Somniloquy

By Gwyneth Rhys

gwyneth@drizzle.com

Sub Rosa

Could have been easier on you
I couldn't change though I wanted to
Could have been easier by three
Our old friend fear and you and me

--Bush, Glycerine

"I guess that's the last of it," Willow said, nodding at Xander as he came through the door with the heaviest of the boxes, the one with all the magic books.

Why wasn't someone with preternatural strength carrying this? It seemed grossly unfair. He was sure Buffy and Spike were both carrying boxes filled with dishtowels or hair clips or something.

"About bloody time," Spike muttered behind him, and Xander noticed that Buffy had hurled herself onto the couch with a big "whew!" and a drink already in hand. The two men clomped up the stairs to Joyce's old room where Willow, Tara, and Dawn were deciding where to hang the pictures. He was glad they had so much to occupy themselves with instead of carrying heavy stuff. Anya had done the smart thing and stayed home, while Giles was taking care of the food responsibilities, leaving the rest of them, naturally, as the knuckle-draggers.

Spike unceremoniously dumped the last two boxes of CDs and tapes on the bed, pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and put one in his mouth, then clomped back down the stairs to the living room. He'd been doing that a lot lately, sticking a cig in his mouth but not bothering to light it. Must be for Buffy's sake, Xander thought, going downstairs after him, and that thought annoyed him. Anything Spike did for Buffy's sake annoyed him, his whole delusional refusal to admit Buffy would never care for him.

Giles had the foresight to have pizza waiting for them. Xander dug into a large Meaty Man Special. Meat was designed to remind you you were a man, if you asked him. "How did they ever get that much stuff into a dorm room together?" Xander commented.

Buffy said, "I didn't think it was that much, really. Mostly stuff like what I'd have if I moved out." She played with a long string of cheese that dangled between her mouth and the pizza slice. "Mmm. Giles, you have outdone yourself. This is your true calling -- Man of Pizza."

"Then my work here is done," Giles said dryly. "I'm glad my training with the council and years at university provided me with a true purpose."

"Aren't the new residents and Dawnster hungry?" Xander asked.

"I imagine there are decorative throw pillows to sort out and scented candles to be artfully arranged," Giles sighed, looking at the ceiling.

"Are they really doing that?" Xander asked Buffy, eye following Giles's to the ceiling even though he didn't know why.

"Yes, because with my special Slay-o-Vision, I can see through walls." She spread her hands wide in bafflement. "I don't know what they're doing. Probably just enjoying the whole new home thing."

"This was always a woman's house, but the estrogen level in here is gonna be thick as the fog in Old Blighty now," Spike commented. Buffy scowled.

But Xander laughed. "Testify, brother."

They exchanged shocked glances with each other, not accustomed at all to agreeing, let alone finding something that would result in a kind of simpatico male bonding.

Buffy glowered at them both. After eating for awhile, Giles motioned for her to follow him into the kitchen. He was making that face at her again, the same one he'd worn after their battle with Glory. In her dreams lately she'd been completely alone. Small details in her dreams meant something larger; prescient dreams seemed to come with the slayer package.

"You have that awful face again," she said to him as he took a drink from the refrigerator.

"Why, thank you," Giles responded acidly.

She sat on the counter. "You know what I mean. That face that says you're going to tell me bad news." For a while they didn't say anything, just stared at their pop cans, until Buffy finally said, "You're really going to leave, aren't you?"

Just saying those words was like slashing into her own heart; she couldn't breathe for the pain.

"Yes. I believe it's time, Buffy." Giles took off his glasses and looked at her intently. The corners of her mouth arced downward, heat creeping into her throat as she tried not to cry. "It isn't that I prefer to leave, it's that I've watched you grow beyond anything I have to offer, and now there's Willow and Tara helping you here. Everything I could have hoped for, you've exceeded. I believe... you've exceeded me." His smile was meant to be kind and reassuring.

*No grow. Shout.* Buffy took a drink, trying to focus on something else.

"I'm not. I haven't exceeded anything. How can you leave me after I've lost so much?"

"Believe me, I've thought about this a long time. I'd actually planned to go last year, but you wanted to learn how to push your skills even higher so I stayed. But don't you see, Buffy? You have pushed your skills. You've defeated a god, and you've endured the death of your mother with maturity and resolve, and all the things you are now, those are beyond my teachings."

"Giles. You're... you're my father now."

"And fathers have to let go, eventually."

She had succeeded beyond most other slayers. There was not a lot of arguing against that. "If a slayer got to my age before, did their watchers leave them too?"

Giles laughed at that, a sad little laugh that usually meant he saw right through her. "I don't know. But I can tell you this -- no one had a slayer as exceptional as the one I've had. So there would be no precedent."

"I hate it when you're complimentary and I can't keep my bad moodiness."

They sat for awhile, not speaking, until Buffy suddenly hugged him. He held her as tightly as he could, listening to her sniffle.

How much of this was about her fear of the future, and how much about her past? Or maybe her reaction was something else -- she'd looked anguished lately, tired and indifferent, although her nightly patrolling hadn't suffered at all.

"Are you... have you been feeling all right?" he asked.

"I just... I keep having bad dreams about that night." Buffy pulled away from him, pushing fingers against her temples.

"I shouldn't wonder." Giles had to hope and trust -- not something he ever thought he'd associate with Spike -- that the vampire had not said anything to Buffy about Ben. "The fear and adrenaline alone... it could take weeks for you to recover, and on top of that your mother's death was a huge blow."

She shrugged. "It's more than that. I just... I keep feeling like it's not over. That something else was supposed to happen there, and it didn't, and something else will take its place. Do you believe much in prophecies?"

Smiling, Giles said, "I believe that some prophecies are vague and can be ignored, and others...." They both sat up straighter, looking at their hands, remembering the night he'd told her of the Master.

Buffy couldn't look at Giles, just stared out the window. She wished she could explain it to him, but if she tried, then he'd think she was using it as a ploy to keep him here. "I hope the vague point is right," she said distantly. "So, when is this... when are you going to leave me? Here. Us. Arg."

"Not for a while yet. I'm going to make Anya a partner in the Magic Box, which as you can imagine will involve nightmarish discussions of money and so much paperwork that I'll ask you to cut off my head to end the pain. I was thinking by end of summer. That way you and I can train and figure a plan for you and Dawn. And you know that you can call me at any time, day or night, for help. I won't abandon you, ever. You're too important to me."

That was all it took to send her over the edge and she burst into tears. Giles pulled her close again, there-thereing and patting her head.

"I never thought I'd lose you. Not really. In my mind, I was always 17 and you were always here and we were always together." She wiped tears away and tried to smile. "I guess I'm just tired and afraid. I'll try to do better."

"Buffy, is Spike bothering you? Is that adding to your stress? He's been obsessed with you for some time, but I would expect he's taking advantage of his new status with Dawn and with you, which would only make this all much worse."

"Because obviously my willingness to let him hang here indicates some kind of blunt trauma to my head!" she said in a mock-perky voice. It annoyed her that everyone assumed she wasn't strong enough to deal with Spike on his own terms, or that she was stupid enough to be his victim. "Why does everyone think Spike is bothering me?" she snapped.

"My mistake." Giles wondered if there was more going on than she would say. He could sense a growing dependence on Spike, the way they patrolled together almost nightly now, the quickness with which she stepped in when someone in the group ignored him or abused him. It had gone beyond mere gratitude.

"He's not bothering me. He's just... he really stepped up to the plate when I needed him to. A lot of times. And he isn't what's making me feel like this."

"Then for that I'm grateful. But... you have to remember one thing about him. He is still a vampire and he is still evil."

This time she wouldn't look at him at all, and Giles knew he'd lost that part of her. Whatever Spike was doing to worm his way into her heart, it was working, even if she didn't know it herself.

"Well! We should get back to the rest of them."

"Are you going to tell them?" Buffy asked sadly. "I don't think I can."

"Yes, of course I will. Not immediately, but very soon. I want... I want us, you and me, to adjust to it first."

Life without Giles. Without Mom. Without Angel. The Bataan death march of those who loved her. Buffy felt angry and betrayed and more alone than she'd ever thought possible. If they don't die, they leave me. Emotional death.

Death is my gift.

Buffy looked up at Giles, startled. "What?"

For a moment he seemed confused. "I... I was just saying that perhaps we should wait until at least after Dawn's party. It's a big event for her, I don't want to lessen it."

"Sure." They got up, but she was distracted now. "Sure."

As they left, neither saw that Spike was standing around the corner, listening. Digging around in his pocket for the lighter, he laughed quietly. So the watcher's leaving for good. This summer was starting to look more and more promising all the time.

Buffy kicked hard at the eight-clawed paw that held her other leg, but the paw still wasn't budging. She screamed for Spike, only he was over at the tail end bellowing and flailing around, mired in his own trouble. He'd landed a blow on the oozing sticky stuff that came out of the axe wound and now his hand was stuck in it. If she had a choice, Buffy would pick Glory over this disgusting, huge, pink Kr!kegn demon any day. Its name was as annoying as it was; no one could even pronounce it so they just called it the krack demon. Which was fitting since it seemed hopped up enough to be on crack. Or did you get all zonked out on crack? Buffy couldn't remember.

Then she kicked again and dislodged its meaty paw, as big as her whole head if you weren't counting the six-inch claws, and ran for the double-headed axe. She was going to take the demon down if it killed her. Nothing was going to get away with eating dogs -- puppies! -- and cats in *her* town, dammit.

From far away she heard Spike shouting again as he frantically pulled on his arm, trying not to get crushed if the demon rolled over on top of him. It was as big as a mini-van, so that was a definite danger.

