Awards for the Yellow Brick Road Series

Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language and sexual situations)
Summary: Book II of the Yellow Brick Road series. While trying to cope with mixed feelings and brewing hostility, the Slayer discovers the truth behind Faith's deception and attempts to deal with her suspicion about the other Slayer's seemingly close relationship with Angel. Conspiracies arise and explanations unfold, and when things just can't get any more confusing, a blonde vampire she was sure she would never see again decides that it's time. 

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She hated him.

She hated him, and that was the way it was. Every thought of him was compact with raw, brutal, hate that had no boundaries. Her emotions were driven by perceived truths and faltered reasoning with no logic in between. Time had worn any previous want of understanding to a fine point of no return. There had never been loathing like this. It stretched every nerve in her weary body—every last fiber of her aching being. God, she was so tired of waiting.

The world was a cold, tainted place, and she hated him. Life had continued, and she hated him. There was school every day and patrol every night, and she hated him.

She sank into an endless tedium of routine, and all her courses seemed to remind her why she hated him. It was fortunate that her classmates were used to irregular periods of excessive weirdness. Such behavior had the potential to make them talk even more than they did already.

Hatred like this was not born simply. At first, there had been nothing—nothing aside from the sideways glances from her friends, the forlorn and overdrawn expression on her Watcher’s face, and the not-so-direct questions from the would-be love of her life. Buffy had found herself adrift, her mind taking her back again and again to the panic room. Her dreams returned her to Spike’s arms; she was warm and safe in Spike’s arms. Then she would wake up, cold and alone, and remember how simply things had been before he screwed up her life. Before he threw everything into question.

Not only that, but he had bolted the hell out of Dodge in the blink of an eye. She was alone in her confusion, and she hated him.

Her focus on everyday, menial tasks had become singular over the past few weeks. Patience was not her virtue. She couldn’t remember waking up that first morning and feeling different—aside from the ongoing civil war in her head—though looking back, there had to be something. Time had passed, but not much. Not enough to root her into such a cycle of endless resentment.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what was worse: the fact that she didn’t regret it, or the fact that she missed him. Then there were other facts weighing in; the fact that he said he would leave town or the fact that he had and—for once—kept his word. The fact that she had to look at Angel everyday and know that she had betrayed him. The fact that Spike said he would come back or the fact that he had yet to live up to his word.

In the beginning, it had only been time, and she had accepted that. She had demanded that. She remembered looking at him standing outside her bedroom—remembered her urge to unlatch her window and welcome him inside. Honestly, she didn’t know what she’d been thinking. How had she come to the conclusion that enforced distance would magically solve her problems and clear her confusion? And now time had passed. Time had passed, nothing was resolved, and she’d gone from missing him to feeling used. He came into her life, turned it upside down, said thanks, and bolted. Now it had been weeks, and she was facing the lions den alone.

Buffy purposely avoided her own counter of logic that screamed that he had only done what she asked of him. Her will, however, was not to be satisfied. In what deluded world did Spike ever do what she asked of him? Twice before she’d asked him to leave permanently, and twice he had made a defiant return. Now that she wanted him back—if only to kick his pasty ass for the hell he’d put her through—why on earth was he abiding by her wish?

It wasn’t as though progress had been made. Her mind kept talking itself into circles, and time was doing little to heal her headache. Her pangs of resentment only grew more intense, particularly as she found herself at Angel’s side nearly every night. The first few evenings, she had been on her toes, half expecting the bleached wonder to pop out of the shadows. All balls and swagger—itching, leering, waiting to throw what had happened between them into Angel’s face; but no. Patrol was uneventful save the few vampires she came across, and had turned, more or less, into an exercise in distance. She routinely found herself dodging Angel’s inquiring stares. The slanted looks that screamed his unrest with the way she had left things off. There was no sense in denying the space between them. Since her night with Spike, she had yet to really talk with Angel at all; despite all the time they spent together.

She had never trusted Angel; never not suspected him of something. Anything. That mindset had not been improved since his stint as Angelus. And even with all that, it was she who broke their promise of fidelity.

And she was alone.

That was the main source of her hatred. Not Spike’s absence, per se, but the feeling that she had such emotional baggage to sort through and no one to help her along the way. She fought the intrinsic need to tell Willow—not for fear of revulsed or horror—rather, speaking the words aloud meant her betrayal had actually occurred. It affixed the reality onto something she was nearly convinced, despite her bitterness, was a wild fantasy conjured by too many nightly chats with Faith.

Thus, she suffered alone.

She wondered if he’d had his fill of her. After all, Drusilla had sent him back to Sunnydale in a freakishly roundabout way. He had confessed as much to her in a blinding fit of anger before pounding her into the wall. Perhaps she’d been a craving that he simply needed to get out of his system. Perhaps now that he’d had sex with a slayer, he was able to return to whatever sense of normalcy an evil thing could muster.

He had satisfied his craving by pouring it into her. Yeah, that was fair.

And there were cravings. There were cravings so desperate she was certain she would explode with frustration. Amidst the burning fuel of her relentless repugnance, there were nightly conjugal visitations that played nicely in the forbidden corridors of her memory palace. Her dream-Spike seduced her, bantered with her, thrust inside her and murmured as he came. And then he’d leave her—he’d fade away and she’d awaken and be alone all over again.

She hated him.

The line refused to end there. There was a sea of endless possibilities, all resulting in a big batch of Buffy-hatred. She ignored the inner voice that screamed a more logical solution. Perhaps he hadn’t been satisfied. Her experience had to be laughable compared to the tantalizing whims of a psychotic temptress. He had sampled the goods and wasn’t impressed. Hell, if it hadn’t been for being trapped in that room to begin with, he likely would have left. It seemed there was a growing trend amongst her demon lovers. True examples of love ‘em and leave ‘em.

And with each fabrication of likelihood, the hatred kept building.

He had polluted her. He had crawled under her skin and made himself at home. He was a virus. A nasty, incurable virus that was consuming her whole. And in light of that, perhaps it was wise that he stayed away. If he dared show himself now, she would have to kill him. Simple as that.

Buffy sighed. She had to let it go. After all, in the end, she had done this to herself; that was what she hated the most. Beyond Spike’s diligent adherence to her request, beyond the upside-down mockery that her life had become, beyond her friends’ whispers, beyond pensive glances from her boyfriend, she had no one else to blame. It had been her decision. Spike had only voiced his desires, and she’d pulled him in instead of shoving him away.

And yet, in spite of all the logic in the world, she refused to admit it. It was so much easier blaming it on Spike.

It always came back to Spike.

Currently, Buffy sat cross-legged on the floor of Willow’s bedroom, doodling artless shapes on the corner of her algebra homework. She was only mildly aware that her friend had been speaking animatedly for the past half hour, answering with the compulsory, “Uh huh” and “Interesting” when the timing seemed appropriate.

She’d become a ghost to her friends. A shadow of who she usually was. And again, she knew she was doing it. She knew that her temper was easily provoked, and every time she made an effort to calm herself, her mood only worsened. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, and they would never understand. What was there to explain? What could she possibly begin to say that would define her behavior as rational? What was there outside of the truth?

Nope, there was nothing to say. Nothing to do but nod disinterestedly as Willow rambled on about the Dingos’ recent performance.

Only it seemed she wasn’t even feigning interest successfully.

“Hey! Hey? Buffy!”

“Huh?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

Whatever it was that she said had apparently been the wrong thing. Her friend’s face fell to a state of near-cold understanding. “That thing where you don’t listen to me.”

Buffy blinked and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Will. I just…really behind, you know.” She gestured broadly to the ignored textbook. “This…problem’s kicking my ass.”

“And here I thought it was only demons that did that.”

“Hey!”

“Aha! See? You heard that.”

The Slayer smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little spacey.”

Much to her surprise, the redhead simply glanced down, tucking her hair behind her ear. “No problem,” she murmured. “Believe me, I’m used to it.”

At that, Buffy frowned. She knew what Willow was talking about, but that didn’t mean she liked being called on her mood swings. “What does that mean?”

Willow usually backed off when she adapted that tone of voice. The first go-rounds had made it very clear that her friend would never spill what it was that had happened on her birthday. The first dozen or so questions about Buffy’s up-close and personal encounter with William the Bloody had crashed and burned too many times to count. At some point, Willow had stopped asking and accepted Buffy’s newfound irritability.

Tonight, though, the redhead was not backing off. “Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she retorted. “Then again, big surprise. I don’t know much about anything these days, do I? You don’t tell me anything.”

“What does my homework have to do with me telling you anything, other than math and me being non-mixy things?”

Willow shook her head furiously. “You don’t even tell me that anymore. No Angel gossip, no complaints about Faith, no ‘I hate Snyder’ or ‘why doesn’t Ms. Penticuff understand the responsibilities of Slayerdom’? Not anything! Buffy, you’ve been here for an hour and a half and the only thing you’ve managed to write down is your name and a spiral-thingy in the corner of the page. You came over so I could help you, and you’re being all avoidy girl.”

The hurt in her friend’s voice struck a poignant nerve and it wasn’t like she didn’t know that she wasn’t being fair, but she hadn’t the strength to offer apologies. Apologies led to discussion, discussions led to explanations, and explanations led to a world of no.

“My mind’s somewhere else.”

“Well, color me astonished.”

Buffy’s head reeled upward and she glared daggers. The vindictiveness flooding Willow’s tone was nothing if not justified; that didn’t mean she had to sit back and welcome it. “What do you want me to say?” she snapped.

“How about anything? Anything would be a good start.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve just about had it,” Willow retorted impatiently. This strained tension between them was worse than when she returned from Los Angeles last summer. “You can’t keep telling me that nothing’s wrong and expect me to believe it. Hello, best friend here! I’ve been trying to talk to you ever since you got here and you just shut me out. I must have covered every topic there is out there. If all this was about Faith, I’d understand. But it’s not. Something—”

Buffy threw her arms up in frustrated concession. Without further ado, she began collecting the materials scattered around them. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she decided shortly.

“Of course not! Go ahead, Buf. Run away. Shut me out. That sounds new and exciting.”

“Forget it.”

“I can’t very well forget it.” The Slayer was halfway out the door when her friend finally climbed to her feet to go after her. “And it’s not just me. You keep pretending everything’s all nice and normal and tra la la la, but everyone has noticed it. You keep shutting us out!”

Buffy’s eyes darkened and she pivoted meaningfully on her heel. “I’m going through stuff, here!” she snapped. “I mean, you know. With Faith and her random decision that vamps aren’t enough, let’s stake humans and see how they—”

“Don’t even try to pin this on Faith.” Willow was actually shaking with anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen that before. “You were acting wiggy before she killed the Mayor’s assistant. And hey—let’s not mention the random acts of violence. Breaking into that shop, for one thing. Oh-oh! And Angel told me that you really wailed on this vamp the other night before—”

“You and Angel have been comparing notes behind my back?”

“Well, we would talk to you, but you’ve made it beyond clear that you aren’t interested in what we have to say.” There was a heated moment of silence, color draining from the redhead’s face as she heaved a deep breath and consigned her eyes to the ground, overcoming her temper with a heady note of concession. When she spoke again, her tone was calm and tempered. “I just want you to talk to me. You’ve been all with the distance for…well, if I want to be really honest, ever since your little romp with Spike on your birthday. I—”

Astonishment filled her wholly. “My…my what with Spike?”

“You know…with the being locked in with him and everything. I mean, I can see how that would put the wig in your wig out. Hours in a room with him alone? I was wigged enough when he locked me up with Xander, and let’s so not go there. But ever since…”

No. No no no. There was absolutely no way she was going to have this discussion. Buffy backed further down the hall, shaking her head violently. “I gotta go.”

It was a matter of physics. How far could she run before she started screaming in all-out mind-consuming rage?

God, she hated him. Hated him and his thoughtlessness. Killing her would have been a sweeter mercy. At least the dead didn’t have guilt. At least the dead didn’t have to wake up every morning and face her friends with the knowledge that she was hurting them with her distance.

She hated him. She knew she did.

If only she could convince herself.

A date. A real date. With all the drama and heartache Angel had put her through in the past year of their relationship, it seemed both bizarre and sweet that he’d want to take her out. They’d never really been on a date before—patrolling and battles to the death weren’t exactly equitable with movies, flowers, and candy kisses. The whole prospect of dating Angel was so simple and complicated at the same time—she wanted to laugh until she cried.

In all honesty, Buffy’s last real date had been years ago. One of the last years before she became the Slayer. Nothing else was comparable. Her brief interest in Owen had resulted in an evening full of vamps to be slain, and similarly, the would-be relationship with Scott always skittered around the inevitable, “By the way, and I know how crazy this is gonna sound…”

Angel had asked her out on a date. Friday. Date night. Bearing in mind that she hadn’t realized they were on comfortable speaking terms, this was considerable progress. An amiably pleasant, if not peculiar, pursuit to draw her embittered attention to the once-dazzling highlights of her life.

Despite her distancing, there was the want and need to acknowledge that some things would never change, even if the rest of the world did.

The evening itself was long and awkward. Dinner stretched into what had to be hours. Hours filled with long, empty silences and a quip or two about how they didn’t serve Angel’s favorite food. Buffy was acquainted with the various forms of silence. There were silences that spoke for things that neither party could say. Silences filled with quiet understanding. Silences where—

An ocean of discovery. It was so dark, but she could see his eyes—hazed and bewildered, studying her severely. Nothing else…but for the pants fighting to be heard over the loudest silence she could bear to remember.

There would be no thinking of that night right now. Even with the noise that surrounded them that seemed to withstand the push for a meaningful conversation. Beyond the ‘how are yous’ and affirmations of general well being. Buffy sat and watched him. Watched him watch her. Watched as they tacitly concluded there was nothing to say. Nothing that either was willing to discuss, as it were.

Buffy found her nerves pressed when Angel spoke, always terrified that he would eventually cross that final threshold. He hadn’t yet—he had more control, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually, he would reach a breaking point. It would happen someday; Angel would eventually seize her by the shoulders and shake her until she spilled what it was that had happened those few weeks ago. She knew he thought about it. He thought about it often.

And they didn’t talk.

With as much as she would like to blame him, Buffy understood that what had occurred was not simply because of Spike. Her layers of hostility brewed and festered, but that truth remained untarnished. Spike’s intrusion into her life had not changed anything that didn’t need changing. Rather, the entire affair had only brought her to a pivotal realization that otherwise might have taken years to reach.

That hurt, because she knew she’d once loved Angel. She’d once loved him, but she didn’t now. Not in the way she had. Not in an everlasting way. He was no different than any girl’s first love: he would remain bottled and kept with fondness, but that was it. Her first love had come and gone, and now she carried on with him as though waiting for the director to yell cut so she could return to her regularly scheduled life. She needed a place to stop; a place to acknowledge the finale of their once-great love. There was heartache and despair down that road, but she’d been there before. Angel had shown her everything—love, yes, but moreover: turmoil, grief, and death. That was his great contribution to her life.

Without saying a word, he could make her feel like such a child.

It was different now. Spike had complicated things by opening her eyes, and she dealt with that recognition by calling it hate. It felt like she and Angel had—for all intents and purposes—already separated, only they’d skipped the messy ‘we need to talk’ thing.

Despite everything, Buffy didn’t want to think about it. The idea of formally breaking up with Angel, putting a technical end to their relationship, had her road-blocked. He was her first, and she clung to that. She remembered daydreaming about where they would be in twenty years, when she was no longer plagued with the burdens of Slayerness, and for a long time, those dreams had starred Angel by her side. A concocted fantasy that she now knew would never be.

To say that her first adult relationship was over felt like wishing away the last gasp of childhood altogether, as though the barrier had not been broken already.

The world was already too confusing to worry about absolutes.

If anything, dinner reminded her why she and Angel rarely went out. His affinity for appearing human did not stretch to his eating habits. She felt that he was punishing himself for being anything less than a man. As though she would forget everything he had done if he smiled soulfully in her direction.

It wasn’t until they were ready to leave that he tripped over an area of discussion that merited more than the obligatory one-word reply. A subject she would like to never mention again. Perhaps it was some strange contingent of irrational feminine logic, but she couldn’t abide the tone of voice he adopted when he spoke of her. “How is Faith?”

A dark shudder rippled through her. Things had been quiet on the Faith front since she killed the Mayor’s aide. Small talk in the greater scheme of things. Buffy was sore on the subject, but not to the point where she would stop their nightly constitutionals. Ever since the birthday-extravaganza, it seemed the other slayer was the only one that refused to hound her for details or regard her as though she were diseased; either because she was too wrapped in her own emotional working or simply didn’t care. It was odd, given her self-proclaimed, god-given right to pry into Buffy’s love life whenever she felt like it. Not a suggestive word had come out of Faith’s mouth in reference to that night.

Of course, that could be attributed to the latest weirdness with her and the Xander kissage. Well, more than kissage, but Buffy really preferred to steer clear of those visuals.

And now Angel was asking about her. He should know. He was her biggest sponsor at Slayer Rehab. Their nights apart left too much to the imagination. The other Slayer’s occasional absence seemed to coincide with Angel’s excuses of ‘I’m busy tonight’ whenever Buffy got around to asking for his time. All things considered, the thought shouldn’t bother her like it did. Not when she was realizing that whatever they had was over. Not when she had betrayed him so willingly. A few hours locked in a steel box with another vampire could do wonders to one’s fidelity.

“She’s good,” Buffy replied softly, attempting to mask her disdain. “I think she’s…she’s dealing slowly. Trying to come to terms…”

The look that flashed across Angel’s face was reflective and understanding. It made her insides boil. “It’ll take time,” he acknowledged. “She went through something traumatic.”

Yeah, because standing there and watching was a walk in the park for me.

“As it shows in her everyday behavior.”

It was impossible not to hear the disdain dripping from her voice.

“People can put up surprising walls, Buffy,” Angel reprimanded with a frown. “We all have our ways of dealing… it took me forever to come to any level of rational acceptance. Faith is…different. She’s coping with what she has done in the only way she knows.”

“By partying?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Well, ain’t that typical? She wondered offhandedly if Spike’s love bite on her throat was meant to pass on some of his more basic urges. That would certainly explain the Angel can be such an ass mantras that had a way of slipping in and out of daily thought.

“I wouldn’t understand,” she repeated incredulously, huffing in aggravation. “Of course I wouldn’t understand. How can I? It’s just another one of those members-only things where—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” she replied, waving airily as she moved to finish off her water. He was not satisfied with that, she knew, but at the moment, she honestly couldn’t give a damn. Not where Faith was concerned.

The rest of dinner was conducted in silence. Neither had anything to say. This was the way it was. Things would be better once they got to the movie. Conversation was not required, and they didn’t have to look at each other if they didn’t want to.

That was, unless her boyfriend was expecting an enactment of what most high school students did while pretending to be interested in whatever film was playing. She really, really hoped not. The idea of kissing him was too wigsome now, especially when her lips still burned from Spike’s passion.

She didn’t want to touch Angel while her mind was with someone else.

Bad, bad movie decision. Bad. A whole world full of bad. Bad to the point of not being able to express the extremity of badness. All the bad in the universe could not have prepared her for a cinematic experience of this variety.

Why oh why had they walked into porn? And why oh why hadn’t anyone stopped them?

