Part 16:

The Salon

"Slayer brought by a letter for you, Spike," Clem said as Spike arrived home after another night's work. "It's over on your bed."

A letter? From Buffy? he wondered, and hurried to discover what she might have left him. She'd put some effort into it, he saw; the stationery was probably one of the nicest she could find at the corner drugstore. She had even attempted to duplicate the seal he'd put on his letter to her of months ago, but hadn't realized that there was a difference between candle wax and sealing wax. He cracked open the thin seal that she'd scratched her initials into and pulled out a sheet of floral patterned paper.

Dear William, the letter began. The handwriting was uneven, as though she had never had to write very much before - his love was too impatient for some things, he thought, and smiled before reading more.

Yours truly,
Buffy

Ah, love. Truly mine? I know you only copied the phrase from some etiquette book - 'a polite complimentary close that doesn't encourage familiarity' - but I'm touched all the same. He folded the paper back up into the envelope, and then couldn't resist holding it to his nose to see if he could detect any lingering scent of her clinging to it.

"Any interesting news?" Clem wanted to know.

"Slayer's invited me to dinner," Spike said, tucking the letter under his pillow to dream on later. "Sunday night."

Clem's face was suddenly wreathed in smiles. "You see? I told you you were worrying too much. Now that she knows about your soul, she won't be able to help falling for you."

Spike was suddenly gripped with chill. For me... or for William?

**********

The next day he stood outside the aesthetics salon for some time in indecision. His reflection in the window revealed a narrow-faced, bookish man with dark and light streaked hair curling behind his ears and over his collar. All I need is the glasses to complete the picture. It's no wonder it doesn't bother her to be near me - I might as well be someone else entirely.

He gripped the door handle and pulled it open resolutely, settling his most charming smile in place as he greeted the receptionist, an elegantly dressed, matronly woman, impeccably coiffed and turned out. Just seeing her made him realize that this place was several orders above the hair salon he'd taken it for. No doubt the prices would be equally stratospheric. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. I need to have everything right and proper for Buffy. He turned up his smile by several watts. If nothing else good, years as a vampire had at least taught him how to do charm.

"Good afternoon. I'm interested in getting my hair looked after today - a cut and a bleach job. Any chance I can just walk in without an appointment?" The woman at the desk surveyed him critically up and down, taking in his worn tee shirt, jeans and jacket. He could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she evaluated him and the probable state of his funds before deciding to send him on his way.

"I don't think we have anything available right now..." she began, but he cut her off.

"Please," he said gently. "A woman - the woman - that I've been away from for months has asked me to join her for dinner. Everything has to be perfect." Inside, he willed her desperately to bend.

"Well... perhaps late this afternoon..."

"Oh don't be such a prune, Dinah," a voice said from somewhere behind her. A dark haired woman emerged from somewhere in the depths of the shop and smiled at him. "I think we can squeeze him in," she added with a conspiratorial wink over the rim of her dark-framed glasses. "After all, men who would actually worry about looking good for their lady friends should be encouraged whenever possible, don't you think?"

Dinah turned a sour eye at this interruption, but offered no more protest. The woman came forward and took Spike gently by the arm, leading him into the shadowed and perfumed depths of the salon. "I'm Natalie," she said by way of introduction as she led him past ranks of women ensconced under colossal metal helmets. Pairs of eyeballs could practically be heard clicking as they followed his progress closely across the room.

"Spike," he replied.

"Spike," she repeated with a smile. "Welcome to Heaven's Gate." She directed him to a chair amongst several women who looked as though they were vying for the title of 'best satellite signal reception', they had so much foil in their hair. "This is our main level. Hair, nails and makeup are down here. Upstairs we've got massage therapy, aromatherapy, waxing, body wraps... you name it, we probably do it. My specialty is colours and highlighting."

He settled into the chair and let her drape a monogrammed wrap snugly around his throat. "I take it you don't get many blokes in here."

She snorted laughter. "Are you kidding? Most of them would rather have their fingernails pulled out with pliers than venture in here. They're too afraid their buddies would think they were queer or something."

Spike just wanted to sag bonelessly in the chair when Natalie raked her nails lightly over his scalp, combing his hair roughly back. He'd always been one for the touch - the simple hedonistic pleasure of physical contact - and he had been starved of it now for some time. His attention was so focused on her hands in his hair that he almost missed what she was saying.

"You've let this go for some time," she tsked over him thoughtfully.

"Nearly five months," he felt compelled to admit. "I... left town for a long time, and it just wasn't important."

"Well, we'll get you fixed up properly then," she said.

After donning a set of protective gloves, Natalie set to work mixing the bleaching solution. The sharp scent of it carried him back in memory nearly twenty years to when he had first done it himself. But he didn't remember using those small pink packets of powder.

Natalie must have seen him frown. "It's just Sweet 'n Low," she said, holding up one of the packets for his inspection. "Seven or eight of these in the bleach mix help keep it from stinging too much. I learned it from a customer a few years ago when I was working over at The Funky Punkster. He probably changed his hair colour ever month - and to get the best results, you really should bleach the old colour away before you re-do it. I think he was in a band." She smiled fondly in memory. "He was such a sweetheart. I miss working there sometimes."

She dabbed lotion around his hairline and ears before smearing the thick blue goo all through his hair. Once she had worked it in to her satisfaction, she covered his head with a thin foam cap, twisting it up and securing it with a couple of bobby pins. "There we go. Now we'll just let that process, and I'll be back to check on you in about twenty minutes."

Spike had just settled himself more comfortably into his chair to wait when Natalie was back at his side, touching his shoulder gently for his attention. Another shorter and plumper woman stood at her side.

"Spike? I know you didn't mention it, but I was wondering if you would like a shave as well? Shelby's next client of the afternoon has cancelled, if you're interested."

He was about to protest that there would be no point since his dinner wasn't that day, but some vain part of himself weighed in with the opinion that having two pretty women looking after him was, after all, better than one. "Sure," he agreed. "Why not?"

"Terrific," the other woman - Shelby - said. "I'll get my stuff."

"You won't regret it," Natalie said. "She does great work."

Moments later she had Spike reclined in his chair and was draping a hot towel over his face. He hissed at the first contact, but was soon luxuriating in the heat against his skin.

"This will be a treat," she said. "I haven't had a chance to give a man a shave since young Mr. Hope was in a few weeks back. Usually it's all facials, extractions and moisturizing masks." Her words were accompanied by mysterious clatters and clinks as she rearranged unseen supplies in a rolling cart she had positioned nearby.

After removing the towel several minutes later, Shelby spread warm shaving lotion liberally over his face and throat. From her cart she then revealed a gleaming straight razor of the kind he hadn't seen in over a century. "It gives the closest shave," she explained. "Don't worry, I've kept in practice. I haven't killed a customer yet," she added, on seeing his surprised look.

Shelby kept her word, trailing the naked steel delicately and with unusual finesse over his skin. For his part, he did his best not to tremble as the razor came close to his jugular. She used subtle touches with the fingers of one hand to turn and direct his head so she could reach both sides of his face without having to move around the chair. But Spike didn't think that she had quite intended the move that directed his gaze down into her generous cleavage. He simply smiled and kept looking down past the straining buttons of her smock as long as she had him turned that way - and was grateful for the concealing drape over himself.

