CHAPTER 1

Champion.

Bloody hard to believe that she'd really called him that. Harder still to believe that she's really meant it. Most difficult of all to work out what he actually felt about it, beyond the fact it was bleedin' ironic that Spike, Slayer of Slayers, has just been knighted the pussy-whipped 'Champion' of a third.

He'd wager good money that someone on high was pissing themselves over this.

Almost subconsciously, Spike raises the amulet into his line of vision. He knows it's probably not a good sign that he's finding such a gaudy, tacky piece of jewellery so fascinating. It's heavy with magic, he can sense that much at least, and use of such things almost never ends well. But Buffy trusts in its power, and trusts him to wear it, and so he's prepared to take that risk. He's always been prepared to play the odds; not shame in going down fighting.

Going down a bleeding champion.

Spike groans loudly and rests his head against the wall behind him. He'd like to think that it is the amulet that is making him go soft and gooey about the champion shit. Stupid word, the kind of nancy-boy label that Broodboy would covet and he should mock. And yet as he tests the word on his tongue, runs his fingers over the amulet, Spike thinks he could come to like this new title. He certainly liked the look of respect and admiration in Buffy's eyes and the way her warm, strong fingers lingered on his for a second on his when she knighted him as such.

That's gotta be William making an appearance, he figures. His old self is getting braver by the day. He remembers being a little boy, dreaming of adventure and glory, of protecting the Mother country against heathens and usurpers and villainous kings of the non-Anglo variety. Lived and breathed those legends he had; although perhaps less for the warfare than the chivalry. Innocent times.

'Cause, he'd since learned there are drawbacks to that admiring-from-afar part. Got some practice at that lately. Too much practice.

Nothing he didn't deserve, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Bollocks to that Champion crud then.

It's just not him.

Whatever Buffy hopes, whatever romantic dreams she's crafted, Spike knows he's not fighting this war for any noble purpose. He's not Peaches, with a grand fate and world-changing destiny and a yen to help the helpless. And thank God for that, because he doesn't really want to have to brood over the fate of tossers he has never met.

No, Spike is honest enough to admit that the only reason he's here is because it's Buffy's fight. And God knows he stands by his girl. Stands by her until the end of the world, if that's what it takes. Even if that means he has to face the Great Beyond dressed worse than Elton John.

Not a pleasant thought.

Spike closes his eyes against another rising tide of melancholy, sighs deeply and almost enjoys the harsh, real feel of sharply exhaled air grinding over a parched throat and raw nerves. Nerves, that what it is. Catching from the slaylets upstairs. He longs for a good dose of Johnny Cure-all to take the edge of it all, but this isn't the time for drunkenness, and he knows better than to start on the stuff when he probably can't stop. Considers lighting a cigarette instead, then remembers he's all out of those too.

Fucking lack of foresight. Always hits him at the worst of times.

Resting his head against the wall, Spike allows the noise from the upstairs rooms to wash over him. The nervous titter of the little girls, the hushed drones of Willow and her new bird - best not linger on that too long, lest it remind him of what he can't have - Anya and Xander's nightly squabble.

Sounds of companionship, camaraderie, of life he doesn't, and can't, share.

It's times like these, the quiet, lonely times, that Spike misses Dru. Been a challenge, she had, what with her mad babble and her lunatic schemes; the raving that grated on his softest of nerves. But despite her madness, her fragility, she'd been company for a century, and usually good company at that. She'd needed him, allowed him to tend her, loved him as best she good. He'd been happy being a part of something, and he misses that. Knows in his heart that he misses the constant and familiar presence of another, the comforting familiarity of a partner and friend.

He'd never admit it to Buffy, but the amulet kind of reminds him of a trinket he and Dru liberated from Bulgari on one stormy New York night. The memory coaxes forth reluctant smile, his dark queen sprawled across a countertop, decked in nothing but oversized jewels. A fun night, that was, they'd reeked a little mayhem, done their damage and left. Should probably feel bad about the whole thing, but really doesn't.

Further proof he got one twisted soul.

Spike gives the amulet another healthy swing. Pleasant memories or not, it's still the tackiest lookin' thing he's ever seen. Ironic that his fate should come down to big, sparkly jewel; not quite the effulgence William was looking for. But it's better than nothing.

It'll do. For now.

And so Spike sits in the basement and waits for Buffy to need him.

Waits for the end of the world.

