But if is a question that I ask and nothing more.

—Lisa Loeb, “We Could Still Belong Together”

~*~

“So this is, what, your idea of a fun time?”

Buffy threw a punch at the vamp in front of her. It was an expert right cross; she’d thrown dozens of them. It was all the same. Hell, she could map out this sort of fight by now.

Innocent couple, two vamps who thought they’d brave the risk of the Slayer finding them. First time they’d made that mistake, clearly.

And I’ll be damned if it isn’t the last.

She finished off, staking the two completely unemotionally, just glad when they were finally dust. Two down, fifteen million to go in this forsaken town, she thought sarcastically. She turned to the couple, who were clearly tourists—any native of Sunnydale knew damn good and well how stupid going outside after dark.

She jerked her head towards the well-lit street. “Get the hell home before more of them decide to eat you,” she advised, and then melted into the shadows before they could answer her—or thank her.

She hated it when people thanked her. It made her feel—wrong, somehow. Her Watcher back in Cleveland had said she must always distance herself from those she rescued. Humanity was a weakness. It was why she was a Slayer. Humanity was too weak to fight, so she had to do it for them. She couldn’t let herself become like them. She had to stay strong.

For Buffy, her Watcher’s word was law.

She stalked back to her little apartment. She’d dusted ten vamps; that was enough. She had to phone her Watcher and let him know. He’d told her that she could clean up this hellish little town only on the condition that she always reported back to him.

She didn’t mind. A Slayer is only as good as her Watcher was a maxim she’d gone by for years. And it had always served her just fine. Absolutely wonderfully.

So why was she walking around in a huge fucking circle instead of going back to report like she should have been?

Tonight wasn’t the first night, either. She’d been doing this for almost a week straight. For some reason, she’d developed a strange aversion to talking to her Watcher.

She cursed and punched a convenient wall. Who the hell was she kidding? She knew the reason.

Rupert Giles.

That was the name of the crazy school librarian who’d once been a Watcher. According to him, in some other world, he was supposed to be her Watcher—an idea she found ridiculous. He was entirely unconventional. Probably would have gotten her killed before her first year with him was out.

But no matter how much she tried to put him in his place, he kept going on about alternate realities. She’d thought she’d put him in his place that insane night she’d killed the so-called “Master”, but apparently not. He harangued her every chance he got, and it felt like part of it was starting to sink in.

She cursed again. This was not good. She felt…restless, in a way she hadn’t since right before she’d been Chosen. And she’d been a complete and total idiot back then. It was horrible. She was just lucky to have moved to Cleveland. Her Watcher had taken her under his wing, and she’d turned out to be a Slayer the whole Council could be proud of.

But that librarian’s words kept haunting her.

Not supposed to be this way. Different…happier… She’d told him that she had to live in this world, so basically to fuck off, but he hadn’t. He’d badgered her about everything, from her not going to school, despite her protestations that she knew everything she needed to, to her lack of a home.

She was only going to be in this hideous vamp town for a little while. There was no reason to settle down. That was her reason, and she repeated it even today.

So why in hell was she avoiding going back there?

Suddenly, she squared her shoulders. “I wasn’t avoiding,” she told the darkness in front of her. “I was doing a last-minute sweep. I’ve been her for three months and it’d still damn dangerous. I should be doing sweeps. That’s all.”

And then, determinedly, she began to walk towards her apartment.

If she’d looked back, she would have seen a piece of the darkness detach itself from the gloom and follow her.

~*~

“Yes, sir, I dusted ten. Yes, sir. No, sir, they were all quite young. I wouldn’t imagine that they were fledglings, however. Rescues? Two, sir. Both idiot out-of-towners…no, sir, I did not talk to them. Yes, I know. Humanity is a weakness. Of course, sir. The librarian? Yes, sir, he has continued…of course not, sir. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you. Yes, you are. Yes. I’ll so that, sir. Thank you, sir. Tomorrow. Of course, sir. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone, scowling at it in its cradle before turning to her grungy little apartment and scowling at it instead.

Her Watcher was her superior in both knowledge and skill—and, in a way, power. She should respect him. Never before had it bothered her to call him sir. Hell, that was her duty, wasn’t it? She was the Slayer, a tool of the Council, no more. Her life wasn’t going to last more than a few more years. She ought to accord her Watcher the proper respect.

Yet, the more she talked to the librarian—or, rather, the more the librarian talked at her—the more she resented all the yes-sirring she was doing. She knew she shouldn’t, but she did.

She sighed, sitting down on the bed and putting her head in her hands. “Dammit.”

“Long day?”

She was standing up with a stake out before the familiarity of the voice reached her. When she realized who it was, she relaxed—slightly. Ensouled he might be, but Angel was a vampire. She still couldn’t trust him fully.

“Quite.” Her reply was curt, and for good reason. If her Watcher found out that she’d been carousing with a vampire, even if all they ever did was talk, he’d have her killed himself. Slayers had to be predictable, obedient. If they began exhibiting erratic behavior, it was the Council’s responsibility to eliminate that Slayer and make way for the next one. That was what the Slayer Handbook said.

“Vamps?”

“Ten.”

Angel never talked much, but that was okay, because since becoming a Slayer, she didn’t either. She’d never even really talked to her mother much, and since last year, when her mother discovered the truth about Buffy’s power, they hadn’t talked at all. Buffy accepted it. Such is the life of a Slayer.

“Rough.”

“Yeah.”

Jesus freakin’ Christ, their conversation was practically a parody of itself. Buffy found herself silently wishing he would leave. Somehow, their whole relationship seemed wrong. Maybe if it had been a different Buffy, a more talkative, more innocent Buffy…

No. There is no what-if. There is no better world. This is all there is. That was what she molded her life around. Death, life, it was all the same to her. Her life was not hers. She fought as a tool for the Council. That was what always had been, always would be, and had to be now.

Such is the way of the Slayer. Another maxim.

“Buffy…” Angel hesitated, which for him wasn’t exactly unusual. He hesitated all the Goddamn time. It was actually kind of annoying, to Buffy’s way of thinking. “There’s trouble.”

“There’s always trouble,” she replied, nonplussed.

“Big trouble. I don’t know what it is, or how it’ll come, but it’s coming. Be wary.”

“Right. Trouble. Wary. Gotcha.” She nodded, a dutiful Slayer ready to fight the evil, because that was all she was. And to tell the truth, she wanted Angel gone.

“See you then.”

“Right. Bye.” She watched him leave silently.

And then, staring at the bleak brown walls of her apartment, she inexplicably felt a tear roll down her cheek.

She wiped it away immediately, of course. She was furious with herself for committing such a crime. Crying was for the weak, the human. She was not human. She was something more. She was the Slayer. Powerful and alone.

This is all there is, she reminded herself.

And yet, when she went to sleep, her pillow did not stay dry.

”So I reckon you’re what—seventeen?” He threw a punch at her, sneering all the time. “Mite young to be out beatin’ up the baddies, dont’cha think?”

Buffy didn’t waste her time responding, she simply threw another punch. This vamp was really starting to get on her nerves. Not only had she fought him for three nights straight and still not dusted him, but every time they fought, he tried to banter with her. It pissed her off.

Punch, kick, duck, punch—he should have been dead by now. They always were.

So why the hell wasn’t he dust yet?

She’d never encountered anything like it before. He knew everything she was going to do—that was the only explanation. And to be honest, she wasn’t sure how she was going to survive this fight.

...

She’d finally kicked his ass. In fact, she was raising her stake to dust him when he wheezed out, “Wait.”

Dream-Buffy waited, just like she had in real life.

But, unlike in real life, Dream-Vamp looked into her eyes. “Need to tell you somethin’.” He stood up and dusted off his pants. “Somethin’s comin’,” he told her. “’S big and it‘s partly my fault. ‘m gonna need your help.”

She stared at him. This wasn’t how it had gone. In real life, she’d...well, she didn’t like to remember that. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “My help with what?” she asked, voice quavering ever so slightly.

“In Eur—“ he began, but a deafening sound interrupted him: BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

She could feel herself being pulled back to wakefulness. Just before she entered the real world again, she head him yell, “Dammit! I paid good money for this!” Her last image was of him fading away, storming at some entity she couldn’t see.

~*~

Buffy sat up in her bed, gasping, fighting to get control of herself. She shouldn’t have dreamed about that. And the fact that her dream was so far removed from reality freaked her out.

Actually, she wasn’t supposed to dream at all, except for prophetic ones. Her Watcher had long ago told her that she must school her mind to empty it of all fanciful dreams. It could interfere with true dreams. For years, she’d spent most nights cushioned by nothing but blackness. And now this. She felt panic start to rise in her system. Was she losing control? Was she starting to crack, the way her Watcher had always warned she would?

What if...she hesitated in her thoughts. What if that dream had been real?

No. There was no way that vampire would ever ask her for help. Well, actually, there was no way any vamp would as her for help, but the idea of him even entertaining the idea was laughable.

And yet...

”I paid good money for this!"

She had good discipline. In the three years since her Watcher had began training her, she’d never let a dream slip through.

She ought to call her Watcher about it. That was what Slayers did when something happened that they didn’t understand. But calling him would mean admitting what she’d done, which she could never do. No, she was going to have to figure this out on her own.

It was a rather frightening thought.

Frightening, but necessary. Buffy frowned into the late afternoon light. What should she do?

To tell the truth, it was a bit hard to think so early. Her sleep was always restless, since her body still rebelled against her when it came to sleeping during the day, so she usually woke up tired. Today, she was exhausted, which led support to the whole it-was-prophetic theory...although the idea that he might play an important role in her future was shudder-worthy.

Buffy sighed and rolled her head on her shoulders from side-to-side, trying to get rid of the crick in her neck. She would have loved to sit there all frickin’ night and try to figure out the problem, but she had work to do.

She’d gotten a job at a fast food place downtown. It wasn’t exactly the most fun place in the world, and it was teeming with humans—but Slayers didn’t have fun, and in order to do their duty properly, they had to make sacrifices. She reminded herself firmly of that as she got ready to go. Two months ago she wouldn’t have dared bemoan anything relating to her duty as a Slayer. It was funny how ever since that librarian had started harassing her, she’d been thinking about these things more and more...

No. Duty. Your duty is all there is. She had to remember that. Forgetting it could mean death.

She finished getting dressed and grabbed her bag. It was small, but there was room for two stakes and a vial of holy water, which was plenty for a well-trained Slayer—and Buffy was very well-trained.

“Time for work,” she muttered, and left.

The Doublemeat Palace was teeming with people, as usual. Carrying a tray past a table of high-schoolers, Buffy made a face. They were so uninformed, so naive, so...childish.

But she was their age. That was what puzzled her. They were so different from her, but in years they matched.

Slaying takes its toll. In experience, a twenty-year-old Slayer could match a hundred-year-old ordinary man. That statement was in the Handbook. When she’d read it at the tender age of sixteen, it had made Buffy proud. She was a Slayer, a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. It was damned heavy, but the fact that whatever powers there were thought she was strong enough to handle it had meant something to fifteen-year-old Buffy.

Problem was that three years later, she wasn’t so sure. She’d seen horrifying things and done worse, and it didn’t make her proud. It should have—her Watcher told her so. How many times had she heard him say, ”You should be very proud”? But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be.

There was nothing wonderful about being a killing machine.

“Hey! Waitress!” someone yelled. For a second, it didn’t register in her brain—but when a crumpled beer can hit the side of her head, it registered. It registered rather strongly, because the whole fucking can had vampire written all over it.

Her head swiveled over to the group. They were all males, grouped around a table. Fledglings, by the look of it. How they’d escaped her scouring of this town was beyond her.

They wouldn’t escape tonight.

She set her tray down and made her way over to the table. When she arrived she smiled sweetly and said, “Can I get you guys something?”

“Yeah, a piece of that nice ass of yours,” one of them said, smirking.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. It was the stupid outfit. She could have worn normal, nonrevealing clothes, but no, her boss wanted everyone to wear a highly revealing skirt and shirt—plus the horrible hat, but to Buffy, headgear was hardly an issue.

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a stake where a notepad should have been. “Sounds good,” she said in a soft, dangerous voice. “How about we take it outside?”

One of the vamp’s eyes narrowed. “Slayer,” he breathed. Buffy’s nostrils widened. She could practically feel the fear radiating off of him.

“Fledgling,” she shot back.

He glanced at his cronies, who muttered and shook their heads. Even though there were six of them and one of her, they didn’t want to take her on.

She let her grip on her stake tighten, indicating that they didn’t have a choice.

A few tense seconds passed before the leader put on a cocky grin. “Let’s go, then,” he said, standing up. They filed out of the door. Buffy followed expressionlessly.

As soon as they entered the alley, any facade of civility disappeared. They all came at her at once, angry but fortunately disorganized. Buffy knocked the leader to the side and staked an oncoming vamp in the chest. Dealing a punch to one, she kicked the other in the balls and quickly staked them both.

Three down, three to go. She whirled around and faced the remaining vamps, all of whom looked annoyed and thirsty. She wasn’t worried. She could handle ten fledglings and still come out unscathed.

She attacked them, pushing one into the nearby brick wall. Trash cans fell down, clanging noisily, yet no one bothered to investigate. In a town like Sunnydale, curiosity could result in death.

She grabbed the leader by his shirt and rammed a stake into his heart, whirling around to stake the other vamp who’d been about to brain her with a brick.

Now only the vampire she’d thrown against the wall remained. She walked up to him and quickly, unceremoniously, staked him in the heart.

Once she was finished, she wiped her hands on her uniform and stuck the stake back in her pocket. She was barely out of breath—they hadn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, it had been downright boring. Her Watcher would question her on it, unfortunately. She really hated reporting to—

She froze mid-thought. There it was again. That horrible, almost treasonous line of thought. She didn’t hate reporting to her Watcher. That was her duty. Her Watcher had to record all her fights for future generations’ edification. The Handbook said so.

And yet, that little voice inside her head was insisting that she hated it.

What was wrong with her? Why was being in this town making her think so radically? Buffy leaned up against the wall for support...then straightened as anger flooded through her.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she exclaimed, kicking the wall. This was not how it was supposed to be!

“Y’know, luv, you’re s’posed to kick the vamps, not the wall. ‘S kind of your job description.”

Buffy froze. Literally. She could have sworn her heart stopped beating. She recognized that voice; she’d heard it last night.

She turned slowly, knowing what she’d see and hating it.

Platinum hair. Electric blue eyes. Long black duster. Arrogant-as-hell smirk.

It was the one vampire who’d gotten away from her:

“Spike.”

~*~

A/N: Mean, mean place to stop it, I know, but if I get reviews I’ll post more...

~*~

Buffy had a stake out and was getting ready to pound his face in immediately. Her fist did, in fact, fly out—but his hand stopped it.

She glared at him. “What the fucking hell are you doing in Sunnydale?”

His smirk stayed firmly in place. “Language, Slayer. What would Watcher-boy say ‘f he could hear you now?”

“I’m not in the mood, Spike,” she spat.

“Are you ever?” he shot back. “Look, I don’t wanna be here any more than you do. But since you’ve got a fondness for alarm clocks, ‘ve gotta talk to you in person.”

She stared at him. “It was real?”

He snorted. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Got a bit of a problem, see.”

“What kind?” Oh, and a better question—what the hell was she doing talking to him? It was bad enough that she’d made that one alliance with him, now she was talking to him?

“End of the world.” Spike said it casually.

“Oh, how very surprising,” she said sarcastically. “Where is it this time?” She’d heard that phrase more times than she cared to count. It was the end of the world that had made her let this thing live.

“Europe. Vamp I turned. I can stop her, maybe, but I gotta have some help. You’re big in the world-saving department, figured ‘d ask you.”

She stared at him. He looked like he was actually honest...although with Spike, it was impossible to tell. She should just stake him and head over to Europe herself. If her Watcher found out that she was talking to this vampire instead of staking it, he’d kill her.

But my Watcher isn’t here, that sly little voice in her head whispered. He’ll never have to know.

“You want me to go to Europe?” She made her voice hard, a skeptical Slayer talking to the worst creature in the world. Buffy knew she couldn’t let Spike realize that she was considering his offer.

“No.”

She blinked. That hadn’t been the response she was expecting. Wasn’t he coming to her for help? That was why he’d—

“I want us to go over there.”

For the first time in Buffy’s not-so-long life, she was so stunned her mouth fell wide open.

“What?”

“You dense, Slayer? I said ‘m comin’ to the mother country with you.”

“There is no fuckin’ way!” Buffy exclaimed angrily. Making a deal, an alliance with a vampire was one thing, especially since she’d only done it because her life depended on it. Traveling and fighting with a vampire was a whole different story. Especially since—“Just exactly how dumb do you think I am? First time I fall asleep you’ll be on me, sucking the life out and running back to Drusilla to tell her all about how you bagged your first Slayer.” Her voice was icy. “I’m not playing, Spike.”

He exhaled, a move that puzzled her since she knew he didn’t exactly need to breathe. “’m not gonna try to kill you,” he said in a voice that, had he been human, would have indicated impatience and a little hurt. But he wasn’t human, he was vampire, so Buffy knew she was reading into things. “I need help. The chit Red’s turned is too damn powerful for her own good. ‘s dangerous, havin’ her unalive and well.”

Buffy shook her head. “Fine,” she said, “I’ll go to Europe and stake her. No problem. But you are not coming with me.” She didn’t even understand why she was having this conversation, really. If there was such a formidable power in Europe, the Watcher’s council would have notified her about it.

What if they don’t know? that little voice suggested. She tamped it down firmly. It was a silly thought. The Watcher’s Council knew everything.

Didn’t they?

Spike was standing still, staring at her. Apparently he knew she had to think awhile to make up her mind about it. But when he saw her frown, he blurted out, “Me and Dru broke up, anyway. You won’t hafta worry ‘bout her.”

She’d already defected from the Council a little bit. They’d wanted her to work with the military in Cleveland; she’d used the call from that librarian as an oh-so-convenient excuse to get away from the city. Funny how Sunnydale ended up being on a worse Hellmouth than Cleveland had been...

Focus, she reminded herself. She had to make a decision, and fast.

In her head she heard her Watcher’s voice. She knew what he would say about Spike’s proposition: You are a Slayer. Your job is to kill vampires, not cavort all about Europe with them.

And then she heard the voice of that librarian in her head again: Things could be better...you could be happy...if you had come...if...

That was what it all came down to in the end, she realized with a sudden spurt of anger. It was all ifs. If she hadn’t allied herself with Spike, if she’d come to Sunnydale sooner, if this, if that...Buffy was sick and tired of it.

Maybe it was some vestige of the rebellious teenager that still lived inside of her. Maybe the slaying was finally driving her insane. Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, she found herself smiling—smiling!—at Spike and saying, “Of course we’ll go.”

“The both ‘f us?” he asked warily.

“Uh-huh.” She beamed at him as innocently as she could. It was a strange feeling. How long had it been since she smiled?

“Great. We leave tomorrow night. ‘ve got plane tickets that’ll get us to New York.”

She frowned at him again, suddenly disapproving. “Who’d you kill to get them?” she asked quietly. All things considered, it was a rather mean question—but she had to remind herself that she’d just agreed to ally herself for an indeterminate about of time with a killer.

“Didn’t kill anybody,” he replied, seemingly unaffected by her jibe. “Got ‘em from a friend who knows a guy. Now go home, Slayer. Get some rest. ‘ll give you the details on the plane ride—what?” he asked unpleasantly.

Unable to stop herself, Buffy had rolled her eyes. She didn’t know what it was about this vampire that brought out the immature adolescent in her. “We can’t discuss the end of the world and vampires on a plane!”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

She just raised an eyebrow at him.

