Buffy’s bedroom.

    Spike was proud that he was still had the invite to her house. He still had the invite to her college dorm room, too, that Willow had granted him, but Buffy didn’t live there anymore. She had moved back in to Revello Drive what with her mum sick and all. Spike had been longing for a decent chance to search through here since... oh, god. Since that wretched dream had shifted all his constant longing for her from blood to flesh. The longing had always been there, since the first time he’d seen her, but it had been a longing to kill her. He didn’t know when it had shifted from bloodlust to straight lust. He knew he’d been suppressing it for at least a year. From before that god damn spell that Willow had cast, which had Buffy’s kisses seeded in his mind, so that he knew what she tasted like, how she kissed, what her sweet, strong little fingers could do as they slid over his clothes....

    And now he was here.  Buffy’s room. Buffy’s lair, Buffy’s safe space, Buffy’s territory. The last time he’d dared to come up here, Riley had caught him at it, and he hadn’t had as much time as he’d wanted. He’d only barely gotten a hit from the scent of one of Buffy’s sweaters before he’d been tossed out into the sun. Now, he knew he’d have plenty of time to search out treasures. Joyce was back at work, the niblet was safely at school, and Buffy was off at training. Spike had at least an hour to soak in the illicit seduction of Buffy’s own space, while her scent batted at him with soft paws.

    He shivered with the intimacy of it. It was like entering into her own secret spaces, like making love to her... his mind took off at that thought, and memories of his own heated dreams and fantasies caught him, holding him hostage for a long moment. Her strong, warm body moving against him, her heated breath, the tender sounds deep in her throat like he’d heard her make for Riley outside her bedroom window. Only this time made for him, for Spike, as he held her down, breathed her in, moved inside her, felt her beneath him....

    He was hard as a freaking rock. Stop it, he told himself. He didn’t have long here, he could fantasize on his own time!

    Photographs. That was a good start. Look on her face. Look at the happiness in her eyes as she sits beside her friends. Gaze on her image as she lives as part of her charming family. He smiled gently, and reached out to touch the tiny image of Buffy as she posed beside her sister. God, she was beautiful. That hair, that smile, those bright white teeth, the quirky little shape to her nose...

    No. He had her picture at home. Look deeper.

    He searched her closet. The way she hung up her clothes, her sweaters... so soft. She really loved those sensual fabrics. Ach! There was that awful little orange skirt he’d always loathed! How adorable, the damn thing was still there!

    What were these posters, anyway? New Kids on the Block. Funny. Some art posters. And little butterfly decals. He smiled. At some level, Buffy hadn’t really grown up yet. Or rather... no. It looked more like she hadn’t touched the place since she’d decorated it when she first got to Sunnydale. That made more sense. It was still a teenage girl’s bedroom, but only because she was too busy. At least she wasn’t like Harmony. Constantly fiddling with her bloody unicorns. He’d finally insisted Harmony move back to her own sodding lair if she was going to insist on putting unicorn posters up. She had moved out, actually, though she still came around regularly for a shag, and to... be annoying. He didn’t break up with her, though, because hell, she was sometimes amusing, she wasn’t a bad lay, and when he took her from behind he could almost imagine that blond hair was Buffy’s.... But god, she could be annoying, with her fantasy posters and her stupid word games. He didn’t know how he kept ending up with children. Drusilla and her dolls, Harmony and her unicorns, what was next?

    Not that Buffy didn’t have quite a number of stuffed animals. But they looked like relics, keepsakes of a happier time that she couldn’t bear to part with, not snugglies she kept because they actually provided any solace. Spike picked one of them up anyway, a little stuffed pig. It was well loved. Sitting behind it on the shelf was a perfect little porcelain tea-set, with a sugar bowl and creamer and little roses on the cups, endearingly chipped. Memories of a baby Buffy, pouring pretend tea around her little table, playing with her sis and her dollies, just as Dru used to do. Spike picked up a cup from the delicate children’s toy and fondled it, smiling. He could almost imagine just catching her up back then, those little arms as they embraced her mum.... He’d spent an illicit hour in Buffy’s basement a while ago, searching through old photographs. Buffy was so deliciously adorable back then...  

