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Author: The Deadly Hook
E-mail: thedeadlyhook(a)hotmail.com
Site: www.stakeme.com
Disclaimer: Not mine. Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, etc. No profit being made here, just the love.
Rating: NC-17, action/angst.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Summary: Sequel to "Dirty Back Road" in three parts. Set about one week after the events of the epilogue. Post-Angel Season 5, about a year after the events of "Not Fade Away." Buffy is living in Rome, she crosses paths with Spike, who happened to be there too for his own reasons... and then where do we go from here? Buffy POV. 66,464 words.

Winner in the Love's Last Glimpse and Vampire Kisses awards!

.........

Does It Have to Mean Something?, Part Two

Chapter Nine

__________

"Angel," Buffy breathed.

And there he was. Tall, dark, and agelessly handsome. Dressed in black. Standing by the side of his shiny red car like a knight just descended from his horse. Angel.

She hadn't expected him to arrive so fast. Like a genie summoned from a bottle, he was just there.

Buffy's eyes widened. Oh. Here. Angel was here. With Spike. With her... oh, god.

She hadn't thought about that at all when she'd called. When Spike had told her to call--what had he been thinking? They'd just needed help, and she hadn't wanted to argue about it. And now--

This was it. The first time that she and Angel and Spike were all together in one place. This was a moment. Her heartbeat accelerated.

She'd avoided this in Sunnydale. Put it off, sent Angel home rather than deal with it, with their egos. Gee, how about I take the two most important men in my life and watch them tear each other apart as a warm-up to the apocalypse? No thank you. Angel's reaction to Riley had been bad enough. Spike would have sparked off World War Three, and no way did she have time for that, the two of them posturing and preening like chest-beating gorillas. Especially not back when she had no idea, really, what she was going to say to either of them about the other--it was just... way too complicated. She could make jokes about them wrestling in oil--and okay, that was a pretty nice mental picture--but those only become funny after she'd dodged that particular bullet.

Buffy tensed, and shot a nervous look at Spike. He was still standing a couple of paces away, not looking at her, and she experienced a moment of nauseous indecision as Angel slammed the car door shut and walked around the Lamborghini, leather coat flaring. Should I go stand by Spike and help him? Or would he hate that in front of Angel, think it made him look weak or something? Only... well, he is weak right now--what should I do?

"Buffy."

Buffy blinked. She'd zoned out for a second, hadn't seen Angel approach, and now he was right in front of her. The three of them formed a little triangle in the middle of the dimly lit street.

Angel gave her a single nod in greeting along with her name. Buffy lifted her own chin and nodded back. "Angel."

Angel pursed his lips, and shifted his gaze immediately to Spike. "Spike," he said. Another nod. "Mind telling me what happened here?"

"What's it look like, gramps?" Spike croaked, eyes on the pavement. Without Buffy's arm around him for support, he'd balanced himself on his feet in a slightly knocked-kneed pose, like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. "Runnin' on empty here. Been trapped in another dimension without so much as a boy scout kit." Just the effort of speaking made him sway unsteadily.

Angel's arm shot out; he grabbed Spike by one shoulder to steady him. "Could've guessed that just by looking at you. How'd it happen? Demon fight?"

"Uh, no, that was my fault," Buffy cut in, waved a hand. "We were talking, and... got kinda distracted."

Angel shot Spike a look. "Distracted."

"Not that kind of distracted," Spike mumbled. "Just... talking."

"At sunrise. And you what, forgot that day follows night?" he said. "You know you've had a hundred years to get used to that."

"Um, can we do this later?" Buffy interjected. "Angel, please, right now--" She blew out a sigh. "Can you help?" Us, she wanted to say. Can you help us?, but the words wouldn't come.

She stepped forward and slid an arm around Spike's waist, pushed him upright with a hand on his stomach. Now she and Angel were standing on opposite sides of Spike, both helping to buoy him up.

Angel nodded. "Let's get you both in the car. I brought plenty of blood along. Nothing wrong with him that won't fix."

Spike snorted something unintelligible from between them. His head hung low, like a boxer who'd been K.O.ed.

"Are you sure? I mean, he's been kind of... out of it." Buffy met Angel's eyes over the top of Spike's head.

"Well," Angel said, lips quirking in a smile. "There is the possibility of brain damage, if you go too long without blood. Not that it'd be easy to tell on brain trust here--"

"Hey!" Spike said faintly.

"Brain damage?" Buffy repeated.

"Ah, I wouldn't worry. From the looks of it, he couldn't have been in there more than a year or two."

"Says you," Spike mumbled from between them. "Felt like... a lot longer than that."

"You'll live." Angel repositioned his grip, slung an arm around Spike's back and lifted him off his feet. Buffy nearly stumbled, off balance, her own arms suddenly empty.

Spike let his head fall back, curly hair draped over Angel's leather-clad arm. "Oh, right," he said thickly, regarding Angel through unfocused eyes. "You're the expert. Your... hunn'erd years in a hell dimension. How'd you know it was a hunn'erd years anyway? Bring a digital watch?"

"Can we just... Angel, can we just get on with this?" Buffy was starting to feel a little frantic. Spike was in no shape to be trading insults with Angel, and she felt oddly out of place, unable to really get a word in. The situation was slipping out of her control.

"It's okay, Buffy. Don't worry." One-handed, Angel opened up the Lamborghini's passenger door and--none too gently--began to stuff Spike into the seat.

Alarmed, Buffy pushed herself forward, tried to wedge herself in between them.

"Get your paws off me, you big oaf!" Spike was cursing and struggling. He seemed to be having some issue with the seatbelt, namely not wanting it around him. Angel had a hand on Spike's chest, pinning him against the seat, while he tried to strap in the struggling body with his other hand.

"Quit wiggling around, you idiot!" Angel said.

"I can do it myself, lay off," Spike barked.

"Spike, stop--you're gonna hurt yourself--Angel, quit doing that, would you both just stop?" Buffy squeezed herself under Angel's outstretched arms, her small shoulders pushing Angel's much larger frame aside. The space inside the car was close--all gleaming leather and glowing instrument panels and Spike's blue eyes and blood-stained mouth right in front of her as she hovered over him, her hands falling onto his shoulders. He stilled immediately.

"Please, let's just get through this," she breathed, just loud enough for Spike to hear while her hands searched his body for the seatbelt clasp. She buckled it closed.

From behind her, Angel made a throat-clearing sound.

Spike, who'd been staring at Buffy half-hypnotized while her hands were on his belt buckle, promptly broke eye contact and craned his head around to glare at Angel.

"Nice going bringing the two-seater, genius," he jeered. "Where's Buffy going to sit?"

"She'll sit on your lap," Angel said flatly. "You got a problem with that?" As an afterthought, he shot a glance at Buffy. "You think you can fit?" he asked her in a reflexively softer tone of voice.

Buffy opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Angel wanted her to sit on Spike's lap. Okay, well, that was about the only practical solution here. Best to just get in the car and not think about it, get home and figure out what she was going to do then.

Resolve firmly in place, Buffy gingerly slid a foot into the car, and clambered over Spike's body, trying to find a workable position.

"Is this all right?" Buffy asked Spike as she wedged herself on top of him lying partly on her side, one of her legs thrown over both of his, her jeans-covered butt jutting out into the empty air space over the stick shift.

"Works for me," he said, and slid an arm around her waist, hugging her to him. It was a little more intimate a gesture than she felt really comfortable with in Angel's presence, but she couldn't bring herself to complain about it, given the circumstances.

The door on their side of the car slammed shut. There was brief silence as Angel walked around to the other side.

"Am I too heavy for you?" she whispered. She shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, and let her head settle into the crook of his shoulder.

"Never," he murmured, and then he lifted his chin so her forehead was pressing into the side of his neck. The close quarters in the car made her viewpoint fairly restricted--aside from a narrow slice of the windshield all that was in her field of vision was Spike's chest and legs, both swamped under his currently too-loose clothes.

Behind her, Buffy heard the driver's side door open, and Angel settle himself into his seat. Leather rustled and creaked, mechanical sounds heralded the sudden roaring of the engine, and she let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding.

"Where to?" Angel asked.

"My place, I guess," Buffy said, speaking into Spike's shirt.

Angel grunted an affirmative and then Buffy felt something brush firmly against her ass. Her eyes widened.

"Sorry," Angel said then. "It's just, ah, I need to work the stick shift. It's... a little tight in here."

"That's... okay," Buffy said through her teeth, trying to curl herself in closer to Spike. "Let's just... get going." She felt Spike's arm tighten around her waist as if in answer, and she felt very glad at that moment she couldn't see his face. She had an uneasy feeling that the two men were glaring at each other over the top of her head.

Angel moved the stick a couple more times. The engine growled and purred in response. Buffy tried not to make a sound, closed her eyes.

"Sorry," Angel said again, and shifted into drive.

The car peeled out with a roar.

Chapter Ten

__________

They rode nearly all the way to her place in silence. Angel negotiated traffic without asking for directions. Presumably he knew where her apartment was the same way he'd found them in the first place.

Buffy remained quiet. From her position on Spike's lap, she could see little. Cramped and uncomfortable and tense, she watched the streaks of light from the passing cars from under lowered eyelids and did her best not to react whenever Angel had to change gears.

Spike is hurt. She kept repeating the statement to herself like a mantra. That was the only thing that really mattered in this situation, getting him back to her place so she could wrap him up in blankets and pour blood down his throat until he was himself again. Everything else was secondary, including what she was going to say to Angel, or to Spike himself when he was coherent enough for her to yell at him about the argument that had gotten them into this situation in the first place. All of that was a worry for another time. After they'd had time to rest, and to calm down, and--

Ohgod. If it weren't for the absolute immobility of her position, she would have clapped a hand over her mouth. Dawn. She'd forgotten to call Dawn. Again. She'd been gone a day and a night and was now coming back not just with Spike but with Angel too, and Dawn didn't have the fainest clue what was going on. She felt a little sick.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? she wondered miserably. It's not that I don't want her to know what's going on with me, it's just... things got crazy, and I... forgot.

Frantically, Buffy plotted a course of action when they got back to the apartment. She'd call on her cell phone from downstairs. Let her know that they were coming up. Dawn would probably still be pissed off, but a ten-minute warning had to be better than none.

By the time the Lamborghini pulled up in front of her apartment building, Buffy had calmed herself down, breathed a sigh of relief. They were home. It was tense and uncomfortable but at least they were safe.

Angel maneuvered the car into a parking space, killed the engine. Then he sat there, quiet. Buffy wriggled a little on Spike's lap--he seemed to have fallen asleep--and tried to reach for the door--

"Don't move," Angel said. Buffy immediately froze.

"What? Why?" she whispered. "Is something out there?" Angel didn't answer immediately.

"It's nothing," he said eventually, and then got out of the car. Buffy blinked in confusion, then nearly spilled out of the car an instant later when Angel abruptly opened the passenger door. He offered her a hand as she unfolded herself gingerly from the cramped seat.

"Why don't you go ahead and go inside, Buffy," he said, reaching past her to haul Spike out and onto his feet. The smaller vampire sagged in his grip, barely conscious; Angel threaded an arm around his shouders.

"That's not such a good idea." She tried not to look worried, searched her pockets for her phone. "I've got to make a phone call first."

"Make it from upstairs. We shouldn't stay out here in the open."

"Why? Are we in danger?" Buffy scanned the street. She couldn't see anything.

"Not right now we're not, but..." He jerked his head toward the car, signaling her with his eyes. "Look, I'll get him up the stairs. Can you, uh, take his medicine with you, get things ready?"

Buffy's lips formed an "oh" of understanding, and she leaned back into the car, felt around inside. Two clear plastic jugs sloshing with dark red liquid were stowed there. A bottle in each hand, she withdrew, stood up straight. Hesitated.

"It's okay, Buffy, I got it. Go on."

"Don't hurt him," she said, and raised her eyes to his in a silent plea. "Please. Angel, I know that the two of you have issues, but..."

"You called me for help," Angel said calmly. "That's all I'm here to do. Wouldn't be very heroic of me if I just showed up to pick a fight, now would it." His smiled then, dark eyes full of humor. "After all, I'm not actually 12."

