Rating: nc-17

Pairing: spuffy (obviously)

Summary: Following on from the end of As You Were. Spike, devastated by Buffy's rejection, finds solace in a bottle shared with Anya and finds his unlife turned completely on its head. He finds that vengeance might not be for losers after all as he is thrust into the opportunity of a lifetime. But can he convince Buffy to take the risk? 

 

Chapter Sixteen

It was so light, so early that it made his eyes hurt and his heart ache. An early morning wakening of the like he hadn't really appreciated—not only in the past few weeks he had been immune to the sun, but since he was a beauty inspired poet in the human world. A ponce for all colourful sunsets and romantic gestures.

The dappled beauty of his Buffy in the morning light hit him hard in the gut, though, and being a ponce for the glory of life suddenly didn't seem like such a bane. She glowed, and how that was possible in the natural harsh light of morning was beyond him. Her inner light should have clashed with the sun, but it shone so hard the pain in his eyes went all the way through his body. It was one of those moments where Spike was hard pressed to dampen William's creative enthusiasm. So for once, he let it go.

And admired. He basked in the heat on his skin, the different shades of colour that could only be appreciated during the day, and loved his girl.

At last, his girl.

If there was a tear in his eye, he ignored it. Let the feelings play out without guilt or fear. The happiness he felt—Buffy in his arms and safe from hate and harm—made him so grateful for the foolishness that was his mouth under the influence of some strong spirits. And grateful to Harris—God be his witness. If the ignorant git could dump a woman like Anya on her wedding day then he deserved whatever vengeance the newly demonised Anyanka could convince someone to dish out.

Except he was getting kind of fond of the younger versions of these people he'd spent the past few years being hated and tolerated by. And if not exactly fond in return, he thought they might at least like him this go round.

Buffy moaned and curled up against him, her arms entwining around his neck and bringing him flush against her. Her heat scorched him from neck to toe and his lips tingled with the irrepressible desire to make love to her body. Know her in a way that Angel only thought he had. If there was one thing Spike was willing to stake his new millions on was that the poof never gave Buffy a good first experience. The brooding sod wouldn't have a clue on how to make his girl scream in pleasure. He'd seen the glorified walking hair gel advert in action—and it wasn't a pretty site. Even if he did really use mousse.

His girl.

The declaration just wouldn't leave him, wouldn't let his tortured memories alone. It seemed so unfair that he hadn't been neutered in this time and yet, each olive branch he offered to this demon-fighting clique offered him a tree in return. Though the Buffy of his time would rather plant the stick in his heart and kick his ashes about. How could he help but feel nervous?

His future Buffy had expressed often enough his place in the scheme of things. He was beneath her; she emphasised it with nasty barbs and flinging fists. She wanted nothing to do with him, could never, would never feel anything for him other than his convenience.

How could he help but feel like he was taking advantage? Young innocent Buffy wanted him, and God help him if he was so weak he couldn't say no. Was so evil he sought her out and made the moves to have her be his.

Now his imbalance of right and wrong were coming back to push him into a premature no soul-having quandary. His need to have Buffy be his—have her return his love—had brought him four years back to the past. If he had been thinking with his head rather than the other, more single-minded head, he would have left her alone. Taken his family and gotten the hell outta Dodge. Forced his sire and grandsire to seek hope somewhere other than the Hellmouth and allowed Buffy to fall in love with someone as innocent as she.

But her smell, her hair, her heart—he could never turn his back on her and her fight. And to be so close to her was to want her. And how many times did he have to keep reminding himself he was an evil vampire who shouldn't give two tosses whether he was ruining her life by being in it.

How could he resist the sleep-warmed leg that slid over his, her tantalisingly bare inner thigh resting against the emerging bulge of his cock? He nearly groaned low in his throat—but wanted her to sleep for a little while longer. Her thigh rubbed him in her slumber, her slow heartbeat enough to convince him her little torture show was not consciously planned. Yet he couldn't help the hand that reached under her top to rub gentle circles around her nipple.

He bit his lip as he felt the fever between her legs heat his groin, pushing him beyond the limits of his jeans. His overeager fingers released the zip and he held back the desire to throw caution to the wind and kiss her into carnal knowledge right then and there. As it was, he nearly combusted as her thigh rubbed against the exposed rigid flesh of his cock, the agony so sweet he was nearly sick.

Turned toward each other he captured her lips, her leg now slung over his hip as she worked her centre over him—and still she slept. Kissing hungrily in a projected dream. His hand left her rock hard nipple and drifted down the back of her sleep shorts, stroking her rump and pushing her wetness against him in a way that was almost wringing the tears of frustration from his eyes.

He never woke up in the morning with his Buffy. This one was a dream, gave him so much more than his heart had ever hoped to receive, and he nearly jumped right back into that other reality when a small hand grasped him. With a little wiggle of her hips she encouraged him to slid his hand down and dislodge her pants, encouraged him to make her naked and ready for him.

As their kiss turned frenzied with a need that knew it was time—that waiting for birthdays was just a romantic girls dream—as the gyrating rhythm of their hips began to shimmy the sheet down to uncover their actions, there was a loud throat clearing behind Buffy.

"Bloody hell," Spike yelled in panic, falling backward off the side of the bed with his dick flapping in the air. Rolling away from the bed and toward the now mocking sun—now that it had shed its light on everything—he quickly zipped his aching length back behind hard, durable fabric and bit his tongue to stop from releasing a torture bellow.

The giggles from behind him—both of the embarrassed kind—helped to cool his frustration. Only now that his senses weren't filled with Buffy did he scent her. That addition of woodsy flavour—of nutmeg and earth that shouted out to him of an unwanted presence in his bed.

"I know you're into girls, Red, but this is fuckin' ridiculous."

The amusement stopped in one moment of shocked confusion.

"I what?" the redhead eeped in frantic disagreement.

He had the decency to look sheepish.

"Er, sorry bout that. Was thinking of some other Red." Which really did nothing but dig a deeper grave for himself as Buffy's eyes murdered him in jealousy.

"You know another Red?" she asked with eyes flashing like strobe lights. "How is that even possible?"

"You know what, pet? You're right. Was a Blue was thinkin' about. Just got a bloody shock, didn' I! Making out with my girl," he stressed. "Was in the moment, yeah? Bleeding well forgot about the little interloper. Thank you poofy grandsire," he said to the air as he rolled his eyes and slumped back to lie on the floor. The perfect picture of thwarted manhood.

"Sorry?" Willow squeaked and he couldn't help but let his lips quirk in an indulgent grin.

"S'okay Red. Not your fault Angelus tried to scare the bejeezus out of you. S'what we brought you back here for. Didn' want the big Brood to snack on your pretty neck."

Double doses of ewww reached his ears, and he grinned wider.

"Right then, little ladies. Must be time to tuck into some pop tarts, or whatever you bints fill yourselves up with for breakfast. I need to see me a man about a removal van." He paused, wondering what it was he was going to move into his new place. Everything he had in this world was at the Watcher's place, and he wasn't in any rush to barge into that little encampment. Wasn't like he had much anyway. Still, it was time to move out and get the girls moving on the disinvites aplenty.

"Actually, might just enlist Harris. 'M sure he's probably feeling a mite anxious about Ang...has anyone told the whelp about Angelus?"

Buffy and Willow exchanged a glance and guilt shadowed their return worried negative.

"Right, I'll fill him in; tell him no more unaccompanied nightly excursions. Not that the wimp goes anywhere unless he is half an inch behind the Slayer anyway," he teased, enjoying the light flush that spread across Buffy's smooth skin.

Everything about her was luscious and even with an obvious witness he could feel himself getting hard. Yeah, he'd always had it bad for her, and even now nothing was going to change. He may be evil, but he was also a man, and a man in love at that. She wanted him, and God help him—though the deity had never held much appeal—he was going to let her have him. He'd think about the ramifications of his soulless possession of her later. Consider what he owed her later. When he could start thinking with his other head again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Harris place gave him the jitters. Brought back to a time when he was willing to surrender to forever in hell, just because he could no longer snack on real bait. Just because he was reliant on humans to keep him safe. And had to suffer their intolerance and hatred while doing so.

Harris's basement had seen the first and only time he had ever tried to end his existence. Buffy had in recent times pushed him into wanting to try it again, but luckily she hadn't pushed her advantage, leaving him instead to go poof into the past to make them all different. Hopefully change for the better...though that was a raging impossibility with cursed vamps and vengeance demons running around trying to cock it all up to hell.

He stood in the sun while he waited for his knock to be answered. The father he had avoided like the plague while he had been holed up in the damp basement squinted out the door at him, the sun in his eyes. Spike smiled at the little bit of evil that seemed to already be punishing this man—a splitting headache if the glass of spirits in his lazy hand could indicate.

"Yeah," was the slurred greeting and Spike felt himself tense angrily at how this idiot was ruining lives. It felt peculiar to care, but for some reason this earlier version of Xander Harris was making the Big Bad feel all protective. He let his face slide to demon advantage, felt his fangs itch at the widening of the other's eyes and growled low in his throat when the glass hit the floor.

"You've splashed your booze all over m' boots," he accused while still in take-down mode, his face shifting back to his human face. The sun had remained blinding in its shine, so he knew the elder Harris could never say for certain what he'd seen, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction that he might have given the irresponsible git something to think about. Something to be afraid about.

The other man said nothing, stood there in a perplexed stupor the likes he had no patience for. Leaning around him, Spike took no notice of the statue-like git as he announced his presence loudly to the interior of the house. Within minutes he could hear booted feet pounding down some stairs and the tousled hair of the brunette he was after popped up from seemingly nowhere. His smile was hesitant, a bit wary, but he continued to the door as if he had been expecting Spike.

"Willow called," he offered as he grabbed his coat, bypassing his father without even a glance.

He preceded Spike down the path, watching with interest the silent standoff before Spike turned with a swish of his ever-present coat and strode to the door of his Desoto.

"Hop in, Whelp. Got us some organising to do."

Within seconds they were both inside and Spike roared down the street, darting occasional curious glances at the apparently sullen passenger in his car.

"What the bleedin' hell is eatin' you up? Thought we'd had a beer together, saved the Watcher...pals and all."

Xander looked a little nonplussed at the memories, guilt crossing quickly over his face until he settled into a determined mask of affected indifference.

"It's...I mean...Look, you're still a vampire, and I hate vamps. Pure and insanely simple."

Spike's eyes flew off the road to hit him with offended purpose.

