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*Early Sunday morning, room 205, Sunnydale Hospital*

Darkness.

Pain.

Groggy.

Weak.

Drowning?

Master! Not again! Buffy’s eyes snapped open, and she jerked awake, only to be met with bright fluorescent lightning that hurt her retinas. She tried to blink away the pain in her eyes and bring the room into focus as she took stock of the state of the rest of her body.

Her throat hurt inside and out, and swallowing made her wince. There were aches and pains all over her body, just like she usually had after a particularly brutal patrol. What puzzled her a bit was the different type of throbbing in her arm, but eventually she identified it as an IV needle. So that meant hospital, which explained the damned lights making her eyes feel as if somebody was scooping them out with a spoon—slowly. That brought her to her main problem, namely the fact that she had no idea how or why she was in a hospital bed.

Slowly, and ever so painfully, her mind backtracked and sorted through the memories and awareness came flooding in with the subtlety of a war-hammer to the head. She’d been patrolling, looking for Spike, it being Saturday and all, in order to have their date—meeting. He showed up, they fought, kissed and then… He bit her! The way her heart clenched when she remembered what he’d done had nothing to do with the fear of death, though. He’d betrayed her, confused her with whatever it was what made it hard to think clearly when he was around, only to use that weakness of hers to drink her dry.

Which brought her right back to the big question. If he’d drained her in the cemetery, how come she was in the hospital, with a blood bag connected to an IV drip, looking at her parents sleeping in what had to be very uncomfortable chairs next to her bed? And if she was alive, did that mean that someone had saved her, maybe by dusting Spike while he was killing her?

And why did the image of Spike dusting cause even more pain to her heart than his betraying her?

“Welcome back, kitten.”

His softly spoken words brought her thoughts to a screeching halt. And how many times was her heart going to do that painful clenching thing? Without a conscious thought, she opened her mouth and spoke for the first time since waking up, ignoring the razorblades travelling up and down her throat with each word. “What the hell are you doing here?” Okay, so maybe he was neither dead nor very well driven off, but that didn’t give him any right to be there, in her hospital room, next to her sleeping parents. Then again, what if he’d done something to them, too? She just knew her spine was going to start hurting from the whiplash effect of her looking first on one side, then the other of the bed, in her attempt to verify that her parents were indeed sleeping, and not—

“I never even touched them, pet.”

“Don’t! Stop it with the pet names and with all the rest of the crap. Just tell me why you’re here, so I can get back to healing from what you did to me.” She sounded tired, defeated, and hurt to her own ears, but she just didn’t have the strength left to put on a brave face.

“Guess I deserve that.” The vampire ran his hand through his hair and then reached for something in his inside pocket. What was puzzling to Buffy was how he then took one look at her sleeping mom and seemed to shake off whatever it was he had been trying to do—although judging by past experience, he was probably looking for a smoke. “Look, I’m—yeah, I’m sorry, all right? I was a bloody idiot, thinking with my fangs and clinging to the image of a fight to the death between two mortal enemies that had nothing to do with how things are between us.” He started to pace inside the small space, two steps forward, two steps back, silent as a shadow—well, a talking one. “I never should have bitten you, but then again, I never would have figured it out without doing it.” He suddenly stopped his pacing and looked straight at the very confused Slayer. “You can’t tell me you haven’t felt it too.”

“What I felt was your fangs in my neck, literally tearing me a new one—or two. Was there something else there that I maybe missed? If so, I’m ever so sorry. I’ll try to pay more attention while you try to kill me the next time.” She could barely keep her voice in check and the tears of fury from spilling. She was talking through clenched teeth and was just as aware of the spittle flying with each word, as she was of the fact that she felt too weak to even sit up straight in bed. She started thinking that maybe she should start yelling as loud as she could, so that people who hadn’t been nearly drained that night would burst through the door to rid her of his presence. Still, she didn’t.

“That’s just it!” He didn’t seem too shaken up at her outburst; instead, he was pointing at her and tapping the side of his nose.

