I'll Fly Away

7/24/02

Chapter 16: Fire and Rain

"Hey, Resident Evil! Wait up!"

Spike only stepped up his pace, forcing Xander to break into a trot. The vampire's dark ensemble blended with the shadows, but his hair was shockingly bright under the streetlights, a strange, white beacon in the night. Xander kept it in his sights, not relishing the idea of being left alone on a dark, Sunnydale sidewalk. As creepy as Spike was, he might be all that stood between Xander and a murderous Dawn.

"Dead boy! Junior! HEY, YOU!"

Spike spared Xander a single, disgusted glance, then hurried on, shaking his head. I don't know you, said the indifferent, black slope of his shoulders.

Asshole, Xander thought.

"Hey, I love you, too, man!" he shouted. About as much as a port-a-potty in high August.

The toe of Xander's boot connected with a crack in the sidewalk, and he stumbled, almost sprawling into the gutter. While he was getting his balance back, Spike moved even farther ahead. Xander threw all dignity to the wind and galloped after him. Pride goeth before the fall, and all that. He breathed a sigh of relief when they turned onto Revello. After their jog from downtown, and near-sprint across the park, he was seriously short on air, and nursing an extreme cramp in his side. He'd stumbled around benches and bushes, wheezing, while Spike motored on like an evil Energizer Bunny. There was no doubt about it--he was out of shape. Gotta lay off the chips, post haste. As of right now, I am violently opposed to all forms of Dorito, especially Cool Ranch.

Spike's duster flapped dramatically as he pushed past a strolling couple, not even looking up at their indignant "Heys."

"Excuse him," Xander apologized, huffing past. "He's foreign."

Xander almost wept with relief when Buffy's lawn came into view. He resisted the urge to fall on his knees and embrace the mailbox only because the neighbors already thought Buffy a few fruit short of a fig tree. More than once, Willow had spotted snoopy Mrs. Johnson poking around in the backyard, apparently looking for hallucinogenic plants among Joyce's dead roses. Willow said she hoped Mrs. J's support hose got all snagged. Spike planned to stretch out among the withered plants, stark naked, and wait for her to peek over the fence, maybe offer the lady a cigarette. Xander just hoped that Dawn hadn't secretly planted any before she left.

Ever the showman, Xander thought as he watched his nemesis dart around a sprinkler, vault over some mums, and leap onto the Summers porch. Spike sprang up from his crouch and threw open the front door, disappearing inside.

By the time Xander lurched up the front steps, he was on the verge of a cardiac event, chest heaving and eyes watering. I am one with the celery from now on. I am celery and celery is me. Together, we are celery.

He found Willow and Spike in the hall, conferring. Xander's eyes widened at the sounds emanating from upstairs, pounding and cursing and--was that an armoire being lifted and dropped? Whoa. Hurricane Buffy, and they were in the eye

"What's she doing up there?" he asked, as the entire house shook.

Spike looked at him darkly. "Not bloody feng shui."

Willow agreed. "More like total rage-induced redecorating." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "She's looking for Mr. Pointy. I hid him in the dishwasher."

"Good job, that." Spike winced at the sound of breaking glass. "But it's going to take more than that to keep her here." He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and nodded at a hovering Anya. "Take Rainbow Brite and the other Colors with you and shove off for a while."

Willow pocketed the keys. Xander opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Spike spared him a glance. "You need to flush sand out of that nappy you're wearing, Harris?"

"How come Willow gets to drive?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Because she plays nicer in the sandbox. Just get in the car, Whelp, and don't get out, even to take a piss."

"Where are we supposed to go?"

"Sightseeing. Just get out of here." He glanced up the stairs. "This could get ugly."

"And what are we supposed to do at this time of night?"

"Play alphabet. Frighten pedestrians. I don't care. Just stay in the car, out of trouble." He watched as Willow, Tara and Anya filed out the front door. "And, if you let anything happen to the girlies, I'll rip out your windpipe and pipe a Kenny G medley."

Xander dug his heels in as Spike tried to push him out the door. "What are you going to do?"

Spike pinned him with a determined look. "What I have to."

Xander gave him a warning glare. "Don't hurt her or you'll be relocating to a Hoover."

"Go!" Spike successfully slammed the door in Xander's face. He listened to the mini circus argue their way down the steps. At last, the DeSoto coughed and roared its way down the street, beyond his exceptional hearing.

When they were gone, Spike leaned against the door for a moment and rubbed his temples. He was exhausted from a night of demon hunting and mouse harassing, bloody and bruised from numerous fights, and drenched in spilled alcohol. He'd had a night to remember, but fighting hadn't lessened the pain, not a whit. Dawn was still lost to them. Life would never be the same. The girl who'd teased him at the beginning of the season was gone by summers' end, the victim of a chum she'd trusted. He burned to know the details, to understand how, to find that ankle-biter Janice and throw her under a moving train.

Spike climbed the stairs with heavy feet, feeling old and tired, like all his years were catching up to him on that one short journey. How many stairs had he climbed in his lives, and how many were left to climb before time overtook him? How many were left for Buffy, for Willow? Bloody time, the creeping thief. It was a greater enemy of the soul than any vampire. It was a fucking assassin.

He sank down on the top step, and his hands shook as he lit a cigarette. The rampage in the bedroom continued, and Spike's vain hopes that she'd wear herself out and go to sleep like a good girl died as he sat there, puffing grimly on his fag.. It could be his last one, he knew, if things got out of hand. But, then again, when weren't they out of hand between creatures like them, natural enemies who were never even meant to be friends, much less lovers? He'd stood in her way before, barred the path, and paid a heavy price. Spike was a lucky son of a bitch, but a gambler's winning streak always ran out, and he was betting all his cards on a girl with a violent streak that rivaled his. The scars from their last alley battle--Spike secretly thought of it as THE BIG ONE--had faded years ago, and Spike had forgiven her before the last blow fell, but that night still haunted him. Not the memory of her fists, or the devastation of her abandonment-- after all, he'd been attacked in alleys before, and left to die--but the echo of her words. The words were what he remembered, not the pavement or the trash barrels or the rats.

And her crowning achievement…

That night, dragging his beaten carcass home before dawn, mumbling her death, loving her still, he'd digested the bitter truth, and begun to deal. She would always be Angel's girl, never Spike's, even if he shagged her senseless for the rest of her life.

So what was he doing there, risking life and limb for a woman with quicksilver passions, whose heart would never truly be his? She liked his company well enough, he supposed, but eventually she'd tire of that, and Spike had already decided that that would be the end for him, rather than live without her another day. So, it didn't matter now, and it hadn't in that alley, if he never saw another sunset, because she was it for him, the end of the journey, the point where his roads met, never to diverge again. He was there to accomplish his goal of loving her silly and dying in her arms, and, if that night came sooner rather than later, that was just life, glorious, fucked-up, ironic life.

Spike hauled himself to his feet. He found an open window and flicked his ash out into the night, watched it arc up brightly and fade away. He looked down the stairs, to where he was standing when Buffy returned to him like some miracle. He remembered Dawn, poor, sweet pigeon, looking at him, wide-eyed, but utterly calm.

"No, Platelet, I'm not." he whispered to Dawn's ghost, then pushed her sister's door open and stepped inside.

*************************************************

"I don't even want to think about what went on in these seats." Xander tried not to let any of his body parts touch the leather.

Anya stopped rooting in the glovebox and looked up. "Who?"

"Siskel and Ebert, An." Xander rolled his eyes. "Buffy and Spike, obviously."

Willow kicked the back of his seat. "If you hadn't pushed me out of the way, and practically stepped on my head, you wouldn't be in the driver's seat at all!"

"Well, it's not my fault that my superior male strength won out."

Willow guffawed at that. "I could so kick your ass."

Tara coughed politely. "Speaking of super strong females, are you sure we shouldn't go back to Buffy's and check in? Maybe make sure the house is still standing?"

Anya chimed in. "Speaking of houses, did you know they knocked one down?"

"No!"

"Get out of town!"

Xander groaned. "I don't need to know this." Despite himself, he was fascinated. "When?"

Anya looked smug. "A couple of years ago, in a sexual frenzy."

"And how do you know this?"

"I have my sources. The demon grapevine runs everywhere."

"Oh, " Tara said, realization dawning. "Clem told you. I'll bet Spike told him during one of those drunken poker games."

"No, "Anya corrected, "They were watching War of the Roses, and Spike got all nostalgic at the end. You know, when they kill each other."

Willow chewed her lip. "Maybe we really should go make sure they're not hanging from the light fixtures."