"Is that right?" he drawled, the hurt only minimally evident as he tossed the change around in his head. He thought he'd made progress, broke the code that held this one of Buffy's friends away from his attempts to atone. "An' why is that then?" he asked, his voice tired, resigned to some in-depth diatribe about how he had hurt them all, tried to kill them all in the name of love and evil. Except that wasn't this time, he hadn't done it all again, had done things the right way, the good way—unless his idea of good was so skewed he had even yet stuffed the bloody thing up.

"Vampires killed my friend Jesse. The year Buffy came to Sunnydale, we found out about vamps and demons and your fabbo relative Darla took a bite and made him one of you. He wasn't so loyal to the friendship after that and I had to kill him."

The dead tone to the voice and the knowledge he'd never been privvy to startled Spike so badly that he pulled to the side of the road and shut off the motor.

He thought for a moment, contemplated that kind of blind hate, tried to focus on an act that had formed his judgment by leaps rather than degrees.

"A woman completely obliterated my heart when I was human. She devastated me and put me in the way of Dru and bein' vamped. Doesn' mean I hate women forever more now. My Da was killed in the Crimean war, left me with a slight intolerance to the Russians. What 'm tryin' to say is, I get where you're comin' from. You lost a friend, and that's pretty rough." Spike stopped talking to actually take a breath and contemplate the necessity of what he was about to say—to himself as well as the slightly tainted and judgmental youth in his car.

"'M sorry."

The stillness in the car was like an electric current that held them electrocuted to the spot. Only difference was the untouched quality of their hair. Still, the buzz implied a change and it made Spike hope. Hold unneeded breath for the sign that said his point had hit its mark. They were only words—two words he wouldn't have been able to spit past his lips a month or so ago. Words he couldn't have aimed at the carpenter and mean it. Until now.

He could see the process of thought plainly on the brunette's face, and he waited. Waited for fate and hard work to end their battle and declare sides.

Spike was right—they had shared beers and trauma like two guys out for a friendly time. Only when he'd returned home did his mind start to twist the events, see vampire faces merging with each other. Sure, one had been vengeful, heroic in his attempt to save Giles's life, while the other had dripped blood from her teeth, eager to dive back into the throat that had been ripped off the prongs.

So, he'd concluded that he was thinking too hard about repenting demons, and instead focused on his lost friend. The one who he'd not taken the risk of his life to endure, to offer a chance at life. He'd seen the demon that had taken over his friend and had reacted. Only once the dust had settled at his feet did the childhood memories flood into his mind and he balked at what he had done. His mind had closed, hated anything with a ridge and fang in complete alliance with Buffy and the others.

There was no argument. Vampires were bad, were evil—unless they had souls. And even then they seemed to be the harbinger of death and prophetic crap.

Xander couldn't help but cringe into the silence of the interior. He was so conflicted about Spike. His actual deeds didn't add up to the ones in Giles's books, so how in Hell's name was he supposed to know which was the real vampire?

Two words held the answer to it all; a sentiment that Angel—as broody and consumed with guilt that he supposedly was—never even attempted.

William the Bloody had said he was sorry that Jesse was taken, turned to the side of bad. And the little bump of roughness in the voice that had spoken the apology belied more than a speck of truth. More than a grain of honest feeling for his pain. Xander was shocked out of his brain, but strangely reassured as well.

"Thanks," he muttered at last, answered by a relieved exhalation from vampire lungs. "It means a lot that you'd apologise for something you weren't responsible for."

Spike nodded and left the truce at that. It was time to get onto other things, other worries that he hoped didn't counteract the hurdle he'd just cleared.

"Red tell you about our other little problem?"

"Angel doing the spooky evil stalker impression? Yeah, she filled me in. Quite a night you've all had." His voice was a mixture of tease and hurt—Spike could only assume because he'd been the last to know.

"Nobody thought he'd come for you; never been in your place, yeah?"

"Still, might've been nice to know. I hate it when I get left out of the loop."

Spike offered an ironic snort. He knew all too well what it was like to be kept out of the loop by this lot—particularly by the one currently at his side.

"Anyway, always thought Mr. I-Brood-Better-Than-You, Hear-Me-Roar would break the soul train eventually."

Spike looked at the boy with new admiration at his coolness under pressure and thanked him again for being such a loser in his unamended future as to rend him opportunity of this little jaunt in the past.

They drove a street in silence, broken when Xander had thought of another oddity to add to the list he was compiling mentally about Spike.

"So, why am I your new pet project all of a sudden?"

Spike answered him with a cocky grin that showed a happiness that had been absent from his unlife for way too long.

"Harris, with the role models you've got, you need all the help you can get to be the kind of man who..." He stopped as memories bombarded him. Visions of when Buffy hadn't been cruel or hateful, when she had actually treated him with the kind of trust that would leave him to care for her sister. "You need help to be a man—unless you're beggin' to be like your ol' man or Rupert."

Xander's eyes widened in comical alarm, and they both snickered in agreement. Not the best of options. Way far from the coolest.

"And you think you're the man to do it?" Xander yipped, incredulous at the turn of the morning—and his life.

The grin bolstered the human's confidence and Spike continued his new effort at flashing his teeth.

"Seein' as how I only recently was taught the right path of how to be just the right kind of man, I figure the lessons might still be kinda fresh. I'm game if you are, mate. Can speed along the learnin' curve together if you want." The fact that the boy would be learning about not leaving his girl for any reason couldn't be a bad thing. The insecurities that he'd held, contributing to the break-up of his wedding could only be helped if Spike took this mission seriously. Xander needed to know that he was in no way like his deadbeat father—so when he decided to take that leap with Anya, he would have the confidence to know it.

It was out and out hilarious, and Xander just loved the idea of it. A dysfunctional teen and a formerly evil vamp along the road to manhood. It had too many opportune moments for hilarity to pass up.

"You're on," he committed, just as Spike rolled to a stop outside the mall. "What? You gonna buy me my very first hammer, dad?"

Spike rolled his eyes at the good-natured ribbing and opened the door, hesitating still only slightly at his renewed journey in the full sun.

"Picked up the keys and signed contracts. New place is ready to be moved into. Thought maybe should fill it up with something, you know. Otherwise I'll be livin' in a rather depressingly empty space. 'Sides, need a fridge at leas' for my blood."

Xander grimaced, but followed faithfully as they made their way through the throng of people that never seemed to ever leave the place.

"Right Whelp, battle plan. Get in, get out. Any questions?"

Xander laughed at the wary scanning of the crowd Spike was making, and not even once wondered if the vamp was sizing up meals. As a man, he took for granted the horror at needing to shop for anything as fast as possible.

"So, you'll need some furniture..."

"Not too much," interjected the vamp. "Thought Buffy might like to pick out some things," he mumbled, almost embarrassed that he had seemed more and more like his poncy human self the longer he stayed in the past and his humane side was coddled.

"Paper plates and cups and cutlery should do it. No washin' up. Vamps are allergic to dishpan hands."

Xander lit up with the excitement of easy—what trouble could they have picking out regulation paper plates. He slapped his hands together and bounced on his heels.

"Hand over the cash, Bleachboy, and I'll get onto the supermarket. You eat food and stuff? I'm on it." And he was off before Spike could open his mouth and offer any advice about what he might like to reside in his cupboards. The money hit Harris's palm and the boy was gone.

"Meet you back here in an hour." He had the fortitude to call before the boy disappeared completely amongst the crowd. Only the back of a hand waving in the air reassured him the instruction had been agreed upon. He had the feeling he was going to end up with a pantry floor to ceiling with Cheetos.

With a small niggling sense of apprehension, he stepped into a store and quickly picked out a decent sized refrigerator. Next stop, he needed a bed. Not usually very fussy, he found one he thought Buffy would like and put in his instructions for immediate delivery. He added pillows, comforters, and then got lost in the huge display of bedding.

His fingers slid over black satin, getting lost in the dream of it draping Buffy's golden skin. He tossed the package on the pile, passing by a display of the palest pink sheets in the same sheen. Giving up to his normal habit of impulse, he grabbed up a set and added it to his embarrassingly well considered purchases.

The salesperson at the register raised a brow, more than impressed that a man who looked like he bordered on gothic extremes could pick out such delicate bedding and have everything match so prettily. As she tallied and the pile switched sides, she smiled, for buried under the splashes of feminine pink she found the completely separate set of sheets, blankets and the like in black and the deepest of reds. The total made her eyes cross, and she smiled in extreme good humour as he handed over more cash and left the instruction for everything to be delivered together, paying extra for the privilege.

Then he was off in a whirlwind of black leather and she couldn't help but swoon. Some woman out there was an extremely lucky lady.


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He let her up, finally. Skin tarnished by dried streaks of her own blood, she looked like a priceless work of art, all torn and cut and bruised. To him, she had never looked more beautiful as now—punished and now forgiven for her crimes. He would spend the night showing his gratitude for her bringing him back, returning him to the life he was killed to live.

He felt amazed at how differently things felt. How fresh and fragrant the fear felt now that he was geared to enjoy rather than grieve it. His darling childe was responsible for it all, for saving him and allowing him to enjoy the smorgasbord of the Hellmouth. This time it was better, so much better. He had far more appreciation for the kill, for the opportunity to tear lives apart with his fangs—far more artistic appreciation for the colour red in all its pretty hues. Scarlet, ruby, garnet, cerise: they all told his story in the most evil detail that he couldn't keep the smile from his face.

Dru was weak; he could see the damage his fangs had wrought on her and a small twinge shook him—a left over perhaps from being his disgusting alter-ego. However, the guilt-laden idiot had spent weeks getting his childe all healthy on sire's blood, and in one night of frenzied punishment, he had lost most of it from her body.

It felt kinda fun, though. Like baptism of his renewed unlife in his own blood. It was more than fitting, and it tasted so sweet. But now his only family was left almost drained, and he found weakness abhorrent; disgusting. It was unfortunate, but he had a fondness for Dru. And even more, he had a need. She seemed aware of secrets from their little William that he would do himself no favours to ignore.

"Come here, my sweet. Time for Daddy to kiss all Dru's lovely bruises better."

She hummed and cried as her body shook the few steps to stand before him. She was naked, her blue eyes shining with a vacancy he could feel nothing but proud of.

"That's my girl." And that cut to the crux of the matter. She was his and the only one he had left of the all important inner four. Somehow he thought it would be impossible to coax Spike back to their side, the pest's soulless decisions confounding Angelus till his canines buzzed. Not that he would want the impetuous upstart barrelling in when his feral newness could possess Dru totally, destroy this town properly, and kill his grandchilde's lady-love painfully.

He pushed her back on the bed and positioned her kneeling while he stood before her. As he claimed her lips in a show of slow and gentle she had not experienced in over a hundred years from her sire, he ran his hands through her hair and allowed himself to grieve for the lost members of his family.