Finally he pulled free. "Hah! Try that again, you mutant Barney!" He was about to land a two-footed kick when he leapt backwards, thinking it might be wiser not to do that. There could be more ooze. Getting both feet stuck wouldn't just put him in a painful spot, it would be incredibly undignified.

"You're not trying hard enough," Buffy shouted at him.

"I bloody well am! I don't have to be here, you know. You're the one sent me packing with 'it was a mistake,' but then you come over all weepy and moany about how much you need me to stop the demon from eating all the widdle puppies and kitties." He found a dry spot on its pink hide and landed a roundhouse kick, but the gargantuan tail flicked out and dropped him on his bum.

Buffy tried not to laugh; this was serious, after all. "I'm only saying," she commented, swinging the axe at its head but hitting the carapace on its neck instead, the axe reverberating in her hands. "We can move on. We're adults. Some of us are more adult then others, true, but we're still both grown-ups and we have to put it behind us." She swung again, lower, and the krack demon howled in pain, its tail and paws flailing wildly.

Spike huffed and jumped up, then ran over to pick up the sword. "Move on, my arse."

The demon knocked the axe out of Buffy's hands. "Ow!" This was just making her mad -- Spike bickering with her, not concentrating, and this stupid, smelly, pink demon with sticky ooze refusing to give up and die.

Just as Spike swung the sword with perfect aim towards the unprotected lower neck, the demon's tail stabbed Spike through the upper thigh, impaling him. He roared in pain, vamping out, but kept his act together as the sword went in and he shoved it all the way through.

"See?" Buffy hollered above all the squealing and yelling. "You're not paying attention. Oof!" she grunted, while she whacked with the axe one last time, and the monster went down, at last. Nearby Spike writhed and moaned.

"I would have had this thing down in five minutes if it wasn't for you waving your saucy tits in my direction and licking your pouty lips. Ow-OOWW! You fucking bitch!" he bellowed again as she yanked the stabbing end of the demon's tail out of Spike's thigh.

"Stop talking about my body parts," she threatened, "or I'll stab you with this again." But it was an idle threat, she could hardly lift the tail with both hands let alone stab anyone.

Spike clutched at his thigh and rolled around on the ground.

During the fight with the krack demon, somehow they'd made their way down alleys and back streets to the end of town. Now she realized they stood not far from where they'd battled Glory. Above her, a few hundred yards away, rose the tower where Dawn had been taken as offering.

She dropped her weapons as she walked forward, mesmerized. Still standing even now. What had she expected? That it would have simply dematerialized just because the dimensional rift hadn't opened?

Death is your gift. That was where it was supposed to really happen. The dreams that flooded her mind, dark visions that on the surface felt similar, but were different enough to be frightening. Dropping off the top of the tower into something hot and painful. Dawn bleeding and screaming and crying. Dying -- either Dawn or herself, she couldn't remember. Everyone dying.

Spike struggled to his feet and saw Buffy staring motionless up at the tower, giving off the scent of fear. He'd hardly ever smelled it on her. In the past he would have grown impossibly intoxicated by that scent, primal and hungry. Driving his fangs out and his dick upright.

"Slayer." He said it quietly, coming up behind her. Afraid to startle her out of her reverie. Or maybe he should -- this didn't seem so good to him. "Slayer, you okay?"

She didn't respond. He looked up at the tower silhouetted against the pale moon. Should have knocked the bloody thing down when he had the chance. What was she so afraid of here? She'd racked up the victory notch on the hell bitch, so what could scare her about this rickety old thing?

"Something bothering you? Something I can help with?" Spike reached out and lightly touched her shoulder. His wobbly legs left him barely able to stand at this point. Buffy jumped and whirled around, fists up, leading with her right and keeping her left behind it. Much as he wished for a good tussle with the girl -- even if he didn't have a chip -- he wasn't up for it now with half his thigh turned to hash.

Dropping her fists, she watched him intently, as if ready to say something. But she stopped and looked off in the middle distance. Dammit, he just hated it when people did that. It was too teasing.

"You need to talk about something, looks to me. I'm just saying."

She shook her head and stretched her hand towards him. "Oh God, you're wounded, I forgot. I'm sorry."

"What is it about the tower that's got you hypnotized?" He wasn't in the mood to let her change the subject. It was irrelevant if she didn't think of him as friend enough to confide in, he would bully his way to her trust. Use the heavy boots.

"Nothing. I just can't believe it's still standing. I guess I thought..." her words drifted away. "I thought the minions or whatever they were would have torn it down or something. Look, let's get you back to your crypt. Do you think you can walk?"

"Course I can. It's just gammy, I'm not going to die or anything."

"Don't audition at the Comedy Store with that act. It's not just old, it wasn't funny the first time." Buffy grabbed his arm and hauled it across her shoulders, supporting him as they limped along through the streets.

That was certainly much more appealing than he could have hoped for, and he threw in a few groans of pain and extra stumbles just so he could stay close to her. She smelled wonderful: a lovely minty lavender aroma that vaguely reminded him of home.

When they reached the crypt Buffy helped him up on top of a bier. Her air was distracted, her gaze inward.

The place was in a state of disarray with clothing, books, and bottles scattered here and there. Light entered from the high barred windows open to the bright moonlight, casting shadows of midnight and grey across the floor and furniture. On top of the tomb Spike had left a blanket and sheets made into a makeshift bed, and a pillow with a shiny satin cover at the head of it. The small refrigerator hummed in the background.

"Do you have anything here to bandage that? Or disinfect it?" Buffy asked.

He laughed softly, touched by her kindness but treading gingerly so as not to provoke her. "I'm not going to get a staph infection, you know, Pet. Won't get gangrene."

Her frown was so adorable, the way her mouth pulled tight and her forehead wrinkled. "Fine, have it your way. But at least let's bandage it. And no, I'm not telling you to take off your pants."

"Well, I couldn't, anyway. Or at least you really wouldn't want that." He pointed at the T-shirt Anya had destroyed, lying on the floor in the corner. She picked it up and tore it into strips, then squinted at him as if she'd just gotten a joke.

"You're commando?" Buffy grimaced and dropped the shirt.

Laughing, he said, "What did you expect?"

"God, Spike. Every time I think you can't be any ickier, you find new depths."

"Why so offended? So bloody what?" He shifted closer to her, tilting his head to the left. "Don't tell me that's so unusual. You're no blushing virgin." She could feel heat from him, which seemed wrong somehow because he was, after all, cold and dead. But there was something about how he moved, the way he talked to her sometimes that felt heated. The sexy low voice, the way he spoke so close to her skin that it was like being touched by the softest fingertips, stroking...

"It's just way TMI, that's all. Look, why don't you... just fix yourself, then?" But his leg looked awful, and she felt guilty for being bitchy when he'd done so much for her lately. For all of them.

"Oh, just turn around and hide your baby... hazels." She turned away and heard him undoing the buttons and sliding the jeans off. "All right, now you can play Florence Nightingale." He'd taken down just one leg of his jeans and draped the blanket he'd been sitting on over his lap, beaming smugly at her. Daring her.

"Fine." Buffy started cleaning up the mess. His thigh looked like a ground-beef patty about four square inches. "How does someone who's basically dead lose so much blood?"

"Saw plenty of blood on Angel after a fight, I'd imagine. You didn't get the undead anatomy lesson then?"

She raked the cloth over his wound and he howled in pain.

"Serves you right, smartass." She continued, eyes focused solely on the wound, nothing else. He had very nice thigh muscles and it was disconcerting to see them like this, when they were so close and so... physical. "So, why does something that huge and graced with sticky goo you can't get your fist out of go for something like dogs and cats instead of humans? Seems kinda... inefficient."

"Blowed if I know. Some demons have specific things they're sort of programmed to eat. Maybe it just likes the small snacks, and lots of 'em -- you know, like popcorn chicken or something. Tender little bite-size morsels, just waiting to be popped in the mouth and swallowed down..."

"Ew, Spike! What is wrong with you? They were defenseless little dogs and cats!"

"I'm a vampire. I eat defenseless little things, or at least I used to until they took me to the reprogramming center."

When he said things like that, Buffy wondered if he knew what he was doing. Every time he reminded her of who he was she felt repulsed by the growing friendship between them.

She finished wiping away the blood and krack monster goo, then tied the strips of her makeshift bandage around his thigh.

"Be right as rain in no time." He flexed his leg and motioned for her to turn around. As soon as her back was turned, though, he grimaced in pain, the throbbing and burning even worse now that it was all cleaned up and goo-free. He could barely find the strength to stand and put his jeans back on.

When she turned around he wobbled backwards and she caught him by the shoulder. She helped lift him back up on the bier, while he pressed his hands onto the wound. After he finally stopped seeing stars he looked at Buffy, who was frowning.

"Right as rain, my--"

"Lovely sweet pure mouth."

Narrowed eyes looked suspiciously at him. "How weak are you? And I mean that in a don't lie to me you half-witted macho moron way."

"Hurts enough. Look, I hate to ask this, but... I need something to eat."

Buffy just looked at him dully for awhile before asking, "In the fridge?"

He nodded. Why did he feel he should apologize for eating? "How many times did you bring Angel something? Watch him eat?" Spike snapped. God, he hated losing what incredibly short grip on his temper he had. It only gave her more to hang her rage and loathing on. But he couldn't stand the disdain for what he was when she herself had put up with anything for sodding Angel.

Handing him a glass of something -- pig, from the smell of it -- she then kept her eyes trained on the floor while he drank.

"That was different," she said huffily after awhile.

"Is that right? Because he had a soul?"

"Yes."

