Tango

By 1st Rabid/Raeann

Part Seven

Spotlighted by the high beams of a parked apple red convertible, Xander Harris stood waist deep in a hole, digging with mechanical vigor. The temperature in Miller’s Grove had dropped rapidly in the last hour. It was now somewhere in the mid-sixties. Xander hadn’t noted the change. He had stripped off his lumberjack plaid shirt, knotting it around his hips like a skirt. Despite the chill in the air and his partial nudity, sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped off his nose. His manly muscles glistened in the halogen light. Anya, seated on the car’s hood, swung one foot in unconscious feminine approval.

“So if this Incu-whatsit can look like anyone,” Xander asked, pausing to wipe his brow with a dangling sleeve, “And not just Buffy’s dead-boy dreamboat, then why doesn’t it Body Snatch one of us?”

Anya sat up in alarm. “And then what?” she asked huffily, crossing her arms. “Have sex? Like it would be that easy? All you have to do is wiggle your ears and Buffy would just swoon into your arms?”

“Wiggle my what?”

“Uhm…indeed,” the fully clothed but equally laboring Giles panted. “It isn’t tha-at simple. Sex-sex-ual predation…according to Maloney’s Compendium, there are limi-limitations to the way…the spell…the….” Obviously in some distress, he stopped shoveling and tried to catch his breath. Xander waited patiently. After a moment of two, Giles was able to continue. “Usually it is only the victim’s ideal that is manifested. The creature feeds on sexual energy. The more intense the victim’s desire the more prolonged and fulfilling the feeding process. There was an annotation on page 187.”

He waved an impatient hand at Anya. She took time off from glaring at her fiancé to twiddle her fingers. Giles grimaced. He was trying very hard not to take the girl’s short flouncy dress and impractical pink stiletto-heeled sandals personally. Perched on the hood of his car, amid a pile of his ancient tomes, she looked as bright and fresh as a spring day. With a little more prompting, she caught on to the idea of locating the volume in question. Opening the book to the suggested page, she read the first underlined passage aloud.

“’Much has been made of the subterfuge of the Suc/Incubi however, in large part these stories are apocryphal’…blah, blah, blah.” Her finger traced down the leaf until she found the relevant passage. “Ah, ‘the victim’s innate desire is crucial to the satiate point. Detailed copies of individuals intimately known to the victim are rare and believed to be ephemeral. Studies indicate that some imprinting must occur prior to the transmogrification and only by preserving the original model and keeping said archetype in the immediate vicinity can a true duplication of a friend or family member endure’.”

“Oh, now I get it,” Xander drawled, obviously completely baffled. He rolled his eyes to show the extent of his frustration. Puffing out a breath, he thrust the blade of his shovel into the tightly packed dirt and stomped down hard to break ground.

“It’s really very simple, Xander,” Willow and Tara intoned together in a spooky combo-witch voice that made the young man start in dismay. His spade-load of earth flew off in a random direction, scattering against the wall of the hole.

“Okay, don’t do that,” he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the pair.

They ignored him and went on speaking, words issuing from both throats. “The Incubi can’t incubate you if you’re not around. So it has to keep you close.”

They were floating near the edge of the pit. Hands clasped, eyes closed, they hovered a few inches off the ground. A pale greenish aura surrounded them. As they spoke, they levitated a hefty scoop of soil. The dirt rose under their urging and threw itself onto their excavated pile. Giles felt a twinge of resentment.

“Which is why,” he gasped, seizing the opportunity to stop working. “I felt we should avoid separating.”

“Also ‘many hands make light work’,” Anya trilled, without looking up from a detailed examination of her nails.

Giles glared at her. “Indeed,” he hissed. “And could you please explain again why you don’t have a shovel.”

“Shovels are expensive,” Anya said. “A better question is: Why don’t any of you own one? When I said I would pay for supplies I had no idea I would be purchasing capital equipment. You would think the slayer would have buried someone before now.”

“We are clearly lax,” Giles huffed.

Anya nodded a gracious acceptance of his point before continuing. “Since I provided the cash to purchase the shovels and the refreshments it is only fair that the rest of you provide the labor.” She tugged a coiled instrument from one pocket and waved it at him. “Also, I was the one who remembered the battery powered beverage heater. Now, who wants cocoa and who wants instant soup?”

---

Dawn drummed her fingers on the tiled counter and stared at the blank sheet of paper resting expectantly under her poised pen. She knew she was taking her life in her hands. Even if she left a note, Buffy was probably going to kill her for going out after midnight. If by some stroke of good fortune she survived her sister’s tirade, she would still have to withstand the wrath of Spike. A summer in the vampire’s care had left Dawn with no illusions about her chances of getting away with anything. Spike was merciless and he could smell a lie on her before she thought to utter it.

She would have to go with the truth. A glance at the digital clock display on the microwave showed it blinking 2:15 a.m. It was the wrong time but a good indication of how long she’d been waiting for word. She couldn’t wait any longer.

Buffy had breezed in and out again a few minutes after the power came on. Sword in hand, she’d dashed off to intercept Spike. But she’d promised to call from Roscoe’s place. Pineapple Terrace wasn’t that far away. Yahoo Maps put it at nine minutes. That transferred to twenty at reasonable Slayer speed. Something had gone wrong. Dawn wondered, what she was supposed to do. Go to bed and hope everyone was still alive in the morning?

The phone was working again but offered no help. Nobody she called was at home. Finally, she’d decided to call a cab. By the time the taxi honked, she was geared up. She had a crucifix choker around her neck, a stake in her pocket and a spray bottle of holy water to tote. She was ready for anything. But the note had her stymied. The cab honked again, impatiently. Dawn jotted down a line.

“Gone to Roscoe’s to check on you.”

The cab driver leaned on the horn.

“Back soon. Love—” She hesitated a tick before adding the diminutive, “Dawnie.” Maybe it would pacify her guardians.

A movement outside the window caught her attention. She snatched up her improvised water pistol and bolted for the door. The taxi was backing out of the driveway. She waved wildly at it and it braked in the street. The middle-aged man behind the wheel glared at her. Approaching at a trot, Dawn motioned for him to roll down his window. He complied and, without slowing her step, she raised her spray bottle and squirted him right between the eyes.

“What the hell did you do that for?” the surprised cabbie asked, wiping beads of water off his uninjured skin with the side of a hand.

“It’s the newest thing,” Dawn called out over her shoulder. She was halfway around the front of the car. She continued to the passenger’s side rear and popped open the door. Before she got in she leaned over to ask a question. “What’s the code word?”

“The what?”