Amazingly, Angel remained stoic throughout most of the film, hardly batting an eye if not to toss her an apologetic glance. She wondered if that could be accredited to the two hundred-plus years of experience working in his favor.

Despite whatever mental fallout she currently battled, there was one thing that would remain fresh and permanent in Buffy’s mind. Her time with Angel had moved her, soiled only by the knowledge of what had happened after. He’d been tender and intimate; embodied everything that ‘making love’ was all about. And she’d loved him. She’d loved him so much that her love had destroyed her, her friends, and everything she held dear.

He had been considerate and gentle. He had been everything a girl could want in her first experience.

Well, until he spoke.

“It's what? Bells ringing, fireworks, a dulcet choir of pretty little birdies? Come on, Buffy. It's not like I've never been there before.”

Buffy flinched and jerked away from him, ignoring the confused look she earned. It wasn’t his fault, she knew. He had not said those words to her. He had not filled her mind with doubt. He had not intentionally broken her.

No, that was Angelus.

“Somethin’ I oughta tell you, before we get back to tradin’ nasty jibes,” Spike said, nudging her head with his. Buffy blinked sleepily and yawned, fighting the urge to stretch. It was still dark, and still hours from any perceptible disruption from the outside world. “Not sure exactly how long we’re gonna be snuggled all comfy-like.”

That very thought had crossed her mind more than once, but she refused to voice her insecurity. She stifled another yawn and reclined comfortably against his shoulder. “You better tell me now,” she warned. “A sleepy slayer is a grumpy slayer. I can’t be held accountable for the monster you’ll wake up to tomorrow if I don’t get my beauty rest.”

Spike rumbled in amusement. She loved the feel of it; rippling sensations across her skin, as if making a point of sharing every smile with him. Every barb of laughter that accompanied every ill-timed pun or horrible joke. From enemies to friends to lovers to lovers who were friends in a matter of hours.

“Beauty rest is overrated, kitten,” he told her. “’Sides, from where I’m sittin’, you’ve already had your fill.”

“You’re either trying to make me blush with that compliment, or you’re very horny.”

“Both, actually. You mind?”

She felt another yawn approaching but hadn’t the strength to push it inward. “Get to the point, Spike.”

Another chuckle. His cool lips found her forehead. “Where’s all that slayer stamina I’ve been dreamin’ about?”

“I’m all stamina’d out. And…dreaming?”

“Yeh. You’re a right annoyin’ chit once you get stuck in someone’s head, you know that?” His fingers ran down her arms, eliciting shivers and goose bumps, and he purred his delight. “Like those musical numbers I was tellin’ you about earlier, only a lot more…entertainin’.”

She found the notion sinfully pleasant. To the point that she was on the verge of asking about the various scenarios and positions his wicked mind had entertained before remembering that he had awoken her for a reason.

“Again with the point. Points are a good thing. They’re nice and…pointy.”

Easy set-up. Spike barked a laugh in return, squeezing her closer to him and settling contentedly. “I’ll let that one slide, pet.”

“Thank God.”

Spike graced her temple with a tender kiss, fingers finding the bite mark she had allowed him to give her earlier that night. It was astounding—how considerate he could be. The compassion he had displayed in the past few hours alone was blowing her away. Counterpoint to everything she had ever experienced before. “What he said to you…” he began cautiously; there was no questioning to whom he referred. “I don’ know the whole story, ‘course, but he gave me an’ Dru a good hint. He was a bloody wanker, luv. That rot about…” Spike lost himself in her hair, inhaling appreciatively as she trembled against him. This was it. This was the way the first time should have been. Lying wrapped in each other’s arms, talking and touching as lovers. A sense of what had been fought for and what was found. Here in the hold of a killer.

Irony, how I mock thee.

“You’re such a fireball,” he continued, his tone having adopted a funny note of worship. Something she would never have anticipated from any man, least of all him. “Christ, it burns me to think this was only your—”

“Don’t,” she whispered softly. “Don’t bring him up. I can’t…I…”

And that was as far as it went. Spike wasn’t about to engage in a heart-to-heart about Angel now. Not with Buffy willingly in his arms. Not for all the blood in the world. She understood what he was trying to say, and that was all that mattered.

The Slayer shuddered and fell cold again. It was a conversation she relived more than she cared to admit, simply for the satisfaction of her qualms and misgivings. After all, if he had meant a word of it, he would have come back.

Even after she told him that she needed time.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what she’d meant with the suggestion. It was appropriate then. Everything was new and confusing. She remembered the dazed appreciation that coursed through her veins when Angel swooped in and took her into his arms. She remembered panicking when he discovered the fresh bite marks on her throat. She remembered the bewilderment that flickered across his face when she threw him off the vampire that was supposed to be her enemy. She remembered the similar flash of incensed jealousy that had shone in Spike’s eyes. She’d felt for him; he was sad and alone, consigned to the odds playing against him. She’d given Spike no reason to think that they would ever have more, aside from asking him to come back. Their hours together had been infuriating, then annoying, then lust-addled, then passionate, and then the best of her life.

The very, very best.

Angel had not mentioned Spike’s bite mark since that first night. The reflection of hurt in his eyes was too much for her to handle. And while she sensed his overriding emotion was betrayal, something told her that he was just plain pissed on a solely primitive level that that she’d let another vamp’s fangs near her throat. A sort of if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-can kind of thing. Honestly, there were times when Buffy wished she had a soulful-monster manual that listed all the characteristics of a brooding demon. At least then she would know what to expect.

At that, she hazarded another glance in his direction, ill timed with a guttural moan that hissed across the screen. She flinched but he did not. He merely sat there, stone-faced and watching. She thought about suggesting they leave but decided against it. There was a look of rejuvenated resolution coloring Angel’s features, as though God would have to strike the theatre down before he’d budge. Perhaps he was too embarrassed. Perhaps he wanted to prove something to himself. Whatever the case, he wasn’t moving. So she sat. And watched. And tried not to watch. And wished herself away.

And then felt horribly guilty. Despite whatever hardships they were going through, it wasn’t fair to rub his nose in what he couldn’t have.

Oh, speaking of…the leading man was descending rapidly down the actress’s overly heaving body, his mouth well-aimed at her shorn pussy. Buffy’s eyes widened comically, her mind shooting to all sorts of inappropriate things.

She made a small noise of complaint as the cool body she had been resting on slid from her embrace. Still half-dazed with sleep, her grip tightened to hold him still, but his own wiry strength was still greater than hers. Spike had to be tired—he hadn’t slept in five days, too rattled with adrenaline in preparation for whatever he had to face tonight. But the added dose of Slayer-blood had completely vanquished any sleeping habits. He acted like he had consumed twelve café mochas in ten minutes.

Which was all well and good, but she was trying to sleep. He had allowed her an hour at first before waking her, then half an hour before feeling the need to reaffirm Angel’s wankerness, then fifteen minutes before waking her again to ask if she was cold. Finally, when she threatened to emasculate him if he dared awake her again for any reason, he settled back with a pout and wrapped his arms around her protectively, telling her to go on back to sleep.

To which, she responded, “Coulda sworn that’s what I’ve been trying to do. You kinda did wear me out.”

She felt him rumble with masculine pride. “Did I?”

“That slayer stamina you mentioned? I told you…slayer powers gone, ergo stamina’s not as staminy as usual.”

She loved it when he laughed. He was so boyish when he laughed. “That’s not a word, pet.”

“Anything’s a word when I’m this tired.”

“You know,” he mused, “I’d like to try to wear you out when your powers are at their full. Figure we could have a helluva week figurin’ out exactly what gives you that inklin’ of satisfaction.”

“Ego much?”

“Well, I am the bloke who ‘wore you out’.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Spike snapped back a witty retort, she was sure, but she was halfway to dreamland before it reached a level of comprehension.

She honestly wasn’t sure how long he allowed her rest during that interval. It seemed longer than a half hour, but the night was going fast. Funny how forever could pass in a blink. The wear-and-tear of hours of incapacitation was weighing on her resolve, but morning would still come all too soon.

Which is likely why he caved to temptation and challenged her threat of emasculation.

Buffy wasn’t sure what woke her at first. Drowning in a pit of long, dreamless sleep. She was grateful for that. Thoughts of what was to come when the door finally opened defied logical reasoning, and she wasn’t ready to cross that bridge, even if it was coming up sooner than she cared to admit.

It didn’t take long to pinpoint the cause of her disturbed slumber. Spike was situated between her thighs, suckling hungrily at her clit. As soon as the first violent shudder ran through her body, he looked up to meet her eyes with a mischievous grin.

Coherency crashed and departed in the wake of fresh desire. His gaze alone was enough to make her core tremble—flickers of disobedience that simply begged to be disciplined. A strangled moan escaped her lips before she could think to stop herself. “Spi…wha…”

He winked at her before sliding down once more, his tongue probing her clit as he hummed with delight. “Sorry, pet,” he returned, not at all apologetic. The tremors that echoed across her skin in response to his voice provoked another arch, and she slammed her head to the floor. “Know you wanted to sleep.” Another torturous lick. Buffy whimpered, her thighs closing around his head. “Figured a midnight snack this delicious would be worth the wrath of Grumpy Slayer Monster in the mornin’.”

She moaned at his words, fisting a handful of platinum locks and holding him to her desperately.

“You’re delicious,” he murmured, his fingers stretching her pussy lips apart. “Christ, Buffy…”

“Ohhh…”

“So delicious. I’ll want this every day. Every fucking day. You understand me?”

She understood. She just couldn’t reply.

She knew she’d want it, too.

The movie was over, and the look on Angel’s face was not at all accommodating. She knew he could tell when her pulse accelerated. When her eyes glazed over. He had seen enough to provide suitable verification without having to resort to petty suspicion.

He knew.

“Well,” she said, trying and failing to sound normal. “That was…well, from the title, I thought it was going to be about food.”

Oh yeah. Smooth, Slayer. Real smooth.

When had her conscience adapted an English accent? She didn’t want to know.

Angel simply nodded and muttered some disjointed reply. Neither was really paying attention.

Buffy emitted a seething breath. Never before had she allowed her thoughts to sway toward the blonder persuasion in her boyfriend’s presence. It was too dangerous—their link too similar. However, her anger was empty; in the end, she knew it didn’t matter. In the end, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though Spike would be waiting for her when she went home.

Again with the all-right-with-that. I’d probably stake him anyway. Hate him, remember?

All well and good. The word excuse was in serious need of redefining.

“No one’s ever done that to you, have they?” Spike settled back, smiling smugly as he wrapped his arms around her once more, steering her to his chest.

It was only then that she felt her cheeks flush. Her body was quaking still, coming down from a euphoric plane and settling with new strains of fatigue. Fresh and waiting to be claimed. “I…erm…”

“I’ve boldly gone where no man has gone before.”

No one should ever be allowed that much arrogance, but she hadn’t the strength to contest him.

“Sure. Whatever. If you’ll let me get to sleep, believe what you want.”

He pouted, mood sullied by the implication. “You still wanna sleep?”

Buffy paused thoughtfully for a minute, turning to meet his pitiful eyes with a wicked smile of her own. The curve of her mouth fit naturally against his. Soothing and calm. The way things should have been for her all along. So strange to find it here and now, even if it wouldn’t last. “Well,” she conceded saucily, “now that you mention it…”

“You ready?”

“Huh?” Buffy blinked vacantly at Angel before realizing that she had done it again. The look on his face was solemn, nearly hurt, and sent waves of guilt through her gut. That was one thing she never wanted to do. Hurt him. Hurt him with her own selfishness. Hurt him because her thoughts were with another.

Another who she hated.

“Right,” she said, nodding more to herself. “Let’s go.”

Something told her that hell would freeze over before he took her to the movies again.

Let no one ever say that William the Bloody did not know how to make an entrance. He’d lived a hundred plus years and hadn’t a dull minute to show for it. Oh, there were plenty of instances where he found himself unspeakably bored; truly, it took very little to wear on his nerves. But keeping him happy was frighteningly simple: hunting, eating, shagging, telly, and hardly in that order.

The past few weeks had schooled him severely. His need to keep himself from following every instinctual impulse had become a game, more or less. Self-control was not a trait Spike practiced with frequency. He knew that forced distance would drive him insane—so insane that, for a brief period, he’d contemplated not returning at all. He didn’t want to defeat his Buffy lust, only to return and have it painfully rekindled right before she gave him the boot. It was a hasty, if not poorly constructed solution to the hole he had dug himself into. He knew the minute he walked away that his will would not be met, despite how he wished to put things behind him.

He was playing with fire, and that was something no self-respecting vampire should ever do. Something he should never have attempted—not if he cared to maintain a lick of who he was. Angel had crossed that bridge more than once, was likely dancing on it now. That was well and good for him. He enjoyed being the Slayer’s pathetic lapdog. Being the bloke who was there to give her everything, save a good rut.

That thought was more than unsettling.

Spike often wondered how it was for her. How long it had taken her to feel the first authentic taste of regret. And while he wished he could blame his own actions on the same, the only regret he had was that their first time together had been about anger. That he’d wanted to kill her but found fucking her was more therapeutic. That he’d inwardly cursed Drusilla for driving him to Buffy, and then cursed Buffy for allowing him near. Then he cursed himself for believing the falsified promise that he would take his taste and kill her before he became too addicted.

Granted, that didn’t explain why he opted not to. That was crossing the boundaries of forbidden territory, even more than had already been trespassed. He remembered well everything he told her. Everything he couldn’t keep away. Every painfully wankerish confession. Every sinful touch. Every rumble of mirth when he got her particularly angry, and the wealth of deliciously perverse thoughts that he’d wanted to act out over and over again.

Spike still didn’t know where everything had gone so bloody wrong. He had volunteered himself for the position after disposing of Kralik with every intention of killing her. A snap of the throat, a sample of blood, and a hearty return to Dru. It was all there. A carefully constructed, fool-proof plan. Trapping the Slayer when she was at her most vulnerable. Although the prospect of taking her out when she couldn’t fight back was one he didn’t necessarily advocate, desperate times called for desperate measures. It was that or risk the end of a relationship that had defined him for over a century. He had been more than furious. More than willing to rid the world of her. Ethics be damned.

He wanted to believe that confinement with Buffy for any period of time had the ability to reduce the Big Bad to such extraneous levels of poofterdom, but he’d been hers for a long time now. Everything he’d told her had been true.

And when exactly did a soulless, unwankerish vampire obtain a set of ethics, anyway? He should have jumped for joy at the prospect of her death, regardless of the circumstance. Whether she be at full strength or weakened for the delights of creatures such as he, even if the thought had never rested well with him. There was no fun in taking out a slayer when she couldn’t fight back. There was no thrill. There was no passion.

Everything had changed the minute he saw her. The instant he’d grabbed her wrist and pulled her flush against him. The instant he’d felt the heated power in his arms. He’d released his bloodlust almost instantly for just plain lust and allowed himself to slip into familiar banter. It’d felt, for everything, as though he had spent every day since his siring on this level with her. With Buffy. Talking with her. Laughing with her. His mind had provided the world and years worth of memories and sensibility didn’t exist.

Buffy was dangerous to him, and he was addicted to her. She’d risen to the challenge. She’d squirmed—ohhhh, delicious—and voiced her usual threats. She’d demanded motive and made him question his own. Then they had gotten trapped in that blasted panic room, and all thoughts of killing her had flown out the proverbial window.

Then again, that wasn’t exactly true, either. There had never been many thoughts of killing her. Well, at first there had been tons. Some with an unexpected adult rating and others without. Spike wasn’t entirely sure when his daytime musings drifted from sinfully brutal to just plain sinful. There had been no true sign to bring his unnatural craving to a head. And at first, that was all it was: a craving. A craving that quickly turned into obsession.

Then they had formed that unnatural alliance to bring down Angelus, and he’d been lost. He’d seen her for what she was that night, and God, she’d amazed him. And though it had taken him a while to realize it, he lived now only to see her light. To revel in her strength. He wanted to be the one she relied on when the world was ending. He wanted to play her hero, even when she didn’t need saving.

God, how bloody perverse was that?

Spike should have known that the way to confront the problem was not to place himself in a situation where his unnatural ethics would be put to the test. Everything had collapsed. Buffy had surrendered whatever sense of morality she thought she owed to herself. She’d given Spike a taste. He had felt her beneath him. Around him. Burning him. The flavor of her running delicious circles in his mouth. Oh God, it’d been corruption at its richest. He wasn’t sure who lost that night. Whose fall from grace merited the most punishment. Her willful embrace of the dark, or his submission to her blinding light.

Those last few hours with her had been different. Completely reversed from the spiteful, vindictive girl he had originally found himself trapped with. Buffy had laughed with him. Talked with him. Joked with him. Smiled at him. She had laid her head on his shoulder and allowed her defenses that final collapse. He could have killed her whenever he felt like it. He likely should have if he ever hoped to escape unscathed.

But that thought hurt more than he could tolerate. More than he wished to consider.

He’d stood outside her window the following night, and watched her watch him back. He’d fought the urge to climb up that tree that had played host to Angel on many a night and give her a proper goodbye. Instead, he’d managed to turn away with what little dignity he had left, and returned to the darkness as his feet turned to granite.

Spike had left Sunnydale and tried to burn the memory from his mind, despite the promise he felt dampen his heart and the knowledge of truth that tickled his tongue. But here he was, back in Sunnydale, because staying away from Buffy was impossible, especially now that he had had a taste. A sample of what he wanted. Nothing less could keep him satisfied.

It was wrong. It was more than wrong. No vampire should crave the Slayer like this. No vampire should want more, and definite not more than a simple fuck. Oh, if only it was that. He could live with that. That was tolerable. That was explainable. The need to feel her beside him with every wake was not. The need to make her smile as often as possible was not. The need to hold her when she was crying was definitely not. The need to keep her safe from all others was bloody insane.

He was insane. There was no other explanation. No other reason he’d crossed that treacherous line from lust to…he couldn’t even fathom the word. He hoped he never would.

Dreams weren’t enough to send him back. After all, he’d thrived on scandalous, X-Rated Buffy dreams months before Drusilla’s insane allegations drove him into the Slayer’s arms. No. It was simple realization. Driving down the highway one night, lost in his thoughts, and pushed to that fine edge of acknowledgment. Fuck what others thought. Fuck what Drusilla thought. Fuck everyone. He knew what he wanted for the first time—what he really wanted. He knew what he wanted with perfect clarity. He had told her that he was coming back, and he would. Buffy wanted him to come back. She’d told him so.

What if she had changed her mind? Only one way to find out…

The old Desoto had pulled the mother of all U-turns, tires screeching in a silent night before taking off heatedly back to Sunnydale. Spike had no idea how far he had driven before coming to the conclusion that there was no place for him but back. Life after the birthday-incident had been a series of booze, floozies, and more booze. Quick women that he hoped to drown her memory in. A desperate need to escape that had only made him miss her more.

Bloody rotten irony.

In truth, they’d only been separated for a few weeks. More than likely, not enough time had passed for her to decide whether or not she wanted him in her life. And even if a verdict had been reached, it was more prone to weigh toward the other side. After all, what self-respecting teenager would willfully abandon her first love? He wasn’t blind; he had seen the way she fawned and pawed over Angel. Hoping that he had a chance against realized soap-opera was nothing more than wishful thinking.

