Prodigal
by ConfusedMuse

Disclaimer: BTVS and characters belong to Joss Whedon and the Powers the Be (except for any small original characters I might end up using). I'm not making money from this and there's no intent to infringe copyright or intellectual property rights.

A/N I do reserve the right to change ratings and descriptions as time goes on, it depends how out of hand the characters decide to get :)

Part One

He'd put this off for too long. Stalking was the anticipatory stage of the hunt and one he often enjoyed, true, but the waiting was beginning to tell on his limited patience. His hand strayed to the bottle at his side once again, his long fingers making a fist when he reminded himself that he'd need all his wits about him for this encounter. He found his cigarettes and dug a lighter from his jeans pocket, flicking it on and breathing in the smoke as he slouched further down in the driver's seat.

The last time he'd been here had been a night of desperation for all concerned, high drama in every sense of the word. He was desperate to get rid of the psychotic wonder Angelus, to regain Drusilla's attention, and generally all round desperate not to wake up in a hell dimension. She'd been desperate too....Desperate enough to team up with him, to bite that sharp little tongue, to curb that nasty little temper. He grunted to himself. She had to be the most spoiled Slayer he'd ever heard of. So used to getting her own way, all the time, dictator of her sandpit here on the Hellmouth. And yet he remembered the moment of hesitation he'd felt when he'd looked back, Drusilla in his arms, and felt the lead settle in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Angelus killing the feisty blonde.

'Beginning of the bloody end, that was' he thought to himself. Drusilla had been inconsolable when she awoke, the knowledge that Angelus was gone for good tormenting her already fractured mind. Spike had been glad he'd had the foresight to chain her up, or she'd have made a bloody ruin of her own face and no doubt staked him into the bargain. Dealing with her grief laden rage had been even worse than enduring the months in the factory after Angelus had resurfaced, when he could only sit and watch as night after night the lumbering moron walked off with his dark goddess, hearing the taunts and the insults and the laughter. The rage that had slowly turned into ice cold hate and iron determination with every put down that left Angelus' lips had kept him focussed back then, but here with Dru he was left with nothing but regret and despair. Angelus' death had taken Drusilla more surely than his abrupt return and despite everything Spike had done, everything he'd been forced to do to save their love, nothing was going to bring his princess back.

Weeks had passed and Drusilla had shown no sign of calming down. She wore her demon face nearly all the time, curses and epithets flung at him without cease in between wailing for her 'Daddy'. Nothing Spike could do appeased her, not the victims he brought her, the pretty dresses, the jewels...nor the beatings he gave her in his attempts to bring her back to her old self. As always his pain and frustration transformed slowly into rage, his temper on a shorter and shorter leash as the weeks went by, but even his demon couldn't run on hate and anger forever and he was just...tired. Tired of Drusilla's obsession with her sire, tired of listening to her ranting, tired of being alone, and above all, tired of never being enough for the creature he'd once worshipped. He'd killed two Slayers to prove himself to Drusilla, to show how much of an alpha male he was, and still all she wanted was that bore of an irishman with the terminally sloping brow.

One night, he'd gone out to take a break from the nightmare of his existence and had a good long think about when he'd last had fun. When he'd felt the edge, that rush which could almost make his heart beat. In fact, the last time he'd fought, "Fists and fangs flying," he grinned to himself. No contest there. Oh, the fight in the church which had let to his crippling had been glorious, especially goading her into admitting she wanted to fight him. Slayers were never quite as fascinating as when they were gripped by battle lust, and the current one lived for those moments of liberation. But being honest with himself, he had to admit it was just as much fun meeting her mother, teasing her, flirting with her, watching her respond with heat, be it fury or blushing, to any innuendo he threw her way. Hell, the journey would be worth it just to see the look on her stern, pouting face. The following night he'd looked at Drusilla one last time, packed what little gear he kept with him, and told his sire he wouldn't be coming back.

Instead, he'd come back to her. The Slayer, the thorn in his side and the ghost haunting his every unsavoury thought. For nights, he'd been waiting to catch a glimpse of her, a flash of golden hair, a glitter of a hazel eye, but there'd not even been a whiff of her perfume.

'Time to end this, Slayer,' he thought. He opened the door, crushed his cigarette under the heel of his boot, and walked up to ring the doorbell. He grinned wickedly when it was answered.

"Hello, Joyce."

"Oh. What do you want...Spike, isn't it?" At the woman's resigned tone, his eyelids narrowed and he took in her appearance. Joyce Summers looked exhausted, pale and ill, and her shoulders slumped. Everything about her declared here was a woman defeated. She even turned her back to him and trudged down the hall to the kitchen without a backwards glance at him, a wave of her hand all that indicated she knew he was still there. Cautiously, Spike moved forward, inching his way over the threshold, expecting to bounce any second. His eyebrow shot up when he discovered he was still welcome. What the hell was going on?

His eyebrow shot up once again when he saw the half empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter, a generously filled glass in Joyce's hand. He'd been on enough return trips to oblivion to recognise someone who was drinking as though their life depended on it, and the burning ache he'd felt at leaving the young blonde to her duel with Angelus returned with a vengeance. No sign of the girl for days, Joyce drinking, and calling that placed her deliberately in harm's way. 'No. You'd have heard if something had gotten the better of this one. Demons always know,' he told himself, resolutely ignoring the tendril of doubt that sneaked in and suggested he'd been too preoccupied with Dru to pay attention to anything else.

"Joyce, why don't you tell me what's happened?" He opted for tact, deciding that there was always time to downgrade from there if need be.

"Hmm?" The woman seemed to have forgotten all about him. Not a good sign.

"Joyce. What happened? Tell me what happened to Buffy," He sounded calm, but his patience was never his strong point, and he knew he was going to smash something if he didn't get some answers soon.

"She's gone," was the flat response, followed by another, rhythmic swallow from the glass. "She's gone and she's not coming back."

