The slight brush of the paint against canvas was the only sound in the room as the artist made a few finishing touches on his most recent image. Shadowy tones accentuated by oddly fitting flashes of bright color were viewed by a bright blue eye, similarly contrasting darkness and light found within its depths and reflecting the mood of the painting.

“I take it you are content?” The sound of Rupert Giles’ refined voice interrupted the reverie of the artist, who turned his head to face his unexpected visitor.

“Very much so,” the young man said to his uncle. “And you?”

“My opinion isn’t exactly important, now, is it?” With a casual wave of his hand, the British man quirked his eyebrow at the fancily furnished quarters of his nephew. “I dare say I feel a bit out of place in such a posh home, William.”

“Don’t be a git, Rupes,” the young man said, rising from the stiff bench and moving to the couch to appraise his painting from a further distance. “Of course your opinion matters—you were the one to teach me to paint! Stop acting politely discomfited and sit down.” Pulling a cigarette from the pack resting on a small table, he wryly lit it and took in a deep drag of smoke. “And for the last time, Uncle, it’s not William—it’s Spike. Got to keep up the image and all.”

“Well… all right, then,” the older man said, setting himself down on the edge of a large armchair and setting his briefcase on his lap. “As it is, however, I regret to say that this visit is purely business.”

Spike blew a few rings of smoke into the air and looked back towards his uncle with an expectant expression on his face. “Well…?”

The older man looked as if struggling internally for a moment, but then began to speak. “Well, Will—Spike, it seems as if you have an offer from a particularly rich art collector based in Los Angeles.”

“California?” The young man’s ears quirked with interest, but his uncle was still nervously cleaning his glasses. After a moment, Spike finally became fed up and asked, “What’s the catch?”

“Well, not so much a catch, but…” Taking a deep breath, Giles finally met his nephew’s eye and blurted it out. “It seems as if this Liam Angelus has a particular… preference for his art. He has a fondness for… nude paintings.”

The cigarette hung stiffly from the upper lip of the suddenly open mouth of the young artist. “Nude?” As much as he tried to swagger and boast, his charms having proven quite effective in gaining popularity of his work, the true person within the artist was not the highly-confident Spike, but the bumbling, unconfident William—educated, intelligent, and not at all well-versed in the matters of sexual personification.

It was no doubt that the room suddenly began to feel unlike the vast quarter that it was, but a small, crowded closet entirely unsuitable for the conversation of uncle and nephew about such distasteful topics. After a minute or so of pointed throat clearing, Giles finally spoke once more. “I understand that the, erm, qualifications, aren’t exactly what you’re used to, but… Spike, you need to take into account the influence that this collector has on the American art community.”

“He’s that big, eh?”

“Without a doubt,” Giles replied, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handing them to his nephew. “If you refused, William… I don’t think he would be very pleased, to say the least.” At the inquisitive look from the younger man, Giles shook his head adamantly. “Let’s just say that Liam Angelus has a way of ruining the careers of those who don’t do what he wants. And what he wants is for you to do a collection of, erm, nude portraits, of the woman of his choice.”

Pensive, Spike leaned back once more, taking a few more drags of his cigarette and thinking about his uncle’s offer. Despite William’s protests, Spike was definitely game for the challenge. The fact that the poncy L.A. wanker was just so interested in nudity made the young man question just how secure the investor could be in his sexuality, but if his influence was as great as Giles said, there really was no choice that the young artist could made, was there? His success in England and Europe was widespread and resulted in a rather larger bank account than either of the two had ever had access to, but to have a chance at success in America…

“Alright, Rupes,” Spike said, giving his uncle a cocky smirk and producing a pen from the drawer in the table before signing the contract sloppily and handing the papers back. “I’ll do it.”

~*~

Buffy Summers frantically scribbled the last words of her essay on Van Gogh, the clock on the wall behind her ticking incessantly and reminding her of her neglect to finish the assignment the night before. “That’s what I get for going with Riley to the frat house,” she muttered, her pencil breaking just as the bell rang, a good paragraph left to be desired on the paper as she handed it to her teacher and walked out the door to catch up with the redhead standing outside.

“Wasn’t that a great lecture?” Willow asked brightly, waving her hands in the air to punctuate her excitement over the lesson. “I mean, art history is all so fascinating, but the post-impressionist era was particularly captivating.”

“I’m sure it would’ve been great if I hadn’t been staring at dark little scribbles for the past hour,” Buffy said wryly, rubbing her cramping hand as they made their way out of the building and across the lawn to their dorm room. “I swear, Wills, I’m never going to take a night off again—a lot of great it did for me.”

“You need to take a break sometimes, Buffy,” Willow said, concern etched into her features as she nudged her friend’s arm. “I mean, what with the working and school and… working, you deserve to have some fun in the midst.”

“Fun isn’t fun when you’re being dragged to it by a whining boyfriend,” the blonde said, smirking and rolling her eyes. “I mean, you’d think Mr. Do-Gooder would’ve been a bit understanding when I said I had a paper to finish!”

Willow roller her eyes as well, reaching out to open the door of their dorm room and following Buffy through. “D’you need me to cover for you tonight? Answer the phone and say that you’re not here if he calls?”

“Thanks, Wills, but it’s okay. I already told Riley that I’ve got to go look for a second job today. He thinks it’ll literally be a job hunt, and that I’ll be busy the entire night.” Spotting the bulletin board at the end of the hall, Buffy gave her friend a quick grin, despite the worried expression on the redhead’s face. “Wanna come with and check out the jobs, or do you have things to do?”

“Sorry, Buff, Tara said she’d meet me at the Espresso Pump after class.” She gave her friend an apologetic look and a chastising finger shake for her overworking habits before heading through the door of their dorm room, the blonde heading down the hall to see if there were any job offers.

Making her way through the crowd of students already present, Buffy finally found herself scanning the numerous fliers and advertisements for something, anything that she could fit into her schedule, that could give her that extra few hundred dollars a month that she needed for the inconvenience of feeding herself. After a number of out-of-the-question options, the blonde’s eyes fell upon a simple black-and-white paper pinned in the middle of the board, displaying a seemingly perfect option:

Portrait Subjects Wanted

Artist seeking female to paint in series of portraits
Pay: $300 per sitting, $1000 at end of sessions
Call for interview

Could she really make that much money simply for posing for an artist? Something inside her gut made her feel as if that wasn’t all there was to it, but the dollar signs on the page called to her, and there was something else… something that made her know that she had to do this.

There was a number at the bottom of the paper, and Buffy quickly added it to her cell phone, noticing at that moment that she had three missed calls from Riley. Shaking her head exasperatedly, she turned from the bulletin board and made her way down to her room, finding it empty when she entered. She took a few minutes to put her things down and change into her comfy clothes before flopping down on her bed and dialing the number of her boyfriend.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Riley, what’s up?”

“I thought you were working tonight.” The annoyance in the simple statement made Buffy roll her eyes, an action she couldn’t seem to control when speaking with her boyfriend.

Trying her best to keep the annoyance from her own voice, Buffy said, “Nah, I’m not working tonight, I’m gonna look for another job. Remember?”

“You already work so much; I hardly ever get to see you!”

“I’m sorry, Riley, but I need the money.” Impatience began to creep into her; it honestly felt like she was trying to pacify an impatient child. “Anyway, I was just calling you back, but I’ve really got to get going. So many jobs, so little time.”

They said their good-byes, neither exactly pleased with the conversation but knowing well-enough not to prolong the budding argument. It had been three months that Buffy had dated Riley, and although they had fallen for each other quickly, the heat of their relationship had cooled considerably as time had passed—at least to Buffy—and she found herself… smothered.

Willow had told her at least a hundred times to break up with him if she didn’t like how things were going, but the thought of having to deal with Riley’s reaction and his nearly-guaranteed proposals of “working through it” were just too much to handle right now—and with money as tight as it was, not to mention the pressure of classes, Buffy needed some kind of release.

The thought of her financial difficulties sent Buffy’s attention back to her phone, and the number that lay within it. Finding it quickly and pressing send, the blonde waited only two rings before it was answered.

“Hello, Rupert Giles speaking?” The man sounded older, British, and incredibly refined.

“Um, hi, this is Buffy Summers. I’m calling in response to your portrait… advertisement.” Unable to find the right word, Buffy suddenly found herself feeling strangely uneducated and unconsciously sat up straighter on her bed.

“Oh, erm, yes.” She could almost imagine a man dressed in tweed wearing glasses picking up a sheaf of papers. “Well, Miss Summers, the artist requesting portrait subjects is William Pratt, a rather famous—”

“Are you kidding me? His work is amazing!” Buffy nearly jumped out of her seat at the mention of the artist’s name. “Sorry for interrupting you, Mr. Giles, but I recently did a paper on one of his paintings in my modern art class and he amazed me!”

“You’re in school then, Miss Summers?”

“Oh, please, call me Buffy,” the blonde answered, smiling to herself at the kindness and amusement in the man’s voice at her enthusiasm. “And yes, I’m studying art at UCLA.”

For the next few minutes, the two chatted amiably, until Giles cleared his throat and suddenly became ill at ease. “Buffy, before you agree to an interview, I feel that you need to know something about the… nature, of these portraits.”

A strange feeling settled in Buffy’s stomach as she realized her earlier suspicions were indeed correct. “What do you mean, Giles?” she asked carefully.

It was clear that the older man was uncomfortable with what he was about to tell her. “First of all, I feel that I need to make this clear that what I am about to tell you in no way reflects the, erm, artistic preferences of myself or of William. They are, however, what the solicitor of these portraits wishes, and as he is paying us, we must follow them.” When Buffy was silent, the older man took a deep breath and finally said the words that he’d been dreading. “These particular portraits are to be done… nude.”

The empty refrigerator and picture of herself with her mother provided two conflicting influences in Buffy’s rather uneasy decision. The motivation of getting those few extra dollars each month for the inconvenient need of food was rather strong, but her mother’s gaze, along with the approval the image so aptly inspired, pulled the blonde’s heartstrings in just the right way to cause a real conflict.

When her mother had lost her struggle with cancer just after she’d graduated from high school, Buffy had no idea how she would manage. She didn’t even know what she wanted to do with her life, let alone how to accomplish the not-quite-present goals. In an impulsive decision, the teenager chose art as her major at UCLA—and she loved it.

Her choice had obviously been influenced by her mother, who had owned a gallery in Sunnydale, where they’d lived. Never before really taking into account what her mother had done to support the two, a grieving Buffy had taken out her mother’s spare canvases and tried her best to emulate the talent within her dearly-departed; if her hidden aptitude had not been exposed then, the blonde had no idea where her life would be at that moment.

She had tried her best to get along without anyone else’s support, without having to rely upon her no-good deadbeat father’s money; her entire motivation to be here was for her mother, and to receive assistance from he who had left the two of them alone would have been rather insulting to the cause. So Buffy worked nearly all of her spare time waitressing at the Bronze, one of L.A.’s more respectable clubs, refusing to do anything to lower herself or the memory of her mother.

Until this moment.

Buffy tried to think of the conversation she and Joyce would have had if she’d brought up her conundrum. Of course, if her mother had lived, she probably would not need to take the job, nor would probably be studying art. However, the painful thoughts still took form within her highly conflicted mind.

Buffy, you look thin. Have you been eating enough?

You know finals are coming up, Mom—it’s probably just stress.

But you look so thin, sweetie.

Well… I was thinking about getting another job.

You already work too much as it is!

But this one’s different—I’d sit for William Pratt, Mom, isn’t that great?

For him to paint you? Why Buffy, that’s incredible! You know how much I’ve admired his works, I’ve always said it was high time for him to bring his talent to America.

Yeah, it is… There’s just one problem. The guy paying for the portraits… He wants them to be of the skin-revealing variety… Entirely.

Oh… Well, what do you think, Buffy?

Huh? Doesn’t that bother you?

You know I have some nudity in the gallery—remember that unfortunate incident with the fertility statue? It’s art, dear, and there really should be no shame in the appreciation of the body.

But… but what if someone says something to you—

I’d tell them to talk to me when William Pratt’s painted their daughter!

“Okay, that went waaaay too well,” Buffy said out loud, the somewhat surprising conversation she’d just had with… herself, revealing a take on the problem that she’d never quite considered. Now that she thought about it, her mother did understand art—maybe someone else would have had qualms with the portraits, but she would have realized that there was nothing smutty about nudity in paintings. Of course, there was the other problem—the ever-present one that at this moment was calling her on her phone. Again. For the fourth time that night.

“Riley.”

“Buffy, I just wanted to call because I felt so bad how our last conversation ended… And I know you’re doing things right now, but when you’re done, do you think you’d want to come over to the frat house and watch a movie or something?” The movie request, so artfully worked into the whining apology… Knowing that any movie they put on would be ignored by one or more of them, Buffy gave a weary sigh, taking the time to enact her reply.

“Not in the movie mood, Riley, but if you’re not doing anything right now, do you think you could meet me at the coffee place by my dorm in twenty minutes?”

“Sure!” he eagerly replied, the twinge of disappointment in his voice disappearing as another thought formed in his head. “Hey, didn’t you say Willow’s out tonight—”

“Oh, sorry, can’t hear you, you’re breaking up,” Buffy quickly said. “See you in twenty!”

She’d put up with this for far too long. Knowing that the highly possessive young man would have severe oppositions to her tempting offer, Buffy had finally taken Willow’s advice into serious consideration. Although the thoughts hadn’t been new, her growling stomach was finally fed-up (no pun intended) with the crap of Riley Finn. And Buffy was set to end it now.

~*~

Buffy woke that morning with a considerably lighter step, getting up at the first screech of her alarm clock instead of letting it go off every seven minutes for an hour as she did per usual. Making her way to the bathroom down the hall, she showered and brushed her teeth, heading back to the dorm and styling her hair just right, as not to spend an unreasonable time at the restroom mirror and be faced with the complaints of every narcissistic fashion major there was in Stevenson Hall.

The highly embarrassing scene of the night before had nevertheless been a huge relief to Buffy. Riley had begged for her to take him back (with the prophesized promises of “working it out,” no less), eventually storming from the student-frequented coffee shop in a rather tantrum-esque climax. However, despite the questioning stares from the other patrons, Buffy had ordered herself a blueberry muffin and stayed until she was done, staking her claim to the turf and receiving a few smatters of applause as she made her way out (no doubt from the “Take Back the Night” advocates sitting nearby).

Now it was the morning, and Buffy had the freedom to simply delete the six voicemails left by Riley during the night instead of feeling obligated to listen to them. That business done, she looked through her list on contacts until she found the desired name, and pressed send.

“Mr. Rupert Giles, speaking.”

“Hi, Giles, this is Buffy Summers. We spoke yesterday?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Summers! Have you, erm, made a decision regarding the offer?”

“Yes, I’d like to set up an interview?” Her voice was confident, the young woman still riding on the empowering feelings she felt the night before.

“Of course!” The excitement in Giles’ voice only added to the eagerness Buffy felt. The British man gave Buffy an address on a famously affluent street, causing her eyebrow to quirk. Whoever was conducting this, they had some money lying around. “I hate to ask, but do you think you could be available for the interview… today?”

“Sure, I’ve got no plans.” A twinge of excitement wriggled into her stomach at the prospect.

“Excellent! Please be there at 2:30; you may want to bring some reading, Miss Summers, because I’m not sure of the order they will be calling you in, and it may take some time.” Buffy nodded, writing the information down on a notepad. “Present there will be Mr. Angelus, the solicitor; Mr. Pratt, of course, who needs no introduction; and myself. The other applicants will not be present during the actual interview, but they will be waiting there, as well. Buffy,” he said with a cautious tone, “some of these girls are rather… for lack of a better term, vicious. I’d be prepared for a not-so-friendly welcome from them.”

“No problem,” Buffy said, her heart warming at the concern the man felt for her.

“It’s just that I rather like you, and think that William would feel the same way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Giles,” Buffy said, the two sharing their farewells. She hung up the phone and stared at the information printed clearly on the white piece of paper. For some reason, now that she knew it was today, she felt an unnerving pressure to get out, do something, prepare in any way. But she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, let alone what her potential employers wanted.

The blonde was broken out of her reverie when Willow’s cheerful voice entered the room. “Hey, Buffy, how’d the job search go?”

Buffy hadn’t looked at her best friend through her entire description of the evening’s events, but when she finished, she had no choice but peek into the redhead’s eyes and see what she had to say.

“Good for you!”

“Huh?”

“First of all, breaking it off with Riley? Totally overdue, but what a way to do it! Secondly, William Pratt, OH MY GOD, I hadn’t even heard of him until you did that paper and got a better grade than me!” Willow’s voice had taken on a rather envious tone at the last part, but it disappeared when she jumped off the bed and pulled Buffy into a hug. “But he’s fantastic, and I know he’ll be huge soon. Well, huger than he already is in Europe. Oh my god, Buffy, you’ll be in his premier American exhibit! And the nakedness, don’t even worry about it. Tara did some scantily-clad poseur for a photographer when she was a sophomore and she never got any negativity about it.”

“What?!” At the news that Willow’s shy, supportive girlfriend had bared quite a bit, Buffy’s eyebrow couldn’t help but quirk. “I didn’t think Tara’d be the type, Wills.”

“Neither did I, but she got really into it!” Willow said, walking over to her bedside table and pulling a picture out of the top drawer. At Buffy’s panicked gaze, the redhead laughed. “It isn’t risqué, don’t worry. Just a bit of skin. See, they even painted an ancient Greek poem on her back. Pretty neat, huh?”

“It’s beautiful!” Buffy exclaimed, taking the picture from Willow’s hands and staring at it. Tara’s eyes looked vibrant and radiant, her simple posture inciting a world of feelings. “Will, Tara should change her major—she could be a great model.”

“That’s what I told her,” the redhead laughed. “But seriously, Buffy, you would be great, I’m sure they’ll pick you.”

“You think so?” That had been another matter of concern for her. Finding that advertisement had seemed providential, in a sense, and she didn’t think she could take it if she was rejected and had to go look for another day job. The empty refrigerator wasn’t as tempting when it combated with her sleep-deprived mind.

The two girls finished getting ready for their days and set out, Willow heading back to Tara’s dorm for a day of studying and Buffy to the nearest bus stop. If there was one area the young woman was weak, it was in transportation; it was a blessing to the entire L.A. community that the young woman had chosen not to earn her license in her teenage years and instead made herself familiar with the numerous public-transit systems. After checking the schedule and waiting a short while for the right bus, she confidently strode up the stairs and settled herself down in a seat until she reached her stop.

After about a half hour, the houses started becoming nicer, and Buffy got off the bus, heading down the street in what she thought was the right direction. She could smell the scent of the beach, one of her favorite places, and heard the crashing of the waves. As she passed a house for sale, she curiously looked at the flier to see how much it cost.

“Too many numbers,” she groaned, hurrying away and trying not to gaze too longingly at the homes until she approached the right building, and let out a huge gasp.

Wondering who owned this mansion and whether they were single, Buffy made her way through the gate and up the steps to the front door, nervously ringing the bell and waiting. The house had to be at least four times the size of the home she and her mother had had in Sunnydale, and it wasn’t even small! After a few moments, the sound of footsteps could be heard behind the door and it was opened to reveal a tall, middle-aged man wearing a tweed suit and glasses.

“Oh, hi, I’m Buffy Summers?”

“Miss Summers, what a delight!” She recognized the voice instantly and smiled, shaking his hand vehemently while stepping across the threshold.

“And you’re Giles, right?”

“Well, yes, yes I am.” He gave her a smile and gestured to the huge foyer they were standing in. “What do you think of our proprietor’s house?”

Buffy cast a wary eye about the room. “It’s quite nice,” she said honestly, although there was something a bit chilling about the room. The high-up ceilings must have caused a draft, she decided. “Mr. Angelus must be pretty well-off.”

“That he is,” Giles said, leading the awestruck blonde through a hallway and into a comfortably furnished sitting room. Already inside the room were four women about her age, all rather scantily clad and appearing quite haughty. “Ladies, now that you are all here, we will begin the interviews.” Pulling a small notepad from the pocket of his suit and flipped it open. “Sandy Davis?”

A tall brunette with long, wavy hair stood and languorously followed Giles into the next room. Buffy settled herself into a suede leather armchair and pulled out a book, trying to read but unable to calm her nerves enough to comprehend the words. She hadn’t felt anything other than normal, job-interview anticipation until this point—until those women’s eyes set upon her.

Looking over the top of the book, Buffy met three sets of blazing eyes staring back at her. Just like “Sandy Davis,” the women were all wearing small, form-fitting outfits to emphasize their obviously plastically-enhanced bodies. Similar to all three, apart from their Barbie-esque bodies, were the deathly stares she was receiving—they were making it very clear that this was their territory, and that Buffy was not welcome. There were two brunettes and a blonde, and the latter looked oddly familiar.

