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Buffy went up to her room and quickly stripped out of her formal wear and back into her hunting clothes. She grabbed her weapons, keys and jacket and headed out.

Once down at the garage, she picked her favorite car from the extensive line up, a black, custom Nissan 300 ZX, and unlocked the door.
Just as she was about to slide inside, she felt a tingling sensation at the base of her neck. She reached her hand slowly into her jacket and took out a stake.

"Wouldn’t bother, princess. I’m not of a category to hurt you. Not right now, anyways."

At the sound of the rich British timbre, Buffy re-pocketed her stake.

"Spike, what the hell are you doing in my car?" she asked, leaning back on the open door with her arms crossed. She could see him quite clearly, how his tall frame was squeezed into the bucket seat, his black polished nails resting lightly on his knees. He matched the car rather well.

"Fancied going for a bit of a ride." His words were light, but his eyes were the shade of dark blue that indicated serious.

"Right. A ride. With me. ‘Cause that’s of the likely."

"Don’t be gun shy, pet," he prompted. "We need to talk."

Buffy hesitated, mourning the loss of solitude, but finally got into the car.

"Where to?" she asked over the purr of the engine.

Spike shrugged. "Just give it a spin, and we’ll figure it out, pet."

The ride was silent for the most part, filled only with the loud rock station Spike had managed to locate on the stereo. But music could be another kind of silence, and Buffy rolled the windows down to let in the smoggy air.

Eventually they ended up at Denny’s, on the other side of LA, discussing the night’s battle over pancakes. Buffy watched Spike dip his tea bag up and down in a brown ceramic mug, waiting for him to start talking again.

"So you don’t know why the spell happened?"

"No. Like I told you all earlier, I just knew."
"Huh."

He was quiet as the waitress came back with their food, setting a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him, and strawberry ones in front of Buffy.

"There you go, hon," she said to him with a big smile. "You need anything else, just let me know."

Buffy felt her palms itch with the need to smack the waitress, who’d been curt with her and kept throwing extra long glances at Spike. He seemed oblivious however, intent on their discussion of her father.

"He’s not gonna let it go, but I’m supposin’ you already know that."

"Yeah," she said softly as she fiddled with the coke she’d ordered. She left her pancakes untouched.
"But I’ll worry ‘bout that tomorrow."

They talked vaguely of business, threw out theories on why the Gustuuks had attacked so publicly, so soon. When finally they left, it was a little after four.

Buffy let Spike drive on their way back, at his insistence. But instead of pulling up at the familiar mansion gates, he stopped the car at the edge of one of the cemeteries she frequented.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"Wanted to show you something."

"I don’t think so."

"Come on. Just take a moment." He dropped the keys into his jacket pocket and started out among the headstones. Buffy stared after him, then slowly got out and followed. The world around her felt vaguely numb.

"Had a bit of a throw down few weeks back out here," Spike said when she caught up to him.

He pointed at a statue of an angel, hands and face extended towards heaven in eternal supplication.

"There was a man, fellow Brit, and I followed him here. He was hiding behind that angel. Had tracked him for asking questions about you, pet."

"You kill him?" she asked quickly.

"He’s been taken care of, not to worry."

"So why are we here, then?" He just gave her a slow smile.

"You’ve all sorts of secrets, fancying yourself clever. But you’ve had more than one person ‘watching’ you." He circled her, and she turned carefully with him.

"How much do you know about me, pet?" he asked as he stalked her with slow, lazy steps.

"As much as I know about any of the boys. Daddy gets me to research you all before bringing you in."

"Ah, pet, but there’s something quite specific. I’ll give you a hint: it all has to do with a girl."

"You’ve killed two Slayers," she said, awareness creeping on the edges of her mind.

"Bull’s eye, pet. And that about makes me the leading expert on them."

"So what do Slayers have to do with the now?"

Spike left the question hanging, the look in his eyes smoky, and Buffy saw the intention before she saw him move.
She had her stake barely in hand when he slammed into her. Bands of steel wrapped around her, lifting her up from the ground and binding her. Panic meshed with fury inside her, and she fought back the useless urge to struggle in his arms. She was wrapped in scents of leather and smoke, cool hands gripped tight on hers.

She thought about trying to make a fight for it, not to kill, just to maim him. She flexed her hands, felt her stake rub against her shirt.

"I wouldn’t try it, pet. Already told ya, I’m not gonna hurt you."

"What do you call this, then?" she asked as she jerked against his arms.

"Teaching, pet. Just teaching." His lips caressed the side of her face, and she stilled. She felt his cool breath tickle a line down her throat and pause over her juggler.

"See, I can feel that, the awareness. The way your heart picks up when we’re close. All tense and blood rushing like a river."

He dropped his grip suddenly, shoving her away. Buffy caught herself with both hands and flipped through a handspring, twisting around with her stake raised. It was so instinctive, the violence, the urge to play through and win. But she held back, shoving the fire back below the surface. The effort fueled the fury in her.

"What the fuck kinda game are you playing, Spike?"

He ignored the question, continuing on.

"You’re a huntress, pet, a killer of the finest sort. And I’m gonna teach you how to be the best at it."

With each step towards her, he was willing her calm, willing her with those eyes of his to give in to what he was offering. Pleasure, thrills, a cocktail of death.

"Why?" she whispered as he came up close again. She eased up on the stake, finally letting it drop to her side so that he could stand flush against her.

"That’s the question isn’t it? Boil it down to I’m curious. I wanna watch you hunt and grow into your skin, pet. Watch you writhe."
Spike slid his hands down her arms and tightened them around her wrists.

"The only thing better than killing a Slayer will be owning one."

The fury returned in full force, and Buffy ripped away from his grasp.

"Nobody owns me." He gave a low laugh.

"You’re right, pet," he said, gently pulling her back towards him. He stopped with his lips a hair’s breadth away from hers, and whispered against them.

"But you’re still mine."

Then he was kissing her, a violent crush of lips that painted her mind blank. Her fingers went lax and the stake fell to the earth.
He tasted of smoke, champagne and something vaguely familiar that registered as old death. His form stayed human, blunt teeth, tongue and lips ravaging her mouth. She put the anger she felt into the kiss, meeting him halfway with it. They battled silently, the sounds of LA night drifting unheard around them.

Eventually it became too much, and Buffy pulled back breathless to rest her head in the curve of Spike’s shoulder. They stood among the stones, vibrant life in the arms of the unliving.

"You said he doesn’t know about the Slayer stuff," she whispered against his throat, mind whirring with the information she’d just been given.

"No, pet. He doesn’t know. And he won’t from me."

He held her, and swallowed the monster down enough to be tender. Finally he pulled away, brushing her with a soft kiss.

"Is been a long night, pet. Let’s get you home."

He took her hand and led her from the jumbled rows of death.

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