beloved.in.blood

Author: Ameeya
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: S.3, during Lover’s Walk.
Summary: Spike returns to Sunnydale to kill the Slayer. He’s just too drunk to do it properly, and ends up getting himself into the deep without even realizing it. Perhaps worst of all, he has no memory of his actions the next day.
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em; I’m just playing. Please oh please, do not sue me.

He’d come here to kill her.

Spike stood partially secluded among the library stacks, his eyes focused on the Slayer’s every move. Every bounce. Fuck, every pant. He hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived, and if he’d had a plan, he’d forgotten it by now. All he knew at the moment was that she was bouncing. God, she was bouncing. Or rather jumping. She was jumping rope; her tits were bouncing, her pony-tail was flopping, and Christ, she was making him hard.

He’d come here to kill her. That was the plan. That was what he told himself he was going to do. Kill her, make her neck his chalice at long bloody last, and return to his regularly scheduled life. Perhaps he’d even crawl on his hands and knees and beg Drusilla to take him back—further the humiliation even more. After all, she’d said that all she saw when she looked at him was the Slayer. If he returned to her with the Slayer’s blood in a vial around his neck, she could no longer rely on the he-doesn’t-love-me-anymore approach to her bouts of infidelity.

Buffy was as good as dead. She was jumping rope and bouncing; in a few seconds, she’d be cold on the floor, her blood washing down his throat. He was sure of it. Sure that as soon as he started moving, she’d be nothing more than a memory, and then his fucking reoccurring nightmare of the past few weeks would finally be over.

He was going to do it. He was going to kill her.

And yet, all he could do was watch.

It was crazy. God, he knew it was crazy. After all, she was the reason Dru had left him. She was the end-all cause of his misery; the proverbial thorn in his side. His plan had been simple: get drunk, get Slayer, get revenge. Tonight was supposed to be the night he repaid all debts. The night he settled all scores. He craved resolution; he needed solace. Perhaps killing her would win Dru back, and perhaps not. Either way, he was certain that he wouldn’t look back on killing Buffy as the moment it all went wrong. Oh no, bathing in her blood was the only way at this point to turn his life around.

He’d tracked her scent to the library; found her alone, oblivious, and blessedly vulnerable. Two of her chums were in the lab, putting together some sodding awful potion, the Watcher was nowhere to be seen, and Angel was halfway across town, buried head-first in some eighteenth-century bore of a read.

Granted, it wasn’t as though Spike hadn’t had the Slayer alone before. He had—only the world had been ending. It wasn’t now. The world was still here and he had her all to himself for as long as he wanted. And with as blissfully ignorant as she was at the moment, he could do any number of things to her for hours before anyone thought to call a search party. She wouldn’t have time to scream for help—not with as fast as he moved when he had his eyes on the prize.

His eyes were on the prize, all right. He couldn’t tear himself away from the prize. The toss of her hair, the bounce of her breasts, or anything that did everything to accentuate her femininity and nothing to ostensibly remind him that he was supposed to hate her.

Rather, his first thought was: I haven’t had a woman in weeks.

The Slayer, though, wasn’t a woman. She was a girl. Just a girl. And as much as he repeated that to himself, his cock wouldn’t listen. No, Buffy had had his cock’s attention from the very start; seeing her now, and running on both alcoholic confidence and the knowledge that he had nothing left to lose, seemed to do little more than accentuate said attention of the one part of his anatomy that hadn’t known any love in a long time, aside his left hand.

The same disobedient hand that was currently running down the front of his jeans, his fingers cupping the bulge pressed insistently against the zipper. A long, guttural moan crept through his throat, and all rational thought abandoned him. Buffy’s tempo with the rope hadn’t slowed—she was likely too much in her own world to pay anything—even turned-on vampire whimpers—any mind. Spike sucked in a breath and slowly dragged the zipper down, stifling another excited growl when his thick cock jumped into his waiting grip.

Fuck.

She was panting hard, now. Her speed kicked up a notch or two, and she began performing a few of those fancy criss-cross maneuvers that he’d seen girlies do on a whim in teeny-bopper movies. Spike bit back another moan, his hand tightening around his cock as his strokes intensified.

She’s magnificent.

That had to be a drunken thought, just as wanking off to her aerobics had to be a drunken action. Dreams he could excuse, as they typically consisted of him fucking her into the ground before sinking his fangs into her delectable throat. He never seemed to be able to see those dreams through, though; something always awoke him before he could snap her neck or watch the life fade from her eyes.

She was nearing the end of her workout, he could tell. Her jumps were becoming more forceful, the small grunts that escaped her lips more emphatic. His hand sped up as well, pumping his cock hard now, his eyes glazing over.

Magnificent.

How warm would she be, he wondered. Angelus had always said that was the high point of fucking the Slayer. She was wonderfully warm—gripped him like a glove, he’d said. A low growl tickled through Spike’s throat and something startlingly akin to jealousy spread through his veins.

Mine.

She was his slayer. He knew that much. If nothing else in this crazy world made sense, Spike knew that Buffy was his slayer. His to bleed, his to kill, his to fuck.

His head jerked up. “What the hell…” he murmured, though his foggy mind didn’t care to explore the thought more than necessary.

God, that was entirely the wrong image to conjure while his hand was pulling his dick. Buffy on her knees, her mouth open. Buffy’s lips surrounding his head. Buffy’s tongue tracing his length. Buffy’s hands squeezing his balls. Buffy on her back, her hands framing her pussy, her fingers stroking her clit. Buffy guiding his cock to her sopping entrance. Buffy’s nails scratching his back as he fucked her raw.

She’d lick his neck and tug at his earlobe with her teeth, then she’d whimper his name as she spasmed and drenched his cock.

Spike growled loudly and came, his spendings ending up on some dusty book that likely hadn’t been checked out in years. He swallowed a whimper and leaned his head against the book stack. God, he hardly ever came so hard when he wanked off, and while he was admittedly more boisterous than usual, masturbating in public was hardly a shining example of just how much of an exhibitionist he could be when prompted.

The library was silent. He didn’t realize just how silent it was until he tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped up. Spike lifted his head and peeked around the book stack. Buffy wasn’t jumping rope anymore. Rather, she was staring hard in his direction—not seeing him, thanks to the shadows, but she’d definitely heard something. She’d either heard something or sensed something, and now he has back to where he started. He’d come here to kill her, and yet he was at a loss.

Only now, there was no time to mull his options over.

Buffy frowned and stepped forward, her chest heaving, her body pink with exertion and glimmering with sweat. Human sweat wasn’t generally something Spike found appealing. Rather, he found most human things, aside from their propensity to bleed, rather disgusting. So why was it that her scent was tantalizing, and the image of her after a hefty work out did little more than make his cock harden all over again?

Christ, he wanted her. And that was only mildly disturbing. Which in and of itself was extremely disturbing.

Buffy reached for a towel that she’d left draped over the library check-out counter. “Hello?” she asked, frowning as she dabbed the terrycloth across her brow. “Angel?”

It was all he could do to refrain from shoving the book stack over. Instead, Spike bit back another growl and did his best to ignore the jealousy that flared in his chest.

She rolled her eyes. “Angel, look, we can give up the whole stalky thing. I told you, Giles is out of town this weekend. He has some weird retreat thing to go to. There’s no Wrath-O-Watcher coming up. Besides, I told him I’d be seeing you anyway.”

Spike snarled again and slinked further into the shadows. Daft bint. And here he thought she’d at least be able to tell the difference between her honey-pie and the one that had come to kill her. Weren’t slayer vibes supposed to be impeccable?

It wasn’t until Buffy started up the stairs of the veranda that his anger gave way to a fleeting spot of panic. And panic wasn’t exactly natural for Spike. If something unscheduled happened, he improvised. He always did, and it hadn’t failed him thus far.

Only he’d come here to kill her, and now, for whatever reason, he wasn’t so sure that was what he wanted. The only thing he was sure of was that he’d never get this close again—never get a chance like this again—and would be kicking himself come morning if let her slip through his fingers and he went home.

Since he didn’t know what he wanted to do—kill her, fuck her, or both—the most reasonable solution was to incapacitate her until he made up his mind. Which was why, when she rounded the corner, he wasted little time throwing her into the wall with a growl.

Buffy knew it a second too late. Slayers relied on every second, and she knew it a second too late. She was pressed against the wall, his chest at her back, and fuck she felt so good against him that he nearly tore her sweats off and got at least one of his urges out of his system right then.

“Spike!” she spat contemptuously, wriggling against him.

“Finally got the name right,” he growled. Then he fisted her ponytail and slammed her head against the wall. Once, twice, and then she fell limp against him.

Spike blinked and glanced down at her. He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he was holding a very unconscious slayer. Buffy’s head rolled back onto his shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing, he had scooped her up into his arms.

That hadn’t been part of the plan.

No, knocking Buffy out had not been part of the plan.

A slow smile spread across his lips as his eyes raked over her body.

This was a definite improvement.

Her head was throbbing. Her head was throbbing, and she couldn’t move. Her legs were in shackles—honest-to-god shackles—and her hands were cuffed above her head. And, perhaps strangest of all, she was on a bed.

Okay, so maybe being chained up was the strangest part of the scenario, but she knew for a fact that her bedroom had no chains. At least no chains that could be easily attached to her mattress.

And even if she did have chains that could be easily attached to her mattress, there was no explanation on this earth that could ease her discomfort at being shackled to a bed, her legs spread wide apart, and a headache the size of Lake Tahoe. Well, at least she was clothed. Being clothed and chained to a bed was infinitely better than naked and chained to a bed.

Her mind began to run its replay, and she suddenly remembered the furious growl of a blond vampire and the wall he’d slammed her into. Buffy’s eyes flew open and she twisted with a gasp, though the movement did little more than strain her already sore muscles. Spike. Spike had been watching her in the library. He’d watched her while doing something. And he’d managed to capture her by, well, running her into a wall, of all things cartoonish.

She’d known that a vampire was near. Hell, that was what her tinglies were for. She’d known that she wasn’t alone for several minutes before she decided to stop, because it had felt like Angel. Or rather, the presence had been familiar to her, and that only happened with Angel; therefore, she deduced that it had to be Angel, else it would have felt like something else. And even if she’d been slightly disappointed that her ex had lapsed back into his lurking-in-the-shadows routine, she could understand if he felt it was necessary. After all, things had been rather difficult and strained between them since he came back from Hell. He didn’t know how to act, and she didn’t know how he should act, so they’d kept their distance. Only…not really.

It was all so very awkward.

Not as strange, though, as confusing Spike’s vibes for Angel’s. Did that mean that she didn’t know Angel’s vibes anymore? Or did it mean that vamp vibes weren’t vamp-specific? She didn’t know; she just wouldn’t trust those vibes again.

Because right now? This wasn’t working out for her. She was shackled to an unfamiliar bed—really shackled. The chains attached to the cuffs around her ankles were stretched so tight that she couldn’t move her legs at all. The links around her wrists, while granting a little more wiggle room, were similarly too strong to break.

She was being held by a captor who knew slayers, and was familiar with slayer strength. She was being held by Spike.

But then again, she already knew that.

Why am I even alive?

The last time she’d seen Spike, he’d been carting an unconscious Drusilla out of the mansion. He’d left her to Angelus, despite their arrangement. Granted, that hadn’t really surprised her all that much. She’d figured, making the deal, that he’d bail the second that Dru was no longer a factor—once he saw a way to grab her and make a run for it.

He’d told her that night that he’d never return. Only now he had returned. He’d very much returned. He’d returned, knocked her out, slayer-napped her, and had her tied to a bed. Yeah, he’d returned. And judging by the drunken clashes coming from the other room, Buffy guessed that Dru was currently marketed as an accessory sold separately.

As her headache began to wane, the incoherent ramblings coming from the other room started crystallizing into actual words.

Though really, that didn’t make the situation any better.

“Right brilliant bit of thinkin’ you did back there,” he muttered. She didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was pacing. “So, mate. You got yourself a slayer.” He paused, and when she thought he might be peeking in at her, she slammed her eyes closed. While she had no idea what his plans were, something told Buffy that it would be best to feign sleep as long as possible.

He was silent for a long time. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining things or if he was actually doing the staring thing. However, judging by how close his voice was when he spoke next, she figured she hit closer to the mark with the second guess.

Spike swallowed hard, and her blood raced. “Right,” he said. “Right. You got yourself a slayer.”

Then she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a zipper being lowered, followed by a long, guttural moan.

Oh God.

He wasn’t…

“Slayer…” he whimpered, then gasped. His labored breaths became pants. His whimpers became mewls, and it hit her just seconds before he reached completion where she’d heard that sound before.

Earlier tonight. In the library.

Oh God. He’d been doing that while she worked out? Spike had…oh God.

“Buffy,” he moaned. “Oh fucking…sweet slayer…”

Oh. My. God.

There wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t red with shame. So he’d kidnapped her to do evil, dirty things to her? Well, that was certainly surprising. While Spike had always appeared to be many things, a sexual pervert wasn’t one of them. Then again, that might explain why he was masturbating and not touching her inappropriately. Not thrusting his icky Spike-shaped male parts into her practically virginal body. Not doing things that she’d have to stake him for. Because, really, kidnapping her and masturbating while she was chained to the bed was reason enough.

“Bleeding fuck,” he sighed, tugging his zipper back up. Then he was close—oh God so close—and she was certain that either her breathing or her heartbeat or a combination of the two was going to give her away.

It didn’t, though. At least he didn’t mention it if it did.

“So now I got me a slayer,” he said softly, his tone slightly giddy. “Question is…” He trailed a cold finger down the side of her neck, then over a breast, stopping to circle her nipple. “What do I do with her?”

She knew that tone. Her father often used it when he was either coming off or going on a bender. So she’d been kidnapped by a drunken slayer-killer who thought enough of her to masturbate as she lay unconscious, chained to his bed. Today was so not her day.

“Should kill you.” Spike lowered his face to her throat and bit lightly at her skin with blunt teeth. Buffy inhaled sharply, fighting every instinctual nerve in her body to keep from thrashing and bucking. It wouldn’t do her any good. Not now. No, Spike definitely had the upper hand.

Very definitely.

Well, two upper hands. Both of which were suddenly very interested in her boobs.

I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m gonna wake up and be in my room. And Spike…oh my God, I’m being groped by Spike.

His breathing had suddenly turned ragged. He was licking at her throat, his hands palming her breasts as his thumbs stroked her nipples through her thin camisole. There was something incredibly raw about an overly amorous Spike. And she had to wonder, for a minute, if he wasn’t mistaking her for Drusilla.

Just as she had to wonder why she wasn’t more pissed off than she was.

Probably because you’re not convinced that this isn’t a dream.

“Fuck, but you’re pretty,” he purred, his tongue flickering over the Master’s bite mark. “My pretty little slayer.”

His own words seemed to snap him out of whatever spell he was in. The next thing she knew, Spike had torn himself from the bed and was pacing again. Or rather, it sounded like he was pacing again. She wasn’t brave enough to risk opening her eyes. Not just yet.

If she opened her eyes, two things would happen. One: Spike would see she was awake, and things would likely get much worse. Two: she would see that she was still as she had been, that she really was chained to a bed in the burned-out factory, and Spike really had been getting up close and personal with both her and her girl parts just a second ago. Those were two realities she would really like to put on hold as long as she possibly could.

“Sodding miserable chit!” he snarled. “Oughta jus’ kill you. Oughta rip your bloody heart out for what you’ve done to me!”

Right. Sense was being made there. It wasn’t like she’d ever done something as crazy as, oh say, this. Still, drunk Spike was better than sober Spike. Drunk Spike could make a mistake. Drunk Spike would make a mistake, and then this brief stint into nonreality would be over.

“Need…Christ, I gotta get outta here.”

Whoa…wait.

Leave? As in…leave? He was going to leave her here?

Buffy strained against her bindings. Yeah, those were really strong chains. Really strong.

And Spike was leaving? That was so not of the good.

It took a few minutes of silence to summon the courage to open her eyes.

The damn vampire had actually done it. He’d actually left her behind.

Buffy gasped loudly and made several futile attempts to sit up. She pulled at her restraints, attempted to kick her legs; tried anything that would loosen the grip. But no—some cognitive, rational part of Spike’s drunken, idiotic brain had thought to make sure that his bindings were tight enough to hold her.

She was trapped.

God, she was trapped. In the factory. And Spike was gone. He might get drunk enough to forget about her. Or worse, he might not.

He might not.

And then it happened. At last, it happened. The haze was over, and reality stepped in with a vengeance.

Buffy had finally woken up.

Author’s Note: Okay, so…ummm, extremely nervous about this chapter. I just want to remind everyone that it is Season 3 Spike, and therefore he is evil. Not to mention drunk. He is very, very drunk.

If my planning goes right (and please don’t hold me to it) this is about as angsty as I intend to go. The fic itself is described (in my head, at least) as a fluffy fic, bordering on comedy. However, I didn’t want to shorthand the characters…at least not so soon in the story. I’m sure I’ll take them plenty out of character later, but for now, I’d like to at least try to maintain the pretense that I know how to write Spike before he gets bitten with the Buffy-lovin’ bug.

Having said that, I have major, major issues with non-con, which made very this incredibly hard to write. So, be prepared…some of this may be perceived (and likely will be) as non-con. But hopefully, the fluffiest non-con you’ve ever come across.

Thanks to my betas for talking me through it.

“Schlaaaayer!”

Buffy tensed, her eyes flying open. While she hadn’t been sleeping, she’d taken an honest stab at it, hoping she’d be lucky enough to wake up on the other side of this with the middle conveniently cut out. Her mind, though, was too chattery to sleep, and every time she found herself drifting, the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach would lurch her back to consciousness.

Now Spike was back and—from the sound of things—very, very drunk.

“Still here,” he said shortly, stumbling slightly as he crossed the threshold into the small room. Her muscles were killing her, but it didn’t stop her from struggling helplessly against her restraints. “Wha’s this? Not crafty enough to slink away, are we?”

“Spike…”

It wasn’t as though she meant to sound all pleady and breathless; Buffy truly hated helplessness, and not being anywhere near the zone of control had her panicking.

“Dunno what’s keepin’ you here,” he retorted, his eyes glazing over as he raked her body with long, lustful looks. “Thought slayers were s’posed to have super strength.”

“Spike, you’re drunk.”

“I’m very drunk,” he corrected, stumbling over to her and shedding his duster. Oh God, he was shedding his duster; from the way his hands went to the hem of his tee, it seemed that wasn’t all he intended to shed. “An’ I intend to get drunker.”

She paused, fighting off the initial swell of mirth that climbed up her throat. “Spike, you’re so drunk you’re quoting Gone With the Wind. You really wanna be letting me go right about now.”

“Yeah. That’s what I wants to do with you.” He plopped down beside her, his left hand settling on her leg, fingers caressing her inner thigh. Then his head was dipping toward her, and he inhaled appreciatively. “Christ, you smell fantastic. You always smell so bloody fantastic.”

Buffy pursed her lips. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and she felt her body reacting against the will of her mind. It was humiliating—he was sniffing at her, touching her, and all she could do was tremble. She was terrified and furious; combined with mortification, the urge to kick and scream was near unbearable. But she couldn’t kick, and screaming would do little more than anger him. And while she had little to no practice with diplomacy, it seemed to be the best alternative. “Spike,” she said softly. “I really need you to untie me.”

He ignored her, and for the second time that evening, his sensuous tongue found her throat, licking at the vamp mark she’d been branded with a year earlier. Never before had the mark been an erogenous zone, so she was quite surprised at the pleasured gasp that tore through her throat and the rush of wetness between her spread thighs.

Spike inhaled and shuddered against her. “Naughty li’l schlayer,” he murmured, nipping at her neck as the hand on her thigh brazenly slid upward until he was cupping her clothed pussy. “Mmmm…”

Shock filled every inch of her body. Well, shock and the most potent rush of lust she’d ever experienced. That was sick. She was sick. He was touching her in that way, and her body was reacting to it. She was reacting to him, and he was touching her as only one man ever had before. More than that, she was chained to a bed, no one knew where she was, and he was drunk. She was chained and he was drunk, and she was in no position—aside from screaming in protest—to fight what he was doing to her.

“Show her,” Spike murmured defiantly, his lips trailing southward. He dropped kisses as he went, pausing to tease her nipples. In a blink, he’d torn her sweats and panties as far down her legs as he could, and tore the material away before she could hope that he’d unchain her legs to finish the job.

It wasn’t until she felt him dotting kisses along her pelvis that astonishment and self-loathing faded into true panic. He was going to—oh God, he was. Her first time experiencing this shouldn’t be terrifying. Shouldn’t be forced. Shouldn’t be with a vampire she hated. The dreamlike atmosphere vanished again, and she was left with the biting smack of reality.

“Spike, no,” she whispered, her urgent tone in direct counterpoint to her treacherous body—the same treacherous body that had stretched beneath him invitingly, her hips lifting in want of his mouth. Her mind was at war with her arousal; this was violation. It shouldn’t feel good—but God, he was nuzzling her and it did. And she didn’t want it to feel good. She wanted anything but to feel good about something so fundamentally wrong. She needed him to stop now before she betrayed everything there was about being female. “Please. You can’t do this. You hate me. You don’t wanna do this. I don’t taste good—God, I’m sure I don’t taste good. Please!”

While her mind and mouth objected, her body welcomed him. She was seriously hating her body right now.

This was something she’d wanted with Angel, in the fantasy future she had planned—the one where they eradicated the clause of his curse and had the chance at a crime-fighting life. He’d offered to do it their first and only night together, but she’d been too terrified and nervous to let him. In the months since she’d lost her virginity, she’d opened herself to experiencing any number of things that had seemed taboo at one point.

Okay, if she was totally honest with herself, the Angel part of the future equation was more out of lack of options. His behavior since returning from Hell had been understandably distant, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think that things could ever go back to being the way they once were. God, at this point, she wasn’t even sure she wanted that. Angel as a soulless killing machine had robbed her of her innocence in ways that no amount of violence or slaying or apocalypses could ever have. No. Going back to Angel wasn’t an option. She’d seen him as she’d never wanted to, and it would never be the same.

However, her girlish mind hadn’t quite been willing to let go of the fairytale, and thus, all her fantasies about the future she could never have had starred Angel as the male protagonist. There were things that she wanted to experience someday, and yes, the female dream of pro-cunnilingus boyfriends was one of them.

Spike nuzzled her pussy, his fingers massaging her skin through her curls. “Show her,” he murmured again, his tongue lapping at her folds. Buffy threw her head back and screwed her eyes shut, determined to feel nothing—enjoy nothing—and let him get whatever he needed out of his system. All she needed to do was get through to morning—or to a point where he was confident enough in her complacency to make a mistake and let her go.

She was determined to not enjoy this, no matter how good it felt.

“Slayer,” he growled, sucking her clit into his mouth. Buffy inhaled sharply and pulled at her restraints, her hips thrusting upward. He purred approvingly, spreading her pussy lips wide with two fingers. “My schlaaayer.”

“I’m dreaming,” Buffy gasped, arching into him again. “I’m dreaming I’m dreaming I’m dreaming.”

Spike’s tongue curled around her clit, his wandering fingers imploring her opening. God, this was so humiliating. Women were not supposed to react to coerced sexual acts like wanton hussies. She was not supposed to react to Spike like an under-sexed porn star. And yet, she found her legs were straining the chains to open wider for him, rather than close. Her pelvis thrust determinately against his mouth, and the moans that scratched at her throat were definitely not in protest.

“My slayer,” he repeated, his tone primal. His tongue abandoned her clit the next second, his eager fingers stretching her pussy lips again. Then he was lapping at her exposed skin, suckling at her, and at last, plunging into her tight, wet hole. Her eyes shot open at last, latching onto the attentive blond head between her legs, and Buffy trembled so hard that the bed rocked against the wall.

“Oh God,” she moaned. Reason abandoned her completely. “Oh my God.”

“Show her…show her. Covered with you. Covered.”

“Wha…?”

“My schlayer.”

“No…oh God, please…”

“Mine.”

He captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger and began massaging her rapidly. Ecstasy split her veins, and she trembled hard around him. Her body exploded into a thousand tiny spasms, and she cried out hoarsely. For a few seconds—a few, glorious seconds—nothing around her mattered. Nothing at all. She was drowning in pleasure and nothing else mattered. Nothing.

And then it happened. Spike slipped his tongue out of her pussy, filling her with two fingers as his thumb settled over her clit. He rubbed her attentively as his mouth moved to her inner thigh, licking at her tender skin with a purr.

Awareness shot through her. Buffy gasped loudly and attempted to sit up. “Spike—no, you can’t—!”

Her words were wasted. The next second, his fangs pierced her skin, sending her spiraling down a second orgasm. He feasted on her, growling and drinking his fill. And when he finally retracted his incisors from her flesh, she was too weak to fight him.

“Mine.”

Buffy blinked. She was numb all over.

Spike growled and slammed an angry fist into the mattress, his tongue sliding over her bloodied skin again. “Mine,” he insisted. “Say it!”

Defiance rose and died. At some point, she had simply stopped caring. “Yours,” she agreed, her voice small but satisfied. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry for him. He could have her blood—hell, even her body—but he wouldn’t have her tears. Not tonight. “Yours. Whatever. Just please…let me go.”

Her demand wasn’t out of desperation anymore; rather necessity. She’d been taken from a world guarded with rules—many, many rules. She might be a novice to the whole sex thing, but she was certain that what had just happened should not have given her the pleasure it did. She should not be trembling with the aftermath of an orgasm—let alone two. His fangs should have terrified her. Everything that had just happened should have terrified her. Instead, she was terrified of herself. She’d just experienced something that women dreaded, and she’d enjoyed it.

God, she was disgusting. And even knowing that didn’t change anything.

Again, Spike ignored her. Instead, he purred in delight and licked her clit again before pillowing his cheek against her thigh. And then he stilled, two fingers locked inside her. He stilled.

And slept.

His mate was crying.

Spike was barely awake—barely aware of anything. His senses and instincts were on autopilot. His conscious mind was completely absent, and only the demon was present. And all the demon knew at the moment was that his mate was crying. Crying and struggling beneath him. He sensed her displeasure at her tears, her fear and repulsion. He felt her disgust, both with herself and with him, and the awareness made him want to weep.

Instead, he groggily rose to all fours, his hand going to the clasp on his jeans. He didn’t know how he knew, but something told him that those new to a vampiric claim often craved a physical bond to soften distress. It was the best way, especially with the new sensations spreading through them, to soothe fears and concerns.

His cock was erect, which did little to surprise him. The rich scent tickling his nose always made him hard. He rumbled several encouraging growls and nuzzled her throat, his eyes remaining shut. She was his mate—sight wasn’t needed for this. All he needed to do was calm her. Calm her for now by giving her the physical connection she craved.

His tongue darted out instinctively and lapped up her tears, the head of his cock sliding sensually against her slick opening.

But this wasn’t about pleasure. Not now. Pleasure could wait.

Spike nipped at her neck and purred soothingly as he slid inside her. So warm, he thought, curling his arms under her shoulders, his head resting against her breast.

So warm.

Perhaps tomorrow, he’d think to question her near-virgin tightness. The strange presence of a heartbeat. The tears that refused to stop flowing down her cheeks. The whimpers that itched at her throat, and the foreign heat radiating from her body.

Right now, though, he’d done all he knew to do. He’d done what was needed to calm her.

So he rested.

Author’s Note: I so appreciate all the comments/reviews on this fic, particularly the last chapter. I’m gonna try to get this revved back into the fluffy/comedic light and not do the “expected” thing when it comes to non-con…but at the same time, treat the non-con for what it was. However, I do think it’s important to note that, while Buffy was hurt by Spike’s actions, she was more terrified of her own reactions. It was the only way I could talk myself into doing non-con. Trust me, that scene was specifically for plot purposes. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

Again, thank you so much!

Every nerve in his body was on fire; he was swimming in warmth. God, there’d never been a feeling like this. Never in all his years, and he’d been around for quite a while. There were a few things he knew immediately, even if he wasn’t completely awake. First, he was balls-deep in the hottest, tightest pussy he’d ever felt. Second, the woman beneath him was very definitely human. Human, warm, wet, and wiggling.

It was quite possible that he’d never been this hard before. Spike moaned, rotating his hips as he began to lazily thrust inside her. His head was throbbing from the effects of more alcohol than the entire Barrymore family line had ever seen, and memories of the previous night came in a series of broken fragments.

Not a surprise. And even though his drinking rarely got so out of hand—he usually stopped before he lost control of himself completely—Spike saw little reason for concern. Obviously, the night had worked out well for him. He was in a bed, he was in a woman; the natural conclusion was, his carelessness hadn’t cost him his life. Rather, it seemed he’d had a right decent time.

Now if only he could remember it…

The woman beneath him gasped and whimpered and arched. Spike lowered his mouth to her neck, favoring her sweet skin with long laps of his tongue. “Mmmm…” he murmured. “So sweet.”

The words shocked the hell out of him. He’d long ago stopped trying to fill his sexual void with nameless women, especially since their faces seemed to turn into the Slayer’s rather than Dru’s. But even more than that, Spike wasn’t one to go for meaningless sex. He could do it, sure—and when he did, he did it with gusto—but a century had schooled him well and although he’d love to, casual fucking didn’t do it for him. He’d already had his revenge fuck. Well, in all honesty, several revenge fucks, but it didn’t take long to realize what he was missing. It didn’t take long for said revenge fucks to become anything but a reminder of how alone he was. And nothing—absolutely nothing—about those nameless, faceless women had been sweet.

The one beneath him tasted sweet, and Christ, she felt like Heaven. She was moaning and squirming, thrusting up against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath hot against his skin. The whimpers scratching at her throat were driving him mad. There was something about her—he knew, even without opening his eyes, that time had yet to jade her. That was another thing about the few women he’d been with since Dru, and even Dru herself, that he hadn’t thought to question until now. Women who were no longer impressed by sex, who performed as though it were a routine to a dance they wished over long ago.

He didn’t take it personally, though he did relish the satisfaction of their surprise once he made them come. Bet that hadn’t happened in years. But in the end, they were just using each other, and he couldn’t give a damn if they got off or not.

How did he manage to get so drunk and find a woman like…

“Spike!”

His eyes flew open.

Oh my fuck.

A long, trembling whimper tore through Buffy’s lips, her eyes fluttering shut as she trembled beneath him. Spike gasped along with her; the pace of his thrusts increased. God, she felt so sweet, and he couldn’t keep himself from fucking her. Not when she was so hot. When she had been looking at him like that.