Before she could place the face, the door opened and Sandy walked out, a disappointed expression on her face. She glared at Buffy and then stalked out of the room, revealing Giles standing behind her. “Harmony Kendall?”

Buffy couldn’t help but flinch as she heard the name, realizing just where she knew the blonde from. Harmony pranced into the room ahead of Giles and offered him a sickly-sweet smile, giving Buffy a flashback to high school and the four years of her life she’d rather forget. It looked like the ditzy blonde’s promises of becoming a model weren’t as fruitless as she’d thought.

Turning her stare to the two brunettes she shared the room with, Buffy couldn’t help but wonder where they got their clothes—Sluts ‘R Us? She chuckled at her internal quip and then winced when the two simultaneously directed their stares towards her. Okay, not a good time to be laughing—that’s to be expected, I guess.

Harmony was gone longer than Sandy, but when she pranced out of the room she looked smug. Before she walked back through the hallway, she gave Giles a conceited smile, which he raised his eyebrows at, an expression of distaste written clearly over his face. “Um, Dulce Arredondo?” Giles’ fumbled Spanish pronunciation was charming, coming from the apparently educated man, but the Dulce clearly didn’t think so, swinging her long, thick hair behind her and flashing the man a death gaze through hooded eyes.

Nearly alone, Buffy tried to turn her focus back to her book, but she had questions in her mind now. What would they ask her? Would she be discarded right away for her dress? What would she do if Harmony got the offer and she didn’t? Would Harmony get the offer??? Before she even realized it, the door was opening again and Giles was speaking once more. “Buffy Summers.”

Despite the snickers of the two brunettes in the room, Giles gave her an encouraging smile as she crossed the threshold and entered the room. It was dark inside, and it took her a few moments to adjust to the dimness before she could see anything. It appeared that the drapes were closed on the apparently large windows, and that where there should have been three men, there was only two.

“Buffy, I apologize for William. He received an urgent call from overseas and he was forced to take it. If you’d rather wait until later…”

“Oh, no, this is fine right now, Giles,” Buffy answered, feeling a twinge of disappointment but ignoring the feelings. Her gaze was focused on the other man in the room, whose back was towards her as he stared at a painting on the wall. How he could see it without any light was beyond Buffy, but if she assumed right, then this was the guy providing the big bucks for this operation, and she knew better than to question her potential food sources.

Giles moved ahead of her towards a mahogany desk and seated himself on one side, which had three chairs on it. On the other side, there was only one, and Buffy settled herself onto the plush seat, suddenly feeling more nervous than she thought possible. She and Giles stared awkwardly at one another for a moment, before Giles turned around to call to the other man in the room. “Mr. Angelus, if you will…?”

The moment the tall man faced Buffy, she felt a chill run down her spine. Liam Angelus was good-looking, with potentially rugged features that seemed awkwardly cultured; he was young, probably in his early thirties, which seemed strange considering the amount of money he was said to have. Buffy gave him a nervous smile, which he returned; there was no warmth in his gaze, however. It was cold, predatory, and… desirous.

“You’re Buffy Summers, am I correct?” His voice was good-natured, with a bit of an accent. It wasn’t strong at all, though, and she honestly didn’t care to ask about it. She simply nodded, not knowing why her muscles were so stiff or her gaze so cold, the smile gone from her face before she even realized it. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air!” He was obviously pleased, his eyes locked on hers. “Won’t you stand and… give us a twirl?” Giles looked indignantly on as Buffy reluctantly rose to her feet, slowly rotating her body around to the penetrating gaze of Angelus. “Yes, you’re quite good. Done anything like this before, Buffy?”

“No,” she said, seating herself without waiting for his permission. There was a moment of silence after her defiant act, the blonde staring down the man across the room boldly until Giles gratefully spoke.

“Um, Buffy, what made you want to pursue this job offer?”

“To be honest, it was the money. I’m what you’d call ‘broke.’” Although the words seemed like the exact worst thing to say in this situation, Buffy no longer cared. She felt chilled to the bone and wanted out of that room as quickly as possible; living without food didn’t seem to matter that much when eyes as cold as steel were raking up and down one’s body. Angelus, however, was not angered by her statement, as the blonde expected; in fact, he seemed rather… amused.

“Erm, yes.” Giles paused, giving Buffy an apologetic look, then continued. “What do you do for your main source of income, Buffy?”

“I waitress at a club.”

“And what are you planning on doing with your life, Miss Summers?” Angelus broke in, striding towards the table and finally taking a seat. “Keep waitressing at the club?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m studying art at UCLA.” Insolence, already in her voice, was beginning to overwhelm any shred of restraint Buffy had. “Next question?”

“Are you related to Hank Summers?”

“What?” The question caught Buffy completely off-guard. “You know my father?”

Angelus let out a cold, demeaning laugh. “We were business associates a few years ago. How is Hank?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Buffy coldly replied. “I haven’t spoken to him in six years.”

Giles, ever the savior, broke in at this point. “Erm, thank you Miss Summers, that will be all. Thank you for coming today, and we will inform you of our choice within the next few days.” The blonde shot Angelus one last bold look before striding out the door.

Quickly gathering her things she’d left in the waiting room, Buffy rushed through the hall and out the front door, leaning against the cool wood and panting exhaustedly. She hadn’t counted on running into one of her father’s numerous business associates, let alone be questioned on his wellbeing.

Hank Summers had been an attentive, doting father for the first fifteen years of Buffy’s life. For all she knew, he and her mother were very much in love and would be together until they were both old and gray. But, as she learned through her following teenage years, the world didn’t have time for happy endings. One day, Buffy had come home from school to find her parents waiting for her at the kitchen table. At that day, she learned of their coming divorce, and received the sugar-coated version of the “why’s and how’s.”

She could have lived with thinking just that. That her parents had simply grown apart and didn’t want to be together anymore. But the cruelty that was her father couldn’t let Buffy think that he was responsible when she was the problem. So one day, he’d picked her up after school and told her the truth.

The truth being that from the moment she was born, she’d been a failure. Never good enough, never quite at his expectations, never the true daughter of Hank Summers. And he had stridden away from her then, leaving her to weep on a park bench and scarring her perception of men for the rest of her life.

Trying to make her way back to the present, the twenty-one-year-old Buffy wiped the drops of sweat off her face, shaking with cold despite the warm sun. If Liam Angelus knew her father, she didn’t know whether she could take this job—not because she was in any way afraid of the man catching word of her somewhat unsavory participation, but because she didn’t think she could take the tainted money she’d been avoiding for the past six years.

But she had to. She couldn’t let her father ruin her life more than he already had. Buffy stood up abruptly, gaining resolution in her purpose once more. She would survive, and show her father just what he had walked away from.

~*~

“I like her.”

“What?” The British man was in shock. “What exactly do you like about—”

“Her fire,” Liam Angelus answered, staring at the door as if it were transparent. “All that passion packed into such a lithe form… Beautiful.” He paused a moment, then stood up once more. “Cancel any of the other interviews and alert the others that we’ve seen of my choice. I want Buffy Summers.”

Buffy Summers sipped a milkshake placidly as she waited for Willow to arrive. It had been three days since the interview and she still had yet to hear of who’d been chosen. In all honesty, the blonde needed the job—who wouldn’t want a few hundred dollars a month for simply posing?—but would much rather take it sans creepy employer man.

It was majorly wigsome that Liam Angelus had spoken of her father, and even more so that he had been checking her out like she was the proverbial piece of meat. Sure, as an attractively petite blonde, Buffy had been looked at before, her derrière even once pinched by a rowdy customer when she worked at a diner right after coming to L.A. But those harassments had been on a superficial level, not the deeply penetrating—invasive was a better word—gaze her potential future employer had given her. It was best not to get too worked up about it, Buffy resolved as she slurped at the ice cream in her nearly-empty cup. If she got the job, she would figure something out, but until then…

“Sorry I’m late!” Willow said, interrupting Buffy’s thoughts by leaping into the chair opposite hers on the café plaza they were sitting at. It was on one of L.A.’s more hidden streets and they often met there before Buffy headed to work; the Bronze was only a few blocks away. “Xander said he had to show me something really important—turned out it was a construction… thing.”

Buffy let out a laugh, the thought of Willow’s best friend since childhood and his strange obsession with tools. It was probably to be expected, as he was one of the biggest contractors involved in California’s numerous public works projects. “How long is he in town, Wills?”

“Until Tuesday night. Which reminds me, d’ya think we can head out to the club one night when you’re not working? Lots of drinky goodness, plus employee discount?”

“Sounds good. I’m game. Tonight bad?”

“No, it’s great! Hello, Party Friday! What time do you get off?”

The blonde gave her friend a wicked smile. “Tonight’s my early night—I’m off at eight. Usually to be used for studying, Miss Buffy Summers is going to take tonight to partay!”

The two sipped their drinks and chatted for several minutes until the sun sank behind one of L.A.’s huge buildings. “Uh-oh, Wills, work calls,” Buffy said, checking the time on her phone. “So we’re on at a bit after eight?”

“Most definitely,” Willow answered, gathering her things and giving her friend a hug. “See you later, Buff!”

The said blonde began to stride down the street, reaching the club just before her shift started. The Bronze was one of the less-frequented nightclubs in L.A., but it had enough of an audience to stay open (albeit sharing the property with a community of cockroaches). Most of the human frequenters came to see the local bands play live, and on Friday and Saturday nights the warehouse-turned-club was often pretty packed.

Buffy went to the back to get changed into her uniform, glad that she had brought an extra change of (sexy) clothes with her, and then headed out into the main room, which was packed with bodies despite the early hour. Couples were swaying seductively to the music, the sparsely-placed colored lights setting an eerie glow about the place as she strode up the steps to her section.

Upstairs was a bit quieter than the music-sex-fest of the dance floor; most who came up there were either too depressed to find someone to dance with, or too voyeuristic to care. She moved from table to table methodically, bringing drinks out on a large tray to the numerous people seated in the shadows. The work could seem mundane to some, but Buffy loved it—there was something about the drink a person ordered that exposed their personality, and to be able to look into so many people…

The blonde held a belief that art exposed humanity, but it wasn’t just limited to paintings and pictures. Even the most everyday things showed Buffy the truth of a person’s self. And she loved seeing it.

Her mind quickly became distracted by a whirlwind of thoughts, some serious and some comical, Buffy didn’t hear the order given by a young man sitting in one of the darker corners. All she could see was the strange glow of his white-blonde hair. “Sorry, what was that?” Buffy asked, leaning closer and raising her voice to be heard over the loud music.

“Newcaster Ale, love,” the voice purred. At that moment, the deafening roar of music calmed to a drone, everything dulling to a simple, primal beat. She felt it in her blood, a pounding, throbbing need building inside of her. Without even thinking, the blonde nearly let herself fall victim to the warmth of his voice, craving to feel something on her, his skin on her, inside of her—and all from three little words he spoke…

“I-I’ll get that to you in a minute,” Buffy said, nervously backing away from the man in the shadows without looking at his face. She felt lightheaded and dizzy, the lights making her feel as if the ground was spinning beneath her. Slowly making her way down the stairs, Buffy gave the bartender her drink orders and leaned against the cool wooden surface, panting slightly from the feelings wracking her body. God, what was that? The simple sound of the sweetly seductive voice and she was gone, head over heels.

The bartender handed Buffy the tray and she nodded her thanks, standing up straighter and trying to regain her composure. Now was not the time to be dissolving into lovestruck giggles like a schoolgirl seeing a cute boy for the first time. She was twenty-one, damn it, and not going to let that sexy, drool-worthy British accent interfere with her very important work.

“Hey Buff, it’s almost eight. Want me to take over?”

“Oh thank god,” Buffy said, shoving the tray into her coworker Sophie’s hands with a sigh of relief and dashing off to the employee’s room to change for her friends’ arrival.

~*~

Exiting the back room, Buffy made her way through the throng of people, looking about the crowded room for Willow and Co. It had taken her longer than she expected to change, something about the relative simplicity of her clingy black dress making her curse the heavens for the lack of a plentiful bank account; the uncomfortably soaked thong she’d been wearing was a bit of a problem as well, its wet lace rubbing against her in deliciously pleasurable sensations. That quandary was now resting nondescript in the blonde’s locker, hoping that the other employees wouldn’t discover it.

God, why had she had such a reaction to a mere voice? For all she knew, he could be one of those British men with famously bad teeth and… bad hair. Yes, that was it. Bad teeth, gross hair, watery eyes, a totally un-sexy accent that she just had misheard through the din of the club. That was definitely the case.

Suitably un-horny, despite her rather wicked panty-less situation, Buffy spied a familiar flash of red hair and hurried over to her friends seated around one of the ridiculously small and high-up tables. “Buffy, you’re off already?”

Not exactly, a naughty voice smirked in Buffy’s mind, but she ignored it and answered with a nod-plus-smile, settling herself down between Tara and Xander, giving the latter a hug. “How’ve you been? Are you liking Fresno?”

“How could anyone like Fresno?!” A blonde with curly locks sitting at Xander’s other side said, her potentially rude comment brushed off by the others at the table. “It smells like manure and McDonalds all the time, and there’s absolutely nothing there!”

“Buffy, this is Anya. My girlfriend,” Xander said, the two blondes shaking hands amiably. She looked quirky, but there was something about Anya that Buffy liked. Granted, she’d heard only negative statements from her thus far, but she seemed like the kind of person who would be brutally honest when needed. “And as Ahn so aptly stated, Fresno is of the ‘oh my god why would anyone want to live there’ variety.”

“That bad?” Willow asked, quirking an eyebrow. The five laughed and began talking, all of them having a great time. That is, until the inevitable was suggested.

“We need to dance.”

“Huh?” Xander asked blankly at Anya’s sudden outburst, all the eyes of the table turning towards the blonde, who simply rolled her eyes.

“It’s a simple matter of being a demanding consumer. We have spent a reasonable amount of money on drinks while we socialized, but now in order to truly get our money’s worth of the alcohol provided, we need to dance.” At five very blank stares, she desperately continued. “This establishment makes a large portion of their money through the sales of drinks. They provide a space for dancing, as well, but this part is free. Therefore, we must partake!”

At Anya’s command, she and her apologetic boyfriend made their way out to the dance floor, the three women left at the table staring uncertainly at one another.

“Do you wanna…?”

“Sure,” Buffy said, getting up and leading the way for Tara and Willow. They stood near one another as they began to dance, but the song quickly ended and the band began to head off the stage. The three eyed one another skeptically at the ensuing silence, until the sounds of a guitar filled the room, a recorded song beginning to play. Buffy turned for a moment to see Anya’s reaction to the finished set, expecting an amusing scene to play out, but she was unable to find them, and when she turned back around, Willow and Tara were gone.

Love and hate, get it wrong
Cut me right back down to size
Sleep the day, let it fade
Who was there to take your place?

“Great,” Buffy muttered, turning to leave the dance floor before she felt someone firmly grasp her hips and pull her against them, her back flush with their front and something quite large rubbing against her center rather delectably. Without thinking, the blonde let out a moan and grinded against the man harder, reaching her hands into the air and letting the movement add to the rhythm of her hips and her ass against his bulge. What am I doing? Buffy asked herself, but all thoughts were eradicated when his strong hands began sliding beneath the thin fabric of her top to stroke the flushed skin of her stomach.

No one knows, never will
Mostly me but mostly you
Do you say, do you do
When it all comes down
Cause I don't wanna come back down from this cloud
It's taken me all this time to find out what I need

“Oh, god.” Buffy let out a moan when the man’s cool hands came in contact with her hot skin, stroking her in all the right places without crossing any of the ‘inappropriate stranger erotic dancing touching’ lines. Her hips moved harder, swaying against the hard denim of his jeans, her short skirt riding dangerously higher on her legs. The cool hands on her waist dragged slowly down the sides of her body, moving past the hem of her skirt and caressing the firm skin of her thighs. She ached from his touch, the sweet sensation of his absently tracing fingers burning symbols into her flesh. The fact that they were sharing such a sensuous dance to the not-particularly sexy song made the situation even hotter to the blonde, who finally remembered to breathe when the stranger’s teeth gently nipped at her neck.

There is no blame, only shame
When you beg you just complain
More I come, more I try
All police are paranoid
So am I— so's the future
So are you— be a creature
Do you say, do you do
When it all comes down
Cause I don't wanna come back down from this cloud
It's taken me all this time to find out what I need
I don't wanna come back down from this cloud
It's taken me all this, all this time

There was a scent in the air, of spice and cigarettes and a strange mix of liquor. As Buffy’s head lolled back against the man’s shoulder, the strange perfume engulfed her senses and completely washed away the world. All that existed was the two of them, and their movements—his hands on her legs, hips, waist; the firm curve of her ass rubbing tantalizingly against his hardness; the way every possible inch of their bodies was touching, making as much contact as possible. The entire experience was so erotic that the blonde couldn’t help but wonder whether he could feel the wetness seeping from her parted thighs when his hands dipped oh-so-quickly beneath her skirt, then traveled back up to rest firmly on her hips.

Love and hate get it wrong
cut me right back down to size
Sleep the day let it fade
Who was there to take your place
No one knows never will
Mostly me but mostly you
Do you say do you do
When it all comes down

Buffy’s arms dropped to cover his hands on her waist, when she jumped into the air in surprise, the vibration of her cell phone in her pocket breaking her out of her surprisingly brazen trance. “Shit,” she muttered, pulling her phone from her pocket and seeing Giles on the caller I.D. Pulling away from her seducer, she started to hurry away, but hesitated and turned back around to say… something. Yeah, because you don’t want to miss out on the chance to mack on some hottie with that yummy, hard—

The inner vixen within the blonde quieted when she saw no one standing where only moments before there had been a god of sexy dancing. Sighing, Buffy quickly hurried outside of the club and redialed Giles, her answering machine having picked up long ago.

“Miss Summers?”

“Hey Giles, sorry I missed your call. Clubbing and all, and couldn’t exactly answer with the music on.” The sexy, passion-inspiring music that made you dance with a mysterious man in jeans, her mind told her, but she brushed her wicked side aside. Work came first. “What’s the what, with the what?”

“Erm… I’ll take it, you’re wondering how the interview went?”

“Yeah, about that…” At the moment, Angelus had been so obviously arrogant that Buffy couldn’t help but display her most defiant side, but in hindsight… “It wasn’t the best, I’m sorry Giles.”

“Quite the contrary, Buffy. You’ve got the job.”

“What is the bloody problem, William?” Giles said exasperatedly, rubbing his throbbing temple.

“The ‘bloody problem’ is, I never met the chit! For all I know, I’m gonna be painting sodding Anna Nicole for the next month!” Giles’ irate nephew rose from his chair and moved across the room to the well-stocked bar, pulling out a bottle of gin and sniffing at it cautiously. “Anyone that that wanker would want is probably just waiting to find herself on a magazine’s center fold-out.”

“You were the one who absolutely had to take that call from Drusilla,” the older man said pointedly, accepting the glass of scotch provided by his nephew and taking a generous drink. “And while I know my opinion is not the most… let’s just say in tune with yours, William, I happen to like Buffy Summers.”

Spike let out a harsh chuckle, lighting a cigarette with a silver zippo in one hand, his quite large glass of liquor in the other. “Well, you’re right about one thing, Rupes. Bloody well shouldn’t’ve answered the phone. The bint broke it off with me.”

Giles sat up straighter at the news; although he had never approved of the rather morbid relationship his nephew had held with Drusilla, he knew how much William had cared for her for the past years, and knew he wouldn’t have taken the news lightly. A wary tone wormed its way into his voice as he asked, “What did you do, Spike?”

“Nothing!” The voice was innocent, almost indignant, but there was a glimmer of something in the younger man’s eyes that betrayed the truth. “Alright, Uncle, I got pretty damn well pissed the other night in some club,” he admitted, looking away from the disapproving stare. “And you’d right well be directing that gaze elsewhere, mate. I’m an adult, and I could’ve done much worse than drinking terribly overrated American beer and dancing like a poofter to some horrendously overrated American music.”

“And nothing happened when you were at the club?” Rupert asked, his gaze less of suspicion now than genuine worry. “Remember now, William, that you are still new to this city, this country, and it wouldn’t do to have your career ruined before it began.”

“Yes, Uncle; I went to the club; I drank generous amounts of alcohol; I took a cab home; and I slept. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite.” The older man began gathering up his papers and returning them to his briefcase, standing and downing the remainder of his drink in one gulp. “You’ll be expecting Miss Summers tomorrow at 12:30, then?”

“With bated breath,” Spike sarcastically added, walking his uncle out and closing the door behind him. He stood there for a moment before moving across the room to a blank canvas propped up on an easel. The blinding white of the fabric glared at him until he looked away and let out a large growl. Before he knew it, the frustrated young man was pouring another drink, and another, and another until he was completely and utterly inebriated.

