Disclaimer: I am not even making a shiny nickel off of this. Joss is God, I bow before his creative genius.

Rating: PG-13 or R, 'cause there's some sex, and because Buffy and Spike get to say all the words you KNOW they'd be saying if they weren't on prime time

Spoilers: Everything through Gone

Feedback: Yes please! Positive or negative. Here or at [email protected]

A/N: My attempt to explore/explain the slight case of multiple personality disorder that seems to be afflicting Buffy and Spike this season. Also, be warned of a little Angel-bashing ahead. Personally, I like Angel. I have no problem with him. But Spike sure does. So just bear in mind that Spike's opinions do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author, and we'll get along fine. J

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Spike stalked along the dark streets of Sunnydale, muttering a constant stream of curses under his breath. He could feel her already, as if his heightened senses could pick her out among all the other walking Happy Meals, singing along his skin even though she had to be a mile away yet. It infuriated him, enticed him, drew him on, even against his better judgment. They had fallen into a pattern, he and the Slayer--patrolling, then sparring, then, more often than not, the searing kisses and mind-numbing sex that always culminated in her absence in the morning. Not exactly his idea of the perfect date, but he was taking what he could get. Still, he wondered, as his boots struck the pavement in a steady swagger, how long it would be till he reached the end of his rope, already stretched almost to the breaking point. He pushed the limits every night, unable and unwilling to stay away, to admit defeat. But it wasn't easy. Hence the swearing, and the brooding that was becoming so constant he was making himself ill with it. Giving Peaches a run for his money these days, he thought, and his face twisted in a mocking half-laugh, half-snarl.

It had been much more bearable at the beginning. In fact, sometimes he was overwhelmed still by the wonder of that first kiss. Well, he supposed technically it wasn't their first kiss--there had been Willow's twisted my-will-be-done spell (and even then he had marveled, through his hatred, at how good the Slayer's lips tasted), and that all-too-brief moment when she had tried to fool him into thinking she was a robot. He wondered if she'd noticed that he'd been the only one of her circle able to tell the difference between her and the machine. In any case, none of it counted. None of it, until that ridiculous dancing demon debacle, his humiliating stint as troubadour, and his less-than-dramatic exit. Another alley, he'd thought at the time, Another rejection. Par for the course, mate. And then suddenly, out of bitter ashes there came the liquid pull of her eyes dragging him towards her, and he didn't even care that he was fucking singing again, he just knew that he could feel electricity arcing between them and he knew, with every fiber of his undead being, that for once she needed something that he could give.

Then their lips touched, and his brain dissolved, disjointed thoughts and sensations bubbling their random way to the surface. Had he thought he was drowning in her before? Then now he was drowned, surely, and somehow the Powers That Be had screwed up and allowed a vampire into this heaven that was the feel of her hair clinging to his hand, the desperate grip of her fingers on his arm. Warm, he thought distantly, she was so warm, like sunlight that caressed without burning. After all of his waiting and doomed longing, he could hardly believe that he was being allowed to touch her, to explore her, to feel the way her body fit against his, to hear the tiny, hungry sounds she made as he shifted his mouth over hers. Lust and love and pain and joy all tangled together, slammed into his gut like a wrecking ball. And when she finally tore herself away from him and ran off into the night, all he could do was stare after her, shocked with the loss of her heat and the realization that he, who had called himself a poet, had no words for what he had just experienced.

Later, of course, his defenses clicked back into place, and he laughed at how his mind had tried to frame the kiss in similes. "Sunlight that caressed without burning?" he mocked inwardly. You always were a bloody awful poet, you git. And when she'd rejected him the night after, he'd tried to tell himself it was no less than he'd expected, that he'd simply been in the right place at the right time to catch a curtain-closing snog. But he knew that wasn't all. He knew there had to be more. She'd left the dance in the middle of a measure, and she'd have to finish it, soon or late. He wouldn't accept any other possibility.

He was a simple, straightforward sort of bloke—he loved and fought and argued and killed and celebrated with equal intensity, no holds barred. And proud of it. Where William's passions had been repressed, Spike's were unleashed on anyone and anything who dared come near him. Only his sarcasm provided any reprieve, and that was a passion in itself, one of many weapons in his arsenal. In fact, those had been the two things that had driven him mad about Angelus—well, aside from the whole seducing-his-girlfriend-for-a-lark bit. He'd never understood how a being could be so utterly humorless as Angelus was, or how someone so powerful could stand to skulk and plot and hide in shadows when there were clearly so many stand-up fights just begging to be had.

