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Buffy placed her hand over the cold, metal doorknob and turned tentatively. A warm rush of air from the living room welcomed her as she entered. Joyce was sitting on the couch, wringing her hands together, and looking quite the nervous wreck. Buffy cleared her throat and Joyce glanced over at her, standing up, her eyes filled with expectation.

"Oh, Buffy, it's you. I was starting to worry that you'd run into some trouble . . . did you find Spike?"

"Yeah, I found him," she mumbled, "Kinda wish I hadn't."

"Did you find out why he ran off so quickly? I thought he wanted to talk to you . . . that's what he came for. I was very conf -"

"No, no, he . . . um . . ." Buffy ran her hands through her hair, attempting to calm her nerves, "That didn't really come up in our - our conversation. We were both kind of on edge, and . . ." she trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"What's the matter, Buffy?" Joyce queried, breaking the silence, "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, mom, I just -"

"Buffy." She took her daughter's trembling hand in her own, studying her face. "I can tell there's something bothering you . . . it doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

Buffy sat silently, thinking, her face turned to the floor. Joyce dropped her hand and sat back down on the sofa.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just feel that sometimes it helps to get what's bothering you off of your chest . . ."

"It's not me!" Buffy blurted out, her cheeks flushing crimson, "I mean, it's not me that I'm worried about," she continued, "it's a friend. A friend of mine. She has this problem . . ."

She slumped onto the couch next to her mother, sighing heavily.

"She . . . she likes this guy. He's also a . . . friend, kind of. I mean, I guess he's a friend, I haven't really considered it . . ." she paused, taking a deep breath, continuing, "He's totally wrong for her; everyone knows that. Hell," she scoffed, "even she knows it. But . . . he's also right at the same time." She rolled her eyes. "God, am I even making sense?"

"You're fine, honey. Go on."

"So . . . they used to be enemies. Fighting all of the time and, hey, things were easier for her then. She knew just what to say and how to act and -react- around this guy . . ."

Joyce raised a slim eyebrow in suspicion.

"Or, um, so I'm told," Buffy stammered, "I mean, we were talking about this the other night, so I - I guess that's why it's on my mind."

"So . . . it hasn't been an issue since just now? Their feelings?"

"Well . . . there were signs."

"Signs?"

"You could . . . tell that there was something between them. The way that they looked at each other and especially how he acted around her when it was just the two of them . . . um, she told me about that, too. No one else seemed to notice, but it seemed so obvious to her."

"What brought it up?" Joyce asked. "The subject of your friend and your . . . other friend? Why was that the right time to talk to you about it?"

"They kissed."

"Really?"

"Yeah . . . last night. She - she called me right afterwards, all confused about her feelings, needing my help."

"You said that they were enemies, your two friends. Why did they . . . what happened that changed all of that?"

"Oh, yeah, well . . . something happened that brought the two of them together. An act of God, I guess you could call it," she snickered, "though I doubt God would have had anything to do with it. He needed to be helped . . . sort of, and so I - she," Buffy covered quickly, blushing furiously, "took him in. Can't turn down the weak and helpless, that's the way she is. All noble like that."

"So after she took him in, then what happened?" she asked.

"Things just started falling into place. She realized that he wasn't such a bad guy after all, and he . . . he started liking her too, I guess. Can't really get into his head . . . unless you have a truth spell," she murmured, under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking to myself. So things kind of . . . escalated. He finally admitted his feelings to her, and she, well, freaked is a way of putting it lightly. Ran away only to come back the next day to find him gone, moved to God knows where."

"What happened?"

"Well, she runs into him later that night . . . or rather, he runs into her. They argue a little, flirt a little, and she ends up kissing him. She runs away again, and, well, that's the last time she's seen him."

"She doesn't seem very emotionally stable."

"Huh?"

"Your friend. She seems like she has . . . issues. Running away from him twice because she can't face her own feelings . . . come to think of it, it doesn't really seem too fair to him, either."

"No! He's the one with the issues, not her! He thinks that they can be together, although he knows damn well that they can't because he's . . . unemployed," she lied, blushing crimson at the lameness of her cover-up, "and she would, um, -never- be with someone that's unemployed. It goes against everything she fights for." She shrugged, attempting nonchalance. "Besides, she's had a bad experience with deadbeats in the past."

"She fights against unemployment?" Joyce asked, her voice filled with good- natured humor.

"Yeah, she works for the government, handing out welfare checks. She, uh, doesn't believe in wasting our tax money."

"Can't he just get a job?"

"It's not that easy," she groaned, sighing, "it's never that easy. It doesn't matter if it feels right; it goes against her nature. Besides, what would her friends think? I can tell you, they'd hate it. Probably think he'd have cast some kind of spell on her. You might not think it, but her friend's opinions matter a lot to her."

"What does her mother think?" Joyce queried.

"Huh?" Buffy looked up at her.

"I said, what does her mother think?"

"Oh, uh, I, um . . . I don't know. That didn't really come up in our . . . chat. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I think you've made it pretty clear that this girlfriend of yours feels something for that, um, boy, but doesn't want to act on her emotions because her close friends wouldn't approve. Would it make a difference if her, oh, say, mother approved?" Joyce said, a sly twinkle in her eyes.

"I - I, err, it might make a difference. Maybe her mom's seen a different side of him than she has," Buffy said, realization dawning on her, "he usually plays the macho card when he's around people. Especially her."

"Listen, Buffy, it's not her mother's decision whether she dates him or not, nor is it her friend's decision. You need to tell your friend to make up her own mind, be her own person. I know how hard it can be to go against your friend's wishes, but she really does need to make relationship decisions on her own. To follow her heart," she said, patting her daughter's hand lovingly, "She won't be happy until she does."

Buffy considered this for a moment before drawing her mother into a hug. "Thanks, mom, that's good advice." She pulled away, smiling slightly. "You're one smart lady."

"You're welcome, Buffy. Now, if you don't mind, this smart lady's going to retire to her bedroom."

"So soon?" Buffy asked, pouting, "I thought we could stay up and talk."

"Soon?" Joyce smiled, pointing to the kitchen clock, "It's almost three in the morning, sweetie. I know I'm no college student, but isn't three still considered late?"

"I think it's early, technically," Buffy teased, standing up and heading for the door, "I should get going to; I'd like to have a few hours to sleep before classes . . . or a few hours to write that paper, at least."

She hugged her mother once more before opening the front door and allowing the chilly night air to wake her up. "Good night, mom, thanks for taking the time to talk to me. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. Isn't that what moms are for?"

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It had been two weeks since she had last seen him, the two longest weeks of her entire existence. At least it felt that way to Buffy. There had been times when she had been tempted to run to Spike's crypt, say that she loved him, and give him a hug. But she realized that she couldn't; life is never that simple, as she said so herself. Buffy thought (and after two weeks of mulling it over, it started to sound normal) that she really did care for Spike. Was it love? She sure as hell didn't know, but whatever she it was, it was strong. The feelings she had, at times, threatened to overwhelm her, and she had to sit down and take a breather. The 'talk' that she had had with her mother had been an eye-opener, to both herself and Joyce, but still hadn't solved her problem.

'Is it love?'