A few moments’ silence passed, broken only by the chirping of various night creatures. Finally Spike sighed in exasperation. “Fine, he growled. “’ll pick you up at six tomorrow evenin’. We’ll talk then.”

Was it just Buffy’s clearly insane mind or did that sound like someone making arrangements for a date? God. First I agree to talk to this slug slime, now I’m thinking about him trying to date me...what’s next? Two-point-five kids and a white picket fence?

She shook her head, trying to banish those beyond insane thoughts. Spike cocked an eyebrow at her. “Problem, Blondie?”

“What? No. Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “Tomorrow’s fine. Will I need—I mean, how long will—“ it was odd, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say how long will we be gone. It was the we that was wigging her out...and apparently, she thought dryly, making her speak like a teenager, too.

“We oughta be gone awhile. Might as well bring all your stuff,” he told her, looking highly amused. Well, that made sense. He was an evil vampire, after all.

Yeah, Buffy. You go on telling yourself that.

“Fine. Leave.”

“You’re the one in the alley,” he pointed out. “You leave.”

“Yeah, I’m the one in the alley,” she said in a way snider voice than she usually used. “Which, as you pointed out, is ‘kind of my job description’.”

“Well well, someone’s become a little bit more ‘f a bitch,” Spike said with what she could only call a gleeful look on his face. “What brought about the change? Your little GI Joe boytoy break up with you?”

She and Riley had been separated for almost a year, actually, but that comment still severely pissed her off. “What the hell business is it of yours?” she demanded, taking an aggressive step forward. “As I seem to recall, it was my association with my GI Joe boytoy that got you out of some serious shit in Cleveland.”

He just stared at her without blinking. After a rather heated moment during which Buffy breathed a bit hard and glared at him as meanly as she could, he smirked and said, “Why don’t you just get on home, now? ‘m sure you’ve got lots to tell Watcher-boy ‘fore we cast off...” he trailed off, looking at her expectantly. When she just bit her scarred bottom lip and looked away, he burst into laughter.

Given that he was a vampire and therefore didn’t need to breathe, much less gasp in uncontrollable laughter, she found it a bit annoying.

So annoying, in fact, that she point-blank turn and ran for home, putting her all into moving her legs as fast as possible.

So she didn’t see Spike sober up and watch her head for her apartment with serious eyes before turning back for the crypt he was staying in, just as she didn’t see the strangely intelligent bat take off from the tree branch, turn once, and soar away, heading for what had formally been known as ‘Vamp Central.’

~*~

She wasn’t actually running because she was annoyed. She was running because the enormity of what she was doing was actually starting to sink in.

Spike had troubled her since the moment they’d met a little more than a year ago. At the time her Watcher had been training her for about a year. She’d already dealt with several rather powerful vampires and was beginning to forge ties with the military, starting with the guy Spike called a GI Joe—her former boyfriend, Riley.

Riley had explained to her about the military operation currently housed in Cleveland named the Initiative. They’d tried to capture Spike and use him for their experiments with the undead, but Spike had escaped and carried some information to Buffy that Riley had neglected to tell her: the military was building a sentient creature that had the capacity, and the will, to destroy the world.

Buffy had spoken with her Watcher about the creature, called Adam. They had both agreed that Adam had to be destroyed. Riley, acting in his capacity as the only one on their side who knew the layout of the Initiative headquarters, had agreed to sneak them in. At the last minute, though, he’d defected back to the military. Buffy had run into Spike and, in desperation, agreed to allow him to help her in exchange for his freedom to live—or unlive, as the case might be. She’d never told her Watcher the truth about what happened that night.

And now she was, once again, agreeing to fight with him. Buffy flopped down on her bed, feelings a strange mix of confusion, excitement over the coming fight, and resignation.

Is this ever going to end? she wondered, staring at the brown ceiling. Her conscience was plaguing her, reminding her of all the information her Watcher had presented her with: he was a mass murderer, he delighted in giving pain, so on and so forth. But he’d given her a lecture that night about how he valued the world, and in some strange, definitely twisted sense she could respect him for that.

But still.

It’s wrong. Everything I’m doing—everything I am as a Slayer—is wrong! She was the frickin’ guardian of all that was good, and the next mission she was going on would be in the company of one of the worst master vampires in the history of the world!

So why was she so excited at the prospect of working with him again?

She sighed and curled up on the bed, not even bothering to take off her boots before she fell asleep. It was at times like this that she wanted her mother most. Despite all her shortcomings, her mother had always known what to say when Buffy felt conflicted. Joyce’s simple belief in the miraculous abilities contained within hot cocoa and little marshmallows was simultaneously annoyingly naive and immensely comforting.

Her Watcher had long ago forbidden her to speak with her mother, and Buffy understood why, in a way. Still, she wished Joyce didn’t hate her for becoming an absentee daughter. More than ever, Buffy needed a mother. Not a boyfriend, not just a friend, and definitely not a Watcher. Just—a mother.

Once again, she cried herself to sleep, thinking, Mom, if only you were here...if only...

~*~

She was up shortly after when most humans ate lunch. She phoned the manager of the Doublemeat Palace and submitted her resignation before calling her Watcher and, cringing the whole time, making up a story about a contact giving her information on a soon-to-be apocalypse in Europe that required her immediate attention. Her Watcher informed her that since the Slayer Handbook said that this stage of her training should include increased independence, she was free to go.

Buffy then got off the phone and cried.

She probably shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t help it. Good Slayers never cried...but good Slayers never made alliances with master vampires, either. She was completely and totally destroying everything she’d ever worked for. The fact that part of her was certain it was the right thing to do didn’t help.

Still, she was more than a little chagrined when she couldn’t stop crying for almost thirty minutes. The Slayer Handbook stressed that it was extremely unhealthy to cry, and now she was weeping three times in two days. What kind of Slayer was she, anyway?

Oh, right. A bad one.

When she was done having her idiotic pity party, she got up and packed all her things. It was a quick process; she had only one brown bag that she filled with clothes and toillitries, and another she filled with weapons. Everything else she could either forage or do without.

She was waiting on the steps of her apartment building in the almost complete dark when the same idiotic DeSoto she remembered from Cleveland pulled up in front. She’d never understood why he drove that car. You’d think master vampires would be able to afford better transportation...

And there she went again, going off on a tangent. That happened altogether too often when she thought about him.

So, accordingly, she pursed her lips and said, “Finally. I was starting to hope you’d gotten staked,” when he walked up to the steps to greet her.

He just rolled his eyes, apparently not in the fighting mood. “’Course you did. Can we just get on with this?”

“Hey, I’m ready to leave,” she told him before stomping over to the car and slamming the door shut.

On the way to the airport, they were both silent. Buffy kept putting her hand down on her left thigh, where she kept a stake in her cargo pants, and glancing over at the vampire driving the car.

She didn’t trust him. She was letting him take her halfway across the world and she still didn’t trust him. Oh, the irony, Buffy thought sarcastically, glancing at him again.

If he so much as edges toward me, I’ll dust him, she decided.

When he saw her hand again tighten on the cloth-covered stake he sighed. “Bloody hell, Slayer. ‘f I wanted to kill you, I would’ve already.”

“And you think I would have let you?” Buffy said coldly.

He snorted. “Yeah, right. ‘m sayin’ I woulda tried. An’ since you traipse ‘round in those stupid cargo pants all the sodding time, I prob’ly woulda succeeded, too.”

“What’s wrong with my pants?” Wonderful, now she was letting the undead make her yell. Control is everything, Buffy reminded herself. You must control your emotions. Emotions are weakness.

“Nothin’s wrong.” Spike seemed unaware of Buffy’s inner Dr Phil-ing. “They’re just...I dunno, boring. Don’ you have any other clothes?”

“Is it possible for a vampire to be homosexual?” she shot back. “Because for a guy, you worry about my clothes just a bit too much!”

Spike snorted. “Poofter coulda told you that, why didn’t you ask him?”

Buffy was suddenly, violently reminded that he and Angel were related in a roundabout vampire sort of way—and that they’d traveled together for several generations. She made a face. “Okay. Ew.”

“Hey, you asked, I’m tellin’,” Spike said cheerfully. They zoomed past a sign with a plane on it—as though the government thought they couldn’t read, or something.

“Airport, twenty miles,” Spike announced cheerfully.

“I can read,” Buffy said acidly. A moment passed in silence before she added, “I don’t play well with others, Spike.”

“Good thing we’re not playin’, then.”

Buffy stared at him. His face was completely expressionless except for a slight upturn of his lips at the corner of his mouth. He was laughing at her. “I can’t believe this! Spike, you are not along because I like you or because I think you will be in any way pleasant to have around. You are along because unfortunately, for now, I need you. And if you don’t watch your step, the second I don’t need you, I’ll dust you. Understood?”

She didn’t bother waiting for his response. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she stared stonily ahead.

She head, quite clearly, the curt, “Got it.” What she didn’t hear—whether because she didn’t want to or because she couldn’t was irrelevant—was the very human hurt behind those two words.

~*~

They were almost to the airport before either of them spoke again.

Not too surprisingly, it was Spike who opened his mouth. “Third,” he said, staring at the road intently.

Buffy jumped, startled. “What?”

‘’f I killed you—which I’m not gonna—“ he added hastily—“Then it would’ve been m’ third Slayer.”

Oh, yeah. She could dimly remember her Watcher cautioning her about that. “I was making fun of you, Spike,” she said, making her voice as sarcastic as possible. “Too bad you’re not bright enough to be able to tell.”

He snorted, still staring studiously at the road—but the car sped up a bit. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

“Coming from a soulless vampire, that really doesn’t hurt,” she retorted.

“What the bloody hell ever.”

She cocked an eyebrow. He sounded sulky. He, Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, was sulking. “Wow. That’s pathetic.”

Personally, she hadn’t thought that particular insult was terribly mean, given all that had happened between them. Apparently, though, Spike felt differently, because as soon as the words left Buffy’s mouth, anger seemed to overtake him. He sped the car up till they were pushing 100, then, tires screeching, pulled off the highway. Dirt flew everywhere and Buffy clung to the seat as the car jerked from side to side, too shocked to even scream.

As soon as they were safely stopped on the side of the highway, with cars whizzing past them like nothing had happened, she regained her voice.

“God fucking dammit, you dumbass, you ever pull a stunt like that again and I swear to God, I’ll fucking well make you kiss dayli—OW!”

Spike slapped her across the face, so hard that she flew against the passenger window. The impact made a sunburst of pain explode in her head, which was something that she was pretty used to. What she wasn’t used to was the look of pain on Spike’s face when she looked at him again.

“D’you know what’s pathetic?” he demanded. “You’re the sodding Slayer, Summers. ‘ve killed two of your kind. But Dru broke up with me over you, an’ now I’m traveling with you, fighting at your fucking side, because somethin’ I did is about to end the world. An’ for some reason, that doesn’t sit too well with me—but it damn well should! I ought to want the world to end, like a proper vampire, but instead I decide to bollocks it up by getting your help. An’ it wouldn’t be so bad ‘f you were even remotely decent t’ be ‘round, but instead you’re the nastiest li’l bint ‘ve ever met!” He stopped, chest heaving unnecessarily, his expression torn between fury and confusion.

She stared at him. Spike liked to speechify. She’d learned that a long time ago. But the fact that his speech was so full of anger, the fact that he seemed even more uneasy than she was about this whole thing, made her feel—

Oh, God. What was happening to her? Slayers did not pity vampires. Slayers staked vampires and never felt any emotion for one other than happiness that another one of the bloodsuckers was gone from the face of the earth. But now, staring at the bane of her existence, she actually felt sorry for him.

It was disgusting.

But he was watching her expectantly, probably waiting for an angry rejoinder. Well, he was destined to be disappointed—all she really wanted to do was hit something, and since she needed his help with the whole end of the world thing, she couldn’t do that.

Instead she pushed her emotion away, like any good Slayer should, and asked calmly, “Since we’re stopped, why don’t you give me some details on the problem in Europe?”

Vampires weren’t capable of emotion. She knew that just as well as she knew her own name. But in that second, Spike’s expression went from confused and angry to relieved.

No. I’m imagining things, giving human characteristics to him because he looks human. My Watcher warned me that this would happen. He’s not feeling anything. He can’t.

“Right, then.” Spike’s voice interrupted her musings. “Chit I turned a few years ago—dunno her real name, I called ‘er Red. She was vacationin’ in Los Angeles, I was passing through, figured she was cute an’ she’d look cuter without a heartbeat. What I hadn’t reckoned on was her goin’ to Sunnyhell an’ changing an old friend ‘f hers.”

“The redheaded vampire,” Buffy said flatly. She remembered the girl from when she’d taken down the Master. Pure evil had resided in that body. “She was a fledging?”

“She’s got power,” was the grim rejoinder. “An’ not just vamp power, either. Word has it that she skipped town once you took over an’ went off to Europe with her boy. She’s learned some witchcraft, an’ now she’s lookin’ to kill the world.”

“That’s really great,” she said sarcastically. “You’ve got serious skill when it comes to causing trouble, you know that?”

He laughed, and empty, joyless sound. “Yeah, well, it gets better,” he said. She found this li’l bit, name of Dawn—she’s some mystical key or some rot like that.”

“Mystical key?” Buffy interrupted. “What the hell is that?”

Spike shrugged. “Bunch of energy, far as I can tell. Dunno exactly how she works, but Red worked out a way to funnel power out of the girl. She—Red—turned this key-girl, so now the witch has as much magical power as she wants for eternity. ‘Cept since she’s plannin’ on destroying the world, eternity means ‘bout two months now.”

“Two months? I thought she was in Europe. We can get there in two days.” Buffy narrowed her eyes at Spike suspiciously, trying hard to conceal her fear. A powerful witch/vamp with an even more powerful energy source that will supposedly last forever? Holy shit. The Master was nothing compared to this…

“D’you really think Red wants us trying to muck up her plans? She’s not exactly gonna give us the red carpet welcome, luv.”

Buffy was too distracted to even notice his unwelcome endearment. “So, basically, she’s going to hurl everything she has at us. Which, given that she’s a witch and a powerful vampire, means that she has a lot?”

“Yeah.” Spike voice was grim. He didn’t try to offer any good news; Buffy got the feeling that there wasn’t any. I’m stuck in a car with a bloodsucking fiend—willingly! What could possibly be good about this?

Then she remembered her Watcher and his endless lectures about responsibility and the need to keep oneself separated from humankind. Oh, yeah. It could get worse…

“Okay, so big bad mojo headed our way. I get it. Can we go to the airport now?”

Spike glared at her. “You know, a little thank you wouldn’t hurt. ‘m saving you ass, you might wanna—“

“You’re not saving my ass, Spike.” Buffy’s voice was cold. “You’re saving your own. I just happen to be the only one who can kill the witch bitch.”

Silence. Then: “Well, yeah. That sums it up.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Trust him to not even bother protesting her not-so-flattering estimation of him. “Just drive.”

Icy silence again took over the car.

~*~

Far away, a black mist drifted into a small tomb and coalesced into a figure that, in the moonlit darkness, almost looked human.

“Back so soon?” came a voice.

“Don’t tell me you are disappointed…” the figure returned, his voice thickly accented.

“Do I look disappointed to you?” The owner of the voice moved into the moonlight. Silver washed over pale skin, black leather, and dark reddish hair. Deep red lips pursed. “I got bored, waiting here all—alone,” The vampire whispered, trailing a finger down the others’ chest. “Didn’t even have puppy to play with.”

“You are missing him already?” Scorn registered in the cultured tones. “Darling, by the time we are finished, he will be but a distant memory.”

Willow pouted up at Dracula. “Are you sure?”

He smirked. “But of course. And in the meantime, do you not have another toy to bring you pleasure?”

A feral spark gleamed in the female vampire’s eyes. “Wanna take a peek?”

“I pray that you will not deny me.” Dracula smiled faintly as Willow led him over to a tomb. They rounded it, and his smile grew when he saw what lay on the other side.

“C’mon, baby,” Willow cooed, grabbing the girl by her hair and wrenching her head up.

Dawn whimpered, her face flickering from vampire to human guise. “Please…” she begged. “Let me go…”

“But that wouldn’t be any fun!” Willow protested in mock-gentleness, tracing circles on Dawn’s cheeks with sharp fingernails. “And don’t you wanna have some fun?”

“No, please!” Tears ran down Dawn’s cheeks. “Please, please stop.”

Willow let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Bored now,” she said, and pressed her hand onto the side of Dawn’s head. Green fire licked over the vampires fingers, rapidly absorbed by the pale skin. “Oh, yes,” she breathed, barely audible over the young girl’s screaming.

Dracula just watched and smiled, fingering the knife that hung at his side.

~*~

A/N: Shiny new chapter and a new summary…so I fully expect reviews if you want me to continue. Yep, I’m being completely immature and blackmailing you—now go review ; )

~*~

“Sodding humans!”

Buffy arched an eyebrow, amused in spite of herself. “It’s just a parking garage, Spike,” she pointed out, fighting to hold her revulsion towards him in.

“’s a parking garage with no free spots,” the vampire all but growled. “Pisses me off, it does.”

Part of her wondered why she was bothering with trying to placate him—but then, they were about to enter a large building teeming with humans. If he was mad, then she’d be putting all the humans in danger. “Well, there will be soon,” she said reasonably. “See, there’s someone coming out of the elevator now!”

Spike narrowed his eyes speculatively at the person in question. “Huh,” he said. “What say we run ‘em over an’ lift their wallet?” He moved his foot to the gas pedal.

“What? No!” Buffy all but yelled. Is he going to be like this all the time? “There will be no killing on my watch!”

Spike sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “’s bad enough I had t’ pay to leave m’ car in here,” he said petulantly. “Now you’re tellin’ me I can’t nick some bloke’s wallet?”

“Not if you’re going to kill him in the process!” Buffy exclaimed. Jesus, she hadn’t been this pissed off since…

Well, since the last time she’d had to work with Spike.

“Oh, okay.” Spike grinned mischievously. “So, I can take his wallet, I just have to leave ‘im alive.”

“What? No! I never said that!”

“Didn’t you?”

“Of course n—“ Buffy froze, remembering. He’s right. Dammit! She scowled. “Stupid vampire.”

Spike chuckled. “Knew I could get your knickers in a twist.”

“And this is something you take pride in?” Buffy asked sarcastically.

The vampire just smirked. “’f they weren’t afraid of you, d’you know how much some vamps would give just to be able to talk to you?”

“Um...nothing?” Buffy guessed. “They all want to kill me. You’re the only one who thinks striking up conversations is fun.”

“Really?” Spike spotted an empty space up ahead and zoomed towards it. “You tryin’ to tell me none of the vamps you dusted ever talked to you before? They can’t all’ve been pissin’ themselves in fear.”

“They were. I’m scary,” Buffy shot back.

He didn’t answer, though his face held a small smile as he pulled into the parking space.

When he cut the ignition Buffy said, “How much luggage do you have?”

He shrugged. “Just a bag ‘f clothes, is all. Why? You need me to carry some ‘f your baggage?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have one clothes bag and one weapons bag. The weapons bag is big, since I figured you wouldn’t be bright enough to remember to bring any.”

“An’ we’re gonna convince the nice fellow at the gate to let us through with a bag full of weapons? Please, Slayer. That’s pathetic planning even for you.”

“Oh, right, like your plans are much better,” Buffy retorted. “You probably could’ve killed me if you waited just two more nights, but no, you couldn’t wait for St. Vigeous to come around. You had to try to kill me the day you rolled into Cleveland.”

“Yeah, well, patience is only a virtue ‘f you’re a monk or a virgin,” Spike retorted. “Besides, the fact remains that if I’d been patient, I would’ve had a bloody brilliant plan to bring you down.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Right,” she said sarcastically. “You go on believing that.”