“You’re awake,” she hissed through her teeth, though he couldn’t tell if she was strained with pleasure, or outrage.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re telling me.”

Spike stared at her for a long minute, then his head fell to her shoulder, and he moaned. He forced his hips to a standstill, his cock slipping out of her pussy with reluctance that nearly tore his body in half. He immediately lamented the loss of her warmth, and shivered as though he could, after a century, finally feel the cold. “Oh my God. Slayer…I don’…how—”

It all came back in a rush. The library. Buffy jump-roping. Buffy’s luscious tits bouncing. Buffy chained to a bed. Buffy sleeping. And then—and then…nothing. There was nothing but a blur. He remembered a bar. Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol…and then nothing.

Only very obviously not nothing, as he’d awakened with his cock inside the Slayer’s succulent pussy. That was definitely not nothing.

“Oh for the love of Pete!” the Slayer all but growled. “Spike, please…don’t make me…God, don’t make…”

He blinked stupidly. “What?”

“I…I’m…” She was blushing furiously, which intrigued him until he realized what she was about to say. She was close. Fucking Christ, he had the Slayer close to coming. She was close and she didn’t want to say it—hell, from the look of things, she didn’t even want to think about it. She was mad as hell, though he couldn’t tell if he was on the receiving end of her anger, or if she was irritated with herself.

She’d seduced him. That had to be it. Little vixen had seen him stumble into the factory, very obviously drunk off his arse, and she’d seduced him to escape. Fuck, if he wasn’t so bloody horny, he might have to punish her by not getting her off. As it was, his cock was only too happy to slide back inside her.

“Slayer,” he growled, fangs descending. The gasp that scratched her throat only fueled his enthusiasm. She looked torn between ecstasy and humiliation, and God if the combination didn’t shoot another bolt of lust straight to his dick. “So hot.”

“Shut up,” she hissed through her teeth, her eyes falling shut. “Just shut up and do it.”

“Do it?” He grinned nastily, grinding his hips against hers. “The Slayer afraid the Big Bad’s gonna make her scream?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on. You wanna scream for your Spike.” He dropped his mouth, teeth clamping on her earlobe and giving it a good tug as he slid a hand between their thrusting bodies, his callused fingers finding her clit. The gasp that spilled from her lips was worth a thousand of these mornings, hangovers and all. “Tell your Spike how much you love this.”

He saw tears pricking at her eyes, but pushed his concern aside. For God’s sake, she’d asked for this. What did she expect? Candles? Roses? Sweet kisses and a promise of commitment? Had she forgotten who she was dealing with in her attempt to seduce her way out to freedom?

“Come for me, kitten.” He rubbed her clit fast, his other hand tugging her camisole down until her tits were exposed to his hungry eyes, and his wandering lips immediately navigated southward until he had a mouthful of Slayer-breast. “Come on. Come for Spike. Wanna feel your pussy squeeze me into the next sodding life.”

He said it more for her sake than out of desire. In all honesty, Spike didn’t want her to climax so quickly—he wanted to enjoy this, draw it out, because he knew it would never happen again. It was a realized fantasy that he’d never again get to taste. So when she finally cried out and trembled around him, drenching his cock with her juices and biting a lip to keep from screaming his name, he couldn’t hope to hold on. He suckled on her nipple a second longer before releasing her with a wet slurp, massaging her clit speedily as his eyes took in the sight of her.

God, she was a glorious creature when she came.

“You’re gorgeous,” he gasped, his voice near reverent.

And somehow, the Slayer managed to ruin that moment with a well-timed glare. “Shut up,” she spat.

Fucking bitch.

Spike snarled and dove for her throat, but his fangs decided to bite into the pillow instead. God, she was squeezing him mercilessly, her beautiful body in spasms as he spilled himself inside her, his growl of completion lost in a sea of goose down feathers.

It took several minutes for him to come back to himself. When he opened his eyes, he found his head pillowed at her breast. Her very-much heaving breast. A long moan rumbled through his throat. He felt spent, but his cock was on a very different train of thought. Staring at her ruby nipple gave a bloke ideas, and when he began to harden within her for round two, it was only her sharp, panicked gasp that had the power to send him spiraling back to reality.

The Slayer was staring at him, horrified. Horrified, and gloriously bedded. God, she was edible.

“Don’t,” she said shortly, ruining yet another moment. “Don’t. Just get out of me.”

“Slayer, never let anyone tell you that you don’t know how to romance a fella.”

“I mean it. Get. Out. Of. Me.”

Spike rolled his eyes and obliged, biting back a whimper when his cock was suddenly deprived of her warmth. “Don’t see what you’re so brassed about. You’re not the one that woke up with a hangover.”

“I swear to God, you’re counting away the seconds until you’re dust.”

His hands came up. “Oi! I just did what you asked for, you stupid bint. An’ after that, don’t you think it a mite rude to start makin’ death threats? It’s not like shagging the Slayer was my number one priority when I came back here. Fuck if I know what—”

God, the stupid bint looked ready to cry again. Women were so bloody fickle.

“What?” he demanded.

“Let me up. I wanna go home.”

“Yeah. Two seconds after you’ve threatened to stake me.” He rolled his eyes and jerked his jeans up. “Sorry, luv. You’re good, but not that good.”

He regretted the words the second they escaped his lips. The Slayer’s face crumbled completely and she dissolved into tears. And he didn’t know why, but the sound of her crying tore at him from every feasible angle. The next thing he knew, he was approaching her slowly, his hand diving into his jean pocket for the key to her shackles.

Stupid bird’s guiltin’ me into letting her go.

But guilt wasn’t on the menu—at least it shouldn’t be. However, he couldn’t deny the twist of something that took command of his body. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her brow, and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Didn’t that just beat all?

She was twisting so much by the time he knelt at the foot of the bed that it took several minutes before he had one ankle free. But it only took a second for her to kick him across the room.

Ungrateful li’l…

“You stupid bitch,” he growled, fighting to his feet. She was still crying, only she’d turned over—best she could—closing her legs but showing him her ass, which really wasn’t in her best interest, but he wasn’t one to complain. “I’m tryin’ to help!”

“You’ve done enough.”

“What? You want me to apologize for shagging you? Sorry, Slayer, but you asked.”

There was an angry pause at that, and she twisted to face him, her legs remaining stubbornly pressed together. “I didn’t ask for last night!” she screamed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

A very, very still beat spread through the room.

“What?” he replied slowly. “Wait a mo’. Start at the beginning. How’s it that I ended up in bed with you in the bloody first place?”

Buffy stared at him, then shook her head incredulously. “You don’t remember?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “Believe me or not, that doesn’ change anything. Near as I can figure, you wanted outta here so bad you put that scrumptious body of yours to use. Not a bad ploy when a man’s drunk, but—”

“Me?!” she shrieked. “You forced—”

The word stopped him dead, an ugly, heinous accusation that made even him shudder. He was many things—many cruel, nasty things, but a rapist wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t Angelus; he didn’t need to get his jollies off in order to, well, get his jollies off. He’d tortured girls till they cried and begged for death, sure—living with Angelus for twenty years, pre-soul, there hadn’t been much choice. His Yoda, after all, demanded that he be an obedient student.

Of the many terrible things he’d done to women, though, rape was simply inconceivable. Most female blood that stained his hands post-Angelus had been at Dru’s jealousy. She’d see a girl, make a snide accusation toward his nonexistent wandering eye, and the next thing he knew, she had dinner in a Victorian dress.

He hated to be a cliché, but really, violence against any woman—save those with a sacred calling—had never been his thing. There was something about his upbringing that refused to be shaken by violence and hatred—some residual William factor that kept popping up. It didn’t keep him from inflicting pain without bias, of course, but when possible, he avoided drawing blood that wasn’t male.

Fuck, he hadn’t even offed Cecily, and God knows, the bitch deserved it.

So Buffy telling him now that he’d forced himself on her…well, that was just impossible.

Only, the look in her eyes didn’t make it seem so impossible. Rather, it inspired a suddenly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew without a doubt that she was telling the truth.

Oh God.

“Oh God.” Spike expelled a deep breath and turned away, his body trembling.

There was very little in his past that inspired guilt. Siring his mum for one. Dru’s run-in with the mob in Prague. Somehow, a whole past full of wrongs had washed away, and he was bathed in something he didn’t recognize. Beyond guilt. Beyond remorse. This was something no vampire should feel. Never.

Never before had his demon wept, but for the way in which his insides were shattering, it could be nothing else.

He was making her dizzy.

“Spike, please stop pacing.”

He shook his head frantically.

“Really, you’re driving me nuts.”

She didn’t know why she had this urge to reassure him that everything was okay when everything really, really wasn’t. And yet, the urge was there. There was something so authentic—so genuine—about his distress, and though she couldn’t explain it, she wanted to provide some solace.

Obviously, she was sick and twisted, but that was old news. Not only did she have the enjoying of what had happened last night, but not half an hour ago, she’d asked him to keep screwing her.

Well, not asked in so many words, but she definitely hadn’t complained when he read between the lines. Her body had been on fire—that strange buildup to orgasmic release that she was so not used to—and at that moment, it had seemed more important than her pride. Or almost more important, as she’d never actually gotten around to asking.

Now she wanted to comfort Spike for…well, rape was an awfully strong word, and since she’d enjoyed it—being the sicko that she was—she wasn’t too keen on using it. But still, she was entirely wigged and disgusted, and Spike was a big part of that.

She hated herself for enjoying it. Hated herself for not throwing him off of her in disgust once he started having sex with her that morning. Hated herself, most of all, for sitting here and feeling bad for making him realize the truth.

He really needed to stop pacing. Her sicko-eyes were really enjoying how taut and tense his body was.

I am completely disgusting.

He really did have that whole ripply-muscle thing going for him. It really, really wasn’t fair.

I am completely and utterly disgusting.

She needed to get out of here before she did something crazy, like actually comfort him.

“You need to slow down. Count to ten. Throw something. Breathe into a paper sack. I dunno. Just stop pacing!”

Spike stopped shortly and whirled around, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t breathe, you stupid bint!”

“Well, sorry! Forgive a girl for trying to help!”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Well, obviously. Your nervous breakdown is going off without a hitch. Now will you please stop pacing?”

“I’m not pacing!”

Buffy blinked. Oh. He actually had stopped. “Well, good. Let’s keep it that way. You wanna maybe not pace over here and unprisoner me?” She shook her other leg demonstratively, careful not to reveal the bite mark on her inner left thigh. The one he’d given her the night before—the one he’d sealed with words and a demand that she didn’t understand. She sensed it was important; she sensed the bite mark meant something huge, something significant, and couldn’t thank her lucky stars enough that he’d somehow missed it in his wig out.

For some reason, she didn’t want him to see it. She didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but something told her that things would be much worse if Spike knew he’d bitten her. Much, much worse. Especially if he knew that said bite had been accompanied by a random caveman demand, followed by an order to respond in some derogatory fashion that threw Women’s Rights out the proverbial window.

She had absolutely no idea how he hadn’t seen it, but she was counting her blessings. Her mind was made up: Spike could never, ever know about that mark.

“You want me to untie you,” Spike repeated, blinking.

“Well, yes. As comfortable as this looks…it’s anything but.”

“You’re not crying anymore.”

Oh, so he’d noticed that. That didn’t mean she didn’t feel like crying, naturally, but the part of her that felt used and violated—while still shaken and angry—couldn’t be as mad as it wanted to be because she knew that he was just as shaken.

“Don’t take that to mean that I’m not super pissed beyond the telling of it.”

Spike shook his head, a strange emotion clouding his eyes. Well, not strange for normal people, but it definitely looked strange on him. She’d seen his guilt and regret, but the look on his face now was a step above that. He was thoroughly broken by what he’d done. As though all the hurt and outrage that she wasn’t feeling had transferred to him. And it wigged her out that she suddenly felt she had the power to read Spike’s emotions, because that was so not a thing she wanted added to her resume.

“I’ve never…” Spike sighed and shook his head again, nearing her cautiously as his hand dipped back into his jean pocket. “I swear, Slayer, I’ve never forced myself on a woman before.”

The funny thing was, she knew he was telling the truth. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She trusted that he was being honest with her—she could tell. Perhaps it was that strange non-resume-thing again, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“Never?” she repeated skeptically. “Yeah, coming from the evil vampire, that’s much with the reassuring.”

“There are certain degrees to evil, pet,” he replied, his eyes on the ground. “Maybe it was Angelus’s thing. Well, no, scratch that—it was Angelus’s thing. He gets off on pain.”

“And you don’t?”

Spike sighed, his fingers sliding over her ankle. “Not pain like that. I’m a mean, nasty bloke—don’t need to add sex offender to the list to make me the poster child for all things evil in the world. I’ve done my fair share of torturing, yeh. I won’ deny it. An’ there’s no reason for you to believe me. I know it, but I’m sayin’ it anyway. Rape isn’t my cuppatea, luv.”

It’s not rape when you enjoy it, though.

Buffy shivered. “Just unchain me. I wanna go home.”

He paused and arched a brow, looking up. “You sure you’re not gonna boot me across the room this time?”

“No.”

She expected anger, but instead, he flashed a somber smile and dropped the shackle. The metallic crash against the floor made her jump. “I deserve it.”

“You’re creeping me out.”

“’Least I’m not pacing.”

Buffy grinned a little at that. “Now the arms, please?”

“You gonna stake me?”

“Maybe.”

He unchained her. Buffy blinked in astonishment and met his eyes.

Why is he doing this?

“Because I’m enough of a rat bastard. I had a plan. I buggered the plan an’ practically buggered you in the process.”

Had she said that aloud or could he read minds? “Spike—”

Was it natural to want to comfort the man who had assaulted her? Was it even assault?

God, she was confused. She’d just spent the night in a surreal place with a surreal version of Spike. First with his head between her legs, then with his cock inside her. She hadn’t slept, and when she’d finally decided to struggle, Spike had started moving inside her and all reason had been lost.

She was sick. She was absolutely sick. And on top of that, she was emotionally exhausted; caught between hating him and feeling sorry for him, piled on top of totally hating herself.

Her emotions were tangled. If she thought about it another second, she’d just start crying again. Because, drunk or not, Spike had terrified her. What he’d done to her was terrifying. And this wigsome, penitent Spike wasn’t helping matters. Things would be so much easier if he’d be the ass he had been after he’d slid out of her body. If he’d never known what he’d done the night before, so she could stake him and begin the healing process.

This Spike was more broken than she could ever be. And it scared her that she knew that. That she could tell just by looking at him how much turmoil he was in, and how badly she wanted to tell him that it was okay.

Buffy sighed and tugged her camisole down over her breasts and squeezed her thighs together.

“Slayer,” he said softly. “I know…this won’t mean anything but…I’m sorry.”

She shuddered. It meant something. It meant a lot. And she resented it.

But she didn’t tell him that.

“I wanna go home.”

He was still for a long beat, then nodded and backed away, hurrying to the other side of the room. “Best not look a gift horse in the mouth, yeh? Lemme find you some slacks.”

“Spike?”

He paused and looked back at her.

Buffy swallowed hard. “For the record…I’m willing to believe that what happened here…didn’t happen here. Don’t ask me why—as you said: gift-horse-mouth kinda thing. But here’s what is gonna happen: I’m gonna go home, take a shower, and forget everything.” She paused. “But…you need to leave. I mean it. Leave town. Never come back. If you come back—”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I know this tune, Slayer.”

“I mean it.”

“An’ I have no reason to doubt it.” Spike forced a weak smile and nodded again. “Gonna go find you some slacks.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

And with any luck, so was he. Spike would leave and she could return to her normally scheduled life.

And try to fit herself into a universe where none of this ever happened. She didn’t want any self-examination. She didn’t want to think about how every woman’s nightmare had turned into the hottest experience of her life. She didn’t want to consider what that made her. She didn’t want to clash how hurt and angry she was against how good he’d made her feel. Physical pleasure didn’t win over emotional duress, and although she knew that, convincing herself was an entirely separate matter. She was confused enough for several lifetimes as it was. So she was determined not to think of it. She would walk away from Spike right now with this bizarre understanding, and never give their night together a second thought.

It was a nice idea, as far as pipe dreams went.

Buffy was beyond exhausted. She climbed into her room and flopped helplessly on her bed before remembering that she did not want to fall asleep in Spike’s clothes. She didn’t want to fall asleep with his scent all over her, or the ghost of his hands and mouth on her skin.

She just didn’t have the strength to get up and walk to the shower. Furthermore, she was certain that her mom had stayed up the night pacing the halls and calling the entire Sunnydale directory because Buffy had never phoned or showed up for their scheduled college discussion. And Angel was probably worried, too, since she’d told him that she’d drop by.

She didn’t have the strength to start fabricating an elaborate where I was last night story just yet. A part of her needed to talk. Needed to tell someone that Spike had hijacked her life for about twelve hours and now she was confused and angry and disgusted with herself, only she wasn’t because she’d refused to think about it. It was over and done with, and as far as she was concerned, the entire affair had been a hellacious nightmare.

All she needed to do now was wake up.

There was a tentative knock on her door, followed by her mother’s quiet, inquisitive voice. “Buffy?”

She moaned and dragged a pillow over her head. No. Such. Luck.

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice muffled. “I’m in here.”

The door flew open the next second, and before she knew what was happening, Buffy was all but yanked into her mother’s arms. “Oh, thank heavens!” Joyce exclaimed. “Don’t you ever do that to me again! I had no idea where you were! You didn’t call. You didn’t tell Willow. I couldn’t get a hold of Mr. Giles. And that awful…that vampire that you said was your boyfriend?”

Buffy tensed. “Angel?”

“Yes. He was here. He was here, Buffy! I had no idea what to do.”

She groaned inwardly. “Mom, it’s cool.”

“What?”

“Angel…he…he came back a little while ago. From Hell. He came back from Hell, but he’s all souled up and…” She scowled at the horror-laced disappointment flooding through her mother’s eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look. We’re just friends. I’m trying to help him acclimatize to life here on the boring ole Hellmouth.”

“Buffy, he’s dangerous.”

“No, he’s really not. Trust me; he’s soul-boy now. We’re not dating. We’re not gonna be dating. We’re not anywhere near Datesville. We’re just friends.” A long sigh rolled off her shoulders. “I couldn’t date him again if I wanted to.”

“Isn’t he the one who murdered your teacher?”

“Mom, please.” She was so not in the mood to argue about this right now. It was too early, she was running on little to no sleep, and her mind was suffering the most hellish of all hells. “Just…call school and tell them I’m sick.”

“Are you?”

She shuddered, her mind flashing to Spike’s head perched attentively between her legs, his tongue curling around her clit. And to her astonishment, she was attacked by a fresh wave of lust. Spike-lust. Oh, she was sick all right.

“Yes. Yes, I am very, very sick.” To solidify her ill health, she frowned and coughed into her hand, earning little more than the patented look of motherly disappointment. “I’m totally sick.”

“You were out all night.”

“Yes, and don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

“You were out all night and your ex-boyfriend, whom you sent to Hell, just happens to be around, too. And he came by here, looking for you. Then he left, and you were out all night.”

The only thing worse than being with Spike was being with Angel. Being with Angel led to badness. Much badness. And yes, her mother was partially right in that she’d been screwed senseless—literally—by a vampire. She just had the wrong vamp in mind.

But Buffy didn’t tell her that. Any of it. Rather, she just swallowed hard and said, “I really can do without the slanted looks and the judgment right now.”

“And I can really do with a little honesty.”

“I wasn’t out with Angel.”

Joyce visibly relaxed, a sigh rolling off her shoulders. “Oh,” she said shortly. “Okay. Good. Who were…you were out all night with someone else?”

Buffy shuddered again, her mind dragging her back to Spike’s bed. Back to the second that his cock had slipped inside her; despite the mind-numbing fear, some measure of peace had spread through her panic-stricken body. She’d felt whole for a blink before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to insert anything into her pussy—his fingers and tongue had been bad enough, but now she was marked with him. She was different now because of what had happened.

Only she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it anymore.

“I…Spike came back to town.”

“Spike?” Joyce blinked. “Oh, the young British man? The one who helped you defeat Angel?”

“Mom, you do realize he was a vampire, right?”

“Well, yes, but he’s still a young British man.”

“A young looking British vampire.” She paused and made a face. “And he didn’t even really help me defeat Angel. He just kinda signed on so he could vamp-nap Drusilla. He snagged her and left me to die.”

Her mother looked appalled. “He left you to die?”

“Well, he had what he wanted. And he’s a vampire, so it’s not like he was acting out of a want for the greater good. He said he wanted to save the world, but he just wanted his ho-bag girlfriend back.” Buffy paused, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Why should she care if Spike had wanted Dru back? She had no idea, but she cared anyway. “Stupid ho-bag bitch,” she added with an emphatic nod.

“Buffy, language!”

“Sorry.”

Joyce shot her a stern look, though her lips edged upward in a grin. At least one person was amused; Buffy most certainly was not. For whatever reason, the idea of Spike wrapped away in another woman’s arms—a woman he loved—made her feel violently ill.

I’m deranged.

“So Spike’s in town,” Joyce concluded, nodding and crossing her arms. “I…were you two fighting all night? About his leaving without helping you?”

Buffy groaned inwardly. She really needed to sit down with her mother—preferably sometime soon—and try to get it through her head that Spike was bad news. That all vampires, regardless of first impressions, were bad news. All vampires aside from Angel, who was only bad news if he got laid. Besides, Joyce’s first impression of Spike hadn’t been a positive one to begin with. She had, after all, smacked him upside the head with an axe. That most definitely did not make for hugs and heart-shaped chocolate kisses.

If her mother couldn’t get her mind wrapped around the fact that Spike was bad news, then she might do something stupid like invite him into the house. Not that Buffy had ever bothered to revoke his invitation. Not that Spike was dumb enough to come calling, especially since she’d made it painfully clear that he was a dead vamp walking if he ever tried.

Not that he wasn’t Dead Vamp Walking anyway. What with the being dead and all.

Okay, now she was getting a headache. And just who was she kidding? Of course Spike was dumb enough to stick around. She’d told him explicitly to leave, which meant he was likely sitting in his paint-smeared car at the city limits, unsuccessfully trying to convince himself to heed her demand.

Something monumental had happened between them. Something that, for all the want in the world, could not be blamed on coercion.

Buffy shivered again. “Mom, it doesn’t matter why he’s here. He came, we…talked, we fought, we did the tango, he left. I’m running on about two hours of sleep and I think if I try to go to school, I’ll pass out or get sick or something.”

Their eyes held for a minute, then the fight slowly left Joyce’s face and she finally nodded her acquiescence. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “Mmm. You do feel warm. Maybe you should go take a cold shower…cool off a bit?”

She bit back a dry laugh. “No, I don’t need a cold shower. Really, I just need some sleep.”

Suddenly, the thought of washing Spike’s scent off her skin wasn’t as appealing as it had been. All she wanted to do was curl up and rest. Let her mind wander off to that wonderfully dreamless place where nightmares and slayer visions couldn’t touch her.

There would be plenty of time to wash off when she awoke. When the previous night felt more like a horrid stint in non-reality rather than an emotionally draining—however sensuous—fantasy getaway.

It would be easier to hate him—easier to forget last night had happened at all—after she had some sleep. It would be.

Buffy sank against her pillow as her mother left the room, softly closing the door behind her. She closed her eyes and sighed, and found herself drifting off within seconds.

It would be easier.

It had to be.

Spike sat in the Desoto, his hands curled around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the sun-bathed sign that read: NOW LEAVING SUNNYDALE: Come back soon! He had the car in park, though his foot hovered over the gas pedal.

Leave.

He inhaled sharply and reached for his cigarettes.

Get the bloody fuck outta Dodge now.

God, he couldn’t. Something had a hold on him. Something that went beyond guilt. For the hell his mind had been through in the past few hours, he should have been out of town the second Buffy walked away from him. His insides were ripped to shreds. Every time his thoughts returned to her, he felt nothing but pain.

Pain that wasn’t hers. Pain at the thought of what he’d done. God, he’d never felt pain like this.

Spike choked a laugh and puffed on his fag. Somehow, he always managed to thoroughly bugger his plans. Kill the Slayer. It’d seemed so simple just twenty-four hours ago. Kill her, bathe in her blood, and go home to Dru. See if she really wanted slime and antlers when he could finally deliver Buffy’s head.

Instead, he’d forced himself on her. And now he couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t do anything but fight the need to crawl to her side on his hands and knees and babble apologies until she staked him.

Angelus’s example was through mental torment of his hapless victims. Spike hated Angelus’s example. He’d never wanted this. Not for himself, not for anyone; not even for his mortal enemy.

So here he was: deadlocked in a black car under the blazing sun, peering through the black-smeared windshield.

Spike trembled and sighed. It was useless.

He wasn’t going anywhere. It might kill him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Author’s Note: Thank you guys so much for all your lovely comments! I’m so glad you’re enjoying my little fic.

I would like to address one thing, though, so as to hopefully avoid any confusion in further chapters. As I understand claiming, it’s pretty much a fanon thing. Something that doesn’t really have “rules,” even if there are certain expectations that come with it. In the end, though, it seems to me that it’s pretty much writer’s choice on how a claim is written/portrayed. I’m trying something different here—something I haven’t seen before, though it might be written somewhere. Either way, since claiming is a fanon thing, I think it’s OK to explore.

Spike doesn’t know he claimed Buffy, and it’s not going to just occur to him from nowhere. I’ll get into it in further chapters, but basically, I’m working from the angle that Spike has never claimed anyone or been claimed before. He doesn’t know what to associate his feelings with, and jumping to the “claim” conclusion isn’t even on his radar. He has a passing knowledge of claims, but he’s never really researched them (again, something I’ll get into in later chapters), thus the demon claiming Buffy was an innate thing more than anything else. I just thought I should clarify that before I go on. In my little world, this isn’t something that Spike is just going to magically know. With as much as I’ve read, and with as much of a hot-button-issue as claims seem to be in the Spuffy fandom, I wanted to try something a little different.

Okay, that’s all. Thank you all again so much for your kind reviews. :)

- Ameeya

Buffy very rarely looked at herself naked.

Several months ago, before the attack of Angel’s multiple personalities, Xander had asked her if girls ever stood in front of the mirror and looked at themselves naked. They’d been at the Bronze on a rare, demonically inactive Friday night, and he’d shouted the question during an inconvenient quiet point between the band’s songs. Willow had blushed profusely, Cordelia had huffed in disgust and slapped his arm, and Buffy had just laughed and laughed.

After she was all laughed out, she’d told him no. And the crestfallen look on his face was nothing short of hysterical. She’d cushioned the blow a bit—told him that some girls might, that not all females were linked psychically, and she didn’t know about girls that were more confident. Girls that were sexual creatures first and human beings second.

Just a few weeks ago, during one of the gang’s outings with Faith, Buffy had caught Xander’s eye and said softly, “She might be one of them.” And the goofy look on his face had told her that he got the message, loud and clear.

Buffy had no reason to be thinking of her friend’s bizarre question, aside from the fact that she was currently standing in the bathroom, naked, and looking at herself. Just looking. Her body had no marks that would be indicative of sexual assault. Her skin bore no bruises. And she wasn’t surprised, because sometime after waking, she’d consigned herself to the reality that her experience couldn’t be compared to the horrors of actual rape. Spike had been nothing but caring with her, even when he’d gone down on her in spite of her pleas. He hadn’t done anything to bring his own body release. He’d slid his cock inside her, yes, but nothing had happened after that. Nothing until the next morning, when she’d all but begged him to keep screwing her.

A long sigh hissed through her lips. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious. She wanted to feel violated. But she didn’t now. She had before—before Spike awoke and regarded her with shock instead of malice. When he’d taken her slowly and sweetly, when he hadn’t bruised her body with his. When she’d seen the horror and guilt in his eyes rather than cold satisfaction.

Buffy had been angry that morning. She wasn’t now. Not with Spike. She was just disgusted with herself.

And she was looking at herself naked, her hands occasionally twitching at her sides. She lifted her smallish breasts, rubbed her flat stomach, and finally lowered her eyes to her pussy and shivered. Her body might as well have been a stranger’s—she didn’t know it very well. She was an organic weapon against evil, and only once before had she viewed herself as someone sexual. She was used to appraising her muscles, doctoring cuts and bruises, and applying bandages to sore skin before patrol. She wasn’t used to noticing her own femininity. Not in a sexual way. Sure, she loved clothes and make-up and doing girly things with her gal-friends, when possible, but even when she was a part of a couple—when she’d been with Angel—it was hard for her to view herself as anything other than Buffy. Girly Buffy, yes. Slayer Buffy, check. All-Woman-Buffy, double check. But never Sexual Buffy. Not until the night that Angel had taken her virginity, and certainly not any time since.

She’d thought about sexual things, yes, but always as other people would experience them. Even when she thought of Angel, she’d see herself and Angel from a distance, her mind taking on the role of a voyeur as she concocted fantasies that involved her without involving her.

Spike had made her feel sexual, and now she was looking at her body and wondering why. Buffy was pretty certain that she didn’t look any different than other girls, and she was more than convinced that there were women out there with more impressive figures. Women who had bigger boobs, better tits, and perhaps less hair between their legs—the sort of women she’d seen in her father’s dirty magazines a lifetime ago. The kind that were more plastic than human, but somehow still more appealing to the male population. She didn’t see herself as truly desirable, and yet Spike had wanted her. He could have come home with any demon whore he wanted—and damn if that didn’t smart. He could have, but he hadn’t. No, he’d returned to the factory with her in mind.

Well, she supposed she couldn’t prove that. Alcohol made the mind all foggy; at least, so said her health class instructor. Perhaps she’d looked more appealing to him when he was drunk. Perhaps she’d looked like a Playboy centerfold with too many clothes on. She didn’t know.

Buffy pursed her lips and parted her legs just slightly, her eyes immediately attracted to the bite mark that graced her left inner thigh for the first time. It was startlingly beautiful, nothing like she would have expected. Nothing like the ugly scar the Master had left on her neck. Spike hadn’t bitten her in anger or violence, rather with tenderness and care. And the mark was beautiful.

Compelled, she reached down to stroke it, and gasped at the shard of ecstasy that shot to her core the second her fingers ran across the mark.

“Oh my God.”

What the hell was that?

She ran her finger across the bite mark again, and her knees about buckled in pleasure.