"No," Xander said, surprised at his own firmness. "Let's leave them alone for awhile. If we go back now, I'm sure to see something that will scar me for life." He watched Anya resume rooting. "Anything interesting in there?"

"Candy wrappers…motel receipts…Tara's lozenges…pictures!" She pulled the stack free and idly flipped through them. "They went to the Grand Canyon!" She held up a Polaroid. Replacing the pictures, she plunged her hand back into the small compartment. "Fake ID," she announced brightly. "It's Dawn's!"

Willow reached for the card. "Spike must have made it for her." She fingered the picture. "Buffy would have a fit if she knew."

"I suppose it doesn't matter much now," Tara murmured sadly.

"Put it away," Xander said softly.

They all rode along like glum lumps until Xander spotted a familiar logo. "There's a Doublemeat! Who's hungry?"

"Not me."

"Or me."

"Are you paying?"

Xander shook his head at Anya's enduring Capitalist spirit, and swung the car into the drive-thru line. "We should eat anyway." He tried to conjure up an appetite. "We should eat."

**********************************************************

Buffy tore through her closet, upending shoeboxes and ripping garments off hooks. She had a lot of wardrobe to throw around, and, by the time she emerged from the closet, sweat was rolling down her face from the close air within.

Around her, the room lay in shambles, furniture and bedding thrown about, the mirror cracked. She'd tossed a pump at the glass and gloried in the resulting destruction. She began to lift things up and throw them again, still searching.

She couldn't remember exactly what she was looking for, anymore, but someone had obviously taken it, and that pissed her off. She was pissed off all around, at everything in her martyr's life, and taking it out on inanimate objects. If she stopped for even a second, reality would set in, and she would just shatter. Dawn…Angel…if she spoke their names out loud, or put them in a sentence, it would have to be in the past tense, and that was just wrong, wrong, wrong. They were supposed to outlive her, to make sure the goddamn Council didn't screw up her goddamn chronicle, to grow old, to shanshu, to have the babies she never would and tell them the story of Aunt Buffy, her friends and her vampires, her life on the hellmouth. Now, there was nothing, just an Irishman's ashes and a demon walking around in Dawn's body.

She caught sight of herself in the broken mirror, and was shocked at her sameness. Pretty as you ever were. She half-expected to have aged years in a single night, and her back to be bowed by so many trials. But that was definitely Buffy in the mirror, the same young girl, though a lot worse for wear. Her eyes were tired, smudged with purple shadows, and her hair stood out around her head like a blonde fright wig. The tearstains marring her fair skin stood out in stark relief, but, overall, she remained devastatingly unchanged physically. She should have gone gray by now, with all her tragedies, and be growing as ugly on the outside as she felt within.

She felt wretched.

She didn't want to grieve quietly, with dignity. She didn't want to place Dawn's pictures in an album or put away her diaries. She didn't want to send prayers after her soul, as it went winging into the void. She lacked the grace of Tara. Buffy wanted to bend and mangle and kill, to slay and dance in the ashes, to get on a bus and ride it forever, to let the whole town go to hell and jump in after it. She didn't know how to begin grieving, not when a form of Dawn still clung to life, and she didn't know how to not grieve, because only a fragment of her sister remained. So she'd settled for the destruction of inanimate objects, whirling like a dervish through the room, unable to find purchase anywhere. She was drowning, buried in earth again. She needed to dig herself out the only way she knew, by confronting the evil that threatened to engulf her, by looking into its face and deciding.

She didn't yet have the answer.

Buffy whirled when the door creaked open, still wild-eyed from her tear through the room. Spike stepped in, swinging it firmly closed behind him. Buffy's breath caught. He was a mess, dirty and cut, with blood-crusted lips and a shiner starting to blush blue. But, somehow, he made it seem like his natural state, like he was born a brawler and would die the same way. The dark bruises set off his fairness, his dangerous beauty, and, even in her throes, she wanted him with a shameful and gut-wrenching certainty. Maybe she wasn't so different from Faith, after all, beautiful, carnal Faith.

He stood by the door, arms crossed, just watching her. Buffy's eyes met his through the deep gloom, and she flushed, looking away, unable to shake the feeling that he knew everything she was thinking, all the dark ways she wanted to be comforted. How she wanted to imprint his body on hers like a tattoo, because--and she'd learned this the hard way--people could depart your life as fast as they came, and all you had were the tangibles they left behind; diaries, wills. Scars.

To break the tension, she snapped out a question. "What have you been doing?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

She avoided his eyes by leaning down and rooting under piles of clothes, pretending to look for something. "No, not really," she replied, feigning intent on her task.

Suddenly, he was right there, in front of her. Damn him, for moving like he was oiled. "Not terrorizing innocents, if that's what you were thinking."

"I wasn't." She made a half-hearted attempt to move away, but he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and leaned into her, just like he did the night she came to him, asking for Slayers. He was the heart of darkness that night, whispering black prophecies in her ear.

"That's good." Nicotine-scented breath caressed her ear, and Buffy felt the bottom dropping out of her resolve. She wrenched herself away with supreme effort.

"I have to go…patrol."

She went to step past him, but his fingers clamped around her wrist like a manacle. "I think you should stay here."

Buffy tossed her hair, feigning nonchalance, but her blood pressure was rising. "Well, it's a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion, then, isn't it?"

"Too bad. I'm giving it." He tightened his grip and repeated himself. "I think you should stay here."

Buffy tried to shake him off, but his fingers were like iron, and Buffy wondered if she'd have to break his arm. "Let me go!"

"So you can go get yourself killed, nice and proper? I don't think so." Buffy was so stunned by that little gem that she lost focus, and Spike took advantage, pinning her against the wall.

Buffy sputtered. "Get myself…" she trailed off. "No, Spike. That's not it at all."

"Oh, pardon me, my mistake," he sneered, "I'll step aside, now. And if you just happen to trip and fall on Dawn's fangs tonight, well, we'll just chalk it up to coincidence!"

"Fall on her…" Buffy couldn't seem to finish a sentence. "What are you talking about?" She pushed him away, but he only sidestepped back into her path. "You're crazy! I'm not suicidal!"

"Never said you were."

Buffy's head was going to explode any second. "Why don't you confuse this up for me a little bit more, Spike? If we're not careful, I might suss out your delusional fantasy by next Thanksgiving!"

He moved in again, gripping her arms tightly enough to leave moon-shaped bruises. "Can you promise me you won't hesitate, not even for a millisecond, if she comes at you? Can you put your own sister down like a rabid dog?"

Buffy blanched. That was actually a very good question, damn him.

His breath, false and cool, wafted over her face. "Convince me you can, and I might let you go. Make it good, Slayer, cause we're not leaving this lovely room until I'm absolutely, positively, one hundred and ten percent sure that that ugly little martyr complex took a hike when we started shagging."

His arrogance was so thick she could spackle the walls with it. How dare he, how dare he…Buffy pasted on her most disdainful glare, perfected over years of California living. "I don't have to prove anything to you. My fate is my own."

"But your life is mine!" He dragged her up onto her tiptoes. "The rest of the world can go to hell!" He shook her roughly. "I won't let you go again."

Buffy pushed at him. "What's really going on here, Spike? Is this about Dawn, or is it about Glory?"

He backed up abruptly. "Glory's dead." His foot connected with a fallen lamp, and he stumbled slightly.

Buffy stalked him. "Is it about me being too slow, or not clever enough, or is it about you?"

It was he who avoided her eyes this time, gaze dancing wildly around the destroyed room. "Look at me, " Buffy yelled, and he jumped. She cornered him against the dresser and forced his chin up with her hands. Her breath caught at the broken sadness in his eyes, the utter desolation floating in those pools of turbulent blue.

He latched onto her shoulders. "I won't put you in the ground again, Buffy."

She wouldn't coddle him, not when so much was at stake. "You don't have a choice. If my life is yours, so is my death. "She almost choked on her next words. "If you can't handle that, go now."

"Never." He plunged his hand into her hair. Buffy grabbed his wrist, stilling the motion. "I'll go to dust in your arms."

Bile rose in Buffy's throat. "You'd burden my soul with that?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed.

She realized she was breaking his wrist with the pressure of her fingers. "You are a selfish bastard."

"Completely," he agreed. "When it comes to you." As sinuously as a cobra, he slid out of her grip, and dove to the left.

Buffy whirled and went after him. "You're full of crap, too. I thought one of us had to go on living. Isn't that what you sang?"

Unbearable tenderness flashed across his angular features, tempered with anger and adrenaline. "Things change."

