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Buffy had absolutely no idea what William's favorite food was.

It was Friday, the day after he helped her add water and fresh coolant- which he kept in the boot of his DeSoto, like a reliable car owner -to the antifreeze tank, unwilling to let her leave before it was done. He showed her how to do it herself and said she would need to check the level before driving around tomorrow.

Well, now it was tomorrow, and Buffy's mind was far from car mechanics.

The morning came and went with no word or appearance. She never expected him to show up before the agreed upon time, but did think about William enough to make the minutes drag and conjure just about a hundred possibilities which might send him by.

She thought about him while refilling her coolant reservoir this morning, following his instructions carefully. She thought about him during the busy hours at the store, every time someone asked how her new job was going, even when Xander called to let her know Jack seemed like a great kid who now had a reliable source of income.

Xander, of course, mentioned William outright, which instigated a happy report and blushing fits, and the warning not to stop by her house at ALL for ANYTHING. Promises were delivered readily, excitement for a friend overriding Xander's curiosity. Buffy fully expected an inquiring rundown soon enough.

At the end of the day, she closed up shop (an hour early) and headed to the grocery mart, on a hunt to find the perfect dinner-date cooking necessities.

She stood in the rice aisle, at the moment, wondering just how many kinds of rice there were in the world and what were the differences between brown, white, and quinoa. *Is that one even rice?*

Buffy set a box back on its shelf and frowned at the contents of her basket. Red wine and free-range chicken probably wasn't what William expected. It took a little more to make a meal. She kept asking herself what might he like?

A vegetable dish would make a nice addition to the menu. She read in a magazine that having some color on your plate was always good. Maybe she should get peas. Peas were green. And hadn't Giles once told her he liked peas? Were British people partial to them?

Making a U-turn for the frozen section, Buffy mentally went through her supplies at home, and her history of dinners with men.

All the men she knew ate meat, and while she wasn't a vegetarian, her own meager consumption made it seem like most guys enjoyed their animal protein quite a bit. Hence, the chicken. However, she had no clue what William liked, and she certainly couldn't lump him in with the rest of the male population when it came to taste buds.

*Oh God, what if he's a vegetarian?* Her eyes bugged unknowingly, and Buffy paused to reflect on the chicken. If William wasn't a vegetarian then there wasn't a problem, right? Unless he was more of a steak fan? Crap. Why hadn't she asked him what he liked?

Maybe she should skip the chicken after all. Buffy eyed the package critically. Could he be a vegetarian, though? She could make extra sides to be safe, that way if he didn't eat meat she would still have plenty to offer. She didn't want to fall back on that plan or seem inconsiderate, but what else could she do?

Then again, what if he did like steak?

Someone bumped into her, jarring Buffy from her tumbling thoughts. She barely managed to look up in time with an apology for standing as a blockade before they were gone, and her mind rewound.

What was she doing again? Right, peas.

As she walked through the aisles leading to the checkout counters, Buffy filled her basket with green peas, a bag of red potatoes, orange carrots- *How's that for some color?* -the possibly detrimental chicken breast, wine, and even made a swerve backwards to top the shopping off with a box of brown rice. It wasn't until she made it to the registers and was digging through her purse that she realized her wallet was gone.

She frowned and put her basket on the floor to better search her bag, ultimately setting that on the edge of the conveyor belt and emptying out most of its contents before realizing her wallet was definitely not inside. *Did I leave it in the car?*

Buffy padded her jeans and coat pockets, glancing up when the cashier woman, Mallory, asked her with honest concern if something was wrong.

"I can't find my wallet." Buffy sighed and quickly repacked her purse, offering an apologetic smile to the people behind her. "I think I left it in the car." She hoped. "Could I leave my basket here and run out to grab it? I'll be really quick."

Mallory nodded and said, "Of course. Just put it on top of the cooler there." She gestured to the pop bottle refrigerator that acted as a bookend for the conveyor belt. Buffy tossed her basket up and Mallory waved the next customer forward genially as she jogged to the exit.

Buffy didn't usually wish for things like this, but at the moment, she really hoped she was being forgetful, because she had no recollection of leaving her wallet in the car. She always kept it in either her purse or a back pocket, along with her keys. She was pretty good about stuff like that. Well, usually. There had been instances where...

