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Chapter 2


“You knew!” Spike yelled. “Sodding hell! I knew it! You set me up!”

She let him go hurriedly and stepped back. “No! I didn’t.”

“What do you mean, he can’t hurt anyone?” Giles asked. He had yanked open his weapons chest, caught up a crossbow and was now pointing it warily at Spike.

“Giles, put that down!” Buffy said quickly. “He’s got a chip in his head that keeps him from harming any living thing.”

Spike started to grab her by the throat, then checked, remembering just in time that any violence would make the chip fire painfully in his head.

“How do you know that?” he demanded furiously. “How could you, unless you were involved in doing this to me!”

“Spike, I really didn’t! I...Well, you see, it’s the Initiative.”

“The who?” asked Willow, puzzled.

“The government. They’ve got a lab under the college.”

“The soldier boys!” Spike exclaimed. “That lab. You know about it!”

“Professor Walsh is the head of it. I...uh...I just found out about it. I should have told all of you, but things have been so hectic...Riley, this T.A. I know. He’s a commando and...I’ve been keeping an eye on him and...”

“Riley’s a commando?” Willow blurted in shock.

“Yes.” She couldn’t take her eyes off Spike. She kept her lids down and her face still to hide her expression, but her gaze couldn’t help lingering on him. He had been dead, burned into ash down in the Hellmouth. And now here he was, standing in front of her. Alive. Angry and furious and aching to kill her, but alive. “They’re doing experiments on demons, trying to find ways of controlling them. Even of creating demon-human hybrids as soldiers.”

“Frankenstein monsters,” Willow breathed.

“God, that’s sick!” said Xander.

“We’ve got to stop them,” Buffy agreed.

“We’ve got to get this thing out of my head!” snapped Spike.

“I don’t know how we can do that,” Buffy said and looked at him with compassion as he sagged against the wall.

“Killing demons is one thing,” muttered Giles. “Experimenting on them like that...”

“Is evil,” agreed Buffy. “We’ve got to stop them. But one thing at a time. Right now, we’ve got to get Spike some blood. He’s starving.”

Spike looked at her with relief. “Thanks, Slayer.”

He had this utterly astonished look on his face. So had everybody else.

“It’s the right thing to do,” she said firmly. “Giles, would you go out and get some before all the stores close?”

“Uh, yes, all right,” said Giles and reached for his jacket. “Buffy, are you sure...?”

“I know what I’m doing, Giles. The rest of us will get on with Thanksgiving.”

“Shouldn’t we, uh, tie him up or something?” asked Xander as Giles left. “I mean...”

“Unnecessary,” said Buffy shortly. “Would he even be here if he could hurt anyone? Spike, sit down. You look like you’re gonna keel over any second. Can I get you anything?”

“A drop of that wouldn’t hurt,” he said dryly, jerking his chin at the brandy bottle Anya had left on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, sure.”

She got him some and handed it over, careful not to let their fingers brush. He cocked an eyebrow sardonically at her and she nearly wept just at that expression, so familiar to her, retreated hastily back into the kitchen. He watched her, frowning.

Willow and Xander were back to arguing about Hus. Spike turned his head to listen to them, his brows rising incredulously.

“Oh, someone put a stake in me!” he exclaimed at last.

“You got a lot of volunteers here,” retorted Xander.

“I just can’t take all this namby-pamby boo-hooing about the bloody Indians.”

“Native Am...” began Willow.

“You won. All right? You came in and you killed them and you took their land.”

“That’s exactly my point!” shouted Willow.

“What’s your point?” Xander demanded. They were all talking over each other now. “To make up for it, we should let him go around killing people?”

“We should talk to him. Apologize or something...”

“You exterminated his race,” said Spike scornfully. “What could you possibly say that would make him feel better?”

“It’s just one lonely guy,” Willow protested. “Oppressed warrior guy who...Whoa!”

An arrow had slammed into the wall behind her and another skimmed Anya’s shoulder before thudding into the chair back behind her.

