Rated NC-17 for language, adult themes, and much heavy breathing between the Slayer and her undead paramour.

Special thanks to Heather, for being the first to take this seriously and honesty about the adjectives; Sara, for never-flagging encouragement and enthusiasm; Herself, for getting the word out and graciously giving my fic a permanent home; and Elaine, for grammary goodness. I couldn't have done it without you all.

********

Chapter One:

In retrospect, the fifteen pounds of garlic had been a stupid idea.

Buffy stared disgustedly at the dozens of white bulbs hung in clusters around her room. In her sleep-deprived, overwrought state, they looked like sheaves of tiny, albino shrunken heads. Her bedroom stunk like the back dumpster of the local Pizza Hut, she'd blown fifty bucks marked for bills cleaning out the local Trader Joe's produce section, and as soon as Willow and Dawn woke up they were going to know that, yet again, Something Was Wrong With Buffy. Assuming they could pull themselves out of their respective addiction and teen-age self-absorption long enough to notice her new decorating scheme, the questions were sure to start.

To make matters worse, sometime in the middle of her late night broodings she had remembered that garlic didn't even affect this particular vampire. She had personally seen Spike work his way through a platter of spicy buffalo wings laced with garlic salt on at least three separate occasions. Anne Rice had gotten exactly one thing right in her overblown tales: vampirism was slightly different for every victim, and William the Bloody's demon didn't seem to have an aversion to root vegetables. Given his fondness for exotic foods, he might even take this new decor as some weird sort of compliment.

It was obvious now that screwing the peroxided undead had succeeded where a half-dozen apocalypses, the sudden loss of her mother, and the implosion of two long-term romances had failed: driving the Slayer completely over the Deep End, to the point where she was making childishly stupid mistakes. Buffy was certain that the demonic, untamed part of the vampire would be touched.

Throwing the crucifix on her nightstand, Buffy curled up, fetal position, on the soft quilted counterpane and pulled a pillow over her head. This was better. She could still smell the evidence of her late night grocery extravaganza, but at least she couldn't see it. Shutting her eyes and burrowing her face into the soft depths of 75% down, Buffy groaned softly. God, her mother would be so shocked, so appalled, if she could see the latest mess her eldest daughter's attraction to all things dark and dangerous had gotten her into.

Then again, maybe not. Buffy remembered her mother's worried expression when she'd found out about Spike's insane infatuation last year. The conversation they'd had about it had been one of their last real talks before. . .Before.

Buffy and Joyce in the kitchen, Dawn long asleep upstairs, the yellow-orange overhead lights turning the tea in their mugs to amber.

"Buffy, this situation with Spike, it has me really worried. I know you're the Slayer and you can handle yourself, but I remember how you felt when Angel. . ." her mother's voice trailing off, reluctant to probe a wound scarred over but never quite healed.

"Turned evil, but still had this strange attraction to me." Picking up the mug, hands shaking slightly. "I could have my own Fox show, you know? When Psycho Vampires Obsess." Trying so hard for the easy flippancy that's always a tension release in the midst of battle, and failing miserably. This isn't the sort of thing that can be easily solved with a stake.

"Yes, I know how it affected you when Angel left those pictures in your room. I worry about Spike getting to you."

Joyce Summers had been the only one who understood that there was more than one layer in her daughter's reaction to Spike's fatal attraction. That beneath the anger, beneath the revulsion, beneath even the guilt she felt for letting another vampire so far into her life, was a dark, secret part of her that looked on the charming monstrousness that was Spike and responded.

Spike bending over her, duster swirling around him like a shadow. "You can't deny it. There's something between us."

With his usual merciless insight, Spike had been right. There had been something, even then. Not love, nothing like what she had felt for Angel or even Riley. But a connection, a yearning, a black vein of pure want. She hadn't been able to admit it to herself then--the implications had simply been too heavy. Death and desire, sadism and seduction tangoed together in Spike's twisted world until all the boundaries between love and hate were as blurred as his accent. To confess there was something in the rhythm of his destructive dance that made her want to drag out her boogie shoes would have been flirting with the ultimate death wish.

Buffy smiled bleakly to herself. But she'd fulfilled that particular wish now, hadn't she? Dived through the abyss and into indescribable bliss, only to be pulled back into the hell that was Sunnydale by her well-meaning loved ones, forced to readjust to a life she'd so gratefully left behind. Even now, there was a large part of her that felt dark and deceased, like it was still lying in her shredded coffin at Shadyside Memorial Gardens. Was it so crazy, then, that Spike's deadly charms had proven irresistible to someone who still felt she had one foot in the grave?

Only, he hadn't felt dead. That was the funny thing. And neither did she when she touched him. That brief, frenzied kiss in the dank alleyway had been the first time since her unlikely resurrection that she'd felt safe in her own skin, the electricity of the contact zinging through her like a shockwave. By the time they'd pulled apart she'd been trembling with the force of it, and she'd staggered away from him, unheeding of his hands or his voice trying to pull her back. Buffy had run for the uncertain shelter of the house on Revello Drive like a woman with all the forces of Hell pursuing her, rather than one lovesick nosferatu. Bursting through the front door, taking the stairs three at a time, she'd sped down the hall towards the place where any normal young woman worked out her deepest fears and insecurities: the bathroom.

Locking herself in, she'd run the shower scalding hot and stripped off her clothes, which still reeked of Spike's tobacco and leather scent. Standing there under the steaming torrent for what seemed like hours she'd shuddered and shivered, though not with cold. The feeling was akin to the painful tingling when a foot fell asleep, only a hundred times worse.

Later, she'd told herself, told him, that the one ill-timed kiss was it. A passing weakness. A response to trauma. A brief indulgence of a long-held curiosity, now satisfied. It was understandable, after everything she'd been through.

Buffy had managed to hide behind this relatively convincing line of bullshit until that little repeat performance at the Bronze. It was hard to call a quarter-hour of desperate, breathless soul kissing a momentary lapse of attention. It was even harder to dismiss it as nothing when flashes of it kept coming back to her at odd moments.

His eyes glowing preternaturally blue in the dim amber haze of the club. His cool, sure hands sliding possessively from her shoulders to her waist, clutching her like he's afraid she'll dissolve into mist. The taste of him, a little salty, a little smoky, like blood and ashes. The harsh, bright, painful world fading, nothing but the here and now and the heady rush of feeling that courses between them like electric current. Her heart pounding, pounding, pounding so hard that when his eager mouth leaves hers and trails down to the vulnerable skin of her neck she hears him gasp softly at the throbbing of the pulse in her veins. "I can feel your blood quickening, Slayer," he murmurs against her skin. "I know what you need." His teeth nipping, nibbling at the tissue-thin flesh right above her jugular. . .

That was when Buffy had panicked, pushing him away with a force that would have cracked ribs on a human man, fleeing the club for her darkened house and another marathon shower.

Not because of the bite--it had been harmless, really, no more serious than any of the dozens of hickeys she'd acquired between the ages of twelve and fifteen. It was certainly nothing like Angel's fever-induced suckling, when she thought his teeth were going to tear right through to her soul. Dracula and the Master had wrought infinitely more damage when they attacked her. Even Riley had done worse during a few of their more athletic encounters.

But the sensation of Spike's teeth--even in non-pointy mode--on her neck had touched off the same chain reaction of terminal pleasure as Angel's near-fatal bite. A paler version, maybe, since Spike wasn't engaged in sucking out her life through her veins, but close enough to send her senses into overdrive.

But she hadn't fled because she wanted Spike to stop. She'd fled because a substantial part of her wanted him to go on, ached to feel him pierce the thin flesh, to make the blood sing through her veins the way it had when Angel nearly bled the life right out of her.

Hunched into a ball on the slick floor of the tub, she'd sobbed with shame and disgust as the water washed over her still-stinging skin. How could she let this happen? How twisted had her world become, had she become, that she could let a former mortal enemy--chip or no chip--come within feeding range, and she could get off on it? What kind of miserable excuse for a slayer was she?

After several days of profound self-flagellation, she'd sworn to herself that it would never happen again. Harmless or not, ally or not, she would dust him before she let this continue.

Though Buffy hadn't wanted it to come to that. Not after what he had done for her, and for Dawn. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed him: he was the only one who matched her in strength and speed, whom she didn't have to worry about protecting or rescuing. She couldn't afford to lose his assistance--not when she was still suffering from such a profound case of the post-resurrection wiggins.

She'd decided that it was time to redraw the boundaries between them, to regain that respectful friendship they'd begun to forge during Glory's final days. Everything else was so complicated then, but her relationship with Spike had been easy--he seemed happy to worship her from afar, like one of those knights in the fairy tales her father used to read her when she was very small. And she was happy to let him. Silent worship Buffy could handle, especially if it kept Spike at her right hand where she wanted him. Maybe it was a little unfair, but so was the century of bloodshed he'd visited on the innocent. A few years of doing good, until this infatuation faded and he wandered off to torment some other unsuspecting female, was fitting penance for him, Buffy had thought.

So she'd pushed him away, reminded him of exactly what he was, what she was, piercing him with words instead of stakes, punctuating insults with punches. But it hadn't worked--she'd underestimated Spike's attraction to pain, and her own attraction to him. When he'd come at her last night, returned barb for barb and blow for blow, their equal combat had ignited something dangerous and glowing within her, a joyful ferocity she had only ever felt in the middle of her most brutal fights.

After ten minutes of it, she was so overheated with battlelust that it was either kiss him or dust him. And oddly enough, her hand had never gotten anywhere near the stake stashed in her jacket pocket. Buffy had discovered there were more pleasant ways of shutting that biting (in all senses of the word) mouth of his. The next thing she knew, the world was literally crashing down around them, and the next few hours blurred into a carnal kaleidoscope that had faded all her previous sexual experiences to pale shades. The things they'd done. . .the things they'd said. . .tossing away her downy armor and sitting up, Buffy pulled her knees to her chest as the mental pictures washed over her, face flushing and eyes brightening at the memories.

She'd spoken the truth to him in the alleyway. It had been degrading, and she was disgusted with herself. She'd forgotten all shame, all inhibitions, letting her primal instincts take over, wallowing in the most basic of animal impulses. As the sex had escalated, become so rough and so intense that it was more like passionate combat than lovemaking, she'd brought out the beast in him as well. Buffy had suspected that the two impulses, sex and feeding, were closely related in a vampire's emotions since Angel had lost control with her during their first, doomed kiss. But it wasn't until Spike gamefaced at a particularly hot moment that she saw just how thin the line was, and realized the rigid control her first demon lover must have exercised on innumerable occasions to keep from confusing and frightening her.

Buffy wasn't an innocent teenager kissing mysterious strangers in her bedroom anymore, though. Seeing Spike's face sharpen and his eyes burn amber had reached something equally ferocious in her, and she'd half-gasped, half-growled at him and pulled him deeper within.

She'd seen his most horrific countenance at the most intimate of moments, and instead of being repulsed, had wanted it just as much as she wanted the handsome human face it usually hid behind.

Everything else, Buffy could have forgiven herself, even if some of the things she'd done with Spike were probably illegal in most southern states. After everything she'd been seen and done since the age of fifteen, a sex life tinged with the exotic was certainly dealable, perhaps even inevitable. But the realization that she desired the demon in Spike as much as the man was something she still didn't want to accept.

He hadn't fed on her that night--although the rapidly-fading fang marks marring her breasts and thighs were testament to how badly he'd obviously wanted to. It was the one barrier between them they hadn't smashed. If this kept on, though, he almost certainly would, and Buffy couldn't allow that. It was one thing to be snacked on as an inexperienced slayer facing her first master vampire. Or to save her beloved Angel's life. Or even to fall prey to the legendary Dracula's gypsy tricks.

