Chapter 2
 

Buffy had worked herself into a seething tizzy by the time she got home. The vampire's hapless victim was now in the hospital, in serious condition according to the EMS crew who had treated her. The Book of Altador was gone, and so was the vampire who had stolen it out of Xander's car.

What a complete disaster, from start to finish. And to make her night just that much suckier, she sensed Spike long before she opened her front door. She had only seen him two or three times since she had broken up with him, and it was a new and innovative form of torture for them both.

She unlocked the door and stepped into the living room, where they were all waiting for her. She tried and failed not to search out Spike first. There he was by the couch, standing as always, arms crossed. How could the mere sight of him bring on such a cacophony of emotions? Fear and anger, lust and guilt, gratitude and annoyance. Everything except indifference, no matter how much she longed for it. Buffy tried her best to make her face expressionless. Battleshields at one-hundred percent, Captain.

The Scoobies jumped to their feet from their various seats, anxious for news.

"What happened?" asked Xander.

"I lost him." They didn't need to know the humiliating details of that particular adventure.

"And the book?"

She didn't bother to reply.

"I locked the car!" he said, more than a little shrilly.

Buffy angrily mimicked Xander. "'Let's pick up the book tonight, so we can FedEx it to Giles first thing in the morning' he said. 'And now let's stop by the Bronze for a drink' he said. 'The book will be okay in the car' he said."

"I covered it with my jacket!"

"'I'll lock the car' he said."

"I did lock the car!"

"You left the window rolled down, Xander! It was just luck that we saw them taking it!"

"Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry. Giles is going to kill me."

"He might have to take a number," she muttered. Xander looked so stricken she added, "I'm sure we'll get it back, though."

Buffy turned to Spike. Might as well get it over with. "Dawn?" she said to him by way of greeting.

"Asleep," he answered. He could smell the reek of burnt flesh on her, but wasn't sure if he should ask about it. They stood at a loss for words for a moment, then each scurried away from the other. Well, as long as it wasn't awkward or anything.

Buffy pulled Willow aside by her arm. "What's he doing here?"

Willow could tell something had happened between Spike and Buffy, but she wasn't sure what. A messy breakup after months of dysfunctional white-hot sex was not one of her top three guesses, however. "Xander had a little bit of a guilt fit on the way home. He decided Spike might be able to help us, so we dropped by his crypt and talked him into coming back with us, in case you didn't get the book back."

"Way to have faith in me."

"Yeah, I'd agree with you except, you know, no book." Good point.

"So he came, huh?" Buffy didn't know what to make of that.

"Yup. It took a little arm-twisting, but Xander was not above twisting whatever Spike part it took to get him in the car."

So, not really here by choice. That was better. Buffy set her Spike thoughts aside. Not too far aside, though. She liked to keep them close at hand, so she could take them out every few minutes and maul them.

"Okay, this is desperation time," Buffy told everyone grimly. "We've got to get that book back. If anybody has any ideas, I'm listening."

"We could call Giles," suggested Anya.

"Oh! I already did," Willow said, "just before Buffy got home."

"What did he say?"

"After he yelled at me for our 'gross mismanagement of a simple favor' to him? Or after he yelled at me for us losing a 'major source of arcane power'? He said we better bloody well get it back, because he didn't want to think about what would happen if something evil used it. He's contacting his...contacts in town, in case somebody hears something."

Buffy ran a hand through her hair. Spike looked down at his feet, like the sight of it hurt his eyes. "Look," she said, "there's a chance our vampire is still in town. He told me he'd just arrived today, so he might still have business here. We have to try to find him. I got a good look at him out of vamp face - I'd recognize him if I saw him again. I could do a search of...Sunnydale."

The silence was deafening.

"Well, what else can we do? Come on!" Buffy implored.

"There is something," said Spike finally. Reluctantly. Wondering what personality defect drove him to assist the source of all that was fucked up in his vampire existence. "A long shot."

"Have you noticed how we never seem to get the short shots?" noted Xander.

"You lot ever heard of The Gathering?" Spike asked them. Blank looks across the board. "It's a meeting of vampires that takes place every ten years. Interested parties from all over meet at a prearranged location to catch up, have some fun, see who's been dusted."

"Sounds suspiciously like a high school reunion," said Xander.

"Something like that. The thing is..."

Buffy interrupted him. "Whoa, whoa, how can I have not heard of this?"

"Because you're the Slayer? Wouldn't really work if you did, would it? As I was saying, this fellow who nicked the book, he said he was new to town. And it just so happens The Gathering is tomorrow night. In Sunnydale. Maybe that's a coincidence, maybe not."

'In Sunnydale? And I didn't know about it?" Buffy was flummoxed.

"Yes. They pulled a fast one on you. You're in the dark. Out of the loop. Let's move on."

"Move on? Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Spike gave her a wounded stare as he climbed aboard the good ship Bitter Much. Yeah, somehow he'd forgotten to tell her about The Gathering all those times they snuggled in the afterglow of their romantic nights together.

However, all he said was, "Because you were twelve when the last one took place. And because it's none of my business. Really, if they're dancing the night away instead of biting away, what's the harm? It's one night, then they're gone."

"So your plan is what? That I go in there, and if I can find him, I should drag him out kicking and screaming in front of all of his friends?" she asked.

"No, you couldn't do that even if you wanted to," he told her, wisely ignoring her sarcasm. "You can imagine trying to deal with a mob of drunken vampires, so after a few decades of bloody mayhem, the organizers finally got the bright idea to arrange for a dampening over whatever building they're meeting in."

"You mean they hose them down?" asked Anya.

"No, no," said Willow, "a dampening spell sort of waters down whatever supernatural powers it comes in contact with. It's harmless, but everyone within the circle of the spell is brought down to a level, human playing field. They'd still be vampires, but they wouldn't be able to turn. And they wouldn't be super strong, or super anything else, either."

Spike nodded. "That's right. So barging in would be foolish I would think, because your Slayer strength would be gone as well, and they'd be able to kick your ass from here to there. Better you should sneak in. I could come along in case there's trouble. And if you ID the guy, we can follow him right to the book."

"That's crazy!" said Xander. "Buffy in a room full of vampires, with no Slayer power? You're nuts."

"Well, Harris, if you have a better idea, now's the time." Spike raised his eyebrows.

Xander snorted, but what could he say? He was the one who'd dragged Spike here to help them.

"Of course it's crazy, but that's the beauty of it," said Spike reasonably. "The Slayer, infiltrating The Gathering? No vampire could possibly see it coming."

They waited for Buffy's opinion. She sighed. "How could we work it?" she asked Spike.

Before he could reply, Anya ushered Buffy to a seat at the dining room table. "You'll need a disguise to hide your blonde Slayer sexiness," she said with some excitement, "or the book stealer will recognize you and run away. Or another vampire will recognize you and they'll all tear you to pieces. So...we want something that will make you fade into the woodwork." She looked at Spike. "What manner of dress would be expected at The Gathering?"

He shrugged. "Well, I've never been. Bunch of poofters, kissing each other's cheeks hello and whatnot? Not my cup of tea. I know it's not black tie, if that's what you mean. But I imagine they'll be trying to impress."

"So Buffy needs to be leaning towards...frumpy business casual?" Anya turned to Tara and Willow. "I'll bet you two have plenty of unattractive lesbian clothing to ward off men's advances."

They gave Anya the patented Wiccan glare of vexation. Then they went upstairs to plunder their closet.

"And she'll need a wig," said Xander. He hated the plan, but the chance to dress up Buffy was not to be squandered. "I think I saw some wigs in the basement, from when Joyce was sick." He was off in a shot.

"And maybe some glasses, to ugly her up?" Anya suggested to Spike.

Spike couldn't imagine Buffy being ugly even if she gave up bathing and started wearing sack cloth, but he was getting curious to see what would happen next. Better than Trading Spaces, this.

"Vampires don't wear glasses," Buffy pointed out.

"Some do," said Anya. She dug through her purse. "I may have my Lisa Loeb knockoffs with me."

"Why would vampires wear glasses if they don't need them?"

Spike made a noise of disgust. "The same reason humans do. I know you want to believe that vampires are all a bunch of sodding animals, but we are individuals, you know. Just because we're evil, doesn't mean we can't have a sense of fashion." He thought his duster made that point in and of itself.

"'Cause bloodstains are this year's black," retorted Buffy. Then mentally kicked herself as he gave her a satisfied smirk. What had she learned in Psych class a thousand years ago? To some kids, negative attention is better than no attention.

Xander emerged from the basement with a mud-colored, blunt cut wig in hand, just as Willow was draping a brown turtleneck sweater over Buffy's peasant blouse. A matching plaid knee-length wool skirt lay beside them on the table. "We thought we could pad you, so you wouldn't be so Buffy shaped," Willow said.

Xander gingerly placed the wig on Buffy's head, and Anya followed suit with her thick-framed, nonprescription glasses.

They examined the new Undercover Buffy while Willow ran to get a mirror from the bathroom.

"Damn," said Xander.

Willow held up the mirror so Buffy could see herself. "And voila. Geeky female vampire."

Buffy tried not to look too stricken.

"She looks like a girlie Roy Orbison," said Xander.

"No! I know! She's Velma," said Willow triumphantly.

"I'm not Velma!" objected Buffy. "I'm Daphne!"

"Not anymore," Spike said. And let himself thoroughly enjoy her distress.

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with Velma," Willow told them. "Smart girls can be sexy, too. Even with knee socks." They looked at her. "They can!" She turned to Tara for confirmation.

"Of course they can, sweetie," Tara assured her. She rubbed Willow's back kindly.

"It's perfect," Anya told Buffy. "No one will glance at you once, never mind twice."

Buffy abruptly stood, pushing the mirror away as the sweater dropped to the floor. "Fine. Whatever. It just better work, that's all I have to say."

"That's all? I find that hard to believe," Spike said softly to no one in particular. Xander covered his laugh in a cough.

"Where do we have to go tomorrow?" Buffy asked Spike loudly. She'd forgotten what a royal pain in the ass he was. In the Annoyance Olympics, Spike would get shin splints from mounting the podium so often.

"The Marriott. Convention Room B, I think," he told her.

"Wait. They rented a room at the Marriott?!"

"These aren't your everyday vampires, let's just say. You'll see. Anyway, you get there around midnight. I'll already be there."

Spike tossing out orders rubbed Buffy entirely the wrong way. As opposed to his ability to rub her entirely the right way. "No, you get there around midnight. And I'll already be there." Her voice sounded bitchy even to herself. Spike-rub thoughts will do that to a Slayer. God, she wished he wasn't here!

Spike's mouth twitched. He couldn't tell if he wanted to smack her or kiss her. Maybe smack her, then kiss her. Wouldn't be the first time. "Right," he said agreeably. He knew that would irritate her the most. "I'll see you then, then," he told her. And got the hell out of there.

Spike liked to think he could handle most high-pressure situations, but being Buffy's ex was unraveling him. And what "ex" was he, exactly? A part of him still wanted to say he was her ex-boyfriend, but he knew he was kidding himself. Ex-sexual drug of choice to deal with coming back from the dead. Wouldn't really work on a resume, would it? Time to get back to his nice, quiet, Buffy-free crypt.

Buffy locked the door behind him, fighting the impulse to peek out the window and watch him stride down the street. It looked like she'd be spending tomorrow night as an ugly vampire at a vampire convention, with Spike breathing down her neck the entire time. Or not breathing. Whatever.

Just another Saturday night in Sunnydale.

 Chapter 3

Buffy paid the cab driver at 11:35 p.m. She slowly walked through the sliding front doors, more than a little unnerved as her Slayer powers faltered and failed as she crossed the threshold. She didn't feel normal exactly – at least, as much as she could remember how normal felt. It was more like she had been wrapped tight in cheesecloth, and nothing supernatural could leak out. Or maybe that was just the granny corset she was wearing, which was stuffed with hand towels to plump her up. She fought the urge to adjust her butt.

