Buffy pulled the drapes carefully, disentangling herself from Spike’s limbs and the little nest they’d made among the sofa cushions and throw on the living room floor. Even by their standards, last night had been a marathon. She stretched her pleasantly aching limbs, pulling on enough clothing to make it upstairs without flashing any early rising housemates.

“Buffy?”

“Hey, Wil.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve just got first shift at the Palace.”

“Oh.” Willow squinted at her friend.

“And, um … Spike’s in the living room. Sleeping.”

“Oh.”

“And probably naked, but I’ll try to fix that before I leave.”

“Ohhh … kay.”

“Well, um … I’ve gotta get moving.” Buffy slipped into the bathroom.

***

Willow walked through the campus of UC Sunnydale, tracing paths both familiar and foreign. She had an hour in between her morning classes, plenty long enough to finally drop off the forms declaring her major in biophysics.

Instead, she had ordered a Caffe Americano at Snackropolis and embarked on an ambitious program of moping.

Without her best friend, and especially without her girlfriend, the truth was plain. No one looked familiar. Not in the snack bar, not in the stairwells, and only sometimes in the lecture halls. She could walk through the whole library and it was like it was her first day of class. No nods, no greetings, no requests to borrow her notes even.

It didn’t seem right. She might not have been popular – fine, she might have been a total social outcast at Sunnydale High – but at least she’d recognized her classmates. And when she saved their lives, she was saving the lives of people with names. Maybe they hadn’t been nice to her all the time, sure. But they’d been real.

Now she was protecting a nameless, faceless throng. It was like defending the extras in a horror movie – they were on set specifically to have their brains sucked by the zombies. No one showed up with a flamethrower to rescue Guy at Frat Party #2.

Okay, except for Buffy. But still …

When Willow was 18, she’d never doubted her decision to stay in Sunnydale. Sheila had wigged that she wasn’t accepting one of her super-prestigious acceptances … something about a trusted colleague at Princeton that would have been thrilled to mentor Willow and a research opportunity at Penn rare for undergraduates, absolutely idiotic to turn down. But Willow stayed. Even when her parents announced their departure, she was confident that Buffy and Xander and Giles needed her on the Hellmouth; needed her and her abilities to get them through the next fight.

And then there had been Tara, of course.

Over the past few weeks it was becoming clear that Buffy didn’t need her, not really. Xander barely acknowledged her, even when she was crashed out on his sofa. Giles was gone, and she couldn’t blame him. And Tara? There wasn’t much chance that Tara would forgive her.

Lately it felt like being elsewhere would simple things up.

And so she hadn’t finished the paperwork to declare her major.

Of course, she hadn’t mailed her transfer application to Berkeley, either.

***

“Welcome to the Doublemeat Palace, may I take your order?”

“Yeah, can I get a Big Mac?”

“Sorry – can you repeat your order?”

“A Big Mac. A Big Mac and a Frosty. Small Frosty. And … um … throw in an order of Fat Fries.”

“I’m sorry, this is the Doublemeat Palace. Would you like maybe a Doublemeat Medley?” Buffy rolled her eyes and waited for a response.

Instead, the car pulled up to her window and a familiar face leaned out.

“Hey, Buf.”

“Xander!”

“Listen, I hear tell from the Dawnster that we have cause to celebrate.”

“That’s right. Last shift ever, tomorrow afternoon.”

“Cool. Hey I got these passes.” He handed an envelope through the window. “You interested?”

“Ice skating? There’s an ice skating rink in Dilliner?”

“Brand new. 15 minutes away, max. Anyway, tonight’s their grand opening and it’s a benefit for some charity. Richard at work - his mom’s on the committee. So I bought two tickets, only to discover that my lovely bride is allergic to ice.”

“You can be allergic to ice?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Come on. It starts at 7, it’ll be done by 10. Still plenty of time to keep the streets safe.”

Buffy hesitated. It was Xander, so it wasn’t a date. And it was Xander, so he wouldn’t pressure her about her secrets. And it had been forever since they’d spent any time together. It did mean dodging Spike for a few hours. Was that a good thing, or a bad thing? Before she could think on that too deeply, she forced a smile. “Yeah. Okay. Why not?”

***

Britta tossed another volume across the mausoleum. “No, no, no!”

