Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language and sexual situations)
Timeline: Post Chosen.
Summary: In the months following the destruction of Sunnydale, Buffy cuts herself off from her friends and resumes life the only way she knows how: fighting evil. It’s only a matter of time before her past catches up with her, and brings about the man she lost and loved too late…only he doesn’t recognize her face.
Distribution: Mandi, Yani, Stacy, and Luba, it’s yours. Anyone else who wants it, just let me know where it’s going.

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

Author's Note: This is my entry for the spuffy_ficathon, for icemink. Sweetie, I only hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. It’s in five parts, which I will post throughout the week.

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

The moment that Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell tore through the slumberous silence in announcement of another premature waking, Buffy knew it was going to be one of those days. It really wasn’t a difficult call to make; she had been having one of those days for the past three weeks with no deviation from course. Every minute of every hour ran in syncopated monotony with the last. Get up. Shower. Dry hair. Dress. Attempt to eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Leave house. Go to work. Leave work. Patrol. Attempt to eat supper. Go to sleep. Repeat as necessary.

It didn’t take much to make her pattern fall under the heading of one of those days anymore. Before leaving home, she had categorized periods of inactivity alongside notions of careful negligence. Back when the familiar cemeteries of Sunnydale mapped her nightly routine and the interference of rogue vampires stood as a welcomed distraction. Back in the days prior to her hasty escape to a city that had grown too large for her overnight. Back before her home had collapsed in on itself.

Thus, her weary acknowledgement that it was going to be one of those days was nothing more than blatant observation. Not a hunch. Not a notion. Not a forethought. It was merely another day to get through. Another cluster of hours to survive without allowing her mind to wander to the life she had willingly left behind. The people that had been her family for years. The people she hadn’t once thought of calling. The people she had not told goodbye.

All except two.

Dawn was in school. That was all she cared about. She had Dawn in school. A normal school. A non-hellmouthy school. She was living in Dayton with Xander, who agreed to take care of her for a few months while big sis got her head sorted. Oddly enough, Xander was the one she could trust. The one that knew what she was going through. In the days following the collapse of their hellmouth, she had rediscovered a connection with her friend that had honestly gone cold since before the big leap off Glory’s tower.

They had something in common now. They had both loved and lost twice in two years. Xander was mourning a demon; she was mourning a vampire.

Her hand still tingled from where they had been joined by fire. She never wanted it to stop. Never wanted that final connection she had shared with Spike to burn out. To cease to be, just as he had.

It seemed fitting, though, that now that she had her freedom—freedom that Spike had given her—the place that she called her home was the only other known active hellmouth in the country. She hadn’t grown used to the climate change yet; was still surprised when the night air grew chilly. She hadn’t memorized each step of the few cemeteries scattered throughout the city. She patrolled when she could. It was all she knew; all she had truly known.

So many years trying to be a girl, and now all she wanted to be was the Slayer.

And so she lived in Cleveland in a never-ending routine of monotony. Right now, work. Food service, as it was the only true experience she had. She awoke to Billy Idol every morning because the sound of a badass-Brit singing was the only thing that could get her out of bed most days. Billy Idol was the only singer that had enough spunk to convince her to throw back the sheets. Had enough Spike. The choice of song similarly never changed. Always Rebel Yell with some girl wanting more, more, more, followed by examples of dancing with yourself and descriptions of hot summer nights. She allowed the CD to play its duration, never breaking stride in routine. Some mornings she left it on to accompany the otherwise still air while she was at work. Some mornings she felt the air didn’t deserve it. Either way, the same silence greeted her when she returned at night, and she knew nothing else until morning arrived again.

One of those days. She neither loved nor hated those days. It was simply habit. Another span of twenty-four hours that she kept herself occupied so her mind couldn’t convince her to go back. Back to a land where those days did not exist. Back home.

But she wasn’t home. There was no home anymore. Instead, there was the illusion of what she knew, and no place else to turn when things became desperate. She was in Cleveland. And she planned to stay indefinitely, even if it meant subjecting herself to a mainstream of tedium.

Working at the diner was comparable to going to a French film where all the subtitles are in German. Everything was a learning experience based on visual perception, located in a different stretch of the universe. The thrill of customer-service. Buffy had only been working for two weeks, but she knew enough to recognize the regulars. Some even knew her by name, and all had their various squicks and ticks. The middle-aged came in and ordered coffee for fear of the grease factor with everything else on the menu. Children raced across the street with dollar bills that needed to be turned into quarters for the machines out front. Old men winked at her and made the occasional vulgar proposition. One guy, after eying her nametag, had even flashed a toothy grin and asked if she wanted a part in a low-budget porn movie.

Buffy had complained to her boss, Kevin, about that. He’d merely snickered, given the man a thumbs up, and returned to his office.

It was intolerable, but she didn’t think she could do anything else now. Now was a time for self-reflection. For trying to make it on her own. For clearing her head and allowing the scars marring her past time to heal. It was just a matter of time. Days. One after another. Everything was taken with a grain of salt and a tight smile. It was odd biting her tongue when every innate instinct told her to snap a witty rejoinder to those who drained her not-so-infallible patience. Twenty-three years had schooled her to speak whenever she felt like it, and it was difficult teaching anyone new tricks.

That was the strategy, however. Tolerance. The secret to surviving one of those days. And that was what today was. What yesterday was. What tomorrow would be. One of those days.

Funny. Both times she lost a vampire she’d loved, she ended up in a strange town behind the counter of some low-class diner. She remembered the series of nightmares she’d had after sending Angel to Hell. Remembered waking with pain. Remembered the flashes of him she thought she’d seen around Los Angeles. Remembered everything.

Remembered and envied. At least then, there had been some emotion. Spike’s death had left her hollow. Cold. An emptiness worse than nothing. As though he had taken her heart with him when he died. She felt barren and alone. She knew not to look for him, and her nights remained dreamless. The Powers didn’t even grant her the solace of his face while she slept.

So she worked. She hunted. She staked the few vampires that were fleeing to Cleveland with the absence of Sunnydale, leaving her with the conclusion that the reputable hellmouth in Ohio wasn’t nearly as active as the Council had led her to believe over the past few years.

And as the day progressed—the day that was a carbon copy of so many before it—she became more certain of that very conviction.

The day went by normally. One guy intentionally spilled his drink as she was passing, hoping to get her clothing wet as well as a view of her backside as she bent over to clean up the mess. Two kids got into a fist fight outside of the restaurant, and Cindy, one of Buffy’s coworkers, took the smaller child into the back to clean up his cuts. Kevin made three passes at her, all vulgar and grounds for a sexual harassment complaint. She let them go. There simply wasn’t a will to care about anymore. If Kevin wanted to be nasty, she’d let him.

As long as his passes came in the form of words and not touches. Then she feared her secret identity would be blown. No one touched her these days. She simply didn’t allow it.

Cindy offered to drive her home, as she did every night. Buffy smiled her thanks but declined. For whatever reason, the other girl couldn’t get it into her head that the oogly booglies that made most single white females scream for cover simply didn’t bother her.

No one offered rides in Sunnydale. Everyone cut through the cemetery. People who died with massive neck wounds in suspected triple-homicides were not front page news. She came from the land where finding teenagers dead and stuffed in lockers was an everyday occurrence. Anywhere else, it would merit national news. Not in Sunnydale.

Sunnydale was gone, though. And now she lived in Cleveland—the disappointingly tame all-American hellmouth.

Tonight there was patrol. Every night, there was patrol. She would return to her empty apartment, watch the Daily Show for something to laugh at, then collapse and wait for the cycle to restart.

She very much hoped something bumpy showed itself tonight. The adrenalin rush would be a welcome change.

“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing out here at this time of night?”

Buffy whirled around, her arm raised, stake ready. Then she blinked when her eyes clashed with the surprised terror of a middle-aged groundskeeper. A shrill sound tore through his throat and his hands flew up in semblance of neutrality. “Didn’t mean anything by it, Miss!” he swore. “Just wanted—”

She rolled her eyes and lowered her stake. “Some words of wisdom…” She flashed a glance to his name badge. “Larry. Approaching someone after dark in a graveyard? Not the best judgment call.”

“The grounds here are closed for the night.”

“Yeah. I’m just making sure nothing snuck in.”

Without waiting for a reply, she whirled around and continued on her way.

Yet another thing that would never happen in Sunnydale. Closed cemeteries?

Buffy didn’t make it very far. A welcomingly familiar growl split through the night air. It seemed she would be getting some action tonight, after all. She grinned tightly to herself and picked up her pace, feet following her senses. Tinglies abound; a tight, coveted sensation filled her insides.

“All right,” she said loudly, “I know you’re there. Come out; come out, wherever you are. Fresh, powerful blood here, all ripe and ready for the taking. And hey, since I’m bored, I’ll even let you win for the first ten minutes or so. Let’s do this thing.”

Nothing.

“Oh come on.” Her stake arm fell again. “Don’t be another wussy vamp. I’m so sick of wussy vamps.”

The air was still for several more seconds. Still, but not vacant. The sensation rattling her body refused to waver. The vampire was still there. Still watching her. Lurking somewhere in the shadows.

Then it hit. A wave of familiarity so potent, it made her gasp aloud.

No. No, it can’t be.

Another growl pierced the air. There was a flash of blonde and a rush of fangs. He lunged for her from behind a mausoleum, arms tightening around her as they collapsed to the ground. Her stake tumbled from her hand as numb astonishment flooded her being.

Feeling.

The vampire raised his head and she about burst into tears.

“Spike. Oh God, Spike, is it…” She frowned. “Am I dreaming?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even make like he’d heard her. There was something dangerously feral in his eyes. Something primal. Something she had never seen before. And it didn’t matter. For a fraction of an instant, the weight of the world no longer mattered. Spike was back. Even pinning her to the ground, the full weight of his welcome body pressing her into the ground, his hands grasping her wrists to the point of pain; it didn’t matter to her. Spike was with her, now.

I’m dreaming. God, I know I’m dreaming.

