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Something New by dreamweaver
 
Chapter 2
 
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Chapter 2



“You’re not serious!” Giles exclaimed.

“Mom’s made up her mind,” sighed Buffy. “And she’s not going to change it. You have no idea how stubborn she can be.”

“Must run in the family,” muttered Giles. “But have you explained how dangerous Spike is?”

“Well, he’s not anymore, is he? That’s what she says.” Buffy grinned at him. “I thought you wanted him out of here, Giles. Or do you like having him as a permanent house guest?”

Giles winced at the thought. “I do want him out of here. And I have company coming shortly. But...”

“Let’s try it for a while. And I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Spike was staring at her incredulously when she came into the bathroom.

“You heard,” she said. Of course he had, with that acute vampire hearing. “If you hurt my Mom in any way, Spike, you won’t just get dusted. I’ll lock you in a metal coffin where you’ll starve for eternity.”

“Wouldn’t,” he said gruffly. “She’s a lady, your Mum. I like her.”

“Reminds you of your Mom, I suppose,” she said sarcastically, unlocking his shackles.

“Yeah, she does. Caring,” he muttered, not looking at her.

She glanced at him in surprise. Somehow she had never thought of him as having a mother. But of course he had and he had loved her too, from the sound of it.

Giles was back with his crossbow. “Ropes,” he said curtly.

Spike rolled his eyes and Buffy sighed. But she went and got the ropes, and he submitted patiently to being tied up again.

They walked, no hardship for a Slayer and a vampire, taking the back streets to Revello Drive. They couldn’t take a cab, not with Spike tied up like that, and Giles’ Peugeot was a two-seater. Buffy was bad enough driving an automatic; there was no way she was going to deal with all that business of gears and clutches in a standard.

They got to the house and he hesitated at the front door. She shoved him through it impatiently. He stumbled in, then twisted to stare at the doorway. When he turned to look at her in amazement, she realized what it was that had stunned him. She had never revoked his invitation to the house. She had revoked Angel’s, but hadn’t even thought of Spike. Under his astonished stare now, she flushed.

“Oh, no, Buffy, really!” exclaimed Joyce.

“What?” asked Buffy in surprise.

“Did you have to tie the poor boy up like that? Take those ropes off at once! I won’t have anyone treated like that in my house!”

Spike grinned at Buffy, scarred eyebrow flying tauntingly. Buffy shrugged and started unwinding the ropes. She had thought them unnecessary all along, once they had established that he really couldn’t harm anyone.

“Let me show you your room,” said Joyce and Spike went with her agreeably, glancing mockingly at Buffy over his shoulder as he did so.

Joyce had made the guest room as cozy as she could, the windows carefully covered and every possible luxury that she could think of brought in. Spike’s eyes widened a little and he looked at Buffy in surprise where she was leaning sulkily on the doorjamb. She hunched a shoulder to indicate that she had absolutely no part in it.

“Can I get you anything?” Joyce was saying. “Hot chocolate perhaps? I’ve got those little marshmallows that you like.”

“Um, yeah, I’d like that very much. Thank you.”

They went back down to the kitchen. Buffy watched Joyce fussing happily over Spike and realized that she must have been lonely all alone here with Buffy too busy to visit often. She was enjoying having a house guest. Spike looked somewhere between shock and amusement, and was regarding Joyce with what Buffy realized was real affection.

It looked like it was safe to leave him alone with Joyce. Even last year, when he had been perfectly capable of harming humans, he hadn’t hurt Joyce. He had clowned around, pulling Angel’s chain by pretending to bite her, but he had never actually laid a finger on her.

They all had dinner together, Spike politely asking questions about Joyce’s work at her gallery and Joyce interestedly finding out his preferences in foods. Buffy was silent, thoughtfully listening to the two of them.

“Ninety-eight point six,” said Joyce triumphantly, setting his mug of blood beside his plate. “I’ve stocked up on blood, but you don’t seem to mind other food.”

“Doesn’t nourish me, so I can’t live on it,” Spike explained. “Have to have the blood. But I like the taste of other foods. Anything spicy with a strong taste. Back in the day, Victorian England was a desert when it came to things like that. Everything was bland. Didn’t have the take-out curry places that you’ve got these days. Had to be invited to dinner by some nabob who’d been to ‘Indja, don’t y’know?’ and brought back his own cook.”

“Angel never seemed to like anything but blood,” Buffy remarked.

