Notes: Buffy has a one-night stand with Spike, whom she meets in a graduate school seminar. He's keeping her at arm's length out of a desire to protect her from an uncomfortable secret. Based on the Aimee Mann song.

She slumped against the back of the elevator as it went down. Only two floors, but Buffy was dizzy and didn't feel like trying to negotiate the stairs tonight. She had a brief flash of tumbling headfirst down them and cracking her skull open at the bottom. Better to be lazy than risk injury.

As she passed the first floor entrance of the building, she stopped, considering going outside to look at the sunset, but then...

There he was.

Clearly visible through the glass, standing outside, hair all bright under the gentle glow of the lights mounted beneath the small square of roof that hung over the steps, the small haven shelter of smokers. His back was to her, but of course it was him, unmistakeable figure, long leather duster, messanger bag tossed carelessly at his feet, a small cloud of wispy white circling him.

Safely out of his line of sight, she could afford to pause, consider, weigh her options. If only he were alone, she might consider going outside to join him, to pretend not to be weighed down by care or worry... chat, flirt, tempt him back upstairs to her office where she could lock the door behind them and pull him to the floor. But he wasn't alone, he was talking with Dr. Giles, one of his professors, and she had neither a good enough excuse to go outside nor did she wish --

She choked back a sob, and walked a few paces past the doors, rounded the corner, and stopped again to take a long swallow from the drinking fountain. Buffy could only imagine the conversation out there.

"Been a real pain in my arse this term, she's been," Spike might be saying to Giles. "Met her in my Poe seminar, seemed a cute enough little thing." Giles would be nodding, and Spike would be taking a drag from his cigarette. "But then she had to go and get all stuck on me, you know, after."

Giles would probably feign ignorance at what his pupil meant by "after," raise his eyebrows, polish his glasses. "Eh, hmm?"

Spike would roll his eyes. "You know. I gave the bird a smashing roll late one after class." He might proudly flick his spent fag artfully into the ashcan, make a rude punching gesture. "Did 'er up right good, too. And she couldn't get enough. Left me a bleedin' mess."

Giles would blush and look at the floor. "Oh, my," he'd whisper.

Spike would shrug. "Don't mean I wanna repeat the performance, though. Chew 'em up an' spit 'em out, that's my motto."

"Yes, well... it's... good to have, er, goals."

This all ran through Buffy's sorrow-filled, paranoid head. She continued walking, painfully, painfully slowly, out the north end of the building, out to her car.

Once inside, she cried freely all the way home.

"This term's just run a stake through my heart," Spike told Giles as they stood outside before class. "I'm takin' twice as many classes as I should, workin' all the bloody time, and my friends're left feelin' all ignored-like." He sighed.

"Well, welcome to graduate school," Giles said with a laugh. "You get no social life whatsoever for the next two years."

"That's more of a drag than you can imagine," Spike replied sadly.

After class, he slid into his ancient DeSoto and scanned the radio for something decent. Something loud and angry to take his mind off stress. Instead, he found himself settling on the campus station which was playing a mournful Aimee Mann song.

"You can hardly stand it though, by now you know it's not going to stop..."

Yeah, I gotta wise up, then, don't I? Spike thought bitterly. Sod it, I'm no good to anyone.

His flat was dark when he got home, but a small red light blinked on his phone indicating voice mail. He listened to his messages as he pulled off his coat, wandered into the bedroom and began to unlace his boots.

"Spikey, why do you never call?" his ex-girlfriend, Harmony, whined in his ear. He erased the message before it was finished. The next was from his irritatingly responsible brother Angel. "William, you need to let Cordelia and I know if you're coming for Thanksgiving or not," he reminded him. Bloody hell, Thanksgiving day was going to be used to finish the four huge essays he still needed to write. No time for strained family gatherings. A few more messages from neglected friends, and then...

Finally... a tiny, breathy voice. "I - I, um, hi, this is... Buffy," it began tentatively. "I just wanted to say... hi." The message clicked off, but Spike played it back again and thought he made out a little sigh before she'd hung up.

Oh, god, Spike thought... I wish I had more time for you, little one. He saved the message, then looked to the clock. Nearly midnight. Spike imagined Buffy cozily snuggled up in her bed, curled up amongst silky pillows, shoulders and hair shimmery in pale moonlight streaming from between the slats in the blinds. Can't disturb her at this hour, he decided, peeling off the rest of his clothes and sliding beneath his rumpled sheets.

Across town, Buffy sat finishing a paper of her own, not caring about its quality anymore, just trying to get it finished. She glanced occasionally at the phone which had sat silent all night. The paper finally completed, she printed it out while playing a few hands of solitaire. At one a.m., she punched a staple through the drivel, shut her computer off, and went to lie restless and awake in bed for the night.

It had been a week since she'd brazenly sidled up to him after class, whispering in his ear that he should follow her back to her place. He'd shivered at the feel of her breath, her lips close to his neck. All he'd been able to do was nodd dumbly.

They didn't speak when they entered the apartment. Once the door was shut behind them, she'd immediately pulled him in for a kiss. That's all they'd done to that point, made out like teenagers in a few parking lots during stolen moments. He could tell a lot simply by the way she kissed him, sweetly but full of passion, and he responded to her with his entire body every time, trying to mold her closer to him, clutching at her little bird-like shoulders, sucking at her full lower lip, tonguing her earlobe, and gently biting her neck. That night, they both felt the other's need more acutely, and as they stood locked together, Spike subtly pressing himself tight against her, Buffy felt him harden, and she sighed with the want of him.