Oh my God.

Instantly, she shot her hand back to her side and took a step away from the mirror, as though seeing her reflection was what had prompted both her action and her very prominent reaction. She turned quickly and twisted the bath nozzle. Better to just shower, as had been her intention upon coming into the bathroom in the first place, and return to her life. Her wonderfully dull if-you-didn’t-include-world-savage-and-occasionally-killing-your-boyfriend life.

It had been the strangest day, and she hadn’t done anything. She’d wasted away in bed, wrestling with her disturbing Spike-shaped thoughts and trying very hard to convince herself that she hated him when, actually, she found that she wasn’t even angry. And wasn’t that a kick in the pants?

Buffy sighed and braced her hands on the wall as water from the showerhead cascaded over her body. Had it only been twenty-four hours since her life made sense? She knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew that she had her problems—Angel’s sudden return from Hell being a big one—but she’d been at least mildly well-adjusted. What seventeen-year-old girl could attest to being so level-headed when the world was constantly falling down around her and she had to destroy her one-and-only to prevent the apocalypse?

Not many, she thought bitterly, reaching for the soap bar. Only one in every generation.

Her eyes fell shut as she began rubbing her body down. This time yesterday, she’d been chained to Spike’s bed. This morning, she’d walked out of the factory, and her life had changed. She wanted to ignore it, but Buffy wasn’t an idiot. She knew her life had changed. It would never be the same because of what happened, and honest to God, she didn’t know why.

Buffy sighed, her left hand skating down her stomach and coming to rest over the bite mark, and she shuddered with pleasure.

Why does this feel so good?

Tears pricked at her eyes; she didn’t know why she was so damned emotional over a bite. She should be grateful, right? At least he’d bitten her there and not on her throat where the world could see. Not that she liked that the bite was so close to her pussy. It made it so much easier to…

A strangled gasp tore from her throat and she squeezed the tender skin at her thigh, her right hand cupping her pussy, fingers dancing over her slick flesh. She shivered and ignored the churning in her stomach—the same that had followed her whenever her mind took her to subjects she’d always thought were taboo.

Buffy had never really tried to bring herself off. She’d explored, sure, but never like she’d read about in magazines. Something about it seemed dirty, or had at one time. But Spike wasn’t here—oh God, it was so easy to imagine that he was. So incredibly easy to picture that they were his hands caressing her body. That he was rubbing the bite mark, that his fingers were prying apart her pussy lips and dipping inside her.

“Ohhh…” She whimpered and threw her head back. Spike was behind her, kissing down her throat and rumbling unintelligible adorations into her skin. She felt the inside of his wrists rubbing across her pelvis as he caressed her clit. She felt his mouth tasting her skin. She felt his chest rumble behind her when she cried out, heard his whispered commands that she not hold anything back. He told her how warm she felt, purred at how wet she was, all the while thrusting his cock against her backside as his balls slapped against her backside.

Buffy whimpered again desperately, and he growled at her ear. And all the other voices shut up. The one telling her that she was being disgusting. The one telling her that it was wrong. The one telling her that Spike had abused her. The one telling her to forget it and move on. Everything drowned out. Everything went away. All that was left was Spike.

Spike, who had suckled on her clit, sunk his fangs into her left thigh, and declared, “Mine!”

The world trembled around her as she came. Her legs shook. Her insides quivered. Her fingers were drenched. Oh God, that had been wonderful. She’d taken something that was hers and enjoyed it. Enjoyed it with Spike, only this time, there was no guilt. There was no horror. There were no tears. There was only Buffy. Only Buffy and Spike.

Except Spike wasn’t actually there. He’d felt real, yes, but he wasn’t.

Something that Buffy remembered just seconds later when she sighed and tried to lean against him. Instead of a sturdy chest and loving arms, she met with cold air, and yelped in surprise as her footing abandoned her and she fell inelegantly to the shower floor.

“Owwie.”

Okay, so maybe next time, she shouldn’t get so caught up in the fantasy.

The only possible thing that he could do to top his own stupidity at this point would be to stroll up and knock on the Slayer’s door. Spike sighed and shook his head, his fingers coiling and uncoiling nervously, his eyes glued to her bedroom window. God, he was pathetic. It had only been hours since he saw her last—and after what had happened, that should have been enough to last lifetimes. And yet, here he was. Pacing beneath her window like a hopeless sap with some wretched crush.

It killed him to know that she was only a few feet away from him—just a few precious feet—and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“Bitch,” he muttered irritably, though there was no malice behind the word. No true hatred. Was it even bloody possible that he’d hated her so thoroughly just twenty-four hours ago? He didn’t think so. And how was it that one little bizarre, drunken experience with her had turned him into a pathetic, sniveling, lovesick fool?

A long, bitter chuckle tore through his throat. “Well, princess, I guess you were right,” he drawled, cracking his knuckles to avoid the temptation of reaching for his smokes. “I definitely am covered in the Slayer.”

He was so bug-shagging covered in her that he couldn’t bear being apart from her for more than a day. He couldn’t manage to crawl past the stupid city limits and get on with his miserable unlife. He knew he was dust the next time she saw him. Knew that he’d have no excuse. Something told him that, “Sorry, pet, but I did try,” wouldn’t make up for much.

There was just something about her. Something that he wanted to be near always. And bloody hell, if that wasn’t a frightening thought, he didn’t know what was.

Dru had seen it all along. Not only that, but the stupid bint had actually taken it upon herself to go and mention it. As if he wanted to know that he was covered in the sodding Slayer. If the infuriating woman had only kept her filthy mouth shut, he’d never be in this position. He’d never have come back to Sunnyhell. Never would have done something as colossally stupid as swipe the Slayer from her own sodding safe hold, then force her to the drunken, albeit amorous attentions of his mouth. And for all that, he couldn’t even remember what the tart’s pussy had tasted like.

He wanted to kill her. Maybe that would get his mind back in order. But God, he wanted to fuck her more. Wanted to take the full Slayer tour—see her sights, ride her rides, the whole nine bloody yards. Killing her was no good; he knew that now. Something told him that if she died, he’d go with her.

The next time he ran into Drusilla, he was staking the bitch. And the truly terrifying thing was, his demon seemed to have no problem with that thought at all.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He had no idea; all he knew was that he needed the Slayer. Needed to see her; hold her. Needed to make sure she was all right. That the stricken light that had haunted her eyes that morning was gone. He wanted to sniff at her hair and run his tongue all over her delectable body. He wanted her to moan his name as she came. He wanted to feel her hands all over him. He wanted so many stupid, impossible things—the forefront of his desires being Buffy herself. The girl before the calling. It was so dim-witted, but it was what he wanted. What his demon was pining for—what he’d felt he’d lost the second she left the factory that morning.

The bloody tart had taken him with her when she left. How dare she make him want her this much?

“Am I bein’ punished?” he mused aloud, rubbing his jaw, resting back against the siding beneath her window. “I’ve killed slayers, an’ I tried to kill this one.” He turned his eyes upward and sighed. “Am I bein’ punished now?”

Not that he believed there was a thing out there to punish him, but right now his world was so dodgy, nothing was completely out of the question.

His answer came the next second with a bolt of the fiercest lust he’d ever experienced. It struck him from nowhere—blazing heat spread through his cold body so quickly that he wondered, for an insane second, if he was going to dust. Vamps didn’t just spontaneously combust under starry skies without a lit match in sight, but God, he was burning up.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his left hand beginning a slow massage of his erection through the denim. “Oh bloody…Buffy?”

He didn’t know why, but he suddenly thought he smelled her. Felt her—truly felt her, like her body was pressed against his. And God, if that wasn’t disconcerting. He could clearly see that she wasn’t with him. He was alone on her lawn, and she didn’t even know that he was still in town.

That didn’t keep him from feeling her. He felt her hands on him, her mouth nibbling sensually at his throat, felt her hands prying at his belt buckle—okay, so those hands were his, but they felt like hers. And as she curled her warm fingers around his cock, his eyes rolled shut and he thrust his hips forward with a needy growl. “Buffy,” he whimpered. “Bloody…”

When the sodding hell had she become Buffy to him? And what in the world was he doing, standing on her lawn with his jeans bunched at mid-thigh and his hand pulling at his dick?

Okay, so this was the stupidest thing he could do—masturbating in the Slayer’s yard while moaning her name. How in fuck’s name had he hit rock bottom so fast? How had he gone from badass slayer-killer to a sniveling, lovesick pansy who would follow the Slayer across the globe just to get another taste of her quim? He was pathetic; nothing could trump how bloody pathetic he was. How terribly low he’d sunk.

Not even the sight of Angel walking up the street.

Spike’s eyes rolled up. Fuck. Bloody figured. He didn’t leave when he had the chance, and this was how the Powers were punishing him. Buffy would have been well within her rights if she had staked him that morning, but instead, she’d let him go. She’d given him an out, and he, being the great git he was, had ignored her.

And where had it gotten him? If the Slayer peeked out her window, she’d see him spectacularly wanking off while her honey-pie walked up the bleeding street.

Bloody hell.

He might be the running for Dumbest Vampire in the World at the moment, but there was absolutely no way that Spike was going to tempt fate. Angel was strolling closer to the house, and while he couldn’t see him yet, he would in a minute. Spike wasn’t about to sit around and wait for a stake to find his chest. If Angel was here, chances were, he’d rely on the tree outside Buffy’s room to climb up.

And then his grandsire would be alone with Buffy.

The demon roared in protest. Spike shook his head and jerked his jeans back up his hips, biting back a groan as he tucked his thick cock back behind the zipper.

I’m bloody dust.

He still felt her hands on him. Buffy’s phantom hands and mouth caressing him in ways that the true Buffy never would. It took everything he had, rationale notwithstanding, to convince his legs to run. To tear himself away from the Slayer’s yard before he was caught lurking by the one bloke who deserved Buffy’s pussy even less than Spike did.

The burn only grew worse the farther he got. Something had his insides twisted and for the strangest second, he began to panic that he couldn’t breathe.

Sweet Jesus, what’s happening to me?

Even with as hard as he ran, Spike only managed to get a few lawns between them before he crashed to his knees and tore frantically at his fly. A loud growl ripped through his throat as his fangs burst through his gums, and he tossed his head back in relief the second his hand was around his cock again.

The burn only got worse. He was jerking himself off so hard he thought he might bruise, but there was no end in sight. The burn only got worse.

And Buffy was likely in the arms of another man.

Spike snarled again, and rubbed his shaft harder.

What’s happening to me?

Buffy yelped and jumped back, wrapping a hand around the towel she’d dressed herself in and leveling a glare in Angel’s direction. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

He scowled. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I’m in a towel, here!”

Something in his eyes told her that he’d noticed; that and the way he looked her up and down and swallowed uncomfortably. “I can see that. I—ummm—I was just wondering…you didn’t come in last night, and people started to worry.”

She had absolutely no idea why, but hearing even the hint of an accusation in his tone had her ready to lash out. Had his voice always been so annoying? How had she never noticed it before? “Yeah. So my mother told me. Hey! Speaking of which, where the hell do you get off coming to chat up my mother while I’m very much elsewhere? Need I remind you how much she hates your non-living guts?”

“Hey,” Angel barked, “you didn’t show. I was worried. Excuse a guy for coming up to check on a friend.”

“Yeah. I gotta tell you, though, if Willow eyeballed me the way you do, I’d have serious reservations about changing in front of her.” She ignored the hurt in his eyes and marched to her dresser. “Anyway, you can obviously see that I’m here. I’m alive. I’m in one piece. And I’m still in a towel. So you can uninvite yourself to now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Angel ignored her, stalking forward intently. “What is wrong with you?”

“Other than the fact that I wanna get naked without worrying about you going all Jeffrey Dahmer on me?”

“Stop it. That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair. What? You’ve only been around since Moses and you haven’t figured that out?” Buffy jerked her flannel pajama bottoms out of her chest of drawers and worried a lip between her teeth. She was in a bitchy mood to end all moods, and she had no idea why. Only that every second Angel lingered around like a broken puppy, the more difficult it became to keep from knocking his teeth out. In all honesty, she had no right to be angry with Angel, and somehow, knowing that just made her even angrier. “Look—I had a long, rough night and I don’t intend to make this another one. Just…just leave, okay?”

She turned around, hand clutching the terrycloth at her breast and her stomach falling when he took another step forward. God, did he have a learning deficiency or something? Couldn’t he tell that she was busy?

Okay, so maybe not so much with the busy. She’d just masturbated for the first time, thinking of Spike, and had hoped to float a little on her high before the ultimate crash and burn and mental ass-kicking over why she’d ever think of Spike like that, and—

She froze, her eyes going wide.

Was it possible to get horny as all hell again just by thinking of what she’d done? Because she was. It hit from nowhere—a storm of arousal so strong that she had to grab the dresser lest she sink to her knees. And to her astonishment, none of it was for Angel. Not for Angel, whose death had nearly broken her, and whose return had ruined everything about her life that she’d tried to put back together.

Angel, who until last night, she would have sacrificed anything to be with again.

Right now, she was wet and burning and she wanted Angel gone so Ghost Spike could tongue her to oblivion.

Buffy raised her eyes to Angel’s once more. “I—um. You need to go. Please. Go.”

Stupid vampire seemed to take every demand for his absence as an invitation to come closer. “You look…Buffy, are you okay?” No, she was very much not okay. Her legs were wobbly and her clit was throbbing, and she suddenly felt like Spike’s head had poked under the towel. That his mouth was currently very invested in her pussy, and not even her ex-boyfriend could provide the proverbial cold-shower.

“No. I mean yes. Yes, I’m fine. Please leave. I mean it. Leave.”

He paused and sniffed, then looked at her in shock.

“And don’t do that!” If she wasn’t so busy trying to subtly rub her thighs together to create friction, all the while holding the towel up to maintain dignity, she would have thrown something. “Did I give you permission to smell me?”

“Buffy—”

Maybe screaming at him wasn’t the best option, though something told her it was a bit late to try for soft and sweet. Anything was worth a shot. “Please…you just…you just caught me at a bad time. I’m sorry. I’ll try to…I’ll try to explain everything tomorrow, okay?”

Angel frowned again and for a second, she felt sorry for him.

But not sorry enough not to throw his ass out of her window if he didn’t leave her alone.

He almost missed the heat when he came. The second he moaned and spurted onto dark blades of grass, the warmth that had nearly dusted him vanished in a blink. Spike whimpered and tossed his head back again, pulling at his cock until he was sure he’d drained his balls dry.

He tried to ignore the fact that it had been Buffy’s name on his lips when he climaxed. That he’d felt her rubbing his erection, felt her silky tongue curling around his aching head, her ruby lips drawing him into her wet, blissful inferno of a mouth. He tried to ignore everything, but he couldn’t.

Instead, he lurched over, and fisted a handful of earth.

Something was very wrong. He’d never been pulled to anyone like this. Never. Not even Dru. And the thought that he’d have to sleep in an empty bed tonight didn’t help matters. If he was suffering, Buffy needed to suffer. Or fuck him. Yes, he preferred her fucking him. Riding him mercilessly to repay the crime he’d committed against her. She should bruise him with her body for what he’d done to her; use him the way he’d drunkenly used her.

No. That wasn’t fair, and he suffered a fresh wave of guilt simply for the thought. He’d hurt her. He didn’t deserve anything.

Spike released a trembling sigh and forced himself onto shaky legs.

Not deserving her didn’t make the fantasy stop, though. He didn’t suppose anything could.

Buffy merely squeaked and, for the second time in half an hour, fell on her ass the instant that whatever had been toying with her reached its release. And Angel stood there, slack jawed and dumbfounded.

She would have curled up in horror if she wasn’t feeling so satisfied.

It was exhausting just watching Willow talk.

“So the bowling date was a good?”

Her friend nodded enthusiastically. “So much a good. And thanks to my wacky witchy talents, all wayward Xander lust is officially of the dead.”

Buffy was only slightly put off that she hadn’t heard of this random Xander-lusting before now, but she could definitely see how it’d be easier to talk about something that was no longer a thing. “Well, that’s good,” she said. “But, for future reference, maybe wait until Giles is here to dabble in the dark arts? What if the entire science lab had gone kablooey?”

Willow frowned. “It didn’t.”

“I know, but you know how easy it is for these things to get out of control.”

“But it was controlled! It was so with the control. I-I even managed to not turn Xander into a newt.” She nodded proudly. “It’s fine, Buffy. I got everything taken care of. A-and aside from my random Xander-hateage, it went off without a hitch.”

“Huh? Xander-hateage?”

She nodded guiltily. “Yeah. Ever since the delusting spell, I’ve experienced these sharp pangs of absolute loathing. I think it’s because a delusting spell is designed for two people who aren’t best friends…not two people who are not only best friends, but best friends who see each other every day.”

Buffy sighed and arched a brow. She was so glad that they had decided to save the girl talk for their mall trip after school. Girl talks with Willow at school were prone to interruption from Willow’s very quiet but very present boyfriend. Plus, there was Xander and Cordelia—whenever they came up for air—and the occasional interjection from a panicked and oh-so-very-British librarian. It seemed that whenever Buffy had a chance to sit down and talk with her friend about non-slayery stuff, Giles felt the need to tell her that the world was ending.

Thankfully, Giles was still out of town on his little retreat. If the world was ending, it was off his radar.

“So,” Buffy said slowly. “Have you just been calling Xander names, or—”

“W-well, after the spell was done, I threw an eraser at his head. And then a jar of, umm, frog guts.” Willow flushed and glanced down. “And then called him something I don’t really want to repeat. But at least the lust part is over.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me all this before.”

She shrugged. “Well, you had the Angel stuff going on, and I didn’t want to bother you about my being torn between my best friend and this incredibly great guy who I don’t wanna hurt for all the A-pluses in the world. Plus, I was kinda weirded out.”

“Splainy?”

“I always thought I wanted Xander to want me…and when he did, it was just…it felt wrong.” Willow sighed. “Anyway, that’s in the past. Very much over and done with, and Oz and I totally creamed them at bowling the other night.”

“Oz a good bowler?”

“Not as much that as the fact that Xander and Cordy really, really suck.”

Buffy bit back a grin and glanced down, taking a sip of her mocha latte. She loved the coffee shop at the mall. It was homey and inviting without the corporation feel of a Starbucks. Having spent three months in Los Angeles of the very recent, she was incredibly glad for that. In fact, coming home to Sunnydale had been surprisingly liberating. Not once had Buffy thought it possible that she would miss a place as much as she’d missed the Hellmouth. She likened it to prisoners who were so accustomed to the prison walls that life on the outside was too much to bear. She was conditioned—institutionalized—and as much as she hated it here, there was no place like home.

“Anyway,” Willow said, leaning forward earnestly. “I’ve been dying to ask you…are you and Angel a thing again?”

It was almost funny the way Buffy nearly spat her iced coffee across the table. “What?!”

“I take that as a no?”

“An emphatic hell no. Why would you ever think that?”

Confusion replaced the anxiousness in Willow’s eyes. “I…ummm, I…don’t know. Do I? You left Sunnydale because you sent him to Hell…then you hid his being not-in-Hell, only to be discovered making with the liplocking. And then…the other night, Angel just comes by the bowling alley all worried and broody and says you never showed and now you’re acting like you never want to see Angel again?” She paused. “Buffy…is there something you’re not telling me?”

Buffy frowned and flattened a hand against her stomach. Honestly, she didn’t know why she reacted so severely every time someone mentioned Angel; hell, anytime she thought of Angel. True, he was pretty high on her Crap List for standing around the night before as Ghost Spike got her off, but he hadn’t been in good standing before that. In fact, it had taken everything she had to refrain from tossing him out the window.

Right now, it was much easier to focus on being angry with Angel than the weirdness that was Ghost Spike. Especially since Ghost Spike gave her happies—happies that came without fear and crying and kidnapping and being chained to a bed. Once she sorted out why the mention of Angel warranted hisses and claws, she could go back to avoiding her mixed-up Spike feelings.

Only, at the same time, she really needed to get it off her chest. And Willow was sitting right across from her, her eyes wide; looking the part of the best friend down to a tee. And with as much fun as suffering through her confusion on her own sounded, Buffy was so not prepared to do this alone.

“Yeah, Will. There’s something I’m not telling you. Something pretty big.”

Willow’s eyes went wide. “Are you okay?”

“I hardly know,” Buffy replied with a helpless shrug and a forced smile. “Ummm, see…the night you and Xander and everyone had the double-date bowling style, Spike came back.”

“What?!”

“Yeah.”

“As in…back?”

“That’s pretty much what the word means, yes.”

“What happened? Did you see him?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “No, Will, my telepathy tipped me off. Of course I saw him!”

“Sorry, this is just a bit much,” she replied, glancing to the table, her cheeks reddening. “Was Drusilla with him?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Evidently, he and Dru broke up.” Buffy completely ignored the way her stomach tightened and her body tensed at the mention of Spike’s ex-girlfriend. It didn’t mean anything—the same way that her sudden allergic reaction to Angel didn’t mean anything. It was all melted together in a vat of means nothing. “And he was uber-pissed about it, so he came to town.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my fault that he and Dru split.”

The confusion on Willow’s face was strangely liberating. “Okay…” she said slowly. “So what happened?”

“With what?”

“Spike! You know—that moderately humungous thing that you’re only telling me about now?” She arched a brow and rapped her nails against the table. “I’m waiting.”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. For whatever reason, it was difficult to remember that she hadn’t done anything wrong. “Oh, well. He kinda knocked me out in the library and took me to the factory.”

“He kidnapped you?”

“Just a little!”

“My God, Buffy!” Willow was shaking her head violently. “Please tell me he’s dust. I don’t think I can take vamps that kidnap you. I mean, getting eaten is bad enough, you know!”

It was perhaps the worst thing she could say. Buffy’s mind zapped back to Spike’s bed, his mouth feasting on her pussy, contented purrs rumbling through his throat. “Umm, yeah,” she said. I am one sick-sicko. “Very bad.”

“So he’s dust?”

“What? Oh, no.” She shook her head, avoiding Willow’s dumbfounded look. “No, it’s not that easy. See, he chained me up…ummm, to his bed.”

“He what?!”

“Oh God, Will, it’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.” She hung her head. “Only, yes. It’s exactly like that.”

“Buffy…”

“He chained me up and then left. When he came back, he was drunk. I mean, seriously, seriously drunk. And he…uhhhh…did things to me.” She squirmed uncomfortably and sucked intently on her straw. “And it…I never want to feel like that again. I was chained up and helpless, and what he was doing…God, I was terrified. But then it was…it…despite how horrible it was…it felt…good.” She hazarded Willow a glance, then sank dejectedly into her seat. “My God, I am disgusting.”

That seemed to snap the redhead out of it. Immediately, she leaned forward and patted Buffy’s shoulder reassuringly. “No, you’re not.”

“I so am. He…he used me, and I…he terrified me because it…God, I am so confused.” She blushed furiously and slid back again, wiping at her eyes. “It was just his…his mouth. You know…down there?”

Willow turned even redder. And Buffy felt even more disgusting.

“And then he bit me. On my thigh. And he said some stupid word and fell asleep with his head on my…vagina.”

Her friend shivered as though scandalized by the word.

Buffy inhaled sharply. She’d made it this far, and even as the story got worse, she found the words were coming easier. “After a while, after it really hit me what had happened, I started massively wigging. I mean seriously wigging. I was crying and struggling and trying to buck him off me. Spike woke up, but not really, and kinda just climbed on top of me and…once he was in, he fell asleep again.”

“Buffy…you realize what you’re saying, right? He raped you.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yeah, I think he kinda did.”

She shook her head furiously. “No, he didn’t. And the weird thing is, I felt better once he was in me. Oh, please don’t give me that look, Will, I can’t take it. I know it’s gross. I know it’s wrong. I know I’ve failed at life, but it’s the truth. I’m sitting here telling you that I was sexually assaulted, only I wasn’t really because I enjoyed it. I’m sick. I’m really sick. And he made me feel so much better when he was inside me. Like I could stop panicking and just…be okay for a while. And when he woke up, he had no idea what had happened.”

“Buffy…”

“No, he really didn’t. I mean, think about. I was chained to the bed. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. And you didn’t see him. His eyes…he really had no idea what he’d done.” Buffy’s eyes were glued to a mustard stain on the table. She didn’t know how mustard came to be in a café, but there it was. Must be a Hellmouth thing. “And he was so sorry. I didn’t think vamps could feel guilt like that, but he did. And he unchained me even though I told him I’d stake him. I didn’t. I told him to bolt and I went home. And please…don’t tell me how wrong it was. I know I should’ve killed him a thousand times for what he did, but…”

“I—”

“It wasn’t what I thought it was. It’d be so much easier if he’d been an ass. I could’ve staked him then. But he wasn’t. He was so…he was acting like…I dunno, but it wasn’t rape.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t that. And it has me so confused. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. I lashed out at Angel last night and I thought of Spike…like that. That’s not normal, is it?”

Willow worried a lip between her teeth and said nothing.

And her friend’s silence was as loud a condemnation as Buffy could take. She shook her head and released a choked sob, her head falling into her arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she cried. “I’m sick. I’m completely sick.”

The next thing she knew, Willow had scooted over and taken her into a protective, supportive hug. “No, Buffy, you’re not.”

“I shouldn’t feel like this!”

“Maybe not, but you’re not sick. You’re not.”

The understanding in her friend’s voice—confused as it was—just made it harder.

And sick or not, twisted or not, none of it made Buffy crave Spike any less.

Author’s Note: Thanks so much to my wonderful betas. Your irreplaceable help aside, your enthusiasm for new chapters always leaves me giggling.
And to my readers. Wow. I can’t tell you how much the response to this fic has stunned the hell out of me. Thank you guys so much!! *hugz*

“I know every band girlfriend says this,” Willow said enthusiastically, her eager eyes following Oz’s every move on stage. “But Oz is so much more talented than any other musician I know.” The Dingoes had just wrapped up their first set for the night and were in the process of mingling into the normal crowd of Bronze patrons.

Buffy arched a brow. “How many musicians do you know?”

“Well…Oz…and Devon.”

“So what you’re saying is that Oz is better than Devon.”

The diminutive werewolf in question popped up from nowhere at that, an amused grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I am,” he said, greeting Willow with a kiss. “We just haven’t let him know yet.”

“That you’re vastly superior?”

He shrugged. “It could lead to a coup.”

“You are vastly superior, you know,” the redhead said eagerly, beaming at her boyfriend. “We come here three nights a week, and your sets are always the best.”

The small little smile on Oz’s face grew, and he pressed his lips to her brow. “I think this is the pez witch talking.”

Buffy forced a grin as Willow leaned into her boyfriend, all snuggly and couple-like, and tried very hard to ignore the fact that Angel had been hovering dangerously near since they arrived that evening. She so was not in the mood to put up with his badgering, especially since she’d avoided speaking to him all week long.

And she’d really gone the full nine yards to accomplish said avoidance. Her window was adorned in strings of garlic and she’d nailed crucifixes to her walls. Granted, she’d done so telling herself that it was an extra means to ensure Spike couldn’t enter, but her heart knew better. Her heart knew that if Spike wanted in, there was little she could do by way of stopping him. Little she’d want to do, really—aside the preservation of her ego—to keep him from joining her under the covers.

Buffy choked a breath and shuddered. Although she was growing more and more accustomed to those perverse thoughts creeping up on her, that didn’t mean she was okay with it. And she definitely wasn’t okay with the growing pain in her gut—the one that had caught her attention the day that she blabbed to Willow, and had grown consistently more agitated with each passing minute. As though someone had robbed her of her jollity, and placed her in a perpetual state of mourning. Only in this sick, twisted world, the mourning became pain, and she spent every second waiting until sleep could carry her away.

Though truly, sleep had betrayed her, too. Every night, she dreamt of Spike. And every morning, she awoke in a lonely bed, cold from the lack of his arms around her. He warmed her in her dreams, something she would have scoffed at had she not already experienced it firsthand. Spike had the ability to warm her, even when she was paralyzed with fear and quivering from something she did not understand.

The ache grew worse and worse every day. And while she would have loved to blame it on any number of things, the truth was simple and hard to ignore: she missed him. She missed Spike. She missed the vamp that had chained her to his bed, tongued her into oblivion—albeit against her will—entered her body without permission, and wallowed in more guilt and shame than she’d ever seen. Hell, she hadn’t even witnessed Angel feeling thatguilty for what he’d done as his evil counterpart.

So the soulful ex-boyfriend wasn’t as contrite as the soulless vampire that wanted her dead. There was something incredibly wrong with that.

Logic intervened, of course, and told her that Angel had experience in dealing with his regrets. That he’d already suffered a century worth of guilt, and a few months didn’t really mean all that much in the long run. And even then, she conceded that she wasn’t being fair. He’d cried for his sins. He’d asked for forgiveness, and she’d given it to him.

However, she had never missed Angel as much as she was missing Spike. All the dreams, the guilt, and the yearning in the months spent in Los Angeles, and Buffy had never even come close to feeling as alone as she felt now. Oz and Willow were making with the coupley, and Xander and Cordelia were slowly moseying back to the table. Angel was hovering, and Spike was gone.

She could have Angel if she wanted. Well, not have, because that led to much badness of the patchety-murdery sort, but he could be her snuggle bunny if she wanted. But she didn’t want him. She wanted someone she should never want. Someone she kept dreaming about. Someone whose bite mark had become instrumental in how she currently enjoyed her alone time.

Suddenly, Buffy wanted to be home in her room. She wanted to be anywhere but in a public place, where the two loudest people she’d ever known had just rejoined the table.

“Xander—oof. I swear, if you step on my feet one more time…”

“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to dance. I was out there trying to make sense of all the wild wiggling.” He shook his head good-naturedly and threw an arm around the Ice Queen’s shoulders. “Good set, Oz.”

“Thanks.”

“And you,” Buffy appraised, making a hearty effort to be social-girl. “With the funky dance moves.”

“I’m the Xan-Man. I bring the funk.”

“I find you loathsome, and my hatred of you knows no bounds,” Willow snapped from nowhere, glaring daggers at Xander. Then she paused and peeped a small sorry, burying her face in a confused Oz’s shoulder.

Cordelia’s brows arched. “Will’s been PMSing something fierce the past few days.”

“No, it’s just…it’s nothing.”

“Emphasis on the nothing,” Xander added.

“A big nod to nothing.” Willow smiled nervously. “Ohh, hey, look. They have soda here.” She turned to Oz and prodded his shoulder. “Wanna go buy me a coke?”

