+~+~+~+~+

Years of silence. Not enough.
Who can blame us, giving up?
Above the quiet, there's a buzz.
That's me trying.

+~+~+~+~+

After three disastrous attempts at the mathematic intricacies of Yahtzee, one game of Chutes and Ladders, and two thrilling videotaped episodes of Passions (Buffy didn’t want to know who’d started that little obsession), Dawn had finally gone to bed. Apparently even the teenaged queen of separation anxiety had her family fun-time limits. Buffy peeked in on her sleeping sister before closing the door gently and padding down the hallway to her bedroom. Her own door slid closed with a soft click, and she stood for a moment in a pink cotton night shirt that hung a little too easily on her frame. She had lost weight in the past year.

She shook her head dismissively and moved to turn down the bed when a soft tap at the window brought her slayer senses to full alert.

Vampire.

For less than a heartbeat, her mind flipped back to
Angel at the window
the official worst birthday ever, and she felt the tips of her fingers grow cold and numb. Then she turned her head to the pane and Vampire was re-identified as Spike. Chilled fingertips grew warm and tingly, but she cocked a hip and drew her brow into her best “You’re pushing it” expression as he slid unceremoniously through the window.

“Spike, you’re pushing it,” Buffy said tightly.

“Ow, bloody…” Spike grunted as the tip of his boot caught the ledge and he half tumbled into a kneeling position in front of her. “Hunh. Thought you liked to see me on my knees.” He raised an all-too-innocent and slightly battered eyebrow at her, and Buffy’s resolve slipped a notch.

“Not gonna happen, Spike.” She tossed out. But she was hotly aware of the way his eyes slipped over her, taking in her thin shirt, lingering on the light cotton panties directly in his line of sight.

“Tempting,” he growled. Spike licked his lips, then snapped out of his reverie and stood to face her. “But not what I came here for, Slayer.”

“I already told you there will be no candle-blow… huh?” Buffy squinted through the dim light as her brain caught up with her mouth.

“No sex, pet.”

Spike smiled sweetly and tilted his head, seeming to take genuine pleasure at catching her off guard. Buffy bristled. She winced when her words fell out, more pouty than intended. “Then why are you here?” She didn’t like to think what her confusion implied about their relationship. Not that… not that there was a relationship. Of any kind.

“Simple,” Spike said, but he turned from her and began an abbreviated lion’s pace around her room. “I, um… I just wanted to…” He fumbled through his coat pockets, occasionally darting glances at Buffy’s face.

Buffy found a sharp response, but curiosity beat it back, and she sat down Indian-style on her bed while she watched Spike stalk back and forth. At length, he came up with a tightly folded, worn sheet of notebook paper. He stilled, thrust it at her with a mumbled “here” and returned to wearing annoying little vampire tracks into her carpet.

“What’s this?” Buffy held the paper at a distance from her between her forefinger and thumb.

Spike sighed with heavy exaggeration and then sat down beside her. Their shoulders brushed, and for a moment, Buffy thought of inching away from him, but that would have taken way too much effort. Her decision had nothing to do with the comfy smell of leather, sex and smoke that was Spike. And it was not remotely related to the soft low burn working its way down her body. Not related at all. There. All settled.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he muttered. “It’s not gonna bite you. It’s a present, you silly bint.”

Buffy tossed her hair back with what she hoped was the right amount of aloof indifference. “As soon as I find out what that word means, you’re so gonna be dust.”

Spike only chuckled deep in his throat as she carefully unfolded the paper he’d given her. The fingers in his left hand tapped spastically against his leg. Buffy was tempted to grab them, still him for a moment. But that would be hand-holding. And… just no. Never mind the fact that they’d held hands at her party. And, brief though it was, it had felt… surprisingly not insane. Kind of boyfriendy, actually. Which should have been insane. Because Spike was not boyfriend material. The guy… the one Xander brought. She couldn’t actually remember his name right now, but he was the one who was boyfriend material. So why wasn’t he even a blip on her radar? And if all she and Spike had was sex, then why did he act like the jealous boyfriend? And more importantly, why did she like it when Spike acted like a jealous boyfriend?

Buffy turned her eyes back to the paper. A present. Gah, please don’t let it be bad poetry, she thought with a mental groan. Visions of awkward rhymes and a more awkward silence to follow floated through her mind as she spread open the last fold of the sheet.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Spike glanced at the paper, then looked at her bedroom wall. “No joke,” he managed softly.

“It’s… it’s blank,” Buffy said, wondering why she’d even have to say it, since they both knew it, and Spike normally wasn’t slow with the swaggering, annoying wordiness.

“Yeah, well…” True to type, Spike stood and began to speak. But with very little actual swagger. “See, I was thinking about the chip.”

“Spike,” Buffy said sharply, and she wasn’t quite sure why. The Chip was not something they talked about anymore. Not ever.

“And about what would happen if I ever got it out,” he finished slowly, turning to stare her down.

Buffy’s flinch was limited to the very corner of her eyes. If Spike noticed, he said nothing.

“I was gonna make a list. All the places I’d go, people I’d eat, things I’d kill.” Spike said the last part with awed fervor, and Buffy let out a disgusted little noise. Spike shrugged it off. “Thing is, in my head, every time I’d think of something to put down on the list, I’d hear you asking me not to. Bloody stupid really,” he said as his hands patted down his coat for cigarettes before stilling when he remembered his surroundings. “Know you’d never beg. Never care enough to want…” Buffy studied the fabric of her comforter, and Spike turned his back to her, his eyes focusing through the softly lit window pane.

“But if you did…” he murmured softly to the glass. He turned abruptly, calming his stormy face. “So it made me wonder. Where do I draw the line, yeah? Had to make a new list. Figure out what I wouldn’t do for you. What I absolutely would never lower myself to, no matter how much you wanted it.”

Buffy lifted her eyes to him and noticed the way the blue-white street-light filtered in through the tree outside her window to brush across his face. It made him softer somehow, even as he set his jaw in determination. “And?” Buffy said.

“And you’re holding it,” Spike answered, tipping a chin toward her before settling on the opposite corner of her bed with a small sigh. He looked down at his fidgeting hands. “All those sleepless nights. Well, days, technically. Trying to think of just one sodding thing. And there you have it.” Laughter fell from his throat like dry grass.
“What I Wouldn’t Do For Buffy.”

Buffy stared at the slip of paper with a sort of shocked interest. She noticed, for the first time, the little creases of use from constant folding and unfolding. Tiny tobacco smudged stains. Part of a red thumbprint in the bottom left corner. Ink? Or blood. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of so much feeling that it pared her to the bone. And responsibility. Buffy wasn’t made to be a moral compass. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she breathed.

Spike stiffened, then skimmed off the bed and made to leave as he grasped the window. “Yeah. Well. Just…Happy Birthday, Buffy,” he tossed over his shoulder with an efficient, casual air that didn’t quite cover the pain.

“Spike.” Buffy was up and holding his arm before she realized she had moved. His sudden closeness, the intensity of dark blue eyes as they stared down into her, was enough to cause a tremble. Unbidden, ideas of things he wouldn’t want to do, things she could make him, swirled in her head. Kill Drusilla. Stop smoking. Never hurt another human being. Be nice to Xander. And she knew they’d all crossed his mind. And she wondered how much it had taken, in his fantasy vision of her, before he’d pushed the pen away. If she only asked. For a moment, the power of it was a living, heady thing.