He started to respond, then stopped, a frown marring his brow. “Bloody hell. Think ‘m actually enjoyin’ myself.”

“What?” Buffy blinked, suddenly aware that despite their borderline arguing, she’d been smiling. “No—no you weren’t.”

“When did you start reading m’ mind? I was sodding well enjoying it,” Spike said irritably. “And you were, too.”

“Okay, slow down, bleach-boy,” she snapped. “You’re not exactly psychic either, you know, and I was in no way enjoying myself.”

“Oh, come off it, Goldilocks,” the vampire snapped impatiently. “You really thinkin’ you’re gonna weasel outta this? I tried to kill you for months, an’ you never smiled half this much.”

She was really getting tired of this. She knew her Watcher would have a heart attack if he ever found out she’d stooped low enough to argue with a vampire. I kill them. Nothing more, the Slayer inside her chanted.

But this time—it had been happening much too often of late—another part of her, the part that was sassy and smart and impossible to control, shot back, Right, if you count working and arguing with one like there’s no tomorrow killing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. If she’d been smiling a few minutes before, she sure as hell wasn’t now. “I’m here to stop the world from ending. That is all.”

“Right, princess. ‘m sure believin’ that’ll make your life plenty easier.” He opened his car door and got out. “We’re leaving the weapons bag here,” he said in a flat voice before slamming his door.

Buffy rolled her eyes. As if I don’t have enough to deal with, now I have to deal with the moody undead?

Spike had always been moody, even back when they’d been mortal enemies. She couldn’t even count the number of fights where he’d be about to deal a final, possibly killing blow, but had stopped and run off into the night like a cartoon villain. That had always puzzled her—she’d spent hours wondering why he didn’t just kill her, why he seemed to want her alive...

She’d long ago come to the conclusion that all the hair dye had seeped into his brain and rendered him insane.

What she was starting to wonder was if she wasn’t insane, too, agreeing to work with a vampire like she was.

“’ey! Slayer! You gonna sit in the car all night? We got ourselves a plane to catch!”

Now he was jovial. She was never, ever going to get used to that. “I’m coming,” she grumbled, stepping out of the car. The first thing she did was scan the parking garage—yes, it was an airport, but it was Sunnydale Airport, which meant that just about anything could be lurking in the shadows.

Fortunately, though, she didn’t see or feel anything untoward—if you didn’t count the arrogant vampire she was currently traveling with—so she went to the back of the car and grabbed her bag.

Spike cocked a sardonic brow when he saw it. “Bit small, innit?”

“What? You expected me to have a trunk?” Buffy retorted, slamming the trunk of the car shut. “I travel light.”

“Obviously.” Spike squinted into the darkness. “So, wanna take bets on how many nasties are gonna attack us in between here and the elevator?”

“We should take the stairs,” Buffy replied, shouldering her pack and starting toward the exit. “And anyway, scary though airports are, I already checked. There’re no demons in here right now.”

“Why the bloody hell do we have to take the stairs?” Spike whined, jogging to catch up with her, his small black leather back obviously no impediment to him. “They’re too much work. You humans invented the elevator for a reason, y’know.”

Buffy turned back to him, already getting annoyed again. “Because I need to keep in top physical condition, and doing shit like taking the elevators is not going to help with that,” she spat. “Rule number one of being a Slayer: Exercise whenever possible. It’s my body’s strength that’s keeping me alive, Spike.”

It had been a formidable speech. Most people—and vampires—would have been at least a little intimidated by it. But Spike? Spike just rolled his eyes. “Dumbest reason ‘ve ever heard,” he said bluntly. “Do what you want, Slayer. I’m takin’ the elevator.”

“Right, then.” Buffy whirled around and began to stalk away, trying hard to ignore the frisson of uncertainty that ran through her when she thought of separating with him. It is only because I need his help for this venture to be a success, she told herself firmly. It has nothing to do with how hot I think he is or how the only time I’ve ever felt secure since I was chosen was when he was guarding my back…Jesus fucking Christ, I’m screwed up! She picked up her pace towards the stairs, moving with renewed determination. He wanted to take the elevator? Fine by her. She wasn’t going to complain, she was going to ignore her un-Slayer-ey feelings and walk right up the—

She froze, dropping her bag. The stairs. The demon-infested stairs. Now that she was just a few feet away from them, the back of her neck was tingling like crazy. Apparently, they were so seldom used that an entire nest of vampires had set up shop.

Well, at least airport security didn’t have a wood detector. She could keep her stakes.

She instantly dropped into a kneeling position, reaching into her cargo pants and grabbing a stake, before crawling towards the foot of the stairs. She could hear Spike muttering something, but she blocked the noise out, concentrating on the tingling in her neck, which was growing stronger and stronger. At least one vampire, probably more, was coming right down the stairs.

Grim-faced, she clutched the stake harder—and waited for them to come to her.

*

Spike narrowed his eyes when he saw Buffy crouch down, for all the world looking like a soldier in one of those poncy action movies with all the pretty boys and fake guns. “What the hell are you up to, Slayer?” he muttered, leaning against a car and watching with enjoyment as she grabbed a stake and inched closer. Funny how even when she was scooting across the cement, she still had that incredible grace he admired in her.

He got his answer when two vamps came into view. They grinned when they saw Buffy, the effect rather horrendous on their dirty, bumpy faces. Spike himself grinned—he loved watching her fight, and as a third vamp appeared behind the first two, he knew he was going to get quite a show this time.

“What’s a little girl like you doin’ down there in the dark, honey?” one of them called.

Spike saw Buffy’s posture stiffen. She’d always hated it when he ribbed her on her height. “Okay, did you or did you not notice the stake in my hand?” she demanded irritably.

The third vampire to come in nudged the other two. “Dude, I think she might be the Slayer,” he whispered, clearly afraid.

Spike barely suppressed a snort. Just figured that out now, did you, mate? He’d known she was the Slayer even before one of his lackeys had pointed her out back in Cleveland. The girl exuded power.

Apparently Buffy was equally unimpressed with the threesome, because she said coldly, “Duh, I’m the Slayer. Now can I kill your undead asses already, or are you going to poke each other and whisper some more?”

“Aw, crap,” one of the ones in the front said. “Can’t we just, like, not do this?”

“Sorry,” she said, hefting the stake, “But killing you? Yeah, it’s kind of my job description.” And with that, the leapt at the one nearest her.

Pandemonium broke loose, of course, with plenty of kicking and girl power stuff, but Spike didn’t notice any of it. He was stuck on the first part of what she’d said.

Kind of my job description.

She’d quoted him. Was she even aware that she had? He rather thought not...still, it made him grin.

He began to walk toward her as she was whaling on the third and last vampire. She punched him, kicked him back against the wall, and staked him, as neatly and precisely as you please. He was about to offer her his congratulations when he realized that she wasn’t stopping—she whirled around and placed a stake against his chest.

“’ey! Watch it, Slayer!” he yelled, nearly overtaken by panic. “Bloody hell, you’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

She shrugged and put the stake back in her pocket. “You can’t get heart attacks,” she informed him primly. “And it’s not my fault. Your signature said ‘vampire’. I was acting on instinct.”

“You’ve been bloody conditioned by that prat of a Watcher of yours,” he muttered. Jesus. One more inch and... he shuddered.

“Conditioned?” She gave him a blank look.

“Yeah, you know, like where they ring the bell an’ the dogs drool?” To be honest, Spike didn’t understand it...modern science shit was not his specialty.

“What the hell are you talking about? And if it’s a school thing than you might as well forget it, I dropped out when I was sixteen.”

Now it was Spike’s turn to look blank. “Why’d you do that?”

She sighed. “Just...because. Okay?”

“Lemme guess,” Spike drawled. “Watcher-boy told you school distracted you from your duties an’ made you quit?” He could tell he was right, because she flinched—almost imperceptibly, but it was definitely there.

He shook his head. “You’re his soddin’ lapdog, aren’t you?”

“It’s none of your Goddamn business,” she snapped, but the slight quaver in her voice betrayed how she really felt. If anything, that made her angrier—her face was starting to turn purple.

Spike chuckled. Not many vamps got to push the Slayer’s buttons with impunity...”C’mon, Slayer,” he said, walking up to the elevator. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“I can’t believe you’re so scared of flying,” Buffy said, a slight grin on her face. There wasn’t much that could make her laugh anymore, but seeing the Big Bad sitting in his seat like a nervous little boy was beyond amusing.

“Yeah, well, ‘s not like they had planes when I went all bumpy,” Spike snapped. His declaration was accompanied by an uncomfortable squirm that made Buffy grin.

“You are so pathetic. What happened to the Big Bad?” She shouldn’t be taunting him and she knew it. Taunting vampires was definitely not prescribed behavior for a Slayer. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“Shut the bloody hell up, Slayer,” Spike growled, gripping the seat so tightly that the little metal ashtray bent inward.

“You shut up,” Buffy retorted, cringing when the words left her mouth. She sounded like a child, and a petulant one at that.

“I’ll shut up if you will,” Spike said, sounding disgustingly hopeful.

“Fine,” Buffy snapped. “Be glad to.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“You’re not shuttin’ up yet,” Spike pointed out, grinning gleefully when Buffy growled at him. “Spike, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up—“

“Can you both shut up?”

Buffy looked up: an irritated businessman was glaring at her. “Oh. Sorry, sir,” she said, bobbing her head. Always be polite to humans. Common Slayer etiquette.

“Just keep quiet,” the man advised, turning back round with a muttered, “Kids these days…”

Spike grinned and then leaned closer to Buffy. It was only by a few inches, but it made her tense. She trusted him about as far as she could throw him.

No, scratch that. She trusted him about as far as that man could throw him.

“You know, pet,” the vampire said in a conspiratorial tone, “’f you want, I can just bite ‘im.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what sick, twisted part of you found that funny, but I can assure you that if you ever try to bite anyone while you’re anywhere near me, I will stake your sorry ass, world-savage be damned.”

It should have been an intimidating speech. It really, really should have. But he just twisted his lips a little. “Like you’d defy your precious Slayer Handbook enough to turn your back on your duty.”

“Actually, according to the Handbook, I should be killing you,” she said coolly. “So be glad that I’m not.”

Spike didn’t respond. She wished he had, not because she enjoyed talking to him—she really, really didn’t—but because when he didn’t talk, she was alone with her thoughts. And the longer she thought, the more unsettled she became.

According to the Handbook, I should be killing you. The brutal truth behind that statement shocked her...she was defying the Handbook. She was defying the Council, the men who’d been in charge of her since she was fifteen...and for what? A vampire, an evil, soulless being, who apparently wanted to help her save the world?

She really couldn’t believe she was doing this again.

“So...you really follow that thing by the letter, don’t you?”

Buffy sighed. Why was he still talking. “Follow what?”

Better question: why was she still talking back?

“That Handbook of yours. ‘s like your Bible, innit?”

“No, it’s like a rulebook,” she said testily. “It has guidelines for stages of Slayerhood and how a Slayer should live her life.”

“And I’m guessin’ that includes bein’ ripped away from your family and friends?”

How could he make it sound so sinister? Being a Slayer was a calling more glorious and more difficult than any other on the face of the earth! “Isolation is a necessary part of a Slayer’s life,” she snapped, not the slightest bit unsettled that she was now quoting the book directly. “Emotion is weakness.”

Spike snickered. “’s that what they tell you? Bloody hell, Blondie. Seems like the Council of Wankers are tryin’ to off you, or something. Emotion makes you stronger.”

“Bullshit,” Buffy hissed. “And I’m not listening to any more of this.”

What, afraid it’ll start making sense?

“Last Slayer I killed damn near killed me first,” Spike said in a low voice. Buffy couldn’t tell if he was trying to be persuasive or sexy—and the problem was, they were both working.

Wait—Spike? Sexy? A world of no! God, my Watcher would have a heart attack!

“She had a kid,” Spike continued. “She wanted to live. That’s what made her so damned hard to kill.”

Buffy sighed loudly. “Whatever,” she said impatiently. “Can we just...not?”

“Oh, was that a request coming out of the Slayer’s bitchy mouth?” Spike inquired quietly. He tilted his head at her. “Say it again, pet, an’ ‘ll see what I can do.”

She sneered at him. “You are so full of yourself, you know that?”

He snickered. “You better believe it, baby.”

They were both silent for a moment, Buffy because she was wondering if the seats were made of wood and if they were, how mad the airline people would get at her for ripping an arm off and staking Spike with it. Spike was silent because—well, Buffy thought, because he was Spike. Who the hell knew what he was thinking?

“Did it hurt?”

She was shocked that the next bit of conversation came out of her mouth. Since when was she more talkative than Spike?

He cocked an eyebrow. “Killin’ the Slayer? I think it hurt her more’n it did me.”

“No—that’s not what I meant. I meant...” she hesitated. She knew what she’d been asking, but having an emotional conversation with a vampire? Her Watcher would have a coronary.

Rupert Giles’s image floated into her head. Different...better...

Screw it. She was already breaking so many rules she wouldn’t be surprised if the Council decided to lock her up. “I meant—with Drusilla,” she said quietly, avoiding the vampire’s eerily serious gaze. “When she broke up with you—did it hurt?”

“Remember that time you poured holy water on m’ balls?”

The tiniest of smiles graced her lips. “Yeah.”

“That was heaven compared to what she put me through,” Spike said. Buffy glanced over at him. Both his knuckles and his lips were white; it was obvious that that question was a painful one.

Before she even realized what she was doing, the words left her lips. Forbidden words. Words that she could be killed for, did the Council know she’d spoken them. Because pity—empathy—it was forbidden to feel towards anyone, much less a soulless vampire. “I’m sorry.”

He glanced at her sharply, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to apologize. I know you don’t exactly hate makin’ me hurt.”

“That wasn’t why I asked!” Buffy all but yelled. “I asked because—because—“

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Because?”

She sighed. A year later, and in a way, it still hurt. “Nothing,” she ground out. “Just—I’m sorry, okay?”

A few seconds passed—Spike just looked at her and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, for some reason unwilling to look away from him.

Then he smiled. “Apology accepted,” he said. And for once, he didn’t sound smug. Instead he sounded...grateful.

Neither of them spoke after that, and as time passed, Buffy began to drift off. It was nighttime, but she was going to have the jetlag from hell once they reached New York. She shouldn’t relax her guard, not out here in the open—that was one thing the Slayer Handbook was extremely strict about.

Yet some part of her trusted Spike to watch her back while she was sleeping. And it was that (completely insane) part of her that closed her eyelids and sent her off to sleep, with Spike awake and watching at her side.

~*~

The Slayer was asleep. Spike tilted his head and studied her.

Fancy that.

Her head was lolling to her left side, exposing her neck to the window but not to Spike. He found that faintly ironic; even in her sleep, it seemed, she didn’t trust him.

It was odd how they could go from fighting to having soulful talks in just a few hours. He knew that he was off his bird, bantering with the Slayer constantly, but he didn’t really care—he was having more fun than he’d had since the last time he’d been in Sunnydale.

That was the thing about vampires. He hadn’t analyzed a damn thing since he’d been turned more than 100 years ago, and he didn’t care to start now. He had fun pushing the Slayer’s buttons, therefore he’d keep going. Simple as that. The Slayer, now—that chit analyzed anything. He could almost see the cogs turning in her sleeping brain. She was probably going through self-flagellation even while she was resting, beating herself up for associating with him—and then doing it a little more for enjoying herself.

The Slayer let out a little sigh and shifted. Her head fell onto Spike’s shoulder, her warm breath caressing his shoulder even through his shirt. Spike stiffened automatically, getting ready to push her head away, but even as he moved she let out a little mewl of protest and burrowed closer to him.

It was the mewl that did it. Suddenly Spike was very aware of certain parts of him that were stiffening entire too much, yet at the same time he couldn’t force himself to get rid of the thing that was disturbing him.

She looked so damn feminine, almost childlike—and for once she looked peaceful. Only the slightest furrow of her brow implied that her life wasn’t usually all sunshine and rainbows. The rest of her was peaceful. Perfect, the poet in him thought.

Spike shoved him away viciously. Evil vampire, remember, mate? You’re not enjoyin’ the Slayer touching you. You sodding well can’t!

She sighed again and wrapped her small hands around his arm. Spike grimaced. For a bloke who couldn’t enjoy the Slayer’s touch, he was doing a damn good imitation of it. Who’d have known that she’d have such soft hands? She spent most of her time slaving away in that fast food joint or beating up on demons, but he’d never felt anything as soft and warm as her hands circling his bare bicep.

He really, really should’ve worn his duster.

When the flight attendant came by after about fifteen minutes and smiled indulgently at them, he had to fight not to rip her throat out. Sodding bint, just assuming that they were a couple. He ought to torture her—or at the very least take her to the tiny bathroom in the back and drain her dry. Which, given how much that thing stank, would probably be torture in and of itself. Spike could smell the damn thing from where he sat.

And there he went again, off on an irrelevant tangent. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Evil creatures didn’t go off on tangents. They murdered and they danced in the blood and then they murdered again. Turning him soft, the Slayer was. And the killing blow of it was that she was so tough and so bitchy that the idea of her turning anyone soft was almost laughable.

Key word there being almost…

“Mm,” Buffy murmured, shifting slightly. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulderblade, and Spike suddenly realized that she couldn’t possibly be comfortable. She’d wake up with a bruise and probably come up with some idiot story about him hitting her. That’ll never do, he thought, glancing up at the ceiling. Sure enough, the little seatbelt signs were off. Spike unlocked his and Buffy’s seatbelts and raised the arm that separated their seats, pulling her towards him and shifting till her head was resting in the crook of his arm. She might be ticked with him when she woke up, but they were in a crowd, so she couldn’t dust him—and anyway, at least she’d know that he hadn’t hurt her.

It was night and he should have been wide awake, especially given that he had an armful of Slayer—yet even as the lights overhead began to dim, Spike felt his eyes close. Some part of him noted that he ought to be off luring hapless airplane passengers to their deaths, or at least agonizing over being half a million feet in the air with nothing holding him up but bits of metal—but the part of him that was William seemed to have finally grown some balls, because he was telling the demon to sod off. Soon as they found Red there’d be plenty of carnage. Right now, he just wanted to rest…

With Buffy in his arms.

~*~

A/N: OK people...50-odd people read the last chapter, and I got exactly one review. Please review more...

“Attention all passengers, we’ll be encountering some turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts and stay alert.”

At first Buffy thought it was the announcement that woke her up; it was certainly loud enough. Then she thought it was the hand shaking her arm roughly.

But when she remembered the dream she’d been having, she sat bolt upright.

Spike looked at her with worried eyes. It had been his shoulder she’d been sleeping on, and his hand that woke her. “You okay, Slayer?”

She stared at him, knowing her eyes were wide and scared-looking and not caring. Remnants of the dream were still flitting through her head—Spike tied up in a bathtub, her taunting Spike, then a human version of the red-haired vampire they were after casting a spell—and then she was kissing Spike, cuddling him, and talking about wedding plans. Buffy barely restrained a shudder at the memory. Spike’s lips on hers, his hands running all over her body—if the Council knew she was having dreams like that, they’d have her killed! And rightly so. Lusting after a vampire was not what a good Slayer did.

And yet—into her mind again came the voice of that damned librarian. We lived in a different world, a world where things were better. Where we were happier. She’d been kissing Spike, but even before the spell she’d been happier than she was now…right?

No. Wrong. This whole thing is wrong!

“Slayer?”

“Huh?” Spike was still looking at her quizzically, waiting for an answer. She scowled. “I didn’t just fall asleep on you, okay? That did not just happen.”

