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The wind felt good in her hair as Buffy ran as far from civilization as she could in Sunnydale. She was exhilarated, grinning at the chase and her status in it. For a moment she was sure she was lost in one of her secret fantasies, leading him away to ravish her hungrily in the dark and alone.

The smile immediately turned into a frown as Buffy wondered what the hell she was thinking. This was Spike and ever since she could remember, he’d been after her for only one reason. Just because he’d managed to lull her senses into a sensual blaze where truth came very second to feeling, didn’t mean she had to go all stupid. It wasn’t too late to start using her brain and get scared about the situation.

Spike was chasing her…which had to mean he wanted her for some reason. Experience guided her to the conclusion that he wanted to fight her—win against his third slayer in a fair battle to the death—with her as the corpse.

Spike had altered his level of play, ascending onto rooftops as he sped through the night, almost too fast for the human eye to track. Gaining in every leap but spurring Buffy on to move quicker, lighter, harder.

If he caught her, the night would end. She felt it in her bones and that was enough for now. Enough to make her pulse race faster than her feet. Enough to pant heavily and push further.

Enough to not accept this night as the one in which she died.

She wouldn’t allow it.


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It had happened so fast. A steady, but not-so-comforting hand was helping him to his feet and Angel blinked as his world went a little fuzzy and tipped alarmingly to the side. His nose was swelling and he swore viciously, promising all kinds of retribution to the one who should know better than anyone the demoralisation he felt about having his nose broken…again! Spike was going to know about this humiliation—in the most brutal and bloody of ways.

Spike.

What the hell happened here anyway? Angel swayed, ignoring the impatient snort at his side as he tried to remember exactly how he’d allowed Spike to wallop him into the big land of snooze. Buffy. That’s right. The monster had been overly crude to Buffy and in an attempt to show him his place, Angel had left himself open to an engineered attack. Since when was he so impulsive as to not think things through before he jumped head first into an obvious trap?

Cursing his own stupidity as much as he cursed Spike, Angel finally turned around to thank his Good Samaritan and cursed yet again when his weary eyes encountered Giles.

“And the fun just keeps on coming,” he hissed churlishly under his breath.

And again, Giles. That meant Buffy was gone. Spike. Dammit, he had no clue what was going on but it felt very, very wrong.

Standing still, Angel cracked his neck and then took a deep, deliberate sniff—and began howling at the top of his lungs at the abuse it caused his poor martyred nose. He was going to strip all of Spike’s skin off layer by layer, the sadistic little prick. There was no doubt in his mind that Spike had planned this, right down to each and every broken bone and bruise. He’d always fancied himself as an effective tactician and Angel grunted at how well he’d pulled off this stunt.

Right, so there was nothing to do but acknowledge the obvious. With his nose out of commission, there was pretty much no possibility he could locate her scent and hunt her down—not that he’d been able to isolate much with his previously excellent senses since his slightly-singed return from Hell. Something had been off every time he’d tried to re-hone them. Something preventing him from returning back to the fully souled-up vamp Buffy expected him to be.

He couldn’t help Buffy if he couldn’t find her; he had no clue what Spike had planned to do with her, but the assumptions weren’t good. Not with the blond’s track record with slayers. He’d been known to jump feet first into life threatening danger more than a time or two, but Spike had never worried. This time he might finally have bitten off more than he could chew. Angel really hoped he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

The alternative—the Spike that was cold, and calculating, and a success—was too terrifying to consider.

Having completely forgotten Giles in his preoccupation, Angel strode off, gently swiping at the blood that flowed down his face from his damaged nose.

“Angel!” Giles called irritably. “I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Angel rolled his eyes and kept on walking. He had more important things to do right now than to listen to Giles waffle on about waffly Giles stuff. Important things, for which he had no idea where to start.

Giles grabbed a hold of Angel’s coat sleeve and yanked it hard, spinning the vampire around and risking an uncontrolled burst of temper. He gritted his teeth against the show of fangs and waited for the unstable Angel to get his act together and calm down. “I have important things to discuss with you. Th-there’s a prophecy and Spike believes it is about himself and Buffy.”

Blinking in confusion, Angel slowly processed that statement and wondered what exactly was up for discussion. As far as he was concerned, Spike was just fodder for his stake—when he could work out how to find wherever he’d herded Buffy. Like a caged lamb.

“Crap.” Prophecies. That’d explain the renewed fixation on Buffy and also the tacky, sleazy things he’d said to her in the theatre. Well, not explain exactly. That was Spike all over—no explanations necessary. Just tacky, sleazy, Buffy-fixated Spike. “Double crap. What kind of damned prophecy is it? Is she gonna die again? Because I’m telling you right now, Spike won’t get the chance.”

Giles puffed out a bubble of useless air and sighed inelegantly. “If the prophecy is indeed about him, I don’t think you have anything to fear. However, I’m not certain that I believe it is. Yet he apparently does and I’m rather more concerned about why he might think that.”

