It was all over the newspapers; a spate of deaths in Sunnydale. Vicious, brutal killings – puncture wounds to the neck. It could have been any one of a number of vampires. But it was Spike. She knew it was Spike. Call it Slayer intuition, call it simple common sense. Buffy knew as she read about all of the murders, all of the bodies that had been discovered in the recent days, that they were Spike’s victims.

He’d been keeping a low profile up until recently and now it had all caught up to him.

Buffy sat at the kitchen breakfast counter with a horrible sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. She had let him into her house. She had let him touch her. How had she forgotten the very important fact that he was a killer? He ate people, for God’s sake. He didn’t have a soul, he didn’t feel remorse and he had never pretended otherwise. She didn’t even have the excuse of being lied to. Spike had always been upfront about how much of a monster he was yet she had still let him in. What did that make her? With Angel she had been in love with him but she didn’t even like Spike. He was annoying and arrogant and he smelled weird. He was short and skinny and he had terrible hair. He was a smoker. The fact that he had tried to kill her and her friends numerous times should have also been a factor. She couldn’t trust him and he didn’t want her to.

He had taunted and teased her over her scars, he’d sent his vampire pals after her, had kicked the shit out of her himself. He always managed to find the most horribly truthful thing to say and twist it around to hurt her. It was an art, the way he always found the exact right words to inflict pain. Other vampires were good with their fists and fangs, but a well-timed barb from Spike hurt more. He was evil, with a wolf grin.Yet she had arranged a rematch with him.

So, she’d give him a rematch. It wouldn’t be what he expected, though. It wouldn’t be when he expected it either.

She stood and brushed past her mother, walking through the dining room and then up the stairs. She was the Slayer and it was about time she did some slaying. Spike would be just another pile of ashes soon enough and she wouldn’t have to worry about what it meant that she had let him touch her scars, and that she had enjoyed it.

Buffy dressed for practicality. Jeans, shirt, jacket, sneakers. She tied her hair up in a tight plait, and looked in the mirror briefly. Her face was devoid of make-up. She’d given up trying to make herself feel pretty a while ago. Not that she needed to. This was about business not anything else. She slipped a couple of stakes into her pockets and slipped her sunglasses on. It was time for an early morning slay.

+ + +

Spike slumbered heavily. The bed they had looted from some poor old sod’s house kept him nice and snug. As soon as the sun rose he felt the compunction to have a nap. It had been a very busy night, last night. All kinds of revelations going on. Namely, that the Slayer had a thing for him. It was clear now and oh so very delicious.

Currently, though, he dreamt. A dream full of death and pain, bloodshed and delight. Spike’s favourite kind of dreams. He was chasing some pale, supple, young thing through an endlessly dark alleyway. She was fast, and he could hear her blood pounding through her veins loudly in terror. Dressed in a skimpy white nightdress, her hair fluttered in the breeze as she tried to escape him.

Spike was confident the girl wouldn’t get away. He was just toying with her, teasing her, fooling her into believing she had a chance in hell of living past this night. She rounded a corner and Spike followed close behind. She was nowhere to be seen. He ground to a halt, looking around in confusion. It didn’t make sense. He had been a mere few seconds behind her. Yet the alley was empty. Steam billowed from some unseen grate into his face. Spike flapped his arms at it, annoyed and turned back around to go the way he had come. He stalked away back through the alley.

“Spike,” she whispered.

He spun around, on guard. There she stood right in front of him, an apparition of death. The Slayer. Of course, it was the Slayer. He should have realised that before. Her stance was easy; she was comfortable around him, her bare feet resting on the fetid ground. The nightdress blew around in the soft breeze moulding to her body and showing more than she probably realised. Her hair was short, just brushing her shoulders. Much like it had been when he had first met her. It was blowing artfully in the wind, in a way only a dream would permit.

“Buffy,” he replied, smiling, “Nice to be chasing you again.”

She smiled back. It was a genuine smile, quirky with a hint of flirting in it. He’d seen her smile at Angelus like that dozens of times when he had bothered to follow the nutty pair. She’d never directed a smile like that towards him though. He liked it.

And, just like that, she turned and ran from him again. Grunting, he chased after her. It was the chase he loved the most, really. The thrill of the hunt. She wouldn’t slip away from him again. His boots splashed through puddles of God-knows-what in his haste to catch his prize. She seemed to always be just out of his reach. The unattainable girl.

Spike leapt at her and made contact. They fell to the ground in a flurry of limbs. When he grabbed her dress though, he found she was gone and what he was holding onto was a sheet. The sheet that was on his stolen bed.

Spike opened his eyes, grouchy. He never usually awoke from dreams involving the Slayer before he’d given her a good seeing to. He felt robbed. Sighing, he rolled onto his back, enjoying the way the sheets glided over his naked body. The room was dark, lit only be a few candles he had left burning whilst reading Dr. Faustus in bed that night. Old habits die hard, and he remained somewhat of a bookworm. Not that anyone was to know about that. Reading didn’t really go with his image. He just found it a nice contrast after a night of killing girls and feeling up the Slayer.

He’d see her again soon enough. She had practically agreed to a shag. It got him all worked up just thinking about it. The things he’d do to her. It would be a night to remember he was sure. Maybe, if she was really good he’d let her live. Maybe not.