Digging through her purse again, and bypassing the automatic doors, Buffy froze in a panic when she realized her keys were missing, too. Her head shot up.

She always chose a parking spot well away from other cars, because even if she was great at parking in general- especially parallel -wedging in between narrow lines and other vehicles tended to prove difficult. This meant she left her Jeep at the corner of the grocery mart, well away from neighboring bumpers and side mirrors.

Skidding to a hasty stop behind said Jeep, Buffy didn't have a chance to run to her driver's side door and pray she'd left it unlocked, because when she saw a man fiddling with it, using her keys to try and open it, everything became painfully clear. Outrage filled her gut like a rush of steam.

She yelled something, she wasn't entirely sure what, but it made the thief lift his head before running off with alacrity. He dropped her keys but clutched her wallet tightly in his hands.

Buffy dropped her purse and ran after him, nothing but adrenaline and anger fueling every step. She was shouting so loudly her throat burned, calling him an entire glossary of names. Instinct blinded her, and soon, Buffy was catching up.

The man was large, not tall. He was probably rounder around the waist than your average carnival tent, and though he ran fast, it was only for about a minute. She would have heard footsteps behind her if she wasn't so focused on the back of the man's head. Before she knew it, she was jumping on his back.

Immediately reminded of those chicks who tried to help out their boyfriends during bar fights, Buffy clutched for dear life as the thief struggled. She managed to dig her thumb into one of his eyes. "Give me my money you asshole!" She received a howl of pain in retribution but was tossed backward into the grocery store's brick wall before she could inflict more damage.

Grunting in pain, Buffy slowly collapsed to the pavement, heaped beside a metal dumpster and some bags of old garbage. She watched flies circle around her head and then her wallet dropped to the concrete beside her feet.

The thief pawed at his face, muffling an agonized groan, calling her a bitch before reaching for the source of all this. Buffy blinked hard in an attempt to clear her mind and make some use of her limbs. She watched in dismay as he greedily scooped up her wallet again in one beefy hand. *I'm not going through this just to come out of it with nothing but a concussion.* Buffy forced herself to try and stand, failing miserably as the world moved and her head throbbed.

Wincing, she started to say, "Give me my wallet-"

-and was then cut off.

Very effectively cut off, as the man with a bloodshot eye and his angry fist now raised high, was suddenly bulldozed.

He crumbled like a building. Hit by hit, brutal punches striking meaty flesh. Buffy watched in shock and horror as her enemy was slowly beaten into stunned defeat. He tried protecting himself but was taken down too quickly.

Buffy could barely speak, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the wooziness or even the fight itself. It had to do with who she was seeing tear into the dishonest scumbag currently moaning and bitching at her feet. She barely noticed the pleas and whines, barely registered that he had dropped her wallet again.

All she saw was rage filled blue eyes and taught cheeks, the profile of a memorable man. The same man she had planned on cooking dinner for tonight.

William. Her shy, sweet, stuttering William, who kissed like a devil come to life but smiled like an angel and opened doors. His familiar lips curved into a not at all familiar snarl as he beat, and beat, and beat. The man who had stolen from her was a weakened pile of limbs. Buffy heard bone crack and winced in reluctant sympathy, eyes never leaving her defender's monstrous expression. All she saw was rage, a complete lack of remorse or sympathy. Eventually the thief beneath him quit struggling.

William finally stopped. He fell to his knees, off the man's stomach. Buffy's heavy breathing created a chorus in the alley, pinging through the air like electricity as he came closer.

Motionless as he crawled up to her bent legs, William met Buffy's gaze without a tinge of regret or nerves or blushing timidity. He was a completely different person, and she didn't realize that the softened rage in his eyes was only soft for her, was only there to begin with because of her, until he said, "Are you okay?"

She was quiet. Words wouldn't form.

"Buffy?" His voice held a very worried, somewhat desperate edge.

One might think she was stunned, which was true. She was thoroughly stunned, but not because of the headache or the thief or even because she had gotten tossed into a brick wall. Buffy was shocked because the man before her had just made it very clear that there was at least one side to him she knew nothing about, had in fact never imagined might be there at all.

