New Year’s Eve should not smell like springtime, not in Pittsburgh. The promising scent of wet earth was filling his lungs instead of the cold sting of winter. A respite like that could only be bad for the trees, Spike thought.

Spike didn’t even bother to button his black, leather coat after he and Tara stepped out of the restaurant; there was no need. He did tug on the gray, fingerless gloves Tara had made him for Christmas, but only to show her how much he liked them.

She smiled at him, her big, green eyes wrinkling sweetly. Tara always had the most satisfied of smiles, like she’d just finished eating a delicious meal. Tara smiled like she believed everything was going to be alright, always. Spike liked to let her think he was irritated with her optimism, but truthfully, he thought Tara was always a comforting presence even when she had no right to be.

They were the only two left in their family; their father died when they were infants, their mother passed the year before. It was their first Christmas without her, their first Christmas away from London. The holidays had been harrowing that year, but Tara did her best to make it nice for them.

She’d barged into his apartment and put up holiday decorations. She’d forced him to come gift shopping and to bake cookies for the neighbors. Spike had even worn a Santa hat when they went to happy hour with her daft Wiccan buddies. He was the big brother and Spike believed that sometimes being a man meant allowing his younger sister to treat him like a little boy.

Now the miserable festivities were finally coming to an end and he could go back to ignoring Tara’s attempts to mother him. That meant he didn’t have to go pretend he gave a buggery fuck about the expiration of the old year or the one being repackaged as new.

Tara wound her long, purple scarf around her neck and they walked toward her car, their boots making a sloppy clatter on the wet sidewalk. The fairy lights in all the shop windows were lit, reflecting on the damp sheen of the pavement to make it look like they were trampling over a field of stars. Tara grabbed him around the waist and he let his arm fall around her shoulders, being careful not to tug at her drape of long, white hair.

In their family, everybody’s hair went silver by the time they turned seventeen. Tara had fought it for years with various shades of dye before finally embracing the McClay family curse; Spike had relished his blanched curls from the start because he never got carded. The hair was the only thing that tied the two of them together in the way of looks.

Tara was all soft angles, round cheeks and chin with a womanly figure once described admiringly as zaftig. Spike’s face was as sharp as his name with severe cheekbones and small, perceptive , blue eyes. While Tara’s gaze was sympathetic, Spike’s had the power to make the person being scrutinized feel flayed open.

Spike was a boxer and he was constantly honing his naturally lean body into a more effective weapon. He was a head taller than Tara, but average height for a man, around five-foot-nine. In a bar fight the height tended to fool people. Dressed, all an opponent would see was his long, tapered neck, the slimness, the size. Depending on how they scored on the Kinsey scale, they might notice the gentle line of his cupid’s bow lips. In a winter coat, Spike didn’t look like what he was; a man conditioned for violence. When he stripped down to his trunks he looked intimidating, mesmerizing even; brutal but still elegant, like the burnished edge of a scalpel.

There was one other physical similarity linking Spike with his sister, but it hadn’t come by them naturally—they had matching tattoos.

That had been a bonding thing Tara had suggested after their mother died, to reaffirm their family ties. They had twin images on their right shoulders, two black ravens that sat face to face, their feathers abstract whorls. Their beaks touched and from a distance they formed a heart. Tara had created the design based on some wacky Norse mythology Wiccan hocus pocus. Apparently they were called Huginn, which meant thought and Muninn, signifying memory. Spike usually forgot the names and made something up when he was inevitably asked about the tattoo.

That was another difference between them; Tara was sacred while Spike was profane.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the party, Billy?” Tara asked. She was the only person who still called him Billy now that their mother was gone. Everybody else used his nickname.

“I’ll just cramp your style, love,” Spike said.

“S,s, style? Penny is the only person there I’ll know,” she said.

“Then I’m definitely not going to muck up your chances of getting cozy with her,” Spike said with a grin.

Tara swatted his stomach lightly.

“S,s,she’s got a boyfriend, s,s,o there will be no getting c,c,cozy,” Tara said.

Spike thought Tara’s stutter was probably the impetus for his career as a fighter. The kids at school had made his sister a figure of ridicule because she couldn’t speak properly. Spike couldn’t have that; he’d settled the matter with his fists until the student body was cowed when the McClays walked down the hall.

They were only a ten months apart, Spike and Tara, Irish twins his Aunt Jenny used to say. They were uncommonly close for siblings. In third year he got held back on purpose just to make sure he could protect his sister and they’d been inseparable. When Tara had gotten into the graduate robotics program at Carnegie Melon, he’d moved to the States to be near her.

He liked to say she got all the brains and he the looks; this was not entirely true. Spike was smarter than he realized but not half so pretty as he thought he was; Tara would have been a knockout by any stretch of the imagination and more people would have noticed had she only been able to meet their eyes.

Tara had lost her impediment after years of working with a speech therapist, only to have it creep back into her voice after their mother got sick. Spike hated to hear it, hated to think she was seeing herself as that scared girl again, so he squeezed her tighter as they wended their way through the crowded sidewalk.

“You’ll see, love, this is going to be your year. You’ll be tossing her knickers out the car window by half past ten,” Spike said.

“Oh dear,” Tara said. She blushed so deeply he could see her skin shade in the thin fairy light.

Spike kissed her forehead and then Tara got into her tiny car. He watched her slowly pull away from the curb. She was so proud of her driver’s license; Tara had gotten it first thing when they moved. Spike hadn’t gotten one yet; his legal status in the U.S. was still a bit tenuous. He worked under the table at the gym where he trained and got paid cash to fight. Tara didn’t know the half of it, but she was bright enough to be suspicious anyway.

She honked at him and waved as she merged into the traffic. Spike’s place was only a few blocks away. He tugged off the gloves, stuffed them into his pocket and walked home.

***

Spike ran into Mrs. Plissey, his neighbor from across the hall, about a block away from his place. She was trying to carry two paper bags stuffed with groceries from the bus stop to her third floor walk-up. Spike saw her shuffling along the sidewalk, her fat, rainbow-quilted purse smacking against her black and white hounds tooth coat with each labored step.

“Mrs. Plissey, let me help you, love,” Spike said.

He ran up next to her and plucked the bundles from her arms, hefting them as though they were filled with nothing more than inflated balloons. Mrs. Plissey smiled, an expression that sent ripples all the way to the stems of her gold-rimmed spectacles. She was a tiny lady, compressed with age, the exact shape and shade of a Hershey Kiss. The elderly woman tapped at her iron-colored pin curls with her neat, plump hands.

“Thank you, Spike. I thought that last trip to the Shop-N-Save was going to be the death of me,” Mrs. Plissey said.

“You should have called me, Tara could have driven you,” he said.

“I don’t want to be a burden on anybody. Besides, your sister is such an angel already, helping me with my baking and all,” she said.

“What about me, don’t I get any credit for delivering those sodding fruit cakes?” Spike asked, affecting an affronted look. She smiled up at him.

“You? I think you’ve got a bit of the devil in you,” she said.

“Flirt,” Spike said, with a grin.

Mrs. Plissey giggled.

They continued on toward the apartment building until they got to the front steps. Pretty much everything in Pittsburgh was built on a hill and this spot was no exception. It was similar to a lot of the structures in Bloomfield; a touch neglected, but made all the more beautiful for the slight disrepair. It was like a gorgeous woman in torn fishnets and running makeup, Spike thought. The distress made her more interesting.

Mrs. Plissey leaned on Spike’s shoulder and the wrought iron railing to make it up the stairs.
The front of the building was covered in white, ceramic tile embedded with curlicues and grape vines. It was lovely to behold in the daytime and at night the place glowed like a marble headstone. Mrs. Plissey unlocked the glass door and held it open for Spike as he stepped inside before she lumbered in behind him.

They passed through the white and beige entryway. To the left of them rows of narrow, silver mail boxes were embedded in the wall, to the right was a blue, carpeted staircase. From the vaulted ceiling hung a crystal chandelier, lending some glamour above the muddy, yellowing, linoleum floor. Mrs. Plissey strained her way up to the third floor and Spike wished he could carry her along with the groceries. If she were his mum, he would’ve moved her out of that place no matter the cost, he thought.

When they got to her door, Mrs. Plissey had to catch her breath before she could undo the lock. Spike shifted the bags and tried not to look uncomfortable; he was beginning to feel their weight.

It was then he noticed someone watching them, a pretty, blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was standing in front of one of the apartment doors pretending to look at her mail. He gave her a cocky smile and straightened his back in a way he hoped conveyed how easily he was bearing Mrs. Plissey’s purchases. When he looked into her eyes, Spike’s smile hitched and the air felt like it was being pressed from his chest.

The girl’s eyes were green, but that was really beside the point. They were haunted eyes, anguished eyes. If Mrs. Plissey had the eyes of a young woman, still innocent and playful despite her seventy-nine years, this girl had just the opposite. She had the eyes of a much older person, not in a frat-guy-trying-to-seduce-a-high-school-girl-with-talk-of-her-old-soul kind of way. No, she looked at him the way his school chum, Ewan, did.

Ewan had come back from the war all wrong; he had been discharged after being diagnosed with a sterile acronym that didn’t quite illustrate the depth of his misery. He had told Spike about his terrible nightmares, his fear of both open and enclosed spaces. That poor lad had taken a short trip off a ledge a few months after he’d come home and Ewan’s suicide still nagged at Spike.

Spike stared at her, into her, seeing echoes of his friend. He looked into her eyes willing her to know how badly he wanted to make it better.

Mrs. Plissey pushed her door open and he reluctantly tore himself away from the strange young woman. He set her bags on the kitchen table and gave the older lady a quick hug.

“Ooh, wait, I made you some zucchini bread,” Mrs. Plissey said, holding up her index finger to keep him from leaving.

She went into her refrigerator and took out a foil-wrapped loaf with a red ribbon tied around the thick middle. Spike took the gift and then planted a hurried kiss on Mrs. Plissey’s forehead.

“Bye, love, Happy New Year,” he said.

“Happy New Year,” she said after him as he ran into the hall. Spike was hoping to catch the girl with the tortured eyes, but she was already gone.

Spike went into his apartment and flicked on the light switch. The blinking, blue and gold Christmas lights Tara had criss-crossed over his window came on at the same time the bulb in his only lamp blew.

“Bugger,” Spike said, realizing he was going to have to find a fresh one using only the jittery, colored light.

He moved mostly by memory to the galley kitchen, set the bread on the counter and squatted in front of the sink. Spike opened the cupboard door and rummaged around when his search was halted by a knock. He stood, walked to the door and opened it to find the strange girl standing on his welcome mat.

For the first time he noticed there was a neat cicatrix running through her lips beginning at the edge of the heart-shaped upper half and then traveling past the bottom. Spike rubbed the scar running through his right brow; they already had something in common. He’d earned his during his first professional fight, the only time an opponent had been quick enough to land a blow to his face. Ever since then he’d gotten better at dancing around the ring until he exhausted the other fighter.

Spike wondered if she’d been marked in battle or if someone had intentionally marred her perfect face. Already the thought of anyone touching her that way made him want to kill and she hadn’t even said a word yet.

The girl smiled at him, but it didn’t touch those eyes.

“Hi,” she said.

“Come to borrow a cup of sugar, pet?” he asked. Spike couldn’t help smiling at her, teasing the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

She was clasping her hands together nervously and he noticed she wore a ring on every finger, even the thumbs. Spike was ashamed at himself for checking out the pleasant shape of her tan legs, but her baby-blue shorts seemed more like a hint than actual clothes. She was wearing a white tank top with little ribbons where the straps connected to the neckline.

“Something like that. Can I come in?”

“My lights are out. It’ll be a second,” he said.

“Can I wait inside?”

“Sure,” Spike said, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. He shook his head and then darted out of her way.

She stepped into the apartment, her face alternately illuminated in blue then gold. Spike moved toward the sink again and was surprised when the girl shut his door, effectively sealing them in together amid virtual darkness.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Spike, well that’s what I’m called. My Christian name is William McClay, but I go by Spike,” he said.

Why the fuck was he so tongue-tied? Spike had been with a lot of women. He could talk to girls, hell, his best friend in the world was a girl. Yet this bold, little bird had him fumbling like a novice.

“Are you really good at volleyball or something?” she asked with a quirk of her shiny, pink lips.

“Cute, that’s what you are. No, I’m a boxer. Few years back I hit this bloke so hard he said it felt like I’d driven a railroad spike through his head,” Spike said.

He stood up to full size, wanting to look intimidating and wondering why. Maybe it was the way she’d pushed herself inside his space, the way she needed his help but kept dancing around instead of asking. Maybe it was because he was suddenly feeling completely out of control. She was looking at the objects in his apartment, the odd collection of junk he hadn’t cleared away.

Aside from Tara’s Christmas lights and the twelve-inch, pre-decorated tree she’d stuck on the mantel above his useless fireplace, there weren’t many personal touches. Spike had a framed photo of Tara, himself and his mum on the wall. The mystery blonde looked over the picture before she picked up one of the dumbbells he’d left on the floor and tossed it from hand to hand.

“You don’t look so tough to me. I bet I could take you,” she said.

She came closer to him, a challenge in her walk. Spike couldn’t resist her pull and moved toward her in kind.

“What are you, a buck oh nine? I could break you in half, love,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

“Don’t call me that, you don’t love me,” she said, as her expression lost all pretext of a smile. She was still moving as she dropped the weight with a thud on the hardwood floor.

“Well, what should I call you, what’s your name?” Spike asked.

They were so close now he could see a wisp of her light hair stuck to her mascara. He reached toward her to brush it away when suddenly she slammed him against the wall with more force than he thought possible. Her lips were on his; her tongue wriggling inexpertly around his mouth. She didn’t taste like booze, which would have made some kind of sense. No, she tasted like toothpaste, like she’d brushed her teeth, like she’d gotten ready for this moment. Spike touched her waist and tried to calm her kiss into something softer. At first she responded to his gentleness with a moan at the back of her throat but then she was grabbing his hands and pushing him away.

“What is it?” he asked.

The girl looked up at him with those heartbreaking eyes and then she dropped to her knees. Her thin fingers were tearing at the button of his jeans, lowering his zipper and then she was yanking his pants down to his ankles. Spike tried to touch her shoulders, but she swatted his hands away.

Spike knew himself well enough to realize this girl was a disastrous confluence of all his obsessions. Her beauty, the violence of her seduction and the bizarreness of the situation turned him on. He’d had an intense fling with a girl called Drusilla a few years back that had introduced him to his own need for pain within his pleasures. Add to that the fact that she was clearly a lady in distress, something he found impossible to ignore, and Spike knew he was in danger of losing all sense of proportion.

As soon as the girl writhing at his feet touched his cock it got hard. She looked…intrigued, was that the word? Like she’d just figured something out that had been puzzling her for a long time. She squeezed him a little too tightly, but then she was kissing it, making him feel good. Her lip gloss was so sticky; her mouth was hot and wet. Spike looked down at her in the syncopated light; she’d move forward on his cock and her skin looked blue, back and it was gold. Her long hair was bouncing against his hips and she was cupping his ass with incredibly strong hands, manipulating him into her mouth.

Spike didn’t know if he should hold back or try to cum; she was making cooing sounds, her pupils were blown, she liked it or was pretending to. Then she did something with her tongue and he wasn’t thinking about what he was supposed to do, just doing it. The orgasm didn’t sap any of his desire or strength; it didn’t satisfy. It just signified an ending, like a period concluding a sentence.
She dressed him again before standing up and meeting his eyes.

“Can I touch you, lo-baby? We could ring in the New Year again and again,” he said, reaching his arms toward her.

She stepped out of range.

“I have to go.”

She slipped out the door into the hallway, leaving him panting and alone with his back resting against the wall.
The next morning when he was taking a shower, Spike noticed a constellation of bruises on his hips where her fingers had been pressing into the flesh.

Charlie was tiring, Spike could sense it. They’d been stalking each other around the ring for the better part of an hour; Charlie’s broad shoulders were starting to droop and his sleek, shaved head was beading with sweat. Also, his taunts were getting dirtier.

“So when I’m fucking your sister, she actually likes it when I call her other girls’ names. I don’t understand it, but you know how she is,” Charlie said.

Charlie Gunn was his best mate at the gym and really in the whole of America, aside from Tara. When they sparred, Charlie never wore a mouth guard like he should so that he could keep up a verbal assault on any comers. Spike liked it; he had trouble controlling his temper sometimes and being conditioned to ignore his opponent’s taunts was a valuable asset. Spike knew his friend had to be feeling desperate to start talking about Tara, though, because Charlie understood how quickly Spike’s mood could turn from good-natured to deadly when it came to his sibling.

“Another thing, after we’ve been going at it I can’t get the smell of granola and Patchouli oil out of my dick no matter how much I shower. And trust me, after I roll off your sister I need to scrub my skin raw, my whole body gets lighter after I take a post-Tara shower,” Charlie said.

Spike hit his friend’s abdomen a little harder than he needed to and then spit out his mouth guard.

“Have you got a pretty, pink pussy under those shorts?” Spike asked, cocking his head to the side as he danced around Charlie.

Charlie dropped his hands and stopped moving.

“Did you just call me a pussy? Because there’s no need for misogyny, Spike. A pussy is a beautiful thing,” he said, panting.

He was leaning forward and resting his gloves on his knees.

“No, Charlie boy, I asked if you had one. Cause I’d wager you don’t, which means my sister would never, ever touch you, not in this lifetime,” Spike said.

“She’s gay? But she seemed so—“

“Choose your words carefully, mate.”

“So into me. She gave me a Tarot card reading,” Charlie said.

“She’s just a lovely girl,” Spike said.

Spike dropped his stance and walked toward the edge of the ring while taking the black, bulbous gloves off of his hands with his teeth. He ducked under the ropes and sprawled out on the floor. A few moments later Charlie handed Spike a liter bottle of water and then settled in beside him. Spike took a long pull from the bottle; let the cold fluid run out of his mouth and down his over-heated chest. He wanted to ask Charlie about the girl that had visited him on New Year’s Eve, but suddenly felt shy about the matter. He wasn’t certain Charlie’s sense of humor was perverse enough that he would send him a hooker as a belated Christmas gift, but he could think of no other explanation for the girl’s behavior.

“Did you send somebody over to my place a few days ago, a little blonde girl, peaches and cream complexion, amazing green eyes?”

Charlie looked at him, arching an eyebrow.

“I only know two blondes and they’re both black, so no, wasn’t me. Why would you think that?” Charlie asked.

Spike gulped down the rest of his drink.

“Don’t know, whole thing was strange; she just appeared on my doorstep and asked if she could come in—“

“And you let her?”

“Well, yeah—“

“I know you’re not from here, but you never, ever let somebody you don’t know into your place, Spike,” Charlie said, staring into Spike with his round, brown eyes.

“She was a slip of a girl, there was nothing to her—“

“Doesn’t matter. That’s how they get you. People disappear in this town like it’s nothing. Last year there was some sicko killing whole families, draining their blood and then chowing down Hannibal Lector-style on their internal organs. They never caught that guy,” Charlie said.

“She wasn’t that guy,” Spike said.

“Clearly, but after all that shit that happened in Cleveland, I don’t know how you can be so blasé—“

“A chemical plant exploded, or are you one of the people who thinks Cleveland is on the mouth of hell?” Spike asked.

“Wouldn’t surprise me, but no, I just think you need to be more careful. So what happened?”

“She scuttled in, wouldn’t tell me her name. She was wearing these skimpy pajamas and flip flops, so she couldn’t have come from outside. Then she blew me and ran out like the place was on fire,” Spike said.

“She what?”

“You heard me, don’t make me repeat it,” Spike said.

“Shit, if that happened to me I’d want to repeat it, I’d want to put up a billboard about it. Must be your accent or something makes the ladies crazy,” Charlie said, tossing his bottle cap across the room like he was skimming a stone on water.

Spike hopped to his feet and began to pace.

“It was weird as hell, Charlie, sexy, yeah, but I’m freaked out. I feel like I need to find her,” Spike said.

“Well sure you do, she delivered herself up to you like sex pizza. Doesn’t mean you should. She’s probably out of her fucking mind,” Charlie said.

“Sex pizza? Hate to think what the toppings would be on that,” Spike said with a grimace.

Charlie stood up.

“Listen from one who knows. Sure, screwing a lunatic is fun at first but it only leads to heartache and endless auto glass repair. Let the sleeping dog lie,” Charlie said.

“Can’t do that,” Spike said.

Charlie sighed.

“See if anybody in your building knows her,” Charlie said.

That had been the first option Spike explored. Mrs. Plissey knew virtually everyone, her grandson Deveon was the handyman in the building. Mrs. Plissey said she’d seen the girl a couple times, but she was fairly certain she was only visiting someone and had never spoken to her.

“Done that. Checked the mailboxes, too. Only person unaccounted for is somebody called Travis Bickle,” Spike said.

Charlie grinned.

“Taxi Driver.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s only one of the greatest movies ever made and Travis Bickle is the guy, the taxi driver. Maybe she’s a Scorcese fan, you should check that place out,” Charlie said.
Spike smiled.

***

Travis Bickle was supposed to live in apartment nine; Spike didn’t know why he was so nervous about knocking on the door. Part of him was afraid the name was just a coincidence and he was going to be greeted by an enormous guy named Travis who would be none too happy to learn his girlfriend was cheating on him with a random bloke down the hall.

There were tingles going up and down his back as he showered and then spritzed on the over-priced cologne Tara had bought him for Christmas. He pulled on a pair of dark, blue jeans and the shirt he always wore when he and Charlie used to go clubbing, a black buttoned-down with narrow, white stripes. Girls liked to touch that shirt; it was silky feeling without the tacky sheen.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, dragging a comb over his wet, silver hair.

“Fucking ponce,” he said.

The door that could be hers looked just like Spike’s; it was covered in old brown lacquer that had bubbled like burnt sugar from years and years of forced heat. The door handle was incongruously new, bright and brassy. Deveon replaced the locks with every new tenant. Spike rapped on the door, right under the carefully painted number nine. He heard a scraping sound from the inside, and the light visible through the peephole was blocked out.

Spike waited for the knob to turn, the portal to open, but these confirmations of his existence never came. Instead the person on the other side moved away, letting the light through the peephole reappear. He stood there for a full minute before pounding again. This time, no one bothered to check the door. Spike knew he was strong enough to beat down the brittle wood until the hinges were slack and the barrier was nothing more than a pile of splinters. But that wasn’t how this would be, he thought. He wasn’t pathetic.

“Fuck you, then,” he shouted and huffed back to his apartment.

Spike entered like a cyclone, all loud sounds and destruction. Then he saw her—his girl was lounging on his rust-colored recliner beside his cheap, black plywood bookcase, her bare legs slung over the plump arms of the chair. She was wearing white cotton panties and the record jacket for Adagio in Strings. It had been his mother’s; they played it at the funeral. It was the saddest song in the entire world but somehow nothing mattered at that instant except her presence. God, she had pretty feet; he wanted to lick her arches, let her step on him. Spike shut the door and locked it, convinced that when he turned around the girl would have vanished like the apparition she had to be.

But she was still there.

“Hey.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked.

“Your bedroom window was open. I need you to not knock on Mr. Bickle’s door anymore. Can you do that for me, Spike?”

“Yeah, I can do that. Can you do something for me, like telling me your name, or would you have to kill me?” he asked.

Spike walked toward her, watching her left leg move languidly, as though she were trailing it through warm water. Maybe she’d let him take a bath with her, he thought. She let the record jacket drop and he couldn’t stop staring. Her nipples were puckered and her breasts seemed to float on the air.

“Why don’t you make something up for me, you’re like a random nickname generator,” she said.

It was then he noticed the horizontal, white scars on her wrists. He’d seen something like that before; hell, when his mom got sick he’d almost done something like that. This naked, little pixie with her girlish gestures and sorrowful eyes had tried to kill herself. Maybe she was hoping he’d finish the job for her.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re doing this?” Spike asked.

He knelt beside her and she started stroking his ticking jaw.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” she asked.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun, baby,” he said.

She slipped her bejeweled fingers through his still-damp hair and smiled, deliberately ignoring him.

“You took a shower to come talk to me, and you smell all yummy. What cologne are you wearing?” she asked.

“Don’t know, it was a gift. I think she overpaid,” he said, hoping the she would make his girl jealous.

“She didn’t,” the girl said.

She dragged him by the hair to her open mouth and kissed him; hungry and unapologetic about her need. Spike tried to encircle her bare waist, but she jerked away.

“I touch you, not the other way,” she said, giving his hair a good yank.

“How long are you going to play it that way?”

“For as long as I want,” she said.

“What if I force you to stay with me, make you let me,” he said.

“You won’t,” she said, her lips brushing against his.

“Why not?”

“I won’t let you,” she said.

“You think you could stop me?”

“I know I could. Besides, I don’t think you want to hurt me,” she said.

“How do you know that?” he asked. She was right, of course, but he wondered how she could speak with such confidence. Spike rubbed his nose against hers, a touch she seemed to permit.

“I, sometimes I dream about you,” she said.

She buried her face in his neck, hiding from him even as she moved closer. His mystery woman began kissing the soft spot beneath his Adam’s apple, teasing the skin with her shuddery breath. He wondered why a dream should matter at all to her, but was afraid coming out and saying so would offend her, make her leave.

“What do you dream?” he asked.

She ignored him again and bit into his neck, hard enough to leave a blue smudge on the flesh. She toppled out of the chair and on top of him, bringing him flush against the floor. She took his mouth and tore open his best shirt. When her skin slid against his, the girl started to shake. She held Spike’s hands above his head and pressed her body to his, resting her ear against his chest. She listened for a little while, her large, green eyes closed, peaceful. Spike wanted to hold her so much, but then she twisted on top of him. The girl took his jeans down and wrapped her strong fingers around his cock, her rings sparkling. Spike was trembling.

She pinned his arms with her legs, forcing him to look between her legs. There was moisture soaking the crotch of her underpants. He wanted to tear them off, bury his face, but she was holding him still. She slid her mouth down his length and then she was shoving her own fingers down her panties; getting herself off while she sucked him.

“Bitch,” he said.

She stopped her ministrations.

“What’s that?” she asked, innocently.

“You’re torturing me.”

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked. There was a note of laughter in her voice as she wiggled her hips over his face.

“Please don’t stop,” he said.

Spike decided to call her Toy. He liked the way it pissed her off, egged her on. He liked to remind her that he had some kind of power in their arrangement, especially because it felt as though he had none at all.
On the third day when she knocked, Spike had something special for her.

“Come with me,” Spike said.

He reached for her, but she shook her head, so he closed his empty hand into a fist. He went into his bedroom and he could hear Toy follow. Spike took a gift wrapped in heavy, scarlet-colored paper from the top shelf of his closet and turned to see the girl sitting on his bed.

“Is that for me?” she asked.

Her tone was intended to be cute but came up short. Toy looked at the square box with a mix of suspicion and something else; as though no one had ever given her a present before. He placed the package on the comforter and she immediately lifted it into her lap. She stroked the black, satin ribbon he'd tied around the parcel possessively, and watching her fingers trailing along it sent a thrill down Spike's spine.

“It's so pretty, I hate to open it,” she said. The way she was looking at it, Spike actually believed her.

“Go on, the suspense is killing me,” he said.

She tugged open the slippery bow and then unfastened each rectangle of tape. When she was finished, the wrapping paper was entirely intact. Toy folded it neatly and then set the ribbon on top before she opened the box.
Inside it was a pair of handmade, silver hand cuffs inlaid with black onyx. Toy lifted them up with a clang, sending the key, which Spike had threaded onto a fine, silver chain, toward the floor. Toy bent and caught the necklace before it landed on the hardwood.

The cuffs had been a whim of Drusilla's, the first pair he’d ever owned. She'd special ordered them from a guy who sold handmade swords at Renaissance fairs. When they broke up, Spike had tried to give them back. Dru had smiled serenely and said that they were his. Spike had argued that the cuffs would be a reminder of how she'd cheated on him and essentially ruined the past few months of his life. Drusilla laughed.

“Don't think of me when you use these, Pretty William. Think of how when the lock clicked shut, the door opened,” Drusilla had said.

It had taken him awhile to figure out what she meant, but the truth was, he never thought of Drusilla when he'd used them with other girls; he'd thought of himself.

Toy laid the chain around her neck and examined the key, her chin dipping to her chest. The key had a heart shaped loop at the top and she followed the metal with her thumbs.

“Can I play with them now?” she asked.

As an answer, he held out his wrists for her. She grinned and patted the bed.

“Lie down,” she said.

He walked over and reclined behind Toy, careful not to brush against her. She shifted around and then crawled up his body, her gifts clinking softy in her grasp. She clicked the cuffs around his wrists, her breasts swaying over his face. She was wearing another vaporous tank top and he could see the outline of her aureole. Her nipples were getting as hard as cherry stones. He lifted his eyes to hers.

“You are a wicked girl,” he said, with a smirk.

“No I'm not. I'm nice, see, look how nice,” she said.

Toy slid down until the length of her was pressed against him. She tenderly touched his jaw before cupping it and kissing him. She was probing him with her tongue as though she were trying to learn everything about his mouth. It made him feel terribly exposed, more than any of the other things she'd done to him in the past few days. It went on and on until he thought he would burst.

Then she ended her devastating kiss and straddled him. She slowly unbuttoned his shirt and sank against his chest. She covered his heart with her ear and closed her eyes, just as she had the day before. Then she fell asleep, soothed by the movement of his blood. Spike didn't know how long they’d lain together before Toy woke with a gasp, her eyes sticky and unfocused.

“Spike,” she said.

“Do you want to undo me? My hands are all tingly,” he said.

She looked at him, embarrassed, and quickly unlocked the cuffs. She took them off and held them to her chest.

“Can I keep them, Spike?” she asked.

“Of course, pet, they're yours now,” Spike said.

Half of her mouth pulled up in a smile and then she scampered out of the apartment before he could rise from the bed.

The next night she came into his apartment and abruptly shoved him against the wall. Spike could hardly register what was happening; he noticed the mirror he’d hung by the door rattled beside his head and a dusting of plaster was landing on his shoulder. Then Toy plunged her hand down his pants and squeezed his cock, keeping her eyes averted as it got hard. Spike could hardly catch his breath; he was unsettled, frightened and above all, turned on. Toy was rubbing him sore, but he was loath to tell her to stop. Finally, he decided to get her to quit before she crippled him.

“Ease up, pet,” he said, gasping. She jerked her hand away.

“Don't talk,” she said.

Then she dropped to her knees and wrenched his jeans open. She took him into her mouth and the heat ignited his sensitive skin. He tried to rest his fingers on her hair and she batted them away like a niggling insect. Toy gripped his wrists and held him still until he came for her. Then she stood up, leaving his lower half wet and exposed as she marched out of the apartment.

That was the pattern that developed over the following weeks. Every time things got tender or he was close to touching her, Toy would retreat into herself. She’d punish him the next time by not speaking, just sucking him off roughly and leaving without otherwise acknowledging his presence. Spike started to view their relationship through the lens of competition. He got points when she would pull away because it meant that at least he was getting to her.
The night she got into the bath with him, though, his feelings started to change. It wasn’t enough just to make her mad anymore. He wanted to know her.

That day Spike rose at six, took a run around the neighborhood and went back home to eat a dour bowl of oatmeal. After the hot mush he took a shower, dressed and took a bus to the gym in Uptown. He beat the hell out of things, skipped rope, helped others to beat the hell out of things pausing only to drink a weight gainer shake and eat a cold, skinned chicken breast for lunch. When he was training, he ate sparse, painfully, healthy meals.
In contrast, when Charlie trained, he ate whatever he wanted. Charlie had picked up his lunch at Primanti Brothers where they served the chips and the coleslaw right on the sandwich, except if you called them chips you got a dirty look and a pack of crisps. Spike was fairly certain Charlie only got the sandwich so he could watch Spike’s face while he ate.

“Quit looking at me like you want to fuck me, Spike,” Charlie said as he took another bite.

“It’s not you, mate. I want to buy that sandwich a fur coat and make it promises I can’t keep,” Spike said.

After his sparse lunch, Spike resumed the cycle of hitting and being hit. Then it was time to catch the bus home. He’d just removed his boots, tugged off his shirt and thrown it on the bedroom floor when he heard her knock.
This time she was wearing a pale pink tank top and matching shorts that hardly hit the fork of her legs. His key shone on her neck and her rings-clad hands caught the light. Her long, blonde hair was pulled back smoothly and she was barefoot. For someone who never wore shoes, the soles of her feet looked incredibly smooth, not that he’d ever had a chance to touch them, or to kiss any of her red-tipped toes.

“How’s my doll tonight?” he asked.

She walked into his place, her ass switching from side to side.

“You stink, Spike,” she said with a smirk.

“Nice to see you, too.”

She leaned against him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“I think you should take a bath,” she said.

Toy took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom. His bathroom was the size of a large closet. The walls were tiled in black and white. She put a stopper in the white, claw-footed tub and then filled it with warm water. He loved watching her bend over to do it while she was wearing those shorts. He came up behind her and his hand hovered over the small of her back, the ridge of her spine with the two dimples on either side. Before she could stand, he’d stepped back and let his arm fall.

“Do you have any bubble bath?” she asked, turning her head so he could see her profile. Toy had the cutest nose, with a little flare at the end of the bridge and a tiny globe at the tip he wanted to kiss.

“Do I look like a single woman with four cats and an array of scented candles?”

Toy faced him with her arms crossed over her chest, propping up her breasts.

“So that’s a no?” she asked. For a second she looked like a normal girl, her eyes sparkled.

“Intuitive, you are,” Spike said.

“Why don’t you strip for me?” she asked.

Spike moved closer to her and opened his jeans. Then he gave his hips an exaggerated sway from side to side and batted his dark lashes at her. He moved his arms above his head in a serpentine fashion, rolling an invisible ball from hand to hand. She giggled.

“There are six more veils coming off, baby,” he said, as his jeans slipped down his legs to puddle at his feet.
Her eyes drifted down.

“Where are you hiding them? Strike that, I don’t want to know. Get into the tub, Salome,” Toy said.

Spike stepped on the toe of his sock and dragged his foot out, then did the other in the same way. He carefully got into the clear, steaming water. Spike rested the back of his head on the cool, rounded lip of the tub.

“Get your hair wet,” she said.

Spike sank. When he resurfaced she’d repositioned herself behind him. He heard her squirt shampoo out of a plastic bottle and felt the cool blob on his head. She massaged his scalp gently, the lather making a squishing sound. Toy’s touch felt amazing, like it always did, but he couldn’t enjoy it very long before she started getting bossy again.

“O.K., rinse now,” she said.

Spike dipped his head beneath the water, the foam in his hair spreading out on the surface. He popped up again with a silvery splash. Toy soaped up a washcloth and dragged it across his chest. She kissed the tattoo on his right shoulder, sending shivers through him. The skin on that spot had become extremely sensitive since he’d gotten the ink done and Toy seemed to take special delight in stimulating him there. It was the first time Toy had ever seen the marking; up until then they’d come together half dressed and hurried.

“What made you decide to get this design?” she asked.

Then she traced her tongue along the dark lines making him take in a tremulous breath.

“My sister came up with it to inspire McClay family unity, she’s got the same one,” Spike said.

“Is she into Magicks?”

“Like card tricks and sawing bunny rabbits in half?”

“Like Wicca and spells.”

She rubbed the washcloth under his arms, then over them, moving around to reach his hands.

“Yeah, she is. Are Heckle and Jeckle common symbols amongst the pagan set?”

Toy rolled his fingers in her own and massaged his palm with soap. Though he was loath to use the word in any other context than describing pie, Spike found the sensation delicious.

“Kind of. You must be super-close,” Toy said.

Toy scooted to the far end of the tub and picked his foot up out of the water. She scrubbed it with her cloth.

“She’s my best mate,” Spike said.

“That’s really great,” Toy said, sadly, as she took up his other foot.

Her eyes seemed even further away from him, seeing something she didn’t want to share. They listened to the water slosh as she moved up his legs.

“Be easier if you got in with me,” Spike said, giving her his seductive look, all heavy lids and confident sneer.

She stopped her movements. Toy closed her aching eyes slowly and then she was leaning toward him. She dragged her lips across his cheeks; kissed his mouth. Then she daintily eased herself into the water with him, still wearing all her clothes. She rested her back against his chest, making a soft sound like a sigh. She seemed to be luxuriating in the surrounding warmth. The hem of her tank top drifted, ghostly. Spike tentatively took the fabric up. She leaned forward, letting him take it off. She scooched out of the shorts herself and dropped them over the edge of the tub with a plop. They rested together, her head against his chest.

Toy’s body was muscular and felt hard leaning into him, belying her feminine shape. Despite her slimness, Toy was deceptively strong; her figure reminded Spike of a dancer he dated when he first came to the States. Cara, the ballet dancer, had been all lithe sinews like his Toy. At one of Cara’s performances he’d watched her hoist several male dancers into the air as part of the routine. Spike wondered if Toy could pick him up.

She was getting loose against him, lulled by the heat of his body and the water. He wondered where she slept at night, if she was alone in bed or if there was somebody there. Jealousy made his stomach clench.

Toy started to slip away toward the water and instinctively he put his arms around her. She nestled into his embrace and he realized what was happening. Holding her; he was holding her and she was letting him, probably because she’d fallen asleep. Spike looked down at her body beneath the sheer veil of water. Her breasts were just as perfect as he remembered and he was certain they’d be the softest part of her body, wonderful to touch. Her stomach seemed kettle drum tight even when she was slumped against him like that. Her legs were parted and he could see she shaved between them. Spike bet her pussy would feel like the velvet skin of a peach.

Toy shifted against him and he could see her eyes were darting beneath her closed lids, making the lashes undulate like centipede legs. Her arms jerked, sending up a cascade of drops and then she made an animal-like noise, like a cat when someone accidentally steps on its tail.
She shouted incoherently, and then she was awake, slippery in his grasp.

“SShh, just a nightmare, you’re safe,” he said, kissing the side of her face.

She stopped thrashing and moaning.

“Spike?” she asked.

“Yeah, pet, you fell asleep. It’s alright now,” Spike said.

She put her jeweled hands over his; he was still holding her.

“You’re not supposed to, with the groping,” she said.

“Wasn’t groping; besides I had to keep you from slidin’ under, you would’ve drowned,” he said.

She pressed into him.

“That wasn’t one of the dreams you have about me, was it?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“Definitely no, that was the furthest thing from a sexy dream—“she said, then blushed, cutting herself off. She lifted his hands from her body and rose in a hurry, casting off ropes of water. Toy was embarrassed; a funny thing given the situation. Spike watched as she picked up her sodden garment and started to pull on the top.

“Don’t do that, Toy, you can dry them on the radiators and we could have a bite or you could borrow something of mine. I think Tara has some clothes here that would fit you,” Spike said.

“Your sister?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Yeah, my sister,” Spike said, with a grin.

She flopped her clothes on the radiator and Spike unplugged the tub. He stood up and went for the towel hanging on his rack. He threw it to Toy, and she smiled at him. Spike noted that she was watching him move as he went into the closet and got a towel for himself, so Spike took his time drying off.

She wrapped the blue towel he’d given her tightly under her arms and perched on the closed toilet until he led her to his bedroom. The bedroom was the whole reason Spike had chosen the apartment; it had a vaguely romantic quality, like an artist’s garret. The walls were white, as was the rest of the place, but the lighting gave the stark shade a touch of mood. The bed was in the center of the room, accentuated by the sloping ceiling that came to a point above.

On either side were windows sunk back in dormers, hung from ceiling to floor with gold curtains. On the floor was a richly colored oriental rug; it came with the place. It had been abandoned by the prior tenant and the landlord said Spike could keep it for an extra twenty five bucks on his deposit. Spike was inordinately proud of the rug because it wasn’t cheap like the rest of his belongings. Naturally the bedroom was the only place to let it lay. The Persian rug was intended to lend a spot of luxury, possibly impress any young woman who found herself there at the end of the night.

Though he’d made a crack about candles before, he had two of them hanging on either side of the bed in wrought iron wall sconces. He liked them because they looked kind of Goth and his dignity was still in place because they didn’t smell like lavender or tea tree oil, just plain wax.

Spike dug through the drawers of the black-colored, plywood dresser he’d assembled himself until he located a pair of purple, stretchy pants Tara used for yoga. He tossed them over his shoulder to Toy and then continued his search. He plucked a matching purple baby tee out and gave it to her. He pulled on a pair of his own shorts and turned to see she was completely dressed. The clothes were a little baggy on her, maybe a size too big. She would’ve been swimming in his shirt, Spike thought. Besides that, he didn’t think she’d like the implication that would come with dressing her up in his clothes.

“You hungry, pet?”

She drifted over to the bureau, snatched a bottle from its surface and took a sniff of his cologne before setting it back down.

“I should probably go, I can get my clothes tomorrow,” she said.

She was right in front of him. Spike cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb over the scar that marred her lips.

“How’d you get that, Toy?”

For a moment she let him; she even seemed to take comfort in both the question and the way his hand felt before her eyes became distant. She flinched away from him and then suddenly he was hurtling through the air, landing painfully on the bed.

“You’re the toy, not me. You’re my toy, alright? Take your shorts off,” she said.

“What?”

“Take. Off. Your. Shorts.”

She could lift him up, he thought as he did what she asked.

“Spread your legs apart,” she said. Toy stood in front of him; he complied with her wishes, until his thighs were almost touching the blood-red comforter.

“You’re a toy, so play with yourself for me,” she said.
He smirked at her and she seemed infuriated, her smooth, tan forehead crinkling, her full mouth turned down.

“It’s awful dry here, maybe you could toss me some lotion, pet?”

“Men have been pervy for centuries without Jergins. Improvise,” she said.

Spike brought his palm to his mouth and spat in it. She looked at him with an expression of revulsion and desire as he dragged his wet hand up and down his hardening penis. She seemed entranced by him. Spike kept his eyes on hers and though she refused to meet them, he was certain she could feel his gaze.

Her mouth had lost its stern look and fallen open, like the petal of a dying rose. Toy’s eyes didn’t have their aching, far-away look; they were glazed with lust. At least she was in the same room, even if she wasn’t really with him, Spike thought.

Look at me, see me, let me inside you, he thought, over and over until his lips were tracing the words. When she finally looked into his eyes, Spike came, spilling a white ribbon onto his stomach. It gratified him that her whole body shook as his did. She looked at him with such longing he started to rise.

“Stay,” she said, her hand jutting out with splayed fingers. She said it as though she were commanding a dog.

