Author's Notes: Previous warning still in effect. Chapter may cause spontaneous outbursts and exclamations, and unexpected physical responses. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae

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Chapter 31
Get A Clue

Willow, Tara, and Giles are still waiting at my house. It doesn't take too long to explain what happened last night. Xander's car is out front, so I give Giles the keys and he agrees to go pick them up. Willow and Tara ask to go along. "I'll meet up with you guys later," I tell them. "I need a shower. I feel like I've got sand in places sand should never go."

As he leaves, I snag Giles's arm. "Thank you, for patrolling for me these last few weeks," I tell him.

"You've needed time," he says.

"Yes, but…it's my job, and I should be the one doing it. Xander got hurt because I wanted time off and…I'll start patrolling again tonight. And training," I promise.

"Good," he says. "I know…it seems difficult, but having a purpose, having something to do, it may help you work through your grief."

"Yeah," I say, softly. "Maybe it will."

***

Showering washes away the grime from my night in the desert, and the cold sweat I broke into when I thought I'd lost Xander and Anya. It doesn't wash away my questions, or the lingering sense of confusion from the events of the last day. I take it all apart, piece-by-piece, and hope that when I put it back together I find some answers.

In the desert, the guide told me that I'm not losing my ability to love. That I'm full of love, and that's why I pull away from it. She also said that love will lead me to my gift. My gift. That's twice now I've heard that phrase, but I still don't know what it means.

We've still got a prophecy out there. I should probably check with Giles and see if he and Lydia have made any progress with it over the last few weeks. I'm not sure that, if they did, they would tell me right now. But so far all I've got to go on is a demon with world end-age plans that involve turning everyone into popsicles and somehow turning off the sun. There’s a date we still haven’t pinned down, but which has to be coming up soon, and some missing thing out there that is supposed to be given to me for protection…maybe that's what my gift is? And…somehow love will lead me to it?

And what was our demon woman doing in Restfield last night? Maybe she was looking for the artifact? Maybe she thinks Spike knows where it is? Xander seemed to think that Spike might be working with her, but if he was, he wouldn’t have fought off her minion, would he? Spike won't talk about what she wanted from him, which means he might still be hiding something, even though he swears he's on my side.

Even though he went out of his way to save my friends.

Even though he basically admitted that he cares about me.

It takes some mental maneuvering to avoid dwelling too long on that moment in the car. I'd just wanted to thank him, that was it. Just…you know, a quick little thank you kiss. No big.

And if that little shiver I felt when I touched my lips to his was the most intense sensation I've felt since my mom died…well, that was just…instinctual revulsion breaking through my emotional numbness. That's all.

Because it's not like I would want Spike.

***

Giles comes back a little later to pick up his car. "Xander is resting," he tells me. "I'm not sure what they gave him but it's made him even sillier than usual."

"Do you think that the demon might come back for them?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. From what Anya said, Spike severely injured him. It may take a while for him to heal, and I doubt he'll know where to find them," he says. "Still, Willow and Tara have volunteered to stay the night with them."

"That's good," I say.

"Will you be alright, on your own tonight?" he asks.

"I'll be fine," I tell him, and for the first time in a long time, I really mean it. "I'm pretty tired from last night, so I think I'll just do a quick patrol and then go to bed anyway."

He nods, looking a little relieved. I'm not sure if that's because I'm promising to patrol, or because he wants to know I'm alright.

***

Patrol starts off uneventful, which is good. No matter what I told Giles, I'm still not sure I'm ready for this. Walking into the cemetery was hard, but now that I’m in here it’s…homey. Should that be depressing?

There's a fresh grave, though, so I brush some snow off a nearby headstone and sit on it, waiting.

My thoughts keep drifting back to that moment in the car. The look in Spike's eyes…Maybe mom…maybe it’s had more of an effect on me than I realized because…I kinda don't mind. I mean, yeah…on the one hand: it's Spike. Fangy. Evil. Soulless. Etc. But…I don't know. Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe I just want to believe it but…he's changing.

And yeah, part of me is freaking out a little at the idea that Spike might care about me, but the last few weeks he's honestly been helpful. He's looked out for me. Patrolled for me. Kept my friends from getting killed while I was off duty.

If him caring about me makes him do stuff like that, is it really a bad thing?

A noise in front of me reminds me of why I'm out here. I watch the grave in front of me collapse in on itself a little, as the new vampire's hands claw the ground away. Clumsy. Eventually the head emerges, and the fledge looks around, bewildered. He stares at me for a second, then turns and glances behind him at his gravestone.

"Aw, man," he whines, his game face making it sound even more ridiculous. "I freaking died? What the fuck, man?" He looks pretty young, maybe college age. It would suck to die before you're even out of college. You've barely lived.

"Let me guess," I say. "Really good party?"

