The night was closing in on her, and there was nowhere to run. No air to breathe. No water to drink. No food to satisfy her hunger. She saw it all from far away, watching herself tear down empty corridors and scream for help that would never come. The walls were alight with torches, but she didn’t need them to see. Her eyes were made for darkness. It was what she was now. What she had become through the nothing that surrounded her.

A flash. He stood at the end of the corridor, his eyes heavy with sorrow.

You have killed me.

“I didn’t mean to,” she gasped, vision blurring with tears. “I needed out. You wouldn’t let me out!”

A curious smile spread across his lips.

You only needed to love me a little. I would have given you the world.

Something inside her was screaming for release. Clawing at her insides, ripping her apart. Yarn by yarn. She felt she had reached the lowest form of herself. Standing there in the empty hallway, gazing at her dead sire. The voice inside screamed for retribution; screamed for her own blood for his. That she turned the stake that had landed in her hands to her chest, and end her suffering before it consumed her.

This is not right. This is not the way of things.

Dracula had known dust because she willed it so. It was what she wanted. What she had needed to escape. The things he had told her had filled her with rage and disgust. And she had killed him, because that was what she did.

She killed vampires.

It did not matter that she was one.

The force within her screamed its outrage.

You ended me. Now you know pain.

She was bleeding from the inside, and she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t see to stop it. The walls were closing in and there was no one. Even her sire had abandoned her. Dracula’s visage from the far end of the corridor disappeared. Dissolved into the pillar of dust she had wished upon him. The torches were going out.

She would be left in darkness.

She would be left alone.

Buffy awoke with a muffled scream, drowning in her tears.

The room around her was unfamiliar but comforting, and the air sounded with the most gruesome sound she had ever heard. A piercing, guttural wail that pained her ears, lashing undeviating marks into her heart. She couldn’t think. Her chest ached from the weight of the air her body told her she needed. A fact buried within necessity but lost with logic. She was breaking from the inside, and no one could help her. No one could take this pain away. It was there. It consumed her. It was all she was.

“Buffy. Buffy!”

Buffy shook her head. Someone was on the bed with her. Someone who had not been there before. Strong, soothing hands grasped her flailing wrists and coaxed her battling body from the mattress. She was suddenly encased in someone’s embrace; an unbeating heart pressed against hers. Matching hers.

She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his shoulder, and sobbed.

“Shhhh,” Spike murmured, running a hand through her hair. “’S’okay, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”

“It hurts,” she gasped against him. Her eyes were sore from crying. “It hurts so much. I can’t make it stop.”

“You had no choice. If you hadn’t killed him, you wouldn’t’ve gotten out.”

She didn’t even have to tell him what hurt. He knew. Somehow, he knew. And he was rocking her back and forth gently, encased in the security of his arms. She had no idea how Spike had become her haven, her comforter, but he had. He gave her peace even if she could not use it. The thing living inside her was in agony. Wretched, ugly agony, and she felt the weight of its anger. It made her bleed. Wounds that time had healed were open again.

“I can’t make the hurt stop,” she cried. “It’s eating me up. I can’t breathe.”

Spike brushed a tender kiss across her forehead. “You don’ need to breathe, baby,” he murmured. “It makes the hurt worse.”

His unbidden use of pet names was a source of strange comfort. She remembered when she hated them. Remembered shivering in what she had called disgust. Recalled the wealth of memories of that brief time when his mouth had been on her; when they were in love and getting married. A time that seemed closer now that the sanctuary he offered was around her again.

Logically, she knew his words were true. She just couldn’t get her body to listen to them.

“You breathe,” she replied, her sobs beginning to quiet.

“Mmm,” he murmured in agreement. “I’ve also been a vampire a lot longer than you, an’ my body knows it.” He was still rocking her gently; somehow, her legs had found their way around his waist, and she was in his lap. Her breasts were pressed flat against his chest. Something hard was pressed against the apex of her thighs, but she refused to allow her mind to wander.

Of course he would be aroused. She was in his lap. He was a guy. Case closed.

She wouldn’t think of how her body responded to him. She was emotionally unbalanced, and she wouldn’t allow her grief to overwhelm her control. She wouldn’t ask him to comfort her with sex, though she found it strange that the idea had even manifested.

He felt familiar, still. Again, she recalled their ill-fated engagement. How he had felt then. How he had given her bliss for just a few hours before the spell waned and she was herself again.

But she wouldn’t think about that.

“What does that mean?” she asked instead, her voice hoarse. “Your body knows it, but mine doesn’t?”

Spike shook his head. “’S the soul, sweetness,” he replied softly. “Sired Slayers keep their souls. The human soul isn’t s’posed to know what vampirism feels like. Why on bloody earth do you think Peaches spent the better part of the last century in the sodding gutter?”

“I always thought it was the guilt.”

His lips found her temple. “That was part of it,” he admitted. “Not the whole.”

“I feel so cold.” She shivered. “God, Spike, it hurts so much.”

“I know, kitten.” He brushed another kiss across her forehead. “I’d do anythin’ to make it better.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you’re here. Why you let me stay.” Buffy was trembling when she glanced up, eyes meeting his. He burned her with his gaze, melting away the cold. “Why you came after me. Was it…did Giles…he gave you money?”

Spike smiled warily. “He came by here,” he replied honestly. “He told me you were gone, an’ that Dracula was the one that had you. He asked me to go.”

“So you came after me because Giles wanted you to.”

“No.”

“Spike—”

“I came after you because I wanted to. Rupert offered me money, but I…” He released a breath and shuddered. “I din’t save you, Buffy. You got out yourself.”

“I got out because you were there.”

“Buffy—”

“You gave me what I needed to get out. I don’t know what it was, but it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been there.” The Slayer pressed her brow to his. It was so strange. She remembered hating him. She remembered it so clearly. She remembered wanting to stake him half a dozen times. She had bruised his body with her fists more times than she could imagine. She had done nothing to deserve his kindness, or want it when offered. She thought of herself; the shade of a girl that had been alive just two days before. The girl that had hated Spike with the prejudice of a slayer that hated all vampires.

There was no place right now that she would feel safer. Spike’s arms were around her. She was dressed in a skimpy negligee that showed more than it concealed, she was in the bed of her former enemy, and she was sitting on his erection. And it didn’t bother her.

Not at all.

Everything had changed. She didn’t want to be anywhere but where she was.

“You came for me and you don’t want the money?”

She felt him smile against her. “Never said I don’ want the money,” he replied. “’m jus’ not takin’ it.”

“Why?”

“Because I din’t save you.”

“You could say you did. I’d tell Giles to—”

“I don’t want money for savin’ you, Buffy. I never even…” Spike expelled a deep breath. “I went after you because I wanted to get you out. Because somethin’ happened to me when he told me that you were gone.”

“What happened?”

He froze. “I about lost my head.”

“Why?”

“Buffy—”

“You’re calling me by my name. You’re telling me that you came after me because you wanted to, and not for the money.” She drew back again. “You’re different. I’m not the only one here who’s different. You came after me. You hate me, Spike.”

A smile crossed his lips. “Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Dracula took you away.”

“And?”

His eyes flooded with that emotion that had crippled her when she had turned around upstairs. When their gazes had met, and he had known what happened. That she was a vampire. That she had come to him. He had known it all, and he hadn’t said a word.

He had just looked at her and broken her heart.

She didn’t know it was possible for people she didn’t love to break her heart.

“An’ my world about ended,” he said, and then glanced off with a heavy sigh. “You don’ need this right now, sweetheart. You don’ need to hear from me all the…all you need to know is that I’m here. An’ you can stay with me as long as you need.”

“I want to know.”

“Slayer—”

She smiled. “There it is.”

“I jus’—”

“I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Why not?”

A mordant look crossed his face. “You won’ like me anymore.”

“What makes you think I like you now?”