His own hand had deprived them of Darla, the most stunning blonde he had ever laid eyes on and so much more—his maker. The soul had ripped her from him while his loyalties had been misplaced. While he had been controlled by an unnatural restraint that sucked the proverbial life out of him.

And William, the one who had always dragged them into some trouble or other because he couldn't control his homicidal tendencies. Secretly, he was kind of proud of Spike. If the idiot hadn't brought them to the brink of dusting over and over again he would have even told him so. But the fool kept causing situations that saw mob after angry mob track and chase them down. A vamp liked his quiet life—and Spike did nothing but continually compromise it.

As Dru's hand found her way to his cock and gripped him hard, those small feelings of loss passed beyond him and he succumbed to her mouth, her luscious lips showing him a new existence. A fresh new tomorrow that would see them smashing their way through Sunnydale. If Spike wanted to act all soul-like without the benefit of having one, then Angelus was happy to let him watch as he bled the Slayer dry. Preferably while claiming the fuck weak little Angel had been deprived of with the shock emergence of Spike.

He lifted Dru and allowed her to wrap her legs round his waist and sink over his cock, soothed with the feel of her cold passage as it massaged his lust. He allowed her to move him for awhile, noticing with such lackadaisical fashion that her body was slowing, becoming more frail. With a gentle nudge he aimed her face to his neck, laughing out loud in amused bursts as her fangs were sunk in his throat and some of the plasma he had stolen from her was returned.

When he came it was with a few more vicious thrusts, an anger and strength for killing overcoming him. He threw his childe off his cock and back on the bed before bending over and grabbing his pants. In a rush he was dressed, looking down at a whimpering Dru with impatient irritation.

"Go clean up, Dru. Its time we left and find a new place to call home."

He watched as her shudder turned into a full-blown vibration, her body thrumming with some kind of news that allowed his eagerness to be gone, to fall aside so that he could wait and share in its destruction.

The smile that broke through her vacant and slackened expression impressed him with its complete lack of goodness. Everything about his childe thrilled him; she reeked of evil intent and he felt his cock harden with the need to see her once again in action, remind himself how she could subdue a terrified victim with nothing more than her eyes. It was simply the most delicious thing he had ever witnessed, and he couldn't believe how excited he was to see it again.

"I see it like it was Daddy, all stone and flowers...so pretty." And she spoiled the enthusiasm with a pout. "But it's all wrong this time. Naughty William will spoil the party before it's even begun. Daddy must find somewhere new, somewhere even the nasty Slayer can't find us. Somewhere with streamers and cake. Miss Edith doesn't like gardens...they need water to grow, and nothing ever grows for me."

Angelus watched her with a frown creasing his usually smooth face. "So what you're saying is, the gorgeous and empty mansion I already decided to move us to, is not such a good idea?" He began to pace, not even looking at Dru for an answer. He was well-versed enough to know that when she said something, explanation be damned, he'd want to listen. "Damn. Was a really nice spot, too. Okay, think. Need another place."

On a pivot he saw Dru still collapsed and curled into a shivering ball on his bed. "Go clean up, Dru. It's beyond time we were getting out of here. Move before the little Slayer comes along to attempt to dust us!"

His smile was cold as he continued the pacing. "Needs to be big enough to house the minions. Glam enough to fit the image. It's fine, Dru. I'll just eat the neighbours. They won't think to look for us right next door." It sounded satisfying enough, a little lunch with his new hideaway. But he was experienced enough to know that killing someone and taking over their place couldn't be permanent—someone would come to call and he'd have to kill them too. Then another and another. Best he find somewhere as deserted as the original place he'd intended, keep them as far under the radar as possible till he could work out what his return to his demon roots would mean for him and Dru.

Despite having to alter his plans on the fly, as well as being stuck with the least capable of his get—weakened to the point of his own irritation—he felt like he was in an amazingly good mood. He felt like singing. Only songs he could think of were by some dickwad called Manilow—and that was so far from his current image he almost wanted to barf.

When he turned and still saw Dru wailing softly on the bed, he rolled his eyes in an attempt to tamp down his impatience and anger. Obviously words weren't getting through to her. Lifting her from the bed with an uncharacteristic gentleness, he nudged her on her feet to the small bathroom, and set to checking out his souled existence in this place. Nothing bore reflecting on; nothing was of enough consequence to carry over into his new experience of undeath.

It was a timid Dru that exited the bathroom, still a little wet and dripping, fresh clothes covering the healing ruin of her skin. Angelus smiled as he enveloped her in his arms, rubbing his cock against the fabric covering her crotch.

"That's much better. Now, go sit in the corner like a good little girl while Daddy looks in the classifieds and finds us a new home."

She did as he said, dived into the corner like a mouse who had been trained by too many nasty zaps. But rather than subordinate in misery, she rocked back and forth and smiled. The pictures flittered in and out of her inner eye, and though her naughty Spike thought he could save the girl from her darling Daddy, he was too wicked and would be punished. With whips and chains and knives and the cruelest of water. Her daddy would make their wayward child bleed, would bring him home and make him stay. He might have forgotten who he was, but she knew the truth, and together, they could help him return to the dark.

Naughty boys that wandered in the light would always end up burned to a crisp.


 

Rating: nc-17

Pairing: spuffy (obviously)

Summary: Following on from the end of As You Were. Spike, devastated by Buffy's rejection, finds solace in a bottle shared with Anya and finds his unlife turned completely on its head. He finds that vengeance might not be for losers after all as he is thrust into the opportunity of a lifetime. But can he convince Buffy to take the risk? 

 

Chapter Seventeen

Breakfast without her vampire was a very pouty experience. As good as it was to share toasty pop-tart goodness with her best friend, spending it getting up to naughty things in the kitchen would have been equally as fun. Still, Buffy was feeling a little neglectful, and after the experience of soulless Angel last night—if the cool arms of Spike couldn't protect her—commiserating with Willow was a really good second choice.

That Willow wasn't interested much in the discussing of said evil soulless vamp was pretty much a huge giveaway, what with the almost blinding smile she hit Buffy with as soon as she had dressed and made her way into the kitchen. No traumatised teenager entered under a cloud of fear and worry. Oh no. Willow was after some form of pleasure by proxy tale. Buffy's return grin was enough to tell the redhead that gossipy goodness was more than willing to be shared.

"So, that Spike has got some pretty smooth moves," she began, and equal recall of his awkward and exposed tumble to the floor brought back that hideous outburst of girlish giggles that had driven him from the house in the first place.

During one of her gasps for breath, Buffy suddenly pictured in depth certain appendages that had been rather blatantly on display, and her eyes narrowed on her friend. Rather than expose her budding jealousy that her friend had seen Spike's package—an appendage that she was becoming increasingly possessive of—she turned to the bottle of juice and replenished their glasses.

"So, things looked kinda hot between you two," Willow ventured, despite the hot flare of blush that crept from her chest and neck to make her face flame.

Buffy's flush was internal as her body reacted to the hotness that was Spike. Every single second she spent in his presence turned her heart to a thumping mess, so eager for his touch that she was clouding her logic with sensual fireworks on a daily basis. Then again, the mere thought of what she had gotten up to with his appendages steered her right into explosive territory.

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she was still just sixteen, even if her birthday was looming in the nearish future. Recall of what she had asked of him, to take her finally—be her first, and hopefully her last—kept her skin buzzing with the prayer that the days would pass faster and faster until that date she had set for her deflowering was upon her. The day when she had decided to be shown that being bitten was not all about the muscles relaxing and drowning in a couple centimetres of dirty puddle water.

The truth was, every time Spike touched her was some kind of sensory overload. She was sure that if things didn't reach some kind of natural conclusion soon, her whole body was going to disintegrate from frustration. The parts he touched always ended up satisfied—and big yay for the mature manliness that made certain he was a perfectionist in that regard—yet there were other parts, ones from the inside that she was beyond patient waiting for him to inflame.

"Will, do you think I'm a raving hobag if I say 'I want his bod in all kinds of ways and all kinds of places right the hell now?'"

The widening of Willow's eyes elicited a groan—torn from a throat that was desperate to say a varied combination of words, but as yet only relegated to crash around in her brain. I want you now. Get on your knees and beg. Tell me where you want my tongue. Be my everloving man-bitch.

I love you.

And that sentiment stopped her cold.

Sure, she had told him—and rather emphatically—that she was his girl. How could she consider anyone else when Spike consumed every cell of her body, every thought in her head, every beat of her heart? Since the second he touched her in the high school, she had been his. Nothing had ever felt so right in her life. Not even the comfort of holding a smooth stick of wood in her fist.

But he seemed so unsure of her. She might not have told him the words, but couldn't he see it shining from her eyes, capturing him in her web of affection and drawing him in further and further until all she could see was a future with him by her side—loving and holding her and making her alive?

"Er, that was a rhetorical question, right?"

The smile on Buffy's face was pure girl, enthusiasm for an event that all teenagers want to experience at one time or another. On this occasion, Willow took up the position of envious best friend, adopting her stern face to bring the seriousness closer to the surface.

"So, beyond cozy...I'm assuming you haven't done...you know...'cause hey, best friend here. I'm meant to be the one you rush to with news of all the much having of the lusty moments. Which I'm seeing the evidence of muchness here. But not the ultimate moment, right?" Between her mix of embarrassment, shyness and rabid curiosity, Willow's face was as red as the fuzzy top she was trying to wear with confidence.

Buffy was nodding enthusiastically. "Much having of the lusty moments, but no...no big one yet. I told him on my birthday." Her mouth was opened, poised on the brink of spilling about her hopes for his fangs to make her his, when the thought that something like that might just freak her friend out too much.

"Birthday?" Willow squeaked before calming down within the topic and took a rather desperate swallow of the last of her juice. "You think you'll be ready...for that...on your birthday?"

"Arrgghhh!" screamed Buffy before banging her forehead down on the surface of the kitchen island. "I'm ready now, Will. Every sweep of his fingertips on my skin puts me in another timezone. Every time that sexy voice says my name I want to attack him with kisses."

Buffy chanced a glance at her friend, wondering what the reception to all her girly crush sentiments was. Other than a slight widening of shocked eyes, Willow's demeanor was accepting, if not a little eager. The redhead leaned forward, chin resting in the palms of her hands as she struck the pose of the giddily excited.

"So, you think you're ready? Really?"

Buffy zoned. Images of naked Spike running his hand over her, undressing her, sucking on her nipples ran like a fast-forward video. Blazing fire hit her right between the legs and she almost moaned as she clamped her knees together, pushing her weight down into the kitchen stool so as to relieve the pressure she had unwittingly inflamed.

