Cutting cross-country, over rooftops and down back alleys, Spike reached the edge of the Sunnydale campus in record time. He broke into the open of the inter-mural fields and headed for the tree line where nature took over from civilization. He was stepping onto the last blacktop when the Sport Utility Vehicles cut him off. Tires squealed and high beam headlights were trained on the vampire from three sides. Spike heard doors popping open and the click of firearms being leveled. The only escape available was a full retreat and he had no intention of taking it.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Spike screamed, his whole body tensing for a migraine-inducing charge. “Out of my way or I slaughter the lot of you.”

“Spike don’t,” Xander ordered from the back of one of the vehicles. “They’re here to help.”

The vampire whipped around, peering in the direction of the man’s voice. He couldn’t see anything beyond the bright lights and tinted windows. “Harris? What is this? I haven’t got time to jack around playing capture the castle with these wankers.”

Xander didn’t answer. Dozens of vaguely human-shaped shadows poured out of the SUV’s. Spike was surrounded by the sound of booted feet and the rattled of weapons being primed. He moved nervously. Coiled tight, he paced the lighted confine like a cornered leopard. Three men stepped into the arc of headlight beams. One of them was Harris. The second one was obviously in command. But it was the third man that caught and held Spike’s attention. He was achingly familiar. They stopped just inside the circle of vehicles and waited for the vampire to approach.

“Must be a soddin’ Boy Scouts’ Jamboree in town,” Spike commented. “Up to our eyeballs in the merit badge winners.”

“Hostile Seventeen,” Graham nodded, cordially.

“G.I. Jane,” Spike returned, nodding back.

There was a stirring in the darkness as a few of the soldiers took exception to the vampire’s snide remarks. Graham flashed a small, tight, barely amused smile. He was all military spit and polish. First in line to the commander, Spike figured, and not easily ruffled.

“Graham,” the Commander barked, shifting the stub of his cigar to the corner of his mouth, “get on with it.”

“You know where he has her?”

“Yeah,” Spike confirmed. “You know what it is?”

“Sub Terrestrial A-Class Hive Entity,” Graham replied. “Very nasty.”

“Scyllain!” Spike corrected. “And too right about the nasty.”

“What’s he going to do to Buffy?” Xander asked. He was anxiously hovering about on the edge of the conversation. He looked at Spike for his answer. “He wouldn’t…I mean, RILEY…wouldn’t hurt her.”

“Finn’s dead,” the Commander returned not even glancing at the civilian. His comments were intended for the troops. “I want that understood. He never came out of the jungle in Belize.”

“Not how it works,” Spike said with a quick shake of the head. “Not with the Scyllains. He’s in there somewhere. Mad as a March hare and tied up inside the whole of the thing but still self-aware. He’ll know your weaknesses.”

“He’ll know yours, too,” Graham returned.

“I only got the one.”

“We can help you,” Graham urged. “Help you get her out alive. If,” he stressed the word, “you can lead us to them.”

Spike narrowed his eyes at the man. Then he turned to stare into the distance for a minute, considering the offer. He mentally weighed his chances of survival if he simply broke for the trees.

“This is your patch,” he stalled. “Government? Initiative? Why you need me?”

“We don’t,” Graham conceded, “but you could make it easier to find them. Quicker! All of the detailed maps of this area are classified; we can’t access them in time. We’d have to use heat sensors and feel our way.”

“And you could take them there before things turned nasty,” Xander added, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know, Spike? Buffy in the mortal jeopardy?”

Spike shot an unreadable look at the carpenter and then shifted into a more upright and relaxed stance. The vampire bobbed his chin at Riley Finn’s army buddy.

“You got a flame-thrower?” he asked.

“Two!”

“Watch where you point them,” Spike warned.

Graham took it as acceptance. He stepped back and nodded at the Commander.

“Unit two, fall in,” the officer ordered over his shoulder. “Tanner, lock and load. Graham, hold here with Unit one. Wait thirty minutes for my signal then advance. You,” He snarled at Spike, “take point.”

“What about me?” Xander asked, stepping forward.

“You stay here,” Spike and the Commander said together.

“Like hell,” Xander returned. “Buffy is my friend. And I got her into this. I encouraged her to spend time with Riley. I let him stay at my house and…”

“You had no way of knowing what he was,” the Commander excused, softening slightly in the face of the other man’s emotions. “Don’t blame yourself, Son.”

“The best way to help is to just stay out of our way,” Graham advised. “This is our job and we know how to do it. You go in, you’ll only get hurt.”

“I can handle mysel…” Xander started and then yelped as Spike grabbed him hard by the arm and hustled him to one side.

“Stay here,” the vampire hissed. “I need you outside with the second group.”

“Why?”

“Because if we fail,” Spike whispered, leaning in close, “they have orders to put a bullet through the Slayer’s head.”

“Wha…h-how?” Xander stuttered, jerking back. He lowered his voice and demanded. “How do you know that?”

“Vampires have good ears,” Spike replied, sotto voce. “You need to get to Red.”

Xander turned to glance back at the car where Willow and Anya were waiting under guard.

“Okay, then what?”

“Have her cast a protection spell around Buffy.”

“Willow’s sworn off magic,” Xander reminded.

“I don’t give a damn if she’s taken the bloody oath on her Mother’s soul,” Spike snarled. “She’s casting that spell or you are going to have to contact Tara. I don’t care which witch you use but you make damned sure that someone slaps the mojo on My Girl.” He paused to check for eavesdroppers and then added, “Because if that thing has its way with her we’re all as good as dead.”

“Huh?”

“She’s the SLAYER you soddin’ git,” Spike growled. “Think what kind of power boost she’ll give that Scyllain when he takes her in.”

“You mean…” Xander frowned, as understanding dawned.

“Yeah,” Spike said, giving the man the raised eyebrow encouragement, “Now you’re getting it.”

Xander used his hands to illustrate the connection as he put it all together, “That thing will have Buffy’s strength AND ….”

“…all of the punch it already has,” Spike confirmed. “It means to mate with Buffy and then assimilate her into the hive. That’s why Riley’s here. It’s not all about broken hearts, ships passing in the soddin’ night and what shoulda/coulda been. It’s about power. Because Scyllain plus Slayer equals….”

“…so long Sunnydale?” Xander guessed. Spike nodded and the young man gulped. He looked over his shoulder again toward the SUV with the girls. His jaw set in determination. “Okay, I’m on it.”