"Could you tell me where I can find Convention Room B?" she asked the girl at the front desk. The girl jumped half out of her skin. "You're here for the G-Gathering? Down that hall and to your left after the elevator." She cringed back out of grabbing range. Evidently, even vampires who met at the Marriott still had a reputation to uphold.

Buffy had to stop by the elevator to take a couple of deep inhales. She could do this. She'd go in, ignore the fact she was surrounded by hundreds of her hated enemies, find tall, dark, and curly, follow him, beat the unliving shit out of him until he coughed up the book, stake him, and then go home a hero.

If only she could wait outside for him. But what if he left by another exit? She couldn't take the chance. And what if he wasn't even here? Okay, enough with the what-ifs. Less talking, more walking.

Buffy did a double-take at the sign beside Convention Room B as she pushed open the doors:

-----------------

The Gathering

:0)=

-----------------

She wasn't in Kansas anymore, that was obvious. She wasn't sure what she had expected at a vampire convention, but a DJ? Playing Ricky Martin singing "She Bangs"? Okay, what the hell?

Buffy hung back by the door for a moment, holding her breath. They didn't all stop talking to stare at her, which was a good sign. The room was large enough for about 500, and Buffy guessed the crowd was close to that number already. Round tables with gorgeous centerpieces of pink, white, and red carnations and roses dotted the room. There was a dance floor to her right. That's where the DJ had set up. He was black, laden with gold chains, bopping along to Ricky.

The music was suddenly cut short. The DJ passed a microphone to a dapper gent standing on the platform in a Regis-inspired dark grey suit and tie. He tapped the microphone with his index finger. "Testing. Can you still hear me?" he asked them. A few yelled in the affirmative. "Just a couple more announcements. First, I hope you're having a great time at the best Gathering EVER!" Everyone clapped and cheered. "We want to keep it that way, so please, if anyone is caught abusing the nice hotel staff, they will be escorted out and dealt with rather severely in the parking lot. This is your last warning, folks.

"Also, just a reminder, this is a nonsmoking facility. So if you must – and you'll see me out there too, ha ha – step outside to have a puff. Be on your best behavior, though, because you are in the Slayer's hometown!" The crowd booed enthusiastically. Buffy's temples started to pulse in a pre-Excedrin-headachy sort of way.

"Calm down, calm down," he continued. "Hey, how many Slayers does it take to screw in a light bulb? One, because everyone knows she has to do it alooone." They all roared. "Anyway, our servers will be coming around soon with steaks and garlic bread for everyone." Groans from the audience. "Kidding! This is harder than it looks, you know! But we do have a dessert table set up at the back, so enjoy."

It occurred then to Buffy that not all vampires were created equal. She spent the majority of her time dusting vamps that had existed for mere days, sometimes only hours. They tended to be cocky, grumpy, and stupid. And her experience with older vampires consisted mainly of the fab four of Spike, Angel – or, Angel, Spike, she meant – Darla, and Dru. As for all the other vampires, of all ages, from all over the world? Uncharted territory. Tonight she was getting a firsthand look at how different some vampires could be. How surprisingly...dorky. What next? She feared that at any second they were going to pull out the...

"Oh, one more thing! Get your singing voices ready, because in about an hour you're all going to get the chance to karaoke."

Never mind. Well, they could swing from the chandeliers for all she cared, she just wanted to get her hands on the vampire she'd come here to find. She figured she might as well start at the back of the room, and work her way forward. That way she could score something chocolate from the dessert table ASAP.

She had brownies in her line of vision when she heard a voice to her left. "What do we have here?" Buffy looked down at a striking redhead sitting at one of the tables. "Oh, do come join us, darling." She grabbed Buffy's hand and pulled her into the chair next to her. Luckily, Buffy's hands were ice-cold due to nerves, so no problem there.

Buffy filled the last vacant seat at the table. Seven ravishing beauties wearing Valentino and Stella McCartney, and dripping diamonds and snobbery, gave Buffy the once-over. They exchanged disbelieving glances and had a nice little laugh at her expense. Buffy knew their kind well. This really was like a high school reunion. Even if they thought it was beneath them, they'd come to this lame-o event just to gloat over how much better they were than the other vampires. Some things were universal, it seemed.

"And where are you from, honey?" a tall blond in pink silk asked Buffy between nibbles of the creme brulee in front of her.

Buffy self-consciously pushed her glasses up. "Um...Canada. Which is north of California. Eh."

"Is that why you're dressed like that? Because you're Canadian?" another asked her.

"Yes," said Buffy, "it is. This is very traditional Canadian garb."

"Poor Canada. No wonder Shania left."

Buffy was entirely humiliated. They were dressed to the nines, and she...well, she was a nine dressed up as a three. If only Cordelia were here; she would have had them all sobbing in two minutes flat.

Buffy started to get up, then thought twice about it. Even if she was the ugly, bitter duckling at the table, she was now part of a group, and that could only help deflect attention from her. She resigned herself to their cattiness as she searched for curly brown hair.

But the women had already forgotten her. They were once again busy prattling on and on and on, as Buffy soon discovered. Typical girl vampire talk. Victims. Schemes. Boy vampires.

A tuxed waiter, surely not part of the regular hotel staff, wheeled a cart to a stop in front of their table. The cart was filled with wine bottles set under hot lamps. "Fresh blood? Anyone?" he asked them. He filled their wine glasses as he flirted with the other women. He did not speak to Buffy.

"Do you have any beer around here?" she asked the waiter. "As a chaser for this great blood?"

He barely glanced at her. "Actually, I do. He reached under the cart's skirting and pulled out a can for her. "If you want more, there's an open bar over there." He motioned over his shoulder.

Buffy popped the top and took a grateful swig as one of her new best friends resumed her interminable chatter to the others. "So anyway, I says to him, 'Don't think I don't know what it is you've been sucking,' and he had the nerve to..." She trailed off. Buffy looked at her, wondering what miracle could have shut her up.

The woman was gawking, dumbstruck, towards the front of the room. She held a forgotten forkful of cake next to her mouth. Buffy thought that only happened in movies. What was up there? She twisted in her chair, straining to see, but couldn't because of the crowd. Suddenly, she didn't have to see.

The whispers started beside her, behind her, everywhere. "Look! I can't believe it!"

"Do you see that?" Shocked. Glad.

"It's him! It's William the Bloody!"

Their voices rose and washed over Buffy in an unholy chorus. "It's William...it's Spike...it's Spike!"

Thank God there was an open bar. Buffy chugalugged her beer. She was going to need more than that before she was ready to see Spike in here. Lots more. She stood to get seconds. The crowd shifted – everyone was turning to get a look. And ready or not, there he was.

Chapter 4

 

Jinkies, thought Buffy. Spike was wearing...was he wearing Armani?! A black, single breasted Armani suit, with a crisp white shirt and blood red tie. His more-than-fair hair was slicked back to perfection. His hands were rakishly stuffed into his pockets. He looked like a million bucks. Maybe more, if you counted the black Bruno Magli loafers with tassels.

Buffy's tummy felt very, very funny. She watched as another vampire approached him, yelling with delight. They hugged and slapped each other's backs. Spike, the prodigal son. She fled to the bar, almost but not quite breaking into a run.

Buffy wasn't sure why she was so shaken up, and didn't really care to analyze it further. She forced her hunched shoulders to relax as she waited her turn to get a drink. "A Coors Lite, please," she told the bartender. A handwritten sign propped on the bar read, "Tonite's Special: Bloody Marys". Man, how many sad-ass vampire jokes could there be?

A familiar voice said from behind her, "If it isn't Velma."

"Don't call me that," she told him without turning around. The bartender gave her the beer. She tossed half of it back. That was better. So she started in on the other half.

"Could I get a red wine, half and half with A-negative, mate?" Spike asked the bartender. He was right behind her now, his body pressing against her shoulder and hip as he reached past her for a napkin. He smelled good. Really good. He was wearing cologne. Of course he was. Because she must have died in a car crash on the way over, and this was hell.

"Any sign of him?" He moved beside her as they waited for the drink. His presence was like a wave that threatened to capsize her. She put a hand on the counter. No bottoms-up for Buffy.

"Not yet." She finally looked at him. My God, even better close up. "I'm surprised at the warm welcome for you."

He said, "This lot isn't as judgmental as some. They know what it's like to want to fit in where you don't belong. Plus, most of them don't have the first clue about me and you." Spike waited for the inevitable there is no me and you, but Buffy was silent. He shrugged.

Buffy thought his shoulders looked wider than usual in the suit jacket. She wondered how that jacket would feel coming off those shoulders. Of course, she had never taken an article of clothing off him before without ripping it. Those buttons looked like they would give pretty easily. Okay, maybe two beers in fifteen minutes wasn't such a good idea after all.

The bartender handed Spike his drink, saying, "It's a real honor, man." Spike nodded his thanks, taken aback by the honest admiration. He supposed a steady diet of Scooby "help us/screw you" all these years had made sure of that.

They stepped away from the bar and stood looking at the crowd, pretending to be standing beside each other only by chance.

"What do you think so far?" He nodded at the throng in front of them.

"Of The Gathering? This close to wigging. What is the deal with these guys?" Buffy drifted towards the siren song of the dessert table. Spike followed her at a discreet distance.

They examined the cakes and cookies, pastries and parfaits. "The vamps who come to these things just can't break away from the human part of themselves," Spike told her. "They're hanging on for dear life to all the things they're supposed to leave behind. Like desserts."

"Well, no wonder they're surprised to see you here, then. You had no problem embracing the monster within." Buffy found the perfect brownie and took a big bite. Crumbs scattered and clung to her now rather ample chest.

Spike didn't point it out. Just added to the charm of her disguise, he thought. "I do have a flair, don't I? But there is something to be said for holding tight to creature comforts." He popped a red Jello cube into his mouth.

Buffy stepped away from the table. "I'm going to start looking for our guy." With the added benefit of getting away from yummy-smelling, Jello-slurping you. "What about you?"

"I'm going to take a stroll down memory lane with some of the characters from my checkered past. I haven't seen a couple of these fellows in 50, 60 years."

Buffy finished off the brownie and was about to push her glasses up again, but somehow Spike beat her to it. He reached out and pressed them gently against the bridge of her nose with his thumb.

That brought the conversation to a screaming halt.

Spike finally spoke just as the silence was about to devour them alive. "Now remember, if you see him, come and get me. You can't be a hero in here if he should recognize you."

The spell was broken. "Neither can you, Spike."

"Maybe not, but I can still clock him over the head with something heavy while you distract him."

"Our brilliant plan is coming into shape." She was already walking away from him, hands behind her back. She really did look adorable.

"Spike! I thought that was you!" Some skinny vampire with hair the color of melted caramels pushed past Buffy like she wasn't even there, snagged Spike's arm, and steered him towards her table. Buffy watched them go. Spike was laughing at something the vampire was saying. It had been a long, long time since Buffy had seen him laugh. Her heart twisted painfully.

Shut up, heart. Because you had nothing to do with what I needed from Spike. And now I don't even have that...I mean, need that.

Maybe one more beer.

Chapter 5
 

She looked, and looked some more for the Boston vampire. Looked by the front doors. Nothing. Looked in the coat room, on the dance floor, again and again at the tables. Nothing. Looked in the bathrooms. Nothing. Of course, none of the vampires had to use the toilets – they were all smoking, or applying lipstick, or making out.

Buffy really had to pee after all that beer. What excuse could she come up with to go into a stall? She could pretend she was having sex. No, she couldn't bring herself to talk dirty all by her lonesome, even if there weren't any other humans to hear her. She could pretend she was drunk and puking. She was circumspectly testing out her heaving abilities when it dawned on her that most of the bathroom’s stalls were already crammed with vampires, doing God only knows what. So she just went ahead and did her business, trying not to identify the noises that drifted under the walls of her stall.

