For a few hazy minutes, it was high school again. Freshman year of high school, when she was pretty and popular and doing very well at fitting in, thank you very much. There were pom-poms in the closet and Seventeen Magazine on the floor and the scariest thing she’d ever dealt with was catching The Exorcist on video at Kimberly’s Halloween party last fall. She stretched, flexed her toes, and the illusion shimmered, blurred, then disappeared.

And yet, somehow this morning, her reality didn’t feel so overwhelming. Bliss … this is post-coital bliss, she admitted. She’d read about it somewhere, around the time she’d traded Seventeen for Cosmo, but well after she’d traded mindless adolescence for her nightly impersonation of a comic book hero. True, her lover was elsewhere but given the circumstances, that made the morning after peaceful and angst-light.

She slumped into her covers and stared at the sloped ceiling. With Angel, there wasn’t enough time. Besides, everything was so new. Riley … Riley had been nice. But not like this. Never felt like this, she admitted. So turned inside out, like she’d gone beyond her mere physical body. Like after winning a really dangerous fight, but something more, too.

Was he downstairs?

No. It took her only seconds to know that Revello Drive was firmly the place of daylight again. Sunnydalers would be out for those big weekend brunch buffets, never questioning why they preferred them to late night dinners. She had the whole day, too. Her shift at the Doublemeat was closing and didn’t start ‘til seven. Hours …

She heard the door open. “Buffy?”

“Hey Dawnie. Have a good time with Janice?”

“Yeah.”

Buffy slipped into her robe. “How ‘bout I hop in the shower & then we make pancakes?”

“Uh … okay.”

***

An hour later, Dawn & Buffy were in flapjack heaven. Willow even joined them, looking pale and tired in a faded crimson Rose Tea Café tank top, but if you squinted, it was easy to believe that she just was fatigued from cramming for a chem exam.

“So then Janice tried to convince me that I should go out with Brandon, just ‘cause she’s so into Austin. But I don’t want to be the ugly friend, y’know?”

“Dawnie, you could never be the ugly friend.”

“You’re like my aunt, you have to say that.”

“No!” Willow speared a chunk of pancake and chewed. “Well, maybe yeah, but I’m not. You are totally the cute friend. Now me & Buffy? No contest. She was the cute friend.”

“Wil, that’s not true, either.”

“Uh … in the right corner we have the blonde cheerleader with the perma-tan and the miniskirt. In the left corner? The milk-white mathelete in a plaid jumper and tights. No contest. You were the cute friend.”

Buffy smiled. “Whatever. Not like it did either of us a whole lotta good romance-wise. Still, a double date never killed anyone.”

Dawn quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, not the date.”

Willow bit her lip. “This is Sunnydale.”

“Yeah, okay … look, Dawnie, if you don’t like the guy, don’t go. But hey, maybe he’s not so bad. Sometimes it can be kinda hard to tell until you really get to know someone.”

“My sister the romantic! Did some hottie come in for a bruncherito and leave with your digits?”

“No!” Buffy couldn’t hide a smile. “I just feel …hopeful. Yeah. Hopeful. Is that so wrong?” She dumped more maple syrup on her stack.

“Not wrong. I’m glad to see it!” Willow smiled. “Any chance I could talk one or both of the Summers sisters into hitting the mall with me? I’ll spring for Cold Stone.”

“Ooh … I see peanut butter ice cream with gummi bears in my future.”

“Ick!” Buffy protested.

Dawn grinned. “Says Miss Oreos & Apple Juice.”

Ignoring the tease, Buffy turned towards her friend. “What are we shopping for?”

“My mom’s birthday.”

“Oh. Have you heard from her lately?”

“Yeah. She & Dad are really into the whole New England thing these days. Leaf peeping and apple orchards and Shaker furniture.”

“And they say Californians are weird?” Dawn snorted. “Besides, they’re gonna get snow in Connecticut soon. It does snow in the Ivy Leagues, right?”

“Yeah, but getting to say that you teach at Yale makes up for it.”