She’d expected him to smirk, to inform her that hell yes, it had happened—maybe to threaten to tell her Watcher—but instead he just raised his eyebrows in amusement and said, “You got it, Slayer. You didn’t just turn me into a cuddly little vamp-pillow and sleep on my shoulder for two hours.”

“Spike!”

“I’m sorry—is there a problem here?”

Buffy looked up. A frumpy woman with thick black frame glasses was staring down at her with a concerned expression. Thinking the woman was a flight attendant, Buffy smiled as perkily as she could, took Spike’s hand, and said, “We’re fine, but thanks for asking!”

As soon as the woman walked away Buffy dropped Spike’s hand like it was poison. “What?” she snapped, noticing the look he was giving her.

“Why the bloody hell did you do that, Slayer?”

“Because—because we need some kind of cover,” Buffy said defensively. “That was just the one that came to mind.”

“That we were sweethearts travelin’ together?” Spike shook his head. “You’re a bit nuts, you know that?”

“And you’ll be a bit dead if you can’t lay off.” Her sharp retort was capped off by her buckling her seatbelt back on and staring straight ahead, determined to ignore him.

What the hell was wrong with her? Was it just remnants of the dream that made that particular cover be the first one to pop into her head? There were a million other scenarios that would have explained their situation—friends, relatives, even siblings—and she chose lovers? Buffy fought not to cover her face in her hands. I’m falling apart, and there’s no one here to help me.

And it was all Spike’s fault. Spike, who even now was treating things with his typical flippantness. “They dropped off food while you were dozin’,” he was telling her, waving a shiny wrapped back and forth. “Honey roasted peanuts.”

“And I’m guessing you ate my share?” That was good. Nice and hostile. Easy.

“Please. That’d be like eatin’ a homeless guy when there was a millionaire beggin’ me to suck her dry. No, you can have both our shares.” He tossed her two bags.

She caught them and yanked one open, eating ravenously. They were just tiny bags of nuts, but she hadn’t eaten in long enough that to her, they were a feast.

Spike watched her with distinct distaste. “I can’t believe you’re actually eating that tripe. Would’ve thought you had better taste.”

She shot him a dirty look and said through mouthfuls of nuts, “Slayers are conditioned to be able to eat anything. The Handbook says that in order to survive, a Slayer must—a Slayer has to—“

“Yeah?” Spike prompted.

“A Slayer has to be able to eat whatever she’s offered,” Buffy finished irritably. The truth was, she didn’t remember exactly what the Handbook had said. She hadn’t forgotten a word of the 75 Rules That Govern A Slayer’s Life since she was 16 and completely green. What was happening to her?

She knew the answer to that. It started with an “S” and ended with a “huge, gigantic pain in my ass”—and it was sitting right next to her.

Well, fine. It was easy enough to correct that problem. Buffy finished the peanuts, put out her tray, and sat rigidly upright, refusing to look at her traveling companion.

She heard him snort. “Fine, Slayer. You wanna play that game, we’ll play.”

She spent the next two hours fighting to ignore her remorse that he hadn’t so much as tried to get her to talk to him.

~*~

She was more than a nuisance. She was worse than a plague. She was a sodding menace.

“For the last time, Slayer, finding the cheapest one doesn’t matter,” Spike said. “’m nearly at the end of my rope, here. Just choose a hotel and be done with it!”

“I have to save money,” Buffy muttered, calling still another fleabag motel to check their rates. “Unlike you, I have to buy my food. And I have limited funds.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “If you’d let me go up to Times Square—“

“You’d find lots of tourists to rob blind.” She finished the sentence with a charming—no, not charming. A bloody annoying—little eyeroll. “Would you just let me make the call?”

Spike reluctantly stayed silent as she punched some numbers into the phone and said, “Hi, is this the New York Junkyard? Ok, I was wondering about your rates?” A pause. “Yes, your rates. As in, how much per night you charge? What? You mean this actually is a junkyard? But it’s listed in the phone book under motels…yes, I understand. Okay. Fine. Bye.”

Buffy hung up, an irritated expression on her face. “Sorry, but it looks like this is as good as it gets,” she said, jumping to the side as a drunk blundered past them.

Spike surveyed the bar with distaste. It was in the middle of the Bronx, a little two-floor establishment that offered drinks, lodging, and probably drugs and whores on the side. “You’re gonna make us stay here for two nights?”

“It’s not my fault all the flights for tomorrow were booked,” Buffy snapped, reaching down to grab her bag. “Now, come on. I’m tired.”

Spike was getting ready to taunt her about her nap on the plane when another large, fat drunk barreled into the Slayer. “Hey, little girl,” the man leered, “Wanna give Moe some fun?” A large, hamlike hand landed on her breast.

A second later he was flying across the room and Spike was shaking his hand, assuaging the pain that always came from hitting a human with about the same force as a small wrecking ball. “Bastard,” he growled, chest heaving angrily. As far as he was concerned, while he was traveling with the Slayer, she was his. There was no way a sleazeball like that was going to be puttin’ his hands on her.

He regretted his move when, ignoring the mayhem around them, Buffy planted her hands on her hips and glared at him angrily. “I can take care of myself, you know!”

Spike decided to do what he did best: lie. If the Slayer knew he’d taken to thinking of her as his, she’d rip his dick off and shove it down his throat like she was always threatening to. “I know that, princess,” he said with a smirk. “Thing is, though, a vamp like me? We like a little spot of violence before bedtime.”

Now she looked completely disgusted with him. “Nice move, Spike,” he muttered to himself, watching her stalk off. He hastened to follow, not bothering to spare a glance at the man he’d attacked. With any luck, the bastard would be dead.

He followed at a leisurely pace, hoping that she wouldn’t stop to try and find him. Disgusting this establishment might be, but a fellow had to eat—and Spike was insanely hungry.

His luck must’ve been in that day, because he had hardly gone two steps before he encountered a man just coming out of his room. Spike unceremoniously wrapped a hand around the man’s throat and broke his neck, shoving the head to the side and sinking his fangs into the tender flesh that protected the jugular.

He took deep, fast pulls, concentrating on just draining the body and being done with it. He needed to be full—it was going to take a hell of a lot of willpower to avoid biting the Slayer tonight.

After the few minutes it took to drain the man, he dropped the body in the hallway and hurried to catch up with the Slayer.

He’d been expecting her to demand to know where he’d been—in fact, he had a little story about checking out the place all prepared. But when he arrived at their door, she didn’t even acknowledge him. She was staring into the room, her eyes unfocused.

“Slayer?”

She didn’t answer.

He waved a hand in front of her face. “Hey, Slayer. Wake up. You knew there was only one bed, what’s with the traumatized act?” She still didn’t respond. “Slayer? Slayer!”

“It’s magic.”

Spike whirled round at the new voice. A girl emerged from the shadows—a girl with brown, almost black hair, with a wide mouth and brilliantly colored eyes. She was human, that much he could tell; her heart beat strongly in his ears. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

She ignored the question, coming closer to Buffy. “She’s in a kind of trance. It’s very complicated magic. I can’t tell much about it, other than the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be caught in it.”

“Well, ‘f she wasn’t supposed to be caught, who was?” Spike asked. He was willing to shelf the fact that he had no idea who she was for the time being, given that of the two of them, she was the only one who had any idea what was happening.

The girl gave him a sardonic look. “You, of course. That’s why she was caught instead of killed. The magic was keyed towards a vampire, not a Slayer.”

He shouldn’t’ve been surprised that she knew about vampires. She knew about magic, right? She was twittering on like she was some kind of witch. But the fact that she knew he was a vamp and wasn’t even the slightest bit afraid of him rankled.

“So, what, she’s gonna be caught like that forever b’cause the magic’s too strong for her?” Spike sneered. He should’ve known the Slayer would end up being a pain in the arse.

The witch rolled her eyes. “No. God, did your brains disappear along with your soul? She’s a Slayer. Her mind is way stronger than yours. If you’d been caught, it would’ve dusted you.”

Spike regarded the Slayer with distaste. Bloody hell, it was bad enough when he’d thought that it was too strong for her. But if she ever found out that springing the little trap had saved his life, she’d be unbearable.

The witch was still staring at him, one thin eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to, like, ask me how to let her go?”

Spike was about to respond with a firm negative—this whole get the Slayer on his side bit was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth—when the girl in question grabbed her stake, swung around, and, eyes glassy, plunged it towards his heart.

Luckily, he’d survived long enough to be able to avoid surprise stakings. He jumped aside just as the witch yelled something. A spark jumped between them and the stake burst into flames.

As first the Slayer remained in her trance-like state, clutching the flaming stake. Just when Spike was about to rush forward and make her drop it, she let out an animal-like cry and flung it from her.

Spike watched as she slowly shook. The tremors started at her head and extended down her body until her whole frame trembled as she stared down at her burned hand with tear-filled eyes.

A second ago he’d been about to abandon her to her fate—but now Spike found himself running forward and pulling the crying Slayer into his arms. “Buffy—pet—“

“It hurts,” she sobbed, cradling the hand. “Oh God, Spike—“ She drew in a deep, shuddering sob—“make it stop, please make it stop.”

Where was the glee? Where was the bloodlust? Spike should have been laughing at her, kicking her prone form, not leaning against the wall and gently stroking her back. She was the sodding Slayer, for Christ’s sake. He was made to make her suffer.

But when she’d come out from whatever spell had held her—when she’d stared down at her hand with horror, as though disgusted that it was hers—he hadn’t seen the Slayer. He hadn’t seen the legendary hero that vampires both hated and feared.

He’d seen a girl. A tired, broken down, lost little girl. He’d seen a crushed soul standing in a narrow hallway…and it was familiar. It was him.

So he rocked her back and forth, the man beating back the demon in him and showing this girl that some crumb, some tiny speck of humanity was in him. Something in him still knew what being good meant. It wasn’t a beginning for the two of them. It wasn’t even a prologue.

But it was a change, for both of them this time. A passing from enmity into…something. Different, more dangerous—perhaps even deadly. If either of them could have gone back, they would have. But they couldn’t. The change had come, and soon they were both going to have to deal with it.

Just then, though, Spike knew that it wasn’t the time to force her to deal with things. It was time for him to hold her, to try his best to keep the outside world from hurting her. Just for a little while, he thought fiercely, rocking her back and forth. Just for a while.

~*~

“It seems that the vampire has become rather—“ The woman pursed her lips in disgust—“Close to the Slayer. They seemed quite comfortable together on the airplane. The Slayer was sleeping on that thing’s arm.” She shifted the phone to make it more comfortable against her ear.

“I see.” In London, Quentin Travers took a deep breath, attempting to analyze the information his Watcher had just given him calmly. “Continue to keep tabs on them. I shall speak with the Termination Squad should the problem escalate.”

The dirty blonde woman adjuste her thick black-framed glasses. “Of course, sir.”

“And Gertrude?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Kindly don’t make yourself too obvious. You know how astute those monsters are at remembering humans.”

“Yes, sir.” Gertrude fiddled with the stake in her pocket. “I’m well armed. Should there be any trouble, I know what to do.”

“Very well, then. Good-night.” Travers hung up the phone and looked around the room. Sallow, hard-faced men, armed in various ways, looked back at him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, smiling grimly, “Pack your bags. We’re going on a bit of a trip.”

~*~

A/N: Thanks for the reviews =D

~*~

Spike wasn’t entirely sure how long he held her. Might’ve been ten minutes, might’ve been sixty. To tell the truth, he was more concerned with the fact that the famous Slayer was having a nervous breakdown than anything else.

She was still cradling her gruesome, blistered hand. Rocking her back and forth, Spike shot a glance at the witch still standing off to one side. “Can you fix this?”

She knelt down, examining the hand as best as she could. “I think so,” she said hesitatingly. “Gimme a sec. And make her sit still.”

Spike complied as best as he could. “Buffy, luv? Goldilocks, you’re gonna have to stop rocking for a minute.” When she didn’t respond, just kept on rocking like her brains were addled, Spike sighed and stiffened his arms, creating an immobile cage.

She didn’t even fight it. That scared him more than anything else. The Slayer he knew would have fought him tooth and nail if he tried to restrain her, but the second he tightened his arms, Buffy grew limp.

“Nice work,” the witch said approvingly.

Spike glared at her. “Just get on with it,” he snapped angrily. He didn’t like how the witch was looking at the Slayer—like a cat with a sodding mouse, she was.

“I am,” the witch said irritably. “I’m Amy, not Merlin!”

“Oh, that’s your name,” Spike drawled sarcastically.

Amy didn’t even bother to acknowledge that he was being sarcastic. Spike sneered at her bent head. Stupid bint.

“Okay, I’m going to do a healing spell,” she said, not looking at Spike, “and it’s going to hurt like hell, so do me a favor and hold her, okay? I’m not in the mood to get my throat ripped out by a pissed off Slayer.”

Spike couldn’t help it. He needed to make a threat. “In the mood to get it ripped out by a vamp?”

She only raised an eyebrow.

“You so much as hurt a hair on the Slayer’s head, ‘ll rip your sorry head off,” Spike promised, trying to ignore the fact that he was discouraging physical harm to the Slayer.

“Whatever.” Apparently the teen didn’t find that worth examining, if the way she dismissed it out of hand was any indication. “Okay. Hold her tight.”

He obeyed, tightening his arms still more around the Slayer. She still didn’t fight him.

Amy held the burnt hand in her two healthy ones, muttering under her breath. He thought it looked pretty damn ineffectual and was about to call her on it when Buffy’s hand began to glow green. Spike watched, nonexistent breath held, as the burns slowly healed and the blistered skin knit itself back together.

“There.” Amy dropped the hand. “She’s done.”

He nodded curtly, more concerned about the near-catatonic Buffy than the witch. “Buffy? Buffy, pet, it’s Spike…c’mon, Buffy, enough of the shock syndrome shi—“

Buffy came awake suddenly. Her eyes landed on Spike’s own—for a second he felt a sensation as sharp as a stake to the heart—and then she’d backhanded him and he was slamming against the other wall in the hallway.

It was a pretty weak blow; he leapt up immediately, wiping blood away. “Fucking hell, Slayer, me an’ the witch just saved your arse!” he snapped.

“Yeah? Well next time, remember this: I don’t need your help.” Buffy glared at him. “I don’t need anyone’s help!”

Spike watched helplessly as the door to their room slammed shut. He should’ve been angry—hell, he should’ve been so pissed off he couldn’t see straight. But to tell the truth, he was more relieved than anything. The Slayer being so unresponsive was like the world turning upside down.

“Damn. You got burned,” Amy remarked.

The vampire stared at her, stunned. “You’re the oddest bint ‘ve ever met, did you know?”

She smiled sweetly. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

“A bloody irritatin’ one,” he grumbled. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” He couldn’t wait till she hauled her ass out of the hallway. Being around one human, even if she was the Slayer, was bad enough. He didn’t want to have to put up with two.

Amy shrugged. “Not really. Want me to go in there and talk to her?”

Damn honor. It was a holdover from his human days, and it was the thing stopping him from draining the witch dry right then. It wouldn’t do to kill someone who’d just saved his partner’s life.

He settled for snapping at her. “We’re allies, not sodding mates.”

For what felt like the thousandth time that night, the witch in front of him rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Okay,” she said sarcastically. “If you need me, I’ll be in room 425.”

She stalked off before Spike had a chance to get in a last word.

Bloody women. He growled in frustration and banged on the closed door. “Slayer? Let me in.”

“No.”

“You want me to bust down the door? I can do that—it’s sure as hell no skin off my bones.”

Silence. Then: “Okay, fine. Hold on a second.” He heard a faint rustling noise coming from the other side of the thin door, and then it was wrenched inward.

Almost before he had a chance to blink, the Slayer was walking past him. “I’m going patrolling,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Spike stared after her. Did she have any idea what she was doing? This was New York, for Christ’s sake. Even the Slayer wasn’t safe here all alone, not with the various people and things out to kill them right now.

Stubborn little chit, he grumbled inwardly, before hurrying off after her.

~*~

“You honestly never went patrolling with that wanker?” Spike yelled at her, staking the vamp he was fighting.

“No!” Buffy tried to ignore the fact that she was having a heart-to-heart with her mortal enemy, instead opting to get rid of the vampire who was currently babbling about killing her and satisfying the Great One. She was getting really tired of vampires on missions…

She finally staked him. Turning to Spike, she continued, “He said that it was mixing work and play, and he was right.”

Spike snorted. “Soldier-boy was an idiot.”

Funny how he could get away with making comments like that now and she didn’t want to kill him…”How so?” she asked, falling into step beside him as they headed off to another deserted alley. And conveniently ignoring the fact that you’re working in tandem with a vampire who watched you sleep, held you while you cried, and helped a witch save your life.

“Well, lookit us.” They turned a corner and encountered what Buffy instantly recognized as a vengeance demon. Not in the mood to try and find the stupid thing’s power center, she kicked it hard and sent it reeling away. Vengeance demons weren’t the most dangerous things out tonight, and the Slayer Handbook said Slayers should always look at the big picture.

“Workin’ together, fightin’ the forces of darkness an’ all that rot,” Spike continued, twisting the head off of an anonymous green-scaled demon. “Two heads ‘re better than one, right?”

“I think that sort of implies that each head has a brain,” Buffy shot back sarcastically.

Spike placed a hand over his heart. “Well, bless my nonexistent soul,” he said mockingly. “Did the all-mighty Slayer just make a joke?”

She raised an eyebrow at her companion. Vampire. My vampire companion. The First Slayer is rolling in her grave right now… “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said finally, not quite managing to inject the proper amount of venom into her warning.

“Or my head’ll be the first thing to go, right?” Spike said sarcastically. “I got it, Slayer.” They left the alley and started walking along a fairly crowded street. True to its name, the City That Never Sleeps was still crowded with latenight shoppers. “Hey, you wanna go buy stuff?”

Buffy stared at him in disbelief. “You want to go shopping?”

He shrugged. “Beats arguing, dunnit?”

He was, without a doubt, the strangest vampire she’d ever come across. “And what money are we going to go shopping with?”

He held up a credit card, grinning. “Compliments of some sorry sod back at the motel.”

Logically, Buffy knew she should have been outraged. But after nearly dying and being rescued by a weird witch and the vampire next to her, she was too tired to summon up more than a simple, “You’re really evil, you know that?”

“Yep.” He tilted his head at the boutique they were currently standing at. “C’mon, Slayer. You know you want to.”

Don’t you want to find out what it was like? She hadn’t then. She’d been content with robotic slaying. But now, much to her surprise, she was finding out that she did want to.

Wanting fancy clothes and nice accessories was a frivolous impulse her Watcher had beaten out of her before her first year of training was done. The Handbook expressly forbid personal gratification in the form of too many worldly possessions.

But then, she wasn’t exactly living life according to the handbook, was she?

It was at that moment that Buffy, the Slayer, the girl upon whom the fate of the world depended, threw caution to the wind. She smiled—a genuine, happy, aware smile—and took the hand the vampire offered, letting him draw her into the store.

And that, she thought succinctly, is that.

~*~

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! It really floors me how much you guys like this story *hugs*

~*~

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Buffy complained, tugging at the low-cut jeans and the revealing halter top.

“Why? You look nice.”

“I’m vamp bait!” Buffy exclaimed. OK, the jeans were pretty dark, but the halter was bright green. She couldn’t have looked more bite-worthy if she’d been wearing a bright red dress.

Apparently Spike agreed, if the way he was leering at her was any indication. “Damn right you are,” he said, sidling closer.

She pushed him away, but with none of the violence she would have used just a few hours ago. It was hard to be full of hatred when it was 3 AM and you’d just been on a shopping spree. “You’re disgusting,” she informed him, grinning.