The burning ache he'd controlled earlier ignited into blistering pain and rage, a fuse starting at the base of his spine and running upwards until his demon burst forth in ridges, teeth and claws. He barely suppressed the accompanying roar, his self control shredded and torn. He turned away from the Slayer's mother and opened the back door, standing in the warm Californian dark and letting his demon thrash against the bars of its cage of flesh. Ten minutes later he walked back into the house and took a seat. Like an automaton, Joyce was refilling her glass from the half empty bottle, and seemed vaguely surprised to find a strong hand on hers preventing her.

Spike waited until her focus was on his face, then spoke very carefully.

"Joyce, I need to know exactly what happened. Tell me, please," he stressed the please, keeping his voice low, not wanting to startle the woman and reawaken his demon.

"We had an argument. She and I. After you came by that night. And I, I," tears welled up in her eyes and overflowed, and she hung her head, mussed blonde curls shaking as silent sobs shook her tall frame. Spike's arms automatically went round her shoulders and drew her close, offering silent comfort, and before he could stop himself or question what he was doing, Joyce clutched at the lapels of his duster and clung as sobs shook her body.

Sensations assaulted the vampire's mind. Surprise was the first, closely followed by the demon's notice of a vulnerable victim and blood source practically volunteering itself. Self disgust was high on the list too, but holding a woman in his arms felt familiar, comforting. Of course it was comforting. He'd held Drusilla like this often when she was reliving her past, troubled by visions, or just having one of her fits. And his mother, for the months after his father had died, long before Drusilla had found him. Just as suddenly as it had begun, Joyce pulled back from him and turned to face the window.

"I told her that if she left this house, she shouldn't bother coming back," Joyce's voice was quiet and trembling, as she continued. "I've not seen her since, and I've no idea where she is, if she's still alive, if she's still doing whatever it is she does."

"She's still alive, Joyce," Spike stated, with more assurance than he felt. "I'd have heard it if someone had managed to....If something had happened to her."

She turned then, her hazel eyes flashing. 'So like her daughter's', he thought.

"So where is she, Spike? Why can't we find her?"

"Maybe you've just not got the right hunter," he gave the woman a lopsided smile. "But I think that's about to change."

A/N Hmmm, I know at least 100 people must be reading this from the hits, but only 5 reviews. A girl could starve for attention on that diet :)

Four nights later he was in Los Angeles, his mixture of threats, bribes, called-in favours
and charmed cajoling turning up a couple of tenuous leads. It helped knowing the girl
couldn't drive, and had very little money when she left Sunnydale. It helped even more
knowing a few witches who were quite happy to work for cash rather than karma, and while
they weren't very precise, were certainly able to give him a rough locale. He snorted
derisively: quite why that fop of a Watcher hadn't gone straight to a witch he'd never know.
He supposed that was just the way Watchers were brainwashed: their precious Council and
their Slayers had to be so far above the demons they tried to conceal from the rest of the
world that there couldn't be any grey areas. Or maybe it was just the only way to convince
grown men that hiding behind scared little girls was the destined order of the world.

Spike rolled his shoulders and shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position
against the alley wall. He'd been here since sundown, keeping an eye on anyone coming or
going in the neighbourhood. He knew the chance was slim that he'd see the girl, but he
might, just might, pick up something that shouldn't be here, and that in turn, might have an
idea as to where a blonde morsel of nothing much could be hiding. He lit another cigarette
and let his thoughts drift, digging in for the long haul. He still didn't know quite why he
was on this fool's errand, or what had possessed him to volunteer, come to that.

'Yeah, you do,' a treacherous voice slyly mocked him. This new self-awareness kick was going
to wear thin bloody fast, Spike thought. He would never have been able to turn away from a
crying woman, a woman obviously in distress and needing help or succour. William had been
born a gentleman, and his mother had trained him to know his responsibilities. Spike, on the
other hand.... His lips twisted in a slow leering smile as he took another drag of his
cigarette. The new and improved William had not quite been able to shake off his
conditioning, but he'd done the next best thing, using his manners and understanding of
social station to take advantage of delicate young things in true rakehell fashion.
Corrupting the innocent had been a special game of his for decades, in sharp contrast to the
more violent and warped pleasures Angelus indulged in. Angelus was a common yob, had always
been a yob, and Darla had turned him because she just couldn't resist someone with the same
common lusts as herself, delighting in his brutish behaviour and egging him on at every
damned opportunity. Despite Angelus' obsessive-compulsive need to maintain a low profile, it
was only going to be a matter of time before he'd crossed the wrong people, and the gypsies
had found a truly perfect revenge. The return of Angelus' soul had not given him a
conscience, hadn't given him emotions and hadn't restored his humanity. Nope, the soul gave
Angelus a yardstick by which to measure his worth, to evaluate his existence and his place
in the cosmos. Small wonder then that all the wanker could do was brood and mope, but Spike
found the self pity both laughable and frustrating, a hackneyed, overused act that became
less convincing the more you watched.

Spike sank into a squatting position, heels on the asphalt, leaning back against the rough
brickwork. Everything always seemed to come back to the brooding ponce, but he was gone.
Gone for good, dusted by a young blonde minx who placed duty above all else, where her lover
was just one more sacrifice to add to the pile. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that if
he'd been half a man he'd have done the deed instead. Slayers generally had a hard enough
time walking with one foot in the darkness, and he'd come to admire the Summers girl.
Definitely one of a kind when it came to Chosen Ones, he smiled to himself. Must have broken
something in her, killing her first love. A frown drew his eyebrows together. Angelus had
broken Drusilla too. Spike just hoped that the Slayer hadn't gone completely cuckoo from her
experience.