There was something in his eyes that made the cold melt completely. And then there was only heat. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, thrusting his hips forward just a little so that his erection prodded the wet warmth between her legs. “Call it a hunch.”

“Spike…”

“Yeh. I think you might like me jus’ a li’l.”

“I…” She tore her eyes away from his, though it did little good as there was nowhere to look that didn’t lead back to him. “I just…I…”

It felt good when he chuckled. He was still pressed against her, and she felt the movement rumble through her skin. Rattle her insides. It fed the heat he gave her with softer warmth. It made her feel loved.

Warmth made her feel loved. And he gave her warmth.

“’S okay,” he said softly. “Don’ be embarrassed. Vampires feel it more fiercely than humans.”

“Feel it?”

“Your sex drive is more…it feels more.” He paused and cocked his head, studying her intently. “Are you blushing?”

“Spike—”

“I din’t think vampires could blush, but I’d swear—”

“I’m not blushing.”

Spike smiled. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he told her honestly. “I’m not reachin’ for anythin’. I’m holding you because I want to. Because you need someone to hold you right now. Jus’ because I feel like this…’m not askin’ you for anythin’. I’m jus’ holding you because I can’t stand to see you cry.”

“You can’t?”

“Tonight was the firs’ time. I couldn’t stand it.”

Buffy drew in a breath and winced at the pain it brought. His arms tightened. “Like this?” she asked when the ache subsided. “You said…because you feel ‘like this.’ What’s…Spike, what do you—”

A sigh tore through his lips. “’S nothin’, luv.”

“No, it’s not ‘nothing.’ You would’ve told me if it was just nothing.”

“I jus’ did tell you it’s nothing. You won’ believe me, an’ that’s frankly not my problem.”

“Spike, please.”

His eyes softened, but his resolution didn’t waver. Instead, he coaxed her back to the mattress, disentangling her legs from around his waist. A small murmur of complaint rumbled through his throat as her weight shifted off his cock, but the view of her lying before him in the scrap of a thing her sire had given her provided enough fuel to sustain his fantasies.

“You should get some sleep,” he said gently, placing a hand on her stomach.

“I’m hurting.”

“I know, sweetling.”

A pained look crossed her face, and she arched her back into his touch. “It felt better when…I can’t do this, Spike.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t. I hurt too much.” She shook her head. “I’ve never hurt like this.”

“No, I don’ imagine so.”

“Spike—”

The vampire released a sigh and edged up beside her, lying down and taking her hand in his. “I’d take it away if I could,” he said. “It gets better. It’ll get better. I promise you.” He paused. “You’re strong. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. The strongest bloody slayer I’ve ever fought. You’ll get through this.”

“Does it matter that I’m not so sure?”

“I’m here.” He held her eyes for a minute, then looked away sheepishly. “’F that means anythin’. I know I’m not what you—”

Her hand tightened around his. “It means something, Spike. It means a lot.” She released a breath and winced again. “I never thought it would hurt to breathe.”

“Your lungs aren’t made to breathe anymore.”

“You breathe.”

He smiled. “That’s the second time you’ve reminded me.” He went quiet for a minute and watched her as she battled the impending cloud of fatigue. “You should get some rest, pet.”

“Will you stay?”

“Stay?”

Buffy tugged on his hand until the length of his arm splayed across her abdomen. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

“I mean…here. In the bed.” She turned away shyly when his eyes filled with that wondrous look again; her skin felt flush even if she knew it was impossible. “It doesn’t hurt…as much…when you were holding me, it didn’t hurt as much.”

Spike licked his lips and smiled at her, spreading his arms. She snuggled against him without hesitation. Curled in his embrace. Pressed against his unbeating heart. Wrapped in his scent.

Safe in the arms of the enemy. She never thought it possible.

It felt like she had been with him for years already. That generations had past since the time she thought of him as her adversary.

She didn’t know what had changed between them. If he was helping her now because she was no longer the Slayer, or because she was Buffy.

She hoped it was the latter.

She wanted him to want Buffy. Not the thing Buffy had become.

Spike brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Sweet dreams, my little love,” he murmured. He was silent for a minute, his hands caressing her sore skin. Softening her where she was hard. Soothing her where she ached. “You know why, Buffy,” he said a minute later, voice barely above a whisper. “You know why.”

For a moment, she could’ve sworn her heart leapt in her chest.

She did. She knew why. She just couldn’t believe it.

She only hoped she remembered this. Being held in the safety of her enemy’s arms. Her enemy that was no longer her enemy. Her enemy that had become her savior.

She hoped she remembered this in the morning. She wanted to share it with him.

For the first time since she had awakened as a vampire, she felt the screaming within her calm. Felt the rage within her roll into a gentle peace. Felt normal for a blink of her abnormal life.

Spike gave her that.

She had come to him, and he gave her peace.

The first night in a lifetime that was not plagued with nightmares.

Not after Spike chased them away. Not after he gave her back the night.

Not after he offered her comfort with the whispered promise of a lover’s embrace.

 

 

A soft breath fanned the skin behind her ear and tickled her scalp through her hair, and the arm around her middle tightened as Spike shifted behind her. His body molded hers flawlessly, the persistent state of his arousal nestled into the curve of her ass. Buffy lay awake in his embrace for a long while before she dared herself to open her eyes. Before she allowed the peace that had guarded her through the night to face the chance of sabotage.

She was so terrified that she would awake and be in the castle. Be in the room Dracula had locked her in. The place that had been her prison for days that felt like years. That everything that had happened last night would be accredited to a dream, and the haven in which she had found refuge would be a place she had imagined in a fit of despair.

Spike’s arms tightened around her once more, and he murmured something unintelligible into her hair.

Four days ago, the possibility that she would sleep the night in Spike’s arms would have been a source of outlandish amusement and unspeakable disgust. That had changed somewhere between waking up under Dracula’s thrall and making the conscious decision to seek her former enemy for sanctuary. Last night, something had changed. Something she wanted to change. She had seen something in Spike’s eyes. Felt something in his embrace. She had come to him for help, and he had opened his arms for her.

Something had changed before that. Before she even saw him. Before she knew he would help her.

She had gone to him. She could have gone anywhere. She could have gone to Angel. She had given herself a thousand excuses why she shouldn’t. Being around people was the wrong move to make. She couldn’t trust herself around the dead; around her friends was absolutely out of the question.

There were other things, too. The bigoted hatred her friends—some more than others—expressed for vampires terrified her beyond anything. Giles loved her like a daughter, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stake her for her own good if he had to.

She could have gone to Angel, but she hadn’t. And it wasn’t out of shame.

It was because she knew him too well, and knew what he would do.

Instead, she’d gone to Spike.

And Spike had helped. Spike’s arms were around her. His erection was pressed into her backside. He was rumbling incoherent nothings into her ear. He was the way she had gotten out. He was holding her in his arms now, and she felt safe and loved.

In the arms of her former enemy, she felt safe and loved. As much as she had in her life.

Something had changed.

Somehow between slaying vampires and becoming one, Spike had turned into the one person in the world that she could trust implicitly. The one who would help her without judging. Without screaming at how she could have let this happen. The one who would understand how much pain she was in. How badly she hurt.

She trusted Spike. Between slaying what he was and becoming what he was, she had placed all of her trust in the vampire that held her now. The vampire that had made the screaming stop for the first night in what felt like centuries. She had been dead for just over forty-eight hours, but she hadn’t been home in years.

She trusted Spike.

“Mmm,” he moaned into her hair, his hand sliding back until he was massaging her stomach softly. “Buffy…”

She froze.

“Spike?”

There was no intelligible response. He mumbled something and nuzzled her reverently. His hand slid northward until he was palming her breast, fingers pebbling her nipple through the material of her negligee.

Oh God.

Buffy drew in a deep breath and winced at the sharp pain that struck in retaliation. She honestly didn’t know what to do. Spike had not been coy with the fact that he wanted her the night before. He hadn’t done anything about it, but he hadn’t tried to hide his arousal. He hadn’t seemed particularly embarrassed, either. And he had said that she knew why he had come for her.