That was the question of the week (or weeks), the dire problem with only two solutions, as Buffy could see it. Either she did, in fact, love Spike and would tell him, resulting in romance and lots of smoochies, or she could say that she didn't, and in this scenario, he would leave Sunnydale, never to return. The thought of the latter gave Buffy the chills.

'But there are other possibilities,' she reminded herself, 'He doesn't have to leave. We could . . . stay friends, just good friends. Or . . . I could say that I don't love him and he's so distraught that he stakes himself.'

She groaned, burying her head in the palm of her hands, entwining strands of hair around her slim fingers. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Buffy,' she thought, 'he wouldn't -kill- himself. His whole life doesn't revolve around you; just . . . keep telling yourself that and you'll be fine. You need to make this decision by yourself, for yourself; mom said as much! I have to do what's right for me . . . even if it does crush Spike's heart.'

Buffy groaned again in frustration, pressing her fingertips against her temple in a hope to alleviate the pounding in her skull. No such luck. She craned her neck up as soon as the phone rang, her head throbbing harder in protest of the shrill noise. Buffy picked herself up off of her bed slowly, making her way to the phone across the room. It rang again and she wobbled over to it, her legs shaky from sitting for a number of hours. She picked the phone up before it had the chance to ring again, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and ear.

"Hello?"

"Buffy, it's Giles. I need you to come down to my house immediately for a meeting. From my research, I've gathered that something big is coming. Something evil."

She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes.

'Just what I need.'

"Couldn't I just -"

"Buffy," he interrupted, "it's of the utmost importance. Willow and Xander are already . . ." he trailed off, and she could hear a voice pipe up in the background. He sighed, and resumed speaking, "Yes, Anya, I was just about to tell her that you were here. Buffy, it's of the utmost importance that you -"

"Save the spiel for someone that hasn't heard it fifty million times. Slayer equals keen responsibility and no fun. I'll be right over."

She slammed the phone back onto it's cradle, feeling very much in a sour mood. Buffy wanted to stamp her feet in frustration, but knew that it wasn't the time to throw a tantrum. She had to be the adult and go see what Big Bad was stirring up in Sunnydale.

'Why can't someone else be the 'chosen one' for a change? Can't a girl sulk in peace?'

Grabbing her coat, she left the dorm, but not before making sure to slam the door extra hard on the way out.

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An old black and white horror picture was playing on the television; the actor's mouths moving wordlessly, as if in a silent movie. Spike sat on the dusty bed, tracing his index finger around a spring that was protruding from the thin mattress material. He sighed; taking a sip from the mug of pig's blood, finding that he had already drank it all. Glancing down at the empty cup, he dipped one finger onto the cup's edge, collecting some of the liquid that had gathered there. He took his finger out and placed it in his mouth, sucking on it until it was clean, and then repeated the action.

'Pathetic,' he told himself, 'Sitting here waiting for Buffy to show up, although you damn well know that she's not gonna come. You've been waiting for two weeks, get out and kill something already!'

"I can't," he whined to himself, "I've got this chip in my head, and I can't hurt anything. Not a bloody thing. Might as well be a vegetable."

'At least vegetables don't sit around and mope all day,' he chastised himself, 'that's all you do anymore . . . scourge of Europe, reduced to a simpering little git. Sad.'

"Look, I did what's best, tellin' her to find her own way . . . it was the right thing to do. The right thing," he repeated, in hopes of convincing himself, "And I won't have you, err, me, telling me otherwise."

'But didn't you want her to stay? Don't you enjoy being with her?'

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Course I do, but that's not the point. It's healthier for both of us if we just . . . go our separate ways 'till she can figure herself out. 'Sides," he said, narrowing his eyes and nothing, "why are you pushing me? What are you, the devil on my shoulder? Where's the angel?"

'You haven't got an angel; you're a vampire.'

"Why am I talkin' to myself?" he said to no one in particular, "Maybe bein' holed up in this crypt is drivin' me round the bend. That'd be great," he scoffed, "Buffy comes to see me and I'm a soddin' looney toon."

'So go out and get some fresh air,' he urged himself, 'Go to the Bronze or to Willy's. Just do something!'

"Alright," he said, his voice filled with false confidence, "I'll do it. Tonight, I'll do it."

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The car pulled up to the drive and Buffy stepped out onto the curb. Sighing, she walked up to the front steps of the house and rang the doorbell. She listened to the ringing echo throughout the house and waited patiently for the door to open. And waited. She knocked on the door, a knot of worry forming in the pit of her stomach. A few minutes later she knocked again, only to find the door creak open at her touch.

'It's unlocked? Why would Giles . . .' She stepped into the house to find it dark, empty.

'What the hell?'

"Guys, where are you?" she called nervously. "Giles? Willow? Xander? Anya?"

Her fingers fumbled for the light switch but she stopped once she heard it. Shallow breathing, accompanied by shuffling noises.

'Someone's in the house . . . and they've done something to my friends.'

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Part 15:

Disclaimers: This isn't mine, not at all. Though I wish it were.

Feedback: Everyone that gives me feedback can have a cookie. The double chocolate chip kind.

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for their kind comments. I feel so evil for leaving all of you at a cliffhanger like that, but it had to be done. Because . . . umm, I'm sick and twisted and like to make you suffer (but not for too long). Enjoy the upcoming Spuffiness!

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She listened intently, running her hands over the wall in an attempt to find the light switch.

'Aha!' she thought, as her fingers hit the switch on the wall. She flicked it on immediately, a bright yellow light flooding the room.

A loud: "Surprise!" echoed throughout the house as her four friends jumped up from behind the living room couch, grinning widely.

"Ah!" she cried, stepping backwards and tripping over the table in the middle of the living room.

Willow ran over to her, worry on her face, reaching a hand out to help Buffy up.

"Buffy, are you okay?"

Her hands shook as she brushed the hair out of her face.

"Wh-what were you guys doing?" she asked, her voice shaking, "Why were y- you waiting like that?"

Willow frowned, furrowing her brow. "Don't you remember what day it is?"

Buffy sat up, rubbing her sore backside. "What, 'Give Buffy a heart attack' day?

"Is that a holiday?" Anya queried.

"Buffy . . . it's your birthday."

She arched a slender eyebrow, confused. "Huh? Are you sure it's my birthday? I think I would've remembered that."

Xander turned to her. "It's been on the calendar for weeks, Buff. Granted, we've only been planning this for days, but still . . . you really don't remember your own birthday?"

Buffy blushed, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "I-I guess not, if it really is my birthday today. My mind has kind of been . . . preoccupied."

"Are you okay, Buffy? You've been acting pretty strange lately. Spacey."

"I'm fine. I mean . . . college is stressful. But things are getting better, I think."

Willow smiled warily. "Okay, as long as you're all right. And, um, sorry about that almost giving you a heart attack thing."

She smiled back, trying not to show her shock at not remembering her own birthday. "Well, I see balloons, and streamers, and cake . . . but where's the presents? I don't see any . . . I guess they could be really small. And good things come in small packages: money, jewelry . . . Buffy."

Xander grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We all figured that since Giles' place isn't exactly party central that we'd move it on over to the Bronze. Your presents are there."