“I want you,” she whispered, daring to meet his eyes. The smile he gave her was so tender that she cut her gaze away and felt the blush rise into her cheeks. For a moment, she did a mental double-take to make sure she hadn’t said something more significant. Something involving an L word. Secure that her words were purely Want-related, she had to wonder if Spike had just started taking it to mean the same thing. As if it were a secret code they shared. Then he kissed her, and it didn’t seem so important anymore.

His lips were gentle, brushing hers, then grazing her temples. She gripped the leather at his arms in tight fistfuls when he laid a palm on her back and pulled her against him. Buffy felt his cock straining against his jeans in the narrow space between them and was amazed that so little could make him so hard. She lifted her face to catch his lips in something more, and he obliged, licking her lips before slipping his tongue into her mouth in a gentle play. Spike moved a hand under her shirt to cup her small breast and the chill tingle of his flesh against hers made her moan into his kiss. She brought a hand to his chest and felt his body shudder when she rubbed a finger across the fabric covering his sensitive nipple.

Spike pulled back a moment, recovering. Secretly, Buffy loved it when he did that. Loved the feeling of watching him forget and fight for breath. “Really,” gasp, “wasn’t what I came,” gasp, “here for, love.”

Buffy looked at him slyly before sliding her hand down his chest to cup his hard length, drawing a deep groan from him. She stroked him through denim, and he looked down at her with a clenched jaw and heavy lidded eyes. “I believe you,” Buffy said with a small smile. She leaned closer, brushing her face against his cheek as she whispered against his ear. “But maybe I do want to blow out my birthday candles.”

Spike’s guttural response and involuntary thrust into her hand brought Buffy a warm, wet rush down through her core. She threaded her arms under his coat to close the distance between them as she pulled him into an urgent, searching kiss. She remembered the bruises a heartbeat later and pulled back to check his reaction with a look of guarded guilt.

“What?” Spike stilled immediately.

“Nothing.” Buffy stared at a point above his left shoulder. “I just…” She shrugged one shoulder toward him. Her voice was soft and sad. “You know. If it hurts…”

Spike’s eyes narrowed before he caught her meaning. “Oh, that. It’s fine, love. Healing up right quick.”

“We didn’t really talk about…” Buffy couldn’t find words, even if she’d been certain she should have finished the sentence.

Spike assumed what Buffy had come to know as the Look of Infinite Patience which by turns endeared and infuriated her. In this case, she leaned toward endear. “It’s over, love. Why do you think I thought of the bloody list in the first place?”

Buffy tried to stifle a laugh, thinking, it’s not funny. You shouldn’t laugh about your boyfriend wanting to kill people because you beat him up. It’s most definitely not… not funny. She giggled anyway, and Spike took advantage of her weakened state to kiss her breath away. She ground herself against him and dug her nails into his back as he started licking his way down her throat.

Spike moved back for another deep kiss, and he slipped the coat off his shoulders without breaking contact, holding his mouth open and certain against hers. They parted as he stripped off his shirt. Spike had barely struggled free of the dark material before Buffy closed on him, grabbing a nipple in her mouth and giving it a gentle tug.

Spike shook himself into a measure of composure before locking his gaze with Buffy and murmuring, “Bed. Now.”

Buffy nodded, struggling with his belt buckle. She managed to pull the leather belt free just before he lay down. Together they worked his boots and jeans off, and he freed them with a little kick. Buffy stood over him and moistened her lips. “Did I ever tell you that you look really good naked?”

Spike laid his tongue against his teeth and smiled with wolfish grace. “Same to you, pet,” he nodded, request implied. Buffy started to shimmy out of her shirt, but Spike reached up and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. “Slow,” he said in a low purr as he nuzzled her hair. “Never done it here before.”

Suddenly Buffy grasped his meaning. This was her own room. Her bed. A place she was tender and quiet. Where she could just be Buffy. A slip of a nightmare came back to her, and although much of it was blurred now, she knew the only moment of comfort she’d had in the twisted dream had been the second he’d laid down beside her in her bed. Somehow, being here might change everything. Buffy didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she brushed a palm against his cheek and began to kiss his face. Softly, so softly, she brushed full lips against each bruise. Spike closed his eyes, and Buffy traced a line of whispery kisses over the worst one.

When she was done, Spike turned so that he leaned over her. She studied the sharp contours of his face while he watched his hand move over her skin. He rubbed his palm over one breast, drug fingernails lightly down her side, and then deftly brought one finger to brush at her sex through the wet, soft cotton of her panties.

Buffy’s hips arched at the first contact, and she fought back the urge to beg him for more. She knew that at this, he was best left to his own timing. Spike looked up into her eyes for a long moment, and Buffy found herself drowning in a sea of dark blue as he slipped a finger inside the sodden material and began to touch…

“Buffy,” Dawn’s tremulous voice cut through the night like a cold stream.

Buffy and Spike both jumped. “Dawn?” Buffy managed to squeak. “Dawn,” she said with slightly more force. “Just a second.”

Spike’s Look of Infinite Patience was nowhere to be seen, and Buffy silently prayed he wouldn’t growl out loud. His lips parted, but Buffy placed a finger across them. “I’ll take care of it,” she whispered. “We’re not finished,” she breathed steadily, holding his gaze for another moment before pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, and straightening her shirt and hair. Spike grabbed his clothes and slid to the other side of the room, out of any possible line of site, and Buffy cracked open her door.

“What is it?” Buffy said, squinting as the hall light filled her eyes. When her eyes adjusted she noticed Dawn’s tear-streaked face. “Dawn,” Buffy said with more feeling. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Buffy noticed a flutter of dark movement in the corner, then turned back to her sister. “It’s not a big deal, I guess,” Dawn said softly. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, and I’m too old for stuff like this, but I had a nightmare. Ok?”

“It’s not stupid, Dawnie.” Buffy stroked a lock of hair away from Dawn’s face. “Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?”

Dawn shrugged and looked at the floor. “You were there. And Xander, and me, and Willow. And there was this big purple demon thing. With like, funny horns? And something about cheese. Which was kind of weird considering…”

“Bloody buggering…!”

Buffy whipped around in time to see a fully clothed Spike hopping on one foot and holding his shin near the window of her bedroom.

Dawn pushed Buffy’s door the rest of the way open. “Spike? That’s Spike,” she said plainly. She darted her eyes suspiciously to Buffy’s. “What’s Spike doing here?”

Spike looked up, and Buffy couldn’t help thinking, “Headlights. See, Deer In.” He stopped hopping and walked forward to Dawn.

“Right, well, you caught me, Nibblet.”

Buffy’s eyes grew wide, but Spike just stopped casually beside her. “Thought you might still be awake after the little slumber free-for-all, so I came to tell your sis about a new Big Bad. But I see you’re both all tucked into your beddie-byes for the night.” He looked at Buffy meaningfully. “It can wait.”

He turned to go, but Buffy grabbed his arm. “Spike? It sounds kind of… important,” she said, wracking her brains for a subtlety she was unused to. “I think you should stay.”

He glanced at Dawn before saying, “We’ll get around to it later. You’ve got other things on your hands right now.”

Dawn smudged a remaining tear away with the back of her hand before mumbling, “It’s no big deal.”

Buffy knew she should probably feel guilty, but she’d had Family Bonding Time for three days straight. Literally. And for just once, she wanted someone to make her forget her own nightmares for a while. Buffy turned back to him. “See? Dawn’s ok.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll get her settled back in, and then you and I can… talk. Please stay.” If Dawn heard the need in Buffy’s voice, she gave no outward sign. She continued to sniffle and stare at the floor.