If it really was the night before the End of the World, then someone forgot to tell Mother Nature.

All around Buffy, Sunnydale's remaining citizens are going their business. Chirping crickets play up a storm, moths and un-identifiable buggy things swarm around the porch light, a frog croaks from it's watery home in the neighbour's pond. It's life as usual for those creatures lucky enough not to know better.

And yet, even admit the racket, it's all so strangely quiet and still, like she's walking through a surreal dream world. There's no hum of passing traffic, no drifting tones of too-loud radios or chatter of couples out on an evening stroll, not even the ever-annoying and usually inevitable screaming of the Nguyen children fighting over bedtime toys. Sunnydale's more intrusive inhabitants have fled, leaving a host town nestled in an aura of impending doom. So heavy, nearly tangible, is the air of expectancy that it's as if the air itself understands that something is coming.

Buffy knows she should appreciate this unusual quiet, that she'll long for silence tomorrow, when sounds of war will rage and burn and scream through her ears. But tonight the quiet is far from comforting. It's ferocious, menacing, a cunning ally of the living, creeping darkness and nightmares. She wonders idly whether this night will leave another scar on her psyche, whether the calm will now always remind her of an approaching storm, a likely apocalypse, the last hours before the end of the world.

But she cuts herself off quickly. It's thoughts like that explain why she's never the introspective type.

Sighing and shaking her head to try to free the cobwebs, Buffy kicks at the dust and leaves that litter the porch. Stupid brain, dwelling on the fear. Never helps. They're gonna win. She believes that. Knows it. But the pep talk isn't enhancing her mood.

It's in these contemplative moments that Buffy can finally admit that it's not the battle that's got her scared.

It's her. And what's become of her.

She remembers, in painful detail, how she'd stood at the doorway to Xander's hospital room, watched Willow comfort him as he in turn tried to be strong for her. Even as she fought back tears and mounting hysteria with every ounce of strength she possessed. How she'd wanted to run to them, throw her arms around him and hug him till they melted together, until her strength flowed into him, healing him of injuries received through the folly of trusting her.

But instead she'd stood still, repositioned her mask pushed down the tears, the mounting hysteria, the soft and tender feelings. Spoke to them instead of battle plans and tactics and things of steel and ice. No wonder they stared back with hard, cold eyes.

What had become of her that she could no longer even open herself up for Xander? Wonderful, beautiful Xander, who'd stood by her all these years. Who loved her and idolized her and followed her without question. Who gave so freely of his massive heart?

But, God, she'd let it all go for Angel. One glance, and she'd humped him like some superheated ho in heat.

She's not quite sure what she was thinking, or even if she was thinking at all. She understands that in that moment she'd allowed emotion, raw and pure, rare, to take a hold of her. And it had felt good, so good, to allow the memories of him to swell and flow within her. The sensation of his touch, so innocent and gentle; the image of his large form fighting beside her, back when slaying was fun; the recollection of a time when heroics made her feel good, of when she'd laughed and saved the world before curfew and still had time to shop.

But most of all, she remembers that she'd loved him. Loved him with everything she was, and everything she had. Fully, passionately, instantly, every nerve leaping and dancing at his presence, every cell in her body yearning to be with him.

I kiss you and I want to die.

Pain and hurt and passion and mystery. Devotion, dedication, two against the world as stars and planets collide.

Isn't that was love is?

And then she thinks of Spike and she just doesn't know.

She doesn't know if she can love anyone like she loved Angel, or if she even wants too, or if she's brave enough to try something else. Isn't sure she really even knows what love is anymore, or if she has enough to give her new champion what he so truly deserves.

What had happened to her heart? She'd lost it somewhere, but at least this year she was actually looking. Last year, she'd borrowed Spike's. Borrowed it, used it, abused it. And despite everything, he still wouldn't take it back. He's still here, now. Always will be. She can't loose him if she tries, and she knows now that she doesn't want to.

And right now, that's all that matters.

In that moment, standing on her mother's porch, she vows that if she survives tomorrow, she's sorting herself out, moving herself on. Re-locating some place with crowds and people and acres of malls filled with shoes and low rise jeans. Somewhere she can find anonymity and privacy amongst the crowds, where she can be reminded that life goes on despite the darkness. Somewhere she can allow herself to be happy, one small step at a time.

But that still leaves tonight.

Sighing, Buffy leans against the porch rail, stares into the night. What does one do on one's last night of life, anyway? Can't shop, can't party, nothing good on TV.