Her face lit up in a genuine smile; she had wanted to spend some quality time with her friends, lately, where she could just forget her troubles for an hour or two. "Dance party? I'm all for it . . . just let me get my coat."

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They showed up at the Bronze at 9 p.m., and it was packed. The dance floor was jam-packed with a sea of writhing, sweaty bodies bumping and grinding to the dance music provided by the live band.

Xander led the way to a corner booth behind a table covered with presents. Buffy grinned, sitting lightly on the cracked red vinyl.

"Are these all for me?"

Xander smiled sheepishly. "Well, Anya did want to take about half of them for herself, but-"

"Hey!" Anya squealed, jabbing Xander in the chest with her elbow. "You promised not to talk about that!"

Buffy grabbed the first present next to her, and shook it roughly.

"So, what's in here?"

A sound of broken glass tinkled and she set the present down, embarrassed.

"I guess I'll just save that one for last."

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After all of the presents had been opened, Buffy sat in the afterglow of the unwrapping fury. She smiled at her friends and at the pile of new things next to her.

"Everything's so great, you guys, thank you. This is the best birthday I've ever had without knowing I was having a birthday!"

"Come again?" Xander asked, confused.

"I think that means she had a good time," Willow said, smiling. "And I'm glad that you liked it."

"But you know, all of that present opening made me thirsty. I'm gonna go get a drink. Anyone want anything?" Buffy asked.

She made her way to the Bronze's bar to make her order, taking a seat on the barstool. The skinny bartender turned to her, placing her hands on her hips.

"Whadda ya want?" she asked, grumpily.

"Umm, two Cokes and a Mountain Dew."

The woman turned her back to her, grumbling something about 'damn teenagers'. Buffy sighed, tapping her fingers on the counter impatiently.

"Rough night?" came the question from the man next to her, the one sipping from a dull silver flask.

"Look, I really don't feel like . . . Spike!" She yipped, finally having gotten a glimpse of the man's face. The chiseled cheekbones and striking hair were unmistakable.

He grinned at her before taking another swig. "Don't look so shocked, luv."

"W-what are you doing here? Are you stalking me?" As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretting them.

Spike's mood soured at her accusation, and he turned away from her.

"I -have- a life outside of you, you know. Just 'cause I happen to be in the same place at the same time, doesn't mean that I'm followin' you. S'not like you found me hangin' around your house or something."

"Right, I-"

"And -I- was the one that said we should get some space. So why would I be stalkin' you now? Doesn't make any bloody sense, if you really think about it."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

Spike arched his eyebrow; Buffy could practically hear the gears in his brain working.

"So what are -you- doing here?" he asked, finally, "Maybe you're the one doin' the fatal attraction bit."

"It's my birthday." She said, shrugging. "I'm celebrating."

"Really? So how olds' the birthday girl? Late thirties?" He teased.

"No!" she squeaked, "I'm nineteen!"

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just sayin' . . . you must've had a hard life, if you're only nineteen and you look like -that-. What with all the wrinkles around the eyes."

"Oh, yeah, keep talking, old man," she countered, "Is that a bald-patch I see? Yes . . . all that bleach must be killing your follicles."

Spike's eyes widened, as he groped at his hair. "What? Where?"

Buffy barely restrained a giggle, her mouth curved up into a smile. His eyes narrowed, and he dropped his hands to his side. "Right, right. Very funny, you got me. Make jokes at the vampire with no reflection."

"Ah, you're no fun," she pouted, "Play the reflection card and get me feeling all guilty."

They sat in awkward silence, Buffy staring into her red, plastic cup of Coke, watching the bubbles rise and pop at the surface. Spike cleared his throat, fingering the flask.

"I've missed you," he said, finally.

"I - I've missed you, too," she choked out, surprised at her words.

"You did?" He asked, arching his eyebrow.

"Yeah . . . I guess I did."

The band began playing a slow song and Buffy found her gaze wandering to the drinks. 'Drinks . . . oh, man, they must be wondering where I went. I should've returned ten minutes ago!'

"Look, Spike, I've gotta -"

"I understand, Slayer," Spike said, not bothering to look up from the counter. "You've got friends to tend to."

She rised herself off of the vinyl barstool, balancing the cups in her arms.

"Buffy?"

She turned to look at Spike, who was still sitting with his head down.

"Happy birthday."

Buffy looked down at the drinks in her hands, and set them on the counter. 'It's not like they're going to go flat if I leave them for a minute.'

"Spike?"

He turned to her, his face questioning.

"May I have this dance?"

Spike looked confused, his eyes cloudy. "But I thought we were going to -"

"Dancing doesn't constitute kissing, does it? Besides," she added, "it's my birthday. This could be your present to me."

He nodded, getting out of his seat and taking Buffy's out-stretched hand, leading her to the dance floor.

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To be continued . . .

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He led her to the dance floor, and she couldn't help but notice how cold his hand was against hers. It didn't bother her, however; it wasn't a bad kind of chill.

'Chill of death,' she thought, but brushed it aside. 'It's my birthday, and I should do what I want. Death be damned.'

The slow, melodic tune played softly as couples swayed in time with the music. As he took Buffy into his arms, she couldn't help but appreciate the strength of his muscles.

'God, do I sound like a preening little git, or what?' She blushed heavily at her thought. 'No way did I just use British slang! Too much Spike on the brain, I guess.'

Buffy leaned in closer to him, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder.

'Perfect fit,' she thought, 'I could get used to this.'

She found herself entranced by the rhythm of the music, and closed her eyes in contentment. As soon as Spike pulled away her eyelids snapped open, as she realized the song was over. The band had moved on to a fast dance number reminiscent of swing music. She looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes.

"Song's over, luv," he said, his hands still holding hers.

"I know," she replied, "Just got lost in the moment, I guess."

He shifted his weight back and forth nervously. "So . . ."

"Yeah. I should . . ."

"Yeah." He looked down and, realizing he was still holding onto her hands, dropped them quickly. "Sorry. Guess you kind of need those back."

Buffy rubbed her hands gently, smiling. "Well, I didn't mind them so much where they were." Sighing, she glanced over at the bar. "But I really should be getting back. My friends probably think that I'm dead or something."

She stood on her tiptoes until she could reach Spike's face. Buffy smiled, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Spike. Thanks for making this birthday . . . memorable."

He smiled at this, making his way to the bar and picking his duster off of the stool. "Goodnight, pet. And don't mention it."

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Willow picked up a shred of wrapping paper from the table, crumpling it into a small ball. Drawing her hand back, she took aim for the garbage can ten feet from where she was seated. She released the ball, and all three of them watched as it hit the rim and fell on the steadily growing mound of paper at the side.

"I'm bored," Anya whined, looking up at Xander, "And I'm thirsty. Where's my diet Coke?"

Xander rolled his eyes, annoyed. "What, do I look like I'm hiding it somewhere? Buffy's the one getting the drinks. Speaking of which," he added, "where is she, anyway? The bar's not that busy."

Willow sighed, picking apart a bow with her fingers. "I don't know . . . maybe she had to go to the bathroom."

"Yeah, or maybe she decided to get the soda directly from the factory," Xander scoffed. Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright fluorescent lights of the dance floor, he surveyed the room, but finding no trace of Buffy.