"So, Natalie tells me that tonight's a big night for you," Shelby said as she worked on him. "She must be somebody really special; it takes a lot to get a guy to come in here."

It would be too much effort to explain that his dinner with Buffy was actually scheduled for Sunday, so Spike simply agreed. "The one girl in all the world," he said.

"Wow. You've got it pretty bad. She's a lucky girl, whoever she is." She clucked her tongue, suddenly wistful. "I must always be looking in the wrong places. I wish I knew how to get a guy to feel that way about me."

Spike trembled, grateful that Shelby had finished with the razor. "I'm afraid I can't help you there," he said, managing to keep the tremor out of his voice.

After she wiped the last traces of shaving cream from his face with the towel, Shelby's fingers lingered a little longer on his face than was strictly necessary as she applied a soothing aftershave balm.

"There you are," she said at last. "I guarantee you'll be completely irresistible."

"She's something else, isn't she?" said a new voice from behind him as Shelby returned his chair to an upright position. Shelby gave him a wink and a wave as she rolled her cart away. The mirror revealed a slim woman with curly dark hair standing behind him, and his confusion must have shown in his face.

"Oh, sorry. I'm Judy." Her gloved fingers untwisted his cap and pulled out a lock of hair to examine it. "I think that's about enough time," she said, tucking the curl back into place. "Natalie asked me to take over for her. One of her regulars just came in with a bit of a crisis. It seems she spent a little too much time in the hot tub and turned her hair green."

Judy led Spike to a free chair in front of the row of sinks and settled him there. With brisk efficiency, she took the cap from his head and leaned him back over the sink to rinse the bleaching solution away. He closed his eyes in pleasure as the warm water sluiced through his hair. Something brushed his cheek and he started, opening his eyes to the sleek pink expanse of her tank top.

"Sorry," she said. "I had to reach farther for the conditioner than I thought."

"Think nothing of it," he replied, resolving to keep his eyes open from that point on.

Judy had exceptionally strong hands and spent several minutes massaging his scalp after she had applied the conditioner. He was hard pressed to decide whether the sensation or the view as she leaned over him held more appeal, and felt an almost physical sensation of loss when she took her hands from his head and rinsed the conditioner away. She briskly towelled his hair then wrapped a towel snugly about his head before settling him in one of the chairs before the mirror that ran nearly the entire length of the salon.

"Can I get you something to drink before I start?" Judy asked as she adjusted the chair's height. "Coffee, maybe?"

"Tea, if you have it," he replied, not expecting a positive answer

"Sure. We've got... Earl Grey, Oolong, Lapsang Souchong, Darjeeling, green tea, lemon, cinnamon, chamomile... um... I know I missed some."

Spike mentally adjusted the price he was going to pay for his hair upwards by a double-digit number before replying. "Oolong."

"Did you want milk or sugar with that? We just ran out of cream a while ago, though, sorry."

"Milk and sugar - one lump - will be fine. Cream is for cats - and you have nothing to apologize for," he observed mildly.

"So--" She flushed. "I'll be right back."

Despite the salon's obvious pride in their service, Spike steeled himself for a styrofoam cup - or at best a thick ceramic coffee mug - so he was pleasantly surprised when Judy returned with a delicate china teacup complete with saucer. He sipped at it reverently.

Judy's sure fingers tilted his head this way and that as she wielded scissors first to trim his long locks. She followed the scissors with a set of electric clippers that buzzed pleasantly against his skull, vibrating deep into his bones.

Spike tried to relax and enjoy her attention as she cut his hair, but was distracted again by memories of visiting similar shops with Drusilla. A touch of her mesmerizing power so that no one would notice they had no reflections, and then he would watch while his dark princess would run the girls ragged, making them set her hair in half a dozen different styles. She always left looking the same as when she had entered, though. And they had always left the bodies in the back room where they wouldn't be discovered until some time after the two of them had gone.

Judy held the mirror up behind him so he could see the final result, breaking into his unpleasant reverie. He dragged himself back into the present, noticing too that his cup was empty. A stranger stared back at him from the mirror, white blond hair cropped close to his neck and slicked severely back.

He still wasn't used to being able to see his own reflection, so he checked his hair the way he always had; he set the cup down, closed his eyes and ran both hands over his head. Too slick. Buffy likes it...messy. He used the fingers of one hand to tug some of the curls loose.

"Girlfriend likes it curly, hey?" Judy asked with a wink. "Me too." She tousled his hair thoroughly, and then held the mirror up behind him again. "How's that?"

"Better."

Spike left the shop with a tube of overpriced hair gel in his pocket and considerably less cash in his pocket. Hope I'm not going to make a fool of myself. It's not in the plan, but my plans always seem to go a little pear-shaped after first contact with Buffy.

A New Beginning?

She stood in her room looking at the little grey box as though it might open suddenly and bite her. Taking a deep breath, Buffy picked it up and snapped it open. I'm not promising anything. They were a gift, and I'm only being polite by letting him see me wear them. But her fingers still shook as she slipped the delicate wires into her ears.

She turned in front of the mirror to inspect her appearance before heading downstairs. The long suede skirt swirled around her legs and the matching low boots. She reached up to adjust the high cowl of her white sweater around her neck and to tuck her hair casually behind her ears. The amethyst earrings sparkled brightly, even in the room light.

Dawn was bustling about in the kitchen with a purposeful air when she came down. Something smelled wonderful, and Buffy was forced to admit that Dawn was probably becoming a better cook than she would ever be. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Everything's under control," Dawn insisted, despite her flushed face to which tendrils of dark hair were clinging. She wrestled a covered dish into the oven and closed the door. "There. Nothing left to do but wait, now." She turned to inspect her sister.

Buffy suddenly felt as though she were the younger one, an impression only amplified by the fact that Dawn seemed to have grown four inches taller than her, all in one summer. She looked down to pick invisible lint from her skirt.

"You look great!" Dawn gushed, abruptly dispelling the illusion. "Are those some of Mom's earrings?"

"No, ah... Spike gave them to me. That is, he left them at the front door with a note one night," Buffy admitted. "I thought... I should let know that I liked them."

That's probably not all that you should let him know. Mind you, that means you'd have to admit things to yourself first. Dawn leaned in to have a closer look at the earrings. They were really gorgeous, she decided. "Can I borrow them some time?"

"What? No!"

Just then the doorbell rang, startling them both.

**********

He took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. He wasn't nervous, the collar of the turtleneck was just a little tight and he ran two fingers under it to adjust it. It wasn't black, it was dark green, thank you - though admittedly you had to stand in strong light to make the distinction. Likewise the trousers - not jeans - the girl at the thrift shop had assured him they were 'charcoal', and looked very nice on him, too. But the new shoes pinched; he missed his boots. Hearing women's voices on the other side of the door, he stood up straighter, cradled the wine bottle in one arm and tried to look unconcerned, desperately afraid they'd see through his charade.

Buffy opened the door and suddenly felt her heart stutter. It wasn't William at the door; it was Spike, all peroxide blond again and with attitude to spare. He was just standing there in the doorway; cool as the other side of the pillow. He tilted his head to one side with that look she knew so well, the one that said 'come fuck me'. Buffy cut off that thought sharply before it could go anywhere. Big scissors, thank you very much.