She wandered listlessly back into the main room after she was done. Buffy hadn’t been able to find Good Will Vamping to save her life, but she found Spike again within five minutes, like they were connected by some big old psychic pull-string.

Buffy watched him at a distance for a little bit. He was sitting at a table, surrounded by fans who were hanging on his every word. Someone had gotten him a bowl of ice cream, and now he was leisurely eating it as he told his new posse all his best Big Bad stories. Spike pointed his spoon at someone as he joked around, then turned it upside down and sucked on it as someone else talked.

"Why am I not that spoon?" Buffy overheard a woman ask wistfully at the table beside her.

"Because I am," said the woman next to her.

Buffy fought the urge to tell them that she had actually slept with Spike, plenty of times, and he was as hot as he looked. That licking that spoon was nothing, nothing in his repertoire of talents. She put her hand to her heart as she mentally went down the list, and discovered the brownie crumbs. Buffy sighed as she brushed them off.

What was she thinking, anyway? She and Spike were so over. She'd made some bad choices that had felt really good, but now she’d broken up with him, and all that was left was him endlessly mooning over her. Because that's what Spike did.

Spike chose that moment to deliver a punch line, and everyone laughed. Hmm. Not that moony. Hey, remember me? The one you’re drowning in? It looked a lot like Spike was learning how to swim.

These thoughts were driving her crazy. She wished the Scoobies were there. Their blunted logic always made it easier for her to deal with Spike. They were always ready and willing, anxious even, to reduce him to four words: He. Has. No. Soul.

Well, yeah. He was a soul-free zone, no argument there. But here, tonight, where she was the outsider, and he was some kind of bloodsucking comic book hero? It was getting to be an uphill climb to ignore his power, and charisma, and talented little pink tongue. She shifted her hips.

On some level, she understood that she had let herself fall for Spike, not in spite of his terrible and cruel past, but because of it. She couldn't love someone like him, and so her fractured heart had been safe while her body went out to play. At least, that had been the idea. So why did her heart ache as much as her body tonight? Traitors, the both of them.

Look at me, Spike. I need you to look at me.

As if he could hear Buffy's thoughts, Spike glanced around, and nodded slightly when he spotted her. He said a few words to the people at the table, then made his way over to her. Buffy could see the two spoon women exchange nervous glances as he approached. She could imagine what they were thinking. Why was he coming over? Was he going to talk to one of them? Me! thought Buffy, giddy beyond all reasoning. It's going to be me!

She was right, of course. He took her by the elbow, which jolted like it was in a life-size game of Operation, and moved her to the dance floor, where the loud music gave them a modicum of privacy.

Spike leaned his cheek against hers so she could hear him. Buffy's eyelids fluttered closed. She desperately wanted to push him away. Or push him to the floor and fall on him. She did neither. "Did you find him?" he asked her.

"No, I didn't," she said into his ear, "although I may have seen Christopher Walken in the bathroom." Jokes. Jokes were good.

"Countries have switched from Communism to democracy in less time than it's taking you to find this bloke." Spike, chock full of vanilla ice cream and vampire adoration, was completely oblivious to Buffy's emotional Tilt-a-Whirl ride. He thought jokes were good, too.

"We might have to face the fact that he isn't here," she admitted. And that the Book of Altador was slipping farther out of her hands with every passing minute. That really took away from all the fun she was having tonight. Sucked to be Buffy.

Spike thought so, too. "Do one more go-round. Then we'll check the parking lots. And then we'll head out to the bars if you want. We may get lucky, you never know." He knew he should ditch her if they left The Gathering, but she was treating him pretty well, not too many sarcastic comebacks or dirty looks. Might as well help her out, as was his destiny. At least he wasn’t baby-sitting.

"Yo! My homies!" the DJ shouted just then. He was standing on the raised platform beside his stereo equipment, microphone at the ready. The aforementioned homies, who had been dancing to the final notes of "YMCA", stopped and looked up at him. So did Buffy and Spike. "It’s time to strut your karaoke stuff. Come on up here for a songbook."

A few vampires eagerly surged forward as Spike looked at Buffy with horror. "Go!" he told her. "Fast! If you don’t come back in the next ten minutes, I’m leaving without you."

Buffy shook her head in wonder. Spike had endured all manner of unimaginable torture in the past century, but it was the threat of karaoke that broke him.

She made her way to the back of the semicircle that was forming on the dance floor as a vampire broke into a rousing rendition of "Friends in Low Places". It was pretty good, all things considered. She once again scanned the crowd, but with a decided lack of effort. Really, what were the odds he’d show up for the singing?

Buffy was trying her best to still care about the book, and how its spells could kick all sorts of ass in the wrong hands, but all she wanted to do at this point was curl up and go to sleep. Her emotional fuel tank was running on fumes. All the things she felt for Spike, and didn’t feel, and wished she didn’t feel, had drained her dry. She had to get out of here. She wanted to be the Slayer again.

She kept to the edge of the spectators. The next singer – speaking of torture – started in on "Wind Beneath my Wings". Lovely. Their wedding song. Off key. Buffy choked on her own spit as she heard Spike’s voice boom out above the music, "Oi! For God’s sake, give us a break!"

The vampire in question broke off in mid-wail and glared at Spike, whom he didn’t know from Lestat. "Hey, if you think you could do better, be my guest!"

Spike sneered at that, but Miss Melted Caramels from further down on his right thought that was absolutely the best idea she’d ever heard. "Yeah, Spike, go on," she urged him.

Before Spike could answer, the guy standing next to him said, "You’re William the Bloody? Man, let’s hear what you’ve got!"

"Sod off!" said Spike forcefully, but it was too late. The idea took on a life of its own, and suddenly, encouraging hands were pushing him to the front, and up on the platform. Spike, keenly feeling the loss of his vampire strength, soon found himself face to face with the tone-deaf vamp, who shoved the microphone into Spike’s chest with an offended "hmph" and flounced off. The DJ cut the music as Spike held the mike by a thumb and index finger, a look of exasperated disgust on his face.

He froze as he felt everyone’s expectant eyes on his back. Spike slowly turned and faced the growing crowd, feeling nothing short of buggered. He’d tangled with a few mobs in his day, but this really took the cake. He put the microphone to his mouth, planning to tell them all what a sorry bunch of losers they were. They immediately started cheering like Liam Gallagher had taken the stage.

He paused. Apparently, they loved him even without singing. That was nice. Inspiring, really. "Er...hi," he said into the mike. They cheered louder. Spike grinned. "So you want me to sing, eh?" he asked them. The volume went up another notch. He started thinking of songs he knew, which immediately caused his mind to shoot out the top of his head and hover above his body. What the hell was he doing?

Buffy was pushing her way back to the front as fast as she could. What the hell was he doing? He wasn’t going to sing, was he? This, she had to see. The DJ said something to Spike, who shrugged and said something back. The DJ nodded and fiddled with his karaoke machine.

The song started, and Spike momentarily considered making a mad break for it. But some tender morsel in the audience gave him a shy smile, and he changed his mind. He covered the mike with his hand. "What do I do now?" he asked the DJ.

"Look at the words, dude. You should already be singing."

Spike, in the fine tradition of karaoke beginners the world over, gaped at the monitor set up beside him and tried to figure out where he was in the song. "Twentyfirstcenturywasyesterday..." he sang in a rush, then promptly lost his place and stopped. His respect for singers had increased tenfold in the last 30 seconds.

He gave up as he waited for the chorus, which he knew he knew, and took the opportunity to shrug out of his suit jacket. The women in the audience fell silent as they watched him do it. The men, however, laughed and whistled. In this setting, Spike was just the right mix of unthreatening self-confidence. They imagined they were his friends, and that all that stood between them being up there with him was a bottle of Nice ‘n Easy Ultra Light Ash Blonde and an English accent.

The chorus came around, and he didn’t need to read the words anymore, which helped. "So slide over here, and give me a moment..." His voice wobbled ever so slightly at first, but got stronger and stronger as the song unfolded. The familiar smirk was soon back on his face. It was proof enough that his clothes were only window dressing. Black T-shirt, Armani suit, shirtless, it didn't take long before the real Spike seeped through, in all his vampire glory.

"I need you tonight, ‘cause I'm not sleeping," he crooned to the women in the front row. "There's something about you girl, that makes me sweat." Spike had always thought Michael Hutchence would’ve made a great vampire.

The women started to push and elbow each other as they jostled for position in front of him. They all wanted to be the girl that makes Spike sweat. He looked at their faces as he sang. They were eating out of his hand. Spike felt thoroughly hammered, even though he'd only had the one drink. He was so far out of his element he wasn't even on the Periodic Table anymore.

Before he knew it, the song was ending. He sang the last lines softly. Seductively. "Your moves are so raw. I’ve got to let you know. I’ve got to let you know. You’re one of my kind."

They went wild. They screamed for more, but Spike’s career as a karaoke singer was over. He tossed the DJ the microphone, stood at the edge of the platform, spread his arms, and dropped into the mosh pit. They caught him gladly, mobbing him, their hands roaming over him like they owned him.

Buffy stood, frozen, a few feet away and watched. She barely felt it as the crowd buffeted against her. She was transfixed at the sight of Spike as they turned him onto his back, his arm flung over his eyes, his excitement obvious as they touched him.

It took everything she had to stop herself from joining them. Buffy took a shaky step backwards. That was enough; it freed her, and she turned and bolted.

When they finally got Spike on his feet, he didn’t even notice that Buffy had left.

Chapter 6
 

Time pretty much lost all meaning for Spike after the karaoke break from reality. He vaguely recalled being congratulated on his performance by roughly half the vampires in North America, and then he was staggering outside for a much-needed smoke. Which he had to bum off of someone on the way out because his were in his jacket pocket, and he couldn’t find his jacket. Had he taken it off, or had someone taken it off of him? He should know that, shouldn’t he?

He stood alone at one of the side entrances of the Marriott parking lot, blowing streams of carcinogens into the night sky. The stars were laid out like a banquet above him, and he couldn’t remember the last occasion he’d had to glance up at them. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He tried to find Orion, but settled for the Big Dipper. And that was nice, too.

An emotion tugged at him, and it took him a moment to name it. Contentment. Long fucking time no see. He thought it only right to give contentment a swift kick up the ass, so he wondered then where Buffy had scarpered off to.

Spike was sure down to his bones that her disappearance had nothing to do with the book she was after, and everything to do with him. So much for her proclamations of doom. Fine by him, though. The way he saw it, if she didn't care about the book, neither did he.

She was probably already back home, burning her disguise on the barbecue, but he thought he’d stick around for a while, just in case. Besides, and maybe even more than besides, he was having fun. Fun that for once had nothing to do with forbidden love or smashing something's face in. He couldn't have done it night after night or what have you, but he had to admit it was a bit of a blast being the hit of the party.

At that moment two vampires burst through the door beside him, tumbling over each other like puppies. They shifted into game face the moment they hit the pavement, and it didn’t take long before one of them was dust. Spike watched the last vampire standing do the Rocky dance of victory, then hurry back into the hotel, no doubt anxious to celebrate with many Purple Nurples and Blow Jobs.

Ice cream, karaoke, and fights to the death in the parking lot. This could possibly be the best party he'd ever been to. And what the hell was that sneaking up on him now? Not a spark of happy, surely? Would wonders never cease. Spike flicked his cigarette on the ground and slipped back inside, the door thudding shut on the stars, and his vampire power, to boot. Back to the party.

He headed straight for the open bar, looking forward to getting plastered on someone else’s dime. He was standing in line, speculating on which single malt scotches were waiting for him under the counter, when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He turned on her, his feelings as tossed as salad. "Where the bloody hell have you...?"

It wasn’t her. It was one of his own kind. A pretty, curvy one, at that.

"Would you like to dance?" she asked him. She was a few inches shorter than him, blonde, petite. And bore no resemblance whatsoever to anyone who might have recently given him an emotional evisceration. Shut the fuck up, Freud, he said to himself as he allowed her to lead him to the dance floor.

