Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

26.

January in Sunnydale was chilly, but never really cold. The Slayer took to wandering around the house in her pajamas, heavy socks and a robe, and when they went out for patrol, she bundled up in dark coats, scarves and hats. It was ridiculous—Spike had spent winters in places where it actually snowed, but she acted like Sunnydale was in the middle of sodding Siberia.

Their days were spent with the books, but it felt more like they were slogging through on principle than that they thought there was any real hope of finding an answer. At night they wandered more than patrolled. Buffy spent more time shifting sleepers indoors, if they'd been caught outside. She rolled up car windows except for a small crack to let in fresh air, moved keys from ignitions to cup holders, and leaned back seats so that people might not wake up with stiff necks.

Whenever they ran across a vamp, she dusted it, but it was as if she were on automatic.

All this Spike watched with an increasingly worried eye. He tried to get a rise out of her, but it was getting harder, if not outright impossible. Sometimes she even seemed to be trying to be nice to him, which made him more concerned than anything else. She no longer bounded down the stairs, full of optimism and determination—now she slept late and spent most of her time doodling on her notepad.

It was driving him up the bloody wall.

One night he managed to talk her into retrying most of the counter spells and tracers they'd already attempted—minus the one that had led to them snogging in the streets. Every attempt fizzled or mildly backfired, and eventually they'd given up.

If that had been all, he might have been able to handle it, but his dreams were getting worse. Before they'd been drenched in blood and death, but now all he seemed capable of dreaming about was Buffy and sex. In his dreams she had the passion and fire that their waking existence had drained from her. In his dreams she was miles of sweat-soaked golden skin and handfuls of golden hair. He woke up every afternoon with an erection that refused to die and spent hours every night trying to think with his big head, instead of the little one. It had been far too long since he'd had anything but his own hand for company.

Now that he'd finally admitted to himself that he liked her, it was easier still to admit that he wanted her. Of course, he knew exactly how that would go—in her current state she'd likely either laugh at him or toss him out of the house into broad daylight without a second thought. She didn't seem to give a lick as to what he did with himself these days, but he knew she had her limits.

And he ... well, he seemed to care too much about what she did. He felt like a voyeur, constantly watching her surreptitiously over the edge of whatever book he was pretending to read at the moment, following a few paces behind her on their nightly walks. He'd watched her before far more clandestinely and never felt like a … well, he'd never felt wrong about it before. He'd been a predator, after all, and that's what predators did—they stalked their prey. But Buffy wasn't his prey anymore ... now she was something else. Not a friend, because she'd never allow that, and certainly not anything more.

An obsession, maybe. That was a safer term for it.

There was something wrong with her, though, and he didn't know what to do about it.

***

Spike was staring at her again. Buffy could feel it. She could barely focus on the words in the book in front of her, but she was entirely aware of the tingling sensation Spike's gaze caused when he was studying her intently. If she looked at him, he'd be scowling.

Probably wishing he'd woken up someone else.

There were days when she wanted to make him go try to wake up Giles or Willow. She'd haul them out of their rooms and make Spike do everything to them that he'd done to her. He had to have triggered it somehow, in some way, other than just by being a vampire.

Then she thought of how disappointed Giles would be in her, for not managing it on her own; of how Willow would look at her and tell her she didn't know how to fix the spell, either—she couldn't do that to them, couldn't let them carry the burden she had been chosen to carry alone.

Spike was still staring at her. Probably because she looked like crap. It was just that doing something with her hair had seemed so unimportant. Why bother when the only person to see you was ... well, constantly staring at you like you were a freak? Maybe she should go fix her hair. With a sigh, she put down her book and rose.

"Going somewhere?" Spike asked.

"Bathroom," she said, and went up the stairs before he could question her further.

The girl in the mirror was familiar, but not her. She was too thin, for one thing, her face too strained and pinched. Her hair was in bad need of some highlights or something, and the ends were split and dry. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a manicure. No wonder Spike kept staring.

She turned on the shower and stripped out of her clothes. Even though steam was rising, she still felt chilled and shivery. Cranking the hot water up didn't seem to do much, though. Inside, she felt numb. Frozen through.

It was so easy to lose track of days, now, but she thought it might be a weekend. She should be at the Bronze with her friends, or at Xander's hanging out. Maybe there would be a party or something at one of the frat houses. They'd laugh and dance and generally behave like teenagers, and there would be no slaying for a little while. A totally responsibility-free zone, where she could just be Buffy.