"What changed?" she choked out. Why, oh why, would you die for me?

"I did," he said softly, "and I can't go back."

"Well, try!" Buffy flung up her hands. "I can't deal with your overblown, romantic ideas right now. And I can't sit around having pedicures and playing Scrabble while Dawn unleashes mayhem!" Her face was wet with frustrated tears. "I waited to confront Angelus and he nearly killed everybody in the meantime, Spike!"

Spike pounced on that. "Let's talk about the dear, departed poof for a minute, love. How many tries did it take before you finally sent him south to the big barbecue? One try? Two? Five?"

"How dare you throw that in my face!" Buffy shoved him, shaking with anger.

"I'm not throwing anything! Just reinforcing the point, which is, you should stay here until you know what the frilly fuck you plan to do!"

Buffy's voice took on a hysterical edge. "Just get out of my way, Spike. You don't know what's best for me. You’re just like Angel that way. He thought he was a God in my life."

Spike pointed a finger at her. "Don't compare me to that tosser. I don't prance around, yodeling about prophecies. I'm not the darling boy."

"Don't talk about Angel that way!" She couldn't bear it. He was a good man, for all his flaws. "At least he did something with his time other than sit around snapping off bad advice to Pacey!"

"No, he snapped your teacher friend instead!"

Buffy wasn't even aware that she'd hit him until starry pain shot through her arm and his head thunked against the floor. Red spangles of rage still danced across her vision as she flung herself onto him, pummeling his chest and arms for all she was worth. It wasn't planned, it wasn't expected, it wasn't even helping, but all she could hear was the echo of that shrill taunt in her ears.

"Bastard!" She wrestled him down like a prized hog. "I hate you!"

"Good!" He grimaced at the squeezing weight of her thighs, but something like triumph flickered across his face as Buffy drew her fist back for a truly stunning blow. Buffy caught the look, and it gave her pause for the briefest of seconds, poised on the edge of brutality.

And, in that tiny breath of time, something happened.

The carpet disappeared, giving way to brick, and the jumble of her belongings morphed into drifts of garbage. The window had people on the other side, bustling, uniformed people, hurrying under neon. Somewhere, a dispatch radio crackled to life. Buffy looked down at Spike, and his features were no longer smooth and aquiline. He was not even recognizable under the jumble of lacerations. A slow grin curled across his cracked and bloody mouth. Buffy froze in horror as his lips parted.

Buffy screamed and flung herself away, gagging. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.

It was all happening again, the alley, the fight, the beating that was her secret shame, the nightmare that made her sit up in bed on so many nights, and look over, in a panic, to make sure he was unmarked, that she hadn't killed him in their sleep.

Please don't forgive me, she'd begged of Tara, but never, ever, had she requested absolution from him. Because she wanted to forget, to lock those memories in a box and never think on them again. Because she was a coward, through and through. But, here they were, the memories, unleashed in glorious and horrifying Technicolor. She clawed her way across the carpet to the window, desperate for air. She'd closed it earlier, in the face of an approaching thunderstorm. Now, she fumbled to pull it up, and choked back a scream when it wouldn't budge.

Swaying there, in front of the window, everything crashed in on her at once. All the sorrow and rage of the past two days crashed over her like tsunami, and she nearly toppled under the crushing weight.

The window still refused to open. Grasping all the horror and tragedy and desperate unfairness of the past two days in her balled fist, she plunged her hand through the glass, and gloried in the sweet pain that followed, loving the rivulets of blood that flowed like a sacrificial offering.

Suddenly, Spike was there, pulling her arm inside, muttering colorful British curses. Buffy was afraid to look at him, afraid he'd still be wearing that bloody mask, the face of her guilt. Another wave of nausea swept over her, and Buffy shoved him away and broke for the bathroom like a marathon runner. She fell on her knees in front of the toilet, sure that everything she'd eaten for the past ten years was going to make an encore appearance. To her horror, nothing came up, and all she could do was convulse helplessly over the bowl.

She knew he was there by the subtle displacement of air behind her back and the gentle hand on her head. "Don't" she muttered, with her head still bowed on the porcelain. If you touch me I'll shatter.

He sighed and settled behind her on his knees, heeding her muttered plea by not quite touching her clothes or skin. The inch between them was her only salvation until sanity returned. Gradually, her quaking stopped, but Buffy remained where she was, clutching the belly of the toilet like a drowning woman.

"Oh, God," she muttered. "I'm dying."

He broke the rules by stroking her hair. "No, love. You're healing."

"Well, it feels like shit."

She peeked around to see his smile, but it wasn't there. He only looked sad. "What happened in the bedroom, Buffy?"

"Nothing?" she muttered hopefully, in the form of a question.

"Wrong. Try again."

Buffy scowled at his bossy tone, and rested her head on the edge of the toilet. She was so tired.

"I'm waiting here, pet."

Buffy sighed. "If you must know, I realized what a bitch I was."

Spike scratched his temple. "Don't take this the wrong way, poodle, but…which time?"

Buffy barked out a half-sob. "Take your pick. But, mostly about…about Katrina." She was still a coward. She couldn't even voice the harsh truth. The time I beat you like a redheaded stepchild.

"Oh, that." He shrugged. "It's over and done."

Buffy twisted to look at him. He avoided her eyes. "Is it?"

"Yeah." He offered her a small, reassuring smile.

Buffy swallowed. "I'm…sorry."

"I'm not." Buffy looked at him sharply, and he twitched his shoulders carelessly. "Things worked out. You're not ironing jumpsuits in the prison laundry or spearing garbage on the freeway. It was all worth it, Buffy."

"That makes me feel worse." She rested her head on her folded hands. "I'll be the death of you, someday."

"One can hope."

Buffy swatted him weakly on the thigh. "Spike?"

"Yeah, love?"

"I'm feeling less pukey."

"Well, good on you."

Buffy sighed at the thickheaded vampire. "You can touch me now, dumbass."

Spike laughed softly and wrapped his arms around her. Buffy snuggled into his chest and looked at the bloody mess of her hand. Slayer healing had taken care of the bleeding, but she, Spike, and the bathroom were splattered with gore. It had gushed all over him in the bedroom, when he'd pulled her away from the glass, and was rapidly drying in red streaks on his hands and clothes.

As if reading her thoughts, Spike reached up and turned on the faucet. He wet a washcloth under the stream and began dabbing at her cuts. Buffy leaned her head on his shoulder and watched the process. Finally, he tossed the stained washcloth aside.

"Up, love, " he murmured. "We need the tap."

He pulled her to her feet, steadied her when she swayed, and forced her to keep her hand under the water when she hissed and tried to pull away. Eventually, the agony receded, and Buffy watched in fascination as the blood swirled from their fingers in watery red whorls and circled into the drain. Buffy closed her eyes, lulled by the hypnotic rinsing motion of his thumb on her palm. When the cuts were clean, he washed her other hand, and his as well. The sight of their four hands, twisting under the crystal flow, was strangely erotic.

Her tired body sparkled to life, awakening to the proximity of his mouth to her ear, the set of his shoulders, the tickle of a blonde hair against her cheek. Intent on his task, he didn't notice the bright eyes turned in his direction.

"Spike?" she murmured, resting her forehead against his temple.

"Yeah, sweet?" He was busy examining her elbow for damage.

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

Every muscle in his body went as stiff as a board, and his jaw clenched so hard Buffy thought it might shatter. After a moment of staring straight ahead, he pulled her hands from the water and began to rinse out the sink.

"Well?"

"I could go for some wings."

Buffy maneuvered until she was facing him, pressed between his front and the edge of the vanity. "That's not what I mean."

"What you mean could spell a lot of trouble."

"Only if we want it to." She traced his lips with her finger. "You give so much. Let me give you something." He was hardening through the layers of denim, responding to her despite himself, and Buffy felt a rush of feminine power. They were flint and tinder to each other, a force nothing on Earth could stop. There were always embers.

She replaced her finger with her tongue, tracing the fine contours of his mouth like an artist at work. "Buffy--" He made a half-hearted move to pull away, but she slipped her fingers through his belt loops, and, with a jerk, yanked him against the softness of her body.

Every place they connected was electric, and he gave in with a groan, plundering her mouth like it was a tomb of long lost treasures. Buffy smiled into his kiss. Ladies and Gentleman, we have lift off. Her tongue danced erotically across the roof of his mouth, and a deep growl vibrated through his body and into hers. Slipping a hand under her butt, he swept shampoo bottles and bloody towels off the sink with his other, and lifted her onto the cleared space.