“Yeah,” he replied absently, though his eyes were caught on something in the distance. “Hey, isn’t that Spike?”

Buffy, quite literally, fell off her stool.

“Buffy!” Willow leapt down and helped her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

Okay? Okay? Was she okay? She hadn’t been okay in a week, much less right now. Now with Xander pulling a major wig and Cordelia looking anxious and Oz being Mr. Blasé when it came to announcing life-altering Spike cameos into what used to be her life? Yeah, she was okay. She was the picture of mental health. She was the poster child for okay.

Only incredibly not because that really was Spike, and he was looking for her. And thanks to her random attack of slayer klutziness, he’d found her.

“I’m fine,” Buffy said. It was the standard line. She was the antagonist of fine.

But then it happened. Spike’s eyes found hers, and the screaming stopped.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Xander demanded. “Buffy?”

She had no idea. Only yes, of course, she knew exactly why he was here. He was here for her. Because of her. Because he hadn’t taken that dust-to-dust threat seriously, and he was in a mood to risk all his parts. Because humiliating her in private hadn’t been enough; he had to do it in front of her friends as well. Because he missed her as much as she missed him and his unlife was dreary and bleak without her in it.

Buffy was honestly astonished when he walked right over to them. As though they weren’t mortal enemies. As though the last time they’d seen each other, she hadn’t issued an ultimatum. As though approaching the Slayer and her friends was something natural for him.

Though from the way he refused to tear his eyes from hers, she somehow doubted that he even saw them.

“I need to talk to you,” he said urgently, not even bothering to acknowledge that she wasn’t alone. “Outside.”

“Yeah,” Xander interjected. “Let me list the number of ways that’s not happening.”

Buffy just stared at him, her face slack with astonishment. “Spike,” she said.

“Slayer, outside.”

Xander seemed to be the only one with a problem. Everyone else was silent; watching the trade with rapt attention.

“Sure, because she’s dumb enough to walk right into—”

“Okay,” Buffy said with a nod, not even flinching away when Spike took her arm and led her intently through the crowd and toward the back.

For whatever reason, everything stopped mattering at that second. Her mental war was put on pause. The protests of her confused friends were ignored. And of course, her resident stalker, whom she hadn’t forgotten, but simply didn’t care about.

Nothing else mattered right now. The ache had stopped.

And Spike was with her.

In all honesty, he had no idea why he’d sought her out. Why it was so different tonight than it had been the night before. Why he needed to see her now. The pangs in his gut grew worse as the days went by, and when he’d awoken at sundown, he knew that tonight would be the night he saw her again.

That didn’t mean he knew what to say. He had absolutely no idea what to say. But Buffy was with him. She hadn’t jerked away from his touch when he took her arm. She hadn’t even protested when he told her that he needed to see her alone. She hadn’t tossed her friends a glance or even bothered to bat her pretty eyes at Angel, who was hovering like a child predator on the prowl.

Now that Spike had her all to himself, he was at a loss. Days of starvation were suddenly at an end, and Buffy was at his side. The second they stepped into the alley and the door closed behind them, he whirled around with an impassioned growl and smashed his lips to hers. Nothing else made sense right now. All he knew was he needed to taste her.

And at first taste, he was lost. Utterly lost. Buffy mewled and crooned against him, her fingers lacing through his platinum locks, her sweet little hands framing his face as her mouth warred with his. She tasted so good, so ripe, and he couldn’t get enough of her. Nor could he help the low, hungry growl that tickled his throat before melting into a moan when she sucked his tongue into her mouth. All he knew was that days of ache were over. Buffy was in his arms, and she wasn’t fighting him. For the first time since she’d walked away, he knew some measure of peace.

Especially when she broke away to collect her breath, rested her brow against his, then dove in for seconds. A dam broke and he allowed himself, ever so briefly, to hope. Perhaps these few days had been hell on her, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wanted him as much as he needed her.

Her kisses were addictive. If he wasn’t a Buffy junkie before, he certainly was now. As much as he’d loved fucking her—even amidst his confusion—it had lacked this. The simple intimacy of kissing her was worth so much more than whatever they’d shared. And Spike was a creature that craved intimacy.

The mind-numbing guilt was washed away; he felt forgiven.

Spike honestly had no idea how long they snogged. Buffy wasn’t protesting or squirming to get away, and he’d hold her as long as she let him. She didn’t shy away when she felt his erection pressing into her. She didn’t panic when she opened her eyes and saw him looking back. She held his gaze for long seconds, fighting for breath, her hands trailing down the sides of his neck until she was holding his shoulders. He missed her mouth the second it left his, but he wasn’t about to complain. He’d stolen his taste and she was still in his arms. That was more than he deserved.

“Wow,” she murmured dazedly.

Spike found himself grinning like an idiot; he couldn’t help it. The clouds had parted and suddenly he felt as light as air. “Bloody understatement of the year,” he replied. “Been wantin’ to do that for days.”

Watching her attempt to reclaim her breath invigorated him. For as rattled as he’d been since that morning, he loved knowing that he could throw her off course just as easily. “Do what?”

“Kiss you,” he replied softly, his lips grazing hers. “I never got to kiss you.”

He wasn’t surprised as much as he was disappointed when the starry look faded from her eyes. Even with as liberated as the knowledge of her wanting him had made him, there was something tragically rehearsed in the way he’d expected this to play itself out. In a matter of seconds, Buffy went from soft and compliant to tense and confused. She blinked rapidly and began to struggle against him.

“Spike, let go—”

No need to tell him twice. After what had happened, he wasn’t about to hold her if she didn’t want to be held.

The second she stepped away from him, he drowned in cold.

Buffy hugged herself self-consciously. “Sorry,” she said, her tone abrupt. “I didn’t…that is, I don’t know what came over me. I…” She blinked again, her brow furrowing in realization. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told you—”

“I know what you told me. I’m sorry.” He exhaled and offered a shaky smile. “I jus’…something’s happening to me. I tried to leave, Slayer. Honest. I got to the bloody edge of town an’ couldn’t do it. I’ve been tryin’ to leave for days, but I can’t. I can’t leave here without…” Spike paused and sighed, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A strange emotion flashed across her face. Had he blinked, he would have missed it. “I…Spike, I can’t do this. I can’t be standing out here, talking about this with you. Not after…”

“I know what I did was unforgivable. But—”

“No, it’s not that, I…” Buffy caught herself and frowned. “Well, yes. It is that. You’ve confused the hell out of me. And I’m not saying that these past few days have been all peachy keen, because they really, really haven’t. I’ve thought about you…more than I wanna admit, but I can’t be doing that. Just…” She shook her head, her eyes darting to the ground, her arms going up in confusion. “Just let me go.”

Let her go? Now? Now when she’d admitted to thinking about him? Now that he knew he wasn’t the only one suffering? He didn’t bloody think so. Spike shook his head rapidly and reached for her. “Buffy—”

“No.” She backpedaled quickly until her back was pressed to the Bronze door. “No. Just…just try to forget it, okay? Try.”

Then she shut herself inside the Bronze, putting a wall between them. And though he missed her light the second she vanished, Spike couldn’t bring himself to be discouraged. There was nothing to lament. This fight wasn’t over.

Buffy wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew she did.

Though if he hadn’t seen the agony in her eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Buffy shouldn’t have been surprised to literally run into Angel the second she stepped back inside the club. She shouldn’t have been, but she was. She was so surprised she actually jumped.

But then, her encounter with Spike had left her feeling a little shaky, and more confused than ever.

“Spike?” Angel asked, his arms crossed and his brow perked.

Irritation surged within her, but she was too tired to nurse it. Instead, she nodded numbly and brushed passed him. “Yeah. Spike.”

“What’d he want?”

“To talk.”

“Really?”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. “You know what, Angel? And I can’t say this emphatically enough…leave me alone and stay out of my business.”

She moved on without waiting for a reply. Dealing with her ex was so not even on her radar tonight. She was bound to have more than enough trouble with her friends.

Though she had to admit, when she stopped at their table and met the redhead’s understanding, concerned eyes, she’d never been so happy to see Willow in her life.

Author’s Note: The idea for this chapter occurred while I was at work last week, and it amused me, as well as my betas, so I decided to incorporate it. If this type of thing isn’t “your thing,” please stick with me till the end. I assure you, it’s not my thing, either.

Having said that, you guys totally rock! O.M.G, I can’t believe the reaction my little story has received. You guys just keep blowing me away. Thank you SO much!!! ***big hugz***

Willow blinked at her, dumbfounded. “Okay…what?”

A low moan tumbled through her lips. Buffy buried her head under her pillow and whimpered pitifully. “I think I might be.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been moody as hell.”

“Well, I think you have reason enough for that!”

“I’ve been dismissive of Angel, and I can’t stop thinking about Spike.” She paused. “And when I say dismissive, I mean Frosty the Snow Bitch. Every time he opens his yap around me, I want to hit him on the head with large objects.”

“Yeah, but I’m that way around Xander and I don’t think that makes me pregnant.”

“No, that makes you silly for attempting a delusting spell without taking the proper precautions. I, on the other hand…”

Willow shook her head fiercely. “Buffy, no. It’s not possible. Spike’s a vampire. There’s no way he could get you pregnant.” She quieted for a second in thought. “Have you missed your period?”

“No. I had just ended it when…when it happened. Doesn’t that mean it’s more likely?”

She shrugged helplessly. “Don’t look at me. It’s not like I’m Ms. Experience when it comes to pregnancy…or sex, for that matter. But I do know that he can’t get you pregnant. It’s just not possible.”

“What if there’s some wonky prophecy? What if that’s the reason this happened? The Slayer needs to produce offspring?” Buffy shook her head furiously. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t even like kids.” She worried her lip between her teeth. “Is there a Planned Parenthood in Sunnydale?”

Willow just blinked incredulously. “Okay. Calm down and stop with the gun-jumping. I seriously think you’re wigging for no reason. Giles would tell you about any prophecy that could be interpreted as carting a baby around. Besides, other than being moody, you’re pretty much without any symptoms. I mean, you haven’t had morning sickness or anything, have you?”

“No. How soon do you start getting morning sickness?”

The redhead offered another helpless shrug. “Again with the inexperience that is me. My cousin got it pretty soon, but I’m not sure if that’s normal or if it’s just because she’s weird and lived on the Hellmouth for twelve years before moving away and getting all knocked up. How long has it been since Spike—”

“Two weeks.” And one week since the melty kissage at the Bronze. The ache that had subsided the second that he walked back into her life had returned with a vengeance. If possible, she missed him even more now than she had before. “Two weeks is probably too soon to get morning sickness.”

Willow shook her head in confusion. “I dunno.”

“God, I’m gonna be a horrible mother. I don’t even know when I should be getting morning sickness!”

“No, you’re not gonna be a horrible mother,” the redhead argued sternly. “I do know that…mostly because there’s no way you’re pregnant. Buffy, you went through something horrific! You can’t expect to just be happy fun girl in two very short weeks…especially with random Spike stalkage.”

Buffy frowned. “Stalkage? He was only at the Bronze that one time.”

“Yeah, and I think that’s what threw you off.”

She laughed shortly. “Believe me, I was all thrown before he decided to show up. And then throw in the kiss—”

It was funny to watch Willow nearly trip, especially since she was standing upright. “He kissed you?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“In that he kissed me and the Earth kinda moved.”

“You didn’t tell me there was kissage!”

Buffy balked in surprise. “You didn’t ask!”

“Well, I didn’t think to ask. Besides, we were kinda in a public place with Xander, who was already pulling a massive wig over your zombie-like behavior—”

“There was absolutely nothing zombie-esque about me!”

Willow’s eyes narrowed. “Buffy, Spike asked you to go outside and you were all robot-girl when you replied. You followed him out there like he had some sort of…what do you call it…thrall on you.”

“I don’t think Spike knows how to thrall.”

“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on that one for me. You should’ve seen him.”

“Kinda did. I was there, remember?”

“That doesn’t count—you were zombie girl. Besides, I wasn’t talking about Spike. I mean Xander with the massive wig.” Willow trailed off and shook her head. “But that’s not…okay. We’re getting off topic. Kissage?”

“Yes. He kissed me. It was…” Amazing. “It…it doesn’t matter. Eyes on the crisis.”

“There is no crisis.”

“I could be with child!”

Willow rolled her eyes and marched intently to the bed. “All right, fine,” she said, holding out a hand. “Let’s go.”

Buffy’s nose wrinkled. “Huh?”

“Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the pharmacy to get you a home pregnancy test,” the redhead replied. “You’re obviously not gonna shut up until we bury this crack theory of yours. I’m telling you, Giles would know if there was some wiggy prophecy of a vamp who sleeps with the Slayer under the influence of buckets of alcohol.”

“Is two weeks enough?”

“Yes.”

Buffy paused. “You know that but not when morning sickness occurs or any of the other stuff I just wracked my brain over?”

“We just got to this unit in health class. I think Coach Jenkins wants to make sure that none of us are actually pregnant before she goes off on how stupid it is to have unprotected sex.” Willow shrugged. “She basically told all the girls to go out and get tested.”

“And you’re just mentioning this now?”

“Hey! I’m the blushing virgin, here. Why would I need a pregnancy test?”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped and she pouted miserably. “Immaculate conception?”

“I’m Jewish.”

“So was the Virgin Mary.”

“Yeah, well don’t tell the Catholics.” Willow shook her head. “Coach Jenkins said that you should be able to get an accurate reading within the first six to eight days of conception with a pregnancy test. You didn’t have sex with Spike in the alley at the Bronze, did you?”

She blinked stupidly. “What? Of course not!”

“Well, I wouldn’t have asked if you hadn’t mentioned the kissage.” Willow crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. She looked every part the stern mother. “So, come on. Let’s go get this done, okay?”

Buffy held her eyes for a long minute, then nodded and climbed wearily to her feet.

If she wanted to be entirely honest with herself, she’d have to concede that Willow was right. Despite the nagging fear that she might be pregnant, it was more a front to bury her concerns about what might actually be wrong with her. Her body was aching, and the hurt grew worse every day. On top of that, her mood was constantly on the fritz. She didn’t let anyone male-shaped touch her. She even got testy with Giles.

None of that spelled pregnancy, but she was out of theories. And even if she knew that the likelihood was practically nonexistent, her nerves would not be satisfied until she had crossed that possibility off the list.

Willow didn’t want to admit it, but she was nervous. Very nervous. The second they’d returned from the pharmacy, Buffy had bolted upstairs and shut herself into the main bathroom, leaving the redhead downstairs and alone with her thoughts.

When there was no one to argue, her own certainty of Buffy’s non-pregnancy began to waver. Not much, but some. Enough to give her a definitive case of the wiggins. After all, on the Hellmouth, there could be no certainties. True, they knew that vampires were incapable of reproducing, but who was to say that there couldn’t be a prophetic loophole?

Besides, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, Buffy had been acting a little strange. Well, okay, a lot strange. Very, very strange. And though Willow had dismissed her behavior as post-Spike-sex weirdness, the more she thought about Buffy’s insane theory, the more credence she had to give it.

And what would happen if it was true? What if Buffy was pregnant? God, Willow had absolutely no experience with this whatsoever. Even when her cousin got herself knocked up, she hadn’t been around for the nine months leading up to her the birth. Heck, she’d only seen the kid twice.

She needed to talk with someone who wasn’t so much a virgin to get another opinion. A female someone. And unfortunately, the only someone that fit that description that Willow could begin to trust was Cordelia.

“I must be out of my mind,” she grumbled, reaching for the phone. “There’s no way she is.”

But if she was, Willow needed to be prepared. She needed to know what to tell her; needed to be there to remind her that there were options if the test was positive. Not exactly glamorous options, granted, but options nonetheless.

Mostly, if Buffy was pregnant, Willow couldn’t be the sole shoulder to cry on. This was a situation that required many, many shoulders. And Cordy was the only option; it’d be a cold day in Hell before she turned to Faith.

“Hello?”

Willow jumped slightly and shook her thoughts away. “Cordy? It’s Willow…I need some advice.”

There was a long, long pause. “How’d you get this number?”

“I’ve only known you since preschool and you’ve never moved. Plus, hey, we’re kind of friends.”

“Emphasis on the kind of. What’s up?”

“What do you know about pregnancy tests?”

She could practically see the astonishment on Cordelia’s face. “That they tell you whether you are or aren’t. Willow! You little sneaky whore, are you and Oz doing the wild thing?”

“What? No! I’m calling—it’s Buffy. She—”

“Oh. My. God.”

“No. Gah, please don’t—”

“With Spike, right? I so knew those two had something going on!” Cordelia was laughing now—hard. “God, Xander’s gonna flip.”

“No, Cordy. No. You can’t tell Xander. Please promise me you won’t tell Xander.” Willow knocked her head against the wall with a long moan. “I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Probably not.”

“You can’t tell Xander. Swear to me that you won’t.”

“You know, for a girl who claims to be my kind of friend, you’re not at all any fun.”

“Cordy!”

There was a sigh of exasperation. “Fine! Whatever. I solemnly swear that I will not tell Xander that Buffy’s gotten herself knocked up with demon spawn.”

“She is…” Willow glanced up just as the girl in question bounded down the stairs, a very silly, very happy look on her face. “Not. Not at all. Not in the least. Thanks for nothing.” She hung up before Cordy could get another word in and turned to Buffy with a large, falsely bright smile. “Good news?”

There was no sense in asking—it was all over her face. “No baby for Buffy. I’m not joining the Unwed Mothers of Undead Children Club. Who was that?”

“Uhhh…telemarketer. So definitely no baby?”

“No baby…which means it’s something else.” Buffy sighed and hoisted herself atop the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Something else that causes freakish mood swings and an allergy to all things male-shaped aside from the one vamp I should never, ever want to see again.”

“You thought you were pregnant because you don’t want to be around boys?”

“Not so much that as I want to be around Spike and everything else with a Y-chromosome gives me the heebie-jeebies. Angel especially, which isn’t at all normal in the eyes of Buffy.” She sighed again. “But at least I’m not pregnant.”

“Yeah,” Willow nodded, forcing a weak smile and eying the phone. “At least.”

It took less than three hours to figure out that Cordelia hadn’t kept her mouth shut.

“Mom!” Buffy called, throwing on her jacket. “Will and I are going to a movie!”

“Some Drew Barrymore piece of junk that you’re dragging me to,” Willow added good-naturedly, following her down the hall.

There was no sense in yelling. Joyce was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, a very confused and ill-humored look on her face.

Buffy froze in mid-step. “What?”

Her mother was quiet for a long minute. “I just got off the phone with Mr. Giles,” she began slowly. “Who heard from a girl named Rita who heard from a janitor named Phil who heard from a student named Thomas, who heard from his second cousin, Allison, who is Cordelia Chase’s neighbor that Buffy is pregnant with Elvis’s demon spawn from outer space.” She arched a brow. “Care to explain?”

A very still beat passed through the room. Buffy scowled and turned to glower at a flaming Willow, who offered little more than a shrug.

“Oops?”

ETA: My betas told me it might be a good idea to kill off any babyfic ideas before they got started. For the record: Buffy is not pregnant and she’s not going to be. This was just one of the situations her crazy mind provided to explain her behavior, being as ignorant to babies/pregnancy as she is. That and I thought it was kinda funny.

It was late on a Saturday night. She should be patrolling, she should be partying; she should be doing anything other than going to school. But no—the second after she’d explained to her mother that no, she wasn’t pregnant, she’d been out the door and on her way to the library to try to explain herself to her incredibly confused and undoubtedly pissed-off Watcher.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath, winced, and pushed the school doors open, a rambling, eager Willow trailing behind her.

“I don’t understand how so many people could know so soon,” the redhead was saying. “How would the janitor know?”

“I really don’t care.”

“I didn’t think Cordelia knew that many people.”

“Willow, shut up.”

“And even so, how mad can Giles be? He’s British.” She paused thoughtfully. “The British don’t get mad all that easily, do they? I mean, the maddest I’ve ever seen Giles is when Xander spilled soda on one of his books, and even then he wasn’t too mad. He just got quiet and did the jaw-tightening thing and went along with his business. I really think you’re overreacting.”

Willow had nervously yammered on the entire way over to the library, and Buffy was beginning to think that the fist-to-the-mouth tactic might be the best way to shut her up. Obviously, the contractual, however tacit best-friend decree of silence hadn’t done any good. Not only had Willow spilled the possibility of the Slayer’s tummy being full of Spike’s lovechild, but she’d had to tell Cordelia of all people. For God’s sakes, she might as well have advertised her problems on a blinking, neon-colored billboard.

“And if he’s really mad, then…well, it wasn’t your fault, was it? We can just tell him that it wasn’t your fault. After all—”

Buffy stopped dead in her tracks and whirled around, her eyes wide and notably not amused. “No, it wasn’t my fault. I know that, you know that, and Giles will know that. But he shouldn’t have heard it from a girl named Rita! He should’ve heard it from me. It’s my thing to tell.”

“But you’re not pregnant.”

She stomped. “I know that. I’m not talking about that! I’m talking about the other thing. The thing I told you in confidence. The thing where I was…the thing with Spike. I told you that because I needed to tell someone I trusted. Someone I could rely on to keep quiet while I work this out. And the second—the second I turn my back, you blab to Cordelia?”

“H-hey! It wasn’t a second, all right? I held it in for two weeks!” Willow raised a hand in defense. “B-besides, I didn’t tell Cordy about Spike. She kinda just guessed on her own.”

“How would she guess that?”

“How should I know? Maybe it was the moon eyes you guys gave each other that night at the Bronze. I don’t know, but I so did not spill about Spike. Gimme a little credit!”

Buffy planted her hands on her hips. “Credit? So, you want credit for not telling Cordy about the forced sex, but hey, let’s blab about the pregnancy scare?”

“There was no pregnancy scare! You’re just wigged because you’re feeling things and you’re trying to find something to blame it on.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I have ears, Buffy. I’ve been listening to you go on and on and on for days. This random I could be pregnant thing was just another in a long line of really lame explanations for how you’re feeling.”

She arched a brow. “So you decided to tell Cordy because you thought I was being stupid?”

Willow squeaked and shook her head defensively. “No! No. It wasn’t…it was supposed to be…look, for one miniscule second, your highly irrational panicking leaked onto me. I started thinking about what would happen if you were pregnant and then the pressure got to me.”

“It got to you?”

She pouted. “I’m not saying I have a good excuse. I dunno. Suddenly, I seemed like the wrong go-to girl. A-and I so told her not to tell.”

“Yeah, because Cordy’s one to bypass hot gossip.”

“She’s supposed to be our friend now,” Willow protested weakly.

“She is, but she’s not the most reliable secret keeper, which is why I went to you and not Cordelia.” Buffy shook her head and turned on her heel, continuing her relentless march toward the library. “Remind me next time to cut out the middleman. At least then I’ll know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Buffy, I’m really sorry—”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“No. No! Stop.” Willow seized her arm and dragged her to a halt. “Please. I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. It was a moment of blind stupidity. I started panicking…and I know this isn’t an excuse, but it made sense at the time. I really don’t know why, but it did. And I’m super, super sorry.”

Buffy just glared at the redhead for a minute, irritated with herself when she felt her anger fade. She wanted so badly to be pissed at Willow. She really, really wanted to be pissed at Willow. However, like her mother, she had a soft spot for apologies, especially when she conceded that she’d dumped something rather huge on her best friend’s shoulders. Even if her panic about a nonexistent vamp-baby hadn’t been for naught, she’d done a fair amount of burden-loading onto Willow over the past two weeks. And while she might never, ever comprehend why anyone would think that turning to Cordelia Chase was a good idea, she understood the motives behind it.

And truthfully, things could be worse. With any luck, Giles didn’t know the Spike part of the equation just yet. Maybe she still had time on her hands.

“Yeah, okay,” Buffy said softly, nodding. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

“Well, I don’t wanna be mad at you. There are only so many people I can talk to without wanting to hit them on the head with something heavy, and I really don’t wanna add you to the list.” She forced a smile and tossed an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go get this crazy thing over with.”

Something told her that she’d just added another item to her growing list of things that were more easily said than done.

Buffy was certain that Giles was going for the world’s longest polishing session with those bifocals of his. In the ten minutes she’d been rambling about why she hadn’t come to him first, he hadn’t managed to look her directly in the eye at all. His skin was pink from blushing at the undoubtedly unseemly topic, and he kept coughing into his hands whenever she mentioned the word pregnant.

It really didn’t help that Xander and Cordelia were there. She didn’t know how or why they’d known to come, but there they were. Standing there and listening to her as though she were actually making sense.

Maybe Cordy had just anticipated that she’d come to explain, and had dragged Xander along for the show.

When she paused to catch her breath, Giles finally raised his hand and she about dropped in relief. If she said another word, dug her hole any deeper, she might as well fall through the earth.

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” he said slowly, a long sigh rolling off his shoulders. “Why…after so many months…would you think it possible?”

Buffy frowned and glanced to Xander, whose eyes were on the ground. “Huh?”

“Well, it’s been well more than nine months since you were with Angel,” Giles continued. “Am I correct?”

It’d been nearly a year, but she really didn’t see what that had to do with anything. “Yeah. I mean, yes, of course. But I don’t—”

“There’s where I am confused. I don’t understand why you would suddenly worry about having a child.”

Her head was beginning to hurt. “I wasn’t—” Buffy stopped dead, her eyes finding Xander’s. He was looking at her intently now, and then she understood. She understood everything, and it shocked the hell out of her. And as astonished as she was, she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’d offered her a cover, and she was going to take it. “I wasn’t…ummm…I wasn’t thinking that a vampire would have a normal…I dunno. I guess I thought it might be different…with vampires. I thought since he’s not…he’s not human, that it might be different.”

She deserved an award. She’d just provided the lamest of all lame excuses.

Giles nodded and cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, the next time you’re worried about something so…well, preposterous, please come to me. No matter how much trouble you think you’re in, Buffy, you know that my door is always open to you. At the very least…” He tossed an irritated, sideways glance to Cordelia, “we’ll avoid relaying messages via the rumor mill.”

Cordy offered an apathetic shrug. “Don’t look at me. I just told Allison.”

“I told you not to tell anyone,” Willow practically growled.

“Correction: you told me not to tell Xander, and I didn’t.”

“Leave it to you to translate that so liberally.”

“Yeah, you really should know better.”

“Erm—yes,” Giles agreed, nodding softly. “Quite. Now that we’ve put this incredibly obnoxious matter behind us, though, I think it best if you four return home. It’s getting rather late.” His eyes met Buffy’s. “That is, unless there is anything further you wish to tell me?”

Buffy suddenly found herself the focus of four very intense, anticipatory stares. However, she pasted on a smile and shook her head. “Nope,” she replied. “That’s about it.”

He nodded, and she sighed.

Okay, so maybe that hadn’t been the nightmare scenario she’d envisioned. She still didn’t ever want to go through it again. It wasn’t worth the worry lines.

It had been the world’s strangest day, and she’d seen some strange ones. Waking up in the burnt-out factory to Spike’s amorous mouth—yeah, that’d been pretty weird. Freaking out over having a vampire’s baby and, in the process of quelling her admittedly bogus fear, spilling the beans to the whole town? Somehow, she didn’t see the weirdness of that being topped anytime soon.

Though she would never know how she ended the day alone with Xander. It made for much awkwardness—if not only for his continued silence on the whole matter, then definitely for her growing desire to hit him simply for being a guy who wasn’t Spike.

This anti-men thing was really beginning to wig her out.

It was a good thing that Xander had caved and bought a car the previous week. With the way her day was going, the last thing she needed to do was run into Spike and melt into his arms. Not that there would be automatic meltage—only of course there would, because she’d been aching for him ever since the ground-moving liplocking the week before. She was addicted to him, and it had been much too long since her last fix.

That thought did little more than drag her back to the whole Buffy’s a disgusting psycho who gets off on force thing. Addictions were bad, bad things. She couldn’t have him, and the sooner she got used to that, the better.

“Will!” Xander called out his window. He had dropped off Cordy first, and Buffy was, of course, the last stop on the way back to his place. “Are we doing study group tomorrow for bio?”

The redhead whirled around and scowled. “Listen to me, jerk-face. If you have something to say to me, you say it to Buffy.” She paused, her eyes widening in horror. “Ohh! Xander, I’m sorry. Yeah, we’re totally on for tomorrow.”

“That oughta be fun,” Buffy murmured under her breath.

“Yeah,” Xander agreed, turning back to Willow with a nod. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be by around one.”

“I hate your breathing guts.”

“See you tomorrow!” He pulled back onto the street with a wry grin, rolling up his window. “I’m beginning to think we need to do a relusting spell. I’d rather have a Willow who wants to do wicked things to my male parts than…a Willow who wants to do wicked things to my male parts.”

Buffy gripped the door handle and squeezed. “So help me Xander, mention your male parts again…”

He flashed her a wounded look. “Oh. Have you jumped on the Xander-hating train?”

“No. I’m on a general man-hating train right now.”

He nodded and was quiet for a minute. “Because of Spike?” he ventured softly. “Don’t kill Cordy. She kinda spilled after I wigged about you getting all pelvic with Angel again…or having Elvis’s demon spawn.”

“You knew it was Spike and you didn’t wig out?”

“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t want to start blabbing to Giles without hearing it from you first.” Xander sighed and pulled into her drive, killing his headlights. “So…before the ‘Xander-smash’ impulse takes hold, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Buffy pursed her lips. “You’re being unusually rational.”

“Hey, I have a would-be witch who wants my head mounted on her wall half the time. I don’t wanna add a pissed off slayer.” He smiled weakly. “And I wouldn’t call it rational. It’s more like a survivor instinct. So, when exactly did you lose your mind and have sex with Spike?”

She shivered. “I’d rather not talk about this.”

“Buffy—”

“I mean it. I’d really rather not talk about this. It’s in the past. It’s over. It’s not happening again. It was…it was something that got out of hand really fast. And I’ve been wigging out ever since—obviously—but that’s it.” She unhooked her seatbelt and swung the passenger door open. “I don’t wanna talk about it. It’s over. Let it be over.”

A long moan stretched at Xander’s lips. “Oh God, Buffy. I didn’t wanna believe it. Please don’t tell me you were actually stupid enough to—”

Her eyes darkened. How typical. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“You know what happened last time! When are you gonna get it through your head that vampires equal bad?”

“When are you gonna get it through your head that certain things are my business? This is one of them.”