"We haven't been ignoring her, so she couldn't have gone Marcy . . . could she?" Willow asked, her eyes filled with sudden worry.

"I'm sure she's fine, Will," Xander said, in hopes of comforting his distraught friend, "She's probably out getting the drinks as we -"

"I see her!" Anya piped up, pointing out into the crowd of people. "She's dancing."

"Are you sure?" Willow asked, scanning the room. "Would she really just leave us to dance with some cutie?"

"That's Spike!" Xander screeched, his eyes growing wide with disbelief, "She's dancing with Spike!"

"Huh? Huh?!" Willow repeated, having finally spotted her friend on the dance floor, "What - but - she - I - what is she doing?"

"She's dancing," Anya said, rolling her eyes, "I think it's pretty obvious." She stared at the couple on the floor, smiling wistfully. "They look like they're enjoying themselves."

"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Xander said, still shocked, "It's gotta be a spell! Thrall, that's it! She's under his thrall!"

"Does Spike have thrall?" Willow queried.

"Well, obviously! Look at Buffy, having to dance with that peroxide fiend; and on her birthday, even!"

"It doesn't look like she's complaining to me," Anya said, smiling, "Why don't you ever dance with me like that, Xander? It looks like fun."

"Because I'm not evil!" he spat out, scowling, pushing his chair away and standing up, "And I'm going to put a stop to this."

"No need," Anya said, "The song's over. But don't worry, sweetie; I'm sure you can be needlessly heroic some other day."

They watched, stunned, as Buffy pulled away from Spike, smiling coyly, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Xander stood there with his jaw to the floor as Willow looked away, her eyes wide.

"I told they were enjoying themselves."

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Buffy made her way over to the bar and picked up the three soft drinks that were now lukewarm. 'They won't notice,' she thought, balancing the cups in her hands as she walked over to the table she had been occupying. Setting the drinks down on the counter, she glanced up her three friends and stopped in her tracks.

They were all staring at her; Xander, with an expression of horror on his face, Willow, who looked quite confused, and Anya, who was grinning happily.

"Jeez, guys," Buffy said, chuckling nervously, "What happened since I left?"

"Spike!" Xander blurted out, "We saw you dancing with Spike! Why? For the love of God, why?"

Buffy blushed, her cheeks turning a deep crimson. "Well . . . um . . . I did. So what?"

"You and Spike aren't exactly . . . best friends," Willow said.

"It's disgusting!" Xander said, angrily, "It's Spike!"

"Spike is -not- disgusting!" Buffy said, perhaps a little too loudly, and she blushed even harder. "I mean, I had fun, and it's my birthday, and I can do whatever the hell I want. And, God, Xander, we were just -dancing-; it's not like you caught us making out or something."

"Oh, oh God, no!" Xander cried, pressing his hands up against his ears. "That's a visual I really don't need right now!"

"What's your problem, Xander?" Buffy asked, placing her hands on her hips angrily.

"It's just . . .we're worried about you, Buffy. You and Spike aren't normally . . . so friendly. We just want to make sure that nothing's going on and that . . . you know what you're doing," Willow piped in.

"What I'm doing?" Buffy asked incredulously. "I was -dancing-! Don't you think you guys are overreacting just a little? Spike didn't have to put a spell or something on me to just get him to dance with him; he's not that pathetic."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Xander said, shaking his head.

"You know what? I - I can't deal with this right now," Buffy said, grabbing her coat off of her chair and tugging it on. "Until you're willing to talk to me rationally, Xander, I don't . . . I just don't know."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Spike left the Bronze, sauntering down the alleyway. It had been a great night, he thought, and was glad that he had pushed himself to get out of the crypt. And meeting up with Buffy, dancing . . . it had been a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak two weeks.

'Maybe she really does love me . . .'

"Spike."

Stopping in his tracks, Spike turned to see who had called his voice. He found, however, that he was alone.

"Who's there? Buffy?"

"Spike, come here."

Arching his eyebrow in suspicion, Spike followed the sound of the voice, warily. The person (whoever it was) that was calling to him was in the alley next to the Bronze, and Spike approached it cautiously. 'This is a set up,' his inner voice told him, 'Don't do it, you idiot, don't go in that alley. Just walk away.'

Spike knew, however, that if he ignored the voice that it would bother him for the rest of the night. He had to find out who was calling him. He stepped lightly and carefully as he entered the alleyway, searching in the dark for the person that had been calling to him.

"Who's the-"

The sentence was cut off as Spike was tackled and knocked into the hard cement floor. He groaned, feeling quite stupid, and rolled over to face his opponents. He attempted to lift his legs and get up, but found that several supernaturally strong enemies were pinning him down. Struggling to get free, his eyes widened worriedly as a tire iron was raised over his head. It smashed down on his head; it was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

To be continued . . .

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Buffy shrugged her coat over her shoulders, half-running, half-walking out of the Bronze.

'Well, this night's been . . . fun. No hugs and puppies here, that's for sure.'

Ignoring her friends' cries to stop, pushing her way past a waitress ('Are they really waitresses? Or are they bartenders?'), she made her way outside into the cool night air. She drew a deep, relaxing breath, the chill of the air making her nose red. Breathing a sigh of relief, she started to make her way home until she heard sounds of a struggle in the alleyway next to her.

'Great, great . . . slaying. Just what I need to make my day complete.'

Running towards the alley, Buffy stood with her hands on her hips, cockily. Two vampires were hovering over their helpless (and unconscious) victim.

"I'm here for the party."

She watched as both of the vampires turned, befuddled.

"Weren't you expecting me? I thought my invitation just got lost in the mail . . . no matter," she quipped, hauling one of the vampires off of the ground and slamming him against the wall, "I brought gifts."

The other vampire rushed towards her, and she dodged to the side. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face him, landing a punch square on his jaw and sending him sprawling. Grabbing a stake from her jacket, she knelt over him, plunging the wood into his chest with a satisfying 'thwump'.

'One down, one to . . .'

Buffy turned around to face her opponent, only to find that he had vanished.

"Go?" she finished aloud. "Hey, where'd you go?" She ran to the end of the alley to find it empty, to her dismay. "Come on, I wasn't finished yet! I need to work out some more tension!" Her lip stuck out in a pout, as she made her way back down the alley.

"Spoilsport . . ." she grumbled.

Spotting the figure crumpled on the ground, Buffy ran over to the victim, worried.

'Please don't be dead . . .'

Rolling the person onto their back, her eyes widened in shock as she recognized the person in front of her.

"Spike? Spike!"

She shook his shoulders roughly, in hopes of waking him up. He groaned a bit, but didn't move, so she started to slap his face lightly.

"Spike, wake up! Come on!"

Her hand raised to slap his cheek again and he caught it, rubbing the side of his face gingerly.

"God, Slayer, what'd you do to me?"

Buffy smiled wide with relief, resisting the urge to hug him.

"I-I was just trying to wake you up."

He sat up slightly, moaning in pain. "That's not what I was talkin' 'bout, luv. I mean this bump on my head. What did I do to deserve it?"

Her heart sped up at the accusation, and she couldn't help but feel a bit insulted.

"I didn't, I wouldn't! Well, maybe I would, but . . . I found you this way. I was leaving the Bronze and these vampires were hovering over you all menacing. I thought that you were their victim or something."