Angelus had told him, that to kill the girl you had to love her. Since that wasn’t likely to happen anytime ever Spike would have to settle for ‘to kill this girl, you have to fuck her six ways to Sunday’. It just sounded better. He grinned to himself.

“Something funny?”

His eyes widened at the voice. Bolting upright in bed, Spike couldn’t believe his eyes. The Slayer stood at the end of his bed and she did not look happy. How she had gotten in without him sensing her he didn’t know. He had to assume that his gang had been dispatched. Oh well. There was the more pressing matter of a pissed off Slayer standing before him.

Buffy lifted her hand up, her index finger and thumb an inch apart, “I mean, apart from that.”

He followed her eyes down to see his erection tenting up the sheet, like a trooper. He looked back at her, mouth wide. “Hey, now!” he protested, “There’s no need to get personal.”

Spud came running into the lair, grinding to a sudden halt. “Sir! The Slayer is...here…”

“I see that.” Spike replied through gritted teeth.

Buffy casually leaned over and staked the gormless vampire. He turned to dust, exploding all over the bed. Spike looked down at the remnants of Spud and brushed them from the sheets distastefully.

“Was that necessary? He was a nice bloke. Whipped. The kind of vampire you like.” Spike shot back at her, easily.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t seem to react at all. Just stood at the end of his bed, hands on her hips, clutching a stake. She removed the sunglasses that had been perched on her nose. Her eyes were cold. As cold as they had been when he had first seen her after she had been scarred. Clearly, this was not going to be a pleasant visit. She was here for blood and he had a sneaking suspicion it was his she was after. Well, then they had another thing in common. They wanted each other’s blood. So be it. “Couldn’t wait till tonight, hmm?” Spike asked, stalling for time, trying to catch her off-guard.

“I was stupid,” Buffy said simply, “I was stupid to forget what you are. What you do. How you kill, torture, bring pain to every person you meet.”

He shrugged slowly, “I never kept it a secret. I’m a vampire. Killing is sort of the whole point, love.”

“I know. It’s my fault, really. But it’s okay. I know what I have to do. I’m the Slayer. And you’re dead”.

The way in which she said it chilled him to the bone. He was a creature of the night, and it still sounded all kinds of wrong even to him. No human being should sound that way about something as important as death. Her tone of voice was clinical and without any kind of discernible emotion. She was close to the edge and he was annoyed that he hadn’t even done anything intentionally to put her there. Spike pushed the sheets aside and unfurled himself, stepping onto the cold stone of the floor. The Slayer’s eyes swept over him.

“Put some clothes on,” Buffy insisted.

“Why?” he shrugged, “If you’re just gonna dust me, no point in taking some perfectly decent clothes down with me. Give ’em in to Oxfam. Make yourself feel even better.”

Her eyes looked down at the floor, “Well, you could at least stop pointing that thing at me.”

Spike looked down at himself and then back up, laughing, “Can’t help it. Impending death gets me all kinds of hot. ’Sides, it’s only fair that I get my Mr. Pointy too.”

Buffy looked back up at him, scowling, “This isn’t a joke, Spike. I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s with the chatter? Have at it, woman.”

She tilted her head; slowly, “That’s it? You’re not gonna try and stop me?”

“Oh, I’ll stop you,” Spike told her sincerely, “but it would be a whole lot easier on both of us if you just admitted the real reason you’re here.”

“I have. I’m here to kill you.”

He waved a dismissive hand at her. “You’re all talk, Slayer. Truth is – neither of us can kill the other one. God knows, I’ve tried enough times over the past few days. But I’ve figured it all out, you see.”

“Have you?” she replied casually, disinterested, readying her stake.

“Yeah. I have.” Spike kept both eyes on the weapon “You want me.”

Buffy snorted, “Of course, you would think that.”

“I don’t think it, I know it. Don’t worry, pet,” he leered at her, “it’s more than mutual.”

Her face screwed up in disgust and she lunged at him, stake aimed at his chest. He caught her wrist and yanked her off balance. He followed this through by kicking her in the gut. She fell backwards onto the bed and Spike grinned. Right where he wanted her. He climbed onto her, straddling her waist and pressing her wrists down onto the bed.

“Get off!” The Slayer cried, bucking up against him.

Spike groaned in pleasure, “Oh don’t worry, I intend to.”

She arched up against him. “Stop!”

“Do you really want me to?” he asked, his voice low.

Buffy started to reply.

“Think about it carefully, Buffy,” Spike warned her, “Is that what you really want?”

She went still beneath him and he could see the cogs in her brain moving as she looked up at him with a vacant stare. He could have easily killed her right then. Just snap her neck. Nice and simple. No more bloody Slayer to get on his nerves and spoil his fun. At least not until the new one was called.

Except, he didn’t. Some part of him wanted to know her answer, wanted to see if maybe she wanted him as much as he wanted her. If maybe she dreamed about him.

“No,” she breathed so quietly anyone else might not have heard.

But he did.

He realised in that instant that he’d been expecting rejection. He’d geared himself up for a fight. Now, he had something a lot better than that. The only thing better than killing this girl would be having her. She’d made her choice. Spike leaned down and kissed her.