“No, Buffy,” he said softly. “She needs you.”

For a split-second, Buffy fought the urge to throw herself into his arms, drown out Dawn, and housework, and slaying and responsibilities and just lose herself in his body. But Spike read the look in her eyes and stood firm with a barely perceptible shake of the head. Buffy slumped a little before nodding goodbye to him. He carefully stepped out over the ledge that had brutally defeated his first exit attempt and left the roof.

“He could just use the door, you know,” Dawn said groggily.

“Tell him that,” Buffy said with a smile.

An hour of pseudo-mothering and hot chocolate later, Buffy found herself alone in her room again. This time, there was no tap at the window. But as Buffy began to pull down the sheets, she saw the slip of paper Spike had given her, where she had left it earlier on the bed. A thought occurred to her, and she fumbled at her desk until she found a pen. She unfolded the sheet once more and chewed at her pen cap before writing a title across the top. “What Spike Wouldn’t Do For Buffy.” Below the title, on the first blue line, Buffy wrote, “Hurt Dawn.”

Satisfied, she pulled out her smallest jewelry box. She stared numbly at the contents. Petals from the first flower Scott had given her. A locket from her first birthday with Riley. Angel’s ring. Buffy gently laid Spike’s notebook paper over the other trinkets, closed the lid, and pushed the box back into her bottom drawer.

+~+~+~+~+

When is the mountain scared?
When do I feel I haven't failed?
I have to get it together, man.
It hasn't happened yet.
It hasn't happened yet.
It hasn't happened.

+~+~+~+~+

“Loser.” Flip. “Loser.” Flip. “Mondo freakazoid Klingon-wannabe loser.” Flip. Andrew sighed. Going through his old high school yearbooks had seemed like a great way to spend a rainy morning while Jonathan poured over his Voyager schematics and Warren visited a Great Aunt from whom he hoped to inherit. An hour and three thousand, four hundred fourteen point three-five-seven-oh reminders of the lameness that comprised his high school career later, the idea had lost some of its sparkle and shine. He hadn’t even had any friends. He wasn’t even inside Jonathan’s radar in those days. At least Jonathan had thought of that totally cool kill-yourself-in-the-bell-tower-with-a-sniper-rifle idea. Not that it ever would have worked, even if the Slayer hadn’t intervened. Jonathan’s arms were totally too short to reach the trigger, no matter what he said. Still, points for dramatic flair.

The Slayer. Andrew turned the page to stare at Buffy Summers’ name. She wasn’t even pictured. She was probably off too busy having a real life to show up. The Slayer was so cool. In that total, “I want to kill her because she’s my evil arch-nemesis” way, of course. The way she fought, her snappy vigor, her witty comebacks. Not that he had really witnessed a lot of that first-hand. But he had definitely heard the stories. And he had seen things. Lots of things. He was an observer extraordinaire. That was it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been involved in high school. He had just been too busy setting the stage, keeping a sharp eye out for danger and adventure at every turn. A reporter never became too close to his subjects, or he’d totally lose his objectivity.

Andrew began turning the pages with renewed intent. Praying Mantis Teacher? Hah! He’d known about her. Not that… he was a virgin or anything. Or had anything to be afraid of there. Uh. No. He was just a disinterested bystander. And if he’d placed a bug in the ear (Andrew giggled) of a lamer student or two about how hot she looked, that was mere curiosity, not self-preservation, at work. Right. Andrew nodded before flipping to a different portion. The light above his small desk chair shone dimly on the laminate before him.

Hyena people. Check. Directing them to Principal Flutie’s office had seemed like a stroke of evil genius at the time. Not like he got any credit for that, though. And after Snyder showed up as the replacement, it hadn’t seemed so great after all. Big on the evil. Little bitty on the genius. Nevertheless, he’d been able to stretch his do-badding muscles on that one.

The barest formulation of a plot dawned on Andrew. He had done lots of bad things in high school. Bad, wicked, devilish things! Jonathan and Warren just hadn’t had the chance to see his villainous mind at work. So, granted, he wasn’t so great at doing bad things on his own (school play monkeys excepted, of course), but he was really good at pushing violence in the right direction, lending it that extra twisted helping hand. All he needed was someone suitably foul, dangerous, aggressive, to shove along on his own little course. Then, there’d be no stopping his nefarious ways!

He’d be like Lore, Data’s dark, yet surprisingly dashing, evil twin. Or… like a Sith Lord. But not Darth Maul. Because Warren said they weren’t allowed to mention “Phantom Menace” ever again, unless it included Queen Amidala. And she was naked. Or he could be Alex Krycek, a darkly ominous behind-the-scenes presence of ambiguously evil intent. Only… icks-nay on the ooden arm-way. Andrew pushed frantically through the pages in front of him before coming to an abrupt halt. There. They would work perfectly. Warren would love this.

+++

Buffy continued glaring at the cooking pancake batter as Dawn bounded lightly down the stairs. Buffy turned and raised an eyebrow as the teen came into the room. “You’re awfully bright and perky this morning.”

“Yup,” Dawn said. “Must be all the crack.”

Buffy’s stern squint couldn’t quite hide the twinkle behind her eyes. “We don’t joke about illegal drug use in this house.” Buffy flipped the pancakes on the stove. She wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to let them cook. Was black a bad thing?

“Yeah,” Dawn threw in, “And we don’t joke about eating people either. Whatever.”

“You heard that, huh?” Buffy dumped the pancake briquette onto a plate in front of Dawn. “Look. Breakfast.”

“Uh-huh.” Dawn’s face played over a range of disgusted visages before settling on ‘ick.’ “So speaking of everybody’s favorite evil undead, did Spike come back last night?”

“No,” Buffy said. Stupid vampire. He left. He actually left. Unless… Dawn had a reason for asking. Maybe he did come back. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed. Had Dawn heard something later? Had he wanted to talk to Dawn and not her? Should that irritate her the way it did? Was he ok? And why did he leave in the first place? Stupid vampire. Redundancy? Check. Insecurity? Check. Annoying mental questions? Check, check, and is there a word for infinite check? Buffy tried for calm and casual. “Why? Did you see him?”

“Nooo,” Dawn drawled. “My room doesn’t have a tree,” she answered brusquely, “Duh.”

Buffy turned to pour another doomed pancake into the pan to hide her blush. She tried to remember the vague excuse Spike had thrown out last night. Work. Of course. When was Buffy’s life not about slaying demons? “Whatever the big bad is this time, he said he’d tell us about it later. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“Sure.” Dawn pulled several generic cereal bars out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. “Look, Buffy, breakfast,” she said with a twitch of her lips.

“Oh, thank the cereal gods,” Buffy muttered before slipping onto a stool across from Dawn.

“Well, we normally go by mystical glowy key-thing,” Dawn answered sagely, “but cereal gods will work too.”

Buffy smiled, but her thoughts returned to the night before. Their shared time at this same bar. Her frustration at Spike’s premature departure. Then, inevitably, to the reason he left in the first place. Dawn was now in high school. In high school, and still having nightmares. About demons, and horns, and cheese, and friends being eaten, and there was nothing right about that. Buffy’s own bad dreams came with the calling. But there was no super-slayer strength to share for little sis. None of this came in the handbook. The one she’d never read. At least, she was sure Giles would have told her if it had. She couldn’t slay dreams. How could she hope to fix any of this?

“Buffy?” Dawn’s voice broke through the low hum of crackling pancake batter.