Sunrise came without the questing vampire seeing, smelling or sensing anything even remotely
supernatural. Except for perhaps the miracle of anyone actually wanting to live in this
complete shit hole. The place practically breathed disenchantment, and the residents would
need a thick skin just to be able to get through the day without becoming suicidal. Spike
retreated to the safety of the sewers as sunlight struggled to assert itself, deciding that
he might need to ask around a little more vigorously. Just the thought of inflicting
unnecessary pain and suffering was enough to raise his spirits and he hummed quietly as he
made his way back to his motel room.

"Nonononononono!" The demon Spike had abducted wailed piteously as he raised his fist again.
The orange skin around one eye was swollen and split, leaking a rather unpleasant smelling
violet ooze, and the creature was clutching at its left arm. The vampire's frustration had
started to become tinged with concern, and as soon as that particular realisation had
dawned he'd let his beast come out to play. The unlucky sod in front of him just happened to
be the first beastie Spike's predatory skills had located.

"Memory beginning to feel jogged, is it mate? Maybe a few more punches'll bring it all into
focus," Spike snarled, his vampiric nature writ all over his features. His closed fist
started its descent while he grabbed the demon's shirt.

"Wait! Wait!" His victim threw up a pudgy, three clawed hand and blinked up at him. "There's
a girl, different, not the usual fodder. Not blonde though. Don't know where she works or
where she lives, but sometimes see her going to The Yard, club not far from here. Might be
the one you're after."

Spike lowered his fist and curled his fingers into the demon's shirt along with his other
hand, curling his biceps and lifting the hapless thing off the floor until they were eye
to eye. "So tell me where exactly I find this club, mate. Got to go get me a girl, y'know?"

The music was loud and pumping, solid beat but no guitars, something Spike lamented. No
lyrics either. He cast a blue eye over the dance floor and smirked. Well, it was good for
getting the luscious girlies to throw themselves around rhythmically, making a man think of
all the other ways they could move, thinking of them struggling and writhing as the beat of
their heart slowed, faltered, grew still while the hot, sweet blood slid down his throat....
With an effort, Spike regained his self control, fought back his demon's blood lust, but
knew he'd have to feed tonight. He'd been putting it off, too busy trying to track down the
elusive Slayer, but there was only so much denial the demon would take.

'But it's not just you've been busy,' his thoughts whispered. 'You didn't want her to
find you guzzling down some hapless punter, did you? Didn't want her to find you with blood
all over your face like a rabid dog.' Well, so what? Finding the bint only to get staked
would be bloody stupid. Better to show some restraint, discretion being the better part of
valour and all that.

As his eyes swept the crowd, the expression dark with intent, a familiar scent teased his
nose, the hairs at the back of his neck rising, and he could barely suppress a growl of
triumph. He closed his eyes and concentrated, following the trail of her, reigning in his
demon's instinctive agitation and excitement, dismissing his reaction as nothing more than
the urge to fight and destroy. What was a little less easy to ignore was the reaction of his
body, the sudden tightening he felt not just in his lower regions but deep within his chest.
Anticipation he could understand but this felt like something more, something he couldn't
identify. Unless...Oh for god's sake! He, the Big Bad, was nervous. Bugger.

He still couldn't see her, and he was getting close to the bar. Pushing the people out of
his way none to gently, he noticed a difference about the scent he was following, like a
discordant note in a chorus. He rounded the end of the crowded bar and saw a small group of
guys and a couple of girls chanting and laughing loudly, roaring approval. There was a flash
of tanned skin between the bodies, the smell of alcohol, and a strident voice asking,
"So, who's next then, boys?"

Spike leaped forward and hurled two young men out of the way, opening the circle. Kneeling
on the table in a tiny purple bustier and black pvc jeans was a lithe brunette, a shot glass
in one hand and a half empty bottle of tequila in the other. Stepping up until he was only
inches away he raised his voice and leered,

"Well, I'll have a go if you're offering, love."
Chapter 3

For one split second he was rewarded with a look of surprise on her face, hazel eyes widening, before a cunning smile twisted her lips and she raised her chin.

"Kinda jumping the line there, but I'll let you off just this once. Although it does mean you get to hold the salt and the lime," she teased, grinning wickedly. She vaulted agiley from the table onto her feet, and Spike noticed she was wearing heeled calf length boots that added a good four inches to her height. Moving in close she stalked round him, turning him until his back was to the table then stepped away, hands on her hips. He took in the sight of her, stunned; gone were the shoulder length honey blonde waves that had shone like a beacon when she was fighting, replaced by a burgundy tinted brunette mane of curls that reached almost to her waist. He was reminded of a long gone Hallowe'en night where once again the Slayer had been in his grasp, only for her to slither away at the last minute, and he realised now, as then, the colour suited her. Her tan seemed paler now that it was framed with dark tendrils, her pupils seeming to glow, the colours shifting between burnt ochre and forest green and rimmed with thick, sooty kohl. This version of Buffy Summers had stopped flirting with darkness: she'd wooed and won it and the darkness was now her willing slave.

"Gonna have to take the leather off, babe," she smiled, red lips glistening at him. Holding eye contact he did as she said, pride swelling when her tongue slid out to chase briefly over the dark gloss she was wearing. The encouraging cat calls from the other nearby women didn't hurt his ego either and he flexed just slightly, knowing his black shirt was tight enough to make it a good display. He had an idea where this was going, but this was not the Slayer he'd seen blush crimson every time he'd made an off colour joke or double entendre. Now she was moving closer and his eyes dropped to where her bustier moulded her flesh into a deep cleavage, taking in the sway of her hips and shoulders, moving up to the pulse point on her neck. His demon was eager to be let loose, but Spike had self control when he wanted. He was going to let this game play out for the moment.

Grinning arrogantly, he put his hands behind him to prop himself against the table, his lean hips thrusting forward. "Liking what you see, pet?" He goaded her, wondering just how far she'd take this.

