale was literally a living nightmare." He smiled grimly. "Furthermore, since you failed to visually confirm that Faith was in the vehicle you and Spike followed, I have reason to believe that the projection itself was not at Faith's hand at all."

"Why not?" Josh asked, as though he knew what was being said.

"Because the double was based on a feeling—a sixth sense. If it was Faith, there would be no ambiguity as to her appearance. She knows well what she looks like, therefore planting the image is hardly difficult." The elder Watcher expelled a deep breath. "Whatever used her to get you to St. Francisville was working with minimal persuasion. Its forces were restricted then."

"Of course," Wesley murmured in stilled bewilderment. "Whatever drove Faith here must have known that we would follow; or that there would be people who followed with intimate knowledge of her patterns. Or—"

Josh held up a hand. "You're saying this Faith chick came here for a reason?"

"I'm saying she was driven to Natchez by forces outside her control," Giles replied. "Something wanted her here."

"Why?"

"Because we were coming," Willow answered glumly, her shoulders slumping with dreary realization. "Maybe even you. Who knows? It got us here, didn't it?"

"Why would we all need to be in Natchez?" Donna asked, eyes shadowed with concern. "I don't understand...why are we a factor at all."

"For this." Giles held up the book. "Our mysterious guide was operating on restricted powers until..." He cleared his throat and nodded at Sam. "Until the book was read from."

Josh's brows arched. "You're saying that Sam reading some old book gave a big nothing some umph?"

"I have reason to believe that, yes."

"And he just happened to read the exact passage needed for this...whatever...to trap us in this god-forsaken pissant town?"

A thin smile spread across the elder Watcher's lips. "Well," he said, "I have yet to deduce whether it was the recitation of a specific passage or simply by reading the words that were on the page...any page. Whatever it was, though, has restored the...the..."

"Thing," Donna, Josh, and Sam provided simultaneously.

Xander and Willow traded a bemused glance.

"Ummm, quite. It has restored this...thing...to at least an amount of power considerable enough to keep us grounded." Giles replaced his glasses. "There is more about this book that I need to divulge before any other action is put into motion. Namely, the proprietor, its powers, and a reasonable assumption on what it hopes to accomplish."

Sam licked his lips nervously. "Wh-what's that going to do?"

"Give us ideas on how to stop it," came the soft reply. Buffy had a familiar, determined look about her that the Scoobies were collectively relieved to see. She glanced up a minute later, eyes finding Giles's with a nod of acknowledgement. "All right. So we're here. You thinking research party, patrol party, or a mixture of both?"

"Actually, I..." A flustered look overcame him for brief seconds; he shook it off just as quickly and offered a nod. "Quite. Ummm, there are some terms and references that Willow can help with. Wesley and Anya can stay with me to research the text." He turned to the former demon before she could protest. "I need your knowledge with some of the higher beings that are mentioned. Their powers and the like. Whatever you know, I need to know. All right?"

"What about us?" Donna asked, raising her hand. "I want to help."

Willow shrugged. "You wanna research terms with me?"

She nodded, oddly genuine. "Sounds like fun."

"Only you would find that fun," Josh remarked.

"It might be beneficial," Giles continued, unhampered. He flashed a quick glance to the Deputy Chief of Staff. "If you would call your supervisor—the one who told you of the Initiative—"

"Leo," Josh confirmed with a nod.

"Yes. Whatever he can tell us—anything he can tell us—"

"There is reason to believe that Leo is the only person in the West Wing that knows about it," Sam said. "And even so, he is generally not in the habit of handing over classified evidence just because we might have a situation."

Xander blinked at him. "Why not?"

"It doesn't work that way."

Buffy shrugged. "Tell him that I'm the Slayer, and in order for me to do my job, I need all the information on what I'm fighting that I can get."

Josh arched a brow. "What makes you think that that will be effective?"

"Well, if he knows diddly about demons, he should know about me. And if he doesn't know about me, he needs to read up." The Slayer smiled sweetly. "When it comes to dealing with all things otherworldly, I'm the one you go to. 'Kay?"

"Look, lady. If the government—"

"Don't give me shit about the government. There's been an apocalypse every year since I came to Sunnydale, and the government did nothing to stop them. If I hadn't been there, you wouldn't be here."

Giles offered a dry smile at that. "She's right, you know."

"We're going to need every resource we can manage," Wesley said. "You're going to have to learn to trust us if you want to walk away from this unscathed."

There was a brief silence. Sam and Josh exchanged a long look. "We'll call," the former said, nodding a little with a small smile. "What is Toby doing?"

"I believe he spent a good portion of the night talking to your Press Secretary," Giles retorted. "He got rather pissed then decided to highlight in every extreme why he always gets the blunt of the bad assignments. After he was through with me, he rang her up, and I didn't see him for the rest of the evening."

"No wonder she was pissy in her briefing," Donna muttered.

The elder Watcher shook his head. "This is all beside the point." He pivoted to Buffy. "You and Xander should do as much surveying of the town as possible before the sun goes down," he said. "I believe you two are the only ones left without something to do, so there you have it. We need to know what, if anything, has changed since yesterday aside from the invisible barrier...the sooner, the better."

"Before the sun goes down?"

He pursed his lips, hesitation embedded in his eyes; reluctance in league with comprehension. "While we do not know what is going to happen, or what may already be in motion, I would request that you do your patrolling with Spike, just to further ensure your safety."

"Why?" Xander intervened. "It's not like he can hit anything. And what makes you think that he'd stop Buffy from getting hurt?"

The Slayer looked at him with interest. It seemed Pod Xander was momentarily in recession.

"He would," Donna argued. "He cares about her."

"He—"

"Why can't he hurt anything?" Josh asked. "The guy's a vampire. Aren't vampires strong, or is that another one of Hollywood's embellishments?"

Willow smiled. "No. Vampires are of the massively strong. Definitely. It's just that you—or the Initiative—put a chip in his head. He's all with the passive-aggression now, or else he gets a major ouchie."

Sam smothered a smile.

"He can't hurt anything," Anya concluded.

"You mean he can't hurt humans."

The lobby stilled effectively. All eyes landed on Josh.

"What?" Buffy asked, voice trembling. "He can—"

"I'm pretty sure that Leo said the neurological implants are only applicable to humans." The Deputy Chief of Staff shrugged. "I guess we don't much care if demons are taking out other demons."

"Spike can hit..." The Slayer licked her lips; eyes alight in a fashion no one had seen before. As though she was suddenly filled to the brim with excitement and would burst if she couldn't let it out. "He can...oh, this is gonna make him so—" She caught herself, realizing that the others didn't much care if the resident vampire was in the best of spirits. She did, though, and that was all that mattered. Still, with their budding relationship soaring with disapproval, perhaps it wasn't best to bring attention to the fact that they were getting cozier by the minute. Thus, she shrugged and finished on a note of feigned indifference, "He'll be interested to know that."

"Fantastic," Giles murmured, shaking the thought away before it could settle. "Well, if that's the end of it, I say we disperse. Willow and Donna, you will need a list of resources that I need you to track down. I would advise you head to the library, if you can find out where it is located. See if you can find any information on the Internet. Wesley, Anya, and myself will remain here to look through the books. Sam, Josh...you might like to confer with Toby once your call has been made. Buffy..."

"Xander and I hit daytime patrol. Gotcha."

Her casual acceptance persuaded a smile to the elder Watcher's face. And though he knew the words were wasted on her, he thought to add them just the same. "Be careful."

True to form, the Slayer shrugged and offered a grin. "Hey," she argued. "It's me."

"And for that, I believe I have cause to worry."

She smirked but nodded. The most capable of them all, and truer words had never sounded.

Had Xander not taken immediate advantage of their assigned time together to attack her personal relationship with Spike and the choices she had made the minute they stepped into an area of solitude—at least away from the others—she would have been concerned. From the casual acceptance of the morning to the slightly snippy exchange inside, he was acting the part of someone who was trying to honor her decisions with disavowal but an acknowledgment that it was none of his business. He hated vampires, always had, and never made a light case of it. Thus his behavior up until now had been rather remarkable. Oh, there had been a slip-up here or there, but on a general whole, he was an entirely different person with different views. Thus, naturally, it raised some general questions and apprehension for his well-being. She thought perhaps he had suffered a minor heat stroke and was relying on selective alternatives.

Fortunate for her, he gave her nothing to worry about.

"Just out of curiosity," he said not two minutes after they were alone. Natchez was a variably larger town than Sunnydale, and while she had no qualms about walking anywhere, getting to the cemetery from mid-downtown wasn't exactly going to be easy. Giles was correct in his assumption if he wanted them back before sundown. "When did you forget that Spike is a vampire?"

The Slayer groaned and rolled her eyes, holding up a hand. "Don't. Just don't."

"No, I wanna know. After all, if you two are gonna be so close, I'd like a couple reasons why you don't think he's a reasonable threat anymore."

"It's complicated, Xander."

"How so?"

"I don't wanna talk about this."

He shrugged. "Sorry if I can't see it the way you do. Less than a month ago, you hated the guy with a passion and were looking for any reason to reduce him to tiny Spike bits."

Buffy lulled her head heavenward. "This is what happens," she informed the sky. "I tell him I don't wanna talk about this, so naturally, we talk about it."

"I don't see how you could've gone from being so—"

"That was then, Xander. Drop it."

"I—"

The blonde groaned again and stomped her foot, pivoting to face her friend with more than a note of exasperation. "Look, there's no reason for him to be here. Okay? He came here as a favor to me. More over, he had the opportunity to take advantage of my body when Faith was in control. He didn't. And you know what, he's the only one that's been here for me since we arrived. So bite me."

Xander stared at her. "And you wonder why we're worried."

"I don't—"

"You shut yourself up with him, Buff. Kinda hard to be there for you if the only one you let close is a vampire that nobody here trusts except you."

She shook her head. "You're way outta line."

"I don't think so."

"Well, obviously—"

"The guy's trying to get his fangs in your throat, Buff! He's a killer, and everyone can see it but you. And if it's not that, then he's trying to get into your pants."

The air dropped dead. Buffy pursed her lips, her eyes suddenly far away. Her skin tingled and her breathing became labored. Hot. Overwhelmed with the shade of recent memory. Too sudden to foresee, too delicious to let go.

His lips, hot and needy against hers. A series of hungry, almost desperate whimpers clawing at the back of his throat. His tongue clashing against her tongue. His hands sliding over her skin, clutching at her shoulders, massaging her breasts. Nimble fingers tugging at her nipples before his mouth dropped to draw them into a frozen inferno of blistering sensationalism. His erection rubbing desperately against her center. His arms abound her with such care, such tender adoration. The look of awe in his eyes, peeling back layers to reveal his inner self.

"Buffy?"

She shook her head, banishing her lustful thoughts to a darker realm of herself. Now was not the time. "Even if that's true, which it's not, it wouldn't be relevant to why he's here."

"He's been all touchy-feely. I'm telling you, he either wants some neck or...some neck."

"That's not true."

"How do you know?"

"'S you an' me, kitten. An' anythin' else jus' doesn't measure up. It's you an' me. God, it has to be somethin'. An' I'm not about to ruin it by leapin' into bed with you. I want it—Christ, how I want it. But I want you more."

"I just know, okay?"

"I'll wait for you, Buffy. Don' rush ahead 'cause that's what you think I want."

"He's evil. Why can you not get that? He's no different from any of the other vamps you go out and stake on a daily basis, only he is, because you won't stake him!"

An exasperated sigh tackled her throat. "Thank you very much, Giles."

"You really think he cares about you?"

No—I know he does. If he didn't, I would've woken up naked in his bed this morning rather than in his arms.

She didn't say that. For whatever reason, it didn't seem like something Xander would react favorably to. Instead, she shrugged, voice quieting. "He's changed."

"Oh really? He's not evil anymore?"

"I didn't say that. He just...he wouldn't hurt me."

"Oh please."

"He wouldn't."

"Right. The same way Angel would never hurt you."

Buffy's eyes darkened. "Spike is not Angel."

Xander nodded emphatically. "Yeah. He doesn't even have a conscience to hold him back. The only thing that stands between him and a killing spree is a chip that those guys—" He pointed in the direction of the Eola Hotel. "—put in his head. That stops working, and then what? You really believe that Spike would continue to bend over backwards just because you asked nicely?"

"I—"

"In case you've forgotten, this is the same Spike that's killed two Slayers. Not just one, my friend, but two." He stopped and stared at her. "Are you so completely convinced that he's not playing up to you so that if the chip ever stops working, you won't even see him coming?"

A nag struck Buffy's resolve, but she shook it off. It was ridiculous. "That's ridiculous."

"He's a vampire, Buff. Plain and simple. Not too long ago, he had me and Will trapped in the factory to do a love spell for him. Mr. Psycho Obsessed With Psycho Girlfriend suddenly turning over a new leaf just because you asked him to?"

That was it. The Slayer stopped dead in her tracks, her shoulders slumping. All fight was gone. She didn't have it in her to face these sorts of questions right now. "Why?" she asked. "Why are you doing this? Can't you just...why are you lecturing me when you're the one dating a demon? What makes you so above it all?"

"I'm not. I get that. But the last time you dated a vampire, Buffy, people died. And this was a vampire that was supposed to have a soul. Spike doesn't even have that." He shook his head. "I don't wanna see you get hurt, is all. I was there for the drama that was Angelus. With him, you had to bring the monster out. Spike's all monster, all the time. No prompting required. And no matter how hard he tries to get you to believe it, that's what he is. I just...I don't wanna see you get hurt again."

Buffy smiled humorlessly and offered a dry nod, temper flaring. "Yeah, well, either shut your eyes or staple your lips," she spat. "Congrats, Xander. You failed."

Her strides gained momentum. She ignored his voice as he called after her. Ignored the heated vibrations of lingering non-apology. Her mind was in overdrive, working desperately to eradicate all of her friend's words from hindsight.

It was too late. Her heart was already on the line.

And whether she liked it or not, there were some truths to be reckoned with. Spike was a vampire. He was the very same vampire that had kidnapped Angel to restore Drusilla. The same that had beaten her senseless outdoors after showcasing her inexperience. The same that had come to her dorm room to kill her, and would have killed Willow had there not been a chip.

This was a vampire that had murdered Slayers before. A vampire that had bragged about his conquests—the only vampire that had truly come close to defeating her. He had wanted to kill her for so long, and he made no secret of that. This was Spike. The Spike she had known for three years. Spike who was crazy for Drusilla, hungry for Slayer blood, and killed anything that stood in the way of either goal.

Spike whom had asked her last night if he could kiss her. Who had held her in his arms, exciting her like no man ever had. Who had cradled her in his embrace until morning. Who had made her pancakes and kissed her goodbye with such longing and promise that it took everything she had not to push him back inside and spend the day making out with him like crazy.

This thing with Spike was making her lose her focus. And what was worse, she didn't want anything to change. She wanted to go back at sunset, receive a greeting kiss that would put the farewell one to shame, and then go out with him to patrol the cemetery. She wanted to laugh with him, share supper, and watch movies. She wanted to know more about Mary. She wanted to know him, pure and simple.

Whatever Xander's prerogative had been, however, something had managed to wiggle inside. Where before she was complacent, the cool fingers of doubt were approaching a firm hold on her heart. He had made her doubt all the wonderful things that had occurred between them in the past couple days. And even if her mind tried to convince her that said doubt was there only by suggestion, it was still there, nonetheless.

This would be what she carried with her all day. A doubt of everything. A realization.

She hoped he was pleased with himself.

Chapter 24

The minute that he opened the door and digested the shifty, uncomfortable look on her face, piecing together what the day had been like was not a matter of much disclosure. Her body language reeked of discomfort. Of hesitation; of doubt. It wasn’t entirely unexpected—not with friends such as hers—but even still, the uncertainty coloring her eyes was heartbreaking.

He could stake himself for having her face the lions alone. While they had not attempted to keep their budding relationship shrouded in secrecy, he should have known—he had known—that her friends would pounce the moment they got her by herself. And they had. They had, because he had not been beside her. Even if rationality told him that the sun had kept him at bay. He had found ways around the sun before.

This was pure madness.

Even still, Spike released a deep breath and flashed a winning smile. No use letting her know that her discomfort was written in large red letters across her face. “Evenin’, sweetling.”

There was a pause at that. His smile faded. Perhaps he had underestimated the strength of his hold. The look coloring her face refused to dither. He didn’t believe he had ever seen her look so tentative. “Buffy?” he asked softly, guiding her inside. “Are you all right, pet?”

There was another pause. She blinked and forced a weak smile, as though only then realizing he was there. Dragging herself from some elusive thought. “Hey,” she said, yanking her arm free and rigidly shoving her way past him. The formality of her countenance was nearly a slap in the face. Her walls were up again, guarding her fortress with quivering resolve. She fidgeted, not knowing what to do with her hands. The deep hazel of her eyes was drenched in misery. “I…” she started, standing awkwardly in the middle of the dining area. The thought refused to conclude itself, and she fell to deeper silence.

When she finally met his gaze, he knew immediately whose neck to wring. There had never really been any doubt, but now there was none at all. She looked thoroughly tormented.

“Buffy—”

“I’m gonna go patrol,” she said abruptly. “I should…we didn’t get to the cemetery, and I should—”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. I need to go alone.”

Spike growled lightly and stalked forward. Bollocks if he let Xander Harris muck up everything that he had been working toward simply because of a prejudice he could do nothing to dissolve. Before he could gauge his own actions, he had grasped Buffy by the arm and pulled her against him, forcing her eyes to his. “What did they say to you?” he rasped. “It was Harris, wasn’ it? What’d he say? Did he—”

“It’s nothing, Spike.” For the flush in her skin and the way she couldn’t maintain eye contact, he wagered she had never told a larger lie. “I just need some time to think…about this.”

“About us,” he corrected, voice guttural.

“I—”

“What did he say, pet? What did he—”

She wrenched her arm free again and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied softly. “It doesn’t matter. I just have to think.”

“Buffy—”

“No, I’m going to go now.”

“Shouldn’t we chat this out?” He didn’t mean for the plea to hit his voice, but it did all the same. He had a terrible feeling that if she walked out, there would be no more discussion.

Fuck it all. How could everything they had done, all the truths they had exchanged, everything that had accounted for the best days of his life be so randomly threatened? How had he allowed that?

“I need to think, Spike. It’s nothing. Really, it’s…” She met his eyes remorsefully. “Nothing’s changed. I feel the same way I did before I left…I just need to think this out before we rush into it headfirst. And I know that’s what you did for me last night. I said I needed time but I haven’t used it…I’ve just…I dunno. But I have to be alone for a little while, so I’m going to go patrol now.” She licked her lips. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Then we can talk.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stood, stared, and felt himself nod. She attempted another smile in his direction and placed a brief, albeit reassuring kiss upon his lips, then moved for the door and was gone in seconds. Her whirlwind arrival and departure left him bereft. A crashing storm dividing them down the middle.

He shouldn’t have let her go alone.

*~*~*

“Leo said he’d have the state militia test the barrier.” Josh plopped wearily in the lobby sitting area of the Eola Hotel, catching a canned beer as it whizzed off Sam’s aim. “There wasn’t anything else, though. Said he’d never heard of a Slayer but would run it passed Fitz and McNally.”

“Fitz is the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” Sam said, turning to Willow for explanation. She offered a tired smile and nodded. “Nancy McNally is our National Security Advisor. As far as Leo knows, they’re the only people who have an ear to the President who know.”

“Except us,” Donna said, taking a sip of her lemonade. “Now we know.”

“I think Toby’s going to go crazy before the night’s out,” Josh retorted. “Anyone wanna take a pool on that?”

Sam shook his head, eyes glued on the attentive redhead at his side. “How’d research go?” he asked.

“A whole lot of nothing,” she replied desolately. “These terms that Giles gave me were written in…I don’t know. Some language beyond my comprehension. The stuff I’m used to is all ‘rosemary herbs’ and ‘rat-tail’ and ‘newt eyes.’” A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “The closest I came to translating any of what he gave me was a recipe for dip.”

“We decided that the book guy probably wasn’t too interested in expanding his culinary prowess,” Donna added. “So we started researching the ghost cat some more and found a few very interesting—”

Josh groaned. “Oh, God, here we go…”

“And as I explain them to you, we’re going to play the Everyone Ignore Josh game.”

“Where is Giles?” Willow interrupted, earning a devastatingly grateful look from the Deputy Chief of Staff. She smiled apologetically at Donna, but turned to the ever-tacit Wesley all the same. “When I called, he said to be back here by seven.”

The former Watcher smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “Then he and Anya stumbled across something that required immediate attention. They believe they know whom the book belongs to. An ancient Roman god called Quirinias.”

Sam frowned. “Quirinias? I thought he was a war god of the Sabines.”

That random bout of knowledge seemed to stun the room. Willow beamed proudly and gave him a shoulder hug.

Josh and Donna just stared at him. “Why in the world,” the former demanded, “would you have that information at your disposal?”

The Deputy Communications Director spread his hands diplomatically. “So it’s all right for the President to know these things, but when it’s me, it’s too unreasonable?”

Josh seemed to consider this for a minute, then shook his head in concession. “No,” he admitted. “You’re both nerds, so I suppose it’s to be expected.”

“Hey!” Willow yelped defensively. “Smart is not synonymous with nerd.” She paused and glanced down. “A-at least that’s what my mother used to tell me.”

“You’re adorable,” Sam informed her.

“Regardless,” Wesley said, voice tiresome. “As Anya claims to have known Quirinias at one point or another, Rupert is hounding her for information that continuously contradicts itself. I believe she is getting him confused with the god Buku, which makes absolutely no sense as Buku is an African god; not of Ancient Rome.”

“This conversation gives new meaning to the term, ‘separation of Church and State,’” Josh mumbled.

Willow quirked her head to the side. “That’s strange,” she mused. “Anya’s tact might be…well, lacking, but she usually remembers all the ancient gods with a fair amount of accuracy.”

“I don’t think I want to know how old Anya is,” the Deputy Chief of Staff volunteered.

“Eleven hundred, or in the thereabouts,” the Witch replied.

“Thank you.”

She shrugged. “Well, she knows her stuff. She’s annoying and socially deficient, yes, but…I guess I need to be fair. She’s only been human for about a year.”

Donna cleared her throat and turned back to Wesley. “So,” she began. “We know who the book belongs to...what does that mean?”

He shrugged. “We don't know at the moment. Quirinias, if he is indeed the proprietor of the text, isn't a god that we have too much information on. As Sam observed, his origin was technically claimed by the Sabines, but later adapted by the Roman Empire.”

“And if memory serves,” Sam continued, “in equivalence with the Roman Empire, Quirinias was regarded as important a god as Jupiter or Mars.” He glanced to Willow and smiled sheepishly. “I took a class in ancient mythology when I was in college.”

Josh turned to Donna. “The more I watch them, the more I'm positive that they're either twins separated at birth, or need to do it and get it over with before it just gets too...cute.”

The redhead and the Deputy Communications Director exchanged glances of mutual discomfort.

“Where's Xander?” the blonde asked a minute later to quell the inherent discomfort. “I thought he and Buffy would be back by now.”

“He called,” Wesley said. “Evidently, he had not foreseen winding himself on the trips about town, so he decided to return to the Wensel House to rest. Buffy was supposed to go on her night patrol with Spike, but I haven't heard from her one way or another.”

Josh shook his head. “I don't understand how she and that psycho boyfriend of hers keep getting the jobs where they're alone together for hours on end.”

Willow shrugged, her smile fading. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Donna licked her lips, sensing the subject stray into dangerous waters and making a mad dive before things could become even more rigid. “So, if the state militia gets here and can’t get in from the outside, what happens?”

“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t think we’ll have much of a choice.”

The redhead’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“The only solution might be to…you know…” Josh cracked a small smile. “Bomb Natchez.”

There was a short pause at that—the former Watcher’s eyes went wide and he came dangerously close to toppling out of his chair. “What?”

“He’s kidding,” Willow explained hastily, gaze darting to the Deputy Chief of Staff, whose eyes were dancing. “You are kidding, right?”

Sam nodded and patted her hand in reassurance. “He’s kidding.”

“If the guys can’t get in, there’ll be a thing and Leo might get the Initiative guys involved.” Josh shrugged. “I dunno. He has a lot on his plate right now. Dealing with the leadership about his thing. Trying to get out of a bunch of assuredly embarrassing hearings and further public disgrace. Working to find replacements to take care of the Mendoza confirmation until we get back—”

“Don’t mention that around Toby,” the Deputy Communications Director advised.

“We’re the advisors to the President and we’re stuck in Mayberry.” A sigh cross his lips. “And apparently, to top it all off, Zoey and Charlie have started seeing each other.”

Donna smiled ear-to-ear. “Oh really? That’s so sweet.”

“Zoey Bartlet?” Wesley asked. “The President’s daughter?”

“Unless you know another.” Josh nodded and leaned back. “Yeah, and now the President’s upped Zoey’s secret service even more so than before and is looking into getting a specific field agent for her to be on twenty-four hour active duty. It’s turning into a thing.”

The redhead frowned. “Why?”

Sam cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Charlie’s black,” he explained.

She stared at him blankly. “So…I’m Jewish, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re Jewish?” Josh echoed, perplexed.

“Her last name is Rosenberg,” Donna provided.

“With as liberated and stunningly intelligent as you are, Willow,” Sam began with a weak smile. “It might surprise, or even shock you to know that a black man dating the President’s daughter is not something some of the more—”

“Red-necked psychos?” Josh volunteered.

“—less-tolerant citizens will understand.”

The Deputy Chief of Staff turned back to his assistant. “Yes, her name is Rosenberg,” he agreed. “But she’s also a witch and I’ve seen her eat bacon.”

The redhead was thoroughly astonished. Granted, it wasn’t really all that surprising, but she lived in a town where discrimination against ethnicities was virtually nonexistent. There were too many real problems to discern to bother with making sure everyone fit the classic standard of a perfect American. “That’s horrible,” she muttered. Then frowned at Josh who was still arguing the validations of her Judaism. “I was born Jewish,” she explained. “I think I’m going through a thing right now where I’m trying to even out my Wiccanism and my upbringing. But I am Jewish…my family was never really orthodox. I don’t know…”

Sam shrugged. “It’s a thing.”

“Exactly.”

Josh shifted slightly in his seat and cocked his head. “So, your high school was so rough that you were finding dead guys in lockers?” he asked. “I thought I heard you say something about a mortality rate.”

Willow cracked a small smile. “The dead guys in the lockers was really one of the lesser problems,” she explained. “Sunnydale’s on top of a hellmouth, so there’s a lot of freaky activity and evil demons to fight. And—”

“Whoa, wait, hold on.” The man blinked slowly. “A what-mouth?”

“Hellmouth,” she answered. “The mouth of Hell, or one of them, I should say. I think Giles said there’s one in Cleveland. I’ve actually done some research and I’m looking to pinpoint how many there are, bilaterally.” The three staffers were looking at her askance. Wesley only offered a small, ‘I’m on the in’ smile and nodded his concurrence.

“Oh my God,” Donna said slowly.

“That would explain for the things I heard as a kid,” Sam muttered.

Willow shrugged. “It’s just the way it is,” she said. “And, yeah, Xander and I were on the wrong side of freaked when we found out three years ago, but it did seem to explain a lot of things.”

“How did you guys find out?”

“We were attacked by vamps…well, I was taken by a vamp, Buffy saved me, then we were attacked by vamps.” She sighed. “We lost a friend of ours to vamps, actually. He was turned and everything. Xander had to stake him, too, so I think that’s why he’s so anti-vampire. He hated Angel…but that was because Angel had this thing with Buffy. And just when he started to not-hate Angel, Angel goes evil. So the Angel-hateage was really a kinda permanent thing.”

Donna nodded. “And that’s why he’s so against Spike?”

“He’s against Spike because Spike’s a vampire. I can understand that.” Willow sighed again with a frown. “I don’t…understanding whatever Spike is to Buffy right now is weird. Angel left town for her own good and everything…and before all this happened, I really thought she was hitting it off with this Riley guy back in Sunnydale. Now with the Faith thing and the living together and…whatever it is between them, it’s too sudden for me to call. I mean, one day they’re fighting to the death, the next they’re all snuggly-wuggly.”

Josh’s brows arched. “And that’s the literal kind of fighting to the death?”

A giggle tickled the redhead’s throat. “Spike once issued an order for all these demony assassins to kill Buffy. She’s dropped a piano on him, too. Then they joined together to stop Angel when he was all evilly and whatnot. Spike split town and came back a couple months later, kidnapped Xander and me, threatened to kill us if I didn’t do a love spell to get Dru back for him. Then not too long ago, he came back with this gem thing that made him all invincible…until Buffy took it away. Then he got all chipped up, he and Buffy hated each other, and now they’re practically dating.”

The Deputy Chief of Staff grinned warily. “Sounds a lot like Donna’s ex-boyfriend.”

The blonde grumbled and thwacked him. “Hey!”

He bade her off, eyes not leaving Willow’s. He had a silly ‘I’m pestering Donna’ look about his face that was no stranger to anyone who knew him well. “So the answer’s yes, then?” he asked.

The Witch frowned. “Yes?”

“That’s the literal kind of fighting to the death?”

She nodded. “Used to be. Not anymore.”

Sam sighed and turned his eyes to the carpet. “You guys have strange lives,” he said.