“Yeah. Sorry. Sort of spaced. All back now. Space-free. Except in the air sense. You know. Cause… I breathe it,” Buffy offered lamely.

“I was just saying,” Dawn said slowly, “thank you for last night. It really helped.”

“But I didn’t, I didn’t do anything.” Buffy looked at the counter and pulled at her cereal wrapper. “It was just a bad dream.”

“I know.” Dawn reached across the table and touched Buffy’s arm. “But it was nice to have you there. To know you were there for me. Like mom used to be.” Dawn pulled away when wetness threatened her eyes. “Hey, what do you know. Time for all that fun and funky learning at the place that is school.” She slung her book-bag over her shoulder and brushed back her long brown hair. “I’m staying at Tara’s until you’re done with work tonight, ok?”

“Yup,” Buffy answered, shaking off the softness of the moment. “I’ll pick you up there when I clock out.”

“Great,” Dawn said. She began to walk out, but she turned, walked back, and pulled Buffy in for a quick hug. “Thanks, Buffy. I meant it.”

The sound of the door closing vaguely registered as Buffy sat at the stool in awe. She’d just helped Dawn. She had actually helped Dawn. Buffy felt the world shift a little. For the first time since she’d died, she actually felt like she’d been good enough. She’d done something right. It felt nice. And solid. Real. And why had Spike been the one to see its importance long before she had?

+++

Spike stared at the blank telly and smoked his fifth cigarette with little feeling. Why couldn’t the bleeding world just make sense for a while? For a second, just a breath really, he’d thought… No. Didn’t matter what he’d thought. Bitch never would figure it out. Never would see him as any more than a thing to be used. She’d more than shown that last night. Cast his present off with no more thought than a used rag doll, all to grab him and tell him, what? That she wanted him? That she’d use his body to stop her pain? Spike tossed the burned cigarette to the floor and lit another.

What had the red witch said? Soothe all her little achies. Damn straight. So his gift, bearing his heart and his sou… well. No. Couldn’t very well bear that. Since he didn’t have one. But bearing all that he did have for her in one singularly important scrap of paper, and she’d tossed it off to have a rough screw on her frilly coverlet. Big fucking surprise. The cigarette flared as Spike took a deep drag.

Only, it was a surprise, really. That’s the bit that stung. Because for a second, when she stopped him, he’d thought she’d wanted more. The look in her eyes when she’d said the words. And when she’d kissed him… oh, he’d never known she would kiss him that way again. The once, after he’d taken a beating being tortured for the Bit, she’d kissed him like that. Gratitude and grace and “I’m sorry” all wrapped into a gentle press of lips on skin. Everything he’d ever wanted from her. Well, everything but love. And the less thought on that the better. Never one to dwell on things he couldn’t get. Much more fun to ruthlessly drive himself to get them.

Oh, who was he kidding? Far easier to kill this slayer than to love her. Angelus was a whole pisser of wrong about that one. She’d been killed twice. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her well-loved. She wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t let anyone. She was so far gone now. Hadn’t even cared that kid sis was whimpering in the hallway like an oft-kicked mutt. Just wanted him to bring her off, get her high, let her out.

And why hadn’t he? The memories of her warm body pressed into the soft bedding against his side brought a familiar tingle to his groin even now. He could have taken her. Claimed her slow and steady in her own bed. Made her see it different. Made things gentle for a change. But the Nibblet was crying. He could smell it, even if he hadn’t heard it. And suddenly he’d been using each ounce of preternatural speed and stealth to reapply shucked clothes and make a less than subtle exit.

Spike launched himself from the chair and kicked an empty bottle against the crypt wall, taking an eerie delight in the comforting crash. He was a vampire, damn it. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. He needed to go. Get out. Face the demon life for a spell. Remind himself of the way things really worked in the world. Honestly. What kind of world was right when Buffy didn’t care her own sis was in pain? What kind of world was it when he did? Spike grabbed his duster and slipped to the tunnels leading from his crypt. As he stepped into the moldering darkness, only one thing was clear: something had to change.

+~+~+~+~+

My lady belongs here, and so do I.
We know what the truth is and when to lie.
Oh, how I love her.
Familiar.

+~+~+~+~+

“I’ve got an idea.” Andrew sing-songed as he bounced up and down with a cheeriness Jonathan found both intriguing and profoundly disturbing.

Jonathon raised an eyebrow. “No way.”

“Come on,” Andrew whined. “This’ll be really totally cool. I promise.”

“The last time you said that, we watched a bootleg copy of The Star Wars Holiday Special.” Jonathon’s skin curled in a long, slow shudder at the memory. “Sorry, but I’ll pass.”

“I refuse to be held accountable for that,” Andrew stated. “It had Harrison Ford,” he added weakly.

“Yes,” Jonathon said as he turned from alphabetizing the movie collection in front of him. “For the last twenty seconds, it had Harrison Ford. For the three preceding hours, it was the most boring imaginative rendering of a Wookie Christmas ever committed to film. No thanks.”

“You’re exaggerating. I still think it was highly under-ra…”

“The grandpa Wookie watched virtual, alien, Christmas porn!” Jonathon threw his copy of Tomb Raider to the floor in outraged disdain and walked to the other side of the small lair, desperately searching for something to do. Preferably something more interesting than whatever Andrew was cooking up.

“Whatever,” Andrew said. “Look, this is a way better idea anyway.”

Jonathon began digging listlessly through a pile of records.

“It’s eee-vil…” Andrew wheedled.

“Not interested,” Jonathon muttered.

“Oh,” Andrew said sagely. “That’s right.”

“What’s right?” Jonathon looked up.

“Nothing.” Andrew turned on his heel and began picking at his shirt sleeve. “It just seems maybe a certain someone hasn’t been pulling his share of the weight in the battle of eternal darkness lately.”

“What?” Jonathon followed Andrew across the room. “Did Warren say that? Is this about… Katrina?” The last word fell on a whisper.

“Nevermind,” Andrew answered dismissively. “I’m sure it’s nothing. And he’s definitely not thinking of throwing you out of the gang.”

“He would do that?” Jonathon tried to force the insecurity from his voice.

“Of course not,” Andrew answered. “He’ll understand if you don’t want to be a part of my evil plan. I mean, it’s probably too hard for you anyway. It’s dealing with some prêt-ty heavy dark mojo, man. It might even cost me my life.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Andrew drew himself up to his full height and settled his gaze on Jonathon’s face. A long pause found the taller boy staring the brunette down.

“Fine,” Jonathon answered, sighing in defeat. “No more melodrama. Ok? Just tell me what I need to do.”

+++

A bottle of jack and a bag of O positive later, Spike felt less hungry and more drunk. But the booze and blood had done little to sate his internal conflict. He glanced around the soggy, dim demeanor of Willie’s bar. Least the poncey demon set had stopped throwing him out of the bloody place. Probably had something to do with all the poker playing. And the fact that he’d long made a habit of losing the right amount to the right people. Neat trick, that. Demons had their price. Even if said price came with button noses and cuddly fur.

A pair of Glarbacks entered noisily, purple pustules dripping little green glops onto the grimy floor. Spike was sliding surreptitiously to his right to avoid the little buggers when he heard something that ran a tight chill across the back of his neck.

“…on the Hellmouth. They’re raising something.” The larger Glarback heaved itself up to look over the bar.

“Warlocks?” the other grumbled through long white tusks.

“Don’t know. But there’s power there.”