He was asleep now. He was caressing her. He had murmured her name.

“Buffy,” he gasped again, thrusting his hips into her backside. “God, Buffy…”

Vampires feel it more fiercely than humans, he’d said. There was absolutely no chance that Spike had gone to bed with a woman in the past hundred and twenty years without it being sexual. The fact that she was in his arms now, that he smelled her, that she had slept in his bed had his body feeling things stronger than a human would.

He was dreaming of her. He had murmured her name.

There was something pooling in the bottom of her stomach. A fire she barely recognized. Her skin was blazing. She felt a warm rush of fluid between her legs, and nearly gasped aloud. She had not thought to feel anything like this ever again. Not from him. Not from Riley. Not from Angel. Not from anyone. She was dead. She didn’t think she could feel alive when she was dead.

She didn’t think it could be Spike.

Spike.

At least she hadn’t until last night. Last night had changed things.

And now Spike’s hand was sliding down her abdomen, slipping under her nightie. She felt her thighs part instinctively to welcome his touch and had to bite down on the inside of her cheek when she felt the first tentative brush against her aching wetness. Buffy stifled a small sob of pleasure, lifting her leg to curl around his. She didn’t want to think right now. Didn’t want to allow the reality that surrounded her a chance to break through. She needed this. She needed escapism.

Spike.

His name rushed through her mind; a ceaseless mantra of recognition. It was Spike that was touching her. Spike whose cock was grinding against her backside. Spike whose caresses her body invited. She needed this. She needed to know that. She had died. She hadn’t lost her humanity. A vampire loses humanity, but she hadn’t lost hers.

And somehow, she had recognized that Spike had never lost his, either. There was no creature on the earth that could look at her the way he had looked at her, care for her the way he had cared for her, and be completely void of compassion. He was a vampire; he was supposed to be a remorseless creature of absolute evil, but he was not.

It was the reason she had come to him. Because he was the only one she could think of that hadn’t hurt her. Not in the way that she got hurt.

She needed comfort, but she wanted him. And that knowledge shook her.

She wouldn’t use him. After what he had done for her, there was no way she would use him. She cared for him too much to use him.

Just in one night, she had come to care for him.

She felt she was centuries away from the girl she had known. The girl who had lived in her body for nearly twenty years.

“Buffy,” Spike moaned again, fingers slipping into her wet sheath. “So hot. So soft. My Slayer.”

Her vision blurred with tears, and she thrust her hips into his touch. His sleep-induced caresses was driving her out of her mind, exploring her gently, slipping in and out of her passage at a leisurely tempo. His thumb settled over her clit, rubbing her tenderly. Hot pinpricks of pleasure stabbed at her insides; filling her with warmth that she thought never to have again. The cold gone now for the fire he was stirring.

I should wake him up.

It was funny; the things one should do were usually the furthest away from what one desired. Her skin was warm for the first time in days. She could feel heat spreading through forbidden recesses of her body, a foreign pressure commanding her as he stroked her closer to the edge.

“Buffy…”

A muted cry tumbled through her lips as Spike jerked to wakefulness, and she felt his body tense behind her.

“Oh God, Buffy…I’m sorry. I din’t mean…” He was panting hard; his erection was still pressed against her ass. His thumb poised over her clit, frozen in the horror of wake.

Buffy gasped again and buried her face in the pillow she had cradled all night, lost somewhere beyond mortification. She didn’t know what was worse: losing the wondrous sensation sailing through her body or begging him to continue. Risking the chance that he wouldn’t. She needed this so desperately, but through it all she remembered that the one she trusted and cared about had no reason to feel the same for her. He had taken her in; that didn’t mean anything. She thought it did, but it didn’t necessarily have to.

“Buffy…oh fuck.” His fingers began moving again uncertainly, as though he needed her release as desperately as she did. He stopped once more when he realized what he was doing and withdrew his touch completely, rolling onto his back. “’m so sorry. I never…I shouldn’t have—”

“Spike!” she mewled before she could help herself. “God, please!”

He released a shuddering, barely controlled breath. “Please?”

Buffy welded her eyes shut. Her body was aching. For the first time in days, she ached with something that wasn’t pain. Something that was as wonderful as it was terrifying. Her chest was heaving with breaths that didn’t hurt.

She was as aroused as she had ever been. And God, she needed it.

“Please!” she gasped. “Touch me.”

If he denied her, she would stake herself. Better to face death than lose her sanctuary. Than have the kindness he had shown her drown out for mockery of what he would never willingly give her.

But there was no mockery when he spoke. His voice was filled with passion, clouded with arousal, and was easily the sexiest thing she had ever heard.

Her name rolled on his tongue like that…

“Buffy…” A gentle hand prodded her shoulder until she rolled onto her back, his azure eyes engulfing her flaming face. When he found whatever it was he was looking for, he drowned her in that look of raw astonishment and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

Then his hands were on her again. His left arm propping him up against her, cupping her breast and caressing her through the lace of her negligee as the other dropped to her center. “It’s okay, baby,” he assured her warmly, sliding two fingers inside her. “’m here.”

“Oh God.”

He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, then at the pulse of her throat, hesitated, and then tongued her nipple through the thin fabric separating them. “’S all right, sweetheart,” he said, eyes glued on her face. “’S all right.”

She didn’t know she was crying until he raised his head to kiss away a tear. His thumb slid over her clit once more, stroking her reverently. Watching her. Pressing his brow to hers.

It was all too much. His proximity. The softness behind his kisses, the wealth of awed feeling behind his touch…she felt herself tumbling as her cry touched the air. Somewhere between bliss and the other. The emotion she was too unfamiliar with to name. Too lost to explore. She just knew she felt it. There were tears running down her cheeks, some for feeling, some for this distant emotion that was arising within her. Pained with something other than hurt. Twisted with the need for something she could not see.

She was so lost. So hopelessly lost. Spike was all she knew anymore. The only peace she had. She knew this without having to know anything. And as the most intense orgasm she had ever thought to experience rocked through her body, she found herself latching onto that distant strand of hope. Hope without direction, but hope nonetheless. It was there. She felt it.

It was the sweetest joy she had ever known. And she couldn’t keep herself from weeping.

“God,” Spike gasped, cautiously removing his fingers from her core. “You smell so sweet.” He drew his digits into his mouth and licked away her spendings, his eyes rolling up inside his head. “And, bloody hell, you taste like heaven.” His gaze met hers again, and dissolved at the sight of her tears. “Oh God, Buffy, don’t cry. Please. I’m sorry, I din’t—”

She launched herself into his arms before he could say another word, hugging him in some fleeting attempt to convey the wealth of confused feelings, even as her body wracked with sobs. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Spike went still. “Buffy—”

She didn’t allow herself to think. Not about what he was going to say next.

Not now.

So instead, she pulled back, searched his torn eyes, and pressed her lips to his.

He was flavored with her taste. And she knew then, kissing him, that she was home. This was home.

And if it wasn’t, it certainly provided a good imitation.

“Buffy,” he moaned, pulling away. His eyes were storming with passion.

And she lost herself all over again.

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she had slapped him across the face.

The entire morning felt like a dream. He had spent the evening in her arms. Buffy had come to him. She had told him that he was the reason she had willed it in herself to escape. To do what she needed. That he had helped her without helping her at all.

And he had spent the night in her arms. Dreaming of her as though they did not have the invisible gorge between them. As though she was in his bed because she wanted to be, not because she felt she had nowhere else to go. And somehow, the fantasy had met reality, and he had awakened bathed in the rich scent of her arousal. Had awakened with his fingers exploring that intimate part of her he never thought to touch. Not like this. Not even if he had performed the rescue she was accrediting him with. Not even for how desperately he feared he loved her.