Then she remembers: You be with the people who love you. The people you love.

And tonight, possibly her last, only one person comes to mind.

Swallowing, Buffy turns toward the house, determination in her stride. It's time for the introspection to stop.

CHAPTER 3

Spike stands as she enters, black clad, hair and skin shockingly pale even in the dim basement light. He's silent, waiting for her move. Always waiting for her these days. This new patience of his kind of freaks her out. Motionless, too, except for the caving of his cheekbones as he nervously grinds his teeth, and the slight swing of the amulet as it dangles from his fingers, sending spangles of light flashing onto the walls and floor.

She glances at the jewel for a moment. He's taking it seriously, whatever it is, and she suspects he knows more about it than she does. Perhaps senses something with those uncanny senses, that frightening intuition. All she knows is that it's dangerous, but she trusts him to be careful, to be brave. She smiles a little, unable to resist the wave of ironic pride that comes with seeing their secret weapon in the hands of her once greatest foe.

And still the silence stretches between them.

"Looks good on you" she says finally, worse cutting through the thick, expectant tension. "Brings out the blue in your eyes."

Spike smiles a little, twists his hand over and holds the amulet up a little. "That right? Maybe I should ask Peaches where I'd get the matching earrings."

Her smile widens a bit at that. Good, this is good, easy banter. She moves closer to him with quiet, easy steps. He looks uncertain at her approach, teeth gnawing at his lower lip and eyes open but questioning

"I'm thinking you should give that a miss," she replies. "The minimalist thing you're got going suits you well."

"That right?" There is something very much like a smirk breaking across his face, and his eyes suddenly glinting with a seductive mischief. There's her Spike. "I seem to remember that the last time I dressed up we..."

She covers the space between them, cuts him off with a kiss. It's gentle, her lips linger over his for the sparsest of seconds before she draws back. Drawing back, she takes in the shocked look in his eyes, and remembers a second later how she'd made a bad habit of shutting him up with a kiss. Decides she doesn't care. She's always been a woman of action rather than talk.

And so she reaches up, takes his face between her hands, and kisses him again. Really kisses him, with everything she's got.

It's like a first time and yet so totally not. There's no bumping of noses or mashing of teeth, no awkward clumsiness or fumbling explorations. She knows him well, knows his shape and taste and how to make his delicious mouth open with the gentle caress of her lips and tongue. He moans, and she glides her hands over his checks, his neck, down his arms, feels the muscles bunch and tremor beneath her touch. He's coiled like a spring, ready to burst, kinetic energy. Excitable and exciting; just being close to him sparks feeling in every cell of her body.

The moment passes, and Spike pulls away, his hands on her arms holding her away from his shaking body. The loss of contact surprises her, the slight gap between them suddenly a cold and terrifying chasm. Buffy feels the fear rise in her stomach, a virtual vertigo, fear that in her eagerness she's tripped and is about to fall.

Spike's fingers work her arms for what feels like eternity, as his lungs draw unneeded breath until he can finally meet her gaze.

"Wanted a final kiss, did you?" His voice is husky with desire, but his eyes wide, pupils surprisingly large with what looks a lot like fear.

Oh Spike, there's nothing to be scared of. She raises her hand to caress the contours of his angular face.

"I was thinking of maybe a bit more than that..." She admits softly.

He doesn't respond immediately. His hands loosen on her arms as he sucks in his cheeks, drops his gaze to the ground. Seconds, minutes tick by as the wall of silence condenses and rises again.

He use to be so good at the talking; sweet, clever words, seductive and sticky like soft, warm honey. They made her hot, made her burn, made her melt, pissed her off. She's hated them even as she longed for them. Never failed to tell him to shut the hell up. But what she wouldn't give for some of those words now. He says so little now.

Why doesn't he say something?

Finally, it's Buffy who breaks the silence.

"And he's speechless. But not in the way I was hoping for," She says. She tries for irritated-if-amused, but it comes out more hurt-and-insecure. This isn't going well.

Spike sucks his cheeks in again, until they look like fathomless hollows beneath his razor-like cheekbones. His gaze wavers for a second, back to the amulet, as if he's expecting it to provide some explanation for her apparently psycho behavior. Buffy's beginning to wonder if this isn't the most foolish move she's made; if she hasn't ruined everything by pushing too far. She can feel the blood rising in her cheeks, expects that he can smell it.

