Spike drove slowly by the Doublemeat Palace, and tried to ignore Buffy so he could assess the place. Crap. He’d gone by it the other night in order to avoid the customers, and he’d been successful, but he hadn’t gotten a real feel for the place. He’d been too consumed with her, being alone with her, after the missed meetings, the charade before her friends. He thought of his Slayer, who defeated demons with a quip and a well-placed weapon, and wondered how to amend the situation.

     He watched the customers flock to the counter, yelling out their orders, yelling at Buffy, the stink of the place overwhelming him from across the street.  The uniforms were garish, the hats designed to cause the maximum amount of humiliation in the wearer. And what on earth did places like that pay? Five bucks an hour? Six? Even after eight long hours, it was only forty bucks. How could he have missed it?

    Her, of course. It was that simple. How was he supposed to concentrate on anything else? He’d crept closer, watching her through the window, thinking about that first moment, the kiss that started it all, her lips slamming against his, the struggle across the floor, the building shaking around them. The desperate search for some anchor in a world that shivered around them, and finding out the only anchor was one another. He swallowed now as he remembered it.  That kiss…..oh, and then everything after……

    He shook himself.  That wouldn’t do at all. He couldn’t concentrate like this.

    What on earth could Buffy do, though?

    He watched her standing disconsolately at the counter, and knew there was something he could do. Had to be, and it had to be beyond this horrible place. She wasn’t supposed to be waiting on these ghastly, ungrateful people----it was bad enough she had to save their ungrateful asses over and over again, she had to serve them stupid food. She’d been resigned to it the other night, having waitressed before, but this wasn’t waitressing; there were no tips here. He watched her, and he found himself getting tired. 

She did the same thing over and over again; wiping, cleaning, running, fetching, smiling at idiots who chewed with their mouths open. He watched people stand in line for ten minutes, get to the front, and then make up what passed for their minds. There was a guy who ordered a huge pile of food, then whipped out a checkbook, and when told, evidently, that the restaurant didn’t take checks, he drew himself up to enormous heights, bellowing, and then spitefully knocked a cup of soda onto the counter. Some of the liquid splashed across Buffy’s uniform. The customers snickered, and he vamped out so abruptly that his chip blazed a warning across his skull. He clutched his head, waiting for it to end, and wondered why it was even necessary to have a Vampire Slayer. Obviously what was really needed was the Slayer of Rude Bastards. 

He watched in horror as a swaggering git dressed in head-to-toe logo wear sauntered up to the counter, and preened while he ordered. Spike, even without the vamp vision, could see that nothing the twit was wearing had his own initials on it, and amended his earlier proposal to Slayer of Rude Bastards Who Dress Badly.  

    Good God, more people were lining up. The place was an ant farm, the line snaking around velvet ropes, the drive through bumper to bumper. What did they put in those burgers? Drugs?  Buffy smiled, took orders, cleaned, smiled, took orders, wiped counters, watched as careless gits carelessly spilled stuff, and just as carelessly shrugged it off.

    Spike watched and thought of Dawn, trying to get a paper route with a broken arm that someone caused. Who, he suddenly wondered, was paying for those medical bills?  He’d lay money it wasn’t Willow.

     All Buffy needed, he thought, was some respite. That was all. Not to be bailed out, just enough so that she could take a breather, rest, not deal with anything. She needed long dreamless nights without nightmares about bills, time to recharge her batteries. Couldn’t they see that?

   He wasn’t even sure who they were. He just knew if he waited around for some of her friends to do something, he’d die of old age. One last try, he thought. Maybe if he just talked to her…..

   But she was so bloody proud.  Had to do it herself. It was one of the things he liked about her, not loved, but liked, the way she was so ferocious about doing it herself, coping.  The problem is, she had been so good at it for so long, that when she had too much to do and cope with, she didn’t know it was acceptable to get help. 

    He’d help, he thought. He had to. He was prescient enough to realize there was a certain selfishness there; he just couldn’t bear to see her like this.

    He shook his head at his own foolishness; picturing nothing more than the two of them as they had been in her bed before the nightmare, wrapped around each other, all warm from the bath, just sleeping, an act that somehow seemed almost more intimate than the sex. At least it would till both of them were making love and not just him. 

    He sighed and waited for the rush to end.

   It was the smell that defeated her, the smell on top of the cheerful visit from her friends. How on earth could they visit like that, be perky, when she felt as bad as she’d ever felt?  Weren’t they supposed to see that? Wasn’t that sort of the definition of friendship? Were they even looking at her?

    It was hard to say what was worse about the place;  the comatose coworkers, the hours, or the smirking customers.  She watched with clenched fists as one older gent, obviously drunk, yelled at one of the youngest workers, a boy no more than sixteen who looked twelve, because the kid hadn’t put enough ice in his drink. What she could do to a guy like that… And the manager didn’t do a damned thing about it.

   Keep going, she thought. Just keep going. Overtime. Overtime is good.  Rent would be better. She shoved that thought out of her head. My friends. Save the world a few times and people seem to think they can just wait around for me to come galloping in and clean up after them.  She avoided the clock, which had become her enemy. She wiped the counter, swept the floor, mopped the floor, filled drinks, knowing that if she looked up, no more than seconds would have passed, and hours still remained. Keep going, Buffy, she told herself. Keep going. Paycheck.

     But the mindless tasks left her with only two alternatives: think or don’t think. She didn’t want to think about this place, the very place she stood in now, because it seemed that this must be hell. The uniform was horribly cheerful, the hats were worse, and the smell…oh, the smell…..If a demon had suddenly attacked her, she wouldn’t have had the heart to fight back. 

     “Buffy!  Empty that trashcan!”

  meant fresh air. Freedom. She yanked the bag out of the can, and slammed through the back door, stomped to the dumpster, and realized her feet were practically numb. Accelerated healing powers, my ass, she thought.  She sat down on the last run of the fire escape, wincing at the sensations suddenly flooding through her abused feet, and the memories coursing through her head. 

    Crazy. Bad. Disgusting.

    She was so tired, she didn’t have any defenses left. Crazy? Oh, sure, her best friend was marrying a thousand-year old demon who, if you didn’t stuff a sock in her mouthright away, would just natter on about either capitalism or the good old days when she’d wreaked vengeance on the male half of the population.  Her other best friend had managed to get so drugged on magic that as a result her little sister now had a broken arm.  Her ex was living in LA. But her? She’d come back wrong. It was like a ghost, hovering around her, that thought, and the thought of Spike’s last visit. The noises he made, the way he gasped against her mouth…Oh, it wasn’t fair. She was a Slayer, she lived in a world with demons and monsters, and she had a vampire,  for a boyfriend, why couldn’t she find a normal guy?

    What’s normal around here? A rebellious voice in her brain piped up. Vampires are normal around here. Get over it.

     Bad, disgusting? It sure didn’t feel that way.  Spike was the only one who’d seen  her naked, body and soul, and her friends, who should have known her better, mistook her excuses for her. But he didn’t.  She blinked rapidly. “Come with me, Buffy. This place will kill you.”  Oh, God, had she wanted to. But where to? How? He’d said he’d get money for her, and that was something her friend would surely notice. They wouldn’t notice her depression, the hours she called ‘patrolling’ when in fact she was with Spike, they wouldn’t notice Spike patrolling with them for months, trying to save Dawn,  they wouldn’t notice that she needed money that they had, and they wouldn’t notice how tired she was.  But they’d certainly notice some how if he gave her money enough to stave off the worst of the money hemorrhaging. And they would disapprove. They would make her feel bad, but they wouldn’t, of course, help.

