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.

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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.

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