But to let Spike make her into his personal drinking fountain of her own free will, to trust him to stop before the draining became critical, to play with the delicate balance between life and death for nothing more than sexual gratification, was something she couldn't risk. It betrayed everything she was, everything she'd fought for over the past five years. No sex, even the bone-rattling, soul-satisfying sex she'd had with Spike last night, was worth that. No matter how good it felt, or how alive it made her feel, she had to give it up, or risk losing everything else that mattered to her.

Buffy stared hopelessly into the darkness which surrounded her, feeling at once at home and at a loss. It was easy to do things in the dark--make or break resolutions, shatter the world as you know it or resolve to build it up again.

I know where you live now, Slayer. I've tasted it.

You're going to crave me, like I crave blood.

Facing up to what you'd done in the harsh light of day, and fixing the damage from it--that was the hard part. And that was still to come.

********

Buffy's luck held the next day, at least in one area. Having snuck down to the curb and disposed of the half-dozen garlands of garlic in the misty early morning sunlight, she then bundled up comforter, sheets, and curtains into a gigantic pungent wad and lugged them down to the laundry room before her roommate or her sister stirred. After opening every window and spraying down all upholstered or wallpapered surfaces with Febreze, she managed to tame the garlic scent down to something approaching human levels. If Willow or Dawn asked, she'd decided to babble something about restocking her slayer supplies and hope they'd let it go at that.

As it turned out, neither of them seemed to notice. Dawn, still a little hazy-eyed from the painkillers they'd given her at the emergency room, stalked down the stairs at 8 AM, grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies from the cupboard, and slammed out the door before Buffy could offer so much as a good morning. Buffy briefly considered running after her and insisting she eat something that contained at least one of the four food groups, but decided not to push her luck. It was obvious her sister was in a state of righteous teenaged indignation--reproach had reverberated from the roots of her shiny Herbal Essenced hair to the toes of her scuffed Skecher-clad feet. Attempting to reason with her at this point would be like trying to wheedle a chaos demon: you were sure to end up getting slimed.

Willow did not even leave her room until nearly 1 PM, at which point she descended looking only slightly less pale than a starving vampire. "Will, are you sure you're going to make it?," Buffy asked, feeling concerned. She had no experience with the effects of magic withdrawal, and the only people likely to know were Tara and Giles. Asking Tara was out for obvious reasons, but if Willow didn't perk up a bit by tomorrow she was going to venture the long distance charges to England.

Willow seemed unfazed by her deathly appearance. "I'm bound to feel crappy for a couple of days," she said, giving Buffy a pale ghost of her usual sweet smile. "Don't worry about it--the shakes and headaches will go away eventually. I'm going to drink some juice and go back to bed. Maybe if I'm lucky I can just sleep through it."

"Do you want to watch a movie or something? It'll get your mind off things." And my mind off things, Buffy thought.

"No, if I concentrate on any electronic display I just get all woozy. I tried checking my e-mail this morning and almost passed out. I think Rack's last spell temporarily fried my rods and cones or something--the pixelization really gets to me."

"Jesus, Willow." Buffy remembered Dawn babbling about Willow's blackened eyes in the emergency room. Buffy knew the oilslick effect was the result of supersonic mojo, and God only knew what the effects of cutting off so suddenly from that heavy a dose of supernatural forces might be. She decided she might call Giles tomorrow either way. Maybe there was a magic equivalent for methadone.

But Willow only shrugged wanly. "You get into bed with forces like these, sometimes you just have to lie in 'em for awhile. Okay, that made no sense." She sighed and eased herself off the kitchen stool with all the spryness of a ninety-year-old paraplegic. "Actually, me and bed is sounding like a really hot combination right now." She poured out the remains of her half-empty bottle of Tropicana and headed back to her darkened room. There hadn't been a sound out of there since.

Buffy spent most of the rest of the day by herself doing stupid chores that didn't really need doing, like organizing all the towels in the linen closet according to color and size, and ironing her curtains before rehanging them. The mad Martha Stewart phase was broken only by Dawn calling at three o'clock and asking if she could spend the night at her friend Janice's house. Buffy again considered invoking the Mom routine, but she could tell from the tight, low pitch of her sister's voice that Dawn was just spoiling for a fight. In a fit of contrariness brought on by her own fatigue, Buffy decided not to give her one.

"Are you at least stopping by to pick up some clothes and your medication?" Buffy asked, trying to play the concerned caregiver.

"Nope. Brought everything with me this morning. I figured you wouldn't care, seeing as how you spend most of your nights protecting the streets of Sunnydale from things that go bump in the night. Except when they're chasing me, of course."

Buffy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Now was the time to remember that she was the adult, and Dawn was still recovering from what was probably her twelfth near-death experience of the year. "Dawnie, if you want to come home I'll skip patrolling tonight and we'll do something, just the two of us. The things that go bump in the night can do without me for once." Buffy didn't really feel like listening to Avril Lavigne and watching the latest Freddy Prinze cinematic abomination, but anything for peace at the Summers homestead.

"No thanks. That was pretty much what Willow said to me the other night, and you know how well that turned out. I'll be home tomorrow afternoon." With that well-placed barb she hung up, not even bothering to wait for her older sister's pained reply.

So now here it was, Friday evening, and Buffy was all on her own, which given her recent temptations was not a good thing. Picking up the phone, she hit number one on the speed dial.

"Magic Box, serving all your supernatural supply needs since 2000," Anya chirped brightly. To Buffy, the ex-demon always sounded like an odd combination of gameshow hostess and the psycho computer from 2001.

"Anya, it's Buffy. Listen, what are you and Xander doing tonight?"

"Oh, very important wedding business. We're finalizing seating arrangements and co-ordinating the napkin ring and chair cover palettes. I'm leaning towards scarlet, to match the bridesmaid's dresses and the flowers, but Xander wants white, because he says too much red is going to make the reception hall look like some sort of bordello. Since we're basically celebrating a mating ritual I don't see the problem, but he's being very stubborn. You're welcome to come over and help me convince him, if you like. We're not having sex until the wedding night, you know, to make the day more special, so you won't be in the way or anything. We're having popcorn, too," Anya said breathlessly--talking about wedding details always made her slightly giddy.

Hours of listening to the happy couple bickering over the endless minutiae of their upcoming nuptials rated only slightly higher than Organic Chemistry in Buffy's personal pantheon of tedium. Forget plans with Xander and Anya. Damn, she needed more friends. "Oh, well, that sounds really great, but I think I'm just going to take it easy tonight." There was no sense wasting good excuses on the Anya. She thought tact was a communist plot designed to interrupt the steady flow of commerce.

"That's probably a good idea. Dawn mentioned how sore you were from your recent night patrols when she stopped by yesterday--she said you could barely walk."

Oh God. Blocking out the mini-porno show Anya's innocent comment stirred up in her still-fuzzy brain, Buffy tried to concentrate on the conversation. "Uh, yeah. I think I'll just take a hot bath and veg out. Maybe do a short patrol tonight."

"Okay. If you change your mind, we'll be up rather late. I anticipate a lengthy negotiation this evening. Especially about the no-sex rule."

"Uh-huh. Bye." Buffy hung up the phone and surveyed the rapidly darkening kitchen. It would be sunset, soon. Time for all the various ghoulies and beasties to be out stalking the innocent citizens of Sunnydale as they went about their fun Friday night activities. Any slayer worth her salt would be warming up, getting ready for a busy night of making the world safe for humanity. And any twenty-year-old woman with something resembling a life would have something better to do before patrol than eating leftover chicken pot pie and watching Ally McBeal reruns on FX. Images of a certain rather posh crypt--and the crypt's chief resident naked among candles and satin sheets--flashed through her mind, but she mentally batted them away like errant flies. She had to stop doing this to herself.

She was exhausted, Buffy realized, yawning widely. That's why her mind was jumping around all over the place. She'd had about three hours of sleep in the last three days, and given the rather strenuous activities surrounding those few precious hours she was reaching the limits of even her considerable stamina. She'd head upstairs, jump in the shower, and then take a brief nap before going out. That would sharpen her up a bit. She'd need to be alert tonight, since she had absolutely no intention of asking Anybody for back-up. Best to let him--let them--cool off for a few days before she repeated the big "this is a mistake" speech. It would make it sound more convincing. Sure, Buff, her more cynical side spoke up. You're brushing off an immortal creature whose last relationship lasted twelve decades, and you think a few days is going to make a difference.

Well, she thought ruefully, it was a start.

********

Chapter Two:

Buffy awoke with a jerk, slayer senses on red alert. Oh God, Something in the house, Glory it's got to be Glory Jesus she's coming after Dawn I can't protect her. . .rolling over at roughly the speed of light, she began scrambling underneath the bed for the broadsword she'd always kept there in case of sudden attacks by night creatures.

"Shhh, Buffy, it's just me."

Buffy halted mid-scramble, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Oh great--her own personal night creature had decided to pay one of his less-than-timely visits. "Goddamn it, Spike! That was really stupid, sneaking up on me like that. You almost wound up minus a head."

Spike leaned against the partially open window, crushing the miniblinds in the process. In the pale blue moonlight he looked unearthly, ghostly rough trade made out of cobwebs and shadows. Rebel Without A Pulse, she thought, smiling grimly to herself.

He ignored her anger and focused on what lay beneath it, something he was getting really good at, she'd noticed. "Don't worry, you weren't in danger of dusting me. The broadsword's gone--Willow moved it downstairs with the rest of the big weapons after. . ." He paused. Buffy had also noticed that he only referred to her death indirectly or through euphemism, like a dirty secret. Buffy thought of Victorians covering chair legs with skirts and wondered when thoughts of her demise had become so obscene to her former nemesis. But it was best not to focus on that. That way led to confusing thoughts. She ran nervous fingers through her tangled hair, wincing slightly at the knots which pulled at her scalp. She'd gone to bed with it wet and it probably looked like a rat's nest by now. Best also not to focus on why she was worried about looking messy in front of Spike, either, and zone in on the issue at hand. "Well, that was even stupider. You never know what's going to come in here."

Spike crossed his arms and regarded her with one of those proud smirks that he usually graced her with after she'd made a particularly deft staking. "What, come in the Slayer's room and start trouble? Not likely. The only one who might have tried that was Glory, and you sent her to hell. A different hell from the one she was used to, hopefully." He paused and looked at her, cobalt eyes widening slightly in understanding. "You thought it was Glory, after your sis again. I wondered what you were dreaming about. You've been tossing and turning for the longest time."

"You were watching me sleep?" Buffy stared at him, not sure at all how to feel about his latest admission. The crawly sensation she'd had when he'd come into her room to clue her in about Riley's vamp whores was definitely missing, though.

Spike's smirk deepened. "Well, you looked so cute lying there all comfy in your fish jammies. I hated to disturb you." His eyes roved over her with the predatory expression she remembered from his human-hunting days.

Buffy glanced down at herself. She'd been so tired after her shower that she'd reached for the nearest dry clothes and collapsed into bed, said clothes happening to be a thin white baby t-shirt and her yummy sushi pajama bottoms, which she'd cut off short last year when the hems began to fray. She'd also neglected to put on a bra, she realized. Feeling vulnerable and a little bit trashy, she scooted back against the headboard and hugged a throw pillow to her chest, shielding her upper half from further scrutiny. "Why disturb me in the first place? What are you doing here?" she said as evenly as possible, given the adrenals still pumping through her system.

The self-protective move wasn't lost on Spike, but for once he let the chance for easy innuendo go past, instead ambling over to the bed and sitting down on the edge of it near her feet, invading her carefully demarcated personal space. "I thought we needed a bit of a chat, you and me," he said reasonably. "With the Niblet's trouble yesterday we didn't really get a chance to hash all this out." The patented Spike smirk had disappeared, and for once he looked sincere, almost vulnerable.

