PART 8

At Saul's pronouncement, three of the Rossi gli abiti rushed for the stairs, leaving the Head Priest and three other monks to attend Spike.

Gently removing his fangs, from Dawn’s throat, her friend spoke, quietly, into her ear, “When I let go,” he whispered, in an unnaturally gruff voice, “run toward the elevator shaft. Get inside; don’t let me catch you. There’s a sword. I need it. Hand it out, then, quick as you can, scamper for the stairs. It must be almost sunrise, you should be safe once you're out in the light.”

“What are you doing?” Saul asked, in exasperation, striding toward them.

Spike pulled back to stare down at Buffy's sister, his demonic visage inches away from her face. His eyes were red and his breath fetid. Dawn tried to concentrate on the tasks he had set her as she watched her own blood drip from his fangs, with a sort of horrid fascination. She felt sick and dizzy from the drugs and the blood loss and her head ached. She fluttered one hand up to her brow and felt a jagged wound just above her left eyebrow.

“You must feed," Saul was explaining, impatiently. "Lilith needs fresh blood.”

“Want to hunt,” Spike growled up at the High Priest and then he whipped around on Dawn and barked, “RUN!”

The teenager scrambled up, heedless of the spinning sensation in her head and bolted for the elevator shaft. Saul’s delighted laughter rang out behind and Spike was after her in a flash. He clawed at her, his ragged nails ripping into her shoulder, and she kicked out connecting with his left leg. He hit her in the back, knocking her down and propelling her into the darkened shaft. Dawn rolled with the fall and made it to her knees just as Spike's fingers closed on her ankle. He yanked hard, jerking her into a belly flop. In blind desperation, Dawn swept her hands over the floor, searching until she hit the sharp blade of Buffy's sword.

Ignoring the cutting pain in her fingers, Dawn held tight to the steel edge as Spike dragged her out into the basement, again. They cleared the shaft with the vampire crawling up the teenager's body hand over hand. Calling on every last bit of faith she possessed, Dawn rolled into her sister's lover and handed him the sword.

As Spike's fingers curled around the hilt of the weapon, he smiled. It wasn't the sweet, loving smile he'd offered Dawn, just four nights ago, when she'd first modeled her green gown. But she knew it was meant to reassure. Spike released her and stood, his movements fluid and precise. Then pivoting, he swung the Slayer's sword in a graceful arc, slicing right through the neck of the nearest red robed figure. As the monk dissolved into ashes, Dawn scurried away, sprinting for the stairs.

“Stop her,” Saul yelled. But his followers were already dust.

Spike's blade danced through a series of brilliant and deadly semi-circles. Then, head down and sword hanging loosely in his right hand, he advanced on the High Priest. Saul backed away, one hand raised in consolation.

“You can not prevail, William,” the red robed priest said, softly. “The First One is already alive inside you. Can’t you feel Her growing stronger.”

“I feel peachy,” Spike assured, swishing his blade.

“'She will come again',” Saul quoted, from the text of his Bible, as he continued moving, circling back toward the stairs and staying just out of reach, “'and show Her face to the rising sun. Her Children will nourish Her and the gate will open. She will be drenched in the life’s blood of Humanity and the sun will set on a world Cleansed of the Holy unbelievers.'”

“’Then the resolve of the Unholy shall be tested’,” Spike recited back.

“What?” Saul frowned, taking a slight misstep.

“You left out part of the verse,” Spike informed. He ticked of points in the air with the tip of his weapon as he recalled, “Face to sun…children feeding…gate opening…UNHOLY TESTED! I've read the bloody scriptures, too, Saul. Did ya forget or are you just hoping the Hellbitch will skip over that 'testing' part?" He smiled, wickedly, as he asked, "Afraid you might not measure up?”

“I am resolute,” Saul said, with pride. “The First One will not find me wanting!”

“Yeah,” Spike sneered, totally unimpressed. “You’re a regular Unholy Holy Roller. But in case you hadn’t noticed…I’m the one tha’s gettin' asked all the tough questions.”

“But we are the same, William,” Saul purred, his manner as oily as a door-to-door salesman. “We are evil incarnate. Say what you will; you cannot deny what you are? You have killed two slayers and entranced a third. How much innocent blood have you spilled? But this Buffy Summers has taken your essence and given you nothing in return. She opened your veins for her own pleasure. Lilith has chosen you. Why do you persist in fighting the inevitable? Would you be an empty shell for our enemy? When you could be the savior of us all?”