Four years. It had been four sodding years that Spike had spent with Drusilla, staying with her not only during the few, fleeting bouts of sanity that she experienced in the time, but every day, waiting on her head and foot and following her every whim. She was his Dark Princess, he’d called her, choosing to view her lack of sanity as a gift, the ability to see more in the world than the average Tom, Dick, or Harry might. She was his gift, his channel to the darker side of his art—Drusilla had shown him the thing that Giles had never been able to understand about creation. The passion that was involved. The self-loathing that was necessary. The sacrifice, the pain, the rage, the lust—

“Bloody hell!” With a paralyzing bout of pain, Spike clutched his head, his hangover from last night an unpleasant reminder of the evening’s events. It wasn’t just the pain that inspired his shocked reaction. It was the image that he’d seen, something he’d surely lived but could not bring to mind in more than a fuzzy, next-morning recollection of a drunken haze.

There was a girl. A young, blonde, beautiful girl. On the surface, the typical kind of woman you’d find in Sunny California, the stereotypical female of the region. But there was something else that he’d seen, that had drawn him to her as they both stood on the dance floor to the pulsing beat of the music.

It was her light. It was her life. She was lustrous, gleaming…

Effulgent.

“Right then, William, off to bed!” he said nervously to himself, rushing from the room into the next and quickly stripping off his clothes. He did pose a certain problem, however, with the removal of his pants—their passage downwards was inhibited by the raging hard-on that had conveniently chosen to arrive upon the remembrance of the lithe blonde’s ass rubbing tantalizingly against himself.

God, the way she had looked that night. She had taken his drink order first, as he was now beginning to recall, but never brought it back. With a chuckle, Spike remembered how he’d turned on the charm when he’d spoken, the slightly dazed look in her eyes an oh-so-pleasing result. At first, it had been merely a ploy of fun, a harmless torture of an obviously naive waitress in an attempt to raise his own spirits and forget that he was depressingly drowning his sorrows in a solitary fashion. It had bothered him, though, when a different woman had ended up bringing him the glass, the wonderment of where his pretty li’l blonde had gone weighing on his mind all evening.

And when he’d gone down to the dance floor, intent on going home, wanking off, and calling his evening to an end, he’d seen her. Standing stock-still in the middle of the dance floor, with that glazed look still in her eyes, just waiting for a man to come along and show her a good time. And he did. He’d grabbed her by the hips, dragged her against his body, and given the two of them probably one of the better times in their lives.

But, as was inevitable, it ended, her phone going off just as he was beginning to have the hopes of getting a good, “let’s get over Drusilla” shag, instead of the lonely company of his hand. She had moved away, and although he knew that she would have returned and that he could have simply stayed and waited for her…

He didn’t.

There was a part of him, the part that right now was chastising him for the gratuitous amount of alcohol consumed, that would not allow him to make that girl his one-night plaything, a careless act of self-healing that would inevitably make him loathe himself more than he already did. Something stopped Spike from using that girl, from taking advantage of her radiant light.

And to think, he couldn’t even remember her face.

“I’m not so sure about this Wills.” Buffy and Willow huddled under an umbrella as they to the cafeteria in the morning, both having risen early as to prepare the blonde for her meeting with William Pratt that afternoon. The gray sky reflected the uneasy feelings within Buffy’s mind as the weight of what she was expected to do finally hit her.

“Why?” the redhead burst out, her forehead crinkling in a questioning gaze. “I mean, you went through all that trouble, and totally beat Harmony, which I guess would be a reward in itself, albeit a reward that makes you think you just won at ‘Who’s Wants to Be a Corporate Slut,’ and I just said that, didn’t—”

“Willow, have you been drinking coffee? We’ve talked about this, sweetie.”

“I know,” her friend answered, giving the blonde a wry smile. “But you can’t just give up, Buffy! This is just the job you’ve been waiting for. You’ll be able to make more than enough to get through this semester, and without the evils of slaving away for all hours of the night. Oooh, Buffy, we can still do our homework together!” The last sentence was given with typical Willow grin, inciting a laugh from the spoken-of.

“I guess you’re right,” she answered. “But there’s just something… weird, about this Angelus guy. And it was totally wiggins when he asked me about my dad. Do I really want to be posing naked for one of his, blegh, coworkers?”

“It’s not like that, Buffy,” Willow said. “This isn’t some kind of smutty magazine, it’s art, and since when did you care about what your dad thinks, anyway?”

“I so do not,” Buffy adamantly affirmed, her eyes wide with the thought of the horrible notion. “But imagine if he goes to Angelus’ place and looks up to see his daughter naked on the wall. Gross, much?”

“Ewww,” Willow answered simply.

“Topic change, please?”

“I’ve got it covered,” Willow reassured, brightening considerably. “What was up with you and that guy on Friday?”

The only reply from her friend was a flood of red entering her cheeks. “Nothing,” she squeaked as they walked through the doors of the cafeteria to meet an unsurprisingly vacant room. Sunday mornings were spent sleeping, and the unusually rainy day was just another excuse for the UCLA students to be as lazy as possible.

Willow gave Buffy a skeptical glance and grabbed a tray. “So the near-sex Tara and I unwillingly witnessed wasn’t even a little bit of something?”

“You saw the guy?” Buffy asked, her interest in the conversation piqued.

“Um… yes,” the redhead answered. “And you’re saying that you—”

“Didn’t even catch a glance.” She gave Willow a rueful look as she grabbed an apple from the basket. “And don’t you dare give me your disapproval face, Wills. You know I can never back away from that look.”

“I wasn’t!” she said indignantly. “I just thought you wouldn’t’ve danced with Jonathan like that, even after all those love notes he sent you sophomore year.”

“What?!” Buffy screeched, her exclamation catching the attention of the few students present.

At her friend’s chagrin, Willow burst out laughing, helping herself to the pancakes stacked temptingly next to the yoghurt. “It wasn’t Jonathan,” she said, much to Buffy’s relief. “He looked about twenty-five-ish, with this strange-yet-sexy hair and much yumminess with his face. Definitely not Jonathan.”

“Thank god.”

“You’re too easy, you know that?”

“All too well,” the blonde grumbled, as the two paid and made their way to a table. “So the guy looked just as good as he felt?”

“If he was a woman, I would have been all over him,” Willow reassured, taking a bite out of her banana. “Now off the topic of play. We’re moving on to work.”

“Work?”

“William Pratt.”

“Blegh. We’re back on that subject?”

“You bet we are, missy,” Willow said. “And I don’t care what wiggins you’re feeling right now; as soon as we finish breakfast, we’re marching home right now and getting you ready for your meeting.”

“Okay,” Buffy replied, her resolve to be difficult crushed. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to pose for William Pratt. On the contrary, the prospect was pretty much the highlight of her studies, and she had eagerly read up on the little information that was made available on the artist. No, it was just the thought that she would be showing someone—a complete stranger—her body, when she had only opened herself to a few men before and all had broken her in one way or another.

The first had been Angel O’Connor, the charming senior who had swept her sophomore-self off her feet upon moving to Sunnydale with her mother after the divorce. Everyone had said that he was perfect for her, and at the time, nothing seemed more accurate. Their fairy-tale teenage romance had reached a climax on her seventeenth birthday, when he had finally told her he loved her. Her childish self had felt that his gift to her could only be appreciated if she gave some of herself to him—and she did, in her entirety. When he made love to her, though, she didn’t wake up from a deep sleep and live happily ever after—her charming prince instead left her to awaken alone the morning after, feeling as if she could die.

For the rest of her high school years, she did nothing more than date casually, but the death of her mother and her move to LA awakened a desire inside of herself to move past the heartbroken teenager that she’d been. Enter Parker, who had charmed her during her first few insecure weeks at college. Alone, grieving, and dreadfully wishing for her mother, Buffy had thought she’d found a kindred spirit in Parker, who had recently lost his father. They had flirted and quickly moved into a sexual relationship—if that was what you could call their first and only night together, when Buffy woke up alone in her dorm room with a sinking realization of her mistake.

Desperately wishing to affirm that history had yet to repeat itself, she had pined for him for a few weeks, until she finally snapped out of it—and had some closure by drunkenly slapping Parker in the face during a frat party. His actions had not broken her innocence, as Angel’s had; they had broken her trust. And it was at that night that she had met Riley.

Riley… stable, loyal, normal Riley, with absolutely no idea of what Buffy needed. They hadn’t gotten together right away, of course; the day they met was his last in the States, as he’d been set to go to South America on a foreign exchange program, but upon his arrival back in LA three months ago, Buffy had jumped at the chance to gain some semblance of a real relationship. It was unfair, really, when she thought about it now, that she had let him believe that he was what she’d wanted, but at the time, denial had been strong and she was desperately wanting to believe that she could have what she wanted, without it running away from her. Yet, he wasn’t what she wanted.

And Buffy was now without hope.

She knew it wasn’t the same thing, but every time she’d shown herself to a man, even gotten close to one, Buffy had lost some part of herself. It was hard to avoid making connections to her failed love life in reference to a simple matter of work, but the defense instincts within the hurt young woman were too strong. Her stubbornness was stronger, though, and she forced the thoughts down, smiling at Willow and beginning to talk about what she should wear.

But her mind was lingering on the feel of the mysterious dancer’s hands on her body, the ache in her very soul that had reawakened with the thoughts of his devilish touch. None of her past lovers had made her feel that alive, that completely in tune with another person’s wants and needs. He had brought something out of her that she had yet to lose, to have broken out of her system.

He had gifted her with desire.

The ornate, antique mansion loomed above Buffy’s small form as she walked up the pathway to the large wooden door, a scrap of paper in her small hand with only the address of her location written upon it. The entire bus ride, the blonde had tried to control her nerves, but when her stop had approached, she nearly didn’t get off. Eventually, the thought of her empty refrigerator, coupled with a tinge of curiosity, compelled her to get up and descend the steps to yet another well-to-do neighborhood. And now, as she stood before the door of her destination, she felt terrified.

Inside, Spike was pacing nervously in full William-mode, a nearly sick tinge to his complexion as 12:30 rapidly approached. He’d tried to convince himself that the apprehension he was feeling was only a result of the conversation he’d had earlier with Dru, in which they discussed the matter of who-owned-what in their lavish home in England (his “dark princess” claiming ownership to the vast majority of all of it). The talk had brought out a sense of extreme annoyance, but there was something more, which the Spike inside dared not admit he felt.

Insecurity?

William quirked an eyebrow, a rather bold gesture considering his nature. Before he had met Drusilla, Spike had not yet existed, and William was nothing but the passionately romantic, stuttering, nervous young man, and not to mention a virgin. The dark-haired beauty had taken his heart and put it on a short leash after their first night together, and before long she created Spike, the physical embodiment of her desires. Why she couldn’t just have put her charms on a bloke that already was Spike, the spoken-of did not know, but he was certain that if that was the case, he most definitely would not be sitting here and waiting for the model of his first nude portrait to knock at his door.

Really, William realized, it wasn’t that unreasonable for him to be nervous. Having only been with one woman before, the prospect of looking upon a naked body not belonging to said-woman was a bit frightening. Although William was subdued by the loud personality of Spike, he still influenced the young man, albeit in limited ways; yet one of the aspects he’d never been able to repress was his passion. The passion that many artists at his career level no longer employed, having established an audience and contently creating to their wishes. But William… he put everything there was into his work, and had no way of knowing whether he would be able to detach himself from his passion when recreating the private, feminine curves of a stranger. The prospect terrified one, and excited the other half of himself.

Spike alone did not have what it took to create; William did not either. However, the two together made the entirety of the man he was—a currently nervous man, at that.

The artist gave an embarrassing jump as someone thrice knocked at the door, a look of foreboding on his face as he gulped down the remainder of his glass of bourbon and made his way to the front room.

Outside, Buffy was tapping her foot anxiously, gripping the handle of her purse so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Trying to get herself to relax, she took a few deep breaths, but when she heard the locks start to turn, her heart rate sped up even more. At the point that the knob began to rotate, both blondes were fighting the urge to bolt away from the door before facing the increasingly ill at ease situation, but the heavy wooden surface swung open before either had the chance.

The instant they locked eyes, all their fears and apprehensions melted away. Deep blue flowed into hazel green and an inexplicable shudder went through both frames.

It was only for a moment, though.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten the wrong house—” Buffy stammered nervously, looking alternately between the gorgeous sex god standing before her, the piece of paper in her hand, and the numbers on the house. “I’m looking for William Pratt?”

“You’ve found him, love,” the young man said, giving her an amused smirk that did little to mask his own jumpiness. Inside, he was having a field day at the prospect of not only painting the beauty—goddess—standing before him, but at actually having her naked. The thought, again, thrilled Spike and terrified William, the curious mix of emotions circulating through his extremities in a strange sensation—although that may have just been the tightening of his jeans.

Buffy, unaware of Spike’s own shaken reaction, was blushing profusely and looking at the bleached blond before her with an unintentionally coy expression. “Oh,” she said lamely, slightly wincing and blushing even deeper. “I didn’t expect you to be so young!” she managed to explain, avoiding his eye. She’d never given so much thought to who she would actually be exposing herself to, and while her unexpressed expectation was a sort of sterile, neutral figure with a bit of a detached look on life (go figure), she was utterly unprepared for the sexiness that was William Pratt. No wonder he’s so popular in Europe, the blonde thought ruefully, before finally working up the courage to look into his eyes once more. Clearly, she’d not been expecting to see a mirror of her own dumbstruck thoughts, but the presence was comforting, and gave her the push she needed to get back on Working Buffy track. “I’m Buffy Summers. May I come in… Mr. Pratt?” The last words were added as an afterthought, when the artist didn’t seem to realize she’d spoken.

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course,” Spike answered, the uncomfortable-sounding title linked with his surname breaking him out of his reverie. Which had not been a detailed fantasy about the woman he’d barely met and who was standing uncomfortably at his doorway until he’d recovered his senses moments earlier. “So, Miss Summers—”

“—Buffy.”

“Buffy,” Spike amended, quirking a scarred eyebrow slightly (the action of which made her knees weak). “I hear you’re familiar with my work?”

“To say the least, Mr. Pratt—”

“—Spike.”

“…Spike?” Raising an eyebrow, Buffy followed the man through the foyer and into an impressive sitting room, choosing not to question the strange nickname any further—wise enough to know that indulging in those particular wonderments were not the best when trying to make a good impression on a rather influential mentor of your career. Still, a little voice in her head couldn’t help but whisper those nasty little thoughts that she’d been feeling more than thinking. Look at that butt, the voice said, as William led Buffy over to a couch and asked her if she wanted anything to drink. Nothing that you’ve got in that bar over there, her thoughts suggestively giggled as she declined; Spike brought himself a glass of an undistinguishable substance before settling himself down upon another sofa across a coffee table from her seat.

They were quiet for a moment, Spike gulping his drink down and Buffy wrestling with her mind, until the former spoke. “I thought that we’d just, erm, chat it up today, and I could sketch you a li’l—fully clothed,” he added, “then make a sort of schedule?” God, I sound like such a ponce, Spike thought, taking another long drink from his glass of bourbon.

God, he sounds so sexy—I didn’t even notice it before! Buffy’s inner-self was doing flips and cartwheels in her chest, the way her heart was pounding. British accent! How could I have missed it? When he’d addressed her as “Miss Summers,” his voice had a somewhat cultured and polite tone, but upon their commencement into the first-name basis, he seemed to have relaxed, his accent gaining a rougher and huskier tone. For the first time, the blonde began to feel all-out lust for the man sitting before her, the unmistakable feeling igniting within her body. What’s up with me and British accents lately, anyway?

“That sounds good,” she managed to squeak out after a moment. He smiled and nodded, relieved to have the formalities out of the way, and both felt a little bit better—before silence (and tension) set in once more.

“I’ll, uh, go get some paper,” Spike mused, getting up and moving across the room to a table stacked high with sketchbooks and blank canvasses; he grabbed one without looking and took a deep breath before he moved back into Buffy’s sight, trying to push out of his mind the fantasy of pressing the young blonde into the plush leather cushions and having his way with her.

“Right then,” Spike said as he settled himself back down on the couch and slouched down, putting his feet up on the ridiculously expensive-looking coffee table. After staring at her face with an intense gaze for an equally intense moment, he began to sketch lines on the paper, occasionally flicking his stare across her for seconds as she began to be recreated on the smooth white sheet. Art had always calmed him down, but every time he looked into her eyes, he felt his heart pounding unbelievably hard and his jeans tightening more and more. “So what do you do for a living, Buffy?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you?” she asked, relieved to have something to distract her from her increasingly more detailed fantasies. “I kind of got grilled by Mr. Angelus for the interview,” she added sheepishly, directing her gaze downwards.

“Bloody ponce,” Spike muttered, straightening when he realized that the blonde had heard him and was shaking with laughter. “Um, would it be fair to ask for you not to mention it to the nancy boy?”

His voice is like liquid sex, Buffy thought, but she batted the inner vixen away. “I can keep a secret,” Buffy answered, unaware of the flirtatious tone she was taking on. The inner vixen was quite resilient. “And to answer your earlier question, I’m an art major at UCLA. Regrettably, the living part of my life is fueled by workage at a club nearby.”

“Is that so?” So the chit was an artist, herself? Ol’ Rupes hadn’t mentioned that one. Spike grinned as he sketched the curve of Buffy’s smiling lips. “What exactly inspired you to embark on the ever-so-exciting career of an artist?”

“My mom,” she answered simply. “She owned a gallery and painted when she was younger, and when she died right after I graduated, I kind of tried to… emulate her?”

“Had you thought about it before then?”

“Not really,” Buffy admitted. “I mean, I took art in school and could always draw what I wanted, but it’s more than that, you know?”

“That I do, pet.” Spike said, winking at the blushing girl before him and shading in the depths of her eyes.

“What about you?” Buffy asked suddenly, emboldened by the encouraging smile William wore on his face. “What made you want to be an artist?”

A pensive look set in on Spike’s face as the question left her lips, and Buffy couldn’t help but stare in wonderment at just how expressive his face could be. “I guess my Uncle Rupert had something to do with it—Giles,” he clarified.

“Giles is your uncle? I had no idea!”

“Yeah, he took care of me when I was young, and we always used to draw together.” There was a fond tone in his voice as he added, “I reckon he’d’ve been wearing tweed suits and working in a library years ago if it wasn’t for helping me with my career.”

The thought of Giles wearing tweed was just too easy to imagine, and Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. It was becoming more comfortable to be around him, now; emboldened, the blonde began to look around the classy room she was seated in. The walls were a light blue color, a Victorian feeling created by the wooden panels accenting them. The floor was also a deeply-colored wood, with antique-yet-comfortable furniture about the space. An easel was positioned nearby a huge window, which overlooked a slope of chaparral leading down to the Pacific Ocean. “Your house is beautiful,” Buffy honestly commented, studying a painting on the wall. With a teasing twinkle in her eyes, she said, “I take it your pieces sell well?”

“Well, in Europe, yeah,” Spike answered, rubbing a finger absentmindedly along a line on the page. “How well I’ll do here is up to you and me, love.”

“Not really,” Buffy modestly replied. “I mean, the me part. But I wouldn’t worry about a thing if I were you, Spike. What I’ve seen of your work is great.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally!” She was enthusiastic now, realizing that at this moment, she was having a conversation with William freaking Pratt. “Last semester, I wrote my term paper about you, you know.”

Spike looked up from the paper with an laughing expression on his face. “What were your marks?” he asked ruefully, a teasing look in his eyes.

“I’ll have you know that I set the curve.”

“Really, now?” Impressed, Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth in a gesture that brought a tinge of red to Buffy’s cheeks. “I’ve got to say, quite an honor, pet.”

Oh god, tongue thing, tongue thing! “Oh, sure.” Buffy rolled her eyes and laughed, hoping the bleached blond hadn’t noticed her moment of very bad thinking. “Mr. I’ve-Met-The-Queen is honored that a college student wrote a paper about him?”

“She’s really rather nice,” Spike laughingly replied. “And you did quite a thorough job on that homework, pet—knowing about my encounter with royalty and all.”

“Pssh, like I put that in the report—that was just a fun fact. I know all sorts of things about you, so you better watch yourself, mister.”

Spike shook his head good naturedly and turned back to his work, feeling Buffy’s hazel eyes on him as he put a few finishing touches on the sketch. God, how had they settled into the playful banter so quickly? Moments earlier, they’d been quaking in their boots and now they were quaking with laughter. There was something about this beautiful, lively young woman that gave Spike’s body a feeling akin to lying in the sun, the joyful, pleasant sentiment of being completely sated and comfortable.

“Would you like to take a look, pet?” he asked her, looking up finally from his finished sketch and holding the sheaf of papers out for her to take. “Quick work, but I needed a bit of practice working with someone as beautiful as yourself.” His words were punctuated with a flirtatious wink, and Buffy felt the red rise to her face once more.