“Oh, well, that wanker,” said Spike scornfully. “Unadventurous. Me, I like to experiment. Strong tastes work.”

“Victorian England,” said Joyce, fascinated. “Tell me about that.”

The conversation swung in that direction and then to the art of the period, their two specialties merging.

“Burne-Jones, yeah, he became famous three years before I was turned. Remember going to the Grosvenor Gallery in 1877 to see his work.”

Buffy listened, bemused, as names like Burne-Jones, Morris, Rossetti, flew past her dazed head. Spike seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about a lot of esoteric subjects. Insatiably curious, she realized. And Joyce was having a wonderful time.

She slept at home in her own bed that night, instead of at the dorm, still reluctant to leave Joyce alone with Spike. Nothing happened. She woke up around three to hear a whisper of sound coming from the television downstairs. He was watching TV, the sound turned down to almost nothing, only her Slayer and his vampire hearing capable of picking it up. Joyce would not be disturbed by it at all.

Daytime was no problem. Spike went up to sleep, Joyce to the gallery and Buffy to her classes. Buffy made sure she got home to Revello Drive before Joyce was due back. Something hard rock from the late seventies was blaring from some weird oldies station on the stereo, but no one was in the livingroom. Buffy winced and turned down the volume, then went looking for Spike. She found him in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? Making dinner, of course. Your Mum will be tired when she gets home.”

Buffy stared. “Why would a vampire learn how to cook?”

“‘S not rocket science, Slayer. I’ve watched people and your Mum’s got some good recipe books. Throw something into a pan, add a few spices, fry it up.”

“Um,” said Buffy. Guess vamps never had to worry about things like cholesterol. Well, it was only for the once.

“Just common sense. ‘S not like I’m doing anything fancy. Set the table, would you?”

She did so, then realized that the place had been neatened up.

“You cleaned up.”

“Straightened a few things. Was bored.”

“What would you normally be doing?”

“Raising hell.” He sighed. “Can’t now. Can’t even go to Willie’s ‘cause any sodding twirp, human or demon, can bust my chops. Gonna be a dull life. No booze. No poker. No fun. Least I can get some decent conversation when your Mum’s home and in the meantime she’s got some very good books.”

“You read.”

He slanted a scornful glance at her. “Been known to do that.”

Joyce was delighted that dinner was ready when she got home and the food turned out to be not so bad at all. After dinner, Joyce and Spike sat down to watch TV and talk. Spike had taped some sort of weird daytime soap opera called ‘Passions’ that he and Joyce both seemed to be crazy over. After that, they got into a conversation that went all over the map and even succeeded in pulling Buffy in; and Joyce loaned him her library card so that he could get more books if he wanted.

Buffy watched him in amazement as he talked animatedly to Joyce, wondering whether somehow, without knowing it, she had fallen down a rabbit hole into Wonderland. The Big Bad persona was gone, and the prickly, abrasive, in-your-face attitude that set everyone’s teeth on edge when he said even a word to her or Giles or the Scoobies was nowhere in evidence when he talked to Joyce. She saw now that it had been a defence. He didn’t need defences with Joyce and the guard came down. He was relaxed, laughing, downright charming, teasing Joyce, almost flirting with her. He was...likeable. The way he had been likeable when they were under that spell of Willow’s.

Buffy winced, thinking of that spell. But what had that spell really been about? ‘Why doesn’t she just go marry him?’ That’s what Willow had said. But marriage didn’t necessarily mean love, so why had they both fallen so hopelessly, ridiculously, in love? Okay, she had always connected marriage with love somewhere back in her head. But then that implied that Spike...No.

Except...

The moment the spell went into effect, there he was down on his knees, not the slightest hint of hesitation, offering her everything—his heart, his love, his life, himself. Predators, warriors, enemies, lovers, that posture always meant the same thing: surrender. ‘I’m yours.’

Giving himself away. That’s what he had done with Dru, she thought suddenly. Gave himself completely into her service, until she had rejected him. He always threw himself headlong into everything, never stopping to count the cost, holding nothing back.

Angel held back, always counted the cost, kept himself in check, kept his emotions in a cage. She had offered him everything—herself, belonging, family. And he had turned away from that, because he defined himself as a vampire, because he was not human. She had never cared about his not being human.

