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Take Heart	By : dutchbuffy2305 Category: > Buffy/Spike(William) > Buffy/Spike(William) Views: 2402 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Take Heart 7, by dutchbuffy2305

Rating: NC-17 though only a bit of nookie in this chapter. Don’t complain, ya pervs, You’ve already had an embarrassing amount, and there will be oodles more.

Thumbnail: Buffy and Spike form a reluctant team to take clean up the post-Initiative mess. Magic, sex, snarks, sparks, romance, horror and farce ensue. Did I mention sex?

Warning: character deaths – insofar as characters die in the Jossverse – and some grisly, farce-laden horror

Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21;

Author's note: Originally written for The Deadly Hook, Apocalypse Ficathon. Big hug to the glorious Spikejones for betaing;

Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305;

Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk

Spike peers deeper into the recesses of the engine, hindered more than assisted by the inadequate shine of the Restfield Avenue street lighting. Damn car still won’t start. This is the second night he’s spent furiously tinkering and cleaning and he’s no closer to getting away than before. The first civilians, humans and demons both, are trickling back into Sunnydale, but he hasn’t found a car shop open for business yet. Fuckity fuckity fuck. A litany he could keep repeating, especially when a dark oblong package lands near his feet with a soft thud. He’s been so preoccupied he hasn’t even noticed the Slayer sneaking up on him.

“Shove off, Slayer, dispose of your own corpses,” he says crankily, and makes a point of not looking at the defunct Scooby body she dumped. Then a smaller lighter package lands next to the first one. His clothes. Laundered, softened and dried, by the smell of them. What the hell has she gone and done that for? Is he supposed to thank her now? Damned if he will.

“You’re welcome, Spike,” the Slayer says pissily. “Too bad you didn’t extend me the same courtesy. Where are my mom’s clothes?”

Spike looks involuntarily down to his jeans. He ripped them off the first likely corpse he met on his way to the DeSoto last night. Presumably, Joyce's sweat pants are still lying where he stepped out of them.

“Launderette wasn’t open yet, love,” he says. “But hey, I still got the T-shirt!”

The Slayer comes closer and squints at it in the inadequate lamplight. She has to come very near him to do that and Spike’s nose quivers like a hound’s when he encounters her unique scent of sunlight and shampoo and just Buffy.

“Are those grease spots?”

Considering he’s black from engine grease from his fingertips to his elbows, very likely. He shrugs.

“Humph.”

What’s she standing about for? Not as if they usually go in for a nice chat. And it’s kind of unfair to wear a short skirt like that, and that much perfume. What vampire could resist getting in a good snootful and then get a stake for his trouble? He bends deeper over the balky engine and attempts to tighten an already tight screw. It’s the wrong size wrench and he mutters a curse under his breath. Before he's even turned around, a small hand is holding out the right size wrench for him. The tool is warm from her hand and he’s so unnerved by it that he drops it.

“What do you bleeding want, Slayer?” he grinds out. “Not a good plan to come between a man and his car.”

“Man? That’s rich. It’s been a long time since you were a man, Spike. And, um, car? No wonder you haven’t managed to run away from here yet in that. More rust than car by now.” Her taunts are of the usual variety but there’s a quality to her voice he can’t pinpoint.

“That car got me to Brazil and back twice, Slayer. It’s a classic, won’t fall apart like everything built after 19….” he checks her out carefully…76.”

“Seventy six? I look twenty-four?” She takes few deep breaths. “Well, even if I did, it’s nothing compared to you, mister trying-to-stay-twenty-five-forever!"

The toe of her boot traces patterns on the pavement. Spike stares in the engine, paralyzed by her nearness. Do not think of kissing her. Do not think of throwing her over the hood and fucking her blind. For one thing, the bulge in his jeans will prevent him from running or fighting if he thinks about her too hard, and two…he can’t think of two. Actually encountering her is worse than just thinking of her or wanking off to the pictures in his mind.

“Thought you were gonna stake me when you found me?”

“Why?” she asks. “Have you been feeding?” There's a sharp but brittle edge to her voice. She's not so sure of him as she pretends.

His stomach rumbles. “Wanted to, but the town’s still fucking deserted at night. National Guard prowling and poking their noses in everywhere doesn’t help,” he admits.

“So, that would be a no?” she says, twirling a golden lock, gleaming in the soft Hopperesque fall of lamplight.

“Well, yeah.”

“Good.”

“Huh. Temporary setbacks, is all. You didn’t think I meant what I said to Rupert, did you? All that blather about salvation and doing good?” Spike snorts.

“Redemption. Dammit, Spike, I’m a Slayer, not the Salvation Army.”

He looks at her suspiciously. He'd never have pegged her as a Star Trek connoisseur.

“Vampire Slayer, if I recall correctly. Why don’t you go slaying some instead of bothering me?”