Spike gave his arm a manly slap as they parted but, after only a few steps, Xander turned back and called out to him.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?” Spike said, shifting impatiently at the far edge of the light.

“You won’t,” Xander hesitated, unsure how to phrase his question. “You won’t…let him hurt her?”

“No,” Spike said, simply, and then he stepped back blending into the darkness.

Xander listened to the crackle of men entering the woods. He waited until all he could hear was the rumble of the SUV engines around him and then he went to see Willow.

“Love and other moments are just chemical reactions in your brain

And feelings of aggression are the absence of the love drug in your veins, in your veins.

Love come quickly

Because I feel my self-esteem is caving in

It’s on the brink

Love come quickly

‘Cause I don’t think I can keep this monster in.

It’s in my skin.”

The music was beginning to get on Buffy’s last nerve. It was the same song, over and over…and over…programmed to endlessly repeat. The insanity of that coupled with the pinch and pain of Riley’s actions was having a numbing effect on the Slayer’s mind. He was kneeling in front of her, using a sharp knife to strip off her jeans. Occasionally, he nicked her flesh. Buffy tried to think of something else…

“…I’m gunning down romance. It never did a thing for me, but heartache and misery. Ain’t nothing but a tragedy…”

…it was hopeless.

“Can you at least change the damn song?” she snarled, as Riley stood up.

He tilted his head, as if trying to understand her words. He looked for all the world like a rabid dog struggling to recall a loved master. Buffy prayed she could reach him. Riley hadn’t really hurt her yet. Though he had bruised her ribs with a hard punch after he’d tried to kiss her. His cheek was bleeding from the attempt. He had cut off Buffy’s air so she would open her mouth but he’d gotten too close to her teeth.

The Slayer watched her ex warily as he circled her. Every time he turned away, she twisted at her left wrist chain. She was certain now that the links were giving way near the ceiling.

Riley stepped in close to her again. Turning the blade of his knife up, he slid it along her throat. It left a hair-thin line of crimson in its wake. Flicking the tip of his weapon down, he sliced diagonally across the front of her blouse, exposing one taut breast. He licked her and then laid the blade flat against her nipple. Buffy instinctively shrank from his touch. Then she took herself in hand, stilling her body and mind as he fondled her again.

“Who is this band anyway?” she asked, conversationally, “I want to never buy their CD.”

Riley pulled back and slapped her, all his weight behind the swing. Buffy moved with the blow but didn’t acknowledge it beyond the motion. Her unraveling ex stalked to the lab table and hefted his scimitar again. Turning suddenly, he pointed it at her heart. She smiled at him, daring him to strike.

“You know you really should have paid more attention to Momma Walsh in Psyche 101. It’s not the size of a man’s sword that matters it’s….”

There was a movement in the shadows and Buffy’s taunt died in her throat as the Scyllain demon shuffled into the room. It was naked just as it had been in the cemetery but this time it was obviously aroused. Its masculine equipment was no longer shielded by its carapace. The Slayer felt suddenly light-headed as she privately admitted that size could play a factor in the equation after all. Riley followed the direction of her wide-eyed gaze.

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “We had a deal.”

Stepping away from Buffy, he impatiently snapped off the CD player. Then he turned to confront the Scyllain directly.

“It’s not time,” he insisted, negligently tossing his sword onto the table, “I’m not finished here.”

“They are coming,” the Scyllain chorused. “It is time.”

“No,” Riley whined, stomping one foot like a petulant child. “You said I could have her first.”

“They are coming,” the many-throated beast, repeated, “we must not be whole when they arrive. We must take her now.”

“But you promised….”

The Scyllain reached out one taloned paw and lifted Riley’s chin forcing his downcast eyes up. Buffy was amazed at the gentleness of the hideous thing. Its touch was tender as it played with a lock of Riley’s hair.

“She is resistant,” the Scyllain said, its many voices soft as the stirring of fallen leaves, “and there is no time. We must be one now before they come. When they arrive we must be separate again. Come inside and experience her surrender with us.”

“Come inside,” someone repeated from the far corner of the room.

Buffy jerked her head toward the new voice. A soldier came out of one of the tunnels. He was African-American, six feet tall and remarkably fit. He stripped off his clothing as he walked. Six more uniformed men trailed into the room from the surrounding passageways and then a diminutive girl who was apparently of Asian descent.

“Come inside,” they chanted as one.

Riley was chanting, too. As Buffy watched in horror, her former lover embraced the Scyllain demon, sliding erotically against the green prickly body of the thing. The demon tore away Riley’s clothing. It entered him. Riley’s flesh parted before the Scyllain’s thrust as it pulled him into its body. All the way into its body until there was no Riley left. Buffy’s stomach heaved.

The others were surging forward, surrounding the Scyllain, stroking it and each other. They writhed together. Their limbs tangled, male and female parts melting, merging like some hellish orgy scene. The demon bulged and shifted to accommodate the others within its body. Its gelatinous flesh flowed viscously, engulfing the individual hive members, until only the Scyllain remained. It shrank back into its original shape, but it seemed denser, more menacing. Its skin rippled with anticipation as it turned to study the bound Slayer. Its fanged maw opened to address her.

“You will come inside,” it commanded in its hive tongue.

“I’m just saying I don’t think I can do this,” Xander whispered.

“Of course you can, Sweetie,” Anya returned. “You raised that pointy-chinned demon. This will be much easier. All we need is a handful of Motherwort.”

“And it looks like this?” Xander said, indicating the tiny drawing on his palm.

“With pink or white flowers,” Willow reminded, “not purple ones.”

“How am I suppose to see the flower color in the dark?”

“Or we can just forget the whole thing,” Willow snapped, rubbing her damp hands against her thighs. “I can’t believe you even asked me to do a spell after all of the lectures I’ve listened to from you. I mean aren’t you the one always saying…‘Why do you have to use magic, Willow?’ or ‘Isn’t there an old-fashioned, normal way to do that?’”

“We only want what’s best for you Willow.”

“Oh, yeah,” Willow nodded, “of course, everybody only wants the best for me…as long as it’s convenient for YOU. But then when you want to stop the bullets…you don’t want to do things the,” she air-quoted, “‘normal way’ then do you? I’m supposed to whip up a spell for you no questions asked, right? And then…poof…I am suppose to just go back to being regular, everyday, old-fashioned Willow again…la, la, la!”

