AN: Thanks again to my fabulous beta Avadriel. And a huge thank you to everyone who reads. Hope you enjoy it.

----

Figuring out exactly who the Slayer was and where to find her turned out to be pathetically easy. The witch had crumbled like cheap drywall. And then she had actually crumbled the wall, but that was after he’d gotten what he wanted so who bloody cared. After he had the Slayer’s name, getting the info had been a mere matter of days – or nights, as it were. Of course, the fact that the chit’s name was Buffy certainly helped.

That old familiar burn of anticipation curled through him. But it was different this time, too. The excitement was sharper than usual. He could feel it, like blood laced with cocaine, racing through his system.

This one was bold as brass. She had waltzed right into his territory and batted her eyes until he bought her a drink. And then dusted two of his men. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get his fangs in that golden neck.

Spike took an automatic drag on his cigarette, eyes distant and unfocused. Tonight was like the last four. He didn’t purposely imagine the tiny blonde. She just came.

His eyes drifted shut. She looked like she did at the Bronze that night. He thought about the strength in those tan thighs. Thought about how smooth they’d been under his fingertips. With a shake of his head he opened his eyes. Drusilla stood there, glaring murder.

Bugger.

She was white with rage, her mouth pursed with fury. Right, she could sleep with whoever she wanted, but the second he thought of some bird’s legs he was in the doghouse.

“Darling,” he began complacently.

“I want to go.”

He opened his mouth and promptly shut it. He’d been expecting something else. Something with a bit more recrimination and possibly violence. He tapped the ash to the floor, brain switching gears. “And we will. Just as soon as I kill this girl.”

“She’s already inside,” Drusilla spat, fists clenched with fury. “Turning everything about!”

Ah. There it was. He usually liked it when she was possessive. Stoked a hot little fire inside him. But tonight it was simply an annoyance; just accusations couched in her usual ravings.

Spike looked at her consideringly, trying to decipher her words. Stepping close, he ran his hands over her bare shoulders. “Do you know where she is, pet? Right now?” he murmured. “Tell me. Tell your Spike and I’ll make her go away. You’ll never have to think of her again.”

As quickly as it came, the fury drained out of her. She looked up at him mournfully, eyes wide. “This has all happened before. I don’t want to see it again.”

Spike looked at her. She was near tears. Giving up on gleaning information, he let the cigarette drop to the ground. Threading a hand through her dark hair, he cupped the back of her head, pulling her close. “Shh… you know I won’t let any nasty Slayer girl hurt you,” he whispered, tucking her head under his chin.

Her low, keening wail was muffled against his chest, and his arms tightened automatically. Even as he held her, his salvation, his black goddess, hazel eyes and blonde hair flashed on the edges of his mind. He had to kill the Slayer. If for nothing else, for making him think of her while Dru was in his arms.

---

Her kick fell just a hair short. Only the heel of her boot caught its mark. Instead of just solid, hard impact, there was impact – and then give.

The vampire howled and stumbled back, clutching his cheek. “Shit! That hurt, you bitch,” he yelled.

Buffy smiled and waggled the stake in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, that wasn’t my best work. Let’s try again.” Quick as a flash, she lunged forward and executed another high kick. This one was spot on, and his head snapped back with an audible pop.

“You like that one better?” she asked, perkily, and drove the stake into his heart. With a flurry of embers and ash, he disappeared in the breeze.

Smiling with satisfaction, she bent to grab her backpack. That’s when she felt it, that pull in her gut. Whirling around, automatically falling into a fighting stance, she scanned the darkness of the graveyard.

Nothing. There was nothing.

But she’d felt it. She’d felt – there. A flash of movement by one of the trees. She could make it out now. The shadow in the shape of a man, blending almost seamlessly in the darkness.

She stared at the black figure. It didn’t move. It just stood there, leaning against the tree. Watching her.

“Gonna hide out there all night?” Buffy yelled, putting bravado in her voice. The longer he stood there, just watching her, the more creeped out she got. How long had he been there? For the whole fight? Longer?

There was no reply. No movement. Nothing. And then she knew. It was him. Spike. A rock of fear settled in her stomach. She’d known it was only a matter of time before he found her, before he realized who she was. Still, she’d hoped it was going to take him longer than this.