"Must have been," he says. "It's all kinda hazy, man. Who're you? My guardian snow angel?"

"Something like that," I say. "You gonna climb out of there sometime tonight?"

"I think I'm stuck," he says, looking down at himself through the hole. "My foot's caught in the coffin lid. Hey! Wait a second! If I'm dead, how come I'm talking, man? And, you know, like, here?"

I close my eyes, and swallow the pain.

"It's a long story," I tell him. "We don't really have time."

"So, uh…I guess I'm supposed to be, like moving on or something, man? Like, towards the light?"

God, save me from California frat boy vampires.

"Does no one have standards anymore?" grouses Spike. I knew he'd been trailing me, but I hadn't been paying attention to how close he really was. The sight of him actually surprises me for a moment, watching him step out into the moonlight, all black leather and bleached hair.

"Who're you, man? Death?" asks Clueless. "And what's with the punk vamp look?"

Spike ignores him. He stops at the side of the grave and stares down at the stuck vamp in amusement. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

"Let's have a look at you, mate," Spike reaches down and grabs the vamp by his shirt collar, hauling him out of the ground like a radish. Do radishes grow in the ground? Maybe a carrot. A really big, fangy carrot. He sets the vampire on his feet, then dusts off the shoulders of his suit jacket in a friendly manner.

"Spike, what are you doing?" I ask.

"Dude, your name's Spike?" the vampire giggles. "Is that, like, your porn name or something, man?"

Spike just shakes his head. "Never turn a stoner when he's stoned, takes bloody forever to get it out of their system," he says.

"I got the munchies like mad, man," says the vamp.

"I'd wager so," Spike says. "Sort of gnawing feeling in your middle there?"

"Yeah. Is someone cooking something around here? Something smells really good," says the vamp.

"Oh, that'd be Buffy," Spike says, straightening the guy's tie a little roughly. He sniffs. "Little like coconut, strawberries, freezer waffles, and something else that really makes your mouth water?"

Freezer waffles? He can smell that?

"Yeah, man," says the vamp. He glances over at me, and his eyes are almost glowy yellow now. He looks hungry. With a sigh I get up and grip the stake in my coat pocket a little tighter. I have no idea what Spike's doing, but I wish he'd hurry it up. It's freezing out here and I probably ought to check out at least one more cemetery before heading home. He looks back at Spike in confusion. "Dude, what's wrong with my teeth? Feel like they're too big for my face."

Spike examines the guy's vamp face critically. "I wouldn't worry about it," he says.

Stoner vamp shrugs and sniffs again, looking in my direction. "Is it steak?" he asks. "Did you have steak for dinner or something? Cause it smells really fucking good. My stomach is killing me, man. Feel like I haven't eaten for weeks."

Spike finally turns to look at me, amusement glinting in his eyes. "How 'bout it, luv? Got any stake for our friend here, before he bites the big one?"

I sigh. "Are you done playing, yet?" I ask. "Can it be my turn now?"

"Huh?" says Dazed and Confused.

"Toddle on over to Buffy, chum. She's got a stake for you," he says, slapping the guy on the shoulder. The vamp stumbles in my direction. The closer he gets, however, the more the demon in him seems to take over.

A few moments later, as the dust settles, I turn to glare at Spike.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" I ask.

"Fun with homophones," he says. His eyes crinkle a little at the edges when he grins.

"How do you know he doesn't like gay people?" I ask, confused.

Spike rolls his eyes and saunters to my side. "Not homophobes, you twit. Homophones. Want to tell me why you were playing Chatty Cathy instead of staking his arse?"

"No," I say, scowling.

He scowls right back. "And here I thought we were trying getting along," he says. "Should've known it was too good to be true. What's got your knickers all twisted, Summers?" he murmurs. When he moves a bit closer I notice the last of a fading bruise on his cheekbone. The light in the crypt and his car was so dim, I must’ve missed it.

Something occurs to me then. A little instinct, piping up from the back of my head. Something he'd said to me months ago…

"Was it Jack who beat you up a few months back? That Frost guy that attacked Xander and Anya?" I ask.

He just stares at me, a muscle in his jaw clenching. "What makes you think that?" he asks, after a long moment.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. "A…a couple of months ago, when I asked you about who beat you up. You said to look up that poem. The one you recited? Well…I found it, when I was flipping through my poetry book last week. The author's name is Robert Frost. Not Jack. You said Jack. I thought maybe…"

"I was warning you?" he asks, softly.

"Yeah," I say, staring up at him. Our eyes meet and hold. God, his are so blue. Still, he inhales slightly and I watch as the dark of his pupils expand until I'm staring at a reflection of myself in them. There's something else in them, too. I've sensed it before and it's still there, quieter, but still prowling.