She leaned her palms against the tile and bent her head under the spray, feeling the hot water sting against her scalp. This wasn't the life she wanted, wasn't the life she was meant for. Nothing could make this right.

***

Clearly, something had to be done.

Unfortunately, he was the only vamp around to do it. He just hoped that word of this never reached the ears of anyone even remotely evil, because he wouldn't hear the end of it. He'd checked the calendar three times today while getting his blood, done some mental calculations, even consulted the damn TV Guide channel to be certain he wasn't wrong.

He wasn't.

Spike waited in the kitchen, listening to the sound of her shuffling around upstairs, zombie style. She'd lingered upstairs far longer than he'd hoped, prolonging his torture. Ever since New Year's, however, she'd been staying in bed longer and longer, even though he knew she wasn't sleeping. She'd toss and turn all bloody night, but then lay about all morning until he knew she couldn't justify lingering any longer. When she came down, she put in the minimum number of hours staring blankly at the books before they headed out for their mockery of a "patrol." It was getting tiring, even for him.

Which was why he'd skipped sleep himself and gone back out that morning, after she'd been safely in bed. Gave him at least twelve hours to put his plan in place. Twelve whole hours in which to make himself feel like a total and utter prat.

He looked at the items on the counter and winced. She was going to laugh at him, he knew it—going to take one look at what he'd done and laugh her bloody head off. Serve him right, too, for this mockery of humanity he'd attempted for the sake of his mortal enemy.

If he was quick, he could hide the evidence before she made it down the stairs.

He paused, however, in the act of picking up the plastic container: it'd been over two and a half weeks since New Year's. Nearly twenty days of watching her mope and mumble. It wasn't right. He wanted his Slayer back, ready to save the world and all that rot. If it took making her laugh at him, or her kicking his arse for being presumptive, well ... it was a small price to pay, wasn't it?

And since when did William the Bloody cringe away from female mockery?

Determined, he set the container back down, popped off its top, and started stabbing things into place. Then he paused again. Just because he was doing this for her, he didn't have to look like an utter ponce, did he?

When Buffy entered the kitchen several minutes later, he was leaning nonchalantly in the doorway to the basement, looking as if he didn't give a sodding damn whether she liked what he'd done or not, and ready to make a quick exit if things started looking dusty for him. She froze just inside the room. Spike took a minute to appreciate the fact that she'd obviously been feeling a bit more the thing today. Her dark blue jeans, black shirt and denim jacket were a good sign, even if they covered far more skin than he would have liked. She'd even pulled back her hair. Of course, at the moment he thought she'd look good to him in a burlap sack.

"What is this?" she said, after a long pause that he thought might restart his heart from anxiety alone.

"Obvious, innit?" he said, putting on his best scowl. "It's your birthday."

"My ... birthday," she repeated, staring wide-eyed at the cake with its tiny flaming candles and the shiny box beside it. All right, so maybe the cake was a bit lopsided from where he'd dropped it while trying to get it down into the sewer tunnel opening, and he really couldn't be blamed for the fact that "birthday" didn't exactly fit on that size cake, and he'd never tried writing with tubed icing before. But it was still snow-white, girly-pink, vampire-red, and chock full of sugar. It was chocolate, too; he'd checked. If she didn't like it, well ... she could just sod off.

It wasn't like he'd ever done something like this before. She ought to appreciate the gesture and what-all.

"Nineteenth, yeah?" he said, just in case he'd gotten the date wrong. But it had been penciled in on the calendar in a hand that must've been Joyce's because it was far neater and less girly than Buffy's haphazard scrawl.

"Today is ..." She frowned.

"Your birthday," Spike said, slowly.

"And you ... you got me a cake?"

"I didn't pinch it. I left money for it." He'd had to nick the money, of course, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't quibble over him taking it from a demon. He didn't think she would, anyway. "You gonna blow those out before they burn the whole kitchen down?"

She only frowned at the cake, then at him. "... Why would you do this?"

Bollocks. "It's what you do, yeah? For birthdays? I watch TV, you know. Thought ..."

"You thought what?" she said, quietly, and to his utter consternation he thought she blinked back tears. "You thought that we'd have a cake and you'd give me a present and it would be like ... what, Spike? What was this supposed to be?"

His heart, that long dead lump of flesh, sank, and he hated her again.

