Spike passed out in the taxi, woke up, managed to get himself clothed, and then passed out again as the taxi drove him to the docks. It didn’t take long for Spike to find what he was looking for once he got there. An immense cruise ship awaited the arrival of its passengers – probably later that day, or the next. He wasn’t even sure where it was going, and he didn’t really care. South, he thought, but that didn’t mean much. Away was all that mattered to him. He didn’t have a ticket yet, but that wouldn’t matter soon. He’d hide, he’d lurk, he’d steal, he’d do something. He could talk his way out of just about anything, he was sure. Just get on the ship, that was stage one. Everything else could be handled en route.

    Why couldn’t they just let him die? Why did they always have to save him, restore him, bloody resurrect him? Dru, Buffy, Angel, none of them could ever just let it end. They had to keep torturing him. It had to go on for sodding ever.

    No. It was time for it to be over. Angel and Buffy were content together, and he could go on his miserable way without getting in between them. It was time for all of this... to end.

    Every fiber still ached with stiffness and inactivity. He kept coughing, kept cringing, trying to make his body work right. Dru hadn’t mentioned if she’d been in this much pain after her restoration. He doubted it. She hadn’t been unconscious, after all.

    Why had he been unconscious? He stretched his mind back to the last thing he remembered. It was Buffy, Buffy in battle, her blond hair flying, the scent of her tickling his nose. No... no, that can’t have been it.

    Crunch. That was it. The crunch. The beautiful symphony of a breaking neck, a life ending under his hands. Only it wasn’t in his hands. It was his own, his spine snapping, he’d been broken. The neck brace had been holding him together. And Angel had restored him. Why?

    It would have been Buffy, he realized. He’d have done it for Buffy. Of course, Spike thought, heading up the gangway. Angel would do anything for Buffy. Even drag an unconscious and unruly vampire back from the edge of the dust. A forever love they had, yeah? Buffy still loved Angel. She hadn’t been sure, but Spike was. He knew they’d never stop. Just like he’d never let go of Dru, not completely. She was an imprint in his heart that would never fade, no matter what happened between them. No matter that Buffy overshadowed it now, and always would.

    That thought made him pause. He was almost aboard ship, and the idea of Buffy overshadowing Dru caught him. That was my choice, she had told him. She had made a choice one night... and that choice hadn’t been Angel.

    He turned around. He had to know. He couldn’t just let Buffy go, not to captain sadness and his insecurely attached soul, his selfish martyrdom. Saving the world every bloody day, just to prove he deserved to be a real bloody boy.

    But what made Spike better? Just because he’d gone through torture didn’t make his choice any less selfish. Angel risked his life to save the planet. Spike had only put his body on hock, no one else was in particular danger. He turned back to the ship.

    Buffy wouldn’t want to see him, anyway. He knew that he was only a complication between the two of them. Angel had probably only saved him for the same reason Spike hadn’t staked him during that whole Cup of Torment debacle. Didn’t want to hear her bitch about it.

    And what about Mr. Holier-Than-Thou’s bitch of a girlfriend? Spike wondered. Dropping one supposed love for another – yeah, real loyal there, peaches. Buffy deserved better than that. He turned around again.

    Buffy wouldn’t care about that. Not if she wanted Angel back, could have him back. She could indulge that little girl inside her, lose herself again in a dream of love. He turned again.

    A dream. That’s all it was, though, with Angel, a bloody dream. Spike was the reality. He was the one who had been there with her, he was the one who had tasted her, who had brought her body into ecstacy, he was the one she had disappeared into, night after night, for months. He was the one she craved, the one she longed for, he was the one she’d been as addicted to as he’d once craved human blood. He turned again.

    But she’d turned away from it. She’d gotten over it. As surely as he’d gotten over the blood. He turned again.

    Gah, this was madness! A twisted maelstrom of insane impulses, and he didn’t know what the hell he wanted! He wanted her in his arms, he wanted her so badly his bones ached – or was that just the pain? It didn’t matter. He still wanted her. And he wanted to run a thousand miles away, never drown in the depth her eyes again, never lose himself in her scent, never have to second guess his every move, never disappear within her. He wanted to be himself, not this endless aching longing that he had been almost since he met the bitch.

    And he wanted to be her strength, her support, he wanted to be the one to make her laugh, make her soft, make her scream.

    With a roar of frustration, he punched at the metal bulkhead of the cruise ship. It clanged, and dented. His bones clicked, his fingers were torn open with the impact, and the pain almost made his head straight for moment. He looked at his now broken and bleeding hand. The impact had ripped open the skin, and the stab wound in his palm had started to trickle again. As he expected, the preternatural scent of Angel’s magically charged blood tickled his nose.