Neither Spike nor she had cared that he was not human when they were under that spell. Spike didn’t define himself as being a vampire. All those impenetrable barriers were only minor irritations for Spike, who didn’t believe in rules and chafed at regulations. Spike never saw limitations: sunlight was only an inconvenience; grab a blanket, find a way around it. So he was a vampire, so she was human; it was simply something they had both been willing to work around.

And family? She watched Spike with Joyce. He valued it. It meant something to him. Under the spell, without a thought, he had accepted Giles as his father-in-law, accepted the Scoobies, her extended family, as his. No longer under a spell, here with Joyce, he was still doing the same. Angel had rejected family, choosing to stand in the bushes, outside, isolate. Spike embraced it, cherished it, rejected isolation and came inside.

Home. He recognized it when he saw it, reached for it, even in freefall grabbed at connection.

“What?” demanded Spike, becoming aware of how she was staring at him.

She shook her head. “I was wondering whether a bit of Willow’s spell was still hanging in there. You’re not so bad when you’re not trying to rip my throat out.”

The scarred eyebrow shot up. “And you’re not so bad when you don’t have that stick up your ass, Slayer.”

“Children,” scolded Joyce and they both laughed.

That evening set the pattern for the next several days. They would go about their various affairs during the day and then regroup in the evenings. Buffy realized she was starting to look forward to the dinners and the talk and his company. How weird was that?

“Keeping an eye on Spike,” she explained when Willow asked where she had been that evening. Buffy was back to sleeping in the dorm again, now that she was sure that Spike was no threat to Joyce.

Willow accepted that without question. Buffy was relieved. She didn’t want to think about this strange détente that existed between Spike and herself, and she certainly didn’t want to discuss it. Putting anything about it into words would be way too stressful.

“I’ll be late tomorrow,” Joyce said the next night. “I’ve got a new consignment coming in. A couple of heavy crates that I’ve got to find someone to help me unpack.”

“Could do that for you if you like,” Spike offered. He slanted a mocking glance at Buffy. “That is, if the Slayer will let me out of the cage. Going stir crazy here. Be good to get out of the house for a while.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Buffy muttered. “You can leave whenever you like.”

It was pretty well established by now that he was not a threat. Even Giles had finally agreed to that. So no one had any objections to his leaving. But he had nowhere to go and they both knew it.

“I could come help too,” she suggested to Joyce when he said nothing, just glowered at the floor.

Joyce smiled at both of them. “That would be nice.”

The crates were filled with heavy metal sculptures that Joyce would never have been able to move. Buffy and Spike though, with their extra strength, had no trouble unpacking them and getting them set up where Joyce wanted.

The phone rang just as Spike was setting the last one up on its display stand.

“Buffy, it’s for you,” Joyce called.

Buffy took the phone. “Oh, hi, Giles! What’s up?” Her eyes widened as she listened. “Biker demons? You’ve got to be kidding!...Yeah, yeah. All right.”

“What’s wrong, dear?” Joyce asked worriedly as Buffy put the phone down.

“Giles says there’s a gang of, get this, biker demons rampaging through Main Street.”

“Hellions,” Spike nodded. “That’s what they call themselves. Go from town to town, tearing up the place. Probably don’t know that Sunnydale has a Slayer in residence.”

“Not very bright of them.”

“Aren’t,” said Spike simply.

“Giles and Xander are meeting us at Revello Drive. C’mon, Mom. Let’s get you and Spike back home where the two of you will be safe and then the bunch of us can go after these morons.”

Spike winced at the thought of having to be kept safe while Giles and Xander could go out to fight and was completely silent as Joyce turned off the lights and keyed in the security system. They headed down the street to where Joyce had parked her car.

Wheels screeched a little ways up Main Street and headlights wove and twisted. They could hear yells of laughter and shouts of malice resounding against the walls of the buildings, clear in the silence of the night. Spike looked that way wistfully.

“Sounds like fun,” he muttered and Buffy swatted the back of his head. “Hey! Just saying!”

“They’re coming this way,” Joyce said worriedly.

The bikes were racing down the street towards them. Buffy glanced towards the car and knew that, one, they would never make it and, two, even if they did, they would be blocked in and hassled.

The phone company’s office was right beside them.

“Spike!” she said sharply. “In the alley behind. They always have reels of cable back there. I want several yards of it.”

“Right,” said Spike without question and went.

He was back in a second with his vampire speed, cable looped in his hand.

“Hold one end,” she said. “If you just hold it, this shouldn’t hurt you.”