He’s gripping the edge of the engine casing so hard it’s forming dents. He should take the opportunity to kill her now, seeing as she’s off in some dream about him becoming her goody goody pal or something. As if. He doesn’t do good.

“The only vampire for the next fifty miles is you, Spike. D’you want me to slay you? I could oblige, you know. I have my weapons ready, while you look ready to be staked from behind.”

In less than an eyeblink Spike’s got her bent backwards over the open engine, black greasy hands on her arms, teeth on her neck.

“I always have my weapons ready,” he growls, having vamped out so fast his head hurts. Feels just like an ice-cream headache.

She lies completely still under his taut angry chest, staring up at him with her eyes big and dark. “You’re not gonna do it, Spike. I trust you.”

Spike thinks she almost means it. He hurls her away from him violently, shaken to the core. “How dare you!” Where does she get the gall to taunt him like that! Does she want to be his third Slayer? Well, this is the right way to go about it. “You planning on getting me so fucking mad I’ll forget about a fair fight and all and just kill you?”

She picks herself up calmly. “Just when is a fight a fair fight, Spike? Meeting at dawn, seconds shaking hands? You know that’s not how it works for vampires and Slayers. We’re enemies anywhere, anytime. No reason the time for a good fight wouldn’t be now.”

“Don’t like doing it when you’re not at your best,” he mutters. “What with Joyce dying ‘n all.”

“Did you ask your other Slayers if they were at their peak? If they wanted to wait until next week, when they wouldn’t be so PMS’y? Huh?”

She’s stepped up to him again, chest to chest. He’s not looking down, definitely not, but her nipples must be inches away from his own, thrust forward by her ridiculously high heels. Her body glows at him like a little heater churning away for his benefit. So close. So sweet. Her blood rushes deafeningly in his ears and he can hardly hear his own reply.

“Course I did. Took them at their peak. Wouldn’t be fun otherwise, wouldn’t be worth the fight.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, skepticism in every nuance of her voice.

Spike keeps his eyes away from her face, doesn’t want to drown in those dangerously deep eyes. It’s not clear why, but she’s a risk to him. He burns in his need to get away from her as fast as he can, he can almost taste the freedom on the wind, doesn’t want to be dragged down in a murk of feelings and obligations.

“Don’t leave Sunnydale, Spike. I like you right where I can keep an eye on you. I’ll know it if you start feeding again.”

“Bugger off,” he says. “Mind your own business, I’m not your little charity project. I’m an evil vampire and I’ll do as I please. When and where I please.”

He lifts his head and meets her eyes defiantly. That’s a mistake, because the way she looks at him makes him dizzy, with fear maybe, he can’t tell exactly. The whites of her eyes so pure and clear in the inadequate lighting, the sheen of her cheeks and the inviting shape of her soft wide mouth beckon him and he almost falls towards her. What does she want? She shouldn’t look at him like that, it’s wrong; an enemy shouldn’t look at you with such terrible compassion. He hates her, that’s what it is, she’s just taunting him with her bare neck and her soft scent of pussy beyond his reach. Bitch.

“Have fun playing with your car, Spike. Should I ask Xander to give you hand with that? Anyway, I’ll be by to check up on you from time to time.”

He should keep his eyes on his car, but she won't know it if he looks after her. There she goes, walking alone and unafraid through the shadows, from pooled streetlight to streetlight. Her lush bum jiggles under the short skirt. Her legs seem impossible long for such a tiny girl, gleaming and tanned between skirt hem and boot tops. There’s two big black imprints of his greasy hands on her soft upper arms; he’s marked her. It makes him strain in his pants, hard as a rock, the way he gets every time he thinks of her now. Maybe she doesn’t rate a fair fight. Maybe he should just fuck her and drain her to death. That might make him forget the sleepy joy of waking up in her arms, or seeing the mischievous smile on her face when she reaches for his prick first thing. Her breasts, just enough to fill a champagne glass. Her hair, that smells even better unwashed.

Does she think of the days they spent in each other's company? The banter, the fighting, the fucking? The incredible closeness, knowing each other so completely? Even being one creature for a few brief moments, intangible, half-remembered but burning unbearably bright in the dank grottoes of his mind.

She'd have lied about them to her friends; he's sure of that. He would. Nobody in his right mind would own up to spending time with a creature that is everything you despise and hate. Right? He has to get out of here, get the bloody car running, start forgetting, burying the memories under a layer of killings, fuck his way through a bevy of willing vamps so he can forget about doing her. She was so wanton, once she resigned herself to the inevitable, screaming and clawing like a wildcat.

Spike groans and stares at the dirty recesses of the engine, trying to fucking remember what he was fucking doing before she fucking came along. He turns around to get another tool and stumbles over the whiffy corpse she left. Oh, great. Spike’s no longer evil enough to fight, he might as well become garbage disposal guy in one fell swoop of humiliation.