"Will, its like..." She licked her lips while looking beyond her friend, trying to skip over the triple x-rated movie in her head to focus on his smile, just the sweet curve of his lips and the raspiness of his throat when he said her name. The way he spoke to her, the way her name seemed torn from his heart, melted her into goo. It struck a nerve so deep within her that she was left gasping—left wondering what she had been thinking in her childish crush on Angel. Sure, that relationship might of worked, might have been wholly satisfying if Spike had never entered her world, or if he had remained an evil bloodsucker she was committed to kill.

He hadn't though. He'd presented himself to her as a semi-evil vamp with an amazing capacity for change, and for love. There was nothing about him that confused or scared her. She was completely confident in his feelings for her and so waiting any longer to share her body, share her soul with him seemed redundant.

"It's like I can't ever be complete without him. I...I really care about him and I want to show him that. He's really sensitive and vulnerable." Her voice was quiet as she set the word in stone. Admitted to the air and friend around her that Spike was exactly what she wanted. And as romantic as waiting to give him her virginity on her birthday may be, the fire that raged every time they touched—the danger that circled them at every turn she took around a graveyard—dictated that the time was too far in the distance. They needed to share this now before normal Hellmouth duties took the chance away from her.

And she needed to tell him how she really felt. Not just proclaim herself to be his like some schoolgirl asking to go steady. Every part of her belonged to him. It was elemental, and it was spiritual.

And the morning was passing too fast without him.

When she finally fell out of her daydream—images of writhing sweaty sex making way for nice innocent dancing, sharing laughter at a funny movie, or just walking while holding hands on patrol—it was to the very focused amusement of her friend.

"He's vulnerable?" Willow teased. "But he's like, a master vampire. And he's evil. How can he be vulnerable?"

A chill crept along Buffy's spine as she wondered the question. He was so atypical to everything she had been taught. What had altered his path so much that he was now completely devoted to her and was terrified she would question his motivations for being with her?

"Yeah, he has this intensity...it scares the crap out of me. It's like he knows everything that's to come, and he is so scared of it—of me—that he can't believe that I really love him."

Willow's eyes shot open in surprise, and the girly buzz of gossip hit an all time new level.

"You love him? Are you sure? How can you tell? When did you know? Have you told him yet? Ha—"

"Whoa there, Will. That inspired a whole lot of stuff I'm not ready for. Don't suppose you would accept it was just a slip of the tongue?"

Willow frantically shook her head, her lips clamped so as not to barrage the blonde with another onslaught of desperate questions. Hoping her silence might just precipitate some pretty juicy answers.

Buffy sighed at the giddy light sparkling in Willow's eyes and knew it was hopeless. She'd let too many cats out of her bag of a big mouth and she would have to unload before the excitement of knowing she was in love killed her.

The decision made, a smile of epic happiness lit up her face and the thrill that came with sharing animated her whole body. Arms were flung and giggles were caught in pockets of air; passionate longing tinged her skin and joy played havoc with her composure.

"Nah ah," Willow responded with her own burst of high. Excitable hormones lent the kitchen a kind of buzz of expectation and Buffy let her mind wander, thoughts of timing and experience flitting through her mind's eye.

Thoughts of protective Spike lodging there firmly. Yeah, it so was love when she couldn't distance him from even her most mundane thoughts.

"Yes, I love him. I do." Buffy exhaled in the dreamiest fashion of romantic sappiness she was capable of.

Willow clapped, excitement racing through the pair of them till they both were bouncing and giggling on their stools—breakfast long forgotten in favour of other, meatier fare.

"Oh, that is just so wow. And you trust him completely? Not that I think you shouldn't trust him. And he is pretty gorgeous..."

"Hey now..." Buffy interrupted with a steely eye. "He's my gorgeous...you go find your own gorgeous."

Willow crumpled slightly, but her smile still beamed across to her friend.

"I don't know. Xander isn't interested, no matter how many little hints I give him. Maybe I'm just too much of spaz for boys to like me." Willow revealed her fear in a little girl voice resigned to be one of those girls left on the shelf.

"Oh, pffft!" Buffy exclaimed with a swat of her hand in the air. "It's Halloween tomorrow. We'll make Xander take notice."

"We will?" the redhead squeaked, suddenly sitting up straight with an eagerness sparkling in her green eyes.

"Oh yeah, we so will. We'll make both of those boy's eyes pop out of their heads." She paused. "Well, boy and man, 'cause Spike is so not a boy."

"Uh huh," Willow enthusiastically agreed and the rest of the morning was lost to nervy, embarrassed giggles.

It was shaping up to be a good day; Angelus completely pushed to the back of their minds as crush objects inspired steamy thoughts.

With a bit of luck, thought Buffy, it would be the day.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Spike watched in amazed horror as Xander shoved his pantry full of 'crispy goodness' and useless caloried food. Cans of soda and various other non-perishables that would be better in the fridge waited on the kitchen bench for the equipment to be delivered. Spike flung the set of keys onto the bench beside a UHT carton of milk, and looked around with undisguised pleasure.

Uncovered windows allowed the entire living area to be bathed in sunlight, the subtle shade of yellow making the place warm and cozy. It was so opposite to what he was used to in the crypt that he felt momentarily stunned as his eyes prickled a little with his feeling.

"Not too shabby, Dad. Not shabby at all," garbled Xander around a mouth full of chips.

Spike couldn't help raise an eyebrow, wondering if he could get away with bestowing a thorough thrashing on the by who just wouldn't quit with the 'dad' analogies.

"Would you just leave it alone?" he said in exasperation and watched in fascination as the irritated tone of his voice actually halted the whelp's jaw from munching.

"Yeah, okay. Sorry."

Eyes of mahogany scanned the empty space with interest, slowly lingering on the doors off the room that led to bedrooms and Spike swallowed. He'd had an idea—sort of an unknown effort on his part to make it up to the boy he was quickly beginning to like for all the ugliness of their past relationship. Or at least his past, as how things stood now Spike was certain the animosity they routinely threw at each other was long gone.

It was an idea that held much merit, in more ways than one, yet he seemed hesitant to bring it up. The kid's age was an issue, and despite living in that hideous basement, he really hadn't had the opportunity to venture upstairs and mingle with his hosts. But he'd had enough of the elder Harris' to know—their son would live in a basement!

"Look, I was wonderin'..." He paused, couldn't go on as the words suddenly caught in this throat. Did he really want to do this? Was it fair on the boy, or even on Buffy? It would curb some of his plans, but it would also solve some problems, and make his place the thing he had set out to provide for all of them. A safe haven. Being a vamp, and as the sole inhabitant, it wasn't immune to allowing unwanted visitors of the undead variety past his doorway.

Gritting his teeth in determination, and not a little hope, he opened his mouth and allowed the words to spill from his lips.

"'S two bedrooms, right? Was thinking, if it won't cause you trouble with your family, if you'd like one of the rooms. You know, to live in."

As Xander opened his mouth, shock obvious on his face, Spike raced on. He was suddenly eager to postpone whatever objection the brunette could verbalise, and threw out phrases and conditions till he ran out of things to say.

"An' it wont be like you'll be sittin' round and partyin' all day. You've still school to get through, an' I can probably help with that if you want. An' there'll be none of this constant fatty calories—we'll learn to cook. Chips as a snack only, yeah? I won' get in your hair s'long as you bloody stay out of mine." He stopped as soon as he saw Harris's eyes glaze over while staring at his hair. "I meant it figuratively, boy. You've got some serious learnin' to catch up on." Spike couldn't help but grin.

Xander's lips flapped open and closed, the fish impression the one endearing him to Willow if he but knew it.

"Thanks," he struggled out at last as his hand dived into the packet of crisps again and he smiled his agreement. "I'll talk to the 'rents about it after Halloween."

"You'll be doin' us all a favour, mate. Place isn' protected with just a vamp in 'ere, and I want all you lot to think of it as a safe place if ever you need it."

Xander nodded dumbly for a moment and an awkward silence stretched to minutes, only broken by a knock on the door. Spike let the deliverymen in and his new bed, mattress and fridge started their journey into his home. His eyes followed the workers, glancing again at the empty space he was hoping Buffy would help him fill. It was all for her, after all, and he wanted her to be cozy. Would be a bit awkward with her friend living right under their nose, but the rush of something in his gut made him feel happy for doing a good thing. A right thing that he thought could hopefully benefit the boy in time to come. As long as he could get rid of him occasionally, the company should be good.

And God, did he say it was Halloween? The most bloody useless day on the calendar. Oh well, he could get busy helping the gypsy girl tackle the soul restoration spell while he kept the bint alive.

He just hoped she wasn't stubborn.

Deliverymen left, Harris gone home—another packet of crisps firmly in hand—he set to making the bed. His hand lingered over the pink sheets, hesitating for only a fraction before he kicked them under the bed and seized the black. Minutes had him a nicely made bed and fluffed up pillows, just in time to hear the little cough at his door and the small voice calling out his name.

"Spike?"

And then there she was, glowing in the dimming sunlight of his living room with the prettiest smile he'd seen.

"'Ello, love," he greeted as he slowly made his way to her, his stride sexy as his shoulders rolled.

When he reached her and ran his hands down her arms, he clued in to the goosebumps that roughened her skin and he sniffed, scenting finally her apprehension mingled in with a subtle scent of passion. He was immediately caught in her spell, unable to control the descent of his head as his mouth yearned to possess hers.

She made no move to resist as his lips consumed her, her coat and bag hitting the floor as she wound her arms around his neck. Still close to the door, Spike allowed a hand to seek the hard surface of the wood and slammed it shut, moving forward and taking her backward to make sure it was locked before crushing her against the surface. His tongue dived into the warmth of her mouth, teasing her own into play and he moaned low in his throat.

God, she drove him wild. Drove him to want too much. Drove him to insanity while he tried to wait for her to grow up. As lips smoothed over each other, caressed each other into surrender, his hands held her. Cherished her as he told her with his heart in his throat and his lips against hers how he felt.

And as the gentleness of it continued, he felt she knew.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There was nothing for it but to pat himself heartily on the back. He'd outdone himself and the fact that Dru was strangely quiet—no whimpering or laughing—left him with a supreme sense of satisfaction.

Angelus led his only acknowledged family up the small flight of stairs and swept her inside. It was pure genius really, and he couldn't help but smile with the most manic of pleasure as he took in the bare entry. Stone, stone everywhere. It was blissfully flame retardant, and he just loved it. Without words he led her through to the back, delighting at her gasp. The flowers of the garden wound around everything, and again the place was abundant in stone fittings.

"But my Angel, it's the same, yet safe. Tea parties and gatherings we will hold aplenty here. Our wayward William will even hang from the walls to be back with us. It's very wicked what you have done, Daddy."