Dawn took a giant step backward, scowling. One hand fumbled in her jacket pocket for her stake. Wishing she had thought to bring a knife she did a quick visual sweep of the perimeter. Nothing stirred along the darkened street. The cab driver was staring at her in his rearview mirror. Dawn took some comfort from his reflection but she knew there were plenty of reflect-y demons in Sunnydale.

‘Also very bad men,’ Spike’s voice sounded in her head.

“My mom always gives a code word,” she said firmly. “You better call in for it.”

“Kids,” the cabbie muttered, shaking his head, but he reached for the radio handset. He thumbed the talk button and spoke into the device. “Sally, you got some kind of code word for my fare? Come back.” A crackling, tinny, faintly feminine voice came from the dashboard speaker.

“That would be ‘WANKER’, Tim,” the voice said.

Tim, the taxi driver, rotated his bulk around in his seat to until he was facing Dawn. “Wanker?” he offered. She gave a terse nod and ducked her head to climb into the car.

“My sister lives at 1181 Pineapple Terrace,” she said, primly as she settled into the back and buckled up. “She’s expecting me.”

Tim sighed. Some nights he really hated this job.

---

There was a faint noise in the other room, the soft shush of soot showering from the chimney.

“What was that?” Buffy mumbled. Her lips felt numb and swollen. She wasn’t certain they belonged to her.

When Spike failed to answer, she pushed fretfully against him. She might have been a newborn trying to move a mountain for all the good her shoving did. Her usually obedient limbs were slow to respond. Muscles, formerly rock hard, wobbled like poached eggs on a stick as she struggled to break free of Spike’s suddenly overpowering attraction. He was everywhere. His eyes mesmerized her. His grip was fierce, bruising her. Buffy found she didn’t really want to fight against it. She wanted to surrender.

‘We were meant for this,’ she thought, ‘meant for each other…it was only a matter of time.’

Why fight the inevitable?

Why fight? Why?

It was an alien voice in her head. The words formed a litany of persuasion, harmonizing with all her well-remembered reasons not to do this: Spike was a vampire, evil, soulless, chipped, dead, Slayer killer.

‘He is so not my type,’ she thought. ‘Besides he likes it when we fight and so do I. I’m the Slayer…Not a Vamp-Slut…like Riley…Riley would get the last laugh… okay I don’t care about Riley…but Giles…my friends, my reputation, resurrection mojo, really bad boyfriend choices for two hundred Alex.’

Buffy knew she was mentally babbling, drifting lazily down a muddied stream of consciousness. It occurred to her she was drunk. She felt buzzed, woozy and not quite solid. Her toes had gone numb. Her feet seemed to be floating a few inches above the sheets. She craned her neck to look down and the room did a crazy dip and swirl. She really was out of it. The unusually potent wine and the heady rush of Spike had acted on her with amazing speed. She hadn’t realized how tense she was, how tightly wound, until she’d started to relax under his gentle urging. And now, she was too malleable, dangerously off her game.

Spike had moved in slowly, coaxing her closer. He had started by kneading her shoulders with those wickedly talented fingers. The massage was an allowable intimacy. She’d melted into his lap, snuggling up. When he’d kissed the bare curve of her neck it had burned, exactly as Buffy had always imagined it would. She offered no resistance when his arm encircled her waist and guided her down to the mattress.

There was no reason not to surrender. It was nearly preordained. Spike made her tingle in all the right places. And yet…and yet…the nature of the tingle was all wrong. Dim images floated through her mind like a half-remembered dream. Images of Spike locked against her, flesh pounding flesh, in a brutal union. They were both growling, licking, biting. He was beneath her, inside her. His hands clawed along her skin. They rolled across the ground together. There was hard-packed dirt under her bare backside. Sharp stones cut into her like his nails. The scent of her blood was intoxicating.

She could almost feel the tug of his teeth at her throat. The sense memory gave her a moment of clarity. Spike had bitten her. She was sure of it. Her fingers fluttered helplessly, determined to find their way to her neck. She knew she had scars there.

Angel had marked her…Dracula…the Master…

And Spike…?

Her hand hovered indecisively in mid-air and then settled to her breast.

Yes…there…underneath…she had a crescent-shaped scar…Spike…and further down…on her inner thigh…there was another mark.

He had taken her blood…their blood…he had drained his gift away…in the caves…near the Initiative…

Buffy tried again to focus on the foggy recollection. She couldn’t bring the mental picture in sharply. She remembered afterward. Waking up in the caves, she’d been weak-kneed and limp as if recovering from a long bout of fever. She remembered Spike…solicitous, so unlike himself…tending her wounds. He’d made her drink a noxious broth full of herbs: powdered angelica root, ash leaves and garlic. Despite the deep ache in her body, she’d made a joke about vampire bane soup. Spike hadn’t so much as cracked a smile.

He’d helped her sit up and watched as she drank down the concoction. When he’d tried to pillow her head on his shoulder, she had pushed impatiently away, demanding an explanation. He had stared long and hard into her eyes before answering.

“We had a bit of a tussle, pet,” he’d finally said, setting her empty mug aside. “What do you remember?”

“Falling,” she’d said. “The tower. Dawn? Is she…?”

“She’s fine, luv. Let’s worry about you. You lost a lot of blood. Are you having any trouble breathing?”

Blood loss…she’d always assumed the wounds were from her fall…but Giles…he’d been so very angry…questioning her about Spike until she wanted to crawl away…and…well…not die, cause that would be a waste of time.

Now she remembered the taste of Spike, the feel of him. She didn’t completely understand how she knew. But she did…know: This thing in her arms, this thing in bed with her, wasn’t Spike. It tasted foul. It frightened her. Spike, for all his wickedness, was sweet on the tongue. He went down easy, like a Jell-O shot. Only later did you notice the weakness in your knees.

Drifting on the sidelines of her own life, Buffy saw the faux Spike touching her. It was all so familiar. As if she’d witnessed this scene from this same vantage point, before. Though she had no clear memory of the event, Buffy knew she and Spike had been in a similar situation. It looked the same but the feelings were different. She tried to make her brain understand what was wrong. It was like trying to stab a floating leaf with a sharp stick. Her mind kept bobbing off along tributaries.

It was a frustrating time for an out-of-body experience. Redoubling her efforts to reconnect to the physical world, Buffy gradually became conscious of a repetitive noise. There was something wrong in the living room. Her intermittent awareness zeroed in on the odd sound. It was a frantic scraping. The shushing was followed by an imperative thud. Buffy thought it might be important. She tried to sit up.

“Be still, luv,” the Spike-thing soothed when she wouldn’t stop flailing. “Don’t fret. It’s nothing. Bats in the fireplace, maybe…or the rowdy neighbors.” He lowered his death-filled mouth to hers, parting her lips with a whisper. “We should get rowdy, too. Drown them out.”