But Buffy had asked him to come back. She wanted him back. She’d needed time to herself; time to see if their night together had been more than a grudge fuck. That she wasn’t substituting him for Angel. That if she had some of her ever-blessed time, she could—

Figure out how to rip your heart out? Haven’t you had enough of that this year, mate?

There was too much to consider. He had tried running away and failed miserably. And he was back now. Back in Sunnydale; the place that didn’t know when to quit for the vampire that never stopped. A small grin tickled his lips at the thought, familiar shivers racing up his arms and down his back. The Hellmouth didn’t exactly have a skyline—not like Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and all those other fun pit stops he had selected as favorites over the years—but there was something about it that felt natural. Something that felt like coming home.

William the Bloody and his entrances. He had to make them, even if no one was there to applaud his efforts. Therefore, an entrance would be made. A smashing, unforgettable, redundant, and likely expensive entrance. In keeping with the city’s tomfoolery and insistence on maintaining the annoyingly intact ‘Welcome To Sunnydale’ sign that sat exactly where it had upon every previous arrival.

He couldn’t help but drive through it again—he had known that miles in advance. The bloody sign was so annoyingly persistent, and didn’t look good there, anyway. He was doing the town a favor.

Spike grinned to himself and put the car in park, kicking the door open and inhaling the air that was inherently Buffy Summers.

Oh yes. This was why he had come back. Fool to think he could stay away.

A jovial smile crossed his lips, and he finally lit the cigarette that had been dangling between his lips for the last few miles. “Home sweet—”

Buggering interruptions.

“Good Lord. You ran right through that sign!” A small, stuffy British ponce was staring at him agape. As though the world and all its citizens depended on the lifecycle of a postered welcome mat. Spike hadn’t noticed him approach, but it didn’t really surprise him. “Do you have any idea how much the city spends to fund the replacements each month? How could you be so audaciously disrespectful? I have a right mind to—”

The bloke looked to be Rupert Giles’s mini-clone. Tweed, glasses…yeah, he had to be a watcher. A watcher that didn’t know a vampire—moreover didn’t know him when confronted face-to-face. Something that could be rectified very quickly…

His slayer’s golden face flashed before his eyes, and he sighed. Or not. Killing a watcher likely wasn’t the best way to get his girl’s attention. This was bleeding fantastic. Couldn’t kill him, and the stupid sod would probably go screaming to Buffy, which was something he didn’t need. He wanted to watch her before he made his appearance public.

Balls.

More to it than that, a traitorous voice whispered as the man waddled closer. You’re holdin’ back for an entirely different reason, aren’t you, you fairy ponce?

That thought was beyond enemy territory. It was in the middle of the sodding holding cell. He might as well stake himself before considering the implications. Another task he had avoided in the field of self-evaluation. Not now.

Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t knock the bastard off his feet. No harm, no foul.

“Mite rude to interrupt a bloke in the middle of a soliloquy, don’ you think?” His fist met the prat’s eye without further delay. “I was havin’ a moment.”

The man fell to a heap at the vampire’s feet, a pitiful sound escaping his lips. Must be the new one’s watcher. Two Chosen Birds, another crime against society, even if Kendra had been a pushover. If the new one was taking orders from this clown, she had to be more of the same.

Two slayers in one town—one fight and fuck, one to fight and kill. One would think he was being spoiled.

Like Buffy’ll let you off her sister in arms.

Still…it was a nice thought.

With a smile, Spike drew the cigarette away from his lips and exhaled slowly, a smile crossing his lips. “Now, where was I? Oh right…” A shiver of anticipation. There was no denying that rush. The explored need for power. He was looking forward to seeing Buffy again, regardless of circumstance. These next few days were going to be tremendously fun. “Home sweet home.”

Of course, that didn’t mean he would rush into things. Patience was not his strongest virtue, but he would have to exercise it now. He wasn’t about to go waltzing back unprepared. Oh no. There would be no waltzing. Not until he knew exactly what he was getting himself into.

Reservations aside as though they never were. Now that he was back, he couldn’t see what had driven him to leave in the first place.

He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Even if it was from a distance.

In all honesty, she shouldn’t have been surprised to practically slam into Faith as soon as they stepped out of the Sun. It was in the other Slayer’s nature to experience happiness vicariously through others—at least, what she could only assume was happiness. The date was already a non-success without Faith’s help. After all, she had just spent the past half hour fidgeting uncomfortably while failingly denying memories from her one-nighter with Spike, and something told her that Angel could smell it all over her.

Faith’s brows perked appraisingly when she saw them, likely not debating how to make the best out of an awkward situation. Despite the calamity that had happened indoors, Buffy was tightly pressed at Angel’s side, her fingers threaded through his. The closeness was forced; a failed way to alleviate the guilt that stretched her insides. And yet, she couldn’t ignore the inner voice that screamed she was being unfaithful to Spike, thus bestowing her a heavy loss. There were gray areas everywhere she turned, and it was driving her crazy.

“Whoa, talk about power to the people, B,” Faith drawled, nodding to the proud title that rested at the head of the building. “Never figured you for that type. You two certainly are skirtin’ around the question of how to get your rocks off.”

Buffy immediately flustered in defense, and she didn’t know why. She owed Faith nothing; she was, after all, of age, and it wasn’t as though she had known it was porn. Who would guess with a title like Marquee: Le Banquet D'Amelia? “I didn’t exactly plan this, you know,” she answered begrudgingly. “I thought it was about food.”

“There was food,” Angel offered, his assistance not in the area code of helpful.

“Right.” Oh, I’ll say. Buffy nodded, her mind dangerously treading the path of ‘going there again.’ That was something she absolutely could not do, especially with Faith standing three feet away. “There was that scene with the…food. It was very artistic.”

Faith’s eyes narrowed and she stepped back, hands comfortably resting on her hips. “Well, color me surprised,” she said. “Even with Mr. Joe Restraint, I figured a cinematic experience like that’d have you pawing all over each other like a coupla deranged lust-bunnies.”

Buffy shrugged apathetically. “We’re good.”

“Very good,” Angel agreed in the same monotone.

Faith’s gaze grew all the more skeptical. Her scrutiny was not welcome.

Why she felt like hounding this to death, Buffy had no idea. The guilt raging inside was wrenching but manageable. She had several weeks’ practice under belt, and still her fool mouth decided to run away with her. “Really thought it was about food…other than chocolate and whipped cream,” she insisted, and immediately regretted doing so. Bad line of thought. Bad. Need to get mind away from sinfully enticing film and…

Uh oh. Another flashback.

“You’re the kinda girl a fella could spoil for centuries, luv.” Spike rolled a cigarette casually between his thumb and forefinger, gauging her eyes for reaction. It was odd hearing terms of endearment—near worship—pour from the lips of a man whom had so vehemently campaigned for her death. “Ohhh, now I’m gettin’ all sorts’ve naughty ideas.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He favored her with a rakish grin, lightly running his hand down her bare arms. “’Cause you finally took the time to get to know me, pet?” he offered. “Down to the bloody skivvies?”

“I swear I’m going to hang that Travers guy out a window by his toes when I get outta here.” She paused, then pouted. “Doesn’t sound nearly as menacing as when my mom used to threaten the same to me. Maybe I’ll just beat him up. Seems to work on Willy the Snitch.”

“Think I’ll send him a fruit basket.” He turned his head awkwardly to meet her eyes. “’S that what you human-types do? Or should I just stick with a thank-you card?”

“As long as the blood of the innocent with a side of virgin’s heart are left out of the gift package, I’d say you have free reign.”

Spike barked a laugh at that. “You sure know the way to this man’s heart, luv,” he complimented. “Now, like I was sayin’…what we need is a weekend somewhere. Don’ look at me like that. I can pretend it’s gonna happen, can’t I? Don’ know where we’d go, but I’m sure I could find ways to keep you entertained for hours. Teach you everythin’ you need to know ‘bout foreplay.”

At that, she managed to look wounded, and he swept in before a word escaped her lips. “Don’t even,” he snapped, sharpness counterpointing the tenderness in his eyes. “Don’t turn that around on me. You know you’re bloody perfect the way you are. But we could have fun, don’ you think?” She withheld her tongue. “You don’ have to answer me, ‘course. Keep to yourself. But…” He slid closer to her, voice intrusive and right at her ear. “I could show you how to have more fun with a can of stringed beans than you ever thought possible.” He pulled away just as quickly, favoring her with a wicked grin and an innocent shrug. “Nibble on that all you like. Jus’ a li’l food for thought.”

“B!” Faith snapped her fingers in front of Buffy’s eyes. “You really oughta send a postcard when you go off, you know? Least let us know where to find you. Christ, what’s with you and the spacey?”

“I…ummm…lot on my mind.” She kept her gaze resiliently trained on the pavement. Do not look at Angel, do not look at Angel. “Still got an exam to make up for. Remember? With the skipping out of class we did a couple of weeks ago?” She deliberately did not tag the implied ‘You know…before you killed that guy and we nearly killed each other?’ But it was there. Oh, it was there. “I never really got the chance to make it up…with the…and Will having the evil twin from freaky-dimension-land. Giles managed to convince Mrs. Taggart that I was doing something much more important than chemistry…hence the making-up on Monday.”

Faith nodded appraisingly, not reacting to the minor references she’d molded to jab at her indiscretion. “Nice. Two weeks, eh? Wish my old hang had been that chilled with the voluntary absenteeism. Might’ve actually lingered around past grade nine.” She paused with an apathetic shrug. “Well, all’s well that ends well.”

“She didn’t exactly give me two weeks,” Buffy felt obligated to clarify. She didn’t know why; it just seemed important. “I’ve kinda had something come up every time the opportunity arose.”

That, and it’s been really hard to study with Willow mad at me ‘cause I’m juggling free-flowing hostility and all these lusty Spike thoughts. Oh God. Bad brain. I mean…non-lusty Spike thoughts. Non-Spike thoughts that are of the non-lusty variety. Is that a double negative? Double negative means positive. Dammit! The one thing that sticks from algebra. Non—

Faith shrugged indifferently. She was seemingly determined not to react to anything that remotely hinted at her sins. That was so very Faith-like. For the millionth time that night, Buffy felt herself shrivel with envy. “Hazard of living on the Hellmouth. So, you comin’? I’ve got this itch that’s gonna go unscratched unless we get in a few good kills tonight. No rest for the wicked.”

“Council has you back on active duty, then?” Angel asked, making Buffy jump. She’d nearly forgotten he was there.

“Finally.” Faith nodded. “They want us down by Mercer tonight.”

“How are things with Wesley? Have you two been…I know you—”

“What, with the kidnapping bit? I’m in for the long-haul of no.” The raven-haired Slayer’s eyes flickered dangerously. “But something of interest did happen in way of him tonight.”

“What? Did his green card expire? Please say yes.”

Faith snickered appreciatively. “Nah. Nowhere near that excitin’.”

“Don’t think the Council would go for that, anyway,” Angel observed. A shadow of a smile had crossed his face.

“Apparently, Dudley Do-Right was takin’ a stroll over to Giles’s for a late-night batch of demon research and ran into somethin’ nasty on the way.” Faith flexed her shoulder. “Giles beeped me a while back to give me the full. Guess he wanted to make sure I wasn’t the one who did it.”

A twinge of guilt rolled in Buffy’s stomach. “Is he all right? Wesley, I mean.”

“Unfortunately so. Barely a scratch, save the glasses. I’m willin’ to bet he hurts himself more when he jerks off.”

Buffy’s nose crinkled. “Ewww. Save the image. So…right. Patrol.” She turned to Angel at last, eyes seeking his out in manner of some latent apology. Too little, too late. The marks of their failed evening had burned him sufficiently. Ouch. Movies bad. Check note to self for future. Especially if movies look to be about food.

Mmmm…stringed beans.

“I’ll see you later,” she promised, leaning forward instinctually, head tilting upward to receive his kiss. A casual touch. Brief. Fleeting. Empty. Something heavy fell in her stomach as his lips brushed against hers. Something cold that left her wanting.

No. More than that. Left her more than wanting. The heat was gone.

Their eyes clashed with mutual, troubled understanding.

“Right,” he said. “Be careful.”

Buffy watched him turn and leave as she and Faith started for Mercer. It wasn’t fair. No part of this was fair. Spike strolled into her life and took everything she knew away, made it into a big perversion, and left her to sort out the pieces. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t asked for anything. She’d been happy before. She’d had friends. She’d had Angel. She’d had duties, and life was good.

God! I hate him!

Only she couldn’t. She could never hate Spike. Not for what he’d given her.

“Wow,” Faith drawled from the sidelines. “I take back what I said. Less bunny and more cold fish.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

A devilish smile crossed her face. There wasn’t anything she enjoyed more than exploiting another’s discomfort. “Hold on, B. I feel suddenly very out of the loop. What’s up with the nonexistent UST?”

Something dark twisted in Buffy’s stomach. Why oh why must this come up tonight? Faith had been surprisingly good about keeping her mouth shut, minding her own business—if her business consisted of killing mayor’s aides and attempting to pin it on her Sister Slayer—without really breaching the line. Why did she feel the need to bring it up now, of all times?

Probably because she saw us walking out of a porn film. Was it that obvious that I wasn’t thinking about…okay, so not going there.

Too late for that. She was there. She’d been there all night. She’d been there all month. She practically lived there. There was no there without Buffy persistent at its heels.

Similarly, there was no way she was having this conversation right now. Nuh uh. Not with the way the night had gone.

Tonight was supposed to be about moving on. About starting over and gluing the tattered remains of her relationship with Angel back together. Reminders of Spike were not allowed to pop up around every corner. Forget that she couldn’t do anything without being reminded of the night she’d spent with Spike. The argument with Willow was still fresh in her mind. They hadn’t made up yet, and she wasn’t sure when they were going to.

In all fairness, she had been distancey girl. She knew it. She watched herself distance willfully from her friends.

Oh yeah. Life sucked.

“Silence speaks volumes, B,” Faith said, voice annoyingly cheerful. “Y’know I’m just gonna come up with my own opinion if you don’t spill the goods, right?”

“Wow. This is me, astonished. See that? With all the astonishment?”

“Is it the close but no cigar thing? Man, talk about balls. Takin’ your Life-Would-Be-So-Much-Easier-If-We-Could-Pretend-You-Were-Impotent boyfriend to a porn flick?” Faith shook her head with a chuckle, promptly ignoring the death glare set resolutely in her direction. “Was he squirmin’ in his seat? Must’ve been tough not to cop a feel of—”

Anger pillowed on the verge of eruption. Buffy felt it spread from her fingertips to her toes—addled, provoked, just begging for that final reason to break free and make someone feel marginally as bad as she did. However, she maintained control of herself and inwardly counted to ten. Do not take it out on Faith, she encouraged herself rationally. That’s what she lives for. ‘Sides, she doesn’t even know half the story. Let her believe what she wants.

It was a wonderful place, Denial. The atmosphere never changed, the climate was always great, and the company swelled with familiar faces and already-argued debates.

“Oh, I get it!” Faith’s eyes were dancing maniacally. “This has nothin’ to do with ole Broody, does it?”

The line stopped there. This was a no-cross zone. “Don’t.” They’d reached Mercer now, and she couldn’t be more relieved. A demon needed to show up right now and wash all remnants of the night away. She didn’t care what kind. “Faith, when it comes to Angel, me, and me and Angel, do me a favor.” Oh. Pretty demon. Excellent timing. “Duck!”

A flash of curly brown hair and the offending Slayer was out of the picture, revealing the grubby looking thing that had perched behind her sometime during their ‘we’re never talking about this again’ discussion. Short and of the wouldn’t-take-him-home-to-mother variety. Okay, so we jumped the gun with ‘pretty.’ Still in ‘yay’ with his sudden appearance.

Buffy hoped to convey her gratitude with a timely clout. Convenient or not, he was still a demon. A demon sneaking up on two slayers at night. Either very stupid or had a big jones for pain. Or both.

There wasn’t much time between the hitting and the whiplash to consider.

“Ow!” the demon wailed dramatically, head flying back as his hand instinctually tended to his nose. “Ooh, what are you, nuts? Going around punching people?”

That was a laugh. Even with the dorky hat, it was more than obvious that he ran in a group that was not connected to the human variety. In firm demonstration, she yanked the ridiculous hat off his head, quipping an inane, “People?” even if she knew verification was not needed.

Faith had recovered, and was glaring daggers.

“So what? I’m a demon,” the creature replied. Oddly like Whistler, only not as tolerable—or helpful, from the looks of it. And she was quite certain that Whistler hadn’t smelled that bad. “That makes it okay?”

The Slayers exchanged a pointed look before raising their stakes in flawless synchronization, and the demon squeaked. “Hold it, whoa!” he cried, hands coming up. “Stake me now and you never find out what I got for you, huh? Think about it. Demon seeks slayers. Highly unusual?”

Buffy had to stifle a bitter snort at that. Oh, not too unusual. Depends on the demon.

“Talk fast,” Faith hissed.

“How would you like to get your hands on the Books of Ascension?”

Buffy glanced to her companion with a narrowed ‘huh?’ veneer before she pretended to consider. “Never really a priority, you know. But now that you mention it, does Barnes and Noble still have them in stock? Get to the point.” A not-so-subtle nod to the stake still coiled tightly in grasp. “Before the point gets you.”

Hah! There’s a bit of the bad-pun-lovin’ Buffy the world’s been missing!

“Oh come on, you’re kidding me! The Books of Ascension,” the demon repeated incredulously. “Very powerful, and I’m not talkin’ about the prose. Dark stuff—major dark stuff. And the Mayor, if you catch my meaning—” Neither noticed Faith tick just a tad. It was probably a good thing. “—would hate for someone to get a hold of them before he…well, you know.”

Buffy shrugged. “Don’t know. Before he what?”

The demon shook his head, his eyes wide. “Hey, hey. Read 'em and weep. That's all I got to say. Tomorrow, I get the books. Meet me here and if the price is right,
well I give the books to you.”

“Not really looking to trade with a demon,” Buffy replied, smiling sweetly.

“And if this were still a barter economy, that would be a problem. I want cash, princess, five large for the whole set.”

Faith arched a brow, casually gesturing at his face with one finger. “So you can buy…and I'm guessing here, skin care products?”

“Plane ticket. Out of the Hellmouth before it’s adios, Slayer Loco. So, five G's, what do you say?”

The look on Faith’s face turned scary for a second; she shifted and whipped a stake from her back pocket. “I think ‘Die Fiend’ sums it up, wouldn't you say?”

She was about to tear into him until Buffy’s hand curled around her wrist, holding her back as the smallish annoyance took off in a blur. “Let him walk,” she said, fight drawn out of her. “I don’t think he falls into the ‘deadly threat to humanity’ category.”

There was something frighteningly neutral about the look on Faith’s face. Something Buffy couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Demon’s a demon,” came the simple, soft-spoken rejoinder.

“Well, it could be important, and even then, I’m curious. I’d like to know about these Books of Ascension,” she answered rationally. “We’re pretty much sitting ducks right now. I know Giles will go all ‘oooh’ when he hears about this…and anything that would pin the Mayor down would be great. Annoying as it is, the thing had a point. If he’s seeking slayers out, the big upcoming bad must be…bad. You think he’s the one that got to Wesley, as Wesley is the walking epitome of pansydom?”