Buffy laughed, a relieved sound bubbling out of her. Oh, Angel. She'd forgotten how funny he could be sometimes, the way he could make her feel like sixteen again with barely a word, the two of them understanding each other in a way that seemed almost mystical, an unspoken rapport. They just got each other in a way that she didn't think she'd ever be able to explain. Even now.

When she'd been a teenager, Angel had been a mystery she'd thought she could have spent her whole life unraveling.

"Okay," she said, backing away, fond affection quirking her lips. "I'll go get things ready. Just... you know. Promise not to drop him."

"Wouldn't think of it," Angel grinned. "Or... well, yeah, I thought of it, but... as a favor to you." He shrugged.

Buffy rolled her eyes, still smiling, and headed toward the front door and then inside.

__________

Dawn wasn't home yet.

Buffy sagged against the doorframe. The empty apartment felt like some kind of cosmic reprieve.

She bustled around the small kitchen, prepping. The jugs of blood went into the refrigerator, pillows and blankets spread out and ready on the couch. A starter mug full of blood went into the microwave--she'd even located the box of bendy straws Dawn had bought for her noxious experiments in fruit smoothies. She pulled one out of the box, a smile quirking her lips at the memory of another time, another mug full of blood and a straw...

Everything ready, she took a moment to take a deep breath, and placed her call.

Voicemail. In Italian. Buffy practiced a little more deep breathing, and waited for the beep.

"Dawn, hey, guess who? Look, really sorry I forgot to call last night, it was--a lot happened. If you get this before you come home, call me. Spike's here. And.... well, I'll explain the rest. Call me when you get this, okay? Bye." She closed the phone.

At least she could say she'd tried.

She started the microwave. The mug inside began to spin.

They really should have made it upstairs by now.

Buffy went to the kitchen window, looked out.

The view was of the street. The windows were old-fashioned, shutter-style doors that opened onto a tiny balcony, a space barely big enough for a person to stand. It was piled with plants, herbs for Dawn's kitchen adventures.

Angel and Spike were still standing by the car.

Buffy pressed her hands against the glass.

Angel was pacing, his dark coat swirling around him like a cape as he walked. Spike was leaning heavily against the car to hold himself up, both hands on the roof like a crime suspect about to be patted down. As Buffy watched, Angel completed a back-and-forth circuit up and down the sidewalk, occasionally stabbing an accusatory finger at Spike. She could see his mouth moving.

She threw open the window.

Spike's voice drifted up to her first. "--ran across me, alright? Started calling me. What was I supposed to do, say no?" He was nearly shouting, forcing out the words between panting breaths.

"Yes!" Angel was shouting back. "You were! What were you thinking? You practically made her a target."

"Told her it was risky. But she wanted to--"

"We had an agreement."

"Well, you've got more willpower than I have, that's all I've got to--"

Buffy had heard more than enough. "What are you doing?" she barked down at them.

Silence. Dead silence. Their startled upturned faces were those of two serenading Romeos, and she was one extremely angry Juliet, leaning out over her balcony to listen to their song.

"He wouldn't let me carry him up the stairs," Angel called out, and pointed at Spike.

"Piss off!" Spike coughed. "Not gonna have you carry me over the threshold like some teenage bride." He coughed again, and glared at Angel.

"I don't care how you get up here, just do it. Now," Buffy said stiffly, and slammed the window shut, hard enough to make the glass rattle.

She paced the living room rug then, hands cupped under her elbows, fuming.

Angel had promised her he wouldn't start a fight. He'd promised.

Well, so much for him being mature.

He'd been trying to get rid of her so he could yell at Spike without her hearing. Well, she had more than a few things to say about that. Plus the rest of what she'd overheard?

She tried not to think about it. If she'd heard right...

Angel had been telling Spike he wasn't supposed to see her.

That couldn't be right. It couldn't.

She paced, and she fumed, and by the time she heard their dragging footsteps in the hallway, she'd worked up a seriously good head of steam.

She marched over to the door and jerked it open. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

The two of them were just standing there, looking sheepish, together on her doorstep. Blinking at her like they couldn't quite figure out how to obey her command. She had a brief premonition of the two of them fighting over who got to come into the apartment first. Or worse, getting stuck in the door, like something out of a sitcom.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy grabbed Spike by the elbow and yanked him through. "Get the door, will you?" she threw over her shoulder at Angel. She nudged a shoulder under Spike's arm and carefully convalescent-walked him to the couch.

Angel said nothing. He merely stepped through and closed the door like she'd asked. Remained there, hands in pockets, his shoulders hunched forward, a dark, looming statue.

Buffy sat next to Spike on the edge of the sofa, busied herself with stuffing pillows under his head. She tried to avoid looking at him as she did it, although it wasn't easy--he was looking at her, blue eyes fixed on her face, sober and silent.

She wanted to say something to him. Something.

I just wanted to take care of you. I didn't want this. I wanted to show you... show you...

She unfolded a blanket with sharp, snapping motions, spread it over his legs.

"Don't say anything," she told him, voice low. "Just lay there and drink your blood. I just... I can't do both of you at once. Understand?" She thrust the coffee mug in his hand, very nearly upending the bendy straw floating in the dark liquid.

Spike considered her, pursed his lips. Nodded. "I'll need more than this," he said quietly, lifting the mug. She stood without comment and went to retrieve one of the jugs from the kitchen, put on the floor beside him well within easy reach. "You need it heated up?" she said. He shook his head. Reached out to take hold of her hand briefly and squeezed.

She pulled her hand back. Retreated to another chair, arranged herself primly on its edge, ramrod straight, hands on her knees.

"Now," she said, with a single, deep breath, and raised her head to look directly at Angel. "Why don't we start by you telling me that I didn't just hear what I thought I heard down there."

Angel sighed. "Buffy--"

"Because it sure sounded like you yelling at Spike for seeing me."

"You heard right," Angel said. "I did tell him to stay away from you."

Open-mouthed, Buffy just stared. She hadn't expected him to admit it. Shock momentarily robbed her of speech.

"How dare you?" she finally managed. "You do not get to make those kinds of decisions for me. Y-You have no right--"

"He had his reasons," Spike interjected from the couch. Buffy wheeled around, eyes wide. Spike wouldn't meet her eyes, pretended to be totally focused on pouring another mug of blood.

"You don't know the whole story, Buffy," Angel said. "Things are dangerous right now. I didn't want to get you involved."

"Involved?" She turned back to look at him. "Well, guess what? I'm already involved. And either way, that's still my choice, not yours."

"No it's not." Angel's face was impassive. "This isn't about you, Buffy."

Calm descended over Buffy like a blanket of snow. She felt the air around her go still.

"Not about me," she echoed. "Really. You deciding who I can and can't see is not about me. Hey, I'm sorry. Is there another definition of not about me that they use on a planet that's not Earth?"

"It's more complicated than that."

"Complicated. Okay. Well, you've got one chance to explain how. Because this is my home, Angel. You've told me that before, that I don't get to come into your life and start making demands. Well, you don't get to come into my life and do that either. If you've got a good explanation, I'm waiting to hear it."

Angel nodded. Buffy thought he looked pretty relaxed, considering.

"Okay," he said mildly. "I didn't--" He shot a look at Spike. "We didn't want to get you mixed up in this for your own safety, but--"

"Hey," she cut him off. "Slayer, remember? I can take care of myself."

"Right," Angel said, wisely realizing that the subject was closed. "How much do you know about Wolfram & Hart?"

__________

For a moment, the only sound was the rushing traffic outside.

"Wolf what and who?" Buffy finally asked.

"It's a law firm. In L.A."

"A law firm," Buffy repeated. "What, are you getting sued or something?"

Angel's brows drew in; he looked confused. "No, I--"

"Then this has what to do with you and Spike how?"

"I was there all last year," Angel said. "Spike too."

"What do you mean there?"

"He was running the place," Spike said.

"Running the--?" Buffy closed her eyes, opened them again. "So you're into law now? What did you do, go to night school?"

"No, I--" Angel paused. "You really didn't know anything about this?"

Buffy's patience gave out. "No, I didn't. Because if I did, I sure as hell would have called you to ask you what you thinking. Lawyers? Last I heard, you were 'helping the hopeless.'"

"Helping the helpless," Angel mumbled.

"Whatever. When my house and all my worldly possessions got destroyed, I kinda lost your business card. Can we get back to the part where you're explaining?"

Angel shared a look with Spike. "That's very interesting," he said. "Your buddy Andrew seemed to think you knew all about it."

"My--who?"

"Andrew," Spike cut in. "You know, dog-training boy's brother. From Sunnydale."

"Oh." Buffy's brows drew together. "When were you talking to him?"

"Came to L.A. for that rogue Slayer business," Spike answered.

"Said he was from the Council. Giles sent him," Angel added.

"Oh." She sat back in her chair. "Well, I guess that's possible. I mean, he was hanging all over Giles last time I was in London, although it's not like anyone actually listens to the little putz. The way he keeps going on and on about Lord of the Rings, and why are we even talking about Andrew again?"

"You let him sleep on your couch, though," Spike interrupted.

"That was Dawn's idea, not mine." She made a face. "He just showed up one night with some big sob story about demons chasing him and needing sanctuary, blah, blah, blah. I told him he could stay as long as he didn't get under--" She stopped, a memory clicking into place. Spike's face had taken on a strangely masklike appearance, and her eyes narrowed.

"This is about Romeo, isn't it," she said then. "That's when you saw me with--? Oh, I'm so gonna kill that little creep."

"Because he told us where to find you with Mister Hot Stuff on the Dance Floor?" Spike snorted. "I'd be upset about more than that if I were you."

"Us?" She looked at Angel. "You were both here?"

"So you didn't know," Angel said. "He, uh, didn't mention we were here."

"What? No, he didn't! I had no idea you were..." She trailed off, took in the strained looks on both faces. "What did he say to you?"

Angel sighed. "Look, never mind. It's not important."

"Said you'd moved on," Spike blurted, knuckles white from clutching his stained coffee mug too hard. "Said you were happy with The Immortal and we should move on too. Pretty much called us a couple of pathetic wankers right to our faces."

Buffy's mouth opened and then closed. "And you believed him?"

"Look, let's skip it, okay?" Angel said hoarsely. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Speak for yourself, grandad." Spike looked at Buffy with narrowed eyes. "Kinda curious myself."

"I don't owe you an explanation for my love life," Buffy said. "We went over this."

"Right," Spike said. Brittle. Obviously hurt. She didn't want to feel hurt by knowing that he was, but--

"I didn't know you were here!" Buffy kept going, her mouth racing ahead of her mind, her heart. "I didn't even know you were alive! And you should have waited for me instead of just believing whatever--"

"Well, what were we supposed to believe?" Spike snapped. "You let the stupid git answer your door, no matter that he's dumb as a box of rocks--goes off about how we used to be important to you, but not anymore. Tells us not to let the door hit us on the ass on our way out. You were lucky not to come home to Helter Skelter all over your walls."

"Oh, that's a good one, Spike. Really mature," she shot back, rolling her eyes. "Gee, let me guess what actually happened. Did you maybe, say, get all depressed and slink out of here without even leaving a note?"

Spike glared at her silently, sucking on the straw hard enough to collapse his cheeks.

"Will you two just drop it? We don't have time for this." Angel glowered down at the both of them. "Look, Buffy, we need to talk about Wolfram & Hart. Okay? This is big. And it's dangerous, and since you insist on being involved, you need to know what we're up against."

Buffy shot Spike a single, angry glare--this isn't over--and took a deep, cleansing breath. "Fine. You're right," she said, tossing her hair for good measure. "Whatever. So you were saying. There's this law firm..." She lifted her face toward Angel, waited.

Angel breathed in, regrouped. "Not just a law firm. Wolfram & Hart... they're evil. International, interdimensional, incorporated evil. If there's anything bad going on in the world, it's Wolfram & Hart's job to make sure that whatever demon or human is behind it gets the freedom they need to keep on doing it."