Spike barked out a laugh. Feeling better with the blood in his stomach and a little adrenaline from annoyance, he stood in front of her, closing the distance. She didn't back away. "Slayer. Have you ever thought you give having a soul a little too much credit?" He took her hands in his, running his thumbs over hers, along the edges of her wrists. "A lot of humans had souls who were evil. Thousands more famous than Hitler or Stalin. Serial killers have souls. Torturers. Rapists." He pulled her hands up in front of his and she held them out as if saying stop. Spike softly raked his fingernails down along her fingers and palms, then twined his fingers through hers.

"But you're evil because you're soulless. There's a difference between having a soul and behaving inhumanly, and not being human at all." Her breath was off, she couldn't quite get it to work right as it hitched and turned in her throat. The way he was touching her... how did he know all these ways to touch her that knocked the wind out of her, harder than a punch from a krack demon?

"No, there's not, luv. You make a choice. I don't have a soul, and yeah, sometimes I forget the rules. But I made a choice not to act on the evil thing. Evil humans with souls made a choice not to act on the good thing." He wrapped his hands around her tiny wrists, moving his thumb back and forth along the inside of them, the veined translucent skin pulsing with her life.

He could see it in her eyes, the way her lids had nearly closed, flickering as he touched her. She was melting for him, her resolve and distance vanishing in the wave of desire she so desperately didn't want to feel.

"But no one can trust you..." Her eyes closed completely as he ran the backs of his fingers across her palms.

"Now I hear your watcher talking. I know what he's telling you, that I'm doing all this to use and abuse you. That I can't really love you, because.... oh! that pesky soul thing again." Spike traced fingers across her palms, around the backs of her hands, feathering over her skin. Nerve endings so alive he expected to see sparks on their flesh here in the darkness.

From a dark space in the back of her mind she recalled Xander, angry and hurt, saying "I guess a guy's gotta be undead to make time with you." She jerked her hands away from his.

"Giles is right," she snapped. Spike wore that kicked look. The one that shredded her insides despite her best efforts to the contrary. "You don't even really know what love is. You've tried to kill me, but now you can't, so you turn it into something else. Obsession."

Instead of arguing he laughed low in his chest, lifted her onto the edge of the tomb, and started doing that thing with his hands again. God, it was driving Buffy insane, wanting to run from him and at the same time feeling the long-missed fire start between her legs and spread up through her body. He did things with just his hands that other lovers hadn't been able to do with their entire bodies.

"Did you ever consider," Spike whispered, pressing himself against her, fingers twining through hers, "that we haven't succeeded in killing each other for a reason? We've both had ample opportunity. Why haven't we? Because something in our unconsciouses knew."

The pressure of his body pushed her legs apart and he moved forward, her thighs on either side of him. She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at him this close again. Wanting not to listen. The way his voice slid sensually along her skin, slipped inside her ears with a shivery touch.

The disgust and loathing of her friends over what she was doing now was almost tangible, their faces etched with disapproval in her mind's eye. "I drove a stake into you once. I would have then." Words torn out of her mouth only in ragged whispers now.

"Even though you knew it wouldn't work -- I was standing in the sunlight. You had to know I was protected." Spike leaned closer and raised her left arm, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. "And I always had to say something, stop and gloat so you got away. Never did that with anyone else. Ever. I just killed them." As he unbuttoned her jacket, she idly thought that now would be a very good time to get off this tomb and leave here forever. Yet somehow the jacket slid off and his hands were moving up her arms under the sleeves of her blouse, and here she still was.

"I wanted to kill you. You should have... you should have been dead a long time ago. You don't kill just to feed, you kill because you enjoy it. You got off on killing slayers." Her voice was twisted with petulance. Spike leaned forward and kissed along her collarbone, hands gripping her elbows. "You... you were going to let the Judge kill me."

"Oh, that. Well, I wasn't on my game. A bit testy since you'd left me to die in a fire. Not to mention that dodgy wheelchair and the peer pressure."

He smiled and then kissed her ear, tongue slithering along the edge like a serpent. Buffy shivered. The tingling heat between her legs was a five-alarm fire now. "See? You would have killed me. Just like the others. Nothing special."

"All your watcher books like to talk about that, don't they? Bet they don't mention the one slayer who kicked my ass quite efficiently, thank you very much, and I bet they've not updated to mention you and how thoroughly you've reformed me."

How did Buffy make them mesh -- the vampire who'd gleefully said, "Dru bagged a slayer!" about his world-destroying girlfriend and the one standing in front of her, making her melt her like hot wax? Who'd saved her sister and the world?

"The only thing they'll probably write about me in the watcher histories is that I'm the slayer who boinked two vampires." As soon as the words were out of her mouth she was trapped in the horror of what she'd just given away. Take it back! take it back now!

Yet Spike didn't acknowledge her admission. His hands on her arms clenched tighter, but otherwise he didn't move except to kiss the base of her throat. Even knowing he couldn't bite her she felt vulnerable to him, opened up to show her softest parts, her fears. Her legs weren't on either side of his body anymore, instead they were wrapped around his waist; hands on his chest. Oh dear. This was not good.

Spike threaded his fingers in her hair and pulled her mouth to his, kissing her hard. The night was soundless except for the papery sounds of the soft wind rustling of the leaves.

She could have stopped it by now and left, yet here she was, still kissing him. Her fingers dug into his chest and he relished the pain, the way it counterpointed the screaming fire in his thigh and the burning sweetness of her mouth. Her tongue twisting with his, running along his teeth. It was as if she hadn't been kissed in years. The way her legs tightened around him made the heat race from his groin to his head, dizzying him. Spike pushed her back and clambered up on the tomb.

The heel of one of her suede boots dug into the back of his injured thigh. He was drowning again in her wet, hard kisses and the dick-hardening noises coming from the back of her throat. God, she was positively gagging for it, urging him on with mews of desire. He reached down and unzipped the boot, sliding it off -- really, there was only so much pain a bloke could take in one night -- then the other one, running his hand along each foot and ankle slowly like he'd done the other day. She made a little "guh" sound; he could have come just from that alone. Spike looked down at her, mauve lips parted and moist from the kissing. What he wouldn't give to see her starkers, wearing just those kitten-heeled boots and a smile.

They were chiaroscuro, light and dark, the two of them together. Radiant hair limning her face as she lay back on the marble, a wreath of it fanning out around her. He should have been an artist, not a poet. If he was a painter he'd scumble the lines a bit, soften them to reflect her inner light. Buffy the work of art. A Dewing painting, all colors and softness and light, light, light diffusing into his darkness.

Spike pushed the filmy, silky top up and kissed her stomach, stopping just under her breasts. The first time he'd seen Buffy he'd watched with malignant fascination as she danced seductively with her friends, barely wearing the tiny top that clung to her body, revealing just enough to tease mercilessly. Thinking that before he killed her he wanted to roughly fondle and suck those firm tits. He could never tell her all the things he'd thought about her then; she wouldn't understand how differently he'd viewed her from other slayers.

Now she was looking at him, eyes open and burning, waiting. "God, I love you, Buffy," he groaned as he kissed her throat, behind her ears, her shoulders, before he finally made his way back to her willing mouth. She had entered him like a spirit, past the wall of blood and bone, filling him with her essence. It flared inside him like the corona of a sun, like a soul.

"Don't," Buffy whispered, "don't say it." She bit his lip and sucked hard on his tongue, pulling him on top of her. He slid one side of her bra down, freeing her breast to take it in his mouth, tongue circling the nipple as it hardened. A keening sound came from her throat while she held his head tightly against her. Reaching under he undid her bra with deft fingers, sliding it up out of the way, sucking her other breast hard while he unzipped her trousers.

She must feel his throbbing prick against her now and know how mad with desire he was. This was the flashpoint where he lost all restraint, but she didn't reject him in spite of his urgency. Signaled him instead to continue his worship of her body. The feel of hips moving beneath him and the way her hands clutched were more than he'd ever dreamt of in the fantasies that accompanied his own pathetic pleasuring. Almost like fighting, the girl was so strong and powerful, could move as no human could. He'd expected Buffy to be a total raver in the sack, but now she was confirming it for him in the most delicious way.

Lips trailed across her stomach, down, down, until his mouth reached her pubic bone. The wetness inside her filled his nostrils and he mouthed her pussy through the fabric. She twitched and jerked under him as he slid a hand under the waistband, using his other hand to stroke one of her nipples. The scent of her racing blood made his cock ache. "Spike," she whispered hoarsely, and his mind was filled with music. He crawled back up and over her, cock pressing hard against her thigh.

Spike lifted his head to smile down at her, stroking her gossamer hair and winding his fingers through it. There was a spiral galaxy in her eyes, pinpoints of light that swirled through the pupil, taking him to far distances where feelings were measured in light years.

"At least this is one vampire you won't live to regret boinking." He leaned down to kiss her again, but her hand came up in front of his mouth. Holding it there for a moment as she turned her face, Buffy finally pushed him backwards, then sat up, adjusting her bra and blouse. She wouldn't look at him.

Spike sat back, eyes narrowed in anger and bafflement.

Buffy hopped off the bier and put her boots on, then grabbed her leather jacket and shrugged it back on. If she looked at him she might crack, all the events of the past few months and his role in them churning around in her brain, a cyclone of confusion. Knowing he'd saved her, that it had been his choice, yet knowing he was the same cruel, nasty thing he'd always been -- and that he could never, would never change.

With a half turn but still not looking at him she said, "I didn't even intend to patrol tonight when I came to see you. I came because next weekend we're having a birthday party at the Bronze for Dawn."

"D'you want me there?" he asked into his hands, voice muffled.

"She will. I couldn't care less."

Spike didn't say anything as Buffy turned around and left. How stupid to fall for his tricks, to let loneliness and gratitude cause her to drop her guard. Giles was right, he was manipulating her. Now he had extra leverage, having seen how physically desperate she was. Spike had always had that weird ability to know what was going on with people, to see something in them they didn't see themselves. Like picking up a radar signal. He'd read there were tender spots in her armor to chip away at and he was masterful in his work.