"I don't know! Just ... thought it'd be something. We've been—well, I'd say we were working our arses off here, but we both know that's not true. Just, thought something different might—I don't know. Make it better."

"Did you know that bad things always happen on my birthday?" She paused and swallowed so hard he heard it from across the room. "Last year was that stupid Cruciamentum test. Oh, and my dad ditched me. The year before that ..."

He did some mental math. "Angel."

"Yeah," she said. "Angel. And the year before that, I got expelled. Kind of like a bonus, you know, for winning the Slayer lottery. And this year—"

"Slayer—"

"This year, I'm stuck here, with you. Happy Hellmouthy Birthday to Buffy, huh?"

"Slayer—"

"Stuff it, Spike. This is ... I can't deal. Not right now, okay?"

When she stormed out past him, through the back door and into the late afternoon sunlight, he felt like she'd staked him.

He stood there, perilously close to the doorway, watching the dust drift slowly through the light, until smoke started to curl from the toes of his boots. Then he slammed the door shut hard enough that it bounced right back open, wider this time, nearly setting him ablaze.

Swearing, he kicked it mostly closed. Then he plucked the still lit candles one by one out of the cake and dropped them into the sink to smolder out on their own.

***

Happy Hellmouthy Birthday to Buffy.

Wasn't that the truth?

Just when she thought things couldn't possibly be worse, the Powers That Be found a new way to twist the knife a little deeper.

Somehow she'd ended up by the playground, so she sank down on a swing and stared blankly at the merry-go-round spinning lazily in the breeze, all on its own.

Her whole life was gone. Her friends, her family, her calling. What use was she? They couldn't break the spell—it was that simple. They were stuck. She was stuck. And all that would happen is that she'd keep getting older, and the world around Sunnydale would go on, and the people here would be forgotten. No one would ever remember this place, except for her—because she'd never be allowed to forget it.

Never be allowed to leave.

"Sacred duty," she muttered, staring at the empty streets. "Guard the Hellmouth; that's your job, Buffy. Guard the Hellmouth forever, and ever, and ever."

But she didn't want to. She had never really wanted to. Fate had brought her here and then nailed her feet in place. She was the Slayer. THE Slayer. No matter how many came after Faith, Buffy would be stuck, forever, as The One.

Maybe it would have been better if the Master had killed her. Buffy dragged one foot beneath the swing, gouging a trench through the dust. In her head she had a little list of all the things that could have been avoided if he had. Kendra wouldn't have gotten killed, probably, because Angel never would have turned evil. Miss Calendar wouldn't have died, and Giles wouldn't be heartbroken forever. And Faith might never have been called. Or if she had, maybe when she got to Sunnydale, she'd have found what she was looking for: a family, friends. Maybe she'd have brought the Mayor down all on her own.

But no, Buffy just had to beat that prophecy. Had to come back from the brink of death. She couldn't even die right. And now she was nineteen. Nineteen. How many more birthdays would she have with no one but Spike for company?

How many more could she stand?

Was there some answer that they'd somehow overlooked ... or was this it? The end of her world as she knew it?

And if it was, what was she going to do about it?

***

This time Spike didn't chase her immediately. She wanted to have a strop, that was fine by him. He didn't want to give her some stupid birthday gift she'd probably just hurl back in his face anyway.

Well, considering the contents of the box, maybe hurling it at his head would be preferable.

So he let her storm out, and had himself a sulk in the living room for an hour or two until his ears were tired of listening for her footsteps to come up the path. Not like he could follow her anyway, this early in the evening. Sun was still out. He'd fry if he tried. By sunset he'd nearly worn a groove in the basement floor from pacing.

The minute it was low enough, he snagged his coat and cigs and was out the door, his nose in the air. The scent was nearly cold, but he picked it up again at a nearby playground. She'd left only an hour or two before, he thought, though she might have sat there longer. There were gouges in the dirt beneath the swing where her boots had dragged.

He followed the trail to the Watcher's, to the Basement Boy's, then all the way across Sunnydale to the school campus where she'd stopped briefly at her dorm before heading back into town. He had no bloody clue what she was up to, but there was something in the air, something about her scent that had him worried. He was damned sick of chasing her everywhere.

When her scent turned left where it normally turned right, he felt a shiver ripple down his spine. If he had hackles, they would have stood on end. She'd gone down a dark street that they usually avoided on patrols. The end of it was chained off, and he could smell, wafting on the wind, the old scent of fire and sulfur and rancid meat.