    And another scent. A sweet, potent, alluring scent. The blood of a slayer.

    This was insane. He had to know the truth. Being frightened wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

    He’d had enough of being frightened of Buffy.
 

***

    “We’re gonna win,” Buffy told him. He’d fallen asleep after he and Buffy had talked, but she’d been unable to find slumber, even in his arms. The First had taunted her, and she’d come up with her world changing plan. Spike had woken from a dream of drowning, and found her looking excited, almost frightened, and for the first time completely confident.

    Spike was stunned when she’d finished explaining her plan. It was still several hours until the sun rose. Everyone else was still asleep, and until the household arose and could settle into a meeting, the world-shattering plan – every potential in the world a full and empowered slayer – was a secret between the two of them.

    “Do you really think Red can pull it off?” Spike asked.

    Buffy nodded. She’d joined him on the cot to explain her idea. “You didn’t see her after Tara died,” she said. “She was... an unstoppable force. With the strength of that scythe, I don’t doubt that she can tap into the power of the slayers.”

    “Is it really that powerful?”

    “I can’t describe it,” she said. “It’s like... my blood sings with it, and my strength is just... unfathomable. It’s not just that it’s mine, it’s like it’s me. Like an extension of my arm or something, but it empowers me at the same time. I don’t know. Maybe... it’s made from the same demon that gives us our slayer strength. It feels like it.”

    “And with that weapon... you intend to awaken that power... in every potential girl in the world.”

    Buffy nodded.

    Spike considered this for a moment. “I feel bloody sorry for the world.”

    “Spike,” Buffy said, almost chastising. “It won’t be a force for evil. It’ll be–”

    “I know what it’ll be, pet,” Spike said. “But if there are thousands, or even just hundreds of women in the world like you... there’s not a man safe on the planet.”

    “I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered by that.”

    “Take your pick,” he said. “I know I can hardly handle just one of you.” He glanced over at her. “Though I gotta tell you, love, if I was still into killing you, I’d be thrilled.”

    She laughed, then for the first time, doubt clouded her eyes. “Tell me I’m not crazy?”

    “Oh, you are definitely crazy, goldilocks,” he said, putting his arm around her. He drew her close and whispered in her ear, “Doesn’t mean you’re not right.”

    Her arms went around him sensuously and held him tightly, and he felt a responsive shiver rush through him. His breath caught, and it made him pull away.

    Buffy noticed. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed, but it was the first time she hadn’t just let him. “All right, Spike, what is it?”

    “What?”

    “You hold me so tenderly,” she said. “You say it’s still all about me, but you pull away. These are the same hands that held me on the balcony at the Bronze. You’re the one who pulled out the handcuffs. I mean, five hours wasn’t unheard of for us, and you pull away. It’s not your soul, is it? I mean, you’re sure this isn’t the problem that Angel had?”

    “No,” Spike said quickly, pulling away even further. “No,” he said, softer. “No, the soul’s fixed, I just... I didn’t think it my right.”

    “No, that’s not it,” Buffy said. “I’d have agreed at first, but.... You’ve come within an inch of kissing me a dozen times in the last two nights, and you’ve pulled away each time. This has been going on since you got back. No touching, you said. You were mad, but that didn’t really go away. You don’t want me lifting your shirt, sometimes you hesitate just taking my hand. Last night was... lovely, but chaste. I mean, we’ve had reasons not to. And, I haven’t been pursuing, but you’ve been actively pulling back. Now I’m here, I’m open, and for some reason, you’re... not.” She pushed forward, and he leaned away, until finally she had him half recumbent on the cot, peering into his face. Her breath clung to him like honey. “Come on, Spike. Since when do you act like an innocent virgin?”

    He tried to keep his face still. He tried like hell to keep the truth out of his eyes, but his wretched soul was such a damned bloody tell, he knew she was reading him like a sodding fashion magazine. “Spike...?” she asked. “You’re not...?”

    Spike pulled her off him and slipped her beside him. He felt a little less trapped when she wasn’t looming over him, when he could look down at her from his elbow. “I’m just... it’s complicated,” he said.

    She tried to keep her voice gentle. “What?”

    “My soul,” he admitted, “back before it was taken from me... was a very tender thing,” he said. “I was a moral, upperclass Victorian gentleman. I was shy, and genteel. And frankly, I could be wounded to the core by almost anything. I followed the rules. I knew the roles of propriety. It was only becoming a vampire that unleashed me, gave me the freedom to do what I’d always wanted.” He swallowed. “I had never taken a lover. I had never even shared a kiss.”

    “Are you telling me...?”