"Right, right . . ." he touched the lump on his head warily, wincing with pain. "I remember now. Buggers jumped me, right after I left."

"Spike," Buffy sighed, "what did I tell you about starting bar fights?"

"Bar fights?!" Spike said, his voice tinged with frustration. "Didn't start any fight, Slayer. Why is your first reaction to go off and accuse a fellow like that? It hurts, it does." He touched his head again. "Though not as much as bein' nailed in the head with a crowbar."

Her brow furrowed in thought.

"Well . . . they must have had some reason for attacking you like that. I mean, people don't usually tend to attack someone for no reason. Maybe they thought you were someone else . . ."

"No, no, they couldn't have. They called me by name, called me into the alley."

Buffy snorted in laughter. "And you just followed them? What are you, stupid? That's the oldest trick in the book."

"I didn't see 'em, Slayer. I . . . I thought it was you."

This caused her to chuckle again, despite the situation. "What, those two -male- vampires sounded just like me?"

"Well . . ." his eyebrow raised and a devilish smile grew on his face. "You do have that masculine voice of yours."

She blushed furiously. "What?! No, I don't! Hmm . . . now that you mention it, it is more manly than yours. What with the snotty accent and the 'pip-pip's and 'cheerio's. Didn't anyone ever tell you Brits that Cheerios is a breakfast cereal?"

"Snotty?" Spike scoffed. "Right, I'm snotty. Real upper-classman, that's me to a T."

Buffy smiled wickedly. "Hey, not all of us can be poets like you, William."

His eyes widened and he clamped a clammy hand over her mouth. "Don't ever call me that, Slayer. And I -wasn't- a poet, you understand? You'd do best to forget about that little . . . incident we had."

"Why not?" she asked, pushing his hand away and smirking.

"Because . . ." he said, his eyes glinting evilly, "if you say a word about that to anyone, I'm going to let it slip about that box you have stored under your bed."

She gasped loudly, smacking him on the shoulder. "How-what-I-were you going through my things?!"

"Cannot tell a lie," he said, smiling widely, "I needed blackmail material in case you ever decided to reveal my . . . past to the public. S'good payback."

"If I'd known that you knew about that, I wouldn't have stopped to save your sorry ass."

"Hey, I can't help it! You know I can't fight back; I'm as harmless as a kitten up a tree!" Spike shrugged, a melancholy expression on his face.

"Harmless, yeah . . . Can you imagine how many baddies would get their hands on you if they found that out?"

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

The vampire made his way into the room, worried. It would have been better to have let the Slayer stake him; his death would have been less painful this way. He was almost positive that she was going to kill him.

He'd failed her.

Entering the large room, he glanced up at the woman standing before him.

"Where is he?"

"I - I . . . the Slayer. She found us and she . . . she got Marcus. I had to leave, or she was going to kill me, too. I needed to get the information back to you that we . . . we didn't succeed."

"What is to be done, I wonder? To bring him back to me?"

"We could . . . we could go back and get him. When he's at his crypt or when . . . when she won't be around. I won't fail again."

She smiled slightly. "No, you won't." With a wave of her delicate hand, two minions were at her side. The vampire's eyes widened with fear.

"Tie him up . . . I'll play with him later."

Trailing her fingers over his face, she smiled slightly. "You have a good idea, though . . . I will find him. I will go and I will find him."

Drusilla turned to her minions, her eyes filled with wicked glee.

"I will bring my dark knight home."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

To be continued . . .

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

"I'm just saying, maybe you were too hard on her."

Buffy entered the house and listened to the tense (and rather loud) conversation in the living room. She immediately recognized the voices to be those of Willow and Xander. Deciding that she'd rather not get into an argument at the moment, Buffy snuck up the stairs and into her room. Slipping her coat off and onto the floor, she lay down on her bed, snuggling into the comforters contentedly. However, to her dismay, she could still hear the conversation that was taking place downstairs.

"She was dancing with -Spike-! Don't tell me that isn't at least a 6 on the weirdness factor."

That was Xander's voice, most definitely.

"He's evil, and he's soulless, and they're not exactly friends of the dancing persuasion. I just think something fishy is going on."

"Well, okay, so they're not best friends or anything . . ." Willow countered, "But it's not like Spike's some huge threat anymore. He can't attack anyone -"

"Or so he claims," Xander scoffed.

"They did a spell, Xander, a truth spell. I already told you that . . . and if he could hurt anyone, I'm pretty sure he would've gotten to the killing already."

"Who's to say he hasn't? Not all spells go perfectly; I know from experience."

"Okay, let's say he isn't harmless, just for arguments sake," Willow said, sounding a bit flustered, "What are we supposed to do about it? Barge into his . . . wherever he lives, and confront him?"

"I'd say a good staking's in order."

"Xander, you know we can't do that. You have no proof other than your . . . your stupid feeling that Spike's lying. If you take into account the whole not biting me, you, or anyone else; your theory is kinda blown out of the water. And why are you so livid about this anyway?" Willow stopped, sounding suspicious. "You weren't like this before . . . until tonight! Oh, oh, you're jealous!"

"J-jealous? Of that bleach-head? Ha! Don't make me laugh!" Xander stuttered.

"You are!" Willow said, "You're jealous that Buffy was dancing with him!"

"No! It's just that . . . I don't . . ." he paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "Okay, maybe a little. BUT," he added, "I probably would've been jealous seeing Buffy dance like that with -any- guy. The fact that it was Spike just worsens the whole situation. Them dancing together . . . it's just wrong." He seemed to shudder internally at the thought. "She shouldn't be that close to her arch-nemesis without some punching being involved."

"I agree that the . . . thing we saw tonight at the Bronze was weird," Willow said, "but it's not -that- strange. I mean, okay, yeah, Spike did try to kill us all at one point or another, but he's . . . different now. He can't hurt anything. And we don't spend every waking moment with Buffy . . . maybe they bonded when we weren't around. I mean, remember that time when we came home and Buffy had untied Spike?"

"How could I forget?" Xander said, sounding exasperated, "I had nightmares about it for a week? I come in, make some comment, and he stands up and rips my throat out. I hope it's not one of those prophetic dreams," he mused.

"Maybe there's nothing more to Buffy and Spike dancing than . . . just dancing. I mean, it's her birthday, and if she wants to get her groove on, who are we to stop her?"

"Yeah . . ." Xander said, sounding a tad guilty, "Maybe I should apologize to her when she gets here." He paused, thinking. "Why did we come here anyway, Wills? How do we know that she's not at the dorm?"

Willow sighed. "I guess we don't. But what's more comforting than home? I know that whenever I get into an argument, the first place I tend to go is Buffys house."

Xander raised a questioning eyebrow at her, and she shrugged.

"What can I say? Joyce makes a mean cup of cocoa. I just . . . I figured she would be the same way."

"Wow, you really know me well," Buffy said, heading down the stairs to greet her friends. She had decided it was time to make her presence known.

"Buffy!" Willow exclaimed, surprised.

"Hey, Buff, we were just talking about you," Xander said, attempting to look nonchalant.