Completely chuffed, Angelus puffed out his chest and rocked back on his heels, his eyes sweeping his new home. He noticed the emptiness and his eyes twinkled.

"Billy boy left behind his possessions, Dru. Not the best clean up he's ever done. Best you wait here while I go out and round up the help. If we set it all up quickly, then I promise you a night of dancing and blood."

Dru giggled, her arms pulling herself in tight as she became lost in her mind. Things were so very different this time, and yet Spike had no clue. She could see them delving and diving though his memories until they could break him. And break him was even her goal, because even though Daddy had arisen and taken his patriarchal rights of the household, naughty William should never have turned toward the light. Nothing could excuse his messing with fallen angels when Daddy was all of the heavenly messenger they needed.

The darkest of princesses spun in a wide circle, momentum pulling her arms from her sides until she was dancing gaily amongst images of her childe as he bled, as he mourned the death of the light, as he was pulled back under their influence. He'd been theirs once—had floundered in his future—but she would make sure it wasn't too late.

Her William would be one of them, even if Daddy did not expect or want it.

It would never be too late to welcome her childe home.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

She knew it. Leave a guy with a new place and a girl to entertain, and he'll race right out and buy a great big monstrosity of a bed. That she had her back flat on some rather sumptuous bedding meant little to her right now. What mattered was that Spike was not making with the smoochies. Well, not the x-rated smoochies anyway. Sure his tongue was avidly searching her mouth, and she was feeling lightheaded from the mind-blowing kisses, but now that she had made the decision, did she have to initiate it too? It wasn't like she offered her virginity everyday, so the etiquette of passing on the news was just a little intimidating. It wasn't like he'd ever had trouble taking it several levels above where they were right now every other time they got within a metre of each other. He touched her in the nice places; it was what he did.

His hand innocently coasted over her clothes, light touches mapping out her curves, but nothing was being removed, and as naïve about such things as she might be, Buffy was pretty sure that the first step to losing said innocence would be the removal of clothes.

So it was up to her, then. Not like she hadn't been the hobag of the century with him recently, anyway.

His fingers twirled strands of her hair as she pushed the length of her body harder against his, feeling the rigid length of him against her thigh. Just the thought of what she was about to do, about to experience set her body preparing for the hoped for invasion. The room was dark, the sun finally submitting to rest over the other side of the world. And she felt consumed within her bubble of love for this man. This being that was so much more man than vampire.

As Buffy sucked on his bottom lip, licking the skin captured between her teeth, her hand wandered up underneath the back of his loosened t-shirt. The taut strength of his muscles turned her into a quivering mass and she practically melted into the surface of him—leaving hardly a patch of her front not touching him. Her leg curled around his thigh, dragging his pelvis to brush against her heat and she moaned.

Not that the kissing hadn't been nice, but usually the passion had been ratcheted up a few paces by now, and Buffy was getting impatient. But just those two little moves to get closer had sparked a difference and the message of their embrace changed. Just like that Spike inflamed every molecule of her body.

She nearly started screaming as he started to rub against her crotch, her moisture levels increasing the bolder the movements became. She'd worn a skirt today—specifically hoping for such an eventuality, and now it was bunched up uncomfortably around her hips. Thanking God for the invention of elastic waistbands, she shimmied quite erotically against Spike's aroused body and finally got it around her ankles.

Being gloriously male, Spike didn't realise what Buffy was up to with her erratic little dance against all his good bits until his hand brushed against completely bare skin. His heart in his eyes, he pulled back to watch her. He saw the lustful haze that robbed her of sense, could smell how her hormones had control of her body, and his heart dropped. He loved her so much, and yet he was repeating history by making her lose her head through passion. Though in his future he had savaged Buffy into a fighting fuck, this time he had clouded her judgement with sensory overload.

It left a heavy weight of fear in his gut.

God, this opportunity just tore at him. What decision did he make? Her age, who she was, what they could be together all ripped him apart so that his general sense of what was right was completely askew. It was difficult at the best of times and he usually relied on doing the opposite of what he had done before to guarantee a different outcome.

But this...situation with Buffy was completely beyond his reason. His experience with her was so diverse and yet none of it seemed to be able to guide him. He'd done good things for her and received promises of consideration in return, only to be smacked in the balls and have his nose broken the very next opportunity she had to see him differently but didn't.

He loved her.

It was as plain as night and just as irreversible. Yet he was terrified of going down the wrong track, of making the wrong bloody call in this situation. If he was his normal evil self he'd take her, read her body for the screaming harlot it was emulating with no questions asked and no sense of guilt or feelings in response.

But this wasn't the body of experience. It was one of adolescent curiosity and one he didn't want to defile in that way. This was a body and a woman he wanted to cherish for the rest of her life. Wanted to lavish with gifts of beauty and strength for as long as she could tolerate his presence. But the writhing and heat she was stirring him with was reaching a breaking point and he was terrified he wouldn't be able to stop.

Wrenching his lips away, he removed her leg from over the top of his and rolled to his back, gasping unneeded breaths while he desperately tried to think. Her whimpers struck his heart but he knew better than to suspect anything but thwarted desire. The scent of tears as she rolled to her side away from him and covering herself with the blanket at the foot of the bed was his first clue that he'd already started with the mistakes.

"Buffy, luv. What's wrong?" His heart lodged firmly in his throat while he waited for her to answer. The gentle shake of her shoulders confirmed it—he'd fucked it all up again. He was inept at trying to do this human thing. Without a soul to guide him he just didn't have a clue, couldn't even train himself to have a clue no matter what he did.

If he wanted her he would have to change. There was no other way of looking at the situation. The time had come for him to face the fact that his Buffy had always been right about him. He was a soulless monster and would always wallow beneath her if he didn't have the last piece of humanity stamped within him. He couldn't hurt her, couldn't risk the pain that it would cause both him and her.

"Buffy, whatever I did, I'm sorry, pet. Please don't cry." He curled into her back, his lips finding some bare skin on her shoulder around the straps of her skimpy top. His hand found one of hers and he laced their fingers together as he swallowed against his own lump of emotion.

Everything about his relationship with Buffy hurt. The not knowing how to go about loving her in the way she deserved. The inability to take the step back and let her grow up before he pushed her. He'd always thought he could read her well, but since facing the blunt punch to the nose on too many occasions, he'd lost the confidence that came with being the cocky Big Bad.

In his arms she shuddered, allowing the silent tears to reverberate through her body rather than let the sobs out to be heard. Hopelessness lent her head a weariness that had her burying her face in her free hand as well as the one joined to him. Her heart hurt, the rejection far more impact for something that had never been voluble in offering, still the ache was agonising all the same. Without the security of his loving arms she felt bereft, cast adrift in a swirl of confusion. She didn't have the maturity to handle the weight of these feelings. She felt the deep power of her love for him, but couldn't find the place that would help her deal with his lack of wanting her.

And then he was kissing her shoulder and the affection she felt for him rose again with her hope. Her body sparked with little splinters of fire, and the tears dried up as she arched her back into him. Only then when she had begun to banish the panic from her heart did she take in the meaning of his words. Words that cast a disconcerted air around their reclining bodies. Words that dove deep within her and made her feel the reality of the situation.

She'd wanted her first time with him to be momentous, and he was telling her with his fear and gentleness that it was also for him. It would be a moment for both of them to treasure, and she had made a mistake by not sharing words with him first. Not thinking that such a situation deserved a clearheaded go ahead for the vamp that held off and never allowed them to go too far.

Taking the chance—yet terrified her heart could end up shredded—she rolled back to watch him. A finger traced over his sharp cheekbone as she took a dive into the clear blue of his eyes.

"I'm ready, Spike. I don't want to wait to be with you anymore."

The awe he revealed in the way his shining eyes couldn't move from hers was the answer she needed. He felt it too, felt everything her young body was rejoicing in and more.

"Are you sure? I thought you wanted to wait for your birthday. You're still so young..."

She cut him off with her lips, the taste between them salty and wet but a move forward from before. It was short this time though, a promise of what was to come if only he would trust her mind and heart on this issue.

"But why, luv? Why now? We can wait; don't do it just because it feels good."

Something cold and nasty clenched his heart as he thought those words, memories of being used to feel tearing through his body and almost having him back from the bed in remembered hurt.

Her eyes studied him in a way she had never done before; saw things he'd always been able to hide from his future Buffy. The vulnerability that had always been there had been relatively easy to mask from a Buffy who had no interest in his feelings. But this one needed them, needed to be able to tell how much he felt for her was real. The sincerity was enough, and she smiled.

"It isn't hormones, Spike," she grinned, feeling far happier than just a short time ago.

He blinked unintelligently at her. She was trying to tell him something, but the twist his head and heart were in he was incapable with implicit messages.

"You're gonna have to tell me, pet. I'm all out of bloody interpretive abilities right now."

The dark atmosphere lifted from the room and she heaved a big sigh of relief. He wasn't rejecting her; he was scared, too. And seeing fear on a being over a century old was rather humbling.

Buffy flung the blanket aside, bearing her legs to him. She was covered now by just her panties and the little blue halter top and she could already feel the burn on her skin as his eyes swept her figure from head to toe. She curled a fist into the hem of his black tee and rubbed her inner wrist against the cool skin of his belly.

"I know I'm ready for this, Spike."

His raised eyebrow encouraged her to continue, to tell him in words why she believed she was ready despite the hum of his body at her sensual touch.

"I'm ready because I love you. I want to belong to you."

His harsh indrawn breath frightened her for a moment, but then the shine of his eyes as he watched her with pure emotion shocked her out of worry.

"Oh Buffy, please say you mean it."

His head, it spun as he watched the world spin around her face. It was like absent circulating blood thundered through his veins until the haze behind his eyes was red and swirling. Her words, her voice offered him paradise and he couldn't bear the intensity, couldn't take the fear that something would rise up and steal it away from him.

Her hand scooted under the fabric of his shirt and skimmed his flesh right up to his chest. She caught him in her gaze before offering him her own watery worship.

"I love you, and I am totally sure. I want you to make love to me. Please," she asked shyly, and that was all it took.

His mouth fought hers ferociously as he held his hands back, wanting the kiss to betray the depth of his fervor for her as he took the time to reach some sense of calm. He needed to find gentle before he took their touching further, needed to not make her first time a frenzy she would be frightened of.

"Oh Buffy, I love you so much," he whispered in the husky, sexy voice that drove her wild. "Gonna show you how much, baby." And then words were too much, only stood in the way of the sensation she was dying for.

