**PART TWO**
CHAPTER ONE:

She considered him. Her eyes taking in the tatters of his blood caked T-shirt and the starkly contrasting peeps of white dressing underneath. She reached out tentatively to touch the gauze protecting the wound nearest his heart.

"How's it going under there?" It was barely a whisper, she found herself wondering whether she had actually said the words or had simply heard her own thoughts.

"Better... I think." His voice was drowsy, no more than a lazy drawl. He watched her through weighty eyelids as she held her hand over the wound in some kind of spiritual healing gesture. Her eyebrows knitted and she glanced up at his face, avoiding his eyes still.

"Where did the shirt go? You know with the ever-so-stylish nail polish logo." One side of her mouth tugged at the memory of finding him and that ridiculous letter. Only it wasn't so ridiculous anymore.

"I do have more than one change of clothes, Slayer." His facial muscles were lax and free of expression but there was humour in his voice and she responded to it.

"Really? That why I never saw you in anything other than that red shirt ensemble for two years?"

"What? It was a look."

She smiled. More to herself but he caught it. He never missed anything it seemed. "Yeah... It was you."

"You not liking the all black?"

"It makes you look all morbid-y."

"Well I was going for moody and dangerous, but the old 'nighted colour' holds other, more obvious symbolism."

"Death, grief."

They both nodded slightly and the silence wound them together for an instant before she severed the moment.

"You have other clothes, in the car?"

"Yeah, in the boot."

She grinned and moved to get off the bed, suddenly grateful for the release. "Good. I didn't want to offend you earlier when you were all barely conscious and all, but you really *are* starting to smell."

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She wandered into the lounge and placed the bundle of dark clothing onto the coffee table, barely acknowledging Willow's presence.

"Hey, Buffy." Willow glanced up from the hefty volume of something-or-other she was studying and her voice startled Buffy from her mindless musing.

"Huh?"

"How are you?"

"Oh... fine. It's all a bit..." (...much)

The urn still stood crudely on the mantle piece, next to a photo of her mother and she cringed at the sight. A desperate desire to swipe the offending pottery off its perch and smash it underfoot gripped at her but she remained in her seat. Her muscles coiling in waves of impotent rage. The apathy was all encompassing, drawing her in on herself.

"Yeah." Willow smiled sweetly, as if reading her mind. "How is... he?"

"The spell... cleared up his face... but his body..." She trailed off, her eyes falling to the floor and tracing invisible patterns on the carpet until she reached her feet.

"Yeah it only lasts so long, only does so much."

"Can you top it up?" She asked, not looking up from her bare feet. She'd been outside with no shoes and hadn't noticed.

"No, it was only a basic spell. I can look something else up if -"

"No, it's okay... besides, Vampire-healing right." She realised her intended statement had sounded more like a question and in defeat fell back against the sofa cushions.

"Have you...?" Buffy could anticipate the question from Willow's nervous blush.

"No. I mean he's still... it's not... it'd be... weird."

Willow's head drew back in confusion, her hands wavering over the text in her lap. "Weird? You've... before, haven't you?"

"Yeah..."

"And it was...?"

"Yeah..."

"...But?"

Buffy closed her eyes and gripped at the tension at the bridge of her nose. The pressure created a melange of psychedelic imagery on the black canvas of her vision and for a few moments she experimented with different grades of pressure, pressing her eyelids with the heels of her hands and watching the results until her eyeballs began to ache. She opened her eyes and it took a moment for her sight to re-adjust. Swirly ghosts danced in her line of vision for minutes afterwards.

"Everything's different now." She said finally.

"Different how? Because of what Glory did to him?"

Buffy squirmed in her seat and folded her arms. "There's something else."

Willow remained silent, allowing Buffy the space to carry on but then seemed to realise that she needed prompting. "What else?"

"He told me..." she took a deep breath and bulldozed through with the rest, "thathehasfeelingsforme."

"What? Say again, and this time in English."

Buffy squirmed again, uncomfortable with the telling of it, whilst needing to get it out of herself, but also realising that saying it made it real, not just some crazy figment of her stressed imagination. "He said that he's had feelings for me... for some time now."

"And that's bad because...?"

Buffy stared at her friend and couldn't decide which was her strongest impulse - angry frustration or happy relief. "Willow!"

"What? It doesn't matter what you feel about him. You don't have to decide that today or even tomorrow. But knowing where he stands... surely it's a good thing that you don't have to second guess him, like most men?"

(Oh sure, use logic on me, why don't you?)

"*Before* I knew where we stood. We were just two... people... grieving together and we didn't have to think that far ahead. But now," she gestured helplessly with her hands. "Now all I can see is 'far head' and it scares me because I don't see how he fits into that. A-and if we have sex, it won't just be this... comfort thing... it'll be like this huge deal an-"

"It'll be like making love."

She let out a long, shaky breath and stared at her friend. "I'm not ready for that, Will. Not now, I don't even know when or if, or... with him."

"So, what now?"

Buffy shrugged. "I don't know."

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"You know, for a Vampire, you sure do sleep a lot." The closed-eyed, slack muscled form didn't answer her. Her mouth twitched as she moved round the bed and began to fold his clothes.

Struggling to make out colours and details in the low light she crossed to the window and reached out to switch the blinds open. Pausing suddenly, with her hand on the thread, she sighed heavily. (I could resent this. The darkness.) But when she looked back at him, her lips twitched again. (I hate you.)

She began to hum softly to herself as she put his clothes in a drawer and as she went over to pick up the cup on the bedside table she felt his eyes on her.

"Hey."

He grunted, using his energy to push himself up to seating position. Buffy noted the emptiness of the cup and glanced back at him. Big mistake.

"You hungry?" She saw the flash of his eyes in the split-second before he grasped her wrist and yanked her down on to his lap.

"Oh, yes." Grinning and keeping his darkened eyes on her, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, his tongue darting forward to dig into the centre of her palm.

She had stopped breathing and air caught in her throat when she tried to inhale. She felt her heartbeat step up and surges of panic and lust sweep through her. The panic won out. Pulling her hand out of his grasp, she impelled herself towards the door. "I-I have to go talk to Willow, a-and get you some blood." She dare not look back at his face as she made her exit.