"Bit flummoxed, luv." He begins. "Not complaining, mind. But this is kinda hitting me out of the blue."

This is wrong, all wrong. Stupid. She doesn't know whether to be angry, or disappointment. Tries to reconstruct the walls, make for another controlled and dignified exit, but she's already lowered them just a little to much. To late, she feels the emotion swell, pour out in an embarrassing wave of babble.

"I know. This is unfair, and I have the worst timing, and I'm probably taking advantage. And if you don't want to...don't want me..."

He silences her with a whimsical smile and a finger on her lips. "I always want you, Slayer." His hand moves to caress her cheek. "Just gotta know you want me. Really want me. Don't fancy being kicked in the head tomorrow. Not good for my aim, you know."

She smiles, feels the relief wash over her in a giant, cool wave that seems to simultaneously wash away her working knowledge of the English language as well. Unable to find the words to answer him, so she meets his blue-flame eyes and tries to tell him everything, tries to open her soul to him.

And as she does, she can see the flimsy walls melt beneath the heat of rising hope and searing passion.

"Not gonna kick you tomorrow, although I can’t promise anything else."

This time, he kisses her. Clever lips guiding her into a sensual dance. There's no shyness, no hesitancy this time. His hands capture her face, tangle in her hair, as his tongue plunders her mouth, seeking out places familiar and forgotten. Good, so good.

God, she needed this. Needed to feel like this, to connect and release and simply enjoy being alive. Live in the moment. Live this night.

She feels the world around them begin to melt away.

She lets it.

A skilled hand glides down Buffy's spine, and she arches his response, gasps enough to break the kiss. But only for a second, hungry moves reconnecting with desperate urgency. Hand settled on the small of her back, he pulls her too him, until her stomach is flush against his straining erection. He grinds against her in short, urgent motions, and her body responds instinctively, drawing upon memories buried deep beneath. She thrusts her stomach out a little more, grinds against him in turn as the heat between rises to a nearly unbearable level.

"Fuck it.” He gasps. “Do whatever you want to me tomorrow...just keep doing that..."

The need to touch all of him, right now, is overwhelming. Buffy's hands glide from their resting place on hips, up under his shirt, over his flanks and the stark bones of his rib-cage. He quivers and groans as her blunt nails rake over his nipples, enticing them into hard peaks. She's such power of him, feminine power. God, she loves the feeling.

But it's not enough. Too much clothing. The T-shirt has gotta go. She pauses, a small, practical part of her mind reminding her of his critical clothing situation. Aw, screw it. She rips the fabric off his, and can't help but grin as he gasps with shock and pleasure.

"Slayer strength. So many uses." She manages between kisses.

"And I'm eagerly anticipating the next demonstration."

But there's no need for such strength now. Her hands on his chest are gentle, guiding him toward the cot. Smooth, beautiful chest he has, skin flawless and white. So weird. She's use to him ragged, torn and scratched, marked by the harsh rampage of her careless fingers and sharpened nails. Despite his recent tortures, he's had time for skin to heal and scars to fade so that he now looks deliciously perfect. Like one of those marble statutes of Greek gods that filled her art textbook - although, she thinks satisfaction, significantly better endowed.

She feels like she's floating, almost dream-like, stress and pressure have melted from her limbs, body floating without its weight of burdens. But she smiles as Spike takes clumsy, awkward steps beneath the pressure of her hands, his usual grace abandoned to passion. Their tongues are tangled and legs moving awkwardly together. He breaks the kiss only when his the back of his legs touch the cot. She pushes him down gently, and he sits carefully on the edge, actually looks endearingly embarrassed as he pushes a magazine and a packet of cigarettes onto the floor. People Magazine. So Spike.

They're making a mess. Watch how much she doesn't care.

Still sitting on the bed, he pulls her between his legs, runs his hands up her sides. The fabric of her shirt bunches slightly beneath his fingers before falling again. He traces the outline of her breasts, then slips his hands under the lapels of her jacket and pushes it off her shoulders with slightly trembling hands.

"Love touching you. Feeling your hot little body. So alive..."

He's rambling, suddenly not making a lot of sense, but then she's not thinking particularly clearly either. She watches, trying to focus as he struggles to remove her shirt next. She lets him undo the buttons, even when he takes so much time that she thinks she'll faint or explode. Where's that legendary vampire co-ordination now?

