~*~

He was an idiot. If Dru could see him now, she’d laugh in his face.

He hadn’t really gone to sleep. Would’ve been a stupid thing to do when he was sharing a bed with the Slayer. The silly bird was resisting being close to him even in her sleep—she’d damn near toppled off the bed a score of times. He’d wanted to pull her back, but the one time he’d touched her, her fist had shot out and connected with his nose.

She could even punch accurately in her sleep. If ever there was a Slayer who’d make it to thirty, it was this one.

Spike sighed impatiently. It was still a good three hours ‘till the sun went down again, an’ he was more uncomfortable than he’d have been standing in the middle of the street with only an umbrella in between him and a dusty ending. Not only was the threat of physical violence keeping him away from the Slayer, but he was also scared of touching her for another reason.

Every time he did, his cock felt like it would fucking explode.

It was his fault, really. He’d been the one who’d talked her into getting sexy new clothes and cutting her hair. He’d been the one who’d cracked jokes all night long, just to get her to smile. Now he was the one who was left with a painful hard-on while the object of his lust slept like a baby next to him.

Dammit. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If he wanted her, he should just take her. Rape her, make her scream, make her beg him to just let her die—then sink his teeth into her throat and drain her dry. Take all that sweet Slayer blood into his body and leave her stinking body for the rats to eat.

It would’ve been so easy. Even now, he could feel himself harden just a little bit more at the thought.

But he couldn’t. And it wasn’t just that some twisted bit of honor told him it was wrong. The idea may have made him hard, but he didn’t actually want to rape her and kill her.

To Spike, that was more twisted than the fantasy he’d come up with.

She let out a breathy little sigh—so much softer than anything she would’ve uttered awake—and rolled a bit closer to him, murmuring as she did, “Spike….” Her hand came to rest on his thigh.

He was out of the bed and on his feet in less than a second, taking in harsh, unnecessary breaths as he stared at the sleeping girl on the bed. Should hurt her—could hurt her—

He turned his face away. No. Can’t. He knew he couldn’t. Once he would have done it in a heartbeat. But now? Killing her would be like taking a drink of holy water from glass carved with crosses before taking a noontime stroll—utterly impossible.

But the bloodlust was there. He hadn’t eaten in awhile, and he wanted a snack. Since sinking his teeth into the Slayer was clearly out of the question, he’d have to settle for his usual diet. It was twilight, dark enough so that in the city streets he wouldn’t dust.

He slipped out the bed, glad that the Slayer wasn’t touching him—she didn’t notice when he left. He yanked on his pants and his duster, not bothering with a shirt, and slipped out of the room.

~*~

She woke soon after he left. She’d felt him leaving the bed, had sensed his sudden lack of warmth, but her tired brain hadn’t fully processed what it meant. After about fifteen minutes or so of struggling with herself mentally, she finally regained enough control over her body to force her eyes open.

Spike wasn’t there.

A cold, stiff panic washed over her. Spike was gone.

She shimmied into some of her new jeans and a spaghetti strap top, hardly paying attention to what she was putting on, putting on her coat over it. Out of habit, she stuck a stake in her pocket.

She ran a brush through her hair hurriedly, berating herself for even bothering—but some part of her wanted to believe that she had time to do things like brush her hair, that she didn’t need to rush out the door and stop Spike from…no. He’s not doing anything. Please, he can’t be doing anything.

She pulled on her boots—not her old, clunky ones, but the ones Spike had bought her last night. Boots that she now wondered about.

Whose money had paid for them? Was there a body lying around somewhere, drained of all its blood? She’d believed his story at the time, about stealing a man’s wallet—now, she wasn’t so sure.

Please let me be wrong.

She left the motel at a run.

~*~

He’d found someone almost immediately. Pretty, small, blonde—with dark brown eyes, which told him that the blonde hair was entirely false. It didn’t matter; he didn’t have to look at her eyes when he killed her.

Luring her into the alley had been easy. It always was, with her sort. A bloke could be seven feet tall and fingering a knife, but if he was even passably attractive, a girl like this blonde would follow him anywhere.

Spike growled a bit and shook the now-limp body. He’d drained enough blood that, though he’d only been at it half a minute or so, she was about to die.

Her blood was thick, sweet, heady—she ate well and regularly. It carried none of the tang that would be there if she worked every day. She hadn’t even fought him when he’d sunk his teeth into her throat.

That only made him bite harder. She would have fought. She would have staked his sorry ass.

He’d show her. He’d drain this girl and dance in her blood.

“S—Spike?”

He tore his teeth out of the soft flesh in the girl’s throat. Blood leaked sluggishly from the wound, but her heartbeat had gone a long time ago. He could feel the warm liquid running down his chin.

The Slayer—Buffy—was standing in front of him.

Her eyes were wide—not frightened, the way they should have been, but full of some emotion he couldn’t identify. The hand that held the stake inches away from him shook violently. In fact, her whole body shook—her heartbeat staggered. When a single tear slipped down her cheek, he knew what the emotion in her eyes was.

He knew, but he didn’t care. I can’t care. He was a monster, a demon. What did he care if he made a Slayer cry.

“What—what d-did you do?” she whispered, stuttering, fighting to keep tears out of her eyes.

“What the hell d’you think I did, Slayer?” His voice was harsh—angry. Defensive, even. It shouldn’t be that way...the demon knew it shouldn’t. “I killed her. ‘m a vampire. That’s what I do.”

“But I thought you said…I thought…”

“Thought what? That ‘d be a good boy since I was travelin’ with you?” He snorted derisively. “Figured you had more brains than that, Slayer.”

“Don’t call me that.” Now anger was starting to break through the sadness. Her teeth were clenched.

“Why not?” He smiled, revealing bloody teeth. “You’re the Slayer. That’s all you are. It took an evil vampire to make you loosen up a tad. What d’you think that says about you, eh?”

*

She didn’t know what it said about her. What she knew was that she was staring at the evil, soulless thing she’d been traveling with for the past day. He had blood all over him—running down his chin, staining his teeth. He was a killer, she knew it—and it saddened her.

Almost as soon as the emotion registered, anger did, too. She wasn’t supposed to feel for him. She wasn’t supposed to care about him at all. Why did it feel like her world would fall apart if she couldn’t be close to him?

That last thought was what made her snap. He was still holding the body—the limp, lifeless body—when she punched him.

He staggered back. If he’d been human, or a less powerful demon, it would have sent him careening towards the ground. By all rights it should have at least hurt him.

But he simply wiped the remaining blood from his mouth, laughing at her. “This really ‘urts your feelings, doesn’t it?” he asked mockingly. “I kill one girl—some useless little slut—and all of a sudden, you’re reminded that you’ve been makin’ time with the Big Bad.”

“I haven’t been making time with anybody.” She pushed the regret and the shame away. She couldn’t afford anything but anger right now.

He snorted derisively. “Oh, right. Gimme a break, Slayer. You’ve been trying to fool yourself the whole time. Pretending I’m some nice, fluffy puppy who’d never take a bite out of some stupid little slut like that girl.” He motioned to the body on the ground. “Well, guess what, kitten?” Spike grinned, showed stained teeth. “You. Were. Wrong.”

She closed her eyes. He was right—but of course, she’d known that. She’d known from the beginning what she was doing…

And she’d known from the beginning what she’d have to do.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for what came next. “You need blood.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow—tinny.

A pause. Then: “Yeah. ‘m a vampire, we have a tendency towards suckin’ blood.”

Did it always hurt to do what you knew you needed to—to do the only thing you could do to make things right? For Buffy, it did.

She held out her wrist to him, still keeping her eyes closed. “Take mine."

~*~