     She sighed. They needed me to slay, she thought bleakly, but I need them. I can’t lose anyone else.  She got up and went wearily inside.

       The skies darkened, and the evening rush came. To her, they might as well have been demons, these people; they seemed to be so distorted, these people, all hurried, barking orders, glaring at her for her fumbles, all loud voices, too many of them, none of them looking her in the eye. She ran back and forth, filling orders, dropping things, dropping fires, never doing anything right, apologizing, explaining with a self-depreciating giggle that ‘It’s my first day,’ only to be greeted with a shrug. She kept offering the statement as an explanation, receiving over and over again the same response: a disinterested eye roll, a ‘whatever’ or, worst of all, no response at all. Nothing.

    Then she looked up, and there was no one waiting at the counter, and the tables were slowly being abandoned in the restaurant.  She sighed at the chaos in the dining air, but there was a breeze coming from the drive through. She turned toward it, not yet ready to face the cleaning up, when she saw something through the window and froze.

   Spike.

   Come with me. This place will kill you.

   He stared at her though the window, swallowing,  a muscle in his jaw flexing as he looked at her, as if he could make her come with him  by the sheer power of his stare.  Behind her, there was cleaning to be done, over and over again, more food to be cooked, because her uniform wasn’t yet totally permeated with the grease smell  yet….

    She brushed past her coworkers, banged through the back door, and stopped. He gave her an exasperated sigh that so reminded her of her mother that she could have broken down right there. Somebody else who cared enough about her to yell.

     She couldn’t go, she absolutely couldn’t go, but she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t do the same thing endlessly over and over again, like that horrifying day of the repitition spell at the Magic Box, except here it was real. She realized, with something like horror, that she was going to cry, if she didn’t do something about it, and he knew it, too. He reached out, as if he were afraid of being burned, and touched her hair. “Come on,  Buffy. Leave.” He whispered. It broke his heart to see her so exhausted, so defeated. Not his Slayer. She grabbed him by both lapels, and though he had some speeches all worked up in his head about how he only wanted all of her, they appeared to have been tossed out the window.  She buried his face in his shoulder, and he realized she was shaking with exhaustion, too proud to admit it, too stubborn to quit something once she’d started it, and too naïve to realize that the job was Sisyphean. I only want all of you, he thought, as if it would convince himself. At least it was’t a New Year’s resolution.

    “Come on, Buff.” He whispered again.

   “No. I can’t. You know I can’t.”

   He was the only one who knew, the only part of this horrible day that wasn’t nightmarish.  She buried her face in his chest, tightening her arms around his body till it almost hurt,  wanting to crawl inside him, just wanting him. 

    The wall was against her back, and he was wrapped around her, the only refuge she had.  He knew what was going to happen, knew he couldn’t stop himself, wondered if he ever would. She needed him,  he thought, and that was enough for now.  He lifted her head off his shoulder with a gentle palm, but his other hand  found her breast, the irresistible soft curse of its underside, and molded it into his  other palm. He slid against her, hands sliding down her body, down her thighs, lifting her off the ground just enough, rubbing against her, while she clutched him like a drowning woman. She was the one who got his fly open, but she lacked her usual coordination, and he had to lower her the few inches to the ground to lower his pants. He noticed she winced when her feet hit the ground. He dealt with her clothes as if she were a child, she was practically limp against him, always looking desperately into his face.

      She was wearing the tacky skirt that came with the uniform, a coarse polyester that didn’t go at all with the Victoria’s Secret panties he pushed aside. They were so close in height he only had to lift her a few inches against the wall, and then pushed into her. He rocked against her, trying to reach her, but she clutched him with her hands, pressed her forehead against his, and tried to pull strength from him. It always worked, he always did this to her, awakening her nerve endings, charging her cells with pleasure. 

    Except it didn’t work, not the way she intended. She saw the dumpster over his shoulder,  and reality descended on her. He was right. It was killing her. She remembered the first time, the shock on his face as she guided him inside her, the shock to her senses as he slid all the way home, hitting nerves she didn’t know she had. The biggest shock had been his eyes, the same eyes looking all the way inside her now. He was watching her, worrying about her, when, she thought, I should be worrying about him.  He slid one hand between them, finding her clitoris, and she realized with a shock that some things didn’t change. It was short, and sharp, this orgasm,  her muscles clenching around him,  and she found she wanted him to come more than she wanted herself to. He braced his hands against the wall, and went faster, freezing against her, with his face pressed against the wall. 

     She didn’t want to move, but that would mean being discovered. Why did she suddenly care? she thought. She never cared before.

    Spike sighed finally, and pulled away from her, looking at her sadly. The thought hit him again: Money. Lots of money.  He had to get lots and lots of money. Maybe it really was unfair of him to demand her love when he was a distraction from her responsibilities. Money. Where could he get money?

     He leaned against her, kissing her with a calmness that he’d never felt any of the other times they’d had sex. It was almost pleasant, being so calm, so resolved. He knew what he had to do, and who he had to do it for, and to.

    Who had money?

     Angel.

    Okay, it would be more like combining pleasure with pleasure, but who cared?

    He pawed through drawers and crypt spaces, shoving aside bones and things, and wondering what it would cost to get a cleaning service. One of these days, he was going to late up a fag, and the crypt would explode as the dust combusted.

   Hm.

   He found the cattle prod---always useful for a family reunion of sorts---then the stun gun, plus some ropes. Hm. What would especially irritate Angel?

   Fun, probably.

   He considered tossing in some Playboys just to be petty, then decided petty was just another word for creative, and threw his entire stash in there. The bag was satisfyingly heavy as he hoisted it to his shoulder. 

    He looked down at the bed, smoothing over the spread with a hand that seemed to remember Buffy as much as his mind did. “You’re in my gut, Summers…” Funny that it turned out to be true after all this, he thought. Every part of his body had a different memory of her, and together they combined and made a terrible cocktail of sensation that seized his unbeating heat with electricity as if he was being electrocuted not from life but back to it.

   He’d planned on leaving her a note, and cowardice had nothing to do with it. No, not at all. The fact that he’d been accusing her of holding back while he was reluctant to reveal his gitlike past was in no way related to his reluctance to look her in the eye just now. 

    He got out the roses and shook the petals all over the bed and then admired the effect. Then he sighed, and settled against the headboard with a piece of paper and a pen.

   “Dear Buffy..” He chewed on the pen, irritated with the very salutation.

   “Dearest…”Yeah, sure, that would be a good way or working up to the whole geek confession.

   “Buffy,” Yo, listen up. Sure. I’ll get laid again before the next century.

    He stopped and stared at the ceiling. Help was not forthcoming. He thought abruptly, she’ll be in the tub about now. She’ll be all wet and warm….and he wouldn’t be able to see her for several days……

    Really, it was terrible to leave a note for her. He should do it in person.  

    It was the least he could do…..

    Damned tree.

    Spike cursed under his breath as another branch snagged something he’d prefer remained unsnagged. And he wasn’t at all certain of the reception he’d get, the whole issue of William almost dampening his need to see her just once more before he left for LA.

     He drew level with her window, and got a whiff of the shampoo she was using; something that made his stomach growl. At least, he thought that was his stomach. He hoped it was his stomach, but it was amazing what a day of abstinence did to a guy. She must use a different flavor every day, he thought, because the scent always wafted about him. 

   Type of shampoo, he corrected himself. Flavor was her herself; all the different tastes. For a moment, he seriously considered just ripping branches aside and jumping, the rest of the house be damned; but he considered the look on Will’s face if she caught them somewhere between the bath and the bed, and with a great sigh, he tried to conjure up the sort of thoughts that had kind of worked when his blood was his own….