“Damn straight.” Spike pulled away, studying her thoughtfully. “You know what you need?”

“A full night’s sleep and a break from the burdens of Slayerhood?” Buffy said, only half joking.

“Well, yeah, but I was thinking you could use a haircut.” Spike tugged on her braid playfully.

“What?” Cut her hair? “No fucking way!”

“Language, Slayer.” Spike shook a finger at her. “What’s wrong with cuttin’ your hair? Bet you’d look bloody gorgeous.”

The Handbook never mentioned what to do if a vampire called you gorgeous—or even potentially gorgeous. Buffy tried to ignore the way her cheeks reddened. “I don’t want to cut my hair,” she ground out.

“C’mon, Slayer, please?” He was whining. She couldn’t believe he’d actually resorted to whining.

She gave him a hard look. “Why should I?”

He didn’t answer, just pouted at her.

She stared at him for a second, perplexed. Evil vampires who wanted to bite her she could deal with, but this? This she was entirely unprepared for. “Fine,” she answered at last, utterly at the end of her rope. “I’ll get my hair cut.”

“And colored?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just how lucky do you think you are?”

“Knew you’d be too ‘fraid to let a bunch of chemicals near your head,” Spike smirked.

“What?!” Buffy’s mouth fell open. “Of all the—fine! I’ll get my hair colored! Are you happy now?”

She regretted her question when Spike leered at her. “Perfectly, luv,” he all but purred.

“Don’t call me that,” Buffy snapped, and she stalked off to find a beauty parlor open so late.

~*~

He’d told her he’d be back after she got her haircut. Buffy didn’t really blame him for leaving—it had taken the hairdresser an hour just to cut her hair, and a good hour and a half for her to highlight it. But he’d promised he’d come back.

So where the hell was he?

Buffy tapped her foot impatiently. New York was way too huge for her to just take off and look for him, but she was starting to get worried. Not about Spike, of course. Whatever else she could say about the vampire, he could definitely take care of himself.

What she was worried about was the rest of the world.

Images haunted her, images of him feeding, killing—and it would be her fault, because she hadn’t staked him. Had, in fact, allied herself with him.

All of a sudden, the ramifications of what she’d been doing for the past few hours came crashing down. Her Watcher might forgive her for just allying herself with him temporarily, but for the past few hours, they’d been having fun together. At the time, it had seemed harmless, but now it made her sick.

What kind of twisted creature was she, having fun with a mass murderer?

“Lookin’ for me, pet?”

Buffy jumped, seeing the mass murderer in question come sauntering out of the shadows. “Where the hell were you?” she demanded, covering her unease with a characteristic scowl.

“Worried about me?”

“Just answer the question!” She was practically yelling now. The second she’d seen him step into the light, all platinum hair and sexy smirk, she’d felt her reservations melting. That was more than dangerous. It was perverse.

Sensing that something was wrong, Spike grew serious. “There was trouble, pet,” he told her. “Screaming a few blocks down. Went to check it out.”

“So you weren’t—you weren’t—“ She couldn’t bring herself to say feeding.

“Gettin’ a snack?” He shook his head in disgust. “How thick d’you think I am? ‘m not gonna go offin’ people when you’re about. Don’t much fancy meeting with the pointy end of a stake.”

He wasn’t feeding. He was helping people. Buffy relaxed marginally. “Okay, then. I guess. What was the trouble?”

It was his turn to frown. “Don’t rightly know, actually. Mess ‘f human-types playin’ around with a little girl.”

In other words, not her business. “What did you do?” she asked, half-hoping and half-fearing that he’d tell her he killed them.

“Got rid of ‘em,” was his prompt response. “Knocked their heads together a coupla times an’ then called the police.”

“And that took two hours?” That sickening feeling of suspicion returned. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

“No. Walked out of the shop where I made the call an’ right into a gang ‘f twenty vamps. Damn near fledglings, but it took me awhile to get rid of ‘em. Had to run all over the place.”

She finally relaxed. He hadn’t been killing innocents. It was still okay. “Fine, then,” she said, grumpily but not with the rancor she’d been using earlier. “Anyway, what do you think?” She lifted a strand of hair, twirling it.

For the first time, his eyes focused on her short, honey-colored hair. His eyes narrowed, then widened—his body stiffened—and for a second she thought he was going to attack her. He looked mad enough to.

Then he reached out and touched it. She should have flinched away, and her inner Slayer was screaming at her…but somehow, she couldn’t. She stood still as stone and let him stroke her hair, staring into his eyes, filled with an emotion so close to anger that she wondered why he hadn’t hit her yet.

Finally he smiled. It was the sort of smile she’d been taught to fear in a vampire: confident. Predatory.

“I love it, pet,” he said, his voice lower and more gravelly than usual.

She caught her breath, suddenly aware that she was standing very, very close to him, wearing jeans tighter than anything she’d ever had on and a shirt that showed way more skin than any Slayer needed to be displaying. “Th-thanks,” she stuttered, and quickly took a step back. God, her head felt fuzzy. “We should go back to the motel and sleep. Our flight’s tomorrow night, right?”

He smirked, silently letting her know that he knew exactly why she’d changed the subject. “Yeah, it is.” He sauntered—sauntered!— past her in the direction of their motel.

In spite of herself, Buffy’s eyes strayed downward. God, he has a nice ass…

He turned around. Buffy’s eyes snapped up—but not fast enough. Her cheeks reddened when he cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Enjoy the view, luv?”

“I’m not your love,” Buffy snapped, immediately on the defensive.

“That so?” His hand went down to rest near his crotch, and to her shame, Buffy’s eyes immediately followed.

Her blush grew even more severe when she noticed the increasingly visible bulge.

“Well, Slayer?”

How was she supposed to answer him when he was flaunting himself like that? Buffy forced her brain to form words—any words. “Um…no.” She tore her eyes away from him, looking determinedly into his eyes. His very blue eyes…augh! Stop it! “I will never be your love.”

His hips jerked—and once again, Buffy was staring.

That smirk—that horrible, irritating, sexy-as-hell smirk—came out onto his face. “We’ll see ‘bout that, luv.”

And then, before she could call out a retort, he was walking away again.

~*~

She didn’t see Amy when they got back to the motel—which was just as well. The witch was almost uncanny in her understand of Buffy and the Slayer didn’t like it.

She felt tingles go over her arms when they entered their room. She hated the fact that she’d fallen victim to magic, and she hated even more that it had been Spike who comforted her and helped save her from it.

Buffy was in the debt of a vampire, and she knew it. What would her Watcher say if he knew about it? She could cite a dozen parts in the Handbook just off the top of her head that forbade letting vampires help the Slayer…

Spike, however, soon took her mind off of her obsessive mental recitation of Rule # 133 when he hopped on the bed, kicking off his boots. “’ll sleep here,” he announced. “You can take the floor.”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Are you nuts?”

“Last time I checked, no,” Spike replied lightly. “I hopped on the bed first, that means you get to sleep on the floor. ‘sides, I spent half the night saving your ass. ‘m knackered.” He made a great show of yawning. “’night.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, no you don’t!” Within seconds, he was lying on the floor and Buffy was standing over him, her feet on either side of his chest, both furious and incredibly uncomfortable—her jeans were tight.

“’ey! Lemme up!” he yelped, grabbing her ankles and pulling her feet out from under her.

That made her land on his chest—very much not somewhere she wanted to be just then. She narrowed her eyes at him. “The sun rises in about a half an hour,” she hissed. “So unless you want to be kissing daylight when it does, I suggest you cooperate.”

He smirked at her. “Right,” he drawled, not bothering to hide his contempt. “You wanna tear this motel down? Because there’ll be a fight.”

Shit. He was supposed to just go with the intimidation and back down. Damn unpredictable vampire…whose chest she was currently sitting on.

Suddenly she became very aware of just how tight her jeans were, and how her top sagged and showed practically her whole chest…and how his lips were inches from hers.

She hopped off him like he’d burned her. “Fine,” she all but growled. “But I am sleeping in the bed.”

A Cheshire cat would’ve been jealous of the smile he had on his face, it was so wide. “Guess I’ll have to sleep here too, then,” he said, and before she could voice an objection, he yanked off his shirt and hopped into the bed again.

She stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. He was lying against the pillows, his arms under his head, his eyes daring her to protest.

“Fuck you,” she snapped, and grabbing her duffel bag, she went into the bathroom.

The door almost came off its hinges when she slammed it. For a moment she stared in the mirror, not really seeing her reflection. Damn him damn him damn him… She wasn’t supposed to feel this way! Her whole body wasn’t supposed to tingle at the sight of his! She wasn’t supposed to dream about hem getting married, and she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to wish that she could just crawl into bed with him and make love all day long.

But she did.

Luckily, even when she was half-ready to rip her hair out in frustration, she still had her Slayer training. She shut her eyes tightly, breathing deep, fighting down all the fear, all the guilt and self-loathing. There was a vampire out there whom she was going to have to spend the night with. She needed to be calm.

When her heart had stopped racing, she changed into her pajamas: a t-shirt and loose shorts. Nothing fancy. She even left her underwear on.

When she came out Spike was in the same position. His eyes flicked up and down her form speculatively, and Buffy felt a blush coming on—one that asserted itself when he purred, “Very nice, Slayer.”

She forced herself to be calm. If she staked him—or fucked him ‘till he dusted—they’d never be able to stop the world from ending. And that was the point of this whole farce, to save the world. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” She dropped her bag and climbed into the bed, willing her breathing to be regular and her pulse to slow down.

He was lying in the middle of the bed, and because he was an evil prick, he didn’t move over when she crawled in. The bed was so narrow that even when she lay on the very edge, her back was still brushing up against his arm.

She closed her eyes. It does matter. He’s just an ally in a war. That’s all. Drawing on meditation techniques she’d learned years ago, she forced her brain into something resembling sleep.

Her back was to him, so she didn’t notice the look on Spike’s face—predatory, triumphant, and pained all at once.

And both their head were turned away from the window, so neither noticed the witch watching them.

Finally, Spike closed his eyes. As soon as he did, Amy flicked her fingers. A tiny spark jumped from them, making its way into the room. It flickered into Buffy’s heart—then shot out again, straight into Spike’s, illuminating his skin.

”Amé,” she whispered. A soft breeze flowed through the room—and then the spark died.

Amy smiled and walked away.

~*~

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews--it's incredible to know you guys are enjoying this! I'm so, so sorry an update took so long; school's been killing me and my computer got a virus last weekend, so I'm way behind on things. Its great to know you guys are enjoying this, though *hugs* Reviews are what keep me posting! Also, Suzee asked me to tell you guys that if she doesn't update Learning Curve on Wednesday, it's because she's having computer problems--her computer is kinda messed up--but she's going to update it as soon as she can!

~*~

He was an idiot. If Dru could see him now, she’d laugh in his face.

He hadn’t really gone to sleep. Would’ve been a stupid thing to do when he was sharing a bed with the Slayer. The silly bird was resisting being close to him even in her sleep—she’d damn near toppled off the bed a score of times. He’d wanted to pull her back, but the one time he’d touched her, her fist had shot out and connected with his nose.

She could even punch accurately in her sleep. If ever there was a Slayer who’d make it to thirty, it was this one.

Spike sighed impatiently. It was still a good three hours ‘till the sun went down again, an’ he was more uncomfortable than he’d have been standing in the middle of the street with only an umbrella in between him and a dusty ending. Not only was the threat of physical violence keeping him away from the Slayer, but he was also scared of touching her for another reason.

Every time he did, his cock felt like it would fucking explode.

It was his fault, really. He’d been the one who’d talked her into getting sexy new clothes and cutting her hair. He’d been the one who’d cracked jokes all night long, just to get her to smile. Now he was the one who was left with a painful hard-on while the object of his lust slept like a baby next to him.

Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If he wanted her, he should just take her. Rape her, make her scream, make her beg him to just let her die—then sink his teeth into her throat and drain her dry. Take all that sweet Slayer blood into his body and leave her stinking body for the rats to eat.

It would’ve been so easy. Even now, he could feel himself harden just a little bit more at the thought.

But he couldn’t. And it wasn’t just that some twisted bit of honor told him it was wrong. The idea may have made him hard, but he didn’t actually want to rape her and kill her.

To Spike, that was more twisted than the fantasy he’d come up with.

She let out a breathy little sigh—so much softer than anything she would’ve uttered awake—and rolled a bit closer to him, murmuring as she did, “Spike….” Her hand came to rest on his thigh.

He was out of the bed and on his feet in less than a second, taking in harsh, unnecessary breaths as he stared at the sleeping girl on the bed. Should hurt her—could hurt her—

He turned his face away. No. Can’t. He knew he couldn’t. Once he would have done it in a heartbeat. But now? Killing her would be like taking a drink of holy water from glass carved with crosses before taking a noontime stroll—utterly impossible.

But the bloodlust was there. He hadn’t eaten in awhile, and he wanted a snack. Since sinking his teeth into the Slayer was clearly out of the question, he’d have to settle for his usual diet. It was twilight, dark enough so that in the city streets he wouldn’t dust.

He slipped out the bed, glad that the Slayer wasn’t touching him—she didn’t notice when he left. He yanked on his pants and his duster, not bothering with a shirt, and slipped out of the room.

~*~

She woke soon after he left. She’d felt him leaving the bed, had sensed his sudden lack of warmth, but her tired brain hadn’t fully processed what it meant. After about fifteen minutes or so of struggling with herself mentally, she finally regained enough control over her body to force her eyes open.

Spike wasn’t there.

A cold, stiff panic washed over her. Spike was gone.

She shimmied into some of her new jeans and a spaghetti strap top, hardly paying attention to what she was putting on, putting on her coat over it. Out of habit, she stuck a stake in her pocket.

She ran a brush through her hair hurriedly, berating herself for even bothering—but some part of her wanted to believe that she had time to do things like brush her hair, that she didn’t need to rush out the door and stop Spike from…no. He’s not doing anything. Please, he can’t be doing anything.

She pulled on her boots—not her old, clunky ones, but the ones Spike had bought her last night. Boots that she now wondered about.

Whose money had paid for them? Was there a body lying around somewhere, drained of all its blood? She’d believed his story at the time, about stealing a man’s wallet—now, she wasn’t so sure.

Please let me be wrong.

She left the motel at a run.

~*~

He’d found someone almost immediately. Pretty, small, blonde—with dark brown eyes, which told him that the blonde hair was entirely false. It didn’t matter; he didn’t have to look at her eyes when he killed her.

Luring her into the alley had been easy. It always was, with her sort. A bloke could be seven feet tall and fingering a knife, but if he was even passably attractive, a girl like this blonde would follow him anywhere.

Spike growled a bit and shook the now-limp body. He’d drained enough blood that, though he’d only been at it half a minute or so, she was about to die.

Her blood was thick, sweet, heady—she ate well and regularly. It carried none of the tang that would be there if she worked every day. She hadn’t even fought him when he’d sunk his teeth into her throat.

That only made him bite harder. She would have fought. She would have staked his sorry ass.

He’d show her. He’d drain this girl and dance in her blood.

“S—Spike?”

He tore his teeth out of the soft flesh in the girl’s throat. Blood leaked sluggishly from the wound, but her heartbeat had gone a long time ago. He could feel the warm liquid running down his chin.

The Slayer—Buffy—was standing in front of him.

Her eyes were wide—not frightened, the way they should have been, but full of some emotion he couldn’t identify. The hand that held the stake inches away from him shook violently. In fact, her whole body shook—her heartbeat staggered. When a single tear slipped down her cheek, he knew what the emotion in her eyes was.

He knew, but he didn’t care. I can’t care. He was a monster, a demon. What did he care if he made a Slayer cry.

“What—what d-did you do?” she whispered, stuttering, fighting to keep tears out of her eyes.

“What the hell d’you think I did, Slayer?” His voice was harsh—angry. Defensive, even. It shouldn’t be that way...the demon knew it shouldn’t. “I killed her. ‘m a vampire. That’s what I do.”

“But I thought you said…I thought…”

“Thought what? That ‘d be a good boy since I was travelin’ with you?” He snorted derisively. “Figured you had more brains than that, Slayer.”

“Don’t call me that.” Now anger was starting to break through the sadness. Her teeth were clenched.

“Why not?” He smiled, revealing bloody teeth. “You’re the Slayer. That’s all you are. It took an evil vampire to make you loosen up a tad. What d’you think that says about you, eh?”

*

She didn’t know what it said about her. What she knew was that she was staring at the evil, soulless thing she’d been traveling with for the past day. He had blood all over him—running down his chin, staining his teeth. He was a killer, she knew it—and it saddened her.

Almost as soon as the emotion registered, anger did, too. She wasn’t supposed to feel for him. She wasn’t supposed to care about him at all. Why did it feel like her world would fall apart if she couldn’t be close to him?

That last thought was what made her snap. He was still holding the body—the limp, lifeless body—when she punched him.

He staggered back. If he’d been human, or a less powerful demon, it would have sent him careening towards the ground. By all rights it should have at least hurt him.

But he simply wiped the remaining blood from his mouth, laughing at her. “This really ‘urts your feelings, doesn’t it?” he asked mockingly. “I kill one girl—some useless little slut—and all of a sudden, you’re reminded that you’ve been makin’ time with the Big Bad.”

“I haven’t been making time with anybody.” She pushed the regret and the shame away. She couldn’t afford anything but anger right now.

He snorted derisively. “Oh, right. Gimme a break, Slayer. You’ve been trying to fool yourself the whole time. Pretending I’m some nice, fluffy puppy who’d never take a bite out of some stupid little slut like that girl.” He motioned to the body on the ground. “Well, guess what, kitten?” Spike grinned, showed stained teeth. “You. Were. Wrong.”

She closed her eyes. He was right—but of course, she’d known that. She’d known from the beginning what she was doing…

And she’d known from the beginning what she’d have to do.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for what came next. “You need blood.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow—tinny.

A pause. Then: “Yeah. ‘m a vampire, we have a tendency towards suckin’ blood.”

Did it always hurt to do what you knew you needed to—to do the only thing you could do to make things right? For Buffy, it did.

She held out her wrist to him, still keeping her eyes closed. “Take mine."

~*~

~*~

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for what came next. “You need blood.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow—tinny.

A pause. Then: “Yeah. ‘m a vampire, we have a tendency towards suckin’ blood.”

Did it always hurt to do what you knew you needed to—to do the only thing you could do to make things right? For Buffy, it did.

She held out her wrist to him, still keeping her eyes closed. “Take mine.”

~*~

He didn’t particularly want to.

Oh, he wanted to take the Slayer’s blood—sweetest taste in the world, it was. But somehow, the idea of taking her blood when she was actually offering it just didn’t hold any allure.

But he couldn’t hurt her, and he knew he just had. She was the paragon of virtue and all that shit, and she was traveling with him. It would kill her, knowing that he was offing people behind his back.

He couldn’t hurt her. He’d be damned a second time if he knew why, but he couldn’t. If that meant drinking from a quiescent Slayer…

Hell, there were worse fates—this one had the perk of making him hard and horny as hell in just a few seconds. The Slayer in his arms, his teeth buried in her neck in an intimate, deadly kiss—it was enough to make a man weak.

Luckily, he wasn’t one.

His mind made up, Spike grabbed her arm and pulled her to him—but instead of drinking from her wrist, as she clearly wanted, he wedged her body against his and slid a hand around to stroke her belly.

He felt her shudder. “What—“

“Shh,” he purred into her ear, moving his hand in circles on her stomach. He dipped his head to her neck, inhaling—flowers, sweat, and Slayer scent. The combination was enough to make his head spin and the demon in him clamor in anticipation.

But she was afraid. For some reason, that irritated him. The fear would make the blood sweeter—but he didn’t want her afraid, damn it.

