Buffy stood there for a moment, watching Faith and Spike walk away down the sidewalk, before returning to the house. She glanced at the broken door and asked Xander flatly, “I don’t suppose the hardware stores stay open after dark anymore, do they?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll be in too much danger, though. The only one who could actually get in, door or no door, just left. And I don’t think she’s coming back tonight.”

“I don’t know. But we’re gonna keep watch tonight, anyway,” Buffy informed her friends, and her sister, who had just crept back down the stairs, and was standing at the base, her hands gripping what was left of the splintered banister as she watched her sister with wide eyes. “I’ll sleep on the couch, and we’ll take turns watching. That way if someone tries to get in, whoever’s watching can wake me up fast.”

They all walked back into the living room, and began almost automatically cleaning up what they could of the mess that had been made by the fight. Once they had put everything that was salvageable back in its proper place, and stacked the broken pieces of furniture in a pile near the door to be thrown out the next morning, Dawn went to bed for the night, and Buffy sat up in the living room to talk with her friends.

Slumped in exhaustion in the armchair across from where Willow and Xander sat on the sofa, Buffy said with a weary sigh, “Okay. So Spike knows who killed my mother. For sure.”

“Probably because that would be…um, *himself*,” Xander pointed out, his voice slow and cautious, but still revealing a hint of impatience. He was still firmly convinced that Spike was the one who had killed Joyce, and felt that Buffy was wasting time looking for someone else.

And really, Buffy reminded herself, she had no evidence whatsoever to indicate that Spike had *not* done it. Only his word – the word of an evil, deceptive vampire who had been in fear for his unlife at the point of her stake at the moment he had given it.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But either way, he knows who did it,” she insisted. “He told me tonight when we were fighting.”

“Let me guess,” Xander said in a slightly sarcastic tone, “Once again…right before you were about to stake him?”

Buffy paused for a moment, then nodded slowly with another sigh. “Yep.”

“That’s convenient,” Xander commented, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “He just *happens* to have this very important information for you at the exact moment you’re about to kill him.”

“Buffy,” Willow spoke up hesitantly. “I know you want to know for sure who killed your mom, and this is just my humble opinion, but I think that if he *didn’t* do it – he probably doesn’t know anything, Buffy. Or if he does, he wouldn’t tell us.” Her tone and expression were apologetic.

Xander nodded. “He was just trying to keep you from dusting him, Buffy.”

Buffy was silent for a moment, taking in what they had just said – thinking. It *did* make sense, she had to admit.

“Well,” she said finally, her voice calm and quiet, but with a dangerous gleam in her eyes, “if he *doesn’t* know anything, he’s going to wish I *had* staked him.” She paused. “And if he does…I need to know. And I think I may have thought of a way to find out.”

For the next few minutes, the Slayer outlined her plan for her friends. It was really very simple, and they agreed with her that it should work out well.

Buffy went to bed that night with a sense of satisfaction. No matter what it took, what she had to do – her mother’s killer was going to pay.


“Man, Spike, is that how you fought her the last two times? ‘Cause I think I’m beginning to understand why she’s been kicking your butt so bad,” Faith sneered at him as they made their way back toward the mansion.

“Had it under control, love,” he replied, forcing himself to keep his voice low and controlled, though he was growing more furious by the moment. The anger that had started with Buffy’s snide comments and taunting was being fed by Faith’s derisive attitude.

Buffy’s words had forced him to face what he had allowed himself to become, and Faith’s condescending treatment of him only served to drive the point home.

“Right,” Faith shot back sarcastically. “You were just about to pull off some killer move and keep her from slamming that stake through your heart. If I hadn’t come out there, you’d be dust in the wind right now, Baby! Admit it!”

He did not respond. He knew that Buffy had not been going to dust him; he had already prevented that, not with his fighting ability, but with his carefully placed words. He knew that the blonde Slayer would not stake him as long as she thought he knew who had killed her mum, and although at the moment he had no idea, he had managed to convince her that he did. So, really, technically, Faith had not saved his life.

