~*~

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Buffy complained, tugging at the low-cut jeans and the revealing halter top.

“Why? You look nice.”

“I’m vamp bait!” Buffy exclaimed. OK, the jeans were pretty dark, but the halter was bright green. She couldn’t have looked more bite-worthy if she’d been wearing a bright red dress.

Apparently Spike agreed, if the way he was leering at her was any indication. “Damn right you are,” he said, sidling closer.

She pushed him away, but with none of the violence she would have used just a few hours ago. It was hard to be full of hatred when it was 3 AM and you’d just been on a shopping spree. “You’re disgusting,” she informed him, grinning.

“Damn straight.” Spike pulled away, studying her thoughtfully. “You know what you need?”

“A full night’s sleep and a break from the burdens of Slayerhood?” Buffy said, only half joking.

“Well, yeah, but I was thinking you could use a haircut.” Spike tugged on her braid playfully.

“What?” Cut her hair? “No fucking way!”

“Language, Slayer.” Spike shook a finger at her. “What’s wrong with cuttin’ your hair? Bet you’d look bloody gorgeous.”

The Handbook never mentioned what to do if a vampire called you gorgeous—or even potentially gorgeous. Buffy tried to ignore the way her cheeks reddened. “I don’t want to cut my hair,” she ground out.

“C’mon, Slayer, please?” He was whining. She couldn’t believe he’d actually resorted to whining.

She gave him a hard look. “Why should I?”

He didn’t answer, just pouted at her.

She stared at him for a second, perplexed. Evil vampires who wanted to bite her she could deal with, but this? This she was entirely unprepared for. “Fine,” she answered at last, utterly at the end of her rope. “I’ll get my hair cut.”

“And colored?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just how lucky do you think you are?”

“Knew you’d be too ‘fraid to let a bunch of chemicals near your head,” Spike smirked.

“What?!” Buffy’s mouth fell open. “Of all the—fine! I’ll get my hair colored! Are you happy now?”

She regretted her question when Spike leered at her. “Perfectly, luv,” he all but purred.

“Don’t call me that,” Buffy snapped, and she stalked off to find a beauty parlor open so late.

~*~

He’d told her he’d be back after she got her haircut. Buffy didn’t really blame him for leaving—it had taken the hairdresser an hour just to cut her hair, and a good hour and a half for her to highlight it. But he’d promised he’d come back.

So where the hell was he?

Buffy tapped her foot impatiently. New York was way too huge for her to just take off and look for him, but she was starting to get worried. Not about Spike, of course. Whatever else she could say about the vampire, he could definitely take care of himself.

What she was worried about was the rest of the world.

Images haunted her, images of him feeding, killing—and it would be her fault, because she hadn’t staked him. Had, in fact, allied herself with him.

All of a sudden, the ramifications of what she’d been doing for the past few hours came crashing down. Her Watcher might forgive her for just allying herself with him temporarily, but for the past few hours, they’d been having fun together. At the time, it had seemed harmless, but now it made her sick.

What kind of twisted creature was she, having fun with a mass murderer?

“Lookin’ for me, pet?”

Buffy jumped, seeing the mass murderer in question come sauntering out of the shadows. “Where the hell were you?” she demanded, covering her unease with a characteristic scowl.

“Worried about me?”

“Just answer the question!” She was practically yelling now. The second she’d seen him step into the light, all platinum hair and sexy smirk, she’d felt her reservations melting. That was more than dangerous. It was perverse.

Sensing that something was wrong, Spike grew serious. “There was trouble, pet,” he told her. “Screaming a few blocks down. Went to check it out.”

“So you weren’t—you weren’t—“ She couldn’t bring herself to say feeding.

“Gettin’ a snack?” He shook his head in disgust. “How thick d’you think I am? ‘m not gonna go offin’ people when you’re about. Don’t much fancy meeting with the pointy end of a stake.”

He wasn’t feeding. He was helping people. Buffy relaxed marginally. “Okay, then. I guess. What was the trouble?”

It was his turn to frown. “Don’t rightly know, actually. Mess ‘f human-types playin’ around with a little girl.”

In other words, not her business. “What did you do?” she asked, half-hoping and half-fearing that he’d tell her he killed them.

“Got rid of ‘em,” was his prompt response. “Knocked their heads together a coupla times an’ then called the police.”

“And that took two hours?” That sickening feeling of suspicion returned. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

“No. Walked out of the shop where I made the call an’ right into a gang ‘f twenty vamps. Damn near fledglings, but it took me awhile to get rid of ‘em. Had to run all over the place.”

She finally relaxed. He hadn’t been killing innocents. It was still okay. “Fine, then,” she said, grumpily but not with the rancor she’d been using earlier. “Anyway, what do you think?” She lifted a strand of hair, twirling it.

For the first time, his eyes focused on her short, honey-colored hair. His eyes narrowed, then widened—his body stiffened—and for a second she thought he was going to attack her. He looked mad enough to.

Then he reached out and touched it. She should have flinched away, and her inner Slayer was screaming at her…but somehow, she couldn’t. She stood still as stone and let him stroke her hair, staring into his eyes, filled with an emotion so close to anger that she wondered why he hadn’t hit her yet.

Finally he smiled. It was the sort of smile she’d been taught to fear in a vampire: confident. Predatory.

“I love it, pet,” he said, his voice lower and more gravelly than usual.

She caught her breath, suddenly aware that she was standing very, very close to him, wearing jeans tighter than anything she’d ever had on and a shirt that showed way more skin than any Slayer needed to be displaying. “Th-thanks,” she stuttered, and quickly took a step back. God, her head felt fuzzy. “We should go back to the motel and sleep. Our flight’s tomorrow night, right?”