Which made Buffy even more uncomfortable, if that were humanly possible. Sarcastic, nasty Spike she could handle. Sincere Spike looking at her with soft blue eyes that were making her insides feel all swirly, and talking about what had happened like it was the start of a real relationship between them was too surreal to even begin to process. Harsh reality check time once again. "There's nothing to hash out, Spike," she said, lifting her chin but refusing to meet his gaze. "Because there is no you and me. The other night was a big mistake. I don't even want to think about it, much less discuss it."

Spike's face hardened instantly into his usual sharp, sly look. "I see. That kiss in the alleyway didn't mean anything, that night at the Bronze was just a distraction, and six hours of sweaty, raging, shake-down-the-house shagging was some sort of momentary fugue, is that it, Slayer?"

Buffy looked down at her hands, which were lying clenched in her lap. She really needed a manicure, she thought. Clawing at diamond-hard undead flesh in the heat of unholy passion and then fighting magicked-up demons in dark alleys was murder on the cuticles. She knew her mind was wandering again but everything else was so mixed up, why not her thinking? She felt tired, so very tired at that moment. Maybe it was time to quit fighting it and simply 'fess up. After all, telling him he was a much-needed antidote to shock and numbness, the sexual equivalent of a good hard slap in the face, wasn't much more flattering than calling him a convenience.

"Life has been so strange, since I came back," she said wearily. "Everyone is different, everything just feels wrong." She felt tears prickle her eyes, knowing she must look weepy and stupid but for once not caring. She needed someone to understand how odd she felt, someone to get it--even him. Especially him. "I walk around, you know, I do things, I try to pay bills and find a normal job, and. . .and keep Dawn from spontaneously combusting into a gigantic flameball of teenage rebellion. I do laundry, and see my friends and keep the streets of Sunnydale clear of the latest horrors that have decided the Hellmouth is a really cool party town. And everything. . .everything hurts, just getting from moment to moment is painful, but at the same time nothing registers, you know? I feel bleached out all over, all the time, except. . ." she trailed off, hoping Spike's usual piercing insight could fill in the blanks.

As usual, he didn't disappoint in the mind-reading department. "Except with me. . ." he said, his tone half-statement, half-question. His face was corpse calm, and for once she couldn't read him. But in this moment of absolute stillness she was struck again by his razor's edge beauty, all planes and pitiless angles, sinuous muscles under marble skin, lithe lines drawn in stark shades of black and white and midnight blue. She had wondered the first time she'd ever seen him how a creature so beautiful could also be so vicious. It was a question that still haunted her.

Spike's paralysis broke after a moment, in the most maddening of ways. One cool, firm hand reached over and began exploring the sensitive skin of her right ankle, slowly working its way up past her knee towards the danger zone of her inner thigh. Buffy shut her eyes to block out the intensity of his gaze, biting her lower lip hard enough to taste blood in her efforts to remain still. This would be so much easier if she could just freeze him out, show him that she could be as indifferent to him as she was to everything else. But something about him constantly cut through her defenses and stripped her bare.

"Slayer. . ." The way the vampire's London drawl caressed the syllables of her given title always made it sound like a slightly obscene endearment. "Look at me," he said, his tone soft but urgent. His fingers had reached the lower edge of her shorts and were teasing around the hem, making the small muscles underneath the skin there quiver involuntarily.

Looking at him under the circumstances was the last thing Buffy wanted to do, but it would be really dumb to sit there with her eyes all screwed up, like she was afraid of what she would see. She slowly opened her eyes and met his gaze almost defiantly. There was no anger in his face, but no pity, either. His eyes burned with the soft, hot glow she knew from other nights.

"If that's true," he whispered in the same low, breathless tone, "then you need me, Summers, and you need this. . ." the vampire underlined his pronouncement by slipping his hand under her pajamas, caressing her already wet and throbbing center through the fragile cotton of her underwear. This would probably have been a good time to twist away or punch him or at least say something really cutting, but the slow, pulsating heat his touch was kindling in her veins made her suddenly languid. "If it's the only thing that's bringing you back to life, then you shouldn't run away from it." Long, elegant fingers gently pushed aside the damp fabric and slipped inside her, zeroing in on the place that always turned her brain to pudding. Without breaking rhythm, he leaned over, lips directly against her ear. "Unless, that is, you want to feel dead," he said, beginning to remove his hand from where she suddenly, desperately needed it to be.

Quicker than thought, Buffy gripped his wrist and held his hand in place. She could feel him smile against her skin. "I didn't think so," he said, starting that delicious rhythm once again. Reaching deep inside her, he found a sweet spot that was half-dizzy pleasure, half-darkling pain, hitting it again and again until Buffy thought she would pass out from sheer overstimulation. He was going to kill her if he didn't stop. She was going to kill him if he did. She could feel a tingling beginning in all her extremities, the sparkling buzz at the crown of her head and the tips of her fingers and toes that signaled the beginning of a truly spine-melting orgasm. At that moment, his searching mouth, which had been exploring the soft skin beneath her right ear, bit down hard on the lobe, and even with blunt teeth the feeling was enough to push her over the edge. She came with a strangled shout, the orgasm washing over her in a tsunami of sensation that left her trembling all over. God, this wasn't healthy.

Spike was undressing now, all cool efficiency as he stripped, his impossibly pale skin striped with darkness by the moonlight streaming in through the miniblinds. He was staring at her again, with that strange, calm look he'd had on his face earlier when she'd told him why she needed him. Buffy tossed the useless pillow shield to one side--a lot of good it had done her--and quickly skinned out of her t-shirt, shorts, and now rather sodden underwear. He'd just given her another skull-splitting orgasm in what had to be a world land-speed record--what was the use of playing coy at this point? Now as naked as he was, she leaned back on her elbows and returned his gaze. He smiled slightly at her sudden lack of shyness, but then his face grew serious again.

"Turn over and get on your knees," he said, his voice as calm as his face, but with a note of command in it she'd never heard before. Under any other circumstances, the do-as-I-say-she-creature tone would have had her fingers itching for something wooden and pointy, but right now it flooded her with that same warm lassitude she'd felt earlier when his hand staked its claim on her inner thigh. Don't have to think. . .don't have to worry. . .just let him take over and everything will feel right, if only for a minute. And turn your brain off before you examine that last thought too closely and ruin the rest of the night.

For once taking her own advice, Buffy quit ruminating and followed orders, clutching the iron bars of the headboard to balance the awkwardness of the position. She felt rather than heard Spike move into place behind her, since the beating of her heart in her ears was drowning outside noise. They'd done this the other night in the abandoned house, splinters and plaster shards grinding into her knees as he ground into her. The luscious degradation of letting him take her from behind on a filthy basement floor had added further tang to the shameful delight of having him in the first place.

This was different, however, she mused as his hands smoothed over her back with the same possessive caress she remembered from their collision at the Bronze. This was her own room, sweet with pastels and postcards, stuffed animals and pictures of her friends, everything as smiling and innocent as a Pottery Barn catalog. What did it mean that she had let Spike invade this, her inner sanctum of normalcy? His hands had found her breasts, and were tweaking her nipples with a force that was kissing cousin to brutal, and she felt the lush weight of his cock bumping against the cleft of her ass. This really shouldn't be happening on top of her grandmother's heirloom quilt, she realized.

Then he entered her in one swift movement, and she couldn't think about anything except the feel of him filling her, the angle of their bodies letting him so far inside that it was like losing her virginity all over again. Different time, different vampire, same soul-deep pain, pain that stunned, pain that clutched at something profound and elemental inside of her, but pain that felt so very, very good. Buffy gripped the headboard harder, the cold iron biting into her hands. "Don't. . .don't stop," she panted.

"No, I won't stop," he replied, the calm surface of his voice breaking, sounding almost as ravaged as she felt. "I won't ever stop." He pulled out of her almost completely and then entered her again with exquisite, excruciating slowness, then repeated the process again and again, a little faster each time, until he was slamming into her full force. The intensity of it was too much, far too much, and not quite enough. She pushed back at him, needing him deeper, harder, faster, anything to help him reach that numb center of frozen feeling at her heart's core and bring it to life, if he had to rip her in two to do it. He was bending over her now, his unneeded breath sounding in her ear, and she felt the familiar ping at the back of her skull that told her a vamp in full demon mode was perilously close. She could feel his fangs grazing the humid skin at the curve of her neck, skating over the crescent-shaped memento of Angel's deepest kiss. The hardened, pearly flesh there was suddenly burning, as if the skin remembered and cried out for what her brain had so desperately tried to forget. He was still pounding into her, with a smooth, serpentine brutality that would have broken a normal woman, but had her almost sobbing with sheer need. She was tottering on the dizzy ledge of release, helplessly caught between anticipation and fulfillment, her climax sparking but refusing to burst into flame.

In that moment of utter desperation she knew what she needed to send her over, longed to feel his teeth slide into her with the same ruthlessness as his cock, filling her up, drinking her in, burning away the icy darkness that still clung to her like a shroud. She opened her mouth to make the fatal request, when Spike, somehow sensing her distress, dug his nails into the smooth flesh of her flanks, scoring her like the predator he was. The extra charge of sensation was enough: the orgasm ripped through her with the merciless force of a lightning bolt, and Buffy, sagging into the pillow with the cold weight of her lover still pressing into her back, could almost hear deadened synapses crackling to life. I am Frankenstein, hear me roar, she thought giddily. Grrr, Argh.

Withdrawing from her carefully, Spike reached forward and gently pried her cramping hands from where they still clung to the headboard. Turning her on her back with the same care, he stretched out beside her on the bed, propping his head in one hand and watching as her breathing returned to semi-normal. "Feel better, love?" he said with cat-like smugness, his face already smoothed out to its normal, deceptively innocent human lines. He looked like a choirboy who knew a little too much about the parish priest.

Buffy stretched, flexing her stiff fingers. "Feel something," she said breathlessly. "That's a start." She was still gasping, deep wracking pants that were as much fear as afterglow. She'd been ready to beg him to bite her. That was so far up on the dysfunctional scale there wasn't even a mark for it. She would have fled again out of sheer panic, but since her bathroom was only about fifteen feet away, the gesture probably wouldn't have the same weight. Plus, she wasn't sure her knees would hold her up, at this point.

The fleeing bit was useless anyway, no matter where she was. What kind of sanctuary did even her own bedroom really offer? This ice-cream colored room had played host to a gaggle of nightmares, from misguided possessed puppets to interdimensional banshees: underneath the scent of vanilla perfume and lilac air freshener the rank odor of fear and death always lingered. Here, Angelus had crept in, stalking her with his insane medley of love and hatred, leaving her his poisonous little mash notes. Dracula had misted his way into her dreams and into her jugular while she slept in this very bed. Even Riley had lain here dreaming of his undead call girls while holding her in his arms. Spike should be as comfortable here as he was in his own crypt--this space was no less deathly, no matter what either of them might like to believe. Her room was like her life: cotton candy cuteness interlaced with creeping horrors, the pastel fabric of her existence soaked through with inky black in every fold. So why try to run from the darkness anymore? The only thing she could do was balance it with the light as best she could.

The problem was, she wasn't sure how Spike tipped the scale. The fact that he clearly wanted to drink her but hadn't, seemed actually to be waiting for some kind of tacit permission, was a sign in his favor. The teasing around Angel's mark was a relatively subtle move from this most direct of beings--obviously, he understood the implications as well as she did, and didn't want to push her too far, too fast. Though Spike might be impetuous to the point of self-destructiveness, he wasn't stupid. His uncharacteristic hesitation underlined how big a deal this really was, and she had been so close to simply closing her eyes and taking the big plunge off the high-jump. But one suicidal swan dive was really enough for this year.

And this whole thing would be so much easier to work out if he didn't keep touching her all the time.