“’s not going to hurt,” he whispered.

She laughed harshly. “Of course it’s going to hurt,” she snapped. “What do you think I am, stupid? You’re a monster.”

That was it. Both the demon in the man snapped inside him the second the words left her mouth, and before he really had time to think about it, he’d spun her around and shoved her small, soft body up against the rough brick wall of the alley.

He held both her arms in a grip too strong even for the Slayer to break, and his mouth attacked her. Ravaging, desperate, fighting to believe the unbelievable—that he, a vampire, should want a Slayer so much that he’d give up hunting to keep her.

He heard her moan—felt her lips begin moving against his—and suddenly the flesh he held came alive. Her arms ripped free of his grasp, coming to wrap around his neck in an almost choking hold, as she kissed him back, her fury matching his own. Teeth clashed against teeth—tongues tangled, furious to the point of being painful. It only made him harder, made him want her still more.

His leg thrust in between hers and they both threw back their heads, panting at the sensations that even that tiny amount of friction gave them. God, if he didn’t get relief soon he was going to sodding well explode.

“Spike,” the Slayer gasped—the word a breathy little murmur that no proper Slayer would ever let cross her lips for fear of sounding weak.

And with that, he was lost. One hand squeezing her breast, pinching a hard nipple, the other supporting her by way of a firm grip on her bottom, Spike shifted into game face—snarled in triumph—and sank his teeth into Buffy’s neck.

~*~

She’d known it would hurt. He was a vampire, his teeth were going to cut her; logic told her that it would hurt.

But logic had no place in this dark alley.

She expected him to just take her wrist, drink from it, and then let her leave. She’d wanted him to do that. She knew all too well that bite encounters could turn sexual, and she’d wanted to avoid that at all costs.

Then he’d kissed her, and her world had fallen apart. All she’d cared about after that was that he keep kissing her, keep touching her, keep feeding the fire that burned in her blood. Her breasts and bottom had burned where he touched them, and every time his lips clashed with hers it had sent bolts of pure electricity straight down to her pussy.

Now all she was aware of was the demon at her neck, lapping up her blood. Her entire body felt like it was on fire, and to her humiliation, the fire was concentrated between her legs—the one place she would have given anything for it not to be. The more blood he took from her, the more the fire grew.

Minutes passed. The alley was silent save for their harsh breathing and Spike’s animalistic growls as he sucked at her neck. Adrenalin and lust were sustaining her, but Buffy knew that if he wanted her to be able to walk, he needed to stop soon…but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Rule Twenty: A Slayer must never find herself in a position where a vampire may feed upon her, as being in such a position will certainly result in death, turning, or bonding to the vampire in question. She knew Spike wouldn’t turn her, and the mating ritual was out of the question…which meant that he was going to kill her. And God help her, but she wanted it. Her knees were quivering, her belly was on fire, and more than anything in the world, she needed him to keep going. And when he did, she would die.

She closed her eyes, and to her horror, a tear somehow slipped out. “Please,” she whispered, her voice not sounding like her own, “Please. I need to…I don’t…”

Suddenly, he froze. His hands stopped moving against her—his teeth slipped out of her neck. She couldn’t tell if he still wore his demonic face; she kept her eyes shut tight. But something was different—the predatory, lustful atmosphere had eased, and in its place was something that terrified her even more. She could almost feel concern radiating from the vampire who had her trapped.

He was nuzzling her neck now, licking the wound closed and making soft, concerned purring noises that made her shiver. She could feel his ridged forehead brushing against her neck…and then the bones shifted.

“Slayer. Slayer, open your eyes. Look at me, dammit!” His voice was rough; if he wasn’t a vampire, she’d have said he was worried.

Her eyes came open almost of their own accord. Spike was staring at her, his human face back in place, blue eyes boring into hers. She blinked—and couldn’t make her eyes open again. His gaze was too intense. In fact, everything was…she felt her muscles go limp, felt her head spin…she could hear him yelling, but it wasn’t enough to bring her back…she felt so peaceful, here in the warm dark…

And Buffy fainted, falling into Spike’s arms.

~*~

~*~


No.

No.

Spike caught her immediately as she fell, feeling his nonbeating heart twist in his chest at the sight of her. She was paler than she’d ever been—so pale that the scar on her lip stood out in stark contrast to the rest of her face. Blood still dripped sluggishly from the wound on her neck.

He could feel the hot, sweet Slayer’s blood coursing through his veins—but it was a bitter feeling, knowing that he’d taken that life, that essence, from the girl in his arms. Even when she was fighting him, she was so full of fire. But now, the fire belonged to him.

He knew she’d wake up, knew that he hadn’t taken enough blood from her to kill her. But still, it hurt. It hurt more than anything was supposed to hurt for a vampire, and he couldn’t figure out why.

“Buffy,” he said, shaking her, “Buffy. Wake up, kitten. C’mon, rise and shine.”

She let out a little sigh, her head rolling back onto his shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible. Dammit. Was she passed out, or sleeping?

Did it even matter? She obviously wasn’t waking up either way. That fact alone was enough to make Spike feel guilty, so he scooped her up in his arms—and froze.

Hang on. Guilty? Since when did he feel guilty about anything?

Oh, bollocks.

Vampire’s didn’t feel guilty. They just fucking well didn’t. He retained enough memory from his human days to remember what it felt like, but not in a hundred plus years had he felt it. And now he was feeling guilt, for what? Sinking his fangs into a Slayer? He oughta feel proud, not want to wake her up so he could apologize!

He growled in irritation and set off for the motel. Guilt or not, he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by just standin’ there in the alley like some kind of overdramatic ponce.

Still, every step he took coincided with waves of half-nausea, half-fear; and every time his foot hit the ground, he prayed to whatever power might be listening to an evil vampire, please, let her wake up soon.

Buffy was still unconscious when they reached the motel. He got some suspicious looks when he carried her back to their room, but given that it was one of the seedier motels in one of the seediest cities in the world, no one bothered to stop him.

He laid her on the bed, gently. Logically he knew she couldn’t break, but the thing controlling him wasn’t logic. He didn’t know what the hell it was, but it definitely wasn’t anything in the realm of sense.

She was so, so pale…how could he have done that? How could he possibly think that taking her blood was a better alternative to killing some random bint? They didn’t matter to him—she did.

And that was the rub, right there, he brooded as he stared at her still form. The humans he killed didn’t matter to him, but they mattered to her. He’d met enough Slayers to know her type—she took every single death, all around the world, and laid it at her own doorstep. She knew she couldn’t save them all, but she felt like she ought to be able to. Having someone around who killed those she was meant to protect—to Buffy, it was a fate worse than death. Pretty damn telling when she let a monster feed off of her just to protect the innocent.

A growl escaped him at that. Funny how, even after all the insults she’d hurled at him, all the hatred she’d directed his way, it was that word that made him so pissed off he could barely see.

Monster. She didn’t even have the respect to call him a demon, and it stung. He knew she looked at him and didn’t see a person—didn’t see a man. She didn’t even see a demon. She saw a thing so twisted, so wrong that the only name for it was the name given to the shapeless fears of children.

The man inside him wept. The demon wanted to rip her throat out. And Spike couldn’t figure it out.

Pain he was used to, but not this gut-wrenching feeling that seemed to be linked to the guilt inside him. Mixed-up feelings, stupid soap-opera shit—that was a human thing. He might be a pretty sorry excuse for a vampire, but he still was one, which mean he shouldn’t be havin’ purely human emotions.

He closed his eyes, growling again in frustration. Too damn stupid to figure it out, and too damn smart to just let it be? Wasn’t that just typical of him? William the Bloody, Spike the vampire, love’s bitch—whatever you wanted to call him, it was fitting that he’d be the one vampire in the world to be cursed with a myriad of emotions that would make the ensouled poofter back in Sunnyhell look downright uncomplicated.

Spike sighed. He was tired—their flight wasn’t till almost dawn. Cutting it close, but he wanted to get the hell out of there. They had a few hours till they needed to get to the airport.

So, gently as he could, he slipped the Slayer’s boots off, covered her up, and lay down next to her on top of the covers. After setting the alarm clock he closed his eyes, determined to fall asleep.

~*~

She woke up screaming.

Not physically; she was too well trained for that. But her mind was screaming at her to run away, to reach safety, before the monster she’d been with killed her.

As soon as her consciousness returned she gasped, opening her eyes. My eyes open. That’s good, right? And she still had to breathe—her racing heart was testament to that fact. So she wasn’t dead, and she wasn’t turned. Why? Not that she wanted to be a vampire, but was it normal for a soulless fiend to let his chosen victim live? Especially when his chosen victim happened to be the Chosen victim—as in, the Slayer?

Even in her half-asleep, disoriented state, Buffy really didn’t think so.

There was fabric under her, soft, and underneath that, a lumpy mattress—the motel bed. There was a chair a few feet away, but it was empty, which meant…

Her hand fisted and she steeled herself as she rolled over.

Spike’s blue gaze locked with her own.

The second it did, all the emotions she’d been swimming in before she fainted—no, passed out; Slayer’s don’t faint, dammit— came rushing back. Fear, confusion, hatred, grief…and overwhelming lust. Her cheeks flushed deep, dark red.

“Hello, Buffy,” he greeted her quietly.

He was using her name. Why was he using her name? “You—you didn’t—“

He cocked his head. “Kill you?”

She nodded mutely. “Um…yeah. Why?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow at her. “What, you want to die?”

“N-no,” she stuttered, hating herself for how unbalanced that question made her. “I just—you were angry, and…I thought you planned on killing me.”

She watched as some emotion, one she couldn’t read, flitted through his eyes, before he closed them. His jaw tensed—she’d been around him long enough to know he was frustrated with her.

“I’m sorry,” she said hastily, “It’s just…”

“It’s just that ‘m a monster,” he finished for her bitterly. “I shoulda killed you, Slayer. Shoulda snapped that sweet little neck and drained you dry.” He let out a harsh laugh, and his hand brushed up against her neck. Buffy didn’t jump, didn’t run away the way she knew she should…didn’t even move. She was transfixed by the sheer emotion she saw in the vampire’s face.

“But I didn’t,” he continued. His thumb brushed against her bite mark—

And lightning rushed through her body.

“Spike, I don’t—“

“No.” A single word, fierce, betraying more than she thought he wanted to. “Don’t say you don’ want it, Buffy. I know you do. I can smell it, feel it. ‘s all around you. You want me…but you don’t wanna let me know it.” His hand left her neck, came up to touch her lips…

And still Buffy didn’t move.

“So soft,” he whispered. “But you’re scarred, pet, did you know?”

Of course she knew. “I hate that scar,” she whispered. “It makes me...”

“What?”

She looked away from him, finishing her sentence with a falsehood. “Ugly.”

It makes me a failure.

He shook his head. “Couldn’t be ugly if you tried,” he muttered. It should have been a compliment, but it sounded almost accusing.

His finger continued to move over her lip, stroking, stroking, weaving a web around her that she didn’t dare try to break.

“You gonna let me bite you again?”

Startled, she looked into his eyes, and saw the wicked intent there. “I—I don’t know.” Weak. She was weak, for sounding like that—weak for letting him affect her like that. She shifted her lower half restlessly, angry at herself. Her blanket-encased leg brushed up against the bulge in his crotch, and he stiffened. His hand flew away from her face like she was suddenly made of holy water.

Weak. Both of them.

Her breath was coming in short gasps; she hadn’t moved her leg away. On the contrary, she was rubbing him, touching him through layers of fabric, making him gasp as he took in unneeded air.

“Fuck, Buffy,” he gasped. His hands twisted in the covers that enclosed her—and suddenly, something changed.

He had control over her. He’d demonstrated it plenty of times. But she had control over him, too. If she was lost and weak, then so was he.

She yanked the covers off and threw a leg over him, pushing him down on the mattress and straddling him fully. He looked up at her, clearly shocked; she just grinned and ran her hands up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulders.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” she told him, a smile playing around her lips.

Maybe he realized what had occurred to her; maybe his demon was taking over. Whatever the reason, Buffy blinked—

And found herself lying beneath him.

“Hey!” she protested, wriggling frantically; but his weight was too much for her. “You should—oooh.” He was pushing his erection into her, his hips heavy on hers, and somehow, his mouth had found his still-tender bite mark. “Oh, God—Spike—I—“

“Like that, Slayer?” he murmured against her neck. A hand came up to play with her breast; sensation shot through her, rocking her to her core. He chuckled. “Naughty, naughty girl.”

Naughty? Buffy’s ears perked up at that word. Her Watcher had used to call her that, once or twice when she got in trouble…but it never sounded half as sexy as it did coming out of Spike’s mouth. She twisted—not trying to get away, but trying to make him raise his head so that she could gain an opening—

He did exactly as she wanted. The second his head came up, Buffy reared up and caught her lips with his.

No anger this time, no desperation—only lust and the acknowledgement that they were both lost in a place that had never known a map. She dipped her tongue into his mouth, feeling a thrill when he reciprocated, running his cool tongue along the top of hers before delving deeper. His hips were thrusting into hers; she was thrusting back with equal force, desperate to feel him against her. He slipped his hand under her top, never losing contact with her mouth—she grabbed the bottom of his black t-shirt, fully intending to rip if off if only so she could feel his skin against hers—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

They froze, jerked back to reality by the alarm clock. Pulled back to a reality that contained a world that needed saving, pulled back to the harsh truth: she was a Slayer, he was a vampire, and in the eyes of the world, what they were doing was wrong.

He rolled off of her, muttering what might have been an apology. She nodded, smoothing her hair.

“So, um…guess we’d better get to the airport.” Her voice was hoarse; her mouth was dry. Her legs still trembled from the force of the lust that had been running through her.

Spike cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair. “Uh, yeah,” he said, his voice just a scratchy as hers. “We’d best be off.” He grabbed their bags.

She snatched hers away from him. “Super-strength,” she reminded him, sticking her nose in the air.
He rolled his eyes. “Bloody irritating bint,” he muttered, stalking ahead of her.

But Buffy noted, with a self-satisfied smile, that he held the door open for her when they left.

~*~

~*~

She was hoping this plane ride wouldn’t be a repeat of the last one. She didn’t much want to deal with falling asleep on his arm again, not after what had transpired first in the alley and then in the motel room. Even if she had initiated part of it…

Luckily for her, there still seemed to be several different entities out to get them. They’d been set on by twenty vampires before they even got to the airport, and by the time they’d gotten on the plane, someone had tried to stab Buffy, and another demon had attempted to stake Spike.

It was really starting to piss her off.

“I know that Willow and her cronies can’t be too thrilled that we’re coming,” she complained to Spike. They’d been on the plane for two hours and were somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. “But seriously, couldn’t she be honest about it? Twenty to two isn’t fair odds at all!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Vamps don’t play fair, luv.”

Before it had been an empty endearment. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Buffy felt her face turning red. “Well, yeah, but—“

“An’ you’d best be gettin’ used to bein’ attacked,” he added harshly, not looking at her. “Red’s not the only one who’ll be wantin’ to kill us b’fore this is over.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore how much his tone hurt her. “I know that,” she snapped. “Slayer, remember?”

“Not likely to forget it,” he said. It could have been a compliment, but the way he said it, she knew it wasn’t.

“Just like I’m not likely to forget you’re a vampire,” she said flatly.

A smirk came over his lips. “You seemed to forget last night.”

A valid point, and one that hit her like a ton of bricks. Flirting, grinding against him—letting him bite her, even if it had been for the common good of all mankind. “Last night was—“

“An exception, you were off your bird, not gonna happen again, ‘ve heard it all before, Slayer,” Spike cut in flatly. “That’s what you said back in Cleveland, when we were—what the bloody hell do you want?”

The businessman who’d tapped the vampire on the shoulder said politely, “I don’t know what sort of role playing game you kids are doing, but could you keep it down, please? I’m in the middle of a very important deal.”

Spike stared at the man incredulously for a moment before nodding curtly. After the man thanked him and sat back again, Spike growled something about ripping heads off.

For once, Buffy couldn’t have agreed more.

~*~

It was midday when they landed in London. As they got their bags and went out to the terminal, Buffy could only thank the Council that these people spoke English. It wasn’t exactly foreign, but still, there was an air to the place that spoke of a different country. Everything was…off.

Including, she discovered as they were set upon while waiting for a taxi, her senses.

“Oh, shit, she growled, ducking a punch from a particularly nasty-looking vampire and trying to grab the stake in her boot. “Stupid, idiotic, soulless bastards!” On the last word, her stake plunged into one’s heart.

He looked at her indignantly. “Hey!” he yelled before disintegrating into dust.

Buffy rolled her eyes and went on fighting. There were about fifteen vamps around them, fighting but not angry—which meant that they weren’t hungry, they’d been sent by somebody.

“Any idea who did this?” she yelled over to Spike, dealing a blow to a vamp’s stomach and stomping on one’s toes with her boots. Over the vampire’s subsequent howl she heard him say,

“Got no bloody idea. This isn’t Red’s style.”

“Oh, so the airport in New York was just a fluke?” She had time to roll her eyes. “Sorry, but I think this is very much her style.”

He shook his head. “I know her, Slayer. She’s my sodding Childe. ‘f she’d used her power to command ‘em—an’ she’d have to—then I could feel it.”

She digested that information, throwing a hard right cross to the vampire whose collar she held. “We could beat the info out of them.” Or what was left of them; dogged as they were, there were only a few of them still undusty.

“There won’t be any need of that.”

They both froze, foolishly; lucky for them, the vampires they were fighting froze too. Unluckily, they dropped to one knee, facing the creature who came out of the darkness.

Buffy felt her stomach drop. Oh, shit. “Halfrek,” she said flatly.

The vengeance demon gave a tinkling laugh. “Well, well, that Watcher of yours did a halfway decent job, didn’t she?” Her tone was patronizing; clearly, she couldn’t have cared less about Buffy’s Watcher. “I hadn’t expected you to have heard of me.”

“You and Anyanka have been torturing mortals for two thousand years. How could I not have heard of you?”

She felt Spike shift at her side. “Uh, Buffy—“

“Halfrek’s a vengeance demon,” she explained, not taking her eyes off the monster in question. “She and her friend Anyanka, who’s also a vengeance demon, are one of the few plagues I can’t get rid of. They gain their power through—“

“Wishes.” Spike completed the sentence for her. “I know that, luv. What I don’t understand is why you can’t kill the bitch.”

“She’s strong, but almost impossible to kill,” Buffy said truthfully. “She’s impervious to magic and can walk through realms and teleport as easily as we—I—breathe. Kind of impossible to kill.”

“We can try, though, can’t we?”

“I wouldn’t bother with that, if I were you,” Halfrek said lightly, “I’d only run you through the heart, and if the marks on that girl’s throat are any indication, neither of you would like that much.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the demon but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t been beaten with a cane to learn patience for nothing.

“I must say,” Halfrek continued, “I’m rather disappointed in Anyanka. This reality is no different from the one it branched off from.”

Buffy blinked. “Wait—Anyanka? Reality?” Her sitting in Spike’s lap, kissing him, euphorically happy because he was going to marry her and then do all the dirty little things he was whispering in her ear—

No. That was neither here nor there.

“Anyanka made this reality, child,” Halfrek said patronizingly. “Molded it around you, actually.”

“Around me?” Now Buffy was really confused. “So—I’ve only existed for a little while? How did she do it? Why did she do it? Did someone make a wish for things to—to be this way?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” she said haughtily. “Honestly, girl, do you really think Anyanka divulges every secret to me? Don’t be stupid. I haven’t the foggiest idea why she wants me to kill you.”

Every nerve in Buffy’s body went quiet at that statement. “You want to kill us?”