She'd gone back to the burnt-out high school.

Back to the Hellmouth.

***

"What are you doing?"

Spike's voice floated out of the darkness. Buffy heard the snick of his lighter echo off the walls. All she'd have to do was turn around to see the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dark, and she'd know where he was.

She didn't particularly care where he was.

"I thought ... I thought maybe, whatever it was we're supposed to do, I thought it might be here."

She stared down into the dark crevice in the floor. Slabs of concrete had buckled here under pressure of earthquake and explosion. If she stood at the edge, looked down into the depths … what would she see? Hell? It was down there, somewhere. Maybe there'd be a door, or a rope or a ladder. Maybe just a big glowy portal.

Or maybe there was nothing down there, just the long empty darkness of nothing. She was beginning to think that that's what real hell was: nothing. Nothing that went on forever. The thought was oddly restful.

"There's nothing here, luv," Spike said, echoing her thoughts. She took a step forward, closer to the edge. "Slayer?"

"How far down do you think it goes?"

"Slayer, come back from there," Spike said, and his voice was softer than usual. Deeper. If she didn't know he couldn't thrall people, she'd think he was trying now.

"I can't keep on like this," she said. "I can't. It's ... I miss my mom."

"I know."

"How can you possibly know?" she said, laughing a little. Even she was startled by the slightly hysterical sound of her own voice.

"Just do. Had a mum once, too."

She remembered now, a picture of a man that might have been him, once upon a time, and a woman old enough to be his mother. Of course, she also remembered what Angel had told her—about how Angel's own family had died.

"You probably killed her," Buffy said, bitterly. Spike would not empathize with her. He wasn't capable of it, and it pissed her off that after all his protestations of honesty he'd choose this moment to lie to her.

Behind her, she heard the crisp sound of him drawing on his cigarette, then the soft exhalation of smoke. "Still miss her," he said, finally, in a voice that sounded tightly controlled. "How she died ... none of your bloody business, Slayer. Now come away from there."

"It's not just her, though," Buffy continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "It's all of them. I miss Giles and Willow and Xander and Oz. I miss ...the Espresso Pump and ordering pizza on a Friday night and hanging in Xander's basement. It's gone. All of it is gone and I'm never going to get it back, am I? … This … This is all there is: me and you and the Hellmouth and all these sleeping people ... you told me ages ago that this was hell. You're right. It is. And I can't ... I don't belong here."

"Buffy—" Spike's voice was so soft she barely heard it. Under normal circumstances she would have been floored by his choice to use her name, but now …

"I don't belong here, Spike. I can't do my job. I can't be useful. All I can do is try to read a bunch of horrible old books that don't make any sense and try to keep you from killing everything in sight. And how long can I do that? Huh? Forever? Is that what this is? This is hell for you and I'm meant to be your jailor? I didn't sign up for this!"

"No, you didn't," Spike said. "And we both know that's not what's going on. Sure, this bloody well blows for both of us, but we just have to—"

"What? Keep at it? We've been through the books! There's nothing. Our spells don't work. The tracer spells just go nowhere! There's nothing we can do! Don't you get it? We're stuck! This is it for us, forever!"

"Buffy—"

He touched her arm. She didn't realize until that moment how tense she was. How poised and ready she was for ... something, anything at all. But then he was touching her, and that wasn't allowed, and so she spun and lashed out, punching him solidly in the face. Spike flew back to land with a painful thud against a crumbling wall.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

He picked himself up, dabbing at his nose. "I'll bloody well touch you if I want, you ungrateful bitch. You think I don't know what's going through that head of yours? Well, I do. You've given up. You've got a bleedin' death wish, and you think you're gonna get out of this the easy way," he growled, stalking back up to her. "Well, I'm not gonna let you."

"What?"

He hit her. Both hands came up and landed a blow against her chest that slammed her across the room, away from the dark temptation of the Hellmouth below.

"I said, Slayer, that I won't let you. You signed on to this bargain, and besides that it's your fucking job. One bitch in all the world, right? Well, it's too bloody bad that this is a fight you can't win with your goddamn fists—"

She scrambled up, just in time to block another punch and land one of her own. Spike staggered, then swung a roundhouse blow to her head that she barely missed. Lashing out with a foot, she brought him down and landed a series of punches to his face that drew blood from his nose.