She grabbed the other end and ran across the street, feeding the cable out behind her so that it lay loosely on the ground. Spike grinned, seeing what she was about.

“Buffy, they’re coming!” Joyce gasped.

The bikers had seen them, were racing towards them, yelling with satisfaction at having found prey that they could harass.

“Get behind a car,” Spike said quickly to Joyce.

Joyce did and he hoped that would give her enough protection.

“Now!” Buffy yelled and they both pulled the cable taut.

Held at waist-level, the cable was completely effective. Either bikes or riders slammed into it full tilt. Bikes went skidding, sparks flying up as metal screeched on the asphalt; riders hit the ground, squalling with fury and dismay. The force of the fall broke one biker’s neck outright; the rest came staggering to their feet in disarray.

Buffy flung herself at them.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” muttered Spike, bouncing on his toes in frustration at not being able to join in.

Joyce screamed as one of the demons ran at her. Buffy, fully occupied with the others, couldn’t help.

“No!” Spike threw himself in between and swung at the demon with all his might, determined to make the blow count if he was going to have to pay for it, his face already wincing in anticipation of the pain.

His fist connected solidly. The demon staggered back. Spike’s hand went automatically to his head, then stopped.

“No pain!” he exclaimed, shocked. Then realization dawned. He hit the demon again, testing and confirming his discovery. “I can hurt a demon!”

He vamped out and tore the demon’s head right off its shoulders, yelling with glee.

“That’s right! I’m back! And I’m a bloody animal!”

He flung himself joyously into the fight, making up for all the violence he had missed out on and having a wonderful time.

Giles’ Peugeot skidded to a stop beside them, and Giles and Xander tumbled out. But there was no need. The only surviving demon, their leader, Razor, grabbed at his bike and hightailed it out of there.

“Coward!” Spike yelled after him, laughing maniacally.

“He can hurt people again!” Xander gasped. Both he and Giles aimed their crossbows at Spike.

Spike flicked the back of his hand lightly at Buffy. His fingernails snapped her shoulder and he gasped in pain, catching at his head.

“Nah, just demons. Good enough!” He raised his head and howled at the moon. “Willie’s, here I come!”

Before they could stop him he had grabbed one of the bikes and was off at high speed, weaving back and forth in elation across the street.

“Let him go,” said Buffy, pushing up the crossbows. “He can’t hurt humans and we don’t care if he hurts demons, do we?”

She was grinning. Spike’s high spirits were contagious.

“Well, I guess not,” muttered Giles. Xander sighed regretfully; he would have loved to have been rid of Spike permanently.

Joyce was smiling too. “I’m so glad,” she murmured quietly to Buffy. “The poor boy was so unhappy. Should you go after him? Make sure that he’s all right?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. He’ll just get stone drunk in celebration and be back when he’s done.”

Four hours later, he was still not back. Buffy, having decided to sleep at home that night in case Razor came back and tried to retaliate against Joyce, heard movement in the livingroom and went down to see what it was. It was Joyce, pacing worriedly about in her dressing gown.

“It’s past midnight,” she said to Buffy. “Do you think something could have happened to him?”

“C’mon, Mom. Night’s the time for vamps to prowl. The worst that could be happening is that he’s probably just passed out somewhere.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t like the sound of that either, Buffy. It’s not safe. Would you...?”

Buffy sighed. It was clear that Joyce was not going to settle until she knew where Spike was.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go find out what he’s doing.”

She went up and changed into tank top and jeans. Willie’s was the place to start. That’s where he had been going and, if he wasn’t still there, Willie would be able to tell her where he would have gone to next.

When she got to Willie’s, she could hear the sound of a loud brawl inside. Something came flying through the doors of the bar and crashed onto the ground in front of her. It was a very battered Riharejk demon. It rolled over onto its back and gazed dazedly at the bar.

“He’s a madman,” it said.

“Noticed that,” Buffy agreed and the Riharejk turned its head to stare blearily at her.

“Slayer!” it squeaked suddenly as its gaze finally focused on her face. It scrabbled backwards frantically, then found its feet and ran.

Grinning, she went into the bar. Several demon bodies littered the room, most of them extremely dead. Willie was cowering behind the counter. He saw Buffy and waved at her desperately.

“Slayer! Thank God! Am I glad to see you! Stake him!”

“Stake who?” She leaned comfortably back against the counter, elbows on the bartop, and surveyed the room thoughtfully. In the center of a mess of smashed tables and chairs, Spike was squaring off against a demon that stood three feet taller than he did and massed some three or four hundred pounds.