"And you were running this place?" Buffy felt a twinge of unease starting in her stomach. Incorporated evil. Great. "Why?"

"That doesn't matter right now. The reasons were... personal."

"Interdimensional evil is personal? How do you figure?"

"Lay off him, Buffy," Spike stepped in. He still wore a rather sulky expression, and his arms were folded defensively around his chest. She frowned at him, confused, then looked back at Angel.

"Long story short," Angel said. "There's this prophecy--"

"About a vampire with a soul," Spike spoke up from the couch. "Plays a key role in the apocalypse."

Buffy stared at him. A vampire with a soul?

"An apocalypse that Wolfram & Hart wants to control," Angel continued, and this time she didn't turn to look at him, but kept staring at Spike. "This vampire of prophecy matters to them, Buffy. They've spent years hounding me because of it. Trying to get me on their side, manipulate me, my friends--"

"Wait," Buffy waved a hand. "Back up. There's an apocalypse now?"

"Not an apocalypse," Angel said. "The apocalypse."

The phone rang.

"Hang on a sec," Buffy mumbled. She got up and wandered on autopilot around the apartment to look for her cell phone.

The voicemail picked up before she could find it, right where she'd left it on the kitchen counter. She checked the missed calls. Dawn. Of course. Buffy folded the phone and set it back down, then returned to her seat.

"Okay," Buffy said, blowing out an exasperated sigh. "Apocalypse, The. Law firm. Prophecy. Vampire with a soul. Go."

Angel frowned a bit. "This isn't just any end of the world scheme, Buffy," he insisted. "Wolfram & Hart have been setting this up for millions of years. They don't want to destroy this world. They want to control it."

"Yeah, so? And?"

"And, I think we've found a way to stop it. Take back control. Put humanity's fate back into its own hands."

"How?"

Angel took a deep breath. "This apocalypse of theirs... it's a game, Buffy. And the key to beating any game is understanding the rules. You have to know how the game works, which pieces you need to control to win. And that's where Spike and I come in." He pursed his lips. "You know, in a way, I owe all this to you, Buffy. I never would have figured this out if you hadn't given Spike that amulet."

The amulet. Buffy looked at Spike again. His eyes were lowered, and he was sucking on his straw with apparent absorption.

"Wolfram & Hart didn't give me that amulet out of the goodness of their hearts, Buffy. They don't have good hearts. That amulet was just another trick of theirs to get me under their control. Only..." His gaze angled toward Spike.

Buffy's eyes widened. Angel's face was absolutely impassive, a stone sculpture.

"The vampire of prophecy," she whispered.

"The prophecy's not about me, Buffy," Angel said softly. "It used to be, when I was the only souled vampire champion in the world. But when you gave Spike that amulet... everything changed."

Buffy continued staring at Angel. She had no idea what she should feel, if anything. She hadn't known about any prophecy. The amulet had just been a weapon, an unknown, powerful weapon that she'd given to the person she'd known she'd wanted at her side.

If she'd known then what it would do to him, known the cost...

"Yeah, I was sort of the relief pitcher," Spike said dryly, and she swung around to look at him, her face contorting with shock.

Is that really what he thinks?

"What does this prophecy mean?" she said hoarsely.

"A few months ago, we tried to take out Wolfram & Hart, kill their leaders here on Earth," Angel explained, bypassing her question. "Hell of a battle. I lost some good friends."

"I'm sorry to hear that, but Angel--"

"The Senior Partners--I mean, the leaders of the law firm, demons or whatever, we don't really know... they need this vampire of prophecy. I found the scroll that described it years ago, locked in their vault. The language is... vague. It doesn't even say what side of the apocalypse the vampire with a soul fights on."

"But--"

"Don't you see, Buffy? That's why the prophecy's so important. Wolfram & Hart don't know the outcome. Good or evil... it could be either one. That's why they're so desperate to get control. And the vampire with a soul is the key player. He's the one who'll decide which way the apocalypse is going to turn."

"I-I'm..." Buffy closed her eyes momentarily, tried to take it all in.

Spike was the vampire of prophecy. Apparently because she'd given him the amulet. Which made him some kind of target of an otherdimensional evil organization.

Great.

Nothing was ever simple.

"How do you know it's Spike?" Buffy finally asked, eyes still closed. "I mean if the prophecy just says 'vampire with a soul'... couldn't it be both of you?"

"No," Angel answered. "There's only supposed to be one. It upset the balance of reality for awhile, there being two of us. Although that also just goes to show how crucial this vampire of prophecy is. There can be only one."

"No quoting B-movies," Spike mumbled, annoyed. "You're bad at it."

"Am not. And it's the same idea." Angel glared at Spike, then turned back to Buffy. "The Senior Partners had me sign away my share of the prophecy, Buffy. That's how I know. They had to pick one of us. And Spike's the one they picked."

"Excuse me a minute." Buffy got up from her seat, walked to the bathroom. Locked herself in and threw up.

__________

She retched until her stomach was empty and cramping, acid burning the back of her throat. Then rested her head on the cool surface of the toilet seat, tried to get a grip on her swirling thoughts.

She'd done this to him. Given Spike the amulet, called him her champion. Never mind that she hadn't known about any damn prophecy, it was still her that had made him sacrifice himself, her that he had gotten the soul for. Because of her, Spike was now some kind of world-saving prophesied hero that the fate of all humanity depended on.

Everything he'd said and done since she'd first found him in Rome was suddenly starting to make sense.

"Well, spot of danger now and then keeps things from getting dull, doesn't it?"

"I'm not gonna put you and Dawn in danger, that's final."

"Got a job now. Been telling you about it. Kind of important, you know?"

"There isn't... a happily ever after for us, Buffy. You're done now. I'm not."

She already knew what she would hear when she went back out there. Angel would explain to her that Spike had more important things to think about than her now, that saving the world came first. Like she didn't know that script by heart.

She got it now, why they were together, why Angel had wanted Spike to stay away from her. The mission was always more important. Always the mission.

Angel had always gotten that.

There was a soft tapping at the door.

Buffy pulled herself to her feet, creaky and slow as an old woman. She rinsed her mouth at the sink. The face in the mirror above was bleak, ghostly.

It was a face she hadn't seen in awhile. Not once since she'd come to Rome. She'd thought--obviously mistaken--that she might never see that face on herself again.

"I'll be right out," she called weakly, and debated brushing her teeth. Decided from the touchy condition of her stomach that she better not risk it. She drank a glass of water instead, opened the door.

It was Spike. Leaning against the doorframe to hold himself up, but looking stronger than he had been even only an hour ago, less bone-skeletal and grim. His eyes were shadowed beneath a thick fringe of brown hair.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded. She wanted to say something, but her throat kept closing up. She let her hands slide onto his arms instead, held on as if to steady him, but was really steadying herself.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "It's just... not every day you get to hear you're responsible for turning someone into a champion of destiny." She tightened her fingers on his arms; he lifted his hands to cup her elbows.

"Not something to be ashamed of," he said.

"Could probably make a career out of it," she said faintly. "What with you, and the Potentials..."

"It's not like he's making it sound," Spike said, tugging her closer. "And it's not your fault, Buffy, none of it."

She leaned in, let him support her weight, her forehead touching his. "Yes, it is."

"Don't talk like that. It's not like you think at all."

She ignored this, pushed down the urge to say you don't know what I think, and let a small smile slip instead. Her eyes roamed over his face, drinking him in. "So this is the real you, huh?" He looked puzzled until she tugged on a light brown curl, pulled the strand of hair down into his line of sight.

He squinted at the color, then snorted. "Yeah," he smiled. "The natural look. Been a long time since I've seen it."

She combed her fingers through the thick locks. "I like it."

"What, the color?"

"No. The curls. I mean, it's like... the rest of you is so sharp." She stroked a finger across the line of his cheekbone, awkwardly aware that she was being unusually sappy, heartfelt and naked, not caring. "I hope you keep it like this."

"Not bloody likely."

"It balances you."

He raised an eyebrow, and she laughed. Tugged on a curly lock. "Okay, maybe not. It's... sweet."

He angled his head to look at her. "Vampire here, missy," he said with mock seriousness. "We're never sweet."

"You are. Sometimes."

He made another snorting sound, shook his head.

"Spike. Look at me." She nudged his head back around to face her with a finger under his chin, met his blue eyes with her hazel ones.

The sound of Angel's footsteps made them both look up.

Angel stood in the doorway, a looming presence. "Sorry to interrupt," he said coldly. "I'd like to finish this."

__________

"There's not that much more to tell," Angel said once both she and Spike had returned to their seats. "The big thing is, once I figured out what the Senior Partners wanted, what their plan really was, I took... steps. Some of them were pretty drastic. You'll probably think I'm pretty cold, but believe me, Buffy, all of this was necessary."

"What did you do?"

Angel met her eyes calmly. "Before the battle, I took out a little insurance policy. Something to make sure that the Senior Partners remembered who was really in control."

"Insurance policy?" Buffy repeated.

"Me, love," Spike said quietly. "I'm the insurance." He shifted the coffee mug in his hand, leaned back against the arm of the couch. "Angel got a friendly witch to throw a bonding spell on us."

"A bonding spell?" Buffy repeated.

"Yes," Angel said. "In mystical terms, Spike is part of me. If the Senior Partners kill me... he dies too."

Chapter Eleven

__________

For a second, Buffy wondered if she'd actually hallucinated what Angel had said. "What did you just say?"

"Funny," Spike said. "That was my reaction too."

This took some time to sink in as well. "You didn't tell him?"

"You mean, did he mention it before we marched off to a battle where we were more than likely to lose our heads?" Spike snorted. "Uh, that would be a no."

"There wasn't time." Angel shot Spike a warning glare.

"Right. You couldn't have squeezed it into your 'live this day like your last' speech or anything."

"Stop." Buffy held up a hand. "You--you were--" Live this day like your last. She couldn't say it. Parts of the story Spike had told her, about his stay with Angel in L.A., suddenly took on new resonance.

They both could have died.

It made no sense. If Spike was really some champion of destiny, then why would Angel--?

Did he want them both to die? Was that it? This Wolfy Heart he kept talking about--was that his revenge? Had he just wanted to take Spike down with him?

Would he do that?

"It was just a fail-safe, Buffy," Angel said gently, reassuring. "We weren't in any real danger. The Senior Partners won't dare risk anything happening to their champion."

"Not the way I remember it," Spike said.

"Why do you think we both survived?"

"Well, maybe that was divine intervention for you. I had to hold up my end of a genuine fists-and-fangs brawl, thank you very much."

"You could have both been killed."

"Say, did he mention the part yet where it's only my head that's on the chopping block? That nothing happens to him if something comes after me?" Spike said mildly. He stirred the last dregs in his mug with one finger, popped the finger in his mouth, licked the last of the blood off.

Buffy face contorted. "What?"

Angel sighed. "I did what I had to, Buffy. The moment I signed away that prophecy, I was expendable. A redundant employee. If I hadn't done that bonding spell, the Senior Partners would have killed me."

"So you make it so you can't be killed but Spike can?" Buffy scoffed. "Gee, that sounds fair."

"This isn't about what's fair."

"Got that right," Spike chimed in.

Angel's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you explain this to her?" he snapped at Spike. "You're in this just as much as I am."

"Right," Spike sneered. "I'm destiny's bitch."

Buffy pressed her hands to her temples. "I just--I don't understand this! Angel, how could you do this? How could you?"

Angel looked at her. "Because for years and years, I fought for redemption, and then my destiny got pulled out from under me and given to some other guy." He pointed at Spike. "And you know what? I'm just a little pissed off about it. So instead of laying down and dying like a good little soulful noble vamp, I did something about it. And hey, maybe it's a little pointless and petty, but at least I got to stick it to the Senior Partners and their Chosen Champion, and boy I gotta tell you--it felt good." He jerked a thumb at his chest. "That's my motivation."

Buffy gaped at him, face white and shocked. Angel relented, his intense expression fading, the stiff set going out of his shoulders.

"It's a confidence game, Buffy," he said gently.

"A con job," Spike clarified. "Like those caper movies with blokes in tuxes who rob casinos."