Buffy walked back to the house hoping that no one was waiting up. She didn't want to talk. It was hard enough trying to keep up the strong slayer act with her constant fear that something was unfinished with Glory. Now her weakness with Spike weighed her heart down further. At the edge of the street she looked towards the south end of town, trying to see if she could spot the top of the tower. It wasn't visible from this distance.

Tomorrow she'd have to talk with Giles about finding a way to tear it down.

After Buffy left, Spike sat motionless for a long while with his head in his hands. In one hundred and twenty years he hadn't felt like crying, but in the comparatively short amount of time he'd known Buffy Summers he appeared to be constantly on the verge of bawling like a baby. Tears of rage, tears of pain, didn't matter really -- they appeared too often, stinging behind his eyes, streams of emotion threatening to overspill their banks. He reeked of desperation, the stench of humanity and lovesickness clinging to him, oozing from his pores.

And Christ, when would he learn to leave Angel out of it? Shut. Your. Gob. Spike.

These past few years he'd learned to live with the chip. Unhappily, but resigned to his fate. Like anyone learning to live with a disability, it had forced him to view the world differently. You looked at things one way when you had power, and another when you didn't. He wanted it out, without question, but not for the same reasons now as he'd wanted it out then. Not so he could kill with impunity, but simply so he could taste his own free will again.

Spike went out to the cemetery, past a small grove of trees to a bench hidden among some shrubs, where a small man-made pond glittered darkly nearby. All in loving memory of one Eloise Wallace, and his favorite quiet place. Lighting a cigarette, he lay back on the cold stone, aching leg stretched out and coat draped over the sides like bat wings. The sky was cloudless above him; he lay there and puffed on his cigarette, contemplative, counting the stars. The smoke curled up into the sky. He could see Buffy's face up there, her eyes in the stars.

It had taken him years to cultivate this persona, this version of himself he called Spike. The entire Superfriends gang seemed to believe that a demon took over your body and all your human characteristics were gone -- poof! -- the minute you woke up without your soul. It amused Spike how naïve they were, and that Angel had never explained the truth of it (of course, why would he? It would shatter their illusions that he could be trusted, that they could be safe with the great ponce). It was easier for them to kill a vamp thinking there was nothing left resembling those human elements still resident inside, sharing space with the new demon inhabitant. It had taken him years to overcome the characteristics of William that still twittered and flitted in the back of his mind -- the melancholy, the romantic notions, the sensitivity. Spike was his way of hardening himself, toughening against the cruel lessons of Angelus and Darla, of Dru's unabated adoration for Angelus, of his vestigial memories of William. Creating a new man by creating Spike had helped him cast off everything from his past.

He could have settled with just being a demon version of himself. Angelus, Darla, Dru, most of the other vampires he met were only that -- themselves, without the burden of empathy, conscience, humanity. But that wasn't good enough for him, he wanted to use this new strength and rage, be the things he'd feared when he was human. Be a monster, revel in it. The accent, the language, the attitude embodied pure animal rage for him. He'd let Angelus beat the living shit out of him over and over so he could learn, by necessity, to fight -- and fight better. He'd turned killing into art -- oh, not Angelus's cack-handed, phony version of "artistry," which was a code word for nancing about and not getting the job done, but a ballet of violence and blood and lust. And all of this he did of his own free will, all of it he *created* with his hands and his mind. He was a self-made man. Self-made vampire. Whatever.

But now... the chip had taken away Spike's free will, forced him to create another persona, another version of himself that he hadn't wanted. It was in slowing his life down, taking everything he loved away that the chip had shoved him into human contact and knocked down the walls between his world and theirs. Enough so that his feelings bled over into their world and his obsession with the slayer mutated into something else. If he'd never been stopped like that, reined in, then all Dru's dire predictions of his feelings for Buffy would have been meaningless.

And Buffy would never believe that, never believe that his feelings were real. He didn't have the knowledge of how to act human, yet was forced to interact with humans on their terms. Whenever he transgressed and reminded them of who he was, they rejected him. It was only when they could skip past what he was that they gave him the chance to overcome it. Only he didn't want to overcome being a vampire, no matter how much Buffy might want him to.

It was like looking in a mirror -- Spike couldn't see what they thought of him, no image reflected back. Nothing clear, anyway. They hated and accepted him, needed and rejected him, but would not let him see what they really expected from him.

It didn't matter what he did, his past actions -- torturing Angel, leaving Willow and Xander for dead, trying to kill Buffy -- came into focus for them like a photograph, indelibly preserved on their minds. But those sepia-toned pictures weren't who he was anymore. They didn't want to add new images of saving the world from Acathla, of rescuing Dawn, of standing up to Glory.

She would never want to believe that he loved her. To do that would be to accept that he was more than simply an evil, soulless demon. To admit that vampires could embody elements of their human life. She could accept that he was sexually attracted to her, and she could maybe, someday, admit her own attraction to him, but love... that would be out of the question, and the more he said things like he had tonight, the more ammunition she had against him and the persona he'd created. He couldn't go backwards, not to William, but bits of William still popped up now and then, leaving him feeling hurt and helpless and worthless. All these decades spent trying to eradicate every trace of himself and those traces still came back and bit him in the arse. He was just a lovesick vampire, without hope and alone, no different than he'd been as a human.

If he could create one persona, though, why not another? Was he completely powerless just because of this sodding chip? If he had his own free will again, he could show her at last. Show her that he was doing this because he wanted to, because he loved her. She would see him, see all of him. Not the empty space in the glass where a reflection should be, but him, the real him, with its bits of Spike and William and something else, some alchemic mix of them both. The one who loved Buffy.

Eventually he got up off the bench. In his crypt he took a bottle of the good stuff he kept hidden away, peaty and smoky and a reminder of where he'd come from and what he'd left. After knocking back at least a third of the bottle while he stared glumly at the blank TV, he gingerly climbed down the ladder and hurled himself onto the bed, his leg and head throbbing. Heading for the mercy of oblivion.

In one of her more lucid moments, Dru had told him of the slow mental torture Angel inflicted on her before making her a vampire. Spike had asked, with the naiveté of the acolyte, why she had let Angel drag her so far down into the darkest depths. She told him in a sing-song voice "It takes a great deal if you're a good person to pull someone up from the depths of depravity into your world. But it takes almost no effort at all for a bad person to drag you down to their level."

Did Buffy believe something like that now? Was that what they told her -- that he was tarnishing her goodness? He'd handed her confirmation on a platter. All because he couldn't keep his smug, stupid gob shut. Or maybe it was postponing the inevitable. If they'd continued on tonight, later she would be filled with self-loathing, hating him even more. Believing that he'd been the one to drag her down, just because she owed him something for saving Dawn's life.

The dregs of the bottle appeared dark crimson, sanguinary in the lightless cavern. So much he'd lost, so much given up to stay here with her. There were ways he could prove himself. Then she could see he didn't save Dawn just to impress or manipulate her. It was simply a matter of greasing palms, chanting the right chants with the right spooks, passing the required tests. There were people and demons alike who could nullify the chip with the right incantations or spells. Hell, Willow could probably do it, but she'd never help him, not after all he'd done to her.

No. No no no no. He wasn't powerless, wasn't helpless. Mistakes were made, his memories of how to act this role were frayed by time and the loss of conscience and soul, but he could work the kinks out of the system given time. The twitch of fear that Giles made, the grim anxiety from Harris, the way the witches fretted over his feelings... he did still have the power to scare them, in a deeper, darker way. It wasn't the demon face that frightened them, it was the trace of humanity left in him, the one that Buffy was drawn to, the one Dawn could see. That's what they were all so afraid of. And what Buffy feared most -- he could tell by the tremble in her hands when she touched him and by the breathlessness of her kisses.

It was good to be back on the school campus again. Even though her past here was like a mirage now, all shimmery and surreal, not even touchable, she liked the image of Buffy, Girl Student. As if she could create a life not ordered by strange events and an even stranger cast of characters. She was easing back into it with only two classes in the slacker-heaven summer quarter.

Maybe no one would notice, she hoped, that she was normal again in name only. As normal as anyone could be with a sister created from pure energy, a vampire who was obsessed with her, a witch for a best friend, and another friend in love with a thousand-year old former demon. Hah! Take *that* fringe Goth kids who think you're so weird! I've been macking with vampires! My pointy sticks and bite marks top your black eyeliner and hair dye any day.

She spent her first lecture trying to keep her brain on the straight road and what the instructor was saying, but it kept taking that twisty turny path to Spike. Why hadn't she seen him for such a long time? Even when she patrolled near his crypt he didn't show, and it was so unlike him to pass up an opportunity to yammer at her about their "relationship." When he was melodramatic it wore down her patience. It wasn't like he'd been the one left feeling so dismal after his crappy remark. He probably hadn't even known what he'd said to make her leave. Buffy had thought about going back and telling him off, but it wouldn't matter -- he was incapable of understanding.

It wasn't like she hadn't tried to forgive him for who he was. Reconciling him into her life was important to Dawn and they both owed him a lot. If he would just stop acting like he knew that, it would be easier to let him in. Being back in school would help with the feelings she was so confused about, Buffy was absolutely sure. She'd meet some guys, nice guys she could see in daylight, who'd take her on... picnics. Yeah. Picnics. And for burgers and shakes, in a car, in daylight. Who'd have money for a date and didn't have the coppery taste of blood on their lips or smell of whiskey and cigarettes. Who would talk a slang she understood instead of saying things like Bob's your uncle and sod that for a lark.