“Okay, okay,” Xander sighed, making shushing motions with both palms. “Enough with the la, la, la’s. I’m just saying…what if I mess up? Say the wrong words or pick the wrong flower? Buffy’s head explodes or something?”

“Probably that won’t happen,” Willow said.

“PROBABLY?”

“We should be quieter,” Anya hissed as a soldier walked by the window. “And,” she said turning to look Xander in the eye, “we should think about how we are all going to be dead soon if you don’t do this spell.”

“Right,” Xander nodded. “I’m Spell Guy…off to find my Mother’s Mole.”

“Motherwort,” Anya and Willow said together.

The demon shuffled forward, slow and relentless as a glacier’s march to the sea. Buffy shifted away from it, pulling on her weakening chain. A bone deep chill washed through her as it approached. She wasn’t afraid to die but she was afraid of the half-life this demon offered. Buffy didn’t think she could stand being enslaved to another being for ten minutes let alone for the next thousand years. She, also, didn’t think she was going to be given a choice in the matter. She was staked out, spread-eagle, and totally defenseless against this demon.

The Scyllain touched her bare stomach. Its palm was uncomfortably hot. It slid its taloned paw along her flesh. Simultaneously, it sliced into the Slayer’s mind, assaulting her with a hundred random thoughts. She sensed Riley in the multitude. His jumbled thoughts centered on impressing her. There was a blonde girl dreaming of a marriage that would never be. And another girl, bitter and alone even in the midst of the hive mind. There were soldiers, still fighting endless battles. Men plotting strategy and men raving aimlessly.

There were dozens of lost souls in the Scyllain’s hive. Each of them had a voice. But all of them were enslaved under one master. All of them screamed out their desperation in Buffy’s head. It was psychically devastating. But the insanity was also liberating. The Slayer found herself wanting to let go of her independent identity, to be one of the many. To be freed of responsibility for her action, tormented and yet somehow unburdened. The hive invited her inside. She was overwhelmed. Unguarded impressions slammed into her like fists. She screamed in rage and agony, flailing against her restraints. The Scyllain held her tight, dragging her close as it pressed its engorged phallus against her.

There was a gentle tap at the door. Willow checked for guards and then eased the latch open to let Xander back inside the car. The carpenter was festooned in greenery. Twigs and leaves decorated his black hair and bunches of flowers peeked out of his jacket pockets.

“What’s all this?”

“Flowers, herbs,” Xander said as he began dumping vegetation on the car seat. “All I could find. The right one must be here somewhere.

“I drew you a picture of the right one.”

“Yeah,” Xander nodded, “small problem…it’s dark out there.” He held up his palm, “Couldn’t see well enough to read your notes.”

“This is hopeless,” Willow groaned, as she contemplated the abundance of the wild salad.

“No, look,” Xander disagreed. “I got every plant in a three block radius. If it’s out there, it’s in here. What about this one? It’s pink!”

“That’s periwinkle,” Anya said.

Xander frowned at the little flower, “Are you sure? It doesn’t look periwinkle to me…more like a mauve?”

“That’s the name of the flower, Sweetie,” Anya sighed, exchanging a pained glance with Willow.

“You’re kidding me,” Xander said, also looking to Willow.

His friend gave him a tight smile and nod, “That’s what we call it in the big ol’ magic workin’ circles,” she said.

Buffy’s enraged scream echoed in the labyrinth of tunnels. Spike broke into a run, headless of the soldiers following behind him. He charged into Adam’s old lair, snarling up his game face as he ran. Barely checking his speed, he targeted the Slayer’s attacker. Leaping to the top of a metal table, the vampire pushed off. He tackled the Scyllain at shoulder height.

Wrapping himself around the other demon’s body, Spike gripped its head in both hands. He twisted the creature’s neck around, letting his forward momentum carry them both away from Buffy. They toppled sideways into the computer console. The offensive music skipped and squealed into life again. Buffy blinked dazedly as the din in her head died away, replaced by a purely auditory assault.

She brought the room into focus. A squadron of soldiers was pouring out of one of the converging tunnels. They took up offensive positions. Unslinging and readying an array of weapons, the newcomers targeted the battling demons.

“Spike,” the word formed on Buffy’s lips as she noticed her lover for the first time.

The vampire was horribly outclassed. He looked like a tiger trying to take down an elephant. He worried at the Scyllain, clawing and biting at it. Snarling and spitting, he scrambled about. Time and again he avoided the behemoth’s crushing paws by millimeters.

A soldier maneuvered close and shot a blaze of fire at the Scyllain. His shot went wild, spraying flames across a wide area. Spike sprang away from the fight to avoid being burned. He slipped, stumbled and the green demon caught him a terrible blow to the head. The vampire somersaulted. He landed flat on his back on the floor between Buffy’s shackled feet. Momentarily disoriented, Spike looked up at his beloved and his face shifted back to human form.

The Scyllain finally deigned to notice the menacing soldiers. It roared out a challenge. The various pinecone-like bristles on its body swelled and popped up so that it seemed three times as large. Then the appendages exploded outward. Separating from the parent demon, they twisted and expanded in the air. At least two-dozen men and women emerged from the demon’s scattered seeds, as each swollen bristle became an individual hive member. They sprang up around the chamber as if they’d been sown from dragons’ teeth and rushed into combat.

The hive members were naked, unarmed and virtually unstoppable. Buffy saw one of them take a bullet in the face. The injury didn’t even slow its attack. The Scyllain turned away from the battle. It continued its remorseless shuffle toward Spike and Buffy. Pausing at the torture table, it picked up Riley’s sword.

“Spike, get up, now,” Buffy cried. “Come on, Luv, snap out of it!”

The vampire frowned at her, puzzled. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t heard her correctly. He rolled over onto his hands and knees. His head hung low and he shook it as he struggled for clarity. He tried to stand, failed and tried again. Using the Slayer’s body as a crutch, Spike levered himself to his feet. His back was to the advancing demon.

Beginning to panic, Buffy swung against her weakened chain. Spike reached up to help her, adding his own strength to hers. The metal links groaned and buckled and finally parted. The sudden and unexpected shift in resistance sent Spike stumbling to one side and Buffy spinning to the other. Only her tethered legs kept her from whirling like a top around her other chained wrist.

“Well, THIS is a big improvement,” the Slayer groused, struggling to turn back toward the Scyllain.

She had no traction; no way to turn herself around. But her current position allowed her a perfect view of the rest of the battle. Unfortunately, there was no chance of help from that direction. The friendly soldiers, quite obviously, had their hands full with the Scyllain’s hive. Flamethrowers blazed and edged weapons sliced into flesh as the Slayer looked on, impotently.