Buffy cleared her throat. Her mouth was terribly dry and the shocks of the last few minutes had left her feeling drained. "So you're saying this is all an act?" she said faintly.

"More or less," Angel and Spike exchanged looks. "Nobody who knows us or our history would expect us to get along, anyway. And as long as the Senior Partners and the rest of the demon underworld think we're at each other's throats, we can find out things about Wolfram & Hart--their enemies, their allies. And we can play them against each other."

"My character's feeling a mite cheated," Spike said, examining his nails. "Fought for his destiny, earned it fair and square, only to have this joker decide no-one's gonna pry it out of his cold, dead hands."

"Save it," Angel snarled, then returned to talking to Buffy. "Long story short, I go around bragging to everyone who'll listen that I've got the Senior Partners right where I want them--"

"--while I'm talking to every shaman, witch, or demon I can find about getting this bleeding spell taken off. Because I want to captain my own destiny," Spike finished, and flashed a tight grin. "I usually call Angel a lot of names. That part's fun."

Buffy stood. She felt confused and faint--she hadn't eaten in hours, and hadn't even realized how weak she felt until she was on her feet. The blood rushing away from her head suddenly made her vision go light. "I-I need to get something to eat."

"Of course, go right ahead, we'll wait here," Angel said. He looked concerned. "Do you, uh, need any help, or...?

"No, I got it," she mumbled and started to head for the kitchen.

"Um, pet?"

She turned. Spike held up the empty plastic bottle, shook it. "Was there some more of this?"

"Oh. Yeah." She crossed back to the couch, took the empty jug from his hand.

"I could go for a glass of that too," Angel said. "Or maybe, some coffee?"

Buffy frowned, but said nothing. Turned and drifted into the kitchen on autopilot.

__________

When she re-emerged a few mintues later, fortified by a bowl of fruit and a hastily chugged half carton of milk, the two of them were talking quietly. Angel was sitting on the edge of the couch; Spike had his head leaned back on folded arms, eyes closed. It was a strangely comfortable picture, and she scowled at it internally.

It didn't feel right that the two of them should be comfortable with each other. She was beginning to understand why this scheme of theirs was built the way it was.

She marched up to them, handed Spike the plastic blood bottle and thrust a mug of coffee into Angel's hand.

"When were you planning to tell me about this?" she demanded. "If this whole thing with Spike getting trapped hadn't happened, were you ever gonna say anything?"

Spike shifted on the couch. Angel drained his coffee, put the mug down on the table.

"We weren't," Angel said, folding his hands together, his elbows resting on his knees. "We thought it would be better--"

"That I not know? You thought that was better?" Buffy huffed. She felt stronger now, and Angel's entire attitude was beginning to really grate. He was making decisions for her again. Deciding what was best for her without even asking, and lo and behold, it looked like he was starting to do it for Spike, too.

Well, she had something to say about that.

"So let me see if I get this straight. Spike's some kind of special prophecy boy for the apocalypse." She held up one finger. "There's these evil lawyers who want to kill you, but won't, because they need Spike." A second finger. "And the two of you are just trying to confuse the hell out of them so they'll... what? Cry uncle? That's your plan?"

"Something like that, yeah." Angel sighed. "An old... friend of mine once told me that you should never play somebody else's game. That you have to make them play yours."

"And this is your game," Buffy said. "You're in charge."

"That's right. I am." He folded his arms, and his expression grew opaque. "And it's working, Buffy. Anyone who wants a piece of the apocalypse knows by now that everything is up for grabs--it's a power gold rush. Those that want to stand with the Senior Partners can't kiss Spike's ass hard enough. They're falling all over themselves trying to find a way to solve his little problem. Meanwhile, I've been approached by more than a few demons who woudn't mind seeing the Senior Partners taken down a peg or two, if not booted off this plane of existence completely. We're making the demon world pick sides."

"And nobody's trying to kill either one of you?" she said sarcastically. "Because that'd be one way to solve the whole picking sides problem."

"Yeah, well. There is that." He shrugged. "It's a risk. It's in the Senior Partners' interest to protect us right now, but that doesn't mean they're not trying anything to get around this spell themselves, or that nobody wants to kill us just to piss them off, but we've managed to keep one step ahead of the biggest threats so far. Helps that we have information from both sides." He gestured at Spike. "Although if the underworld knew we were talking to each other, that might change things. Coming here tonight was a gamble. The fallout might not be pretty."

"And all this goes on until when? The apocalypse happens?"

"Maybe," Angel sighed. "Or until the Senior Partners show their faces."

"Great. So your little cloak and dagger mission goes on forever." Or until both of you die. "That's just great." She began to pace.

Spike angled his head to study her. Angel leaned back against the couch, let his hands fall limply to his sides, frowned at her.

"Well, go ahead, spit it out," he said to Buffy. "This is kind of a one-time only deal, so if you've got any more questions, you'd better ask now. What's really bothering you?"

"What makes you think I'm bothered?" Buffy laughed, still pacing. "Just because the two of you are out there playing Russian Roulette with every demon in this dimension, why would that possibly bother me?"

"Um, actually, some of the demons I've met come from other dimensions," Spike offered. "Wolfram & Hart's pretty big time outside this plane." Buffy shot him a worried look.

"It's not that bad, Buffy, believe me," Angel said hurriedly. "Most demons won't lay a finger on either of us because they're afraid of the Senior Partners."

"Yeah, it's getting pretty hard to get into a good fight these days. In demon bars they treat me like the Dalai Lama," Spike agreed, then knit his forehead. "Well, not the human one--they'd eat him for dinner. But something like that, with the nonviolence. If there was such a thing. For demons." He made a fist, began studying his knuckles quietly.

"Spike's probably more of a danger to himself than most demons," Angel said, and reached over to cuff the smaller vampire on the back of the head.

"Hey! Watch it."

Angel paused, looked at Buffy again, considered. "Look. Buffy. Don't take this the wrong way, but... we really can't afford to have you involved in this."

She stopped pacing. "Why? You keep saying it, but you never say why."

"It's like this." Angel pointed at Spike. "As much as the very idea makes me want to run screaming, a good part of the fate of the world depends on this guy. Who's not exactly known for being the picture of good planning or judgment to start with. Being around you probably doesn't help. Case in point--what happened here tonight."

"That wasn't his fault," Buffy muttered, feeling the need to defend Spike somehow. Then frowned, realizing that instead she'd just implicated herself.

"Are you saying I'm a distraction?" she said. "Wow, thanks, Angel. That's not at all demeaning. Why don'tcha follow that up by insulting my hair or telling me I'm fat?"

"That's not what I'm--" He blew out an irritated sigh. "Look, even if being around you didn't turn Spike into an amnesiac, you'd still be jeopardizing our position."

"Why?" Buffy said, her voice low and dangerous. "You think I can't take care of myself?"

"You're not invincible, Buffy. If any of our enemies thought they could get to us through you, they'd do it. You being a Slayer is only going to keep them away for so long. All they'd need to see is the smallest weakness from you and we'd end up getting your severed fingers in the mail."

Buffy's stomach lurched. "Well. Gee. Thanks again. To hear you talk, you'd think I hadn't had demons try to kill me for years. Including the two of you. And yet, here I am."

"There's Dawn to think of," Spike said quietly. "Don't much want to see her get kidnapped, tortured. Girl's a magnet for that sort of thing."

"You're a weapon that could be used against us, Buffy."

"I'm also a Slayer," she said. "I've protected Dawn, I've protected you--both of you--and I-I could... I could help you." She was breathing heavily. Her emotions were getting wound up, intense. "I could get the Council to--"

"The Council won't want to help us," Spike cut in. "We're demons, remember? Dealing with other demons. Since when do they care about that?"

"They'd care because I said so."

"Never mind, Buffy, we're not calling the Council," Angel said shortly. "I've tried calling them for help before. They're not interested."

"Plus there's the matter of us being bad guys in their universe," Spike added. "Might blow our cover a little if we started getting too much help from do-gooding Slayers."

She turned, looked at him. "But it doesn't blow your cover to be seen with me."

Spike hesitated, and their earlier conversation rushed back to her. Most of the demon underworld's already heard about you and me. Her cheeks pinkened.

Angel cleared his throat delicately. "Ah... the common opinion is that there's another reason why you'd, uh--"

"Skip it," she said hoarsely. "I get the picture. So how are you gonna explain tonight, if anyone's seen us? Hot threesome?"

The silence was suddenly deafening. Both men were suddenly very interested in studying the details of the apartment walls. Her eyes nearly bugged out. "Excuse me?"

"It doesn't matter, Buffy." Angel's voice sounded a little strained. "It's not going to be a problem because you're not going to be involved. We're both going to leave here tonight and your life can go back to normal."

She gasped. Turned to stare at Spike. He was sitting quietly, drinking his blood. The fall of curls over his forehead made him look absurdly little-boyish.

Angel kept talking. "This place isn't secure enough, and the longer we stay here, the bigger the risk to you."

"I'll take my chances." She couldn't take her eyes off Spike.

Angel sighed. "Don't get sentimental, Buffy. We can't afford it right now."

She turned back to him. "Sentimental?" she husked. Angel's calm voice was hitting Buffy in all the wrong ways, making her feel like a hysterical child being talked down to. "Oh. Now I get it. This is about you not approving of Spike being with me."

"Can't say I'm crazy about it, but no. That's not it," Angel said sharply. "We both walked right into your apartment tonight, Buffy. Did you even notice that, that neither one of us needed an invitation?"

Buffy's eyes widened. Oh. "Andrew invited you," she whispered, and let out a small laugh. "I-I didn't even--" I didn't even think of the two of you as vampires, she realized she was about to say, knowing even as she thought of it how ridiculous that was. She'd been looking right at Spike's vampire face at its most ferocious mere hours before, had been heating up blood in her kitchen. I didn't think of you like... other vampires, her mind amended. The two of you are just... you.

"You're off your game, Buffy," Angel said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming you for anything, but I think you can see my point that we can't afford to take that kind of chance."

His indifference stung worse than she ever could have expected. "So I'm--" She laughed. "You don't care about my love life, or me, apparently, now that I'm too old and slow." Her eyes watered. "Well, you know something? I'm not old, and I'm not slow, and you don't get to make those kinds of decisions for me."

"I didn't make them for you," Angel said. "I just made them."

"Oh, but, hey! It's a big coincidence that you get to say what happens in my life.

"He agreed to this too." Angel pointed at Spike. "So before you get to feeling too sorry for yourself, or your poor little Spikey-wikey, try to remember that. He's not being forced into anything. Neither are you."

"Except for the spell," Spike spoke up. "Didn't agree to that."

"Executive decision."

Spike flipped Angel two fingers. "And stop badgering her, you prat."

"She doesn't need you to defend her honor."

"What I need is the both of you to stop treating me like I'm not a part of this!" Buffy insisted. She was starting to get mad now. "You're not the boss here, Angel. You don't get to decide for all of us."

"Actually, as a matter of fact, I do." Angel stretched out an arm along the back of the couch. "You had my destiny in your hands when I gave you that amulet. You gave it to Spike, and when he used it, he had power over yours. Now I've got power over his. Sometimes all you can do is put your fate in the hands of other people. You don't always get a choice."

"No," she said shortly. "You're wrong. We can make our own destinies for ourselves. I know. I've done it."

"You've done it for others. Not yourself. You were destined to die at sixteen, Buffy. You did. You didn't bring yourself back."

This made her go still. Angel just shook his head, smiled like he'd been told a good joke. Stood.

"Well, that's about it," he said. "That's all I've got to tell. And unless you've got something else to say to me, I'll be waiting in the car." He walked to the doorway, paused.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he said softly. And then he was gone.

Chapter Twelve

__________

Buffy remained perfectly still, eyes on the empty doorway, as the silence spun out.

"Buffy?" Spike said softly from behind her.

She didn't turn. Merely kept staring, some deep part of her mentally counting the number of times she'd seen Angel's back, seen him walk away.

He'd reminded her of her own death. Her first death, the one that had haunted her for months. In some ways, she'd never gotten over it. It had been her first brush with destiny, with fate, with the idea that some things simply couldn't be changed.

