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When Buffy heard Spike yell, for a second, her whole world froze.

It was like, she thought later, she was staring through one of those old-fashioned movie projectors, and it had gotten stuck on one of the slides. Motion, motion, motion—then none.

She swore she could feel her heartbeat falter, she was that shocked. Even though she’d told him he wasn’t forgiven, she still very much cared about what was happening to him, and currently, he was screaming in pain. The fact that her own face was being beaten by Veruca didn’t really register.

And then he hit the pavement, and something inside her snapped.

She jerked forward, not so much to free her captured arms as to give herself some wiggle room. When she’d flown forward about six inches, she lifted one of her legs and hooked her foot around the back of one man’s knee. She gave a mighty yank, and he dropped like stone.

She fell, too, but since his grip lessened when she went down, it was a small price to pay. Before he could roll over and crush her into the pavement, she dug an elbow into his ribs and wrenched herself free of his grip. A blow to the nose of the other man freed her completely.

Veruca was standing a few feet away, staring at her with a stunned look on her overly-made-up face. Buffy lunged at her.

She grabbed the tart’s hair and gave it a huge yank. Drawing back her fist, she looked directly into the girl’s eye and said, “This is for Spike.”

When her fist connected with Veruca’s nose, it drove the cartilage almost completely out of the flesh.

She would have loved to stick around and beat up Veruca some more, but there were four other men to deal with, and they weren’t exactly small.

She knocked Veruca out, a mercy that personally she didn’t think the skank deserved, and dropped her onto the driveway. As soon as she heard the thunk of her head hitting the pavement, she rushed the other men.

Actually, it was more like limped toward them. The fall had twisted her ankle just enough so that it really hurt, and she could feel her eyes swelling.

But to tell the truth, none of her injuries mattered. All she cared about was the fact that they had hurt Spike. For that, these jerks were so gonna pay.

She was pounding the face of her second victim, heedless of the little flecks of blood flying everywhere, when one of them snuck up behind her and drove a huge, meaty fist into her face.

For a second, she saw stars. Then she was tanked up by her shirt collar and brought face-to-face with one Officer Riley Finn.

She stifled a moan. If Riley was involved, then she was as good as dead. Why couldn’t this be one of those neighborhoods where people were always looking out their curtains, hoping to catch a drug deal in action, or whatever?

“Miss me, baby?” Riley sneered, grinning at the blood that ran down her forehead and pooled right above her eye. “I tried to send someone with a message for you, but I think he fucked it up.”

Angel. “Now, why am I not surprised?” Buffy asked. “Sorry your little rape-o-gram didn’t get through, but—“ she kneed him in the groin—“I’m really not a big fan of evil rapists.”

“Fuckin’ Christ!” he gasped, leaning over. Buffy grinned at him smugly, enjoying the effects of her handiwork.

“Actually, Riley, I doubt Christ fucks,” she informed him cooly. “After I kick your pathetic ass all the way to Hell, you can ask the devil, though.” She raised a fist, ready to pummel him.

Huh, why is he smiling? she wondered, before a blow to her temple told her why. She was knocked to the ground. Someone stepped on her spine, and she quavered as she felt the feeling leave her arms. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit... Riley was approaching her.

“Now, little slut,” he crooned, “If you beg real pretty I’ll kill you fast.”

“Fuck—you,” she managed to whisper as she fought to get control over her arms again. Dammit! She wasn’t even all that injured! Stupid spinal cord...

“I’m sure you will,” he sneered, leaning over. Buffy gulped: a knife was glinting in his hand. Oh God, this is it. They’ll be finding my body for weeks!

“OK, that was the lamest line I’ve ever heard. Do you actually find gaining orgasms from such things a rewarding use of your time?”

“What Anya means is, you are one fucked-up dumbass,” Faith announced with a grin, right before her right cross knocked him to the ground. Buffy craned her head just in time to see Xander calmly knock the other guy over the head with a thick stick.

Cordelia helped her up—or, actually, hauled her up, since her arms were still numb and tingly. “Are you, like, okay?” the brunette asked. “You went down like a shopping bag loaded with shoes.”

Buffy smiled at her comparison. “I think I will be,” she said, grimacing, “But Spike—oh my God!” Her horror renewed itself as she remembered. “Spike got hurt!”

“I’m on it,” Kennedy called. She and Willow were trying their best to carry Spike to his car. “Buffy, can you drive?”

“Drive? She’s so injured she can barely walk,” Anya said. “I’ll drive. Get in Spike’s hideous car, Buffy. Kennedy, you can come too. We need someone tough enough to carry Spike inside.”