Spike was running his hands over her, lightly skimming her arms and chest and stomach, the gesture soothing rather than possessive this time. He was gazing at her still, his eyes doing that incandescent blue thing again, and in this unguarded moment there was so much love and longing in his gaze that she could hardly bear to look at him. He leaned over and began to nuzzle her neck, a sweet gesture she'd remembered Riley making, though the effect was somewhat different when it was a vampire near where the blood rushed so close to the surface. He didn't try to use teeth, though, not even the shadow of a nibble, seeming content for the moment to simply be near her in this tenderest of ways.

Buffy could feel the familiar throbbing begin in her softest and most vulnerable areas, and in a way that was even more disturbing than her sudden bite-fetish. Spike slamming into her, taking her over, even making her long for the deepest, most intimate kinds of pain they could inflict on each other, was locatable in the twisted landscape of their connection. This thing between them was unhealthy, unnatural, and hence all succeeding trauma and perversion understandable. But these rare moments of quiet, when his demon dove deep under the surface and she saw the remnants of the man he had been adoring her, undid her in a fundamental way. She could accept his rage but not his gentleness.

Too much mental pacing, Buffy, she thought, exasperated with the endless loop-de-loops her brain always did over The Spike Thing. Try to rivet on the basics. Night young. Vampire pretty. She felt the hard evidence of his unsatisfied need prodding her hip, and it occurred to her that she owed him a pleasant hurt or two after the way he'd just bossed her around, a much more cheerful focus than maundering over the impossibility of this whole situation. Putting her supernatural reflexes to use, she pinned him to the bed with one fierce motion, his slim wrists trapped under her hands, his narrow hips caged between the slender steel trap of her thighs.

"My turn to drive," she said, smiling down at him with the same lethal cheerfulness she flashed at demons on the wrong end of her stake.

"Just be careful shifting into third. . .you tend to be a bit hard on the equipment," he replied. The sly, salacious grin was back on his face--the heat between them could have melted titanium.

"No way," she said, punctuating her pronouncement with a not-so-subtle move of her hips that made him clutch helplessly at the bedspread. "Stripping the gears is half the fun."

********

Chapter Three:

"You'd be the death of me, Slayer, if I wasn't there already," Spike rasped, rolling off her and stretching over the side of bed. Buffy knew he was reaching for the cigarettes and lighter he had secreted in his duster pocket, but decided not to replay her well-worn second-hand smoke speech. Considering that last performance, he deserved the nicotine fix. Hell, she might even ask him for a puff or two.

Thirsty, she reached for the water glass on the nightstand, swallowing down half its contents in one greedy gulp. After several hours of non-stop unlawful carnal knowledge, she was quaky and dehydrated and light-headed, like she'd just run a marathon in heavy gravity, and there was soreness and stickiness in places that had no business being that way. She wouldn't have the strength to patrol at this rate, which would make two nights this week she'd missed because of her extra-curricular activities with the former Big Bad. It's a plot, a plot I tell you, she thought giddily. First workable scheme Spike ever came up with. Screw the Slayer to the point of paralysis at every available opportunity, leaving her too tired and sore to fulfill her appointed duties. Cue hostile Sunnydale takeover by its more demonic elements, bloodshed, apocalypses, yadda yadda yadda.

She had to admit, as a Master Plan it had a certain style. Buffy pictured Spike pitching the plan--complete with lewd stick-figure diagrams--to a mixed bag of monsters, like that motley crew he played kitten poker with, and barely smothered a giggle.

I shouldn't be feeling this way, she thought, setting down the glass. Beneath her exhaustion and soreness was something very different, a trembly, vibrant, strawberry jello-ey sensation of well-being practically oozing out her pores. Which was all wrong, given the things she'd done and the creature she'd just done them with. Now was the time for the cold pricklies of shameful guilt, not the warm fuzzies of post-coital loopiness. It has to be all the endorphins, she reasoned quickly. I must have hit my target heart rate about a dozen times in the last three hours. Just a chemical reaction, nothing to get concerned about.

Refreshed and rationalized, she turned back to the vampire, who was now stretched out on his back, smoking and staring at the ceiling. Lying there with his gilt hair all ruffled, dressed only in sheets and wearing an uncharacteristically pensive expression, he looked strangely young. "It's never been like this," Spike said softly. It was amazing how his tone could change at times, from Sid Vicious to Dylan Thomas in the time it took him to light a cigarette. "Being with a vamp's quite a different thing from being with a human, and you're quite a human, at that."

"What's the difference?" Buffy asked, intrigued. How humans compared with demons sexually was a subject Angel would never discuss, probably out of guilt over Angelus's three-month campaign to utterly destroy her self-esteem. But she'd always been curious--probably also because of said campaign.

"It's not as immediate, somehow. Part of it's the cold--no body heat, y'know. And it's cleaner. . . not that that's necessarily a good thing," he added hastily before she could do more than raise an eyebrow at him. "'Cuz that means no sweat, no pheromones, no juice to it, so to speak. Of course, vamps have most humans beat hollow for sheer strength and endurance," he paused and blew another puff of smoke at the ceiling. "Plus, no bloody inconvenient moral inhibitions getting in the way. Demons don't stick at much." He paused and leered fondly at her. "But then again, neither do you. All the heat of a human, with the strength and cunning of a vampire--that's powerful mojo, sweetheart. No wonder you have me by the short hairs."

Buffy frowned at him, not sure how to respond. Being told by a 120-year-old creature of evil with countless macabre entries in his little black book that she rated numero uno was seriously disturbing. But after Angel's and Parker's brush-offs and Riley's infidelity, oddly flattering, as well.

Spike was watching her closely, smoking and smirking and apparently enjoying her confusion so much he decided to add a little more. "Must have been tough for you before now, though," he said with studied casualness.

"What do you mean?" she said, trying to find a tone of voice a comfortable distance between nonchalant and defensive.

"Oh, come on, Summers. By my count, you've been with two human men now, and two vampires. Are you telling me it was anything the same?" Exhaling, he regarded her challengingly through a haze of cigarette smoke.

"Well, it was different. . ." she trailed off, silently cursing herself for letting curiosity lure her into a round of True Confessions with Spike, of all people. There was no way this was going to end well.

"Yeah, the difference between a tricycle and a Harley. That git Parker clearly wasn't worth your time, so we won't go into that. But can you honestly say there was ever one heavy petting session with Captain America where you could really let go? One moment when you didn't have to worry about snapping his neck or breaking his back in the heat of passion? Or maybe just taking him so hard, so fast, his heart couldn't take it? There've been times you've had me hanging on by my fingernails--I know for a fact G.I. Joe didn't stand a chance unless you were going half-speed with him. Couldn't have been much fun for you, love."

Buffy's frowned deepened, as the memories came back to her in spite of her best efforts to keep them at bay.

Riley's handsome, boyish face flushed and sweaty, looking up at her with the same wonder and apprehension he'd shown when she kicked him across the training room. "That was amazing, but I think you tore something important," he says that first time, and she can tell he's only half-joking. Smiling down at him reassuringly, squashing the vague fear and nebulous anger--she'd tried to be so very, very careful, and still she'd hurt him. Wondering if there will ever be a time when she won't have to hold back, to worry about breaking a lover in some irreparable way, to fear that her apparently overwhelming needs will cost him his soul or his manhood. Leaning down and kissing him so he won't see what she's thinking, loving the warm, human feel of his lips and his large, kind hands, but knowing deep down that it will never be enough.

Buffy cleared the traitorous thoughts from her head. Riley had loved her--he'd been noble and giving and real--and he'd tried to make it work. It hadn't been his fault that she had pushed him away, that the very humanity she prized in him had also marked him as too vulnerable for her to love wholeheartedly. She still missed him, missed the companionship and the support and the utter normalcy of having a boyfriend she could walk around in daylight with. Spike had no right commenting on what he couldn't understand. "Riley was a good man," she said pointedly. "There was more to our relationship than just sex."

Spike's eyes narrowed slightly, but the superior smirk stayed firmly in place. "Yeah, unlike this. I get it. You want to play it like he was this great lost love, fine. But the fact remains that when it comes to having it off an ordinary human just can't cut it for a vamp--or a slayer. Not unless you get your jollies by ripping them to pieces, which was never really my bag. Or yours, I suspect."

"So you've been with humans before?" Buffy replied, realizing that this was the perfect opportunity to turn the conversational spotlight back on him. Plus, she had to admit to a certain curiosity. Spike jeered and argued and flirted and even occasionally advised, but he rarely reminisced. Much of his known history was an unsolvable tangle of rumor and myth he'd carefully crafted for more than a century to enhance his reputation as a master vampire. But the only time he'd chosen to tell her about his past, the truth had been far stranger than any of his fictions.

Spike was momentarily silent. Oh fine, trust him to turn all broody just as things are getting good, Buffy thought, irritated. She was about to prod him again verbally when he finally spoke. "Just once," he said in a strange, flat voice.

"And?"

"And what?" he said, sounding suddenly flustered. Interesting.

Buffy pressed onward. "What was it like?"

"Not what I thought it would be. Didn't care to repeat the experience." Taking a final drag on his cigarette, he reached over her and threw it into her water glass. Buffy saw the gesture for the attempt at distraction that it was, and ignored it.

"Why not?" She could feel the disquiet coming off him in waves. Normally Spike came in two flavors: unbearably cocky or utterly defeated. To see him uneasy was a rare thing. There was no way she was letting this go now.

"I just didn't. It was a cheap thrill that didn't work out. Let's leave it at that."

"Bullshit, Spike. In a hundred and twenty years of unlife you've wanted one other human woman for something besides a snack. That's no cheap thrill. Who was she?" Buffy said, snapping into full interrogation mode. Her spidey sense was tingling, the electric feeling of anticipation that told her there was something serious going down. She'd never ignored it without being sorry later.

Silence again. Spike was sitting up now, usually restless hands clenched on his knees, eyes darting around the room like he was planning escape routes.

"Who. Was. She?" Buffy said, real menace creeping into her voice. The last time she'd used this particular tone with him he'd been chained up in a bathtub.

Spike sighed and regarded her with a trapped, guilty expression. Though there was almost no physical resemblance between the two, in that instant he reminded her of Riley, caught with his veins open in an abandoned tenement. She could see all the muscles in his face and arms tensing, like he was steeling himself for a sudden, savage attack. When he finally spoke, his voice was very quiet.

"Cecily," he said simply.

Buffy stared at him, the name crashing through the still recesses of her mind like a boulder thrown into a pond. Cecily. The one woman he'd loved as a human man, whose rejection had sent him straight into a century of carnage and destruction. Buffy had never really thought about what Cecily's fate might have been after William transformed into Spike. The one time they'd discussed his past, he'd made it sound like he was too wrapped up in his new identity and his new fixation on Drusilla to retain emotional ties to anyone living. It had never occurred to her to ask what might have happened to William's love for Cecily, filtered through Spike's rage and vindictiveness. She felt an icy, nauseous feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach that was nothing like her usual numbness. "What happened to her, after, Spike?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Spike's rueful expression intensified. "You know what happened." There was regret in his eyes, but Buffy suspected it wasn't for Cecily. She knew she must look like she'd just been punched in the stomach by someone who knew how. The sick feeling was increasing, a rancid emotional cocktail made of equal parts anger, fear, and something that felt uncomfortably close to hurt. I know what he is, she thought queasily. I've been reminding myself of it for the past week. This should come as no shock or surprise.

So why did it suddenly feel like she couldn't breathe?

"You couldn't make her love you, so you killed her," she said in a low, choked voice. "Was it fun, Spike? Did it make up for all the times she'd hurt you?" In her mind's eye, she saw Drusilla in chains, Spike pressing a stake to her unbeating heart, ready to destroy the being he'd adored for decades. Oh God. "We both know most humans are no good in the sack, but I bet hearing her scream and beg was quite the turn on. And at least you got a decent meal out of it." And you were practically ringing the dinner bell yourself not three hours ago. Oh, God God God. She put her hands to her temples, knowing it was a weak gesture but not able to help herself.