   Ah. Bill Clinton naked.

   Angel naked.

   Harris in a tutu; Anya in a kitchen. The killer snot monster from last year suddenly developing an amorous yen for a bleached blonde British vampire.

   That last might have succeeded all too well, he thought. He relaxed for a minute, or as much as he could, considering, and grappled his way to the windowsill. Trying not to look too eager---like anyone could see him---he tore off his duster, and yanked off his boots before tiptoeing to the bathroom door, almost shaking with eagerness.

    Striving for nonchalance, he opened the door, poking his head around and looking in.

   “You know, only in America do people get so dirty they need to bathe every day.”

    Buffy looked up at him, consideringly, relief flowing outward through her entire body. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t come; and the feel of that fear made her wonder why.  Just sex, that’s all. That was easier to believe with him tearing his tee shirt off in front of her, and revealing that lean lithe torso. Her breath suddenly came up short, and her nipples abruptly tightened with a tingle.  Which was absurd, because the water was hot…He shoved his jeans down his legs, and he was partially erect. She was glad she was sitting down in hot water, because there suddenly seemed to be tremors going through her limbs that mad her wonder if she could have stood up if she wanted to. And breathing? Who needed breathing?

     Spike caught her look, her eyes huge, and froze for a minute. Oh, how was he going to last a couple of days in LA?  He dipped one foot into the water between her legs, and slid down between her legs.  He still wasn’t certain of his reception; she’d looked at him wide-eyed, but hadn’t said anything. Doubts, however, disappeared, as she slid against his back, sliding her arms under his, and around him, notching her chin over his shoulder. He could feel her swallow as well as hear it, and feel little tremors in the arms around him.   He slid back against her, feeling her breasts tightening against her back, feeling her arms knotting tighter around his chest. His Slayer was such a frail thing sometimes, he thought, reaching up with one hand and cupping her palm with his hand. She was looking at him with uncertain eyes, but her cheeks were wildly flushed, and he could feel her heart beating wildly against his back. It seemed to reverberate all through his body. She was so passionate in bed, but it was a furnace that she didn’t know how to control, and none of the gits she’d been with…He shut off that thought with a certain bitterness. Spike, vampire Doctor Ruth? Not bloody likely. She shifted against him, burying her face against the back of his neck with a shiver and a sigh, and he decided that words weren’t so great after all. Who needed them? As long as she was wrapped around him like that, he didn’t need anything else.  He slid his arms over hers, and laced his fingers through hers.  She responded with a sigh and a swallow that so obviously came around a lump in her throat that his brain locked and all he wanted to do was relieve that tension. Love hurts, indeed, he thought ruefully. Too right that was. Hurt him worse than anything to see her all locked up in her emotions like this, so clenched up she couldn’t get the words past the knot in her throat.

    She kissed the back of his neck, just once, pressing her lips against his skin as gently as if he was some virgin, as if he were still the boy in London a hundred years earlier. It said so much that she couldn’t, and with her heart beating through his body as if it were his own, he couldn’t contain himself, blurting out something he thought might make her feel better.

   “You know, I was the most awful twit in the world.”

   “What?” She whispered.

   The words tumbled over each other like water from a melting avalanche, unstoppable, like a verbal orgasm….”I was the most awful git in the world. There might even be pictures of me.  Giles? Ha. Had him beaten. I had curls. I wrote poetry. I wrote bad poetry. I wrote poetry that was so bad people cringed when I opened my mouth. I was the biggest geek in London, and you have no idea how competitive that was then…. I was such a geek, I had this crush on this stupid woman….”

    Buffy reached around him, and turned his face to her, looking into his face wonderingly.  “What are you talking about?”

   “You asked what I was like, when I was human. I was barely human. I was so---“ She stopped him with a kiss, twisting around and making him twist with her till they were sideways in the tub, with one of her legs in front of him. She wrapped her arms around her head, and kissed him with the pent-up emotions of a stupid day, and wondered why it was that he alone could make her forget it all. His body slithered like quicksilver beneath her fingers, all lean muscle, and sleek bone. She pushed him against the back of the tub, pressing her hands against his chest, climbing over him till she was positioned just on top of the head of his dick, and he sucked on his own lower lip as she lowered herself around him, engulfing him like some whirlpool. She was hotter than the water. He grabbed her hips, wishing he could blush, wishing he could match her temperature. She hadn’t even gotten all the way down, so slowly was she descending on him, making him aware of every part of her body, the slick muscles inside her.  She braced her hands on the sides of the tub, eyes never leaving his, even when she hit bottom, and her clitoris hit his body. It was him that closed his eyes and shuddered, his hands leaving her body, flying to the edge of the porcelain and grabbing it as desperately if he was going to fall off a cliff.  She swirled against him, rubbing against him, her muscles shuddering around him, locked onto him as if they were parts of the same machine. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she used her arms to pull bit by bit up his length, and he saw black sparks in front of his eyes. He leaned forward and grabbed her in a kiss, but she didn’t speed up one bit. “What are you doing?” He whispered. He knew if he tried to speak in a normal tone, his voice would break.

    “Taking it slow.”

    “Why?”

     She gave him a shrug that almost looked nonchalant. “Well,” she said almost casually, “You are kind of old. Don’t want you…..”

      He was startled into laughter, finally having to bury his face in her shoulder to muffle himself. She giggled into his hair, but stopped abruptly as they both slipped and she was abruptly jerked down all the way on top of him. The laughter made all sorts of different muscles active, around him, in him, and they both went rigid.  She gave a choking noise, and he thought confusedly that she had something in her throat, but instead she gasped, and shuddered against him, her wet muscles clamped around him so tightly that he himself succumbed with a groan.  It was so abrupt and so fast he was left shaking.  The aftershocks faded and they stared at each other, wide eyed.

      He reacted with his instincts, leaning forward and kissing her, all his tension gone. He felt like he’d been wrung out and ironed. “C’mon, love.” He whispered finally.

   “Why?”

    “What?” He whispered into her neck, “questioning my judgment? At your age?”   He shifted gingerly, pulling out of her, and watched her flinch and sigh. “Buff? Does that hurt?”

   “What?” She looked at him, then blushed. “Yes. A little.” She blushed even more.”I guess. Don’t like it when you leave me.” She was so red he was afraid she was going to explode.  She looked away and pulled herself to sit on the edge of the tub, grabbing a towel, which he pulled out of the way so he could slide into her lap, between her legs, grab her face, and kiss her until she threw her head back and sighed at the ceiling. It almost did him in.  

      “C’mon.” He whispered again. He stood up and took her hand, grabbing the towel again, and patting her dry. She all flushed and hot, slippery with whatever she’d scented the bathwater.  He ran the towel up her arm, following it with his mouth, kissing up her arm till he got to her wrist, where the pulse was jumping crazily. He got no further there because she abruptly wound her arm around his neck and pulled him to her mouth. He groaned into her mouth as they twisted against each other, one hand in her hair, the other sliding down her body till it dived between her legs. She started against him, against his mouth, and it was he could do not to wrap her around him right there. He disengaged, stepped back, and flapped the towel at her, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re all wet.” He said disapprovingly. “You’ll catch a cold.”

   It had to be at least ninety degrees.

   “Who do you think you’re kidding?” Buffy asked as he dropped to his knees in front of her, the towel sliding down one thigh, as if he were polishing a piece of furniture.