Buffy wasn’t even sure that Faith was following anymore. There was a cold, almost reverent look of odd consideration in her eyes that took a minute to clear. “Nah,” the other Slayer dismissed. “Wes said that it was a guy just getting into town that got him.” She shook with mirthless humor. “Story goes, as retold to Giles, he got into some stink with this guy who has a seriously outdated ‘I Love The ‘80s’ complexion ‘cause he burst through the good ole Welcome to SunnyD sign on the way into town. Oh, but it gets better. Said it was a vamp. ‘Course, Wes’s description of the vamp was twelve feet tall and wicked-long claws that’d gouge your eyes out in a second. Wonder if the prick pissed himself when he saw his first—or five hundredth—demon. To be honest, B, the story doesn’t stick. Probably looking for his five seconds of sympathy, ‘cause no one’s shelving that out by the bushel anymore.” She gazed off thoughtfully. “Not that we did in the first place. I don’t get why a regular vamp’d leave a defenseless flesh bag when he coulda made with a midnight snack.”

Faith could have just as casually mentioned that her pet penguin was a chain smoker and elicited the same reaction. Heart-stopping, mind-numbing realization that leaked through her veins in the manner of a really, really bad joke. She had heard nothing beyond the needed. Vamp rolling into town and knocking over the welcome sign in the process, negating the helpful additives of his attire. And Wesley was alive. Would Spike have left Wesley alive? Would he have recognized him as a Watcher? Would he know to…

It couldn’t be. For all her wanting and waiting, it couldn’t be.

“Hey, girlfriend. Still with me?”

Numb. For all the feelings she had touched tonight, this was the last she expected. She walked without feeling her legs, spoke without registering the words on her lips. Now. Was it now? Had the wait come to an end? Was he back for her at last?

Buffy paused and forced a reign on her thoughts. She refused to jump to conclusions on secondhand information from a girl she didn’t trust.

Better to get to Giles with this information before her emotional blockade initiated a self-destruct sequence of bad tidings. Better to do it now when she felt somewhat attached to her surroundings.

Was it now?

One thing was certain. That old Divinyls record that had gone neglected since the years of Billy Ford would be worn to disuse before the night was over.

The majority of the trip to Giles’s consisted of an inward mantra of reaffirmation that the vampire that had scared Wesley was most likely a wandering miscreant who had flocked to the Hellmouth after catching wind of its noted reputation. Ten minutes of blessed and uncharacteristic silence from Faith allowed an extra measure of leverage, enabling her mind to pull the wool over her eyes even more.

It wasn’t entirely the most ridiculous thing she had heard, but it was close.

They weren’t at Giles’s for long; just long enough to get the full story from an overly panicked and very-much exaggerating Wesley. He was sporting a nasty shiner and his glasses had seen better days, but it was otherwise obvious that the bulk of the damage had been to his self-esteem.

It was difficult to judge the look on Giles’s face. They waited patiently as Wesley calmed himself and suffered through several revised tellings of the story. However, despite the changes to minute details, the main points remained the same. Things Buffy couldn’t readily dismiss.

Old ratty car. Burst through the welcome sign. Cigarette. Leather. Blond. British.

Fortunately, the others remained ignorant to her thoughts. Faith was more interested in leaving and getting in a few good slays, and Wesley wouldn’t know Spike from Kiefer Sutherland in The Lost Boys. And Giles…

Giles was the loose canon. Giles knew her better than anyone at times. And Giles was currently studying her suspiciously, measuring her with the same look that told her that he knew she was hiding something. It didn’t seem terribly long ago when she could pull a fast one on him without so much as batting an eye, but he was beyond that now. That paternal glimmer buried within his gaze was enough to tell her that. Buffy swallowed hard. He was thinking the same thing she was. He knew the same thing she did. Spike had returned. Spike was back in town, and under the terms of his last departure, she could only imagine the welcoming committee he would receive.

But that didn’t explain why Giles refrained from voicing his conclusion. It didn’t explain the something different in his eyes. It didn’t do much to explain anything. The Watcher wasn’t one to withhold information, especially with a renowned and proud slayer-killer wandering the streets. There was more than comprehension there. He was watching her for a response. He was attempting to decipher what sort of reaction Spike’s return would have on her. He was waiting to see what she said.

Out of everyone, he had been the least vocal about the night that had rendered him jobless. There was nothing he could say that had not already been said; nothing he could imply that had not been beaten into the ground. Plus, it was possible that he felt that he owed her something. that what had happened was entirely his fault—and she wasn’t one to disagree. Buffy remembered well how angry she’d been with him for keeping the birthday ritual from her. She trusted Giles more than anyone—her mom or her friends—which made his deceit absolutely crushing. Not even Angel’s desouling had hurt her as much. However, Buffy had forgiven him, her resentment replaced by her own self-loathing, not to mention the wealth of negativity directed at Spike. Logic did not enter into her estranged line of thinking.

If it was Spike—if he was the one responsible for Wesley’s shiner—he was being fairly presumptuous in coming back. In making his presence known so loudly.

Oh, well, her inner will snapped. Isn’t that ironic? An hour ago, you were cursing him for not being here…PMSing, much?

“Really,” Wesley was saying, “it’s completely miraculous that my eye isn’t much worse. Had I been caught on better awares, I—”

“Would have fallen over without getting hit first?” Faith offered with saccharine falsity, earning a wounded look.

“This was no ordinary vampire,” he insisted for what had to be the twentieth time in ten minutes. “I daresay, he—”

“Was the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered vamp you ever set eyes on?” Buffy offered.

Wesley stared at her blankly. “Well, erm, yes.”

Giles blinked. “Did you just quote Monty Python?”

Oh crap.

Faith just looked at her, lost.

“Ummm. No,” Buffy replied quickly. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to shut him up.”

“Pardon me if I believe more attention should be drawn to the matter,” Wesley huffed indignantly. “After all, with a vampire of that brawn loose in Sunnydale, I shudder to think how quickly the—”

Faith rolled her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Enough about the damn vamp, all right? Honestly, Wes, I’m startin’ to think you just pulled this story outta your ass to get some notice. Nifty shiner you got there. Are you sure you didn’t just walk into a lamppost?”

Wesley made one last pathetic attempt to gather sympathy, which everyone promptly ignored.

“Look,” Faith continued. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but there are more important things to discuss, rather than yap away about some so-called vamp who—by amazing coincidence—decided not to kill you, okay Chief?”

“Are you seriously insinuating that I fabricated the event?”

“Ohhh, now there’s a thought,” she continued with a malicious grin. “Maybe next time we’ll get lucky and he’ll tear your head off.”

“I’m with Faith,” Buffy heard herself say, eliciting one supremely offended and two befuddled glances in response. “Not about Wes…well, actually, yeah. About that, too. But more to the effect that there are important things to discuss. Sacred duty stuff. “I only meant that if we can progress beyond Screams-Like-A-Woman’s recent crisis, we have an update from the demony front.”

That caught Giles’s interest. It had been a long while since she saw him light up with such fluid rapidity. “Oh?”

“Something that might be related to the Mayor,” she clarified. “Demon caught us on patrol. Said he was willing to sell us the Books of Ascension…whatever those are.”

There was a long pause as this new information was digested.

“The books of what?” Wesley finally commented.

“Ascension. Like I said, not exactly on the ‘here’s the definition’ front, but he said it has something to do with the Mayor.”

“He could have been lying,” Faith offered. “Demons tend to do that, you know. He might’ve just wanted the money.”

Giles had a pensively collected look on his face. “How much?”

“Five G’s.” The raven-haired Slayer shrugged indifferently. “Seems to me if these books were so important, he would’ve upped the price to something he knew the Council could front.”

“I believe it’s unusual that a demon would want cash in the first place,” Wesley observed.

Giles seemed to share his sentiments, a look of disapproval marring his brow. “Demons after money. Whatever happened to the still beating heart of a virgin? No one has any standards anymore.”

Everyone took a prolonged minute to study him speculatively.

“I was just saying…” When their scrutiny didn’t let up, he replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. “Ascension…that’s not a term I’m familiar with.”

“Nor I,” Wesley commented.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Well, that was a given…”

“There might be some books at the library…”

“Ascension sounds big with the power, and power seems to be Willow’s primary focus right now.” Buffy observed, avoiding the instinctive wince that tagged along with any mention of her best friend’s name. The last thing she needed right now was a reminder that they weren’t speaking. “Didn’t you lend her most of your books?”

Giles shook his head. “I let her take home one, maybe two at a time. There are also some volumes of deeper magic that I keep in a secure location. With the rate at which she’s progressing…I fear what might happen if she pushes herself to mature plateaus before she’s ready.”

That earned a wry chuckle. “Yeah, she might actually float erasers instead of pencils.”

“I’m serious, Buffy. Considering where she was in her studies this time last year, she has made remarkable progress. People with access to that kind of power tend to…” His eyes hazed over poignantly for an instant. “Jenny practiced her entire life and had only surpassed the stage Willow is at right now when Ang…when she died. Given Willow’s dedication…” He looked down when his emotions threatened to get the better of him. The one-year anniversary of his girlfriend’s murder had only recently passed. He hadn’t said anything, of course, but his mood had been touchy and distant.

Much like hers, but to a lesser degree. Giles had the decency not to let his emotions influence his behavior.

Faith broke the uncomfortable silence as only Faith could: faking a wide yawn and heading for the front door without any semblance of break. “Well, L’s and G’s,” she drawled, “as much fun as this has been…it’s wicked early and I have better things to do than sit here and reminisce.” Her eyes locked on Buffy. “You know where to find me if all this hoopla starts to make sense, don’t yah, girlfriend?”

A weak nod. “Yeah. You Bronzing it?”

“That and then some.” She shrugged at the pointed look that earned. “Might as well. The night’s still young, and tomorrow’s not a school day.” A thoughtful pause. “Well, no day’s a school day, come to think of it. Not for me anyway. Ta.”

“I really don’t like her,” Wesley mused the second she was gone.

Buffy sighed and pouted her dissatisfaction. “Responsibility sucks,” she complained under her breath. “Faith parties, and I’m stuck with the homework. Giles, I’m going home. It’s been a long night. Movie and Wesley nearly-getting-almost threatened by a twenty-foot vamp with bear-like claws.”

And Spike might be back in town, and you’re not sure how to feel about that.

“I beg your—”

She shook her head shortly as she headed for the door. “I’ll see you on Monday. Don’t hesitate to not call if something really boring happens.”

Stepping outside was like surfacing after being under water too long. There had been too many revelations in one night—too much to consider. Faith’s casual, though unsurprising, negligence of all things world-saveage related. The demon’s proposal. Wesley’s admittedly loud shiner. The possibility that the bane of her existence was back in town, and her thrill of excitement at the possibility that it was true.

Though she so shouldn’t be excited about that. She still had pieces to pick up. And who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t Spike. There were plenty of vamps that went around without care for the property they destroyed and lived in decades classically and forever defined as retro. There were plenty of vamps that came and went. There were plenty…

Who left Watchers alive?

It might not be him.

Yeah…and maybe tomorrow you’ll win the lottery, get the Nobel Prize, and be crowned the Queen of England.

The smile that should have crossed her lips remained at bay. There was nothing to smile about.

Not with Angel giving her the silent treatment.

Not with ugly demons seeking her out.

Not with Spike’s potential return.

Everything in the Land of Buffy was so irreversibly screwed up, and she didn’t know how to begin fixing it. Perhaps with a good night’s sleep, and a call of reconciliation to Willow in the morning.

It was a start.

He would not lurk outside her window.

Spike was many things. A killer, a vampire, a slayer-killer, but he was not some gammy Angel-wannabe. He would not lurk outside her window and brood. He would not watch her when he knew he could not be seen. He would not reach in and caress her skin while she slept.

No, that was much too Angelish. He refused to lurk outside her window.

Pacing outside her window was a completely different story. Angel never paced, and he therefore had no qualms. Back and forth, refusing to make circles, knowing she wasn’t there. Where was she? The cemeteries had been graced with the quick once-over, and while he could very definitely smell her proximity, patrolling had been abandoned more than an hour ago.

Which meant she would return at any time. Only she hadn’t. It was a dangerous assumption. If she caught a glance of him pacing restlessly below her window…he didn’t want to think what sort of reaction that would provoke. It was a bad idea coming here. A bad, dangerous idea. But he couldn’t stay away.

Bloody brilliant, mate, the vampire scoffed to himself, lighting up one of his last cigarettes. Come roarin’ back into town, determined to steer clear of the chit long enough to see if she’s even interested…an’ whaddya do? Go to her house straight away.

His plans never worked.

It didn’t seem to matter, though. She wasn’t home. From the look of things, she hadn’t been home for several hours. Hell, he couldn’t blame the girl. It was Friday night. While Sunnydale wasn’t exactly notorious for its fabulous tourist attractions, he seemed to remember the Bronze as a place of notable teenage hormonal enjoyment.

That thought made him pause discreetly in his paces. No, on second thought, he much preferred her home. Not enjoying anything. Away from the greedy paws of adolescent males, or worse, not-so adolescent elder vampires.

That nagging voice that jested that he was a fool for returning surfaced once more. Despite what she had said, he couldn’t honestly expect her to live up to it. He had known the minute he stepped away from her window those short weeks ago that returning would be the dumbest thing he could do. Leaving in the first place was the idiot’s way out—rendering her alone with her Slayer thoughts that reeked of nobility and Peaches-prone googly eyes. Waltzing back into her life whenever he pleased didn’t bother him as much. The notion that he should never have left was dangerous enough to quench any fire.

But not as palpable as the understanding that his Achilles’ Heel was returning in the first place. He was drowning in the temptation of Buffy Summers, to the point where he couldn’t smother her image, no matter how hard he tried. To where not being near her might have ended him before anything else had the chance.

He was not brooding, and he was not lurking outside her window.

And she was still not home.

Friday night, mate. If she’s not out dancin’, the silly bint prob’ly went out with Peaches.

That thought did not rest well with him. Spike stamped out his cigarette and reached for another. He eyed the tree that led directly to her room. To her empty bed. Was it Angelish to climb up if she wasn’t there? He couldn’t remember Angel staring longingly into a vacant room that smelled of her, even in his not-so-soulful days. No, Angelus always went to her when he knew she was there. When he wanted to torment her with hints of his presence.

What about masochism? Spike had no intention of tormenting Buffy. To enter the room that was saturated with her scent would only serve to cripple him. Suppose he didn’t want to leave? Suppose he got one of his bright ideas, stripped, and crawled into her bed?

Mmm…comfy bed…Buffy in comfy bed…Buffy naked in comfy bed…

Which was precisely why he shouldn’t risk it. He hadn’t yet composed what he wanted to say when he saw her again. That thought alone was enough to make him weep with laughter. For whatever reason, he suspected that his usual bluntness would be resented. Especially if he discovered that he had returned only to face the biting edge of her dismissal—or worse—the pointy end of her stake.

However, at the same time, he understood that any prepared argument would be forgotten the minute her pretty little mouth opened. The girl had the annoying ability to educe two emotions so completely opposite on the conventional roster: hatred and lust. It was a good thing that he was beyond convention, and that those two particular emotions coincided perfectly with his nature. One did not survive without the other.

The tree looked tall and inviting, and the room it led to smelled of her. A vampire’s most basic instincts were not to be fought—it was calling to him. Cliché and everything: a sodding moth to the flame. In the end, who was he to resist? There was nothing to do but follow.

Spike cursed himself. His stamina wasn’t showing its brighter colors.

Then again, it never did.

The window pushed open easily, welcoming him, and his senses were immediately bombarded with the essence of Buffy Summers. Strong, blazing whiffs of tattletale naughtiness to bank in his mental palace. The potency nearly overwhelmed him. What he felt upon roaring back into town could not hope to compare. The Slayer’s personal best. Her room. The room he had never seen, despite numerous crossings.

It was so…cute. Elements of kid-dom were scattered here and there. He approached the bed and picked up a stuffed pig with an amused grin. She had the weirdest taste. From the animals to the New Kids’ posters. The text books to the scattered CD collection. Annoyingly simplistic; the true signs of a teenage girl. He found it charming. So this was where the Slayer lived. This was where she came when the vamps were dust. The air was hers. The space was hers. The bed was hers. If he decided to apply his vampiric senses, he would see the indentation her body made into the mattress.

Personal. It felt personal being here. Standing in the place where she lived. His skin hummed lightly in effect.

Somewhere, Spike knew that it was wrong. He was invading her privacy, he was entering without permission, and there was every possibility that she didn’t know he was back. She would be livid if she found him here. The prat of a Watcher that the Council had sent over hadn’t moved for quite some time, even though he had barely tapped him. He wondered briefly how the Slayer would react to that. The story would spread soon of how they crossed paths and why, and there was no doubt that she would piece two and two together. Then again, how much would the bloke remember? Enough to announce his presence?

A bittersweet thought ran through him. Perhaps that was why she was gone tonight. Perhaps she was seeking him out. Would she greet him with a stake or a kiss? Did she care about the ponce or did her loyalty remain steadfast with Giles?

These questions really had to end. He was giving himself a headache.

Spike decided to make the visit brief. There was no sense dragging things out. The longer he stayed, the more prone she was to interrupting him. Thus, his survey ran fast: speedy but memorable. Not the sort of behavior one would expect from one sent to kill her—rather, endearing touches to things that belonged to her. He inhaled as much of her air as he could, wanting to keep her in his mouth until he retired for the evening.

It amused him to see a discarded rental of The Life of Brian plopped on the far corner of her dresser. He distinctly remembered her saying that she wasn’t a fan of Monty Python before he pushed her to the confession that she hadn’t understood it. He would like to hear what her verdict was now, and was completely prepared to argue the film’s finer points. The little bint was stubborn, after all. She probably sat through it just to tally up its flaws.

The smile that tackled his lips was wide with speculation. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Something else attracted his interest. There was a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Spike’s head quirked and he followed his nose. The search wasn’t extensive; he snatched the panties that smelled most of her and hailed them to his senses with a muffled moan. God, he had missed that scent. Raw, unadulterated Buffy. The same he had tasted and craved. Enough to fuel a thousand nights’ worth of dreams, if nothing else. His cock twitched within his trousers, and he knew it was time to go.

The Slayer’s personals found their way into his back pocket. He returned to the window, then paused to glance over her room once more. Buffy was caught in that blessed stage between childhood and maturity. He often had to remind himself how young she was. The night they shared had shown both colors; he had seen the stuck-up teen and he had seen the woman she was destined to become. And both sides drove him batty.

Which is why you shouldn’t’ve come back, he warned himself, slipping down the tree. She’s the Slayer, for God’s sake! ‘S bad enough you can’t kill the chit. Are you sayin’ you’re—

No. That was a path he had not yet explored. One he didn’t want to think about. Lusting was one thing. It was natural and just. Love…love was…

Outta the bloody question.

Spike sighed, removing the fag from his lips and extinguishing it beneath his boot. Tomorrow he would attempt to see her. Try to establish communication, even if it lasted for only three seconds. He needed to know where he stood. The concept of forced distance was becoming more and more intolerable. She was a drug, and the town was his supplier. Coming home, he’d admitted his addiction and conceded that he desperately needed a fix.