Some of what she was thinking must have been showing on her face, because Spike was suddenly right there, gripping her shoulders with terrific urgency. "Buffy, don't go jumping to wrong conclusions. Things are different. I'm different."

"What's different about you?" she shot back. "You have no soul, you have no conscience. You're dead to everything except your own selfish needs. The only thing keeping you in line is that chip." Which doesn't even work on me anymore, she thought but didn't say. After this latest bombshell she couldn't even begin to face yesterday's emotional missile.

"Bollocks," he said, tightening his grip. "Do you really think I can't kill? That there aren't dozens of fledgling vamps out there just begging for a Lord and Master to tell them what to do, who'd bring me all the fresh meat I wanted? If that dozy bint Harmony can form a gang in no time flat, what do you think I could do if I set my mind to it? I love you. That's what keeps me in line."

I love you. The words were so easy for him. He'd said them to her over and over again the other night, as they made each other bruise and bleed, as he worshiped her with fang and claw. That couldn't be a kind of love. She couldn't need that kind of love. She wrenched away from him, retreating to the far side of the bed. "You don't know what love is, Spike," she said, barely keeping the quaver out of her voice. "You can't love, you need a soul to love."

Spike followed her, swiftly closing the distance between them. "That would make it easier for you, wouldn't it? But it's not that simple. Dru was telling the truth that night in the crypt--vampires can love, but our love isn't like that of humans, Slayer." He brushed the tangled hair away from her cheek, cupping her flushed face in his chill hand with gentle deliberation. She closed her eyes, as always less ready to face his tenderness than his cruelty. "It's dark and strange and hungry, as we are. When it happens to us we're obsessed with it, drowned by it, servants to it." He hesitated, then went on. "That's why Angelus couldn't bear the thought of it."

Buffy's eyes flew open in sheer surprise. The blond vampire had enough issues about his former mentor to fill a moderately large newsstand. He never mentioned him unless he absolutely had to, unless he thought it vitally important. Spike smiled slightly at her obvious astonishment, but then his face grew serious again. When he spoke his voice was tight, like he was forcing the words out. "Angelus wanted you dead because his love for you consumed him. He'd been imprisoned for a hundred years and couldn't stand being a slave to anyone, especially the Slayer. Loving you would have been like loving his own destruction."

At his words, Buffy felt something crucial shatter deep inside. Spike had answered a question she'd been asking forever, but the truth held little solace, for so many reasons. Her vision begin to blur, and she called upon every ounce of control she possessed to keep from breaking down in front of him. But he knew, he always knew. With excruciating tenderness, Spike pulled her close to him, but whether it was for her comfort or his own she wasn't sure. "After Dru ripped me to shreds, I didn't want to be another woman's lapdog ever again," he said in that same strained voice. "When I couldn't stay away from Sunnydale, I told myself I wanted to kill you, rather than admit I just wanted you. That's the dark side of our devotion. To kill, to possess, to be possessed, they're all so very close for us. As a slayer, you know what that's like."

Buffy pulled back, glaring at him, stung out of her anguish by his insinuation. "I'm not a murderer, Spike. You've slaughtered thousands of innocents without a speck of remorse, so don't compare my feelings to yours."

Spike glared back, azure eyes glittering dangerously. "You've killed thousands too, love, and reveled in every grisly minute of it. I've hunted with you, I've seen it. There's nothing you love better than the kill. That glow you get when you dust a vamp or gut a demon is the same one you have when you come. So don't pretend you don't know what I'm getting at."

Buffy jerked away from him, breaking his grip with a quick, brutal movement that knocked him back against the headboard. She'd been so very, very wrong to invite this being in, to let his distorted, fun-house mirror reflections influence her perceptions for one moment. "Get out of here, Spike," she said, voice as chilly as when she'd left him lying in an alleyway covered in twenties. Wrapping a sheet around herself, she backed away from the bed like it was covered in tarantulas.

Completely oblivious to his own nudity, he stalked over to her, not touching her but again invading her space, refusing to let her get away. "That's your answer to all of this, isn't it? Run away, or shove me away, but it won't work. You can't keep the truth out by running any more than you can keep me out with garlic." He glanced at the windows and bedframe, and Buffy felt herself blush, shame diluting some of her ire. Then he was looking at her again, eyes boring into her own. "Face it, pet. You're a predator same as me. Maybe your motivations are higher than mine have been, but you're still nearer to me than you've ever been to your family or your Watcher or your little band of Slayerettes."

He leaned in closer, close enough to kiss, and even in the midst of her anger, Buffy could feel the connection between them, twisting and sparking like frayed wire. "They're afraid to see what really drives you, to look into the darkness and find you at home there. They don't want to know what really moves you." His voice had taken on a slow, hypnotic quality, which twined around her fevered brain like a kudzu vine. His eyes were ageless, fathomless, and if she let herself she could fall into them, drowning in wells of blue. She felt like Mowgli in the wilderness, trapped by a seductive serpent who wouldn't be satisfied until he'd swallowed her whole.

And in that dizzy instant how she wanted it, wanted him, the familiar lethargy washing over her and drowning her anger in a tide of desire as thick and sweet as molasses. With aching slowness, he was caressing the smooth skin just under her collarbone, tantalizing around the upper edge of the swaddled sheet, and she could almost feel the cells in her skin straining towards his touch. His busy mouth was exploring the salty hollow of her throat, tasting the racing pulse there with his tongue, but still he went on speaking.

"It's lonely, isn't it?" he murmured, grasping the top of the sheet and beginning to draw it down. "Always hiding, always pretending, never finding anyone who loves you for your shadows as well as your light." His speech was smoothing out, losing its staccato edge, taking on the same plush accents as Giles's dulcet tones. "But I'm not afraid to see all of you, Slayer." The sheet was around her waist, around her knees, now puddling uselessly on the floor. "Even now, when we both know you're not the same." With nothing between them now, she could feel his uncannily smooth skin gliding deliciously against hers, his cool erection pressing into her abdomen, his hands tattooing her all over with his ceaseless touch. The room was spinning, spinning, and he was the only fixed point within it. "I want you still, even when you're hard and cold and cut like a blade, and the others run away, terrified of their own handiwork." Buffy clutched at him, feeling the inexorable hardness of his shoulders, the strength of the arms that had both struck her and soothed her at the darkest moments of her life. He felt like safety and damnation all at once.

Spike's voice whispered on, his words entrapping her as much as his hands. "I know what it is to feel divorced from the world, to need something powerful, something profound, something beyond the weak and selfish love of human beings." He was kissing her neck, savoring the thin skin there, achingly near to her now-glowing scar. "I hear what your heart cries out for, Slayer," he growled softly, and she felt rather than saw his face change and his mouth harden. Needle-sharp fangs were pressing into the pearly crescent that marked her as another's, ready to obliterate it with his own claiming wound. He was offering it to her, everything she'd been craving, and making it fatally easy to accept. She didn't have to move or speak or even think--all she had to do was stand still.

Sooner or later, you're gonna want it. And the second that happens, you know I'll be there. I'll slip in. Have myself a real, good day. Suddenly, Spike's chilling promise came echoing back to her, as clearly as if he were whispering it in her ear. Buffy felt her lassitude break, submerged by a fury so intense she was literally seeing red, angry glints dancing in front of her eyes and working her into a fever-pitch of rage. How dare he. . .how could he. . .I knew it. . . too incensed to think coherently, she relied on pure reflex, pulling back from him in a fluid burst of movement too fast for the human eye to see. With a single, powerful blow she sent him flying across the room. He landed on the floor by the bed, the force of her strike shocking him out of game face.

Before he could gather his strength, she leapt on top of him, straddling him in a position very like the one they'd been in not long before. Spike opened his mouth to make what was probably a witty comment to that effect, but was stopped cold by the ten-inch, razor-sharp stake that had appeared in her hand as if by magic. With deadly deliberation, she pressed it into the waxen skin just over his heart, one of the only parts of his torso not already marked by the welts and bruises of her violent pleasure. A single, black-red drop of blood welled to the surface, the exact color of the spots still dancing before her eyes.

"A broadsword's not the only weapon I keep in my bed, Spike," she hissed.

"You'd do it, wouldn't you?" he said slowly. "You'd rather kill me than face the truth about yourself. About us."

"You're already dead, remember?" she spat back at him, pressing the stake in another few millimeters. She knew that she was dancing on the knife edge of his doom, but those deadly red sparks wouldn't let her stop. Buffy could feel all of her most primal slayer instincts bubbling to the surface, telling her to take, to kill, to drive her weapon home and end the monster stretched out before her. She could imagine it clear as day, the finely drawn features dissolving into dust and ash, that mocking, beguiling, infuriating voice silenced forever, this entire emotional quagmire drained with one easy blow. Her fingers gripped the stake harder, tensing to make that small, fatal push, when at that moment she looked into his haunted eyes and stopped, frozen, at what she saw there.

She had seen it before, in an abandoned mansion, as she stood in front of a crackling abyss opening upon unimaginable apocalyptic terrors. It was a mixture of love and pain and confusion but also acceptance, as if he'd always known this was the way things between them must end. It was the same look Angel had worn when she skewered him and sent him straight to hell, and seeing it echoed in Spike's face nearly undid her.

Loving you would have been like loving his own destruction.

To kill, to possess, to be possessed, they're all so very close for us.

Buffy felt her vibrant anger darken into a keening emptiness, as the red spots faded into clear nothingness. Slowly, carefully, she withdrew the stake from him and tossed it away. Climbing off him, she pulled her knees to her chest and leaned against the foot of the bed. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to fall back into her grave and pull the sheltering soil over her head.

"Go," she said tiredly. She couldn't bear to look at him.

"Buffy. . ." She couldn't listen to him, either. Not now.

"GO!" She nearly screamed, then stopped and gathered the last threadbare strings of her control together. "Spike," she continued in an awful, bloodless voice. "If you have ever had even the slightest real feeling for me, you will leave, now." She buried her face in her hands. "Please."

Spike must have dressed and exited with supernatural stealth, because all Buffy could hear in the next few moments was the mournful buzzing of the cicadas outside. When she looked up again, the only sign that he had ever been there was the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.

********

Chapter Four:

"Give it back," Buffy said, voice shaking even through clenched teeth.

Spike smirked at her, head tilted in that superior, slightly amused way that always made her want to pound his face into new and exotic shapes. "Make me," he said, blue eyes sparkling with barely suppressed laughter.

"It's mine, it's not fair." Her voice sounded whiny and childish even to her own ears, but she didn't care. She'd been robbed, damn it. She rushed at him, but he stepped nimbly aside, chuckling as her mad dash sent her headlong into the nearest tombstone. Overhead, a Cheshire cat moon grinned insanely down at them.

Spike crouched precariously on top of a large, urn-shaped monument. "When you don't take care of your toys, don't be upset if you lose them," he replied, with the exasperated calm of a teacher explaining something to a not-so-bright student for the hundredth time. He was still loosely holding Mr. Pointy, her favorite weapon, the cause of all this fuss. The twelve-inch ash stake was battered and blunted with much use, but deadly as ever. Its pale wood gleamed like bone in his slim white hand.

Buffy leapt up, brushing off graveyard dirt and dead leaves, and tramped over to where the vampire was perched. He smiled down at her puckishly, obviously delighted with this latest game. His amusement only made her more furious. "If you don't stop being such a bitch, I'm going to bite you," she growled.