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"You sure you want me to go?" Willow asked as they made their way to the door. "I can stay if -"

"No, really. I'll be okay," she proved her point with a borrowed resolve-face, "besides, I need you and Tara to look after Dawn for the next couple of days. I don't want her to see him like that... she'd only blame herself."

"So, you'll let me know... when it's safe."

(Is it ever safe?) Buffy nodded and opened the door. She even managed a smile despite the dread creeping into her bones. "Course, tell Dawn to phone me."

"Will do... And be careful."

"I'm the Slayer, I live in a house full of stakes."

"That's not what I meant."

Willow caught her eyes meaningfully and held them until Buffy nodded.

"I will."

And then she was gone, leaving Buffy alone... with him.

"Blood!"

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"There you go."

He took the mug from her in silence, all the while studying her with a heavy gaze. (He knows.) She watched as he drank, not bothering to turn away from her like Angel used to, not even looking away from her as he wiped his reddened mouth and licked his fingers. (I could resent that. The audacity. The unwillingness to hide what he is.) But again her mouth twitched and she found herself distracted once more by the pink tip of his tongue as it flickered out over his lips.

The continued silence and rising tension collected in tokens of pressure in a corner of her gut and she felt sick. Though not with disgust and she thought that maybe she could resent that, resent that he didn't disgust her.

"There something you wanna tell me?" He asked finally, his voice impossibly stable and it tipped at her internal struggle for equilibrium.

She took a deep breath. "I'll be sleeping in Dawn's room tonight."

He nodded and she felt a stab of frustration pierce her veil of calm.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

He shrugged, the action obviously causing less pain now. "Do *you* even know why?"

"Yes... No."

"What is it?" He fixed his eyes on her and she could tell he was looking for cues in her face, but she knew he would find none. "Do you want me to go?"

"No!" She yelled, surprising both of them at the volume and insistence in her voice. (Maybe he doesn't understand after all.) "No, that's the last thing I want."

"Then what *do* you want?" His voice was still so level and she found herself wanting to shout at him just to get him raise his voice too. She suddenly felt so foolish and lonely with her confused desires.

"I don't know." She dropped down onto the bed by his feet and concentrated on the hands clasped at her knees. Focusing particularly on the still-splintered digits, she wiggled them experimentally but they simply felt numb. "Things for you... you've had longer to deal with this."

"You think I liked it?" She looked at him, knowing she wasn't going to like what he had to say, but needing to hear it all the same. Needing to hear everything he had to say. "You think I liked having Dru tell me, every time I denied her something, every time I couldn't give her the attention she needed, every time she found comfort in another *thing's* arms, that it was because of *you*?" His voice was straining now and a small part of her relaxed at the tiny victory.

"She was always telling me 'go back and see your Slayer', kept getting these visions of big snakes and men in lab coats, even made me promise, if anything happened to her, I'd come back here to you." He came forward off his cushions, making her lean back to recover her precious inches of space.

"And I promised all right, promised I'd come here and rip your throat out. I was intent on that and when she - she died all I could see was you. My vision was red and black with you. Glaring all around me, willing me on with murderous intent."

She felt herself stiffen into Slayer-mode at his harshness, her back straightening, and her eyes lifting to confront his. "What changed?" Her heart was thumping and every limb was alive with a pulsating throb flaring down her veins to the very tips of the toes she dug into the carpet and the fingertips that gripped the sheets. She could finally feel her hands and feet again.

He sighed and settled back again, the tension diffusing and scattering to the ground like ashes. "Your mother died."

The fight was knocked out of her, the blow that washed humbling peace over her. Her breathing became shallow and the tension drained from her body, leaving tiny tingles that could easily develop into pins and needles in her fingers and toes.

"This is all about my mom?" She whispered through a suddenly tight throat.

It was his turn to look at her as if she didn't understand anything. His expression lacking the energy for full incredulity, his head moved slowly from side to side and his eyelids dipped. "No. It's all about you... has been for a long time."

"I don't... I can't." She took a deep breath to allow herself a pause to think.

"You were suddenly in my life and I didn't have time to decide how I felt about that... and then you were gone." She checked with a glance to see if he was listening and he was, in that patient manner that infuriated as much as it relaxed her.

"And I didn't have time have time to decide how much I missed you, and then I thought you were dead... and I didn't have time to know how much I would grieve for you, and then you were back." She faced him, her hands on his knees. "I need time."

There was a slow drift of movement on his face and his lips crept into a wide smile. "Well time's something I find myself with quite a lot of, as it happens."

"Lend me some?" She returned his smile and felt his hand on hers before a glance down confirmed it.

"Sure." He grinned at her and took another gulp of blood.

**PART TWO**
CHAPTER TWO

She smiled awake, blinking at the bright early morning sunlight pouring into the room from the uncovered window. Shuffling forward she positioned herself in a yellow patch of warmth and basked, her eyes closed and smile still in place. (Hmm sunlight... Sunlight?!) Her eyes shot open and her hand patted the mattress next to her, searching frantically until she remembered (Dawn's room).

Her eyes closed in relief but her calm was irretrievable. With a groan, she pushed herself out of bed and padded her way to the bathroom.

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Passing by her room she was surprised to see the door ajar. She poked her head through the gap and was more surprised to see the room empty. Frowning and consciously ignoring the stirring of dread in her toes, she wandered downstairs.

The lounge was empty too she felt tendrils twist upwards from her feet. (Don't panic!) Something caught her eye as she was about to head for the kitchen and she marched towards the mantle-piece, plucking the urn from its place.

"I've got a few things I'd like to do to you, mister."

She carried the pot at arm's length as she headed towards the kitchen.

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The loud crash broke her stare and she jumped back from the explosion at her feet. She dropped down to her knees as a blush burned her face and waved her hands ineffectually over the mess, not knowing where to begin.

"Here, careful, you'll hurt yourself."