“Drowning…?” Buffy mumbled the word, desperate to give it some meaning. The thing abandoned her lips to nuzzle along her throat. He was going to bite her. Panic booted Buffy’s brain into a coherent gear. “Wasn’t there something about water…or fire or…”

A warm sucking sensation pushed her under for what would be the last time. Tentacles erupted along the thing’s body.

‘Well, that can’t be good,’ Buffy thought. ‘And yet…he’s so warm…wet…did you feed, Spike? That can’t be…but...Ooohhh…but that is…good…so good…Spike…always wanted...this…you…ever since that day…when we kissed…in your crypt…No, not like this…in the caves…you were…’

There was a harsh shout of triumph from somewhere. The Spike-thing briefly broke away from his prey, rising up from the waist like a cobra. He turned his torso to listen. Buffy shivered at the sudden cold and then groaned as renewed feeling poured into her limbs, making her fingers and toes ache. Her head started to clear. She looked up at the nightmarish creature towering over her. It had cast Spike’s duster aside, letting the garment tumble to the floor.

Buffy glanced along her nearly naked body. Her blouse was unbuttoned. In the half-light, her skin showed a tracing of tiny red blisters. Every fine tentacle had left a mark. Buffy felt exposed. Her gut twisted in revulsion and she groped feebly for some way to cover her nudity. The demon caught her wrist with one rubbery limb. He tutted at her good-naturedly.

“Don’t you want me, luv?” he asked, his tone silky and sickly sweet.

Buffy shuddered. She tried to wrench free but his touch drained away her will. She frowned over his question. Did she want him? She couldn’t remember. She thought maybe she did. He cascaded toward her with the same snake-like litheness. He kissed her and she was sure of her need. After another kiss, she wilted. Her eyes glassed over in detachment. The world was sliding out from under her like sand spilling into the bottom of an hourglass. Time was running out.

What did it matter? Spike was with her. She was safe. He started working down the fly of her leather pants. ‘Why fight it,’ she thought.

Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes were partially open but nothing registered. Through the curtain of her lashes, she stared at the sliver of mirror in the closet. The sliding shutter was cocked open and Spike’s reflection was just visible at the edge of the glass. Buffy looked at it for what seemed like an eternity before it rang any alarm bells in her head.

‘That’s funny,’ she thought. ‘There used to be a mirror in the living room…is that the same one? Why would Roscoe move the mirror? He didn’t want me to see it…see him…didn’t want me to know! He isn’t a vampire…this isn’t Spike. Must…do…something…need to…fight…run…move…Boy, those neighbors sure are noisy…’

They seemed to be banging on the walls. There was a continual banging and what sounded like a name being yelled.

“MMMUFFY! MMMUFFFFYYY!! Muggah id ahll…muffy?”

Muffy…can’t…hear…you…

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

With ten minutes of diligent scraping against the ragged bricks, Spike managed to remove the gag from his mouth. As soon as he was free of the encumbrance, he started screaming Buffy’s name. His muffled, echoing shouts disturbed a roost of bats overhead but seemed to have no other result. He continued worrying at his wrist restraints, rubbing his skin raw as he struggled with the heavy cords.

They were in the bedroom, in the bed. Spike could not believe his ears. He thought he might vomit. How could Buffy be so blind? So gullible? So willing? The Incubus was obviously impersonating him. It must have fooled her. But fooling her and seducing her were two totally separate things. Spike found it inconceivable that his double had coaxed Buffy into bed in less than ten minutes. She had resisted Spike’s efforts for months. This was no time to abandon animosity.

Completely frustrated, Spike abandoned the idea of getting into Roscoe’s apartment again via the fireplace and started squirming in the opposite direction. To his surprise, he was able to inch toward the roof. It was easier to climb the chimney than to descend. But it was still slow going and every minute weighed heavy on Spike’s mind. He wondered how long an Incubus took to kill. A Slayer was a rare treat. Spike could only hope the creature intended to savor the experience.

Soot blinded him. By the time he reached the roof opening his jeans were torn and his bare arms were bloody. He bumped at the metal grating with his head, unable to free his hands. He wondered how much time he had left. His gut told him he would be too late. Desperate, he bellowed another warning.

“BUFFY!”

“Spike?”

His name echoed up the chimney. Spike felt the hair on his arms tingle up.

Christ that sounded just like…

He squirmed, trying to look down past the plug of his body as he shouted. “DAWN?”

“Spike?” She yelled up the flue again. “Is that you?”

“Niblet, get a weapon. NOW!”

“I’ve got one. What are you doing up the chiiiIII…”

Dawn’s disembodied voice broke off in a startled chirp. A millisecond later something crashed into the brickwork several yards below. The impact vibrated up to Spike. Debris showered into his eyes and despite not needing to breath he choked and sputtered.

“Bloody hell,” he coughed. “Ni-NIBLET?”

There was no answer for a moment and then a far off cry. “Spike, help!”

The terror behind the words freed his monster. He morphed into fangs, flailing and roaring out a challenge. It was a fool's challenge and the beast pursuing Dawn didn't deign to answer it. Spike wasn't surprised. He could hardly expect to cow the thing given his current position. Even head to head, considering their earlier encounter, the creature was probably not going to be impressed. Spike knew he was outclassed. So did the Incubus. In the hierarchy of their kind, some things easily trump a chip-whipped vampire. But this particular upper echelon demon was threatening everyone Spike loved. This, as far as he was concerned, went a long way toward leveling the playing field.

Snarling, Spike butted against his prison roof. The metal cap on the chimney buckled under the assault. Cool, fragrant night air splashed against his face. He thrust up again and the barrier gave way. Scattering bricks and mortar, he squirmed free of the narrow passage, birthing back into the fray. It took only a moment to bite through the remains of his restraints.

Unbound, he rolled to his feet and sprinted across the rooftop. There was no time to look for an easy descent. Dawn would be dead in a matter of seconds. Without braking, Spike vaulted the eaves. He plummeted the two stories to the street, landing soft as a fallen leaf. Racing back into the building, he heard another distant cry for help.

"SPIKE?"

Upstairs, Dawn was scrambling to stay ahead of her squid-like assailant, buying time…or borrowing it. She was lucky to be alive. She had registered the change in the light an instant before the incubus attacked. A monstrous shadow had loomed over her as she was calling up the chimney to Spike. Instinct had kicked in. She had dropped to the floor.

The slashing tentacles missed her by scant inches. The brickwork of the fireplace just over her head was reduced to powdery red chips. The middle of the mantelpiece vanished. Red and gray rock rained down. A brass coal scuttle tipped over. Fire tongs and other implements scattered. Dust filled the air, making Dawn gag as she rolled off the hearth. She came to a stop, face up, and got her first good look at her attacker. Her stomach roiled. Staring up at the thing blocking the light, Dawn sucked in a lungful of gritty air and screamed for Spike.