“You need to clean yourself up,” she said. Toy ducked out of view and then came up again. She threw him the t-shirt he’d worn to the gym.

“Use that,” she said.

Spike languidly wiped his stomach. As she snatched the shirt from his hands, he grabbed her wrist, breaching protocol for the third time that day.

“I am yours, you know that right?” he said.

Spike couldn’t read her expression. They stayed like that for a long while, until a tear suspended from her blonde lashes finally fell against his face. Toy blinked, sending down a shower before she silently walked out of the room, her bare feet padding on the hardwood floor. He heard the door open and then slam shut. Spike lied back on the bed and sighed.

When he finally got up to make himself a nutritious, if not delicious dinner, Spike noticed that she’d taken the shirt with her.

Toy didn’t come to see him the next day, or the day after that. Spike was certain he’d pushed her too far by refusing to be constrained by her rules. Spike hadn’t forgotten her; he’d never forget her, but he’d resigned himself to the notion that she was gone.

Charlie had asked him what happened to his New Year’s Eve date and Spike had lied. He told Charlie that he’d found an elderly man in the apartment who had no idea his name was famous. Spike wasn’t sure why; he just felt a need to protect his Toy and sensed that the fewer people knew about her, the better things would be.

Spike had not told Tara; he could imagine how she’d react, the concerned nod, the sage advice he had no intention of taking. Still his sister could sense something was wrong.
They were sitting in a coffee shop on the corner across the street from the Science Museum. They were by the floor to ceiling windows, getting a view of the snowy street outside. The warm snap had ended and the city had been plunged into arctic cold. Spike felt a bit like they were trapped in a hothouse the way the steam gathered on the inside of the glass.

Tara was nursing her cup of blackberry tea at a small, round table with a mosaic top. Spike couldn’t get comfortable in the metal chair, his legs were too long to fit beneath the table so they stuck out on either side and his leather duster draped over the chair back was dragging on the muddy floor. His hands were wrapped around a white, porcelain mug filled with Mexican hot chocolate—just like regular hot chocolate but enhanced with cinnamon and cayenne pepper.

Saturday was the only day he took off from his harsh training diet and he always shared a treat with Tara. That day it was an orange scone. Neither of them touched the crumbly triangle studded with cranberries; Tara had eaten before they met at the café and had only bought the cookie to force her brother to eat. Spike had almost no appetite; he wasn’t certain if it was an after effect of the diet or his worry over Toy. Spike reminded himself it was stupid to care for the girl at all; despite what had happened between them, she was a stranger. Spike didn’t know why Toy had such a hold on him, it’s not like he was desperate to meet women. He didn’t even know her name and he was thinking of her every spare moment like they’d gotten engaged or something.

He couldn’t enjoy the hot chocolate, though it was his sweet of choice, so he pushed the mug away.

“You’re not hungry?” Tara asked.

“Nor you,” he said.

She pursed her lips.

“What’s wrong, Billy. You haven’t been acting yourself s,s,since New Year’s. Did the holidays upset you, ‘cause of mum?”

“’Course they did,” he said.

“Do you want t,t,to—“ she stopped in frustration.

Spike couldn’t stand that; he couldn’t have her stumbling on her words around him of all people. He knew his sudden distance had been bothering her a great deal if it could cripple her speech so badly, and she was looking at him with those eyes of hers.

Tara’s eyes made Precious Moments doll’s eyes look wee and gleeful in comparison. Spike decided it was time to tell her about the strange girl that had been visiting him, no matter how shameful the story.

After he concluded, Tara didn’t speak, instead just ruminating until he said her name.

“What are you nuts?” Tara asked.

“Hey, I opened up to you. The least you could do is pretend you’re not sizing me up for a straight jacket. It’s like you’re committing me with your eyes,” Spike said. He fiddled with the handle of his mug.

“But you are mental. She could be a s,s,succubis for all you know. Have you checked your credit cards to make s,s,sure s,s,she didn’t use them?” Tara said.

Her voice was rising and a couple of the other people around them glanced their way.

“Will you calm the fuck down, love? I told you, she’s gone, it’s done,” Spike said in a stage whisper.

“You haven’t been in a normal relationship s,s,since Nikki, you know that? Now you only seem to go for the Gashlycrumb T,T,Tinies in grim, frilly dresses,” Tara said with disgust. The Gashlycrumb Tiny crack was certainly aimed at Drusilla, an insult Spike chose to ignore.

“Look, I wouldn’t have told you if I’d known you’d have a bleeding meltdown, and thank you for bringing up Nikki, it’s not like I wasn’t already feeling like shit,” Spike said.

Nikki had been Spike’s fiancée; she had a five-year-old boy named Robin to whom Spike had gotten quite attached. When Robin’s dad got out of jail and started sniffing around the old homestead, Spike hadn’t taken it well. He had only been twenty at the time, something that had never felt like a valid excuse even when he was using it, and he decided the best way to defend his new family was to beat the daylights out of Nikki’s ex-boyfriend. She dumped him and went back to her baby-daddy. A few months later he’d tried to send Robin a birthday gift, and the package was sent back unopened. The end; well, not quite the end. The end result was that Spike was fairly certain he wasn't fit to be in a real relationship with kids who could be hurt or complicated feelings that were meant to last a lifetime.

“I’m s,s,sorry, but you’re all I’ve got. Let me come over and do a protection s,s,spell. If s,s,she’s evil it’ll keep her out,” Tara said.

“You know I don’t go in for that abracadabra, jiggery-pokery,” Spike said.

She touched his hand.

“Please, do this for me,” Tara said.

Spike couldn’t resist Tara when she gave him that look, so like their mother’s. She came by his flat and waved a few boughs of rosemary, chanted some intelligibles and then lit some sandalwood incense for good measure.

A week went by and still no Toy. Spike noticed that Travis Bickle was no longer residing in the apartment. Swallowing his own sense of propriety, Spike checked the letter box and found all the mail was addressed to someone called Walter Kurtz.

He tried to get on with his life. Charlie had a new girlfriend, so he was less available for socializing than before, so Spike started spending more time with Tara. The Friday following their heart to heart, Tara invited him to a gallery opening downtown. That meant a deluge of posh girls with esoteric fashion sense and a taste for something gritty. Spike decided he should offer them a sample.

Spike spent half the night chatting up a slim, porcelain-skinned bird with a silky cap of brown hair before he realized he didn’t give a fuck about anything she was saying. He cared even less about sleeping with her. Spike begged off politely and told Tara he had to get home.

He collapsed on his lumpy, brown couch with his clothes still on and watched television. Spike found a nighttime soap about teenagers with too much money and ended up falling asleep.

Then someone was frantically pounding on his door. Spike jerked in his sleep, he didn’t remember walking to the door but suddenly he was opening it and there was Toy. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead and he could see her white, long-sleeved t-shirt was soaked in red from shoulder to cuff.

“God, baby, get in here,” he said.

Spike ushered her inside and then shut the door. She fell against him and he held her close as they walked silently into the bathroom. He wanted to kill something; he wanted to destroy whatever did this to her. She balanced on the edge of the tub while he went through the mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink, withdrawing everything he needed to dress her wounds.

Toy didn’t wince as he wiped the blood from her face, even when he disinfected the cut with rubbing alcohol. The injury wasn’t as bad as it initially appeared; without the attending gore it was really no more than a scratch. He put a rectangular bandage over the open flesh anyway.

Spike took her shirt off and examined the other wound. It, too, looked better on closer inspection. Spike cleaned and covered the area. When he was finished there seemed to be so many things to say that he couldn’t help choking on them.

“Can you tell me how it happened?”

She looked up at him with her aged, green eyes.

“I ran into an old friend. We fought and I had to—“

She was crying too hard to continue. Spike held her until she relaxed.

“Can I stay here with you tonight? You can fuck me if you need to, I just want someone to hold me,” Toy said.

Spike felt sick to his stomach.

“You can stay, you don’t have to do anything. I want you to stay,” he said.

Spike held her hand and they went to his bedroom. She took off her boots and her blood-stained jeans. Spike removed what he was wearing, save for his white boxers. He wished he’d chosen more interesting underwear, but it would’ve been odd to change them then.

Toy got under his red comforter, her green eyes shining in the moonlight, her arms clenched to her chest. Spike joined her. It was what he’d wanted for weeks now, but Spike dreaded to think what brought her to him. They laid side by side, knife and fork.

“Was your friend, did he get away with this, did you call the police?”

“I dealt with it,” she said.

She crept towards him and then set her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and she relented, finally relaxing. Her tears were falling on his skin.

“I’ve missed you so much it scares me,” Spike said.

He stroked her hair and felt her sorrow pooling on his chest, sliding down his sternum. The tears ceased and her breathing became even. Spike was nearly asleep when she started talking.

“His name was Xander, and he used to be my best friend; he and Willow. We were like The Three Muskateers or the Three Stooges, always together. I remember this one time we were watching Indian soap operas in my bedroom and braiding Willow’s hair. That’s the whole story, but it’s funny how much I think about that stupid night. We were so close and I never thought, I never thought one day he’d try—“

She couldn’t finish. He could feel fresh tears forming. Spike wanted to kill him; more than that he wanted to indiscriminately slash and burn his village.

“Was he the one who cut your face?” Spike asked.

She laughed. It was a dry, coughing sound.

“No, the person who did that was my ex-boyfriend. Xander warned me about him, but I, I didn’t listen. I didn’t listen to anyone and I paid. Now they’re all gone, and everything that happened with Xander tonight is my fault,” she said.

“It’s bloody well not your fault, Toy,” Spike said. His heart was pounding and he knew that he was dangerously close to forming a one man raiding party to destroy the ex-boyfriend. She must’ve felt the blood vibrating through his veins.

“Don’t, Spike. Just hold me,” she said.

Spike didn’t know how long he cradled her like that before they fell asleep. He just knew that when he woke up, she was still there. Spike couldn’t take his eyes off of her for fear that she’d vanish the moment he did. It was amazing to see the sunlight sparkling on her messy hair. Spike couldn’t resist; he ran a finger over her clavicle and then traced it to the hollow of her throat. Spike followed the touch with kisses.

Toy made a contented sound and nuzzled closer to him. Emboldened, he dragged his hands lightly across her shoulders, over her bra, down her fluted ribs and her concave stomach. Spike didn’t disturb her underwear as he covered her entire hip with his hand and the sharp bone pressed into his palm.

Then she did something that made him abandon his remaining self control. Toy whispered his name.

He pulled her close and tasted her skin, dragging his tongue along the soft curve of her neck. Spike massaged her breasts. They were marshmallow soft. She muttered and leaned into the pressure of his touch. He folded her white, lace bra down, then went underneath the blankets and sucked each of her nipples into his mouth, feeling them harden. He moved his tongue between her breasts, troubling the delicate hairs that bisected her stomach with his warm breath.

He started to take off her underwear. She gasped and pulled the blanket aside. Her eyes locked on his and suddenly, he felt ashamed. At first she seemed confused, her perfectly groomed eyebrows arching, but then she angled her hips to make it easier for him to undress her.

Once the knickers were gone, Spike repositioned himself between her legs in the pose of a supplicant at prayer. Spike pushed her knees far apart and then paused to gaze at her for a moment; he wanted to get a good look at his pretty Toy. Spike finally slid his hand down her inner thigh to stroke her shaved pussy with his shaking fingers. It felt just like he imagined, soft as a peach and just as juicy.

Spike slipped his index finger inside. Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. He tried to add another finger, but she whimpered and her face contracted, so he withdrew completely. He lowered his mouth to taste her, keeping his eyes level with Toy's. He licked the petals of her labia before enclosing her clit with his lips. She was staring at Spike with the same expression she'd had when she watched him on the bed, with a desire almost painful in the strength of its need. Spike's tongue polished the ruby of flesh until her orgasm was glittering through her. When she stopped moaning—Spike loved the way it sounded like she was trying to stifle a laugh—he crept up her body. He draped her with the comforter again and lied beside her.
She hadn't taken her eyes from his.

“Was that, did you like it?” she asked.

He didn't know if her halting speech was the product of shyness or anger.

“It was perfect; did you, though?” Spike asked.

Toy looked away.

“Yeah, I liked it. I guess we’re even now,” Toy said.

“What are you saying?”

She slipped away from him and sat up. Her skin looked almost gray in the dishwater light of the cold, early morning.

“I have to go,” she said.

Spike grabbed her wrist.

“You’re driving me out of my bleeding mind, you know that? I didn’t take you in last night so I could get my pound of flesh. Why is it so hard for you to believe I care about you?” he asked.

“Why would you? I’m a hole, I’m an orifice, I don’t even have a name. I'm a toy. I guess maybe you care where your next blow job is coming from—“

His movements were coarse with anger. He yanked her back down and shoved her on the mattress. Spike crawled on top of the struggling girl.

“I treat you the way you demand to be treated,” Spike said, his voice nothing more than a hiss.

“Then do it, fuck me and get it over with,” Toy said.

“That's what you want?”

“It's what you want, isn't it?”

“Well, yeah, but--”

“Then do it.”

“I don't--”

She freed one of her hands with startling ease and smacked him across the face. Then she burst into tears. His ears were still ringing from the impact and his cheek was stinging. Spike rolled off of her and landed with a bounce. Spike draped his arm over his eyes and listened to the sound of her crying until she finally quieted. The mattress squeaked when she stood. He could hear her fussing about the room, putting her clothes on.

He got up, tugged on his jeans and followed Toy as she made her way to leave. She was about to open the door when Spike backed Toy up against the wall and kissed her mouth. She touched his face, fingers resting on the spot she’d slapped, and gently suckled his tongue. The kiss ended and he rested his forehead on hers.

“You want me to hate you like you hate yourself, is that it? Get me to end things because you can’t?” Spike asked.

“I’ll hurt you, Spike, it’s what I do. It’s what I am,” Toy said.

“Little late to consider my feelings, pet. I was lost the moment you bossed your way in here,” he said.

She threaded her fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she said.

“I know you are, but you struck me in anger and I can’t let it stand. I’m not your bleeding doormat, no matter what you might think. If you want me you’re not calling the shots anymore,” Spike said.

“What are you saying?”

“Turn about in the spirit of fair play. You submit to me, you give yourself to me and you show me I can trust you,” he said.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“And if I can't?” she asked.

“Then you got what you wanted,” Spike said.

She leaned in toward him, her eyes half closed, but Spike stopped her before she could land the kiss. She looked at him with a wide, sad gaze, took her hand from his hair and put it over his heart; Spike covered it with his own.

“Spike, I can’t—“she said.

He sighed and let go of her hand, not trusting himself to speak. He turned his back to her and walked to the bathroom, figuring that he could give her a chance to sneak out without having to talk about it anymore. That had always been her style and he saw no need to do the cursory autopsy on their fucked up relationship. At least there was one benefit to not knowing his girlfriend’s name. Spike used the toilet, an excruciating process given the nagging erection Toy had left him. He had to splash some cold water on himself just to finish the job.

He washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth.

When he came out of the bathroom, Spike started. Toy was standing in the exact spot he’d left her wearing her blood-soaked clothes. She’d been staring off into space with the same desolate expression that had enslaved him the first time they met. Toy’s eyes clicked onto his. She walked over to him and then knelt at his feet, her long, blonde hair touching the floor as she gazed up at him.

“Please, Spike. Please,” she said. Then she lifted her arms, turning her scarred wrists up to him like an offering.

“Please what?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“Forgive me,” she said.

“What will you do for me?”

“Anything you want, but there’s one thing I need to ask first,” she said.

“What’s that, pet?”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

Spike smiled down at her.

“Get up, you can prostrate yourself after you’ve powdered your nose or whatever,” he said, offering her his hand.

She took it and grinned as she stood up.

“I was afraid you were going to get all dungeon mastery and say no,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a fan of water sports,” he said.

“Huh? What, like synchronized swimming?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said.

Spike and Toy were lying on his couch. She was wearing the pink tank top and shorts set she’d left at his place to dry. He had on his jeans and nothing else. Her feet were in his lap and he had just finished placing her, round, pink toes in a black, foam spacer.

“I didn’t think the first part of my body you’d want to touch would be my feet,” she said, mischief turning up the corners of her lips.

“It’s a bit of a fetish,” he said.

“I wish I’d known; I haven’t had a pedicure in three years,” she said.

“You never asked,” he said.

She looked guilty, her marred lips losing all sense of mirth. He cupped her right heel and rubbed the sole of her foot with firm fingers, making her toes flex despite being entrapped in the spacer. Her whole body seemed to arch toward him; her upper thighs tensed, her stomach sank with a sharp intake of breath and her breasts rose. Toy let out a moan that made him so hard it hurt.

He lifted her by the ankle and then licked the soft sole of her foot. It was unnaturally soft, baby soft. He’d washed her feet when they got started; that part always made him think of Mary Magdalen. She made fluttery noises of pleasure as he bathed her foot with his tongue. He kissed each one of her plump, rosy toes, relishing the way they looked wrapped by the spacer. When he set it down in his lap, she let out a whimper of protest, until he picked up the other foot and gave it the same attention.

“So, is this the freakiest thing you’re into?” she asked.

Spike picked up a bottle of polish from the coffee table. He had a vast array of nail enamel in a clear, plastic box that he kept under his bed. She’d selected a personal favorite of his, a pale, blue shade called “Ice Queen.”
He slapped the bottle on the palm of his hand.

“Well, pet, I’d say you’re the freakiest thing I’m into,” he said with a smirk.

“I guess you’re right,” she said, a blush spreading across her skin.

He twisted the black cap off the polish with a snapping sound and then he spread a thin coat of lacquer on her big toe.

“Am I the first man you ever did your number on, pet?” he asked.

He focused on not touching her cuticles with the brush. He was being careful, not avoiding her eyes, he told himself. Though his voice had a casual quality, the question was not. The idea had been gnawing at him from the start.

“You’re my first,” she said.

“And what made me so special?” he asked as he blew on her neatly painted nails.

She looked to the side and licked her lips. Spike picked up her other foot and set to coloring her toenails.

“You were so sweet with Mrs. Plissey and I’m pretty sure you know how hot you are. But mostly, I kept having these dreams about you, that you loved me, that we were living someplace warm where everyone spoke Italian—“

“Italy?” he asked, looking up from his task.

“That would make sense.”

“How long did you have your eye on me?”

“I’m not sure. I just know that the first time I saw you, it was raining and you were shaking out your umbrella in the lobby,” she said, shyly.

“I don't remember seeing you until New Year's,” he said.

“People only see me when I want them to, I’m like a ninja. Anyway, I was lonely and I got the feeling you were, too. It was supposed to be one time,” she said.

“But you couldn’t resist my Adonis-like appeal,” he said, curling his tongue behind his teeth.

Spike had finished her other foot and both of her them were resting on his lap.

“Or your humility,” she said, with a sad smile. “So what’s next on your list of demands?”

“Do you like Vietnamese food?” he asked.

***

The best Vietnamese restaurant in the city was only a block away. They didn’t deliver, and Spike was worried Toy would rabbit while he was picking up their lunch, but he risked the trip. When Spike returned with a paper bag filled with food underneath his long, leather jacket, he found that Toy had set the table. The sight of it inexplicably made him want to cry.

They filled the dishes she'd laid out, then tucked into fresh rolls and spicy noodles. Toy's meal wasn't quite as punishingly hot as Spike's; when she tried a forkful from his plate she'd had to gulp down half a pitcher of water before finally regaining the ability to speak.

“I should have known that if you liked it, then it would hurt,” she said.

“You think I enjoy pain?” he asked, with a chuckle.

“I know you do; I can feel you get harder every time I hurt you. Sometimes I push you just so you'll make a little noise,” she said, before she took another sip of water.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, setting down his fork.

“When we do stuff, you never make a sound. You even hold your breath right when you're about to finish. I sometimes wonder if I’m doing something wrong,” she said.

“No, you’re bloody brilliant. I didn’t even know, nobody ever told me that before,” he said.

He didn't want to tell her that he'd had to share a room with his sister when they were living with his mum. It had been humiliating for both of them when puberty descended. He had to wait until Tara was asleep to masturbate; he was fairly certain that's where his habit of cloistered breath started.

“So that's just you?” she asked.

Toy smiled at him with such warmth that he felt unworthy.

“Yeah, I ‘spose it is,” he said, suddenly feeling timid.

They finished the meal and carried their plates into the kitchen. A quiet anticipation had settled between them. He noticed that her movements seemed self-conscious, as though she was acutely aware of his gaze. As she was setting her dishes in the sink, Spike put his arm around Toy’s waist while his other hand encircled her slim wrist. Her fork clanged against her glass when she let it go; the sound seemed extraordinarily loud in the still room. She tipped her head back and he leaned forward until their lips met. They kissed until Spike was dizzy and he could feel Toy’s legs wobble. They went to the bedroom without a word.

She stripped out of her clothes and got on the bed, her knees sticking up and tightly shut. She watched him with a look of incredible trepidation as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off. He held the shirt for a second before opting to hang it back up in the closet. It was an inexplicable choice, something he’d never done before, but he’d had to find some way to escape that stare of hers. Spike took off the rest of his clothes with his back to Toy. He could feel her watching him as he walked to the dresser and took out a few condoms. He walked back toward her and dropped them on the bedside table; they landed with a soft crinkle. She looked at them and then back at Spike.

“Is that alright?” he asked.

“I said I’d do anything,” Toy said.

“That’s not what I asked you,” he said.

She folded her legs to her chest and peeked over them like a child.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve never done this part before?” she asked.

Spike couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“I thought nothing you could say or do would shock, Toy, but here we are,” he said.

“Yeah, here we are.”

He sat on the bed beside her and took the girl into his arms. She absently ran her hands over his stomach and his chest, as though the feel of his skin soothed her.

“My ex-boyfriend, the one who cut me; he’s made it kind of hard to date. That’s the understatement of the century. Anyway, I was young when I met him and not super-experienced, mostly just kissing and over-the-clothes stuff. I didn’t even want to after what he did to me, for, like years. Then when I saw you, it changed,” Toy said.

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

“Could we get under the covers and could you hold me? Maybe if we go slow—“

“Whatever you want,” he said.

They went beneath the blankets and Spike wrapped himself around her. She initiated the first kisses, but he grew frustrated with her pace; Spike slid his tongue down her fragile neck and bit into the flesh.

He parted her legs with his and rubbed against her; she was so wet he couldn’t believe she was hesitating, but then, Spike had never been with a virgin before. He’d been with girls who had lied about it in the hopes of endearing themselves to him. It had been obvious, but he’d humored them. Part of him thought Toy might be playing the same game to maintain some sort of control. If she wasn’t, then Spike knew he was fucking up when he reached for the condom, but all of his patience had been spent.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded yes. He tore the condom wrapper with his teeth and then put it on under the covers. She had closed her eyes and didn’t open them when he got on top of her. He ran the head of his cock against the tight mouth between her legs. He was clumsy and over-eager; pleasure would open up her body. It was his fault that she couldn’t let him inside, he knew that and yet he didn’t slow down.

“Tell me your name,” he said, impulsively.

Her eyes opened.

“I can’t,” she said.

Spike pushed inside. It was just the tip, but her eyes bulged and she bit back a scream. Her fingers dug into his shoulders but he could hardly sense the pain. She was so tight; he’d never experienced anything remotely like the feel of this girl. Spike slowly sank into her, until their hips met; until they looked to all the world like they
were one creature. He gazed into her face but his ecstasy wasn’t mirrored in her expression.

Toy was in so much pain, tears were pooling in her eyes. He felt guilty for doubting her, for rushing what could have been a perfect. Spike kissed her lips.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No, I want to get it over with. It’ll feel good after this part’s over, right?”

Spike wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he didn’t. He pulsed his hips against her, barely going in and out. She made little noises in time with his movements. It felt so good he didn’t want to stop, but every time he caught a glimpse of her eyes his passion quelled. He tried to rub her clit but she winced.

“It’s too much,” she said.

“I’ll stop, love.”

“No, I want you to finish, please. Let me do this for you, Spike,” she said.

After the morning they’d had and the teasing pedicure, it didn’t take long. The orgasm went through him like a sunrise stretching across the sky. He panted, his breath stirring her hair.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, pet,” he said.

Spike stroked her face and he looked into her glowing, wet eyes. He brushed away the tears and she smiled up at him. It felt almost like she was smiling for the very first time. She touched his cheek.

“It’s O.K., I’m so glad it was you. Spike, I love you,” she said.

Spike couldn’t speak. Her warm smile shortened into a neutral line and the sorrow she'd cast away for that brief moment returned. She kissed the corner of his open mouth. He slid out of her and got up to dispose of the spent condom in the garbage can by the bed. His back was to her and she ran light fingers down the indentation of his spine, as though not wanting to break contact. Spike returned to her, lying beside her on the bed.

He couldn’t say it; he couldn’t give her the reassurance she wanted. He didn’t know what she did for a living, what she liked to eat or where she was born. He didn’t even know her name. There was only one thing he could promise her, one thing Spike knew he could provide.

“Next time, love, it will be perfect,” he said.

Spike liked a crowded bar on a Saturday night. He liked the way people wore their need on their faces, especially the women who illustrated their hopes in dark eye shadows and lipsticks. They wanted to have a good time, forget the week, maybe fall in love for a few hours; he’d come to places like this for the very same reasons and he liked knowing he was not alone. He liked that even though it was snowing outside, in the bar the exposed skin and vividly colored clothes made it feel like summer. All that hunger on display made him feel alive.

He and Tara were in a tiny, hole-in-the wall bar in Polish Hill. That section of town looked like Prague at night, or the way Spike imagined Prague would look being that he'd never been there. The cobblestone streets were narrow, the hills steep, and the buildings were crammed together like books on a shelf. They'd had to creep through a narrow alley to get into the place, a detail he'd enjoyed in spite of himself.

Toy had left him late in the afternoon after he’d made good on his promise to make the next time perfect for her. She told him that had, and the time after that, too. Spike had invited Toy to join him at the bar so that she could meet his friends, but she said she had to work.

When he pressed her on details about her job, Toy said she was an independent contractor, which made him wonder if she might be a stripper.

He was almost glad Toy had not come. He and Tara were finally meeting Charlie's girlfriend, or they were supposed to be, if either of them would show. It would be a lot of pressure, and he didn’t want to scare Toy away.

Tara was nursing her Diet Coke and Spike was on his third vodka tonic. Vodka was his diet liquor because it had fewer calories than whiskey, so he could drink more when he was in training mode. They were leaning against the Persian-rug clad walls in the packed back room waiting for the pool table to open up. A skinny brunette with a thick fringe of bangs brushed past Spike for the third time that night. She was casting him a sidelong glance from behind her tortoise shell glasses. She was holding two drinks, one for herself and one for her little, red-haired friend who was seated in a booth that could have easily been accessed without detouring past him. Spike put his hands around Tara's waist and spoke into her ear over the loud music.

“Laugh and touch my stomach,” he said.

Tara threw her head back and let out a husky laugh. Then she let her palm fall just above his belly button. The brunette blushed and ran back to her friend, not bothering to look back.

“What was wrong with her?” Tara asked.

He almost said he was seeing someone, but didn't want to have another conversation with Tara about how his precious Toy could be a supernatural menace.

“Not my type,” he said, as he tipped back his glass.

“You're s,s,still letting t,t,that nutter use you for a s,s,semen A.T., T., T.M., aren't you?” Tara asked.

Just then Charlie and his date, Fred, came in. She was a slim, tall girl with a cascade of loose, brown curls that fell to the small of her back. Fred had enormous eyes and delicate features that would’ve suited a cameo necklace.

“Don't talk about it in front of them, love,” Spike said to Tara. She gave him a sloe-eyed look, one that told him he was getting only a brief respite from her questions.

Fred was different than Spike had pictured. He'd imagined someone more glamorous, somebody more Charlie. His best friend always dressed impeccably in elegant suits. He looked more like a lawyer than a boxer. Fred had a bit of a country twang about her flowered sundress.

“Sorry we're late, we had to stop for tacos,” Charlie said.

Then Charlie and Fred giggled like they were a couple of drunk middle-school girls. Spike had never heard his friend make a sound remotely approaching a giggle before and it became clear in that instant why Charlie was so crazy about his girl. They were both silly in the same way.

After introductions were made and drinks were passed around, Spike slipped away into the crowd to relish the anonymous crush of bodies against him. Some local band was playing and the people around him were churning in time with the music. The little red-haired girl who'd been sitting with the flirtatious brunette was staring at him from across the room. Her eyes were green and the way the colored lights were flashing on her face reminded him of the first night he'd had with Toy. The red-head was nearing; her eyes seemed to shine like a cat's and her gaze made his skin prickle with heat. Suddenly she was a hair's breadth away and holding onto the sleeve of his black shirt. For some reason he didn’t shake her off the way he normally would.

“Hey,” she said.

“What happened to your little pal?” Spike asked. The red-head was wearing a glossy, black leather corset and matching skirt. It was exactly the type of thing he found sexy and it made her stand out from the rest of the crowd, yet there was something about her that was repellant to Spike.

“She got sleepy, and you just got something a whole lot better. You wanna get out of here?” she asked with a half smile. Her thin, quirky lips were painted black.

“Sorry, love, I'm spoken for,” Spike said.

“That's too bad, you've got such pretty, blue eyes,” she said, with an inky pout.

Spike was about to say something clever, but then he couldn’t remember what it was. She was closing in on him, but he couldn’t pull away, he couldn’t speak. Just like a nightmare, he could not move. The red-head was kissing him, forcing her cold, slimy tongue in between his slightly parted, immobile lips. She was touching him, too, sliding her hand under his shirt until her palm was resting over his heart.

“You still taste like her. I thought I caught her scent outside, but it must've been you, bright eyes,” she said conversationally, as though he'd have any idea what she meant, as though she weren’t violating him on the most basic level. He wanted to recoil, to speak, but it wouldn't come.

“I love the way your heart's pounding. It's like a little bird trapped in my hand. Can't wait to get a better look in there,” she said with a grin as she tapped a sharp nail against his chest.

Then they were walking, shoving past people, he saw Tara's confused face and wanted to call out to her but suddenly he was outside. They were standing in the cramped alley that led to the bar. The back of his head was banging against a brick wall, he was shivering and his boots were crinkling in the snow.

The red-head's face was close to his and it was all wrong; ridges were popping out on her forehead and her teeth were monstrous, sharp.

“Tell me where she is, bright eyes, so I can tell my daddy.”

Her nails were digging into his flesh like knives. Something wet was sliding down his stomach and words were forming on her death-colored lips. Her red hair was glowing in the neon light of the bar. Then he heard a familiar voice.

“She's right behind you.”

The red-head turned to dust and crumbled right in front of him, but she couldn't have because that was impossible. Toy was looking at him from behind the cloud of vapor.

“Toy?” he asked.

Spike was falling and strong arms were catching him. Toy was holding him, she was warm and above her head the moon was a pearl button sewn into a cloudy, velvet sky.

“I love you,” she said.

For some reason hearing her say she loved him made it safe to close his eyes.

**

Spike woke up in a room he’d never been in before. He was fairly certain he was in a hospital; the bed had railings, a bag of intravenous fluids was dripping into his arm and behind a white, blue spotted curtain that was separating his portion of the room from the rest, someone was hacking out his lungs. Spike was wearing a blue, cotton hospital gown. His chest was sore and the bandage over it was itchy.

For the first time since he woke, Spike realized he was alone and he felt an intense fear that something had happened to Tara or Toy. He flung one of his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Just then, his sister walked into the room carrying a cup of coffee.

“Billy!” she said. Then she was a flutter of skirts hurtling toward him and knocking Spike back on the bed. She sloshed lukewarm coffee on his shoulder, but he decided not to mention it.

“I was s,s,so s,s,scared. Do you remember what happened?”
“Bits and pieces, love,” Spike said, trying not to wince as she put pressure on his injury.

Tara loosened her embrace; she set the coffee on the stand beside his bed and held his hands.

“Charlie found you in a s,s,snow drift. Your wallet was gone, the police found it in the street a few blocks away. They t,t,think s,s,somebody s,s,stabbed you and t,t,took it. I t,t,told them about the Queen of t,t,the Damned you left with,” Tara said. Her thumb was tracing out circles on his and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

“Truer words, love. I think she had GHB in her lip gloss. Did he follow me out?” he asked.

“No, I just got t,t,this feeling s,s,something was wrong, s,s,so we looked for you outside, ” Tara said.

“Was there anybody with me?”

“He said you were alone,” Tara said.

Spike's first thought was that Toy had abandoned him in a pile of snow to die. Some sane part of his brain was hoping the whole incident had been a hallucination. He was certain if he told the police what happened, he’d be committed. Still, if there was anyone who would believe that his assailant had dissolved in front of his eyes, it was Tara, but Spike wasn't ready to tell her yet. He had to see his girl.

After Spike had been discharged from the emergency room, it had been about three in the morning. Tara drove him home in her mini-cooper and insisted on staying the night, despite Spike’s plaintive argument that he was fine. They watched television until Tara’s cheek was a heavy weight on his shoulder. Spike cautiously lifted her head so that he would not wake her and then set Tara gently on the couch before stealing out into the hallway.

Spike hadn’t been back to apartment nine since Toy had asked him not to go there, but this night he was making an exception. He needed to know he hadn’t gone around the bend, toddled into madness. Spike knocked on the thin door, noticing as he did that the place was dark inside. The force of his fist rattled the wood in its frame, but no one answered. He waited, then knocked again but there was no joy.

Fuck it.

He took out his newly recovered wallet and slid a credit card out of the leather pocket. In thirty seconds’ time he’d jimmied the lock and gotten inside. Spike flicked on the light and took in the small space. The front door opened onto a living room with a galley kitchen off to the right and the master bedroom to the left, just like his place. Toy’s, or possibly Walter Kurtz’s living room was surgically sterile and uncomfortably spare. There was a black television hanging on the white wall. On the glossy hardwood floor sat a black futon; no other furniture and no pictures.

Spike went into the kitchen and perused through the cupboards. There were cheap, white dishes in neat stacks, columns of matching white mugs and tall, clear glasses. Spike opened the fridge and found ground coffee, hazelnut flavored creamer, a bag of salad and an array of dressings. In the freezer was a striped, yellow carton of Funfetti ice cream and assorted frozen, low calorie meals in sad, little boxes that boasted their high quality, organic ingredients.

There was no way a guy named Walter lived there.

The bathroom confirmed his suspicions. Although everything matched the dire black and white motif, the shampoo in the shower caddy smelled like Toy’s hair. Spike glanced in the medicine cabinet. It was stuffed equally with pricey make-up and first aid supplies. He pocketed a bottle of crimson polish called “I Am Not A Waitress Anymore Red.”

Spike saved the bedroom for last; he’d always wanted to be invited there and this was poor substitute. What he saw filled him with confused emotions. The bed looked exactly like his, down to the red comforter and the candles flanking either side. There was a pillow with the dirty t-shirt she’d taken from his apartment wrapped around it; Spike imagined she probably held the pillow as she slept. The room told him that Toy was desperately in love with him, she wanted to be immersed in him. It also told him she would rather play-act than sleep in bed next to him.

On the wall opposite the bed hung a cluster of photographs. These were what she chose to see at night before she went to sleep, Spike thought. He looked at them with a sense of awe, as one might visit the works of old masters hanging in a somber gallery. In the largest picture Toy was laughing with a boy and a girl. The boy had dark hair and Toy was resting her head on his lap. The other girl in the picture was a redhead wearing pink overalls; she was tilting against Toy like a domino. Spike stared at the red-head; she was the same girl that tried to rip his chest open the night before, although that was hard to believe looking at the smiling kid before him.

There were other pictures; a woman with soft waves in her blonde hair that looked like Toy’s mother, a little girl with long, silky brown hair mugging next to Toy in a cheesy, sequined frame that read ‘Sisters’; a middle-aged man with round glasses, a warm smile and thinning, sandy hair, perhaps her father. In the center of the images was the wrapping paper from the gift Spike had given her, folded into a heart. The ribbon was attached with a push pin, right through the center.

He was going to leave and just wait for her to find him, when he heard the door open. Spike froze. Someone was crashing through the living room, opening doors and dragging objects. Toy ran into her bedroom carrying a black suitcase that was nearly half her size. Toy was still in her puffy, black winter coat and a green, knitted cap. She dropped the case and kicked it open. She tore out her top dresser drawer and emptied it into the case.

“Off to warmer climes, love?” he asked.

Toy whipped around, her hair like a gold propeller. She had immediately fallen into a fighting stance, but when she saw Spike, Toy relaxed.

“You’re picking up some bad habits from me,” she said.

“That’s an understatement. So were you planning on saying goodbye, or did you think I bled to death in the snow drift where you abandoned me?” he asked.

“I didn’t abandon you,” she said.

“Not what I heard.”

“I don’t have time,” she said.

Toy turned around and resumed her frenzied dumping. Spike walked over to her and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Tell me the bloody truth for once,” he shouted.

She shook him off.

“Fine, here goes. Vampires are real. The girl in the alley who was trying to eat you used to be my best friend Willow, but she became one of them, courtesy of my ex-boyfriend. It’s my job to kill the vampires. I’m a slayer, the slayer, the one girl in all the world tasked with ridding the planet of demons. Except for the past three years I’ve been dealing with one vampire who is obsessed with destroying me. The thing is, he wasn’t a vampire when we met. His name was Angel and he was an ordinary boy who cared about me, so one of the baddies I fight turned him into a nuclear bomb. That’s what happens when people love me, Spike. That’s what’s going to happen to you if I don’t leave,” she said.

“Why'd you tell me you loved me, why'd you pretend you were giving yourself to me knowing you'd leave like a fucking thief in the night?” he asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“That's your question? I just told you that I'm a vampire slayer and you want to talk about our relationship?”

“I'm a selfish man,” he said.

“Well, I guess I’m selfish, too,” she said.

“You used me—“

“And you enjoyed every minute of it,” she said.

“Not relishing this part, pet,” he said.

Toy walked over to the collection of photographs on the wall.

“Do you see these people? He killed every last one of them. I couldn’t protect them, I couldn’t stop him. You love your sister, Tara? Well I had a sister, too, once, and I loved her more than anybody in the world. I had her hidden away where I thought no one could find her. To get to her, Angel let me think it was over. The people I work for, the ones who keep Walter Kurtz in Funfetti ice cream and clean socks, they got word he was dust. They convinced me to start living in the open, telling people my name and then one day I came home to find my ten-year-old sister missing. He tortured her for a month, Spike, a month. And he kept sending me pictures every day. When he finally brought her back, she was a shell. But he didn’t kill her then. He waited until she was starting to get better. I found her body propped up in front of the television. It looked like she was watching cartoons. I tried to die that morning; I cut my wrists but he wouldn’t let me. Angel was the one who called an ambulance and stopped the bleeding. He told me he didn’t want it to end yet,” she said.

Toy was shaking, but there were no tears. Spike enfolded her in a hug that she initially resisted; it was like trying to embrace a clump of straight pins. Then she eased up and let him hold her.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Spike said.

“You are the only person left in the world that I love. If you die, too, it ends me, Spike,” she said.

“Toy, I—“

“Please, take Tara and go hide somewhere. Go back to England, just survive. Just…stay you,” she said.

She looked at him, her green eyes fathomless. Spike kissed her with fierce tenderness. They broke apart after awhile and leaned on each other. There were too many things to say and then suddenly, there was nothing left to talk about. Spike kissed her forehead and then left Toy to pack up the rest of her belongings.

When he got to his apartment, Spike felt cold spider-webbing through his chest.

The door was open.

Spike tried to steady himself as he wrenched open the door. It was dark inside; someone had smashed his one lamp and it was still sparking. Spike kicked the ruined pieces out his path. There were books and knick knacks scattered across the floor. His breath was jagged and his heart felt like it was going to crack his ribs. His boots crunched on the rubble scattered everywhere.

“Billy?”

Tara was hiding in the corner of the room, behind his overturned black bookshelf. He stumbled over to her and knelt beside his sister, taking her into his arms. She was shaking beside him like a wet cat.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“I had to see Toy, tell me what happened here.”

“Mrs. Plissey, s,s,she exploded. Well, first s,s,she knocked and I answered the door and I invited her in and t,t,then she got monstery and poof, exploded. I'm s,s,s,sorry I knocked over s,s,s,stuff,” Tara said.
Spike held her tighter as he let out a dry laugh.

“Don't give a fuck about the lamp, love. Just glad you're alright. So what kind of monstery?”

“Bumpy forehead and a mouth full of fangs. I t,t,think s,s,she—“

“You think she was a vampire.”

Tara looked up at him with surprise. Normally when she discussed the supernatural, Spike played the skeptic. He’d looked at her like she was daft when he found a bottle of holy water in her purse next to her canister of pepper spray.

“Yeah.”

“Did you stab her or whatever?”

“No, the s,s,s,s,spell I put on your apartment s,s,s,topped her. S,s,s,she asked for you, Billy. It was you s,s,she was t,t,t,trying—“

Tara broke down in sobs again, much to Spike’s frustration.

“Will the spell protect us the rest of the night, love, or do we need to get out of here?”

She didn’t speak and Spike shook her by the shoulders until she looked at him, her long, silver hair sticking to her flushed, wet cheeks.

“It will,” Tara said in a whisper.

Spike let her go and stood up. Tara crawled after him until she saw that he was locking the door. Spike went back to his sister and knelt beside her.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“We need to get out of here, love,” Spike said.

“But the s,s,spell--”

“Not tonight, not this apartment. We need to get out of Pittsburgh, maybe the States altogether,” Spike said.

“Why?”

Spike couldn't hold her while he explained what was happening; he felt ashamed of what he'd done to Toy and was humiliated the vamp was able to control his mind so easily. Tara's face crumpled as he spoke. Spike found it ironic that they were sitting on the gritty, hardwood floor in his dark apartment as though they were having a lovely picnic. Tara adopted the lotus position; he wondered if she was trying to yoga out her anxieties or something.

“You want me to leave University? I'll lose my s,s,s,scholarship, t,t,t,there won't be another chance, Billy,” Tara said.

“There will never be another chance if you're dead, Tara,” Spike said.

“But, Penny,” Tara said, sadly. Spike wasn’t strong enough to look in her eyes anymore; she telegraphed her pain there so loudly.

“What about her?” Spike asked, but he could already guess.

“We got t,t,together a few nights ago. S,s,she left her boyfriend for me. S,s,she introduced me t,t,to her mum,” Tara said.

Spike sighed and fiddled with a piece of broken crockery on the floor.

“I'm sorry, love,” Spike said.

“I can't just leave her, no goodbye. I love her,” Tara said.

