Sequel to my other story: 'Just For Tonight'

After The Fall.

CHAPTER ONE:

He didn't know why he came back here. But then again it always came back to the same thing.

Her.

And here she was, lying beneath him.

Six bloody feet beneath him.

He had stumbled upon her after completing six drunken trudges around the leanest of the towns many cemeteries only to find her grave secreted behind some trees and some curtain spell or other. Clever girl, that witch. Didn't want any old demon discovering the fact they all worked so hard to protect. One little maggot gets wind the Slayer's dead then suddenly Sunnydale's a free-for-all banquet of death and destruction. A shudder of discomfort accompanied the ignited memories and imagery that stuttered through his mind. Good times indeed.

But that was then.

Now a sudden sobriety gripped him and he fell, sinking to his knees from the impacting weight of reality. 'Saved the world. A lot.' Daft bint. She should have known that the world's not much good without her. Not worth saving if she's not there to come to its rescue next time Good falters against Evil as it ineveitably does. It's a perpetual struggle, but it was her struggle. What she was made for. Wasn't any one that could take that place... no matter how hard a bunch of zealous sidekicks try. The world was made for her and she'd abandoned it. Abandoned him.

"Should be used to it by now." He fingered at the consecrated earth before him, recognising all too well the warning tingle of imminent pain. He dug out a clump of loose soil and squeezed it in his fist relishing the scorch with manic laughter that choked itself with a sob of defeat. And defeated the lunged, fell upon her and howled.

He emptied the bottle tending to his burns and lobbed the glass blindly into the night, allowing a slither of satisfaction as glass shattered against stone. But the silence resumed, looming around his head, inverting his senses and awakening the irritable hunger he had long neglected. He was saved by madness from a scuffle. Another. An echoing shuffle of earth. His gaze scanned the cemetery, finally alighting upon the culprit and he stalked up to a grave where a certain reincarnation was occurring.

"You'd think--town like this--they'd make cremation standard practise." Sure enough, he knew the drill by now.

A fisted hand punched through to air and seized upon newly consecrated ground. Fizzles of steam arose and the hand recoiled. But only for a moment, the task is too great. The need for escape, the ache for air you no longer need, the craving you can't yet put a name too.

Brings back memories, does this.

He watched and waited. Two things he never much cared for. Scanning the wrist where a watch would be if time meant anything to him, his foot began to pitter-patter out a vague snippet of a rhythm. He knew a close inspection of his fingernails would complete the cliché but he'd had enough melodrama for one evening.

The earth billowed with effort. Bit slow this one. Another arm appeared and flailed about as if sensing a presence and pleading for help. Sorry mate: wrong time, wrong presence. A bit of leverage, a final push and he was there: gasping and gushing. Newborn, bleary-eyed and wailing for his mother.

.... Brings back memories does this.

The neck snapped easily and the fledging collapsed into a spectacular concoction of impossible angles. He sighed and shuffled back to her grave, a sheepish apology shrugging at his shoulders.

"I know. Should've killed him." He glanced at the head stone as if gauging her reaction. "Truth is: he kinda reminded me of someone."

"Hey, mister"

"You want your head ripping off altogether?"

"Uh, no mister—sir."

"Then stay the hell away from me." He stalked past, intent on his purpose. His mission: more alcohol.

"Uh, I would do, sir. I really don't want to bother you, sir. Pleasedon'tripmyheadoffsir. It's just that... I... uh... please, I don't know what's happening to me."

He turned towards the figure of irritation and yielded at the sight of it: staggering sideways to cater for a head that was still badly skewed to the right. He paused and took a step forward which the new vampire mirrored backwards to maintain a safe distance.

"It's all right" He placated with a surrendering gesture of upturned palms. "I ain't gonna hurt you again. What's your name?"

The fledglings eye's glazed as if he was struggling to recall. "Uh, Eric, mister—sir."

"Eric, well OK then. Here's what we'll do: Get your head put back the right way and go for a drink..." He paused, remembering the urgency of his craving. "Or maybe the drink first."

"Uh, well..." Eric took a faltering step forward and tried to nod, squirming against the pain. "Sure, that's very nice of you mister, but you should know I'm underage."

They fell into step. "Oh?"

"I'm nineteen. I mean my mom lets me have a drink of beer at Thanksgiving, but—"

"That's... you were very young." He grimaced at the implication. "Well we'll go by English law then – not that the law matters much where we'll be going."

"Uh, well OK sir. If you say so."

"And while we're at it – no more of this 'sir this, sir that' business. The name's Spike."

Eric tried to grin only to fail again from the pain. "Sure si—Spike. Spike it is. Spike, sir."

Spike forced a tight smile, sarcasm choking up his throat. "Right. Well I can just tell we're going to get along famously. 'Start of a beautiful friendship' and all that bollocks."

Eric frowned as much as he could. "Huh?"

"You see now, that's much better."

A relieved Eric fingered at his neck brace. "Yeah, and you know it's like I can feel the bones mending already. Is this... is this what it's always like?"

"What what's like?"

Eric shrugged. "I can't remember what the guys called it, some hip pseudonym or other. But I'm thinking it was acid."

Spike stalled, soles squealing against hospital flooring. He winced.

"You think when I come to I should write some trip-enhanced-sixties-reminiscent music and make myself a rock legend?"

"Uh, Eric... lad," Spike patted his pockets, less in the search for smokes than for inspiration. "I think you need some education—no matter what Pink Floyd have to say." His head shot to the left and a signpost for the blood bank directed his next lesson. "Come on, I think you could do with something to eat."

"Uh, boy?"

Silence.

"Eric?"

Silence.

"Snap out of it will you."

Silence, snap, a fractured patience cracking against the strain.

"Look, I know everything's all a bit much, but it's that. The facts of un-life. And I told you damn straight – you should thank me for that much at least."

Fade to black.

He strode through the fog, cut off from perception of distance and direction until a voice called out to him.

"Spike, sir?"

He groaned, opened his eyes and slowly Vampiric features collected into focus. He tensed, an icy shiver of self-recognition seizing him until he remembered the mirror bit.

"Wh-what happened?"

"I think... I think you fainted, sir."

Eric held out offering of upturned palms, but Spike dismissed them, crawling up to his feet unaided.

"Nonsense."

"Well you kinda went, 'ooh', clutched your chest and collapsed. I panicked about—you know—heart attack!" Eric went quiet. "But then I remembered. But at least with you to look after I didn't have time to feel sad again."