The shelf was hard under her rear, but Buffy didn't care. He was between her knees, and in her mouth, and touching her back. He was everywhere, but it still wasn't enough. She didn't feel him at her neck, taking what she'd offered only one other man. Others had taken it against her will. It was the most extraordinary gift she could give him, the only barrier left between them, and suddenly it seemed very important that there be no barriers at all.

The coppery odor of blood scented the bathroom, lending a heady air of danger to their feverish twisting, and Buffy was drunk on the tension. She plunged her hands under leather and cotton, trying to unwrap him. He laid wet kisses on her throat, and she flung her head back, exposing the wild fluttering of her pulse to his mouth. She could feel the demon unspooling from the man, rising through bone and sinew.

Propelled backward by the wiry strength in Spike's arms, Buffy let out a whuff of surprise and pain as her head connected with the wall. What the--Through a haze of exploding stars, she watched him scramble away from her until the opposite wall foiled his retreat. He pressed his back against it and looked wildly around the bathroom, as if seeking some hidden escape route. Slowly, he slid to a standing position.

Buffy didn't move. All she could do was gape at him. God, the look on his face, like she'd burned him with something far worse than holy water. Finally, Buffy remembered she had a tongue.

"Spike--" She reached out a tentative hand, but he shied away from her, inching along the wall toward the open door.

"No. I won't do it." He sounded broken, and mournful, resigned and angry, all at once. His movements were jerky, lacking his usual grace, and he stumbled slightly leaving the bathroom.

Buffy remained sitting on the cold tile of the vanity, stunned by both the reaction and the rejection. She hadn't seen him look that tormented since the night she'd uncovered his egg caper, the night Riley Finn returned, trailing clouds of glory and scattering the seeds of their breakup, and Spike had stormed out of the crypt in tears.

The storm that had been threatening all night finally unleashed itself, and Buffy jumped as a sudden crash of thunder rocked the house. More booming followed, bringing the electric certainty of lightning.

'Shit," Buffy muttered as the bathroom went dark. Oh, joy. The power lines are in on the conspiracy to ruin my life!

Dawn was out there somewhere, test-driving her new fangs, the rest of the gang was nowhere to be found, her head ached like a bitch, and Spike was having some sort of existential crisis. She didn't know exactly what one of those involved, but didn't poets always have them? And now they got to endure it all in the pitch black. Charming.

Shakily, Buffy slid her bare feet to the floor. Going hand over hand, she managed to find her way into the hall. From there, the moonlight, and an occasional flash of lightning, laid a path to the bedroom door. She used the haphazard pools of light as stepping stones, and only tripped once in the darkness. Stumbling over something soft, she cautiously reached down and came up with a handful of leather. Spike's duster, and his shirt, lying in a ball on the hallway carpet. Puzzled, Buffy held both items for a moment before realization dawned. The material smelled strongly of blood.

Her blood. Slayer blood, liquid temptation.

He'd shed it, shed her. Buffy swallowed back her hurt. She didn't stink like burgers anymore, did she?

Buffy fingered the worn fabric and pondered her next move.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined running after Spike, begging him to bite her. No, that wasn't right--she wouldn't beg. It wasn't in her makeup. But she wanted him---all of him--and meant to have him. But they'd hit a little snag, it seemed. He was so frightened, and it was her fault. All that first year as lovers, when he was spreading across her life like roots, she'd made a big show of hating the monster and barely tolerating the man. When had she ever told him that she accepted and loved both, with everything in her being? And why hadn't she told him? Maybe because she lacked his talent with words, the eloquence that made him so unusual and rare. Maybe because it was too scary.

The bedroom door was wide open, but no grumbly Spike sounds came from within. Buffy wondered if he'd simply fled, maybe gone out the window and down the tree. No, that was more Angel's style. Spike would just use the front door. The curtains were flung wide, and the storm provided good light. When her eyes adjusted, Buffy stepped farther into the room. A fine mist of rain was coming through broken window where the love of her life stood, hands braced on either side of the frame, looking out into the night.

Her eyes roamed over the long expanse of his bare back, up the aqueduct of his spine, and down the slope of a shoulder. He was as tense as a coiled rattler; she could see it in the tight muscles and over-rigid set of his spine. She waited, letting him have his broody moment. Leaning against the window like that, deep in thought, he reminded her of Angel--sweet, dark, and so very, very lost. She knew he felt the weight of her eyes. She would have known even if he hadn't turned his head a fraction of an inch in her direction, or his nostrils hadn't flared the slightest bit.

She remembered, all right. No human could bring out the passions in her that he did, this vampire standing in the mouth of storm with his mad, clamorous desires held in check. There was a wildness to Spike, a power so defined and sensual that it made her knees turn to margarine. She could have him everyday of her life and it wouldn't be enough. She'd die wanting more. He hadn't moved that magnetic gaze from whatever was so fascinating on the front lawn, but Buffy knew his acute senses were locked on her, drinking in her tiniest movements, listening to the swish-swish of her cutoffs and the little scuffling noises her bare feet made on the floorboards.

For a moment, his intensity almost frightened her, and she wondered if she shouldn't just remain in the shelter of the doorway. Her head liked that option, but, as usual, her body had different ideas when it came to him. It was still humming from the bathroom encounter, singing soprano over the proximity of a half-naked, moon-silvered Spike. The air in the bedroom was sweet with rain and thick with the night's heartaches. They were ready for each other, and only a misunderstanding stood between them.

"I don't want to die, Spike." A roll of thunder almost drowned out her words. "I'm not like your other Slayers."

He laughed harshly, not turning from the window. "No, you're not. At least they put up a fight."

Buffy hissed in a breath. Bastard! I've been fighting all my life!

She crossed the room in two long strides, latched onto Spike's arm, and spun him around.

"Sod off!" He tried to jerk his arm from her grip. Buffy held on, tired of his mulishness.

Dark petals of bruise were blooming on the cheekbones that fit so neatly into her palms. She forced his head down until he met her eyes. She was exhausted, achy, and frustrated, and her natural sweetness bubbled forth.

"You jackass," she hissed, "Is it that hard to believe that I want you for you?"

He drew both arms up sharply, breaking Buffy's hold, almost knocking her over in the process. "Well, no one else ever has!" he shouted, chest heaving.

Well, he might as well have staked her in the heart.

Buffy stared at him. She forgot, sometimes, that underneath the bleach and bawdy sexuality lived a deeply insecure creature, whose great pits of rage and self-doubt drove him to unspeakable acts. William was the seed, she suspected. Sweet, doomed William, who'd poured his passions onto paper, and turned to murder when the world didn't want his sonnets. And here he stood, her murdering poet, clearly shocked at his own admission. That look…so vulnerable, yet defiant, and vaguely terrified, like she might laugh in his face…well, it just couldn't remain there, not for a second longer.

Buffy reacted automatically, throwing her arms around him so tightly that the breath whooshed out of her own lungs. He struggled, but she just notched her chin over his shoulder and held on.

C'mon, Spike. Work with me here. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her grip, willing him to cooperate. Buffy was stronger, but she didn't know how long she could keep a very powerful, very wigged vampire immobilized.

"Buffy, let go." His tone was deadly serious, laced with a healthy dose of menace, but Buffy only locked her hands more tightly against the small of his back. "This is bloody stupid."

"I know," she replied sadly, "And it's all my fault." He had stopped fighting, but stood stiffly in the circle of her arms, as rigid as a newly risen zombie. "For not treating you like a person."

He was utterly still, listening.

"It's my fault, for telling you that you were a means to an end, that you were just...just convenient." She had to swallow hard to get the word out, recalling, all too well, how he'd sprawled in the ruins like a slacking God, wearing nothing but a hurt expression. "You're not just a convenience to me, Spike. You never were." The tears welling in her eyes spilled over.

Buffy pulled back so she could see his face. His mouth opened and closed once or twice.

"Oh, " he said softly.

Buffy blinked in disbelief. Oh? That was his response to her grand confession? Oh? But she couldn't raise any real irritation, not when he was melting like butter against her, all the coiled tension dripping away. Not when she wanted to sob in relief because he was still there, steady, solid, and present, open for business, not turning away from her, not stolen in the night, like Angel.

He looked at her very seriously. "What am I to you, then?"