“No, Anyanka wants you dead, but she’s currently indisposed,” Halfrek said waspishly. “I’m getting tired of explaining this to you, I thought Slayers were supposed to be clever!”

Spike, who’d been silent for longer than Buffy would have thought possible, said, “’f you want us to die, why don’t you just rip out hearts out? Since you’re so all-powerful and whatnot.”

She smiled sweetly. “Because, dear, I’m not allowed to. Not directly, anyway. My power lies in wishing, and in getting lesser demons to obey me.”

Oh, wonderful. Someone who was going to send a bunch of underlings at them. Her day had just gotten a lot better. “Fine. Unless you’re planning on torturing us to death by making us listen to you talk, can you just leave?”

Halfrek smiled, a chilling smile that transformed her already hideous face into something even worse. For all her almost-human looks, she was evil. “Oh, definitely,” she said, and her image started to blur. “But count on seeing me again.”

When she’d disappeared, Buffy groaned and said, “Oh, shit.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Spike said confidently, starting to walk. She had no choice but to follow him. “Vengeance demons, they’re all about taunting people, prob’ly b’cause they can’t do much else.”

“I thought you didn’t know about vengeance demons,” Buffy said, confused.

He snorted cynically. “Dru used to be obsessed with ‘em. Had me catch one an’ let her play with it.”

“How did you get around the teleporting stuff?”

“Easy. Dru wished no one could leave the house till the demon in question was dead. Bint had no choice but to grant the wish.”

“So you just…stayed in there?”

“Dru also wished for a mess of human-types to keep us full. She was rather inventive, an’ there’s not much a vengeance demon can do to avoid grantin’ a wish when they’re all tied up.”

She felt sick to her stomach; he was talking about it casually. Obviously he didn’t think there was anything wrong with torturing a defenseless creature. Even if it had been another evil demon, the Slayer in her was still repulsed. “Oh.”

She didn’t notice the calculating, sidelong glance Spike threw her—but she did notice when he stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice dropping out of habit.

He smirked at her. “Gotta get m’self a snack. You stay here.”

She saw through him at once. He knew she wasn’t going to allow him to just eat a human. “Spike, please,” she begged, “don’t do this here.”

He cocked his head at her. “Wanna go someplace a little more private, then?”

Buffy closed her eyes. By accepting, she’d be saving Londoners from a terrible fate. She had to remember that, not how good, how purely sexual, it had felt to have him at her throat. “Yes,” she whispered, shame and humiliation flowing over her.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Grinning, he held out his hand and said, “Well, then, m’lady, why don’t we get to our hotel?” The hand that wasn’t gripping hers waved for a taxi.

Dread. Dread and that same, secret shame that had lived in her for over a year, ever since she’d seen him in Cleveland and had desperately wanted to love him.

“Okay,” she said quietly. When he held out the taxi door for her to climb in, a tear ran down her cheek and spoiled the fabric below.

~*~

~*~


She’d thought that he would just jump her the instant they entered their rather nice motel room. In fact, she was hoping he’d just jump her—if he turned this into something violent, she could justify just giving in.

Maybe.

But in typical evil vampire fashion, he didn’t even try to make it easy for her. As soon as they’d crossed the threshold and Buffy had noted with surprise that there wasn’t a cockroach in sight, Spike’s lips were on hers and his hands were on her bottom, pulling her against him.

She let out a surprised squeak and wriggled frantically against him, two things that turned out to be very, very bad, since the second she did it he growled and ground against her.

“Ought to know better than t’ do that to me, little girl,” he whispered roughly in her ear, squeezing the toned flesh of her bottom. “Might just ‘ave to shag you silly.”

She froze at that. He didn’t mean…he couldn’t…”Spike? Please, I—“

“You’re the Slayer. The Slayer,” he repeated furiously. “You wanna save the world from me? ‘s not gonna be easy, luv.” He let go of her bottom and she found herself sliding down, down, his hardness pressing into her…making her want things she knew she shouldn’t.

“But I…”

“You did it once. Came onto me, you did, like a little slut. You are a little slut.” His gaze clashed with hers—blue eyes begging her to fight, begging her to prove him right.

Pleading with her to turn it back into something simple, into a case of a Slayer and a vampire, against each other as the Powers had intended for them to be.

She couldn’t do it. She didn’t want him to be violent—to be evil—but at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to grovel the way she knew he needed her to, for him to justify doing it. Just like he couldn’t be nonsexual about the biting, because he knew that was what she needed.

They couldn’t love each other. They couldn’t hate each other. Closing her eyes, Buffy decided what she knew all along had to happen.

Please, let me be right.

She slid up him again, lifting her legs and wrapping them around him. “You’re right,” she said slowly, pushing her hips against his rhythmically and gasping at the result. “I am a slut.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything, for which Buffy was eternally grateful. This was hard enough already.

“Do you know why I’m a slut, Spike?” she whispered, still rocking almost gently against him. He shook his head, still mute. Buffy paused before finally surrendering.

“Because I trust you.”

For a second the whole world froze. For a second, everything hung in balance. Spike’s eyes were still locked with hers, disbelief marked in their depths. She stared back, fighting to be strong, fighting to meld their two worlds so that they could both survive.

Then he nodded, only slightly, and his grip on her eased. He turned them around and walked towards the bed, laying her down on it gently. Buffy lay very, very still, willing her body to relax.

“You know what ‘m gonna do to you, right?” he asked softly. It was her last chance—the last time she could beg out of this.

She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to deny what was happening—but she couldn’t. She again looked into his eyes, letting him see the emotions that resided there.

“I know.”

~*~

”Fuck. You mean no one’s ever told you ‘bout claiming?”

Buffy rolled her eyes at Spike. God, she couldn’t wait until this stupid alliance was over and the bleached menace had gotten the hell out of Cleveland. Her Watcher hadn’t taught her what to do when vampires came onto you. “Of course not,” she snapped. “My focus is on slaying vampires, not learning their mating rituals.”

“Aha!” he pointed a finger at her. “So you do know what claiming is.”

She could feel herself blushing. Crap. “I know the basics,” she admitted grudgingly. “Vamp sex. That’s about all there is to it, right?”

“They would tell you that,” he said scornfully. “Pet, the claimin’ ritual is the one thing that all vamps honor. Claiming another vamp ‘s like gettin’ married in the human world.”

“Vampires aren’t exclusive,” she said flatly. “Sex is part of the evil package.”

He snorted. “Bullshit,” he told her blankly. “Yeah, there are vamps who screw ‘round even after they’ve been claimed, but generally ‘f you leave a claiming mark on someone, it’s for life—or unlife.”

“Wait.” She was sharp enough to have caught that implication. “You mean vamps can lay claims on humans?”

He smirked. “What, wantin’ me to sink m’ teeth into that pretty little neck, Slayer?”

He really was a master at twisting her words. “God, no,” she snapped, resuming her pace. “I was curious. As a Slayer, it’s my responsibility to know as much about the vampire-human dynamic as possible.”

Funny how she could almost feel him roll his eyes. “Whatever the hell that bit of Watcher gibberish meant,” he said, “you can’t claim a person by force, anyway. There’s gotta be love, or at least trust. So ‘f I tried to claim you, you’d have to trust me, else I’d be dust in the wind b’fore it was done.”

“Good.” One brittle syllable, laden with warning. “You would do well to keep that in mind. I’m not in this because I enjoy your company, Spike.”

The vampire laughed bitterly, throwing his head back as though he’d just heard a particularly good joke. “Don’t I know it,” he said bitterly, and they walked on.

~*~

It had only been a year ago, but now it felt like centuries had passed since they’d had that conversation. Since then so many things had changed, yet in a way everything remained the same.

He stared at her now. A year hadn’t dimmed her beauty, hadn’t made her any less incredible. She was lying on the bed, now, her face turned away from his, waiting for the claim and dreading it.

It made him mad—beyond mad. Furious enough to devastate an entire city, if he hadn’t known she wouldn’t like it. The claiming ritual, as he’d told her, was the one thing all vamps agreed on. They held it holy, all of them; and Spike was more romantic than most.

He was going to claim her, and not just because she’d given him the one line that let him know it was okay with her. He knew why she was doing it, just like he knew why he was doing it. His claim on her would be vastly useful in the coming fight…

Ah, who the hell was he trying to kid? He knew damn good and well why he was claiming her, and it had nothing to do with logistics. He cared about her. Disgusting, twisted, and a thousand other words for severely fucked up, but there it was.

He didn’t want her to take this as just another part of her duty, or even as a dirty little thing she was doing because he was evil and somehow corrupting her. He was probably that much more evil for it, but he wanted her to acknowledge that there was something between them other than ages-old enmity.

“Slayer,” he said softly. She twitched at the sound of his voice, muscles tensing. “Buffy—look at me.” When she still refused he sighed, fighting off the anger that was threatening to overwhelm him. “Buffy…”

“Stop saying that.” A small, quiet voice—the voice of a little girl. And at that moment, he knew. He couldn’t bite her, couldn’t claim her. Not unless she wanted him to. Because even now, seeing the terror in her face, he felt a heavy emotion he didn’t care to identify settle in his stomach…one that felt a hell of a lot like guilt.

“Why?” he asked, more harshly than he meant to. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

She shook her head. “I’m the Slayer. That’s all.”

If he ever met the fucktards who’d reduced her to this, he’d rip them apart so slowly they’d be dying for weeks.

“No, you’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re more than that, pet.” He approached the bed, slowly so as not to frighten her, and sat down next to her head. His move had its desired effect: she immediately sat up, allowing him to grasp her shoulders.

Bitter green eyes met his. “You don’t know that,” she told him coldly. “All I ever do is fight. That’s all I am. Nothing else.”

“That’s not true an’ you know it,” he told her, reaching out to stroke her newly short hair. “Look, I know you’re prob’ly not feeling inclined to take advice from me…but I know who you are. I’ve seen it.”

“But—“

“Hush.” He covered her mouth; luckily she didn’t decide to bite his fingers off. “It wasn’t the Slayer who squealed over the pretty clothes we bought, an’ it wasn’t the Slayer who blushed when I called you gorgeous. That was the girl—the woman. That’s the person I want to make mine.”

She closed her eyes, a tear falling down her cheek. “Please don’t say that,” she begged him. “It’s wrong.”

And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The demon in him acknowledged the wrongness of it, too, but that didn’t stop it from wanting it desperately. The demon needed her just as much as the man did.

“Does it matter?” he asked in a desperate attempt to justify what was happening between them.

He watched the emotions flicker across her face—denial, anger, even grief. He could read every one because he’d run the gauntlet of emotions himself recently.

“It should,” she said quietly, struggling to grasp that last scrap of reason residing between them.

He shook his head. “’m tired of thinking ‘bout what oughta be. If everything was as it should be, then you’d be some happy, beautiful girl in a high school somewhere, an’ I’d be moldering in a grave.”

She looked away from him. “I’m not beautiful.”

He probably shouldn’t have slid his hand down to her back and drawn her closer. He definitely shouldn’t have gently kissed her temple, rubbing her back soothingly. Vampires weren’t supposed to care about the Slayer. They weren’t supposed to want to comfort her, protect her, make sure she never had to fight another battle alone.

But he’d already told her that was should be had no place with them, in that room, that night.

So he whispered, “Shh. ‘ll take care of you, pet.” When she looked up at him, startled, and tried to speak, he shook his head gently. “Lie back.”

Wary, stiff again, she obeyed.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, laying his hands on her stomach and slowly, slowly sliding her shirt up to reveal the plain tan-colored bra underneath. He leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on her stomach, feeling her surprised gasp and the quiver of her muscles. Smiling, he moved his lips to her collarbone and kissed her there, licking lightly.

It was then he felt her shudder. When he looked up at her face, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

He knew nothing of healing, of fixing that which was broken. In more than one hundred years, all he’d ever done was destroy things. So now he comforted her in the only way he knew how: sliding the rest of the way up her body, he pressed himself against her and kissed her deeply, tenderly.

The kisses they’d shared before were desperate and confused, full of battling emotions and pain. This kiss was simple—a sharing of emotions, a humble offering of comfort, and an acceptance that what was happening was uncharted, painful territory for them both.

Then her lips parted—her body shifted beneath his—and his grip on her shoulders tightened as he angled her head differently, delving into her with his tongue. “Buffy,” he moaned, sliding his forehead down into her shoulder. “Buffy—I want you. Need you. Now.”

~*~

Simple words, and ordinarily they wouldn’t have swayed her. Her Handbook-regulated self-control was far too great for that. But he hadn’t called her Slayer, hadn’t used one of the thousand pet names he employed with her. He’d called her Buffy. Buffy, the child who’d frolicked in the sun, ignorant of the monsters that waited for it to set. Buffy, the girl who’d struggled to be good enough so that her Watcher would love her the way she could almost remember her parents loving her. Buffy, who’d had her heart broken by a boy, a soldier who chose his duty over her.

Buffy, the girl. Not the Slayer, too hard and weary to own any personal beauty. This was a different creature, a human who could experience beauty…who could feel love.

It was the woman who arched up beneath him, moaning at the words. The woman who whispered, “Spike.”

The woman who knew, at that moment, that what should be didn’t matter half so much as what could be.

His hands at her back—rough and yet gentle, more gentle than he had a right to be. His tongue, tasting her, making her shudder as the sensations knifed through her.

It was a different kind of violence. Soothing, almost. With a vampire worshipping her body, she was happier than she’d ever been before.

And yet—he wasn’t a vampire, not here, any more than she was a Slayer. When he cupped her breasts in his hands, worshipping them, worrying the nipples with teeth that had somehow grown demonically sharp—even feeling his demon guise against her skin somehow didn’t diminish her certainty that here, in this bed, they were just man and woman. Nothing less, nothing more.

“I need…I want…” her voice was weak; she didn’t care. She needed him to understand that she didn’t just want the penetration her body was craving—for some twisted, perverse reason, she wanted to be his, and wanted him to be hers. She wanted them bound.

“This?” A hand touching her, teasing her enough to make her arch her back and let out a strangled moan.

Not enough. She shook her head, trying to dispel the sparks in front of her eyes. “No. Please, Spike, I—“

“Say it, then.” Harsh. Desperate for the same confirmation she needed.

“Please, Spike…” She reached down, pulling his head up and kissing him with all the urgency she felt. She poured her soul into the kiss, and felt him doing the same, their tongues clinging together. When she broke away, they were both gasping.

She arched against him, feeling her clit scrape against the denim of his jeans. “I want you to make love to me.”

For a second the world froze, the way it did in those movies her Watcher always told her were so silly. He stared at her, his crystalline blue eyes stunned. She looked back steadily. It was her turn to be strong.

Then he smiled, an astonished, almost grateful smile, and lowered himself upon her. “Want to make love to you too, kitten,” he murmured, skimming his hands up and down her sides as she ferociously yanked his jeans down. As soon as his cock sprang free she arched her hips, needing him inside her.

But he shook his head, smiling. “Slower,” he whispered, sliding a hand under her so that it rested on the small of her back. Slowly, gently, he let more of his weight down, spreading her till he rested just outside her entrance.

She gasped when she felt him brush against her. “Please, Spike,” she said, no longer caring that she was begging, “Please. Just—“

And then he entered her, and she had no more words.

It didn’t hurt. She’d been expecting it to—had known it would—and yet somehow, when he was fully sheathed inside her and they were both quivering from it, she felt no pain.

But God, she felt pleasure.

Her entire body was stimulated, straight down to her toes. Little licks of fire were chasing each other through her body, making her moan and cling to him. He was her anchor, same as he was the storm now raging inside her, around her, through her.

Right then, he was everything.

“Buffy,” he moaned, dropping his forehead to hers and starting to move. In, out, in, out, closer and closer until there was no way to tell where one ended and the other began. They blended together, heart and mind, sunshine and starlight, black and white mixing together to create a grey canvas upon which they splashed the colors of their overwhelming emotions.

She could feel him bumping her womb, pressing her further back into the mattress, and still it wasn’t enough. She needed his energy, needed the life that his dead body could somehow provide him with. So she squeezed her inner muscles around him as tightly as she could, almost brutally, as she glared a challenge into his eyes.

“Fuck, Buffy. You tryin’—t’ kill me?” he panted, moving still faster.

She shook her head frantically as she ran her hands down his back, squeezing his ass tightly. “No. Need—ungh! You promised. Trust. You—“

His growl cut her off, and her gasp was muffled when he kissed her savagely. His face, which had been flickering between its demonic and human guises since they’d begun, was truly vampiric now. “You know what you’re askin’?” he said harshly, panting. “You know what you want me to do? No goin’ back after this. We’ll be bound. You’ll be mine, an’—“

She narrowed her eyes and thrust her hips up with all her strength behind it, arching them both off the bed. “Do it.”

And he did.

His head descended and he sniffed her neck, oddly curiously. His hips slowed, reducing their frantic coupling to a slow-burning pace that made her squirm with anticipation.

She felt his tongue dart out to lick her sweaty neck and gasped—the simple contact made her still wetter. She felt his cock jump inside her and ground her hips against his in a circular motion. “Do it,” she whispered again, almost terrified that he wouldn’t.

For a second his teeth hovered, razor-sharp, above the throbbing vein in her neck. He sank his teeth in shallowly—her heart stumbled and her breath halted as sensation rushed through her, igniting her, flaming fires that were already burning into an even more consuming inferno. Then he took the first pull of her blood, kissing her neck as he stole the life-giving liquid, and she exploded.

His cock throbbed in her as she spasmed around it, digging her heels into the bed and crying out his name as oblivion claimed her. Again, and again, and again she shot off amongst the stars, her throat emitting strangled sounds that might have resembled a benediction had she been coherent enough to try to say them properly. She clutched him, feeling his sweat-soaked skin rub against her already sensitized flesh—

And when he finally let himself go, releasing her neck as he threw back his head with a yell and slammed her down against the mattress, spilling himself in her, she wrapped her limbs around him tightly, holding him to her as they both spiraled off into nothingness for a final time before slowly coming back.

When they were both more relaxed, he rolled to one side and cradled her in his arms, licking the wound on her neck gently, cleaning up the blood and sealing the cut.

“Mine,” he whispered, squeezing her hips slightly.

She nodded, her lips finding his in a gentle kiss. “Yours,” she reaffirmed, staring at his blue eyes in wonder. Her fingers traced his unwrinkled forehead. How could it be that she hadn’t noticed when his face had shifted?

He caught her hand and kissed each finger, making her shiver. “Sleep now, luv.”

Buffy could already feel slumber threatening to overwhelm her, so she simply nodded again in acquiescence and snuggled closer to him, his cool skin soothing her. Later she would berate herself and him. Later she might even struggle to break their connection.

But right now, she just wanted to rest safely in his arms.

~*~

~*~

When Buffy woke, sunshine was still streaming in through the windows. Her body was protesting, urging her to sleep longer…but something else, some part of her that she might have called her heart if she was better versed in poetical notions, was tugging at her, forcing her awake.

Spike. He’d claimed her, and they’d—her cheeks reddened as blood rushed to her nether regions. So shouldn’t be getting all hot and bothered because Spike made love to me…and made me climax again and again and again… Her eyes all but rolled back in her head and she groaned, half in shame and half in anticipation.

That was when she felt it—a bolt of anguish that ran through her and then, as suddenly as it had come, retreated, leaving her bewildered. She certainly wasn’t feel grief of that magnitude, so who…?

“You ought to go back to sleep. It’s not polite, intruding upon a man’s misery.”

The voice, clogged with tears and oddly stilted in its accent, startled her. She jumped—and then, still completely naked, whirled around and pinned the vampire in the corner to the wall with her gaze. “Spike? What the hell is going on?”