"...you like my hands on you too don't you pet." She wonders if that's a question, and there's enough hurt and desperation in his voice that she gasps out an answer.

She's wearing a simple, plain bra, more for utility than seduction, but if Spike's deep, limb-melting groan is anything to go by, he certainly doesn't seem to care.

Stepping out of Spike's grasp for a second, Buffy works her boots and pants off herself. He makes a slight whimpering sound at the loss of her touch, but it's more erotic than pathetic. He never removes his gaze from her, eyes burning with the intensity of blue-flame, tinged with yellow. So, so hot, in every sense of the word. Now she feels her insides turn to mush as well.

Finally, she's naked before him, and she tries not to think at all. The lack of clothes thing is still weird to her. He wasn't wrong, he'd seen it all. Licked it all even. Been up close and personal with every square inch of her skin. But that was during sex, or in the heat of passion, or when she wasn't really there. So different, this calm scrutiny. She'd never really given him the time to just look before. Well, not without letting him tie her up first, anyway.

"So beautiful." He murmurs "Glorious. Golden and bright. My own sunrise."

She grins. There's her sex-addled, not-so-eloquent vampire. Usually so clever with the words. Oh, how she loves that she can reduce him to this.

"You’re not so bad yourself."

A sudden movement, and he pulls her back between his legs. Right where she wants to be. His mouth fastens on her nipple. Shit. Her jellied legs wobble, and for a moment she can't believe she's actually even still standing. She smiles with satisfaction as she feels his thighs tremble beneath her touch, one foot tapping nervously on the ground. He's always in motion. One of the many little quirks that bring a smile to her face, of the many things that are so very Spike.

Her hands cares, and she suddenly can't help but wonder why he is still in almost dressed. It's a situation that must be remedied, and her hands begin working the buttons of his jeans with a determined energy.

He hasps and breaks away from her as she finally unfastens his jeans. Realised from its prison, his cock bursts free. Beautiful cock, rich rose color, swollen and eager. She runs her hand down his length, silk over steel. For a moment they are both frozen, she luxuriating in the feel of him as he moans and gasps at her touch. She longs to taste him, can feel her tongue lips her lips, but he's tilts her head up and captures her lips before she can.

"Not now" he whispers between kisses. "Got me a bit too excited to stand much of that, yeah."

Twisting, he maneuvers her onto the cot. It squeaks slightly beneath their weight as he settles himself on top of her. The perfect weight, presses her into the bed, covers her without smothering her. God, so familiar, comforting.

She loves the feel of his chest, cool and dry against her moist, sticky breasts. But the denim of his jeans is rough, too rough against her heated, sensitive skin and her hands and legs work to push them down his thighs. He kisses her all the while, on her lips, her chin, across her cheeks then down her neck. Oh! He finds that soft, sensitive place beneath her ear, and she shudders beneath him as he bites down gently.

"Missed this...missed you." He murmurs into her ear, voice is muffled against her skin.

"I know." She gasps.

"So long..."

"Too long..."

He draws himself up to look at her, a delicious, wolfish grin breaking across his face. Now that's her vampire.

"Gonna make up for lost time." He promises. And this time, his voice is muffled only was the rumbling, deep growl. How she loves that sound! It ripples through her, releasing a wave of longing and a gush of warmth between her legs.

Then he's moving down her body, lips tracing the line of her neck, her clavicle, before his mouth closes over one hard nipple. God, the things he can do, the way he makes her feel! Unable to get the jeans down further, her hands move unconsciously to grab his head, hold him to her as her fingers wind into bristly curls.

Raises his hand to play with her other breast. Clever, deadly fingers. Talented at pleasure and pain. She watches his beautiful back arch and writhe, muscles slipping and bunching beneath the skin as he licks and pets past the areola to nip at the skin above her sternum. Shit! So good...

He traces the bones of her ribs, the sensitive skin of her side, then over hip and down one leg and his tongue circles around her navel. Leaves a warm, wet trail that makes her shudder and her stomach fill with butterflies. Finishes the journey with a gentle kiss that makes her leap then starts downward again. Hand traces back up her calf, slips between her legs. She almost swoons, opens her legs wider and thrusts into his waiting fingers.

She can feel him smirk against her skin. He's an arrogant jerk at times, another of those quirks. Fingers trace her in long, knowing strokes and he glances down, then up to catch her eye.

