He loved the sound of her heart beating. Every time he took a long pull, the rhythm stuttered, before recovering for a few beats as he swallowed down the heady cocktail of slayer blood and fear. Unlife was fuckin’ NEAT. So there he was, The Big Bad, bein’... well. Big and Bad. Third notch an’ all. Dru was gonna cream her loony panties when he told her the good news. Which sounded right brilliant for dessert, now that he thought of it.
 
 
-Flicker. FLASH-
 
 
A sword fight. A stone statue. A diminutive blonde girl, hardly more than a child, leaps and whirls around a hulking dark-haired figure. Her eyes are focussed, watching for an opening, any opening, yet deep within them lies a rending pain. The man *that's not a man, that’s the soddin’ Great Poofter Himself!* laughs viciously, taunting the girl *Don’t look so soul-havin’ now, do ya Peaches? And how’d you shed that soulful stick up your arse?* as he kicks her away from her sword. She slumps against the wall, defeat in every line. He raises his own blade above his head, and brings it down with a roar of triumph. -FLASH- The dark-haired vampire stands trustingly, eyes closed as the Slayer tearfully transfixes him with her blade. He cries out in pained betrayal as his body is sucked into a vortex that is seemingly anchored in the mouth of the stone statue *An’ why the FUCK would Foreheadus Maximus just fucking STAND there for his send-off? What’d I miss? What the buggering fuck is this anyway? And what is that delectable SMELL?*
 
 
Spike lifted his head from her throat, lips stained crimson, teeth rimed in red. The blond from his vision is sprawled beneath him, eyes glazed in pain and exhaustion. He took a few deep breaths, trying to pinpoint the distracting smell that wound beneath the coppery scent of blood and power that was unique to a Slayer. He smirked nastily when he realised just what it was. *Bint’s bloody turned on. I don’t believe it. Knew she liked the dust-up, din’t think she’d enjoy the after-party. I’n’t this somethin’ for the Wanker Diaries...* He looked down at his Third Notch. She’d given him quite a fight, they’d near enough demolished the warehouse she’d tracked him to tonight and he’d led her on a merry chase through half the cemeteries of Sunnyhell beforehand.
 
 
There was a fizzing sensation in his veins, and a faint roaring in his skull. Slayer blood was such a damned rush! And this one was so different to that Chinese girl he’d had all those years ago. She had tasted of spice and resignation. She’d been happy to go, at the last. But this one, by God she was magnificent! Tasted like warm sunshine, hope and fear and fire, underscored by untried passion and regret and that sweet musky arousal adding piquancy to the whole sodding bouquet. Damned if he didn’t sound like a right tosser, that bloody poncy little shite William popping up with his poetic nancy-boy poetry. He had to admit though, this was quite possibly the best taste he’d ever had in his mouth. This Slayer wasn’t ready to die yet and it showed. The adrenaline still lacing her blood was like that time he’d taken an amphetamine junkie. It raced through his skull and straight to his cock. He could drive sodding nails with this erection. Could run for fucking DAYS. He wanted to throw his head back and howl his triumph to the moon, rub it in the great Poofter’s face because of course HIS scent had been all over this girl when she’d started chasing him tonight. He’d watched in disgusted disbelief as the Wanker Himself had mooned over the chit every chance he got, traipsing after her and lurking under her window in a hilarious shadow of his former un-souled self, only without the sinister taunting and dead puppies.
 
 
It appeared she was equally infatuated with He of the Forehead, encouraging him with her come-hither eyes and unschooled posturing. The attempts to appear mature and sophisticated undermined by the awkward glances she threw him from under her lashes, gauging his reactions like the little girl she ultimately was. Give her a few years, and a few lovers (though not the sodding Bogtrotter, he was a useless lump unless you went in for torture) and she might have had the confidence to pull her act off. She had a body that’d tempt a saint, just enough curves and just enough flesh to grow into a sultry little sex-kitten. Pity she’d never get the chance.
 