Turning the paper around in her hand, the blonde let out a gasp as she saw her own face staring back at her, a blushing look in her eyes and a joyful smile playing on her lips. It was as if he had captured the very look of how she felt inside, and with an astonished stare, she met Spike’s eyes. “You’re amazing.”

The words coated William’s heart until the ache he’d felt for days finally began to subside. All from her eyes—the intense hazel orbs captivated him, a feeling of utter contentment washing over him and putting him at true ease for the first time in a long while.

“So when are you guys meeting again?” Willow asked, her eyes lighting up as she grabbed a cookie from the package sitting between the two. Buffy and her roommate were sitting quite cozily on her bed, an unwatched movie playing on their small TV as the blonde entailed the details of her day.

“He said to come Wednesday morning and to stay all day,” Buffy answered, a little shudder running through her at the thought. “I’ve gotta say, I’m more than a little nervous about it. This time the clothes remained securely on, but I’m going to have to bare it all soon and…”

“And you didn’t expect for him to be such a hottie?” Willow offered, a sly smile on her face.

“No!” Buffy protested, too quickly. “All right, he is definitely smooch-worthy, but he’s sorta my boss. I don’t think that’ll fly in the professional world, Wills.”

“And taking your clothes off in front of your boss isn’t usually kosher, either.”

“Good point.” Falling back on the bed and stretching out, Buffy let out a long moan of exhaustion. “It was so weird. Like, unbelievably so. Not awkward—well, there was that, too, but the true weirdness was how hot and cold we were. One second, we were all with the talking and relaxing, and the next, we were both sitting straight and still and trying not to think about fact that I’m going to be naked on Wednesday.”

“Sounds like somebody’s got a crush.”

“I so do not!” The indignant blonde sat up again and narrowed her eyes at the laughing redhead. “Okay, maybe if we’d met at the Bronze or something I would be all over him, but he’s my boss, sorta, and he’s probably not even available anyway.” The last part was said in a huge rush which brought Willow’s eyebrows up in a questioning glance.

“And the reason why you’re wondering whether your boss is available is…?”

“Blah,” Buffy said, giving up. “I’ve got the major hots for William Pratt. How the hell am I going to manage being professional?!”

~*~

“I swear, Clem, this chit’s going to drive me mad,” Spike groaned, taking a large gulp from his cup of beer and shaking his head exasperatedly. His friend sitting on the barstool next to him gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before cracking open a peanut. “The bint’s got these gorgeous eyes. And her hair’s dead sexy, mate. Did I mention her body? And I’m gonna bleedin’ end up staring at that all day Wednesday without any chance whatsoever.”

“That’s rough, Spike,” Clem agreed. The two had met a few weeks earlier when the Englishman had discovered Willy’s bar, a seemingly perfect dive in which to drown his sorrows. Since then, they’d become surprisingly close, almost along the lines of confidants.

“And you know, I thought it would be some god-awful bird, because the big wanker picked her, see? So I never even really expected to be attracted and whatnot. Just look at her like I was copying someone out of Penthouse or something, yeah? But now, all I can do when I look at her is want to shag her senseless.”

“Wow,” Clem said, pensively popping another peanut into his mouth before speaking. “It seems like the two of you aren’t what you’d call strictly business.”

“How can we be, when she’s stripping down to her skivvies and my job is to bloody stare at her?” Spike let out a moan and dropped his head to his hands, mussing up his carefully slicked-back curls. “But that’s not the worst part, mate.”

~*~

“Then what is?” Willow asked, suddenly concerned at the pale and sick look suddenly on her friend’s face.

“The guy that’s paying for the art—Mr. Creepy? He doesn’t just want some tasteful, artistic posing, Wills.” Buffy avoided her friend’s eye as she thought back on the embarrassing call she’d received after leaving Spike’s house. “Giles called me and told me that Angelus’ ideas were bordering on full-out smutty.”

“Oh,” Willow squeaked, her face suddenly as red as her hair. “Oh my god, Buffy, these paintings aren’t going to be for a gallery, are they?”

“No, they’re for his private collection—and I’m not exactly sure which idea mortifies me more.”

They were quiet for a few moments, no doubt reflecting on the “ew” that the thoughts inspired, until Willow spoke. “Buffy, I know you need the money, but are you sure you want to go through with this? No one will think any differently of you if you do, but this Angelus guy seems way stranger than the average art solicitor.”

Buffy didn’t answer right away, the same question having gone through her mind already. “I know I can get the money elsewhere,” she began, “but I didn’t realize until right now how much I was looking forward to having Spike paint me.”

“Um… Spike?”

“Oh, it’s William Pratt’s nickname. I have no idea why,” she hurriedly added when Willow raised her eyebrow suggestively.

~*~

“What’s her name again, Spike?”

“Buffy,” the bleached blond laughed. “I know, never thought I’d fall for a chit with such a terrible name.” He paled the instant he realized the words that had slipped from his mouth.

Clem hadn’t missed them either. “Be careful,” he advised his friend. “I know you like this girl, and you guys seem to get along really well, but…”

“But what, mate?” Clem’s tone had taken on a darker quality that Spike had never heard before.

“You say that Liam Angelus picked this girl out, yeah?” Spike nodded before Clem continued. “The guy is rich, Spike, and has got a lot of power. And I’ve heard rumors that the girls he shows interest in, the ones he really likes—he gets possessive over them.”

“What do you mean?” Spike asked cautiously, eying his friend with curiosity.

“I’m saying that if Angelus thinks you and Buffy have more than a business relationship, he might just make both your lives… bad.”

The bell rang shrilly, jolting Buffy from the deep slumber she had been enjoying during her teacher’s lecture.

“So I’ll see you all next week for a final review session,” Professor Walsh said, meeting Buffy’s eye and quirking an eyebrow before leaving the classroom.

“Man, that was an exciting class, huh?” Willow remarked dryly.

“Oh, yeah, well—”

“And the last twenty minutes was a revelation, just laid out everything we need to know for the final. I’d hate to have missed that!”

The redhead smirked at her blonde friend, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Just tell me I didn’t snore.”

“Very discrete, minimal drool.” The two laughed for a minute, before the sly expression found itself on Willow’s face again. “So were you dreaming?”

Buffy suddenly looked at her friend warily. “Did I do something other than snore, Wills?” Her dream had been… intense, to say the least, and she blushed deeply at the thought of giving some outward sign as to what fantasy had been playing out in her head.

“No, but you had that little smile on your face that you had last night when talking about dearest Spike, so—”

“Who’s Spike?” The voice behind the two girls caused them to simultaneously groan and lock eyes.

“Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Go on ahead.”

“I’ll be at the end of the hall,” Willow promised. With that, the redhead hurried off, not before shooting an ugly look behind her to the person currently staring at Buffy with an impatiently irritated expression.

“Riley. To what do I owe this extreme annoyance?”

“You moved on fast.” The jealousy was plain on his face, and it was all Buffy could do to keep herself from rolling her eyes.

“For your information, Spike is my new boss. And considering the fact that our relationship was pretty one-sided, ‘moving on’ wasn’t exactly difficult.”

Riley let out a harsh laugh. “How can you say that after all we’ve been through?” he asked incredulously. “Did you meet someone else? Is that what’s going on here? You don’t have to have them, Buffy, you can always have me if you need me!”

“I don’t need anyone!” Finally giving in to the urge, the blonde rolled her eyes. “Listen, Riley, the sooner you realize that you’re not in my life anymore—that you really weren’t in it before, anyway—the better it will be for the both of us.” Buffy turned and began to walk towards where Willow was standing with Tara, leaving Riley dumbstruck and not entirely sure of what had just happened. “Sorry about that,” she said, greeting Tara and heading out of the building.

“Did he say anything bad, Buffy?” Tara asked, giving a wary look back at the hulk of a man still standing stock-still in the middle of the hallway.

“Nothing really. Just accused me of getting naked with the first guy I met.”

“If only he knew just how close to the truth he was,” Willow mused in an exaggerated tone. She and Tara let out ill-concealed laughs while Buffy glared at them, her face highly reminiscent of a tomato. “Come on, Buff, you know you were thinking the same thing,” the redhead said soothingly, winning an embarrassed-yet-sincere smile from her friend as a result. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask you!” she said suddenly, as the three girls left the safety of the building and traversed along a sloping lawn to their dorm buildings. “Tonight’s Xander’s last night in town, whaddya say to Bronzing after you get off?”

“Meh,” Buffy said grumpily. “I would, but I work late tonight and I’ve got that stupid paper for finish up—and by finish, I mean start.”

“We can Bronze and do homework at the same time!” Willow reasoned.

The wheedling tone in her friend’s voice nearly convinced her to give in and live a little—even the most studious Willow rocked out every now and then—but the oppressive weight of the book in her arms won out. “Sorry, Wills, but I’ve really got to make it an early night.” She gave the couple an apologetic smile as they reached the door to Stevenson hall and bade them farewell, the two heading off to Tara’s room. As Buffy passed through the doorway, she was oblivious to the set of eyes that was watching her departing form.

~*~

It was many hours later when Buffy blearily arrived back at home, her feet sore and head pounding from the exhausting career of waitressing. “Not a career,” she said to herself, alarmed by her internal monologue’s referral to her job, “just a way to get money.” Of course, that thought led to the other way in which she was making money—not that her mind had been wandering there throughout the entire evening.

Willow, Tara, Xander, and Anya had decided to head out somewhere other than the Bronze that night, and Buffy found herself working a particularly boring evening. Without any kind of external stimulus other than the pounding music and sexually suggestive lyrics, the blonde found herself thinking about a particular British artist in entirely unprofessional positions.

She’d tried to eradicate the thoughts by mentally outlining her paper, but every Englishman mentioned turned into the steamy man dominating her mind and doing very naughty things to her with paintbrushes and some kind of oil.

“Blah!” Buffy groaned, pushing her blonde ringlets out of her sweaty face and hurriedly settling herself down at her desk. As she stared at the open book and nervously tapped her pencil to a notebook, she began to force herself to read the words on the page, determined to get her paper done that night.

It wasn’t working.

When Buffy realized she’d read the same line at least three times already without moving on to the next, she hazarded a glance at the lined paper she’d been absentmindedly doodling on—and her eyes widened in shock.

“Okay, Buffy, this is really getting out of hand,” she said exasperatedly, the crude sketch of semi-coital actions between herself and Spike—well-drawn, she noted offhand—crossing the not-so-fine line between innocent attraction to unhealthy lusting. But the image was enticing her, causing her to lean closer to the page to study her subconscious desires manifested, her mind already winding the simple picture into a detailed fantasy.

A sharp knock at the door elicited a jump from the embarrassed blonde, who automatically shoved the notebook into her desk drawer and stood up, stretching after being seated for so long and making her way to the door. A sharp knock sounded again, right as Buffy reached for the handle, and upon turning the knob was met with a very impatient Riley.

“Can I come in?”

“Anything you have to say to me you can say it through the doorway,” Buffy replied, his irate tone setting the mood for the encounter. The blonde leaned against the wooden frame and crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Riley stood there with a slightly nervous look on his face, well aware the slight crowd the two were receiving per fact that he blocked the hallway with his bulky form. “I think it’d be best if we speak in private, Buffy,” he not-so-subtly inclined, his eyes darting away from the blonde’s face to glance in her dimly lit room.

“Well I think it best that you leave me the hell alone, Riley,” Buffy replied scathingly, “so if you’ve got something to say, you say it here or you keep your peace.”

Riley was clearly debating for a moment, his eyes on the ceiling and his hands nervously fidgeting, but when he came to his decision and turned his gaze back on Buffy’s, it was cold. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he started, with a rough tone, “but I came here to ask who the hell you were dancing with at the Bronze on Friday.”

“What?” It took a moment for her to remember the events of the previous week, but as soon as she touched on the memory she felt a realistic ache begin to grow deep inside her—god, how could one dance give her more pleasure than any sex she’d ever had?

The crowd was thickening, much to the chagrin of the blonde, but Riley didn’t care, shouting the words so that anyone in the vicinity of the room could get a good idea of what was happening. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said threateningly. “Forrest told me that you were practically having se—”

“What the hell is going on here?” a voice yelled out, sounding suspiciously like the R.A.; immediately, the crowd began to disperse, people filing into the nearest room regardless of whether it was theirs or not. Riley and Buffy stood their ground, now openly glaring at one another, and Willow soon appeared; as soon as she saw Riley, her mouth became a fine line and her jaw set in a resolved expression.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she asked, her normally quiet voice now clear and commanding. Seeing the expression on her friend’s face, Willow glared in the other’s direction. “You have one minute to finish this up before I go and get you kicked out of here.”

Clearly, Riley hadn’t expected such an attitude from Willow, and he was momentarily taken-aback. But once he realized that the redhead was being serious and precious seconds were being used, he softened his expression and looked back towards the blonde still standing in her doorway. “Buffy, I… I didn’t come here to fight,” he started, ignoring the well-placed scoff from the girl now next to the blonde. “I just wanted to make things right—and to tell you that you don’t have to resort to hook-ups just to get me back. I want to give us another chance!”

There was a moment of silence as the two girls looked at one another and simultaneously raised eyebrows. Riley was still smiling widely as Buffy, mouth hanging open incredulously, slammed the door in his face.

“Oh my god!” Buffy moaned, hiding her face in her hands and peeking between her fingers to see Willows face. “Don’t laugh, I think that was the most mortifying moment of my life.”

“Aren’t you glad I came along and cleared the crowd, though?” she asked, trying her best to salvage her friend’s pride and look at the best in the situation. “I should totally have brought the R.A. and said that Riley was trying to break in and steal your underwear, or something.”

“Creepy, much?” Buffy asked, her hands gradually moving out of her face and finding shelter in her hair. “And even more so that he was, like, checking up on me. And that he thought my sexy dancing was attention-seeking!”

“What, like you wouldn’t do a sexy dance with, say, Xander to make Spike jealous?”

“I wouldn’t resort to something like that past the age of sixteen,” she wryly replied, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, I bet he was stalking me all day to make sure I’d be here alone so he could talk to me. Did you know he used to rehearse conversations to have with me before we dated?”

“And again, I ask, why the dateage?”

Buffy sank onto her bed and bounced for a moment, contemplating the question. “I just think I was trying to get out of the Parkangel funk,” she mused. “I mean, they were both very… untouchable, I guess, what with Angel being the high school god, and Parker being every freshman girl’s dream college guy.”

Willow sympathetically nodded, sitting down next to Buffy and giving her a light hug. “And Riley was tangible?”

“Exactly,” Buffy answered, grimacing. “I thought what I wanted wasn’t what I needed, so I let myself think that being with someone different would make everything magically work out okay.” Letting out a sigh, the blonde turned her gaze back to the textbooks still stacked on her desk. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but can we change the subject to school? I’ve still got almost all of that paper to do.”

“Oh, I forgot!” Willow jumped off the bed gleefully and grabbed her purse, reaching inside to pull out a sheaf of papers. “Tara and looked around her dorm room, and she said you might be interested in these.”

Buffy accepted the handwritten papers from her friend and quickly scanned through the pages, her face brightening almost unbelievably quickly. “I love your girlfriend,” she sighed, hugging Willow and going to the desk to put Tara’s report to good use.

As she settled herself back onto the chair and pointedly refused to look towards the drawer containing the notebook of doom, her eye was drawn to the glowing green numbers on her alarm clock. It was past midnight, and with a sinking sensation Buffy realized what that meant.

Pushing the lyrics of “Tuesday’s Gone” from her mind, she bent over the desk and began to write.

~*~

VVVVVVM! VVVVVVM! VVVVVVM!

“I’m drowning in footwear!” Spike yelped as he was jerked out of his sleep ungracefully, the harsh sound unceremoniously ending the strange dream he’d been having—something that he would definitely not be analyzing any time soon. He was still shaking off the last holds of sleep as a beeping sound alerted him to what had awakened him.

The cell phone thrown carelessly on his bedside table was now simultaneously chirping and vibrating, traveling dangerously close to the edge—the bleached blond fumbled madly for it and, upon securing it safely in his hand, flipped it open and muttered, “’Lo?”

“Good morning, Daddy!”

A sudden headache reminded him just why his sleep had been so sound—although the pain may have just been a result of hearing Drusilla’s manipulative inflection, and not the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed earlier that evening. “It may be morning in London, pet, but in California, those of us who are sane here are sleeping.” Although the time difference might just have nothing to do with it, now that I think about it, Spike wryly thought, sitting up in bed and pushing the matted mess of his bedclothes aside.

His response was the sound of the brunette’s girlish giggles, strangely distorted through the connection of the phone. “Such a funny boy, my William,” she remarked, the endearing tone in her voice causing a flood of memories to crash throughout Spike’s mind.

For a moment, he almost let himself smile, cherish the strange combination of innocence and depravity that had been his salvation from mediocrity. But the remembrance of their recent conversation, in which her tone had lacked any semblance of adoration, prevailed, and it was with a cold voice that he demanded, “What do you want?”

“To see the sunshine, of course,” she remarked, seemingly oblivious to his harsh tone. “My Spike, do you know you’re covered with it?”

“Not at the moment, Dru, since it’s the middle of the bleedin’ night!”

“The sunshine’s never really gone,” she whispered, as if telling a secret, “but rain is sure to come—you always did find yourself without an umbrella.”

“Thanks for the weather report,” Spike replied, rolling his eyes. “But I think it best that we end this now—and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t take to calling me at all hours of the night.”

“But the clouds—”

“Good night, Dru!” At that, he flipped the phone closed, the silence in the room an almost tangible presence as he realized just what day it was.

Wednesday.

“Bloody hell.”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Buffy said to herself, the mantra doing nothing to calm her raging nerves as she walked up the steps to Spike’s front door. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she groaned, fidgeting for a moment before forcing herself to reach out and knock on his door, repeating the action when the sound was so faint that she barely heard it.

The petite blonde, unsure of what to wear, went with casual—Spike had been dressed in a pretty relaxed way their last meeting—but was now wishing that she’d gone with professional—anything to distance herself from the strange connection she seemed to feel with the surprisingly young artist. But she forced a smile onto her face, and was the very image of calm and cool when said young man opened the door.

It was at the moment that they locked eyes and the burning embers of desire ignited her insides… it was at that moment that Buffy realized she wanted him. Utterly and truly, she wanted him, and it was a stubbornness inside of her that finally forced her to see that. God, how had it come to his? She’d met him once before, and she was already fawning over him like a teenager in love for the first time. And we all know how well those stories work out, her brain mutinously muttered, snapping the blonde out of her reverie to greet Spike.

“Good morning,” he replied, subtly yawning as she followed him through the door and into a different room than before—half of it was a full kitchen larger than her entire dorm room, and the other was a makeshift lounge of sorts.

“Sorry for getting you up this early,” Buffy said, catching his ill-concealed yawn and repressing one of her own. She noticed as he moved to the other side of the counter that his hair wasn’t slicked back as it had been their prior meeting, but that it was in soft curls close to his head—and he looked absolutely adorable. “If today’s not a good time—”

“It’s a perfect, pet. No time like the present, eh?” In truth, Spike was terrified. Yes, he was familiar with sketching the human anatomy, but his previous subjects had been so… sterile. Well, considering that his only prior experience with nearly-bare (choice word: nearly) anatomical sketches was in art school years before, in a crowded classroom and not in the privacy of his own home, there tended to be a lacking in the personality of the engagement. But now, the beautiful blonde goddess before him, still showing signs of her recent sleep with her mussed hair and sleepy eyes… How in the world was he going to distance himself from the lust, when he wanted her so?

“Good,” Buffy replied, absentmindedly. Glancing about the room, she noticed that a plush white sofa was moved into a clear space between an armchair and a picture window, the light streaming through the glass illuminating the space. “Is that…?”

“I was, erm, thinking for now that you could be there—pretty relaxing, I’ve been told,” he commented, resisting giving the blonde a lascivious look. Why he couldn’t just restrain himself and make it easier on the both of them, he had no idea, but there was no way in hell that he would do anything to make that easy smile on her face go away. Attempting to call at least a semblance of professionalism, he added, “We can start whenever you’re ready. There’s a robe on the sofa over there if you’d like to change into it.”

Buffy had no idea that the calm demeanor of William was little more than a façade of what he felt he should be doing in the situation. In fact, he was completely at a loss as to the etiquette of an artist towards his nude subject—but luckily for him, she was as in the dark as he was. As an art student, the blonde had partaken in anatomy classes similar to those Spike himself had gone through, but they were so cold, and unfeeling, and entirely unlike the tangible thread drawing the two closer and closer.

“I’ll go do that, then,” Buffy answered carefully, moving across the room and finding the garment just where he’d said it would be.

“I’m making coffee, if you want some in a minute,” he called when she left the room to go change in the restroom he’d showed her during her first visit.