"Look at you, Slayer. All ripe and juicy." Rumbly-purry voice, causes another flow of liquid. "Delicious and ready and all for me. All mine."

"So what are you gonna do with me?"

He's between her legs in second.

Tongue delving deep, reaching places untouched for over a year. Pleasure shoots through her, causes her to arc and cry and grip his shoulders with bruising intensity. It's times like this she's beyond thankful that he's not a normal man. There's no need to hold back, to cling to some semblance of control lest she crush her lover's head or squeeze out that manly bravado. Instead, she loses herself to the sensations, only vaguely aware of closing her legs close around him, drawing him in. In as far as he can go. Now.

Touch me. Mine.

And then she's coming. Flying and falling and exploding into a million little pieces, scattering through a vacuum of timeless, stress-less, bliss. Finally, finally free.

He still there when she comes down, lapping gently against the painfully sensitive skin. How can he keep doing that. Of course, he has no need to breathe. No aching, sore muscles, either.

Incomparable.

"Get up here Spike."

She doesn't have to ask him twice. He moves up her body with the cat-like grace. Her vampire panther, pale and white. Aren't there white tigers? Or a lynx? Sometimes she thinks the silliest things, but it doesn't matter as he kisses her again. She can taste herself on him, potent and salty. Feel, also, that his smiling against her lips, and his body rumbling with that soft growly sound he knows she's loves. The slight vibration sends tingles pins and needles through her, causes her toes to curl.

He breaks the kiss and smiles at her. A deep, wide smile. So long since she's seen him happy, and it's such a gorgeous sight, white teeth and flashing sapphire eyes. Devil may case mischief. Even more gorgeous because he's hair is sex-rumpled and wild. Whose hair sticks straight up now, Spike?

"I love you." He says.

Sort, simple, unexpected at this time, the honesty and truth of the words obvious from the expression in his eyes. So matter of fact. A moment of fear as she wonders how to respond. Terror, even. Things are still so uncertain, and she only wanted this. But he kisses her and saves her from deciding now. Knows her to well for his own good.

She raises and bends her legs around him. It's an invitation he understands well. Shifts his hips, and she can feel his cock at her entrance for the barest second before he pushes inside with a groan and a shudder.

"God..."

"Christ..."

He fills her completely, wonderful and perfect despite the moments discomfort. Been a while, but it's a welcome violation. His eyes, squeezed shut at the moment of entrance, open and find hers. There's a desperation there, waves of it washing over his open, eyes, along with disbelief and relief. And love. Pure, adoring love that makes her heart ache and her throat seize-up and her stomach turn to jelly.

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Leans up and kisses it, feels him jump inside of her.

"Not helping..." he rasps.

His face is a study in concentration; and she can feel the muscles of his body fluttering under her fingers. He's taking this so seriously, and she feels a rush something very much like adoration spread from her heart through her limbs.

Suddenly, despite the simmering passion, it's important that she be so very gentle. She smiles, gently touches his face. Feels the line of his razor sharp cheekbones as his beautiful, blue-fire eyes lock with hers.

"It's okay." She whispers. "We've got all night to get this right..."

And then there's merriment in his expression, and a delightful teasing tone in his voice. "This is us slayer. Since when did we ever get it wrong?"

Then, drawing a shaky breath, he begins to move slowly within her. Just gentle undulations, coupled with tentative caresses as they explore and familiarize themselves with each other's bodies again. She glides her hands over the slope of his of his neck, the tight muscles between his sharp shoulder blades, the sensitive hollow of his back.

He rests his forehead against hers, eyes still fixed, gaze penetrating her more deeply than cock. They're both gasping, sharing breath, his scentless, dry, but warmed slightly within his straining, energized body. She wraps her legs above his hips, heals digging into the small of his back. Voiceless mutual agreement passes between them, and he pushes harder, deeper, their joined hips rising from the bed and bunching the sheets beneath them. Gentleness forgotten, she's grinding herself against him as he plunges into her with a force that would probably split a normal woman. Muscles clenching, fluttering, and she's arching and crying and coming for the second glorious time.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she's aware of Spike collapsing on top of her, strong arms failing him. He buries his head between her shoulder and her neck, back trembling slightly, and she can see her fingers leaving a sticky wet trail down his back. The temptation to murmur endearment is real and frightening, but she's never been great at choosing words. So instead she lazily runs her foot down the back of his thigh and calf, runs her hand through his neck and hair and tries to re-fill her burning lungs with needed air while her vampire lover draws his own, unneeded but steadying breaths.

