It's never a good sign when Faith's home is silent. The last time this had happened, Spike had found Angel unconscious and chained up in the kitchen, where Faith had left him and stormed out after an impromptu attempt at suicide. The time before that, both slayer and vampire had been knocked unconscious by a particularly nasty gaseous demon that had followed them home one night to feed on the daffodils. 

Faith is twitchy, just like Spike himself, and while a home of Angel's could be still for days before an intruder would notice the vampire watching him from the corner, Faith's house is constantly convulsing with energy, as explosive as Faith herself. An absence of Faith means an absence of life, and Spike tenses as he pushes the door open, ready for the worst. He's been away nearly a week, devoting his attentions on a futile project, and he's beginning to think that that had been a terrible mistake. 

Illyria stands at the top of the loft that is Faith's bedroom, a silent sentinel who blinks at him with a grave air that staggers him. "Inside," she says simply, and steps aside. 

He frowns, moving past her without acknowledgement. As he draws closer, honed vampire senses begin to pick up on the telltale signs he's missed before now, distracted by the empty home. Low, ragged breaths. A heartbeat racing far faster than is healthy. A faint moan with every shift. 

Something has happened to Faith. 

"Faith!" He steps forward, moving toward her bed with renewed worry and frantically surveying the room. 

She's lying limp on the bed, her eyes lidded and unfocused, a hand loose in Angel's grip as he crouches beside her. A wet washcloth is pressed to her forehead and her blankets are tangled in a mess at her feet, skin shiny with feverish sweat an explanation for their confiscation. 

Angel turns to glare at him, eyes flashing with worry and anger. "Would you keep it down? She's trying to sleep."

"Hey!" Faith protests, and Spike can hear a hoarseness in her voice that's never been quite so evident before. "I'm not an invalid!" She flashes Spike a saucy grin that emerges on her lips as more of a grimace. "Hey, Blondie."

"Like hell you aren't," Angel mutters, flipping the washcloth and bending over her again, his hand moving to stroke the side of her face. 

She smiles wanly up at her housemate, closing her hand over his. "Hey. Shut up. I'm a slayer, remember? And I'm the one who can drive your ass crazy, so don't tempt me."

Angel grins at that, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You just like having me at your beck and call."

Faith opens her mouth to respond, but Spike is nothing if not impatient. "Oi, if you two are done with the flirting-" And he notices with a measure of satisfaction that they both turn to him with twin glowers- "I could use an explanation."

Angel is unamused. "Where have you been all week? Faith's been like this for days."

Spike shrugs. "Doing some work across the pond. There's a slayer that showed up in San Fran, knows our hero and wants her gone. She sent me out to trace her steps, find out where she's been."

"A slayer out for Buffy's blood?" Faith repeats skeptically. "And this is news why?"

"Well, she's tried it before. Dangerous bint, name of Simone?" He sees the recognition on Faith's worn face. "Been tracking her from an island she ran. Bird killed a few of Twilight's old minions and headed to the States, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake."

He feels, rather than sees, the tension suffusing Angel's body with the mention of Twilight. "Who...who was killed?"

Spike rattles off the names, which are less than significant to him. Some generals, several sycophants and formerly loyal...no one particularly notable. Just men who've somehow gotten on Simone's bad side. "Wonky part is, though, we've been keeping an eye out for her in the city. Been out hunting for her instead of vampires with extra neck trauma. And she must be keeping a low profile, because we haven't found her or any victims. S'not her M.O. at all."

"Weird," Faith says thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound like what I've heard of Simone at all." 

"Bu-" Spike pauses, glancing at Angel's rigid frame, then decides he doesn't give a damn. "Buffy says Simone used to have a Wicca working with her. Could be that she's found some way to cloak her, even without genuine magic-" He gestures to the door. "Like Smurfette's brand of power. We haven't been able to find out any more."

"Huh." Faith considers it. "Maybe she's dead," she offers, vague optimism giving her face life through the pale sickness. 

"We can hope," Spike agrees, and they share a wry grin.

At the lull in the conversation, Angel stands abruptly, "I'm going out. Let me know when you leave," he mumbles to Spike, letting his fingers run through Faith's matted hair one last time. 

"You said the B-word and the T-word in one conversation," Faith informs him, rolling her eyes. "He's gone to flog himself. Good thing you didn't talk about flying orgasms, too, because that always has him trying to meet the sun." She snickers humorlessly.

Spike scowls. "Don't much enjoy talking about those, either." He'd taken a house down with Buffy, and had felt pretty good about it. Naturally, the almighty Angel had had to outdo that with a move that no one could top. 

It's no wonder that she hasn't been dating since. 

"Yeah. You wouldn't." Faith looks at him with knowing eyes that see far too much, and he shifts uncomfortably, focusing on the foot of her bed instead, the rumpled blankets and the book beside them that's obviously Angel's- unless he's been reading Faith Nietzsche as a bedtime story- and the slim, toned legs that any red-blooded male would appreciate-

Wait. 

"What happened to you?" He kneels over her leg, inspecting the odd discoloration that he'd caught from afar. "What is this?"

