A/N; Thanks soooo much to Jane, MarzBar, and bloodshedbaby, who reviewed my fic, and gave me some serious happies! Um... well, maybe not too serious...;) NeWayz. Read, review, please, I beg! Those who review get cookies! Yey cookies! Oh, and btw... I’m not a very funny person. Anyone who wants to help me add some serious comic relief to my story, say so in a review, or feel free to drop me an e-mail... I’d love to hear from you.

Oh, yeah. Buffy and friends don’t belong to me... believe me, if I had my very own Spike? He’d be lucky to ever leave the bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

Meep, meep, meep, me- Buffy slammed her hand down on the alarm clock, just like usual. Groaning, she pushed the covers from her body, and stumbled out of bed, just like usual. She threw on a pair of black jeans, a bright red shirt, and her new red sandals, and moved to open her bedroom door. Her hand closed on the brass knob, and she twisted, but it wouldn't budge.

Giving a good tug, Buffy finally opened the door... by ripping it right off the hinges! Eyes wide, she whimpered, and put the door aside. Running downstairs, she prayed her mother wouldn't notice the destruction of property, and grabbed a bagel from the kitchen. Munching quietly, she opened the back door, and ran flush into an older man dressed in tweed, whose fist was poised to knock.

"Buffy. My apologies." The older man had an accent, Buffy noticed, and watched curiously as the odd man stood on her stoop, cleaning his already crystal-clear glasses with a rag he'd pulled from his pocket. "Where are you off to this early in the morning? You don't have to be to the Magic Box for..." He shook his arm until the sleeve of his jacket fell back, and his eyes widened as he saw the time depicted on the face. "A few hours yet. Dear Lord, Buffy, I don't believe I've ever seen you up at this hour." The blonde in question simply stood in the door, staring dumbfounded at him. "Did we have a training session scheduled for today?"

The petite woman finally found her voice. "Training for what?" I'm sorry, are you a proprietor at the Gallery? My mother will be in shortly, and you can speak to her -" Her voice caught in her throat as the older man pushed his way past her, into the kitchen. She could only watch, her jaw scraping the floor, as he prepared a teapot, and poured himself a cup. "I'm going to call the cops, mister. I suggest you-"

She was interrupted again when the man fixed his slate gaze upon her, and asked, "You truly don't recognize me? This isn't some new plot to get out of training?" She shook her head numbly, and could only follow as the British man took his teacup into the living room, muttering, "Extraordinary..." She completely wigged when, without the slightest bit of hesitation, the man opened up her mother's cedar chest as though he came into her home every day. "Do you recognize this?" With a quick toss, a very large item sailed through the air, which she caught with practiced ease. She considered it quickly.

"Sure. It's a crossbow. So what?"

He sighed, and sat on the couch. "I'm going to call Willow and Xander. This needs to be researched."

"Wait, you're gonna call who?" Buffy had pretty much given up on trying to get the strange man out of her house. He seemed to know her house entirely too well not to know her too, and she wondered why she couldn't remember him.

"Your friends. Oh, my sincerest apologies!" He extending his hand, and introduced himself. "I'm Rupert Giles, and I am your... well, I'm one of your friends, as are Willow Rosenberg, and Xander Harris."

"O...k." Buffy glanced around, searching for something pass the time, and her eyes alighted on the kitchen. "Would you like something to eat?" The older man obviously sensed her durress, and nodded. "You're British, right?" Another nod. "So, you'll want... what, crumpets with your tea?"

A couple hours later...

"So, you're telling me I'm a what , that kills huh ?!" The blonde shouted a tthe five other people seated in her living room.

"You're a vampire slayer. You slay vampires, random demons, stop apocalypses, and keep the world safe so that people can enjoy orgasms and the joys of the monetary system." This came from a woman, who was seated almost on top of a dark-haired man. Her name was Anya, and she claimed they had known each other since high-school.

"Freaky, huh?" Asked the brunette man. Mr. Giles said his name was Xander, one of her supposed best friends, and that he was dating Anya. She nodded her agreement.

"I'll see your freaky, and raise you a trippy." She scanned the room, her eyes drifting over each of the people in turn, until they settled on the brit, who was busy pouring himself a glass of bourbon. "So, Mr. Giles..."

"Giles," he supplied frankly, downing his glass of alcohol. "you just call me Giles."