Tentacles struck at her like a nest of vipers. Pushing off with knees and elbows, Dawn scurried backward. She had dropped her stake. Her eyes searched for it, for any kind of weapon. She wanted the weight of something deadly in her hands, though she had no intention of getting close enough to the monster to strike at it. Her gaze swept the surroundings. She spotted a fire poker near the monster’s stumpy feet. It would mean getting closer. But it was worth the risk.

Dawn lunged forward, extending her arm full length to snatch at the weapon. The unexpected move confused her foe. Another rubbery limb punched into the floor behind her. She was already rolling sideways. Whipping the poker around like a saber, she blocked the next sweep of tentacles. The impact of the strike vibrated the weapon from her hand and sent her sliding across the floor. Pretending to be her sister, Dawn used her own momentum to propel up into a handstand walkover and flip to her feet. When the move worked as planned, she went through a swift series of reactions. Her giddy elation was pushed aside by a sharp pang of regret for the lack of witnesses. Then her pride was totally eclipsed by the very real possibility of imminent death.

The Incubus wasn’t impressed. It swept after her. She faked right and shoulder-dived left toward the shelter of the sofa. The heavy couch was hurled aside, leaving her exposed. She yelled for Spike again. There was an answering bellow. It seemed to be coming from outside. Dawn stole a glance at the fireplace. Debris was no longer showering onto the hearth. Her heart lifted. Spike was coming to save her. Now it was a race. Dawn knew she needed to stay alive a few more seconds. She spotted the open doorway to the bedroom, the dark hole beckoning to her. She broke from a sprinter's start, heart pumping, running flat out.

Behind her the beast moved lightning fast. It lashed out whip-thin arms to catch at her ankles. Dawn danced sideways and crashed through an ironwork floor lamp. She tripped and fell, sliding along the floor like a curling stone to smash into the wall just short of her target. Tangled in electrical cord, she lay stunned, struggling to regain her breath as the Incubus towered over her. She could hear Spike thudding up the stairs.

‘Too late,’ she thought.

A second later, a figure loomed in the doorway.

“Get away from her you bitch,” Buffy ordered in her best Sigourney Weaver voice. She coughed slightly and revised. “Uh…Bastard.”

Dawn let out a yelp of thanksgiving. The cheer whimpered away in her throat, however, when she got a better look at her sister. Buffy was wearing Spike's duster. It made her look childlike and it accentuated the pallor of her skin. Something had taken a toll on her. She was weaving badly on her feet and kept blinking in a vain attempt to focus. Worse yet, in lieu of a Ripleyesque rocket launcher, she was clutching an ice bucket. It didn’t have the same cachet. But the Slayer had invested confidence.

Sloshing the melted contents of the container in a threatening fashion, she declared, “Ha! Water and I know how to use it!”

To Dawn’s amazement the Incubus hissed and gave ground. It seemed impressed by the non-weapon. Buffy tried to move but her knees buckled. She fell against the doorframe and then pushed off from its support. She tottered uncertainly. For a second, it looked like she would pass out. Dawn shouted a warning. The incubus surged forward, stopping only when Buffy found her equilibrium and hefted her bucket.

Dawn couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the goofiest Mexican standoff in history. The combatants weaved around one another. Buffy staggered forward, circling with her bucket of water, herding the creature toward the kitchen. The Incubus lashed out rubbery limbs in an effort to distract but stayed well clear of splash radius.

“It’s afraid of getting wet?” Dawn asked, incredulously, as she struggled free of the floor lamp.

“Elemental force,” Buffy answered, motioning with her free hand at her sister. “Now get behind me!”

“I’ve got a spray bottle somewhere,” Dawn said helpfully. “I put it down over there by the fireplace.” She stood on tiptoe to scan the ruined hearth. There was no sign of her holy water.

“Dawn,” Buffy snapped in exasperation. “Come on. I don’t know if I can…”

Buffy didn’t get to finish her sentence. Spike arrived. Expecting the front door to be latched he tackled it at speed. Unfortunately, Dawn had neglected to fully close the door when she entered. It crashed open under the force of Spike's headlong rush. The Slayer half-turned toward the noise. Her eyes widened in shock and then Spike hit her hard. They went down with a gargle, a thud and a splash. The front door bounced off the wall and slammed decisively closed.

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

“What I don’t understand,” Xander inserted into the inevitable Spike discussion that had broken out once the hole was complete. “Is what she could possibly see in him?”

Shaking back her caramel colored hair, Tara snorted softly. “You mean besides the sexy lips and penetrating eyes and the way his pants kind of curve around…”

A heavy silence pressed down causing her sentence to trail off. She stole a glance at the group. To visually illustrate the exact anatomical arc of Spike’s posterior, she had cupped both palms at hip level. With a guilty start, she let her hands fall to her sides. Her gaze meandered around the circle of gaping Scoobies until it collided with her lover’s quizzical stare. Blushing, Tara quickly looked away.

“Uhm…I mean, it seems to me…it mi-might b-be that.” she finished hastily. Stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets she shrugged up her shoulders as if suddenly chilled.

“The lesbian is correct,” Anya nodded. “Spike is very pleasing to look at.”

“So…it’s physical?” Xander pressed. He didn’t get it but it was a better explanation than the alternative he’d been contemplating all evening.

His fiancée wafted a hand. “Also Buffy likes having sex with vampires.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Giles chided as if addressing the mentally challenged. He had ignored the conversation for the most part and even now didn’t bother to look up from the tome he was perusing. “Buffy has never shown the slightest inclination to…or…rather… for…well…it just isn’t in her nature.” Forced to contemplate the unthinkable, he took off his glasses and polished them.

“Hello? Angel?” Willow reminded.

“Angel was a regrettable mistake,” Giles said firmly. He returned his spectacles to his nose and glittered wisely. Willow snorted. Seeing the expression on her face, Giles put his text to one side. He held his place with two fingers, however, as if certain this issue was a nonsensical one and would take little time to explain. “Buffy was young and easily taken in. She had no idea Angel was a vampire until they were well into the…relationship. Once she discovered the truth…well…there were mitigating circumstances…”

“You mean like being in love with him?”

“Certainly considering herself to be in love.”

“What about Dracula?”

“That was a blood thrall,” Giles said dismissively. Having had enough of the subject, he picked up his book again. “And this confusion with Spike and the Incubus is nothing more than a variation of that same supernatural side-effect.”

“I don’t think it was the spell,” Xander said. He spoke so softly that the others went on chatting around him.