Every thought shot out of Buffy's head when she at last felt his hands on her skin, skating lightly over her torso as he lifted the hem of her top and much too slowly over her head. Chilled air hit her exposed nipples a second before his cool lips closed around one; the other teased to agony by his fingers.

Her leg found its earlier position, slung across his thigh, and as she lay against his still clothed body while she was almost completely naked she whimpered in sensual misery. The removal of his shirt had her almost weeping in distraction, every inch of her skin on fire from his touch, from his lips as they searched out every one of her hidden spots and teased them to a fury.

Her eager hands cupped the bulge in the front of his jeans, squeezing almost too hard before undoing the stud and lowering the zip. Between them both he was naked and the jeans flung across the room, landing in a disorganised pile with both their shirts near the door.

It left her sodden panties, pretty pink cotton that was a little on the skimpy side but chosen exactly for that reason. Because he made her feel sexy, made her feel wanton and she thought she would die if he didn't stop staring at them and take them off her. There was no innocent flush to her skin; she was so eager to feel his hands and lips on her body that the frantic need sidetracked her and she forgot her shyness.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered reverently before ducking down and teasing the side straps with his teeth and tongue. He traced the line around her thigh, reminiscent of the night they had first met in the school, and it brought a rushing spasm of excitement to her belly.

Finally he hooked his finger into the strap and slowly dragged them down her legs and off. They fell off his finger to the floor beside the bed, both their eyes following the descent.

Then his lips burned a path across her flesh as he made it back to her own, the desire he blasted her with almost separating her spirit from her body.

"You are mine. I love you with all that I am. My body will possess you with all I can be. Together we will fight everything in our path, and I will never let you lose your way. I will never let you go."

Buffy felt the words in her womb, the clenching of both wonder but a mounting worry at his possessiveness. But it wasn't a surprise. She'd known he would be like this, that if she gave him her heart it would mean that she accepted the nature of his beast. His demon.

"Spike? How can you love me? Without a soul, how can it be possible?"

He knew it would come, that lack of knowledge would yank his balls. Bloody hell it was tiring, and he was about to push himself from her without explanation when he felt her soft fingertip smooth over his eyebrow, soothing the demon that had emerged in his distraction.

"It's not rejection," she promised in her scared little girl voice. "I just want to be sure that all of you loves me, the man as well as the demon. I couldn't bear it if it was just half of you and someday you left me."

His relief was almost incapacitating.

For the first time he succumbed; he wept into her collarbone as his demon face faded back into the background. God, he couldn't deal with how much he loved her. Couldn't resolve how tender she was being to him when all he'd been dealt from the other Buffy was her anger and hate of him. It couldn't be real. That he have this and her heart too. How the fuck could it all be so different?

Courage. It raced through him like raging floodwaters and he finally lifted his head. It was there, as plain as day—her love shining as glorious as the morning sun.

"It's all of me. How could I love you with anything less than all of what I am? It's not bleeding possible. Demon loved you first, pet."

"Oh," she said, stunned into speechlessness. There was no other option but to bring his lips back to hers, and begin the dance that she never wanted to give up. She wanted him to always be there, always touching and holding her like this. In the back of her mind she knew it mightn't be for long; a Slayer's lifespan wasn't lengthy, but for however long she had she wanted to be his. To dance within his arms and his heart till they could be no more.

They moved against each other, moist skin transferring to the cool body above it while Buffy's tongue battled his into a submissive love. A love where she offered her strength and commitment. Gave him her heart to protect and hold forever as she would never need it back. Not from him.

She loved him, and that made everything they were doing now right. Making her age irrelevant in the number of years. No sixteen year-old could be so sure of whom her partner was, of where her life laid in the scheme of the world.

His lips broke the pattern to drag across her jaw, drifting down until he caught her nipple again. His tongue teased and flicked her into a mass of nervous need, his hands busy crushing the curls between her legs. Desire taught her to part her thighs, and as she did his fingers delved into her heat, slicking her around her pussy lips and missing her aching clit.

"Spike," she moaned, tangling her fingers in the stiff curls, her grip tightening painfully as his lips diverted down to seek more. And then his mouth clamped around her hardened nub, sucking and stretching it deep into his mouth even as he rolled her hips against his direction. Buffy writhed in ecstasy as his tongue flicked a rhythm against the sensitive nerve and she felt the tension build from her pussy, up, up until it screamed from her throat in a hoarse cry of devotion.

Immediately he was back at her mouth, furiously licking up the tears she hadn't even known she'd shed as he rubbed the head of his cock against her increased wetness. Her leg gripped his hips as she tried to haul him in closer, moaning as the bell-shaped tip brushed continuously over her sensitive nubbin.

"Please, please," she sobbed against his lips, and hissed as he moved fractionally forward, stretching her outer lips to an accommodating cover.

"Ssh," he soothed as he so slowly asserted his place within her, her slickened walls squeezing his girth as he pushed against them, engulfed in overwhelming heat and fluid. He clenched his jaw as the molten feel of her passage strangled him. Only half in and he was about to explode.

It was so different to what he knew; was so more meaningful that he hadn't had to fight for this possession. Didn't have to bring down a building to experience the exquisite torture of having her.

He would never have believed that the difference of her love would be so monumental. He thought having her in his bed, knowing she felt for him—even if she refused to allow the sentiment past her lips—was as meaningful as he would need. But as he reached the barrier that surrendered any argument of being her first, as he swept it aside with the minimal tear of pain, he realised that her eager love made all the difference.

And then he was fully rested within her, deep breaths alarming him with the need to draw in air, the need to feel more like a virginal man than even William probably had. It was beyond different, this. He felt her tentative movement against him and he steadied her, wanting the sensation to be prolonged for just a few moments till he could grasp his sanity back. Know the true meaning behind devotion before he taught it to her.

Buffy couldn't hold still a second longer. No matter how she tried her hips began to circle, the little sparks of sensation driving her impulses. Every tiny sensation made her feel like she was going to die. She whispered kisses against his eyelids, his temple, his nose and jaw before finally releasing some of the tension in a drugging kiss that stole her breath and her mind. Her arms were desperately wound around his head, holding him so close that she could feel the bruise forming under his hipbone.

She parted her legs wider and wound both around him, urging with the subtle lift of her pelvis that she needed more, craved more. When he slid out a short distance Buffy felt a swoon build up as blood drained from her limbs. Her muscles were tightly wound, and then he was moving, a back and forth riff with a background moaning and screaming song that leapt from her lips.

His shoulders rolled against her grip as his lower body pumped his cock into her, the pace increasing as the blistering heat spread throughout her body. Nerves built in tension, the tearing sliding sensation of his girth stretching her overeager muscles that even she could feel were involuntarily strangling the reason out of him. Her nipples stung, her belly buzzed and at last she felt it. The seizing of everything ready for a fierce, life-altering explosion. Her body arched into him, her back off the bed as her head reared back, nails clawing at his back to hold him as close to her as she possibly could.

His cock began to pulse within her, nudging at the spongy walls that kept him tightly in place and he pounded her hard, knowing that the end was so near but torn about how much he wanted it. The journey had been such exquisite pain and he was afraid that he might lose it completely if he finally let himself go.

"Oh Spike," Buffy cried and he felt another restraint snap and his control compromised. "Please, please, please," she panted against his lips, emotion curling and transferring to both of them and lodging stubbornly in two throats. Her fingers rubbed at his brow, teeth nipping at his lips until the scent of his own blood rushed to his senses and his fangs pricked at his gums.

"Buffy, stop it baby."

"I want you. I love you, Spike. Please," she sobbed, emotions so out of control that reason had finally escaped her.

It was coming. The end speeding within a tidal wave of lust, and love and passion. And she was guiding his fangs to her throat.

"No," he whispered huskily, voice breaking with the violence of his feelings. "Birthday, Buffy. Will share it with you on your birthday...this too intense...enough...Jus' let me love you."

Her accepting nod was the sign he had been waiting for and with a cry of euphoria he bit her breast with human teeth. He shoved himself in her hard and let it all go, feeling the hard vibration of her walls against the rigid need of his cock as he spent himself to a mental and physical drain. Everything went black, and not just from the darkness that had spread out in the room while they were busy. Every sense he had was spent and he could do nothing but collapse into his girl's shuddering arms.

Time passed, Spike's head cradled against her breast where he could hear her thundering heartbeat slow and finally settle into a more natural rhythm of rest. He felt lost, useless bar for the finger he trailed the path of his breath across her belly. He was almost too afraid to lift his head and see how what they had done affected her, but as her body began to shift in discomfort he slid unwillingly from her body to curl her against him and on their sides facing each other.

Spike chuckled at the giddy grin that lit up her whole face, stealing her lips for a sweet, gentle kiss.

Without words, Buffy rested her head in the crook of his arm, blinked sleepily and closed her eyes. She kissed his chest, rested her palm at the curve of his hip and relaxed at last into slumber, Spike watching her angelic face till he could feel himself drift off.

His final conclusion was that coming back in time had been more than worth it.

Buffy was worth everything.


 

Chapter 18:

It was a completely different Willow that exited the Summers’ bathroom, arms wrapped in trepidation around the gaping sash of skin bared at her middle. She waited—knowing that Buffy was all friendy and not likely to burst out laughing at her sex-kitten interpretation gone bad, but still not completely sure what impulse might wring out of a person. If Buffy laughed, well…say hello ghosty costume from the costume shop.

Buffy smiled and Willow was stuck. Was this an on-the-edge-of-laughing kind of smile, or something else? Something kind of approvaly? Her complete lack of experience in this kind of situation just left a shuddering line of confusion, not able to risk one side of the possibility for fear of taking the wrong step. And making that step when she felt close to naked.

“You look fantastic, Will,” Buffy gushed in enthusiasm, all the while hiding her own minor embarrassment at her choice of costume.

“Oh,” whooshed out of Willow as the tension relaxed and her body slumped against the doorframe. “You too,” the redhead rushed in to add as the veil of her awkwardness was lifted fractionally. And Buffy did look pretty awesome.

“Thanks. It’s kind of hard to do Xena without the threatening cleavage. And the…you know…height.”

“But you do the brunette thing really well,” assured Willow, admiring the sleek thick hair of the wig.

Buffy grinned as she pulled Willow into her room and in front of the mirror. They stood staring at their reflection completely speechless, stomachs hurtling to the floor in a rally for returned propriety.

It took Buffy several swallows before she bucked up and got courageous.

“I guess we both know how to get sexy and wild with no repercussions.”

Willow smiled nervous encouragement, raising her fist to wave it uncertainly in the air.

“Yay, go us.”

Buffy giggled. “You are so going to make Xander’s eyes pop,” she told Willow gleefully. If there was one thing guaranteed to put a smile on her friend’s face, it would be Xander’s interest.