They clumsily made their way to her bedroom, shedding coats and shirts and shoes along the way, leaving a trail of cloth and leather. He pushed her roughly onto the bed, and she, surprised but pleased at his slight aggression, gazed at him admiringly, taking in his taut form for an instant before he leapt on her, pinning her arms above her head as he explored her with his mouth. When he moved his hands from hers to unhook her bra, she grasped his shoulders, trailed her hands down his back, and finally unbuttoned his jeans as he pushed her skirt up and began to free her from her panties.

He teased her for a long time, sliding fingers in and out of her, she emitted small gasps at every touch. She stroked his shaft with long, dreamy touches, enjoying the feel of the smooth veins that throbbed beneath its surface.

She arched her back, held on tightly to him, and with surprising strength, rolled him onto his back. His blue eyes gleamed up at her pleadingly, his teeth biting his lip in hungry expectation. Buffy wanted this, wanted this so much, but she shivered with slight nervousness, and couldn't help but wonder if it was the right time.

"Do you..." she breathlessly began, "do you want this?"

His eyes shut briefly. "Oh, god, yes," he whispered. "You're so beautiful..."

She kissed him hard, they planted tiny bites and scratches on each other, and finally he was above her again. When he entered her at last, she felt an immediate sense of awe, as though something missing was now complete. The mere sensation of him inside her was enough to make her explode. He thrust gently at first, holding himself above her, but she had to feel him closer. She snaked arms around his neck and forced him to fall, his entire weight crushing her, ribcage against ribcage. She drew her knees up higher. Spike began to pump furiously, and Buffy arched up to meet him, grinding, fingernails hard on the small of his back to push him deeper and deeper. Their sweat mingled to sweet slick musk, her neck bloomed with bruises from his mouth, and her rode in her perfect circles, adding his finger to urge her clitoris to harden and rise to a more tender ache. His breathing heavier, both of them letting go gasps that turned to moans that turned to wordless cries of ecstasy.

She felt it swelling and rising in her, so deep, as if every part of her was on fire. Now, it would be now... and at the instant she realized it in herself, his own movements abruptly stopped. As he arched a little up from her, she looked up at him. They found themselves staring deeply into one another as they came together.

Never, ever before had Buffy truly looked at someone at this precise moment while making love. She couldn't believe the power of the moment, it was overwhelming, magnificent... perfect.

They collapsed together, skin drenched, gasping for breath. When the rising and falling of his chest at last resumed normal rhythm, he leaned down briefly to fish a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Buffy watched the flash of the flame from his lighter, the smoke as it swirled to her ceiling. They still had no need of speech in those few minutes, she with her head on his chest, he with his arm around her, wirey muscles against her spine.

She'd started to drift into a contented slumber when she felt him rise from the bed, the quiet sounds of clothing being put back on... a moment later, she heard an engine rev to life outside.

And she hadn't heard from him since.

After her sleepless night and a day of classes that blurred together, she sat with her friend Willow at their favorite bar, which was situated conveniently across the street from the campus. It was early, not quite five yet, but Buffy had been greatly in need of imbibing, spilling out her frustrations about Spike's behavior to her dearest pal.

She told the whole sordid story, though left the more descriptive elements unsaid, and heaved a deep sigh at the finish of it, looking across the table at Willow with big sad eyes. "What do you make of it?" she asked.

Willow donned her trademark cute pouty frown face, and shrugged helplessly. "Boys... I don't understand them."

"Hence the whole lesbian thing, then, eh?" Buffy smiled a little. "So that's why you went to play for the other team, men finally confounded you so much you gave up!"

"Girls can be just as tricky, if not more so," Willow insisted with a grin. "We're all enigmatic, you know."

"Well, then, maybe Spike was a woman in a former life, because you don't get much more enigmatic than him." Buffy took a long swallow of beer.

"Better go easy there," Willow said with a hint of worry.

"Will, I plan on avoiding sobriety as often as possible 'til I get some answers. Don't judge me, I know you'd do the same thing." Buffy was trying to be all tough and righteous, jabbing an index finger in the air, but in her beginnings of tipsiness, Willow could not take her seriously at all, and let loose a giggle.

"Not to laugh at my pain, young lady!" Buffy said, sounding downright motherly.

At this, Willow broke out into uncontrollable guffaws.

Buffy staggered into her apartment two and a half Heinekens later, with Willow leading her to the sofa.

"You can split," Buffy assured her. "Designated driver duties do not include holding my hair back as I vomit."

Willow's eyes widened. "You're not going to get all pukey, are you?"

Buffy waved her off weakly. "Course not, I've got a stomach of steel." Suddenly, a look of dread passed over her face, and she rushed to the bathroom. Willow heard unpleasant sounds from behind the door.

"Stomach of steel, huh?" she asked when a paler and clammier Buffy emerged. "Yeah, so I'll be camping out on the couch tonight."

"I'll be fine now, the post-spew contented tiredness is upon me."

"Yes, but, um, Buffy..." Willow began hesitantly. "We've been friends for how long?"

"Since high school."

"So, like, six, seven years, then, right?"

"Yeah... what's your point?" Buffy flopped on the floor near the sofa.

Willow patted her friend on the top of her head. "I've known you long enough to know damn well what happens between the contented tiredness and the actual sleeping."

Like clockwork, ten minutes later, Buffy was deeply entrenched in the pre-sleeping uncontrollable sobbing, choking out Spike's name bitterly and vowing to painfully remove all the same parts of his body she'd so enjoyed during their night together. Willow merely listened sympathetically and offered nods and "heck yeah!"s at the right moments, even managing an "And what kind of a name is 'Spike' anyway?!" at one lull in Buffy's rantings.

Finally, the little blonde had worn herself out, her sobs diminishing to silent tears and finally to depressed calm. This was Willow's cue to lead her to her bed and cover her up.

"We'll get coffee in the morning, sweetie," she told her.

"And cinnamon rolls?" Buffy mumbled into the pillow, making the words sound like "mini man moles."