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Spike wasn’t the stuff of dreams; he was bigger than dreams. Her nights had never been haunted by him; too small to constrain him to the fog of her subconscious. No, since his death, he had dominated everything. The thought of him. The want of him. Missing him in this new place, every crude remark to tumble through the lips of her vile customers simply served as reminders of the one she’d lost. Not for the way they were said…Spike would whisper the dirtiest things to her when they were in the throes of passion. Covered in love, of course, with the added guise of concealing his feelings from her as their bodies moved together. For months, he had provided the allusion of consolation without the mention of love, because that was what he knew she wanted. And even though the thought of what she had put him through that year made her ill, there was some twist of comfort whenever she heard something remotely Spikeish touch the air.

Comfort that drowned into longing. Longing that had long since left her hollow.

Only Spike was here.

Once a lifetime ago, Angel had attacked her after returning from the dead. Like an untamed animal escaping the bowels of hell, he had attacked and she had fought him. Spike was on top of her now, his fangs drawn to her throat. And yet, there was no mode of attack. No want to harm. No need to kill. None that she could sense.

“Spike?” she whispered again, tugging her hands free and running her fingers through his hair. “Spike, it’s me.”

He sniffed at her, his head drawing back. There was no familiarity in his eyes. Nothing whatsoever. He saw her, yes, but he didn’t know who he was seeing. Confusion flashed across his face and quickly turned to anger. His eyes hardened and she had lost him again, the want of answers abandoning him for the more immediate sanctuary of her heavenly throat.

“Spike—”

There was an answering growl and a flash of fangs. His body slammed hard against hers when she attempted to get up, the aching familiarity of his erection pressing her between her legs. Buffy threw her head back and moaned. Reality was gone, and now there was nothing but this. A vampire she had loved and lost, and he was growling at her as though the past few years could be forgotten in a blink.

She had lived too long to worry with this anymore. Twenty-three years had somehow spanned into the duration of several lifetimes, but her body refused to age with wisdom. Instead, she was the fallen Slayer. The one that had liberated the rest only to know death at the hands of the one she loved. The one she had let bow out with a note to martyrdom, only to meet her demise at the end of his fangs nearly ten months after she had left him to close the Hellmouth.

His fangs sliced into her skin, and her body exploded with completion. She threw her head back and moaned even as he snarled into her, pulling her blood into his mouth, his hips moving sensually over her in mocking semblance of the dance they had come to know by heart. As though he knew her body, even if he didn’t know her face. He murmured incoherently into her bloody skin until the chord struck and his head flew back, his eyes widening with something akin to recognition.

Buffy’s eyes blurred. He hadn’t taken much; he’d barely tasted her. And the sensuality behind his bite overrode the strings of pain tugging at her flesh. There was blood dribbling down his chin. Blood that she owed him for what the past spring had robbed them both. And he saw her then; really saw her. Saw her with something that ached of recognition, even if he was still far placed from knowing her.

A word. One.

“Slayer.”

It was as though the world had emerged from black and white, and she was back in the land of color. A rush of emotions unlike anything she’d felt for months suddenly crippled her, and she burst into long, hard sobs. Her arms wound around his neck and tug him back down to her. It registered distantly that an untamed vampire was not an ideal cuddling buddy, but the heavens would crash before she let him go. Right now, she needed to feel him against her. Cherish the familiarity of his body and assure herself one last time that she was not asleep, conjuring a reenactment of the night the fates had given her back Angel, only recast as another vampire.

The vampire she loved as a woman; not the one she had mourned as a girl.

Spike buried his face in her throat and lapped delicately at the wound he’d given her. “Slayer,” he murmured again, like a child who had discovered a new word and wanted to share it with the world over and over again. “Slayer.”

“Yes,” she cried against him. “Yes, Spike. I’m the Slayer.”

He purred contentedly, rather pleased at being right. Whether or not he understood her was another concern. He knew her. At least on some level, he knew her. Knew her as the Slayer, whereas just minutes ago, he had not known her at all.

How long they stayed like that, she didn’t know or care. Only that Spike whimpered when she let go of him, his eyes glossed over with need and longing. God, she knew that look so well. The part of him that was most human; the part of him that fought for freedom and had gone to win back his soul for the intent of righting what he felt had been his greatest sin. This was her William at the surface. Angel had been all demon when he returned—as the demon within him, as with all other vampires, was the greatest driving force.

Not so with her Spike. The look on his face killed any doubts.

“Do you…” Buffy found herself asking, dusting her slacks off. “Do you know me, Spike?”

He studied her for a long minute, then shook his head. No.

Her heart broke. “Are you sure?”

He shook his head again.

“Can you speak?”

A puzzled look washed over him at that. She had heard him call her by the name that had dominated their relationship during those first few years, and yet, it seemed to be the only thing he knew.

Her eyes fell to his clothing. No jeans, rather sweats. No patented black-tee, rather rags. And he had no duster.

“What happened?”

He frowned and followed her eyes.

“Spike?”

He turned away, jaw clenching. A familiar look of guilt flashed across his face. And she understood. Likely the former property of a bum in an alley, or whoever had been misfortunate enough to be the first to cross his path. And again, the man shone through with startling clarity. Clothing. Spike had sought out clothing.

“Spike?”

He looked back at her at that, placing a hand over his chest. “Hurts,” he managed, his eyes shining.

Buffy was positive her entire body shivered at the word. “The soul,” she whispered. “Spike…you…” She smiled lovingly and wound her small hand around his, tugging his fingers away from his heart. “Do you remember who you are?”

“Spike.”

“You remember that?”

He gave her a dry look.

“You know that from me, don’t you?”

He nodded.

Well, obviously. She kept calling him Spike; he would likely figure out that was who he was.

“Do you remember anything?”

There was a long silence at that. Then, uncertainly, he shook his head. She drew in a deep breath and glanced down, not wanting him to see how deeply that hurt. One thing at a time. Just minutes ago, he had been ready to tear her throat out. Now he was purring as her thumb caressed his hand, his eyes warming with every beat that passed between them.

She needed to get him home. Needed to find out why he was back, though the why hardly mattered. The fact that he was with her at all eased the numbness with feeling she hadn’t even known she missed. It was wonderful just seeing him. Basking in the warmth of his presence. The warmth he gave her simply by being.

“Come on,” she said gently, tugging at his hand. “Let’s go home.”

Spike flashed her a quizzical look.

“My home,” she clarified. “I have an apartment. Kinda a rat-trap, but it’s better than nothing. Honestly, I think your crypt was more posh.”

More confusion. She smiled and batted a dismissive hand. “I’ll call in sick tomorrow,” she said, more for her benefit than his. “Get you some good clothes. Something you’ll fit right into…like a black tee and a pair of jeans? Maybe some Doc Martins?”

Yeah. As though she had that sort of money. Well, she had cash on reserve that Giles had insisted on giving her, despite her hesitance of taking anything from him. Their relationship hadn’t recovered since the big fall out the year before, and she doubted it ever would.

That didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. Spike was with her.

And that was all she needed.

II

She stopped at a Wal-Mart and bought a few pairs of jeans and some tees. Spike padded after her obediently, flinching under the lights but not willing to let her get more than a few feet away from him at any time. His presence inspired her with hope, and his refusal to let her out of his sight had her insides tingling.

There was no need to try anything on. She knew his size all too well.

“Black, black, and more black?” she asked, smiling gently at him as he followed her through the fourways of clothing. “Maybe a deep blue. That’d really bring out your eyes.”

Spike flashed a bashful smile and glanced down, but said nothing.

“Come on,” she said, turning toward the registers. “People are going to start to think you’re a walking zombie.” She smiled. “No offense, but rags plus pale kinda equals a creature-feature from a Michael Jackson video.”

There was a small grunt in reply.

Buffy was not a fan of the self-checkout system, but she similarly didn’t want to face the inquiring stares of a helpful staffer. After several attempts at scanning her purchases and bickering with the roboted employee, she bagged the clothes and led Spike back into the night.

“I swear, that store is trying to take over the world,” she said, making the familiar turn in the direction of her apartment. “And I’m helping them. Not voluntarily, of course, but when you’re a girl on a budget, there’s only so much you can afford shopping at places without markdowns. Sooner or later, though, those robo-checkout machines will pull a massive Terminator…or at least that’s what they’d do in Sunnydale. This is supposed to be a hellmouth, so I’m thinking it can’t stay all Leave It To Beaver-y for long.”

Spike flashed another glance of pure confusion. She smiled uneasily and threaded her fingers through his. Her rambling had to be hard to follow. In a million years, she never thought she would be the sort of person to bicker about Wal-Mart. It was too normal an occasion for someone who had the power to change the universe.

“You still don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Slayer,” he replied.

“Do you know my name? Do you remember me at all?”

His eyes averted to the pavement in shame. She sighed and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay,” she told him. “We’ll be okay. Even if you never remember me, I won’t leave you alone.”

Especially like this. A souled amnesiac vampire who grew bashful at compliments and overly protective of a woman destined to be his end? There was no way she’d ever let him out of her sight. Absolutely no way.

All the more besides, she loved him too much to do anything else.

They were quiet for the rest of the short walk to her apartment. She led him through a maze of gloomy corridors, made a mental note to call the super yet again and see if he could fix the lights that had gone out on her floor two weeks prior, fought with the lock on her door, then finally led him into her home.

“Like I said,” she said nervously, “not much.” Like a woman bringing a man home after their first date, sorting through the pretenses that masked her truer intentions. “It’s really kinda crappy, but I have everything I need, right? Bathroom with a tub, which is pretty remarkable. A kitchen area, a small den, and a bedroom. Really, this place runs circles around the place I had in LA after…well, the last time I found myself in a strange city, working for a diner.”

A shuddering breath hissed through her lips. “So, here it is. Ummm…I think I’m going to…here.” She tossed the Wal-Mart bags to the nearest sofa and led him to the bathroom. “You did this for me a few times,” she said softly. “After a nasty fight or…okay, so it was just the once and…you know, big Uber Vamp and all. I make absolutely no sense, do I?”

Spike smirked and shook his head, though his eyes were warm with adoration. And it was such a familiar look that her body suddenly ached with longing, and her eyes flooded with tears. She kept expecting to look over her shoulder only to find herself alone. The thought that he was actually with her was still a bit too much to take. Her mind was wracked with questions that she didn’t really need answers to, plans to phone Willow as soon as she was certain leaving him for a few minutes wouldn’t catapult her back into the loneliness she had awoken with that morning.

There were a few things she needed to know. Where he had been, why he didn’t remember her, and if this stint back in reality was permanent, or if the Fates were just offering her the chance she never had to say goodbye.