“It’s normal to us,” she reasoned. “And that’s just Spike. You guys haven’t heard about Anya and the way she became human. O-or the giant snake and the school blowing up on graduation. One time, we were all dressed up for Halloween and this old friend of Giles’s turned us into our costumes. And Buffy’s gotten to use a rocket launcher and then the Hellmouth has nearly opened two or three or a bajillion times, and—”

Josh held up a hand and turned to Donna. “Do you remember when our lives were boring?”

She appeared to think a minute, then shrugged. “We do work for the President,” she replied. “I guess that’s about as boring as the next job.”

He grinned at her.

“Well,” Wesley said, shifting forward a bit. “If this is as bad as it tends to get, I would prepare for your so-called ‘boring’ lives to become rather interesting very soon. Rupert is adamant that something is coming. Whatever was released with that book…”

Willow smiled. “Typical world-saveage,” she said. “All in a day’s work. Buffy slays, we party.”

That solution seemed something that Josh could very easily live with. “Really?”

“Hardly ever.”

There was a short pause and a collective sigh about the room.

“I think I’m going to miss boring,” Donna said.

“We took boring for granted,” Sam agreed.

Josh shrugged. “I’m not too worried,” he said, earning a foray of vastly amused glances. “We got the Wicked Witch of the West over here and that Slayer chick, plus one of the original Lost Boys and Anya of the ancient demon clan. What could possibly go wrong?”

The redhead groaned and smacked his knee. “That, for instance!”

“I was kidding!”

She hit him again. Harder. “You don’t kid with those words!” And again. “You just don’t!”

“Sam, call your girlfriend off of me!”

“Hey!”

“You’re the one tempting fate,” Sam advised, hands coming up diplomatically.

Another hit. Josh glanced to Donna for help. “What?” he demanded. “You gonna just stand there while I’m pummeled bodily?”

She shrugged. “Yes.”

“You’re fired.”

“Well, if the world’s ending, I really don’t care about my employment status.”

Wesley sighed and turned to Willow after she let up. “Do you suppose Buffy and Spike are having any luck?”

She perked her brows. “If they’re acting at all the way they’ve been acting…or, you know, like we’re acting? What do you think?”

“The world is in serious peril.” He glanced around. “And we’re the ones who can stop it.”

“Not of the reassuring.”

He nodded grimly, but didn’t reply. And as they sank back into calm, conversational chatter to quell the inherent discomfort around them, a line of tedium formed between their reasonability.

It was a game of waiting, now. And they were playing so well it was nearly second-habit.

Until Giles called, there was nothing to do but wait.

Chapter 25

A/N: Few words. This is a very Spuffy-oriented chapter, and I mention it because I am aware that some who are following the story are not necessarily fans of the 'ship. It is, however, the 'ship I write, so I offer no apologies - merely a warning for those who might want to skip it. The plot points that are hit will be revisited in the next chapter.

He knew that following her could end up being one of the worst mistakes he had made. He knew it, and yet no amount of force or reasoning could keep him grounded. Could keep him from running after her. He had let her go alone once, and now they were blocked by a manmade wall of inherent prejudice. She needed space—he respected that. He had to.

But he couldn't stop himself from following her. He wouldn't have been able to do anything but, if only to ensure that she was all right. That nothing came about her patrol, and that the cemeteries in Natchez were just as easy to handle as those in Sunnydale.

That she didn't need him.

Spike expelled a deep breath. Worrying alone was ridiculous. She was the Slayer. She could handle herself better than anyone. And had this been a few weeks ago, he would think nothing of it. After all, he was what he was. A vampire that thrived in destruction. That thought blood was better flavored with tears. That indulged every scream he had inspired, every plea for mercy he had dismissed.

A vampire that had loved with every inch of his body without loving.

Until now. And none of the rest mattered, because it was all before. Before he knew the agonizing bliss of loving Buffy. An epiphany only realized the night before that felt like it had been living with him forever. And he was prepared to face her anger if it meant satisfying his qualms about her safety.

So he followed. Not too far behind, not so close that she would sense him immediately. He had to make sure that she was all right. That she would come home to him tonight.

He would be a guardian kept in shadows if need be. Just as long as he could see her, he was content.

The Natchez City Cemetery had a haunting beauty about it that nearly disregarded the notion that it was a cemetery at all. And regardless of what all could be said, Buffy had spent a fair share of her adult life in cemeteries. Never had she thought one beautiful. Serene. The land was simply panoramic. The mausoleums chipping with age in a way the Restfield crypts never seemed to accomplish. Family plots were fenced in individually; a small runway for visitors ran throughout the seemingly endless acreage. Statues of the Virgin Mary and large adorning crucifixes were situated on various tombs, wilted roses coloring the ground where loved ones had come to pay their respects. Generation upon generation upon generation. Here. Right here. Beneath her feet.

Buffy drew in a deep breath and shuddered. This was a holy place. It was not like Sunnydale. It didn't have vampires crawling out of graves every other night. There weren't ritual sacrifices being made to any of the hierarchy of demons. This was not a battleground. It wasn't made for it, and never had been.

It was a holy place—until now. Until the arrival of the Scoobies and all the demons of Hell that followed.

For the first time in her life, she understood the difference between graveyards and cemeteries. In graveyards, she was comfortable. She spent so many nights walking among the shadows that it eventually became easy for her to disregard the knowledge that the dead rested beneath her feet. That initial feeling of discomfort that she had always experienced as a child was long way given to the pangs of more familiar tedium. She had schooled herself to the point of apathy. One could not be a Slayer and feel uneasy in her territory. It was a decent way to get killed.

She just didn't realize how neutralized she had become until she crossed the gate and digested the view presented. She had never felt so unwelcome on hollow ground.

Buffy dispelled a sigh, shivering lightly and tucking her hands into her pockets. It was hard to imagine that just a few short hours ago, she had awakened in Spike's arms, warm and content. The patterns he drew across her skin with devilled ease as though he was trying to memorize every contour she presented. The feel of his arms around her, holding her to him—she had never experienced such contentment. Such a drive of tenderness and protection.

And then awakening. That look of sleepy adoration in his eyes. When had that become normal? When had it changed from loathing to tolerance, from tolerance to friendship, from friendship to lust, and now to...what? She remembered a time not too long ago when hating Spike was as natural as breathing. When he was her mortal enemy and not her confidant. When she would sooner dive into a pit of rattlesnakes than let him as close as she had let him get. Wanted him to get.

It was happening fast—but it wasn't. For everything she had known about him before, she would have thought him to be the type who took what he wanted and ran. And he wanted her. He made no secret of it. He wanted her, and he could have had her by now if that was all he wanted. She asked him for time, and he honored her request. He honored it so much that he reminded her of it when she was all but begging him to be more the Spike she had known over the years; not the Spike that was worming his way into her heart.

She was terrified of the prospect. Terrified of what it meant. Because despite however much she thought she was ready, there were some truths to be reckoned with. Things she had tried to forget but kept resurfacing. He was a vampire. Despite all the want of goodness that was there, he was a vampire. He wouldn't be with them in Natchez if it weren't for the chip—he would be plotting against her. Trying to kill her. Thinking of inventive ways to make her wounds bleed again. He had tunneled through the bowels of Sunnydale for a ring that would ensure an all-go pass on endless monstrosities. They had fought under a shade on the campus. He had come there to kill her.

What's it take to pry apart the Slayer's dimpled knees?

Last night, she had offered to show him. Last night, he had refused her.

No, not refused. She had never seen a man look at her the way he had. Aroused desire screaming down whatever moral code a vampire would live by. Even Angel, who had more than one demon to contend with—that knowledge that if he touched her, he had the potential of losing everything. With Spike, it was exactly the opposite. A sense of wonder that she was allowing him to touch her at all—honored by the privilege, determined to make sure that he did not take her for granted. Where Angel feared losing everything, Spike seemed to fear gaining the very same. He held her like she was precious to him. They had been dancing around each other for days, and true, had he not initiated that first kiss in the Myrtles, such would be a non-issue. But he had. He had, and here they were.

He was a vampire. She had done this scene. It was wrong.

It had been wrong the first time. Wrong, but acceptable. That vampire had at least owned a conscience. That vampire had been cursed with a soul.

The vampire with her now—no, he had no soul. All he had was a chip. The rest was all him. All Spike. He was a killer; had been from the first. The very same vampire that had formed his own mission to see her six feet under from the moment he took the crash-course into her life. Spike, whom up until just recently, had been so lovesick for Drusilla that Buffy at times found herself envying the sick vampiress. No one had ever loved her so unconditionally. So fully. Without reservation. Without anything that required any thought at all.

And if they continued like this...if she ignored the warnings and followed her heart instead, like she had so many times before, and let herself into this, what then? She fell in love with him? With how serious her feelings were, that eventuality was creeping up on her with no room to escape. She did not doubt the sincerity in his feelings for her. In the declaration he made the night before; how he wanted her, and not just sex—yes, she believed him. And the thought of stepping back, from removing the Spike factor from her life before they even had a chance to see how great they could be together, made her heart ache in ways it never had. Never.

He was already there. And not for the kisses, the touches; it was everything. The casual trades, the provocative banter, the jokes, the ease of their conversation. She valued him as a friend, but her heart had dug trenches that were so much deeper than that.

So say she did this—gave it her all. What happened when it was over for him?

What happened when the chip no longer worked? Buffy honestly could not see him causing her harm—he had promised her as much, and she believed him—but for everyone else out there. The happy meals with legs, as he had once called them. He would not give that up. Not for anyone; not even for her.

Because he was a vampire, and such was the way of vampires.

If it came down to that, if he started killing again...

She was not about to kill another boyfriend. Not Spike. It would be easier if they remained at arms length. That way, when the inevitable day arrived, she could swallow her pride and tell him to leave town. Leave her. Go somewhere and never come back so she would never know the pain of killing him.

And that was all well and good, except for one thing.

She didn't want to keep him at arms length. The look in his eyes tonight alone had nearly broken her. She wanted to run back, bury herself in his embrace, and tell him everything that had happened so he could fill the air with empty promises, kiss her temple and assure her that all would be all right.

If she allowed herself to do that—if she threw all caution aside for a man with no soul, what in God's name did that make her?

And more importantly, did she even care anymore?

Buffy expelled another breath and shivered. She licked her lips and withdrew her hands from her pockets, crossing her arms over her chest and making her way down the winding path of the cemetery with slow ease. It occurred to her out of nowhere that Christmas was coming soon. Was it next week? So hard to believe that this time last year, she had been agonizing over Angel and the awkward, forced distance she had implemented because they couldn't be friends. Just last year. And now, here she was. Agonizing over a different vampire. Wanting a different vampire.

Falling in love with a different vampire.

No. She frowned and shook her head. That was one thing she couldn't allow herself. It would be so easy to lose herself in Spike—she nearly had. It couldn't happen. Being in love was not a walk through the clouds; it was hogtying her heart to the back of a truck and watching it spin out of control in a race of twisted metal and broken glass. Watching a single candle burn on her birthday cupcake. Feeling that sickness in the pit of her stomach.

Angel had been bad enough. Spike might destroy her.

She had been so willing, too. So open and damnably willing. And now, just thinking of it—putting everything in perspective—she was miserable.

Miserable and cold.

It took a minute to differentiate internal cold from exterior. Buffy's frown deepened, her shivers becoming more pronounced. The freeze was palpable; she felt it with every fiber of her being. That was strange. Natchez could get as cold as the next town, sure, but this was different. The air around her was still warm. Temperate. But her insides were shattering with frost. It came upon her with no more warning than a shot in the dark. She reached out to grab hold of something and steady her balance and nearly tripped in recourse.

It was on the drop that the feeling ceased being an annoyance and drove nails to her bones. A shrill gasp escaped her throat; her body tightening in an internal turn to fight off whatever had seized her insides. It was burrowed deep within her. Something grasping her, drawing out the elixir of her power. Gnawing through flesh without touching her. She felt something had latched onto her back, but there was nothing. Nothing except crashing waves of dizziness that spanned to steal her consciousness. And the next time she tripped, there was no recovery. Only falling.

Falling.

Stone scratched under her skin and the scent of blood smacked her in the face. The cold took a more pronounced turn—her strength draining. Her jaw dropped and she tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. Something was wrong. Something was horribly...

The next few seconds were a blur of recognition, too fast for her to follow. She hit the ground the next instant—open palms supporting her fall. There was a flash of platinum blonde and a possessive, predatory growl that she had never heard before. And then, just like that, it was gone. The cold—something yanked from her back, scratching lines into her skin with a wrathful cry. Buffy panted, fisting earth between her fingers as warmth seared her veins. An undercurrent of feeling. The numbing of her flesh began to wan. She glanced up when she thought she could, breathing harshly still, and allowed the flood of relief to fill her insides.

Spike.

It was a cathartic moment. Spike was here. Spike was here for her. God, Spike was here and he was...

Fighting some very ugly demon. Screaming at it at the top of his dead lungs.

And ripping it to shreds.

Buffy blinked wearily and tried to sit up, her arms and legs wobbly. It was futile; she slipped and fell again, rolling onto her back. The sting of Spike's curses filled the air. She didn't catch much—small increments of filthy fuckin' hands and kill the bloody bastard for touchin' his girl and a thousand other snarls as he ripped the shadow limb from limb.

It was over within seconds. The instant the demon fell, Spike abandoned his fury and rushed to the Slayer's side, taking her in his arms and bringing her to his chest, murmuring words of comfort that were more for his sake than hers. He pulled away after a blink, his hands taking chart of her body to make sure everything was all right and feathering her face with kisses.

"'S'all right," he told her, lips dancing down her throat. "You're all right. 'S gone. Took care of it. God, I—"

Buffy clutched the leather at his forearms, anchoring herself to him. Her mind was a blur. She had absolutely no idea what had just transpired. How she had been walking in the cemetery alone one minute and found herself in Spike's embrace a minute later. Her head was still achy; strength returning to her muscles little by little. Whatever it was, the attack had been so sudden that its aftershock was nearly more excruciating than the blow itself. "Spike?" she asked softly. "What happened? What are you doing here?"

"You din't see it," he said, unable to draw his mouth from her skin. It was a reassurance thing; she understood that. His way of satisfying his fear. And though it registered distantly that she should be irritated that he had gone against her wishes and followed her, there was no sense in being angry with someone who had just saved her life based on technicalities.

If she were completely honest with herself, she would confess to having never felt quite as safe, quite as secure, as she did at this moment.

"I...didn't see what?"

Spike forced himself to pull away, though his arms tightened around her body, coaxing her head to his shoulder as he stroked her back. He inhaled her scent gratefully. She was certain she felt him trembling. "'aven't seen one in an age," he replied gently, releasing a quivering breath. "Not since me an' Dru were in Japan before the war. 'S one of their demons."

"A Japanese demon?"

"'S called buruburu, 'f memory serves." He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. "Out of their folklore. Lurks in forests an' graveyards. 'S a parasite, you see. Latches onto whoever's passin' by an'...God, it had you." He drew back and pressed his brow to hers, leaning in for a quick kiss of comfort. "Hafta be a ghosty or what all to see it, sweets. Somethin' a li'l less human. You din't even know it was on you."

"Spike—"

"Could've lost you," he murmured into her hair. "God, Buffy..." He pulled back slightly, hand coming to caress her face. "You know what those things do? Freeze you—steal your strength. Steal your bloody energy." His hands were running laps up and down her arms, as though to rejuvenate said strength simply by the presence of comfort. "Are you all right? I need to get you back. Rest up an' what all."

Buffy didn't protest. Couldn't. Not even when he lifted her into his arms. She wasn't the type that needed a knight in white armor—in fact; she was more the type to resent the notion. And yes, while her throat itched to offer its condensation, she couldn't bring herself to voice it. Her muscles still felt too pliant to walk. To be trusted with anything.

There was a difference between arguing for keeps and arguing to argue. She didn't want to argue with Spike if she could avoid it. Not anymore.

Spike headed for the back room the minute that they arrived at the townhouse. He set her on the bed without a word and reached for the buttons of her jacket. After satisfying his concern that she wasn't bleeding anywhere but her leg and upper arm from where she had scraped herself on the headstone, he nodded—more to himself—and reached for the hem of her tee. Buffy was numb with recovery, watching him as though his actions were being portrayed on a screen far from herself. Thus when he glanced to her face, seeking reaction, he pursed his lips and forced a small smile. "Lift your arms, pet."

So strange. She heard the words. She knew what she was supposed to do. Her body, however, refused to comply.

There was a pregnant pause as he studied her, a shadow coloring his eyes as his features took in the sharp pangs of rejection. "'m not gonna touch you. Promise. I jus' gotta see where it hurts, all right?"

Buffy's eyes widened. That was the furthest thing from her mind. "No. You don't...I...Spike—"

"Lift your arms, sweetling."

She complied immediately, hoping that her body language would convey everything that words were failing to so horribly. It didn't. He divested her shirt and added it to the growing pile at the bedside. Her own hands went to her bra, a hiss rushing through her teeth as a hook snagged on a hidden scrape from where the underwire had gone amiss. Spike helped her without touching her as promised, not reacting to the flesh revealed more than a simple licking of his lips before returning his attention to the task at hand.

"'m gonna go get a washcloth," he said, voice hoarse. "Be right back."

She thought to protest, but he was gone and back before her voice could surface. Something cool touched her skin; the hurt quelled and a moan of approval escaped her lips. Spike's eyes flickered to her face briefly, but he did not pursue her pleasure. As soon as the wound was clean, he threw off his duster, stripped off his own shirt and covered her breasts before she could think to what was happening.

It amused her, though, that he thought taking off his own clothes would be simpler than redressing her with the worn shirt at the bedside. And as though reading her thoughts, he met her eyes sheepishly and offered the first grin she had seen since initially arriving home. "'S longer," he offered lamely. "It'll cover your bits, right?"

She smiled and hugged the material to her body. "Smells like you," she said.

Spike stared at her, specks of light dancing across his eyes. Timid—not wanting to break through for fear of the other. "Buffy—"

He had to inspect her below the belt. She knew that, just as she knew that he was hesitant in initiating such a bold move. The burn of his gaze was passionate—hurt, but passionate. And it was entirely her fault. For everything that she had been so in arms with just a short while ago, it didn't seem to matter now. With him, the sky was the limit. She was worried, would likely always be worried, but the tug on her heartstrings was too great to ignore. There would be no avoiding him.

"You followed me," she said, taking his hand in hers and lowering it to the clasp on her jeans. He accepted the invitation for what it was and abandoning her fly for a moment to throw her shoes and socks to the other side of the room before stripping her trousers as well. There was a sizable scrape on her inner thigh; one along her back from where the buruburu latched and been torn away. The washcloth returned, dabbing soothing circles where it hurt. Spike drew in a breath, inhaling her scent—her reaction to his touch—but made no move to further it.

It was a minute before he replied. She had forgotten what she said when he did. "I followed you," he confirmed. "Had to make sure nothin' went wrong. I know 's not what you wanted, but—"

"Spike—"

"Can't help worryin' 'bout you, sweetling." He smiled, though there was no feeling behind it. "Be a love an' turn over. Need to see this other mark."

Buffy did as he asked, lying face down upon the mattress and hugging a pillow close. The bed creaked as he added his weight, crawling over her body, contemplating, and then straddling her ass for the best vintage point. A soft gasp tickled her throat, soothing in the least. She felt his erection pressing into her and ached to arch back into him, but somehow knew that the move would be one of the more insensitive things she could have attempted.

If he was at all aware of her musings, he did not betray it. Instead, his hand skimmed the torn skin, nostrils flaring at the rising scent of her blood. "God, Buffy," he murmured. "Your sweet li'l...'m so sorry, pet. Should've been there sooner. Should've—"

"It's not your fault. Doesn't even really hurt all that much."

"I din't see it quick enough."

"If I'd asked you to come with me, none of this would've happened." When she received no reply, she took that to mean that he agreed with her and would say nothing more for fear of triggering her anger. "Spike?"

"Mmmm?"

"What's a backarack doing in Natchez?"

The vampire grinned, fingers massaging her sensitive skin delicately. "You mean a buruburu, sweets?" She nodded. "I have no bloody clue. Only seen one before tonight, an' it was a bloody long time ago."

"You think it has anything to do with what's going on?"

"The book, you mean?" She shrugged, her body rippling with the motion. The hardness in his jeans became more pronounced. Spike clenched his teeth. "Can't else imagine why a bloody buruburu would be here, so yeh. 'm gonna phone up Rupert after you're tucked in an' give him a bloody earful." His hand slid under the hem of the shirt she now adorned, skin trembling against hers. "Mistake to put you in this," he murmured.

That was it. They had to talk this out before the mixed signals made her go completely over the edge. Buffy drew in a deep breath and pushed herself up, preparing to turn around. "Spike..."

Almost immediately, his hands came to her shoulders to halt the movement. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't. I'll bloody lose my mind 'f you—"

"It's okay. We need to talk."

"Yeh. An' hearin' those four words really gives me incentive to stay here an' chat." He was off her the next minute, throwing his duster over his nude shoulders. "'m gonna head over to the house an' get you somethin' to eat," he said. Then he stopped at the door, registering the half-dazed Slayer that was propped on her elbows, watching him with intense uncertainty. And he wavered. "Are you all right? I don' know how long it'll take to bring back your strength, but..." There was no conclusion. He just stared at her for long seconds before remembering himself. "I, uh...I'll be back in a flash."

The minute he was gone, Buffy fell back on the bed and mewled. God, why was it so difficult to talk to him when he was here? She knew exactly what she wanted to say. Regardless if her feelings were still muddled, there was a fine line between where they had been this morning and where they were now.

He had not tasted her blood. He had not asked to, not attempted. Would she have let him? She honestly didn't know. Everything was so confusing right now.

The slam of the front door announced his return. She thought he would come to her directly but he set to busying himself in the kitchen instead. There were a few murmured curses and the occasional clamoring—things that inspired grins even if she knew it was better not to poke fun at him. Really, for a vampire that had killed Slayers and prided himself on being the Big Bad, he was incredibly sweet.

The minute his voice became audible, she nearly started off the bed. It took a few seconds to realize he was not speaking to her.

"Have you an' your lot found anythin' yet? Right then—that's helpful. How 'bout why there are bloody buruburus runnin' around an' latchin' onto slayers as they patrol? Yeh, you heard me...well, of course I killed it! What the hell do you take me for? No, she's fine. Restin', right. 'm makin' her supper, then I think she should get some sleep. Bloody no, she's not goin' out there again. This thing nearly killed her!" There was an estranged sigh. "I know for goddamned well that she's the Slayer, but 'f there's one of these blighters in this hellhole an' I'm the only one that can see it, whaddya think the odds are that she'll get away next time? No, that's not a threat, you bleedin' pillock! Well, for the toss I gave it, I'd sure as hell hope it'd...oh, for Chrissake, jus' find out what the hell this thing is doin' an ocean away from where it's s'posed to be. Right?"

Buffy pursed her lips, her heart aching. God, he was trying. He was trying so hard, and no one was giving him any credit for it.

And for what she had done earlier tonight...what she had said. What she had subconsciously delivered.

He was still with her, though. Still caring for her. All in all, regardless.

A few minutes past before he finally returned to her bedside: a bowl of soup in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. "'S chicken noodle," he said, setting the delicacies at the nightstand. "Thought it'd be the best, considerin'. Don' know 'f you like tea or not, but 's the next best thing they had in the kitchen."

Buffy smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

"Don' mention it, sweets." He paused, considering her, then wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to leave. "'m gonna go watch the telly. I'll be up for a while yet, but you should get some rest."

"Spike—"

"Whatever needs to be said can wait one bloody night." A sigh tickled the air. "Honestly, I don' think I'm up for it at the moment."

"No, I mean—"

"Sweet dreams, Slayer."

It was obvious he wasn't going to stop long enough to hear a full sentence. And there was no way she was going to let this rest until morning. She wanted him to know now—before the influence of daylight could break her. Before everything else came rushing back. It had to be now. "Stay."

That did it. Spike froze at the door. "What?"

There could be no mistaking her meaning. It was all or nothing now. Buffy edged over, making enough room in the bed for him. Not that she had taken up an obscene amount in the first place, but she chose for the less subtle of the movements. "Stay with me," she repeated. "Please. Just...until I fall asleep, if you don't want to the whole night. I just...please stay."

Another long pause. The vampire turned to face her fully, head cocked to the side. "You sure?"

"Yes. Please." She patted the mattress beside her eagerly. "Please. I want you here."

Spike inhaled sharply but didn't say another word. He discarded his duster on the pile of clothes that he had removed from her earlier and hesitated, then crawled in. His arms came around her as they had been that morning. And yet, even with him pressed as closely as he was, holding her as he was, it still felt as though miles separated their course.

She ate her soup in silence, drank the broth when prompted, and sipped at her tea as much as she could. And there was nothing else.

Nothing else.

She was so sick of uncomfortable silences. The entire day had been filled with them. Compiled and shared from side to side until there was nowhere left to turn. When she wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head on his stomach, his hold tightened but remained rigid. His body was with her—his mind far away.

Untouchable. Far from her.

This was not what she wanted. God, this was nowhere near what she wanted. She hated this. She hated touching him and not knowing whether he felt her or not. Not knowing if she had driven him to such a state where the cold had efficiently frozen a barrier between them; if she had, how could it possibly have happened so quickly?

Simple answer. She had wanted more space, and he was giving it to her. It was all because of that initial seed of doubt. Because of the jubilated mess that was today. That was the reason.

She needed them to get back where they had been when the sun rose. She needed it desperately. Having tasted both, she knew what she wanted.

And yet, that seed of doubt remained. Anchored exactly where Xander had placed it. A blockade between where she was now and the door she ached to go through. It made all the difference in the world.

Regardless of the consequences, she had to try. This at least. Get past this.

"Spike?"

The vampire stirred a bit; thumb stroking her forearm in a manner that was nearly habitual. "Mmm?"

Buffy drew in a deep breath and tightened her arms around him. "I'm sorry."

The gentle caresses came to an abrupt halt. Spike swallowed and glanced down at her, as though for the first time taking in their proximity. "What for, sweetling?"

"For...everything, really." She expelled a breath and shifted slightly against him. "I know what Xander tried to do today was deliberate, but it worked. I don't even think his intent was to be..."

"A wanker?"

She grinned humorlessly and nodded. "Yeah. He's just...he's worried about me. About the decisions I make. I understand that. I mean, he's seen a lot, you know? Been there with me through the good and the very, very bad. The things he said...they're things I need to think about. But I shouldn't have shut you out to do it."

There was a long pause. Spike studied her face for endless seconds, the softness that she had cherished returning in increments. Flooding his eyes with hesitant tenderness. As though closing himself off meant it could no longer hurt. He swallowed hard and nodded a second later. "I know what I'm up against, luv," he said. "What the bloody odds are. An' I know that no one in your lot particularly cares for me. 'S not like I planned for any of this to happen...it jus' did. No countin' for that." He tore his eyes from hers. "I can't help what I am, Buffy. I've been this since before you were a thought. An' until this, I never thought I'd wanna be anythin' more. I never...I never thought I could have these feelings for someone who's not..." His jaw clenched.

"Dru?" Buffy whispered softly.

"Yeh."

"You still love Dru."

There was no immediate answer, though his eyes sparkled with a curious glow she had not seen before. "No," he said a minute later. "Not in the way you're thinkin', no. A part of me will always be hers. She was my maker. She bloody well showed me the world." A fond smile curled his lips. "She was amazin', I'll grant you that."

Buffy sat up. She didn't know how much of that she could tolerate. "All right, I get the picture."

Spike grinned at her. With a certain boyish charm that she had taken for granted. "Jealous, pet?"

"I just don't wanna know how wonderful your first love was. Or should I start talking about Angel so you can do a contrast and compare?"

"She wasn' my firs'. An' 'f you start talkin' about Angel, we're done here."

"See? Not of the fun, is it?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, Buffy, 'm tryin' to tell you somethin'. Yeh. Dru was my everythin' for a century. Got that. I thought she was my world. Treated her like it, too. Made a dark princess outta her. I was at her beck an' call when she wanted me. A willin' slave that'd do anythin' to keep his master pleased. 'S jus' another thing I can't change. Don' know 'f I would 'f I could."

"I don't want to hear this."

Buffy didn't even realize that she had started to move again until she felt his iron grip on her arm, twisting her around so that they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. There was a sudden flurry of passion embedded in his gaze. A spark from the nothing that had been there just a minute ago. It took her breath away.

"Listen to me, you little fool," he rasped. "Yeh, I thought Dru was my world. Turns out she was jus' my guide, you see. A bloody journey through dark to reach the light. My world is right here." He pulled her even closer, his cool breath fanning her lips. "An' now that I've tasted both, I'll never mistake one for the other again."

The next thing she knew, he had crushed her mouth to his with hunger that did not have a name. His hold on her skin was beginning to ache, but fuck if she didn't care. For a blessed rush of all her fears, the entirety of her world shifted and she knew what she wanted. She knew—right now—what she wanted. And if this was going to be all there was to it, then god, was she going to take it. They deserved this. Just this. The rest could wait. Decisions could wait. All doubts put on reserve. This she wanted for tonight. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips and tongue battling his for dominance. The needy, raspy sounds that he rumbled sent shivers across her skin. The way he held her made her feel wanted in a way she never had before. As though the line between existence and nothing depended on his grasp on this reality.