“That’s great,” she replied, her voice slightly muffled after the click of a door shutting. Spike busied himself with the coffee pot, a recent purchase which he wasn’t exactly sure how to manage. He’d bought it, he reasoned, in case Clem ever stopped by to visit, not because of the blonde only a thin wall away and stripping her clothes from her body at that exact moment.

“Bugger.” At the thought of her golden tanned flesh, his black jeans became unbelievably tight, and his simple black t-shirt felt constricting and hot. “Okay, what to think about…” It was a not-too common game for the Englishman to play, as he usually had quite excellent control over the activities of his groin, but there was something in that blonde fireball that caused blood to rush in southward, and out of his brain. “Okay,” he repeated. “Michael Palin. The Tour de France. Rupert in a tutu—”

“What was that, Spike?” Just when he thought he’d finally conquered the minx’s seduction, she pranced into the room carrying an armful of clothes and wearing nothing but the thin cotton robe—why couldn’t he have given her something less flattering? Say, chain mail?

She’d look bloody gorgeous in anything, mate, so don’t start playing ‘What If,’ he told himself, trying not to look from her wide smile down to her perky breasts—was it cold?—or the golden thigh peeking from the fabric when she settled herself down in a chair. “Coffee?” he offered lamely, removing the pot from the maker before it had finished being filled, and only noticing the coffee was still dripping when it began to flow across his white marble countertops.

“Oh, no!” Buffy said, jumping up and rushing to help the transfixed and quite immobile artist. She quickly pushed a few buttons and managed to shut the machine off before the entire quart of black liquid managed to make its way on Spike’s counter and floor, and grabbed a few paper towels from the roll to soak up the mess. When she bent over to place a few on the floor, the curve of her bum was revealed to Spike’s open, gaping eyes; he was frozen to the spot, unable to look away and still wondering just what had happened to make the beautiful blonde bend over in front of him, her ass barely inches away from his denim-covered groin. If only he’d grasp those hips and grind himself into—

“So I take it you don’t drink a lot of coffee,” Buffy’s musical voice said when she straightened once more, turning to face him and paralyzing him again with her hazel green eyes—but the intensity in them was belied with a laughing, light humor.

“Not much,” he admitted, finally regaining the ability to form words. “Would you still like some? I can, uh, make a second attempt.”

“That’s okay,” she answered, finally giving into the urge to laugh out loud. “And I thought that I was a failure in the kitchen.”

“Oi!” he protested, “I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent chef. Just don’t understand the fascination you Yanks have with bitter black water, is all.”

“You have yet to prove it to me.” Was that a challenge? Their eyes met and she grinned, letting him know that it was exactly what it was.

“Oh, I’ll show you, baby,” he answered in a husky tone, smirking back and putting his tongue between his teeth.

Oh god, tongue thing, tongue thing! Buffy thought disconcertedly, but still smiling that wanton grin at Spike. Only when the clock chimed eleven did they tear their eyes off of one another, neither wanting to admit it but both openly appraising the other.

“Alright, pet,” Spike said, raising a hand to run through his hair. “I’d reckon it’s about time to get started on the artwork.”

“Okay,” she said, waiting until he moved to her side of the counter before following him towards the couch. She was trembling with anxiety, but there was also something in her, a vixen inside that couldn’t wait to throw off the thin black robe.

Spike was staring hard at the plush piece of furniture, concentration written on his features. “I think you should just lay back and get comfortable, and then we can work from there,” he said conversationally. “I’ll, erm, make a few sketches, so you don’t have to sit here for too long.” His voice cracked on ‘too,’ and Buffy raised an eyebrow, realizing that beneath the calm demeanor he was just as nervous as she. Well, if he could try to play it off…

“Okay,” she said, and began to untie the knot holding the piece of cloth together.

The blond’s bright blue eyes were stuck staring at her with shock. “I’ll just turn around, then,” he said, his voice cracking.

“No need,” she responded lightly, parting the edges of the garment and letting it slip to the floor and pool around her feet.

When the entirety of her curves was exposed, Spike somehow found himself stumbling backwards and graciously landing in the proper armchair. Buffy stared at him fiercely, a determination clear in her gaze which caught his eye, despite the clear view of her other, more intimate physical assets. But she looked away to settle herself down on the couch, and Spike couldn’t resist himself anymore—he had to drink in the gorgeous visage of her beauty.

She was thin, but obviously active—the slender structure common in young women. Drusilla had always been buxom and brazen, but there was a hint of innocence in Buffy, a slight blush tinting her smooth skin despite her confident words. When she laid out sideways on the sofa and stretched her arms above her head in a relaxed posture, her pert little breasts caught his eye, and Spike couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to wrap his lips around the pink nipple in the center. God, he was hard; his only relief was the convenient excuse of placing his sketchbook over his lap—otherwise, he was sure his desire would have been apparent.

Unfortunately for him, Buffy was all-too aware of just how much he wanted her. Sure, she couldn’t see the most obvious sign, but there were other, more subtle ways to see whether a guy wanted to “copulate.” For one, Spike was nearly panting, and his eyes had a glazed look in them as he openly appraised her body. He’s just doing his job, the logical side of her mind tried to explain.

Are you kidding? He’s all over you like hot on heat! the inner vixen proclaimed, much to Logic Buffy’s chagrin.

Even if he was, he is sooooo off limits—he’s your boss!

Not really, the minx wheedled. Technically, he’s not the one paying you—he’s kind of a coworker. So go for it!

We are not having this conversation right now, Logic Buffy said, the finality in her tone warning Minx to keep her conceptual mouth shut.

Shaking her head and trying to dispel the sudden bout of schizophrenia, Buffy looked over to Spike only to see him just as stationary as before. “Um, Spike?” she gently offered. “William?” Nothing. “Spike!” she shouted, finally breaking the bleached blond out of his reverie.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” He looked adorably guilty, and she couldn’t help but start to giggle.

“Just wondering whether you had something on your mind,” she airily replied.

“I’ve got something on my mind alright,” he answered, almost absentmindedly, with a husky tone that made Buffy’s extremities begin to tingle deliciously. With that statement, Spike lifted up an expensive artists’ pencil, studying the blonde’s body the entire time.

“How do I… look?” she asked uncertainly, her posture comfortable for her but unaware of how suitable it was for the painting.

“Fantastic,” he answered shortly, giving her a quick smile. “Why don’t you… tell me about school?”

The suggestion seemed strange considering the fact that she was currently lying nude in his living room and staring out huge windows at the Pacific Ocean and the pure white sky outside, but Buffy began to speak, telling Spike all about why she’d chosen to attend UCLA and how she’d adjusted—and started loving—college life.

By the time she was half-way through telling him about Kathy, her first roommate (who was literally from hell), Spike had outlined his drawing and done the most G-rated parts of the sketch; he had hoped that hearing her talk of platonic things like school would discourage the suggestive banter they seemed to fall into, but it did nothing to discourage frat-house fantasies from creeping into his mind.

You stupid prat, he said to himself, wincing at the reality of his surname, just get it done!

He was right. Cautiously, his eyes flicked upwards and drank in the visage of her smooth, sensual body, feeling as if he was sharing something intimate with her as he traced the curve of her breasts, shading in the slight shadow and rubbing a finger along the perfect nipple. Immediately, he felt himself harden; yet he forced himself to continue, glancing up at Buffy again to find her wide eyes locked on his own.

“Spike?”

“Hmmm?” he murmured, realizing that she’d asked him a question. His pencil moved down the taut muscles in her stomach and traced along her legs, forcing the thought of them wrapped around his waist out of his mind. A few quick smudges, and it was done—not that he really needed a guide sketch, when the image of her nude form was so very ingrained in his mind.

“I was just wondering who that was,” Buffy replied, indicating with a nod of the head towards a painting leaning against the wall. When Spike realized which she was referring to, he paled slightly and a pained look appeared on his face.

It had caught Buffy’s eye a few minutes earlier; the dark-haired woman was dressed in an antique fashion, in a dress similar to those in the late 19th Century, with a kind of aged wisdom in her oddly youthful face. Her eyes were half-closed and an expression of superior knowledge was apparent in her wide smile. The manner of dress suggested the painting was not modern, but Buffy quickly came to the conclusion that William himself had painted it—and it was apparently a subject of difficulty for him.

“That,” he said finally, “is Drusilla.” The pencil had stilled on the paper, and Spike soon set both aside, rising to his feet and walking towards the kitchen. “Break time,” he said shortly, opening a cabinet and pulling out several bottles of alcohol, silently looking each over before settling on the Jack Daniels. “Would you like a drink?”

Oops, Buffy thought, casting a surreptitious glance at the painting once more before cautiously rising to her feet and pulling on her robe. “Oh, is it alright if I get up?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, pet,” he replied. “The sketch is done, if you’d like to take a look.”

Do I want to? she wondered silently, advocating to damage control first and satisfy her curiosity later. “No, I’m fine,” she started to answer, when she strode towards the kitchen towards the man drinking straight from the bottle. Before she could reach him, however, a strange feeling resonated through the floor, and within moments, the floor began to violently rock.

“Ah!” Buffy yelped, the rolling of the earth throwing her forward—and straight into the arms of Spike as they both tumbled to the floor.

The walls shook, paintings crashed to the floor, and the entire house seemed dangerously close to collapsing into the azure depths of the Pacific Ocean; yet the two prone bodies remained markedly still, the slightly dazed young woman lying beneath the fit body of the blue-eyed male, slipping into the fathoms of his gaze as the rolling calmed to a gentle rumble, and then stopped.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was that of their heavy breathing, both trying to convince themselves that it was because of the shaking of the room, not the earth-shattering realizations that crashed upon them when falling into one another’s arms. Buffy thought his weight would have been crushing her, but it was an oddly comforting presence—and, upon registering exactly what happened, it was very welcome indeed.

Spike saw the second that she went from confused to panicked and he rolled off of her form, inaccurately interpreting the reason behind her reaction. “Are you alright, love?” he asked quickly, considering standing but unsure of whether his legs would hold his weight. Yeah, the earthquake had been intense, but not so much as the feel of her petite form beneath his. He instead opted to roll onto his back, lying next to Buffy as her breathing quickly escalated to hyperventilation. “Buffy, kitten, calm down,” he said nervously, turning on his side and hesitantly reaching out to turn her face towards his. “It’s over, sweetheart, there’s no need to be afraid.” Unbidden, the pet names rolled off his lips, but she didn’t complain. When her hazel eyes finally looked up and met his deep sapphire gaze, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the panic was gone, he could tell, but it revealed upon its departure a deep mark of hurt and fear in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she murmured, sitting up and shaking out her long hair. Gazing about the room and seeing numerous articles having fallen from their once precarious perches, she quickly looked back to Spike and pulled him up next to her. “Are you okay?” she asked frantically. “No aches, pains, hurts, broken bones, concussions?”

“I’m as right as rain, pet,” he answered soothingly, reaching out a hand and tentatively smoothing her disheveled hair. “How about you? You seemed rather skittish there.”

“Oh me? I’m fine!” Buffy’s voice had reached a rather high-pitched octave as she stood on surprisingly firm legs—and grabbed a bottle of tequila that had miraculously remained on the shelf. “Drink?”

A few minutes, and a few quick calls to Giles and Willow, later, the two were seated cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room, most of the broken things having been swept to a pile that Spike would go through later. Two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila perched between their forms, and neither person spoke until a few swallows of alcohol had been taken.

“It was my first,” Spike said abruptly, smiling as the girl before him downed a shot and made a face of utter disgust.

“What was that?” After the consumption of a surprisingly small amount of alcohol, Buffy seemed to be reverting to her normal self; still, it concerned him as to what had frightened her so, and to take advantage of the situation to ask a few questions… well, he never said he was an Angel, right?

“Earthquake,” he clarified, appraising her expression carefully before asking, “Yours?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughed, giving him a wry grin. “Born-and-bred California girl here, Spike. Not my first.”

He chuckled along with her for a moment, then explained his question. “I was only asking, kitten, because you seemed a bit alarmed and all.”

“Oh, that,” she said grumpily, the frown on her face appearing at lightening speed. “It’s just that Earthquakes… Well, let’s just say they don’t inspire thoughts of hugs and puppies.”

Buffy was strangely closed off, and Spike knew there was something more to the story than she was revealing. Knowing she would most likely turn skittish on the subject if he pressed (where was all this strange insight into her behavior coming from, anyway?), the peroxide blond merely refilled her shot glass and with a casual tone, asked, “Want to talk about it? I’ve got some right embarrassing tales to tell, myself.”

The blonde girl pulled her knees up to her chest and let out a derisive laugh. “It’s not so much an embarrassing tale as a—” She stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and when she turned her gaze back to his face, Spike knew he’d been caught. “You’re talented, has anyone ever told you that?”

Play it cool, he thought, quirking an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, pet, usually one’s aware of their skills when they’re a professional artist.”

“And there you go again, proving my point.” Deftly grabbing the bottle and refilling her glass, she drank the shot and ‘icked’ before she spoke. “You know exactly what I meant y ‘talented,’ so don’t go all wide-eyed Oxford student on me.” When Spike looked away, grinning but obviously disgruntled about being figured out, Buffy let out another laugh of a much more genuine variety. “Not that I’m criticizing,” she clarified. Spike looked up again upon hearing the kinder note in her voice. There was respect, clear and unhidden, in her gaze. “You don’t have to go all Bond on me to satisfy your curiosity.” A smile that melted his heart. “You want to know why I hate earthquakes?”

“Yeah,” he replied simply. He couldn’t tell if she was drunk, but by the tingling he felt in his extremities, it was a distinct possibility. Still, the curiosity of what could have caused the bright, cheerful girl before him to such a level of distress was too strong. That, and he felt that what she really needed was to get this out, to reveal to someone he thoughts and feelings instead of repressing them.

Buffy seemed to muse for a few seconds, pouring herself another shot and drinking it without a reaction (testament to his early hypothesis of inebriation). She let out a sigh, and then finally spoke. “It sounds sort of ridiculous when I say this, but… have you ever had a near-death experience?” At the shake of Spike’s head, she met his serious expression with a wry smile. “Mine so much wasn’t ‘near’ as ‘right freaking there.’”

“You… died?” The face that this bright, vivacious girl—woman, he amended—had been so close to something so dark was mind boggling. “Well, pet, I certainly can’t blame you for hating earthquakes now.”

“It was so strong,” she said softly, staring at a spot on the floor and speaking as if she hadn’t heard a word Spike had said. “I mean, one second, I was there, at the beach with my friends, swimming and laughing, and having fun… And the next, I was lying on the beach with two cracked ribs coughing up water and staring into all their scared faces…” She let out a shaky breath, then made an attempt at a smile. “The scariest part wasn’t the waking up, though—it was realizing that I had been dead for two minutes, and during that time, there was… nothing.”

A heavy silence set into the room, the two blondes sitting amongst the wreckage deep in though. “When did that happen?” Spike asked finally, unable to tear his eyes off the eerily calm woman before him.

“When I was sixteen,” she replied,” her voice wavering for the first time since telling her story. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” she hastily began to say, rising to her feet and starting away from their spot on the floor. “I should get going, I should never have—”

A firm hand wrapped around her wrist stopped her escape, and Buffy found herself turning almost as if compelled to do so. Spike’s brilliant blue eyes were darkened with a fierce emotion, and as his strong hands slid down the smooth skin of her wrist, he traced the curve of her palm and linked his fingers with her own. At the feel of their palms pressing intimately into one another, Buffy let out a slight gasp, her mind moving so quickly through all the possible outcomes of this strange (but altogether welcome) event that the scenarios all blended together in a blur. The strange whirlwind was reflected in Spike’s own imagination, but his body moved without any consideration of his action’s implications, only wanting to inch closer and closer to Buffy until their chests and lips touched, until he could feel every inch of her frame, until…

But there was something that stilled his movements—there was apparent desire in Buffy’s hazel eyes, but amidst her wanton gaze was a tinge of fear, of apprehension…

It was enough to make him pull away.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, both knowing that his apology was not in reference to her confession only moments before.

“It’s alright,” she said, playing along but having to look away to hide the awful rejected expression on her face. “I only get wiggy when there’s earthquakes, so don’t start thinking all natural disasters set me off like this.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if they did,” he answered. “Everyone’s got a trigger; some are less avoidable than others.” Spike found himself taking a surreptitious glance towards the portrait now leaning sideways on the ground, not really caring when the other blonde’s eyes followed his path and stared at the painting as well.

“Who was she?” Buffy asked simply, giving him a weak smile as he joined her on the floor again.

Reaching forward, Spike picked up the bottle of tequila on the ground and poured himself another shot, emptying the remaining contents of the bottle into the other small glass. Huh. He could’ve sworn that bottle was unopened. “Drusilla,” he finally answered.

“Yeah, we’ve established that already,” Buffy pressed; now that she’d confessed her own secret, there was no way that she would allow Spike the privilege of secrecy as well. “Who was she to you?”

“My salvation,” he breathed instantly, reverence clear in his voice. God, how could he repress those memories when he found himself staring into those beautiful dark eyes? The day they’d met after he’d been rejected yet again, Drusilla grabbing him by the hand and leading him to her home where they made love for hours, rain pounding on the windows unnoticed by the enraptured occupants inside. When they’d managed to leave her place and make it over to his, he spent hours painting, his muse overwhelmed with feelings of inspiration, passion, and beauty. Everything had been perfect, the wonderful darkness corrupting the light of his innocence and bringing with it his first success. The first painting he’d sold had solidified his confidence in himself, and after that, his life had been perfect.

Key words? Had been.

But at that moment in time, sitting amidst the rubble with a rather drunk composition and the remains of his artwork scattered about him—this had to be his expulsion from heaven.

Or maybe, he thought, when the light of the setting sun poured through the wide windows and illuminated the golden face before him, he had finally been released from the incarceration of hell.

She is truly beautiful, William thought, tilting his head to the side and smiling at the patiently waiting woman before him. Taking a deep breath, he finally found his voice and spoke. “Drusilla was the first woman I ever loved,” he started. “I was young, unsuccessful, hopelessly romantic in the pathetic, unrequited sort of way, when she found me and put that spark in me to create.” Spike let out a chuckle, lifting the shot glass to his lips and inclining his head in a gesture of derision. “I think she may have taken it with her when she left,” he said, swallowing the alcohol with not a grimace. “But I can’t blame her for it—we grew apart, that’s what people do. I just regret that we had to end on these terms, this sort of strange estrangement. You understand?”

“Definitely,” Buffy replied, thinking back on the inevitable discomfort she felt upon making contact with her father. “Do you… still love her?”

He considered the question a moment, taking the time to answer it as honestly as possible. Did Spike still really love Dru? Only a few months ago, there would have been no doubt in his mind as to the answer to that question, but now, considering recent events… No, he no longer felt that immense desire to share his imaginings with the world when he looked into her eyes, nor the equally passionate need to join himself with her intimately. Being fully and completely honest with himself, Spike came to a conclusion. “I said I’d always love her,” he began, “but sometimes two people find themselves in different places—and I’m not talking geographically—when the things they felt just don’t exist anymore.” Huh. There was no anger, resentment, or, really, emotion whatsoever. Simply the realization that their times together had been wonderful, but that it was time to move on.

And when the blonde before him took her last shot of alcohol, the endearment he felt seeing the silly look on her face made it all too apparent where his heart was leading him once more.

The tequila bottle was quickly drained in the duration of the afternoon, and a few hours, many bottles of water, and innumerable saltine crackers later, the two blondes managed to sober up enough to drag themselves out of the disorganized house and into Spike’s black Desoto parked on the street, the owner of the car convinced that his companion was still too inebriated to make her way back to her dorm room at night.

“I’m fine, Schpike,” Buffy slurred, as she slid onto the bench seat and fell over onto the driver’s side. “I just need to walk it off.”

“Yeah, and some li’l nasty’ll find you in your walking and make a nice treat of you,” he muttered half to himself as he moved around the car and slipped onto the seat as well, gently pushing Buffy up so he could situate himself. Just as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive, he found a sleeping blonde resting against his right arm, snoozing away to the tunes of the Ramones. “Walk it off? Yeah soddin’ right,” he said to himself, heading in the direction of where he knew UCLA to be located and trying not to jostle the girl next to him.

There was just one problem with the situation—she kept slipping and sliding, and it was really quite distracting, Spike concluded—really, almost to the point at which his driving could be disrupted. Slowly and gently, he snaked his arm around her body and pressed her sleeping form against his chest, her head finding a pillow on his shoulder and her breath teasing the junction of his neck.

They rode that way in considerable silence, the only sounds coming from Spike’s softly-playing CD player (the punk music sounding really rather strange at this volume, he noted), until they began to near the campus. Pulling over on one of the darker streets, Spike killed the engine and slowly began waking the blonde up.