The smaller Glarback squinted. “We wait. If it’s big, we join. If it’s small, we eat.” Satisfied with their plan of action, the two turned to order their drinks. Spike sighed at the not-so-surprising demonic response. So. Trouble in Sunnyhell. What else is new? Not like he was supposed to do anything about it. Evil here, yeah? Not his job to go prancing about, balls cut, following every little scent the devils threw down just to save the sodding slayer some extra wor…oh, who was he kidding? Spike left cash for the tab on the bar and set out for the tunnels to what once was Sunnydale High.

A twenty minute trudge through the sewers found Spike at what he recognized as the former high school library. Huh. Rupert’d have a right sore time fishing through those card catalogs now. Then again, suppose none of that mattered much to old Rupes now. Left the children to play in traffic all by themselves while he skipped back to Merry Olde. Stupid git.

Spike shook off the thought and pressed along the side of the tunnel leading toward the Hellmouth. The debris had shifted from the last time he’d been there. Spike vaguely remembered that little trip. What was it they were stopping? Three demons bent on destroying the world, best he could tell. Guess that meant he’d stopped an Apocalypse. Two, then, if you counted helping put Angelus out of commission. Three, if one set his pathetic attempt against Glory into the mix. At this rate, he’d never get his reputation back.

A burnished orange glow from the center of the wreckage drew his eyes and Spike stilled, willing himself to fade into the shadows of the rock. The golden light formed a sphere. Spike tried to hone in on the wisps of ethereal chanting he caught resounding through the cavern to no avail. With so many echoes in the place, whoever was putting on the Disney trick light show could be anywhere. When the golden ball reached a six foot height, it suddenly flashed a deep blue and collapsed in on itself with a large thwack.

Spike watched warily as two forms rose out of the dust where the illumination had been. Demons, both. He could smell it. And if the Glarback’s interpretation of the magic was right, they’d just been brought back from the dead. Well, then. Question answered. Just the two, so it was nothing the Slayer couldn’t handle. Time to give her a heads up and call it a day.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The anguish in the words drew his attention back to the figures. Male and female. The girl was crying, great heaving sobs racking her chest as she clutched fiercely at the boy’s shirt.

“Shut up so I can think,” he screamed. The girl flinched and bit back further sobs, but she didn’t let go. The boy scanned the darkness around him, eyes glowing green in the shadows of the dead room. Spike silently tread further from view as he heard the boy’s hoarse whisper.

“What happened to us?” The boy stared down at the golden-haired girl kneeling before him with wary suspicion. The chanting came to a standstill and Spike heard light feet skittering off into the distance.

“I don’t know. I swear.” The girl’s strangled weeping cut into a place Spike preferred not to acknowledge.

“You always swear, don’t you, you little slut? But you never follow through.” The red-shirted boy punctuated the words with a hard slap to the girl’s face, knocking her head back and bringing the tears back full force. Spike took a small step forward before catching himself. Not his business. Just a couple of demons. It’s the Slayer’s turf anyway, innit? Still, he couldn’t help but follow as the boy drug the girl to a standing position and began pulling her through the tunnels. Spike told himself it was just so he could give the Slayer a better bead on their plans. He didn’t care. He didn’t. Wisps of conversation drifted back to the vampire as he stalked his way through fallen wood and stone.

“… were dead. Someone must have…”

“…didn’t know!”

“…follow their power.”

“…I think I see…”

“…if you’re lying to me…”

Spike recoiled sharply when a turn in the tunnels led him through an unexpected sliver of daylight. Damn. Forgot about the little afternoon sunshine problem. He peered through the opening the couple had just passed through, out into an alley near one of Sunnydale’s shops. Cautiously, Spike picked a shadowed path into the clearing behind them. Closer now, he could make out all their words.

“Did you have anything to do with this? Answer me. Did you?”

“No, no. I told you. There were two boys. Didn’t you see them? They ran this way.”

“It’s always boys with you, isn’t it?”

“Wait. It’s not like that. Besides, we’re together like this. Now we can be together forever. Don’t you see?”

The brown-haired boy’s laugh was cutting in the thin alley air. “Tell me why I’d want you this way.”

“What?” Solemn feminine eyes looked up in sad confusion. “But you said you wanted…”

“Well, you weren’t a demon then, were you?”

Spike’s throat constricted and his jaw clenched.

“But I want you. I love you. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Are you so stupid that you don’t get it? You’re not even human.” The teen grabbed the blonde and shoved her roughly against the wall, dragging her hair down to tilt her face upward to his. “It was bad enough before.” His punch landed across her jaw with a hard snap. “Watching you whoring, sneaking, selling me out.” He hit her again and again, blackening an already blued face. “But now? Look at you.” A stronger punch sent her reeling to the ground as he stood above her disdainfully. “You’re dead inside. You’re not even real.” The boy drew back a leg for a forceful kick.

“That’s just about enough.” Spike struck a hard blow at the standing demon, forcing a stagger. Spike dodged a fist and kicked the boy in the solar-plexus, knocking him back into the opposite alley wall. The boy slid against the coarse bricks and Spike drew his hand back for a punishing strike when strong hands grabbed his shoulders and threw him out into the mouth of the alley.

He looked up in shock at the blonde girl hovering over him, her eyes glowing green in haunted rage. “You can’t hurt him. He’s mine.”

Spike tried to pull himself up, but a heavy kick caught him in the side of the neck and dropped him back to the stone street, closer to the sunlight than before. “You stupid bitch,” he shouted. “I was trying to hel…” His words were cut short when another heavy kick caught him in the side, rolling him ever closer to the light.

Spike forced his eyes open in time to see the male demon coming to stand beside her. Right then. Two against one. And he was already down. And an inch away from Mr. Sunbeam. It wasn’t retreating. Not really. Re-grouping, more like. He needed the Slayer. Spike jumped to his feet, made a deft feint, and slipped past the couple. Just before he ducked out of the small alley, he heard them.

“You saw me, didn’t you? You saw what I did to him. Did I do good, baby?”

“Yeah, Debbie. You did real good.”

+~+~+~+~+

Are you sure you want to live like common people?
You want to see whatever common people see?
You want to sleep with common people?
You want to sleep with common people like me?
But she didn't understand...
...she just smiled and held my hand.

+~+~+~+~+

Spike’s smoking blanket dropped to the floor in perfect synchronicity with the jangling of the bell above the Magic Box door. He stamped out the remaining cinders as Anya swept toward him from the counter. “Put that out! What do you think you’re doing? It’s a fire hazard. And it’s very near my pretty and highly flammable things. You can’t have that in here,” she said shrilly.

Spike toed the blanket and glanced down at the dull wool before looking back unabashedly to stare at the former demon. “Yeah, and if you’d had the decency to keep the dark alley shop door unlatched, a vamp could get around without having to resort to such toasty measures.”

“Yes,” Anya replied. “A vampire could. Much like the vampire that tore the throat out of the former proprietor. I like my throat intact, thank you very much.”

“How the hell did you…” At Anya’s curiously open, non-accusatory expression, Spike broke off. “Uh, right. Never mind then.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Anya asked as Spike slipped past her into the store. She followed him as he strolled toward the back. “Vampires sleep during the day,” she continued, as if telling him something new. Spike rolled his eyes. Not worth it. Too easy. Anya suddenly brightened. “Do you have insomnia? We have some very desirable sleep aids. Extra strength for our customers of the demon variety. Actually, almost all of them are for those of the demon variety. Did you know you have to be licensed to sell prescription drugs to humans?”

Spike attempted to tune her out, only catching the tail end of something that sounded like, “which seems to be an unnecessary infringement on capitalism, if you ask me.” He grimaced, picking up the object he’d been looking for.