And things hadn't improved much when the gypsies had mojoed good old Angelus into becoming the Ensouled One. Maybe a tiny glimmer of humor here and there, but still with the brooding and the tortured eyes and the I-know-I-was-a-vicious-killer-but-I'm-really-sorry-now-so-please-pity-me bollocks. It had been enough to put Spike right off his blood on many occasions, not least the time when the stupid pillock buggered off to L.A. in a beautiful, touching, monumentally fuckwitted display of self-sacrifice, leaving Buffy confused and grieving. Now Spike hadn't exactly had warm and fuzzy feelings for the Slayer at the time (or had he? Dru had thought so), but he did know a little bit about love, and he was pretty sure it didn't mean dooming the beautiful lady to months of lonely self-doubt just because things got a bit rough. And the Grand Poof hadn't even had the stones to move for real, just moped his way up the coast a bit where he could still drop in and rip her heart out when he was bored. Spike could feel his game face fighting its way to the surface just thinking about it. Jealous much? He could almost hear Dawn's voice in his mind. And she'd be right, in that annoying way she had. In the deep recesses of his mind, he knew that Angel had suffered too. But ultimately, it didn't matter. Angel had had Buffy, really had her—heart, body, and soul devoted to him in a way that she'd never risked before or since, a gift that Spike knew he was unlikely ever to receive. Angel had had all of that, and he'd thrown it away. And that, Spike would never understand, and never forgive.

Because Spike wasn't a hero, like Angel. He wasn't a champion, or whatever bloody thing the Souled Wonder was calling himself these days. He was a monster, and she made him want to remember how to be a man. Maybe it was noble of Angel to have left her, but nobility wasn't exactly high on Spike's list of priorities. Being a bad-ass, now, that was important. Style. Intelligence. Even honor, to a point. But nobility? He'd known too many nobles for that. He had spent one hundred and forty-seven days in a Buffy-less world, and it wasn't an experience he was planning on repeating anytime soon. The concept of trying to stop loving her never occurred to him. It was quite simple, really. He loved her, and he loved Dawn, and he wanted to make them happy. And if he couldn't do that, damned if he wouldn't stake himself trying.

Of course, Buffy did have a habit of making him want to kill her. Several times a day. On a good day. He grinned fondly, thinking of the way she had of curling one lush lip as she delivered some biting retort. God, he loved fighting with her. Verbally, physically, it didn't matter, she was the most adept dancing partner he'd ever had. Strong and fearless and smart, she was the ideal adversary. And yet she had a fragility, a barely-contained sorrow about her now that broke his bloodless heart. Half the time he didn't know whether to kiss her or smack her. He'd done quite a bit of both, that night in the now-demolished old house, and somehow it had all seemed to blend together in a way that made sense. It had been so seamless, the transition from the fight to the sex, the way it should be. All part of the dance. From the moment she'd kissed him, her fist crushing through the wall behind them, he had known that there would be no running away this time. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire unlife (or his life, for that matter), man and demon intertwined in hot, blind need. He wanted to touch her everywhere at once. He wanted to devour her in a way that had something to do with his vampiric instincts but more to do with the need to do everything, to be everything for her, to crawl inside her skin and wrap himself around her soul. He was lost, and he knew it. At that moment, someone could have staked him six ways to Sunday and he wouldn't have even noticed.

'Course, the way he remembered it, he hadn't been the only one having a good time. His eyes lit with feral satisfaction as he remembered the look on her face when she'd driven herself down onto him, the wide-eyed shock and pleasure. He was pretty sure that image would keep his chilled body warm for the rest of his days—which might not be that many, if he kept hanging out with this gang. But strangely enough, he liked that, too. Sure, since he'd come to Sunnydale he'd been flattened by an organ, deserted by the woman he'd loved for a century, and neutered by poster boys for Psycho Government GI Joe (taser sold separately). Not to mention, shortly thereafter, falling in love with the one woman he was supposed to kill above all others. But at least it had never been boring.

So why wasn't that enough? He had blood and beer in the fridge, plenty of demons just waiting for him to kick their scaly asses, and a hot-blooded, maddening Slayer with a taste for experimentation to warm his bed. Sometimes even when she was visible. Not exactly how he'd imagined his career as a vampire turning out, but he had all the basics covered. He should be, to borrow Red's phrase, rolling in puppies. Well, maybe puppies and blood. And scotch. And money. And the adoration of a certain blonde who'd recently chopped off her long locks to spite him, well, that wouldn't hurt either. But in general, by historical Spike standards, this wasn't such a bad gig. So why was he up days, smoldering his way over to the Summers household instead of enjoying his beauty sleep?

