“Oh, god, no. Please, no!”

    The panic and the terror rode high on the arousal as Spike sat bolt upright in bed, his cock rigid as a flagpole. If he’d had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding out of his chest. As it was, his blood was singing, surging through him without a pulse, the constant rush of demonic magics making it blur through him, like it did when he fought.

    Buffy. That dream had been so intense, it was more real than the reality he’d woken into. Harmony – hungry little bint, so easily seduced, her body her best asset – was fast asleep behind him, and he couldn’t even remember if he’d bothered bedding her before he’d passed out this morning. But that dream... that dream...

    The slayer.

    No. No, this was just... he was just randy, it was nothing real. He’d been dreaming of the slayer because he’d been afraid – yes, afraid, just bloody admit it! – that he’d finally crossed a line, and she’d come to take him out. The arousal had gotten caught up in the other dream, and... and... that was all. It wasn’t that he wanted... Buffy... and those hot, living kisses of hers... the strength of her... pushing against him... her heated breath... her....

    He flipped over and grabbed hold of Harmony. “Harm,” he said, which was as far as he got toward asking permission before he’d pushed himself inside her.

    “Ah!” she woke with a startled cry, and then moaned as he thrust in her. And kept moaning, because he’d already come by the end of the second thrust, and he had to go again, and dear god, it was not Harmony in his thoughts. The shiver wasn’t only in his groin, either. That was all Harmony had ever gotten out of him – a distinct and localized lust, a standard receptacle for his cock, and only his cock. He looked up at his pretty little tumble, gasping. Harmony had her charms. Most of them were between her legs, though he did occasionally find her vapid insipidities amusing. But she’d never fired him, never excited him, not like Drusilla, not like his victims, and not like that wretched, beautiful slayer, who –

    Oh, god, he was getting hard again.

    “Oh, Spike!” Harmony gasped, and she wrapped her cool arms around him. She threw back her head, arching her neck, and he bit at it with his human teeth, moving inside her cold flesh. He’d never felt this with Harmony before, the chime in his gut, the shiver in his throat, the heat in his chest as he thought of the slayer, the slayer, Buffy, his slayer, and oh, god, no!

    It took longer this time, but only a little. He gasped and swallowed as he bit back the words that still rang in his head. Buffy, I love you! I love you so much! Even the thought made him come. The swallowed words felt like a rake down his esophagus, but he couldn’t decide whether it was pain or pleasure. All he knew was that it was powerful, and it consumed him.

    No. Harmony had gasped beneath him, as charged by him as he was, and he made himself acknowledge her.  “Harmony,” he forced himself to say. He lifted himself and looked down at her, her round and perfect breasts, her rich blond hair, her finely planed face, her full red lips, and yes, she was beautiful, and even as fired as he was, she did sod all for how he was feeling. He nearly pushed her out of the bed, but he needed her. She was cold and dead and weak and she smelled wrong, and he needed to plow into her again and again or the powder-keg that had just gone off inside him would have no place to go, and he’d crack.

    He thrust into her again, unable to change positions or use ingenuity. This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t desire. This was a need, desperate and all consuming, devouring his insides, demanding he pour it out. And – Buffy!

    Don’t say it, he warned himself. Saying it will make it real. It would also have ticked Harmony off something royal, but really, he was more afraid of making the feeling real than offending his bird. He’d nearly killed the slayer last night. He’d had her beneath him, for those few precious seconds, felt her body as she’d tried to wrestle him off. He’d reached for her throat and felt his fangs against her skin for that brief instant before the pain had cut through, and he’d held her. He’d held her, her scent charging him, her body igniting him, and Buffy... Buffy!

    He’d made Harmony come, and his vampire girlfriend moaned and smiled and gazed up at him with empty eyes. He couldn’t bear seeing Harmony’s face. He pulled away and turned her over, grabbing her hips as he thrust himself into her, again and again. It was easier this way. Her blonde hair could almost be Buffy’s, though her scent... her heat... it was all wrong.

    Stop it, he told himself. You started this because you were just randy. It had nothing to do with the slayer. Harm’s fine, she’s great, she’s easy. Oh, god, Harm is so easy! Don’t do this.

    Don’t do this to yourself, William.