"Not enough's on show for me to make a decision on that," she dared him, gliding closer, eyes sparkling with amusement. Spike lifted one curved eyebrow, maintaining eye contact, deep blue to hazel, and wondered what was going on. The Slayer he'd encountered in Sunnydale had been a passionate firebrand when it came to her duty, but he'd come to realise that it was the only time she ever indulged her wild side. Yet here she was with a naughty twinkle in her eye, as though she knew exactly the effect she had on the opposite sex. Not to mention the outfit, of which he definitely approved. Good job she'd never gone patrolling in that little ensemble back in Sunnydale - Spike reckoned she'd have been able to dust him while his jaw was still on the floor.

He'd watched her with hooded lids as she advanced, shifting his weight and spreading his legs wider, deliberately emphasising the tightening bulge in his black jeans, returning the dare, and she didn't disappoint. As she stood between his knees he could feel the energy, the power, and her heat was burning through his clothes to his cool skin. He gripped the table edge behind him harder, concentrating hard to impose his will on the demon within, the muscles in his lower arms corded and tense. He looked down into her face, her eyes greener than he remembered,in contrast with her now dark hair, and barely registered the mischievous flicker before her hands balled into his t-shirt and jerked sharply. The fabric gave with an almost wet sound, peeling back from his body. The crowd around them let out a variety of squeals and roars of approval but Spike was aware of nothing but the girl, no, the woman in front of him. The eye contact was so intense that he thought he must now know how victims of Medusa felt, turned to stone forever in just one glimpse, unable to move to save themselves. Her body slowly curved even closer, her fingertips brushing lightly over his hard muscled torso, breathably close and yet still out of reach, and for the merest second pressed against him as she reached around him for something on the table. Spike was trembling with anticipation, with the urge to let his demon erupt and feast utterly on the creature teasing him so deliciously, his restraint almost worn to the quick. The trickle of something cold and wet on his smooth chest distracted him enough to win his inner battle, but when he looked down and saw her fingers squeezing a lime onto him drop by drop he had to throw his head back and groan quietly. He knew his eyes had warped to amber, he could feel his fangs pressing urgently against his lips in the same way that other areas of his body were screaming to be released. The torture was exquisite and he couldn't but wonder where she'd learned such sophistication. His hair was pulled, his head jerked forward, blonde hair mussed into curls by her fingers as she made him meet her gaze again.

"Now, now, stay with me here or I might have to punish you for being a bad boy," the Slayer admonished, pouting slightly. The darkening look in her eyes let him know that she wouldn't find punishing him a chore, far from it, and Spike felt a shiver run unexpectedly up his spine. He leered at the Slayer and licked his lips, determined at least to challenge her for control.

"And what if I've been very, very bad? What if I'm the Big Bad himself?" he taunted her, letting his eyes roam over her petite frame once more.

"Then I'm sure I could find a way to make you huff and puff," she smirked, hearing the squeals from the gathered females. "Now, hold still...if you can!"

With lightening speed Spike found a thin slice of lime popped in his mouth. He assumed the Slayer's speed took a lot of guys unaware, but he didn't have that problem, and was surprised she'd forgotten what he was capable of. His blunt teeth trapped her delicate finger, his mouth sucked once, quickly, and his tongue flicked over the end. Two could play the teasing game and he'd been playing for a lot longer. He heard her gasped intake of breath, the sudden increase in heartrate, smelt the fresh adrenaline as it flooded her system. He held it for a split second only before he relinquished the digit, but it definitely appeared to have the desired effect. Her brows drew together in a slight frown, and he recognised the expression of a prudish, righteous Slayer about to pummel him senseless. So she was still in there somewhere, he mused.

All thoughts fled as he felt a grainy substance sprinkled over his chest, clinging to him where the lime juice had coated his skin. He'd known what was going on simply by the bottle of tequila; after all, it didn't take a genius IQ and a tweed outfit to recognise a shot party, but body shots? He'd have bet easy money that the Sunnydale Slayer hadn't known what these were six months ago. He fleetingly wondered if she'd have the guts to go through with it, then found his back arching with the sensation of her tongue trailing between his pectorals, lapping at the salt, a cry that became a growl ripping from his throat. His demon burst loose, need and desire swamping Spike's control. He barely registered his hands convulsing and breaking the table with a sharp crack as Buffy took a swig from the bottle she held, and then one hand was in her dark hair, the other wrapped round her waist as he dragged her to his mouth. He tasted the bitterness of the tequila as they shared the sliver of lime in his mouth, but it was obliterated by the aroma and scent of the Slayer pressed against his body. She was responding to his possession of her, welcoming his tongue as she sucked lightly on it, kissing him back, letting him devour her, lips, teeth and tongues duelling, dancing, needing. He'd reared back to strike at her neck before he realised it, his long fingers in her hair tugging her head backwards to expose more of the vulnerable flesh. Gods above and below, she smelled so intoxicating, the sweet smell of her skin reminding him of honeysuckle and jasmine, overlaid with musk. The roar of her blood and the thunder of her heartbeat urged him on and his lips touched her pulse point, a whispered foreshadowing as his fangs slid from his gums.

A/N: Huge thanks go to Diabola and Chicklet for beta-ing this chapter. As always, their input makes it better.
A big thank you to everyone reviewing too - the encouragement and positive feedback works wonders!

Disclaimer: All IP right to Buffy, Spike and BtVS belong to Joss and the Powers That Be. No infringements of those rights is intended or should be inferred.

Chapter 4

The next moment Spike was doubled over, trying to stay on his feet, agony coursing through him as his hands cradled his groin.

"Be back in a bit, guys," he heard her saying through the disorienting pain, then felt a warm, manicured hand close none too gently round his upper arm. He was dragged off, senses still reeling, only vaguely noticing a door slamming behind them cutting down the thumping beat in the club. Hauling him down a corridor and into a small room harshly lit by fluorescent strips, the Slayer pushed him unceremoniously onto a couch.