Completely frustrated by her helpless situation, Buffy swayed her body to build up momentum. She tried to lunge up and grasp her still solid chain. Cool hands gripped her waist, lifting her. Spike had her. She caught hold of the links above her wrist and used that tension to turn her body. She was opening her mouth to say thanks when she caught sight of the Scyllain. The demon was a foot away, raising its sword to slice the vampire in two.

“Spike,” she yelped, “look out.”

As if her thoughts were his, the vampire moved even as Buffy spoke. He dropped and rolled backward. Slipping under the Scyllain’s strike, he hit it mid-calf. It overbalanced, compensated and came on again. Spike scrambled clear but then suddenly froze his attention captured by something on the floor near the pile of Riley’s discarded clothes. He lunged back toward the demon, putting himself in the direct line of its sword. He scooped whatever he’d seen off the floor even as the behemoth’s blade guillotined down toward him.

Using her broken chain like a whip, Buffy lashed out. She captured the Scyllain’s blade in her snaking links and with a flick of her wrist sent the sword flying. Turning on the Slayer, the green demon bellowed again as it surged forward. Spike’s growl was almost as fearsome as he went back on the offensive. He stepped between Buffy and the beast.

“I’m only going to tell you this once,” Spike rumbled, as he flashed his fangs. “You stay the Hell away from my woman.”

Lifting his knee high, he took his rival full in the crotch. The force of the blow staggered the other demon. Spike danced back as it fell forward. Balancing on the balls of his feet, the vampire spun a roundhouse kick at the Scyllain’s head. Connecting, he sent the behemoth to the mat. Spike came out of the spin tight up against the Slayer’s body. Leaning in, he dropped his hand along her free arm and slipped a small metal object into her palm. Buffy’s eyes widened as her fingers recognized the shape in her hand as a key. Riley must have dropped it when he merged with the Scyllain.

“About to get my ass seriously kicked, Pet,” Spike said close to her ear. “So as soon as you’re not so tied up….”

The Scyllain surged to its feet. Spike ducked as the beast hurled itself at him. He kicked out backward and shoulder rolled to the right. Coming to his feet, Spike scampered sideways. As he’d hoped, the Scyllain followed him, leaving Buffy to escape. The vampire couldn’t help thinking about Bailey Conger as he scrambled to stay out of the Scyllain’s clutches. Though he was reluctant to touch the thing, he moved in closer. Thrusting up under the green demon’s elbow, he twisted its arm behind its shoulder. Using the Scyllain’s own weight against it, Spike spun it head first into the pillar next to Buffy. The behemoth left an impact crater in the concrete but didn’t go down.

A stray bullet whizzed past the Slayer’s head. She stayed low as she used the key to remove her restraints. She tried to keep one eye on her embattled suitors as she worked. Moving far quicker than Buffy thought possible, the Scyllain whipped around on the vampire. Spike tried to get out of range but he wasn’t fast enough. The Scyllain landed a brutal punch to the small of the vampire’s back. Spike’s knees buckled. He fell forward and the other demon dragged him upright. It lifted him up by his hair and threw him halfway across the room. Spike launched himself back into the fray as soon as he skidded to a stop.

Buffy unlocked her leg restraints, kicking free of the chains. The overhead lights were swaying wildly, creating a strobe-like effect in the room as Buffy scrambled to her feet. She assessed the situation. There were bodies everywhere, dead and dying. The Slayer and the Scyllain appeared to be the last two living things standing. Only Spike was still fighting. But he was staggering drunkenly, obviously tiring.

If she was going to help him, Buffy needed fire or an edged weapon. With the hive members slaughtered, the Scyllain was momentarily whole; she had to kill it before it divided again. There were three knives on the torture table but nothing large enough to disembowel the huge demon. Buffy snatched up the knives, anyway. She fired them off in quick succession as she scanned the floor for something deadlier. The Scyllain barely twitched when the blades penetrated its flesh. It had Spike again. It lifted him overhead and hurled him to the ground. Then it bent low to retrieve a shaft of broken wood from the floor.

The Slayer spotted what she needed just as the Scyllain turned Spike over and heaved him onto the computer console, exposing the vampire’s chest to the stake. Calling on every ounce of her Slayer instinct, Buffy turned her back on her lover’s danger. She dashed toward the center of the room and the Scyllain’s fallen scimitar. Behind her the creature morphed into Riley’s form.

“I told you, before,” the Riley-shape said to Spike. “I told you if you touched her we would do this for real.”

“And, now, I’m telling YOU,” Spike snarled back, “Touch her and I’ll be on your bloody welcoming committee in hell.”

The stake fell. It hit the floor and rolled away. Spike looked into Riley’s eyes. It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. Then Riley looked down at his chest. Six inches of cold steel protruded from his heart. As he watched the blade ripped through his torso in a jagged circle, spilling the Scyllain’s guts to the floor. Riley toppled sideways and Spike found himself facing the Slayer. She gripped her bloody sword in a shaking hand.

“Buffy?” the remains of her former lover spoke and she knelt beside him.

“Riley?” she said, softly. She brushed the sandy brown hair back out of his eyes with her free hand. He blinked up at her, trying to focus.

“See,” Riley said with a small smile as his eyes misted over, “you don’t need…anyone.”

He choked and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as the spark of life faded from his face.

The Slayer looked down at her sword. Gagging on a curse, she threw the weapon away from her. She watched as the Scyllain demon consumed Riley Finn for the final time. Demonic green flesh crawled over his human features, burying them in the monster. Buffy covered her own face with her hands. She pulled herself into a tight ball beside the dead thing.

Spike frowned, not sure what was expected of him. He looked from the fallen demon to the woman he loved. Finally, he wandered over to retrieve a jacket from one of the many bodies. There was a stirring in the cavern. People coming. Spike walked back and placed the garment around the Slayer’s shoulder. She didn’t react. He reached out a hand brushing over her hair. Buffy jerked violently away from him.

“Luv?” he questioned.

She raised her head to pierce him with her stare. It wasn’t Buffy, looking out at him. It was the Slayer. Her eyes were cold and hard and glinted like diamonds. Spike fell back a step as she rose up, filling the room with her primordial power. She was bruised and bloodstained but unbowed. Her tattered near nakedness seemed natural, primitive and splendid.