     “Well, I was hoping you’d fall for it.” He traced her leg with the towel in one hand, and the tips of his fingers, enclosing her thigh with light fingers, sliding to her knee, then further. He pressed his face to her stomach while she sucked her breath in abruptly, causing him to look up at her, his chin in her pubic hair, his eyes so blue they were almost black in this light. He blew on her damp curls and she closed her eyes, beyond all self-consciousness now, trembling with anticipation. He slid his demon hands up her legs while she sucked air into lungs that didn’t seem to work suddenly. He buried his face in her curls, breathing her in, absorbing her shudders into his very fibers. Her hands roamed through his hair, pulling and twisting. Reluctantly, he pulled away, possessed by an idea.

      He traced his fingertips down her other leg, cupping her buttock with one light hand, tracing the muscles on the front, kissing his way to her knee, then kissing back up to her inner thigh. “Oh God.” Buffy gritted out. With a grin, he popped up to his feet, a markedly cheerful presence in contrast to the way she clung to the door. “C’mon Buff.” He whispered in her ear. He followed this pressing against her, his whole length, brushing his lips along her collarbone.

     “Trust me?” He whispered.

    “What?” She was in a daze.

    “Trust me?” He pulled the sash of her bathrobe off of it, and dangled it in front of her eyes, and bit his lip. She looked at his lip and nodded.

    He eased her back on the bed, shifting her to the center, then pulling her arms over her head and tying her wrists together. “Comfy?” He whispered.

    She nodded. “Then let’s see how uncomfortable I can make you.” He whispered. 

     He slid off the bed, and walked around to its foot, seeing how she closed her legs, blushing.  He seated himself casually on the foot, of the bed, looking at her feet, then thoughtfully reaching out and tickling the sole of one foot. She giggled a bit and then wriggled. Despite the situation, there was something so innocent about that giggle, so much of the old Buffy in it, that he had to look away, suddenly overwhelmed.

    He was going to remember this when he and his sire had their chat. Oh yes.

    He picked up her foot, making her wriggle at the exposure, but she sagged abruptly when he scraped his fingers slowly, lightly, in a straight line down the center of the sole. He followed this, slower still with his tongue. Buffy’s eyes widened suddenly. He pressed kisses to the inside of her ankle, and then worked his way up her calf till he reached her knee.  He turned on his back between her legs to kiss the back of her knee, then rolled over onto one side to start his way up her inner thigh. He rested one hand, casually, as if she were an armrest, on her crotch and abdomen, feeling the tension in her stomach muscles. He kissed the inside of her thigh, licking the tight muscles as if he were a cat cleaning its paws after a meal, kissing his way up the crease of skin between her thigh and body. He kissed the soft skin between her pubic hair and navel, glancing up as he did so to see her not quite panting at him, her breasts doing the most enchanting ebb and roll like waves on an ocean.  He buried his face in her stomach to hide his response, afraid he was going to explode right then and there.

     He sighed into her stomach, control reasserted, and worked his way down her other leg, slowly, leisurely, as if he had to map out her body with his tongue, licking her skin like a cook testing the taste, caressing her fevered flesh with the barest of fingertip touches. She twisted around him, a sea of skin and sense, her free leg rubbing against him, her muscles shivering despite the heat. He kissed her ankle, then paused between her legs to enjoy the view. Then on hands and knees he crawled up to her abdomen and started the journey northward. He lowered himself to her skin, kissing her abdomen, fingertips slipping along damp skin, feeling the heat and moisture increase against his own stomach. She was moving involuntarily beneath him, either trying to get away from the tormenting sensation or closer to it.

     He’d been wanting to do this forever, to wander over till he knew every inch. He kissed his way between her breasts, raising his head to find her eyes on him, glazed, breathing shallowly. Instead of kissing her lips, he leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose, then her forehead.

      Then he lowered himself between her breasts, holding her eyes, cupping the sensitive flesh on the underside of her breast. He traced the curve, up and down, with one fingertip, as if it fascinated him, which wasn’t too far from the truth. Then he kissed his way up the side of her body, finding the sensitive spots on the side of her ribs, and ending at the palm of her hand. “How ya doin’?” He asked jauntily.

   “Oh, just fine.” She said sarcastically.

   “Really?” He traced one long finger over her left nipple. Buffy closed her eyes, and strained against the sash, and Spike had to close his eyes for a moment and think of Xander Harris in his boxers or something. “Do you have an appointment somewhere? Because I could go.”

    Buffy glared at him, and he spotted revenge in that glare. He traced his finger down her body, dipping with the lightest of touches between her legs, to find her so wet he actually had trouble finding his way inside her. She shuddered under him, thrusting against him, and he shushed into her mouth, just intending to tease her, stroking her clit with his thumb, finding it swollen.  She moaned into his mouth, breathing hard.   He had to stop for a moment, afraid again that he was going to explode right then.  It was a good thing he hadn’t intended to use his tongue, because he was afraid if he did so, he’d embarrass himself.  He caressed her with his fingers, just stroking lightly, watching her eyes lose their focus, feeling himself lose his own control, wanting to taste her again, feel the shudders through his tongue, straight to his brain.  He thought about cricket, about golfing, but a sudden mental image of Buffy in her sweats and tank top appeared before his brain, contrasting with the naked reality in front of him, and he tossed his plan aside. So much for self control. With his hand buried between her legs, she was arching and moaning against him, slicked with a fine film of sweat.  He fell on her like a starving man, ripping the sash away, and diving between her legs as she rubbed her wrists once and then, ironically enough, grabbed the iron rails on the headboard as he found her clit with his mouth and sucked on it so hard that her eyes rolled back and her legs convulsively came up on his shoulders. He only time for a few strokes before she plunged her hands in his hair and pulled him against her. He savored the rythm of her orgasm, his own pelvis involuntarily moving on its own as she undulated under him. He crawled up her body with the last shreds of control he had, and promptly tossed that control aside and sank into her depths with a groan.

     Her muscles twitched around him, still tender, and she wriggled to let him deeper inside. She slid her hands up his arms, locking her eyes to his, reaching up for a kiss, and he groaned again as if she were torturing him, and melted into her arms.  He ground into her, throwing his head back as if to try and find some control somewhere but it was all gone. She was twisting under him, kissing every part of his body she could reach with her mouth, gasping against his chest, kissing his chest and shoulders with wet noises as his desperate rhythm pulled them apart and brought them back together.

      In contrast to her, his orgasm was soft and gradual, rolling over him for so long parts of his body lost feeling. He rolled over her, burying his face in her shoulder, feeling the surge of ecstasy washing over him and leaving him almost helpless in its wake. 

     He came back to himself to find her watching him with those wide eyes. “What?” He muttered.

    “I…” She gulped. Her face had turned bright red again, and there were even red blotches on her neck and chest. “I love watching you do that.”

    “Oh.” Spike said faintly. “Really.”

    “Yes.”

   “Oh.” Oh, hell. Angel could wait.

    For centuries, if need be.

    “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll just have to keep that in mind, won’t I?”

    She kissed him, biting his lip. “You’d better.”

    They were both asleep before the last syllable.

   Spike woke up when she tied his hands to the bedposts with the same sash he’d used on her.  He watched her face with some trepidation; she had an odd, serious, almost vacant look on her face, as if she were a million miles away.  He was starting to feel rather miffed, when she turned and crawled to the foot of the bed, giving him a view of her behind and legs that made him forget to breathe.

     At the foot of the bed, she gazed down at his feet, pulling his feet apart, sliding her hands up his calves, lightly scratching her nails at the back of his knee, dropping her eyes and looking up through her lashes. He wondered if she was deliberately looking innocent, which was quite an accomplishment, as she sat naked between his legs. He didn’t get time to ask her, however.  She got up and walked around the side of the bed, still looking serious, almost dreamy, hopping up beside him on the bed and looking down on him for several minutes. He tensed, wondering what was coming, remembering what he’d done to her, and wondering if now was payback.