“It could put her in danger. This Angel has a real scorched earth policy, I'm told,” Spike said.

“Damn it, Billy,” Tara said.

She stood up, her long, red skirt swaying with her movements. Spike sprang to his feet and put his hands on her shoulders. He dared looking into her wet eyes.

“Look, I'm sorry that I fucked up your life, I'm sorry that I'm a touch perverted and that now you have to know all about it. I'm sorry that all you've got by way of family is me, because I'm worthless, I know it. But I love you and I won't be able to live with myself if something happens to you. Hate me forever, but come with me,” he said.

They looked at one another a long moment, then Tara sighed.

“You're not worthless and I couldn't hate you. But you have t,t,to know you’re getting me a really expensive birthday gift t,t,t,this year,” she said.

“If we survive, it's Tiffany's all the way,” Spike said.

He grinned at her until she smiled.

They talked most of the night, coming up with a plan of escape as they packed up Spike's clothes. Spike had a few thousand dollars saved, which would be enough to get out of the country, but little more. They decided to go get Tara's things in the morning, then head to the airport. With the state of homeland security, they wouldn't be able to buy any tickets without a credit card, but Tara was fairly certain vampires were more into the feral hunting rather than the painstaking detective work.

They watched the sunrise and drank coffee. The only food Spike had in the house was powdered weight gainer shake with pulverized shark cartilage, so Tara passed on breakfast. They went downstairs dragging most of Spike's worldly possessions and loaded up her car before they headed over to her dorm. The cylindrical building looked like a shampoo bottle.

They got in easily with Tara's I.D. Card, though Spike had to sign in, and then rode the elevator up in silence.
As they approached Tara's door through the beige hallway, Spike tensed. There was a small girl huddled on the floor at the entrance to Tara's room; her rust colored bob was covering her pale face. She was wearing red, plaid pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt with a kitten on the front.

“Oh no,” Tara said.

Her voice was a wounded whisper.She started to run toward the girl and Spike caught her arm. They looked like dervishes with his long, leather coat flaring out and her skirt billowing.

“Don't,” Spike said.

“It's Penny,” Tara said.

The girl lifted her head, her chubby cheeks dappled with freckles and her brown eyes going wide.

“Tara, I waited for you all night--” Penny said.

Penny stood up and dashed over to Tara. The girl threw her arms around Tara, shoving Spike in the process. Spike grabbed Penny around the throat and she squeaked. When he felt her pulse pressing against his fingers and the warmth of her skin, he let her go.

“What the fuck, pal!?” Penny shouted.

Tara put her hand on Penny's shoulder.

“He's my brother, he's just checking t,t,to make s,s,sure you're not a vamp,” Tara said.

“You passed, good on you,” Spike said, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head menacingly.

“Billy, Penny and I need a minute, or s,s,s,everal in a row,” Tara said.

“I hear you loud and clear, love,” Spike said.

The girls went into Tara's room and shut the door, leaving Spike to dawdle awkwardly in the hall. A young woman in a bathrobe who was padding to the communal bathroom started when she saw him and he felt like some sort of pervert. He sank to the floor and rested his head on his knees, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, you got a light, cutie?”

Spike looked up. There was a skinny brunette with a thick fringe of bangs touching her thinly plucked eyebrows. Her brown eyes sparkled down at him.

“Sorry, love, I don't smoke,” he said.

“That's cool; I don't think you can smoke in here anyway. Wanna see something neat?” she asked.

Suddenly, her features shifted into a grotesque mask, her eyes going amber and her teeth becoming spindly.

“I can totally kick your ass, isn't that something?”

Spike hadn't recognized her at first without her tortoise shell glasses. He backed away from the vampire. He was a sprawling ball, all arms and legs, but she was faster, catching his shoulder with sharp fingernails.

“Your little red-haired friend--”

“She was more than a friend, cutie, she was more like a mother to me.”

The creature flipped him around and got him in a head lock from behind, her elbow pressing down on the artery delivering oxygen to his brain. Spike felt himself going limp, but he could hear that the vampire was still talking.

“No more getting picked last in gym class for me, huh? Just try to ease into it and relax, it'll hurt less,” she said. The last thing he remembered was her giving him a chilly kiss on the side of his face.

***

When Spike woke up it was dark and he was lying on cold concrete; his entire body was a misery every time he tried to breathe. His head was pillowed on something. Spike touched it and felt leather. He opened his eyes to see he was facing a gray, cinder block wall and he was resting on his bunched up leather coat. He was in a basement probably; it had that musty smell that dark, forgotten places get. Spike tried to sit up but was flattened by the pain in his chest like an enormous hand pressing him to the ground.

“Wow, I really rang your bells, huh Spike?”

He turned toward the sound. The brunette was standing by a window covered in brown paper; she was hugging herself with one arm and bringing a cigarette to her purplish lips with the other. Her skin was nearly as pale as the smoke pluming around her silhouette. Then she looked back at him with her human features in place. She had a sharp, pinched nose that looked like the product of an unskilled plastic surgeon. Her cheeks and chin were too broad for the nose now, as though they’d been drawn in charcoal as opposed to dainty pastels.

“It was so hard to wait for you to wake up. Your blood smells like ambrosia, it's been singing to me for hours. I bet you taste way better than that gross salad with the marshmallows and the canned fruit. Who thought to call that shit ambrosia salad? Something tells me they don't have Cool Whip in heaven, or at least they shouldn't. Not like I'll ever find out, now,” she said, musing at the burning point of her ciggy.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Isn't that obvious?”

“Why am I still alive, then?”

She smiled wistfully, an expression touched with sadness. How funny, Spike thought, a melancholy monster.

“You're part of something bigger. Isn't it exciting? You're slayer bait. She's the one who killed my Willow, right? We were going to keep you as a little veal cow, me and Willow. It would've been really, really special. But then the slayer got all involved and now Willow's consigned to the dust bin. And you. I don't get to keep you, either. The big man wants you, or big daddy, whatever the fuck he's calling himself these days. Swear to goddess he's like Prince or Sean Combs or something with the wacky name changes. Anyway, I'm not much on ceremony or titles. I was just in this for the eternal life with my lover and the wicked cool Kung Fu powers. Now that first part's shot to shit. When the sun sets I'm going to take you to him. But what he doesn't know is that I'm planning on screwing up his plans. See I don't blame the slayer for what happened to Willow; I'd of done the same thing, protect what's mine plus slayer's gotta slay. I blame him for sending us in blind,” she said.

“You could let me go, that would really throw an old monkey wrench in the sodding engine, wouldn’t it?” Spike asked, even though he was certain that thought had never entered her mind.

“Sorry sweetheart, I'm gonna need a taste of heaven before I shuffle off to hell,” she said. The vampire dropped her cigarette and prowled toward him.

“You stay the fuck away from me,” Spike said, crab walking backwards despite the agony in his chest.

“Calm down, baby, I'll warm you up first, it won't hurt at all. You've got an intense magical aura, did you know that? I'm going to tap into it, make it feel really good,” she said.

“Fuck you--” he spat. His back was against the wall and she was closing on him.

“Willow was into the rough stuff, but I'm more of an illusion of consent kind of girl. Now stop this,” she said, holding out her hand. Spike stopped backing away.

More accurately, Spike was stopped.

“Look into my eyes and show me what you want the most,” she said.

He was compelled to meet her dark, brown eyes. Then, everything went black.

**

Spike woke up to find Toy leaning over him. His head was resting on his balled-up, leather coat and he was lying on the concrete floor.

“You're safe, Spike,” Toy said.

She brushed her hand against his face; it was wonderfully warm despite the surrounding chill. He smiled up at her; the sight of her green eyes and her smile flooded him with a sense of well-being. It almost felt like the first warming sip of whiskey. Something began nagging at the back of his mind, like when he'd forget to do an assignment at school. Then the misplaced assignment began to take on definite shape in his memory. It was Toy's smile, so loving, so genuine. She'd only smiled at him like that once and he'd fucked it all up a second later because he'd been too much of a coward to tell her how he felt. That smile was a treasure, a crumb of gold in a river of silt. He'd done nothing to deserve that smile but sprawl helplessly on a basement floor.

“What is it?” she asked.

Her hair was tickling his face; in the dim light it looked brown. She followed the outline of his lips with shaking fingers. This was wrong; everything was shifting around him and felt bitterly cold. She was moving closer. The girl kissed the soft flesh of his neck. He realized his head was positioned to elongate his throat, the better to give her access. She rested her head against his chest and listened to the steady thrum of his heart.

“Stop using her face,” Spike said.

His voice sounded far away to him. The girl looked up at him, her ear still resting against him. Her skin had turned from peachy cream to brown, her eyes from spring leaves to milk chocolate and her lips became fuller. Nikki was looking at him through her thick lashes, a sexy half-smile sweetening her mouth.

“Miss me?” she asked.

And he had, for years. He'd worn her leather coat because it had been against her body. He'd missed her so badly that he would've given anything to touch her again, so he'd tried to forget her with a dozen other girls. Spike had gotten further away from the man Nikki had loved with each one in order to erase the memory of her. Seeing her staring back at him, he realized that it had worked.

This Nikki wasn't real; more than that, he didn't even wish she was.

Suddenly, Nikki's face was gone, and the vampire with the thick tuft of hair covering her forehead and pinched nose was gazing up at him with her dark, dark eyes. Her freezing fingers were toying with his hair, repeatedly smoothing the strands behind his ear.

“So, you don't want redemption and you're not falling for the sentimental favorite. What do you want, Spike?” she asked.

“To kill you,” he said.

She smiled at him and chuckled softly, more like a sigh than a laugh. It reminded him of the sound his body had made when it landed in the snow.

“You first,” she said.

Spike couldn't move as she slithered up to kiss him. She trailed her frigid tongue down his jaw, to the pulse point in his neck. Her mouth was like an icicle, but her teeth weren’t; they felt like hot needles sinking into his skin. He could hear vile slurping noises as she sucked at the wound she’d made. With each intake, his vision seemed to blur. She kissed him again, this time tasting of copper and leaving his lips wet. He couldn’t see anything anymore.

“Make a little noise for me, baby, let me know you’re still there,” she said, against his ear.

**

Thirst, thirst like nothing he’d ever known coupled with hunger, lust and rage. The thirst was so compelling it woke him. Spike opened his eyes to an onslaught of dust; when he tried to scream, his mouth filled with loose earth. He couldn’t breathe, but like a dream of being underwater, somehow that didn’t matter. Spike clawed at the dirt all around him until he started to gain traction. Finally his hand came up without resistance and he felt cool air. Spike struggled his way out of the darkness, led by high, shrill screams. He could smell something delicious; something he knew would slake his thirst. It was like honey and so tortuously close.

He was crawling out, able to see for the first time. Spike was in a basement with an earthen floor. In the corner of the room was a light-haired girl in a long, purple skirt. She was screaming. Spike figured he was probably the reason. He couldn’t help it, the sounds she was making were turning him on, bringing the thirst to a boil. He could use her to satisfy all the needs; drink her and fuck her and pound her into the ground. Spike got to his feet. He wasn’t in pain anymore and he felt lighter, stronger. He stalked over to her quickly; something happened to his face as he did. Something sharp sliced his gums and his vision became more concise in the dark. It felt as though someone had turned on a light, he could see everything crisply. He could finally see the identity of his prey.

The realization stopped him.

“Tara?” he asked.

She ceased screaming and looked up at him. He touched his grimy cheeks and tried to will the horrible change away. His features smoothed out, but she was still terrified.

“Billy?”

The enormity of what he had been about to do to his sister sent Spike into a heap on the ground. He was going to kill her, eat her and worse; why the other was worse, he didn’t know, it just was.

She inched toward him slowly, until she was at his side. Tara put her arms around him and Spike began to weep.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Well, Billy,” Tara said, before pausing to take in a shaky breath,“ you died.”

Spike was resting his head on Tara’s lap. She’d used the moisture from his tears and the hem of her skirt to wipe away the worst of the dirt clinging to his face, but he still looked like a golem. He was staring up at the bare wooden beams above them.

He’d told her his piece of the story and she’d told him his.

After she and Penny had said their goodbyes, they’d gone out of the dorm room to find he’d vanished. They’d called the police and Penny had given Tara every scrap of paper she had pertaining to vampires. Tara had locked herself in behind a nest of protection spells and wards, simply reading everything she could about vamps.

“How did they get you if you were being so careful?”

“I had t,t,t,to leave for t,t,t,the loo, didn’t I?”

“Spose so,” Spike said.

“One minute I was washing up, the next I woke here. Your body was next to me. A woman vampire with brown hair was watching me. S,s,she looked bored. I was holding your corpse and t,t,trying to make you breathe and s,s,she looked like s,s,she was waiting for a bus, Billy. I could feel your s,s,soul was s,s,still intact. S,s,she made me dig your grave, just t,t,to hurt me,” Tara said.

“She did it to hurt me, too, I'd expect,” Spike said.

“What was it like, t,t,to wake up in t,t,the ground?” Tara asked.

“I've been through worse,” he said.

It was a lie; he really hadn't, but protecting Tara was a reflex.

“S,s,she t,t,thought you'd make me your first meal,” Tara said.

She combed her fingers through his dirt-caked hair, sending loose a shower of particles. The contact soothed him, but the thirst was still burning him up inside.

“If it hadn’t been you, love. I shudder to think what I almost did. You might have to kill me, Tara. The feeling is still there and it’s getting stronger,” he said.

“You need t,t,t,to feed. Animal blood will ward off t,t,t,the worst of it. You’ve got a demon living with you now, but you’ve got an advantage over your average vampire. You’ve got your s,s,s,soul,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Most undead don’t, but yours is s,s,s,safe because of the t,t,t,tattoo,” she said.

“You’ve gone round the bloody bend, what’s that got to do with this crazy, bloody. I give up, it’s too much. Wake me when the world stops tilting off its bloody axis,” Spike said.

He draped his arm over his eyes.

Tara moved his arm out of the way and Spike let her, even though he could’ve flicked her hand off as easily as if it were a drop of water.

“Come on, Billy, I t,t,told you all about t,t,t,this when we got it done. You s,s,said the chants with me, you lit the incense—“

“That’s because I was bloody humoring you, you silly bint. So you’re saying our souls are bound together because of Huggy and Muggy through all eternity?”

“Huginn and Muninn—“

“Whatever. If our souls are bound, why didn’t you die when I did or get all vampirey?”

“It doesn’t work like t,t,that. If I die, you carry my s,s,s,soul with you until you die and vice versa,” Tara said.

“So if I’m immortal, you’ll be cheated of heaven?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“What’s the tattoo got to do with anything anyway?”

“It’s t,t,t,the physical manifestation of our s,s,s,souls. You are Huginn and I’m Muninn. You picked, remember?”

“Again, humoring you.”

“Well, it s,s,saved our asses, didn’t it?”

Spike sat up and looked at her with an expression of mock horror at his sister’s uncharacteristic use of profanity.

“Such language from our little Tara, mum would be so disappointed,” he said.

Then he remembered what he was and how their mother would’ve reacted to that. All the levity of the moment shrank. Spike curled up into a ball, resting his chin on his dusty knees. When he finally spoke again, his voice was deep and quiet.

“The way I feel, I know I’m going to hurt somebody,” Spike said.

“When we get out of t,t,t,t,this we’ll go t,t,t,to a butcher, t,t,t,they s,s,sell blood,” Tara said.

“It’s more than craving a burger, love. I really want to do some damage and…sex is all mixed up in it, too. It's like I’m sick inside,” he said.

She gave him a look of sympathy and tried to reach out to him. He recoiled. Tara’s smile never wavered and Spike was comforted in spite of himself.

“As you get older it gets easier t,t,to control,” Tara said.


“Lovely. What say we try to find a way out of here? Don’t fancy being the cheese in this trap much longer,” Spike said.

He wanted to get away from there before Toy showed up to kill him. He didn’t want her to know how completely he’d failed her. Spike stood up with unnatural grace and then helped Tara to her feet.

“Your girlfriend is coming, yes?” Tara asked.

“Probably,” Spike said, though it felt more like a certainty.

“Does t,t,t,that mean he’s watching us?”

A man in a black suit and long, cashmere coat appeared in front of them; he literally seemed to materialize out of nothing. His black hair was gelled in very specific spikes and his mouth was twisted into a chilling smile.

“Yeah, honey, it does,” Angel said.

Spike shoved Tara behind him, putting himself in between the vampire and his sister.

“Spike, you didn’t like the bag lunch I packed you?” Angel asked.

Spike swung at Angel’s smug face; as his fist connected, Angel seemed to blink out of existence. Then he was back, and landing a blow across Spike’s jaw.

“I touch you, not the other way around, isn’t that the way it works, Spikey? I know what you’re thinking, can I read your mind? Well, sorry to disappoint, but I can’t. She can, though, right Lacy?”

The skinny vamp with the thick bangs solidified in front of them.

“Oh, you didn’t know her name, either, did you Spike? That’s a bad habit of yours, buddy,” Angel said.

Lacy was wearing Spike's leather coat over her black buttoned-down shirt and her shiny, red pants; he wondered if she'd taken the trophy just to make him angry. She smiled at him, and Spike’s human side was repelled. This was his murderer, his torturer and she was smiling at him like a friend. She’d wanted to keep him like a farm animal. Part of him wanted to kill her, but the demon seemed to be soothed by her presence, just as the half that was still a man had been placated by Tara. Lacy’s eyes met his and suddenly he could hear her voice, though her lips weren’t moving.

*“Don’t talk when you hear this, I’m in your head. I’m going to help you,” she thought.

*“Why?” Spike thought.

*“Because it suits my needs,” she thought.

Angel put his hands behind his back and bobbed on his heels.

“So what’s the soul mean to us, Smoke and Mirrors?” Angel asked.

Lacy crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s an obstacle, but a small one. I mean, Hitler had a soul. It just means that he’ll crack differently than your average night crawler. The longer he waits, the weaker he’ll get in every way. He still has the cravings; he just knows they’re wrong. Eventually, the hunger’s too much to resist,” Lacy said.

She walked over to Spike and caressed his face; again, he couldn’t pull away. Tara whimpered when the female vampire made contact with her brother; she was trembling against Spike’s back, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Lacy invaded Spike’s mind again.

*“When the slayer arrives I want you to drink from me. The blood will make you strong enough to fight. Angel will be distracted by her and I’m going to whip up a little something to give us some privacy, but you’ll still have to do it fast. No soul searching. Drink me dry, kill me. It’ll end the spell and his ass will be solid enough to kick—“ Lacy thought.

*“Why not just drop the spell—“

*“Because I can’t. I need to be dead, I need you to kill me. You don’t want to, do you—“

*“I should, but yeah—“

*“Remember that the last thing you ever said when you were alive wasn't I love you, even though I gave you that chance. It was 'I want to kill you.' Don't fool yourself, Spike. The monster was always there, I just gave him incentive.“

*“I hate you—“

*“Good, use that.“

Angel was talking and he seemed very pleased with what he was saying. Spike could hear Tara whispering behind him and knew she was trying to ignite a spell. Lacy had stopped touching him and had resumed her position beside the boss man, but Spike could still feel her icy hands on his skin.

“I asked you a question, Spike,” Angel said.

“What?” Spike asked.

“Why shouldn’t I kill your sister right now?”

His first reaction was to hurtle toward the male vampire and throttle him, but Lacy’s eyes held him in place. She started unspooling a story in his mind, the words illuminated in bright silver. Spike chose to repeat her thoughts as though they were his own.

“Because, you like the slow death; Tara literally carries part of me with her. After the slayer dusts me, my sister’s body will be my soul’s vessel. The slayer will want to protect that at any costs. If you let Tara go, you can keep playing your game for years,” Spike said.

Angel tipped his head to the side; his stalactite hair did not budge.

“You’re not as dumb as you look. Guess you’ve been hit fewer times than the average boxer,” Angel said.

“I’m a pretty fair dancer. You wanna take a spin around the room?” Spike said.

“Are you coming on to me?” Angel asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to put on something frilly and kiss my ass,” Spike said.

Angel punched Spike in the face. Tara caught her brother as he staggered back and kept him on his feet, never wavering in her hushed chanting.

“Sorry, couldn’t think of a clever comeback. Anyway, sounds like you’ve accepted that you’re not going to make it to the next moonrise, just want to let you know that for Tara’s sake, you better make it look good. You know how to throw a fight, right Spike?” Angel asked.

Spike had thrown his first fight, the fight that scarred him; it was the last time he’d ever lost on purpose. Cheating was a prerequisite to show loyalty and to allow the owners of the ring where he fought to have something to lord over the fighters. He’d despised it and had been humiliated by the whole experience. Spike was certain Lacy had fed that knowledge to Angel. Her dark eyes glittered at Spike.

*”You want to hurt me, yeah?” Spike thought. He could feel her presence violating him and knew Lacy had heard him.

*”Always, it’s what I do, it’s what I am,” she thought.

*”I loathe him for making her believe that about herself,” Spike thought.

*”It doesn’t end with him, Spike. Know that when you survive this, there are a group of people who will be pushing you to take his place. They figure a weak, little fledge who's still got mud behind his ears will be easier to control than Angel. He’s being used just like she is, just like you and just like me,” Lacy thought.

*”Stop speaking in bloody riddles—“ Spike thought.

Just then they heard the sound of splintering wood and sunlight flooded into a corner of the room. Toy's maroon, leather duster billowed as she landed in a crouch on the ground. Light caught the dust, making it glow along with her dirty, golden hair. Her hair still gleamed despite everything, nothing could touch her, Spike thought.

Angel threw his arms out like a ring master at the circus and grinned. He rotated slowly, basking in the scene he’d set.

“Buffy Summers, meet Spike McClay. I don’t believe you two have ever been formally introduced,” Angel said.

Buffy stood to full height; her lace tank top was so caked with earth that Spike couldn't determine its original color. Her brown, leather pants shone dully. Despite the situation, Spike wondered what her ass looked like in those pants. She was just as filthy as Spike was at that point, except instead of crawling up from the ground, she’d burrowed down. Buffy—it was strange not to think of her as Toy—was holding a short, wooden stake in her hand. She moved toward them with fleet, silent steps, leaping over the rubble she’d created.

Lacy looked at Spike.

*”Now. Do it now,” she said.

Spike reached behind him and squeezed Tara’s hand.

“Tara, don’t look at me,” he said.

He heard Tara nod—that was an incredible development since becoming a vampire, his senses were so sharp he could listen to her nod—and then he went to Lacy. At the first step, everything around him seemed to billow and shimmer, like he was entering a soap bubble. Sound dampened, too. Lacy smiled as Spike took her into his arms. He felt the thirst for her blood overwhelm him; the structure of his face changed and the fangs ripped through. He bit into her long, cold throat; her muscles tearing with a satisfying snap. She gasped and let out a moan that could have come from pleasure or pain. Part of him enjoyed it, not caring which. Though her blood was icy, it warmed Spike as he sucked and swallowed. Intellectually it was disgusting, but it didn’t feel that way as it was happening. He felt at peace for the first time since his death.

He kept taking pulls until she started to sag against him, her brown eyes losing their deadly sparkle like a fish taking its final gasps on the shore. Lacy looked thinner, too, as though she’d wasted away. Lacy touched his stomach.

*”Do it, you’re strong enough, take my heart—“

*”You’re sure?”

*”I’m sure. Forever is a long time to be alone, Spike,”
Lacy thought.

He took one last mouthful from her and then unlatched his deadly teeth. Her lashes fluttered as she looked at him a last time, and then Spike plunged his hand through her ribcage with a crack. He grabbed her still heart and yanked. Lacy hadn’t time to scream, he did it so fast he doubted she felt anything before she was melting into a cascade of ash. The instant her remains landed, time seemed to speed up again.

Tara was standing just where he’d left her, a soft, green glow surrounding her, her lips moving in a silent spell. Spike was grateful her eyes were closed. Angel was still playing host beside him, he didn’t even notice that his second in command was scattered all over the earthen floor. Toy or rather Buffy, was still coming towards them, her stake clutched close to her body.

Lacy must’ve slowed them or stopped them, Spike thought. He didn’t waste another second wondering what was happening or why. Spike kicked Angel’s legs out from under him, sending the larger vampire crashing down.

“Lacy, what the fuck?” Angel shouted.

Then Angel saw Spike, saw the detritus of his Wiccan shield blowing in the wind. Suddenly the slayer descended on Angel’s prone body, landing punches on his square jaw. Spike thought she looked magnificent in the midst of destruction; more enticing than she’d ever been. After she landed the first punch, Angel's blood was flying up in viscous ropes. His bones were breaking but Angel’s hair still did not move.

Angel head butted Buffy and then flipped her over, settling on top of her with a triumphant look on his face. Spike tried to enter the fray, but he was immobile. He looked down at his blood-stained hands and saw that the same green glow enveloping Tara was surrounding him.
Spike was frozen and panicked when his attention was captured by motion in front of him. Angel was sailing across the room, his coat fluttering like a cape and Buffy had pushed herself onto her feet. Angel hit a wall and dripped down it like egg yolk. He managed to get upright before Buffy could reach him. Angel started taunting her as he regained his strength, and the two circled one another, leaving a ring of footprints in the dirt.

“Must've been so degrading for you, not being able to tell the guy whose dick you're sucking anything about yourself. Then to tell him you love him, how pathetic is that?” Angel asked.

“I think you've got the market cornered on pathetic. What did we kiss, like twice?” Buffy asked.

“That's true, I got more play off your little sister,” Angel said.

Buffy stopped moving. Suddenly, she was twirling like a leaf from a tree and landing a kick to Angel's head. He staggered back, but stayed on his feet. She landed like a gymnast, all straight-backed innate grace. Every part of Spike longed for her; she called out to his body, his soul and his monster.

Buffy backhanded the large vampire, laying him out. She pounced on top of him, her hair gliding all around her stony face. Buffy held the stake with two hands above Angel. His expression was more bemused than fearful.

“Goodbye, Angel,” Buffy said.

Buffy lowered the weapon and the stake sunk home before Angel could even speak. Her face was inscrutable. For a second she was straddling the vampire and then she was falling as Angel’s body disintegrated. Buffy looked up, panting, her stake still poised and she saw Spike for the first time. He realized he was wearing his fangs and there was blood drying on his mouth. He slipped into his human visage.

The expression in her eyes nearly killed him. It looked like all of her hopes had died. She let out a wail and rolled into a fetal position in the dust. She was no longer a warrior; she wasn’t anything. Spike was able to move. He tried to go to Buffy, but Tara grabbed his shoulder. He looked up at his sister in surprise. For a second he’d forgotten she was there.

“No, Billy,” Tara said.

Tara went to Buffy’s side and pulled the shattered woman close like she had with Spike. Tara ran her hand across Buffy’s back as though she were trying to calm a sick child.

“It’s going to be alright, Buffy. Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright,” Tara said.

“We need to kill him,” Buffy said.

She was leaning against Tara’s shoulder and holding her hand. Tara had been consoling the other girl for the better part of an hour, finally coaxing her to speech. Of course, when Buffy had regained her composure, her first thought was to destroy Spike. He couldn't blame her after everything she’d been through, but it pained his silent heart.

“Buffy, I t,t,told you he’s not going t,t,to hurt anyone, his s,s,soul—“

“I've heard of the spell before, but there’s no way of knowing what will happen when you die. There’s no record of how it would work with a vampire,” Buffy said.

“He’s my brother,” Tara said, as though that were a rational argument.

Spike, who was sitting Indian-style before the two women, folded his hands.

“He’s also sitting right here, ducks. The both of you need to stop talking about me like I’m not around. Besides, we’ve got to get out of here before the sun sets, Angel’s probably got his goulies set to play as soon as the streetlights pop on,” Spike said.

He stood up, rubbing his hands on his thighs to shake the dust from his filthy jeans. Tara looked up at him lovingly; Buffy refused to even glance at him. The way she kept her chin pointed down reminded him of all the times she’d brought him off without meeting his gaze. He was getting to her, Spike thought, grimly.

Buffy slowly sat up, her back straight. Spike wished he hadn’t added another burden on her narrow shoulders. She didn’t look at either of the McClays when she spoke.

“He'll burn in the sunlight. It won't set for another hour at least,” Buffy said.

Tara shifted, looking at Buffy’s profile.

“We'll t,t,throw my coat over the exposed s,s,skin. Did you drive here?” Tara asked.

“I did. If he's coming with us he's riding in the trunk,” Buffy said.

“What if I'm claustrophobic?” Spike asked. He had a sudden flash of waking up in the dark, covered in dirt, clawing his way up. The thought of getting into the trunk made him feel ill. Tara picked up on his anxiety. They exchanged a look and he knew she understood.

“If you don’t get in the trunk, then you die for real this time, and I don’t have to figure out how to deal with you,” Buffy said.

Tara stood up quickly, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

“What do you mean, deal with him?”

Buffy's voice warmed as she addressed Tara.

“I can’t let him go, Tara until we figure out if he’s dangerous,” Buffy said.

“Toy, love—“

Buffy was suddenly clutching the front of Spike’s muddy t-shirt. She held him aloft and his legs wheeled, like a spider descending from a web.

“Don’t call me love. You can’t love. You’re a monster,” she said.

She dropped him and he landed with a grunt, his legs smacking the earth hard. Tara was by his side, helping him up. His sister shot Buffy a look of pure anger—Spike had never seen that expression on Tara’s gentle face.

“You don’t have a free pass t,t,t,to abuse him,” Tara said.

“Kinda do, it’s in my job title,” Buffy said, folding her arms over her chest and glaring at Tara defiantly. Tara put her arm around Spike’s waist.

“We’re leaving,” Tara said.

Buffy sighed and then took a step forward.

“That’s not your brother, that’s the thing that killed him. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be. This whole housebroken routine could be an act, a game,” Buffy said. She was flailing her arm at him and her voice sounded raw.

“It’s not, I feel it,” Tara said.

“You can go, but he has to stay with me, or I’ll be forced to dust him,” Buffy said.

Spike put his arm around Tara and looked down at his sister. He spoke in a soothing voice that had always eased her fears as a child.

“I’ll go with her wherever she wants to take me. Whatever she does, it’s alright, pet. I can take it,” Spike said.

“It's not alright, I can do a protective s,s,spell, ward her off,” Tara said.

“I can outlast you, Tara,” Buffy said.

“Listen to me, both of you. I will ride in the bloody trunk, just stop this,” Spike said.

Something inside Buffy seemed to break and her voice fell a few octaves as she spoke.

“Fine, I'll pull the car around, then lift you out first, Tara,” Buffy said.

“Billy goes first,” Tara said.

Buffy put her hands on her hips, exasperated.

“Alright, Spike will go first, but I’m putting him in handcuffs,” she said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, Toy,” Spike said.

Buffy finally looked at him.

“Yeah, but it could be the last,” she said.

Buffy turned from them and bounded across the dirt floor to the circle of daylight she'd carved out. Spike watched her ascend to the surface; she was able to get out of the basement in one, preternatural leap. He heard her light, retreating step on the ground outside. Tara was gripping his waist so tightly it should've hurt, but it didn’t.

“S,s,she'll kill you,” Tara whispered.

“I won't give her a reason,” Spike said.

He could hear the clack of a car door opening and then slamming; the radio was playing something tinny before Buffy switched it off. Spike suspected auto-tuning.

“What if s,s,she doesn't need a reason?” Tara asked. She looked up at him and he saw that tears were hovering in the corners of her eyes. Spike cupped her face and swiped the bright drop away with his thumb. Tara couldn’t return his smile.

He heard an engine turning over and the crunch of wheels on gravel.

“I don't want you to be a prisoner, love. You've got Penny, and school,” Spike said.

Spike heard the engine cut out and Buffy’s distinctive tread coming closer. He could smell her scent getting stronger, hear the rustle of her clothes against her perfectly-shaped arms and legs.

“The s,s,second I leave, s,s,she'll dust you,” Tara said.

Suddenly, Buffy appeared a foot in front of them. Both he and Tara jumped.

“I won't end him unless he attacks one of us,” Buffy said.

She hadn't been lying when she said she'd waited with him in the alley, Spike thought. It was funny to think of how much that had mattered to him then. He wished he could apologize, but Spike was certain it would only make her ache, make her remember how she couldn't save him the second time around. Spike took in her exhausted face, her distant, green eyes. He wanted to touch her; to tell her it would be alright. That would make it worse, everything he did was making it worse.She was holding the handcuffs he'd given her in her muddy hands. The sight of them made him catch his breath out of instinct rather than need.

“Do you have an invisibility cloak?” Tara asked.
Buffy smiled.

“Enchanted ring. People only see me when I want them to,” Buffy said.

“T,t,t,that's s,s,so nifty,” Tara said, her magical interest getting the better of her distrust. “Does it blank out whatever you t,t,touch?”

“Yeah, so I won't be able to make the Citroen all stealthy, or else everyone will see you two floating along the highway,” Buffy said.

She was fingering the cuffs while she spoke. Spike couldn't take his eyes away from her slim digits tipped in the chipped, ice-blue polish he'd painted. He wondered why she'd chosen those particular handcuffs, of all things. Maybe they were the only pair she had, he thought.
Tara furrowed her brow.

“I could do a cloaking spell, but we'd need about a pound of peacock feathers,” Tara said.

“A pound? How many poor birds would you have to shake for that lot?” Spike asked.

Tara giggled, but Buffy just looked at his blood-soaked hands. He wished he could hide them from her rather than holding his wrists out to her. Buffy licked her lips, and he could hear her heartbeat increasing. Then Spike realized that he'd misunderstood. She hadn't been staring at the stain, but the hands underneath; she'd been staring at him. Buffy wouldn't look up from her task as the metal clasp snickered shut, but she did trail her finger on the vulnerable skin she was enclosing. He could smell her arousal and something else, something equally mouth watering, like carmelized onions draped across a steak. Instinctively, he knew it was fear. Spike shuddered.
Buffy looked at Tara and dropped Spike's hands, shame skittering across her features.

Tara took Spike by the arm and led him to the opening in the ceiling. He could smell the sunlight burning in his nose. Tara threw her purple, velvet coat over his head. The scent of Tara was overwhelming; she smelled like honey and lavender. He could smell Penny's gummy bear-sweet perfume along with the lingering scent of a long-ago eaten bagel Tara must have taken from the cafeteria and stuck in her pocket. Spike's stomach flipped as he was carried up in the air. He landed with a thump and then he heard the trunk shut. He heard two sets of footsteps and then noises like the girls were entering the car. He could almost visualize Buffy's thin fingers turning the key; the engine was painfully loud and the cramped space was flooding him with panic. He was lying on his side, unable to extend his legs.

As Spike felt the car jerk into motion he kept reminding himself that he was long past the point of smothering. He could hear voices along with the din of machinery, but it took him awhile to sort out all the amplified sensations. Spike strained until he was picking up the conversation.

“The tape's jammed in there and sometimes it just pops on, it's always the same song. I like to think Giles is haunting the car; I mean he owned it for like, a century or something,” Buffy said.

“I do sense an aura, maybe he's protecting you,” Tara said.

The next bit was unintelligible.

“It’s because my name was a curse. Even when I gave out a fake name, somehow it still worked,” Buffy said.

“But t,t,that didn't happen when Billy called you T,T,Toy?”

“No, I think because he chose it. It wasn’t the name thing, that’s not how he found me this time. One of Angel’s flunkies told me they were keeping track of major demonic disappearances. I guess I was just a little too prolific,” Buffy said.

Tara's voice was lost as they bounced over a pot hole.

“Maybe it would be better if you just didn't use it, or
Toy, either,” Buffy said.

Buffy drove hit another bump and Spike hit his head on the roof of the trunk. A puff of dirt came loose and he coughed, causing him to hit his head again. He missed more of what they said.

“...they have a butcher....tummy must be growling--” Buffy said.

“I woke up next to Spike’s body and then it took about t,t,three days, I t,t,think--” Tara said.

There were a lot of bumps on the way to wherever they were going, and Spike felt a headache blooming. Suddenly the speakers next to his ear sprung to life. Spike started banging on the roof of the trunk, but the song continued. It was all melodic, psychedelic guitars and a dreamy voice.

--I could've loved you, girl, like a planet, I could've chained your heart to a star--

He continued pounding his fist on the roof, making indentations in the metal.

--but it really doesn't matter at all, no it really doesn't matter at all-Life's a gas--

He heard Tara yelling over the music.

“We can't s,s,shut it off!”

--I could've turned you into a priestess, I could've burnt your fate in the sand--

“Fuck!” Spike screamed.

He stuffed his fingers in his ears, but it didn't help. Spike couldn't hear the girls talking or even the road, just the sweet strains of T-Rex warbling over and over again. The headache was shattering, it throbbed in time with the tune.

Bump. Cough. Bump. Life's a Gas.

The car stopped and then the music as well, but no one came to fetch him. He wondered if he had the strength to kick his way out. Then he heard steps.

“We're stopping for groceries, Spike. It'll be about ten minutes, don't freak. Nice dents by the way,” Buffy said.

“Are you s,s,s,sure he can hear you?” Tara asked.

In order to allay her worries, Spike tapped out shave and a haircut on the roof. He heard Tara set a hand on the metal before walking away; at least, he assumed it was Tara.


As he laid alone in the dark with his neck twisted at an awkward angle, Spike’s mind wheeled over the past few days. Drinking Lacy’s blood had quieted all the components of his cravings; the violence, the anger, the lust and of course the thirst. It sickened him to remember how right destroying her had felt. Spike doubted drinking a bowl of czarnina would have the same effect. If he couldn't control himself, Buffy would have to finish what Lacy started. More than that, he would want her to.

By the time they got to their destination, Spike was a shuddering mess. Buffy whipped the coat off of his head and he saw her staring down at him with her distant, green eyes. Her stoic expression softened when she saw the state he was in; she picked him up and carried him like he was a toddler. It must've looked ridiculous being that he had at least forty pounds on the girl, or it would've if they weren't invisible. Normally he would've protested that she was treating him like a child, but he was too far gone. He let his throbbing head rest on her shoulder, pride be damned.

The sky was just beginning to lose its sunset colors and settle into dark blue. She hefted his weight easily as they approached a clapboard farmhouse with siding weathered like driftwood. The color was either white or gray, Spike couldn't tell. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feet, as did the gat-toothed porch. She swung open the rusty screen door and then fumbled with the handle of the storm door. Before they passed the threshold, she muttered an invitation for him.

“This is your place, pet?” he asked.

“As much as anything can be mine,” Buffy said.

Once they were inside, she asked him if he was able to stand. He nodded yes and she set him down, his muddy boots leaving prints on the mauve carpeting. Once he wasn't touching her, Buffy disappeared for a moment, only to reappear a few seconds later. She locked the door and began taking off her leather coat, then hung it in the hall closet.

Spike took in the strange, new surroundings. Outside the structure had given off a whiff of dust bowl desperation, inside it was sweet enough to induce diabetic seizures. The walls were covered in shiny, textured pink paper to complement the aforementioned mauve carpet. The nearest floor lamp was festooned with fat, trumpeting cherubs along the base and the shade had cherry colored dingleberries around the edge. To the right was the parlor, stuffed with ornately carved Victorian-like furniture, doilies on nearly every surface and many, many embroidered things. Beside the door was a cross-stich that read “God Bless this Mess,” complemented with an image of a frazzled, white kitten kneeling in prayer; beside that hung a gold-framed mirror. Spike was shocked when he couldn't see his reflection; then he remembered.

He glanced away and then saw Tara walking toward him from a room in the back. In her hand she held a thin, daisy-dappled teacup full of blood. She hugged him and then handed him the cup. Spike balanced the fine china in between his bound hands and drank it without a word. The blood was foul, but tasted better than the weight gaining shakes he'd been subsisting on for the past few months. More than that, it seemed to steady him.

“I'd love a shower,” he said.

Buffy looked at him and he got the sense that she had no idea what to do with him now that he was there. Buffy took the key off her neck and undid Spike’s cuffs. She held his hands a beat too long before letting him go, then Tara bounced into Spike’s arms.

“There are shackles in the basement and a cage. We'll keep him in there,” Buffy said.

Tara turned to Buffy.

“No, I don't agree t,t,to t,t,that,” Tara said.

Buffy ran a shaking hand through her dirty hair.

“It's not forever, just until I figure some things out,” Buffy said.

“What does that mean?” Spike asked. He stroked Tara's back absently.

“I”ve got a friend, somebody who knows about this stuff. He can help, I think,” Buffy said.

“And how long would I be under lock and key?”

“A week, maybe two,” Buffy said.

Tara looked at Spike, incredulous.

“You're not going along with t,t,this, are you?”

“I trust her, love, more than myself right now. Come on Toy, show me the new digs,” Spike said.

“Don't call me that, or the other name, either,” Buffy said.

“The curse thing?” Spike asked.

“How did you know about that?” Buffy asked.

“You pick up a few things if you listen. So if big bad is dust, isn’t the curse broken and all that?” Spike asked.

“It felt a little too easy, killing Angel, I mean. I'm not really sure it took,” Buffy said

“Alright, pet. I’ll just have to use my random nickname generator and come up with something else, how do you feel about Goldilocks?” Spike asked.

Buffy looked from one sibling to the other, then took Spike by the arm.

“We’re going downstairs,” she said.

“What about Commandant?” Spike asked, with a wicked grin.

Buffy shoved him, hard. Tara looked on helplessly as the other girl led her brother through the hallway to the back room, a kitchen. The windows in the kitchen were decorated with scalloped lace curtains. Boldly colored appliances from the nineteen fifties were scattered on the bright, red counter tops. The walls were a faded, toasty shade of yellow and the scent of pizza was wafting from the oven. It was cozy, or would have been, if he didn’t know what was waiting for him in the basement. Buffy walked him to a door covered in chipped, white paint that opened onto the downstairs steps, which were carpeted in misleadingly cheery, green astro-turf.

As they tramped into the lower depths of the house, Spike caught the scent of an agitated animal; it made him more anxious. The floor of the basement was stone, and the cage was black, wrought iron. It looked ancient. There was hay lining the bottom and shackles cemented into the wall. On the outside of the cage was a narrow bed with an enormous gun laying on atop it at a diagonal.

“What is this place?” Spike asked. They had reached the bottom of the stairwell and she was herding him toward the enclosure.

“I used to babysit a werewolf here. It was an old family curse; she was the last one in her line and when she died, she gave me the house. There’s nothing on paper, of course, but I got around that with a little magical fenangling. It’s a handy dandy spell, it can even protect me in a hotel room,” Buffy said.

They were at the black, cage door with its fist-sized lock.

“Anywhere you hang your hat is home, yeah?” Spike asked.