Any uncertainty he had about his feelings diminished the minute he saw her standing in his crypt.

And now he was swimming in the alluring fragrance of her orgasm. The orgasm he had given her just hours after she had buried herself in his embrace and begged him not to leave her through the night.

She had rolled over and was partially splayed over his body. Her fingers were dancing dangerously close to his denim-clad erection.

“Buffy,” he gasped when she lowered the zipper, his cock springing into her welcoming hand. “W-we shouldn’t—”

Bloody fuck, did he even listen when he spoke?

“I just…I want to…” With as blissful as it was being held by her, there was absolutely nothing compared to the wondrous sensation that scaled through his body when she began pumping his shaft with her heavenly touch.

He wasn’t going to last. He could barely grasp that this was actually happening; he wasn’t going to last.

“Buffy.” He mewled and thrust up into her willing hand. “Fuck, that feels so good. You…God, what are you doin’ to me?”

Her eyes met his uncertainly, and the doubt there all about broke his heart.

“Feels…so bloody good.”

Her thumb pressed into his aching head, caressing him with shy tenderness.

“Oh, fuck!”

He didn’t know what did it for him. He honestly had no clue. He wanted to accredit it wholly to the masterful stroke of her hand, but it was her eyes that owned him. That tentative, fear-stricken, hopeless, but impassioned look that broke his heart a thousand times over. His broken heart that was thoroughly hers.

He had never felt this for anyone, and she was with him now. And that knowledge sweetened his orgasm all the more. Like dying all over again. Like kissing the clouds of paradise before he fell back to earth.

He whimpered a small complaint when she released him, even though his body was screaming at the loss of her touch. “B-Buffy,” he gasped. “I…fuck, that was…”

There were no words for what that was.

Only she was no longer with him. She was in the bed beside him, but her mind was no longer with him. She was staring hard at the inches of mattress separating them, and her eyes were far away. Lost beyond lost. Somewhere where he could not follow.

Yet.

“Buffy?”

She jerked her head up, and something foreign crossed her face. Not regret. Not disgust. Not apathy; none of the things he would have expected after sharing that with her. With the Buffy he knew.

The Buffy he knew was wounded and terrified. And she was clinging to him out of something neither could name. She was burned with scars he could not see. Wheedling beyond the hurt she had suffered and finding sanctuary that confused more than it comforted.

God, it couldn’t be ruined with this.

“Buffy…luv, I—”

She rolled off the bed then and straightened her negligee. Her back to him, trembling as though she was seconds away from breaking again. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Sorry?”

He would give her anything if she looked at him, but she did not.

This wasn’t rejection. It was something else.

Something.

She was up the ladder that led to the first floor before he could implore again. Back to the place she knew. Back to the only room where the world made sense to her.

Spike expelled a deep breath and flopped back on the bed.

“Wanker.”

How could he help her if he couldn’t keep his hands to himself?

It wasn’t rejection, logic told him again.

It wasn’t. He didn’t know what it was. Only that she was hurting. She was broken and confused. But she was still here. She might be upstairs, but she was still here.

She was still with him.

If nothing else, there was that.

 

 

Buffy was coming to understand that there was nothing she hated as richly as silence. For the past thirty minutes, she had been curled on the worn sofa that Spike had set in front of his television set, comforted by the darkness that surrounded her. It was a warm blanket of protection; keeping her from the light of reality. From the world that waited on the other side of the crypt. She was comfortable in the darkness.

The silence, however, was driving her out of her mind.

Spike had still not come upstairs, and she didn’t blame him. She didn’t know where she would even begin to explain her earlier behavior. How she would find it within herself to look at him without wilting in shame.

There was no place to start. She was so thoroughly lost. Days before, she had been the perky, pun-quipping Slayer that struck fear into the nonbeating hearts of Sunnydale’s residential undead. She’d had friends. She’d had a Watcher. She’d had a boyfriend.

That girl had lived a blissful life of ignorance.

That girl didn’t deserve the sanctuary that she needed now. What kind of life had she really been living, if the only person she could go to when she was in such pain was the one that nature had designed as her enemy?

Riley had been here the night before. He had stood outside and argued with Spike about her. She hadn’t listened to the entirety of the conversation, but there were certain things that simply couldn’t be blocked out. Riley had accused him of having an ulterior motive and claimed he wasn’t worthy.

For everything, she felt she could rip her boyfriend to shreds, and that pure rage was just one of many factors that terrified her.

The pain crippling her body was a disease. She couldn’t move without feeling a stab of endless sorrow, every inch of her skin aching with the loss of the one who had given her new life. She couldn’t take it; she couldn’t take her body longing the presence of a sire that the rest of her thoroughly detested. She summoned images of his ghostly touch and shivered for the impact of simple recollection.

She felt like she had been living the past two decades in a dream. That waking as a vampire was her first step into a world not concealed by rose-colored glasses. That every pain she had ever endured was a steady build up for the removal of her safety net. Everything seemed so insignificant now. Death at the hand of the Master. Losing Angel—twice. The confusing year she was still recovering from in which the Big Bad she was so used to fighting had come in the shape of a military branch with a fabricated enemy on which to vent all her frustration.

She didn’t care anymore. Not about the life she had been living. The things that were once important. The false perfection she had been striving for, ignoring the fact that life was never perfect and that a Slayer’s life could never be normal. She’d craved normal for so long.

There were certain things associated with her existence that were so completely flawed without direction for blame. Riley. The man that should never have been her boyfriend. The years spent mourning a vampire that she could barely think about without flinching now. A vampire that was so far placed from the woman she had become. A vampire that had robbed her of her childhood with the guise of being the only man in her life that she could love.

That had always been Angel’s problem. His humanity; his wanting normal for her when she was anything but, and he was hardly in a place to pass judgment. Now he was living the good life in Los Angeles, doing anything but leading a normal existence, or allowing those he worked with to follow his own advice. It seemed she was the only one that was supposed to suffer full of his magnanimous misguidance. What she had done to earn such an honor, she did not know. But the fuzzy lens that had fogged her opinion of Angel for so long was gone now. There was nothing there but the distant pulling of a few fond memories, but even then, the bad far outweighed the good.

It seemed she had aged centuries in just a few days. No longer the mourning sixteen-year old in a nineteen-year old’s body. She was a woman now. A woman who knew life only because she was experiencing death.

And beneath that knowledge was pain. Pain of losing her maker. Pain of having her net taken away. Pain of knowledge itself.

She had taken advantage of Spike downstairs. She wanted to do something to express her gratitude. To explore the wealth of unfamiliar feelings stirring her insides. She had never thought she would awake in the comfort of her enemy’s embrace. She had never thought that he could see anything in her other than a query to be killed. An addition to his impressive roster of dead slayers.

In the midst of everything, he was the only one she could trust, and she had taken advantage of that. What she felt for him was revolutionary; fast and terrifying. And she had leapt into him before thinking, and now was more confused than ever. The wealth of pain soaking her insides was intolerable. She felt split down the middle. Caught in the veil between two worlds. She had the knowledge; she just didn’t know what to do with it. The old set of values she had so long followed were faded and jumbled. Every truth she had believed in had died with her body, and she had only the man downstairs to guide her through the world as it was.

He would not guard her from the truth like everyone else; similarly, he would not leave her to learn it alone. For some reason, she had faith in that.

What had happened downstairs was perhaps the most fiercely passionate encounter of her existence. Why Spike wanted her, she did not know. Only that he provided solace in a world gone mad with reality. He was the reason she was here. The reason she hadn’t faced real death. The reason she wasn’t dust.

The silence was driving her insane.

As if answering a prayer, a loud slam sliced through the cold serenity that surrounded her. She could’ve sworn her heart jumped, but she knew better. And then his scent flooded the air. The warmth he offered without even knowing it. She felt her pain ease simply with his presence, and had to fight the urge to throw herself in his arms all over again. Lose herself in sweet succor before she had her thoughts untangled. Before she had her world sorted.