His hands came into her range of vision and began to precariously pick the sharp edged shatters of porcelain out from the mix, leaving only a mass of fine grey particles.

"It's not... your mother, is it?"

Her throat leaped, allowing a laugh to escape. She shook her head and struggled to contain her smile as she looked back up to see his perplexed expression.

"No, she was buried. *This*," she pinched at the dust, letting it sprinkle like salt from her fingers, "is what Glory made me believe was you."

He scowled and raked a hand through the earthy mass. "Not very aesthetically pleasing is it?" He studied one of the fragments of the urn he held in his other hand. "Talk about garish."

"Yeah 'cos you're really worried about style when you're compost."

He grinned. "It *is* Vampire," he commented, sifting the ashes through his fingers, "she went to a lot of trouble to dupe you."

She met his eyes. "It was worth it."

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"Yellow?! What, am I jaundiced?" His fingers went to his face as if he could tell just by touch alone. (Maybe he can. I must make a note to start asking these things.)

"No, you're perfectly pale. You're just... all bathed in yellowness. It was a shock." She sipped at her coffee in an attempt to remain nonchalant.

"Indirect light." He illustrated his point with a sweep of a hand, taking in the light, but not too bright airiness of the kitchen.

"I know," she blushed and averted her eyes, "but I only usually see you in the dark, or under electric light... It was like seeing you for the first time." Her words had grown steadily quieter until they could hardly even be classed as a whisper. Trust his Vampire hearing to catch it all though.

His mouth flickered with the beginnings of a smile that didn't come to fruition and he took another bite of -

"What *is* that?"

He paused mid-chew and stared at her, his lips slightly parted. Swallowing the food with a gulp, he cleared his throat before speaking. (He has manners?) "Well it's one of those terribly newfangled things that people like to call sandwiches, Love, af-"

(Back to 'Love'? Fair enough.)

"No, I mean, what's it doing on your plate, i-in your mouth?"

"Was a bit peckish, got an attack of the gurglies. It is breakfast time, ain't it?"

"Not for Vampires, it's not. Shouldn't you be all of the reverse sleep-patterns and what's with the eating? It's majorly wiggy."

He sat up, straightening his back. "I seem to be disturbing you a lot this morning."

"No, you disturb me a lot, *all* the time."

"In a good way, or a bad way." His eyes were glistening with mischief and she struggled to keep her poker face.

"In the *worst* way."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Good!"

He smirked at her and took another bite and she huffed indignantly, before her the smile she had been holding hostage broke free and betrayed her.

"What you got in that, anyway?"

"Chocolate spread."

"Dawn won't be pleased."

He shrugged. "Some things can be replaced."

Their eyes met and one side of her mouth lifted in agreement at the unsaid contrary.

"Can I get a taste of that?" She asked, coming over to his side of the counter.

He pushed his plate towards her but she ignored it, moving closer still and placing her hands on either side of his face. "I didn't mean from there."

It seemed like forever since they had been here. So long it felt like never. The warmth of an internal smile and sigh of relief rained through her as she relaxed into him, feeling the merest gentle touch of his fingers on her arms.

Her tongue slid across his and rolled up to trace the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth. He did taste of chocolate but she could also make out the distinctive bitter, almost metallic hint of tobacco and the peculiar salty tang she had long presumed to be the after-taste of blood.

"Mmm ... good." She touched a finger to her lips and smiled down into his half-lidded eyes. Her hand came up to his cheek briefly, before she drifted away to make herself a chocolate spread sandwich of her own.

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The sun was hot against her back as she walked towards the magic shop. The humidity beginning to weary her and then a whisper of a breeze teased at her hair and caressed the back of her neck.

She smiled into a memory of his lukewarm touch that felt so cool against her heated flesh, like a balm awakening and alleviating the numb pain in her body and spirit. The significance of each contact of his hands and lips collecting inside of her and amassing, solidifying, her internal structures yielding and making way as she created a place for him.

It had been so easy, too easy, and she knew that the hardest part would be to let him in, let him imprint himself within her and make himself at home.

It was that final courage she lacked, the strength to trust her instincts, to trust him by admitting she *knew* him. There was always the doubt, always her past to hold her back, always those moments when she looked at him and realised that she didn't know him at all.

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The familiar and comforting chime of the doorbell sounded as she entered the shop that was alive with a thrum of customers and a radiantly gleeful shop assistant extraordinairre.

"Hey, Anya." She waved.

Anya paused mid sales patter and regarded at her in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of way that made Buffy dread what was going to come out of her mouth. Only she said nothing, simply turned back to the customer, picking up her thread from the exact same place.

(OK, weird.)

Buffy moved forward, minding a couple of browsers as she made her way over to the table. Tara and Willow were sat studying amidst the chaos and both looked up from their books at the same time. Willow beamed brightly, without overkill, and Buffy visibly relaxed. She had been worried about tension and atmosphere but detected none. Maybe it was a good thing Xander wasn't here.

"Hi, Buffy."

"Hey Will, Tara, how's it going?" She asked as she sat herself down. "How's Dawn?"

"Fine. Xander took her to school this morning."

"And she's OK? I mean, she phoned last night, but she's OK today?"

Tara nodded, an understanding and reassuring smile lifting her lips. "Oh yes, I t-think she misses you though."

"Yeah... me too." Buffy's eyes fell to the table. "I think tomorrow should be OK, if you can bring her back?"

"Sure."

"Me and Tara we're just talking about celebrating some time this week. Now Glory's been all dupified, I think some Bronzing is in order." Willow whipped up some enticing enthusiasm.

"It sounds good, I sure could do with that. When?"

"Ah, Buffy!"

She looked up to see Giles and smiled timidly at him. Surely he would have something to say, surely there would at least be a hint of admonishment in his voice. But no, she listened as he spoke, her ears pricked for any implicit negativity or disappointment.

Nothing.

"...But you really must get back to it soon." He said of training and she nodded eagerly.

"Sure, will do."

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When she got home he was sprawled out on the sofa, thankfully not asleep for once. She noted that he had changed his shirt and was wearing some blue number, the same colour of his eyes. She stood against the doorjamb and smiled when he looked up at her.