Spike felt his lips curling as if to emulate Eric's small smile – and then he remembered. "Well, there you go. That was my plan – and it worked."

"Plan?"

"Yeah, divert you from your puerile melancholy and infinite sadness. So you talking to me now?"

Eric shrugged and found something interesting on the floor to look at.

"Good. Now daw—the sun'll be up soon, so let's go find somewhere to wait out the day." He patted Eric on the arm and began moving away.

"Well there was one thing?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'm allergic to blood."

Spike paused, looked back, too astounded for anything more than: "What?"

"Well, look," Eric fingered at the raised ridges on his game face. "My face has all swelled up. That used to happen when I ate sea-food, see."

Spike sighed, motioned Eric forward a little. "OK, so maybe there was one thing I didn't cover."

"You've never read Stoker? Watched cheap, tacky horror films?"

Eric shook his head, empathic with his confession. "No."

"So you've never heard of Vampires?"

"Oh, 'heard of' – sure. Just never seen them in action. So... have you been in any of these films you talk of?"

Spike groaned and experienced a pang of drink craving exacerbated by frustration.

"So why do we have such sharp teeth?"

Teeth.

"Well... they're for getting through them plastic bags that the blood comes in aren't they. 'Cos unless you're in the Swiss army or a very happy camper you don't always have a pair of scissors to hand."

Eric nodded, impressed. "Nifty."

His last word. Flash, wide eyed in shock Eric imploded before Spike's eyes.

He registered pain before he witnessed movement, fell onto his back and took a second of recovery to search in vain for the source of the chaos. He moved to stand only to be pushed back down in the earth by a weight straddling him. A stake was at his chest and he knew, felt the hope flood him. Looked up, saw her staring back down at him, eyes wide with shock.

TBC - if anyone is interested what happens next, that is.

After The Fall

CHAPTER TWO:

A moment suspended, Silence traverses a tightrope. The audience watch helpless, with quickening heartbeats knowing that the distance forward is infinite and the only possible conclusion is to fall. The fall is inevitable, but the direction is not. There is death to your left, self-destruction to your right or an infinite, thankless struggle onwards towards an unattainable goal. It was unattainable, he knew it, wasn’t completely stupid.

But when she looked at him that he found himself experiencing all sorts of fanciful leaps of imagination. Imagined that he could be the right guy for her. Imagined that their contrasting natures were ultimately mirrors indicating an underlying affinity and connection. Imagined he was more than a demon, capable of rising against and mastering his nature. For her. Imagined he was capable of being a man. For her.

Imagined that she had loved him back.

He was still far too prone to pathetic flowery notions of poetics for his liking.

"You—You." She gasped, her eyes darting as her mouth worked against some silent exclamations. "Your—Your hair!"

"I, uh," he struggled to see himself through her eyes, imagination what caused her concern until he recalled the extents of his apathy. "Haven’t been keeping up with my roots, have I?" He swallowed against a lump in his throat. "How does it look?"

She made a small noise as she pushed against him to stand, straight, steady and poised for attack. "Get up!" she demanded and he complied, slow and steady and careful to maintain a certain distance.

"I know a place."

She hesitated, the stake she was gripping wavering in her grasp. "What?"

"Where we can talk..." he offered; instinct moved him to take a step towards her and he backtracked quickly. "I think we need to talk."

Their eyes met, after an intense moment in which she displayed patent distrust and indecision she assented with a small nod and that familiar grim smile.

But this wasn’t familiar; this was new. She was...

"Different."

Spike hitched himself up onto a sarcophagus, fingernails biting into impermeable stone as he watched her gaze around the crypt. "It’s cheap and dark. It does."

"How long?" Suddenly ravaged by self-consciousness she pocketed the stake and crossed her arms in stunted, awkward motions.

"Have I been back?" He prompted and she bowed her head in assent. "Shouldn’t I be asking you that?"

A shuffle, shrug, her stance tensing with discomfort and she refused to meet his eyes.

"B-uffy?" His voice faltered at her name, the lump in his throat choking him into silence.

She didn’t notice, merely heaved a sigh of nonchalance as she fingered at a collection of dust. "Six months."

He lunged for her, gripping her arms and forcing her to face him, forcing her to look at him. Daring her to acknowledge his presence, elicit the smallest sign of recognition about last year. Tell me I wasn’t dreaming, Buffy. "Six months! Six mon—and you what? Never thought of letting me know?"

There, a little of the old, a quality he could seize at: the glare that flared under accusation. The mouth squeezing into a thin line of warning. "And how exactly was I supposed to do that? How was I supposed to know where you were or if you were even..." She shrank away from him and Spike didn’t challenge her.

He should have known.

But then he would have known to stay away.

He strained for something to say; groping about for the reset button that evaded him. There was no going back to before. That was an unattainable situation that had stemmed from coincidence of grief, need and a chance meeting in some seedy bar. This was how things had to be now, how they should have remained. Them standing inches apart but ideologically distinct and alone. In the silence he dwindled into apathy, his gaze falling to the floor.

It was a nice dream, while it lasted. Shame about the wake-up call. Reality is the nightmare.

He groaned on impact with the stone floor and stared up at her as he reached for his jaw. And he wanted to rejoice against the pain sprawling along his cheek for there she was. Not the Slayer... but Buffy.

His Buffy.

"Where were you?!" She yelled, her eyes washed by the moisture of unshed tears and suddenly so open and devastated, as though she had punched through her own barriers to hurt him. "Where did you go?"

He shifted, stood carefully. "Around. Away."

"But why? You kept your promise, brought her back safe, and then just left?!"

"Left here." An extended index finger entered his range of vision, pointing to the next exit on the left.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I’m sure. I remember it well... very well considering I wasn’t really here then."

A chill palmed across his shoulder blades and he tensed. He wished she’d stop doing that. Stop going there. Stop questioning her existence and memories to the extent that she didn’t know if what she was even experiencing now was real. Wished she’d stop doing that in front of him, putting him under pressure to think of some existential bollocks to keep her acquiesced for a while longer.

But then he knew. Knew exactly how she felt.

He took the exit on the left. "It’s the same for me sometimes."

Had her attention, felt the pressure.

"Well you know the drill, Buffy must have given you the spiel. When a Vampire makes you one of their kind the person dies, the soul... evaporates into the ether or whatever."

"Yeah, heard it. How—?"