"Right then." It would take a lot of work to remember all this... names, faces, and odd tendancies. Her head was spinning. "Giles... you're my ex-watcher... the study man." He nodded, and she turned to Anya. "You're.. .an ex-vengeance demon." She smiled grandly, and Buffy's gaze fell to Xander. "You're dating an ex-demon." He at least had the decency to blush, so the blonde focused on the two other women in the room, a redhead named Willow, and the blonde beside her, named Tara. "And you two are lesbians." At their sheepish nods, Buffy laughed. "You two have to be the most normal people in the room!"

"Actually... Buffy?" The redhead motioned to herself and her lover. "Witches."

"Oh."

After a few minutes of awkward glances, on the self-proclaimed 'Scoobies' parts, and complete confusion, on Buffy's part, Giles stood, and clapped his hands together. "So! Due to these... most curious circumstances, Buffy, you have the night off."

"From... oh, patrolling. Right." She rolled her eyes. It was obvious these people belonged in a mental institution. Come on, vampires? Demons? Slayers with superpowers? It was enough to make her laugh *but it did explain the door this morning* , but she remembered what her mother said about people like this. They could be very dangerous if provoked, so it's best just to humor them until she found a way to contact the hospital.

"Willow, Tara? Perhaps you could find a way to keep her safe-" Giles flinched as the subject of the conversation shot him a glare that could have melted metal, "Occupied, yes, find something to keep her occupied! We wouldn't want to run into anything dangerous while the Slayer is ... out of sorts. Xander-"

"Nope. Nuh-uh. No demon duty for me tonight." In response to the older man's level gaze, the brunette elaborated. "Bronze-ing it later tonight," he said, wrapping his arms around the woman next to him, causing a grin to spread accross her face. He smiled in return, and winked at Buffy. "Gotta keep my girl happy, you know." Suddenly, he paused, and looked to be deep in thought. Buffy had only known these people for an hour or so, but thinking Xander in deep-thought mode already struck her as odd. "You should come with us!"

"Buffy? Go to the Bronze? In her state?" Giles questioned, and incredulous look in his eyes.

"Or, um.. not? But think about it, Giles. It's not all slayer-y, so, no demon-danger or anything, and-"

"I think it's a wonderful idea."

"What a way to ruin a perfectly good defensive rant, G-Man," grumbled the young man.

Willow turned to the woman in question. "How about it, Buffy? I mean, you do remember the Bronze, right?"

She nodded, noticing that rolling her eyes had become second nature. "Sure I do. I go there all the time after classes, with-" She thought hard, but it was as though a thick grey veil separated her from the memories she knew should be forthcoming. With a sigh, the blonde shook her head. "Damnit, I don't remember. I can remember things like, you know, where I live, where I went to school, why Mom is out of town this week.... but when it comes to you guys, or my 'nightly activities'.... nothing. A big, fat, should-be-something-but-most-definitely-isn't."

"Curious." Giles stood again by her bookshelf, pawing through the titles. "Do you remember ever seeing a vampire?"

"Don't think so."

"Oh, come on, Buffster. That should be an easy one! Big, smelly, dead, bumpy forheads? Pointy teeth?" Xander's fingers were curved by his mouth in a pantomime of fangs, making Buffy forget herself. She giggled, and began to laugh in earnest when he sat upon chewing on Anya's neck. "You know, you see them in this position a lot?" Their jovial mood was cut short when Giles cleared his throat loudly, and Buffy returned to sobriety.

"Do you remember what you got in the mail yesterday, Buffy?"

She replied without thinking. "An electric bill, a couple of pieces of junkmail from that weird church down the road, and a phone bill. Hey, speaking of bills," She brightened perceptibly, a smile alighting her lips. "Does this Council of Whatever pay me? I mean, if I save the world every other Tuesday, I should be getting a little bit of reimbursement, right?"

Presently, the quiet witch in the corner giggled. The blonde looked at her ith one eyebrow raised, and the offender whispered, "I-I'm almost as new to this as you are, and from w-what your friends have told me, the C-Council isn't very nice." Almost as new to this as she was? She doubted that was even possible. She had just been introduced to this world of 'lions and tigers and bears, oh my' an hour or so previous, but she felt grateful that someone else was even near being in the same boat. She felt alot more comfortable knowing that the questions her 'friends' had been putting up with were asked by this other girl just a few months before.