"I just don't believe it," he heard amusement in her voice, laced with condescension. Her tone cut  through his suffering and made him straighten up to look at her. His turquoise, angry eyes fastened on her green ones.

"What are you having problems with, pet? The fact that I nearly had you or the fact that you wanted me to?" He retorted, cursing himself for getting into this situation. Damn this girl! Someday soon he was going to take this latest humiliation out of her hide. With interest.

She laughed then, a short, mocking sound. The only humour he detected was black, joyless and never something he'd dreamed of hearing escape Buffy's lips. It made her seem older, cynical.

'Broken,' the word sprang unbidden to his tongue. 

"Still delusional then. Well, I guess it's good to see some things don't change," the Slayer lazily reached across the room and spun a chair in front of her, settling into it with an easy grace. Crossing her legs and resting her elbow on her knee, hand cupping her chin, she leaned forward.

"So what's a demon like you doing in a place like this?" She breathed, appraising him with a disturbingly intent look.

Spike leaned back, the spasms from her assault receding, and stretched out on the sofa, propping himself up on his arms.

"Just looking around, seeing what's on offer," he let his eyes slide over every inch of exposed flesh, trying to bait her.

"Says the vampire who's half naked," she observed, raising an eyebrow and raking her gaze across his pale chest.

Belatedly, alarm bells sounded in Spike's head. In the past his sexually predatory ways had always scattered the Slayer's composure to the winds; her current assertive attitude sounded a little too confident for his liking. The rules of the game had changed and he wondered if that was in his favour.

"I seem to recall it was you tearing my clothes off, love. Feeling a bit frustrated, are you? I'm sure I could think of a way to help you relieve some tension, if I put my...mind, to it," 

He couldn't help himself. He knew he was asking for trouble but with the memory of her tongue on his chest, scalding like holy water, he just had to push his luck.

Buffy sighed, rising from her chair and stretching her arms above her head. Spike eagerly watched her movements, noticing how the stretch revealed just a little more of her bosom above the confines of her bustier top. His fangs descended again, and he felt an answering throb from between his legs that told him he was fully recovered from her idea of a bucket of cold water. Turning her back to him she crossed the room, dainty hand grasping the doorknob, and  paused for a moment, leaning against the jam.

"Much as I'm loving our little reunion, I have to get back to work. I'll ask one of the guys to get you a shirt when I go back out front. Don't come back here, Spike. There won't be a second warning."

With that, the door clicked shut and she was gone. Spike cursed and strode to the door, discovering too late that it had locked behind her. He pounded against it for a few minutes before realising it was reinforced steel. Swearing under his breath, he sat back on the couch and ran his hands through his hair, thinking.

He'd let himself get carried away, forgotten what he was here for. Forgotten Joyce as she cried on his shoulder, distraught, guilt ridden and anxious about her daughter's fate.

He remembered the first time he'd met Joyce; the night of his truce with the Slayer, when they had thrown out the hasty lie that he and Buffy were in a rock band together. The woman had been horrified at the thought. He could just imagine Joyce's face if she'd seen Buffy tonight: it would destroy her completely. And Buffy, oh gods, whatever had happened in the mansion after he'd left with Drusilla had caused this transformation. He wondered how he was going to sort this mess out. Joyce wouldn't thank him if he returned Buffy to her like this, and Buffy didn't seem to want to go anywhere.

'Thought you'd ride in on your white horse, whisk the upset and lonely princess off her feet and back into the loving arms of her family, didn't you, you ponce?' Spike thought to himself, shaking his head. Twelve decades and he was still naive, pathetic William underneath it all.

What was he, a demon, the Big Bad, doing trying to be prince charming anyway? He was evil, a killer, a feared hunter with a history so terrible they'd called him the Scourge of Europe. He slaughtered Slayers, didn't nursemaid them and bring them home to have tea with their mothers.

'But you were never enough of a monster for Drusilla,' the treacherous thought was insidious. He'd not been good enough as a human to rescue the princess, and as a demon he'd never been quite big enough or bad enough to win the girl. He was pathetic. What the hell was he doing here?

Through his frustration and annoyance he felt the bloodlust rising, the comforting white heat of his rage, causing him to lash out, shouting inarticulately as he kicked the chair she'd been sitting on across the room to break against the wall.

The door opened and a tall, muscled black guy stood impassively, holding a white t shirt and his duster.

"Beth said you needed a shirt, so here you go. Said to make sure you left, too," the man added, folding his arms as Spike relieved him of the clothes.

'Beth now, is it?' He almost snorted out loud. Suppose it made sense - yet another maiming of a perfectly good name.

"Right you are. Which way 's out from here?" He asked as he shrugged his trademark coat back onto his shoulders.

The black guy just nodded to a fire exit at the end of the hall, and Spike could feel his eyes boring into him until he was outside in the alley, the door firmly closed behind him.

"Wondered when you were going to show up," a Brooklyn accented voice said from the shadows. "I really gotta stop meeting vampires like this," it continued as a short dark haired man moved forward.

"And you would be who exactly, mate?" Spike took in the stranger, then inhaled deeply through his nose. "Or should I be asking, what?"

"Call me Whistler," his new companion introduced himself. The guy looked like a lounge lizard, the hat, the loud jacket, the dreadful trousers and loafers combination.

Spike rolled his eyes, figuring this was a local recruiting drive.

"And what do you want …Whistler?"

"Same thing you do, well, not quite, but close enough," the demon grinned.

"I'm not really in the mood for a round of 'what's my line', so can we hurry along here?" Spike's irritation was peaking again.

He was in absolutely no mood to be dealing with a local turf war tonight. All he wanted a drink, blood, and somewhere to think, well, somewhere to do other urgent things too. Whistler held his hands up, palms out.

"Whoa, there. How about we go get a drink and talk about it? I'm here for the same reason you are - to get the Slayer back."

The vampire's blue eyes narrowed, the look in them icy. "What do you know about it?"