"Hi."

"Hey, what ya doing?"

He indicated the television with a point of the remote control. "Just catching up on me tele."

Her eyes drifted to the object in question. "Uh-huh. *Dawson's Creek*? Wouldn't have had that down as something you'd watch."

"It's classic angsty drama, you can't go wrong. Dawson's a complete plank but the other's are OK. I like that Jen," his eyes gleamed at her, "she has fire."

She felt herself grin. "You like fire, huh?"

He invited her forward with a pat of the space next to him and she obliged.

"Oh yes. It's so passionate and dangerous," He smiled at her as she came to crawl out to lie next to him. "A Vampire shouldn't be able to touch it without getting burnt, without it being the death of him," his hand hovered over the bare skin of her arm and she shivered, the tiny hairs rising on goose-pimples, as if reaching for him. "But it warms me, purges me, breathes life into me with each lick of it's flames."

His gaze was focused on his hovering hand and when he lifted his eyes to hers, he appeared to start with a small jolt backwards and a snatching away of his hand.

"Now watch the show."

She rolled her eyes but complied, rolling over to look at the television.

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"Did you shower or something?"

He murmured the affirmative through his drowsiness, his eyes not opening.

"Thought so, you don't smell of the sewers any more." She snuggled into him.

"Merfer?"

"No, you smell all fresh and watery and clean."

"Mmpfh."

"It wasn't too difficult was it? With the pain?"

"Numm."

"What..." she paused, her finger tracing the exposed section of his sternum, "what do I smell of? And be nice."

His eyes blinked with and with a small smile he leant in, inhaling her and exhaling with a soft groan. "Day."

"Day?"

"Of fresh air, breezes and daylight."

Her lips curled and she rested her head back on the smooth material of his shirt. "Oh, OK."

**PART TWO**
CHAPTER THREE

"I need to patrol!" She declared suddenly. "I haven't been out for days. Demons are probably running a-mock, in the way that they do. A-mocking all round town, with evil grins and dastardly plans." She looked across the sofa at him.

"So?"

"Well..." she began, remembering the technique from the thousand times she had wrapped her mom round her little finger, remembering it most recently from Dawn, "you could come too?"

He raised an eyebrow at that. "And do what? Watch while you kill my kind? Not my idea of fun, Love."

"You don't have to watch." She leaned in and shuffled closer to him. "You could close your eyes, real tight, like I used to tell Dawn to when scary things came on television."

He still didn't react, not even looking up from the book he was reading. (He reads?) She bounced into a cross-armed mock-sulk and caught him smiling out of the corner of her eye. She grinned and nudged him. "Come on, it'd just be like a walk and you *really* don't have to watch."

He finally looked at her, just briefly but enough for her to know that he was going to win the point. "So if I don't see it, it doesn't happen, right?"

(OK, there's that evil logic thing again.)

She said nothing, stared forward, her mouth twisting in defeat. The minutes trickled away and she began to hum to fend off the eternal silence that encroached on them. She examined her nails half-heartedly and sighed again. And still, more minutes, more nervously filled silence, while he just carried on reading, turning a page every thousandth eternity.

Her patience finally splintered under the strain with an almost audible crackle and she snatched the book away from him, laughing at his feeble growl.

"Are you being sponsored to be this annoying?"

"No, you get this for free. Count yourself lucky."

"Oh, yeah, I'm a lucky man." His voice was hardened with something very much like sarcasm and she frowned at him for a moment before dragging him up.

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"Are you ashamed to be seen with me?" She asked, noting his tenseness.

He scanned the area in front of them and then turned his keen eyes on her. "'Course I am. Got a reputation to uphold, you know."

Rolling her eyes, she walked into him, making him veer dangerously close to a lamppost. He scraped to a stop and glared at her. "Watch where you're going, woman."

"I tell you what, if some Vamps come by, I'll pretend to be frisking you."

"Oh yeah, that'll work. It'll be all round town that I'm some sort of nancy boy that lets the Slayer pick on him."

"What is your prob- ?" Watching him scope the street again, paying particular attention to alleyways and shadowed spots, it occurred to her just what he was doing. "Stop that, you just ate."

He turned to her with a smirk and she was alarmed by the complete lack of warmth in his expression. There was humour in his eyes but it was icy and his gaze jagged like the shattered fragments of that damned urn. (Big-Bad-mode. I should have expected it. Any minute now he's gonna light a cigarette on me.)

"Just because I'm all full up doesn't stop me drooling over the desert trolley." He sneered and freeze surged through her veins.

"Oh my God! That's really all people are to you isn't it? Just *'Desert'*?" She spat the word out through gritted teeth as she endeavoured to maintain a hold over her rising anger.

"And this is what, some big revelation to you? News-flash here, Love," he pointed at himself, "evil, blood-sucking Vampire."

She flinched and stared at him, wondering where he had gone. This was him, sure, the 'him' she knew from her parent-teacher night, the him she knew from that Halloween. But not the him of the past week. Maybe it was all the same, all part of the same wacky package. He was trying to show her again, give her a way out. Again.

"What's up, Love? It's not like I'll make you watch. You can close your eyes, *real* tight, and pretend I'm something I'm not." He stepped up to her, invading her space, but she stood firm, jutting her chin up defiantly. "If you don't see it, it doesn't happen. Right?"

The anger shot up her arm and she wasn't aware of the movement, only the consequences. His stagger backwards, his hand coming up to his eye, the murderous glower that dissolved far too quickly, the naked hurt that flitted across his features for the briefest moment. But then the confrontational glare was back in place and the hand came back down to his side to reveal a flaring pink mark. He was marred again, only this time by her.

She forced herself not to waver, pulling her abdominal muscles in against the nauseating strain in her solar plexus. "I told you before, kill anyone and I'll 'punctuate your full-stop', all right." Her voice was low enough to be threatening and stable enough to be believed and she willed herself on.

"Now I'm going home now. You can do what the hell you like." She fixed him with a stare and stepped down, turning on her heel and beginning to walk away.