Is he playing Charades now? Where the hell have I woken up in? Hell, another dimension—or maybe I’m just sleeping and having one of those really weird dreams that I’ll hopefully forget once I wake up…?

“There’s not going to be a next time, love.” He spread his hands out like he was trying to explain something to a child. “Yeah, so I got a taste—you’re delicious, by the way—but I’m a Master Vampire and you’re a Slayer, it’s to be expected that one side or another lose some blood in the process. It’s even written in the bloody handbook! But now that’s all done with, and I’ve made a truce with your dad and your watcher in your stead. No more maiming and killing by my minions and me in exchange for your not staking me and mine. Unaffiliated vamps, other violent demons and the like, as well as run of the mill criminals are open season. Basically, anybody who attacks either humans or those under my command is toast. So, tell me, how good does that sound?” Once his pitch was done, he kept looking at her with a slight smile and big, pleading eyes.

“Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? I just woke up from a drainage-induced trip to the land of the not conscious, and there you are, cool as a corpse, telling me ‘oops, my bad, nearly killed you, but if you quit doing your fucking job, we’ll just call it Even Steven’?”

“Buffy, you’re awake!”

Her mom’s words stopped the flood of curses that the Slayer was about to unleash on the cocky bastard that had the nerve to be looking at her like she was the unreasonable one. How exactly was that fair? She was still trying to see if maybe she could make a stake appear out of thin air in order to take Spike out once and for all.

“Joyce! Good! Talk to that daughter of yours, ’cause she’s just about run me ’round the sodding bend. I’ll be out for a smoke.”

