They poured out of the bar with the closing crowd, into an early morning grown cool and breezy; she shivered in her sweat-moistened shirt. They'd been dancing right up until the music was cut and the lights turned on; she was giddy, laughing at Spike's teasing. People dispersed in all directions, and Buffy's neck tingled. She tapped his arm. "This way, quick—"


The familiar sensation led her around the corner, into an alley, where she found the familiar sight, two vampires with two young women backed into the corner formed by a dumpster and the bar wall. It was like a continuation of the dance, moving in, teasing first, quipping, getting the demons to turn on her with a snarl, and then a kick, a twirl, one, two, dust. Slotting the stake back into her rear waistband, under the hem of her top, she told the women to run. They jostled past Spike and were gone. He stood staring at her, his eyes amber though there was no sign of bumps or fangs. With a laugh he came towards her. "Get it now. Christ, you're amazin' when you're doin' that."


Before she could move out of the way, he'd backed her against the wall, arms up on either side of her shoulders, and lips close to her cheek. "An' you smell like sheer heaven."


She entirely meant to duck out of the way and put him off, had not the slightest intention of lifting her mouth to his, of curling her hands around his arms, tipping her head back and taking his kiss.


Not the slightest intention.


He was polite, inquiring, lips and tongue not too wet, not too intrusive. She recognized it, though—that flare in her own lips, her skin answering his slightest invitation, lighting up with a desire that traveled quickly to her core, making her squirm and groan—that effect he always had on her that cut through her judgment, her reticence, even, once, her disgust. He inched closer, gently persuading rather than aggressive, his body against hers, so she could feel the knot of his excitement against her belly. That was Spike—watching her fight got him hot.


Violence of all sorts got him hot.


"I thought I disturb you."


"Find I can stand it." He put his hands on her then, turning her softly, backing her towards the sidewalk. "Not here, though. You're not a girl for a dirty alley. Want to have you in bed."


Her whole being forked around this proposition. She trembled as she said, "Listen, I don't think we should."


"You have a boyfriend?"


"No, but—" A wince. Should've said yes, so much simpler. "I mean, it's not that I don't like you. But—I shouldn't take advantage of you while you're—" Even as she said the words, she felt their lameness. Memories dopplered through her head, every other time he'd put moves on her, every other time she'd succumbed or refused. Her skin went hot, a fevery feeling more about chagrin than arousal.


"Just because I've got amnesia doesn't mean I'm not in my right mind. Want to make love to you. Why not?" He closed in on her again, lips by her ear. "Know you want to. Can feel it, smell it."


"I know you can. I'm sorry." She didn't want to tell him her real reasons. That they'd once been—not lovers. Lovers was never the word. And because lovers was the absolutely wrong word, was why she was sure she couldn't go to bed with this man who wasn't really Spike. Because she had a history with his body—knowing it, using it, abusing it, for her sick consolations and frustrations. "Here's the thing. If we did it, I think that when you do regain your memory, you'll be angry at yourself. Angry at me."


He gave her that familiar head-tilted visual interrogation. "Aha. So when I'm not out of my head, I don't like you."


"No, that's not what I mean. It would be—I mean, our professional relationship—it wouldn't include anything like that."


"Pretty damn sure that whoever I really am would want to fuck you just the same."


"Well, maybe once you are back to normal, we can revisit this. But I'm certain you won't want to."


"Certain?"


"It would be a mistake."


He showed a slightly sneering little smile, meant to beguile. "How 'bout I declare amnesty? Won't blame you for it when I get my self back. If I get myself back. Will recall that it was my idea an' that you first turned me down, though your little heart made such a leap in your chest when I pressed up against you."


My little heart. Oh—! Even in this outlandish state, he kept his ability to seduce. And she, despite all their sad history, still wanted him, the way she imagined a brand-new user wanted junk, for that sweet, spinning, ecstatic pleasure. Wanted him never more than at this moment, when she could greedily take all of his deliciousness that her throbbing body now demanded, with nothing of their old disaster to cloud his experience.


She could fuck him again and he wouldn't know how awful she was being. How selfish, how predatory, how mean.


He took hold of her once more—his grip coaxing, not sharp. This time she didn't pull away.







He was quiet in the car, in the elevator. Kept right up behind her as they moved to their room, as she fitted the card key in the door, practically tumbling in. His whisper in her ear as he shoved the door shut behind them: "Let's see you strip off for me."


She pictured herself, giving him a little show. Culminating in straddling his thighs, pulling his big cock out of his jeans. How it used to fill her hands, how hungry she'd been for it.


And what if he came back to himself at that moment? Shit. She could picture it; his memory rushing back in the wrath of God, and there she'd be, naked and spread out and vulnerable, caught right in the middle of Making use of me again. That's what he'd say. He'd be furious. Promise or no promise. He'd probably snap her neck right there.