“If there’d been demon spawn—”

“There is no demon spawn! And even if there was, it wouldn’t make it any more your business.” Buffy released a heavy sigh and pressed a hand to her brow. “Look, thanks for the ride. Mention this again, and I’ll snap your spine in half.” She released a trembling sigh. “I mean it, Xander. Mind your own business.”

“I consider the possible deaths of my friends my business!”

“I’m alive. You’re alive. Willow’s alive. No one’s dead. No one’s gonna be dead. Leave it.”

That was it. She slammed the car door shut and practically ran to her house. No sense waiting for a reply that would only anger her more. She didn’t want to argue tonight. She just wanted to sleep. Things would look better in the morning.

Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

At least it couldn’t be any worse.

Author’s Note: Nothing profound…just want to express my extreme thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed this story. I really can’t tell you guys how much it means to me. I know I keep saying it, but the response has been really, really overwhelming, and, well…that’s about it. Like I said, nothing profound…just the gratitude of an extremely thankful author. =)

It was worse. Much worse.

Thankfully, Faith had opted out of patrol for the fifth night straight, which didn’t bother her as much as it should. The way Buffy was feeling, she needed as many vamps to dust as possible, if only to work off her stress. She needed the proverbial punching bag for all her frustrations. She needed time to think. She needed five minutes of quiet.

She needed to not run into Angel.

“Buffy.”

She needed to find out which specific Power thought messing up her life was so funny and beat it into submission. Angel popping up from behind a bush to trail after her was not an acceptable alternative to running into him.

She stopped short and sighed, her shoulders rolling back. “I’m not in the mood to talk tonight, Angel,” she said. “I just wanna dust some vamps and go home. So unless you’re offering yourself for dusting, I’d suggest staying the hell away from me.”

“You haven’t been in the mood to talk for three weeks. I’m worried about you.”

Buffy sighed again and crossed her arms, turning around slowly. He looked like a portrait right out of one of Giles’s reference books. Graveyard, ethereal moonlight, wounded guilt-ridden vampire. He had the full thing going for him, and yet the sight did little more than make her stomach turn. “You’ve also developed a nasty habit of not listening when I tell you to stay away from me.”

“You can’t keep brushing me off. As a friend, I want to help.”

She snickered unpleasantly. “Yeah. Friend.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop it? You’re here trailing me.”

“You’re avoiding me, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t know why.” Angel stepped forward, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trench coat. And as much as it pained her to admit, the concern in his eyes was real. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Because you’re a guy, and you’re not the guy I want.

Buffy sighed and glanced down. “I don’t need help,” she said softly. “Besides…this isn’t something you can help me with.”

“It’s Spike, isn’t it? Tell me what happened.”

She didn’t even want to know how long he’d known.

“What happened…it’s nothing.” She shook her head and met his eyes tiredly. “It’s nothing.”

“People don’t tend to get pregnant over nothing.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Oh, come on!” she snapped, gesticulating wildly to the starry sky. “What, does everyone know now? Did I get it tattooed on my forehead? Is there such a thing as privacy anymore?”

“The guy who sold you the home pregnancy test was a ti’lyck demon. They’re a cousin of humans…so much that most can pass.” He took her arm and she had to fight the wave of very real nausea that stabbed at her insides. “Ti’lyck demons aren’t known for closed lips. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“Wow, Angel. You managed to keep from losing your head for a full twenty-four hours. Color me impressed.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“That’s why I’m impressed.” Buffy raised her hands, jerking away from him viciously. “I swear, touch me again and you’re losing something. You think I’m bluffing? Look at my face.”

He stared at her for a second before breaking away with an incredulous laugh. “It’s almost hard to believe that there’s not something on your mind,” he said dryly.

“Yeah, well, what is or isn’t on my mind is no concern of yours. So back off.”

Angel shook his head. “Not if it concerns Spike. That makes it my concern. Plus…I love you. That makes it my concern, too. And I know that things can’t be the way they were between us, but that doesn’t stop me from loving you. I don’t like seeing you in pain. Not when I can help.”

The look in his eyes was genuine, and she felt a surge of panic when her legs refused to buckle at the utterance of those three little words that she’d fought to hard to earn last year. He hadn’t told her until the night he took her virginity, and then not again until she shoved a sword through his gut. Now he was saying them. He was speaking words that would have, just a few short weeks ago, reduced her to a blubbery mess of irrational female hormones. How often had she fantasized about curling in Angel’s arms, as though the past year was nothing but a traumatic nightmare? She’d fled Sunnydale to escape his memory. She’d neglected her friends, abandoned her duties, and punished her mother for her own sins. Her sins against the man standing in front of her.

Buffy looked at him now and felt nothing. A nothing that terrified her. She was torn between who she had been just a few weeks back and who she was now. And as much as she’d hated the forced distance and the awkward silences and the will we or won’t we tension between she and Angel, she preferred it over something she didn’t understand. Something that made absolutely no sense. Angel had wronged her, but it hadn’t really been him. Not really. Spike had wronged her, and while he had apologized, he had no evil counterpart on which to blame his actions. He’d wronged her. He’d made her feel weak.

It was possible, however unlikely, that she reacted adversely to men because of what had happened. Because the last time she was alone with a man, he’d taken advantage of her. He’d practically forced himself upon her. But as much as she’d like to believe it, that theory would hold a lot more merit if she could summon as much revulsion at the thought of Spike’s touch as she did at the thought of Angel’s.

The trouble was, the thought of Spike’s touch didn’t engender revulsion. She craved it. She craved it to the point that she rubbed his bite mark to orgasm nearly every night, and felt cheated when life intervened. She welcomed Ghost Spike into her bed, her shower, everywhere she went because, although the fantasy wasn’t much of a substitute for the real thing, it was the only way she could suppress her hunger.

Buffy was almost certain he’d left town. She’d seen neither hair nor hide of him since the night at the Bronze. And while she knew she should rejoice that he’d finally listened to her, she couldn’t help the ache in her gut anymore than she could explain it.

She wet her lips and sighed. “Spike came back to town almost a month ago.”

Angel nodded understandingly. “I’m guessing the night that Giles left for that retreat,” he said. “The night you didn’t show up?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

Buffy glanced down again. She didn’t want to tell him what happened. Because as much as it had terrified her, it was a private thing. An I-only-share-this-with-my-best-friend thing. She was not about to start chatting up a non-Spike male about her time with Spike. She was not about to spill anything that intimate with an ex-boyfriend, especially Angel. He had another thing coming if he thought otherwise.

“What happened doesn’t matter,” she replied breezily. “He…”

“No, I think it matters quite a bit.”

“Have you ever noticed how you think a lot of things that are completely wrong?”

“Buffy…” Angel took hold of her arm again, his face a mesh of concern and determination. “You can’t shut me out. You can try, but it’s not going to work. You need to know that you can talk to me.”

“You need to learn what piss off means.”

“Did he hurt you? You’d tell me if he hurt you, wouldn’t you? No…no, of course you wouldn’t.” Angel shook his head furiously. “Spike might be a sadistic son of a bitch, but if he hurt you, I know it wasn’t planned. He doesn’t like torturing girls. If he hurt you, he was drunk or out of control, and I’m not making excuses for him. I just know Spike. And as much as I will dust him the second I see him if I learn he hurt you, I know that whatever he did to you wasn’t on purpose.”

Buffy shoved off a shiver and nodded stoically. “Thank you, Angel, for that bout of divine wisdom. If you don’t mind, I have some slaying to do.”

“He didn’t…please tell me, he didn’t…God, I’ll kill him. I swear to—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his thought; her fist was too busy connecting with his nose. Watching his legs fly out from under him as the giant toppled to the ground was almost funny. Almost funny, but not quite enough to make up for the way she was trembling with the burden of what he’d nearly said.

If Angel tried to kill Spike, he was signing his own death warrant.

“If you value your unlife, Angel, you’ll stay the hell away from Spike.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “I mean it. I killed you once, and I loved you then. Imagine how easy it would be for me to kill you now. You go near him, and I guarantee you’ll find out. Do you hear me?”

She took perverse pleasure in looking down on him. After the hell he’d put her through, knowing she could make those chocolate brown eyes fill with incredulous fear was one of the headiest sensations she could ask for.

Angel dabbed blood off his face. “Let me help you,” he said softly. “Buffy…this isn’t you.”

“No. It is. Get used to it.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and practically sprinted in the other direction. She was genuinely afraid that if she stayed around, he’d say something else equally inane and her impulses would overpower commonsense. Staking Angel was not what she wanted—not now, not in a thousand years—but if he kept blabbing, she feared she wouldn’t be able to control herself.

It didn’t matter how much he pissed her off; Buffy didn’t want him dead. And although he was succeeding in annoying the crap out of her, none of what he’d done warranted death. He’d already paid for his sins with his unlife—he’d spent centuries being tortured in some hell dimension.

But as fast as time seemed to have moved for him, she was still fighting to catch up. It was amazing that he could be so well adjusted, having suffered what he’d suffered. But that didn’t mean she owed him anything. Not for sending him to Hell.

Perhaps she could wait this thing with Spike out. Perhaps, eventually, the nausea from another man’s touch would go away, and she’d be back to normal.

Perhaps.

The twist in her gut said otherwise. All she wanted to do right now was wrap up patrol, go home, draw a bath, and see how many times she could get off by rubbing Spike’s bite mark.

I’m sick.

But at least she was enjoying herself. If she was going to be a sick pervert, she might as well enjoy herself.

“I’m okay,” she told herself, balling her hands into fists. “I’m okay. I’m really okay. I’m so okay that I’m talking to myself, and as we all know, that’s the universal sign of okay. Yeah, I’m gonna stop talking to myself.”

“Good idea, pet. You wouldn’t want the new-bloods to think you’re at all unhinged.”

She was certain that her gasp could be heard from miles away, almost as certain as she was that her neck pulled a full Linda Blair when she jerked her head up and met his azure eyes.

So gorgeous.

A hoarse, near reverent gasp tore through her throat. “Spike!”

And that was all she got out before walking directly into a mausoleum wall and promptly being thrown flat onto her back.

“Okay…ouch.”

Of all the effects Spike had on her, this klutz thing was definitely her least favorite.

Author’s Note: This chapter ran a little long, but I didn’t have the heart to cut it. Hope you all don’t mind.

***bounces nervously*** I really, really hope this was worth the wait.

As always, THANK YOU all for your wonderful support. It makes me all kinds of fuzzy insides. =)

She really, really hated the way her body warmed and melted into him. He had hold of her hand, his other arm wrapped around her waist, and even though he could barely contain his laughter, she found herself turning into slayer-goo at the feel of him against her. It was totally unfair. It took the crown of unfairness. Yet the more she tried to battle herself, the more pliant her will became.

“Easy now,” Spike said softly, trying and failing to conceal his mirth. “That’s it.”

“Could you be anymore condescending?”

“You’re welcome. Sit down.”

Buffy huffed indignantly as he practically forced her butt onto the nearest gravestone.

“You walk into walls often?”

“Oh, bite me.” She froze and glanced up, cringing at his dancing eyes, and she raised her hand to the place on her head that had suffered the brunt of the wall-to-face collision. “I so did not mean that literally.”

“Pity.”

Buffy frowned and rubbed her sore shoulder. “You know, you really have a dangerous effect on women.”

His shit-eating grin was both infuriatingly sexy and just plain infuriating. “So I’ve been told.”

“I’ve had more bruises and bumps this week just from just being Ditzy Buffy than from getting into actual brawls.”

“Thinkin’ of me that much, are you?”

“And we’re back to bite me. A very figurative, up-your-ass bite me.”

Spike just grinned and raised a hand to her face. “Come here, then. Let’s see the damage.”

“I don’t need your help.” However, that knowledge didn’t seem to stop her from leaning into his touch. “Ow.”

He ran his fingers gently over the wound, frowning. And for a fleeting second of insanity, she thought she saw concern flicker behind his eyes. “Nasty cut,” he murmured. “You know what you shouldn’t do anymore?”

“Walk into walls?”

He shrugged. “Jus’ a thought.”

“It’s only a bruise.”

“Nasty cut.” Spike grinned at her unrepentantly. “I can kiss it and make it better, if you like.”

She glared at him, trying very hard not to shiver in arousal at the hunger in his eyes. “You just want to see if you can suck up any slayer blood.”

“I admit, it is a perk.” He met her gaze again and forced a tight grin, tugging at the edge of his tee and dabbing the cotton along her brow. “So why have you been walking into walls?”

“Bite me.”

“If you keep sayin’ that, I just might.”

“It was just one wall.”

“I thought you said you were Ditzy Buffy.”

“I am, but in many ways. Not just in walking-into-walls ways. There are many ways I’m Ditzy Buffy.”

“I have no doubt.”

“I’m just special like that.”

“No need to tell me, kitten. I can definitely see how special you are.”

She glowered at him. “I will find a way to blame this on you.”

Spike just grinned and reached up to tuck fallen tendrils behind her ear. “I bet you will.”

“As a matter of fact, I know I will blame it on you, so I’ll just skip the finding a way thing and leap right to blaming it on you.”

“Well, you said I do have a dangerous effect on women.”

“That’s right.” Buffy pressed her palm to her brow and hissed. “Is it bad?”

Spike shook his head, his grin broadening into a wide smile. He was looking at her like she was the most adorable creature he’d ever seen. “You’re gorgeous.”

She tried so very hard to ignore the way her stomach filled with butterflies and how her heart pounded just a little faster, but she couldn’t. Not when he was undressing her with his eyes. “That’s nice, but I was talking about my head.”

“Your head’s gorgeous, too.”

Buffy flushed and broke her gaze from his, rubbing her legs when she couldn’t find anything to do with her hands. “I have this clear memory of telling you to leave town,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “In fact, I remember saying it twice.”

Spike shrugged. “I decided I din’t wanna listen.”

“Obviously.”

“Somethin’ told me you din’t mean it.” He tilted his head. “Come on. You can’t tell me you’re not a little bit happy to see me here. You haven’t reached for your stake yet.”

“That’s because I’m afraid I’ll fall over if I try to move.”

“I’m beginnin’ to think it was a mighty good thing I stayed.”

She met his eyes again, arching a skeptical brow. “Yeah?”

“Runnin’ into walls? Can’t be good for the baby.” He smirked at her unashamedly, chuckling when she slapped his shoulder. “You really thought I could get you pregnant? Well, my swimmers extend their thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Have people ever tried to kill you?”

“Yeah, but I defend myself with my superior wit and guile. You oughta know that, pet.” He laughed again and wrapped his hands around her upper arms, helping her to her feet. “Why on bloody earth would you ever think you were pregnant?”

“Spike, the last person I need to explain myself to is you.”

“So you’re good for tellin’ everyone except the bloke that might’ve—”

“You knew the second you heard it that it was ridiculous, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but that’s only because I also know that vamps can’t have brats.”

She glared at him. “That’s nice for you. Really. So now you can get back to leaving town.” Buffy shook her head and sidestepped him, her wobbly legs beginning the long, reluctant trek home. Each step was weighed in lead. She didn’t want to leave him; not when she’d been missing him so horribly over the past week. “Are you just suicidal? I gave you a chance to leave. I gave it to you. I practically gift-wrapped it, and you’re still here. In fact, I did it twice. I gave you two chances to leave without collecting on my much-deserved pound of flesh. Why oh why are you still here?”

“I can’t leave. I bloody told you, Slayer.” Spike was right behind her the next second, his arms closing around her middle, pulling her back against his chest. And God, it was wonderful being pressed against him. After her repeated visits from Ghost Spike, feeling the real thing behind her was nearly more than her will could bear. She wanted to shove him off, wanted to resist his pull, but her body happily ignored her. “Moreover…” he murmured, that damnably sinful mouth of his dipping to taste her throat. “I don’ think you want me to leave.”

“Oh, God…”

“I’ve missed you, pet.” A sharp, ironic laugh rippled through him. “You know how bleeding ridiculous this is? I’ve missed you. You’re all I can think about, an’ if you think it’s been easy keepin’ away from you these past few days, you’re off your nutter.”

“Spike…no…”

“I know it’s wrong. Fuck, I know it’s wrong. But it’s the way things are, an’ I’m tired of fightin’ it.” His blunt teeth scraped the milky column of her throat, and her knees buckled. He was all too happy to catch her before she collapsed, tightening his hold around her waist and thrusting his hard cock against her backside. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me. You’ve poisoned my thoughts.”

The knowledge that he’d thought of her even a fraction as much as she’d thought of him sent warm tinglies throughout her body. She moaned and arched against him and linked her arms behind his neck, turning to bear her throat to him; that was seemingly all the permission he needed. Spike growled, his hands sliding up until he was cupping her breasts, grinding his hips into her backside as he walked her toward the mausoleum.

“Spike…”

“No. No words. Don’ think. Jus’ let me make you feel good.”

Logical Buffy protested, but Purely Sensual Buffy shut her up pretty quickly. Purely Sensual Buffy wanted more reasons to look at herself naked in the mirror. Purely Sensual Buffy wanted to feel his hands on her. Purely Sensual Buffy wanted to feel his cock inside her. Purely Sensual Buffy wanted to revel in reality before she retreated back into the fantasy.

Purely Sensual Buffy could hardly believe that this was actually happening.

The door that slammed behind her was very real. When she opened her eyes, she was inside the mausoleum, and the veracity of what was about to happen slammed into her at full force. Spike was suddenly in front of her; he licked and nipped at her neck as his hands frantically tore at his fly before fisting the waistband of her sweats.

His desperate enthusiasm only made her wetter.

“Fuck, I need to taste you,” he murmured. “Lemme taste you? I know I fumbled it the first time, but I’ll make you feel so good. So good. I need to know what you taste like. Wanna worship that tight li’l pussy of yours.”

Buffy melted on the spot. Well, melted and panicked. If he put his mouth anywhere near her…womanly parts, he would see where he’d bitten her. He’d see it and she couldn’t let him. She didn’t know why—God, she didn’t know why—but she somehow knew that if Spike discovered he’d marked her there, a world of bad would ensue.

Buffy’s hands shot to his biceps and squeezed, shaking her head tersely. “No.”

An unreadable emotion filled his eyes, and a deep pang stabbed her gut.

“Slayer…I’d never hurt you like that. You gotta know I’d never do that. Not again. Not after the hell I’ve put myself through.”

“I know.”

“An’ you’re not gonna let me taste?”

She choked a sob and shook her head again. “No. No, Spike.”

He was quiet for a long second, all except the harsh, needless pants that heaved through his chest. Then he met her eyes again, and the world around her fell away. The next thing she knew, he was leading her further into the crypt. He moved until they were a good distance from the door and stopped, shedding his duster and tee before he shoved his jeans to mid-thigh.

Buffy’s eyes followed the fervent bounce of his cock and she wet her lips.

“Take off your shirt,” he said, wrapping his hand around his erection. “If I can’t taste your quim, I wanna see your tits.”

She blushed but obeyed, doing her best to ignore his purr of approval when she peeled her camisole away, followed by her sports bra. Spike was pressed against her the next instant, tugging gently at her nipples as his mouth fell to her throat once more. He groaned and whimpered and thrust himself against her, helping her jerk her foot out of the right leg of her sweat pants. She heard her stake—the one she kept tucked between her waistband and the small of her back—clamor noisily to the ground. Then he was cupping her mound through the plain white cotton that separated them, his nimble fingers rubbing sodden flesh as his mouth dipped to suck a nipple between his teeth.

“You been this wet for me since that morning?” he asked hoarsely.

Buffy offered an answering mewl, but nothing else. There was no point in speaking it; he knew the answer. The same answer that had left her both confused and disgusted with herself for days—she didn’t want to give him that power over her. He’d done nothing to deserve it. Nothing at all.

Spike left her breast with a parting kiss before dropping unceremoniously to the ground.

“We’re doing this here?” she demanded, astonished.

“You got a better idea, Slayer?”

All of her current better ideas involved popping him in the nose, grabbing her clothes, and making a run for it while her dignity was still in tact. And yet, she remained. She stood awkwardly in the middle of a crypt, her body aching for a man that she was never supposed to see again. She was dressed only in her panties and her sweats—the one leg she refused to unclothe for fear of what he’d see. That forbidden patch of skin that colored her inner left thigh—the thing he could never know about.

Spike didn’t let her mull it over long. “Straddle me,” he said, and her eyes went wide. Her bewilderment either empowered or insulted him; she couldn’t tell. His tone was strained when he spoke again, and she knew without having to know anything that he was teetering on the very ends of control. “Don’t jus’ stand there, you infuriating bint. Just bloody do it, okay?”

A shiver raced down her spine. The edge in his voice should have terrified her, but it didn’t. Instead, Buffy found herself climbing over him, sighing breathily when her cotton-clad pussy pressed against the underside of his incredibly naked erection. “Spike,” she gasped, empowered at his moan. “I’ve never…that is…this is something that I haven’t done before.”

“Angel din’t let you steer, eh?”

Something violent jerked in her gut. “Hey—”

“I’m gonna let you steer, kitten. You’re gonna fuck me until my eyes cross.” He settled his hands at her hips, doming a brow in challenge. “You’re in charge. I never want you to forget that. When you go home tonight an’ cry about how I violated you, jus’ remember this. Remember right now. You’re in charge. You have me under you. If you wanted, you could end it.” A shaky breath hissed through his teeth, and his chest trembled beneath her palms. “So what’s it gonna be, Slayer? You gonna fuck me, or kill me?”

Buffy’s eyes misted with tears and she glanced down. She’d done something to anger him; hell if she knew what, but the sweet, caring guy that had worried over her cuts just a few minutes ago had been replaced with someone angry and vindictive. She had absolutely no idea what right he had to be so callous, or what right she had to care. All she knew was that her heart was aching and her hands were against his naked chest, and she wanted him caressing her and pretending that he liked her again. Just for now.

Because as much as she would like to run, her body was too much in need of his.

His fingers were under her chin the next second, tilting her head upward to meet his eyes.

“God, I’m sorry. I don’…balls, I don’t know what’s what anymore.” Spike smiled tentatively. “I don’t mean to be such a prize arse. I just need to know. Fuck, I need you to know. I need to know if this is what you want or… You’re driving me outta my mind an’…I wanted to make sure you had the upper hand in this. You deserve it—God knows how you deserve it after what I did. I know I haven’t earned anything you have to give, but I need it. I need you.” He raised a trembling hand to her breast before trailing his fingers down her abdomen, rubbing her slit through the wet cotton. “Please, baby. Let me in?”

Buffy wet her lips and nodded before she realized what she was doing. The relieved smile that graced his lips warmed her inside and out, and before she could stop herself, she’d leaned down to kiss him. Really kiss him. And God, he tasted good.

She’d loved kissing him at the Bronze. Kissing him here, when she was in charge, when he was below her, was perhaps the headiest sensation of her entire life. It was something so small that turned into something huge, particularly when he moaned and slipped his tongue past her lips, his left hand coaxing her fingers around his cock.

“Fuck, pet…” He kissed her again, then dropped his head against the floor as she slowly began pumping his shaft. “Gently. He’s tender.”

“He…?” She flushed and glanced down, and the foreign sight of her hand wrapped around an erection turned every inch of her skin red. “Oh. You mean your…your…”

“Dick? Yeah.”

Her flush deepened and she ignored his vulgarity. “He’s tender?”

“He’s been getting quite a workout lately.” He grinned, his fingers bunching the crotch of her panties aside. “Dunno what's been happenin' to me. Jus' randomly need to…well…you get the idea.”

Buffy got the idea, all right. Her mind was suddenly ablaze with naughty, x-rated images of the idea. And damn if it didn’t do anything but make her hotter.

“It strikes me at the oddest times, too,” Spike continued thoughtfully. “Like when I’m—”

“You’re talking to me about your…masturbation habits?”

“Just lettin’ you know to be gentle. Though really, it could be that all he needs is a nice, warm, wet place to recuperate.” He arched a brow. “Any suggestions?”

It was that self-righteous smirk that did it. She wanted it wiped off his face—she wanted him to eat his words. She wanted to ride him until her warmth made his skin peel, and then she wanted to do it again. More than anything, she wanted the ache in her gut to go away. She wanted the world where she lived and the world where she dreamed to coexist, if only this once.

She wanted Spike. And this once—just this once—she was going to have him.

Buffy shoved him to the floor and impaled herself on his cock, and the world around her exploded into color. In a blink, everything dissolved. The burning ache that had been slowly eating away at her insides became nothing, and she felt, for the first time, that she was whole again. Seeing him at the Bronze had nearly done this; she’d nearly felt complete just standing with him, but now that she had him inside her, there was absolutely no comparison. None at all.

How she’d gone two weeks without him was beyond comprehension.

“Bloody fuck,” Spike gasped, thrusting his hips forward desperately. “Oh God. Buffy. Buffy. Buffy. Ride me. Please.”

Her name was on his lips. She didn’t know why it made her eyes fill with tears, but it did. “Help me,” she implored softly, grinding against him. “I don’t…help me.”

Spike’s eyes went wide with understanding. He dropped his hands to her hips, lifting her off him just slightly, then slid her back down his cock again. “There,” he sighed, his hands sliding to hold her ass, massaging her skin. “Just like that, baby. Ride me just like that.”

Buffy gasped. “Oh my God.”

“Slayer…”

She glanced down, her eyes wide. “It’s so different,” she said, rotating her hips. “I can…God, I can…”

“You can do whatever you want, baby.” He grinned. “That’s the idea.”

“Ohhh…” She shivered and steadied her hands on his chest, her legs tightening as her thrusts hastened in pace. Now that she had him inside her, the burn stretching through her body had turned from an ache into a bottled need for release. She felt him everywhere—splitting her down the middle. The feel of his thick cock sliding steadily in and out of her pussy had her blood blazing and every nerve in her buzzing with ecstasy. “It’s so different.”

“Yeah?” Spike whimpered and dug his fingers into her hips. “Good?”

“I can…oh, God…” Buffy shook her head, lost, and met his eyes. “Help me,” she whimpered again. “I need to…God, I need to…”

“You got me, love. You got me.”

That wasn’t what she needed. She’d barely had him inside her a minute, and the heat blazing through her body was too much to handle. She needed release. She needed relief. She needed anything that would calm her ache. She bounced frantically on his cock, her left hand flying to squeeze her thigh, her fingers itching her skin through the cotton.

“You’re amazing,” Spike gasped, his gaze drenched in wonder. “So bloody incredible.”

“Oh God.”

“You like that?” His thumb landed on her clit and began rubbing her furiously as his eyes soaked her up. “You like fucking me into the sodding ground?”

She nodded helplessly, her pace quickening. She wanted to hear him moan. She wanted her name on his lips. She wanted to see his face dissolve in helpless bliss as he came. She wanted him addicted to this—addicted to the sound of their bodies slapping together, the wet, illicit smacks that they made together every time his cock thrust into her body. She wanted him crazy out of his mind for her, even more than he claimed to be now. She wanted to make him feel as helpless and weak as he’d made her feel. She needed him absolutely nuts for her. He’d made her absolutely nuts for him, and after a two week drought, she needed to pay him back tenfold.

Her heart did a strange back-flippy thing when he looked at her, though. And she feared she was lost beyond all hope.

“Buffy…my…need you. Needed this. Been needing you so fucking long.” He fisted a handful of her blonde locks and tugged her down to him. The move stretched her even wider, and she moaned in repletion. “Oh, Slayer. I’m gonna…”

Spike’s human face dissolved into his demon, a long growl clawing at his throat as he spilled himself inside her. The victory she felt at making him lose himself was only fleeting; her body all too aware of her own needs. And it seemed, the next second, that Spike was more than aware of that as well. His fingers continued massaging her clit intensely, his yellow eyes glued to her pussy.

“Come for me, baby,” he growled. He licked his lips. “Wanna feel you strangling me.”

Buffy couldn’t stop bouncing on his lap if her life depended on it. He was stroking her clit and watching her with his vampire eyes, and she was lost. Absolutely lost. And when she dug her nails into her thigh until she was squeezing the bite mark like there was no tomorrow, she trembled and came hard around him, her body awash in euphoria.

The last thing she saw was Spike’s yellow eyes. Darkness surrounded her, and she passed out on his chest.

Author’s Note: WOW! Thank you all so much for the enthusiastic (heehee) reviews. Really, I can’t get over how much people seem to like this story. I am just…I’m touched beyond words.

And a HUGE thank you to megan_peta and adriana_is for recommending this story on their live journals. Also, to grave_tidings, who surprised me with several incredible and supportive reviews to several chapters. I’m going to try to answer them all individually, but for now, I want you to know how much your extremely kind words meant to me. You really, really made my night. Thank you so much.

It was still dark when she awoke, snuggled comfortably against Spike’s chest. She didn’t know how long she’d been out—likely only minutes—but for as rested as she felt, it might as well have been hours.

“Spike?” she asked softly.

There was no reply. He was asleep.

She watched him for a long minute before sitting up in his lap, gasping when she realized that his cock was still buried deep inside her. Like the first time, only now, she was on top. She was on top and Spike was asleep. Again.

Buffy laughed shortly, her mirth dissolving into a wince as she forced herself to her feet. The wet sound of his cock sliding from her pussy rang loud in the still crypt around them, but Spike didn’t stir. He was completely out. His blond hair was mussed, his usually slick locks curling on the ends. A small, contented smile stretched his lips. He looked peaceful. God, he looked happy.

A long sigh rattled through her, and she quickly jerked up her sweats. It didn’t take long to redress—her sports bra and her camisole were in a heap about midway to the crypt door. In less than a minute, she was back in slayer attire, and Spike was still asleep where she’d left him.

It was ridiculous that someone could look that peaceful and happy while resting on a crypt floor, wearing nothing but jeans that had gathered around his knees, and his cock resting against his stomach. But God, did he look it.

Buffy plopped onto the floor and waited. She refused to think about how easy it would be to leave him. To just walk out and return to her life, and pretend that this interlude into her realized fantasy was only that—an interlude. Something short and sweet in a mocking rendition of what she wanted, but couldn’t have. She didn’t want to do this again. The vampire-equals-killer thing was such an old song and dance, and she felt she’d only completed the first set. And there were certain things she recognized when considering this…whatever she had with Spike. Her relationship with Angel, while totally doomed, shouldn’t be the bar to which she compared all future relationships, especially with the way it had fallen apart.