"Well then the demon resurrects the body, inherits the shell and the mind. I have all these memories that I inherited of a life before my birth. It wasn’t me—wasn’t ‘Spike’—but they feel real to me. They made me what I am, moulded my personality as much as they did the human. So they’re mine."

He checked to see if Dawn was following. Signs looked promising. "It’s that whole nature-nurture thing in a nutshell: I’m a Vampire, a demon, with memories of human experiences and emotions. And you are a... a load of shiny energy in human form with the memories of being Buffy’s sister and Joyce’s daughter."

Dawn considered this, her brow furrowing and a something lifting the edges of her mouth. "So what does that make me?"

"A product of nurture over nature."

Her smile developed and she beamed at him in gratitude. "And you?"

Spike paused, shrugged. "Still deciding."

He nodded. "I did what you asked, there was nothing else for me."

Buffy pushed at him with ineffectual effort and he stepped back a pace with a gesture of concession despite the irritation prickling at his muscles.

She advanced on him again, but didn’t strike. "And what about Dawn? You didn’t think she’d been through enough that you decided to abandon her too?" A balled up hand struck against his chest and he closed his eyes against the accusations. "She didn’t even cross your mind did she? Bet you didn’t even look back—"

Snap, his eyes opened, caught her wrist mid-strike and hit back with the truth. "They wouldn’t let me anywhere near her!"

Cease.

Silence.

Impact. Reality.

"What?"

"What did you expect, Buffy? That they would welcome me with open arms? Feed me at the table like I was one of them? Put me on Dawn duty? A few desperate times may have allowed you to trust me with her, but without the threat of Slayer wrath for bad behaviour, they preferred not to let a murderous demon baby-sit."

"Oh." Her head bowed with realisation.

Reality. She never did have the taste for it, supernatural awareness or no.

"Yeah. ‘Oh’."

A furtive glance or two, almost shy the way she diverted her gaze before he could read her. God he loved her, wanted to reach out to her but he was clamped by fear.

"She missed you."

Spike’s eyes flicked onto hers and as Buffy nodded at his silent question and he felt his lips work up a small smile of thanks. "I missed her." He paused a moment, not sure how far he should venture, how much to risk tonight. "How is she?"

Buffy groaned and rolled her eyes, a quiet, almost bitter laugh lilting in her throat. "She’s going through some stuff... we’ve all been going through some stuff."

"Yeah."

She was suddenly evading him again and he found himself touching her, fingering at a few strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Startled eyes met his but she didn’t pull away.

"You can’t stay here. You’re coming home with me."

Spike froze, stepped back. "But—" he began, indicating the presence of Willow and Tara at the house now. Trying to indicate all the many reasons why that was a bad idea. But then she shattered his resolve with one.

"Dawn will want to see you."

The force made him stagger back. But this time it wasn’t Buffy-force, it was Dawn. And how she’d grown. He hit the wall behind him with a low thud, muffled a bit of something like ‘hello’ and in return she enveloped him with her softness.

"You’re back."

And it wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Fact.

"Cocoa?" Dawn asked.

He nodded, caught himself smiling; did not try to subdue it. "Cocoa."

"Why do you always do this?" She asked, fingering at the generous mass of squirting cream that was floating innocuously on her drink.

"Do what?"

"Buy me cocoa whenever I get upset?"

Spike paused, cup to his lips, ready to drink. Replaced the cup back on the cheery paper coaster and watched the marshmallow bits wobble to and fro as he turned the cup within his grasp. "You think I’m overdoing it?" He did not look up.

"I didn’t say I didn’t like it."

That earned a frown. "If women just said whatever the hell they meant in the first place, it might just save a little time. Not to mention confusion."

Dawn took offence and stuck her tongue out at him as though to prove she wasn’t a woman quite yet and so, therefore, was not guilty of above charges. "I mean..." she shrugged, her hands embracing the warmth of the cocoa mug and her eyes watering.

"What are you trying to say, Bit?"

"Will... will you still take me for cocoa when we get back?"

He met her stare, felt his eyes prickle and something clench in his gut. He nodded and croaked out a yes.

"Promise?"

Spike nodded with more conviction. "You’re gonna need all the cocoa you can get."

"Oh! Oh!" Willow was surprised to see him. "Oh?"

"He’s back." Dawn announced with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Didn’t I tell you he’d come back?"

Spike stared at her, the question etched in his face before he spoke. "You knew?"

Dawn squirmed, looked away. "Well... hoped." She produced a small smile and indicated the drained mugs in front of them. "You had a promise to keep,"

"What’s going on, Buffy?" Willow edged around the kitchen in careful steps. "What’s he doing here? He’s—"

Buffy shrugged, her lips pursed as she said in stern affirmation. "You heard her: He’s back."

TBC

CHAPTER THREE:

He thought it amusing. That Willow could accost Buffy in the kitchen and expect him – Vampire sat only in the lounge – not to hear every bloody word. He shouldn’t be bothered really, it was the same old, same old. Dust the record; repeat the track. Wear out the groove.

"You want to watch something else?"

Spike glanced down at Dawn sat on the floor with her legs crossed at crazy angles. She spun her head round and raised her eyebrows. "Buffy always tells me to go watch this ‘rubbish’ upstairs while she watches some load of pap."

"No, this is fine." He assured her with a curt nod. Ears still tuned to the one-sided conversation in the kitchen.

"They do that a lot."

"Huh?"

"Talk about you not-so-behind-your-back." Dawn was bouncing the remote control on her knee. She still did that, huh? "They do it to me even when I’m in the same room."

"That’s..." Clatter of wood against wood – somebody leaving the house. Footsteps and then Buffy is there again. Felt himself relax with the affirmation her presence bought. She’s still here. He’s still dreaming. He doesn’t ever want to wake up.

She seemed shocked to see him too. Avoided his eyes as she stepped over him to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. "Oh no, not this." Groaned at the television, but resisted sending Dawn out of the room.

And so it was back to this again: the three of them. They sat and watched television in a silence that was intermitted only by Dawn’s short bursts of laughter.

Ten minutes in and he felt Buffy’s eyes watching him again, studying his profile. Blinked and turned. She looked away. Again.

He jittered with another pang of craving. Not for blood or beer or smokes, but for her. He was physically aching with the urge to touch her. Closed his eyes and pretended weariness with Dawn’s taste in television programmes.

The creaking of floorboards above ebbed away into silence and they sat. Eyes fell from the ceiling onto each other and they stared. All this time, all this distance and they were back here.