It was a good thing that he remembered that she needed to breathe. She was too forgone to care anymore. And then—god—his mouth was on her throat. Smothering her skin with heated kisses, lapping at pulse points as the tight ball of need grew more persistent in the pit of her stomach. She ground her sodden center against the hardness at the apex of her thighs, earning heady gasps in her turn. Watching the glow behind his eyes go from desperate to lustful to finally in total awe. A hand had slid under her hem and was caressing her breast with soft, loving strokes that both warmed her heart and charged her body. And when he bent to her neglected breast and nipped at the fabric separating her skin from his mouth, she thought she would lose what little sensibility she had left.

Then he captured her right nipple between his thumb and forefinger and teased her with rubbing pinches. Buffy threw her head back, thrusting her hips into him. "Oh God," she gasped, forehead pressed to his. "Oh my God."

"You like that?"

She licked her lips and kissed him again, eyes opening slowly. His own were trained on her face, somewhere between adoration and arrogance. A grin tickled the corners of her mouth. Time to level the playing field a bit. She snaked a hand between them to grasp his denim clad cock as her own mouth descended on one of his flat, male nipples, biting hard enough to elicit a harsh, pleasured gasp. "What do you think?" she retorted, licking a path around the irritated skin.

"God, Buffy..."

"Not an answer."

"Fuck." He abandoned her breast with a sound of disappointment, right arm encircling her waist again—reaffirming his grip. Then she felt him tugging at the elastic of her panties just before his hand dipped in.

Buffy's eyes went wide, her own hands abandoning their objective to steady herself at his forearms. "Oh God." He was teasing the thin curls, sampling the moist tenderness with promised touches that were almost whispers against nothing at all. Her brow collapsed against his shoulder as she arched herself into his touch, small mewls of need rumbling through her throat. "Oh...holy...God."

"Mmm..." He peppered her throat with kisses. "Only bad girls wet their beds, you know." He aligned his index finger with her slit and edged upward just slightly. Enough to prompt an estranged bark of plea from her mouth. "An' you're very wet."

Then, without ceremony, he slid two fingers into her. And they both gasped with pleasure.

"Spike," she murmured, whispering kisses against his shoulder as she sobbed softly. She moved over him in slow, even strokes, her nails digging trenches into his forearms. The touch was tame compared to some others she had given and received, but it seemed forever had occurred between the boys in the past and the man that held her now. As though her body was finally rejoicing in finding whom it had sought all along. "Oh God."

"Buffy..." He pressed a final kiss to her throat and withdrew his hand without further perusal. He ignored the murmur of complaint that she gave him in turn; instead rolled her over so that she was pressed against the mattress once more, his hungry eyes taking in the flush in her cheeks and the lust burning her gaze. "Buffy," he said again, voice guttural. "'S this somethin' to you? What are we doin' here? God, tell me this is somethin'." He dipped his head to kiss her again before she could reply, then whispered heatedly against her lips, "Please. God, please."

She released a deep breath that offset the fierce pounding within her chest and took his face in her hands. "It's something," she replied. "I just...I'm so..."

Spike exhaled intensely and nodded, brushing a nearly chaste kiss across her forehead. "I know, pet." He dropped his weight to his left arm, his free hand snaking down her body to tug at her panties. "'S this all right?"

The world seemed to pause and her eyes went wide. And then, despite all the heat burning her cheeks, Buffy balked. Sex had a tendency to screw things up, especially when neither one of them knew where they stood. Her hands dropped lifelessly to her sides, numb with the voices of angels shouting down demons as war threatened to break out in the calamity that was her baffled state of being.

The look that she reflected must have conveyed her panic. Spike's eyes softened and he brushed a kiss across her temple. "I'm not gonna take anythin' off," he said. "Zipper stays up. We're not ready for that...dunno 'f we'll ever be. I jus'..." He lowered his head to her stomach and took in her scent. "I wanna taste you. 'F this is all I'm gonna get, I wanna have your taste to remember tonight by."

Was she being so obvious about her indecision that he read this as potentially the only chance they would ever have at true intimacy? The thought, for how she was feeling now, was blatantly ridiculous, but she knew better than to trust the night when morning came to spread light over mistakes made in the dark. And yet, somehow, she didn't think she could ever consider this a mistake. For everything and nothing at all.

Spike ran a hand down her middle to cup the apex of her legs, fingers dancing over her clit. The touch was so unexpected that she gasped and nearly bucked off the bed. She wasn't used to reacting so violently to the smallest of caresses, and the notion was nearly threw her off her hinges. Granted, her sexual history left more than a little wanting. The feelings that the vampire inspired, for one, were unlike any she had ever experienced. She had never known lust to genuinely coincide with affection. Up until now, she hadn't thought it possible.

"God, Buffy, 'm gonna burst." Spike lowered his head to her mound and inhaled. "You smell so good. So bloody good. Lemme have a taste. Jus' a li'l taste. I'll stop 'f you don' like it. Promise, I will."

Buffy released a trembling breath and nodded before she knew what she was doing. She was rewarded with a heart-melting smile and the whisper of a kiss against her stomach. The vampire turned back to the clothed prize at his disposal, licking his lips in anticipation. A touch then, gentle. His hands slid up her thighs, his thumbs hooking under the thin fabric that separated them. There was a beat of hesitation—his eyes finding hers to scope out any last minute ploys at refusal.

He lingered a bit too long; she glanced back up at him and smiled. She didn't say anything, but the smile was all he needed. A shiver coursed down his spine and he returned it best he could, afraid to reveal too much, to let her know how much this alone meant to him in the course of simple gestures. Instead, he focused his attention on dragging her panties down her legs; hailed them to his nose before tucking them securely in his back pocket.

When his eyes found her again, skin flushed, eyes wide, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and waiting for him on her bed, the world for all its worth seized to matter. "Good God," he gasped, sliding forward, his arms worming under her thighs to arch her quim to his mouth. He inhaled her fragrance desperately, committing every turn to memory. Every spiced spark to tickle his senses. He couldn't help the moans that scratched at his throat. He couldn't say anything to convey the wealth of feeling bubbling within him, and he decided not to try. A shiver waved across his skin and he buried his face in her nest of curls with a trembling sigh. She couldn't know what this was doing to him. Just this. The implicit trust in her smile, the baring of herself to him without qualm. It was too much. For everything that had happened today, it was too much. "Buffy."

And it was the same in turn. Buffy had never felt so open, so exposed to anyone. Her initial instinct was to push him away and clamp her thighs shut with a bolt lock. No one had ever done this to her before. And true, while she had a vague idea of his intentions, the secrecies itself behind the act remained foreign to her. His awe, the way he was taking this so seriously, helped little in building her esteem. It seemed on the brink of impossibility for anyone to apply their mouth where he intended and enjoy it.

Another low moan rumbled across his body. "God, Buffy," he gasped. "You're so beautiful. So lovely."

Her cheeks heated. Never had she considered that part of her body beautiful, and she found it odd that anyone would. "Thanks," she replied lamely, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "Spike—"

And that was it. He was done talking. Done looking at her without touching her. Before another word could birth into the air, he lowered his head and licked a wet pathway up her slit, exciting a strangled, surprised cry from her lips that played harmoniously against his ears. He moaned into her favorably, his long tongue lapping up her ambrosia.

It was unbelievable. Her taste. Her responses. At the slightest touch, she writhed past the brink of control. Her hesitation only enhanced her charm. It wasn't difficult to decipher that no one had ever done this to her before. No one had ever decided to worship her as she deserved. And God, he didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.

"Spiiiike..."

He smiled, bracing her around the middle with one arm as the other hand itched up her leg to play. She took initiative at that, casting her legs astride his shoulders to rein him into her. Baring both hands free to do as he wished. His smile broadened at that, but he did nothing but murmur his approval. Turning back to her. Eager fingers parting her outer folds with muted delicacy, sliding nimbly into her haven as his mouth took to teasing her clit. He blew across her hypersensitive bundle, tended the tender skin that protected it with his tongue, and back again without a reprieve.

"So good," he murmured into her, causing her to buck against his face. "Buffy...fuck, you taste so good."

"Uhhh..."

His eyes trailed heatedly up the length of her, and he could no longer hold back. With a moan of capitulation, he captured her clit with his tongue and sucked the needy bundle into his mouth, enveloping and crashing wave upon wave of endless euphoria. He was here. God, he was really here. She was sobbing her pleasure because of him. He nibbled at her. Drank her in. Caressed her burning skin between his teeth with gentility that offset the passion coursing through his veins. His fingers slipped out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest. He was touching every part of her there was to touch; tasting every part of her there was to taste. Staking his claim without fangs. In the only way he could. In the only way she would let him before it was over.

"Oh Jesus!"

"Mmm," he murmured in agreement. And his mouth returned to her before she could issue another word, nibbling softly at her moist folds. He grinned inwardly when she arched off the mattress again. Her hands had fisted in his hair, directing his mouth where she wanted it, and he obeyed willingly. He lapped at her, drank her in, treasured her flavor. Her warmth. The liquid aphrodisiac that she forfeited; his eternal fountain. It was pure Buffy, and it drove him wild.

The sound of his name colored the air once more. Panty. Hoarse. Her heated cries were becoming more and more desperate. Spike nuzzled her once and returned his attention to her clit; all sense of logic and reasoning flying out the window. His tongue enclosed around her once, twice, and drew her to his mouth once more. The moans echoing throughout her body shot directly to his crotch. He was painfully hard, his own body demanding release but suffering the pangs of rejection. He was too enraptured with her. Too captivated with her taste to ever let go. Every lick nailed another jolt into the coffin of finale. He couldn't stop touching her.

"God," he rasped. The sensations charged her enthusiasm further. They shared that, in retrospect. "My golden goddess."

"Ohhhhh..."

"Taste so fucking good."

She mewled his name again, her hips thrusting forward in a frenzy of unvoiced demand. And he caved willingly. His fingers found her clit and caressed her in roughened but similarly genteel circles of adoration, his tongue delving into the sweetness of her core. And he was lost forever. Simply that. The touch. Her nectar flowing into his mouth. He lapped her up, probing as deep as he could, stroking, finding that perfect spot within her. And he took. He took long rounds caressing her, his eyes rolling in the back of his head before falling shut at the wonder lain before him. He grasped her thighs when he sensed her reach precipice, drawing all her spendings into his mouth with a moan of surrender. And that was it. A whirlwind of sensation. He drank everything in. Every cry. Every arch. She sobbed her pleasure and it was music to his ears. Every sound to escape her throat a different epiphany to a world that no longer bothered to keep check. He felt his cells ready to combust simply by watching her. By knowing that she was screaming in effect to what he had done. That he had given her this. And it was everything. Everything. The picture of timeless perfection lodged within his memory.

Hers. He was eternally hers. Whatever she would have him for, he was hers. He knew no other haven than when he was with her. No other peace. It had taken him this long to find her, and damn if he ever let her go because of something as inherently stupid as disapproval from her friends. He was hers. And that was simply that.

It took a few minutes for either of them to come down. Spike rested his head against her stomach, panting harshly for reasons that were beyond him. Her fingers tunneled lovingly through his hair, her own gasps of recovery satisfying his every whim. Forever could pass just like this and he wouldn't care. Buffy's body was beneath his, the scent of her climax lingered in the air, and the worries that awaited him with sunrise were on perpetual hold.

This was peace.

And that, naturally, meant it couldn't last.

"Spike," came the tentative whisper. He felt a familiar pang stab his heart, but there was nothing he could do but comply. They had known going in that this was just tonight. The decisions of tomorrow were intact. This was a stolen hour. A few blissful minutes before reality stepped in. His time was not up for grabs.

It was with that resignation that he sat up, careful not to let her see his eyes. "Right then," he whispered. "I—"

The next thing he knew, she mauled his mouth with hers, her arms thrown around his neck as she hauled herself into his lap. He was stunned stupid for a long minute, unsure of anything until hearing her moan around his tongue. And then all was left to instinct. He hugged her close, grinding his erection into her perfumed center with all the fervor he was still hesitant to express. With everything he could without revealing too much. Her mouth was enthusiastic against his, wrestling hot, needy kisses as her hands took chart down his body.

When her hand reached for his fly, though, his entire body froze.

No. Not like this. This was not what she wanted. Not tonight. It panged every nerve in his body, but he grasped her wrist and pulled away from her, searching her eyes with flecks of hope alongside the bittersweet taste of disappointment. "Kitten," he whispered. "You do that, an' you're gonna have a monster on your hands." He paused. "Literally."

"It's okay."

"I go commando."

"I was banking on that."

A wave of panic crushed his system. While it was what he wanted more than anything, there were certain values of right and wrong to be adhered. Especially the level of respect she would have for him in the morning. Tonight was a break from all the rest. He didn't want to ruin a beautiful encounter with sex that she would deem wrong when dawn approached. His heart couldn't survive it. "This isn't what you...I thought—"

Buffy smiled softly, caressing his face with her free hand as her other persistently tugged at the clasp on his trousers. "I'm not...doing that," she said, a charming blush tinting her cheeks. "I just...I wanna do something...you—"

Ah. So that's what this was. A gratuitous thank-you wank.

"Don' worry 'bout it."

"But you..."

Her voice trailed off for what her eyes could illustrate. Spike hissed a sigh and followed her gaze with more of the same. "Yeh," he murmured. "It happens. Happens all the time 'round you, now that I think of it."

"Then let me—"

"Nothin' I can't fix with my two hands. Buffy, you should really—"

"Let me do this. Please."

It was the please that got him. Struck him as ironic though he would never laugh at her. The Slayer, sitting in his lap, her body warm and pliant from the orgasm he had given her, asking him if she could have him off as a token of her esteem. That, and then something else. Something more. A buried spark in her eyes that betrayed so much more the other.

When he refused to voice another protest, she accepted that as her go ahead, leveling her mouth to his again. She wrapped her free hand around his neck, pressing her brow intimately against his. And when he sprang into her warmth, they both moaned for the feel of it all. Her tentative fingers, so shy, so careful, running down the length of him in a way that turned him on more for its simplicity than any of the nasty, explicit acts he had locked away in his internal cupboard. The girl in his arms was pure sunshine. Burning him up so good that he didn't care anymore.

Her eyes were closed. Her brow was pressed to his. She dipped her hand inward to caress his sac, her nails soft and exploratory. Her head arched slightly against him when he released a long moan, a smile tickling her lips. She cupped him with pristine tenderness, thumb rubbing circles into his sensitive skin with shy reserve that did not know her.

It dawned on him then. The intimacy of connection. His eyes glued to hers, closed as they were. Her sweat-laced forehead resting against his. Wanting that lasting fulfillment of their union. She was memorizing him as he had her. Committing his every contour to memory, similarly noting that tomorrow might bring with it a different tide. A new realization. A coming that would make this the only time they would have together. Her doubts were real. Very real. Her mind was confused and her heart was trying to stay out of the way.

But she wanted him. She wanted him with every inch of passion that he wanted her. And like him, she recognized the significance of this. Of just this. Of belonging for one night before the world came crashing back. And that was why she was doing this. For her sake as well as his. Because she wanted to. There was no gratitude in her touch—pure yearning at its best.

Buffy's hand returned to his length, a quivering breath pressing past her lips. She leaned inward to taste his briefly before taking course in laps that marked him a lost man. Her thumb encircled the leaking head of his need with every pass; caressing him so gently he was afraid this would be over before granted time to start. And when he felt the hint of her sensitive wetness brushing over him, he clutched at her shoulders and gasped.

"Buffy—"

"Shhh..." She pressed her own hand between her legs, coating her skin with her juices before returning her touch to his aching cock. That line of torment surpassed for a whole new one. Spike grasped her hips and held, thrusting forward ever so-slightly into her hand. The feel of her essence on him was too much to bear. Her graceful fingers gliding up and down, shifting ever-so often to squeeze his sac. Up and down, again and again. Her thumb becoming more boisterous—pressing into his head, earning jerks and moans and whimpers and long mewls of her name with no relent. Her speed gained momentum. Grasping not too tightly, but not loose at all. Touching him with a blatant disregard for reservation. And never removing her brow from his. Keeping that intimacy. That touch. Kissing his lips every few seconds. Her eyes closed. Memorizing him.

It was too much. His hands dug into her skin when he felt himself about to tumble over. And without a word, she fisted the material of her t-shirt and nodded encouragingly, welcoming his ejaculate into the soft cotton that surrounded her. Spike abandoned her hips and grasped her arms again, holding her fiercely to him as the waves crashed and receded. Too much still. Too much. Perfection.

Buffy.

"Oh God," he whispered, voice trembling. "Oh fucking Christ."

She was quivering, too. Shaking to her foundation. And slowly, allowing the minutes to tick by with their solace, she opened her eyes, finding his intent upon her.

They stared at each other for endless seconds. Passing on what words could not be trusted with. Then he drew her near and kissed her. Tenderly. Lovingly. Conveying the ache he felt rising in his chest the same as before.

Their stolen moments.

"Thank you," she said. He nearly chuckled in disbelief, but there was something serious in her tenor that could not be laughed at. "For trusting me."

Spike licked his lips, not knowing what to say—not knowing if he should say anything at all. He nodded in place of words, tucking himself back into his pants before he could grow hard again. Now with their scents lingering together, it was difficult not to imagine what it could be like. Every day like this. Every moment a captured second in unending ecstasy. Together.

But for now, they had this. Tonight. They had tonight. This quiet before the storm until the sun rose. When they would be strangers again.

Chapter 26

By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, Buffy was all but convinced that the entire encounter had been a dream.  She awoke alone in her bed, covers pulled pristinely over her lithe form.  The clothes that had been piled at the floor were gone—shelved appropriately or consigned to the hamper that they were collecting for the Laundromat that remained far down their list of priorities.  Spike’s duster was gone as well.  The bowl of soup she had consumed after the demon attack as well as the cup of tea that she never really got around to drinking had also been cleared away.  The t-shirt that the vampire dressed her in the night before had been replaced with one of her own; and for that, she could understand. They had somewhat soiled his.

Her panties were missing.  That was the only spark that gave way to the prior night’s validity.  And while it hurt that Spike had not opted to remain in her bed to enjoy the morning together, she couldn’t entirely say she was surprised.  Or that she blamed him, for that matter.  What was stolen in the evening hours could not be readily trusted at daybreak.  Her own feelings notwithstanding, he had to be as confused as ever for all the mixed signals she was giving him.

The townhouse was eerily silent as she moved through with her normal routine.  Spike’s bedroom door was closed but she knew he wasn’t there.  No, the house was empty.  Cold and empty.  No pancakes being made in the kitchen.  No snuggles, no teasing, no kissage—morning breath included.  Nothing.

Buffy’s heart sank.  She was edging toward complete depression.  What she and Spike had shared last night was perhaps the most sensuous experience of her life.  With everything else she had done, seen, shared with others, there had never lingered that sense of security.  That feeling of complete absolution.  They had held each other in the aftermath of something beautiful only to quiver at the possibility that it was the first and last.  That there would never be such a homecoming again. 

Truthfully, she had expected the entire thing to confuse her even more.  With the way she was feeling before patrol last night, arriving at such a sudden epiphany seemed unlikely.  Seemed beyond the reach of her conscious.  And really, she didn’t know what had changed it for her.  Perhaps it was the knowledge that despite all else, Spike was there.  He was always there.  He had come after her last night when he had every reason not to, and he had done it out of a sense of protection rather than intruding upon the space she had been dead-set to put between them. 

Buffy made herself a bowl of cereal, forgoing milk and deciding against the group sitch.  She hadn’t gotten much sleep for reasons beyond the obvious and didn’t particularly feel like seeing Xander or anyone else who would look upon her critically.  So, instead, she curled up on the couch and flipped on the television, hoping for something that would call her mind to distraction.

When she landed on CSPAN, she stopped.  On screen was the Press Secretary for the President—CJ Cregg.  Donna had mentioned her a time or two in passing; it was amazing how much interest simply knowing the people involved could prompt her focus on politics.

CJ wasn’t talking about politics, though.  She was talking about Natchez. 

“For those of you who didn’t hear me the first, second, and third time, no, we have no idea why the town has virtually shut itself off.  And no—” She took a minute to point at one of the reporters that was off screen, “—we don’t know when we can expect an update from the Communications Director or the Deputy Chief of Staff.  Rest assured, we have plenty of armed militia looking into the matter.  When I actually have information to give you, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” A low murmur ran through the crowd at that; the ironic sarcasm in the comment not lost on anyone.  “Katie.”

As the selected reporter continued with her question, Buffy flicked off the television and climbed to her feet.  Staying here wasn’t going to get anything done.  Whatever was going on with her and Spike would have to wait.  They had a situation, and she had to be a part of it.

She was the Slayer.  Personal problems were infinitely on hold.  Granted, when things weren’t going well in her personal life, her life as the Slayer tended to suffer in turn. 

The blonde expelled a deep breath, dumping the remaining contents of her cereal bowl into the trash and cast her dish into the sink.  The last time her emotions played a heavy role in her duties, the ending result was catastrophic.  For anything else, she wouldn’t let herself go through that again.  She refused to put herself in such a place where she had to choose between love and duty.

No.  Not now.  Now was a time for work.  Not a time for hiding in corners and wishing the world away.  One never knew when the PTB might take that seriously.

She decided to go into the main house through the connecting door in the back to avoid bringing attention to herself.  Though by the time she arrived, the dining room had been abandoned; left to one of the two maids she had met since they initially checked in.  The party itself had relocated to the front parlor where they were discussing the current conclusions in animate, however lowered voices.

Another sigh escaped her throat.  There was no use in avoiding them.  With a polite nod to the Millers, who had smiled and greeted her upon entering but somehow escaped her discernment, she moved stealthily through the dining room and slipped into the conversation.

It was futile trying to go unnoticed.  The minute she pressed herself against the wall, a violent undercurrent of raging blue sucked in her gaze, and her knees sagged, threatening to give way.  His eyes had found hers immediately, of course.  Burning her to the core.  So much storming behind a raging blue sea.  He froze and melted her within the same beat; the wealth of emotion plaguing him made her want to break all protocol and bound across the room and pepper his face with reassuring kisses.  It was overwhelming; never had she thought that a simple look from Spike would ever affect her so profusely. 

But there was nothing to do; nothing she could do. Not with everyone here and watching and matters of more worldly importance at hand. Her sudden appearance had pushed her back to the spotlight.  It took a minute to realize that a question had been aimed in her direction.

Buffy blinked and smiled apologetically.  She didn’t even know who had asked it.  “What?”

Xander smiled at her a bit from his vantage point across the room.  She didn’t like the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other; it gave her the impression that he was waiting to whip the blinds behind him away to fry the resident vampire once and for all.  Granted, despite however much her friend disapproved of Spike, he would never do such a thing without ample motive.  And however irrational Xander might have been at times, the consenting relationship between two adults—regardless of societal status—did not fall under the category of ample motive.

“We were just wondering if you were okay and all,” he said.  “Spike told us that you had a rough night and planned on sleeping it off.”

The Slayer’s eyes went wide.  “What?”

“The buruburu, pet,” the vampire intervened softly, eyes never flinching from hers.  “I thought it’d be best ‘f you stayed in bed today.  Gathered your strength, an’ what all.”

Oh.  “Oh, yeah.  Right.”  She crossed her arms and edged inward.  “I do feel kinda funky, but otherwise, on the side of good.”  She made a point of saying that last while keeping her gaze intent upon the Cockney; it was her misfortune that he chose that moment to look away.  Before she could convey anything with success.  “It was bad last night, but…” She shrugged.  “If Spike hadn’t found me, I’d be Slayer chow.”

Donna frowned.  “You went by yourself?” 

Willow’s eyes snapped to Spike’s face.  “You didn’t tell us that.”

The vampire didn’t reply.  He kept his gaze stoic and glued to the carpet.  The uncharacteristic silence about him was making Buffy nervous.  And from the confused stares from the others, she wasn’t the only one.

“You went out by yourself?” Sam asked.  “With everything that’s going on?  I thought Mr. Giles—”

Xander chuckled wryly.  “The Buffster isn’t one for following rules.”

There was a snort from his right.  “That’s reassuring.  Isn’t she the one that saves the world?”

Donna rolled her eyes.  “She’s a woman of the world, Josh.  She doesn’t need a supervisor.”

“Case in point by the way the vampire had to come to the rescue, right?”

Buffy’s eyes flared.  “Hey!  Doing things my way gets the world saved, all right?  Hasn’t failed me yet.”  She wet her lips at the challenging look Spike sent her way and shrugged her shoulders in concession.  “There are just times when I…need a little help.”

“The vampire coming to the rescue,” Josh said again.

The Slayer glanced to Sam.  “Can we muzzle him?”

“Trust me,” Donna intervened.  “It won’t help.”

“Buffy,” Wesley said, holding up a hand to motion for the others observance to silence.  “Can you tell us what happened?  Spike claimed it was a buruburu that attacked you—”

“And at this point, I’m not ready to disagree with him.”

“Well, I am.  Buruburus are native to Japan, you see.  The likelihood of one being here is…well, minimal at best.”

Spike heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.  “Tried tellin’ these wankers that ‘ve been alive long enough to know what a bleedin’ buruburu looks like.  Even described it to Anyanka, an’ she said I saw right.”  He trained his gaze on Harris.  “Also mentioned that she used a couple durin’ her vengeance days.  Nice slow way to die, don’ you think, Stay Puft?”

“Shut up.”

“Where is Anya?” Buffy asked.  “And Giles?”

“Anya’s going to be sleeping until next Thursday for as late as she came in last night,” Xander replied.  “Remind me to never complain about the length of research parties again.”

“Giles is still cramming down the text,” Willow explained.  “He found a few nonsensical passages and he’s decided that since he’s in a rut that he needs to punish himself with no food or sleep.”

“Poor guy,” Donna said.  “We should go and give him a break.”

Josh arched a brow.  “Yeah, you do that.”

“I don’t think he’d be much for breakage right now, anyway,” the Witch replied with a small smile.  “He’s all in the groove.  We should pop by and see if we can help, though.”

Xander raised his hand slowly.  “Been there, tried that.  I think he actually threw a shoe at me.” 

Sam nodded to Willow.  “We can go by.  See if he needs help.  And I need to check up on Toby.”

“I think Toby’s way of coping with all of this is to not cope.”  Josh glanced to Buffy.  “He’s probably so far into his denial that he’s convinced himself Herbert Hoover is President.”

“Then we are in trouble,” the blonde assistant remarked.

There was a thoughtful pause.  “I believe that if anyone is to help Giles sort through the mess, it should be Donna and myself,” Wesley said before turning to her.  “I understand that you are good with research, even if this is a tad out of your field.” She nodded her compliance, and he was satisfied with that. “As for the rest of us, I am under the impression that it would be better if Willow stayed here and attempted another location spell.”  He ignored the looks and few moans that the suggestion bore.  “I understand that we have had little success in the past, but a part of knowing what Quirinias wants is understanding why he used Faith to bring us here.”

“An’ why there’s suddenly Japanese demons runnin’ around,” Spike muttered.

A look of extremely schooled patience overwhelmed the former Watcher’s face.  “We do not know that for sure.”

“I bloody well know it.”

“I don’t think you—”

“Look, mate.  You’re not the one who ripped it off the Slayer’s back with your bare hands an’ tore it to bloody shreds an’—wait a sec.”  The vampire’s eyes went wide with confusion, meeting Buffy’s gaze in a hurry.  “How’d I do that?  The chip din’t fire.  I jus’ ripped it off you an’—”

“The chip doesn’t work on demons,” Josh intervened.  “I thought we covered this yesterday.”

Buffy pursed her lips sheepishly.  “We did…I just forgot to tell him.”

There was a long pause.  Spike was looking at her in a way he never had before; she didn’t know what to make of it.  Whether it was of question or accusation.  He was shielding his emotions well, and she could almost hate him for it.

Either way, it was better to amend.  “It wasn’t on purpose,” she said.  “I just…had a lot on my mind when I got in last night.  Then I went patrolling and there was the thing and I…Spike, your chip doesn’t work.”

The silence stretched deeper—the others now audience members, watching a soap opera of events unfold.  She really didn’t know what to make of his expression; his eyes remained as hard as rocks.  However, despite all else, there was a light of humored adoration in his voice when he spoke.  The same that finally sparked his gaze as he tilted his head, watching her with some intensity.  “Thanks, luv,” he replied.  “Got the memo.”

“So…” Sam began slowly, testing the waters.  “Your chip didn’t go off, and you just now noticed it?”

“Was a bit distracted last night, mate.”

Buffy’s cheeks went red and she looked down in a hurry.

“The Slayer was sickly an’ all.”

Donna was looking at the vampire with a new form of admiration, her round eyes as large as saucers.  There was a sort of girlish fondness in her expression; one that Buffy couldn’t help but envy.  This was a woman who had no reason to hate vampires.  She could be as open and candor as she pleased.  “So you jumped in to save her even though you knew it would cause you pain?” she asked, her voice wound as though she had just watched the end of Steel Magnolias.  “That is the sweetest thing I—”

“Donna,” Josh berated, a bit more snappish than intended. 

“It didn’t cause him pain,” Xander argued.  “The chip only works on humans.”

“He didn’t know that at the time.”

Spike curled his fingers into the cushions of the settee and threw his head back in aggravation.  “All I want to know is why in God’s name there’s a bleedin’ demon runnin’ ‘round out there that should be an’ ocean an’ a fuck away.”