“You think using Spike’s blood for the resurrection created the same kind of attraction as a thrall?” Willow asked Giles.

“So we need a counter-spell?” Tara supposed.

“Counter, yet retaining the good parts of…living Buffy,” Willow twittered.

“Of course,” Giles acknowledged. “Altering the spell was a mistake. I take full responsibility for the…unfortunate consequences. However, the end result is what matters.” He traded his current tome for another book. “I wonder if Grimley has anything to say about blood bonds. We could...”

Xander tried again to get his point across. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he interjected. “It’s not like I’ve got my Owl Levels like the rest of you, but…”

He drew out the qualifying word. His objection dangled in the air as he gazed at the newly excavated pit. It offered mute testament to his value in the group. He was hesitant to contradict people he considered intellectually superior. But he had been putting two and two together all day. And he kept coming up with a deeper Spike and Buffy connection. After another long moment of indecision he squared his shoulders and spoke resolutely.

“Okay, I’m just the hole digging guy,” he said. “I don’t know about the witchy stuff or demons. And I’m not exactly a fan of Paleface. He did once plan on killing me. But I know Buffy. And I think…she…” He took a breath and rushed it out. “She likes Spike. She does. Maybe it’s love. Maybe we don’t want to see it that way. But I don’t think it’s the resurrection spell. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me she has always kind of…I don’t know…admired him, I guess. Even back when he was all evil, all the time.”

Willow, Tara and Anya were looking thoughtful. Giles looked furious.

“What exactly are you implying, Xander?” he barked. “Are you saying Buffy is meant to be with Spike? Spike! My God!” He slammed shut Grimley’s Guide to the Major and Lesser Incantations. The overloud clap of pages made Tara jump. She laced her fingers into Willow’s as Giles stood and paced off a few square yards of service road.

“May I remind you,” he growled, “That we are talking about a vampire? One of the worst of his kind? He is less than two hundred and already he’s killed two Slayers and left another maimed for life. He isn’t a person you…date.” He spat the word out. “In fact, Spike isn’t a person at all. He’s a thing. Keep that in mind. Don’t be lulled by familiarity into thinking he is any different than the rest of his kind. He can’t be domesticated. All that keeps him in check is a marvel of modern engineering. Without that restraint you can be sure he would slaughter us all in our sleep.”

“But he didn’t,” Xander pointed out.

“Didn’t what?”

“Kill us in our sleep. After Buffy died, I mean.”

“There’s a chip in his head,” Giles reminded.

“The chip doesn’t change what he is,” Xander said. “Isn’t that your point? It isn’t a Neighborly Compassion chip. He isn’t suddenly Mr. Rogers. If he wanted us dead he could arrange to have us taken out, right? Get in touch with Drusilla or one of his other demon pals? So why didn’t he set us up for the kill? Pick us off one by one? Why did he stick around and fight for us and take care of the Dawnster and everything?”

“We were bringing Buffy back,” Giles said, sighing at the young man’s obtuseness. “Spike would have done anything, said anything….”

“Because he loves her?” Tara asked, raising an eyebrow at the former Watcher. The very idea ran counter to every lesson, every canonical document endorsed by the Council.

“Because he’s obsessed with her,” Giles corrected, with firm assurance. But he was wilting slightly. The hole in his argument was looming. He didn’t plan to acknowledge it. The shift in his body language was the only concession he gave. “He was willing to pay any price if there was the slightest chance of having her.”

“But it wasn’t Spike’s idea,” Willow said. “It was ours.” She almost said, ‘Yours!’ Her green eyes clouded as black memories touched her. “Spike warned us. He told us not to do it. Magic and consequences…remember?”

“Right,” Xander said. “Big ol’ fangy consequences. If it hadn’t been for Spike...” He let the sentence end abruptly but kept his gaze steady on the older man.

Giles deflated even more in the face of Xander’s meaning. It was his turn to avoid eye contact. There had been consequences. The spell had gone wrong. Willow’s extraordinary talent had proved insufficient to the task. His weeks of painstaking research had been incomplete. He had failed his Slayer.

Tara seemed no happier than Giles. She was scowling at Xander, one arm encircling her lover’s trembling shoulders. The consequences of the resurrection were a forbidden subject. She briskly rubbed her hand up and down, seeking to anchor Willow in the present. By mutual consent they never discussed the aftermath of the spell. Willow made light of it for Buffy’s sake but she had paid a high price for casting black magic. Her spirit was scarred.

Only Tara knew the extent of her partner’s suffering. Willow put on a brave face during the day. But she had frequent flashbacks in the small hours of the morning. In the dead of night she often woke screaming and there was no consoling her until sunlight cleared away all shadows. Tara had nightmares, too. They all did, the entire inner circle.

They dreamed of the abomination…lightning punctuated, terror driven dreams of the horrid thing they had called forth out of Buffy’s grave. The Slayer claimed to have no memory of the dark days following her return but her friends would never forget.

The spell had demanded human sacrifice. Willow and Tara’s sensibilities and Giles’ over-eager translation of the text had allowed a harmless substitution. Spike had been used in place of a living donor. They had spilled his heart’s blood and the blood had worked its magic. Buffy was renewed. Her putrid body was restored to perfect health. But even as the glow of life lit her skin, death marked her. Her eyes flashed with jagged bolts of light. Her brow furrowed and her teeth extended into fangs. Her flesh twisted, becoming a battlefield for good and evil. Buffy’s soul re-entered the world locked in supernatural combat with Spike’s demon.

The assault on her newborn psyche had been brutal, devastating to witness. Three days into the ordeal, she broke free of her chains and targeted her resurrectionist. Only Tara’s quick thinking had saved Willow’s life. Seeing no alternative, Giles asked Spike to terminate his Slayer. Spike refused. Giles could still feel the stinging lash of his words.

“We did this Rupert. You and I. Can’t wash it away. Can’t blame your pretty witches either, can we? What do they know? Our love did this. And that thing we made? It has her heart…I can see Buffy in there…buried but crying out. I can feel her… and I am not about to let you put her back in the ground. Hell, I’d bloody well celebrate her slaughtering every last one of you. So get back to your books, old man. Find a cure. Or you’ll have both of us after your blood.”

Giles had searched for a solution. But it was Spike who found one. He brought Buffy back to her senses. He stalked her, captured her and held her for a fortnight, far from prying eyes, deep in the Initiative caves. No threat or promise of reward would move Spike to discuss his methods and Giles was afraid to voice his suspicions.

For weeks after her return, he’d watched Buffy carefully; alert for any sign of unnatural attachment. He’d tested her blood and put her through her supernatural paces. She was in perfect health and seemed, if anything, to be avoiding Spike. And yet, there were the marks on her body.