    But it was done. He’d wanted Buffy dead. He’d wanted to kill her. He’d thought of her and obsessed over her and hunted her and dreamed of her and fought against her and manipulated her and made himself part of her life, and now all the pressure of that had broken the dam he’d set up in his mind, and it was too late now. It had possibly been too late for years. The slayer – Buffy! – had been his prey – his fixation – since he’d first heard of her existence. And now, unable to hunt, unable to kill, unable to fight, his prey had shifted, and he went from wanting her blood to wanting her.

    And oh, god, did he want her. He wanted her so much his blood rang with it like church bells, flaring pain through him, because he knew it was wrong. Completely, wholly, utterly wrong. He’d thought only Angel was sick enough to torment himself this way.

    How long had he been keeping this dammed up? How much of this had been creeping into his being, poisoning his blood? How long had this been growing inside him? From the moment he’d first seen her dancing at the Bronze? Fighting under the sky? From the moment she laid her fists on him? From the first time he’d lost to her? From when she’d nearly killed him, or he’d felt helpless before her, or watching Angel stalk her, or the moment she’d spoken to him like a human being, or that intimate time he’d let her stake him, and he’d pushed her against that lamp post, or when he’d turned to her for help because she was the closest thing he had in the world to a friend?

    It was old, this feeling behind the dam. It was from long before they’d flirted antagonistically at Giles’s flat. Long before that wretched curse that had drawn her into his arms for a single precious evening, her hot kisses firing his bespelled mind. It was older than that evening at the Bronze, when she must have been drunk or high or something, and she’d teased and flirted with him so fiercely she’d made him hard as a stone before she sauntered arrogantly off. It was older than this wretched dream that had broken through all the carefully constructed walls in his psyche.

    God, he wished he could build them back. But it was too late, now. She was already inside him. He’d shunted her away, into his subconscious, rather than killing her as he was supposed to. He’d dressed his desire for her in blood and death and violence, but she was naked now, and reaching for him, and the blood lust was simple lust, and his prey was his perfect opposite, and his hunger...

    Oh, god. Love’s sodding bitch, always!

    Buffy.

    He came again. Three times in ten minutes. His balls ached. This was intense, wild, uncontrollable, and he wished if nothing else that it had at least been fun. But while pouring the excess lust into Harmony had probably pleased her, he himself felt only empty and dissatisfied, like that cold dead pig’s blood he was left to drink, when he craved fresh slayer....

    Oh, god, was she always going to be everywhere? Even in his meals?

    Spike let himself fall to the bed, and Harmony gasped and turned, moaning contentedly. “Oh, Spike,” she breathed. “Oh, god!” She slid up against him and snuggled her head into his chest. “Oh.” She chuckled a little and caressed his stomach. “What brought that on?”

    “Seduced by your presence, baby,” he lied.

    “Yeah, right.”

    Spike sighed. “I had a dream...” He left it at that.

    “Well, let me say yay for your dream, then,” she said, still the teenage cheerleader. She moaned and wriggled. “That was hot.”

    “It was cold,” Spike murmured. “And dead.” He wanted heat. He wanted life. He wanted his death in his arms in the form of the slayer. Spike looked down at Harmony, tilting her fresh little face up to search her empty eyes. “Why are you here with me?” he asked.

    Harmony shrugged. “You’re sexy, and I’m scared,” she said. “Buffy–”

    “Doesn’t give a wet slap about you, and you know it,” Spike said. “Why are you really here?”

    Harmony looked shy. “I missed you,” she confessed. “I wasn’t doing great on my own.”

    “You know I don’t love you,” he said. He didn’t care that it was going to hurt her.

    She looked down. “Maybe,” she said. “But you like me. Don’t you?” she looked shyly up at him from under hooded eyes.

    Spike looked her over. “Yeah, babe. I like you.” He sure as hell had needed her today. He didn’t know what he’d have done if she hadn’t been there.

    “I know you’ve been hurt,” Harmony said. “That Drood-zilla bitch.”

    Spike almost laughed. Drusilla. Out of all the people to think about, Drusilla, who had bloody well known. Damn her.

    Now Spike was left to wonder if Dru had known something about him that he hadn’t known himself, or had been able to read the future and guess something that hadn’t happened yet. And whether it would have happened if she hadn’t up and bloody left him for that chaos demon. And that other demon. And that other vamp in Mexico. And... whatever the hell that creature was in Brazil.

    Even the thought of Dru didn’t cool the fire of desire that was burning in him. It was broad daylight, or he’d have gone to find Buffy immediately. Why, he had no sodding clue. It wasn’t as if he’d be able to do anything. There was no way she’d suddenly fall at his feet... unless he could talk Willow into another spell...