That thought nearly crippled her. If this was only temporary, it was a cruel play on her emotions. Losing him again would send her spiraling into something beyond apathetic survival. It would leave her in devastation so deep that there would simply be nothing left but the hurt.

And yet, for all the likelihood that the universe was toying with her, she somehow doubted it. Spike didn’t know who he was; didn’t remember her. He knew her solely as the Slayer, and he trusted her out of some distant form of recognition. For whatever that was worth, she found solace in the knowledge that cruel plays of fate would have likely given him back to her as he had been; not wounded by the absence of memory.

“There was this one time last year. Not that you remember or anything, but you…it was toward the end, when we were together all the time. The Potentials were out on some mission with Giles and Faith and I wanted you to…it was a healing thing. Not just for me.” Her eyes glossed over. “Anyway, come on. We’re gonna pitch those rags, then I’m going to give you a bath.”

Spike coughed in surprise.

“What? You think I’m going to let you out of my sight? You’ve got another thing coming, Mister.” She flushed. “Unless you, you know, want me to.”

He shook his head in an ardent no. He looked so hopeful it inspired another round of tears, this time matched by laughter.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she told him.

The eager melted into longing then, his eyes distant and full of sorrow, searching for a memory of her that was either clouded by disorder or wiped away entirely.

“It’s okay,” she told him, turning away a beat to start running the bath. “We’ll deal, yeah?”

She hoped she could be as brave as she sounded. The words were impressive, but the face she put on for him was far from the one she wore inside. The one that reflected her fears and her hesitance to believe in hope. Hope had never done anything for her. Not a single thing. And even with the love of her life suddenly with the undead, standing in her bathroom and looking terribly uncomfortable as she moved back toward him, she was too jaded to place too much stock into anything.

With whatever happened, come what may, she wouldn't leave him alone. And he needed to know that.

“I know what I said,” she murmured, glancing bashfully to the ground. “But if you want me to go…in the other room while you, you know, bathe…I'll totally understand. I mean, it's not like I haven't seen you naked a bajillion times, but you don't remember all that, and it might be kinda awkward for a stranger to, you know…be here.”

A small grin played across Spike's face, and he shook his head again. No. He wanted her with him. The notion warmed her head to toe and she flashed him a smile.

“We'll be throwing these away,” she said, raising her hands to the fabric of his ratty shirt. “And after you're…we'll get you some more stuff after a while. For now, though, the jeans and tees are gonna have to do it. Oh, I have some boxers around here, too. Not that you, you know, wear boxers, but I didn't get you anything to sleep in. And yeah, you usually sleep naked, but again with the stranger/house thing.”

His smile softened even further, and he leaned forward to brush a kiss across her forehead. As he had done a thousand times, a moment so inherently familiar that she felt her eyes well with tears all over again. The things that were instinctive to him were coming through as each second ticked by, and somehow, they all related to her. Things that were not hampered by the loss of recognition. Things that his body knew, things his subconscious wanted him to remember. And it all led back to her.

That knowledge struck a chord deep within her, and she suddenly found it very hard to breathe. While she had learned to accept Spike's love, and had even begun to understand the depth of his loyalty and affection, she had never imagined his ties to her ran that deep.

Once she had him back, she would never again take that for granted. She would spend the rest of her life making up for all the bad.

Her hands slid up his chest, drawing his shirt over his head. God, she knew his body so well. Knew every contour of him. Knew all the aged scars, had memorized the patterns of the wounds she had given him over the years. She remembered one night, long ago, that she had spent a good hour tracing each little imperfection in his skin. He had remained so still throughout her exploration that she figured he was lost in sleep. It wasn't until she realized the pillow he rested against was wet with the moisture of his tears that she knew he was awake, and fully aware of what she was doing.

She similarly recalled being horrified with herself then, but masking her shame with contempt. It was the first realization of how terrible she was to him, if he wept at the feel of her memorizing his body.

It wasn't until the year before that she had rectified that. And by the time she knew how desperately she loved him, and always had, it was too late.

Now, standing in her bathroom, her fingers were making the familiar journey across his skin. His body had always struck her as utterly perfect, even with the blemishes that only a hundred and fifty years of living could imprint forever. She had compared him to Greek statues a thousand times in her mind, even though the simile had long lost its power for its redundancy. And even so, Greek statues had their imperfections, and Spike was right there with them.

“Slayer,” Spike growled lightly, his eyes fogged over with passion, sparks of remembrance flying behind his gaze.

“Yes.” She pressed a kiss to his chest, then lowered herself to her knees to work on his sweats.

“Slayer.”

She tugged the pants down his legs, pried the sneakers he had purloined off his feet, and tossed them toward the trash. “Those look like they're a little small, anyway,” she said as he stepped out of his clothing. “I've got you all taken care of.”

She sat back on her legs, her eyes kept to the ground, trying futilely to ignore that she was at eye-level with his erection. Trying to ignore the warmth that overwhelmed her with the knowledge that, even like this, she could still have such an affect on him.

Of course, she was also a woman on her knees in front of him. Truth be told, he was simply being male. And yet, nothing had ever been as simple as black and white with Spike. She refused to believe that he would be as satisfied had any woman shown him kindness tonight. Not for the way he kept looking at her. The way he seemed so desperate to remember what he knew was there. The past they had, stormy as it was. The love that had kept them together longer than she had even realized.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Buffy raised her eyes bashfully to his, brushed a tender kiss against the head of his cock, then climbed to her feet as his needy moan touched the air.

“Bath time,” she whispered.

Spike whimpered and nodded. His eyes were fueled with lust, but he made no move to initiate any further contact. In easy seconds, he settled into the water she had drawn for him, and reclined with ease.

“Feel good?”

He nodded.

Buffy licked her lips and reached over him, grabbing the bar of soap from its resting place and rolling her sleeves up her arms. “Do you…do you think you could talk? You seem to understand me pretty well.”

He frowned. Perhaps that was one of the things that was steadily coming back to him, like his memory. He knew how to work words, just as he knew her, but the mechanics that tied knowledge with execution were still in the process of resurfacing. He looked so ashamed, though, at his inability that she felt wretched for even bringing it up. Buffy flashed an apologetic smile and leaned forward, kissing his forehead. “Sorry,” she murmured. “You know, you don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just know you're usually very verbal. It's just…weird…having you here and all silent.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“No, don't. It's me, Spike. My thing. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. We'll work up to it…just like everything else.”

An uncertain smile flashed across his face at that, then his eyes rolled shut as her hands found his skin and began lathering him up with soap. She took careful time, mapping his arms, chest, asking him softly to lean forward so she could reach his back. Then her hand dipped under the water and ran soothing lengths up and down his legs. She covered every part of him except the raging predicament that seemed eager for her attention. The very tip of his erection peaked above the surface of the water and was the focus of both their attention. For every effort she made to ignore him, her eyes seemed that more determined to study him hungrily.

He moaned in protest when she placed the bar of soap back on its shelf. “Slayer.”

“Spike—”

He wrapped his hand around her wrist and guided her to his cock. “Slayer,” he whimpered again, closing her fingers around his length and thrusting upward into her touch.

“I shouldn't—”

There was nothing at that but a desperate gasp, her hand already defying her conviction. She squeezed him lovingly, then began to stroke. The feel of him was so familiar. The small whimpers that touched the air laced with need that she knew so well. Her fingers massaged him tenderly, watching his face as she gave him pleasure. Watching the blue in his eyes deepen, his gaze fixed on her, alternating between her face and her strokes of his cock. Her thumb flickered over his belled head with every lap.

She shifted ever-so often to squeeze his sac before turning her attention to his length. Up and down, again and again. She caressed his head, earning jerks and moans and whimpers and long mewls, the bath water splashing over the edge of the tub as he drove into her touch. In steady minutes, her speed gained momentum. She tightened her hand around him, not too much, but enough to help him seek fruition. The air was heavy with a blatant disregard for reservation.

“I love you, Spike,” she told him, her eyes shining when his gaze went wide. “I do. I told you once and you didn't believe me. Please believe me, now. I love you. I love you so much. I've missed…I've been hollow for so many months. Tonight…you're back, and I can't help but feel like I'm the one who's no longer dead.” She smiled and squeezed him tenderly. “I love you.”

A gasp clawed at his throat and he arched back, coming hard into her hand. It was quick and messy, and easily the most erotic thing she had ever seen. The look of completion that flashed across his face gave her warmth that she had long ago dismissed as something she could never touch. He was panting, flustered, and more than a little embarrassed. And yet, she had never seen him look more beautiful than he did at that moment. Her Spike. Her William. He was with her. Somewhere buried within that body, she knew her Spike was waiting. And if it took more conversations like these, more moments of stolen intimacy, more of everything she owed him to bring him out, then that was what she would do.

He whimpered when she released him. “Mate,” he said.

She stopped. “What?”

“Mate.”

His eyes bore into hers, and what he said without words easily surpassed everything he could attempt to put into any language. Mate.

“Me?”

He nodded. “Mate.”

“Spike…” Once more, warmth spread through her entire body. Oh yes, she was definitely his. Slayer, lover, mate, and all of the above. No matter what it meant. Eternity was worth it if she could be with him. If she could have a place at his side, exploring the lifetime they should have had a thousand times over for a thousand years.

Buffy helped him out of the tub and snatched a towel off the nearest hangbar, running it over his body and ringing dry what little of his hair had gotten wet. The minute she cast it aside, his arms were around her, burying his face into the crook of her throat. Her legs buckled when she felt his tongue dancing over the small mark he had branded in her skin, his hands dancing over her body.

She tensed just slightly when he cupped the apex of her thighs, stroking her tenderly through the material separating them.

“Spike—”

“Mate.”

“Ohhh…”

He nipped at her throat again, fingers wheedling with the clasp of her trousers.

Her body rejoiced even as her heart ached. She had missed his touch even more than she thought, and while the prospect of separating herself from him was the last thing she wanted, it seemed wrong to make love with him like this. With the memory of her shrouded in ambiguity; when she was gambling on odds that might no longer sway in her favor. As much as the notion hurt, she had to accept a past full of wrongs. And despite however much she loved him now, Spike would be completely in the right to reject her after everything she had put him through. Right now, he wasn't in the best state to decide what it was he wanted. He wanted her as his mate; she wanted that, too, but she didn't trust that the conviction would hold steadfast after the Fates returned his past to him.