"We figure it's connected to whatever's doing this to me," Faith tells him. "At first, we thought that this was just a virus. Then Angel noticed the markings."

They form a pattern across the length of her left leg, faint and probably difficult to see with ordinary human eyes. He runs a tentative finger down her calf, feeling the vague roughness- interrupted only by a circle of scars, standard fare for a slayer- that marks the latticework's indentation on her skin.

"It's spreading," Faith says quietly. "Every day it goes a little further. Now it's up to my stomach and moving down my other leg." 

Spike stares at it unseeingly. "And you don't know what's causing it?"

She manages a wan smile. "When Angel isn't acting like my mother-" She considers. "Well, someone's mother who actually cared- he's researching through Giles's books. Nothing so far." There's a wistfulness in her tone, and he sees it as the unspoken Giles would know and chooses to overlook it. 

"'M going to talk to Buffy," He decides, rising. "She'll be mad as hell that I haven't told her about you before, but she'll rally the masses. Organize a research party. Beat this thing." 

He turns to leave, but Faith's whispered, "No," stops him in his tracks. 

"B...she's got enough on her mind with Simone and these vamps and pretending Angel doesn't exist." Her eyes are pleading when he meets her gaze, her face sealed with determination. "We can take care of this."

"So can we, and the resources we have-"

"Aren't for this," Faith says simply. She sighs. "Look, you and Buffy...mostly Buffy...you have this whole save-the-world thing going on, which is great. But you can't save everyone, and you can't be on top of every single thing that might go wrong, right? Someone else has gotta be fighting the other battles so B can fight her own first."

"She'd want to know." Much as he knows she'd never really gotten along with her sister slayer, she still cares about Faith, and if she finds out that Faith's in trouble and he hadn't told her...

"Not right now." Faith shakes her head. "It's just like a bad fever. Nothing serious." 

"A bad fever that lasts days?" Spike asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow at her pallid and drawn face. "I believe that's what even the doctors are calling 'serious.'"

"Just drop it," Faith says tiredly, and he falls silent, not so much because he agrees with her as out of worry for her health. Even with that natural vitality, Faith is looking worn, and he doesn't want to push her further. 

He retrieves Angel from outside and watches them half-smilingly from the stairs. Faith's been keeping an eye out for Angel for long enough, making sure he isn't killing himself or drowning and being useful. It's about time that Angel starts taking care of her. 

Illyria is gone, but she tends to come and go whenever she feels like it, driven by interest in other matters or boredom with theirs. He wonders fleetingly if she's headed to San Francisco.That'll end well. Buffy doesn't do well with other strong women. Especially those who are stronger than she is.

Nah, she doesn't know where Buffy lives, and even Illyria can't locate one girl in a city of close to a million. He heads back to the ship, relieved, and with a few orders to the bug in charge (or possibly the one that scrubs the toilets. He never can tell them apart), he's off to bed for the duration of the trip. 

It's earlier than usual, only a half hour after sundown, when he arrives, and Buffy is already gone, changed from her work clothes and out slaying. He wanders into her bedroom, inhales the scent of pure Buffy mixed with coffee on her discarded top- and hasn't that become his new favorite scent- and snatches her blanket, settling down in front of the TV. 

Today he's restless, though, too busy with thoughts of Faith and Simone and his own slayer to focus, and it isn't long before he jumps up and stalks out, grabbing something for the road.

Buffy is toying with a vampire just outside Ridge Falls Cemetery, throwing him away from her each time he gets close enough to touch her. "Idiot vampire. How can you forget a bite like that?" she demands, shoving him backwards. He gawps stupidly. 

Spike grins, jumping off his perch on a tree and landing a few feet behind her. "Hello, gorgeous," he drawls, shaking the bag in his hand tantalizingly. 

His heart warms at the way her eyes light up at his arrival. "Hey, handsome," she returns, absentmindedly staking the vampire and sinking onto the bench across the path. "Watcha doing here so early?"

He shrugs. "Nothing on TV." 

"Is there ever?" She sniffs, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. Did you bring-?"

"Buffalo wings," he confirms, pulling out the container he'd sealed them in. "Microwaved them all by my lonesome."

"Gimme." She swipes at the container, snatching it from his hands and pulling off the cover, sighing blissfully. "Still hot! Have I told you recently that you're my favorite?" She's already attacking the first piece, discarding manners in favor of sating her hunger. 

He watches in amusement. "Only when I bring you food."

She hands him the container, snagging another piece before he takes his first. "Stephen was here today, and he throws a hissy fit whenever we touch any of the pastries. I've had nothing in the past ten hours but a cup of coffee." She swallows, tossing him a brilliant smile. "Picnics during patrol. Now why didn't we ever do this before?"

He nods seriously. "Demon ants. Bloody awful nuisances."

She laughs. "Of course." Her brow wrinkles. "We actually had a praying mantis lady once. She tried to bite off Xander's head."

"Good on her. That's a thick skull to try digesting."