“Buffy, I-I don’t think I can really do this. I mean, it’s just not me.”

Buffy arched a brow. “And queen of the naked Amazon wannabes is my kick? I mean, do you actually see my cleavage?”

Willow snorted. “Oh yeah. Do I!”

Buffy rolled her eyes as she elbowed Willow in the ribs. Her friend rubbed the contact spot with a pout on her lips.

“Ow.”

“Come on. If I have to bare myself to all of Sunnydale, so do you. And I think I hear Xander at the door.”

Their light feet on the steps showed a hesitation about the coming confrontation that neither girl showed. Their smiles may have been a little forced but their determination never wavered. Even though Buffy knew better than to expect Spike at the door—having already agreed to his spending the early part of the night with Giles and Ms. Calendar to help in translating the soul curse—a little sliver of disappointment caught her off guard. The first hour of being dressed up was always the best. As the night wore on, so did the make-up and clothing. Right this minute, in front of Xander’s adolescent approving eye, she was fresh. Fresh and bulging from her costume.

Buffy pouted in a flash of discontent with the night’s plans. Then took a good look at her only male friend.

“Private Harris reporting for... Buffy! Lady of Buffdom, Duchess of Buffonia, I am in awe! I completely renounce spandex! Skin tight skimpy leather is without doubt my truest friend.”

He caressed his toy rifle like it was the leather incasing Buffy’s body. Or some other implement he would rather be reassuring with his touch. She felt herself flushing red, managing to stay still and not inspect her rather obvious display of skin for the altered complexion only through will and eagerness to showcase her other blushing friend to the object of her affections.

“Why thank you, kind sir.”

The Slayer stepped aside, allowing Xander’s first unobstructed view of his childhood play pal. Despite descending the stairs with Willow right behind her, Buffy was irrationally relieved to find her still there, still in the same skimpy outfit that she had exited the bedroom wearing. Somewhere in the back of her head, Buffy had half expected the redhead to race back to the room to retrieve her packaged ghost costume.

“Well, Private Harris is now split right down the middle, though the leather of the skirt variety still makes me Mr. Happy Man.”

Buffy smiled knowingly at Xander’s slight hitch in breath and grabbed her coat before leading them out of the front door.

“Now, Giles said that tonight is actually kind of dead for the undead. But now we have Angelus all explory and vengeful, we need to keep an eye out. Bonus though for keeping the vamp population indoors. Makes the search less of the needle in the haystack variety.”

Her friends stayed quiet despite her rousing speech about their current evil, eyes for nothing but each other.

“I am so glad we managed to bypass Snyder and not get saddled with a ton of kids while I have to keep a look out.”

Again she was met with distracted grins before attention quickly went back to admiring each other rather than her.

“What am I, chopped liver?” she huffed, her pout firmly in place.

“Oh, sorry Buff. Just a bit distracted.” Xander slung his toy rifle over his shoulder and straightened his back, looking for all the world like a confident soldier of years of experience.

“Of course you were,” Buffy agreed and giggled as he quickly ducked his eyes to look at the ground and Willow attempted to stop her face from blending with her hair.

She surrendered all attempts at conversation then and just walked. One foot in front of another until her pace meant she was leading the trio, the other two lagging further and further behind her sturdy pace. And so she walked and watched out, feeling miserable to be the one in front; the one aware of surrounding evil and yet lonely and bereft for the loss at her side. Stupid Spike for not wanting to walk with them anyway.

When Giles had mentioned the complete deadness of the Night for the Dead, Buffy had almost choked on her disbelief…until Spike had stepped in and agreed that the nasties liked their one night off in the year to rest up and be unpredictable. Her vision now was spotted with little scary people, all costumed up to scare their neighbours into coughing up the candy and filling their little sacks. Buffy found a smile tugging at her lips and she felt a release of tension. Maybe Giles was right and they wouldn’t see Angelus tonight. Maybe she’d gotten all dressed up in the skimp mode of seduction all for nothing.

Thoughts of Spike and the things he had made her body do and receive brought the rush of red back to her entire body and she grinned at the real reason she had adopted the Halloween tradition. She may have seized a leather wonderbra and leather wrist cuffs to emulate the buxom heroine, but she was dying for Spike to be her Hercules tonight. To take her back to those perfect moments in his arms when she could have sworn he’d taken her to a place they could exist forever—as long as they were together.

By the time Buffy twigged to the changes going on around her—pulling her out of the fertile imagination she had in regards to the joining of their naked and sweaty flesh—things had become slightly chaotic. Willow and Xander had lagged a decent distance behind, and once she had turned to locate them, Willow was standing back and pleading with Xander about something—she holding her hands up against his raised rifle. Without thought, Buffy had turned back and ate up the path to return to them. After a few mystified minutes, both she and Willow managed to work out that Xander no longer knew who he was or who they were. He swung his rifle around at each terrified scream that filtered through the night like it was his business to protect everyone from the monsters that dwelled in the shadows.

As miniature monsters jumped out from behind bushes; as altered children terrorised Sunnydale after dark, the girls could do nothing but rush their friend back home. In their panicked backtracking they managed to snag a ravaged Cordelia in a skintight catsuit.

Barricading the front door, Buffy took a few breaths and tried to work out what could possibly be wrong. Little groups of mini-monsters were rampaging gardens and letterboxes up and down the street, as well as some adults that Buffy recognised as some of the parents that had taken their children out—introducing them to the delights of the holiday celebrating the supernatural.

Preventing Xander from firing his rifle at menacing passers-by seemed to take all her energy and Buffy was so far at a loss. As she wrestled the door from him once more, fiercely wrenching the gun from his hands, she directed him forcefully to a chair.

“You’ll have to give me back my weapon, ma’am. You are not authorised to handle it and I will have to use whatever methods necessary in order to regain it.”

“I’d like to see you try, Soldierboy!” she huffed, rolling her eyes in irritation.

And when Xander set upon her to indeed relieve her of the weapon, she found herself involved in a fight fueled with confusion. Should she knock him flat on his ass so she could rest and think the situation out? Buffy hated to think of using her power against her friend, but the alternative left her occupied when she needed to be free of hassle and knee deep in finding out what the freak had happened to her night. And hopefully all without having her costume or hair altered in any way at all.

Sighing loudly, she overpowered her friend, bundled him into the basement and tied him to a chair.

“Where’d you get the nice shiny weapon, Xan?”

“It’s standard army issue, ma’am. You are in violation of the US Army. Untie me right now and I’ll consider not turning you in to my commanding…… officer.”

Buffy turned to Willow. “I thought this thing was a toy, but it looks like nice killing type bullets that’s he’s firing out there.”

“Oh no. I think he bought it from that costume shop. Ethan’s?”

Buffy frowned as she remembered having a quick look in there when she was looking for the perfect costume to knock Spike on his ass.

“The place that had that early era pink satin dress?”

Willow giggled at the memory. “Yeah. The one you said covered up too much flesh and you didn’t think you could wait how long it would take Spike to get it off you in one piece so you didn’t lose the deposit.”

“Oh, yeah,” Buffy admitted with a blush. “And Xena was so right for the flesh and skimpy…”

“Oh don’t worry, Buffy. It’s very sexy.”

They stopped at a snort from tied-up Xander.

“No man in his right mind would let his girl walk around in an outfit like that. That is a bedroom kind of costume. I can practically see your nipples.”

“Xander!” exclaimed Willow and Buffy together, the sixteen year olds suddenly feeling the need to cover up.

And nipples on display or not, Buffy felt an urgent need to get away from Xander’s roving eye.

“Cordelia,” she shouted back up the stairs, not quite believing the girl would agree to soldier-sit but knowing that she might need Willow to help her think out this mess.

The brunette argued herself hoarse about what Buffy asked of her, but settled in near the tied up Scooby like she was prepared for a long stay. Buffy raised a brow and hoped that the snark wasn’t covering an interest that might cause Willow pain. Right now she didn’t have time to worry about love lives or even friends.

She had a night to save.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It felt weird for Spike to sit in front of Rupert and help a woman he hadn’t even met with a spell his own Dru had encouraged murder to stop. Admittedly, back then he’d been proud of Dru’s violent impulses towards Buffy and her friends—had even slightly admired Angelus for his creativity in his torment. The extent of his change made him sometimes wonder if he was really Spike. He didn’t have a soul, yet what behaviour he exhibited to these Scoobies and toward Buffy seemed to imply that it wasn’t so much necessary as already developing.

He had always been a nonce for the power of love, but giving Buffy the credit for changing an evil yet displaced vampire into a veritable do gooder white hat seemed like a stretch. Without doubt he loved her, would do anything to keep her safe and happy and alive. But was he mocking his own ability to know right from wrong and crave against his demon for smiles instead of screams?

Buffy had started it; he had no doubt about it. If not for his altered feelings for the Slayer he might have just continued to find a way to get the chip out and return once again to Dru. It might have taken him another ten years or more of being dumped by his dark princess before he realised the import of what she had said.

The Slayer was all around him. And now she was in him, over him, consuming him until there was little left of the old Spike. Of the inherently and mindlessly evil Spike. The monster was in change only. When he took on his altered features it was more out of curiosity than need. He put himself on show for Rupert and Jenny, allowing the bones in his face and skull to crack and grind and let his fangs drop through pink fleshy gums. He swam in the scent of their fascination and fear, feeling the euphoria of that power rush through his body searching for the vicious need to tear them apart.

Only, his demon refused to surface in that way. Somewhere along the way, the primitive evil that had been with him for over a century had shrunk back into acceptance—and even approval—of the life he had forged alongside his lover.

He shook his head as he fell back into the conversation with the two human adults—a major breakthrough in the translation of the curse leaving room for Giles to begin questioning about a future that Spike felt in his gut he had changed beyond his wildest dreams. And not only that he was Buffy’s first love. That he had taken Angel’s place as the love she might never be able to give up. Despite missing his history, missing the moments that had led him to getting drunk in the presence of the newly re-demonised Anyanka, he couldn’t let go of this remaking of his past.

He had been spinning tales of what he remembered from the year that he had first come to Sunnydale, apologise in a wanky fashion for not warning them of the possibilities of Dru—as both a healthy and strong vampire, along with her gift of sight. He was beyond an idiot to not work out that she had seen glimpses that first night he’d gone back. The night he had dusted the Annoying One for Buffy.

That they didn’t hold his lapse against him he brought down to the simple fact that Jenny Calendar was now alive. Living and sharing comforts with Rupert Giles in a way she hadn’t had the opportunity to do in the other timeline. If he was truthful to himself, Spike could admit that this little result made him feel pretty chuffed. He almost wished that Anya could reappear out of whichever dimension and show him how he had changed things.