    What he wasn’t expecting was the kiss that he got; sweet, almost virginal, soft and so light it was almost too little. He changed his mind as she relaxed into it, her body melting to his, bit by bit, till she was lying on him, her hands roaming over his body. 

    It began to dawn on him slowly that she had a different goal in mind than he had. She started kissing her way over his body, licking and biting just lightly down his chest, kissing the marks she’d left on him earlier. He wondered if she’d ever done this with any of her boyfriends; he rather suspected not. Unlike his tactic of avoiding her erogenous zones until they both couldn’t stand it, she zeroed in on his nipples, the inside of his thighs, and his dick. She wriggled on top of him, her breasts pressing into his stomach, then his chest, as she dragged herself back to his mouth and gave him a kiss that went straight down his nerve endings to his burgeoning erection. She was sliding her hands up and down his arms, down his sides, fingering thoughtfully the muscles on his sides, his chest, stroking them in an oddly catlike way.  All the time,  the heat of her body burned into him,  and he could feel how aroused she herself was. He bent his legs, trying to wrap himself around her like she did him,  but she  continued working her way down his body, looking into his eyes, thrusting her tongue into his belly button, before meandering further south between his legs and settling herself in on her side. 

     He still didn’t know quite what was going on; she was being so gentle, and he’d expected ferocity. She handled him as if she were afraid he’d break, tracing the veins on his penis, then licking it as if it were candy, tracing the veins with her tongue like lines on a map. And then he stopped thinking….

    It was delicate and fierce both, her tongue and her mouth unnaturally hot, her hands preternaturally gentle. The Slayer, who’d once been the only opponent to truly scare him, had somehow metamorphosized into elements that defied his definition. Heat and liquid, pressure and weight, all beyond his control and description. Her hands were gentle and possessive, saying everything she couldn’t, and his last lucid thought was that it wasn’t a bad trade. Not when his hips had begun gentle, small movements, and her mouth had not relented. He kept opening his eyes to find hers fixed upon his, and he wanted so desperately to touch her that it was frustration crystallized rather than frustration released that spurred him on. He couldn’t help it, his breaths shrinking into gasps, his back arching like a bow; “Oh, God, Buffy…!Oh God, oh, God…” And then even breathing itself became a struggle, and he couldn’t remember if he was human or not. Didn’t only humans feel such things, such vulnerability?  He was still a vampire, after all, but as his breathing slowed from gasps to even tempo, he wondered. He looked down at her, curled up between his legs, and wondered more. Had it been like this? When? As a human, he’d been hopeless, but now….. He felt hope, and it was like a shock to his system. Maybe it wasn’t his heart that needed reviving.

     She bit her lip, watching him recuperate, and then pulled herself up between his legs, and crawled up his body till she was poised over his penis. With her legs on either side of him, her hands bracing herself on his chest, she settled herself on his insanely sensitive  dick and made herself comfortable…but not him.  She was burning him with her heat, and he hadn’t recovered himself enough to do anything about it.

     She leaned forward then, and with a sense of impending doom, he tried to reach up and meet her mouth. Now he understood the sash, the restraint. She didn’t trust herself; it wasn’t him that needed the restraint, it was her.

      She kissed him, then, another one of those gentle, savoring kisses, sighing into his mouth,  hands working through his hair, tongue meeting his own. He could feel how aroused she was, the pulse beating between her legs and reverberating through his flesh. She pulled back slowly, settling her weight on his penis, moving just a bit, back and forth, her wet flesh moving up and down his length, and he was amazed.  He wasn’t erect; but that was going to change really fast if she kept doing that. She was wriggling on top of the head of his penis in earnest now, the ridge hitting her in all the right places. He had to close his eyes as she slowly rubbed against him, her breasts too far away, but too much to see and not have. In the frenzy that much of their encounters became, he hadn’t had much time to just appreciate how the sight of her affected him, but now he did, and he drank it in, knowing that it would probably be a couple of days before he saw enough of her again. She was a small girl, made smaller by the leanness of muscle,  her body lightly dotted with scars, an especially nasty one low on her left side.

    “Something nasty got a taste of you.” Hoist by my own petard yet again, he thought wryly.  Looking at her, however fun it was, though, wasn’t the same as holding her, and he knew he could rip the sash off. He’d had however long since she’d tied him up, and as much fun as it was watching her, the best thing of all was feeling as much of her as he could enclose in his arms and hands. It wasn’t enough to see her.

      She stopped, froze, looking down at him,  then  slowly reached out and pulled the sash free. He rubbed his wrists, looking up at her,  and she slipped off of him, down his legs,  but he stopped her, pulling her up till she was on top of him, staring into his eyes as if she’d been caught at something illegal.  He slid his own hand down her body, rolling her over so he could concentrate on his task, then slipping his hand between her legs. At that, she closed her eyes, and made a sound that shivered straight through his body. He was abruptly hard, and she felt it, too, because she bent her knee and tried to pull him over on top of her.

   “Ah ah ah.” He whispered. “This is yours…”He thought wryly; not even necessary, either; if she kept looking at him like that, he’d explode some time soon anyway. Oh, God, she was wet and tender, and he wanted to dive between her legs and taste her till he’d melted her bones. But the same voice that nagged him about her also pointed out that this was different. He needed to look into her eyes. “Look at me, luv. Let me see you.” And then he didn’t look away, not even when she reached out and grabbed his shoulders, not even when she spread her legs, as if she were trying to escape those tormenting fingers---- or make sure they didn’t miss a single spot. Not even when she grabbed him to her, kissing him desperately, biting her lip between kisses, trying to stop the sounds in her throat. Not even when she came, silently, barely moving, looking into his eyes, rocking gently, the way people do when they’re wading in the ocean and a wave hits them. But the waves stopped and she couldn’t stop looking. 

   Spike checked Buffy’s alarm clock and groaned, contemplating a drive to LA with nothing in his stomach and no sleep at all. He scrubbed his hair, and gathered his strength to sit up.  He wanted a cigarette, but that would require energy he’d need for the shower.  Slowly, as if he were a very old vampire indeed, he got up and staggered to the bathroom, where his clothes still lay on the floor. He shook his head, picked them up and hung them on the towel rack, then turned the water on and sat in the steam.  He thought about lighting up a cigarette, but this seemed like a rather bad idea. First off, the smoke was a dead giveaway; anyone who ever used the bathroom would know he’d been in here, unless Dawn was smoking on the sly, too.  That of course, would raise far too many questions that as yet were impossible to answer. He doubted either one of them could articulate the questions themselves. 

    The steam was rolling out of the shower now, and he sighed with the weariness of a very old man and stepped in.  For a moment he just braced his hands against the wall and faced the steam, finally groaning and tossing his head back as the pounding water punched some feeling into his exhausted cells.

   “Hey.” He whipped around at the sound of her voice, but before he could form syllables, she was climbing in the tub, smiling at what his hair was doing, independent of his wishes, and grabbing a bottle from the shelf.

   “Hey!” He grabbed the bottle. “What’s that?”

   “Where I come from, it’s called shampoo. It makes magic that cleans the hair of bleached blonde people.”

    “Who are you calling bleached, blondie?” He demanded. “All natural.”

    “Evidence to the contrary.”