And oh god, the longing in his eyes as he looked at her and straightened, drawing breath to speak. He positively blazed, bathed in the light of the prosaic 60-watt incandescent in the porch fixture, alabaster skin seemingly lit from within. She thought it would burn to touch him - had burned, that desire; pain and pleasure inextricably mixed - and she couldn't face that fire again. Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face and she cursed it for a traitor, because he abruptly looked down and away. She felt an almost physical jolt as he turned his eyes from her, shuttering that incredible inner light, damping himself down so as to not torment her further.

His first thought, as always, was how beautiful she was - and how unconscious she was of her beauty, which only increased it. His heart skipped a beat, and picked up again in quicker rhythm. She's wearing the earrings. I have no right to expect anything - but she's wearing them.

"Evening Niblet," he said, looking instead at Dawn beside her in the doorway, though these were surely not the words he had originally intended. "And Happy Christmas a bit early if I don't see you again before the day. I understand we have you to thank for dinner tonight. I brought some wine I thought might do - maybe between us we can convince big sis to let you have a taste." He proffered the wine bottle to Buffy as though it were a peace offering. She held it awkwardly before her like armour against the intensity of his regard.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Dawn complained. "It's just spoiled grape juice."

They all laughed perfunctorily. "Takes a while to acquire an appreciation of some things is all," Spike observed. Buffy's hands tightened on the bottle. That was - was not - a comment directed at her. Her stomach roiled, and all at once she wasn't sure she could face even the thought of food.

Spike hesitated in the doorway. "May I come in then?" he asked quietly at last, and for a blinding moment Buffy was sure that he'd found someone to sire him as vampire again, a return to the inexorable killing machine he'd been, so that he could revenge himself on her.

She shook the thought away impatiently; Slayer senses detected nothing... not the slightest sign of the undead about him. Close her eyes, and she wouldn't even know he was there. His power over her was sourced entirely in her heart, and in his. "I didn't think you'd need an invitation anymore," she observed.

"The Powers may not require it, but manners still do," he replied.

"Then come in. We're glad you could come over tonight," said Dawn, as though daring Buffy to contradict her.

With a duck of his head that was almost apologetic, Spike came through the door, and Buffy shut it behind him. For a few awkward moments the three of them stood silently at the base of the stairs. Since neither Spike nor Buffy seemed to want to be the first to speak, Dawn jumped in. "Come on into the kitchen and we can open the wine." She led the way.

Once there, Dawn took the bottle from her sister's unresponsive hands and examined it closely, tearing away at the foil over the mouth of the bottle. "Jeez, Spike, this is California you know," she complained. "Couldn't you have found a bottle with a screw cap? I don't even know if we have a corkscrew."

Spike raised one eyebrow as though insulted, and Dawn laughed. With that, the ice in the room seemed to thaw slightly, though they still weren't speaking. Buffy rummaged in a small drawer beside the refrigerator and wordlessly presented Dawn with the corkscrew, which she promptly handed off to Spike along with the bottle.

He set the screw tip into the cork and twisted, feeling it bite deep. With it firmly seated, he braced the bottle with one hand and pulled. Nothing happened.

"Do you want me to--" Buffy began.

"No," he replied shortly, and pulled harder, finally being rewarded with a squeaking slide and pop as the cork slid free. Dawn ducked out momentarily, returning with crystal from the dining room cabinet.

He poured two glasses. The wine was golden and light-filled; something delicate and fruity that wouldn't be too overwhelming for an inexperienced palate. He wasn't sure if he meant hers or his own now. In any case, red wine would have looked too much like blood. He set the bottle back on the counter and picked up the glasses, handing one to Buffy that she accepted without comment.

"Go. Out. Go have your drinks and sit and talk, or something. I'll call you both when everything's ready." Dawn insistently shooed them out of the kitchen and into the living room. They were helpless to resist her, and ultimately found themselves staring at each other over the coffee table littered with Dawn's teen gossip magazines.

Talk? How can I talk? All her words had dried up, and seemingly Spike's had as well. Oh, there must be an apocalypse coming; Spike has nothing to say. He had always been at her before, to talk to her, to get her to talk to him; she had never thought there would be any situation where he would be at a loss for words.

"Why?" Unable to manage anything else, she waved vaguely at his hair. She sat at one end of the couch and he settled carefully at the other, far from her. He sipped at his wine deliberately before setting the glass down on the table.

"Why am I coming all Spike at you?" She nodded. "Trying to prove a point, I suppose. I could tell that you were setting up Spike and William in your head as two different men, trying to deal with how you feel about them. We're not different. That story about how a vampire is completely different from the original man? That's utter bollocks. Everything he did wrong is something I've done wrong. I know you don't like hearing that, but it's true. I'm the one who hurt you so many times, and now I'm the one who hopes he can be forgiven someday." He shifted position towards her on the sofa and reached for her hands, and she set down her glass in turn to permit the contact. Suddenly the floodgates had opened, and he couldn't stop.

"This isn't about trying to get you to love me now. Last year I encouraged you to turn away from your friends, telling you that you came back wrong, all to bring you closer to me. I knew you were using me, and I didn't care, because as long as you were, you would stay with me. I knew I could have only scraps from you, but I still came begging. I just wanted someone to love me - or someone that I could pretend did."

"And before you ask, I have thought about it. I can't go to Angel. We never really got along or had shared anything - except, on occasion, Dru's favours, and you know how well we managed that. He was born common and was desperate to ape quality; I was born to privilege and was equally desperate to shed it. And I always resented like hell the way he kept me - us - under his thumb. And now that I have everything that he's ever wanted..."

She drew back her hands, frowning. "That's damned arrogant." I knew this whole thing was too good to be true.

"I just meant - not you. I wasn't suggesting that--" he spluttered self-consciously, and struggled to recover. "I have a soul - but even better, I'm alive. Human again, when he's still a vampire, fighting the bloodlust and the demon constantly for control. I don't have to like him to respect how he must have to wrestle every day with that. And all because I don't know any better than to beat my gums in front of a powerful wish-granting demon. Angel could only see it as a vast cosmic joke at his expense; that I should be granted his fondest desire." I can be with you in the daylight, even if you never love me.

Buffy curled her hands into her lap thoughtfully. "It wasn't really as simple as that though, was it?" Without her conscious will, her mind cast back five years to remember all they had gone through, trying to win back Angel's soul. Jenny's reconstruction of the lost Gypsy curse; her death and the destruction of their first orb of Thessula; Willow's first steps into a darker world where immense power tempted her at every step. And in the end, none of it had mattered; though his soul had been restored, Angel's blood still had to be spilled to close the door on Acathla, sending them both to hell - only hers had been here on earth.

All of that for a soul, held for only moments before she had banished him; and now here was William in front of her, newly made man. Surely such a gift would have had a monstrous price. Another weight seemed to settle in her heart. She'd made him do this. She hadn't chained him up in his crypt and demanded he choose, but she was just as responsible as if she had. And he didn't have any idea. He'd faced who knew what tests and torments, all because he wanted to change for her. Would she ever bring anything but suffering to the people she cared about? Whoa, where did that come from?