Spike abruptly stopped smiling, staring at her with a hurt, puzzled expression. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything dawn suddenly broke, flooding the gloomy boneyard with furious crimson rays. Buffy could only look on in horror as the sun flowed over Spike's pale skin, the fierce light giving him a rosy, almost human flush for the few seconds before he burst into flame. Then he was burning, burning, not disintegrating into dust like a vampire should but literally melting in front of her, the flesh rolling off his bones like candle wax. His hair was burning incandescent white in the radiant flames, the rest of him charring black in hideous contrast as the baking heat scorched him from the inside out. Only his eyes remained the same, the fire reflecting in their cerulean depths as he stared at her from the heart of the inferno. She could hear herself screaming at him, but the sound was senseless, a mindless cry beyond words, and she knew he couldn't understand her. Then the fire blazed up, billowing out into a giant plume of flame, and in that moment he was lost to her, hidden from sight in a shower of deadly red sparks. Without a second's hesitation she ran into the firestorm, cinders swirling around her like confetti as she searched for him, but try as she might, all she could see was a brilliant yellow-orange haze surrounding her on all sides. . .

"NO!" Buffy screamed, sitting bolt upright and trying to shield herself from the hateful yellow glow gnawing into her eyes. After a moment, realizing that no part of her felt like it was actually burning, she slowly lowered her arms. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, she quickly scanned her surroundings. She was in her own bed, Mr. Pointy was sitting in his usual place on her dresser, and the light currently blinding her was the cheerful noonday sun, not some sudden conflagration. All a dream. Just the latest episode of Buffy Summers' nightly horrorshow, courtesy of five years fighting the forces of darkness.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she took another deep breath and tried to slow her racing heartbeat. Calm down, just another nightmare, she said to herself. But she knew that wasn't precisely true--for sheer visual pyrotechnics, this one was right up there with the Angel cycle of Summer '98. The sight of Spike going up like a Roman candle was probably going to be with her for awhile. Bad enough she had to be tormented by him in her waking life--now he was invading her unconscious in the most disturbing of ways.

The thought was enough to make her want to lie back down and pull the blankets over her head. This had seemed like such a sensible solution last night, since crawling back into the earth had not been a viable option. But twelve hours of coma-deep sleep was enough, even for someone who'd been through the thirty-one flavors of hell she'd experienced recently. It was time to get up: slayers did not get their fearsome reputations by hiding under the covers.

Also, she was beginning to cramp. Stretching and wincing at the same time, Buffy wondered if it was possible to sprain every muscle in one's body simultaneously. Next time, warm upproperly before playing shag me-snack me-stake me with the cute demon, a nasty voice spoke up in her head. Think they make yoga stretches for that? Buffy recoiled, swatting away the dark images flapping through her head like so many bats. She was not getting started on this track right now. If she did, she really wouldn't get up today.

And she needed to get up. Last night's stickiness and sweatiness had congealed into a tacky varnish coating the entire surface of her skin. She smelled like salt and ashes and musk. She smelled like him. She'd never get him out of her head, lolling around in eau de Spike. Throwing off the rumpled sheets, she stumbled out of bed, grabbing her robe off the floor and pulling it on. Let's keep this simple, she said to herself, shuffling across the hall towards the bathroom. Wash. Eat. Change sheets. Maybe if she kept her entire inner monologue to sentences of four words or less, she'd survive the day without suffering a major psychological break.

Buffy emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, skin still stinging from much scrubbing, face flushed from the blistering heat of the water. Twisting her hair into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck, she headed back into her room. She dressed quickly, then surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad. She was a little pale, and dark circles seemed to have set up housekeeping under her eyes, but other than that everything looked normal. The jeans and black turtleneck covered up any tell-tale marks, and the sweat and sex scent had been replaced by the aromas of vanilla bath gel and chamomile shampoo. She in no way resembled a woman who had spent half the night communing with the evil undead. At least, not in any way everybody didn't already know about. Perhaps she could do this after all.

Now for breakfast. Breakfast was of the good. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, even if the day had started at lunchtime. She walked down the hall to Willow's room and knocked gently on the prim white door. It was time Willow left her cave and ate something, as well. Given their current mental states, mixing either of them with cooking utensils and fire was probably a bad idea, but maybe they could go to Denny's. They'd eat waffles and eggs, make fun of the tacky decor, argue the relative guilt of Tom vs. Nicole, and the sheer ordinariness of it all might tether her to earth a bit.

"Will? Are you up?" Buffy called out. No reply. She knocked again, but there was still no answer. A tiny worm of worry began to uncurl deep down in her stomach. Trying the handle and finding it unlocked, Buffy slowly opened the door, mentally bracing herself. She quickly glanced around the dim room, where the curtains were still drawn against the strong California light. It looked rather unkempt--the big sleigh bed unmade, books and clothing strewn around in un-Willowlike disorder--but otherwise okay. But at that moment her keen ears picked up a familiar strangled noise coming from the direction of the master bathroom. Uh-oh. The last time she'd heard that particular sound had been a few weeks ago, when she'd been making it herself following an ill-considered flirtation with Jack Daniels and demon nightlife. Very concerned now, Buffy moved close to the bathroom door and, finding it not quite closed, gently pushed it open. "Oh, Willow," she said softly.

Willow was bent over the toilet, vibrant red hair matted and wet with sweat, her face bleached chalky white. Buffy reacted immediately, dampening a washcloth and kneeling beside her prostrate friend. Willow's thin shoulders heaved once more and then she leaned back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed. Buffy carefully wiped her mouth off, then gently smoothed the damp hair back from her face, trying not to shudder at the icy clamminess of the witch's skin. Willow opened her eyes and Buffy gasped. The whites were mottled with scarlet--it looked like her corneas were hemorrhaging. Buffy started up, ready to run for help, but Willow grasped her wrist, grip surprisingly firm given her present state.

"S'okay," she said indistinctly, beginning to shiver. "Just a side effect of the vomiting--it's harmless."

Buffy grabbed a bathsheet from the rack and wrapped it around Willow's shoulders. "It doesn't look harmless from my angle, Will. This can't be good."

Willow shook her head weakly. "Looks more serious than it is. Like the magic D.T.'s or something, with all the usual fun symptoms--muscle aches, nausea, funky nightmares. You know last night I dreamed we were back in the factory and you and Spike were battling it out? You were yelling at him, something about a sword. . ." She trailed off and closed her eyes again, lids tinged a bluish-purple from exhaustion.

Buffy stood up and began rinsing out the washcloth, needing to do something with her suddenly shaking hands. What had she been thinking, playing that whole sordid scene with Spike, and Willow not thirty feet away? If the witch hadn't been so out of it, they would have been caught in any one of a dozen compromising positions. Maybe that was the point, cynical voice spoke up again. Buffy squashed the voice and pulled her thoughts back to her suffering friend. "People can die from withdrawal. Even the regular, non-supernatural kind. There has to be something to make this easier for you."

"Yeah, that'd be good. I like things easier, don't I?" Willow said, self-loathing darkening her voice.

"Will--"

"No," Willow said stubbornly. "No more shortcuts. I'm going to get through this without magical notions or potions smoothing the way."

"Nothing magical, some kind of herbal thing, I'll bet Giles or Tara--"

"No!" Willow returned fiercely. "I can't go to them. They were the ones who warned me first that I was going too deep with the magic. Tara's already disgusted with me, I couldn't take Giles--" She broke off and turned even paler, if that were possible. Leaning back over the bowl, with an awful choking noise she started bringing up what looked like bile and stomach acids. Buffy concentrated on refolding the washcloth, trying not to grimace. After a few minutes, there was a pause in the retching. Willow sat back on her heels and wiped her damp forehead. "Buffy, I wish you'd go," she sighed. "I really don't want any witnesses for this, not even you."

"There has to be something I can do, Will. I can't stand to see you hurting so badly."

"You can't help me," Willow said flatly. "I have to do this by myself."

"But--"

"Please, Buffy," Willow said in that same colorless voice. "If you really want to help, you'll let me get through this in my own way."

Buffy shifted uncertainly, not sure what to do. Leaving her here by herself seemed heartless, maybe even dangerous. But she could see that further nagging wasn't going to do any good. Willow's expression was like a blank stone wall. "Well, if you need anything. . ."

"I know. Thanks." Willow said distantly, already turning in on herself. She wrapped the towel more tightly around her shoulders and sat back against the flocked wallpaper, face set with grim determination as she waited for her body's next onslaught. Her reddened eyes looked very distant, like she was surveying some bleak internal landscape.

Buffy threw the washcloth into the sink and edged out the door, closing it softly behind her. She suddenly wasn't very hungry anymore.

********

Buffy wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, knowing she should try to force something down, even though witnessing Willow play Linda Blair had pretty much squelched any desire for breakfast. But she hadn't tasted food since early yesterday afternoon, and if she wasn't careful she was going to start forgetting to eat again. It was a pattern she'd fallen into after her return, a day or two without wanting anything and then binging out on everything in the house, like a camel storing up for the desert. She'd been doing the same thing with sleep as well, staying up for days at a time and then collapsing at odd hours, as if the regular circadian rhythms didn't apply to her anymore.

But she was determined to start living like a normal human being again, and a normal human ate every day, no matter what was going on upstairs. After ten minutes or so of rummaging through cabinets, and another five minutes of staring blankly into the refrigerator, she finally settled on pb&j, the ultimate comfort food. As she spread grape jelly on wheat bread, she remembered her mother making these for her all those times she was ill, crusts off, with crunchy peanut butter and extra jelly. Buffy put down the knife and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The loss of her mother still ached periodically, like a bad leg that tripped you up at odd moments, refusing to heal.

After a minute, she came back to herself and finished making the sandwich. The final product seemed about as appetizing as a bag of sand, but she was determined to choke it down somehow. Opening the fridge to grab milk to wash it down, she glanced at the clock on the wall. 12:30. It would be 8:30 now, in England. Buffy looked at the phone, then back at the clock, contemplating. Then she shrugged, slammed the refrigerator door, and picked up the receiver. So what if it was Saturday night over there? Giles might be trying to get himself a life across the pond, but for him that probably meant two cups of tea after dinner instead of one.

Two rings. . .four rings. . .six. . .still no answer. On the eighth ring, just as Buffy was ready to hang up, he finally picked up.

"Hello?" It sounded like Giles, but the background noise was all wrong. Over the tinny connection David Bowie was singing about spiders from Mars, and she could hear the busy hum of many voices all talking at once.

"Giles?" Buffy said tentatively.

"Buffy!" It was Giles all right, despite the party noises. "It's so good to hear from you. How have you been?"

"Oh, fine. I just thought I'd call and see how you were doing in Merrie Olde England. . ."

"Wonderful. I'm--" his words were suddenly drowned out by the voices screaming something in unison-it sounded like a drinking chant. People are doing shots in Giles's living room, Buffy thought bewilderedly. Did I dial the wrong country code? Get some parallel party animal universe Giles by mistake? "Hey, take it down a level, would you?" he shouted, his voice more clipped than usual. "It's an overseas call and I can't hear it with you lot shouting from the bloody rafters!"

Buffy made a face. She hated it when Giles slid into Ripperspeak. There were just too many uncomfortable associations.

Then Giles was back, the voices in the background lowered to a dull buzz. "Sorry. I'm having a few old mates from Oxford over, and they tend to go a bit rowdy when they get a few drinks in them."

"If this is a bad time--"

"No, of course not. I haven't spoken to you in days. I want to hear everything that is going--" he cut off again. She heard a gruff male voice right speaking right next to the phone.

"Right, Giles, can we shelve the pouf rock and put on something with some muscle to it? I think we've heard enough of Ziggy playing his sodding guitar."

"Put on the Pirates of Penzance for all I care," Giles replied testily. "But scratch any of those records and you're going to hear about it, my friend." More voices arguing, and then the music abruptly shifted into the unmistakable rhythmic pounding of Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir." There were several loud whoops of approval.

"Look, Giles, I can call back later."