"Are you having a good time?" she asked after she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and settled into him.

"Yeah, pretty good. How about you?" Small talk while dancing to a karaoke rendition of "You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling." He was fairly sure he was on the short-list for the most pathetic Big Bad in the history of evil.

"Very good. Now." She wasted no time in getting a tongue in his ear. "Maybe we can go somewhere," she said, "so we can be alone." Guess she was all action, no talk. He sighed without even being aware of it.

She must have sensed his reluctance, because she whispered, "You won’t regret it, Spike. You can’t imagine the things my sire made me learn."

"Oh, I might have an idea," he said dryly.

"Mm, but I bet Angelus always sent you flowers the next day." He could feel her grin into his neck.

Spike laughed, which was as shocking to himself as if he’d yodeled. Why the hell did he suddenly feel so guilty? No law against laughing at an unexpected touché, was there? Somehow, it seemed like more of a betrayal to Buffy than if he were merely screwing someone else.

The vampire pulled away from him so she could get a good look at all the pretty. Then her mouth was inching towards his, and Spike froze, not quite sure whether he wanted to stop her or not.

Okay. Right. Looked like he was about to kiss Somebody Other Than Buffy. Although, if he squinted, he could almost pretend...God, more pathetic by the second. Ah, what the hell.

Spike leaned her back, closed his eyes, and kissed her. And wondered where Buffy was. He yanked her roughly by her hair, disappointed he wasn't more aroused by the whole thing. She seemed to like it enough, though. Her crotch was grinding a hole right through the front of his pants.

Later, he’d try to figure out just how he’d missed what happened next. His attention had been focused, of course, on crotch grindage. And his vampire senses were deadened down to normal. Those were the only excuses he could scrape together for why he didn’t hear the conversations stop around him, and why he didn’t feel the other dancers part like the Red Sea beside him.

When Spike finally sensed someone standing in front of them, he opened his eyes. The first things to enter his line of vision were the black leather Fuck Me boots with three inch stiletto heels. He looked higher, but those boots went on forever, all the way up to the start of her bare thighs. After that: the body-hugging crimson velvet dress, cut up to here and down to there. And then there was the straight black hair that cascaded gloriously down around her shoulders. Finally, the face – thick black eyeliner, lipstick the color of bruised cherries. Yeah, it was Buffy.

He dropped the vampire he’d been kissing. She landed in a heap at his feet.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked Buffy the vampire player, coyness incarnate.

"Um...I...um," said Spike suavely.

The other vampire struggled to her feet and gave Buffy a push. "I don't know who you are, bitch, but he's with me at the moment. And if you have a problem with that, then maybe we should take it outside."

Buffy didn’t even glance at her. Her eyes were locked on Spike’s. "Be careful what you wish for," Buffy told her. The vampire looked to Spike for some assistance, saw how he was looking at Buffy, and gave up immediately. Even an immortal didn’t want to waste time on lost causes. She sashayed away, her dignity limping along behind, already on the hunt for her next conquest.

Spike couldn’t stop blinking. Buffy might as well have been the sun. He was surprised he didn’t turn into dust at the edge of those boots. For a split second, he entertained the thought of leaning her over one of the tables in here, carnations scattering. It was pretty damn entertaining.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one taking a good long look. Dozens of vampires were admiring the view. How long would it take for their eyes to move off of her thighs, and on to her face? How many minutes before it dawned on one of them just who she was? He knew what they’d do to her if they got their hands on her. It would take them a long time to kill her. Or turn her. He would have done the same, once. Now he’d be screaming as he watched.

Spike moved towards her, his arms outstretched as if he were going to sweep her into a dance. Buffy took a hesitant step forward.

"Can I talk to you in private for a minute?" he said through a gritted smile. Without waiting for an answer, Spike yanked her off the dance floor and threaded both of them around the tables like the tables were so many traffic pylons. Buffy had to break into a trot to keep up with him. He didn’t seem to empathize much with the logistics of trying to run in Fuck Me boots.

Spike took her down a hallway marked "Employees Only". He pulled her into the first empty room they passed, her shoulder bouncing off the door frame as he jerked her around the corner. There were stacks of extra chairs and tables crammed everywhere. He flicked on the light and shut the door with both hands.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he immediately snarled at her. "Is this your idea of keeping a low profile?"

"Don’t you li..."

He cut her off. "Do you know what’ll happen if someone recognizes you, you stupid twit?"

She snorted. "Nobody will. See? Do I look like me?" She presented herself for his appraisal.

That depended. She was as far from a California girl as she was ever going to get, it was true. But her eyes were still the same. Damaged. Defiant. Ready for a fight. She was so beautiful it hurt. And didn’t it hurt, though? "You look like someone who wants to be the center of attention, so yeah, you look just like you," he said.

One little crack and the dam burst. "Me? What about you? Dressed like James Bond? Singing that song like you were trying to fuck them with it? You’re the one jumping up and down saying, ‘Look at me! Look at me!’"

His mouth fell open. Then he sneered. "I get it now. Did the spotlight veer off you for a second? You can't stand it if it's not all about Buffy, every minute of every bloody day!"

She jabbed a finger in his chest. "Welcome to Delusionville! Population: Spike!" Buffy’s face was so close now he could feel her hard consonants on his lips. Spike let his right foot slide back a ways. Previous experience indicated they were about two harsh words away from this turning into foreplay, and if that was the case he wanted to brace himself. But she wasn’t done yet. "Why don’t you just go back to your exploratory surgery on that ho-bag?"

"Ho-bag? Oh, that's rich, Elvira. And what do you care, anyway?"

She tossed back her black hair, but didn't answer.

Spike barked out a laugh. "It's killing you that I'm not even thinking about you, isn't it? That you mean so little in this world. Face it, honey. If you're not the Slayer, you're just another face in the crowd." That felt so good going in. And was it just him, or was this fight getting out of hand?

Buffy slapped him across the face. It was somehow worse than a punch would have been. More personal. And it stung like hell. That did it. Now he was really mad. "Do that again and see what happens!" And damned if she wasn’t going to take him up on it – her hand was already swinging.

He grabbed her wrist. She yanked it free...or...hold on there. It should have come free. But it didn't. She tried again, but his fingers were like a vice. They looked at his hand on her wrist. They looked at each other. Spike’s tongue was already curling up behind his front teeth.

"Oh, that's right. Our strength has been dampened," he said as he forced her arm down against her side, even as she struggled to get away. "So that means – well, it means I'm stronger than you." She couldn’t even pry his fingers off her wrist. "Because I am a man and you, pet, are just a weak little girl."

That may or may not have been the case, but Buffy, like women since the beginning of time, knew that upper body strength is not the only weapon in the battle of the sexes. She stopped struggling. And stepped into him. Between the presence of her nifty new boots, and the absence of his nifty Doc Martens, they were now virtually eye to eye. And mouth to mouth.

He didn’t budge. "Just how stupid do you think I am?" he asked her.

Buffy was itching to find out. She used her free hand to yank his dress shirt out of his pants. The bottom two buttons tore off and bounced across the floor, safe at last from all the violence.

Spike’s expression went completely blank. This time when she took a step closer, he took a step back. Little by little, she nudged him until his shoulders bumped into the wall behind him. Because there was just something about a wall that begged Buffy to get Spike up against it.

Spike could feel the thump of bass in his back from the music in Convention Room B. He was feeling fairly light-headed. When Buffy’s hands went under his shirt and ran over his stomach, Spike let go of her wrist. He needed both hands on the wall behind him for support.

For the first time, Spike felt Buffy’s touch as if he were human. He had long forgotten that his vampire form had put his nerve endings on permanent high alert, which made every touch "too much." He’d grown accustomed to the sensations he felt on his skin as an unending mix of pleasure and pain.

But that was all gone now. Nothing left but the pleasure as Buffy’s hands moved over him. Spike couldn’t believe how much room there was in the front of these pants compared to his jeans. He wouldn’t be surprised if he tipped forward.

"I mean so little to you?" Buffy said as her fingers took the deluxe Spike torso tour. "Don't kid yourself, Spike. I mean more than that."

Oh, yes, there was the pain mixed with the pleasure again. "And whose fault is that?" he said bitterly. "You don't want me? Fine. Just let me go then." Spike winced the moment the words were out of his mouth. He'd finally given Buffy permission to walk away from him, from them – the one thing he swore he'd never do. That, and wear shoes with tassels on them. What a night.

But Buffy acted as if he hadn’t said anything at all. Her thumbs dipped under the waistband of his pants and found the spot just inside his hip bones. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me what I mean to you."

Spike tried to concentrate. Surely this was a rhetorical question. Surely every blow, every kiss, every tear in the last six years had answered that question in full. Her thumbs pushed another inch lower. Or not.

He ignored the voice of self-respect blathering in his head. "Everything," he told her flatly. "You mean everything."

She smiled. He smiled back. Then her thumbs pulled out of his pants and she moved away from him. "Now that’s funny," Buffy said in a tone that wasn’t funny at all. "Because no matter how important you are at The Gathering, you're still nothing but a disgusting, filthy vampire, and that's all you'll ever be to me."

Huh. Another unexpected touché. The smile slid off his face. He became still, as only one of the undead can do. No pulse, no breath, no involuntary clench of the muscle along his jaw line. He looked at her, his face unreadable.

Buffy, on the other hand, was a bundle of obvious, churning humanity. Because this was her fallback position, wasn't it? Whenever her feelings for Spike threatened to get the upper hand, she struck out at him with cruelty. She wanted him to hate her. It would be so much easier than when he loved her. But Spike refused to hate her, no matter what she did or said.

Until now. Looked like maybe it finally worked. Good job, Buffy. Now he was going to walk away, forever this time, and it was too late, she couldn't take it back. Buffy's ears started to ring as the blood rushed to her head. She really needed to sit down.

Spike slowly smiled again, weighing her words carefully. Then he picked her up by the shoulders, twisted her around, and slammed her into the wall. And then he kissed her.

He kissed her so fiercely that her head snapped back and hit the wall behind her. If this was a lesson he was teaching her, it was a brutal one. Buffy was struggling again, but Spike pressed her into place with his body. He forced his tongue in, and waited for the sweet moment when Buffy’s reluctance would turn to desire, and then need. First her mouth would open, and soon enough her legs would open, and before he knew it, every wet, hot opening Buffy had to offer would be his for the taking. It usually took about 20 seconds, door to door. Tonight was no exception.

When he finally let her up for air, her hands were wrapped around his tie, her legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was holding her pinned against the wall with his palms under the backs of her naked thighs. He didn’t dare move his hands any higher, because he really couldn’t bear to know if Buffy’s new and improved vampire disguise included panties or not.

He let her down, none too gently, but her boots made the drop a lot shorter. He examined her. She was panting, shaken to the core. Good enough.

He made as if he was going to have another go at her, and she let out a moan of either dread or hunger, but he stopped just short of her mouth. Instead, he turned his head and whispered into her ear, "I love it when you talk dirty, Buffy."

He walked out without looking back, slamming the door behind him.

Buffy took a while against the wall to pull herself together as she tried to decide if she could hold back her tears. The insides of her thighs were sticky, and the throb between her legs was unbearable. This seemed like a good time for some introspection.

Why had she done this? What had possessed her to break into a Le Chateau store in the middle of the night and "borrow" this getup? It wasn’t for The Gathering attendees, of course. It wasn’t even for Spike, who was, she knew, nothing more than collateral damage in her fight to claw her way back into her own life.

It was for her. Because she couldn’t let Spike go – she was hooked. Not on him, and all his attending fangy complications. No, she was addicted to him loving her. Him wanting her above all else. The look in his eyes when he saw her. As it turned out, she couldn’t do without it.

Hi, my name’s Buffy, and I’m a Spikeaholic.

Oh God, what had she done? Here he was, helping her, and this was how she thanked him? By yanking him around by his heart – or was it his cock – and then ripping him to pieces when he responded.