"Well he certainly didn't clap me on the back and say 'clearly you are worthy'," Spike said, trying to lighten the suddenly oppressive mood. The truth about his trials wasn't something she ever had to know. Being Buffy, she'd find some way to blame herself for what had been entirely his own idea. Not the brightest idea I ever had, but why mess with tradition? He continued his story brightly. "In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was disgusted with me for taking such a backward step. He was a demon, after all, and to one like that, the desire for a soul must seem decidedly recidivist. Probably thought he would make it worse for me by making me human again, too. You know, 'man is but dust', 'mortal coil' and all that sodding nonsense? Hadn't the heart to tell him he'd actually done me a good turn. Didn't get it quite right, but it's actually worked in my favour."

She couldn't let it alone. So many things done in her name that she had no control over; she at least had to hear the whole truth from him. "William, I have to know. You said that you wanted your soul back because you loved me; I need to know what I made you do."

Bloody hell! She's still going to take it that way. "Since when did I become someone you could make do things, pet?" he asked with a smile. "You didn't make me love you, and you didn't make me go off in search of my soul, either. The former I just fell into one day..." Memories of a dream and the shocked surprise that had followed when he realized his heart knew more than his head. Head took a while to come around, but it had been inevitable from the very start. "And the latter was-"

A car horn sounded outside, cutting off his words. Dawn rushed past with a backpack, snatching up her coat from the peg. "That'll be Megan's mom. She'll give me a ride back tomorrow morning after the sleepover."

"Sleepover?" Buffy exclaimed. "You never said anything about-"

"It's a teacher work day tomorrow, remember? Gotta go! Everything's in the oven or on the stove ready for you. See you in the morning, Buffy." With that, Dawn was out the door and down the walk to the waiting station wagon before her sister could muster even the beginning of a protest.

Spike stood, walked into the dining room and took in the dimmed lights, the candles, and the table set for two with Joyce's heirloom china. "I think we've been set up."

"I know we have," Buffy said, coming up behind him. She ran her hands through her hair in a gesture of frustration then closed them into fists at her sides as she recognized what she was doing. "Damn her for pulling a stunt like this."

"She probably thought she was doing us a favour; giving us more time to talk alone." He cleared his throat pensively. "If this situation makes you uncomfortable, I can go," he offered.

"No. That's not necessary. You were expecting to get dinner, so that's what you'll get. You should, since it was probably your money that paid for it."

"I told you - that was a gift." I wish you didn't make it sound so much like a terrible punishment. "Don't put yourself out on my account. I can always head back to the crypt, get the chef to whip something up."

"Chef?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeh, you know. Boyardee?"

Buffy nearly exploded with laughter, clapping one hand tightly over her mouth to muffle it at the thought of Spike and ravioli from a can. She could just picture him, one dark brow raised as he contemplated the intricacies of the nutritional information label. She almost had it under control when the thought occurred to her that he might prefer beefaroni. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she gasped, when she finally could breathe evenly again. "It's not really funny."

"Yes it bloody well is," he laughed in turn. "Evil vampire returns from quest; having found source of bad jokes. Slayer dies laughing," he declared in his best American TV news anchor voice, sparking another round of helpless hilarity from her.

Soon she was leaning against the wall, one hand vainly attempting to stifle giggles while the other held her aching stomach. "Please, no more! It's your most evil plot ever."

Works a lot better than any of my other plots ever did. Too bad it took me this long to find out. The sound of her laughter was the music of heaven to his ears and he wished it would always be this easy to make her happy.

He waited to speak again until she calmed once more and was wiping laughter-induced tears from her eyes. "Why don't we just set the kitchen table with your regular dinnerware and eat in there?" he suggested. "Then we won't have to worry about manhandling the fancy crockery, and it will be that much easier to clean up." Seeing the relief in her expression that she didn't even try to hide, he knew he had made the right decision.

**********

He did his best during dinner to keep the conversation light and free of controversial topics. So instead he told her stories of glittering cities he'd seen around the world - without ever referring to his own activities there - and then of Clem's adventures while he'd been gone. He made her laugh out loud three times - he kept count.

When they were done, both Spike and Buffy reached for the serving dish at the same time, then dropped it in surprise to clatter loudly on the table. Buffy laughed nervously. "How about you clear the table, then I can wash and you can dry."

"All right."

"Maybe next time... the dishwasher will be fixed. Since we... came into some money," she offered tentatively.

He tried hard to contain his elation at the thought that he might be made welcome another time, and only nodded. "Whatever you decide to do with it, love," he said levelly. "I just want to help if I can."

She moved to the sink and twisted at the taps to fill the sink with hot, sudsy water. Spike decided not to press further, and began to gather up the dishes, stacking them beside the sink for her. He took up a dishtowel and stood ready.

When she handed him a plate his fingers brushed over hers and they both froze at the contact. Her hazel eyes widened as she looked up at him, and he knew a look equally deer-in-the-headlights had taken up residence on his own face. He took the plate from her gently and set it in the rack before they ended up dropping this one too, then laced his fingers in hers.

She was mesmerized by the sensuous rasp of his calloused thumb across her palm. "William," she breathed, her mouth gone suddenly dry. "Spike, I--"

"I love you, Buffy." It always came back to that. She was the true north for the lodestone of his heart, no matter how the world spun and twisted under him. He bent his head slowly, giving her every chance to withdraw, to tell him no, but desperately praying that she wouldn't. His kiss was no more than a butterfly wing brush of his lips across hers. Memory surged...

She clutched at the back of his neck, driving her mouth onto his. After the first few panicked seconds, he was returning her kiss fiercely, forcing her mouth open, their tongues struggling against one another. Strong fingers scratched and clawed at him, leaving welts that would heal in hours - except in his memory, where he would trace her every touch over and over again in lonely days to come. He drove her back roughly into the wall and she lifted her legs to encircle his waist, holding even more tightly to him. Heaven was within his grasp, within the circle of his arms in the person of this one small woman...

Reminiscence faded as she drew back suddenly and looked up at him, a deep vertical crease forming between her brows. He knew that look; seldom had it gone well for him after that. He had always thought of that maddeningly endearing crease as her 'Buffy want' line, and in this case what she probably wanted was him, out the door - or out of town, more likely. He strongly resisted the urge to run his thumb over her forehead and smooth the furrowed skin there; instead, he licked his lips slowly to fix the taste of her once more in his memory. I am not going to fuck this up.

"Please," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "Just go. I can't... I can't do this any more. I won't. There's just too much pain in it - for both of us. I told you that I've forgiven you, and I have... but I can't ever be with you." He could see clearly that the only memories his kiss triggered in her were of his brutal attack last spring. Her screams echoed again in his mind, drowning out the other voices there.

Except that I already did fuck this up, long ago. Before his mouth could do any more harm to the woman he loved, Spike turned, pulled open the back door and was gone into the night. If he'd stayed a moment longer, he would have tried to cut out his own heart with one of her kitchen knives.

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

Part 17:

A New Beginning?

She stood in her room looking at the little grey box as though it might open suddenly and bite her. Taking a deep breath, Buffy picked it up and snapped it open. I'm not promising anything. They were a gift, and I'm only being polite by letting him see me wear them. But her fingers still shook as she slipped the delicate wires into her ears.