It proved to be a more daunting task than previously suspected. He poked, he prodded, he yelled, he shook—only when he turned the radio onto one of those nancy-boy stations and turned the volume up did the blonde begin to stir. “Wow, kitten, that was some nap you took,” he gently teased, when Buffy sat up and gave him a sleepy look of disdain.

“Where are we?” she mumbled, opening an eye wearily and lifting her head up. She’d been leaning against something nice, warm—living. She cautiously opened the other eye and realized that she was pressed against Spike’s chest, with his arm securely around her shoulders.

“Oh!” Spike jumped, retracting his arm and moving as far towards the door as he could, a strange warm feeling in his face as he realized he was blushing. “We’re a few blocks from the school—I figured you wouldn’t like it much to open your eyes and be faced with the commotion and such of the busier streets.”

“You’re all too right,” she muttered, squinting her eyes shut for a moment and rubbing her temples until her head began to clear—ever so slightly, at least. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you then,” she said, finding the door handle and reaching for it before a hand snaked out and held the metal shut.

“Are you crazy?” he exclaimed, the blonde wincing at the volume of his voice. “Sorry, he muttered sheepishly, until he remembered his reason for incredulity and recalling his previous attitude. “You’re not going anywhere alone in your state.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Buffy snapped, in a harsher tone than she intended. When Spike looked away to hide the flash of hurt, she winced and reached out to touch his arm. “I didn’t mean to be mega-bitch, Spike, but I can take care of myself,” she clarified.

“Don’t care,” he said shortly.

“God, you’re a real pain in the ass sometimes!” the blonde girl answered icily, glaring in his direction. “Acting all noble when you’re the one who got me drunk in the first place!”

“I—got you—I did not get you drunk!” he sputtered, plain disbelief in his voice and expression. “If I recall correctly, you…” He trailed off at that, a thoughtful look appearing on his face. “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t recall at all.” When Buffy raised her eyebrows and smirked, he quickly added, “But I’m still not letting you walk to your dorm alone.”

“Like you could stop me,” she said tauntingly, and reached for the door handle again, opening the door and stepping out of the car into the cool January weather. Just as she thought she’d won, she heard a door slam behind her and turned to see Spike catching up with her—and wearing an interesting article of clothing that she had yet to see on him.

The black leather duster swirled about his thin form as he pulled it on, stalking up towards her as she subconsciously waited for him. It looked… good, she thought, a small smile appearing on her face as the inner vixen made an appearance for the first time in a while. Can’t you think of anything better than ‘good?’ she asked, suggesting, hot, sexy, scrumptious, yummy, lickable—

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” she said, the vixen yammering away despite herself.

“Pot, kettle, black,” he pronounced slowly, smiling, and, shaking her head, Buffy began to lead him towards the campus, realizing that they were parked only a few blocks away from the Bronze.

When she told him as such, a memory stirred within his mind. “What’s the club called again, love?” he asked suddenly.

“The Bronze,” she answered distantly, kicking at a can in the alley they passed through without paying much attention to the question.

Spike was silent after that, thinking back on a pretty blonde waitress, whose petite body he’d grinded against, who’d made him hotter than he’d been in a while, who flashed a flushed smile at him during his flirtations and not returned. It can’t be, he told himself, eyeing the girl next to him warily as she chattered about something or another. Probably a lot of blonde waitresses, with thousand-watt smiles and cute embarrassed faces and amazing bodies and—

“Spike?” He suddenly realized that in all of her maundering she’d addressed something to him.

“Hmm, pet?” he replied, eyeing her questioningly as she stopped. There was a standoffish look on her face but her gaze was not on him—it was instead fixed on a group of young men exiting the bar a few shops down the street and heading their way.

“Let’s cross the street or something.” Her voice was high with something—Nervousness? Apprehension? Fear?—and he immediately complied, crossing after a truck passed them and moving to the other side of the road, the blonde girl hurriedly striding down the sidewalk and just starting to relax, when a voice called out her name.

“Buffy!” Both Spike and the spoken-of turned, the latter groaning when her worst fears were confirmed. Riley Finn was walking purposefully towards them, and the look on his face was not friendly; not only that, he was backed up by his lackeys Forrest and Graham, who were eyeing them with just as much aversion as their leader.

“What an annoying surprise,” Buffy remarked idly, rolling her eyes and stepping forward to stand directly in front of Riley, his two friends standing slightly behind him and Spike somewhat behind her. “Do you have something to say, or are you going to harass me again? Smaller audience this time.”

“Nice try at the innocence, Buffy,” he coldly said, narrowing his eyes. “Forrest, have you seen this guy before?”

“Damn right I have,” he said, crossing his arms before his chest. “Dancing with your ever-faithful girlfriend right here at the Bronze last week.”

“I can’t believe this!” Buffy exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. “I work with Spike, and didn’t meet him until this weekend, so you can leave me the hell—”

“See, that’s where you’re being untruthful,” Graham interrupted. “Because Forrest and I both saw you with this guy—he doesn’t exactly blend, you know.”

“I don’t believe this,” Buffy said again, looking back at her companion with an exasperated expression on her face. “Spike, tell them that we didn’t meet until Sunday.”

“And that’s where I stop listening,” Riley said, before Spike could speak. “Because I couldn’t care less what lies this asshole’s got to say to cover up for your own, flat-out whorish—”

Before another word had been spoken, a blur of black leather rushed forward and Riley dropped to the ground heavily, his nose bleeding profusely as Spike’s clenched fist lowered slowly, his intense blue gaze turning to Forrest and Graham—who ran.

“You,” Spike began, his voice full of fury. “You stay away from Buffy, and leave her bloody well alone.”

When Riley managed a nod, the peroxide blond turned back to the stunned girl he was with and grabbed her hand, leading her towards the vast expanse of lawn that led to the dorm rooms. Buffy quickly walked along with him, unable to form words other than those indicating the direction of her dorm room. They passed a number of students traipsing about the campus, and learned from hearing snatches of conversation that the lights in a number of the dorms were out.

To say Buffy was stunned would have been an understatement. Yes, she had known that there would have been some sort of confrontation, especially considering Riley’s possessive accusations and disillusioned, “charitable” attempts to get back together—but that Spike had flown off the handle like that, and hit him when he said that to her… She had never expected that.

A part of her was saying that she should be making Spike leave, should be getting as far away from him as possible and keeping a safe distance from then on. But, her heart argued, there was no indication that he’d been violent before—and since when was her heart acting like she was considering Spike’s relationship in a more than professional sense?

Um, since forever, the heart pointed out, leaving the blonde with a frown on her face. She couldn’t deny the presence of excitement coursing through her veins along with adrenaline and that overwhelmed feeling she’d been so used to the past few years; nor could she deny the questions flitting through her mind—mostly, what had made Spike react so strongly to Riley’s insult?

It wasn’t the way a coworker, or boss, or whatever would have treated the situation, and there was really no use trying to pass his behavior off like that. But admitting that she believed Spike felt more for her than their barely platonic interactions would dictate was a slippery slope, that forced her to acknowledge her own budding thoughts and feelings.

When she had confessed her traumatic event to him, she had no idea that she was doing more than getting the repressed emotions on the matter off her chest—she was, unknowingly and unwittingly, releasing that block on her heart that she’d put in place after her mother’s death, that had protected her from vulnerability and the weakness that she so feared. But there was something just so open and honest about Spike that caused those walls to crumble even before she realized what was happening, and before she knew it, she had begun to fall for him.

And then, as they walked quickly through the dark pathways to her dorm building, his hand still tightly (although not uncomfortably) gripping hers, she came to terms with what she’d been trying to deny, to explain, to repress—but despite all the strangeness that came from knowing him less than a week, and only having spent a few days with him, the chemistry was undeniable.

She wanted him, and felt that the want could move from need and then on in a very short time. There was only two things that she could do—stay and let herself float down that dark and unfamiliar path of unrestrained passion; or run.

And as they approached the doors of Stevenson Hall, Buffy realized that the time for her decision had already come upon her.

A laughing couple exited the doors of Stevenson Hall, unnoticed by Buffy and Spike. The former was currently struggling with the self-imposed boundaries on her heart, but the latter, unbeknownst to her, was facing the same battle.

It had all been so fast, William realized, his mind spinning with an awe at the strength of his feelings towards Buffy after such a short time. He’d long since stopped denying the attraction and connection between them, yet his reaction to Riley (what kind of a name was that, anyway?) was still a surprise. Everything had just been so fast!

And even more shocking than his little spree of violence, Spike noted, was what had spurred it on—that lithe blonde body he’d cradled in his hands had been none other than the one currently standing before him—and obviously struggling to find the words to say something, her gaze securely settled on the ground before her…

“Who was that?” Spike asked abruptly, Buffy letting out a sigh of relief at his segue into conversation. God, how was he going to explain to her that Captain Cardboard hadn’t been delusional in his accusations? Could he tell her?

“That charming example of America’s fraternity members was my ex, Riley.” Her shoulders heaved in a big sigh. “And also a testament to my bad taste in men.”

Hearing her take even a bit of responsibility for Riley’s behavior set Spike’s blood boiling. “Can’t really call it a taste in men when he’s no more’n a boy, pet.”

“I guess you could say that,” she answered, staring at the door. There were no lights on inside, so she gathered that Stevenson Hall was one of the dorms lacking power. At that thought, a loud group of obviously drunken students exited, the door remaining open—God, could this symbolism get any cornier?

“Listen, Buffy, about Captain Cardboard—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted, managing a smile at his forlorn expression brightening at her words. “He was being a complete ass, and I probably would have done the… Captain Cardboard?”

“And she catches it five minutes later,” Spike said, deadpan, his eyes twinkling with mirth. Buffy stared at him incredulously for a second, then burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry you had to hear what he said,” she said after a few moments, smiling up at Spike and almost shocked at the clear affection in his eyes as he stared fondly down upon her. “I promise I don’t get drunk and get sexually harassed with all of my coworkers.” As soon as the words slipped from her lips, her eyes popped open wide and her hands immediately went to cover her mouth. “And that came out so not like I meant it too.”

“You’re forgiven.” God, he was just being so nice to her. And looked so sexy in that leather duster—how did she even know what a duster was? And he smelled so good, even from several feet away. And who could honestly say that a guy had punched out an ex for them?

There really was no decision to make, she realized. “Hey, Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?” She was looking up at him with a cute li’l innocent expression, and it was all he could handle not to push her against the wall and ravage her senseless.

“Do you think you could come inside and talk to me for a few minutes… in private?” The last words were added as another raucous group went inside the building.

She expects me to be able to verbally answer her? Spike thought, his jaw having dropped at her words and forgetting how to function in that tricky activity of speaking. “S-sure, kitten.”

“Alright,” Buffy answered, moving through the still open door and making her way through the mass of chattering students in the darkened hallway until she reached her door. Looking back, Spike was right behind her, looking more than a little flustered at the commotion. It was all she could manage to give him an encouraging smile—meant a little more for herself than him, as butterflies began to go crazy in her stomach with what she was about to say to him.

Buffy was more than a little jaded about things with love, especially when it came down to matters of strong feelings in short time capacities. The moment she’d seen Angel, she’d declared her life’s love for him and awkwardly watched him for months, until he finally noticed her and they’d started going out. But she hadn’t even known him when her feelings began, and this inconvenient detail had been vital in her own idealistic assessment of his character.

So these alarmingly strong feelings towards Spike, after such a short time, did just that—frightened her. Sure, she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it was the honest truth. Buffy had been so cynical about relationships and feelings for so long that when she actually felt something—something real—she was afraid to admit that it could be true. And because of this, it was with more than a little nervousness that Buffy opened the door to her room and led him into the darkened space.

“I’ll get some light in here in a second,” she said quickly, throwing her purse down on her bed before opening Willow’s closet door and pulling out the huge box of candles. “My roommate,” she answered, scrutinizing Spike’s raised eyebrow even in the darkness. Opening the box, she grabbed several thick tapers and set them on the various surfaces in the room, before rummaging through the box again—and dropping it on her bed with frustration.

“What’s the matter?” Spike asked, realizing the door to the hall was still open and shutting it softly.

Buffy let out an exasperated growl. “Can’t find any matches.”

Suddenly, a light flared from the darkness, following a soft clicking sound. Buffy looked towards the small flame and saw Spike’s face illuminated, a strange expression on his face as he lowered the lighter to the candles on Buffy’s desk. Her eyes were locked on his as each of the candles was lit, a soft glow in the room making her hair and skin completely effulgent.

The moment the word flitted into his mind, he was certain that she was the beautiful girl he’d danced with at the club, and thinking of all the life inside of her—the life he’d seen first hand the past few days, and that he wanted to take hold of and never let go. After Dru’s abandonment, he felt so cold and dark inside, but being with Buffy… he felt like she was slowly breathing life back inside of him.

The softly flickering light let her finally see Spike’s eyes clearly, and she was shocked with what beheld her. He wore his heart on his sleeve, she was sure of it—how else would she be able to read every emotion so clearly, see the depth of his awe and amazement at being with her? Because those feelings were so very clear to her, and as he crouched on the floor in front of her and looked at her with a questioning expression, the words suddenly dislodged themselves and she was speaking.

“I like you,” she said softly, her voice low and hushed in sharp contrast to the commotion outside of the room.

“I’d hope so,” he answered, a slight smile on his lips—but there was a nervousness in his eyes that lingered.

Taking his nerves as his misconception of her words, she explained. “I mean… Spike it’s only been a few days, but I really like you. And I think you might know what I mean…” Her voice trailed off and her chest tightened when his smile faded and he rose to his feet, anxiously pacing the room. Shit, Buffy thought, seeing Spike’s clear distress and realizing that she may have just pushed it too far. “I’m not saying that anything has to come of it—”

“Bloody hell, woman, don’t you see that it already has?” He stopped moving and stared at her across the room, as she rose to her feet and unconsciously crossed to be closer to him.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked urgently, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to face her when he looked away. “Spike, what are you saying?”

His jaw ticked when he tensed, swallowing harshly—and when her hands slid down his leather-covered arms, she could feel his body shudder. “Are you here with me?” he asked suddenly, the vulnerability in his voice achingly raw at that moment.

“I just said I was,” she replied evenly. There was a pause.

“I’m afraid to say this,” Spike rasped, staring down at her fiercely before looking away once more. “God, I’m such a git sometimes.”

“What is it?” Buffy pushed, her hands slipping into his own and fingers linking with his.

There was another moment of silence, before Spike spoke. “I don’t want you to think I was lying to you, or deceiving you,” he started, “but I’ve only just realized this tonight. And it’s about what Riley said.”

The name was spoken with such distaste that it took a second for Buffy to realize what Spike said. “Riley?” she questioned. “What about it?”

“You waitress,” he said abruptly by means of reply. “At the Bronze, yeah?” Her nearly imperceptible nod was his answer. “What those idiots said, about seeing you with me—”

“What?” Buffy interrupted, not so much as a question as a catalyst to his revelation. But she was starting to realize what he was going to say, and there was a feeling in her gut that she didn’t like. He’s not going to say what you think he’s going to say, she tried to tell herself, but as the words continued to slip from his lips, all efforts at denial were futile. His hand slipped away from hers and the lack of his touch was almost painful.

“They weren’t lying.”

If there had been moments of silence in the room before, none compared to the deafening hush that echoed throughout the space. Buffy stared, her lips slightly parted as she drew in a breath of shock, but Spike couldn’t bring himself to look away, trying not to give her a reason to believe he felt responsible for a lie, and not a simple misunderstanding.

“I didn’t see your face,” Buffy said meekly, her voice tinier than he’d ever heard it before. “Did you like what you felt? Think you could just play it off and maybe get something again—”

“It wasn’t like that!” Spike roared, anger at the growing strength of her accusations overpowering his restraint. “I was drunk, pet, and didn’t even remember what you looked like until you said where you worked, and those gits—”

“So you were so drunk not to remember the girl you practically fucked on the dance floor, but not the name of the damn nightclub you got wasted in?!”

“As a matter of fact, yeah!”

“Well I don’t believe you!”

“Well you can just—”

Spike broke off mid-sentence as the lights in the room flared back on; both in the room looked up at the interruption, and before the irate Brit could finish his sentence, the door swung open to reveal a tall redhead bounding through the doorway.

“Hey Buffy, I just got back from Tara’s and you’re sitting in the dorm with a guy—THE guy, and wow, I probably should be getting out of here—”

“No, Willow,” Buffy said quickly, grabbing her roommate’s arm as she retreated and stopping her from her escape. “William was just going.”

“William?” Willow squeaked, eyeing the glowering man with the faintest trace of shock. “As in Pratt?”

“One and the same, love,” Spike replied, his voice cold even while his gaze burned into Buffy’s eyes. And without another word, he stalked out.

“Wow,” Willow said, when the door slammed as he exited. “Are you aware that he’s the mysterious dancer guy?”

“Yup,” Buffy said wearily, sinking down onto the bed. “And therein lies the problem.”

“What do you mean?” Willow asked, settling down beside her friend and looking at her with concern. “From what you’ve said, there was major sparkage with Spike—and since you know that the sexy dance was with him, it’s more than sparkage—it’s proven!”

“But he lied to me, Wills!” Only at that moment did the redhead see the hurt in Buffy’s eyes. “He said he didn’t remember, that he didn’t know it was me until Riley said—”

“Whoa, you two ran into Riley? Why? And why exactly was he… here?” She felt weird posing the question, but that was definitely required info from her friend. Wincing at the thought, Buffy quickly laid out the events of the day, turning her gaze away from her friend’s when she spoke of the drinking and involuntarily grinning at the memory of Spike clocking her ex in the face.

“Wow,” Willow said, when Buffy finished her recount of the fight. “Then what happened?”

“Well he practically dragged me over here and we stood outside for a minute, and then…” Her voice trailed off. “I wanted him to come in so I could tell him how I was starting to fall for him.”

Willow’s eyes bulged comically at Buffy’s words. “You? Admit feelings? For a guy?”

“You’re the one not driving stick anymore, Willow,” Buffy teased, but then nodded her acceptance of her friend’s meaning. “I was surprised too, when it came out,” she said, her heart pounding a little faster at remembering the intensity of her confession. “And he told me he was there with me, that he felt it too—but then he had to go ruin it all and say that Riley wasn’t being a lying jerk.”

Willow was quiet a moment, but her friend could tell she was merely gathering her words and thinking of what to say. “Buffy,” she said after a moment, “do you really think he would tell you that if he didn’t care?”

“Why would he have kept it from me if he did?” the blonde countered, her voice rising in indignance. “I don’t know why he said it, but it was the fact that he lied—”

“Did you ever give him enough credit to think that he was telling the truth?” The question was soft-spoken, but it hit Buffy like a ton of bricks. There it was, exactly what she’d never even thought of considering—that the smiling, considerate man that she’d quickly fallen for wasn’t deceiving her. That he was being honest. And, although Willow hadn’t gone as far to say it, that he was telling the truth because he didn’t want a lie to come between them later.

In the future.

“Oh my god,” Buffy murmured, Willow’s understanding face blurring before her as her eyes swam with unshed tears. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“Only one way to fix it,” Willow answered, putting her arm around Buffy’s shoulders in a supportive gesture.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Buffy said, an idea quickly forming in her mind as she stood and grabbed her purse off her bed. “Willow, do you think Tara’d be able to drive me somewhere?”

“I’ll tell her to meet us at the car,” Willow said, flicking off the lightswitch and following the determined blonde out the door as she set out to make things right. The candles in the room remained lit, their flickering flames burning as the room once again was swept into darkness.

The streets were dark when Tara pulled her car up behind Spike’s Desoto parked in front of his house. Well, ‘parked’ wasn’t exactly the optimum word to describe its position. More like, ‘crashed into the mailbox, one tire up on the curb, headlights still on, obviously displeased driver.’

“Ouch,” Tara commented, eyeing the black car warily. “You sure you want to do this right now Buffy? Maybe he needs some time to cool off?”

“There’s no way I’m being avoido gal tonight,” Buffy said by means of reply. “It’s my stupid conclusion jumping brain that got him that way, so I’m going to make this better.”

“Way to go Buffy!” Willow quietly cheered, looking back towards her friend from the passenger seat and giving her an encouraging smile. “Now get in there and get it fixed!”

The blonde quickly gathered her things, took a steely breath, reached for the door handle—and promptly chickened out. “I can’t!” she moaned. “What if he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if he hates me forever?” Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “What if I get fired? What am I going to do for food?”

“Relax,” Tara said soothingly, joining her girlfriend in looking back at the nervous girl in her car. “Willow and I will pick you up whenever you call us—we’re doing a study night tonight, so we’re free whenever.”

“And don’t even start worrying about food, Buffy,” Willow chimed in. “I mean, what are friends for, when they don’t supply daily rations of yogurt and fruit? Which is pretty much all you eat anyway?”