“Yes,” Giles finally sighed, knowing he could never tell the others why he was so leery of the vampire. “I will concede the point. Spike has proved useful. But that doesn’t mean Buffy is destined for him…or even attracted to him. I believe Spike exerts some kind of control over the Slayer. And the spell we cast is at the root of it. No matter how harmless he seems we must never let our guard down. He is evil. We can’t romanticize this. These aren’t two people who share some mystical connection…other than the mystical connection we created when we cast that misbegotten spell. You can’t tell me you want to revisit that horror?”

“Of course not,” Xander snapped, affronted. “But that won’t happen.”

“It could,” Giles warned. “The potential is there. Buffy is human. But her hold on humaniy is tenuous. Spike is a demon. Humans don’t belong with demons.”

“Unless they are FORMER demons,” Anya inserted into the long thoughtful silence. “Former demons are okay for dating and marrying and other types of belongings.”

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

Buffy shoulder rolled out of her fall and popped to her feet. She came up cursing the name of her would-be rescuer. “DAMN IT, SPIKE!”

“Bloody Hell, Slayer,” a voice near the fireplace exclaimed.

In almost perfect harmony an identical voice asked, “Bit are you okay?” from the other side of the room.

Buffy blinked, head swiveling to take in the new tableau. “Oh, not again,” she groaned.

“There are two of them,” Dawn said, looking from one version of Spike to the other. She had darted out of the way as the three others collided. Her hasty move helped her stay upright and avoid the crush of bodies but she had ended up too far from her sister. She was, however, very close to the Spike asking after her. She took a half step toward his outstretched hand.

“Dawn, stay where you are,” Buffy barked sidling toward the girl. “One of them is…”

Before she could finish the sentence the Spike furthest from Dawn roared, “Keep your soddin’ mitts off her, you nonce!’ and charged at his twin.

Spike 2.0 reacted instantly to the threat. They met in the middle of the room with a flurry of punches, bites and growls. Dawn edged warily away from the melee. She pressed into the wall and crept along the low bar and then around into the kitchenette. As soon as she was well clear of the fight, her eyes swept the tiny room for a weapon. There was a sprayer on the sink but the hose wasn’t long enough to reach the doorway. A wooden cutlery stand full of knives nestled between a wine rack and a turret of bottled herbs on the bar.

She noticed the bar was well stocked as she snatched a wide carving blade from the selection. The weight of the knife in her hands gave her a false sense of security. Even a powerful strike with such a trifling weapon would only irritate the monster they were fighting. Her mind raced. Buffy had mentioned elemental forces. Dawn knew that meant water or air or fire. She looked again to the sink. There was a window above it. She briefly considered climbing out and trying to get help. She shook her head. It was a long drop to the ground. She’d never make it down. Besides Buffy and Spike were in trouble, there had to be something she could do.

She returned her attention to the bar. Maybe there was a container she could fill with water. She rejected the idea almost immediately. A quick search turned up nothing larger than a martini shaker. She could use a seltzer bottle. It might not take much water, if it worked like the wicked witch. But Dawn didn’t have time for trial and error. It could take more than one splash or a series of squirts to finish off something that size.

‘Come on…think,’ she mentally chided. ‘Be the Scoobie! What would Xander do? Okay…probably get knocked unconscious….or maybe…just burn the place down.’

As she had the thought, Roscoe’s collection of rum and vodka seemed to speak to her. Her gaze darted to the yellow curtains at the window. The glimmer of an idea formed in the back of her mind. A few decisive slices of her knife produced strips of cloth from the curtains. After laying out the strips on the counter, Dawn gathered up an armload of liquor. She placed the bottles in the sink and then turned on one of the stovetop burners. Working carefully, she doused her curtain rags in alcohol. Once they were well soaked, she started plugging the strips into full bottles. In the living room the battle of the Spikes raged on.

Spike and Roscoe were locked together in a tangle of limbs. Buffy couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. They were identical, right down to the cuts and bruises. But Buffy knew there was one crucial difference. The real Spike didn’t stand a chance in the fight. Only Roscoe’s intended victim could kill him. She circled the pair, looking for a way to help. She’d seen Dawn scamper into the kitchen and prayed her little sister had been able to escape through the window.

There was a crackle of energy as Roscoe broke into his true form. Grey tentacles waved. A lance of electricity arched through the air and Spike screamed. A second later, he was hurled into the nearest wall. Roscoe pinned him in place with a few tentacles. Another of the Incubus' numerous limbs seized a wooden stake from the wreckage of furniture.

Buffy had just somersaulted away from the fight toward the kitchen, Spike's duster whipping in her wake. A busy noise had alerted her to Dawn’s continued jeopardy. Roscoe moved in for the kill. Buffy saw the Incubus take up a stake as she swished through a handspring. Twisting in mid-air, she piked out of her maneuver. The change of direction landed her square in the path of Roscoe’s strike. Rotating on the ball of one foot, she disarmed the monster with a roundhouse kick. Spike staggered to his feet. Buffy steadied him briefly and then went on the offensive. Scooping up the fallen stake, she charged, shoulder slamming into the Incubus.

“Don’t touch him, pet,” Spike ordered but it was too late.

Roscoe whirled, lashing out ropey limbs to lasso one of the Slayer’s wrists and both of her ankles. It yanked her from her feet. She flailed for a moment but ceased struggling almost immediately. The chemical rush of the Incubus entered her blood stream, calming her. Spike bellowed in rage. Without taking time to recover his equilibrium, he launched another attack. A score of tentacles pushed him aside like an errant toddler.

There was roaring sound and a flare of light from the kitchen, followed immediately by an acrid odor. Dawn gave an incoherent shout of triumph. The commotion caused a break in the living room action. Roscoe, Spike and Buffy looked toward the bar. As they glanced up, Dawn appeared, trailing two bright banners of flame behind her. She ran into the room, and tossed the first Molotov cocktail at the creature holding her sister. The bottle went wide but the flame scorched the Incubus and it screamed in pained surprise. It dropped the Slayer and, morphing back into a svelte from, dived away from the splattered blaze.

Buffy landed hard. She flopped about, gathering her composure. A fretful Dawn scampered to her side. Waving her remaining weapon, the Slayer’s sister held both demons at bay. But she didn’t dare throw the final bottle.

“I can’t tell them apart,” she said as she helped her sister stand up.

Leaning heavily on Dawn, Buffy turned to confront her suitors. Roscoe was gone. There were two Spikes again.

“Spike?” Buffy said, tremulously.

“Buffy,” the Spikes said as one. They glared at one another. “Bugger it! Stop that! Look, I’m warning…Arrgh!”

“Which one is the real Spike?” Dawn asked.