     “Yeah, whereas you….” He raised one eyebrow at the proof that she was no more a natural blonde than he was, and got a headful of shampoo for his trouble. But his make-believe irritation washed away as she scrubbed his hair, with her naked body pressed against his back, her erect nipples slowly exhausting his composure. His concentration returned abruptly when he realized she’d molded hair and shampoo into one peak on his head. He eyed her over his shoulder with the air of a man beset by idiots, and ducked his head under the stream of water. When all the soap was out, he shook his head like a dog, splashing her vigorously, and then got his revenge.  He started with her hair, but as soon as he’d rinsed her, he pushed her up against the shower wall and kissed her so hard he could feel her legs shake.

    He didn’t stop kissing neither her, nor she him, but he did realize that the shower wall was cold tile, and probably that was why she was shivering. He turned them around so he had his back to the wall, and pulled her tight against him, feeling her mouth opening, opening against his. 

    He could feel the heat and the steam affecting him, affecting the kiss, making it slow and luxurious, tidal, thorough, as they twisted against and into one another. He was so tired that he couldn’t have done more if he wanted to, but he found it was just enough to kiss her. Her flesh was sleek and wet against him, and he could feel, strangely enough, goose bumps rising over her body.  He didn’t think he’d felt like this before, this slow seeping languor that crept over his limbs as the heat of the water warmed his blood and his lips.

     They were so close in height that they fit perfectly together, her hands sliding up his arms and around his back, while she twisted against him.  They kissed for an eternity with slow circles of motion, hands roaming across sleek muscles and sinew, supple and fluid, till only the cold water brought reality in.

    “Oh, crap,” Spike muttered.

   They stumbled out of the shower, grabbing towels.  Drying was hurried, and followed by a dash for the bed, where they both burrowed under the covers till the chill of the air was gone. Spike was startled that he wasn’t startled by the way she curled up around him. How soon we get spoiled, he thought.

   “Buff, you know, I have to go.”

   “Now? It’s not nearly daylight.”

   “There’s an errand I have to run.”

   “Now?” There was a distinct whine in her voice, and he lifted up his head to look at her; she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

   “Yes, now. It’ll be a couple of days.”

   “What is it?”

   He thought about it, wondering why romance sometimes seemed more perilous than any form of wartime endeavor. If he told her the truth, she’d freak; if he lied to her, well, he’d lied to her, and he’d yet to meet a woman who didn’t have a spy network that made the CIA jealous. If he lied, she’d find out, and that would be it. “I don’t want to jinx it, luv. Bad luck.”

   “Is it legal?” She asked hopefully.  She was tracing circles on his chest.

   “Completely.” He said truthfully. He was sort of amazed at that. After all, what was he doing? Requesting a charitable donation. Ha. His sudden meeting with the truth left him giddy.

   “Completely?”

   “Oh, yes, but tricky. So I don’t want to count my chickens before, you know, all that stuff.”

  “Oh.” She subsided on his chest again, but before she could get all comfortable, he reluctantly shifted away.

   “Must get dressed, or I’ll stay here all day, and then what will we do?”

   Buffy looked at him from under long lashes, biting her lip, and every bone in his body turned to mush. A whole day, he thought. A whole day……After which, no doubt, the sheriff would come to toss them out, and then all he could hope was that he never let slip how he’d had this idea and not acted upon it.

   He got up and went reluctantly to the bath, where he yanked his clothes on bitterly as if they’d done something to disappoint him.  Then, cracking his neck to get rid of the kinks, he went back to the bed, to put his boots on.  Buffy gave him a sulky look, and he suddenly realized that only weeks ago, she would have hid that look from him.

    He’d pulled on one boot successfully when he heard a drowsy whisper. “Stay.”

   Perfect timing, of course. He stared through the window at the stars, hoping to find fortitude there. “Can’t luv, must go.”

   “Stay.” She whispered again. He turned to look at her and she was drowsy and boneless with sleep. When she felt his eyes on her, she blinked, kittenishly, and then lifted the blankets to lure him back inside. Oh, God, he thought. She was damp and ruffled with sleep and shower, blinking owlishly, and the bed was a nest of warmth and slumber. All it would take would be for him to toss his boots aside and dive in, into warmth and sleep.  He leaned over and settled on top of her, to discover that had been a very bad idea.  He hadn’t zipped up his jeans, and she wrapped her legs and arms around him, trying to push his jeans off with the heels of her feet. Spike felt her warmth seep into and thought, “Five minutes, five minutes, five minutes…” But the sun would rise soon, and he had to do this now. If it was this difficult leaving her now, how much worse would it be later? She cupped her hands around his buttocks under his jeans, and the cute wrestling suddenly became serious. One more second of this and he would have to stay. “Must go.”

     “Stay.”

    “Can’t, but the sooner you let me go, the sooner I’ll be back.”

    “Stay.” The kisses were getting more serious, and he sighed and pulled away.

   “You’re evil.” He said, as she traced her fingers over his crotch. He was sort of amused when she beamed suddenly at him, and chirped, “Thank you!” But her arms loosened, and it gave him the opportunity to pull up and away.  Every cell in his body complained bitterly, and as he pulled on his other boot, she kicked him in the back. Then she sat up and wrapped herself against his back, her legs alongside his.  He ran his hands up and down her knee, while she hooked her chin over his shoulder.

    “When are you going to be back?”

   “Two days, I hope. Hopefully faster.”

   She sighed against him, exasperated and showing it. He had a brief moment where he thought, God, she’ll miss me! Before realizing how much he was going to miss her, too.

He leaned over and kissed her, barely touching her, then taking her chin in his hand and leaning close. “I’ll be back soon, and I’m warning you now, it won’t be pretty when I do. So be alone, okay?” He stood up and shrugged into his duster, then resolutely climbed over the windowsill. His last glimpse of her was one irritated-looking eye visible above the pillow, before he had to pay attention to getting to the ground.

   Damned tree….

     Buffy sat on the back porch and told herself repeatedly that she was just fine. I’m just fine. I’m just fine. Really. I’m fine.  It occurred to her that she should resent she was answering a question nobody was asking, but that was another thought she wanted to do away with, too. No, I’m fine.

    It’s my friends that are screwed up.

    She glanced around surreptitiously, afraid somebody would read her mind. She’d been afraid when she lost her virginity that people could just look at her and tell; she’d been even more afraid when she first slept with Spike that everyone could look at her and tell she’d spent the better part of a night doing things she couldn’t even put a name to.  So far, so good on that one. But what she was really afraid of was them seeing her and not seeing her, the way they’d spent the fall.  She was right in front of them, and they’d seen nothing, but it was Spike who’d noticed right off the bat.

    She shifted uncomfortably. He would have to leave town and make her think about him non-stop, because while he was here, she spent all her energy not thinking of him.  That was pretty damned challenging, too. She’d spent five years studiously ignoring everything about him except his very irritating self, and when that particular piece of wool got pulled from her eyes, it had been a very large shock. 

      Maybe this was an opportunity, she thought.  Yeah, an opportunity. Spend time with her magic-addicted best friend, her shoplifting sister, and her soon to be hitched other best friend, while trying desperately not to notice that, well, she wasn’t being noticed at all.  Add to that a whole slough of feelings she resolutely didn’t want to think about, and you had a very uncomfortable Slayer. 

    It was just the whole sex thing, she thought. After all, she was used to it, now, the nocturnal visits, the secrecy, used to waking up next to him.  The way they laid in her bed, or his, and whispered about any and everything, bullshit free. The way his body would warm to her temperature, even while she herself got goosebumps. That was it. It was a habit that was perilously close to being something she had to tell her friends about.

   Part of her resented that. It’s not as if they tried to tell her they’d bring her back in case she died, although that whole train of thought she suspected resembled Grassy Knoll-type paranoia. She really didn’t want to think like that about her friends, but it was so hard to think about sitting down with them and saying, ‘we have to talk.’