“More than one,” remarked Spike, sensibly making a dive behind the couch.

“Down!” yelled Buffy when the others just stared, too stunned to follow his example. “Take cover!”

Xander rolled off the couch and hit the floor, pulling Anya with him. “There’s a dozen of them!”

“Only one that matters,” muttered Buffy. She located Hus at the front of the attack and flung the heavy cast-iron frying pan at him with all her Slayer strength. It hit him in the stomach, knocking him down and she was over the top of the pass-through in the next second. “And only one weapon that counts.”

Bodies burst through the darkening windows. There was a scramble as the Scoobies flailed out, trying to fight back. Buffy ignored all of that, struggling with Hus for possession of his knife. She tore it out of his hands. He turned into a bear, battering at her with those powerful arms and dagger-like claws. She ducked them and slammed the knife into the bear’s chest.

The bear turned into Hus. Hus turned into green smoke and vanished. So did his followers.

There was an ‘Oof!’ from outside, then a thump as a body hit the ground.

“Everyone okay?” Buffy asked, looking around.

“Looks like,” said Anya, helping Xander back onto the couch. Willow was leaning on her straight arms on the dining table, looking horrified.

“Very nice, Slayer,” said Spike, grinning with genuine appreciation from his position sitting on the floor, one elbow on the back of the couch. “Less than two minutes from start to finish. Must be a record.”

Buffy grinned back. “Had a bit of an edge.” Prescient knowledge that she hadn’t had the last time around—that the knife was the key.

“Two seconds of conflict and I turn into General Custer,” Willow was muttering. She had fought back against the Chumash attacking her.

“It’s called self-preservation,” said Spike dryly.

“I feel lousy.”

Buffy left them and went out the front door. The sun had gone down and the courtyard was dark and empty. But bushes were quivering on her right where somebody had ducked behind them.

“Angel,” she said clearly. “Come out of there.”

There was a long hesitation. Then Angel came sheepishly out from the bushes.

“Turning into stalker-boy?” she asked, one eyebrow up.

“It’s for your own good,” he muttered.

“Heard that before. As you can see, I’m on top of things here.”

“Buffy...”

“If Doyle says I’m in danger, the right thing to do is to give me a call and tell me to watch my back. Not to come sneaking around, hiding in shadows and conspiring with my friends to keep me in ignorance.”

“I was trying to help!”

“I don’t need your help! I’m the Slayer! I can handle things perfectly well on my own. As I’ve just demonstrated. I don’t need you undercutting my position.”

“Buffy, I wasn’t!”

“Angel,” she said patiently. “Say this was a military operation. Say we’re the leaders of two squads. You learn of a danger to my squad. But instead of telling me about it, you go to my troops. You tell them I can’t hack it, that you have to do it for me. You don’t even allow them to tell me about it because I might be distracted, I wouldn’t be able to handle things. And you think this is not undercutting my position?”

“It isn’t like that!”

“It is. You chose to leave Sunnydale, Angel. You chose to walk out of my life. But you can’t leave it at that. You keep on trying to run my life, trying to tell me what to do. Well, I’ve had it with that. Here I’m the boss. I’m in charge.”

He looked at her in bewilderment, unable or not wanting to understand what was different about her attitude. “You’ve changed,” he said weakly at last.

“I’ve grown up. Go back to L.A., Angel. That’s your turf. This is mine. And I won’t have you interfering.” She realized that she was being somewhat abrupt, shrugged a little and smiled ruefully. “Lecture over. Want to stay for Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Uh, no,” he muttered and started to back away, looking wounded.

“Angel,” she said and he stopped, looked at her nervously. “I do things differently, okay? You might hear about things happening in Sunnydale that you don’t agree with. If you do, call me and we’ll talk it out. Don’t just come charging in here, all hell bent for leather, and start nuking the hell out of things. Maybe those things are the way I want them. Whatever happens here is by my choice. Just remember that.”