“Spike…” She grasped his wrist and reluctantly drew him away from her. “We can't.”

His eyes glowered defiantly. “Mate.”

“Yes, I am. If in name only, I'll be your mate. But you don't remember me yet. And I…I don't want to do this while you might decide that you don't want me after you remember everything.”

He gave her a look that was achingly familiar. That patented 'you're completely daft' look. A look that was thoroughly Spike.

“I just…I don't want to chance it.”

There was a beat, and then he smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then against her lips. And the tenderness he whispered into her skin initiated a swell of emotion that nearly broke her. Like tasting food after starving for a thousand generations, quenching thirst after years of being parched. It flooded her completely, touched every nerve in her body, and she couldn’t take it.

“I…” She stumbled away, wiping at her eyes. “I’m going to…go get you something to sleep in. Turn down my bed and…get the couch set up.” She paused. “You can have the bed tonight.”

A frown marred his face.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…to sleep…not tonight.” A nervous smile fluttered across her lips. “Too tempting. And I…what I said, I can’t do it. Not like this. I want to…god, I want you so much.”

He ducked his head bashfully at that.

“But I’m not going to use you. I stopped doing that two years ago, and I’m not about to do it again. You don’t remember me. You don’t remember that you loved me once…I can’t use…whatever it is that you’re feeling to bring myself satisfaction.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Well, not just me.” She shook her head. “I love you too much to lose you when you…remember me for being selfish now.”

Spike brushed another kiss across her forehead. She missed the sound of his voice, but the whispers of his affection against her body filled the void with something she loved almost as much.

“I’m going to go get the bed ready for you. Blankets and stuff over the windows…you know…vamp-proof it to the max.”

The frown returned at that and he shook his head.

“No, you’re taking it,” she argued. “Really, you’re getting the crappy end of the deal. My sofa? I’m willing to put money down that it’s the comfiest sofa in the tri-state area.”

He arched a brow.

“Well, okay. Like I can afford a Lay-Z-Boy. Still.” She held up a hand. “No arguing. My house, my rules, and I say that you have to sleep in the bed.”

Spike rolled his eyes but made no move to further his objection. Instead, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass. She felt his eyes on her as she moved away. Felt every nerve in her body scream in protest at the thought of being apart from him so soon. Barely any time had passed since she encountered him in the cemetery; she was still dubious that fate would simply hand over the one she loved without a reason. Without putting up a fight.

Questions like that could wait, though. Wait until tomorrow. Wait until light shone through the broken shades of her apartment, and the new day gave her the assurance of truth. Gave her the conviction she needed to grasp that Spike was with her. That Spike was really with her, and she wasn’t dreaming.

The air around her was real. Her vision wasn’t foggy, and her mind was clear.

It had to be real.

She wouldn’t trust anything, though. Not now. Not until sunlight poured through her windows and lies of the night were robbed of places to hide.

III

She arrived back at the apartment after forty-five minutes of errand-running. Spike helped her find room in her vacant cabinets for the multitude of groceries she had purchased; things she had never heard of, things she knew in retrospect that she would never need. Buffy had ploughed through the aisles at Wal-Mart like a woman possessed, grabbing everything she saw that her mind could produce a possible when-to-use scenario for in about twenty minutes. She had similarly stocked up on clothing, toiletries, video tapes, and everything anyone could want in lieu of a nuclear holocaust. It was strange; she had never been the mom. Never been one to cook food for herself or her sister. If she wasn’t ordering pizza, she was making turkey sandwiches. She had no idea how to rationalize her budget, especially when she was working on little more than minimum wage with the empty promise of customer tips to cover the shady areas of her occupation.

She had also made a trip to the butcher and bought as much blood as possible, maxing out her charge card. She told herself she’d chop it up when she got home, but similarly acknowledged that she couldn’t chance it. Emergencies happened, and she never wanted to be unprepared.

The day went by slowly, strains of unspoken tension wrought between them. They watched an old movie on her thirteen-inch screen television/VCR combo, seated awkwardly at opposite ends of the sofa. Not looking at each other. Not touching. Not doing anything that would lead down a path of no return.

She was so grateful as her body wore down in preparation for the night’s rest. Sleep provided an assuredly dreamless cocoon that would keep her fears silent until morning.

That was unless morning turned into her greatest fear.

Around ten o’clock, the phone rang. It was Willow.

Willow with news much sooner than the Slayer could have hoped.

“I called Angel the minute I got off the phone with you,” she said. “Because, if memory serves, the amulet that Spike wore to close the Hellmouth came from him.”

“It did. He said he didn’t know what it was, only that it was supposed to be worn by a Champion.”

“Yeah. The Champion, though, was supposed to be Angel.” Willow paused. “He didn’t want to tell me where he got it at first, so I cracked open the books to see if I could find…well, anything. Then Angel called back.”

Buffy bit her lip and tossed a precarious glance in Spike’s direction. If his vampiric hearing had detected the use of his grandsire’s name, he did not display any signs of recognition.

“I guess he decided that I would eventually figure it out. Anyway, he spent the day researching it, too, only he did so from behind the desk of Wolfram and Hart.” Willow paused and released a sigh of disgust. “Apparently, when he came to Sunnydale, he had just struck a deal with the Biggest of all Bads, which included becoming CEO of their Los Angeles branch. Then he was given the thing and sent off to the Hellmouth. The medallion he gave you, though, was specifically designed for his use. It was supposed to suck in his soul…so that he’d return to LA all fangy and evil and ready for the task of, well, supreme evilness. All he’s been able to get out of the Senior Partners is that since the amulet was specifically designed for Angel, the plan totally misfired misfire. Spike went all kablooey and after a while, the failed curse pulled a massive u-turn and popped him back into the world. And based on what Angel told me, Spike was deposited according to the greatest ties of his soul, which would be you.” There was a beat. “Buffy, Angel was corruptible. Wolfram and Hart had already found that out when he went all big and bad and did the mating dance with Darla. Point is, he wasn’t as valuable an asset to them as Angel as he would’ve been as Angelus. They saw what Angelus was capable of. Taking down a massive Beast that had the power of blocking out the sun? Ending what Wolfram and Hart define as world peace…which really, sounded anything but peaceful to me. Angel was corruptible, yes, but they wanted Angelus. The power sans the struggle to get him to be all advocatey of bloodbaths and apocalypses.”

Another long, silent pause. “The point is…Angel found out where Spike has been for the past ten months.”

Buffy’s body ached. Her heart had broken all over again, and tears had already begun the familiar trek down her cheeks. “Where?”

“In some alternate hell dimension, being tortured by the Senior Partners. Trying to corrupt his soul like they’d managed to corrupt Angel. Trying and failing. I don’t…we have no idea how much time passed for him. But if he doesn’t remember you, it’s because…” Willow stopped again as her friend choked a sob into the phone. “Buffy, when Angel came back from hell, he was mean and nasty and tried to kill you. Spike…”

“He hasn’t,” she cried. “When he realized…when he knew it was me, he…he knows me but he doesn’t. Oh God, Will…”

“Angel was corruptible,” the redhead said again. “That’s why. Spike wasn’t. Not against you…not with a soul, not without one. Wolfram and Hart had no use for him, so they put him back. His soul automatically led him to you.”

Buffy glanced up again. Spike was studying her, his gaze veiled with concern.

“Thank you, Will,” she whispered. “I gotta go.”

“Has he remembered anything yet?”

“No. But he…he looks at me, and he knows, you know? He just knows.” Buffy released another shuddering breath. “I gotta go. I need…”

“I know. Go.”

The words had not fully escaped her friend’s mouth before the Slayer hung up, her eyes rising to the vampire standing across from her. He had moved forward after sensing her upset, and the look in his eyes nearly brought her to her knees.

“Oh Spike.”

She was in his arms the next minute, sobbing into his shoulder. He held her in silence as she cried, murmuring gently into her hair and whispering kisses across her face, holding her against him as all else collapsed in the limelight of truth.

“I love you so much,” she gasped. “You died…you went through…and you didn’t even…oh God, Spike.”

He was trembling as though he knew what she was talking about, but he didn’t say anything.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Slayer…”

“I don’t. You went—”

Spike pulled back and ravished her mouth with his, drawing her into a series of needy, desperate kisses. He tasted of tears and cigarettes. Blood and liquor. As though not even days had gone by since the last time he poured himself a drink in her kitchen on Revello Drive. As though he had been with her since the end of the beginning. As though he had never left her side. He shared her grief. Shared her sorrow. He cried for her even if he didn’t understand. He was kissing her now because she needed him. She needed him, and she had never needed anything before.

“Slayer…”

Buffy collapsed against his chest once more, shaking in quiet sobs.

“Stay.”

She froze. “What?”

“Stay. With me.” He looked pained as the words left his throat, but he smiled through the ache. “Please, Buffy.”

Oh God.

“Spike…you…” He shook his head. No, he didn’t remember. He was simply gaining back the words his stint in hell had stolen from him. Her body exploded with euphoria, inspiring more tears to her eyes. Happy tears, now. Tears of hope rather than sorrow. “Oh…”

“Stay. Tonight.”

“With you?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She nearly crumbled with respite. “Oh yes.”

A beautiful smile graced his face, and he brushed his lips over hers again.

She abandoned all else and followed him as he led her down the hall to her bedroom. Stood before him, trembling, as he slowly slid her clothes off her body. Her t-shirt first, followed by her bra. Then he was on his knees before her, tonguing her nipples lovingly as his nimble fingers opened and tugged her jeans down her legs.

“Spike…”

His head dipped below her navel, lips wrapping around her clit.

“Oh God.”

“Buffy.”

“Spike—”

“My Slayer.” He licked a long lap up her slit before his tongue delved into her pussy. “My mate.”

“Ohhh…”

“My Buffy.”

He was on his feet again the next minute, seizing her lips as his fingers plunged inside her body. Buffy’s head flew back, his mouth immediately taking chart down her throat.

Her climax hit her too soon. Her body was too much in need of his, her love for him blossoming her nerve-endings to the point of hypersensitivity. She cried against him as her body came down, tiny pinpricks of searing heat spreading across her skin. Spike’s hands were worshipping her body, his cock nudging against her needily, his mouth whispering wordless sonnets into her flesh. He held her as she came down, holding her sweetly. Saying all too much without speaking a word.