Buffy traced the brutally elegant lines of his face with one finger, marveling at the architecture of him. She thought of their gypsy summer, of feeling the draw of the open road and just following wherever it led. She thought of flying along, tires barely skimming the pavement, and Spike tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel as he careened around a semi, head nodding to the beat. She remembered driving his car, stealing his covers, and forcing him to watch hours of Television for Women. For her, he'd suffered through heaps of Oprah, Ally MacBeal, and Richard Simmons hawking Sweatin' to the Oldies 9, for Grannies. She remembered drying his hair with a cheap motel towel as he sat between her legs, fascinated by the way it fell, gel-free, into bedroomy waves. She remembered him bringing her a Snickers bar from the vending machine, and not caring that he'd probably shaken the machine violently, rather than actually deposited change. Even better than peanuts and chocolate was the way he'd entered with the wind and stars.

She leaned in and kissed him, gently worrying the unexpectedly tender curve of his lower lip. "You, sweet man," she murmured against that rich plum of a mouth, "are fine company."

All the false breath he harbored seemed to leave his body as one great sigh, and then he was kissing her back with such blind, ferocious adoration that Buffy whimpered into his mouth. But he only increased the pressure, forcing her back until she was bent over his arm like a heroine in a bodice ripper.

That was Buffy's last coherent thought for a while, because his tongue swept across her lips and invaded the valley of her mouth. Her teeth automatically parted to give him better access, but she exacted a price, clamping them down to hold him there when he moved to withdraw. Apparently, that was also very much the right thing; their convoluted position made her a living seismograph, sensitive to the great tremors that rocked him from head to foot. Outside, the storm crashed on, nearly drowning out the sighing sounds they were making. Her body was about ten stops ahead of her mind, but Buffy managed to gather enough of her wits to mutter something coherent.

"Back… is breaking."

Spike swung her around, and Buffy would probably have whooped in surprise if he hadn't resealed their mouths, cutting off any communication that didn't come through the greedy clash of tongue and teeth or the sweep of their skins. Buffy discovered she had newfound leverage, with the wall at her back, and used it to brace herself. Her freed-up hands flew to his face, wrapping around the strong, curving bones and drawing him even closer. She used to put her hands there because it seemed like the safest place. She was wrong, though. The face was dangerous. Once she started touching it she never wanted to stop.

He grasped her hips, pulling her more firmly into the cradle of his body, and Buffy went willingly. They were hopelessly tangled by then, anyway, mouths meeting in a sweet-hot snarl, over and over. She wanted it to go on forever, but, eventually, respiration took precedence, and she tore her mouth away, gasping up toward the ceiling, which gave him access to the underside of her jaw, where he laid a trail of tiny, bee-sting kisses that didn't help her breathe any better.

She felt safe and loved in his arms, but her eye was drawn to the damp world outside. She wondered if Dawn had found a dry place to wait out the storm. Vamps were like cats. They hated the wet. Even knowing what she was, it hurt to think of her alone and wandering. Would she be like Spike, and struggle for a hundred years before finding a place in the world? Suddenly, Buffy felt like crying.

Instead, she ran her fingers through his soft hair, and pressed her lips against soft hollow below his ear. "I love you, she whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

Buffy couldn't see his face, because it was pressed against her shoulder, but he quivered like a bowstring. She kissed his ear. "And we're going to be all right."

He clung to her like a lifeline, and Buffy thought that the wetness on her shoulder might even be tears. She held him tighter.

Eventually, he pulled back and swiped impatiently at his eyes. "You were wrong, you know. It wasn't all your fault." A hint of his usual smirk gleamed through. "Most of it, but not all. Like 90%."

Buffy laughed a little. "Thanks, I think." She grew serious, biting her lip thoughtfully and tracing the ridge of his clavicle with one finger. "Don't ever leave me, OK?"

His eyes darkened from tide pools to winter oceans. "You know I couldn't. Not ever."

Buffy sniffed. "Promises, promises." She'd learned not to put much faith in them.

She started to turn away, but he seized her wrist. "You don't believe me?"

Her pulse raced to the near-painful pressure of his fingers. "I'm getting there. You might have to tell me again, though."

"I'll show you," he growled, and swooped in

***********************************************************************

"…four Doublemeat Specials, hold the tomato on one. Extra onion on two. Scrape the sauce off 'em all. One Jumbo Coke, extra ice, two medium root beers, regular, and one diet. And don't forget to push the tab in on that one, Ace. Four frozen yogurts, since you refuse to serve the good fattening stuff we all crave, no nuts on any of them. Three cones and one dish. Willow spills. Do you have any garlic?"

"Um, yeah." A tiny, frightened voice emerged from the cow-festooned box.

Xander nodded in satisfaction. "Load it on those burgers, my good man! We want to reek." He pulled his head back into the car, then cursed and stuck it back out. "And one cherry pie!"

Willow leaned out her window. "Excuse me…are those cherries organic?"

The box responded with a long, puzzled silence.

Xander rolled his eyes. "Excuse my friend. She was conceived at Woodstock."

Willow glared at him as the box crackled to life again. "Sir, could you repeat your order?"

A chorus of horns blared their protest, and the driver behind them gave Xander the finger.

Anya tugged on his sleeve. "I want nuts on my sundae."

By the time he'd repeated the entire order, Xander wasn't hungry in the least, and Mr. Road Rage, in the child-packed SUV behind them, was positively ballistic, waving and gesturing at his watch. Xander channeled his inner Spike and blew the irate fellow a kiss.

Tara peered up at the building's logo. "This isn't the one Buffy worked at, is it? Where Manny fell in the grinder?"

Anya corrected her. "He didn't fall. The Penis lady pushed him."

Xander's head ached. "Who are we talking about?"

Willow frowned at him. "Manny. Buffy's Manny."

"Buffy has a Manny? Since when?"

The Doublemeat line moved forward a whole inch. Xander wondered if weeping and rending his garments would be considered a lewd act.

*******************************************************************

She wanted to remember everything, to store all the details away like a file she could access in the moments when his hands weren't on her, sculpting mere flesh into rolling hills and hot, damp valleys, drawing steam from her hidden wellsprings And she wasn't unlike mist in his arms, floating free, dropping wet, crystalline kisses on his face and shoulders, and, rising, oh God, rising like a tide with every long, sure stroke he completed.

Up against the wall, because that was the way she wanted it, and he could deny her nothing. With her legs wrapped around his waist, because that was how it was the first time, and she would never, ever forget that bombastic coupling. He seared himself into her flesh that night, and here she was, years later, reapplying the brand in another house, in another time, looking into the same wild, passionate face, swept up in the same ferocious wave of hunger. But her desperate needs were tempered, this time, by sorrow and joy, loss, and great, all consuming, acknowledged love.

Buffy's shorts dangled from one toe, and she kicked them away with the flourish of a Rockette. She ran her foot down Spike's back, over the firm--very firm--rise of a buttock, bare now that they'd done away with his jeans. He surged against her, sliding his hands firmly under her rear, and sank his blunt teeth into her naked shoulder. Buffy thumped her head against the wall and half-sobbed, half-gasped out a word.

"More." Again, in case he'd missed it. "More."

His hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere, talented extensions of the incredibly erotic weight holding her to the wall like a pinned butterfly, mimicking the motions of his length sliding in and out of her. He seemed to be in a frantic rush to touch her everywhere, and, if it hadn't felt so damn good, Buffy would have whispered, It's okay, William, I'm not going away, yet. In delicious contrast to that passionate roughness, his body flowed sinuously against hers, the undulations of pelvis and hip bordering on gentle. He shifted and rolled like his bones were greased with melted honey.

See, she thought he must be saying, we're more than flesh, more than fucking, more than blood, even. We're spirits, gifted with free will, and Buffy's heart broke a little.

She kissed his eyes closed, never breaking their gliding rhythm. "Oh, Spike," she murmured. "I know you can love me gently." She tucked his head into the curve of her shoulder. "Love me now." She hesitated. "Please."

It wasn't a word that came easily to the Slayer. They both knew it, and the Change came over him, inevitable as sunrise. Buffy felt the bones of brow and forehead lengthen, and thicken, felt his skin grow rough and sandpapery, like a cat's tongue. He must have read her mind, because he began to lick at the ripe curve of her neck, and anticipation roiled with fear in Buffy's stomach. No mortal man, this. A hint of fang scraped her earlobe, and Buffy's knees almost buckled. Spike felt her shudder and paused, hovering near her hammering pulse, holding perfectly still. Buffy slid down his body and placed one foot on the floor, to steady them, and pressed a hand against the back of his head, fingers digging into the soft waves.

"Do it," she whispered. Still, he hesitated, and Buffy, exasperated, pulled his head up by the hair. She didn't flinch at the monstrous teeth and eyes as golden as Liberty coins. No, she looked directly into those twin suns, and retracted a lie made years ago under illegally obtained crypt décor.