“What are you doing? You can’t use that,” Anya stated.

She snatched the phone receiver that had been dangling from his fingertips. “Not long distance,” he protested. “Just gotta make a call. Slayer’s got trouble. Thought she ought to know.”

“She’s at work. Why don’t you just go loiter over there?” Her tone was laced with resentful implication.

“Because,” Spike said as he jerked the phone back, “as you so brilliantly noted, it’s daylight out. And I doubt Buffy would enjoy spending the rest of her work break trying to interrogate my little floating puffs of dust.”

“How do you know when Buffy’s break is? And,” Anya paused as her brows drew together. “Did you just call her Buffy?”

Spike turned to the wall, effectively cutting her off, as he dialed the number to the Doublemeat Palace.

“Slayer,” he said emphatically, sneaking a glance back at Anya, when one of the other workers finally put Buffy on the line.

“Spike?” Her startled voice crossed the distance between them. “Why are you calling me at work? You’re not supposed to call me here.”

Spike felt the chilled recollection of past rejections slip down his spine at her words. Right. Can’t be in her work. Can’t be in her life. Not wanted, mate. Just needed.

“Look, it’s not a social call,” he bit out. “Just thought you’d want a heads up on a new nasty in town. Two of them, actually. Demons raised up off the Hellmouth.”

“So last night…” Buffy paused. “You really did just come over to talk about work?”

Bugger if she didn’t sound a bit disappointed. No faith in him at all. Bitch. “Not last night, pet,” he found himself saying gently. “Just found out about them today.”

“Oh,” was her only response.

“They’re fresh, but they’re bloody strong. Imagine they could do a number on old Sunnyhell before the day’s up. I’ll just wait for you here.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean?”

“I can’t,” Buffy said firmly. “I have to finish out my shift. I’ll be there at 6.”

“Evil. Demons. Indiscriminate killing. Sacred duty. Any of this ringing a bell, Slayer?”

“You’re the last person I need to remind me of my sacred duty, Spike.” The ice in her tone froze his veins.

“Right. Got it. I’ll just be off then.” He made no effort to hide the rancor in his mouth.

Spike was halfway to the door before he felt a small hand on his arm as Anya stopped him. “Does this mean I have to call Xander and Willow?”

“Probably be best, pet,” he said. “Give them a heads up. Tell ‘em the Slayer’ll be here when she’s done with the daily grind.

“Spike,” Anya said as he turned. “You’re coming back, right?”

“Course I’m coming back,” he murmured as he reached for the door. “You need the muscle. And it seems muscle’s the only thing I’m good for anymore.”

+++

“Tell me again, exactly, what either of you two idiots is good for?” Warren Meers paced across the small lair in front of his troops. Andrew and Jonathon stood at a stiff and awkward attention. Warren’s great aunt had cut their visit short. He had returned just in time to catch the two boys fortifying their lair against a potential demon invasion. Questions naturally followed.

“I knew I should never have listened to Jonathon,” Andrew said with a put-upon sigh.

“You were the one who made me go in the first place, you yoH’Ha’qu’!”

“You dare challenge me to a Blood Duel?” Andrew spat before uttering a high pitch squeal, locking Jonathon in a headlock, and raining noogies down on him.

Warren allowed the pair to continue for a moment in a spattering of feeble physical violence and Klingon taunts before he shoved both of them apart. “Enough of this. Explain everything. And this time, try to be a little more coherent than a pack of drunken tribbles.”

“Fine,” Andrew said, releasing Jonathon and brushing his clothes down. He raised his chin. “Jonathon decided—“

“You decided—,“ Jonathon cut in.

“We decided,” Andrew stated with a sniff, “it would be really cool to raise our own demons. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about calling on all these unpredictable ones like when Katr… when… other bad things happened,” he slid on smoothly at Warren’s dark look. “See… normal demons? They have their own personalities already intact, so their sense of self is too strong. And zombies… well, they’re cool, I guess, except for that whole flesh-eating thing.”

“Get to the point, lackbrain,” Warren muttered.

“Sooo,” Andrew plunged on, “I found a book about how to raise manifest spirits of those involved in volatile, angry deaths. Then you just spell a talisman, and presto, instant demon slaves!”

“So what went wrong?”

“Well,” Andrew said, “after the demons were raised, they kinda started to sense us before we were done.”

Jonathon narrowed his eyes at Andrew. “I told you we should have enchanted the talisman before we raised them.”

“Then,” Andrew continued as if he hadn’t heard, “the talisman sort of… got broken.” His voice raised almost questioningly at the end of the sentence.

Jonathon clenched his fists in disgust. “You stepped on it when you ran from the cave like a Luxan on crack!”

“Oh yeah?” Andrew sneered. “You ran too, you little nematode!”

“Both of you, stop it,” Warren interrupted. “What I want to know is, is there any way to fix it?”

The two looked at each other skeptically. Jonathon was the first to speak. “There may be. But… we’d have to go back and get it.”

“You left it there?” Warren slapped a weary hand over his eyes. “I don’t believe this.”

Andrew jumped to their defense. “Hey! It was very dark in that tunnel. And scary. And the power flash from the spell we performed was seriously intense. I think I may have an incidental case of dry scalp,” he added.

Warren shook his head. “And what about the demons?”

Jonathon responded. “They seemed pretty mad. I think they wanted to be turned back. I’ll bet that’s why they were looking for us.”

“It would probably be pretty easy,” Andrew added thoughtfully. “Just the opposite of a demon summoning with some type of specialized signature thrown in. I could look in Agamemnon’s Complete Guide to…”

“No way,” Warren broke in. “You boys have already gone to all the trouble of raising these guys. It’d be a shame to let all that hard work go to waste. If these two are as powerful as you say they are, and we can have total control over them? It’s back to the batcave, kiddies. We’re going to find that talisman.”

+++

“You’re the last person I need to remind me of my sacred duty, Spike.” Buffy bit her lip as she clenched the phone in the dingy work office more tightly. The sternly lecturing voice in her head that always seemed to remind, he’s a vampire, at the most inopportune moments had chosen to make itself known, prompting that last comment. But lately, a more gentle voice had been fast on the heels of the first. It wasn’t hers. It was his. You make me feel like a man. And it was growing more insistent day by day.

“Right. Got it. I’ll just be off then.” Spike’s last frustrated huff of air came just as he hung up, and Buffy failed to hear the telltale click of the receiver.

“Spike, wait. It’s not…” she sighed heavily. “It’s not about you. I just have other responsibilities. Grown up responsibilities.” She continued in a soft whisper, “You showed me that last night.” She waited a full ten seconds for his answer before impatience got the best of her. “Spike? Spike?” Buffy frowned and placed the phone back on the cradle.

He hung up on me. Spike hung up on me. When I was actually telling him something nice. Like that’s ever gonna happen again. Buffy felt a pinch of something akin to guilt at that telltale flippant thought. This morning coming in for work, she’d watched Mrs. Weathers’ husband drop her off. They drove a dingy little car, and Buffy had heard the woman mention before that her husband was a disabled veteran. The lawyer they’d trusted their savings to had made off with their nest egg and vanished for parts unknown.

Mrs. Weathers worked at the Doublemeat to supplement their income and cared for her injured husband and dying mother each night. Typical low-wage employment sob story, really. But what had really bothered Buffy about the whole scenario was that as tired as the old woman was, as many times as she zoned out by the fry cooker, or watched the counter with glazed eyes…each day when she got out of old man Weathers’ car, he kissed her goodbye, and she smiled. Buffy would see them talking, whispering little things to each other, and they always both smiled. “That’s what kindness is like,” she’d thought this morning as she watched the scene. “It gives you the strength to do things like this and still smile.” The thought that followed was far more serious, and far more terrifying in its implications.