She lays her head on his shoulder, licking off her fingers with gusto, and he nearly chokes at the imagery it spawns. It's not his imagination- it'd be easier if it were- but memories that seep down to torment him, memories of that tongue licking, and that mouth sucking, bringing him to heights he'd rarely reached in his hundred and twenty years undead and had never dreamt she'd deliver to him so many times. "Be nice," she's reproving him, but he hears it as though from afar, his eyes and mind glued to her and all he knows she's capable of. 

Her pointer finger goes deep into her mouth as she hollows her cheeks around it, pumping in and out and in and out and-

"Coming?" She jumps up, sashaying away with little more than a sidelong glance, but it's more than enough for him to catch the mischief in her eyes. 

She's teasing me! he realizes, stunned. It wouldn't be the first time they'd taunted each other shamelessly. The latent attraction is still there, no matter how hard they try to deny it lease, and it's hard to resist some harmless flirting that won't go anywhere, anyway. But a display of sexuality that blatant? Someone's feeling frisky tonight.

He leaves the container on the bench and takes off after her, slinging a friendly arm over her shoulder. "Anything going down tonight?"

She shakes her head. "Not even a rising. Just your standard fare of vampire and demonkind."

“Fun.” 

“Mm.”

They wander down the path, senses alert and ready for action, and Buffy leans into him as they move, like lovers enjoying an evening stroll. Fuck. Not lovers, friends…friends who can walk together and flirt playfully and never, never think about a relationship of any kind. Never.

A sound distracts them, an angry roar from the distance, and Buffy takes off, Spike at her heels, her hair flying in front of him and filling his line of vision with a wild, untamed flow of golden blonde. He jogs ahead so he’s running beside her, both of them fierce with determination and thirsting for a fight, and when they finally reach a low clearing boasting a set of Fyarl demons, they jump into the fray as a single spirit possessed, warriors with little knowledge of a world beyond victory.

Each crouches at the other’s back, watching the demons with predatory awareness; and when the demon charges forward they lunge, Buffy to the right and Spike to the left, catching both enemies with natural grace.

They fight together, fall together, rise together, lost to a synchrony that exhilarates and powers on, and the Fyarl are barely a blip to their combined strength. Spike can breathe in Buffy’s sweat and blood and building arousal and he knows that his is just as strong, a fight with a worthy opponent something he’s been sorely missing lately, and he’s almost disappointed when his Fyarl falls to the ground in a bloody mess. He’s pouting down at it when he’s blindsided by a flawlessly executed high kick.

He swings around, seeing the breathless energy on his assailant’s face as she charges in for another attack, and then they’re dancing, same as always, the hits and kicks and punches as well telegraphed as if they’re fighting themselves; Buffy’s going for his face, of course, and he’s using his head as a weapon, slamming it into her chin and sending her reeling backwards.

She drops to the ground and leaps back to her feet, grinning like a madwoman and landing a punch on his gut before he can block it, and he doubles backward, falling, and yanks her down as he drops, unwilling to concede defeat.

Her lips hit his a moment before he hits the ground, and then all he is isBuffyBuffyBuffyOhGodPleaseMoreBuffy! And she’s gasping into his mouth and he’s gasping into hers, and his hands are moving, unbidden, to slide her pants down like he’s done dozens of times before- and fuck him if it isn’t just like he remembers- and she’s grinding against him with complete abandon, crying out his name as bells clang in his head, need and pleasure andnownownowBuffy! converge into-

She’s pulling away and the clanging in his head isn’t dying, and now he realizes that it’s her cell phone and what had nearly just happened. Buffy’s staring at the phone like it’s an indecipherable enigma, and it isn’t until he tries to lift her off of him that she seems to realize that she’s still on top of him. She scrambles away, her chest still heaving with need and want, her eyes wide with horror, and Spike’s relieved and offended at the same time.

Mistake. Of course it’s a mistake, and fighting always makes them lusty, so of course they’d strayed. It can’t happen again, and it won’t. That’s one thing that he knows they both agree on wholeheartedly. 

But Buffy doesn’t need to look at him like he’s carrying a communicable disease, he thinks almost resentfully. Her phone goes silent as she continues to stare at him, lips parted and swollen, face flushed with passion, a perfect picture of decadence. And he knows that if they stay like this any longer, no matter how annoyed he is with her disgust, he’s not going to be able to stay away. He’ll be groveling at her feet, begging her for a crumb, years of maturation be damned, and he won’t even care.

As if someone’s heard his silent prayer, the cell phone begins to ring again, its cheerful tone jerking Spike from his musings. Buffy continues to gawk at him, her expression now inscrutable, and he takes a step forward almost automatically.

“Your phone, lov- pe- Buffy,” he finishes lamely.

She starts, blushing furiously. “Oh. Right.” She lifts it to her ear shakily. “H-hello?”

He can see the moment the girl vanishes and the slayer returns in the way her shoulders straighten and her eyes narrow. “We’ll be right there,” she tells the person on the other line, clicks off the phone, and looks up at him, her face set in a mask he doesn’t understand anymore. “It’s Willow. She’s found something.”