    Not delicious. Just... ugh. Stop being a vampire for ten minutes, Spike, he told himself. He only wanted to eat her in the abstract, anyway. Whenever he got around her, he hungered for her in a very, very different way...

    He caught a glimpse of her stereo and pressed play on the CD player. Soft romantic music wafted through the room. “It might have been a while Since you've been loved Like you should be loved...” Spike would have been more touched by her sentimentality if he hadn’t recognized the tune as one she’d danced to with the soldier boy. Humph. Well. Give Spike half a chance, and he’d knock that prat right out of her head sure enough. He moved across the room, unconsciously sliding a bit of a dance into his movements to the tune. He would have loved to have been Riley in those moments... danced with her. Made love to her. He knew Buffy had never loved that man, not the way she could love. He’d seen the way she loved Angel. Riley had barely touched her. Spike knew he could devour her, take over every part of her body and her mind, if he only had a chance....

    Buffy hadn’t put her pajamas away that morning. She’d gone off to train leaving them on the floor beside the hamper. Spike picked them up and sniffed at her shirt, little fires of longing kindling in his chest. Buffy wore these. She’d slid her arms into this soft satin, moved her body inside it, it had caressed her skin, tickled at her breasts, been tucked between her nether spaces, touched her most secret corners....

    He stopped. He pulled his arm out of the too-tight sleeve and frowned at himself. What was he doing? Standing in the middle of this sunny bedroom, holding satin soft silk to himself in helpless, desperate longing....

    God, this was just sad. He’d never really get the chance to do this with Buffy herself. He knew he wouldn’t. If he actually thought he ever could, he wouldn’t bother doing this, because it wasn’t what he really wanted. What he wanted wasn’t silk and satin and pawing through her bedroom, what he wanted was Buffy.

    But he’d never have Buffy. The music flickered to a stop, and then to his surprise, started again. Buffy’d had it set on repeat. Oh, god, the poor girl! His fist clenched in both annoyance and longing. He knew she was still missing Captain Cardboard, which frustrated him no end, and he also knew he could take that longing away if she’d just let him into her bed.... And the chances that she would ever possibly let....

    He let the sweet smelling silk slide back to the floor and turned. Her bed was loosely made, the blankets tossed back over without care. Her bed.... He knew he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t had never meant much to Spike. He lifted the covers and slid between her smooth sheets, bathing himself in her scent. He arched sensuously as he snuggled down under the blankets, buried his head in her pillows as if they were her own soft, white breasts. The scent of her hair scratched painfully through his senses, rending him all the way down through to his gut. He could feel the longing like a deep gouge through his body.

    “Buffy...” he whispered, caressing her pillow with his hand. “Buffy.... Ugh!” Grunting with impotent desire, he envisioned what it would be if Buffy were really there beside him. He ran his cheek along the lace pillowcase. Actually, that was remarkably uncomfortable. He could just picture her waking in the morning with red flower lace marks on her cheeks. He wished he could be there to see them. He’d kiss them over and over until they disappeared, and then kiss the rest of her, her throat, and her collarbone, and her shoulders, and her chest, and her sweet, soft, white breasts, with their pert, pink little nipples, that would rise and harden under his lips, as she moaned and arched beneath him, her hot, strong, slayer’s body as he claimed her as his own, entering her, filling her, being filled by her, feeling her flesh between his teeth, biting at her, tasting her, drawing in her scent... her scent...! He nearly sobbed.

    The song started over again. Time was ticking by. He knew he should get out of there. He shouldn’t indulge in this....

    He leaned back against her pillows and opened the bedside drawer. He was hoping for a sex toy. The scent of her secret spaces, the taste of them, it would have been... God, even the thought was like being groped. It would have kept him in fantasies for months! He’d never heard the hum of a vibrator outside her window, but she might have a dildo or something. Or she might use something else... the idea of Buffy playing sex games with a stake entered into his mind, and made his teeth chatter with naughty erotic images.

    No such luck. Buffy was young, and mostly inexperienced. One night with Angel, (selfish prick) one night with that wanker in college, (surprisingly, an even more selfish prick,) and then the soldier boy. And that particular prick Riley hadn’t been the most inventive of lovers – Spike had realized this listening outside their window – so he hadn’t come up with anything fun. Plain boring straight shag. No vibrators, no handcuffs, and if Buffy kept silk stockings they weren’t there by the bedside. There were some unopened condoms, and a packet of birth control pills, but they didn’t smell like Buffy’s sweet little quim, so apart from confirming her sexuality they did nothing for Spike.