     What they had to talk about was her and them, and him.  That she suspected was going to be the worst. There was the house, which she was struggling to keep, with a house payment due in a few short days’ time. There were the utility bills that accumulated when three women lived in a house, with  at least one of them insisted on taking lengthy baths with a certain vampire. There was the car, which at least she’d managed to sell, but had discovered that it had been driven a lot during her absence.

   And then there was the fact of rent. Willow wasn’t paying any,  and she wasn’t contributing much except for babysitting, which was problematical because Dawn still made it clear that the witch was on probation. Dawn had spoken of a paper route, which would bring in several hundred dollars a month, but she wondered what would happen to Dawn’s grades, and the money itself, once Dawn actually saw a paycheck. Somebody was going to have to be the Big Bad, and she didn’t  think it was going to be Spike.

    Who really shouldn’t have taken so long, dammit.

     It had been two days; she kept waking up in the night to find him not next to her, and her colder than she liked. She’d finally started putting pajamas on again, because she got cold in the chilly California nights. Somehow he never made her feel chilly; in fact, he made her feel feverish, and she rather wondered how that would go over if she worked that fact into her little heart to heart with her friends.

     She shifted around on the deck. In the intervening two days since he’d left, she’d played board games with a sullen Dawn,  sidestepped around Willow and had long chats with Tara. She felt a great urge to do so again, but controlled herself. After all, it was important that she not wear out her welcome, not take advantage of the kind-hearted witch.

       She’d done laundry, all except her sheets, which she kept finding excuses not to wash, because they had suddenly started smelling like leather and cigarettes a few days earlier.  She could  turn her head just so on the pillow and close her eyes and see him, not that that meant anything at all, thank you.

    She wondered what would happen when he came back. Actually she knew what was going to happen when he came back, she just wondered how many times and in how many locations.

    Not that that meant anything. Nope, meaning-free zone, starting here.

    The whole thing about Spike was that he had changed. If he could, could she?

   And worse, if he could, why couldn’t they?

   It only took a hundred years, she thought wryly.

   “Buffy?” It was Dawn, looking through the kitchen window. “You want to go to Xander’s?”

   “You mean, in the we’re invited to go there, and I’m supposed to pretend you’re not grounded sense, or in the we’re not invited, and I’m supposed to pretend you’re not grounded what the hell sense?”

   “Uh,” Dawn thought about it. “Am I still grounded?”

   “Have you worked off all that stuff?”

   “Nope.” She said sullenly.

   “Well, then, I guess we’re not going., “ Buffy said softly, trying to lessen the blow.

   Dawn considered it a moment, then said, “We?”

   Oh, God, it about broke her heart to see the hope on that face. “Yes, we. I have to make sure there’s still Chunky Monkey left if it’s going to be the two of us.”

   “There isn’t.”

   Buffy stood up, brushing off her jeans. “There isn’t? Dawn---“

   “Hey! Not my fault, I swear. It was Spike.”

    “Spike? When?”

    “The other day.”

   She shook her head irritably, but there was something comforting in getting pissed off at a guy eating you out ….. her  eyes widened----of house and home. Oh, God, why did I even think that?

    Dawn looked at her with great concern all of a sudden, as Buffy turned a bright red  ,  that had no accessorizing potential and took a very deep breath. “Buffy? You okay?”

    “There’s no Chunky Monkey.” Buffy said dryly. “And Spike ate it all. Sure I’m okay.”   She noticed how cheerful Dawn was looking, perhaps at the thought that the Big Sister was now directing her ire at someone else. “You do know what this means, right?”

   “What?”

   “We’ll have to go eat Xander and Anya’s Chunky Monkey.”

         There was a curious lapse of time after Dawn knocked on the apartment door; it was almost as if the people inside were considering whether to answer it or not, which was very un-Xander-and-Anya like. Buffy wondered what on earth they could possibly be doing, then realized exactly what they could be doing,  and tried to smile, non-queasily, at Dawn.  “Maybe we should come back later, when they’re not…”

  “What?” Dawn was bewildered for a moment, then realization dawned. “Huh. They’re not having sex, they’re probably…”

   The door was abruptly snatched open at that, and they found themselves face to face with a tall female demon who was either very pissed or very pleased; it was impossible to tell. “Gah!” Buffy gasped. “What are you doing he---Hey! What did you do with---“

   Anya poked her head around, and the demon shook her head at the two guests. “I’m not here on business, you two!” She trilled.” This is just for fun!”

    “Fun?” Buffy said cautiously, edging gingerly into the apartment. “For who?”

    “Oh, everyone.”  The demon said airily. “Unless, of course, you’re an unfaithful man or a child abuser or something…” Dawn looked quickly away at that, and Buffy  suddenly found the ceiling tiles to be utterly engrossing. “Isn’t this sweet? Look, now admit that it wasn’t all for the best. Look at you two, spending time together. Would you be doing that if not for me?”

    Damn. She had a point there.

    “So, uh,”

   “Halfrek,”  the demon said. “Oh, just call me Hallie. I feel like I know  you all already.”

   “Oh.” Buffy shot a suspicious look at Anya, who was very busy in the kitchen with sodas and cookies and any small object she could drop repeatedly. This only made Buffy even more suspicious. “So, if we’re such good friends, does that mean you’re not going to go all vengence-y again on us?”

   “Well,” Hallie said thoughtfully, “You know, vengeance, or justice, is really in the eye of the beholder.”

   “That’s not fair.” Dawn burst out.

    All three looked at her. “It’s not.” She muttered. “It’s not fair.”

    “Dawnie—“

   “Well, it’s just not.  It’s like Rebecca at school; she’s always picking on me and Janice, because we’re tall and everything, but I can’t help it. Why should she pick on me? I never do anything to her. Never. I would sort of understand if I did and she did, then, you know?”

   “Dawn,” the demon said, “You’re the one I’m interested in, not your little friend. It’s people like you that I help.”

    “Do you?” Buffy said quietly. 

    “I beg your pardon?”

   “Does it really help? To get revenge?”

   “I prefer the term, justice.”

   “Oh, hey!” Anya exclaimed. “Look! Lots of cookies!”  She took one and shoved it right in the other demon’s face, and Hallie, for her part, was so startled, that she morphed into human face right then and there.

    “Now, you two, no talking shop. This is for fun.”

    “Well, we weren’t talking shop.” Buffy said quietly. “We were talking, uh, philosophy.”

   “Aside from which,” Hallie said, going for another cookie after already eating the first one,” we don’t have work  in common to discuss.”

   “Buffy is the Vampire Slayer,” Anya said proudly.

  “Oh.” Hallie said. It was a little snip of a word, but it packed a tremendous punch. Disapproval radiated out from her in snide tsunami waves.

   “What?”

   “Oh, it’s nothing; I guess times must have changed  since my day.”

   “What are you talking about?”

   “Well, I wasn’t always a justice demon, but I do know something about it. I’m very well-rounded.” With that, she reached for a third cookie.

   “Well-rounded in what way?”

    “Oh, well, as I said, I do know something about vampire slayers.”

   “Such as?” Buffy crossed her arms and waited.  Hallie scarfed down the cookie in record time, patted crumbs from her ample chest, and then, as if to make up for the way she was plowing through the cookies, took an exceedingly delicate sip of tea from her teacup.  She patted her lips with her napkin, and then gave Buffy a look that would have boiled cheese.

    “Well, my dear, it’s not my place…” Down the hatch went another cookie.

    “What does that mean? You know, you can say anything you want to.”

    Dawn and Anya were exchanging uneasy looks as Buffy slowly got more and more rigid in her chair, and her eyes more flinty. Hallie, however, never looked directly at the Slayer, but kept sighing and hesitating, when even Dawn could see she was eager to spit something out.