He wrapped a hand around the bars and then looked down at her.

“Anywhere and nowhere,” she said.

Buffy hadn’t let go of his upper arm, but her grip had turned into a caress. She was stroking his skin under the short sleeve of his shirt, while firmly avoiding his eyes.

“We need to talk,” Spike said.

She withdrew her hand and looked up at him, her green eyes angry.

“We have nothing to talk about, there’s no we, he’s dead,” she said.

The words seemed to be spoken more for Buffy than for him, but they still chilled Spike. He was too shocked to argue that he was the same person, just...afflicted somehow. Buffy yanked open the door, startling his hand from the bar and pushed Spike inside. The door clanged shut and then Buffy was fastening the lock.

“Not about us, about Angel and Lacy—“

Buffy stopped and then turned her eyes to his.

“What about Lacy?”

Spike told her everything that happened with Lacy, how she made him, how she helped him and how he’d killed her. Spike explained about the odd warning and her bizarre self-sacrifice. He didn’t spare any detail, not even the part where Lacey assumed Buffy’s form to ease his way into post-life. Buffy blushed at that, and seemed to stiffen at the mention of his ex, which felt like a minor victory to Spike. He told her about his reluctance to end Lacey and his feelings of pleasure mingled with disgust surrounding the feeding. Buffy touched his hand, briefly, when he spoke about his regret.

“She was your sire, that’s what it’s called when a vampire turns somebody. It’s a really intense bond, like family, except all incest-y and gross,” Buffy said.

“It was that,” Spike said, his eyes darting down from her intense scrutiny, “how do you know her?”

“Lacy Chavois was a watcher. When she was alive, she was assigned to help me with my Angel problem, but she ended up getting turned, on purpose. She’d spent her whole life studying vampires and she got obsessed with the idea of being one,” Buffy said.

“I guess it wasn’t all primroses and penny whistles. So what’s a watcher?” Spike asked.

“They’re the people who pay my bills, they know a lot about magic. They teach and train slayers,” Buffy said.

“And this Lacy was your teacher?”

“Yeah, after Giles, my first watcher was murdered, but he was less a teacher. More like a dad,” Buffy said.

Spike reached through the bars and stroked her cheek. She leaned into his fingers for a moment. When she looked at him, tears were burgeoning in her eyes.

“You’re so cold,” she said as her voice cracked.

Buffy ran back upstairs without a backward look.

**

Spike heaped straw into a pile and curled up in it like a gerbil without a wheel. He could hear all the movements, all the settling, every pipe shuddering to life within the house. When Buffy and Tara sat down to eat their meal, he could hear the pizza cutter sticking against the overcooked crust. He could smell more than the burnt food; he could sense the girls, the field mouse nibbling on a kernel of corn behind the wainscoting in the living room, and the sensual chaos caused by all the household chemicals.

Tara took a sip and then set a glass down on the kitchen table before she spoke. Spike concentrated on her voice.

“I know you’ve been t,t,through s,s,something unimaginable, but t,t,treating my brother like an animal is only going t,t,to t,t,turn him into one,” Tara said.

Spike could hear Buffy chewing and then swallowing.

“Angel pretended to be a little, wounded lamb, too,” Buffy said.

“T,t,this is more t,t,than a ploy, and you know it,” Tara said.

“He’s a killer, Tara. Soul or no, that’s what he is,” Buffy said.

“Isn’t t,t,that what you are, t,t,too? I know what a s,s,slayer is, you get your power from a demon. Your reason for existing is to kill, except unlike a vampire, you don’t do it to s,s,survive,” Tara said.

“I protect! I never hurt human beings, only monsters,” Buffy said.

“But you could. You’re s,s,strong enough, and it would make life easier, but you don’t. You control your demon, and Billy can, t,t,too,” Tara said.

Spike heard the scrape of a chair on linoleum.

“I need a shower,” Buffy said apologetically.


He heard his girl’s predator tread padding softly on the stairs, followed by the opening and closing of doors before. Then water surged and all the pipes began to grind. Spike was concentrating so intently on Buffy’s movements, that he didn’t notice Tara until he saw her standing at the top of the basement steps holding a mason jar full of blood in one hand and a few slices of pizza on a paper plate in the other. She smiled at him, and he felt a sense of relief. Spike hopped to his feet as she walked down to meet him.

Tara folded the plate in half and passed Spike the pizza through the metal bars, then handed him the jar. He gulped from it greedily, feeling the bones in his face shift. Spike turned away from Tara until he was finished.

“Do you s,s,still eat people food?” Tara asked.

She held onto the bar and Spike covered her hand with his own. The contact calmed him down, made him feel less like an exhibit at the zoo. He took a bite and mulled it over a bit before swallowing.

“It’s not making me gag or anything, but it tastes of fish fingers,” Spike said.

He didn’t want to tell her that not only could he taste what was cooked in the pan previous to the pizza, but he could also taste the steel wool used to clean it afterward.

“S,s,sorry,” Tara said.

“No worries, love,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment.

“You don’t need to be so hard on her,” Spike said.

“What do you mean?”

“I heard your whole conversation with my girl. Enhanced vampire senses and all,” Spike said.

“She’s got you in a fucking cage, Billy. That rat we kept in the lab had a better set up than this,” Tara said. He’d never heard his sister use that particular dirty word, but at least a sentence had passed through her lips without tripping a stutter.

“Maybe I should be here. This thing that’s in me, Tara, it’s like that time I snorted coke and was on ecstasy except all this weird…extra...evil all at once,” Spike said.

“When did you do t,t,that?” Tara asked.

“Honestly can't tell you exactly when, just that after it was over I woke up naked in a field in Hampshire next to an American girl called Harmony, though I doubt that was her real name,” Spike said.

“Forget I asked, just know t,t,that I understand how you feel,” Tara said.

“You couldn't possibly, love,” Spike said. He let go of the bar and began pacing in the confined space.

Tara sighed and sat down on the bed.

“I didn't want t,to say this in front of s,s,she who must not be named, but there's more to the soul spell than I thought. I t,t,think it's because you're only t,t,technically dead. The spell was supposed to keep you near me, so we could find each other again, like if you were in heaven, I'd get an overwhelming sense of peace when I thought of you--”

“You thought I was going to get into heaven?” Spike asked with a snort.

She smiled.

“Yeah, well, now it's like I've got empathy on steroids with you. I can feel what you feel. You're in the back of my mind, all the time and if I concentrate, it gets more intense. When you were in the trunk, I could sense your headache, your blood lust,” Tara said.

Spike stopped mid-stride and stood very, very still.

“What did you feel when I dug my way out of the grave?”

She closed her eyes, slowly, as though she couldn't speak and look at him at the same time.

“Everything.”

“Did you feel what I wanted to do to you?”

Tara met his gaze, took a deep breath and then exhaled.

“I t,t,told you. I felt everything,” Tara said.

“Then how could you think that I don't belong in a bloody cage?”

“Because I felt the remorse, t,t,too,” she said.

Spike put his hands on his hips, a slim sugar bowl.

“You need to leave this place, you need to leave me to my fate, love,” Spike said.

Tara stood and walked back to the cage. She rested her head in between two bars on the door to his prison.

“I know it's better for you when I'm here, easier for you t,t,to control--” Tara said.

Spike went to her and rested his forehead against hers. It was something he’d always done when she would cry as a little girl.

“What if I start changing you? What if you get to craving a nip of blood and a spot of violence? You're already talking like a sailor on leave,” Spike said.

Tara smiled at him.

“At least I'm stuttering less. Anyway, you won't, change me, at least I don't think and I can't leave you. I know you're in love with her, but s,s,she's s,s,so fragile right now. S,s,she could kill you if I leave, and you're acting like the world would be better off without you, I doubt you'd put up any argument,” Tara said.

“Not in love with her--”

“Quit being s,s,such a boy about it, I can feel your emotions, remember?”

“Well, can you stop it? Sick of my privacy being violated, it's like someone left the gate open to my brain and all sorts are wandering in,” Spike said.

“I'll t,t,try, but it's kind of difficult. Can you sense my presence at all? It’s supposed to be a reciprocal,” Tara said.

He stepped away from her and cocked his head. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the idea of Tara through the riot of new information. It took him a moment, but he found her, a quiet corner of his mind. She was so frightened that he could taste it on the back of his tongue. Her vulnerability sent the demon into a frenzy and it took everything in him to keep the fangs from descending. Spike's eyes popped open.

“No, I can't,” he said.

She smiled sadly and then withdrew from arm's reach. Tara promised to find him some proper bedding instead of the hay, and then with a twirl of her skirt, she was gone. He knew there was no way she could have believed him, not if she felt the blood lust. As Tara walked away Spike finally understood something key about his sister. In all the years when she'd been allowing him to protect her, it had always been more for his sake than her own.

It was funny how patterns could make a day seem normal, even if the day began with drinking a pint of pig blood and using an extension cord as a jump rope whilst exercising in a cage. Tara, ever the domestic sort, had tried to outfit his prison with blankets, pillows and books she'd found in the old house. Tara had found a wealth of dusty, old occult tomes for herself and some novels for him. She'd even set up a television on the dryer and handed him a remote control so he could watch his soaps.

Tara slept on the bed beside his cage and Spike didn't know where Buffy slept. She mostly avoided Spike and Tara, keeping to another part of the house and leaving at night. He knew sometimes Buffy would make herself invisible and join them because he could smell her, hear her distinctive movements. Spike wondered if she was getting up the nerve to kill him.

Buffy and Tara took meals together, mainly because his sister was was too polite to force the other girl to eat alone. Afterward, Tara would bring Spike down some blood and a bit of “people food,” as she called it, to see if there was anything he still enjoyed. He'd been unable to stomach anything but the plasma and curiously, hot chocolate with an ample sprinkling of cinnamon, which tasted exquisite due to his enhanced taste buds.

Buffy had not let him out for three days. During that time the siblings had played numerous games of chess, read and talked. It was almost like the times he and Tara would visit their grandmother over the Christmas holiday; inevitably, they'd be snow bound and they'd have to entertain themselves. Almost like that, with several pertinent exceptions. For instance, he was never worried grandmother was going to shove a stake through him.
Tara was lounging on her bed with a lugubrious, leather-bound book pressed flat against her lap and Spike was juggling with a trio of oranges. It was a neat trick he'd taught himself while he was in grade school, but he hadn't bothered to practice since he'd hit puberty. Spike was pleased to see he'd retained his juggling skills; if he survived a career at the circus was still an option.

“It's odd not having to piss,” Spike said.

Tara turned to him with big, sleepy eyes. He looked at her through the horizontal lines penning him and the arc of bright orange passing above his head.

“Just a perk of being a vampire, I guess,” Tara said.

She arched like a cat and tugged at the bottom of her purple, tie-dyed shirt letting the book slide out of her lap.

“But where does it all go?” he asked.

“Hell, maybe? You could be exhaling it,” Tara said with a giggle.

She stretched out her arms and yawned.

“That's horrifying, love, thanks for that,” Spike said.
Spike stopped throwing the fruit and caught the remaining oranges in one hand.

“Could do with a wash, if you don't mind,” he said.

“Sure,” she said.

Tara stood and strolled across the black, stone floor before she alighted on the green steps. She came back a short while later with a copper basin filled with steamy water and a washcloth. Tara balanced the sloshing bowl carefully as she descended. Then she set the metal basin down, passed him a washcloth, and left so he could clean himself in privacy.

Buffy hadn't let him take a shower yet; he supposed she didn't want to deal with the guard duty. Tara had been trying to help, but the little bird bath he was allotted left most of the dirt from his grave still covering him.
He hadn't bothered to put his boots or his socks on after the first night because the cold floor didn't affect him as it might have before. Spike took off his black t-shirt. The day before Tara had thrown his clothes in the washer, along with her dusty garments after finding them some ill-fitting sweats to change into. In a rare moment of sadism, Tara had given him the pink sweatsuit with the rainbow unicorn prancing across the front. He grinned at the memory as he squatted and dipped the washcloth into the hot circle of water.

As he scrubbed his shoulder, he sensed her, Buffy. Spike could feel Buffy's heart pulsing three feet away from him. Her skin smelled like the pith of a tangelo mingled with the animal scent of a living, breathing creature. He wondered how he looked to her; his salt white skin was ground with old earth and the coils of his silver hair were heavy with clay. She must like it though, to add voyeurism to her growing list of taboos, he thought.

“I know you're there, love. Might as well make yourself all visible,” Spike said.

He called her love, hoping to enrage her enough to appear. It worked. Buffy flickered into his line of sight like a flame appearing on the head of a match. She wore a thick, cream colored cardigan sweater over a red t-shirt, jeans and some preposterous, high-heeled boots the same shade as the sweater. She could probably still take him in a fight wearing those boots, he thought, enhanced vampire strength or no.

“Don't call me—”

“Right,” he said.

Spike wrung the white terrycloth streaked with brown over the cistern, the splash of the water echoing throughout the stone basement. He dipped the fabric back into the basin, then made a pass at his chest. Her eyes never left him.

“So what now?” he asked.

Silently, she took a few shaky steps forward, then took her hand from her sweater pocket. She fingered the key to his prison nervously before it was twisting in the lock and she was holding wide the door. Spike couldn't believe it as Buffy took him by the arm. She tugged him out of the cage and led him up the stairs.

They walked up both sets of steps, passing by Tara who was sitting in the living room talking on an aged rotary telephone. Tara looked at them as though they'd just gone mad. Spike simply shrugged at his sister. Buffy led him to the bathroom at the end of the upstairs hall, a room that was predictably rosy-hued. They went inside and Buffy closed the door. They stood in front of the chiffon pink toilet; Buffy looked down at the gray and white, octagonal tile covering the floor. She had hardly been able to meet Spike's eyes since he'd become a vampire.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I'm letting you take a shower, isn't that what you wanted?” she asked.

“Well yeah, but why now?”

“I couldn't stand watching you suffer any more,” she said.
Spike smiled at her, then he unzipped his jeans. At the sound of it, the girl standing before him turned away, presenting him with her narrow back. He stepped out of his pants, then Spike reached out and touched her slim neck with soft fingers.

“Shouldn't leave yourself open like that, but you're more afraid of the man than the monster, aren't you love?” he asked.

Her exhalation sounded harsh, and her shoulders crimped in even tighter.

“I'm so lonely, it would be worth it just to not feel this anymore,” Buffy said.

He held her neck tighter; the demon could taste her desperation. She was offering him everything; her body, the blood dancing under her skin and the life it sustained. He followed the pulsing vein in her neck with a dirty fingertip, before Spike took off her sweater and set it on the floor. Buffy lifted her arms for him as he tugged off her t-shirt. He kissed her bare shoulder and unhooked her light, blue bra. He knelt and pulled the tab down on her creamy, leather boots. As he was easing her leg from the leather sheath, a polished stake fell out. He handed it to her and then took off the other boot.
Buffy looked down at him and smiled. Spike eased her pants over her hips, taking her panties with them, until she was naked and he was curled up at her feet. He kissed each one of her toes before he stood up and took her hand. She let him.

They walked to the shower, he adjusted the taps and they stepped under the hot water. Spike let the steaming water pour into his mouth until it warmed him before he bent down and kissed Buffy's lips. She pulled away, and he worried she would flee, or worse, plunge the stake she was holding into his chest. Perhaps he still tasted of the blood he'd just drunk, he thought.

Instead of fight or flight, Buffy turned from him and set the stake in the shower caddy, exchanging it for a bottle of shampoo. Buffy squeezed out a dollop of soapy amber liquid. She washed his hair, massaging his scalp until she elicited a happy sigh. Buffy looked satisfied that she could get him to make a sound. She moved on to soaping up his skin. She washed him slowly, adoringly, starting at his feet and making her way up his body. His cock came to life at her touch, but she didn't linger there, though Buffy did take her time washing his face. When she finished, Spike took her hands in his, her fingers like a bouquet.

He thought of what Tara had said, about being in love with Buffy. He knew it was the truth; both the women who'd had access to his thoughts had figured it out before he did. Spike worried if he told Buffy, she would reject his words outright and accuse him of being something less than a person. Still, he decided to stop being such a bloody coward and tell her, if only to give her some sort of comfort.

“I should've told you I loved you when you said it that first time,” Spike said.

Buffy's tears mingled with the clear water. She swallowed hard before she spoke.

“I know you're not that person anymore, no matter what you think or you feel, but tonight, let's pretend you are. Let's pretend this is a dream,” she said.
She slipped her hands out of his and held him close.

“You still dream of me?” he asked.

“Every night,” she said.

“Did we stick with Italy or are we hopping around the continent?”

Buffy's eyes dipped and a blush spread across her cheeks.

“We were living at my mom's house in Sunnydale, where I grew up. You were making me a pot of coffee and I was resting my head on your back. You said you couldn't move with my arms around your waist but you didn't mind,” Buffy said, almost smiling.

Spike kissed her curving lips.

“Then what happened?”

“I held you and then the dream changed. I looked through the house and couldn't find you anywhere,” she said. Buffy closed her eyes. Spike kissed the side of her face, let his lips brush against her ear.

“I'm not going anywhere, I'm not leaving you,” he said.

Spike lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hip. He was still hard and she guided him inside of her wordlessly, never opening her eyes. She was still so delicate, so new to everything and he was afraid of hurting her, but she pulled him into a rough rhythm , her small hands urging him at the hip. Spike wanted to tell her he'd die for her, kill for her, but he'd already done both; it would've been cruel to remind her of that then. Instead he told her he loved her over and over.

He felt her come undone against him, and her body wrung an orgasm from his. After she hit her peak, she began to sob, the physical release making it impossible to hide her feelings anymore. He didn't know what to do except hold her while she fell apart. They sat on the floor of the shower with their arms wrapped around each other. From someone looking down they might have looked like a rose, arms and legs for pink petals with a white-blonde center. Buffy’s tears subsided and she rested her head against Spike’s shoulder. Then she sipped the air in little, staggered inhalations until her breathing finally became even.

“The water’s getting cold, I should take you back downstairs,” she said.

“Let me sleep with you tonight,” Spike said.

“This wasn’t…it was only to say goodbye,” she said.

“But I’m not gone, I’m the same man—“

“You’re not. You even feel different. Your skin is cold and poreless, like it's brand new,” she said. She kissed his shoulder and let her hands move down his back. As her fingers passed over the tattoo, he felt an intense shiver of pleasure through his whole body.

“That’s just weird,” he whispered.

“No you’re so beautiful, even more than before. You glow and you feel so silky, I never imagined. God, you feel amazing…but it’s wrong. We’re wrong now, Spike,” Buffy said.

Spike cupped the sides of her face and pulled her into a kiss. When he was finished he looked into her sorrowful eyes threaded with red.

“Baby, I don’t care,” he said.

He kissed her again, but that time she ended the embrace, shoving him away with her open palms slapping against his wet chest.

“It stops, now,” Buffy said.

She stood up and twisted the faucets off. Buffy swept the shower curtain aside with a sharp scraping sound and then gathered up her clothes, leaving puddles on the dizzying tile. Spike stood slowly and then snapped a fuzzy, salmon-colored towel from the rod. He rubbed his hair and watched Buffy try to yank on her jeans over her damp legs. Spike dried his chest and looked at her struggling.

“I'm your prisoner, love, in every single way. If you want to stop, stop, but don't forget you're the one who's keeping me here,” Spike said. He dried his own legs slowly with the towel, watching her try to drag her gaze from his body.

“Would you rather I dust you?” she asked, tugging her t-shirt back on. She was glancing at him behind the slope of her shoulder. She bent at the waist and picked up her sweater, tugging it on, her hands appearing out of the sleeves.

“Why won't you trust me?” he asked.

“I can’t, you can’t even trust yourself,” she said.

Buffy did a sort of curtsy to reach her socks. Spike hated seeing her cover up those toes. Then she gathered her boots. Spike walked over to her with liquid swiftness and took them from her grasp. She let out a startled breath and her back arched. He hadn’t bothered to dress yet and it had the desired effect of completely unnerving her. Spike lifted Buffy’s leg, just as he had in the shower right before he’d entered her, but instead of wrapping it around his waist, he slipped her boot on. She held her breath as he zipped the boot up and then allowed him to encase the other leg.

“I’m not a bloody Oujia board that you can take a tumble with, pet. I’m not exactly the person you knew, but I’m not exactly a demon, either, I don’t know what I am. But you can’t just take me out like your high school yearbook, reminisce about the good old days and shove me back in the basement. You're going to have to figure out what to do with me, sometime,” Spike said.

She turned her head away.

“I’m getting you help. My friend will be here in three days,” Buffy said.

“Who is this, bloke, it is a bloke, right?”

“Yeah, his name is Wesley and he’s a Watcher, like Giles was,” Buffy said.

“Should I be jealous?” Spike asked.

“Never,” she said.

He dragged his lips across her forehead and she flung her arms around him convulsively. She started to shake and he thought she might be crying, but instead she sought his mouth for a kiss. When he began rubbing her breasts through her shirt, she pushed him away again.

“Put clothes on, now,” she said.

He smirked at her.

“Really, because—“

She put out her hand.

“Now, please, just now. When Wesley gets here he’ll figure it out but till then you stay clothed and caged,” she said.

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Right,” he said.

**

Buffy didn’t touch him as she led him back to his prison. She nudged him into the living room hall. As they neared the doorway, Spike could hear Tara crying. He forgot to bow and scrape; instead he went to his sister. She was huddled under a pink and lavender quilt with lots of gingham squares, her eyes raw.

“What is it, love?” he asked, gently.

Spike extended his fingers to her cheek, but she scrambled backward.

“Don’t, don’t t,t,t,touch me,” Tara said.

Buffy knelt beside Spike.

“What happened, Tara?” Buffy asked.

“I t,t,think we need some t,t,time apart,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Spike asked, although he had a
horrible sensation clamoring through his stomach. He ignored the clutter of sensations pouring into his consciousness and concentrated on Tara. She was feeling violated, invaded and disgusted. She’d felt everything that he and Buffy had done upstairs; the pleasure, the sadness, the anger and his resignation.

Tara fixed him with her enormous, hazel eyes.

“It wasn’t like when we s,s,shared a room and you’d have a wank after you t,t,thought I’d fallen asleep. I couldn’t just hum the Doctor Who theme in my head until it was over. It was overwhelming, Billy. Penny knows s,s,someone who can help me close the gate with meditation. I’ll just be gone a few days, learn the t,t,technique and withdraw from my classes, s,s,sort t,t,things out with my professors,” Tara said.

“I think there could be a giant question mark forming over my head,” Buffy said.

Spike exchanged a look with Tara; she nodded.

“There was a s,s,strange consequence of the s,s,spell,” Tara said.

Tara explained the situation to Buffy. The tiny blonde looked pensive as Spike's sister spoke.

“So you sensed everything, as in all of the things?” Buffy asked.

“Yup.”

“Ew,” Buffy said.

“I’m sorry, Tara, I didn’t think,” Spike said.

“Yeah, I know what you were t,t,thinking. It's O.K. Love’s a funny t,t,thing,” Tara said.

Spike felt like a teenager who'd just been caught rummaging through his mother's purse for money. Buffy looked stunned. She guided him into the basement and locked him in without speaking. He wanted to call her name as she took the stair, but he remembered it wasn't to be said aloud. The two women he cared for most in the world had abandoned him because of what he was and there was nothing he could do to fix things. He picked up one of the oranges he'd been juggling with and threw it against the stone wall of the basement. As it splattered, he could almost hear Tara saying, “Hey, what did that orange ever do to you?”

Spike looked up, but she wasn't there.

Tara had no belongings to gather up, so her leaving was nearly immediate. Buffy agreed to drive her back to her dorm. Tara came down briefly and said goodbye with a short wave and one of her soothing smiles. He tried to smile back at her, but what were pretexts between them now?

“I love you, Tara.”

“I know you do. I love you, t,t,too,” she said.

“Take care, there are monsters about,” he said.

His Toy didn't spare him a farewell. He paced the cage for hours after they left, keeping on the television for company. Eventually he literally began climbing the walls. Spike found that with a running start he could launch himself like a cat and catch himself in the corners of his enclosure using his long legs as a wedge.

“Like a fucking ninja,” he said to no one.

He dropped down a few times, giggling madly at the thrill of discovering his new skill. Eventually he got bored hopping about like a flying squirrel, so he just did pull ups from the bars on the ceiling of the cage. He kept up his reps through two infomercials and part of a talk show. By the time he dropped down to the floor, his arms should have been wobbling with exhaustion but they weren't. He stared at his steady hands and felt unsettled.

Spike wished he hadn't smashed the orange he'd been juggling with for there was nothing left to do with his hands. Almost nothing; he considered a wank, but he didn't want to traumatize Tara further. The thought that he didn't have mastery over his own body irritated him and made Spike want to do it more. He wondered when Tara had become such a prude. In high school she'd been the one to explain to him what cunnilingus was and how to sort it out.

This was different though, he supposed. She was probably feeling the way he was; out of control of her own thoughts, her own flesh. Still, where did all that rot about family unity go? The first sign of trouble and she'd left him. Actually it wasn't the first sign of trouble, more like the fifth or the sixth. No wonder she left, he thought.

Spike laid down on his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He concentrated on Tara and found that she was peaceful, blank. Asleep. That meant he had the all clear. He dripped his fingers across his stomach and realized what Buffy had said was true. His skin was incredibly, unnaturally soft.

“God, I am luscious, no wonder she can't finish me off,” he said, laughing to himself.

He dragged his hand over his own stomach for a long while because it felt so foreign to him, like he was touching a stranger. It reminded him of the trite expression often used by aging actresses on talk shows--”Comfortable in one's own skin.” Spike wasn't remotely comfortable in this new skin. His body had always been a known quantity until this point. He could rely on his own physical strength; he knew how to test it, how to bend it without breaking. But now...he was hard and soft in odd places; immersed in the world to the point that he was becoming alienated from his surroundings. Spike couldn't eat a sandwich without tasting the wax paper it was wrapped in, he couldn't talk to his best friend without telling her more than she could ever want to know, he couldn't get tired, but at least he could still jerk himself off, he thought.

He undid his zipper and took out his penis. It was semi-erect, it always was since he'd been changed. He thought of Buffy and it lengthened under the pressure of his fingers.

Spike knew now he would do anything; submit to anything, to stay in Buffy’s orbit. He’d said he was hers before playfully, but now he was truly her possession to deal with as she pleased. That excited him and terrified him all at once.

Spike couldn’t be with a regular girl because she couldn’t defend herself if he lost control of his blood lust. There were no other vampires like him, with a sense of conscience for people outside their immediate circles, with a soul. Buffy was all he wanted, but more than that, she felt like the only woman who could ever match him. The notion flooded him with unexpected resentment.

He stroked his length until it hurt.

Like Lacy had said, forever was a long time to be alone, and Buffy was going to leave him no matter what. Even if she opened her heart to him and gave him her body, he would outlive her. Both Buffy and Tara would leave him. Then a mad thought warmed him; he could get Tara to do the soul spell on Buffy. He could turn her and Tara, too. Then they'd be his; irrevocably, eternally his.
The thought of sinking cock and fangs into Buffy at the same time was enough to finish him. Immediately he felt ashamed, but he couldn't stop the images playing through his imagination as he came. Buffy baring her neck to him and spreading her legs; pressing his bloodied lips to hers.

As the cum spilled into his hand, he wondered why he even had ejaculate at all. He didn't piss or shit and he hadn't been sweating but he could still shoot buckets. What was the purpose of all that besides being terribly inconvenient? Maybe it was demon seed and he should've used a rubber with Buffy. Satanic pregnancy, that would be good for a laugh, Spike thought.

“Charlie would've thought it was funny,” Spike said aloud.

Spike wondered how Charlie was doing, if Fred was alright. Charlie would be really uncomfortable if he knew Spike was thinking of him at such an intimate moment. He kept laughing until fat tears were rolling down the side of his face.

And he still couldn't sleep.

Spike wiped his hand off on the hem of his black tee before he remembered it was his only shirt. He sat up and took the shirt off, then sauntered over to the pile of books Tara had given him. Spike scooped off the top book and began reading “Wuthering Heights.”

Around the time things started to get really feisty on the moors, he heard Buffy get home.

**

Buffy made Spike wait an entire day before she finally gave him his allotment of blood. When she finally came to him it was like a specter; invisible. Spike heard her precise step at the top of the stairs as he was lying on the floor. He set his novel down after carefully wedging an old envelope between the pages.

“I had no idea how disgusting this book was until I actually sat down and read it. Did you know Heathcliff desecrates Catherine's corpse not once, but twice? The second time she'd been in the ground for more than a dozen years prior to his excavating her for a little postmortem hanky panky. That's what passed for a love story in Victorian England,” Spike said.

Buffy's movements stopped as he spoke. He imagined she had one foot hovering, one hand on the rail. The scent of the pig's blood she was carrying and the smell of her body was driving him crazy with hunger.

“There's a shocking amount of depravity in your classic literature. Both those Bronte sisters were sick twists if you ask me. In Jane Eyre Mr. Rochester keeps his lover locked in an attic till' she reverts back to a feral state. And let's not even get started on Dickens,” Spike said.

The third stair from the bottom squeaked though Buffy's tread was featherlight.

“I know you're there, pet, I can feel you. Don't know why you persist in these children's games. You think if I can't see you, you can't see me? Doesn't work like that,” Spike said.

She moved closer, ignoring his words until she was right next to the cage. As Buffy snaked a hand through the bars and set down his cup, Spike shot up from the sleeping bag. Without spilling a drop of blood he grabbed her loosely by the throat. The instant their skin came together he was able to see the startled look in Buffy's round, green eyes.

“Gotcha,” he said with a smirk.

“Let me go,” she said, softly. Her voice had a chilly command that he loved.

He followed the lines of her neck with his fingers. It turned her on to have him at such a tender spot; he knew the scent of her arousal now. She was wearing one of her tiny tank tops, this one in heather gray and she had on matching panties; her feet were bare. He didn't take his hand away as they rose in unison, like two people lifting a table. Without freeing her neck, Spike's left hand went through the space between the bars to cup her breast. Buffy was statue still, her arms rigid at her sides. He pinched her nipple until he felt a hard circle under his fingers and Buffy's breath came in sawing gasps. Spike moved his touch lower until he was pressing against the triangle at the top of her legs. He traced the outline of her sex through the soft, cotton fabric. Buffy arched into his touch. She closed her eyes and the tip of her tongue poked through her pink lips.

“Do you still want me to let go?” he asked.

She flinched away from him; the moment they broke contact she went from solid flesh to empty air. He gripped one of the bars while clawing at the space where she'd been.
“It can't go on like this,” he shouted, though she was probably still standing right in front of him. After a few moments he spoke in a normal tone, hoping she would listen.

“I'd rather you just killed me,” he said.

**

After the blood had been drunk and the floor had been pounded by his bare feet for a few more hours, Spike decided he ought to try to have another lie down. He curled up on the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he found himself immersed in Tara's emotions. Whatever she was doing was making her nervous in a test-taking vein. He tried to send her reassuring feelings, but he wasn't certain that was possible given the circumstances.

Suddenly, Spike found himself sitting in the lotus position on a marble floor in an expansive, white church. He looked up and saw stone arches carved into the ceiling. Stained glass windows streaming with red and blue light were lining the walls and the pews were also white. He looked to the altar at the plain, gold crucifix, wondering why the holiness and sunlight weren't setting him aflame. Then he glanced down at his hands folded in his lap, his long, pink skirt creating a hammock between his knees. He recognized the diamond on his soft, feminine hand as his mother's engagement ring, which Tara had taken to wearing since their mom passed.

Spike was looking out from Tara's eyes, hanging around wearing her body.

“I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises.”

Spike turned toward the familiar voice and saw Lacy standing next to him. The words spoken next were in Tara's voice.

“Is that a spell or something?” he asked.

“Nope, Simon and Garfunkle lyrics. For a witch you're terrible with metaphor. Wait a second, what are you doing here?”

Though the sentence came out of his mouth, it was spoken without his control.

“He's with me. Besides, that's not metaphor, it's just a really broad hint,” Tara said.


“We can't do this with him here,” Lacy said.

“Right, I t,t,think I just did it wrong, I'll be back in a s,s,second,” Tara said.

Then the church vanished and Spike was lying in a bedroom he didn't recognize. He knew it was a bedroom instantly, even though he hadn't taken in the furniture yet. He heard moaning coming from above him; a man and a woman. The girl was making soft, sweet sounds. There was nothing theatrical about the noises, they were natural, intensely intimate. Spike knew he didn't belong there. The oriental rug he was lying on was wheat colored and the walls were a warm shade of beige. It was daytime, but his skin wasn't burning even though the sheer, white curtains were streaming with deadly sunshine.

The bed above him had a down coverlet in softest blue. It was Buffy's shade of blue and he knew that this was her room back home. She was the girl in the bed, but he wasn't the man. The man was dark haired, broad shouldered; Angel.

“I don't belong here,” Spike said.

Spike was watching Angel move against Buffy. One of her legs was straining against Angel's shoulder while the other was bracing his hip. The satin slip of skin against skin, the bright red of her toenails as she dragged her foot against Angel's upper thigh. Her shiny hair was tangled in Angel's clumsy hands; her perfect lips were opening for him. Spike took in how beautiful she looked with her flushed cheeks and her face vulnerable with pleasure. It made him feel numb.

“I don't belong here,” Spike repeated.

Buffy looked over at him as if she had only just noticed he was in the room.

“Of course you do, you're the only one who ever has,” Buffy said.

Suddenly, Spike found himself kissing Buffy's mouth; he'd replaced Angel and the other man was nowhere to be found. Spike reveled in the feel of her body underneath his. He loved the softness of her breasts contrasted with the insistent, pebbled nipples. She was hot and wet and gripping him so tight; it felt like they were the only two people in the world. Spike twined his fingers in hers.

“Buffy, say my name,” Spike said.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Spike had never noticed before how her green irises were splintered with flecks of gold, like sunlight dancing across the surface of a bright, green leaf.

“Dead men don't have names. Besides, we're hiding,” she said.

“Why won't you give me what I need?” Spike asked.

She kissed the corner of his mouth and then nibbled his lower lip.

“Because he's still inside me,” she said.

Everything shifted. Spike wasn't on top of her anymore and the room was changing all around them. He and Buffy were in the cage. Spike was dangling from the wall, suspended by the manacles. He could feel cold stone scraping against his back. Buffy was on her hands and knees before Spike, fondling his balls before she was swallowing his cock with a moan. The pleasure of it nearly canceled out the icy wall and stinging pain at his wrists. Spike wished he could comb his fingers through her messy hair as he watched his erection sliding in and out of her mouth, but his hands were restrained. Her tongue was urging him and she felt so incredibly hot.

Then Angel was standing astride her, stroking her body as though she were a big cat. Angel knelt behind her and parted her legs further. Spike watched the other man's broad hand teasing her cunt. She whinnied a little at the touch and then angled up to give Angel better access to her most private part. Spike felt betrayed, watching her back herself onto Angel’s fingers. Angel gripped his own penis and guided it into Buffy. Angel was clasping her hips, with each thrust a ripple went over her ass and her tits swayed in time. Spike wanted to kill her for letting it happen, yet she was so gorgeous like that, being penetrated on both sides.

Angel pulled out of Buffy and she let out an angry groan. She sagged toward the floor, but she didn't cease in trying to please Spike. Angel jerked himself off until he was sputtering drops of semen on her ass. It was horrible and incredible at the same time.

“You’ll always choose him, won’t you?” Spike asked.

Buffy’s eyes met Spike’s as she slowly withdrew from him, her lips pulling back to reveal each inch of his shaft until she released the head with a gentle suck.

“I didn’t choose either of you,” she said.

Then the three of them were sitting in the bottom of the shower, the hot water pattering against their skin. Angel was ghosting his hands over Buffy's arms and she was leaning her head against Angel's chest, her chin tipping back to lengthen the look of her neck. Her lids were half closed and her eyes looked like two stars shining out from the fringe of her thick lashes. Spike ran his hands over her stomach to her breasts. She sighed as Spike rolled her nipples with his thumbs. Angel was kissing her neck and Spike captured her lips. She was pressed between them; the cream in a vampire sandwich cookie and at that moment in Spike’s mind it was totally fine. Dream logic. Spike's tongue was sliding against hers when Buffy's pliant body went rigid. Spike opened his eyes.

Angel's face had shifted and he'd buried his fangs into the tender hollow above her clavicle. Red blood was spilling down Buffy's chest and mingling with the water, making it look like watercolor paint. Her eyes were fluttering frantically like a trapped moth.

“I'm done here, man, but you can finish her off,” Angel said.

Spike pressed his hand against her torn throat, trying to stop her life from ebbing away. She smiled at him weakly.

“He’s still behind me, isn’t he?” Buffy asked.

The scent of her blood was pushing Spike over the edge, but he tried to maintain self control.

“You should taste the milk before you slaughter the cow,” Angel said with a smirk.

Even though the other man's dark hair was saturated, not a strand had moved out of place.

Buffy's head was hanging limply against Angel's shoulder. Spike held her pallid cheek with his left hand and moved her face until her eyes were staring into his.

“I can fix this,” Spike said.

Spike kissed her dry, white-edged lips. He forced his fangs out and then bit his own wrist bloody. He offered her his vein, pressing it to her open mouth.

“Drink, stay with me,” Spike said.

“Never,” she said.

His threadbare composure had had all it could take. Spike let out a roar of anger and then drank deeply from the ragged wounds on Buffy’s neck. He didn't stop until Buffy began seizing. As he felt her die, Spike came back to his senses and regret came like a crushing weight. He stroked her hair and tried to quell her tremors.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he said.

Spike held her body close and began rocking her back and forth.

Then Spike was alone, with only the sound of the water hissing against the tile.

**

Spike woke with a start, tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows; his hair was likely ridiculous but there was no help for it, mirrors being a thing of the past. The basement was totally dark; Buffy must’ve killed the lights in a fit of pique, he thought. Then he saw a nebulous, green light coming down the stairs it seemed to be…it definitely was; it was skipping.

The blobby, glowing sphere skipped toward the cage, casting puddles of light below it on its journey. When the specter got to his door, it swarmed like a cloud of gnats into a humanoid shape. As it got distinct, the shape took on the character of a little girl. Her other colors filled in and Spike saw a child with long, brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing a red, corduroy jumper with a white, round collared shirt underneath. She had on taxi cab yellow rain boots that met her knobby knees; Spike realized that Tara had owned the very same pair when she was a little kid. In fact, the whole outfit might have come from Tara's childhood wardrobe.

“Hey Spike,” she said.

“Are you some kind of ghostie, love?”

“I don’t know. I’m a figment of your imagination, so I guess I’m whatever you decide. My name’s Dawn, but you already knew that, right, ‘cause, you know, figment.”

“Who would think Buffy would have any heart left to break after you?” Spike asked. The little girl gave him a giddy smile. Then she jerked her head to the side, as though she’d heard a loud noise.

“Oh, got to go, he's coming,” she said.

Spike woke with a start, his legs tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows; his hair was likely ridiculous but there was no help for it, mirrors being a thing of the past. The basement was totally dark; Buffy must’ve killed the lights in a fit of pique, he thought. He crawled along the stone floor to the pile of objects Tara had given him. Spike found the fat, blue pillar candle he was looking for and a pack of matches.

With a scrape and a pop the match ignited. He carefully carried the fragile flame to the candle wick, pursing his lips until it caught. In the nascent firelight he saw a face, horrible in its contortion. The eyes were amber and wreathed with bulges, the grinning mouth housed stiletto fangs, the nose was ridged and the head was crowned with curling, silver hair. He fell back, then realized it was his own face in its vampire guise.

Spike woke with a start, his long legs tangled up in the sleeping bag. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows. He ran a hand through his hair and then collapsed. The lights were on, as they’d been when he fell asleep. He heard footsteps, and Spike turned to face their source.

Buffy was coming down the stairs, a mug full of blood in one hand, a large, copper bowl filled with steaming water cradled in the other arm. She was wearing jeans so tight she’d have been hard pressed to wedge a penny in her pocket and a white tank top that was nearly, oh yeah, it was sheer. There was a pink towel draped over her arm. She had on flip flops and Spike eyed her toes.

He began to rise.

“Stop, don’t move until I tell you it’s O.K.,” Buffy said.

She approached the entrance to his enclosure and then stopped about a yard away from the door.

“Get up and go over to the manacles. Lock up your left hand,” Buffy said.

“You really like seeing me in chains, don’t you?” he asked.

He meant to be flirtatious, but he just sounded cranky. Spike stood and then loped to the wall, slowed by his soreness after passing out on the stone floor. He encircled his wrist with the black, metal band and then clicked it shut. The memory of his dream caused a sick weight of anticipation to settle in his gut. When he was securely fastened in place, Buffy approached. She set the water down and took a key from her neck, unlocking his cage. She picked up the cistern before entering his space. Buffy placed her burdens on the ground before him.

“If you try to touch me, I’ll dump the blood out,” she said.

“Thought you were going to threaten to stake me,” he said.

“You haven’t given me a reason,” Buffy said. Spike reached toward her with his free hand. Buffy produced a stake from nowhere and clutched it by her shoulder.

“I can find a reason really, really fast if you touch me,” she said.

Spike put the hand up in a gesture of surrender. Buffy manacled him and then picked up the mug. She placed it to his lips and he fed lustily, unable to keep his fangs from descending. Her hand shook when it happened, but she didn't stop tilting the cup for him. By the time the mug was empty, he felt calmer and his face had returned to normal.

Buffy set the glass down with a soft chink, then, squatting, she took the towel from her arm and saturated it in the copper basin. She wrung the cloth, causing a tinkling splash in the bowl. Then Buffy faced him, but avoided his confused eyes. She dragged the warm, moist towel over his chest.

“Look at me,” he said.

She stayed her hand and her eyes shot up to his.

“I didn't want to risk another shower trip,” she said by way of explanation.

Spike's throat was terribly dry. He took a useless breath.

“You could've just left the basin,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, her cheeks turning red., “is that what you want?”

“Since when have you cared about what I want, love?” he asked.

She dropped the towel.

“Fine, do it yourself,” she said.

Buffy turned and began marching away.

“Got to unlock me first,” Spike said.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him.

“I could just leave you there,” she said.

“You'd do that, wouldn't you? You cold bitch. You made me this way, Buffy, and now you can't stand the sight of me,” Spike said.

She whipped around and came at him.

“I made you?”