Buffy frowned looking from one vampire to the other. “I can’t…I don’t know.”

“I’m me,” both Spikes said together. “He’s not me. No, you’re not. Look, Buffy…luv, can’t you tell?”

“Oh, great,” Buffy groaned. “Like the world needs two of you.”

“There aren’t two of me,” the Spikes insisted and then they both puffed up like angry adders. They were pushing at each other, mirror images of frustration. “Bloody HELL! Will you just shove a stake up your…”

Buffy had a sudden inspiration. “Dawn, give me the bottle.”

“Careful with that, luv,” the Spike on the left said.

Just as the Spike on the right looked beyond her shoulder and remarked, “Got a ready blaze going back there, pet. Vampires and little girls burn too, you know?”

“Say my name,” Buffy ordered, her tone commanding their attention.

“Your NAME?” the Spikes gasped not believing their ears. “Look this is hardly the time to…”

“Spike,” Buffy growled in exasperation circling the pair as her alcohol torch continued to burn. “Just say it! Say my name like you said it last night in the shower.”

“Shower?” Dawn inquired, eyebrows waffling. Buffy ignored her.

“Of all the…look…Slayer…this is definitely not the time to come over all sentimental on us…just kill the bugger and…” The Spike on the right had had more than enough of this game.

But the Spike on the left seemed to understand. He locked eyes with her and nodded slowly.

“Buffy,” he whispered in the same desperately intense tone that she remembered from the night before.

“Yes,” The Slayer said feeling a tingle of sexual desire. It sparked in her chest and traveled jaggedly down to her groin. Her body relaxed, leaning toward the Spike on the left as she breathed out a sigh. “That’s it exactly. That’s just how I remember it. So loving, so perfect…”

The Spike on the right bristled in indignation as Buffy took one hesitant step forward and then another. She gazed into the eyes of his double. And then without any warning, she hurled her makeshift bomb directly into the face holding her rapt attention. There was a roar of flames as the whiskey bottle shattered and the alcohol ignited. Just for a second the fire outlined Spike’s form and then a terrible high-pitched scream caused Dawn to cover her ears and squeeze her eyes shut.

The noise was frightful. Roscoe’s Spike form dissolved into a flailing mass of grey tentacles as the Incubus burst out of the fire and charged. The Slayer dived away from it, certain it would target her. Instead, it snaked a dozen arms around Dawn.

“Bloody HELL, SLAYER,” the real Spike screamed over the roar of the fire. As he and Buffy hustled sideways to avoid the newest blaze, he snarled. “I thought he got your soddin’ name thing down?”

“He did,” Buffy yelled back. “One thing about old Roscoe, he always knows the right thing to say.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Spike growled. “And now he’s got Dawn and we’re cornered. What next?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy shouted. “Fire should have worked. Air, Water, Earth, FIRE.”

“Maybe you have to hold him in the flames,” Spike guessed. He pantomimed shoving Roscoe into the fire.

“I could try that,” Buffy said, looking dubiously toward the conflagration.

“Are you crazy?” Spike yelped, throwing a barrier arm across her chest.

The kitchen and the door to the bedroom were completely engulfed in flame. In the distance there was a wail of sirens. Firemen and powerful hoses were on the way. ‘Water in a continuous stream,’ Buffy thought. But it would arrive too late. The charred Roscoe was threatening to squeeze the life out of Dawn. His charmed touch was making her sway. As Spike and Buffy looked on helplessly, Dawn slumped into unconsciousness. Roscoe morphed into a scorched and disheveled version of the Slayer.

“I thought you could only do men,” Buffy accused.

Roscoe smiled. “I can only do women,” he corrected. “Many of them prefer their own gender. Take your little friends, Willow and Tara, wasn’t it?” He reached for the doorknob.

“Dawn,” Buffy cried in desperation. Her eyes darted anxiously. “Air, Water, Earth, Fire…air, water….” She would have to risk the fire, holding the Incubus in the flames as Spike suggested. They would both burn but it was the only way to save her friends.

“How do you kill something with air?” Spike asked the panicking Buffy.

They were backed up to the stone hearth. Half-crazed with what she was about to do, Buffy turned on him angrily. Her heel caught on the fallen fire tongs. She tripped, going down to one knee as her ankle turned under. She glanced at the source of her stumble. One of the scattered instruments caught her attention. It was a pair of leather bellows.

“Time to find out,” she said, a hopeful light in her eyes. She bent to retrieve the instrument and looked back at Spike. “You get Dawn.”

He nodded. They moved as one. Buffy pelted toward her double, pumping the bellows handles repeatedly to create a stream of air. Spike simply charged full speed at the front door. Roscoe bleated in surprise at the unexpected assault. Spike took advantage of the creature’s momentary lapse of concentration to wrest Dawn from its grasp. Cradling her against his chest he hit the door with his shoulder. They crashed through the barrier and momentum carried them both to the far side of the hallway. Behind them, Buffy stabbed the nozzle of her weapon into her double’s chest, forcing in air. The Incubus shrieked.

It fell back across the threshold. Before it hit the floor it started swelling. Flailing tentacles appeared and then, a second later, seemed to shrink into stubby arms as the main body of the beast inflated like a puffer fish. Balancing on the engorged mass, Buffy kept pumping until the Incubus was as round and featureless as a beach ball. Finally, the thing’s overstretched skin popped. There was an explosion of grey goop. The Slayer was hurled into the hallway, still clutching her bellows.

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

Spike drove the Slayer and her sister home. At Buffy’s insistence, they stopped off at Miller’s Grove. When she returned his duster as she was exiting the car, Spike was sure Buffy would let someone else give her a lift the rest of the way. But to his surprise, and Giles’ obvious distaste, she got back into the DeSoto after the briefest consultation with her friends.

The car was warm and ran quietly, offering Spike's little family unit a small island of intimacy against the chilled night. In the backseat, Dawn chattered on about the battle until they made the turn into Revello Drive. Buffy stared silently out of the passenger window. Spike was decidedly worried by the time he eased to the curb in front of the Summers’ house and shifted into park.

Dawn opened her door a crack. Cool air rushed in. Buffy didn’t move. She didn’t speak. Dawn hesitated. Nibbling her lip, she looked from one blond head to the other. Neither of the people in the front seat seemed eager to go. They sat there for a time. Finally, Spike decided to break the ice.

“Buffy…I wish…” he hesitated. Shifting slightly, he glanced over the seat back, meeting Dawn’s eye.

“Oh, wow, it’s late,” Dawn said, suddenly. “School night. You two probably have to…uhm…do…whatever. Don’t mind me.”

Before Buffy could object, her little sister was out of the car and scampering up the walk to the porch. The Slayer stared after her.