William's hands clasped her arms, wrapping around them completely. She could feel his thumbs rubbing gently into her skin. One look at his eyes paved the way for further bemusement.

So black, so bright, they were guarded and open at once. He was showing heartfelt concern, for her, but underneath there was seething anger, not for her. Buffy swallowed and wondered absently how a person could display so much emotion in one moment, whether or not he knew he was doing it. It reminisced of reading a road map, or someone's diary.

His worry came out again in the form of words. *At least one of us is having luck with that.* "Buffy, tell me you're all right. You're fine, yeah?" He trained his slowly panicking gaze on her torso, then her wrists and thighs. "Tell me if you're hurt, I have to-"

She put one tentative hand on his shoulder, shutting him up. Her palm smoothed and melted into soft leather. Buffy nodded, though she wasn't entirely aware of the motion. "I-I'm fine. I'm okay." She took a deep breath and broke contact with those bottomless eyes, using leverage on his shoulder to try standing.

William cupped her elbows and helped support her when she swayed. Buffy missed the jaw clench but noted the tension in his body. "Did you hit your head, love?"

She nodded again. Her fingers were already kneading her temple. Shock took a backseat to pain as aching made itself known in her back, and the drum set in her head grew louder upon using her feet. She leaned into William as he helped her away from the wall. "I was- I was shopping."

He frowned but Buffy wasn't looking right then, so she missed it. "Figured that." A gulp went down his throat, and he spoke in a manner that made her believe he was trying to distract her with conversation, though there was a measure of uncertainty in his voice, "Dinner preparations?"

Buffy released a breath. "Yeah. For tonight. You- Do you like chicken?"

"What?"

She opened her eyes and looked up at him then, blinking. "Do you- Sorry. Never mind. I think my brain got a little, um, knocked around."

His jaw tightened again, and he began to lead her away from their half-conscious companion. Buffy followed blindly for a moment before she realized William was taking her back to her car. "Wait, my wallet-"

"I'll get it, pet. Don' worry." She didn't respond. Soon they were beside her Jeep, Buffy content yet shaky in William's arms. He bent to retrieve the forgotten set of keys by the driver's side door and quickly let her in, then sat her down. "Don't move, all right? I'm going back to get your wallet."

Buffy nodded, leaning against her seat. His soft yet firm voice brought immediate relief to frazzled nerves. "What about the guy-"

"I'll call the cops. Then I'll have 'em send an ambulance over."

"Ambulance?" She dropped her hand from her forehead. "I don't need an ambulance."

"You can barely stand, Buffy."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," William growled. She flinched in reaction, but realized soon after that his anger wasn't directed at her. Not really. He apologized immediately and started begging. "M'sorry, love. But Christ... I just- Please. Please, let me help. Let me call-"

"Why are you here?" The question threw him, she could tell. Buffy sighed tiredly. "I mean, how did you know I was in trouble?"

William swallowed, the very gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Buffy's breath caught, and she leaned into his touch without thought. "I was stoppin at the auto shop," he said. "Saw your car, then I heard you... screamin'." He jerked his head to the her left, and Buffy turned to see his DeSoto parked right in front of Cranky Engines Auto Supply. It was part of the strip mall that bordered the grocery store's lot.

Buffy said, "Oh." When she faced him William moved his hand down her throat and tapped three warm fingers against her pulse. It fluttered beneath his touch. "I'll be right back, yeah?"

"Okay."

"Don't move."

"I won't."

William smiled warmly with something soft in his eyes. He turned away and strode back to the man lying around the corner, presumably unconscious. Buffy worried about that, but not enough to think on it very long because her head still hurt.

The only thing that seemed to fight through the fog and the throbbing was knowing just who had rendered that guy helpless. What William had done to him.

Buffy played with her keys absently. She didn't remember him giving them to her, but now they sat in her lap and she couldn't help fidgeting, staring at her forgotten purse that lay feet away with hazy awareness.

One thing she never would have pegged William as was a fighter. *I guess I'm not so great at the pegging,* Buffy thought, and wiped off a shockingly red stripe of blood from her hand, courtesy of the keys.

***

One Hour Earlier

*I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this.*

Spike's inner monologue consisted of little else but this repeating phrase. It had not been very long ago that the possibility, the very consideration, Buffy and he may ever share a date floated around his head as a fantasy. It was a notion based as much in reality as the idea of riding a dragon.