Buffy was too upset to remind him not to use her name. He could see he'd cut her to the quick with his words, just as he knew he would. Spike didn't know why he'd tried to hurt her by saying her worst fear aloud. It wasn't like the games they'd played when he'd try to get her to react. This time he'd needed to feel her heart twist; he'd needed to cause her pain. It satisfied something dark and terrifying in him.

She was standing so close to him he could feel her breath on his skin; it smelled like chocolate ice cream and Diet Coke. Buffy was about a head shorter and she had to crane her neck to give him her glare, but it was still intimidating.

“You said it yourself, you hurt people, that's what you are. I knew it, I knew it the first time you touched me, but I stayed because I thought that we needed each other. But now that something's required of you, a little faith, a little trust, now I'm nothing but a broken toy, albeit a broken toy you still like to play with every once in a while,” he said.

A chain of tears was coasting down her cheek and all of Buffy's carefully maintained distance had disappeared.

“Stop looking like that, change your face,” she shouted.

“Why so it'll be easier to hit me even though I can't defend myself.

“No, so it'll be easier to kill you,” she said.

Spike stuck out his chin, puffed up his chest and poured steel into his blue eyes.

“No,” he said.

Buffy set the tip of the wooden stake against the spot where his heart should have been beating. She hadn't averted her eyes, but Spike could see indecision playing across them; a shadow traveling over a forest canopy. Buffy was shaking but she still drew her arm back. She gripped his waist and repositioned the weapon, poised to destroy. In a few moments Spike knew he'd either be knuckle deep in her knickers or a swirling dust moat drifting through the air.

They stood like that for a long while. Being so close to Buffy immersed Spike's senses in her; the summertime scent of her hair, the sound of her blood rushing and the sight of her conflicted eyes. Buffy licked her lower lip and inhaled deeply. Her gaze settled on his mouth and Spike swore he could hear her resolve slipping. He wanted to lap the tears from her cheeks, to kiss her until she forgot who they were. She wanted it too. The truth was plain on her face.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Buffy dropped the wooden stake and it landed on the stone floor with rattle. She and Spike turned at the same moment to face the man who'd spoken with a crisp, English accent. Spike didn't like this slim bloke with light brown hair and an angular jaw accentuated with a deliberately nonchalant stubble. He wore a pair of brown, tweed trousers, a loose, white, buttoned-down shirt and a battered, tan, leather suit coat. Spike knew the interloper was able to get the drop on him because he'd been so intent upon the girl before him, but he still couldn't believe he'd missed the cloud of bourbon that was rolling off the man.

“Don't mind us, just having a little fun with the missus,” Spike said.

Buffy smacked Spike's stomach, hard, and then dashed the tears from her face with a skittering palm. Then Buffy walked to the stranger and hugged him.

“Hey Wes,” she said, her voice muffled in Wesley's chest.

Wesley smiled and returned her embrace. Spike hung there impotently as the old friends greeted one another.
She likes English guys, Spike thought, except he's a bit more posh than me and a tad taller and oh yes, he's not dead.

“So is this the vampire?” Wesley asked.

“Yeah, that's Spike,” Buffy said.

“I'd shake your hand, but I'm indisposed at the moment,” Spike said, waggling his fingers.

Wesley parceled out a half smile for Spike before he looked down at Buffy.

“What have you got for tea, darling?” Wesley asked.

“Whiskey and those little, round cookies with the fruity
centers that you like so much,” Buffy said, a fragile, spun sugar smile on her lips.

They turned; Wesley had his arm around Buffy's shoulder, a proprietary gesture that made Spike want to throttle him. Spike also wasn’t thrilled with the way this Wesley called her darling. Buffy stopped, looked back at Spike and then went to him. She unlocked his restraints and then scampered back to Wesley, but not before securing the cage door. As it closed she looked into Spike's eyes. Though Buffy was silent she seemed to be calling to him, just as she had the first time he saw her. Buffy looked like she was begging for his help.

**

Spike sat with his back against the stone wall. He could hear the kettle whining upstairs, the crinkle of paper bags, wooden chair legs being dragged across the floor and the ringing bell of a plate placed on a table. They were having ham sandwiches and arrowroot cookies with a dollop of apricot preserve. Wesley was drinking Earl Grey tea liberally doused with whiskey. At least, Spike guessed it was Wesley. Buffy was more interested in fizzy drinks and black coffee.

He could hear the percolator pot on the stove bubbling with coffee and it made him think of Buffy's dream. Spike rested his hand on his stomach. Despite his mysterious vampire anatomy, the thought of her made it feel like Tara's pound of peacock feathers was tickling through his belly. Fuck, but he was smitten with his Toy.

“Now that I'm here, are you going to tell me more about our prisoner?” Wesley asked. The man's voice was really very high, Spike thought. One point team Spike.

Chewing, sipping; Buffy stalling.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. The more I know the better chance we have of sussing out this situation.”

“He lived in my building, he was my neighbor. But before that, he was the guy that kept showing up in my dreams,” she said.

“You had prophetic dreams about meeting this creature?”

“He wasn't a creature then, when I dreamed of him and when we first met he was just a man. Just Spike. I started having them about a month before we met. When I saw him the first time I thought I'd finally come up all nuts in my bag of Fiddle Faddle, but he was real,” Buffy said.

“How do you know you didn't just plug this fellow into the dream afterward?”

“Because I write down all the details of my dreams like a good little slayer, just like my watcher taught me. The first moment I saw him was exactly like my dream; he was coming in from the rain shaking out his umbrella,” Buffy said.

“Sort of phallic, isn't it?”

“Ew,” Buffy said.

“Come on darling, you just turned twenty, but since you seem so bloody uncomfortable with the grown up talk, I'll use one of your phrases. Were there smoochies?”

“Yes.”

“So he was your lover, which was why Angel targeted him.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still conducting a sexual relationship with him?”

“Yes, I mean not really now, but...the point is I'm trying to quit.”

“Good lord.”

“Wes, please, don't look at me like that.”

“How can you even be certain he's ensouled?”

“He is Wes, I've seen enough vampires to know the difference. Spike has had plenty of chances to bring the chompy death, but he hasn't. When he rose after the change, Angel left Spike's sister there as a welcome-to-an-eternity-of-evil breakfast buffet. Spike didn't hurt her, he protected her.”

“If you trust him enough not to kill him, why is he living in a cage?”

“It's kind of complicated.”

“Clearly,” Wesley said.

Another sip, then the man's sigh.

“I don't think you ought to be entrusted with the care of this being any longer. You're personally involved and it's clouding your judgment. I'm authorized to take Spike back to England--”

“He won't want to leave us, I mean mainly Tara, for one thing and for another I'm responsible for what's happening
to him,” Buffy said.

“It doesn't matter what he wants, the dead don't have rights,” Wesley said.

“But Tara does, and you said you wanted to study both of them.”

“Then I'll take this girl with me. A compliant vampire could be an incredible asset to the council for aiding and training future slayers,” Wesley said.

“You can't just kidnap Tara. She's not a vampire,” Buffy said.

“Well, she sounds like a terribly powerful witch to have pulled off the soul bond spell. She may want to join the council, expand her knowledge,” Wesley said.

First being overly cozy with his girl, then this brassy bastard assumes he can appropriate his sister, Spike though. Spike couldn't have that, he couldn't have this stranger being so careless with Tara's wishes and well being.

“If she doesn't?”

“I suppose that means you get to keep your pet for a while longer, darling,” Wesley said.

“My pet? Condescending much?”

“What would you call it? You have an exotic monster caged in your basement that you feed thrice daily and keep on a leash,” Wes said.

“Spike's not a talking bird or one of those Koi fish you collect, he's—”

“What, darling? What is he? Because the thing downstairs is not the man you knew. Part of you must understand that or else you wouldn’t be keeping it chained to a wall, unless you’ve suddenly developed some odd kinks in your isolation. Never featured you for a Mistress Spanks-a-lot type,” Wesley said, wryly.

“God, gross. You wouldn't say that if you had any idea what it’s been like for me since you left. No one had seen me or talked to me or you know...touched me in so long. I was barely existing until I met Spike. And he was patient with me, he was kind when he didn’t have to be at all,” Buffy said.

“Sorry, that was a bit insensitive,” Wesley said.

Spike listened to their sips and an awkward shuffling of hands, thinking of what Buffy had just said. He’d imagined her life was lonely but hearing her say it made him want to cry. His empathy for her dueled with his outrage at being called a thing in such a self-assured manner by a man he avidly loathed.

“There's something else. Lacy was the one who vamped Spike. I'm worried she's done something bad to him, I mean something else bad besides the siring,” Buffy said.

“Lovely, you couldn't have mentioned that I'd be dealing with Ms. Chavois over the phone?”

“Well she's dust, or I think she is, so the point seemed pretty moot. Moot. It's amazing how a word so close to moo and toot could sound so depressing,” Buffy said.

“Stay focused, darling. So how did the mendacious harridan shuffle off?”

“Spike tore out her heart—“

“Fitting, I only wish I could have been there,” Wesley said.

“Nice. I knew you two weren’t BFF’s but I had no idea you hated her so much.”

“She hurt you.”

Spike could almost feel the blood rising to Buffy’s cheeks.

“Lacy made him drain her because she had to die to break Angel’s protection spell. Apparently Lacy said she didn't want to exist without Willow and that just seemed kind of--”

“Like a filthy lie,” Wesley said.

“Exactly. I mean Lacy used her Jedi mind tricks to do God knows what to Willow before she handed her over to Angel and that was all before she got a big jolt of primordial evil juice pumping through her system,” Buffy said.

“You're wondering what caused her sudden self-sacrifice,” Wesley said.

“I want you to look up all the spells she could have done that would require one vampire to totally drain another or anything that would have to do with taking a heart. It could be a childe-sire thing. I just have to know she isn't going to do any more damage than she already has,” Buffy said.

“Have you spoken to him about this?”

“It's kind of difficult.”

“Then I will,” Wes said.

A pause. The sound of a tea spoon in a saucer.

“What was going on when I walked in? You said he wasn't dangerous but it looked like--”

“Nothing was going on,” Buffy said.

A chair scraping across the floor then her steps; the sound of a water faucet, soap bubbles popping and dishes being washed. There were more steps and then the rustle of fabric. Wesley was touching her; Spike cracked his knuckles one by one and rolled his neck in a circle. It was a ritual he did right before he put on his gloves and entered a ring.

“I haven't seen you like this since Dawn,” Wesley said, his soft voice brushed to velvet.

Buffy's words were sunk in tears.

“I feel like I'm dying, Wes. I need you to tell me he's not gone,” she said.

A lingering hand on the back, choking sounds coming from his girl. She was probably crying ugly now with a running nose and desperate breath. Spike hated that he was so far away from her; that some other wanker was being her soggy shoulder.

“You know I'll do whatever I can to help you,” Wesley said.

A smacking sound, a kiss?

“No Wes, don't,” Buffy said.

Spike darted to his feet and was stalking the cage. Some motherfucker was kissing his girl and there was nothing he could do. And not just a kiss, but a kiss she didn't want. Spike was so enraged he could hardly think of anything but the word “Mine” howling like a siren in his brain.
Pushing, shuffling on the floor.

“I've been waiting for you to reach out to me for so long. Galls me that you went to a stranger when I've wanted you so long,” Wesley murmured.

More smacking. Spike's fangs ripped through his gums and his vision had hard, diamond clarity.

“You're drunk, Wes and I can't deal with this from you right now. I'm hanging by a thread,” Buffy said. There was such weariness in her quiet voice; how could that bastard put this on her now, when he was clearly her last resort? Spike wanted to de-bone Wesley like a fish.

“I'm always drunk, but you're right. Shall we wait until I get your vampire problem sorted?”

“Sure Wes. Your room's still the same, if you want to get some rest. It must have been a long flight,” Buffy said.

Buffy was dismissing him, but she said the words soothingly as though she'd had plenty of experience pacifying drunks. Spike could imagine her smile, the hollowness in her eyes as she composed her face for Wesley's benefit. He wanted to kill, kill, kill; turn the little prick into a Pez dispenser except instead of chalky, rectangular candies, the Wes-Pez would shoot out blood. Wesley and Buffy spoke as though nothing was wrong, Wesley bidding her goodnight. She'd resumed the washing up. Wesley's shoes were still as he lingered for a parting glance.

“If you need to talk, if you need anything, darling, you know where I'll be,” Wesley said. Spike swore he heard a leering emphasis on the word anything.

“Thanks,” Buffy said.

Wesley's steps retreated, doors opened and closed. Spike heard the water sloshing in the sink, then shattering glass and the smell of Buffy's blood annihilated all his other senses.

An hour later when she came down to give him his supper, Spike noticed several things. Buffy’s right hand was wound tight with white gauze. She must've broken a dish in the sink and cut her hand, Spike thought.

Buffy had showered and was wearing a pair of lavender, flannel pajamas that overwhelmed her slim frame. Her feet were stuck in fluffy, pink slippers. Spike was grateful she’d rinsed away Wesley’s scent because he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to keep his anger in check otherwise. Spike was becoming more agitated each day since Tara’s departure and he didn't want to lose his temper with Buffy, especially because what Wesley did wasn't her fault.

To calm down after what he'd heard and smelling Buffy's blood, Spike had reached out to Tara in his mind. It had been a hit to his pride to get all downward dog with the meditation, but it had worked. Spike had felt her presence; Tara was safe aside from the ever-present worry. Whatever she was doing was filling her with a sense of accomplishment, and that was good. Spike soaked in Tara's mood like the warmth of a fire, then bounced his well-being back to her, intensifying the effect.

By the time Buffy reached his door, Spike was leaning against it with one arm over his head. Buffy looked at him; her eyes getting stuck on his bare skin. She handed him the glass and he drank it in one go, suppressing his game face. After he'd finished, Buffy took the empty glass back. Even though her task was finished, she didn't withdraw.

“I'm sorry for threatening you earlier. You didn't do anything to deserve that,” she said.

Spike smiled, giving her the full complement of his rarely-seen dimples.

“S'alright. I'm sorry I was being rude. You were just trying to help,” he said.

She looked down at her folded hands and the chipped, blue polish.

“You were telling me the truth.”

“There's being truthful and there's being cruel. I was being cruel,” he said.

“Spike, I needed to hear it.”

“I knew what I was getting into, warned me enough, didn't you? I wouldn't change anything, love, wouldn't want to miss out on knowing you,” he said.

Buffy looked at him and bit her lower lip.

“Can I stay in here with you tonight?” she asked.

She seemed just as surprised by her request as he was. It took him a second to register what she'd said, but when he did, Spike nodded eagerly. Buffy unlocked the cage and slipped inside, being careful to lock the door again. She ran to Spike's arms; as he held her, Buffy's body relaxed like chocolate melting in the heat of an open palm. They stretched out on his sleeping bag and Buffy rested her head on his chest, the spill of her blonde hair tickling his cheek.

“I need to get you like an actual bed, I feel like the camp counselor is going to walk in and put us in separate tents,” Buffy said.

“We could slide Tara's in through the door.”

“She's squicked enough already, I don't think she'd appreciate us getting groiny in her bed and her brain.”

“So we're going to get groiny tonight, love?” Spike asked with a grin.

She smiled and nuzzled the crook of his underarm.

“Kind of poor word choice on my part, but yeah, If you want to.”

“I always want to, cutie,” Spike said.

“Could we talk a little first? It's been a night of awfulness,” she said.

“’Course. I got the gist of it, by the way. Your Watcher getting a bit too hands on.”

“How?” she asked.

Buffy raised her head and looked into his face.

“Vampire super-hearing.”

“Right, I forgot,” she said.

She resumed her place against him and Spike tightened his hold on her.

“I don’t trust him. He thinks I’m only a few rungs up from a poodle and he seemed a tad blithe about my sister’s civil rights. Also, the kissing you part, not happy about that,” Spike said.

“I know, but Wes is brilliant and he will help figure out if Lacy and Angel are playing us. Besides, I won’t let him take you or Tara away against your will,” Buffy said.

“How would you stop him, love?”

“I don’t know, the way I always do, I guess; ass-kicking and strategic thinking.”

“That’s my girl. I can tell you don't trust him either, or you wouldn't feel safer locked in a cage with your pet vampire than you would sleeping across the hall from him,” Spike said.

Buffy sighed. Her fingers forged a nervous path along his chest; Spike suppressed a shiver.

“I did trust him. In fact, he was the only person I trusted after what happened to Dawn.”

“If he makes another sloppy pass at you he's going to be a stain on the wall.”

“Don't. No matter what, he's my friend. His drinking wasn't this bad when we lived together and I think the alcohol is really getting to him.”

“You lived with him?” Spike asked. His eyebrows raising in alarm.

“It wasn't like that,” Buffy said, hurrying through the words. “He’s my Watcher. After Dawn died, he was the only person from the Council with the courage to be near me. He kept me from committing suicide by monster. I wouldn't have survived without Wesley.”

“How long did it last, this Punky Brewster bit?”

“Punky Brewster? Nevermind. I just turned seventeen when he became my Watcher, so two years, I guess,” Buffy said.

“Did he ever try anything before tonight?”

“I…don’t know. Right before he left me to go back to England I came home and he was in drunken stupor. When I tried to help him up the steps, he shoved his tongue down my throat and then he threw up on my new boots. It wasn't his finest moment. The next morning he apologized and a few days later he was gone,” Buffy said.

“Would you have slept with him to keep him there?” Spike asked, gently.

She sighed and curled into his chest. He brushed her hair with his hand and thought of the night she came to him covered in blood, offering her body so that he would just hold her.

“It's alright, baby, it's not an accusation. Only want to understand, is all,” Spike whispered.

“I'm...ashamed, but yeah, I would have. I didn’t really want to, but Wesley was all I had. I think he knew that, which is probably why he left. The Wesley I knew wouldn't have wanted to take advantage. Anyway, he never asked and I wouldn't have known how to say, then. I wasn't the incredible slut I am now,” Buffy said, burying her face further in his side.

“Don't talk about yourself that way, love. I'm just impossible to resist,” he said, swallowing his anger with a wicked smile.

“Yeah, you kind of are. It scares me, because I’m not sure who you are, only that I feel...I do think my Spike is still in here,” Buffy said, using her fingertip to draw a shaky heart on his cool skin.

She untucked her head from its hiding place and looked into his eyes.

“Your Spike?” he asked. His voice sounded rougher, deeper.

“My Spike,” she said.

She kissed him with soft, open lips. Spike pulled her breath into his lungs as she exhaled into his mouth. He was surprised when his lungs burned from disuse, but he didn't stop sipping at her breath. He rolled over on top of her and Buffy's legs fell open automatically. Spike wanted to undress her slowly this time and show her how good it could be to tease, but she was frantically wriggling out of her pajamas.

“Now Spike, please, I need you now,” she whispered.

“Want to taste you first, love,” he said.

“Please, Spike, I need--”

“What do you need?” he asked, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers.

“To be close to you,” she said.

She spread her legs, throwing wide the core of herself, the heart. Her heart ached for him, wept for him and again she begged.

“Please.”

He couldn't deny her anymore. Spike pierced her heart until they both came. There were no words for the way Buffy made him feel. It was less than a volcanic eruption, a nuclear bomb, an exploding star; it was more than grunting and tussling in a sleeping bag on the floor. Every descriptor was clinical, fantastical or crude. All were lacking. He said the only words that could show her, the only words that fit.

“I love you,” Spike said.

They held each other in silence until her heartbeat resumed its normal pace.

“You still hold your breath when you finish,” Buffy said, smiling up at him sadly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shyly.

“No, I like it. That’s just you,” she said.

He ran his fingertips along her eyebrows to the round of her cheeks. He kissed the tiny bulb at the end of her nose, eliciting a laugh from Buffy, and then pressed his lips to hers. He'd found that one of the vagaries of his vampiric disposition was sexual insatiability. Even though she'd successfully blown his mind, it just wasn't enough. Spike deepened the kiss, hoping she wouldn't push him away. Spike slid his hand between her legs. Spike couldn't say her name, but he could spell it with his fingers against her clit until Buffy was moaning his. She didn’t want to stop kissing his lips, but Buffy finally let him go down on her when he took his nimble fingers away. Spike loved the taste of his demonic seed mingled with her juice; it wasn’t delicious like food, but tasting her was just as necessary for his continued existence as the mug of blood he’d been drinking. He lathed an orgasm from Buffy and then Spike pierced her heart again. And then again. They wiled away the night burning through their pleasure until there was only pain, and still neither wanted to stop. When they were finally too sore and exhausted to continue, the smell of the sun was on the air. Buffy was dozing on his chest and Spike was on the edge of sleep.

“What do you want to do about your Watcher?” Spike asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He’s going to catch us starkers once he sobers up if you don’t go back upstairs. Do you want that?” Spike asked.

“Maybe it would be better to keep you and me under wraps until he leaves,” Buffy said.

“You ashamed, kitten?” he asked. His voice sounded gritty and low.

“No, I just don't want him to be hurt, and I don't want him to do anything to you,” Buffy said.

“I think you like it, having your own pet vampire under lock and key,” Spike said with a grin.

“You’re not my pet. You’re my Spike,” Buffy murmured before she drifted off.

**

Spike wasn’t certain of the time, only that day was shining brightly outside and a cloud of bourbon was wafting through the air.

“I think your Watcher’s awake,” Spike said.

Buffy yelped. She was on her feet and scooping up her clothes. Just as Wesley’s foot hit the top stair, Buffy used her ring and vanished, along with the sleeping bag. Spike wished she wasn’t so sensitive; he would’ve enjoyed seeing the expression on Wesley’s face. Spike tugged on his jeans as the other man descended the steps.

“Have you seen...I'm something at a loss of what to call her,” Wesley said.

“My girl,” Spike said.

“Right. I went into my girl's room and she wasn't there, thought perhaps she might be here,” Wesley said, pointedly.

“You went into her room?” Spike asked.

Spike started pacing, wishing he could throw the fact that he'd spent the night with Buffy in the Watcher's face. A smug smile puckered Wesley's lips and he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Buffy may not have told you, but she and I were once very intimate friends,” Wesley said.

“She never mentioned that when I was puttin' it to her,” Spike said.

“Charming. So Spike, I'm assuming that's a nickname. My neighbors had a dog called Spike. Had to put it down after it bit one of the children,” Wesley said. Wesley said his name as though it tasted like spoiled milk.

“Not really a dog person myself,” Spike said.

“Not really a person at all, are you, Spike?” Wesley asked.

“That’s not how I feel.”

Something passed over Wesley's face, something like sympathy. It was gone nearly as fast as it appeared.

“What was it like, when you changed?”

“Painful,” Spike said.

Wesley crossed his arms in front of him and rested his hand on his chin.

“That's interesting. Many accounts from survivors said there was an attendant euphoria with the bite,” Wesley said.

Spike let out a dry laugh. He could hear Buffy's pulse drumming in his ear.

“She ripped my throat open with her teeth and then my organs shut down. I felt myself die. Then I woke up in my own grave. We skipped right over the euphoria and straight into the mind-numbing agony,” Spike said.

“Yes, well, I hope to talk to you at length about your transformation, once I have my notebook handy,” Wesley said.

“Can't wait,” Spike said, bitterly.

Wesley swiveled as though he were heading back upstairs, when he stopped.

“When you see her, tell her I have some things I'd like to talk to her about,” Wesley said.

“Would've thought you heard everything you needed to know last night,” Spike said, his anger getting the better of his sense.

Wesley's eyes flickered, but he was otherwise unreadable.

“Oh, you didn't think I heard that did you, the way you tried to have a go before she put you in your place,” Spike said.

A smile crept across Wesley's lips.

“The Watcher's council keeps extremely extensive , detailed, statistical data on your kind, Spike, which means I know exactly how far you can see in the dark and what you can hear in a quiet house. I just don't care.”

Then Wesley alighted the stair, searching for a woman who was right in front of him.

**

As soon as Wesley was gone, Buffy pulled Spike into a kiss. Her eyes were glossy and sad as she looked into him.

“You never told me about the dying part, that you could feel everything,” Buffy said.

“Didn’t want to upset you,” he said.

“I should’ve never let you go that night,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter now, nothing matters now but being together,” Spike said.

Buffy hugged him, burying her face in his neck.

“I love you,” she whispered, before she left. Though he couldn’t see her any longer, Spike could hear the furry thump of her bunny slippers on the ground.

**

Her scent was all over him, driving Spike crazy. He listened to the movements in the house, to Buffy sneaking into the bathroom, the creak of the faucet and the rushing water of the shower. Spike wished he could be with her, not just for the opportunity to see her wet and soapy. He sensed Wesley lurking about.

The Watcher didn't confront her about her whereabouts until she was safely dried and dressed. Buffy was combing her hair; Spike could hear the movement of the teeth against her blonde strands and smelled the uptick in adrenaline when she'd hit a tangle.

“Where've you been, darling?” Wesley asked.

“You know me, scuffling with a vampire all night,” she said with a giggle.

“Must've been tough to keep you occupied until two-thirty in the afternoon,” Wesley said.

“I kind of passed out after I destroyed him,” Buffy said.

“Were you injured?”

“Just a little achy, how are you feeling?”

“Like my skull was cracked from the inside by a bottle of Maker’s Mark,” Wesley said.

“Sorry they didn’t have that scotch you like at the State Store, you could have had a classier hangover,” Buffy said.

“The Council doesn’t pay you enough to buy that, darling. Besides, you shouldn’t encourage me. Would you like something to eat, or are you going to have a lie down?”

“I think I’ll try to sleep before patrol tonight,” Buffy said.

“It might make you sleep easier to know that by the time you wake up, I’ll be able to tell you with certainty if Angel’s actually dead. There’s an incantation that should do the trick. I’ve also been doing research on our Lacy problem. So far I haven’t turned up anything,” Wesley said.

“That’s good, then, right? No Lacy curse, no Lacy problem,” Buffy said.

“Possibly, or it could be very bad, as in obscure. I’ll keep looking. By the way, I thought tonight we might fetch Spike’s sister,” Wesley said.

“I’ll call her and see if she’s ready to come back. But Wes, I think it’s better if just Spike and I go,” Buffy said.

“I’m not going to leave you alone with that thing,” Wesley said.

“He’s not…he’s not a threat to me. Besides, you’ve left me alone to deal with the vampires for the past nine months, Wes, what’s a couple hours?” Buffy asked.

Her words silenced Wesley.

“Right then,” Wesley said, curtly.

After he heard Buffy get into bed, Spike fell asleep soon after, feeling completely wrecked but entirely whole for the first time in years.

Spike unbuttoned the cream-colored collar of his hand-me-down shirt. Before they'd left the safe house, Buffy had given him a stack of clothes that had belonged to her old Watcher, Giles, and the clothes didn't feel right. Spike hadn't worn corduroy slacks since he was in short pants and he hadn't worn anything khaki colored ever, before that day anyway. At least the ankle-length coat was black and plush cashmere.

The night was exceptionally dark with a wall of clouds blocking out the stars. Spike could smell the impending storm through the closed window of the Citroen as it glided through the night. He glanced at Buffy. Her eyes were intent on the road with one hand tightly gripping the wheel, the other holding Spike's hand with equal strength. He reveled in her power and her warmth. Spike stroked the rings encircling each slim digit, knowing that one of them had been rendering them invisible throughout the journey. The other jewels caught the light of the dashboard, twinkling coldly.

“What's with the brass knuckles? Do they all give you super powers or are you just trying to bring a little glamor to your violence?” Spike asked.

“The diamond was my mom's and the garnet was Dawn's birthstone. The two filigrees belonged to Willow. The silver band on my left thumb was Xander's, the signet ring belonged to Giles. It's not magical or anything, like the weird, green one. Giles gave that to me to help me hide. Angel gave me the Claddagh ring before he changed. I carry them with me wherever I am. I like to look down so I always know whatever I touch they're there with me,” Buffy said.

Spike brought her hand to his mouth and kissed every one of Buffy's fingers, making her smile. If he could, Spike would spend the rest of his existence trying to lift the sadness away from that smile, those eyes, he thought.

**

Tara was waiting in front of Hocus Pokus, the occult shop in Oakland. The little shop across the way from the liquor store was was one among many on the steep street that connected Forbes Avenue and Fifth Street like the rung of a ladder. The only thing that differentiated the place from the noodle shop next to it was the pentagram painted on the darkened window.

Tara's long, scarlet-colored skirt sparkled with beads. Her coat was thick and black with feathery tendrils of fake fur around the collar that quivered with her frosted breath. Buffy and Spike approached her; still holding hands, still invisible. Tara was looking pensively in the distance, her soft face scrunched in concentration when they appeared about a foot in front of her. Tara jumped and let out a whooping sound; Spike caught her before she could slip on the icy sidewalk.

“Geeez, don't do t,t,that!” she said.

“Sorry, love, how have you been?” Spike asked as he hugged his sister.

He was surprised that when their embrace ended Tara immediately grabbed Buffy and gave her a squeeze as well.

“I've got s, s,some bad news, but we can't t,t,talk here. T,t,there's a place that's on a mystical convergence, we'll be protected from anyone t,t,trying t,t,to find us,” Tara said.

“Wait, what, we're being looked for? Wesley said Angel is dead--” Buffy said.

“It's not Angel, Buffy. You know it's not, part of you can feel it, can't you?” Tara asked.

Spike looked at Buffy as she nodded slowly, twisting the Claddagh ring on her middle finger.

“Come on, I'll explain everything when we get t,t,there,” Tara said.

**

Buffy was looking over the laminated menu in front of her. One of the waitresses was giving them the hairy eyeball because they were taking so long to order. The server was wearing a pair of green scrubs and white sneakers, like a nurse who brought hash browns.

To Spike's surprise, Tara had led them to one of the more notorious all-night diners in Pittsburgh. Who would've thought the mystical convergence of the universe would be famous for its breaded zucchini planks, he thought.

“So is there anything that's not fried?” Buffy asked.

“The orange juice. Why don't you get the pancakes, love, you need to keep up your strength ,” Spike said.

“Oh, but skinny jeans,” Buffy said.

“You're perfect love, the way you work yourself to the bone you deserve something sweet,” Spike said. She grinned at him and then kissed his cheek.

“Pancakes it is,” she said.

“When did you guys go from t,t,the hostage s,s,situation t,t,to being all couple-y?” Tara asked with a smirk.

Buffy ducked her head and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. Spike squeezed her knee, and she covered his hand with hers.

“Even with everything that’s happened, I still feel like I can trust him the most. It just took awhile to see,” Buffy said.

Sympathy softened the mirth of Tara’s smile. She set her menu flat on the table, signaling the waitress.
The server sidled up to their table and scratched out their orders on a curling pad, wearing a dour expression on her otherwise lovely face. Tara got the fried green tomatoes, Buffy the chocolate chip pancakes and Spike a coffee because the hot chocolate machine was broken. As soon as the waitress was gone, Tara fed some money into the small, tableside jukebox mounted on the wall. She flipped through the playlist on the rectangular box and then punched in some numbers.

“Send in the Clowns” started playing.

“A little night music,” Tara said.

“Oi, why’d you put this shit on, you know it always makes me cry, and it’s the Frank Fucking Sinatra version at that,” Spike said, scowling over his empty coffee cup.

“You cry at show tunes? That’s adorable,” Buffy said.

“Not all, just that one,” Spike said, softly.
Tara raised a hand to stop them.

“It’s enchanted, creates a magical barrier s,s,so no one can hear us,” Tara said.

At that, Spike noticed that he couldn’t hear the sounds of other diners or dishes being shuffled about.

“You guys know why I left, but there’s more to it. I’ve always been empathetic, can s,s,see auras and s,s,souls. I’ve been closing t,t,the doors of perception t,t,through meditation, but I’ve also been opening t,t,them,” Tara said.

“Cut to the chase, love, before we get to the chorus and I start blubbering like an infant,” Spike said.

“I’ve been getting information about Angel and Lacy by t,t,talking t,t,to t,t,their s,s,spirits. Not just t,t,them t,t,though. Giles t,t,too,” Tara said.

Buffy froze; her eyes wide.

“That can’t be, Lacy is doing something, the blood—“

Tara reached out and took Buffy’s hand.

“Giles t,t,told me s,s,something only he could know because what I have to s,s,say next is going to hurt. He s,s,said you wouldn’t believe t,t,the t,t,truth unless I proved it to you.

'When you were five your dad gave you a necklace with a s,s,silver s,s,skate for your birthday. You lost it t,t,the very next day and your father was livid. A month later your parents got divorced. For years you looked for t,t,that s,s,silver s,s,skate every t,t,time you cleaned your room, even after you moved t,t,to another house in another city. You t,t,told Giles about it and for your fifteenth birthday he had an exact copy made.

'You t,t,told your father, Hank and he didn’t remember ever giving you the gift, you losing it, or his anger. When you s,s,saw Giles you s,s,said t,t,that unconsciously you’d always t,t,thought if you found t,t,the s,s,skate, you’d get your father back. What you realized was t,t,that in a way you did,” Tara said.

By the time Tara finished speaking, all three of them were crying.

“But if ghosts can see everything—“ Buffy said.

“T,t,they can’t. In fact, t,t,they’re more limited t,t,than living t,t,things. Ghosts are afterimages, the dot you see on your eyelids after s,s,staring into a bright light,” Tara said.

The song ended and then the waitress was plunking plates down in front of the girls. Some tepid coffee was sloshed into Spike’s cup; he could tell by the scent that it was too burnt for consumption. “Send in the Clowns,” restarted and Tara resumed her tale.

“From what I’ve been able t,t,to gather, t,t,there’s a prophecy about you, Buffy. T,t,the council’s s,s,seers predicted it t,t,the day you were called. You would stop an apocalypse and close t,t,the Cleveland Hellmouth, you would love a vampire, you would die and be brought back to life by a powerful witch. Afterward, you would destroy the council. At first no one was certain t,t,that it would come t,t,true, but t,t,then things s,s,started t,t,to line up.

'When Angel became a vampire, t,t,the Council brass decided t,t,to act. T,t,they t,t,told Giles t,t,to kill Willow because she had the makings to become a potent Wiccan. He refused, because he loved you guys like his own. He didn’t believe t,t,the prophecy was valid, t,t,the s,s,seers had been wrong before.”

“So you’re saying Lacy was acting on orders of her bosses when she sold Willow out. Did she tell you that, because she lies. I wouldn’t doubt her ghost tells floaty, incorporeal lies, too,” Buffy said.

“No, Giles t,t,told me. Buffy, didn’t you wonder how Angel got to Giles after you warned him? Or how Angel was able to kidnap Dawn? Or how Billy got attacked the same day you told him you loved him? Hasn’t that ever s,s,struck you as odd?”

“Devastating, yes, odd, no.”

“T,t,the council had been working with Angel t,t,to control you, t,t,to prune out anyone who might be a t,t,threat.”

“How was Dawn a threat, how could a ten-year-old girl possibly—“ Buffy couldn’t continue, she was crying so hard she hardly seemed to be breathing.

Spike held her and she folded into his chest. He noticed that none of the other patrons were paying attention to their table, a benefit of the mystical show tune convergence, he supposed. Just then, the song ended and a table of heavyset, middle-aged men in flannel shirts and trucker hats looked their way. Then the song played for a third time.

“Angel wasn’t supposed to kill Dawn, just like he wasn’t s,s,supposed t,t,to t,t,turn Willow or Lacy. He’d been s,s,sent t,t,to kill you. T,t,they underestimated him, his evil.”

“Why didn’t they kill me then, just poison my food or smother me while I slept?”

“Angel promised them things for the privilege; power over the underworld. Also, not everyone in the Council wanted to deal with him. There were warring factions within the Council; some didn’t believe t,t,the prophecy, others wanted t,t,to wait for t,t,the closure of t,t,the Hellmouth. Some wanted t,t,to kill Angel outright, others wanted t,t,to help you. After what happened to Dawn, sympathy went your way.”

“So that means Wesley knew about this?” Buffy asked, her voice barely audible.

“Why do you t,t,think he drinks?” Tara asked.

Buffy couldn’t speak, she just shook silently.


"Now more of t,t,the prophecy has come true. You love Billy even t,t,though he’s a vampire, you’ve closed t,t,the Hellmouth.”

“I never died,” Buffy said, her voice smothered by Spike’s shoulder. Buffy sounded so uncertain as she said the words.

“And you won’t,” Spike said, wishing he could make it so.

“Point is, you can’t go back t,t,to t,t,that house with t,t,that man. We have t,t,to hide,” Tara said.

“Why we, love? Buffy and I can--”

“I'm not leaving you again, Billy,” Tara said.

“I have to see Wesley, this can't be true,” Buffy said.

“Buffy--” Tara said.

“I would know. I would,” Buffy said.

“I can s,s,show you,” Tara said.

Spike had wanted to skip out on the check being that neither of his girls had eaten a bite of their food, but Buffy insisted they pay. When they stepped out of the restaurant, snow was beginning to swirl down in thick, wet flakes like dandelion fluff. Buffy was huddled against him while Tara strode ahead to the Citroen. Using her sleeve, Tara brushed the back windshield clean with slow sweeps. Tara took so much care, it almost looked like she was dabbing at a child's face.

Buffy took her keys out of the pocket of her bright, blue jacket. They proved too clever for her fingers, falling, sparkling to the ground. Spike bent and retrieved them, then unlocked the door for Buffy.

“Thank you,” she said. Buffy looked up at him with her bright, sorrowful eyes.

Spike had to kiss her then. Buffy responded with desperate fervor. Neither noticed that Tara was waiting by the trunk. Buffy's mouth was so hot against the frigid night that Spike nearly forgot where they were.

“Hey, hey guys, I have s,s,something to s,s,show you, give
me the keys, Billy,” Tara said.

They broke the kiss and Buffy hid her face in Spike's cashmere coat. Spike tossed the keys to Tara. His sister caught them and unlocked the back door. Tara leaned across the seat and unlocked their door. Spike and Buffy got in beside her to see what she was doing.

“I’m really s,s,sorry about t,t,this, Buffy,” Tara said.

Tara took a knife out of her pocket and Buffy froze. Before either she or Spike could speak, Tara was stabbing a hole in the back of the passenger side seat. They watched, mystified, as Tara sawed open the gray vinyl and then stuck her hand inside the slit. Tara pulled out a slim, black leather-bound volume wrapped in clear plastic. Recognition lit Buffy's face.

“Giles t,t,told me where t,t,to find it,” Tara said.

“His last diary,” Buffy said.

“He was afraid t,t,the council would seize his files,” Tara said.

“They did, but they never found the one he was keeping right before he died,” Buffy said.

“Giles said t,t,this book would have answers for you,” Tara said.

Tara handed the tome to Buffy; she clutched it to her chest. Spike looked from the shivering girl in his arms to his sister.

“Can you drive this thing, love?” Spike asked, quietly.

Tara’s smile was touched with pride.

“Of course, but where are we going?”

“Away,” Buffy said, “far away.”

Tara got out of the car and ran around to the driver’s seat. Buffy huddled against Spike, holding the diary like it was the last bottle of water on earth. As Tara turned on the Citroen, the tape player started blaring “Life’s a Gas.” When the song ended, it didn't repeat on its persistent loop. Instead the opening guitar riff of “Norwegian Wood,” filled the Citroen. Tara punched stop on the player and the song cut off, then she popped the tape out. Tara looked at the sticker labeling the plastic case.

“Giles’ groovy t,t,times mix,” Tara read aloud.

Despite her tears, Buffy let out a laugh.

**

It was about five in the morning and Tara had been driving all night. Buffy was asleep against Spike's chest, a warm knot against his body. The diary was wedged in between her hip and the seat, her lax hand against the cover. Spike rested his chin against her head.

“I can smell the dawn coming,” Spike said.

Tara glanced at him in the rear view mirror. Spike watched her eyes get wide as she noticed his lack of reflection.

“We'll s,s,stop in Niagara Falls, there's got to be a hotel on the American s,s,side,” Tara said. She sat up a little straighter in the seat and turned the radio down a touch.

“Billy, how are you holding up?” she asked.

“Better now that I'm not alone,” he said quietly, trying not to wake Buffy.

Spike saw her smile flash in the oval mirror.

“And you?” he asked.

She was silent. Tara inhaled and then let out the breath in a sigh.

“I've been noticing s,s,some weird changes. Like my s,s,skin burns if I'm outside without s,s,sunblock for more than five minutes. I'm faster, too, and I t,t,think my s,s,sense of s,s,smell is getting more acute,” Tara said.

Spike suppressed a shudder.

“What about the dark stuff, love?”

“Yeah. I get angrier, at nothing and it, it t,t,takes more t,t,to calm me down. But I've been better at controlling my access t,t,to your moods. Being with you helps,” Tara said.

“I'm so sorry, love,” Spike said.

“I wouldn't change it, Billy. I s,s,still have my brother. Why don't you get a little rest,” Tara said.

Spike closed his eyes and was surprised when he actually fell asleep. He woke up as Tara was pulling up to a dive motel called “The Bit-O-Paris.” The sign had a neon Eiffel Tower gyrating on it and the flat, horseshoe of rooms surrounding the parking lot were a lurid shade of pink.

“Which bit of Paris is this, the part with open sewers, love?” Spike asked.

“Well, you always s,s,said you wanted to go abroad, besides, it's t,t,the only one with a vacancy,” Tara said.

Tara went to the office to check them in while Spike waited with Buffy. He was loathe to wake her, so he just listened to the music of her even breath. His cravings had become easier to handle when he was brought out of isolation, but Spike still worried he would hurt the women in his company. The thirst was a constant need, hovering on the periphery of his mind, even in that moment of stillness. He turned away from Buffy's soft, lax neck to stare out the window.

Tara came back to the car and opened the trunk, pulling out the bag she'd packed along with the one Spike had left at her dorm room, back when he was still alive. Spike shifted Buffy out of the car carefully and carried her into the snowy night, following his sister to their room.
Dank. The room was dank, it smelled of mold and sleaze. There was only one, king-sized bed covered in a yellow bedspread.

“Before you complain, t,t,this was all t,t,they had,” Tara said.

“It's fine, love. I don't think you're going to put the moves on my girl,” Spike said. Spike set Buffy on the bed and tugged off her knee-length, black boots. He eased Buffy out of her down coat as Tara unpacked a pair of purple pajamas from her sausage-shaped, black duffel bag and claimed the bathroom. Spike changed out of Giles' clothes and into a pair of workout shorts.

By the time Tara got out of the bathroom, her silver hair in a ropey braid, he was curled under the covers with Buffy, totally comfortable despite the gritty sheets. It was just nice to be in a bed again with Buffy, no less. Tara got in on his other side and put her arm around his waist. Spike succumbed to the warmth around him, and fell asleep.