    That wasn’t likely.

    The door banged. Spike and Harmony both stared, and Harmony squealed. “She’s gonna kill me!”

    Spike knew it was the slayer, too. It was as if his sodding dream had called her. His mouth went dry and his hands turned into limp sausages, and Harmony fled into hiding, taking the blanket with her, leaving Spike with only a sheet between himself and – the inevitable – the slayer who banged the door open in a fury.

    She actually had changed from the outfit she’d had on last night, the one he’d dressed her in in his dream, the white tank top and the leather pants that he’d wanted to tear right off her. No, now she was in slick black with a pair of really tight slacks that – what the hell was he thinking about her clothes for? When her hair was shining in the morning sun, and... the sheet he wore was... not... going... to be... sufficient....

    Bugger.

    He changed positions in the hope he could hide his telltale erection with his knees.

    He really wished he had something clever to say. Yesterday, he would have. Last week he’d have bantered with her. This morning, after that bloody dream, about all he could do was stare at her. “Spike!”

    She’d said his name!

    Why the hell the idea of Buffy saying his name at that moment made him chime like a crystal goblet was beyond him.

    He split into two distinct versions of himself; one of them a scared and helpless victim of a devastating crush who stared and gibbered and had no idea what to say next. Unfortunately, that idiot was the one in control of his body right then, and the sensible vampire who bloody well knew better was left to stand inside him and rage at his behavior.

    “Where’s your accomplice?” Buffy asked.

    “Uhm...” Spike had actually clean forgotten about Harmony the second Buffy entered the room, and it took him a moment to remember what the hell she was talking about.

    “Your accomplice!” Buffy demanded again, grabbing hold of the back of his neck. “You are really pushing it, Spike,” she snarled into his face. “I’ve been very, very, very patient with you for the last year. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t abandon that particular virtue.”

    And Spike could only stare at her. If he’d had a heart that beat, he knew it would probably burst out onto the floor, his blood was singing so high with her hot, strong hand clutching at his flesh.... He gasped, and Buffy let him go. “Good god, Spike, are you naked?”

    Spike blinked. He really wished the answer was no. Or that she was, too....

    He felt completely helpless.

    “Is that a problem for you, slayer?” someone said, and he was relieved to discover it was himself. “Haven’t had your fill of cold hard flesh?”

    “God, you’re disgusting,” Buffy said, half turning her head away.

    “How do you know?” Spike said. “Haven’t taken a good enough look, yet.” No! No, what the hell was he doing? Why was he taunting her? He should get down on his knees and beg her to put her hands back on him.... He realized the gibbering idiot was no longer in control, and he was ever so glad of it. Now, if only he could kill it, and stop it from screaming in the back of his head – grab her. Grab her! Take hold of her and make her yours! – he might get out of this encounter without bursting.

    “Because I don’t want to vomit,” Buffy snapped. “Where the hell is Harmony?”

    “Who’s that, then?” Spike asked.

    Buffy grimaced. If she’d been a vampire, he knew she would have snarled. “The idiot Barbie-doll who was stupid enough to help you.”

    Spike raised his eyebrow. “Stupid,” he said. “That’s rich. I don’t think we have any shortage of dumb blondes here in Sunnydale.”

    Buffy tilted her head back. “Okay. I’ll bite.” Spike wished she meant it. “Was that something specific, or were you just being you?”

    “I dunno what else you thought was going to happen when you asked for my help, slayer,” Spike said. “You’re the one who let me know there was an Initiative doc at hospital. What’d you expect I would do? I mean, how stupid can you get?”

    “How stupid?” Buffy said. “You’re the one who assumed the guy could remove your chip. I could have told you he wasn’t that kind of doctor. Hell, he told you he wasn’t that kind of doctor!”

    “I know, but he...!” Spike stopped. “I was just...” He stopped again. “What did you expect, Buffy?”

    “Spike,” Buffy said, very seriously. “I am never, ever, either directly or indirectly, going to help you remove that chip.”

    “Why not? Scared of me?” he taunted.

    “No. Me,” she said. “Listen to me, Spike. You’ve fought by my side, and you’ve helped my friends. But you’re evil, conniving, and manipulative. If I think for one second that you are still a killer, I am not going to show any mercy. To you... or to whoever helps you!” Buffy shouted pointedly.