Spike’s last remark was yelled as he strode purposefully to the door, leaving Buffy free to enjoy the family hug she was the center of at that time.

~~~***~~~

*Two weeks later, The Bronze*

Willow was at the Bronze, and she was more uncomfortable than she had ever been in her life. For one, she was feeling severely underdressed, despite Buffy’s tweaks to her night’s chosen outfit. The reason for her feeling of not-worthiness, though, was that she was currently seated at the Cordettes’ table, and all the other girls seemed as though they were wearing something more slu—form-fitting, brand-name-able, and designed by real designers to attract attention. Another reason for her feeling awkward was that the other people around her clearly didn’t want her there, only allowing her near due to her ties to Buffy. Why Buffy? Because ever since she’d been discharged from the hospital, she was acting like the Cordelia-clone she’d once told her she used to be back in LA and less like the ‘have stake, will party’ girl whom the redhead used to call her best female friend.

What made matters even worse was that the Slayer wasn’t even willing to talk about what had happened, what she was feeling, or other best-friendy things like that. No, all Buffy wanted to talk about these days were clothes, boys, and fun. This in itself wasn’t that much of an earth-shattering change, but the way the blonde saw fit to tackle these subjects made Willow even less comfortable. For example, that very moment her friend was on the dance floor, having fun by drawing around her all the boys in the place. But she was wearing a blue handkerchief top that was barely there—more of a thin scarf running down from a blue choker over her braless breasts, which it did little to cover, to a clasp right above her navel, then around the small of her back and up the other side—black hot-pants that seemed painted on, and black-and-blue stiletto-heeled pumps to round up an ensemble that just screamed ‘come and get me, boys!’

All of that boiled down to Buffy dancing away in the middle of a throng of guys that were more or less drooling at the sight of her, while Willow was left sitting at the Cordettes’ table, with the other girls all giving her disdaining glances for some reason or another, with Cordy herself doing her best to try and seem as if the whole situation had been her masterpiece. It was times like these when Willow really missed having Xander around, but between his insistence on helping Giles and Mr. Summers with whatever they asked, and his family having relatives over, the Xan-man had been almost missing in action for more than a week, now. Not that the presence of their Xander-shaped friend would have changed things much, especially since it seemed that the only one Buffy listened to anymore was the aforementioned Cordelia, despite the best attempts by both her parents and Giles.

The Slayer’s reasoning had been that with the truce in place demons that needed slaying were hard to come by, while vampire attacks had all but ceased, making her the Vampire Slayer able to take a month off to just be a normal school-going teenager. Neither of the grown-ups had had much chance of shaking that belief and they’d all but stopped trying, choosing instead to just wait the month out and hope for the best in the meantime. This also meant that patrols performed by the three males of the group were not at all uncommon, although they admitted they had actually fought something just twice so far.

Willow was pulled out of her reverie by a commotion on the dance floor that had nothing to do with the beat pulsing out of the club’s speakers. When the redhead managed to figure out what was going on, a part of her felt weirdly vindicated, as though this was something that she’d been expecting to happen all along, although she wasn’t aware of thinking about it as an actual possibility. Still, the reality of it was there nonetheless. Spike had descended in the middle of the group of males ogling and sometimes even groping Buffy— with the girl’s tacit approval, if Willow was not mistaken—and had gotten into a shouting match with what looked like a college frat-boy built like an ox, obviously also some sort of jock. Due to the distance and the noise, the exact words were unclear, but when ox-boy—egged on by a couple of guys wearing the same fraternity jackets—swung at Spike, the result was almost a foregone conclusion. The jock was out like a light with one punch; his friends were tossed aside as if they were nothing more than an afterthought, and then the real show started, with Buffy giving the vampire a couple of jabs to the kidneys.

By the time Willow managed to reach the fighting pair, the Slayer was dragging Spike towards the back door, anger written clearly on both their faces. The redhead took stock of the situation. The girls at their table were busy trying to look as though they couldn’t care less about what was going on; the guys previously circling Buffy like sharks had dispersed; the frat boys were being escorted out by the bouncers—suspiciously pale and strong bouncers—and her best friend was going out into the poorly lit alley with the one who had put her in a hospital all by himself two weeks prior. What if he has back-up? What if this is a trap? Her mind made up, Willow stepped out the back door of the Bronze, despite her fear. As soon as she saw the two blondes, though, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Spike and Buffy were standing just inches apart, both of them ramrod straight, fists clenched at their sides, their stances almost identical to one another. If Willow had been waxing poetically, she’d have said there was an electric current that seemed to connect the two. As it was, she was taken aback by the intensity with which they were looking at each other, as if the rest of the world had melted away.

“You were egging them on.”

“No, you were acting like Salome, and they were acting like cavemen. Wasn’t my fault big-‘n’-stupid back there decided to touch what wasn’t his without asking permission.”

“Maybe I gave him permission; maybe I wanted his hands all over me.” Before Spike had a chance to speak, Buffy cut him off. “I can take care of myself, Mister Neanderthal. I’m the freaking Slayer, even if I can’t touch your precious little vamps, I can still take care of a drunken idiot.” She narrowed her eyes menacingly. “And I’m definitely nobody’s property.”