He sighs and picks up the body. The carrion demons aren’t back yet, but he’ll leave the body at the entrance to their cave. They’ll like it even more if it ages another few days. Bloody Slayer. And the thing is, here he is, doing what she asked for. No, worse. What she didn’t even bother asking for, blithely assuming he would do it. For that, she deserves to suffer.

Last night went by without so much as an anemic cough from the DeSoto. Sheer stubbornness has so far prevented Spike from ditching it but if he can’t find someone tonight to fix it, he’s gonna steal a new car, paint the windows black and never look back. He’s taking a little stroll through Sunnydale’s still empty neighborhoods, going the roundabout route to Willy’s. He’s on the prowl for victims, but the pickings so far have been nonexistent, if you don’t count the humiliating encounters with a dog, a cat and a frightened horse. At those moments, he was very thankful there was nobody to see him, and at least his belly is full.

Hey, he’s accidentally turned onto Revello. He debates retracing his footsteps, but there could be returning citizens on Revello as well as any other residential avenue, couldn’t there? Dads clearing corpses and demon parts off their yards, mowing the lawn…And yes, he can check up on the Slayer. Know thine enemy, that kind of thing. If he knows his enemy is holed up in her cutesy little pajamas with her mean little eyes firmly shut he can walk freer and kill at will. Good. These are sound reasons, and he picks up his pace a little, no longer strolling but striding like a man with purpose.

All the houses are still dark, except number 1630. A lone little light is burning in the Slayer’s bedroom. So, she’s home, in bed, no reason to loiter. He should be off at a smart clip, catching some nibbles before she susses him out. He leans against the big tree in front of the house and smokes a fag or two, simultaneously trying to catch a sniff of Slayer scent. The smell of burnt tobacco from the growing heap of butts is a hindrance, and that’s the only reason he’s moving closer to her window. Make sure she’s really asleep. He listens to her quiet heartbeat, imagining the soft curves her heart is hidden behind, the taste of her perky nipple in his mouth…. Only so he can rip her heart out all the better, right?

A sudden acceleration in the slow beat shakes him out of his reverie and he takes off quickly. He wonders if he could stop himself from fucking her if he incapacitates her in a fight. He left the body of his last Slayer intact, honoring it with his abstinence, but the mere thought of Buffy’s neck under his fangs makes him hard, makes him shift into game face and play the tape of their encounters in his head once again.

He’s walking away rapidly, so deep in thought that he fails to hear the quick footsteps behind him until they’re almost on him. He turns quickly, ready for the stake aimed at his back, but she closes the distance between them with empty hands. She’s jogging, panting form her hurry to catch up with him.

“Hey! I wasn’t asleep! I’m totally ready to go on patrol with you!” she says, hastily putting up her hair in a sloppy knot. Her breasts in the flimsy top dance a little shimmy and he closes his mouth with a snap. No bra, he can tell. The heart encased in that soft gleaming flesh beats faster than it should and her voice has a little catch in it. What is she afraid of?

And, patrol? Last thing on his mind. He has to lose the Slayer, fast, or forego another chance at a good meal. He strides faster, but her little legs in their shiny white boots keep up easily. Again with the short skirts, he sees. Must have been a fashion change he’s missed, as usual.

She draws level with him and tucks her arm in his. Spike’s too surprised to react.

“So, I really hope there’s some action tonight. The town’s been deader than the dodo, I’m itching for a good slay.”

Spike opens his mouth with a witty rhyming quip on the nature of her itch and an offer to scratch it, but he shuts it again. His mouth is not to be trusted. He’ll say things to the Slayer that will be completely different form his inimical thoughts and firm decision to be out of here. So. He won’t talk. He’ll just nod and march along in manly silence.

“Some people are so weird, you know. You’ll never guess how Willow’s parents reacted when she called them! They never even realized Sunnydale was under martial law and had been evacuated! They were cruising in the Caribbean, completely oblivious. How’s that for parenting, huh? Were your parents the holding-on-tight or the letting-go kind?”

Like he’s gonna answer that. He couldn’t care less about the witch or her parental units. None of his business. Her gay chatter has a febrile quality to it; it feels forced and desperate.

Buffy’s not be silenced to death. “And Xander’s parents kinda forgot to pick him up when they evacuated. I guess, you know, I’m better off with my Mom. At least I know she loved me. I mean, Willow’s and Xander’s parents aren’t dead, but if they had been, their last words to remember them by? ’Gee, you cut your hair six months ago or ’Hey, you forgot to put in the fabric softener again.’”

Spike grits his teeth and thrusts his hands deeper into his pockets. She doesn’t mean anything by it, she can’t. It’s just chatter, although he’s at a loss as to the reason why. What do they have to talk about? They’re enemies, not best friends.