Confused, Willow just indulged her. "Whatever you want, you got it." She returned to the couch, stretched out, and tried to drift off.

The girl on the other side of the peep hole looked pissed off. Spike shut his eyes, trying to will her to go away, but he opened them back up at the sound of his doorbell being pressed again. "I know you're in there!" she said through the door.

Fine, he decided. I will deal with her, and then she will be gone.

He flung the door wide. The girl's arms were crossed, and she was in full "impatient bitch" stance.

Spike flashed her a huge, phony grin, threw his arms open as if for a hug. "Harmony! God, you're looking like a big beautiful vision from --"

She shoved him away from the entryway and forced herself inside his apartment. "Can it, babe," she said coldly. "No sweet talk, no looking at me with those... those..."

"Eyes?" he offered lamely.

"Yes! Eyes! Now, stop. I just want some answers."

"Uh... always helpful to know the questions, pet."

Harmony rolled her eyes. "There's always just one question on my mind, Spikey. Where the hell have you been?! Why haven't you returned my calls?! Why are you avoiding me?!"

"By my count, that's three questions," he replied.

Harmony gave a little screech of frustration. "Just answer me!"

He sighed. "Look, Harm, last time we talked, I thought I made it clear -- I don't think we should see each other anymore. We're broken up." He tried to make it sound gentle, but he was getting more and more frustrated with her inability to accept things.

"Yeah, I got it, and believe me, I don't want any part of you," Harmony informed him. "I guess I just took it to heart when you said you wanted to stay friends. Not to mention that you never gave me a good enough reason for ending it!"

Did there always have to be a reason? he wondered, but knew he couldn't just spit that question back at her.

"It's not you, luv," he finally said, "it's me."

Her face fell, but after a little more similarly vague assurances, she finally left, and upon her departure, Spike's entire body crumpled under the weight of both relief and guilt.

Not me, really, he thought. More like two different girls who are decidedly non-Harmony-like... neither of which willleave me in peace.

Buffy was huddled down, sitting in the bathtub as the shower ran searing hot water over her. Everything ached, and a queasy sick feeling permeated through her entire body. Most of all, though, the intoxication and subsequent hangover had done nothing to numb the hurt she still felt. She collapsed further, laying her forehead on her little kneecaps, and tried hard to reason with her foggy head, tell herself that she was lucky to never have had a one night stand go badly before, that it was a rite of passage. Give it up too quick, and they don't call, end of story.

But the thought still nagged at the back of her mind that Spike hadn't seemed like that sort of guy. Sure, he was a bit cocky and seemed to like to work his bad boy image, but when he'd looked deep into her eyes that night... that was not the gaze of a man who never wanted to see a woman again. That was not the behavior of a hound, proud he'd just bagged himself another conquest. That was the look of a lover beholding the object of his true desire, someone he wouldn't want to discard so easily.

That was not how somebody should act if they weren't going to call again.
When the water began to turn cooler, Buffy finally got out, wrapped herself in her robe, made her way as quickly as she could back to her room, and fell back into bed.

He would be seeing her in twenty-four hours, Spike realized. They shared a class, and he would have to...

What, exactly?

Not look her in the eye? Not take her hand during the break and lead her quietly to a shadowy side of the building, where he could push her up against the bricks and cover her mouth with his when she began to moan?

He ran his hand through his damp hair, sending it askew into messy little curls. The picture that still sat on his desk seemed to smirk at him.

"This is all your fault, you know," he accused it aloud, as though the owner of the face it displayed could actually hear him. Of course she couldn't, she was halfway across the world, living it up with some asshole...

Some OTHER asshole, he thought ruefully. For what I did to Buffy, I might as well give myself that label as well.

With a short cry of anger, he swept the photograph off the desk, the frame splintering, the glass breaking all over the hardwood floor. He looked at the mess for a moment, carefully avoiding stepping on the shards with his bare feet, but didn't move to clean it up, just collapsed heavily into his armchair.

Twenty-four hours, he thought again. He looked at the phone for the millionth time that morning, picked it up. The dialtone buzzed in his ear. He listened to it a moment, almost hypnotized by it, then slowly set the handset down again.

Words, not talking, just words, he thought. That's what I'm good at.

He got up and turned on his laptop.

Willow had finally managed to drag a damp and robe-clad Buffy from her bed, and, with a pout, Buffy agreed to breakfast with her friend. While Willow returned to the living room to wait for her, she pulled on a pair of black pants and an oversized black turtleneck, twisted her hair into a messy bun, and swiped pale gloss over her lips. Vaguely satisfied by her reflection in the mirror, though it was pale and sad-eyed, she tugged a pair of high-heeled ankle boots on as she made her way to the living room, where Willow had fired up the computer. "I hope you don't mind," Willow said, half-turning to Buffy, "I just wanted to check my email."

"That's fine," Buffy said.

"I think you have some, too," Willow remarked, "your little inbox thingy is blinking."

When Willow had finished, Buffy leaned over the desk and clicked on her email icon, fully expecting to see either some innocuous message from her sister, a spam advert, or her daily horoscope.

The "from" field read "william.allan" with her university's domain name after the "at" symbol.
William Allan... that's Spike, Buffy thought off-handedly, gears not quite turning yet.

Oh, god, SPIKE! she finally realized. Her eyes grew huge, and her heartbeat suddenly began pounding loud and fast. She opened the message and scanned it.

"Willow," Buffy said quietly, "go on to breakfast without me. I have to meet someone."

He sat on the stoop in front of the building, a small pile of cigarette butts forming on the concrete next to him, his coat open despite the chill in the air. He didn't feel the cold. His palms were sweaty, in fact, and he tugged occasionally at the neckline of his shirt, as if that helped give him more air.