Wesley held up his hand.  “We don’t know that—”

“For the last time, you ignorant sod.  Yes.  We.  Bloody.  Do.  Buffy din’t see it, I did.  Can’t spot buruburus unless you’re somethin’ a li’l less than human, right?”  He rolled his eyes, reaching for his cigarettes.  “It was drainin’ her strength.  Made it so I was the warm one, an’ left a nasty cut on her backside from where I yanked it off.”

Xander’s eyes went wide.  “How would you kn—”

“What, Harris?  You prefer I let her bleed all night?”

“Yeah, like Slayer blood is really something you’d object to.”

“Well, truth be told, mate, I’d be less likely to object to Harris blood right now for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

“Trouble?!  I—”

This was going to explode if she didn’t do something.

“Guys!”  Buffy yelled, throwing her hands in the air.  “Stop.  This is getting us nowhere.  Yes, Xander.  Spike took care of me last night.  I was cut.  I was bleeding.  It hurt.  He fixed it.  And no, not that it’s any of your business; I didn’t give him a taste of Slayer blood as thanks.  And no, he didn’t ask for one.  So drop it.”  She pivoted at the heel to face Wesley.  “Look, I have no idea what this backarack thing is or why it might be here, but if Spike says he knows what they are, look like, and got as up close and personal as he did with it last night, I’m gonna go out on a whim and say he knows what he’s talking about.  So maybe instead of arguing whether or not he has eyes and knows how to use them, you should focus more on the ‘figuring out why the hell it’s here’ part of your job.  Okay?”

She sealed it with a look she knew Wesley had seen before.  One of those ‘you know what happens when you fuck with me’ glares that had him complying immediately.  As for the Senior Staffers, Josh just looked at her dumbly; Sam looked uncomfortable.  Donna flashed her an encouraging smile, then turned to the former Watcher to confirm what they were going to spend the day doing.

Spike flashed her a grateful smile, but didn’t say anything else.  Rather, he rose to his feet as the group dispersed and trailed out without another word.  She felt bereft the minute he was gone.

With whatever they had shared the night before, there had to be some way to convince him that it was what she wanted from now on.  Him and herself.  There would be no first, last, and only with them.  Not when she felt the attachment growing to dangerous proportions.

The vow of an hour ago was useless.  Her personal life was what commanded her abilities as the Slayer.  There was a medium out there; she knew it.  And without Spike with her, finding it would be one of the more trying endeavors of her experience.

She just hoped these petty distractions didn’t get them all killed.

*~*~*

That mindset lasted for a few hours before she gave up completely.

There was certain logic in turning to liquor when things started going south of the border in the not-so-pleasant way.  If she stopped to consider the irony, Buffy was certain she would be in stitches. 

The day had passed slowly, ticking away with a monotone of growing agony.  A series of duties dispersed among the willing.  Donna and Wesley had been gone for hours now; Sam and Willow following the results of the location spell to the corners of god-knows-what in this forsaken town.  She supposed there was a certain amount of respect to be had for a man willing to track down the person who had—all too recently—abused him in a degradingly intimate fashion.  Either that, or he was too enamored with Willow to care at this juncture.  They were gone, now, and that was that.  Away from prying eyes.  Able to be together without inspiring mass amounts of disapproval.

Buffy was happy for her friend—she really was.  With whatever was going between the two, it was more than obvious that it was mutual.  The redhead had given up denying her attraction, and while she likely had miles to go until she was completely over Oz, she was happy now.  In spite of all the bad, she was happy.

And no one would ever think of objecting to that, the Slayer reflected bitterly.  No matter that Sam was at least fifteen years older than the Witch, despite his youthful good looks.  No matter that a country separated them, making any sort of relationship virtually impossible—if they should walk away from this alive. No.  Oh no.  Everyone was happy for Willow.  She had found a link to love again after suffering heartache that had nearly shoved her over the edge.  It was all good, because Sam was not a demon or a vampire or some other nasty.  All other complications could be safely discarded for the warmth of a beating heart and the active race of a humanly pulse.

Buffy was so sick of doing what her friends thought she should do.  Would approve of.  She and Xander had taken another daytime patrol and—predictably—he had started in on Spike again.  Granted, in a manner that was a tad more discreet, but condescending nonetheless.  It didn’t matter—she didn’t listen.  Her thoughts had trained steadily on the platinum vampire she was leaving behind, and how all he had told her was to come home at nightfall.  That if she wanted to patrol, she was not going without him.

Then he had turned at the heel and closed himself inside his room before she could get in a word.  Xander’s arrival had made it impossible to follow.  And that was that.

Spike had not mentioned last night.  It was as though it had not taken place at all.  And had she not known him so terribly well, the notion would have burned her for an entirely different reason.  But no.  For the storm in his eyes, the quiet surges of his despondent disposition, she knew he was just as miserable as she was.

Though instead of talking, he had already thrown up his defenses in anticipation of her rejection.  He was just as bad at jumping to conclusions as she was in that regard.  No talk.  Just run for the fear of being cut.

And the only thing keeping her from being the runner—from leaping into his arms was the fear of the fall.  How badly she would hurt; how badly he would hurt.  The glances of shielded disapproval that would shine behind the eyes of all her friends.  That blessed unwillingness to understand.

This was crazy.  The entire thing was tumbling out of control.  She had a job to do.  A duty, and yet all she could think of was making an impossible situation possible.

So here she was.  Drinking her sorrows away.  At the barstool of some establishment Under The Hill in Natchez, Mississippi.  A few stray locals giving her long, curious looks.  She understood.  Natchez Under The Hill was not known for having the greatest reputation, especially at night.  The small string of dining establishments and pubs; the only real bad part of town.  Yes, a single white female of her size and perceptible strength?  Foolish.  But she didn’t care if the world saw her slaying right now.  She needed liquor.  She needed the world around her to dissolve, and it was easier than she thought it would be.  Beer bad?  She wasn’t drinking beer.  And despite the image of reservation, the toothy bartender was more than willing to oblige.

His leers were a small price to pay in drowning her shattered image of perfection.

*~*~*

Really, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Funny how the world could get turned upside down with the ingredients of two consenting adults, a pile of textbooks, and a British accent.  She wasn’t even aware of when the conversation had taken a turn, or who had leaned in first.  And granted, while Donna hardly ever concealed her attraction for foreign men, she had not foreseen this end to the day when awaking that morning. 

She would deny the notion that she ever indulged in casual sex, though it was far from true.  She tried to be careful on who she let into her bed, but more over, her perception of the right man was distorted for the ease of melting at a smile, a joke, or lively conversation.  The notion of casual sex disturbed her, but it was turning into more and more of what she received.  Casual.  Meaningless.  And really, if this thing with the book and Sam’s fumble into ending the world, leaping into bed with the gorgeous man at her left didn’t exactly strike her as a bad idea.

Only if the world was ending, this was not where she wanted to be.  All respect to Wesley, it was not even close to where she wanted to be.  This lying together, side-by-side, ticking the minutes away—the quiet was nice, but it wasn’t what she needed.  What her subconscious craved. 

A revelation that only an apocalypse could bring.

This picture lacked more than something.  It lacked an entire person. 

“Oh my God,” she said, eyes fixated on the ceiling.

There was a rustle beside her.  With whatever her epiphany included, she could not deny that the man looked very scrumptious when unruffled.  “Yes,” he agreed.  And her heart sank a bit.  His tone in itself gave way to something he likely didn’t even realize. 

She was going to be the man in this scenario. 

A million things ran through her mind—what to tell him, how to thank him and apologize for what had happened.  Give him the dreaded ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech while knowing perfectly well that it was a combination.  It was her for her stupidity, and him for not being who she wanted him to be.  And god, why couldn’t he be who she wanted him to be?  Her life would drop from complication and everything would be all right.

For whatever she intended to say, though, her mind kept returning to one irrefutable conclusion.  Refusing to stray—needing to be said.  “I’m in love with Josh.” And, of course, the second the alien words hit the air, masked in her voice, her revelation turned to horror and her eyes went wide.  “No, I’m not!”  Funny how her protest sounded wrong in the midst of everything so thoroughly screwed up in the realization itself.  Donna’s eyes fell shut and she groaned her frustration.  “Yes, I am.  Oh God.  Oh God.  Why me?”

The left side of the bed fell silent for a long minute, waves of dejection rolling palpably into the air.  Her heart ached. 

Perhaps that had not been the best way to tell him.

“Well,” Wesley said slowly after a long minute, pride broken but expression strangely void of surprise.  “Glad I could help you reach this conclusion.”

The words would have been bitter from anyone else.  He seemed genuine, if not a little wounded.

Donna didn’t look at him.  She couldn’t bear it. 

In love with Josh Lyman.

How was that for fucked up?

*~*~*

It had been dark outside for almost ten minutes, and Buffy wasn’t home yet.

All things considered, Spike felt he was handling his frustrated concern in a calm, adult-like manner.  Pacing back and forth in the dining area, sending accusing glares to the door every few seconds as though a piece of wood was responsible for holding the Slayer up in any regard. 

Five more minutes and he would tear the bloody town apart.  For the second day in a row, he had ignored his instincts, shoved logicality aside, and sent her out by herself.  With her friends.  Without giving themselves the chance to talk about what had happened last night.  He knew on some level he was being unreasonable, but for everything, the loom of her impending rejection bore his heart to pieces.  To actually hear her voice it would unravel him completely.  But he wasn’t the type to wait it out—to avoid an issue like this.  There was just something about her that caused all his hinges to become radically unglued.

Another fiery glance to the door.  Nothing still.

He was going to break something. 

The minute he had her back here, he was going to kiss her senseless, yell at her, kiss her again, and then they would talk.  All reservations aside.  They would talk.  They had to now.  This constant avoidance was getting them nowhere.  It had to be all or nothing.  Right now.  Tonight.

And by God, if she did not walk through that forsaken door within the next ten seconds, the town would be a windstorm of chaos before he was through with her.

So preoccupied was he with the door that it was almost a surprise when it actually opened.  It was even more a surprise when a very inebriated Buffy stumbled through.  The scent hit him six ways from Saturday, but was no match for the bewildered, glossy look behind her eyes and the predatorily silly smile upon her lips.  He rushed forward to catch her as her body threatened to waver, all reserve immediately shoved aside.

Anger gave way to apprehension.  Confused emotions plus liquor spelled bad in ten different languages.  And from the look in her eyes, he received the distinct warning that he was about to find out what sort of drunk Buffy was.

Oh.  Fuck.

Spike gulped audibly.  “You’re late, pet,” he said.

And that was all he got out.  The Slayer’s eyes blazed with sudden feral and she was on him.  Over him.  Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling their pelvises together as her mouth hungrily attacked his.

Spike umphed, his arms coming around her in a manner that was purely instinct as she pushed him into the den.  Her hands clawed at his shirt, her tongue battling his as he drank her in, almost subconsciously.  She had him on the couch within seconds, her lips dancing down his throat as she managed to yank his hem from the waistband of his trousers.

Bad had turned to worse quite successfully.  His body quivered with alarmed arousal as his mind duked out between his greater and lesser evils.  The scent rising from her center was going to drive him out of his head.  His hands blindly sought her wrists, but she was moving too fast for him.  The sweetness of her kisses, drunk as they were, drowning out wave after wave of objection until her mouth was away from his and dancing provocatively down his throat.

Spike threw his head back and gasped, doing his damndest not to arch his erection into the welcoming apex of her legs.  “Buffy,” he panted.  “Buffy, God, you have to stop.”

“No,” she replied stubbornly.  Had she not been writhing like a bitch in heat on his lap, he would accuse her of sounding like an insolent child.  In the meantime, she had evidently given up on his shirt; decided it was easier to rip the fabric down the middle.  “Want.  I want now.  Want you.”

“Buffy, you’re—”

“Stupid.  Buffy stupid.  Want Spike.”

He laughed nervously, battling her hands.  “Well, then she’s not stupid, is she?  Let’s let her have Spike when she’s nice an’ sober, savvy?”

A growl rumbled in the back of her throat.  “No.  Have Spike now!”  Her teeth latched onto one of his nipples, and she ignored his answering howl—her hand skating down to the buckle of his belt.  “Don’t you want me?”

“Fuck, Buffy!”

She grinned happily.  “That’s the idea.”

Spike released several harsh breaths, glancing down at her in awe.  “Yeh…” he said slowly, enjoying the view for a few wonderful seconds before he felt her hand enclose around his cock.  God, he hadn’t realized how fast she could move.  “No.  No!  Buffy, no!  We can’t do this now.  ‘S wrong, ‘s—”

“Betcha wanna feel how wet I am.”

“Stop it!”

“Spiiiike.”  She bounced a little in his lap, eliciting several tortured moans.  Her fingers were skating over his erection thoughtlessly, running laps that somehow remained tender despite all else.  “I don’t wanna be stupid anymore.  I don’t care.  I don’t care at all.  Let’s just do this.  You and me.  Come on.”

He could nearly weep with irony.  “No.”

There was a grumble.  Buffy stuck out her lower lip.  “Why not?” she demanded, grip constricting around him.  “I want you in me.”

“I wanna be in you, too, baby.”  Spike’s eyes were aimed at the ceiling, his hands holding her hips steady.  “Not like this.  Not with you pissed outta your mind.  Fuck if I let us get this far for some bloody one nighter where I end up at the business end of a stake tomorrow mornin’.”

Her mouth was at his throat again.  “I wouldn’t stake you,” she murmured.  “Never could.  Not my Spike.”

She really had no conception on just how much hers he was.

“Buffy—”

Her hands abandoned him for seconds to whisk her own top over her head.  Spike pursed his lips and refused to look at her, even when she took the hands that were at her thighs and placed them on her laced breasts, encouraging him to squeeze.  Her own grasp had returned to his aching cock before he had time to miss her touch.  Sweet agonized bliss, this was.  A warm, wet, willing Slayer bouncing on his lap, her mouth dancing down his skin and suspiciously nearing the swell of his need and he was frozen. 

This was not the Slayer, he reminded himself.  This was Buffy.  The woman he loved.  The woman he would not take advantage of just because she was a horny drunk.

But for the way she was sliding off his lap and nuzzling his belly, he had to do something now. 

“Buffy.”  Spike’s hands shot to her arms and he hauled her back up.  “No.  We can’t.  You’re pissed.”

“Nope.”

“Drunk.”

“Not drunk.”  Oh sweet Jesus, she was reaching for the fastening on her own jeans now.  He was a goner.  “Want happies.  Want Spike happies.  Wanna give me happies?”

He was not strong enough to push her off; inebriated or not, the grip she could maintain with one hand still out-powered him two to one.  And every time he came close, the chip was there to remind him just how human she was.  Even still, that wouldn’t stop him.  He wasn’t going to take advantage of her and blame the chip when she screamed her fury the next morning.  He wasn’t going to throw everything away for a quick shag that would be sloppy rather than memorable.  He refused for this to be it.  They had bollixed up somewhere along the way, and it was time to fix it.  If he couldn’t push her off himself, he would get some help.  It was that or have her hate him in the morning.  So bloody unfair. 

His hand shot for the phone.  How fucking embarrassing was this?

The minute he had the receiver in his hands, he was at a loss.  Who in the world would he call?  Xander would stake him if he saw them together, despite the drunken state of his friend.  Anya wouldn’t care, always an enthusiast of orgasms.  He didn’t want Willow to see the Slayer like this, and Wes…

“Bloody hell!” he howled, doing little to scare her off his lap as he furiously punched in the number for the main office.  Buffy was becoming more intent on having him off, her hand moving over his erection as the other kept him still.  “Get me Sam Seaborn!” he snarled at whoever answered.  “NOW!”

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the front door.  Ten seconds after that, Sam and Josh walked into the room, looking more than bemused.

If she noticed the sudden audience, Buffy did not show it.

“Having problems?” the Deputy Chief of Staff asked with a ridiculous smirk.

“Get her off me before I rip his balls off an’ shove ‘em down your throat, chip or no chip.”

Sam, thankfully, was all business.  He looked a little embarrassed at seeing the Slayer all but naked waist-up, but did not look at her in a way that would surely mean his death the minute she was safely subdued.  “Come on,” he said to Josh, moving forward.  “You take one arm, I’ll take the other.”

“Never thought I’d meet a vampire that couldn’t handle his women,” came the much-too-amused retort from the other man.  “Or a Slayer that can’t hold her liquor.”

The Deputy Communications Director gave him a long look.  “Are you saying she has a sensitive system?” he asked.  “Because that would be calling the kettle black on your behalf.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to snap some semblance of recognition into the writhing Slayer.  She turned dazedly the next second, as though just registering that others were in the room.  “Ohhhh,” she said, blinking slowly.  “When’d you get here?”

Sam pursed his lips and politely picked up her discarded shirt.  “Come on, Buffy,” he said.  “We’re gonna put you in bed, all right?”

Her eyes went wide and she glanced back to the vampire worriedly.  “Spike?”

“Cover up, sweetling,” he said, tension evaporating.  At least she had enough sense to let up when others were present.  There was hurt buried in her eyes and something else he couldn’t quite suss out.  Something he would have to deal with come dawn, no doubt.  If there was any chance in hell that he could look at her after tonight.  “We’ll talk ‘bout this in the mornin’.”

There was a long minute; her eyes went wide as though realizing for the first time what she had been doing since she arrived.  “Oh God,” she said.  “Oh God.”

“Shhh, pet, s’okay.”

“Spike, I—”

He nodded at the Deputy Communications Director.  They were not having this conversation or anything else with an audience.  And he certainly wasn’t going to make her concentrate as she drifted out of a drunken stupor.  “Go with Sam, luv,” he said softly.  “He’s gonna put you in bed, right?”  Then, by suggestion alone, his eyes set into a fierce glower and he turned to the man with more than an air of warning.  “You try anythin’ an’ I’ll—”

Josh glared at him.  “Sam wouldn’t put any moves on your girlfriend,” he spat indignantly.  “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The other man cleared his throat.  “Josh, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.  This jackass told us to come over here and help him out, and now he’s threatening you if you make a move when you’re the one practically engaged to that redhead and he’s the one that had her on his lap two seconds ago.”  He shook his head.  “You got real balls, you know?”

“Mine could only be real, Curly.  Why?  Did you not get a good peek a minute ago?”

“I swear to—”

“Josh!”

Spike sighed diplomatically and released his hostility.  “Jus’ watchin’ out for my girl, mate.”

“Then why don’t you put her to bed?  Don’t you trust yourself?”

A sharp titter ran through his throat.  He had called them for that very reason, hadn’t he?  “With her?” Spike retorted, eyes lingering on Buffy as she accepted Sam’s hand and allowed him to help her toward the back.  “Never.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to neutralize Josh.  The look of angered defense melted and they were left to themselves for the few uncomfortable minutes that Sam spent tucking Buffy into bed.

When he finally spoke, there was an air of resignation in his voice.  The sort that released former grudges and accepted the larger sense of apathy alongside shades of depression.  Josh collapsed into the chair on the other side of the room and dropped his head into his hands.  “This is fucked up,” he said.  “This is all so completely and irreversibly fucked up.”

Spike smiled dryly and nodded.  “You have no bloody idea.”

*~*~*

In a pub not too far away, Giles was nodding at the bartender to refill Toby’s drink as he toasted his own to nothing at all.  They had been there for an hour or so; the Watcher drawn from his research by the sound of a small bouncy ball banging against his hotel room in summons.  Evidently, the Communications Director was over his internal crisis and desperately in need of a wasted night.  The bouncy ball was simply the way to find a suitable drinking pal.

“The world is ending, you know,” Giles said, wincing as the liquor hit his tongue. “It’s all ending.  It will be over soon; humanity as we know it is infinitely buggered.”

There was a long pause.  Toby was studying the bottom of his shot glass as though surprised it existed.  “Republicans will blame us,” he said a minute later.

“Most likely,” the other man agreed.

And they drank.

Chapter 27

A/N: Major coolness! Several fics have snagged some nominations over at Love's Last Glimpse, just because my readers rock and are more than kind to me. L'Amour is up for Best Romance and Best Episode Stealer. Hallelujah is up for Best Long Story and Best Future Fic. And Grey Gardens of Shadowed Rapture is up for Best Saga, Best WIP, and Best Characterization. My endless, endless thanks.

"I swear to God, if they make me do one more location spell before this trip is through, I'm going to turn them all into newts."

Willow expelled a deep, tremulous sigh as she flopped down onto the settee in the main parlor. It occurred to her fleetingly that such candor and disrespect for the furniture was something she would have once looked down upon, but the Wensel House had nearly become home. The dazzling interior no longer had any supreme effect on her, the novelty having worn off for something less than remarkable. She was somewhat disappointed with herself in that regard. The house was not something to familiarize herself with; it was one of the Natchez treasures and was not to be domesticated, especially by guests. However, what was done was done. For now it was home; at home, she flopped onto sofas without a second thought.

There was a short laugh. She glanced up and met Sam's eyes and, as was rapidly becoming habitual, found her insides melting into all sorts of warm gooey goodness. He was such a doll. A soft cuddly teddy bear, only the kind she wanted to do more with than cuddle. It was so strange; she had never envisioned having these sorts of feelings for a man that was not Oz. With Oz, it had been an all-the-way-going-to-get-married-someday little girl fairytale that she had never wanted to end. And true, while Willow was certainly sensible enough to recognize that most high school romances ended in tears and separation, it was different with Oz. They were different. Sunnydale was not made for normalcy, and thus she held herself and her friends on a higher platform than regional schools across the country. It was amazing to find someone at all, much less someone that she had loved with the extensive fervor of Oz.

Sam was not Oz, and she did not want him to be. She wanted him to be Sam. The cute, bumbling intellect from Washington DC that had wormed his way into her heart when she was not looking. They flirted, they talked, they spent most of their time together. They were aware of what was being said about them, but never made an issue of it. Never referred to it directly.

A move had not been made. She knew that he liked her—he oftentimes wore that giddily boyish 'I've gotta crush on you' grin whenever they traded stories or enjoyed lines of seemingly flawless banter. The fact that he had a decade and a half's worth more experience refused to faze her—granted, the age thing was probably more an issue for him than for her. She came from the world where sixteen year olds got into relationships with men one or two centuries older; fifteen years, give or take, was nothing in the long run.

They had not discussed it, though. They had not mentioned her age, or geographical complications, or anything that would suggest the flirtation would extend into a bona fide relationship once the current apocalypse had been stopped in the manner per norm. And true, while Willow was not expecting a marriage proposal when they had not so much as shared a first kiss, she thought it reasonable to want to know if this was going to end up being something or nothing at all.

"Do location spells usually work?" he asked. "Or are your friends just being stubborn?"

"Oh no, they usually work." She smiled wanly. "I usually have the right ingredients. For some reason, Natchez, Mississippi doesn't seem to be big on the pagan/witchcraft thing."

"You'd think they would be," he replied. "Being so close to New Orleans, and all."

"Not terribly close."

He frowned, as though the answer was unacceptable. "I'm sure if you got off exit 3B and took the—"

Willow grinned. Despite all else, he was damn adorable. She held up a hand. "Sam, you're doing that thing again."

He stopped and grinned sheepishly. "Right," he said. "The thing."

They settled for a few minutes in companionable silence, studying the carpet and drape scheme that had so rapidly settled in as a second home. Really, for everything else, the redhead was becoming as familiar and comfortable with Natchez as she was with Sunnydale. Granted, a big evil was just enough to make anyone feel right at home, but there was something indisputably comforting about having a room to come home to at the end of every day. Looking forward to mornings even if each passing one edged them even closer to another apocalypse.

"Have you seen Buffy today?" Sam asked spontaneously. "I would imagine she's not having a very pleasant morning. Well, granted, I think Spike will likely do whatever he can to take care of her. He's a nice guy, you know. Kind of a bully, but a nice guy. He really reminds me a lot of Josh."

Willow frowned. "What?"

"Sure they're priorities are not exactly attuned, but Spike seems confident and egocentric to me—though from what I saw last night, likely also a bit on the softie side. That's something Josh would kill me for telling you, but I don't think he—"

"Sam, what are you talking about? What happened last night?"

There was another break. He looked at her askance. "Oh," he said. "So you haven't talked with Buffy today."

"I've been with you all day today. Did we go talk to Buffy?"

He searched her eyes questioningly as though unsure of the answer, himself. "No?"

"Right. The chances of my having a conversation with her while not having spoken to her are not of the great. What happened last night?"

At that, he fidgeted with discomfort. The picture of a disobedient child that had run his mouth when warned about the consequences from an overbearing parental figure. "If she hasn't told you yet, I shouldn't—"

Willow rolled her eyes. "If it's that she's danced to the tune of the funky monkey with Spike, I'm not exactly dropping my jaw. Th-though I do wonder why she would've told you and not me." A frown creased her lips. "Why did she tell you and not me? She doesn't even know you. And hey! Best friend here. You'd think she—"

"She hasn't danced to...any tune with Spike. Unless they go dancing regularly and I completely mistook that for an analogy."

"Well, I've known Buffy to dance, but I don't think she and Spike—." The redhead cut off abruptly, eyes falling shut. "We just got off the exit ramp, Mister. What's going on? What happened?"

Sam fidgeted a minute more before releasing a tempered sigh and shrugging. "What the hell?" he asked the room rhetorically. "It's not like they're going to be talking to me anytime soon, anyway. Buffy evidently got a little intoxicated last night at one of the bars Under The Hill. I'm guessing she and Spike have had a fight or some sort of disagreement, because...well..."

"Oh God. She didn't stake him, did she?"

There was a long, blank silence. "What? No. No, she didn't stake him. God, would she stake him for just having a disagreement? And does she use actual stakes, or is that just Californian slang for kill?"

"She's a vampire slayer...you know the old 'stake through the heart' thing?"

He winced and covered his own heart out of reflex. "Ouch."

"Well, not for you. No ouchies unless you get some major vamp neck. What happened last night? Buffy got drunk and she..." Willow's eyes went wide. "Oh no. Did he...? Did Spike? That's it. I am so opening up a can of medieval on his shiny white hiney. That little—"

Sam threw his hands up. "Spike didn't do anything," he said. "Actually, that's why I know about this. From what I can tell, Buffy came back last night after drinking and decided that she wanted to...progress to the next level in her relationship with Spike. I don't think he was strong enough to fend her off himself, so he called me."

"He called you?"

"Well, me and Josh."

"He called you and Josh."

"Yes."

"Why didn't he call me?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess he didn't want to embarrass Buffy."

"So instead of calling the magic wielding best friend, he calls some of the most influential people on the President of the United States' payroll to help him get away all unmolested from the Slayer?" Willow shook her head. "Yeah, because sense is being had in that scenario."

"Well, if we get out of this alive, she won't have to look at us every day for the rest of her life," he explained reasonably. "You, she would have to see all the time."

"Trust me, getting drunk and flinging herself at a vampire is not exactly Buffy's biggest mistake."

"It wasn't her choice, Willow. Spike's the one who made the call."

"It was a stupid call."

"I am not going to take a stance in this one way or another."

They were quiet for a minute longer. The Witch sighed and sank back into the cushions of the chaise lounge. "Donna slept with Wes," she said a minute later. Then she frowned. "Oh God, I'm channeling Anya."

"Donna slept with Wes?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know?"

"She told me. We are kinda roomies now, you know."

Sam sighed and tossed his head back. "Well, now I know what I'm going to be doing for the rest of the day," he said.

"What?"

"Counseling Josh. He gets in moods when Donna has a new boyfriend."

"Oh, I don't think Donna and Wes are gonna become a thing. She was kinda wigged about it and didn't really act like she thought it was a step in the positive direction." Willow shrugged, then looked up with interest. "Why would Josh care? Is he—"

Sam held up a hand and shook his head. "It's a thing with them," he replied. "Don't ask. They've been dancing around it since he hired her, quite frankly. And if I know either of them, they'll be dancing around it still for years to come."

"So it's a thing that's not a thing."

"Precisely." He sighed. "Kinda like us, when you think about it."

The world stopped with those words. Willow blinked, unsure if they had been real or imagined out of a dreary line of wishful thinking.

"Only I am mentioning it," Sam continued, his voice oddly businesslike. "I am taking charge of this."

"You're taking charge?"

"Yes."

"Of...what?"

"Of us. Quite frankly, I don't want to be like Josh and Donna. I don't want to be a wasted opportunity for something more than we are. If there is something between us, I say we take charge." He looked at her sheepishly then, as though just realizing the words that had escaped his mouth. "If that's all right with you. This isn't like you're my boss's daughter or a call girl or an ex-fiancée who, quite frankly, didn't like me very much. You're a witch."

"I'm a witch," she echoed, still unsure if this conversation was actually happening.

"And you're quite young, which I would have had a problem with if you weren't so...well, you're Willow."

"I'm Willow."

He smiled fondly; if he registered how exceedingly nervous the turn in the conversation was making her, he didn't build an issue out of it. "You're Willow," he said again. "And I'm finding that having Willow around makes my life a little brighter." A pause. "Even with the impending apocalypse that I will inevitably assume full responsibility for before this is through."

She blinked. What he was saying was completely and utterly surreal. "So you're taking charge."

"I am taking charge."

"You want us to be a thing?"

Sam's smile grew wider. "You're starting to sound like me," he said. "In case you haven't noticed, 'thing' is pretty much the universal euphemism where we come from."

"I think it's pretty much the universal euphemism," she replied nervously. "A-and, hello, you've always sounded like me, so it's not like my...like it's a..."

"Thing?"

"No, I—"

"You talk too much."

"So do you!"