Her tantrum wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. The Slayer had taken out most of the followers she’d brought to Sunnydale, and between the Slayer and her pet vampire, Britta had been unable to build up her ranks. The little boys were tedious – a necessary evil if ever there was one.

She could be in Paris, smoking cigarettes and eating skinny French women. She could be back in Buenos Aires carousing with interesting demons. Or she could be relaxing on one of the islands with wary natives and pudgy tourists. But no. She’d heard that rumor while slumming it in Africa and decided to pack herself off on a cargo ship to see if it was true.

Maddeningly, the story checked out. Proserpexa’s temple waited beneath the green grass of peaceful Sunnydale. She could feel it, the power waiting just under the earth’s surface.

And if she could feel its presence, it had to be intact.

No Slayer had ever lived long enough to even hear the rumors and the riddles, the stories about their origins. Britta may have been an absolute failure as a Slayer, but in her own way, she’d learned more about what she was – or had been born to be – than any other.

Which didn’t automatically mean that she could work the spells, tangle with the demon herself and manage to get it out in one piece. She needed the little boys, and had to hope they could stitch together enough info and magickal muscle to get the job done.

Britta knew one thing, the only thing she’d known absolutely in all of her years.

She had to get her hands on that damned scythe.

***

Spike woke to find his wrists shackled to the headboard.

“Buffy?”

“Hi.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after 3.”

“And how long’ve I been trussed up like so?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe more. You sleep like the dead.”

“Funny that.”

Buffy sat Indian style at the foot of his bed, her eyes lingering on his growing erection. “I see that you’re happy to see me.”

“Always am, love.”

“Speaking of seeing, I can’t see you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Xander’s taking me ice skating.”

“Xander ice skates?”

“Guess so.”

She fell silent, brooding for a minute.

“So, why the cuffs, then?”

“I want to be in charge.”

“Figures,” he snorted.

“I read … in Cosmo …”

Buffy blushed and Spike realized that this was another one of those taboos that Buffy was horribly shy about breaking, but couldn’t wait to try.

“Alright then, love. I’m your willing slave,” he purred, relaxing into the restraints.

Emboldened, Buffy unfolded herself from the foot of the bed and crawled up his body, kissing as she went. Starting with his inner thighs, she carefully avoided his cock, nibbling and sucking a dozen other sensitive, but not nearly as sensitive, spots. She tongued the line of his hipbones, kissed his abs and worked straight up his rib cage to suck and nip at … “Ow! Careful, sweet, they’re not used to so much attention!”

With a wicked grin, she settled for a gentle tug on his left nipple before moving to his earlobes and cheekbones.

“Feeling your power yet, love?”

“Shh!” She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t make me gag you.”

“Wouldn’t much mind if you did,” Spike replied, but silenced himself just the same.

Buffy pulled back long enough to strip out of her t-shirt and skirt.

“Now that’s different,” he smiled. “Been shopping?”

“It was in the back of the drawer.” Buffy nervously fingered the strap of her coral lace bra. “It’s ummm … not really practical for everyday.”

“Then I’m glad it isn’t everyday.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking.”

“Right.” He relaxed back into the pillow and watched her straddle him, taking his cock into one hot little hand and pushing her lace panties aside with the other.

“Do you want me, Spike?”

“Always, pet.”

She slid down, slowly and deliberately, less to tease than to really feel him stretching her. Her strokes were gentle, rhythmic and her orgasm nearly immediate.

“So does control work?”

“Ummm …” Buffy pillowed her body on his, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Any chance I’d get to experience a bit of that m’self?”

“Huh?” She met his eyes. “Oh, right.” She unfastened his cuffs and collapsed with a shaky breath.

“Do you trust me?”

She squirmed.

“Another time, then.” Spike tossed the cuffs to the floor with a clatter and settled for stripping off her pretty lingerie before burying himself in her tight center with a quick thrust. He’d have drawn it out – always tried to draw it out – but she was looking impatient, maybe not all that into it. Instead he settled for a few bruising strokes and finished quickly.

He was already disappointed before she stood, dressing and explaining. “I don’t want to be late to meet Xander.”

“Does Xander know about us, pet?”

“Know about us?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so.” She was dressed now, all but one boot.

“Buffy … what we have. Whatever it is, and I know it isn’t pretty and it isn’t simple. But it is something. Something real.”

“I’ve gotta go.”