Then there she was, a tiny figure walking tentatively across the quad. He glanced at his watch. She was only two minutes late, and he'd been a half an hour early.

Buffy saw Spike stand as she approached. A blooming flush of rosy pink graced the hollows under his sharp cheekbones, and Buffy wondered if he were blushing or merely cold. "Hi," she said.

He nodded at her with a close-mouthed smile. "Thanks for coming," he responded, mentally kicking himself for not saying "meeting me" instead. Damn dirty mind, he thought, I'm sure she's not thinking anything of that.

And she wasn't, she was thinking instead how good he looked, and once she got closer to him, how good he smelled, too, all leather and tobacco and musky cologne. "Sure, I..." She trailed off and shrugged, gave a little laugh.

They walked inside, turned the corner to the cafeteria, where Spike bought them both coffees. They sat down at a booth, the place fairly empty, Buffy dumping three sugars into her cup, Spike sipping his coffee without accoutrement. She wasn't looking at him, which was good, because he didn't think he could start if she was looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

"You mentioned that in your note."

"I don't want you to think I don't like you," he continued.

Now she looked up, but away, as if the bakery racks of stale muffins were suddenly fascinating. "But you like me as a friend, is that it?" she asked.

A friend... Spike's mind ran through the tiny list of people he thought of as actual friends, and in the entire spectrum of the precious few there were, none of them were people he wanted to kiss for days on end, which was exactly what he wanted to do with Buffy.

He smiled at her, and reached across the table for her hand. At first, she just let his lay on top of hers, then, when she finally looked at his face, she turned her palm over and let his fingers entwine with hers.

"No, I don't like you as a friend," he said. "I like you as a lot more than that."

"So then why --"

He laughed, bitter and sad, the first words coming into his mind seeming all too ironic in their truth. "It's not you, it's me," he found himself saying, but this time it didn't mean the same thing it had when he'd used it to give Harmony the brush-off. "And I want to keep seeing you, and not just across the table in class."

She still wasn't convinced, though. "There's still a 'but' in there somewhere," she said, trying to sound casually amusing.

He sighed. "Yeah, there probably is," he admitted. "But c'mon, blondie, give a poor fucked up boy a chance, will you? I promise I'll mess up again and be maddeningly unavailable sometimes, but I hereby give you permission to punch me soundly in the stomach the next time it happens." Now his smile grew wider, and he felt much more at ease after admitting the nature of his flaws, if not their origin.

She grinned back, his admission refreshingly candid, and, after all, his eyes were so blue... all her worries were floating illogically away, and for the first time in several agonizing days, her naughty flirtatious side resurfaced. "Spike, the next time I touch you, it won't be to punch you."

Under the table, she lifted a foot and grazed the back of his thigh with it.

His expression turned boyishly shy, his head tilted slightly to one side, and he beamed at her.

"Promise?" he murmured.

She nodded, the toe of her boot circling around slowly, teasingly moving to the inside of his leg, stroking between his kneecap and not quite reaching his crotch. Abruptly, she brought her foot back down to the floor.

"What're you doing after class?" he asked, suddenly breathless.

She stood up, walked to his side of the table, and leaned down, mouth almost on his earlobe.

"You, I hope," she whispered.

She walked out of the cafeteria alone, her head high, happy flashes of warmth spreading from her stomach. She was grinning, giddy, and didn't care who gave her funny looks as she went upstairs to her office.

Down in the cafeteria, Spike shook his head, his bottom lip caught gently between his teeth. If Buffy was so forgiving that the only revenge she needed to dispense was making him unable to get up from the table for a few minutes... well, he thought, that was just... neat.

He heaved out a deep breath and looked again at his watch, no longer counting the hours 'til class, but counting the hours 'til class would be over.

She was alone, the room lit only by the fading twilight streaming through the windows. She was still jet-lagged, though, so her internal clock was registering it to be the middle of the night already, and she was tired. This wouldn't do. She needed energy, and lots of it.

She walked over to the hotel phone and ordered a carafe of coffee from room service. She had about four hours to kill before it would be time. She flipped on the clock radio by the bed, twirled the dial around 'til she heard music, not much caring what it was, just wanting the noise, and went into the bathroom. The lyrics of the song started to nudge at her subconscious.

Prepare a list for what you need...

She picked up her hairbrush from the counter and swept it through her long, chocolate brown hair in slow, deliberate strokes.

... before you sign away the deed...

The lipstick she chose was dark crimson, the color of blood. She smoothed it across her lips, the upper one ribbon-thin, the lower slightly fuller. She knew her smile was like bewitching black magic to any man she flashed it to.

... 'cause it's not going to stop...

The strains of the song grew more plaintive. A bottle of Chanel No. 5 was opened, amber drops were liberally applied to each and every one of her pulse points.

... it's not going to stop...

Charcoal liner and shadow were then expertly smudged across her eyelids, making her look even more feline than she naturally did. She stood back a little from the mirror, unabashedly proud of the total effect, tugging here and there at the burgundy dress that clung to her lithe body, the long black wisp of a scarf trailing from her throat. This was the dress that he'd always said was his favorite. This was the dress he would see her in tonight. There was a knock at the door, and she went to sign for the coffee.

... it's not going to stop...

The waiter gone, she smiled to herself, holding the warm styrofoam cup with a small hand that had impossibly long, sharp nails lacquered mirror-black. As she walked to the window of the room with a view out over the city, her smile turned slowly into a look of sharp determination.

Won't you be surprised, my little Spike? she thought. Oh, my, we're about to have ever so much fun.

... so just give up...

"Who can tell me, then, the significance of Henry James's critical assessment of Poe's The Raven?" Dr. Calendar asked.