"I trust you."

She wanted to ask him not to look at her that way, to tell him that she wasn't a saint, or a goddess, or even very noble. She was barely even brave, sometimes. But then there wasn't time to say anything more, or for second thoughts, because he'd lowered his head to her throat and strapped one powerful arm across her back. He'd crunched through skin, drawn blood, broken all barriers, and nothing existed for her but the rhythm of his mouth and the piercing pain of his teeth, the rough scrape of demon ridges, and, oh Christ, the sucking.

Buffy grasped at his back, leaving long furrows on the pale skin. Muscles rippled under her hands as he sought to control himself, but Buffy only flung her head back farther. Come into me. Dimly, she was aware of him spinning her away from the wall, but the rest was lost as the pain receded and she fell into ecstasy. She was robbed of all but the most basic coherence, subjugated to his rhythmic suckling as Spike took the blood from her body and replaced it with fire, and light, with fearsome power and surging, dark magicks. A hundred sensations assailed her in one moment--dust from a thousand roads, the experiences of one hundred years, wind rippling on a darkling plain, life ending on a cobbled street, the smell of green, the taste of loneliness, old ink wells, an ocean crossing. Many voices, many loves. It was too much to bear. She opened her mouth to tell him that they had to stop, that she was wrong, that this really was going to kill her. But his hunger was already becoming her own, and all that emerged from her throat was a hoarse cry. They were melting and blending and merging and she wanted to crawl inside him, to flow in as easily as the blood. She wanted to be him, to rip bone and tear flesh. She wanted to dance to the drums, and sleep on bones, to live forever, and die in the moment, to find the moon and howl at it.

She did scream when he dragged her against his chest and drank deeply of her, one last time. She sagged in the vampire's arms like a broken doll as his fierce cry joined hers, as fires swept up from hell and angels sang from heaven, as the world they knew exploded into fragments of color and light, sound and fury, and the shattered pieces rained down like blossoms.

**************************************************

"Xander--"

He shushed Anya by flapping a hand toward the two sleeping figures in the back and holding a finger to his lips. Willow and Tara, trapped together in the back seat, had grown increasingly snug as the night went on, making Xander squirm. Not that there was anything wrong with female snuggliness, but an entire night of aimless wandering in the Spikemobile, with dewy-eyed lesbians and a pouty Anya as sidekicks, had put him on edge. The edge of triple homicide. He'd heaved a sigh of relief when they tripped off to dreamland, to have their party in private.

Anya lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "We're going to run out of gas. You should purchase some, immediately."

Xander shook his head. "I'm not putting gas in Spike's car unless he plans to burn it leaving town."

Anya pursed her lips, drawing her mouth into a tight little bow, just she did when he suggested a potluck for their wedding reception, with Tito as deejay. He was just trying to save a buck to take her on a nice honeymoon and she'd gone nuts, like he'd suggested joining a prison road crew, just for kicks.

He ignored the tight lips until she hissed a breath out from between them. "Some things never change, do they, Xander Harris?"

"What are you talking about?"

She crossed her arms, seemingly in the early throes of a snit. "We've been in this car for hours, and all you've done is complain about Buffy. Buffy, your best friend, who is, I might add, a much happier person since she embarked on a journey of sexual self-discovery with--"

Xander gritted his teeth together. "Is there a point lurking here, An?"

"Yes! It's Buffy, Buffy, Buffy! Your whole life is a Very Buffy Movie! There's no time for anything else. Tonight, you didn't even attempt to fondle my breasts! Not once!" She flung herself against the seat in girlish outrage.

Xander tried to wrap his mind around what she'd just said. "How was I supposed to know you wanted to be…fondled?" He almost choked on the word. "I just wasn't getting a fondling vibe all those times you threw me out!"

"You could have insisted!"

"Now, that's just gross, Anya!"

"A bold and forceful personality is very attractive to a woman whose fiancé deserted her because he was scared of the progeny having donkey ears!" She glared at him.

Xander reigned in his patience. "That wasn't why! There were…other things." He'd never told her about the frying pan of doom.

Her expression softened. "Fear is fear, Xander. It drives people apart. I saw thousands of men leave when I worked for D'Hoffryn, and took vengeance on behalf of the women they wronged. It was a job. I never wondered if the women might be at fault, too." She sighed. "Like I was."

"Huh?"

Anya looked out into the darkened street. For once, she appeared to be in deep thought. Funny, that he'd never put much thought into her millennia of life, or her earliest years on some barren steppe, beset by winter and wandering hordes. He'd never considered her wise.

Finally, she spoke. "I lost you long before the wedding. You slipped away from me in little ways. But I refused to see, because I was scared, too. Of losing you." She shrugged. "So I never told and you never told and all the not telling blew up in our faces. We wrecked everything, and the lodge too." She shuddered in remembrance. "I got a huge bill for those guts on the antlers."

Xander focused on the road. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Her voice was gentle. "But until you leave that basement, Xander, you'll never be happy. Your feet left, years ago, but your heart's still there. The same part of your heart that's still waiting for Buffy. It's time to grow up and move on." She considered her next words carefully. "It's not you. She loves a different kind of man, that's all."

your

To his horror, Xander felt his eyes well up.

She sat back in her seat. "You'd leave that basement for her in a heartbeat. Maybe, someday, you'll leave it for me. Someday, when you're not scared anymore."

He looked over at her. "I'm not afraid."

She shook her head. "You are. Of me, of yourself, of life. Most of all of closing the book on Buffy."

He supposed she was right, that a part of him still believed Buffy Summers would come downstairs some morning, pour herself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and suddenly realize, between bites, that he was The One.

A stupid dream, he knew, but an old and comforting one.

"An," he asked quietly. "If I can do all that…would you take me back?"

She smiled at him, as brightly as the morning sun. "In a heartbeat."

Xander was distracted from her radiant face by sniffling sounds from the back seat. Willow sat up, wiping her eyes. "That was so beautiful!"

"Beautiful," Tara echoed, sitting up.

Xander shook his head ruefully and addressed Anya. "Next time we'll just broadcast our conversation over the PA system at Staples. It'll be more private that way."

"Sorry!" Willow pouted. "It’s a big car, but voices carry!"

Anya slapped her seat. "A huge hit for Till Tuesday in the 1980's! Do you remember the video, Will, where she stood up in the opera and---"

"Oh, my God!"

Willow cut Anya off with her shout. She pointed out her window, toward the cemetery they were rolling past.

Xander stuck his head out the driver's window and followed the line of her finger. His breath caught.

She was disappearing into the graveyard, moving easily through the gates, blending with shadows. But the moon chose that moment to break through the clouds, and Xander could see her clearly. At first glance, she looked exactly the same, but Xander knew vampires, and he zeroed in on the small, profound changes that had taken place, the things that now set her apart from humanity. She was just different. Maybe it was her clothes, and the way she wore them more fluidly. Maybe it was her step, lighter, but not a child's stride. She walked like death had freed her, like the world couldn't touch her, and Xander, with his bills and his job, and a thousand other worries, was horrified and saddened and deeply, deeply jealous.

His thoughts might have been zinging along some fraying connection between them, or maybe she heard the familiar cough of the DeSoto's massive engine. For whatever reason, she turned. Her eyes--they were so dark--met his, and Xander felt his Doublemeat dinner threaten to make a double sweet reappearance. Her lips--fuller, more seductive, painted a plummy, dark red--curled in recognition.

Beads of sweat popped out on Xander's forehead. Swearing, he floored the gas pedal, roaring away from the wreckage of their Dawn, throwing the others against their seats.

Anya twisted around to look back. "She has lovely posture."

"And we'll be lovely mincemeat if this bucket breaks down." Xander careened through a crosswalk. "Skipper's taking the Minnow to port, ladies. This tour's over."

Tara grabbed the door handle and held on tightly. "What are you going to do?"

"What do we always do in a crisis? Find Buffy!" He ignored Anya's pointed look. Maybe he did always run to Buffy. Well, pardon him for not knowing that many superheroes.

Willow bit her lip. "Maybe we shouldn't tell her quite yet. She wasn't exactly mental health girl when we left."

Xander honked at the car in front of him. "What other choice do we have? Unstable Buffy is still super strong Buffy, capable of leaping tall vamps in a single bound."

"But--"

"Will, would you make with the quiet, please? There are obscure traffic laws I have not yet broken!"

"Fine." Willow sulked, and the other two shot him dirty looks on her behalf.

