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A/N Thanks as always go to the wonderful April, if I write this story just for her it's time well spent xx

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She can feel the panic rising in her throat, begging to be let loose; she bites her lip and looks down, fearing that in a moment she will scream. They are talking about a curse: old Romany vengeance magic.

It has taken them four days and the death of two more slayers to bring them to this point. The last straw had been when Kennedy first began getting the headaches and Willow's manic worry had begun to turn to hysteria. The blood extractions had done only a little to help, and only then to slayers exhibiting very early symptoms, and all the leads on other spells had proved to be nothing more than red herrings.

And so now they are talking about a curse, a curse that will restore her lover's soul and perhaps make his blood fit the original spell. But it is a long shot. Dawn and Willow have translated a little more of the original text: "None would create and none would receive," it reads. "That which should not be, that which cannot live. Opposed and yet as one, this great abomination." It is hardly a perfect description of Spike, but the text talks of vampric power and they have no other options. And as Spike says, "had a soul before, don't really mind having one again." It's not that simple, of course. She knows what a burden his soul had been, how it had wounded and weakened him.

The witch, Willow, has performed the curse before—she remembers that from Spike's stories—but now she is talking about altering the spell. "I think to fit in with the whole 'abomination,' it needs to be more than a curse. I think the soul has to be taken willingly, but it's no big. I just have to change a few ingredients and a couple of words."

Fear is pulsing through her body in time with the rapid pounding of her heart. Instinct tells her that this is not right, that there is danger here, that he is in danger here. She grips his hand tighter, and if he were human he would have cried out in pain. He is not; he merely looks down at her and lets his eyes ask her what is wrong. She can't tell him because she doesn't know, but instinct tells her there is danger here and she has learned to trust her instinct.

Buffy is pacing the floor, shooting questions at the redhead, and she realises that the other slayer feels it, too. That this is not some flight of fancy but a legitimate and intuitive concern. "You said when you cursed Angel in LA you had to find his soul first because it had been stolen, right?"

The redhead nods and Buffy continues agitatedly. "His specific soul; it had to be his own soul?"

"Well, yes," the redhead answers with a perplexed nod. "If you were to use another person’s soul, well, there's no telling what might happen."

"Giles." Buffy turns her attention abruptly to the watcher and she feels herself relax. Buffy is taking care of this; she won't let anything happen to Spike. She almost smiles at the thought—when Spike told her tales of this tiny blond-haired girl, Carlotta had marvelled at the unquestioning faith that he and others had put in her. Now, watching her take command, she feels that same unquestioning trust. "Does a soul eater do what it sounds like it does?"

"Um, yeah. The soul eater feeds off the soul, and of course destroys it in the process." He takes off his glasses and studies his slayer carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"Because we need another plan," Buffy tells them authoritatively. "Spike’s soul isn't just lost, it's gone. We can't do the curse."

The subject is closed and she could almost cry with relief.

"What if you did use another soul?" Her eyes widen in shock at her lover’s question. Why now would he be asking this?

"Well, certainly insanity, and there's a fifty/fifty chance that it'd kill you," the redhead answers, and she can tell that Willow is desperate, that she does not believe that Spike's blood will work but she is willing to try anything to save her girlfriend.

She takes another gulp of water. Her throat has been dry all day, a sort of rough tickle she hasn't been able to shift. Spike is looking at her now, face clouded with worry, and then he looks over at Kennedy sitting behind the redhead massaging her temples with both hands. "Right, we'll do it. Red, have you got everything you need?"

"No, Spike!" Buffy's urgent refusal comes in perfect sync with her own "Amando, no!"

"It'll take me a day to get ready," Willow answers, her voice steely calm.

"God, Willow." Buffy shoots a disbelieving scowl at her friend. "Forget it, okay? This is not happening; we will find another way."

"No we won't, Buffy." His voice is unnaturally calm for a man who has just volunteered for a suicide mission, and she knows with a horrible sinking certainty that nothing will stop him from going through with this. Just like every time he threw himself headlong at the demons they faced on patrol, every time he put his body between her and an arcing blade or slashing talon, he will do whatever it takes to protect her.