Buffy ran out of the storeroom. It wasn’t too late. She could catch up to him, explain to him, apologize. Her heart was galloping. Her hands felt numb. How many ex-boyfriends would she have to chase down in a heaving panic before she caught one?

Now which way had he gone? Right, back to the convention room? Or left, down the hall and into the parking lot?

She spun around in a circle, trying to decide which way to go. The exit door was just clicking shut. Her feet were already flying. It couldn’t still be him, could it? Maybe he’d stood outside the storeroom for a minute before he had left. Maybe he was already regretting what had happened, just like she was.

As she shouldered the door open, she smelled cigarette smoke. Of course! He’d come outside to calm down. In her mind’s eye she was already pulling the cigarette out of his mouth with one hand and pulling him against her with the other.

Buffy stepped outside, the return of her Slayer powers no match for the relief that washed over her as she saw him, head down as he finished lighting his cigarette. He turned around to see who had joined him.

It was the Boston vampire.

Chapter 7
 

He looked her up and down. "Wow," he said. "Hi." Then he got a whiff of her. He frowned, obviously trying to puzzle out why a human reeking of sex and anxiety would be at The Gathering. "Now who are you, baby? The midnight buffet?"

Buffy stood rooted to the spot, trying her best to understand how her subconscious had somehow translated this tallish, darkish, suit jacket-wearing guy into Spike when she saw him. The mind was a funny thing. A laugh a minute, sometimes.

Time to switch gears from tearful lover to avenging hand of justice. Just because it wasn't the first time didn't make it any easier. Although on the plus side, she finally had a target for all this angsty emotion roiling in her gut. She was so ready to kick some Boston ass.

Buffy ran her hand up her thigh. The vampire gave it his undivided attention. She pulled her stake from where she had tucked it into the top of her right boot, and twirled it authoritatively between her fingers for him. "I’ve been looking for you," she said with a pout. His eyes traveled from the stake to her face. Oh. Ohhh. Oh-oh. He dropped his cigarette.

He didn’t change into game face, just backed away from her slow and easy, hands in his pockets, and said, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." He smiled slyly, dimples creasing into his cheeks. It was a good thing she was going to stake him. A couple more of those smiles and a half-baked declaration of redemption, and she'd probably be making out with him in a Marriott bathroom stall.

"If anyone is going to be described by the words prick and wicked in the same sentence," she told him as she lunged at him, "it’s going to be you."

She punched him twice in the head before he managed to kick her feet out from under her. She fell back, her ankles screaming insults at the damned FM boots.

"I thought we might meet up tonight, but not here. You've got balls, Slayer." He landed a good one right to her kidney, and she gasped and let herself roll away from him before she pushed back up onto her feet.

She came at him in a hard spin, the toe of her boot connecting nicely with his nose." You think I'm scared of a bunch of vampires at a convention? Please." He staggered backwards, but recovered just in time for her to head butt him in the face. That was for the pink-haired girl in the bar.

He tackled her, and they danced backwards in a tangle of arms and legs. "No, evidently fear is not a factor for you," he said into her ear. "You're a cold little bitch."

She stopped her fist in midair. "I'm not cold! I'm...toast! I'm cocoa!" He quit trying to impale his knee in her intestines as she expounded. "I'm perfectly able to love someone, and have them love me. At the same time, even. I am a regular love machine. A warm, warm love machine."

He nodded, transfixed by her True Slayer Confessions. "You’re not talking about us anymore, are you?"

Buffy shoved him off of her and kicked him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. He didn’t try to get up, just lay there, propped on his elbows. He put his finger into the hole where her stiletto heel had pierced both his suit and his skin, and made a tsk-tsking sound.

"Hey," said Buffy cheerfully, "if I can get these boots made with wooden heels, I think I just invented a real time-saver. But until then..." She stood over him, stake poised.

"Yeah, whatever." He held his hand out to her and waggled it. She stared at it, eyebrows arched. "Well," he finally asked, "aren’t you going to give me a hand up?"

"You do know we’re fighting, right?"

He snorted. "Give it up, Slayer. You could have staked me fifteen ways from Sunday by now. We both know you’re not going to do it." She said nothing. "Come on, do you want the book or not?"

Buffy grudgingly took his hand and jerked him to his feet. It wasn’t until he wouldn’t let go that she noticed his other hand was back in his pants pocket. She was considering her pun options, but then he pulled it out again. He was holding a fistful of something. It looked like wet sand. What the...?

He threw the sand at her. She twisted away from him, and it got her right between the shoulder blades. He began to hastily chant in another language, Latin maybe? Greek? Dakchar Demon? Unlike Giles, Buffy didn’t have an ear for foreign tongues. Suddenly, getting the book back didn’t seem half as important as stopping him from finishing whatever it was he was saying. She turned to stake him.

Too late. Her back began to tingle where the sand had hit her. And then it seemed like gravity had been working out some, maybe taking steroids, because she started to feel unbelievably heavy. So heavy she couldn’t stand anymore. She sank to her knees, struggling to keep her balance, but it was no good. Buffy looked at the vampire, who was grinning enormously. She pitched backwards, her arms no use to her at all. Her head smashed into the pavement. Buffy’s back now seemed glued to the ground - she was the world’s largest fridge magnet.

Now it was his turn to look down at her, his smile growing even bigger, if that was possible. "How do you like that, Slayer? This stuff is sort of like pixie dust in reverse. Are you thinking a happy little thought?"

She scrabbled at the ground, trying to lift her stake. Her arms and legs felt like she was doing the backstroke in wet cement.

He made time to gloat some more. "It didn’t even take me that long to find the necessary ingredients for this concoction last night. Such a simple spell, but look how useful. I tell you, that book is like ‘Witchcraft for Dummies’." He laughed at his own joke, then rubbed his hands together. "Enough with the chitchat. Let’s finish this."

He took her by the wrists and dragged her towards the hotel. Her back stubbornly refused to part ways with the parking lot. Buffy felt her skin catch and shred on every rock her body passed over. Maybe she wouldn’t be returning the dress to Le Chateau on Monday morning after all.


He let go of her arms when they got to the side entrance. Her right hand bounced hard against the concrete, and her stake slipped from her hexed fingers and rolled away. For the first time, Buffy started to seriously worry.

The vampire yanked the door open and kept it that way by pushing the kick-stand into place with his toe. He came back and knelt beside her. It was easy enough for him to pull her over the hotel threshold by her armpits; she was so very small when you got right down to it. He stopped when her head was resting on the linoleum inside the hotel.

He looked at her, his expression now soft and solicitous. "There aren’t any Slayer healing powers in there, I’m afraid. That should speed this up." He reached out and touched her dark hair. She could now jerk her head away from him, and did so with as much contempt as she could muster. But the rest of her wasn’t going anywhere.

He straddled her, making sure her arms were tucked securely under him. "Killing you is going to make my reputation," he told her smugly. "And did I already say thank you for the book? Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. The future’s so bright, etcetera. Not quite as much for you, of course." She struggled weakly under him, and for once couldn’t think of one damn thing to say. Fear filled her stomach and creeped up into her mouth. It tasted like pennies.

So it looked like this was it. Some stupid vampire from the state of Massachusetts was finally going to have his one good day. Buffy had often speculated that this moment would be sharp and anguished, but no, it turned out the edges and corners of her final death were going to be nothing but a soft blur. She could barely feel the cold metal of the door frame under her shoulders. Mostly she felt relief – she knew what was on the other side of this journey. In the face of that, Buffy was surprised how sorry she was to be going. She supposed even clinically depressed Slayers could be curious to see what was going to happen next.

"Let’s find out how pretty you are after I put my fist through your face fifteen or twenty times." He pulled his arm back. "Time to die, Slayer."

Dawn, thought Buffy, and closed her eyes.

--------------------------

Oh no! Buffy is going to die! Unless someone can save her in time. But who???

Chapter 8
 

"And what do we have here?"

Buffy’s eyes flew open as she searched for the source of that voice from her prostrate position. It was Spike, not twenty feet away from them, in the hallway of the building. His shirt was still untucked, his tie askew. His hair was a mess. His errant suit jacket was now tossed carelessly over one shoulder. He could not have looked sexier if he’d tried.

He’d come looking for her.

Thank you, Spike, thought Buffy. Thank you for coming back. Thank you for being so stubborn. Thank you for still loving me. I hope.

Now that he was there, however, she wasn't sure what he could do. Inside the building, Spike was much too vulnerable. Outside, the other vampire was much too powerful. How much magic sand did he have left in that pocket, anyway?

"I'm a little busy!" snarled the Boston vampire. He raised his fist higher above Buffy's head.

"Yes, I see. About to kill the Slayer." Spike sounded slightly impressed. Not blown away or anything, mind.

The other vampire looked up, irritated as hell. "That's right, I am! So fuck off!" Then he saw who it was; the hair, the eyes. "Oh! William the...I saw you singing in there earlier. You're...you're right here. What...?" He stood up, tripping over Buffy's legs, completely rattled.

"I saw you in there, too," Spike lied. Elusive tosser. "Thought I'd come introduce myself." He gently folded his jacket and laid it on the floor. Then he sauntered over, casting a bored glance down in Buffy's direction when he got there. Spike set his foot on her chest and leaned against the door frame. "Not bad, friend. You've got her where you want her. I've killed two Slayers myself, did you know that?"

"Oh, yes, of course. You're a legend, William."

"Please, call me Spike. And you are?"

"Julius."

"Well, Jules, I'm very impressed. How did you manage to get the Slayer flat on her back? I've wanted to do the same myself, many times." He chanced a look at Buffy, who rolled her eyes.

"I just got lucky. Not like you, William. Spike."

"That so? Was it just luck? Because I find luck to be quite boring." Spike leaned in. Julius found himself pressed against the back of the door, with Spike all over his personal space. "Now, real power, that's exciting. I'm excited. Are you excited?"

"Uhhh," said Julius. He was excited. "I mean, no! It wasn't just luck. I have power, Spike."

Spike let the tip of his tongue come out from between his teeth. "And what kind of power would a young fellow like yourself have?"

Julius, panicky from the emotions Spike was effortlessly evoking in him, tried to turn his head away, but Spike's face was so close there was nowhere to go. Buffy, who had a front row seat to this remarkable turn of events, didn't know whether to be impressed or jealous.

"You don't know the half of it. I found...something. It made me so strong that I'm able to kill the Slayer." Julius remembered Buffy, and looked down at her with a start. Spike dug his heel into her chest, and she responded with a grunt. At least he wasn’t wearing his boots.

"Don't worry, she's still there," Spike said. "But I'm more interested in you right now, Jules. You and me." Spike's voice at that moment would have had Jerry Falwell begging for mercy. He took hold of Julius's hands and easily pushed them against the door. Buffy wasn't sure if they were in or out of the circle of the dampening spell, but she had a feeling that Spike had his own spell to make poor Julius feel all weak.

"Spike, I..."

"You were saying – about all that shiny new power you found?"

"Yes! I'm going to be able to do so many things! Big things!"

"The bigger the better," Spike said with a leer. Sounds brilliant, Jules. But how are you going to manage it?"

Julius lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I stole a book of magic. From her!" He sneered down at Buffy, who gave a chastened shrug. "And you wouldn't believe the spells it has. I only had time to learn one, but just you wait."

"A book, yeah? God, you'd want to keep that somewhere safe."

"Er...yes, of course." When Julius didn't say anything else, Spike pressed his mouth against Julius's ear. Buffy watched Julius's legs tremble.

"I would have hid it where I was staying," said Spike softly. "Is that what you did?"

"No, no, I..." Julius trailed off. Then gasped. Then moaned. Buffy couldn't see what Spike was doing to him exactly, but she could empathize.

"You what? I want to know if it's safe, that's all. Maybe we could be partners. Would you like that?"

"Please. Please, William. It's...it's..."

Spike's foot shifted off of Buffy's chest and nudged her stake back against her hand. Buffy painstakingly palmed it. With much effort she braced it, point-up, with both hands against her chest and waited.