"You're not the only one who has a problem with this, Buffy." She stopped at the sound of her name, but didn't turn around. She could hear his soles scuffing along the pavement in frustration and then felt his solid presence behind her as he whispered: "I hate it."

Gasping as air surged in her throat, she spun round to face him. "Then why are you still here? Why don't you just leave, like -?"

"You really don't get it do you?" His voice was so quiet, she almost didn't recognise it.

"How can I understand any of this?"

"How can I *expect* you to?" The loud bellow contrasting against his previous whisper.

"Then why, why don't you explain it to me? What are you doing with me, when you hate me *so* much?"

He opened his mouth to speak, to yell, and then paused, blinking as if he had forgotten what he had to say or even the question itself. Finally he looked at her, his eyes free of all anger and frustration, reflecting the moonlight and something else she couldn't place.

"I hate that I *don't* hate you."

He held her stare for just a moment longer and was then striding away from her. She let him go. Knowing that he would be back.

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Lifting her head as she returned from patrol she smiled at the sight in front of her.

"Hey."

He didn't reply, simply acknowledging her with a nod of his head, taking a long drag from his cigarette and continuing to stare into the middle distance.

He shrugged along the step and she came to sit beside him. They sat in silence, both watching the writhes of thin blue smoke quivering up from his fizzling cigarette.

"I don't think I hate you either." She said finally, her eyes still fixed forwards.

"You don't 'think'?"

She felt him look at her and smiled. "No, I know. I haven't hated you for a long time. Not since that... thing with Angel."

She met his eyes briefly and he nodded again. The cigarette smoke became very interesting once more and the silence resumed, taking an umpire's seat above them as they sat, transfixed by the ethereal blue.

"Seen as you mentioned all this not-hate stuff," she began, "how much extremey-ness are we talking here?"

"Not much."

She frowned and found herself looking into his eyes again. "So you still kinda dislike me?"

He let out a short laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling for an instant. "You know was the opposite of hate is?"

"No, but I have a feeling you're gonna tell me."

He smiled slightly at that and she wondered why she wasn't more panicked by this, more nervous.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Apathy."

"Oh," she paused, testing out her sentence in her head before speaking: "well I don't feel... 'nothing'."

"No?"

"No." A small smile flitted over his face and she found herself mirroring it. A sudden shiver gripped her and she tensed against it, shifting closer to him.

"And you?"

"No, me neither." He leant back slightly, his arm curving over her head and his hand coming to rest behind her. She took the hint and sighed as her head came to rest against his shoulder.

Feeling his eyes on her as she closed her own, she smiled at the instinctual knowledge and the comforting warmth it gave her. She heard him take a last drag of his cigarette and flick it away and so inhaled the subtler hint of tobacco imbued in his leather.

"No. This is definitely something."

TBC

**PART TWO**
CHAPTER FOUR:

Outside, the canvas of the sky was greying in patches and curling at the edges like smouldering cigarette paper, the sun's light dwindling, an amber glow melting over the horizon.

The Desoto was gone from the road. He had moved it onto the drive last night and she couldn't decide whether to be happy about that particular move or not. It was more permanent, safer, a step forward. But was that what she wanted?

She let the curtain drop from her grasp as she felt his cooling fingertips on the strip of exposed skin at the small of her back. His face was in her hair, inhaling her, his lips applying a light pressure against her temple and she leant back into him with a soft sigh.

His hands slid under her top, planing over her waist and smoothing their way up her ribs. He whispered something into her ear and although she couldn't catch the words she shivered at the clear meaning.

(Has it really been only a few days?)

As warmth blossomed throughout her body from the goose-pimpled trail of his touch, she could only think in infinities. An infinite number of eternities since they had last been here, an infinite number of moments had brought them here again, an infinite number of possibilities.

And here they were.

And she wanted it.

Nodding, she turned around in his arms.

The kisses were barely that, a pressing together of slightly parted lips, the excuse to close lids whenever the searing eye contact got too much.

It was all hands and bodies and legs and skin. His hands on her back, cupping her buttocks and pressing her into him; lifting her skirt and softly kneading the muscles in the back of her thighs. Her hands clutching at his shoulders, revealing more skin with each button of his shirt, reaching around his back and pulling him with her by the belt loops as she backed against the wall.

The feel of his body pressing against her and the way she arched instinctively into him. His knee nudging in between hers and how her leg lifted instinctively to brace his hip. The feel of her skin against his, of him mouthing her name against her cheek, and of their eyes burning into each other. The sound of their synchronising gasps, of their ragged attempts for breath, and of:

"Buffy?"

Dawn's voice. (Deja vu.)

They froze, locked eyes and parted forcefully, pushing off against each other and hastily fingering at their clothes. But they were only in the lounge and it only took a couple of all-to-quick seconds for Dawn to find them.

"Bu- Oh." Dawn's eyes widened and a grin conquered the majority of her face. "I'm interupto girl again, it would seem."

"What? Are they having sex?"

(Oh no!)

But there she was. Anya, all with the knowing-looks and bright smiles of delight. And then there he was. Xander, all of the beady-eyes, pursed-lips and -

She couldn't help herself. The laugh bubbled forth and emerged from her in a burst of mocking giggles. "Xander, what *is* that around your neck?"

Xander's hand shot to the large cross that adorned his chest and he sneered in Spike's direction. "Can't be too careful."

Spike's answer was a simple smirk. A smug satisfaction coated his small movements with applied, implied ego. He straightened up and sneered as he looked Xander up and down, his face breaking out into a one-sided grin as he made his assessment and the memories returned to him.

"I know, I told him he looked stupid and not-at-all manly. But that's my Xander."

"Anya!"

"Yes, honey?"

Xander opened his mouth to protest, his vigilant gaze drifting to the evidently amused Spike once more and his cheeks turning plum for the briefest of moments. He let out an exacerbated sigh and shook his head. "Never mind."

"Oh!" Anya's hand shot to her mouth with realisation. "Did I do that emasculation thing again? I'm sorry baby. I know how much you hate it when Buffy does it."

"An!"