***

“Dawnie, what’s on your mind?”

“I … I shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Sweetie, I told you that just because I’m not in the house, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to be in your life. Every Friday, after school, right?” Tara gestured around the Espresso Pump. “And we can meet here other times, if you need … to talk.”

“It’s just … Tara, I’m not sure I can.”

“That’s ominous,” Tara smiled over her chai.

“Yeah. But no, not really.” Dawn slurped her milkshake. “Do you know about Buffy’s boyfriend?”

Tara sat quiet for a minute. There was only one explanation – one possible relationship that might swear a chatty teenager to silence, even temporarily. “Are you upset about it?”

“No. I mean, I miss her. She’s back, but she’s not really back. But she seems a little bit better now. At least she has some good days.”

“That’s good.”

“But it can’t end well, y’know? I mean, hello, vampire? Slayer? I remember the first round of this grudge match. Not sure I want to be here for the sequel.”

“What makes you think it will be the same? It isn’t the same man.”

“Yeah, but it’s the same Buffy. She’s … impossible. She’s so perfect, so right about everything all the time. Reminds me of Mom that way.”

“Does she know you know?”

“I’m not sure. But he’s in our house all the time. And she’s NOT in our house so much of the time … I mean, you’d have to be blind not to see it. Blind or Xander.”

***

Small talk took them from Revello Drive all the way to the rink and past the skate rental. Too late she’d realized that she should’ve asked Xander to get a ticket for Dawn. It wasn’t clear if her sister was disappointed to extend her outing with Tara – that couldn’t be it, she loved Tara – or if she was upset to miss out on skating – which Buffy remembered her sister not much liking from their not-memories. But Dawn did seem a little like a pound puppy as they pulled away.

It’ll be better when I’ve got my new job and don’t have to work crazy hours, she told herself. Well, except for the Slayer gig. But it’ll be better when my hours are more predictable and there’s more money. I’ll make it up to her, Buffy promised silently as they glided across the rink.

“So, Dorothy Hamill, how does it feel to be back on the ice?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Better than good. Really normal. I missed this.”

“Yeah. We missed having you around. Actually, I still miss having you around.”

Buffy glided silently for a minute. “I get that. I mean, we all promised we’d stay close, but it isn’t the same now that we don’t see each other all day, every day.”

“There’s more to it.”

She whipped around on her skates and, gliding backward, glared up at Xander. “Is this ice skate date a Buffy intervention?”

“No!”

More glare.

“Well … not an intervention. Just a chance to talk. To catch up.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes. And anyhow, I drove. You’re at the mercy of my Chevrolet.”

“Okay, okay.” She slipped back to her place at his side. “So what’s up?”

“That’s what I want to know from you. I’m the same old Xander as always.”

“Well, new job … yay! And for which I have your lovely bride-to-be to thank.”

“Right. And?”

“And … what? New job. Well, plus the old job.”

“I’m not trying to pry, Bufster, but what about Willow?”

“What about Willow?”

“The nights she crashed out on my couch? That was just a whim?”

“No. We … look, can we not talk about this?”

Xander frowned, ready to argue. And then a four-foot tall kid whipped by on hockey skates, sending him sideways and then flat on his ass.

Buffy stretched out her hand to help him up. “Come on. I think there are jalapeno poppers at the snack bar.”

Mollified, Xander let himself be picked up and brushed off and silenced with junk food.

***

Buffy decided that the walk from Xander’s place to Revello Drive would be patrol enough for the night, but she ran into a couple of scaly green demons and ended up staying out much later than she’d planned.

Tara was asleep on the couch when she let herself in, the credits rolling on a movie.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Buffy. Um … Dawn’s asleep.”

“Is Willow back yet?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She glanced at her watch.

“I’m worried about her, Buffy.”

“You think something happened? Cause she might still just be out with …”

“No, not tonight. I mean, maybe tonight. But I don’t think she knows -”

“Knows what?”

Tara stood, thinking. “Knows how powerful she is. Knows what she’s capable of, what she’s messing with.”

The kitchen door opened and laughter drifted into the living room. “That was just sooo cool! I’m gonna ask Anya if we could get some … Oh. Sorry.”

“Hi, um, hi.”

“Hi Willow. I’d better go.”