“You stay away from me,” she ground out in a low dangerous tone.

Spike shook his head.

“Won’t,” he said with suicidal stubbornness. His eyes softened as he amended, “You know I can’t!”

“Don’t you get it?” the Slayer snarled, every muscle in her body coiled tight. “Don’t you understand? You…are…a VAMPIRE…A DEMON!”

She pointed a shaking finger at the body on the floor. “This!” she said, her tone measured, “This is what I do to demons. This is what happens to my boyfriends. They love me. They turn evil. And I KILL them.”

Without warning, she sprang, snatching up Riley’s fallen stake. She slammed into Spike, carrying him into the wall. Caught totally off guard, the vampire stumbled back, hitting his head hard. He started to black out, sliding into oblivion he struggled to focus on her. Buffy wrenched him to his feet, pressing her weapon into his chest. A blood red rose bloomed under her point. Her eyes were icy, flat, and totally emotionless when she spoke again.

“Angelus dead. Riley dead. Spike dead. Do you understand me?” she asked, shaking him for emphasis. “I am the Slayer. I kill your kind. I slay. You die. You…Spike…are GOING to die by this hand.”

A bullet slammed into her and bounced harmlessly away as Xander’s protection spell kicked in.

“Hold your fire,” Graham barked. “She’s killed it.” He couldn’t say how he knew that the deadly thing before him wasn’t Scyllain in nature.

Buffy turned her cold gaze on the newcomers. Graham was at the head of a second battalion of soldiers. They surveyed the carnage and the tiny half-naked blonde at the center of it. She glared at the commandos dispassionately for several long moments and then negligently tossed Spike aside. His head struck the floor and he lay still, a heap of black leather. The Slayer picked up her borrowed jacket and stalked toward the exit. Graham’s men hesitated, looking to their leader for guidance, and then at his signal parted before her.

Xander and Willow and Anya cheered as the news of Buffy’s victory came over the radio. The carpenter pointed excitedly to his little pile of Motherwort. He accepted the praise that was his due, and then joined in the rush to the cavern mouth to wait for the Slayer’s triumphant arrival.

The Scoobies fell back in confusion when Buffy finally appeared. She was alone and she pushed blindly past them, deaf to their congratulations. They called out to her but she didn’t stop walking. Buffy was barely aware of their existence. She was having trouble concentrating. There was a buzzing sound in her head and she couldn’t remember where it was that she wanted to go. Picking a direction, she headed toward the rising sun. Her three friends trailed behind her.

Somehow she made it home. The trip was a blur of bright colors and harsh sounds. People stared at her and shouted but they didn’t touch her. They didn’t dare. Buffy felt like she had died and been torn from the grave all over again. The world seemed alien and remote and horribly empty to her. Nothing made sense; nothing mattered. Her sister and Tara greeted her at the door. They were brimming over with questions.

Buffy mumbled out the news that Riley was dead. She turned away from any words of consolation. It all seemed meaningless to her. Xander, Willow and Anya arrived but had nothing more to add. Caught in a waking nightmare, the Slayer numbly climbed the stairs to her room, stripping off the remains of her street clothes as she went. She put on her pajamas. She crawled into bed. Three days later she was still there.

The gang tried together and separately to snap her out of it. She wasn’t catatonic. She was simply unresponsive, uncaring. Her wounds bled into the pajamas and sheets. The blood dried into a caked mess but Buffy didn’t care. She curled into a tight ball in the center of the bed and stared at the far wall.

Xander joked. Willow cajoled. Tara pampered. Anya demanded. Dawn pleaded with and threatened her by turns. Buffy remained impassive, giving one word, automatic answers. She would eat a few bites of whatever was placed before her. If they ignored her she went hungry. She only got up to go to the bathroom, shuffling lifelessly along the hallway. Her body healed itself, but her spirit didn’t. There was talk of doctors and potions and phone calls to England. Finally, late on the third day, Xander went to see Spike.

At first, Xander thought the crypt was empty. It was dark and still and smelled damp. He called out but received no answer. A flickering of light led him to the basement level opening. He peered down the steps, calling again before descending. There were three or four candles burning low, barely offsetting the gloom. Spike was sitting in his red chair, right leg thrown over the arm. He had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He took turns dragging on each. He didn’t bother to acknowledge his visitor.

“You know as a vampire I wouldn’t think you would be quite so free with the flammables.” Xander opened the conversation. “I mean, one trip to dreamland and you’re toast.”

“Appreciate the public service announcement,” Spike mumbled. “Now push off.”

The vampire was battered and drunk and just as impassive as Buffy. He didn’t appear to be listening as Xander stutter through the explanation of why he’d come. Spike didn’t seem to care at all.

Xander started to get angry. “Look,” he snapped, “are you going to help us get Buffy back or not?”

Spike took a long pull on his bottle and then asked, “Is she eating?”

“Yeah, if we watch her.”

“So,” Spike shrugged, “go watch her.”

“Is that all you have to say?" Xander ranted. "I can't believe this. I thought you cared about her. Guess that undead devotion of yours was just talk? Jokes on me, right? Should've known….”

“She told me to stay away," Spike growled, sloshing his whiskey. "And I’m staying.”

He took another drink. Xander threw his hands into the air. Cursing, he headed for the vampire’s wooden stairs. With one foot on the bottom rung, he paused. Turning slowly, he looked around the room, really seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t a stereotypical vampire lair. It was civilized, almost a home. He transferred his appraising stare to Spike, noting the polished look of him, the jewelry, the cotton dress shirt and the naturally curled hair.

“This…all this,” Xander said, softly, his broad gesture taking in the many changes in Spike’s mode of existence. “It's for her, isn't it? For Buffy?”

Spike shrugged again but he met the man’s eye for a brief second and the look was all Xander needed to, finally, accept the truth. Random pieces clicked into place; whispered phrases, meaningful glances, exercising vampires. Buffy and Spike were lovers. She stayed here, in the night, in this crypt, and in that bed. The carpenter sighed. He wasn’t angry and that was probably the scariest thing of all.

“How long?” he asked.

“Couple months.”

“And you had a fight, I’m guessing?”

“Something like that.”

“Over Riley?”

The vampire sighed but nodded.

“What?" Xander frowned, working on the puzzle. "Was it you? You killed him…or?” A horrible thought hit Xander mid-chest and he choked out his next question. “He didn’t…didn’t hurt her…touch her?”