Yet, even acknowledging that Spike and Angel were completely different vampires, their differences didn’t make the notable problems any less…well, problematic. Spike didn’t have a soul. Spike very much liked killing. Spike was unapologetically evil. Spike didn’t love her.

That was pretty much a big. Spike didn’t love her. Which was totally fine; she didn’t expect love from a vampire who had not-really-raped her, disappeared, reappeared, disappeared again, then surprised her in the graveyard with his distracting manly…eyes. No, she didn’t expect Spike to love her at all, only it would make so many things so much easier. She just needed something. Something to convince her that what they had was beyond lust. Love would do that, crazy as it was. She needed something that suggested affection for her, and not just her body. She needed something.

But Spike couldn’t love her. He hated her. He’d gotten drunk and slept with her, and while they’d shared a few magical kisses at the Bronze and this incredibly phenomenal night, there was nothing to their story but lust. And while lust was of the good—of the very good—it couldn’t substantiate what she wanted. What she needed.

Spike liked her—of that she had no doubt. Spike liked her a lot. He liked touching her. He liked kissing her. He really liked having sex with her. But that was all. There would be no weepy promise, no tearful embrace, no riding off into the proverbial sunset as the credits rolled. Her own confusion about her feelings was enough—toss in the knowledge that whatever she had with Spike would be purely physical from his end, and it was enough to rip her apart.

Buffy was tired. She was so tired of trying to sort through her broken feelings, of pitting what she felt against what she was supposed to feel. What society told her to feel as a woman, and what her calling told her to feel as a slayer. She was driven to Spike, addicted to him, but she couldn’t let her need for him fog her judgment.

She’d seen him three times since he returned to Sunnydale, and each time, she’d felt three incredibly different things. If things progressed like this, she would lose every bit of herself. She couldn’t keep on with Spike if it meant sacrificing her calling. He wanted her, yes, but that was all. It wasn’t like she could blame him for that. Spike was a creature who lived for the moment—right now, he knew he wanted her. He knew that she made him feel good, for whatever reason. That didn’t mean he’d feel the same tomorrow. And while he wasn’t doing this to intentionally toy with her emotions, the further they went, the more of herself she lost.

Buffy shivered and sighed, and watched him, enjoying the quiet. She didn’t know how much time passed before he finally stirred, didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs screamed for air, and didn’t realize she’d gasped until he blinked and looked at her.

Spike met her eyes, and the room lightened. “There you are,” he said softly. “Didn’t slink away in shame, I see?”

“I wouldn’t just leave you.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Buffy licked her lips and shook her head. “I’m not that girl, Spike…though give me a few years and half a dozen let-downs where men are concerned, and I might have a different answer. Right now, I’m not that girl.”

“What girl are you, then?”

“A confused one. That’s for damn sure.”

Spike tilted his head and considered her. “I didn’t mean to confuse you, ducks. I jus’…well, I see you an’ I kind’ve lose my head.”

“I don’t get that.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “If you want the honest truth, I don’t understand it, either. I told you that I’ve tried to leave. I’ve tried to leave a couple hundred times. Somethin’ won’t let me.” He paused. “You won’ let me. I try to leave, an’ I find myself lookin’ for you instead.”

“Looking for me?”

Spike arched a brow. “Jus’ because you haven’t seen me in a while, pet, doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you.”

“See, my brain knows that I should be officially wigged out—”

“But I’m too bloody gorgeous, an’ you really like shagging me.” He waggled his brows. No one should ever look that confident. “You can’t really blame me, either, luv. You told me to leave you alone, less I was clamorin’ for an early death.”

Buffy crossed her arms and perked her brows. “Spike, you’re like, eleven hundred years old. Not so much with the early death.”

“I’m not quite one forty-nine, but thanks for that.” He grinned. “Age on vamps makes them more distinguished.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the Master was sexy?”

Spike wrinkled his nose at her, which she unwittingly found adorable. “Should’ve known you’d turn that on its arse.”

“Hey, you started it.” Buffy glanced down and sighed. “Spike…”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna feed me some rot about how this shouldn’t’ve happened an’ how I’m an evil prat an’ how I’ve sullied your virtue by lookin’ at you. Bollocks, Slayer.” Spike shook his head heatedly. “I gave you a chance an’ you stayed with me. I—”

“I never said that.”

He paused for a moment, mouth ready to object, then slumped when he realized she was right. “Oh.”

“I’m not sorry we did this. I’ll never be sorry for that.” She sighed again. “But it can’t happen again.”

“Why not?” God, he was pouting. His lower lip had jutted out and everything. There was no civility to be had in the world.

“Because it can’t. You know it, too. Whatever this is…” She gestured between them. “This…this thing we have…it’s not something you want. I mean, yeah, the sex is fantastic, but I need more than that.” Buffy met his eyes and held up a hand. “And you don’t want to give it to me, Spike. Not really. You like…you like this part, but you hate what I do. You hate that I’m a slayer. You can’t deny that.”

For a wild second, she was afraid he’d try, but he didn’t. Instead, he just sat still and looked at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

“And it’s okay. I’m not wild about the fact that you’re a vampire, and you can’t expect me to be. I can’t expect you to throw a ticker-tape parade because of my calling.” She offered a watery smile. “And I’m so confused right now, my head hurts every time I try to think about it. Logically, I should be mad as hell at you. I should feel…disgusted and violated and I should definitely not want to kiss you or…do other things.”

“Slayer—”

“Yes, I am. And I’ll always be that, Spike. Always.”

“You don’ give me a lot of credit, do you?”

Buffy arched her brows. “Do you know what you want, then? Aside from lots and lots of sex, do you know what you want from me?”

Again, Spike was quiet. His silence spoke volumes.

And that was all it took. She swallowed hard and fought to her feet, dusting off her sweats with a small, resolute nod to herself. “I’m not sorry this happened,” she said again, nearing him. “I’ve been wanting this to happen for days now. But this has to be it. You’re rebounding hard and I don’t want to be that girl, okay?”

“Buffy—”

Whatever he said was lost the next second; she dipped her head and kissed him. God, she’d miss this more than anything. She could kiss him for a thousand years before she had her fill. His taste was raw, and she loved that. She loved that he kissed her gently, tenderly, even as he tensed with caution and arousal against her.

She loved the way he talked with her as though she were a person and not a title. And she hated it that she was finding more and more things that she liked about him when this had to be it.

It had to be.

“Goodbye, Spike,” she whispered against his lips. Then she turned and left, too quickly to see the conflicted pain in his eyes. The confusion that nearly rivaled hers.

The mark on her thigh burned with every step.

Author’s Note: I posted this on my journal yesterday, but I have to say it again. Some amazingly wonderful person actually NOMINATED Beloved in Blood at the Lost In Spike Awards. It was actually nominated for Best Written, Hottest Bite, Best Claiming (AAHHH!!!), and Best Eppie Rewrite.

It had first attacked his gut, stricken him of hunger. Made him sick; made him want to heave for the first time in over a century. The pain was growing worse—fuck, more than that, it was growing. The pain was spreading. He felt it in his fingertips. Felt it saturating into his skin. Felt it on his eyelashes, in his throat—felt it everywhere there was to feel.

Spike moaned and peeled his eyes open.

The bloody crypt. He’d collapsed after Buffy left, and hadn’t yet managed to pull himself to his feet. His mind was still swimming with what to make of her little farewell speech. Things had seemed so bleeding fine before.

He’d had her. After two weeks of wanting her, of tearing his heart out for what he’d done to her—combating the knowledge of what he should do to her—he’d had her. And she hadn’t fought him.

He sighed longingly and sat up, blinked, and took in his surroundings while fighting off a yawn.

He didn’t want to think about her. His world would make a lot more sense if he could just bolt and have it over with. If he could forget the taste of her, forget the feel of her, forget the pained understanding in her eyes, and return to the essentials. He needed blood, sex, and violence, and not necessarily in that order. If he left now, he could possibly find Dru and torture her for making him so crazy over the Slayer. And maybe if he tortured her enough, she’d come back to him.

Only that thought made the pain worse. Spike winced and fought to his feet.

Unwittingly, his mind flashed back to the lost look on Buffy’s face. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Anger, yes. He definitely deserved her anger. He deserved to be beaten and bloodied for what he’d done to her. She might have forgiven him for his crime, but he wasn’t nearly as prepared to forgive himself. Nights that weren’t occupied with dreams of her were filled with nightmares. And while he was certain his mind was fabricating the memories of her cries and struggles, her pain and fear, he still knew that he’d done more to hurt her than any other bloke out there. He knew he deserved to meet the business end of her stake.

She hadn’t staked him. Fuck, that morning, she’d done more to comfort him than anything. Not that Spike hadn’t wanted to comfort her. It had taken every nerve in his body to keep him from parading across the room and taking her into his arms so he could encourage her to cry her heart out on his very willing shoulder. And while that wasn’t a particularly natural reaction for him—especially where slayers were concerned—he’d written it off as a part of the guilt. A piece of him that was still human enough to feel for her, for what he’d done, and attempt to atone for his sins.

Spike had many delusions of opulence, but Buffy’s failure to end his life that morning wasn’t one of them. He knew she’d spared him out of confusion. Out of something she couldn’t name—something she was likely still struggling to understand. With as much as it had thrilled him to see her at the Bronze—to hold her and touch her, to finally feel her lips against his—he was still more than astonished that he’d walked away with his unlife still intact. That first morning had been a fool’s gamble; what he’d gotten away with at the Bronze he attributed to sheer idiocy. Wanking off in the girl’s yard hadn’t been enough of a bloody death wish—he had to confront her in the flesh. He had to see her eyes, taste her lips, and claim everything he’d been too stupid to seize that first morning.

Why had it taken him so long to kiss the bint? Moreover, why did he care that it had taken him so long to kiss her?

Spike sighed and reached for his shirt. He didn’t know what to do now. He’d been prepared for Angry Buffy. Prepared to the point where he’d almost prefer her angry. Not that he wanted her brassed off per se—even if she was fucking beautiful when she was mad, and he did appreciate the way her chest heaved—but he knew how to deal with angry. Hell, if anything, he’d dealt with angry wankers for centuries. Darla, Angelus, the hordes of people they pissed off, and the occasional mob that had never learned how to properly dust a vampire. He might not like the consequences of Angry Buffy, but he certainly knew how to deal with it. How to respond to her if she raised her voice to him. If she had, after last night, reacted to him with disgust and herself with shame.

Had a speech prepared an’ everything.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t realize how bloody pathetic he was, though knowledge did little to minimize the sting. Last night had been a moment of weakness. After trying half a dozen times to leave the Hellmouth, after promising himself over and over again that he wouldn’t seek her out, after repeatedly wanking off so hard that his cock should bruise, he’d decided to see her. See her out in the open.

He was ashamed at how often he’d found himself following her. Most of the time when he left the factory, he’d go by Willy’s, drink himself into a stupor, get hit by a wave of lust from nowhere and have to sneak off for a wank before he came in his pants, then stumble outside and somehow find himself either at her window or trailing after her while she patrolled.

Spike had followed her much too much these past couple weeks. It was something Angel would do, and he hated it. He hated what she’d reduced him to. He hated that the pain in his gut softened when he was near her. He hated that his mind was filled with so many sodding questions and not even a launch point as far as answers were concerned.

He hated that every time he saw her, he wanted to take her in his arms. That was not a Big Bad thing to do. Shag her until she walked funny—yeah, those drives he could handle. Those made sense to him. Hold her and comfort her? She was the bloody Slayer. He wasn’t supposed to want anything from her but blood, and if he took solace in her body, he wasn’t supposed to care about her dainty little feelings over the matter. He wasn’t supposed to be following her around like a lovesick, Buffy-whipped man slave, just waiting for his mistress to give him some attention.

The world where he knew what he was had collapsed into a different world altogether. These past two weeks had brought out a version of himself that he didn’t know. When he’d touched Buffy the night before, his demon had purred in ecstasy, and even though the shagging was brilliant, he would have been happy simply to hold her all night. To trade jibes with her. To watch her flush when he called her on that bogus pregnancy scare, to feel the heat from her words that only accentuated the warmth of her skin.

Truth be told, a part of him—a sick, twisted part of him—had rushed with hope when word of Buffy’s undead conception reached his ears. Not that he wanted a brat around filled with his DNA, and certainly not that he thought it was remotely possible, but he did know a thing or two about prophecies. Prophecies served as logic’s loophole. They were the clause in every unwritten rule about life and living. And while odds that he and Buffy were prophesied to make a baby were laughably slim, it would have been nice to have a reason to be around her. An excuse. An explanation for his need to see her at all times, be near her at all times, and no one could say or insinuate anything.

Though, honestly, if he was going to have Buffy all to himself, he really wanted her all to himself.

Of course, all of that was sick. Absolutely twisted. It was bad enough that he wanted her like he did. That he dreamt of her. That he could find himself, on any given day, going from thinking of nothing in particular to being randy as hell and pulling his dick so hard it was a wonder the damn thing still worked properly.

He didn’t know what had happened to him. And he didn’t know why he was so sodding miserable over her bloody speech. Why he wanted anger rather than understanding. Except that anger was often passionate and illogical, and always easy to counter. Her calm rationale had thrown him for a bloody loop.

Perhaps it was the shock that she wasn’t going to cut and run. That she stayed long enough to tell him how she felt. To give him an answer beyond “you’re a vampire and it’s wrong.”

She’d thought about it. She’d thought about him. And she liked him.

Spike cast a hand through his hair and laughed shortly. Buffy didn’t want to be the sodding rebound girl? If only she knew how many rebound girls he’d gone through before he crashed into Sunnydale. If only she knew how often he’d thought of her while sleeping beside Drusilla. Christ, he’d shagged her in his mind so often that it was a sodding wonder it’d taken his psychic girlfriend so long to catch on.

Perhaps that was why he’d gone to Buffy that night. Perhaps he’d gotten pissed out of his mind, reverted to some primal state of Cave Spike that he didn’t know existed, and in an attempt to get her out of his system, decided to shag her rotten. Sounded feasible enough.

Only now—now shagging wasn’t all he needed. Not when he had these gooey, wrong feelings about wanting to hold her. Not when he loved watching her laugh as much as he hated watching her cry. Not when he treasured their small trades as much as he treasured touching every inch of her succulent body. Not when he found himself constantly biting back admiration where there should only be loathing.

There was no question: Spike was buggered. He was thoroughly up-the-arse buggered. Buffy had been bloody merciful when she walked away. He didn’t know what he was feeling, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. He needed to do what she told him to do: he needed to let her go.

He needed to go one bleeding second without thinking about her.

He needed to make the pain go away.

Spike sighed again, eying his surroundings wearily. The crypt was nice enough. A bit cozier than he would have expected. He wasn’t much one for holes in the ground, really; his years with Dru had him coached to always go to the finest places, always demand the best bloody service, even if that meant siring lackeys. For the first time in all his life, human included, he was totally on his own.

No more lackeys. No more fine wine. No more extravagant hotels or fancy art shows. Life with Dru had been painted red, yes, but done so in style. She might be off her nutter, but she was a classy dame.

Spike enjoyed class; he was just sick to fuck of it. He didn’t need a sodding mansion, or a burnt out factory. He was a creature of the night, and the crypt would do just fine.

Even if staying in Sunnydale meant staying near Buffy, and therein furthering his self-torment. He couldn’t leave her if he tried—a theory he’d confirmed by, well, trying.

Perhaps if he stayed around, he’d eventually come to his senses and snap the bint’s neck. Or perhaps he’d become even more pathetic than he was now. Perhaps these warm mushy feelings for the girl would transcend into something much worse—something much more permanent.

Something he couldn’t even begin to fathom now. No bleeding way.

Though it would go a long way toward explaining the pain in his gut, the lump in his throat, and the soreness in his chest. He wanted her so bloody badly, and not as he should. No. Buffy should have been a quick shag. She should have been the sodding means to an end. She should have been anything other than what she’d become.

How he saw her now.

The wealth of what he felt for her, undefined as it was, was absolutely terrifying.

He was beginning to wonder what he’d do without her.

Giles didn’t get paid enough overtime for the countless hours of his life that were occupied in the high school library. Not to mention all the extra work he put into saving the lives of ungrateful teenagers. There were some days when he barely got to enjoy his flat at all. His favorite albums were collecting dust. His favorite wine hadn’t been touched in months. His books were scattered across his den, each open to a different page so he wouldn’t forget where he’d been when he’d last sat down for a good read.

In many ways, he couldn’t wait for the school year to be over. Once Buffy graduated, he could retire his position as the undervalued high school librarian and rely strictly on the check the Council sent him every month.

Once again, it was nearing midnight and he was still in the library—tonight, so he could shelve books that he was sure had been moved by a poltergeist, as no one but Buffy and her chums ever set foot inside the library. More often than not, however, his late nights were attributed to his slayer’s training or research for some impending catastrophe.

Giles didn’t like being alone in the library. Too often, he was left with his thoughts, and that was always a dangerous thing. His thoughts led to questions, and his questions, more and more recently, revolved around Buffy. Her behavior recently had been most unusual. A random pregnancy scare from her one night with Angel? The same night that was nearly twelve months in the past? Either she wasn’t telling him something, or she’d returned from Los Angeles even loopier than he’d imagined.

He sighed and adjusted the titles along the historical fiction shelf. Bloody kids didn’t know how to alphabetize.

“Giles.”

A rather loud, unmanly squeak ruptured from his throat. He jumped, an armful of books flying into the air. Spinning around, he looked up to meet Angel’s eyes, a bitter taste running through his mouth.

“Get out,” he said sternly, arms falling to his sides. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of flapping paper finally hitting the ground.

Angel held up his hands. “I know I have no right to be here—”

“Something we can rectify quite simply. Get the hell out of my library.”

“It’s not that easy. I—”

“Oh really. Really? I, for one, think that it is exactly that easy. Matter of fact, I’m of the opinion that letting you walk away from me with your skin still attached is being a tad too reasonable. If I were you, I’d start counting my blessings.” His eyes narrowed. “Buffy might have forgiven you, Angel, but don’t think that her pardon makes your presence welcome. Now, I will reiterate…get the hell out of my library.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

Giles stared at him blankly before rolling out a long, bitter chuckle. Though his scars had healed, there was something about seeing the vampire that made every faded wound on his body scream out again. “Sorry,” he replied, “coming from you, that phrase strikes me as rather funny. Sorry to bother me.”

“I need your help.”

“And the funny keeps coming.”

“It’s about—”

“You know, I have this perfect memory of ordering you out of my library…twice. And yet, here you stand.”

“I understand that I have no right to ask for it, but there’s no one else. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.” Angel expelled a deep breath. “It’s about Buffy.”

Giles just looked at him for a minute, then ducked his head and laughed again. “You know, I don’t believe I ever gave you enough credit for your nerve. You certainly have a lot of it. Of the many things I am not willing to discuss with you, anything related to my slayer is at the very head of the list.” He sighed resignedly. “You really are going to make me say it again, aren’t you?”

“Giles—”

“Get the—”

“Something is wrong with Buffy.”

There were very few things that Angel could say to save himself from a long-overdue stake to the heart. Invoking Buffy’s name in such a way was most definitely one of them. Giles stared at him for a minute longer, and finally sighed and nodded when he detected no sign of deceit.

“Very well,” he said, stepping aside and motioning for Angel to move ahead of him. “But I warn you, if I find this wasn’t worth my time, you are surrounded by weapons and I am known in some parts of the world for my impeccable aim.” He paused, his brows perking. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“I—”

“If you think I’m leaving you at my back—”

Angel’s hands went up and he nodded shortly. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m going.”

Giles kept his eyes glued to the vampire’s oversized head as they moved into the foyer of the library. He waited until Angel had seated himself atop one of the large tables, then headed intently for his weapon chest.

“That’s not necessary—” Angel protested weakly, shutting up the next second when Giles whirled around, a crossbow in his arms.

“Oh, I believe it is. Now, what is the matter with Buffy?” He arched a brow. “I don’t suppose it was you that filled her head with that ridiculous notion that vampires could impregnate slayers, was it?”

Angel looked horrified. “What? No, absolutely not. I would never try—”

“Because we know mind games are beneath you, correct? Buffy hasn’t exactly warmed up to you the way you were hoping she might, following your little spiel where you tried to kill her friends.” Giles cocked his head. “How did that work out for you, while I have you here?”

The discomfort on Angel’s face was almost worth the pain that stabbed at his heart.

“I know I can never make up for what I did,” he began cautiously. “I can’t say I’m sorry. I am—of course I am, but I can’t…words are cheap compared to what I feel. But I would never attempt to manipulate myself back in like that. I was…I was afraid that Buffy and I wouldn’t be able to fight whatever was between us. It’s not that way, and though it hurts, I’m glad.”

“It hurts,” Giles echoed stoically. “Yes, I’m glad, too.”

“But here’s the thing: Buffy didn’t think she was pregnant with my child.”

He froze. “Just who would she be referring to, then?”

Angel swallowed hard. “Spike.”

The crossbow clamored noisily to the floor. “Spike?!” Giles demanded, his eyes shooting wide with horror. “Why would she…oh dear Lord…”

“I don’t think she—”

“What on earth…when did Spike get back? Why didn’t she tell me? Good Lord, why did she…why—”

“I don’t have all the details, so jumping to conclusions would be a very bad idea right now.” Angel sighed. “All I know is that I’ve smelled him on her. All over her. From what she’s told me, albeit reluctantly, it began the night that you went away for some retreat.” He paused. “I don’t think you should panic, or…but I think something might have happened.”

Giles stared at him. “Well, thank you for that,” he said slowly. “For telling me that Buffy was afraid that she might have been pregnant with Spike’s child—a vampire I loathe almost as much as I loathe you—and that you can smell him all over her, because you think something might have happened. Your vagueness notwithstanding—”

“Look, I’m only trying to help.”

“How is this helping?”

Angel did a rather remarkable impression of a fish, blinked stupidly, and rose to his feet, confused. “I thought…I thought you would want to know.”

“You’re sure you’re not just telling me that my slayer is sleeping with another evil vampire in an effort to make me forget that—oh, that’s right, she already did that? And you managed to murder my girlfriend in the fallout?” Giles arched a brow before his eyes fell once more with the burden of realization. “But Spike? Buffy and Spike?”

“I don’t think it was something she could help.”

“What do you mean?”

Angel sighed. “As far as that's concerned, there's no question that there's a way to look at this where it's my fault.”

“What’s another way of looking at it?”

He paused. “Well, as much as I hate to admit it, there is no other way of looking at it. When I…while I was evil…” He sucked in a deep, pained breath, his eyes falling shut. “When I was evil…I did everything I could to tear Spike apart. Darla wasn’t around, and I’d always…before I was cursed, I’d always done my best to make Spike completely aware that Dru was only his on loan. When I…after I lost my soul, I did that again…only worse. He’d had nearly a century of Dru to himself, so he had a complex, and I had to make sure that he knew she would never fully be his. I did things to and with her that I’d rather not discuss, oftentimes in front of him so that he’d get the idea.”

Giles made a face. “Not that this isn’t completely, well, disgusting, but why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think that something happened after they left. Something that compelled him to come back here and seek revenge. His truce with Buffy notwithstanding—”

“His what with Buffy?”

Angel paused again, frowning. “His truce…Giles, you knew that Spike and Buffy collaborated to stop the end of the world, didn’t you?” He waited a second before it became painfully clear that Giles knew nothing of the sort. “He…stopped me from killing you because of the truce. If he hadn’t been there, you’d be dead and there’s a chance the world would be in Hell right now.”

“Well, isn’t he a bloody prince?”

“I’m not—”

“What is this? Are you trying to sell me on Spike?”

“No. No, absolutely not. But this is what happened, and I think it’s better to be honest with you than downplay my guilt.”

“How very astute.”

“I think Dru saw something in Spike that sent him back here to prove himself to her.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a rather specific hypothesis.”

“I might have been out of his life for a century, but I still know how his mind works.”

“There’s something to be proud of.”

“I think he came back to prove himself to Dru.”

“And that’s how he ended up bedding my slayer?”

Angel was quiet for a second and shrugged. “I don’t know. Buffy won’t talk to me about this.”

“I can hardly imagine why.”

“But something changed. More than just…whatever happened with them, something changed.” He glanced down. “I have a couple theories…one that’s crazy, and another that’s even crazier than the first.”

“Those being?”

A long pause. He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t want to worry you without cause. Give me some time to eliminate one or both possibilities. I—”

Giles barked out an incredulous laugh. “You don’t wish to worry me? My, my, my, how considerate. So instead of explaining to me why my slayer might have slept with a vampire, particularly after what happened with you, you’re going to work out your theories on your own?”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you come to me?”

“That’s a perfectly fair question.” Angel sighed. “I guess I just needed someone to know.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked for help.”

“If it turns out to be one of my theories, I am going to need help.”

“What are you, Agatha Christie? Tell me what—”

“Even if my theory pans out, it won’t explain why Buffy slept with him in the first place.” It likely wasn’t a good idea for Angel to become testy, particularly with a man who hated him; a man that had many pointy weapons at his disposal. “I don’t want you to worry.”

Giles arched a cool brow, kneeling forward to collect the crossbow from the floor. “It’s a bit late for that,” he replied. “I assure you, whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the worst scenario I have imagined.”

“I think Spike claimed Buffy.”

The crossbow plummeted to the floor again.

Giles was wrong. So very wrong.

It was much worse.

Buffy made a face and checked her watch. “This guy is never gonna wake up,” she decided, slumping against a headstone with a pout. “I’m running on three hours of sleep here, fella! The least you can do is be punctual!”

Not to mention the ache in her stomach was killing her, the burn of the bite mark had nearly consumed her leg, and she had the vague sensation that a giant hole was gnawing its way through her chest. But she wasn’t about to say that part aloud. Not with the company she kept.

Faith glanced up, rolling her eyes. “I don’t understand why we’re wastin’ so much time on…” She paused, then leaned over to study the epitaph. “Jeffrey Pilcher. Are you seriously that bored?”

“I just really need to kill something.”

“Yeah, okay. Remind me why I’m here again?”

“Because you’ve bailed on patrol every night for the past week. I did all the slaying, and this is what’s left.”

Faith made a face and shrugged. “Sorry, B. I just figured you and your honey-pot would want to take some time to discuss what color to paint the nursery.”

“In so many ways: bite me.”

“I would, but then Angel’d get mad.”

Buffy glowered at her in a sharp, electric reaction to Angel’s name, rubbing her thighs together to ease the screaming bite mark. If she ever needed Ghost Spike, now was the time. Only his mystical touch could make the pain go away. “There is nothing about you that I don’t hate,” she grumbled.

It was refreshing to feel rational dislike for someone. While the wealth of negativity for all things male had yet to be explained, this was something she understood.

“Ohhh, are we a bit touchy tonight?”

Buffy rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. As much fun as trading jibes with Faith wasn’t, she was especially not in any sort of mood tonight. It had been just over a day since she left Spike sitting naked in a crypt, his hair wonderfully rumpled from their romp, his eyes vulnerable and confused.

The ache would consume her eventually. And though she had resumed rubbing the bite mark to get herself off, while she moaned and whimpered and craved Ghost Spike’s touch, the sad reality remained that it was better to distance herself from him than give in to something that would never have anything to give back. Nothing but hot raunchy sex, that is, and as much as she enjoyed that, she needed something more. Something warm and real.

She liked Spike too much to only enjoy his body. She had no idea why she liked Spike so much—aside from her visits from Ghost Spike, she’d had such little time with the real deal. In the three times they’d crossed paths in the last month, there had been forced sex—albeit with mixed feelings, passionate kissage—sexy banter, and even sexier sex. She hadn’t had enough time for her feelings for him to develop all the way to liking, and yet, like him she did.

And it confused her like nothing else.

A heavy sigh rolled off her shoulders, coinciding nicely with the rustle of a vampire clawing to freedom. She eyed the fresh grave and sighed again, rising slowly to her feet. “About time,” she muttered, reaching for her stake.

“This one is so mine,” Faith declared, reaching for her stake at the same time.

“No way!”

“You’ve had dibs on vamps all week, B. Share the love!”

Buffy shivered at that and ignored the naughty image of Spike and his incredibly drool-worthy naked bod…well, as best she could, anyway. Besides, there was absolutely no way she was sharing anything of Spike’s with Faith. Not now. Not ever. “Yeah, you can imagine how bad I feel about that.”

“Oh, come on, B.”

“Really, I’m choking back tears.” She flashed the raven-haired slayer a triumphant grin, racing forward the second she saw the vamp’s head poke out of the ground. She seized a fistful of hair and dragged him out of the topsoil with an overly cheerful grin. “Hi! I’m Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And this…” She raised the stake. “Is Mr. Pointy.”

“You’re Buffy?” the vampire repeated, brushing dirt off his jacket. “The pregnant one?”

What was left of her tattered self-esteem was thoroughly shot with Faith’s mocking laugh. “I am so not pregnant!”

“You bought a pregnancy test. Phil said so!”

“Phil?”

“The dude that bit me. He said so.” The vamp raised a hand to his neck and rubbed his mark in a way that Buffy envied. She wished she could be that open about her mark. “I think he was kinda gay. Got way into it. So you’re the chick that got herself knocked up with Abraham Lincoln’s seven-tentacled demon lovechild?”

Faith’s nose wrinkled. “Eww.”

“I am so not knocked up! I failed the test. I got a big massive F on the test. If I failed any more drastically, I’d practically be male.” Buffy demonstratively wiggled her stake hand. “And you’re about to be—”

Her witty retort died on her lips. The vamp exploded into dust the next second, and Faith winked at her through the particles. “You were taking too long,” she said, pocketing her stake and twisting on her heel. “Thanks for the laughs, B. It was a hoot and a half. Later!”

Buffy glared at her back and squeezed her stake so hard that it snapped in half, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not patrolling. Not hating men. Not hating Faith. Not staking vamps, and not not staking vamps.

There wasn’t one part of her that didn’t yearn for Spike. Not one.

And the ache was only growing worse.

He braced himself against the mausoleum wall with his right hand, panting so hard his chest hurt, his left busy tucking his cock back inside his jeans.

It wasn’t that he was complaining about whatever force out there decided he needed to get off as much as possible. He had no qualms whatsoever about getting off. However, it was bloody irritating that he had no control over it. If he ignored his cock, the lust only grew worse. Much worse. He was getting to the point where he avoided crowded places—like the pub—as much as possible. Spike wasn’t a socialite, by any stretch of the imagination, but he found forced solitude to be aggravating. If he wanted to go out and get sloshed, he should have that right with absolutely no fear that he might be driven to wank off on the counter.