"It's OK, snoogles. You're more than man enough for me."

There was a derisive snort of laughter in the air and all eyes turned to Dawn and Spike, wondering which had made the sound. Anya, suddenly remembering her manners, beamed at Spike and eagerly extended a hand out to him.

"Hi, I'm Anya! Xander's girlfriend, fellow 'Scooby'," she even made out the quotation marks, a difficult task with only one free hand. "Ex-Vengeance demon and shop assistant at the Magic Box - *the* place for all your occult needs. Be sure to pop in sometime."

Spike's head bobbed with the rhythm of Anya enthusiastic handshaking, sucking in his cheeks in an effort not to laugh. "That's... you're really something, aren't you? Vengeance demon you say?" At Anya's affirmative response, the barely suppressed humour wavered and he said in all seriousness: "I'm sure Xander doesn't realise how lucky he is."

"Oh, I remind him. Often! Sometimes three or four times a night!"

Spike chuckled, finally extricating his hand from Anya's and running it through his re-styled hair. "Very lucky man indeed."

His glance slipped to Buffy and her eyes fell to the carpet for a diversionary second. When she looked back up, he had settled himself on the sofa; feet kicking heavily up onto the coffee table as he lingered over the task of buttoning up his shirt.

With a roll of the eyes signalling her boredom, Dawn came to sit on the opposite end of the sofa and she switched the television on with a stab of the remote. "You OK with this?"

Spike shrugged with a non-committal grunt and they watched in silence.

"Everything alright, Xander?" Buffy asked, succeeding in turning Xander's stare from the sofa. His eyes settled on her and after a moment the steely glare relented somewhat, but not enough.

"Everything here is beyond my comprehension. But since when has that been a first?" He fixed her with a lip-curled expression so near to disgust she felt her insides squirm at it. "Come on Anya, we should be going."

"But we just got here."

"Anya! *Please*."

-
-
-
-

"Xander, wait!" She caught him with his hand on the car door handle and he turned to her with a dramatic sigh.

"What?"

"Thank you... for bringing Dawn back safe."

He nodded and even produced a thin smile but then his hand was on the door handle again.

"Xander, don't be like this." She pleaded with him.

"Like what? Like I *have* an iota of common sense?" He was glaring now, his eyes jutting out of their sockets and pointing at her like accusing daggers.

"I don't think she means that, Xander."

Buffy's eyes turned to Anya with her mouth open ready to protest at the interruption. But then Anya continued, still with her trademarked literal tone. "I think she means how insensitive and unsympathetic you're being."

Buffy's eyes widened in amazement and gratitude at Anya, who simply shrugged.

"Oh, it's not like I don't see his faults, I *do*. I just love him all the more for having them." She beamed brightly and stroked Xander's arm with reassuring affection.

It did the trick. The defences came down with a shy shrug being offered as a gesture of surrender, a wan smile curving at his lips. (There he is!)

"I'll love you whatever you do, Buffy. *Whoever* you do." He confirmed his words by drawing her into a short but comforting hug and whispering: "Just be careful."

She smiled, remembering Willow's almost exact words.

"I will."

-
-
-
-

"A wall?"

"A very *angry* wall."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you like. I don't care."

"Believe what?" Buffy asked, wondering what she had walked in on.

"Spike says he got his black-eye from an 'angry wall'!" Dawn rolled her eyes. "Talk about lame."

(Black-eye?) Her eyes shot to Spike and there it was. A grey sprawl of a bruise where she had hit his eye last night. She didn't know how but she hadn't seen it since last night. She'd forgotten it, looked past it (ignored it).

"Who you calling lame?"

"You."

Spike glowered at Dawn and a low growl of irritation gurgling in his throat, causing Buffy to marvel at Dawn's talent for causing frustration. She smiled to herself decided to stick to the role of an onlooker as the scene continued to play out.

"So let's get this straight. You, with the enhanced-Vampire senses, just walked right into a wall?"

Spike's eyes glinted and his mouth twisted wryly as he looked up at Buffy. "Yep, straight into it, with my eyes wide open."

She smiled and so did he. It was one of those things that could have been defined as a 'moment' if it had lasted longer. But then he was standing up, walking out into the hall and putting his coat on. She followed him, her brow furrowed with the question she didn't need to voice.

"Don't worry, just going for a walk." He shrugged into his duster. "You should spend some time with Dawn. Do the sisterly-bonding bit."

The moment his hand contacted with the door handle, a thought struck her and she spoke before she could stop herself. "You won't -?"

"No." He smiled and smoothed away the worry lines on her forehead with a fingertip before pulling her into a deep, rough kiss that left her glassy-eyed and breathless. "See you soon."

"Uh-huh."

She watched the breeze of black disappear, feeling an involuntary shiver as the door as the door clicked to, and turned back to the lounge.

(Dawn.)

"You do realise I'm gonna need therapy after what I've just been through." Her sister emerged from the kitchen with a plateful of cookies and a glass of milk, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

"Yeah, I know it's been difficult on you, Dawn. But Glory's been held off now... at least for a while."

Dawn shook her head, gulping down her mouthful of cookie. "No, not Glory. I'm mean after witnessing that little 'Welcome Home' display."

Buffy cringed, her insides curling in on themselves with embarrassment. "Er, yeah... sorry about that."

"I'm talking *years* of psycho-analysis to get over that one."

"Years?"

"It's emotionally scarring, like thinking about your parents -"

"Don't go there."

"Exactly! You see?" Dawn's eyes were wide with mirth. It was a great sight to see. "You're not supposed to think about your family like that."

(Family.) Buffy smiled and helped herself to a cookie as they walked into the lounge.

"But if we're talking scale here, then maybe it wasn't as bad as you and Riley. I used to get a crick in my neck just looking at you two."

"So, let me get this straight. On a purely height basis, you don't object to him?"

"Oh, I object... that's my job." Dawn grinned and Buffy felt her own cheek muscles pull back of their own accord.

"Could I get a hug, Dawn?"

Dawn paused a moment, almost surprised at the request, but she relinquished her snacks to the coffee table and walked into her sister's arms.

