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when

“When did you fall in love with me?”

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“I had a dream. I woke up. I was in love.”

“Oh, Spike—”

“That's the truth.”

“You didn't love me a little before the dream?”

“Maybe a smidgen—”

“When did this miniscule love begin?” She asked, giving him her version of his smirk as he leaned back against the headboard of the bed and closed his eyes. “Wasn't it odd when all of a sudden, just like that, you stopped hating me and fell in—?”

“Never hated you, pet,” he interrupted.

“Okay—you just tried to kill me a hundred or so times because—”

“Sworn enemies don't hate.”

She rolled her eyes, and turning toward him, propped herself up on her elbows and stared into his face. Then she frowned. “So our epic battles were the high jinks of a mutual admiration society?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, something like that.” She smacked her lips. “Come on, Spike. When did you fall in love with me?”

“You tell me first.” His fingers touched her forehead, brushing a few strands of hair aside.

“Maybe it hasn't happened yet?” She took his hand from its resting place on top of his stomach and pulled it to her mouth, her tongue and lips dropping kisses into his palm.

“Oh, it's happened,” his voice was low. “You love me so much you can't even get out of this bed without grabbing my cock and begging me to bury it in your wet, hot pussy—”

“Eww, Spike. You're disgusting.”

He stretched his arms above his head, his biceps coiling and uncoiling, knotting then relaxing as his hands latched onto the steel rods of the headboard. “Figure that's when you fell in love with me, Buffy. That first time, when I was so disgusting.”

“No,” she shivered as he let go of the headboard and slid one hand under the rose-colored sheets, his fingertips covering her chest with feather-like caresses while his thumb traced tiny circles slowly over her nipples and breasts. “It was Willow,” she breathed. “The spell, when we were betrothed. You know—when—when we were engaged.”

“I know what betrothed means,” he whispered.

“We weren't supposed to be in love—just getting married,” she smiled before adding, “But I loved you, and it scared the shit out of me.”

Adjusting himself slightly, he leaned forward and pulled the sheet down so that both of their nude bodies were exposed. Placing his hands under her arms, he dragged her body slowly over his own. His hips rose to meet her flesh as her thigh gently brushed over his erection. Drawing her even closer, he pulled her higher so that her breasts were over his mouth, and he nuzzled his head between them. “The first night I wanted to kill you, really wanted to kill you, that's when I knew I'd love you forever.” He murmured, his lips blowing cool air over her nipples.

“You mean in that alley when I was sixteen?” she gasped softly as his lips lingered over one nipple before tugging it into his mouth. “Oh, Spike,” she groaned as he released her.

“No, not then,” his voice was heavy, but calm. “Happened when I walked into your backyard with a shotgun.”

“Oh, Spike,” she sighed.

“Oh, Buffy,” he mocked her tone, but she ignored him, even as his lips and mouth whispered sonnets over her chest.

“Spike, how much longer do we have?”

“In this dream, you wake up first.”

“Can we start at the beginning?” she pleaded. “Tell me, please before we wake up.” A tear fell from her eye onto her cheek. “When did you fall in love with me?”

“Can't remember,” he took his fingertip, touched the teardrop and brought his finger to his lips.

“Why?”

“Because I've always loved you.”


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Conveniently, she was sitting on the steps of the back porch, holding her head between her hands, eyes cast down to the ground. He hadn't wanted to kill her in front of her mother or Dawn anyway. So he took her being outside and alone as a good omen.

He cocked the rifle with one hand, drew it up, aimed, and was ready to fire when she looked up at him. Tears were smeared all over her face. He'd never seen her look so lost, so afraid. He instantly knew her tears had nothing to do with him, though. Besides, he never wanted to cause her that much pain. Oh yes, he wanted to shoot her. But he'd never planned on seeing her cry.

“What do you want, Spike?” she asked.

“What's wrong?” he responded without hesitation, dropping the barrel to his side. He knew she'd seen the gun. But she wasn't afraid. Hadn't flinched at all. Just sat there, staring up at him.

She didn't answer his question, and when he sat next to her, she didn't ask him to leave, either.

After a while, he felt her breathing become less ragged and the tears had stopped.

Then she took a deep breath—and so did he.


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Buffy was standing in the middle of Riverview Cemetery next to the tomb of Robert William Holzhauer. Spike scanned the headstone out of the corner of his eye. He'd died in 1949, father of and husband to, and once buried had stayed in the ground from what Spike could tell, never to rise again. He looked back at Buffy. She didn't pay attention to filled graves; those that weren't clawed open by the newly undead seeking their first kill didn't interest her. However, he was able to sense the undisturbed—the truly dead.

Spike couldn't devote much time to the details of Holzhauer's internment though. At that moment, Buffy was screeching at him about how ridiculous it was for a neutered vampire to traipse behind her half the night stupidly claiming he was in love.

“You can't love me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Can to, and you can't stop me,” Spike smirked, his amusement apparent (at least to himself) with every word he uttered. Still, he kept his distance; cautiously moving opposite Buffy to the other side of Holzhauer's grave. She was twirling a stake in one hand while stomping her black high-heeled boots repeatedly into the ground, making little circles with her little feet as she spun back and forth. Watching her, Spike wondered if she might get dizzy and swoon. Okay, maybe not. She was bloody well pissed, though. He couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from curving into a grin.

“If you say one more word, I swear to God, I'll dust you right here and now.” Spoken between harsh breaths, her words were slow and deliberate. He was hurt and frankly, genuinely concerned about his well-being. Sod it all, she looked serious.