"There's a bar just down the block. Let's go," the smaller demon led the way, not looking back to see if Spike was following.

~*~*~*~*~

They settled in a booth in the rather dingy bar Whistler had picked, a bottle of whiskey on the table between them.

"Get on with it, then," Spike growled, becoming more irate as the night moved on. Too many complications, and it seemed more were coming. He was beginning to think it would've been easier to stay with Dru.

"We've got a bit of a problem," Whistler started then broke off,  choking as Spike's hand closed round his throat.

"Stop stating the bleeding obvious. First off, who's the 'we' you're talking about? Then get to the specifics about the Slayer. I've had enough thrills and spills for the kiddies this evening, and if you don't start talking sense soon, I am going to take my frustration out on the nearest available target."

Whistler coughed and tugged at the neck of his shirt as soon as Spike released him, downing his whiskey and refilling his glass.

"I'm with the good guys. You know, the Powers?" He looked up and Spike nodded curtly, watching him. "The whole Acathla thing threw us. Angelus wasn't supposed to be the one responsible for awakening him, and the prophecy screwed up. Now, the Slayer, that is, Buffy Summers, not the newly called Slayer; Buffy stopped it. But not before Angelus woke Acathla. Anyway, you know how bad things were at the end there, especially for the girl," Whistler noticed as Spike winced slightly, but wisely didn't comment.

"It doesn't help that there aren't supposed to be two active Slayers at once. But see, the problem we have now is even worse. The Seers are seeing too many corrupted timelines, too many variable futures. Prophecies are unravelling. If we can't figure out how to fix it, we might end up wishing Acathla had swallowed the world whole," Whistler finished his drink and went for a third.

"Fix what? You haven't told me what the problem is yet, you stupid wanker," Spike felt his anxiety rising, he hadn't been lying when he'd told the Slayer that he didn't want this world to go up in flames.

"You saw her tonight, Buffy, I mean?"

"Just a bit, yeah," he grinned, remembering.

"Anything seem...different, to you?"

"You mean besides the bad girl attitude and matching outfit?" Spike caustically remarked.

"Yeah, besides that. Those are just symptoms. Anything else?" Whistler watched the vampire in front of him closely as he looked at the table, avoiding the smaller demon's eyes.

"Well, she...flirted with me. Unheard of. Not unexpected, but not like her at all," Spike confessed, his ego swelling with the memory.

"So what you're saying is that the Slayer ran into you in a bar, knew you for a soulless evil vampire, and not only didn't stake you but flirted heavily?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Spot the glaring change?" Whistler pushed, resisting the urge to shake the blond.

"Still having trouble getting past the outfit, personally. You should have seen her," Spike chuckled.

"The Vampire Slayer didn't stake you. Didn't threaten to stake you. Didn't try to perform her sacred duty, and you, as a vampire, don't think this is unusual? I'm wondering how you survived this long, frankly," Whistler shook his head in dismay.

Spike bristled at his companion's comment, then his eyes widened and he slapped his forehead.

"Bloody hell. I'm really not on the ball, am I?"

"Thought had crossed my mind," Whistler muttered.

"Hey watch it, I heard that," Spike shot him a withering glance. "So the Slayer's just not doing her job? Can't be that much of a big deal, you just said there's another one."

"Yes, there is another Slayer. That's not the point. If it was a simple question of Buffy Summers retiring there wouldn't be all this collateral damage. There's something else, and we're not entirely sure what it is. We've got a hunch, though."

"And? The tension 's killing me. You ever watch soap operas?"

"Not if I can help it. We think she's a demon," Whistler polished off the last of the alcohol. "I really wish I could get drunk," he sighed regretfully.

Spike hastily swallowed the mouthful of amber liquid he'd taken; loathe to waste a drop but close to thoroughly spraying Whistler in his disbelief.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"That's our best guess. We're in uncharted territory on this one. Slayers have been turned in the past but a simple vamping's never caused anything like this, 'cause the next Slayer gets called and that's generally the end of it. The process of being turned into a vampire isn't like the resurrection that happened when Buffy drowned - it's just death. This time, it looks like all hell is going to break loose. And believe me when I say I mean that literally."

"No, hold up, no way she was a vampire. I hate to point this out, but she had a pulse and body heat. Lots of body heat," he shivered.

"Like I say, we don't know what she is. We think she's been elevated, but we're not sure."

"Sounds to me like you don't know much, mate. Aren't the Powers supposed to be all knowing and the like?" Spike pointed out. He had a nagging feeling he was about to get saddled with more responsibility than he was prepared to shoulder.

"It's not that easy, and if we knew how it was all going to turn out there wouldn't be much point to life, would there? But I'm not here to get dragged into Philosophy for Dummies. You've been tagged for this one, buddy."

Spike leaned close, blue eyes flickering to amber.

"Think you've forgotten something important, mate," he growled. "Evil vampire, not a bleeding white hat."

"Uh huh. That's why you're here in LA, looking for our wandering heroine. Cause you're all evil. Right," Whistler raised his eyebrows, refusing to be intimidated by the temperamental demon in front of him.

"Let me put it this way: like it or not, you've been selected as a player. What you do about it is up to you. It's always up to you, in the end. Your choices, your actions. One of the big secrets of the universe, so don't say I didn't tell you nothin', alright?"

Whistler slid from the booth and walked out of the bar. Spike got to his feet and pursued him, but outside the bar there was no sign of the badly dressed messenger. Shrugging his shoulders Spike figured he might as well finish the bottle he'd left on the table.

Disclaimer: BtVS is owned by Joss Whedon and the Powers That Be. No intention to infringe copyright should be inferred.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, it really helps both in motivation and in improving the story. Huge thanks to Diabola for the beta on this chapter!

Prodigal

Chapter Five


"Not a white hat. Never gonna be a sodding white hat. I'm the Big Bad," Spike muttered, slumping in his seat.