Xander's voice, once again, interrupted her thoughts. "So, you remember everything normal, but nothing slayer-related?" At Buffy's brisk nod, his mouth formed into an exaggerated pout. "Lucky you."

"Very interesting." Her 'Watcher' murmured, taking an armful of books off the shelf. "I'll get started on these right away." He thumbed swiftly through the books, while the rest of the group sat silent as mice. Finally, Anya stood.

"I'm sorry you can't remember anything important, Buffy. I hope nothing kills you in your ignorance!"

"She's trying to be sincere," Willow stage-whispered before Anya had a chance to continue.

"But, as much as I'd love to stay and watch you not get killed, I'm bored, and Xander and I have to have spontaneous sex on the kitchen table of my apartment before we go to the Bronze. We'll see you later!" She grabbed her boyfriend's arm, whose face could have been replaced with a tomato, and no one would have known the difference. He waited until the front door had shut behind them before telling his girlfriend, in a perfectly audible voice despite the walls, "Ahn, hun, sex can't be spontaneous if you have it planned already."

 

Later at the Bronze

"So, we're all sitting in Giles' apartment, and Xander's like, 'You can't possibly hope to beat the Dark Master... bater.' He added that last part in when we all looked at him funny." Willow was telling Buffy of the time she bested Dracula, one of the most well known of the Undead persuasion. "And later he's all about 'The Unholy Prince...bater.' That's how we knew he was under the thrall. Oh, that and the bugs." Tara, who was sitting beside Willow on the couch, in the middle of the smoky club, grimaced at the memory of Xander eating flies. "And, you're all in Drac's mansion.." The redhead was really getting into the story now. Her lover simply chuckled as grand, alcohol-influenced arm-gestures accompanied the enthusiastic rendering, including voice impersonations. "You stood above Drac after you dusted him, and waited. His dust cloud came back together, and you're all like, 'I watch the movies, I know you always come back.' And WHAM! you dust him again. A few minutes later, the dust starts to come back together, again, and you just say, 'Hello! Still right here!' We haven't heard from that big nasty since!"

The slightly tipsy witch beamed at the befuddled slayer, who cleared her throat and sipped her drink. As much as she had come to enjoy the women's company, the massive amount of people in the club were making her feel claustrophobic. Abruptly, she rose to her feet, and apologetically excused herself to the ladies' room. Apparently satisfied, the two witches did not notice the slayer head straight for the back door.

The night was quiet, peaceful, the exact opposite of the mood during the day, and for some unexplained reason, filled the blonde woman with excitement. She had consumed a drink, maybe even two, but hardly enough to account for the thrill she experienced as she walked through the dark. She walked down the empty sidewalk towards her empty home, unaware of the footfalls behind her. Suddenly, on instinct, Buffy turned into the cemetery. Obviously, her feet had an agenda. She followed willingly, blindly, amazed that even without her memory, she could remember what had to be a shortcut home. Humming under her breath, she didn't notice the tickle on the back of her neck until a voice called out her title.

"Slayer!"

Said voice was British, but a bit harsher than the soft lilt of Mr. Giles. She turned to face the man who had called her, and found herself in the presence of the only man (he had to be the only one; if there were more, she'd know she'd died and gone to heaven) with looks to match the voice. He was only a little taller than her, and was dressed in all black. His obviously bleached hair was slicked back smoothly, and his sexily pronounced pale cheekbones accented flawless iceberg eyes. Eyes that were currently trained on hers. She couldn’t help but read into the swirl of emotion she saw in the sapphire pools; lust, hunger, disdain, and ... and something she didn't care to categorize. It was obvious that he knew her, but because no memory of him came to mind, it was safe to guess that he was in some way related to the "slayer stuff". She wondered briefly if they were together, then giggled. Of course, that had to be it. Why else would he look at her that way? It took her a few moments before she realized he was still talking.

"Hey, baby," she purred in what she hoped was a sultry tone. She sauntered up to him, paying no attention to the confusion that clouded the man's eyes. She was much too busy gauging his body, her own green orbs glancing appreciatively up and down his lean physique. Solid abs, slim hips, and muscular legs were called to her attention in turn, and she slipped her arms around his jacked-covered waist from behind. Reaching up to stand on her tiptoes, she breathed in deeply, scenting him out. Male, faintly musky, with a cigarette scent she'd recognize anywhere. Not that she smoked, but the scent seemed to familiar.