Or twenty.

But not now. Not with his return so young against the night air. He needed time to adjust.

He had to see her first.

The night had already been so distorted. Devilishly bizarre, even if it was the Hellmouth. Whore-bag fun with Angel while she attempted to get herself off by thinking of someone else, a round or two in the mystic mind game with Faith, encounter with a demon who did not desire the still-beating heart of a virgin, and Wesley’s run-in with a Could-Be Spike. There was every possibility that what she felt now was the physical manifestation of the eccentricity, conjured by her paranoia in a lasting attempt to weird her out even further, but she didn’t think so.

Something was off.

Buffy inhaled deeply, and any room for doubt was quenched. Faint wisps of nicotine tickled her nose. Hints of leather and…was she imagining that? No, there was definitely a cigarette feel in here. Combined with the tinglies that were going stir-crazy in the pit of her stomach. Buffy was prepared to observe anything tonight.

Mr. Gordo accompanied her to the window and helped her pull it shut. He nestled securely against her bosom and gave her what comfort an inanimate creature could. But Buffy was lost. Staring down the path where he undoubtedly disappeared. Wondering how long Spike had been here. Wondering what it was he was trying to accomplish.

Buffy was vaguely aware that she should be furious at the intrusion, and she was sure she was, somewhere. The night, however, had taken too much out of her. There was plenty of time to be incensed tomorrow. For now, she settled on mindlessly aimed vindictiveness.

Presumptuous bastard.

No denying anymore. She couldn’t if she tried. The bleached bloodsucker was back in town. He was back, and he hadn’t forgotten about her or what she’d said. Nothing.
Not a damn word.

It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her nervous. Any lingering doubts about Wesley’s so-called attacker had retired the minute she stepped into her bedroom on Friday night. If not for the physical strains of evidence—the hovering hint of nicotine, the few items that had mysteriously traveled across the room, and the conspicuous absence of her favorite pair of panties—then definitely for the tinglies that rumbled low in her stomach. Buffy was well aware of how her body reacted to a vampire’s proximity; she was not prepared to feel her anxiety heighten and her pulse quicken for one vampire specifically. One vampire that was not Angel.

Spike had not yet shown himself, and that wigged her out. True, only two days had passed, but the guy was not known for his patience. How many attacks had she countered because of his negligence to plan? Why wait now?

Then again, perhaps his patience deserved more credit than it earned. He had waited for months as he regained the ability to walk, and even longer to act on it. He had exhibited uncanny resilience the night they made their alliance; refraining from lashing out until her provocation became too intense. And even then, she hadn’t needed to fend him off. He had realized what he was doing, and stopped to calm himself rather than simply kill her and have it done with.

But this was different. Mitigating circumstances had intervened back then, and right now, all the circumstances were set. Despite the popular consensus of her friends, even her own barbs aimed at his aptitude, Spike was intelligent. He made the frequent mistake of acting rashly, but it was very obvious that he moved only when he knew he could handle the negative consequences of his actions.

It seemed more than peculiar that two entire days would go by without seeing him, now that she knew he was in town. Though he probably suspected that she was still at unawares, the Spike she knew would have leapt out immediately, ready for that promised discussion. Ready to fight—or more likely—pick up where they left off. The Spike she knew was not one to wait.

Perhaps he did know that she was aware of his return, and had thus refrained from acting. That didn’t seem very likely either. It was his modus operandi to create new problems rather than wait for the old ones to sort themselves out. And now, after two nights of no-show, Buffy was nervous. She kept expecting him to be waiting on her bed when she returned, and didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed when her room was empty.

It was amazing how quickly her mood had changed. Angel’s distancing, in league with Spike’s ambiguous non-appearance, left her confused with little room for anger. All the more to believe that Spike knew exactly what he was doing.

Thoughts of Angel caused her stomach to churn. Their date on Friday night had led her to a seemingly endless series of confused dead-ends. It was so strange to think about how their relationship had progressed in the matter of only a few months. It didn’t seem so long ago that she dreamt of him in Los Angeles. Thinking of how he would see her, were he to ever come back. How it had felt to see him spring out from nowhere; how her body had rattled with shock. How her days and nights were tagged with the ever persistent huh? From there to the revelation on Christmas Eve when she confessed that she still loved him, no matter what he did to her. The night that had seen their reemergence as BuffyandAngel™, accessories sold separately. Prepared to link hands, face disapproval, and remain dancing at arms length for a taste of what they could never have together.

Even without Spike’s sporadic appearance on her birthday and the wackiness that ensued, Buffy had been sorting through various qualms about her relationship with Angel. She wasn’t stupid—she knew she would eventually care about the goings-on in the bedroom—romanticizing the situation and making it all about love was ideal on a Disney-like level. Prince Charming and his token bride. The couple that knew nothing of sex and shared the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kiss as the curtains drew closed.

But it hadn’t mattered to her. Not then, because she had loved him. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him still. It was only now that she could see that there would be others. There would be love like she never knew, but nothing quite like what she had with Angel. The love she felt for him now was not the passion that had initially drawn them together. If it had been, Spike’s advances would have gone ignored rather than encouraged. True, she had fought it. She had fought it with every fiber of her being. But her actions of that night were not those of a girl who believed she belonged to one man for all eternity. At least, not a girl who believed she belonged to Angel.

Again, she was resigned to the knowledge that Angel was already her ex-boyfriend. She’d moved on. There was some residual sadness, of course, but she didn’t love him. Not like she had—not like a girlfriend loves her boyfriend, or a wife loves her husband. She loved the memory of the guy he’d been once upon a time, but even then, the memory wasn’t enough for her. The guy in the memory belonged to a girl that no longer existed. She wasn’t the sort of person who could love Angel. Not anymore.

Was that all that Spike had been to her? A wake-up call? No, it couldn’t be something so cold and simple. He had haunted nearly every waking thought since his departure. Her body ached for his touch even as her mind sought reason. It was not what she wanted: moving from one vampire to another. To one she wasn’t sure that she could love. To one that had no soul to begin with. He was a killer. The thought of him was supposed to make her shiver in disgust. She was supposed to be above it. She was supposed to represent something larger than herself. Larger than existence would lead her to believe. She was supposed to—

Bleh. Minor wiggins. Am channeling Quentin Travers.

There was more to it than that. Were Spike merely a distraction to open her eyes, she wouldn’t have hated him so vehemently for leaving her in the first place. She wouldn’t have searched for him at every vampire hangout. She wouldn’t have experienced those delightful chills when she thought the chances of seeing him were running high. She wouldn’t have had to make excuses for herself in firm denial of said chills.

It had been a bad weekend for no reason at all, and that annoyed her immensely.

Thus, Buffy was not in the best of moods as she entered the library that day. The Watchers were chatting hurriedly, anxiously, so she doubted either of them even noticed.

“There was one reference to the Ascension,” Giles said excitedly when he looked up, “in the Marenschadt Text. Not much, mind you, but significant.”

Buffy nodded, though her eyes were drawn to Wesley’s shiner. It had grown worse over the weekend, giving him the comical appearance of a twelve-year old boy in adult’s clothing who had suffered an unfortunate confrontation with the playground bully.

“So,” she said, perking at the idea of having something to focus on that wasn’t vampires in reference to her love life. “Ascension in the negative? I didn’t catch the demon on patrol this weekend, but—”

“It would be very wise for you to track him down,” Giles agreed. “Before someone gets word that the books are in his possession. I would hate to think of what might happen should they fall into the hands of the Mayor. I didn’t find much, mind you, but I found enough. There is a reference to the journal of Desmond Kane…a pastor in a town called Sharpsville. In May of 1723, he wrote, ‘Tomorrow is the Ascension. God help us all.’ And that was the last anyone heard.”

“Of Kane?” Wesley asked.

“Of Sharpsville. It more or less disappeared.”

Buffy pursed her lips. Just when life couldn’t seem to get anymore complicated, reality stepped in. “So, I’m thinking this is one concert I don’t need to see.”

“You should meet with the demon, Buffy. If he has the books—”

“And I’m getting the money from where? Hello, unemployed high school student here. Do you have five thousand dollars?”

“It’s wiser to find the demon sooner rather than later,” Wesley stated obviously, earning an eye roll that he ignored. “Perhaps persuade him to lend us the books free of charge.”

“You didn’t see the demon, Wes,” Buffy retorted with an air toward the dismissive. “He wasn’t exactly on the up and up of high-flying patrician society. He wants cash, and he’s looking for a sell, not to become the world’s first demon library service that delivers.”

“I believe he would have an enlightened point of view if, say, his life were at stake,” the younger Watcher countered. His observation earned two pointed glances, and he fumbled over himself to gain some footing. “Not that I advocate killing harmless…creatures, mind you. Perhaps if you exercise Faith’s more notable persuasion techniques…”

There really was no disputing that point, much as she would have liked. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” Buffy sighed. Didn’t seem she’d be staying long after all. “I don’t suppose either one of you saw Faith over the weekend? She’s been MIA girl since Friday night.”

Giles’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Are you suggesting Faith would suddenly develop the presence of mind to report to us when her patrols are complete, especially when I noted that such precautions could go untended under rare circumstance, unless something of high importance was discovered?”

“Wow,” Buffy mused. “I think that’s the longest sentence I’ve heard you get out in one breath.”

“It’s better that you find Faith,” Wesley interjected sharply. “The demon needs to be located, and fast. Given the Mayor’s resources, it’s safe to say he might get there first if we do not act quickly.”

There was no denying that. With a mute nod, Buffy turned to head out of the library. She had checked Faith’s usual hangs over the weekend with no success, but the other Slayer knew not to stray too far from sight, lest the Council be brought back into the mix. It was only a matter of time.

And, if anything, looking for Faith and hunting down a demon would be less confusing than what she had been tormenting herself over for the past two days. Spike thoughts were too muddled. There was no sense in beating herself up about it if he wasn’t going to seek her out.

Famous last words, a pesky voice warned. She opted to ignore it.

“Faith.” There was no reason to mask the shock in his voice. While Angel was accustomed to a variety of late-night visitors, she had not approached him willfully since the failed intervention. There had been a snide comment here or there—a barbed glance when it wasn’t so painfully obvious. The consequences of their last heart-to-heart had damaged things between them, and he had not attempted to rekindle whatever bond they had. However, discussing the matter was something Angel found important. He just refused to corner her.

Which was why he was so pleased that she’d come on her own terms.

Pleased for about ten seconds before she stepped forward and the scent of blood hit the air.

“Angel,” Faith implored softly. It was so strange to see a face that confident all but bursting with insecurity. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I got nowhere else to go. Look, I hate asking for help, but I’m asking, ‘cause I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble of the extremely bad variety.”

The words that escaped his lips were the most natural thing to grace the air, even if he didn’t wholly believe them. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s really not. It’s a couple county lines over from ‘okay.’ Believe me.”

A sigh rolled off his shoulders. “Look, just talk. I’m not going to judge…I really can’t. Start from the beginning.”

The look that crossed her face was dazed, almost maniacal. “Mind if I skip past the ‘mom never loved me’ part and get right to it? I’m scaring myself.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah. That’s why I came to you. I don’t wanna get all twelve-steppy, but remember what you told me, that killing people would make me feel like some kind of a god?” The whiff of blood dancing through the air suddenly assaulted his senses with a powerful blow. Her hands were in view, covered in grit and stained in red. He’d known it wasn’t human from first smell, but the sight worried him all the same.

“It's not human if that's what you're thinking. Not that that makes me feel any better or this guy any less dead.”

The waver in her voice was enough to verify that—human or not—the demon hadn’t deserved this. Angel took her arm instinctively and guided her to the sofa to inspect her indiscretion closely. She was trembling; the blood humming through her veins beckoning with the temptation of just a little closer and…

“Faith, you need help,” he said honestly, his hands cradling hers. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I know. For real now, I’m scared. Scared of what I am…what I’m turning into.” Her eyes burned into his. “Cold-blooded straight up killer. Like you.”

There was no denying the sting, but Angel pushed it aside. Hurtful or not, it was the truth. “Not like me. I didn’t have a choice. You do, Faith. You can stop this.”

“Believe me, I don’t wanna end up the way everybody said I would. Dead or alone or a loser.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

There was defeat in her tone. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was defeat. Defeat wasn’t for the strong. He’d fought the power of his demon for almost a full century. Angel had led himself down a number of darkened alleys with the hope of discovering something that would put his aching soul to rest. He’d wanted to quit more times than he could count. Wanted to scream, wanted to claw, wanted blood in recompense for everything that had been stolen from him. Wanted it over with every fiber of his being. But it had never defeated him.

“Maybe it’s too late for me,” she whispered. Her lower lip was quivering. She was close to tears.

“It’s not.”

“Angel…I’m so scared.”

It was one of those moments where impulse reigns supreme, completely overriding every other nerve in the body that screamed a certain course of action wasn’t perhaps the best idea. But the girl in his arms wanted comfort—needed comfort. Needed that blessed second of reassurance that in some parallel reality, everything could be all right. It was second nature that persuaded him to embrace her. Just as natural, then, when Faith pulled back and brushed her lips against his. The contact was so light, so fleeting, that it could have easily been accidental; the girl in his arms wasn’t the sort to gamble on that kind of wager. Oh no. She saw what she wanted and she took it. Anything she did now was planned.

Angel snapped back, and the illusion he had been painting for her shattered. He wondered if she thought she was fooling anyone when she pulled these stunts.

The words that escaped his lips were not as harsh as they could have been. Resolute and forceful but nowhere near cruel. She did not deserve that. “Whoa, Faith. Hold on.” He delicately grasped her wrists from where they were linked around his neck and secured them in her lap. “I’m here for you. I am…but not like that. I’m with Buffy.”

At first, there was nothing. The look in her eyes could not be read. “You’re with Buffy,” she echoed emotionlessly. “With Buffy. Of course. Well, bully for Buffy. Are you sure she knows that? Huh? You’re with Buffy, but is Buffy with you? Honestly, Angel. You’re pretty, but not exactly the brightest crayon in the box.”

The vampire couldn’t repress a flinch at that. There was no sense denying it. With as much as he reached for Buffy, she withdrew. With as much as he tried, she distanced. It had been understandable at first. He knew Spike well; knew that he was very capable of leaving a lasting impression. But Buffy was supposed to be above that. A night with his annoying grand-childe was a cakewalk after all she had endured, even if he was the renowned killer of Slayers. She hadn’t been hurt— (flash to the bite marks. A twin set. One on her wrist and another marring her neck. Those she allowed him to give her)—and therefore the road to healing should have been shorter than attributed.

Her change in behavior might not have been credited to Spike at all, but that was when it began to show. And he didn’t understand. She’d faced worse. She’d faced much worse.

She’d faced him.

Still, it was only a flinch. He couldn’t let Faith know how deeply the barb had cut. Therefore his answer was short and evasive. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me!” Her words sliced trenches into his heart. “Come on. I know you love the girl, but you’re not deaf and blind. Little Miss Perfect Buff hasn’t been the same since the you-know-when. Right? Isn’t that when this started? The mood swings, the distancing, the holdin’ back on the lip-action. I was there two nights ago when you got out of that movie. Sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but she has not been thinkin’ of you as she uses her slayer muscles to get herself off. I’d know. And you know what I’m thinkin’, ‘cause you’re in the same damn boat. I’m thinkin’ five foot ten of the blond persuasion. I’m thinkin’ the exact same thing you and everyone else has been thinkin’ since that night. Why don’t you come out and admit it?”

He would not let her win that easily, no matter how true her words rang. No matter how wide the hole in his heart was expanding. He would not let her win. He would not cave. This was about her. About her problem. It had nothing to do with his relationship with Buffy. “Faith, this isn’t the issue—”

“Then it needs to become the issue! You, King Wes, and all the grubby little Scoobies have been flockin’ to me like I have some sorta problem. So yeah. I killed a guy. Accidents happen.” There was something in her tone that took him aback, even as her words continued to burrow under his skin. “I killed a guy, and I feel shitty about it. I do. I really do. But I’m getting just a little fed up with everyone focusing on putting me through rehab when it’s Buffy who’s banging the undead. The not-so-safe undead. The sort that’s not you.”

Angel’s head reeled back, his eyes blazing yellow. “You have no right to make that sort of presumption.”

“No right? I have no RIGHT? I sure as hell do have a right!” Faith stepped back. “All your little girlfriend has done since I came to this shit-pit town is judge me. Let’s count the ways that Faith is a screw-up and Buffy is queen. And yeah, she’s good at what she does. She fucking has to be. But she’s not perfect. She’s far from it.”

“I know that—”

“Do you? Do you really? Is it because of common sense or because you know in your gut what really went down that night?” Faith leaned forward with dangerous temptation. “You can’t stand there and tell me you haven’t been thinking the exact same thing ever since she and your vamp-sprout got locked up together. Come on, Angel. I’m playin’ to your Dear Abbey…why don’t you indulge mine? Huh?”

It would have been easy to say no. One word. One syllable. Step away from Faith and remember that she was the one in need of help. That her problems amounted to much more than relationship issues that belonged on a demonically twisted Jerry Springer episode. However, there was no fuel. Throughout the entire ordeal, he had stood aside with quiet reflection, watching as Buffy tore herself and others to shreds with action more than words. Watched as she claimed that everything was all right, but knowing the truth was far more complicated, and had the surefire chance of being more hurtful. Watched and allowed himself to be pushed away. Looking at Faith now was an eye-opener. The link that screamed there was one of no more pretending. No more pointing in one direction while fleeing in another. No more accepting the idea that everything was all right when he knew damn well that it wasn’t.

Therefore, the words that escaped his lips became his own. Not some petty recitation of what she would want him to say. No. More than that. Something he needed for himself. An indulgence. A chance to rant. A need to make things better, if only for a few minutes.

“All right.”

It was growing harder and harder for Buffy to ignore the fact that the lower the sun sank in the sky, the closer she drew to the three-day mark. Three whole days since Spike allegedly burst into town, and there was still no word from him. Nothing aside from Wesley’s injury and a pair of purloined panties to suggest that he was in town at all. No Spike. No sign of Faith. Creepy demon that wanted to sell books. Her life was just screwy. The sigh riding up her throat fought for a taste of cold comfort as she made her way to Angel’s.

Angel. What did she plan on telling him? They hadn’t spoken since the theatre incident, and she still had no thoughts on what she wanted to say. He was needed right now—for finding Faith and the deal-making demon. He was needed for more than that, but she couldn’t focus when her thoughts traveled down such an obscured pathway.

Nothing could prepare her for seeing them together. Faith and Angel. Angel and Faith. They were talking quietly at the mansion’s doorway, leaning too close together for comfort. Hushed whispers as though they knew she was watching.

Anger and betrayal coursed through her veins with little hesitation. How long had Faith been here? An hour? Two? All day? Perhaps they had spent the weekend together and she was just now leaving. A swarm of irrational prejudices ran through her head, none and all of them making sense. She knew it wasn’t right—feeling deceived. Hadn’t she been doing that all month? But this…this was beyond comprehension. This was sick and wrong and it was time to go. Watching made her nauseous. Couldn’t be angry. Couldn’t be not-angry. Couldn’t be anything.