She took a couple steps forward before stopping. With one hand on her hip, the other tapping her stake against her jeans, she sighed, feigning boredom. “I know it’s you, Spike. Are we gonna do this or what?” She was tempted to roll her eyes, just for good measure, but she wasn’t going to take her eyes off that shadow for a second.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

“This is kind of disappointing. I’ve heard all these scary stories about you. And here you are, but the only thing I’m fighting is sleep.” She had no idea why these things were coming out of her mouth. Goading the Slayer of Slayers probably wasn’t the smartest of things to do. “Is that how you killed Kendra? Death by boredom?” And yet, the words kept spewing forth. Oh well, maybe if he focused on her words, he wouldn’t hear her heart slamming in her chest.

Moving forward the whole time, until he was only a good twenty feet away, she could finally make him out. He looked much like he did at the Bronze. Tight black T-shirt, tight black jeans, scuffed up, hideous black boots. The only difference was a long leather duster, glistening in what little moonlight there was. His pale skin and paler hair gleamed against the darkness.

He watched her, eyes keen and narrow. His face was closed off, with just a touch of arrogance curling his mouth.

Her nerves were so taut a muscle in her hand jumped, making her stake twitch. She eyed the careless way he leaned against the tree, took in his aura of utter calm and wished she had her sword with her. Swords were of the good. She definitely would’ve brought one tonight if she’d known he was going to be here.

Buffy wasn’t sure she could actually take him. Wesley certainly didn’t think so. But if she ran, he would just chase her down. Like a hound on a rabbit. And if she really had to die tonight, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be while running away.

“C’mon, Spike.” Crap, there she went again. “Let’s – ” She didn’t have a chance to find out exactly what was about to come out of her mouth next, because just then, he moved. He moved fast. Not fast like he ran, but fast like one moment he was twenty feet away, and the next he was behind her.

A solid kick to the back of her knees had them buckling, and the only thing holding her up was him. One hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, the other resting over her suddenly very vulnerable seeming belly. His lips were at her throat, pressed to the side of her neck.

“What’s the matter, ‘Joan?’ Don’t like making the first move? Or were you waiting to see if I’d buy you another drink?” She heard a shifting crunch and then fangs grazed her skin. “I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a tease. All strut and come-hither and no follow through. Didn’t think killing you would be this easy.”

She could feel every muscle of his jaw move as he spoke, he was pressed that close. “That’s because it isn’t,” she grit out. Slamming her elbow back into his gut, she forcibly turned her head. Wrapping her teeth around his ear, she bit down hard.

With a yowl, he let go completely. Stumbling forward, she quickly rolled and popped back up to her feet, stake in hand.

He stood, glaring daggers, one hand covering his ears. “What the bloody fuck was that? My ear! I’m supposed to bite you, not the other way around,” he snapped. “What kind of Slayer are you?”

She smiled. “The kind that’s going to kick your ass.”

He shook his head sharply and smirked. “Sorry, little girl. I have a tendency to win this game. And I can promise you that my bite is a bit more permanent.” He lunged forward, fist flying. Ducking back quickly, she grabbed his arm and flipped him forward with his own momentum. Still holding his arm, she slammed her foot into the muscle connecting arm to body, grinding down with her heel. He cursed.

Buffy’d experienced that particular move herself not four months ago. It wasn’t pleasant. That arm had been largely out of commission for the rest of the fight, and sore a couple days after.

Foot still firmly in his armpit, she twisted his arm and yanked. The joint popped right out of the socket. He roared, fangs flashing.

There, Buffy thought, at least now I have a chance of walking away from this.

Suddenly his good hand shot up, grabbing onto the top of her jeans and yanking her down. Her face hit the grass, head grazing the side of a tombstone, and the world tilted. He was on her, snarling, legs trapping hers.

Buffy planted one hand on his collarbone, holding him back, as the other hand groped along the grass for her stake. He found it first.

Picking up the small chunk of wood, he hurled it into the night. Buffy’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into the darkness where it had disappeared. It was her only way of killing him. He wasn’t exactly going to let her have the time to break a branch off a tree. Much less getting one with a proper point on it.

“Now what, Slayer? Your only weapon’s gone. I’ve still got mine,” he said, low and vicious, and snapped his jaws inches from her face. “But what can you do?” he goaded.

Start carrying a lighter in my pocket for one, she groaned mentally. She looked into the golden eyes that hovered just inches above. “Plan hasn’t changed, Spike. I’m still gonna kick your undead, lily white ass.”

She bucked hard, and with only one hand to stable him, it created just enough room for her to scissor her legs around him. She rolled, flipping them so she was on top. As soon as she righted, she let her fist fly, ignoring the way the world was swimming from the hit to her head. It caught him square on the nose, bone crunching under the force.

“Buggering Jesus fuck,” he sputtered around the blood and pain. He gripped the collar of her shirt and with one great heave tossed her to the side. Buffy slid over the grass before rolling to a stop, her hair wild and messy in her face.