He nodded jerkily and faded into the shadows. She realized that Giles was standing on the other side of the courtyard, his jaw hanging.

“That was harsh,” he breathed. But he didn’t look displeased. After Jenny Calendar’s death, Angel was definitely not one of his favorite people.

“It had to be said. You really should have told me he was here, Giles, but I know how persuasive he can be.” She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need anybody telling me what to do. And that goes for you too. You’re my Watcher and you’ll always be my Watcher, whatever the Council says. I need you, Giles. I need your experience and your strength and your integrity and your support. I’m going to be leaning on you a lot...”

“I won’t mind that,” said Giles and they both smiled.

“But—and it’s a very big but—I make the decisions. I’m the Slayer. We’re not going to agree about everything. That’s normal. No two people ever do. But, if that happens, let’s talk it out. I’ll listen to you if you’ll listen to me. Just don’t go behind my back like Angel just did.”

“I won’t,” said Giles. He looked at her thoughtfully. “You have grown up.”

“Mm. Different dynamic. Not teacher and student. Adults and friends. Can you live with that, Giles?”

“It’ll take a few mental adjustments.” They smiled at each other. “But, yes, I think I can live with that.”

“Bit of adjusting on my side too. I’ve been too self-absorbed, what with college and all. Gonna try to do better.” She looked at him seriously. “I value you, Giles. You know that, don’t you? Stay with me.”

“I will.” He reached for his glasses, British to the core and completely embarrassed by emotion. But his shoulders had straightened and he was looking a lot happier.

Buffy laughed and took the bag he was holding so that his hands would be free to polish his glasses. They were both smiling as they went into the flat.

“Sent Angel off with a flea in his ear, did you?” smirked Spike. Of course, he had overheard, with that acute vampire hearing.

“He had it coming.” She looked around at everyone else. “The next time he comes shoving his nose into our business I want to know about it.”

Everyone looked embarrassed and nodded quickly. She waved a hand to indicate that the incident was over and took the bag over to the kitchen.

“Spike. Blood. Want it heated up?”

“Ninety-eight...”

“Point six. Right. How many packets?”

“Three.”

“Take it slow. Don’t overload your system.”

“Need two right away, Slayer. I’ll do the last one slow.”

“Okay.” She poured two packets into an oversized mug she located in Giles’ cabinets, put that into the microwave, left the third packet on the counter and placed the rest into the fridge, still in the bag.

He came to stand beside her, his gaze fixed on the mug circling inside the microwave. She saw him swallow hard, wanting it now and struggling to endure the time it took to heat.

“Pig’s blood,” he muttered, resenting his own need. “Reduced to that! Pity that fight was over so soon. One of you might have had the decency to bleed a little. Demongirl, did that arrow...?”

Anya checked her shoulder. “Sorry, Spike, not even a graze.”

“As if we’d let you drink from her!” Xander exploded.

“Quit pulling his chain,” Buffy muttered under her breath to Spike. “He doesn’t know you’re kidding. Doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, Xander, for all his gags, not when it comes to himself.”

“Noticed that.” He gave her an amused, sideways glance. “But who’s kidding? Not gonna say no if anyone wants to volunteer, especially you, Slayer.”

“Slayer blood.” She grinned involuntarily. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Would only need a couple of sips, it’s that powerful. Could save all that money on pig’s blood.” His voice dropped into a deep, sensual purr. “Could make it feel really good, Slayer. A real rush. You have no idea.”

“I’ve heard. Plus, it’s an aphrodisiac for you,”

“Oh, yeah,” he sighed.

They both laughed. Buffy became aware of the dead silence of the rest of the room and looked around at four appalled faces.

“That is not funny!” said Giles, horrified.

“Eww! Gotta agree, Buffy!” said Willow while Xander looked on the verge of an apoplexy.

“Geez! Lighten up, guys!” exclaimed Buffy. “It’s just a joke!”