It was Spike’s fault. Everything was Spike’s fault. If he hadn’t come back…if he hadn’t messed things up…

Well, she’d be deadlocked in a passionless relationship with Angel. Not so different than where she was now, really. Only she’d be without Spike-shaped lusty dreams to get her through the day.

It irritated her that her reason for being mad at him had just turned into gratitude.

Buffy sighed heavily and turned on her heel. Other than betrayal, she felt nothing. And it wasn’t my boyfriend’s cheating on me betrayal. It was Angel’s found redemption in another slayer betrayal—like the special thing she could have given him, with or without a personal relationship, had been snatched from under her nose.

I just wanna go home. Draw a bath, snag some historical porn, and forget.

But then her eyes drifted upward and clashed with a violent wave of ocean blue, and the world around her tumbled away. She couldn’t have been more surprised had the earth swallowed her whole. There he was. The bane of her existence. The pinnacle of her aspirations. Standing all of twenty feet away. Watching her. Watching her through hooded eyes. Reading her as though none of the distance, none of the torture she had spent the past five weeks burying herself under had meant a thing. Not in the long run.

The air crackled between them, nearly threatening to break for the intensity of his stare. It took a minute of stunned stupor to form anything resembling cohesive thought. Spike. There. At Angel’s. How long? Had he been following her? Oh God, he was still looking. That was no good. The bottom of her stomach fell with no sense of stamina. As though weeks of repression could be blinked away with one powerful glance.

Angel was forgotten. She couldn’t remember her own name if she tried. And Spike did that. He did that to her just by looking at her. No touching. No ‘did you miss me’ grin. No mind-numbing kiss. Just staring at her. Daring her to make the first move.

Time to speak. Damn, he beat her to it.

“Hello, luv.” It was his voice. Oh God, it was his voice. The very voice she’d listened for every time she stepped outside the house at night. Every time a stranger tugged at her arm for a dance at the Bronze. All amounted to this moment. He was back. He was back, and everything inside went numb in affect. “Fancy runnin’ into you, here of all places.”

Her eyes refused to leave his for fear that he would disappear if she looked away, but there was nothing to say. Spike tilted his head slightly and took a bold step forward. If anything, her reaction seemed to amuse him, though she saw a flicker of uncertainty waver in his eyes.

Buffy swallowed hard. Words had abandoned her. “Spike…”

A soft smile of fond reflection tickled his mouth. He was close now. So close. So close that his scent filled her nostrils and his unnecessary breaths fanned her skin. A lone hand strayed to brush loose strands of hair from her face. When he spoke again, his voice was low. And now all she could do was stand and stare. Just a few feet away from Angel’s mansion, where he was chatting with Faith. This was no good. “You gonna stand there all night catchin’ flies?” he drawled huskily, eyes roaming over her without shame. It made her shiver; she had seen that hungry, feral gleam before. “Or are you gonna welcome me back…good an’ proper?”

That snapped her out of it. A flash and everything came soaring back. The weeks that had not gone by quickly. The sham of a life he had left for her to clean up. The way she burned for him when all she wanted to do was forget. And now he was touching her. And she was letting him. Right when she had been going to make things right.

He was there, hovering over her. Invading her personal space and relishing every second of it. As if he could come and go as he pleased.

Buffy glared at him, not realizing she had moved to strike until her fist connected with his jaw and she watched him barrel backwards, landing on his ass. A shiver of satisfaction shimmied up her spine. God, that felt good.

Only now he was angry. And ohhhh…

“Bloody hell, woman!” he all but shouted, reminding her all too quickly of Angel’s proximity. “Should’ve known better than to make that a sodding either/or question. Then again, I thought we were old pals. Guess I shouldn’t have expected as much. Slayer back in full motion, ready for a round of fisticuffs. Fancy a dance, luv?”

Despite his frustration, his tone had not lost that tantalizing brogue. She hated the fact that he could have such an effortless effect on her. They regarded each other for a sharp moment, both panting heavily, hardly recognizing the voice that grew louder with its approach. It wasn’t until Angel said her name directly that Buffy had the presence of mind to realize he even existed.

She panicked, gaze darting to the walk where he was about to emerge, then again to Spike, who remained on the ground. Her eyes widened with comprehension as she, for the first time, understood what was about to happen.

Uh oh.

This was not going to be her night.

It was the longest moment of her life, and she had had some long ones. Buffy literally saw the scene unfold in the slowest form of delayed reaction she thought possible. A breath held in raw suspension as the curtain separating the old from the new slowly swung open. The Slayer froze completely—her body reacting solely on the level of irrefutable betrayal. No, she couldn’t let this happen. Not now. Not with Spike watching.

Time relinquished its hold, and the next few seconds flew outside of the realm of control. She watched from her scouting position—disconnected from her body and viewing blindly through farsighted binoculars. She was distanced from everything that could have possibly intervened for the sake of culpability.

Thus, her body followed its most natural inclination. Buffy bolted for Angel, hands finding his shoulders as his massive frame formed effortlessly behind the drape. There was a confused grunt and a brief struggle, but she managed to push him back inside, ignoring the nearly imperceptible snicker from behind. But it worked; the peroxided vampire took the hint. In the midst of her boyfriend’s confusion, Spike wisely seized the opportunity to make himself scarce.

Disaster averted.

Temporarily.

Now all she had to do was look at Angel and explain why she was manhandling him at his home. She focused on recollecting herself, mindful but not paying full attention to the series of questions that were being fired at her, in keeping with her calamitous entrance. The room was spinning with more of the same.

“Buffy? Buffy! Are you—”

It occurred to her finally on some level of awareness that Angel was trying to communicate.

The Slayer blinked slowly, at last returning to herself. A longing glance to verify what she already understood. Spike had vanished once again. Where the younger vampire had once been, he was no longer. It hit her like a ton of bricks. He really was gone. Again. He had disappeared again in record time. Disappeared with agility with which she had never credited him. When had the bleached vampire become stealthy?

A cold thought trickled into her mind, unbidden. Suppose his disappearing act led him all the way back into his inner shell? It had taken three days to convince him to approach her. What now? Reason promised that it was his own damn fault for following through only when she decided to visit the actual boyfriend. Would he see it that way, or had he retreated far into himself with the crazy insistence that she somehow deserved this.

Anger sparked without further provocation. Spike had developed the nasty habit of doing that. Enter. Confuse things. Exit. Thanks for nothing.

He’s gone. Oh god, he’s gone. Self-satisfied prick. He better not be gone for long.

It was Spike. Spike who hated waiting as much—to be honest, probably more—than she did. Patience hardly a forte, and far from the esteem of his other virtues. However, these past few weeks had all but rewritten her understanding of the demon. More honest logic suggested that no amount of predictability would prepare her for his next move.

Which was likely a good idea for the moment. Angel was talking.

And she wasn’t listening. Again.

Whups.

Buffy shook her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was walking and came by and—hey—there you were. All…stand-in-the-doorish. Figured it might be nice to drop in and say hey and, oh, what’s that you’re reading? We’re having to read A Streetcar Named Desire for English right now. Have you read it? I mean, of course you’ve read it. You probably remember when it was published. God, gotta love Tennessee Williams. It is Tennessee Williams who wrote it, right? There are so many, I—”

Rambling. Not good. While it was true that Angel was accustomed to her rambling, he was similarly attuned to the various symptoms of anxiety. Buffy plus nervousness equals guilt. Major guilt in the way of secrecy. They had been through enough of the same to grasp that understanding.

Damn. Still rambling.

“—And Vivien Leigh. She was just…well, to quote Keanu: whoa. Played Blanche great, though you really can’t compare to Scarlet O’Hara, can you? I don’t think she—”

“Buffy!”

It was a moment of delayed realization. She looked at him as though she had never heard her name before. The territory was well-matched. Following a man blindly through a labyrinth of continuous riddles, or poor jokes constructed solely for her benefit. She had never seen him look so thoroughly irritated with her.

“Buffy,” he said again with a fiery edge, his patience tested. “What are you doing here?”

Was it possible that she had skipped an explanation to that very question in the heat of her long-winded rambling? She blinked. “I was…patrolling,” she replied slowly. Then stopped. There was no reason she shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as though she had come on the very thought that she would run into Spike.

“Patrolling.” Angel’s brows perked and he crossed his arms. “At my house?”

“Well, I’m not saying this is the best place to take my business, but I kinda just wandered over here and…wait, why is this even an issue? I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Angel looked at her for a long minute. “After this weekend, I wasn’t expecting you to try and visit me anytime soon.” He glanced down and sighed. “You know, I’m tired. Buffy, I am so, so tired. I’m tired of dancing at arm’s length with you. I’m tired of walking around on eggshells whenever we talk. I’m tired of pretending that everything is okay. So rather than stand here and perpetuate something that is making us both miserable, I’m going to be painfully upfront.”

Buffy’s heart lodged in her throat. “What do you mean?”

He shot her a glance that told her full well that he knew that she knew damn well what he was talking about. “I’ve tried and I’ve watched you push me away. I’ve let you push me away. God knows I’ve wanted you to let me in and just tell me that everything I worry about is nonsense. That you wouldn’t…but I can’t. I’m going to ask you up front—once—and I want a straight answer.”

Panic shot up her spine, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She couldn’t—even if she was about to say something profoundly stupid. Even if she was about to open the gate. “Fine. I mean, okay. Okay. Take your best shot.”

Full count.

“What happened between you and Spike?”

Buffy swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” she asked again, wincing. Evidently, she had an unexplored capacity for lameness.

Angel surged with irritation and recovered one of the missing steps between them, the feral look in his eyes glowing yellow with intent. “Oh, don’t do that, Buffy. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You. Spike. Birthday ritual. I want the truth. What happened?”

She balked respectfully, even though she knew it was a dumb thing to do. The very notion that he had to ask in the first place was confirmation enough of what he already knew. Speaking the words would do little good. And yet, she found it within herself to grow angry in an illogical twist. There was little more than she hated than being cornered, despite her admitted fault. No matter that she had seen the very object of debate no more than ten minutes ago outside Angel’s home. No matter that coming clean here and now would make a world of difference in the field of the blame game. There was no time for rational solutions. “What are you…” she began, trailing off for the light of truth that sparked through, despite herself. “Did Faith—”

“How did you know Faith was here?”

“I saw her.”

Then he was angry. No word, no question about it. He was completely angry, and it astonished her. Angel had spent far too much time not caring these past few weeks, thus the display left her oddly relieved. As though there was something there worth fighting for. “Stop it!” he snarled. “This has nothing to do with Faith! This is about you and me, and I think that I have just cause to know what happened between you two that night. You can’t keep shutting me out, Buffy. I’m still here, and I think I’ve been a pretty good sport about this.”

“You are so off base now.”

“Really? Interesting theory. Maybe I’m not thinking that clearly. Maybe I am a little off my game, but I really can’t tell you how much I don’t think that’s the case.” He was so close to bursting into game face now that even she could taste it. “But as long as you refuse to tell me what happened…why you let him bite you, why you let him go…” Angel broke and shook his head again, attempting to reign in some control. “I can’t be with you when you’re like this.”

I can’t be with you, period.

God, it would be so easy to break up with him right now. And yet, she held her tongue. There was something decidedly rattling about cutting the strings of her first great love, especially when she’d be leaving him for the idea of another man. Whether or not she and Spike ever progressed to anything was another story.

“I’m like this,” Buffy replied shortly. She felt so little when she looked at him. There was nothing worth saving. “Deal with it.”

“Leave.”

The word was so short, so abrupt, that she had to do a double take to make sure she’d heard him right. He was a stranger—the image he wore was so far from any adopted in her experience. Not quite Angelus: oh no. He couldn’t stand for that, no matter how angry he was with her. That brought about too many memories. At the same time, however, not remotely in the proximity of Angel. Angel was patient and understanding. Angel talked things out. Angel never demanded anything of her. Not like that. Not with a word so cold, a command so grasping, that she could not fathom fishing for a debate.

There was no feasible approach to a reply. No rational sidestepping to avoid another nasty scene. So she did the one thing she should have done from the start. She did what she had been meaning to do all night, on one level or another.

She left.

The path she took home was a simple route that required nothing more than legs and a desire to snuggle comfortably in her bed. Jaunts through Restfield Cemetery were routine, whether or not she was patrolling. It was a habit long formed; no matter the destination in Sunnydale, there was always a shortcut through a graveyard.

Buffy wasn’t so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the telltale signs of being followed; but she wasn’t worried. Only Spike wasn’t following her—he was waiting for her. Her sudden rush of adrenaline propelled her straight into his arms; the force of collision sending him to the ground, and since his arms were around her, she toppled with him. With an irritated ‘oof’, Buffy gasped and wriggled, eliciting a low moan from the man beneath her that she wisely chose to ignore. His grip on her tightened by instinct, and he flashed her a toothy grin.

“Better watch where you’re goin’, luv,” he advised huskily, gaze falling to her lower lip. “Y’never know what sort of nasties are waitin’ for you…”

Great. He was doing that thing with his voice that she liked.

“Yeah, and you’re walking proof of that, aren’t you?”

“My, my, aren’t we in a snit tonight?” His eyes danced merrily and she was not going to flush, dammit. “Though I gotta say that you made it out here a lot sooner than I’d wagered. What happened? Things not go well with your big brooding hulk?”

This was so not the position she’d had in mind for her reunion with Spike, but he didn’t seem willing to let her up anytime soon. And that wasn’t good because she was flushed and he was really close and God, she was supposed to be talking herself out of this. Not a possibility when his arm was pressing her against him like that. How was it that she was trapped when it was he that was pinned beneath her? Damn vampire.

At that, she began to struggle again, desperately ignoring the involuntary whimpers that scratched through his throat when her lower body unwittingly grinded against his lower body. It was probably a good idea to ignore that thing that was definitely not a bulge and similarly not pressed against her in a way that…ohhh…

“Let me up,” she said, cursing herself when she sounded more needy than angry.

“Why?” he echoed innocently, reaching up to softly caress her cheek. “I’m all comfy, here.”

Meltage.

“Well, I’m not.” Buffy flushed. She was such a liar. “Emphasis on the not.”

“Watch it. You’ll ruin a bloke’s ego.”

“All the better. Spike, let me up!”

“No.” His eyes sparkled with defiance, and before she could think to protest, he had raised his head and was nuzzling her neck softly. Her eyes fluttered shut and an impulsive gasp escaped her lips. If this was a play at seduction, it wasn’t working. She wouldn’t let it. Yeah. Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that. The gasp transformed into an all-out moan when his tongue darted out to taste her skin. “You’re so warm,” he murmured against her. “Christ, Buffy, do you have any idea how warm you are?”

It was the unbidden use of her name that did it. An ode to their past passion. Odd how quickly he grew comfortable enough to address her by her given name, rather than her title. Their one night together had seen it nearly eradicated from his vocabulary. Okay, so he’d slipped a time or two and had refused to abandon the ever-popular pet, luv, and—a personal favorite—kitten. But she had been Buffy to him. Just Buffy. And it was enough to drive her from herself.

Not again.

Struggles renewed with more fervor than he could have anticipated, but he released her before they became too serious. Spike’s gaze was contemplative and penetrating. She had seen that look before, but it didn’t last long enough for her to enjoy it. His eyes faded to anger.

“So,” he growled lowly as she climbed to her wobbly feet. “That’s it, then? Li’l taste, li’l tease, an’ you run back to your sodding broody bear.”

The statement was deliberately provocative, and she didn’t appreciate the sentiment. “Spike, you have eyes, right? ‘Cause the way I see it, I’m running away from Angel.”

“Yeh. Excuse me if that fails to reassure.”

Her eyes shadowed. “I don’t seem to recall promising you anything.”

There was no way to repress the shudder earned from the look he delivered. Darkened and hurt, brewing with more than resentment. For the second time that night, Buffy found herself in an incredibly uncomfortable position and hadn’t the justification to feel anger at anyone but herself. The trenches kept getting deeper and deeper and she lacked persuasion on which way to run.

But then, something strange happened. The intensity of his gaze bore her resolutely into the ground, then relented altogether. It was nothing she could have expected; nothing he could have prepared her for. The Spike she knew fed off anger to motivate his actions. He grasped and molded it until he had reason to lash out with words or fangs. He did not burn in fury for seconds only to let go.

“No,” he agreed softly. “You didn’t.”

Was that a call for pity? For the sake of argument, she was going to assume so. It was infinitely better to stick with familiar territory.

“Oh, don’t even do that.”

Spike reeled, features contorting in confusion. “Do what?”

“Make like I’m the bad guy. I told you—”

“Know damn well what you told me, pet. I’ve played it over an’ over, tryin’ to talk myself outta comin’ here, because I knew exactly what I’d find.” He scoffed at her indignant look and paced a step away before turning again to face her. “But did it stop me? Hell no. Had to come. Had to see you. Had to prove to myself that the girl I touched that night really was talkin’ bollocks ‘bout things she won’t let herself understand.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Spike scowled at her but didn’t immediately reply. He dug his hands into his duster pocket and fished out a cigarette, perking an enigmatic brow at her as it burned to life between his lips. “Whatever you think it means.”

There was a puzzled moment of retake. “What does that mean?”

A sigh tore through the air. “It means whatever the bloody hell you want it to, Slayer.”

It took a minute, but his careless brandishing of her title sank in with all the raw implications of his growing resentment. So they had come full circle. They had come full circle, or he was trying to confuse the hell out of her.

And he was still talking. And pacing. And smoking himself into a frenzy.

“I knew it. I knew it the minute I started. Bloody knew it, but did that stop me? ‘Course not.” His eyes found hers again and he flicked the half-smoked fag to the ground to extinguish it under his boot. “I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this! Li’l Miss Stake-Up-Her-Arse Slayer. Givin’ me the brush-off when all I bloody well did is what you asked.” Spike stopped once more, gaze softening by degrees. The look she had only had one night to grow accustomed to. That grasping, yearning, pleading façade that had wormed its way under her skin and haunted her for weeks. At that moment, it seemed that eons had passed since they last saw each other. “You act,” he continued softly, “like it meant nothin’ to you.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Before she could consider what they meant. A lie that kept growing with no one around to pull its strings. She knew what she wanted. After everything she had put herself through, she wanted to see him hurt in return. With a cold indifference, she shrugged casually. “Who says it did?”

There was nothing for a long beat. Hurt blossomed in his eyes but didn’t travel to his hands. Anger flickered within pools of vibrant torment, but didn’t leak into his stride. He was not responding as a vampire should. No. At that moment, he looked very much like a wounded man. A man that could be destroyed with something as mindless as words. And she felt it. She felt the blunt edge of her sword come back to stab her, but it was too late to take it back.

Spike’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You did,” he reminded her. “You said that it—”

A taste. She had a taste of it now. That blunt, raw hurt, and she wanted more. Buffy quivered with need but she didn’t allow herself time to stop and consider. She wanted to see him angry. She needed to see him angry. She needed to see that he was just a vampire. That she could forget him. That he was indeed simply a symptom of the failure of her relationship with Angel. Nothing more. She needed him to hurt and taste it for herself. She needed to make him bleed.

“Yeah,” she spat. “I say a lot of things I regret later, but I didn’t honestly expect you to take them seriously. And—let’s face it—most everything I told you that night makes the list. And you held on to it? Geez, Spike. That’s kind of pathetic. I mean, what do you take me for, anyway?”