“First my ear, and then my nose? You fight like a sodding girl, Slayer.”

Flipping her hair out of her face, she leveled a look usually reserved for high school boys at him. “Yes, and I’m hoping the Slayers you murdered did, too. Either that or you’re tragically confused about this whole Chosen One thing.”

“Oh, did you not catch that, Slayer?” He popped up into a crouch, and lunged before she could get to her feet. “That was me,” his fist slammed into her cheek and she dropped to the ground, “telling you,” a steel toed boot hit her gut at full force, “what a shitty fighter you are.” With joyful glee he kicked her again, cracking her ribs.

The sheer, raging pain made her eyes tear up. If he kicked her again, she was going to throw up. Throw up all over those stupid punker boots. But the next kick didn’t come. Her mind screamed at her to move. Kick, punch, bite, something. Just move. But it hurt. And the world, the ground, wouldn’t stop moving.

A cool hand gripped her wrist, and pulled her arm up. “Don’t worry, Slayer,” came that smooth voice, “you may not have been my first, but you’re still special.” She could hear the grin in his voice. The pleased curl of his lips.

The cold hand tucked her wrist under his arm, against equally cold leather. Wedging her hand tight against his body, he grabbed her palm and yanked it back hard. The bone snapped and she screamed. Her eyes flew open to stare blindly at the grass.

He let her hand fall to the ground. “That’s what your friend’s little trick did to my wrist,” he said casually.

Willow. Willow, who had cried for so long Buffy thought she might never stop. Who had cried because of the things this man did. Anger flushed her veins. She lifted her head to see scuffed boots inches away. “And you what?” she coughed out, before spitting a thick, red glob directly onto one of those boots. Craning her neck, she looked up at him. “Thought you’d pay it forward?”

He looked at the red viscous spittle on his boot, frowning. “Something like that, yeah.” He shifted his weight and moved to kick her again. But this time, right before boot could meet gut yet again, she caught it, good hand firmly blocking its descent, and snapped her leg upwards, foot connecting with his side.

Unable to get his balance one-footed, he fell in an ungraceful heap. She was on him in a flash, one hand pinning his good arm down, knees and legs pressing over his thighs. She smiled at him. “My turn.” She let her fist fly, hitting him square in the jaw. Her side was on fire, broken ribs jerking with every swing, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to die like this.

Buffy saw it in their eyes. Wesley; Spike; Willow. They all just expected her to die. But she wouldn’t. Not like this.

His face was a bloody mess by the time he got enough momentum to throw her off. She gasped for air but managed to climb to her feet just as he did. They stood there, gauging each other warily, both of them sagging and swaying from pain and exhaustion.

Buffy vainly searched her peripheral vision for something wooden and pointy enough to shove in his unbeating heart. There was nothing. And she couldn’t take off his head with a broken wrist. No way.

With a loud sniff, Spike gingerly wiped away the blood on his upper lip. “There might be hope for you yet, Slayer. Thought you were going to be right easy for a minute there.”

“So glad I provide worthy entertainment,” she snapped, trying not to favor her right side. She had to get away. She had no way of killing him, but he could definitely still tear out her throat. And it wasn’t just the ribs jabbing in her side, but the broken wrist making her left hand completely useless, not to mention the throbbing pain.

They were circling one another. His movements a slow, patient stalk. Buffy shut down her mind. Degree by degree, she turned off each stray thought. Pushed herself past the pain and fatigue. She sent herself somewhere else and let that other part, the scary, primitive part that knew exactly how to push her body, take over.

The vampire was talking. “ – been thinking about how you’re going to taste, Slayer. Your kind goes down so well.” He slid his hand down his abdomen, grinning wickedly. “The blood goes straight to all the right – ”

Cutting him off mid-sentence, she executed a roundhouse before he had time to even think of blocking. Her right fist flew, hitting square on his already broken nose. He cursed, but she already had a grip at the base of his skull, fingers grabbing the skin and hair, and slammed his head onto her knee. He staggered and fell, hands flailing.

He moved to get up, and she brought her heel down hard on his spine. His body collapsed to the ground.

Buffy blinked. Spike lay there, hands starfishing, eyes trying to focus. It wouldn’t take long before he was able to get back up. A few more seconds. She stared down at him, pain returning full force, taking her breath away.

“Be glad you broke my wrist,” she said, voice flat.

Buffy turned and ran. She ran as fast as a broken rib and couple solid kicks to the gut would let her.

This was the second night she had looked down on Spike as he was sprawled on the ground. The second time she had run away. Something was wrong here. This just wasn’t going to work.