“You’re right. No sense of humor, that lot,” murmured Spike and exchanged an amused glance with Anya, who still saw things from a demon perspective.

“We do so have a sense of humor,” protested Willow. “Except ours isn’t macabre, like yours.”

“Guess you have to be a killer like the Slayer and me to appreciate it.”

“Buffy isn’t...!”

“Spike, stop it,” said Buffy warningly and shook her head at the others. “He’s jerking you around. Can’t you see that? Just don’t take the bait.”

“Our friendly neighborhood vampire,” growled Xander. “At least he’s toothless.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed in cold hostility. “Won’t be that forever, wanker.”

“My point exactly!” yelled Xander. “Why are we helping him again? Why don’t we just stake him?”

“We can’t hurt a defenseless creature,” sighed Giles to Buffy’s relief.

“So don’t hurt him. But don’t help him either. Just throw him out!”

“He’ll be a valuable asset against the commandos,” Buffy said quickly.

“He’s not going to tell us a thing. He’ll just jerk us around the way he’s been doing so far!”

“We’ll see,” Buffy temporized.

The microwave beeped. Spike yanked the door open, grabbed the mug and downed its contents in shuddering, desperate haste, then leaned on his straight arms on the counter, his head hanging, just breathing. Buffy placed the third packet of blood in front of him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder before remembering herself and drawing away. He turned his head to stare at her.

She turned away hurriedly to hide the concern on her face. “By the way, how are you feeling, Xander?”

“Better,” he said grudgingly. “I think that Chumash spell is wearing off.”

“I think you’ll be all right in a couple of hours. Come on, guys. I don’t care about it being perfect anymore, but let’s get a decent Thanksgiving dinner up anyway.”

They went about that, the three women doing most of the work with Xander still recovering on the couch and Giles mostly getting in the way. Bachelor cooking apparently didn’t extend itself to turkey with all the trimmings.

“Well, it’s not an official, secular holiday in Britain, the way it is here,” said Giles defensively. “We have a church service at the end of harvest, but no big dinner.”

“Hymns and things?”

“Yes. The churches just choose a Sunday, even different Sundays so that neighboring parishioners can visit back and forth. It’s not one special Thursday as it is in North America. And in Canada, they have it in October.”

“Guess their harvests have to be quicker.”

Spike had recovered his refilled mug of blood once the microwave beeped a second time and was now sitting on the stairs, a little removed from the group, watching them all in silence, his eyes narrow and intent. He had discarded his duster and red shirt, and sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, sipping every now and again at his mug. His face was very still, the crease between his brows deeply indented. He was thinking and that usually meant trouble.

His silence was unusual, worried her. The last time around, he had been all backtalk and gibing remarks. But then the last time around, they had tied him up and ignored his needs. The comments had been to get their attention, get them to listen to him and hopefully supply his wants. He didn’t need to do that this time. Instead he was studying them, that quick, clever brain analyzing the group dynamics and figuring out how to use them to his advantage, searching for the weak points. Oh, she knew him, knew how he thought.

She kept stealing glances at him, needing to reassure herself that he was actually there, a reality, not just a figment of her imagination. She wanted so badly to just put a hand on him—nothing more, just feel him solid and real under her hand. He was already looking better, vampire healing on overdrive and already utilizing the blood he had consumed. Veins still showed blue where the skin over his strong, prominent bones had gone thin from dehydration, but his lips were healing and the eyelids that had been red-rimmed were already fading to pink and would soon be back to normal. The color was slowly coming back into his face and he was no longer as frighteningly white as paper.

She let out a little breath of relief, then realized that he was looking back at her, his head tilted quizzically to one side and his scarred eyebrow lifted. She became aware that she had been staring at him, that their gazes had been locked for minutes on end. She turned away hurriedly, feeling her face go hot. His eyes were amused, vividly blue and intent. He was thinking again.