Xander ignored all the feminine disapproval. He dug out his cell phone, punched out the familiar number, chewing on his lower lip and cursing at the bad connection. Mulder called Scully from Hong Kong, for God's sake, and got a clear line. All Xander got was buzzing and crackling.

Pick up, Buff. Pick up, please.

**************************************************************

Finally, they'd made it to the bed.

Buffy yawned, and rested her cheek on Spike, trying to remember how they'd gotten there. She had a vague memory of the floor rushing toward her after the biteage, and even vaguer memories of being caught and swung up and carried onto moon-silvered sheets, of pulling him down in a bare tangle of limbs.

Buffy shifted on his chest, disturbing the sticky sandwich of their bodies. She winced at the gross, sucking sound of skins separating, then shrugged. What was a little sweat among former mortal enemies? It was all hers, anyway.

Spike chuckle was like a rumbling volcano and Buffy raised her head. "I thought you were asleep." She frowned. "And what's so funny?"

"You, Blondie, and the look on your face."

"What look?" she asked defensively.

Spike stretched, and Buffy was forced to grab onto his ribcage or be bucked off, like a surfer into a wave. "The one where you're all pinchy, like your toilet just backed up."

"You're a pig. " Buffy whacked him on the hip. "I'm not pinchy, whatever that is."

"Are too."

"You're ruining the afterglow!"

"Am I?" Buffy tensed at the purred question. Before she could react, he flipped her like a flapjack. Buffy landed on her back among the pillows with a startled "Oof!"

Spike crawled over her, miles of pale skin flowing in every direction, and leaned down to claim her lips. "I'll make you a new one."

"Jesus!" Buffy arched like a cat as his fingers closed over her breast in a grip that should have hurt, but didn't, and turned all of her muscles to jelly.

She retaliated by wrapping her arm around his neck and dragging his mouth across hers in a kiss that didn't coax or beg, but demanded absolute surrender, everything he had. And he offered it up willingly, pouring all of his passionate nature into the warm, wet fusion of their lips, drawing blood with his blunt teeth and then licking it away.

Finally, he pulled back, and Buffy gasped in some much-needed air. Bracing himself on his hands, he looked down at her and bit his lower lip.

"What about you?" he asked, sweeping a covetous, sloe-eyed glance down the length of her heaving body, and she remembered the conversation that led to their current, sweaty rumpled state. Something about promises and never going away. "You might leave me. There's better blokes out there."

Probably, but better blokes weren't kissing their way down her stomach. Before she could lose her train of thought completely, Buffy grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped them again. "Not for me," she breathed. "They can't handle…things."

"You don't say?" Spike's eyes rolled back in his head as Buffy demonstrated by squeezing his sides with her powerful thighs, hard enough to cut off circulation in a normal man.

"A few minutes of that and my better bloke would be in an ambulance, hooked up to oxygen." Buffy batted her eyes sensuously. "That would spoil all my fun."

She nibbled her way down his ribcage, leaving glaring red teeth marks in the tender flesh, languidly working her way south. "By the time I got to this," she braced her hands on his hips, "he'd need traction."

Buffy squealed as Spike reached down and grabbed her. She let herself be dragged up the hard, muscled length of his body. Ooooh, straddling. Definite possibilities, there. He settled her across his midsection, and Buffy wiggled just to bring some of those possibilities to the forefront of his mind.

"You really don't want another Captain Cardboard?" He peered up at her in the half-light.

Tacky of him to bring Riley up, at that particular moment, but very Spikeish, she thought.

"What do you think?" She leaned over him, letting her hair fall around them like a curtain.

Spike's pupils had dilated, and he was moving to meet her half way, when the shrill ring of the telephone sounded, breaking the spell.

Buffy groaned. "I have to get that."

Spike reluctantly released her. "I'm chipless, now. I could slaughter the Phone Company."

Buffy reached for the receiver. "Start with the spokespeople. Tommy Smothers is a freak of nature."

"Aren't we all? " Spike muttered, rolling to the side. He threw a dramatic arm over his face.

The storm had passed, and the rain was slowing to a trickle. Spike could hear it tapping on the roof, becoming less and less as nature relaxed its assault. The kitchen radio had switched back on, as had the clocks. There were smaller sounds, too, easily missed by mortal ears. For Spike, the house was never silent. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the basement pipes drip and potted earth shift in Willow's windowsill garden.

The scent of Buffy's skin drifted over from the other side of the bed, and he shifted closer, nudging her with his knee.

Surprised that she didn't nudge back, or give him a swat, he pulled his arm away and looked up at her. She was sitting stock-still beside him, still holding the phone. Xander Harris's voice bleated from the receiver, scratchy with cellular static.

Spike sat up and listened carefully. "Evil, evil connection…right there in front of us…near Spike's cemetery… very Wednesday Adams…Buffy, are you there?"

Spike took the phone from her frozen fingers and dropped it back in the cradle, cutting Harris off, mid-squawk.

"Buffy?" He laid a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

Without acknowledging him, moving as woodenly as a marionette, she got up and padded to the window, naked, and stood there looking out at the world she'd died to save. After a moment's consideration, Spike grabbed a blanket and followed. Her limbs were stiff as he wrapped it around both of them. No need to give the nosy neighbors a free show.

He rested his chin on her shoulder, waiting out her silence.

"The sun will be up in a couple of hours," she said, finally, still staring out into the night. A sad smile flickered over her face. "Dawn."

He pulled her back against his chest, and she folded her arms over his, accepting the comfort. Lightly, she traced runes on the skin of his hand.

"You know, I forgot for a few minutes. We made each other forget, didn't we?"

Spike just listened, letting her say what she needed to.

"But Xander saw her, Spike. "She's here. "Buffy paused painfully. "And now it's real, again. I can't lie to myself that its all a mistake and we're going to drive down in a week and get her. I had it all planned, you know. How I'd let her play boy-bands on the way home, and make you carry her ten trillion suitcases. I was going to tell her how you broke the toaster, and the blender, and my hair dryer. She would have loved that. We were going to laugh at how blown away Xander was by the two of us shacking up. She would have loved that even more--having you here, I mean." She squeezed his arms affectionately.

She was silent for a moment, then went on, her voice just a hushed murmur. "That's what it's going to be like from now on, isn't it? A little moment of happiness, then I'll remember what happened to Dawn. "To Dawn," she marveled, "after all we did to save her from Glory." She looked up at the stars. "Maybe we pay a price for keeping things that aren't really ours, Spike. Me, for holding onto Dawn. Angel, for lugging around a soul he was cursed with." She looked off into the distance. "He died because of his goodness, you see, doing a favor for me. The soul killed him, in the end. "

Spike rumbled into her ear. "That's rot. Angel died because he had his head in the clouds, as usual."

Buffy only shook her head. They would always disagree on Angel.

"I have to find her, Spike. I have to see what she's become." She turned to him. "And you were right, earlier, I don't know what I'll do after that." Buffy laughed bitterly. "A grounding won't cut it, anymore."

"No, petal, it won't. "

She swiped at her eyes. "I have to do this."

Silently, they faced each other. Finally, Spike nodded. "Okay then, Slayer." He reached out and took her hand, curling their fingers together. "I've got your back."

*********************************************************************

As they swung onto Revello Drive, the DeSoto's engine began to sputter ominously.

"I told you to buy gas, "Anya whined.

"Well, I didn't listen." Xander struck the steering wheel with his palm. "I was busy with the fondling discussion!"

The car shuddered up the street and crawled into the driveway, choking on its last breath of gasoline fumes.

When the car rolled to a stop, they barreled out, and tumbled over each other, all the way up the front steps and through the front door. Xander slammed it shut behind Tara and leaned against the wall to regain his breath. Willow was the first to recover.

"Buffy?" she called, starting up the stairs, "Spike?"

Xander sank down on the bottom step, and Anya sank down beside him. "Do you think they killed each other?"

Xander snorted. "Spike dead? I like that idea. I want to have babies with that idea."

Willow pounded back down the stairs. "They're not here. The room's a mess, though. And the bathroom--"

Xander cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Therapy hour was a smashing success, then."

"What do we do now?" Tara bit her lip and dropped onto the third step.

Xander shrugged. "We wait."

**********************************************************************

The cemetery gates towered like stone sentinels, keeping watch over a village of the dead, and Buffy shivered. She forced her feet to keep moving, when all she really wanted to do was grab Spike and go home. She'd make love to him slowly under piles of cotton and down, then curl up against his back and fall asleep. In the morning, she'd discover it was all a nightmare brought on by too much cheese before bedtime.