“You miss her?” Buffy asked.

“I do. But … she’s still around. She’s just not around. I mean … I’m sorry, I don’t mean to …”

“It’s okay, Wil.”

“I’m gonna go change.” Dawn pushed away from the table quickly.

Willow grimaced. “I hope I didn’t …”

“You can’t stop talking about your mom, just ‘cause …” Buffy shrugged. “She’ll be okay. Just give her a minute.”

“Thanks. So seriously, Buf, is there a guy?”

“Do you think I could keep that hidden?”

“You do seem really busy lately. Not blaming you, we’re all busy. But you could have smoochies on the brain.”

“They don’t go on your brain, Wil,” Buffy giggled.

“I knew it! Who is he?”

“There’s no one. Really. No one. He’s no one.”

“But there is a he!”

“No. There’s just … hope.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

***

The euphoria held through the shopping marathon at the mall, where Dawn didn’t ask for a single thing except one top at Hollister that was marked down to $12.97. Even Buffy couldn’t say no to that, and buying it made her as happy as Dawn. They laughed over ice cream at Cold Stone and picked out a funky metal necklace for Sheila Rosenberg, something they all agreed she’d never find on the East Coast, even though they bought it at a chain.

High spirits carried her home, and donning her regulation wage slave gear did little to damper her mood. Willow and Dawn had plans to watch a Trading Spaces marathon and orders to attempt no DIY redecorating on their own that night.

Even slaying a granny vamp en route to the Doublemeat Palace didn’t faze her.

“Buffy?” Sophie asked in a lull, as they manned registers side-by-side. “You just smiled at that customer. Is something wrong?”

“No. I’m good. How are you?”

“Fine.”

A minivan pulled in with a birthday party and the girls hurried to fill orders for eight adolescent boys and a couple of moms.

About the time the kids were tipping their trays into the garbage, Buffy sensed something. There had been vamps in the Doublemeat parking lot before – something about the overfed seemed to attract them.

“Sophie, cover for me? I’ve got to step outside for a minute.”

“Sure. You really oughta quit, Buffy. That can kill you.”

“Yeah, me & my nasty cigarette habit.”

Slipping out the back door she found a vampire lurking in the shadows.

“Spike!”

“Slayer.”

“What’re you doing here? You tripped my radar.”

“Sorry?”

“Y’know. Slayer thing.”

“Ah. Well. Someone tripped mine.”

“Huh?”

“Vampire thing.” He nodded towards the dumpsters. “Three vampire things, actually. I think they’re waiting for little Billy and the rest of the team.”

Buffy had already drawn her stake. With a look, they both charged and took out two of the vamps before they could defend themselves. The third tried to run, but Spike caught him easily and twisted his neck.

“Quick work, that.”

“Just in time.” The boys and their mothers were headed back to the minivan.

Sophie was right behind them. “Buffy, Lorraine says you can’t have a break yet.”

“You were supposed to cover for me.”

“Sorry! But – hey – you were supposed to be smoking. Who’s he?”

“He’s uh … just lending me a cigarette.”

“Right. Just giving the lady a light.” Spike reached into a jacket pocket and produced a Marlboro and his Zippo.

“I’ll be right in,” Buffy insisted, as she took a drag.

Sophie disappeared behind the glass door just as Buffy collapsed into coughs. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Spike asked, inhaling deeply.

“Never mind. I gotta go.”

“Will I see you tonight?” He asked her retreating form.

She paused, but didn’t turn.

“Yeah.”

***

Three hours, twenty-two minutes passed between their super-efficient Slayage smoke break and Buffy’s appearance at his crypt door. Two hundred and two minutes. 12,120 seconds.

And then she was there, crossing the floor without preamble. Straddling him, tangling her fingers in his curls. Kissing him with her usual fierce desire, but with something more. Something new.

Passion.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he whispered.

She shook her head no and stood to pull her clothes off. He watched her, curious. This wasn’t his frenzied Buffy, eager for a shag before bedtime. She was burning, not just with lust, but with an almost unbearable need for contact. For his touch.