    He dug a little further. There was a stake – kind of an interesting looking one, twisty and very sharp, but it clearly had never been used as a sex toy. Some hair-ties, lip balm, antacids, a couple of books...

    Oh. Oh yeah! Spike pulled out the small hardcover with its tiny lock. Buffy kept a diary! He trembled as he looked at it. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen apart from Buffy herself. This was better than a sex toy. He scrabbled at it, grinning, eager to get into her mind, know her thoughts, be part of her. He was wildly excited, suddenly. This was better than her things, her territory, her scent. This was her. He’d been a poet, once upon a hellscape. He knew what writing could be. He knew what private writing meant. It was how she felt, who she was, the core of her being, her s... soul. He hesitated, but quickly quashed his qualms, and opened the lock. It was already broken. Slayer strength. God, she was fabulous.

    The book was old. It didn’t smell as if it had been opened recently. He was disappointed that the first entry was from 1997. Still, even her old form of thinking was going to mean a lot. Probably why it was buried so deep in her drawer. Probably her newer diaries were kept somewhere else. In with her college stuff, maybe? He’d have to try and find them. Anyway, there was bound to be some interesting stuff even from back then. “New home,” the first entry read. “New town. New school. New Buffy. No vampire slayage!”

    Spike chuckled. That didn’t last.

    He skimmed the early entries, annoyed with the teenage-girl Angel-worship. He read avidly about her terror of the Master when she found she was going to die, and then her statement about the calm acceptance that had overtaken her. Ha. He knew she had a death wish! All slayers did, they had to. That was why it was so much fun to kill them. He’d see to it she...

    But he didn’t want to kill her. Except sometimes he did. Not for the first time he wished the love hadn’t gotten mixed up in it. Love of hunting her, yes. Love of her... that was just confusing. And heady. And unshakable. And...

    Spike. That was his name! She’d written down his name! God, he hated himself for this, because here he was, getting all giddy and schoolgirlish just because, sure enough, she’d noticed that someone had threatened to kill her, and she’d mentioned it in her diary. Of course she’d mentioned it. It didn’t mean she really liked him.

    “New vamp in town. One I dusted called him “Spike.” Seems to think he’s gonna kill me. Jerk doesn’t know what’s coming to him.”

    Spike blinked. “You were supposed to be scared, bint,” he muttered.

    He kept reading. To his annoyance, he was barely mentioned. “Spike guy raided parent night at school. I was really scared about Mom, but she picked up a ax. She’s not even mad at me anymore. Says shes glad I can look after myself.” Then she went on about the mall.

    The mall. Spike’s opening salvo, the introductory fight, the first dance with a deadly and implacable foe, and she didn’t talk about his battle style, or his banter, or even how Angel used to know him. She talked about her mum’s ax, and the bloody mall. How could that fight not have been important to her? It was him, it was Spike! And she was the slayer, and how could she not...

    She was the slayer. She fought vampires every day. She couldn’t have known he was different. He was the one facing something unique. Something singular and beautiful and rare. The one. The chosen one. He was the one who had sought her out. She couldn’t have known what he’d come to mean to her. Well. He showed her. He must ‘ave. He kept reading.

    More Angel. Xander, Willow, more Angel. Spike wasn’t even mentioned on Halloween. He’d had her at his mercy! He’d stalked her and caught her and held her down and felt her trembling beneath him and the memory of that moment when she was a helpless lost little lamb still echoed inside him to this day, and all she wrote in her diary was some bull about “had problems with costumed demons” and then even bloody more about Angel! How he’d said he preferred her without the dress. Well, duh! Who wouldn’t prefer her without the sodding dress? Preferably without anything at all....