“What do you think, should I sell the house to pay for college? I don’t know about money stuff , but it must cost a lot to keep it going. I guess your crypt is rent-free?

“Comfy enough for me, Slayer. ‘s Got a bed, running water, electricity.”

“Really? I would never have guessed. You should show me around some time.”

Buffy skips and trips on happily on his arm, chatting and leaning into him confidentially. Occasionally Spike grunts to keep her going. Why? This must be her way of torturing him, it must be. She’s cottoned on to his weak spots about mothers and his cluelessness about the ordinary world she lives in. If push comes to shove, she's only part-timing the whole creature of the night gig, and he's not. She’s skillfully drawing the maximum amount of pain from him. His respect for her grows. She really know how to taunt an enemy, he has to give her that.

A warm wriggling thing enters his pockets. His first thought is ‘rat’ and he clamps down firmly. His second thought tells him it’s the Slayer’s hand, and he orders his fingers to unclench. They refuse adamantly and hang on to the hand, still soft with baby fat and incredibly tiny.

The Slayer’s cheeks are tinted with rose now, and she looks up to him with a look in her eyes he can’t read. The extra heat in her cheeks perfumes the air with her heady scent of blood and woman, and the color is so close to red that he could almost lick it off her like blood. His hand stubbornly clings to the Slayer’s and Spike stops in the middle of the street, too dumbfounded to go on.

“What the hell’s going on, Slayer?“ he finally manages to get out.

“I don’t know, Spike,” she says, and comes closer to play with a loose button on his duster. “I’m just playing it by ear, here. Don’t you wanna find out?”

He can’t breathe. No, bugger it, he doesn’t have to. There’s some signal going from a tight spot on his chest to his brains and he can’t figure it out. He can’t think if she’s standing so close, all blood warm flesh, faintly throbbing from her own pulse. His hands are on her arse, for some reason, finding out thoroughly and earnestly just how high and firm it is.

“Spike…” Buffy says.

“Unh,” Spike retorts, unable to get sensible words past his teeth and choosing to keep his mouth clamped firmly shut.

She giggles artfully, touches his lips with her finger and with one of these mysterious feminine moves she’s detached his hand form her bum and they are walking again, their joined hands swinging between them. The heat from her hand is creeping insidiously into his skin, warming him from top to toe, making him tingle and glow. This can’t go well.

He jerks his hands loose. “Don’t think we’re that close.”

Buffy shrugs and hooks her arm through his again. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it? The sky is clear again now Adam has stopped his smelly goings-on.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

Spike looks around furtively. This is one compromising position he’s in, and it would be the death blow to his already frayed reputation if anyone saw him. Thank God, most demons haven’t returned to their caves and basements yet.

Willy’s around the next corner. He has to shake the Slayer now or he’ll never live it down. He picks off her hand from his elbow and steps back.

“Off you go, now, Slayer. Enough of the mind games already. You go your way, I’ll go mine."

She stands in front of him and folds her arms in that way she has. It fluffs up her breasts and Spike loses the thread of what’s she’s saying for a moment.

“I’m not gonna let you out of my sight, Spike. Not until I have your word you won’t kill again.”

“Have you completely lost it? Me give you my word I will be killing again? I’m evil, that’s what I do. End of discussion.”

“That’s not the answer I’m looking for, Spike.”

“Yeah, so? What are you gonna do? Stalk me twenty-four seven?”

Buffy scowls but lets him go without a word. Spike stalks off, feeling like there’s a giant target painted on his back, and he’s gonna get an airborne stake in there any minute now. He reaches the corner safely and can’t resist a quick look backwards. The Slayer’s trudging off, shoulders bowed and arms folded in front of her chest, no longer challenging but protecting her hunched body. One arm reaches after her, yearning; he almost calls out and is rescued by a gruff greeting.

“Hey, Spike. Mighta known you’d be my first customer. Help me get these boards off and I’ll stand you a drink.”

Spike looks down on Willy, poised on the cusp of two possible actions. He decides and turns away, but the Slayer’s no longer in sight. Bugger. Well, all right. Saved by the bell, or Willy, or whatever. Annoyed and rattled he silently wrenches off the boards that have been haphazardly nailed across the front of Willy’s Bar.

“So, Spike, how come you’re back so early? Word was Adam’s boys were on the lookout for ya.”

“Adam? Double crossing bastard. Said he’d get the chip out for me. Never delivered on it. I killed him.”

“You? Tell that to your grandmother. You couldn’t harm a…”

Spike lets fly some of the inchoate frustrations riding him as anger and pushes Willy to the wall. “News flash, Little Italy. Spike’s back and he’s bad. Don’t fuck with me and I won’t make two nasty holes in your neck, capice?”

Willy gibbers at the sight of his game face but remembers enough of former empty threats to taunt him back. “You’re bluffing, Spike. Prove it to me and you can drink for free all night long.”