Spike grabbed her forearms and his whole body got even closer to the Slayer’s. “You’re mine, and the faster you accept that, the easier this will be for everyone!”

Buffy tried to shake his hands off, but he held firm. “You’re nothing to me. I could never be yours after what you did to me. You’re beneath me!”

Those words seemed to trigger something inside the already irate vampire, and he looked as though he just snapped. He roared—honest to God, lion-in-the-jungle roared—as he lifted Buffy off her feet and slammed her against the Bronze’s back wall. Before Willow had a chance to blink, think, or move to help her friend, the two blondes were practically devouring each other’s mouths, moaning, groaning, and in general making sounds that were more primal in nature, leaving the teenage girl blushing furiously and feeling like a voyeur. Suddenly it had all clicked in her head: the way Buffy was behaving, the surprising actions of Spike that fateful night, the truce, and even further back, the stories about their encounters in LA—which always seemed to be the edited version, and despite her mouthed promise, the Slayer had never really gotten around to telling her best friend the unabridged version—not to mention the way Spike had saved Buffy’s life when the Master had made his move. Everything that a possible future relationship with Angel had hinted it could have been—impossible love between two arch enemies that couldn’t fight their feelings for each other—was becoming reality with the soulless vampire currently engaged in the hottest make-out-fest Willow had ever seen. And just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

Buffy pushed Spike away, and he stood there, seemingly dazed.

“Stop! I won’t do this again. You kiss me, you kick me, you dry-hump me, you try to kill me. You’re like the poster child for multiple personality disorder, and I’ve had enough. Get the Hell away from me!”

Spike looked the Slayer up and down, licked his lips in a sinful way, and made a whole show out of straightening his duster. “You still don’t get it, do you, Slayer? You came tonight, dressed in that little scrap of nothing, knowing what I’d do when I found you. You’re mine, whether you like it or not, and whether I like it or not, I’m yours.” He grinned slightly when Buffy’s eyes widened in shock. “Listen to me and listen good, Slayer, ’cause I want to be sure there’s no misunderstanding about what I’m telling you.” He then enunciated each syllable of the sentence that would probably change everything from then on. “I love you. More than that, I’m in love with you. Now stop playing games with me, little girl, and come dance with me.” He held his hand to her, and Willow almost agreed in Buffy’s name. But the Slayer was frozen in place, chest heaving, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and frightened—and she said nothing.

Slowly, Spike’s hand lowered, and his brows drew together in a frown. He seemed to honestly be at a loss about what he was supposed to do next. Just when the oppressing silence had carried on for longer than a couple of minutes, Buffy pushed herself off the wall, shook out her hair and ran her hands down her body, making the vampire ogle her openly.

Then the Slayer used her words.

“You are insane. You almost killed a guy in front of me not ten minutes ago, despite the truce you came up with. You manhandled me, you assaulted me two weeks ago, you left me in the hospital for two very long days, fighting for my life, and you have the balls to tell me you love me? You’re either insane or simply deluded, ’cause I can’t see any scenario where I could possibly feel anything but loathing for you. Did I stutter earlier? You’re beneath me, so get the fuck away from me and stay gone!”

Spike’s hand shot out with lightning speed, and Buffy was once again pinned to the wall, the vampire’s fingers wrapped around her neck. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth, growling out the words slowly and menacingly. “Listen up, you daft bint. Just because I love you, doesn’t mean I’m someone you can mop the floor with. I’m not my poofter of a sire, all mysterious, guilt-ridden, and silent. I’m loud, I’m up-front, and I’m real. I made a mistake two weeks ago, but it was in my blood to do what I did, just as it’s in my blood now to protect you. ’Cause that’s what it’s all about: love, hate, lust, loathing—it’s all the blood, screaming inside you, making you do its will. And I’m Love’s Bitch, so that means I listen to it, and I do some stupid things sometimes. But don’t think for one second that that makes you superior to me. We’re the same, you and I, Slayer, and the sooner you take that pretty little head of yours out of your round little ass, the better it’ll be for the both of us.” He let her go, turned around and spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll prove to you that I love you. I’ll find a way. But I also know you feel something for me too; otherwise you wouldn’t have let me touch you, especially not tonight. So I’ll be going now, but I’ll be back. You can’t get rid of me with a few curses and punches, Slayer. Not when I love you.”

He hesitated for another beat, but then seemed to change his mind and walked away with long strides. When he passed by Willow, he winked at her, but his eyes were sad. She once more fought the urge to feel sorry for him, only to feel her heart break for her friend when she saw her. Despite the earlier words of disdain, the look on Buffy’s face was that of someone hopelessly in love and hating herself for it. The redhead recognized it from all those Jane Austen adaptations and other such movies, in which there always seemed to be some rogue acting like the bad guy—despite being actually good on the inside—only to have the heroine fall for him despite herself. Is that how it is between these two? Oh, my poor Buffy! Wordlessly, she approached her shaken friend and let her cling to her, pretending the shudders wracking both their bodies were from the exertion and not from sobs.


Chapter End Notes:
I didn't manage to catch up, but at least I'm posting.



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