He thought it might be because of her eyes. They were so blank now, so different from those of the girl he'd first seen dancing in the Bronze, five years ago. Of course she had grown up, that was inevitable (and fortunate, considering her "chosen" profession, so to speak). But he wished old Dame Fortune hadn't fucked with her quite so badly in the process. He loved the darkness in her, even thought she was better for it. But, for no reason that he could explain, he had loved the light, too. It was the combination that enthralled him. And now she was just empty—no spark, no fire, just cold, hard steel. The only exception was when she was in his arms, her desperate, violent kisses thrilling and unbearably sad at the same time. Even though just the smell of her made him want her so badly he could hardly see straight, somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that their relationship, as it was now, wasn't exactly of the good.

So mostly, he tried make it good. Tried to make her smile. Tried to watch her back. Tried to take care of Dawn, though the gods knew he made a sorry enough babysitter. At least taking care of Dawn was far from a hardship, which was lucky, seeing as the little bit got into more trouble than he would have thought possible for a newborn bundle of mystical energy--somehow she aroused the same protective instincts in him that his poor, mad Drusilla had. Despite the fact that Buffy would likely have staked him on the spot for the comparison. But even if he'd hated Dawn, he would've looked after her, for Buffy's sake. He'd even saved Harris' skin a time or two, and if that wasn't a bleeding sacrifice he didn't know what was.

Even the sex was a sacrifice of sorts, when as soon as she came to him he had to start preparing himself for when she'd say something cruel and leave. The first time, it had been a shock; now, it was almost habit. Yet it still hurt, every single time. But he was good at sex--he'd had a hundred years to work on it, after all--and if his skill could drive that horrible blankness from her eyes for one night, he could deal with being ruthlessly shot down when it was over. Besides, what man was strong enough to refuse the woman he loved when she came to him so hungry and wanting?

Still, there were times when he remembered how easy the darkness had been, without the guilt and the conscience and the sodding white hat to cock everything up. Sometimes, when he saw the darkness threatening to overwhelm her, he felt a wild desire to encourage it, to feed it till it swallowed her up and she no longer had any reason to turn him away. Because, deep down in places he didn't care to look too often, he knew he was scared stoneless. Yep, that's right, kiddies. He, the legendary Spike, the slayer of Slayers, was scared. Scared that if she found the light again, she'd leave him alone in the darkness. And while darkness was fine, alone wasn't. Not anymore. He'd known that the moment he recognized her, that night they brought her back, when he'd felt joy for the first time in a hundred years. He was selfish, he'd never made any bones about that. He wanted her, and he meant to have her, whether it was right or not.

But he was starting to discover, too, that there were rewards in thinking of others, and that just confused the hell out of him. He felt as if he and Buffy were constantly teetering on a knife's edge, unbearable brightness on one side, comfortless blackness on the other. And he knew that unless they somehow found a way to balance, she would never really be his. He'd be stuck in the same hell as Riley had been, close to her but never really having her--and while Riley may have shown a surprising tolerance for both scotch and Sunnydale-style male/demon bonding, Spike wasn't exactly eager to take soldier boy's place in Buffy's lack-of-affections.

So, for once in his hundred-plus years as a vampire, he was waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. Destroying his furniture. Replacing it. And then, just for shits and giggles, he'd try a little waiting. Waiting until he was certain he'd tear his hair out and save himself the trouble of stealing peroxide. (Fortunately, style had won out over rage thus far, but it had been a near thing a time or two.) It was totally antithetical to everything he was, and it was driving him mad. But even William the Bloody had known there was no way to force a woman to love him. And he knew that Buffy didn't love him. Yet.

But he'd seen something in her eyes that night, after they'd fallen through the floor and lay panting, stilled for a moment. Up until then it had been all tactile sensations for both of them, all passion and urgency and, for him, sheer, mind-numbing astonishment. His eyes had closed as they hit the basement floor, and when he opened them, almost afraid he was dreaming, he could see nothing but her. She was staring down at him, her pupils dark, her eyes glassy with sex, but she focused even as he watched, wondering what she would do next. Some corner of his mind gibbered that he should be looking around for a stake, seeing as he was pretty sure that if she changed her mind at this point, dying would be a blessing. But she just looked at him, not moving except for the ragged breaths that stirred her hair, and he felt that she was looking right through him, maybe even down to the soul he hadn't known in over a century. Being Spike, he met her eyes defiantly. This is who I am, Blondie, he thought. Man, demon, the whole package. Take it or leave it. He could see the corner of her mouth twitch, almost as if she'd heard him, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. Then she moved her hips, very perceptibly, and all rational thought fled like a co-ed in a horror flick.