Spike started to nod again but seeing the man’s horrified face he snorted. He shook his head, sadly, “No…not the way you mean, Harris. Call yourself her friend and you don’t know a bloody thing about her. She’s not some delicate flower. Far from it. So, if you’re lookin’ to play the hero, find some other damsel. You got no idea what this is about.”

“Then tell me,” Xander shouted. “What is wrong with Buffy? With you? Why won’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Because it’s none of your damned business!” Spike yelled back, swinging his leg to the floor so he was sitting up straight. “What the Slayer and I do in private? That’s between us.” His voice dropped to a mutter and he looked at the floor as he amended, “Long as I don’t hurt her.” He glanced up, challengingly, “And I don’t!”

“She’s hurting now,” Xander returned.

Spike winced. He closed his eyes and let his head drop against the back of the chair, sighing again in exasperation. His jaw clenched tight for a minute as conflicting passions played over his face. Xander thought the vampire was considering violence. He was. With a strangled oath, Spike stood up and heaved his bottle across the room. It shattered against the far wall, spraying glass and alcohol. He spun around to glare at Buffy’s friend. Xander held his ground and after a tension filled minute or two, Spike backed down.

“Right,” the vampire nodded, his shoulders sagging in defeat as the fight left his body. “Helping, then. You go get Dawn and the rest of the soddin’ Suffragettes out of the house. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man,” Xander grinned. “Give me an hour and I’ll give you some alone time with the Buffster. You’ll have all night to get through to her.”

“Not promising you anything,” Spike grumbled. “She can be an unreasonable little scuffler when she wants to be. Probably dust me for my trouble.”

“Hey! Talk about your win-win situation,” Xander teased, as he headed for the stairs.

Spike shot him a killing glance but the young man was already gone.

Buffy woke up sometime after nine. She stumbled to the bathroom, her sock-covered feet making no sound on the carpeting. Passing by the sink, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and paused. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, bleak-eyed and hollow-faced. Her hair was tangled, dull and lifeless. Her nose was red and felt stuffy. Buffy thought she looked exactly like what she was, a woman with a dead past and no future.

She ran a glass of water. After the first small sip, her stomach cramped up and she stumbled to the toilet. When the dry heaving stopped, she fumbled her way back to the washbasin. She wiped her mouth, put the washcloth back on the rod and then stood numbly facing the mirror.

She sensed him at the door but didn't turn as he crossed to stand behind her. He had no reflection. Buffy saw no reason to acknowledge him. After a long pause, Spike leaned against the edge of the vanity. The antique piece groaned, shifting under his weight. He studied Buffy as she studied herself. They stared. The vampire at the woman he loved and the Slayer at the stranger in her mirror. Finally, Spike spoke. Characteristically, he came straight to the point.

“So, what you’re saying,” he said, “is that I’m your boyfriend.”

“What I’m saying,” she corrected, still not turning to look at him, “is that I want you to leave me alone.”

“Now we both know that’s never going to happen,” he replied, reaching out his hand to touch her shoulder. “Buffy…” he began.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” she stated, without any inflection. Turning, she headed for the door.

“No, it isn’t,” Spike snapped, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face him. “I’ve listened to enough of your lectures to last me a lifetime and now it’s time for YOU to listen to one of mine.”

Buffy didn’t struggle or strike out at him, she just stood there impassively waiting for him to say his piece and go away. It made Spike angrier with her than he had ever been. It made him reckless.

“You think I don’t know this is wrong?” he asked, giving her a hard shake. “You think I don’t know what you are? You’re the SLAYER, Buffy. How could I ever forget? When you touch me my skin burns. I kiss you and I taste my own ashes in your mouth. I’m not the one who doesn’t understand. The one who won’t accept the truth. I know that you will be the death of me. I know it.”

He lifted a limp strand of hair from her face with his fingers as he continued, “But it doesn’t matter to me. It can't matter. All that matters is the time between now and then. This time we have together.”

Spike lowered his head to look into her downcast eyes as he whispered, “Don’t you understand, Luv? This is as close to Heaven as I will ever come. Isn’t death the price that I’m suppose to pay for that?”

The Slayer was crying, sobbing out her pain. She sank weak-kneed toward the floor and Spike caught her. He wrapped her in his arms. Kneeling close, he held her as she wept away all her sorrow. It took a long, long time but finally she rested quietly against his shoulder. Holding her upright, Spike leaned back to look at his love. Buffy was a wreck; every ounce of vitality had drained out of her with her tears. He searched her face for some sign that she was past the worst of it. There was nothing in her hollow eyes but an echo of the seemingly empty room. He helped her to stand and guided her over to the commode. Using his knee, Spike lowered the toilet lid and then turned Buffy around. He sat her down on the closed seat. Then he plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and handed them to her.

“Blow your nose,” he said gently.

Buffy did as he asked. Spike went back to the sink. He dampened a washcloth and brought it to her.

“Wipe your face,” he said. Buffy looked at the cloth in his hands and then at the crumbled tissues she was holding.

After too long a pause, she let the soggy bundle drop out of her grasp into the wastebasket beside her. Spike put the washcloth into her open palms and closed her fingers around it. She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, as if her mind wasn’t in sync with her body, but she moved.

Spike returned to the sink and ran water into a tall plastic tumbler. Leaning forward, he sniffed briefly over the four toothbrushes in the rack, and then unerringly plucked the Slayer’s pink one from the group. When Buffy was done scrubbing her face he exchanged the glass for her washrag and told her to drink. He put a dab of toothpaste on the brush and traded it for Buffy’s water glass. Then he led her to the washstand.

“Brush, Swish, Spit,” he ordered. Setting the tumbler where she could reach it, he left the room.

Spike walked down the hall to the Slayer’s bedroom. He entered and went to her closet. It only took a moment for him to locate Buffy’s terry cloth robe. He came back to the bathroom and draped the robe from a hook behind the door. He hesitated and then shrugged off his duster, tossing it onto the vanity table. Buffy spat into the sink and paused staring blankly for a long beat before turning on the water to rinse out the basin.

Spike went back down the hall to the Wiccan room. He rummaged about for a several minutes in Willow’s bureau and dresser, gathering up items. He waited until after he heard the toilet flush to return. Buffy was perched on the closed seat again. Spike thought she looked slightly more present in her body.