Still... and yet. His face as she'd finally looked at him when they were kissing -- the bewildered stunned gratitude of the eyes like one of her own stakes. Sharp and breathtaking. Not many men would look at a woman as if she were descended from a heaven they had never imagined. As if they were now holy enough to see her light.

Such a knowing way of touching her, the pull that moved her to tell him everything she kept inside. If she imagined herself telling anyone about what troubled her it was never Giles or Willow, only Spike. If she'd believed she could share with him, though, that remark left Buffy with the aching knowledge of its impossibility. He was still the same inside no matter how much of a polish she tried to put on him in her wishful loneliness.

"He is still a vampire," Giles had said. No soul there. Not like Angel. No possibility of being her guardian angel. Not even a molecule of good.

The vampire in him that would never be worthy. The vampire who knew how to make her human heart vulnerable. How often as a demon had he done that? Seduction and sex, feeding and killing. It was sex and power, always would be. He knew how empty and alone she was, saw it eating her slowly from the inside. He could smell it. Then he would pounce, his hunter's instincts using it, working it like a predator's jaws working bone and sinew.

When the bell rang for her last class, she'd taken nothing out of the lectures. Notes, but no memory of having written them. Off to a real Buffy start at school, as usual. Will was going to be so disappointed in her. But it was just the first day at least; she still had time to get her mind on scholastic achievement and off of the hot undead.

Buffy left campus and walked through town, stopping at the Espresso Pump for coffee before heading home. It was wonderful to be anonymous here. No one shouted "Slayer!" at her or ran at her with pointy weapons, no one asked for help or expected her to fight. No one expected anything more than that she pay for her coffee. Buffy had come down firmly on the side of anonymity in the past year.

Sometimes, alone and tired, she wondered how her mom would have felt if she gave it all up and just became Buffy, Young Adult. Would Mom have thought she was shirking because Glory was taken care of? Or would she be happy her daughter was out of danger at last? It didn't matter, of course, she didn't know how to give it up, and with Giles leaving Buffy had to learn to deal with it on her own.

Tonight she had to see if Spike was all right. A break of a few days was good, but Buffy missed him when he wasn't around making rude and inappropriate comments and just being generally irritating. She'd grown so used to him in the past few months. Strange how such irritation can creep into your life and you become accustomed to it on a daily basis, even look for it when it's not there.

It was late when she went by his crypt. He didn't respond to her knock so Buffy opened the door and walked cautiously inside, calling his name. It wouldn't do to surprise him and end up with a crossbow pointed at her guts. But there was no answer from up top, and no answer when she went down underneath, either. It looked as if he hadn't been here in days, in fact. Most of his small stuff was missing; the fridge empty of both blood and beer.

Her heart went cold as she considered the possibility that he might have returned to Drusilla. Despite everything that had happened here, Dru would take him back, Buffy was sure of it. But he hadn't gone back when he had the chance. Why would he go now?

Because she'd pushed him away. Because he had no life anymore except for her and Dawn and couldn't live as a vampire or as a man. Because most of all he didn't know what to do to make her happy. She closed the door and stood for a moment, trying to stanch the melancholy that washed over her in a blue wave. No, he absolutely wouldn't have left without saying something to Dawn. Spike might walk out on Buffy if he felt desolate enough, but he couldn't have just left Dawn.

What could be more disturbing than to feel more comfortable with him by her side than without? That she'd come to depend on him in the way she'd depended on Angel or Riley? They'd at least had the whole responsibility guy thing down; Spike's entire being was the anti-responsibility guy. Buffy put her stake back in her pocket and turned in the direction of home. If he'd left without saying good-bye, she'd kill his ass just for making her miss him.

Xander was already irritated and they weren't even at the Bronze yet. Anya had told him three times since they set out from the apartment that he'd better get into a good humor or he'd ruin Dawn's party. It was just the idea of having Spike there, how they had to always include him these days or risk the Wrath of the Summerses, that got on his last nerve. And it wasn't like he had a lot of nerves left in regard to that guy to start with.

"The harder you and Giles try to warn Buffy away from him, the more likely she is to want to be with him," Anya said. "I've seen it a couple thousand times, believe me. It never ends well. Pain and recrimination and a lot of finger-pointing. You have to let Buffy decide her own course, and you will never convince Dawn that he isn't her hero, so you may as well give up that hopeless quest." She reached across the car seat and patted his arm. "I know you hate being replaced in her fickle teenage affections, but these things happen."

He parked the car and they went in to find Willow, Tara, and Dawn already there; Giles was over at the counter getting drinks. At least no sign of Spike yet. Maybe he really had skipped town like Buffy thought. Oh happy day, if that were true. Giles nodded at them as he came back to the table, and both Xander and Anya shouted "Happy birthday!" at Dawn while handing her presents. Dawn gave the obligatory squeal of recipient joy but told them she was waiting for Buffy to show before opening presents.

"She's making a quick patrol around town beforehand so she can stay and party tonight," Willow explained. Xander wondered briefly, though, if she wasn't out looking for Spike yet again.

Anya squeezed his arm and said to Willow, "He's very put out tonight because of the invitation to Spike. He wants to enjoy just one birthday celebration without the undead crashing the party."

"Okay, but maybe Spike won't be here," Willow replied. "Buffy said he's... oh well, never mind." She was looking past Anya's left shoulder to the door, where Spike had just slunk in. Looking kind of nice, Willow thought. He cleaned up well. Both Giles and Xander turned, frowning, and then turned back to her. It was funny in a not so funny way, to Willow's mind. The men in the group so jealously guarding Buffy and Dawn against Spike's evil intentions, yet the women all fairly accepting. She'd spoken of the changing dynamic between Buffy and Spike one night with Tara, and Tara had mentioned that when Buffy was with him, her aura changed for the better. After that Willow was far less inclined to keep Spike away. Whatever was bothering Buffy -- whether it was the loss of her mother or the fight with Glory or her new responsibilities -- when Spike was nearby, she seemed calmer and centered, and that could only be for the good. There were twinges of jealousy thinking Buffy might be happier confiding in Spike about her problems; but if he could help, then Willow wanted that more than first-class buddy status.

Dawn pulled up a chair and made room for Spike but he waved it off and stood behind her instead. He tossed an unwrapped box on the table and Dawn beamed up at him. Resting one hand on her shoulder, Spike leaned down and said, "Happy birthday, Popsicle. Sweet sixteen never looked so good on anyone."

Xander scowled. That just frosted his flakes. Spike as Mr. Smooth-talker, the Handyman with the phrase to turn them all dewy-eyed. Didn't they remember how evil he was? All the unspeakable things he'd done? And how come something so noxious had such a way with the ladies? Even Anya was smiling at him with that annoyingly flirty twinkle in her eye. Girls always fall for the bad boy, and of course Spike had those cheekbones that could arm a battalion. It wasn't entirely fair.

"Hello, Rupert," Spike said. "Chaperoning the kiddies?" There was an especially wicked gleam in his eyes.

Giles adjusted his glasses, cocking his head sideways before looking at Spike with disdain. "Yes, well, they do let me out of the rest home for special occasions, as long as I'm home before ten."

Spike just smiled his predator's smile, and Xander motioned for Giles to come with him to the bar. Giles, polite Brit that he was, asked Spike what he wanted to drink.

Spike watched them from out of his peripheral vision. They leaned against the bar, keeping an eye on him, no doubt hoping to come up with a plan of attack to get him out of Buffy and Dawn's life. That was all right with Spike; the harder they tried, the better off he'd be. One glance at Dawn's face told him everything he needed to know about his place in her life. Like she was carrying his own little Get Out of Jail Free card right in the palm of her pretty little hand.

Dawn turned to look up at him. "I'm glad you came," she said quietly under the music. "Buffy said you were just gone, and I was afraid..."

Spike reached down and pulled a lock of loose hair behind her ear. "Just a little holiday. Wouldn't leave you without a big teary scene, you know that. Lots of sniffles and tissue."

"Okay," she said shyly, and when he noticed the rest of them again, Willow, Tara, and Anya were staring all dreamy-like.

Spike rolled his eyes, leaned back against a post, and stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering if he should ask about Buffy. Only baby sis just told him more than she'd realized by telling him Buffy mentioned he'd been gone. That was a good sign. A little absence makes the cold slayer heart grow fonder.

"So when's cake and candles? And opening of pressies?"

"When Buffy gets here. She was going to do a quick patrol." Dawn shook her gifts.

"Mm. Didn't see her about. Seems pretty quiet since I got back."

"She said it's dead out there," Dawn commented and then giggled at her pun. Christ, she was cute when she was like that. Time was a ripe, virginal morsel like her would make him salivate at the thought of popping her cherry while she shrieked for mercy. Ripping her throat out as the blood bubbled through screams silenced by his mouth. Now he was a guardian angel and if any vamp even thought of touching her they'd find out the hard way just how Spike had made his reputation.

Returning with more drinks, Giles handed Spike's to him and sat down next to Dawn, while Xander took Anya out on the dance floor. None of them saw that Buffy had entered, standing in the shadows near the entrance, watching them.

Spike was slouched against a post, standing behind Dawn. So he was back and had shown up for the party after all. Maybe it wasn't exactly calling a truce between them, but he was telling her that he would not let bad feelings make him miss Dawn's party. He looked good, she thought. Something was different about him, his face softer, his body language looser and easier. And he looked... hot. A T-shirt Buffy hadn't seen before: dark blue, between cobalt and black, with long sleeves and... oh dear God, leather pants. What was it with soulless vampires and leather pants? Was it some kind of dress code of the undead? Obviously he wanted to send a message loud and clear.