Spike was indeed thinking. Something was going on with the Slayer and he meant to find out what. When he had woken up in that lab, he had really believed that she was the one who had arranged his capture. His one furious thought once he had broken free had been to hunt her down and kill her in retaliation. But once he realized what had been done to him, he was pretty certain that she had nothing to do with it. Say what you would about the Slayer, she didn’t play games. She was as straightforward as he was: she would kill him outright and she would kill him fair and square, enjoying the fight as much as he did. She didn’t have the necessary callousness and lack of ethics to cripple him in this way, tear off his wings and pin him like a bug under a microscope, then coldly watch the creature squirm and struggle and break its heart trying to fly free.

That realization was what had brought him to come to her for help once Harmony, his last resort, had refused to do so. Dru would have helped him, but she was in Brazil, over four thousand miles away. Going to her was out of the question; he would never have survived that long a trip. Phoning and asking her to come to him was even worse. Dru was crazy; she would either end up in trouble herself or blithely turn up a year from now when it was way too late.

And asking for help from any vamp other than Dru or Harmony was an invitation to be staked. Vamps were like sharks; the slightest hint of vulnerability was like blood in the water. He’d have been dusted or worse in a second. And worse, he acknowledged with a shudder, really meant worse. He’d never gone in for the pre-show himself, but he’d watched Angelus. Worse was unspeakable. Whatever the Slayer did to him was light years better than what his own kind would.

The worst the Slayer would do to him was turn him away. He had been pretty certain that she wouldn’t stake him outright. She wasn’t capable of dusting someone obviously harmless and asking for help. She would either take him in or turn him away. It was a gamble. If she took him in, the most he had expected was irritated tolerance or exasperated indifference. He’d have had a few gibes thrown his way, would have been tied up for a while perhaps until the bunch of them were convinced that he wasn’t capable of hurting anyone. But in the end he’d have been given the blood and the protection he needed to survive.

What was happening now though was a pure shock. The Slayer yanking him in, defending him, yelling at the Watcher to go get him the blood he needed, looking at him as if...as if...

What was in her eyes when she looked at him? Pain, regret, gentleness, wistfulness...It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

Sexual awareness. That made sense. They had always been aware of each other. That had been there right from the beginning. It hadn’t mattered, of course; she had Angel, he had Dru. But that male-female awareness had always been there. He was accustomed to that. Spike was hot and knew it. Twelve decades of feminine reactions told him so. William had never been hot, but Spike was and he used it. Didn’t have to use force to feed; just had to trail his coat, smoothly practiced in the flirtation and non-explicit sexual promise that lured women in to where fangs would finish the game.

What he wasn’t accustomed to was...responding. Dru had always been his focus. But something about the Slayer, right from the beginning...The force in her, the swing of that damn shampoo-commercial hair, the way she always bested him in battle. Oh, that was a turn-on, that was, fighting with her!

But she was the Slayer and you didn’t think that way about the Slayer. It was just not done. And he was the Big Bad. A little off his game right at the moment, but just wait, he’d be the Big Bad again once he found a way to get this chip out of his head.

Didn’t matter what Dru said. ‘You’re covered in her...I can see her floating all around you...When I look at you, all I can see is the Slayer.’ What the hell was that? All he’d done was make a truce with the Slayer. To suggest anything else was just ridiculous. Dru being mental and jealous, that’s what it was, excusing her own infidelity.

Slayer was watching him again, that sideways glance under her eyelashes. Beautiful eyes, when they weren’t cold as a sword blade. Beautiful neck displayed in that off-the-shoulder blouse, a real turn-on, that neck, to a vamp. Lithe, supple, beautiful body that really would be something else in bed, all that Slayer strength and stamina. Wonder what it would be like to...

Sodding hell! He had to stop thinking like that! Why was he suddenly thinking like that?

He was thankful when a bustle announced that dinner was ready and he had something to distract his thoughts.

To Buffy’s relief, dinner turned out to be a success. She couldn’t have taken anything else going crazy right now. Everybody had several helpings and Xander was vocal in his surprise that Spike loaded a plate too.