 
Snapping out of his reverie, Spike bent down to her throat, sliding his fangs right back into the sluggishly bleeding artery he’d previously tapped. His swallows were slow and luxurious now, his throat working as he sipped at her life rather than gulping it. This he swore, he’d have the patience to savour. It was completely worth forgoing the instant gratification of draining the chit like a pulped orange.
 
 
-Flicker-FLASH-
 
 
A slightly older version of the slayer beneath his fangs leapt into action against a group of blue hag-demons, taking and dealing hits in a whirling dance of destruction. *huh, wonder what the Bitches of Jhe are doin’ in sodding Sunnyhell? Fuck she looks good, where’d she learn to do THAT? And what the fuck is goin’ on dammit?! ‘m not Dru, why’m I getting the visions? S’not like that Woodstock hippy, slayer was dead sober when we were throwin’ down*
 
 
He frowned into her neck as he continued the slow drain, unwilling to stop the effervescent liquid from sparkling on his palate while he pondered the odd visions. As far as he could remember this hadn’t happened with the Chinese bint he’d squeezed dry. He never did sample the New York slayer, an odd sense of respect had stayed his fangs from the woman who had so nearly done for him. He turned his attention to the vital signs of the slayer beneath him, listening with pleasure to the heart, growing fainter as her blood pressure dropped lower and lower. Her breathing was growing erratic and her hands and feet were twitching, her bodies’ unconscious attempt to distance itself from the danger it was in. He closed his eyes as he smiled around her neck. He’d probably go years and years before he met her match, and he may dust before that ever happened, she’d already surpassed the last one he’d bested. He shrugged and settled further down against her, wallowing in the sensations of her blood vitalising him, and her scent surrounding him.
 
 
-Flick-FLASH-
 
 
This slayer, eyes glowing orange, speaking with a timeless echo, plunging her fist into the chest of a Frankenstein monstrosity, ripping out a glowing object as the monster’s eyes dimmed and it crashed to its knees. A white-haired figure beside her, decapitating a demon with a whirl of black leather *No SODDING WAY! What the buggering fuck is he doin’ with MY coat? Won that fair an- oh. Oh no. No no nonono. Can’t be. Oh God no! Why’m I HELPIN’ the broad? Who wrote this fucking script?! And why’m I lookin’ at her like she hung the fuckin’ moon?* She collapses, obviously spent, and instead of going for her throat, the Spike of the vision removes his duster and tenderly covers the small figure before picking her up and carrying her out of the room, away from the corpses.
 
 
The visions flicker past faster and faster, images over what is obviously years flashing rapidly across his mind, Spike- with the Slayer, patrolling Restfield. Demon-faced and snarling, brawling in broad daylight with an upset Chosen One.  Slayer, surrounded by demons, saved by Spike. Blond vampire sparring with blond Slayer, both laughing as the evenly matched pair seem to dance across the hardwood floor of a basement gym setup. Kisses in moonlight. Blood, sweat, tears, FUCKING. Ecstasy-etched faces in the throes of a grand passion. Fading. Fainter and fewer, flickering now in time with that faltering, fluttering heartbeat. As he swallowed the last mouthful, the heart and visions finally, finally halted. He felt the vitality leave her now rapidly cooling body. Her eyes, so bright and green, now clouding over with grey death, face slack and lifeless. Throat inexplicably wet with more than blood smears. His eyes burn. Drying tear tracks down her calm face. His demon, subdued in the wake of his greatest victory, quiescent in disbelief. He was crying. Silent tears dripped unnoticed to the corpse of his greatest opponent. A raw sound in his throat, half moan, half hysterical giggle.
 
 
*Gone an’ done it now haven’t I? Can’t be her sodding dog if she’s fuckin’ dead can I? Dru! Comin’ home now Dru.* ‘Done it. ‘ve done it luv, done you proud I have, my wicked plum. Comin’ to get you Princess.’