For his answer, Spike rotated his arm so his blade sliced downward into Saul’s body. At the last second, the High Priest evaporated into mist, flowing along the floor. Spike whirled about but the mist had already escaped up the elevator shaft. Breathing heavily to offset the growing, twisting pain in his chest, the blond vampire sagged against the nearest wall. There was a sharp scream from somewhere above.

“Dawn,” Spike gasped and shaking off his discomfort, he rushed up the basement steps.

He came out on the first floor and charged across the lobby toward the main staircase. Looking up, the vampire saw a group of four or five monks dragging a struggling Dawn out the fire exit to the roof. He didn’t stop to consider the coming sunrise as he dashed after them.

Faith entered the building just as Spike reached the first landing. His swift movement caught her eye and, sword at the ready, she raced toward the stairway. With one great spring, she reached the second story, scrambled over the railing and blocked his way.

Skidding to a halt, a half inch from Faith's sword point, Spike crouched low and snarled, “Well, if it id’nt the second string Slayer up from the farm leagues."

Faith let her sword do her talking. Spike ducked under her swing. Bobbing and swaying he parried a swift flurry of blows, catching her blade on his own. He weaved and dodged with a limber litheness that reminded Faith of someone else she had fought. The dark-haired Slayer mentally accessed her impressive kill list, struggling to remember what undead soldier this one resembled.

“Hoping for your shot at the big time, sweetheart?” Spike asked, conversationally, as his sword tip flicked under her guard to draw blood. Dropping his shoulder to avoid a vicious slice, he spun his own weapon and punched the hilt into Faith’s stomach, doubling her over in pain.

“Just here for a little workout,” Faith panted, shrugging off Spike's blow. Slashing upward, she straightened, rushing him and finally broke past his guard. With a twist of her wrist, she engaged Spike’s sword and whipped the weapon from his grasp. “I hope you can keep up,” she continued, with false sweetness, as the vampire's blade clattered down the stairs. “I hear your local Slayer's been coddling you.”

“You mean the REAL Slayer don’t ya?” Spike countered. Dancing back to avoid being beheaded, he continued baiting the brunette, “Buffy is the definite article isn’t she? You're not really in her class, now, are you, Pet? Just a blip on her heart monitor. The spare tire they keep in the boot for these little roadside emergencies.”

As he'd hoped, Faith lost her temper at the insult, bringing her saber around like a battleax. Spike dipped under her wild swing and shoved both hands into her chest. She teetered on the edge of the stairwell, flailed for purchase on the brink of the balcony and overbalanced. Spike was already running upward again, even as Faith began to fall. Heedless of his lack of weaponry, the vampire was desperate to reach Dawn before Saul could have his way with her.

Falling into space, Faith released her hold on her saber and let it spin freely in the air as she fell. Tucking into a tight ball, she relaxed into the fall and rolled out just before she hit the tile floor. Tumbling forward and back flipping to her feet, she reached out her right hand and caught the hilt of her weapon as it came down. With a fierce oath, she spun on one foot and raced up the stairs in pursuit of her quarry. Far above she heard the fire exit door clang open.

Spike broke out onto the roof at a dead run. It was still dark but he could sense the coming dawn. He took in the scene at a glance. On the east side of the roof, facing the rising sun, was an altar laid with flowers and draped with gold cloth. Dawn’s living body was trussed up at the center of the dais. Saul was standing over her with his sacrificial knife held high. An acolyte was holding up a red leather bound volume of the sacred text for the High Priest’s scrutiny.

“SAUL!” Spike screamed, “Get away from her, you Bastard.”

“Welcome to the feast, my brother,” the High Priest said, jovially. “Come, let us toast your transformation.”

Bringing his knife down, he made a shallow cross cut on Dawn’s chest just above her left breast. The teenager screamed in pain and, growling out his challenge, Spike sprang forward to assist her. But before he had taken two steps, Faith kicked open the fire door behind him. Without preamble, the dark-haired Slayer ran her blade straight through his shoulder. Spike ripped free of the weapon, tearing a ragged hole in his flesh as he lunged to one side. In no mood to waste time on another protracted fight, the vampire, spun and struck at Faith with unbelievable speed, swatting the sword out of her grip. Closing on her, he took hold of her throat and squeezed, lifting her feet from the ground.

Faith gritted her teeth and fought with all the blind ferocity of a cornered animal. She brought up both arms to break Spike’s grip, simultaneously kicking out at him. Twisting away, she punched into his wounded shoulder. He swept one leg around and tossed her to her back. She flipped into a backbend, somersaulted upright, and landed a blow to his groin in rebuttal. Neither of the combatants noticed the electric roof lights flickering on nor did they note the elevator rumbling to life.