She turned in front of the mirror to inspect her appearance before heading downstairs. The long suede skirt swirled around her legs and the matching low boots. She reached up to adjust the high cowl of her white sweater around her neck and to tuck her hair casually behind her ears. The amethyst earrings sparkled brightly, even in the room light.

Dawn was bustling about in the kitchen with a purposeful air when she came down. Something smelled wonderful, and Buffy was forced to admit that Dawn was probably becoming a better cook than she would ever be. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

"Everything's under control," Dawn insisted, despite her flushed face to which tendrils of dark hair were clinging. She wrestled a covered dish into the oven and closed the door. "There. Nothing left to do but wait, now." She turned to inspect her sister.

Buffy suddenly felt as though she were the younger one, an impression only amplified by the fact that Dawn seemed to have grown four inches taller than her, all in one summer. She looked down to pick invisible lint from her skirt.

"You look great!" Dawn gushed, abruptly dispelling the illusion. "Are those some of Mom's earrings?"

"No, ah... Spike gave them to me. That is, he left them at the front door with a note one night," Buffy admitted. "I thought... I should let know that I liked them."

That's probably not all that you should let him know. Mind you, that means you'd have to admit things to yourself first. Dawn leaned in to have a closer look at the earrings. They were really gorgeous, she decided. "Can I borrow them some time?"

"What? No!"

Just then the doorbell rang, startling them both.

**********

He took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. He wasn't nervous, the collar of the turtleneck was just a little tight and he ran two fingers under it to adjust it. It wasn't black, it was dark green, thank you - though admittedly you had to stand in strong light to make the distinction. Likewise the trousers - not jeans - the girl at the thrift shop had assured him they were 'charcoal', and looked very nice on him, too. But the new shoes pinched; he missed his boots. Hearing women's voices on the other side of the door, he stood up straighter, cradled the wine bottle in one arm and tried to look unconcerned, desperately afraid they'd see through his charade.

Buffy opened the door and suddenly felt her heart stutter. It wasn't William at the door; it was Spike, all peroxide blond again and with attitude to spare. He was just standing there in the doorway; cool as the other side of the pillow. He tilted his head to one side with that look she knew so well, the one that said 'come fuck me'. Buffy cut off that thought sharply before it could go anywhere. Big scissors, thank you very much.

And oh god, the longing in his eyes as he looked at her and straightened, drawing breath to speak. He positively blazed, bathed in the light of the prosaic 60-watt incandescent in the porch fixture, alabaster skin seemingly lit from within. She thought it would burn to touch him - had burned, that desire; pain and pleasure inextricably mixed - and she couldn't face that fire again. Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face and she cursed it for a traitor, because he abruptly looked down and away. She felt an almost physical jolt as he turned his eyes from her, shuttering that incredible inner light, damping himself down so as to not torment her further.

His first thought, as always, was how beautiful she was - and how unconscious she was of her beauty, which only increased it. His heart skipped a beat, and picked up again in quicker rhythm. She's wearing the earrings. I have no right to expect anything - but she's wearing them.

"Evening Niblet," he said, looking instead at Dawn beside her in the doorway, though these were surely not the words he had originally intended. "And Happy Christmas a bit early if I don't see you again before the day. I understand we have you to thank for dinner tonight. I brought some wine I thought might do - maybe between us we can convince big sis to let you have a taste." He proffered the wine bottle to Buffy as though it were a peace offering. She held it awkwardly before her like armour against the intensity of his regard.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Dawn complained. "It's just spoiled grape juice."

They all laughed perfunctorily. "Takes a while to acquire an appreciation of some things is all," Spike observed. Buffy's hands tightened on the bottle. That was - was not - a comment directed at her. Her stomach roiled, and all at once she wasn't sure she could face even the thought of food.

Spike hesitated in the doorway. "May I come in then?" he asked quietly at last, and for a blinding moment Buffy was sure that he'd found someone to sire him as vampire again, a return to the inexorable killing machine he'd been, so that he could revenge himself on her.

She shook the thought away impatiently; Slayer senses detected nothing... not the slightest sign of the undead about him. Close her eyes, and she wouldn't even know he was there. His power over her was sourced entirely in her heart, and in his. "I didn't think you'd need an invitation anymore," she observed.

"The Powers may not require it, but manners still do," he replied.

"Then come in. We're glad you could come over tonight," said Dawn, as though daring Buffy to contradict her.

With a duck of his head that was almost apologetic, Spike came through the door, and Buffy shut it behind him. For a few awkward moments the three of them stood silently at the base of the stairs. Since neither Spike nor Buffy seemed to want to be the first to speak, Dawn jumped in. "Come on into the kitchen and we can open the wine." She led the way.

Once there, Dawn took the bottle from her sister's unresponsive hands and examined it closely, tearing away at the foil over the mouth of the bottle. "Jeez, Spike, this is California you know," she complained. "Couldn't you have found a bottle with a screw cap? I don't even know if we have a corkscrew."

Spike raised one eyebrow as though insulted, and Dawn laughed. With that, the ice in the room seemed to thaw slightly, though they still weren't speaking. Buffy rummaged in a small drawer beside the refrigerator and wordlessly presented Dawn with the corkscrew, which she promptly handed off to Spike along with the bottle.

He set the screw tip into the cork and twisted, feeling it bite deep. With it firmly seated, he braced the bottle with one hand and pulled. Nothing happened.

"Do you want me to--" Buffy began.

"No," he replied shortly, and pulled harder, finally being rewarded with a squeaking slide and pop as the cork slid free. Dawn ducked out momentarily, returning with crystal from the dining room cabinet.

He poured two glasses. The wine was golden and light-filled; something delicate and fruity that wouldn't be too overwhelming for an inexperienced palate. He wasn't sure if he meant hers or his own now. In any case, red wine would have looked too much like blood. He set the bottle back on the counter and picked up the glasses, handing one to Buffy that she accepted without comment.

"Go. Out. Go have your drinks and sit and talk, or something. I'll call you both when everything's ready." Dawn insistently shooed them out of the kitchen and into the living room. They were helpless to resist her, and ultimately found themselves staring at each other over the coffee table littered with Dawn's teen gossip magazines.

Talk? How can I talk? All her words had dried up, and seemingly Spike's had as well. Oh, there must be an apocalypse coming; Spike has nothing to say. He had always been at her before, to talk to her, to get her to talk to him; she had never thought there would be any situation where he would be at a loss for words.

"Why?" Unable to manage anything else, she waved vaguely at his hair. She sat at one end of the couch and he settled carefully at the other, far from her. He sipped at his wine deliberately before setting the glass down on the table.

"Why am I coming all Spike at you?" She nodded. "Trying to prove a point, I suppose. I could tell that you were setting up Spike and William in your head as two different men, trying to deal with how you feel about them. We're not different. That story about how a vampire is completely different from the original man? That's utter bollocks. Everything he did wrong is something I've done wrong. I know you don't like hearing that, but it's true. I'm the one who hurt you so many times, and now I'm the one who hopes he can be forgiven someday." He shifted position towards her on the sofa and reached for her hands, and she set down her glass in turn to permit the contact. Suddenly the floodgates had opened, and he couldn't stop.