"It's good to have you home."

Buffy felt Dawn shrug and mumble. "it's good to be home."

Buffy smiled and sighed into the embrace, feeling a calm crawl and linger through her veins. A pacifying, neutralising effect settled within her and she let the relief come, let Dawn earth her, let herself come home.

-
-
-
-

It was saccharine over-kill. So sugary-sappy that it stung at eyes that would be crying right now if she was 15 and could comply with the blatant director manipulation. The inevitability, the trite happy ending - a sweeping score that reached its zenith as the oh-so-right-for-each-other lovers came together in what amounted to no more than an anti-climatic, almost chaste peck of lips.

"Oh my God, I suddenly feel very sick."

Buffy smiled wryly at her sister, who despite being 15, also appeared quite immune to the movie's charms. "You getting cynical in your old age, Dawn?"

"Not cynical, just... rational..." She drifted off, as if she knew how wrong the word had sounded coming from her lips without Buffy's guffaw of a response.

"You? Rational?"

"What? It could happen."

"Yeah, given an infinity or two."

Dawn shrugged, her lips pursing but stopping just short of a pout. "Well, I have a few millennia on you, so you can't judge... or does having an older boyfriend give you a free pass to mature-land?"

Buffy opened her mouth to retaliate, only to stop and consider Dawn's words, or rather one word in particular. She glanced at Dawn and mouthed the word to her before vocalising it with a whisper. "He's my 'boyfriend'."

"Well, uh-huh, it certainly looked that way to me."

"My -"

Her repetition was interrupted as the front door opened. The sisters looked at each other in puzzlement for an instant before remembering. A smile broke free on Dawn's face for a split second before she put it into check and re-applied her teen trademarked nonchalance. Just in time as a black form glided into the room and collapsed bonelessly into the armchair.

"Nice walk?"

He nodded vaguely, his brows furrowing. "Took a tour of good old Sunny-Hell, reacquainted myself with Willie. Wrapped it up with a turn past the High School that... is no more. What the hell happened there?"

Buffy smiled, her mind drifting back to something he had told her, a revelation he had bit out in angry frustration.

"Big snake!" Her grin widened as she spoke and watched the words dawn on him.



TBC

**PART TWO**
CHAPTER FIVE

She liked these spring nights most. When the air carried only the slightest reminder of winter chills. It had enveloped her the moment she stepped outside, a soft yawn of awakening life and stirring growth marking the end of the winter hiatus. The one thing that disturbed her was the prospect of soon being unable to indulge her coat fetish. (Maybe thin denim jackets.)

A slight breeze barely disturbed her hair as they sat out on the back garden and she watched him smoke a cigarette. For some reason he hadn't seemed to like the idea of the perfectly amenable garden bench and had silently dropped out of her line of vision to sit cross-legged on the lawn.

She reasoned that perhaps he wanted to be closer to the ground. Needed to be earthed by the soft grass. She found herself wondered, as she settled down next to him, if in all of his generations of travel he had ever settled, ever had a home; or if, like cows in a field, once the munchies depleted, there always came a time to move on to pastures new. Despite her internal cringe as her mind tacked up a gallery of psychedelic snapshots of his bloody past, she found herself wondering if he could ever call this his home, whether he ever had. Sunnydale, this house, this plot of ground, her.

"So these men in white coats... were some kind of government scientists?"

She nodded. "Yep, big military-style operation. These fatigued-up soldiers would round up demons and take them to this straight-out-of-a-Bond-movie underground lair where they were prodded and poked about. If they were really lucky, their parts were amputated and used to make this super Frankenstein's monster... *thing* called Adam, who lived up to his name by rebelling against his creator and planning demon versus human Armageddon."

He was visibly disturbed. His eyebrows pushing together, his mouth gaping open as his head dipping further forward with every word. He took a deep breath and shook his head to set his features back to neutral. "Really glad *I* wasn't around then."

"No. You might have ended up with some nasty bit of silicon in your head."

The puzzlement was back, his brows pushed forward again, but this time his mouth twisted around his cigarette. "Silicon? In my head?" He spoke through exhaled plumes of blue smoke.

She grinned at his renewed consternation. "They were big into behaviour modification devices."

"Behav-? They're not still around, are they?"

"No," she whispered thinking of Riley leaving in a hail of chopper blades. (Couldn't get away fast enough.)

The corners of his mouth lifted a lifted, but the smile was in his eyes and she shrugged and looked away, her eyes sweeping over the expanse of lawn and back to him.

She liked him best on these nights, when the moon was full and low in sky, his pale skin luminescent as it absorbed and reflected the cool ethereal light. She studied the silvery highlights of his profile, a slight twist of curiosity turning in her every time he lifted the filter of his cigarette to his lips. After a few moments under the spotlight of her scrutiny, he looked at her, the question was in his eyes before he spoke.

"What?"

"I was kinda wondering... what's that like?" Her eyes motioned towards the cigarette and he followed her gaze, shrugged and handed it to her.

"Here."

She glanced at him apprehensively as she took it awkwardly between her fingers. Turning it over and examining it like an unusual nick-knack on a bric-a-brac stall.

"Just don't overdo it on the first drag."

Her lips curled a bit at that and she smiled at him as she fixed her gaze on the orange glare at the tip of the cigarette as she brought it to her own lips and drew on the filter.

She felt the smoke collect at the back of her throat and stain her tongue as she inhaled slowly, her brows knitting at the strange discomfort of it filling her lungs, and then -

"Oh God!" She coughed out, her free hand gripping at her head, as a sensation she could only suppose compared to a lick of liquid nitrogen stretched across the surface of her brain. It was almost painful, the nicotine stimulating her nerves with tingles and pinpricks of icy sensation. "I don't think I'll be having any more of those." She opened her eyes to see him smirking at her as she handed him the cigarette back, realising that her fingers were going numb. (No definitely don't want the numbness again.)

"Is it always like that?"

He shook his head, smirk wavering. "No, some things are better the first time." A hint of playful innuendo danced in his eyes as he smiled at her. "Other things get better with practise."