Um—“ Buffy looked at the seven unconscious bodies. “What about them?”

Anya shrugged. “If they die, we’ll all celebrate,” she said flatly.

“No kidding,” Cordelia chimed in. “Like, who does that? Seven against two is so unfair!”

“I think that was the point,” Buffy said dryly. “Might as well grab their guns,” she added thoughtfully. Anya took up her suggestion, loading them all into the duffel bag she’d been carrying.

“Um, guys?” Willow called. “Spike bleeding, and I don’t think it’s serious, but we’d better get him home so we can patch him up.”

“Right-o,” Xander said. “Let’s get out of here.”

As Buffy slipped into the car, she heard Faith advise him, “Listen, stud, don’t ever say right-o again, or you’ll be a little less than five-by-five, get my meaning?”

“Um, no?”

Buffy grinned and slammed the door shut with her foot—a grin that faded into a worried frown as soon as she saw Spike. He’d lost so much blood! “Do you think he’ll...you know...be okay?” she asked Anya, ignoring Kennedy’s are-you-crazy? look.

“He might die,” Anya said cheerfully. “But Willow’s way too smart for any of our good, and she said he’d be okay, so hey, who knows?”

Wow. A mark of how tired I am that I went to Anya for comfort, Buffy thought dryly.

When she noticed them turning into downtown Sunnydale, she asked, “Um...aren’t we going to you guys’ house, Anya?”

“Oh, that’s not really Spike’s house,” Anya reported. “Since he’s the head honcho, we figured it would be good for him to have a cover house where he keeps stuff like taped transcriptions of his conversations, and then a house where he could live and orgasm and things. It’s quite convenient, and it keeps the LAPD off his tail. We’re going to his apartment.”

Buffy, having ignored most of what she said after the orgasm comment—Oooh, orgasming Spike...—, just said vaguely, “Oh. That’s nice.”

She missed the amused glance Anya and Kennedy shared.

They were at Spike’s house in almost no time. Kennedy, true to her word, dragged Spike indoors. Buffy wiggled her fingers as she followed the girl in—she was starting to get feeling back. Definitely a good sign, since she didn’t really feel like being permanently paralyzed by her jerk-off of an ex.

Kennedy laid Spike down gently on his (black) couch, and Anya busied herself trying to find bandages, muttering under her breath about stupid men who didn’t know to keep bandages around at all times.

Buffy walked slowly up to where he lay on the couch. He looks so peaceful she thought, reaching out to touch his scarred eyebrow. Almost like he’s sleeping. Her fingers ran, almost unconsciously, down his face, tracing his sharp cheekbones...his soft, full lips.

Anya’s strangely tactful throat-clearing alerted her to the fact that she really wasn’t supposed to be standing there tracing Spike’s lips and wondering what it would be like to press her own against them—while he was conscious, of course. No, she was actually supposed to be helping Anya clean up his wounds.

“So, I see you got your—oomph!—arms back,” Anya said, rolling Spike over on the couch.

“Well, I actually had them the whole time,” Buffy said wryly.

Anya gave her an exasperated look. “Well, duh. What I meant was, you got the use of your arms back.” She tugged her brother’s shirt off, and as one, she and Buffy sharply inhaled. Buffy was relatively certain that Anya was inhaling because of the nasty bullet graze running across his shoulder blade. She herself was worried about that, but at the same time, she couldn't help but notice how incredibly well-muscled his back was.

Wonder what his front looks like, she thought, licking her lips.

“Okay, I know most girls think Spike looks good enough to eat—or at least, that’s what Cordy told me the first time she met him—but can we get back to reality, please?” Anya’s voice was annoyed as she shoved an alcohol pad into Buffy’s hand. “Sterilize the wound.”

Anya’s words brought her sharply back to the here-and-now. She took the pad and gently cleaned out the gash, tears brimming in her eyes as she did. All this was for me, she thought, and had to choke back sobs. I told him he wasn’t forgiven, and he still risked his life for me.

“Um, Buffy? I think it’s clean,” Anya pointed out.

Buffy’s face leapt into flames. “Right! Sorry,” she muttered, yanking the pad away. “Um...where’s everybody else?”

“They’re gonna to clean-up and cover-up,” Kennedy reporting, coming downstairs with a handful of sheets. “It’s routine for these sorts of things.” She glanced over at Anya. “So, Buffy’s gonna sleep on the couch, right?”

“Yes. Just put the sheets there, and I’ll put them on after I clean Spike up,” Anya answered.