“No, Tara, wait- ”

But the girl was gone, whirling to pick up her jacket and bag and out the door to her Camry in minutes.

“Mind if I crash here tonight?” Buffy shrugged and Amy flopped onto the couch.

Buffy shook her head and said her good-nights. It was tough enough being in the middle of her own drama without toying with her best friend’s romances. She needed sleep, she told herself. It would all look better in the morning.

***

He’d trailed her. Far enough back that even her hyper-sensitive senses wouldn’t twig to his presence. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her up against the regular baddies that populated Sunnydale after dark. Come to that, he’d back her against the Devil himself. But those nightmares had her off her game. Or maybe it was the drama with her mates, but no matter. In some dark corner of his mind, Spike knew that the only demon allowed to do in his golden girl was … well, him. Since he liked her far more among the living, especially now that it seemed possible that she might accept that she was undeniably among the living, there was absolutely zero possibility in his universe that she’d be put in harm’s way.

So he trailed her, and after she dispatched the little green whats-its and headed back to Revello, he stood at the tree.

His tree.

“I am a patient boy … I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait,” he murmured, singing along with the soundtrack in his head.

He knew obsessive love, and he knew this wasn’t it. Buffy could move him to rage, yeah. But this? No, this was pure. As pure as could be for a wretch like himself. He’d done drugs, devoured junkies, been in places no sane person wants to be in the deep of night. Turned out he had a talent for slumming it, for the gutter, for a level of self-destruction that did in many a life. Who’d ever guess that sweet, dear, helpless William Pratt would blend at City Lights and Six Gallery, at Lesser Free Trade and CBGB? If it was seedy, dark and dangerous, it would be for him.

Until now.

Nothing that made him yearn to walk in the sunlight could be anything other than pure.

He listened for her pulse, steady and strong.

And bright.

***

The Slayer dreams came.

Not immediately, but with a force that surprised her. She could feel the blood gushing into her mouth, could taste its coppery tang, could feel the heartbeat she stole.

She woke with a strangled gasp and found Spike already swinging a boot over the window sash.

“Again?”

Buffy nodded, listening.

Spike did the same. “I think they’re still sleeping, pet.”

“What time is it?”

“Around two.”

Buffy nodded. Somehow, dodging Xander’s questions all night had left her tired, more tired than many a knock-down, drag-out fight.

Buffy broke into the bob and weave all the time. But that was for the benefit of demons. With one of her best friends? Doing the dance of evasion was awkward. And hard.

Even more troubling was Xander’s not-so-accidental introduction of Buffy and Richard, followed by a convenient phone call to check in with Anya and then an obviously pre-arranged invitation for them to all share a table and yet another steaming styro cup of middling hot chocolate made from powder.

Spike shucked off his duster and boots, his jeans and tee. He was in bed with her in seconds, too quickly for her to protest.

“How went the Ice Capades? Did Xander slide across the rink on that enormous belly of his?”

“I don’t need an extra serving of snark tonight, okay?”

“What do you need then, love?”

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. She sighed in pleasure. His chest was firm and cool against her back. His legs tangled with hers, hairy and muscular. And cool. For all the vampire myths that hadn’t jived with reality, Spike had cold hands. Cold feet. Cold everything. But instead of sending her for a second blanket, it had a surprisingly soothing effect. Kind of like that York Peppermint Patty sensation, she thought … and then giggled.

“Something funny, kitten?”

“Just wondering what would happen if … never mind.” She snuggled up against him, intentionally pressing her ass into his hardening cock.

“Ahhh … if what, love?”

She flipped onto her opposite side to meet his eyes. “If I took a bite out of you.”

“Believe that’s my line, little girl.”

From the moonlight filtering in her bedroom window, she could see enough of Spike’s expression to recognize the effect of her words. Unbridled lust. Biting, huh?

She straddled him, meeting his mouth for hungry, searching kisses. And when she broke away, she kissed her way down to his neck.

The scar was so faint she couldn’t see it, but there was a place where the skin was roughened. She’d noticed it before.

With a deliberate lick, she traced the ragged patch. Her reward was a sharp intake of breath and Spike’s hands, forcefully guiding her hips towards his straining erection. She repeated her lick, adding the lightest nibble this time. Her lover bit back a howl and guided his cock inside, ramming into her with a thrust hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t-”

“Don’t what, Spike?”