"No, no. Wait a moment." She could hear footsteps, a door closing, and then the background went mercifully silent. "Now, let's try this again. How are things going?"

"Well, they're not nearly as exciting as your life seems to be."

"Oh, that. Just a group of middle-aged intellectuals trying to recapture the glory days of their youth. It sounds a lot more interesting than it is. No, really, how is everyone?"

"Um, about the same. Xander and Anya are still acting like the first people on earth to embark upon the holy state of matrimony." And he sounds like a stranger these days, Giles--he talks about nothing but centerpiece arrangements and gift registries and mortgages rates. Mortgage rates! This is Xander, remember? The guy who thought a Chia Pet was too much responsibility?

"Well, that's to be expected. Anya rarely does anything by halves, and Xander. . ."

"Has a tendency to get in over his head. Right. Dawn thinks I'm the Devil. . ."

"Perfectly normal behavior for a fifteen-year-old towards her guardian."

"I guess." Is that what I am? A guardian? 'Cause lately I can't seem to guard her from anything, not even herself. Buffy stopped for a moment, then pushed gamely on. "Willow. . ." she trailed off, uncertain. Full disclosure was definitely out, but she had to say something. "She and Tara are sort of on a break right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. It was that last spell, I suppose."

"Yes--but maybe it will be a good thing, in the long run. It seems to have brought Willow to her senses," Buffy said with false brightness. "She's trying to cut way back on the magic now." After she spent two days in an enchanted crackhouse hopped up on serious juju. But the whole almost killing Dawn thing seems to have gotten through to her.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? I think it's important she learn that she doesn't need it nearly as much as she believes she does."

"Uh-huh." I'm sure that will be a valuable lesson, if her eyeballs don't explode.

"What about you?" she could hear the concern in Giles's voice even over the long distance wires. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Yes, I am no longer numb all the time. Now I alternate between numbness, insane bouts of lust for an evil bloodsucking fiend, and crushing guilt. I guess you could call that progress.

"Really?" Giles sounded skeptical.

"Really really. Keeping it on an even keel, anyway," Buffy said, knowing she sounded completely unconvincing.

"It will get easier in time, Buffy," Giles said gently. "I know things are hard right now, but they will get better."

No. Things are IMPOSSIBLE right now. But you don't want to hear that, do you? Screws up your grand master plan to make a woman out of the Slayer by abandoning her in her hour of need. Buffy could feel all her anger and loss over her watcher's sudden departure, emotions she'd tried her best to overcome in the days since he left, oozing back to the surface. She wanted to scream at him, to demand how he could sound so worried and empathetic and Gilesish and still have gone to the other side of the world.

But all she said was "I know."

There was an uneasy pause. Then Giles spoke, his rushed accents betraying his own discomfort. "Anything unusual happening on the Hellmouth?"

"You know the Hellmouth," Buffy said, trying to keep her tone neutral. "There's always something cooking. Nothing serious."

"So patrolling's going well?"

"Yep. Same old, same old. Fight. Taunt. Slay. You know."

"Is Spike still helping out? He's unstable, but I found over the summer that he has his uses."

"Yeah, he sure does," Buffy replied quickly, fighting off the urge to burst into hysterical giggles. Gots more uses than a Swiss army knife, Giles. But let's hope you don't know about most of 'em.

There was another awkward silence.

"Oh--there's one piece of good news," Giles said, breaking in after a moment. "I've spoken to the Watcher's Council about a stipend for adult slayers, and they're seriously considering it."

"Really." This was good news, though right now she wasn't in the frame of mind to enjoy it.

"Yes. They don't act quickly on anything of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if they came up with something for you in the next little while. Until then, if you need anything, you know I--"

"The first check was too generous, Giles. We've still got plenty," she said, barely keeping the annoyance out of her voice. After five years of fat birthday checks and weekend shopping sprees with her father, she recognized guilt money when it was offered to her.

"Wanna be my shiftless, absentee father?"

Giles's careworn, beloved face, smiling at her so reassuringly. But even as he comforts her, he's planning to leave.

"Is there some sort of um, rakish uncle?"

Don't want to be too closely related, huh Rupert? Buffy thought angrily. Might have to actually stick around, then. Though that never stopped Hank.

She knew at some level that she wasn't being quite fair. Giles had a right to a life, a future. He wasn't her father, and he was helping her out

(paying her off)

as best he could.

There was the sound of a door opening, and a female voice speaking this time. "Rupert? Where did you put the potato crisps, love? I'm afraid Tony and the rest of the crew are going to start chewing on the sofa if we don't feed them something." Buffy couldn't be completely sure, but it sounded like Olivia. From the little Giles had said about it, his girlfriend hadn't reacted well to the whole undertakers-from-hell ripping out her voice thing. But now that he was away from the Hellmouth they must be giving it another shot. Well, good for Giles--seemed like he had a nice start on that getting a life business already.

Suddenly, Buffy really needed to get off the phone.

"Giles, listen, you're in the middle of this party thing. I'd better let you go."

"Are you sure? Because--"

"Yeah. I've got stuff to do today, myself. It's only noon here."

"Well, all right then. But we will talk again soon."

"Sure. Real soon."

"Take care of yourself, Buffy." At that moment, he sounded much farther than 8000 miles away.

"Yeah. You too," she replied softly.

Buffy slowly hung up the receiver, then turned and threw her sandwich in the trashcan.

With her usual impeccable sense of timing, Dawn chose that moment to come bouncing in through the back door. Yesterday's sullenness had evaporated--she was literally starry-eyed with excitement.

"Buffy, you'll never guess what happened."

"Probably not," Buffy said shortly. "Why don't you just tell me."

"Well," Dawn bubbled. "Janice's older sister Alexis--you know, the one who showed me how to put on liquid eyeliner without it going all raccoony? She's going to the Creed concert in L.A. next Friday with her roommate. They were supposed to go with a couple of friends of theirs, but they bailed and stuck Lexi with the tickets. She said me and Janice can buy the tickets and go with them, as long as we chip in for gas 'n stuff. Can I go Buffy? Please?"

Buffy sighed wearily. "I don't think it's a good idea, Dawnie."

Some of the brightness went out of Dawn's face, but she persisted. "Why not?"

"It's too expensive, for one thing. Those tickets are probably, what? Forty bucks at least? And then you add in gas and food--we just can't afford it right now."

"You can take it out of my allowance, and I'll do extra chores to make up for it, I swear," Dawn said, in the pleading tone Buffy remembered from her own adolescent tussles with Joyce.

"Dawn, you're so overdrawn on your allowance now you'll probably be paying me back out of your retirement checks. Besides, even if we had it, there's no way I'm letting you go to a rock concert 200 miles away with Janice, of all people. You two don't make the most responsible combination."

"But her sister and her roommate are going too, and they're really cool and really responsible."

"Yeah, Lexi Penshaw, she was a year behind me at Sunnydale High. I remember her responsibly toking up every day in the girl's bathroom before first period. Nice try."

"Like you were such a model student," Dawn huffed. "I bet Lexi never blew up the gym. Or the school, for that matter."

"Oh, that is such bullshit, Dawn. I did what I had to do, and you know it," Buffy snapped back, wondering how she'd suddenly been put on the defensive. "Last time I heard, consuming mind-numbing amounts of ganja didn't do much to save the world."

"Neither did hooking up with a vampire, but you did that, too--and it nearly ended the world, if I remember. So I guess we all do a lot of stupid things, and maybe you shouldn't judge people," Dawn said nastily. "At least Lexi remembers she has a sister once in awhile."

Buffy stared at her sister, temporarily struck speechless by Dawn's petty malice. At that instant, she felt the same exhausted frustration that had nearly overwhelmed her with guilt during Glory's last stand. But right now she was just too irritated to go catatonic.

Why not let her go? she thought jadedly. Throw money at her and let her do whatever the hell she wants. We'd probably both be a lot happier.

Then she saw her mother, face ashen against her blue hospital gown, eyes dark with pain.

"Buffy, promise me. If anything happens. . . I have to know that you'll take care of her, that you'll keep her safe. . ."

I'm only twenty, Buffy thought tiredly. Shouldn't it matter that I'm only twenty?

But, as always, she squared her shoulders and did what she had to do. "Insult me all you want, but you're not going," she said, just managing to keep her voice even. "After what you pulled at Halloween you're lucky I let you go four blocks to see Janice, much less explore major urban centers with her."

"This is so unfair! You don't want me around, but you don't want me hanging out with anybody else, either! I'm going to end up as miserable as you are!" Dawn yelled, stomping out with her usual high drama. Buffy could hear angry footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, then the sound of a much-abused bedroom door slamming somewhere above.

Buffy looked forlornly around the silent kitchen.

It's only a matter of time before you realize I'm the only one here for you, pet. You got no one else.

Suddenly she felt like she was suffocating, the homey beige walls closing in on her like the sides of her abandoned coffin. She had to get out of here. Without even pausing to grab her purse, she fled out the back door and into the blinding midday sunshine.

********

Chapter Five:

The big problem with meandering aimlessly around a one-Starbucks town like Sunnydale is that there are only so many places to meander to. Usually, Buffy spent her many pensive moods roaming the nearby cemeteries, a neat way of combining business with brooding. Today, however, that had seemed like a really, really bad idea, and she'd started off headed in the opposite direction from her normal circuit. But she'd soon become too lost in thought to notice where she was going, and when she finally looked up from her brown study sometime later she saw that force of habit had brought her within a hundred yards of Spike's crypt.

At least, she told herself it was habit.

She stood there for a minute staring at the squat grey building, which seemed to hunker down on itself in the syrupy sunlight, as if it were as wary of sudden blazes as its occupant. She'd always found it funny that Spike would insist on a tomb when abandoned houses were plentiful--the vagaries of Sunnydale real estate being what they were--and then fix it up with as many creature comforts as any human habitation. Oh, he kept cobwebs and dust and the odd skull about for atmospheric purposes, but otherwise she knew many college students who didn't live as well as he did. It was so like him to cling stubbornly to the style of something, even when the substance didn't suit him anymore.

Buffy ambled onward another few feet, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He was almost certainly home at this hour. Not sleeping--he hardly ever did that--probably sprawled out in that awful green chair, sipping on blood and berber weed like it was his morning V-8 or something, watching bad daytime TV or reading one of those musty old books he thought no one knew about. The pomade-and-leather Big Bad uniform wouldn't be on yet: his hair would be all tousled in that boyish way, and he'd only be half-wearing one of those trashy goth shirts he liked, his gleaming bare skin the brightest thing in that somber space. This long before sunset he'd still be a little foggy, daytime torpor softening the hollows in his face and the hungers in his eyes, the moonstruck poet taking precedence over the predator for a brief time. Buffy smiled slightly at the image, remembering times when she'd stopped by on some non-crisis daytime errand and found him like this. She took a few more cautious steps forward.

Only. . .there wouldn't be anything soft about Spike right now, she reminded herself, her smile fading. At this moment, the predator would be in control. In control and frustrated, since after their midnight confrontation he'd be too unsure of his invite at Casa Summers to risk a daylight visit. No, he wouldn't be enjoying his gloomy bachelor pad today--he'd be trapped there. She could see him, all jagged points and blazing eyes, pacing the stone floor like a caged lynx as the sun circled and the shadows lengthened, burning for his moment of release. His mind would be racing, racing, pent-up compulsion revving like an engine gunned in neutral, every thought and instinct bent on tracking her come nightfall. Because he would not stop, you see, probably could not stop, even with the ugly brand of her fury still scoring his chest. His obsession, already sharpened to a scalpel's edge before her death, had been further honed by five months of grief and two nights of passion. Now that he'd finally had a taste of her, he was going to keep coming back and coming back until he'd devoured everything. . .

I hear what your heart cries out for, Slayer.