 

Spike watched on as the beautiful Slayer exited the Bronze. He felt horrible after kicking her out of his crypt the night previous. He knew why she had started throwing barbs... he’d made her uncomfortable. He’d shown her that he wasn’t all evil, therefore taking her out of her comfort zone. She tried to return to even ground by eliciting a response, and when it didn’t work, she pushed even harder. Even though it was technically her fault, he felt the need to apologize. So, here he was, lurking in the shadows like a faithful dog. Ponce.

He followed her for a few blocks, far enough behind her that she wouldn’t see him, but making noise enough to be heard. When she didn’t call him out, he was shocked, but continued to tail her. She had gone far enough that he knew precisely where she was headed, and decided to join her for patrol. He could use a spot of violence. "Slayer!" He called out to her once they were safely inside the cemetery gates. The gorgeous blonde in front of him stopped momentarily, and turned around. "Was hopin’ I could give you a bit of company." She was only a few paces away; he could have easily scooped her up and taken her to his crypt... he was sure that Slayer strength would make using manacles quite an interesting venture.... That train of thought quickly derailed when he saw the look in Buffy’s eyes. Was that pleasure? At seeing him? Subtly, he sniffed the air, hoping to detect whatever magicks were making his slayer act so strangely. Surprisingly, no magick was apparent. His confusion was complete when she purred a few words at him, and came closer. He could have sworn his heart started beating again as she stood behind him, her slim arms around his waist, her hot breath on his ear. He bit his tongue, trying to quell the arousal that swelled in him immediately, hoping against all hope that her hands didn’t travel any farther down than they were now, lest she feel the evidence of said arousal, and stake him for good. Suddenly, she slipped away, and he let out a breath, thinking the night’s game of "Torture the Harmless Vampire" over. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Innocent green eyes peered at him from under long, dark lashes, as she said quietly, "It’s dark, and I’m all alone. Could you walk me home?" All he could manage was a faint stutter, which she obviously took as agreement by omission, for she slid her arm through his, and pulled him off in the direction of her residence. His head was spinning. Here she was, his slayer, the object of so many erotic dreams, the cause of so many ineffective cold showers, and she was with him . She was wrapped around his arm, rubbing herself lightly against him with every step he took. Inwardly, he groaned when he realized what was happening; he hadn’t woken up when the sun went down, and this was simply his overactive imagination feeding him dreams that couldn’t ever hope to become reality. Reaching over, he pinched his stomach, and hissed a little at the sharp jab of pain. What gives? She looked like his slayer, she felt like his slayer, hell, she even smelled like his slayer, but she couldn’t be. His slayer would never subject herself to the ‘Evil Undead’ willingly. He attempted to order his feet to stop moving, but they wouldn’t listen, intrigued by the prospects of what would happen when he finally got her home. HE tried again, and this time, his Doc Martins stopped in their tracks. Then, he spoke his order out loud.

"Stop." Shockingly, she complied, and turned flush against his body. A growl arose in his throat as she pressed into his erection, giggling when it instinctively twitched toward the warmth of her stomach.

"What, right here?" She asked coyly, glancing around. They had neared the edge of the cemetery; the headstones were now sparsely scattered, and the stone wall that surrounded the property was in sight. Just on the other side of that wall lay the Summers’ home, Spike knew, and he had to recite the roster for Manchester United to keep himself from running all the way there, with a nummy blonde treat in his arms. Steeling himself against this onslaught of physical reaction and unwanted emotion, he picked the petite woman up by her tiny waist, ignoring the groan she emitted, and set her safely down again, a few paces away from where he stood.

"Who are you?" He growled, stepping backward as the faux-slayer tried to close the distance between them.

"I don’t know; you tell me," she replied simply, shrugging her shoulders, and stepping closer to him once more. Again, he stepped away and growled, but this one was more pronounced, more dangerous than a simple warning.

"‘M only goin’ to ask once more. Who the bloody hell are you?"

Apparently sick of being rejected, Buffy’s upper lip rose in a sneer. "Just a girl. And you... I guess you’re just some weird guy I met in the cemetery." A sense of de ja vu rose in him as she stalked away. He made it all the way back to his crypt, and had fallen onto his bed in misery before recognizing the words as the same she had spoken the night before.