Finally, Spike shakes his head and begins to push himself off her, and she almost forgets herself as she watches, fascinated, while his muscles move beneath the quicksilver skin of his back. The loss of connection is brings an unwelcome, unbidden burst of fear, and she holds him tight with legs and arms and gaze of steel. He's stares at her with wide, dark eyes.

"No. Stay for a bit"

"'m too heavy."

"No you're not. There's nothing of you. And, besides," she adds quickly, off his slightly incredulous look "I'm the Slayer, remember? Consider this display of slayer strength number two."

Spike smirks and shakes his head, almost laughs. "Well, I did say I was lookin' forward to the second demonstration."

He settles down again, hips still resting between hers, but body slightly off to one side. She flexes her muscles, reassured to find that she can still feel him within her. He's still watching her with that adoring gaze, but his eyes are now slightly watery and a little dazed. Nice, post-sex dazed. Satisfied. Gives her a rippling feeling of female pride to know she can reduce William the Bloody, slayer of slayers, to such a relaxed, kitten-y creature. Probably not exactly what the Watchers Council meant when they said that wanted him taken care of, but a mutually satisfactory outcome anyway.

This would usually be where the talking would begin, where he'd start with the constant run of words. Questions and demands and gentle teasing, soft syllables, husky accent, all bone-meltingly sexy words that would envelope her like warm, soft, honey. Their sticky sweetness has pissed her off no end, but how she'd longed for them. How she longs for his words.

But he doesn't talk now.

Why doesn't he talk?

Finally, it's Buffy who takes the initiative, says the only thing that comes to mind in the blurry aftermath of truly amazing sex.

"Spike..." the word is soft, coming from between her swollen, kiss-bruised lips.

"Yeah?"

"You're still wearing your jeans."

"Uh, yeah". He laughs, glancing downwards.

Again with the happy, and this time there's a mirth and shyness to his eyes that is distinctly un-Spike like. She imagines that if he could, he'd actually be blushing. He gives her a quick, light kiss, almost shy really, then finally rolls off her to kick his pants off the rest of the way. The loss of contact is sudden, harsh, and she can't help but tremble a little.

But then, the visual bonus as he stretches out beside her is almost worth it. Fully naked and so damn beautiful.

Sleek and powerful and totally lickable.

But best of all, hers.

........................

She wiggles against him, firm little body trying to find rest. It's distracting, but in a good way.

"You're wiggling worse than a stoned leprechaun."

"Just trying to get comfortable. 'Sides, Giles' told me there's no such thing."

He laughs. "What, no such thing as leprechauns? Or no such thing as druggo lep..."

His voice is cut off with what he can't deny is a highly unmanly squeak as she glides her leg between his in a manner that just had to be aimed at shutting him up. Works a charm.

Minx.

"You know, I think I'm getting there..." Her voice is nearly a purr. "Comfortable, that is. Just takes some work. Experimentation even."

Instantly, there's a dozen snappy comebacks on his lips. He knows he should probably ignore them, lie back, relax, enjoy the decadently indulgent feel on her hot, lively body pressed against his. But there's a part of Spike that just doesn't take well to peace and before he realises it, his traitorous mouth is spilling out what's left in his brain.

"Nah, you're not experimenting, Slayer, just never satisfied. Too much of a perfectionist for that."

The look she shoots him is pure incredulity, green eyes flashing beneath knitted brows. But he's not rightly sure whether she's angry or amused. So unreadable sometimes, his girl. It's part of what fascinated him, draws him to her. The others, he can read like an open book, but when it comes to the Slayer he's often damnably wrong. Can't help but wonder whether he's offended her. Hopes he hasn't, even as he wonders when he started getting so antsy over a little bit of teasing.

Then, "really?" She asks. "You think that? That I'm too much of a perfectionist?"

He's hurt her. Or ticked her off at least. But he's not gonna run away now. Always been a truth teller and damn proud of that, too.

"Yeah, I do. Don't mean that as an insult." He explains gently, his hand rhythmically, unceasingly caressing her shoulder. "Just a fact. You're obsessed within makin' everything perfect. But sometimes it can't be. Sometimes you gotta make do."

It's not something she can easily accept, no matter whether she wants to. She closes herself off to his words, screws her eyes shut and turns so that her hair veils her face. When she finally answers, her voice is so soft he can hardly hear her.