It was enlightening to watch him when he didn't know he was being watched. When his Buffy behavior wasn't switched on. Of course he'd put on the polite show for everyone, but he acted way different if she was around. So Buffy hung back, watching him talk to Dawn, noting the friendly manner Willow and Tara showed. Giles was diffident -- no surprise there -- but the girls all had their attention trained solely on Spike and what he was saying.

God, Buffy hoped he wasn't telling them stories about her! Quickly she walked over to where they were, hoping to stop anything before it got started, but just before she reached them Spike had taken Dawn's hand to lead her out on the dance floor. Buffy stopped, keeping an eye on them.

Dawn's pearl face luminescent in the low light of the club, a glow generated solely by Spike's attentions, the gentlemanly way he took her arm. Reminding her of that night on the tower, how Spike had held the precious cargo of her sister, the flicker in her heart when for one brief moment she thought she could care for him. Why was it so hard to allow herself that feeling again?

Probably because he did horrible things right after those wonderful moments, said unforgivable words that reminded her of who and what he really was. Couldn't she move past that? She had with Angel when he came back. Forgiven him and herself for loving him still. Why couldn't she forgive Spike?

Willow and Tara waved her over and she sat down with them, nodding in Spike and Dawn's direction. "They look sweet together like that."

"She was so happy to see him. I think Xander's nose is out of joint now," Tara said.

"Oh, yeah. He's never handled the whole Dawn having a crush on Spike thing well. She was supposed to only have a crush on Xander," Buffy responded.

"To be honest, I think Xander's everything is out of joint where Spike's concerned," Willow commented. Giles just hmphed behind Buffy.

"Hello, Giles, glad to see you getting down with your funky self and being loose," Buffy said over her shoulder.

"A few more pints will help with that, I can assure you." He raised his cup. "Cheers."

"What did you get Dawn for her birthday?" Willow asked.

"Nothing special, just a new top. Money's not exactly overflowing into the Summers bank account." That draining tension come back to her every time she thought about it. These past few months Buffy had entered a territory she'd never intended to explore. Being responsible now for almost everything, the loss of her mom like the loss of a limb, a heart. Tonight would have been so different. Dawn's first real birthday with them as a family if Joyce had been here and the absence was unfillable.

When the song was over everyone came back to the table, and Willow went to the kitchen to signal them for the cake. It was an enormous pink thing with sixteen huge candles that Dawn dutifully blew out. Buffy's jealous heart ached at her happiness. She didn't have any responsibilities, just the love of friends and family, the comforting knowledge that she was secure in the world. Untroubled by nightmares like Buffy's own or the calamities of life. When she was sixteen, Buffy had seen the choices that awaited Dawn ripped from her hands.

When she glanced up she saw Spike watching her from his sentry post by the pillar. Buffy smiled at him, but he only cocked his head sideways in response, eyes soft and curious. She shivered and looked away.

"Attention, sports fans! Now is the hallowed time of the opening of the presents!" Xander roared, gleefully rubbing his hands together. Dawn giggled and hovered her hands above the pile, eyes closed as if divining the contents.

Much cake was served and eaten, conversation turned this way and that. The presents were opened with drawn-out fanfare. Dawn was a perfect giftee, squealing with delight for every trinket or article of clothing or CD that she opened. She had saved Spike's for last.

There was no regular card, just a tiny sticky note on it. Dawn read it and passed it to Buffy, who held it in her hand for a moment, staring at it until she finally passed it off to Willow. It said, "This doesn't open anything. It just is."

Dawn opened the small box. A miniature silver key hanging from a snakey silver necklace. She held her breath, wondering how everyone would take this, because most of them didn't get Spike even on a good day and they'd probably think he was being all snarky and mean. But Buffy got it. Her mouth was open a little and she was looking up at Spike with something Dawn hadn't really seen before on her sister's face -- gratitude. And that was a relief, really, because she wanted Buffy to stop pushing Spike away like the clueless dork she was.

Dawn turned to Spike, tried not to get all weepy because he'd hate that and say something cutting. "It's perfect. Thank you." She wondered if he'd accept a hug or flick her away like a bug. Then decided against trying -- she didn't really want him to flick her away like a bug. He stood up straight, leaned forward to take the necklace out of her hands and then put it around her neck. Dawn touched it with her fingertips, hoping her face showed him the appreciation she felt. He had the funniest smile on his face. Maybe something you could put a name on when you were older and had a little more experience.

"Bummer! I'm out of presents."

"Oh hey," Buffy said, "I think there's supposed to be a package for us at the post office from Dad. I bet you have one more present in there to open. Not that you're, you know, greedy or anything."

"Hey, I'm sixteen. If I don't get to be greedy now, then when?"

Everyone smiled at her, which was the correct response, of course. Willow and Tara said it was time to hit the dance floor before they had to eat any more pink cake. Spike looked at Buffy and held out his hand. "Time for a dance?" he asked. Buffy looked at Dawn, who just waved her forward in exasperation. Sometimes it was hard to believe Buffy was so dumb about guys, especially the guys who were in love with her. Geez.

"Son of a..." Xander hissed. Anya gripped his hand tightly.

"What's the prob?" Dawn asked, looking from Xander to Giles and then back to Anya.

"He's very out of sorts that Spike is using his heroic status to worm his way into your affections. Yours and Buffy's, I mean," Anya said, voice grating with her annoyance. "He's been going on about it for weeks now. It's very tiresome. He and Giles are both tiresome. If you ask me."

Dawn looked up at Giles, who straightened and turned a little red in the face. "I... I have concerns. He's still a vampire, regardless of what he's done for you and Buffy."

"Well, it's my party, and I'll like who I want to," Dawn said, frowning at them. Okay, so it wasn't every girl who wanted a guy she was swoony about to be with her sister. There were plenty of cute guys in school to have real crushes on, and how she felt about Spike was different from how she felt about them. The things she liked most about Spike were the things she wanted Buffy to like about him. Buffy should have someone, should just stop being lonely and sad and worried and afraid. It made her bitchy and then you just wanted to hit her. Which, of course, you couldn't, because she could hit you back and kill you with her little finger. So Spike wasn't going to be able to give her great things, a house and car and a dog and two point five kids. For now he could make her happy if she'd just stop with the Helen Keller routine. It gave Dawn the warm fuzzies to see them dancing. Behind her Xander was still muttering about how of course Spike picks the sexy slow song to dance with Buffy, and Dawn grinned at his jealousy.

Buffy felt self-conscious knowing all her friends were watching them, even Willow and Tara, who were dancing nearby casting surreptitious glances. Spike's hand was on her hip, fingers twined through hers, holding on tightly. His cheek against her hair. She could smell something on him under the smoke and leather, something sweet and spicy. They swayed slowly to the beat, barely moving, and she put her hand on his hip, lightly, afraid to touch him. The leather felt warm and she realized he must have eaten.

Right now she couldn't look up at his face, but Buffy said into his chest, "Where were you this past week? I came by, but you were gone."

His low voice tickled her skin, making her quiver as he spoke. "Went to see a fella about getting this chip decommissioned."

Buffy froze.

That was good, he thought. Just what he wanted. Eventually she looked up at him and the fear in her eyes was delicious, sending a little tingle down his spine. Then she pulled her hand away from his and stepped back.

"Ah, ah. Here now, don't do that." He took her hand again and pulled her even closer to him. The fear was aromatic; he breathed it in as deeply as he could. "I'm not going to do it right now, anyway, don't have the dosh for this particular bloke and there's rituals for weeks. So don't get your knickers in a twist, all right?"

"Who..." She was a butterfly pinned, still fluttering.

"A shaman down in Mexico. Only I'm not telling you where, lest you decide to run down there and make hash of him." He twisted her around slowly and put both his arms alongside hers, palms under her elbows. Her tight, round ass moved gently against his dick. "And don't be telling the Scoobies, either."

Buffy turned her face slightly towards his and said so quietly he could hardly hear, "Then why tell me? Why not just do it and come back and kill everyone? You want me to be afraid of you again."

He laughed, a sexy, throaty laugh that, combined with the closeness and movement of their bodies, made the fire in Buffy's lower belly race through her body.

"Don't pretend you don't get it." He pulled her closer, as if they were lovers, and Buffy wondered what everyone else must be thinking of her right now. "You know I love you. But you think the only reason is because of this bloody chip. Want to show you I really have changed. That this is my choice. And the only way to convince you is if it's not working anymore."

She started to tell him that she could never care for him, chip or no chip, but kept her mouth shut. Because she wasn't so certain anymore. He had nothing now, absolutely nothing. And still he stuck by her without any hope of a different future. His tiny gestures of caring left her confused and heartsick, because even her friends didn't see into her or Dawn the way he did. They always waited for Buffy to tell them what to do, for her to come right out and ask for caring and support, but Spike never did. He just marched in and stood by her side, loving her apparently unconditionally.

"I can't be what you want me to be, Spike."

Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her around and pressed his forehead to hers. She was terrified he would kiss her in front of everyone, but he didn't, just closed his eyes and said, "You already are."

There are moments when feeling is crystallized, made real and hard from something intangible and unspoken. When living becomes memory, and now becomes forever, able to be conjured up again and again in its entirety, perfectly formed.

Buffy knew that this was the moment when something in her changed, that she would forever be able to call back this place, these sensations, and know what had happened to her here. She looked up at Spike, absorbing the sensations so that later, when they had again moved beyond this place to somewhere else, she would recall him here with her, radiant and true.

The song had ended without her noticing and he took her hand, leading her back to the others. He didn't sit with them. Instead he went and picked up a pool cue, throwing a quick glance to the floor where Xander was now spastically dancing with both Dawn and Anya. Buffy resolutely did not look at Giles. He would be scowling his disapproving librarian's glare. It turned her stomach into a hard knot, this feeling that she couldn't talk with Giles, the most important person in her life. Buffy needed him to know about this, to have him understand how lonely and fearful she was and how much Spike eased the ache. For every ounce of hatred she'd felt for Spike, Giles and Xander felt double. Buffy did not know how to overcome that.