"Yes, well, I am trying to rectify that now." Then, before she knew what was happening, Sam had gently cupped her cheeks, drawing her into the tenderest kiss of her lifetime. The feel of him was soft, sweet and exploratory. As though he was unsure of what she would do; unsure of himself. That bumbling Seaborn quality she had come to adore. A man with the world at his feet and nothing to fear, quivering against her in a kiss that would remain with her as one of the most memorable moments she had captured. That she possessed to enjoy.

When they pulled apart, it took a minute for Willow to find herself. She was dazed, and more than a little swept off her feet. "S-so," she said, licking her lips. "You're taking charge, huh?"

He smiled. "I'm taking charge."

That was a good thing, because after that kissage, there was no way she was letting him or his lips go again.

"Okay." Willow released a deep breath as his mouth neared hers once more. "I can live with that."

A few minutes passed before she felt she could attempt to broach the line between sleep and wakefulness any more than she already had. Her mind raced against her body's will, trying to remember exactly what she had consumed the night before and just how much of it. And what she might have done to thoroughly embarrass herself as a result.

There was movement in the room, then. Suddenly. Movement followed by the sense of a comforting presence. Buffy relaxed into the overbearing sense of protective affection even before he pressed the warm washcloth to her forehead, tilting the mattress with his weight as he sat down beside her.

"Hey," he said softly, running his hand through her hair.

"Hey," she replied, reaching for the wrist that held the washcloth at her brow to rub loving circles into his skin. "What happened?"

"Think you drank yourself under the table last night, pet," he murmured. "'S gonna be a miracle 'f the pub has any goods to give the public t'night."

"I remember there being booze."

There was a brief pause. "Do you remember anythin' else?"

"No. Just booze and then blah." Buffy drew in a breath and decided to brave it. She opened her eyes to meet Spike's heavy gaze, troubled and saddened but not misplaced. He looked more concerned for her than anything else. "Did you have to come get me, or did I find my way back?"

A gulp at that. "You found your way back, baby. Anythin' after that? You don' remember?"

She pursed her lips in thought. There were flashes here and there and an odd sense that she needed to be very embarrassed when it came to looking Sam in the eye today, but other than that, nothing particularly scandalous came to mind. "No," she said. "Not a thing. Why? Did I do something? Oh God, I did something, didn't I? Dammit. This is why Buffy and liquor are nonmixy things. I knew I—"

The smile of reassurance that crossed Spike's face was forced at best. He removed the washcloth the next minute despite her murmur of protest, then gestured to the nightstand. "Wager you have a bad headache, sweetling," he said. "Donna an' I ran out this mornin' to get some provisions. Thought you might like some aspirin."

That was sweet, but her mind could do nothing but pick out the objectionable portion of that statement. "You and Donna?"

Spike's lips twitched with a grin. "Well, she offered, kitten, but she still smelled a li'l too much like Wesley to strike my fancy."

Buffy pouted. She knew she was being ridiculous, but there was an ever-present nasty voice that reminded her that she was no one's first choice. And for some reason, it oftentimes adapted the peroxide vampire's tenor.

To his credit, he was very good at reading her mind. His eyes softened accordingly, and he brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her forehead before leaning down to caress her skin with his lips. "Also," he said, "she had this annoyin' quality that I din't exactly take a likin' to."

"Besides smelling like Wes?"

"Yeh. An' bein' completely an' nauseatin'ly head over for Curly." He sighed and shook his head. "Bloody dish like that could do so much better than that wanker."

"Hey! With the comfort and the—"

Spike rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but his entire demeanor was still a couple shines off its regular glow. She knew there was a lot to talk through, still, but found his bedside presence to be comforting. At least they were getting past the awkwardness of yesterday and approaching the boundary of reasonability.

At least she thought so. The shiftiness in his gaze was making her uncomfortable.

"She's not you, you daft bint," he said, and all else fell to the wayside.

It didn't last long, though. The moments of stolen tenderness in the wake of a hangover and a sun that looked to be setting. Strange. She had slept the day through. That almost never happened.

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"

Spike shrugged simply. "You needed rest."

"An entire day?"

"'F Rupes had unlocked the mystery behind our impendin' doom, I would've woken you up, all right? Seein' as he din't, I figured havin' a well-rested Slayer was more important than you gettin' out there for more meaningless daytime patrollin'." A long sigh heaved off his shoulders, and he was up the next minute. "'ve got some coffee brewin', an' if you know what's good for you, you'll drink it. It'll make the hangover more tolerable." There was another brief pause. "'m gonna go," he said abruptly. "Run a quick patrol for you then head over to the Eola to see 'f Rupes has anythin' he feels he needs to share."

Buffy frowned and kicked her legs over the side of the bed. "Well, hold on. If you wait a minute, I can—"

"Fall back down again?" he asked rhetorically, and interminably well-timed as a dizzy wave decided to strike at that exact moment. "'m not lettin' you go out there with a bloody lot of buruburus runnin' around."

"Spike, it might've been just the one—"

"Might bein' the operative word there."

"And if I go with, it wouldn't be like it was two nights ago."

"You're right, 'cause you're not goin'. Get used to people carin' about you, Slayer. 'F you have me around, you're gonna get taken care of. I'm not like the Scoobs—I can hold my own." He looked at her for another long moment before parading across the room to brush another kiss across her forehead. "Jus' stay here an' rest. You deserve a night off."

"I've taken a day off."

Spike chuckled. "You must be the only person alive that objects to a spontaneous holiday. I'll be back in later, sweetling. Get some rest."

And then he was gone. Moving faster than she had ever seen him move. The slam of the front door sliced through her brain like a silver bullet. Buffy groaned and flopped back to the mattress. That vampire had to be the most annoying entity on the face of the planet. She was so sick of not talking about what was between them. It was time to throw everything on the table and kick consequences upside the head if they tried to interfere.

There was something about his demeanor, though. He seemed edgy today. Nervous, withdrawn, but trying very much to be himself.

Buffy released another sigh and tried once more to get up. She glanced around the room wearily as though daring the hand of God to knock her back down again. Being sickly wasn't of the fun, especially when she had sacred duties to uphold. Perhaps, despite all the aggravation in such an admittance, he was right in that regard.

Her eyes landed on the meds he had placed at her disposal; right next to the book she kept forgetting to give him. The same text she bought at Longwood during one of her daytime patrols with Willow—the one right after her overnight adventure with the vampire in question. Trapped about a hundred miles south in the rumored most haunted house in America. His cute interest in the old homes manifest in her mind; she bought it then because he hadn't been able to come with her that day, and had forgotten to fork it over every day thereafter.

The scent of coffee hit the air. With another sigh, Buffy snatched the pills along with the book and obediently followed her nose. Perhaps reading some nineteenth century sleep-machine was just what the doctor ordered in getting her thoughts away from their present course.

It wasn't until she made it to the kitchen that the first wave of remembrance hit her. Out of nowhere a doorway opened and all her secrets tumbled out. The night, what had happened—what she had done—everything put on the table for agonizing retrospection. A flash of stumbling through the door with a one-track mind. Catching the relief in Spike's eyes before he fell to anxiety all over again. Watched herself while standing to the side. Watched him catch her as she started to fall.

Buffy's hand froze mid-air, quivering with the weight of the coffee pot. Her eyes went wide.

"Oh my God."

She stretched and stumbled, replacing the pot onto the burner before she had a catastrophe. Her hands clutched at the counter. The book fell to her feet as the room started spinning all over again.

God, how could she have done that to him? Put him in that position? Asked him to...

"Oh God."

It was a wonder he could even look at her this morning, and no wonder that he didn't want her on patrol with him.

Wanted to be as far away as possible.

"Oh. Oh God."

Buffy turned slowly and slid to the floor, her heart pounding. Things were just too messed up now to even begin to sort through.

And still, she couldn't get one image out of her mind. Stuck there on infinite repeat. Spike watching her enter the house and start to fall. He had leapt forward to catch her. Even when she was at her worst, he was still there to catch her.

And something told her, regardless, that he always would be.

Spike was already well on the road to complete mental abstraction when the bell above the bar door chimed and Josh Lyman walked in. It might as well have been timed; they took one look at each other and released near-identical groans of aggravation. Just as bloody well, though. And damn near predictable. There weren't many pubs in Natchez to begin with: the likelihood of them selecting the same one were favorable odds.

Annoyance gave way to cynicism, and finally to amusement. Spike shook his head and rumbled a low, grave chuckle. For one night, though, it didn't seem to matter. Any of it. The fact that they weren't the best of friends and likely would never be. Former grudges shoved aside for the want of nothing at all. They were weary—that much was more than clear, but nothing else could stand in the way of a night of forgotten sobriety.

"What's the matter, Curly?" the vampire sneered, edging over and motioning to the empty barstool next to him. "Come to drink your sorrows away?"

Josh perked a brow but did not contest. He took the opposing stool and shrugged off his jacket. "No, I'm in a bar alone because I feel so good about myself," he retorted. "Same to you, I expect?"

Spike snorted again, examining his shot glass wryly. "'m in a bar alone 'cause it's dark, dank, an' there are lots of blokes in here with death wishes." He released a long sigh and tossed his head back with another drink. "'Sides, the Slayer's temporary amnesia's gonna go the way of the dodo soon. I try to make habit of not bein' where I'm most likely to get staked."

The other man's brows arched accordingly. "You think your girlfriend would kill you because you didn't take advantage of her in a drunken stupor last night? Man, you guys sure do play rough, don't you?"

There was another dry chuckle at that. The vampire's eyes never left the tumbler in his hand. "You don' know the Slayer," he replied simply. "She's a bit unpredictable."

"Yeah, I hate that in a woman."

Spike gave him a look; Josh grinned and shrugged, making himself comfortable and motioning for the barkeep to serve him a share of whatever his makeshift drinking pal was indulging.

"We don' get chocolates an' kittens," he said a minute later after they had toasted to nothing. "'S not easy when you're undead an' your girl's the one chosen to end the lot of your kind."

"Yeah, that would put a hamper on things."

"An' she's been doin' a right job of muckin' with my head from the bloody start. She knows what she wants, she jus' doesn' want to want it."

Josh snickered. "I don't think that's Slayers. I think that's women."

Spike grinned and toasted to that. They drank, refilled, and drank again.

"So why are you here, mate?" the vampire asked a minute later. "Decide to become a recluse like that bloke that decided he was better suited for outta sight, outta mind?"

"Toby doesn't deal with being out of charge very well."

"Yeh, an' you got a right knack for it."

Josh's brows arched. "I can hold my own with the best of them."

"Wouldn't last two seconds in my circle."

"Well, that's because your circle is—oh right—demonic."

Spike threw his hands up in the air. "You're the politician, here."

"Right. All politicians are bloodsucking fiends. How stunningly original."

"You said it, mate." The Cockney tossed him a careless grin and motioned to the bartender for another round. "So why're you really here?" he asked. "Rupes 's doin' all the research. Haven't seen the whelp or his bird in an age, though I reckon Anya's bein' kept by the Watchers to make sure they don' misinterpret demontalk for somethin' else. Prissy an' Red are still hittin' it off, right?"

"Yeah. And when in God's name did this trip become a matchmaking game for the freaks and geeks?" Josh collapsed his head tiredly into his waiting arms. "I'm still trying to grasp onto the reality that I was actually here to do something that made sense. Well, 197 didn't make sense, but the reason behind it did. It was supposed to be a minimal thing, and now it's gotten so fucking far out of control that I don't know what's real or not anymore."

There was a self-righteous chortle. "Welcome to the jungle," Spike retorted, lifting his glass to his lips.

"That Giles guy keeps saying this thing is bad. Well, what the hell are we doing just waiting around?"

"Can't go anywhere, can we?" The vampire shook his head. "You don' know the way the Scoobs work, mate. They complain, they tire, they waste time, they shag the wrong blokes, the world starts to end, an' they save it in the knick of everythin'. Rupert's gettin' as much info as he can. He jus' seems to have forgotten that he can't speak demon an' that he's not on the Watcher's payroll anymore. Meanwhile, you got that bloody Faith bird out there, doin' god-knows-what to god-knows-who." There was a long, agitated sigh. "All I've got outta this deal is knowin' that we're dealin' with the god Quirinias, an' that I had to wheedle outta Donna."

Josh snapped to attention at the mention of his assistant. "Donna?"

"Went out for provisions this mornin'." Spike paused and rolled his eyes. "Don' gimme that look. I din't touch her, an' you bloody well know it. She's cute, I'll grant you, but she doesn' hold a candle to the Slayer."

"Yes she does! She holds many...candles!"

The vampire's eyes twinkled at that, and he cooed condescendingly. "What's this?"

"Nothing."

"Somebody is jealous," he singsonged.

"I am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!" Josh held up a hand. "Donna can sleep with whoever she wants."

Spike's brows perked. "'S that so?"

"Absolutely." There was another pause. "She just has to give me fair warning so I can do everything I can to sabotage it."

"Right. An' that's in no way a sign of jealousy."

"I swear to you, jealousy is not a factor in this. I just happen to know Donna and the way she is with whatever Republican gomer she's decided to indulge in a relationship that will go nowhere." He paused. "She has a history of leaving me without an assistant just so she can come back in a few months because it didn't work out."

"With as much of a wanker as he is, I really don' think you can call Messy Wes a Republican," Spike retorted. "An' let's take a look at that, shall we? You're not jealous, but you're afraid of the bird leavin' you for some other bloke. You must have an interestin' way of definin' words, Curly."

"Donna's irreplaceable." He shrugged. "I don't want to go through the process of trying to find someone who could do the job half as well as she does if she decided to leave, for whatever reason."

The vampire's eyes narrowed. "An' she really has a habit of jus' walkin' out 'cause her current flame tells her to?"

"Just the once, and I don't wanna chance it again."

"Right. An' I s'pose you're bein' here, drinkin' your sorrows away, has nothin' to do with the fact that your irreplaceable assistant got her brains shagged out by one of our sideshow attractions." Spike snickered and shook his head. "You give denial a whole other meanin'."

"And you're here, why?"

"'Cause of Buffy an' her endless game of fucking with my head." Off the look he received, the vampire chuckled dryly and reached for his cigarettes. "Hey, at leas' I'll admit to bein' love's bitch. I keep fallin' for the birds that'll never love me back. So why're you here, then? Your assistant got shagged by someone who wasn' you, an' now you've decided to get pissed over it."

Josh stared at him incredulously. "Believe me, if I got drunk every time Donna hooked up with some joke that she has no future with, I wouldn't have a job." He paused. "How'd you even know she'd slept with Wes?"

Spike pointed deftly to his nose. "Vamps have heightened senses all across the board, mate," he retorted. "How'd you know?"

"'Cause I know Donna, and I know the way she acts the morning after. There being only four guys in the Wensel House, myself excluded, enforcing the process of elimination wasn't exactly difficult. Besides, they were gone all day together yesterday and Wes is the only one of us with a room to himself."

The vampire batted off another grin and tapped his cigarette against the provided ashtray. "Wish you could hear yourself talkin'," he said. "It'd be bloody amusin'."

"This is not a jealousy thing."

His hands came up. "All right, all right. 'F you say so."

"I do."

"Then by God, it must be true." Spike purposefully ignored the heated look he received in turn and motioned for the barkeep to refill their drinks. "Keep it comin', Charlie. The night's still young."

If she tore her eyes away from the page, she was nearly convinced the words would melt away as though they never were.

It was one of those moments that Buffy was sure was not her own—a moment that belonged to someone else. A moment that she had stolen by mistake. Looking at the worn page from a book that did not look like it should have any wear. It wasn't an anthology or anything—she hadn't spent a ridiculous amount of money on something for Spike so early in their relationship. This was a book bought for less than ten dollars. It was meant to be nothing.

The Diary of Julia Nutt, paperback edition. Something only the residents of this town would want. Would need. And yet, something so personal involved. Her mind raced; trying to decipher if, perhaps, this could tie in with the overbearing reason they had been drawn to Natchez. But no—she couldn't think of anything. And it didn't feel like anything more. It felt natural, if not a little off.

A keeper for the family during times of war, the diary read. A man from England that had arrived with a freighter from New Orleans. A man with a family back home that he would never see. A man that died of yellow fever.

William Sinclair Bennet.

And in her hand—her hand—she held a documentation of his last words.

It was a moment that did not belong to her.

Amazing what retrospect a few shots of liquor and the comfort of apathetic company could bring to the table.

Really, as long as they didn't remember this in the morning, it would be fine. Somehow, the conversation had gone from jealousy, to demons, to famous demons, to demons in movies, to movies, and finally landed on a recitation of the greatest movies of all time.

Tie that in with the atmosphere of a drunken country bar, and it brought them in a roundabout way to where they were now.

"Rollin' rollin' rollin'," Spike sang heartily. "Though the streams are swollin'. Keep them doggies rollin', rawhide!"

"Rain and wind and weather," Josh answered, just as inebriated. "Hell bent for leather."

The vampire toasted his glass. "Wishing...my girl was by my side.
All the things I'm missin'—"

"Good bulls, love and kissin'," the other man added drunkenly. "Are waiting at the end of my ride."

Spike slammed his mugful—having gone from shots to mugs—onto the table heartily. "Move 'em on."

"Head 'em up," Josh answered.

"Head 'em up."

"Move 'em on."

"Move 'em on, head 'em up—Rawhide." The vampire shook his head. "Cut 'em out."

"Ride 'em in," came the reply.

"Ride 'em in."

"Cut 'em out."

And then, finally, together as a lasting toast to drunken stupor, they clinked their glasses together and concluded, "Cut 'em out, ride 'em in, rawhide! Rawhide!"

Spike and Josh had not made any friends in their drunken stints—especially from the local brutes whose eyes were trained studiously on the small television that had three channels to speak of: sports, sporting, and football—but for all the world, they did not care. When the bartender told them to keep it down, the vampire had replied, "Oh, bite me!" and initiated a new round of drinks and jokes.

When there was nothing else in the world to laugh at, drinks were all that was needed. A liquid pain-reliever for all the reality that surrounded them now.

Something that kept them from going back.

It seemed everyone had something to drink about nowadays.

"Barkeep," Spike grumbled, motioning for another round. "Whassat I told you 'bout the bottom of this glass?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Josh said randomly, eyes fixated on the liquid as it pooled in the Cockney's mug.

"Hold on there, mate. Gettin' you another drink."

"It was probably the Rawhide," a local sneered, jousted by his friends in support.

The vampire smirked, but reached over to help the other man anyway. "Don' be passin' out yet," he said, finishing off his drink with the other hand. "We're gonna do shots now, right?"

"The room's spinning." He peeked an eye open. "Did I mention I have a very sensitive system?"

That was the last Josh Lyman got out for the evening. He toppled over the barstool and landed on the ground, oblivious to the world around him.

Spike looked at him dumbly for a long minute, then raised his eyes back to the bartender.

"'ll have another," he said.

Anything was better than the alternative. Waiting here as though the world did not exist. His hazed mind did not want to consider the petite blonde waiting for him at the townhouse. Not with her drunken stint the last night and his answer to her encore.

No. Much better to stay here. The Deputy Chief of Staff for the President of the United States passed out at his feet. Himself perched on a stool, eyeing a glass of liquid poison.

Drowning away in misery.

Chapter 28

A/N: Again, I feel the need to warn anyone who's not reading this for the Spuffy action. This chapter? All Spuffy. And believe it or not, it really is important that I get this out before the apocalypse begins.

Also, and this is really cool. g I've been nominated over at Spuffy Awards. Cupidity is up for Best BtVS Rewritten and Best Spike Characterization, Hallelujah is up for Best Long Fic, and – ahem – my silly collab with my best friend and beta, Kimmie, entitled Now It's A Disco is up for Best General Humor. (No actual disco is involved, I promise). My endless thanks to the person(s) who nominated me. . You guys are the best!

The day was not going well.

Of course, given her current streak of good days versus the bad, this hardly came as a surprise.

All had actually started on a relatively neutral note. Despite the sleepless night and the waiting for Spike so she could offer her thousand apologies—which resulted in falling asleep before he got back practically drenched in liquor—she had enjoyed an uneventful morning. Her housemate slept late; she wanted to give him the same treatment that he gave her after a night of boozing it, but Willow had come knocking around eleven. Evidently, the one-nighter with Wesley had Donna on the bad side of the wiggins and she desperately needed some girl-time QT.

Pangs of guilt stabbed her heart. She was so wrapped up in her own dumb life—amidst a potential apocalypse—that she had neglected practically everyone else. Giles was teetering near the edge of calling the Watcher's Council for assistance. Wesley, following Donna's dismissal, had taken to a similar method of shutting himself up with a bunch of books. Honestly, Buffy didn't know if they were working more now for survival or to get the hell out and away from each other.

There was other news, as Willow related. Angel was keeping a steady eye on the Hellmouth and had discovered, amongst other things, that Riley Finn was a member of the secretive Initiative and that Maggie Walsh was the regional supervisor. It was strange hearing Riley's name after so much had happened; Buffy hadn't thought of him in what seemed like months. And though she was a little peeved to discover that he was working for the agency that had handicapped Spike, it really didn't do much at all to shake her foundation. It was simply another thing to contend with. Something to know and stop when they got back to Sunnydale.

Assuming at this point that getting back was an option.

The lack of productivity was beginning to annoy her. All they knew right now was that Quirinias was the focal point of the book, the reason they were in Natchez, and that if he succeeded in whatever it was he was trying to succeed in, they were screwed with a capital S.

By the time Buffy had sufficiently assured Donna that she was not a horrible person for sleeping with Wesley and ending it before he became too emotionally attached, Spike had awakened and left the townhouse.

And that was it. The final straw. Something had to be done. She couldn't take this mindless dancing around each other any longer. It was stupid. It was beyond adolescent. If the world were going to end, she would damn well make sure he knew what she felt.

Which in itself was progression, because she wasn't even sure that she knew how she felt. Only that it was a wonderfully warm feeling that she missed embracing. That the cold she had experienced even in their few days of separation was something she despised. She desperately wanted warmth again. It was unlike anything else—more powerful than anything else. And if she was expected to give her usual hundred and ten percent, then she had to make sure her relationships were evened.

If she had Spike with her, they would be unstoppable.

And damned if that wasn't at least an aspect in why she insisted that he come in the first place. Something buried deep within herself. A reckoning birthed that first night—watching him struggle with his loyalty to her while Faith attempted to give him the treatment that she would later give Sam. It was strange thinking of him in that context, given everything that had passed. Given that just a short while ago, they had hated each other with more passion than she had ever learned through love.

There were still mitigating factors. A book in her possession that documented the last minutes of Spike's father. It was strange thinking that he had a father, and she really had no grasp on how he would react to the entire thing, but it was a way to break the ice. A way to try.

And that was only the beginning. Her embarrassment of her behavior the other night tied in with the uncertainty of Spike's feelings on the matter. He was not hurt to the extent of avoiding her intentionally—he had stayed with her, cared for her in the midst of her wake, then gone out to piss his own sorrows away.

It had to end. This dancing around each other. And it had to end tonight.

Buffy was no professional at delving into her feelings. She knew what she felt more often than not—it was being the confronter that threw her off. Smashing through the wall that Angel's leave had built around her heart. She needed those emotions. She needed to retrieve them from where she so deeply shoved them inside herself. She needed to know that she wasn't going to paint a picture of a fool and write her name underneath.

In the end, she opted for the coward's way out. It seemed simplest, given her track record, and was a good way to remain neutral without stepping too far into uncharted territory. She scribbled a note of apology onto some stationary she found in one of the drawers and stuffed it inside the book, marking the page that detailed Spike's father with certain passages underlined. It was the best she could do without pushing herself to uncomfortable limits, and she could only hope that it would be enough.

If it weren't, she would rethink the lines of comfort. For now, though, there was this. She set the book on his bed in the room that had formerly been hers, retreated to her own chamber, and waited.

She must have fallen asleep, for the slam of the front door jerked her back to the present. The setting sun had faded into darkness and her seventh Spike-sense was running memorable laps throughout her skin. When Spike had separated from her normal vampire sense to make one of his own, she didn't know. It was there in the place that Angel's had once lived. More warmth than she would ever have accredited him for. She knew he was home. Home from wherever he had gone.

There was some rustling inside the kitchen. She heard him shuffle through restlessly, drop something on the counter and make himself a cup of blood. Heard his wistful sigh as he inhaled; could picture it all with stunning clarity. And there was no doubt in her mind—she viewed it through imagination as though it was the real thing. As though there was a window separating them, and she was watching it all unfold. She watched him set the mug back on the counter, watched him rummage through whatever it was he had brought with him, watched him sigh again as he flicked off the kitchen light; watched as he turned into their adjoining hall where he stopped and stared at her door for long seconds.

It was so real to her, and that alone was nearly frightening. The idea that she knew him so well that picturing his every move, his every expression, every flagrant beat to flicker through such animate eyes gave her an uncomfortable sense of pride tagged with fear. At that moment, she knew Spike better than she knew anyone. With no one else did she have an inward file memorized of their every emotion, every expression. Not her mother, not Giles, not even Willow.

And that was that. There out of nothing at all. She knew Spike. Despite all else—what he was, what she was, the people he had killed, the penance he had obtained without actively pursuing, everything—she knew him. Buffy knew Spike as well as she knew anyone. Better.

All respects to Willow, this trip was rapidly making him her best friend. And that out of everything else—out of the attraction, out of the lust, out of the temptation and the guilt and the stolen kisses—that was what scared her most of all.

This was real. They were real.

And damn if that didn't make her want him even more. Out of everything else, she had never experienced real. Not once. Not with Angel, certainly not with Parker, and not with any of the lowlife boys left behind at Hemery High before the move to Sunnydale. This—just this—what they were right now was as real as it had ever been. And she was tired of denying it. In the face of all the fear, all the hesitation, all the tension of knowing what she wanted, she was through with playing mind games with herself and expecting easy answers. They weren't meant for easy answers. Easy answers brought easy questions, and that wasn't something built to last.

A few minutes passed before she heard him expel another sigh and turn back for his own room. There he would find the book she had placed on his bed; her note tucked inside. Buffy bit her lip and slipped off the bed to prowl the corners of her room, unable to keep from trembling. She had no idea how he would react. Had no idea what to expect. She hadn't seen him in a day, and a lot could happen in a day. Whether or not he was angry for the way she conducted herself the other night, she did not know. She didn't think so—her own embarrassment notwithstanding. There was a difference between knowledge and acceptance. And they were about to cross that border.

One way or another.

It didn't take long. The hall soon quaked with thunderous steps and her door flew open in a motion that was nearly dreamlike for all her anticipation. The storm behind his eyes drew her in immediately. A wealth of power amidst conflict that was tearing them both apart. He didn't hesitate, though. Didn't allow himself much room for second-guessing. His motive was ample. He strode to where she was standing, seized her by the forearms, and hauled her to his mouth for a hungry, savage kiss that both ignited the burning need within her and delivered notes of saddened glory. The taste of him was empowering—almost too much—and before she could reach for him in turn, he had released her and stepped back.

Then he said a word. One word. And that was all.

"Thanks."

Buffy blinked dumbly as he turned and walked away. A cold retreat back to a room that remained miles away from where she wanted to be. For everything, she had not expected something so abrupt. So callous. Nearly unfeeling if not for the way her lips tingled still with the impression of his.

He wasn't getting away from her again. They had dodged the bullet too many times now to allot for that.

She didn't even realize that she had followed until her answering, "That's it?" sounded within the tight confines of the narrow hallway. Spike was inches away from his threshold, body stiff and his back to her. It didn't take long to prompt the other; he turned and gauged her eyes, burrowing deep for answers that she was so sick of not giving.

And then a breath, and he relaxed. Just like that. Airs of relief that came from nowhere. His eyes softened and she watched him cave. Seemingly centuries of internal battles crumbling at last.

How in the world had they gotten here?

"God," he replied. "I bloody well hope not."

"Me, too." Buffy sighed and glanced down. "Look, I know that things have been...well, pretty crappy comes to mind, but if you have another term—"

"Tormenting?"

"That works."

Spike's head tilted as he considered her, drawing out a deep breath of acceptance. He nodded in agreement. "Yeh," he said. "We bollixed up somewhere. But this..." He gestured between the two of them. "Not gettin' to talk to you...not knowin' where we stand...god, it's killin' me."

She licked her lips and hazarded another step forward. "What happened?"

"Harris happened."

"No. I'm tired of this...and as much as Xander is not on my current Christmas list, I don't think we can blame him." A small smile creased her mouth, and she glanced away, down, and back to him again. "Hey. At least we're talking about it."

Spike smiled. "Well, your note summed everythin' up nice an' pretty."

"There's a first time for everything." Buffy held his gaze a minute longer, then released another sigh and crossed her arms behind her back. "I don't want to not talk about this anymore. I'm tired of it."

"It?"

"The full it. I liked...I've had a chance at both, right? A look at what both do for me. And I don't like my life without you. These past three days? Really sucked." His eyes sparkled. Her face reddened. "Well, except that."

"I seem to recall some suckin'."

"Crude much?"

"Much," he agreed, advancing a pace. "I don' like my life without you either, sweets. 'S been all out hell...goin' from where we were to back to...not even hatin' you. Couldn't do that, of course, but the sentiment's the same. I had nothin'. An' whether it be hate or...the other, I'd rather feel somethin' than nothin' where you're concerned."

Buffy pursed her lips. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Things were going so well..."

"We din't know where they were goin', though."

"Had some guesses."