He cocked his head, thoughtful. “Shhh … shhh Slayer, slow down. Too nice a job to rush.”

“I don’t want to,” she insisted, reaching for his belt. She exposed him just enough, then climbed into his lap again. “Don’t want to wait. Please?”

Powerless, he relaxed and let her guide him inside. She moved, slow and careful strokes that brought her to a gentle orgasm. She relaxed, her forehead on his shoulder.

He couldn’t suppress a smile. “Feel better now, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

Spike lifted her into his arms, doll-like, adjusting his jeans just enough to allow for movement. “Gonna do this proper, Buffy,” he whispered into her hair.

Long minutes later, settled in his bed, he’d kissed and caressed every inch of her skin, murmuring sweet nonsense against her kneecap, her earlobe, her thumb. Only when he’d had his full of her did he raise up, balanced on his forearms. She’d been quiet under his ministrations, but when he finally sunk into her, she sighed.

“Love you, Buffy,” he murmured, starting to move with deep, measured thrusts.

She didn’t protest. Instead, her hands wrapped around, grabbing his shoulders, his biceps, his waist. The sensation was delicious. Buffy hesitated, then reached up to kiss him.

They came within seconds of each other, climax following on climax.

“Wow,” she breathed.

“Yeah.” Spike looked away. “I … that’s my favorite way.”

“Like that? No.”

Spike shrugged.

“Must be my inner Victorian.”

“Did you … did you …”

“Did I what?”

“Did you … do it like that … back then?”

He shot her a disbelieving look. “Didn’t work that way then, pet.”

“Oh.”

“There was a saying … well bred young ladies were told to close their eyes and think of England.”

It was Buffy’s turn to look confused.

Spike moved closer, tracing invisible patterns on her skin. “Good girls weren’t supposed to respond. In bed. And bad girls? They weren’t really bad. Just desperate for coin, for a roof over their heads. Wasn’t a lot of choice in the way you ended up. Luck, mostly. Bad luck for a lot of girls.”

“You mean prostitution?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you?”

Spike hesitated. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

He met her eyes squarely. “No.”

She pulled away.

“Buffy … I never made love to a woman … until I was dead.”

“Oh.” She leaned back on her elbows, hesitating. “Is it different with me?”

“Is this True Confessions, then?”

“What if it is?” She leaned in closer, a flirtatious pout on her lips. “Tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Wager I’ve got a few more than you, kitten.” He leaned over to the bedside table, reaching for a cigarette.

“Come on. Answer the question. When you’re with me …”

“I’ve told you this part before.”

She waited, pout bordering on smile now.

“It’s everything about you. Skin feels different. It’s the pulse of blood in your veins. Heart pounds. Breath – even at its most ragged, it’s still so even. Like a metronome.”

“Yeah?” She’s pulled back a bit.

“Knowing that you’re here, in my bed …” Spike inhaled deeply. “Feels different … a willing woman. You feel so alive, so elastic, so vulnerable and so strong. Sets me on fire, pet. You, of course you do that, but part of it is your … life force.”

“My life force?”

“Yeah.” He leaned over and crushed his cigarette. “Come on, now, love.” She obediently curled up against him, watching the irregular rise and fall of his muscles as he drifted off to sleep.

Buffy couldn’t rest.

He slept, and she watched him intently. Jagged, irregular gulps of air animated his muscles. Amazing, sculpted muscles. For all that Spike was a perpetual fashion don’t, he was drool-worthy beneath the peroxide and the combat boots. Wonder what he’d look like … she knew his natural hair color now. Come to that, he knew hers. She blushed at the thought, then forced her attention back to her mental project. Lose the peroxide in favor of that pretty caramel blonde shade, forget the gel, trade in the ancient black Levis for some new-but-vintagey dark rinse Lucky jeans and the leather duster for a pseudo-military jacket from Triple 5 Soul; maybe a long sleeve tee with just a little bit of detail; something less clunky on the feet … maybe dark Diesel lace-ups? Or Frye boots, maybe something in distressed dark suede? He’d do it for her, she knew. He’d shown up in Gap khakis and a button down in a misguided attempt to impress all those months back. He’d stand in the dressing rooms of the upscale boutiques on the Promenade, letting her hand him clothes to model. There would be protests and complaints, of course, mostly for show. Would he really mind? Mind her taking him out & treating him like a boyfriend? He’d be over the moon.