“I should go,” Buffy said, pulling up the door handle to escape.

Spike gently clasped her nearest wrist. “Don’t,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to…”

“What?” she interrupted in an equally soft tone as she turned to face him, “Do your best to save me from a soul-sucking fiend?”

“Yeah,” he said, answering the question in his head rather than the one she’d just asked. It took a moment for him to adjust. “I mean, no!” Her words sank in a little further and he smiled in pleasant confusion. “What?”

“Oh, I see,” she said, nodding sagely. She gave him a small smile. “Then you must mean how you basically acted like a possessive idiot, with the threatening and the drunken binging. How you meddled in my personal life and nearly got my baby sister killed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” Spike huffed. He started to take umbrage but checked the urge, remembering in a flash how Roscoe ‘always said the right thing.’ He looked down at the seat cushion between them and shrugged meekly. “But…okay….”

Buffy seemed pleased. She slid toward him across the front seat until her left arm encircled his shoulders. She stopped with her one knee just touching his thigh. As Spike glanced up in bemusement, she leaned in, pressing along his arm. She gently settled the palm of her right hand against his cheek.

“I’m getting used to it,” she said softly just before their lips met in a gentle kiss.

Spike sat very still. He was sure there had been some mix-up in Heaven. It just wasn’t possible Buffy was kissing him, like a lover. He was afraid to move. Any shift in position, any show of eagerness, might break the spell. He had expected the Slayer to be furious. Even as the kiss ended, he was sure she would pull back and punch him. But after a moment, when she stayed close, he grew bolder. He gathered her into his arms, sliding his knee under her thigh.

Buffy shifted with him until she was halfway into his lap. Spike favored her with the shyest of smiles. He tilted his head slightly, bringing their lips together again. He could feel his insides turning to jelly as this second kiss deepened. His beloved squirmed, pressing even closer into him. She was making tiny mews of pleasure. Her hands were searching out his secrets. Spike let his fingertips wander. He traced up and down the length of her back. Finally he settled one hand at curve of her hip as the other climbed to weave through her hair.

When he tugged at her tresses, Buffy ran her thumb along his jaw to his earlobe. Her fingers laced together at the back of his neck, holding him as her tongue slipped out to meet his in a languid caress.

Their kissing grew more heated and they both grew bolder in their fondling. Spike stroked Buffy’s neck. Trailing his fingers down her chest, he unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. He pushed the slippery material aside, exposing the creamy curve of her breast and one satiny shoulder. Ducking his head, he settled a kiss just above the straining third button and gloried in Buffy’s sharp intake of breath.

She wanted more. Her hands clawed at Spike’s clothing, tearing buttons from their moorings. She worked her fingers deep into his hair and arched up as he ran his tongue in a single long glide along the swell of her breast and across her collarbone to a spot just below her right ear.

“Oh, my sweet love,” he whispered against the strong pulse in her throat.

The Slayer stiffened and pulled away, shuddering slightly. Spike froze in apprehension as he realized what he’d just said. Buffy’s bottom slipped off his leg onto the seat. But she didn’t go far. She leaned her forehead against his, shaking but maintaining their embrace. They both took several slow deep breaths.

“We did this before,” Buffy said at last. “In the caves?”

“No,” Spike denied. He struggled to break her hold, suddenly afraid. She held him fast, her strong hand at his nape.

“I remember. You bit me.” She released him and settled one trembling hand to her breast. “Here.”

Her eyes were squeezed shut as if the memory was too much for her. Spike started to panic. His thoughts tumbled over each other. He wanted to blurt out some excuse.

I didn’t mean to take you…force you like that. You were the one…you didn’t give me a choice. It was the only way. I had to save you. I had to drink…your blood…our blood…oh, God…baby…please…you have to know I would never…hurt you…never let you slip away again.

“Buffy…?” Spike whispered letting her name melt on his tongue like caramel. He was about to deny her again when she choked him into silence by opening luminous eyes.

“This is wrong,” she said with quiet certainty. “And it will end badly. There’s no way that this ends well.”

Spike wanted to pretend that he didn’t understand her. He wanted to make some smart remark but she’d entranced him. He was drowning in her gaze. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in her fist.

“I know,” he admitted, after a very long pause. “I wish…I wish I could make it stop.”

“Maybe it’s supposed to be this way,” Buffy said, shifting in the seat and turning to stare out the window again. Scant inches from her icy profile, Spike felt the cold as keenly as if he were alive again. He shivered as she calmly intoned. “Maybe it’s our destiny. We must walk this road, knowing it can only end in blood.”

“Because I love you?”

“No,” Buffy said, giving a quick shake of her head. Looking back at him, she repeated, “No! It’s wrong because I’m the Slayer…and because…I need…I can’t…shut you out. I try but I just can’t seem to...”

She sighed and fell silent. Spike reached out a tentative hand to brush back her hair. When she allowed the caress, he twisted the silken strands between his fingers. Buffy closed her eyes in contentment. She let her head drop back, exposing her throat. Her shoulders swayed seductively. Almost purring she leaned against the headrest, happy to have her erstwhile enemy comfort her with his cool touch.

Taken in, Spike edged closer. The leather seat groaned softly as he shifted his weight. He took his beloved in his arms again. The curve of her neck enchanted him. Bumping his head into her like an amorous kitty, he nuzzled along her jaw, pressing her soft hair against her throat. Finally, when she was sure he never would, Buffy felt him tugging at her skin with blunted teeth.

She convulsed. Sticky hot memories flickered in her mind. The mix of sex and sin made the close air in the car heady. Buffy moaned and Spike obeyed her preverbal command. He didn’t change but he did bite down hard enough to break skin. Buffy felt his shoulders twitch as the chip sparked a sympathetic response to her brief pain. Her blood flowed and he sucked at the small wound, caressing her with his tongue.

“I want you to love me,” Buffy whispered, her voice thick with long suppressed emotion, “I know it’s wrong but I don’t want you to stop.”

Spike lifted his head to study her, Buffy Summers, his nemesis, his love, his own…the Slayer. Their intermingled blood was on his lips, in his mouth. He felt as if his heart had started beating again. There seemed to be a joyous flutter in his chest as he answered her with simple, if brutal, honesty.

“Then I never will,” he said.

Buffy gave a tiny strangled cry. A hopeless twist of desire sheathed itself in her heart. Her blood burned for Spike. She wanted to consume him. The realization was more than she could bear. She seized his face in both hands, wrenching him close for one final desperate kiss. The red nectar on his lips nearly overwhelmed her humanity. But she broke away from the lure and before Spike could think to restrain her, she was out of his car. She sprinted to the relative safety of her house, never once daring to look back.

~Fin~