Faith was easily a match for the average vampire. She could out savage the most aggressive bloodsucker. But as the fight went on she began to sense that Spike was toying with her. The vampire was always two or three moves ahead of her. He was biding his time now, learning her fighting style and noting her weaknesses. Even though Spike’s attention was divided between her and the monks gathered at the altar, she could find no weakness in his defenses. Just before he moved in for the kill, Faith realized who he reminded her of with the subtle moves, the opportunistic attitude and the playful sense of humor in the face of death.

"Just like Buffy,” Faith thought and Spike backhanded her into the edge of the metal door, knocking her unconscious.

Glorying in the violence, Spike lifted Faith’s limp body up by one arm. All thoughts of Dawn were wiped from his mind by the victory. His third Slayer dangled from his grasp; she was helpless and limp as a rag doll. He shook her, savagely, bringing his head down close to her throat to inhale the rich tang of Slayer blood, pumping under her skin. Faith was warm and strong and smelled almost as good as his sweet Buffy.

“Slayer-lite,” Spike thought and smiled, well pleased with himself. “Only half the sugar of our original recipe,” he said, the words slurring through ragged fangs as he morphed into his demonic features.

He bit into Faith’s neck, savoring the tang of her on his tongue. Slurping and gulping, he drank down a good pint of Slayer 'hundred-proof.' The elevator arrived with a tinny ding. Spike lifted his head from his meal and looked toward the sound. Xander Harris stepped off the elevator and the vampire addressed him, casually.

“Not too bad,” he said, swirling Faith’s blood in his mouth like a connoisseur sampling vintage wine. “Once you get used to that bitter aftertaste, it goes down real easy.”

A millisecond later, he screamed in despair. Spike lurched to his knees; rocked by gut-twisting agony. His muscles contorted through a hideous metamorphosis and he roared out a primal challenge to the Heavens. For in releasing his own demon, Spike had let the Night Monster take possession of his body. He had opened the door for the Progenitor’s return, as he swallowed the first mouthful of Slayer blood.

Spike’s grip on his physical form loosened. He felt Lilith rise up and swamp his consciousness. His jaw thrust forward into a muzzle with a hideous under bite. His fangs curved into four-inch, double-edged, interlocking blades. His hands elongated into three-fingered paws that ended in thick black claws. His hair became a crest that cascaded in a ridge down his back. His essential maleness blended into something else entirely. What was Spike slid into oblivion, as Lilith was reborn from his flesh.

Her eyes, like living coals, swept the room assessing the faithful monks, weighing their sacrificial offering and settling at last on a small blond woman standing just a few feet away.

“Spike!”

Buffy’s voice reached him, even at the edge of eternity, “SPIKE!”

Swimming upward against an overwhelming current, Spike pushed back into his former body. Peering through a red mist, he fought to bring the world into focus, again. He searched for the source of the voice, knowing somehow that it was important to him. It was the voice of his spiritual anchor.

Buffy stood just outside the elevator door, her feet braced wide for stability. She was far too close to the thing holding Faith for anyone’s comfort. The blond Slayer was armed with a crossbow and was flanked by Giles, Travers, Xander, Willow, Anya and Oz. Several monks rushed to engage the newcomers but Saul concentrated his efforts on the newborn Night Monster. He forgot about Dawn and the ceremony surrounding her, in the joy of seeing his Deity returned to flesh.

“Feed beloved,” the high priest urged. “You have a Slayer in your grasp. Take her blood and you will be free.”

“Is that what you really want?” Buffy asked, casually. “Faith’s blood?”

She nodded at Giles. He and Travers released their hold on her. She swayed, slightly, but didn’t fall. Nodding reassurance at her friends, Buffy Summers spoke with quiet authority.

“Get to Dawn,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Just get her out of here. Keep her safe.”

Willow cast a spell to loosen Dawn’s bindings and she and Anya went to the girl as Xander, Oz, Travers and Giles faced off with the charging monks. Pikes clashed with swords and stakes in a melee of fists and fangs.

Ignoring the fighting between her friends and the remaining Rossi gli abiti, Buffy focused all of her attention on reaching her lover. She wanted the beast to release her Sister Slayer. She didn’t know if Faith was even alive but she still wanted to get Lilith away from her. There was nothing about Spike in the hideous monster before her but Buffy had to try to reach him anyway.

“Come on, Luv,” Buffy encouraged, warmly. “Come back to me and I’ll make it worth your while.”

There was the briefest flicker of Spike’s high cheek boned face but it was enough to give Buffy hope. Her love was still in the beast, somewhere. She ran her palm across the sharp tip of her crossbow bolt and let her blood run free. The hideous thing that was once her lover turned to face her.