“Spike, of course!” Willie gasped.

“Why? He seems to be doing my job for me.”

“You’re the Slayer! You’re supposed to kill vamps!”

“What kind of demon is that, did you say? Doesn’t look the peaceable type.”

“Well...”

“Mmhm. I wonder if I should help Spike out.”

“He’s killing all my customers!”

“Hazards of running a demon bar.”

“Look, Slayer, look,” Willie said despairingly. “He comes in here, starts tearing the place apart. Says he’s taking on all comers. So of course they came. Now the place is all smashed up, I don’t have any clientele left and he didn’t even give me time to get any bets going. It’s just not fair!”

“My heart bleeds.”

“The S’vek will take him,” Willie muttered. “Half-pissed and outmatched. Yeah, yeah. The S’vek will take him.”

Spike slid back to the furtherest distance he could get from the S’vek without running into the wall or the remaining tables and chairs, some twenty feet. Buffy watched the easy confidence with which he was moving.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” she said.

“Then you take him when he’s done.”

The S’vek was lumbering towards Spike. But he was running at it now, going very fast. He jumped, his legs coming up so that he hurtled at it feet-first, body parallel to the ground. His crossed feet locked around its neck in the instant it started to duck, then his extended body twisted fiercely in the air, arms spread to give added torque to his legs.

The S’vek was spun over in a cartwheel, its neck the hub of the spin. Spike dropped face-down towards the floor, forearms spread flat to break the fall, pulling the S’vek with him. The top of the S’vek’s head smashed on the floor. There was a crack as its neck broke, then the body thudded to the ground.

Spike came smoothly to his feet and swiped an unbroken bottle off a table, upended it happily as he dropped into an undamaged chair.

Buffy clapped her hands and he grinned at her.

“Some move!” she said, impressed. “Where’d that come from?”

“Thai-style. Learned it back in the sixties. They teach you to fight with everything—fists, knees, elbows, feet. Could show you some time if you like.”

“Yeah, I’d like. And you half-drunk and all.”

“Oh, I’m way more than half-drunk, pet.” He held the bottle out towards her, brows lifting enquiringly.

She shook her head. “A world of no. Booze and Buffy don’t mix.”

“Gotta drink with me, Slayer. ‘M celebrating. Got any wine coolers?” he called to Willie.

“Yeah,” sighed Willie in resignation. Every other entity remaining in the bar now was either out cold or dead. These two being his only customers left standing, he might as well make the best of it. “Peach or lemon?”

“Peach.” Buffy dropped into the chair next to Spike. “Got it all out of your system now?”

“Great day.” He tipped his head back and smiled at the ceiling. “What are you doing here, Slayer?”

“Mom was worried about you.”

“Your Mum’s a luv, Slayer. Pity you don’t take after her.”

“Hey!” She hit his shoulder and he laughed. Willie set the peach cooler on the table beside them. She took a sip. “Not bad.”

Willie was looking at the shambles of his bar. “Who’s going to pay for all this?”

“Ever heard of insurance?” mumbled Spike.

“Who’s going to give insurance on a demon bar?”

“Don’t want fights, get a bouncer.”

“Might invest in that,” Willie muttered, heading towards the back room.

“No bouncer I couldn’t take,” Spike said under his breath, watching him go. He turned his head to grin woozily at Buffy. She saw that he had been telling the truth. He was way more than seven seas under.

“Hey,” she said and he lifted an eyebrow questioningly at her. “Thank you for taking care of my Mom. When you slugged that biker who was coming at her, you didn’t know you could hurt demons.”

“Owed her,” he said gruffly.

“Still. Thanks.”

“Was nothing.” He took another pull at the bottle, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Ready to go home?”

“Yeah, I guess. Looks like things are going to be dead around here.” He grinned.

But he didn’t move to get up, stayed sprawled in his chair, his eyes half-closed in lazy satisfaction, like a big cat replete after a good meal. He was even purring; she could hear it; a low vibration halfway between a growl and a purr.

“Fresh air might clear your head a little,” she coaxed, amused.

“Finish our drinks first.” He looked her over. “Good thing you’re wearing jeans. Can ride the bike easier.”

“No way in hell! You’re not driving! And I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”

“‘S my bike,” he said stubbornly. “I’m keeping it.”