"Shut up! We had a truce—"

Spike rolled, bucking her hard off of him and sending her headfirst into a pillar. Dazed she watched two Spikes get up and prowl toward her.

"We have a truce, Slayer. I'm not trying to kill you. Just gonna knock some fucking sense into your bloody thick skull."

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, then smashed her head into the pillar. She reached behind her and managed to get a grip on his throat, then ducked under his arm. The fist in her hair pulled, but she ignored the pain and twisted out of his grip. Then she kicked him, hard.

Spike grunted, but didn't give. Now that the rules were clear to her, the fight picked up in earnest. For the first time in weeks she stretched her muscles, lost herself to the adrenaline rush of battle. They traded punches and kicks with devastating force, until they were both bruised and bloody and dizzy with it all. But even then it didn't stop.

She didn't want to kill him, Buffy discovered. She wanted to punish him. She wanted to punish him for being the one to wake her, for being the only creature she had to rely on, for the birthday cake and Christmas and New Year's, for being him. He was at the root of all her frustration and loneliness, the bottom of her slow descent into a darkness she wasn't sure she could escape.

But he was right about one thing: she wanted out. Wanted it in a way that made her bones ache. There was nothing for her anymore except the daily reminders of everything she'd lost. She wanted to be done, to let this—the town, the spell, the vampire who refused to leave her alone—all go. It could be someone else's problem. Someone else's big responsibility. The next Slayer or the Powers That Be could handle it. She was done with it.

Only Spike wouldn't let her be. Every blow was a fresh reminder that she was still here, still alive. That she could still feel, even if all he had to give her was pain. Well, she could give it back, make him take each punch back, return her own pain on him a hundredfold. This was all his fault, and he deserved to be down there in the dark with her instead of talking to her about hope and not giving up, instead of trying to be compassionate.

She didn't want compassion.

She wanted ...

Spike slammed her up against a wall, pinning her there with a knee between her thighs.

She groaned, but not in pain.

Their eyes met.

Spike's widened, and in his blue gaze she saw herself reflected and nearly unrecognizable. His nostrils flared, his lips parted.

He knows, she thought, even as he slowly pressed his hips against hers—he knows, he knows, and he can smell it, oh god—and made her uncomfortably aware of the hard length of his own excitement.

She wanted to deny it, this unlooked for and unwanted attraction. Normally it was something she could submerge, bury beneath denial and physical exertion. Only this time it was worse because she felt starved for it—for something she hadn't felt in weeks—the touch of another person.

No, not person. Spike. Spike was not a person. He was a thing.

A demon thing. An evil thing. That she hated.

Only he was also a man-shaped thing, with smoldering blue eyes and a hard body capable of pinning her to the wall and big hands that could make her feel—

He was there. He was touching her.

It was enough to send her tumbling over the edge.

Afterwards she'd never be sure which of them moved first; whether she'd grabbed his collar and hauled him to her, or if he'd leaned in and claimed her lips as his own. The end result was the same: a blistering kiss that burned away everything but Buffy's arousal and anger. There was something in her that was congested, building up an intolerable pressure—their fighting was relieving some of it but it wasn't nearly enough to stop the explosion that had been building now for weeks. She needed ...

More.

And Spike was going to give it to her.

Buffy knotted her fingers in his hair, destroying the carefully slicked-back curls so she could yank his head to the correct angle. When she bit at his lips he growled deep within his chest, nipping back. His human teeth were blunt, but still sharp enough to hurt. One of his hands grasped her waist, his grip bruising, even as the other fisted in her own hair. When she finally tore her mouth away he used her hair to pull her head back, baring her throat to his teeth. For a moment her Slayer impulses warred with her very feminine arousal—this was a terrible idea, letting a demon at your throat could only lead to pain.

It was pain that Buffy was willing to risk. His teeth worried the delicate skin of her neck, and he sucked hard enough she thought her blood might just burst through of its own volition. Somewhere in the fog of desire that clouded her head she was aware of the little whimpers and mewls of frustration that were spilling from her. Desperate, she pushed and clawed at his leather coat until he shrugged it from his shoulders. Then she tore at his t-shirt until she heard something rip and there was smooth, coiled muscle beneath her fingernails.

His thigh rode higher, pressing against her where all her tension seemed to be building. She writhed, grinding herself against him, needing just the tiniest bit more friction against her ... needing to feel the scrape of his fangs against her skin ...