   “I don’t know what you mean, really.”

   “You’re a vengeance demon,” Buffy pointed out. “You could all sorts of things in the name of vengeance, and then just claim somebody else asked for you to do it.”

   “My dear,” Hallie said with the sort of patient voice that implied she was feeling great impatience, “You must know that we are forbidden from taking revenge on  our own behalf. It’s tragic, really.”

   “So what?” Buffy spluttered.

   “Well, I am forbidden from taking revenge, if you want to call it that, on anybody for my own personal gain as long as I wear this.” She indicated the pendant on her ample chest.

     “So you’re more or less like a normal person, as least when it’s getting pissed off?”  Buffy demanded.

   “Yes.” Hallie sighed. “But you know what’s tragic?”

   “That hair?” Buffy asked.

    “Hm. Ha. Ha.  Aren’t you funny?” There was a pause during which Buffy checked out potential high-velocity exits, and Dawn glanced from her sister to the demon, awaiting the smackdown.  Anya wondered how much insurance she and Xander had, and vowed to increase it to cover act-of-demon immediately.

       “No, but all this travel does take its toll. No, it’s just that when I see someone with such potential…”

    “What are you talking about?”

   “Oh, my dear, it’s tragic. If you don’t know, it’s going to be ghastly for you, and if you do know, well, you really aren’t doing your job.”

    “What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.

    “Well….”

    “I’ll never tell anyone.” Hallie assured her.

    “Tell anyone what already?” Anya shouted.

    Hallie nodded at Dawn, wide-eyed at the dining room table, leaning forward eagerly. “Do you really think?”

   “Hey, already there.” Dawn assured her. “Spit it out already, you’re killing me.”

   Buffy winced at that, certain that Hallie would now subject them to a round of further evasions. Evidently, though, she’d misjudged the demon, because after primping her hair only once, she sighed and with the appearance of great reluctance, said, “There was a vampire at  your birthday party.”

     There was a great gust of wind as three extremely exasperated women let out inheld breaths. “That’s it?” Dawn demanded. “That’s all?”

    Hallie glanced quickly from face to face, obviously disappointed that her secret hadn’t had quite the bang she’d been anticipating. “If half the things they say about him are true…” She waved a finger in Buffy’s face. “And you had him at your party, with your little sister and your friends? He had to have had an invitation to get in, you know.”

   “Spike’s welcome in my house any day.” Buffy said quietly. 

    Hallie spluttered. “Spike? Spike? Is that what he calls himself? Spike? Oh, that is too funny----- in a touching, pathetic sort of way….” She giggled until her face turned red, covering her face with her hands.

    Dawn frowned at her, then looked at her older sister, unsure of what was going on. This horrible woman knew Spike? She felt the faintest prickle of alarm looking at Buffy, too: she was as mad as she’d ever seen her.  Her chin was down, and she was glaring at the demon woman, her lips tight and white. “Touching? Pathetic?”  She repeated, with wonder in her voice.  Who was this creature referring to?  “Yeah,” she said sarcastically, “It was so pathetic how he almost died instead of telling Glory who Dawn was.” 

    “He did what?” Dawn squeaked, suddenly glowing.

    “Oh, I’m sorry.”  Hallie said sweetly. “You don’t mean you have some sort of feeling for him, do you? Maybe he’s a better vampire than he was a human. I haven’t kept up to date on him as much as I should have, but really, when he was human, he was so ---so---“

   “So what?” Buffy demanded.

   A hand waved in the air, dismissing the subject. “He wasn’t worth remembering, really. Let me see. Does he really call himself Spike?  I don’t suppose there’s much else he could have called himself.”

   “That’s not true.” Dawn said. “People used to call him William the Bloody.”

    At that, Hallie laughed so hard she snorted. Dawn flinched, and Buffy sighed.  Anya looked at her friend with great interest, not at all nonplused.

    “Oh—Oh—Oh---“Hallie laid her head on the table and gasped for breath, as tears streamed down her face, and she slapped the table repeatedly. “Oh, stop, you’re killing me…”

   “I wish.” Buffy gave it the whole two-syllable pronunciation. She looked at Anya and sighed; Anya, completely bewildered as to what was going on, held out the cookie basket. “Cookie?”

   Hallie recovered herself after a trip to the bathroom, where she evidently  reapplied her makeup with a trowel, probably to counteract the lizard-like demon face that she turned back on. Once again calm, she reassumed her place at the table, sipping primly at cold tea, and sighing contentedly. “I’m so sorry, I just didn’t realize that William had become a vampire. Although I wonder..”

    “Wonder what?” Buffy snapped.

    “Well, he was such a pathetic loser when he was human…”

    “You keep saying that,” Dawn said impatiently, “but you never back it up.”

   “Oh, he liked to call himself  a poet.” Hallie said. “He was always off in the corner, scribbling in a notebook, and of course, they were all about me!  I was horrified,” she confided, leaning forward. “He was awful.”

     “What do you mean, awful?” Buffy snapped. “Did he kill lots of people?”

   “No,” Hallie said pertly. “He just made us all wish we were dead.”

    “By writing poetry?  So just what was the big hobby back then? Belching?” Buffy demanded.

   “No, my dear, it was such bad poetry. It was awful. Bloody awful.  That’s what we called him, the Bloody Awful Poet. It was torture.”

    “Oh!” Anya exclaimed. “So he was a vengeance demon?”

   “He might as well have been.” Hallie said with a shudder. “Really, afterward..”

   “After…what?” Buffy asked, dreading the answer.

   “After he told me how he felt about me…”

   “How did he feel about you?” Buffy suspected it wasn’t the way she felt about the demon herself.

    “Well, of course, it’s one thing to have nice young men admire one, but he was just so…so…”

   “Pathetic?” Buffy supplied.

   “He really was,” Hallie agreed, mistaking Buffy’s helpfulness for agreement. “He was utterly beneath me, and the worst thing was, he simply didn’t realize it!  Kept on and on about how he was a bad poet, but a good man! Awful, awful experience. And then…”

   “I was the most pathetic git you ever saw. I wrote awful poetry, and I had a crush on this awful woman. It was just terrible. And the poetry!” Buffy thought sickly, remembering. You’re beneath me.

    “You’re completely right.” Buffy said. “It must have been just terrible. Having a good man love you, even if he was pathetic. Write poetry about you, oh my God,  the horror of it all. How did you cope?”

   “I became a justice demon.” Hallie said proudly.

    “Huh?”

    “Yes, it was just too much. I found out later that the man I really admired saw William cornering me at a party and decided that I must’ve been engaged to him. So he left, and I never got him.”

    “Did you get revenge on him?” Buffy asked carefully.

   “The man I couldn’t have? Oh, no, he wasn’t worth it. Plenty of fish, all that. But it was so presumptuous of William to think I’d ever, even consider….I never actually, formally, exactly, got revenge on him,  but I like to think I helped. I believe he went out that night after the party with his little virgin heart all aflutter and tore up those horrible poems, and then a vampire got him.  And then, of course, he did go after some of the party guests. I’d never have guessed he had it in him. If I had, I might have thought differently. It was even sort of witty, too, now that I think about it, the torturing people with railroad spikes. That’s what we always used to compare his poetry to.”

   “Wow,” Buffy said.” What a loss.”

   “It just is, isn’t it? If he hadn’t kept bothering me like that, none of this need have happened.  I’m kind of surprised to know that he’s a better vampire than he was a man.” She shrugged. “Who knows?” She looked around. “Are there any more cookies?”