Time and space had no boundaries. The next thing she knew, she was under the covers in her dinky bed, Spike tugging her into his arms. His fingers were sketching artless patterns down her arms and across her back, his chest rumbling sensual purrs against her body. His skin was bare against hers. She was curled in his embrace as a lover, and for the first time in nearly a year, her better angels were quieting her inner demons, and she found peace.

“What about you?” she asked, inching a hand between them, circling around his cock.

Spike’s hand grabbed hers and tugged her touch upward, pressing a kiss against the pulse at her inner wrist. “Sleep,” he replied softly.

“I don’t want this to be all—”

He shook his head. “Sleep, sweetheart. What you need.” There was another pause as he searched for words. “We…tomorrow…forever.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the first day of their forever.

“I love you.” She swept a kiss against his chest. “I love you, Spike. I’m going to say it until you’re sick of hearing it. I’m going to say it every day. Every hour. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Shhh…”

“Spike—”

“Tomorrow.” He kissed her forehead. “Sleep now.”

Her eyes fell closed as though on command, her body exhausted from the emotional turmoil she had put herself through today. Exhausted from her revelations, exhausted from everything. But at the end of the day, she had him with her. She had him with her, and she would never again let him go. She would never again be so foolish.

That was her promise to herself.

And it was the last thing that crossed her mind as she drifted off into oblivion. Spike cradling her against the storm. He had survived hell only to rescue her from her own.

The nightmare was over. He was with her now. Spike was with her.

And she slept.

IV

There was an endless world beyond the darkness. He remembered dying the first time. Remembered the blackness that came with Drusilla’s bite. Remembered collapsing to the ground and knowing nothing again until his useless lungs gasped in the crisp freshness of a new night only to discover he did not need to breathe. His dark princess had waited for him as he clawed to freedom. His sire—ever the traditionalist. The road to his salvation.

The road to the sunshine that was snuggled against him.

Spike was nearly afraid to open his eyes. For the first time in what seemed like generations, the pain had faded in the place of sanctuary, and all else was lost for the warmth he found in her arms.

Buffy was in his embrace. Buffy had taken him home, clothed him, fed him, and loved him. Buffy had loved him.

He couldn’t believe it. The world around him was real. The woman curled in his arms was real. She was breathing gently against his chest, golden wisps of her hair tickling his skin. She was so soft. So warm. Buffy was in his arms. It was as though he had been blind for so long had had finally been given back his sight. As though he had felt her just as she was, loved her just as she was, without seeing her with everything that made her Buffy—made her into the woman that had won his heart so many years ago.

He had known he loved her yesterday. Known it the minute she gave him back his sense of self. Known it the second her blood had touched his tongue two nights earlier, and he had known her as the Slayer. And known, similarly, that he would follow her to the end of the earth. He simply hadn’t known why.

If he hadn’t found her that night, he feared what he would have done. Before he saw her, before she took his hand, he had been another vampire without anything to establish who he was. He hadn’t even had the definition that came with bearing a soul. He had fangs and bloodlust. That was all he knew. The soul hadn’t truly shown itself until he found her. Until he saw her, tasted her, and knew he was home.

The pain was gone.

There wasn’t much beyond the dark. A world of screams and fire and torment. Of insanity. Of lost souls. Of despair beyond death. Of temptation beyond all else. A need to let go of the world he was holding onto. The world that was wrapped entirely in the woman resting in his arms.

Had he let go, he would not be here.

And Buffy loved him.

Tears filled his eyes. Buffy loved him.

He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t care. Didn’t know how much time had passed. Didn’t know where the Fates had dropped him after his will refused to break. All that mattered was that he was with her. He had gone where she was. There was nothing else for him. Nothing beyond the Slayer. The Slayer he had defied all of Hell for.

She loved him.

“Buffy…”

He felt like he had awakened after a long nightmare. Felt as though millennia had passed, and he was finally back in his reality.

He needed to touch her. Needed to feel her. Needed to bask in her warmth. He had been touching her blind for two days. Now he had his vision back, and he needed her as much as he ever had.

Spike hugged her to him close, brushing his lips across her brow. “Buffy,” he whispered, lifting her gently out of his arms so that she shifted completely onto the mattress. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

She murmured gently but didn’t oblige him.

He drew in a shuddering breath and edged the blankets covering them down her body. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he gasped reverently, dropping a kiss against a breast. “More than I remember. My lovely Slayer.” His lips skimmed her stomach before he nuzzled his face in her pussy. “’ve missed you.”

And God, was that the understatement of the century. He hadn’t just missed her. He’d ached for her. Every second he was away, feeling her pain that was only secondary to his. He’d felt her—that was the other. He’d felt every emotion that had touched her heart. Felt her tears, her sorrow, her love, her regret, and finally her apathy. The way she melded into the world without being a part of it any more. And all because of him.

He’d felt her. Alongside the pain of the world, he’d felt the pain of the one he loved.

That was what had nearly broken him. Nothing but Buffy could snap his will. A lesser man would have given up and given in. Would have done anything to stop the hurt. Stop the pain he felt that was not his, even if it was caused by him.

But it was Buffy, and he would rather spend the rest of eternity in that hell than sever the connection, however minute, he had with the woman he loved. The woman that was his salvation. The woman he would cross the universe to touch. There was nothing in the entirety of his existence that was more important than Buffy. Not to him, and there never would be.

Spike shuddered a breath against her, lapping sweetly at her folds. God, he’d missed this. Her taste. Her scent. The way she arched against him and gasped his name. The way she looked at him like she was drowning. Like she could love him if she just let herself.

She did now. She had shown him such tenderness in the past two days, he could barely believe he wasn’t dreaming.

Their relationship in Sunnydale had been progressing in this direction for a year. Ever since he came back from Africa, soul drenched with penance. Through blood, tears, blame, and forgiveness, they had come full circle. They had reached understanding, and found that love wasn’t the way it was written by poets or portrayed in the movies. Love was what they had. Real, hard, messy, but true and deep. Worth fighting for. Worth dying for. Love was the only thing on earth that had no price. And for love, he had sacrificed himself.

For Buffy, he had given up everything. For Buffy and the world. The world he had once painted red, and the woman that had given him new life.

He was with her now, and he would never let her go.

“Buffy,” he whispered into her, sinking a finger into her pussy, his tongue curling around her clit. “Wake up, baby.”

He needed to see her looking at him. Needed to hear the words again. Needed that blessed reassurance that he wasn’t dreaming. Their past was shaded with misgivings, hurt, and remorse. He wanted none of that for their future. Buffy wasn’t a slayer by obligation anymore. She was free. And she was his.

He never thought he would get this far. Never thought her love could be anything he would rightfully deserve. He still didn’t, but he was far too selfish to refuse her. He wasn’t noble. He wasn’t going to make decisions based on a misconception of her own good. They could have eternity if they wanted it.

It came slowly. The warm influx of her juices over his fingers. The shrill gasp that sounded through the air. She thrust her hips against his mouth as her eyes flew open, finding him perched between her legs, feasting hungrily on her hot sheath. “Oh my God.”

He grinned. “’Bout time you woke up,” he drawled, enjoying the flood of hope that doused her gaze. “’ve been here lookin’ for ways to entertain myself for the past ten bloody minutes or so.”

There were tears in her eyes; the small mewls tickling her throat growing more desperate. More hopeful. She arched into his mouth and choked a euphoric sob. “Spike?”

“You’re even lovelier than I remember.” He suckled at her clit with a moan of approval, exploring the warm softness of her. He knew her body well. Better than any man ever had or would. No one else would ever come this close to her again. She was his. All his. And he was never giving her up. “Have any idea how long I’ve dreamt of this?” He smiled into her as she gasped again, her eyes hazing over with adoration. “Touching you like this? Like…”

“Spike…” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and his heart ached. “Oh God. I’m dreaming…uhhh…oh god, I’m dreaming.”

He sighed, nipping at her lovingly. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured, tongue swirling around her hypersensitive pearl. His fingers pressed deeper into her tenderly, a shared whimper tumbling from their lips. “You’re not dreaming.”

She shook her head, a sob tearing through her body. “I am. You’re—”

“I’m right here.” His tongue drew a long lap up her opening. “I’m here.”

“Oh God…”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he gasped, scraping his teeth over her clit. “You’re so warm. So tight. An’ you taste…” He suckled her essence further into his mouth, drinking everything she gave him eagerly. “There are no words for how good you taste.”

“Spike!”

His questing lips abandoned her clit as his fingers eased out of her body. “Bleedin’ ambrosia.”

She mewled in protest, thrusting forward needily. “Oh God.”

“No worries, kitten,” Spike purred, licking at his wet fingers with a seductive wink. “Have I ever left you wantin’?”

He lowered his head again and his tongue plunged into her pussy, and she threw her head back with a hoarse cry of ecstasy. His thumb settled over her clit in the absence of his mouth, massaging her tenderly as his eyes drank in the gorgeous sight of his girl writhing in pleasure. There was nothing like this. Nothing like her taste.

“Oh God!” she gasped, thrusting off the bed. Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding him to her. As though he could pull away as his mouth rediscovered her body’s secrets. He suckled at her, indulging in her juices with zeal that betrayed his own need. His fingers massaged her clit roughly, free hand dancing up the smooth expanse of her abdomen to capture a nipple. She was parrying in time with every thrust of his eager tongue, the shrill gasps tumbling through her lips driving him to the point of madness and back. There was nothing in the world like this. Nothing at all.

“Spike!”

The sound of her reaching release reminded him of one of the symphonies Angelus had dragged him to back when he was a part of the Order’s happy family. Something Spike had ridiculed the enormous poofter for to no end while similarly hiding his eyes when the uproar of music became too emotionally engaging to ignore. That was Buffy. An opus of minors and flats, sharps and crescendos. An imperfect package of perfection, whose tangle of emotions, irregardless of circumstance, never failed to bring tears to his eyes. When she was sad, he cried. That was simply all there was to that. She was his symphony. She was just now touching what she had been meant for all along, and if possible, he loved her more than he had before.

More than he had the last time he saw her. With the world collapsing around them, their hands tied with fire, her gaze swimming in tears, and words of love on her lips.