“That’s it, Spike,” she nodded. “Fight her. Don’t let the Bitch beat you!”

“He can not fight her,” Saul laughed, striding toward the tableau of Slayers and Demon. “She is the first of our kind. The Progenitor! Feel how she has sapped your strength away. She is drinking down your life force. When the sun rises, your strength and his body shall be united in HER! The Old Ones shall be returned to their rightful place and your kind will be wiped from the Earth. Your power means NOTHING to her, Slayer! You are NOTHING!”

Forgetting that she didn’t have the strength to reload the weapon, Buffy fired her crossbow at Saul, sending the wooden shaft straight into the High Priest’s heart. Caught totally off guard, he exploded into ashes.

“That makes two of us,” Buffy remarked, offhandedly. She watched, dispassionately, as the pulsating red gem of the Cuore Della Notte clattered to the rooftop.

A sudden movement caught her eye and she turned her attention back to Lilith and Faith. The Night Monster was about to feed. Pulling a bolt from her quiver, Buffy dropped the now useless crossbow. She used the tip of the arrowhead to slice into her palm again, increasing the flow of blood from the wound.

“Here you go, baby,” Buffy whispered, holding out her crimson coated hand, “This is what you really want isn’t it? Our Blood! Yours and mine blended together. Come on then…drink. Make me yours. You don’t want Faith. I know you don’t.”

The creature loosened its grip on the dark-haired Slayer and let her slide limply to the floor. It seemed mesmerized by the blond vision before it. Buffy tilted her hand so that tiny droplets of blood spattered around her feet. With the suddenness of a freight train and a roar almost as loud the Night Monster came rushing down upon her. There was no time for the Slayer to defend herself or even turn to run. The Progenitor was on top of her in a flash, dragging her toward its maw. Its sulfurous breath stung her skin as jagged fangs pressed toward her throat.

“He’s not a monster, anymore,” Buffy asserted, with emphatic softness, as she met Lilith’s fathomless red eyes, unflinchingly. Deep within them was a flicker of midnight blue as the Slayer continued speaking, “And we are NOT your children. I know him…and you can’t make him do this. He loves me far too much to ever hurt me. And I love him far too much to be afraid of you!”

Willow, Dawn, and Giles all called out Buffy’s name at the same time. Freed of her bonds, the Slayer’s sister started to run toward the couple but Giles shot out an arm to restrain her. The battle between the Scoobies and the Rossi gli abiti had ground to a halt. Both sides of the conflict were entranced by the tableau between Lilith and the Slayer. Only, in the end, it wasn’t the Night Monster that pulled Buffy close. It was Spike. He snapped back into being just seconds before Lilith could rip out his beloved’s throat.

They held onto each other, Slayer and Vampire, united in purpose as together they held their Progenitor at bay. A formless darkness swirled around them, searching for a way to break the grip they maintained on one another. It almost obliterated the lovers from view several times but it always cleared to show them again. They were both screaming in agony, as if they were burned by each other’s touch. Neither of them broke eye contact, neither of them let go.

The sun rose.

Shafts of gold snaked across the roof, burning down the Red Robed monks until at last a ray touched the gem known as Lilith’s Heart. There was a sound like the screeching of a rusty cosmic gate and a great sucking wind seemed to whip over the world. Red light expanded out of the Cuore Della Notte; a red light enveloping all of creation. The unnatural fire, surrounding Buffy and Spike, blazed up like a pyre. It engulfed them, burning into the center of their very being. It tested their resolve…the deepth of their love. And then, with a crackle that echoed in the Earth’s bones, the light contracted in on itself and was gone.

Spike was still holding onto Buffy for dear life. His eyes were still locked on hers. He was bathed in sunlight but he didn’t seem to be in any pain. His bare shoulders bore no sign of the gapping wound Faith had inflicted.

The monk Xander had been fighting released his hold on the carpenter and stepped back. He was also free of all previous physical damage. His skin had the fresh glow of teenage health. He held out his hands, palms upward, to the sun and began to laugh in delight. He pulled off his robe and let the sunshine play harmlessly over his body. There was one other monk, standing between Travers and Oz, who had not been burned away by the red light. He was doing much the same thing as his brother. Twirling, arms out like a small child; he turned his face up toward the sky and drank in the beauty of the morning light.

“It is a miracle, my friend,” Xander’s monk said, addressing the carpenter in a joyous voice and slapping him affectionately on the back. The former vampire's eyes filled with tears as he pressed his hand to his heart and declared, “I am alive! I have been cleansed! Oh, Lord of Creation! What wondrous thing is this?”