“I thought vamps only drank blood.”

Spike shrugged. “I like variety.”

“Try the stuffing,” said Buffy, passing it to him. “It’s got a pretty strong taste.”

“Ah, you know about us,” he said lightly. “Picked that up somewhere in your murky Slayer past, did you?”

Something was going on with him, Buffy realized. His eyes were dark and confused and exasperated. Well, she supposed dealing with that chip would be enough to throw anybody for a loop.

She nodded. “Vamp tastebuds are dulled to everything but strong tastes. Found that out.”

Willow’s eyes were wide. “How? Angel never ate anything but blood.”

“Oh, well, Angel,” shrugged Buffy. “He’s unadventurous.”

Spike laughed abruptly and gave her a sideways-slanting, meaningful glance. “In many ways.”

She gave him one back. One month of Spike’s innovative techniques in bed had proved that to her.

“Found that out too.”

Spike’s eyes lit with laughter. “Like spice, do you, Slayer?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Xander blankly.

“Food,” said Buffy hurriedly to forestall Anya’s opening mouth. She gave Anya a very hard and pointed look and Anya, for once getting it, hastily took another bite of turkey.

“Not as simon-pure and simon-simple as you seem, are you, Slayer?” said Spike under his breath.

“Believe it,” retorted Buffy, then they both fell silent when Giles cleared his throat loudly.

The rest of the meal passed without incident, though Willow and Xander kept giving them suspicious glances and Giles kept frowning at his plate. Afterwards, Anya and Xander decided to go home. Even though Xander was recovering fast, he still felt weak and shaky. Buffy and Willow washed dishes while Giles paced the livingroom restlessly and Spike sprawled in an armchair watching him with amusement.

“What are you planning to do with him now?” Giles burst out at last. “I must confess, Buffy, I’m not going to sleep well with him wandering about loose around my house, chip or no chip.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Giles. He can stay at my place.”

“At the dorm?” squeaked Willow in horror.

“C’mon, Willow. There’s no extra bed at the dorm. At Revello Drive. Tons of room there.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Giles thundered. “And put your mother in danger?”

“She’s not home, remember? She’ll be at Aunt Darlene’s for another week. That will give us plenty of time to figure out what to do with Spike. That okay with you, Spike?”

“Yeah, sure,” shrugged Spike. But he looked as surprised as Willow and Giles did.

Buffy dried the last dish and put it away, then took the bag of blood packages out of the fridge and handed it to Spike.

“We’ll get going then. See you back at the dorm, Will, once I’ve got Spike settled.”

Willow nodded, glancing helplessly towards Giles who was polishing his glasses frantically. Buffy knew that the minute she and Spike were out of the door, the two of them would have their heads together, discussing this new development.

“Why are you doing this, Slayer?” Spike asked edgily as they headed up the street towards Revello Drive.

“Why did you come to me, Spike?” she asked in return.

“Because you’re a sucker for sob stories.” Mockery. He seemed nervy and uptight, had an irritated, challenging edge to him.

“Well, there you are then,” she said agreeably, defusing his attempt to quarrel. They went the rest of the way to Revello Drive in uneasy silence.

She was aware of his gaze on her face as they walked along, but he looked away every time she glanced towards him. She kept sneaking glances at him too, under her eyelashes, watching the play of moonlight and streetlight across the planes and angles of that handsome face. It was hard to take her eyes off him. They were way too aware of each other, kept a careful distance as they walked. He was frowning tightly; she biting her lip.

When they reached the house, Buffy unlocked the front door, then took the bag of blood packages from Spike and headed for the kitchen, switching on lights as she went.

“Unless you want to be a big pile of dust in the morning, you’ll have to help me cover up the windows in the guest room,” she said, then realized he was still standing outside. “What’s the matter? It’s quite safe.”

“Have to invite me in, remember?”

“Oh!” Buffy laughed. “Your invite’s still standing from before. I took off Angel’s, but I never took off yours.”