----

“Buffy, you broke your wrist. You have to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Well, I don’t like frogs, but I still let them all go free that one time in bio! We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

“It’s healing fine, Will. Just another day or so and – wait. Frogs?”

Willow blushed and shook her head. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

Buffy looked at her with a small smile, lips curling. “Right.” She adjusted the sleeve of her mint green blouse as it started to slip off her shoulder. “How about we move this lecture off campus and to the Espresso Pump?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

Willow glanced around at the students milling about, as if checking for anything to do. “Yes,” she said consideringly before smiling. “I think we could do that.”

Grabbing their books, they abandoned the outdoor table they’d been so lucky to get and started the walk towards Main St. Buffy looked up at the sun and smiled. On afternoons like this, in the middle of an Indian summer, she almost felt like a normal girl.

But then her side would twinge, or her wrist would jolt, and she’d remember cold blue eyes and moonlight on pale skin. And she’d remember that she had to kill him.

----

As much as she wanted a sharp sword or hefty axe by her side since the fight with Spike, they were way conspicuous. But a knife – even wicked long as this one was – it fit easily in the bulk of her oversized Cheer hoodie.

When Buffy sunk it hilt deep in the smelly demon’s chest, she was definitely glad she had it. A wooden stake to the heart would kill most things, but for non-vampire types it was a bit slow and extra bloody.

Buffy cleaned the blade on what passed as the creature’s clothes, and pressed on with her tour of the cemetery. Her feet moved steadily onward with a mind of their own. Her own thoughts were a churning tide of guilt and anger. She’d gotten in a fight with her Mom. Again.

Her mother just couldn’t understand why Buffy was gone all the time. At all hours of the night. She’d woken up in the middle of the night and gone to check on Buffy, only to find her bed empty and the window cracked. She couldn’t understand why Buffy got so many bruises and…was that blood on her shirt?

And what could Buffy say? Sorry, Mom, I almost got myself killed by a vampire? Sure, right before her mother checked her into a mental institution.

Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell her the truth. And make her actually believe it.

She heard a high, feminine laugh. Buffy blinked. At some point she had left the cemetery without realizing it, and ended up in town. Directly across from the Bronze.

Buffy froze, eyes sweeping up and down the street for any sign of peroxide blonde hair. He was nowhere to be seen and a tiny knot in her stomach loosened just a bit. She definitely wasn’t ready to see him again. To face him.

Satisfied that he wasn’t there, she looked over the crowd again, taking her time. The street was thronging with people. Most going and leaving the Bronze. Some headed to other bars. Everyone young, and happy, and enjoying being alive. And most of them were. Alive. There was a total of three vamps mixed in amongst the crowd, one of which was a new doorman. Buffy smirked. She was definitely going to dust him. If for no other reason than to get under Spike’s skin.

A tingle up her spine, and the opening and closing of car doors made her look over, to her left. Across the street and a little ways down, three more vamps were stepping out of a car. One of them, a large guy in black leather pants and a button down shirt held the car door open and offered his hand as a woman stepped out. If Buffy’s Slayer sense hadn’t already been screaming at her, then the woman’s liquid grace and the unnerving gleam in her eyes would have tipped her off.

Buffy watched her, mind working overtime. There was something about the woman. Something she should know. She eyed the woman’s dress with distaste. It was pretty, but way old-fashioned. The hem went all the way to her ankles, revealing high-heeled, lace-up boots. Her hair hung in a cascade of dark chocolate curls, one side swept back with an ornate comb.

The woman stood there, looking around her with a small pout, like a child recently denied a treat. Her hand rested on the arm of her escort. Suddenly, the woman’s head tilted to one side and her body shook, like she had just been given a tap by God. She straightened, turned, and looked directly at Buffy.

The pieces clicked together in Buffy’s head, and she knew. Drusilla. The woman was Drusilla. The vampire who would never quite look into the camera whenever she posed for her photograph. Who always seemed like she was seeing something else instead.

Drusilla. Spike’s lover for over a century. An old, old vampire who was staring straight at her, recognition all over her features.

Buffy’s stomach tightened. She could probably take Drusilla. But not with the vampire’s accompanying party of two. Nor the three other vamps on the street who’d probably rush right in. She should go. Head back towards the graveyards. If they followed, at least it’d be only one against three instead of six. She should move. Move.

But she couldn’t. She was dizzy. Blood rushed in her ears, drowning out the chatter and laughter and traffic. All she could see was the vampire’s eyes. Large and round and terribly, terribly dizzying.