“Whoa. Wait—routine? And I am so not staying here!” She was practically shrieking by the end of her questions. Me and Spike, alone in an apartment, with him all sexy and wounded? No way!

“These things happen fairly often.” Anya cut a bandage and, surprisingly gently, placed it over the cut. As she taped it on she said, “Now, I think you can handle the rest. You know, ice on his black eyes, and so forth. If you and Kennedy can haul him to his room, I’ll make up the couch for you.”

”I am not staying!” she cried. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? I’m going home!”

“Are you crazy? That bitch and her cronies attacked you at home,” Kennedy snapped. “This is the most secure place we have. We’re an underground movement, remember? You’re staying here.” Her voice turned taunting. “Or are you scared?”

“Scared? So not. Who said I was scared? I am full of—not-scared-ness,” Buffy stuttered.

Anya gave her an amused look. “Good. Now, help Kennedy get Spike to his room.”

Buffy obeyed, grumbling and trying hard not to notice how warm and smooth his skin was. Hard. Hm, wonder how big he is when? Uh-uh. No way. Cut it out, Buffy...

They deposited him on the bed and Buffy high-tailed it out of there. By the time she got out to the living room, the couch was made and Anya was gone. “Um, Kennedy? Where’d Anya—“ she whirled around. Kennedy was gone.

“What the hell?” she muttered. The apartment was on the fifth floor—how did Kennedy get out with her seeing? There was just the one door. “I’m starting to think I’ve been set up,” she muttered.

And it was weird, but she wasn’t scared. A month, even two weeks ago, she would have been half-panicking by now. But she trusted these people more than she had ever trusted anyone in the LAPD, Riley included. Anyone from Jenkins’ could leave her hanging over a pit of lava, and she’d trust that they knew what they were doing.

Including, she realized, Spike. Especially Spike.

Which was good, she reflected wryly, since he was the one she was stuck with.

Okay. So, she was stuck in a small apartment, with a former enemy/boss, who also happened to be incredibly hot, for an indeterminate amount of time.

Wonderful. She was gonna get sooo bored.

Okay...I guess I can always snoop around, she thought. This was Spike’s personal apartment, right? There had to be something around here...mementos, maybe, or at least underwear.

She wandered from the kitchen into the living room. Both rooms were open to the door; the kitchen island acted as a barrier between them. A hallway off the living room led to three bedrooms. She hoped everyone didn’t end up having to stay here all at once. It’d be so crowded, they’d be at each others’ throats.

She wondered briefly why Kennedy and Anya had stuck her on the couch instead of giving her a bed. Comfyness would’ve been nice...but then, maybe they had a specific use for the rooms? There was too much she didn’t know.

And now, while Spike was asleep (and of course part of her mind spent a good deal of time dwelling on Spike all alone in that big, soft bed), would be the perfect time.

She went out to the kitchen. It was clearly Spike’s apartment; all the appliances were silver, and the cabinets were black. It should have been oppressive, really—Buffy had never liked black—but somehow, it just struck her as masculine. Almost sexy.

God, she thought in disgust as she opened a drawer, I’m getting turned on by the man’s kitchen utensils...ooh, photo! Major clueage!

She turned on the light and studied the photograph. To her not-so-great surprise, it was one of Spike, with his arms around a girl she didn’t recognize. She focused her attention on the young man in the picture. It looked reasonably recent—it was in color and all—but he was so incredibly different, she almost didn’t believe it was really him.

But there were the cheekbones, and the lips—with black lipstick on them. There were the brilliant blue eyes, but black eyeliner obscured their beauty. In all, the pair of them looked like typical badass punks just out of high school.

And even in a totally dorky-looking vest and that stupid hair all gelled up, he still looked completely hot.

She turned the photo over. On the back was a short note: To my Spike. Does puppy want to play? Dark Princess has a treat for him... The handwriting was loopy and written in blood red ink.

She set the photograph down quickly. Ugh. So didn’t need to know what sexcapades were connected with that picture.

Now that she’d done some exploring, she was hungry. She opened his refrigerator and started rummaging through it. There wasn’t much to eat—she guessed that keeping perishables at a secret hideout wasn’t such a bright idea—but there was enough for her to make a decent sandwich.

She did it, and stood at the counter, eating and staring at a blank spot on the wall moodily, that picture haunting her mind.

*

The first thing Spike was aware of as he returned to consciousness was panic. Complete, utter, blind panic.

The second thing was a rather large amount of pain that seemed to prevent him from getting up. Oddly enough, the pain wasn’t half as horrible as he thought it really ought to be, considering’ that he’d been shot and all.