Only now…I think I know what it is that he wants. The way he stares at me…I feel like he's stripping away all my defenses, baring me. Like he’s hungry—and not in a, you know, murderous demon kind of way. The look on his face is all wrong for that. The way he's standing, leaning a little toward me. The hint of something in his eyes…

Do I want that? Do I want Spike to want me?

This isn't like it was with Angel. Then it was all sweet, and innocent and me wondering if the boy I liked liked me back. Spike isn't like Angel, and not just because of the soul thing, or the bad boy thing. I don't even know if I like him. Everything with Spike has always been…stronger than that. Harder. More intense. I've hated him more intensely than anyone.

It's like that poem, you know? Love, passion…they're fire. Hate is ice. Both can be destructive, powerful.

Like is kinda lukewarm.

Like, I think, is what I felt for Riley. Guiltily, I flush and drag my eyes away from Spike's. I need to get back on track. This is a bad path to go down.

"So, was it him?" I ask, focusing on the bruise on his face instead. I jump a little when his cold thumb brushes my chin, his forefinger tracing the line of my jaw.

"You don't trust me, do you?" he says, stroking my skin in a way that leaves me shivering. Only because his hands are cold.

"Can I?" I ask.

Absently, his finger taps against my jaw.

Once.

Yes.

Mr. Gordo.

I freeze, my eyes searching out his, shocked. But he's not really paying attention. His gaze is on my mouth.

"I'd like it, if you did," he says, almost as if he's thinking out loud. "Know you don't but…"

I back away.

He frowns, but lets me go.

I want to rationalize it, that little tap. It could have been anything. Just, absent minded, or…or…but my instincts say not. My instincts are jumping up and down somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach and pointing and babbling that he did it without thinking because…because…

Something flashes in Spike's eyes, and he straightens, settling his coat on his shoulders and cocking a hip arrogantly. He jerks his chin. "Didn't mean anything by it, Slayer. No need to lash out at a bloke just for running off at the mouth. Know you don't trust me. Fangy and evil and soulless and all that rot…"

He doesn't even know he did it. Or he's desperately trying to cover. I realize my hands are balled tightly into fists.

"I have to go," I tell him. "I…It's late. I'm tired. I'm just…going to go home and go to bed, I think. Yep. Tired Bed-time Buffy. It's been a long day."

I fake a yawn before I babble out everything I’m thinking. I watch his face for any signs that he's interested in my sleeping habits. Nothing. Not even a flicker of an eyelash. Doubt creeps back in.

"Do what you like," he grumbles, shoving his hands in his duster pockets. "See you around, Slayer," he says, wandering off into the cemetery. He sounds like he's muttering to himself, but all I catch is the word "pillock" as he disappears around the corner of a mausoleum.

For the second time today I wonder…could Mr. Gordo be Spike?

***

When I get home, the house is quiet with no one waiting for me for the first time in a long time. It's a comforting sort of stillness, and I fall asleep easier than I thought I would.

The dream room is empty when I arrive, and I sit on the bed, waiting. Could Spike be Mr. Gordo? He tapped on my chin, just like Mr. Gordo does, but…that could have just been a coincidence. Spike’s pretty twitchy. This could still be just a dream.

Only then there’s the boots and the belt buckle and the…could I have been subconsciously thinking about Spike now for almost a year? Or…or maybe it wasn't Spike to start with, but as things have progressed, Mr. Gordo is becoming more like Spike.

Which still would mean that I want Mr. Gordo to be Spike.

Which I don't. Do I?

When he arrives, I try not to act weird. He climbs on the bed, the same as usual, then waits to see what I'll do.

The last few weeks, I've slept in his arms. It would be weird if I didn't, wouldn't it? And…I kinda want to sleep in his arms. When he's wrapped around me, I feel…at peace.

So I curl into him, like I normally do. With a soft sigh, he pulls me against his chest, settling my face against his shoulder so I can breathe in the familiar Mr. Gordo scent of leather and smoke.

Spike scent.

I shiver, and he pulls me closer, then tugs the blankets up over us, tucking them in further around me. He's not wearing jeans tonight, thank god. Without reaching down to check, the best I can tell is that he's got on sweats or pajama bottoms.

"…You missed the grand finale. I prefer to sleep naked…"

I shake my head a little to clear it of the resulting mental image. Prefer. Was that an odd word choice? I mean, wouldn't you think he'd have said "I sleep naked" not "I prefer to sleep naked"?

And what does it matter, anyway? I mean, this is just a dream. Isn't it?

Only there's that nagging voice in the back of my brain, the one that sounds a little like Cordelia telling me I'm stupid. These dreams are way too realistic to be dreams. Way too regular. Way too detailed. I know it. I've known it for a long time now, but I hate to think about it.

