Spike spun his tale, much the same one he had told her the first time he had done this. He made minor changes here and there, but paused when he caught Buffy frowning at him after his tale of the Chinese Slayer.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, but he knew what she was going to say.

"You got off on it," she accused.

"Well, yeah. And don't tell me you don't get off on killing my kind, that you don't enjoy the victory and the power rush every time you dust one of us, that you don't want to climb Captain Cardboard's tree after a night of heavy slaying."

She moved to protest but he cut her off, seeing the guilty look in her eyes.

"The problem is, you do get off on it. But you've been taught by the bloody Council of Wankers that it's wrong for you to feel this way. That it's dirty. It's not dirty. It's natural. There's plenty of humans out there that get their kicks off pain and violence. Normal humans with souls. You’re not a normal human, pet, and you've got appetites that the normal, mundane population of this miserable town couldn’t even begin to understand or fathom," he countered, moving around the pool table.

She was looking disgusted, but he had her attention, and his demon thrilled as he pressed his advantage.

"That Slayer that went to the dark side, what was her name? Faith? She understood what I'm talkin' about. That brief stint with the body-switching, she was here, teasin' everything with balls, including me. She knew about power and sex and what it does to a Slayer. And she wasn't the only one. You think she was the bad-egg, the anomaly, but the truth of the matter is that she wasn't the off one, you are."

"There is nothing wrong with me!" she snapped angrily.

'Oooh. Hit a nerve, did I?'

"No, there isn't. But there are parts of you, Slayer, that don’t accept what you are, that fight the power and the darkness, yes darkness, in you, and I'm telling you that one day, that will get you killed," he pressed.

Buffy crossed her arms and glared at him. "Oh, and you'll just be dancing and throwing a party when that happens."

The words hit him like a physical blow and he flinched, both his soul and his demon screaming in protest. 'No. I'll be a useless wreck, clinging to a half-grown girl. But if I'm lucky, I won't ever have to find out because I'll either save you or die trying.'

He tried to set up another shot, but his hands were shaking so badly that it veered wide.

"Think about this, Slayer: there's countless numbers of us and only one of you. It only takes one of us to get a lucky shot or catch you on a bad day for it to all be over," he said, leaning on his pool cue and consciously choosing to leave out the 'one good day' line he had uttered before. "But that's why we're here, innit?"

He paused to look at her, then motioned to the table. "It's your move, love."

She took him outside, demanded a blow-by-blow, play-by-play of his fight with the New York Slayer, and he obliged her as he had done before.

"Okay, give it to me," she pressed, and he lunged at her.

She ducked and came up behind him, but this time he was ready for her and swung around. She missed grabbing him and hit the wall, making him laugh.

"What?" she sneered, regaining her composure.

"Lesson the second: ask the right questions. You want to know how I beat 'em?"

She gestured for him to continue and the exhilaration began flooding through his body. They were dancing and he'd missed it. Even his soul was excited, moreso because he knew this evening would end differently than it had before. Or so he hoped.

"The question isn't 'how'd I win.' The question is why'd they lose?"

"What's the difference?"

He attacked with the pool cue, stopping just inches from her throat.

"There's a big difference, luv."

Buffy swatted the pool cue right out of his hand and sent it flying without a flinch. He let her.

"How'd you kill the second one?"

He shrugged then said, "Well, it went a bit like this…"

He threw three punches at her head in quick succession, using his vampire strength. Buffy easily moved out of the way.

"That didn't hurt?" she accused, a wary look entering her eyes.

Spike shook his head. "Knew I couldn't touch you. If there's no intent to hurt you, then the chip they shoved up my brain never activates. If, on the other hand..." He vamped out and swung another punch right at her face. Before his fist could connect, however, his chip fired and he reeled off with a howl. Breathing heavily, clutching his forehead, he shook off his demon.

"See, now that hurt."

"Yeah?" She punched him. "That hurt too?"

"Definite pain there," he admitted.

"How'd you kill 'em, Spike?"

He moved for her again, but she grabbed him, flipped him onto his back and straddled him, a stake to his heart. If he'd had a pulse, it would have been pounding, as it was he was breathing heavily, excited and aroused and tortured by the knowledge of what was to come.

"You're not ready to know." 'You’re alive and vibrant and full of joy, and you use me, abuse me and I want to hate you, but I can't. I love you. I love you even though I'm nothing to you. Why can't I hate you!'

"I'm ready," she countered firmly, pressing the stake into his flesh.

'Would she really kill me? Would that be such a bad thing? No, can’t. Gotta stay with her so I can protect Dawn and save Joyce. Okay, once more unto the brink…'

"Okay then. Went like this…"

He flipped Buffy off him, sending her sprawling as he reenacted his fight with the New York Slayer.

"The first one was all business. But the second - now she had a touch of your style," he said, lunging and parrying with her.

"She was cunning, resourceful, and oh, did I mention? Hot. I could have danced all night with that one."

"You think we're dancing?" Buffy countered, avoiding another blow.

Spike came in close to her face. "It's all we've ever done."

He backed away from her, retrieving the pool cue and spinning it as he had once spun the subway car support pole he had ripped out all those years ago,

"Every day you wake up it's the same bloody question what haunts you: Is today the day I die?"