Spike growls and tears a ragged hole in the side of Willy’s neck. A painful, impressively bleeding wound, but nowhere near the artery, not enough to incapacitate his useful bartending qualitites.

Willy sinks to the ground in shock and pain.

“Fuck it, Spike, you didn’t have to bite me. Couldn’t ya just have twisted my arm or something?”

Spike kicks him in the ribs fairly gently. “Stop whining and get up. You asked for it and you got it. Now get me some JD and pronto.”

Willy scrabbles up and hurries behind the tap in a pathetic littlie sideways scurry.

Spike pulls down a barstool from where they’re neatly stacked on top of the counter and hoists himself up. This is the life. Terrorizing the local merchants, exacting tribute from the demon community, getting nicely drunk with a belly full of blood. Well, the last bit is still lacking, but life’s well on its way to become bearable again. Willy plunks down a glass and a fresh bottle in front of him and he pours his first triple. The strobe lighting turns on and the jukebox kicks in, smack in the midst of ‘New York, New York.’ Better, but not good enough.

“Willy! Turn on some proper music instead of this pap,” he commands and enjoys Willy’s servile scuttle. Much better.

Willy’s clientele trickles in, not yet at full strength. Naturally, the demons are first ones back in town, while the human community is still skulking in cheap motels and dossing in gyms, no doubt.

About halfway through the bottle a familiar face swims into his field of vision.

“Jake!” Spike shouts.

“What d’you want, Spike?” the Ano-movic demon says, not particularly friendly.

The news that he’s back to his old self isn’t getting around fast enough, so much is clear.

“I need you to tow my car from the north entrance to Restfield cemetery. It won’t start.”

“That junked old DeSoto you used to drive? I'd scrap it, if I were you,” Jake advises and makes as if to turn away.

He changes his mind when Spike dangles him by the ears. Ano-Movic demons have delicate ears and they don’t like to tear them.

“I need the money up-front, Spike,” he says. “Because it’s you.”

“Yeah, sure, mate,” Spike says, and peels off some bills of his respectable roll; looting has been extremely productive. Jake eyes it askance. Spike wasn’t formerly known for his solvency. Too bad. Those lily-livered wankers should have stayed in town if they wanted to profit form Adam’s little caper.

“Okay, buddy,” Jake says, much more amenable now. “I’ll tow your little old rust heap into the shop and see if I can round up my mechanics. Tomorrow night at dusk suit you?”

“Couldn’t you do it sooner, mate?” Spike asks, ”I gotta get out of this dump.”

“Sorry, no can do,” Jake shrugs. “These old cars take time, you ought to know that.”

Spike growls in his scotch but he needs Jake willing and able. Violence would be counterproductive at this stage.

He surfaces from the amber blur of scotch and tequila shots Willy keeps standing him in the middle of a sentence.

“…and then the bastard….”

Spike falters and looks around. A semi-mellow crowd of assorted demons is gathered around him. He’s holding court on his barstool, one hand voluble gesturing in mid-air, the other firmly clasped around the silk-clad waist of the Slayer, whose shapely bum is nicely warming his right leg.

He’s fairly sure the night didn’t start out like this. He checks out the crowd, the gleaming top of Buffy’s head, wedged firmly against his shoulder. Right. No more thinking about how he got into this, because alcohol is sure to play a large role in it; better get on with his tale. Drunk crowd like this could turn nasty faster than you can say ’tough room’.

He nudges Buffy. “Where was I, Slayer?”

“And then Adam tried to crush me in this bear hug, me kicking his iron balls all the time. Spike jumps his back…”

She pauses to hand the tale neatly back to him. Smooth, Slayer, really smooth. It’s like being in a fight with her, or fucking her for that matter, each parry and thrust perfectly in sync with his. She’s a dream to work with.

Spike swallows back a maudlin lump and picks up the telling.

“I knew I had to get out his unbeating heart, his unnatural un-magical plutonium power source. One by one, I ripped out all the lines connecting the damn heart to the other shiny bits and then I tore out the heart itself. Fellow went down, like… -- do you guys ever watch those brilliant movies of humans blowing up apartment buildings?”

“Ain't humans, Spike, ‘s really N’tro Glycrin demons who do that!”

“Shush! Let Spike go on!”

“Right, he toppled over just like of those buildings, slow like, falling in on himself, sinking to his knees at first, and then he crashed to the turf. Made the earth shake, know what I mean?” Spike continues.

There’s laughter, and a toast to Spike and the Slayer, Adam’s killers. Buffy leans into him. He looks down on her flushed, happy face, and then she beams up to him with a wide, sweet smile, as sweet and wide as slitting someone’s throat. It pierces him to the quick and lays him open for what comes next. Their eyes meet and Spike gets an electric shock to his dead heart, starting it up for a beat or two. It’s bloody scary. He looks away hastily.