“Spike…” She cupped his face and offered a watery smile, her eyes shimmering. “Oh God…”

He smiled gently and prowled up her body, nestling himself between her legs, his cock teasing her sodden folds sensually. The feel of her was unlike anything at all. In a thousand years, he could not have forgotten this. Could not have given it up, no matter what the world offered in return. Her brow was pressed to his, and she was crying.

“No tears,” he murmured gently, sinking gently into her body. A sharp gasp clawed at her throat and her nails dug into his shoulders. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Oh God.” Buffy shook her head, her muscles clenching around him. “I…I…”

Spike’s lips met hers as he began moving inside her, swallowing her whimpers and tantalizing moans. The way she grasped at him every time he left her body only to swim in her rapture when he thrust back into her. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

“You…when?”

“This mornin’. I woke up an’ knew.” He released a tremulous sigh and buried his face in the crook of her throat, hooking his hands under her arms as he drove steadily within her. Basking in the warmth of homecoming. This sacred place he never thought to touch again. This piece of Heaven that Buffy had brought home with her, and shared now with him. “I remembered everythin’.”

“Oh…”

He kissed her again as his thrusts deepened, the slow, rhythmic slip and slide of his cock swallowing him in heat. “Remembered the graveyard,” he murmured, lips abandoning hers to explore the cool expanse of her throat. Teased the hum of her pulse as her body tightened around him. “Remembered…you brought me here…you…”

She whimpered and nodded. “I…Spike, I…” Their pants mingled as her body tightened around him. “I…you feel…”

“’S’all right.”

“I can’t…” She squeezed him again and he about saw stars. “Oh God.”

“Bleedin’ right,” he gasped. He didn’t know what it was. Whether or not it was the joy of being united with her by something stronger than the physical—the physical a simple byproduct of their feelings. Of feeling warmth and love after an existence of having neither. Of being a part of something, experiencing bliss instead of pain…or the simple fact that Buffy’s wet flesh was molded around him, and there was no righteousness in the world if it did not exist with her. “Fuck, I’ve never felt anythin’ like this. Never. Not with…not even with you. It’s never been like this.”

She nodded her agreement. “Never.”

His head settled at her shoulder, his fingers tangling around hers. He stretched her arms over the mattress, squeezing her hands intimately with every thrust and parry. Every stroke burned his skin; every time he withdrew, his body lamented her loss. A haven of sweet torture. The shades of passion that crossed her face took him by storm. The flashes of pleasure, the hues of something beyond perfection. Her hips battled his to recapture him every time his cock left her body, her hands squeezing his as though the world would vanish, and this small paradise they had discovered would be reduced to nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

It was almost a surprise when her hands released him, though it was more for the demands of a hungry mouth than the acceptance that the world around them was real. Truly real. She let go and tugged his mouth down to hers. She tasted him thoroughly, breaking only when she had to gasp for air.

“This is real,” she gasped, thrusting her hips into his. “God, this is really real.”

Spike smiled, sliding a hand between them. “’S real, kitten,” he promised. Every touch against her skin stirred another memory to life. Another image that time was giving back to him. Little flashes that usually lost face under life’s more monumental moments. Her pussy was strangling him into a new breed of existence. Beyond his days as a man and stronger than the century and a half he had spent as a vampire.

He had died twice; so had she. They were truly even now.

Spike dropped a small kiss to the corner of her mouth before his own began a slow descent of her body, nipping at her breasts and laving her nipples with his tongue as he watched her. Watching her—unable to drag his eyes from her gorgeous face.

She was strangling him into a new life with every cadenced squeeze.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she cried.

“Shhh…” His thrusts grew deeper—more frantic. Need surfaced beyond sensationalism. He was striking her at a new angle with every plunge. Touching areas that only he could touch. “S’all right now. Never leavin’ you again.”

He released a steady breath and lowered his head to her throat once more. Back to the hypnotic beat of her pulse. Her pussy tightened around him again. He wasn’t going to last long like this. Not with her beneath him. Not for a millennia of waiting for a home he had convinced himself no longer existed. Yet, as he always had, he couldn’t abandon her out of selfishness. He needed to achieve that pinnacle with her. Needed to taste her orgasm before he completely lost himself.

“Never leavin’ you again.”

“You promise?”

“God, yes, I promise,” he murmured, hips jerking forward. “You ‘bout killed me all bloody over again.”

“What?”

Spike’s eyes rolled inside his head, his thrusts deepening. “I don’ even know how to answer that, luv,” he murmured. “God, you feel so good. So bloody good. Gonna burn alive, baby.”

He knew something about fire now. Buffy was an inferno.

“Ohhh…”

The hand between them stirred to life, nimble fingers finding her clit again. His eyes remained glued on her face, watching her hungrily as she neared completion. The look clouding her gaze was one he knew so well. One he had memorized. The same face that had launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium. A goddess among humans. Her pussy was swallowing him whole with every plunge, her walls tightening around him, growing wetter by the second as he pushed her toward the edge. He massaged her clit speedily, ravenous gaze soaking up every flash of pleasure to touch her eyes.

“Spike…”

“Come for me, baby. Need to feel you come.”

“Bite me.”

His eyes went wide. “Buffy—”

“Please. Make me…” She turned her head, revealing the half-healed scar that marked the place his fangs knew intimately. That first night when he had seen her in the graveyard and his demon had targeted her as prey.

Prey first; then he had tasted her, and known her as the Slayer.

Mate.

Spike gasped as his hips pounding her into the mattress, staving off his orgasm for the reward of sensationalism. There was nothing he wanted more than her blood. Her blood, then the words between them that would make her his forever. He wanted it too much to chance it. Loved her too much to take such a risk. She couldn’t possibly know what she was asking. “Buffy!”

“Do it.”

“I—”

“Spike! Bite me!”

His fangs burst through his gums and sliced into her throat, and it was over. Warm blood flooded his mouth as her body exploded around him. He felt everything. A gateway unlocked, and a whirlwind of knowledge spilled through. Things he already knew; things he had already seen. His girl crying for him. Every whispered prayer, every tear she had shed, every hope that poured through her veins at the distant promise of finding this again. Things he had experienced without a body now barraged him with emotion, and he could do nothing but take what the world had so nearly stolen from him.

She was his. She had asked for this, and she was his.

Spike pulled back with a feral growl, clutching her tightly as he let go of all else and spilled himself inside her welcoming heat. “Mine!” he snarled. “Mine…Buffy…fuck, you’re mine.”

“Yes.” He felt her teeth skim the column of his throat, and he swore his heart was pounding again. “Yours.”

Then she was biting him. Jesus Christ, she was biting him. Her incisors were lodged in his skin, and she tasted him. All of him. His blood. His fear. His love. His endless devotion. The thousands of years he had spent away from her, holding onto the image of her face. Holding onto the link that had brought him deliverance, and saved him from total self-destruction.

She’d said yes. God, she’d said yes.

When she finally released him, he thought he might weep from loss. Then her tongue was laving the small mark she’d given him, and she whispered a single word into his skin.

“Mine.”

Spike screwed his eyes shut. Their bodies had finally stilled, but he felt as though he was tumbling over that edge all over again. Reaching a pinnacle beyond the flesh. Uniting with something bigger than he was, bigger than even the woman in his arms. He’d lived so long for such little purpose until he found her. Up until he set in motion the events that would bring him to this. Curled in Buffy’s arms, her heart thundering against his unanswering chest. The world crashed and rebuilt itself, and she had placed a claim on him. She had made him hers.

“Yours,” he agreed hoarsely, eyes swimming with tears. “Buffy…”

“Mine,” she said again, cupping his cheek reverently. “Spike…”

“Shhh…” Spike released a deep breath and collapsed against her shoulder, unwilling to admit how hard he was trembling. “’S okay, pet. It’s over now.”

“How did you…”

“I jus’ did. I can’t even explain it.” There was a long pause before he drew his head up once more. Too many things compacted tightly in his memory, most centering on the past two days. The way she had doubted that he would ever fail to want her. That he could ever walk away, even if he was unwelcome. Buffy provided the greatest sanctuary the world had known. He knew nothing else if he wasn’t with her; if he wasn’t by her side, or fighting for the opportunity to bask in her light. “I love you. Never doubt that. Never doubt for a sodding instant that this isn’t what I want.”

“I just—”

“I love you. Always will. Death can’t change that.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “Never bloody could.”

There was so much he wanted to tell her. So much he wanted to share. New memories to make, and a debt to be repaid. His mind barraged him with images of the first hours of his new life. Things he’d done, things his soul already bled for, but most of all, the kind face of a wounded angel. She’d taken him to her home, given him clothing and a bed, and had, even though her fears were wholly unfounded, avoided him for want of his own need.

And she’d said she loved him. More than once. She had kissed him and cared for him, and she’d loved him.

“I do,” she whispered, drawing his eyes back to her face. “I do love you, Spike.”

The words were worth everything. He’d submit himself to another eternity of torment if only to hear them once. And she’d known that he needed to hear them. He didn’t know if he had spoken aloud or if she’d read his mind and he didn’t care. The words were there. Spoken. And she belonged to him.

No. That was wrong. They belonged to each other.

He had so much to share, but it could wait. Right now, he simply wanted to lie in her arms. Curled in the peace of his haven.

The rest could wait, if only for a few hours.

V

He didn’t want to tell her everything he remembered. The vast details of his existence following the collapse of Sunnydale were vivid and terrible, and there was no reason she needed to know about it.

“You don’ put it in the microwave, luv.”

“I wasn’t going to!”

Spike just grinned and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you never watched your mum make pancakes,” he said. “Or, you know…anythin’?”

“Meanie.”

“You were about to put a bleedin’—”

“I was not!”

He chuckled and tugged her close, kissing her thoroughly. “You’re adorable.”

She pouted. “You just think so because I’m all kitchen-appliance challenged.”

“Well, I can’t lie. That does help.” His wandering mouth found her throat. “Mmm…you’re delicious.”

“Umm…food?”

His fingers itched up the hem of the t-shirt she had thrown on for their cooking extravaganza. For whatever reason, she felt strange walking naked around her apartment, even if it was only his appreciative gaze she had to answer to. It was one of those Buffy things that he found utterly endearing. “Food?” he repeated. “You smell good enough to eat.”