"Let’s go for a walk." Buffy said as she stood into a lithe stretch.

Spike blinked in agreement and headed for the door, opening it for her. He watched her slide into a coat, fix a bit of errant hair behind her ears. Her eyes locked onto his as she moved towards him and slid over the threshold.

Buffy meandered her way through streets with a Slayer’s purpose despite their lack of direction. This was her town and she proceeded through streets that had imprinted themselves, with experience in the back of her mind.

He followed a step or two behind. Heard every echo of her footsteps, pored over her every moment, witnessed every flicker of streetlight in her hair. She was here. Breathing, swaying, beating and unaware as she absorbed his wonderment and love.

She was alive.

And cold?

Something akin to chill gripped at her and she drew her coat tighter around herself. And then stalled. He came to an abrupt stop behind and hovered, rolling back onto his heels as she turned to face him. And there she was. His Buffy. Tears in her eyes and pleas stuttering from her lips.

"Please. I-I... I can’t stand this." Fingertips reached out for him before curling away into fists. Imploring him with her eyes she said it, broke the dam: "Touch me."

He fell into her and let out a shaky sigh. "Buffy."

Breath hitched in her chest and she grasped at him, seizing at clothing as she sought out flesh. He responded, urging her back into a wall, aligning himself to her as she arched into him, pushing his head into her neck to inhale only her.

"Need you. Missed you so much—" She gasped when, frustrated by stubborn clothing, he tore at her trousers, pulling her up and around him with habitual ease that almost belied their desperation. "Need. Spike. Need y—"

He entered her with a sob and they stilled, clutching at each other in sudden fear. His head swarmed and incoherent snippets of verse evaporated into the moment.

"Buffy," he whispered and she began to move. Her thighs gripped his hips and he supported her, easing his way into a counter-rhythm. She flooded his senses, it was too much, so long, so much, so—

She was shaking, her eyes wide in alarm. Then she gave way. Face contorting as if pained, she convulsed around him and let out a cry of release that gave way to something else. Tears squeezed out from clenched eyes and she shook with silent sobs, slackening from around him, sliding to the ground.

Huddled at his feet, Buffy grabbed at his legs; urged him down to her. He sank, pulled her into his lap.

"Tell me."

Spike lay back and listened, a low drone of breaths steeped in sleep and the rattling hum of Buffy’s shower coercing him into comfort. He closed his eyes and waited for her.

Ten minutes later she emerged; warmed and softened from her shower and cocooned in soft fibres. Her eyes settled on him.

"Better?" He asked, pulling the sheets on her side of the bed down.

"Better." A twist and she let her towel slip from her and pool to the floor. In a moment she was in beside him, nestling her warmth to his side, resting her head against his chest. She looked up only once to check he had successfully covered the windows before closing her eyes.

"Buffy?"

"Mm?"

"Sweet dreams."

A hand reached over, her palm rested on his chest.

"You too."

"What happened?" He asked, glancing from one stricken face to another.

They shifted, winced and he could not swear as to which one finally answered him. "She fell."

"Fell?"

The forthright one—Anya her name?—nodded. "There was a portal."

"I thought that had been taken care of?" He spared a glance full of accusation for the witches.

"Mojo no-go." Xander quipped and then repented with a deep, beleaguered sigh.

Anya took up the vacant role of spokesperson once more. "Glory somehow managed to get around the having-no-‘Key’ thing. Picked the lock, if you like. We’re not quite sure how, but I think it involved the bloody sacrifice of many of those scabby minion thingies she surrounded herself with." She took a quick glance at the others before continuing. "There was no blood – Buffy, I mean."

The collective of Slayerettes shuddered under a synchronised quick intake of breath. Willow looked heavenwards, her eyes barely restraining the threat of tears.

It was clean. Quick he hoped too, but he’d leave that part to his imagination. He let out the air he had collected in a slow exhalation as Anya voiced The Question.

"So... what happens now?"

He laughed bitterly, did not care about their scowls. That was it, entirely. Without their Slayer, their leader the limpets had no rock and were adrift. "Gotta make up you’re own minds now, eh kiddies?"

Under the pressure of their multiplied glare, he got up to leave.

"Tell Dawn I’ll see her tomorrow."

There was no tomorrow.

For any of them.

Living takes too much strain. Doesn’t mean anything without her. Switch to survival mode and wait it out.

"For a long time after they brought me back I felt... like I wasn’t really here." She looked up; quickly turned her attention back to the sheet she was plucking at. "I mean the vital signs were there – I was alive—"

"Just not living." He supplied, wincing against the taste of irony.

Her head bowed further. "I’m not saying that things are much better now. I-I mean I’m feeling much better about being here, being back. I have Dawn to look after, I’m the Slayer and that’s a job that always needs doing... but things still aren’t right."

In tentative inches forward, his fingertips met hers. "You’re grieving, Buffy. You can’t expect that to just go away."

Buffy met his eyes. Held his gaze and stated: "I want to do this the right way."

"Do what?"

"This," she indicated the space between them. "I want this, but I have to be fair on you. Tell you how things are a-and—"

"Offer me an out?" He choked back a laugh at the absurdity. "You really think I could walk away now?" Pride smarted. She really didn’t know him at all.

Buffy shrugged, looked away and then he understood. "Of course. Kind of a pattern with you isn’t it? The going gets tough and the man gets gone." She reeled inwards, pulling her arms back over her chest. "I’m not like that, Buffy. I’m not gonna go unless you make me – and even then you know I’d be back."

She stared at him, hope captured and quivering in her eyes.

He ducked into her, whispered: "You know it, Buffy."

A small moan of what could only be relief and she lunged, arms and legs around him, momentum knocking him back onto the bed.

They fell together.

TBC

CHAPTER FOUR:

Hustle of noise, irritable knocks on bathroom doors, calls for eggs of every variety, yells about being late. Bustle of activity around him as he sat, sipping at some over-heated blood. Dawn was the first to go, encouraged on her way by a subdued Willow who handed her a lunch bag and a pile of books.

"Bye, Spike."

"Bye, pet. Uh, enjoy... school."

She groaned at the concept but treated him to a wide smile before exclaiming something about the bus and sprinting for the door.

Willow took it upon herself to add to the breakfast mess by mindlessly moving pots and pans about and very consciously ignoring Spike.

"So, uh, where’s the missis?"

She turned her head to reveal a frowning profile. "What?"

"Your bird. Her of the infinite serenity and sunshine smiles."