"This isn't about trying to get you to love me now. Last year I encouraged you to turn away from your friends, telling you that you came back wrong, all to bring you closer to me. I knew you were using me, and I didn't care, because as long as you were, you would stay with me. I knew I could have only scraps from you, but I still came begging. I just wanted someone to love me - or someone that I could pretend did."

"And before you ask, I have thought about it. I can't go to Angel. We never really got along or had shared anything - except, on occasion, Dru's favours, and you know how well we managed that. He was born common and was desperate to ape quality; I was born to privilege and was equally desperate to shed it. And I always resented like hell the way he kept me - us - under his thumb. And now that I have everything that he's ever wanted..."

She drew back her hands, frowning. "That's damned arrogant." I knew this whole thing was too good to be true.

"I just meant - not you. I wasn't suggesting that--" he spluttered self-consciously, and struggled to recover. "I have a soul - but even better, I'm alive. Human again, when he's still a vampire, fighting the bloodlust and the demon constantly for control. I don't have to like him to respect how he must have to wrestle every day with that. And all because I don't know any better than to beat my gums in front of a powerful wish-granting demon. Angel could only see it as a vast cosmic joke at his expense; that I should be granted his fondest desire." I can be with you in the daylight, even if you never love me.

Buffy curled her hands into her lap thoughtfully. "It wasn't really as simple as that though, was it?" Without her conscious will, her mind cast back five years to remember all they had gone through, trying to win back Angel's soul. Jenny's reconstruction of the lost Gypsy curse; her death and the destruction of their first orb of Thessula; Willow's first steps into a darker world where immense power tempted her at every step. And in the end, none of it had mattered; though his soul had been restored, Angel's blood still had to be spilled to close the door on Acathla, sending them both to hell - only hers had been here on earth.

All of that for a soul, held for only moments before she had banished him; and now here was William in front of her, newly made man. Surely such a gift would have had a monstrous price. Another weight seemed to settle in her heart. She'd made him do this. She hadn't chained him up in his crypt and demanded he choose, but she was just as responsible as if she had. And he didn't have any idea. He'd faced who knew what tests and torments, all because he wanted to change for her. Would she ever bring anything but suffering to the people she cared about? Whoa, where did that come from?

"Well he certainly didn't clap me on the back and say 'clearly you are worthy'," Spike said, trying to lighten the suddenly oppressive mood. The truth about his trials wasn't something she ever had to know. Being Buffy, she'd find some way to blame herself for what had been entirely his own idea. Not the brightest idea I ever had, but why mess with tradition? He continued his story brightly. "In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was disgusted with me for taking such a backward step. He was a demon, after all, and to one like that, the desire for a soul must seem decidedly recidivist. Probably thought he would make it worse for me by making me human again, too. You know, 'man is but dust', 'mortal coil' and all that sodding nonsense? Hadn't the heart to tell him he'd actually done me a good turn. Didn't get it quite right, but it's actually worked in my favour."

She couldn't let it alone. So many things done in her name that she had no control over; she at least had to hear the whole truth from him. "William, I have to know. You said that you wanted your soul back because you loved me; I need to know what I made you do."

Bloody hell! She's still going to take it that way. "Since when did I become someone you could make do things, pet?" he asked with a smile. "You didn't make me love you, and you didn't make me go off in search of my soul, either. The former I just fell into one day..." Memories of a dream and the shocked surprise that had followed when he realized his heart knew more than his head. Head took a while to come around, but it had been inevitable from the very start. "And the latter was-"

A car horn sounded outside, cutting off his words. Dawn rushed past with a backpack, snatching up her coat from the peg. "That'll be Megan's mom. She'll give me a ride back tomorrow morning after the sleepover."

"Sleepover?" Buffy exclaimed. "You never said anything about-"

"It's a teacher work day tomorrow, remember? Gotta go! Everything's in the oven or on the stove ready for you. See you in the morning, Buffy." With that, Dawn was out the door and down the walk to the waiting station wagon before her sister could muster even the beginning of a protest.

Spike stood, walked into the dining room and took in the dimmed lights, the candles, and the table set for two with Joyce's heirloom china. "I think we've been set up."

"I know we have," Buffy said, coming up behind him. She ran her hands through her hair in a gesture of frustration then closed them into fists at her sides as she recognized what she was doing. "Damn her for pulling a stunt like this."

"She probably thought she was doing us a favour; giving us more time to talk alone." He cleared his throat pensively. "If this situation makes you uncomfortable, I can go," he offered.

"No. That's not necessary. You were expecting to get dinner, so that's what you'll get. You should, since it was probably your money that paid for it."

"I told you - that was a gift." I wish you didn't make it sound so much like a terrible punishment. "Don't put yourself out on my account. I can always head back to the crypt, get the chef to whip something up."

"Chef?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeh, you know. Boyardee?"

Buffy nearly exploded with laughter, clapping one hand tightly over her mouth to muffle it at the thought of Spike and ravioli from a can. She could just picture him, one dark brow raised as he contemplated the intricacies of the nutritional information label. She almost had it under control when the thought occurred to her that he might prefer beefaroni. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she gasped, when she finally could breathe evenly again. "It's not really funny."

"Yes it bloody well is," he laughed in turn. "Evil vampire returns from quest; having found source of bad jokes. Slayer dies laughing," he declared in his best American TV news anchor voice, sparking another round of helpless hilarity from her.

Soon she was leaning against the wall, one hand vainly attempting to stifle giggles while the other held her aching stomach. "Please, no more! It's your most evil plot ever."

Works a lot better than any of my other plots ever did. Too bad it took me this long to find out. The sound of her laughter was the music of heaven to his ears and he wished it would always be this easy to make her happy.

He waited to speak again until she calmed once more and was wiping laughter-induced tears from her eyes. "Why don't we just set the kitchen table with your regular dinnerware and eat in there?" he suggested. "Then we won't have to worry about manhandling the fancy crockery, and it will be that much easier to clean up." Seeing the relief in her expression that she didn't even try to hide, he knew he had made the right decision.

**********

He did his best during dinner to keep the conversation light and free of controversial topics. So instead he told her stories of glittering cities he'd seen around the world - without ever referring to his own activities there - and then of Clem's adventures while he'd been gone. He made her laugh out loud three times - he kept count.

When they were done, both Spike and Buffy reached for the serving dish at the same time, then dropped it in surprise to clatter loudly on the table. Buffy laughed nervously. "How about you clear the table, then I can wash and you can dry."

"All right."

"Maybe next time... the dishwasher will be fixed. Since we... came into some money," she offered tentatively.

He tried hard to contain his elation at the thought that he might be made welcome another time, and only nodded. "Whatever you decide to do with it, love," he said levelly. "I just want to help if I can."

She moved to the sink and twisted at the taps to fill the sink with hot, sudsy water. Spike decided not to press further, and began to gather up the dishes, stacking them beside the sink for her. He took up a dishtowel and stood ready.

When she handed him a plate his fingers brushed over hers and they both froze at the contact. Her hazel eyes widened as she looked up at him, and he knew a look equally deer-in-the-headlights had taken up residence on his own face. He took the plate from her gently and set it in the rack before they ended up dropping this one too, then laced his fingers in hers.