He allows the crowd to drift away and clasps the Slayer to his side even tighter, making her squeal a little.

“What the hell are you playing at now, Slayer?” he hisses into her ear. “Could get me killed, being seen with the likes of you!”

She looks at him darkly at first but then takes on her flirty stance again. “Work with me, here, Spike. If I can pretend to be attracted to you, the least you can do is pretend back.”

Pretend? There’s no pretending with a vampire. She’s drunk and she’s horny and it wasn’t the floppy eared demon on the right made her so. He can’t fathom what her game is, saying one thing, doing the opposite.

She tosses a stray strand of her hair, still in that attractive sloppy bun. The movements make her breasts jiggle and Spike exerts all his willpower to look away from them. Meanwhile his hand sneaks up unseen and is grasping a soft globe, the thumb rubbing the nipple to stiffness.

He jerks his hand away and rolls his eyes. “See what you make me do? Unnatural acts between vampire and slayer, in public no less. Let’s get out of here before the mood turns ugly. Don’t plan to leave my dust in a bar brawl in the grottiest town in California.”

He drags the Slayer out of there, tottering on her high heels. She’s wearing a thin slip of silk, hardly more than three handkerchiefs, and rhinestone studded slippers. What’s more, she’s two sheets to the wind. What shall he do with a drunken Slayer? If he were a wiser man, he’d give her a knee trembler against yonder wall, drain her dry while she was too drunk and happy to notice and toss her body in the nearest dumpster, like he did to so many of her sex.

“What’s wrong with you, you stupid bint? Not gonna hang out with you, we’re not friends, we’re not lovers, we never will anything but foes! We worked together for a bit and now we’re back to being archenemies. Can’t you get that through your thick little skull? Go find your little friends to play with. Now scoot!”

Buffy sways and lunges after his arm when he moves off after having his say. “But Spike, nobody’s home and I was all alone with nobody to slay and nobody to …” Her voice wavers on the brink of maudlin tears. Then she regroups. “I mean, I have to watch you. See to it that you don’t kill anyone."

Spike tries to shake her off but she climbs him like a tree, the move almost toppling him by its unexpectedness. He ends up with his back to the wall and Buffy’s mouth closes over his. Spike is so flummoxed that he’s paralyzed for precious seconds, allowing his body’s natural arousal systems to kick in full force. He’s kind of pissed himself, he realizes, when he’s still sucking face with her, minutes later, while he can see the exit of Willy’s in plain sight, meaning everyone who comes out of there will be able to see them, too. A brace of top-heavy Fyarls comes out, rowdy and belligerent with drink and spot the two of them. He lifts up the Slayer, whose legs are scissored around his waist like a clingy crab’s and walks her into the darker alley around the corner.

He’s now in such a state that he puts the Fyarls out of his mind and proceeds to pursue his short term goal, namely banging the Slayer into the wall until something gives. The Fyarls have better use of their brain capacity then he does at this moment and apparently still remember him disappearing into the alley. They’re too stupid to surround them, so when the dozen of them darken the already dark entryway to the alley, Spike knows something’s up.

“Come on, lads; move along now, nothing to see here. Give a bloke some privacy, will you?” Spike tries, but they shake their heads and mutter nasty things in Fyarl about Slayer-lovers and vampire trash.

Spike peels the Slayer off his chest and dick with a sucking sound and puts her on her stilettoed feet.

One of the Fyarls cackles and points. “Lookit Spike’s little needle dick! No bigger than my pinkie!”

This is an insult Spike cannot pass up, no matter that Fyarl pinkies are a more than respectable size. He puts it away and suits up.

The Slayer reacts with bafflement to the Fyarl’s statement. “Are you blind? Spike’s got a dick this big!”

She holds out her hands, with at least twelve inches between them.

“Very kind, Slayer, but you better get your weapons out,” Spike says curtly.

“Silver. They can be killed with silver,” the Slayer says and takes off one spiky shoe, holding on to him for support.

“I doubt that’s real silver. Besides, wrenching off their heads will probably work as well.”

This is pure bluff; the Fyarls are seven or eight feet tall and he probably won’t be able to reach their necks, but uttering manly bluster and taunts is all in the game,.

“Oi, Slayer,” the one Fyarls who speaks some English says, “when we’ve killed the little vampire we’ll show you what a real demon can do to you!”

“Is he gonna eat me?” the Slayer asks, taking up position beside Spike.

Spike sighs. “No, love, he’s just gonna rape you and then kill you. Nothing as bad as eating you.”

“That’s like, ew? We’re not even the same size.”

“Well, that’s part of the fun for him, innit, splitting open a tiny human being.”

The Slayer sways on her bare feet while she digests this, shoes at the ready. “That is so deviant. I mean, vampires, kind of takes getting used to, but ate least we’re the same size and you were human once.”