Silence for a long, long moment. No visible reaction. No telling flicker of the eyes. No angry growl. No shoving her away or sinking his fangs into her throat. No sign that he was a vampire. He wasn’t going to bleed, dammit. He was going to deny her that privilege.

“All of it?” he asked at last, taking a step forward. “Everythin’ you told me that night was a bunch of rot?” Spike seemed to be considering, walking forward again, and she couldn’t stand it. “Hmmm,” he mused thoughtfully. The air between them stilled with strands of unguarded longing. That which she couldn’t feasibly push aside. Couldn’t hide from him. In spite of all the barriers she placed, every brick she laid, he saw through it. He saw enough to know that her words weren’t entirely her own. That there was enough lie in them to make something else the truth. They stared at each other for long seconds, and she couldn’t help the small shudder that coursed through her system when he moved to innocently brush loose locks of hair from her eyes. “Is that so,?” he asked softly, voice distant. She fought to remember what they were discussing and failed miserably. All that mattered was that he was here. He was here at last, touching her, filling the void that had all but swallowed her whole. Making something right after the weeks of wrongdoing. And she loved it. “I hope not.” His mouth was on her throat then; hands outlining her arms without touching her. Long, teasing seconds, then his tongue traced a pathway to her ear, a rumble of approval shuddering through his body as he muffled something about her taste. Buffy’s lips parted and a loud gasp tore at her throat, and when his teeth tugged at her ear, she all but fell completely complacent in his arms. “’Cause I’ve thought about it,” he was murmuring. “Every bloody night.”

It wasn’t much of a battle, she realized. Nothing more than the nasty barbs turned back and forth. Those that had cut more than she would consider. This was new; she wasn’t used to this. To feeling the need to relinquish that hurt before she was done inflicting it. And he made sure. He made damn sure that it was her mouth attacking his, her hands reacquainting themselves with his body. Spike allowed her to explore for what seemed like forever before returning her fiery touch. Before running his hands over her body, familiarizing himself with the curves he had long ago committed to memory. He cupped a breast ardently, stroking her nipple through layers of clothing, capturing her moans in his mouth as his other hand ventured south. She broke for a gasp of air and her head crooned back, allowing him access to her throat as his attentions honed in precision. Nimble fingers outlined her hardened bud with feverish anticipation, and when he bent to nip at it, she knew she wasn’t going to last. Here in the cemetery with the air around them silent save for their shared whimpers, as need and want melted stubbornly into one forbidden entity. When he finished teasing her breast, his mouth retraced her skin and possessively captured her lips once more. There was nothing to fight. Not when he kissed her like that. Her body was attuned to his touch and she was vaguely aware that, if he continued like this, his ministrations were going to make her lose herself far more rapidly than even she could fathom. He had only started touching her; it would be a good long while before he stopped.

For whatever reason, that thought broke through the lust-addled haze, and she numbly realized with astute awareness what she was doing. What she was allowing him to do. Her mind fought for reservation but found none. Not with his mouth on her, his hands and…oh God, where were his hands? The faint voice that she had shoved to the back of her mind finally screamed its protestations loud enough, so that she might hear them. With a strangled cry, she pulled back, shaking her head with newfound resolution. “No.” Her mouth defiantly wrested another kiss from his before remembering her argument. “No.” She kissed him again. Have mercy, she could drown in him. Whiskey and cigarettes. Leather and danger. Everything that she shouldn’t want. “Spike, stop…no!” Her hands finally released their grip on his peroxided locks and moved to shove him off of her completely. Pants intermingled in the air as they regarded each other, attempting to reclaim composition. God, he couldn’t look at her like that.

Buffy waited until she knew she could trust her voice. Until she knew that she wouldn’t rush headlong into another painful relapse. She couldn’t let him touch her. “This is wrong,” she said obviously, earning an incredulous glance. Conviction could not waver. Not again. “I was stupid for letting it happen once—”

“Not once,” he corrected, panting slightly. So odd that he would need more time to recuperate than she did. “That night lasted forever, Buffy. An’ forever wasn’t long enough.”

She couldn’t have this conversation now. Not when she was so blessedly unprepared. He had been gone too long, and he was assuming way too much. This couldn’t happen here. Where exactly did he get off thinking he could disrupt everything again? He hadn’t given her time to answer. Or he had, but he had decided it wasn’t what he wanted to hear and had made with the toe-curling smoochies, as though it would change her mind. Asshole.

Buffy hoped her anger poured through her eyes. It needed to. “It doesn’t matter. I told you I needed time, and I’ve made my decision. Stay away from me.”

There was a long beat of silence as he considered her, head tilted curiously. “Is that what you really want?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Closing distances equals bad decisions and more making out…and she didn’t want to do that. Uh huh. “Y-yes.”

The gleam in his eyes told her well that he knew otherwise. Hidden there beneath layers of hurt. Good. Her words weren’t being wasted. But he wasn’t stopping on their account. He was nearing still, and soon that distance she needed would be gone again, and they both knew what that meant. “You mean you haven’t wanted me here all along?” he asked, tone adapting that husky front all over again. “Touching you?” A hand ran up her arm, gently caressed the swell of her breast, before falling at last on the button of her trousers. “Kissing you?” His mouth nipped at hers, grinning widely when he earned a long moan of concession. He took that as grounds to continue and permitted his fingers entrance, slipping inside her slacks completely and rubbing her pussy through the fabric of her panties. His other arm wrapped around her waist to hold her to him when her knees buckled. Lips and teeth on her again. Oh, this was not good. Well it was, but not when she was trying to tell him to leave her alone.

A rumble at her ear. Spike’s tongue traced the lobe lovingly before murmuring, “Making you growl out those sexy li’l mewls. Mmmm. God, baby. I—”

Buffy’s body was screaming even before she pulled away. Not that it did any good. He followed with aching persistence. It was then that she grew angry, and with a shove that did nothing to mask her conviction, she sent him to the ground. “No!” she barked. “God! Stay away from me!”

Spike was on his feet again the next instant, gaze marred with the realization that he had crossed a line. He tried to reach for her but she wouldn’t have it. He looked at her apologetically and released a trembling sigh. “Buff—”

She was fully aware of what would happen if she let him talk. She stepped away, eyes burning with malice. Hurt. More hurt. He had fully denied her the blood she needed. Own wants be damned. Not like this. “You wanna know the truth?” she spat. “Not once. I haven’t thought about you once.” It was amazing how effortlessly that lie spilled from her lips, and moreover, how true it sounded. And there it was. The pain she wanted. Pain laced with incredulity. No, no. There would be no want of doubt by the time she was through with him. “In fact, you weren’t that hard to forget. Don’t make this any more…”

It surprised her when it hit her. The full wave of every vindictive word and the entirety of their effect. Eyes that weren’t meant to blaze with such life were suddenly so vibrant that she found it difficult to breathe. There it was. Everything she told herself she wanted from him. Anger. Pain. Blood. Maybe he would grow livid enough to do something violent. Maybe he would hit her. Kick her. Make her remember why she was doing this. Make her remember that he was a vampire.

She waited for it, but it never came. Nothing but the relentless phase of hurt. What she had told herself she needed. What she couldn’t stand to look at.

Buffy wasn’t sure exactly when she turned to run away; she wasn’t fully aware she had moved at all until she tripped over a headstone. Then she was running again. Running back to Revello Drive where she couldn’t see his eyes. Where she didn’t have to weigh the reward of getting exactly what she wanted.

He hurt now. Hurt because of her. All for doing what she asked. What she wanted him to do. He had left and come back. He was here now and she…

And it wasn’t just him. It was Angel as well. The two men in her life hurt because of her.

Vindictive bitch.

A stifled sob at that. Tears that she couldn’t prevent. Dear God, what’s wrong with me?

That was what she took with her. Her body called for both, but her heart settled on the image of her would-be peroxided nemesis. The face of his hurt would keep her company tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

No two words to leave her lips had ever rung with more truth.

Buffy knew she was in for a sleepless night. At first, she thought to use insomnia to her benefit: catch up on homework or get a couple of chapters ahead in her English class. Give her a good chance to shock the hell out of Willow.

But she couldn’t focus on anything without taking a detour to endless pain: pain that she had placed there. Pain that she had demanded as payment for everything she’d done over the past few weeks. With every second that she wasn’t employing to track down Spike and apologize, the heavier her burden grew. It was all her fault—as much as she had resented his departure, Buffy was unprepared to deal with his return. He might be ready, he might know what it was that he wanted, but she didn’t have that luxury.

Spike wasn’t making it any easier. He was being purposefully unvampire-like, and it was setting her off her game. If he wanted, he could come to her house and kill her while she slept. There was no reason for him not to. She had rejected him, talked down to him, and made it beyond clear that he was the last thing she wanted. His eyes had burned with anger unlike anything she’d ever seen, seasoned with layers of masterful hurt. But he had not acted on it, and she knew he wouldn’t. Why? There was nothing keeping him out of her house. He’d made no promise to her. He was a vampire. She was the Slayer. In twisted vampiric logic, he had every right to lash out. To act like the demon he was and attempt to put her in the ground for eternity.

More so. He was William the Bloody. Slayer of slayers. The fact that he hadn’t tried to kill her after such blatant provocation left her more than dazed. Rather, it should have left her dazed. It didn’t. And that hurt worse than anything she could have said.

So she was unable to sleep all because of the random appearance of her one-night stand. Spike just had to show up with his stupid eyes and his stupid hands and his stupid voice that went along nicely with said stupid hands as they caressed her just the right way while his stupid lips…

A grumble of frustration rumbled through her, and Buffy flopped tiredly on her bed in defeat.

All those stupid parts add up to a stupid vampire who will never touch you again ‘cause you had to open your stupid mouth. And don’t even pretend that doesn’t bother you. They might have been stupid lies that shouldn’t have hurt his stupid feelings in the first place, but look at where that presumption got you.

It was too much. There would be no more taking of this. Not with every vibrant emotion she’d harbored since Spike’s last visit ready and willing to burst in a thousand different directions. Raw, repressed emotion. The full burden of wanton secrecy. She couldn’t keep it to herself. Not anymore.

This was a job for a best friend. She only hoped Willow was still interested in the currently-vacant position. There was no one in the world who could fill her shoes.

The room was beginning to spin, and that was just fine with him.

The theory of time continuity amazed him…rather, it would if he cared. A hundred plus years of enjoying every sinful pleasure the earth had to offer, and he could still drink himself away into a stupor of relentless boohooing within an hour.

Spike knew well the twisted dealings of a really good kill. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she was hot off a battle. How the blood of a slayer tasted when she’s just plain hot. Most importantly, how many shots of Jack Daniels it takes to drown out the image of a specific slayer, and therein surrender himself completely to a drunken stupor.

Well, it didn’t necessarily have to be Jack Daniels. It didn’t matter what the bartender placed in front of him, just as long as it was strong and successfully doused the taste of Buffy from his mouth. Until every last strand of coherency abandoned him, and the reflection of her words became nothing more than noise falling on deaf ears.

He had just started drinking, though. The night would see a lot of liquor.

Spike tried for anger. After all, he’d never had trouble holding on to his rage. Not until tonight. Why was it that the one emotion he needed was so far out of range? He reached and stretched and tackled and wrestled it, but it escaped him all the same. So bloody frustrating. Even with everything she’d said, he couldn’t remain satisfied with simple resentment. He was owed fury and it was denied for no reason other than his own misgivings.

No. There was nothing but hurt. He was rooted in hurt. Born there. He was intimately acquainted with all of its intricacies. God, this had to stop. First Drusilla and Angelus, then Drusilla and Chaos Demon, and now the Slayer with…her Buffyness. Love’s bitch all the way. He had an odd approach to proving himself right.

And he had seen it coming. From the moment he ran his precious car into the bloody welcome-home sign, he knew that she would be like this. He knew that every wall he’d broken down that night would be up again. She’d be guarding her precious self from feeling things that no decent Slayer should feel.

And even before that. Lying with her that glorious night. Listening to her talk, knowing that her plans would never come to fruition, even if she believed what she’d told him. The promise that what they had had meant something to her. That her relationship with Angel wasn’t what it used to be, and she had acted on something she wanted rather than an oddly-developed case of Stockholm Syndrome.

Spike had offered that morning to end it. He’d offered because he knew that when he came back, this was the welcoming committee he’d face. He’d offered but she’d declined. She’d nearly cried at the notion that he’d never return, and the knowledge had filled him with such relief that for a minute, for a split second, he thought that all might end well.

Not bloody so.

However, despite all the nastiness, there was something there. Something that spoke for every word she hadn’t said tonight. Spike knew that from experience, but he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that the authenticity behind her claims was any less valid. Buffy had spent the last few weeks deliberately talking herself out of something, else she would not have let him as close as she had tonight before the name-calling began.

“Stupid bint thinks she’s better than me,” he snarled, downing another shot of his drink. “Jus’ ‘cause she has friends an’ family an’ people who love her an’…an’…all right, so she’s better than me.” He glared angrily but things were falling out of focus. “What gives her the bloody nerve to be better than me?!”

Another shot. Another drink. A grumble. Damn. His thoughts were still coherent. He needed more alcohol. No, the bartender looked to actually have a conscience about this sort of thing. For the first time that evening, Spike questioned the wisdom of scheduling his pity-party at a pub that wasn’t Willy’s, but knew overall that it was better this way. When he got good and drunk, he tended to talk. A lot. It wouldn’t be good if word got out to all the Sunnyhell demons that William the Bloody—Slayer of Sodding Slayers—was pussy-whipped by the very creature he was notorious for destroying. He briefly considered relocating, but decided it would be better just to steal a bottle of whatever-looks-good and conclude his binge in solitude. He had a reputation to keep, after all. And without Buffy at his side, it looked as though his reputation was all he was going to get.

But still, it was damn annoying that the bartender had a conscience. It was damn annoying when anyone had a conscience, but this took the bloody cake. Maybe he could vamp out and scare him just a bit. Bloody well make him keep pouring. Or better yet, snap his neck and drain the bastard. Not like he hadn’t been bottling up every strand of rage that was unfortunately unBuffy-related with every pedestrian or bystander that he deliberately chose not to kill. Five weeks of denying himself that haven was enough to make any vampire see white spots of wankerdom. The incessant mantra that assured him the Slayer wouldn’t like that had him faithfully perched at the verge of madness, contemplating when best to jump.

But he wouldn’t, and though he knew why, he decided to blame it on the alcohol.

“Bloody ‘ad enough, have I?” he demanded, wrestling off his stool. “Why’s that that you care…mate? I’ll…sod…I’ll…” There would be no wavering from the stupid conscience-having human. Goddammit, this was the Hellmouth! The populace wasn’t supposed to have ethics and the lot of that do-gooder crap. Wasn’t enough that he was at a place where he didn’t have a tab.

The rational part of his brain told Spike that this was the part where he paid for the drinks he’d downed. Buggering ponce. Couldn’t he tell he was in pain, here? Wasn’t enough to cripple a chap financially. Honestly, pubs and brothels should be public service establishments. Like free therapy for those who didn’t give a fuck. Dim the pain until something else came up.

There had to be someone in this god-awful town that he could pin it on. Someone with as much a reason to drink as he had. Someone who knew the Slayer and was well aware of the headaches she issued at leisure.

“Put it on Rupert’s tab,” he instructed. “Giles, right? The…librarian. The drinks are on ‘im.”

The bartender seemed content with this and nodded, moving to serve his next customer. Some lucky ponce who hadn’t had enough. And what was that, anyway? Who actually told people to leave when they’re right cooperative, paying customers? This wasn’t bloody Cheers, it was…

Spike stumbled out of the bar like a drunken buffoon—which he supposed was the point—into the quieted downtown streets of late-night Sunnydale. It didn’t surprise him that the uglies weren’t lurking about; he knew enough to recognize their regular haunts, but the thought was wasted on him for something else entirely.

He didn’t get far. He ran into someone.

Quite literally.

Oh, bloody hell.

It was actually amusing for a second. Either that, or the alcohol was getting to him. The girl dove to the pavement to collect the things she’d dropped, all the while muttering a thousand hurried apologies. Spike was vaguely aware that any decent man—tipsy or not—would be helping her with her plight…then remembered he was neither decent, nor, by society’s standards, a man. But it was his fault and bugger these gray areas. The Slayer couldn’t expect him to remain all proper and domesticated, could she? Especially with the…

His internal ramblings went on until he realized that the girl had collected her things and was staring at him immodestly.

“SPIKE?!”

Yeah, that was his name all right. Did she really have to shout it?

“’Ello…ummm…” He struggled for a minute, waving a bit as gravity tugged at his balance. What was her name again? He really should remember. After all, he had threatened to take her once, in his attempt to quench weeks’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration. There was also something about a broken bottle. Bugger if he could remember anything once the slobbering drunkenness went away. “Willow. ‘S that it? ‘Course tha’s it. What’s cookin’, luv?”

There was nothing for a long minute, and had he been more aware, he would have noted the definite lack of fear behind young eyes. Well, maybe some fear, but not enough to accommodate the knee-knocking terror a self-proclaimed Big Bad deserved. Some fear but not enough.

Instead, she just screamed his name again. “SPIKE?!”

The vampire grumbled. “Bloody hell, could you not shout? Yes, it’s me! Spike. The one an’ bloody only. Who’d you think it was? Carol King?” He took a step backward, hand going to his forehead in ode to misery. The coherent thoughts he’d tried to block out were running in spades, now.

This was the Hellmouth. A poor sap couldn’t even get nice and properly drunk without something intervening.

Maybe he just hadn’t had enough. His mind floated unwittingly to Willy’s again. Sod all worries of other nighttime nasties hearing of his miserable plight. Spike cared bugger all about society’s rules—be it demon or otherwise.

But there was that reputation to maintain, and that was something he was not willing to endanger. Not with the Slayer acting all high and mighty on top of her not-so-white stallion. Bugger. That.

Something grabbed his hands. Powerfully. Oh, right. Willow. He’d forgotten she was there. He yanked them back to his sides in a blink. “What’re you doin’?”

“Checking for a bottle. I’d like to avoid the ‘in-face’ incident.”

Damn. She remembered.

“If I were you, I’d run,” he advised in a voice that was not-at-all intimidating. “Creature of the night, ‘ere. I might do somethin’…creature-ish. Why don’ you jus’ sod off like a good li’l witch?”

There was a second’s hesitation as she actually seemed to consider the suggestion. “Well,” she said slowly, “no. ‘Cause you’re all drunk-like and…well, you know what they say. Friends don’t let friends drive drunk…a-and even if the commercials don’t specify, I’m sure that extends to mortal enemies and stuff. Not that you’re my mortal enemy. More like…mortal enemy by association. Besides…there’s some stuff I’d like to—”

“Stop talking so damn fast.” Spike pressed a hand to his forehead and stumbled a bit. “An’ listen to a bloke when he tells you to scamper off. Or ‘ave you forgotten jus’ like she bloody well forgot? ‘m dangerous. ‘m a nasty, nasty killer an’…” He trailed off in thoughtful consideration, beyond mortified when a choked sob rumbled through his lips. Damn good thing I didn’t go to Willy’s. “Oh God. Tha’s it, innit? Tha’s why she…” Another beat and anger replaced blubbering sorrow. If he had been on higher awares, he would have noticed Willow jump about a foot and a half in the air when he roared, and her consequent surprise when he failed to burst into game face. “God, that stupid bitch! I’ll drain her dry jus’ like I should’ve. Bloody show her who’s all easy to forget.” Another pause, then he broke down again. “God, I’m so unhappy.”