That’s what Spike does for me.

+~+~+~+

Everyone know's everything about all of us.
That's too much knowledge.
I can't get behind that!

+~+~+~+


"Move it a little to the left.”

“Like that?”

“Yea… no… Ow! Would you stop hitting me with that thing?”

Johnathon rubbed his head fiercely as Andrew moved the flashlight toward another dark crevice. The sounds of slow-dripping water and the cold smell of ash surrounded them. Warren rolled his eyes. “The two of you are standing thirty feet from the most powerful portal to hell that exists in this dimension. So could you please, just once, get your frelling acts together?” He walked away from them, intent on scouring a cavern some distance away.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” Johnathon breathed as he slipped the talisman deep into a pants pocket.

“No,” came a dark voice from the far end of the tunnel. “We’ve got you.”


+++


“So, Buffy. What’s the what? Evil Dead here wouldn’t let on until you got here,” Xander spoke from his seat on the far side of the Magic Box.

“Right.” Spike’s voice was solemn and slow as he turned the chair he was straddling toward Xander. “I’m sorry I didn’t share. See, thing is,” he squinted, “I don’t like you.”

“Spike,” Buffy said sharply. She felt a twinge of regret when he turned hurt eyes on her. Great way to a new start, Buffy. Treat him like a child. Buffy’s more annoyed voice piped up… Not like it’d be necessary if just once he’d stop acting like one. Stupid vampire. She brushed the thoughts away and addressed Willow, Xander, Anya and Spike. “I asked Tara to keep Dawn till we’re finished here. Spike’s got some info on a new evil or something.”

Buffy walked to the table to stand nonchalantly by his side. Spike ignored her. He filled everyone in on the tip he’d gotten and the demons he’d found.

“Wait a minute…”
“Hold up…”

Buffy and Willow spoke simultaneously. Buffy continued, “You said he called her Debbie?”

Spike finally looked up into her face. “Yeah. What of it?”

Buffy and Willow’s eyes met. “But… they’re dead,” Willow squeaked.

“Or they were,” she added. “Only one way to know for sure. Spike, do you think you could identify these two if you saw them?”

His brow furrowed. “Sure. Not likely to forget that kind of ass-kicking.”

“But you have so many to choose from,” Xander tossed out.

Spike’s jaw tightened. On impulse, Buffy inched closer to him and subtly brushed an unseen hand against his shoulder blade in support. If anything, his tension grew. She took a step back.

“Yearbook,” Xander suddenly said.

Spike glanced over. “And thank you, Mr. Non Sequitur.”

“If that’s some kind of gay joke thing…”

“You’ve got a problem with implied gayness?” Willow narrowed her eyes and stared at Xander.

“Oh, for the love of monkeys,” Anya shouted. “Stop wasting time casting irreverent, and fairly impotent, aspersions at each other. Some of us still have inventory to do tonight.”

“Anya’s… right,” Buffy said awkwardly. “We should all be together on this.” Her eyes drifted to the black duster in front of her before making their way back to the others.

Xander spoke again. “What I mean is, Debbie and Pete’s pictures. They’d be in our high school yearbook. If we find those, then the Bleached Wonder can give the pictures the once over, and we’ll know for sure.”

“Right. So anybody got one handy?” Buffy asked.

Xander answered, “I think mine’s in the car. Some stuff fell out while I was moving. It’s probably still there.”

“Keys?” she asked. Xander tossed them to her. “Spike and I will go look for it. The rest of you stay here and look for dead-raising demon stuff. Or… whatever.” Buffy turned on her heel and walked out of the Magic Box. Spike slowly followed.

Instead of heading for Xander’s car, Buffy made a short turn and traveled down a dark alley a few blocks away. As Spike rounded the corner, Buffy spun on him.

“Spike, what the hell is your problem?”

“You really don’t want to know.” He sighed and looked away.

“Of course,” Buffy nodded. “Cause that’s why I asked you, you big jerk.”

“You only ever hear what you want to hear, pet. No point in chatting up stone.”

Buffy winced, but she pressed forward. One step closer, then two. Spike reached in his pocket as if going for his cigarettes. Then he seemed to give up. He dropped his hands and leaned back against the alley wall. “We should just head back.” The tightness in his voice and face belied his words. “Look, this isn’t going anywhere, Slayer. We both know it.”

Does he mean us talking? Or just us in general? Buffy’s heart sank in her chest, even as her anger at the implied rejection grew. “Spike, just shut up.” She took the final step toward him, lacing her hands in the lapels of his jacket as she pressed soft lips against his. His lips were cool and dry, and he made no move to kiss her back.

Buffy looked up into unrelenting grey eyes. “Spike?” she whispered.

Slowly, she drew her face to his again, searching for some kind of reaction. If she was just gentle with him, if she let things be softer this time… maybe something could change. She kissed him again. She felt no telltale hardening of certain parts of his body. No barely caged passion. He just stood and let her kiss him as he watched.

He continued staring when she pulled away. After seconds passed between them, he spoke in a soft, haggard voice. “What are you playing at, Buffy?”

She turned her face down toward his shirt while her fingers idly rubbed his duster. “Nothing. Nothing. I just thought… what I wanted was…”

It seemed for a moment his body grew even colder beneath her. In the next heartbeat, he was on her, spinning her around so her back slammed against the crusted brick wall, hands under her arms as he lifted her to straddle him. He caught her in a bone-crushing kiss, and Buffy lost her breath when his tongue forced its way to hers. The denim seam of his jeans rubbed tightly against her own, warming and wetting her as she felt his firm friction in just the right place. She could get him hard after all. One of his hands slipped under her shirt to roughly grab her breast, dragging the lace fabric of her bra against her nipple. Buffy gasped and moaned, then realized he was speaking to her, low and angry.

“That’s the ticket, isn’t it? Know what you want. What you need.” He thrust hard against her, lowering his head to lick her throat, moaning when she scratched her nails across his chest. “It’s always about what you want. From me. This is all you’ll ever…”

The words snapped her back. This isn’t right. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be this time. Not in a dirty alley. Not like this. Not again. Buffy kissed his cheek softly, working her way across his face to lick a small trail below his ear. If anything, the tenderness only wrought a fiercer reaction. Spike growled, biting down hard at the juncture between her shoulder and her neck. His human teeth gripped her, and despite her efforts to slow this, she felt her clit tingling and her abdomen clenching in a shadow of impending release.

Spike seemed to notice, slowing only to pop open the top button of his jeans. His rigid words didn’t stop. “Want me to take you like this? That it?” Buffy tried to bring a delicate hand to his face, but he shook her off. A part of her wanted to stop this entirely, before they went too far, but he knew her weaknesses too well. He nipped at the lobe of her ear and whispered into it huskily. “Want me to make you scream?”

Buffy whimpered with heat, then froze when Xander’s voice in the distance landed on her like water. “Buffy? Spike? Where’d you two go?”

Spike’s tempo never faltered. “Spike,” Buffy tried. “Spike, we have to stop. Xander’s coming.”

“Not before you do, kitten. Cause you don’t want to stop, do you, Slayer?” He brushed her shirt up, pulled her bra down, and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Buffy fought to stifle her moan while he suckled her, still pumping himself against her.