'So having dragged your sorry arse all this way to be a hero, as soon as you're offered a chance you're just going to walk away? Priceless, you total git,' the rational part of Spike sneered in disgust. He struggled to think of a suitable response. Ah yes. It was William that wanted to be the hero, William that wanted to save the day, not him, not Spike. Spike wanted destruction, not salvation, wanted to ravish, not romance. There was his argument. And he was Spike, not William. Not any more.

'You'll always be William. Spike's just your excuse,' his subconscious was getting to be a real pain in the arse. Spike wondered how much whiskey he'd need to drown it out.

'Oh I'm not going anywhere. Think how much worse this introspection would be with a hangover.' Spike groaned. He was finally going mad. All that time with Drusilla had taken its toll, now he was arguing with himself.

'Just can't get past your stubborn childish streak is all. You've got the opportunity to do something right for once in your miserable existence and you're gonna throw it all away because you can't handle the responsibility. Yeah, just go ahead and carry on being the Big Bad. What was so Big and Bad about you anyway? Killed two slayers, only 'cause they were tryin' to kill you; killed people, well bugger it, even humans do that just for scratching the paintwork on their tacky Japanese cars. Let's face it, hanging around your girlfriend for a hundred years and getting into scraps really isn't that villainous, mate.'

Spike thought about that. It's true that when he was in a temper he could be vicious, but he'd never been callous or cruel. Well, not often. Maybe he was more Moriarty than Jack the Ripper, the heist mastermind rather than the psychopath. Unbidden, his mind's eye conjured scenes from some of the evening parties he and Drusilla had held. No, he couldn't delude himself into thinking he was better than a savage beast, delighting in the terror and pain of his victims as surely as he relished the taste of their blood on his tongue.

'This is your chance. You can prove you're better than just Angelus' mongrel offspring. Keep your word to Joyce, and maybe save the world into the bargain. You never know, perhaps wicked could be just as much fun as evil. End of the day, what do you really have to lose?'

'Only your self respect and your reputation', his demon bristled. Just look at his own attitude towards the sulking forehead, for instance. A legend among the denizens of the demon community, Angelus had inspired fear, hate and downright envy for decades; now he was viewed with contempt across the globe by even the slimiest Fyarl demon. Until Angel had turned up in Sunnydale it had been widely assumed he'd walked out into the dawn, and while his involvement in the Master's death had caused ripples of unease among his peers he wasn't perceived as a threat, only an object of pity. Spike was damned if he'd end up like the poofter.

'The poofter didn't have any problem getting together with the Slayer though,' his libido weighed in with the first good thought he'd had tonight.

He couldn't deny the effect the Slayer's kiss had wrought, the brief taste he'd enjoyed enough to make his blood boil and leave him craving more. Left him wanting to find out what other tricks she had up her sleeve, or should that be 'down her cleavage'? The idea of finding out stirred his cock for the third time that night, and suddenly his inner turmoil resolved itself into one goal. He was going to rescue Buffy from herself. He was just going to do it his way and in his own good time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The club was finally cleaned and shut down for the night, and Buffy was pleased to wrap up and hit the fresh air. Spike's appearance that night at the club had been unexpected, a shock, but not an unpleasant one. She ran a hand across her collarbone and felt the tightening in her stomach. Not unpleasant at all, she reflected, recalling the feel of his cool silken skin taut over his mouth-wateringly hard muscles, the taste of him against her tongue. A frisson of arousal lashed through her body, making her sigh. She'd always wondered what Spike would be like to kiss, and her first meeting with the charismatic monster played before her mind's eye.

She'd run outside the Bronze just in time to stake a goon vamp attacking some unfortunate girl, and felt a chill running through her when she'd heard mocking claps behind her. Her body had been trembling from the joy of the kill, the endorphin high thrumming in every muscle, a subconscious arousal peaking when she whirled to face the new threat. Everything about the blond vampire screamed dangerous, from the look of frank interest in his deep blue eyes, to the arrogant smile gracing his lips, the gorgeous high cheekbones. Oh, and the leather. Mustn't forget that. And she couldn't deny the pure, basic attraction she'd felt like a kick in the stomach. He was everything a good girl like her shouldn't want, but even the Slayer wasn't immune to the temptation of the forbidden.

The single-mindedness with which he'd hunted her had only increased the fascination, each encounter building the tense connection between the two of them, culminating in the fight in the church where she'd thrilled to hear his confession that he would rather fight with her.

Being honest with herself, while saving Angel had been her priority that day, at the back of her mind was the realisation that with Drusilla healed there would be nothing to hold Spike in Sunnydale. That knowledge had been accompanied with relief; if Spike was gone she'd be able to stop thinking about him and all the ideas that his innuendos caused to flourish in the dark corners of her imagination.

Pressing one hand to her forehead as she walked, the Slayer firmly refused to follow her mind's journey down memory lane to its full conclusion. It had taken a while but she had left the pain behind her, which was where it was going to stay.

She wondered where Spike and Drusilla were hiding out; after all, there was never one without the other, in her experience. Buffy owed Drusilla some payback on the man stealing front, and in her mind, that would be two birds with one stone. She'd finally indulge her curiosity about William the Bloody, and Drusilla would know how it felt to watch a lover wrapping themselves around someone else. His lust tonight had been apparent, and she knew that her offhand dismissal of him would only increase his determination to force himself into her new life. He'd always been an attention seeker.

'I'll give him so much attention he'll be begging for mercy,' she smiled to herself. Lost in her plans for the blonde vampire she nearly missed the jewel in one of her bracelets glowing a deep crimson.

"Oh crap. Just what I need right now," Buffy scowled, muttering under her breath. Using her left hand, she traced a sigil in front of her, the air a smoldering trail behind her fingertip, and then the alley was empty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike ambled back to the extremely downmarket motel he'd holed up in, plans and strategies buzzing in his head. He'd sated his hunger for blood, waylaying a cute twenty-something and kissing her so soundly she was oblivious when his fangs  finally broke her skin.