She felt so lost. She didn’t want to drag Spike into it any more than he was and risk them both for her uncertainty. For the broken pieces she was trying to fit together. The shattered remains of an existence that no longer made sense.

But god, it would be so easy.

Spike didn’t look at her, though she knew he was acutely aware of her presence. She watched him without looking at him. Felt him move around the crypt. He popped a bottle of something and settled next to the refrigerator. And watched her.

The strength he gave her simply by being there was overwhelming. Her aching eyes filled with tears all over again.

The last thing she wanted to do was run from him. Screw the rest.

Buffy expelled a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she waited for the pain to pass. Then she rose to her feet, wrapping her arms around her middle.

Their eyes met. The torrent of confusion behind his tore her apart.

Then he released a sigh and glanced down. “’F you’re plannin’ on stayin’,” he said, “we should get you some clothes.”

“I…I’ll stay if you want me to stay.”

“What I want…” He met her eyes slowly, an emotion burning there that sent shivers through her body. There was a heavy silence, his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud of possibility. Then he looked away, sighed again, and turned back to the refrigerator. “I don’t have a microwave.”

“What? You want a microwave?”

A humorless chuckle shuddered through his body. “Well, I wouldn’t object,” he said. “No, sweetness, I mean it’s gonna be cold.”

“What’s going to be cold?”

He paused meaningfully. “Buffy, you have to eat.”

The word stilled the air, and she flashed back to the dead man.

“I don’t think—”

“No. You need to eat.” His eyes were stern. “I’m not gonna see you wither away. Not while you’re here, you hear me? You want that sort’ve bollocks, you can go some place else. ‘S what you are now. You need blood to survive.”

Buffy licked her lips. The severity in his tone was defensive, and she deserved it.

“Okay.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to further his argument, then balked in surprise when he realized she had agreed with him. “Oh. Good, then.”

She smiled weakly. “Seems I took away all your fun.”

That earned a grin. “There are worse things.” A heavy pause. “’S gonna be cold.”

“Does that make a big difference?” She glanced down, ashamed of her ignorance. “I remember…last night, I felt I had to drink the…the dead man. I had to drink him before it went cold.”

But she hadn’t. She hadn’t just consumed the blood; she had torn him to bits. She had dug into his stomach and licked up whatever trickled down her hand. She had seen lions show zebras more courtesy than she’d had for the dead man last night.

It wasn’t her hand that had killed him. She wasn’t responsible for that.

She was the one that had destroyed him.

“’S a matter of preference, I s’pose,” Spike retorted with an airy shrug. “Like pizza. As I understand it, some people like it better cold, others warm. Doesn’ rightly matter. It has the same bloody effect.”

“Pun intended?”

He offered a half-hearted smile and crossed the room. “Eat up,” he said, handing her a glass full of blood. “We’ll find out ‘f you like it warm or cold.”

“Don’t you need to eat?”

His eyes met hers tellingly. “I’ll survive.”

Before she could respond, he turned, flicked on the television, and settled on the sofa beside her.

At the other end of the sofa. Intentionally putting that space between them. A matter of inches that somehow composed a couple hollow feet. A matter of inches that seemed like miles.

Something snapped inside her at that, and nothing else mattered.

Spike was her sanctuary. She was confused, she was broken, but he was the only thing keeping her sanity intact. He was the only thing that wasn’t broken. Wasn’t confused. The only thing she was sure of, and that was what made him so dangerous to her. So terrifying.

The only thing in the world that was terrifying in a sense that didn’t scare her witless. That didn’t inspire fear as much as hope.

Hope was oftentimes more terrifying than fear.

Buffy drew in a deep breath and glanced to Spike. His eyes were focused on the screen, though his body was tense and terribly aware of hers.

She glanced to the glass in her hand, braced herself, and downed its entirety in one long drink. Its taste wasn’t as rich as the night before, and did little more than flare her hunger for something more.

But it was blood. It was what she needed.

Spike still hadn’t looked at her, though the corners of his mouth were tugging in an almost reluctant grin.

Buffy heaved another sigh, winced, and set the empty glass on the floor behind the sofa. Then she glanced back to the man at her left and edged down the cushion until she was under his arm. Until her head was against his shoulder, and her body curled into his.

Spike shuddered and closed his arm around her, something heavy rolling through his system. And just like that, the tension was gone. His eyes closed in relief and he dropped a heartfelt kiss across her brow. “There now,” he murmured, snuggling her into him. “Isn’t this better?”

“Oh yes.”

He smiled. “Did the cold cup strike your fancy?”

“No.”

“I much don’ care for it either. We’ll have to get a microwave, eh?” His eyes traveled back to the television, though he was no longer watching it, if he ever had been. “I’ve been tryin’ to think of a way to lift Rupert’s from his flat for bloody ages. Old sod never uses it.”

Buffy laughed shortly. “We can get some money from my room,” she said. “I’m not…I don’t have an invitation, but you could get in there…get some stuff for me.” She paused. “Tell my…my mother…”

Spike was quiet for a minute. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“She must be so worried.”

“Yeh. I’d imagine.” He turned to look at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “Your mum’s gonna love you no matter what. Mums are like that. Won’ bloody matter to her ‘f you’ve been turned or…or what happens. If you wanna go home—”

“I don’t.”

He smiled slightly, but shook his head. “You can’t really wanna stay here, luv,” he said. “You don’—”

“I want to stay here, Spike. I can’t be around people.”

A brief silence. The television blared loudly in the absence of his voice.

“’S that the only reason you wanna stay?” he asked softly, his voice trembling. “Because you can’t be around people?”

Buffy glanced up. The uncertainty in his tone tore her down all over again.

“No, Spike,” she replied. “It’s not the only reason. It’s not even…I came to you because I…I needed someone who…I just needed someone who would…”

He looked at her and smiled. “’S fine, baby,” he told her, kissing her forehead again. “You don’ have to say anythin’.”

“I feel like I should. I’m so sorry for what happened downstairs. I—”

He winced at that, and she felt false heat rise to her cheeks. “No, not that,” she clarified, her voice barely above a whisper. “That was…I…”

There was a beat, and he was smiling again. “Yeh,” he murmured. “It really was.”

“I’m just…I’m so confused.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to—”

Spike squeezed her tighter. “I know, sweetheart. It was…you’re glorious.”

She ducked her head in embarrassment.

“But I jus’…I don’ expect anythin’ from you, Slayer. You should know that. This mornin’ was wonderful, but ‘f…I don’ want you to do that for me because you feel you have to, right?”

“I wouldn’t. It wasn’t. I wanted…” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “Something has changed with me. More than the vampire thing. More than…I’m not the girl I was. I’ve changed. I’m lost, and I’m terrified, and I hurt…I’m broken, but you’ve kept me from shattering.”

He released a deep breath. “I don’ know how.”

“I don’t, either. Except that you’ve…you haven’t treated me like I’m broken. You’ve treated me like Buffy, only with this thing. This slightly undead thing.”

“You don’ know that the Scoobies wouldn’t.”

She gave him a look.

“Okay, so you do. An’ Soldier Boy—”

“Riley would kill me.”

Something dark stormed his eyes, and his arms tightened around her. “I won’t let him touch you,” he growled. “Don’ care how bloody much it’d hurt. He won’t come near you.”

“Spike—”

“’m serious.”

“I know you are. I just don’t know why. I have no idea why you’ve…why you’re doing this at all. Why you let me into your home and…you’ve been so…since last night, you’ve—”

“Mhmm.” He caressed her temple gently, fingers woven through her hair. “I know.”

Buffy licked her lips. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Told you enough last night. You wouldn’t like me anymore ‘f you knew the full of it.”

Another sigh trembled through her body. That wasn’t all he had said. He had held her close and whispered that she already knew why. She shivered and slid further down his body until her head was resting against his stomach, her arms wrapped around his waist.