"I know," she said, entering the living room. Xander looked nervous, and Buffy had to suppress the urge to grin. 'Let him worry,' she thought, 'he was such an ass over at the Bronze that he deserves a little . . . discomfort.'

"Er . . . umm . . . how long were you up there?" he asked.

"Oh, say . . ." she pretended to look at her watch. "About ten minutes."

"Wow, you must have been really quiet," Willow piped up, "we were here for about an, um, an hour waiting for you."

"You don't say," Buffy replied, her voice cool and distant. She set a stony glare on Xander, and he started to fidget under her gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice laced with remorse (as well as more than a touch of anxiousness), "I didn't mean to make such a . . . to cause a scene over at the Bronze. It's your party and you can dance if you want to."

"Well, thank you Xander, for giving me permission," Buffy said, "Can I cry if I want to, too?"

"Huh?" he asked, confused.

Buffy shook her head. "Lame joke, never mind."

Willow, the silent observer, decided she'd better speak up.

"I'm sorry too, Buffy, we don't mean to get all . . . fussy at you. It's just that we were all worried about your little dance-a-thon with the living dead. Sorry if we ruined your party," she added in a small voice.

Guilt washed over Buffy as she realized that she really wasn't mad anymore, at either of them. 'They planned the party in the first place, and I guess they were just trying to look out for me. Willow was right; they don't know the situation so they can't possibly know how to react to something like that. I mean, how would I have felt had I seen Willow dancing with Spike?' Buffy was surprised to realize that, not only would she be more than a little shocked, but also at the moment, the thought made her . . . this couldn't be right . . . jealous!

Buffy felt like smacking herself upside the head, just to gain some clarity. 'Come on, Buffy, the -thought- of Spike dancing with another girl makes you jealous? That's pathetic.'

"Um, Buffy?" Willow asked, confused.

Upon realization that her friends were staring at her, Buffys thoughts snapped back to the matter at hand.

"Oh, right, sorry," she muttered, suddenly feeling very aware of herself, "Consider it forgotten."

Xander visibly relaxed, and Willow gave her a beaming smile.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," she said, giving her friend a hug.

"I'm sorry, too," she responded, "You were only concerned and you -did- plan the whole party thing for me."

"Hey, don't forget me," Xander piped up, "I helped, too."

She released Willow from her grip and smiled at him. "You don't get a hug, but you do get a Buffy patented grin."

"Oh," Xander said, "I guess I'll just take my presents back, then," he joked.

"Nu-uh, you already gave them to me, so they're officially mine. You'll have to pry them out of my cold, dead hands."

Xander grinned, cracking his knuckles threateningly. "Zat can be arranged," he said in a horrible Russian accent.

Buffy rolled her eyes, turning her attention to Willow. "Soooo," she said, ignoring Xander's attempts at humor, "Do we have cake?"

"Double chocolate," Willow said, smiling.

"I got it!" Xander cried out, and both girls looked at him, confused.

"Uh, the joke . . . Buffys joke, I got it."

"Great, and in only . . . five minutes," Buffy joked, "Wow, your best time ever."

Willow walked to the kitchen, picking up a plastic-wrapped cake that looked absolutely delectable. "And she said: 'Let them eat cake!'"

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Spike sat in his crypt, thinking. It had been weird, what had happened that night. Interesting, no doubt, but strange.

'Buffy dancing with me . . . getting jumped in the alley . . . all adding up to one unforgettable day. Unless I get whacked on the head again, and in that case . . . goodbye Spike, hello William the Bloody Vegetable. And what -was- that little Spike-bashing trip about? I mean, I'm all for a spot of violence now and then, but not when I'm the one getting whacked over the head with a sodding crowbar! I can't even fight back, and that's not fair! At least when I used to munch on humans, they could at least put up a fight. Yeah, not very well, but they didn't get these bloody shocks whenever they . . . s'just not fair. At least shoulda let me have a running start.'

The door slammed open and Spike was jolted from his thoughts, standing up abruptly. 'Buffy's back?'

He watched nervously as a large group of vampire entered his crypt. Two, three, four . . . he counted the number in his head, and estimated about six total . . . and more kept coming.

"Let me guess . . . no running start?"

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

TBC . . .

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Buffy walked down the cemetery's muddy path, her steps light to match her mood. Her heart was pounding in anticipation, an idiotic grin plastered on her face. She knew that she shouldn't be that excited, that it wasn't that big a deal.

'But it is!' she thought 'It's patrolling. Okay, so I do that every day, but I've never patrolled with Spike before! I mean, yeah, he can't hurt any demons or dust any vamps, but he's there for . . . moral support. When he offered to go patrolling with me, what was I supposed to say? No? Besides, 4 out of 5 Slayer recommend it, so it has to be good. Maybe if some of them had had more support, they wouldn't have ended up so . . . dead. And, yeah, I died, but I didn't -stay- that way; and that's what's important, right?'

A massive crypt loomed before her, and Buffy stopped in her tracks. She knew that it was Spike's place; there was no doubt in her mind. She lifted her leg to kick the door in, but paused, and lowered it.

'I think he's earned this.'

Knocking on the door gently, Buffy waited patiently to be let in. And waited. After a few minutes had passed, she knocked again, this time faster and more impatient than before. Realizing that he wasn't going to open the door for her, Buffy frowned with frustration.

"Spike, I'm coming in!" she hollered, slamming it open with a swift kick. A loud "crack" boomed throughout the residence, as the cement of the door splintered from the abuse it had received.

Buffy scanned the crypt, finding it empty. Her mood soured; she wasn't in the mood for games. "Oh, Spike, look at the poor, little door, she called out with mock sorrow, "I must have kicked it too hard. And if you don't stop playing hide-and-seek, I just might have to do that to your face."

She waited, hands on hips, for a reply; she was tired of messing around. When none came, a small tinge of worry mixed in with her anger, as she searched the room to find him.

"Spike, where are you? Look this isn't funny; I wasn't kidding around when I said that door thing earlier! Fine, I'll just have to go patrolling without you." She turned to leave when something in the dusty recliner next to her caught her eye. A familiar leather duster was draped over the chair.

'His duster? Why would Spike leave his duster? He never goes anywhere without it; it's like his security blanket or something.'

Buffy started to walk over to it when she nearly tripped over a coffee table lying on the floor. It had been knocked over from its original position (she doubted that Spike kept it on its side); the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach grew considerably. Stepping over the table, her boots crunched on something on the floor. Bending over, Buffy picked up the ceramic shards that were littering the ground. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when she found that they were covered in a sticky red fluid . . . blood. Rubbing the liquid from some of the shards, she read the words printed there. One piece said: "Kiss the" and the others fit together to spell: "librarian".

'Giles' mug? Spike must have taken it from his house when he left. But why would it be on the floor, and . . .'

A puddle of blood was cooling on the floor, and she dipped her finger into what she figured were remnants of Spikes dinner. It was still warm.

'I don't like this . . . Spike wouldn't make a patrolling date and just leave without saying anything. The duster, the table, the mug . . . it's all so suspicious. Something's wrong here . . . and I'm gonna find out what.'