Giles looked from the two reborn monks to the huddle of Buffy and Spike at the epicenter of this miracle. The lovers were kneeling together, oblivious to all but each other. Spike was stroking Buffy’s hair, pulling up strands and letting them fall so that the sunlight reflected from them. They kissed and separated only to gaze deeply into one another’s eyes before they embraced again. Buffy had her right hand pressed to Spike’s unblemished flesh just over his renewed and beating heart.

“What wondrous thing, indeed?” Rupert Giles whispered, in awe.

Epilogue:

The Magic Box was filled to capacity with assorted dignitaries. Buffy, trying to take it all in, spotted assorted Watcher’s Council members, Xander, Anya, Willow, Oz, Faith, Angel and Fred and Cordy and Wesley and their friend, what was his name? The demon guy with the horns? Only he didn’t have horns now…he was just a man. Just like Harmony, standing by the door as if she wanted to bolt out into the street, was just a woman. Well, Buffy amended mentally, a totally shallow, self-involved bloodsucker of a woman but still…not a vampire.

There were no vampires, no demons, and no scary things to go bump in the night. Not in Sunnydale and, if the reports coming in were accurate, not anywhere else on the planet either. Every monstrous thing in the world had been cleansed, in a massive corporal conversion and the dimensional gateway had been slammed shut on demonic influence. The Slayer had fulfilled her destiny. She had eradicated Evil.

“Big time eradication,” Buffy thought, studying a chipped nail.

“Only by using the foulest of dark magicks,” Quentin Travers’ loud exclamation cut through the Buffy zone out. The WC honcho was having trouble adjusting to the new world order. “She WILLINGLY took a demon lover," he pointed out, in exasperation, "a vampire, no less.”

“But her instincts were correct,” Giles countered, just as forcefully. “Lilith must have designed the ritual as a test of both Human and Demon resolve. To determine which principles were the strongest, the Demonic ones of carnage and terror or the Human ones of compassion and forgiveness. Buffy was the only one that understood that. The Cuore Della Notte was a winnowing device to finally establish which group was worthy of claiming the planet."

Buffy's former Watcher paused and favored his old nemesis with a smile before adding, "And in case you haven’t noticed, Quentin, WE won!”

Buffy’s eyes cut back across the table to where Spike was sitting. He was dressed in his usual style, wearing his leather duster. His hair was still a tussled mess of peroxided curls and he still had the icy look of someone who had seen way too much of the world. But he wasn’t the same at all. He was human. He was a living man. His heart was beating in his chest, which meant, Buffy suddenly realized, that it could stop beating at anytime. A quick chill shot through her at the thought. Spike could die now.

“Spike could’ve died as a vampire, too,” Buffy reminded herself, silently.

And it was definitely better this way. They had a shot at a normal life, now. She frowned, slightly, as she tried to imagine what a normal life might be like for an ex-vampire and a former Chosen One. Anya and Xander might be able to help them with the details. Anya was an ex-demon after all and she’d managed to fit in. But Buffy frowned, remembering how out of place Anya had always seemed and how alien. Would it be that way for Spike? What was the human Spike like, anyway?

Buffy had no doubt of Spike, the vampire. He loved her. It was his love that allowed them to perform the Cleansing. But she didn’t even know the human Spike. What if he didn’t love her? What if he didn’t even like her? What if he was like Angelus was to Angel, a total contradiction. Or what if he hadn’t changed at all but couldn’t learn to accept the changes in her? It wasn’t like she was the Slayer, anymore. She was just ordinary Buffy Summers, twenty-something meter maid. Spike had always reveled in her supernatural strength. Fact is he liked it rough. Fact is, so did she. How could an ordinary human union ever measure up to the glory of Vampire/Slayer intercourse?

Doubts and questions bubbled up out of Buffy’s subconscious. Where would they live? What would they do for money? Did Spike have any marketable skills? For that matter, did she? The Slaying Trade was now as obsolete as the horse and buggy. She couldn't fight her way out of this. What kind of police officer would she be without her superpowers? If she was going to be Mrs. William “Spike”….

“Mrs. William “Spike”…WHAT? Oh, my God!” Buffy thought, in quiet desperation. “I don’t even know what my last name would be.”

And then it hit her that her buggy had gotten way out there in front of her horse. Nobody had mentioned marriage or even co-habitation. In fact, since the Cleansing, everything had been moving so fast, she and Spike hadn’t had a minute to talk about the future. They were separated almost immediately. The Watcher’s Council had gone into serious study mode, poking and prodding the lovers, putting them through extensive tests, looking for clues about what exactly had happened when the Cuore Della Notte was invoked. Nobody even knew if the effect was permanent. The consensus was it would probably hold up for the next few generations but there were no clear answers.