She couldn't believe he'd done that. The way he'd been with her, so dismissive.

Like she didn't even know him anymore.

"Buffy?"

This time she turned.

The sight of Spike just sitting there was somehow even worse. That he could be there at all, real and solid and stretched out on her couch with a blanket drawn over his lap, was nothing short of a miracle. One that until a week ago, she'd had no hope of ever seeing outside of her dreams.

She had dreams like that in the last year. Painful pictures of normality where he'd just be there, right in the midst of her family and friends. Laughing and talking, and no one thought anything of it. Sitting at the dinner table. On the couch, watching television. Chatting with Dawn. Willow. Xander. Her mom. Like he belonged.

She closed her eyes.

"Well?" she found herself saying. It sounded cold and dead even to her own ears. Drained. "What are you waiting for? Isn't it your turn to say something quippy on your way out the door?" Isn't it your turn to leave me?

"No, can't say as I'm exactly feeling up to it right now." His voice cut through the darkness behind her eyes. "Thought I'd sit here for awhile, drink my blood, heal up a little. Angel can sodding well wait."

Buffy opened her eyes. Watched with some bemusement as Spike made a defiant show of settling back into the couch cushions, making himself comfortable as if kicking back for a long TV marathon.

She almost laughed. All the drama with Angel, all the tension, and Spike was just... being Spike.

"What?" he said, after a long moment of weathering her stare. "You want me to go?"

She cleared her throat. Tossed her hair a little. No, I don't. No, I want more time. No, I want to go back in time to earlier this week, when I thought you still wanted me.

"Thought you said it was too dangerous for you to stay here," she said frostily.

"Um, no, Angel said that, not me," Spike scoffed. He punched a pillow, fluffing it, and Buffy noticed that he had his dirty boots up on her couch for the first time. She pressed her lips together, forced herself not to say anything. Hurt, she reminded herself. He's hurt.

"Too chivalrous for his own good, sometimes," Spike sighed, stretching. "I mean, that whole riff about you being off your game--he's just covering, you know. Doesn't want you in danger."

"I thought you were all on board with that too. Sure sounded like it."

"Well, he hasn't been around you as much lately as I have. I've been recently rescued by you. Be pretty off kilter of me if I didn't trust you to protect me."

"And here I thought that was so emasculating."

"Not this part. Given a choice between Nurse Buffy and Nurse Angel..." He grinned at her, then squinted, registered her pained expression. "Unless... uh, well, if you'd rather I go..."

"No," she said, confused. "No, I--"

And then there was anger, a whirlwind of it. After the night she'd had, the panic and the worry, everything he'd said to her, and Angel... and now he was just stalling, going right back to acting like all of it was nothing, like he could just breeze into her life and breeze back out again whenever he felt like it.

She'd had enough.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded. "About all this? I mean, Angel's always been Mister Mysterious, but I can't believe that you'd do that. To me. All week, and you haven't said a wo--"

"Actually, I did," Spike said mildly, cutting her off. "That first night, if you remember."

"No, I don't remember," she insisted. "You didn't say anything about a prophecy. Or your little suicide pact with Angel."

He winced. "Don't have to make it sound like we're going over lover's leap together. Already told you I didn't agree to the sp--"

"But you agreed to the rest? Isn't that what Angel said?"

He pressed his lips together, made a face. He might have been frowning, but the longer hair hid his forehead; she couldn't quite see his brows crease.

"What?" she said. "No excuses?" She folded her arms around herself, shoulders pulled in tight. "You shut me out, Spike. Don't you even care anymore?" She couldn't keep the hurt out of her voice.

"Where'd you ever get the idea that I don't care?"

"Uh, maybe from the way you keep trying to blow me off? You were going skip town without even telling me."

He blew out a sigh. "Buffy--"

"Don't." She pointed at him. "Don't you dare try to put me off. I want an answer."

He considered her, nodded. Took another drink of blood, rested the coffee mug in his lap.

"Most of what you heard tonight, that was a big secret," he admitted. "And those do work better if not everyone knows about them."

"And I didn't need to know?" She bit the words off; they were bitter. "Since when don't I need to know?"

"Since you're not the Slayer anymore," he said sharply, then took in her shocked expression and sighed. "Look, I just didn't want to worry you, Buffy. It wouldn't have done you any good to know the whole story, other than just to give you something to chew your nails over. Wouldn't have changed anything."

She sucked in a deep breath. Wouldn't have changed anything. Rage was spiraling up larger and larger inside her, a tornado of it, from her scalp to her toes and her fingers, a crackling circuit.

"Wouldn't have changed anything." Her voice was steady, deadly, calm. "Gee, where did you get that idea? Let me guess. Maybe your new best friend Angel?"

He snorted. "Oh, right. Best friends. Because you can always count on best friends to hex you up with a fatal spell. We're pals, Angel and me. We're like this." He made a twisted-fingers gesture.

"Well, you sure could've fooled me. God, Spike, do you even hear yourself? You sound just like him." She pitched her voice low and mocking. "'Ooh, you're not the Slayer anymore, so you don't get to play with us. Girls aren't allowed in our clubhouse'."

Spike gaped at her, the straw falling out of his mouth with a wet pop.

"This isn't about me at all, is it?" he said. "This is about Angel."

"You so don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"No, I'm getting it now. This is about Angel. You're getting mad at me because you're really mad at him." Spike narrowed his eyes. "You know, that really explains a lot."

Her sour face could have shriveled lemons. "I'm getting mad at you because I'm mad at you," she gritted.

"For being too much like Angel?" He let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. "And here I thought His Greatness could do no wrong."

"That's not what I'm mad about."

"Well, then what are you--" Spike started coughing. He set down his mug of blood with a shaky hand, turned his face into the back of the sofa. His shoulders shook.

Buffy took a step forward, jarred out of her anger by concern. "Are you... okay?"

"No," he wheezed. "Feel like hell, thanks for asking." The coughing fit continued. Buffy moved to the couch as if pulled there by gravity, patted his back gently to try to soothe the coughing, stroked his shoulders.

"You are really pale," she observed. "Guess you're really not up to full strength yet, huh." Not enough to take on Angel, and definitely not enough to take on me. She felt a surge of pity.

Spike shook his head. His eyes were red. "Top this up for me, will you?" he said faintly, and held out his mug. Buffy retrieved the plastic jug from the floor and refilled the mug, offered it to him. Still coughing, he turned his face into the back of the couch.

"You want it heated up?" she asked, contrite, an annoying river of guilt coursing through her. He really was hurt, and she was supposed to be playing Nurse Buffy, not yelling at him. She hurried into the kitchen to Martha Stewart away her uneasy feelings.

The anger came back to her in the minute it took to watch the mug in the microwave spin.

He's the one who started this, she fumed to herself. He's the one who wanted to call Angel! She kept fuming even as she carried the hot mug back into the living room and sat down next to Spike on the edge of the couch. Calm and professional, she lifted the cup to his mouth. Nurse Buffy. He drank, watching her out of the corners of his eyes.

"Angel's still downstairs, you know," he snarked, the instant the mug was empty. He licked the blood from the corners of his mouth with the point of his tongue, shot her an evil glare. "Brooding in his car. You want to yell at him some more, go help yourself."

Her professional nurse persona vanished. She set the mug down on the coffee table with a bang.

"Don't start this again."

"Start what? Finding out what the hell it is you're so pissed off at me for?"

"I already told you--"

"Yeah, but what are you mad at me for?"

She blew out a sigh, sending strands of her hair flying. "Get over it, Spike. This isn't about Angel."

"It's about me leaving, then? That's what you seemed to be mad about, before the sun came up."

"Yeah, well, I was mad about that." Not anymore, if you keep this up.

"Well, now you know why."

"Fine! I know why. Sure, great, you're saving the world from the apocalypse, go you! Go you and Angel both, hooray, you're such big heroes. What do you want? Cheering and pom-poms?"

He pushed a curl of hair away from his forehead. Underneath, she could see his brow creased with something like worry. It was a new look for him, at least to her--his face seemed almost careworn. "Thought you wanted that," he said. "You know--the heroes part."

"I didn't ask you to be Robin to Angel's Batman. You have any idea how weird that was, seeing you just sitting there agreeing with him?"

He angled his head to look at her. "You asked me not to get in his face."

"Right. And you always do what I tell you."

"And how'd I get to be the sidekick anyway?" His face was the picture of annoyance now. "You miss the part of it where his plan only works because he needs me, not the other way around?"

"And you're okay with that? I would've thought you'd had enough of people pulling your strings." She shook her head, turned a little away from him. "I can't believe you're not fighting this."

He shot out an arm, grabbed her by the shoulder. Turned her back around to face him. Her eyes blazed, and she shook his hand loose.

"You think I'm not fighting?"

"You two seemed pretty comfortable with your little 'con game' to me." She hooked her fingers into ironic quotations. "You didn't even want to hear my--"

"What part of it did you want me to fight?" he interrupted her, anger turning his voice rough. "The spell? Because I am fighting that, believe me. Wanted to take Angel's head off when he told me about it, not that it would have done me any good. I don't have to act when I go out there to talk shop about getting this spell broken--I want it off. Just like Angel's not acting when he's out there trying to keep it on." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Matter of fact, surprised you're not more worried about him."

"Angel can take care of himself," she said tightly. "He always has."

"But I can't? Is that what you're saying?"

This stopped her. "That is not what I meant."

"Isn't it? You did just have to rescue me, Buffy. Poor weak little Spike, he's so incompetent, screwed up again. Is that what you're thinking?" Bitterness soaked every word. "That I can't cut it as a champion?"

Her gaze softened a little, she let out a soft puff of air that stopped just short of a laugh. "You know that's not it."

"Do I?" He stretched out a hand to grasp one of her knees, his arm laying across her thighs. This time, she twitched slightly at the contact, but didn't shy away or shrug his hand off.

She placed her own hand on top of his and squeezed. "You should. Spike, you're--you're the strongest person I know."

"But I'm not a hero," he said softly. She opened her mouth to protest, and he made a cutting gesture with his hand. "I know that, alright? I tried it for awhile in L.A., you know, doing it Angel's way. Trailed around saving dimwits in dark alleys..."

"You did?" she blurted. "You and Angel... together?" She'd tried to imagine it, when he'd first told her about being in L.A., the two of them fighting side by side, but hadn't been able to make the image gel. It was a surprisingly vivid picture now--she could see them in her mind's eye, all smooth moves and swirling black leather. Iconic. Like something out of a movie.

God, what is it about L.A.? She shook the distracting phantoms away.

He shook his head too, as if sensing her thoughts. "Long story. Point is, it wasn't me, Buffy. I can't--I don't--and I don't kid myself about this prophecy either. It's only on me because Angel gave it up. Got no illusions about that."

"So why do you even want this? Why can't you just--" She struggled for the right words. Come back to me. Stay here with me. Stop fighting. You've earned that. We both have. "You are a champion, Spike. You've proved that."

"And everyone lived happily ever after," he recited, and shook his head. "Thought I was done in the Hellmouth, Buffy. I wasn't. Didn't know what to do for a long time after that. Didn't--" He broke off, a faraway look in his eyes. She waited, breathless.

"When I was trapped in that space," he said. "You know, starving--it was like... when I first came back from the Hellmouth. Was a ghost then. Months on months, and nothing else to do but go over things in my mind. Everything I said, everything you said... kept trying to imagine it, what might have happened if the sun hadn't come up, what I'd say, what you'd say--"

She was getting it, realization dawning. "You're not talking about last night."

"Sometimes you ask me to stay, sometimes you tell me to go," he went on, as if he hadn't heard. "Sometimes we... figure it out together, you know? Fight together. But it never added up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make any of it fit with what I saw, Buffy."

"Spike--"

"And then I sort of went crazy. There were all these hallucinations, and this bear, and the woods... something about a dog... lack of blood will do that." He rubbed his forehead.

"You're really talking about the Hellmouth, aren't you," she said, as evenly as she could manage. Her voice still quavered a little. "What I said. You still don't believe that I love you."