"We don't have time and this thing is killing them," he says firmly, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly so that she can feel his body shudder against her. "It's killing them all."

……………………….

Carlotta pulls violently out of his arms, swinging round to face him with flying hair and blazing eyes. "No!" she insists hotly, and he has seen this look in her eyes before: righteous indignation and untempered anger. Buffy has been known to wear a similar expression; maybe it's a slayer thing.

"No. I won't let you," she insists vehemently. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me."

He tries to calm her, hands outstretched, palms down and patting the air in a placating gesture. "We don't have any choice, pet. This thing'll kill more than just you if we don't stop it."

"Pah," she spits derisively. "What do you care for the lives of strangers? And what proof do we have that this will work?" She whirls accusingly on the little witch. "Are you certain? Tell me, are you certain that it will work?"

"Er, no," Willow admits, timid in the face of his slayer’s anger.

"Doesn't matter either way. We gotta try. I won't stand by and watch you die, pet." He is trying to remain calm and reasoning, but his own temper is rising to meet hers, and pretty soon they'll be at each other's throats.

"You always do this." She is almost crying now. "This macho hero bullshit. Putting yourself between me and danger. Telling me what to do." She takes a pace away from him, then rounds on him again fear making her desperate and resentful. "Tell me why is it you who must sacrifice, why is it you who must decide which one of us lives and which one dies? Hah, tell me that."

"Because you’re just a fucking child!" She looks for a moment as if he has slapped her, then her fiery Hispanic temper snaps and she is hissing and spitting at him in agitated Portuguese. She is talking too quickly to understand every word, but he gets the idea. He is an arsehole – that she says in English – who considers her a vacuous simpleton only good enough for his bed.

Acutely aware that all eyes are on them, he takes her arm and tries to lead her to the door. But she pulls away. "Screw you, Spike!" she spits, and she is gone, leaving him to trail after her with an infuriated cry of her name.

Buffy finds him an hour later, leaning tiredly against the locked door to his room as he pleads ineffectively with Carlotta to let him in. "Want me to try to talk to her?" she offers helpfully, but he just shakes his head. He's known the girl long enough to know that when she's in one of these moods there's no way to get her out of it.

"Nah." He gives a defeated sigh. "She'll calm down eventually. Bloody women. You two are as bad as each other, you know that?" He softens the words with an affectionate smile that is meant for both of them. What is it with him and high maintenance birds?

"Well, you'll find that we girls don't much like being told what to do." She gives him a crooked smile and invites him with a nod of her head to walk with her. Well, it's better than talking to the door for another hour. When her arm slips through his just a few strides down the hall, he almost stumbles in surprise, and by the sound of her tinkling laugh, he doesn't cover it well. "It doesn't matter how well-meaning you are or how amazingly selfless the thing you do is, a girl—particularly a slayer—likes to decide for herself." And now he knows she isn't talking about Carlotta.

"Come on." She tugs on his arm. "I'll make you a hot chocolate."

……………………..

"Pretty good," he compliments later when they are sitting side by side in the communal kitchen sipping thick, warm chocolate, and she finds herself ridiculously pleased that the drink meets his approval. She has, after all, been making this drink for him for the last two years.

"The secret is to use cocoa and milk, not drinking chocolate," she confides. "And of course you gotta have the little marshmallows." That earns her a smile; he seems pleased that she remembers his preference, doesn't know that there is nothing she has forgotten.

"She'll come ‘round." She tries to comfort him when he is silent for a moment, then feels the need to chastise him good-naturedly. "She's just pissed is all. I mean, 'you're just a f-ing kid'? Spike, what where you thinking?"

"You should know better than anyone that when it comes to me and women, thinking doesn't necessarily come before speaking."

"Oh yeah. I mean, the number of times I was this close—" She holds up her hand, finger and thumb held millimetres apart in illustration, "—to just giving in to you, and you'd say the stupidest thing, make me all mad again."

There is humour in her eyes and he lets out a huff of a laugh through his nose. "Yeah, well, it's funny. Give me a girl I don't give a shit about and I can sweet talk her into anything, but the ones I love…" He trails off with a wry grin. "I'm working on it, though."