Buffy sighed and tuned back in to the conversation around her. Giles had the floor and was explaining how the Cleansing differed from the Soul-Restoration Spell used to curse Angel. The Council now believed, he was saying, that the Cleansing had turned the vampires and other demons into humans by remaking them, transforming their very flesh. Somehow, separating the more humane and righteous beings from the truly wicked, it banished true evil into an alternate dimension.

It had not simply restored the souls of those who remained behind; it had “Cleansed” them, remaking their bodies, purifying them. It was as if their souls were newly minted and untouched by evil. They retained their memories but rather than being tormented by guilt for what they had done, they experienced a sort of posttraumatic stress syndrome. It was, Giles explained, as if these former Monsters had merely witnessed unspeakable violence rather than perpetrating it themselves.

“Well, hearing this for the 28^{th time is all very fascinating,” Buffy grumbled inwardly, stifling a yawn.}

Spike caught her eye again from across the table. He mouthed the word “bored” at her and lifted a brow. Buffy smiled, giving the smallest of nods. Spike gave an almost imperceptible bob of his chin toward the training room door. Buffy frowned, shaking her head in a slight negative motion. Using just her eyes, she indicated the large crowd around them. She was deeply disappointed when Spike turned away from her to look up the table, apparently losing interest.

Stunned and hurt by this turn of events, Buffy resorted to glaring daggers at her erstwhile lover. He had slid forward to sit on the edge of his chair. Leaning one elbow on the table, Spike rested the first two fingers of his left hand against his lips, looking for all the world like a scholar absorbed in the proceedings. His dark blue eyes flickered over to meet Buffy’s hazel ones for just a moment. Then he lightly ran his tongue across his fingertips in a very suggestive manner. Buffy shivered deliciously, as her mind immediately recalled the last time she'd seen Spike lick his fingers. She had a perfect mental image of what he had been doing right before and what they had both done right afterward.

Buffy choked. It was an involuntary reaction rather than a planned distraction but she decided to take advantage of it. She pushed back from the table, coughing loudly and attracting nearly everyone’s attention. Several people moved as if to help her but she waved them off.

“Wa-at-water,” she sputtered, before noticing the full carafe sitting on the table in front of her and changing her plea, “Air! I mean…I just need some…a-air.”

With limited difficulty, Buffy extricated herself from the crowd. She moved, with casual ease, toward the back of the shop, nodding at her well wishers but shaking off their assistance. Willow started to follow and was restrained by Oz. The former werewolf was the only one who’d noticed Spike slipping away from the table. He leaned over and whispered something in Willow’s ear. The witch’s eyes went to the slightly open training room door. As she watched, Buffy disappeared into the blackness beyond and the door closed behind her.

The cool darkness enveloped Buffy, temporarily blinding her, and then there was the sudden flare of a striking match as Spike lit a cigarette. The sight brought back all of her apprehension. Lung Cancer, she thought, heart disease, birth defects and then there’s the social stigma…

“Do you have to smoke?” she asked and instantly cursed herself for trying to change him.

“Not really,” he replied, dropping the cigarette to the floor.

The red coal of it bounced twice and sprayed up sparks before he ground it out under his boot. There was a sense of movement where he’d been and Buffy strained to locate him again in the darkness. She became aware of him behind her a moment before he caught her in his arms, pulling her hard against his body.

“Do you know what day this is, Slayer?” Spike whispered, harshly, in her ear. He had one arm across her shoulders and one tight around her waist, holding her close.

“Uhm?” Buffy stalled, thinking back and doing the math, “It’s…uhm…Saturday.”

“And what happens on Saturday?”

“Oh, I know this one,” she chirped. “The Fifth Street Bakery closes at noon.”

Spike’s arm tightened on her throat. He didn't seem amused. In fact, he seemed downright deadly.

“What if he was?” Buffy thought, suddenly. A horrible chill of doubt and fear washed over her and she shuddered against him. She knew Spike didn’t have to be a vampire to hurt her. She was an ordinary woman now and men could be dangerous, too.

“What happens on Saturday?” Spike repeated, his voice low and menacing. Finally, the words stirred memories in Buffy’s brain. At their first meeting…wasn’t that what she had asked him? And he had said…the coldness gripped her heart as she remembered.

“You kill me,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” Spike breathed out, nuzzling into her hair and running demanding hands down over her body.

“But I have decided," he snarled, turning her violently around and shoving her up against the pommel horse, “to settle for your unconditional surrender.”