Brief as the moment had been, it had given him hope. So did the force of her hands and mouth on him, knowing they'd leave bruises, and how he'd marked her in return during the second, third, fourth, and umpteenth times. Property of, they stated clearly, with his name in the bruise beneath her chin, her name in the scratches on his back. She denied it later, but he knew. And then she'd slept in his arms, exhausted and sated and trusting, as the thought drifted through his fuzzy brain that this, along with the night he met Dru, just might tie for the most important night of his existence.

Then, of course, there came the next morning, and that lovely, biting word, convenient. Many an innocent chair had since vanished into kindling as a result of that little gem. He supposed he hadn't exactly done himself any favors by telling her that the only thing better than killing a Slayer was fucking one. But he'd meant it as a compliment, for fuck's sake--killing a Slayer was a phenomenal experience, not to be taken lightly--and anyway, how was he supposed to think when she was all around him, touching him, turning his brain to mush? So he'd spoken without thinking. And she'd punished him, and not in a good way, with her unique skill of managing to find the one word that would cut right to the bone and fillet him like a fish.

But his defenses were never far away, and he easily showed her what she wanted to see--Spike the bad-ass, all sneers and leers and catlike confidence. He was particularly proud of the panty-displaying moment; now that had been priceless. Well worth the way she'd clocked him for it. Even so, he'd been seething as she left. Her problem, he told himself later as he stalked angrily around his crypt, was that she was just a little slow. She was a Slayer, used to seeing things in black and white, and she wanted him to be one or the other. She had, at various times, accepted both his comfort and his touch, but never yet at the same time. She wouldn't let herself see that the Spike who'd practically taken up residence near her back porch was the same Spike who made her scream his name as she came. And the same Spike who felt no remorse for having killed unnumbered innocent people. 'Course, he was having a little trouble with that concept himself, but at least he wasn't trying to stuff her into some neat little category. And he was getting a bit tired of being the whipping boy while she took her time putting it all together.

But whenever he got so frustrated he wanted to just sod it all and go shake her till her little blunt teeth rattled, he remembered the way she'd looked at him that night. For one breath, for one second, she'd really seen him. All of him. And she'd let him love her anyway. So he forced himself to be patient, to hang around and endure the Scoobies and ruin blanket after blanket with his little daytime strolls. He, who typically charged into his endeavors with the enthusiasm of a bull in a china shop, was learning the value of little things: a touch here, a whisper there, a true smile when she least expected it. Of course, sometimes his temper bubbled over to scald her, but that was all right, too. All part of the dance. All part of making her understand him.

He could even see he was making progress, inch by inch--the smile on her face the morning he'd turned up in her kitchen, for example. Rueful, mocking, yet not entirely sorry to see him, sliding into a tiny gasp before he'd even touched her. He smiled, remembering. She was a smart girl. She'd figure it out eventually. And until she did, until they figured out how to manage this tenuous balancing act the fates had thrown them into, they'd dance. He'd win some and he'd lose some, and it was likely going to get worse before it got better. But through it all, he couldn't shake the feeling: his time was gonna come. And when it did, he'd be ready.

He turned the corner to the cemetery, saw her half a second before she saw him. She was standing under a streetlight, the bright halo of her hair contrasting with the gaunt shadows in her cheeks. As always, the sight of her seemed to send his knees on holiday, and he had to stop or fall over. Fuck, she was beautiful, from her shorn hair down to her ridiculous shoes. It hit him like a punch in the gut, every time. Then she saw him, and he pulled the mask down quickly, planting his boots, his lips curving into his trademark smirk.

"Slayer."

"Spike." Her reply was cool. No sign that that same voice had been begging him to touch her not twenty-four hours ago. Oh, how he loved this woman.

"You ready?" He asked it every night, like a ritual, letting the question hang on two levels.

As usual, she only responded to one. "If you are." She hitched a shoulder carelessly, like he'd asked if she wanted him to clear her plate after supper.

He couldn't resist. He leaned forward, enjoying the sound of her accelerating heartbeat, watching her lips part and her eyes half-close involuntarily. "I'm always ready, luv," he whispered.

The sound of her laugh surprised and delighted him. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that," she muttered wryly. He pulled back, and they stood there, motionless, looking at each other. He cocked his head slightly, a question in his eyes. The smile faded slowly from her lips, and for a second he thought she was about to speak. Then she shook herself. Not tonight, he thought, and felt the tension in him slide away.

"Come on," she told him. "The nasties aren't going to off themselves."

"Right behind you, pet," he drawled, waiting until she turned away before he allowed himself a tiny smile. Not tonight, he repeated silently. But I'm not going anywhere. And my time will come, sweetheart. Maybe sooner than you think.

Still smiling, he set off after her.