"Well, it must be working to get you a girl like Carlotta," she compliments graciously. "I know for a fact you didn't chain her up with your ex and threaten to kill them both, so that's progress."

He laughs then. It's good to be able to joke about this stuff; things that were so painful just a year ago have somehow morphed into fond and amusing memories. "Hey, vampire here. That was pretty damn romantic."

"You can't just say it with flowers?" Then again, if she thinks of it from a vampire perspective—and if she's honest, she has thought about it—it was quite the grand gesture, just hopelessly misguided.

But this is nice, just teasing and joking, sharing their past over hot chocolate, and the warm affectionate looks he is giving her have a strangely addictive quality. "Tell me you didn't use the old, 'only thing better than killing a...'"

"That was supposed to be a compliment," he grumbles, cutting her off.

"Well, in that case," she says, barely able to keep from laughing as she smirks at him, "Flattered."

"Ha bloody ha." He is sullen and teasing all at once, an intoxicating blend of childish petulance and humour. "You know what I meant. That was some great sex. You can't deny that."

"The best," she answers automatically, too caught up in the pleasant banter to watch her words. Her hand flies to her mouth with realisation, as his eyebrow arches and gleeful interest sparks in his eyes.

"The best?" He drawls the question out with practised suggestiveness, and his tongue curls behind his teeth in seductive challenge.

For a moment she is mortified, then she rises to the challenge, rolling her eyes skyward and shaking her head. "Oh yeah." She loses focus for a moment as memories of long hours spent in his crypt bombard her, then she tosses her hair haughtily over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "But you tell Angel that and I'll stake you."

They both laugh again and this is nice—better than nice, just taking a break from all the pressures of life just being together without confrontation or misunderstanding, this is perfect. So why does she have to do it? Why can't she just enjoy it instead of letting her stupid big mouth run away with her?

"I missed you." And with that confession the atmosphere instantly changes: she can feel the air thicken to treacle around them, can feel her own heartbeat gallop as he turns to meet her eyes, smile fading and a small frown appearing on his face.

Oh my God, was he this close a minute ago? Surely he couldn't have been. But neither of them has moved and suddenly she is close enough to kiss him, close enough that she can feel cool air rushing across her cheek as he lets out a shaky breath.

He is close enough that he can effortlessly reach a hand to touch her face, and run his cool fingers across her cheek and into her hair. "Missed you, too." It is only a whisper, but he is so close that she has no difficulty hearing him. "More than you know."

And she really shouldn't, because she has already tried this and it didn't go so well, but she can't help it. They are opposite poles and the attraction is irresistible. She moves first, just as she did in the graveyard, but this time he comes to meet her, this time his hand is tangling in her hair, pulling her in as their lips meet. This time his mouth is as greedy and demanding on hers as it ever was.

Her hands come up to grasp his shoulders and she hangs on desperately, pulling herself closer so that their chests are crushed together and she has to twist in her seat until she is almost in his lap. And oh god, oh god it's right, it's utterly and completely wrong and some part of her brain knows it, but at this moment it is just so right.

She crawls fully into his lap, hands roaming greedily over his body, the firm muscles of his back and shoulders through the thin cotton of his worn t-shirt, the cool bare skin of his arms, his chest, his neck and into his hair, coarse and brittle from decades of bleaching. His hands are moving, too, from her hair and down her back to clasp her ass and pull her flush against him, across her hips to lift her and….

Suddenly she is on her feet facing him and he is pulling away and running his hands over his face. "Oh, bloody hell. Carlotta."

Realisation hits her like a trainload of guilt. "Angel," she murmurs, bringing her hand to cover her mouth.

"I, um..." He gestures with his head towards the door. "I should go."

"Yeah, um, right. Yeah."

He turns to leave, his back to her, when her voice stops him. "Spike." She doesn't want to have to say this, but she can't just let him walk away like this. "Are we cool?"

His eyes are pained when he looks over his shoulder, despite the small trying smile on his lips. "When were we ever?"

.........

A/n Hope you all enjoyed that little bit of Spuffy





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