And then he was pressing his mouth to hers, parting her lips with his tongue, as his hands deftly unfastened her bra through the fabric of her dress. Within seconds he had divested her of all underwear. Pushing up her skirt, he exposed the bare flesh of her thighs and stomach to the rough texture of his jeans. He ground against Buffy and she moaned, arching up into him.

But, as quickly as she had given in, the former Slayer rebelled. She shoved at Spike hard, pushing him away from her. Her eyes finally adjusting to the dark, Buffy found she could see Spike quite well in the dim streetlight glow that came through the training room windows. Gasping for breath, she glared at him as she yanked down her skirt.

“You think that’s funny?” she snapped. “You think this is all some kind of game? We don’t have time for this sort of thing right now." She stabbed one finger at the door, as she admonished him, "There are a quarter of a million new people in the world that weren’t here two days ago. People with no skills, no way of supporting themselves or contributing to society. I know Angel had investments but I’d bet that most of the vampires in this world were a lot more like you. I imagine you never gave one thought to your financial security while you were…”

“Angel?” Spike interrupted, an awful suspicion lancing through his heart.

“Yes, Angel!” Buffy returned, knowing she’d hurt him but needing to get this out. “He already has a job, and a place to live and money to live on. So, what’s her face…Fred doesn’t have to worry about any of those things.”

Spike was staring at her now silent and still as she continued giving voice to her fears.

“Not that Miss Brainiac Physicist needs to worry about her future,” Buffy went on with a hopeless air. “She’s not the one who has to write ‘Former Chosen One’ and ‘Handy with the Wooden Stake’ on her resume.”

"Those aren’t your only talents,” Spike said, softly reassuring, as the worry behind her words sank in. “You already have a good job and while I may not have a shed-load of the ready, I do have skills.”

“Name one,” Buffy challenged, trying to keep the desperate edge out of her voice.

“Well,” Spike said, with a tiny shrug and grin, "I sing."

Buffy groaned remembering when he’d told her mother the same thing.

“And I can pick a lock,” the former vampire continued, ticking his skills off on his fingers, “hotwire a car, distill homebrewed whiskey, forge almost anyone’s signature and play the harmonica.”

“Oh, great!” Buffy exclaimed, waving one hand emphatically. “We can live at the prison.”

“I also speak 23 languages including 4 that just came back into standard usage.” Spike continued, his tone turning serious. “And I read another 16. I have a classical Oxford education complete with the Greek and the Latin. I can play 7 instruments besides the harmonica and I have written 12 novels, a few short stories and about 150 poems. Some of which have even been published.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open and Spike leaned forward to kiss it. He stroked his tongue along hers. Sucking gently, he licked the sharp edges of her teeth and then began to probe into her more deeply. His hands slid up to cup her bare bottom, making his love purr in delight. After a long time, he broke free of her lips and nuzzled his way along her jaw line.

Conspiratorially, he whispered into her ear, “I am, also, rumored…to have a certain talent with my tongue.”

“At last,” Buffy sighed, taking in an unsteady breath, “a vocation this part of America really needs.”

Spike laughed against his beloved's silken skin. Seizing her waist in both hands, he lifted her up onto the pommel horse. He pushed up her skirt and dropped to his knees before her. Bracing himself with his hands against her inner thighs, Spike leaned in and put his considerable skill to work. The former Slayer gripped the wooden handles of the horse, holding on tight as wave after wave of ecstasy lapped over her and her hips began to buck and shimmy in response.

Spike’s tongue worried at Buffy driving her relentlessly toward orgasm. She spasmed before him but he kept the pressure on, licking, stroking, and probing until, forgetting the crowd outside, she cried out for him, incoherently. Standing, he entered her, in one fluid glide of movement. Sliding her pelvis forward, Buffy braced her hips against the horse. Her legs were wrapped around Spike as he rode up into her. Her toes curled up and her shoes dropped to the floor. He thrust deep, taking her mouth again to stifle her screams, devouring her whole as she came hard around him.

It was just the same as it had always been between them, not as deadly, but just as passionate. Neither of them was as capable of inflicting pain, now, but the intensity, the fire, the lustful power at the core of their union remained. They were two people who had experienced life and death and knew the value of each. They knew how to savor each other and how to make each other burn.

Spike had been cleansed of his demon but he would never be a gentleman in bed. Luckily, Buffy was no lady. Something slippery ignited between her legs as she built toward a second climax. She couldn’t get enough of her lover inside her. She took his cock, his tongue, his fingers and the bite of his teeth and still she wanted more. He was hers, her other-half, her lover, her Spike and he was alive inside her, losing his human virginity. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear. Buffy could feel the life energy crackling between them as, gasping, he gushed into her. His seed was warm, vital, and full of living promise. For a few precious seconds, Buffy was aware of nothing else but the blissful heat of him, flowing into her, surrounding her and soaking through her skin.