Xander cleared his throat and spoke up. "I think he was inspired by the poem. I think he thought it was clever how Poe used this traditional theme of the death of a beautiful young girl, but old Edgar makes it happen before the poem's narrative even begins. That's, like, totally cool."

Dr. Calendar smiled indulgently. "Yes, that's one way to look at it," she responded.

Spike looked over at Xander, who was looking smugly pleased, believing Dr. Calendar really agreed with him. Stupid git, he thought. How'd he even get into this program with simplistic observations like that? He'd had classes with the slightly clueless younger man for three quarters now, and for some reason, the guy always rubbed him the wrong way, especially what with the happy-go-lucky grin always plastered across his face. Spike had even had to peer review one of his essays once, and the thing was maddeningly riddled with grammatical errors.

"As erudite as Mr. Harris's thoughts are," Spike said sarcastically, "I think we're missing James's inherent tendency to damn with faint praise."

Dr. Calendar's pretty dark eyes looked happily surprised. "Really, William?" she asked. "Go on."

Spike took a quick glance across the large conference table at Buffy, who was smiling broadly at him, looking proud of him. He gave her a barely perceptible wink before continuing.

"I realize we're supposed to be focusing on Poe himself here, but Henry James had the delightful tendency to want to poke some serious fun at authors being obsessed with writing about subjects he found to be overused, and his fellow American writers who fell into this trap were his favorite targets."

A small voice cut in. "Do you think his trouble with American artistic tropes was why James became a British citizen?" It was Buffy, and she was pointedly not looking at Spike as she went on. "He felt the English were inherently more civilized and imaginative in cultural matters. Superior."

That was when she finally threw him a glance, indicating that she herself was quite the little Anglophile, at least where one particular Englishman was concerned.

Xander sighed. "Whatever. Give me a good American writer over some limey dude any day. I'd rather read Poe than anything British, that's for sure."

Spike laughed heartily. "Ever hear of a little bloke called Shakespeare, mate? He was one of us 'limeys,' you know," he said to Xander. "Seems to me you were quite fond of him in Giles's class."

"Well, Shakespeare, sure," Xander allowed. "But, I mean, why would James have wanted to renounce his citizenship? And he can't have not liked the subject of The Raven if he himself wound up citing it as the inspiration for Wings of the Dove!"

Tara, a normally soft-spoken classmate, piped up. "Are you referring to how he describes the germ of the idea for that novel in his preface to the New York edition?" she asked Xander.

"Yeah, he said it was like one of the noblest subjects to write on, the tragic beauty of the girl dying young."

Tara's smile was almost pitying. "He was kidding, Xander," she said gently. "The dying girl isn't even the primary protagonist of that book." She looked over at Spike. "William's right, James was always --"

"Yanking the reader's chain," Spike finished for her.

The whole class laughed. Xander, clearly miffed at having his "chain yanked," shot Spike a dirty look.

Buffy, by contrast, looked postively giddy on Spike's behalf, and when he noticed her look, he couldn't help but drop his bravado a notch as he blushed and looked down at his notebook.

"I think this is a good place to take a break," Dr. Calendar announced, herself anxious at the thought that Dr. Giles might be outside smoking his pipe right about now. "Let's take twenty minutes."

Her ten students all rustled about with jackets and bags, leaving their books scattered across the table. Xander fell into step next to Tara, and the two continued discussing Henry James's sense of humor or lack thereof. Spike hung back from the rest of the group just outside the classroom door, trying not to look as though he were specifically waiting for Buffy by taking great care in re-tying the lace of his right boot.

Finally, she emerged. She'd deliberately dawdled inside so as to ensure a moment alone with him.

"I know I should still be irritated with you," she whispered to him as he punched the elevator button, "but a man who not only apologizes but is all Mr. Big Impressive Brain?" She grinned. "I could never stay mad at a man like that." He smiled back at her, and they walked into the elevator together.

Spike started for the panel to push the button for the first floor, but Buffy gently swatted his hand away and hit "3" instead. He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Trying to prevent me from having a fag down on the patio, are you?" he asked.

"We've got twenty minutes," she informed him instructively, as if he were a puppy she were training. "Just give me half of that."

The doors opened, and she took his hand, pulling him quickly down the hall to her tiny office, a bulletin board next to the door adorned with a small laser-printed sign reading "Elizabeth A. Summers, English Department, Teaching Assistant," with her office hours listed beneath. She fumbled with her keys, pushed the correct one into the lock, and practically shoved him inside the dark room.

"Oo, Ms. Summers," Spike said with mock fear in his voice. "Did I get a bad grade on my essay? Am I in trouble?"

"Yeah," Buffy replied. "But you could try to earn extra credit."

They didn't have much time, and despite her sudden brazen actions, she felt more than a little guilt at doing something so incredibly inappropriate as even imagining making out in her office. But with their window of opportunity for this liaison so brief, she wasted no time in pushing Spike into her desk chair, straddling him, and kissing him fiercely.

The lights were still off, and the only light entering the windowless room came from the hallway as it filtered from beneath the door. They were two shadows, moving together, joined at their hungry mouths, the only noise their breathing as it grew heavier. Buffy felt him harden beneath her, and this excited her, made her want to devour him. She thrust her tongue into his mouth brutally, sucked his lower lip hard, loving the taste of him.

His hands roamed over her back, shoving under her jacket and sweater to her back, pulling her closer to him. Her hips ground against him, and she began to ride his insistent cock, the friction against him amazingly pleasant even through their layers of clothing. She lowered her mouth to his neck, a loose tendril of her silky hair brushing against his lips, tickling him, and he couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. Her tongue traced the line of a tendon, moving up to his ear. She sucked tenderly on his earlobe, careful not to pull at the small silver stud punched through the flesh, then softly blew near the inside of his ear.