The return of ‘we’, he notes. The Fyarls finally get enough of blustering and bragging, most of which the Slayer can’t understand at all, and attack. They are pretty bloody big, and he leaps high to get in a good kick in the goolies for the first one. He strikes true, but the demons aren’t as sensitive as human males in that area and his opponent gets in a swipe at Spike’s back that lands him ten feet away in a crumpled heap. Bugger. He claws back up and tries to get onto a scaly back, do that head-ripping thing he mentioned, but their necks are so big and his arms so short. He gnaws at the leathery hide, rooting for an artery, but their anatomy is not human and he doesn’t find one right away. The Slayer is holding her owns with her aluminum heels, keeping the big lugs at bay with sharp jabs.

“Are you feeling it yet, you size-challenged idiots? The poisonous feel of silver, eating away at your flesh. Any moment now you’re gonna keel over and die!”

She jumps up and drives one heel deep into the Fyarl’s eye. It bellows in pain and staggers back, slowly falling to the ground.

“Okay,” the Slayer yells, "that’s one down. You’ve heard of shoes to die for? Well these are shoes to die by. Who wants to be next?”

The two remaining Fyarls look at each other, shrug and amble off. The one with Spike on his back shivers him off like a mere fly and follows them. Spike and the Slayer stare after them, unsure of how the fight suddenly seems to have ended. All at once, the Fyarls turn tail and storm back at them. The silver ruse discovered?

“Run, Slayer, now, or by God I’ll leave you to the likely lads here. Move!”

The danger sobers her up, apparently, because she latches on to his hand and they fly off at a fairly respectable speed, that is for two people completely sodden with drink. Fyarls aren’t nimble runners, but Spike hears one of them ordering to get the car pronto, so he chooses a flight path that takes them away from roads. They crash through abandoned yards, fight off attacks from swings and tricycles and finally end up at his crypt.

“Right, I think we’re safe, Bu- Slayer.”

He turns her bodily in the direction of Revello Drive and gives her a little push. He’s mostly sober now. Faced with the choice between self-preservation and continuing their tryst, it’s easy to pick what to do.

He enters his crypt and drops to the lower level. Through everything, he's managed to hold on to his bottle of JD, a small miracle in itself. He plops down on the bare springs of his bed and contemplates his life with a sigh. The evening was a resounding failure. Booze, check; getting the car towed, good; but bragging about killing Adam with the Slayer perched on his lap in all her nubile glory is just about a death sentence in this town. He must have been so bloody plastered to allow it to happen…damn Willy and his tequila chasers. Shouldn’t mix it with scotch, he guesses. And then to top it all off, having to give up a fight.

Something tumbles giggling down the chute to his lower cave. Spike groans. Not again.

“Hey, Spike, wait up! We weren’t done,” the Slayer says and wrestles him down with surprising strength when he wants to manhandle her out of his bedroom. She bends his arms backwards and has a couple of handcuffs around his wrists before he can react. His stupid prick still hasn’t gotten the memo not to boff the Slayer under any circumstances, which he can understand in the face of his frequent backsliding, but it’s no help at all when the Slayer simply lifts her dress and takes a seat. She doesn’t even bother undressing him. She just rips his T-shirt off and yanks his pants down far enough to fish out his dick, all standing up proudly and eager to go.

Spike groans embarrassingly loud when the powerful muscles in her hot slick pussy clasp him. Hard enough to makes his eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck, Slayer, you got a snatch on you that’s tight and strong enough to emasculate a lesser man. You must have held back so much when you were doing the late and unlamented Captain Corndog.”

She freezes. How could he have forgotten such a perfect way to piss her off? He goes on with renewed confidence.

“Got a powerful bit of demon in you, don’t you Slayer? No wonder you need some monster in your man.”

Wait, this is not the right tack. He needs to set her to rights regarding him, not flog his manly monster charms.

“Show me your demon, Slayer, and I’ll show you mine,” he says, tongue against his teeth.

Her ardor is cooling rapidly. “I’m not a monster, Spike!”

She accompanies her words with slaps on his ribs.

“Yeah, right. You think an ordinary girl could have withstood all that raw power being flung about last week? And I don’t just mean the spell, I mean what we took out on each other. Sheer fucking power. Sex, yeah, but a little more than that. The pounding you can take is amazing, Slayer, but the bollocking you give back is even better.”

Her mouth hangs open and her face is scrunched up in agony. “I’m not a demon,” she repeats desperately.

Spike shrugs. “Sure. Whatever. Now give me that ride you were planning on giving, darlin’.”

Yep, he’s done it. She scrambles off him double quick; doesn’t want him to show her wobbling lip and teary eyes, he bets. She’s sporting enough to unlock his manacles first, which gives him one of these strange pangs he’s been having. If only she were evil, what a partner in crime she’d make. Good as gold, this girl, even when shaken to the core of her big brave heart. He again considers turning for a second, but that would pretty much put paid to these sterling qualitites. She’s fine as she is, an enemy to die for.