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Spike groaned, shifting around on his bed in an attempt to find a comfortable position. He had had that dream again, where the vampires come into his crypt and attack him, and because of it he hadn't slept well all night. Besides that, he had a pounding headache. He rolled onto his back, surprised when the chill of concrete met his exposed flesh. 'Did I fall off the bed again?' he wondered, slowly opening his weary eyes. Various machines of all kinds, surrounded by scraps of metal, met his gaze.

He sat bolt upright from the floor once he realized where he was. The factory. 'It wasn't a dream . . . 'twas a dream that it was a dream. Wish I could keep these things straight.' The memories of that night came rushing back to him, and he cringed. They had come into his crypt, when he was nice and relaxed, 6 or 7 of them. He had tried to make a run for it, but they had caught him, having the advantage of strength in numbers. He struggled, they bashed him over the head again, and then . . . 'I woke up here'.

Glancing around the room, her noticed that it was empty. 'Maybe I can escape,' he thought, although he wasn't too eager to find out what they would do if they caught him in the act. Standing up quickly, he started to walk away . . . but found himself being pulled back. Tugging at his hands and legs, he realized that he had been chained to the wall.

'Why didn't I notice that before? Guess you could chalk it up to the massive head wound I've got . . . they could've least tried to hit a -different- spot this time,' he thought, touching the bump on his skull gingerly. When he put his hand back down, he noticed that his fingers were red and sticky with blood. 'It's a wonder I even know my own name right now . . . coulda got internal damage or whatnot.'

Sitting back down on the concrete, Spike resigned himself to the fact that he would, indeed, be forced to wait it out for the time being . . . until whoever it was that was holding him hostage decided to make their presence known.

He didn't have to wait long.

A door to his right opened with a creak, and he turned his head to watch as vampires started filing in. A lump formed in his throat as he sat, waiting for them to finish so he could accurately judge the number he would be facing. The door finally shut, and Spike's eyes trailed over the bodies in the room. Six . . . ten . . . twelve . . . maybe twenty or so total, all of them minions, it seemed. Being a master vampire, he knew power when he saw it; there wasn't enough power in the lot of them to fill a thimble. He couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed that fledglings had taken him down. William the Bloody, 120-year-old vampire and ex-Scourge of Europe . . . reduced to a sniveling waste of a demon with a nasty headache. How quickly things change.

The minions stood about, fixing and sorting things, talking amongst themselves. Watching them with a wary eye, he tried to catch a glimpse of what it was they were fussing over, trying to judge exactly how much danger he was in. They seemed oblivious to his presence, working quickly to prepare -something- for their master. Spike sighed inwardly, feeling a twinge of longing.

'I was like that, once . . . dozens of followers that wanted nothing but to fulfill my every whim, on their knees to serve me. ME, a master vampire. I was feared and respected by all that I came across . . . now I can't even strike fear in the heart of a sodding kitten. So here's a question that begs answering: who would want me? Pathetic, worthless shell of a demon that can't hurt a bloody fly . . . One of those military gits, maybe, but a vampire? Makes no sense.'

A hushed reverence fell over the crowd of vampires as their master entered the room. They stood aside as she walked by, parting the like the sea itself. Spike watched from the floor, trying to get a better look at who it was . . . if he would even recognize her. He caught a glimpse of long, brunette hair, and a strange feeling of familiarity washed over him.

'That looks like . . .'

"Drusilla," he whispered, his strength lost at the mere sight of her.

Pushing her minions from her path, she walked over to him, her steps graceful. Clapping her hands, she signaled for her followers to leave the room. Panicked relief swept over Spike; he knew that she wouldn't kill him . . . for now . . . but she probably wouldn't be too happy to find out what he'd been doing for the past few months. Not happy at all.

"Spike," she replied in the lilting tone he had grown so accustomed to. Lowering herself to her knees, she kneeled in front of him, taking his face in her cold, bony hands. He shuddered inwardly, and pulled himself from her touch. Frowning, Drusilla grabbed his hands in hers, pressing them to her bosom. "You were lost," she continued, peering up at him, "I was searching for you. Following the signs."

"Signs, yes," he murmured, gazing into the muddy blackness of her eyes, "Gotta have signs. W-here were you, all of this time? Looking for me?" He watched her press his hands closer to her chest, as if she wanted to pull him in with her, making them one. Spike forced himself not to pull away, although his hands ached from her grip. He didn't want to upset her.

"All the kingdom was lost for want of . . . a knight," she said, her eyes glazed over, "My black knight, my prince. The stars told me you were lost; they don't lie, as is accustomed. Pixies whispered things to me, about you, about everything. They told me to find you, to come for you . . . you were need me."

"Actually, um," he cleared his throat, "yes. I-I do need you. Very, very badly."

Her eyes shone with happiness at his words, and he couldn't help but feel the smallest pang of guilt.

"But," Spike continued, "I can't be with you unless you, uh, untie me. Could you do that for your d-dark prince?" His nervousness caused him to stutter, his lies evident.

Drusilla's eyes narrowed, and she pulled away. "You're lying," she uttered, her voice cold, "They were right . . . told me all, I didn't listen, but I heard . . . the signs pointing me to . . . to -her-."

His stomach jumped up to his throat at the realization that she knew everything. 'Ludicrous, me thinking that she wouldn't know. She always knew my secrets, even if I tried to hide 'em.'

"I'm here to reclaim you." She stated it as if it were fact. "They told me to reclaim you, make you love me again, make you come home." Drusilla looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Come home."

He sighed loudly. "I can't, pet," he said, trying his best to sound remorseful, "This -is- home. Not the factory, of course, but Sunnydale. I've lived here too long just to . . . I've got a cushy place in the cemetery, I've got friends - well, acquaintances, really - and I've got things to do. Not that I wouldn't love to go with you, but I just . . . can't."

She pulled away from him, turning so he was facing her backside.

"You can't because you love her."

"That's not the only reason, luv," he said, trying to calm her.

"I can fix it," she said, her voice suddenly filled with hope. Spikes heart sunk to the bottom of his chest; this definitely wasn't something he wanted to hear.

"F-fix it how?" he asked, although he was dreading the answer.

"I can make it better . . . rid you of that thing you feel for her. I can." Turning back to him, he noticed she was holding a small, clear bottle filled with water. Holy water.

"I can burn it out."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

To be continued . . .

Part 20:

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Buffy threw open the door with a bang, wincing at the sound of wood cracking.

'I hope that's fixable,' she thought, examining the long crack in the thick oak panel. Entering the dorm room, she searched the premises for a familiar face. 'Come on, Willow, where are you?'

Setting the black duster on her lap, she reached for the telephone, picking it up and cradling it between her shoulder and ear. She listened to the drone of the dial-tone, gazing down at the familiar jacket, running her fingers down the worn leather forlornly. Looking at the duster, her thoughts went immediately to Spike. 'I hope he's alright . . . he probably just lost track of time, but . . . something doesn't feel right.' The scent of cigarettes wafted throughout the room, and it took her a minute to realize where it was coming from.

'The duster . . .' Setting the phone back on it's cradle, she picked the jacket up, and brought it up to her face slowly. Inhaling deeply, the smell of cheap liquor and old cigarettes pervaded her senses. Buffy smiled. 'It even smells like him.'

She was so fixiated on the duster that she didn't even notice when the door opened.

"Umm, Buffy?"