Flash and she whipped round to face him. Flicker of something in her eyes and shiver of something in the air around her. His shoulders stiffened in automatic readiness for defence and he knew, it was written in her glare. Danger. Little witch-let got all significant over the summer. And then he remembered: raising the dead. Hardly child’s play... no matter what the Niblet claimed.

And he couldn’t resist. Stir the pot. Fan the flames. Damn the consequences. "What’s a matter? She dump you? Run off with another bird?"

Extinguished by the air carrying his words, the flicker died and Willow deflated against the counter. Bowed her head and suddenly everything once crackled with the potential for destruction was heavy with a vulnerability that unnerved him more than the threats that belonged to a moment ago. She had borrowed plenty of that beleaguered thing from patent holder Buffy, it seemed.

And he couldn’t resist. Never could see a woman burdened with grief without reaching out. "If she means enough it’s... worth the struggle."

Her eyes met his and she said it simple, quiet. Admittance. "It’s worth it."

"I hope you’re not talking L’Oreal commercials." Buffy’s voice, incongruously light with rays of the morning sun, preceded her entry into the kitchen. She frowned at the disconsolate atmosphere and then groaned at the mess. Chose to remain ignorant of Willow’s distress with an enquiry of: "Dawn get off to school OK?"

"Yeah. All loaded up with school survival gear. Books, lunch... crucifix." Willow attempted a grin, gave up and complained about headaches and the need to study before heading out of the door.

"Something I said?" Buffy said as she sidled up to Spike and put her mug next to his own. Fingers reached for his hair and she frowned at the state of his roots.

Spike shook his head, careful not to uproot her fingers. "No. Something I said."

She rolled her eyes, slapped him on the shoulder with her free hand. "Should have known." Started as she looked into his eyes. "I missed that."

He felt his eyebrows work around puzzled amusement. "What?"

"The way you look at me."

Placed his hands on her hips, urged her closer. "Just making up for lost time."

God he was bored. She’d gone out. Left him there to do 'what ever he pleased' and all he could do was heave himself from room to room with heavy sighs and wait for her to come home. Turning in to a right bloody wanker. He'd admit that much - but never that he really didn't mind.

Yanked himself into the lounge by pulling at the door frame and stood at a loss.

Lost.

Until he saw his name.

He took it as a direction. Curiosity impelled him forward to the far side of the armchair. ‘For Spike’. Written in green curly letters, a smile hovering over the i. Dawn. Felt himself smiling and the smile broadened as they fell upon his present. A stack of videocassettes, all labelled only with simple numbering system that ran 1-5. "Curioser and curiouser."

Fed number one into the video machine and waited for the automatic tuning to do its thing. God Bless technology. The fuzziness abated to reveal a clear image of her. The little one. Or not-so-little.

"— Well I was gonna start this with one of those cheesy ‘If you’re watching this now that obliviously means you’re back’ kinda things, but I decided against it." The vision of Dawn rambled on with a animated sense of purpose and hints of self-consciousness colouring her cheeks. "I’ll keep this short. Basically I saw Amelie recently and there’s this bit where the French girl tapes stuff for the creepy hermit guy and I thought... I didn’t know whether you had a TV." Vision-of-Dawn rolled her eyes. "You probably think this is really stupid but knowing how you love your outrageously bad TV I... taped you some. In case you—you know—didn’t have a TV. Watch what you want, skip what you want." Vision-of-Dawn shrugged, "What can I say? I got bored.", an extended finger came at him and she disappeared, replaced by a few seconds void of blue screen.

His face hurt. Forced his face to drop the grin and settled down to watch as the titles of some made-for-TV movie began to roll.

A familiar sting leached across his scalp and he winced.

"Wimp."

He protested with a scowl. Got the point across while allowing her to continue her work.

"Have you not redone your roots since...?" She trailed off, didn’t need to finish. Only way they could address it was in codes or across a breach of silence. His head motioned that no, he hadn’t touched up his roots since... since the world stopped turning but time rolled on. Time measured in the length of his roots and that was what she was doing. Masking over it. Taking back the lost time.

He felt the urge to sigh and suppressed it. Channelled his attention to her, standing between his seated legs. Reached for her top and folded it up to reveal her midriff. Palms on her hips, he leaned in and nuzzled his nose into her navel. Her belly tensed, then relaxed and it took him a moment to understand that she had laughed. Felt the relief fleeting, defeating and he kissed the flesh of her abdomen.

Flash. Spike blinked at the influx of blinding light. "Bloody hell, bugger—"

"Stop complaining." Buffy pouted. "I forgot just how much of a grump you are."

Bite of irritation amongst the discomfort and he bit back. "Yeah, well, maybe I should have stayed away longer and you’d have forgotten me altogether."

Flash. The hurt in an instant stained on her face and then gone. Suppressed into a void of expression and suddenly she was so far away. The sea of white bathroom tiles between them warped with metaphoric significance. A few seconds picked their way through his brain and any apologies forming on his tongue lapsed into extinction. A clear, vivid white heat of self-hatred burned along his solar plexus and he relished it. Besides touching her the only time he felt alive when his was raging against himself, his innards at war and coiling into a fist of bile.

And bugger it if he wasn’t going to let silence dominate, the distance prevail. Damn it if he wasn’t going to struggle against his binds and only hope that she had the strength to do the same. "Well, how do I look, then?"

She jerked, glanced up at him and back at the photograph developing between her fingers. Held it out to him and he reached out to take it. No, she didn’t like that idea. Snatched it back as his fingers closed around it. "Mine. You can look, but it’s mine."

Met her eyes and understood. Played along. Laughing at the notion he reached for it again, only for a repeat performance. "It’s a photo of me. My property."

Buffy guffawed, squirming out of his grasp with a giggle. "I’ll think you’ll find it’s my camera..." she pointed at the Polaroid camera laying on the side for effect. "My film, my boyfriend so therefore my photo—what?"

He was staring at her and he didn’t need a Polaroid to tell him he’d never looked at her that way before. She’d said it. He belonged. He was hers and she’d said it. Admittance. "God, I love you."

Shit. No true. Admittance and she’d heard. She wasn’t in denial mode yet, the shock had cut too deep and she was there before him. Stunned into frozen animation. Rabbit caught in the headlights. And there was light and fear and the sure knowledge of the fates all aligning themselves to criss-cross at that very moment. This is it, Buffy. Make or break. Here’s your final Out ‘cos there’s no going if you don’t walk away now.