“Spike…”

He murmured his approval, dropping to his knees before her. “You know, I love that sound,” he whispered into her, diving under the t-shirt and sinking his tongue inside her wet pussy without warning. Her answering gasp filled the air, and in seconds, he had her against the counter, a leg draped over his shoulder as his mouth explored her sweetness.

“Oh God…”

“Mmm.” His tongue drew a long lap up her slit. “Better get used to this, baby,” he cooed. “’ve been a man starved for far too long.”

A shiver ran through her body, and he felt it. “How long?” she asked.

“Buffy—”

“How long?”

He growled lightly and nipped at her, sinking two fingers within her as his tongue curled around her clit. “Doesn’ matter,” he replied. “’S over now.”

“Spike—”

He suckled her clit into his mouth, driving his wet digits into her with more force. He wanted to taste her as she came. Wanted to feel her orgasm wash over her body. Wanted to know the pleasure he gave her. The claim mark on his throat was burning unlike anything he had ever felt. His skin was on fire but his body was cold. And it was wonderful.

“Fuck,” he gasped, eyes hazing over, watching her head fly back. “You taste so good.”

“Oh my God.”

“I feel it, sweetheart. I feel everythin’.”

It was a sensory explosion when she came. Long shudders coursed through his system, and his eyes blurred with color. The earth-moving sounds of her cries filled the air, and he held her to him as she shuddered into release. Lapping up everything she had to give him. Drinking every drop of her ambrosia. Her delectable honey. He felt as though taste had been given back to him. He’d been detached for so long. Too long. Now he could feel again, and it was wonderful.

This was it. This was the way to spend eternity.

Buffy tugged him to his feet and wrapped her arms around him. This was new. It was all so new. The Buffy he remembered had never openly expressed affection for him. Not even at the end. He distinctly recalled the night she killed Caleb; the look in her eyes when she mentioned that Faith was in her room. That look that begged he make the decision for them so she wouldn’t have to step down from her pedestal. He’d been grateful for it. He loved her too much to watch her turn around and leave him, and he recollected the sharp pain that had engulfed him for three seconds when he thought his big mouth had blown it.

That much of Buffy was more than he’d ever had before.

Now she was in his arms, tugging him closer to her. Letting him see her tears. Letting him feel everything that she had hidden from him for so long. It was overwhelming; almost like the dreams that had haunted him after Africa. When he’d been driven insane with the need to be with her, but grounded with the knowledge that he didn’t deserve to breathe her air with what he had nearly done.

He’d hugged a cross and that pain was secondary to the hurt he burned himself with every day.

“Will told me,” she whispered against him, her body trembling. “She told me…when…”

Her phone call the day before. Red. Of bleeding course. Funny, he hadn’t thought of her at all. Nor Xander, or Giles, or any of the sniveling potential brats, particularly Willow’s whiny Tara replacement. No—his thoughts had been dominated wholly by the woman in his arms. His Slayer.

“It doesn’ matter, pet.”

“I just.” She pulled back, and her tears nearly crippled him. “I’m the one who asked him for the amulet, Spike. I asked him for the amulet, and then you…”

Spike smiled tenderly and brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Sweetheart, whatever happened was not your fault.”

“If I’d let him—”

“Well, he’d’ve walked away with a bloody huge martyr complex. Or not, as the sodding Senior Partners told me on multiple occasions how I’d mucked up their plans.” He rolled his eyes. “For bein’ omnipotent, these blokes really are thick.”

Buffy shook her head, stifling another sob. “They tortured you.”

“Yeh, well, they forgot who they were dealin’ with. Dru was a helluva lot more inventive than these sods. An’ she had more of a sense of humor about it.” He smiled when she stiffened at the mention of his ex and kissed her lips with a grin. It was the claim, he knew, but he couldn’t deny the rush her jealousy gave to his pride. After everything they’d been through, the thought that he could look away from the goddess in his arms was laughable.

It was as though the love he’d felt for her was the beginners course. Preparing him for this wondrous feeling. Preparing him for completion beyond all else. He was consumed by it, and he didn’t care. Buffy was with him. There was no want for anything else.

“I got out,” he murmured. “That’s all that matters. I din’t let them get what they wanted.”

“What was that?”

“Don’ know, really. All I know is they wanted me to let go of you.” His smile broadened at her look of astonishment. “Biggest motivator of all, pet, or hadn’t anyone told you? I felt you. Felt every bloody thing. An’ feelin’ you was worth whatever they threw at me. I’d’ve rather gone through a sodding eternity bein’ tortured an’ feelin’ you than a sodding day without it.”

“Spike—”

“An’ don’ tell me I’m full of it, ‘cause I’m here now. You have your walkin’ proof. Wasn’ an eternity, but it bloody well felt like it.” Spike urged her head back to his shoulder when he saw her eyes flood with fresh tears. It was all a bit overwhelming; a Buffy who cried for him. He had felt it, of course. He had felt her months pass slowly as years consumed him. He had felt her anguish, her hurt, her heartache, her grief; he had felt everything until finally it turned into cold apathy for the way she was living her life, and that had nearly killed him all over again.

They were coming back to life together now. Perhaps that was why it was different. Buffy had been dead, too; she just hadn’t realized it.

“Come on, pet.”

“What?”

“Your stomach’s gonna have to wait. Let’s get you in the shower.”

“Shower?”

“You know, that nozzle in the bath that sprinkles water from overhead?”

She laughed in spite of her tears and whacked him lightly across the shoulder. “Ha ha, wise-ass.”

“Bloody right. Come on. Figure turnabout’s fair play, an’ all that.” He winked at her. “Don’ think I forgot the treatment you gave me that firs’ night.”

Buffy flushed. “I didn’t…I just…”

“You drove me outta my mind. Always bloody do. Remember bein’ severely aggravated that you din’t strip an’ join me.” Spike grinned devilishly, tugging at her hand and leading her down the hall. This place would only know them for so many more days; his goddess deserved a castle. A palace that Aphrodite would envy. He didn’t care what he had to do; he would make sure she never wanted for anything again.

He had told her that he could get money once upon a time. That hadn’t changed. He could get money, and he would. He had some unclaimed profits in stocks that would likely be enough to get him started. It all depended on the rise in inflation and the fluctuations in the market since the last time he checked in on it, which had honestly been a good sixty years prior.

As she had the first night, Buffy dropped to her knees and tugged his trousers down his legs; a pair of jeans that he’d thrown on randomly so she wouldn’t feel awkward at his own lack of modesty. And as she had the first night, she brushed a gentle kiss over the head of his cock, coaxing a long moan through his throat.

It had been so long. So bleeding long.

“Buffy—”

She curled her hand around him, and he about exploded with heat. “I always promised myself that if…I promised myself I’d never take you for granted again,” she murmured, her tongue laving a long lap up his erection. He mewled in protest, threading his fingers through her hair. She squeezed him in turn, engulfing the belled tip of him into her searing inferno. “I just never thought I’d get a chance to prove it.”

Spike threw his head back and moaned. “B-Buffy…you don’…you don’t have to prove anythin’ to me.”

“I have to prove it to myself, though.” Her teeth teased his skin, her hand dropping to cup his balls reverently. “It has to be different this time. I owe you so much.”

“Balls.”

She giggled at that, and the sound was harmonious. “Why yes,” she said, squeezing his sac as her mouth drew his cock back inside. “I believe you have those.”

“Minx.”

“Yup.”

She laughed again, and he whimpered again at the feel of the vibrations against him. Hearing her indulge in mirth after so much hurt sent his heart spiraling in some assuredly nancy-boy fashion that would have his inner Big Bad shaking his head in disgrace, but fuck if he cared. Buffy was perfection, and the thought of being the cause of her pain made him feel he deserved every day he’d spent in Hell a thousand times over.

“I owe you for everything,” she continued, mouth releasing him with a wet plop. “For saving me when I didn’t admit I needed saving. For…putting up with—”

“I love you,” he gasped in turn. He swore he saw stars when her hot mouth engulfed his sac. “You can’t stop me…from tryin’… I love you. I don’ know anythin’ else.”

Her hand squeezed the base of his erection as she nibbled on his skin.

“Buffy!”

She murmured something unintelligible and returned her attention to his cock. He thrust into her welcoming mouth without thinking, need taking over in place of consideration. She moaned again in encouragement, and he lost all reserve. The feel of her was beyond anything he had ever experienced. He caught a glance of the mirror and nearly doubled over. Buffy on her knees, pleasuring a phantom lover as he drove himself needily into her hot cavern. She was squeezing him, licking him, tasting him; driving him out of his mind. She swallowed each time his cock struck the back of her throat, and it was too much. It was all too much.

“I’m—”

She nodded her understanding without a need of words, and her bobbing head hit the final nail in the coffin. With a growl, he tightened his hold on her, threw his head back, and came. Thrusting hard against her mouth, releasing himself into her welcoming heat. It didn’t even occur to him that he was holding her hair, refusing to let her go as she swallowed everything he had to give her. Though it was the first thought that struck him when sensibility returned, and he found himself automatically floored with regret.

He collapsed against the counter. “Oh my God.”

Buffy bathed him with her tongue, lapping up everything she had not caught and reviving his erection with a vengeance. She smiled at him when she rose to her feet, her hand dipping between them to grace his cock with a found squeeze. “Alive in there?”

Spike’s eyes were glued to the ground. “’m sorry,” he murmured. “I din’t mean…I was too—”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t’ve…” He met her gaze soberly. “I din’t mean to make you…you know.”

She frowned. “Spike, I—”

“I don’ like forcin’ anythin’, sweetling. Especially not after…” He grew distant again. “I din’t—”

The next thing he knew, she was in his arms, comforting him with the promise of her embrace. God, what he’d done to deserve her was completely beyond him. What she gave him without even trying…he had no idea how in the name of everything holy his path had led him to her. He was just one vampire. One more soul to be salvaged. And somehow, he had found a savior.

“Don’t,” Buffy whispered. “That’s over.”

“I—”

“Living in the past never helps anyone. Trust me, I lived in the past with Angel far too long.”

Somehow, he managed to quell the demon’s need to snarl and break things at the mention of his ponce of a grandsire. He recognized, somehow, that she was using the name as an example; not a tool for making him crawl and beg for acceptance.