    Ah. Here was Drusilla. Huh. So Angel had actually lied to her about Drusilla at first. Didn’t surprise him. “I don’t know what to think.” she wrote after she sketched out the story. “I knew he’d done terrible things. I knew he’d murdered people and stuff, but I didn’t think I’d ever have to see one of his victims. I mean, all his crimes were like a hundred years ago, right? So it’s all long done with now. Its like, if he was as old as he looked like he is, then there would be no crimes. How long living clean before murder is washed off your soul? But what he said he did to Drusilla... I don’t know. That’s just really sick. But that wasn’t really Angel, was it? It was whatever that demon did with his body, it wasn’t his soul. Except, that demons still in there, isn’t it? I don’t know. I’m really confused. It wouldn’t bug me so much if he hadn’t been sneaking behind my back with Will and  Xander, corrupting my friends into some big conspiricy, but he was, and now I don’t know what to think. Drusilla’s a vampire, and she’s all snuggly with Spike. Big ugly there. But she’s also a victim, and... I don’t know. I just wish things were more clearer.”

    Then, on the next page, all by itself, she had written, “He asked if I love him, before he’d tell me about Drusilla. I said yes.” Then below that, “I love him. I love him. I love him.” Then in big letters, “I love Angel”.

    The words looked more like she was trying them on than like she herself was convinced. So. Angel had gone fishing for her love, demanding it of her, even. Demanding her love before he’d tell her the truth. Spike suddenly felt a lot better about the whole thing.

    A page later she mourned the passing of her old friend Ford, who had up and betrayed her – bleeding tragic taste in men, that girl – and again Spike wasn’t mentioned. She’d just said, “I couldn’t bring myself to kill Drusilla. She was Angel’s victim.... Maybe I should have.” Maybe? What? Why? Why did she think she should she have killed her? Was that because Dru was dangerous, or because she was tormented? Buffy was terse about her deeper reasons for things, which really bugged Spike. That was what he was interested in! Not how piercing Angel’s bloody gaze was, or the shirt she’d just got at the mall. What was she actually thinking about? Well, apart from Angel’s gaze. Spike growled under his breath.

    He flipped through. More stuff, nothing to do with Spike, not a lot even to do with Angel. For a guy she claimed to be in love with, they sure didn’t seem to spend much time together. Then... damn. Going on a date. Big sexy Angel date at the skating rink... Damn. And somehow, Buffy found herself okay with the whole breaking-and-entering after hours thing, even when there wasn’t any slayage involved, but hell. It was “true love.” Spike knew when this was. Sure enough – second slayer, Order of Taraka, big bad Angel kidnap. “Defeated Spike and Drusilla at the church. Angel’s mostly okay. Thank god that’s over. I gotta try and talk Kendra into actually buying a plane ticket, cos that girl–” and the rest was all about Kendra.

    Spike blinked at the page. That had been a bloody turning point in his life. She’d nearly killed him. She had broken him. And all it was to her was “defeated at the church”? His fist clenched in rage. Suddenly he really wanted to kill her. Tear her limb from bleeding limb, spread the bits all over this sodding room. He almost tore the book to shreds, but then she’d know he’d been there, and... maybe he could just hold her down and let her know how important he was to her! Fangs were really good at persuasion. If it weren’t for the sodding chip, she’d be nothing but blood and pieces by now. He growled. He roughly flipped toward the end of the book, hoping to find something about their truce. She must have mentioned him there, right? That was a big deal! A big deal for both of them!

    But there were only blank pages.

    Spike flipped back. Lots of blank pages. Then... there it was. The final entry.

    “It’s my birthday. I thought it was gonna be terrible. Angel had to leave. Someone’s trying to reassemble this scary-bad called the judge, and Angel was going to take one of the pieces away to keep him from being put together, and we fought and lost it and I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Angel gave me a promise ring. It’s almost like an engagement. It was really sweet, and I thought my heart would break when he gave it to me. And then we got back to his apartment and... it happened! It actually happened! I don’t know if he meant it to, but I wanted it to. After all my dreams and all my nightmares, I wanted him to touch me so bad! I know, I’m only just seventeen, and yeah, he’s a lot older. I don’t dare tell my mom. I think it’s illegal, isn’t it? But he’s a vampire, I mean, what’s that mean, anyway. I’m so excited. But I’m kind of scared, because I woke up, and he wasn’t there. He didn’t leave a note or anything. And I had that dream that Drusilla was still alive, but... god it felt good! To finally touch him like I wanted to. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but he seemed to, and... oh, god. I’m so excited. And I’m so scared. It felt so great, but then... where’d he go? How could he have just left like that? I’m so afraid something’s happened to him. What if that dream was real? What if Drusilla got to him? What if he’s dead?