This was wrong. And bad. And… there. Right there. Yes. And Xander could find them at any second, and she had to stop… she had to…

“Come,” Spike breathed hotly into her ear.

Buffy felt the spasms rack her before she’d realized her body was obeying. Her thighs tightened against him fiercely, squeezing him to stillness while she ground out her orgasm against him.

Xander’s voice was growing closer, and Buffy knew she should pull herself away even as her head dropped to rest against Spike’s shoulder while they panted together.

“Liked that, did you?” Spike said. Buffy nodded against him. “Good.” He moved his hand down to his zipper. “Now it’s my turn.”

Xander’s steps were closer now, and so very real. Buffy grabbed Spike’s hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“May not be a bright bint, but I’d think you’d be able to suss that much.” The grating of the zipper being lowered was deafening in her ears. She pulled his hand away roughly and stared hard into his face. “Spike, not now.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed to coal slits as he zipped himself back up. He nodded once. Xander’s voice again. He’d be there any minute. Spike set her down on her feet, rubbing himself sensuously against her one more time before leaning in for a velvet whisper. “If that’s how you think this bit goes, Buffy, you’ve still got a thing or two to learn about being a good little whore.”

Blindly, Buffy struck hard, and Spike fell back against the opposite wall. “You bastard,” she muttered. She saw the conflict on his face as he wiped the blood from his nose and Xander rounded the corner.

“Hey guys, I was looking all over for you. Anya found the book in the shop.” Xander waved the book in front of him before taking in Buffy’s rumpled clothes and Spike’s bleeding face. “So…What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Spike said as he shouldered past the brunette, leaving an empty-feeling Buffy behind him. “Nothing new, anyway,” he tossed back as he bitterly walked away.

+~+~+~+~+

Now, maybe you won't suffer maybe it's quick
But you'll have time to think
Why did I waste it?
Why didn't I taste it?
You'll have time
Because you're gonna die.

+~+~+~+~+

The bells above the Magic Box door jingled as Spike stepped back into its muted glow. He was certain Buffy was behind him, plying the whelp with excuses and explanations for their absence and rough looks. He was trying very hard not to care.

Bugger. Hurt her with that last bit, no question. Well, so what? She got hers, didn’t she? And I’m not feeling guilty. ‘m not. Evil demon. Not like she hasn’t beaten that lesson home time and again. Can’t be a man. Can’t change. And even if I did, she can’t see it. No soul to pin the promise on, right? Spike tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the counter with studied insolence.

But for a second there, her little lips got so soft. Before I brought her off, and before the bloody whore comment. When she first kissed me, she almost seemed to be there with me. I could barely move with the terror and hope that maybe… No. It’s not about us. Never is. She made that crystal as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Always about what she wants. Numb the pain, take her away. She wants it hard, wants the devil, so let her have him.

Still, Spike couldn’t quite turn to face Buffy as she and Xander entered the shop. Her stride was calm, and he made a concentrated effort to pay no mind to the scent of arousal that lingered on her skin as she neared him by the counter. He stared at the floor, and suddenly a little laminate booklet was thrust under his gaze, pages open to the demon couple he’d tussled with, all decked out in over-bright high school kit.

“Is that them?” Buffy’s voice was in full-out Slayer mode, no trace of their earlier tryst coloring it.

Spike nodded. “Yeah, looks like.” He worked the nerve to dare a glance at her and saw a strange mix of anger, confusion, and shame as her gaze traced upward, over his cut and swollen face.

“Ok,” Buffy breathed, and for the briefest of seconds, their eyes caught and held.

It seemed a century’s breadth of emotions passed between them, but one stood firm, traipsing over the others with a leaden foot in Spike’s mind. I’m no good for her this way.

The instant splintered when Buffy’s clear voice addressed the others. “Looks like the demonic duo is our very own Debbie and Pete.”

“Great,” Anya said. “I’m so glad we’ve established that. That makes everything so very clear. Except for those of us who have absolutely no clue who in the name of Granthar the three of you have been talking about.”

“Point there, pet,” Spike added to Buffy. “What’s the story on these two?”

“Debbie and Pete were… we knew them in high school,” Buffy began. “They were kind of the uber-couple at the time. We all thought they were super-happy. Then one day we realize Pete’s got a Jeckyl-Hyde complex of the massive variety, and he’s taking out the full force of his crazy on love-struck Debbie.”

Willow piped up. “Who, despite some very stern warnings on the dangers of date-related violence, went back to him.”

Buffy’s fingers twitched nervously at her side. “He went damage-bound at the old high school, and I tried to save her, but… I got there too late. He killed her.”

“And the boy?” Spike asked.

“He got killed too.”

“Angel went all primeval on him to protect you, right Buffy?” Willow offered.

Spike’s jaw clenched, and Buffy brushed her hands nervously against her legs. “That part’s really not important right now,” she said quickly. “What we really need to focus on is, how do we find them?”

“Well, that’s easy enough,” Xander said. He crossed the room and leaned casually against a corner. “Wouldn’t they go home? I mean, Pete was nuts over her, right? I figure he takes the first chance he gets to go all ‘Me Caveman’ and drags her back to his lair.”

Buffy nodded. “That sounds good. Willow, do you think you could…”

“No,” Willow said, eyes hesitantly rising from the table to the confused looks of the others around the room. “What I mean is, he’s not going to take her to his old house. I don’t think. If we want to find them, we need to start at the beginning. At the Hellmouth.”

Buffy took a step forward. “Will, how do you know?”

Willow’s face pinched as she nervously clasped her hands together and stared down at her shifting fingers. “I’m not sure. I mean, I can’t really know. You know?” Her voice quivered. “It’s just… in the end, Pete lost control. It… it wasn’t about Debbie anymore. It wasn’t really about people at all.” She paused, and her next sentence fell in painfully soft tones from her lips. “Now it’s about the power.”

+++

“It’s all about the power, gentleman,” Warren spoke, heedless that Andrew and Johnathon were no longer near enough to hear him.

“You’re right. It is.”

Pete’s hand gripped Warren’s throat from behind as Debbie helped drag him through the caves back to the center clearing of the old library. Warren’s eyes bulged as he caught sight of Andrew and Johnathon, lying bound and gagged in a corner of the room. As Debbie untangled a length of coarse rope and Pete held him down, Warren bargained.

“Hey, let’s not be hasty here, ok?” His pitch grew higher and he winced as one of the knots cut into his wrist. “I mean, you want things, we want things… I know we can work something out. Just… just hold on a minute.” His volume raised as Debbie tightened a loop around his ankles. “The three of us,” Warren tilted his chin to indicate his incapacitated minions, “We’ve got power to do things. Lots of things. Like magic!” he added with a nervous laugh. “We can help you. We can…” Pete pulled a handkerchief from the floor and brought the grimy, rolled fabric toward Warren’s mouth. “Wait wait wait!” Pete paused. “We can turn you back,” Warren said desperately.

“Tell him.” Pete nudged Debbie with a hard elbow.

“Pete and I’ve been around town. You can learn a lot from one day in Sunnydale,” Debbie said with a slow smile. “At least, when you kill enough things. And we decided we don’t want to be turned back.”

“Fine, fine,” Warren uttered. “Whatever you want. You just let me know, and we’ll do it.”

“That,” Debbie said, pointing toward the center of the room.

“The Hellmouth?” Warren squeaked as he followed her finger to the blackened library floor. “What about it?”

Pete leaned over, his whisper a cold black snake in Warren’s ear. “I want you to open it.”