He dropped his load of Wiccan paraphernalia into the sink. Buffy stared sightlessly at the bundles of herbs and the three boxes of votive candles as Spike crossed to the linen closet. He took out towels and sheets, setting the stack by his duster before turning toward the tub. He hit the bath stopper toggle and twisted the taps until the hot water sprayed full blast. He paced to the sink, gathered his herbs and returned to the bath. Buffy looked on impassively as he began crushing sweet flowers under the running water.

The room filled with fragrance and the Slayer stirred, glancing down at her pajama top. With unsteady fingers, she began to undress. When Spike turned around again she was naked. Her flesh bore the faint scars of their recent battle. But the thin lined knife cuts and colorful bruises failed to mar her beauty. Spike stood looking at her for several ticks of the clock, his emotions unreadable. Then he gave a small start, like a man coming awake after briefly nodding off. He blinked at Buffy and jerked his head to indicate the steaming tub of herbal tea.

“Get in, then,” he said, gruffly, as he skirted around her. He hefted the stack of sheets and slipped out the door, once again.

The bath water smelled heavenly. Buffy stepped over the rim of the tub and sank down into the green/brown heat. She leaned back and let the fragrant water rise to her chin. Sighing, she closed her eyes. She listened to Spike go into her room. Heard him knocking about and then heard him sweep down the stairs, his step light and quick. Twenty minutes later, she heard him coming back, his tread slow and soft.

He turned off the light as he entered and moved about in the dark, making tiny mysterious noises but never approaching her or speaking. She felt a faint stir of curiosity and opened her eyes. The bathroom was lit by the flickering candlelight of two-dozen votives. Spike had stripped off his shirt. He was removing his boots when he noticed her watching. He finished the task and picked up a mug from the back of the toilet.

Wearing only his jeans, he padded over to her and handed her the cup. "Drink this," he said. It was full of warm, sweet chamomile tea. Buffy took a small, tentative sip and then a longer one.

Spike brought over a plate of cut fruit and strips of meat. He kneeled beside the tub and fed her tiny bites. Buffy let the simple tasks of chewing and swallowing take on ritual importance. She closed her eyes again, tilting her head back as she opened her mouth to Spike’s offering. He placed a slice of apple on her tongue like a priest presenting a communion wafer. Buffy took of the body and ate.

When she’d had her fill, Spike sat the plate aside. He rose and went to the sink to fetch the washcloth and plastic glass. Then he returned to his spot at the side of the tub. With slow, practiced strokes the vampire bathed the Slayer. It was a sensual experience rather than a sexual one. Buffy kept her eyes shut, tuning out the visual in favor of her other senses. She savored the feel of the hot water and knobby cloth on her skin, the gentle swish and splash of ablution, the smell of lavender and lemon balm and ylang-ylang. The sickness began to leech out of her spirit.

“Dunk,” Spike advised a bit later.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy slid beneath the surface of the water. Sightless, she floated in the womb-like warmth, nearly weightless, nearly soundless, until her lungs began to burn. Spike watched her, counting off the seconds in his head. His fingers curled into fists and his nails cut into his palms as he fought against the urge to save his beloved, to reach in and pull her up into the air. Panic hit him just as Buffy rose from the water, gasping. Spike was gasping too.

“Not so long next time, Pet,” the vampire admonished. “Nearly started my bloody heart beating again.”

“Nice,” Buffy said, favoring him with the briefest of smiles. Spike didn’t ask if she was referring to the bath, the air, himself and his nearly beating heart or, in fact, to something else entirely. It was enough that she was responsive again.

“Right then, on to phase three,” he said, standing up to peel off his jeans.

“What happened to phase two?” Buffy asked, taking in his naked form.

Spike motioned her to scoot forward and make room for him in tub.

“Phase two was the bath,” he replied, slipping into the water. The Slayer sucked in air to speak and Spike quickly added, “And phase one was everything before the bath.”

“Oh!”

Buffy leaned back into her lover’s cool body. Spike slid his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. He was hard against her hip but Buffy knew he didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t suggestive or lascivious. It was simply arithmetic. Buffy plus naked equals Spike hard. Doing the math gave her a tiny thrill.

The water had reached an uncomfortable coolness. Spike used his toes to flick the drain open for a few minutes and then leaned forward with Buffy in his arms and added more hot. The Slayer agitated her legs a bit to spread the warmth. She tried to lie back into Spike again but the vampire held her off. He was sitting up straight and rummaging over the side of the tub. He came up with the plastic water glass. Filling it, he dumped a flume over the Slayer’s head.

“Time for your shampoo, Poodle,” he said.

“More sexual than sensual,” Buffy thought as Spike’s fingertips worked the thick lather through her hair.

He massaged her scalp, swirling gently one moment and scrubbing vigorously the next. He pulled her wet tresses into fanciful soapy styles. He swept the hair up off of her neck for a time and then brought it back down, twirling it around her ears. Under Spike’s hands, the shampoo took on a life of its own. Tentacles of foam caressed Buffy’s skin as they slid down her neck and over her breasts.

Spike’s hands followed the shampoo’s lead. He trailed his fingers over the Slayer from her nape, to her collarbone to the raised peak of her nipples. He tugged at her gently. Then he leaned in snaking his left arm around Buffy’s belly as he circled his flattened right palm over the slick globe and hard knot of her left breast. He kissed the soft hollow of her throat.

She moaned and pressed back into him. Spike pushed her forward into her raised knees, his cock jumping against the soft curve of her hip. He reached down between the Slayer’s legs, and her heart skipped and fluttered. But all he did was fumble up his plastic tumbler from the bottom of the tub. He used it to pour water over the both of them. Again and again, he doused them. Until the Slayer’s hair was squeaky clean.

She tilted her head back to kiss him turning onto her side, and then coming up onto her knees. They stood up together, bodies intertwined. Hands running smooth over wet skin, mouths tasting and murmuring nonsense, pushing toward the inevitable, until Spike, quite suddenly, jerked away.

He wasn’t going to let this happen again. He swore he wouldn't. Not this time. He wasn’t going to let Buffy lose herself in him, taking easy comfort in sex. Reaching past the Slayer, he started the bath draining. Then with a brutal twist of his wrist, he turned on the shower, full on cold. The spray blasted them, washing away the last traces of soap and the lustiness of the mood.

Buffy squeaked and jumped. She stood shivering under the icy deluge, pushing her limits, testing how long she could tolerate the discomfort. Spike climbed out of the tub but she remained. Her skin prickled into goosebumps and her teeth began to chatter. Finally, when she started to turn blue around the lips, Spike turned off the taps. Shuddering, Buffy hugged herself for warmth as the last of the frigid water drained away.