“Blegh,” Buffy answered, smiling back at her friends. “You guys are the best. Okay, I’m doing this.” She reached out once more for the door handle, and, squeezing her eyes shut, pulled it. “I’ll call you guys later, and thanks again!” she said, stepping out of the car and shutting the door. Taking another deep breath, she turned her eyes towards Spike’s house and slowly began to walk towards the entrance.

“Okay, Buffy, you can do this,” she said to herself, as she passed through the gate and moved closer to the looming front door. “Third time you’ve been here, shouldn’t the nerve thing be going away? Third time’s charming, or whatever?”

Finally, her feet brought her before the large wooden surface, and with a tentative hand, she reached out and knocked.

She hardly remembered to breathe in the moments that passed in silence, until she heard the familiar steps behind the door, and it swung open. Spike looked at her in unmasked surprise for a moment, until his expression hardened. “What do you want?” His voice was angry, but she could see the underlying hurt in his red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes.

“Okay, I deserve that,” she answered sheepishly, giving him an apologetic smile. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t bloody care,” he replied, but he stepped away and left the door open for her to follow him through.

“I wanted to talk.” He made no sign of hearing her, only moved through the hallway into the room they’d been in earlier that day. Most of the fallen objects had been picked up, but Dru’s portrait was still lying haphazardly on the floor. “About what you told me—”

“Listen, if you’re here to berate me further, I don’t want to hear any of it,” Spike snapped, setting himself down upon the couch and sprawling out. It was at that moment that Buffy saw something lying on the coffee table, next to a bottle of Jack Daniels—a drawing.

Her breath caught in her throat as she drank in the image, the messily drawn sketch that had obviously been done on a whim. The lines were uneven and almost crude, but it was undeniable who was in the picture, the elusive figure that was so close, but almost holding herself away.

Her.

As soon as Spike saw where her gaze had turned, he jumped to his feet and snatched the notebook up, breaking Buffy out of her unintentional reverie with a pointed glare. “I didn’t come here to fight,” she weakly started, but at Spike’s derisive laugh, her words were cut short.

“Don’t give me that rot,” he said, dropping the notebook as he accusingly pointed his finger at her. There was a gleaming madness in his eyes, an unrestrained passion that had Buffy’s heart pounding even as she slowly backed towards the wall. “First we have a fun li’l game of show ‘n tell, and get all friendly,” he growled, taking a step towards her, “and then you go and bring up this, this thing, whatever it is, that’s between us.” Another step. “This bleedin’ spell you’ve got on me, that won’t let me think of anything else when you’re around.” A laugh. “And when you’re not around, it’s worse! And I swear, Summers, I’m at the brink here, and I can’t take anymore of this game you’re playing—”

“It’s not a game!” Buffy exclaimed, her voice gaining strength even as her back pressed against the hard surface of the wall. “Spike I’m not toying with you, I’m trying to—”

“To what?” He was right in front of her now, and his blue eyes were hard with temper as his hand shot out and landed right next to her face on the wall. “Say, it, Buffy, tell me exactly what you want from me!”

The sound of her name rolling from his lips caused her to take a sharp breath, her skin flushed with the desire that his pure, unadulterated emotion instilled in her. As the blazing blue fire from his eyes finally ignited the inferno inside, she knew the time for words was past.

His chest was mere inches away from hers, and both were pounding with emotion—passion, fury, lust… And without thinking, Buffy reached out and wrapped her arms around Spike’s neck, pulling him flush against her and finally pressing her lips against his.

The second their skin touched, the need took over. His hands firmly grasped her shoulders, pressing her between the wall and his chest as their lips moved together. Barely holding back a moan, Buffy pulled him even closer and flicked her tongue against his lips. In response, Spike roughly slid his hands down her arms and pushed his tongue inside her mouth, groaning at the sweet taste.

Then he roughly pulled away, staring down at her again as her chest heaved with much-needed breath. “If you start this, I’m not going to be able to stop,” he said, his voice husky with barely-restrained passion.

“Don’t stop,” she said, surprised by the raw need in her voice. Seconds later, he was on her again, his hands grasping her hips possessively and pulling her into his denim-clad erection. “Oh!” she gasped, her head lolling back at the feel of his hardness pressing against her. “Spike, I—”

“Tell me what you want, kitten,” he said again, but this time it was not a demand. “I’ll give you whatever you need, sweet, but you have to tell me.” Stilling his grinding, he dipped his head down and placed a gentle kiss on the skin of her cheek, whispering, “Tell me what you need.”

“What I need…” There was no way she was going to be able to answer that with his hot breath tickling her ear, his hands sliding delectably on the skin of her waist, and down to her thighs, slowly, slowly… “Oh, god, Spike, I need you inside of me!”

With a feral growl, his ministrations resumed, nipping at the lobe of her ear before placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on her neck while sliding his hands up her hips and under the cloth of her shirt. “You feel so good,” he groaned against her skin, when her own hands slid down the front of his chest, raking her nails against his skin. “I just want to throw you right there on the ground, have my wicked way with you.” He paused a moment, and she could feel him smile against her skin. “As a matter of fact, love, that sounds right perfect.”

“What—?” she started to ask, but her words were cut off as his lips pressed against hers again, nipping at them roughly as he suddenly pulled her away from the support of the way, the two of them crashing to the floor for the second time that day, their kiss continuing as they sunk onto the ground. He lay beneath her, his hardness pressing into her center as she straddled him, swiveling her hips teasingly as she licked and sucked at his bottom lip.

Suddenly, his hands were under her shirt and palming her breasts roughly, causing a mewl to release from her throat as she sat up, her head thrown back and eyes shut in bliss. Then the contact abruptly halted, and her eyes snapped open. “What’s your probl—”

“Take your clothes off,” he gasped, staring at her with lust-darkened eyes. “I need to see you again.”

At his words and bare, desirous tone, Buffy felt a rush of moisture flood her already soaked thong. She quickly pulled her shirt over her head, grinning at the groan that Spike let out at the sight of her lace-covered breasts. Leaving that particular garment on, she shakily stood and slipped off her sandals, then slowly slid her jeans off and bared her lingerie-clad self to the hushed and still man sitting on the floor before her.

His silence unnerved her. Thinking back on her not so pleasant experience with Angel and the fiasco with Parker, anxiety began to surface in the insecure young woman’s mind. “Spike?” she said tentatively, when a moment passed and he still had yet to say anything.

The peroxide blonde slowly rose to his knees. Reaching out to take her hand, he gently pulled her until she was standing before him, and wrapped his arms around her bare waist, pressing her breasts against his cheek as he held her in a tender embrace. “You’re perfect,” he murmured against her skin, one hand lazily tracing circles on her skin. “And you’re going to enjoy all of this, just like I’m going to enjoy every second with a delectable treat such as yourself.”

His words touched her more than she could let on, and before she could think of a way to tell him just how meaningful his praise was, a hand had snaked upwards and undone the clasp on her bra. Within seconds, the scrap of lace was removed and Spike’s hands were covering her bare breasts, gently squeezing the mounds as he placed kisses along the skin of her stomach.

The pleasure was immense, intense. He’d barely touched her, and she was already panting and moaning like the worst of romance novel heroines. Yes, Buffy had been with other people, but no one had ever made her feel like this. This elusive combination of pleasure and torture, like she was hot and cold at the same time, completely filled with emotion but aching with the loss of something that she couldn’t identify.

A hint of what that something came when he pulled her forward roughly and his mouth latched onto her pink nipple. He gently began to kiss and lick at the hardened flesh; at the same time, a curious left hand snaked downwards and between the junction of her thighs, pushing the lace of her thong aside and sliding one long finger inside of her wet heat.

“Oh, Spike!” Buffy moaned wantonly, throwing her head back in pleasure. When he slipped the digit out she began to protest, but her words fell short as a thumb hooked beneath the side of her thong, dragging the material down the smooth expanse of her legs until she was completely bared. His lips abandoned her breast with a tender kiss, and he moved back until he could gaze upon her folds, one finger gently reaching up to part her lips as he breathed in the scent of her arousal.

“You’re perfect,” he said again, leaning forward to place a kiss on her skin right above her clit, before abruptly standing. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her back into the hallway. “Don’t want to do this wrong,” he sheepishly explained at the questioning and not-unnerved look he was receiving from the blonde. They moved up the staircase quickly and down another, darker hall, until Spike opened a door and led her into a huge, beautiful bedroom.

Nearly all of the western wall was windows, and as she stared at the moon-lit ocean outside, all of Buffy’s concerns and worries began to dissolve. She wanted this, more than she could remember wanting anything in a long time—and there could be nothing wrong with all of the beauty Spike was showing her.

Suddenly, Buffy realized that Spike was leading her to the bed, which she hadn’t even noticed until moments before. But damn, was that bed huge—was there a size larger than king?—and covered in dark silk sheets. Not wanting to think of the earlier purposes the bed had served, she slipped onto the mattress, leaning her head gently against the pillow as Spike pulled his black t-shirt off and undid the belt on his jeans. It was hard to keep from drooling, when his washboard abs and chiseled chest (God, did I just use “washboard” and “chiseled” in reference to man flesh?) glowed in the light of the moon—but her restraint nearly failed her when he pulled off his jeans and his cock popped out.

Can they get that big?! she frantically wondered, thinking back on the other three examples of the male anatomy that she’d eyed. They hadn’t exactly been the same as one another, she decided, but none compared to the huge length that she eyed hungrily as Spike climbed on the bed next to her.

Without thinking, Buffy reached out and wrapped her hand around the base, giggling when he let out an involuntary gasp. Wide-eyed as she felt it harden even more under her touch, a wolfish grin appeared on her face as she slowly began to pump her hand up and down.

“Oh, Buffy, just like that,” he gasped, his hips thrusting upwards with her strokes. “Feels so good!”

The grin didn’t disappear, and neither did his babbling, when Buffy crawled on her knees in between his legs and bent down. Pulling his cock to her mouth, she gently wrapped her lips around the head and swirled her tongue over the slit.

In a blink, she was on her back, and Spike was settled in between her legs, thrusting two fingers into her tight channel and wrapping his lips around her clit. A moan immediately turned into a wild yell as he began to lick and kiss at her pussy, his fingers curling up inside of her and massaging that spot inside that made her legs weak. Riley had done this for her before, but neither had enjoyed it much and it was a rare occurrence—but as Spike’s tongue replaced is fingers and he began to massage her clit, she could not believe what she was missing out on.

“You taste so good, pet,” he said, as he kissed her thigh and gently nipped at the flesh. “Could stay down here all day, I could.”

Buffy’s reply was a mere “gahhh,” his mouth moving back onto her clit and his finger stretching her as he massaged her inside. She could feel it building, the fire growing inside of her, her pulse racing, and all she wanted to do was throw herself over the edge.

“Spike!” she gasped a moment later. “I need you inside me now, please!”

In a second, he moved up her body, grabbing a condom from his desk drawer and quickly putting it on before he positioned himself at her entrance and thrust his cock into her heat. They were both still for a second, Buffy staring into Spike’s eyes and entranced by the emotion she saw—there was lust, of course, and the animalistic sort of passion that had captivated him earlier that evening; but the predominant and altogether surprising feeling she saw was utter, inexplicable awe.

“Buffy,” he murmured, dipping his head down to taste her lips. Slowly, he drew his shaft out and began to thrust it in, her hips lifting to meet his in time. The feeling was incredible. She was being stretched so pleasantly full, and she could feel the head of his cock hitting her in just the right way.

“Oh, yes! Yes!” she moaned, closing her eyes when he kissed her again, and again, and again, his cock pushing into her harder and harder and his fingers rubbing at her clit, and his lips whispering nasty words against hers—and it all felt so good, and she was building up inside, and everything was just so unreal and unbelievable, and she knew at the moment that she began to yell his name that she was honestly, really, truly falling for him, and that she couldn’t let this stop after tonight, and when he shouted her name as they came, she knew that she had found someone that fit just right into that gaping hole inside of her, that she could let to be a part of her, and maybe, one day…

Buffy awoke lazily, her entire body in a state of satiety as she blinked open her eyes. A sound registered in the back of her mind that, as she became more aware of her surroundings, seemed strangely like the ringtone of her cellphone. That curious pondering was banished, however, when she became aware of her own nudity, the arm thrown possessively over her chest—and the events of the prior night that had led to sex of the mind-blowing variety.

Slowly, the blonde turned on her side to face Spike, his beautiful eyes still closed and his breathing even and quiet. His arm encircled her waist more tightly when he felt her move, pressing her thighs against a suddenly present erection, flashing her back to just what the peroxide blond had done for her the prior night. Emboldened by lust, Buffy reached down and began to lazily stroke his cock, the appendage growing even harder beneath her touch.

Spike was dreaming. It was a very good dream, with a paint-covered Buffy rubbing his member and kissing his chest, the different colors of the oils dripping onto his bare skin with strange sensation. A moan escaped his lips, and the fuzziness of the dream slowly began to dissipate, leaving him all too aware of the ministrations of Buffy in reality.

“Naughty minx,” he rumbled, a smile appearing on his lips even while his eyes remained closed. “Kitten wants to play?”

Without another word, Spike pinned Buffy beneath him, her hands sliding up his chest and pulling him down by the shoulders into her kiss. Their lips moved passionately, powered by lust even while both blonds were fighting off the drowsiness inherent to anti-morning people. Spike’s hands were grasping Buffy’s upper arms, but they slid down the skin until her fingers laced with his; he rolled beneath her, smiling at the sleep-disheveled blonde when he finally took a good look at her.

He could wake up to this every day. Buffy’s long hair was tangled and mussed, and the light makeup on her face had been smudged in sleep.

She was gorgeous—and absolute vision.

Buffy blushed when he told her so, although that might have been as a result of the hungry gaze in his eyes rather than the words themselves. Her thighs cradled his hips and her center was pressed against his stomach, his erection nestled in the curve of her ass as she leaned forward to kiss him again. God, her mind lost her when she kissed him. Or was it that she lost her mind? She had yet to think a single thought other than those of Spike that day and as the sunlight streamed through the huge windows and warmed their entangled bodies, she honestly was not afraid.

But the beeping from downstairs started again, and Buffy guiltily broke away, gazing down upon the hurt-puppy pout on Spike’s face and nearly giving in… before remembering the day of the week and leaping off Spike’s supine form with a yelp.

“Where’s the fire, love?” Spike asked, hoping the insecurity he felt was not resonating in his voice.

It was, and but Buffy didn’t hear it. Instead of jumping back into bed and lavishing his sculpted body with the adoration he deserved, she leaned across the mattress and placed a quick, intense kiss on his lips before flashing him a smile and dashing out of the room. “Class!” she yelled briefly as she thundered down the steps, finally reaching her clothes in the living room just as the ringing ended.

“Why me? Buffy moaned, grabbing her phone out of her purse before viewing the three missed calls of the day—all from her dorm. There was also a text message from Willow’s cell, proclaiming quite obviously that it was morning and that she had a class in less than two hours.

“Would you like some coffee?” The voice behind her was unexpected and caused Buffy to whirl around embarrassedly, all too aware of her nudity; she suddenly felt awkward and looked away from Spike’s friendly gaze, not seeing the hurt flash in his eyes as she began to pull on her clothes. You really shouldn’t be awkward, a new voice said, one that was a strange mixture of the vixen and the brain. He’s seen you naked twice before, through work and play. Why is now any different?

Maybe because I haven’t had a morning after in, say, ever? Buffy countered, lost in her thoughts and not noticing Spike slip out of the room to dress.

Said thoughts were currently trying to come up with an instance where Buffy had faced the age-old ‘nakedness after sex… what are the rules?’ question—and were failing. Angel and Parker, of course, caused complexes centered around the lack of next-morning smoochies, but the overnight visits were conspicuously absent from her relationship with Riley. Granted, part of that stemmed from her own insecurities, but it would have seemed that the ever-so-wholesome brunette would have insisted that she spend the night—but never had.

But with Spike, there had been no question. When they’d finally collapsed with pleasure, his arms had encircled her body and brought her close to him, and to move would have been impossible. Yet, in the suddenly harsh light of day, all of her reservations came crashing back to her, and Buffy was seized with a panic.

She didn’t care that she couldn’t find her thong; she didn’t care that she was employed with this man, and that any awkwardness between them would definitely resurface in the future. She didn’t care that her heart was screaming with protest as she gathered her things, and made her way to the door—but she found herself unable to move when his steps behind her signaled his approach, and he reached a tentative hand out to stop her.

As she turned to face him, she expected slight indignance at her supposed departure, the miffed look one got when their company left without saying goodbye. But nothing could have prepared her for the anger in his eyes, and the underlying shock and disappointment of her casual dismissal of their night.

He could have screamed at her then, picked a fight until their passion turned into fiery lust once more—but he saw the vulnerability in her eyes then, and her aloofness was explained in an instant.

She was scared. As much as the blonde didn’t want to admit any sort of weakness—something he’d sensed from her right off the bat, and hadn’t been proven wrong about since—Buffy was terrified of fear itself. And one of the simplest kinds of fear that existed was that of one’s inabilities.

Before Spike had really been able to process the surprising revelation, Buffy shied away, having sensed his realization and strengthening her walls again. “I have to go,” she said brusquely, turning away and taking steps towards the door.

“Buffy—”

SLAM.

The petite blonde didn’t look back towards the door as she pounded down the steps of the walkway towards the bus stop—if she hurried, she could make it in time and get back to her dorm in time for class. So preoccupied by her thoughts, she didn’t notice the man in the black sedan across the street snapping a photo of her leaving the house.

~*~

Stevenson Hall was wracked with activity when Buffy slipped into the building and made her way to the dorm. I’ve really got to look into off-campus housing, she thought, raising an eyebrow at a door left wide open to reveal its occupants in a heavy necking session, before moving up the stairs and into her room.

Willow and Tara looked up in surprise from their lip-lock (was the building making everyone in it horny or something? Pssh, like that’d ever happen!) to see the distracted, occupied look in Buffy’s eyes. “Hey Wills, Tara,” the blonde offered weakly, setting her purse down and moving immediately to her closet to grab a random set of clothes, her makeup bag, and a towel. Without saying another word to the anxious-to-question couple, she exited the room and went down the hall to the restroom, stealing a shower stall and stepping immediately into the icy spray to soothe her aching body.

Normally, Buffy wouldn’t have showered in water cooler than boiling, but her decision was ideal in retrospect—the feel of the spray pounding against her sensitized skin was bringing back memories of Spike stroking each spot, and if the water had been any warmer it may have rekindled the blaze smoldering within her. Still, Buffy couldn’t get the thoughts out of her head, of his lips, his tongue, his fingers, his chest, his cock; the awe, lust, passion, adoration in his gaze as he twisted his hips and caused her to cry out in pleasure; the elysium she found in his arms.

The thoughts did not leave Buffy as she hurriedly dressed and went back to her dorm room, thankfully having found it vacant after Willow and Tara left to the dining hall; they remained as she padded her way to her class and listened to the teacher lecture on capturing impressive moments in one’s life—Spike’s lazy strokes as she hummed with pleasure, her hungry gaze as she sucked on his lip and elicited a gasp with a surprisingly sharp nip—and assigned a portfolio from each of them revolving around the subject. Her mind did not wander, but stayed firmly on its chosen topic, as she made her way back to her dorm and tried to do her work, trying to focus on a day with her mother instead of a night with her lover.

Lover? The word came out of nowhere, but sent the blonde on a subject that she was not sure she wanted to approach. Just what had been her night with Spike, anyway? Was it a fuck? Were they fucking? Was it a game for him, an exciting secret that he could tell to his buddies at the bar? As much as her heart screamed at the obvious slander, Buffy could not let herself imagine it in any other way—she was rebuilding the walls, sheltering her heart from her own perceived truth and keeping it ignorant of the ways or love.

Because, Buffy reasoned, that was the only way to stay safe. But as she turned her pencil to the paper once more, she saw nothing but deep ocean eyes, full of hurt, sweeping her away.

~*~

Spike was preoccupied, unable to focus on the white canvas before him and instead staring into the tumultuous ocean outside. He was seated on the edge of his bed and trying to conjure up an image of something other than the golden goddess sleeping in his bed only hours before, but he could think nothing of her and the depths of hurt in her eyes.

He should have been drinking. There was nothing for a rejected young man than a nice tumbler of alcohol, the fumy taste on his tongue, burning his palate in a so very unaristocratic way.

He should hate her for walking out on him without more than five words to him, after the night they shared. But insecurity at his bollixing up their budding something only reminded him of what he knew to be the reason behind her leaving—her own demons.

Everyone had them, he mused, but some manifested themselves better than others. Ever since he’d been a young child, William always sought approval from his mother and especially Giles, having lacked a true father figure and need a kind of paternal recognition. But his mother’s death as he grew from boy to man sparked a fire inside, consuming all need for affirmation as he withdrew himself from his heartbroken uncle, delving first deeper into his drawing—and then, ever so literally, into Drusilla.