Buffy came back to reality with a start, and saw that she'd let her deathly little reverie lead her another fifty yards closer to his front door. She mentally shook herself, self-disgust skimming over her in a grim current. Mooning around the den of a murderous beast with serious designs on her bloodstream was a real low point, even for today.

I may be dirt. . .but you're the one who likes to roll in it. You never had it so good as me. Never.

With a sigh of mingled anger and frustration over the utter patheticness of her existence, Buffy turned and headed purposefully towards downtown. Obviously too much maundering on her own situation was unsafe right now. What she needed was to focus on someone else for a while, and the someone in question was obvious. Willow had made it clear that she didn't want any assistance, but helping the witch stay clean and sober might just be her lifeboat for this whole Titanic of a day. And she couldn't really imagine her friend turning her down if she came up with something actively useful. Even Willow's martyr complex didn't extend that far.

Within minutes, she was standing in front of the Magic Box. She wasn't really in the mood for Anya's particular brand of Stepford Wife perkiness, but there was the off-chance that conversation with her could actually prove fruitful. After twelve hundred years of consorting with the dark forces, the ex-demon had picked up a surprising amount of useful information. It was possible she had a recipe for Aunt Anyanka's Magick Hangover Curative stashed somewhere in the recesses of her overly-literal brain.

Before Buffy could enter the store, however, she was stopped by the sight of Tara coming around from the alleyway exit. Spotting Buffy, her face lit up with her usual beatific smile, and she waved. Buffy waved back. It was nice to see one person in her life looking relatively well-adjusted.

"I'm glad I caught you," Tara said. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"Why?"

"Apparently, Xander and Anya were watching the Disney Channel last night--something about needing wholesome entertainment to take their minds off this new pre-wedding abstinence rule Anya's come up with."

"I've already heard about that one."

"Well, Disney was showing The Little Mermaid. Anya had never seen it, and she flipped out over it. She's calling it one of the great romantic films of our time, says it's inspired her in a whole new aesthetic direction. She's all set on some sort of under-the-sea theme now, so she's redoing the decorations, the invitations, even the bridesmaids' dresses. She actually kept a customer standing at the cash register for three whole minutes while she made me look at fabric swatches--I hope you like Nile green, by the way. It's madness, I tell you."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "You know, this whole wedding thing was kinda cute when they first brought it up, but now it's just getting lame, don't you think?"

"Scary's more like it. She's got poor Xander in there drawing up wedding day flowcharts and reception hall diagrams. I only escaped because she got distracted by her new issue of Martha Stewart Weddings. You don't want to get sucked in, trust me."

Buffy smiled weakly and glanced around the busy downtown center, wondering what to do next. Anya's latest conjugal quirk had left her rather at loose ends. When she glanced back at Tara, she noticed she was watching her closely.

"Hey, Buffy, are you okay? You look sort of pale."

Out of sheer habit, Buffy was about to flash coping smile #3 and declare everything just peachy, thank you very much. But something in Tara's calm grey eyes made her stop and consider. Even after everything they'd experienced together, she'd never really gotten to know Tara as well as she would have liked. Like Oz before her, she'd fallen into the nebulous category of best friend's significant other, which limited their interaction in certain key ways. But talking to someone who wasn't quite so closely related to her screwed-up life might be the best thing, anyway.

"No," she said frankly. "Not really."

Tara nodded, seemingly unsurprised by Buffy's admission. "Do you want to talk about it? The Espresso Pump's just down there--you look like you could use something to drink, anyway. My treat." She gave her a wistful smile. Buffy saw lines in the witch's face that hadn't been there a few weeks ago, and wondered if underneath Tara's earth mother serenity she was dealing with her own inner turmoils. After the implosion with Willow, it was likely. Well, at this point she was more than ready to trade secrets. Some secrets, anyway.

Ten minutes later, they were comfortably settled at one of the coffee shop's outdoor tables, sipping grande lattes with extra foam. As she watched harried mothers pushing strollers and the giggling teenage girls who would one day be harried mothers go past, she could feel Tara looking at her expectantly. Still she hesitated, not sure which painful topic to start first.

"So. Everything okay at home?" Tara said carefully.

Buffy stirred her drink meditatively, not sure what to say. She knew what Tara was really asking, but she didn't know how much she could say without incurring the wrath of Willow. Finally, after a moment or two of tense silence, she decided to just spill it. She needed someone's advice on this situation, and if Will wanted to take her consulting Tara personally and turn her into a rat, so be it. At this point, a couple of years chewing cedar chips and running around on an exercise wheel sounded like a paid vacation.

"Um, not exactly," she said finally. "Willow's. . .Willow's sick."

"Sick?" Tara asked, her eyebrows knitting together. "Sick how?"

Buffy paused again, trying to find a way to tone down the Rack story but still get the whole truth in. After a moment she realized that there really wasn't any way to softball it, and simply told the whole sad thing straight out, watching Tara's placid countenance steadily darken as she spoke. When she got to the part about Willow's crazy midnight run with Dawn, Buffy could swear she saw sparks flashing in the witch's stormy eyes.

"But I think this whole Lost Weekend experience really got through to her," Buffy concluded quickly, wanting to reassure her somehow. "She swore that was it for her and magic--total cold turkey time. But now it's like she has this really terrible case of the mystic D.T.'s or something. She's hardly left her room for two days and this morning I found her puking her guts out. She looks so bad, Tara."

Tara nodded grimly. "I've seen this before. My mother. . .she got in too deep, sometimes. Then she'd try to pull back, go off the magic completely. Doing that's really hard on the system."

Well, Buffy thought. That explains a lot. Tara had never said much about her mother's life or untimely death, but it seemed like she had more reason than just the accidental mindwipe to be upset about Willow's magic abuse. "Is she in over her head with this?"

"No, I don't think so," Tara replied. "She was only at Rack's a couple of times, right? After that short an exposure she'll probably be all right in a day or two. There are some elixirs that would help with the symptoms, but if she really wants to quit completely it's better she just suffer through it. It's not a pretty sight, I know, but she'll be okay--physically, anyway."

"What about non-physically? Do you know anything about this Rack guy? Is he dangerous?"

"Yeah, I've heard of him," Tara said, her voice hard. "He's dangerous, but not the way you're thinking. Rack's spells are an abomination of everything magic should be. He perverts the divine energies for his own twisted little power trips, bringing chaos and dissonance to something that should be about balance and harmony. And it's his customers who give him the ability to do this, letting him suck off their very life forces just for the buzz it gives them. But like most pushers he's his own best customer. He's so burned himself out playing around with forces he doesn't understand that the only power he has now is what he siphons off other witches."

"So he couldn't hurt Willow?" Buffy said, nervously folding her napkin into a tiny square.

"Oh, he could, if she let him. It can be so easy to get addicted to the rush, to let him keep tapping in and tapping till there's nothing left. I just can't believe Willow risked that for a few cheap thrills. It was stupid, and unbelievably dangerous, and--" Tara broke off, biting her lip like she was physically keeping the harsh words back.

"I think it's been really hard for her, having you gone," Buffy said gently, understanding Willow's plight better than she wanted to. "Maybe she was just trying to make herself feel better."

Tara's face softened, but her voice remained firm. "I understand. But that's what broke us up in the first place, you know that. Willow has to learn that you can't use magic to fix everything that's hard about life. Sometimes you just have to deal, even if it seems painful or pointless or unfair, or you risk throwing everything out of balance."

"I know," Buffy said quietly, gathering her courage. If there was ever going to be a time to say anything, now was it. She swallowed hard. "Sometimes, I don't think she should have fixed me."

"Oh, Buffy, I didn't mean you," Tara said, looking stricken. "That's different."

"Is it?" Buffy returned. "Things haven't been right with me since I came back. I feel so strange, like I don't quite fit in my skin, you know?" She stopped and looked into the depths of her chai latte as if it might contain the words she needed. "It's like I'm looking at everything from behind glass, but at the same time everything cuts into me all at once, all the time. I don't eat right, I sleep funny, I have these strange dreams--stranger than usual, even--and the only thing I. . ." she hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Something's really out of balance with me."

Tara began shaking her head sorrowfully. "Buffy, no--"

"There's something else," Buffy said, cutting her off, needing to get as much of it out as she could now that she had begun. "Spike. . .we got into an argument the other night and it turned. . . physical. He can hit me now, without going all Clockwork Orange-y. It's not the chip, it's me--just me, in fact."

"Oh, God, did he hurt you?"

"No," Buffy said hastily. "It wasn't serious. Actually. . ." She trailed off. For a second, she considered telling Tara about everything, from that first furtive kiss in the alley to the near-fatal collision last night. But she found she just couldn't do it--the emotions involved were still too raw, too elemental, somehow, to be shared with anyone yet. And the whole sex with Spike issue was just one more symptom of the basic problem, anyway.

"Tara, I think I came back wrong."

"N-no, t-that's not possible, it can't be. . . " Tara half-started up, more upset than Buffy had ever seen her. Her sudden, frantic movement knocked over her half-empty latte glass, which had been perched precariously close to the edge of the table. Instinctively, they both jumped forward and reached out to steady it, their fingertips just brushing in the process. At the touch of Buffy's hand, Tara flinched back as sharply as if she'd been burned, her face flushing and her eyes going wide with shock. Buffy saw her reaction and pulled back too, staring at her in dawning horror. The cup fell to the ground, shattering into a puddle of milky foam and sparkling glass, unheeded by both of them.

For a moment, everything went very silent.

"You could feel it just then, couldn't you?" Buffy said faintly, sitting down again because she didn't trust her legs to hold her up. "The wrongness." It felt like a cold, iron hand was squeezing her heart, making it impossible to breathe.

Came back a little less human than you were.

It's a trick. You're wrong.

Then how come you're so spooked, love?

Tara said nothing, just wilted into her chair, her face gone as ashen as Willow's. Buffy pressed on, stepping down hard on the frenzied panic clawing at her vitals. "When Faith hijacked my body, you could sense that something was wrong. That my energies were all mixed up, not what they should be. That's what you felt just now, wasn't it?"

"No," Tara whispered, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's not like it was with Faith. Not at all."

"What is it like, then?" Buffy asked insistently.

"It's like there's too much of you, somehow," Tara said slowly. "You still feel like you--but times a hundred. That's the best I've been able to explain it, even to myself."

Sudden realization smashed through Buffy's already fractured consciousness with the force of a wrecking ball. "Jesus, how long have you felt this? And when were you going to tell me?"

Tara hung her head in that sheepdog way Buffy hadn't seen in over a year. "You have to understand," she said. "The resurrection process is very intense, very traumatic. There were b-bound to be a f-few aftereffects. I thought your energies were temporarily overcharged by the force of the spell, and it would sort itself out in time." Then she raised her chin and finally met Buffy's gaze. "It could still be that. Physical contact might just have made the effect more obvious to me. It may be nothing, Buffy."

"And it may be everything, Tara!" Buffy cried. "I can't deal with maybes anymore." She looked down and realized she was gripping the edge of the table so tightly the formica was cracking, her knuckles turning white with the effort. She let go and clasped her hands in her lap, searching for the last foothold of control in the avalanche of her thoughts. After a minute she continued, her voice very quiet. "For better or for worse, I have to know what's happened. I need you to research the spell. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, of course I will," Tara said, all the sorrow and regret she hadn't voiced shining out of her smoky eyes.

"How long will it take?"

"Not long," she said, standing up. Her voice was calm, but Buffy could see that her lips were trembling as she gathered her jacket and bag. "There are some books in the restricted section of the Magic Box I need to consult, and I have some notes Willow and I made this summer that I should probably check. A few hours, maybe."

Buffy stood up as well. "I'll walk with you."

"I don't think--"

"I'm not going to research, I'm going to train," Buffy replied shortly. The need to pummel something larger than herself into submission was suddenly overwhelming, but since it wouldn