Damn. The Witch was still there. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to pay attention. Since when did the little redhead develop a backbone? Perhaps he was too drunk to come across as threatening. “Does Buffy know you’re in town?” she asked softly.

Hearing the Slayer’s name nearly shocked the hell out of him. As though he hadn’t been thinking about her—raving about her—all night. As though she weren’t the bane of his existence. Buffy. Spike frowned, smiled, then frowned again.

Brutal bitch.

“Fuck the bloody Slayer,” he snarled. “She th-thinks she’s all better than me jus’ ‘cause she’s all perky an’ noble an’ has that thing she does with her…” His eyes grew hazy for a minute with fond recollection before he remembered that he hated her. “Well, she can fuckin’ rot, for all I care. Show her who’s better than who. Stupid, worthless bitch.”

Willow watched him passively, mouth forming a line of understanding. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take what as a what?”

“Buffy knows you’re in town. You’ve seen her.” When his eyes narrowed, she shrugged indifferently. “It’s kinda obvious…with the bitterness and the drinking. She tends to rub that off on people, a-at least of the recent, anyway. Well…more since you last left town, but—”

At that, his gaze sharpened, eyes coming into focus for the first time since stepping out of the pub. It finally occurred to him that he was standing in the middle of the street, chatting with the Slayer’s best pal. Chatting, as in not threatening. “Huh’s’at?” he asked. “You say the Slayer’s been more than her plain bitchy self since—”

Willow met his eyes knowingly, and the wisdom he saw there was astonishing. She was the sort of close friend who saw right through to the problem, even if the problem didn’t want to be seen. And she’d seen Buffy’s problem.

“Thing about Buffy,” she said, oddly conversational. “She’s good at lying to Giles, her Mom, even Angel, but she’s always told me the truth. I mean, about everything. So, these past few weeks…I’m guessing that I finally met the not-so-truthful side to Buffy. I know something’s up…and it’s pretty obvious that it has something to do with you.”

“You…you know?” The vampire stumbled forward and grasped hold of her shoulders, flinching when the girl ‘eeped’ and twisted herself to freedom. “Sorry,” he mumbled before he knew what he was saying. “Whas’sit you know?”

“Well,” she continued after a minute. “Not a lot. But enough to know that the freaky mood swings didn’t start until after the birthday/locked-with-Spike-for-hours-at-a-time thing. So, survey says…Spike related.” A frown. “Kinda sad. This is the most I’ve, well, been able to talk about her…and you…without getting my head bitten off. And really, no offense, but minor wiggins that it’s you I’m talking to and not—”

“’Course,” Spike sneered, pacing himself a miserable step away. “Bloody well figures she wouldn’t talk ‘bout me. ‘Cause I’m so easy to forget, right? I’m easy to forget. Me! William the Fucking Bloody!”

Willow flinched visibly when she registered that his temper had turned violent again, but made no move to run when the opportunity arose. It was more than obvious that he was not going to hurt her. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“…where the bloody hell does she get off calling me forgettable?” He was pacing now. “I’ll show her who’s forgettable. If she thinks I’m forgettable, she’s ‘bout to forget what was forgotten…” He blinked and met her eyes once more. “You followin’ me, Red?”

“Buffy said you’re forgettable?”

There was another sob at that. One he couldn’t help. God, this was pathetic. The Big Bad reduced to a sniveling crybaby, relinquishing all of his woes on the shoulder of the Slayer’s best chum. Fan-fucking-tastic. If only Drusilla could see him now. “She said she hasn’t thought about me once. But she had the tape. She had—”

“What tape?”

“Monty Python. She said—”

A frown marred Willow’s brow. “Monty Python? What does that have to—”

“Bloody told the stubborn bint that she’d like it all right ‘f she gave it a try,” he explained, reaching for his cigarettes. “The lot of it prob’ly went over her pretty li’l head. Jus’ like everythin’ else. Wonder ‘f that was bleedin’ forgettable, too!”

Willow was following, albeit rather slowly. A short game of connect-the-dots, then her eyes widened like saucers and she leapt to the inevitable conclusion. “Oh! S-so that’s why she’s been renting Monty Python movies like mad these past few weeks. God, and I thought Giles was having her undertake some bizarro training ritual or something. I mean…yeah, I haven’t talked to her in a few days…well, willingly, that is…but I couldn’t get her to watch anything but Monty Python. And dammit…if I have to sit through The Holy Grail one more time, I’m gonna—”

There was a sober twist at that; Spike leaning forward as the words reached his ears. It was unwise to allow himself to hope, but there it was. A smidgeon of hope. “What are you saying?”

“Well, that whatever you said obviously wasn’t as forgettable as she tried to make you believe.” Willow nodded. “Trust me, I know Buffy. She wouldn’t make with the overdone British humor for just anyone.”

The revelation came so fluidly that it nearly took him by surprise. Sheer, simple logistics. It occurred to him that he and Willow could become relatively good pals in some distant, parallel existence.

Then he snapped back to himself.

“Red…”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doin’ here?” He waved to the street dazedly, then pointed to himself.

“Me?! What am I doing here? Hello!”

“’S a free country.”

“Yeah, but last time I checked, it wasn’t…” She stopped in mid sentence. “Okay. From the beginning. I was on my way back from the magic shop. Supplies for a truth spell…for…why am I telling you this? Why are you here?”

Spike offered a defiant smirk. “’Cause I wanna be, tha’s why. Stupid bitch can’t tell me where to go. I’m a rebel. I’ll show her…” There was a momentary pause. “Shouldn’t you be soddin’ off? Evil vamp an’ all. I’m dangerous. I could kill you at any minute, an’—”

Willow’s eyes widened comically as though just then realizing where she was, and whom she was talking to. “But…but you won’t. I know you weren’t going to…I mean, you won’t hurt me.”

Her innocence charmed him. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed at the display of trust. “Ummm…I’m rememberin’ a certain bottle-in-face incident.”

“Yeah, and I already checked. Remember? A few minutes ago? You’re officially bottleless.” The redhead nodded proudly, then winced as she ventured her luck further. “A-and even if you did…have a bottle…you wouldn’t use it.”

At that, he scoffed. “How do you know? ‘m evil!”

“You wouldn’t…because of Buffy. I mean, what happened with you and Buffy.”

Spike froze. “What do you know about me an’ Buffy?” he demanded suspiciously. “Did she tell you? What has she told you? What—”

“Well…like I said, not a lot. I was kinda reaching, but judging by your reaction, I’m thinking I reached in the right direction.” Willow hazarded a step forward. “I know enough to know that you won’t hurt me.”

A rush of anger shimmied up his spine for no reason other than instinct telling him that it belonged there. No vampire should have to listen to such a ridiculous accusation. What burned even more was the knowledge that she was likely right. He wouldn’t hurt the Slayer’s pal. He couldn’t hurt anyone else, after all. Buffy wouldn’t like it. It wouldn’t do well to fall off the wagon with someone as intimately connected to the object of his affection as Willow Rosenberg.

But she didn’t need to know that. Well, she already knew that, but he didn’t need to go do any fool thing like verify it.

“’Course I would,” Spike scoffed. “I’m bloody evil!”

Bugger, she didn’t look convinced. “I-I know you’re evil,” she agreed. “And I’m not saying that I’m thrilled knowing what my best friend did with you in order to merit having this conversation in the first place. A-and by ‘knowing’ I mean ‘pretty damn sure.’ You’re all weepy and all, but not about Dru, so…and I don’t know why she would’ve done it. I mean, she totally loves Angel and—”

There was a quieted, almost broken growl at that. Willow winced.

“Sorry,” she amended quickly, and her eyes widened as she realized the significance of their trade. There was no clause anywhere in the world of demonology to suggest that she should ever feel compelled to apologize to vampires. “Ummm…right. But something of the important nature did happen. And she’s been so…doom and gloom ever since. I think she misses you.” She waited until he had his eyes—that tender gaze that reflected nothing but astonishment—before continuing. “Not that I approve, but…I guess you deserve to know. And I’m pissed enough at her for being so ‘non-best-friendy’ to really…really not care what I say. I kinda have no room to judge until I know the whole story.” There was a scowl. “Even if I am bitter about that entire bottle-in-face thing.”

“Sorry, pet.”

The response was instinctive. “It’s okay.” Another pause. “Bah! Has anyone told you how wiggy you are when you’re not trying to kill everyone?”

“Yeah. A lot, in recent memory.” Spike scoffed and shook his head, mouth curling around his cigarette. “’S not as if I din’t try, y’know. I’ve tried a lot. A good, clean kill. Right quick. Drown the memory of her into someone’s throat.” He eyed Willow’s jugular nostalgically for a long minute, averting his gaze when he saw her begin to squirm in discomfort. “Bloody hasn’t worked, though. Stupid bitch has ruined me. Ruined me then tossed me aside. Ain’t love grand?”

There was a long, pregnant silence as that last statement rang cold through the air. Willow, astonished. Spike, horrified. Neither knew what to say.

“L-love?” the redhead stuttered.

“I din’t mean that,” he corrected hastily, running a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s bloody rubbish, so don’t go preachin’ it to your li’l Scoobies. ‘S jus’ a sayin’. You got me?”

Despite her nod, Willow did not look convinced. The frown marring her brow left little to the imagination. “Right. Right. Be-because if that…I mean, if you did love—”

“I don’t!”

“I know. Totally on board the Spike-Not-With-The-Buffy-Lovin’ train. Got it.” She bit her lip hesitantly. “But if you did, that would mean that you—”

“It doesn’t bloody matter what it would mean!” Spike was pacing in earnest now, looking everywhere but at the redhead and smoking himself into a heated frenzy. “I don’t love the stupid Slayer, all right? ‘S bad enough that she’s got Angel wrapped around her li’l finger. I bloody hate her, got it? Can’t stand the sight of her. That sodding holier-than-thou attitude an’ her shampoo-commercial hair. Says I’m forgettable, does she. Not bloody likely. Bet I could rip her throat out an’ get another chosen bird ready for the takin’, an’ things would get back to the way they oughta be. See how fast I could forget her then!”

His rant lapsed into silence. Willow took a deep, collective breath and her eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “…But you won’t right?” she all but whispered. “Not after what happened!”

“You’re basin’ a lot of your assumptions on a night that you claim to know nothin’ about, pet.”

“Okay—yeah,” she admitted begrudgingly. “For the last time, you’re right. I don’t know what happened. Buffy’s been Miss Distant for…well, since it happened. She hasn’t told me anything. Hasn’t talked about it at all. But I know that there was something there, between you two.”

A flawlessly arched platinum brow curled nicely behind a stream of smoke. “Oh, do you, now?”

“Well, yeah! And, I might add, ‘duh’! Even if I didn’t suspect a thing before, just listening to you has pretty much released the full kit and caboodle. And Buffy…she gets all jittery and defensive every time someone brings you up! She’s been giving Angel the MEGA brush-off without explanation, and not in a guilty kinda way.” It was amazing watching a human illuminate with interest—almost as such as watching a vampire. Spike cocked his head curiously. The Slayer had done much the same while they were locked together, once she found a topic that she was passionate about. The same with Willow now. A sermon in the making. He wondered if she knew just how alive she was. “And I totally don’t get it. I don’t. It’s gross and icky and…she loves him, for crying out loud! She—”

He couldn’t conceal his wince if he tried. The notion was too much to bear. “Been there already. Got the message right clear the firs’ time.”

The response was instinctive and couldn’t be helped for anything. “Right. Sorry.” There was a fleeting lapse before her words caught up with her. “Ah! Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like…well, not a vampire!”

Spike blinked, unsure whether or not to be insulted. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You did it again!” Willow cleared her throat and glanced upward. “Were there smoochies?”

Spike was torn between surprise and amusement, and he had no idea which side of the fence he favored. “What?”

“You. Buffy. Were there smoochies? Twisted, wrong, cabin-fever-induced smoochies? Is that what happened?”

There was nothing for a few seconds as she withstood his gaze of scrutiny, followed by the reprieve, when his mirth could no longer be contained and he burst out laughing. Spike was unreachable for several long seconds as he tried to cap his amusement. Straightening, catching her eye, and falling to bits all over again. When at last he did find his voice, there was no hint of denial in response to her inquiry. Nothing and yet something. Something more. Something unthinkable. “God, Red,” he gasped. “You’re either a villainous she-devil or the picture of innocence. Bloody ‘smoochies’, indeed.”

That took a beat to comprehend.

Another to digest.

And then all fell aside to make way for all-out astonishment. “More than smoochies?!” she shouted, lowering her voice when the vampire winced in silent reminder of his healing headache. “Y-you…you two…there was more than smoochies? Was there groping? Did you two have sex?!”

“Oi! ‘m not tellin’ you anythin’. ‘S my business, innit? ‘Sides, if the Slayer hasn’t piped up, I wager she doesn’ want you to know.”

“But if you hate her,” Willow reasoned, “why do you care what she wants? I wouldn’t think that’d be a priority.”

A long beat as he wrestled with that thought. Then he scowled.

“I’m not talkin’, all right! Jus’ sod off. Find another vamp to pester. ‘m through.” With that, Spike pivoted sharply and began in the other direction, consigning his cigarette to the pavement. An annoyed huff that was more for show. Yeah. Like it’d be that easy.

“You’re going to have to do better than that to get me to go away,” the abandoned redhead warned brazenly before taking off after him. She wheeled to block his path, eyes set with determination. “See this? It’s called Resolve Face. No one backs down from Resolve Face.”

Spike stared at her blankly as though she had grown another head. “Go home, Willow.” A simple side step and he was on his way again, knowing full well she would not pursue. There were certain boundaries one had to consider while conversing with a vampire. Despite how brave she was, the Witch knew better than to chase him down. It was dangerous.

That, however, did not hinder her voice.

“She misses you!” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know what happened, or what she told you…besides the stuff about being forgettable…which I think you know is ridiculous. She’s done everything but forget you.”

Spike didn’t trust himself to look back. “You mean it?”

The hope laced in his voice could warm the coldest of hearts. Small, vulnerable. The face of a child granted his greatest wish. “Yeah. In a sick, perverse way…yeah, I really mean it.”

A moment ticked by.

The sigh that rang through the air was as relieved as it was heartbreaking. As though he had been cast a forbidden lifeline. He turned to face her and risked a step forward.

It was only then that Willow realized the weight she had given him, and moved hastily to retrieve it. “I don’t condone it! It’s wrong and icky and really gives me the wiggins—”

“Then why tell me this?”

That was a good question. She gnawed a minute but already knew the answer. “Because I hate seeing her miserable, even if we are fighting. She already has the Slayer thing. Adding…whatever’s driving her to be so unBuffy like…it’s not good for her.”

Spike expelled a deep, thoughtful breath. “Miserable?” he whispered. “You said she’s miserable? She’s been miserable without me?”

“Well…I dunno if it’s you, but she’s been like that…like this since you two…since you left. I just…” Willow sighed. “I just want to see her happy. I want things to be better for her. Even if I don’t approve…’cause if it’s…if…and ewww. Still not wanting to picture everything. But if it means that…then I’m not—”

A small smile tickled Spike’s lips, and he nodded. “Thanks.”

The air grew oddly comfortable. Loose and reflexive. Almost as if they were nothing more than old friends, catching up after a chance run-in. Familiar in the strangest sense of the word.

And then he was oddly protective. The Slayer’s best friend had provided what the Slayer herself had denied him. It was unnerving…and left him with the strangest sense of responsibility. He had to see her home. A girl walking around this town at night was not the wisest venue, even if said girl was a witch.

“Well, you oughta be runnin’ off. Prob’ly got some sodding thing like bookwork waitin’ for you,” he observed before his face contorted with a frown, something else occurring to him. “’Course, there might be a lotta nasties between here an’ where you live. The Slayer wouldn’t want you gettin’ yourself killed…hell, the stupid chit would prob’ly blame me.”

Willow blinked. “Are you offering to walk me home?”

“What? No! Don’t be ridi…” The war was lost with the reissuing of Resolve Face, topped with a quirked brow. A sigh of concession and his shoulders drooped in defeat. “Yeh. I guess so. But not for you, an’ not for the Slayer, either. I jus’—”

“Then why at all?”

Yeah, Spike, good question.

“’Cause the girl’s ruined me, y’know. Lookit this. The Big Bad reduced to a sodding night watchman.”

“You don’t have to if you—”

Another sigh. This one of defeat. “No, no. Lead the way, Red.”

He didn’t blame her for shuddering in hesitation. Hell, he would, were he in her shoes. The girl had a decent head on her shoulders. Her awkward reservation—that which he was used to seeing—reminded him of himself at that age. God, what a bloody nightmare that had been.

“You can’t come in, you know,” she told him as though he were expecting it.

“Well, that’d be a problem if I was lookin’ for a soddin’ invite. I don’t want to come in. What’s the bloody point? ‘S bad enough that I made the offer in the firs’ place. What, you think I’m gonna kill you now?” He chuckled richly and reached once more for his cigarettes, lodging one between his lips. “Hell, ‘f I wanted you dead, I coulda killed you a long time ago…as you have delighted in remindin’ me over an’ over again.”

Willow stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was serious.

“God, what happened to you?”

Spike glanced up bitterly. “What do you think? You don’ reckon I know that the world would make a whole lot more sense ‘f I could kill the bitch? Trust me, I tried. Din’t work. Couldn’t.”

The revolution was enough to make anyone freeze—if not for the spoken vow, then definitely for the tacit implication of the l-word. Willow knew enough to refrain from mentioning that ludicrous notion again. “You tried?”

“’Course I did. Had her all to myself, din’t I?” A fond smile crossed his lips to contradict the harsh words that escaped them. “Couldn’t do it, though. I have no idea why, but I couldn’t do it.”

And to that, she had nothing to say.

They walked in silence for a few minutes—the level of familiarity lingering still with vague hints of mistrust. It was nothing the vampire did not expect. Hell, the night had been full of surprises. If anyone had told him that he would be playing escort to the Slayer’s pals come nightfall, he would have laughed, then ripped the accuser’s head off. Such allegations had no place near an evil thing.

There was still something, though. Something he needed before retiring. That crumb of hope he had been clinging to. Buffy was miserable without him. She wasn’t just miserable. It was because he wasn’t there.

“Red?”

Willow started slightly at the break in their quietude, but neither made mention of it. “Yeah?”

“What you said ‘bout Angel. Did you mean it?”

“What”

“Angel. She really been…giving him the cold shoulder?”

“Oh. Right,” she replied with a small smile. Spike deserved to know the truth. “Yeah. She really has.”

He nodded his gratitude as his body released its manifest tension. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” When he didn’t reply, Willow jumped the gun and wrestled it away from him. “No, really don’t mention it. She’d probably kill me for telling you.”

Another long silence with no reply. Then he laughed.

“’Course, Red,” he guaranteed her. “Mum’s the word.”

There it was. A promise from an evil thing. Nothing to place bets on.

Oddly, it was rather comforting.

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