Spike grinned. "Me, too. Scenarios, exchanges...lovely li'l pretties to keep my mind occupied." They looked at each other for a minute longer; the spark faded from the vampire's eyes and his shoulders sagged again with the weight of solemnity. "I don' wanna go back to where we were, luv," he said again, holding up a hand when her own gaze widened in alarm. "Before we left. Before comin' to Natchez. I want so much more than that."

"Me, too."

"Do you?" His tone was neither mocking nor incredulous. More inquisitive—hesitant. Leaving shades patched over the truth of her own yearning. "Do you really? Even with everythin' you have to consider?"

"I don't like my life without you in it."

"I was in it before. You seemed to be havin' a—"

"Spike. Stop. This is different."

He arched a cool brow. "'Splain it to me."

"I don't care anymore. The vampire thing...the Slayer thing...I don't care." She shrugged. "I don't know if I ever did. It was always there. Hell, we knew it was there. That's why we didn't talk about it. And yeah, Xander did bring all this up and I had a mini-panic attack. It wasn't about that, though. Not really."

Spike's expression refused to change. He merely nodded and encouraged her to continue. "Oh?"

A sigh coursed through her body. "I think I was more wigged that I wasn't wigged," she said. "Everything...I've changed so much in such a small amount of time. We both have." Buffy tore her eyes away and fixated on a spot staining the wooden floor. "I changed because of you."

A frown beset his face and his gaze burned with protest. "I never asked—"

"No. I didn't mean...for the better, Spike. I changed for the better. And not for you—that change doesn't really exist. The kind of change I'm talking about happens on accident." A beat. She tried to look at him but couldn't. The conversation was almost dreamlike; she had nearly convinced herself that he would disappear if she turned her eyes upward. "I don't wanna go back to where I was...and I don't wanna stay like this."

"God," he gasped in agreement. "I think I'd rather stake myself."

She drew in a breath and convinced herself to meet his gaze. "I've missed you."

"I've been right here."

"No. You haven't." Off his look, she flushed and turned her eyes to the ground again. She might as well have suggested a peace plan for the Middle East. "You've been here," she said, choosing her words carefully. "But...you shut yourself off. I've tried to approach you so many times and you—"

Spike cocked a brow. "Funny," he replied. "Think I woulda noticed that."

"You didn't even give me a chance. You left me after..." Buffy's cheeks in a flash of heated remembrance. The silky strokes of his heavenly tongue as he pushed her over a threshold that no one had ever acknowledged, much less attempted. And damned if she wasn't convinced that it had more to do with him than the other. "You left me after we shared something that meant more to me than...and..." Her eyes narrowed. "It wasn't because that was it. It wasn't. It wasn't because that was all there was."

"God, pet." He looked thoroughly offended. "How can you even think that?"

She shrugged, allowing her own wounded pride to bleed through now that they were finally talking about it. "I woke up alone," she said, and his eyes went wide with realization. "We shared that...and it was wonderful...and I woke up alone."

The air around them settled with a silence so palpably thick she thought she might choke. It lasted for uncomfortably long seconds before Spike snapped and stalked forward, covering the space between them. For the violence in stride, he softened when he reached her; his hands cupped her face and gently brought her mouth to his. A nibbling taste, yielding and exploratory. His tongue teasing hers, sweeping her insides with no effort at all. Buffy moaned into him and threw her arms around his neck as her inner symphony sent the Walls of Jericho to the ground. This was it. This liberation. The taste, the feel of him, in her arms without hesitation. God, how she had missed this.

It hadn't been that long. It really hadn't. But as his hands slid down her skin, fingers drumming over the column of her throat before resting at her forearms to hold her with jubilated desperation, she felt the higher arch of her torment mend to a full circle. The wave of released euphoria alongside searing relief clashed in an explosion of sensory. She fought the sting of tears and focused solely on him. His mouth, weaving her fingers through his hair, pressing her body against the hardness that met her stomach. Swallowing his own murmurs and moans and making them her own. This. She was made for this. For no other reason than to be a part of this. A part of him.

"'m sorry," he rasped between kisses. "'m so sorry. I don'...God, I din't know. I was so sure you'd—"

"I—"

"That night meant so much to me, baby." His teeth tugged mindlessly at her ear before his mouth took chart down her throat. "More than...I din't know. God, I din't know. I thought you'd...I couldn't bloody stand the thought that you'd think we were a mistake."

"You didn't give me a chance."

"If you'd said somethin'—"

Buffy pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You shut yourself off," she retorted. "I wanted to talk to you that morning and you were gone. And then you shut yourself up in your room. For some reason, that gave me the impression that you didn't wanna talk."

"So, what, you decided it was easier approachin' a bottle than approachin' me?"

Heat scorched her cheeks again, her hands curled around his shoulders in a frozen embrace. "I'm sorry about that."

Spike's brows perked, a devilish spark alighting his gaze that had been absent now for far too long. "Yeh. That's what gets me. You say you're sorry, an' here I thought that you'd be the one blamin' me for the whole bloody thing." He chuckled lightly, and the motion rumbled against her skin in a way that was so thoroughly soothing she could get lost in the sensation. "I was half convinced you'd come at me with a stake the second you woke up."

"You thought I'd stake you for not taking advantage of my alcohol-induced sluttiness?"

"Yeh. Sounds ridiculous, doesn' it?" He smiled and kissed her again. "An' I s'pose I'm completely wrong for havin' my doubts. You've always been so linear when it comes to your views on vamps an' our vague but very real code of ethics."

"Since we got here?" Buffy licked her lips, but shook her head before he could answer. "You thought I'd stake you and you still sat by my bed and patted my very headachy self?"

"What can I say? Like livin' on the edge." They shared a grin before breaking eye contact and simultaneously glancing about the tapered hall to find something to focus on. Then the edge of humor dissipated and a sigh coursed through the vampire. He found her eyes after a few minutes of avoiding them "'S this it?" he asked, voice degrees graver than before. "Even 'f...we get back to Sunnyhell, right? Bloody parades all around. Slayer saves the day again. What happens?"

"Huh?"

"You an' me. We keep playin' like this? You go back to hatin' me an' I go back to tryin' to get the chip out? You pretend none of this happened? What's it gonna be, Slayer?"

She stared at him blankly. "You know, it's not exactly like I have an off switch when it comes to my feelings."

"'S easy to say that now when we're miles away from where you belong." He glanced down again and kicked restlessly at the floor. "Where your call of duty is, along with more than Harris to remind you exactly what I am."

Buffy reeled her head back, a snappy retort ready and willing on her tongue before she caught a glimpse of the very real apprehension buried in his eyes. It was there—it wasn't a mindless provocation. He was truly worried. Worried that this was all a result of being away from duty and had nothing to do with how she felt. And while it hurt, it hurt more to know that he would have been right to ask the very same not too long ago. Once, perhaps. Once upon a time. But not now.

Not now.

He was right, then. There couldn't be nothing. Whether it be love or hate, it—anything—was better than the emptiness that had occupied the past few days. They had come too far for there to be nothing. And she could never hate him again. She was so far to the left of hate that the idea—the memory of the sensation—was nearly foreign. Hating him was an attitude that had never truly existed. A long, tedious nightmare from which she had clawed her way out.

It didn't matter where they were. This feeling was universal.

And if there wasn't nothing and there wasn't hate, that only left one thing.

One huge recognition. Something that had spent the last few days glaring at her in retrospect. Buffy was genuinely surprised when her heart didn't stop, though her stomach dropped and her balance nearly wavered. It was not a thoroughly alien thought—the word had carelessly tossed itself around her psyche for what seemed like forever, but was always dismissed in the face of uncertainty. When shoved into the limelight, though, she could not deny its audience. Could not turn away from the face of blatant realization. Acceptance. Truth.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

The Slayer pursed her lips and realized that Spike was looking at her still, waiting for an answer. Her reassurance that this was as real to her as it was him. And her heart clenched tightly with a bout of panic. Not for what he was—that no longer mattered, if it ever had. No, she was terrified of what it meant. Just the dawn of what it meant.

It wasn't that it was frightening—that was expected. It was more that it was. It was. Regardless of what else she could say about it, there it remained. Present. Existent. Within her and not going anywhere.

Furthermore, the answering words to her epiphany had not been surrendered. If she felt this way, she would damn well make sure that he felt the same before admitting anything. It was only fair. She wasn't about to put her heart on the line if he decided to remain nonverbal in that particular line of confession.

His eyes killed her, though. She had sworn that they were through running, and goddammit, she wasn't about to back out on that now. Buffy smiled a reassuring smile and stepped forward, closing the space that had forced itself between them once more. Like he had just a few minutes before, she took his face in her hands and caressed his cheeks with loving strokes. "I'm not miles away from where I belong," she said slowly. "I'm right here."

There was a long beat as he took her in, emotion storming his eyes. He looked at her like the second-coming. He looked at her in ways that would make angels weep. "Buffy?"

A pause, though not for hesitation. There would be no more of that. She smiled. "I'm right here, Spike," she replied. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You're sure?"

Buffy reached for his hand. "Honestly, there's a reason I write notes. I thought I had this one in the bag."

His eyes went wide at the mention of the note, blazing but suddenly far away. Similarly, his body tightened and his breathing—unnecessary as it was—stopped altogether. She did nothing but stand with him, holding his hand as the racing whirlwind of emotion drew him back to the beginning. For the way he was holding onto her, the storm behind his gaze was violent and ugly. She didn't know, honestly, whether or not revealing her discovery to him had been a wise decision. For everything else it seemed like it. However, he had not mentioned it; he had not even acknowledged it. He had come to her for her, not for what she had given him.

She wondered if he had even digested as much until now. Right now. Standing in the hallway with one worry drowned and the other reaching the surface of innovation.

When he spoke, his voice was small and hoarse. Suddenly remote—far from where they stood. "How'd you find that?" he asked.

"Your dad's thing? I...I really don't know, actually." Buffy pursed her lips and rubbed at her arms. "It was before you told me about...well, everything. Will and I had taken the daytime patrol over by Longwood the morning that we got back from the Myrtles. You weren't with us and I knew you had your lame little thing with the old houses, so I decided to get you a souvenir. I just...kinda forgot to give it to."

For the glow in his eyes, she didn't know if he was more touched by the fact that he had something concrete from his past in his possession or that she had thought enough to buy him a present.

"I...early Christmas?"

A smile itched at his lips. "Christmas is next week, innit?"

"I honestly don't think it matters anymore." Buffy released a long sigh. "So...was it a good thing to get? I didn't...well, I didn't know about the 'your dad' part until last night when you were out getting on the massive side of drunk with Josh and I was looking for something to do since I had a mandate to stay inside the house."

"Luv, you could barely stand." His grin lasted a beat longer before looking down again. "Thanks for that."

"When I saw it, I didn't know if I should..." She trailed off when she saw he was no longer with her, rather staggering to the back wall at a slow tumble. "Spike?"

He didn't say anything for a minute. "Did you read what it said, sweets?" he asked softly, sliding to the ground with a note of apathy that she more than recognized.

"The diary? I know it mentioned that he had a wife and kids he was trying to get back to." She licked her lips, waiting for a welcome sign to motion her forward so that she could be of some comfort. "I didn't read too much," she confessed a second later. "It felt...I dunno. The fact that he was your...it felt too personal. I didn't wanna read too much in case you—"

Spike glanced up at that and offered a weak smirk. "Right. The day Buffy Summers steers free of curiosity's the day the world flips over an' spins on the other axis."

"Never say never," she retorted dryly. "And believe me or not, I didn't read it. I saw his name, read enough to know it was the same guy, then closed the book when she started going into his last testament. That was too private."

The vampire nodded numbly, evidently at a loss of contesting her anymore. "'S funny," he mused, voice distant. "Mary an' I never said anythin'...not to each other, an' not to Mum. My pap was...like I told you, sweetling, he was a good man. He jus'...we figured he ran off, y'know? At leas' I did, an' I wager Mary did, too. Got to New Orleans, met some trollop, an' started a new family. It din't seem like somethin' he'd do, 'course...but it was almost easier to believe that than the story that his streamliner was...it was jus' easier." A short chuckle reverberated through his throat, dry and unfeeling. "An' the really ironic bit is, I was brassed. I was right pissed with him for a story I'd made up an' convinced myself of for years. Knew it wasn' true somewhere. Guess it was jus' that an' a mix of his havin' gone in the firs' place. Mum din't want that, an' Mary all but got on her knees an' begged him not to go. But it was a job." He smiled grimly. "Guess I always wanted to believe that not even death could keep him away. Thinkin' that he din't care was better for me. Better than thinkin' he'd been beaten."

Buffy drew in a deep breath and hesitated, unsure of where to go. If it was appropriate in this case to draw a seat next to him and offer her comfort. When he did not object to her propinquity, she neared as much as she could and again took his hand, offering small strokes of comfort. "You didn't tell me this," she said, thumb caressing his knuckles gently. "The night that you told me everything else, you didn't tell me this."

Spike squeezed her hand. "Every li'l boy likes thinkin' his pap's a hero, luv. Take everythin' else away, an' mine always was. He spent the years after the war tryin' to make enough money to come home. Did you read that?"

She shook her head.

"Got here from the river, I s'pose. There was a fort by Rosalie called Clifton. He was prob'ly shippin' materials when the Yanks torched the place. Helped take care of that house, tried to help after the war an' get her money back, then got the fever an' died." He released a quivering sigh. "He died here. An' Mary got hitched, Mum got sick, an' I got sired. Bloody funny world we live in." There was another pause, an emotional tug, and he crumbled at last. "God, he must've been so disappointed."

That was it. Knowledge thrown out the window; it was all instinct now. Buffy twisted and tugged him into her arms. "No," she said, caressing the back of his head as his brow found solace at her shoulder. "You're not responsible for what happened. Not to you or anyone else...well, except for those you, you know, killed...but, that's a whole other topic and we're..." A break and a sigh. "I really suck at comfort."

She felt a weak grin against her shoulder. "Sound fine to me, pet." His hands curled around her arms and he pressed wet, desperate but soft kisses at her throat. "Look at me," he grumbled, not entirely irate and with more than a dose of humor. "Bloody master vamp seekin' comfort in the warm embrace of his enemy. I either disappoint my human pap or my entire bloody nature. How's that for irony?" He rested against her for a few more minutes, collected himself, and pulled back when the change in mood—the change in everything—swept through on a beat that was tacit but unmistakable.

They were on the floor in each other's arms.

"Buffy...this is real, right? God, tell me this is real."

A watery smile crossed her face. She nodded. "It's real. I promise. No more running."

The light of a gentle smile touched his mouth, his eyes considering hers for a long moment before he drew in a reverent breath of concession. A released whisper of her name, and before he drove them both mad, he drew her lips to his.

This kiss was different. At the simplest touch, she knew this kiss was different. Not birthed out of confused desperation, not a fleeting taste stolen before the tide changed its course once more. His tongue tasted and teased, loved and worshipped. He explored every inch of her cavern, hands taking chart up her arms until he was caressing the softness of her throat and, eager fingers burrowing into the silkiness of her hair. Buffy was too far lost to ever consider being found. Passion mounted in a sea of murmured promises, coated with pleasured moans and gasps that were delectably suited to drive her out of her mind.

Never had any man's touch ensnared her with both arousal and security. Fired lust that was not frightening—did not exceed the bounds of comfort. This was not a bumbly first or a sloppy second. She had found the piece that matched her puzzle. The face of everything she had searched for to bring a scarred heart to rest.

An undercurrent of emotion swept her into an internal river. The terrible urge to laugh with glee coincided with a need to weep with recognition. Instead, she focused the entirety of her attention on him. On this. On pouring every entangled feeling she had through the union of their lips.

The next thing she knew, he had released her and tugged her to her feet. She had not realized her leg had fallen asleep until she applied her weight and nearly tumbled. Spike caught her around the waist, his lips seizing hers with flawless ease. And just like that, the mood took a drastic change. Tender remained but gained a dose of empowered lust, surged through contact and set her skin aflame. His teeth nipped at her mouth, his taste more prominent, as though it had held back alongside the stirrings of need.

A murmur of complaint tickled her throat when he pulled back, resting his brow against hers as they panted together in recovery. It humbled her that he was so unraveled that he needed to breathe—that his gasps were just as frantic as hers. That the glossy veil over his eyes was so empowered with zeal that the struggle for control mapped across a blue ocean conflicted with storm.

"Buffy," he rasped, lowering his mouth to her throat. "God, I want you so much. Feels like I've bloody wanted you forever. 'S been too long since...I was so sure you—"

She smiled and pressed a finger to his lips. "I know," she said. "Me too. It feels like all the time in the world has gone by. I feel so stupid."

His answering inquiry was muffled, but she caught the drift without fault.

"It shouldn't have been like this," she said, hands clutching at his shoulders desperately. "I messed everything up."

"Hardly, luv."

"It felt like it there for a while."

A chuckle rumbled through his chest and he pulled back to see her eyes, cupping her face with a note of affection that made her heart swell. "Sweetheart," he said, "I know it mighta seemed like it, but 'f tonight hadn't happened, an' fuck before I give all else up. You really think I woulda let you go without a fight?" He kissed her forehead almost reverently, thumbs caressing genteel circles into her cheeks. "After everythin'? After this? 'm made of more than that, pet."

"I know. I didn't mean—"

He cut her off with another blazing kiss, then pulled back before she could respond. "Now," he said.

"Now?"

"You gotta tell me now to stop, 'f that's what you want. 'F I let this get any farther, I won' be able to. I've been...God, Buffy, I—"

Her eyes widened. He thought she wanted to stop? Now?

"No stopping."

Spike perked a brow and she caught a glimpse of a cocky smirk. "No?"

And that was that. Nothing else. She had no chance to answer. He was on her the next minute; shoving her against the nearest wall, mouth ravaging hers. His lips were hot and needy in contrast to the coolness of his flesh. Tasting every inch of her cavity, hands on her skin, setting her ablaze without touching her at all. Her own hands curled under his shoulders, her legs entwined around his waist as he pushed his hips into hers with heady, desperate gasps. He pressed himself against her wholly, thoroughly. Let her feel with the wealth of how much he wanted her. And just like that, the pent up emotion—the yearning that she had so long denied herself—everything that had spent the past few days bottled in a perpetual heap of wait, burst through with alarming velocity. Buffy dropped her legs from his waist and pushed him back for a brief minute to catch her breath.

His eyes were heavy and studying her with a mixture of adoration and fear. Despite all, he remained on the brink of uncertainty. Teetering toward a knowledge that with her, nothing was ever set in stone.

It hurt that she could drive him to such an extreme, and she decided at that moment to never give him reason to doubt again. The next instant, she had hurled herself into his arms, attacking his lips with renewed fervor as he moaned in capitulation and wrapped his arms around her in a motion to never let go. And then the ground beneath her feet vanished completely, and she was flying down the hall to a room that had so recently been hers. A room encased with his scent. With an essence that was so thoroughly Spike that she never wanted to leave.

There he gave the ground back to her, and the realism of what was about to happen slammed into her fully for the first time. He must have felt it, too, for his breathing became ragged and his body quivered against hers.

"Buffy," he murmured against her mouth, saying nothing else but leaving himself wide open. She recognized it for what it was. A last cop out. A last chance. His way of saying it was all right now. If she wanted to, she could leave him alone in his room with nothing more than tonight's promises to sleep to. The words were lost, yes, but the meaning behind them remained as prominent as ever. And if possible, her ardor doubled and the gentility of his thankless grace swept her into a tundra of discovery.

There was no way to answer with words. No way words would be acceptable. Buffy smiled instead and brushed a kiss across his lips, her hands skimming down his chest and fisting roughly in the material. The idea of undressing him almost flushed her more than conceiving the picture in full. Sex was one thing; intimacy was another. And despite all the want of it, she had never had an intimate moment with a man that wasn't Spike. Not truly. She and Angel had come close—very close—but for all the fear, all the anxiety, all the pain, there had never truly been intimacy. Not intimacy in the way it was meant to be experienced.

She wasn't so deluded to believe that a future with Spike was paved with flowers and candy, but the intrinsic rightness buried within every move she made gave her faith. It could not feel so right and be wrong. It simply couldn't.

A trembling breath squeezed through her lips as she dropped his worn t-shirt to the floor and lowered her hands to the skin she had revealed. She was aware that he was watching her closely, but didn't care. Didn't look at him; couldn't. Her eyes were fixated on his chest. His chest that she could touch freely now. Running sensuous laps down his front, stopping to thumb his nipples with coveted liberation. The heady gasp he betrayed only empowered her, and the temptation to taste him became too potent to ignore.

Spike hissed and threw his head back when her teeth came out to play, his grip on her shoulder tightening if only to solidify his own foundation. "Fuck."

"Mmmm."

Several mingled pants tinted the air as he struggled for his senses before reaching for her own top. Buffy murmured into his skin, raising her head when she sensed it bordering from too much to the less pleasant side of torment. Her hands trailed a long path up his arms, then lifted as he whisked her shirt over her head.

"So beautiful," he murmured, immediately taking advantage of his eagle view and cupping her laced breasts with devout appreciation. His thumbs found her nipples and rubbed gently through the fabric. "So fucking beautiful."

Buffy licked her lips and thrust herself against the hardness at the apex of her thighs in answer. She curled herself completely in his embrace, a willing lull to his exploration. Little sparks of fire following the cold path his inquisitive fingers took. She was melting from the inside, and the sensation would have been intolerable if it didn't feel so good.

"This almost doesn' seem real," Spike whispered, stealing a brief but passion-filled kiss from her lips. "'ve wanted you for so long." His mouth found her throat again, nibbling softly as his fingers played absently with the straps of her bra. "So long."

She breathed a heady sigh, her hands skimming to his shoulders. She clutched him urgently for a second before reversing her track and tunneling through his hair. His words sealed her with passion, yet terrified her at the same notion. He spoke as though she was the pinnacle of everything he had sought—the ending prize of a long-fought battle. Doubt wracked her body, side-by-side with an underlying fear established with an inferiority complex that had gained ground by a past of failed expectations. The idea that this encounter could spoil that yearning into a rather rude awakening was more worrisome than she could bear.

And yet the sensations he inspired wound a tight bundle somewhere deep inside that was screaming for release. Her hands dropped to the clasp on his jeans only to forget themselves for the cool warmth of his mouth on her breast as her bra fell away. The feel of it at its tamest was almost enough to send her over that final edge—she had waited for so long, and the ache of his own desperation was doing a number on hers. She clutched at him, his tongue swirling around one rose nipple and furthering a downward spiral on footing she did not care to regain.

"Oh God," she moaned, thrusting herself against his hardness. "Oh my God."

"Mmm," he hummed in agreement, pressing an oddly chaste kiss at the swell of her breast before turning to give the other the same treatment. His left hand found the globe of flesh he had abandoned before the cool air could hit her, his right skating delicately down her front to undo the button of her jeans. "Buffy..."

It took a second, but her own hands suddenly jarred to the realization that they still existed. She encircled his hips to steady herself before her legs gave way, not surpassing the opportunity to tease his clothed backside. He chuckled into her skin and squeezed her breast in retaliation, inspiring a careless smirk to her lips as her touch moved to the persistent hardness that remained frantic in a need for attention. At her answering grip, he released a long moan and thrust eagerly into her touch, murmuring her name as though she was a god misplaced among the heavens.

"This all for me?" she asked softly, squeezing him again.

Spike's insistent suckling intensified in reply. His tongue swirled and consumed, and when she gasped in turn, his hands abandoned their task and pushed her back in a haste that would have wounded had she not landed on the bed.

"All for you," he panted. "Every fuckin' hard-on I've had for the past three years...all for you."

That she wasn't expecting. A jolt of heat shimmied down her spine. Buffy blinked. "What?"

A sheepish grin crossed his lips and he shrugged carelessly. "Can't help it when a girl's right, right?" The question was meant to be abstract, but she didn't follow his rhetoric. Then his expression grew serious, his eyes heavy with the emotion that she had grown so accustomed to. "'S been you for a long time, Buffy," he said tenderly. "Long before I knew that I even...long before Red's spell that gave me that firs' taste. Ever since...God, I don' even know how long. Maybe since that firs' night. I honestly don' remember not feelin' this way in one form or another." He shrugged. "Was lust at first, of course. Jus' flat out lust. An' yeh, I've tried to kill you more times than...but this was always there. Always; jus' waitin' for me to recognize it. Waitin' for me to see what was right in front of me."

Buffy sat in dumb astonishment for a long moment. Her body was numb—void of all reactionary senses. She felt for a blind instant that she was in someone else's life. A life where things made sense and the endings were always happy. Where love and joy were not two different entities, and embracing the sensation was no more a conflict of morality than was fighting evil a civic duty. Had anyone ever told her that she would be sitting in a room that belonged to Spike, naked the waist up, convinced that she had just lost what little of her heart was left to lose to a vampire she had once hated, she would have laughed them out of the room. But for everything—for the seriousness in his eyes, the tacit imploring for her to understand: to accept him as he was. To know exactly how much this meant to him

She must have been quiet a second too long, for the look in Spike's gaze drifted from heartfelt to dodgy and uncomfortable. The Slayer licked her lips and reached for his hand, tugging him forward until he was situated between her legs at the edge of the bed. Looking down into her eyes that answered for everything she still could not assign to words.

It was enough. In a flash, he had her back on the mattress; his mouth worshipped hers. He was only over her for an instant—urgency piling on every refrain. A rediscovered reason for everything. He drew his lips down her body, kissing and licking every inch of flesh he came across.

Then his weight was gone altogether, not without a murmur of complaint that went just as well ignored. Eager hands turned to the fastening on her jeans once more, born with enthusiasm that made her heart pound faster than she thought possible.

"Bloody hate trousers," he grumbled, fidgeting with the zipper. The look on his face was so adorably frustrated that she could not help but laugh, and his answering smirk sent heat right back to her face in a non-verbal exchange of tug-of-war. The next thing she knew, he had stripped her pants away and consigned them to the floor.

"There," he breathed admiringly, heavy eyes taking in the full sight of her. Buffy on his bed. Buffy wearing nothing but her frilly panties on his bed. The tension in his groin tightened without warning, and he had turned his hands to his own trousers the next minute.

The bed shifted as the Slayer sat up, grasping his wrist and bringing his perusal to a pause. He sent her a questioning look that she answered with a shy smile, her inquisitive fingers itching past his to take to the fastenings herself. The tenderness in the gesture took him by surprise; he released a quivering sigh and pressed a loving kiss across her shoulder.

"Buffy..."

"Shhhh."

An inferno of splendor. Spike gasped as his cock sprang into her hand, her touch delicate, exploratory, and not above driving him out of his mind. Watching her like this was strangely akin to the way she had looked the other night. Her brow pressed to his, her eyes closed reverently. Her small grasp teasing him to lengths he hadn't thought possible. The sopping heat from her wetness tainting the air. As her touch gained momentum, he dropped his hands to her lap and pushed the fabric of her panties aside. There was something about this alone that moved him more than anything they had done—anything he had experienced. Sitting in a dark room, caressing each other intimately. Bearing that sort of honesty for something that was not supposed to exist.

Liquid fire drenched his hand and his nostrils flared. And when her thumb began caressing the head of his cock with tantalizingly gentle strokes, his body quivered and he forced her back onto the bed, eyes blazing with need.

"Won' last," he gasped, hooking his thumbs under the cotton of her panties and practically tearing them down her legs. "You're too much."

"I hadn't even—"

He shook his head. "'S not that, it's you. You're too fucking much. Gonna go out of my mind." He finished kicking off his jeans in a hurry and settled over her before she could miss his presence. His presence that was not warm—more a cooling blanket to settle over her burning skin. "God, you smell so good."

"Spike..."

"Gotta have a taste."

Her eyes went wide. "Spike! I want you—"

"—want you too, baby."

"Inside!"

"Gonna be. Want my taste firs'."

"Thought you've already had a taste."

He shrugged innocently. "A bloke can't have seconds? Most girls love this."

"I do. But I want you."

"Gonna have me. Jus' wanna make sure you're ready."

"I'm ready, trust me."

A devious smile crossed his lips and he edged a finger inside her warmth. "Oh yeh," he purred. "Good an' ready."

Buffy nearly bucked off the bed. "God, you're gonna kill me."

Spike's smirk faded to a bemused grin as he slid another finger into her. "That's it, ladies an' gents. Slayer's sussed out my evil plan. Death by shaggin'."

"Oohhh..."

A grin on his lips, he dipped his head and brushed a kiss over her stomach, licking a wet path to her womanhood. His fingers probing, driving her out of her mind. She cried out and arched off the bed again, hands clenching the linens with such fervor that she nearly ripped them to shreds. Despite the interlude the other night, she never thought that his insistence on pleasuring her this way was something he enjoyed. No man had ever attempted. Granted, her own experience in the sex department was not exactly leaping off the charts; she knew enough just from girl talks with various unsatisfied students in class and an assortment of dirty films she, Xander, and Willow had rented one weekend—a dare to see who blushed first—to know that men liked receiving and weren't big on the giving.

Parker had more than proved his affinity for receiving, and she had spent the next few days following his hurtful brush-off wondering if he acted the way he did because she refused to give him a blowjob. Not that Buffy was above that—she simply had never done it before, and she didn't particularly want her first time at such an intimate act to be with a man she just met. A man that she didn't know well enough to trust.

That trust-part should have qualified for the sex itself. She had more than learned her lesson.