She was mesmerized by the sensuous rasp of his calloused thumb across her palm. "William," she breathed, her mouth gone suddenly dry. "Spike, I--"

"I love you, Buffy." It always came back to that. She was the true north for the lodestone of his heart, no matter how the world spun and twisted under him. He bent his head slowly, giving her every chance to withdraw, to tell him no, but desperately praying that she wouldn't. His kiss was no more than a butterfly wing brush of his lips across hers. Memory surged...

She clutched at the back of his neck, driving her mouth onto his. After the first few panicked seconds, he was returning her kiss fiercely, forcing her mouth open, their tongues struggling against one another. Strong fingers scratched and clawed at him, leaving welts that would heal in hours - except in his memory, where he would trace her every touch over and over again in lonely days to come. He drove her back roughly into the wall and she lifted her legs to encircle his waist, holding even more tightly to him. Heaven was within his grasp, within the circle of his arms in the person of this one small woman...

Reminiscence faded as she drew back suddenly and looked up at him, a deep vertical crease forming between her brows. He knew that look; seldom had it gone well for him after that. He had always thought of that maddeningly endearing crease as her 'Buffy want' line, and in this case what she probably wanted was him, out the door - or out of town, more likely. He strongly resisted the urge to run his thumb over her forehead and smooth the furrowed skin there; instead, he licked his lips slowly to fix the taste of her once more in his memory. I am not going to fuck this up.

"Please," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "Just go. I can't... I can't do this any more. I won't. There's just too much pain in it - for both of us. I told you that I've forgiven you, and I have... but I can't ever be with you." He could see clearly that the only memories his kiss triggered in her were of his brutal attack last spring. Her screams echoed again in his mind, drowning out the other voices there.

Except that I already did fuck this up, long ago. Before his mouth could do any more harm to the woman he loved, Spike turned, pulled open the back door and was gone into the night. If he'd stayed a moment longer, he would have tried to cut out his own heart with one of her kitchen knives.

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

Tea and Sympathy

I still hate it... but fuck, does it make sense when you're drunk. Spike set down his glass, unsure of exactly when it had become empty again. He looked from one end of the bar to the other, trying to find someone who could explain what had happened to it.

"Spike, I'm going to have to cut you off unless you give me your keys."

"Don't have keys," he mumbled. "Didn't drive here." He looked up at a tall, broad, dark-haired blur over the bar. Joey, he identified. Works weekends only because he's taking that cabinet-making course at the community college. Was ready to quit school when his girlfriend thought she was pregnant... Joey was the one who had helped him install some of the mirrors he had suggested, once Jake had okayed the idea.

"Even so, I think you should step outside for some air and take a break from the bottle for a while - or you'll be in for a world of hurt tomorrow."

World of hurt? What kind of people talk like that? You've been working here too long listening to this music, mate. He couldn't find the proper words to protest and so instead found himself rising unsteadily to his feet.

"I'll keep your place for you. And Spike? If there's anything you want to talk about..." he offered.

"Yeah, sure," Spike replied non-committally as he wove an unsteady path through the other dedicated drinkers to the patio doors.

**********

Three cigarettes later, his mood not at all improved though he was slightly steadier on his feet, Spike leaned over the rail of Desperados' patio, surveying the passing throngs. The fact that it was Sunday hadn't noticeably reduced the size of the crowds making their way from bar to strip club to blissful oblivion.

"Those things will kill you, you know," a familiar husky voice observed from the sidewalk below. He looked down into Allie's smiling round face.

"Was better off when I was dead," he muttered. "I think I'm the only man who can say that, and actually know it's true." He laughed bleakly. "At least then I didn't care what I did."

"Ouch," she murmured, not without sympathy. "Sounds like a bad day." She rummaged in her bag for a cigarette of her own. "Got a light?"

Spike reached down and snapped his lighter open in front of her. Allie steadied his hand with hers and directed the tip of her cigarette delicately into the flame. Her skin glowed golden in the flickering light.

"Come up and have a drink with me," he said suddenly, gripped by an emotion he couldn't name.

Allie paused and drew again on her cigarette. "You know I don't do bars, Spike," she replied, gently chiding him. "I don't like misunderstandings."

"It's one drink, I'm buying, what's to understand?"

After a moment's thought, she shrugged and waved acquiescence. She squeaked in surprise as Spike leaned out over the railing of the low patio and took hold of her by the waist, lifting her until she found herself seated on the rail.

Her nails were wine red this week, he noted absently, as she clutched at him to steady herself. She swung her legs over the railing and for a lunatic moment, Spike wondered if wondered if she had chosen her nail polish to match her underwear.

"Hey, you can't--" Spike turned to deal with Corey, who was advancing on them from his post at the front door. "Oh, hey Spike. Sorry, I didn't know it was you with that hair." He smiled engagingly at Allie, and Spike reluctantly introduced him to her. "Just let her use the front door next time, okay?"

"Well, I like the hair," Allie said with a grin when Corey had gone. As they walked back into the smoky darkness of the bar, she clearly also enjoyed all the male attention turned her way, right up until the moment Spike steered her to a secluded corner table. He waved over the nearest cowboy-hat-and-boot-clad server.

Tina smiled and rested her tray on one cocked hip. "Hey Spike, what can I get you?"

He dropped a twenty on the tray. "Tell Joey to set me up same as before, and..." he looked at Allie.

"I'll have a 'vampire's kiss' please," she said, with a wicked smile at Spike.

"You'll have Joey checking the Mr. Boston's on that one, that's for sure," Tina said as she turned away. "Be right back."

Spike just raised his eyebrows. "What?" Allie asked, laughing. "It seemed appropriate. And I never could resist those fruity girly drinks."

Tina was back in a few minutes to set their drinks in front of them. "Spike," she started, with a look of concern, "Joey thinks you should take it easy--"

"Yeah? Well tell Joey for me that he should mind his own bloody business! " Spike roared, turning to look back over his shoulder at the bar. Heads turned towards them from all around, and Tina recoiled. "I don't need a damn nursemaid either," he said to her. "Just do your job."

Allie raised her glass silently to toast this performance, and waited until Tina had retreated across the bar before she leaned forward. "So. Tell me about her."

"About who? Tina?" Spike asked, confused.

"Oh come on, Spike, don't play stupid with me because I won't buy it. The girl who made you end up here tonight. Look at you: new hair, new clothes - and new shitty mood. Of course it's a girl." She took a long swallow of her blood-red drink and then stirred the ice with the straw. "You didn't buy me a drink for the pleasure of watching me drink it. Just because you don't want what my... customers... usually want doesn't mean you don't want something. So talk."

He tossed back his whiskey and exhaled a long sigh as it burned its way down his throat. "It's not a one drink story," he warned.

Allie folded her hands around her glass and leaned forward. "So keep buying, and I'll keep listening as long as I think it's interesting. You won't get a more honest offer than that."

Spike looked down and watched as his fingers trailed abstract patterns in the condensation on his beer bottle. "All right then. Drusilla and I blew into town in the fall of ninety-seven..."

**********

The crowds had thinned and dispersed by the time Spike finished describing everything that had led up to the events of that night. Allie pushed her latest empty glass away and flopped back in her seat, shaking her head. "Boy, Spike, you sure don't screw things up just halfway, do you?"