"Tell me where it is, Julius. Then we can kill her together." Spike pulled the other vampire into his arms.

"In my car," whispered Julius, entirely overcome.

Spike laughed in spite of himself. "In your car! Did you learn nothing yesterday, you wanker?"

"Car keys!" Buffy yelped. Spike plucked them from Julius's pants pocket. Buffy tried not to think too hard upon how Spike had instantly known where they were.

Julius understood by then, but it was far too late.

"No hard feelings," said Spike, and kissed him on the mouth as he pushed Julius down onto Buffy's stake. Julius kissed him back, perhaps thinking that if he was going to get dusted, kissing Spike while doing so was one of the better ways to go.

Spike jerked back so he wouldn't get any vampire dust on his suit. Buffy wasn't quite so lucky. She bore the full brunt of the dusting – her sexy little cocktail dress disappeared under a dump of grey ash. At least she'd had the presence of mind to turn her face away.

They looked at one another.

"You slut," said Buffy admiringly.

Spike grinned. "What's the point of being famous if you're not going to use it?"

Chapter 9
 

Buffy pulled herself to her feet. "Hey, the spell’s broken. Ding dong, the witch is dead." She began the thankless job of attempting to brush all the ash off. Spike’s hand reached out like he was going to help her do it, then fell back by his side.

After giving herself a good frisking, Buffy examined her results: she was hot again, but she had definitely bought this poor dress. Her eyes stayed on her body long after she’d figured this out. Anything to keep from looking at him. Somehow, the I’m sorry Buffy had so desperately wanted to say now got stuck in her throat, quite possibly jammed behind thank you.

Spike stepped away from her. That made her eyes snap back up. "Where are you going?" Did she sound as frightened to him as she did to herself?

"I’m getting my jacket."

She went with him, the entire 25 feet. She wasn’t going to let him out of her sight again. She watched him as he draped the jacket over his arm. "So..." he said. It sounded a lot like good-bye. "I guess you’d better find that car."

He held the car keys out for her to take. She didn’t move. "Maybe...if you don’t mind looking with me...if you don’t have plans for the rest of the night...if there’s not a video and a hot mug of pig’s blood waiting for you back at the crypt..." She wrestled her tongue into submission. Stupid tongue.

Spike looked out over the parking lot. Eight rows, maybe fifty-five cars per row. That was...carry the four...four hundred and forty cars, give or take. And this wasn’t even the main lot. His shoulders slumped. Although, Buffy anxious and attentive as a Jack Russell terrier was new. It was a good thing for her there was nothing on at this time of night but paid programming.

He started without her, giving her a jerk of his head as he went past her. Buffy’s heart did the Snoopy dance as she scrambled to match his stride. Even the blisters on the backs of her heels couldn’t dampen her enthusiasm. Much.

He pointed the car remote at the first row of Audis and Beemers, pushing the lock button every few seconds as they went. He himself had come on his motorcycle, thank you very much. He had a whole lot of nothing to say to Buffy.

"Glad you had that whole gay skank thing working for you," she finally offered.

"I found out where the book was, didn’t I?"

"That’s true. You just really put your back into it when you kissed him. I’m just saying."

"Yeah, well, he was prettier than you."

"Mmm. How’d he kiss?"

"He knew what he was doing."

"I figured."

He pushed the button a dozen more times, maybe a little more aggressively than was absolutely necessary.

"Yup, you’re just giving it away to anyone who asks tonight," she added helpfully.

He stopped. "One more word."

She said less than one more word. He pushed the button 52 more times. On lucky 53, a car horn beeped a greeting from the middle of the herd of cars beside them. Spike glanced at her, relief and something else crossing his features. But mostly relief. Almost done.

A strange fever made its way from Buffy’s cheeks to between her legs. Suddenly, her need pulsed through her with an aching purity. She was an addict. And here was her chance to get one more fix. Just one more hit, then back on the wagon for good. Just one more.

They followed the honks. Please let it be a sedan. Sedan, sedan, sedan, she prayed fervently to the god of parking lot sex.

It was a Volkswagen Passat, reflex silver, a dealer plate hanging precariously from the trunk hatch. Four doors. Her adrenaline ran like wine.

He unlocked the back door and held it open for her. "There you go."

Buffy peeked in and grinned. There was all sorts of room in there – you could hold a Democratic convention in the back of this car! She got in and proceeded to crawl across the seat on her hands and knees. "Now where is that book?" she asked.

He didn’t know it was rhetorical. "Right there." He ducked his head down, and came face to face with her ass. Her dress was so short that he could see all of her secrets. She was wearing virginal white boy’s cut panties above the leather boots. His mouth went dry.

She rolled onto her back and looked at him. "Was he really prettier than me?"

He gaped at her. Her lips and knees were both open amidst all that black hair. "No," he said at last.

She was trying to seduce him! She kept him on his toes, he gave her that. Spike leaned heavily against the car – the pheromones washing off of her were wreaking havoc with his center of gravity.

"Here's the thing," said Buffy.

Spike groaned. Not the thing. Please, spare us from the thing.

"I’ve got a favor to ask you. I’m having a little trouble getting over our breakup. I thought I was doing okay, until tonight. And I was hoping that you could...that we could..." Easier thought than said.

"What are you saying? That you want to get back together?"

Buffy fingered a seam on the back of the seat. "No-o," she said, "I think it’s best for both of us in the long run if we’re just...not even friends."

"The long run. Huh. But now’s not part of that run, I’m guessing?"

"You’re the one who wore a suit! How can you expect me to resist that?"

He raised his eyebrows. "So if I take off the suit, then you’ll be able to resist me?"

If she wasn’t coming on to him, she surely would be slamming his head in the car door. "I need a little transitional help is all. You could be like the patch."

"Just where do you think the patch goes, Buffy? Anyway, I thought you were trying to quit me cold turkey."

"I can’t do it. I just need you in a smaller dose. Just – just for a few hours. Just for tonight."

"What, are you still feeling the rush from your near-death experience, and you're hoping for a little life-affirming action, is that it? And here I am, the first available lay?"

You make it sound so...bad," she said lamely.

"Imagine that."

"You’re wrong. I don’t want you because you’re convenient. I want you because you’re you. I don’t want anybody else. Only you. I need you."

"For between two to three hours."

She changed tack. "Really, if you think about it, it’s like it’s not even us in this car. You in that suit, me in my..."

"Cher costume?"

"...my come and get it dress. We might as well be two different people in here."

She continued with her little justify-a-thon, but Spike had stopped listening. The way he saw it, he had a couple of choices to make here. And even though he tried to find a happy outcome to this, every avenue his mind explored was littered with broken glass.

This was just so typical. She had used him, and tossed him away, and now she wanted one last piece of him, for old time's sake. He was whipped, he knew, and it wasn't like this is how he wanted to be. But it came down to this in the end: the scraps she threw him, these humiliating bits of attention she tossed his way, were indescribably preferable to how it had been when Buffy was dead. That put everything else into perspective.

And look, here she was now. An arm’s length away. Working hard to coax him under that dress. Fucking fuck, anyway.

She had stopped talking.

"Okay, this obviously isn’t working. Throw me a bone here, would you? What could I say that might make you want to stay?"

He threw her a pissed-off glare. "Now you want me to give you pointers on how to get your own way, as always?"

"Well...shyeah."

Spike sank into the seat next to her, defeated in the wake of her intractable sense of entitlement. He looked at his hands. "If I really loved you, I’d do it because you want it."

"Good! That’s a good one! Anything else?"

"And this might be the last chance I’ll have to touch you." He closed his eyes.

"Right! Yes!" She was very pleased with his suggestions. "So will you stay?"

"No."

All the air rushed out of her. "What? Why?"

"Because you’ll change your mind."

"No, I won’t."

"Yes, you will. The second I lay a hand on you, you’ll be bleating for me to stop."

"No, I won’t. I won’t."

"Yes, you – oh, for Christ’s sake!" He ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

"It doesn’t..."

"Shut up! I wasn’t supposed to stay here, you know! I just came to Sunnydale for a quick crash and burn – kill the Slayer, terrorize the locals. Little did I know what a bloody black hole you’d turn out to be for me. God, I should’ve just let your mum carve my head open with that axe at the school. It would’ve been kinder than what you’ve put me through."

He turned on her. "You want us to be different people tonight? How’s this for different? For once I’m going to reattach my balls and walk away from you, Buffy. Can I assume I’ll still find them at the bottom of your purse?" He pulled himself out of the car.

"One last chance, Spike!" Buffy called after him, her voice breathless with raw terror. "One last chance to touch me!"

Spike stopped. He stood there, a hand on the edge of the open door, listening to her heart go thumpity-thump in double time. He was looking at the stars again. Finally, when Buffy was absolutely sure he was going to walk away, Spike got in the car and shut the door.

The interior light blinked off, and the dark settled in. Buffy sat stock still, dry-mouthed and wide-eyed. And waited.

But he didn’t move. He sat staring out the window. Buffy lasted through almost a minute of this. "So are you...?" she said, hoping he’d finish the sentence for her.

He didn’t reply.

"Please say something." Buffy had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time she’d be saying please to Spike tonight.

Spike ignored her. He set his jacket at his feet. Then he silently unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolled up his sleeves, three neat folds per sleeve. He didn’t even bother to look at her.

"What are you...? Is that really necessary?" Because somebody had to say something.

Spike’s hands moved to his throat. He undid his tie and pulled it smoothly off his neck, hand over hand. It looked black in the darkness. He yanked the tie between his fists, testing for strength. Fear and lust competed for space on Buffy's face as she watched him do it.

He turned to her, then paused. One last chance to back out, Buffy. She was a statue. So Spike leaned over, brought her trembling wrists together, and expertly knotted the tie around them. He pushed her arms above her head, looped the other end of the tie through the grab bar above the door, and secured it there as Buffy squirmed invitingly underneath him.

He sat back and admired his work. "Change your mind now," he said, and smiled.

Chapter 10

Buffy had drawn her legs into her chest in a classic defensive position. It was far too late for that. He took her by her stiletto heels and pried her open. He knew that if he’d wanted to, he could have pushed her knees right to the window behind her. Whatever unnatural demands he made of her body, Buffy always stepped up to the plate.

Spike took turns undoing the zippers of her boots, all 24 inches of them. He pulled the boots off her feet like he did it every night. She was wearing black stockings underneath. Nice. They could stay. He tossed the boots on top of his jacket. He dropped her stake on top of the boots, in case of emergencies.

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of her panties next, and eased them down as her hips rose to accommodate him. Spike tried to prepare himself for the sight of what was under those panties. He knew nothing could prepare him for the exhilaration when her scent hit the open air. He decided against any rough stuff, though - he didn’t want to tear his last souvenir.

After he had peeled the panties off, Buffy watched him as he folded them in thirds, then stuffed them in his pants pocket. "You always have to..." she began in a quavering voice.

He pressed a finger against her lips. Shut up, Buffy. When he was sure she wasn’t going to say anything else, the finger moved leisurely off her mouth, over her chin, down her neck, between her breasts, over her belly. It finally came to rest at the hem of her dress, which was now the only thing between what Buffy wanted and what Spike had to give.

She stared at him. Her tongue ran over her lips.

Spike put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it for a moment. Then he pulled it out, wet and glistening, and showed it to her.

Buffy started to whimper low in her throat. A strand of hair caught on the edge of her moistened mouth as she strained against the tie binding her wrists. She was breathing in great big gasps now.

He hadn’t even touched her yet.

Spike noticed with amusement that only Buffy’s side of the car had steamed up. He leaned past her and drew a smiley face in the foggy window beside her head. Buffy moaned. Her patience was wearing thin. He put his hands on her knees and pulled them apart.

"Wait!" she said sharply.

He waited. Let the bleating commence.

"I felt...I think there’s someone out there."

