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She loves to watch him move. She often finds herself captivated by him. She should be more careful; more than once her distraction has left her vulnerable to attack. But something about the swirl of leather, the flash of pale skin and hair as he fights, always manages to steal her attention.

He is beautiful to her, not just as a man, although what woman could deny that his body and face are more appealing than most? She loves his eyes, so startlingly blue, so different from the warm brown eyes of her people. She loves his swagger, his predatory grace, his “big bad” attitude. She smiles to herself. Big bad? She is almost as tall as he is. If she wears heels, they stand eye to eye.

But his beauty goes deeper than the long dead body he wears or the sexy facade. He is to her the closest thing to perfect she will ever know. Despite what he is, despite what he lacks, he is to her the very definition of love.

He was so very broken when they first met, so hurt and angry, so bitter and hopeless. She had known the moment she saw him, propping up the bar in a sleazy club in Fortaleza, that he was in pain. She had known what he was - how could she not? It was, after all, her nature to know, and yet she had still ached with a desire to steal the weary sadness from his eyes, to take it into herself just to spare him.

They have been side by side ever since. Ever since she stood before him in that smoke filled room and wordlessly held out her hand to him, at once thrilled and terrified that he would take it. They had danced together in silence, both too grateful for the other’s acceptance to question it. They had not made love that first night, even though she had taken him to her Spartan rooms and lain down with him on her unmade bed.

She remembers how natural it had seemed, when he raised an arm in invitation, to lay her head upon his chest and let sleep take her. That was nearly a year and a thousand miles ago, but since that night she has not slept anywhere else. When they woke that first morning, she had made strong fresh coffee and they had talked of life and love and loss until the sun set again and he had joined her on her nightly hunt. She has not hunted alone since.

She looks down at the dead Turgora and smiles as she catches the end of a petulant complaint: "…a spectator sport. It's your bloody calling, girl, not mine." But that is a lie; it is his calling to dance in the darkness. If it were not then he would not look so beautiful as he fights.

She grins unrepentantly at him; despite his griping, she knows he is happy to share the burden of her duty. "Take me dancing," she demands, knowing he will oblige her in anything. He grins and holds out his arm for her. "Yes Anjo."

They make a striking couple and she is has come to enjoy the attention they receive when they venture out of their tiny village on the jungles edge and ride his stolen motor bike to town. In this land of dark skin and ebony hair, he is - to say the least - eye catching, and she knows her Hispanic beauty complements his sculpted paleness perfectly.

As he promised her, they drink Cachaca and do the samba until the sun threatens the eastern horizon, then they make their way to a cheap hotel and fall drunk and laughing into each other's arms. There is nothing in this world she likes better than feeling him inside her, feeling his love for her, his trust and gratitude as he moves with her on the worn sheets of a rented bed. It is in these moments that she likes to pretend that he is truly hers, but she is no fool, and she knows that he is not. Oh, he loves her - she never doubts it; she is, after all, “the girl who got him over Buffy,” and for that alone he will love her for eternity. But he is not hers, not really, and despite the painful ache she feels, she is already steeling herself for the time when she will lose him.

She is resolved to let him go easily, with a kiss and a promise of friendship. She won’t fight his leaving when he finally discovers whatever it is that is missing in his life here with her. She will even help him find it, because she loves him. Loves him truly selflessly, and if she must one day let him go so that he can be complete, then she will let him go. When he pledges his love for her against the warm skin of her neck, she almost cries at the bittersweet sound. "I love you, too," she breathes, knowing his demon ears will have no trouble hearing the sincerity of the whispered words.

He moves suddenly off her, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve something from the pocket of his hastily discarded jeans. He dangles a silver chain before her eyes, its butterfly wing jewel glinting in the low dawn light. She laughs in delighted surprise. It is the same necklace she’d admired on a wealthy-looking puta at the bar last night. She hadn’t mentioned it, but he must have noticed - he always notices, her thoughtful pickpocket. She does not care that the gift is stolen. He is what he is and she has no desire to change him.

She sits up and turns her back to him, lifting her hair to accept his offering and when the cool metal lands against the hot flesh of her throat, she is reminded of his blessed coolness and swears silently that she will never take it off.

It is a perfect moment, but it is short lived because someone is here. Someone has found them and her lover's body is tense with recognition. The man studies them both, him in his low slung jeans and bare chest, her in his long black t-shirt. He is a handsome man, at least for his age, with grey-flecked hair and pale eyes. When he speaks, his tone is familiar yet far from friendly, and she steps to Spike's shoulder, ready to put herself between her love and this uninvited threat. "Hello, Spike."





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