Overall, they didn’t even seem to mind the childish glee he adopted in his retelling of his confrontations with Buffy. That Rupert could even find the laugh in each situation was a great relief to Spike, because despite the first years spent wanting to kill the Slayer, he could see now that he had always just wanted her—to be around her, fighting her. The end result was always clouded, and he couldn’t say for sure that his love for her had been sparked even back then, but something had. Some kind of admiration that made him seek her out again and again.

As point of fact, “Actually, Rupes, Halloween was a bloody good night. She was all dressed up in this costume, wig and dress right out of the pages of the 1700 who’s who and best dressed. Was a bloody riot. The chit had no idea if she was Martha or Arthur. Didn’t have a bleeding clue that the Big Bad was there to do her in. ‘Cept I didn’t…took so long talkin’ and procrastinatin’….again! Wasn’ much of a bloody vamp with her even then. Was sort of cute her not knowin’ she was the Slayer, all kittenish and weak…”

The eruption of screams outside brought his story into focus with alarming direction onto his inability to put fact to fact.

“Oh balls,” he sighed, a slightly amused smile teasing his lips as he watched Rupert’s alarmed eyes widen. “It’s bloody Halloween, innit?”

Giles and Jenny nodded dumbly.

“Do you, er, happen to remember what caused Buffy to lose her memory?

“If I rightly recall the stories you lot spun about it later, it was some wanker you knew from your Ripper days. Did some spell to turn people into their costumes.” His own eyes widened as he thought of the implications. “Dawn told me that Buffy wore that dress to attract the Poof. You don’t think she would have gone there for a different costume or something? Know she was gonna be out an’ about lookin’ for any sign of Dru and Angelus. Would be just like them to buck convention and go out to snack on a bunch of littlies.”

He missed the flinch from the gypsy, but had his own cringe going on. The thought of mini-snacks no longer tempted him, yet he thought his feelings on the topic were all academic. Saying it so matter of fact though, stung just a little. It was a visual he didn’t want in his head, didn’t want on his tongue, and the thought of his Nibblet on the receiving end—or even any other child now—was more painful than he ever thought possible.

Giles leaned against his window, frowning at the random violence occurring around his building as short monsters run amok.

“I don’t suppose you happen to remember where he conducted the spell from?” Giles inquired, his voice betraying his rising anger at a foe Spike had only a passing association with. Right, best to leave the Fyarl demon situation for later.

“Was a shop downtown. Had his name in the title. Edward, Elmer, Edwin…”

“Ethan,” Giles corrected, his jaw locked in fury. “That pillock just doesn’t learn. It would suit him; coming to the Hellmouth to spark off chaos. Let’s go, Spike. I think I just might let you eat the little rotter.”

Spike grinned, though not for the promise of real pumping blood. He hungered to see Ripper in motion, wanted to see the anger and hatred aimed at someone other than himself.

Before they left, Spike caught sight of the dark woman heading back to her computer console. “Oi,” he called to her, waiting till he had her full attention. “Don’t leave this flat. For no reason. Even if it’s burning down.” He spied a phone sitting beside her keyboard and swooped down on it, hurrying. “Anything happens, you call us. Watcher should outfit all of us with one of these. Could save a lot of time.” His focus was so hard it almost bruised her with the force. “Angelus could be behind this little set up. No way of knowing. He could just take advantage of the confusion, like I did. Speakin’ of, call Buffy an’ make sure she stays in her house.”

The swish of his coat saw her nod and the men were gone, leaving a suddenly shaky woman who had forgotten that her blood was sought by those who would do her harm. After calling Buffy and telling her Spike’s message, Jenny hung up and stared at her computer screen. Her own safety depended on this curse. On her translation and the hopefully soon act of re-ensouling. Spike’s dire warning—being burned out of a building—had seriously never occurred to her before, and seemed to place a whole new urgency on everything. Living with this fear every day was crippling. The only ways for it to end were to either finalise the words of the spell—or die. And now she was placed within the walls of one Rupert Giles, the loss of her life was not something she could accept easily.

Jenny buried herself back within the text on the screen, fear and newfound love fuelling her deciphering skills.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was a strange lack of resolution when things were set back to rights. Particularly as the angry kick at the plaster bust had been a stroke of good fortune, an accident rather than the well thought out interruption of the spell.

Ripper was flashing on Giles’s surface, nothing to punch and threaten in the empty shop. The signs of a struggle indicated a fight of some kind, but one obviously inspired by a motive other than ending the spell on the town. The replacement of threatening growls with the cries of children seeking the familiarity of their parents on the outside in the street was the only clue that the key to destroying the effects of the spell lay in the destruction of the head of Janus.

“Hit me,” Spike offered, seeing the need for the Watcher to relieve some frustration in a more hands on manner.

“I beg your pardon,” came the furious reply, hands balled into fists as his body felt overwhelmed by the sense of animosity.

“I said ‘hit me’. Get it out of your system.” Spike tilted his chin waiting for the first blow.

“Are you out of your bloody mind? What the hell is wrong with you? I’m angry, yes, but I’m not likely to just go about thrashing innocent people to make myself feel better.”

It was a punch harder than a fist could ever likely have been. Not used for that release—humanity showing him that he didn’t have to be the resident punching bag, just because that was how Buffy had always chosen to use him. To see him. It made her wrong. Made her actions cruel, unjust.

And it made him feel afraid.

Spike’s face twisted before Giles’s eyes, the onslaught of emotion knocking his wild and youthful alter-ego right out of him in a rush of concern for the vampire. In the scheme of things, Giles knew that there was a lot more to Spike’s story of his return to his past that he had neglected to tell or elaborate on. It didn’t take several university degrees for Giles to work it out, though.

Spike had withdrawn, shocked within himself for the sole reason of not being used violently to allay someone else’s spirit. It was no jump to surmise that—along with his bad relationship with all the Scoobies, including himself—Buffy lay at the crux of the vampire’s ill-thought out wish to return and do it all over. Buffy was his focus, was his obsession. Was his passion. Everything was all about Buffy, which didn’t in any way cheapen all that the former Big Bad had done for the rest of them. He’d extended the life of his own love, had given Xander a refuge and a hope of learning to grow in a care that had been so far denied to him by his own family. He had given caution in introducing Willow to magic and had brought about an amazing confidence in his Slayer. And after all this, he still expected to be punished.

Giles completely deflated, and in an action completely unbecoming from a British male, he clapped Spike on the back before subjecting him to a brash hug.

“There you go,” Giles told him, swallowing hard on his embarrassment. “None of us are the same people you knew, Spike. I don’t believe any of us would want to hurt you for our own benefit. An inanimate bag filled with sand would do just as well. Now come, let’s find Buffy and make sure all is well.”

Spike nodded slowly, his moment of realisation making him quake. Despite having had Buffy in his bed, having her whisper words of love all over his skin, he didn’t really expect that it would be different. Didn’t think a few minor changes could divert acts and personality so far from their path.

For this moment, Rupert had proved him wrong. He needed to be in Buffy’s arms to feel its truth. To once again drown in her love.

And bloody Harris snoring in the bedroom next door.

Life was turning wonderful and ordinary.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Dru giggled into her hands as the man was thrown to the floor, wrists bloodied from his battle with the ropes.

“Hmmm, Daddy. He smells so powerful. Can’t I have a little sip?” she implored, her eyes dancing with the lighted fire in the grate.

“Let’s talk about drinkypoos with the little magician later, Dru. Right now, I have an offer that he won’t refuse.” The smile was menacing and left Ethan struggling with his bowels.

The silence was left to fester the fear on purpose. Images of chaotic Halloween mini-monsters had appealed to his sense of justice. So he’d followed the news of Ripper’s whereabouts; watched his Slayer to the extent that even now he felt disappointment at failing to convince her to purchase any of his costumes. A demonised Slayer on All Hallow’s Eve held a sense of the irony that should have had him in stitches. Instead he was tied up, no confrontation with Rupert or the Slayer, but a potential vamp meal for a crazy girl and her Daddy. This kind of chaos in his own life he could have done without.

“Ooh ooh ooh, he’s thinking of her,” Dru grinned and bounced as her plan fell into place. “He wants them to suffer, to tear down their tower till then hang by their nails. I like him, Daddy. His heart is as black as mine.”

He’d been momentarily lost in her hypnotic way of speaking, but froze as she predicted the last. A black heart would normally have been laughed off if not embraced with pride. But a spark of humanity squeezed said blackness to an uncomfortableness he wanted to cling to.

“I can’t think what you can possibly want with me. Untie the ropes, that’s a good man, and I’ll get right out of your hair.”

The blood in his veins seized and turned icy as he was confronted by the cold, sinister smile of one and the abrupt maniacal laughter of the other.

“You’ll not be going anywhere. Didn’t you hear me mention the offer you won’t be turning your back on?” And just like that the dark humour fled from the monster’s eyes, evil face in place and ready to terrify into submission. “I thought you’d be all about taking the Slayer and her pets down. Now don’t disappoint me…Ethan.”

The Brit flinched at the mocking laughter and nodded his head. Despite being afraid for his life, there was no way he could deny the spark of interest that had him leaning forward to hear their plan, to relish in the pain they wanted to cause. For now he would ignore the killing part of the equation. He wasn’t a murderer, well…not really. But the promise of causing major upset to his long time enemy was definitely worth considering. The added incentive of keeping life was well worth it as well.

His nod was what they had been waiting for and a loud clap of hands from the minions surrounding the trio echoed through the high walls of the large room.

“Good decision. Now, to reward you, we give you a choice.”

His blood was already chilling in his body, but a block of ice just buried his heart and he felt the decrease in beats as he waited in terror for what the choice would be.

“None of that,” his new ally ordered. Angelus smiled, before reaching through the rules of speed to grab him by the throat and raised him to suspend dangling in the air.

“We can turn you right now, bring you a delightful young thing to break in…or just break, or…you can stay human, safe within your very own vampire hub.”

The room reached a frightening hush, and despite disbelieving how genuine the offer was, he clung to his life with the claws he was rejecting.

“I’d rather…” he rasped, the choke hold on his neck crushing his voicebox and causing his access to air to peter out. “Stay human, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Courageous. And admirable. Though monumentally stupid. But I did say it was a choice so…” He turned to the demon-faced crowd and bellowed his instructions to keep fangs off of human necks until otherwise informed differently.

When the cold hands left his throat before placing his feet back on the ground, he fell with a yelp to the floor, immediately focusing on the pain in one ankle.

As safe as a man could be while surrounded by hungry fanged vamps.
 

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