Spike felt it now, too. He blotted out his smiley face drawing so he could see outside. A vampire, who just happened to be staggering past them in a drunken attempt to find his own car, noticed the movement and came to a wobbly stop. He peered through the window and took in the scene. He looked at Buffy, trussed, her dress hiked up out of the way. He looked at Spike’s hand on her knee. He looked at Spike. Spike looked at Buffy.

Buffy was trying her best to turn her head to see, but her arm was blocking the view. "I’m not kidding! There’s someone watching us!"

Spike reached over and slid a finger between Buffy’s legs. Her hips lurched like she’d been electrocuted. She tried to get away from him, her stocking feet slipping and sliding on the leather seat as they looked for a firm purchase. He edged closer. There was nowhere for her to go. "Oh!" she said. "Oh!"

Spike winked at the vampire standing outside the car, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up and continued on his way. Spike turned back to the task at hand. "Here’s the thing," he said.

"Oh!" said Buffy.

"You know what’s wrong with you, Buffy? Your life is suffocating in drama. Endless fighting and weeping and gnashing of teeth. I think you've acquired a taste for it. See, that’s why you don't want me to be a nice boyfriend taking care of you. Otherwise, well, I'd be Riley, wouldn't I? And that’s just too boring. You want me to be bad, because it feels so good." She opened her mouth to protest, but a flick of his wrist took care of that. "So this time I think it best if we cut to the chase and make you cry right now instead of afterwards."

Maybe it was better when he wasn’t talking. "But I don’t want to cry," she gasped. "I want to be happy."

"No you don’t! You can’t be happy unless you’re miserable. And I’m here to please." His finger explored her by degrees. He wasn’t in any hurry. Buffy’s head fell back against the window.

"Spike..."

He was practically on top of her, his left arm braced against the glass. His voice was cold steel. "You listen to me. You asked for this, and now you’re going to fucking take it. Tonight you’ll do as I tell you, and Slayer, I’m telling you to cry."

"I’m not going to cry! I want this! I want you!"

"You still don’t get the rules of this game, do you? If I don’t get what I want, then you don’t get what you want." She didn’t understand at first, because he continued to run his finger over her, until her body was as stiff and quivering as a bow string pulled taut. Then he stopped.

"Oh God....no..." He waited until she started to writhe, then he was right back at it.

Spike brought her to the edge four times before Buffy stopped counting. Until all that was left was his hand moving on her, and the shock of it when it wasn’t. She tried to fool him, to keep quiet, to hold her breath. Nothing worked. He was very patient.

"Come on, love," he said softly, "give it to me. Boo hoo hoo."

She wasn’t going to give it to him! What the hell was going on here? Who died and made Spike king? Other than her. And him. God damn it! She was so close. So close. Her nerve endings were singing. His touch was ruthless. So...close.

His hand stalled. Again. "I’ve got all night," he said.

Buffy gave it to him. She bit her lip, hoping at least not to make any noises. Her shoulders started to shake. As the hot tears spilled down her cheeks, she squeezed her eyes shut tight and tipped her legs wide open.

"That’s my girl," Spike said approvingly.

This time, he switched to the heel of his palm. And this time, he didn’t stop.

Neither did her tears.

Buffy arched off the seat and sobbed and thrust against his hand. Spike watched her face for a while. She was shining with sweat, her mascara mingling with the tears running into her hair. He was so excited he felt weak. When he couldn’t stand it another moment, he leaned in and said, "So have you talked to Angel lately?"

Buffy came, her shame making it all the more delicious for the both of them. Spike wondered absently if she was going to pull the grab bar right out by its screws. Like shooting fish in a barrel, he thought.

She wasn’t quite ready for more, but he wasn’t willing to wait. He put his hands under her bottom and abruptly angled her upwards. Fully accessible. The tie went slack. She clutched the grab bar like it was a life preserver.

"Want to go for a ride?" he asked her.

She couldn’t speak. She moved her head a little. It might have been a nod.

"Then beg me." He was having such a good time.

She made a noise, small and desperate. He was tearing her down, piece by piece. She finally croaked, "I don’t want it to be like this."

He closed her knees like she was a good book he was reading, and he’d just remembered a more pressing job on his to-do list.

It was so much easier this time around. "Please!" she said at once. "Please do it! Is that what you want, you son of a bitch? Oh, Jesus! Please!"

Yes, actually, it was. He spread her legs open again and lowered his head between them. Buffy cried harder.

She knew what was coming next, of course. She understood what he was about to do. But when Spike's tongue pushed its way in, Buffy still screamed right out loud.

Spike couldn’t decide at that moment if he loved Buffy or hated her. Her guilt and her fists and her pussy and her soul. He’d had too much of all of them. But what choice did he have? Who else was there for him? Her mix of humanity and strength was like nothing he'd ever experienced - not even his time with Dru could match it. He didn't know if he could ever go back to how he was before he met Buffy. Or if he even wanted to.

But he had to stop pondering it all, because Buffy was coming against his tongue, and he didn’t want to miss it.

It was everything he knew it would be. And even then he didn’t stop. He liked how her body jerked and shuddered under his mouth. It was too much for Buffy, though. She pressed her knees against the front of his shoulders, trying to shove him away from her. That annoyed him, and he forced his tongue in deeper. Now she started to struggle, kicking at him, the sensations between her legs overwhelming her.

Spike pulled his hands out from under her and grasped her hips, holding her firmly in place. He was going to stop when he was bloody well ready to stop! She bucked against him, her Slayer strength now a real factor in this power struggle. He dug his thumbs into her thighs and fucked her harder. This was turning into a metaphor for their entire relationship, and this time he wasn’t going to back down.

Buffy feared she was going to faint. She had to decide if she was going to force him off of her. Because if she didn’t, if she lost control of this situation, then...then that would mean... Suddenly, and perhaps in a moment of perfect clarity, she stopped fighting. For once, she gave herself completely over to him. Do what you will. Then she was coming again. He rode her until her broke her.

She would discover the purple bruises on the insides of her thighs in the shower the next day. And she would compulsively touch them over and over as they faded to green, then yellow, then gone. But by the time Spike finally had his fill that night, Buffy couldn’t really feel much from the waist down.

He eventually sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Their eyes met. Buffy looked like she’d just been run over by the orgasm bus. They didn’t speak. He reached above her head to release her hands, only to find that the tie had already come loose at some point during the festivities. He smiled. She let go of the grab bar.

Spike turned to open the car door. She kicked his hand away from the handle, much harder than necessary. "Where do you think you’re going?" she asked him.

"I’m going home. I gave you what you asked for, Slayer. I’m done." He reached for the handle again, ready to block her foot if it came to that.

But this time she kicked him in the face, dazing him just long enough for Buffy to drag him away from the door and straddle him. "Guess again, you bastard," she said as she grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the seat. "Now it’s your turn."

Chapter 11
 

Buffy tore the tie off her wrists and flung it on the floor beside them. She began unclipping her wig, her fingers so clumsy with revenge-bent haste that Spike had to fight the urge to give her a hand. She finally pulled the wig off her head and threw it behind her, on top of her boots. "It’s me, Spike. Buffy. I want you to know it’s me when I make you cry."

He put his hands behind his head. "You don’t scare me, Slayer. There’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t been done before, and by those with a sight better hairdos."

She slammed him against the seat a couple more times, to give herself a chance to think. Because he was right of course, as always, the usual know-it-all smirk plastered on his face. She was going to wipe that smirk off if it was the last thing she did. What could she do to him? How could she get him where he lived? Think think think.

All he had to do was say nothing. She would have quickly grown impatient trying to come up with a suitable punishment for him, and simply fucked him silly before dumping him out of the car like a kidnap victim. But Spike never could keep silent. It wasn’t in his nature. "Give over, Slayer. You can’t hurt me any more than you already have. I’m untouchable."

"Untouchable!" Buffy pushed off of his lap and heaved him down beside her, right where she’d been lying just minutes ago – the spot was probably still damp. She backhanded him. "You seem pretty touchable to me."

He just laughed at that, then casually brought his hands above his head and slipped his fingers through the grab bar. He tilted his head. "Go ahead, Buffy," he said in his best bedroom voice, "teach me a lesson."

Buffy was so angry she couldn’t even speak. He sat there, one knee up, legs spread, unshakably secure in how he looked to her. Was there ever a time when he didn’t act like he was posing for the cover of GQ? She wanted him crying! She wanted him sobbing! There had to be something. Hit him, screw him, yell at him. All done to death. She needed something new to hurt him, something unexpected. Something that cut to the bone.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed at that and she suddenly smiled, well, evilly. Spike’s confidence-o-meter dipped down out of the red zone. He knew that look well, only he was usually the one making it. "Thank you, Spike," she said, her pleasant tone unnerving him ever further. "You’re right. I want you to suffer, but pain won’t do it. You’re too used to it. That’s not what it’ll take."

"What’ll it take, then?" He tried his best to keep his voice blasé. Unconcerned. Tra la la.

She leaned over and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. "Maybe you’ve been tortured before, but there’s one big difference this time. I’m the one doing the torturing. And I can do to you what nobody else can."

"L-like what?" That’s right, stutter it up, Spike.

Last button. "I can give you a taste of everything you ever wanted from me. Everything you ever dreamed of. Everything you’ll never, ever have." Buffy pulled his shirt off his shoulders as lovingly as a mother undressing her son. She figured he’d appreciate that.

Spike let go of the grab bar. His eyes darted from her face to her hands and back again as she worked his sleeves over his arms. The smirk was long gone. "I don’t know what you mean." That was a lie. What he meant was, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

"Then it’s time you found out." She tossed Spike’s shirt on top of her wig. His shoes fell next, tassels bouncing. When she undid his belt and slipped off his pants, his erection gave her a jaunty salute. He was ready as always for her, torture or no torture. Her lips curled up. He had no idea.

She threw his pants on top of the shoes and turned back to him, ready to wreak havoc with his jittery undead psyche. He lay there, nude, waiting. She hadn’t forgotten how beautiful he was, but she still had trouble getting a proper breath as she looked at him now. She guessed it wasn’t so awful if she enjoyed herself as she exacted her revenge. Buffy ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest, his abs. His vampire skin felt wonderful against her feverish palms. She climbed aboard.

Buffy pressed herself against him, her dress the thin red line between them. She wanted to keep this at a steady simmer until she was ready to burn him. He looked at her with...was it? Yeah, he was getting anxious. It was as if Buffy was passing all of her turmoil on to him. She was feeling great!

"What are you going to do?" he quickly asked.

"I’m going to make you happy, Spike. Are you ready?"

He really wasn’t. His body spasmed when she kissed him.

She could taste herself in his mouth, tart as green apples. Surely that wasn’t a zing of desire shooting up her spine, not after what she’d just gone through? Even as she thought this, her mind was already whispering, take everything you can get, Buffy – it’s going to be a long, cold winter. She let her mouth open against his.

Kissing Spike had always been rather low on her priority list in their frenzied nights together. Her attitude had always seemed to be, "Your mouth? Good. Right. Whatever. Now get inside me." And Spike had happily obliged, because beggars can’t be choosers.

But now she applied herself to the task of kissing him with a single-minded sense of purpose that would have left Giles dumbfounded. "Like this, Spike?" she asked again and again, letting his shuddering responses dictate what her lips and tongue did next. "Like this?"

Like that. Spike’s muscles clenched until they cramped. He lay there, punch-drunk, when she finally pulled away.

"It’s time for some payback," she said, panting. "And you know what I’m going to do to you now?" He shook his head. He actually looked a little frightened as she leaned in to kiss his chest. "I’m going to give you..." she kissed his stomach, "...the most mind-blowing ever..." she kissed the soft line of hair below his belly button, "...foot rub." His moan was just what she wanted to hear.

Buffy sat back against the opposite car door, spread her legs, and settled his heel in between them. She started to massage his foot, as skillfully as a concubine. It took her no time at all to think of hurtful things to say to him. It was sadly easy to come up with the words she knew Spike was aching to hear. "I love being with you, Spike. I think it’s because you know me so much better than anyone else. You’re the only one who really understands what I’m going through." Spike closed his eyes. "And you’re the only one I can count on. Thank God you’re here. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this year without you.