That was it. She was suddenly there in front of him. Unblinking and searching his eyes for a residue, a trace of the truth. Short of pinch him it was all she could do. All she could do to tug him down into a kiss. Taste the trace of truth on his tongue. She seemed convinced, pulled him closer until he felt that her cheeks were wet, tasted the salt on her lips. Fingers embedded themselves in his hair as they descended to the bathroom floor. Let themselves drown in the metaphoric sea.

TBC

CHAPTER FIVE:

Lids fluttered to, eyelashes splintering shadows amidst the reflected candlelight on her cheek. Her gasp a whisper of breath against his skin as she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. She reached out to him, her fingers curling around his wrist and urging him to still. "Spike," she breathed, manoeuvring him closer, against her, inside her.

"Sleep."

"I am asleep."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, that’s very convincing."

Buffy squirmed, squeezing his arms tighter around her. "Well I’m dreaming" She twisted her head to look at him. The question glistening in her eyes before she spoke. "Aren’t I?"

Felt something tug at one corner of his mouth, leaned in to kiss her. "No, Love. You’re not dreaming." A deep moan came from her throat and she shuffled around to face him. Impelling him onto his back she crawled to lie on top of him, blanketing him with her warmth. "Not sure about me though. Think this is the best dream I ever had."

She stirred, lifted her head to look at him. Something like concern set in her brow. Fingers were at his mouth as if to silence him. The slightest motion of her head denied his words as she searched his eyes. "I’m here." Palms were on his chest, beating a rhythm against his solidity. "You’re here." A shift, a shadow moving across her face and she grimaced, her hands striking down harder upon him. "We’re here," she bit out, her face falling. "Don’t you feel it?" Her eyes were wild, pleading and something inside his chest writhed and contorted with a pain that eclipsed the physical sting of Buffy’s fists. "Tell me you feel it. Tell me we’re here. Here – this – us."

He managed to catch one wrist, then another, hold her still, hold her to him. She quaked, sobbed out his name and clung to him.

"I’m here," he gasped out against the constrictive force of her embrace. "You’re here. We’re here. And I feel it, Buffy. I feel it—always felt—love—always known."

Did not think it was possible but she tightened her grip on him. Was sure he felt a couple of ribs complain against the pressure, but he was glad her didn’t need to breathe. Glad he could take her, all of her fury, all of her glory, all the ebbs and flows, all the light and shade that formed her. Finally she deflated, the tension ebbing slowly from her as she began to relax against him, her head bowed into the nook of his neck.

"I’m sorry."

He shushed her, fingers skimming over her back.

"No. I’m sorry." She insisted, "I get so... scared. This feeling grips me, this feeling that—that I’m not really here." A shudder passed over her and Spike smoothed out the fleeting tension in her shoulders with his palms. "And I panic."

Spike nodded, planting a kiss on the tip of her shoulder. And another a little higher in the dip of her collar bone. Felt her react despite herself, straighten up as she arched into him, her fingers winding into his hair.

"How can you be so—?"

"Because I love you, Buffy." He sought out her mouth and kissed her. Silencing any doubts with another taste of the truth.

"You’re taking the piss." He declared looking down at the offending object Buffy had tried to hide from him.

"No, really. I need the job."

"But this?" He waved the novelty hat at her.

"It’s uniform," she protested, making a failed attempt to reclaim the hat. "Everybody has to wear one."

"Oh, so if you’re not the only one who looks like a complete berk, that’s OK is it?"

Buffy sighed. "Don’t make this any harder than it is, Spike. I’m doing the swallow-my-pride thing. It doesn’t taste too good, but—"

He was walking away into the dining room.

She was moping. Nose in her laptop; face like a wet weekend.

"What?" Willow looked up, eyes wide and scowl deepening.

"You heard." Spike stated. Wasn’t going to be intimidated by any crackly-air tricks this time. There were things that needed to be said. Sensed that somehow the channels of communication between Buffy and her chums were not running quite so smooth at the moment. "Time you started contributing something more than gloom around here."

Willow’s back straightened, her eyes searching out for Buffy. Her voice emerging as a strained whisper. "I don’t see what that’s got to do with you—"

"Oh, you don’t" He thrust the evidence at her and watched for her bemused reaction. "You're happy to let Buffy carry on flipping burgers in some fast-food hell hole in order to support your sorry arse?."

"Oh that." Willow’s shame was explicit without words.

"Yeah ‘that ’. That which you’re too preoccupied to stop and consider. Well think on, Tabitha – there’s more productive things than pining away for a love that isn’t-so-much-lost-but-temporarily-misplaced." And he was still here, still firing all cylinders from the moral high ground and he never thought he’d be up here. Choking on his hypocrisy and his brain teeming with altitude sickness.

"Do something. Help out round the place. Pay some bloody rent... Go get her back." He was on his way out of the door, when he paused and turned to air an afterthought. "But if she moves back in, she’s paying rent too."

"I can’t believe you did that." Buffy’s voice was a hoarse whisper as she strode out ahead of him and crossed his path to head for the first cemetery on her patrol route. "I’m never gonna be able to look her in the eye again."

Spike snorted. "Yeah. Big loss, that."

She shot him a glare, her legs scurrying as if she wanted to break out into a run. She was silent as she stalked over the cemetery threshold and into a small clearing. A quick scan of the periphery told her there was no immediate danger and in a whirl of blonde strands fracturing in moonlight she turned to face him, a finger of accusation pointing at his chest.

"What do you know? You come back here and staright away it's all judgment-y-ness right, left and centre. What gives you the right, huh?" She didn’t give him time to answer. "What gives you – Mr. Insight-o-matic – the right to do that?"

He shrugged. Not sure exactly what she was asking. Had a feeling she wasn’t quite finished.

"How can you do that? Hey? What is it that let’s you do that? Ju–Just walk into my life a–and know me. Just come back and know exactly what to say and what needs fixing? How can you do that? How can you... how can you..." she wound down to a whisper, her eyes sparkling with emphatic starlight. "How can you love me?"

He shrugged. Knew she was finished. Knew this was the part where all those lines he’d rehearsed a thousand times came in. Listed the reasons like stanzas, lilted them with a meter. But suddenly they were redundant. This called for more than a recital. He took a breath, let it out slowly; weighed down as a heavy sigh. "You were right." He said finally.

"What?"

"You did come back different."

Saw the flash of hurt as her breathed hitched and her eyes fell to the ground. "Then... why?"