From across the room Spike watched Buffy, noting how tensely she sat and how disinterestedly she listened to Giles talk. She would take a lot heat from everyone for letting him touch her like that. There was something youthful and free about her tonight, something missing the rest of the time he was with her. She wore a tight, filmy pink blouse and a long denim skirt with embroidered flowers. He remembered those styles from their last fashion go-round in the seventies. With her long hair and pale makeup she appeared as if she could almost have slipped back in time. He knocked the few remaining balls of someone else's game into the pockets, then collected and racked them all. As he paused to light a cigarette, Xander stepped into his field of vision and picked up a cue stick.

"You wanna break, or should I?" Xander asked.

Spike blew out a stream of smoke in Xander's direction, fighting the urge to bark piss off. "Who invited you to play?"

"I did."

Spreading his hands out magnanimously, Spike said, "Be my guest."

Xander broke badly. Spike called the three in the corner pocket. He knocked down four in a row before missing a shot. When he looked up, Xander stood glowering at him.

Before taking his shot, Xander said, "You're really sickening, you know that, don't you?" He pointed with the cue. "Sixteen in the side."

"You don't say, mate." Taking a drink of his beer, Spike glanced at Xander in boredom. He knew what this song and dance were going to be about.

"You're totally yanking Buffy and Dawn's chains. Being all smooth operator with the slow dancing and the giving of perfect presents and constantly reminding them you saved their lives."

Spike grinned at him but said nothing, waiting for Xander to miss his shot, which he did. He chalked his cue and leaned forward, sparing a quick glance at Buffy, who was animatedly talking to Dawn, laughing and giggling like they were two best friends. God, it was good to see her happy once in a while.

After he knocked a few balls in he looked coolly at Xander, who was clearly itching to give him a dressing down. Silence was the worst thing you could do to a gormless nitwit like Harris.

"Doesn't it even bother you, making an idiot of yourself? She's never going to care about you, and even if she spared you the time it would be to use you as her lap dog."

At times, because of the chip, Xander forgot how intensely scary Spike could be. But he was quickly reminded when Spike laughed at his comment and leaned forward with lightning speed to snarl at him, inches from Xander's face. Xander expected him to go all fang-face, but he held back. Just barely.

"That's the trouble with pillocks like you."

Spike stepped backwards, face impassive, as if he hadn't just had a psychotic break. Maybe Xander really ought to get serious about not taunting the scary undead guy, because who knew how long they'd be safe from him? It wasn't like Spike couldn't kill them indirectly. It would be nothing for him to set a trap, get them to accidentally drive off a steep embankment, or set loose a raging demon looking for fresh meat. He couldn't bite, but he hadn't lost his bite.

Chalking his cue, Spike said introspectively "You think it's such an insult, don't you? Lap dog. Pussy whipped. As if being at the beck and call of an exceptional woman like Buffy or Anya is a sorry thing. An unmanly thing. You taunt men who love women with catcalls and spend all your time puffing yourselves up because no woman controls *you.* Men like you, Finn... you're imbeciles."

"Is there a point to this?" Xander snapped. He didn't know exactly what Spike was getting at, but he knew what was behind it. How the women were all acting toward him lately, how forgiving even Willow had been, though she'd been harmed by Spike so many times before. How far Buffy and Dawn allowed him to go. It was starting to scare him thinking that Spike, an undead, soulless killer, had more of a handle on making women happy then he could ever hope to.

"My point is." Spike took a deep drag, pointed at the eight ball and the corner pocket, slid it home with a resounding crack. "You call other blokes those names because they have women you could never have. The ones who have to be the strong manly men? They couldn't hope to earn a woman like Buffy. Only a lucky man would be chosen as Buffy's lap dog. Only a smart one would be happy with that."

"And let me guess. You're a smart man. Never mind that you're a dead and evil one as well."

"Now, see," Spike said conversationally, racking up the balls, "I notice it's never you who's had the chance to be that close to her. To kiss her." He crushed out his cigarette butt and blew the last of the smoke in Xander's face. "No. There you go. You think it's about a woman getting you in the palm of her hand. *I* think it's about getting her in your arms. Who's happier?"

"You've kissed her?" Xander was embarrassed that his voice cracked.

"Oh, look at you, getting all fired up." The crack of the cue ball hitting the other balls made Xander jump. This was turning out to be a miserable party. "Jealous much?"

"Of you?" Xander scoffed.

Touching the cue to Xander's chest a couple times, Spike laughed low in his throat. "You're worried I'm rogering her, when that was your dream for -- how long was it? Remind me now... five years? Only first there was Angel, then GI Joe... now the worst of all."

He liked this, tormenting Harris. Spike was having an awfully jolly time. It reminded him of a night in a lovely dive in the Bowery he'd played pool in. When his opponent had called him a cheater, Spike had driven the cue right through the bloke's eye. Dru, who'd been as out of place in the bar as a spray of lilies, had gleefully clapped her hands and commented, as the fellow writhed and twitched on the floor in death spasms, "It's like a puppet show with strings and such!" Of course the other patrons took offense at that and they'd had to kill every one of them in a spree, one man twigging to what they were quickly enough to nearly stake Spike. That was the first time Spike had realized that perhaps his darling's madness was making her a dangerous companion who could land him in trouble a bit more easily than he necessarily wanted; it hadn't been long after that when things went pear-shaped in Prague and it nearly cost both of them their lives. Or unlives.

"I'm through playing," Xander snapped.

"Oh, now, come on. We're just being lads, aren't we?" He tried not to laugh but it was just so much fun.

Xander stared. Spike could feel the rage washing off him, waves of jealous anger that broke against the past around them, carrying years of dead wood along on its tide.

Tapping the cue stick against Spike's chest, he said, "It's all just fun and games until someone loses a head."

"Or a girlfriend." Spike nodded his head in the other direction and there was Anya, glancing worriedly back and forth between them.

"Have I interrupted a game of Quien es Mas Macho?" Anya asked, her voice strained.

Putting his arm around her, Xander said, "Yeah. Just having a dick size contest, same as all men do every day."

Under his breath, Spike laughed, "You know you'd lose." Xander steered her away, and Spike watched them for a moment, bemused. Somehow, even with all her failings as a human, Anya had got past Harris's prejudices against demons. What she saw in him was a complete bafflement to Spike, but it fascinated him that Xander had been willing to take her on despite knowing what she was. Willow had had her werewolf for a while. Most of them were willing to make allowances for the vagaries of their lovers, yet somehow no one was willing to afford that luxury to Spike, least of all Buffy.

Spike played a few rounds of pool with Willow and Tara, taught Dawn some tricks with a cue and danced some more with her. Eventually Giles left them, and as it got later, Dawn grew tired. Buffy and the rest of them wanted to stay and enjoy this rare pleasure of being out together, unthreatened on a night of the average and unextraordinary.

"I can walk Dawn home," Spike offered. "You lot have a nice night to yourselves." Buffy looked at him with her soft eyes, head tilted. Sounding depths, searching for something inside him.

"All right. We'll be home soon, so you don't necessarily have to stay for her."

He nodded and escorted Dawn out, carrying her acquisitions for the night.

Buffy watched him slip into the shadows past the stairway. Years ago the idea of him being alone with one of her family or friends terrified her. The poles had shifted; now her world took different order and shape, much of it centered around him.

Eventually she broke off from the rest of them to go home. Her body felt sweetly tense, blood building inside her, like arousal. Fiercely wanting to see him, hoping he would be there. The noises of the summer night -- people walking dogs, cars passing by with radios playing, televisions filtered from living room windows -- were shut out by the muffled pulsing of blood in her head.

As Buffy opened the door to her house she saw only the hall light on. The TV was low, its soft glow illuminating only a small corner of the room. Spike was slouched down on the couch absently flicking his lighter top up and down, its soft clink like silverware on china.

After closing the door she came to stand before him and he straightened, turning his head to the side and questioning her with his fathomless eyes, the set of his mouth. Buffy could feel the change inside her taking shape in the heat of wanting and red, red blood blazing through her. The sensation she'd had at the Bronze, the weight of knowing like ripe solid fruit in her hand, the feeling consuming her body and mind.

"If you change just because you love someone, isn't that not really changing? Isn't it selfish, because the only reason you're changing is so the other person will love you back?" Her voice was a rasping whisper. "If you're only motivated by wanting someone else, it's not real change, it's not really love, is it?"

Spike stood, swallowing. He was staggered by her opening herself before him. Like cutting a vein and offering it up. "Bollocks. Armies have gone to war for love. Poetry and novels and great paintings were created because someone loved, and wanted to be loved in return. People kill for it. Love's plenty motivation."

Even in the darkness he could see the spark in her eyes, that constellation swirling inside them, pulling him a thousand light years further. Buffy took his hand and placed it on her heart. It rested almost on her breast, the full softness like a cloud held in his palm, her hands on top of his. Moving closer to her, he tried to form words but they hung lifeless behind his lips. That pounding in his chest must be his absent heart.

"I need you," she whispered hotly and drew herself close to kiss him. He pulled away, confused.

"Why? Because I scared you? Is that all you wanted all this time?" Frustration grew in his voice and face. The need to spend his anger and let the demon take him was overpowering.

"I saw you tonight. What you can be. And I saw what I really wanted."

"And you still hate what you see, is that it? But you want that walk on the wild side?"

"No! I... I don't love you, but I do have feelings--"

Abruptly he stopped Buffy, pushing her away with the flat of his hand. "Don't do me any favors, luv."