He let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa, eyes on the ceiling as if looking for guidance. "It's not... I didn't mean it like it sounded, Buffy. It was... I just didn't know what it meant. What you said."

She was momentarily speechless. "What do you think it meant?" she finally managed.

He rolled his head toward her. Pained sympathy was on his face. "Thought that was the end for me, Buffy. You know? I was dying, and you saying it..." His voice nearly gave out, raspy and weak. "Didn't mean you'd still want to say it to me alive. Or... less dead, anyway."

It calmed her, in some bizarre way, to hear him confirm her fears at last. To finally put a voice to everything that had been hanging between them. It was all she could do not to let out a sigh of relief.

"I still want to say it." She reached out to trace her fingertips along the line of his face instead. "I was trying to tell you that before," she said softly. "That I do. Love you." She cupped her hand against his cheek. "Just as much now as then."

He placed his hand on top of hers, squeezed gently. "Love you too. Just the same," he breathed. Then he pressed his lips together, sighed through his nose. "Guess that's kind of the problem."

She froze.

He's not going to change his mind, she thought wildly. He's still leaving. This so isn't happening. I can't believe this.

"This so isn't fair," she hissed, her hand slipping from his cheek. She knew how she sounded, couldn't help it. "You've... rehearsed this, haven't you? You're not even listening to me. You already know exactly what you're going to say."

"Been through it in my head, Buffy. Eight days I was here, all you were ever interested in was new clothes and places to show them off."

"We've had this conversation before."

"So we have. But you want a new life, and it's not the one I'm leading."

"I know that--look, life isn't just fighting, Spike, you showed me that. Or reminded me of that, whatever. And I've been the Slayer, okay, I've done my time, and now I--you could--"

"What? I could what? Hang around here waiting for you to make up your mind?" He snorted. It startled her, the dissmissiveness of the sound, hit her in a place that was so sore she could barely register the words. "You think that's fun for me, Buffy? I can deal with not being the one for you--hurts, yeah, but I can take it. What I can't take is watching you flirt around me like you're still trying to decide. That's bloody torture. Already had enough of that back on the Hellmouth," he finished in a low mutter.

"Oh, I knew it," Buffy inhaled. "I just knew you weren't okay with me and Robin at all.

"I was okay with it. Not like I had any right to have a say in your life anyway."

"I don't want to hear that."

"Fine, don't listen. Just saying what's true--I wasn't a part of your life then, and I'm still not now."

"What do you know about what my life is or isn't--and don't you dare give me a speech about how you loved me enough to let me go."

It was like watching him turn to stone. Sitting on her couch, he suddenly became a heavy weight, motionless. The air vibrated with a lack of sound.

She rushed to fill in the empty space. "What the hell do you want from me anyway? Do you even know? I only just found out you were alive. Plus you're... you're some kind of prophesied hero, a-and you're working with Angel, and... I've only had a few months of not being the Chosen One, an-and... you! You're acting like you're disappointed I'm not proposing marriage."

"Be happy enough knowing you weren't going to throw me over for Peaches when the mood suited you."

The silence after this grew deadly. From her side this time, a thunderous aura of barely restrained rage. "What did you just say?" she asked carefully.

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Did you just call me a big ol' ho?" He did, he so did, her mind chimed in, a frantic chant. He just said you were fickle, that you were leading him on, where does he get off?

"No. I didn't. Just saying you don't know what you want."

"You don't know what I want, Spike. You're just guessing. And hey, guessing wrong! And the funny part is, you could just ask me. Why does nobody ever ask me?"

"Alright," he said abruptly. "What do you want?" He threw off the blanket, sat up, swung his legs off the couch. Grabbed her by the arms.

"W-What?" What?

"You want me to stay, Buffy? I don't dance to Angel's tune, no matter what he says. Bugger all this, the prophecy, all of it, we'll figure it out together if that's what you really want. Just say the word." He stopped, panting, out of breath. His eyes searched hers. "Tell me what you want, Buffy."

Time seemed to slow.

"You've already made up your mind." Her voice was tiny.

"Convince me I'm wrong."

Heart racing, Buffy stared at him. She hadn't even realized how long she'd been sitting there, silent, until the moment ended, and time picked up again, resumed normal speed. He dropped his eyes from hers in a motion that felt like a crash, let her go.

"Right. Like I thought."

Shame swept her, shock. Her skin pulsed where he'd held her by the arms, a screaming ache of loss. She reached out for him, and he calmly batted her searching fingers aside.

"It's alright, Slayer, it's fine." He wouldn't look at her.

"Wait--Spike, wait--"

"Don't need to say anything. I get it already."

"Will you stop?" She grabbed him by the shoulders, unconsciously imitating him. "What was that just now?"

"That was me asking you what you wanted."

"No, that was a test," she insisted. "You planned this. You've had all this time to think about what you were going to do, and boy, you sure put one over on me. Was it everything you thought it would be? You feel better now?"

It was his fault. It was! All of it. He'd come here, to her home, and he'd... he'd been the one to lead her on this time, and here he was going on and on about what she did or didn't want...

He removed her hands from his shoulders, shook his head. "What do you want me to say, Buffy? You don't feel about me the way I feel about you, blah, blah, blah--are we done? How many times do I have to tell you that this hurts me?" He stood.

"Well, it hurts me too, haven't you figured that out?" She stood too. "What am I supposed to be doing now, based on your little script? Am I crying yet?"

He glared at her. "Don't make this all about what you want. There's nothing I've ever wanted more than you, don't you get that?"

"Well, you sure could've fooled me!" she shouted.

"What does it take to get through to you, woman!" he shouted back. "Made myself over nine ways to Sunday trying to please you, and it's still not enough. Now I'm doing something that's important to me because I want to live up to that, what you made me into, make you proud, and you're chewing my ear off about that. What's it take?"

"You don't have to prove anything to me! You've already proven yourself! You won, Spike! I love you! I love you! I love you! La la la, roses and puppies! How many times do I have to say it?"

He stopped, panting. Laughed a little, and reached out a hand to touch her hair. She swatted it aside, eyes sparking with anger.

"Well," he said, with a fond smile. "Probably until it gets boring. That might take awhile."

She laughed then herself, her shoulders shaking with it.

"God," she said. "We are so bad at this."

Chapter Thirteen

__________

January 2002

She pushes the crypt door open with the flat of her hand and marches in.

He's right there, just inside, lounging in front of the television. One leg hooked carelessly over the leg of his armchair, highball glass half full of blood in one hand.

"Rough day at work, Slayer?" he says lazily, without taking his eyes off the TV.

"Don't ask," she says irritably, clomping down the stairs, discarding her coat as she walks. Her day has in fact been terrible, but that's not something she wants to discuss with him. She's here to escape, not to go over the things she's trying to get away from.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs. He's wearing a nice silk shirt, she notices, in a dark blue shade that goes well with his eyes. Not that she's in the habit of noticing what he wears.

He hasn't looked at her once since she came in.

She grabs the glass from his hand, and sets it down on what currently passes for a coffee table. He had a nicer table once, but their sex sessions are kind of hard on his furniture.

She swings a leg over him, straddles his lap, blocking his view of the TV set. "I'm not here to talk," she murmurs. Grabs ahold of his shirt and rips it open, runs her hands possessively over the milky white skin.

She has his full attention now. Good.

"Little pent-up, are we?" he says, amused.

Which is totally stupid, because she knows he likes it. He's never happier than when she's upfront about her desires. Clothes-rippage totally plays into his kink. Not that she does it just to please him.

No, it's the benefits of turning him on that she's looking for. She sends a searching hand sliding down his torso, over his jeans, and oh yes, the tactic is definitely working. She rubs the hard area firmly, feels the excited flesh there eagerly pushing back.

If she left it up to him to make the first move, they'd still be warming up to this. Banter and foreplay. Teasing and innuendo.

She's not in the mood for that tonight.

Impatiently, she fumbles with the buttons on her ugly polyester shirt. She can't just tear at her work uniform like she can at his clothes. She has to wear it again tomorrow, unfortunately. And she'll have to wash it too, first thing when she gets home, dammit.

So much to think about, to do. The next day and the next day and the next.

The buttons finally give up the struggle, a couple of them popping off. Whatever. She'll find them later. She shrugs the sticky fabric off her shoulders, flings it to the floor. The front clasp on her bra opens next, and then that's gone too. She's naked to the waist. Spike's big chilly hands travel up her back, smoothing and caressing, making her shiver. She throws her own arms around his neck and leans forward, presses her warm breasts against his chest. Heartbeat slowing with relief, she finally begins to relax.

The night is theirs now. No more responsibilities. No more work.

She slides her fingers into his hair, tugs on it until he lifts his chin. He nuzzles into her neck, pressing kisses into her throat--a little bit of the vampire in his behavior, always. Hungry.

She's not scared.

She circles his throat with her tongue, nipping at the corded muscle there. Somewhere in the middle, they meet, press lips together hungrily.

And if she had to pick one reason why she comes here, it would be this. Kissing him eclipses everything. She can lose herself in it, the movement of his mouth, his all-devouring passion. The way he holds her so possessively, his whole body leaning into it, his excited breathing.

It'd be pretty hard not to feel flattered by something like that. How much he wants her. How honestly he shows it.

She peels out of the rest of her clothes; he helps her. A few frantic seconds of wriggling and pushing, and the greasy shoes and smelly synthetics are gone, vanished somewhere on the floor. Then she's naked, ghost-pale and soft, and his hands are all over her, fingers teasing in all her sensitive spots. She rubs up against him, legs spread wide over his thighs, toes flexing and pointing like a ballerina.

Lap sex is definitely looking like a very good appetizer course. Her fingers tear at his belt buckle.

"You know, Slayer," Spike interrupts then, conversationally. "This is exactly the kind of signal that could give a fella the impression you want something."

Startled out of a near hypnotic trance, Buffy pauses in her motions, directs a frown down at him past the hills and valleys of her own breasts. His face is sporting quite the wicked grin, and a sinking feeling hits her suddenly.

He's not going to take it easy on her, she realizes, dammit. He's going to make her fight, on a night when fighting is the last thing she wants.

However, that doesn't mean she has to give in easily. She continues to play it her own way, refuses to rise to his bait. Begins kissing him under the ear instead, because he likes that. Sucks on the sensitive skin there too, tugging hard, and feels a surge of triumph when he lets out a deep, trembling gasp. Her fingers go back to work on his belt, and for an instant, she thinks she's won.

"Not so sure I feel... ah... appreciated," he speaks up again, although his casual tone is a lot less convincing now. She tries to ignore him some more, let her body do the talking for her, but he shifts in his chair, head ducking away, and she's finally forced to sit up and take notice. Frustrated, she stops worrying at the zipper on his jeans and leans back.

"What do you want, Spike?" she sighs.

"Well, if you don't want to talk--" He runs a thumb across her lower lip, probes it a little. "I can think of a few other things you could be doing with your mouth."

Like she couldn't have seen that one coming. Inwardly, she groans. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"Your hot little mouth?" He does something with his hands, smiles. "I can think of a few other things."

She sighs again, part pleasure, part annoyance. "That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean then?" His head tips back to consider her, expression curious. "Wasn't getting the impression you minded. Especially not when it's you on the receiving end."

"I don't--" Her frown deepens. Oh, nice one. He'd almost gotten her to admit out loud that she didn't have a problem with sucking him off.

"Sometimes a fellow needs a little, you know, motivation."

"Oh, alright, fine, fine," she mutters, and slides off his lap and onto her knees. Easier to fulfill his request than to argue about it.

Inching closer on her knees, she gets into position, runs her hands up his jeans-clad thighs. Spike unzips for her, slides lower in the chair and makes himself comfortable. And yep, here's his erection, tall and proud. So much for needing motivation.

But he's right about one thing--he does do this for her. Often. And he's good at it too, the big showoff, and knows it. That's probably more than enough reason for him to want to go down on her--there's nothing he likes better than making her tremble, making her scream. And he's the same way whenever she does this to him, helpless and worshipful, lost in ecstasy. It's always an ego-boost for her to see him react that way, makes her feel sexy-powerful, although she more than half-suspects that it's just the sight of her doing it that really brings him off. The Slayer with his cock in her mouth.