His mind raced. Would his conscience allow him to take Giles back to the mansion to discuss something completely out of their control while Buffy was being hunted by Spike and God only knew where? Angel felt helpless, and furious with his ineffectuality. He was meant to protect her and he couldn’t even squeeze out a sniffle from his shattered nose.

Grumbling under his breath, Angel turned and started walking again, Giles following along behind.

He just hoped he wasn’t making a monumental mistake.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~


He’d melted into the black, leaving Buffy clueless as to where he’d gone. Suddenly there would be a bolt of electricity sending a mini-jolt into the base of her skull and she knew he was close, but as soon as she got a fix on where he might be, he was gone again, leaving her floundering in the dark like a slayer novice.

Her breath burned as she sucked in each new lungful and pushed it out forcefully, fear mingling with excitement. Her exhilaration grew with every thud of her feet on the ground. She was a long way from town now, stumbling in an older grave yard that she rarely visited, the dark eerie and silent and reminiscent of a really pathetic horror movie. Buffy laughed at the cliché—girl running from danger when it was inevitable she’d end up his first fresh bite for the night.

And as expected, the burgeoning humour was knocked right out of her as she was struck hard from behind, careening forwards and ending up with a mouthful of turf. It hurt, badly, and Buffy came up kicking—wild, furious and feral. Spike’s snarl would have stopped any other being cold and still their attack with quaking terror, but Buffy launched herself at him, her nails aiming for his face and her knee for his balls. Neither connected as he spun and kicked her between the shoulder blades, sending her to the dirt again.

She waited for his approach, rolled onto her back, threw her legs up into the air and executed a perfect leap to her feet and a spin kick to his jaw. Perfect, that is, until he caught her ankle, lifted and tossed her so that she was whizzing past trees at a rapid pace, finding with a thud the one to impact and stop her flight the fastest and hardest way possible.

Feeling battered and bruised, Buffy cringed at Spike’s inappropriately good-humoured chuckle and used the tree to help haul herself back to her feet. The side of her head felt wet and with a shaking hand, she touched blood. With a swiftness apparently only gifted to vampires, Spike was in her face and strangely mesmerised by the sight of her blood, and, fully expecting his fixation to make her nauseous, sagged against the tree trunk when she felt weak and dizzy with an unexpected burst of desire.

The next second, death and life intermingled as Spike plundered her lips in a vicious, angry kiss. Buffy clung to the lapels of his coat so she didn’t lose her footing and Spike pushed her more solidly against the tree with his body, ravaging her mouth with brave insanity. Time slowed as Buffy scrambled to understand this new line of attack, but just as she made the decision to just give in and wait for Spike to provide a weak spot, he jerked away, disgust running across his face.

And then he punched her. While she was still dizzy from the whirlwind assault on her lips, the bastard punched her in the jaw. Buffy powered up on pure fury and with a warbling cry, launched herself at Spike, fists pumping fast into his face and chest. She used her hands and feet to punish and hurt until she felt the haze slowly recede, and then he returned her ferocity, knocking the wind out of her as he began his own offensive.

She could already feel the ache of bruises and grazes and when a bone strained toward breaking, panic set in and Buffy used her teeth, biting hard on his jaw until his cool skin gave way under the pressure. Spike pulled back in shock and his eyes glazed over, lust just dripping from him as his fangs descended and the bones cracked with the transformation of his face.

“Baby wants to play rough?” he asked with a sneer, and he shoved her backwards with such force that she fell over. Before she was up again, he had her in his arms and threw her, again and again and again until she hit the implacable wall of a crypt. Her head cracked against it and a muffled cry barely escaped her lips before Spike placed a brief kiss on her mouth and threw her inside the dusty home of the not-so-recently dead.

Fear barely had a chance to take hold before Spike was upon her again, dragging Buffy off the floor. She whimpered softly at the new graze on her elbows and commanded her head to stop seeing non-descript swirly shapes instead of things she could make sense of. And in a twist so far in bizarro land, she felt the cool night suddenly on her chest, her pretty white blouse now resembling nothing but rags on the floor.

Anger took over and Buffy started enacting her payback, taking delight in yanking Spike’s duster from his back and then the t-shirt over his head. She saw skin and then reason deserted her completely; she was lost in an overwhelming cloud of sensation, her body knowing only that it must fight for justice the only way it knew how. It must battle to claim what it knew could not be believed unless conscious thought had been dulled.

Naked and aching, the pair came together brutally. Harsh kisses around even harsher breathing, touches hard and desperate. Hands full of hair, Buffy pulled jerkily until Spike’s lips lifted from hers and he snarled in her face. His rough hands grasped her hips and he lifted her, Buffy squealing in objection before she was aligned over his cock and the tip rested against dark, dampened curls. Buffy shuddered, her legs clamped around his waist even as she screamed objections and shook his head between her handfuls of hair. She bounced, her body crashing against his with every violent jerk, every squeeze of her legs, every irrational wild cry that tore from her throat.