Then she was falling in a heap, cold and discarded against the wall.

Spike stood across the room glaring down at her. His eyes were blazing, his chest heaved as he panted, but the sneer that curled his lips was cold.

"What the fuck is this?"

"What?" Buffy asked, dazed.

His shirt was torn, she thought inanely. The neck was ripped wide, exposing nearly half his chest. His hair was a mess, a bruise was already darkening beneath one eye, and blood was smeared from one nostril down to the corner of his mouth—which would have looked comical if it hadn't been so deadly serious. I did that, she thought and was surprised at satisfaction that shot through her.

Spike's fists clenched tightly, popping the muscles in his forearms into sharp relief. Buffy felt the dull throb of her cheekbone. There was a hot trickle of blood oozing down from her forehead into her left eyebrow, and her own knuckles were scraped and raw. All this only served to make the intense ache at the apex of her thighs stronger.

"This! What the fuck are you doing, Slayer?"

She didn't know. Didn't want to know. The only thing she knew was that for the first time in weeks she felt like herself—and yet totally unlike herself. She felt like the Slayer.

And it was wonderful.

"Does it matter?" Her anger simmered beneath the surface.

"Fuck," Spike muttered. "Fuck. Fucking bitch."

"Jerkface," Buffy leveled back.

"Oh, real mature, Slayer."

"Asshole."

"Try harder, little girl," Spike said, his fist clenching and unclenching. "Ought to teach you a proper lesson. Bend you over my knee and spank you senseless."

"I'd like to see you try," she said, and before he could muster a response she launched herself at him, swinging now with purpose. They rolled on the floor, bits of rubble digging into sensitive flesh, until they hit a wall and stopped with her on top. She straddled him and swung, aiming for his nose, his jaw.

Stupid Mr. Mouthy Vampire. How dare he be the one to stop and leave her like this? It was only a matter of time before he rejected her, just like every other guy she'd ever been with—what was it he'd said almost a lifetime ago? That she wasn't worth a second go? She'd show him. She'd make him beg.

Spike blocked most of her punches, then grabbed her around the hips and ground himself against her with a groan. "Fuck," he murmured. "Fuck it." Then he grabbed her hair and yanked her down on top of him, his mouth once more devouring hers.

Clothes disappeared, torn off, flung into the debris. The floor was dusty, but somehow Spike managed to roll her onto his coat. Kisses were met with bites, slaps and scratches became caresses. He pinched, she clawed, he bit, she punched. He pried her legs apart easily, though his fingers left bruises. Buffy gripped his cock in her fist so tightly that he snarled with pain and arousal.

She guided him until he was there, just there, where all of her anger and frustration and loneliness seemed to be pooled and waiting, waiting. His eyes met hers and everything she felt was there in his gaze.

"I hate you," Buffy said.

"No, you don't," he said, his voice inexplicably soft, and then he slid home hard and fast. He'd felt huge in her fist, but she'd had no way of comparing it. Twice, in the dark, didn't really make for a whole hell of a lot of experience. He filled her so deeply she wanted to scream. She hit him instead, lashing out until he pinned her wrists to the floor and bore down on her with all his weight.

"Knock it off," he growled.

"Big. Hurts."

"Shut up and relax," he said. "Fuck, you're tight. Relax, Slayer. It'll feel good in a bit, and then it'll feel better."

It already did, but he looked so smug she wanted to slap him. Only her hands were out of commission, the way he was holding her.

"Off!" she said, bucking.

"Goddamnit," he snarled, slamming her back against the ground. "You say that one more time and I will stop, Slayer. Leave you high and dry with that hungry, aching little cunt throbbing away. We keep this honest, yeah? So, either you relax and let me give you the ride you're gagging for, or we call this quits now, beat the shit out of each other, and go home."

He meant it, she could tell, and at that moment the last thing she wanted was to stop. Stopping was the safe thing, the right thing—this, whatever it was, was wrong on so many levels, real epic-level badness. But he was in her now, part of her, and every time one of them shifted even a little his cock dragged against some deep place inside that needed to be touched.

"Say you want this," he said, once again in that oddly gentle voice. His half-lidded gaze searched hers, though she had no idea what he was looking for. It seemed wrong that he'd seek her permission, yet the very fact that he had kept her from stopping.

"Say it, Slayer, and I'll make it good for you."

