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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Evidence to the contrary.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, crap,” Spike muttered.

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

“Buff, you know, I have to go.”

“Now? It’s not nearly daylight.”

“There’s an errand I have to run.”

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

“Completely?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

“When are you going to be back?”

“Two days, I hope. Hopefully faster.”

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

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

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

It’s my friends that are screwed up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It only took a hundred years, she thought wryly.

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

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

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

“Have you worked off all that stuff?”

“Nope.” She said sullenly.

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

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

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

“There isn’t.”

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

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

“Spike? When?”

“The other day.”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn. She had a point there.

“So, uh,”

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

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

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

“That’s not fair.” Dawn burst out.

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

“Dawnie-“

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

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

“Do you?” Buffy said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Does it really help? To get revenge?”

“I prefer the term, justice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

“Well-rounded in what way?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know what you mean, really.”

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

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

“So what?” Buffy spluttered.

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

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

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

“That hair?” Buffy asked.

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

“What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.

“Well….”

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

“Tell anyone what already?” Anya shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what?” Buffy demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonder what?” Buffy snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pathetic?” Buffy supplied.

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

“Wow,” Buffy said.” What a loss.”