He could hardly explain that to *her*, though. So he just said nothing, and she took his silence as a grudging agreement.

“I think you’re losing your edge,” she smirked as they entered the mansion, and at that moment he wanted to kill her so badly that it took all his effort not to throw her to the floor right then and there and sink his fangs into her throat, tear her to pieces. But he knew that if he tried, he would most likely be stopped within moments, if not by her, then by her minions – and then she would make him pay for that rash decision.

Better to wait for a sure thing than to risk everything on a not-so-great chance.

“Man, that got me all worked up,” she said, sounding slightly breathless, as they made their way up the stairs. “A good fight always gets me horny.”

He knew exactly where she was going with that sort of talk, and was absolutely *not* in the mood for it. He ignored her, pretending not to understand what she was talking about, and when she stopped outside her bedroom door to unlock it, he started to go on toward his own room.

Within seconds she had caught his arms and slammed him back against the wall next to the door, pinning him there with her body uncomfortably close, one hand still gripping his arm, the other braced against the wall by his head, preventing escape.

“Where do you think you’re going, Baby?” she asked softly, her eyes dancing with mocking laughter. She loved the control she held over him, and he hated her for it.

“I’m a bit tired, love,” he said, his voice quiet and even as he fought not to reveal to her his anger or his utter disgust at her very touch. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just turn in.” He pulled his arm out of her hand and tried to push past her toward his own room.

She just shoved him back against the wall easily, still smiling as if the whole thing was nothing more than a game to her. “And if it’s *not* all the same to me?” she asked him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Her tone was light and her expression was teasing, but he could see the dangerous light in her eyes that lay beneath the façade.

He could feel his anger and helpless frustration boiling up inside of him, knew an instant before it was too late that he was not going to be able to hold it back this time, and snarled at her, “Then I suppose you’ll do whatever the bloody hell you want anyway, won’t you, pet? ‘Cause it’s all about what *you* want, in’nit?”

Her eyes widened in shock, and she took a step back, stunned that he had actually spoken back to her like that, for the first time in months.

He considered taking his chance while she was too startled to react. There had not been any minions within sight on their way up the stairs, and chances were that she would not be able to recover control soon enough to stop him if he just took the opportunity right then and there.

But just because he hadn’t *seen* any of her minions did not mean that they were not there, and he hesitated a crucial moment, unsure if this was the right moment or not. And in the next moment, the choice was taken from him, as he could see the shock fading, being replaced by sheer rage, in the Slayer’s dark eyes.

And then she pulled back her fist and backhanded him, hard, across the face, knocking his head back against the wall. The double impact of the blow, her fist to his face and the wall to the bck of his head, was stunning, and he fought not to black out as she leaned in closer to him to speak, a cold smile on her dark red lips.

“Yeah. It kinda is, Spike,” she replied softly. “See…you chose to work for *me*…and that kind of means that it *is* all about what I want. I say jump, and you say how high. Is that too difficult for you to understand?”

As the dark curtain that had fallen in front of his vision with the blow began to slowly fade, he became aware that she had brought her stake into play, when he felt the pressure of it against his chest. The time for action on his part had passed, he realized, and she was back in complete control.

*Bloody blew it this time, mate,* he told himself. *Right, then. Time for some damage control, and right quick about it!*

He nodded quickly, meeting her eyes and hoping that his own expression appeared apologetic and affectionate. “Sorry, love,” he murmured softly, reaching out his hands tentatively to touch her arms, trying to ignore the oppressive contact of the stake in her hand. “Of course, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you, pet. Not your fault. Just a bit agitated still over everything. Things didn’t quite go as either of us wanted over there, did they?”

Faith visibly relaxed a little at his placating tone, his gentle touch, both of which served to begin to undo the effect of his rejection a few moments before. “No, they didn’t,” she admitted with a heavy sigh, her lips falling downward into a pout as his words called her attention back to their failure of the evening. She met his eyes with a calmer, less threatening expression in her eyes, pulling the stake back, but not yet putting it away.