"Oh! Let me tell you what happened to me the other day." She shared a handful of tiny intimacies about her week as her thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot and his heel slid against her. Her problems with the insurance company. Her accident with the toaster oven and a forgotten mini pizza. The shoes she almost bought. All things best friends tell each other. His hips started coming right up off the seat.

And it got worse. He opened his eyes when she said, "But enough about me. Let’s talk about you." He stared at her, stung silent. He refused to say anything at first as she asked him questions. But her words were like a soft patter of rain on hard, dry ground. It didn’t take long to soften him, and soon enough he was telling her how he bleached his hair, and who was doing what to whom on Passions. His hard-on was something to behold as she listened with careful attention to his answers.

Spike was explaining how he managed to steal cable TV in his crypt when Buffy really started to like him. And need him. And want him. A lot. It took her a second to place this surge of desire: it was because she was allowing Spike to rise above his station. She was treating him as a human, an equal, and the effect was pretty much instantaneous, and undeniable. His heel slipped right down and off of her. Buffy decided to let this dark horse ride.

Spike watched her as she took the elastic out of her ponytail. He tripped on his sentence as she slowly crawled back up him, the ends of her hair tickling over his skin. He trailed off completely when she ran her tongue over his chest. He did start making noises again when she kept going lower, but you couldn’t really call them words. He closed his eyes again.

It often seemed to Spike that his time as a vampire had unspooled at a breakneck pace, that one moment he had been inciting mobs on the dark, teeming streets of London, the next moment, marveling at the taste of his first Cheeto. But here, in the back seat of a stolen Passat, with the Slayer’s mouth on his body and his brand new tie in knots on the floor beside him, time had slowed to a sticky syrup.

Buffy finally came to a stop between his legs. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She looked back at him. "Do you want to tell Xander about us, or should I?" she asked him. "Can you just see his face? I wonder, do you think he’ll picture me doing this to you?" Then she slid her mouth over him and started to suck.

"Oh my God..." Spike reached up and took hold of the grab bar.

The next time she stopped she said, "I think you should move in with me. We can sleep in my mom’s bed, if you want. You can help me raise Dawn. Would you like that?" Then she was right back at it, just as he liked it. Now time was starting to lurch into fast forward.

"Buffy...don’t," he said.

She stopped again. "I’m very sorry for how I’ve treated you, Spike. You always deserved so much better."

"Please don’t..." But that just made her go faster. Her mouth was wet, and hot, and greedy. He’d never been so humiliated, so stricken, at how easily she took his love and perverted it. And of course, that just made this more exciting.

When his legs started to shake, Buffy pulled off of him. She yanked him up and against her by the back of his neck. She could feel the soft curls on the nape of his neck. Like a little boy.

She kissed him once, very hard. Then she lay back and spread her legs for him. She pushed her shoulders against the car door. Bracing herself. "Go ahead, Spike. Teach me a lesson."

He knew, he knew he shouldn’t do this. Oh, but he could feel her heat, and tried to remember if the sun on his skin had ever felt so good. And you know, he really did want to teach her a lesson. Spike let himself fall forward and slide into her. Buffy gasped. He moved in her slowly, tenderly, as he trailed sweet, soft kisses over her eyes and cheeks and mouth. "You just tell me, Buffy," he said, "if this is hard enough for you." Then he slammed into her so forcefully that she bit her tongue.

"I hope this doesn't hurt," he said as he drove his point home. "How about this, Buffy? Does it hurt?" He put a hand on the top of the car so he could go harder still. He didn't expect, and didn't get, a reply. Buffy simply closed her eyes and took what he gave her, because this? This was the anti-hurt.

He eventually stopped trying to punish her. She was impossibly wet – their thighs were slick with it – and he didn’t think anything else could have be as pleasurable as this moment. But as it turned out, Buffy wasn’t done with him yet.

She lifted her chin and turned her head to the side, showing him her pretty, slender neck. "Here’s your chance, Spike. Take what’s yours." It was the filthiest thing he’d ever heard her say.

Would she really let him do it? Or was this just the tease that would lead to the torment when she laughed at him and kicked him away? He licked his lips. He could clearly imagine what it would feel like to have both his cock and his fangs buried into her to the hilt. How her blood would spurt hot against the roof of his mouth. The noises she’d make. He knew that she’d like it a lot – but not nearly as much as he would.

He fucked her desperately into the leather. Oh, God, he could feel his face changing. But even as it did, he was already asking himself...if he bit her, what hold would she have on him then? What price would she exact from him tomorrow? And every night after that? He was going to lose this game no matter what he did, he knew. "You love this, don’t you?" he snarled.

So this was revenge. "I love you," she whispered back. Merciless, just as he’d been with her. "I love you more than..."

His face changed back instantly. He was only William now, vulnerable and shaken to the core. "Stop it! That’s enough!" He tried to pull out of her, but she sensed his intention before he even started to act on it, and wrapped her legs around him, forcing him against her. Letting him loose just enough to keep him sliding inside of her.

She couldn’t stop now. The line had blurred beyond recognition between what she thought he wanted to hear, and what she wanted to say to him. "I love you more than Angel," she said into his ear.

Spike thrust into her like he was trying to crack her open. Then he slowed to a trembling stop. She stared at him, wide-eyed. By the look on her face, she seemed to agree that as turn-ons went, talking about Angel while fucking each other was the new kink to beat. He pressed his cheek against hers and felt wetness there. Was it her tears or his? Both. He kissed her softly, tasting the salt.

Spike finally moved off of her. Without a word, he started to get dressed.

He glanced over at her as he put his shirt back on. Her knees were closed. Her face was a sodden mess. He’d never seen a girl more in need of a box of Kleenex. She sniffled.

Spike reached down and dug through the sedimentary layers of their night together. His pants, his shoes, the wig, his tie, the stake, her boots, the book. Ah, there it was. He pulled his jacket free and petted it kindly. It was a very nice jacket. Then he took a corner of it and held it over Buffy’s face.

"Blow," he told her, deadpan.

She blew.

He found a fresh corner and worked his way down. Nothing like making the ultimate sacrifice for the right woman. He dumped the jacket on the floor when he was done and helped her sit up.

He pulled on his pants and buckled his belt while she searched for her panties. "We can’t keep doing this," he said.

She stopped and hugged herself. "I know."

He kept his eyes on the back of the passenger seat. "I’m leaving, Buffy."

"I know."

"No, I mean I’m leaving Sunnydale."

Buffy’s body did a cannonball into icy water. "What did you say?"

"I should have left long ago. This town is poisoning me."

This town. Way not to name names, Spike. "But...where will you go?"

"I don’t know." He really didn’t.

She put her hands in her lap, and started rubbing her thumbs together. "Well, then by all means, you’d better get with the going. My dad, Angel, Giles, why not you, right?"

Spike still didn’t look at her. "If the men in your life keep walking away, Buffy, maybe you need to love them more when they’re still around."

"Don’t you lecture me, you...you..." So many insults, so little time.

He was already making a mental list of the things he’d have to pick up back at the crypt. His duster. Cigarettes. The blood from the fridge. His dog-eared copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese he had hidden under his mattress. And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Fuck off, Elizabeth. Really.

"Is ‘vampire’ the word you’re searching for? Yeah, I get it. You don’t have to keep reminding me. But I still have hope that's not all I am." He finally met her eyes. "What about you? Is the Slayer all you are? Is it all you want?"

She couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t. It amounted to the same thing in the end. He ran his hand through his hair. "Just because I can live forever, it doesn't mean I'm going to, Buffy. In fact, I pretty much wake up every night expecting it to be my last. I don’t want to die here. I’ve got to get out."

He meant it, she could hear so easily in the tone of his voice, the weariness. Not a threat. He was breaking it to her gently. Her head felt like an electrical storm was forming behind her eyes, all negative ions and lightning strikes. She wasn’t going to live forever, either. In fact, the odds seemed to suggest that she would die before Spike. In Sunnydale. Alone. Xander and Willow, irrevocably left behind by their ordinariness.

And suddenly, her duty didn’t seem quite so sure, her morality quite so satisfying, her soul quite so shiny. She felt old, older than Spike, even, and tired. She knew exactly where her rigid principals were going to take her – all she had to do was look to Giles, that shining beacon of right and wrong. He was alone, too.

She started to cry again as his fingers inched toward the door handle. She’d cried more tonight than he’d seen in the last six months. He hoped she’d be able to pull herself together. He only had so much jacket liner to go around. "So I guess..." he muttered.

That was as far as he got before she put her hand on his arm. "Come with me to Xander’s wedding."

"What? As your...?" He waited, but she couldn’t spit it out. Her expression told all, though. "...date?" he finally felt compelled to add. Let there be no mistake.

His jaw went slack when she nodded mutely. Did he just feel the mountain shift? He dug his heels in and pushed. "Come home with me. Right now. Spend the day with me. We could...did I tell you I was thinking about quitting smoking?" He could leave town in a huff another day.

So this was it. Lines had been crossed, and there was no going back. Spike didn’t think he’d ever seen Buffy more terrified as she made up her mind. More alive. He put his hand on top of hers on the seat between them. "I know I can’t find salvation in your arms, Buffy. But what I do find is more than any vampire has the right to hope for."

She shook her head, overcome. He reached over and ran his thumb over her mouth. "I could make you cry every night."

She leapt on him, and kissed him with a joyful passion he couldn’t have allowed himself to wish for even ten minutes ago. "Yes. All right. Yes, I’ll come home with you." She laughed, shrill and exuberant as a fire alarm. Then another kiss. And another.

He was feeling pretty damn giddy himself. His stomach started to flutter. Maybe he shouldn’t be laying it on quite so thick. He pushed her away, her tongue lingering forlornly in the air for a moment before retreating back into her mouth. "Your little friends will scream bloody murder if we do this, you know that, don’t you?"

She held up her hand. "Don’t bother. Whatever you’re going to say, I am already yelling it in my head. Let’s just get through today. Okay?"

Spike couldn’t stop smiling. He wondered if it was going to cut the top of his head off, it was that wide. His mouth started running faster than his brain. "Okay. And tomorrow, who knows? Sometimes I wonder...I’ve heard tell of this fellow in Africa. He’s..." He cut himself off. Sweet what the fuck was he doing?

Buffy couldn't begin to guess the end of that sentence. He’s...a big game hunter? A friend of Paul Simon? "He’s what?"

Spike shrugged. Let's leave that for another night. He kissed her, slow and wet, to distract her. She kissed him back, hard and wet, and even he couldn’t remember what he was going to say. And then, just like in a Hollywood movie, the sun burst over the horizon in a blaze of pink and orange.

"Ahhh!" screamed Spike. They’d cut it a bit too close.

Buffy tried to cover him with her body, but he was already smoking. She took a desperate look around the car. Her eyes fell on his jacket, wadded at their feet. She snatched it up and shoved it at him.

"Oh, not that!" he moaned.

"You are not going to die now, do you hear me?"

No good deed goes unpunished, Spike thought as he attempted to spread the defiled jacket over his head without letting it touch him. "Get us out of here!" He started to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was never boring when Buffy was around, was it?

She tucked the jacket around him. "I can’t drive!"

"I don’t care! Pretend it’s a video game."

She retrieved the car keys from the jacket pocket and crawled into the front seat. "Oh. It’s a standard." Now she started to laugh, too.

"I’m approaching well-done, love."

Buffy stalled the car three times before she got it backed out of the parking spot. By the time she lurched onto the street in front of the Marriot, Spike was laughing so hard under the jacket that he couldn’t even make fun of her.

"Don’t make me come back there!" she warned him as she ground it into fourth gear doing eighteen miles an hour. "Because it looks like it’s going to be a bright, bright, sunshiny day!"

It was Sunday morning.