Wanted to reach out and touch her, but couldn’t whilst she was evading his eyes. She’d drifted far out to sea again and it was swim out to her or reel her in. Either way the action needed to be his. She wasn’t ready. Couldn’t even promise that she ever would be.

"You’re still Buffy." There it was. Not reasons but reason: The Reason. Too bad it would never rhyme. "I love you because, however much you think you’ve changed, however wrong it feels to be back in your own skin, you’re still Buffy. You didn’t leave anything behind; you still have all your Buffy parts. It’s just with the way you’re feeling they don’t quite add up to a whole Buffy just now."

Agonising and slow, the time it took her eyes to lift back up his. A twist of focus as if seeing him for the first time. Agonising and slow, the time it took her to speak. "What happened to you?"

Not a response he could have predicted and baffled, panicked he took a step back. "What you on about?" And suddenly she was coming back at him, reeling herself back in.

"You think I haven’t noticed, Spike? Think my god-awful self-obsession blinkered me? Think I can’t see that I’m not the only one who came back different?" And it was Slayer mode, eyes hardened with threats and honed upon him in deep scrutiny. "What. Happened. To you?"

And he was walking away. Not sure of anything beyond the certainty that he couldn’t trust his mouth not to betray him. Could never trust himself around her. She should never trusted him, made him leave again, let him be in the first place. But she wouldn’t. She was there beside him, a stern hand clamping at his wrist. Could probably pull free, could escape. Quick twist out of her grasp; elbow in the face, knock her down and run. Run like the other bastards had. For Her Own Good.

But he didn’t.

She urged him round to face her and he complied. "Don’t walk away from me. You don’t walk away. Not you."

Her eyes were gleaming and could only provoke his ire further. Drive her to this. More tears. She’s done nothing but cry since I came back. He could have only made things worse by returning. Added to the mess, stoked more fuel for the tears. She wasn’t made for this. For crumpling and crumbling with grief every two seconds. She was a fighter. So fight it, Buffy. Whatever this is between us, we can fight it. Fight each other in the way we’re supposed to. This... no good can ever come from this and the proof was right in front of him – in the saltwater welling in her eyes.

"This is it. You weren’t like this. You were..." Her words trailed away into a void that only confirmed his worst fears. She couldn’t say because she never really knew him. Try telling her that, though. At him still, couldn’t quit until she was safe in the knowledge that destruction had been fulfilled. "What happened to you?

Snap. He was choking back on a sudden urge to scream at her. "You know what happened. You’ve known all along. It’s you, Buffy. You happened."

And there was that face again: confusion with more than a few parts of curiosity. Self-obsessed little Slayer wanted to hear every goddamned sentence that contained her name. "I don’t understand—"

"No, you wouldn’t, would you?" Pulled himself straight. Big Bad mode. Give her a little look at the ‘before’ picture and see how she likes that. "Don’t get it at all. Claim you can see the change - well look. Look what you’ve done to me, Buffy." Cast the smirk off, let the poise drain away and let her see what remained. Made it explicit in case she still didn’t quite get it: "You ruined me."

She didn’t like that. Eyes flashed and burned into him. "Don’t be like—"

"I thought I knew what last year was all about. Thought you’d let me in. But no! Wasn’t like that. It was you invading me. Crawling into every nook and cranny and working some sort of from-the-inside-out exorcism. Then you leave—Leave me hollow—Took most of me with you when you died, but didn’t think to bring that back with you."

Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t stop. "You died. Broke me and left me with no hope of repair. And now you’re broken too and I don’t want what’s between us to be just some great big sticking plaster..."

"Don’t." Her hands were on his face, cupping his cheeks and stroking – no wiping – her eyes pouring with empathy. Had not even been aware he was crying. She pulled him to her and any thoughts of resistance and resolve made no translation into action as he sank into her embrace. "Let’s go home."

Home. His home - wherever she was. "What about patrol."

Felt her head shake in dissent of the idea. "Patrol can wait. You need me now."

TBC

CHAPTER SIX

Prison of purple. He dreams in colours. A swath of violet bleeds into a sea of black. Reaches out, feels her warm in the night. Sleepy sigh into her skin.

Tingle of sensation against his fingertips. Seconds later a sting of warning and by instinct his hand backed away from the advancing beam of dawn. He gazes up, as entranced by the beam as the whispers of dust floating, entrapped within its wake.

Seconds, minutes pass; he isn’t sure. Time measured only by the lilt of Buffy’s subdued breath and sleepy heartbeat. If he concentrated he could hear the house awakening. Dawn’s footsteps along the hall, the fizzling of a pancake breakfast frying in a pan. But here, all that mattered was Buffy and the advancing beam slowly creeping along the plane of her back. Warming her skin and percolating through to him.

She fidgeted, heartbeat syncopating and eyelashes fluttering.

Time was running out.

Time to wake up, Buffy.

But still she slept.

The briefest touch of her lips against his and she’s gone. Off to work for and in despite of everything. A soldier, all brave-faced against the inevitable assault on her soul. Why did she endure so much that had the potential to damage her?

Spike expelled a frustrated groan he lurched into the darkened den of the living room and into the stack of videos Dawn had taped for him.

Vision of puce. Angry purple face leaning over him. Scent of blood straining from the tense pulse at the neck just inches from his face. He blinked, sighed and urged out a yawn of nonchalance. "Doesn’t anyone bleeding knock around here?"

Xander huffed, straightened up. "Doesn’t a certain undead somebody know wheat’s good for him? When to stay away?"

Spike shrugged, stretching and shuffling into an upright yet nonchalant pose. "Here’s good for me. Buffy’s good for me."

The puce fell away into unsightly blotches of white. "Too good for you."

"That we agree on, mate." Quiver and coiling in his belly, he recognised the little nicotine monster awakening inside him. Patted its head and urged it quiet.

It was then he noticed the little blonde bird for the first time, cast a greeting of: "Hello there little-miss shop-keeper extraordinairre," and was rewarded with a warm flash of a grin. Pretty little thing, that one. Looks like he wasn’t the only one carrying on with a woman out of his league.

"Don’t talk to him."

Bafflement, a small frown and decided action. "I didn’t. I merely smiled. Whilst that may indeed be defined as communication and often the basis of what can be termed flirting, no words escaped my mouth—" Stopped by Xander’s look. A small smile of satisfaction at his instinctive jealousy played at Anya’s lips. "But I can assure you I would never flirt with the likes of him. Vampires just aren’t my type—well unless you count Dracula—but Spike isn’t Dracula. No offence."