Instead of running, Buffy grabbed Spike's hand, tangling her gloved fingers with his. The rain was over, but dampness, and early fall, had possession of the wind and grass. The chill pervaded her bones, and she wondered what it was like to be like Spike and Angel and Dawn, impervious to cold, walking outside the flow of time, overlooked by seasons and nature. Immortal, but not invulnerable.

He seemed solid enough in the moonlight. Sometimes, in lamp-lit rooms, he looked almost frail, and very young. She gripped his hand tighter as they moved deeper into the cemetery, following paths worn smooth by time. Buffy jumped slightly as Spike's lighter flared in the darkness, casting strange purple-orange shadows on the angle of his jaw.

"Are you cold?" he asked, taking the newly lit cigarette from between his lips.

"Yes," Buffy replied slowly, "But, if you even think of giving me your coat we'll go home, right now, and search the basement for pods, I swear to God."

Spike snickered. "I'm not the one who wanted to hold hands, Slayer"

Buffy dropped his hand like a hot potato. "Fine!" She started to flounce away. Spike heaved a long-suffering sigh and grabbed her arm.

"For Christ Jesus' sake, I was only teasing." He recaptured her hand, tucking it firmly into his. "I like this touchy-feely kick you're on, pet. Beats getting punched in the face," he offered casually.

Buffy sputtered. "You are such an asshole!" she ground out, but didn't pull her hand away.

"Ta, ever so." He grinned at her, and Buffy almost--almost--forgave him for being the king of jerks.

They shuffled along in companionable silence, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Buffy frowned when Spike stopped to light another cigarette. He was nervous, she could tell, raising his head every few seconds like he expected ooglie-booglies to come pouring out of the trees, en masse, and slaughter them where they stood.

Buffy distracted him by plucking the glowing orange butt from his fingers and crushing it under her boot heel.

"Hey!" he glared at her in outrage. "Have a care, Slayer! What are you on about?"

"Cigarettes are gross. Cigarettes are fatal. Hence, you shouldn't smoke them."

"I am a vampire. Vampires are immortal. Hence, I will continue."

Buffy put her hands on her hips. "They pollute the atmosphere! You may not breathe, but I do." She puffed out her lower lip.

He looked at her, then down at the third cigarette he'd pulled from his pocket, and uttered a foul curse. Instead of lighting it, he pointed it at her. "You're a pain in my ass. You know that, right?"

Buffy advanced on him. "Why don't I hold onto these, just in case you're tempted?" She grabbed for the pack of Marlboros sticking out of his jacket.

"Not a chance! You probably want to smoke 'em yourself!" He danced out of her reach.

Buffy saw what was going to happen seconds before it did, and opened her mouth to squeak a warning. Backing away from her, he failed to see the broken tombstone near his feet, and tumbled over it, backwards. He landed on his back and lay there stunned, looking up at the stars.

Buffy pressed both hands to her mouth. "Are…are you okay?"

Spike growled dangerously. "No, I'm not okay! I tripped over a fucking grave!" He sat up, wincing. "And what's so funny?"

Buffy did a strange little dance, like she had to whiz, or was trying to contain herself. "The Big Bad, felled by a tombstone. Oh, God. Xander will love this!"

"I am not felled!" Spike insisted.

Buffy rolled her eyes sarcastically. "Oh, sorry. I meant knocked on his ass."

"That's much better."

All her glee evaporated, though, as he tried to get up and promptly crashed back to earth. She was at his side in a flash. "What's the matter?"

"I broke my sodding ankle, that's what's the matter!"

Buffy swallowed hard. "This is not good." She looked nervously around the dark cemetery.

Spike tugged on her sleeve. "If we just sit tight for a few minutes, it'll heal. Then we can find the Bit, check her out, and go home." He gripped her arm. "Okay?"

"Sure." Buffy settled next to him on the grass, nervously scanning the trees. She understood his wariness. There was something in the air…something different, something not right. Not right at all. She moved closer to Spike, suddenly afraid for both of them.

Spike groaned, rubbing his ankle. "At least I landed above ground, this time. Fell on a bloody root, I did, that time we tumbled six feet."

Buffy wrapped her arm around his. "I was lucky. I just fell on you, remember?""

Spike rolled his eyes. "Yes, I seem to recall it."

Buffy poked him. "I was totally impressed with the whole performance. Especially the part where you tantrumed and threw yourself on the sarcophagus."

"At least I didn't do a slam dance. What was that, Slayer? Somethin' you saw in a Pat Benatar video, back in the day?"

Buffy considered breaking his other ankle. "Pat who--?"

"Shhhh." Spike suddenly shushed her with a wave of his hand. He listened hard, wrinkling up the pale skin at the corners of his eyes. "What is that?"

Buffy listened, too. It was very faint, very soft, and very, very familiar.

Singing.

She knew that voice, from her false memories, and from real ones, created after the key was given to her in the human form of Dawn.

Buffy stood up. "She's here."

Spike tried to pull her back down. "Buffy, wait. Just stay here with me until this blasted bone knits together."

But Buffy shrugged him off and drifted toward the siren's sound of that voice, never looking back. He made a wild grab for her, but wound up sprawled on the ground.

"Buffy!" he bellowed, and swore viciously when she ignored him. As she disappeared into the trees, he pulled himself into a standing position and hobbled after her, grabbing onto tombstones to stay upright.

Buffy's feet took her along the familiar route, and she wasn't surprised to find herself standing in front of Spike's crypt. It looked empty and abandoned, now that he was living with her, with no rosy lamplight edging under the door, beckoning her into the scarlet hideaway.

The soft humming was coming from inside. It wasn't the wind making music, or a lost poet singing to his muse. It was Dawn's voice, sweet, high, and young.

With shaking hands, she pushed the door open wide.

A lonely gust of wind swept across the stone floor, ruffling the curling leaves that seemed to find their way in with the breeze and hide in the darkest corners. The candles did not flicker to life as she entered, and the busts did not turn their stone heads at the intrusion, but Buffy sensed a presence in the chilly gray air beyond the sarcophagus.

Buffy fumbled with a candle, and brought forth a feeble flame. It was enough.

There was someone there--she was there, rocking in the shadows.

Buffy was reminded of the mad, dark Drusilla, always clutching her beloved Miss Edith. But it wasn't that vampiress, crouched in the corner. Dru was old, this one was young, and Buffy knew that graceful sweep of back, that fall of mahogany hair.

"Dawn?" Buffy stepped closer. Dawn had her back to Buffy, shielding something from view. Buffy wanted nothing more than to run away and never return, but she pressed on, descending into the shadows where the candle shed no light. She reached out and touched Dawn's shoulder, and instantly recoiled. Cold. So cold.

Choking back her horror, Buffy spoke softly to the girl, as if she were a frightened zoo animal.

"What have you got there?" She gathered her courage and leaned over to look.

Buffy screamed.

She didn't remember running out of the crypt, or smashing into Spike just outside the door, sending him sprawling. She didn't remember fleeing through the rows of stones, or sinking down on the curb outside the gates. She didn't remember Spike finding her there, or taking her home.

The way he told it, she was still screaming.

***********************************************************

Xander emerged from the trees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He walked toward Spike, who was leaning on a shovel, grimly puffing away

"Finished?" He crushed his cigarette out and hefted the shovel.

Xander swallowed. "For now." He watched the vampire scoop up earth. "This is so wrong."

Spike set his jaw. "We can't leave it empty. Slayer's half out of her mind over what she's already seen tonight. This would kill her."

Xander shuddered. "There's no sign of…them?"

Spike shook his head tiredly. "Crypt's as empty as the day I left it. Girl must have split while I was chasing after Buffy. She took her little surprise with her, I suppose."

Xander turned an interesting shade of army-green. "What for?"

"How the hell should I know?" Spike's voice rose sharply. "I never dug up my relatives. I wasn't that creative." He plunged his shovel viciously into the pile of black soil.

Xander's wrinkled his brow. "Why would she do something like this? It's…beyond sick!"

Spike rolled his eyes like a man accustomed to idiots. "Think about it, Harris. What did Dawn want the most?"

Xander shrugged, mystified by vampire logic. "The Prize Patrol? A national ban on Regis Philbin?"

Spike shook his head, and scooped more dirt into the hole. They listened to it thud on the lid of Joyce's empty coffin.

"Well?" Xander prompted. "What did she want?"

Spike's words fell as heavily as the soil.

"To hug her mother. One. Last. Time."

TBC