Spike was out on the covered porch of the flat he, Tara and Buffy were renting, leaning over the white, wooden railing and having a cigarette. He looked at the sun dwindling to nothing on the horizon. It was the color of a saffron thread, spilling over the oak trees and the small town slumbering down the hill. Though Spike couldn't walk out into broad daylight, he could stand the sunset without experiencing any burnt flesh, one of the many gifts he received from his sister.

The three had been in St. Charles for about two months living under the cover of false names. The elderly man who rented them the house knew Buffy and Spike as newlyweds Benjamin and Elaine Braddock. Their landlord had never met Tara and didn’t know that she shared the place. It was safer that way, should anyone ask about his tenants.

Before they’d settled in Missouri, he and the girls had been traveling across the country for the better part of a year, staying in hotel rooms and abandoned buildings. They were trying to evade capture while searching for something Giles had tried to accomplish before he was murdered; a way to make Buffy permanently undetectable. They knew the council would continue searching for Buffy as long as she was alive. Until her death, no other slayer would rise.

At first he, Buffy and Tara had gotten by on savings to pay for things. When their small stack of cash had been tapped, Buffy and Tara had pawned their jewelry. Spike had pleaded with them, especially Buffy, but she’d been adamant that surviving was more important than sentiment. Spike hated that she was being forced into sacrificing another piece of herself.

Buffy had decided to sell the invisibility ring because its rarity could fetch a fine price and because Tara had mastered several spells that would accomplish the same effect. Tara had also been able to cloak the Citroen. Whenever anyone looked at it they thought they were staring at a gray or white Toyota Camry of indeterminate year.

They’d gone to an infamous dealer in San Francisco who took both regular valuables and enchanted items. He was a Sloan demon named Joe Jones, which was a trio of plain names for a rather extravagant looking monster. Sloan demons looked like enormous toads with translucent, pinky flesh. Despite the fact that they only had four fingers, most passed as human by donning wigs and sitting in wheelchairs. The wig covered the superfluous second set of eyes they had swiveling on top of their heads and the wheelchair diverted any questions because most people didn't want to appear insensitive to a person with a disability.

Joe Jones paid them as fair a price for their heirlooms as could be expected and also gave them some invaluable information. The garnet ring Buffy wore on her index finger had been enchanted. Whoever had done it could see and hear the wearer of the gem any time he or she wanted.

Early on in their odyssey, Tara had used some notes in Giles’ diary to create talismans designed to thwart any tracking spells. Spike had assumed she’d gummed up the works because they’d been attacked three times by the Watcher’s Council. After the first time they were ambushed outside a Best Western in Raleigh, Spike had completely lost his shit. It was the first time he’d ever screamed at Tara and he’d reduced his gentle sister to tears. Buffy had to step in and defend Tara. In fact, his bossy Toy had ordered him out of the car and forced him to walk about a mile of dark highway before they picked him up. Afterward, he’d sat in the back seat alone, his soul feeling sick.

Luckily, they hadn’t thrown out the talismans because the objects had been expensive to make, and Tara was certain she could salvage the components for another spell, eventually. As they stood in the supernatural pawn shop, Spike took his sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Her magic had probably worked, had probably saved them from many more attacks. Spike decided he needed to apologize to Tara again; preferably bearing something highly caloric.

Jones held the garnet ring up to the light with his clammy, four-fingered hand and examined it with his jewelers loop.

“I don’t want that piece, seeing as it is ensorcelled, but I can send you to a fellow who’ll take care of the enchantment for you. Not only can he tell you who’s having you followed, he can reverse the spell so you can spy on the spyer and he can take these little nicks out of the silver, too,” Joe Jones had said.

The Sloan demon gave the ring back to Buffy and then wrote out the address with his oddly formal cursive script on the back of a brown, paper bag.

Spike, Buffy and Tara had found the place quickly. It was only a block away, with steps that led down from the street to a basement shop. Above the white, metal door had hung a red neon sign that read: Special Requests. They were buzzed in and the door opened into a dark work room. The walls were hung with more disparate crap than a TGI Fridays. All the spare bicycle parts, animal heads and bell jars were covered in a thick layer of soot. A man wearing a welding helmet came in from the back. He lifted the metal face mask and gave them a broad smile. His skin was soiled with powdery black, but his eyes were bright blue.

“Hi, I’m Duncan. Joe called and said you’d be by. Let’s have a look,” He said, holding out a hand encased in an elbow-length, loose, plastic glove.

Spike shook it and immediately wished he hadn’t; as he retracted his palm, Spike noticed it was covered in black grease. Tara dug a wet nap out of her purse and gave it to her brother, but the moist towelette had little impact.

Buffy eased Dawn's ring off her finger like she was unscrewing a bolt and then dropped it into Duncan’s filthy hand.

After a little magical fuss and bother, along with fifty bucks they couldn’t really spare, Duncan told them Wesley was the one who had enchanted the ring. Buffy had turned white at the news. The last remaining affection she had for Wesley Wyndham Price was burnt away with the knowledge that he’d installed what amounted to a magical video camera in the ring of her dead sister so he could monitor Buffy all the time.

That had been five months ago. Since then they hadn’t had to endure any more attacks from Council goons. There was no sign of Wesley, either, and Spike was relieved. Though he would’ve relished murdering the son-of-a-bitch, Spike would have hated to kill Wesley in front of Buffy. No matter what she said, Spike wasn’t certain she could come back from that.

After the rest of their money dwindled, they’d had to resort to theft. True, they were stealing from vampires and demons, but it still wasn’t the way Spike would have liked his sister or his girlfriend to live. Perhaps now that they were in one place he could get a night job, but he didn’t want to give up fighting alongside Buffy. Even though Buffy’s bosses were trying to kill her, she still took the calling very seriously. She could not abandon the world to fend off evil on its own. Spike hated and loved that about his Toy. Not only did he want to keep her safe, which was ironic given that she was definitely stronger than him, but he didn’t want to relinquish the exhilaration of being Buffy’s partner in crime, or rather, anti-crime.

Since they'd been on tour, Spike had killed not only demons but a person as well. Tara's magic had spared the lives of many council members by enabling them to escape without using brute force, and she was able to bring a few back from the brink with healing spells, but he'd killed at least one human being. Spike had snapped the neck of a Kevlar clad assassin who'd been closing on Buffy. Even though he hadn't drunk from the useless git, the killing had caused a near orgasmic reaction. It took everything in him not to back Buffy up against the wall and start fucking her in the middle of the battle zone.

Then he'd caught Tara's eye, and the feeling evaporated, leaving only the tang of shame.

Killing other vampires wasn't supposed to count as much against his soul, but it still felt the same. He got a rush from the kill and also a sense of guilt that never seemed to trouble Buffy. Still, fighting helped him quell his demon. A few times, when they were desperate for money, or when he was feeling particularly out of control of his blood lust, he'd drained some vamps before staking them. Buffy got jealous when he drained a female vampire, and sucking the life out of male vampires wasn't as satisfying, which was probably why Buffy got jealous. The last time he'd done it, Tara hadn't been protecting her mind, and it had made her incredibly sick. That night his sister only left her bed twice and that was to go to the bathroom to vomit.

It was the last time Spike had ever fed from another vampire.

He subsisted on animal blood, mainly. The only human blood he'd ever tasted was Buffy's, and it wasn't drawn from her in violence. She let him drink the blood her body expelled every month. It should have been grotesque but it felt so incredibly pure and right. Buffy was everything in the universe, all he needed to exist. Drinking from her made his skin warm, like a living being and Buffy would cling to him, loving the heat. They'd fall asleep like that, with his head between her legs after lapping at her for hours. It made Spike feel utterly complete. They'd get their own hotel room during that time and wouldn't leave it; Tara would not even bother trying to talk to either of them unless there was an emergency. He was fairly certain that even though she'd become nearly expert at blocking his moods, Tara spent those three days in a coma of meditation.

Spike inhaled deeply and savored the four-thousand-seventy-two chemicals impregnated in the smoke of his black, clove cigarette. The warm air swept across his bare chest. Summer was drawing to a close, but the heat was still extraordinary. It took a lot for him to feel hot these days, only Buffy's blood seemed to make him warm. Even though the temperatures were nearing one hundred, he was comfortable. Tara was the same way, hardly breaking a sweat in her long skirts and the sweeping shawls she’d grown to need as protection from the sun. Buffy was the only one suffering with the weather, so he’d sprung for an air conditioner for their bedroom. It wasn’t such a bad thing for Spike at all. When Buffy wasn’t running around in barely-there clothes, all she wanted to do was lie in bed, he thought with a smile.

Buffy hated that he’d started smoking, which was why she hadn't joined him to watch the sunset. Despite her opposition to the expense and the second hand smoke, she understood why he'd taken it up. Spike didn’t want to forget how to breathe and the habit helped retain his muscle memory, the burning in his chest was a little like feeling alive. He inhaled the last of the smoke. Then Spike stubbed out his cigarette on the railing and went back into the house.

Spike took the steps up to the small room he shared with Buffy. Buffy was sprawled out on the dark red comforter of their double bed in only her black panties. Tara had been at the Magic Shop on Main Street where she worked, so he and Buffy had made use of their privacy in his most favorite way. As part of their daily ritual, Buffy had shaved his face for him; she was his mirror now. Then they’d made love in the shower. Afterward, he'd painted her toenails a deep shade of navy called Midnight Blue. The foot rub led to a back rub which led back to bed.

He'd left her there for a few minutes to suck down his cancer stick, long enough for Buffy to begin reading Giles’ diary again. She looked it over every night like a religious person might a prayer book. When she saw Spike, Buffy’s eyes lit up. She put the black ribbon that had once adorned Spike’s first gift to her into the place where she’d left off and set the volume on the bedside table.

“I think I might have found something new,” Buffy said.

She was on her stomach with her legs spread, her freshly painted toes swaying back and forth through the air.

“You always say that, love,” Spike said.

He undid his fly as he walked to the bed. Buffy's eyes watched his hands.

“Oh no, way too sore,” she said.

Spike sat down beside Buffy and kissed her shoulder.

“But you made me cum twice and I only got you once,” Spike said with a pout.

He kissed her back and she made a happy, little sound.

“Give me a couple hours,” she said.

Buffy bent her arm back and touched the side of his face as he traced little circles on her skin with his nose.

“Can be gentle,” he said.

“You might start out that way…”

“I swear to you, soft, little kitten licks and my tongue is cold,” he said, lightly running his chilly fingers along the round of her hips to her inner thighs. Her ass clenched, a not entirely voluntary reaction and he grinned. She twisted her head back and looked at him with mischief.

“You're trying to trick me,” she said.

“Never,” he said, and then planted a kiss at the base of her spine.

“Spike, I want to talk to you about something,” Buffy said.

The way she spoke made him still. He hovered over her back, wondering about the cause of her serious tone.

“What is it, love?” he asked, cautiously.

“I want to get the tattoo, I want to be bound to you,” Buffy said.

Spike flipped her over and fell on top of her, he stared into her eyes.

“Your soul could end up in hell, Buffy.”

“If I’m turned, I don’t want you to have to kill me, I don’t want to hurt you or Tara,” Buffy said.

“I don’t know if it can be done.”

“Try, I want this, Spike. I’ve lost too many people,” she said.

He wanted it, too, more than anything. Spike studied the set of her narrow jaw, her green eyes that looked so much younger these days. He could make those eyes sparkle and laugh now. It had been a turbulent year but during that time Buffy had regained a bit of who she used to be. She had hope. He grazed her shiny hair with the flat of his hand and stroked her cheek with curled fingers.

“We'll ask Tara when she gets home,” Spike said.

**

By the time Tara returned, Spike and Buffy had showered again and put on clean clothes, Buffy in a little denim skirt and yellow tank top and Spike in his standard jeans with black t-shirt ensemble. They were lounging in the living room, holding one another on the blue, plaid couch that had come with the flat. Buffy always said feeling his skin against hers cooled her down when it was hot. Spike wasn’t sure quite how to take that, but he liked cuddling with her anyway. Neither moved to greet Tara as she locked the door. Tara draped her black, fringed shawl over the banister of the front steps. Spike looked away from the television toward his sister.

“Hello, cutie, you're timing’s spot on, 'Innocent Blood'
just started,” Spike said.

“Ooh, Anne Parillaud. She’s like a vampire Amelie in that movie,” Tara said, a dreamy look touching her enormous, green eyes.

Spike smiled at hearing her uncluttered speech. Tara's stammer had completely vanished over the past few months. Spike liked to think it was at least one positive effect of the soul spell, being that she had to contend with light sensitivity and fits of rage. Tara hurried over to the couch where Buffy was lying against Spike’s chest. They moved their legs up and let Tara sit down before plopping all four of them back down in her lap.

“Yeah, and she’s into handcuffs. Makes her the perfect woman,” Spike said.

Tara nodded in agreement. Buffy looked up at him with a charming pout on her lips.

“I thought I was the perfect woman?” she asked.

“Sorry, love. Sure you’ve got the face of an angel, super-strength, brains, wit and an incredible body, but you’re not French. Out the door you go,” Spike said.

Buffy smacked his chest and then cuddled against him again.

“Look at all the Pittsburgh, it makes me homesick,” Buffy said.

“Me too,” Tara said, sadly. Spike knew she was thinking about Penny. He tapped his sister with his foot.

“It gets better, wait until Don Rickles explodes,” Spike said.

“Are you two going out to patrol after dinner?” Tara asked.

“Naturally,” Buffy said.

She looked up at Spike and he met her gaze. Buffy took a deep breath.

“Tara, how would you feel if I became part of your family in, like, a more official way?” Buffy asked.

Tara stared at them, her eyes somehow larger than they were a second before.

“Are you getting married?” she asked.

“We were thinking of something a bit more permanent,” Spike said.

The next day, Tara checked out a few books from the Magic Shop library and they had what Buffy referred to as an old-fashioned research party.

They were camped in their kitchen with the brown, ceramic tiled floor, the cream walls and the bottle green cabinets. Whenever he bothered to think about it, Spike realized he hated the color scheme of that room. Luckily, that was hardly ever. They were clustered around the circular, wooden table with the books spread out like a feast. Between the three of them they'd gone through half a box of Wheetabix, four glasses of Guinness and a pint of blood. Buffy liked drinking dark beer when she was digging through arcane secrets. She'd confessed to Spike that it made her feel rebellious thinking of how Giles would react.

Tara had been poring over a particular volume for the past half hour, making interested sounds and occasionally reading passages. Buffy was also lost in her book, though her right hand was tracing absent circles on Spike's thigh. After his second beer, Spike had abandoned any attempt at scholarship and began drawing his sister's face.

“It says here, whole Viking tribes would bind their souls to promote unity in battle, of course, they didn't have to deal with the vampire emotional cheesecloth thing,” Tara said.

Spike looked up from the pad he'd been doodling on, regarding Tara with a raised eyebrow.

“Nobody has before us, though, right?” Spike asked.

“Not that I know of,” Tara said.

Buffy stretched, arching her back. Spike took in the view and held his breath before he remembered he didn't need to breathe.

“If we had access to the council archives...what about talking to Lacy and Giles?” Buffy asked.

Tara smiled at her and then fished a cracker from the Wheetabix box.

“I could,” Tara said, with a smile.

Buffy took a sip from her glass and then set it down, inadvertently leaving a touch of foam on her upper lip. Spike leaned over and kissed it off while Tara was still distracted by the information she'd found. When Tara looked up, they broke the kiss of with a soft smack.

“Hey, do that again,” Tara said.

Buffy opened her mouth to ask a question, but Spike didn't give her the chance. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her into another kiss. Spike ended the kiss, leaving Buffy with a veil of blushes over her face.

“That was the mildest blast of lovey-dovey yet and I was totally unprepared for it, too! I don't even want to give you a pedicure, Buffy. Not that I don't love you, Billy, but there are some places we shouldn't hang out together, your foot fantasies being one,” Tara said.

“Understandably,” Spike said. He had a thought that tightened the space between his eyebrows.

“Buffy, there are some ugly things up here,” Spike said, rubbing his forehead, “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yeah, I really kinda do,” Buffy said.

Buffy looked at him and when their eyes connected, they had the same thought at the same time. Spike stroked Buffy's arm and her eyelashes fluttered, a shy smile on her lips.

“O.K., I felt that one. Next time warn me,” Tara said.

**

Spike stood in the middle of a corn field, his boots sinking slightly in the dark earth, his senses attuned to the vampire Buffy was herding his way. The green stalks were tall enough to conceal him completely from his prey and the sweltering night was windless. His palms tingled with excitement as he heard the other creature pounding through the thicket of plants. The vampire was a female, freshly turned. She smelled of death. Spike realized he must smell like that, too, but he cast the brooding, useless thought aside. He didn't want to let his musing cost him the kill. Spike stuck out his left hand a second before the other vampire ran into it, throat first. She didn't have time to scream.

Spike dragged the struggling monster to his face. He turned out her pockets, tore her gold necklace off and then staked the creature. Her amber eyes struggled for understanding before they shuddered into dust. Buffy had already killed the female's companions. He checked the wallet he'd found on the vampire. It smelled of someone else's blood, and was probably taken from her kill earlier in the night. There was no identification, only a coupon for a free ice cream cone and twenty seven dollars. Spike pocketed the cash and then ditched the wallet, feeling every bit the monster as the vampire he'd just killed.

Spike heard the frantic thrum of Buffy's heart, her light, quick footfalls, and he stuck out his right hand. He caught Buffy by the arm and then yanked her close. Her stake was raised, ready for a fight until she recognized her lover's eyes. He didn't know why he risked everything so foolishly like that, why he got hard seeing her poised for the kill. All Spike knew was that she loved it too when he'd play catch while they were out on patrol, probably something to do with their demons dancing together. Buffy's mouth found his and it was almost too hot. They were all tongues and teeth; all hunger. She was pulsing and alive, impossible to contain but he was going to try with everything he had. He was going to hold her this time.

Suddenly Buffy pushed him away.

“You're it,” she said, and then took off running through the rattling corn stalks.

He immediately lost sight of her and had to go by feel, tasting her skin on the air. Spike broke out of the corn field onto the scant grass that separated it from the paved, narrow road that led out to the highway and back home. He could smell that she was close, but couldn't see her anywhere. Just then he heard the sounds of corn stalks being crushed and of a body landing with a grunt. Spike followed the sounds back into the field.

He found Buffy fighting off three vampires dressed in overalls, flannel shirts and completely sincere trucker hats. Spike ran up to the biggest one and yanked him away from his beleaguered Toy. He punched the creature in its distorted face.

“Hey man, what are you doing fighting your own kind?”

“She's my kind, moron,” Spike said, before he ripped off the other vampire's head like a champagne cork. As he watched the ashes falling into the dirt, Spike could smell Buffy's blood. It seemed to ignite a fire inside him.
He turned around set to destroy, only to find that she'd dusted the other two and was examining the contents of a wallet emblazoned with the John Deere logo.

“This weirdo clipped his own obituary. No wife, no kids. It says in life he enjoyed assembling puzzles and spending time with his cows. He's been kicking around since 1984 and all he has in his wallet is the obit and seven dollars. We need to patrol in some better neighborhoods if we're going to pay our rent next month,” Buffy said with a grin.

Spike hadn't stopped panting, he thought his silent heart was going to explode. Here he'd thought she was being drained and it was only a scrape on her elbow, she was quipping and laughing and he was about to lose his fucking mind.

He stalked toward Buffy and grabbed the sides of her face, forcing his lips onto hers. He finally let her go when he realized she couldn't breathe.

“What was that for?”

“You scared me.”

“It's just a scratch,” Buffy said, touching his cheek.

“Not to me, that smell is like, it's like you were screaming,” Spike said.

Buffy hugged him and he buried his face in her shoulder; he suddenly felt exhausted.

“Let's go home,” Buffy said.

They walked through the field hand in hand and then along the dark, silent highway. The area where they lived was so rural there were no street lights illuminating the way. Luckily the moon was bright, painting the tall grass by the blacktop in translucent shades of blue and white. The sounds of cicadas were deafening but there was something else in the humid, airless night that was not quite a scent or a sound. Something felt off to Spike. He held Buffy's clammy hand wishing that they'd taken the Citroen instead of walking.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing, just a weird feeling, you know?” Spike said.

Buffy nodded, and swung their twined fists like a hammock. They didn't speak until they were within sight of their white, two story house. It made Spike smile to see that Tara had left the porch light on.

“Which symbol do you think I should use for the tattoo? I was thinking either a pot leaf or Yosemite Sam,” Buffy said.

“Both classics. What about a star burst?”

“I'm more of a Jolly Ranchers kind of girl.”

“Cheeky.”

Buffy smiled up at him as they left the pavement and began taking squishy steps on the moist lawn. Spike couldn't help but smile back at her, even though he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

**

Wesley watched the two of them swanning about like a super-powered Hansel and Gretel; Wes was hidden by a spell designed to conceal him from even a vampire's heightened perception. Apparently it didn't quite work, Wesley thought, or Buffy's pet would not have had an inkling they were being watched. Wesley cocked the gun in his hand, wishing that he'd brought the rifle but knowing he wouldn't have had the nerve to use the weapon. This would have to be done less impersonally. Buffy deserved that, Wes thought. She was more beautiful than ever, laughing for the first time in years. The monster had done more for her than Wesley had, and it pained him. Wesley scraped at his stubbly chin with his thumb. He could do this, he would no matter what it cost, and he would do it before the witch could complete the soul binding spell. It didn't matter that he loved her.

Wesley would kill Buffy because it was his duty to save the world.

Buffy and Spike were nearing the covered porch. The lights on the first floor glowed jack-o-lantern gold and Spike could see Tara in the kitchen. His sister was wearing her nubby, green bathrobe and her silver hair was in two plaits. By the scent of it she’d just taken a shower and was heating up a cup of Earl Gray Tea in the microwave. There was something else on the air as well. Spike looked down at Buffy with a grin.

“Tara baked chocolate chip cookies,” he said.

Buffy opened her mouth, but Spike never heard what she was about to say.

Spike felt a jolt and his body shook like he’d just touched a live power line. He didn’t have time to break his fall; Spike’s arms were at his sides as his face hit the earth. Spike was senseless before he could register the report of the gun, but from where she stood by the kitchen sink, Tara did. Wesley had counted on that, on Tara’s panic sending her outside before she could think.

Buffy watched Spike land and moved to be beside him, but Wesley grabbed her from behind and stuck the needle into her neck before she could reach the vampire. The drug caused near instantaneous paralysis after Buffy got in a few mulish kicks. They would have shattered his knees if they’d connected, Wesley thought proudly. Buffy could still hear and see, but there was fuck all she could do about it as her former Watcher set her carefully on the ground beside her prone lover. Wesley wanted her awake for all this. He needed her awake.

Tara hopped down the steps two a go, her robe fluttering open like a cape, exposing the white tank top and shorts she had on underneath. They stood out like moonstone in the night as did her pale skin. It was such a shame about Tara, Wesley thought, she was so beautiful. She knelt beside her brother and Buffy. Wesley positioned himself directly behind Tara and then dropped the invisibility spell.

“Don’t move or speak, Miss McClay. I’ve got a gun at the back of your head. Keep in mind you can’t help your brother if you’re dead,” Wesley said.

Tara’s pale hands trembled above Buffy’s face.

“Nod if you understand me, Tara.”

Tara nodded.

“Now stand up slowly. You’re going to drag your brother inside the house,” Wesley said.

Tara complied. She gingerly flipped Spike over and then wrapped her arms around his chest, tucking her elbows beneath his armpits. Tara looked almost like a lifeguard bringing a swimmer to shore. The cicadas kept up their din in the hot night as Tara carried the dead weight the best she could. Wesley had the gun trained on her the whole time, not even helping her heft the one hundred fifty pound vampire up the steps. Spike’s boots thumped against the seams in the wooden porch as she eased Spike across. Wesley stopped her before Tara could open the screen door.

“Disarm the wards. If you try anything I’ll kill Buffy,” Wesley said.

Tara mumbled a few words and there was a brief flash around the doorframe, signifying she’d removed any magical spells that were protecting the home.

“Good girl.”

Tara shifted Spike’s clumsy weight.

“What’s wrong with Billy?” Tara asked.

“Shut up,” Wesley said.

Chastened, the young woman lowered her head and continued stooping over her burden as she dragged him into the living room.

“Set him down.”

Tara did as she was told, laying her brother down as softly as she could, being mindful to place his head gently on the powder blue carpet.

Wesley took a black harness with a red ball attached to it out of the inside pocket of his black, leather jacket.

“Put the gag in your mouth, Tara,” Wesley said.

She looked at it with confusion before she realized how the straps and snaps should go. When she finally got it on, she was quite a picture, Wesley thought. It made him want to laugh, but he was unwilling to show her that face, the human part.

He took two clear, plastic zip ties out of the pocket of his black jeans.

“Sit beside your brother. Put a tie on your ankles, then wrists,” Wesley said.

Tara sank to the floor and bound herself per his instructions. She rolled on her side toward Spike as though they were having a cuddle. Wesley felt an ache in his chest to see them looking less like a monster and a witch than the two children they once had been. Like always, he pushed the ache aside.

Confident the girl had been incapacitated, Wesley holstered his weapon in the black case he had belted to his chest, turned his back and went to gather Buffy. His charge was exactly where he’d left her, curled like a startled potato bug on the grass. Wesley scooped Buffy up and held her to his heart. He marveled that a person so strong could feel so light. As he reentered the flat, Wesley glanced at the McClays; they looked utterly helpless. Still, there was one more thing to do. Wesley set Buffy on the couch and went over to the vampire. He took a pair of metal cuffs off of his belt loop and affixed Spike’s hands. They were enchanted; the more strength a creature used against them, the stronger in turn the handcuffs became. After he’d accomplished that, Wesley whipped the gun out of its holster and shot Spike four more times in the chest. Tara’s whole body winced with each impact.

They were horse tranquilizers, enough to flatten an elephant, hopefully enough to keep a vampire down until he was done with Buffy, Wes thought.

In three hours time a team dispatched by the Council would descend upon the place, carrying away the McClays for study in England. The vampire would be an invaluable resource for training slayers, as Wesley had thought before, and Tara. Tara could be used to control the beast, but she was also very special in her own right. Wesley had been unwilling to risk injecting Tara with the drugs he’d mixed for Buffy being that she wasn’t a slayer. To a regular person, they could do a fair amount of damage and the tranquilizers would’ve probably just killed Tara outright. The council needed Miss McClay to be in her prime. The battery of tests would definitely tax her limits and they wanted to start with a fresh subject.

Wesley looked down at the siblings for one moment more before he returned to Buffy. He swept her up into his arms, the gun still dangling from one hand. All the times he’d pictured this moment, it had never been like this. For one thing, she was capable of basic speech and movement. For another, in his dreams she loved him with equal ardor and there was no terror frozen in her eyes.

Life is strange, Wesley thought.

**

They were lying on the bed she shared with Spike; the red sheets smelled of stale passion and men’s cologne. Wesley stared into Buffy’s face, trying to remember every curve, every line, every shade of green that colored her iris. Wesley had his hands folded under his cheek, his legs bent at a right angle. Buffy was posed in the same position. He liked to imagine they were having a bit of pillow talk.

“Rupert told me destiny is like water, it always finds a way so there’s no point in trying to stop prophecy. It will or it won’t, he said. But I can’t let you destroy the Council, darling. Do you know how many people will die? If I allow you to, you will end the slayer line, my darling. I fought your fate for as long as I could, but everything I did made it worse.

‘There have been so many things I did to you, Buffy, in the name of the greater good. With a little Scotch, well, a lot of Scotch, I could bear them. I could sleep at night. But there’s one. I think it’s only fair I tell you now. Spike’s…condition… is my fault. I got jealous watching the two of you, but I couldn’t stop. The last straw was when you put that fucking wrapping paper up on the wall next to Dawn’s picture. I never made it to the wall of fame. I know it's petty, but it hurt me that you didn't want to include me among the other people you loved,” Wesley said.

Though her face was immobile, Wesley read reproach in her lucid eyes. It might have been a projection of conscience, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out and cupping her jaw.

“God, darling, don’t look at me like that. I’m sorry now, so sorry. I passed the information to Angel. I thought he’d just kill him, I swear to you, not that it makes it any better. Then that cunt, Lacy, got involved. She came to me, you know. She made a deal with me to bring down Angel if I’d promise to bring her and Willow back from the dead. The Council would never do such a thing, but she knew I had connections that could. So I lied to her, thought it would fix everything, but in the end it only pushed you further away. And then water found its way.

‘If I don’t kill you tonight, everyone we loved will have died in vain. All those machinations, all those sins against the world will be meaningless if I let you draw another breath. Do you understand that? They were martyrs, Buffy, just like you,” Wesley said.

Wesley closed the space between himself and his slayer. He pressed a kiss onto her rigid lips, remembering the times he’d kissed her before. That first time had been so frightening; he’d hardly known what he was doing, only that he had wanted to for so long. She’d always kissed back, even when she was shoving him away with firm gestures and soft words.

Not like this. It felt like she was already dead. When Wesley ended the kiss, he opened his eyes. Tears were coursing down Buffy’s cheeks.

**

More than anything, Buffy wanted to scream. Her body had always been the only thing she could rely on since her calling. It was resilient, capable and could carry her through when her mind felt on the verge of breaking. Now it betrayed her; she could only watch unable to stop him as Wesley slowly undressed her.

He wasn’t moved by her tears. Wesley positioned her like a doll, running his hands on her skin in a way that made Buffy want to break every single one of his fingers. This was the person who had taken everything from her and now with his feigned remorse he seemed to enjoy taking even more.

His ass is so going to be kicked…just as soon as the incapacitating anti-slayey drugs wear off, Buffy thought. Despite her bravado, Buffy couldn’t suppress the panic that was overtaking her. She struggled to move, but nothing happened.

Wesley was stroking her hair the way Spike always did, but not; when Spike did it she felt loved. Wesley made her feel like he was testing merchandise for quality and texture. Buffy thought of the first time she'd ever met Wesley. She'd been in the hospital, bandages over her wrists and Wesley had come into the room. He'd knelt in front of her, taken her hands in his and said, “I was very good friends with Rupert Giles.”

Buffy wondered if that had been a lie, too.

Wesley glanced at the digital clock by the bed.

“Not much time left,” he said.

Then Wesley stood and took his jacket off, setting it without ceremony on the ground. The rest of his garments followed in the same way, cast away without value.

No. No. No. No.

Wesley was completely naked and he was...ready...Buffy thought. For the millionth time she wished she could scream or fight. When he left the room she wondered what was going to happen next. Buffy heard the water running. A few minutes later he returned. Wesley picked her up again and carried her into the white, tiled room. The tub was filled and Buffy noticed that there was a small, silver hand gun resting on the chipped, white radiator next to the bath.

So this was how he’d do it, kill her, take a bath to get rid of any blood. Wesley would be gone and so would she, Buffy thought.

Wesley stepped over the edge into the tub with Buffy in his arms. He held her against him, allowing her to face out so she didn’t have to watch his eyes while he did whatever it was he’d planned. Then she realized that like so many other things Wesley had done that night, this was a grotesque parody of a moment she and Spike had shared.

“I just want you to remember one thing, Buffy. When I was alive, I never let you go,” Wesley said.

The gun shot popped her ear drum, leaving only a buzzing drone. Red was splashing against the white tile walls, and Wesley’s body slumped against her.

As the water filled with blood, Buffy started sliding under.

The police said anyone else would have run away.
When Tara was eight-years-old she saved another little girl’s life. She’d been walking home from school alone because Billy had been forced to do a detention. Normally she would have stayed and waited with her brother, but Tara would have had to miss her favorite television program. As an adult she couldn’t even recall what the show had been, maybe a re-run of Danger Mouse or Scooby Doo.

She had been grateful for the chilly, autumn rain because it had given her an excuse to take out her red and black-dotted, ladybug umbrella. She liked to spin the umbrella while she walked and pretend it was flying above her head. Tara was half way home when she saw it; a strange man had hold of her neighbor, Gemma, by the sleeve of her bright, yellow raincoat. Gemma was struggling against his grasp and crying so hard her words were reduced to gibberish. Gemma’s long, blonde hair was hanging in damp strings; a thick strand stuck against her freckled cheek. One of Gemma’s blue rubber boots was lying in a puddle on its side and she was kicking at the man with her bare foot, her wet sock hanging limply off her toe.

Before she even knew what was going on, Tara was running toward them, her satchel in her hand.

“You let her go!” Tara screamed.

She charged at the man, smacking at his hand. He had thin, brown hair, glasses and wore a denim jacket. His double chin wobbled a bit when Tara hit him and he had a gut poking over the top of his jeans barely covered by his red t-shirt. He seemed so old to her then, but later the police told her he was only twenty-two.

“She’s my daughter,” the man shouted, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

“No, s,s,she’s not!” Tara shouted back, then wacked him again with her bag.

Tara grabbed Gemma’s other hand and gave a yank, sending both girls tumbling to the shining pavement. The stranger lunged toward them and entirely by accident Tara landed a lucky blow to his jaw with her bent knee, slamming his teeth closed on his tongue. Blood was trailing out of his mouth as he pushed himself up onto his haunches. Tara and Gemma scrambled away from his outstretched fists.

The girls ran hand in hand until they got to the safety of Tara’s house. Her mother, Anne, had dried the girls’ with warm towels and then phoned the police.

Strangely, by the time Anne made the call, the man had already turned himself in and confessed that he’d done some very bad things to more than one little girl. Anne would never tell Tara what, even when she was a grown woman. He’d planned on hurting Gemma until Tara stopped him. In his madness he thought Tara was an avenging angel, taking the form of the people he’d harmed the most. It was the only thing that made sense, he’d said; how else could a little girl possess so much strength?

**

Tara had been able to twist her wrists out of the zip ties without having to use her own blood as a lubricant. She would have done it, but the soul spell had lent her body greater resilience and power. The plastic broke before her skin did. Once her wrists were free, she unfastened the ball gag and spat it out. The vile thing was causing a slick of drool to slide down her cheek; Tara couldn’t be rid of it fast enough. She muttered a spell to snap her ankle restraints and then she was mounting the steps. When she heard the gun shot, Tara ran even faster, hoping to reach Buffy in time. In time for what, she didn’t know, but she could still sense the other girl’s aura which mean that she wasn't dead yet.

The smart thing would have been to run in the other direction, to assume Wesley had started with Buffy and was moving on to his next victim. Part of her knew that even as Tara ran headlong into the bathroom, led by the scent of blood.

The sight of Wesley’s corpse was repulsive; his skull had been hollowed out leaving nothing but a dripping cavern. The white tub was overflowing with red, and she could see tendrils of golden hair floating to the surface of the water. She slipped on the wet, white tiled floor and careened into the side of the bath, bruising her shins. Tara plunged her hands into the offal-filled fluid and pulled out Buffy’s body, struggling and splashing as she dragged Buffy’s stiff form over the lip of the tub. Buffy landed on the floor with a moist slap, looking almost like a newborn covered in afterbirth. Wesley's effluvia clung to Buffy's hair and made a red web on her skin. Buffy's green eyes were open and staring straight ahead, but Tara could feel her soul still hovering above her body.

Tara began chest compressions on Buffy’s sternum, sending a ripple through her blue-tinged flesh. Tara tilted her chin back and pinched Buffy's nose. She molded her lips to Buffy’s and blew into her mouth. As Tara moved to press Buffy’s heart back into motion, the slayer sputtered, coughing up tainted water. Whatever Wesley had used to incapacitate Buffy was still causing her problems. The other girl was immobile, but at least she was breathing on her own again. Tara hugged her and then ran into her bedroom to find her clothes.

Tara wondered what Wesley had done to her friend in the hour when they were alone, but she couldn’t think of that now. Buffy needed her and Billy did, too. She would carry her brother to the Citroen. They always kept the car packed now in case they had to run and there was a blanket in the back seat. They could cover Billy when the sun came up, there was almost two hundred dollars hidden in a compartment in the glove box. That would be enough to buy a sliver of distance.

Tara ran back into the bathroom with Buffy’s blue, flannel robe in her hands. She knelt beside her prone friend. For the first time she thought the word, sister. Buffy was going to be her sister, Tara thought with a smile. She looked into the slayer’s eyes.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

Buffy didn’t move for a moment, then slowly, her eyes closed. Just as slowly they opened again.

“I’ll lift you and slide the robe underneath,” Tara said.

She eased her arm underneath Buffy’s torso. She pulled her up and quickly slipped her heavy limbs through the arms of the robe, then tied it shut. Tara arrayed the fabric to preserve Buffy’s modesty and then dragged the other girl out of the bathroom. As they were going past the pile of Wesley's clothes, Tara paused. She looked into Buffy's face.

“Be right back,” she said, and set the other girl down.

Tara dashed to the mound of castoffs and rifled through them until she found Wesley's wallet. She gasped when she opened the black, leather billfold and found twenty-four crisp five-hundred dollar euro bills beside a photograph of Buffy. She plucked the money out and stuck it in her bra, being that her skirt had no pockets, and returned to her friend.

“Alright, let's get you downstairs,” Tara said.

Gratitude was glowing in Buffy's eyes. Tara found she could carry the other girl much more easily than she had her brother and she'd managed to get Buffy into the passenger side of the car with very little trouble. Tara ran back inside, her skin buzzing from tension, black specs floating in the corners of her vision because her heart was beating so very, very fast. For a second, Tara wasn't sure what to do; she stood in the middle of their living room staring at Billy's slack face. She would have to carry him even though he was out cold and Tara wasn't sure how long that would take. The first time seemed to last an eternity and there had to be more Council members coming, why else would Wesley have bound her and Billy knowing he was going to kill himself unless more were coming to clean up the mess? Unless Wesley hadn't killed himself and a sniper from outside had done it but that didn't make any sense because the invisible assassin hadn't taken a shot at her or Buffy and she was forgetting something, something very important.

Blood.

There was a thermos of pig's blood in the fridge for Billy that she needed to take in case they didn't run into any butcher shops. Tara hopped on one foot, then spun around and ran into the kitchen. She took out the red, plaid thermos from the fridge; she filled it with blood every day in case of emergencies and today was an emergency. She looked at the plate of cookies she'd baked, debated grabbing them, then realized she was being completely irrational. Tara dashed back into the living room and knelt beside Billy. It was difficult pulling him into a sitting position so that she could band her arms around his torso. His head lolled to the side and his face looked so stony, so dead.

Tara reminded herself he hadn't any need for breath. When she shifted his weight, one of his hands smacked loudly against the carpeted floor and Tara wondered if she was hurting him. The handle of the thermos dug into her fingers as she eased herself to a standing position while carrying Billy's weight. Once she began dragging him out of the house, it got a little easier, but as they made their way down the stairs, they took a tumble. Billy landed on the bottom, cushioning the fall, and his head landed hard against the paving stone of the front walk. Tara was lying on top of him as she felt the back of his skull, threading her fingers through his hair. It was mercifully dry, but there was already a goose egg forming. Billy's expression hadn't changed; at least he didn't feel it, Tara thought. She rolled off of him and sat beside her brother, trying to pull him into her lap.

“Don't you look scrumptious?”

Tara looked up in shock. There was a man standing in front of her wearing a dirt-caked, three piece suit, except he wasn't a man at all. His forehead was bubbled and his mouth was filled with jagged teeth.

The vampire lunged at Tara before she could initiate a protection spell. As the creature's hand clasped Tara's neck it stopped and then melted into a pile of dust. When the vapor settled, Tara could see Buffy standing there trembling in her blue bath robe, a stake in her hand.

“Let's go,” Buffy said, her voice hoarse and low.

**

Percy, Reginald and Lionel had done a sweep of the location three times, but there was no sign of Tara McClay or Buffy Summers. The ashes in front of the house indicated that the vampire had been dusted; that was probably Price's first action. It was unclear what Wesley been trying to accomplish in the bath tub. The way the clothing had been discarded seemed to reveal some intimacy between the slayer and her former Watcher. Perhaps the girl had seduced him and then committed the murder while he was...unawares. The black-clad SWAT team returned to the kitchen where Mr. Travers was eating a chocolate chip cookie. Mr. Travers was in his mid-sixties. He was short and rotund, with a bearded face that resembled an owl. Unlike his team, which was dressed in Kevlar armor, Mr. Travers wore a brown, tweed suit.

“Whomever baked these put raisins in them as well as the chocolate pieces. It's really quite marvelous,” he said.

Percy scratched his elbow and set the machine gun in his hand down on the counter. He snagged a cookie, took a bite and then nodded in agreement. Reginald and Lionel just looked at their superior with boredom. They were both too concerned with their physiques, being that they were often out in the field, to eat cookies. The extra calories might slow them down and get them killed. Travers rarely had to worry about such concerns, Lionel thought, bitterly.

“The women are gone. How should we proceed?” Reginald asked.

Mr. Travers smiled at them with his mouth still full. Then he brushed the crumbs out of his beard and swallowed his last bite.

“Buffy Anne Summers is dead. Another slayer rose in Brazil two hours ago. Her name is Antigone Esquillero and, unlike our previous slayer, she's been groomed for her post since birth. If the witch had successfully been able to resurrect Miss Summers through magical means, we are fairly certain Miss Esquillero's powers would have disappeared in turn. No one has performed a successful resurrection spell after the individual has been dead for more than an hour. Therefore, the search for Buffy Summers is over as is the hunt for Tara McClay. Without her sibling or her potential part in bringing Miss Summers back from the dead, Miss McClay is worthless to the council. There's no need to pursue her further,” Travers said.

Quentin Travers went in for his third cookie, knowing that he would likely regret the indulgence, but too pleased with himself to resist. He took a bite and sighed happily.

“Quite marvelous, indeed,” Travers said.

**

Spike woke up in a dark room, flanked by a warm body. He smelled Buffy and heard her soft, even breathing; her heart beating. The last thing he remembered was Buffy about to speak, cicadas, cookies and wet grass. Then he was falling; somehow he’d begun falling in the front yard of their rented house and landed in this bed. Spike opened his eyes and looked down at Buffy nestled beneath his arm. She was wearing the pink and white pajamas she’d packed in the emergency bag. Her hair was still wet and freshly washed, woven into a French braid. Tara’s scent lingered on Buffy’s hair; his sister must have braided it for her.
Spike stroked Buffy’s cheek. She swatted at his hand.

“No tickle fingers,” she moaned.

“Where are we, love?” Spike asked.

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him. A smile spread across her face.

“Oh, you’re finally awake, we were so scared,” she said.

“Where’s Tara?” Spike asked.