It had been escape with her, yet at the same time birth into the man he’d always wanted to be. There was no logic in his first façade of Spike—only swagger, guts, and foolhardy pursuits, most ill-thought-out as a result of Dru’s spontaneous whims. But when he learned to channel all the awakened feelings into his painting, his life had gained affirmation of his own delivery, and Spike went through yet another change.

He knew nothing of Buffy’s history, Spike realized with a jolt, taking a sip of the bitter coffee made in vain. He barely knew anything of the girl, really—other than her California upbringing, dislike of natural disasters, and her status as art student inspired by now-deceased mother…

Ay, there’s the rub. No mention of father.

The textbook commitment phobia—abandonment during pivotal years (Spike was very in tune with abandonment issues), a few troubles with early relationships, and voila! one insecure, emotionally hardened young girl breaking young boy’s heart.

Spike didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but really, how could a man leave his own child behind? Taking a sip of the now-cold coffee, he grimaced. There was no denying that he felt something strong for Buffy, that was certain—but he wasn’t so lovestruck that he was about to become a whipping boy, that was for sure, and until she came around to her own demons, he wouldn’t enable her to turn their something into anything less than it was.

But as he stood to take his cup to his sink, he noticed a tiny scrap of cloth half-beneath the chair across from him. Bending over to retrieve it, he found himself holding onto a lacy thong, the sudden scent of her arousal besieging his senses and sending him into a dizzying state of lust.

Before he knew it, he was pulling on his duster and reaching for his keys, stepping through the door after tucking the cloth into his back pocket. There was nothing wrong, really, in helping Buffy overcome her demons—and what better way to do so than show her just how to give in to what she felt?

“Blah.” The porcelain white of the sketchbook paper mocked the young artist as she struggled to brainstorm for an impressive moment of her life. Impressive. It was a word whose definition was so often used in manners unworthy to its root that the true meaning of it was almost elusive. To make an impression. To be distinguished from all others. To mark.

For all of her life, Buffy had felt that she was experiencing anticlimaxes. Her life in high school prior to her parents’ divorce had been unremarkable in the most literal sense—superficial time, activities, and priorities that she felt haunted her existence to this very day. In her last conversation with her mother, she hadn’t told her how much she’d meant to her, how devastating the idea of living without her was, how she longed to be as strong as her—she’d feigned being disturbed about the idea of her mother on a date and never told her she was proud that she’d moved on. Even college life, with all its appeal, had been nothing like her expectations—she worked, she studied, and tried to find time to keep some sort of social life, if not for appearances than for a semblance of sanity and happiness that she hadn’t felt in so long.

The truth was… the only genuinely remarkable moments in her life, those that she could relive in astonishing clarity the multitude of emotions she felt, were those with Spike. But even as she admitted the truth, facing it didn’t seem any easier—and to acknowledge her own response to him after such a short time of knowing him only added to the insecurity and fear that he would not return her irrational affections.

“Evil, conveniently-timed homework assignments,” Buffy mumbled, reaching back to turn on the radio on her bedside table. Light from the afternoon sun filtered through the slits of the blinds and rested on her shoulders, bared by the small white tank top she wore. Despite the fact that it was still technically winter, California had already begun to warm up, the sky not entirely blue but the day warm and comfortable.

Turning back to the paper only made the blonde even more frustrated than she had been prior to her soul searching. With a huff, she flung herself back on the pillows of her bed, just as a knock sounded firmly on the door. “Come in!” she called out absentmindedly, not sitting up as the door opened and closed again. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Of all the people Buffy had expected, the owner of that particular voice was the last. Her eyes widened and she slowly sat up, keeping her gaze trained at her folded hands and not at the black-clad Brit shuffling his feet in her dorm room.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was not harsh as he expected, but soft, gentle, vulnerable in its dulcet tones.

“I had to talk to you,” he answered honestly, wishing that she would look at him so he could gauge her reaction to his words. The golden sunlight filtering through the blinds caused a heavenly glow to form around her, and suddenly all thoughts of quiet talking flew out of his mind. “I needed to see you,” he said softly, taking a few steps closer to her.

“You’ve seen me,” Buffy replied evenly, still gazing downwards. “Now leave.”

“No.” He was now standing before her as she sat upon the bed, his jean-clad hips less than a foot away. “I still haven’t seen all I needed to see.”

“What more do you want?” Her voice was harsh now, and all of the fears that she felt were seeping into her inflection. This wasn’t what she wanted, she couldn’t stand to have him here now, not while she was so weak, and—

“Look at me, Buffy.”

The taste of her name on his lips in the soft command was sweet, and Spike could barely restrain himself from waiting for her to respond. She hesitated, her blonde hair falling before her face and shielding it from his view before she slowly raised her head, the golden locks parting to reveal her wide, stricken gaze, her eyes begging for him to…

You danced with me in the moonlight
And I found my theme
Like roses bloom you inspire me

“What are you doing?” He was settling himself down on the mattress next to her, his right hand resting against the mattress directly behind her back as she stared straight ahead, towards Willow’s side of the room.

“I am,” he began, leaning towards her until his lips ghosted against the skin of her neck, and then pressed against her ear, “making you see.”

“See what?” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper as desire began to flood her system.

She felt him smile against her skin, before pressing his lips against her cheek and reaching with his left hand to guide her face towards his. As their foreheads rested against one another, both sets of eyes closed and the only thing she could hear was his voice over the song of the radio.

His lips began to move towards her, and she could feel his soft breath on her skin as he murmured, “How to let go.” And he kissed her.

And the break of day fell upon me
And the light outshined
And you broke the spell that had kept me from loving you
I came to you for answers
I left confused

In a moment, the world was hurled into that sharp sense of clarity that marked each of her moments with Spike. As she opened her mouth into the kiss, his tongue swept into her mouth to brush against hers, eliciting a moan from the blonde. She began to feel her body falling backwards against the pillows of her bed, Spike’s body on top of hers a comforting presence even while she felt as if she was still falling. How could he make everything so right and wrong, so sane and extreme, so clear and confusing at the same time? With one touch, one caress, he stopped all questions in her mind only to pave the way for more.

We played charades and the stars bowed down
I saw your face
I lose myself on a Saturday
It had been so long so I questioned
I questioned everything
Then it’s no surprise
The time was right and you saw it in my eyes

With a sigh, Buffy felt his hands begin to slide across the bare skin of her arms and down to the hem of her shirt, dragging the material upwards when she lifted herself up immediately. Her own hands traveled across the expanse of his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt as one strong hand slipped under the fabric of her top and cupped a pert breast. Brushing a thumb over one pebbled nipple, Spike let out a moan against her lips and sat up quickly, pulling off his black tee before helping Buffy with her own shirt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, covering her body with his own again and beginning to press open-mouthed kisses down her neck and across her collarbone, nipping at her jugular before moving down her chest and stomach. “When I’m with you,” his tongue dipped into her belly button, “I feel like a different man than I am.” His fingers hooked into the fabric of her shorts. “A better man than I’ve ever been.”

I came to you for answers
I left confused
Cause you moved me and you promised you wouldn't let go
Now I need you and I want you to know

“What?” The question was nearly moaned as Spike began to drag her shorts down, past her hips and her legs until they landed somewhere near their shirts. “I don’t, mhmmm, understand.”

“What’s so difficult to understand, love?” Spike asked devilishly, his voice gaining a playful quality as he pressed kisses against her inner thighs, the scent of her arousal drifting through the silk of her panties and making conversation more difficult than it normally would have been. “All my life I’ve been what other people want me to be,” he started, sliding his hands up her outer thighs and slipping his fingers under the thin straps of her thong, “but when I’m with you, I feel like who I am—and that feels right.”

“You don’t have to change,” Buffy gasped, struggling to respond even as the fabric of her panties was pulled from her center, exposing her erotically. “I like how you’ve been with me.”

I am spinning out of control to be with you
And I know that who you are defines me

“You’ve only known me after,” Spike growled, his fingers parting her wet folds and slipping within her tight channel. “I started changing the moment I saw you, love, before I even knew your name.”

“Oh, god!” As soon as he ended his sentence, he wrapped his lips around her clit and rubbing it with his tongue, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through her body. “Oh, Spike!” His fingers were thrusting in and out of her, and she could feel her orgasm building already. A second later, as his tongue replaced his fingers and his thumb began to rub against her swollen bud, she came, her body tensing and golden thighs tightening around Spike’s head as he continued to lick her delicately. “Oh my god.”

“You taste divine, did I tell you before, love?” The peroxide blond gasped, his erection making itself painfully present after being neglected for so long. With a well-disguised wince, Spike crawled up towards the headboard and settled himself next to the boneless, naked girl on the bed, resting his head on a hand and gazing down at her from his relaxed position.

“You’re really good at that, did I tell you before?” Buffy said by means of reply, the smile on her flushed face warming his heart.

I came to you for answers
I left confused
Cause you moved me and you promised you wouldn't let go
Now I need you and I want you to know

Spike couldn’t think of a response, an unintentionally giddy smile only appearing on his face to meet hers. He reached out a hand and brushed a lock of her hair away from her face, his tender act interrupted as Buffy moved up and swung her legs over his hips, mirroring their position from earlier that morning as she leaned down to meet him in a passionate kiss. His hands began to push at her breasts and she moaned against his lips, sitting up again to focus on unbuttoning the fly of his jeans.

“Whoa,” Spike said, reaching down to still her movements. “Are you sure about this, love? If you’re going to get skittish again, I—”

“I’m sure,” she interrupted, dragging the now-unfastened pants down his hips and causing his erection to bob free from its confines. She pulled his shoes off and then the jeans, tossing them on the floor next to her bed as she crawled back up his body and dragged the length of her own form across his. As she grasped his cock and settled her entrance over the tip, heir hot skin tingled at the sensitized contact and Spike waited with bated breath for her to sink onto his flesh.

Her hazel eyes locked onto his own blue gaze as she began to slide onto his cock, inch by inch entering her and stretching her inner walls deliciously. The tight grip he held on her hips revealed his hands to be shaking with repressed desire, but when Buffy squeezed her muscles around his length, he lost control. With his help, she raised herself over his hips and sank onto his cock once more, letting out a moan as he filled her completely.

“You feel so good,” he murmured breathlessly, his left hand moving between their bodies to cup her sex even as she slid up his length, her rhythm speeding up at his words. “So hot inside, so tight,” he gasped, a surprised laugh escaping his lips when she quirked an eyebrow and squeezed him again. “My beautiful, naughty girl.”

His thumb rubbed her clit at those words, and Buffy let out a surprised moan before commanding, “Say that again!”

“Say what?” Spike asked, thrusting his hips upward to meet each bounce of the girl on top of him. “How hot you are as you ride me? You love every minute of this, every word I say—”

“You know what I want to hear,” Buffy gasped, placing her hands on either side of his head as she leaned forward, her clit grinding against him and his cock hitting her at a delectable angle, his hands grasping her ass as she moved faster and faster, each getting closer to their peak. “Tell me now!”

“You’re my girl,” Spike murmured, before her lips crashed against his and her walls pulsated around his length, triggering his own climax. Her hips gradually slowed in their movement, his cock remaining inside of her as they rolled onto their sides and faced one another, her arms wrapped around his neck tenderly and his hands stroking the skin of her lower back.

I'm stepping out today
Pushed all the demons away
I'm stepping out today
Pushed all the demons away

“That was…”

“Amazing,” Buffy filled in when Spike trailed off, smiling at the goofy look on his face before kissing his lips tenderly. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” The words had tumbled from her lips without precedence, and Spike was completely unprepared for them. “For what, kitten?”

“For leaving this morning,” she said apologetically, averting her gaze for the first time since their encounter began. “I just… Well, let’s just say that—”

“No,” Spike broke in, moving his hand upwards to cup her cheek and bring her gaze back onto him. “We can’t ‘just say’ some of these things, Buffy,” he said gently, running his fingers through her hair. “I want to know everything about you, and assumptions just won’t do.”

His request surprised her, and it took a moment for her to form a response. “Are you sure?” She was tentative about the thought of exposing all of herself to Spike, not from her perspective, but from the imagined point of view of the man before her. “I should tell you I’ve got a lot of baggage.”

“I’ve got baggage too,” he answered without a thought, kissing the tip of her nose affectionately. “And I want to know it—so I can know you. All of you.”

A/N: In case you forgot (it's been forever), we last left off when Buffy and Spike were getting ready to unload some of their "baggage." I'm so so SO sorry for the delay (complete grovelling is in the A/N above).




Buffy didn’t speak right away, resting her head against Spike’s chest and listening to his heartbeat as she thought pensively. It had been a few minutes since his request, but Spike wasn’t pushing her to continue; he probably thought she was sorting out her thoughts, and deciding just what to tell him, but her musing throughout the day had already covered that. No, she was stalling for time—and all to work up her nerve, a considerably scarier task.

When she told him so, he laughed, the sound rumbling through his body into hers and making her smile. Really, Buffy realized, there was nothing to be afraid of—Spike had come here for her, to show her that he still cared and wasn't about to let her little freak out ruin what they both knew they both felt. Speaking of, Buffy sheepishly thought, the fact that she'd loved hearing him call her his girl was something that didn't surprise her, although she reckoned it should have. She'd been out of a relationship for less than two weeks, only ever having been "serious" (used in a relatively immature manner) with two men in her life—but hearing those slightly possessive words come from Spike's lips had been exactly what she needed—so what did that mean?

"I guess I should start with what happened this morning," Buffy began, staring at the poster on her door and petulantly refusing to meet Spike's eyes—his perfection in knowing just what to say to make her melt was unnerving right now, and she couldn't handle saying what she needed to while drowning in those bottomless blue eyes. "I've never spent the night with anyone before, and I didn't know what to do in the aftermath."

Spike quirked an eyebrow at that. Never slept over? He knew she'd had at least a few boyfriends before him—his blood boiled so much at the thought that he didn't realize he subconsciously referred to himself as her boyfriend—but they must've been right poncy buggers not to want to fall asleep holding the beautiful girl in their arms. While the surprise at her admission was his first reaction, something else stuck in his head that posed to be even more of a revelation, and a subconscious one at that.

“Is this an aftermath?”

“What?” The question came entirely outside of the realm of possible responses Buffy had been expecting, and it took her a moment to realize what he meant. “We haven’t exactly made it through the time that most humans sleep through, Spike—those glowy symbols over there on the night table will tell you how long you’ve been here.”

“I didn’t mean that, and you know it,” Spike answered, his seriousness surprising her. “It’s pretty strange that that’s the word you’d pick, Buffy, to describe the morning after.”

“What does it matter what word I use?” Buffy argued, lifting herself up on her forearms to look down at the reclining male beneath her. “I already told you that I didn’t know what to do then—”

“—And while that’s a valid point, I think your subconscious made an even better one.” Spike lifted a hand up to brush her hair behind an ear, cupping her face tenderly before letting her rest her head against him once more, her face snuggled up against his neck this time and her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“Point made,” Buffy grumbled, the pout on her face unseen but undoubtedly present. “Which brings me to my other musings, of the heavier variety. Are you up for it?”

“Up as ever,” Spike said, resisting the urge to make a dirty comment out of her phrasing. It would not do now to embarrass her, even in the slightest—she had to be entirely comfortable in letting herself open up to him, and he would have it so if it took him days, weeks, months—although he’d rather have it right now, if the fates would allow it.

“Okay,” Buffy breathed, Spike almost able to see the process of her building up her courage going through her head. “Okay, here’s the thing—men? Not my forte.” She paused, as if expecting a response, then continued when Spike rested his hand against her hair comfortingly. “First boyfriend—and I’m talking real boyfriends, not the mini ones you have in middle school and stuff. My first real boyfriend? A butthead if there ever was one.”

“And what exactly made his cranium resemble his posterior, love?”

“Ooh, aren’t you a learned fellow,” Buffy teased, peering into his eyes analytically. “I think your diction is betraying a secret desire to impress me with your knowledge.”

“And I think,” Spike cut in, his eyes twinkling despite the reproving look on his face, “that you are being evasive again.”

“Damn,” Buffy replied. “You caught me. I suppose we can’t just call this quits?” She only bothered to wait a minute before she huffed her disapproval. “Fine. He was a butthead because we were together on my seventeenth birthday and I woke up alone.” She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I found out later that he was back with an ex of his, and I never really spoke to him again.”

There was a moment of silence before Spike tightened his arms around her body, pulling her against him as close as possible and pressing a gentle kiss against her hair. “I’m sorry, love,” he answered, his voice husky with some emotion that Buffy couldn’t identify. Still, it meant more to her than he could possibly know; the only others Buffy ever told about Angel’s betrayal were Willow and her mother (albeit under very terse, uncomfortable circumstances), and while they provided fuel for many righteous indignations and wishes of vengeance, neither had been able to really heal the wounds that he had cut into her so deeply. Yet, as she laid here in Spike’s arms, his presence and openness and acceptance of her all clear as crystal, she felt a soothing feeling in her heart, and the pain of the past begin to fade.

At that moment, Buffy came upon a revelation. It was helping. All of this was helping her. “The next was Parker,” she said suddenly, seized with the need to explain to her new lover the motivation behind her potentially hurtful and careless actions. “My mom and his dad had both recently died, and I was new here, and I just… That ended up in about the same way as Angel’s, except for the part about him going back to a meaningful relationship—he just moved onto the next vulnerable coed.”

An unexpected sound began to emanate from Spike’s chest, where Buffy’s head still rested gently. Strangely enough, it sounded like growling. “Spike?”

“Bloody idiots,” Spike said harshly. “I hope you know that, pet.”

“I do,” she agreed earnestly, tracing around one of his dusky nipples with a tentative finger. She smiled when she felt his heartbeat speed up, and chanced a teasing remark. “This getting too much for you, baby?”

“I’m just hoping the list doesn’t go on too much longer,” Spike teased back, his anger mostly forgotten at the flirtatious actions of the blonde.

“Well I still have to sort out all the guys I dated in Sigma Phi Epsilon,” Buffy giggled.

“You’d better bloody be kidding!”

“Did you know you just said ‘bloody’ twice in less than a minute?’

“Answer the question, you insufferable chit!”

“You know I’m just kidding, baby,” Buffy cooed, pressing her lips against the skin of his neck and smiling when he let out a little moan.

“You do realize,” Spike managed to say a few moments later, “that you just used the word ‘baby’ twice in less than a minute?”

Buffy pondered for a minute, as if seriously considering the question. “Yup,” she replied, popping the ‘p.’ “But don’t worry, baby,” she grinned, “I’m on the last one.”

“Thank bloody god,” he answered, wolfishly smiling back.

“Riley,” she began, “was safe.” Of all the narrations, this one lacked the greatest amount of passion in her voice. “He didn’t hurt me, not like all the others, but…”

“But, he’s a right poncy bastard?”

“I guess you could say that.” Buffy gave him a rueful look. “I almost forgot that you two had met.”

“I’d rather wish we didn’t,” Spike muttered darkly, causing the blonde to smile.

“I almost feel the same way.” Really, she couldn’t—if she hadn’t met Riley, or gone through everything that she had before, would she be with Spike now? As strange as it sounded, only having known him for days, she wouldn’t trade anything for the world that she lived in now. Even in the deepest wound, one that had yet to heal more than six years after it was cut, the pain was beginning to ebb. “Speaking of ‘right poncy bastards,’ I think my dad makes the top of the list.”

It took a second for Spike to keep himself from patting himself on the back for his correct psychological analysis. “Do I need to punch him out too, pet?” he asked lightly, allowing Buffy to set the mood for what promised to be the heaviest part of her confessions. Luckily, she let out a chuckle and shook her head.

“No,” she said, “you don’t. It’s just, I haven’t seen him in six years, and our last conversation was not one about hugs and puppies.” Taking a deep breath, Buffy finally explained to the one man she’d been able to open up to about what had caused her insecurities, fears, and general mistrust of the y-chromosome in the first place. By the time she was done, tears were gracing her cheeks and Spike was barely able to restrain himself from doing incredibly stupid acts of vengeance.

“I can’t believe someone would do that to their child,” he muttered for the fourth time, stroking Buffy’s hair soothingly as her sniffles quieted down. “I’m so sorry, love, and I understand now why you acted the way you did this—”

“No, Spike,” Buffy interrupted forcefully, raising herself up on her elbows to look him in the eyes. “Regardless of the crap in my past, there’s nothing that can excuse how I acted, after you treated me so well…” She trailed off, a regretful look on her face before she leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

A wicked smile graced his features a moment later, and his tongue curled behind his teeth lecherously. “I can think of a few ways.”

~*~

A/N: This is NOT the end of this encounter, fyi-- I originally intended for these four (wow, it's four, now) morning and day after chaps to be one LONNNNG chapter, but it didn't work out. So numero cinco will hopefully wrap up this long day. :) Thanks to all who are sticking with this fic!