He knew he was on the right track, and although he hated it, he knew what he had to do. “You’re right,” he forced himself to say, although everything about the words went against everything in his nature. “I’ve not been quite up to form lately, and it’s got me a bit edgy. Didn’t mean to take it out on you, pet.”

She sighed, and finally put away the stake, and he exhaled slowly in relief.

“That’s okay,” she relented. “I’m a little on edge myself.” She paused, looking down for a moment before looking back up into his eyes, a little smile playing about the edges of her lips. “Wanna make it up to me?”

He steeled himself to do what he knew was expected, though he hated it with everything in him. He pulled her closer to him, kissing her deeply as he pulled her backward toward her now open bedroom door.

As she pushed him down on the bed as usual, roughly, urgently tearing his clothes away from his body, he tried to call up the images that usually served to prepare him for these sessions of theirs. But strangely, instead of the usual imaginations of him fighting and killing Faith, all he could bring to mind were images of the fight that night between the two Slayers.

For some reason the memory was exciting to him; some small part of his mind was conscious that he was not really sure which would bring him more pleasure – for Faith to kill Buffy or for Buffy to kill Faith.

And suddenly, it was not Faith that was fighting Buffy, but himself. As the tiny, blonde Slayer in his mind threw him to the ground, those impossibly strong legs pinning him beneath her, he could feel his arousal heightening at the thought of how easily the amazing, powerful girl had managed to overpower him.

His body responded even more strongly as he pictured himself breaking her grip and reversing their positions, slamming her down underneath him, every inch of his body in contact with every inch of hers, feeling her steady, pulsing heat beneath him, as his face changed, and his fangs descended toward her throat.

He hardly even realized when the fantasy shifted, and he was no longer biting Buffy, but kissing her, as he was kissing Faith in reality. In the image in his mind, the blonde Slayer returned his kiss, pulling him urgently closer, needing him, wanting him…

Suddenly it struck him all at once just what he was thinking, and his eyes shot open wide with a start. Faith’s head was moving steadily down his chest, alternatingly kissing and biting him, and she did not see his reaction of shock…but she felt it, and he felt her lips form a smile against his skin, as she thought that the little jerk of his body was due to her efforts.

*What the bleedin’ hell?* he wondered, almost frantically. Why was he thinking about Buffy while he was with Faith? Usually his thoughts of revenge against Faith were enough to ready him for being with her…occasionally he let his memory drift to his time with Dru, and allowed those memories to help him along.

He could understand when it had started, the thoughts of fighting and biting her; tonight he was furious with Buffy and wanted nothing more than to drain her dry, to make her pay for the insulting blows to his ego she had dealt him.

But to imagine kissing her? Taking her, in any way besides the one most natural to him? He couldn’t understand it. The very idea was very troubling, confusing, even frightening to him.

“What’s wrong?” Faith suddenly asked, raising her head a little from his chest, and he realized that his worrisome thoughts of the moment were probably doing nothing to help his performance.

“Nothing, pet…nothing at all,” he assured her, closing his eyes and emphasizing his denial with a little gasp of feigned pleasure as she lowered her head again, working her way slowly downward.

He could psycho-analyze his own sexual fantasies later, he told himself. At the moment, he was in bed, underneath a deranged, psychotic killer who had threatened his life only minutes earlier, was deeply insecure and set off by any sort of rejection, and would most likely take it in a highly personal way if his lack of desire for her was revealed.

At a crucial time like that, a bloke was best off to go with what was working and reason it all out later.

He allowed his mind to play over the images that swept through it again, picturing himself entangled in the embrace of another Slayer, and was amazed at the effect the thoughts had on him. It was not long before he was on the edge of losing control completely.

When they both lay spent, entangled in the damp, rumpled sheets, Faith raised her head to look at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“God, that was good, Baby,” she gasped, laying her head down to rest on his chest, rising and falling rapidly with unnecessary breath. “What got into you tonight?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

He did not provide one, except for in his mind alone.

*Wish I knew, pet. Wish I knew.*