“Don’t tease me so, Buffy. Do it harder!”

Her eyes widened, but she obeyed, chomping down with her blunt teeth, hard enough to leave a fleeting mark of her own.

His thrusts quickened, and to her surprise, she was barreling towards a ferocious climax. Shifting her position slightly, the tension built in her even as she worked to craze him.

Sunbursts exploded behind her eyelids when she came, muffling her scream into his neck. He joined her, gasping, gulping for air.

He surfaced. It was a shocker to open his eyes and find himself in her girly room. Should be my dank crypt, he thought.

“Did I break you?” she whispered.

He laughed out loud, and she shushed him with a kiss.

“Is that a yes?”

“Let’s call it a near miss. You’re delicious, Buffy.”

“That sounds a little predatory.”

“What says it isn’t?”

She frowned, one of her disapproving Girl Guide frowns. Add a sash and a first aid kit and she’d fit ‘round the campfire. “Ah, the wrong thing to say.”

She turned her back, but let him pull her up against him again, and gave in, melting as his fingers explored her folds and his cock slipped back in, settling for gentle almost-not-strokes as he murmured into her ear.

“Least I know the right things to do, don’t I, pet? I’m a bad man, love. A dangerous one, even. But you make me better. Good, I wouldn’t ever say I’m good, mind. But loving you makes me nearly so. Doing for you? That’s my little contribution to the betterment of the world. Don’t deprive me, don’t stop me from doing my little piece, love.”

She relaxed into his soft and desperate pleas, and let him do.

***

Giles sat in the most secluded corner of the Hope and Anchor, nursing a pint and waiting.

“I see you’ve found a good spot, Rupert, old man.”

“Hello, James. Good to see you.”

“This isn’t exactly, well ... no one would expect to find two academics like us in a spot like this, now.”

Giles nodded. The haunts about Council HQ were quite posh these days, and the younger members might be found in some of the wine bars after a late night at the office. The senior set favored their ancient and esteemed private clubs, or even the formal library on site. But Giles had never been that guy. This place suited him just fine, even if it made one of his few remaining allies on the Council edgy.

“At any rate, good cover.”

“Summat for your friend, Rupert?”

“Another of the same.” He turned back to his startled companion. “He’s in the know, James.” Giles gestured to the mirrors ringing the bar. “Had a spot of trouble a decade or two back. Gave him a hand with securing the premises.”

“Ah. Well, then, you’ve heard by now about McMahon?”

“I haven’t.”

“Sent to India. Seriously injured when his motorcoach was upended by something. Local authorities are claiming a tremor; our people think a nest of Sluggoth demons, but of course investigation has been needlessly difficult since Independence.”

“Yes, yes, rather a difficult place. But what about Gupta? He was always pukka sahib. I remember back in training one night … well, never mind. You were saying?”

“Gupta’s been out to Sydney since last June.”

“Sydney?”

“Well, with … never mind. And then, the elder Tate is off to Beijing next week.”

“Forgive me, James, I’m a bit out of touch with so much time in the States …”

“Of course, of course, but we’ll need all hands on deck with this situation.” James nodded importantly, and Giles knew he’d been on to something. James Travers was chatty and indiscrete, but he was Quentin’s only nephew on Council and so had been trusted past the point of sense. Call it instinct, but Giles knew something was afoot even before his call to James had met with an excited and nervous acceptance. And he knew that James would be flattered to be sought out by a Watcher with field experience.

“The situation?”

“It’s her, Giles. Proserpexa.”

“Proserpexa?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know, man!”

“Sorry … I’ve been a little out of touch.”

“Don’t they tell you these things?”

“Tell me what things, James?”

“I’m sure it would be prominently featured in the handbook!”

Giles nodded, trying not to betray his impatience. Or his anxiety – James was loud, and the bar was getting crowded.

“Rupert, Proserpexa is - I say, could you give us some space?” A drunk stumbled into his chair.

Too late, Giles realized the man wasn’t drunk.

“Oh, blast,” James murmured as he collapsed.

Run after the assassin or tend his friend?

“Sorry, mate,” Giles murmured as he gave chase into the London night.

~~~

AN: The chapter title is from a lyric in the Verlaine's Heavy 33. Chapter 9's was from the Independents' In the Rain and Chapter 8's from Bare Naked Ladies' Too Little Too Late.