“I love you,” she murmured, her lips kissing against the flickering pulse in his throat.

And then she groaned in agony and dropped her head onto Spike’s shoulder, as a horrid realization hit, “Oh, No! Live Sperm…Condoms…Birth Control…What was I thinking?” She lightly bashed her forehead against his collarbone to punctuate her words, “Stupid… stupid…thoughtless…Buffy…”

Spike took hold of her and forced her back until their eyes met. He was frowning and he had pulled out of her body leaving her shaking with the cold. Buffy felt a hard lump growing in her throat as he studied her.

"There's that morning after pill," she squeaked, "I mean, it's not too late to…" Her voice trailed off as, if anything, her lover's eyes grew even colder. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.

“You don’t want children?” he asked, as if shocked to his core.

“Ch-chi-children?” Buffy stammered, blinking as the idea took root for the first time. She and Spike could have children. In fact, he seemed to be expecting them to have children. Why was he expecting that? Unless…! Another thought took root and blossomed delightfully in her mind.

“Well…I…think…of course," Buffy tried to focus, feeling her way on this new ground. “Yes, I mean, when things are settled and …”

“Settled?” Spike barked, angrily, cutting her off. He stepped away from her so quickly she slid off the pommel horse, bared feet slapping against floor as he gestured broadly, “Things aren’t settled for you? Because really, Pet, I thought things were settled all right and tight.”

Buffy stepped forward, starting to reach for him but he turned and stalked toward the shop doors. She could hear the harsh sound of his zipper and the leather rustle of his duster as he adjusted his clothing. Spike was leaving. Buffy didn’t want him to leave. Her heart hammered in panic. She loved him, so very much. She searched her mind for a way to tell him how much she cared but nothing came to her. Everything was happening too fast.

The room was flooded with sudden brightness as Spike flipped on the overhead lights.

He turned, looking over at his Slayer as she squinted and shielded her eyes from the unexpected glare. Her legs were splayed slightly, her mouth was swollen from his kisses and her hair was a tangled mess. The strap of her dress had slipped down one shoulder, baring the top of her breast. She looked vulnerable and confused and at the same time savagely proud. She was a fluffy little kitten with the soul of a tiger. And she was his, Spike thought passionately. He’d be damned all over again before he’d let some well-invested poof get a crack at her.

“What is it you want then, Dutch?” he sighed, surrendering.

He’d been calling her that a lot lately, or “the Dutch”. Buffy knew it was English slang of some kind. Right after she’d returned from the dead, Spike had made Giles bristle by referring to her by the term. “I just stopped by to run an idea past the Dutch.” Spike had said and Giles told him never to call her that again. Buffy had thought, at the time, it was something extremely vulgar. Now, she was thinking she should maybe look it up.

“What do I WANT?” Buffy snapped, all of her panic going up in a burst of righteous indignation. Brushing a hand down her dress and pulling up the fallen strap, she glared at him with thinly disguised frustration, “Oh, I don’t know! How about a little time to think about what’s happened? That’s what I want! I want a minute or two of peace and quiet away from all of these people. I want to be alone with you so we can talk about what the hell we are going to do tomorrow and the next day and the day after that." Her voice rose to a crescendo as she finished, "And I want to know your bloody last name!”

“It's Gilford,” Spike supplied, immediately. He was laughing, thrilling inside, at the limited scope of her demands. He would have laid the world at Buffy's feet if she'd asked for it, but all she wanted was a little security. With an amused air, he inclined his head slightly as if just meeting her. “William Edward Augustine Gilford of the Yorkshire Gilford’s definitely not the Cornwall branch. Very much at your service, my lady.”

“And…Huh?” Buffy returned, confused by his response and losing some of her steam.

“My last name,” Spike explained, moving toward her, wanting to feel her in his arms again, “is Gilford. Or at least it was back in the day. I suppose I could change it to anything that suits you. But Buffy Anne Gilford has rather a nice ring to it. Don’t ya think?”

“Uhh-uhm,” Buffy swallowed, looking up into Spike’s eyes as he stopped within inches of her.

He caught at her left hand and pulled it up to rest against his chest. Buffy could feel his heart pounding under her fingers. Though Spike seemed as confident and cocky as ever, the beat of his heart was quick and anxious and Buffy understood, at last, what he was asking her. Understood, also, how important her answer was to him. Meeting his gaze steadily, she took in a deep breath and tried again to make with the speaking.

“Y-yes," she managed, in a soft whisper, just before their lips met, “nice ring.”

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