Buffy had stopped her whirling dervish routine and taken two menacing steps toward him, pointy end of the stake aimed at his heart. Spike quickly removed the self-satisfied look from his face and glanced down at her empty hand. He wasn't surprised to see a clenched fist, knuckles bleached from the strain.

Smashed nose or stake through the heart? He debated his options for an instant before deciding to back down all together. He raised his hands in mock surrender. Clearly exasperated, Buffy abruptly turned around, stepped over Holzhauer's grave and began to march away.

“Buffy. Watch out!” He'd been so busy worrying about the perils of his un-life he hadn't noticed the trio of vamps stumbling out from behind the row of bushes next to Marian Hogan's tomb. Two overly round male vamps, most likely former offensive linemen from their appearance and gait, let out a roar as they dropped into attack stance. Squat, no-necked, and balding, with hunched shoulders and obvious limps, they hobbled quickly right past Buffy, and headed straight for Spike.

“Fucking chauvinistic gits,” he cursed.

He rolled his eyes as the duo stormed toward him. He was still checking out the third vampire, a small female who was Buffy's height, although a little more noticeably muscled, with a halo of dark curly hair and diamond-bright eyes. A sudden two-fisted blow to his head brought Spike's attention back to his own battle as he spun to avoid being tackled by Moe (Spike liked to give soon-to-be-dusted vamps nicknames. Made their imminent demise less impersonal). Quickly, he dropped to one knee, sweeping his other leg through Larry's crippled limps. (As soon as he'd caught a glimpse of the girl, he'd named her Curly. So this piss-head was Larry by default). Moe was on his back now, trying to get his meaty hands around Spike's neck—a much more accessible target on him than on the no-neck twins.

Keeping his two foes at bay wasn't all that hard. He whirled, forcing Moe to release his clasp on his throat, while simultaneously ducking the slow fists launched at him by Larry. He glanced at Buffy just in time to see Curly jump into the air, a good four feet off the ground, and on her way back to earth, connect a scissor-kick to Buffy's head, knocking the Slayer flat on her back, smack on top of Hogan's grave. Curly was clearly strong, and had died young, too. Even vamped out, she didn't appear much older than Buffy. Spike could tell she was an experienced demon unlike the two barrel-chested blokes he was fighting. Perhaps, that's why they'd come after him, leaving Curly to go one-on-one against the Slayer.

He was about to dust the tiresome duo when he saw Buffy back on her feet. And instantly, she pitched her arm forward, throwing her stake through the air on a beeline track to Curly's heart.

But Curly caught the stake between her hands the way Spike had done a century before against the Chinese Slayer. Curly then flipped the weapon to her left hand and for a moment, time froze as Spike watched her draw back. He saw the opening the same instant Curly did. Both vampires sensed the kill.

“Buffy,” he screamed, knocking Larry and Moe aside, Spike leaped toward Curly, who looked away from Buffy and at Spike. She narrowed her eyes, a bewildered expression on her face. Then Spike saw something else in her stare he couldn't describe. She dropped the stake, turned and ran back into the bushes.

He landed inches in front of Buffy, who appeared stunned. But he didn't have time to ask if she was okay. “Ouch,” he winced as a heavy-handed blow caught him on the back of the head. He'd forgotten about his own little war. Moe was on the ground rolling toward him and Larry had launched his large body mid-air. The old high and low tackle—Spike shook his head. These two must have been dead since the forties if they were still using this maneuver. Raising his eyebrows, somewhat bemused, he weaved his way out of their paths at the last moment, then watched as his two assailants crashed onto the ground, one on top of the other.

A second later, they were dust and Spike was waving the ash from his eyes.

Buffy stood glaring at him, holding her stake. She then nestled it back into the pocket of her jacket.

“Well, thank you me lady,” he bowed.

“When will you learn to just kill ‘em, Spike?” she scolded. “I don't believe in toying with vampires, you know.”

Spike snickered. "Who you kidding, Slayer? You live to toy with vamps—but you're more than welcome to toy with this vampire any time you'd like." He rubbed his hand leisurely over his stomach, his tone dripping with naughtiness even as he was wearing one of his most charming smiles.

Buffy was breathing heavily. Spike kept his gaze fixed on her face. They stared at each other for several moments in silence.

Then Buffy turned her back on him. “When will you learn, Spike,” she said walking away while twirling her stake in her hand. “You and me—never gonna happen.”

“We'll see about that,” he said, not loud enough for Buffy to hear. He watched her walk out of the cemetery before he turned in the direction of his crypt. Then he paused, and inhaled, taking in the scents of the cemetery.

Curly was still nearby. She'd come awfully close to killing Buffy. His demon had felt her thrill when Buffy's own stake had nearly been the weapon Curly used to destroy the Slayer.

He'd have to find Curly. But Spike had had his fill of fighting for the night. This vamp would live to bite one more day. He'd come back for her another time, he decided, and continued his stroll toward home.


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“It's hard. Being here, dreaming and not dreaming,” Buffy noticed that there was no breeze on top of the steel mountain. “I just want to live without worry. Without fear.”

“Why are you so afraid, Buffy?”

“Is Spike okay?”

“He is for now.”

“But what about later? What will happen to him later?”

“He'll be fine. He's bounces back. He survives. That's what he does.”

“What about me?” she asked. “Do I?”

“Do you what, dear?”

“Survive?”

“Too soon to say.”

(part 2 of 2 will be posted later this week)





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