There was a little lift and then he was stretching her open, his cock penetrating deep and fast just as his fangs struck at her exposed throat. An indignant cry at the searing pain combined with pleasure, and then she lost the ability to do anything but ride the waves of sensation. Sound disappeared except for rapid, shallow breaths; time stopped except for the two of them, Buffy sliding up and down his length while her body moulded around him, feeling her juices slick against him as he probed her deeper than she ever knew was possible.

He pulled back and the blood on his lips was vivid; red and wet and hers—now his. Eyes wide, Buffy watched as his eyes faded into calmer, stunned blue. Muscles contracting, icy pinpricks on her skin and Buffy realised how aware every tiny part of her was of him. Her nipples stood out for contact, and with a straining unwillingness, she leaned in so that they felt the surface of Spike’s chest, making her body shudder with overload.

Acceptance came in a wash of unadulterated need.

Buffy curled her body around his and used her arms to haul him in closer, to fight with his mouth in a kiss that batted dominance down until they equally shared the pleasure. Until they created softness instead of pain. Spike stumbled closer to a wall and held her against it, allowing himself more control to plunge into her depths and receding to her shallows. The bulge of his head rubbed harder along inner flesh and Buffy could feel the meltage of her body’s capabilities. She didn’t have the capacity to move when he was doing this to her, didn’t have the will to let go or to push him away. This possession felt so right in a way she doubted it ever would again with Angel, and in that second Buffy allowed a merge between her fantasy and reality.

Spike sucked on her tongue, gasping against her lips when her pussy squeezed him tight. Up, down and up again she milked him, letting him slide in with no resistance to bump against a very pleasurable spot before she tensed again for his retreat. Several repetitions and Buffy’s body flashed with building heat, finally exploding as Spike gave a harsh shout and pulsed inside of her. She felt the first spurt, reluctant to stop moving when everything felt almost too good. She didn’t want to stop, didn’t want this to end, and so she bit him. Blunt, human teeth took hold of his shoulder, the screams in her head replicated in her throat. The vampire howled, and then hissed as a hand grasped a clump of her hair.

He jerked her head backwards, his cock still sunk as deep as his balls while his fangs marked her breast. Buffy yelped, then retaliated, seizing his neck and biting down fiercely, her hands and nails rough on his back as the space between them disappeared and they began round two of violence and sex with barely a break in between.

The second crescendo was swift and effective, depleting them both of energy. Spike brought them to the floor, Buffy still sitting on his cock and then gently rocking back and forth as she tried to reclaim her reason.

“What the hell was this?” she asked shakily, hiding her face against one of the most recent bite marks on his chest.

“Sweetheart, Angelus didn’t give it to you right if you don’t know,” he snarked.

She flinched in his arms and Spike cursed whatever it was that made him feel guilty, that made him feel like a heel for bringing up the one topic designed to wound her most.

“Look, didn’t mean anything, right? We can look at this as…an aberration. Get back to the fight and the kill tomorrow, yeah?” There was a wistful hint in his voice that gave Buffy pause. Did he still plan on killing her? How could he kill her after sharing whatever it was that they just shared? Could she kill him, if it came down to that?

Unexplainable tears pricked at her eyes and Buffy felt her gut clench. Of course she could. She’d loved Angel and done the unthinkable. Spike was nothing to her but a really serious pain in the neck and enemy number one. There should be no problem doing what needed to be done.

So why did that make her heart feel broken?


~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Giles looked at him expectantly and Angel just didn’t know what to say. His focus was of course on Buffy, but even then Angel thought—a little resentfully, perhaps—that Giles might have noticed a little of the impact that hearing about the decline of his familial line had had on him. It was as if that part of the prophecy hadn’t even impacted, but the weirdness that had surrounded him lately was making things look a little too clear. Spike showing up, believing he was the subject of a prophecy he shouldn’t have known anything about, the strange attack several nights previously when he’d dreamed such vivid death and destruction for himself and the joining of Buffy and his grandchilde.

With a sickening lurch, Angel had an insight he wished he could give away. Giles didn’t believe the prophecy indicated Spike at all, but Angel could see it. He knew it was the truth and he knew where Spike had heard it. Too much sense whistled in the air around him and he wondered what the solution could be. How did he stop himself from being destroyed when the prophecy reached fulfilment?

So while Giles made plans to bring about Spike’s death, Angel worried for himself, and surprisingly, for Dru. He remembered from the dream that Spike was fine—that Spike was at the head of this whole thing.

God, he hated prophecies and crusty, sightless old seers that thought writing this crap down would do anyone any good.

He barely noticed as Giles stood and left the mansion. All he cared for was how little time there was to think. But he agreed on one thing; Spike had to be stopped.

Soon.





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