“This feels nice,” she said, nuzzling his belly.

“Yeh,” he agreed breathlessly.

Her hand brushed against his crotch and he drew in a sharp breath. Buffy bit her lip and pulled away as though burnt.

“Sorry.”

Spike glanced down at her heatedly. “Never be sorry for that,” he berated, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to guide her touch back to the bulge that seemed a persistent condition when he was around her. “Never.”

Buffy considered him, studying her own hand for a minute before she shifted with intention, and cupped his erection fully. He bit out a small moan and his arm came around her.

“Christ,” he gasped, arching into her touch. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

He glanced down at her skeptically.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this from you,” she murmured. “I’ve treated you like…well…”

“A vampire?” he suggested. “You’re the Slayer. That’s how you treat vamps when you’re the Slayer.”

“I’m not the Slayer anymore.”

Spike smiled wanly. “Baby, he can’t take that away from you.”

Buffy stiffened against him but didn’t pull away. “When…will the hurt go away?” she asked a few minutes later. “You make it better, but it’s always there. I feel him still. The place where he should be, and it hurts so much. It won’t…I feel so…”

A sigh tumbled through his lips. “Sweetheart…it doesn’ go away.”

“What?”

“Not entirely. You get used to it, I s’pose. Peaches did, after he offed Darla. He mourned, but he din’t make a big show of it till he went soulless. Then, when he wasn’ shaggin’ Dru or plottin’ world domination, it was all he could bloody talk about.” He made a small sound of discontent. “Maybe you should’ve gone to him after all. You two have that much in common, plus the whole—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I didn’t want Angel. I don’t.”

There was a small beat. “You don’t. But you came here.” He paused again, moaning when she removed her hand from its intimate position over his cock, but he couldn’t blame her for her discomfort. “Buffy…I…you can’t tell me that an’ expect me to not…do you…” His hands halted their soothing caresses across her body as she stiffened, and they shared an uncomfortable moment.

“I don’t know anything right now,” Buffy said a minute later. “But this feels right.”

“What feels right?”

She tightened her arms around his middle. “This. And that’s all I understand right now. Everything else is so…messed up.”

Spike smiled. “That’s somethin’, then.” He broke off again. “There’s one thing that’s stronger than a sire’s hold on childer.”

“What?”

He hesitated a beat. “A claim.”

“A what?”

“Vampires…when they…they claim each other. Best way to describe it is a marriage or what all. A blood trade, an’ it’s forever. It forms a bloody unbreakable bond.” He exhaled deeply. “Mated vampires are rare today.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s…it’s forever. Once a claim is complete, it’s forever. An’ it’s as powerful as anythin’ else.”

“Stronger than a sire bond?”

“Oh yeah. Childer can’t choose their sires, luv, but every vamp can choose their mate. Mates are designed to feel each other. Once you’re claimed…once you’ve accepted the claim an’ claimed back, there is nothin’ stronger than that.”

“Are…did you claim Dru?”

He was quiet a minute. “I tried once.”

“Tried?”

“She didn’t accept me.” Spike drew her hair away from her face. “Bloody blessing in disguise, really.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Well, I won’t lie; it wasn’ any fun at the time.”

He shook his head, but didn’t say anymore on the matter. Either because he wasn’t ready to speak the words, or she wasn’t ready to hear them.

She just didn’t know anymore.

“I’m glad,” she said a minute later. “I know it’s…but I’m glad. I’m so glad you’re here, Spike.”

“Me, too.”

They said nothing more on sires or claims. Rather, simply sat there in the non-threatening silence of his crypt, curled in each other’s arms, pretending to watch the television. In the silence that he had made safe again. The blessing of quiet that he had given back to her, simply with his understanding.

Despite everything, despite the chaos of her existence, she had never known simple harmony like this. Bliss that came in such a small touch. Something given to her for nothing at all.

Her body was warring with change and fighting off pain, but her mind was calm.

There was simply nothing like this.

Nothing like feeling loved.

And she did. Simply lying in his arms, she felt loved. More so than she had in her entire existence. Coiled in his sanctuary. In this haven he had given her.

She felt loved.

Death had given her what she could never reach in life, even if the words were only imagined. If the feeling was there out of wishful thinking and nothing else. He had given it to her.

Spike didn’t say a word when he felt her tears leak through the cotton of his shirt. He simply tugged her closer, whispered something into her hair, and kissed the top of her head.

He did not try to stop her tears, or tell her there was no need. They were both too smart for that.

Instead, he held her in his arms, and let her have her cry.

Let her mourn what had passed and fear what the future held.

He held her as she wept, and she knew no greater peace.

 

 

The last thing he wanted to do was leave her, but Buffy was adamant in her refusal to be anywhere near people. It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand; unlike the great souled wanker in Los Angeles, his Slayer didn’t have the luxury of a century or two of experience being around people. Hearing heartbeats from across the room. Craving the rush of blood that pumped through waiting veins. Schooling herself without a conscience; accepting falls and moving on after slipups. There weren’t such things as second tries with her. If she killed, she would be forever destroyed. And Spike couldn’t tolerate the thought.

“I won’t be long,” he said, finishing off a cigarette. “I need to pick up some blood, an’ I’ll get your mum to pack you some stuff.”

Buffy shook her head. “Don’t…just…just get in and out. Don’t let her…I don’t want her to know yet. I know I said it earlier, but I don’t want her to know. I changed my mind. I…don’t say anything to her.”

Spike cocked his head and considered her, stepping forward. “Your mates’ll come after me soon enough, pet,” he said. “As dense as the lot of them are, they’ll find Drac’s castle an’ likely be able to piece two an’ two together. Then they’ll come for me. ‘Specially ‘f I’m not out an’ about. ‘F I disappear to be with you, they’ll come here an’ you might find yourself around people a bloody lot sooner than you want.”

She went silent at that, her eyes fixed on something he could not see.

“I know you don’ wanna think about it,” he continued softly. “But you know your pals. You really think they’ll jus’ stop lookin’ for you if you never turn up?”

Buffy shook her head numbly. “They won’t…they’ll try to take me back. If they come here…if they know I’m with you, they’ll try to take me back. To them. They don’t trust you.”

“Neither did you a few days ago.”

“That’s changed.” A beat. “Everything has changed.”

“You trust me now?”

It was a foolish question with an obvious answer. If she didn’t trust him, there was no way she would be with him now. No way would she have ever let him touch her. She came to him because she felt he was the only one she could trust, and he wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize her sanctuary. If she felt safe here, he would let her stay as long as she wanted. If she felt threatened, he would take her somewhere, and the Scoobies would never find them unless they wanted to be found.

“Yes,” Buffy said a minute later, drawing him back to her. Her eyes were on him now, and he was startled at how deeply such a small word could affect him. Especially given that it was the response to a question he already had the answer to. “I trust you, Spike. You’re the only one I trust.”

He exhaled a deep breath and just stared at her, taken thoroughly aback.

The only one she trusted. The only one.

How could it be that they had hated each other so richly only days before? That once it had been his life’s mission to destroy the glorious creature before him? He lived and died with her now. Her pains were his. When she wept, he wanted to scream his outrage at the bastard that had done this to her. Wanted to find a way to resurrect him just so he could kill him all over again. Slowly. Properly. Torture him so richly that Angelus’s nasty streak would become a children’s story. He wanted to write a new book on torment.

But when he looked at Buffy, everything left him but his desire to relieve her of her personal hell. Replace her pain with pleasure. Fill her sadness with joy. Any pretense that he wasn’t in love with her had fled him the instant he saw her standing in his crypt. Not even a day had passed, and he knew he was irrevocably lost. Lost more than he ever had been when it came to love. Lost in ways that made his relationship with Drusilla look and feel like children’s puppy love—so far placed from the real thing, he couldn’t begin to fathom how he had ever mistaken one for the other.

