CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


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He was in some sort of heaven. He reached out and touched the head of the angel beside him, his fingers threading through her hair. She shifted ever so slightly with his touch and the warmth of her body shot through his. But this was no dream, no heavenly fantasy – this was real. Buffy lay wrapped up in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, her hair tickling his face.

She was fast asleep, the events of the day soon having caught up with her. He had suggested – hoping she would refuse – that she should return home, that Dawn would be worried, that she’d best get off. But she hadn’t. She had just smiled that soft smile – the one he still struggled to believe was aimed at him – and had kissed him again. He could still feel every brush of her lips against his – like water to a man dying of thirst. And her small hands: holding him close, twisting in his clothes, winding through his hair.

He had wanted her, more than he had ever wanted her before, but he had held himself back, scared she would change her mind, that she would remember who she was with.



“Spike,” she had whispered, the sound thrilling him to the core, “I want to stay here tonight.”

“Are you sure?” he had struggled out, unsure how much more of this sweet torture he could endure.

She had nodded, her lips brushing over his neck and making every hair stand on end. He had tried his best to shift her position on his lap to one slightly less torturous, but she didn’t seem to want to let him. Her hands twisted in his hair once more as she kissed him and he let out a moan. He wrapped both hands around her arms and pulled her back, trying to get some distance between them.

“Buffy, love,” he breathed heavily.

“Yes?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips, a devilish glint in her eyes. He smiled too, delighted to see her so happy – but held her at a distance when she moved to lean in once more.

“We should stop, love, before I do something I might regret.”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smile, and he let out a groan.

“You’ll be the death of me.”

“You’re already dead.”

“Fair point,” he had conceded, holding the back of her neck and drawing her to him once more.



Somehow they had ended up on his bed and it was only as her hands slipped under his shirt, heading south, that he finally forced himself away, drawing a moan from both of them. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to force his body to comply with his desire to stop.

“Spike?”

There had been something so soft, almost tremulous, in her voice and it had drawn his eyes to her. She was absolutely breathtaking – her clothes dishevelled, her hair ruffled, her lips full and red from his kisses. But her eyes stopped him from pouncing once more: there was a look close to heartbreak on her face.

“Buffy?”

He reached out, running his fingers over her cheek.

“Don’t you – don’t you want me?”

He couldn’t resist the urge to laugh but as soon as he saw her expression fall he caught himself.

“Buffy,” he breathed, twining his fingers in her long hair, “I’ve always wanted you. Since the moment you first handed my ass to me on a plate.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“But?”

“But this all so new, so fast. Don’t want to rush anything, screw anything up.”

“You won’t –“

“Buffy,” he murmured, drawing her close, “Don’t worry. There’s no rush.”

He skirted his lips over her neck and felt her shudder with pleasure.

“And when it does happen, I promise you sweetheart, you won’t regret waiting.”

He heard her swallow and smiled to himself before pressing his lips to hers.



She had fallen asleep in his arms not long after and there she had remained. And he had remained in the same position, unable to sleep - holding her close and marvelling at his luck. She shifted again in her sleep and let out a little moan, the tiniest little frown flickering across her expression. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and her eyes shot open.

He knew in an instant that it was not Buffy’s eyes looking back at him: they were cold, dark and filled with hatred. She let out an almost inhuman growl and before he quite knew what was happening, he had been hurled from his own bed and he hit the nearby wall with a thud, slumping to the floor. He looked up, dazed, only to find Buffy staring him down with those cold eyes.

She stalked over to him and dragged him to his feet, her small hands more powerful than they had been in months.

“Vampire,” she ground out through her teeth, her eyes growing even colder as she pronounced the word.

“Buffy,” he got out – but it was too late: she threw him against the wall once more and in an instant, she dashed from the room, scaling the ladder and disappearing. The loud bang of the main door signalled her exit only seconds later. Confused, he rose to his feet and climbed to the upper level. He threw the door open and stepped back just as the sunlight flooded in. She was gone.



The sunlight stopped him from following her so he headed for the only place he could think to go: Revello Drive. All through his subterranean journey he tried to convince himself that it hadn’t been Buffy looking at him with those cruel eyes. Something had happened to her, and he had a horrible feeling he knew just what. That was not Buffy. Not even the Buffy who had hated him had ever looked at him like that. This was something… strange.

He climbed up the ladder to the sewer exit only metres from the Summers’ back door. Bracing himself, he counted to three and then jumped out, running to the door as fast as he could and dashing inside. The sun just caught his hands but in a matter of moments they had mostly healed.

“Spike!”

Dawn jumped up from the breakfast bar, almost spilling her breakfast.

“Is Buffy here?” he asked her, grabbing her by the arms.

“No,” she got out with a confused look, “I thought… I thought she was with you.”

He was about to answer her when he spotted Willow just at the door of the kitchen. He saw the dark ring around her eyes straight away and let out a growl.

“What did you do?” he bit out.