Spike waits until he can’t hear the Slayer’s footsteps trudging off anymore before releasing his pent-up breath. That wasn’t as pleasant and rewarding as he’d imagined. Telling off the Slayer used to be a major ambition. Chipped ambition, he rephrases. That must be it. He’s outta here tomorrow night, or tonight, probably, so why bother pissing off the queen of the pissant town when you’re leaving anyway?

Still. She might break her ankle on those stilettos. Serve her right. Or get mobbed by vamps, because she had no room for her stake in tonight’s outfit, he’s ninety percent sure. As would be fine, wouldn’t it? The only good Slayer is a dead Slayer. By his hand preferably, true, but why grudge the new generations a scalp to hand on their empty belts? He’s got plenty of those.

He’s up the ladder and out of his door before he can formulate the next thought. She hasn’t gotten far. She’s walking on the grass beside the road, shoes in hand. He knew they’d be too uncomfortable to walk on. She’s very small and vulnerable without shoes.

He keeps as far away from her as he can without losing her. He can still sense her at this distance, though. Scent the trace of her through the cool empty night air; hear her heart beat slowly, exhausted ahead of him. He’s about to close in on her when a military car careens onto the street with screaming tires and drives straight up to her. She stands quietly, unafraid. Spike gets as close as he can without leaving the safety of the shadows, but close enough too overhear the conversation.

“Miss, what are you doing on the streets at this hour? On your own?”

“I’m walking back home,” Buffy says calmly.

“Alone? You know, this town isn’t safe for a young woman after hours.”

Buffy shrugs. “I had no choice. My date wouldn’t take me home.”

Hey! Spike balls his fists. That is misrepresentation of the facts.

“You had a date? Where? There’s nothing open here yet. We haven’t allowed civilians to return yet. How did you get through the road blocks?”

Buffy shrugs again. Her voice is soft and girlish, her eyes downcast. “I never left. I hid in the basement and waited until you guys came in and rescued us.”

The soldier doesn’t know how to answer this, Spike supposes. “Well, get in, we’ll drive you home.”

Buffy turns her head and seems to look straight at Spike. He draws deeper into the shadows, taken aback. Can she sense him as he senses her? Buffy climbs into the vehicle, showing inordinate amounts of gleaming golden leg and décolleté while clambering in. Suddenly Spike’s not so sure that it’s a good idea for her to do that. A girl alone, horny soldiers? Laying their great big hands on her? She's his Slayer and they’d better behave, or he’ll rip their heads off. He feels a little sparkly shower of joy when he realizes he could if he wanted to. No more chip, no more Spike uttering empty threats.

Spike lopes along the road as fast as he can. His vampire speed is not enough to keep up with a normal car, so when it disappears from sight he decides to take a shortcut through to Revello, across another cemetery and a housing development.

He’s just in time to see the soldiers hand Buffy out of the car. He’s all set to start ripping heads off, but when he sees the tired slope of her shoulders he relents and returns to his shadowed lookout. It hits him, whacking the soldier-boys would have been a solo act, not a duet. Soldiers are human. Yeah, there’s not gonna be a Bonnie and Spike joyfully killing ever after. Their goals in life are miles apart, continents apart, and never the twain shall meet.

A soldier talks to Buffy and then she walks up the path to the front door alone. It's a pity they know her address now. Are there still bodies hidden in the basement? He hopes not. And the graves on the front lawn? Will they want to investigate those? He grits his teeth, helpless to protect her against the powers of the daylight world.

The military vehicle idles for some moments; two soldiers step out and take up positions in front and back of the house. It drives off slowly. Bugger. Now there’s no way to sneak up to the house and make off with another corpse. If that still needs doing. Buffy didn’t ask for his help, Spike tells himself. Okay, he should in fact be grateful to the US military or the National Guard or whatever, for protecting him against himself. Because to be totally honest the temptation to climb into her bedroom window and sneak into bed with her is pretty bleeding huge.

He can follow Buffy’s progress through the house by the lights being flicked on and off. The one in her bedroom window glows up. Buffy herself comes to the window and throws another one of these longing looks into the night. She does sense him, he’s almost convinced of it, and something pulses slowly in his chest, an unused breath that needs to come out. Did she mean it after all? Did she really feel lonely and in need of his company? Bollocks to that, then. She’s a big girl and she’ll just have to do without him.

He turns and walks off. When he enters his crypt it occurs to him that he’s gonna leave after sundown and that this will have been his last look at Buffy ever. There are more of these annoying sensations in his midriff, like hunger pangs but a bit higher up. It’s a good thing he’s leaving. All this dangling after Slayers is bad for his health and unnatural. Time to go.

TBC
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