He put out a hand to test it, then stepped through the front door, his brows raised disbelievingly. “Why the hell not?”

“To tell the truth, I forgot.”

“Pity I didn’t know about that before,” he muttered.

“So that you could have killed me while I was asleep? You wouldn’t do that, Spike.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t?”

“You fight fair.”

His mouth twisted a little and he gave her a wry look. “So do you, Slayer. That’s why I came to you. You’ve got principles. You fight fair.”

“Honorable enemies,” she nodded. There was a little warm silence. Then she realized that they were staring at each other again. She jumped awkwardly. “Um. I’ll find something to put over the windows. There’s a ladder down in the basement if you don’t mind bringing it up.”

She put the blood packages into the fridge, then went to find some older but heavier curtains that Joyce had stored away. They put those up, then Spike took the ladder back down to the basement again.

“Here,” she said when he came back up. “Extra key. Just in case you need to go out for anything.”

“Thanks.” He took it, frowning.

She looked him over. His lips and eyes were back to normal, but the veins were still showing blue at his temples.

“You look like you still need more blood. Drink whatever’s in the fridge. I’ll get in some more tomorrow.”

He flung up his arms. “See? That’s what’s getting my goat! What’s with the concern, Slayer? What’s with the house and the blood and the...I mean, I should be tied up at Watcher’s, still wondering whether I’m gonna get fed or not!”

Which was what had happened the last time around. She flushed.

“What the hell’s going on, Slayer?” he yelled at her.

“Nothing! Is it so surprising that people act decently? Well, I guess for a vamp it is...”

His hands slapped the wall on either side of her as she tried to slide away, his straight arms and his body hemming her in. She stepped back hurriedly. One step, that was all she could go. Not far enough not to be aware of that cool, strong body vibrating with intensity so close to hers, that beautiful face bent to stare at her, the tempting cavern of his open mouth only a breath away. Her hands pressed hard against the wall behind her, trying desperately not to just grab him. She had wanted him so much all these months, needed so much to feel him quick and alive and so fine against her.

“Think I don’t feel it?” he said fiercely. “The heat. The heat between us. It’s not right. It shouldn’t be there. We’re enemies, Slayer.”

“Yes, we are.”

But the heat was there in his eyes. Not the love that had always made her feel as if she were the center of his universe; or the devotion that made him willing to do anything she wanted, even die for her; or the vulnerability that had allowed her to cut him up so cruelly; or the tenderness that she had always rejected and ignored. Not that. But the heat. The heat was there.

“You feel it too,” he said and leaned helplessly forward.

Her mouth opened to him without a thought. And, oh, God, there it was. The feel of him. The taste of him. The long slides of his tongue against hers. His weight heavy upon her and his body vibrant against hers. Her arms clenched across his back, holding him fiercely to her. Her body strained to his. She kissed him desperately, despairingly. Their mouths twisted together, devouring each other.

So many months. So many lost, lonely months.

They kissed and kissed again, unable to tear their mouths apart, passion flaring insistently, imperatively. She’d stopped thinking, not caring about anything except that he was here in her arms, drowning in the feel of him, her whole brain whited out.

She clung to him, her hands dragging at him, moving and gripping over him, sliding over his face and his hair and every inch of him that she could reach, unable to believe that he was here and real and solid in her arms.

“Spike,” she whispered. “Oh, God, Spike!”

The sound of her voice brought reality crashing back. They jerked away from each other at the same moment, leaned against the wall, panting, their breaths rasping in their throats and their bodies shuddering with the intensity of what had just passed between them.

“God, what is this?” he groaned. He was leaning his forearm against the wall, his forehead against his wrist, lips skinned back in a snarl from his teeth. “What’s happening?”

She was beyond words. He turned his head a little to look at her, that sideways, sloe-eyed look, all heat and dark intensity. She almost grabbed him and yanked him straight down to the floor.

“We’re both insane,” he muttered.

Buffy fled.

TBC





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