She'd done things so wrong with him. It had been such a bad bad time, last year, but she should've been more careful. Pushed him much farther away much sooner. Or drawn him closer. As close as he'd wanted to be. One or the other, neither of which she'd been sensible enough to attempt. What she had done, keeping him dangling, keeping him useful, letting him make the supreme sacrifice after a last-second declaration she still flinched to recall—Crap crap crap, could she have done any worse?


He turned her to face him. "What's this?"


"I—" Shit. "I'm having second thoughts."


"Gettin' that, yeah."


She wondered what she smelled like to him at that moment. Different than a little while ago. Bitter, she was sure.


"There's something you're not tellin' me, here."


"I'm sorry I'm interfering with your ... your needs. Our needs." She took a breath. "Except that we're really not good candidates for taking care of each other's ... needs."


"You think that's all this is, me wanting a shag and you bein' handy?"


"It really doesn't matter."


"Feel drawn to you." His gaze seemed to have the power now to raise the gooseflesh on her whole body. "Gettin' fond of you."


"Don't get fond of me. I mean—it's like Stockholm Syndrome. You know what that is? Really, I'm not trying to be mean, it's just ...."


"Yeah, yeah, Stockholm Syndrome, right. Don't quite think that explains what ... what you been doin' to me since you found me."


"I'm not trying to do anything to you."


"It's that ... simmer, like I said."


"You said you didn't like it. You said you wanted me to keep my distance."


"Well, that was before ... before I got to know you a bit. Feels different now." He threw himself into a chair, turned his head into the hand his cheek rested on, murmuring into his palm, "Would be willin' to forget everythin' all over again after, if it meant I could make love to you now." Reacting to her expression, he waved a hand. "Never mind, pet, not gonna hector you. No good like that. Only want it if you do."


More harsh memories he didn't know he was springing. She wished she could go, be alone for a while to get her equilibrium back. But she didn't dare leave him alone.


"Listen, I am really sorry, and I'm not trying to make you crazy. But this is getting to be more than I can handle. I'm going to try to arrange for us to go back to HQ. I have to negotiate, to make sure you're treated fairly when we get there—which I'm sure I can do. There are other people there who can help you, you won't have to be, like hand-cuffed to me all the time. And—" her attempt at a light laugh sounded to her more like a honk, "there's lots of other slayers there, some of whom might want to go to bed with you! So you'll be better off all around."


He stared at her. "Do what you think's best, yeah, but don't want to go to bed with other girls."


Okay, okay, okay, subject change now! "I'm going to get on the phone. I—I think I need a little privacy for this, okay, so I'm gonna go into the bathroom. Will you stay here and wait? There's blood in the mini-fridge."


He was already reaching for the TV remote. "Whatever you say, Miss Buffy Summers."









Perched on the edge of the tub, the phone in her clammy hand, her body still emerging from the disorganization of desire, Buffy took a few deep breaths. This was ridiculous. Ludicrous.


The day before he'd been all bent out of shape because she'd come into his bed—onto his bed—to comfort him in his sleep, and tonight he was all over her wanting to fuck.


To make love. Which was not so much a Spike locution—she restrained herself from counting back in time the number of times he'd said the one or the other to her in Sunnydale—appalled that she could summon all the occasions up so easily, through her thick cloud of shame.


He was exaggerating, carried away on too many beers, on dancing, on seeing her slay. He'd come down, and tomorrow he'd probably be just as glad that she'd rebuffed him.


But she had to get them out of this strange pas-de-deux, stat.








It didn't prove so simple. When she called, she was told that the Council jets were all out on other assignments. She'd have to wait a few days, or come back on a commercial flight. But a commercial flight of that duration with a combustible vampire would be risky.


And then when she got Giles on the phone, he turned out to be not all that amenable to the idea that Spike ought to be helped. Even when she described what had happened in the alley—his anguish, the sword hilt, the one sentence he'd gotten out before falling into convulsions—Giles sounded mostly unmoved, though he made perfunctory sympathetic noises that came across as more condescending to her than sincere.


"He helped us save the world. Do I really have to remind you? We could. not. have. done. it. without. him."


"My dear, I do appreciate—"


"Don't my dear me with this, Giles! When Willow got in trouble and was all evil, you didn't just write her off, did you? Spike hasn't been evil in a long time, he's a comrade. We owe him."


"Bring him here if you think it's best, but I can't issue a blanket promise that we'll give him the freedom of the castle when we have no idea what state he's in or what he might do."


"You have no idea what state Xander is in or what he might do. Or my sister. Or anybody. Heck, me."


"Buffy, please be reasonable—"


"Let me talk to Willow. No—wait. Nevermind. I'll call her myself, later."


Though they'd rebuilt nearly all their bridges since the Black-and-Veiny thing, a tickle of mistrust of Willow remained. She didn't want to expose Spike just yet to Willow in Let's-Figure-This-Out-And-Fix-It mode. It wasn't clear that Spike's amnesia was magically-induced, but layering more magic on him now ... could be bad.