“She’s in the adjacent room. They connect through the bathroom. It’s like a sitcom from the eighties,” Buffy said.

“What happened?”

Buffy bit her lower lip and slid her hand under Spike’s black t-shirt. She strummed her fingers against his stomach.

“We survived,” she said.

They'd wanted to use the same artist to create Buffy's tattoo because she'd been so reasonable about all the sandalwood incense and the chanting. It had taken about two months to get back to Pittsburgh, the leaves were coming into their final, most vivid colors before dropping off. It was unseasonably warm even though it was a few days before Halloween, which meant there were girls in scandalous costumes decorating the bars in Southside. Buffy felt a thrill of pride go through her when a trio of vinyl-clad, naughty nurses pushed past them on Carson Street and Spike didn't even look up at them.

The tattoo parlor was called Veruca Sweet's and it was differentiated from the other buildings in the line by an art-deco style, black, marble facade. Veruca's shop had neon graffiti spray-painted all over the black walls and red floors speckled with gold, like a bowling ball. There were two black, pleather chairs on silver pillars that reminded Spike of the dentist. Those chairs were mounted to the floor in front of poster sized mirrors with beveled edges. If Veruca noticed Spike was not reflected in them, she didn't seem to care. Even though it had been nearly two years since Spike last visited the place, when they walked in, Veruca smiled at him like an old friend.

“Where's your sister, Spike?” Veruca asked.

Spike winced when he heard his name. Buffy was the only person who said it out loud anymore. These days, anyone who came into contact with Spike called him Randy Pratt. The name made him laugh too much for Spike to pass it up when the three of them had been adopting aliases.
Veruca looked at him with sloe-eyed interest. The girl ducked her head so her short, blonde bob covered her face, but it didn't keep Buffy from noticing how she was staring at Spike. Veruca twisted her swollen lips into a smile. Her black tank top was sheer and her red bra showed through. Buffy wondered if that was her fancy, dress-up bra like you'd wear to church or if it was her business casual bra.

“Visiting with a friend. This is my wife, Joan,” Spike
said, wrapping a hand around Buffy's waist and drawing her closer.

Buffy had borrowed the name Joan Pierce from the birth certificate of a little girl who would've been Buffy's age had she survived past her first week of life. That morning Joan and Randy's names had gotten married at the courthouse. Ironically, she and Spike had been grateful for the rainy day, a happy accident that helped keep the groom from combusting. Tara was spending the evening with Charlie and Fred in order to let them have their honeymoon night.

Buffy was still wearing her wedding dress, a strappy, backless, white sun dress made of silk and trimmed with cream lace. It was much less elaborate than the gown she'd imagined as a kid, when she'd staged gala nuptials for her Barbie and Ken dolls. Still, it was so much more than she'd ever dreamed of having after her calling. Buffy leaned into Spike's coolness, thinking of how many times this moment was nearly forfeit, how many times she almost lost him.

“Joan, huh? Do you know what you want?” Veruca asked with a smirk.

“Like mine, with a little twist,” Spike said.

Spike showed Veruca a picture of the design Buffy had chosen; a simple circle representing the sun being held by a crescent moon.

“So you want it on your back?” she asked, giving Buffy a cursory glance.

“That's what we want,” Buffy said, firmly.

“Come on then,” Veruca said.

She led them to an area separated from the rest of the shop with black, velvet curtains. There was a red, pleather table to lie down on beside a cabinet covered in photographs of other tattoos Veruca had done. Beneath the cupboard was a counter laden with her tools. Spike took off his dark navy suit coat and then held it awkwardly for a moment.

“What should I--” he asked.

Veruca stuck out her hand and he gave up his garment, then she hung it on a peg by the cupboard. Buffy watched Spike intently as he started unfastening the buttons on his white shirt, as though it were the first time she was watching him undress. Buffy's heartbeat was increasing and he could smell a change in her scent. He took off the shirt and draped it over the table before he took a few steps toward his wife. Spike touched her arm. Neither noticed that Veruca had taken up Spike's shirt and hung it beside the jacket before she began readying her instruments.

“You nervous, love?”

Her smile was full of caution.

“A little, but I want it, too,” Buffy said.

Veruca didn't look up from the tattoo gun she was preparing.

“Cold feet is common. It's a big commitment,” Veruca said.

“You have no idea,” Buffy said with a shaky laugh.

Spike gave Buffy a quick peck on her closed lips. He stretched out on the table, resting his head on his arm as Veruca approached. Spike felt relieved when Buffy lit the incense and held it over his head then began whispering the spell Tara had taught them. Buffy took his hand when she was finished with the incantation and didn't let go while Veruca traced out shapes on his flesh with the needle. After Veruca had finished the tattoo, Spike, didn't feel any different. He didn't say anything, but he could tell by the vertical line between Buffy's eyebrows that she was also worried that the spell didn't take. Veruca put down the tattoo gun on the scarred, red counter top and opened the cupboard. She removed a tub of salve, a box of gauze and some white, medical tape. The photographs that papered the cupboard door fluttered as it closed with a soft thunk. The sound could barely be heard over the loud music. It was something with a heavy base, but too low and sensual for dancing.

“Who is this, the song, I mean,” Buffy asked as Veruca bandaged Spike's tattoo.

“It's Tricky. I can't believe you've never heard this before it's been out forever,” Veruca said with a laugh.

Spike didn't remember Veruca being that bitchy the first time he'd met her. He did recall that when he and Tara came then, she'd offered to let him look at the tattoo in a little hand mirror. This time, she hadn't and Spike felt a prickle of fear travel up his spine. This smirking girl with her caked-on lipstick seemed to know exactly who and what he was.

When Veruca was done with Spike he slid off the table and it was Buffy's turn to hop up. Spike set his fears aside for a moment as he grabbed his shirt off the peg and twirled it on quickly, not bothering to button it up. Then Spike lit the incense, held his girl's trembling hand and said the series of words designed to keep them together.
Buffy's turn took a lot longer, being that she had to get the whole Huninn and Muninn design inscribed on her skin in addition to the sun and moon. Veruca was able to work without having to loosen Buffy’s dress and for some reason that was incredibly sexy for Spike. After his part of the incantation was complete he kept holding Buffy's hand, watching as his soul was etched onto his wife's body. As soon as Huninn was complete, Buffy and Spike began to feel each other's emotions. The phenomenon only intensified as Veruca continued.

By the time Veruca was finished, Spike and Buffy were both vibrating with the intensity of their joined senses.

“So what do you think?” Veruca asked Spike.

He was feeling all kinds of Buffy nuances for the very first time, like he knew Buffy was irritated by the fact that Veruca was virtually ignoring her. Like her, Spike suddenly wanted a glass of water and craved sesame seeds. He could still feel the buzz of the tattoo needle and knew the sting had turned his girl on. On top of that, he felt her love for him, he knew it like his own heart. The depth of her, the strength of her, engulfed him. She was his Buffy.

Spike touched the tattoo on Buffy's shoulder; as soon as their skin brushed Buffy moaned and Spike gasped.

“So good,” Buffy said, her voice a ragged whisper.

“Um, great, glad you like it,” Veruca said, arching her eye brow to punctuate her sudden discomfort. Veruca turned away from the now intimate couple and grabbed the dressings off the counter. She was about to cover Buffy’s ink-work with a white bandage when Spike spoke.

“Let me do it,” he said, roughly, and took the medical supplies out of the young woman’s hands.

Spike couldn’t stand the thought of anyone touching Buffy there. Buffy looked back at him with an expression of complete understanding and gratitude. She didn't want to share their bond with just anyone, either.

“Whatever,” Veruca said with a genuinely epic eye roll.

Another customer came through the door, and Veruca left to talk to the guy, making sure to leave the heavy curtain open.

Spike set the bandages, tape and salve down on the counter. He knew that he should just get Buffy bandaged and ready to go, but the sight of her like that was too much to resist. He leaned in close to Buffy, placing an open palm on her back to steady himself, and blew over the fresh design. Buffy reacted like he'd just slid his fingers inside her; although she tried to control herself, Buffy couldn't suppress a wiggle. Spike dragged the tip of his tongue around the circle, grazing her skin with the short stubble of his chin. Then Spike kissed along the thick, black scroll-work. He could feel what she felt, and it acted to amplify their ecstasy, like two mirrors placed in front of one another reflecting infinitely.
Her hand flew to his head, pulling him closer by a fistful of silver hair.

“Oh, not here, please,” she said. Her breathing was shivery and her voice was low.

“That's a good way to get an infection,” Veruca said loudly from the other room. Spike stood up and closed the curtain with an angry yank. He bent over his wife and gave Buffy's sensitized skin another long lick, making them both shake.

“You're being really bad,” Buffy said, trying to keep her voice down so no one else would hear. Buffy could feel what he wanted or maybe it was what she wanted. It was getting hard to tell.

“You fucking love it, can't pretend you don't, Joanie,” Spike said.

Buffy laughed at that.

“You're right, I do. And it's so tempting because I know how quiet you can be, and I'm kind of hating on that girl for being so rotten to me,” Buffy said with a wide smile.

Spike brought his lips to Buffy's ear.

“You know what would really piss her off, if Randy and Joan consummated their marriage right here.”

Buffy turned her face toward his soft, urgent voice. She kissed him, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, then gently biting his lower lip. They looked into each other's eyes. Part of her wanted to wait until they could explore all their new feelings in private; part of her didn't think she could stand another second of feeling so incomplete.

“I can be quiet, too,” she said.

There was a conspiratorial glint in her impish, green eyes.

Spike smirked at her and then opened his mouth as he leaned in for another kiss. This time their tongues were pumping against each other violently. Spike felt like she was trying to pour her breath into his chest, make him real again. The way she was moving, Spike almost believed she could. He started to crawl on top of her, but Buffy grabbed him by the hair and stopped him. Spike loved it when she did that, when she wrenched his face to meet hers. It made him feel so...hers.

“I'll stand, it'll be less crazy, I think,” she said, peppering his face with kisses as she spoke.

“I love it when you bend over for me,” he said.

His eyelashes fluttered when he spoke and his nostrils did that flare thing that drove Buffy crazy. Her mouth started to water and she let out a little moan. Buffy dragged her tongue against his neck and then bit into the crook. She touched his chest, sliding her hands under his open shirt. No matter how many times she felt the contours of his body it never lost any of its thrill; Spike was a comfortable mystery. Buffy pulled him close and her mouth moved down the path of exposed skin. She licked his flat nipple until it rose to her tongue, then bit just hard enough to feel him jump.

Spike knew that against her better judgment, Buffy was trying to make him scream. Spike grabbed her shoulders and made her look into his eyes.

“Now,” he said. Normally he liked to let Buffy play boss, but today wasn't normal. She was excited by the role reversal.

Buffy eagerly slid off the plastic surface that had gotten warm from her body heat and put her white high heels on the floor. Spike stood behind her and took hold of the lace at the bottom of her skirt. He pulled the fabric up until her ass was uncovered, bunching the material up around her waist until it was held by the swell of her hips. Buffy was wearing a tiny, baby blue thong that disappeared into her cleft. Spike regarded her lower half for a moment; her roundness and the way her legs tapered, were all classically beautiful, especially framed with the folds of white silk. At the same time it was so, so filthy to see her angling her ass up in the air for him. He'd never wanted her, or anything, more in his life.

Spike dropped to his knees and grabbed each half of her ass, the mounds pressing into the palm of his hand. He kneaded them as he buried his face in between her slightly parted legs. He pushed aside her underwear with his thumb and stuck his long tongue inside her. Buffy had never experienced anything like it before; the pleasure was great but the longing was new, his longing for her. She leaned back against him, driving his tongue deeper. He slid the tip in and out then tasted her clit; her legs quivered.

Spike didn't want to make her cum because he knew he would finish with her instantaneously. Cumming in his pants would make for a damp, humiliating car ride back to the hotel. He pulled away from Buffy and she whimpered softly, shimmying back toward him. Spike pressed her hips firmly against the table. The pressure against her stomach filled her with a sense of intense anticipation. Buffy felt his body rubbing against hers as Spike stood up. She could hear his zipper and then felt the smooth head of his cock against the mouth of her vagina. Buffy's arms were across the table. As he slid inside, she gripped it for support, to keep from spilling into a heap on the floor.

For the first time in her life she understood what it felt like to glide into tight, wet heat. For the first time in his life Spike understood what it felt like to be filled completely, a pleasure that was so close to pain. He started to move, listening to Buffy's manic heartbeat, her fast breath. He stared down at her crown of blonde hair and then suddenly stopped.

“Face me, baby, I need to see your eyes,” he said.

Buffy twisted her head to look over her shoulder at him. Spike nearly came just seeing her face beside the tattoo. She understood; she needed it too. To be close. Spike pulled out of her slowly, then helped her to sit on the table with her legs open and dangling over the side. Soon both her arms and legs were wrapped around Spike's body. They stared into each other's eyes before Spike pushed his cock inside her and resumed his rhythm. After four thrusts they came simultaneously and then rode out the warm pulses of pleasure together. They were bound so tightly that they looked to all the world like one creature, and in that instant, they nearly were.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“That wasn't like anything I've ever felt before.”

“Me too. You make me feel--”

“Whole.”

“I'd die without you.”

“For real this time.”

Spike took off Buffy's damp panties and stuffed them in his back pocket. He grabbed some paper towels off a dispenser on the wall and pressed them against her pussy to clean her up. Buffy held the hem of her wedding dress up with dainty fingers, looking over it to watch him dry her with reverent strokes.

“I left a puddle of drool on the table,” Buffy said with embarrassment.

“So I made you lose muscle control, yeah?” Spike asked, his face breaking into a smile.

“A little bit,” Buffy said with a giggle.

When Spike was certain the thin fabric of her skirt wouldn't be soaked through, Spike threw the paper towels away and took Buffy's hand, helping her down to the floor. They hugged each other tightly.

“Were we loud?” Buffy asked, as they separated.

Spike snatched his jacket from where it hung and slung it over his shoulder. They stepped from behind the curtain hand in hand to see that everyone in the shop was staring.

“I'd say yeah,” Spike said.

**

After a shamefaced conversation at the cash register, they'd paid and left. Actually, only Buffy was shamefaced; Spike was quite proud. They'd ridden back to the hotel and as they were driving over the Hot Metal Bridge, Buffy looked at the black water beneath that glittered with the lights of the reflected city. It was the perfect backdrop for her dreamy afterglow. They'd walked back inside the lobby and up to their room with heavy, sated limbs, as though they were moving through very warm water. Once they were back in the hotel room, while Spike hovered by the door, carefully removing his jacket, Buffy kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the bed, ready for sleep. She pulled her dress off over her head and then tossed it over the mattress before she crawled underneath the fluffy, white down comforter. They'd chosen the best place they could afford, so it was lovely, but kind of small. The room opened directly into the bedroom and there was a tiny bathroom with a stand up shower attached, no tub. The place was done up in creamy beiges and light-colored furniture that matched Buffy's dress, which was lying in a shimmery pile on the floor.

There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket on a night stand by the bed, along with two, lithe flutes and a dish of chocolate-covered strawberries. The treats were included in the price of the room because they'd sprung for the “Romance” package. She giggled when she noticed the amenities and grabbed the candy-coated fruit. Dinner had been about four hours ago and she hadn't eaten much, so Buffy devoured five of the strawberries without pause. When she realized what she'd done, Buffy got embarrassed thinking that maybe Spike had intended them for some weird, sexy foreplay thing and she'd just wolfed them down like a handful of potato chips. Buffy's blush deepened when she realized Spike was watching her. He'd undressed and was standing naked, his back against the wall.

“I'm sorry, I should have offered you one,” she said.

“What?” Spike asked.

“The chocolatey strawberries I just decimated,” Buffy said.

“Vampire, love, not necessary,” Spike said.

“But I know you like chocolate, and there's one left,” she said, holding out the plate for him.

Suddenly, she could feel his agitation dragging her under like a wave, and she stopped. Spike was so angry, but mostly because he was afraid and Buffy didn't understand what she'd done to bring on this change in him. Buffy set the plate down without another word and rolled over, pulling the comforter around her shoulders. Tara said most of Spike's emotions had an edge of anger to them, his rage was something he always had to control. When he had difficulty expressing himself, when he was worried, it always manifested itself in anger. When he got like that, Tara said it was best to draw him out and ask what was wrong, but Buffy was too hurt to speak. She couldn't help wondering if he was regretting their union already and just didn't know how to say.

Spike pushed himself off the wall and went to Buffy's side. He knelt before her and touched her shoulder.

“I don't regret it, love, I just...there's something I need,” Spike said, gently. She could feel his anxiety.

“There's blood in the mini-fridge,” she said.

“Not that, well, yeah, that, but something else.”

“Eat first, then tell me. You get all cranky with the blood lust when you don't,” Buffy said.

Spike laughed and she smiled at him, feeling his tension loosen, slightly. He went to the fridge and took out a bag of cow's blood. Spike bit into the plastic and sucked hungrily until the bag withered into emptiness. He made these satisfied moans as he drank that drove Buffy crazy. God, he makes more noise when he's going to town on that thing than he does when he's with me, Buffy thought. And just like that, Buffy wanted him again, despite her exhaustion, his dark mood and the fact that she'd just had an orgasm less than an hour before. Despite everything she wanted him again; she always wanted him.

Spike ducked into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. She thought that was sweet, even though she'd gotten used to the taste of blood. It was still disgusting and yet the flavor was so much a part of him that it had become a sexual cue for Buffy. As he spat red foam in the sink and looked up at the empty mirror, Buffy felt his pang of self-loathing.

“I love you,” she said.

She sat up in bed, letting the blankets fall away from her bare chest. Spike stuck his head out of the door. The expression in his eyes was soft.

“I love you, too,” he said.

“Come to bed,” she said, holding out her arms for him.

He went to her then, unable to resist. Spike gave Buffy a chilly, mint kiss that kept going until it got hot. He stroked her tattoo and with each pass she pressed their bodies tighter together.

“Want to feel yours, too,” Buffy whispered.

Her fingers scrambled to the bandages and ripped them away. When she touched the design he moaned, loudly. He'd never been so demonstrative before; hearing him almost made Buffy cum without being touched.

“Let me lick it,” she said.

She was strong enough to flip him over and knew him well enough to believe he'd love it if she did, but Buffy wanted him to let her. She wanted to hear him say it.

“Wait,” Spike said, putting his hands on her shoulders and resting his forehead against hers.

Buffy stopped touching his tattoo.

“Wait,” she said breathlessly, then, her voice took on an edge “what?”

“I need--”

“I know what you need, let me give it to you,” she said.

“No, you don't,” Spike said.

Buffy pushed him away, more forcefully than she'd intended, sending him to the very edge of the bed. He caught himself before he fell over, but he still felt foolish. Buffy rolled onto her back and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes to keep from crying. Spike was lying next to her, looking at the ceiling. She could feel his frustration; he could feel hers. His first reaction was to punch a hole through the wall but he suppressed it and tried to compose his thoughts. It was difficult being that he was bombarded with Buffy and to a limited extent, Tara. Spike and Tara had become adept at blocking each other's emotions when necessary. The only feeling from Tara that Spike got was a sense of warmth and excitement.

At that moment, Tara was playing a drinking game with Charlie and Fred. Fred was losing and was down to her bra and panties. The three were in for a fun evening that they would never recount to Buffy or Spike.
Buffy let her arms fall to her sides and opened her eyes.

“Just say it, Spike,” Buffy said.

“I need to...I know you hate it, love, but I was hoping we could play with the stake again and that you could use the real handcuffs,” Spike said.

“Spike...please, it's too much,” Buffy said. She'd been wishing that he wouldn't ask her this, even though she was almost certain it was what he wanted.

“Maybe not now, if you can understand how it makes me feel. This isn't a kink or even a fetish, love. It's more,” he said.

Buffy sighed and she felt a heaviness settle over her. The real handcuffs were the magical pair Wesley had slapped on Spike the night he'd killed himself, the night Buffy died. She and Tara had gotten halfway down the street before Buffy had recognized that Spike wasn't trapped in normal restraints. They'd driven back and Buffy had been the one to run into the house in search of the keys. She'd found them in the pocket of Wesley's leather coat. It had been horrible to revisit the site of her violation, to know Wesley's corpse was just around the bend and that a team of Council could be barging in any moment to kill her.

The fact that Spike wanted to use that object in their marriage bed made her more than a little sick. He knew it, too, felt it, and she couldn't imagine an urge strong enough to make him put aside all that to ask. She couldn't imagine it even though Buffy had a direct line into Spike's emotions.

The stake thing, too, had nearly brought Buffy to tears the last time she'd tried to do it for him. He wanted her to drag the tip across his skin while they were making love. Buffy had given it her all, but after a few seconds she had to drop the implement and leave the room. Buffy had thrown on some clothes and went outside into the bright, afternoon sunlight so that she wouldn't have to talk to Spike until she'd calmed down. She had walked until it was dark outside and even then, she hadn't come home until Spike found her, dusting vamps in a cemetery. When Buffy saw him she'd held up her weapon and said, “You see, this is what stakes are for,” before she plunged it into the heart of a vampire that was coming at her. Then he'd promised not to pressure her anymore.
Buffy couldn't believe he'd gone back on his word.

“Please, love, I don't want you to wear them, but just try again. If you can't stand it this will be the last time I ask,” Spike said.

“You said that before.”

“It's different now, isn't it? I want you to understand me, all of me,” he said.

“I'm not using...those...things. You don't know what that man, the way he touched me, Spike. I can't think of that when I'm with you. I can't,” Buffy said.

Spike repositioned onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. He touched her stomach and Buffy turned her head, looking into his blue eyes.

“I'm sorry, I didn't think,” Spike said.

His fingers drifted up to her ribs and followed each one, up and down.

“I wish you could tell me why you want this,” she whispered

Spike sighed and ran his index finger in a circle around her breast.

“You're a slayer and I'm a vampire, just like you're a woman and I'm a man. It's like archetypes, it's something older, elemental,” Spike said.

“If you bust out Karl Jung, I'm done,” Buffy said.

Spike chuckled and then dropped a kiss on her shoulder. He nuzzled her skin with his nose and then planted another kiss before his eyes flitted up to hers.

“Just the stake, then,” Spike said.

Buffy couldn't look at his eyes just then. They had her too close to giving in. She turned her head away and felt his cool lips planting solicitous kisses across her chest. Spike's mouth was inching toward her breasts and her nipples kept getting tighter with expectation. When he finally started sucking on the puckered flesh she whimpered. He bit her with his blunt, perfect teeth and then her hands were grabbing fistfuls of his hair. She guided his head to the other breast and pulled his hair tauter with each lap of his tongue.

“We can try the stake, but I can't promise I won't freak,” she said, writhing beneath him.

He smiled and she felt his mouth move against her skin.

“I love you,” he said.

Spike looked up at her face with a grin.

“I know, that's why I'm going to do this. That's the only reason.”

Buffy bent down to reach his mouth and began exploring it with her tongue. She broke away feeling drugged. Spike stopped pinning her and she stood on unstable legs. When she regained her sense of balance, Buffy went to find what she needed in their luggage. Spike eagerly scooted into the middle of the bed, arranging a pillow under his head. Buffy returned with a smooth, wooden stake and a pair of handcuffs that they used for fun. They were leather cuffs lined with fur and connected by a long, silver chain that Spike could rip like a piece of paper. It wasn't what he wanted, but marriage was about compromise, Spike thought.

Buffy leaned over his body, sliding against his cool skin as she fastened his wrists. Spike caught Buffy's eyes, her lips were teasingly close to his.

“If you want to stop--”

“Don't talk.”

Spike loved it when she ordered him about that way, when she took control. He realized now it wasn't natural for her to play that part; Buffy liked to be swept up and seduced. The whole reason she'd been so cold when they first met was more a matter of protection. Still, she knew how much he got off on her domination and Buffy took pleasure in making him happy. Spike knew this was all for him; his wedding gift. Before the night was through he planned to return her generosity tenfold.

She kissed him, tongue plunging deep into his mouth, making him gasp even though he didn't need to breathe. When she pulled away, Spike rose off the bed slightly to recapture her lips, straining his long neck toward Buffy. She pushed him flush against the mattress, her hand on his throat.

“Don't move,” she said.

Buffy was straddling his waist. She twisted, still holding his neck with one hand as she reached back to rub his cock with the other. Spike's hips bucked to meet her strokes and he started to pant, his mouth falling open. She squeezed his throat.

“Hold still,” she said.

She let go of his cock and then moved down his body until they were lined up. Buffy sank down onto his hard length. Though she didn't loosen her grip on his neck, she let Spike lift his head up to watch her body engulfing his. When he was fully seated inside her, Buffy lifted the stake. His eyes widened for an instant as Buffy rested the point against his heart. When weapon met flesh, Buffy's eyes rolled back into her head and she started to rock convulsively on top of Spike.

She was drowning in him.

Buffy could feel how powerful she was to Spike, how that incredible strength intoxicated him. She was death and life, holding him in the palm of her hand like a goddess. The part of Spike that was still a man admired her, desired her and loved her. What was shocking to Buffy, what made her understand why Spike needed her to tease him with the stake was the way the vampire part of his identity reacted. Spike's demon rolled over like a puppy and showed its soft belly to the slayer. It begged for her mercy even as it longed to be destroyed by her. His demon side loved her just as much as his human half.
A pearl of blood was forming at the tip of the stake as it dug into Spike's skin. When she saw it, Buffy threw the weapon, heedless of where it landed. She dipped her head down and licked the red drop away. As his blood touched her tongue, they both howled in spontaneous, violent release.

“I understand,” she whispered, “Oh, God, I understand.”

Buffy collapsed on top of her husband, her body slippery with sweat and Spike enfolded her in his arms.

"I love you."
"I love you."

Veruca stretched out on the couch and took a sip from her beer, flexing her bare toes against her boyfriend's leg. They were hanging out in their apartment above the shop; the place was decorated much like the downstairs in black leather and spray paint. Oz's face was serious and he seemed irritated by her nonchalance about the entire thing. She hated when he got like that, and she could see her chances of getting laid in the next few hours sinking down to zero.

“It's not like I've never done ink for a fucking vampire before,” she said.

She knew he hated it when she cussed, but for some reason that made her do it more. Veruca dug her heel against the crotch of Oz's faded jeans—not enough to hurt, just enough to show him she was there. Her man was not amused; he picked up her ankle and dropped her leg on the concrete floor. Veruca spilled a spray of beer on her arm.

“You know how important this is, to me anyway. Maybe you could just pretend you give a shit,” he said.

It was the first time she'd ever heard him raise his voice in the three years they'd been together. Veruca sat up straight on the creaky couch, set the bottle on the floor and took off her black shirt. She used it to wipe her arm, refusing to look at him.

“Fine. He brought in this skinny, little side of veal with a scar over her mouth and they had the same thing done with the incense and the design,“ she said, dropping the shirt on the floor. Its shape disappeared in the gloomy mess that was their apartment.

“And you're sure he was a vampire this time?” Oz asked. He was wringing his fucking hands. Mr. King of Cool was actually emoting. It was kind of freaking Veruca out, which contributed to her irritation.

“I think I know a fucking vampire when I fucking see one,” Veruca said as she held up her hand and started ticking off her fingers to illustrate her point, “he didn't cast a reflection, he was pale as fuck. He smelled really good, but also dead. You know how they smell kind of like cold under everything? His skin was like a fucking icicle and he didn't have a pulse, I checked when I was doing my thing,” Veruca said.

“So you're sure the girl wasn't a vampire, too?”

“Nope, she was warm, she smelled scared. She smelled like prey. I know we're supposed to have a creature of the night solidarity thing, but if he ever comes in again, I'm throwing him the fuck out. They fucked in my back room, somehow they totally fucked my table. Like the metal frame was totally fucking bent, I'm going to have to get a new one,” Veruca said.

“And you're still convinced she was human?” he asked with a snort. He was looking at her with those big green eyes of his, the coppery lashes kind of glowing in the low light. Veruca hated that even while he was making fun of her she still wanted him, still saw the fat bottom part of his lip and wanted to sink her teeth into it.

“Like I said, she had a heart beat,” Veruca said.

“That doesn't mean she was a normal girl. Was she bleeding or hurt after all that? Was she limping?” he asked, exasperated. He ran his hands through his wavy, cobalt-blue hair.

“No, she was all fucking blushy and giggly,” Veruca said, quietly. It was the first time she'd thought about it and Veruca realized that was a little weird. The edge of the table looked like a shipwreck and that girl's dress was barely wrinkled, Veruca thought. She pushed her doubts away, though, something she was pretty good at.

“She was human, though, no doubt and that was kind of insulting in itself. He was just playing with his food. Not that it would've been better if he was fucking another vamp, but at least that would've been less disrespectful. I mean I don't want anybody fucking in there, unless they're like, fucking me, of course,” Veruca said with a smirk.

“You wanted him, didn't you?” he asked with disgust.

“He had a good body,” she said with a shrug. Veruca was mostly trying to get him angry. If she couldn't get the reaction she wanted, at least she could still make him feel something. Goading Oz into hate sex wasn't working lately, either, though. Veruca knew she was losing him, but she didn't know how to make it stop.

“But you don't buy the soul thing, you think he's keeping the blonde for a cow,” he said. Oz was hunched beside her, his hands folded again. Veruca hated that she did this to him, made him sad like that, but she couldn't let him go. They were part of each other.

“I like a little danger, you know that,” Veruca said.
Her bravado faltered when she saw the way her words hit him. His eyes were getting watery and his jaw was clenched tight, like he was trying to clamp down on all the things he wanted to scream at her.

“I need to find them.”

“I could follow the scent, the back room fucking reeks of them.”

“I'll go, I'll take Nina,” he said. Her boyfriend stood up and started walking toward the door.

“Nina, right,” Veruca said, flopping back against the couch. When Oz brought up Nina, the only thing to do was momentarily acknowledge defeat.

***

Oz knew it was a mistake to hire Nina in the first place; Veruca had told him as much. Veruca said a normal working in the shop was likely to stumble onto the pack and expose them or get herself killed. Oz couldn't stop himself, though, when the pretty art student came in with her portfolio and her smile. That smile was like the polar opposite of Veruca's; it was open and warm. When Veruca smiled she looked like what she was: the big, bad wolf.
So he'd called Nina and gave her the job. She was an amazing tattoo artist and she wore really tight pants. It was a win win for awhile, until both he and Veruca realized that Oz was falling for the girl. It got to the point that he couldn't finish with Veruca unless he was picturing Nina. Veruca knew; she could smell the heady perfume of his desire whenever Oz was around the other girl. It was so different than the way he'd started to feel about his own mate. Veruca demanded that he fire Nina or something would happen, something bad. She didn't have any rules against hurting people like he did; Veruca only had loyalty to the other werewolves in their pack. Nina was inches away from becoming lunch.

So Oz let her go, to keep her safe and whole, to get her away from him and Veruca before they had the chance to ruin her life. Except part of him couldn't stay away Nina and unfortunately it was the most important part.

Oz knew Nina ran in Schenley Park. They'd talked about it before and he'd even joined her for a jog a couple of evenings while Veruca worked. The park was huge and filled with big, old trees. It had a lot of places to hide. Normally he and Veruca would play out in the country with the rest of the pack during a full moon because they were less likely to run into people and they could hunt game together. Except that cycle, he'd begged off. Oz had been feeling sick, he told them he didn't want to risk an injury, so he locked himself up in the basement of the shop, alone. The first two nights were fine, but somehow on the third he managed to escape, to get to the park, to find Nina. Somehow.

When Oz changed he had limited control of himself. Veruca had taught him to enhance his perceptions, but she wasn't an expert herself. The point was, though, that he still had some control. When he woke up naked on top of Nina's unconscious body, he remembered busting out of the basement, bounding along the side streets and crossing over the rivers following her scent. Oz remembered her screams before he was able to incapacitate Nina with a non-fatal bite. He remember licking the wound tenderly until he fell asleep, pinning the weakened girl beneath his furry paws.

The bite on Nina's leg had already scarred over by morning. Oz realized he was nude so he had taken Nina's sweat pants off; luckily they stretched enough to fit him. Then he carried Nina a few blocks to his friend Evan's apartment in Squirrel Hill. Evan's girlfriend Cordi was home and let them inside. Unlike her boyfriend, Cordi was a normal, but she understood what Oz was, what Evan was. Cordi lent them some clothes so that when Nina came to she wasn't wearing a bloody jogging suit and Oz looked like a human being again.

When she woke up, Nina smiled at him, hugged him. She'd thought he was the one who saved her. Then he had to explain that he was the one who'd attacked her and why. He flashed back to the moment when he'd first met Veruca. Oz had woken up in a pool of his own blood, a twisted scar banded around his shoulder with a naked girl on top of him.

“Your mine now. My body chose yours when I was under,” Veruca had said.

He'd tried to get away from Veruca, but she was right. Oz was hers, he had been drawn to her like the moon draws the tides and the first time that he'd changed, his body chose hers right back. And now that he was tired of Veruca, he'd done the same thing to Nina; marked her with his curse. When Nina finally understood she slapped Oz across the face. She scrambled away from him, falling off Cordi and Evan's bed. Oz landed on top of her, trying to stay her arms.

“Get away from me,” Nina shouted.

She was struggling but still caught between his thighs. Nina kept striking Oz's face, raising bruises. He tried to grab her wrists without doing any more damage.

“Listen to me, you can't do this on your own,” he said, between blows, “you're part of our pack now. If you don't stick with us, you could hurt somebody.”

He finally overpowered her and they were panting in each others' faces.

“I hate you,” she screamed. Damp strands of hair were sticking to her reddened face.

“O.K., hate me, but we need each other,” Oz said calmly.

“I don't need you,” Nina said. She threw him off and grabbed her sneakers off the floor. Nina hopped into her shoes as she passed Cordi and made it to the front door before Oz could sit up. He didn't chase after Nina; he knew within a few days she would find him.

When Veruca came home later that day, Oz told her the truth. She'd taken it with a sullen expression and some bitter invective, but she'd taken it. The next day Nina showed up at the tattoo parlor pale and shaking like a drug addict. Oz finished up the job he'd been working on then took Nina up to the apartment without a word. When they were standing in the cave-like living room, she'd looked at him with her pained, gray-green eyes. Her thin arms were wrapped around her body. Sweat was soaking through the thin cotton of heather-gray hooded t-shirt. She'd pulled the hood up to cover her lank, blonde hair.

“Can you make it stop?” she asked.

“No, Nina, but I can make it a little better,” he said. Oz moved toward her but she just glided further away.

“How? How can you make this better, Oz?”

“I'll find a way, just promise me you won't hurt yourself,” he said.

She'd laughed at that and Oz tried to touch her shoulders. She swatted his hands away and let out another nervous, brittle chuckle.

“The worst part is this thing that you did to me, it makes me want to be near you, it makes me want--”

Nina grabbed him, suddenly, and her mouth came crashing down onto his. They came together cruelly, like animals do. Afterward he'd been tender though, kissing away her tears and making promises. Oz knew it would sting Veruca when she found out, but he was reaching the point where he almost didn't care anymore. He had begun to hate Veruca almost as much as he'd grown to love Nina, as though his affections for one woman were being sapped by the other.

They were all headed for a fall, he knew that now. Oz could think of only one way to keep the pack together, and it required trusting outsiders, something he'd always been loathe to do. It had to work though, this is what those people did; what they were made for. If he could just get the vampire, Oz was convinced he could hold his world together.

The two werewolves had been following them for about five blocks. Spike had caught their scent the instant they'd left the restaurant where he and Buffy had met Tara. Spike could never forget the odor of their kind because it had permeated his cell . Buffy and Tara had immediately sensed they were being tracked as well. His sister was at the ready with a spell and his wife was prepared to physically defend Tara if it came to that; Spike hoped it wouldn't.

One of the werewolves was a female. Except in this state, her human state, she was just a girl; a pregnant girl. Spike could smell the hormones pouring off her skin and hear the fluttering tick of the fetus' heartbeat. Spike wondered if the male werewolf, the boy, knew that the girl was carrying his child.

The pregnancy changed things. He didn't like hitting girls period, even if they were super strong and covered in hair. He wasn't going to be able to hit a pregnant girl and he couldn't let Buffy hit her, either.

They were traveling toward a Tarot card shop at the entrance to Highway Sixty-One, a seemingly forgotten place without windows where its services were advertised with a hand-painted, cardboard sign. The only other business was a kitschy pottery shop that had been closed at least a decade. There were tacky sculptures in the sooty windows; ghostly, unpainted cartoons that had grown gray with particulates from that unwholesome Pittsburgh air.

There was a burnt out train station across the street blighting an overgrown field and on the other side of the highway beneath an overpass was an ice cream stand, though Spike couldn't imagine ever wanting to eat one of the push up pops or paper-wrapped cones they sold.

The Tarot card shop belonged to one of Tara's friends from the Wiccan group she'd belonged to when she'd been a student at the University. On the outside it looked dilapidated, but inside was rather posh. The facade was there to keep away the non-supernaturally inclined. As they approached the rusted, metal door of the shop, it opened and the owner, Sally, came out dressed in a long, sapphire blue dress made of crushed velvet stretched over her wide hips. Sally, with her long, blonde, hair piled atop her head, was smiling at them. Will imagined her getting taken out in the fight and his stomach flopped.

He looked at his family and then grabbed Sally's arm.

“We're being followed,” he hissed in her ear.

“By Nina and Oz?” Sally asked, incredulously.

Will pulled away and looked at her face in disbelief. He turned around and saw the male werewolf waving.

“Hey Sal!” Oz said.

Will's eyes met Sally's.

“Oz has something he needs to ask you,” Sally said.

***

The five of them sat at Sally's kitchen table, showing varying degrees of interest in their cups of tea and the white, lace tablecloth. Buffy was holding Spike's hand beneath the spidery drape, smiling politely at Nina and Oz as though the werewolves were pitching them an offer to buy a time share. Sally smiled benevolently over them as she placed the steaming, pink tea pot with its swan-like spout in the center of the table. She'd vouched for Oz, which went a long way in convincing Tara that he was a trustworthy person. Sally sat beside Tara and the two women exchanged a smile.

Spike could feel his sister's thoughts. Tara trusted Sally implicitly; on more than one occasion, their hostess' advice had saved their lives, which meant Spike owed her a debt as well. He could feel that none of that meant anything to Buffy though. The instant his wife had heard about Nina's baby, she was compelled to help. Spike was the only member of their trio who still needed convincing.

“Veruca will kill Nina, it's that's simple. Once she finds out about the baby, pack loyalty won't matter. We need your help,” Oz said.

“You want us to take the bird out?” Spike asked.

“We won't do that, she's a human being,” Buffy said.

“We don't want you to hurt anybody. If it comes to that...we have ways of dealing. I need you to protect Nina and me. Specifically, to protect other people from us.”

Nina ran a hand through her hair and looked at Oz before facing the group.

“We want to leave the pack, and we're afraid if we're on our own, we'll hurt people. But you're a vampire, right Spike?” Nina asked.

Spike squeezed Buffy's hand and glanced from his wife to his sister before responding.

“Yeah.”

“Well if one of us bites you, you won't change. We can't curse you, and you're strong enough to put the hammer down if we get too frisky,” Oz said.

“We don't have a lot of money. It would be impossible to support two more people and an infant, especially on the road,” Spike said.

Buffy looked at him with her forehead all crinkled up, on the verge of saying something about her sacred, slayer duty before she remembered that no one was supposed to know she was a sacred slayer.

Oz smirked at Nina, who seemed to relax. He took the girl's hand and then looked at Spike.

“We would pay you. I'm fairly well off...when I was in high school and college I designed a few computer programs for some different companies. I get money from that,” Oz said.

“What kind of programs?” Buffy asked with genuine interest.

“Like for Boeing, some stuff that makes airplanes work, one for a video game company. When I turned twenty-one I retired and bought the tattoo parlor. It's named after Veruca, but I own it,” Oz said.

“Which will make her extra thrilled that you're moving on,” Buffy said.

Oz looked pained, grimacing at her words.

“Yeah,” he said.

Spike sighed and glanced at Buffy and Tara.

“I need to discuss it with my family. Maybe we could come by your shop tomorrow?” Spike asked.

“That's no good, I mean, we were hoping to get this settled tonight. Tomorrow the cycle starts again,” Nina said.

Buffy and Tara glanced at Spike. He knew what they were thinking without having to ask. Of course they'd protect the pregnant girl and her foolish puppy even though Spike hated putting his girls at risk for somebody they didn't know. They would because that was the right thing to do and because they were the only beings who could. Tara, Buffy and Spike nodded to one another.

“We have a place, but we need to leave right now if we're going to beat the sunset,” Buffy said.

“Thank you so much,” Nina said, embracing Oz.

Tara and Spike knew the place Buffy had in mind. They were going back to the clapboard farmhouse that had seen Spike's imprisonment, except this time, the home was technically his.

“Life's funny, isn't it?” Tara said. Buffy and Spike smiled in agreement, to the puzzlement of the others at the table.

***

Spike and Buffy sat on Tara's old bed in front of the floor to ceiling cage, watching the werewolves sleep. They had given up on playing Go Fish a few hours ago. Spike had repainted Buffy's toenails a shade of tangerine—Sunset Tango—and her feet still rested in his lap. The werewolves had spent most of the night copulating, as they had the previous two evenings. Three days of kinky werewolf sex, and the air was thick with pheromones. It was driving Spike a little wild and consequently, driving the girls a bit bonkers, too. Tara couldn't stand it after the first day. She had gone to spend the remaining nights with Fred and Gunn, taking their car with her.

At least during the day, Spike and Buffy had been able to sneak off and make love, but it wasn't enough for him. It was never enough. As soon as they were finished, Spike always wanted her again. Buffy was the only thing, besides human blood, that could staunch the constant void inside of him.

Spike lifted her feet from his lap and stretched out next to his wife They lain next to each other, she turning to rest her head on his silent chest. He could feel something troubling Buffy when she looked at the sleeping creatures. It wasn't lust, but a longing of a different kind. Buffy slid her hand under his black t-shirt, touching his cold stomach.

“You wish you could have a baby, don't you?” Spike asked.

The question sounded inordinately loud amid the snores and snuffles of their charges.

“No, I wish I could have your baby,” Buffy said. She closed her eyes.

“Without me you could. You could walk away from all this, love.”

“There's no walking away from this because this is me. Being the slayer isn't just a title, it's who I am. Beside, you're the only one I want, but sometimes I wish—” Buffy said, cutting herself off before she could say words she knew would hurt him. It was too late though, their thoughts were intimately connected.

“You wish you could have saved me.”