She returned the smile, arching her eyebrow at the inference to what was now inevitable between them again.

"I can't feel my lips." She said, pressing her fingers to them for emphasis. It has the desired effect for he leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers, bringing sensation back to her face with a warm blush.

"No loss. Smoking's evil. Din't anyone ever tell you that?"

She snorted, her tongue pushing against her teeth. "Oh yeah... *that*. All the evil people smoke, wear black," she eyed the uniform he had reverted to, "and go 'Grr'." She made a snarly face and he mirrored it with a clawed hand.

They shared a laugh and it felt good for a few all-too-short seconds but a bitter guilt impeded upon them and they both reeled off with a weary sigh, silence threatening to re-establish the distinction between them.

"My counsellor smoked. He wasn't evil."

"All counsellors are evil." He punctuated his dismissive statement by flicking away the butt of their shared cigarette.

She frowned, following his litter trail. (I really need to pick that up... tomorrow.) "Can we say 'negative categorisation'?"

"You should know all about that." He said with an accusatory quirk of his eyebrows. "It's all that 'tell me about your relationship with your father' crap. They're the biggest perverts of the lot of you."

There was that distinction. The 'lot of you' as opposed to his 'lot', the 'you' as opposed to him. The problem with distinction was that it meant distance. She felt a need to disagree with him. "Actually, mine was more: 'Tell me about your relationship with Angel', but in a real round-about way. All metaphor and generalisations, you know?"

"See what I mean? Evil." He didn't look at her and his countenance shifted and stiffened. It took a second for her to realise why. She couldn't help the one-sided smile tugged at her lips as it struck her. (Angel.)

She was about to make some kind of comment, tease him about it, but something stopped her. The sigh he heaved, so weighty he almost exhaled himself. He sagged forward, his knees drawing up as rests for his elbows as he cradled his head in his hands and stared at the grass, through the grass. (Drusilla.)

"You're missing her." She didn't need to question what was obvious but he still nodded, his head dipping so he could run his fingers through his hair. He emitted a short groan at the oblivious stalks of resilient evergreen that would recover almost instantly from the smothering pressure of his form.

Her eyes looked forward and she gazed down the length of the garden, trying to give herself a sense of perspective, but not distance. "It's okay," she began her voice no more than a breath. "Sometimes... sometimes it seems that all I do is miss people. That it's all I am."

She felt him turn to look at her, felt him understand her and closed her eyes just as she felt his fingers on her cheek. She leant into his touch, turning and completing the circuit by making eye contact as she cupped his cheek.

It was a shuffle for closeness then, until she was sat in between his legs, her feet at either side of his hips and his knees behind her shoulders. Until both of her hands were on his face, until their lips met.

She realised that she was shaking. Not with chill but with the fear that came with the realisation that this was it, that there was no going back, and that she wanted and needed it more than anything, more than anyone. The unsteady, quivering contact of lips steadied as passion warmed and quelled her somewhat. The shivers were now simply means of transmuting her body, readying her, and every tingly trail had the same pulsating destination.

She thought that maybe she tasted the same as him. That it was that drag of his cigarette and the ingrained remnant of tobacco on her tongue, but no. It was more than that. She recognised something of herself in his kiss and knew that the instinct was mutual. It was grief and loss and longing and desire all intermingled and delicious. A silent flint of something deep and inherent flickered through her mind only to dissipate into the melee of sensation clawing and swarming, invading and obliterating all thought.

The moan that escaped from her as he reached round her back and pressed her body against was eagerly swallowed up by his mouth and taken for the signal it was. The signal for their kiss to deepen, the assent for clothes to be peeled away, the wordless acknowledgement of their mutual need for more contact, for complete contact.

-
-
-
-

He stared at her, his eyes wide with something that almost resembled horror. No, that *was* horror. A familiar thought revisited her in the tail of a shooting star streaming and fading across her mind's eye. (This should not be happening.) She stared back, her eyes just as uncomprehending, just as unblinking.

His hand came up to her face, a finger softly traced the edge of cheek and the line of her jaw, coming to a stop at the centre of her chin and still the eye contact remained unbroken.

It remained unbroken even when his hand clasped at her mouth, expertly cutting off her air supply and solid in its attempt for suffocation. Shadows shifted in his eyes and she was mesmerised by the changes, by the hardening of his gaze. His jaw clenched with angry effort and still she held his stare, unwavering, unyielding.

Just as her body drowned with panic and the drive for self-preservation kicked in, kinetic potential for the fight surging through her limbs with the pulse of the convulsing of her chest; he released his hold. Allowing her a few deep gasps of recovery he suffocated her once again, this time with desperate, deep kisses that threatened to delve down into her and plunder her essence.

And she reciprocated, just as desperately, just as greedily. Their eyes clamped shut against the confusion and the unbidden, unwanted questions that had formed out of the ebb and flow of the afterglow, or even way before that. Now was not the time for words.

-
-
-
-

He chased her up the stairs, swatting at her bare ass and grinning when she turned her head to glare at him. Their feet were light and stealthy as they ran on the balls of their feet. Their ascent soundless as they repressed squeals and yelps, pausing at the top of the stairs, checking for the all-clear and bursting through the hall into her room.

Bundles of clothes were rejected into forlorn piles at the foot of her bed and she stopped before climbing into bed, turning to watch his slow stalk up to her. His eyes had the full diurnal spectrum of blues and were now staring at her with the same darkest midnight of the night sky beyond the blankets that covered the window.

As he neared her she caught his scent and her brow furrowed at the unexpected elements she met with. All his signature notes were there: the cigarettes, the evaporated fumes of the alcohol he had consumed at Willie's, and the faint sheen of musk that coated his body after sex. But he also smelled of grass, of coffee and of the popcorn Dawn had thrown at him to shut him up. He smelled like home.

"What?" He was in front of her now, his body inches from hers and the gentle rhythm of her breathing began to syncopate, her heartbeat becoming more audible and insistent as she reached out to him.

She shook her head, a wry smile playing at her lips.

(No. No words.)


TBC

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