Because admitting they might not be dreams means I have to start thinking about other stuff. Like…if this isn't a dream, then where am I? Why do I show up here every night? Who, exactly is Mr. Gordo? And…what if it is, really, actually Spike?

My hand rests on Mr. Gordo's chest. He's wearing a t-shirt, I think. Without much conscious thought I stroke my fingers lightly over the fabric. Soft. The muscles beneath are rock solid, though. He makes a soft sound, a swift inhale. I feel his chest rise ever so slightly at the unneeded intake of breath. A large, cool hand comes up and wraps around mine, stilling my fingers. My right hand, his left. His fingers are long, strong and slightly callused. I can feel the rough patch of one along the edge of his middle finger.

Like a writing callus, only on his left hand.

Spike fights left-handed. And…

…I'm sitting in Spike's lap, his right arm around my waist. "There's so much to decide. Ceremony, guests, reception…" I nuzzle his hair. God, it's soft. Who'd have thought Spike's hair would be so soft?

"Well, first thing I'd say, we're not having a church wedding," he says, scrawling something on our planning note pad. The pen looks ridiculously tiny in his big hand, and hey, he's left-handed. I didn't know that…

But Mr. Gordo fights right-handed.

Only, if he knew I would notice that, it's not that hard to change your leading hand. Not when you've got a century's worth of training.

My thumb absently strokes over the flat of one of his nails. They're short, and there's a slick texture to them. Not like they're buffed, but a little harder. Another tiny shiver goes through me, and I wonder, if I dragged the edge of my nail over his, if paint would fleck off. If I might wake tomorrow with tiny black nail polish chips on my pj's.

Only I probably wouldn't.

How many times have we sparred and I've gone to bed, sore and bruised, my knuckles scraped from sparring without hand-wraps? How many times have I woken without a single mark on me that I didn't go to sleep with the night before? Besides, Spike's chipped. He can't even hit me. Anya saw him last night and I doubt even Spike could fake passing out and a nosebleed.

It's a dream.

It has to be a dream.

Ask him, you twit, says my inner Cordelia, huffing in frustration. All you have to do is say 'are you Spike?'

Yes or No. A simple question. A simple answer.

It's not the first time I've thought about asking it, or something similar. Are you Spike? Is this a dream?

But in the end the same thing keeps the words locked away. So far, Mr. Gordo has, to my knowledge, always been honest with me. I trust Mr. Gordo.

If I asked him, and it is Spike, there's a really good chance he'd lie.

And as much as I know I should probably find out the truth…I don't think I could bear it if he lied to me.

So I don't say a word.

But maybe there's another way to find out. If it's not a dream, if he's doing this somehow, for some reason, there's got to be proof right? It would almost have to be magic of some kind. And the last time I was in Spike's crypt, he did have all those magic books laying around downstairs, and I know he hates magic…

What if I went over there, first thing in the morning, when he should, theoretically, still be asleep?

I might get an eyeful of naked Spike…but what if I don't? What if, instead, I find him in bed, in pj's like he is now?

Then I'd know, wouldn't I?

***

"Buffy…"

Light dances with shadow across white walls, turning them to shades of black and gold.

It's cold, but there is heat nearby.

"…so hot…"

I arch into his cool touch. Chill fingers skate down my spine, pulling me near. My skin is blazing. There should be steam where he touches me, instead there's just cool fire. His mouth moves over my skin, tasting me, teasing me, insatiable.

"…God, I want…"

His throaty growl makes me tremble, makes me reach for him, pulling him up so I can punish his mouth for talking instead of kissing me. Somewhere, anywhere. I've never needed anything like I need his mouth on me. He hisses a little, as if in pain, and I feel the healing ridges of scars on his lip. We both ignore them, too intent on devouring one another. Cool fingers play at my breasts, pinching, tweaking my nipples until I'm writhing under him. I wrap my legs around his lean hips, slide my hands over the smooth muscles of his back, careful not to aggravate the healing wounds, pull him tight against me.

"…oh, fuck, Buffy…"

He's so hard. I can feel how badly he wants me and it's terrifying and amazing and makes the fire burning in me even hotter. I bury one hand in his loose, white curls, holding his head still so I can taste his mouth again. Our hips grind together and I feel him slide between my thighs, cool as steel. He pauses, just at the threshold, waiting, his entire body trembling as hard as mine as he struggles to control himself. The low growl that emanates from his chest isn't even remotely human, but the eyes that gaze down into mine are blue and dark and fathomless as the night sky.

"…invite me in, luv, please…"

"…come in, Spike, please…come in…"

I sit up with a gasp.

Oh.

God.

No.

Across the room, my reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror. My eyes are wide, pupils dilated. My hair is mussed and my skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold air. I look like …

The realization dawns before I even finish the thought.

Oh, god.

It wasn't an erotic dream.

It was a Slayer dream.

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