Spike didn't answer. Retelling the events of times past and present was like reliving them, and he shook, fighting hard to control his emotions. No more for him the cool detachment of a mature vampire's emotions and knowing you had potentially centuries in which to contemplate your actions. No matter what he had claimed in the past, they had been pale imitations of the feelings coursing through him now. Hot blood, yes, and the curse of even hotter emotion, everything magnified a thousand times from what he recalled. Urgent hormones surged in his blood, crying fight! flee! destroy! run! in endless cacophony. He bit his lip and tasted blood.

He pressed his palms against the scarred tabletop, fingers splayed. "It's no wonder I horrified her," he whispered. "Right now, looking back, I horrify myself."

"I don't know, Spike," Allie said, matter-of-factly. "If I didn't know any of that, I would think you were an ordinary guy. I did, in fact, when I met you. A little intense, maybe..." She laughed and tipped a last ice cube from her glass into her mouth, crunching it energetically.

He lowered his eyes, and a broken laugh escaped him. "I was such a thing as to make the very angels in heaven weep." He nodded. "She was right to tell me no. To tell me go. I was stupid not to see it."

"I can't connect all of what you told me with the decent guy sitting here in front of me," Allie countered. "It sounds like something out of a melodrama - a bad melodrama."

"You haven't lived on the Hellmouth long enough," Spike said darkly, but was denied further commentary by the sight of Tina approaching the table.

"It's last call, you two. Is there anything else I can get you?" Tina eyed Spike warily - as she had all evening - as though he were a volcano that might erupt again at any moment.

"We've had enough," he said; words that would gladden Joey's little interventionist heart, he was sure. "I'll settle up." He pulled a much-reduced stack of folded bills from his pocket. Peeling off a few, he handed them to Tina. "Keep whatever's left for your troubles, love."

She offered him a hesitant smile before turning away, and he rebuked himself and tallied one more relationship that would need rebuilding.

Allie's warm fingers closed over his on the last of the folded bills. "I'd never tell you no, Spike," she said softly, holding his gaze. "Would you like to... take a walk with me? Have that good time I promised you the first time we met?"

I couldn't drink her away. And talking about her only makes me want her more. I just want to blot out my memories... Be that decent guy Allie thinks I am... He didn't reply, but his eyes closed and his fingers released their hold on the cash. Allie swiftly stowed it in her bag before he could change his mind. She took him by the hands and pulled him up to stand next to her. She slipped one arm about his waist and they made unsteady progress out into the night.

They made it across the street in a stumbling, three-legged progression and leaned heavily against the wall of the alley. Spike took a deep breath and pulled away. "You don't have to do this," he said, looking away.

"You're right, I don't," she replied. Spike's head snapped up again to look at her in disbelief. "I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. So maybe I want to."

"I can't... I'm not a good man," he insisted. "I don't deserve--"

"Oh, Spike," she sighed. "You're as good a man as any I've ever met, and a damned sight better than some, let me tell you." For an instant her professional demeanour seemed to slip and reveal a weary, frightened woman behind the mask - but the moment passed before Spike could be sure of what he had seen. "I don't see anyone else around this part of town who gives a damn whether we live or die. But you... I've seen you out on the streets after work, or even on your days off, looking for vampires."

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her observation. "That's what I do best." While it didn't - couldn't - begin to pay back the debt he owed, it was the one thing he'd trained decades for and knew he could do well - he could kill. If now he was on the side with the good guys, so much the better.

Allie took advantage of his moment of introspection to slip her arm around his waist again, drawing him close. "I'm sure there are other things that you do just as well." He surrendered to the sensation and let his arm slide around her in return. Perhaps he didn't deserve it, but it suddenly seemed an offence against his new-won humanity to refuse the comfort being offered him.

Some of this last he must have said out loud, because Allie laughed abruptly. "Yeah, a regular comfort woman, that's me." She tightened her hold on him and dropped the fingertips of her free hand to rest lightly on his belt buckle. "I know a place..."

But as though her movement had been the permission he had been waiting for, his body was suddenly seized with a raging need and desire, and he crushed her rounded form tightly against his, clutching at her as though fearful she'd be taken away.

Allie laughed again, but this time husky and low in her throat. "Well. Somebody's impatient. Let's at least get out of sight of the street."

Together they drew back into the shadows. When they had found a darkened doorway alcove, she pulled a small, square foil packet from her bag before she let it drop to the ground and handed it to him. He just looked at it, uncomprehendingly.

"It's a condom, Spike." She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "You know, condom?"

"I know what it is," he replied, stung. "Just never had much use for one before."

"Well if you don't, you won't now, either," she said, pulling away. Spike caught her around the waist and drew her back.

"B'fore this, I was dead," he reminded her, running an unsteady finger of one hand from the point of her chin down her throat. "Wasn't really a concern."

She considered this. "What about before you died?"

Spike just shook his head mutely.

"You mean you died without ever...?"

He nodded then, feeling an unreasonable vague shame. It hadn't been for the lack of opportunity, but rather because young William had striven to be a gentleman's gentleman, to whom such things were anathema. No, he corrected himself with brutal honesty, because such things were terrifying.

"I wasn't ever very successful with the ladies," he admitted. Or with anything else, when I was alive. "Since there were so many things I didn't think a gentleman of breeding was supposed to know about." Oh, but I made up for it afterwards, I did, shagging and slaughtering my way through the ranks of London's whores. What else could I do, when Angelus kept both Darla and Dru for himself, leaving me to watch?

"So it's almost like I'm your first, then," she said, her voice lilting with unreleased laughter. She leaned forward into his embrace and nipped at his earlobe. "In that case, I promise I'll make it really special for you." Her warm breath at his ear was dizzying, and he suddenly knew he would do anything for her, if only she would keep on touching him.

Sure fingers tore open the foil covering the condom. "Here, let me help you with that." Allie reached for his zipper, and his flesh jumped at her touch.

He slid his hand down behind her knee and lifted her leg, then let his hand glide up her thigh to lift her short skirt. She turned her face away when he would have kissed her, so instead he rained kisses down her neck to her shoulder, pushing aside the strap of her top.

She didn't smell at all like-- Don't think. Don't think. He braced his hands against the coarse bricks of the alley wall, feeling the gritty brick dust abrade his palms, and lost himself in her.

"Ah, sweet... that's so good," she sighed, as her fingers raked his hair. Blood thrummed hotly in his veins. They rocked slowly in time together in pleasure against the rough wall, but under his lips the pulse in her neck forcibly reminded him of just how many other throats he had left torn and bleeding.

Human senses and human desire warred with conscience, and lost. How could she possibly want him, knowing what he had been?

Allie sensed the change in him, and she tugged his head back until he was looking into her eyes. "You think you want her to touch you like this. Gently." She trailed her fingers softly down his face. "Because she loves you."

He flinched as though her fingertips would sear his skin. "Please, I..."

"But I know what you really need, Spike. I'll always know what you need." Under his shirt, her nails suddenly dug into his skin, drawing blood. He hissed, and lost all semblance of control, exploding into her. "Pain and pleasure, sweet. There really isn't anything else."

But he still held her close for some minutes, after.

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