He was beginning to wonder if Dru had some warlock in South America put a spell on him to get back at his infidelity. Wasn’t that a bloody laugh riot? His infidelity, which he’d only lived out mentally until the stupid bint told him to shove off. Until he wound up in Sunnydale, and found himself craving the Slayer like some pathetic soul-stuffed wanker. He’d betrayed Dru’s memory a thousand times here. Following Buffy. Watching Buffy. Hungering for Buffy. Moaning Buffy’s name every time he climaxed.

Calling her Buffy. Calling her by name. The intimacy in rolling her name off his tongue was, in itself, more than he’d had with Dru. She preferred to be his Mummy. His dark princess. His black goddess. And while Spike had doted those names on her all too gladly, there was something about the simplicity of a name that he’d always taken for granted.

Not to say that he’d never called Dru by her given name; he had, many times, but she always preferred things that made her royalty in his eyes. And he, being the willing submissive in their relationship, was always happy to give her whatever she pleased. Most of the time, even following Angelus’s departure, he felt all too fortunate with whatever she gave him.

The longer he was away from Dru, the more he saw himself the way she must have seen him. A favored pet, an eager lover, a cherished toy, but nothing more. Never as an equal. Never as someone she could love as much as he’d loved her. Granted, she was a step up from Cecily, even if she had mocked him quietly to Angelus. Even if she had used him for her pleasures while disregarding his. But for the first time, he knew it was not what he wanted, and certainly not what he deserved.

Dru had convinced him that what they had was everything he could ever want, and he’d wanted to believe her so badly. He’d allowed himself to be deceived by a pair of batting eyes and a slick tongue, and now he was on his own. For the first time in all his years, he was on his own, and the haze had finally thinned.

Spike wasn’t about to be anyone’s bitch again. He was sick of being in love with love, and as much as he wanted Buffy, he wasn’t about to hand over his balls in order to share her bed. He wasn’t going to be trained, or tamed, or something that she could justify to herself. He wouldn’t turn himself into something that would help her sleep at night, knowing that she had him thoroughly defanged.

Only Christ, it was so tempting. It was so bloody tempting. He’d not yet sorted out what her abrupt little speech the other night was alluding to, but some sick twist in his gut told him that a lot of her reasoning had to do with his nature. And to her credit, she hadn’t told him that she needed him to change; she’d accepted that he was the way he was…only she couldn’t tolerate him the way he was.

Fuck, he was buggered either way. Independence was swell but he wasn’t going to do well on his own if he kept having to seek out dark corners to pull on his dick. If his nights were haunted by her phantom hands and mouth.

Spike’s angered frustration with her was offset only by the guilt consuming his insides. Logically, he knew that Buffy owed him nothing. She had yet to seek him out, so it wasn’t like she was stringing him along for her own amusement. He owed her the world and she had not collected. His dust was hers if she ever wanted it. And despite that—despite knowing that whatever she gave him was more than he deserved—he lived to want more. And the more he thought about it, despite his reservations, the less intimidating the idea of muzzling himself to be with her became.

The bleeding Slayer had invaded his thoughts and commandeered his commonsense. He wanted her—fuck, he needed her. His body ached and his heart was sore, and he needed her. And he hated her for making him want her so much. And then he hated himself for hating her, especially when he knew that he couldn’t hate her. Not with the wealth of everything he that felt.

This has got to end.

Spike sighed and reached for his cigarettes. Eventually, he would either dust from the pain of their separation, or force himself to leave town. Perhaps if he escaped the air that smelled of her, the ache would eventually dwindle into nothing.

Trouble was, every time he thought of leaving, the ache became more prominent. He felt like his cells were splitting. Every second of every day was a struggle, and he had no idea why. And though he thought his theory about Dru hiring a warlock had some ground, it still didn’t make sense that she would punish him by making him ache for another woman.

For whatever reason, trying to blame his feelings on a spell or his ex made him feel even worse. There was just no winning. No winning. Not with Dru. Not with Buffy. Not with himself. He couldn’t reconcile his feelings. He knew right now that he hated Dru. He knew he wanted to hate Buffy but couldn’t because he liked her too damn much. He knew he shouldn’t feel anything but satisfaction at having such a powerful slayer stripped of her power and humiliated, but all he could summon was crippling guilt and this sappy need to cry whenever his mind wandered that way. And the worst thing was, he knew his guilt wasn’t the effect of some wonky spell. No, that was all him. Every twinge was a product of the man he was—in and of itself a source of both pride and shame. He was a walking contradiction, and he wanted nothing more than to throw off his feelings and leave.

“Stupid fucking slayer,” he muttered irritably, sucking on a cigarette. And then, as though waiting for its cue, the ache in his belly subsided and a familiar scent tickled his nostrils. His screaming nerves quieted and the rip at his muscles softened. The pain was still present, of course—the only time he felt nothing but peace was when he was touching her—but for the first time in days, his body knew some relief.

Which obviously meant that Buffy was near, so his head and his heart were in for another bruising. Spike glanced up and saw her, sighing a little as he let his eyes soak her up.

Buffy sensed him the second after he sensed her. He knew it from the way she tripped. And despite his warring emotions, Spike smirked around his cigarette. She was just so bloody cute. Never before had he had a woman constantly falling at his feet, and while he was irritated at her for looking so cute when he was trying to hate her, the ever-growing Buffy-adoration couldn’t help but swell.

“Spike,” she said, blushing furiously as she climbed to her feet. “What are you…what are you doing here?”

“It’s a graveyard, Slayer. I belong here.”

“I mean…I thought you would have gone.” She was struggling to maintain eye contact. “I thought…after what I said, that you’d leave. I haven’t seen you in a couple days.”

“An’ before that it was a couple weeks.”

“Yes.”

Spike extended his arms and shrugged. “I’m here.”

“Yes,” Buffy agreed awkwardly. “But I thought…my mind hasn’t changed. Staying around here won’t change my mind. Whatever’s happening between us…it can’t happen again.”

He felt a cool rush of irritation, and his feet carried him a few steps closer. “Why not?” he demanded. “You want me. I want you. I’m not seein’ much in the way of obstacles.”

“You’re amazingly self-confident. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I tell myself that everyday,” he replied bitingly, his heart wilting at the lie. If anything, his self-confidence was window dressing for how entirely unconfident he was. There were things, granted, that Spike knew he was good at. When it came to women, though, he was nothing but a mass of self-doubt. Cecily had stripped him of his confidence, and Dru had always held it just out of arms reach. Now Buffy, admittedly kinder and up-front, refused to give him what he needed because of what he was. It didn’t bode well for his ego. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried, he always ended up falling short.

Buffy sighed sadly and glanced to the ground. “You’re wrong,” she said, “about the obstacles. There are obstacles. There are tons and tons of obstacles. I’m not gonna tell you that you’re a vampire and I’m a slayer, because that’s both redundant and not my strongest argument. But the thing is—”

“Slayer—”

“I’m not the kind of person who can have meaningless sex, Spike. I can’t be the rebound. I can’t be the answer to your problems right now, and someone you want to kill tomorrow. And what’s more, I think I’m well within my rights to build boundaries around myself, especially with what happened.” Her heart was in her eyes, and it was breaking. It astounded him that she let him see it. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep thinking about you. I can’t…”

Spike had absolutely no idea what provoked it. Perhaps it was hearing the confusion in her voice—the confusion that nearly outmatched his. Perhaps it was hearing that she wanted him. Was it possible that she wanted him like he wanted her? Beyond simple lust, beyond pleasurable daydreams—true, agonizing, body-crunching, cell-splitting physical agony every second they were apart. And if so, was she out of her fucking mind? If only to ease this pain, they should be shagging on every hard surface they could find. Maybe then, eventually, whatever was in their system would leave them be.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with that plan. There was sex involved, there was Buffy involved, there was freedom from pain involved. It was one brilliant plan, if he didn’t say so himself.

However, the utter resolution in her voice had him trembling with outrage. Like he liked thinking about her any more than she wanted to think about him. Did she think he was enjoying this? Who the fuck did she think she was?

And who the hell was she to call their sex meaningless? It had meaning. There was loads of meaning in any sex they had. Every time he touched her, it was a bloody revelation. Was she just sparing her own ego by walloping his? Did she even have the first clue as to who she was dealing with?

“You rotten, conceited bint,” Spike growled dangerously, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out beneath his boot.

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “Spike?”

“If you think a second of this is bloody fun for me, you’re outta your head.” He started forward, nearing her slowly—a predator sizing his prey. “You think I like waking up with you on my mind? You think I like bein’ seized so many times a day with the need to wank off? I admit, it was fun at first, but now?” He shook his head shortly and continued forward, walking her backwards until her back collided with the wall of yet another mausoleum. He slammed his hand against the wall next to her head and his nostrils flared. “You’ve taken every rational part of me an’ twisted it into something so bloody wrong that I’m giving Angel a run for his money with the number of screws I have loose. It was bloody pathetic enough, drenched in soul as he was. An’ that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to make my existence a mockery, too! Or is that you think I like craving slayer pussy? You think I want to be so bloody enamored with you? Huh?” His eyes flickered meaningfully, then he lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Maybe, just maybe, I’m not the one who’s amazingly self-confident, sweetheart.”

It crashed over him like a tidal wave. The words were out there, between them, and suddenly he found himself drenched in her fear. In the crushing sound of her heart breaking. Spike realized for the first time that tears were tracking down her cheeks. That she was looking at him like she never had before—not like a vampire, not like a lover, not like a man…she was looking at him as though he had just eaten her heart, and spat it out when the flavor didn’t agree with him.

The part of him that wanted to hate her had wormed its way outside, and he’d allowed it. Oh Christ, he’d allowed it. Spike’s eyes went wide and he reached for her, every inch of him drowned in regret.

He’d spoken words that he didn’t believe; he’d spoken words that he wanted to believe, and he’d spoken them to make himself believe it. And in doing so, he’d slain them both.

“Oh balls, Buffy,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. I—”

The ache was back, only it was worse. God, it had never felt like this. A sharp stab in the gut, wielded from a sword of hurt. And before he could stop her, Buffy had shoved him away and torn off across the graveyard. She was out of sight in a matter of seconds, and he was crippled in pain. He fell to his knees as the ache became too much, and gasped as his insides were consumed in guilt.

God. She was right. She was so fucking right. Only she couldn’t be, because he needed her. He needed her, and he’d ruined it.

How on God’s earth was he going to fix this?

Author’s Note: OH MY GOD! Beloved in Blood was nominated at Spuffy Awards!!!

I guess my desire to keep it light and fluffy totally got side-tracked. Heehee! It was nominated for Best Angst, Best Saga, and Best 'Missed The Bed Again'. ***BOUNCING UNCONTROLLABLY*** THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE NOMINATIONS!!! Now I just gotta stop running around the room long enough to get some more writing done!!!

And in case I don’t get a chance to update again before Tuesday (eeep!) Happy Fourth!!!

Buffy didn’t know where she was running until her legs carried her up the walk at the mansion. Every nerve in her body screamed in rage and the sickness that had enveloped her stomach became more prominent with every step. Her skin was singed—as though someone had dangled her above a fire for their own amusement. There wasn’t a part of her that didn’t ache. She was gutted. Spike’s words had gutted her. His anger. His outrage. His crudeness. Her chest was burning and she needed relief.

No. Relief wasn’t what she needed. She needed the hurt to be gone completely. She needed to not break, no matter how hard Spike tried to break her. She needed to get over this—she needed to suck up and do what she’d told herself she’d do all along—forget the past few weeks. She needed to forget. She needed to forget everything.

There could be no more playing with her bite mark. No more waiting for Ghost Spike’s touch. No more snapping at her non-Spike male friends and ex-boyfriends and watchers. Whatever hold Spike had on her would eventually destroy her if she didn’t put an end to it. Walking away from him that first morning hadn’t lessened his hold on her—rather, every day thereafter had secured her fall, little by little.

At the Bronze, he’d kissed her and she’d pushed him away. She’d told him to forget her while knowing damn well that she couldn’t forget him. Just two nights ago, she’d allowed him into her body again. And again, she’d walked away, telling herself that time would heal all wounds.

Nothing could heal, though, if she didn’t try to heal it. Buffy wiped at her eyes and sniffed pathetically. Angel wasn’t the answer. God, she knew Angel wasn’t the answer. Any love she’d felt for Angel had dwindled into nothing. However, Angel was her only other link to the wild and wacky world of dating, besides Scott. And she wasn’t about to crawl to Scott. Besides, the guy had seemed kinda gay.

She was hung up on a vampire. It would take a vampire to fix it.

With the way she’d been acting, it would be perfectly fair for Angel to slam the door on her face, so Buffy didn’t bother wasting a knock. She barged right in, evidently startling the vampire so much that he jumped off the sofa and dropped the book he’d been reading.

“Buffy,” he said shortly, not bothering to mask his astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t say anything. Her body was hurting too much to say anything. Every step that she took toward Angel ripped through her insides. She’d be lucky if she made it all the way to him without passing out from the pain.

“Buffy, are you okay?”

The redundancy of the question annoyed her. Anyone with eyes could tell she wasn’t okay.

No, dumb-ass.

“Have…Buffy, have you been crying?”

She hadn’t stopped crying. If she wasn’t weeping on the outside, she was sobbing on the inside. But she said nothing. She couldn’t.

Instead, she swore an oath to herself, sucked in a breath, then marched forward until she was up against him. Her heart was thundering, and not from nerves. No, she wasn’t nervous from what she was about to do. She was, quite literally, ill.

But that didn’t stop her from grasping the sides of his head and pulling his lips down to hers.

No matter how sick it made her.

Spike sat atop a headstone, smoking a cigarette, and feeling sorry for himself. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. Every time he inhaled, he smelled her tears. He was trying hard to ignore the pain stretching through his veins, though he was resigned to sleeping in a borrowed crypt if he couldn’t make it back to his.

It hurt to walk. It hurt to think. And he deserved it. He deserved whatever the Powers dished out. He deserved every pang of Dru’s wretched hex. For what he’d done to Buffy, what he’d said to Buffy…Christ, he deserved everything and more. She’d done nothing but be honest with him. She’d practically handed herself over on a golden plate. She’d given him more than he could have ever deserved in light of what he’d done to her, and he’d had the stones to ask for more. To insult her when she didn’t give it. To aim his words for the deepest cut when she refused to be someone that she wasn’t.

As though he’d want anyone else.

Spike chuckled miserably. Buffy had infected him with her light, and he was burning from the inside. He was becoming something he’d fought since his rebirth. The true self he’d covered under the persona of what Dru had wanted him to be. What Angelus had told him to be. He resented her so much he could kiss her senseless.

Buffy deserved nothing of what he’d given her. He was tearing himself up over something he couldn’t control, and it was because of what she’d done to him. What she’d unintentionally done to him. He’d kidnapped her, followed her, kissed her, convinced her to sleep with him again and still managed to blame her for everything that was wrong in his life. That wasn’t the sort of man he wanted to be. Not for her. He wanted to be someone she deserved.

And fuck if that wasn’t terrifying. The kind of man Buffy deserved was exactly the kind of man he was not. She deserved someone more like the gentleman he’d been lifetimes ago, only stronger. And Spike didn’t know how to be that man. He’d spent so much time running from his inherent nature—running from the man his mother had called William—that he’d forgotten what was important. The part of him that hadn’t been pathetic. The part of him that had been genuine.

Of course, wanting to be anything for Buffy was insane. It was absolutely insane.

But Spike was tired of fighting it. He was so bloody tired. It’d only been a few weeks, and he knew that there would be no getting over her. She was in his gut, in his throat—she swam in his blood and lived in his heart. No matter how much he might resent her light, he was drowning in it, and he wouldn’t fight his way out now if he could.

Spike offered the night another acerbic chuckle and shook his head. “I’m fucked,” he said, then laughed again. “I am completely buggered.”

The words died and the night was quiet again.

So quiet that when the first wave struck, he barely knew what hit him.

She was kissing Spike.

Buffy didn’t know how, but she wasn’t about to question it. The second her eyes had closed, she’d found herself kissing Spike. The hurt had vanished. The ache that had her insides broken had subsided. She was kissing Spike. She knew Spike’s kisses so well. She breathed him in and clutched desperately at his shoulders. Her mind washed away the illusion of a broad, bulky body—replacing Angel’s imposing frame with Spike’s smaller, wiry build. She drowned in his taste. Cigarettes and alcohol, and even the hint of leather.

It was so right. It was so unbelievably right. The Powers had intervened. They’d seen her mistake, and they’d given her what she wanted instead. And everything else, for the moment, didn’t matter to her. Not what he’d said, not her knowledge that whatever they had couldn’t last. Right now, she was in his arms, and all reservations could wait.

“Buffy,” he murmured against her lips. A girl could lose herself in his accent. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She swelled with happiness. “I’ve missed you,” she replied, drawing his mouth back down to hers. Her eyes remained shut. She just wanted to kiss him. She needed Spike so badly. She needed him to kiss her and whisper that everything would be all right. That all her worries were for naught, that all her fears were completely ridiculous, and that he needed her more than he needed blood.

But Spike wouldn’t say that. Not to her. So she’d settle for kissing him.

It made the hurt go away. Spike was the only one who could ease her pain.

He was in agony. He was in complete agony, and he was seething with jealousy.

Jealousy at what, he didn’t know. It had seized his insides from nowhere, and he burned with knowledge. Someone was touching her. Someone was touching his slayer. And Spike couldn’t stand it.

He’d never felt anything like this. It didn’t wash away the pain; rather, his jealousy meshed with pain, and he found himself tearing headstones from the ground and smashing them against stone walls. He’d vamped uncontrollably, screaming and roaring at the sky, his howls an attempt to get the Powers to leave him alone.

It was impossible, but he knew it. He felt it. Buffy was with someone else.

Someone that wasn’t him.

And he’d done it. He’d driven her to that. His anger had driven her away.

Spike moaned pitifully and sank to his knees among the mess he’d made. Buffy was ripping him apart because he’d ripped her apart. It was poetic justice, he supposed, in some small way.

She was killing him. She was absolutely killing him. And he deserved it.

However, that didn’t make the demon howl any less. It didn’t ease the ache in his chest. It didn’t do anything to reign in his fangs. It didn’t stop his blood from burning.

Buffy was out there with someone else, and it was ripping him apart.

“Buffy…”

She sighed happily. “Mmmm…Spike…”

There was a long, cold pause. The air was thick with astonishment.

“What?!” Strong, non-Spikeish hands grasped her shoulders and thrust her away from the arms that held her, and her eyes flew open. Angel was staring at her in a strange combination of horror and disgust. “Spike?” he demanded. “You were thinking of Spike while you were kissing me?”

Oh God. Oh God. She had been kissing Angel. It hadn’t been Spike at all. Suddenly, all the nausea and pain that the presence of Ghost Spike had chased away came rushing back, only worse. God, it was so much worse. Buffy gasped, pressing a hand to her stomach.

“Oh God…” she moaned. “Uhhh…”

“Buffy?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick…”

And she was sick. The few minutes she’d masked her infidelity were getting their own back in pain, and it was more than her body could handle. Buffy lurched forward with a gag, and vomited.

Violently.

All over Angel.

Buffy didn’t bother looking at him. Didn’t bother apologizing. She staggered pathetically and braced herself against the sofa, gathering her bearings. She heaved deep breaths and tried to keep her body from breaking down and gagging again.

Wasn’t Spike. It wasn’t Spike.

She needed to run before she tossed her cookies again. She needed to get away from Angel, and fast. He was making her sick.

And before her drenched ex-boyfriend could utter a word, Buffy summoned every inch of her strength and ran like hell was chasing her.

Author’s Note: Hey everyone!! Hope you had a lovely 4th…those who celebrate it, anyway. =) Sorry about the delay in updates, but hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Thank you all again so much for your amazingly generous feedback. ***hugs***

Ohh! This story was selected as the Featured Fic at Buffy and Spike Central . Heehee!!! ***giddy***

She was in pain.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that she was in pain. The second his jealousy evaporated, the second he knew that she was no longer being touched by another man, his insides had been engulfed in agony. Agony that he knew, somehow, didn’t belong wholly to him. Buffy was hurting. And since the past few days hadn’t provided shining examples of his aptitude, it didn’t take much to convince him to go to her. He wouldn’t sleep well until he saw her again.

So it came as little surprise when Spike found himself under her window. He’d arrived just seconds after she’d bolted up the tree and shut herself in her room. He’d waited through her nighttime routine, and now the lights were off. The lights had been off for a while.

He’d be lucky if she didn’t toss him out her window, but he had to know that she was all right.

And his raging demon needed to know that she was alone.

Spike drew in a deep breath and made short work of climbing up the tree. When he finally peered inside her room, a pang struck his heart, his breath catching in his throat. She was laying on her side, naked, her back to him. And she was crying. The small trembles that racked her body were practically indiscernible, as were her muffed sobs, but he heard and saw everything.

She was hurting, and he was the reason. And perhaps turning away was the right answer, but Spike didn’t pride himself on his forethought. He knew he couldn’t walk away without trying.

He rapped lightly on her window, then louder when she didn’t turn over or act like she’d heard him. Buffy remained on the bed, wrapped in her blankets, crying.

Bugger this. There was no time to wait. Spike pushed the window open and climbed into the room, not even bothering to stop and observe the fact that she had yet to revoke his invitation to her home. He quickly shed his duster and drew his tee over his head, hesitated, then turned his hands to his jeans. He was sure to make as much noise as possible, and from the way her sobs quieted, he was satisfied that she knew he was there.

Satisfied enough to approach her, lift the covers, and slide into bed behind her.

“Buffy?”

She shook her head and didn’t look at him.

Spike sighed and ran a hand down her arm, relishing her warmth. Relishing the way she trembled under his touch. He inhaled sharply, lowering his mouth to her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, accentuating each word with a kiss against her skin. “I didn’t mean a word of it, Buffy. I really didn’t.”

She shivered. “I didn’t mean to mess up your life, Spike.”

“You didn’t, baby.” I messed up yours. “You didn’t.”

“You were so angry earlier.”

“I know.” His hand slid down her body slowly, slipping beneath the covers to caress her skin. “Something bad’s got a handle on me, Slayer. Every time I think I got control over myself, I do somethin’ to bollocks myself up. An’ you…I’m feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling, an’ I don’t know what I want anymore.”

She was quiet for a long minute. “I’m sick,” she said softly.

Spike frowned. “Huh?”

“I think I’m sick, and it’s getting worse.”

“You’re not sick.”

“Every part of me hurts.” Buffy shivered and moaned, parting her thighs for him when his fingers urged her legs apart. “Spike…what are you doing?”

“Do you hurt right now?” he asked softly, his hand cupping her pussy, his mouth peppering her skin with sweet kisses. “Does this make you hurt?”

A long whimper tore through her throat and she shook her head. “I don’t hurt when you’re with me,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean…Spike…we can’t…oooh!”

Spike smiled against her shoulder, sliding two fingers inside her, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing her gently. “Don’ think right now,” he murmured. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

“Uhhh…you do?”

“I can make the hurt stop, yeah?” His grin widened when she gasped and arched her back against him, twisting just slightly so that she could hook an arm around his neck and giving him access to those sweet little tits of hers. Spike’s lips dipped immediately, closing over a mouthful of Buffy breast. “I’ll make the hurt stop,” he mumbled, sucking intently on her ruby nipple. “I’ll make it all stop.”

“But…what I said…”

“I know what you said.” Spike looked up and caught her eyes. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, Slayer,” he murmured. “I want to make you feel good. I want to make you not hurt anymore.” He brushed his lips against hers, his fingers thrusting deeper inside her. He grinned when she gasped against his mouth. “Forget it all for tonight. Let me make you feel good.”

“This is only gonna make it worse,” Buffy protested. “I’m gonna wake up and it’s gonna be worse.”

“Then I’ll make it better again.”

She sighed. God, she sounded so tired. So thoroughly run down, and the implication tore at his heart. “I told you, Spike. I can’t be that girl,” she said. “You can make it sound as wonderful as you like, but it’s the same thing. I want you…but I can’t keep doing this if you’re gonna turn me into that girl.”

“The rebound girl, you mean?” He flicked his tongue over her nipple, gently easing his fingers out of her body. “Stretch your leg over my thigh.”

Buffy looked uncertain, but did as he asked. In a blink, he had his hand wrapped around his cock and was teasing her sopping folds with his velvety head. “You’re not my rebound girl, Slayer,” he whispered, kissing the swell of her breast. “I honestly don’t know what you are.”

“Spike, please.”

The hurt was gone. Being near her, having her body pressed to his, her eyes soaking him in, had chased the hurt away. Spike shivered. He needed her so much, and he didn’t know why. And truthfully, right now, it didn’t seem to matter. He could worry about what it meant for him tomorrow. Now he would try his hand at being the sort of man she deserved. The sort of man who eased her pain. The sort of man who was there for her when she needed it.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Buffy murmured again, her eyes misting with tears. “I can’t.”

“I know.” Spike brushed a kiss across her cheek. He’d never thought he could share tenderness with a woman who wasn’t Dru, but feeling Buffy against him made his demon want to banish every intimate memory that he’d captured with a woman that wasn’t his slayer. “Is this gonna make it worse?” he asked. “If I shag you, will it make it worse? The hurt, I mean.”

She was quiet for a long minute and swallowed hard. “I don’t think it can get worse,” she said.

Me, neither.

“I want you.” Spike curled his arms around her, the head of his cock slipping inside her hot sheath, and he hissed his pleasure against her neck. “I want you so much.”

“Ohhh…”

“I’ll make it better.” His arms tightened around her and he fought off a contented purr. “One more time. Let me chase your hurt away.”

Buffy mewled and nodded, and he sank balls-deep into her pussy. And the world around him dissolved in bliss. Spike growled and pressed his mouth to her shoulder, crushing her so tightly to his chest that he practically swallowed her. It just kept getting better. Their first time had been explosive. Their night in the crypt had rocked his foundations. But this? There was simply no comparison to this. To holding her in her girlish room filled with slayer things while drenched in her heavenly scent. To holding her in the place she called home, rather than somewhere where the world could at times feel false.

“Flatten your back against me, luv,” he murmured.

“I won’t be able to see you.”

He kissed her lips and grinned. “You’ll feel me, baby. That’s what matters.”

The look in her eyes was reluctant and uncertain, and though his body was screaming for her compliance, his heart warmed at the knowledge that she wanted to see his face while he was inside her. That she wasn’t trying to ignore him and pretend the pleasure he gave her came from someone else.

He sucked in a deep breath when she finally turned, when her back was fully pressed to his chest. Spike kissed her shoulder again, his right hand finding her hand where it rested against her abdomen, and he laced his fingers through hers.

“Close your eyes, pet,” he murmured, suckling at her throat. God, she tasted sweet, and while the hum of her pulse taunted his fangs, he was both pleased and surprised when they failed to descend. He began moving slowly, peppering her skin with kisses as he fought back a predatory growl. Her silken walls were driving him mad. God, she molded around him like no one else ever had. Like she was made for him.

Like she was his.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he murmured into her hair, cupping a breast. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

“Really?” she asked, and Christ, she started flexing her vaginal muscles around him, and he about lost it. “I’ve never…this is a new thing for me…”

“From behind, you mean?”

Buffy nodded miserably.

Spike grinned and squeezed her hand, increasing his pace so that his balls slapped against her with every thrust. While his body was screaming to pound her into the mattress, the years with his crazed sire had not permitted gentle loving behind closed doors. He’d wanted to experience this with someone for so long, and she was arching and moaning against him, each drive into her pussy earning a sharp gasp, as though he touched something new every time.

“Good,” he purred into her ear. “I love hearing that I’ve given you so many firsts.” His fingers abandoned her breast with one last teasing pull to her nipple, sliding slowly down her abdomen. “I love knowing that no one’s ever eaten you out before—”

“You can’t remember that,” she teased.

God, he loved it when she teased.

“An’ I really think…you oughta give me another shot to make it memorable,” he purred, capturing her clit between his thumb and forefinger.

She moaned. “It was plenty memorable,” she countered, thrusting her ass back against him and spreading her legs wider. “Ohhh…oh my God.”

The strain in her voice did a number on him, and he felt his own voice weaken in turn. “I meant…memorable for me…but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“You don’t…don’t remember it…so it…obviously…wasn’t memorable.”

Spike grinned and nipped at her earlobe. “You just…said it was,” he reminded her, rubbing her clit furiously. “I know ‘cause I was right here.”

“Memorable for…me,” she said, her breath hitching on another long moan. “Not…for you.”

“I assure you…if I hadn’t…been pissed outta my mind…it would’ve been… memorable for…everyone.”

Buffy moaned and pressed hard against him. “You mean you and…me…instead of…just me…right?”

“You catch on fast, kitten.”

Spike was thrusting hard into her now, the growls scratching at his throat becoming more pronounced. There was nothing about this that he didn’t love. The raw slaps their bodies made as they moved together, the whimpers and moans that tumbled through her lips, the slippery feel of her clit between his fingers, the matchless warmth of her pussy, the way her wet tightness nearly made him pop. There were so many things about this that he loved. So many things that he’d never had all at once—so many things he’d never had at all.

He wanted to bite her. He wanted to taste her blood as her pussy clenched around his cock, as his name tumbled through her lips. He wanted it so bad. He wanted it, but he didn’t dare. Not now. Biting her was something the demon wanted, and he was determined to be the man she deserved, if only for now. If only for this time he had with her before reality tumbling back.

God, he loved the sound she made when she came. The way she cried out with a twisted gasp. The way her body trembled and convulsed around him. The way her muscles clamped around his cock, the way her hand squeezed his hand. The reverent breath of air that carried his name. He loved it all.

And that was when it hit him. Right then. At the peak of her orgasm, that was when it hit him.

It would be so easy to love her. So incredibly easy.

The thought was too much. Too large. Too terrifying. He was drunk on her, and he couldn’t think. He couldn’t think right now. Spike screwed his eyes shut and came violently, jolts of ecstasy tearing through his body. He pressed his mouth to her skin to stifle his moan of completion. There was no greater solace than this. None in the world.

And when the haze settled and he opened his eyes, the thought remained.

Buffy was pressed against him, panting, and the thought remained.

He could love her.

God, if that wasn’t a kick in the balls.