And today, Spike was going over to her house for dinner.

He was going over to Buffy's house for dinner, in exactly one hour and forty-three minutes. Not to mention, fix her car. If Spike was honest with himself, those three minutes were give or take, because he didn't want to be late, but he didn't want to be on time either. If he was too punctual he would look as desperate as he felt. Then again, if he was late it might look as if he didn't care.

He might panic about it a tad more if he weren't so busy panicking over everything else.

What should he wear? Should he bring something other than the tools to fix her car? Wine? What if she already had wine? He knew what her favorite was- or presumably what her favorite was. He'd only seen her buy it once or five times, but it was always the same. Would she wonder how the hell he could have known what her favorite wine was?

She was cooking dinner, though. He should contribute to the meal. Or would it be rude to bring something since she told him she would cook? What kind of shoes did he wear? Should he bring a change of clothes so he didn't chance getting grease in the house after he was done with the car?

Also, what the bleeding hell did he think he was he doing?

Spike downed a beer in under a minute after the mental boxing match with his own thoughts. Eventually he found the will to calm down enough to pick out his clothes. The wine was still up for debate, and he supposed he could always grab something similar to her favorite and offer it as a gift if she'd already bought something, but at least he had his wardrobe figured out.

Mostly.

Jeans- the good ones, no holes -and a blue dress shirt to cover a black sleeveless. His Docs, because he could work in them, and they were dark enough so no marks would show. He did plan on keeping an extra pair of shoes in the car, though, just in case.

He decided on wearing his duster, too, because frankly, he wouldn't be able to do this without it. The coat was like a second skin, a security blanket in its own beaten leather sort of way. He got it originally to please Drusilla, but had since come to cherish it, worn it in so thoroughly no one else could carry it. The coat was his through and through.

An image of Buffy wrapped up in leather entered his mind. Spike froze mid-pace, breath dropping, eyes falling shut. Body bare underneath, she would stand with smooth legs and spiky heels, her throat accessorized by trailing fingers. Her smile, kittenish and flirty as she snuggled into his duster and made it a home.

Spike exhaled and his eyes popped open. He sent a frustrated glare to his belt buckle. Fuck, but the idea wouldn't leave. Buffy could wear nothing ever again but that treasured leather coat and Spike would pray for a harsh winter. He could keep her bundled and inside his home, in his bed. Rolled up in his sheets, parading around the halls and blowing kisses around corners...

He swallowed the want, shoving his desires down, even if the pictures refused to abate. They refused to go anywhere, even as he traveled upstairs to check his appearance in the mirror for the fourteenth time.

This was dangerous. He had a plan, a safety route to follow. He had mapped it out.

He was going to fuck up.

Spike jerked a comb through his hair and rubbed at his eyeliner. He still wasn't sure Buffy liked the look, but she'd seen it before. Wouldn't she have made some crack about it if she didn't?

Oh, hell, if Buffy hated it maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would encourage her to keep her distance. Maybe it would stop her from doing things that made him lose his head altogether, like kissing him. Like rubbing that firm, hot body against his, like making those noises when he kissed her throat...

Spike grit his teeth and turned away from his reflection, shoulders taught but low. This was a problem. He wanted her, wanted to know how she would feel beneath him, writhing... taking him inside. He loved her more than he could stand, and was finding out just how shaky that made his restraint. How it was so easy to forget everything about himself and find purpose in her. Like kissing her erased his inadequacies. Like loving her with his hands, as if Buffy letting him touch her at all wasn't a miracle, and it was enough to keep her with him. As if she would never find out the privacies he had breached and the lines he had crossed.

Spike told himself he would not get too close. He could never lose her then, not really. So what if he never really had her before, it was better than being cut off. It was better than getting so close things went bad because she realized just how hard he was clutching. Christ, the idea she might come to fear him was an invisible knife twisting in his stomach.

He was already too close.

She had kissed him. Buffy had asked him out on a bloody date. She... trusted him. She was his dream come true and Spike knew if he didn't get a handle on things, then every damn moment of peace he found would go up in flames.