“B-b-bracing,” she stammered. Snorting softly, the naked vampire lowered his head, shaking it from side to side before looking up at her.

“Yeah, you can take a lot of cold,” he commented, enigmatically, as he handed her a towel.

Stepping out of the tub, Buffy rubbed the feeling back into her skin. As she squeezed the moisture from her hair, Spike padded over to the door and fetched back her robe. He wrapped his beloved in the warm cloth and then he lifted her into his arms. She was incredibly light. It made his gut twist up and his manhood stir to life again. Buffy Summers, his heart’s own Slayer, was a mystery of bruising strength and delicate femininity. He loved confronting the combination.

Spike carried Buffy over the bathroom threshold and down the hall to her bedroom. The bed was newly made. He placed her on top of the covers. She curled up and he turned away from her, going to the window to shutter it. He returned to her, carrying a blanket. He joined her in the bed, spreading the warm cloth over them both. They lay side-by-side. The vampire spooned around the Slayer’s robed form, cradling her head on his arm. Buffy stared at the far wall. She drifted on a cloud of sublime peace and security. She was safe. She was loved. She was home.

Minutes passed silently into hours. The sun rose.

“Yes,” Buffy whispered as the first rays of light touched the windows.

“Yes, what, Luv?” Spike murmured into her hair. He was half-asleep.

She pushed her shoulder back, forcing him to shift his position as she rolled over to face him. Buffy’s robe fell open as she dropped one warm leg over Spike’s cold naked thigh. Blinking, the vampire came instantly and completely awake.

“Yes,” Buffy repeated, holding his gaze, “that IS what I’m saying…you are,” she continued, reaching out to touch his lower lip, “most definitely, my boyfriend.”

Spike smiled in bemused wonder. He let his hand drop to the small of Buffy’s back, pushing her hips forward. The Slayer flowed with the movement. Without breaking eye contact she opened herself to him as he thrust deep. She took him entire. Letting him go all the way to her womb, all the way to her emotional core, she surrounded him, snug and warm and alive. Spike rolled them over so that Buffy lay on top of him. She sank back, sliding her knees further open. She settled into his lap, pushing down to envelope him completely. Spike’s face reflected his sense of awe, as he was drenched in the hot, sweet flood of her arousal.

“Oh, Slayer,” he breathed out. “You’re destroying me.”

Finally, after weeks of exquisitely mind-blowing, acrobatic sex, Spike and Buffy made love. There was no violence. No brutal foreplay, no dominance or submission involved and no paying witnesses to the event. Bailey Conger, had he lived to see it, would have been sadly disappointed in the pair of them.

They took their time. Buffy played her fingers over Spike’s face and neck, kissing him, rolling the swell of her breasts into his chest as she rocked and rotated her hips. She swirled the silken strands of his hair, loosening the curls into disarray. He cried out softly, thrusting up to meet her downward strokes. He petted her, stroking over her shoulder blades and the curve of her back. She rose above him, bracing her palms into his and he arched beneath her. When she found her balance, he released her, setting his hands to other work. He circled his thumbs over her nipples, danced his nails in a light caress along the length of her arms and drew random patterns on her taut stomach. Buffy gripped him tight between her thighs and let herself go. Her hair bounced, brushing her shoulders, as she tossed her head in the throes of ecstasy.

Her entire body cracked like a sheet drying in a strong wind. Spike caught her, pulling her close, again. Buffy offered no resistance. She let him take her. His tongue was in her mouth, his teeth sharp against her throat, his lips soft on her most sensitive flesh, exploring and claiming. His hands were everywhere, touching her deep. He owned her, mastered her as she owned and mastered him. They were one. His cock felt like a part of her body. She longed for his release as if it were her own.

“Mine” he growled, shuddering with his need for her.

“Yes,” she agreed, “yours.”

“Always?”

“Always,” Buffy whispered and felt the bliss of his cool seed spilling into her.

He flipped her to her back and stretched out along her pleasure pliant body. She spread herself open under him, one foot dangling off the bed, toes brushing the floor. Moaning and trembling beneath him, she milked out every last ounce of his come. Spike took several steadying breaths before he moved again. He let the Slayer relax completely, and then slowly let the tempo build between them. Each shift of his hips was a long measured stoke into her center. He felt Buffy start to tighten around him in response.

“Oh, Spike…Spike?”

“Baby?”

“Don’t,” she panted and then emitted a breathless scream as a second orgasm hit her and she forgot how to form words.

“Don’t?” he prompted, after a time.

“Leave,” she said, when she could speak again. “Do-don’t leave.”

Spike gave a half-sobbing laugh into the curve of her throat nearly undone by the absurdity of her request. “‘Kay,” he gulped.

Unsatisfied, Buffy pushed him away, seeking his eyes.

“Please,” she insisted. “Promise me.”

Spike brought both of his palms up to the sides of her face. Holding her, he stilled them both in body and mind. He focused all of his attention on her beautiful eyes.

“I promise not to leave,” he said. “And when they take me forcibly away, I will storm through Hell and rage at the gates of Heaven until they let me be with you again.”

Buffy didn’t question him. She just took him back into her arms.

“Spike, sweet, wonderful, Spike,” she chanted, softly as she cast his demon out. “So strong, so perfect, so very, very good to me. My boyfriend, my sweet William, my own...”

“Love,” he murmured. It was the only word he could remember but it seemed like the right one, the one that completed them both.

Belly to belly, manhood to womanhood, the vampire and Slayer accommodated one another. Slowly, languidly Spike occupied his beloved, filling her body and soul. His member stroked every inch of her sensitive inner passage. He pulled back only slightly each time before letting Buffy take him completely again. He couldn’t bear to be separated from her, even for a moment. Instead he burrowed into her, rotating his hips to bring her more pleasure than she had ever known.

Buffy didn’t understand how something cold and dead could make her feel so alive. Spike didn’t understand how her gentlest caress could make him ache so deep inside. Neither of them understood how it was possible to love someone with such profound intensity.

It took hours, before they were satisfied. And in the end, they were both moved to tears. They cried out for one another and sank as one into the abyss. Shuddering and gasping, they melted in each other’s arms, giving up their separate selves to the union. Basking in the afterglow, Spike looked deep into Buffy’s eyes, to her very soul. He saw himself reflected in her love. Not the monster he was but the man.

It was, in so many ways, a truer reflection than any mirror would ever offer him.