She would give anything for this to never end. It was such an odd moment—a rarity handed down by the universe—and she knew that once it was over, there would be none like it. Spike was in her bed. He was lying on his side, his head resting against her pillow. And even though he wasn’t touching her, it was surprisingly the most intimate moment of her life.

“You have a comfy bed,” Spike observed, stretching those gorgeous muscles of his and flashing a grin. “Fella could get used to this.”

“I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

“The bed or the fella?”

Buffy blushed and tore her eyes from his. It had been the mother of all strange nights, and Spike wasn’t doing much to clear matters up for her. Earlier, he had shoved her against a mausoleum wall and verbally torn her into pieces. In a matter of minutes, he’d converted her every fear into stark reality—the fears that had convinced her to walk away from him after that amazing night in the crypt. He didn’t want to want her; he resented himself for wanting her. His interest in her didn’t extend past her girl parts, and he’d just as soon snap her neck as get to know the girl who owned those parts.

Spike’s anger—his open loathing for her—had ripped her apart. And she didn’t know why. Granted, they had shared a few magical kisses and she craved his touch like she’d craved no one else’s, but that didn’t change the way things were between them. It didn’t change the circumstances that had brought them together or her confusion over those circumstances. She craved him and she didn’t know why, and every time they were apart, the hurt got a little worse. She’d thought she could fix her problems by erasing Spike’s touch with another’s, but no. Big, big no. Running to Angel had very obviously been a mistake.

Her body ached for Spike. She couldn’t be with anyone else. Furthermore, she didn’t want to be with anyone else. The thought of Angel touching her made her want to hurl—which perhaps explained why she’d actually, well, hurled. She’d gone to her ex-boyfriend as a means to an end. A way to eradicate the effect Spike had on her, which had backfired miserably.

Buffy felt so horribly guilty for kissing Angel, and she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t like she hadn’t told Spike each of the four times they’d been together that he needed to leave town and forget about her. They weren’t together. He wasn’t her steady. He wasn’t going to be her prom date. And yet, trying to find intimacy with another man had made her toss her cookies.

It defied logic, but she felt like she had betrayed Spike. Even after what he’d done to her, said to her, she felt that she’d betrayed him. And he was with her now. Spike was in her bed, his eyes warm and kind, if a little conflicted. Whatever had possessed him just a few hours before had evidently moved on, and he’d begged her forgiveness.

None of this made any sense to Buffy, but she’d stopped trying to rationalize her feelings. Being away from Spike made her hurt, and she didn’t want to hurt.

But being with Spike was almost as dangerous, because she was growing to like him too much. She loved the way he talked to her. The way he’d helped her up after she literally walked into a wall. The way his eyes danced when he watched her ramble. The helpless need that seized his body whenever she touched him.

But eventually, this thing they had would wear off. It couldn’t last forever. And when it did wear off, Spike would happily roar out of town and, if she wasn’t careful, take her heart with him. Buffy couldn’t allow that.

Only it was incredibly difficult to remember why she wanted him out of her bed when he looked at her like that.

“You still feelin’ sick, luv?” Spike asked softly, jarring her out of her reverie.

“Oh.” She flushed. “No.”

“So it worked, then?” He grinned, placing a hand on her hip and massaging her gently through the covers. “My healing technique?”

“Incredibly.”

“I’m available whenever you need me,” he offered, his tone insanely hopeful, and his eyes dancing as though he’d just discovered a lost Sex Pistols LP. “Just say the word an’ I’ll heal you right up.”

Yeah. He would. She knew he would. She could snap her fingers and he’d be at her side, his hands and mouth ready to take her to the stars and back. And she’d let him because she needed it—because the longer she was away from him, the more unbearable the pain became. Each tryst would be capped with a promise to herself to not slip up again and an ultimatum to Spike, who wouldn’t listen. Who would pop up to say something sexy and wonderful and she’d cave.

She’d cave until he owned more than her body, and then he’d leave. He’d remember who he was. He’d remember that he hated her. And he’d remember that there were women out there with much more talent in the bedroom, and much more to offer a man who wanted full service.

Her musings must have been plastered all over her face. The next thing she knew, Spike glanced down and sighed shortly. “Uh oh,” he said, more to himself. “You have that look again.”

“That look?”

“I know what’s coming next.”

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. “Spike,” she began softly. “I—”

“You can’t be that girl.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re not. You’re not that girl to me.” He leaned inward and pressed his lips to her brow. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, Slayer. No more than you do. But I know I can’t be away from you for a sodding minute without feelin’ like someone’s skinning me alive. I dunno what it is that’s doing this to us.”

Her heart fell a little. For as much as she hated the confusion, a part of her had needlessly clung to the hope that he would think it natural. Spell or no spell, her feelings were genuine, and that was what terrified her.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What’s doing this to us?”

“I’ve wondered if it’s Dru.”

Buffy tried hard to kill the insane bolt of jealousy that surged through her. She really did. “Dru?” she repeated tersely.

For a second, she thought she saw his lips quirk upwards in a grin. “Yeah,” Spike replied. “I got to thinking that she might’ve put a hex on me. She wasn’t too pleased with my truce with you.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Yeah. I think she might’ve hexed us.”

“Into sleeping together?”

Spike nodded. “As often an’ as much as possible.”

That didn’t sound right. Buffy’s nose wrinkled, her jealousy dying. “This is a joke. You’re playing a little joke on me right now.”

“Yes.” He grinned. “Only I actually did mull that over, an’ I haven’t completely discounted it. Something’s going on, Slayer. I’ve been known to think with my dick before, but whatever’s happening between us has…well…I don’ know what’s happening between us.”

“I don’t, either.”

“All I know is it gets worse when we’re apart.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed with a nod. “To the point where we’re ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“That part I don’t mind so much.”

She sighed heavily. “I’ve told you, Spike. I can’t do that. I can’t do casual sex. I can’t—”

“Has any sex that we’ve had been casual?”

If she turned any redder, she’d start flagging in aircraft. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I know what you’ve meant each of the seventeen times you’ve told me that, an’ I know that what you mean’s gonna get in the way of what you want after you an’ I go a few days without seein’ each other.” Spike kissed her brow again, and God, she tried not to swoon at how wonderful his lips felt against her skin. “So I’m not seeing where your telling me to stay away from you is gonna make a bit of difference.”

“I can’t just keep sleeping with you until this thing goes away!”

Spike pouted. “Why not?”

“God, would you stop?!” At his confused look, she gestured toward his face and shook her head violently. “With the lip and the puppy dog eyes just because I can’t be Casual Sex Girl. I can’t. It’s going to kill me in the long run, and I’d rather die from this pain than from something much worse.”

His eyes became more confused. She’d lost him, and she wasn’t about to clarify. If she told him she was afraid that she’d fall in love with him in the meantime, only to be kicked to the curb once he was free of his slayer-lust, he’d laugh her out of the room. And since it was her room, she wasn’t about to stand for that.

A long sigh tumbled through her lips. “I just can’t do it,” Buffy whispered. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me to do something I can’t.”

Spike was quiet for a long minute, his eyes unreadable. Then his face softened and he nodded gently. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “Okay. But…Slayer, that doesn’ change anything. We’re still going to be hurtin’ when we’re apart.”

She flashed to the look on Angel’s face and moaned, stifling a sporadic giggle. Aside from her guilt for cheating on Spike—even though she hadn’t really been cheating because they weren’t together—the entire thing had been rather funny. “Yeah. I know,” she agreed. “Only it could be worse.”

“Worse?”

Buffy nodded. “I tried to…be with someone else tonight,” she said, and was only mildly surprised when Spike’s jaw tightened and he offered nothing but a short nod. “It…it was Angel.”

He was quiet.

“Spike? Spike, please say something. You’d scared me. You’d…I was hurt and I needed to see if I could get over you by…” She glanced down and shuddered. “I know it sounds horrible, but I was—”

“Slayer…”

“We’re not together, so it’s not like I was cheating—”

“Slayer—”

“—and even so, you’d just torn my heart out so it’s not like I wasn’t entitled—”

“Slayer—”

“And I was thinking about you the entire time—like literally, I moaned your name and everything, so I don’t see where you have a right to be angry with me.”

“Buffy!”

It likely wasn’t a good idea for him to be shouting—or speaking loudly, as that was more accurate—but she really didn’t care. Her heart was threatening to break out of her chest.

“Buffy, I…” Spike paused and looked at her for a long minute, a grin stretching his lips. “You were thinkin’ about me?”

She nodded pitifully. “Yes.”

“You moaned my name?”

“Yes.”

“An’ Angel was there.”

“He was right there.”

“An’ he heard you.”

“Unless he had his ears plugged, which he didn’t. But that’s not the bad part.” Buffy sucked in a deep breath. “I ralphed.”

“You what?”

“I ralphed all over Angel. I kissed him and I got so caught up in the fantasy that I was kissing you that I forgot I wasn’t and when I moaned your name and remembered where I was…I kinda just…threw up on Angel.”

Spike stared at her for a long, quiet second. “You kissed Angel.”

“Yes.”

“And you thought about me.”

“Again, yes.”

“So much that you forgot you were kissing Angel.”

“You have yet to say anything incorrect.”

“And when you realized you were kissing Angel, it made you heave.” A pause. “Literally.”

Buffy nodded. “That sums it up very accurately, yes.”

There was a long moment in which Spike just blinked at her, stone-faced. She held her breath in anticipation of his reaction, heart in her throat.

And then he burst out laughing.

“Hey!” She shrank back under the covers and whacked his shoulder. “It’s not that funny. It was…” Her mind flashed back to the horrified look on Angel’s face, and in a blink, she found herself laughing, too. “Okay, yes, it was that funny.”

“Angel made you heave.” His raucous chuckles were quickly disintegrating into shrill giggles. He was actually trembling with mirth, and she found it unspeakably adorable. “He made you physically ill.”

“Yes.”

It took a few minutes for him to find control. Just when she thought his laughter was about to die down, he’d remember why it was funny in the first place and guffaw loudly before dissolving into giggles again.

“Though to be fair,” he said when he found his voice again, strained as it was, “can you be sure it wasn’t belated mornin’ sickness?”

“You know what? Eat me.”

“I’ve been tryin’, but you keep shooting me down.”

Without realizing it, Buffy’s hand had wheedled under the covers, her fingers coming to rest on the bite mark. “You shouldn’t throw that in my face,” she said softly. “Especially since we’ve decided that we’re not having sex anymore.”

“Actually, you decided that. I jus’ sat here and listened.”

“Spike—”

He held up a hand and nodded. “I know. I know, kitten. But that doesn’ solve our problem. We go days without seein’ each other, an’ this is going to happen. Not to mention, if you go an’ try something stupid like snog Angel to get over me, you’ll heave. An’ not that I don’t find that unbelievably hilarious, but I don’ think it’ll be good for that delectable body of yours.” He went quiet for a minute, reaching over to caress her face softly. “So what do you suggest?”

Buffy pursed her lips. “That we…don’t go days without seeing each other?”

“Slayer—”

“No. Wait. This could work.” Her eyes lit up and she suddenly bolted upright in bed, forgetting the blanket she had clutched to her chest. Her mind was racing so fast that she didn’t even notice the way Spike’s eyes widened hungrily the second they landed on her breasts. “Yes! Yes, this will work. We’ll see each other every day. Every day. You’ll come with me on patrols.”

“Yeah, because that’s how I wanna spend my evenings.”

Buffy turned to glower at him. “You have a better idea? I have to patrol. I have to do it without being in pain. I have to do it without thinking about you.” She ignored the way his eyes softened as though he was actually concerned about her welfare. A girl could read way too much into that. “If you’re right there with me, I’ll not only not be in pain, but you’ll be there so I won’t need to spend time thinking about you.”

“So you’re ignoring me on these patrols?”

“You know what I mean!”

“Hardly ever.”

She shuddered with an aggravated grumble. “Are you with me on this are not?”

“I’m with you.”

The way he said it nearly made her feel that he was in no way referring to her new plan. Her new Getting-Over-Crushing-On-Spike-Before-He-Breaks-Your-Heart plan. Her plan that included spending every night with him—which may or may not have been a stroke of genius. Being with him and not allowing herself to touch him would be difficult, but it was better than feeling used for sexual gratification. Either way, she knew things couldn’t keep on the way they were going. There was no harm in trying something new.

Though when he said things like that, when he spoke in that tone, it was hard to remember why she needed a new plan to begin with.

“There can be no touching on these patrols,” Buffy said, her voice suddenly shaky. “No kissing. No inappropriate fondling. No—”

“Is there such a thing as appropriate fondling?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

“Well…no.”

“You’re not any fun at all, you know that?”

“Spike…”

“I’m gonna need to be able to touch you, Buffy,” he said softly, glancing to the mattress almost shyly. “Just a little. Lemme hold your hand or something.”

“A patrol date?”

He shrugged. “You can call it whatever you like as long as I get to touch you a little. An’ since you’ve ruled out snogging and fondling—appropriate or not—I’ll settle for what I can get.”

If Buffy ever met the girl that could resist that, she was fairly sure she’d have to slay her on the grounds of the girl being anything but human. A sigh trembled through her lips, and she nodded shortly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Spike smiled as though she’d given him the world, and before she could stop him, his lips were on hers. And God, she melted on the spot. She moaned and whimpered and threw her arms around his neck. This was a bad start. This was a very bad start. Spike was kissing her. She lived for his kisses, and he was kissing her. And damn, it was hard to remember why she had put up rules against kissage when he kissed her.

“Unh…”

Before she could blink, he’d rolled her beneath him, his cock teasing her sopping flesh as his mouth worshipped hers.

“You’re breaking the rules,” she complained half-heartedly once their lips parted. Spike began showering her face with kisses, his hand sliding between them to caress her clit. “This is breaking the rules.”

“Rules don’ begin until tomorrow,” he replied. “Lemme have you one more time?”

“Ohh…”

“Just once more before it’s against the rules.”

She knew she should say no. She knew it. She knew she should push him off her and send him packing for being so presumptive. But he was doting kisses into her skin, his fingers were massaging her clit, and the head of his cock was pressing into her slit. And if she wasn’t going to get to feel this again, she wanted it one more time. One more time before it was against the rules.

“Please, Buffy…” Spike’s head dipped and he licked sensually at her neck. “One more time?”

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly, a moan tearing through her lips as he sank inside her. “Oh, yes.”

Just once more. Once more.

Something told her that this was an exceptionally bad start to the plan.

Author’s Note: Again, I have nothing profound. **shuffles feet** You guys are just so incredibly awesome. ***HUGZ***

Finally, I bring you some plotty goodness (hopefully!) and some explanations about the claim. Not explanations to the big question (Spike’s obliviousness) just yet, but I promise, it’s coming. =D

“Giles.”

The air filled with a shrill scream. Giles jumped and whirled around, his papers flying into the air. “Angel,” he said with a squeak, clearing his throat and straightening his necktie. “I thought I might be seeing you tonight.”

The vampire arched an amused brow and took a few steps forward. “Then why did you scream?”

“I meant to say hello.”

“What happened?”

“I misspoke.” Giles sighed irritably and started collecting his papers off the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“You just said you thought you might be seeing me tonight.”

“Yes, but I never worked out why.” He turned and headed toward the foyer. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but—”

Giles paused and glanced back at him. “Actually I meant we have to stop meeting altogether. What exactly is short notice? Oh, don’t tell me. Invading my library twice in one week, especially since the first time you left after telling me that you believe Spike has claimed my slayer.”

“You asked,” Angel objected, his hands coming up. “It was just a theory.”

He stared the vampire down for a long second, then turned again and resumed the trek to the foyer. “A theory you have since discredited as completely erroneous and absurd?”

“No.” A heavy sigh rolled off his shoulders. “Giles, I think that we might have a problem on our hands.”

“I find that I have many problems, and most of them revolve around you.”

“I think my theory has crossed that line.”

Giles placed his stack of papers atop the library checkout counter and turned, crossing his arms. “That line?”

“The line that separates things that are theories from things that aren’t theories.”

“You’re saying your theory has been confirmed since we last spoke.”

“I’m saying I have new reason to think that Spike claimed Buffy, beyond the evidence I had before.”

Giles’s brows perked. “Such as?”

“Haven’t you noticed she’s been in pain?” He paused. “Physical pain, I mean. She holds her stomach a lot and she often looks like she’s, well, sick.”

“No. Come to mention it, I haven’t noticed that. Are you sure that isn’t a natural reaction to being around you?”

Angel huffed an irritated sigh. “Look, Giles, I get that I’m perhaps your least favorite person in the world, but I am honestly here to help Buffy. And from what happened tonight, I think I have extremely good reason to be afraid for her. I think Spike claimed her.”

“Yes, we have covered this.” Giles paused. “What happened tonight?”

“She came to see me.”

“Buffy?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “No, Giles, Ava Gardner. Of course, it was Buffy.”

“You’re really comfortable taking that tone with me?”

“No,” he replied, shifting awkwardly. “It just happened.”

Giles peered at him over the rim of his glasses. “All right. What happened when she came by tonight to make you feel that your theory concerning Spike and a claiming ritual had some merit?”

“She kissed me.”

There was a long pause. “I can see where you would arrive at the conclusion that Buffy is mated to Spike because of that, only you’re completely, utterly, laughably wrong. Namely because…if Buffy is mated to Spike, she physically wouldn’t be able to withstand putting her lips anywhere on your body. Not that I understand how she managed it before, mind you, but I’m talking about a severe, physical aversion to—”

“She threw up.”

Giles glanced up, his face comically blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“Buffy kissed me. She looked like she was in pain, and she grabbed me and kissed me. Then she murmured Spike’s name, and when I reminded her that it was me she was kissing, she threw up.”

A nearly indiscernible titter rippled through the Watcher’s body. “Where?”

“On me, Giles. She threw up on me.”

From the look on Angel’s face, it was very clear that he expected righteous outrage at this revelation, which likely made the blow all the more severe. Giles couldn’t contain himself. He doubled over in loud, high-pitched chuckles, his hand flying over his mouth as his body dissolved in mirth. The visual was simply too much, and his mind provided it over and over again, in widescreen, Technicolor, and THX surround-sound.

The look on Angel’s face…he would have paid top dollar to see that.

“Oh please,” he managed between giggles, “please tell me you have this on tape somewhere.”

“Giles! We have a real thing, here!”

“Because she vomited after kissing you? Are you sure that simply wasn’t the natural reaction one has to kissing you?”

“Do you want to help Buffy, or do you want to make jokes?”

“I can do both.” The Watcher held up a hand and shook his head. “Angel, if Buffy’s reactions are that severe, you know that the worst hasn’t happened yet. There’s no way that Buffy would have accepted a claim issued by Spike.”

“She would still be sick, even if she had.”

Giles nodded. “Yes, but I’m saying, that hasn’t happened. With as well as you know Buffy—or did before you started murdering her friends—do you honestly think that she would ever, ever accept a claim issued by a vampire she loathes even more than she loathes you?”

“No. But—”

“If Spike claimed Buffy, it was decidedly one-sided.”

“You sound certain.”

“That’s because I am.” He sighed. “If a claim exists, she hasn’t accepted it. Spike’s hold on her is putting her through mental and physical agony, and it will wear off once the claim wears off. In the meanwhile…do you think it’s possible for you to convince Buffy to kiss you again? Only, make sure I’m in the room. That’s something I don’t want to miss.”

“You’re taking this very well.”

“That’s because I know that if Spike claimed Buffy, it was one-sided. We just went through this, remember?” Giles waved a little. “I was the one standing right here.”

Angel paused and licked his lips. “And what if you’re wrong?” he asked. “What if Buffy did accept?”

“She didn’t.”

“And if she did?”

“I’m standing here, telling you that she didn’t.”

“You had a front row seat, is that what you’re saying?”

Giles rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m saying that I know my slayer, and that there is absolutely no way in this world or the next that she would have accepted a claim from a vampire she hates, whether or not that vampire helped her avert the apocalypse.”

The vampire’s eyes flashed dangerously and he took a violent step forward. “Could you just stop and allow room for the possibility that once in a while, there are people in the room as smart as you? I know that Buffy wouldn’t have accepted the claim, if she knew what it was. I haven’t yet heard anything to convince me that Buffy knows what a claim is, let alone would know not to accept.”

“You don’t think that Buffy would have the presence of mind to tell Spike that, no, she doesn’t belong to him?”

Angel was still for a long beat. “All I’m saying is, if Buffy did accept, we have an even larger problem on our hands.”

“I know. But she didn’t.”

“If she accepted, it’s permanent. There’s nothing we can do.”

“That is another thing I know.”

“If she’s accepted, the only thing that will make her feel better is claiming him back.”

“You do realize that I know quite a bit, right?”

“If she’s accepted—”

“Angel, as much fun as speculating over nonsense with you has proven to be, we still don’t know if your claiming theory is accurate.” Giles smiled thinly at the vampire’s blank look. “We need to verify that this claiming took place.”

“She vomited when she kissed me!”

“I still say that had less to do with a claim and more to do with the fact that she was kissing you.”

Angel sighed and glanced down. “We need to talk with her.”

“Yes.”

“Not that she’ll tell us the truth. Though…” He paused and glanced up, his eyes pensive. “Buffy’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it?”

Another long pause. Giles stared at him coldly. “And here I would think that you, of all non-people, would remember.”

“My point is, she’s turning eighteen. Isn’t this the year that the Council requests the Slayer go through the Cruciamentum?” Angel waited for the Watcher’s stiff nod before continuing. “If we haven’t been able to get any answers from Buffy, we might use that to gauge how Spike reacts to feeling her in danger.”

“Spike is still in town?”

“If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Giles suspected that much was true. It certainly didn’t seem that Angel cared much for visiting him. Furthermore, had Spike left town, there would be absolutely no reason to fear something as preposterous as a claim. Especially if the claim had not been accepted. If the claim had not been accepted, there was every chance that Spike was going through even more physical and mental agony than Buffy was.

He frowned. The claim had not been accepted. He knew Buffy well enough to know that. If there was a claim, it had not been accepted.

But as much as he hated to admit it, Angel was right. If Spike had committed the monumentally stupid faux pas of claiming Buffy, utilizing the Cruciamentum to test their connection was the best bet. It would have to be controlled, of course. Monitored. He wasn’t about to put Buffy in danger for the sake of a science experiment.

Though, honestly, he didn’t have much choice. The Cruciamentum was a rite that had been performed since before the dawn of time in the most literal sense. It had to happen anyway, and while it did, they might as well make the most of it.

“We talk to Buffy first,” Giles said softly. “Give her a chance to refute.”

“She’ll refute regardless.”

“We’re still talking to Buffy first.”

Angel nodded. “Okay.”

Giles exhaled deeply.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t putting Buffy in danger—at least, not in danger that she wouldn’t be in anyway. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not in the slightest.

The knowledge did little to shake the feeling that he’d just made a deal with the devil.

“He’s gonna meet you for patrol tonight?”

Buffy nodded and chewed on her straw, her eyes distant. The school day could not end quickly enough. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s a part of a new plan.”

Willow perked her brows and leaned forward with interest. “A plan?” she asked. “A plan to make sure there are no more instances of freakish baby scares and—”

“A plan to generally get us through the ‘have to be together to not be in pain’ thing.” She sighed. “Every time we’re apart, I feel like my body is split in two. And it’s gotten worse ever since that one morning.”

“The one where he…you know…with the r—”

Buffy glanced up sharply and held up a hand. “No. No. Don’t say it. He didn’t. It was force, yes, but it wasn’t…that other word. If it was that other word, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. I don’t want to hear you hint around that other word again, okay? Spike’s not like that. Even Angel said so.”

“Angel said so?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Angel figured it out. At this rate, I think the only person that doesn’t know is Giles.” A sigh rushed through her lips. “Unless Xander told him.”

Willow’s eyes darkened. “Well, Xander’s head comes to a point,” she growled, then shrank back in her seat when she realized what she’d said. “Dammit, I really need to stop doing that. Oz isn’t buying the PMS excuse anymore.”

“You haven’t told him about the delusting spell?”

“Doing that would mean telling him about the initial lust, and that’s not something I particularly want to do.” She shuddered. “It’s just wrong…saying the word lust in reference to Xander.”

“Now you know how I’ve felt. Xander’s just…my Xander-shaped friend.”

The redhead nodded. “Who should really look into getting his brains bashed in.”

Buffy glanced down to hide her amused grin. “You can tell him that. Looks like he and Cordy are on their way over.”

“Oh great,” she muttered, sinking further into her seat. “Can you just do me a quick favor and staple my lips shut?”

Buffy just snickered and resumed chewing on her straw, doing her best to dissimulate the way Willow all but growled at the brunette couple once they stopped at the table.

“Oh joy,” Cordelia said snidely. “Looks like Willow’s in another shining mood today.”

Xander just smiled uncomfortably and nodded. “Buffy,” he said, his tone abrupt. “Willow.”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. They hadn’t really spoken since their fight—not any more than necessary, anyway—and it didn’t look like today would be the day for burying the hatchet. And though she knew she could clear things up rather quickly by telling Xander the full truth—the fact that Spike had kidnapped her and forced her to have sex with him—she didn’t think she needed to justify herself in his eyes. Furthermore, since their argument, she’d both seen and been with Spike, voluntarily, if not eagerly, a few times. If she was going to use the forced excuse, she’d have to be choosy in her words. As it was, Buffy felt that she had nothing to apologize for. She was confused, yes, but she was approaching the subject rationally. Spike wasn’t her boyfriend; he wasn’t even her lover. Until they could live separately without suffering mind-blowing pain, he was her patrolling partner. No more. No less.

Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.

“I was just saying,” Willow began shortly, glaring daggers at Xander, “you should really look into getting your brains bashed in.”

“It’s interesting,” Buffy mused, crossing her arms. “The way that idea is starting to really appeal to me.”

Cordelia fumed. Xander paled. “You know what?” he said, forcing a small chuckle. “We’re gonna turn around right now and go sit across the room. It’ll be like we were never here.”

Buffy watched their retreat with a small, amused grin. “You know, it’s funny now, but when the dust from this thing settles, you know what we’re gonna get?”

“A little punishment?”

“A little punishment.”

Willow glanced off thoughtfully. “You know what?” she said after a second. “Xander is a sleazy, slimy, adolescent, oversexed blow-hole, so I really don’t care what he thinks.”

Buffy snickered. “It’s lucky you hate Xander right now,” she said. “’Cause I hate men in general and Xander is the only vaguely male person we hang out with.”

The redhead waved. “Umm. I do have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well, I think I can keep myself from beating him into a little furry pulp.” Buffy frowned and glanced around the cafeteria. “Where is Oz, anyway? Doesn’t he have this lunch?”

“He might be hiding under a table, worrying that you’ll beat him into a little furry pulp,” Willow teased. “Nah. He and Devon were gonna work on this new chord that Devon discovered over the weekend. Besides, you know Oz. He doesn’t eat much and he likes giving me time to miss him.”

The happiness in her friend’s eyes was only a mild source of envy. Buffy unwittingly found herself thinking of Spike. Thinking how lovely it would be if she had a concrete date on weekends. If she was one half of a pair. If she could sit down in a cafeteria and explain to others that her boyfriend wasn’t going to join her because it was daytime and he was way too old to be in high school, anyway.

She’d never had that. Not even with Angel. Angel had always felt like her dirty little secret, even when they were openly together. Her relationship with Spike—strange as it was—wasn’t a secret at all.

Well, okay, so she hadn’t told Giles…but that was only because she really didn’t want to.

“So,” Willow said perkily, drawing her back to the present. “Patrolling with Spike?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“How am I saying it?”

“You’re making it sound all dirty.”

“I am not!”

She stared at the redhead for a minute before glancing down with a giggle. “Oh, yeah. That was me.”

“Buffy, you’re not…”

“No.” She shook her head resolutely. “I am not. I am not about to go patrolling with Spike tonight for any reason beyond making my insides not feel like they’re being flambéed. It’s a part of the plan I have.”

“The purely platonic plan?”

Buffy nodded proudly. “Purely platonic. No kissage. No inappropriate…or appropriate fondling. And definitely no sex. There will be no sex between me and Spike. There will, however, be handholding.”

“Handholding? Spike will really be willing to hold your hand? You know, in public?”

“Will!” Buffy scowled. “It’s not like I’m a leper! We have to have some sort of contact. It’s the only way the plan makes sense.”

“Actually, there’s no way this plan makes sense.”

“Plus, Spike was the one who wanted to hold hands. It was his idea.”

It was really annoying, the way Willow’s eyes warmed. “Awww!”

“Stop that!”

“Well, come on! It’s sweet.”

“I am not contesting that it’s sweet. It’s totally sweet.” Buffy’s face flamed. “But I can’t…see, this is the only way the plan makes sense. I can’t be noticing it when Spike is randomly sweet or when he looks at me like he gives an honest damn or…I just can’t be noticing it! He’s gonna get over this…we both are…and then he’s gonna leave.”

Willow pursed her lips. “How do you know?”

“What do you mean, how do I know? He hates me, Will. Not as much right now as he does normally, but he came here to kill me. Once our crazy ‘can’t keep our hands off each other’ phase is over, he’s definitely going to leave.” A long, despondent sigh rolled off her shoulders. “And I can’t…I can’t be attached to him. In addition to his being a vampire and my being a slayer as a vocational conflict, some day quick he’s gonna wake up and remember how much he hates me. And then he’s gone and I’m left here.”

The redhead’s brow furrowed worriedly. “Buffy…”

“But in the meantime, if we’re not around each other, we’re both in serious pain. Like really, really serious pain.”

“So until the pain stops and Spike decides that he can’t be around you, you’re going to spend as much time with him as possible?”

“Not as much time as possible. Just…well, yes, as much time as possible.”

Willow thought for a minute, then perked her brow and shook her head. “Wow, is that a stupid plan.”

“You have any better suggestions?”

“No, but if I did, it would almost certainly be better than your incredibly stupid plan.”

Buffy scowled teasingly. “You’re not at all helpful.”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t thought of possible foils to the plan. Being with Spike every night, getting to know him little by little, was either going to open her eyes and make her realize how stupid she was, worrying about falling for Spike. Or she’d melt at all the wonderful things he said, and fall for him regardless.

Willow was right. It was a stupid plan.

But it was the only solution. She just couldn’t keep having sex with Spike. Not when it meant more to her than it did to him. She wasn’t the kind of girl that could do that. She just wasn’t.

Buffy sighed and sank further into her chair. No matter how she looked at this, the chances of walking away with her heart intact were becoming more and more obsolete.

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