Spike slipped out the door quickly, leaving her stunned. After a moment she collected herself and went into the kitchen for water, gulping it down, still feeling hot. She'd thought he would want that. Confession and desire. All this time that had been what he pushed for. She was supposed to be a tactician. What were the tactics to use with him, then, if this wasn't right? She didn't understand what to do to make it right.

Buffy did not undress for bed; instead waited in her room until Willow and Tara came home. She listened tensely to them move throughout the house, patience warring with passion. After she heard them finally get into bed, she slipped out of the house quietly and went straight to Spike's. The moon was bright and low in the sky as she walked through Sunnydale, diamond-dust stars sparkling overhead. For once she carried no weapons; hands at her sides, open and waiting for something else to fill them.

The candles inside his crypt cast an amber glow all about. Spike was sitting on the stone bench by the window reading a worn paperback book, a glass of vodka in his hand. He didn't look up at her when she entered.

"Come to torment me some more?" he asked, turning a page.

The furnace inside her made her sweaty and clammy, and Buffy clenched her fists over and over, breathing deeply. "I don't always know what to believe. About myself. About who I am. I have these dreams," Buffy said quietly, and he finally looked up at her, his eyes tender at last. He had such expressive eyes; that was the first thing she'd ever noticed about him once they stopped being enemies. "Of that night. I think... I was supposed to die. But you saved me and I don't know what it means."

Putting the book and glass down, Spike stood and came towards her. "That's what's troubling you, Slayer? That bloody night?"

"When I'm with you, I feel like it's all right. The rest of the time, I don't know what to think or do. I need you, Spike."

He dropped to his knees before her and laid his cheek against her thighs. Tentatively Buffy touched his hair, her palm behind his head. His submission was an invitation to unburden herself. "The first slayer. She came to me in a vision and said that I should forgive. Love, give, forgive. When Mom died, I didn't think there was anyone I could give to or forgive anymore. That I had nothing left. But I realized tonight... it was you." Buffy couldn't look down at his face. If he rejected this or mocked her, the fire that kept her alive would die not just for now, but forever. He held her, motionless, not speaking.

She spied the book he'd been reading on the bench. Something so everyday was somehow comforting to see in his space. Facets she'd ignored until now finally glimmering before her. Opening her eyes. "Why does your book have a cat with a cigarette and a gun on the cover?"

The rich, muffled laugh he made was sweet against her legs as she let him draw her tight. "It's Russian satire. It would make sense if you read it." He sat back on his heels, his hands on her hips, and turned his face up to her.

"It sounds kinky," she said and looked down into his eyes. The corners crinkled with his smile, map lines of a happiness he hadn't shown her before.

"Not nearly enough." He stood and offered her his vodka.

She drank some of it, but it was horrid and she shivered, making little noises of disgust.

"Sorry, nothing else for you. I didn't expect..." He motioned to the chair. "Here, sit." But Buffy pushed him instead, knocking him backwards into the armchair.

Standing above him, she took off her jacket and asked, "Did you ever go there? To Russia?"

Bewildered, Spike looked up at her, the candlelight-pale skin of her arms and neck and face glowing above him, her golden hair a lustrous cascade. "Yes. At about the time that book was written. But it was too bleak. Didn't like it much." Buffy slid down onto his lap, her legs on either side of his. The skirt hiked up over her creamy skin as he slid his hands along her thighs to cup the perfect globe of her bottom, while she leaned forward to kiss him, her breasts pressed lightly against his body.

Ohchristohjesus. The girl wasn't wearing any knickers. That implied a level of planning he wasn't prepared for. His hands ranged up along her ass, over her hips, where he teased his thumbs down to the silky hair, the space where thigh met torso. He felt himself outside of time and space, as if gravity had disappeared and he was now lighter than the world around him, each motion letting him fall weightless and floating over and over.

They moved against each other, hands, lips, limbs. White blades of moonlight shone on the far wall, the beam sliced evenly by the window bars, casting opal light on them both. No sound penetrated the room, not even the summer insects buzzing, only Buffy's sharp breaths and the soft kiss of skin against skin, wetness on wetness.

"Downstairs. The bed," Spike croaked, and lifted her up still wrapped around him. They clambered down the ladder and Spike pulled the covers away. Clothes disappeared. Tangling in desire, they tasted and felt and learned each other, time stretching away like the horizon, hour or minutes, neither knew. Revealing everything. Spike was an explorer finding things undiscovered in her, new places her other lovers hadn't seen and that only he could claim. A treasure opened after years in the dark. His mouth on the smooth wet folds of her pussy, soft as petals, secret. Buffy arched above, ebbing and flowing in the tide of her pleasure, her gasps and flexions heating him to new life.

When he entered her he kissed her and she could taste herself on his hungry mouth. Buffy's hands were everywhere, trying to gain more purchase against his skin, the sculpted muscles. Spike's cock was larger than she'd expected. He filled her with his hardness as he thrust deeply, anchoring himself inside her. Then she used her strong legs to flip him over, riding above him, controlling him. Joined by muscle and blood and skin and fluid. Her mouth on his nipples and her fingers teasing his testicles drove him mad. She watched him as he stared at her, baffled and grateful, waiting to see the moment he finally let that sweet madness take him completely. He came hard, silently, his fingers caressing her breasts as she stretched above him, his eyes filled with a mystery only love could create.

Buffy bent to kiss him as he was free-falling, a bird shot down in flight, his center spiraling down and down. Her hands moved softly on either side of Spike's face, wiping away the traces of her sweat, smoothing his skin. The softness of her mouth a benediction at last for his erstwhile soul. "Love. Give. Forgive," she said against his lips, and sunlight caressed his body.

Through the remaining night they flowed together again and again. Spike had once thought in his indulgent fantasies that if he was lucky he might make love to her once before she left him, never to return. But her hunger matched his. He was tender and rough as Buffy needed it; she knew at times to give him the luxury of pain. The chip remained silent, its sensors seemingly astute enough to know the difference between the violence of passion and intent to harm. Soft words had filled the underground cave like the flickering candle flames: I never thought. There. I don't want to hurt. Yes. Her voice called to him across centuries, making him whole again.

Once, they lay together, talking as if they were old friends rather than new ones formed from old enmities. His hand moved gently up and down the curves of her body lying sideways before him.

"You've started school?" he asked. Her eyes were closed in dreamy half-sleep.

"Yeah."

"How is it?"

"It's nice to be back. Around normal kids, kids who don't have to save the world."

He laughed softly. "My little coed."

Guilelessly she said, "I'll never be your anything." He felt her stiffen in fear of having let it slip.

He kissed her parted lips. "We'll see."

Buffy relaxed then, knowing he wasn't hurt. It would take a long time to reorder her thinking, to move out of the pattern of seeing him with jaundiced eyes or not seeing him at all. Sliding her leg along his thigh she reached for his hand to guide his fingers between her legs, and then gripped his cock, her thumb teasing the head and foreskin. It took nothing at all, just a whisper of a touch, for her to be wet for him, and he would get hard again from just a look, willing. Vampire stamina was something, she would credit him that.

Each time afterward they lay spent and she told herself it was time to go. If Buffy arrived home after everyone else was up, the questions and the resentment would be too much to bear. But it had been so long since she had felt this safe and satisfied, too long since she wasn't lonely and empty inside.

After a drowsy sleep, she woke to see Spike standing by the bar pouring a drink. When he heard her move he turned around and walked back to the bed. She admired the way his muscles rippled and turned, how precisely he moved, the way his soft cock shifted back and forth. The way he was comfortable in his nakedness, so easy and proud. How incredible to be here like this, to like him like this. As he sipped his drink he sat down beside her, then pushed her flat on her back. Turning the glass, he dribbled some whiskey on her chest and stomach. She giggled as the cool liquid touched her skin. Spike climbed above her and licked each drop off slowly.

"I really ought to go," Buffy said quietly, letting him trace patterns on her skin with his tongue and lips. His face above her was pale and shadowed like the edge of the moon. Soon his mouth hovered just above her pubic bone as she lifted her hips in anticipation.

"I know. I'll take you home in a bit." Hands cupped her breasts and his mouth traced more patterns between her legs, the softhard button of flesh under his tongue like sweet fruit. How could he let her leave, ever again?

His tongue was like velvet against her clit, knowing the right pressure, the right speed. He was magic. She came so fast that he sat up after a moment, blinking at her, wearing that befuddled look again. Pulling him to her, she said, "Yes. It's you. What you know how to do to me."

He'd cast his shadow on her now, left it as a body leaves an imprint on a bed after it's gone. No matter what happened in the future, a part of her was his to keep.

"You were talking in your sleep before," Spike said against her neck.

"What did I say? Please don't tell me I was talking about the boys from 'N Sync."

There was a soft chuckle and then he looked into her eyes. "Slayer, what aren't you telling me?" Spike was afraid she would see his concern as smothering, but it was hard to hold back on anything he felt. Now that she was here, now that she was letting him near her.

"Huh?"

"The bad dreams. This fight thing. You were talking about dying."

"What I told you before. I think something else was supposed to happen, only it didn't and I'm waiting... I wouldn't have the dreams if there wasn't going to be something else, right? It's a warning."

Spike shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. Buffy. You scared me, the way you were talking. That death was a gift."

"Don't. Don't be scared," she told him, and enveloped him in her arms, her legs. "We don't have enough time for that."

We are veiled, he knew. Separated by flesh, alone and wholly contained within ourselves. It's only this time when we can come together, transcend the walls of flesh and bone, be one.

"I can't help you if you don't let me," Spike said, and they both smiled, struck simultaneously by the cant of their world, tilted off center now.

"I'm fine," Buffy whispered. He knew she was not.

End Part 2

October 18, 2002

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