His smirk came into play freely, revelled in the way his features curled into play. A swirl of black joy silently laughed at Xander’s discomfort. "None taken. Don’t like to associated with the likes of that spruced up tosser."

"Anya!" Strain in trying to maintain control of a situation on the brink of farce. Poor bugger, should give him some lee-way here. Should take over, talk about it in a calm and rational manner; placate with reason and charm. Not quite his style and it was much more fun watching the lad squirm.

"Why did you come back?"

"To see her."

"You knew she was—"

"No." Shook his head, didn’t have the energy to summon up a glare. "I wanted to see the grave."

"And once you knew you couldn’t let her rest, could you? Couldn’t let her be."

Head arched against a growing tension in his neck. Shiver of icy malice trickling down his spine. And dread. Always that one now too. Funny that. "Other way round, mate."

"I’m not your mate. I don’t ‘like to associated’ with things that kill people, I guess that’s just the self-preservation factor in me. Something Buffy’s been kinda lacking recently... since—"

"What you saying?"

The lad stiffened, heaving a sigh for dramatic effect and not before receiving an encouraging nod from his bird, he elaborated. "I’m saying that since she came back, Buffy’s been... different. Not so big with the caring and sharing and there was this incident, a demon sing-song and she was... suicidal."

Stomach lurched. Should have known, felt it every time she clutched at him like she was trying to charge herself up through contact alone. Having to remind herself constantly of her permanence and solidity. "So you’re saying that Buffy being less-than-chuffed to be dragged back from the five-star luxury comforts of heaven by her so-called ‘mates’, has been leaning a bit to the self-destructive side, and what? You think I’m a walking symptom of that?"

Xander balked, a few words stuttered from his mouth before he deflated, sinking down into an armchair behind him and settling a meek "yeah" of agreement. "That’s about the long and short of it. That fact that you’re still walking is worrying enough. But it’s a proximity thing." Anya flitted over to join him, perching on the armrest and patting him affectionately on the shoulder.

"Well that’s that then. We can go home now can we, Xander. Remember that thing I wanted to show you, with the lace and the string." She fiddled at her shoulder and emphasised her idea with a suggestive raising of eyebrows. Xander, still flummoxed and defeated, relented with a small grin.

"Well that thing certainly does sound interesting and worthy of some investigation." Hands joined at the space between the lovers, and as if only suddenly remembering Spike’s presence, Xander turned to him. "We have to go now – But don’t you be thinking that this is over."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

"Well, OK then, our work here is done. Nice to see you again, Spike." Anya beamed as she led Xander out of the house.

"Anya!"

"What?"

"It’s not ‘nice’. It’s never nice to see him."

"OK honey. Whatever you say."

The door shut to leaving Spike alone again in his dark cocoon as the nicotine craving raged within him.

He watched her, the creasing of the cotton dressing gown along her back as she settled into her chair. And there was her face in the mirror, pinked from the heat of her shower, but the weariness evident in the shadow of her eyes. Her gaze flitted to the reflected void he inhabited as if sensing him.

Taking his cue he stood. Issuing stealth and tensing his muscles as he crept up behind her. But she was ready for him, ready to lean into his touch as his fingers skimmed the collar of her gown and down following arch of her shoulder blade. Her back arched from the contact, muscles twitching in response and her breath labouring in anticipation as he traced the nodules of her spine. Lower and lower until he reached the strip of her belt. A sudden yank that took her breath away and she was up, standing, her body flush against his.

She responded with a whimper, pressing her back into him. All about the contact – needs it like air and he could never deny her anything. In a mumble he ordered her to open her eyes, to watch, pointed at the mirror. And Buffy obeyed; her eyes hardened with concentration as she waited to feel.

Urges her forward and there’s a clatter as scattered paraphernalia scatters from the table onto the floor.

See it, Buffy. See yourself.

She’s only inches away from her lonely reflection, her heavy breaths misting the glass and she gasps as he plunges into her. Doesn’t like it, he can tell. Too much reality and she was never one to suffer too much of that. Grimaces at herself in the throes and freezes as she seizes for his hand.

"No!"

He stops, stills, backs away and she uses the space to turn on him. To him.

"Need," she whispers, no more than a breath. "Need to see you." And she’s on him, moulding herself to him and using her weight to urge him to the floor.

"Why?"

He shrugged, pectorals flinching under the light pressure of Buffy’s fingers. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"How—?"

"Let’s just call it a morbid curiosity. I’m used to it by now."

Her eyes darkened and distracted she went on. "Don’t you ever—?"

"Want to see myself?"

She nodded. Eyes flitted to his for a moment before receding to study the work of her hands on his chest.

"Can do sometimes. In your eyes."

Buffy was startled, gazes locked onto his face as a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Really?"

"Truth be told it scares me. The whole not-existing-in-the-mortal-material-world thing only works if you don’t have to see yourself." Air hitched in his chest – a funny little habit that had always irked him. He grasped at one of her hands to divert himself from her gaze and prove his point. Pulled at her fingers and they twitched, merging into his. "All I need to see is you. Been that way for a long time." Risked a glance and witnessed her eyebrows knit in curiosity. Knew the next question.

"When did you know?" Her voice was eerily hollow. The question hung in the air, feather light, before descending upon him like a sprinkling of rain.

Spike closed his eyes, thought back. "Can’t say for sure. From the beginning but that was different. Guess it started with me never quite being able to kill you. The frustration consumed me. All I could see was you bathed in the crimson of your own blood." Took a breath to eke out his words. Breaths were his metronome, he guessed that was another remaining imprint of the sappy poet William once was. Everything measured out in syllables and poetic meter. "And then it was me dreaming about killing you. Every dream a fight to the death which ended with me sinking my teeth into your neck and waking up with a hard-on."

Buffy giggled. He questioned her with a quirk of eyebrows and she looked away, but the blush spoke for itself. Not alone in that one at least.

"And then there was Drusilla. She knew... knew way before me..." He drifted with a sigh at the tug inside his chest the name had inspired. "But if you’re asking me when I knew I loved you, then that one’s a lot easier to answer." He met her eyes, felt the fragility of the contact and her inner-debate whether to turn away. She withstood though, so stubborn with herself sometimes. "It was in the bar. When you came and sat opposite me. When you asked me to call you ‘love’."

TBC