He looked away from her. “Hell. Ought to pay a visit, meet my maker, give him my regards…I’ll be there soon enough.”

What the fuck? “Spike, drop the act,” she said disbelievingly. “Seriously, you claimed and screwed a Slayer. Shouldn’t you be making with the smugness?”

“No!” he cried, and even Buffy’s sleep-muddled brain could hear and feel the pain in that one word. “Didn’t mean to, shouldn’t have marked her, pretty girl, not pretty any more, evil makes her ugly…”

This was going to get on her nerves very, very quickly. “Spike, you didn’t hurt me,” she said, trying to make her voice gentle. Whatever insanity had gripped him, she didn’t want to incite it. “You just—you didn’t hurt me.” She let the odd little bond she was feeling in her mind loosen a bit, so that her feelings flowed towards him. “It didn’t hurt,” she repeated, staring at him and feeling the knot in her stomach tighten.

She’d grown remarkably used to Spike’s odd moods, but this one was…different. Along with the opening of the claim came feelings flowing from him with incredible speed, feelings that almost had her weeping, they were so intense. Not just intense, either…they were…

Well, human.

She’d known the claim would have a strong effect on them both, but Spike was acting almost as though he’d gotten himself a soul—which of course, Buffy hastened to reassure herself, was absolutely impossible.

Still, something was clearly off.

She wrapped the sheet around herself and got off the bed, moving towards him and trying to ignore the way he frantically scrabbled away from her. “Spike, it’s just me,” she said as gently as she could.

“Girl. Just a girl. Hurt the girl,” he muttered, fighting to get away from her. “Little pixies in my head, she said there would be. Warned me…didn’t listen, did I? Couldn’t listen, never could. Didn’t want to listen, hear the truth in madness…pay for it now, I will. Will. Will will pay.”

“Spike!”

Her Watcher had trained her to have a voice that could quell an army of demons if it needed to; now she finally found the skill coming in handy. At the whiplike sound of her voice he stopped his insane gibberings. “Mustn’t listen, must block her out,” he muttered…but his hands remained as his sides, and he was still.

“Look, I don’t know what’s up with you,” she said honestly. “But we can’t afford to have you like this.” She slowly advanced towards him, relieved when he didn’t try to get away from her. “Let me just—“

Quicker than a striking snake, she reached her hand out and grasped his tightly. He made a noise like a wounded animal, but it was too late to stop her; she was yanking him towards the bed.

“No—no! Mustn’t give into temptation, can’t let her near, can feel her, feel her goodness, all around me, polluting me, shut her out, get her out…”

The claim. Buffy stopped dead, and her head whirled with the implications. He wasn’t a gibbering mockery of the human—or not-so-human—condition because of some spell Willow had put on him, the way she thought he was. No, he was a mess because of the claim.

She’d put some part of herself in him…her soul? Did he have some semblance of a conscience now? If so, then she was in deeper shit than she really wanted to recognize. “Spike, I need you to tell me—“ She took a deep breath. “I need you to tell me how you feel.”

He burst out laughing at that, maniacal laughter that put shivers running down her spine. “Tell her how I feel, she wants,” he gibbered. “Tell her about the phantoms haunting him, let her know how sorry I am, maybe grovel at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. Bad man. Badmanbadmanbadman—“

“Spike!” She didn’t know what possessed her. Actually, given how things had been going lately, she wouldn’t have been surprised if something really had possessed her. One minute she was staring at the gibbering vampire at her feet, feeling something akin to pity and revulsion that defied labeling…

And the next, she’d slapped him.

When his eyes met hers again, they were crystalline, the tears that they’d held gone. “What the bloody ‘ell ‘m I doin’ on the floor, Slayer?” he inquired coolly.

The killer was back.

Her voice was trembling, ever so slightly, when she said, “I—I’m not sure. I woke up, and you were acting…strange.”

“Strange, eh?” His face was still blank.

“You mean—you don’t remember?” Buffy was pretty sure incredulity was coming off her in waves.

His only response was another blank look. “’m I supposed to remember something?” he asked. “Although…’m definitely not gonna forget the shagging we just did.”

She was appalled. “You mean, even after—“ you claimed me. But the words wouldn’t come out. “After we—and I—and you—“

Spike should have been able to feel her confusion and bubbling anger. Hell, she could feel them, and she wasn’t at all skilled when it came to categorizing and interpreting her emotions. But he gave no sign of feeling anything when he said lazily, “You a’right, Slayer? You’re even more incoherent than usual. I didn’t drain you too much, did I? Wouldn’t want to have you all weak-willed for tonight. ‘s not half as much fun that way.”

If he sounded a little less venomous, a little less blatantly evil, than he usually did, Buffy didn’t notice. His voice rang in her ears—not the voice of a tortured half-ensouled-seeming creature, but the voice of the soulless thing who’d manipulated her emotions and almost destroyed her a year ago.

The world seemed to thicken around her, as though someone had stuffed cotton between her ears. She was barely lucid when she said, “I have—I have to go.”

She fled into the bathroom, shutting the door behind herself and locking it, even though she knew that if he wanted to hurt her, he wouldn’t even need to bother with the door. He was inside her now, in more way than one. She could feel him—could feel his demon, slimy and insidious, working its way into her soul.

He was poisoning her.

Her fingers tightened on the cold, smooth surface of the sink, and she looked in the mirror. Her reflection. Yes, she still had that. Short hair, haunted hazel eyes, and that scar—the scar she’d gained on her first night as a Slayer. This was who she was…but now there was someone else inside, and she couldn’t get him out.

Why, why, why had she agreed to let him claim her?

She knew why. Because of her Watcher. It always circled back to that. Every time she tried to have an emotion of her own, the damned Council intruded, putting its ideals into her head and stealing her sanity.

But it was also him, waiting for her outside with that evil gleam in his eyes. He was—he’d been almost human for those few minutes. She’d seen tortured regret in those eyes. No sooner had she tried to touch it, to touch him, than he’d drawn away from her—and now, having seen, if only for a second, what he might have been like as a human, she was left desperate for another glimpse. Just one more, to prove to her that the monster now residing in her mind and heart had some redeeming quality about them.

How could that be even possible? How could she see the human in him, when it was long gone. Rule number one, the first thing a Watcher told his or her young charge: When a human is turned, all vestiges of his or her soul is devoured by the demon. Without the aid of extremely powerful magic, no soul can be restored to the demon—and even the world’s strongest magic finds restoring the original soul difficult, if not impossible.

She was not seeing William the bloody awful poet at all; she was seeing Spike the vampire, who was even after their mating—if one could call it that—toying with her.

Her hands strayed to the shameful marks that seemed to burn themselves into her neck. The link was weaker than she’d been led to believe it would, though of course that could be simply because she hadn’t reciprocated the claiming…not to mention that there were no real emotions between them in the first place.

Right, pet. You go on believing that.

For a second she thought Spike had actually spoken in her head; shocked, she whirled around to stare at the closed door. He couldn’t have heard her thoughts, much less inserted his own into her head. It was impossible…

Wasn’t it?

Their claim couldn’t possibly be so strong. Buffy repeated that thought over and over again in her head. It wasn’t that strong. It wasn’t.

Because if it was, then she was even more of a whore, even more sick and twisted, than she’d formerly thought.

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear seeing her reflection—couldn’t stand to see her face, so flushed and healthy after a night of sex with a vampire, staring back at her. Couldn’t bear the marks on her neck.

She’d left her duffel in the bathroom, and now she was glad. Shoving on a pair of jeans and a thin top, Buffy ran out of the bathroom, past Spike, and out the door.

She didn’t stop running until she managed to get lost in London’s winding streets.

~*~

~*~

Spike waited until his girl’s footsteps faded before giving in to his agony.

He made sure to close the claim when he did. It was by no means a strong link—mating bonds forged in desperation never were, at least not at first. For all that it was used for more sinister matters, a vampire mating ritual was, first and foremost, an act of love. Without that, it was nothing.

His bond with the Slayer wasn’t nothing, which in and of itself told him quite a bit.

He remembered going half-insane, of course. Hell, he still felt like that, a bit. The demon had taken over him again, given him the strength to withstand the pity and fear he’d felt roiling off Buffy, but that nagging little bit of him that had been in full power for awhile while she was still asleep—that part remained, whispered in his cranium till he felt like he had a bug in his head, and was desperate to get it out.

Bad man. William is a bad bad man.

God, he wished that wankerish voice would shut the hell up.

He could feel it gaining strength, though, feeding on the goodness that permeated him every second the claim with the Slayer stayed in him. It was as though her virtue, her purity, was food for that bit of whatever-it-was that no other vampire spoke of having.

It had been with him all this time, just not quite so loud. It was the reason he’d never indulged in torture the way Angelus did, the reason he’d taken the Slayers down in a fair fight instead of catching them when they were weak. It was the part of him that still held some idea of honor, that whispered because it’s wrong when the demon asked why not?

And right now, it was the reason he wanted to kiss daylight.

Death, destruction, pain—they were the demon’s element. Warmth, tenderness, and light had been foreign to him for so long that finding a piece of him that reveled in such things was akin to discovering a third eye, or perhaps another dick. Things like that just didn’t happen.

Too tired and weak to fight it, Spike allowed the tortured being’s memories to take him over.

*

”No! Please, anyone but her! Kill me, if you like!”

The eyes of the woman were dark brown—beautiful and desperate. Fear added such a lovely tinge to them. Pity the rest of her was so damn ugly, or he might’ve taken her up on her offer.

Her daughter, though…Spike smiled toothily. “Step aside, bitch,” he ordered cockily. “Time to use your daughter for the only thing the bint’s really good for.”

“Is that right?”

He whirled around—and right into an iron fist.

Spike flew back twenty feet, landing next to a dumpster. When he leapt to his feet, smelly and enraged, he beheld the small blonde who was now his companion in the alley. Her face was confident, a stake was in her hand, and a smell that he would recognize anywhere roiled off her.

“Slayer!”

Unlike most vampires, who would have snarled it in fear, Spike gave the greeting an almost delighted inflection. He knew it would drive her nuts; Slayers, he’d learned, thrived on normality.

“Who the hell are you?” she said, nonplussed. “Oh, wait—you’re dust.” And with that weak pun, she leapt for him.

She wasn’t the only one who could make a body fly through the air simply by punching it. Spike grinned when he saw her fall to the ground.

“Might not wanna try that again, pet.”

Her eyes narrowed and she launched herself up again, not in the least bit daunted. “So, you really think you can challenge a Slayer?” she asked coldly.

Spike cocked his head at her. Interesting, she was…so very small and thin, and as cool as a glacier. “Dunno, luv…’ve killed two of ‘em.”

He saw the emotions flicker across her face, reading them like many would read a book. Anger, shock, and then awareness, followed straight by fear. “You’re William the Bloody,” she said, her voice tight.

“Used to be,” he admitted, nodding. “But ‘ve reinvented m’self since then.”

“Right.” Her eyes flickered up and down his form. “Apparently,” she said sarcastically, “You’ve reinvented yourself into a pathetic Billy Idol wannabe.”

He growled and launched himself at her. He should have been able to tackle her to the ground—but she neatly sidestepped him, and it was all he could do not to fall over.

“Why are you here?” the Slayer asked bluntly, still gripping her stake tightly. “I know it’s not to kill me.”

“Perceptive little bitch, aren’t you?”

“Just answer the question!” she snapped, losing her patience.

So, the Slayer was human after all. Spike smirked at her, hitching his jeans up and watching her eyes dart downwards.

Oh, yeah. This was gonna be a hell of a lot of fun.

~*~

He’d been a bastard back then, just as he was one now. Then, his mission had been to entrap the Slayer, have a bit of fun with her—maybe turn her—and then discard her. Now…bloody hell. Now he was ready to kiss sunlight for even thinking about touching her.

He held his head in his hands, fighting to block out the voices in him, whispering, taunting him, tempting him to give in—but whether he should give in to being a monster or a man, he didn’t know.

“Get out!” he yelled suddenly to the room around him. “Never was good, never could learn to defend the ladies…couldn’t…can’t now, she’s too bright, burns me she does, but I can’t get her out, none of them, always there, never gone, haunting, hurting, hurting William, hurt the girl…”

After awhile, he lost track of whether he was babbling or silent. The turmoil in his mind was spilling outward like a tidal wave, engulfing him and sending him spinning off into blackness.

He was brought back by the terror that suddenly coursed through their bond. He’d shut her off from his feelings, but no one had ever taught the Slayer how to manage a claiming bond—she was still wide open to him, and right now, he could feel the agony and fear rushing through her.

He leapt to his feet with a growl. His mate was in danger—the knowledge pushed all of William’s pathetic babblings away for the moment. He dressed quickly, not bothering to even button his shirt, and left the hotel room at a run.

He’d find her. Find her and then…the demon howled. His mate had run away from him, rejected him like a fledgling. There had to be some form of retribution.

She would pay. They both would.

~*~

Buffy hadn’t actually intended to get herself killed.

She’d wanted to find some nice, evil, kid-killing demon and kick its ass, if only to reinforce to herself the fact that she was still the Slayer. Instead, she found herself facing off with a group of humans who seemed determined to bring her down.

“Get off of me,” she grunted, pushing yet another man away. The Slayer Handbook forbade her to hurt humans, and it was the one rule that she hadn’t broken yet…but God, she was close. “What is your deal, anyway?” she asked one of them before pushing him down. “You’re not gonna rob me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“We have no desire,” one of the men said in a crisp English accent, “To rob you, you rotten little Slayer bitch.”

Buffy had no chance to hit the man—and she was definitely planning on it. OK, she was a morally bereft, criminally insane mate to one of the worst vampires in the history of vampirism (if vampirism had a history)…but still, the man in front of her was insulting her, and the one thing stronger than her Slayer instincts was the pride she kept close to her heart.

But her fist was just drawing back when one of his companions swung his club into the man’s stomach. “Berk! We weren’t supposed to let her—“

“Find out about how the Watcher’s Council wants to kill me?” Buffy asked dully. “Sorry, but I connected the dots awhile ago.”

All four of the men started in surprise. “H-how?” one of them stuttered. “I thought—we’d been circumspect!”

“About as circumspect as an elephant,” Buffy said sarcastically. “Come on, you thought I wouldn’t catch on? The Watchers want to kill me because I’m not a nice, biddable little Slayer any more.”

The man with the club merely smirked, hefting the heavy wood in his hand. “And now they’ll get their wish. Goodbye, Slayer.”

Before she could move—before she could even decide not to move, because right now dying was as good as any other option—the club came down upon her head.

It didn’t kill her, of course, but it was brought down with such strength, and her entire body was already so tired, that she crumpled at the blow.

The man holding the bat chuckled darkly. “Lookie there, boys,” he said malevolently. “One blow brings the Slayer down. Guess fucking a vampire really did deplete her strength.”

Fucking a vampire. Spike. He was the only person who knew she was here, who knew she might be hurting…and right now, the fact that he wasn’t a person was mattering less and less. All she knew was that she didn’t want to die.

Spike. Help…please. She’d never be sure if she thought it or if he actually heard it…because next thing she knew, the men were on her, beating her, and any coherent thought she still had fled.

She only blacked out for a minute. She could tell because when she came back she was still alive, which definitely wouldn’t have happened if she’d been out for more than just a minute. Those men were trying to kill her, and in as painful a way as they could without sullying the Council’s name with torture.

When she came to, it was to the sound of a roar that could have scared Satan himself back into sobriety. She managed to open her eyes finally, only to find her view blocked by undulating leather.

Spike had come to her.

Blood spattered her face as he slaughtered the man. It was not careful, calculated killing, and he did not feed from them. He simply murdered them, tearing off head and ripping out throats.

Tears began to run down her face, mixing with the blood that already stained them. She should have been crying for the deaths of the men, for all that they’d been trying to kill her. They were humans, and since she was barely old enough to understand the difference between people and monsters, she’d been programmed to feel grief when a human died. That was how the Slayer lived. Pain, bloodshed—they drove her.

But she was not crying for the men. Some part of her still rebelled at the idea of mourning the loss of those who had tried to kill her. No, she cried because, upon coming close to her, Spike had dropped all the shields he’d carefully placed upon their bond, and all his feelings came streaming through.

Rage that she, his mate, and the subordinate one in their bond, had had the nerve to leave him. Fear that her leaving him meant she was rejecting not only the bond, but Spike himself.

And the emotion that brought tears to her eyes: pain. Pain that he’d left her, self-loathing brought on by the dreams that she could now see had tortured him all night—and an all-encompassing dread that cut into her like a sharp knife, carving everything out and leaving her a hollow shell of who she was just moments ago.

The men were all dead—now he approached her. Shakily she stood up, fighting not to collapse under the weight of the emotions he was forcing upon her.

“You left me.” His voice was blank. If it weren’t for the roiling fury currently coming clearly through their bond, she might have thought he was perfectly fine.

“I—I had to think things over.”

“Right. Maybe you can think on this.”

For the second time that night, she was hit before she had a chance to react. Only this time it was Spike’s fist, and it sent her flying.

“You nasty, selfish little bitch! How dare you run away from me?”

Pain shot through her, not just the obvious physical pain, but mental pain brought on through the bond. And now she understood what she’d done with frightening clarity: by not claiming Spike back, she’d placed herself in a subordinate, weak position. And by running away, she’d rejected him in a way that the vampire society repudiated.

Well, she’d broken a million of her world’s rules that night. What did she care for a few vamp rules?

She launched to her feet and was immediately on the attack. Since she had no idea how to use their mental bond against him, she just blocked him out; that, at least, she’d had practice with.

Her fists were blurs as they connected with his face, again and again, until she felt the inhuman strength vampirism granted giving away, crumbling before the Slayer’s rage. She channeled all her anger, all her pain, and yes, all her guilt, into those blows.

“How can you do that?” she screamed at him. Somehow she’d knocked him down, into the slime of the dank, dirty alley. She was straddling him, hitting him over and over. “Hurt me, after what happened? You really are evil, aren’t you? You—after last night—I thought—and now you’re—“

She broke off when she realized that her ramblings had lost their coherence about the same time the tears began to stream down her face.

She stopped hitting him when she realized that tears were streaming down his face, as well.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “God, Buffy…’m sorry.”

Buffy stared at him in disbelief. His throat was bruised—had she grabbed it? She couldn’t remember. His face was a mass of scrapes, cuts, and bruises, all courtesy of her fists and nails. Blood streamed from his mouth.

It was her handiwork. And he said he was sorry.

Buffy had to fight the urge to throw up. It was just…horrendous. And she’d done it to him. She’d hurt him for no other reason than that the turmoil inside her had driven her to near-insanity. She’d hurt him far worse than he’d ever hurt her.

He was a monster. What did that make her?

“Spike, stand up. Please.”

“Can’t,” he rasped. The blood-stained corners of his mouth tilted up ironically. “Not since you broke m’ left leg, anyway.”

God. God. She had, hadn’t she?

“I’m—“

“Don’t even bloody say it.” Even in the throes of the pain only a Slayer could bring in, he sounded harsh and angry. “Just gimme the stake and have done with it. I don’t particularly wanna be killed by the first nasty that comes wanderin’ through here.”

Buffy shook her head. “N-no,” she said thickly, fighting to martial something resembling rational thought. “I—no. We’ll get you back, I’ll fix you somehow.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you, princess?” Spike asked. His eyes, barely visible through the blackness that surrounded them, glinted at her mockingly. “Don’t break somethin’ you can’t fix.”

A sob tore at her throat. “Stop it. Just—stop it!”

“Right.” His voice was hollow. “See you on the other side, kitten.”

And with that last odd, superficial remark, he passed out.

~*~

A/N: Thanks for all the support!