His entire body seemed to grew tense, and he ground against her more insistently. "Oh, you like that, do you?" she whispered. His forearms clasped her tighter in response, and now it was his turn to kiss her, probe her, make love to her mouth with his.

She pulled him onto the floor, carefully, so no one's head was knocked against the surface of the desk, and they lay entwined side by side, her left leg swung over his right hip, lips still melting together. One of Spike's hands cupped Buffy's face, the other clutched her around the waist. All too frustratingly soon, she pulled away from him and stood up, straightening her clothes. He let out a sad little groan.

"Put a bookmark in it," she told him.

"To be continued, then?" he asked, rising to his feet and resisting the urge to kiss her again.

"Oh, my, yes," she assured him. "Now, shoo." She opened the door, carefully concealing herself behind it, and he tried to walk casually down the hall, buttoning his duster to conceal the bulge that was visible at the front of his jeans.

He ducked momentarily into the men's room, ran a hand through his hair, then took the stairs two at a time down to the first floor porch, pausing just before exiting the building to will his breathing to slow down.

Even if they weren't smokers, most students who had three-hour evening seminar classes tended to congregate outside during break, so Spike wasn't surprised to see Xander and Tara still locked in their debate out here. He pulled a now-crumpled packet of Marlboros from his pocket, put one between his kiss-swollen lips, and lit it.

"Bloody hell, Harris, give it up," he said after listening to the two go on for a moment, Tara's case still infinitely more strong than Xander's. "Your side has been bested by a quiet little girl and a poncy Brit. Must make you question your manhood, eh?"

Xander rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Spike. Why do you have to be so cynical, anyway? Why can't James have just honestly admired Poe's work?"

As Spike began to rattle off the reasons why this was ludicrous, Drs. Jenny Calendar and Rupert Giles glanced over at the students proudly. "Wow, I don't think I ever wanted to keep discussing class stuff on break when I was a student," Jenny said to Giles.

Giles smiled at her. "Yes, ah, well, I probably did, but then, I was thought to be rather, er, boring at their age."

Jenny looked up at him, telling herself not to appear too eager. "You? Boring? Never," she said. "If I'd known you then..." She trailed off when she saw Buffy come outside to join the group, moving to greet Jonathan and Andrew and join in their discussion, not even glancing at Tara, Xander, or Spike.

"If I'd known you then," Jenny started over quietly, so that only Giles could hear, "I'd have probably been as smitten with you as Elizabeth is with William."

Giles laughed, his eyes opening wide. "Buffy and Spike?!" he asked in an incredulous whisper. "That's complete night and day, Jenny! They're not even talking! Why on earth would you think there's anything..."

Jenny cocked her head at the students just as Spike stole a quick glance in Buffy's direction, and, almost as if she could sense that he'd looked at her, she met his eyes with her own. It was so brief one could've blinked and missed it, but to Jenny, these significant little looks, which she'd glanced for weeks now, were all the proof she needed. She turned back to Giles.

"They'll be having sex within an hour of class letting out tonight," she predicted. "And they probably have already."

"Dr. Calendar!" Giles said with a little shock. "My goodness!" She grinned at him, then he realized what she'd said before. "You say you'd have, ah, been as taken with me...?" He looked back at her with surprise and more than a little hope. "I had no idea that --"

Jenny shrugged, then offered him a sly smirk. "I said I would have, if I'd known you then," she said, but as she drifted back inside the building, she patted his shoulder, letting her hand linger on the surface of his tweed jacket just long enough to be a little more than casually friendly.

After she and her students had all made their way back inside, Giles squared his shoulders and straightened his tie. "Oh, my," he said aloud. He emptied his pipe and walked inside with a little spring in his step.

Class let out a few minutes early that night, which was odd, because usually Dr. Calendar liked to make use of every available nanosecond. Spike didn't question this unusual bit of charity, though. He caught up to Buffy in the parking lot. "My place this time?" he asked softly. "I think I remember where that story we were writing left off." He gave her arm a little squeeze. "I'm closer to campus than you are. Hell, I'll even drive and bring you back to your car later."

"Boy, somebody's eager!" she said with a giggle. Buffy glanced around a bit nervously, making sure no one would see them get into the same car together. Satisfied that they wouldn't be spotted, she nodded. "Yes, I'll come with you."

It was time, and the brunette exited her rental car, searching among her keys for the one she hadn't used in four years. She hoped he hadn't changed the locks -- or, worse still, moved -- in her absence.

But he hadn't. The key slid in and turned easily, and when she opened the door, the furniture, though it had been rearranged a little here and there, was unmistakeably his. She sat down languidly on the sofa for a moment, then thought better of it, and wandered into the bedroom. This would be where he'd find her, strewn out and awaiting him.

He never could fail to forgive her, no matter what her misdeeds, if she greeted him in bed.

Spike pulled out of the parking lot and turned down the winding road that led away from campus. The drive was not a long one, he only lived about fifteen minutes from campus, but it began to feel like it was taking an hour, the more he eagerly anticipated what might happen that night.

He peeked over at Buffy, who was fiddling with the radio 'til she'd set it on the slow, sultry strains of a mournful saxophone solo. "Didn't know you liked jazz," he remarked.

She smiled at him. "Lots of things you don't know," she said.

"Yet," he added. "Lots of things I want to take the time to know."

"Plenty of time for talk later," Buffy whispered. She began to unbuckle her seat belt and slid closer to him.

"Now, that's pretty dangerous, little one," Spike said as she nuzzled his neck. He cleared his throat and tried not to let his eyes close at the pleasant flicker of her tongue against his skin. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. "The, ah, the road here... it's a bit tricky... in the dark, and all..." he tried to point out meekly. Buffy ignored his protestations and proceeded to run her hand down the front of his shirt, down, down, down, slowly... slowly...