Exactly what made it impossible.

Pity.

He stirred, mumbling something under his breath, drawing her gaze to his mouth. Lips of Spike! She swallowed a giggle, remembering their first spell-induced kissfest. He did have extremely kissable lips. And oh … that tongue.

Unthinking, she let her eyes close. Two fingers massaged her clit, moving in small circles. Her imagination raced and Spike was a normal guy. Well, never a normal guy, but a guy on a beach. Not just the familiar California coast. Some really lush tropical resort, with clear warm water and gentle little waves. Buffy stifled a moan at the thought of wading out just far enough in the ocean to push down his swim trunks, slip her bikini bottom off. She’d heard that making love in water was uncomfortable and sand – ick!, but in Fantasy Land, she couldn’t resist the idea of a sunrise tryst in the surf.

The space between her thighs ached, empty. She thrust two fingers inside now, but it wasn’t enough. She craved his knobby fingers, biting her lip in frustration.

And then he was leaning over her. “Need a hand, pet?” He smirked.

She nodded.

“What do you want, love?”

She blushed scarlet, but admitted it. “Fingers.”

“Seems like you’ve already got your greedy little mitts in the act, sweet.”

“Damn it, Spike. Your fingers,” she groaned.

With a quirk of an eyebrow, he shifted position just enough to slide his index finger in along with hers.

“Ooooh …”

“That good?”

She nodded. “More!”

He slipped his middle finger in, too, and then nudged out her slender digits with his ring finger.

Buffy thrashed, tangling limbs in bedsheets, curling onto her side to be closer to him.

“More?” It was his question now.

She nodded.

He slid in his pinky, then tucked his fingers under, narrowing his hand and stretching her pussy at the same time. Buffy moaned, what Spike had come to know as her edge-of-ecstasy moan. He hesitated, then inserted his thumb.

With his free hand, he stroked her hair, letting her rock on him, gently. She had her eyes shut tight, signature Buffy during sexual experimentation.

“Do you know what comes next, love?”

“Me!”

He laughed at her answer, a free and surprised laugh. “Yes, pet. But do you know what I can do with my hand next?”

“Uh-uh.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I can curl my fingers up under each other just a bit more,” he did as he spoke, “and work my whole hand inside you.”

She was silent, the look on her face partway between confusion and pleasure.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yeah. Hurts good, sometimes.”

She nodded consent.

He slipped his hand out long enough to lube his fingers. Her whimper at his withdrawal was quickly replaced by a gasp as he slipped all five fingers back in at once.

“Oooh …”

Encouraged, Spike worked in with gentle rocking.

But it was no use. His knuckles just wouldn’t fit in her slender channel. “Buffy, you’re so tight.” He eased off, pulling his thumb out to brush her clit as he thrust his other fingers rhythmically. A second later her hips arched off the mattress and she groaned in pleasure. He didn’t stop and she didn’t either, her whole body reaching for more satisfaction. As her body unclenched from the first orgasm, Spike forced his fingers in farther, stretching. “Just a bit more, pet. That’s it, relax, love. That’s it …” but it was no good. She climaxed again, this time with bone-crushing intensity.

She was asleep almost instantly, and it was Spike’s turn to watch. In sleep, Buffy was strangely peaceful, a tiny content smile on her lips. The night chill grew and she snuggled closer. He covered them both with a blanket and stroked her hair.

He dare not move. The same thought ran through his head every time he held her: If this is the last time, if this is the last time …

And then Buffy stirred, stretching then pulling the blanket protectively close. “What time is it?”