“Don’t look,” a man’s voice broke in, quick, but steady. “Don’t look her in the eyes. That’s how she works.” A warm, callused hand slipped in hers, and she blinked. The spell was gone.

Buffy looked at the man beside her. He was young; her age. He smiled and glanced behind her. “We should be running away now. Trust me, lady, you do not want to stick around and make friends with that chick and her goons. There can only be badness.”

She was moving before he stopped talking. Removing her hand from his, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him forward. “C’mon.”

He stumbled, following along helplessly. “You know, you are surprisingly strong for a girl so very tiny.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said lightly, leading them farther and farther away from the crowds and late night shops. Suddenly she stopped, tugging him into an alley. Pressing up against the wall, she waited, listening hard.

“Um. I think I liked the crowd of people better,” he said, licking his lips nervously.

“Be quiet.” Reaching in her hoodie, she pulled out her stake.

“Oh,” the boy said. “Oh. This suddenly makes more sense.”

“Shut up,” she hissed. He mimed zipping his lips, and she rolled her eyes before turning back to the street.

Slowly, casually, one of the vamps from the car – face still human – sauntered down the street, past the alley’s opening. He looked bored and vaguely irritated.

Buffy grabbed him from behind and spun him around face first into the dirty brick wall. His skin dragged down the mortar.

“Wow,” the guy at her side said, chocolate brown eyes wide. “That looks like it really sucks,” he said brightly.

Buffy ignored him, completely focused on the vampire. “Was that Drusilla?” The vampire snarled in reply. Buffy slammed his head against the brick again. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

The boy at her side piped up again. “Heck, I could’ve told you that. That was definitely Drusilla. Original, crazy Queen of the Damned. Miss Psychobabble herself.”

Buffy eyed him with a look, before turning back to the vampire. Giving him one more perfunctory face slam into the wall, Buffy took a step back and slammed her stake through his back, into the heart. Before the dust could float down, she turned to the boy at her side. “Okay, how do you know so much?”

The boy’s chest puffed out and he put his shoulders back. “I’ve hung out with a Slayer in my time.” He waved a hand dismissively. “No big deal.”

Buffy’s face hardened to stone. “Yeah, no big deal.” Her voice was flat. “You’ll be around to meet the next one.”

She turned and left the alley. No one else had followed. She could abandon the guy guilt-free. Shoving her stake and hands into her hoodie pocket, she headed for the quickest route home.

“Wait!”

Buffy ignored him and kept walking.

“Stop!” He jogged to catch up and quickly fell into step. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “Really. Sometimes that check between my brain and my mouth just stops working and insensitive, horrible things come falling out making me sound like a big jerk guy. But I’m not. A big jerk, I mean.”

Buffy looked sideways at him. Worry and guilt were all over his face. The iron in her yielded just slightly. “That’s… that’s okay. I’m kind of touchy about the whole subject.”

The guy nodded rapidly. “I get that. I mean. You’re the new Slayer, aren’t you?”

Buffy smiled tightly. “Yup. That’s me. She who hangs out in cemeteries.”

“How long? How long have you been the Slayer?”

“A couple of years now.”

“Oh, good.” The relief in his voice was palpable. She glanced at him curiously. “I mean, it’s good that you’re the one that took Kendra’s place. That there wasn’t anyone… in between.”

The part he didn’t say hung between them. That it was good that there hadn’t been another girl. One that didn’t even make it past two years.

“Yeah,” Buffy replied, voice tiny.

It was silent for a moment. The sound of their feet on the pavement, the only sound.

“I’m Xander, by the way.” He held out his hand. “Xander Harris.”

She smiled, for real this time, and shook his hand. “Buffy Summers.”

He grinned at her name and started to say something before quickly changing his mind. Instead, he settled for, “You should meet my friend Willow. We’re the original Slayer support network. Like the Council. Only American. And not assholes. And… not really like Watchers at all.”

“Actually, we’ve already met.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And she’s nothing like the Council. She actually does things that are useful.”

“Does… is your Watcher not helpful?”

“He’s not winning any awards so far.”

“That bites. Giles was…” Xander’s voice grew thick and he paused, clearing his throat. “He was a good guy.”

Buffy nodded absently. Willow had mentioned Kendra’s Watcher. Her eyes had been bright with tears, too. Buffy thought of her last meeting with Wesley.

“I guess some Slayers just draw the short straw,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. So where are you headed, Xander?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Then I guess I’m walking you home.”

“I’m the Slayer. I don’t exactly need anyone to walk me home.”

“Chivalry’s lost on you, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” she replied blithely.