Spike squirmed and finally let out a small cry of surprise as her hand found its destination. "Hey, now, c'mon there..." he laughed. He tried to gently swat her hand away. "We're almost there. Just be patient, luv."

"That's another thing to learn about me," she replied. "I'm not terribly patient."

There was the faint but distinct sound of a zipper, and after a few moments, only the driver of the black DeSoto could be seen. His passenger's head was out of sight of the windows, her mouth quite occupied.

Spike groaned as Buffy held him, tenderly, in her mouth, her tongue gliding along the head of his penis, her hand making languid motions at its base. Usually about this time, whenever Spike found himself lucky enough to have a mouth wrapped around his cock, he would instinctively strech out, but if he did that now, he risked hitting the accelerator and sending them into a retaining wall in a wad of twisted metal. But, god, it felt good, and the grunting male animal side of his brain beat his responsible voice of reason into a bloody little pulp, only enough strength of rationale left to him to think monosyllabic orders to keep them safe: Drive. Safe. Eyes. Open. Must. Stay. Good. Oh, god, yes, very, very good...

All the while this little dialogue went on in his head, Buffy was becoming more passionate in her activities, and immensely enjoying the way he swelled and throbbed harder inside her mouth. She took him in as deep as she could, which was no mean feat given his size, and she kept moving her accompanying hand faster.

Then the car stopped. Red light. Spike sighed with relief at the brief reprieve from having to concentrate so hard on the road, throwing the gearshift lever into park even if only for a moment, so he could at last push his legs out of their cramped position. Buffy's head rose as her mouth left his member with a final caressing lick, but her hand continued working. She took the opportunity of the traffic light to move her mouth to his earlobe, but he turned and instead kissed her, hard and deep and full, taking her face in his hands, only letting go when her working of him began to make him feel he was close...

"Oh, sweets, please," he murmured. "Stop... I'm going to..."

He put his hand down on top of hers and slowed her rhythm so she wouldn't just pull away abruptly. She put her free hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. "Shh," she whispered. "I'm sorry, baby, I couldn't resist you."

Spike managed to calm down as the light finally turned green, and he put the car back in gear. Buffy gently tucked his still-hard cock back into his jeans and carefully zipped the fly.

As he drove, finally getting closer to the apartment complex, he looked over at her, resettling herself on her side of the car and buckling her seat belt. "That was very mean," he said, but his tone was hardly that of a true reprimand.

She looked up, and he was gifted with the grin of a Cheshire cat spread wide across her face. He couldn't help but smile back, then turned his eyes back to the road. "Very mean indeed." He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

"I'm sorry, I'll be good," Buffy said. "I think you've been punished quite enough now."

Spike exhaled heavily. "I'll say, luv. Leave me frustrated three times today..."

"Well, we'll see if we can't relieve some of that," she said as they pulled, at last, into his parking lot.

He noticed the silver Honda, but didn't think much of it except that one of his neighbors must have a visitor. The thought was in and out of Spike's head in a split second, intent as he was on getting Buffy inside the apartment as quickly as possible. As he exited the driver's side door, he'd meant to meet her on her side, but she'd already gotten out and was reaching for his arm. He pulled her close to him as they walked together to the front door and entered.

He immediately knew something was wrong when he saw the flickering lights streaming from the hallway.

"What the hell?" Spike muttered. He released Buffy, shut the front door, and started for the hall, then turned back to her. She was completely confused, and his face showed fear and worry. "Just sit down, there," he told her, all playfulness gone from his voice, replaced with firmness. "I'll be back."

"What's the matter?" she asked him.

"I hope nothing," he replied, "but I know when I left I didn't leave any lights on, and I certainly didn't leave any candles burning..."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, god, do you think --"

"Just sit down!" he repeated, his voice low and somewhat angry as he pointed to the couch. Buffy dropped immediately to its surface at his command. He left the room.

Buffy felt blood pounding throughout her whole body, her ears alert to any sound of alarm that might come, and she pulled her cell phone out of her purse, ready to dial 911 at any second.

She heard no shout, no cry, no crash or breaking glass, though, just Spike's quick footfalls as he reached what she presumed was his bedroom. Then, muffled through the walls, but loud enough for her to make out the words, she heard him.

"For fuck's sake!"

Buffy rose immediately, started to go to him, then stopped at the next sound.

Laughter.

No, not laughter so much as a cackle.

A very feminine cackle.

And then, as Buffy did begin to move closer to the room, she caught the sound of bedsprings... being sat upon or risen from.

"Ah, did I surprise you, my dear little Spike?" a woman's voice asked. Syrupy sweet with a Cockney accent.

"Stop it, Dru," Spike was saying. "I have a --"

"Guest!" the woman said, almost perversely delighted as she spied Buffy in the doorway. "Oh, yes, darling, you've done quite well for yourself, haven't you?" She laughed again, moving away from Spike for a moment to get a better look at his little friend.

Buffy shot Spike a look of utter, complete rage, but he didn't notice. He was too focused on trying to pull the brunette away from Buffy.

"Drusilla!" he yelled, tugging hard on her arm.

Drusilla made a small mewing sound. "Careful, William," she pouted at him.

Buffy could no longer contain her fury. "So this is why you were such a prick to me!" she said, moving closer to Spike. "You've got a girlfriend! I was just your little piece on the side, huh?!"

"Buffy, no!" Spike started, but she turned around and ran outside, slamming the door hard.

"Buffy!" he called after her. He looked at Dru. "I could kill you, you know?!" he said, then followed Buffy.

Drusilla smiled. "Oo, bad boy," she said to herself. "Naughty naughty, shouldn't want to kill your wife."

"Knock knock," Jenny said playfully, poking her head into Giles's office and rapping lightly on the half-open door.