He was dying and thrilled at the same time, but if he kept on thinking about her pressing against his body in that library and making love to his mouth with her tongue, holding on tight to him, then God help him, this would never work.

Self-control was already slipping. Spike couldn't touch her again. He would try and impress her, fix her car, and thank his lucky stars- or Temptation's sick sense of humor -that he was able to spend time beside her. That Buffy cared.

And he would do nothing else. Because if she opened herself to him and he got to taste her, and she left, everything would fall apart. Spike was already halfway there, but when Buffy looked into his eyes he felt like he was somewhere else completely.

A thick sigh left his throat, the one sound to be heard all throughout the house.

He went to the bathroom to wash the eyeliner off.

***

A while later, Spike was speeding down the town's tiny streets, a harsh tune by the Ramones blasting through the radio. His windows were rolled up, increasing the sound until the glass shook and his feet had no choice but to slam on the pedals. He was tearing apart the dirt roads and abusing the steering wheel with shaking, pounding hands.

Thick plumes of smoke drenched the interior. Sunlight streamed through like yellow gold hands, reaching into dust. His words were sung inharmoniously, nerves and misery breaking every word.

The setting light hurt his eyes and the air was cold, whispering news of a dark winter. He still rolled his window down so he wouldn't smell like an ashtray, flicking a bud out onto the street before sparking up again. He wouldn't have left the house until absolutely necessary if it weren't for this gnawing anxiety and anger, the crisis battle between I'm-the-luckiest-bastard-in-the-world and I'm-just-a-bastard, or the fact deafening silence was working to shake the remaining sanity out of him.

He also needed a radiator hose.

His destination was the auto body shop on Kent. It was the only place besides Larry's where Spike could get the right equipment to fix Buffy's car. He was expected at her house in under two hours and yes, there was panic, but more than that there was this sick sense of greed urging him to arrive early if not on time, damn consequences. There was anger at himself, at his luck, and joy underlying all of it. There was the always present need to see her. The desire to hold her. The want to please her.

He was losing it. Going completely fucking nuts. Restraint dwindled and he stubbornly tried to hold on, but his grip was slipping. He knew his limitations had to be stricter tonight. Another part of Spike believed this evening was some dream he'd cooked up. He couldn't even recall the simple process of fixing a leaky radiator hose, and was starting to convince himself he'd completely destroy that cherry red Jeep by the time he was through with it.

Spike tossed his cigarette away and before he could light another, realized he was in front of the auto shop. He turned off the radio and rolled the window up, pocketing his Zippo. A few deep breaths of smoky air filled his lungs.

Worried again of smelling like ash and smoke, not paying any attention to his surroundings, Spike got out of the car. His eyes downcast and mind trying to reel itself in from murky waves, he moved tensely towards the door.

That was when he heard her scream.

It wasn't a scream of terror or even one of pain. It was just hers.

Spike ran like a spooked horse, eyes locking onto Buffy in the distance as she charged away from him and towards another.

He passed her car and fallen purse, nerves deadening. She turned a corner, gaining on the stranger. His stomach tightened and gasps burned his damaged lungs. He couldn't see her anymore. There were shouts for help and angry, indignant exclamations permeating the air until it was so thick with fear he couldn't breathe. He was the only person in the entire world who could hear her, asides from the man she chased.

A dull cry of pain numbed Spike from the inside out, and terror flooded him.

Any ideas of Careful flew out the proverbial window when he reached the corner and saw her lying against the wall, appearing as limp as a broken doll.

A cursing shadow of a man, the one who'd put her there, the one to blame, stood on unsteady legs and all Spike saw was an angry twist of contempt on the unfamiliar face. The world blinked out except for Buffy's soft groans.

The figure was not a man, not a human being, not a person with a heart and veins and a body. In Spike's eyes, he became nothing more than the proverbial target. Hatred bottled into a fat, skin covered package, falling under a deserved assault as Spike stormed ahead and barreled into it.

They both fell, one hitting cement, the other just hitting, and hitting and hitting until blood spewed forth and coated his hands. Its face turned dark in Spike's eyes, nothing but a misshapen shadow. A figure of something, a million things which fought to hurt the woman he loved. Tried to take advantage of her. Tried to keep him back, take her away.

Spike couldn't let that happen. And it was all he knew for several long, vicious moments...

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