“Not arguing. But we’re not riding it tonight. And I’m not pushing it home. Not when I’m probably going to have to hold you up too.”

He turned his head to look at Willie who was glumly sweeping up broken glass. “You keep that bike for me and I’ll come pick it up tomorrow.”

“What do you think this is? A p...”

“You keep it safe or else.”

“Or else what?” said Willie snidely. “You can’t hurt me. I’m human.”

“Mistake to tell him,” said Spike to Buffy. He smiled sweetly at Willie. “Can bust up your place though. Tomorrow night and the next night and the next n...”

“But of course I’ll take care of your bike!” blurted Willie. “Did I say I wouldn’t? I’ll just go put it somewhere safe right now!”

They both grinned as he hurried out of the bar.

“He’d probably prefer you bust him up every night instead,” murmured Buffy.

“Hates losing money, Willie does.” Spike held up his bottle and squinted at it. “Just a mouthful left.”

He reached out and caught her arm, held it horizontally in front of him with her forearm bent upwards.

“What...? Hey!”

He had tipped the bottle against her wrist and let the last little bit of whiskey run down her arm to puddle in the bend of her elbow. She tried to pull her arm away, but he had it fast.

“Never understood why they use shoes,” he remarked. “Skin is so much better.”

He pulled her arm to his mouth and sucked at the pool of whiskey in the hollow of her elbow. She felt his cool lips move against her skin and gasped.

“See?” He gave her an upward-slanting, sloe-eyed look, all heat and drowsy amusement.

“Spike...”

His tongue ran the bend of her elbow and she shivered. It was raspier than usual, more like a cat’s tongue than a human’s. She realized that there were golden sparkles going off in the blue of his eyes. His pupils had dilated and the irises were flickering back and forth from blue to yellow.

“You taste good, Slayer.”

His tongue rasped up the wet track that the trickle of whiskey had left down the inside of her forearm. She didn’t know why she didn’t pull her arm away. Except that it felt good. Really, really good. A ball of heat was growing in the pit of her stomach.

“You’re drunk,” she muttered.

“I am very drunk. And I feel great.” He licked the pulse point at her wrist. “Slayer blood. Right under the skin here, yeah. I can feel it. I can smell it.”

“And you’re not getting any of it.” She tried to pull her arm away, but he just kissed her wrist. “Spike...”

“It’s an aphrodisiac, y’know.”

“You don’t need an aphrodisiac,” she muttered and he laughed.

“That’s true. Got loads of staying power, pet, even without. I could make you feel so good.”

She knew he could. That spell of Willow’s had made that evident.

“Spike, stop it.”

“Could make you feel so much better than those other two wankers. That Parker git? Human. No human could ever do it for you, pet. Don’t have the power. And Angel? No imagination.”

She jerked at her arm angrily. His tongue rasped her wrist once more before she succeeded in pulling it away.

“Feel that, pet? Think of that all over.”

Oh, God.

She jerked to her feet, backing away. Her skin felt hot everywhere. How the hell was he doing this to her?

But he wasn’t, was he? She was doing it to herself.

“‘What did it take to pry apart the Slayer’s dimpled knees?’” she flung at him. Those words that he had taunted her with after the Parker episode had always rankled.

He looked up at her, surprised, then frowned, considering that.

“I think I was...jealous,” he said with wonder.

They stared at each other.

She was the Slayer and he was a vampire; this was just not done. But he had never had any respect for rules and regulations, and he was severely drunk, the booze removing every inhibition.

But she was not. She didn’t have that excuse.

“Come on, damn it,” she growled, grabbing the lapels of his duster and yanking him to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

Big mistake. His arms came around her, pulling her to him.

“Wanted to do this ever since that spell,” he muttered and kissed her.

No spell this time. But, God, the man could kiss! Her knees turned to water, her arms clenched across his back, her mouth opened to his without a thought. Passion flared, insistent, imperative, demanding. Their mouths twisted together. Their bodies fused. They just about ate each other alive.

A latch clicked. Buffy tore herself away, leaned against a table, gasping. He was breathing hard too, and he was a vampire, he didn’t need to breathe.

Willie came in and stared at them, puzzled by the tension between them.

“All right. This stops here,” Buffy said forcefully. “Willie! You have a car.”

“Yeah...”

“Drive us home.”

Willie’s mouth opened to protest, then he thought better of it. Anything to get rid of them, he thought, and waved a hand towards the door.

TBC
 
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