She broke from his gaze when his intensity became too much. When he couldn’t pull his own eyes away. “What will you say?” she asked softly. “If you talk to my mother, what will you say?”

“I won’ talk to her if you don’ want me to.”

“But if you did—”

“I’d let her know I was takin’ care of you. An’ that she shouldn’t worry. You’re still you.” Spike inhaled again and stepped forward until she was just a breath away. He studied her for a minute and raised a tentative hand to palm her cheek reverently. “No matter what happens to your body, sweetling,” he said heatedly, thumb caressing comforting circles into her skin, “you’re still you where it counts. Here…” He gently drummed his fingers against her temple, then slid his touch southward until it rested above her nonbeating heart. “An’ here.”

Buffy’s eyes were large with awe and some emotion he was too hesitant to name. She leaned forward until her brow was touching his, her mouth provocatively near his own. He wanted so desperately to say sod all to the rest and kiss her until she remembered she didn’t need to breathe. Take her in his arms and sample the richness of her mouth. Taste the sweetness of her skin. Memorize every inch of her with his tongue. Lose himself in her body. Bring her over the edge again and again, until he was drowning in her pleasure.

Bugger, he was hard just thinking about it. This wouldn’t do.

“Spike…” she murmured.

“Mmm?”

She pulled back just slightly at that, but didn’t respond. There was something else in her gaze. Knowledge that hadn’t been there a minute ago. She knew how much he wanted her without having to be told; she just didn’t know how desperately he loved her, and that was where she was confused.

He couldn’t tell her yet. He didn’t know if he ever could. If it would ever be something he could whisper in her ear. If the solace of her body would ever be his sanctuary. If there was a middleground to reach in the midst of all this pain. She felt his erection against her stomach, and consequentially, he bathed in the warm scent of her arousal. But he would not take advantage of her. He would never do to her what Dracula had done. Never make a decision for her that wasn’t his to make.

Resolve like that was becoming entirely too difficult to hold onto. He feared a snap of willpower with each second that ticked by. He couldn’t help her if he let her forget. He wouldn’t let her destroy herself, but he similarly couldn’t afford to allow her to become entirely dependent on him.

That sort of love had destroyed him before. That sort of dependency. Dru had only been with him because he’d loved her to the point of obsession; to the point that his care for her overshadowed all else. She’d never loved him in return. Never even said the words. He had simply mistaken affection and gratitude for love, and it had cost him everything.

He was so terrified of that. Of loving so deeply that it no longer mattered if he received the feeling in return. In becoming a sanctuary, and only a sanctuary. He would help her until she no longer needed help. And then he would pray for the strength to let her go.

If it happened, it would be because she loved him, too. Not because she needed to forget.

He feared it, though. Feared if she asked, he would tumble over himself and do anything just to touch her.

“I should go,” Spike said, releasing her with some difficulty. “Sooner I’m gone, sooner I can come back, yeh?”

“It’s daylight still.”

“’S never stopped me before. I don’ want you here by yourself after dark, sweetling.” He shook his head. “Don’ get huffy; I know you’re the Slayer an’ all…an’ you have all kinds of other strength goin’ for you now, but—”

“No. No, I understand. I don’t want to be here alone after dark, either.” She wrapped her arms around herself subconsciously. “I don’t want to be here alone.”

“You could come with me,” he offered softly. “I won’ let them take you.”

“I know. I just…I can’t…” Buffy shook her head. “I can’t, Spike. I know I should. I really know I should. I hate myself for being so—”

Spike stepped forward again. “No. You’re not. Whatever you think you are, you’re not. Bleeding hell, Slayer, do you have any idea how sodding remarkable it is that you din’t lose it right off? There’s a reason vamps lose their souls, luv, an’ it’s not jus’ because the demon likes to horde space. You’re a fighter. You’re the strongest person I know, an’ I’m not talkin’ about brawn. Any one who asks you to do anythin’ you’re not ready to when you’ve only been away from the wanker that did this to you for a day jus’ doesn’…they don’ understand. I will never ask anythin’ of you that I don’ think you’re ready for.”

“What if I don’t?” she asked. “What if I don’t think I’m ready for…whatever, and you do?”

He smiled gently. “Then I’ll help you until you are,” he replied, unable to resist the sinful temptation of her lips. It was a soft kiss; too short to be passionate, too passionate to be chaste. A sweep of her mouth, the slightest hint of her tongue; her hands curled around his arms, but released him the minute he stepped away.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised, turning away from her before leaving was no longer an option.

“Please,” Buffy agreed, her voice hoarse. “I don’t want to be alone for long.”

“You won’t be.”

Spike forced his eyes to stay ahead of him as he made his way back to the lower level of the crypt; toward the sewers and the spider web of underground tunnels that spiraled under Sunnydale. He knew he could get to Buffy’s house in his sleep if he needed; and if she didn’t want him to talk with her mother, he wouldn’t—not unless it became necessary.

He didn’t think it would be.

A sigh rolled off his shoulders as his feet sloshed into the expectant shallow river that flowed against the cold concrete of the underground. He loathed leaving her, though he knew he wouldn’t be gone long. Joyce was avoidable, and she didn’t need to know anything her daughter wasn’t ready to share.

But she wasn’t his only stop. The Desoto was parked in an underground garage not too far from the crypt, though he felt it safer to go to the Summers residence first, rather than burst in through the front door. From there, he could retreat to his car, and drive to his final stop. The place where stealth wasn’t needed.

Spike intended to make sure that no one came after Buffy. No one.

Not until she was ready—however long it took.

There wasn’t a word strong enough to apply to the look on Giles’s face when he saw who his visitor was. Granted, it wasn’t as though Spike had taken the time to knock; rather, he’d come in as he always did: smoking, cursing, and hurrying to beat the sun under the questionable protection of a blanket. He figured the indignation he received was less for his haphazard entrance and more for the fact that nearly a day had passed since the Watcher came to the vampire for help, and he had still produced no Slayer.

“It’s about bloody time,” Giles all but growled. “What the hell have you been up to? Do you have any idea—”

“Sod off, Rupert.” Spike rolled his eyes, ignoring the look of furthered resentment his flippancy earned him. “’m here for one reason. You’re gonna shut your gob an’ listen well, you get me?”

“Why, you righteous little—”

“I have the Slayer.”

A combination of horror, outrage, and shock flooded the Watcher’s gaze—his face slack with numb astonishment. “She’s…she… my God, where is she? What have you done with her!”

Spike’s eyes darkened. “I’ve done nothin’ to her, you pompous, self-righteous sod. She came to me after she escaped. She had nowhere else.”

“What do you mean—”

“He turned her.” That shut the old man up. “Dracula…he turned her. He kept her there until last night…tryin’ some rot about makin’ her his queen. I found the castle right as the wanker was makin’ her feed.”

Giles was white. His eyes had gone blank—the rest of him contorted with anguish. He released a trembling breath and shook his head, stepping back until his legs met the cushion of the nearest chair. His body collapsed, trembling with something the vampire didn’t want to consider right now. Didn’t want to feel for the old sod, especially when his priorities were with the Slayer.

But God, the Watcher’s eyes had filled with tears. Beyond hurt. Beyond outrage. He’d just been told his daughter was dead. His Slayer made into the thing she was meant to kill. There was no emotion for that. It was a train wreck of sensory. Of things no man ever wanted to feel. Things no Watcher should ever go through.

“Dear lord.”

Spike nodded. “She sensed me there. The whole bloody house did. She says it’s the way she had the strength to escape. She killed everythin’ there, then came to me.” His eyes hardened. “An’ she’s not goin’ anywhere unless she wants to. You understand?”

“What? I don’t—”

“Buffy. She’s stayin’ with me.”