Giles looked up to see the pretty brunette smiling at him. "Dr. Calendar!" he said. "What a nice surprise."

She stepped further into the room. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but, heavens, Rupert, do you know how late it is?"

Giles's attention darted over to the clock mounted on the wall, which read 10:30. "Dear me, no, I hadn't the foggiest."

"Well, I hereby decree that all work should cease and desist."

Giles chuckled. "Is that so?"

Jenny nodded. "I can see your future, and it involves you and me and a bottle of merlot," she informed him.

Giles stood up, but bashfully looked down at the floor. "Oh, Jenny, that's very sweet of you --"

"Good," she interrupted him. "Let me be sweet, then, and join me."

"Ah, as you pointed out, it is awfully late already, and I have an early class --"

"Which is why I'm just taking you to the bar across the street."

Giles's expression was a bit nervous, though Jenny could tell he was interested. Interested, but insufferably proper. Good grief, she thought, if my students are getting more action than I am, I'm going to start feeling pretty pitiful. Without another word, she plucked Giles's coat off the back of his door and tossed it to him.

He put up no further struggle, just smiled bemusedly at her as he followed her out.

Buffy hadn't bothered to retrieve her purse when she flew out the front door of Spike's apartment, but when she slammed the front door shut, she realized she didn't have it, just her cell phone still clutched in her hand. After a moment of standing dumbly in the parking lot, it hit her that she was stranded here, her car still snugly sitting in the lot behind Martin Hall.

"Damn it," she whispered. She allowed herself to feel anger and frustration, because if she kept thinking about the woman in Spike's bedroom too much, all draped in his sheets and oozing creepiness, she'd start to cry, and she didn't want to --

"Damn it!" she said a little louder as she felt the first tear roll down her cheek.

She started moving when she heard Spike's door open, started moving faster when he called out to her, heard him running behind her when she broke into a little jog, trying at the same time to punch Willow's number into her phone.

Spike was screaming Buffy's name now, oblivious to the lateness of the hour as he raced to catch up to her, his lungs burning, taking the largest strides his lean-muscled legs would allow.

Buffy was now sprinting, and had managed to hit the sixth digit of Willow's phone number when the cell suddenly flew out of her hand. Earth and sky were all mixed up and in the wrong places, and then she saw stars as she realized she'd been tackled and wrestled to the grass of a lawn area flanking the parking lot. Strong arms pinned hers to the ground. She was dazed for a moment, shocked, but not immobilized. She struggled gamely, but wasn't intent on getting away as she saw the determined look in Spike's eyes as he loomed above her.

Geez, if he's that bent on not letting me leave, his explanation might be interesting, she thought bitterly.

"Buffy." He was no longer screaming -- his tone now soft, in fact -- and she stopped struggling at last.

Even with all the loathing she felt at the entire situation, Buffy cursed herself for feeling a rush of arousal at having Spike straddling her. She felt his grip loosen on her hands, and, without thinking, took that as the opportunity to pull him down to her, kissing him... but it was harsh, angry, and violent, and she spun him down on his back, only to pull from the kiss and slap him hard across the face.

Buffy sprang off him, and Spike's teeth rattled from the blow. He put a tentative hand on his jawline to make sure everything was where it should be, then saw her standing, silent and fuming, over him.

She didn't ask what was going on. She didn't say anything. Her face asked, accused, screamed, and cried, all on its own. Spike started to get up, reached for her when he was standing, and she flinched away from his hand. Her mouth was drawn into a tight little white line, and her breathing was audibly rapid.

"Obviously, I am going to explain," he said.

"She's still in there, might want to explain me to her first. Or is your girlfriend used to you running around on her, huh?"

He shut his eyes, looked pained. "She's not my girlfriend. I --"

"What, your actual girlfriend has the night off, and the girl in there is just a back-up plan like me, but you got our night's mixed up or something?!" Buffy's voice was getting louder, and Spike tried again to put a hand out to her. Instead of just flinching, though, this time Buffy caught his arm and roughly flung it away.

He'd had enough of her not letting him get a word in. Avoiding whatever blows she might administer, he abruptly grasped her by the shoulders, intense gaze piercing through her.

"She is not my girlfriend," he repeated firmly, and when she started to open her mouth again, he moved an inch closer to her and narrowed his eyes, which was enough to cause her to stay quiet. "If anyone is my girlfriend, it's you, goddamn it!"

Her fury began to diminish from a raging boil to a moderate simmer, and she could no longer look Spike directly in the eye. He let go of her shoulders and backed up a little.

"So who is she?" Buffy asked, quieter now, but her voice still low and with an edge to it.

He turned away from her, looking back towards his front door. "I haven't been hers for literally years, that's who she is."

His posture fell a little, and Spike now appeared to Buffy like a very sad, very lost young man, all fight gone out of him. She took a step forward, took a deep breath, and tried to steady herself. "So, she's, like, what, your delusional ex who's stalking you?" She gave a tiny laugh, which stopped as Spike turned and looked at her again.

"Or something very much like that, yeah," he replied.

Spike's apartment door swung open, and they both looked up and across the lot. Drusilla stood in the doorway briefly, a dark silhouette against the light glowing behind her. Her features weren't visible, but it was obvious she was staring at them. Then, pulling the door shut behind her, she walked to the silver Honda and began to get in, then stopped and looked back at Spike.

"We still must meet about a certain tiny little matter, my darling," she called. She blew him a kiss and drove away.

Buffy still felt like she didn't know what was really going on, didn't know whether to trust the person standing next to her, didn't know what to think or what to say, but felt she had to say something to comfort him, to chastise him, to get him to open up. A myriad of brilliantly sensitive phrases came to mind, and after what was beginning to become a truly uncomfortable silence, she finally spoke.

"I think I dropped my phone."