Buffy hid her eyes in his shoulder and nodded. Spike already knew he wasn't the man she fell in love with anymore. He wasn't a man, not really, and it broke his heart to know Buffy blamed herself.

Spike stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Get some sleep, love,” Spike said.

***

Spike woke with a start, his legs tangled up in the sleeping bag, looking out from the inside of the cage again. He was shirtless, on his back and propping himself up on his elbows; his hair was likely ridiculous but there was no help for it, mirrors being a thing of the past. The basement was totally dark and Buffy was long gone. Somehow Spike knew hew would never, ever see her again and there was nothing he could do. Spike crawled along the stone floor to the pile of objects Tara had given him. Spike found the fat, blue pillar candle he was looking for and a pack of matches.

With a scrape and a pop the match ignited. He carefully carried the fragile flame to the candle wick, pursing his lips until it caught. In the nascent firelight he saw a face, horrible in its contortion. The eyes were amber and wreathed with bulges, the grinning mouth housed stiletto fangs, the nose was ridged and the head was crowned with curling, silver hair. He fell back, then realized it was his own face in its vampire guise.

Spike woke with a start. He was in the basement of the white farmhouse where he and Buffy were watching over the pair of werewolves. There was no one else in the bed with him and the wrought iron cage was empty. He sat up and threw off the sheets, then put both feet on the stone floor.

“Buffy!” Spike shouted.

Almost before he finished yelling she was already running down the stairway. He met her halfway, throwing his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her lips. Buffy put her hands on the sides of his face and when the kiss ended she gazed into his eyes.

“Better now?” she asked.

He nodded, ashamed to have overreacted to his nightmares again. She smiled and then gave him another peck.

“Tara's here. She and Oz are making dinner. Oz was all cute about it, too, he asked if it would be alright to put garlic in the sauce,” Buffy said.

“Sounds ducky,” Spike said, taking her hand and letting him lead her up the stairs. The kitchen was bustling with activity

Nina looked up from setting the table to smile at Spike and Buffy as they came into the room. Oz waved, but didn't turn away from the stove where he was frying Italian sausage. Tara glanced over her shoulder, as she sliced onions at a white cutting board on the counter.

“Everything good?” Nina asked, tucking a paper napkin beneath a pink, china plate.

“Yeah, bad dream,” Spike mumbled. Buffy went to the fridge and took out a carton of blood.

“We were just talking about where we can go after this and I was telling them about our friend in San Francisco who can let us stay for awhile. You guys remember Zahara, the a dominatrix? She's got a nice cage and stuff,” Tara said, as she resumed chopping. Spike sank into a kitchen chair and Buffy took a mug out of the cupboard, then filled it with blood.

“For Spike's sake, I'm not going to ask how well you know that girl,” Nina said, taking a seat at the kitchen table beside Spike.

“I already know,” Spike said.

“So do I,” Buffy piped up, while she stuck the mug in the microwave.

Tara didn't answer with words, only a blush coupled with the continued slide and thunk of the knife, making Nina giggle.

“I know a guy in San Fran who would love to get me coding for him. We could rely on this Zahara chick until Nina and I buy a house, fix up it up,” Oz said, prodding the sizzling sausages.

“Oz said he could pay us a salary, so we could get an apartment,” Buffy said, watching the mug revolve through the little window in the microwave.

“Zahara said I could stay on, just me, as like her roommate,” Tara said.

The microwave beeped and Buffy took out Spike's meal. Everyone seemed to be awaiting his opinion. Buffy turned and handed her husband the cup.

“So, what do you think?” Buffy asked, a bright smile on her face.

“I think you guys talked all this out when I was asleep and you're hoping I don't want to nix it,” Spike said.

“That obvious?” Buffy asked.

“Yeah. And I don't. Don't want to nix it I mean. It sounds brilliant. We have a little money left to get started and then we have a regular gig. I can find work in the underground, the demon community is huge there, it sounds perfect,” Spike said.

Buffy squealed and gave him a hug, nearly tipping his supper.

When the food was ready, Spike took his place at the table to be polite. Spike nibbled for taste while the others ate, the five of them talking over their plans. The thought of a steady income, a windowless apartment and Buffy sounded like heaven. The promise of stability at long last swept away the last of his inhibitions. Finally, Tara could have something like a real life with an actual girlfriend. He could see the thought tickled his sister.
The topics drifted to other things, and soon the five were volleying baby names around. Nina rejected Oz's suggestions, Constantine and Tiberius, out of hand.

“Come on, Captain Kirk's middle name,” Oz said, twirling a pesky noodle on his fork.

“I like James, if you want to name him after Captain Kirk, why not go for James?” Nina asked.

“Too predictable,” Oz said.

In the end they liked the name Tara suggested for a girl, Clementine. By the time Spike started passing around bowls of chocolate ice cream for dessert, they still hadn't settled on any boy names.

After everyone finished eating, Spike went outside to enjoy his ritual of having a smoke and watching the sun set. He welcomed the time to gather his thoughts alone. Spike walked out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him. He saw the last pink streaks in the sky fading and the blue sky was deepening to black.

Before he could even take the pack from his jeans' pocket, Spike picked up her scent. Veruca's skin had the bitter tang of grapefruit along with ink and salt. Before her words got out, he heard her pulse pounding a rage-filled tattoo. Veruca was looking up at him from the base of the stairs.

“I can smell them. You can't keep me away from Oz,” Veruca said, tears skidding down her face.

Buffy and Tara had been at the sink, helping Nina with the dinner dishes when they sensed Spike's alarm. Buffy set the towel down on the kitchen counter and told Nina to stay put. Buffy went outside, slamming the screen door behind her; Tara lingered at the threshold, mouthing a spell that would repel Veruca.

“We have a visitor,” Spike said.

Buffy passed by Spike and walked down the steps.

“Listen—“ Buffy said, extending her hand toward the intruder.

That was all the provocation Veruca needed. The girl leaped at Buffy, transforming into a werewolf as she moved. It all happened so fast that Spike was hardly able to process what he was seeing. A flash of dark hair, growling and crunching. As the reddened snout with its saw blade teeth rose from his wife's chest, the odor of Buffy's blood saturated the air and Spike 's face shifted.
He was upon the wolf, fangs bared. Distantly, Spike heard Tara calling his name, but it held no meaning. Spike gripped the creature's body with both arms and legs. He bit into its neck, his pointed teeth ripping through layers of fur, fat and muscle. He let the coppery, hot lifeblood pour into his mouth. The wolf diminished in size until it became a girl again. Spike was straddling the naked corpse of Veruca. Her blue eyes were glassy; most of the skin and meat on her throat were gone, leaving exposed bone. He crawled over Veruca's body toward the pungent aroma of Buffy's blood.

Tara was there, holding Buffy and sobbing. He hadn't even seen his sister leave the house, let alone notice before that she'd been trying to tend to Buffy's wounds. His wife was hurt so badly that she looked as though she'd been dipped in red paint. Her skin hung in ribbons across her neck and shoulder. Her blonde hair had a clump of clotted black blood near her ear. Spike scrambled over to them.

“Give her to me, I've got to turn her,” Spike said, reaching for Buffy.

“No, Billy, you can't,” Tara said, she was rocking back and forth and Buffy's limp hand was scraping along the grass. Spike noticed Buffy's eyes were closed and while Tara's heart was beating wildly, Buffy didn't seem to have a pulse.

“For fuck's sake Tara, she and I agreed that's what I'd have to do if she was mortally wounded. We decided—“

“Can't you feel it, Billy? She's dead, she's already dead,” Tara said, her head bowing over Buffy's body. Tara's narrow shoulders shook and her wailing had a suffocated quality. Spike stared for a moment and then tenderly took Buffy from Tara's arms, as one might pass an infant. He cradled the still form of his wife and began to cry. Soon his agony was rattling his whole body; the power of his grief looked capable of wrenching loose his bones.

Neither he nor Tara noticed when Oz and Nina ran outside. The couple stood apart from the devastation as they took in the death around them. Nina immediately ran to the bushes near the porch and threw up. Oz stood solemnly, his eyes on Spike and Tara grieving over Buffy before finally looking at the corpse of his former lover. He walked over to her and knelt, closing Veruca's eyes before he went to tend to Nina.


Spike finally let Tara take Buffy away so that he could dig her grave. He picked the spot in the back yard where tall grass grew beneath a willow tree. Oz had offered to help, but Spike had refused. He could barely look at the man without feeling an overwhelming desire to kill him, even though it wasn't really Oz's fault that Buffy had died. Oz could feel the danger wafting off of Spike, so he carried Veruca's body to a secluded place in the woods and burnt her corpse before the vampire would be forced to see it again.

Spike gouged at the plot for hours making a proper hole. Nina and Tara were talking inside the house. He could have listened if he'd wanted to, but Spike concentrated on the sound of metal hitting the earth and the long strands of willow leaves whispering against each other with the breeze. He watched the wooden handle gripped in his pale hands and tried to ignore the scent of Buffy's blood. When he was finished, Spike went back toward the house.

Tara was on the front porch, kneeling beside Buffy's body. She'd sewn a sheet around the corpse to give her sister-in-law a small measure of dignity. Spike scooped up his wife's remains and carried the white bundle around the back, toward the empty place he'd fashioned. Tara trailed behind him as he walked through the yard. She could see the faint outline of his body, with his blanched hair and his burden the most distinct elements against the dark night. The humid air was close and it was too cloudy for stars. Tara was the first to interrupt the drone of the crickets as they stood on the edge of Buffy's grave.

“I put her in her wedding dress. She said it was what she wanted,” Tara said, dully.

“Good,” Spike said.

He hopped down carrying Buffy. Spike laid her on the ground, setting her head on the dirt with a gentle reverence. His fingertips lingered on the outline of her jaw. Spike jumped up, displaying the preternatural agility that reminded Tara he wasn't human anymore. He didn't look at his sister as he lunged for the shovel, snatching it up and shoving the silver blade into the mound of soil he'd displaced.

“You should see her, Billy, before she moves on.”

Spike scooped up some earth and threw it over Buffy's corpse.

“What do you mean, move on?”

Tara sniffed and hugged herself.

“Her soul is in a sort of purgatory right now. We can still see her, but when she moves on, she becomes a feeling.”

“What does moving on mean? Where's she moving on to?” Spike asked, hurling another shovelful into the pit.

“Her afterlife. She'll go to heaven or be reincarnated or you know, cease. It's different depending on what you did in this life. No one knows what happens.”

“You said we'd be together, Tara,” Spike said, all his muscles twitching as he clutched the wooden handle.

“We will, I mean, when we die, we'll be able to find each other again and we'll always have a sense of her, but we can't touch her or talk to her like before. You can't bind her in that place, Billy. “

“Wouldn't be holding her up for very long.”

Tara gasped.

“Suicide is—“

“For the living. You forget I'm immortal, love, trapped on this plane of existence forever and ever? There's no other way I'll ever see her again. And there's nothing to keep me here besides you. Can't ever love someone else. What kind of creature would have me? I'll tell you what. A thing like Veruca, another monster like me—“

“You're not a monster, Billy.”

He grinned, his teeth a pearly flash in the darkness, then Tara heard the sound of metal hitting dirt as he turned away.

“Oh, but I am. You and Buffy were just keeping it in check. Not now, though. Without her I can't control the blood lust—“

Tara heard the earth fall as he turned the shovel over.

“I can help you.”

Spike stuck the blade of the shovel into the ground at his feet.

“No, you can't. A sister's love isn't what I need. She was the only thing, she was everything,” Spike said.

“So you're just going to leave me?” Tara asked, her voice raw and pitched up.

“You can't...you don't want to be here for what's coming, love. I'm going to give them their prophecy, gonna show them they can't—“

“No!” Tara yelled. She grabbed her brother, hugging him as though her embrace could keep him from going. He didn't return the gesture, but he didn't push her away. He stood, like a dead thing, as she cried. Tara knew what he planned to do; the hate and despair he felt was overwhelming to her.

“Billy, please,” Tara sobbed.

Spike put his hands on her arms and shook her slightly.

“Look at me, really look,” he said.

She snuffled as she withdrew slightly to gaze at his face. His demon was on display; the grotesque ridges deforming his features and the amber eyes blotting out the familiar blue.

“Billy is dead, he has been for awhile. Now it's time to bury him, too. I don't want you near me anymore, understand?” Spike asked.

“No.”

Spike pushed her, sending Tara back a few steps.

“You can't stop me, love, unless you want to do it with a stake. I'm going to see every one who sold her out dead,” Spike said, snatching up the shovel again.

“No,” Tara said, moving toward him with imploring, outstretched hands.

But Spike was past listening. He turned away from his sister to finish his work.

Spike parted ways with Tara the next night. Oz was laconic as he gave Spike a credit card.

“I don't want to know what you're doing with this, but I can tell you it will always be paid,” Oz said.

Oz's action was motivated equally by guilt over Buffy's death and gratitude at never having to worry about Veruca again. Spike took the blood money with a nod.

Tara had been livid that her new friend had essentially enabled her brother's descent into hell, but no one seemed willing to listen to her arguments. After dropping Nina and Oz off at the tattoo parlor, Tara had driven Spike to the dock with the hopes of talking him out of his decision. It hadn't worked.

Spike's last words to Tara before he left on a boat to London were, “Forget me.”

Gentle, sweet Tara had slapped him across the face. He took the blow without reacting and then left. A few seconds later her car peeled away, leaving him standing alone with his suitcase. No one seemed to see Spike slipping among the men loading freight. He was able to secret himself in the cargo hold where he hid from the sun for his entire voyage.

While he sailed, the only one to keep him company was Buffy. It wasn't hard to find her in his subconscious. As soon as he closed his eyes, she was there.

She was sitting on the red comforter that covered his bed in the Pittsburgh apartment where they met. Buffy's arms were open, waiting for him. Spike had gone to her and wept against her chest. It all felt so real with the scent of her skin enveloping him and the warm touch of the sheets Spike thought he might never stop crying.

“Are you really here?” he asked.

“Mostly. I don't really look like this anymore and this place isn't here, but the me part is real. Tara explained some things when she came to see me. She chose your grandmother's house. Tara said it was the most vivid memory she had, so that's why we were there.”

“So I made this place?”

“Yeah. This is the way it looked when we were together-together the first time, isn't it?”

“Think about it a lot, I guess. How I could have made it better for you.”

“Oh, Spike,” she said, touching the side of his face and tracing his bottom lip with her fingertips.

“Do you know what happened to you, Buffy?”

“Yes. Dying didn't hurt. It was over before I could even feel anything.”

“You want me to stop before I start, don't you?”

“Of course, but we don't have to talk about that tonight. Just be here with me, let me make it better for you,” Buffy said.

Spike kissed her slowly, his mouth lingering in a way he'd never done before. When they'd had sex before it had always been a clash. No matter how hard he tried, Spike always managed to rush things. Not then, though. Spike worshiped his memories of her, running his tongue along her body. She felt softer, more perfect than anything he'd ever touched before. He spread her legs and slid his cock home, moving on top of her as gently as he could. When the pleasure became more intense, her face and the room grew indistinct. Her body was shimmering beneath him and he saw her true form. Buffy was a glowing orb of golden light and he was melting into it; absorbed completely by her soul. It was more than anything he'd ever felt and for an instant, Spike was at peace.

It didn't last.

He woke up with his grief gnawing at him and his blood lust heightened, wedged between two wooden crates. He crawled across the floor after a fat, gray rat wishing he could have the chance to kill all the members of the council twice.

***

Spike was soaking in the bathtub at his apartment in Pittsburgh and Buffy was washing his feet. Over the past few weeks he'd noticed that her face had taken on the aspects of the photographs he'd salvaged from the clapboard farmhouse. He was starting to forget what his Buffy actually looked like, relying on the still images to fill in the blanks.

“What's it like when I'm not here?” Spike asked.

She dragged a washcloth across his thigh.

“There's nothing here. I become a part of you, see everything through your eyes. It's kind of like that movie 'Being John Malkovich,'” Buffy said.

“I never saw that,” Spike said.

“It was good. The live version kind of sucks, though,” she said squeezing water onto his stomach.

“What do you want, love?”

She tilted her head and washed his chest.

“To move on, with you. It's selfish, but I want you to come with me to the next part. Plus it would have the added benefit of saving a bunch of people's lives. Sure, they're incredibly crummy people, but they're still, you know, people.”

“I have to do this, can't let them hurt anyone else the way they hurt you.”

“This isn't the way.”

“Can you think of any other way?” Spike asked, knowing her answer before she spoke.

“No, but that doesn't mean you should become the kind of creature that can do it,” Buffy said.

“I've already killed, Buffy, and if I'm dragging you to hell with me, then I'm going to make damned sure they precede me. The council didn't just ruin your life, they ruined mine. I could never start to deal with what had been done to me, what I am now. I'm damned. Even if I never hurt a living soul I'm damned.”

“This is about you being afraid I'll leave you behind, isn't it? And don't start with the denial because I'm all brainy with your thoughts here.”

“Why ask then? Why fight?” Spike asked.

“I have to fight for you. You won't let Tara in anymore at all, it's just us now and I'm not giving up,” Buffy said.

Spike grabbed her around the waist and dragged her into the bath. They splashed around for a moment before she succumbed to his kiss and relaxed against him. He could feel how badly she wanted him and knew she was beginning to hate herself for giving in every time he touched her. Spike savored the feel of her body against his as they lay in the warm water. She whipped off her clinging, white t-shirt and threw it on the ground and then stood so he could help her out of her shorts. He held her hand and she sank down onto his lap. She wiggled, displacing a wave onto the bathroom floor adjusting until his penis was sliding inside of her. Spike groaned.

“For someone without a body, you're so fucking tight,” Spike said.

“Very romantic,” Buffy said with a laugh.

***

Spike was kneeling before Buffy and licking the top of her right foot. The taste of her skin was growing faint. The left one rested against his throat, clad in a shiny, black boot with a pointed toe. She was naked, save for the boot and sitting on a pedestal made of white marble with a fluted, Doric column as a base while she filed her nails.

“You never told me you were into shoes, I thought it was just nail polish and stuff,” Buffy said, peering down to look at him.

“Didn't know. Quit trying to change the subject,” Spike said, kissing her big toe.

“Why does every conversation we have have to devolve into this one?” Buffy asked, throwing the file over her shoulder.

“Because I'm right, you know it.”

“You'll never get me to agree killing people is right.”

“But you're starting to think it's not entirely wrong.”

“Never. The council is needed, no matter how corrupt. Without them the world could descend into chaos,” she said, stroking his hair.

“I think they perpetuate the myth of their own necessity, you would've been fine without them,” Spike said.

“Better off, most definitely, but I wouldn't have been the slayer. Before my calling I was kinda shallow, it was all about clothes and boys. I had a wicked shoplifting habit going, too. I didn't really see myself in the context of the wider world until I was called. It ...promise you won't get all snarky.”

“Promise.”

“It taught me how to really love, I think. I mean I loved Dawnie and Mom and Dad, but I didn't really understand what it meant to give everything without needing anything in return. I love this world, and all the frustrating people in it and I'm proud to fight for it.”

“What did I teach you?”

“To have hope,” Buffy said.

“You didn't need me for that, love. You're the strongest person I've ever known.”

“You give me strength. I wish now you'd let me do the same for you,” she said.

Spike looked into her eyes, knowing that he couldn't. She read his thoughts and lifted her feet away, holding her knees to her chest. Spike woke up, staring at the ceiling of the ship.

***

Buffy had her back to him in bed. Spike knew she didn't want to see him at the moment. They were docking the next day and he hadn't changed his mind about his mission to destroy the council. Her speech had dwindled but he knew her thoughts as he read his own. He could feel her all the time, seeing from behind his eyes, her pain a heavy weight he carried all the time.

A weight he wasn't capable of releasing.

“Please, love.”

Spike forced her flat onto the mattress and looked into her eyes. They were the one part of her he never needed a photograph to remember. The way they hungered and ached would stay with him for several lifetimes. Spike pinned Buffy's hands above her head and kissed her unresponsive lips. When he pulled away, she finally spoke.

“You can still walk into the light with me. We could start over.”

“And if we can't?”

“Hell couldn't be worse than being powerless to watch you do this,” Buffy said.

“I am the only one who'll stop those wankers. It's like your calling—“

“Don't you even try to compare this with slaying.”

“Let's not go round this again, love. Let's just fuck.”

“I'm not your fantasy and I'm not your whore,” Buffy said as she yanked her hands away and put them on his chest, shoving him hard. Spike toppled off the bed and landed on the floor of the ship, wedged between the two cargo boxes that had been his home for the past month.

“You can't stop me, love,” Spike said, aloud, “not until the last one is dead.”

***

When he finally set foot in the mother country, Spike began fulfilling his design.

Spike was too impatient and too worried about getting caught to inject any sense of suspense into his plan, so he went straight for Quentin Travers. He knew Travers on sight because Buffy did and with her death he was privy to all her memories. Spike had found the Watcher's flat in the phone book and followed the git to a lovely restaurant that had gotten three stars in the Michelin Guide called “The Fatted Duck.” Fitting, Spike thought, as he smoked cigarettes and loitered in front of the place. After a rich meal the old fool had had one too many glasses of wine to take proper note of his surroundings. Travers ate alone, no lover or spouse to complicate his consumption, which simplified things for Spike as well.

Travers trundled out, looking for a cab and Spike grabbed him. Travers made a soft, squeaking sound before Spike clamped his hand over the codger's mouth. Spike dragged him into an alley, away from the sparse, Tuesday night foot traffic. Travers didn't even struggle as Spike plunged his fangs into the elderly watcher's throat. Maybe it was because on the ship he'd had a steady diet of rats, but to Spike the old man's blood tasted like butter. As he drained the portly bastard, Spike could feel Tara's disgust and hear Buffy's voice begging him to stop. That didn't matter, though. Tara was in another country and Buffy was dead.

Buffy was dead.

At that thought, Spike shoved his hand into Quentin's chest and plucked out his heart like little Jack Horner popping out a plum from his Christmas pie. Then Spike had thrown the sloppy organ behind his back like a crumpled Big Mac wrapper. That was kind of a mistake, as he was covered in blood, but Spike hardly cared.

He dropped Travers' corpse in the alley and then went to council headquarters. The fools dealt with the supernatural every day, but didn't employ any magical security to guard their fortress. Spike used Quentin's keys and killed the ponce at the night watch duty before scouring the labyrinthine complex. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to find in the rows of auspicious, leather-bound books. He just knew the Watchers chronicled with the type of detail and lack of shame that made the Nazis so repulsive

He'd found Buffy fast, her life reduced to three, somber, black, encyclopedia-sized volumes. Spike scooped up the books and in a foolhardy move which was simply the latest of foolhardy moves, he scattered the petrol he'd brought along on the brown and white tiled floor of the library. Then he struck a match, lit a piece of paper and touched it to an incendiary puddle. The building went up with a roar. The scent and the heat were incredible; like the funeral pyre for a mighty forest. He could almost taste the tang of cooked flesh in the air from the centuries of bodies buried in those books. How many girls like Buffy had they sacrificed? It didn't matter now, Spike thought. They were all lost, all reduced to blackened ash. All but Buffy.

Spike didn't watch the structure collapse. He took his spoils and went to a crypt near Travers' flat where he had been hiding since the night before to read the purloined tomes. The men and women who'd sold his girl out had signed their names. There were exactly eighteen members of the council who'd autographed documents allowing for the murder of Willow Rosenberg, the deal with Angel that led to Dawn's murder and finally, the extermination squad sent to take out Tara, Buffy and Spike. Buffy had known each of them personally, all of them had attended Giles' and Dawn's funerals. Spike noted with little satisfaction that two of those people—Quentin Travers and Wesley Wyndam Price—were already dead. The rest of them sorely needed to atone, he thought. Their brazen disregard for the destruction of Buffy Summers' life didn't shock him so much as it made him sick. It occurred to Spike that it would have been easier to wait in the council headquarters and pick them off all at once, but then he was never one for strategic thinking. That had always been Buffy's thing.

When he closed his eyes, he'd expected Buffy to be full of scathing reproach. Instead she'd been shivering in his bed. When he tried to touch her shoulder, the scene around them would shift to the bathtub where Wesley had shot himself. It felt like they were drowning. Spike was finally able to overpower Buffy's memories, and pull the thrashing girl into his arms. He kissed her forehead and face, trailing gentle kisses over her throat until she finally stopped shaking.

“He signed them all. Wesley signed them all.”

It was all she could say. In their place Spike held her while he slept through the day, waking up with empty arms. It was disorienting to fall asleep in a bed with his wife and wake up alone on a stone crypt. That day he decided to begin his search for Percy Green, beginning with the man's London flat.

When they heard about Quentin and their smoldering digs, Spike expected that the watchers would clump up like cooked white rice. Just as he thought, after the mass pants-wetting, they'd called a meeting. Spike had the good fortune to stumble upon the lot of them when he'd charmed his way into Nigel Green's home. Spike had thralled Green's wife when she answered the door.

The thrall was a trick he'd absorbed from his sire. Tara had helped him hone the skill while they were on the lam, never imagining he'd use the skill for a purpose such as this. Spike could hypnotize a person by offering that individual their fondest wish. Leslie Green's fondest wish had been to be loved. Nine out of ten times, most every thralled boiled down to love. He'd teased out the details of her broken heart and mended it for her with a penetrating gaze.

Spike wondered if he could have gotten away without using the thrall. Leslie Green was so eager for someone with light eyes and a rough accent to give her attention because her husband was a bit of a snob, ashamed of her lower class upbringing. He imagined that a few words and a flimsy excuse could have done the job just as well.

Spike put Mrs. Green to sleep, giving her a lovely dream of what might have been. Spike went downstairs and concealed himself in the hall closet, listening as Green came home with two other men. He held an unnecessary breath when he realized they might take off their jackets and put them in his hiding place. They didn't, though, and Spike figured they must have set their outerwear on the bamboo coat rack in the entryway.

The men didn't speak aside from colorless pleasantries, they just busied themselves with assembling tea and biscuits for the guests. Soon people were trickling into the place. Green didn't even seem to notice his wife's absence. Once the Watchers were assembled, the group convened in Green's living room, giving a roll call. Spike realized with equal parts hunger and dread that all fourteen of them were on his list.

“As you all know, Quentin is dead and our archives have been reduced to cinder. I've contacted our men in the field and they've all gone into lock down mode with their potentials. However, Locksley is refusing to bring the slayer here to help sort this. He's claiming things are more pressing in Rome. Somehow I doubt that. I think he's gone the way Rupert did at the end,” Green said.

A watcher whose voice Spike recognized as Lionel Drood spoke up next. Along with Buffy's memory of Drood's voice came the flavor of the lemon bunt cake his wife had brought to Giles' wake.

“Rupert Giles was a friend despite his understandable lapse in judgment and I think it besmirches his name to compare him to Oliver. We all know Locksley's interest in that girl is far from fatherly,” Drood said.

“Quite right. Now, to the matter at hand. Do we have any concept of who could have done this?” Green asked.

There were murmurs amid the crowd as they floated ideas. None of them mentioned Buffy, not that it surprised Spike. They probably assumed she was dead if another slayer had risen. One girl in all the world and that rot. Still, he couldn't imagine that their seers hadn't predicted all of this was coming. Maybe they'd had mass layoffs in the prognostication department. As the Watchers clucked like nervous chickens, Spike considered being a bit badass, drowning them after intoning that water found its way. They probably wouldn't know what the fuck it meant, anyway, plus he couldn't figure on how to make that all work. Better to just eat them, he thought.

Spike sneaked out of the closet and went into the living room, locking the French doors that led to safety behind him. He was still covered in the gore from Quentin Travers' murder; there might have even been a ring of red around his mouth. The group saw him all at once and conversation was snuffed out like a candle flame, plunging the room into silence.

Green came at him first and Spike snapped his neck. Two others followed and Spike did them the same. The remainder ran at Spike all at once. The vampire whirled like a deadly dervish, turning men to corpses. There was a stack by the time he was done.

Spike glutted himself on their blood until the leftovers soaked through the posh Persian rug on the parquet floor. The collective screams of the corralled watchers could not rouse Mrs. Green from her slumber. Spike stripped the corpses of any cash and jewelry, then stolen upstairs to take a bath in the Green's sunken, marble tub. Spike realized he hadn't had a real wash in more than a month, not since the morning Buffy died. He felt his chin and knew there was stubble, but he had no inclination to shave.

He filled the cream-colored tub with Mrs. Green's lavender bath salts, feeling guilty for leaving bloody footprints on her clean, white floor. Spike lowered himself into the steaming, purple water and watched the blood drift off his pale body. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Buffy was huddled beside their bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. He knelt beside her, but she continued to stare forward. She flinched from his caress, but that didn't stop him from smoothing a few strands of her hair.

“You enjoyed it,” Buffy thought.

He scratched his chin and cocked his head at her.

“I did.”

“You're never going to touch me again.”

“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that, love. Can feel you, remember? Even when I was ankle deep in their blood, you still wanted me,” Spike said, dragging her towards him. She squirmed but his hands found her anyway, cupping her breast.

“Stop it.”

“Make me.”

Spike kissed her neck as Buffy writhed.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

An instant later he was splashing in the bathtub, scattering red beads of water everywhere. Spike drained the bath and then showered off the rest of the filth. Spike gathered up his belongings and then dressed in one of Nigel's tweed suits while Mrs. Green slept on. He stuffed his bloody clothes, the money, the Watcher's cell phones and a few valuable-looking things into a suitcase he found in their closet and then gave one last glance to the lady of the house. Spike wished he'd left her at a hotel, so she wouldn't have to wake up in the morning to stumble into the massacre downstairs. He shook his head, realizing there was nothing for it now, then left.

Spike knew the remaining Watchers would hear about his party and scatter, making it more difficult to pick them off. Again he wished he'd done them all in one go before he burnt down council headquarters. Who knows, he might have been able to get staked in a blaze of glory. Save him from Buffy's sullen disillusionment when he tried to sleep.

Spike used Green's phone to text the remaining Watchers on the list. The only one who fell for his ruse was Lydia Chalmers. They messaged back and forth for a bit. Lydia had been down with the flu, which was why she hadn't been to the meeting. Spike told her he'd stop by shortly to give her his news. Then he'd looked up her address and walked to the house Lydia rented.

Spike knocked on the door and Lydia invited him in without looking.

When Spike walked into her foyer, Lydia froze like a little rabbit under the shadow of a hawk.

“Hello, cutie,” Spike said, sauntering over to her.

She wore tortoise shell glasses and had on a white, lace nightgown that barely covered her ass. Lydia and Nigel seemed close, which was probably why Mrs. Green was so lonely. Buffy had a nightgown almost like the one this Watcher wore, but the clincher was Lydia's long, blonde hair. Spike had to touch that hair. He grabbed a fistful and then showed her his other face.

“You were at Dawnie's funeral,” Spike said, slamming Lydia's head against the wall, “you brought flowers.” Spike smashed her against the wall again. “The slayer never knew you helped make that funeral possible, did she, pet?”

Spike held her at arm's length. Lydia was covering her face with her hands and blood was spilling over her fingers from the cut Spike opened on her forehead.

“I swear I didn't know, we didn't know what he would do—“

“Right,” Spike said, releasing Lydia so she could scramble away, “you only thought you were killing a seventeen-year-old girl who trusted you implicitly. Bully for that then.”

Spike pounced on her again and bit into Lydia's arm; not a killing blow, just something to amp up her fear. Then he let her go again. Lydia staggered to a small table in the hall and yanked out a drawer; wood shrieking against wood. Objects scattered on the floor, including holy water, a cross and a stake. She snatched up the stake from the floor. Spike continued to advance on the cowering woman and she backed up.

“I was just going to go in for some vanilla, but if you want to bust out the toys and get kinky, love, by all means.”

He slapped the weapon from her hand and she whimpered. Spike caught her wrist and had another taste. They went on like that for the better part of an hour before Chalmers was too weak to play the mousey anymore. By then, they'd made it up the stairs and into her bedroom. Spike scooped up the dying woman and finished her off, feeling ashamed of himself. Spike threw her body on the ground and went back to his crypt.

The moment he closed his eyes and rejoined Buffy, she punched him in the face. The blow began a battle unlike any they'd ever had. In life they'd never physically fought, or even sparred, just played hide and seek games while on patrol. This was a knock down drag-out . Spike saw the slayer on display and though she was coming at him from the depths of her frustration, her prowess thrilled him. They circled around one another and then coupled in violence. It was a replay of his scene with Lydia except with a participant that could fight back. He felt all Buffy's hurt, her disappointment and her love for him. Her brutality came from that place she longed to make him understand.

They tussled all day, until he was mentally exhausted. He could feel her vigor waning and Spike flipped Buffy onto her back. She groaned and then he pressed his mouth to hers. She opened her lips and let his tongue get past her teeth. He wondered if she would bite it off and if that would have any impact on his actual tongue in the corporeal world.

She didn't.

Buffy let him kiss her, let him take her clothes off. The first thrust had her blossoming into light that swallowed him up. Spike knew how much she hated and loved him in that moment, how much he'd disappointed her. He floundered, lost in that overwhelming brightness until suddenly everything went black.

The next night Spike woke up feeling as though he hadn't slept. He knew Oliver Locksley was probably in Rome, so Spike decided to check the home of the remaining London-based Watcher on his list, hoping for a clue. He found Reginald Butler's apartment empty, but traced the scent signature of the man outside. His nose led Spike down the street.

“No one's bollocks are that big,” Spike thought, as he followed the trail into a club two blocks from Butler's flat. Apparently, Butler's were. The black-haired Watcher was getting pissed at the bar. Spike looked around the packed room and realized for the first time that he was standing in a gay bar. Maybe it would be easier to get Butler alone after all, Spike thought. Spike stalked the man, watching Butler put away two shots. Butler was solidly built and youthful despite being middle-aged. He looked like he could put up a fight. The Watcher rose from his bar stool. Reggie danced through the scintillating throng, colored lights reflecting off his black, slicked-back hair. Then Butler stepped into the bathroom alone. Spike saw his chance and followed.

Reginald was standing at the row of white urinals on the left side of the dingy john. Spike sidled up next to him and then remembered that as a vampire, he didn't urinate.

“I got an itch I think you might be able to scratch,” Spike said, raising his eyebrow.

Butler zipped up his fly as he eyed Spike. Then he pivoted so they were face to face.

“How stupid do you think I am, Spike?” Butler asked, as he produced a stake out of the sleeve of his leather jacket and jabbed the pointed tip toward Spike's heart.

Spike barely dodged the weapon, but snagged his attacker's wrist, using the momentum to twist Butler's arm back.

“Stupid enough to announce you're coming at me,” Spike said in the other man's ear as he dragged him into a stall and locked the door.

The Watcher arched his back and tried to break the hold. The bathroom was empty, so Spike decided to act swiftly.

“I knew Travers was a fool to think you were dead. What do you hope to gain in all this? The prophecy won't redeem—“
Spike cut Reginald off by snapping his neck. Spike drank deeply from the dead Watcher's throat, then he propped Butler's body up on a toilet and slithered out before anyone noticed. Spike didn't care about the prophecy, the secrets, the hand of destiny, the why of wherefore. They were all concoctions of the piece of shite council. All of him knew—even the parts of his soul that didn't belong to Buffy or Tara—that he wasn't a righteous man, no matter what he said to his wife. He wasn't even a man anymore, simply an instrument of wrath.

The last name on Spike's list belonged to Oliver Locksley, aged thirty-six; Antigone Esquillera's watcher. It had taken a few days to travel from London to Rome by car, then train. Nigel had programmed Locksley's street address into his phone. When Spike finally located Locksley's apartment, the Watcher's landlord said Oliver and his wife, Antigone, had left in a hurry.

“I don't think they're really married. Those other guys in the council would've been all over it if they had,” Buffy said.

Spike didn't need to close his eyes to hear Buffy's voice anymore. He liked that in one regard, in another, it was disorienting to hear her and not be able to see her. Neither of them talked about the fact that they were finally in Italy, just like her dreams, because the situation was so much a nightmare.

“Too right, love, so what do you suggest. Don't say a trip to the beach,” Spike thought.

“Ha, ha.”

Spike thralled the landlord and had a look at the abandoned objects still littering the room. There were a few newspapers discarded on the carpet and some very old food in the fridge. The sheets hadn't been changed and Spike could definitely pick out the scent of sex. In the bathroom there was a half a bottle of girly shampoo and a black bobby pin in the sink. That was all.

He sat on the floor beside the toilet and closed his eyes. Buffy was kneeling next to him. The gashes on her shoulder kept appearing and then vanishing, flickering like a television channel with bad reception.

“He can't do anything without the council, Spike.”

“He has her. He can keep using her to whatever end he sees fit.”

“They're lovers, maybe he's not using her at all,” Buffy said.

“You don't believe that.”

She touched his face, fingers trickling like cold water.

“Can we rest, Spike? I just want to rest.”

He leaned into her cold hand. Blood was oozing down the side of her face, just as it had the last seconds of her life. Spike opened his eyes, panting with useless breath.

***

It took three days of playing cub reporter before he found out where the slayer and her Watcher had run. He'd been sitting at a bar in Vatican City that catered to demons, when a chatty Lament demon responded to his questions and calculated flirting. The friendly demon had spilled her guts after a few glasses of Limoncello and seemed disappointed when Spike didn't offer to take other types of liberties due to her inebriated state. Lament demons looked human except for the long, blue tail and the incredible super strength. She said that Locksley had paid off a tribe of them to keep the vampire population under control and being that Lament demons saw themselves as more human than demon, they readily agreed.

She also told Spike that Locksley was hiding in a convent in rural Italy.

Three more days were spent driving through the Italian countryside at night. Buffy's voice was with him all the time, but her image was fading. He couldn't seem to concentrate on keeping her form pristine. She would lie with him covered in blood, glassy eyed, like the last time he held her. When she spoke, her lips didn't move. It was like she was dying all over again.

When he reached his destination, Spike abandoned the car and hiked up the rugged hill toward the monastery. The impressive stone structure dated back to the fifteen hundreds and was built into a rock face overlooking a lush valley in Abruzzo. Spike figured Locksley had donned a cowl and was mingling with the Franciscans, hoping to remain undetected.

All were welcome into the chapel attached to the monastery, being that it was a house of God, so Spike did not need an invitation to enter the holy space. Spike walked through the Gothic splendor of the sanctuary. As he passed by the crucifixes etched at intervals along the wall, Spike brushed his fingertips against them. They singed the skin and by the time he reached the altar, his fingers were smoking. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew that, but he needed the reminder of what he was in order to complete his task.

Spike had come to the conclusion that he would have to slaughter all the monks in order to get to Locksley. Spike saw no other way seeing as they'd stumble upon him when they came to say their vespers at dawn. Spike laid down on the altar for a bit of kip and to say goodbye to his wife. When he closed his eyes, Buffy was sitting in the corner of the room, facing the wall. She didn't stir in response to his presence.

“Not even a fight then, love?” Spike asked. He walked over to her and squatted beside her. Spike touched her bloody, ragged shoulder and then pulled her into his arms.

She didn't push him away when he kissed her, nor did she return the embrace. She just laid against him, limply, with no expression on her face.

It occurred to Spike that nothing in life had broken Buffy, not being stripped of all the people she loved, not being betrayed by those sworn to protect her, not even having her identity taken away and living like specter. Nothing could break her except for him. The man who loved her most was the one who was finally able to crush Buffy Summers.

The realization gutted him.

Spike looked at her for a moment.

“Maybe we should just go watch the sunrise instead, Toy. What do you say to that?” Spike asked. She turned to look up at him and slowly smiled.

***

Tara watched Billy carrying Buffy up the jagged cliff. Her brother set his wife on the flat roof of an old building that was the color of polenta and then sat beside her, pulling Buffy's lifeless form into his lap. As the sky began to lighten his skin got hot. As the sun rose, gradually blotting out all the feathery pink streaks in the heavens with solid blue, Billy's skin smoked, then bubbled. In the last moments before he burst into flames, he whispered:

“I'm sorry and I love you, Tara.”

Tara woke up with a scream wedged in her throat, knowing her brother was dead.

She rolled out of the lonely twin bed in her friends' guest bedroom. Tears clouded her eyes as she maneuvered in the dark. It was almost five in the morning and she didn't want to wake up her hosts, but she couldn't sleep any longer. Tara decided to go downstairs to make a cup of tea.

She was staying with her friends, Gwen and Gwen's husband Rhys, in Cardiff. Tara couldn't stay in the States after Buffy's death. She had been over on a student visa that had long expired. Besides, everything held bitter memories of Tara's loss. Part of her had hoped if she went to stay in England, Billy might find her.

That hadn't happened, though, and now it never would.
Gwen had been trying to help her adjust and had suggested Tara apply at the place where she worked. It sounded like an interesting job, but Tara wanted to go back to school. Oz had given her a rather large check before she left, so there was no rush. In fact, she could afford a place, but Tara didn't want to be on her own just yet. Things weren't close to normal, but they hadn't been in years, had they? The only sense of Billy she had were the nightmares, made worse because she knew they were real.

Tara put the cheery, red kettle on the stove and took out a yellow polka-dotted mug from the cupboard. She took the tin of tea up from the counter, fished out a bag of chamomile and stuck it in her cup. She sat down at the round kitchen table and held herself as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her throat was burning and her nose was smothered in snot. She looked at her reflection in the dark window; with her silver hair and her light, blue robe, Tara thought she looked like a ghost.
Rhys shuffled into the room. He was a sweet fellow with big, brown eyes and curly hair; soft around the middle in a way that was good for hugging.

“Saw the light on, sweetheart. You have another nightmare?” Rhys asked, opening the white refrigerator and rooting around like a sleepy bear.

“Billy's dead,” Tara said.

Rhys abandoned his search and stood up, a serious expression on his unsmiling face.

“I'm so sorry, love. I didn't hear the phone ring or anything. How did it happen?”

“Fire. He was in Italy,” Tara said, suddenly knowing the second part was true.

Rhys walked over and knelt beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder.

“Poor, poor dear,” Rhys said.

He held her like that, patting her back until the kettle began to whistle.

“Come on, let's get you a cup of tea,” Rhys said.

Tara nodded and he stood, pouring the steaming water into the cup she'd prepared.

“That's dreadful,” Rhys said, then he nodded wisely, “at least you know he's in a better place now.”

He handed her the drink.

Tara thought on that for a moment, watching the steam rise from the surface of her tea. She seemed to drift away and then a smile lit her face, turning her expression beatific.

“Yeah, he really is,” Tara said.

The End.