Fair enough. It works that way for her too, sometimes.

She tosses her hair back then, tucks a few loose strands behind her ears. Her new short haircut is actually something of an inconvenience for this--it never stays in place when she's leaning over.

Lips poised over his cock then, she hesitates. He's been a bit... too enthusiastic, once or twice, when she's done this before. She can't deep throat, and he knows it. But that hadn't stopped him from twisting his hands up in her hair, thrusting up into her mouth. And gag reflex? So not a turn-on.

That he's asked for this, specifically, strikes her as something of a warning sign.

"Can I count on you to sit still and be a good boy?"

The smile he gives her in return almost answers her question. Eyes half-lidded, already blissed out. She hasn't even touched him yet.

"Oh, but I'm never good, Slayer, you know that," he purrs, one hand reaching out to fondle her hair, strands slipping through his fingers. "Like silk," he murmurs, and then his big hand is cupped right behind the back of her head, urging her on.

She presses her lips closed and resists, her fingers digging into his thighs, hard enough to leave marks, her own warning. "Don't push," she grates, and the pressure on her head lessens, and his fingers return to combing through her hair.

"Of course," he says softly.

She knows it won't last.

Moistening her lips, she leans forward again, her naked breasts pressing into the rough denim of his jeans. Her hands slide forward to cradle his hips, fingers dipping into his open waistband to touch the bare skin there, and she tastes him with her tongue, a soft opening lick. From above her, she hears his answering groan.

His hand is suddenly heavy again on the back of her head. It's all she can do this time not to punch him in the stomach.

Patience straining, it crosses her mind to threaten him with her teeth, let him know what he's risking. Except that knowing him, he'd probably like it.

She's never been able to figure that out. Why he seems to like the pain. What's in it for him in provoking her.

It's why she never feels guilty about wrecking his furniture.

"I said, don't push," she mutters again, the soft skin of his cock sliding silkily along her cheek. She's literally aching, she's so aroused, and desperately needs attention for herself. At this point she just wants to get this over with.

"Oh... sorry," he mumbles, barely audible, and his hands shift instead to her shoulders. It's a marginal improvement, but enough to let the whole issue go. For now.

What I wouldn't give for us to just be normal for once, she thinks tiredly, and then chases the idle thought out of her brain a second later, incredulous.

Like the two of them together could ever be anything but perverse.

"That's it," she hears him say distantly. He's breathing in harsh pants, something he only does when he's very excited. "You are the most amazing woman ever, you know that? Sweet soft little hot--ah!"

He doesn't hold still.

Neither does she.

__________

October 2004

Stranded in the center of the room, the last of their shouting still reverberating off the walls, the two of them just stood and stared at each other, searched for something else to say.

"You're right," Buffy confessed finally. She was still laughing a little, crazily, rubbing at her arms as if she were cold.

Spike blinked, surprised. "I'm what?"

"You're right," she repeated. How stupid is it that we're still arguing? After everything we've both been through. "Did you know how much I hate it when you do that?"

He was right, and she did hate it. Everything he'd said, about her wanting a different life, about not knowing what she wanted... he was right.

It was essentially exactly what she'd told Angel, right before that last night on the Hellmouth. I'm cookie dough. Not her best metaphor, but it had been enough to convince him not to argue with her about leaving.

She hadn't given Spike the same speech. But somehow he'd figured it out for himself. He'd known.

"Oh, so you're back to hating me now?"

Buffy looked up at him, startled. She'd zoned out for a second there, withdrawn into her own thoughts, silent, eyes on the carpet. Spike was smiling at her, face lit up like the sun coming out. "And to think," he said, raising a hand to touch her hair. "Just a second ago, it was all about the love."

She blushed a little, dropped her eyes. Having shouted that she loved him at the top of her lungs, she now felt unaccountably shy.

"So what did I get right, then?" Spike murmured. His fingers combed through her blonde strands, undoing what was left of her careful arrangement of curls around her face, but Buffy couldn't find it in herself to protest.

She shook her head a little, blindly, lifted her hands to rest lightly on his waist. "It's not important now."

And it wasn't. He really didn't deserve to get yelled at for being a hero, for sticking to the path of a champion even without her. Everything else between them kind of paled next to that. Even him thinking that she didn't love him. Although that part she didn't feel bad about yelling at him for.

Well, at least he knew now. Just in time for him to say goodbye.

"I wasn't very fair to you," she said quietly, swallowing her disappointment, forcing it down like a bitter meal. She couldn't complain. Not when she'd encouraged him to be this way. Helped to turn him to into the kind of man who could leave her, in the service of a cause far bigger and more important than she was.

For a moment, she really hated herself.

Get a grip, Buffy. No choice. "You were right. I don't know what I want yet. And I wasn't mad at you about that, just--"

Just fate. Stupid fate and stupid destiny and the stupid world that needs saving every other stupid minute. This just... keeps happening to me, and I hate it. I hate that I have to keep giving up the things that I love.

She swallowed hard, fixed her eyes on a point in the middle of his chest, unfocused. "I was just... thinking about myself. About... things I wanted for myself, and for... for us, but I never meant to make it sound like I don't believe in you or that you're not a champion. Because I do. And you are. Spike, I-I'm proud of you." Okay, now the hardest part. Say it. "And I... I understand why you have to go."

"You do?" His hands were circling around to frame her face now, brushing her hair aside. Urging her to tip her chin up, to look at him. "Buffy?" There were questions in his voice she couldn't even begin to bring herself to answer.

She moved her hands up to his chest, pushed herself away.

"Spike, I--" She got her emotions under control, offered him a bright smile. I can be strong about this. I have to be. "Let's... let's just not. Okay? If we only have a few more minutes left together, I don't want to waste them." She bit her lip, drank in his face with her eyes. "Let's just... enjoy the time we have."

__________

Awkward silence fell then, stifling. Buffy avoided his eyes, nervousness overtaking her, and wandered away into the kitchen. She blinked blearily at the suddenly alien landscape of gleaming appliances, exhaustion finally sapping her limbs. How long had it been since she'd slept? Twenty-four hours?

She began to make coffee. It was something to do. Fumbling with filters and water, spooning up ground French roast.

Distantly, she heard Spike enter the kitchen behind her. He could be near silent when he wanted to, and he was doing it now, keeping his distance. She watched him out of the corners of her eyes as he took up his own position on the other side of the room and began heating another mug of blood, then leaned up against the polished marble counter, arms folded. The whirring sound of the microwave and the liquid cough of the coffee maker were all that stood between them and gravelike quiet.

Trying not be unnerved by the awkward hush, Buffy held a coffee cup filled to the brim between her fingers, blew on the surface to cool it, and tried to figure out what to do.

He was leaving. He was leaving tonight. Had to leave, and she couldn't stop him. Shouldn't stop him. Kiss him goodbye? Make him promise to call? It all sounded so lukewarm and trite. You'd think I'd be an expert at saying goodbye to men by now, she thought miserably. Dead tired as she was, near falling asleep on her feet, it was hard for her to even consider it.

And really, what were they right now? Friends? Lovers with a pause button on, now ready to be taken off? She wasn't sure at all how she could possibly sum all that up into a simple goodbye, even a well-meaning one. He'd said some vague things about coming back, and she definitely did want to see him again, later, after she'd had more time to...

It was all too confusing. She'd been unable to tell him what she wanted when he'd asked her, and now she had to find a way to leave whatever they had in a good place for the future? Good luck.

Well, there was one thing she could do, anyway. He was still healing, and she was still supposedly Nurse Buffy. Technically, she probably should make sure he was physically okay to leave before sending him on his way.

Only...

Okay, she could see where that might be going. Asking him to take off his shirt, checking for injuries. Not hard to imagine where things could end up from there.

Because she did feel it between them right now, the old sexual tension, supercharged and hot. Pent up. She'd really felt it in the other room, when they'd been shouting at each other, her mood skidding dangerously close to the way she'd always used to feel around him, like she could kiss him or kill him, and she wasn't sure which one she wanted more.

She winced. Not after Sunnydale. Not after their last night there, the awkward silence, the miscalculated emotion. No you don't. The added creep factor of Angel waiting right downstairs was beside the point. That was exactly what she hadn't wanted, another round of sex that looked like a goodbye, another repeat of the same old mistakes.

Guilt churned in her stomach, as acidic as the coffee.

Don't think about it, she instructed herself. They should be enjoying each other's company, just like she'd said. Not digging up the past, the bad old past that they'd left dead and buried in the crater of Sunnydale.

"So what happens now?" she spoke up then, conversationally. Talking to him was still something she could do. She liked talking to him.

"Back to the original plan, I guess," Spike answered her, his voice oddly lifeless. "There's this evildoing royalty that's been cozying up to me, here in the city. I'm supposed to follow their court south for the winter. Get introduced to the right people. Or demons, rather."

"So that's who you've been meeting with?" She tossed her hair back, made her face look interested. "And south for the winter? Are we talking, like, Naples or Africa?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Could be Antarctica for all I know. They've been showing me off to all their pals lately, from all over. I'm the shiniest new bauble to enter their boring old lives in awhile, from the sounds of things."

"Really?" This was kind of interesting. "How so?"

"Vampire of prophecy, remember? It's kind of a big deal in the demon world. Not the sort of thing that happens every day." He grimaced. "That last meeting I went to, that I told you about? Banquet in my honor, if you can believe that. Had to wear a tux, even. You'd be surprised how many demons can be downright poncey about formal wear."

A tux. Well, there's a nice picture. She imagined how he might have looked. Slim and elegant in a neat black suit, crisp white shirt. White tie or black?

She shoved out her lower lip in a pout. "Howcome I didn't get to see you in a tux?"

He didn't answer her. Just turned his back and punched the button on the microwave to turn it off, took out his mug of blood. Drank it, eyes averted.

She frowned. "What's the matter?"

His shook his head. "Just not in the mood to talk clothes."

"Okay. Although--" She waved a hand up and down to indicate what he was wearing. Artfully faded jeans, a white silk shirt. He must have shrugged off the suede coat back in the living room. The whole ensemble looked kind of expensive, if a little battered now, and she hadn't even noticed the silver cuff bracelet he was wearing previously. "I mean, with the whole men's magazine look you've been sporting lately. I would've thought you were into clothes now. I was even kind of wondering--"

She stopped short, biting back the rest of the sentence, a comment on how his taste wasn't always the greatest, and that she could help him with a few better choices. Kind of a girlfriendy gesture. Too much. She put the thought firmly out of her mind, drank her coffee.

"Not my idea," he said shortly.

Not your...? Her forehead wrinkled. "Angel doesn't tell you what to wear, does he?"

"Not likely." Spike made an irritated face. "My sponsor just likes to play dressup is all. She goes to all the runway shows in Milan."

"Sponsor?" Buffy paused. "She?"

He met her gaze evenly. "Yeah. Angel's got his benefactors, and I've got mine. Didn't you wonder where he got his fancy car?"

"Your 'sponsor'--" She made finger quotes around the coffee mug. "--is a woman?"

Another nod. "Bird named Ilona. Head of Wolfram & Hart here in Rome. Very friendly type, very--" He waved a free hand in front of his chest. "Generous."

Buffy felt a flush darken her cheeks. Her heart had picked up speed, thudding. "So this... woman picks out your clothes for you?"

"Yeah, spoils me with gifts, the whole deal." He continued to drink calmly, eyes on hers. "I am supposed to stay on her good side. It's part of the plan, you know?"

Buffy pushed down a surge of real anger, kept her voice light with some strain. "I guess it would have to be," she said. "Otherwise I might almost think you were you trying to piss me off."

Spike studied her without comment, then set down his mug on the counter with a bang. Launched himself into motion around the kitchen, restlessly opening cupboards.

Buffy counted to ten, slowly. "Okay. I think I get it now. You want to know if it bothers me, right? Some rich bimbo turning you into her boy toy." Pretty childish, Spike.

"Can tell it bothers you." He said this without even looking at her. "And I'm not her boy toy." Now he shot her a look.

