Lord forbid, care crawled up my arm
and I killed it right on the spot
For fear it might tear out my heart
And make me love what I do not




The bar was nestled on the outskirts of town, erected between an abandoned row of apartment buildings and a convenience store that had closed down in the seventies. The outside of the small establishment was painted a mind-numbing and eye-jarring red, the color of blood, to attract a certain kind of clientele - the killing kind.

And that was exactly why the bartender, a fork- tongued Prongg Demon, stared at his newest customer with disdain. She was not a demon. Sure, she killed. He would even go so far as to say that she pillaged, but then again, he was biased. She had two strikes against her. She was human. And she was the Slayer. And every night for the last week, she had come in, sat on a bar stool that was almost too tall for her to climb up on, and she drank.

The first night, she'd been accompanied by Spike, who would definitely pay for introducing her to the place, but every night since she had been alone. She rarely spoke, but she would glare down any demon that dared get too close. Her beverage selections had also grown bolder over time. First it was cheap whiskey in moderation. Then it became cheap beer - which was also in moderation. And finally, she was requesting the finest he had.

Naturally, she didn't pay - which was just fine. Prongg kept a running tab and he'd make Spike cover it. Assuming there was anything at all left of Spike when he, and his disgruntled patrons, had a go at him. Slayers just didn't socialize with the enemy and they didn't plop themselves down and drink until they'd had their fill, which tonight was endless for the girl. Slayers were supposed to care and this one just didn't seem to.

Not many of the demons were brave enough to challenge her, considering her reputation, and those who did quickly backed off when she'd simply flash whichever weapon was handy. Sometimes it was a stake, sometimes it was just her look: cold, hard, and dead. And it was enough. They stopped trying to goad her by the third night and simply went about their business.
Which included telling Prongg that his place was quickly becoming like Willy's Alibi Room, and all the creatures who had abandoned that place to come here would soon depart for Slayer-free pastures.

Buffy signaled that she was ready for another shot and Prongg flicked his tongue out, testing the air around her. She was definitely drunk. Even from a few feet away he could taste her inebriation. Technically, and by law, he could have cut her off and sent her packing, but she was the law in this land and he didn't want trouble. So, he filled her glass again and waited for her to ask for anything else.

"What's that in the blue bottle?" she finally queried, pointing a pink tipped finger at the rows of liquor behind him.

"More than you can handle," he told her seriously.

Buffy narrowed her eyes and drained the shot he had given her. "I want it."

"Trust me here, Slayer, that's something for the big guns and not for little girls who like to-"

She lifted the hand that had been in her lap, showing him what appeared to be the bastard child of a dagger and brass knuckles. It wove around her hand, exposing a blade on either side and had thick brass rings that dwarfed her tiny fingers. But she clung to it with authority and the look in her eyes told him she knew exactly how to use it.

He took down the blue bottle and gave her a clean glass, which he filled. "It'll burn, Slayer."

"I hope so." She lifted the glass, gave him a mock toast, then choked it down.

Her eyes bulged, her face went deathly white, and she gagged. The glass in her hand exploded under the pressure she put on it, and every demon in the bar turned to look at the source of the rich and enticing scent of blood. He expected her to fall out in a dead faint as she struggled to catch her breath. Stupid humans.

When she didn't, and decided to concentrate on picking shards of glass from her palm, he moved across the room and addressed Thorn, one of the prickly Veine Demons who also acted as a bouncer. "Do you know where Spike is making his home at nowadays?"

Thorn scratched one of his floppy ears with a gigantic paw. "Heard tell it's over in the cemetery. In a crypt."

"Get him." Prongg glared down the bar at the Slayer, who had tried to slide off the oversized barstool and almost hit the floor. In her haste to try to break her fall, she had taken the stool down with her and crushed it in her iron grip. "Before that little idiot wrecks the place."



Spike flipped the channels on his small black and white television. Thanks to the fact that he had secretly paid the Slayer's telephone bill, he had exactly eleven cents in his pocket. So much for his plans of buying smokes and going to get a beer. He didn't even realize that the Slayer had been having money troubles until he'd seen Dawn using a payphone a few blocks from her house.

She had told him that Buffy had used money from Giles to pay for a plumber and to settle all the existing hospital bills left over from their mother's illness. In the process, she had forgotten to pay for her telephone bill and they had shut it off two days before. Spike had gone directly to the Summers' house, rummaged through the filing cabinet until he found a phone bill, and then went to the night deposit place. They would have their phone back the next day and no one would have to know that he had done it at all.

He sighed when the reception on his television grew fuzzy, then went completely snowy. He stood, pacing across the room to retrieve his duster, and patted down the pockets for any stray smokes he might have forgotten about. The search proved fruitless and he decided he may as well go steal himself a pack. Or two.

It wasn't like he was killing anyone.

He started across the room and then stopped when he heard someone scratching at the door. Grabbing the nearest thing he could find, a baseball bat that had hit more demon heads than balls, he drew back like a professional, ready to hit a home run.

Spike recognized Thorn immediately, as soon as the Veine peeked inside, and he relaxed his grip on the bat. "You were almost taking a dirt nap, mate," he told him.

Thorn grinned toothily, showing razor sharp teeth that were small, but deadly. "Prongg sent me over. It's about your lady friend."

Spike knew instantly that his 'lady friend' was Buffy. "What happened?"

"She keeps coming to the Lair. Gets herself smashed and winds up falling a few times before she gets out the door. So far the demons have left her alone, you know that the clients there are pretty mellow, and Prongg has rules about hurting humans on the premises, but there's always new customers. One might not be too keen on the Slayer hanging around and they'll do her in."

Spike chuckled at the man's ignorance. "Can't do in someone like her. Believe me, I tried."

"She was probably sober at the time, Spike. How's she gonna fight when she's laying flat on her back with the room spinning 'round her?" Thorn held up a finger and rotated it, demonstrating a drunken spin. "You brought her there, my friend. You better unbring her before someone else does it for you."

Spike replied testily. "She's not gonna let some two bit demon take her down."

Thorn leaned closer to Spike. "When I left, she was bleeding. You know the scent of Slayer blood and you know that it's gonna attract everything with a supernatural nose for miles."

"Bloody hell!" Spike growled, pushing past Thorn and rushing out into the night.