    A muffled squeak, which Buffy might or might not have heard, came from the lower chamber as Harmony skittered further away. Buffy turned her attention back to Spike. “Now you listen here, Spike. If I catch you breaking and entering, stealing, kidnapping, threatening, or so much as looking too hard at anyone–”

    “You’ll dust the helpless rabbit, hero?”

    Buffy glared. “No. But sticking you back in a wheelchair is not off the table.”

    Spike winced. She noticed.

    “And if that chip goes... you go. You get that? You ever succeed in removing it, you are signing your death warrant. I will track you down. I will kill you. And anyone who wants to live–” she called out, “–shouldn’t be helping you, either.”

    Yeah. Buffy knew Harm was there. Couldn’t miss it.

    “Quit trying to remove it, Spike. It’s not worth it. You want it. Repeat after me – The chip is my friend.”

    “I just want to be fixed,” Spike muttered.

    “You are fixed, Spike. That’s the only reason you’re still walking around. If anyone is stupid enough to help you kill... you’re killing her. You get that?” She stepped away from him. “I never want to see you together again.”

    “So... why not just take... this hypothetical person out quick?” Spike asked.

    “Hm. Let’s see,” Buffy said. “Lonely and bored, or distracted and annoyed. Which would I prefer my enemies to be? Hm.”

    “So what if she does help me again?” he said, too low for Harm to hear.

    Buffy sucked in a breath. “Spike!” she shouted. “Don’t make me kill you. Just... for me. Please. Don’t make me kill you!”

    Spike stared. “Why not?”

    Buffy stared back, irritation in every line. Her eyes narrowed. “God,” she said, annoyed. “You know, William,” she said with the parental Do-As-I-Say tone she got whenever she used his formal name at him, “if after all this you honestly think I’d feel nothing about it...” she trailed off and rolled her eyes. “Then you’re a freaking vampire,” she finished, as if answering her own question. She turned her back on him and stalked out of his crypt. “Just stay out of my way!” she shouted over her shoulder, and she slammed the door behind her.

    He stared after her. She felt for him. She felt something for him! She didn’t want to kill him – that was just a step away from love, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it!?

    Well, no, said the logical part of his mind which the rest of him was steadfastly ignoring. No, it probably wasn’t. It just meant she was human, and she knew him as more than some faceless back-alley vamp worth nothing better than dust. Killing him would be personal, and, human-wise, that would bug her. She probably felt much the same about Harmony. He didn’t care. He was suddenly filled with a warm glow of joy and excitement, and he wanted to bask in it for the next ten hours. Buffy didn’t want to kill him! His heart was singing!

    “What did she want?” Harmony asked, coming up from the lower chamber. “She’s gonna kill me, isn’t she. I’m frightened.” She came up and tried to hang on him like some kind of lamprey. “Oh, Spike, hold me!”

    She was knocking the glow out of his head. He shrugged her away. “Get off me, you stupid bint,” Spike said. He jumped off the bed. “I got things to do.”

    Oh, he did. He needed to find Buffy’s picture somewhere. He wished he could go out in the sun and watch her walk home. He wished, for the first time in over a century, that he still wrote poetry. Not that writing Buffy a poem would have done jack for her opinion of him, but he still kind of wished he could do it, ‘cause he knew it would bleed off some of this pressure in his heart. He thought he might even try, though he was pretty sure how that attempt would turn out – one or two lines before the muse died leaving him dissatisfied. Still. Might be worth it. Anything that might ease some of this pressure would be worth it...

    This was going to be hell. Buffy had already been his torment. She had just taken that to new bloody heights.

    “Buffy’s gonna kill me, and you don’t even care!” Harmony shouted at him.

    Spike was already slipping down the ladder. “Au contraire, baby,” Spike tossed at her. The smallest taste of French, and the girl melted like a candle under a blow torch. “Stick with me, you’re safe as houses.”

    He was lying through his teeth, of course. If Buffy had really wanted Harmony just now... hell. He probably would have opened the lower chamber and gift-wrapped the bint. But Harmony was safe due to Buffy’s soft, adorable little heart. He got that – so long as Harm didn’t make too much of a nuisance of herself, Buffy was going to leave him Harmony as a consolation prize. That was so sweet of her! Didn’t dare tell Harm, that, though. Nothing would make her make a nuisance of herself faster. Spike didn't care. He was giddy. Buffy didn’t want to kill him. And she didn’t want him lonely. And she didn’t want to kill him!

    Oh, yeah. It was true bloody love, baby. True bloody love.