"Even when everyone is depending on me?"

"Even then. Mostly then."

When she doesn't answer, Spike sits up slightly, gets a better look at her hair-veiled face. Always a mystery, she is, and he respects that she doesn't share easily. But he still hates it when she hides.

A moment's hesitation, fingers hovering slightly above her face, and then he pushes a strand of gold back behind her ear, allows his touch to linger on her flushed skin. Her profile is solemn, jaw clenched, but there's a glint of water in the corner of one closed eye.

"Just do your best, Buffy." He says gently. "It's all we can expect. And knowing you, it'll be more than enough."

Buffy. Her name still tastes strange on his lips - sweet and potent; forbidden and sinful, intoxicating as fine liquor. He knows he has the right to use it now. And he does, oftentimes, let it let it slip out more and more. But mostly, he still prefers to savour the privilege. Keep it for private moments, like this.

And so in public, around the Scoobs, she's pet, luv, slayer, love. Neutral, familiar terms, at least coming from him. Surprises him, that he'll now so willingly divide their lives, willingly hide their growing intimacy for the sake of appearances and efficiency. Yet another encroachment of that knightly chivalry on his tattered sense of self-interest.

But his self-pity vanishes when she finally turns slightly to shoot him a watery smile. "You always do know just what to say." She whispers, voice smooth as silk as it softly glides soothingly across his raw nerves. So strange, this relationship, which enflames and cools in turn.

And then it hits him. Fuck, if she isn't complimenting him. Genuinely, truthfully, without prompting and for something other than sex! He feels a rush of manly pride, and a rush of unnatural warmth that almost makes him feel alive. All he wants to do in that moment is kiss her. So he does. Thoroughly.

"Part of my manly charm." He replies, after God knows how long, when he finally has to break the kiss to let her breathe.

He's probably grinning like a maniac, but he couldn't care. Not when her expression is filled with humour and kindness and lovely, genuine kind of tenderness that turns his brain to pudding. Spike hasn't known a lot of kindness in his unlife, and not whole a lot of tenderness either. Ironic that he should receive both now from a slayer, a creature hardened for battle and death. A killer of his kind, whose delightful little body is curled next to his in this brief moment of peace.

She gazes up at him with large, liquid eyes, then reaches up to caress his face. He thinks he can feel every whirl of her fingerprints as her hand runs gently across his cheekbone then through his hair. He simply watches her back, stares into the brown-green depths of her eyes and wills her to look into his soul.

The one he got for her.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, each lost in the connection. But, finally, she breaks the silence.

"We really did fuck up, didn't we Spike?" She asks with a melancholy smile.

He chuckles a little. "Bolloxed it up right good. Re-wrote the bloody book on dysfunction."

"Yup. Bad as it could be." Her words are serious, but her lips are upturned and her eyes are bright. "Which I guess proves your point that I'm nothing if not a perfectionist."

He can help but laugh. And then she giggles too. Soft, gentle sound. Makes him happier than anything to hear it, to see and hear her happy. Even if it's only for a moment. He thinks, also, that it's probably good that they can laugh again at something that was so painful. Makes him think that maybe - just maybe - there's hope.

"I just wish..." She begins to speak, but her voice drops off. He can feel her body tense a little, muscles preparing for flight. He's certain that she's gonna withdraw back into herself, that this moment he wishes could go on forever is about to draw to a sudden halt. But then she seems to draw strength from somewhere, and speaks again.

"I just wish that we had more time."

But at least the clock's still ticking. He forces a smile, although he imagines it's a little sad.

"Got all the time in the World, pet. Even if the World does end tomorrow."

She grimaces. "That sounds a little too familiar."

That it does.

"Let's just hope this time there's a happier ending, yeah?"

She nods. "Well, we're already off to a better start."

"Yeah. Much, much better."

Then she kisses him like she means it, and he pulls her closer again. Her arms and legs glide around him, and let him in again. It's slower this time, gentler, as if they want to fill every last moment with pleasure and passion and connection. And as he moves inside her, her warmth and strength leaking into him, Spike buries his face in her neck and whispers into her ear.

"Best night of my life, Buffy. And already my best start to a day."

They're still making love as the sun begins its final climb into above the abandoned town of Sunnydale. Time is running out, but for this moment, at least, they've found a way to stand outside it.

End.