Buffy tried to punch him but she missed and he continued, "...every time the sun rises. And every day you manage to survive, you're only partly relieved because you know - it's just a matter of time."

Using the cue as a quarterstaff, he went after her with enthusiasm, reveling in the rush, the feeling of being free with her.

"Death is on your heels, baby - and, sooner or later, it's going to catch you..."

Buffy kicked out, barely missing his genitals. He rolled, flipping out of her way, to land on his knees. Breathing heavily, he licked his lips, loving the sight of her in full battle mode. Powerful, undefeated, magnificent. She was glorious and he was her fool.

"And some part of you wants it. Not only to stop the fear and uncertainty - but because you're just a little bit in love with it. Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day."

She came to stand before him and he stayed on his knees looking up at her with an expression of sublime peace.

"Part of you is desperate to know... What's it like? Where does it lead you? So you see, that's the secret. Not the punch she didn't throw or the kick she didn't land. She

simply wanted it. Every Slayer has a death wish."

He waited on his knees, waiting to see if she would say anything, and when she merely stared at him, nostrils flaring, he rose to his feet.

"But not you, luv. At least not yet. You still have ties to this world: your mum, your sister, the Scoobies. They’re what keep you fighting," he explained. "See, the Council of Wankers think family and friends’ll distract a Slayer from her duties, so they take the potentials away from their folks and give ‘em to their Watchers to raise. They grow up in isolation, force-fed the Council’s line of rubbish about sacred duty and sacrifice, and by the time they’ve been Slaying for two years, they’re all worn out. They want to die. I just happened to be the one who wore ‘em down enough to give ‘em what they wanted."

Buffy snorted in disgust, but didn’t turn away.

‘Yeah, luv. You might not like what I have to say, but you know I’m tellin’ the truth.’

"They died because they lost the will to fight. They had nothing to fight for. Even the military knows that soldiers who don’t get letters from home are the ones that die, or stop fighting. And, make no mistake, Buffy, you are a soldier, a true warrior, and you think and act like one. Your family and friends, they remind you of why you fight this fight every night. They’re your letters from home."

He looked at her earnestly, noting that she seemed to fold in upon herself, her eyes lost and sad. He stood close to her, but did not touch her. He wanted to, but he knew it was too soon. She wasn’t ready to accept comfort from him just yet.

"The reason you slipped up, Buffy," he said softly, gently. "Is because you’re worried about your mum. She’s got you thinkin’ about her and not on fightin’ the nasties. As soon as everything’s all right again, you’ll be back in fightin’ trim and nothing will get close enough to touch you. But until then, it’s probably best if you don’t patrol alone."

She met his eyes, her expression pained. "I wasn’t alone. Riley was with me."

He nodded, but didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. She was already forming her own conclusions about Riley.

"How is Mum doing anyway? Did you take her to get that CAT scan?" He knew that she hadn’t.

"Not yet. But the medication seems to be working. Her headaches aren’t as bad. I think. She was supposed to get the test results back today, but I haven’t seen her to ask if there was any news."

"Here. Lesson’s over. Why don’t I walk you home and we can both get the news together."

She nodded in agreement and turned for home. Spike fell into step beside her, leaving the pool cue lying in the alley. They walked in silence: Buffy lost in her own thoughts and Spike caught in the dread of already knowing what awaited them when they arrived at the Summers’ house. Still, every so often he’d look at her, drinking in the sight of her as she was in her prime. Loving her, hating her, and pretending that she really didn’t think of him as a disgusting monster, but saw him as a man, as her equal.

‘We could’ve been so good together. If only you’d have let me love you.’

He followed her into the house and waited at the bottom of the stairs while she went up to get her mother. He already knew what she would find up there and steeled himself for it. A minute or two later, a visibly upset Buffy came down the stairs, followed by her mother.

"Buffy?" he questioned, pretending ignorance, even as his soul filled with pain.

Buffy shook her head and walked away. He watched her go out the kitchen door to sit on the back porch.

"Joyce?" he asked, looking at the woman.

"I have to go back into the hospital, Spike. My test results came back today and they want to do a CAT scan and run a few more tests."

"About bloody damn time."

His outburst made her smile softly. "Yes, I know you’ve been telling me to go for weeks. You should be happy now."

"I’d have been happier if they’d done it sooner."

Joyce shrugged. "Well, they’re doing it tomorrow. You’ll have to be happy with that." She motioned towards the kitchen. "Want me to make some cocoa?"

He shook his head. "No, but thank you for offerin.’ I think I’ll go see if your eldest needs anything."

The woman looked at him, her expression pensive, but she didn’t try to stop him as he walked towards the back door. He found Buffy crying on the back steps, just as she had been on that first night when he’d stormed into her yard carrying a loaded rifle, hell bent on killing her, right before he couldn’t stand the sight of her tears and turned into a spineless poofter.

This time around, he had no rifle and no murderous intent, but he did sit next to her and gingerly reached over to pat her on the shoulder comfortingly. She cast him a heartbroken glance, then looked off into the distance. He stayed next to her, a silent supporter, until she was ready to go back into the house.


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