    “I remember everything,” he said, letting the hunger color his tone. “It’s not like I’ve suddenly forgotten how or anything. I remember what it felt like... what it could do. I remember you...” His hand slid down her bare arm, the memories heavy in his eyes. “The heat of you,” he murmured. “Your passion... how raw.... But I remember a lot of other women, too,” he said. “A lot of victims,” he confessed. He shook his head. “Even touching your hand felt... different... when I got back,” he said. “These last two nights have been...” He couldn’t find any other word, even though he knew not to use this lightly around Buffy. “They’ve been heaven,” he whispered. Her eyes grew too intense for him then, and he had to look away. “I don’t know what kissing you would do to me, love,” he breathed. “Let alone....” He felt like an idiot.

    He felt Buffy’s lips against his then, and he pulled away instinctively. She didn’t hold him to her, but she didn’t quite let him go, either. Hovering a hair’s breadth away, she breathed into his mouth, moving, caressing, letting him barely feel her heat as she almost kissed him, but didn’t force him to close on her. He felt like he was drowning in her scent, melting in her heat, he felt unable to pull away, unable to stop, and just as helplessly unable to claim her lips as his. Their mouths slid wider, their breath heavier, until every breath he took was hers. Their tongues touched before their lips really did, and the taste of her made him gasp, tense with terror and longing. He pulled away again.

    “Spike,” she breathed into his mouth. “It’s me.” Her fire hot fingertips touched his cool cheek and left streaks burning through his skin. “Have you any idea the things you taught me? Things I never thought... I would ever let myself do. Let alone relish, or crave, or beg for.” For a brief moment she pulled a little away, and their eyes caught in the dim light. “Just let yourself feel it,” she whispered, words he had murmured to her a hundred times, in circumstances intimate, or passionate, or dire. She pushed closer to him, presenting herself, and he finally felt he could claim her, a little moan escaping from him as he closed on her. She let the kiss flow sweetly between them only for a few breaths before bringing in her naughty little teeth, nipping at his tongue, his lips, pulling away before claiming him over and over again.

    It did feel different. Worlds different. Even as a pure vampire, the difference between a victim and a willing lover was like steak and ice-cream; solid meat to chew apart compared to sweetness melting on your tongue. The difference between everyone else and Buffy had been veritable cocaine, pleasure almost too powerful to leave him his sanity.

    He didn’t have an analogy for this. It was Buffy. It was her, racing through his blood, hardening his body, leaving him a gibbering nothing of wordless sensation, past want, past lust, past love, past all words he could even consider. There was only this, her, her lips, her body, her scent, her heat, and all of it penetrating him until he didn’t even exist anymore. He was only this, this movement, this sensation, falling into her.

    Buffy pressed him down into the pillows, her hands inching up under his shirt, the heat of her pressing down on his cold torso. He let her stop kissing him and she bent over him, trailing her blazing hot lips up his chest as she slowly raised his shirt. A moment later he was sitting up, just enough to let her slide the black cotton over his head, and her hot little hands were sliding over his flesh, his nipples, down his sensitive belly. His wanted to look at her, fix his eyes on her, but they kept closing for long seconds with uncontrolled pleasure, or longing, or fear, he couldn’t decide. His breath came like a freight train. She shifted, crossed her arms over her body, and tore her tank top off over her head. For a moment he was stunned by the image of her white breasts, and then hunger for them ripped through him, and he moaned as he lifted his head, clutching her to him, nuzzling into the soft, warm flesh, finally finding a nipple and drawing it into his mouth, feeling it harden and grow against his tongue, between his teeth. He sucked on it, nibbling it, and felt a responsive shudder move through her.

    A while later she pushed him down again, straddling him while she stared into his eyes, and he was lost in her. “Share your soul with me, William,” she whispered.

    There was only one thing to say. “It’s already yours.”

    She had pulled him from his fear of her, his fear of opening himself and his soul at the same time. These last few months in LA, he’d been trying to figure out who and what he was without her, which was something he knew he needed to do, if it was ever going to be fair to her. But there was a difference between finding himself without her, and running the hell away, and that was exactly what he was doing now. He was running not because he thought it was better for her. Not because she loved Angel. He wasn’t even running because he thought she wouldn’t want to see him. He was running because he was scared. He was as scared of her acceptance as he was of her rejection. She’d break him if she didn’t want him anymore. He would lose himself if she did. Both ideas, both hell and heaven, terrified the crap out of him.

    But either way, he had to find out.

    He wasn’t a coward. He was a warrior. If he could face a bloody demon horde, he could face a small blonde slayer. He had to get over it this time by himself.

    No matter what she might do to him.