He'd not drained the girl to death, reasoning that even if Buffy hadn't staked him that night, even if everything Whistler had told him was true, and Spike was sceptical to say the least,; he wasn't about to give the Slayer a reason to resize him to fit into an ashtray should she be of a mind to do so. He could take the blood he needed without killing, and while sometimes the fear of a victim was fun, seduction often suited him so much better. Maybe that was the attraction of the Summers girl, he mused. Violence and sex in one tantalising package.

He keyed open his room and shrugged out of his duster, the borrowed white t-shirt following in short order. Perching on the end of the bed Spike pulled off his boots and socks, then he lay back, feet on the floor, enjoying the comfort of the mattress after so many days of travelling and tracking.

Spike was about to move to the shower when his hand brushed over the slightly sticky spot on his chest and brought the sensations of the night rushing back, causing an instant reaction in his groin. He closed his eyes and groaned, summoning a full recall of the incredible episode as he unsnapped the fastening on his jeans and freed his swollen cock.

In his imagination, after the first kiss, his hands trailed over the Slayer's body, fingertips brushing over her skin and raising goosebumps in their wake. Instead of the demon seizing control, he ran his tongue down the side of her neck, reaching her shoulder and nibbling, restraining his need to sink first his teeth and then his sharper fangs into her soft fragrant flesh.

Her head tipped back, long hair tickling his knuckles where his hand was massaging the curve of her ass though her skirt. A moaning sigh leaving her throat as she pressed herself to him, one delicate hand balanced on his shoulder; the other snaked lower, gliding over his muscles and causing them to contract at the gentle stimulation. Her hot fingers slid lower, pausing at the waistband of his jeans only long enough to open the fly before continuing their downward journey. He hissed in pleasure at the first touch, her firm grasp around the base of his cock making him leap in her hand.

On the bed Spike's hand wrapped tightly round himself and with a long, practiced stroke he fell deeper into his fantasy.

Using his nose and lips to burrow into the cups of her bustier, he licked a long line between the concealed mounds of her breasts while his free hand found the back of her knee and his palm swept up her thigh, fingers pressing into the supple, muscular limb and finding the heated barrier of her panties. A breathless gasp rewarded him when he pressed against the pliant softness of her centre and he felt the fabric become slick under his touch.

Her teasing hand left his trousers and she pushed him back, peeling herself away from his body and mouth, luminous green eyes locked with darkened sapphire and held while the Slayer sank to her knees before him. She parted his fly and revealed him, straight and quiveringly hard; Spike watched as her mouth hovered over him and she breathed on the weeping tip, scorching him. His whole body tensed, fighting to control both his lust and his demon and he growled softly, missing the glint in her eye as she brandished a fresh lime. The first splash of juice sluiced along his length and his strangled curse became a hoarse shout the next second, when her tongue swiftly lapped at the trickle and his skin.

"Gods...Slayer," he groaned in pleasure, his hand tangling in her hair once more.

She responded by sliding her mouth onto his shaft, tongue cradling the underside of him until he nudged the back of the wet, hot cavern and only then closing her lips tightly around his girth with a powerful suck. His hips jerked and Spike knew he wouldn't be able to withstand this assault for very long. Buffy drew back, the suction of her mouth pulling all the way to his spine, turning him to jelly, and flicked her strong tongue around the head of his cock before she plunged down upon him and establishing a rhythm that mimicked her pounding pulse.

He was completely surrounded by her, the radiant heat of her body, the scent of her arousal, and overlaying it all, the sound of her heart pumping a frantic tattoo. Soon, Spike felt the inexorable approach of his orgasm. The kneeling Slayer moaned around him, and the vibration was all it took for him to scream her name in ecstasy and lose himself, his climax pouring into her mouth.

She held him for a moment, each tremor drawing a gasp and a whimper from him, before she rose to her feet, smiling at the spent vampire before her. Smiling, Buffy raised the tequila bottle to her lips and took a small swig, her hands holding his head as she pressed her lips to his. He opened his mouth to her and tasted his salt mixed with the bitterness of the alcohol on her tongue. His arms held her tightly against him while he kissed her, shudders of pleasure rippling through him even when she withdrew to breathe, and they shared the slow, satisfied smile of lovers.

Spike opened his eyes, the cool wetness of release on his stomach and fingers, and inhaled deeply, startled by the ferocity of his lust. He definitely needed that shower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy closed the door to her apartment and immediately began to strip out of her boots and clothes. Her new life came with perks, and while she enjoyed them to the full, some of the downsides were a drag. Or sometimes a splatter.

She made her way across the hardwood floor, trailing soiled clothing as she went. One of the perks was this apartment: an uncluttered, spacious loft, with a split level. The upper section was her bedroom, and the utilities were on the lower: kitchen, living area and her favourite - the bathroom. She had used the funds she'd been given by her boss to indulge herself fully and remodelled, which meant she was greeted with a large sunken tub, automatic lighting and a shower big enough to double as a closet when she reached her haven. Sighing happily, she turned the taps on, combing her long dark hair while the bath filled.

The young woman she saw in the mirror was a far cry from the girl who'd routinely battled vampires and the other creatures of darkness that ran rampant in Sunnydale, home of the Hellmouth.

Upon her arrival in LA, she'd had barely enough money to make rent on a grubby one room apartment, let alone visit the hair salon for her regular tinting, and her natural brown began to show. As it grew longer, Buffy had decided she quite liked the look, so she simply found a color to match.

That wasn't really the main difference, however. Her posture was more confident, her walk had become more of a strut and her mouth curled more easily into a sneer than a smile. The change she was proudest of however, was the absence of haunted horror in her clear hazel eyes. Whistler had been so right when he'd said she had one more thing to lose, and she found she didn't miss it at all.

 

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