He smirked, silently letting her know that he knew exactly why she’d changed the subject. “Yeah, it is.” He sauntered—sauntered!— past her in the direction of their motel.

In spite of herself, Buffy’s eyes strayed downward. God, he has a nice ass…

He turned around. Buffy’s eyes snapped up—but not fast enough. Her cheeks reddened when he cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Enjoy the view, luv?”

“I’m not your love,” Buffy snapped, immediately on the defensive.

“That so?” His hand went down to rest near his crotch, and to her shame, Buffy’s eyes immediately followed.

Her blush grew even more severe when she noticed the increasingly visible bulge.

“Well, Slayer?”

How was she supposed to answer him when he was flaunting himself like that? Buffy forced her brain to form words—any words. “Um…no.” She tore her eyes away from him, looking determinedly into his eyes. His very blue eyes…augh! Stop it! “I will never be your love.”

His hips jerked—and once again, Buffy was staring.

That smirk—that horrible, irritating, sexy-as-hell smirk—came out onto his face. “We’ll see ‘bout that, luv.”

And then, before she could call out a retort, he was walking away again.

~*~

She didn’t see Amy when they got back to the motel—which was just as well. The witch was almost uncanny in her understand of Buffy and the Slayer didn’t like it.

She felt tingles go over her arms when they entered their room. She hated the fact that she’d fallen victim to magic, and she hated even more that it had been Spike who comforted her and helped save her from it.

Buffy was in the debt of a vampire, and she knew it. What would her Watcher say if he knew about it? She could cite a dozen parts in the Handbook just off the top of her head that forbade letting vampires help the Slayer…

Spike, however, soon took her mind off of her obsessive mental recitation of Rule # 133 when he hopped on the bed, kicking off his boots. “’ll sleep here,” he announced. “You can take the floor.”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Are you nuts?”

“Last time I checked, no,” Spike replied lightly. “I hopped on the bed first, that means you get to sleep on the floor. ‘sides, I spent half the night saving your ass. ‘m knackered.” He made a great show of yawning. “’night.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, no you don’t!” Within seconds, he was lying on the floor and Buffy was standing over him, her feet on either side of his chest, both furious and incredibly uncomfortable—her jeans were tight.

“’ey! Lemme up!” he yelped, grabbing her ankles and pulling her feet out from under her.

That made her land on his chest—very much not somewhere she wanted to be just then. She narrowed her eyes at him. “The sun rises in about a half an hour,” she hissed. “So unless you want to be kissing daylight when it does, I suggest you cooperate.”

He smirked at her. “Right,” he drawled, not bothering to hide his contempt. “You wanna tear this motel down? Because there’ll be a fight.”

Shit. He was supposed to just go with the intimidation and back down. Damn unpredictable vampire…whose chest she was currently sitting on.

Suddenly she became very aware of just how tight her jeans were, and how her top sagged and showed practically her whole chest…and how his lips were inches from hers.

She hopped off him like he’d burned her. “Fine,” she all but growled. “But I am sleeping in the bed.”

A Cheshire cat would’ve been jealous of the smile he had on his face, it was so wide. “Guess I’ll have to sleep here too, then,” he said, and before she could voice an objection, he yanked off his shirt and hopped into the bed again.

She stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. He was lying against the pillows, his arms under his head, his eyes daring her to protest.

“Fuck you,” she snapped, and grabbing her duffel bag, she went into the bathroom.

The door almost came off its hinges when she slammed it. For a moment she stared in the mirror, not really seeing her reflection. Damn him damn him damn him… She wasn’t supposed to feel this way! Her whole body wasn’t supposed to tingle at the sight of his! She wasn’t supposed to dream about hem getting married, and she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to wish that she could just crawl into bed with him and make love all day long.

But she did.

Luckily, even when she was half-ready to rip her hair out in frustration, she still had her Slayer training. She shut her eyes tightly, breathing deep, fighting down all the fear, all the guilt and self-loathing. There was a vampire out there whom she was going to have to spend the night with. She needed to be calm.

When her heart had stopped racing, she changed into her pajamas: a t-shirt and loose shorts. Nothing fancy. She even left her underwear on.

When she came out Spike was in the same position. His eyes flicked up and down her form speculatively, and Buffy felt a blush coming on—one that asserted itself when he purred, “Very nice, Slayer.”

She forced herself to be calm. If she staked him—or fucked him ‘till he dusted—they’d never be able to stop the world from ending. And that was the point of this whole farce, to save the world. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” She dropped her bag and climbed into the bed, willing her breathing to be regular and her pulse to slow down.

He was lying in the middle of the bed, and because he was an evil prick, he didn’t move over when she crawled in. The bed was so narrow that even when she lay on the very edge, her back was still brushing up against his arm.

She closed her eyes. It does matter. He’s just an ally in a war. That’s all. Drawing on meditation techniques she’d learned years ago, she forced her brain into something resembling sleep.

Her back was to him, so she didn’t notice the look on Spike’s face—predatory, triumphant, and pained all at once.

And both their head were turned away from the window, so neither noticed the witch watching them.

Finally, Spike closed his eyes. As soon as he did, Amy flicked her fingers. A tiny spark jumped from them, making its way into the room. It flickered into Buffy’s heart—then shot out again, straight into Spike’s, illuminating his skin.

”Amé,” she whispered. A soft breeze flowed through the room—and then the spark died.

Amy smiled and walked away.

~*~