The huskily whispered promise made her shiver. "I ..." Her throat was dry; all the moisture in her body was oozing out of her pores and between her legs, and she needed. "I ..." He shifted, just slightly, the evil bastard. "I want," she groaned.

Spike echoed the sound, and then he was moving in her, against her, surging into her like a storm. He freed her wrists, and she clutched him like he was a lifeline. "Harder," she demanded, when he seemed inclined to slow down. "Harder."

With a growl, he complied, lifting her thighs up around his hips and showing her how to move, how to pull him back against her every time he dared to withdraw. He was on top, but she ruled, commanded, and he obeyed.

Her first climax caught her entirely by surprise; it tore through her with more violence than she'd ever expected, blinding her and filling her ears with a strange buzzing sound. When she came down from it, Spike hadn't stopped. Instead her orgasm seemed to have spurred him on. His eyes locked on hers, the pupils swallowing everything until she felt she could see herself drowning there, just like she was drowning in the rhythm he was drumming into her soul. It took her a while to realize he was muttering a never-ending stream of profanity and filth and encouragement spilling from his lips.

"...that's it, my sweet girl, hungry little cunt, gonna fuck it all out of you, that lonely little puss, fill it up nice and fuck, fuck, tight, so bloody good, hot little bitch in heat you are ..."

On and on, until his words had penetrated the fog in her head, wringing several small orgasms from her in such quick succession they were like blows. It left her reeling and somehow angrier, feeding that hot little ball of hate that was still burning inside.

"... god, that's it, fuck, come on my dick, spend for me, that's it, again, do it again, you can do it, fuck me you twisted bitch, that's right, gorgeous, come for me baby ..."

She punched him, hard. Pain blossomed in her fist, but he didn't stop. He shook it off like a dog shakes off water and snarled at her. She hit him again, not knowing until he vamped that that's what she'd wanted to see. His yellow eyes glared down at her and he sneered in contempt, fangs glistening in the dim light.

Then Spike was kneeling, still buried in her to the hilt. She wrapped her legs around his back, tightening her grip. He bucked up into her until she was riding him at a gallop. His fingers bruised her hips, guiding her up and down even as she clawed at his back. His mouth played over her throat, the teeth like daggers dragging along her skin, and she knew then that he'd bite her. Her head tilted to the side, baring the vein, daring him to take what he wanted.

He grabbed her hair again and yanked so hard she cried out. "This what you want, you selfish bitch?" he growled. "This how you want to die? Impaled on my cock and my fangs, going out as the world's sluttiest Slayer? Think you'll like it. Think you'll come your little brains out."

"Spike," she gasped, riding him harder. She could feel it, feel that burning knot inside of her tightening like a noose. In a moment the ground would fall away, and she'd tumble after it. All she needed was—

He bit her.

Buffy screamed, clenching so hard around him that he roared against her shoulder, his whole body jolting against hers as she came hard and long. It tore through her without mercy, a flash fire that burned her inside and out. All of her anger, her frustration, her loneliness and pain seemed to burst from her, until she was limp and exhausted and, finally, just Buffy again.

As she slowly swam back toward awareness, she could feel Spike trembling, and the sticky wetness where they were joined. He'd followed her over the edge, she thought dimly, and they hung together in the darkness. Blind, she clung to him, trusting him for the moment not to let her go. His arms wrapped around her, possessive and strong despite the tremors that wracked his body. She drifted, aware of his mouth against her shoulder and the slight sting where he'd ...

Buffy pulled back enough to look at where he'd bitten her.

Those weren't fang marks on her shoulder. They were barely scrapes, made by blunt human teeth. There was blood oozing up shallowly from the deepest of the marks, but it wasn't much at all. When she turned her questioning gaze on him he regarded her solemnly.

"Why?" she asked, shocked at the tremor in her voice, and the disappointment.

He was silent for a long moment. Then he glanced away. "Truce," he said. "Made you a promise. Not a fang ... not even on you. You'll not die by my hand, Slayer. Not gonna let you take the easy way out, either, so you can forget that. We're going to break this stupid spell, one way or another."

Spike brushed a sweaty lock of hair away from her brow. She flinched slightly at the tender gesture, and he chuckled as if that pleased him.

"I really don't like you right now," she said, but she'd been bled of venom. There was no force in it.

"Feelin's mutal." His gaze was steady and serious. "But we're all we've got, so might as well make the most of it."