Shot and...oh God, Buffy! He tried to sit up, and pain shot through him. Groaning, he sank back down onto the soft bed.

Wait...bed? Spike opened one eye tentatively and found himself staring at a ceiling. His ceiling.

He instantly relaxed. If the gang had gotten to them, then everything was fine. They must’ve saved Buffy from that bitch Veruca...or maybe Buffy herself had kicked some ass. He smiled at the visual. That’s m’ girl, he thought. All cute and deadly.

He almost wondered if there was something wrong with him, that visual was such a turn-on.

Arg. His shoulder was killing him, and his back was on fire, but God help him, he was hungry. And not just for Buffy.

He sat up, wincing at the pain, and then slowly, waveringly, stood up. He felt like hell, but he’d been in worse fights, so he slowly limped out to the kitchen.

To find the object of his lust leaning against the counter, eating a sandwich and staring into space.

Her feet were bare—she must’ve kicked off her shoes. One foot was dangling in the air, and the other’s toes wriggled. Her hair was tumbling down almost-bare shoulders: she was wearing that cute little dress-and-tank top thing she’d worn to her interview with Rayne. Despite his numerous injuries, he felt himself start to grow hard.

She glanced over at him. He got several moments of amusement when he saw her expression change from worry to gladness to lust to deep confusion.

He smirked. “Sorry, luv. Was so hungry I forgot to put on a shirt.”

“Um...” Buffy said, a piece of lettuce dangling from her lips.

He stalked closer, fighting not to wince. “So, Red left me with a nursemaid, eh?”

“Hey!” She set the sandwich down on the counter and scurried away from him. “I am not your nurse! It wasn’t even my idea to be here! It was all Anya, and Kennedy, and stop doing that!”

He’d been edging closer, watching with amusement and lust as her eyes began to slide from confusion to burgeoning passion. “’S matter?” he inquired. “Scared.”

“Yes,” she stated flatly. Spike stopped instantly and studied her with a frown.

“Why the hell are you scared of me?”

“Not of you...exactly,” she said. “Just—of this. Spike, I’m homeless. The only house I have is surrounded by evil cops, and if the fight was any indication, they’d rather I wasn’t walking right now. this apartment is all I have, and if I...if we...it’ll end up being icky badness, and then it’ll all fall apart, and I don’t want that!” Her eyes became bright with tears, and her chin quivered.

He moved closer, but this time his approach had less to do with seduction and more to do with a sudden, burning desire to comfort her.

She made a face and wiped at the tears. “I’m being such a girl,” she muttered, looking away from his warm gaze.

“I rather like you as a girl, pet,” he said softly, and cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch, ever so slightly.

For a breathless second they stood just like that. Spike’s thumb caressed her cheek gently. She was so beautiful...God, he wished he could just ravish her right then, just push her up against the counter and have his wicked way with her.

His groin tightened, but he ignored it. Even if she would be a willing participant, which he doubted, he knew that he’d be five kinds of wanker if he tried to take her right now. She was scared.

He sighed and stepped back, disappointed. “Guess ‘d better get dressed.”

“Yeah.”

He heard his sigh echoed and glanced swiftly at her. Was that longing on her face? A slow smirk began to grow on his lips. “’F course, if you like me better without a shirt...” he trailed off suggestively.

She rolled her eyes. “God, you’re a pig. How Anya expects me to put up with you is so beyond me.”

“’M a sexy pig, though.” He eyes her lustfully. “C’mon, Summers, you know you want me.”

She edged toward him, and he felt his heartbeat pick up. Her perky breasts were only inches from his chest when she whispered, “Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you go get a shirt on?” She grinned at his shocked look, whirled around, and walked away.

He stared at her as she sat down on his couch and turned on the TV. His erection was pounding almost unbearably, and all he wanted to do was press her into the couch and shag her into next Tuesday.

Instead, he headed for his room. Right before he closed the door, he heard her laugh at something on the screen. The sound slid all over him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

It was going to be a long day.

~*~

A/N: WHOO-HOO! I’m ungrounded! Thanx for those of you who offered your sympathy, it was much appreciated :) And I know that you wanted Spuffy, and the truth is that I want Spuffy too. don’t worry, it’s coming. Give me a chapter, and all kinds of fun things will start to happen at Spike’s apartment *wicked grin* Special thanx to Jess, Gattaca, Mac, and Cordykitten for reviewing. I have to confess, I’m one of those greedy writers who love hearing what other people have to say about my work...so more please :)





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