That was evidently all the Watcher needed to come out of his stupor. To push mourning aside and listen to what the vampire was saying rather than focus on his own loss. Outrage once again replaced grief, and he jumped to his feet in a fury. “Like hell she is!” he thundered. “You despicable little wanker—if you think I’m going to let you near her while she—”

“’S what she wants, Rupert,” Spike replied, doing his best to remain calm. “She came to me ‘cause she can’t be around people right now.”

“Why the hell not?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you bloody think?” he retorted. “She’s a vampire. Understand? She’s my kind now.”

“She will never be your—”

“Moreover, she has a soul. Sired Slayers don’ last, Rupert. You know it as well as I do. An’ they don’ last because they can’t bloody well cope with what they’ve become. There’s a reason vamps don’ come with consciences.” He released a steady breath, attempting to maintain his growing infuriation. “We need blood to survive. We’re drawn to blood. The hunger’s a bitch. It drives you to the edge of insanity an’ back again. She couldn’t resist a dead bloke after Dracula shoved him under her nose. How do you think she’d feel ‘f you made her be around people before she knows how to control the hunger? What happens if her demon bests her an’ she tries to kill one of you? What happens if she succeeds?”

“Buffy’s stronger than that.”

“Yeh, but not without bein’ taught how.”

“She doesn’t need you. The last thing she needs is a soulless, remorseless killer teaching her how to be a vampire. If what you’re saying is true, Angel is—”

His vision nearly went black with fury. “She doesn’t want Angel.”

“You bloody fool, do you really think I’ll believe—”

Spike held up a hand, commanding his more basic instincts inward. He was seconds from bursting into game face. Seconds from lunging for the old man’s throat. Seconds from finding a piece of wood plunged through his chest. “She doesn’t want Angel,” he growled lowly. “An’ if you try to come after her, I’ll know it. I’ll sense it well before you even get to the cemetery. If you try to go against her wishes, I’ll take her away. We’ll be long gone by the time you get to the crypt. You won’ find us, an’ I’ll take care of her until she’s ready to come back on her terms, not yours.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The vampire’s brows perked. “’Kay. You can believe that, ‘f you like. Go ahead an’ try it. It’ll be the last you see of either of us for a long, long time.”

There was a pause. “Even if she’s ready to come back?”

“Something tells me that she won’ wanna be around blokes that don’ honor her wishes. Who knows? You might be in the ground before she feels up to lookin’ at you again.” Spike held his eyes for a long minute. Held them until he knew the Watcher understood he was serious. Then, slowly, he reached for the discarded blanket and moved back toward the door.

“She loves you,” he said, opening the door. “She loves all of you. ‘S why she came to me. She knows she won’ hurt me. She’s in no danger of losin’ control. If she hurt one of you, it’d kill her. I’ll take care of her Rupert.”

Giles didn’t say anything.

“Right, well, I’ll be in touch.”

It wasn’t until he turned to retreat into the sunlight that the Watcher broke his silence.

“Do take care of her, Spike.”

“Don’ worry.”

“I do.” He paused. “If you hurt her in any way, I will personally introduce you to a new definition of pain and suffering.”

The words were so overused in petty threats that Spike had to bite down the instinctual smile that tickled his lips. He knew the man was serious. He knew Giles would kill him over and over before he had his fill of justice if anything went wrong.

Giles didn’t know, though. Didn’t know that if anything went wrong, if he hurt Buffy, retaliation would be useless. Whatever happened to the Slayer happened to him, now. If he hurt her, he would stake himself. Walk into sunlight. Do anything to bring himself to justice. Spike simply didn’t hurt the ones he loved. And he loved Buffy more than any woman, any person, that time had given him.

Thus, he merely nodded his understanding, and let the Watcher have his play.

“Understood.”

Then he was gone. Back to the Desoto, where her clothing was stashed.

Back to the crypt, where his Slayer waited.

Back to his Buffy. His glorious, wounded girl, who trusted him.

Something was wrong.

He knew it the minute he stepped into the crypt. The minute his nose hit the air, and drew in the familiar, repugnant scent of burnt flesh. Something within him dropped, constricting his heart with the worst rush of fear he had ever known. Her clothes plunged to the ground and he bounded for the ladder that led upstairs.

Oh god. Oh god oh god.

If something had happened to her while he was gone…while he wasn’t here to stop it…

Oh God, what if Riley had been back? What if he had seen Buffy here and…

No.

Riley’s scent was vague. Distant. That hovering, offensive presence from the night before. It was too faint to be recent.

“Buffy!” He exploded into the upper level, panting heavily. The scent was stronger here. “Buffy! God, where…”

Then he saw her. And his heart broke.

“Oh God.”

She was sitting beside the front door, rocking back and forth, cradling her left hand. Her face was a mess of tears, her body wracked with sobs, and she cried out at every breath instinct told her she needed. If she heard him, it had not registered. She was somewhere else. She wasn’t with him.

“Buffy…” Spike blinked back tears as he tentatively approached. The last thing she needed was to see him cry for her. Not when he was supposed to be the strong one.

I never should’ve left her.

This is my fault.

Then she began to speak. Her voice cracked with torment, hoarse from the grief she couldn’t keep from spilling. He lost himself all over again at that. The despair, the want of what she couldn’t reach…it was nearly too much. He feared breaking for her. Every pained gasp she took reminded him what dying felt like.

“I…I wanted…I wanted to…” She shook her head. “I wanted you. I couldn’t…I needed to…I didn’t want to…and I tried to go…I went outside, but…but I forgot. I’ve never had to…and I forgot. And the sun was so bright. I couldn’t see. My hand hurt, and I couldn’t see. I tried to get back inside, and…”

That was it. Spike turned away, wiping erratically at his eyes as guilt consumed him.

“I should’ve known,” she continued, small and lost. “I should’ve remembered. I just…I…I just didn’t.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. Fuck the rest; he needed to feel her in his arms.

She reached for him as he stormed over. A little girl recognizing the safety of the one who loved her. He lifted her into his embrace, careful of her wounded hand, and carried her back to the sofa they had spent the morning on, curled in each other’s arms.

“’m so sorry,” he gasped. “’m so bloody sorry. If I hadn’t left—”

Buffy shook her head. “No. It was…I was stupid. I didn’t think. I’ve never had to…it was all me.”

“’F I hadn’t left…God, why the bloody hell did I…fuck, you could’ve jus’ worn my stuff. A man would die to see you dolled up in his clothin’—why the hell did I go off—”

She was still shaking his head. “No.”

“Buffy—”

“No.” The next thing he knew, her arms were around him, and her lips were touching his. And he melted. He drowned into her mouth, his tongue plundering her cavern, drawing from her desperate, tear-flavored kisses that drove him rightly out of his mind. She was everywhere. Her lips on him, her scent pooled around him. She suckled his tongue urgently, whimpering into him as his own sorrow poured into her. His own desperation. His own need.

“Buffy,” he gasped, mouth taking chart down her neck. “Oh God.”

She clung to him needily, burying her face in the crook of his throat. “I would be nowhere,” she choked. “If you weren’t here, I’d be nowhere.”

He hated the sound of her so thoroughly defeated.

“No,” he objected, kissing her cheek ardently. “You’re not jus’ any Slayer, Buffy. You’re the bloody best. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. The best I’ve ever fought. The best in the sodding line. You wouldn’t be nowhere.” His arms came around her and he inhaled the essence that was her. The heavenly aroma of Slayer musk, spiced with the equally excruciating flavor of her sorrow. “You wouldn’t be nowhere, baby. I know you. You’re the best. The bloody best. You wouldn’t be nowhere.”

She shuddered but didn’t respond, just hugged him tighter.

He wanted to tell her then. Wanted so badly to tell her how much he loved her. That he would never leave her. That if she wanted, she would never be alone.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t yet. He didn’t want to frighten her.

Didn’t want to risk hurting her any more than she was.

Didn’t want to risk his heart, even if it was already lost.

 

Chapter Ten

Sure To Fall