Which was why being with Spike after everything was more rewarding than anything else. The time she had asked for had nearly torn her apart—not for wanting entirely, but enough to send her hormones over the edge. They had grown, built trust, developed something beyond the ordinary. And now here they were. Spike between her thighs, teasing her to uncharted planes of ecstasy with his tongue. Drank the full of her fountain with expertise that drove her promptly out of her mind. He entered her cautiously, drew her clit into his mouth and sucked until she saw stars. The weight and experience of such an explosive release was still so foreign to her. And she wondered, recovering, if the vampire nuzzling her curls would always hold the capacity to make her feel this way.

Or if he would tire of her and leave like all the others.

As though sensing the thought, he favored her quivering skin with another long lick of his tongue and nuzzled her inner thigh. Simple adoration out of simple gestures. And she knew then. She knew.

"Spike..."

That was all the urging he required. He prowled up her body with a slow smile, swooping her mouth into another toe-curling kiss. A wrangled gasp tore at his throat when he felt her small hand encircling his cock once more, aligning him with her entrance. And for all the willpower in the world, he found the strength to grasp her wrist and stop her before they crossed the final barrier. Before it would be too late for her to change her mind, and he fell into her completely.

"Buffy? This...are you sure?"

Where all this superfluous chivalry came from, he knew not. His body ached for hers in ways he had never before ached. In nearly a hundred and thirty years, he had never known such exquisite torment.

But it had to be said. It had to.

And for the way she looked at him—a wealth of awe, a few shades of annoyance, but more appreciation than anyone had ever granted him with. She smiled a smile that would outshine the sun, and nodded a wordless consent.

It was the smile that did it. The smile that pushed him over. That set all boundaries away. Spike laced his fingers through hers and caressed her mouth in a loving kiss, then slowly began to slide inside.

And it was too much. Already too much. A gasp scratched at his throat as she clenched around him, her answering moan music to his ears. God, so tight. Tighter and tighter. He was barely within her, and he knew he was lost. Lost on this alone. The most blissful sensation he had ever known. His body clenched and he forced himself to a standstill to gather his bearings. It unearthed him that she could affect him so effortlessly. That simply by being, he risked everything he was.

It didn't matter, though. Not as long as she was there.

"Oh God," he moaned, drawing in a breath sliding completely within her. Buried to the hilt. And lost so thoroughly he didn't care to ever be found. "Oh my God."

Buffy's head was thrown back against the pillow, her eyes closed piously. For the breaths she took, the wondrous expression on her face, he tumbled and fell all over again. She was here. She was really here. And it was real.

"Buffy..." Her name rolled off his lips like a prayer. "Look at me, baby. Please."

She did, and he nearly gasped for the wealth she had tried to hide. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. A reflection lacking from any of the women in his past. More than lust and familiarity—more than anyone had ever given him. More, just from a look. There she was.

With a deep breath, he withdrew from her heat and sank inside again. Watching her face contort in pleasure was a privilege he vowed to never take for granted. This, being here, everything.

"God," he gasped. "Fuck, I've never felt anythin' like this."

She shook her head. "I...me, either."

That was all he needed. It wasn't much, but it was what he needed. His head settled at her shoulder, his hands tightening around hers. He settled her arms over the mattress, squeezing intimately with every thrust and parry. Her inner walls clenched him with every withdrawal, her hips rising to recapture. It was all heaven. The closest to heaven that he had ever been, or would ever be. Comfort, light, all in the arms of the Slayer. He hadn't loved her long, but he had felt this since the beginning. And knowing that it was her, that this wasn't some ornate fantasy, that she was really with him...it was too much. The rhythm he set was tender—he couldn't help it. A demon wanted it rough, a man treasured what he had. And he would treasure this. There wasn't abuse, and that surprised him. He was so accustomed to abuse.

This felt more like love.

Every stroke scorched his skin, every time he withdrew his body lamented her loss. A haven of sweet torture. And she was matching him. Outmatching him. Throwing him for a bloody loop. The shades that crossed her face, the expressions of pleasure, the coloring of something he was hesitant to name—he was so terrified of perfection. Of reaching something that was perfect only to spoil it for what he was. Her hips lifted with his to recapture him every time he pulled away, her hands grasping his as though he held her to the world and letting go would make all fall away.

But she did let go. She let go and tugged his mouth down to hers. She kissed him thoroughly, breaking only when she had to gasp for air. He seized the opportunity to nip at her breasts and lave her nipples with his tongue, his eyes on her face all the while. Watching her—unable to do anything but. Releasing a moan into her skin when her thighs clenched around him. Her legs bound around his waist instinctively; his own hands finding hers and pushing them back to the mattress.

A muffled sob rumbled from her lips and broke the golden silence that surrounded them. His thrusts grew deeper, her hips lifting rhythmically. Touching areas that had never been touched. "Spike..."

He released a steady breath and lowered his head to her throat. "Sweetness?"

"Talk to me."

"Mmmm," he mused, hips jerking forward. "What do you wanna hear?"

"How..." A blush favored her cheeks and charmed him completely. How she could find something to blush about as they shared something more candid and open than any other act meant for two people was thoroughly adorable. "How...do you...what do you feel?"

Spike's eyes rolled inside his head, his thrusts gaining momentum. "I don' even know how to answer that, luv," he murmured. And then, having a task that seemed impossible, he had no choice but to accept. "God, you feel so good. So bloody good. Gonna burn alive, baby. Like satin kissed by the sun, that's how you feel. Never been so good. Never felt anythin' like this."

"Never," she agreed. "Oh God, never been like this."

"'S you, Buffy. It's all you." He smiled gently and brushed damp locks of hair from her forehead. "God, I could stay here forever. You're so warm. So tight. So fucking perfect."

"Spike—"

"Never gonna let you go, sweetheart. Never."

She threw her head back, her hands seeking freedom. She clutched with newfound desperation at his shoulders, recognizing dimly that she was scratching new rivers into his arms but didn't have the foresight to care. And if anything, the slight hint of pain inspired a symphony within. His hips whirled with every thrust; stroking regions within her she didn't know existed. "Oh God."

Spike's head dipped, lips brushing a reverent kiss against her throat as his attentions sharpened. She squeezed her thighs around his and sank her teeth into his shoulder, earning a strangled gasp and a frenzy of desperate thrusts. And then his hands abandoned her, one returning to her breasts, the other venturing where they were joined.

It was a sensory explosion when she came. A bang that banished everything but the man she clutched to the far recesses of who cares. Blinding white spots of perpetual brilliance. It wracked every nerve in her body; touched every part of her there was to touch. Sent shivers along with spots of heat that were nearly unbearable. Too much compact in one. Too much, and not enough. She felt it would never end and that it would end too quickly. A sob tore at her throat and her body refused to slow. The knowledge it brought with it was almost dangerous, but she knew what it meant. And like all else, for the world, it didn't matter. Not right now. Nothing mattered now except this moment. Nothing.

A starry blaze of color. Her eyes were still shut. And when she felt Spike follow her over, the sensation rejuvenated. Sparked to new life. Reached new heights. She dared to look at him, unsurprised and not frightened to see fangs. His own eyes were shut as well, hands clutched frantically at hers. The look on his face, demon and all, was a picture of pleasured peace—so lovely, beyond description yet simple enough to know exactly what it meant.

And then it happened. The thing happened. Something unprecedented. Something she had not expected tonight to bring. A whisper above all else, but there nonetheless. There. With them. Spike's face melted back to his human guise, a watery, near-dreamlike appearance about him. "God, Buffy," he gasped. "I love you. I love you so much."

The minute the words touched the air in their breadth, the world stopped. Everything stopped. Spike's eyes opened in alarm and glanced to her in a panic, but it was too late. It was out there. They were out there, and he could not take them back.

Buffy just looked at him, gaze wide and imploring. Every nerve ending was numb with shock—with jubilation and relaxed bliss. She knew she should say something; somewhere, she knew she should say something. There was nothing amidst internal squealing. Nothing but him. An inward recitation stuck on repeat. Oh God. Spike loved her. Spike loved her.

She wanted to say it back more than anything, but feared it all the same. Feared what it meant. Feared his reaction. Feared his thinking she was saying it because he had said it. Because he had crossed that border. That unspoken line between sex and intimacy defined with words. Real words. Spike loved her.

Spike loved her.

"Buffy?" His voice was small and timid. Panicked, but not beyond inquisitive. Searching for an answer that she could not give tonight. An answer that had to be as real to him as his declaration was to her now. Something born out of perfection. "Buffy, I—"

She pressed a finger to his lips and smiled softly. No more words tonight. She had all the words she needed. Words to last a lifetime. A quivering sigh stretched her body, and she waited until she had an answering smile before she let her hand drop to his again. The tension in his eyes refused to waver, but it welcomed in her warmth.

She tugged his mouth down to hers and kissed him with all the feeling she had. And when his body relaxed against hers, she pulled away and hugged him to her. Hugged and pressed her lips to his shoulder. Hugged him with everything she had.

Her heart pounded against his unanswering chest. A mantra set in her mind. Spike loved her. He loved her. And regardless of what tomorrow brought, what evils they had yet to face, he loved her now.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter 29

A/N: Ahhh!! So psyched! Grey Gardens of Shadowed Rapture has picked up a couple nifty nominations at VK Awards! It's up for Best Romance and Most Original Plot. Thank you!

I'm always excited when I get nominated, but this fic was really a leap of faith -- being of a crossover nature with a show that's not AtS. I'm so endlessly grateful. :) Thank you all so much!

"You know what I don't understand," Josh said, drawing the attention of the small semi-circle that was situated in a nook of the Eola Hotel lobby. He turned to Donna, unblinking when she rolled her eyes in droll expectation of his criticism. "With everything you've seen, with an ancient Roman god gaining power and Slayers running a quiet muck, how you can insist on researching the ghost cat."

"The same way you can continuously ignore the cat's validity."

"Opening the door for one demon doesn't make them all real, Donna. I don't remember Giles saying anything about a ghost cat."

There was a low grumble from the opposing arch. "For God's sake," Toby snapped. "With everything that's going on, the fact that both of you are focused on a stupid cat that has nothing to do with anything is a good excuse why half the country doesn't trust the US government."

Willow shifted from where she was partially reclined against Sam. Their recent even-closer closeness had raised a few eyebrows, and while the explanation that they needed to read out of the same book was somewhat logical, no one truly accepted that as an excuse. It wasn't as though there was a mass objection to their relationship—it was just somewhat annoying to watch them be so obvious without coming clean.

Or so Josh had observed, only to be interrupted by a series of coughs.

"I'd say taxes," the redhead volunteered with a sheepish smile, "but cats are a reasonable scapegoat."

"Now that's original," the Communications Director retorted. "Imagine a citizen complaining about an institution that betters the country."

Sam straightened reasonably. "She just said the taxes are high, Toby; she didn't propose Communism."

"I-I don't think the taxes are too high," Willow argued, befuddled. "I just...with the ghost cat and..." She glanced at her seating companion weakly. "Help?"

Donna scowled and whacked Josh upside the head. "See what you did."

"Me? It was you."

"You brought up the thing."

"There wouldn't be a thing to bring up if you wouldn't stop with the cat."

"She wasn't talking about the fucking cat, Josh!" Toby looked ready to kill someone. "She was making a comment about that whatchamacallit that Spike thinks he saw the other night. She said nothing about a cat."

There was a long pause. "I think I liked you better when you were a hermit," the Deputy Chief of Staff remarked. "Why aren't you helping Giles and Wes with the thing?"

"Because I'm not."

Sam cleared his throat. "Have you talked to Leo today?" he asked Josh.

"Yes. For all the good it's done, yes."

"Still nothing?"

"A big nothing."

Willow shrugged helplessly and offered a weak consolatory smile. "At least it's a big nothing, right?"

Donna flashed the redhead a grateful glance.

Josh just looked at her for a long minute before shaking his head and abandoning the topic completely. "Is Xander with Giles?" he asked.

"I think Anya made him go with," the Witch agreed. "She's done nothing but complain about how she's not getting paid for all the demon resourciness she's done over the past few days...for all the good it's done."

The blonde nodded. "Why is it taking so long?"

"Because the text is difficult to translate in one language; let alone three that are all with the mixy to make a brand new language." She sighed. "Giles knows Latin and a little Greek—Wes knows Greek, I think. And between them, they know Assyrian. And they're old...so they like...old stuff." She cleared her throat when that observation earned a series of pointed glares, particularly from the man who was currently acting as her body pillow. "But this text is beyond old. It's something that would fall under Giles's least favorite category of 'predates history.' Not even Anya knows it...but what little she knows has us much further ahead than we would've been otherwise."

"How does something predate history?" Josh demanded. "History doesn't stop. We're history, right now. What we're doing is history. As long as there have been people, there has been history. So this book that Buffy and Spike took from that house is something that predates 'Let there be light'? How in God's name does that work? Who the hell wrote it?"

Willow shrugged sheepishly. "I really don't know," she said. "I follow what Giles does as close as I can, but there is so much that I still don't know. I always just took that at face value...that it predated the era in which history started getting written. And since this book specializes on the god Quirinias, I'm thinking either he had a hand in writing it, or his followers...more likely his followers. And that's what makes it so tricky. He was originally a Sabine god; it wasn't until a few centuries later that the Romans adapted him. The breaks in the language are almost impossible to follow because it was written during, between, and after that time period. So when he was still a Sabine god, predominantly, you don't have a lot of Latin, and it's just Assyrian and Greek. A whole different form of translation. When it is during and after the time that the Romans adapted him, you're back to throwing Latin in the mix."

"If Quirinias was a Sabine god, then why is it in—"

Willow shrugged again. "Spite?"

"So if it's as impossible as you're making it sound," Josh said slowly, "then why the hell do we think we're gonna be able to crack down on this terrible thing that Sam started before it happens?"

"Did you have to throw in the 'Sam' part?" Sam demanded.

"Yes. This is your fault."

The redhead frowned defensively. "Hey! He didn't know!"

"So you go reading aloud from all strange books you come across?"

Toby stared at Josh wryly. "He's Sam," he said. "You've known him longer than I have."

"Again, hermit."

Donna threw her head back and moaned, slamming her book shut. "Ugh. Josh, you need to be in a zoo."

Sam cracked a weak smile. "'Don't feed the Lyman.'"

"I do not belong in a zoo."

The blonde shook her head stubbornly. "Some zoo time would be very good for you."

"I don't see how you all have accepted everything that's happened at face value," he grumbled. "She just told us that we're basically depending on a long shot from two British wizards who are supposed to know what they're doing while the girl who's a Slayer and the vampire are always off alone together and the other Slayer hasn't been seen since..." He trailed off abruptly and tossed his friend an apologetic look. "Hasn't been seen in a while."

"'Don't feed the Lyman,'" Sam said again, shrugging the mention off with a shudder but pulling the redhead closer at the same time. "It's fine."

"Buffy's not the researchy type," Willow argued defensively. "And hey. If we're expecting her to save the world, we shouldn't be with the judgy. A-and Spike doesn't know Assyrian, which is really all he could do to help. So...there."

"Besides," Donna added, "you're the one that disappeared and got drunk with Spike down at some shack Under The Hill."

"That place was perfectly respectful."

"You passed out under the counter."

"It looked like a good place to pass out."

"And I'm the one that gets the call at two in the morning from a very drunk vampire because my cell was the only number he could find in your wallet."

Josh's eyes widened. "He went through my wallet?! I was wondering why I was forty dollars short this morning."

The redhead frowned. "It was probably an accident," she said. "Well, it might've been. I don't know how good he's trying to be for Buffy, so it might've been just that he saw money and his Ego said, 'take.'"

Sam and Josh exchanged a glance. "He's trying to be good for Buffy," the former said. "Very good. I don't know if that includes petty theft or not."

"I'm saying not," the Deputy Chief of Staff replied. "Else I wouldn't be missing two twenties."

"Don't have to bring that up again." Willow pouted. "Still say, hello! Best friend, here. He should've called me."

Josh's eyes narrowed skeptically. "She was pretty strong. I don't know if you coulda handled her."

"This coming from all the handling of her that you did?" Sam retorted.

If anything, that made the redhead angrier. Who knows what sort of drunken wiles her friend might have put the poor man under. After all, Buffy had a thing for hot older men with dark hair...or she had until recent, anyway. "You made Sam do the handling?"

"Don't look so surprised," Donna advised. "Josh is just a big girl."

"Hey!"

"But..." Willow scowled. "He made Sam do the handling of drunk and gropey Buffy? With the...with what happened and...what happened? Gah."

"She was gropey?" Josh's eyes widened and he turned to Sam. "I don't remember her being gropey. Right. Next time, I'll handle the attractive, drunk, gropey blondes."

Toby blinked slowly. "What?"

"She wasn't gropey." Sam frowned defensively. "At least not with me. I think the only victim of any serious groping was Spike."

Some of the tension vacated Willow's eyes, and she nodded and sat back. "Oh, okay," she said. "It's okay, then. I guess." She made a face. "I still don't know how I feel about that in general, but I think it's safe to say that Spike probably won't care what Buffy does to him in the long run as long as it's...void of stakeage." She released a long breath and tossed Toby an apologetic glance. "Sorry. You're kinda outta the loop. We can try and bring you up to speed if you like."

He looked at her. "I cannot stress how much I do not care," he said after a long minute.

"Oh. Okay, then."

"Still say you couldn't have handled her," Josh reiterated. "It was a job for men. It was a manly job."

Willow and Donna's eyes narrowed simultaneously. "Oh please," they said in unison.

"You're such a girl," the former accused again, thwacking her boss's leg with her book.

"And hello. Magicks, anyone? I have magic. I could've...you know...magicked her off Spike."

Josh took a minute to scowl at his impervious assistant before turning back to the redhead. "You know, Willow," he said. "I don't think I've ever seen you actually do any of that so-called magic stuff. Taking a lot on faith, here."

Sam whimpered at the mention of Faith. Willow glared at Josh and patted her practically-boyfriend's knee in reassurance. Then, out of nothing but spite, she waved her hand in his direction and grumbled, "Cado," as though the Deputy Chief of Staff for the President of the United States was not worth anything more than an afterthought.

There was a squeal as Josh's chair fell back—a shrill, undoubtedly girlish squeal that had Donna, Sam, and Toby in stitches. Willow beamed proudly and made an unsuccessful attempt at stifling a giggle. For the man himself, there was nothing to do but sputter indignantly and climb to his feet.

"An accident," he grumbled. "Chairs don't like me."

Willow raised her hand again, repeated the word, and the seat fell back once more—this time graciously void of an occupant.

Josh stared at the turned-over chair for a long moment, then glanced slowly to the redhead responsible. "I know what you are," he said decisively. "You're the Wicked Witch of the West."

She scoffed crossly. "I am not!"

"She is not!" Sam yelped. Donna's protest soon followed.

"Oh no? She's wicked, she's a witch, and she's from California. She's the Wicked Witch of the West, theme music and all." And then, as if to solidify his acclamation, Josh started whistling said theme music.

Donna rolled her eyes. "Ignore him," she advised. "He's just upset because now everyone knows he's a girl."

"I'm honestly surprised it took this long for people to notice," Toby added drolly.

"Hey!" Josh frowned. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"So now chaos has rules? Nice to know. Anyway..." The man shifted and closed the book he had not so much as blinked at since sitting down. "Seeing as we're getting so much work done, I'm going upstairs and sit at the grown-ups table for a while. Maybe they've done something worthwhile in the past two hours."

Donna nodded and followed suit. "I'll come with you."

"Me, too," Josh added.

Toby just stared at them. "You do realize that this negates the objective of trying to get away from you, right?"

The two looked back at him blankly, then at the ground, to each other, and back again. Donna offered nothing but a shrug; Josh a wide grin and a broad gesture. "Lead the way," he said.

The blonde turned back to Sam and Willow, who had not made a motion to move. "Are you two coming?"

"If you throw them in," Toby said, "I'll stay here and you fourcan go upstairs."

Willow shook her head. "I'm staying here. There's a binding spell I wanna look into. See if I can get actual ingredients that aren't makeshift and therefore ineffective to try on Faith when we see her again."

There was a long silence before Sam realized that they were waiting for his answer, though as his arms and lap were busy cradling a good part of the redhead that had no intent on moving. He offered a sheepish smile, though, and shrugged. "I'm going to stay here," he said. "And...look at spells, too."

The Witch bit back a grin.

"That's all we need the press to find out," Josh said as the three started heading in the direction of the elevators. "The President's Deputy Communications Director has been studying witchcraft." He paused and whistled good-naturedly. "God, Sam, that's one bio you're building for yourself. Prostitutes, convicts, and witchcraft. Danny'd have a field day with that."

Sam smirked but reddened all the same, rubbing Willow's back in reassurance. "She's not a prostitute," he corrected. "She is a call girl."

There was a snicker and a muffled retort, but nothing more flagrant than the inquiry reflecting from a pair of chestnut eyes. The same eyes that belonged to a girl he feared he was falling in love with. "I accidentally slept with a call girl," he said.

"So I've heard."

His gaze widened in alarm. "You've heard? Oh God, from where? When I find the little creep that leaked—"

"Sam." She grinned. "You've mentioned it at least twice. That's how I know."

He seemed to seriously contemplate this for a minute. "I've mentioned it?"

"Yes."

"Around you?"

She nodded. "Around me."

That was it. Sam's face fell, completely bereft. "Well," he said. "This is bad on so many levels."

"Sam...do you wanna tell me about the prostitute? It's okay. Mum's the word." She zipped her mouth demonstratively. "I won't tell a soul...o-or even a non-soul. Cross my heart."

"She's a call girl," he corrected mechanically. "And I trust you, Willow. You know that."

"You do? I do?"

He blinked, looking despondent all over again. "You don't know that I trust you?"

"Well...I thought you did. I mean, I've thought you did. I haven't actually sat down and thought this out, but I assumed...I just didn't know for sure, you know?" Willow sat up, placing her book aside. "You've done nothing to make me think that you don't trust me...unless this conversation makes you not trust me, and then it's a thing and—"

"Willow."

"Yeah?"

Sam silenced her with a kiss that had her melting in seconds and ended far too quickly. "I trust you."

"Oh," she said, blinking. Her lips tingled. "Okay."

"I think I should tell you about Laurie."

"Okay," she echoed. Then blinked and straightened. "Who's Laurie?"

"The call girl. And I need to tell you about Mallory, too."

"Two call girls?"

His eyes about boggled out of his head. "What? No! No, Laurie's the only call girl. And that was a mistake. A complete mistake. Well, I'm glad I know her and I wouldn't trade our friendship for anything...not that there's been any more sex, because there hasn't. It was just the one night and it was an accident. In fact, it was—"

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"I trust you. Can you get on with it? Who's Mallory?"

A sigh coursed through his system and he relaxed. "I've mentioned my boss's daughter, right?" She nodded. "That's Mallory. She and I kind of had a thing."

Her heart fell. "You're dating your boss's daughter?"

"No. No!" He held up a hand for clarification. "I am not dating Mallory. We're not a thing. We were on the way to becoming a thing, and we might've been a thing, but then we left for Vicksburg and ended up here and I met you and I like you and I don't want to date Mallory anymore...not that she's forgettable or anything, it's just she's not Willow and I want to date Willow...and since you're Willow, that means I want to date you."

"You do?"

He looked at her for a long minute. "I said I wanted us to be a thing, right? Or was that a conversation that I was thinking about having?"

"No. We've definitely established our thing-ness." She blushed prettily and glanced down. "B-but...say Buffy saves the world, which she will do, because she's Buffy and that's sort've her job...you're going back to DC and I go back to Sunnydale and it's kinda hard to be a thing if we're an entire country apart. And you're a good looking guy and I'm sure this Mallory isn't exactly hard on the eyes..." She looked up at him slowly, daring him to lie to her.

He did not disappoint, though. Rather, Sam nodded honestly. "She's a cute redhead," he said. Then smiled. "Seems I have a thing for redheads."

"But I'm cuter, right?"

"She couldn't hold a candle to you."

Willow's flush deepened. It was a line. She might not have had the experience that other girls did, but she knew lines when she heard them. And yet, sitting here with Sam, she had the funny feeling that he meant it. "Well, regardless," she continued. "What happens when Buffy saves the world and we all go home? I'm just a freshman in college and you're all with the career and the future. Not to mention..." She gestured to herself. "Witch. So add in witch and young and politics and you have yourself a scandal. What's going to happen?"

"My life's my life. The public has no right to know."

"The public has this tendency to decide what they have a right to know by themselves."

"Now you sound like Josh."

Willow shrugged. "Josh is a pretty smart guy."

"Whatever. I'm willing to gamble it."

"Your career? Sam, we don't know each other that well. I mean, I know you and I really like you but...we don't know how or if this would work, long-term. Long-distance." She shrugged again helplessly. "I don't know if I'm even ready for that type of relationship."

At that, he looked wounded. "You don't want us to be a thing?"

"Oh, no. I do. I really do. I just...with the hurt and the heartache and I don't wanna get into this so far that I go through what I went through when Oz left. Because you...that'd kill me." She shook her head. "The last thing I wanted was to feel this way again. And so soon. It's so soon."

"Am I the rebound guy?"

"No, and that's what scares me. That plus age, politics, and distance. What's going to happen?"

"The age thing bothers you?"

"No. Not me. But it would others. Many others. You know, the sort of others that vote every four years, even though they should vote every two, but that's an entirely different thing." She heaved a deep sigh. "I don't want to hurt you politically. And if our being a thing makes it difficult for the President to get reelected, I'd never forgive myself."

Sam laughed shortly. "I really don't think that would effect the election, Willow—"

"Oh? Then why was there a thing with Leo and the drugs? And Josh pissing off the Religious Right not too long ago? Not to mention your wigging about people finding out about the prostitute—" She stopped herself. "—call girl. People said your friends should quit because it'd hurt the administration. If that's enough to make people not like the President, then why do you think they'd overlook your dating a witch that's just barely legal?" She held up a hand. "A-and was involved in blowing up her high school? And was in Natchez with you?" A long, tormented sigh hissed through her lips. "I just don't see how this is going to work."

"Willow, there's something you've overlooked." He took her hands in his and waited until he had her eyes before continuing. "Leo was wrong in his addiction to Valium and alcohol. I love the man like a father, but he was wrong. Josh was wrong to piss off the Religious Right. And accident or not, I was wrong to sleep with Laurie. I'm not the type of man that sleeps with a woman on a first date. Or picks them up in bars, for that matter. I'm not a whore." He bit off a grimace and flashed her an apologetic glance. "That didn't come out like it should, but you understand, right?" She smiled a bit and nodded. "Good. My point is, dating you isn't wrong. I'm not in the wrong here. Yes, you're young, but do you have any idea how many trophy wives I see in my line of work? And there are men who pay women like Laurie to go to with them to certain functions, which really makes me angry because she's above it and really needs to rethink her occupation, especially since it's against the law and—"

"Sam."

"Trophy wives," he said, coming back to his original train of thought. "And quite frankly, I'd rather have an open, honest relationship with you than do what a lot Republicans do and keep mistresses stashed in the closet while preaching on morals and family values."

"Sam?"

"Okay, so Democrats do it, too. But not while talking about morals and family values. We can be hypocrites, but not quite as blatant and as stunningly so as Republicans." He grumbled something under his breath. "I just wish they weren't so good at it."

"I think it's the asking the country for forgiveness when caught—you know, running mascara, pleas and sobs for prayers? Yeah." Willow stopped and closed her eyes. "Sam. I want this to be a thing. I do. You just have to understand where I'm coming from."

"I have a lot of benefits with my job," he said. "I'd be able to fly out to California a lot. See you."

"Is that a good idea? What if the press got a hold—"

He shook his head. "Willow, we'll figure something out. I'm not going to throw in the rag on us yet. I like you too much for that."

That was it. The blush was back. "Yeah," she agreed. "I like you too much for that, too."

"We'll figure something out," he said again, shoulders slumping. "And hey! Look at the bright side. Maybe Buffy won't stop the apocalypse and we won't have to worry about what the public thinks at all."

Willow licked her lips, perked a brow, then waited calmly for him to realize what exactly he had said.

It didn't take long. "That's not much of a bright side, is it?"

"No," she agreed. "Not much of one at all." A gentle smile touched her mouth, and she threw caution to the wind and kissed him thoroughly. "But thanks for the thought."

Sam smiled back and wrapped an arm around her, drawing her back to the sofa and against his shoulder. "Anytime," he said, brushing his lips across her forehead as he reached for the book they had discarded. "Anytime."

Then he opened the book and they read together. No more words. Just companionable silence, an occasional squeeze, and even more occasional kiss. But no more, just that. Seated together comfortably. As though they had spent their entire lives this way.

It was a daunting feeling, but Willow reveled in it. There had only been a connection like this with one other man, and she missed the comfort. The ease. The joy of being that close.

As for feeling this feeling with Sam, she was just afraid to love it too much. Despite his reassurances, she could not shake the feeling that there would be more hurt than joy in the end. And that she would not survive it. Surviving Oz had been trying enough—there was no way she could survive Sam.

No way. But the end would be worth it. So worth it.

If she could just make it there.

Chapter 30

Similarly, the cool body pressed against her aided in the recall of every delicious detail the night before had provided. No blurry recollection—it was all there. Her adrenaline would not let her forget; nor would her sore-in-a-good-way and likewise amply willing body.

Buffy's cheeks flooded with heat that wasted no time in warming every inch of her skin. She smiled shyly and pressed back against him, rejoicing in the liberty to do so. He rewarded her with a low moan and a needy thrust forward, the arm around her middle tightening.