Spike stared at the ceiling, focusing. “Figure about 4 in the morning. A few hours to dawn.”

“Dawn!”

“Shhh … isn’t Red with her?”

“Yeah. But Willow hasn’t been, y’know, since Tara …”

“On something of a power trip, that one, isn’t she?”

“Tara? No, she’s not like that, she just had to be clear that …”

“No, not Tara!” He interrupted. “Your geek-cum-chic wicked witch of the west friendy.”

“Willow?”

“Yeah. I remember her back in the day. All meek and mild. Needing to be rescued. Now she’s nearly as strong as you, in her own way.”

“I guess.”

“Yeah.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Still, don’t think she’d hurt the niblet.”

“Maybe not.”

“She’s reckless, yeah. But she loves Dawn. That’s a check on her.”

“You think she’s reckless? Wait, let me rephrase … YOU think she’s reckless?”

“Takes one to know one.”

“I should go.”

“Suit yourself.”

Buffy pulled away from the cocoon of blankets, reaching for her panties. “Of course, it is four in the morning.”

“Thereabouts.”

“Nearly dawn.”

“Right.”

“And it was supposed to rain.” She pulled on her tank top.

Spike cocked his head to the side. “Believe that it is right now, pet.”

“And I never find much evil out this late. Or early. Or whatever. And I’m not working tomorrow …”

“So come back to bed.”

“I’m dressed.”

“Not very.”

Buffy hesitated. And then something clicked in her brain and she leapt into the blankets. This is joy, she thought. I remember this. This is carefree joy.

She tackled him, her body stretched across his, and they kissed for long minutes. When she pulled away, it was with a sigh.

“I’m so tired, Spike.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She lay silent for a while. “I don’t want to sound pathetic, but some days it’s just too much. The bills and the sister and the job and, oh by the way, the sacred duty. I’m beginning to think that dying young has its advantages.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“What?”

“Only thing that keeps you in this is that it isn’t too much. You live to fight another day, if only to cram in another stupid movie or trip to the mall in between slaying nasties. Abandon the joy and you’ll stop fighting. Stop living for what’s beyond the next fight.”

“Tried that. Somehow …”

“It won’t happen again, Buffy. Red got you out through a loophole. The kind of dead you’re courting? That’s lasting.”

Buffy rolled on to her side, back to him.

“I know you don’t want to hear it. But there’s no way out. Gotta go forward, gotta go on.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“What gets you up every day?”

“You.”

Buffy pulled farther away, struck by the raw, aching need in his voice.

“Not just you, Slayer,” Spike corrected quickly. “I’ve told you this before. I want to see what happens. See if Man U wins the next match, see what happens on Passions, find out what comes next in … well, in everything.”

“Why does the ‘embrace life’ speech seem hollow coming from you, Spike?”

“Shouldn’t. Just because I’m heartbeat-impaired doesn’t mean I’m not interested in what’s going on. And, yeah, you’re part of that, like it or not. I want to see what you’re going to do next.”

“What I’m going to do next,” she snorted, “is go home and enjoy my one grease-free weekend day.”

“That’s the spirit. But don’t go yet.”

Buffy huffed and pulled away.

“A poet of sorts once sang ‘anger is an energy.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know what this is to you, this thing we have, but it’s bringing you back from the brink.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “So maybe it isn’t the worst thing in my life right now.”

He laughed, a barking, truly amused laugh. “I’ll take it.”

This time she managed to get all her clothes back on. “I’m going to make dinner tonight. Just me and Dawn, probably. Willow was going to go out with Amy. Paint the town wicca, y’know? You could stop by, if you wanted.”

“What time?”

“Around six.”

“Okay.”

She was gone in a flash and Spike was left to lean back against the pillows. The Slayer using him as a sex toy? Not a likely scenario, but not beyond his considerable powers of imagination. The Slayer inviting him for dinner like he was Captain Riley Finn?

That was something completely different.