    What if he isn’t? What if I just... wasn’t very good? What if he got bored?

    What if...

    God, what did I do wrong? I’m such an idiot.

    Where are you, Angel? Please be safe! I love you so much.”

    That was the final entry. The rest of the book was nothing but empty pages, thin blue lines ungraced by her awkward modern handwriting. Spike stared at those words. “Angel. I love you so much.” And then nothing.

    She hadn’t written another word.

    Spike hadn’t written a poem since Drusilla had turned him. That thought stabbed at him very quickly. He always tried to dismiss that thought when he had it. Everything had changed; he’d fallen deeply in love, he’d discovered blood and darkness and evil, he’d felt alive for the very first time, it all sang inside him like a poem itself. It all should have resulted in epic poetry of potent power and blood. But while he’d occasionally get a line or two crossing through his head, the well had dried up. His poems, awful as they may have been, had all left with his soul.

    He always told himself he’d never missed it, never missed them, hated the pitiful soulful man he’d been. He’d been weak, and all those soul-drenched feelings had done had been to hurt him. But he couldn’t deny that was what had happened. His poetry, the feeling, the expression. The words had gone with his soul.

    Buffy’s words... Buffy’s words had gone with Angel’s. When Angel’s soul had gone, Buffy’s soul had been shattered. Suddenly Spike knew there would be no up-to-date diary among Buffy’s college books. No soul-searching journal among her things. This was where the diary had ended. This was where everything had ended. This was where she stopped thinking about how she was feeling, stopped searching out her thoughts about things, where the emotions had been lost in something bigger than her. This was where the little girl and her little-girl-crush had... been crushed. Angelus had reared his ugly, soulless head, and Buffy’s feelings, her expression, her own soul had... died.

    This book wasn’t just old. It was completely obsolete. Like the tea-set and the stuffed pig and the New Kids on the Block posters. It had nothing to do with her. Not the Buffy he knew. This wasn’t the young woman Spike loved. This was the girl Angel had loved. Buffy was so much more than this now. She was bigger than this. Deeper than this. She’d been rent asunder and put herself back together. And he, Spike, had been part of whatever world she’d put together after Angel’s betrayal, but she’d never admit it. Spike was – he had to be – inside whatever new creature she’d forged herself into. The vampire she’d allied with, the one who helped her battle evil, the one who guarded her little sister from the darkness. He had to be there. But he’d never get to read what it was, where he was, what he meant. He might mean a lot, or a little, and she’d never tell him. She’d probably never even search her soul to find it. There was too much pain there.

    Spike touched those words at the end of the page. I love you so much. His touch loosened the residue on the page, and a scent tickled his nostrils. Angel...?

    Yes. Angel. Angel’s vampiric, slightly blood tinged saliva. Angel had been here. That was why the lock was broken. Not Buffy’s strength, Angel’s violation. Angel had crept through this bedroom himself, opened this diary, actually bloody kissed these pages.... God, that was disgusting!

    Yeah. Wasn’t it, though.

    Spike closed his eyes and put the book back in the drawer. What was he doing? He looked around the room, and felt horrified with himself. Buffy wasn’t a peep-show. She wasn’t just a fantasy, some creature who didn’t really exist, like one of Harmony’s unicorns. Buffy was a real person, a wonderful person, with depth and passion and feeling. She had three dimensions, a history, thoughts and desires, her own pleasures, her own pain. And here he’d been pawing through her things like they were the mud a pig would wallow in. And he was the pig. He was no better than Angel, and Angel had been trying to torture her. Spike didn’t feel guilt or anything, but this behavior didn’t seem worthy of her, either. She was better than this. Spike wasn’t, but she was.

    God, he hated feeling like this. He wished to god he could get her out of his head.

    He climbed out of her bed and carefully made it back up, so his meddling wouldn’t be noticeable. He turned off the music, glanced about at her things, shaking his head. She deserved so much better than what she’d gotten. She deserved better....

    He left.