Swerving her head around, she saw Willow standing behind her, looking confused.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Me? Uh, I'm, uh," Buffy stammered, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." She shot Willow a grin that was far too large and toothy, before she realized that she was still fingering the duster in her hands. Buffy chuckled embarrassedly, tossing it on her bed. She stood up and wiped her palms on her jeans, walking over to close the door. When Willow looked at her questioningly, Buffy explained, "Privacy. You know those drunken college students, always, umm, listening into private conversations."

"Riiiight," Willow said, setting down her things and sitting on her bed. She turned to Buffy, smiling weakly. "So, what's up?"

"Have you seen Spike?" She blurted out, her cheeks turning rosy. 'Oh, right, sound a little more obvious, why don't you?'

Willow's smile faltered. "Spike? I wasn't exactly hanging out at the bars or something . . . not that Spike is a drunk or something," she covered, "I just - why do you want to know? Did he do something?"

"Nah," Buffy sighed, grabbing a pillow from her bed and hugging it close to her, "I . . . we had this, um, thing set up where we were going to go patrolling tonight. I came to his crypt, and - funny thing - he wasn't there. Now I don't know if he just forgot, but . . . it wasn't just that he was gone. There was this table knocked over, and . . ." Buffy racked her brain to remember all of the things that she had seen in the crypt that night. "Oh! There was a mug! A, um, mug of blood that was on the floor, cracked and broken. And get this - the blood was spilled all over the floor."

"Buffy? Just because Spike is a lousy housekeeper doesn't mean that there's a reason to get all panicky. I mean, it's not exactly the shock you might think it is."

Buffy cast her expression downward, embarrassed. It was a weak reason to be worried, she knew, but still . . .

"That's not all, Will," she continued, "His duster was there, too, just sitting on a chair."

Willow's smile faded, her eyebrows knitting with concern. "Hmm . . . that's kinda weird. He goes everywhere with that thing. It's like his -"

"Security blanket," Buffy finished, excitedly, "I know! Everything was just so fishy. The whole situation stunk of fish."

"So what are we supposed to do about it? I mean, if something really is . . . going on?" Willow asked.

"Well that's where you come in," Buffy explained, "and this." She lifted the duster from the bed, handing it to the Wiccan.

"I need you to do a spell for me."

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He didn't mind torture, honestly.

It could be fun, used during sex . . . there was nothing wrong with a little S&M here and there, doled out evenly. Being a vampire, he enjoyed bloodplay. Whips and chains . . . he was expert in the stuff. But this . . . this was -torture-.

"Dru, love," he wheezed, wincing when his bonds rubbed against the open wounds covering his chest, "Could we break for a while? Maybe . . . take a breather?"

He chuckled dryly at the unintended pun. 'Vampire . . . needs a breather. God, that was bloody weak.'

Drusilla had her back turned to him, sifting though the various instruments of torture piled before her. He didn't have to see her face to know she was smiling. She loved it when they begged, he remembered.

"Naughty puppy," she growled, turning to face him. He cringed inwardly when he saw the sharp dagger she was holding. She hadn't used that one, yet. "Mummy's not nearly finished."

She fell to her hands and knees, crawling over towards him like a lion stalking it's prey. Drusilla watched him through heavily-lidded eyes, smiling sexily. She made her way to his limp, bloody body, lifting her skirts and straddling him. Her fingers played on his chest, tickling the unmarred skin but causing him to wince in pain whenever her long nails dug into his wounds. Rising the dagger from the floor, she gently tickled him with the cold, sharp edge, pressing lightly enough as to not draw blood.

"We've been playing for near an hour now," she continued, watching the knife as it traced the marks on his torso, "The sun has set but the children have yet to be called in. The headmistress allows them to continue their games. They sing songs, with their sweet, little voices, like Ring Around the Rosy and London Bridges. Dancing in circles and holding hands."

Spike, had he not been in such a situation, would have rolled his eyes. He hated it when she did this, rambling on about nonsense; it was quite irratating. Part of him wished that she would just dust him and get it over with. Running the knife over his battered torso, her eyes grew foggy and distant.

"London Bridges, falling down, falling down, falling down," she singsonged, "London Bridges falling down -"

"For the love of God, Dru, shut up!" Spike shouted, mustering up as much strength as he could, "Leave the songs to the kiddies, okay!? I'm already being tortured, you don't need to add to my pain by singing that . . . crap!"

He was breathing heavily, feeling slightly triumphant.

She fell silent, and Spike's unbeating heart leapt to his throat. Drusilla was most dangerous when she was upset, he knew this from experience.

"Pet," Spike pleaded, hoping to calm her, "I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, luv, I adore your singing. Please, I just -"

His voice caught in his throat when she lifted her head, her demon visage shifted into place. Her yellow eyes were watery, but her mouth was a thin line, her expression stoic. He shouldn't have let his frustration worm it's way to the surface, he was sure of that now. 'Stupid, stupid vampire,' he chastised himself.

"You used to love our songs," she pouted, "You used to beg me to seranade you, and we would dance . . . dance underneath the stars. -Our- stars."

"Dru, I-"

"The stars are dying," she cut him off, "She is killing them. I need to get them back, Spike, I need them . . . they need you, too. It's too dim without them . . . too dark. Everything is dark," she finished, her voice thick with emotion.

"I didn't mean to upset you, pet," Spike said, "The stars are still there."

"You're lying," she said, her voice seething, "I need to make you feel it again. I need to reclaim you."

She bent down, lowering her mouth to his neck. She sucked on it lightly, fangs grazing the unmarred surface, before she bit into the sensative flesh. Spike gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut. No one had marked him for . . . centuries; he had lost track of time, it had been so long. The demon in him was howling with rage, but his heart sank. 'It's a show of dominance . . .' he thought, and then, 'I've forgotten how much this hurts'.

He listened as Drusilla lapped up his blood, moaning with pleasure. She finally withdrew her fangs, a smile on her face, and pressed her lips against his with force. He ignored the kiss, but couldn't help but taste his blood on her lips. She eventually pulled away from him, and Spike found himself licking his lips. It repulsed him, but the urge to feed was great. Her minions had prevented him from eating his evening meal, so it had been a day since he had last drank anything. She smiled at him lazily, then shifted over to the other side of his neck.

Spike's eyes widened in surprise; he had hoped that she would have been sated the first time. 'Apparently not,' he thought without humour. She bit into him again, deeper this time, and Spike realized that her goal now wasn't to feed, but rather to scar him. 'Claim her territory . . . can't she just piss on me or something? Would hurt a hell of a lot less.'

Drusilla pulled away quickly, but the smile on her face had vanished. She collapsed to the floor, holding her head and moaning. "No," she gasped. She stilled, then got to her feet quickly. Clapping her hands together twice, minions flooded into the room. Spike noticed a few of them murmuring and pointing, some of the males grinning and chuckling at him. He did his best to give them his deadliest glare . . . although he knew he wasn't very threatening when he was shackled to the floor.

"She is going to ruin it," Drusilla whined, "The Slayer is going to wreck my beautiful plan . . . all of the work. She cannot." She faced the fledglings, her voice deadly serious, "Stop her. Use whatever means . . . she cannot have him back."

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To be continued . . .

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