She took another deep breath. "Okay. So I guess it's... not too fair of me to say you can't see other people, is it?" She looked down at her cup. "If that's what you want."

"What I what," he muttered. "Right."

"Okay, fine, I hate it. Is that what you wanted to hear? Just... well, I won't say no. It wouldn't be fair of me to do that." Not that she even wanted to think about him with some other woman, him wanting someone else, not wanting her... but that was his call, wasn't it? She'd have to deal. "All I ask is that if you ever decide to break up with me for real, that you'll come tell me in person. So I can totally kick your ass." She delivered this last with a tight smile.

He turned to study her, face blank. "Break up with you," he repeated. "Is that how you see us, Buffy?"

"Well, we're not going to be seeing each other for awhile now, are we? Different lives, like you said." She made a tight circle with her shoulders, something like a shrug. If I break down in front of him, it'll just make everything that much harder. She maintained the tight smile, and everything in her clenched.

He just kept looking at her. A long moment of staring, and then finally he went back to rummaging through the cupboards, an explosive sigh heaving out of him as he banged and slammed.

Once his back was turned, Buffy allowed herself a frown, deep lines creasing her face. What's he doing? "Okay, I give up. What's the matter now?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Ooh, that sounded believable. She restrained an urge to roll her eyes. "Then what are you looking for?"

"Something to spice up the blood." Another cupboard banged open. "Chili sauce, Tabasco, Mexican chocolate--you got anything like that?"

"Beats me," Buffy shrugged. "All that stuff is Dawn's. She's the one who cooks."

Spike snorted, slammed the last cupboard closed and went instead to the fridge. Opened the door and stood there, studying the contents with a frown on his face.

Her mother's voice crept into Buffy's head. Are you trying to refrigerate the whole house? She clamped down on the urge to repeat the phrase.

"What the hell is this?" Spike held up a Tupperware container. It was swimming with a thick, viscous liquid distinctly reminiscent of blood. Uncovered, it produced a rank smell of old fish.

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "Cioppino, I think. One of Dawn's less successful experiments. She went a little overboard on the squid."

Spike slammed the fridge door, plopped the bowl down on her nice rustic kitchen table. Stuck two fingers into the liquid mess, and extracted a long slice of purple and white meat. Then picked up his mug again from the counter and began to bring the two items into close conjunction.

"Ew!" Buffy exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

"What? Just like shrimp cocktail."

"That is so not like shrimp cocktail."

Spike dunked the squid chunk. "You know, kinda surprised you're this squeamish. For a girl who used to spend her nights up to her ankles in demon guts."

She clenched her jaw, tried not to notice the strengthening smell. "You eat that and you're so not getting a goodbye kiss." She tried to make the comment sound playful.

He grimaced, popped the bloody morsel into his mouth. "Didn't notice you rushing to do that anyway."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." He picked up another tentacle, swirled it. "Just that... oh, hell, Buffy, one minute you're screaming at me that you love me, and the next, we're having coffee in your kitchen. Just don't rightly know what you expect me to do."

The question was out so suddenly, that she had no time to deflect it. What you expect me to do. On sheer reflex, she dodged. "You're not having coffee."

He dropped the half-empty mug on the table, an exasperated motion that echoed loudly in the quiet room. "Fine," he muttered. "Maybe I should just go."

"What?" Panic surged, rising up in her throat. "Spike, what is this? I just didn't want... I didn't want to argue with you."

"Why?" His blue eyes were steady. Demanding expression on his face.

"What?" She gaped. "What do you mean 'why'?"

"At least when you're fighting with me I know what you're bloody thinking."

She gripped her mug tighter, her fingers turning white with the pressure. "You're angry because I'm not getting angry with you? Make up your mind already."

"Me make up my mind? Last I checked, that's not what we were arguing about."

"Does everything have to be a big drama with you, Spike? Can't just have a nice, normal conversation together?"

He snorted, a half-manic laugh, and ran his hands through his hair. The gesture made the already unruly curls even more wild, sticking out in every direction like a sandy-brown corona. He scrubbed his hands across his face. "Right. Nice and normal. Buffy, I grew up with this sort of thing. Smiling and nodding and being nice and polite. Leaving your calling card on the lady of the house. And never once knowing if anyone you knew ever said what they really mean."

"You know what I mean," she said, patience straining. Her mind stumbled over his words, barely registering them, the contradictions. Grew up polite? "Spike, I've told you that I love you how many times now? Five?"

"Ten."

"Ten times. I've said 'I love you' ten ti--"

"Eleven."

She closed her eyes briefly, opened them again. "Eleven. And you know? Every single time, you've looked at me like I'm a game show contestant who got the answer wrong."

"So you really think it was just the words I was waiting for?"

She pulled in a sharp breath. Adrenaline leapt inside her, making her face hot.

He kept going. That was like him. Never knew when to stop. "Or is that how you like it, maybe? I mean, it's how it works for you and Angel, isn't it? Meet up once a year, have a cuddle and a snog. Spend the rest of your time being apart and nice and polite."

"You're mad because I'm not throwing myself at you?"

The challenging look on his face promptly disappeared. He hung his head. "No," he muttered. "No, forget it. Just forget it."

"Let's not. Because I'd really like to be clear. I mean, when I say 'I love you,' do you hear 'bend me over the toaster, let's do it'?"

He glared at her. "Leave it, Buffy."

"Oh, but why? I mean, silly me for thinking you wouldn't want to have sex with me as sort of a fond farewell, like the only reason I'd sleep with you anymore is to say goodbye."

"You were always saying goodbye."

__________

Time ticked out again in slow motion as Buffy let this thought sink in. Let it burn into her skin, more like, as if it were a thrown cupful of battery acid.

She hated it. There was nothing about what he'd just said that she didn't hate. And for a brief flaring moment, just because he'd opened his mouth and let the thought out, she hated him too--a fiery hot hatred that made her want to shove him out of her apartment screaming, preferably through the window, preferably to land right on top of Angel so both of them could feel her fury at this idea. You were always saying goodbye.

And for a second, she could picture it--the dam inside her breaking, the fragile wall that had been holding back all her anger, all her rage. As if from a distance, she could see herself, pulling back her arm in a sort of slow-motion red haze, heaving her coffee mug across the room, directly at his head. Hot liquid streaming out behind the flying missile in a shimmering arc, and her own horrible shouting ringing in her ears. How dare you make it sound like I don't care if you live or die! Do have you have any idea how hard this is for me?

It was true. It wouldn't have hurt half as much if it weren't.

When had she decided to sleep with Angel, end her virginity? When she'd thought he was going away for months. And that last night with Spike, when they'd put an end to all those months of healing celibacy? Right before the great battle, when she knew there was a strong possibility that he might not be coming back.

No, she told herself. It's not true. I didn't know.

You knew the amulet was dangerous, another inner voice insisted. You knew what you'd be going up against. You had to know he might not make it. You don't like to think about it, but you knew.

Oh, and never mind all their previous encounters, when she'd never been able to get away fast enough--she didn't really do afterglow. Isn't this usually the part where you kick me in the head, and....

I didn't have goodbye sex with Riley. We were... normal. And I thought Angel would be coming back.

Only... Riley had left because he'd felt she wasn't really there. And Angel... she'd been afraid of losing him, hadn't she? She'd known so little about men then.

She'd been saying goodbye. It was true.

And why had she not wanted to do that again? So it wouldn't look like a pattern?

Too late for that.

"What if... I was saying hello?" she said weakly, then tried laughing on for size. It seemed to make sense, stirred up inside as she felt. Ridiculous. So ridiculous, all of this, even as she cringed away from the new revelation like something poisonous. So not worth doing anymore. "Like... the way 'aloha' means both 'hello' and 'goodbye.' And also, I think, 'I love you,' although I'm not so sure about that one. Like, do the ladies at the airport who give you leis really mean 'I love you'?"

She offered him a pale smile, needing him to understand.

Yes, Spike, yes, you got me. You figured it out. I was protecting myself. Always. Because men leave, and sometimes it's better to get the last word in first. Then no matter what he says later, he can't ruin it.

Most of the time.

No you don't.

"I can live with that." He was tilting his head now, in that way that he had, and smiling at her fondly. And a part of her wanted to laugh again, burst out with hysterical giggles. The tension seemed to have left the room completely.

He could be so easy to please sometimes. "Really?"

"Love, I spent a century with a woman who talked to pixies. Not likely you'll come up with something that's too weird for me."

She rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks for the reminder about your many, many years with your ex," she said teasingly. "Just what a girl likes to hear."

"Oh, so are you taking back that thing about us seeing other people, then?"

Her inner flinch told everything she really needed to know about that idea. Seeing other people.

Still, best to be truthful. Just get it out. "Haven't we been over this? And I guess I can't, huh? Since, as we've established, 'I don't really know what I want'?"

"Right. Best to keep your options open."

She punched him lightly on the bicep. "That's not what I said." Seeing other people. The idea was distinctly non-fairy tale, it didn't have the zing of Happily Ever After. Not that that had ever been the story of her life anyway. "We're not over yet, Spike. I don't know what the future holds, but we will see each other again. I know it."

He sighed. "Right."

"Oh, stop!" She punched his arm again. "It's not like you know what you want either."

"Oh, I think I do."

"Oh, I think you don't. Spike, you were throwing a fit because you thought you weren't getting a goodbye kiss."

"I was not. It was just... you were doing that thing again. The big emotional moment, and then you crawl right back in your clamshell."

Another punch. It felt cathartic.

"Ow."

"I was adjusting. Sometimes I need time to adjust. And I was planning to kiss you."

"I should bloody well hope so," he blurted, then looked distressed, stumbled to take it back. "I mean... not like I can ask, but--"

"Oh, skip the I'm Not Worthy speech, Spike. We're past that."

"Are we? Angel gets a snog just for showing up."

Her fist made contact with his arm again. "Honestly. That really bothered you that much? We had a history, Spike. Long before I ever even thought about starting anything with you."

"Know that." He rubbed his arm absently. "Gonna have a bruise there."

"You started it."

"'S alright. Matches the one over my heart." He smiled at her. "And I wasn't having a fit."

"You're right." She smiled back. They were standing close now, toe to toe. "I've seen you throw fits. That was... surly."

"You've seen me surly, too. When I'm surly, I throw things."

"Broody."

"Um, no."

"I've got it." She extended a finger, touched his mouth. "Pouty. You were pouty."

__________

Buffy couldn't have said, if she were asked later, how exactly they ended up kissing. She remembered touching her finger to his lips, him opening his mouth to suck on her fingertip, and then...

Well, somewhere in there they must have come together. Fallen onto each other, more like. By the time Buffy regained her awareness, they were already wrapped around each other like piece of twisted-together taffy, her butt up on the edge of the table, her feet off the floor and twining themselves around his legs. His chest pasted to hers, her head tipped up, mouth open and hungry as a baby bird's.

She had her hands tangled up in his hair, the soft brown curls that made him look so absurdly boyish, like a totally different person. Still, there was nothing unfamiliar about this, the frantic grasping and clutching and desperate passion, the urgency that seemed to have a will of its own. I have to touch you right now, or I'll die.

Buffy was flat on her back on the table with her legs locked around his waist before she even thought to think to herself about how not-very-romantic this was, how little it resembled a fond sort of goodbye, the kind of memory you'd hold onto like a keepsake, file away. Good, she thought distantly.

They'd probably have done it right there if it weren't for the serious fish smell from the open Tupperware container, a few inches away from her head. Even lust-addled as she was, it was getting hard to ignore.

She turned her head to the side, gasping. "Can't you... ugh.. can't you put that thing away?"

Spike blinked at her, disoriented. He was lying half on top of her, not quite having climbed on top of the table, shirt open, hair mussed. His face held that slightly glazed-over look she remembered from the old days, of having mentally punched out on some sort of rationality timeclock. "What?"

Buffy disentangled her arm from around his waist, pointed at the container. "That thing, that--" It hit her then, with the force of a thunderclap. Dawn's horrible Cioppino.

"Ohmigod, Dawn!" She curled up, convulsively, hands beating against his chest. "Ohmigod, Dawn!"

[end, part two]

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