"Mornin', baby," he purred, hand sliding up her stomach to caress a breast. "Sleep well?"

She turned slightly to look at him; his mouth sweeping hers the moment it was within reach. "Sleep? Did we actually do any of that last night?"

"Beggars can't be choosers...though, I think that's a philosophy we sufficiently disproved." He grinned. "Either way, you're the one that woke me up with a tongue bath."

"I'm also the one that woke up with your..." She blushed again and tore her eyes from his, pressing her back against him once again and settling on her side. "Well, your—"

"You're adorable."

"Am not."

"I beg to differ." His hand abandoned her breast to scale southward. "Sugar an' spice an' everythin' nice. Full of ripe, delicious ambrosia. An' I woke you up 'cause I wanted a li'l taste. 'Sides..." Spike bit down gently at the softness of her throat as two fingers slid into her warmth. He smiled into her skin when she gasped and bucked back, answering her with a sharp thrust of his hips. "Don' recall you complainin' at the time."

Buffy whimpered, clenching her muscles around his invasive touch. The cry became desperate as his hand withdrew, arms encouraging her to turn so that they were face to face. When she found herself looking into his eyes again, her insides melted with the potency of buried kindliness. Her leg was over his waist the next minute, his erection slipping into her wet sheath with a joined sigh of completion.

It was so new. She believed it would be new for years to come. This feeling of belonging. Of homecoming. They had to rest on union alone—allow themselves a few seconds to grow used to heaven before moving to the sights.

"Love lookin' at you," Spike said after a minute, catching his nonexistent breath as he began to thrust. Slow, leisurely—so different than what she would have expected of him. Though for everything they had shared the night before and the occasional flash of feral behind his eyes, there was no doubt in her mind that he liked it rough just as much as she relished this. "You're so lovely." He drew her as close as possible, eliciting a sharp moan at the angle he struck. Her breasts flattened against his chest, his face buried in her hair. The notion itself sent her on a deepened spiral of self-discovery. She was not accustomed to being cherished. "I can't believe I'm wakin' up next to you."

Buffy pulled back a bit at that, breath ragged. Her hands steadied at his shoulders; his own at her hips, pulling her with him on every plunge. "You thought I' d...leave?"

"Not...so much...that," he replied, peppering kisses across her chin before seizing her mouth. "Jus' can't..." He drew them to a standstill and smiled lovingly into her eyes. "You're here. You're really here. God, I couldn't sleep last night for the...thought..." Spike released a deep breath and pulled her closer as he began moving again. "The thought that...'d dreamt it all. Every...luscious...moment." He kissed her again and rolled them over until she was beneath him, her gasp filling his mouth. His thrusts grew deeper as his body overtook his mind. The sight of the blonde beneath him, passion-filled gaze thrown back at him, was enough to make any form of sense disappear. "'S why I couldn't sleep," he continued, licking at her throat. "Why I kept wakin' you, sweetheart. 'F it wasn' real, I wanted it to last."

Buffy's head flew back and her nails dug deeper into his forearms. "Woke you once," she panted.

"Yeh. Knew it was real then." He brushed a kiss across her temple and smiled. Then reached a hand between them to fondle her clit, sending her over the edge with effortless ease. His smile turned into a smirk at her heady wail of his name, and despite her fluster, she lacked the will to call him on it.

That smirk was just as much a part of him as anything else she had come to love. And either way, she got her own back the next second as his thrusts turned frantic and he spilled himself inside her, her name a prayer on his lips.

It took a minute to realize that he had burst into game face—the phase of yellow coloring his pupils where the ocean usually resided. She remembered Angel being ashamed of his demon-self, hiding whenever she tried to touch him, and was moved beyond reason when Spike did not shy from her. His eyes were heavy and apologetic for his lack of control, but he leaned into her all the same when her hands came up to caress his face. To explore the contours given to him by nature. This vision of everything she was supposed to hate. Supposed to kill.

He released a ragged breath when she leaned up to kiss his forehead, his chest rumbling against hers in a purr of contentment. As though her silent acceptance of what he was meant more than the intimacy of physical connection. And that touched her almost as much as his admission of love the night before.

The same admission that had her heart pounding the minute she realized that had been real as well.

Spike sensed that, of course. Sensed her sudden tension, and tilted his head with concern. "Buffy?"

The Slayer pursed her lips and smiled. As quickly as it was born, her apprehension melted into jubilation. A song set in her heart, her eyes glazed with shades of deepened affection. It was the first time she had ever felt loved. The first time the word took on a meaning deeper than merely a word, and blossomed within her a sense of belonging that her past relationships had lacked. Angel had loved her, she knew, but he had also turned evil the night he made his confession. And despite all the want of love that the following year brought, she had never felt it. She had known it was there, but never felt it. Never truly felt it. His love for her had acted as a burden—and despite all the comfort he provided, his eyes never allowed her to forget the price of their relationship.

The torment that had lived in Angel's eyes was nowhere near Spike's. And she felt so damnably guilty of lying beneath him, comparing him to Angel with him still semi-hard inside her that she had to tear her gaze away before she betrayed herself.

That didn't do much good.

"Buffy? Look at me." She did, and she hated the instant fear she had instilled simply in breaking eye contact. "What's wrong? Is somethin' wrong already? God—"

"No." The word was short but to the point, and he relaxed almost immediately. "Nothing's wrong. I was just...I was thinking." A sigh rumbled through her lips. "I was just thinking that no one's ever looked at me the way you do. And...God, I haven't felt this...I don't even know the word. This..."

Spike's head dipped to whisper a kiss at the pulse of her throat, game face melting away. "Happy?"

There was a worried note tagged onto the end of that. As though he doubted his ability to make her happy. And it suddenly occurred to her out of nowhere at all that he was right. She was happy. For the first time in several years, she was genuinely happy. She was in love and loved in return—the sensation so new that it nearly stole her breath away. And all the rest didn't matter.

Spike's reservation about being the benefactor of her happiness triggered a spark of fury with those in his past. He had been so mistreated—by her, obviously, but more by those who were supposed to accept him. Angelus, Drusilla; his family. None of them had given him what he deserved. And true, while she was reaping the benefits now, she hated to think that he had been so alone for over a century. Alone even when Drusilla wasn't tempted to raise her skirt in invitation to whatever master vampire that happened to cross their path. To any Chaos or Fungus Demon that she flaunted in front of him with no shades of remorse. The vampire with her felt deeply. He felt more than any human she knew. And the pain that was there, the pain that made him doubt her now, was something she vowed to erase.

"Happy's not the right word," she decided a minute later. "More like...ecstatic."

Watching his eyes light up almost reminded her of the Christmas tree she and her mother made a ritual of decorating every year. A bleak nothing, dressed in hope before letting loose its radiation of heat and promise. She tugged him down for a kiss that rapidly lost control.

"Mmm," Spike mused, trying to pull away only to be yanked back down. Several failed attempts passed before he could find it within himself to deprive his lips of hers. "Sweetheart, 's much as I'd love to stay in bed all day shaggin' you sideways, your tummy's growlin' at me. Think we better head over before the Scoobs leave nothin' for us to raid."

Buffy broke away with a pout. "You wanna go to breakfast? That means getting ready."

"An' here you were yellin' at me 'bout takin' holidays jus' two days ago."

"Giles'll call if he finds anything out. Want more smoochies."

"Startin' to sound like Drunk Buffy." He grinned wickedly and kissed her all the same. She utilized her advantage and clenched her thighs, earning a long-winded groan and the blissful sensation of his full hardness stretching her walls. "God," he gasped, pulling away. "An' here I was tryin' to be a good boy. You have any idea what it takes to resist you?"

"Do you?"

He shook his head quickly as he started to move. "Was lookin' for pointers."

Buffy's eyes went wide, but she lifted her hips to recapture him. There was absolutely nothing more perfect than this. "You wanna be able to resist me?"

"Fuck no. Jus' keep doin' that."

"Doing what?"

"Whatever it is you're happenin' to be doin'. I love everythin' you do." His lips danced down her throat. "You feel so bloody good. Don' know how I managed without this."

"This?"

"You."

An indeterminable amount of time later, and they had most definitely missed breakfast. Lying side-by-side in bed to avoid temptation; staring blandly at the ceiling. Waiting for energy to return without any real want of it.

"Your tummy's still growlin'."

"Giles is gonna kill me."

"Said yourself he'd call 'f the world was endin'."

"Yeah. I should be there. Granted, I'd be doing nothing but wasting space because books and Buffy? Unmixy things. I'd just get in the way, but hey, at least I'd feel productive." She expelled a deep breath, tried to sit up, and fell flat on her back the next second. "Ah, damn. I'll just tell him I couldn't get my legs to work."

Spike rumbled a chuckle. "Then I'd be vamp dust."

"Over my dead and worn out body."

"Wore you out, huh?"

"Let's just say that I'm beginning to understand why Anya talks about orgasms all the time."

He chuckled again and turned on his side to look at her, breaking their silent rule but without penalty. There was something about this—just this—that was just as precious as anything else. She loved being able to talk to him. It added intimacy that she had not thought to exist. The friendship alongside the heat and desire. It was more than she had ever thought to seek; she could only bask in the joy that it had found her before she had the opportunity to miss it.

The entire morning was almost a dream that she had feared would never come true. Lying in bed with the man she loved after her first non-one-night stand. It felt incredible. He had awoken beside her, holding her in her own wake.

"Thank you," she murmured softly before her brain could stop the words from escaping.

"For what, sweetling?"

A sigh trembled through her. Her gratitude sounded corny in her head, but no less true. Everything tied together nicely. For everything else—the potential apocalypse on the loom, the mixed messages they had spent the past couple days sending each other, this was perfection. What she wanted. What she had always wanted. "For making everything so wonderful."

Spike grinned and nuzzled her delicately. "I do my best."

"You succeed with flying colors. I'd almost convinced myself that I was hexed by something awful and all men would bolt as soon as they woke with me after...well..."

His face fell slightly. "'m sorry 'bout that," he said, continuing when she tossed him a confused glance. "'Bout what I said...before. When we were fightin' over the Gem of Amara? Remember?" It took a second, but she did. Did and well. Her cheeks flooded with shame and she started to look down before his gentle hands coaxed her chin back up. "No, baby, don' do that. I was wrong. God, how I was wrong. Don' even think I..." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "Don' know how in the name of everythin' you allowed me to get this close with everythin' I've done to you."

It took a minute, but she managed to shrug it off. With whatever their past brought, it was just that: in the past. They had a future to think of, and wouldn't get very far if they spent all their time discussing what wrongs they had committed against each other when it was natural to do so. "Dunno," she replied. "I'm just glad I did."

"Understatement of the year, pet." Spike smiled softly. "Can't understand how even the thickest wanker'd kick you out for eatin' crackers in bed, much less jus'...I don' get it."

"Well, one turned evil. The other...turned evil."

"Maybe that's it. Your secret. Gotta be evil already." A wicked grin tickled his lips, and he winked when she gave him a look that was neither amused nor annoyed. "Or maybe you gotta be smarter than a rock an' realize that only a complete fool would wake up an' walk away from the greatest gift of his life." He ducked his head shyly at the adoration and awe that poured out of her eyes. "Doesn' matter anyway. 'm never lettin' you go, so you'll never get to try out that li'l theory."

"No?"

"'d tear the sod's arms off before he got to firs' base."

Buffy grinned. "Maybe the secret is being with you."

"That's it, luv. That's the kicker. Look no further." He leaned in and kissed her, then chuckled lightly as her stomach released another long, mournful growl.  "Okay, that's it. We're gettin' you fed."

"Ugh. That requires getting up."

"I think you'll find most things require gettin' up."

"I knew there was a reason I hated most things." She sat up with a wry, exaggerated groan that earned a stern look and a pair of dancing blue eyes. "Where we going?"

Spike stopped and stared at her for a long minute. "To the kitchen?"

"Not—"

"Out? Don't be barmy. Not till Ripper calls."

"What if he doesn't call?"

There was nothing but an answering grin at the possibilities. Buffy rolled her eyes. "I know I don't wanna go anywhere, but we can't just lie in bed all day. People will start to think we're dead."

He shrugged. "Am dead. What's the problem?"

"Spike..."

He shook his head with a short laugh. "We'll head over this afternoon, okay? In the meantime..." It took a few seconds, but he located his discarded shirt and tossed it to her with a devious smirk. "Informal dress is definitely not optional."

"You're gonna make breakfast naked?"

"Well no, kitten, I was gonna slide into my trousers. Unless you—"

Buffy shook her head. For some reason, the idea of Spike flipping a flapjack wearing nothing but a chef's hat—though they possessed no chef's hat—was oddly arousing. And despite all her protests, she was hungry for something other than sex. "No. No. Pants equal good."

Spike cocked a cool brow; countenance the picture of male pride. All the same, he reached for his slacks. "Avoidin' temptation?"

"Just call me Eve. Move into the kitchen!"

"Yes ma'am." And he was gone. A quick kiss to her lips, and he practically sprinted down the hallway, looking for all the world a proverbial heartbeat from bursting into song.

That thought stuck. Buffy had never seen him so happy. She had never seen him happy. Not like this. Not discounting drunken wiles on how to win back psycho ex-girlfriends and Will Be Done spells that sparked more than anyone could have foreseen. No. Spike was happy. Very happy. And he was happy because of her.

That was one honor she would not take lightly.

It took a few minutes to convince her legs that moving was a good thing. Besides, lying in bed when Spike was in the other room wasn't nearly as fun as lying with him next to her. She padded down the hallway, stopped to wash in the lavatory, then assumed a position against the doorframe to watch her vampire at work.

The picture he presented warmed her heart. Spike was practically dancing between cabinets, cracking eggs into bowls, whisking them as though he lived for nothing else, and whistling cheerfully all the while. He dropped slides of butter into the frying pan heating on the stove, whipped the pancake mix to gooey goodness and took a minute for himself to approach her with a delectable smile and kissed her boneless before returning to his work.

"You look too delicious in my shirt," he decided matter-of-factly, avoiding her eyes or any other body parts that might distract him from breakfast. "Sorry. M'bad. Shoulda known puttin' a thoroughly bedded goddess in my clothin' wouldn't get me very far. Go put somethin' else on."

Buffy laughed shortly and quirked a brow. The conversational air about him made her skin tingle. He acted casual, if not a little aloof. "Bossy much?"

"I'm gonna ravish you over this counter in two minutes 'f you don't."

"Gee. And I thought you were supposed to make me want to change."

Spike scowled. "You're gonna get it, li'l lady."

"Maybe after breakfast. Hungry." It was impossible—improbable. The morning itself had already taken on too much of a fairytale setting for her to get any more of it. But he was naked from the waist up, and cooking. Yeah. Definitely a turn-on. If they kept going like this, she would be too sore to stand, much less fight anything.

There was that lingering fear that attached itself to whatever apocalypse the Powers That Be sent her way. The knowledge that despite her expertise in the field, there was every possibility that she could be bested. After all, Slayer. Not exactly one for the long term planning. The likelihood of her dying old in bed wasn't exactly high on the totem pole of possibilities. Things had been quiet for far too long. And she knew that meant trouble was on a fast-track collision course with her fantasies of a long, dreamlike future with the vampire at the counter. The buruburus? Faith? The book? It was all coming to full circle. She dreaded the next phone call from Giles. The call that would shatter this bliss for the crueler reality. If this was all they were going to have, she wanted to savor it. Every minute.

She wanted more to have an axe in her hand and a direction to throw it in. Being a sitting duck made her nervous. And though they hadn't discussed it, if they were dealing with Japanese demons that had never before touched American soil, there was every reason to believe that other non-indigenous creatures were out there lurking. Creatures that were undocumented in this hemisphere. A whole world of big bad uglies right at her doorstep.

So yeah. Without knowing what to fight or where—how to destroy it before power mounted and reached clauses that were nearly unsurpassable, she wanted to spend every waking moment with Spike. Exploring this, hoping it wasn't the end as well as the beginning.

A bottomless breath shuddered through her and she crossed the kitchen, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing herself into his back. Her lips danced across his skin, tiny shudders claiming her own. He went rigid for a minute, dropping his cooking utensils to the countertop. When she pulled back with a trembling sigh and pressed her cheek to his back, his hands finding hers across his middle, he exhaled deeply and laced their fingers together. The mood change, then, was not so thoroughly ambiguous. She loved it that she did not have to explain herself to him on every turn.

"It'll be all right, sweetheart," he vowed softly. The wealth of insight, unaided, was nearly startling. Reading her vibe was one thing—reading her mind was an entirely different issue. Different yet not wholly surprising. He was so deeply embedded in her that any link of separation could be felt for miles. "We came this far. Not gonna let you go without a fight."

Buffy smiled a watery smile into his skin, brushing a kiss over the nape of his neck. "You can't promise that," she said, for all accounts logical. "The Powers have a way of doing whatever they want whenever they want."

"Well, then they're gonna be disappointed 'f they think they can take you away from me." Spike twisted in her embrace, quickly reaching over to flick off the switch on the stove. "'m not gonna let you go, baby," he murmured huskily, eyes suddenly level with hers. Stealing breath from her lungs for how openly he expressed his emotions. Without lapse. Without doubt. Just looking at her and letting her know the full of what he felt, unhindered. "Not without one hell of a fight. They want you? They're gettin' me, too. I'll be right there wherever you are. Whatever nasty's comin'll have to get through me to get to you." A shuddering sigh pressed against his lips, and he kissed her tenderly. And as was rapidly becoming custom with their kisses, the world tumbled away and he lost control; turned to prop her on top of the counter, her legs abound his waist.

"You smell delicious," he breathed into her hair. "Know what I want for breakfast."

"Isn't that what you're supposed to be making?"

Spike smiled and nuzzled her throat, tongue darting out to taste her. The smells she emanated were driving him wild. Last night's taste was not enough. A million mornings like this wouldn't be enough. "Want me to stop?"

"Well, I am hungry—" She grumbled and pulled him back to her when he tried to move away and tend to her uncooked feast. Her arms coiled around his throat, drawing his mouth to hers in a hungry kiss. He was clutching at her as though letting go would mean never regaining this, the hardness confined in his jeans rubbing her needy mound to the point of madness.

She didn't know how she could want him again so soon. Another mindless comparison drawn from her stunning lack of prior experience. She had enjoyed one admittedly nice but similarly uncomfortable night with Angel. But at that, they had been sodden with rainwater and thoroughly exhausted when it was over. She didn't want to think that he would have cheated her out of this had his soul stayed in place. Then again, had his soul remained, she would not be here with the man her body craved. The man that stirred emotions within her deeper than any felt before. Whisking whispers of former love away for the infiltration of how it was truly meant to feel.

Buffy never thought the day would come when she was glad for the curse that kept her and her former love apart. For the feel of Spike against her, she would trade this for nothing.

She heard him chuckle and pull back to meet her eyes. "You've been doin' that all mornin'," Spike said, amused but likewise on guard. She hated that. Hated how he felt he needed to protect his emotions around her. As though at any turn, she would toss him aside, thank him for the ride, and return to the boring shell of a life she had lived before him.

Well, as boring as a Slayer's could be.

"Doing what?"

"Driftin' off." He lowered his mouth to her throat and excited harsh little gasps with his teeth and tongue. "Better watch it, luv. A bloke'll think he's borin' you."

"No. God, no." Buffy shook her head and laughed a little. "I'm sorry. I'm not really one for being Deep Thought Girl, but...okay, here it goes." She propped herself back, ever aware of their telling position. Wearing nothing but his t-shirt, his hands gently rubbing her skin wherever it wasn't covered and edging dangerously closer to her quim on every tour. The sweeps he made of her inner thigh had her body quivering in arousal. He stopped teasing her at last,  fingers anchored into her hips and thumbs gently rubbing the slick, tender flesh just inches away from where she craved his touch with a vengeance.

She was determined to get this out, though. Heedless of how he seemingly wanted her to talk with him seriously and come at the same time.

There was a flicker, though, behind his eyes. And it occurred to her that his insecurity was speaking out again. He feared what she was going to say, even if he needed to hear it.

Well, hell. If it killed her, she was going to make damn sure he knew that he was the one she wanted, for now and forever. However long forever between them might be.

"Spike," she said softly, cupping his face. "This is still real to me."

There was a still moment as he studied her, somewhat awed at her perception. A flash of denial crossed his features but died almost instantly. He warmed to her like nothing before. "Right," he said. "Right. Guess I better start gettin' used to that."

"Yeah, you better. 'Cause the reason I keep being all drifty is...I just keep thinking about how I've never felt..." She stopped, frowned a bit, and rolled her eyes. "I'm beginning to sound like every soap my mom watches religiously."

"Don' rip on soaps," he scolded. "Passions is a bloody brilliant show."

"You both are insane."

"That's beside the point." Spike grinned, his touch edging upward. "I believe you were sayin' somethin' about never havin' felt this way before." A pause as soon as the words escaped his lips, his eyes widening fearfully. "At leas', that's what I thought you were—"

Buffy's hand found his mouth, effectively shushing him and all his illogical worries. "Yes," she said. "I've never felt like this. Ever. Not with anyone. And I... this is the first morning after I've had, you know."

"We talked 'bout this already, sweets."

"Yeah. But...it's..." With a groan of defeat, her head collapsed wearily on his shoulder. "I suck at this."

Spike whispered a kiss at her throat. "No, pet. You're sayin' everythin' jus' fine." His hips thrust forward. "You wanna let me go make you breakfast?"

She shook her head, hands falling to his jeans again. "It can wait."

"Buffy—"

"We have all morning."

"Not much mornin' left, sweetheart."

"Drat." Her mouth attacked his hungrily as her clumsy fingers finally succeeded in freeing his erection, welcoming him into her grasp. The moan he rumbled into her sent sparks of fire across her skin and he helped her shove his trousers to mid-thigh.

The vampire dropped a hand to her center, massaging her gently. His t-shirt drew up around her hips to allow him full exploration. The feral mewls he captured with his mouth just pushed him onward. He took to her slowly, rubbing the texture of her moist folds between eager digits, sliding his skin into her to test her readiness and starting at the run of heated ambrosia that drenched him at the slightest touch. "God," he gasped into her mouth. "How do you stay so wet?"

"How do you stay so hard?" she countered, running her thumb over his leaking head, her other hand capturing the weight of his sac and giving him a good squeeze.

"Oh bloody fuck." And before she knew what was happening, he had sunk himself inside her, his hands clenching at her shoulders. Buffy threw her head back and her jaw dropped. She had never made love anywhere but a nice warm bed, and while she was a traditionalist at heart, the angle he struck sent small waves of burning pleasure to her core. He must have felt it, too—she thought he must, for the breath he took was ragged, and his eyes were closed piously. "Never knew anythin' could feel this good," he rasped.

A smile tickled her mouth and she kissed his temple, releasing a heady moan as he began to move at a slow, agonizing tempo. The slide of his flesh from hers was sweet torment that she would never forfeit. "Now I know you're exaggerating."

He shook his head feverishly, catching her lips in a fit of ardor. "Don' exaggerate," he gasped. "You're perfect. So bloody perfect." His hands dropped to the hem of her shirt and slid inside, up until he was massaging her breasts. "Never felt anythin' like this. Never."

"Spike—"

"Fuckin' perfect." He kissed her eagerly. "Never givin' you up, Buffy. Never. You hear me?" Without warning, his thrusts gained momentum, delving into her urgency. Fingers kneading her nipples, mouth hot and hungry at her neck. She was clutching at his shoulders with desperation she had not known she possessed. "Drive me outta mind. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck."

"Oh God."

"My golden goddess." His teeth tugged at her ear. "My own Aphrodite."

The room was heavy with gasps and whimpers. Buffy's head landed against the cupboard, her eyes fighting to stay open. She wanted to look at him. Wanted to see the wealth of emotion pouring through his own rich pupils and allow that to shove her over the edge as much as the other. Her thighs clenched around him, her nails digging into his skin.

"So tight. So fucking tight."

"Spike!"

"An' hot. You're so hot. An inferno. God, you're killin' me." His was cadencing against her body, striking her at levels she didn't know existed. "Not gonna last." And then his hands abandoned her breasts, one snaking around her middle to tug her closer, the other sliding to her center. The feral in his eyes sparked with yellow, and for the intensity on his face, she knew he was wrestling with his demon for dominance. The man in him fighting the darkness to keep her entirely for himself.

Buffy kissed him, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He moaned against her and tightened his grip on her body, pulling her as close as humanly possible. For everything else, the feel of him inside, the adoration sweeping his embrace, it was the most blissful sensation of her life.

Though, with him, she had been having quite a few of those.

"Spike," she gasped, pulling away and resting her forehead against his. "Tell me."

He was rubbing her clit roughly, sliding a finger into her, as though it wasn't already enough. "Whassat?"

"Uhhh...tell me again. Please."

He slowed a minute and looked at her quizzically before understanding overwhelmed him. And a smile touched his face, the tenderness in his eyes taking the world away. "I love you, Buffy," he gasped, sweeping her mouth into a fierce kiss. "God, I love you so much. So much."

The Slayer smiled at him, panting through her esteem, then braced herself against his shoulder and overwhelmed him with her climax. And then they were falling together. Falling through an abyss of paradoxical delights, bodies rocking with ageless rhythm in a connection that no other could outmatch.

Spike buried his face in her throat. "God," he said. "We're gonna kill each other."

"Mmm," she hummed. "Rather you kill me with lots of sex than the big scary."

"Right, so when the world starts endin', we start shaggin'?"

A giggle tickled her lips and she kissed him. "That would definitely be the best apocalypse I'd ever been to."

He stared at her for a minute but laughed in his turn. Buffy hugged herself to him and he lifted her off the counter, her legs still abound his waist as they slid lazily to the floor.

"We're never gonna get you fed," Spike observed after a minute. The air smelled heavy of their combined essence and was already doing a number to restore his passion.

Buffy didn't seem to mind, though. Resting leisurely with her head at his shoulder, her arms curled under his. "New rule," she said. "When we eat, we wear clothes."

"Well..." He pulled away slightly to dance into her eyes. "Depends on what we're eatin' luv." His brows wiggled and she flushed thoroughly, buried her face in his welcoming skin and tightening her arms around him.

It would have been quite simple to forget that the world and all its badness existed at all had Xander not pounded on the front door the next minute. Buffy jumped; Spike mewled at her jump, and her hand flew over his mouth in warning.

The morning was going too good. This was their wake-up call. If her friend decided to walk in without a formal invitation, he would receive a rude awakening. The dining area was connected to the kitchen, and though they were not within direct view, the air smelled of sex and she was not about to lift herself from Spike's lap just because she was afraid of being caught.

"Buffy?" he called through the door. "Buffy? Spike? You in there?"

Buffy slowly lowered her hand from her lover's lips, her eyes never wavering from his.

"Guys?" A few more agonizingly long seconds. "Okay, well...Will, Sam, Josh, Ahn—pretty much all of us are headed over to the Eola for more fun researchage. Giles wants you to do a sweep tonight, then we're having a meeting and oh my god, why am I talking to a door? Gahh..." There was a hefty retreat, another pause, then he was back. "Are you sure you're not in there?"

A low growl reverberated through Spike's throat.

"Okay, well...if you are in there, then you know what to do. If you're not, I just wasted three minutes of my life that I will never get back."

On second retreat, he was gone for good. Buffy's shoulders sagged in relief, her head finding Spike's chest. They were silent for a few minutes; just sat in an odd embrace on the kitchen floor. His arms were still around her, his cheek resting on her crown. A moment of pure tranquility.

She knew what he was thinking without needing instructions. She was thinking the same. "I'm going to tell them," she whispered.

Another beat. "Huh's that?"

"I'm going to tell them...about us. I just didn't want Xander to find out that way. You get that, right?" She pulled back slightly to gauge the emotions in his eyes. "I want them to know. This isn't gonna be an 'I'm ashamed' thing. We're together. For as much or little time as we have left, we're together...as long as that's what you want."

Spike was still for another long minute, then his face lit up with a gorgeous smile and he crushed her to him. "'Course it's what I want. We're together," he said. "Never lettin' you go."

That revelation was sealed by a timely groan of her stomach. They broke apart on the same note, glanced down, and chuckled quietly together.

"Well, maybe to make breakfast."

She smirked at him. "That's what you said the last time."

"Well, seems as I recall, I got ambushed by a cute li'l—"

"Ambushed?!"

"—who can't get enough of me an'—"

"Oh, that's it. You're so gonna get it."

He nodded. "Yep. That's pretty much how it started." He grinned off the look on her face and stood, cock slipping out of her warmth with a shared moan of loss. "All right, kitten," he said, kissing her neck. "You better toddle off so I can make your food before you die of starvation. 'Sides..." He ran his tongue over his teeth and reveled in the flush it brought to her skin. "You're gonna need your strength."

Buffy sniggered but turned to do as she was told. She was also going to get him a shirt to cover up his yummy chest and keep her from further distraction.

Spike was giving her perfection. Everything right now was so perfect. She didn't remember a time when she had been happier. When everything felt so right. When life was a bell ringing especially for her.

She was happy. She, Buffy Summers, was happy.

And the very fact that she was happy frightened her beyond reproach. Beyond all her joy, there was one noble truth. With happiness came the burden that there was that much more to lose. And Slayers were not meant to be happy. She was not meant to be happy.

That was it then. Her curse.

Something terrible was going to happen.

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