“And doing so,” she continued, “stopped me from seeing you for such a long time. I forgave you for that. Just as…just as I’ve always hoped you forgave me for everything I did. Neither one of us were our best that year. I was abusive, you…you were my punching bag. And what happened was…you were a cornered animal, and I kept hitting you with the mindset that you’d never get over it and hit me back.”

“Buffy—”

“I forgave you. That wasn’t you. I know you, Spike. That wasn’t you. That’s not something you would ever do. Not to me.” She paused. “Not to anyone…now…and even then. You’d stopped being what you thought you were a long time ago.”

He nearly forgot that he didn’t need to breathe. “What?”

“Evil.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I don’t want to do this.” She shook her head. “I love you. You’re back. That’s all that matters to me.” She paused. “And I trust you. I trust you more than…you’re the only person that’s never betrayed me.”

Spike’s eyes went wide. “How can you say—”

“My Mom? God love her, she kicked me out of the house. Angel went evil then left me without bothering to tell me, ‘Oh yeah, get over me, please.’ Giles? Tried to kill you. Willow nearly destroyed the world. Xander…let’s not even go there. Riley? Suckjobs from vamps, anyone? And Dawn…she kicked me out of the house, too.” Buffy shook her head. “I wanted you to betray me, do you understand? I was so used to people I loved hurting me…either by leaving me or cutting me out or, well, you name it. I wanted you to be the same. God, I wanted that…but you’re not, Spike. And in the end, all that happened was…I betrayed myself. I shoved you away when I needed you the most. I made you feel like you didn’t matter, when you were all that mattered. Willow brought me out of the grave, but you gave my life back to me. And I never thanked you for that.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until she reached up to wipe his tears away.

“We hurt each other that year…and if you can forgive me…I think we can start forgetting.”

“Forgive you?” he gasped. “Christ, Buffy…”

“Is that a yes?”

“I never…” Spike shook his head. Bloody hell, the tears wouldn’t stop. “It was never a matter of that, pet,” he said. “If there was ever anythin’…of course I…God, Buffy.”

Then he was kissing her. He couldn’t stand to be here and not kissing her for another blasted second. And immediately, the world around them was forgotten. Her arms flew around his neck and all else fell away. She drove him mad with the simplest look; the slightest touch. The scent of her tears mingled with arousal and the heavy aroma of their lovemaking combined with the needy mewls she murmured into his mouth…and it was all too much. All too soon too much.

“Buffy,” he gasped against her, lifting her in his arms. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, her wet pussy sliding against his cock. He carried her into the tub and shoved her against the wall, mauling her mouth with hungry kisses.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

“Oh God.”

He didn’t know which one of them reached for the shower nozzle. The next second, their bodies were soaked with water, and sensationalism, if possible, escalated even further.

Spike’s thumb pressed against her clit, his mouth swallowing her whimper. “So bloody warm,” he whispered. “Have you the foggiest idea what you do to me, baby?”

Buffy murmured against her lips, her hand curling around his cock. He gasped again at the feel of her moist folds against his skin, the look of absolute adoration that flashed across her face sufficiently doing him in. As though she was as lost as he was. “You do it to me, too,” she replied. “I just hadn’t been upfront about it until now.”

Spike smiled gently and lifted her a little, his mouth sweeping an ardent kiss across her shoulder. “Guess we’re even, then,” he murmured, a long sigh tumbling through his throat when she dug her nails into his skin, his cock slipping inside her sheath. “Ohhh…bleeding hell.”

“What?”

“You feel so good. Gets better every time.”

Buffy arched against the wall and mewled. “You’re just…saying that.”

“Uh huh. Jus’ keep tellin’ yourself that.” She squeezed him tight, eliciting a long whimper. He pressed her against the cold tile, burying his face in the crook of her throat as he thrust steadily inside her pussy in slow, languid strokes. His hands slid under her thighs, driving into her with small whimpers of pure adulation. He licked at her neck, nipped at the claim mark that made her his. Held her against him. Buffy’s arms encircled his throat, and he lost himself in the warm feel of her. The hot sensation of her mouth peppering sweet kisses along his skin.

God, she really loved him. He could feel it with every thrust. Every small sigh that tickled her lips. The way her lips were worshipping him. It was nearly too much. A full reflection of what he had felt for so long; Buffy loved him. Holy Christ, Buffy loved him.

Buffy whimpered a bit as his thrusts grew more frantic and she fell back against the wall, her grip on him tightening. “Ohhhh…”

“Love you,” he swore fervently. “I love you so much.”

“Love you.”

Those words…

How often had he made love to her only to have it turn into fucking? How often had he wanted to whisper those words into her hair, but refrained for the fear of her anger? Of her abandonment? And now, he was truly making love with her, and she loved him back.

Fresh tears stung his eyes.

“You feel so good.” Spike met her eyes, plunging his cock deeper within her with every thrust. He stole a kiss from her lips. “So good,” he murmured, one arm wrapped around her waist to hold her as his other hand danced up her damp skin to cup her breast.

Her inner walls squeezed him again and her teeth found his shoulder. “Spike…”

Oh yes. This was worth it. Centuries of pain had nothing on this. He’d do it all over again if he could only have a day with her.

But they didn’t have a day. They had eternity. She was his mate. She had chosen him.

He felt like he was living in a dreamworld; it was all so surreal.

If he was living in a dream, he never wanted to wake.

“I love you,” Buffy gasped, scratching at his skin. He felt her growing tighter and wetter with every drive; felt heat spread across her body as she approached nirvana. He felt it because it was his pleasure, too. There was nothing that the claim failed to enhance. The feel of her body against his, her sweet kisses across his flesh, the words that tumbled from her lips. Nothing. The claim made everything complete.

“I love you, too.” He slid completely out of her, his cock sliding against her moist skin. The thought that she had even doubted that before he had his memory back nearly undid him. As though there was anything but Buffy. He couldn’t fathom the world without her. “I love you so much.”

“Ooohhh.” Buffy sobbed slightly and clutched him tighter. Her body was tight, hot. Even in the cooling cascade of their personal waterfall, she was a package of fire. She attempted to recapture him with every thrust against her sodden folds, whimpering needily every time he denied her what she wanted. “God, Spike, please.”

He sighed and nodded, kissing her shoulder as he sank within her warmth once more. “Mmmm.”

“Spike—”

“You’re a goddess. My hot, fiery goddess.”

His fingers cupped her pussy, gliding over her sodden flesh and massaging her where they were joined. He caressed her clit in speedy, torturous circuits, hungry eyes taking in every desperate mewl that tore through her throat. She was so gorgeous. His own ray of captured sunlight. Her nails were digging into his shoulders, her teeth marring his skin as he slammed into her. She arched into him, her thrusting hips meeting him with every plunge.

“My Slayer,” he murmured into her hair.

“Oohhh…”

“My beautiful mate.”

“Oh God.” A look of impassioned frustration clouded her face when he pulled out of her again, and he had to smile at the picture she presented. Heaving. Panting. Wanting. She had absolutely no idea what she did to him; never truly had. Seeing her so in need of him was his undoing.

If he told her every day what she meant to him, she would never fully know it. There simply weren’t words enough.

“I love you.”

There were times when he felt himself redundant. There were only so many ways to say it, and every time his sentiment escaped him, he felt it wasn’t sufficient. Wasn’t worthy of the depth of what he felt.

Spike slammed into her again with a cheeky swirl of his hips, his hungry eyes swallowing her face as her head flew back against the tile. Her muscles tightened around him, squeezing him into a new life. Their pants mingled as his plunges grew frantic, and she became tighter and wetter with every thrust. His fingers pushed her closer to climax, his lips dropping to her breasts and laving a wet path around her areola before drawing her nipple into his mouth.

“Oh, Spike…”

“Fuck…”

“Spike!”

He released her breast with a wet plop and met her eyes.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured before drawing her into a heated kiss, tongue exploring every inch of her as his fingers pushed her closer to climax. “Come for me, sweetling,” he gasped. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”

“Spike…”

His head dipped once more, his teeth skimming the mark on her throat lovingly. “Need to taste you,” he murmured. “Need to…”

“Do it.”

He required no further invitation. His fangs burst into his mouth, and then her blood was flowing into his mouth. She was heaven, or as close as he would come to it. A once-angel that had saved him so that he could save her; so that they could save each other.

The second her body exploded around his, it was over. The feel of her pleasure rumbling through his skin sent him spiraling headfirst into ecstasy. He thrust inside her desperately as his body experienced the most exquisite bliss he had ever known. He heard his name on her lips. Felt her muscles wringing him—milking him for everything he had to give. Buffy collapsed against his shoulder as his thrusts stilled, the blood in his mouth nearly surreal.

She was completely his. An eternity could pass, and he still wouldn’t wholly believe it.

He didn’t know how much time passed before she stirred. Before he felt her chuckle rumble against his skin. “We didn’t exactly get clean,” she murmured.

Spike smiled and pulled back so that he could see her eyes. “I wasn’ tryin’ to get you clean,” he retorted insolently.

Her answering grin was all he needed.

Someone had once said that in order to move forward, the past had to be forgotten. There was nothing there that either of them could change; nothing that regret would fix. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse, but there was some solace in the fact that what was done was done, and they had a clean slate. Whatever happened between them was now buried in the future, not dictated by past mistakes.

There were things that were unforgivable. He would never understand how she could so easily pardon him for his sin. A soul was only worth so much. Without her to mold the demon, the man the soul made him into wouldn’t exist. There would be remorse, yes, possibly insanity, but he wouldn’t be as he was now.

William was too much of a ponce to sacrifice himself for the world, even if it meant dying a hero. And while Spike’s motives had resided in the notion that the First had to be put down, he knew the underlying issue was giving the Slayer a world she deserved. A world without pain and suffering. Without daily apocalypses. Without dedicating herself to a calling that did nothing but rob her of everything she cared about.

They had both emerged from personal hells. The future had nothing to do with the past. Not now.

This was it, then. The prize at the end of the tunnel. What had been waiting for him in the dark.

He had something now that he’d never had before. Hope. Hope and love, and it was worth everything. It had taken an eternity, but he had gotten here. He’d faced demons and won. Buffy was in his arms. At his side. And there was love in her eyes.

That, unsurprisingly, was all he needed.

After all, it had been all along.

fin

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